The Hobart Chronicles

The Hobart Chronicles XXXVIII: Off To See The Wizard

2008-06-22T22:39:00.000-07:00

Ok, I've finally made my mind up. Thank you for your help and suggestions - it was a hard decision.

Cellobella's suggestion, A Capital Idea was sharp and pithy - an absolute joy, and far too witty for me. You'll have to cast your pearls before a better class of swine, Cellobella!

I liked Greg's A Long Way From The Beach, but it had too many end-of-the-the-world, Neville Shute connotations. Damian's West of Sydney, North of Melbourne had legs for a while, but the sub-editor streak in me agreed it was too long. Garry's bad Can'tBerrit pun was good - I've also heard and enjoyed Can'tBerra. It was better than Mollong,... Molung,... Mlong... that electorate I can't spell.

Other inside knowledge was appreciated, including James's recollection that the area was once known as the Limestone Plains, and Lemmiwinks's musings about Woden Valley hospital were amusing in a Schadenfreude sort of way.

And Dave From Albury, thanks fer nuthin. You rock.

In the end I incorporated ADM's suggestion of circles, and shortened Can'tBerra to The Berra - think of Kenneth Cook, and his 'Bundanyabba' as 'The Yabba'. And Damian, Lord of the Rings made me think (perversely) of the Wizard of Oz. So here you have it:

The Berra Circular, adventures in the National Capital of Oz.

See you there.

The Hobart Chronicles XXXVII: So long, farewell

2008-05-18T05:17:00.000-07:00

The lights of Devonport are fading
- Weddings Parties Anything, Riveresque, 1997

Hasta la vista, hasta manana til we meet again... so many movies and songs, and I can't remember the last line of the Weddos song that actually deals with sailing away from Devonport. I'll fix it later.

Since finishing work a week ago, it's been a strange, nostalgic week of doing-things-for-the-last-time. Last fish and chips from a punt at Constitution Dock. Last coffee and breakfast at Tricycle. Last beer at the Republic. Last sourdough loaf from Salamanca Market. Last visit to South Hobart Vinnies, the Hobart Mission and Hello Gorgeous. You know what I mean. I'll be coming back, but when you're a visitor it's different.

I finally abandoned the futile (and token) attempts to pack and on Friday drove away to catch the ferry. For non-Tasnarnians, you may be surprised to learn that Devonport, where the Spirit of Tasmania berths, is at quite the other end of the state to Slobart, and thus necessitates a road trip of significant distance and hours for the average Tasnarnian. It was a strange, hazy-shade-of-winter day, a combination of mild still weather and everyone from Forestry to local gardeners burning off (just the sort of thing mainlanders used to do thirty years ago) and the resultant glare made driving uncomfortable. It also buggered with the usually beautiful views Tasnarnia is so famous for, which was a bit disappointing on this my last trip up the highway.

There in Devonport the Spirit of Tasmania loomed large on the Mersey. I find any travel exciting and boat trips thrilling, so the sight of the ferry fed my anticipation. It compensated for the disappointing lack of cullinary options presenting themselves there in town. At least this stunning view was available from the McDonalds carpark.

When boarding the trusty old Volvo onto the ferry, I was instructed to go to a vehicle area in the lower hold, and parked as directed. The traffic controller smirked as I pulled up, "Not bad for a Volvo driver!" Har har. After all, it was a VERY big space I'd been assigned. I got out and that's when it dawned on me: every other vehicle in that hold was a very large 4WD, a 1-tonne ute or a commercial van. There was just one ordinary car - mine. The size difference was profound. Evidently they were allowing me significant leeway - just in case.

The trip was pleasant, and the 30 knot winds didn't create undue swell. Watching the lights of Devonport fade was sad, and I stayed outside for as long as I could until I got sick of the wind forcing my hair into my mouth and the occasional sting of sleet, and went inside for a glass of wine.

Arrival in Melbum yesterday morning was heralded with grey skies and precipitation, a typical weather welcome except that it hasn't been in these drought years. The 30mm rainfall was trumpeted in news bulletins and papers around the state as a welcome turn of the weather, and I had to remember how to drive in the rain.

I've spent a quiet weekend under paternal care (food, and lots of it) and tomorrow head north, for Our National Capital.

Keep those suggestions for new titles coming.

The Hobart Chronicles: Interval

2008-05-04T23:15:00.000-07:00

There was movement at the station, for the word had got around
That the dolt, with some regrets, will get away...

Yeah, I know it's bad to mangle Banjo, and that counts as pretty bad mangling even by the lowest standards.

It does signify, however, that this columnist is about to quit Tasnarnia for the even less balmy climes of Canberra.

The pertinent question has already been posed: will The Hobart Chronicles have to change its name? Well duh, that would be yes. After all, in 2 weeks it won't be chronicling Hobart at all, will it?

What I want from YOU is your witty, pertinent suggestion for what this thing should be renamed. I've had visions of terrible alternatives like "A Dip In Lake Curly-Gherkin", or boring ideas like "Notes From The Grassy Knoll".

Please help. You must be more imaginative than this.

The Hobart Chronicles XXXVI: Beautiful People

2008-04-27T07:06:00.000-07:00

Beautiful people
They haven't really much to say
- Australian Crawl, Beautiful People, 1980

What a performance
What a cheap tent show
- Australian Crawl, The Boys Light Up, 1980

There is something both satisfying and disturbing about having a set of inner - and irrational - prejudices confirmed as true.

I've decamped from Slobart temporarily, to make a flying visit to the Gold Coast for a friend's wedding* (and to try to forget that on Tuesday I have six outdoor broadcasts. As you can see, that bit didn't work.)

Anyway, it's been roughly a decade since I was last at the Gold Coast, and really I don't remember a lot about that trip except that the place seemed to be as hideous as any black-clad Melbournite might expect. (And I ended up having to ditch the 5-star accommodation for a hospital - but that's another story).

An infinitely more tolerant and enlightened individual these days (ahem) I truly hoped I might appreciate the place from a whole new perspective this weekend.

Here's what I saw within half an hour of arriving: no less than THREE people wearing white shorts and gold sandals. Uh huh. It's the new white-shoe brigade.

And really, you just can't get away from that stuff. It's as though the place attracts the in-yer-face crowd of all ages like a Narre Warren piss-up attracts hooded bogans. In fact, I think it's the same crowd up here, on holiday. Tattoos, bad hair with product, tattoos, stupid sunglasses and more tattoos. LagerlargerlargerSHOUTING. It's bound to provoke a range of reactions in right-thinking people; in me, disgust is quickly followed by a desire to dispense a good smack in the head. Shame it's illegal. Adding to the clamour is the drone of construction, as perfectly serviceable establishments are razed and replaced by multi-story horrors, all the better to feed off the annual Schoolies debacle I suppose. I passed at least four active construction sites within a block of Cavill Ave, so it's on for young and old.

Perhaps my least favourite moment this afternoon was seeing a large, black, stretch HumVee. I had no idea such abominations existed, and I had to do a double-take to ensure I hadn't imagined it, which of course is exactly what the damned thing is designed to do. No doubt the insufferable occupants thought I was ogling them with envy. I could kick myself.

How did it happen? The place has every redeeming natural feature: golden sand, warm sea, a climate to die for - mild temperatures, a bright sunrise, endless sunshine and beautiful sunsets.

So I wandered down to the beach for a short while this afternoon to try to find some of that Gold Coast magic. I sat upon an unoccupied spot on the sand, pulled out the weekend magazine and read for a little while. Mind cleared, I looked up and gazed into the middle distance. There before me stretched a glittering vista: a wide variety of adults and children playing happily in the waves, the sails of dozens of para-surfers weaving in a colourful dance overhead. Close by, a family of overseas tourists forgot their uncomfortable formal clothing and splashed in the shallows, collecting seashells in a bucket. A determined surfer struggled in the sloppy waves, and a girl nearby read a book while a veiled matriarch lifted her modest long skirts to wash the sand from her feet. It was enough to make the hardest heart sing.

Then suddenly I felt a little chilled. Why did it all go dim? I looked around, and sure enough, the hotel towers were casting their inevitable pall, throwing the entire beach into shadow. It was just half-past three.

* yes, I know Gold Coasters, but it really was a quick visit, no time for pleasantries, so don't email me any abuse, okay? Next time we'll catch up, I promise.

The Hobart Chronicles XXXV: Run Through The Jungle

2008-04-07T04:30:00.000-07:00

Whoa, thought it was a nightmare,
Lo, it's all so true,
They told me, "Don't go walkin' slow
'Cause Devil's on the loose."
- Creedence Clearwater Revival, Run Through The Jungle, 1970

One of the great joys of Tasnarnia is the great outdoors. Great.

There's been a bit of tramping about in it lately, not least this weekend just gone when for once I managed not to go to work on either Saturday or Sunday, and instead made a determined effort to go outside and play, just like our Mums always encouraged us.

Some organised friends found out about some marvellous little cabins near Lake Dobson in the Mt Field National Park, available for short stays through National Parks. Dating back to 1932, the cottages are quaint but equiped with cracking wood fires, a must so near to the snow line. It's just rustic enough to give you the impression you've had a wild weekend.

One shouldn't be lulled into a false sense of security by small comforts, however. We got out on Saturday morning and began what looked like a simple walk; well, the walk was simple, but the weather wasn't. The wind screamed and the clouds closed in to form mist around us; the cold became too much for the junior member of the team sitting in the backpack, so we abandoned the walk along the chain of tarns.

Instead we began another walk down a little lower, along a more sheltered route, and to begin with it was quite pleasant. But somehow, what started out as a well-marked side track via Platypus Tarn somehow disappeared shortly after we left the tarn. Hmmm, Tasnarnian bush, on a cold day in an alpine area where there were snow patches on the ground. What's the best thing to do? Retrace our steps? There were blokes in our group, so of course there was no retracing any steps, ha ha you must be kidding. We pushed on. There were also women in the group, so maps were consulted. But since the people consulting the maps are not, if you believe Alan Pease, actually able to read them (and there was still no going back), we soon found that we weren't where we thought we were. Or indeed anywhere we could identify. There we were, in the great outdoors without a clue. Great.

It's funny how all one's nice ideas are thrown aside at the first sign of adversity. All those leaflets we read about treading lightly on the delicate landscape? Pah! If there was a break in the wall of foliage there, we tramped there and bugger tiptoeing around the pretty orange moss. How quickly the thin veneers of civilisation are stripped away.

Finally, we all capitulated to the inevitable: time to do The Right Things. That is, we got out the map again, and the compass made its first appearance; we observed the sun, the landscape, sighted north and read the topography lines. Then we pooled our collective brainpower, and made a decision. Some 500-600m in that direction we'd find the main track.

Now the bush bashing got really serious. Even if we'd had a machete, there wasn't room to swing it. We walked, stumbled and flailed about 500m, and got to our goal, the top of the ridge. BC, who was in the lead, turned in the middle of a thicket and said, well, this late in the day and with no sign of a way out, we'd better fire up the portable stove and create some shelter. Caro and I looked at each other. Oh boy, this was bad shit.

Then Ricky laughed; he couldn't stand the looks on our faces any longer. The path's just there, he said. And there it was. Bastards.

But you know, I really enjoyed it anyway. It was funny.... later.

The Hobart Chronicles XXXIV: Planet Earth Is Blue

2008-03-13T04:18:00.000-07:00

For here am I sitting in a tin can
Far above the world
Planet Earth is blue
- David Bowie, Space Oddity, 1969

I have a new crush. His name is Mike Collins.

I saw him at the movies last week. He's witty! charming! and sooooo cute! He's also a bit out of my reach, being the third member of the Apollo 11 mission, and thus a retired US astronaut. Go have a look at the doco In The Shadow Of The Moon, if you get a chance. It's enlightening, especially if you weren't yet around to see that first landing. Collins was the bloke who stayed in the command centre, in orbit around the moon while Armstrong and Aldrin fartarsed around with flags and buggies on the surface. Those astronauats were a frighteningly able bunch - physically fit, handy and smart. Nearly 40 years later they still appear very switched on. That Mike Collins though, with those limpid brown eyes and lovely sense of humour... if only he was 30 years younger.

Though really, I suppose the age difference isn't so much, or at least it doesn't seem so after having had yet another birthday come and go. Sigh.

What I do seem to be achieving in my old age is a certain adventurousness in the kitchen. Perhaps you'd more accurately describe it as a gradual shedding of fear - a willingness to try new things. My inner D'ohmestic Goddess has been in full swing, with not one but now two successful batches of blackberry jam under my apron belt.

Perhaps the secret has been in the blackberries. They grow like mad here in Tasnarnia, and while they're a feral species and a pest, they do grow large and luscious, and seem tolerated by locals.

Not long ago I was invited to a gathering at a farming property on Bruny Island, where the blackberries grew in abundance on the fenceline. Myself and friends piled out of the car and, faced with a tsunami of ripe fruit, went straight over to the towering brambles and began stuffing our faces before we even introduced ourselves (I don't think the mob there rated us very highly for our sociability).

Anyway, we picked about twenty tons of berries and brought them home. Then the reality set in - what to do? None of us had any idea. Thank God for the CWA - a long time ago the Quirindi branch gave me a CWA Cookbook, and it finally came in handy, just like I knew it would one day. The blackberry jam recipe was three lines long, and I reprint it here for yourr edification:

Blackberry Jam
Ingredients: 1lb. sugar, 1lb. blackberries, some red ones.
Put blackberries in a presering pan and crush with a bottle. Stir all the time and boil 30 minutes. Head sugar in oven and add. Boil 10 minutes. The seeds should be soft.

I didn't have any idea what a 'preserving pan' was, but a plain old saucepan was just fine, and I like lumpy jam so I skipped the bizzo about 'crush with bottle'. There is a moment when you look at that horrific mount of sugar and wonder if it's all a good idea. But the recipe worked a treat.

So this weekend we made another trip to the little farm on the island off an island off an island, and even thought it was the end of the season we scratched together enough fruit for a few more jars. Sweet victory.

The Hobart Chronicles XXXIII: In The Navy

2008-02-21T04:13:00.000-08:00

Oh my goodness
What am I going to do in a submarine?
- Village People, In The Navy, 1979

Did you have any idea that the first of the Royal Australian Navy's Collins Class submarine fleet, HMAS Collins, was named after a Tasnarnian?

Well, there you go.

According to the vessel's Commander, Matt Buckley, Admiral Collins was the first Australian born chief of our Navy. He (Collins, not Buckley) was a decorated World War II hero and was actually born in Deloraine in northern Tasnaria. In fact, three of the six subs are named after Tasnarnians.

I'm not really quite sure what that signifies. Except that in my line of business, you can learn a whole lot of nothing-very-important in an hour. It's very rare that I pull rank and use my position to satisfy personal curiosity, but during Navy Week when HMAS Collins and the frigate HMAS Parramatta steamed into Slobart I broke my own rules and had a junior colleague get us on board to do a story. After all, how often does one get a squiz at the guts of one of our nation's... [border defenders? warships? expensive US castoffs?? fill in your own pejorative of choice].

Of the two, the sub was certainly the most interesting for me. I can't talk about much of what I saw as it's classified (this is no joke - I can't talk about what or how many if any weapons I saw, for example, and they reviewed my happy snaps and actually made me delete a few before disembarking). But I did get to play with the periscope, taking aim on the main landing deck of HMAS Parramatta, and inspect the three sets of V18 diesel engines. No wonder the damned things are reputed to make a heap of noise, unless they switch to the electric engines which are silent. The sleeping cabins are beyond description. From what I could see, they lever six fully grown sailors and their belongings into a cubicle the size of a kombi van's interior, with nothing but a little blue curtain each for privacy. All belongings, that is, except for a lot of sets of golf clubs which materialised as various sailors emerged from HMAS Collins to take shore leave. For all I know, they were stowed in spare corners of the weapons bay.

HMAS Parramatta's landing pad (it carries helicopters) was the scene of cocktails at dusk, which I attended courtesy of an invitation issued to my boss. I mean, cocktails amongst men in spiffy uniforms? How could I refuse to do my professional duty? Actually, it was a civilised affair (so to speak), the highlights of which were the food and wine (copious and good) and the officers, who were gratifyingly good conversationalists. Their PR skills must be honed by many such soirees in many ports, though if they were bored they were also well-mannered enough not to show it.

It was a chill Slobart [summer] wind racing across the deck after sundown that finally chased us off the frigate and back to our homes, while the boys and girls in white went about their business.

The Hobart Chronicles XXXXII: From Little Things

2008-02-14T16:36:00.000-08:00

Blackfella, whitefella
Doesn't matter what your colour
As long as you're a true fella
- Warumpi Band, 1987

From little things
Big things grow
- Kev Carmody, Paul Kelly, 1991

Stand up, stand up and be counted
- Warumpi Band, 1987

Sorry. What a great word.

But, if anything moved me more than hearing Rudd's Sorry speech to the Stolen Generations in Federal Parliament on Wednesday, it was the moving Welcome to Country to open Parliament on Tuesday.

The first step on the road forward.

The Hobart Chronicles XXXXI: Days Go By

2008-02-04T01:54:00.000-08:00

Days go by
I can feel 'em flying
Like a hand out the window in the wind
- Keith Urban, Days Go By, 2004

Time and its command
Soon enough it comes
And settles in its place
A shadow in my face
Puts pressure in my day
- Powderfinger, These Days, 2000

Apologies for the Urban reference, but he is touring to Slobart soon, supporting John Fogerty and Ray Davies. A lineup for old farts and baby boomers, but brightened by rumoured appearance by the reformed Weddos. The reference is apropos of it being February already. You know, days can pass without you noticing. I lose whole weeks that way. It's been like this since I got back to Slobart - back into the same well-worn groove. Meh. But the weekend just gone was quite interesting.

The Theatre Royal is one of the jewels of Slobart culture. It's Australia's oldest working theatre, dating back to 1837. It's just had a refit, including new seating and climate control. Early on Saturday morning a small number of the old seats went on sale.

Carolyn - a friend from work - and I just had to have a piece of history. The seats are about 70 years old, and survived a fire in 1984 that did quite a bit of damage to the theatre. Like you'd expect, they're uncomfortably small and lumpy. But furbished with red velvet, and the cast-iron frames painted a trashy old-gold, they're verrrrry sexy. We've both seen performances in the Theatre Royal, so what a fab thing, to rescue a seat or several and give them a new home.

We figured we might need to get there earlier than 9am when the doors opened. But who gets up at sparrowsfart on a Saturday? Bleary-eyed but armed with newspapers and bolstered the promise of special-delivery coffee and breakfast to come, we got to the warehouse at a leisurely 8am to join the line.

And there actually was a line. Slobartians aren't used to having to queue for anything, so there were only about a dozen hard-core types. A young bloke who'd driven several hours from Launceston; two elegant, perfumed elderly sisters who'd been there since 5am; an old fellow armed with a pillow, a transistor and his pork pie hat. And us, with unbrushed hair and sunglasses.

It was a convivial little gathering. I dragged out a recorder for work, of course. The sisters talked about attending the Theatre for more than 50 years, remembering comedians and ventriloquists touring when they were just little girls. The bloke from Launceston talked about his mother reading a poem on the Theatre Royal stage for a school eisteddfod. A short while later, a fellow came out of the warehouse to hand out numbered tickets for the sale, and everyone lined up more or less in the order they arrived. No pushing, no fuss. "Please, you were here before me - take a ticket first." We came away with tickets 17 and 18 of about 50.

We also received the rules of engagement: Seats available as singles or in sets of two or three; $10 per seat, and one lot only per ticket; when your number is called, come forward to pay and select; no sales before 9am. We sat back to contemplate the choices, begin the Saturday papers, and wait.

A few latecomers whinged, of course, especially when they realised it was a ticketed sale and they had missed out; but most people were happy. As the hour approached, there was a countdown; when the Launceston bloke emerged dragging the first chairs, a bank of three, the little crowd cheered. The sisters, confronted with the rickety cast-iron lumps, opted for one chair each. We each got a bank of two, and my friend's husband got another bank of two, so in total we came away with six.

What are we going to do with them? Dunno. Doesn't matter. They'll find a place somewhere, eventually. In the meantime, they need a little TLC. There's some screws missing from the back of one of mine; all of them need to be bolted to a fixed base to stop them coming apart. And a good dusting is in order... though I might leave the genuine theatre-goer's chewing gum stuck to mine. Sort of adds to the authenticity.

The Hobart Chronicles XXXX: Happy Birthday, TC Helen

2008-01-04T09:17:00.000-08:00

"Ah, the wind and the rain."
- Weddings Parties Anything, 1989

"Happy Birthday Helen."
- Things of Stone & Wood, 1992

Look what happens when you talk about the weather. You get more of it.

Right now, I was supposed to be on a flight to Melbourne scheduled to leave Darwin two hours ago.

Instead I'm at work, where I've been for the past 18 hours.

When I woke up this morning, the tropical low was still tracking west away from Darwin. After 0900 Central Standard Time it turned east, headed back out into Joseph Bonaparte Gulf, and picked up speed. Cyclone Helen was born.

Helen was only was only a few hours old and just a little category 1 but growing fast. She howled for attention, and got it; by mid afternoon she grew to a category 2 and everyone started paying attention.

So here we are at the Corporation (where the building is rated for category 5), toiling away. No hotel room to go to, and anyway, who knows what the 7th floor in a hotel is rated for?

It's nearly 6am now, and the damned thing should have blown herself out hours ago. Against expectations, she huffed and puffed for longer than expected, bringing down palm trees and mahogany branches all over the city.

Here's the palms that are now blocking the accessway to the Corporation car park:

They mean that we can't get work vehicles in or out.

And here's a couple of trees, still in belated festive mode, down in Cavenaugh St in the CBD:
Helen was just a little cyclone by local standards, although a tricky one. But I think she's on her way out now. I've now officially survived my first cyclone.

The Hobart Chronicles XXXIX: Water is wide

2008-01-01T06:25:00.000-08:00

"Because the water is wide
And I cannot get over
Neither have I
The wings to fly."

- traditional

What a lot of water. It’s been falling from the skies in continuous sheets every afternoon and evening. This is my first experience of a tropical monsoonal low, and I’m fascinated.

I’ve been thinking a lot about water and the Top End these last few days. Duhwin, like Slobart, is an active port city centred around a sizeable harbour. It’s an interesting point of comparison, which I decided to explore a little.

On Sunday I took the ferry to Mandorah. This takes you across the Darwin Harbour, where the water is so very different to that of the estuarine Derwent River. Darwin Harbour is a bright jade green, and like jade is opaque. There’s apparently a fair bit of sediment swirling around down there, clouding the water.

The ferry trip was recommended by a number of locals, who consider it to be a quintessential Duhwin experience. Mandorah is a considerable distance from the city, taking about an hour and a half by car; it's a mere 15 minutes across the water. While pleasant, it’s debatable as to whether the trip is worth it, as at the other end there is only the Mandorah Pub to visit. Listed on various tourist brochures and blogs as a quaint, typical “Top End Experience”, it’s scheduled for demolition shortly into the new year and now I can see why. I was expecting an oasis surrounded by miles of tropical scrub: a charming combination of ceiling fans and louvred windows, with perhaps some cane furniture and a Long Island Iced Tea option. What I actually found was, as Sister K put it upon her return to work on Monday, the sort of place you hose out at the end of the night. The clientele were also what you might expect for this sort of establishment. I ordered an obligatory beer and didn’t stay for the “famous” barra & chips – it didn’t look like a sanitary dining option.

The pier and beach were more interesting. The 200m of beach from pier to pub was a wonder of red and yellow sandstone, and the coral and shell detritus showed an interesting reef sat offshore under the murky jade water. Several of the shells I picked up housed tiny hermit crabs; it was the first time I’ve ever seen hermit crabs in their natural habitat and I was captivated. I spent so long looking at them, I was also sunburnt. There were several shiny, bloated cane toads on the boat ramp, evidently dispatched by the locals. There's no doubt their march west has reached the top end. Disturbing.

The pier itself is built to deal with a wild variance of tides – when we docked, more than 10 metres of the structure was exposed. You climb several stories to reach the pier and walk to shore. The lower levels are completely encrusted with a tiny variety of oyster, and it’s a popular fishing spot. I saw a school of garfish circling in the shallows.

My walk from the pier to the pub was the first time I’ve set foot onto a beach in the Top End, and I was the only one who did – everyone else took the concrete path. In Slobart, people don’t go to the few beaches much (except to walk the dog) because it’s often cold and windy, and the Derwent can carry pretty unpleasant e-coli levels at times. In Duhwin, people similarly avoid the many beaches, even when waking the dog, but rather because of crocodiles and box jellyfish. I took what some of the more paranoid locals would consider a calculated risk on that 200m of sand.

Last night I began New Years Eve at a low-key party populated entirely by Corporation folk and their attachments out in the burbs; it was civilised and pleasant company. However, I had to be back at work to deliver a damned weather warning at 11pm. Sister K hitched a lift back into town with me, and after duty was seen to we went looking for a good vantage point to see the midnight fireworks. Alas, the docks area was inexplicably blocked off; we counted down with the Coodabeens in transit, and about 3 minutes into 2008 we were having the first beer of the year at the Ski Club overlooking the beach. Surf was up, with ‘waves’ of about 30cm. That’s unusual here.
"Look," I said. "Waves!"
"Mmm," said Sister K. "Must be monsoon."

Happy New Year.

The Hobart Chronicles XXXVIII: Summer in the northernmost city

2007-12-20T02:52:00.000-08:00

"Hot town, summer in the city,
Back of my neck getting dirty and gritty...

All around people looking half dead
Walking on the sidewalk, hotter than a matchhead"

- The Lovin' Spoonful, 1966

You know, I dared not write for a long time lest I jinx the dentist and land him in hospital again. So I kept my mouth shut, and voila! [think Iron Chef now...] The Great Dental Reconstruction Odyssey is OVAH! The choppers are settling in and I can now grin like an idiot again.

It's a good thing I can open my mouth again without shame or embarassment, because I'm temporarily at work in the Northern Terror-tory where it's the start of the wet, and both perspiration and aspiration are constant bodily activities. They may not be very ladylike, but there's no getting away from it.

It's also the start of the Top End's monsoon and cyclone season, which strikes terror into my miserable southern frame; the less said about these, the better. (ref. jinx). Walk out of an airconditioned environment and your sunglasses fog up. There are gekkos on the walls at night.

Duh-win is a ghost town right now. Everyone has cleared out to spend Christmas in some other part of the country - it seems very few people here are genuine 'locals'. The unspoken subtext also seems to be if disaster strikes there's not much to be done about it anyway so better to be elsewhere with a glass in your hand.

So unlike Slobart, which had sped up considerably in the pre-Christmas rush, you could shoot a rifle down the Duh-win mall at lunchtime and not hit a stray dog.

This means you can meander the streets and take a good look at small details that might otherwise slip by unnoticed. Like some of the interesting business signs.

Consider, now, that the following are associated with commercial businesses, the aim of which is to extract your hard-earned dollars to turn a profit. What do they say about the locals?

I like this one. It doesn't leave you in any doubt.

Would you have your hair cut here?

This sign, believe it or not, is for a frock shop. Stocked with daggy frocks. There's also a limited stock of (daggy) men's attire available.

All I can gather from this brief sample is that people in Duh-win are not overly concerned with their appearance. Or, judging by the last example, concerned only to the extent that they may get a root out of it. (Looks like you don't have to try too hard, if those clothes at Infidelity are anything to go by.)

However, maybe this makes the locals happy. Indeed, the few who haven't cleared out ahead of possible weather-related devastation do seem in a pretty good mood. They say "g'day", and smile in the street. Shopkeepers stop for a chat and cafe owners recognise you for a regular after only 3 days.

Even my hotel housekeeper is in a good mood.

Or maybe I am just a tidy guest and she is pleased about this.

The Hobart Chronicles XXXVII: Tables Turning

2007-11-26T18:26:00.000-08:00

"I was born in a lucky country"
- Paul Kelly, Little Kings, 1998

"Finally the tables are starting to turn"
- Tracy Chapman, Talkin' Bout a Revolution, 1988

Spoke too soon about the dental work. Dentist is now in hospital. Hopefully for him, and for me, he gets well soon.

On Saturday I was bolt upright quite early, and tripped off to vote well before the clock reached double figures.

This is the first time I've voted in Tasnarnia, and I had to choose a booth. Luckily on Friday Breakfast listeners called in to compare what optional extras their respective booths had to offer, so I chose a local school which spruiked a fundraising cake and plant stall.

Voting! How exciting! My heart swelled as I stood in the cardboard cubicle and filled in all the numbers, including below the line (a much shorter affair here than in NSW).

What a privilege we have to actually make a choice. We whinge for a whole three years, and at the end of it we get to have our say. In fact, we can head out to vote thinking of candidates and cake stalls rather than whether we'll be threatened at the polling booths or dodging bullets on the way home; we can whinge year after year out loud on the street or on talkback radio, and not worry about jail or whether a member of our family won't come home tonight. As my Mum used to lecture me, for all the faults Australians have (and there are many) we do truly have political freedom. It may sound pretty weird, but I was overflowing with love for that political freedom on that fine sunny Slobart Saturday morning. I haven't been so excited in ages.

And on Saturday night as a few of us gathered in the shoebox on the hill and fired up multitudinous media for a little 'political party' (dress code: op shop tie) and we watched seats from Bass to Bennelong come down to the wire, I thought all over again about how much every person's vote counts.

Every person's vote counts: I thought it as we tried to figure out why the numbers on the ABC TV graphic didn't match those on the ABC website. I thought it as they cheered in the tally room, as Kerry O'Brien snapped he wished they'd shut UP!, and we cheered in the loungeroom of my shoebox. I thought it as we cheered on the phone to various long-distance friends at their various parties (on the menu at Grandmaster B's: porkbarrel ribs...). I thought it as one talented guest at the shoebox grabbed the guitar and began playing a Tracy Chapman anthem. I thought it as we opened our ??th bottle of wine at approximately 2am (though things were getting a bit fuzzy by then).

Oh the humanity, with first the concession and then the victory speech. (Oh the humanity when I surveyed the dishes the next morning. Why didn't I just order pizza?)

But sore heads, housework and all, it was an honour and a privilege to wield a pencil for democracy. And for once, I got my way.

"I'm still wasting my time
Trying to give it to you
Still I try, to hold on for better days"
- Farryl Purkiss, Better Days, 2007

The Hobart Chronicles XXXVI: Are we there yet?

2007-11-14T22:12:00.000-08:00

"No time to think about what to tell them
No time to think about what she's done"
- Talking Heads, And She Was, 1985

The Great Dental Reconstruction Odyssey is nearly over!

Yep, the dentist is ecstatic with the movement achieved in my remaining front teeth – they are now officially straight.

My latest visit to the dentist this week consisted of him taking moulds, measuring for the bridgework, and prepping the teeth for crowns. This last took FOUR doses of anaesthetic to complete, which surprised even the dentist (who by now should surely have seen everything). The fourth dose, of a more robust painkilling variety, made my face so unresponsive that for several hours my upper lip was completely slack and when I laughed it didn’t move at all – the upshot being that I looked like I had been punched in the face (or perhaps got at by Angelina Jolie’s collagen supplier).

I can’t wait ‘til it’s done. Two weeks, and counting. And do remind me when I’m whingeing later on about the cost, that the Odyssey would have been completely out of reach if I didn’t have health insurance (health insurance? Maybe I’m more grown up than previously thought!) My dear Slurry Hills friend James wonders if for healthy people it’s worth getting health insurance, apart from the tax benefits. Well, if you’re paying for it James, use it – don’t wait until you’re on your deathbed!

The Hobart Chronicles XXXV: We was wild then...

2007-11-07T00:57:00.001-08:00

"Take me back to the days of the foreign telegrams
And the all-night rock and rollin'
Hey 'Chelle, we was wild then."
- Michelle Shocked, Anchorage, 1988

"And the longer I stand here the more that I know
That the oncoming night cannot hurt me."
- Mick Thomas, Halfway Up The Hill, 2006

My, how we're all growing up.

All my friends are just about adults now. It seems like only yesterday we were tooling around in endless tertiary education, working to travel, taking dead end jobs that seemed like fun, and definitely not putting anything away for the future.

So what happened? Somewhere along the way, we've all got older, and in some cases wiser. In the past few weeks, different friends have achieved the following different grown-up milestones:

* bought a fridge - NEW! not second hand. (This whitegood joins a new washing machine and a new laptop, also acquired brand spankers);

* put a deposit on a house and shouldered a mortgage;

* used the phrase "Young people today..." in conversation while drinking a glass of expensive red wine;

* had a baby (there's been a few of these in the past 2 weeks... New Year babies?)

* received a parent's cancer diagnosis and is making hurried plans to return to Australia;

* separated from a spouse.

This last one made me very sad. I realised I have come to watch my friends with a species of joyous envy as they make their way over life's little hurdles and move ever forward - if they get there, then there's hope yet. I enjoyed that wedding immensely. How sad I feel for my friend, who has made the best decision she can and is doing her best to keep her chin up.

Surrounded by such high life-achievers, I'm not sure how it is that I'm so far, well, behind. I started looking at my own achievements of the past 12 months, and with some shame I share them with you:

Yet another ex-boyfriend; living in a shoebox with rising rent; I've started learning to play the guitar; and I'm having my teeth straightened. Last weekend, I sat around in my loungeroom with 2 visitors and we played music until 3.30am. I mean, really. What the hell did I do in my teens and 20s??? (although in fairness, this last was the same eveing the phrase "Young people today..." was uttered over the very nice wine. Though not by me. But maybe it'll rub off.)

In fact, I am so socially underdeveloped I can hardly balance two forms of digital communication at once. I apologise about the recently static Chronicles; my infatuation with the evil Facebook has cooled and I'm back now.

What a strange phenomenon that Facebook is. There we were, all rubbishing MySpace, and suddenly we're all worshipping at the Facebook shrine: poking each other, competing to sign up friends and buying each other fish. You'll be pleased to know I have at least one friend who considers himself too old for Facebook, and he's in his 40s. Now that's grown-up.

Facebook reminds me a bit of the B&S circuit, a lovely social set I learned about when living in the country. On the B&S circuit, kids in utes drive thousands of kilometres every weekend to dress up and get pissed with exactly the same kids they got pissed with last weekend a thousand kilometres away. In cyberspace, the same people who email and blog now Facebook each other (when we're not SMSing, or something else). Weird, huh.

Maybe some of us - the best of us - still have some growing up to do.

The Hobart Chronicles XXXVI: Recoiling from the fire

2007-09-26T03:40:00.000-07:00

"Through the dust and ashes
While the building crashes"
Peter Gabriel, Walk Through The Fire, 1984

"Reach for the night which recoils from the fire."
MC 900ft Jesus, The City Sleeps, 1992

This is the SMS that arrived on my phone on Sunday:

"So why did you leave your kettle at Myer?"

Hahahaha. Thanks, Cole Man. Or should that be Coal Man?

The Myer Fire on Saturday night took everyone by surprise. I say night, because although it started at about 3 in the afternoon, even the firies thought it was under control until after 6pm.

I was having a pleasant Saturday afternoon. That is, woke from a little afternoon kip on the couch, felt hungry, and took about half an hour to decide to go out foraging. I got up, looked out the loungeroom window and thought, "What's that enormous column of smoke coming from town?"

In town, a small group of curious onlookers stood behind police tape half a block away oohing and ahhing and taking pictures on their mobile phones of the billowing smoke. Myer's interior upper stories were evidently alight but no-one seemed very concerned. Firies and police milled around. After about 15 minutes one of them cranked up a hose and sprayed some water. Not much else appeared to be happening.

No doubt it was like ducks on a pond - all serenity on the surface, furious paddling below. I couldn't raise anyone of any use on the phone to find out what was going on, so after watching for another 15 minutes, I went shopping. I was hungry, after all. Typically, it got interesting after I left.

I was in the queue paying for groceries when a colleague rang and asked casually, "What the fuck's going on?" The smoke I saw earlier had become a full-blown inferno. As dusk fell, she and her family could see the flames and embers at home several kilometres away. There was only the semi-finals on the radio. She doesn't have a telly.

So I packed my organic chook, vegies and cat food into the boot and went to work. Just another Saturday night at the pickle factory.

In retrospect it's a bloody miracle the whole CBD didn't burn down. I had the good judgement to roster myself on for live crosses on Monday morning, when the façade was being demolished. The rest of the building had clearly already collapsed into the basement.

I stood with the firies at the barrier and watched a giant excavator, brontosaurus- like, reach up to bite pieces out of the façade and drop the masonry to the street. The crash made lovely background fx, but I was less sure about the clouds of dust. Why was everyone inside the barrier, mere metres away, dressed in full biohazard suits including air masks? Sure enough, the firies were concerned about asbestos. Mmmm, time to move away.

And the irony? Just a day earlier, the international Bushfire CRC Annual Conference, staged just a few blocks away, had concluded. 900 men in uniform, and most of them missed all the action.

The Hobart Chronicles XXXV: Psycho

2007-09-15T00:34:00.000-07:00

"O sinners, let's go down
Down in the river to pray."
- traditional / Alison Krauss, 2000

"You think I'm psycho, don't you mama."
- Beasts of Bourbon, 1990

Well, as far as I am concerned, the Terrortory consists mainly of four things in addition to 30+ temperatures. These are: a lot of pretty waterholes (both cold and hot), and a good proportion of beer, mosquitoes, and ants. I swam in a quite a number of the first, drank my share of the second, and was amply rewarded with encounters with the third and fourth.

When asked, I generally claim I am allergic to nothing. As far as I am aware, this is close enough to true as I have never undergone any formal allergy testing; however, I have for some time suspected I might be allergic to two things.

I was alerted to the first back in Tamworse when during a fit of gardening I was bitten by a green ant and my right calf swelled up so much and got so hard I couldn't wear jeans for several days, and later a nurse friend said I should have gone to hospital before the bite put me there. You can understand why I haven't been too keen to investigate this potential allergy by repeating the experiment.

To my great joy, the Terrortory experience has spontaneously allowed me to confirm that I am indeed allergic to ant bites. Sister K will be relieved to know that the two large bites on my thigh, while still a livid purple-black, are no longer feverishly hot and are starting to go down.

And the other allergy? Sunscreen. Yep. Just what you want in the land of perpetual sunshine. After two days of application my exposed parts erupted in a spectacular case of eczema. This forced me to lay off the sunscreen while visiting all these waterholes, so my spotty pebbly skin also picked up a mild case of sunburn. Sister K has recommended a sunscreen without the titanium and zinc ingredients, which I think may be the problem. Any suggestion you, dear Chronicle reader, may have will also be most welcome.

But enough about me... for a moment.

Is what we hear about the Terrortory, that it's a wild haven for misfits and suspect loners on the run from society, spouse or the law, actually true? After this week, I am sad to say I can't clear this up for you. I can only tell you what we saw and heard.

All this bucolic activity - waterholes, camping, meeting up with SK's housemates and them meeting up with friends, was disturbed one night at the Hot Springs campground on the Daly River. Sister K and I, arriving first, had ventured into the artesian-fed stream (singing, disturbingly, 'Down To The River To Pray') and found the water hot and fine. Then the rest of the Shepherd St contingent landed and the five of us, having managed a quite respectable campfire, were relaxing with Coopers and Tasnarnian pinot. A bunch of 30-somethings, we were easily the youngest and loudest people at the site - i.e., not very on either count. How's the serenity?, we remarked.

But at some indeterminate late hour, we heard the unmistakable rumble of doof-doof approaching. This materialised into no less than five 4WDs, which proceeded to do some circle-work around the site until in a cloud of dust they settled next to a campervan inhabited by a pair of old-timers and disgorged a seething mass of drunken youths. The youths proceeded to make merry at astonishing volume; the wooden platform I had set my sleeping bag on vibrated with the doof. And it's fair to say their demeanour was less merry, more anarchic with an aggressive undertone.

So when housemate Pete decided he'd had enough and was going to go and tell the kids to turn it down, we were all understandably concerned for his safety. I mean, hospitals were a long way away, and no-one had packed any triangle bandages. However, he was determined, and as it turned out managed to deliver his admonition without getting his head punched in. They turned it down - marginally.

During the patchy night's sleep I recall rolling over and in that half-conscious sleep state heard a loud conversation over the doof regarding violent pornographic activity - followed by the sounds of violent pornographic activity. Horrible. I rolled over and dived for blessed unconsciousness.

The next morning, our little contingent was up with the sun, and thus the first down to the river to loll about in the steaming spring water. After about an hour, two girls from the doof camp joined us. One was a hefty girl with filthy surfer-dreads and an enormous fresh scrape down one thigh; she was carrying a stubby of Toohey's Dry. The other was a tiny, mousey thing unremarkable except that she was carrying a can of Bundy and Coke. They were friendly enough - Dry girl said "G'day" and toasted us with her stubby before taking a swig.

But later we wondered, were we ever that bad? Sure we were loud, but were we so obnoxious (with such bad music)? Sure we drank, but did we ever drink before 7am (unless we were still up from the night before)? Who knows. As for the pornographic activity, let's not go there; I know I didn't get up to that.

What was gratifying when we returned to camp to dry off was to see the old-timers next to the doof brigade were up. They had their radio on, tuned to some AM talk station, full-bore.

The other weird moment happened as SK and I were driving to the Daly River site. Coming in the other direction was a pretty ragged-looking 4WD, all red dust and scrapes and flapping canvas. The driver flashed his lights furiously. We slowed down a little and began looking for cattle across the road or something similar. Nothing. He passed us - and no nod or finger lifted-acknowledgement, only the sunset reflecting ominously off his aviator sunglasses. SK and I looked at each other. Should we stop? Not on your nelly! That bloke looked like a backpacker serial killer! We drove far and fast before we had a giggle about our nerves. A nervous giggle.

The Hobart Chronicles XXXIV: Concrete Flamingos in the Terrortory

2007-09-03T23:58:00.000-07:00

"And I sank like a concrete flamingo
In these desperate hours."
- Ed Kuepper, Horse Under Water, 1990

I have arrived in the Terrortory - woo hoooooo! and while Sister Kate does a little last-minute work I thought I'd scribble a mini-Chronicle.

The jet lag has involved only half an hour, but a whopping 24 degrees Celsius. Actually, make that 31 degrees if you count the fact that when I walked into the driving wind across the Slobart tarmac to the Shitstar plane at about 0610 it was drizzling and about 3 degrees. I have shed more layers than a cicada in summer and having got to the last one now realise that last layer is still too much clothing. Sigh.

Is there nothing like an airport (complete with air travel) to throw together unlikely and ill-suited people. I am surprised there has not been more colloquial discussion, or indeed formal study, about the opportunities for air rage.

I could regale you with a list of sad, bitter observations about the subject (in fact I started but thought better and scratched it out). The grumpy old woman in me says I will never travel again unless it's a charter flight. With Moet.

There was one moment though when the ridiculous was if not sublime then truly entertaining.

The four galahs travelling together - you know the type: middle-aged, big hair, faux heritage jewellery, best described as aspirational 'ladies who lunch' - were conspicuous as they left the Darwin terminal. The gold-tone highlights on their animal-print luggage nearly blinding in the sun, and their shrieks of "No, REEEEALLLLY??" and "Oh NOOOOWWWWWW!!!" tearing holes in the atmosphere, they dragged trolleys made slow by gargantuan suitcases towards the taxi-less taxi-rank. After some minutes standing in the sun, adjusting their enormous sunglasses with orange-polished fingers, the collective big hair was beginning to wilt. They were sinking like concrete flamingos.

Finally a taxi arrived, and the middle-aged European driver got out. He stared at the four galahs, and the galahs (like the abyss) stared back at him. They indicated their travelling gear.

"Can you take us and these?" they asked.

"Ladies," he sighed, "I am a taxi. You need a removalist."

The Hobart Chronicles XXXIII: [Nearly] Burning Down The House

2007-08-21T23:43:00.000-07:00

"Get you a copper kettle
Get you a copper coil"
- Bob Dylan, 1970

"Three hun-dred six-ty five de-grees
Burning down the house"
- Talking Heads, 1983

D’ohmestic Queen (TM). That’s me. While cooking on Sunday, I needed a dash of water to keep the food moist. So as usual I grabbed the kettle which sits nearby and helped myself. No problem.

Well, yes problem. I put the kettle down on the stove. The stove element happened to be on. The kettle is – or was – electric. You can imagine what happened next.

The error became apparent to me only when I noticed the curry smelt rather synthetic. I turned to see white wisps of evaporating plastic disappearing up the range hood. When I grabbed the kettle and turned it upside down (water cascading everywhere) the plastic had a distinct swirl matching the electric element burned right into its arse end. Kaput.

One colleague thought it terrifically amusing. After hearing I’d burnt the kettle, he’d joked that it wasn’t wise to put electric kettles on the stove to boil, ha ha – only to find out that was pretty much what I’d done. How mortifying to realise you are actually as stupid as someone else’s stupid joke.

But when I put the kettle out in the rubbish last night, I felt sad. That kettle has served me for 9 years. I remember buying it with a gift voucher from my then employer as a sort of ‘bonus’ – a generous gesture for a not-for-profit organisation, and welcome considering the pittance I was earning. It wasn’t very pretty – no-nonsense white plastic – but it was tough. It held 2 litres. It filled innumerable cups of tea, topped up percolated coffee, and restored hot water bottles to life, whenever it was asked and without complaint. It was the first electric kettle I ever owned.

Is it wrong to feel affection for inanimate objects? I was so upset when my old Honda, the Low Flying Lady, broke (or was broken – another story for another time) that I told my then listening audience all about it. Struck with sympathy, they rang in with offers of parts and replacement engines; one even sent me a fax of condolence. (I sold the LFL to a listening farmer for a song who gave it a heart transplant; it’s now living out retirement as a paddock basher near Gunnedah.)

Old glasses, favourite mugs, comfy clothes, familiar furniture – they all come to the end of their useful lives and that’s normal. But I still feel a little twinge of grief when they have to go.

The only plausible reason I have is, never having known or achieved a truly profligate lifestyle, I tend to keep things for a long time. They begin to grow on me.

This was especially true during those halcyon uni years, where every piece of furniture was hard won through relentless scrounging, or lovingly passed from one share-housing hand to another. (I once got a cat this way. In fact, I twice got a cat this way.) Posters were carefully peeled from pub walls when the bouncer wasn’t looking and ferried home under jackets. Glasses were carefully peeled from pub tables and ferried home stashed in backpacks.

Even now, of all the furniture I currently own, only two things were bought new (three if you count the washing machine). Everything else is second hand, recycled, reconstructed or donated. My wardrobe is a bit more evenly distributed, and thankfully these days the kitchen is definitely more new stuff than old, not a bad policy when dealing with food.

Speaking of new in the kitchen, I tired very quickly of making tea in the microwave, so I've bought a new kettle. It was hideously expensive, for a kettle! But as I may be stuck with it for a decade or so, I decided to have one I enjoy. It’s not copper, but stainless steel, and the green glass lid floats up when the catch is released. It makes a pleasing little ding when it’s boiled. And in memory of its predecessor the old clunker, it’s also a Breville.

Vale, Fair Kettle. You’ll be missed.

The Hobart Chronicles XXXII: A Tale They Won't Believe

2007-08-10T04:53:00.000-07:00

Lean on bar, hands in the pockets,
Drain those glasses down like rockets.
Weddos, Roaring Days, 1988

Son, don't be dense! You know it's an offence
And you must expect a summons in the morning
Weddos, Summons In The Morning, 1988

It’s a tale they won’t believe,
When I get down to Hobart town
Weddos, A Tale They Won’t Believe, 1989

Thus far, have I given you the impression that Slobart is a pleasant, charming and mostly harmless little hamlet?

Let me tell you about South Arm.

Specifically, the Foreshore Tavern at Lauderdale, on the South Arm.

The background to this anecdote is that, courtesy of former housemate WMDamian, I became a Weddings Parties Anything tragic back in the early 90s; one day Weddos will have to reform and do some Christmas gigs when I am in Melbum to enjoy them, but until then I follow the fortunes of Mick Thomas and whatever musical incarnation he is currently in.

Well, Mick Thomas & The Go Set’s tour finally brought them to town – two gigs at the southern end of Tasnarnia, one in the north. The first of these was last night, in the outer Slobart suburb of Lauderdale. Lauderdale is located on what’s known as South Arm – it’s a sort of geographical daggy end to the eastern shore, where the proportion of bush scrub is still balanced against fibro houses and beach shacks. At least, I think it’s like that in daylight.

Last night, the incessant rain had caused minor flooding and the South Arm road was in fact closed when the high tide covered the asphalt for several hours. Perhaps it would have been better if it had remained covered. As it was, the road was passable if slippery, so that my new colleague Carolyn and I, at a loose end on a Thursday night, managed to navigate the Volvo out there.

‘Out there’ really isn’t fair, as it’s only about 30 minutes from my place in town, and about 15 minutes from Carolyn’s temporary house-sit in Bellerive. However, physical distances are, well, concentrated in Tasnarnia – mere meters on the map may translate to a yawning chasm in breeding and manners.

I should have paid attention when Carolyn pointed out the feral utes we parked next to, but years in Tamworse have inured me to the sight of CAT mudflaps, Bundy stickers and oversized tyres. I strode confidently into the Foreshore Tavern’s bistro entrance, where the loud noises turned out to be a ‘private party’ being thrown by Heart FM, a Macquarie station which “plays the best music from the 60’s to now” (according to their website). The PA’s volume made the jocks incomprehensible, but from what I could see the listeners appeared to be playing bingo. We backed out of there in a hurry, to look for the front bar.

The front bar turned out to be remotely located; although an aerial survey would show it to be in the room next to the bistro, the only way to get from the one to the other was to go outside and walk around the building via the carpark, in the driving rain. Hmmm.

Early beers and a counter dinner of fish ‘n’ chips were a tame, if somewhat soggy, affair. With the lights on the décor could be described as Shabby Chic Feral Rooty Hill RSL. One of the pool tables was Out Of Order; the other was missing a ball, the cue ball, the triangle and the cues, none of which stopped us from cobbling together a game. I said hello to Mick Thomas at the bar, causing me the simultaneous shame and thrill which is the bane of the embarrassed tragic.

Later, it got dark, and out came the nocturnal wildlife. About three quarters of them must have been of the order Lepidoptera, as despite the downpour they flocked to the light in the outside smoking area. In fact, they seemed to have happily paid their $10 door charge for the privilege of huddling together in this cold, wet corral where you couldn’t hear the band. The few people interested in the music were treated to regular arctic blasts from the door as one or another of this tribe ventured from the smoking area to the bar, and back again.

During the No Nos, a Hobart-based support act who played an excellent set of energetic death-rockabilly, the dance floor was populated by exactly two inebriated and unsteady ferret types, one precariously balancing a coke and something in his left hand and a beer in his right. Flannel and workboots whirled mesmerically.

But the peacocks, or perhaps galahs, of the night were the young women. Carolyn and I received some valuable fashion insights from their attire, which was clearly their Friday night best. The current uniform seems to require long boots, leggings or skinny jeans, and long jumpers. Muffintop was flaunted, not disguised. One young thing, wearing a long grey-striped jumper over her leggings, made slow, deliberately theatrical dance moves, reminiscent of Madonna in her Vogue era of a decade ago. Strike a pose. Vogue. Move to the music. Her grace was impaired only slightly by the enormous handbag swinging like a wrecking ball from her arm.

My personal favourite was a bovine young lass who accessorised her tight pink jumper with a thin white belt – strapped directly under her boobs. It gave the concept of ‘empire line’ a whole new twist. Unfortunately any vigorous dance move meant the belt slipped to her waist, necessitating a pause in dancing to hoick it back up around her ribs. One of her most vigorous dance moves involved dropping to the dance floor in a kind of squat. When she avoided overbalancing (which wasn’t often), her tight jeans slipped so far down she treated observers to at least six inches of plumber’s grin. Dancer’s crack. Scrag’s crack? It was confusing.

During the set break the open fire in the centre of the room went out and the mood in the bar moved up a notch. When Mick Thomas hopped up on the stage with his acoustic guitar, the crowd were ready for music – and got an ear-splitting hum of feedback. The sound bloke at the mixing desk, beastly careless, had cranked all his knobs up to eleven and hopped outside for a ciggie. There were no bodies in the first five metres before the stage to absorb the hum. The first three songs, Weddos classics including A Tale They Won’t Believe and the cover of Racist Friend, inflicted auditory damage. Mick scowled at the stream of patrons heading out to join the sound bloke in the cancer corral. The appearance of Squeezebox Wally added harmonies and about another 30dB of feedback. When the mandolin player from the Go Set joined the line up, it didn’t do any damage – because the sound bloke hadn’t bothered to turn on his pickup and he emitted no noise whatsoever.

The mood was turning as ugly as the music. One cultural giant at the rear of the milieu shouted, “Wha’s yer name? Who the fug areya?” Mick paused and fixed him with a stony glare. “I’m your worst fucking nightmare, mate. I’m gonna play folk music all night.”

Twenty five minutes was all Mick and Wally could stand and they abandoned the stage. Somewhere close to our left there was a loud crack and the acrid smell of gunpowder. Someone had set off some sort of firecracker. I think it was a firecracker. The Go Set were setting up but Carolyn and I decided that prudence was the better part of valour and before someone came to erect a chickenwire barrier across the stage in preparation for Rawhide we fled the Foreshore Tavern.

Perhaps tonight’s gig will be better. It’s at the Brisbane Hotel. In Hobart. Yes, I don’t understand either.

The Hobart Chronicles XXXI: A New Dawn

2007-08-07T21:01:00.000-07:00

“I sent a message out into the dark”
- Ben Lee, 2005

“Sun in the sky, you know how I feel”
- Nina Simone, Feeling Good, 1965

Let there be light! As the seasons turn, so does the Tasnarnian Mood. The days grow longer, and people’s outlooks seem to lighten in parallel. They smile at strangers in the street; shopkeepers have a bit of a joke. Even the drones at the pickle factory, a pretty grim bunch by long habit, are displaying a new light-heartedness.

Does sunlight really matter? 'Ken Oath it does! In Tasnarnia, it’s not the cold (not excessive, especially when properly attired) or the rain (Slobart is the second-driest capital behind bAdelaide) that makes the winters so interminable; it’s the short, short days.

By the last weeks of July, the ordinary 9-to-5 wage slave rises in darkness, travels to work through a grey dawn at 8.30am, and at about 5.10pm someone flicks off the big light switch in the sky so you travel home in the darkness.

Even snow on Mt Wellington, a novelty in May, has become a curse by July: as the wind whips in from the west, tearing across the mountain and into Slobart, it just worsens the windchill factor by about a million degrees.

Of course, Tasnarnia is well above the Antarctic circle, and there are a good couple of hours of daily sunlight even in the depths of winter. It’s not exactly Finland, or Siberia. So what am I whingeing about?

Trust me, sunlight matters. I never believed it before coming to the island, but two winters later I’ve come around to the local way of thinking. The short days and long nights drag down normally good-natured people; the local tendency towards taciturnity becomes positively sullen. And by about the third week in July, EVERYONE gets sick. With people’s resistance at a minimum, not even Glen 20 on the mic socks prevents a bad cold spreading like the plague.

This is, of course, a hazard in my line of work. It was particularly inconvenient this winter. No sooner do I get several teeth ripped out and a plate installed, giving me a debilitating (if entertaining) lisp, then my colleagues start dropping like flies and I have to get back behind the mic just to keep us on air. (Thank God the plate comes out for times like this).

Then I get sick too, just as a few of them (but not enough) are struggling back to work. I sit at my desk, shivering with fever, trying desperately to launch internet streaming by the set start date. I cough so hard the plate just about shoots out of my mouth. The stuffed sinuses make me cranky. Don’t laugh at the lisp, Sunshine, I may just punch yer lights out.

Some time last week, the weather pendulum began its slow swing back the other way. It’s not quite so dark at hometime. You enjoy a pretty red sunrise over breakfast. And people have been transformed! There’s a new sense of goodwill and optimism. Some faces re-learn the art of smiling. Other things are more often right than wrong – live crosses to press conferences, midyear reviews, plans for events, all seem to involve a little less belligerence and heartache.

Even my mouth responds. Just 6 days after the brace is installed, I report faithfully back to Dr W, who informs me my teeth have already moved one whole millimetre – a full half of what he wants them to move. Remarkable. No wonder the buggers were hurting. Dr W smiles: “They’re supposed to hurt.”

The Hobart Chronicles XXX: Pleasure and Pain

2007-07-19T18:01:00.000-07:00

"Sooner or later I'll find my place
Find my body better fix my face"
- The Divinyls, Pleasure and Pain, 1985

Well, thish ish going to be a short note. That'sh becaush I have a shpeech impediment, ash you can shee.

About 90 minutesh ago I had the shpack filler putty shcraped off my teeth - fantastico! - and had the orthodontic devicsh fitted.

The devicsh is a plate, deshigned to push my (remaining) front teeth back into placsh. It should take a couple of monthsh. After that, the final csheramic capsh & bridgework will be done and then, finito.

Have you ever had an orthodontic plate? I remember them from unfortunate shchoolmates, and even back then they looked unpleashant.

As I shtood in the dentisht's shurgery thish morning, I eyed off the plate with trepedation. The wire hooksh and ringsh protruded shuggeshtively from the transhlucshent fluoro plashtic mould. It drew the eye like a torture devicsh - ugly yet fashcinating, I couldn't look away.

The following shesshion in the chair wash, while not exshactly a party, a shmall matter compared to shitting up and facshing the world with the damned thing in. Oncshe I got the dry-retching under control, I realished that I was almosht unable to form coherent shpeech. Having shpent my entire adult life in a professhion where the primary indishpenshible shkill ish talking, thish ish like being mocked by fate.

There'sh been no shortage of mocking from my colleaguesh thish morning alsho. Reconshtructive dental work ish one thing you can't hide from other people. I have tried to be a shport about it, but I did demand 6 monthsh' good behaviour from the pershon who ashked me to recshite the "She sells sea shells..." tongue twishter. Ha ha, very funny.

Shuffishe to shay (I won't shay THAT trite phrashe again while I've got thish plate in!) I will have to shpend the weekend re-learning how to shpeak, eshpecshially the shibilant shoundsh.

Inshtead perhapsh I should work on my Sean Connory impresshion:
"Shaken, not shtirred."

The Hobart Chronicles XXIX: Let me see those pearlies

2007-07-11T23:06:00.000-07:00

“Give me a smile, let me see those pearlies.”
- Faith No More, 1989

“Smile, tho’ your heart is aching”
- Charlie Chaplin, 1934 / Turner/Parsons, 1954

(I had a post I prepared earlier, but seem to have misplaced it, so sorry, it’s back to the dentist for this one).

Okay, so I have been absent for a short while; you must excuse me, I’ve been distracted. And no, there hasn’t been a lot of smiling, at least since Tuesday afternoon.

From one hole to four, and we are not talking golf here. All four teeth earmarked for demise have now been removed, as per the Great Dental Reconstruction Odyssey. The third and fourth went on Tuesday. They were incisors, what I believe are called the upper left and right laterals – for non-dental enthusiasts, they’re the ones next to your two big front teeth, the ones Dracula chowed down with.

On the suggestion of a friend I decided to keep these two extracted teeth (who knows, the Tooth Fairy might make a reprisal?). Yow, talk about icebergs – there’s a lot more tooth under the gum than over it. It was a bit horrible to think about the size of the holes in my head, but at least it explained the remarkable bruises that have formed on the gum. I did think about posting a picture of them (teeth AND bruises) but as dear readers of the Chronicles are such an exclusive bunch I don’t want to lose any of you.

Given that the Odyssey is in large part driven by vanity, seeing yourself with two big gaping holes is quite confronting. No amount of self reassurance along the lines of, it will all be for the best, stops the creeping horrors. When I went in for the followup yesterday, the dental assistant joked, “You can say you’re from Gagebrook now!” (Gagebrook: Slobart suburb from beyond the Flannel Curtain. A place where the children set fire to the buses and and there was a siege the other month with two residents sitting on their roof throwing stones and other missiles at police. For comparison, see Punchbowl, Redfern, Sunshine, Moe – you get the idea.)

Yesterday I had the pleasure of having the gaps filled with a type of specialist dental putty. Dr W constructed two falsies which he has glued in place by cementing them to the two front teeth – sort of like the way you might spacfill a hole in the wall. The sensation of gunk smeared across my front four teeth is most unpleasant – rather like smearing chewing gum over them and then not being able to get it off. I can’t bite anything tougher than a sandwich, and in any case the spacfilled creations have no cutting edge. When I speak, I sound like a cross between Alan Searle and Liz Smiley, which is attracting some pretty strange looks from colleagues.

ARRRRGGGHH!! I just want to rip them off! But if I can just stand them until next Thursday, they’ll be replaced by a short-term orthodontic device… more to come on this thread, I promise. Or is that a threat?

The Hobart Chronicles XXVIII: Pearly White

2007-06-06T22:34:00.000-07:00

"Oh, the shark, babe, has such teeth, dear
And it shows them pearly white."
- Bobby Darin, Mack The Knife, 1959

"Excuse me, a doormat’s good honest work
Only the bored and the wicked rich don’t know that."
- Kristin Hersh, Not Like You, 1998

Apologies for the relative lack of movement on the Chronicles; after the flurry of virtual activity in Sin City, the return to Slobart necessitated a return to more time-demanding work. Besides, I haven’t had much to write, and so writing nothing rather than blathering on is a type of discipline. That’s my excuse, anyway.

Now, here’s something worth telling you.* [*if you’re not fond of medical procedures, better move on now to paragraph 7]

As of 4.30 this afternoon, there’s (yet another) hole in my life… this one specifically in my lower jaw. It announces that I’ve finally taken the first step on the Great Dental Reconstruction Odyssey. In short, my jaws have always been too small for my teeth, and over the years as they have jostled for space like tectonic land plates, the teeth have become more and more crooked, leading to all sorts of problems. Not being cashed up in my 20s, and then not particularly keen to attempt major dental work in Tamworse where a consulting orthodontist flew in every few weeks, I’ve put off seeking a permanent fix.

Also I confess that although tolerant of all kinds of stomach-turning health issues (viz. injections, pap smears), I suffer a primal fear of dentists. If I review all the dental experiences in my life, I can testify to having been consistently treated by unsympathetic sadists too stingy with the anaesthetic who have clearly enjoyed torturing me in the chair and then charging me ruinously for the privilege. I swear I once heard one whisper, “Is it safe?” before starting a drill. So just the minty smell of fluoride solution puts me on edge; the distant mosquito whine of a drill behind a closed door, and it’s all I can do not to run screaming from the blue-uniformed lady at the reception desk.

Thus you can imagine my horror when the dentist Dr W showed me the casts of my teeth and explained, using the plaster model, that the bottom teeth were so numerous and big that they had actually deformed the shape of my lower jaw. Mmmm, buckled. Dr W said nothing at all about my upper teeth, but as that cast looked like the false teeth used by the serial killer in the Hannibal Lecter flick Red Dragon (I swear, for once this is not an exaggeration) there was little need to add to this impressive visual evidence.

The plan is: 4 teeth out (2 upper, 2 lower), a small bridge for the upper jaw, a plate to shift some of the remaining upper teeth into a better position, and some ceramic veneers, with an ETA of about 6 months. Short of removing 4 (different) teeth and then enduring three years of braces, or simply having the whole lot ripped out and starting again, this seems the best plan. The downside is the sacrificial slaughter of several years of hard-won savings; the upside is that health insurance should take some of the sting out. And, as Dr W pointed out, for every dollar you spend over $1500 a year on medical procedures the federal government gives you twenty cents back, so I stand to recoup close to a gorilla. This was news to me, but as Dr W kindly explained, young and otherwise healthy folk don’t tend to learn this until we get much older and our bits start breaking down. There’s your and my taxes at work – helping the old, the infirm, and me.

So today, to begin, Dr W repaired an old filling and then ripped out the first tooth. The filling was actually worse, accompanied as it was by the whining drill. For the extraction, he cranked my gob open, levered the tooth back and forth for about 30 seconds until I thought my jaw would crack, and then the next thing I knew he was packing my mouth with cotton wadding. Out in less than two minutes, and thanks to a heroic amount of anaesthetic I am only feeling the bruising now, some four hours later. I suspect I shall be feeling it for some hours to come. But at least the job’s underway.

[*7] Winter has finally set in during the past seven days. Slobartians enjoyed a very long and pleasant indian summer, but we are paying for it now. All the more reason to enjoy indoor activities, including the theatre (both dental and stage varieties).

At the weekend I took in Macbeth, staged by the Bell Shakespeare Company at Slobart’s little gem, the Theatre Royal. Each year Bell tours a production to Tasnarnia, and this year he brought us the Scottish play. There’s no doubt the Bard’s old words have much life in them yet, but they have become so familiar you want to shout out those iconic lines in unison with the witches or mad Lady Macbeth. If we lived in a world created by Jasper Fforde (of the excellent Thursday Next novels – silly and clever at once) Shakespeare would be an interactive event. Something to aim for, maybe.

Speaking of aiming for things, I have a long overdue obligation to answer a tag from Cellobella, the Red Sultana who recently commanded the tagged to Name Your Goals. Well ’Bella, I assume you meant 'life goals' or something similar, but here’s some goals for this week. Since I can barely plan beyond this evening, forecasting for the week should be seen for the achievement it is.
1. Mop the floor (...okay, I’ll try harder than this! But it does need doing!)
2. Get out and see more: more films, theatre, exhibitions, walking and hiking
3. Work on my pot-making skills (more on this another time)
4. Learn to have a quiet heart
5. Finish the Great Dental Reconstruction Odyssey without crying (in front of Dr W at least)

And I tag... well, as I think I explained last time, I don't know very many bloggers, and very few of them probably pop by here regularly. So I invite all readers who may NOT be bloggers to write a reply. Grin - and bear it.

The Hobart Chronicles XXVII: Ask Me Why

2007-05-09T23:17:00.001-07:00

“These are the contents of my head”
- Eurhythmics, Don’t Ask Me Why, 1989

“If all our days are numbered
Then why do I keep counting?”
- The Killers, 2006

“Why does my soul feel so bad?”
- Moby, 1999

Sin City, day 22 minus 2
Overcast, 21 degrees, humidity 81%

What a week. Newcastle, then a headcold. The glamour of acting in a flash job in a foreign metropolis – hah.

When you grow up you realise that some of the simple things we did as kids were actually pretty good. Why did we put these childish things behind us?

I haven’t played tag (we used to call it ‘chasie’) since about Grade 4. Everyone else got taller, putting me at a distinct physical disadvantage, and then it became passe in schoolground fashion.

As part of my ‘geek revolution’ (ie. Post-Sydney-Bloggers-Meetup) I have discovered a grown-up-geek version of tag, blog-tagging, by the most direct manner – I was tagged by John at The Interchange Desk. The tag-task was to explain Why I Blog.

Why do we do anything? Good question.

Here are five essentially random reasons why I started, and why I plug away at it with enthusiasm if not great artistry or regularity:

• I moved to Tasnarnia to start a new job in a new state and city with no friends and few contacts. I very much wanted to keep in touch with old friends. At the time the BM suggested starting a blog to post updates which any friend could access, and gave me a DIY link, and that’s how The Hobart Chronicles got started;

• I had forgotten the discipline of writing; my current line of work does not focus on writing so much as speaking. Blogging reminds me not just to write (stream-of-consciousness stuff is frowned upon as wankery by some of my old mates – funny, that) but to take the kernel of an idea and craft little stories around it. So I blog for practice;

• To write, I have to observe. Sometimes, even participate. In life, that is. Believe it or not, blogging is an incentive to dabble in real life occasionally so as to actually have something to blog about;

• One day I may like to start a more serious blog, on a serious subject, as a serious professional branching-out. Ahem. Better get into practice now;

• And finally I do it because I have an ego. Don’t we all? A person needs an ego to get out of bed every morning, to maintain friendships and relationships, to apply for jobs, to buy new clothes – and to blog. Ego, in moderation, is a healthy part of our psyche. Having relinquished my former ego-feeder, front-line broadcasting, I now blog to keep feeding that ego.

There. In the spirit of tagging, I tag Red Sultana. I don’t know too many other bloggers yet, but she knows heaps and hopefully will bung this tag onto a few more folk.

Tag/chasie got me thinking about other things I’ve rediscovered. If that sounds like a trip straight to second childhood, well – let’s just leave that thought hanging. Here’s a few things:

• Der-fred. That expression surfaced from my festering grey matter and popped straight out of my mouth at meeting this morning. One of my colleagues got really excited about it (“I haven’t heard that for aaaaages!”).

• Foo. Someone at work recently did a Foo over a partition, and now everyone seems to be doing, or drawing, Foo.

• Mud pies. Late last year I signed up for an adult ed course in ceramics (Old Ladyhood, heeeeere I come!) and realised that when you stop beating around the bush ceramics is less about making mugs and more about playing mud pies.

There’s lots more that have slipped my atrophied mind just now – will add them when they resurface.

The Hobart Chronicles XXVI: Who are you?

2007-05-01T19:29:00.000-07:00

“Ego is not a dirty word.”
- Skyhooks, 1975

“I was taught not to speak to strangers
But strangers always seem to know my name.”
- Paul Kelly, All Downhill From Here, 1991

Sin City, day 15 minus 2*
24 degrees, clear; humidity 41%, lovely

* if you can’t make sense of the ‘minus 2’, it’s not your fault. See housekeeping at the end of this post.

As if there are not enough ways to waste time. I just heard a stat quoted on the wireless that sits on the desk with me. Apparently, 95% of all people are procrastinators, and a whopping 20% of us are chronic procrastinators.

Well, I am definitely not a virtuous five-percenter. There are even times when I flirt with membership in the intransigent twenty-percent.

Usually I am driven to procrastination when faced with an unpleasant or boring but necessary task that has to be done… unless there’s something more important to do first. ‘More important’ is of course a subjective notion, the boundaries of which fluctuate according to what is being avoided.

Having recovered from the chronic procrastination suffered during my academic years, the habit is well and truly under control. Today the need to avoid that unpleasant or boring task is only temporary, a pause to create a small space in which to gird one’s loins before knuckling down. Like the other day at work when I needed to avoid one task for just five minutes in order to face it with a calm demeanour.

What can one do in an office for up to five minutes? Well, you have google, and…

You’ve heard of ego-searching, I’m sure, where one types one’s own name into a search engine and sees what comes up. It’s a great way of imagining who you might have been in another life. For example, in my alternate existences I am:
• a Malaysian model;
• a semi-professional tennis player from Queensland doing the circuit in southern US states;
• a SF/fantasy illustrator;
• a scientific researcher;
• and I also passed the bar exam in Arizona a few years ago to become a lawyer.

Well, in a desperate attempt to do something ‘more important’ while mentally preparing for another task the other day, I am ashamed to say I actually ego-searched my blog identity, Miss Andrea.

Oh boy.

Miss Andrea actually has a number of alternate existences:

• as a sports fishing boat: available for charter in Cape May County NJ, “the Miss Andrea ranks among the top 50 charter boats on our coast…[she] is a 50' Evans Summerset Custom Sport Fisherman. She runs on twin brand new 3196 Caterpillar engines with 660 hp. each. She cruises at 30 knots and has a 25' cockpit with all modern electronics and top quality tackle.”
I’ll remember my cockpit measurements and top quality tackle when promoting myself to potential employers and future suitors;

• According to student Jennifer Gagne, “Miss Andrea was a student teacher but now she's a real teacher. She taught in 434, Mr.G's class for grade three and four. Ms. Andrea taught us a lot of things. She taught us stomp dancing, Math, poetry, Language Arts, and much more… She has long brown hair, has glasses, and is tall for her age.” I think I may also host storytime at the Mercer county Library NJ.

• “as well as being a working professional and Mother, I'm a practising BDSM player and, until
recently, served as "Hostess Extraordinaire" of The Other Side, B.C.'s oldest and largest pansexual BDSM club. I'm currently the presenter of the "BOUND!!!" Women-Only Play Parties at PURGATORY!!!, Vancouver, B.C.'s premier BDSM play facility.”
(all punctuation verbatim);

Oddly, after recording these results I don’t really have much more to say. Rendered speechless I guess. Maybe I need some new 5-minute procrastination ideas.

Housekeeping: So if you haven’t made sense of the ‘[day] minus 2’ reading for the Sin City entries, it’s not your fault. It refers to a brief trip back to Tasnarnia on my first weekend in this acting job, for a work-related event. FYI it went very well.

THC XXV: Postscript

2007-04-29T21:50:00.000-07:00

From the Sydney Morning Herald's PS column by Andrew Hornery, 28 April 2007

Prince Andrew was the talk of Paddington’s art gelleries yesterday when word broke he had snapped up a suite of ceramics by Fiona Myer, wife of Sid Myer and part of the retailing dynasty. PS hears HRH spotted the works on art detaler Tim Olsen’s website and quickly coughed up $4000 to add the works to his burgeoning collection of ceramics.

The Hobart Chronicles XXV: Dot Dot Dot Dash Dash Dash Dot Dot Dot*

2007-04-27T00:24:00.000-07:00

"I fidget with the didgit dots...
But the matrix grid don't care."
- Mi-Sex, Computer Games, 1979

"Think about the old days
And all the friends I've lost
Darting back to Darlinghurst
Stations of the Cross."
- Spot The Dog, One More Roll Of The Dice, 1996

Sin City, day 11 minus 2
Overcast but clear, humidity 83%

My feet are sore; I have spent a bit of time on them in the past few days. Sin City is a place where the geography encourages walking and social life includes a lot of standing.

On Wednesday the ANZAC Day March wended almost past my front door, so despite the bouts of torrential rain I popped out to have a look.

This was my first observation of this city’s march, and I was impressed by the number of participants (the marchers stretched on forever) and spectators (numbers were reportedly down, but even so they formed impressive crowds). What struck me most though is how much the tone of the day has changed.

Even as recently as a decade ago, ANZAC Day was a select affair. This week, I saw people marching and attending who once would never have participated, nor been welcomed so enthusiastically. Many, many platoons of Vietnam War veterans; Korean War veterans; regiments from Hong Kong, Ireland, Malta, Turkey, Rhodesia, the UK and US; regiments of Gurkhas, Sikhs, Pacific Islanders. The crowd was as varied as the marchers, and everyone cheered enthusiastically for everyone else. One of the many bands marched past playing “We Are Australian”, an unexpected if apt musical selection.

True, there were some ‘old-style’ attendees – aggressive young men carrying beers and appearing drunk well before midday, scanning the crowd and apparently seeking trouble – but I saw only three little bands like this. The vast majority were respectful, inclusive and pleasant.

Last night, wonder of wonders, I had competing invitations! Good Lord, it’s been such a long time since my social calendar has bulged so expansively – one of the side-effects of exile in Tasnarnia is (yet again) the business of making friends and influencing people in a foreign land, a protracted and cumbersome process hampered by my slide into Grumpy Old Woman territory. Well punks, I felt lucky last night and went to both.

Both invites were from work colleagues whom I also regard as marvellous friends. The first, courtesy of Martin, was the opening (with drinks) of an art exhibition featuring painter Angus McDonald and ceramicist Fiona Myer in collaboration. Martin and his SO Amanda knew Angus when they were living in NE NSW; the third member of our party was James, who grew up in that area. Martin also introduced us to his Sydney friends and erstwhile temp-house-hosts, Paul and Penny, who were there. Wow, too much confluence. I enjoyed the sparse, lovely artwork, which made me think about technique and light. Then we stood on the street outside the Tim Olsen Gallery Annex in Paddington where drinks were served on the naturestrip under a mini-marquee. The Janz bubbly was a welcome Tasnarnian touch.

After some convivial conversation with these charming people, James and I took a turn for the nerd. He was heading off to a Sydney Webloggers meeting, which was convening at the beguiling Arthouse Hotel in the city, and being an occasional reader of the Chronicles felt I might like to join him. Having never been to the Arthouse nor talked with more than two bloggers at once (that’s talking using real words, face-to-face) I thought, why not?

Well, as dear James put it, there were no “potential stalkers and freaks”; I met some lovely people and consequently cottoned onto some fun blogs including those by Icy, Mark, John and Bryan (thanks Emily for the pic). I also bumped into one blast from the past, Brad Howarth, whom I last saw back in the 90s, condemned to one final year of skulking about the RMIT hallways I was fleeing.

This too was another fine event – thumbs up for uber-blogger The Bargain Queen for organising. Anyone who’s motto is Live like a Queen, Spend like a Pauper is a winner.

* Try Morse Code. You know you want to.

The Hobart Chronicles XXIV: Don’t Want To Live In Captivity

2007-04-23T00:44:00.000-07:00

“I don’t want to slide into apathy (shut me out)
And I don’t want to live in captivity”
- Something For Kate, Monsters, 2001

“I wish I could sleep like a baby
I wish I could sleep like a stone
I wish that I could not remember”
- Paul Kelly, Night After Night, 1999

Sin City, day 7 minus 2
18 degrees and pouring, humidity 150%

At the pickle factory HQ recently, someone installed a new spam filter. It’s a lot more energetic than the old filter, and more polite – in that when it detects ‘possible spam’ it puts them in captivity and sends a little note to your inbox to see whether you would like to unlock any of the ‘quarantined emails’.

Amazing what these new-fangled gadgets will do for you. I used to have my Mum to correct my spelling and grammar, and my Dad to pick which friends were suitable (he occasionally still tries, but I think it’s just a token effort designed to remind me I am still someone’s daughter). Now the box on my desk will do the lot.

I am in the habit of checking my captive email as the filter occasionally catches legitimate communications. Also I suspect the filter ‘learns’, so I need to be vigilant if I am to teach the software to recognise friend from foe. Kind of like puppy school except with Terminator overtones. Besides, despite what all the tech-gurus like to tell you, spam can be good: entertaining, surprising and even revealing.

What the box, even with well-taught filters, apparently can’t do is recognise ‘entertaining’, 'surprising' and ‘revealing’. I am not sure the box knows what art is, let alone what it likes – and never mind what I like.

I reckon those spam-generating programs are like the 21st century version of the metaphorical thousand monkeys banging away at a thousand typewriters. Here, the other day I received this spam email, which may not be Shakespeare but does have some sonnet-like qualities. Is it a poem? You be the judge.

Subject: So now she uses a broom.

Hello!

Don't pull that stuff on me today.

I wasted through the night.
I didn't wash the dishes.
No, I really don't see how.
And then I felt a third and fourth.
He greets me at the door each day
I'm sure my heart will break.
And when he's done I give him
I have a brief confession
You guessed it-on my rear.
A kid who sat in front of me
That I have ever had!
and there won't be no more tests.
and itchy skin with blisters-
That I have ever had!
Just think of all the energy
and itchy skin with blisters-
a million, more or less.
If I don't get it off my chest
I had nosebleeds, measles, heat rash,
I couldn't do my homework.
I felt it on my ear.
I didn't clean the mess.
a million, more or less.

Art imitates life imitates art: just another chicken-and-egg story? Do these random lines speak to you?

It reminded me of one of my favourite bits of email trivia, one of those things that you are glad someone sent to your inbox. It's a poem by George W Bush - that is, allegedly constructed by Washington Post writer Richard Thompson, using only Dubya quotations. For my reading pleasure and yours, let me reproduce it here:

Make the Pie Higher
A poem by George Bush
(with Washington Post writer Richard Thompson,
constructed entirely from Dubya quotations.)

I think we all agree, the past is over.
This is still a dangerous world.
It's a world of madmen and uncertainty
And potential mental losses.

Rarely is the question asked
Is our children learning?
Will the highways of the internet
Become more few?

How many hands have I shaked?
They misunderestimate me.
I am a pitbull on the pantleg of opportunity.

I know that the human being
And the fish can coexist.

Families is where our nation finds hope,
Where our wings take dream.

Put food on your family!
Knock down the tollbooth!
Vulcanize Society!
Make the pie higher! Make the pie higher!

The Hobart Chronicles XXIII: Love This City

2007-04-18T00:41:00.000-07:00

"You gotta love this city
For its body and not its brain."
- The Whitlams, Love This City, 2000

Sin City, Day 2.5;
25 degrees C, humidity 96%

6pm, and the asphalt sweats out a day’s accumulated odours as the dark rises. Cars belch and beep and vie for the next open space. People cluster around the brightly lit doorways of Chinese noodle shops, surging forward at a change of lights. Proprietors shout abuse from the doorways of the Asian grocery stores, gesticulating over the piles of green vegetables, and their customers shout back. Red roast ducks swing glistening from stainless steel hooks. Groups of university girls giggle as chisel-faced businessmen and women stride past.

It’s a short walk from the beehive back to the apartment where I have been ensconced by Auntie, but as the direct route is through Chinatown it’s by no means dull. I may have moved back to a little city, but a visit to the Big City still provides some culture shock (Melbourne doesn’t count, it’s ‘home’). The sounds, sights, the indescribable smells – on the Great Southern Continent, Sin City is in a class of its own. So much to look at! So many other pedestrians to bump into! So much traffic bearing down on one’s blithely jaywalking form! Yikes, I have got to stop gawking or I will be hit by that apocryphal bus (or maybe what the locals call, ‘light-rail’ – they look like trams to me).

Last night in the search for new culinary pleasures, I decided to aim for some Japanese and began looking. Proper Japanese food is a bit hard to find in Sin City’s China town; most proprietors purveying the stuff are actually Korean and as the two cuisines are so very different a Korean-Japanese experience can be disconcerting at best, plain horrible at worst. Imagine a German trying to make genuine Italian food… not so nice, is it. (Ok, you can stop now.)

Anyway, suddenly there was a teppanyaki sign, and the menu tacked on the door seemed genuine enough (no subtle giveaways like dishes written in Korean, for example). So I went in – and down. The restaurant was in a kind of basement. Right at the doorway was a table populated by three quite shady-looking characters speaking loudly in Chinese… and no-one else. Seating for roughly 60 customers, a bit shabby but clean, and EMPTY.

I was about to slink unobtrusively back up the stairs when the waitress spotted me and came rushing over, seating me at my very own teppanyaki grill (set for about 12) before I could protest. I lost all courage to slink and instead spinelessly ordered.

It turned out to be surprisingly good – not fancy, much like the sort of thing you would get at a little back alley place in Japan – but genuine flavours. I sat there with the restaurant to myself (apart from the maybe-Triads) and tucked in.

Who expects a small world experience in such a manic place? As I was finishing up, a couple descended the stairs and were pounced on by the waitress, who led them to another part of my table and sat them down. We made polite conversation about teppanyaki and Japanese food, and it turned out that like me they were not locals. Indeed, they came from north western NSW.

Oh, where from? I replied. I worked up there for a while.

Gunnedah, said the bloke as though I wouldn’t have heard of the place.

Oh, Gunnedah! Who do I know at Gunnedah you could say hello to for me, I said, racking my brains. I thought of the mayor’s name (nice lady, we got along quite well). Say hello to Gai Swain for me, I said. Tell her Andrea said hello.

Andrea? cried the bloke. Breakfast! I listened to you every morning for years!

What were the chances – a brief 10-minute overlap in an unfashionable restaurant below the teeming Chinatown streets? The three of us had a laugh about that. We caught up on that sort of inconsequential sort of stuff that makes conversation go round (Lake Keepit down to 3%, gas pipeline still not completed, hoo-hah over the coal mining experiments on the Liverpool Plains). So to Leith and Annette, hello – it was good to meet you, and thank you for showing yet again that the world is a small place, in the best way.

The Hobart Chronicles XXII: The Milk (Chocolate) of Human Kindness

2007-04-11T21:37:00.000-07:00

“I am the milkman of human kindness
I will leave an extra pint.”
- Billy Bragg, 1987

“I only use my gun whenever kindness fails.”
- Mosquitos, 1999

Easter this year was odd, but in a good way. On Easter Sunday I was visited by the Easter Bunny. Really.

Sunday morning I opened up the front door, and there on my doorstep were three Easter Eggs. No explanation, nothing.

I suspect it was my next-door neighbours (I acquired these ones in place of the noisy boys about 8 months ago; we hail one another in passing, and the first to collect their own rubbish bin from the kerb collects the other’s as well), but really, it doesn’t matter WHO. What struck me was the act of kindness – a small gesture, a surprise, and no expectation of recognition or return. I feel like hiring a billboard to declare, Kindness is not dead!

Then again, maybe the confectionary was planted by the Witnesses who come visiting every couple of weekends (if I am not there, or even, ‘not there’, they slip tracts under the door). Does kindness count if your Higher Consciousness made you do it? Does it matter? The chocolate tastes the same…

Prior to the Easter Bunny’s visit, I had a Good Friday visiting Grandmaster B and Lou who had made a short trip across the Strait from their new abode in North Fitzroy to the northern city of Launcesspool. Travelling in the company of parental figures, they had been booked into a remarkable accommodation complex on the edge of town, styled in the Swiss Village mode. Yup. Hard to imagine – and even harder to look at. Sort of insults your sense of logic, never mind your intelligence. Tasnarnia, a tourist’s paradise and all that. Happily, they were in excellent spirits, and it was a pleasure to catch up.

There’s been so many of my favourite people visiting the land of Tasnarnia, I’ve been very lucky. Now it’s my turn for a short sojourn – I am heading to Sin City Sydney for 4 weeks, so the Chronicles (‘Chronic-les’?) will be coming to you from a distant town for a short while.

The Hobart Chronicles XXI: Action From The Back Section

2007-03-28T19:15:00.000-07:00

"Let me get some action
From the back section,
We need body rockin’
Not perfection."
- Beastie Boys, Body Movin', 1998

"When I think of home it sparkles
And so brightly shines."
- Paul Kelly, All Downhill From Here, 1991

How can you not like the Beastie Boys? Even when Sabotage is performed by a 4-piece classical string quartet, it’s gooood. (I just heard it with my own ears on Spicks & Specks).

Speaking of what’s not to like, I went to Melbourne over the weekend, and amongst other things did some shopping. An amount of this occurred near my ancestral home in the outer south-eastern suburb of Springvale (known by some locals as ‘Chingvale’ – mostly those on the dole who were sore about the migrants taking the cleaning jobs said locals wouldn’t do in the first place). Springvale Road is a shopping nirvana for anyone seeking fresh fish, lean pork, exotic green vegetables and cheap plastic thingumys imported from south east Asia.

While convincing my Dad he really wanted to buy me a granite mortar and pestle, not to mention roast duck for dinner, I noticed a marvellous fashion accessory for sale.

Now I am resigned to my genetic inheritance as much as the next person – we are all inexorably getting stouter, balder, requiring glasses, growing multiple chins, and otherwise turning into our parents.

In my case, just one of the multiple blessings I am looking forward to without pleasure is my bum becoming square and flat. Mmmm. You may laugh, but next time you see a short Eurasian woman over 40 from behind, you’ll know what I mean.

Well, I no longer have to dread reaching that day without help. There at a little stall, displayed in a kaleidoscopic range of colours and sizes, were stacks of girdle-like undies fitted with curved bottom-shaped inserts. This product may not be news to you, but it was to me. Thankfully, they were tagged with a helpful sign, hand-written, declaring them to be “Padded Bums”. Come my 40th, I’ll be there with wallet open and bells on. My bum will indeed look big in one of these.

The reason to wait a few years before stocking up on Padded Bums is that I may well have to revise the size I’ll be buying, if the weekend’s food and alcohol consumption is any indication.

In honour of the brief return of WMD (Warning: Mad Damian) to cover the Melbourne Air Show for the pre-eminent international warmongering magazine he writes for, the hard core of the RMIT Journalism class of nineteen-ninety-something got together at alumnus Nat’s place for a barbecue.

While not resulting in the debauchery such an occasion would have led to a decade and a half ago, it was nevertheless a fine event. A variety of spouses, no less than eight rug-rats and one eighth-month pregnancy (the host’s) did not stop the event from running to nine hours’ duration, during which time several slabs of beer and an indeterminate quantity of wine were consumed (soaked up by an array of quality food the like of which we could not have envisioned back in the sharehousing days). The conversation flowed as freely and enjoyably as the beverages.

Approaching 40 (or indeed, having passed it in a few cases) was no hindrance to the good time had by all. I am not sure if this is a celebration of life, or merely a disgrace. Suffice to say, when the last guests left it was after witnessing the remaining rug-rat swigging from a VB stubbie (helpfully filled with water by her doting father) and dancing to TISM’s Defecate On My Face (she's going to turn out just like her mother). WMDamian, J'Dubya and I were the last three stayers (or more correctly, hangers-on), and each being unencumbered by spouse or child we demonstrated our commitment to the indolent, responsibility-retarded ways of Gen X by being driven to our respective temporary domiciles by my long-suffering Dad.

This is not to say the weekend comprised so much drinking and shopping that it was devoid of culture. I invited WMDamian to the National Gallery of Victoria (after lunch at the Clyde with Kirb), because I wanted to see the exhibition of Egyptian antiquities. Alas, the exhibition turned out to be at the National Gallery of Australia in Canberra - it seems I got my NGV and NGA mixed up.

However, in the foyer of the NGV, behind the water wall, was about half a tonne of white Leggo. Some crazy installation, to which passers by were invited to add. Gallery staff periodically reduce structures back to their elemental pieces, and the process goes on. Perhaps it's a metaphor for creation, or evolution, or simply the passage of time. Certainly it made contributors appear to have regressed to infancy (or progressed to Rain Man ability - not sure which).

No metaphors necessary in WMDamian's contribution - as you can see, he was determined to take no prisoners and make the tallest structure possible. "Size does matter", he asserted, and I could but take him at his word. WMDamian also added a King Kong, though I'm not sure what that signified; he didn't attempt a Vivien Leigh. I made a more modest tower resembling a block of Swiss Cheese.

The NGV staffer sneered at Damian's ambitions and escalating construction, and as we left it became apparant why - some earlier builder had erected a colossus more than 3 metres tall. So I suppose WMD lost that round.

Then again, it could be argued that we, the temporary artists, were all winners - it is a remarkably zen activity to be given a tool and no boundaries, and the brief to simply create. Participants rose from their labours appearing refreshed and joyous as children.

Regrettably, my return to work today also meant a return to neat and tidy work attire. There has been a definite tightening across the seat of my usually generous pants, indicating the weekend had indeed produced some action in my back section.

No need for the Padded Bum just yet.

The Hobart Chronicles XX: Little By Little

2007-02-28T22:03:00.000-08:00

"I'm the queen of fools
I know the deck is stacked"
- Dusty Springfield, Little By Little, 1967

It was like notes on a script:

LIGHT FADING. PEOPLE ARE HOME WATCHING THE NIGHTLY NEWS. NO TRAFFIC.

THE MEAN STREETS ARE DESERTED.

IT’S WARM BUT THERE’S A FINE DRIZZLE. THE STREETLIGHTS HAVE FUZZY HALOS.

ONE LONE GIRL (SHORT, HAIR TIED BACK), IS LATE FROM WORK.

SHE WALKS UP THE CITY FOOTPATH TO A CURRY HOUSE FOR A TAKEAWAY DINNER.

THERE’S A WARM GLOW FROM THE ONLY OTHER PLACE THAT’S OPEN – A RECORD BAR.

AS SHE PASSES ITS WIDE OPEN DOOR, THE MELLOW NOTES OF A 60s TORCH SONG WAFT OUT TO MEET HER…

For a few minutes last night, life was like a movie.

Slobart is beautiful when you least expect it.

The Hobart Chronicles XIX: Summer of Discontent

2007-02-19T23:11:00.000-08:00

“In this summer of discontent
nothing but sadness -
no kiss in the morning,
no Friday night madness.”
- Weddings Parties Anything, Manana Manana, 1989

“Goodness, gracious, GREAT balls o’fire!”
- Jerry Lee Lewis, 1957

Wishing you good fortune in the Year of the Pig.

In these dog days of summer the Slobartians revel like mayflies in the sunshine and warmth, knowing it cannot last. Festival season continues unabated.

Some locals complain there’s too many festivals and events, cranky because they can’t visit them all. But for me, there was one missing: there’s been no sign of Chinese New Year, which seems odd for a capital city.

Curiously, there is no visible Chinese population in Slobart, which may explain the absence of festivities. The only Asian grocery shop in the general inner-Slobart area that I have found is Korean, and there is a Hmong community which runs a comprehensive fruit and veg section at the Salamanca Markets, but no plain ol’ (new- or sixth-generation-) Chinese folks and so no restaurant windows hung with glowing red ducks and no dragon-costumed entertainers this time of year.

Maybe there is a pocket of Chinese people hidden in my neighbourhood though. At about 11.30 last night I was rudely woken by a brace of illegal fireworks being set off in a nearby back yard – presumably chasing away someone’s demons along with my sleep.

However, there have been some other pleasant visual distractions, including the Wooden Boat Festival.

Occurring once every two years and aptly named, the city’s docks swarm with wooden craft of all shapes and sizes (and tourists of similar variance) for four days.

I don’t know the first thing about any craft powered by more than a paddle, but they certainly made a pretty picture. Lots, in fact – here are a few.

Maybe there’s no need for the Chinese firecrackers to scare away demons if you have an F-111. As part of the finale to the Wooden Boat Festival and Hobart Regatta, someone apparently organised one of their mates (!) to procure a spare F-111 to do a dump’n’burn over town.

Bugger climate change! Let's burn some avgas! Pity the poor locals who missed the forward news about that one. The sudden roar shattering the balmy Sunday evening could have been anything from US forces to Martians invading Constitution Dock.

I thought the driveway of the master’s residence in the Christian Brothers up the block from my place, which looks high over the hill, would be a good observation point. So did a few other locals.

We lined up with our point’n’shoot technology items to capture the moment, but it was endearing to see everyone so captivated by the roar and the flames that they forgot to point’n’shoot.

Meanwhile, I played with a setting on my p'n's and sat it on a low wall, so when the plane came into view I just pressed the button before standing back to watch the show. Here’s what I got:

One [post-election] day, if the US is again allowed to foist more 'bargain' hardware onto Defence and the trusty old F-111s are replaced, we could always sell them to the Chinese for New Year celebrations. They make a lot more satisfying noise than the firecrackers.

The Hobart Chronicles XVIII: Ship In The Harbour

2007-01-31T15:12:00.000-08:00

“If I was crying…
It was for freedom
from myself…
I made a lot of mistakes
In my mind.”
- Sufjan Stevens, Chicago, 2005

“Baby I’m sure that you’re getting bored in this
town”
- Weddings Parties Anything, Ship In The Harbour, 1992

Well, the C(o)untry Music Festival in Tamworse is over for 2007, which means I have been in Tasnarnia for a year. Already!

As you’ll know if you’ve ever spent time in a country town (Slobart has some country characteristics), it is not possible to become a Local without being born there (and preferably having some background as well). In NSW I would meet people who had lived in a town for 35 years who described themselves as ‘nearly Local’. So becoming Local here may not be possible - but how have I become localised?

* I now refer to other parts of Australia as ‘the Mainland’;

* I refer to elected members of local council as 'Aldermen';

* I go to the Salamanca Markets on Saturday to buy bread and vegetables, and then get pissed off by all the ‘tourists’ in the way;

* Any time I want a takeaway dinner, I make sure to get it before 9pm when all the takeaway joints close;

* Just like the taxis, busses, and local drivers, I do not quibble about taking up 2 lanes when driving in the city during peak hour, and am not surprised by anyone doing 80km on the 110km highways;

* I go to see the ships at Constitution & neighbouring docks;

* I watch clouds;

* I can again buy and eat fresh fish without worrying about salmonella.

But there's always more to learn about Tasnarnia and Tasnarnians.

Tasnarnia is a state of cricket tragics. The Ashes Urn toured here the other week, after a last minute adjustment to the national Museums schedule to actually include the state on the map. The trip proved well worth the trouble. Nearly 20,000 people filed past the little urn in four days, queuing for more than an hour and in some cases joining the line on the street outside the Museum. Now that’s a level of dedication the PM could be proud of.

I am not sure if I get what the whole cricket worship thing is about. Being with the Corporation I did go to the exhibition opening, a fancy event at which not only did I get to see the urn without waiting or shoving crowds out of the way, I was also plied with smoked salmon and champagne.

I wanted very much to see for myself this little object that is the focus of so much international sporting rivalry and column inches. Knowing the urn’s vital stats, I was prepared to be underwhelmed by its physical appearance... and yes, it was underwhelming. But without being particularly excited by the object, I was nevertheless glad I went. Does that make sense?

And January is cruise ship season, with a variety of behemoths sailing into harbour for fleeting visits of Slobart.

Yesterday the Sapphire Princess, which appears related to the Starship Enterprise, paused for a few hours so its passengers could jump off and take a few pictures. The SP can carry 2,670 passengers, which apparently makes it the K-Mart of pleasure cruisers. It has 17 decks, weighs 116,000 tonnes and is 290 metres long.

Here is a picture for you; have a look at the police patrol boat next to the ship to give you an idea of scale.

It’s an impressive bit of temporary scenery, as a backdrop to eating a paper bag of fish & chips for dinner.

The Hobart Chronicles XVII: One… Christmas

2007-01-08T21:42:00.000-08:00

“Happy Christmas your arse”
- The Pogues, Fairytale of New York, 1988

“You ask me to enter
Then you make me crawl
And I can’t keep holding on to what you’ve got
When all you’ve got is hurt”
- U2, One, 1992

“I’ve felt pitiful since you’ve been gone”
- Powderfinger, Since You’ve Been Gone, 2003

Christmas Cracker:
Q. How do Jedi Knights know what you got for Christmas?
A. They feel your presents.

Thanks Kempy for that gem.

I had a nice visit to Melbourne over Christmas and was glad to spend the time with my Dad, but that aside I must say it was about the crappest Christmas I have ever had. Ever. Yep, still in crap life mode. Just when you think it’s crap enough already, somehow it seems to feel even crapper. How loooong this cold dark night is taking, indeed.

I worked on NYE, which is not a bad way to spend that over-hyped, under-delivering change of season. The Coodabeens had an OB from Constitution Dock, and the fine weather and good audience were pleasant. Then Bob from the distillery across the road came over and plied us all with samples of his fine herbal remedies (malt- and juniper-based), and by the time the fireworks were on we were all filled with enough good cheer to sing Auld Lang Syne, and enough love for our brotherhood of man not to mind the absence of any key.

A day or so later, my good friend Sister K rolled into town from the Terror-tory to catch up and commiserate over our broken hearts (one each). We got in only one decent night of drinking, after which she woke up with a spectacular case of tonsillitis, requiring the ministrations of a doctor. While appointments were in short supply, we did eventually secure one, so I didn’t have to drag SisK off to casualty (this time, anyway). I did purchase a chook, garlic and ginger (all organic) and force-fed her the resultant broth – which reinforced my suspicion that she actually only visits me when she is desperate for home cooking.

Through a valiant effort of spirit aided by antibiotics and analgesics, Sister K rose from the couch and we visited a couple of places neither of us had ever been to before.

Highlights included taking the Volvo on the ferry to Bruny Island (an island off an island off an island, with a population of 550, it seemed to be comprised of nothing but paddocks, beaches, oyster beds and sightseers);

and a tour of the Cascade Brewery (a historic landmark but still a fully functioning brewery, naughty Sister K resisted all temptation to press inviting buttons and pull tantalising levers... though we did nick a pair of earplugs each from a conveniently located carton. Well, they're always handy.)
Weird snapshot: the fine weather suddenly morphed into torrential rain on Saturday. That evening, waiting high on the hill outside the shoebox residence for a taxi, we were passed by a group of teenage boys. They were sliding down the steep wet road on their sneakers, arms flung behind their heads, giggling like maniacs. Road surfing?
There was also some fine wine, good asian-fusion food, loungeroom DJ sessions and Ghostbusters in there somewhere, before I saw Sister K off on the plane.

I don’t know if she has reached the Terrortory safely, or whether she was waylaid by the Canadian temptation along the way. I can advise though not to fly Jetstar if you intend going anywhere for a good time; at boarding the despicable low-renters at check-in stung her $100 for excess luggage (one medium and one small case are apparantly considered excessive). For that price, she complained, I could have flown Qantarse. The Shitstar desk jockey apparently did not flinch at this bristling, but I reckon the worm was probably laughing inside.

And there endeth the lesson.

The Hobart Chronicles XVI: Fire In The Sky

2006-12-21T19:03:00.000-08:00

“Smoke on the water
Fire in the sky”
Deep Purple, Smoke On The Water, 1971

“Melbourne girls don’t cry.”
Paul Kelly, Melbourne Girls, 1993

Scrambling to find Christmas this year; it seems to have got lost in the haze of smoke hanging over Slobart.

The East Coast of Tasnarnia is burning, and here at the pickle factory we have been slaving away at rolling coverage, fire updates, and all the sorts of services the Corporation has been keen to embrace in recent times. We on the ground are of course the ones putting it into action, and apart from a bit of a practice run with Beaconsfield (which was an ‘event’ but without any real public service element) it's been some time since I have done this for an extended period. Plus, the nature of what we do, how we do it and so on is in constant evolution, so each time is like new. Only faster. And faster.

The fires have been bad – fast moving, intensely hot, savage. The East Coast, as Miss MP and I saw only a few weeks ago, is dry – there's never much rainfall on that side of the island, but recently I saw parts looking as bald and dusty as western NSW.

In some places like Four Mile Creek, the fire burned right to the edge of town and people took refuge in the sea. A fireball exploded over Irish Town, at Scamander they endured what the Firies called a ‘horrific firestorm’.

It’s draining broadcasting, but ultimately satisfying stuff – it justifies what is essentially fluff that fills the other 48 or so weeks, to make radio that may save people’s lives and property, or radio that really helps people through the uncertainty and loss.

Mind you, you would not know it’s been hard for some; people have an ear for the ridiculous and play up to it, with sometimes impressive results. We diverted the Morning Program from the Giving Tree Walk to the coastal town of St Helens where they did the show for the rest of the week.

Back here we had taken a call from a young woman in Queensland who could not contact her parents in Scamander and did not know if they were all right; as it happens, the mother had gone to St Helens and the Mornings crew had bumped into her, so we had an impromptu on-mic, on-phone reunion. It was quite emotional to begin with (“I love you, tell Dad I love him”) … but sanity and that wry outlook eventually prevailed. The mum was invited to finish the interview with the offer, “Is there anything else you want to say to your daughter?” To which she replied, “Have you got clean underwear on? Have you got a job yet?”

Although several hundred kms away, the smoke blows east to the city. It’s cast a pall over Slobart the past few weeks. Just as well I’ve been chained to the studios and my desk.

But I reckon it’s for the better. I have not had the time to Christmas shop, and so have not endured the cloying commercial sentiments of the season, crowds of harried consumers – all the things that suck any meaning out of Christmas or other end-of-year celebrations. Bah, humbug.

Instead, I’ve received with pleasure a few heartfelt thoughts from friends, sent out a few of my own, watched the ABC’s Giving Tree charity overwhelmed by gifts and donations for the needy and the fire victims, and will tomorrow be heading across the water to spend some time with my Dad. Hopefully we will have a better Christmas this year, even if Mum won’t be there and my sister has to stay in Brisbane. I have packed Dad a hand made Christmas pudding from Salamanca, and some other yummy things from around the island.

Merry Christmas, and may 2007 dawn clear and bright for you.

The Hobart Chronicles XV: The Open Road to Salvation

2006-12-07T20:41:00.000-08:00

“Let’s take off in the blue station wagon
and find the open road to salvation
away from here.”
- My Friend The Chocolate Cake, I’ve Got A Plan (1994)

“How long this cold dark night is taking.”
- Triffids, Bury Me Deep In Love (1987)

Last week my good mate from Tamworth, former midweek dinner buddy, and procurer of excellent price/taste ratio white wine, Miss MoneyPenny, flew in for her first ever visit to Tasnarnia. (That's us there on the top of Mt Wellington at Hobart).

Determined to show her the best of the small state, we pored over tourist info in anticipation, and planned a full circumnavigation – what locals sometimes refer to as a “lap of Tassie” (insert vile, base joke of your choice here).

After a couple of settling-in days sampling the best local cuisine options (beer, wine, cheese, wine, fish 'n' chips, beer, more wine), we hit the road.

Distances are deceptive in Tasnarnia. What looks like 300km or 3 hours on a map may take upwards of 6 hours to travel, due to the wiggly roads, slow tourist traffic and variable weather conditions – a shock if you’re used to those long, straight stretches of road common in western NSW. However, being accustomed to lots of driving to get anywhere worthwhile, mainlanders often have a more determined approach to driving. On one day we managed to clock 500km on the odo AND take a 2-hour walk around Dove Lake at Cradle Mountain.

This is the way we went, and what we saw, in 6 days:
Queenstown (west: mining moon landscape, huuuge steak sanga for lunch);
Cradle Mountain (walked around Dove Lake);
Devonport (overnight, watched Spirit II depart for Melbourne);
Smithton, on to Dismal Swamp (north-west: hair-raising 15-second slide down to the swamp sinkhole, at speeds of up to 60km/h);
Stanley, and The Nut (a local geological feature, not whatever you were thinking);
Burnie (cheese factory, another cheese factory);
Launceston (north: overnight, fancy dinner, Cataract Gorge and wineries the next day)
St Helens (east coast: fishing village, quaint locals);
Bicheno, then Coles Bay (overnight: Wine Glass Bay, the Hazards, oysters and mussels)
Port Arthur (south east: the old convict ruins);
And finally back to Hobart.

A few snapshots. We aimed be frugal at all times, with varying degrees of success. When we visited the cheese factories, the temptation of wheels of camembert and brie for $1 each was too much, and out came the cash and the esky. First Aid champion Miss MP helped treat an older visitor with diabetes who was hypoglycaemic and on the verge of passing out (maybe it was those cheese prices).

By the time we got to Launceston and had forked out for a tres fancy dinner and a number of cellar door vintages, we felt it would be prudent to economise by subsisting on cheese and wine for the following few days. By Thursday our bowels were not thanking us.

According to Miss MP the oysters at Coles Bay were outstanding; a dozen plate from a local oyster farm comprised six Pacific Oysters (the Japanese variety, most commonly seen in restaurants) and six of the native Tasmanian oyster, a larger, flatter beast which had its own distinct flavour. I do not care for the snot-globs, but happily tore into a bowlful of freshly steamed mussels - these were so fresh it only took a dash of balsamic vinegar to garnish, and down they went. Sadly, though delicious, they only compounded the wine-cheese subsistence items solidifying like concrete in our guts. The tasty Hazards beer, which I consumed at our aptly named accommodation Hazards House (with view of the Hazards), did not help.

The weather was perfect for the whole week: mild, clear skies and sunshine, warm but not hot. This is a veritable miracle for the state where weather is less predictable than Glenn Milne at the Walkleys; the week prior to Miss MP’s visit it had sleeted.

You learn things about another person when you are in a small enclosed space for many consecutive days. I learned that Miss MP is a packrat with tourist pamphlets. Every stop, there was another one that had useful info about attractions, accommodation or both, so into the car it went. Good thing the Volvo’s interior is cavernous; I nearly got a hernia taking out the recycling the following Tuesday. God knows what Miss MP learned about me that she could have done without knowing.

There were also wildlife adventures, and language difficulties. Miss MP had heard about bumble bees, and got quite excited when we saw some in the marvellous spring gardens at Port Arthur. I had forgotten how special they are.

I also had to explain that the squat wallabies you see everywhere (usually begging for food at car parks) are not known as wallabies, but pademelons. You say that, paddy-melon. This is of course downright idiotic for any mainlander who has lived and travelled in the country and knows that paddy-melons are actually the large, globular fruits of a vine that tends to grow wild on the edge of paddocks. It took me about 8 months to figure out what Tasnarnians were talking about; for a long time, whole conversations completely missed the mark.
“Yeah, a big pademelon can write off your car if you hit it too fast.”
“Huh?”
And in case you ever find yourself in a Parks & Wildlife situation in Tasnarnia, the shaggy fronded foliage we mainlanders know as ‘tree ferns’, are referred to here as ‘man ferns’.

Don’t say you weren’t warned.

The Hobart Chronicles XIV: Sign O' The Times

2006-11-13T21:26:00.000-08:00

“My heart is broken, but what care I?
Such pride inside me has woken
I shall do my best not to cry, by and by”
- Ralph Brenatsky, Goodbye (From the White Horse Inn), 1931

“Look at all you happy people
Wish I could be like you”
- Chris Isaak, Go Walking Down There, 1995

“Sign o the times, mess with your mind”
- Prince, Sign o’ the Times, 1987

I picked up my Melbourne Cup winnings the other afternoon from the TAB. It was an exciting finish to Race 7, but not quite exciting enough; if Pop Rock had made more of an effort I might have broken even again this year. Alas, Delta Blues had the nose advantage, and so the return of $13.25 on my $5 each way bet on Pop Rock did not quite cover the $20 I ‘invested’ at the TOTE, my total annual outlay on old nags (of the 4-legged kind at least). However, it wasn’t a dead financial loss, and I did have some return for the two-minutes’ cheering at the television at work.

I was paying more attention than usual to the Morning Show last Thursday, seeing as I was trapped at my desk preparing to present Afternoons again (the usual presenter had a bad head cold and seeing as I am already paid to be here, I make a nice cheap substitute).

A listener prompted quite a discussion about bumper stickers, specifically ones that incite murder or violence. You see a lot of them in Tasnarnia, more than on the Big Island, that leave nothing to the imagination. Like:

I SHOOT GREENIES
SAVE A JOB – SHOOT A GREENIE

At one stage Greens leader Peg Putt even rang in to talk about how it feels personally threatening to see bumper stickers making jokes about killing her and her friends, and that’s why there are federal laws against inciting violence, which is great except the police aren’t interested in following up her concerns.

Some listeners asked what people might think of stickers that said, Shoot Gays, or Murder Jews, or Kill Woodchippers. Other callers scoffed at the notion that a bumper sticker would really make you pick up a gun. One fellow rang up, proud of his personally selected sticker which reads GREENS TELL LIES.

Look, humour is a funny thing. Well, by that I mean it’s kind of odd, you know. One person’s joke is another’s grievous insult requiring reparations including the sacrifice of a firstborn and maybe even some gratuitous and lasting pain. I know all about the latter urges, having been at the receiving end of a lot of pretty dumb discriminatory slogans for as long as I can remember. I’m not objective enough to judge the SHOOT GREENS stickers. You can make up your own mind.

Rather, let me share with you some of the rather more difficult to interpret bumper stickers I have observed with my own eyes in Tasnarnia recently. Can you help with these?

AVOID INBREEDING

Is this meant to be funny? Is it an insult to the locals? I don’t think it was a farmer’s vehicle, so it wasn’t husbandry advice. The car had a Tasnarnian number plate, so could it have been a tip for the neighbours?

NUTHIN SHITS ME

No real mystery in itself (apart from the spelling), but its placement was a little odd, given that additional stickers included two Not Happy, John stickers. So obviously something shits that driver.

CAUTION: I STOP FOR CEMETARIES

Uh huh. I am being verrrrry careful of you, my friend.

Remarkable, isn’t it, the things that people feel like communicating with their fellows. Yes, I know, I write a blog – a clear case of the pot calling the kettle etc..

Finally, a little picture forwarded some time ago by one of the two Gold Coast Gundii correspondents, snapped on a well populated Gold Coast boulevard:

If it’s any sort of retort at all, at least we are not the butt-end of people’s fashion jokes. I mean, Tasnarnia society is so conservative, we do not get much more imaginative, or sink much lower, than bogan fashions from beyond the flannel curtain. Which is more than I can say for Ross Wilson, who appeared as support for Chris Isaak at A Day On The Green here last weekend.

Ol’ Granddaddy Cool was wearing a pale salmon suit, rumpled, teamed with a black polo shirt and – wait for it – white loafers. Combined with his unnaturally orange complexion, he looked like homeless man from the Gold Coast. Nevertheless, the ageing baby boomers just lerrrrrrved Come Back Again, and actually got up and swung their creaky hips for Eagle Rock.

The Mondo Rock stuff was surreal though. When the band cycled through to Come Said The Boy I thought all my later high school years had indeed come back again, and it was all I could do not to flee the Tolosa Park amphitheatre as though from a bad trip.

Chris Isaak was both sleazy and funny – a disturbingly attractive combination. Living proof that you do not need to be Elvis to make sequins on a suit work – but if you are not Elvis then you had better be trailer trash with charm.

The rain was pretty heavy, but came early on and thankfully lasted less than an hour. At least it wasn’t snow.

The Hobart Chronicles XIII: Full Strength Gin

2006-10-30T19:51:00.000-08:00

“Since we parted
All of my world’s been gin.”
- The Saints, Wrapped Up And Blue, 1989

“Nobody wants to be the weak one
We all want to go from strength to strength.”
- Bernie Hayes, You Made Me Hard, 2000

“I’m gonna cry myself blind.”
- Primal Scream, Cry Myself Blind, 1994

When do you finally admit that the world is moving on, and perhaps you’re not quite keeping up?

The ARIA awards were announced last night, but that didn’t faze me. For the past umpteen years I have ignored the television coverage, mainly as a protest against the mainstream record companies’ attempts to hijack the entertainment. Human Nature? Puhleeze. It’s getting worse than the Grand Final.

Instead I smugly scanned the nomination list and mentally ticked off the Bernard Fanning, Ben Lee, Claire Bowditch, Augie March and Tex, Don and Charlie releases on my shelves. Not exactly cutting edge I know, but given my advancing age and musically stifled place of employ (not to mention lengthy exile from cool inner-city live venues) I think I can be forgiven much. (Accomplished as they are, I have not spent any funds on Wolfmother. I already own a brace of Led Zeppelin records and don’t need another just yet).

No, my sad epiphany occurred when last week I was overcome by a low-chocolate moment. These happen to me rarely, but when they do they manifest as more compelling than crystal meth withdrawal. In need and armed with the $1.15 in change from my wallet, I sought solace from the workplace vending machine – only to find it contained no item for less than $1.80.

Oh, the horror. The humiliation. Were my hard earned, carefully husbanded coins worth so little? Since when did the humble chocolate fix or chip ration cost so much? By that reckoning, if the union’s industrial action is successful, I may benefit to the modern-day cost of a Toblerone. Before tax. Chastened, I returned to my desk to face that sad second-best, an apple left over from lunch.

Some things do move on. And sometimes I hate the Corporation, for its commitment to documentary even if the subjects aren’t charmingly furred, finned or feathered. Too lazy to change the channel before Media Watch this evening, I’ve just endured a brutal 4 Corners program looking at dementia. Well, ‘endure’ is too stoic a word; lest you get the wrong idea, I actually spent the better part of two hours bawling my eyes out. Sat at the dinner table, choking down the occasional bite of fish or salad, and wept.

It seemed to me so so sad, these people losing themselves, loved ones losing their life partners, children their mothers and fathers, bit by bit and without hope. Don’t even remember when the crying started; one moment I was eating and trying to finish the crossword, and the next minute I was breathing funny and couldn’t see. One part of my head was going, “Shut yer face, stupid”, while the rest was going, “Wha’ happen’?” I worry because these days I weep at the least provocation; but everyone in the world seems to be gone or going, gone, long gone. The loss goes on for ever.

After being battered by 4 Corners, I made it through Media Watch and thankfully have stuck around for the first bit of Denton, to see if tonight’s show was any good. There’s just been a lovely story about a Swedish concept, where a local library has started lending out people as ‘living books’. The idea is to allow borrowers to meet and ask questions of their 'book' (another person, a volunteer), and for the 'book' to tell their story to their borrower, the better to meet prejudice and overcome it with understanding. (Apparently the imam, the Muslim woman and the lesbian have been the most popular 'books').

Denton talked to the librarian, and then to a book, Sara – a transvestite – and her borrower Camilla – a young mum – and how their encounter helped the mum understand her own little daughter’s insistence that she was really a boy. (No need for me to repeat the details; if you're curious, read the transcript).

A story of great hope and compassion, it made me think of all the people I know who would make such good reading, and of how perhaps I could be a book too one day. I wish my Mum could have been a book, her life was made of such stories.

If I were a book, what story would I tell?

What story would you tell?

The Hobart Chronicles XII: Bad Fruit

2006-10-16T23:40:00.000-07:00

“I’m a little bit tired of fearing that I’ll be the bad fruit
Nobody buys.”
- Missy Higgins, Scar, 2004

Mood: still miserable. It ebbs and flows – perhaps the less said the better, as it makes boring reading. Let’s take it for granted that until I say otherwise, I’m still miserable, okay? Check the song snips as a barometer of my state of mind, if you like.

Thank you for overcome the grinding embarassment and being kind enough to email, telephone, e-post etc. to share some comiserations. Believe me I welcome your empathy and friendship. I’m sorry if I sound like a terse, grouchy scrag or conversely, a breezy, devil-may-care slattern, or even – gross social lapse – don’t reply quickly. Unless you’re one of the blessed, you likely have some idea of the pain-and-rage-filled, epithet-and-object-throwing, manic-depressive-extrovert-recluse I seem to have morphed into. Not that I’m implying you have ever sunk to such a level, mind. This is a long way of saying, thank you for sparing a thought for me. I love you dearly for it.

Enough already, let’s move on.

Hobart’s northern suburbs started burning on Wednesday, and after 33 degrees C on Thursday the eastern shore was well alight in an awesome and frightening display of the dry season. I mean, it’s October, for Ford’s sake. Authorities reckon they haven’t seen the like of it before in their lives at this time of year. I know it was bad in most other states as well, but you tend to think most of the situation at hand. Besides, there was a surreal quality to the fires here, considering that less than a week earlier it had been twenty degrees cooler, snowing on Mt Wellington and sleeting in town.

Both days were late ones at work, and if you’ve seen the pictures, you’d know why. My view from the shoebox on the hill is ho-hum compared to what some have in this town (when I get round to poisoning the neighbour’s radiata pine the view should improve markedly) but when I finally got home from the pickle factory late on Thursday night I could see at least some of what was happening in the suburbs across the Derwent. The Divine Miss M, a Sydney-based friend with Slobart connections, sent me this, and it’s absolutely true to what I saw out of my loungeroom window:

What invokes the fight-or-flight response for you? I have learned that for me, it’s bushfire. When I was living in Tamworse a few years ago when the fires got going in the Moonbi Ranges and the smoke blew down into town, I found I couldn’t sleep. I just wanted to run away to somewhere safe. It was a primal urge. What repose I did snatch was punctuated by nightmares; I actually packed some irreplaceable items* in my rucksack by the door, just in case my crumbling stucco horror residence (which was at no time in any danger) caught alight and I had to run.

I had forgotten all about that until on Thursday I was walking into the newsroom to consult with colleagues and a camera crew came in wearing charcoal-smudged yellow helmets and safety gear, back fresh from shooting vision at one of the fire fronts. One whiff as they passed and I wanted to run screaming out of the building and straight to Constitution Dock where I could throw my miserable carcass into some water. I imagined I could smell roasting pork.

As in any greater-than-ordinary event, there are strange spin off short stories. I heard one news reporter relating how he stood at one part of the firefront, talking with some locals and firies, when without warning three young men materialised out of the smoke. Each carried a stubby, and it appeared had several more under their belts. The three fellows described how they had been fighting the fire to save their “games room” – they felt the shed housing their pool table was too valuable to lose to the flames. They fought the fire (rehydrating with beer as they went) until they began vomiting with the smoke (they said). They looked up and noticed the flames had grown to thirty metres, at which point they decided a temporary retreat was prudent. The three young men stayed and chatted for a short while, finished their beers, and then decided it was time to “get back to it”. And with that, they disappeared back into the smoke.

Today, three days later, it’s showery and freezing gale force winds are threatening to tear the roof off again. Go figure.

* irreplaceable items: my undergraduate degree (still in its tube, but figured I'd never earn another one); some photos; a knitted soft toy and a jade pig (presents from my Mum & Dad); and signed CDs by Jeff Buckley, Disposable Heroes, Ben Harper and Mick Thomas. I kid you not. I must not have been quite rational.

The Hobart Chronicles XI: Nothing Left to Lose

2006-10-03T22:56:00.000-07:00

“Freedom’s just another word
for nothing left to lose”
- Janis Joplin, Me & Bobby McGee, 1970

Still miserable.

Be careful what you wish for – you might just get it, right? The Chinese said it, Paul Kelly says it. There I was, wishing I didn’t have to go to work, and then the other day it was true. Corporation staff were ‘taking a day of action’ (‘withdrawing their labour’, ‘engaging in authorised protest’ – anything but ‘striking’ in these days of calling a spade a ‘domestic earth relocation device’).

Being a union member, I too was ‘absent from the work place’, which would indeed have been a wish come true if it didn’t also mean foregoing a day’s pay. Not something I can really afford, being paid at Corporation rates while living in an inflated-price shoebox, though I suppose there’s always the vague hope the sacrifice might drop me down a tax threshold, thus neutralising the loss. Hah. May as well wish to win the lottery. It’d be more practical than hoping the ‘day of action’ might actually yield a meaningful pay increase.

It was an interesting day of listening to managers getting back onto the shop floor again and walking the walk (or indeed talking the talk, if you will), as they put out a day’s makeshift content. Strangely comforting to hear that a little rust hasn’t permanently spoiled the goods in most cases. If you have the nous to open an after-dark program with a live version of Crunchy Granola Suite, you haven’t lost it yet.

Lately I’ve been thinking about names, and the way we’re known. Some listener ringing with an enquiry had the temerity to ask if my name was Vietnamese. What did this fellow think, asking something so personal, and presumptuous, and so completely incorrect, of a stranger from whom he wanted a favour? Do people with funny sounding names have less feelings? Are we curiosities on parade? I was very terse.

Today I received a community notice in a handwritten envelope addressed to ‘Mr Andrea…’. Not sure what part of left field that curve ball was thrown from.

It’s conventional for digital space correspondents, even occasional ones like me, to abandon their real name for a nom de plume. While I’m not exactly up front, my efforts at circumspection have been pretty feeble. And while considering a new moniker at this point is akin to shutting the gate after one’s identity has bolted, I suppose it’s never too late. I mean, if you start late enough this time, you could actually be getting in early for the next time, right?

In this frame of mind, I fetched a crossword dictionary (don’t seem to have any real dictionaries) and had a flick through. I like the ‘Miss’ part of ‘Miss Andrea’; I’ve evolved a habit of addressing my fondest friends with ‘Miss’, just for fun. Why not keep the honorific, only make it more interesting? I flicked to ‘M’, and here’s what I found:

Miss Anthropic
Miss Demeanour
Miss Begotten
Miss Behaviour
Miss Cellanious
Miss Chievous
Miss Conduct
Miss Creant
Miss Fortune
Miss Giving
Miss Hap
Miss Leading
Miss Represent
Miss Take

If I opted for the more modern ‘Ms’, there was at least one appropriate option for my current mood:

Ms Erable

So far, the shortlist – based on pleasing pun and interesting synonym – is:

Miss Conduct ([11] impropriety, malfeasance, [12] malversation);
Miss Demeanour ([3] sin [5] crime, wrong [7] offence);
Miss Fortune ([3] woe [9] cataclysm [11] contretemps, tribulation);
and Miss Leading ([8] specious [10] fallacious [11] casuistical, sophistical).

I think I’m leaning most favourably towards Miss Fortune. Like me, it looks pleasant on first glance (when I try); and it has a sort of exotic, mystic feel (rather like my real surname, if one believes monocultural slobs like that presumptuous bloke on the phone). Rather like the notion of being a ‘cataclysm’; sounds dramatic, doesn’t it.

Let’s give it a test drive in a simulated use situation:

“Miss Fortune say, Freedom just word for nothing left to lose.”

Whaddaya reckon?

Er, Kris Kristofferson? Never heard of him.

The Hobart Chronicles X: Restless Days

2006-08-31T01:19:00.000-07:00

“It gets so easy to dream
Oh, but it’s so hard to face the day.”
- Weddings Parties Anything, Away Away (1987)

Right now it’s fair to say that I hate my job. Hate it, hate it, hatehatehate it. The reason is that it makes me get up in the morning and face the day.

The job is an enormous obstacle to my preferred plan of lying in bed until the last possible moment, rising to face a midday gin, lounging about on the couch in my pyjamas, talking to absolutely no one, and continuing to become acquainted with more gin until it’s time to crawl back into bed again.

Just as hateful is the working class Catholic guilt at the merest thought of this kind of shameless wallowing. How did this happen? I endured minimal doctrinal exposure, mainly during school holidays spent with my grandparents. Grandma was soft about everything except going to church on Sundays, which was enforced with an iron will (and hand). I did put in a few good uni-student years trying to rid myself of any vestiges of moral imprinting, but evidently to no avail. It seems socio-religo-morality, when inflicted early, has more staying power than halitosis or heroin. Pavlov may have thought he had it figured, but the Jesuits really knew their shit. I mean, I can't even call in a sickie; it's physically impossible.

So I drag myself up each morning and reluctantly (but feeling guilty about the reluctance) slope off to the Corporation for a day's structured toil and forced interaction with colleagues. If there are no great rewards, certainly there are no horrors worse than I could self-inflict at the moment.

In fact, this week I enjoyed a little outing.

The other evening I went to a media screening party, a function run by one of the big film distributors designed to get you to at least look at and talk about their movies, if not actually spruik them. Years with the Corporation plus being located in the country had made me forget these sorts of things existed. Slobart may not be a capital city to rival its mainland sisters, but there are more perks on offer here than in Tamworse.

Certainly this is the sort of temptation the Corporation firmly warns about lest it cause you to commit the mortal sin of Endorsing Commercial Products, but I went along with the firm inner understanding that my attendance was to improve networking and to view a film for review purposes only, so my conscience was easy.

Anyway, it was a civilised affair that followed the usual forms. Organisers welcome you to the designated cinema, engage in a little chit chat, and anesthetise you with a glass of booze (being delayed by work I managed to miss the chit chat but still snagged a reisling, which suited my current misanthropic frame of mind just fine). Then they subject you to half an hour of trailers for films of wildly varied quality, drag you out to top up the anaesthetic, add finger food, and then herd you back in for the main feature.

The feature was the Oliver Stone movie “World Trade Centre”. I hadn’t read anything about it before going, which was just as well. To quote from the flash promo book from the showbag:

[voice of gravitas]
“In the aftermath of the World Trade Centre disaster, hope is still alive. Refusing to bow down to terrorism, rescuers and family of the victims press forward. Their mission of rescue and recovery is driven by the faith that under each piece of rubble a co-worker, a friend, a family member may be found…”

Naff? Sure. That’s to be expected. And in truth, there are things to like about the film. The sfx of the towers collapsing and the bloody, dusty injured people look very good. Watching the families’ journeys is okay, a bit weepy but not too bad. The fact that it’s based on the story of two men who actually were pulled out of the rubble against all odds is heart warming. You know, Beaconsfield on a bigger scale. It’s just what’s bad sooooo outweighs what’s good.

Have you picked the key words yet in that blurb? Here, let me help – ‘faith’ and ‘mission’. Now, not being a believer does not make me mock believers (well, not much, and not my sensibly reserved friends anyway. Nutters are another matter).

Despite not believing, I have always held that there are lessons from the Christian faith that could be recommended to anyone of any faith or indeed of no faith at all. That bit about ‘doing unto others…’ rates pretty highly in my view. The bit about worship being a private affair that is better done in a closet than put on display is also a good one. Shame Oliver Stone isn’t into that bit.

Mister Stone is evidently a man of conviction. Or if you prefer, a man of Conviction. It may be that he is simply American, and Conviction is the standard American response to stress. Whatever – he wears his heart on his sleeve and the Conviction turns this movie from might have been ‘tragedy with a happy ending’ or at worst ‘naff feel good weepie’ into something that’s simply tragic.

Look, you know what happened in New York on September 11 , 2001 so it’s not giving away anything to say that a lot of people died, and a lucky few were rescued. It’s normal in terrible times to seek comfort, which for some is to seek faith. It may not surprise you that some, in extremity of pain, fear or grief (and doubtless of Conviction) may have believed Christ appeared to them.

But Christ appearing in a flowing white robe, with Catholic-style bleeding heart smack in the centre of His chest, carrying a plastic waterbottle?? Puhleeze!

If that was bad, what was unforgivable was portraying the Marine as Myth. The key rescuer is a churchgoing ex-Marine who dons his old uniform, lies his way onto the site and finds the trapped men – making ‘profound’ statements as he goes.

I especially did not like the statement about how he intended to rejoin the Corps because, “They’ll need good men to avenge what has happened here.” Vengeance may well be the Lord’s, but I do not recall Him deputising the US Marines to act in a similar fashion.

As my American exile friend Jaahn would say, “HE’P me Jebus!”

So perhaps it was not polite that I could not contain my derisive snorts of laughter before I was out of the building. (My restraint was not helped by my boss, who was actually laughing out loud.) After all, I did not fork out good money for the movie and could therefore have afforded a show – or sham, at least – of appreciation.

Then again, the movie was supposed to put a smile on people’s faces; should the promoters be fussy about how this end is achieved? I may well bag “World Trade Centre”, but I’m not complaining. I did get a smile out of it, which was much needed.

Because the wind is still howling.

The Hobart Chronicles IX: Hear the wind blow

2006-08-14T23:57:00.000-07:00

“She said,
‘Losing love is like a window in your heart
Everybody sees you’re blown apart
Everybody hears the wind blow.’”

- Paul Simon, Graceland (1986)

Bitter.

August in TasNarnia is bitter; the wind howls under the eaves at night. Bald Ross has gone his way, I go mine, and I am bitter.

All situations require maintenance. In this case I’ve felt obliged to issue community service notices to friends, along the lines of, 'before you ask after him, we’ve split.'

Advice to help one avoid asking questions that chart a direct path from foot to mouth is important, I feel. I have made an extreme sport of these sorts of gaffes. Every one of my long suffering friends has been at the wrong end of my singular talent for making the most obtuse statements possible. Like,

“Come out for a beer on Friday. Why don’t you bring your girlfriend?”
“I’m gay.”

Oh.

By the time I grew up enough to learn to use the word ‘partner’, this is what happened:

“Come out for a coffee on Saturday. Why don’t you bring your partner?”
“I’m divorced.”

Uh.

“Great bloke. Reckon he’s checking you out. You should crack on to him.”
“He’s my ex. I went out with him for seven years.”

Mm hm.

“What a nice son you have!”
“Ah, that’s Rupert’s son, not mine. That’s his ex wife over there.”

“That mechanic I went to on Tuesday, what an arsehole, didn’t do a thing to my car and charged me a fortune for the privilege. Crooks, should be kneecapped.”
“Look, here comes my best mate Wayne; Wayne, I believe you’ve met Miss A, you looked at her car last week?”

“Damned God-botherers.”
“Actually, I quite enjoy church, I go every week.”

Recognise any of these? It’s a wonder I have any friends at all. To quote Homer (Simpson, not that other bloke who wrote the poem), “D’oh.”

How many times have I wished for those little dossiers about people that PAs prepare for Managing Directors before they go to the staff Christmas party. Helpful little cards that say things like,

Marge Bouvier, 45, HR. Divorced after husband lost the kids in a game of snakes and ladders. DO NOT offer her the punch.

Winona, 33, Accounts (on stress leave). Conviction for shoplifting (Kmart, September). No jokes about the company’s bottom line.

Basil Fawlty, 48, Hospitality. Mad. DON’T mention the war.

Alas, real life is not so accommodating. Thankfully, most friends are.

Thank you for being big enough to smile and shrug off my remarkable talent. I hope you can continue to forgive me, because right now you, my friend, are all that stands between me and the wind.

As a gesture of goodwill, here’s my own helpfully updated dossier card for you:

Miss A, thirty-something and counting, back on the shelf and getting dusty. Aims to grow better taste in men. Don’t mention the Bald.

The Hobart Chronicles: break in transmission II

2006-08-06T15:50:00.000-07:00

"We sit so high on the city walls
Our tears wash clean the cobblestones."
- Bernard Fanning, Thrill Is Gone (2005)

The Hobart Chronicles: break in transmission

2006-07-30T18:04:00.000-07:00

Due to circumstances beyond our control, we apolgise for this break in transmission and will return you to regular Chronicles as soon as possible.

VIII: Postscript (see THC VIII, below)

2006-05-08T23:18:00.000-07:00

THEY’RE ALIVE!

Oh, for crying out loud, they’re ALIVE. I can’t say or hear that word enough: ALIVE, ALIVE, ALIIIIIIIIIIIIIIVE!

Got the call at 0340 this morning that things were stirring at the Beaconsfield Gold Mine, so picked up the top layer of discarded clothing from the bedroom floor, dragged it on and got to work by 0355. (It's now 1620 and no-one is coming to my desk anymore because I need a shower.)

What a madhouse. It was all right while the Beaconsfield crew could do crosses into the nationally networked Overnights program – only one lot of lines and switching and producers/presenters to talk to. However, from 0500 markets start to go to local Breakfast shows – in fact, some cross out at 0500, some at 0530, 0555, 0615… more than sixty different Breakfast shows across Australia, if one includes RN and NewsRadio, who were also hanging off our feed. We turfed our own Breakfast show out into the standby studios, to their understandable chargrin.

But YES we got into them all… At 0615, just as the Early AM program finished, the first thing Auntie listeners heard around the country was the cheers of the crowd at the mine mouth as Todd Russell and Brant Webb walked out to their family and friends (not to mention media).

What a bizarre week, and not just regarding the miners. One moment we were making jokes about gourmet hampers (on air no less), the next we were dragging out obits for Ratbag Carleton. It was surreal; one of my colleagues was at that press conference, and saw the collapse and resuscitation attempt so we had immediate first hand goss before it hit the news. Oh boy.

It’s almost a reflex to sneer, but this time I was also sad. I met Ratbag’s son when I spent a few weeks working with him on Delroy’s production crew aeons ago; Ratbag Jnr is a really top bloke, shy and funny, a news junkie journo and good broadcaster, completely unlike Snr except for The Voice (he’s now producing RN Breakfast). I think he and his dad may have had a strained relationship, and all I could think is that he probably would have heard about his father’s death first from the TV newsflash.

The sublime became the ridiculous when Know-Me Robson made herself the news story. She discovered a SMH gossip columnist slagging off at her luxury caravan, over-attention to hair and makeup and other alleged princess behaviour. In one evening’s coverage of what was supposed to be a story about a rescue effort to free two trapped miners, Know-Me spent some time defending herself from the column’s claws. It was gloriously highlighted on Auntie’s Media Watch. Schadenfreude strikes again.

We all expected the miners to be out overnight Saturday night, and by Sunday morning the staff on deck in Beaconsfield and those of us on standby at Hobart were about ready to tear each other’s heads off. The past two days we just dragged our asses around, hoping for the best but feeling it was more likely they’d never get the miners out and we’d end up with Beaconsfield’s first Cave Clanners (or maybe Morlocks).

Around to this morning. I am not ashamed to say that when the miners walked out of the mine shaft and into Auntie’s TV pool footage, and thence onto the studio TV as our broadcaster Tim shouted it out on Local Radio across Australia, I cried.

I cried because I was tired; I cried because all the intra- and inter-network spaghetti switching I didn’t properly understand had somehow succeeded; I cried because the miners had the good grace and timing and luck to wait until Early AM was finished so their emergence was captured on radio around the country.

I cried because Know-Me was no-where to be seen at the critical hour; I cried because Ratbag couldn’t be there at the big moment of the story he died covering.

I cried because miner Larry Knight never came home from the rock fall in the mine, and his family would be burying him that afternoon.

But most of all, I cried because Todd Russell and Brant Webb were ALIVE.

The Hobart Chronicles VIII: Down To The Old Mine

2006-05-04T23:57:00.000-07:00

"Whatever happened
To Tuesday and so slow
Going down to the old mine with a
Transistor radio."
- Van Morrison, Brown Eyed Girl (1967)

Before I proceed, some words from an email correspondent and colleague of BaldRoss, who evidently checked in with THC and found no new entry since VII:

"You stuck down a mineshaft, trapped in a tiny cage? No? Then what's your bloody excuse woman?!"

It's hard to believe this man actually goes by the surname of 'Saint'. His middle name ought to be 'Fallen'.*

Last weekend I had every intention of writing, once the Port Arthur 10th Anniversary Commemorative Service was finished; our outdoor broadcast from the service was an all-consuming exercise in diplomacy vs. blunt media needs, and I couldn't wait for it to be over. I had thought it might make an interesting tale for you, related after life was back to normal.

Normal! Idiot.

It was indeed a grim week last week. On top of the Port Arthur palaver, there was a triple drowning at the Tasman Peninsula (off Port Arthur) and then the gold mine collapse at the tiny town of Beaconsfield in Northern Tasmania on ANZAC Day, with three miners unaccounted for; the sort of week that makes this trade hateful. By the end of the week you just drag yourself home, tuck into a Lean Cuisine and a flagon of red, and take the phone off the hook.

The Beaconsfield mine story was sad stuff. After the body of one miner was brought out on Thursday, coverage dribbled off into what amounted to a de facto death watch.

At home on Sunday night, I decided it was time to stop being lazy and cook a real meal - vegies and everything. Luckily, I got started early and had gobbled most of it down before I saw the news flash during Auntie's 7pm news, announcing the two missing miners were ALIVE! After five days, who could have thought? It's shameful but not surprising that this news came as a shock to everyone.

I did a little dance of joy before I picked up the phone, which started ringing just as I started dialling. It was Sunday evening, but the media machine lurched to life.

In the space of half an hour, I got to work where I met the boss, we gave her car to the Mornings Producer, who loaded his packed suitcase into it, departed to pick up the Mornings Presenter, and they headed off in the dark and rain to the other end of the state where they met my North Tasmania counterpart to make preparations for the next morning's show. The boss organised the newsroom to do a 5-minute bulletin at 7.30, which we followed with a further 10 minutes of live crosses to Beaconsfield - she produced, I presented. Then after arranging accommodation for the Mornings boys, and an hour or two of planning with our Northern Tasmania colleagues, we went home, and I got my last decent night's sleep for the week.

All this week it's been long days, long long long. It's hard to describe, going at full tilt with the focus that the adrenaline rush of a breaking story triggers, but for the whole week rather than the customary few hours, as rescuers struggle to reach the trapped miners. I don't need to go into the details; imagine instead what it must be like for my colleagues on the ground at Beaconsfield. In addition to the Mornings presenter & producer, there's the Program Director who's the tech op for the OB, and two other staff who are on split shifts recording press conferences, making packages and doing live crosses, all for national distribution and covering about 18 out of 24 hours (to give you an idea, it means a live cross every 10 minutes to a different program somewhere in Australia through most of the daylight hours - heavy going)

Earlier this week we had an unseasonal cold snap, which brought sleet to the Beaconsfield streets where my workmates had set up the OB gear. I don't know just how bad it was there, but on that day in Hobart it was a filthy day, with snow on Mt Wellington down to 300m. Thankfully we had managed to secure a Winnebago from a hire company which our broadcasters and journos on duty could use for shelter.

This Winnebago quickly became part of an enormous but predictable turf cold-war in the town as the industry's big boys moved in. You may have seen some pictures in the papers or on TV (if not, check yesterday's Media section in The Australian). Our 'Bago is planted in the middle of the car park outside the mine with its window facing the mine entrance. The area is cordoned off, but as the mine managers and union officials generally emerge from there to give snap press conferences, it's a handy position. About midweek, one of the commercial TV newcomers tried to muscle in with their titanic semi-trailer (it was on hand from the Port Arthur 10th, but did not arrive fast enough at Beaconsfield to stake a good claim). An Auntie TV colleague came by to give our lot the heads up, reinforcing our moral rights: that occupation is nine tenths of the law. That man has a future in real estate. The little 'Bago has stood its ground.

Tonight, Friday night, we are putting the finishing touches on coverage plans for when rescuers finally get the miners out. So much is speculation - there is no reliable 'drilling rate' and so they could be out any time from Saturday morning through to Monday - who knows? The requirement is to go live with a 15-minute national breaking-news report, live from Beaconsfield through the Hobart studios. We have a 5-minute chronology package, but don't know who will be on the ground and willing to talk (though it's pretty clear the miners and their families have been bought up by commercial TV-magazine deals, and who can blame them?) We don't know when it will happen, or how much warning we will get. That's crap for someone with a control freak streak! The eczema is taking advantage of the stress and creeping up my neck. I can't even describe how we will navigate the programming spaghetti during national sport because it's different in every state and further affected by the three different time zones in Australia; like the Hare-Clarke voting system, I still don't really understand it.

What I do know is that at the bottom of every news story, there are real people with real lives. More than anything, after following the news so closely this week, I desperately hope they get Todd Russell and Brant Webb out alive.

* In a conversation with BaldRoss, 'Fallen' Saint once referred to me and his own long suffering girlfriend, a 6th generation Australian of Chinese heritage (we were both present) as "our mail-orders". I guess you had to be there. At some other time, I have a long story to tell you about a long road trip we once took; you'll be pleased to know that Mr Saint was NOT a winner in that one. Were you, Ash?

The Hobart Chronicles VII: Running On Empty

2006-04-07T00:35:00.000-07:00

“I don't know how to tell you all just how crazy this life feels.”
- Jackson Browne, Running On Empty (1977)

Week ??

Yes, I know this is late! Please accept my apologies for being slack with the postings. I had an unprecedented outcry this week (ie. 3 emails. Don’t laugh, that’s a GREAT response by my standards) when people realised I was back at work and in reach of a computer, and still hadn’t written something witty post-election. No doubt you’ll be disappointed when you get to the end of this post without coming across anything witty, but then I’ve never promised such lofty goals, and can’t accept responsibility for your expectations.

Well, the run up to TasNarnia Votes 2006 was frenetic and, for a first-timer to the state, an education in how other people do things. Even now I’m unable to explain the Hare-Clarke voting system to you, but the pertinent thing to remember is that each electorate elects five MPs rather than the standard one (this is not the place for remarks about close families or having more than one head. Nor is it a good place to think about value for your taxpayer dollars). Some commentators say that H-C is a more democratic system because your preferences do actually count for something. Others say this accounts for a higher percentage of women parliament. Maybe.

What is interesting is that how-to-vote cards and ads are verboten here, and this may relate to why grass-roots campaign elements look and sound different. There are ‘vote for’ signs everywhere, and ‘everywhere’ is no exaggeration: front yards, orchards, enormous banners strapped around prominent corner pubs, a-frames lashed to ute trays; all are fair game. It’s not unusual to see paddocks or even suburban gardens featuring more than one ‘vote for’ sign – and not always for the same party. One memorably large paddock I saw had no fewer than seven different signs featuring candidates from the three major parties, a very unbiased effort.

Also, there’s a tendency towards cult of personality campaigning, focussing much more on the candidate than the party. In one case (a five foot tall a-frame lashed to a ute tray in ’Stone) the words “for Labor” were printed in 12-point type and thus rendered invisible to anyone not inclined to stop in deserted servos to read political signs.

In fact, Labor was a bit of a dirty word in this campaign. Like the other states, the Labor government here seems to owe its mandate to poor opposition rather than genuine endorsement by the people. Anyway, for a while there seemed a good chance of a juicy campaign. There was the promise of corruption, bullyboy tactics, jobs for mates etc. smearing the government; you know, a Premier with red hair and no background. Controversial opinion polls indicating the Greens could grab parliamentary balance of power verged on the titillating (if politics fires your cylinders). And from the Liberals, … well, I would love to say there was some excitement from their camp, but I’d be lying. They mounted a campaign much like being flogged with Keating’s (or rather, Hewson’s) wet lettuce leaf.

So, what happened?
Seats before polling: ALP 14, Lib 7, Grn 4
Seats after counting: ALP 14, Lib 7, Grn 4

Well, wasn’t that worth the effort.

As for my part in it all, apart from being terrified we would never get the OB up and it would all be my fault, I began to look forward to election night. The TasNarnian tally room is I believe the only one in Australia open to the public and, as mentioned previously, located Wrest Point Casino. BaldRoss was scheduled for a visit (in lieu of that trip to NZ), I didn’t have much to do except be a secondary runner at the event, and so we thought it might be an exciting night.

So how did I end up as operational anchor back in the Corporation studios? I don’t know either. Something about being able to confidently press buttons and do more than one thing simultaneously and quickly, skills that seem to be in short supply here.

Still, the night was quite fun in its own way: switching pollies from the Launceston & Burnie studios, getting up phone calls, and working with a 2nd producer to get the Commonwealth Games swimming finals up around a sliding race schedule. BaldRoss even fetched pizza. And later, when we went down to Wrest Point to help pack up the equipment, the boss rescued me from the task with a beer (imbibed while watching an enthusiastic group of Kims & Bretts boogie-ing to a not entirely filthy cover band).

Perhaps the best part of the whole night was the schadenfreude. Sure, we had a terrible computer failure which strangled Anthony Gnome’s election stats for the first hour, and kept the Gnome Himself from our broadcast; sure, our other political commentator from UTas got wrangled by WIN TV and we had to wrangle him back. Sure, we had to fit in those cursed swimming races. But at least we didn’t have a complete power failure that crashed our entire broadcast and f*cked up all our computer software. Like our TV cousins did. Heh.

By this time my brain was well and truly fried, so I didn’t protest when the boss made me take some of my excessive amount of saved leave. And that’s how I am (barely) able to write to you today.

So with that in mind I hope you’ll forgive me that crap Jackson Browne quote.

On the agenda soon:
Easter
ANZAC Day
Port Arthur 10th Anniversary
2 weeks presenting Drive (terror!)

The Hobart Chronicles VI: Take a Trip to ’Stone

2006-03-09T21:38:00.000-08:00

“You and me, we’ll go motorbike ridin’ in the sun and the wind and the rain
I’ve got money in my pocket, I’ve got a tiger in my tank, and I’m king of the road again.”
- David Dundas, Jeans On (1976)

Week 7 ½.

This THC is a week late. I won’t plead “being busy” for fear of derisive snorts, but will instead take a little moral high ground by saying if there isn’t anything much to write, I won’t pollute your inbox.

The past couple of days have drawn the station’s and my attention away from the TasNarnia elections for a few moments (they’re creeping toward their climax next Saturday) and several of us hit the road. Sunday afternoon I was wedged into a car with my boss and two Marketing creatures for the drive to Launceston for the northern station’s switch to FM; time seemed to warp and stretch far beyond the 2 ½ hours drive the trip is reckoned to take. The less said, the better.

Then on Tuesday arvo, another 3 hours back north and west to the seaside town of Ulverstone, referred to by the Mornings team Tim’n’John as The Stone of Ulver, for an outdoor broadcast. Considering we were there to broadcast from the Ulysses Club’s national AGM, I think the town should have been renamed just ’Stone.

Ulysses is a social group whose members have the common interest of motorcycling. Anyone over 40 with a current motorcycle license can join as a junior member; full membership once you turn 50. Looking at some of them, one is tempted to mentally rename them the Methuselah Club, but ‘Ulysses’ actually refers to a poem by Lord Tennyson.

According to the Ulysses literature, “It tells how the great Greek hero Ulysses, now middle-aged and securely in charge of his kingdom of Ithaca, is getting bored with things around him and longs to go adventuring again with his shipmates of old. It describes very well indeed the sort of person who still has enough spark to go on riding into middle and later years.” Sound like anyone we know?

About two thirds of the registered attendees were already there at ’Stone on Wednesday. That’s about 2,000 of an expected 3,000 crusty old bikers wearing a lot of leather and denim, worse for wear with days of camping in tents, and with either long beards, violently coloured hair… or both. And riding an estimated total of $30m worth of machinery.

Actually, that appearance stuff is a bit of a stereotype. There’s all sorts in the club; it’s just that the freakier sort are more eye-catching. Here are some of said characters I met while wrangling talent for the OB:

· a bloke astride a huge purple trike, with the perfect but pasty complexion and neat top hat of a mature aged goth, his woman riding on the back. The woman explained to me that her husband here was a junior club member at just 48 yo, but she was a full member at 62. Go, sister.

· a fellow who was evidently auditioning for the Club’s honorary court jester, wearing disturbing reflective picture glasses and riding a bike festooned with legends such as “Hoonda”, and “Mobile Breast Tester”. He also wore a Cat In The Hat-sized leather top hat, from which he conjured a can of breakfast beer for Tim the broadcaster.

· a very neat and tidy and quietly spoken fellow in tasteful dark grey and gold riding gear, on a scooter! (admittedly a very large one). Possibly a Friend of Dorothy. Said he was received by other members with scorn and welcome in equal measure.

· a bloke running a business called Last Rides, in which one can have one’s remains popped in a coffin and strapped to a Harley in a sidecar to be escorted to one’s final resting place. Tim referred to him as “the dead guy” on air. The Dead Guy had the temerity to check out my bum when I was adjusting his microphone (he pronounced it to be “awwwwrite”).

If striding around the ’Stone showgrounds was like being transported back to Stone’s Sydney circa 1974, the little town proper was well set up for modern tourists, with plenty of decent food and coffee options. No doubt many of ’Stone’s businesses were doing a brisk trade with the influx of visitors.

Despite looking like extras from Mad Max, a number of them seemed quite genteel and interested in the wider world. Some actually professed to be Auntie listeners. What then did they make of the menu at the ’Stone pub at which Auntie’s OB gang of four dined on Tuesday night? The steak option offered “you choice of sauce”. We thought it was a mistake, until we noticed that some other meat option also came with “you choice of sauce”. In fact, the more we looked, the more missing final consonants were apparant. I noticed even the specials board included an item called “marinate chicken”. 'Stone is quite monocultural, so no funny foreign types making spelling mistakes. Perhaps it's a new variety of the old misplaced apostrophe...

Surreal? Perhaps we were ’Stoned.

The Hobart Chronicles V: Overworked and underpaid

2006-02-24T18:35:00.000-08:00

“Why should I complain when everybody else is overworked and underpaid?”
- Powderfinger, Hindley St Parade (1998)

Week 5 ½.

* NEWSFLASH *

I found the sofa legs!

The packers cunningly hid them in one drawer of an otherwise empty chest of drawers, wrapped in paper. It wasn’t until I got around to putting the Reg Grundys away after a giant load of washing that I stumbled across the concealed legs.

No good gossip this week, due to the enormous whirlwind created by the TasNarnia elections being called. The Good Ship Auntie has had to go from zero to Warp 5 in the space of a visit to the Governor: public forums, outdoor broadcasts, counting coverage (right to the second, mind), allocated airtime for policy announcements, and of course, getting together the broadcast from the tally room on election night.

The venue was only finalised yesterday. After an unseemly tussle between the Derwent Entertainment Centre and the Wrest Point Casino for the right to host the tally room, the Casino’s track history as previous host won out (consideration given, I suspect, to their bars, restaurants and the prospect of a little gambling on the side when the One Big Gamble in the main auditorium gets a bit wearing).

In fact it’s election night itself that has proved the logistical challenge. You see, the South Oz election is on the same day – but because their terms of government are fixed and the election date known well in advance, all of Auntie’s radio & TV election resources were shipped over there months ago: laptops and PCs, PABXs, TV sets, even ‘Red Kezza’ O’Brien and Antony Gnome the Election Guru are already sewn up by the Sandgropers. You can see the thought ticking over in Tech Services and senior management heads: How can we pry these coveted items from their clutches? TasNarnia offices echo with veiled threats; meetings are heavy with ideas for resource-pilfering from various states and departments, and other dark schemes. Negotiations are tense. Whispers of “my preciouuusssssss” hiss across the Bight.

Team TasNarnia has had one win to date: we've enticed Antony Gnome over to our event by touting it as being the more interesting of the two elections. He agreed, which many reckon is less to do with the actual candidates and result, more that the fantastically convoluted Hare-Clarke representational system (which allows for multiple members per electorate on a sort of quota system) proves such an interesting challenge for his Election Gnome statistical software that he could not pass it up.

Elections wouldn’t be such a problem in themselves, were it not for everything else. There’s the switchover of the North TasNarnia from AM to FM, to be celebrated by a glittering official event on the 6th of March, and a big fair day and concert on the 13th – all of which has been in planning for more than a year. Then on Election Night, the 18th, there’s the simultaneous Commonwealth Games coverage for which Auntie has the radio rights. Election night is swimming finals night, possibly the only event joe public is really interested in. AFL pre-season cup finals? Take a back seat, my footy friends.

Holiday to NZ? You must be kidding. Take a raincheck.

It’s 6.30pm on Friday night, and I’m waiting for the 7pm news to pass, to ensure the lines work and our outdoor broadcast from the Clarence by the River Jazz Festival gets up at 7.10. Then it’s across the bridge and over to the eastern shore to run with the roving mic until 10pm.

So, must dash! Talk to you again next week.

The Hobart Chronicles IV: People Are Strange

2006-02-16T20:13:00.000-08:00

“People are strange, when you’re a stranger.”
- The Doors, People Are Strange (1967)

Week 4 ½.

Well, after all that whining last Friday, a stroke of good luck: the removalists had a cancellation and were able to deliver my house contents on Saturday, five days earlier than expected. Mind you, it cost me a further $200 (Saturday overtime) but the benefits of a long weekend to unpack outweighed further hip-pocket pain (in fact since committing to moving south my hip-pocket is so dreadfully abused that it no longer registers pain, just a lingering dull ache).

As the various items materialised off the truck, I immediately began to feel better. Even in boxes, these familiar things were as comforting to me as a lifesaver to a man overboard. It’s a great adventure being somewhere new, but it can be mentally tiring; once anchored, one can finally afford to care about what else is going on. And this is where it occurred to me that perhaps other people are different, and think differently.

It began with the unpacking. Since I was required to be down here about five minutes after the work was offered, I was obliged to spend those five minutes wisely, in preparation for changing jobs. So I bit the bullet and had the removalists pack my stuff.

At first unpacking was exciting. Rather like a domestic Easter Egg Hunt – you know what you’re going to get, it’s just a question of where the items turn up. But then it just became strange. There was the sofa – but no sofa legs. Perfectly understandable, removing the legs for transport; but where were they? Not in any of the boxes marked loungeroom. Nor the kitchen boxes.

In my search for the sofa legs, I opened a box marked ‘Linen’. No legs, and not even any linen. The box actually contained a Coca-cola crate, some darkroom processing equipment, and the vacuum cleaner head. (Other bits of the vacuum cleaner were in two further, separate boxes.) The removalists seem to have a thing about legs. I found the legs for the Ikea table/desk from the lounge room in a box marked ‘Main Bedroom’, one in each corner, and otherwise surrounded by towels - nowhere near the rest of the desk parts. The sofa legs are small, just 3-inch high blocks of wood, and so are easily hidden.

Everyone I’ve mentioned this odd arrangement to so far says the packers must have been “men”. But I am beginning to think they were “mischievous”, if not outright “malevolent”.

At various points in the past week, I’ve also met the strangers who are my new neighbours, who live in the three shoeboxes before mine. First there was Dan* in No.3, a 20-something wage slave who apologised for having his flatmate’s orange Datsun 120Y (with Cascade beer towel on dashboard) parked in my car parking space. He also apologised for having ‘borrowed’ my rubbish bin, but said that as it was presently full, I would be welcome to have it back after bin night (Tuesday).

I am glad I let Dan have the bin over the long weekend, as he and his flatmate held a 2-day party involving many visitors, doof music at high volume, cascades of beer and what smelled like funny cigarettes. Having attended and even perpetrated similar parties in my distant youth I was not keen to criticise. But by the second night, when one party-goer cranked up the sound system in his Nissan Riceburner with some heavy-duty dub outside my bedroom window at 2am, I hoped they might run out of steam soon. The piles of rubbish and boxes of bottles on Monday were mountainous. Dan apologised for these too.

Second was a pale fellow whose name I can’t remember, who lives in No.2 with his girlfriend. He was principally interested in the Volvo’s yellow number plate, thinking I might be an exile from Sydney like himself; he seemed bemused when I said I had moved down from Hat Town. At least he didn’t make a joke. He works for the state government in the health department.

On Tuesday afternoon I met Cassandra* who lives in No.1. She knocked on my front door, holding half a glass of chardonnay, to tell me that bin night was Tuesday night.

Fascinating lady; about my age, Cassandra is as skinny as a praying mantis (the rectangular specs and blonde bob enhance the illusion), and talks at a hundred miles an hour. In three minutes I learned: that she was an interior designer who was ‘taking a career break’ by working at a Telstra call centre; that she had moved from Sydney but originally hailed from New Zealand, where she grew up on a boat and travelled around all the time and was forever being sent off to boarding school; that she was ‘best friends’ with the girl who used to live in my shoebox, who has been studying neurosurgery for eight years and has taken a job in Melbourne for 26grand a year, wasn’t that scandalous; that she is also ‘best friends’ with the girl who lives at No.2, and that they met when she staggered around there with a bottle of chardonnay as a hello gift; did I have any friends yet, she’s been here a year and a half and locals tend to be a bit clicky; that the pale guy at No.2 had told her I worked for Auntie, was this true?; that Dan’s grey Persian, Albert, was a nuisance, regularly beating up her Siamese and getting into her rubbish, and that Dan probably neglected him; and had Dan stolen my rubbish bin, and what was with all that rubbish on his doorstep?

It was exhausting. After peering into my half unpacked lounge room, Cassandra made me promise I would come around for a drink some time soon, and whirled off.

Well, it’s Friday afternoon, and it’s suddenly looking VERY busy on the work front: it’s been announced that TasNarnia is going to the polls on March 18. That would be the day BaldRoss and I have flights for New Zealand, booked a year ago…

Speaking of flights, the Great White Schroeder cat arrives at the airport in 20 minutes, so I am heading off to pick her up.

I still haven’t found the sofa legs.

* all names changed to protect the guilty

The Hobart Chronicles III: On The Floorboards

2006-02-09T19:53:00.000-08:00

“then I got tired of counting all of these blessings
and then I just got tired.”
- Magazine, A Song From Under The Floorboards (1980)

Week 3 ½. Here’s the score:
Houses viewed: IIIII IIIII IIIII III
Houses leased: I

After last week’s missive, I engaged in some Deep Thought, the result of which was realising that if I wish to live like a grown-up in Hobart, then I will have to pay rent like a grown-up. Accordingly, I revised my plan, girded my loins, and inspected some properties at the very top of my payment threshold. Lo and behold, two were actually liveable.

Time was ticking. The permanent residents of the house I’m minding return today (Friday), and back on Monday I was beginning to sweat. So I applied for both.

I am sad to say, the applications involved total abasement. I wrote shrill letters detailing my marvellous work history, excellent rental record, and enviable community involvement, and clipped them to the agents’ forms. I stapled my Tamworth business cards to the front. I spent considerable time with each agent, pleading my case. (Evidently I made some impression because when I bumped into one agent downtown some days later he did not cross the street but rather stopped for a chat.)

I am happy to report that my total loss of dignity resulted in two offers of a lease! I chose the smaller, slightly cheaper, more central-to-town townhouse.

Both offers were made on the Tuesday, and once I accepted one I immediately phoned my removalists. There’s a long weekend coming up in Hobart (I do not know what Regatta Day is, but if it’s good enough for a day off then it’s good enough for me). Naturally I had visions of unpacking, setting up and then settling in on the couch for three days of extended crap TV-viewing and reading the Saturday papers. What timing! I was so pleased with myself.

But you know what happens when you think, ‘look after today and tomorrow will take care of itself’, don’t you? It doesn’t.

Here’s an extract from the phone call.

“Nah love, we’re really chockablock at the moment. Can’t help you until next Wednesday.”

This is a large, national company I’m dealing with here! I was so flabbergasted, I fell into the local vernacular.

“Well, I move in this Friday, so I’m buggered, aren’t I? I suppose I’m gunna have to sit on the floor for the next five days.”

“Sorry,” she replied, not meaning it. “It’s a really busy time y’know. Some people have booked their moves three months ago.”

Bollocks, I nearly said. Who the hell is that organised??

However, it does not do to argue with the people who are currently holding all your worldly possessions. I remain grateful to whoever advised me to pack a quilt and a towel in the car. I wish I had left that beach chair in the car boot.

Score update:
Houses leased: I
House furnishings: 0

I would now like to thank the following people for their assistance:
· Lynn the Drive prod for lending me a small TV
· Louise the Drive pres for lending me a saucepan
· Various others for their offers, gratefully acknowledged, and
· Jim in TV for offering to rent me a tent plus camping space in his yard, amenities included, should I be unhoused this afternoon.

I have signed a 12 month lease. There are 2 bedrooms, so guests are welcome from next Thursday (1hr notice preferred, so I have enough time to fetch more beer).

Weather report for last Tuesday 7 February 2006:
Tamworth: 36 degrees, fine; (overnight low 24 degrees)
Melbourne: 21 degrees, fine
Hobart: SNOW on Mt Wellington behind the city.

The Hobart Chronicles II: Girl of Means? By no means!

2006-02-02T21:18:00.000-08:00

“Ah, but… two hours of pushin' broom
Buys an eight by twelve four-bit room.”
- Roger Miller, King of the Road (1965)

Week 2 ½. Still no house. Don’t ask.

All right, ask.

What’s the problem? Too fussy? [I hear you sneer.] Maybe. Never would have believed it a decade ago, roaming the real estate agents in packs of university students, but I am now so old and decrepit that kitchens and bathrooms really matter to me. In this year of grace 2006 I find I expect:
a) a bathroom that I can exit cleaner than when I entered it; and
b) a kitchen that won’t attract the attention of the Health Department.
On past form this would probably discount most of the houses I’ve lived in since leaving the nest, notably the Barkly St Modern Farce in East Brunswick, the Marsh St shack in Armidale, and the stucco horror at North St, Tamworth.

How times have changed. These days I stride confidently into property viewings, unwashed uni student hordes scattering at the sight of my neatly pressed grey wool blend slacks, neutral lipstick and Corporation ID tag. Makes me feel like Moses breaking up the Golden Calf orgy. Estate Agent drones quake in terror [read: actually offer me an application form]. If I catch my reflection in a scungy bathroom mirror, I scare myself.

Not that it’s helped so far, mind. The houses and flats roll on, acres of curling brown lino, mouldy grouting and peeling paint stretching far over the horizon.

I’ve started keeping a tally of the number of houses I’ve visited. Not those enquired about, driven past, etc., but those I’ve actually seen the inside of. The tally looks like one of those scratched onto a dank prison wall, marking the days of punishment. You know how the days turn into weeks, months and then years?

IIIII IIIII III

I’ve decided to adopt a Zen attitude to finding digs: simply close my eyes, think positively and a great place will come to me.

It’s comfortably close to shutting my eyes and hoping it will all go away.

New this week:
Bumble bees. There are genuine bumble bees in Hobart: fat, furry, tiny wings, loud buzz, the whole bit. Charming!

The Hobart Chronicles I: Rent Girl

2006-01-26T23:15:00.000-08:00

"I love you
You pay my rent."
- The Petshop Boys, Rent (1987)

Have I found somewhere to live? No, not yet. What a hideous place to find rental housing Hobart is.

You would not believe it, but property prices have soared in the past 5 years to Melbourne levels (I am currently listening to our Drive presenter talk about how property affordability in Hobart is 2nd lowest in Australia, behind Sydney), and Tasmania has the highest per capita home ownership levels of any capital city in Australia. This means that there are few places to rent, and the prices are pretty fanciful.

How about this: the real estate agents hold ‘viewings’, where you turn up during a specified 15-minute period and elbow your way through crowds of uni students, former Mainlanders, public service people like teachers and older folk who have ‘downsized’ for a look. Too bad if you’re a wage slave who can’t leave your desk from 9am until 5pm; you miss out.

Then there’s a scramble to get your rental applications in. Maybe it’s been a long time since I’ve had to fill in such forms, but I’m sure they used to be easier. Today I filled out one that required:
All manner of personal details, INCLUDING car rego, make & model (?!);
Employment and rental history;
TWO x personal or business references; AND
next of kin; AND
TWO x close relative references;
a CREDIT CHECK that’s not more than 3 months old!

Once I’d finished, I felt like I was ready for a full cavity check as well. I thought about adding my grandmothers’ maiden names and what I had for lunch, hoping this might give me an edge.

Mind you, there’s still room for getting a competitive leg up, if you’re committed. One estate agent advertises properties in a price range, eg. $240-$275 per week. You put on your application what you think the property is worth and what you would be willing to pay. ‘Wouldn’t the highest bidder win?’ I asked the agent. ‘Oh, not necessarily’, she replied, looking at the ceiling. ‘Sometimes the owner will agree to a lower rent if you’re a good tenant.’

Yeah, right. Here’s to being homeless.