And Sometimes, You Win.

Ohhh, yes.

I've talked off and on about the struggles in educating Elder Son. If you've been around here for a while, you know he gets bored as hell with the regular schoolwork. Sure, he's disorganised and he flies off on his own tangents, and he's likely to ignore little things like schoolteacher noises (which does NOT make his teacher happy) but the bottom line is that it's not just him who's off the mark. He may not be naturally inclined to rule off his margins, tuck in his shirt and pay attention to the detailed disposition of his books in his drawer -- but the school doesn't seem to be well prepared to challenge him in the areas where he greatly exceeds their curriculum requirements.

I find it hard to believe that the best we could hope for from his schooling would be neat books, attentive and obedient response to commands, and an ability to obey rules without question. I can understand that the school wants him to be a more co-operative, more properly socialised student, and to a limited degree, we want that too. It would be nice if he paid attention the FIRST time we asked him to find his shoes to go out, for example. But -- and this won't surprise any of you who have met me -- I don't see it as an urgent priority, y'know? I'd rather he actually LEARNED something, and in particular, I'd like him to discover how to enjoy learning.

To be fair, the school has been willing to let Natalie and I get sincerely proactive in all this. The recent post about his study of Tennyson's "Blow, Bugle, Blow" here at home is a case in point. And they're doing their best: he's in an extension math group and all. But you may recall that when we organised a meeting between myself, a few of the school people, and the local chap in charge of Government programmes for the "gifted and talented"... well, the Government programme-chappie wasn't much help.

He told me I seemed intimidating -- this before I'd said anything more than Hello, my name is... -- and expressed concerns about my "expectations" and the pressure on Elder Son. And when he was pressed as to what particular help he could offer our situation, his replies were -- shall we say evasive, to remain diplomatic?

Nevertheless, the school itself has done its best. And one of the things they did was to get together with a few other local schools, talk to the Queen Vic Natural History Museum, and organise an excursion day of Science At The Beach. Elder Son was invited to take part, despite his relative youth. The day was aimed at years 5 and 6, and he was the only one from his year invited.

Natalie and I were a bit trepid, to say the least. Elder Son has a history of being bolshie when faced by new things... and sure enough, on The Day in question, he started to champ at the bit. Didn't think he really wanted to go, apparently.

Not that it made any difference. We're used to this by now, and he wasn't particularly vehement about it, so we just told him flatly he could go, or he could spend the day in his classroom at school. No problems. He went.

And oh, my, didn't it work out well. When he came back that afternoon, we couldn't shut him up. Apparently, the curator of the QV Natural History department spotted him, realised he was genuinely curious and excited, and took him under her wing. He told me in detail about how he got to take photos with her shiny new touch-screen camera. And then he told me all about filter-feeding molluscs that eat micro-organisms, and about the effects of planetary gravitation and the moon and centripetal force on the tides, and he talked about predatory molluscs using their raduli to bore through the shells of simple bivalves, and he talked and he talked and he talked and...

Yep. He bloody loved it. Not only that, but the QV curator in question sent a business card home with him. It included an invitation to bring the boy to the museum for a full backstage tour, including all the exhibits and stuff they don't have on show.

Well, you can bet we jumped at that. I've been trading emails with the good doctor, and she seems lovely. She's a scientist through and through, and says that when she was young, somebody offered her the same kind of opportunity she's putting in front of Elder Son, and it changed her life, so she wants to pass it on.

I can understand that.

Even better, though: she's already suggested that she might be able to set Elder Son up with the museum's Astronomy chap too. That would just be fantastic -- he loves space, stars, planets and telescopes.

I can't readily convey how delighted I am by all this. For a struggling parent, trying hard to keep his kid from sinking into the same school-based quagmire of boredom and social disaster that marked his own childhood, this is a full-on three-cherries-on-the-slot-machine jackpot win. First the Prof from Oxford, and now this! I'm so damned happy I don't really know what to do about it -- and to see that kind of enthusiasm and joy in my kid just takes my breath away.

But you wanna know the absolute fucking cherry on top of the double cream vanilla icing on the cake? Turns out there was another person along on that beach-side science excursion. Can you guess who?

Yep. It was Mister Not-Very-Helpful "My, You're Intimidating" Government Programme For The Gifted And Talented Bloke. Which means he got to see Elder Son in full flight, being singled out of a crowd of kids years older and farther up the ladder than him.

Wish I'd been there to see it. Well, never mind. Just knowing it happened is good. I'd like to think that particular chap is now just possibly reconsidering some of his less helpful remarks. I don't suppose it's actually happening... but it makes me feel extremely good to think that it could.

One for the good guys. Nice when that happens, eh?

Claws Out

So, yesterday roundabout mid-day I got an unexpected invite from the Cool Shite team to attend a pre-screening of the clunkily titled X-Men Origins: Wolverine movie. Sounded like a good deal to me, since I was planning to catch the flick anyhow, so I went into overdrive. Arranged a sitter to arrive 1700 to be there for 1730 to 1815 period in which Natalie wouldn't quite be home, but I'd be on my way to Launceston.

The morning of English study with Elder Son was pretty cool. He read forty pages of a Doc Savage novel, then worked on his typing for an hour -- up to about 13 words per minute, all fingers being used. He was pleased because the current test/level on the typing tutor game called for a 12 wpm output, and he did better with full accuracy.

Next, we sat down and finished our examination of Tennyson's "Blow, Bugle Blow". I admit that Tennyson can be ponderous and pompous, but that particular poem is short, and evocative, and most importantly, it has elements that reach a bright eight-year old. The rhyme and rhythm are strong, sufficiently complex, and effective, and most of all the message is there to be found.

I'm particularly happy with his response to the poem overall. When we started, he was surly: didn't like that emotional poetry stuff, he said. So I pointed out that only stupid people decide they don't like something before they know enough about it to understand what they're not liking, and he grudgingly agreed that we'd look at it. By the end of the process -- looking up in the dictionary all the words he didn't know; trying to figure out why certain words were used and not others; discussing possible meanings associated with the ideas in the words; talking about personal responses and feelings -- he was pretty pleased. "Poetry is kind of like a code," he announced. "You have to read it carefully to figure it out."

Yep. That's exactly what I was after: the process of reading and thinking. Me = happy teacher.

Anyway, as an exercise he's going to memorise the poem. Then we'll get a decent recording of him reciting it, and use it as the soundtrack for a simple video movie combining images and scenes of his choice, with a little guidance. We'll see what comes of it.

After that, he wrote two paragraphs of action in which Doc Savage fought a bad guy -- but he was limited to using simple, one-verb sentences only. We've been talking about sentence structure, and next week we'll take these paragraphs and start combining the simple sentences into more complex structures. That'll let us investigate clauses, and consider the effect of changing sentence length and complexity on the reader.

A good morning, I figured.

Meanwhile, the Mau-Mau caught a few morning 'toons on ABC, then mooched around reading and playing with the dog. But after the morning of English, I hooked the boy to a math tutor programme (we're working on giving him a base of number facts -- times tables, etc -- to allow for quick mental calculation, and to set him up for more complex mathematical ideas) and the Mau-Mau and I went outside into the bright winter sunshine. We took a lot of photos.

Y'see, she's got this little red cloak and hood that she won't be able to wear much longer, as she's growing. And I figured we could make a version of "Little Red Riding Hood" with the Mau-Mau in the lead role; a personal book that she could enjoy, and practise her reading upon. We've got Sizzle the Dog in the role of the Wolf, and with a little photoshoppery, we'll fit one of her own grannies into the role of Granny. Smaller Son will probably wind up being The Woodsman.

It's yet another bloody project for me, of course, but it will be fun. She enjoyed the photography -- happily took direction, put on different facial expressions, posed as required. Is this a girl thing? Does the whole "pose for the camera" set of genes live on the X chromosome?

By then it was time to load the kids in the car, zip down the hill, and collect Younger Son from school. Shopping, yes. Post office, yes. Grab the violin instructor, zoom home again. Mau-Mau and Younger Son had their violin lessons while I chopped vegies and chicken and set up the rice for the nasi goreng. As soon as the lessons were done, we all got back in the car and took the violin instructor back to Scottsdale. (Her car is on the fritz at the moment.... sigh)

Zoom back home again. Start the bath, get the firewood in, lay the fire. Begin cooking nasi goreng. Sitter arrives. Finish cooking, feed kids and sitter... check bath... and at last, I got away.

I met the Shitesters at the cinema. It was crowded, and the local radio station was torturing four kids on stage when we arrived, making them do Wolverine impressions in order to receive CDs, or something like that. I thought there were laws against that sort of thing. I felt particularly bad for the sixteen year old girl up there, unable to stop giggling hysterically as she waved her arms around and tried to growl... and for the somewhat portly young boy at the end. They made him jump up and turn around to pose with his arms out, growling. Poor little buggers.

Then there was the movie.

Mmm. Yeah.

I stopped reading X-men sometime around 1989, when I ran out of comic-buying flatmates. (I didn't have the money for it. Probably would have spent it on dodgy stuff if I had.) I never got exposed to the whole "origins of Wolverine" thing, but I'd already seen the original X-men title spin off in about forty different directions, none of which were particularly novel or interesting.

Oddly, I once actually owned the comic in which Wolverine first appeared -- a "Hulk" comic from the mid-seventies. My dad bought it for me. I can remember thinking that "Weapon X" looked like an idiot in his yellow suit with the black and blue stripes, and the claws and all. Wish I still had that comic!

Anyway. I wasn't fussed on the film. The fx are fine, the action sequences are nice, and I really do like Hugh Jackman's take on the title character, sure. But... well, we all know from the first X-Men flick that by the end of the film, Logan has to be amnesiac, but in one piece. And we know that the recurring villain Sabretooth has to be alive and well too. So... really, this is a 'filler'. It starts in 1845, for fuck's sake. Happily, there's a rather groovy montage-of-wars sequence in which young Wolverine and his larger, nastier brother (who we know is going to be Sabretooth) fight their way through the US Civil War, WWI, WWII, and Viet Nam. It was a good way of getting close to the present, and delivering a cut-and-paste background for the two.

It still didn't work, though. By the time we were more than halfway into the film, we were still zipping through time, and it felt like a prolonged set-up. There was no sense of central conflict, no feeling of something at stake. Act One of the trad 3-act structure is the bit where you set up the main problem... and the big issue for this film is that there IS no main problem. There's nothing at stake, nobody to save, nothing to barrack for. And by the time we're finally given a villain - well, let's just say that plot twists and complexities keep pointing us in the wrong direction.

It was a potpourri of action scenes and muddled ideas that didn't really gel into a film. I'm glad I didn't have to buy my way in. I'm sure my young boys will be delighted (it's PG; no blood... which is weird) but I'm going to try to con Natalie into taking them to the cinema.

If you haven't got kids to take, or you're not a dedicated fan, this is probably not your film.

TEOTWAWKI And Tasmania

I should make you Google up TEOTWAWKI if you're so clueless that you don't recognise the acronym. But for the soon-to-be-Zombie-victims among you, I will remind the reader that TEOTWAWKI stands for The End Of The World As We Know It. Obviously, I am referring to the present outbreak of Swine 'Flu - or as our Israeli brethren apparently would have it "Mexican 'Flu".

I can understand how Jewish and Islamic folk would rather have a Mexican 'Flu than an Unclean Antikosher Stinky Piggy Flu, but... has anybody actually asked the Mexicans about this one? Do they really want their very own 'Flu?

Well, never mind.

My problem here is my wife's profession. I came down here to Taz to raise kids because frankly, Tasmania is

• off the global geopolitical radar
• not nearly as vulnerable to warming as mainland Oz
• not nearly so vulnerable to sea level rises as most of Oz
• self-sufficient in food
• self-sufficient in power
• self-sufficient in water
• not overcrowded
• not expensive (comparitively) to buy and live
• very strong in terms of social capital in comparison to most modern communities of Oz

Not to put too fine a point on it, Natalie wanted kids, so I looked into the Flinthart Crystal Ball and saw trouble a-comin' in the future. Given that Elder Son was born in 2000, I'd like to point out the Flinthart Crystal Ball was pretty f__king good... but to be honest, any damned fool who kept up with newspapers and journals could have foreseen the shitstorm which has only just begun to break over us all.

Anyway. I did the best I could, and here we are. But... I really don't know what to do about epidemics. I know what I'd like to see: Tasmania should shut the doors. Cargo in, cargo out. Nothing more -- and all cargo handling done with minimum human contact, maximum quarantine precaution. (No, not necessarily for this Piggy Flu. It doesn't look like a civ-killer... at least, not yet.)

I just can't see the government being smart enough to do that, though. And how would we prevent desperadoes from the mainland fleeing here in their boats? Be nice if we could whip the Bass Strait into a frenzy on demand, but we don't have a navy to help.

So -- if it comes, when it comes, the Next Big Plague, the long-overdue cull of humankind... I don't suppose it will miss Tasmania. And when it comes here, my wife will be out there trying to keep people alive. In contact with whatever-it-is for days on end. While I'm here at home with three kids, at least one of whom has an over-active immune system that turns even a simple head cold into weeks of painful symptoms

I know. I worry a lot. Sure. But this one... this is the one I can't do anything about. And every time I read about another outbreak somewhere, anywhere, I get a nasty shiver.

Sure hope this Mexican Piggy Flu peters out soon.

Told You It Was Cold...

Apparently, it was a 'student-free' day at school today. That doesn't actually mean 'students get in free'. Nor does it mean you get a free student if you show up. No, it means the teachers are there suckin' back the coffee and downing the iced vo-vos without the interference of the little grubs who make the whole 'school' gig such a pain in the arse.


I wish somebody had bothered to tell me, is all. Then I might not have gone through the routine of rounding up the boys, organising lunches, prodding them into dressing for school, etc. Of course, I'd have driven down to the school anyhow. Monday is the day the Mau-Mau and her best friend, whom I shall dub the Microblonde, go to day-care at the school based facility.

Happily, the day-care facility wasn't having a kid-free day. But I did have to turn around with two boys in the car. Mind you, once we turned for home, we noticed that the cold snap and the rain had resulted in a decent snowfall atop Mount Barrow.

Student-free day. Free snow on the mountaintop. Well, what else can you do? We fired up the Trusty Earth King, put on our warmest snuggies, and headed for the hills.


There wasn't a vast pile of snow or anything, but it's always nice. And from the snowy peak we had a hell of a view. More snow on distant mountains. Green lowlands beneath. The Bass Strait glittering like hammered brass in the distance.


We froze our arses off, of course. But then, that's the point, isn't it? Then we came home, and made hot bread. How good is that?

I'm going to make mulled wine tonight. Ha! Take that, you Saxon dogs!

Hey -- Did Somebody Order A Winter?

Holy sheepdip! That was fast. Where the flock did that come from? Couple days ago it was all shirt's off, snoozing under the sheet with the windows open. Then all of a sudden, it's Tasmania!

We've had a couple days of rain now. No -- three, actually. And not just rain: that cold, wet, insistent, continuous rain that characterises a Tasmanian winter. In keeping with the them, temperatures have plunged. We've got the wood heater going, and all the windows are misted up on the inside. When the clouds opened briefly this morning, I saw a fresh snowfall atop Mount Barrow. Thought about taking the kids, but the weather was too dodgy. I have no desire to find myself trapped on the mountaintop when the weather really closes in - and given that it only got worse all afternoon, I think that was a good decision.

I hope we get a real winter this year. It's been a bit dry and warm for the last three in a row. We need a serious winter's worth of rain to bring the aquifers back to life, and refill the whole hydroelectric scheme, and generally remind mainlanders that the don't want to be here, no sir, far too wet and drippy and cold, that's right, ignore those flowers...

Indoors stuff today. No chainsawing for me. Just a lot of reading, editing and writing. I made hot chocolate for the kids, played Scrabble with Natalie -- and whipped her arse something terrifying! -- made pizzas, etc. With the woodfire burning and the world outside dissolved into a grey-green mist, gentle rain falling on the roof, the coziness of this house beggars description.

May winter treat all of you as kindly.

Chainsaw Chuckles

Got in a good session of work this morning. Natalie is having a rare (recently, anway) weekend home, so the kids are Not My Problem for once. I hammered away for several hours, then felt the need of some physical activity.

We had rain, yesterday. A lot of it. It was great, but we were supposed to get more today, so it was quite a surprise to see the sun this morning. Plenty of sunlight, too -- warm, strong and bright. Made it all the more enticing to go outside.

I figured I had a job to do with the chainsaw. Since we threw the cows off the property and took out the internal fences, I've been putting in fruit trees, nuts, a few natives -- and letting the wattles do their forest recolonisation thing. Wattles are fast growing. We've got seven-year-old trees that are thirty-plus centimetres through the base, and fifteen metres high.

Obviously, a tree which grows as fast as that can be a pain if it comes up where you don't want it. Also, wattles aren't particularly long-lived. Their job is to recolonise clear spaces in the forest, and to grow high quickly to take advantage of the light. However, after maybe twenty years they senesce, and frequently die. In their wake, you get the slower-growing species - species locally known as myrtle, sassafras, and blackwood among others.

Clearly, I can't leave something like a wattle right next to the driveway, for example. And in fact, we had one there -- about ten metres tall, maybe 25cm at the base. I figured I'd start with that one, clear it away, then move on and take out a few of the others which are becoming inconvenient or unsafe.

So, yes: chainsaw time. Sharpen. Oil. Refuel. Check the tension -- hmm, a bit loose. Tighten it. Whoops! Not much there any more. Hmm.

Take the chainsaw down to the driveway. Start the job. Hmm. Chain isn't pulling itself into the cut properly. By now I probably need to file back the rakers. Pity I haven't got a file for the job, eh? Bugger.

Oh well. It's cutting, albeit poorly. Have to do.

The tree falls perfectly: into the driveway, right into the centre, doesn't touch anything else. Now commences the job of cutting it into rounds suitable to dry out for firewood. One round. Two. Three. Cut away a few branches.

Hmm. Not cutting? Oh, look. The chain has come off.

Bugger.

I've tensioned it as far as it will go. What has to happen next is that I need to take a link or two out. But I've never done that before, and I don't have the tools, either. And now I've got a flogging great wattle tree across my driveway, and Natalie is on call for random baby delivery stuff... not that anybody's expecting anything, but you never know when the doc may have to leave the premises in a hurry.

This is NOT the time to learn how to tighten a chain.

Alternatives?

Just one.

I put the chainsaw away, and got out my bow saw. And then for the next hour or so, I proceeded to saw up the entire fucking tree and pile it along the sides of the driveway.

Yes. That was tiring, thanks.

Good Food And Mixed Messages

Mixed up sorta day, yesterday. It was a Home Day for Elder Son, but the Mau-Mau was home too, and Smaller Son was in da house as well since he had a cough that kept him up all night. It made doing the educational stuff with Elder Son quite challenging, although Godzilla helped for a while, by beating the shit out of MechaGodzilla to keep the younger pair entertained. Thank you, Big G.

Part of the problem was that Elder Son apparently had a report to write about a recent excursion. And unfortunately, his teacher has decided that the home days are perfect for him to catch up on report-writing. Which is entirely not the bloody case.

On top of that, she's assigned him homework. And it's -- well, it's fucking stupid busywork. This kid is reading Conan and Doc Savage and Discworld stuff for his own enjoyment, and for homework, he has to write three sentences using the words stop, with and blue. Then he has to arrange a list of twenty-six words in alphabetic order. They're short words, and it's no coincidence that there's twenty-six: each word starts with a different alphabet letter. Tough task, eh?

Then there's the clown picture on the back. It's a colour-by numbers exercise in which you solve little problems to figure out what colour to use. Problems like 20+10, or 30-5. Again: stupid, and way, way below the level of math he takes in his extension math class at school.

There's more, but it's all much at the same level. And frankly, I'm not going to get him to do it. I've read the research on homework. It's value is limited, at best, and is most effective at a secondary school level. To be any use at all, it has to be of an appropriate time-length, and it absolutely can't be stupid-ass busywork. The researchers are all in agreement there. If the homework is to be any good, it has to extend or reinforce classwork, or the kids rapidly come to see it as a punitive waste of time.

I'd like to just ignore it, but Elder Son already gets in trouble with his teacher because he doesn't work in the manner she's after. I can certainly agree with some of her issues; his disorganization and his lack of listening skills are a pain in the ass. But that report... I had him sitting down for over an hour to write it, and when he was done, it was complete - but flat and dry. Natalie tells me his "draft version" (and yes, apparently they're all expected to do a 'draft' and a 'final') was three pages long, not one page, and it was highly creative and imaginative.

I did see a couple paragraphs. He wrote as though he was a spaceman, exploring a strange world and going out on a trip with the creatures that lived there. So why didn't he complete that version of the report?

Well -- he says that his teacher doesn't respond any better if the report is long and interesting and creative. She just wants it done.

I can see her point. He does need to learn to finish projects. But it seems to me that a little encouragement for the complex, interesting version might have seen it completed. Instead, it became a chore that we had to grind through, spending time we could have spent on more interesting things.

I'm not happy about this. And it's confusing, because at the same time, I've had a note from the school requesting permission for Elder Son to go on a science excursion to Bridport and the beach next week. They've got folks from the Vic Science museum along, and they'll be examining life in the intertidal zone, sampling micromolluscs, identifying algae, and discussing tides in relation to centripetal force and planetary movements -- according to the note, anyhow. Kids from three or four different schools in the area are going, but it's mostly about year 5 and 6. There will be one year 4 student from Scottsdale, but Elder Son is the only year 3.

And I know he'll enjoy it, and get a lot out of it. So why is his homework suitable for a kid two grades lower than he is?

I can't answer that. But I can say categorically that he's not going to be wasting his time at home colouring a clown by numbers. So there's going to be a bit of an issue coming, I suppose.

The evening went well, though. Mike the Historian came by for a drink and a talk, and as it happened, I was making a bit of a surprise meal for Natalie. I can't do the full range of Yum Cha dumplings, but I can do a decent mix of steamed dumplings -- chicken and ginger, chicken and mushroom, pork and ginger, pork and mushroom... add a couple platters of steamed buk choy and carrots with oyster sauce, and a dozen slabs of prawn toast, and you've got a pretty decent meal.

So - I just made a lot. I mean, a whole lot. And Eddy came down, with a bottle of bubbly that matched the one I had in the fridge already, and she brought a six-pack of beer, and Natalie brought home a couple six-packs, and the evening went really nicely. Even the Smashed Banana Custard 'Tard was good. (It was meant to be a banana custard tart, but I was too impatient about getting it out of the baking dish, and it all went to hell, shapewise.)

Nice end to the day, anyhow.

Dress Code Fallout

I believe I mentioned that the other day, Smaller Son went to school with a decidedly non-standard outfit on. His school shirt was inside out. His socks were wildly mismatched, and he wore blue gumboots. I mentioned the shirt to him, and he just shrugged, and said, "I know." I didn't bother mentioning the socks or the boots. They're pretty much standard for him.

However, on that particular day he also wore a folded newspaper hat, after the fashion of Calvin & Hobbes. The boys have been reading a lot of Calvin & Hobbes ever since we bought the hardbound complete editions. (I regret to say that while I think it's a marvellous comic, it's a bloody awful role model for growing boys.)

Anyway: Smaller Son had a newspaper hat on his head just to top off the ensemble, and he was blithely off to school. I admit it: I had visions of a school full of Nelson Muntz lookalikes pointing at Smaller Son, and saying, "Ha, ha!" But I figured, you know... he has to learn someday, right?

Of course, by that afternoon I'd forgotten all about it. I didn't think to ask him anything until yesterday evening, when he folded himself a new paper hat. "What happened to the old one?" I said. "What did they think about it at school?"

"Well, a couple of kids laughed," he said, very calmly. "At first. But then our whole class made paper hats and decorated them, and we wore them for the rest of the day. Everybody really liked them."

"Yeah," his brother chimed in. "They were all wearing them in the playground. I had to show some of my class how to make them too."

Okay, fine. I know when I'm beaten!

Pride And Prejudice And Zombies

Well, courtesy of Mr Bruce of the Cool Shite Team, I've now had the opportunity to read the eagerly awaited "Pride And Prejudice And Zombies" by Seth Grahame-Smith (and Jane Austen.)

For the rest of you eager awaiters, I regret to announce I was less than captivated. Full review by your faithful scribe to be found here.

Busy Weekend

Well, busy frakkin' week. School holidays: Dad's minutes rare, and expensive.

The kids and I have done our thing. We've played games of many sorts, done all kinds of housework, watched movies, cleaned things, taken stuff apart, and I've sorted out about a million goddam arguments, which is getting very fucking old I can tell you.

Favourite moment of the week? That would be going to Chickenfeed before we went shopping at the supermarket. They had these cheap-arse foam swords and daggers, so I got a set for all three kids, and one for me. Then we put on our best pirate accents, and went a-plundering in the supermarket. Yo-ho-ho and a lot of noisy piratical action, with swordfights in the aisles, and hostages taken, and enemies put to flight at swordpoint, and best of all, a rich haul of chocolate biscuit booty to be divided up once we made it back to our pirate lair.

I suspect the staff of the local supermarket thinks I'm cracked. But every now and again I catch them giggling at the kids, and getting involved in the pirate action (or whatever stunt it is we're up to at the time) so I figure they don't hate us yet, and that's good enough for me. It makes the shopping more interesting, anyhow.

Had a late-afternoon long lunch with Mike the Historian yesterday. He had an old college friend by the place -- by no great coincidence. Friend in question was until not long ago an Oxford professor of education, specializing in the issues facing gifted/talented kids. Yeah: you can bet I was up for a session involving a couple bottles of wine, good food, and a chance to pick the man's brains.

He was incredibly nice about it - not unexpectedly. Mike the Historian is a very civilized chap, and his friends tend to be monstrous well educated, thoughtful, and every bit as civilized as Mike and Eddy. It was really reassuring to talk with him -- he was very positive about the approach we're taking with Elder Son, and had a number of useful things to say without having to develop a specific curriculum, etc. Particularly reassuring notes: 1) formal assessments aren't a lot of use, except where parents and education system disagree over the nature of the kid. And that's not the case with Elder Son. 2) An eclectic, all-inclusive sort of approach that lets the kid discover his own body of knowledge is helpful; apparently, a wide-ranging set of background knowledge is important to creativity in general. 3) Challenge the bugger. New stuff. New ideas. Make him think!

There were a few more things, but that was the gist of it. I also got an email address, so if I really feel I'm getting out of my depth, I can scream for help. And you'd have to suspect an Oxford prof ought to know what he's on about...

Today didn't go as planned, though. We were going to have some time with Natalie, but that went south at about 0800. Turns out our Increasingly Pregnant Neighbour has finally decided to be less pregnant. Though she's still not in any hurry. It's four in the afternoon now. Natalie's in Launceston at the hospital. Having travelled in the ambulance, she hasn't got a car, so the kids and I are going to have to go in and fetch her... but that baby's still not in evidence.

It's going to be a long, annoying evening. Guess I'll just load the kids up in about twenty minutes, drive in, get something to eat at Morty's Food Court, and then see what's happening. Hopefully I'll be able to get the kids back home and into bed before too late. Otherwise, I'm really not sure what we can do...

Babies. They're such a bloody nuisance!

One From The Mau-Mau

Okay. Cute-kid posts kinda give me the ick. But sometimes kids just... do stuff. You know?

Like today. Natalie got a package. It was a silk sweater she'd ordered off eBay. Nice bit of goods, really - lovely colour, big, comfortable, and warm. Just what you need at the gateway to another Tasmanian winter.

The person shipping it was really thoughtful. They even stuck in this little potpourri thing -- a little package of petals and leaves scented with something like lavender. It was a shiny, satiny sort of potpourri, done up with a purple ribbon, and from the moment she saw it, the Mau-Mau WANTED it.

Natalie didn't mind. What the hell was she going to do with a potpourri anyway. So she handed it over to the Mau-Mau, who immediately forgave her for receiving a package that wasn't actually for the Mau-Mau herself, and cooed happily. Then she sniffed it, and said something about how nice it smelled.

Natalie agreed. Then the Mau-Mau wanted to know what it was.

"It's a potpourri," said Natalie. "It's to make your clothes smell nice. You can go and stick it in with your undies and they'll smell lovely."

A look of happy comprehension dawned on the Mau-Mau's face. In one smooth move, she yanked up her skirt, pulled the elastic of her pink undies forward, and jammed the potpourri down the front.

Natalie collapsed, rendered completely useless by laughter. It remained for me to explain that the potpourri would work better in the Mau-Mau's underwear drawer...

Sudden Sharp Windstorm

Ah. For those of you who may have seen news reports regarding yesterday's "trail of destruction" across Northern Tasmania, and even seen reference to windgusts of 195km/h in Scottsdale... we're okay, thanks.

When we bought the property, I made a point of finding out about prevailing winds, direction of bad weather, and all the stuff you really ought to ask about when you're planning to settle. Everybody in the area assured me that the mountains to our immediate south and west pretty much block all the worst that nature offers hereabouts.

Turns out they were right. We've been through a few sharpish storms in the last eight years -- although yesterday's was the winner for intensity, apparently -- but while we've lost the odd tree branch, we've never actually had any damage to house, sheds, cubby-houses or anything else. And despite yesterday's rather freaky excesses, that hasn't changed.

The storm ripped through here at about 0830, while Natalie was on her way into Launceston with a friend. They had an exciting drive over the range, it seems, and I'm told there were a few trees dropped, but nothing to write home about.

Here in the house, I'd finished feeding the kids and we were all tidying up a little, and then the rain started. Then the lightning and thunder. Then the hail. And then, quite suddenly, a very powerful wind. I figured what with the wind and the lightning, we were dead cert to lose power, so I shut down all the computers and everything else, and we just hung around and waited. The lightning ramped up nicely - we were getting twelve to fifteen flashes a minute at the peak - but there were only two or three close enough to really set the thunder dogs baying. The kids were jumpy, but mostly excited.

Fifteen minutes later, it was all over except for the rain. We never even lost power. Mind you, as the storm went past, the temperature plunged. I'm told it went down by more than five degrees in less than an hour.

Anyway, the rain gradually lightened and cleared, and having plenty of other things on my mind, I gave it never another thought. At least, until I took the kids down for haircuts about three hours ago, and bought a newspaper. Sheesh!

Luckily, the path of destruction seems to have been fairly narrow. Couple of roofs gone, a bus overturned, and that's about it for the Scottsdale region. Still - I literally knew nothing about it until I read the paper.

I'm glad of that, really.

Amazon Part Deux

So: Amazon wants money more than it wants to be the Guardian of Moral Righteousness And All Things Ruddworthy... at least for the moment.

This article from the New York Times offers a little insight. But very little information, I fear, and it appears that Amazon isn't giving much of an explanation. Far from being a "storm in a teacup", there are way too many unanswered questions here for me to go back to being in any way comfortable with Amazon.

Right now, Bezos' boyz are claiming it was all "a glitch" in the system - without offering any kind of specifics as to how the "glitch" managed to be so very target specific. And of course, there's the question of the other little things Amazon did. A quote from the NYT aticle:

In a blog post late Monday, Mr. Seymour wrote that Amazon’s statement was a start, but not sufficient. “It does not explain why writers, like myself, were told by Amazon reps that our books were being classified as ‘adult products.’ ”

Likewise, there's no real explanation of how a book like American Psycho -- which is, let's face it, about as 'adult' as it's possible to be -- remained entirely unaffected by the shiny new classification system designed to protect us poor innocents from inadvertently suffering an UnRuddworthy Moment.

Hanlon's Razor says: Never Attribute To Malice That Which Can Adequately Be Explained By Stupidity. My personal view on this? I think we can attribute to 'stupidity' the failure by Amazon to foresee the response to this manuevre. But given the way their 'glitch' played out -- the specificity of its impact, and the piss-poor nature of Amazon's so-called 'explanation' -- I'm not convinced the targeting wasn't deliberate.

Still. For the moment, it seems to be fixed. But I'm relegating Amazon to 'fallback' status now; if I can find somebody else to supply me with the sort of off-beat and out-of-print stuff that comprises a lot of my interest, I will do so. Amazon will be the people I go to when I can't find anyone else.

After all... do we really want a monopoly on this service?

Dear Amazon: Homophobia Is So Fucking Reagan-Era...

Dear Mr Bezos.

Speaking as someone who's dropped a bundle on your Internet store of All Things Mediasque, I'm pissed off with your recent decision regarding Amazon's handling of books by gay authors, or books with gay characters. I'm not gonna repeat your chunder-headed blunderings at length: your cock-up (or is that expression too gay for you?) is all over the 'Net over the last 36 hours or so. But if anybody really needs to know what you've done, this article records the matter nicely.

Conservatively, I'd guess I've spent between $400 and $500 through Amazon in the last twelve months. It's been nice. I've been able to source all kinds of great books and movies that would otherwise never have reached this part of the world, and I've been able to send really interesting presents to a number of friends and relatives courtesy of your service.

Too bad you're behaving like a clueless dickwad, Mr Bezos. Because as of today, my customer relationship with Amazon just crashed and burned. I'm done with your store, you pathetic hick, and that will remain the case until I see a turnaround in your Victorian-era policy towards material created by, or featuring, people of alternative sexual persuasions. I may be straight, Mr Bezos, but that doesn't mean I'm afraid of the gay crowd -- and I note that some of 'em can write with the best of us.

Enough with that Bezos cretin. As to the rest of you: those who may be in my sorry position -- stuck out in Outer Arseburp, a long way away from anything resembling a comprehensive bookstore -- I'm gonna copy here a post from my buddy Dr Jon, a righteous dude in his own way. Dr Jon has a Livejournal account, and he called this post: "Amazon Alternatives"

Looking for something and don't want to Amazon Rank?

Number One:

• Bookfinder.com
  http://www.bookfinder.com/
  Metasearch for new and secondhand books (includes Amazon results -- ignore them). First place I turn when looking for something.

Other places I use and recommend:

• The Book Depository
  http://bookdepository.co.uk/
  New books, free delivery worldwide - UK
  
  
• Better World Books
  http://www.betterworldbooks.com/
  New and Used - proceeds fund literacy worldwide - US

Here's some more large regional stores...

• Fine Print Books Online
  http://fineprintbooks.com.au/index.php
  secondhand bookshop - Aus
  
  
• mighty tiny book shop
  http://mtbs.com.au/
  second hand books, movies and music - Aus
  
  
• Fishpond.com.au
  http://www.fishpond.com.au/index.php
  New Books - Aus
  
  
• theNILE.com.au
  http://www.thenile.com.au/
  New Books - Aus
  
  
• Powell's Books
  http://www.powells.com/
  Used, New, and Out of Print - US
  
  
• Books*A*Million
  http://www.booksamillion.com/
  New books - US

There you have it, folks. Do the right thing, eh? Oh, and Jeff Bezos?

Screw you.

Yours very goddam sincerely indeed,

Ex-customer Dirk Flinthart.

What Real Internet Access Means To The Bush (Reposted For The Geek Linkage.)

Nowhere Bob offered the following comment:

"Man, I'm seriously risking troll status here, but you have kicked one of my hot buttons.

My father's family come from out near Cunamulla and I live in regional Qld so I have some rural chops. But when one chooses to live in a rural or regional community one weighs up the pros & cons.

Pros - kids are unlikely to learn how to steal cars & take speed in grade 7 in the one room school. Clean environment, relationships with neighbours & natural beauty yah di yah.

Cons - Limited facilities taken for granted in the Big Smoke eg; No Choice of Thai takeaways, no high-end medical facilities and limited web speed.

When I hear a rural community moan that they don't have XY and or Z I think - well you chose to live there.

Now before you roast me I do believe there should be a certain standard maintained, but (using the medical an example) I can't imagine a time when the very latest MRI facilities are in every 2bit hamlet.

What is that standard? F*ck knows. It's beyond my payscale. Should that decision be left up to the profit margin of some corporation? definitely not.

So, do I think 512 is sufficient? well no.

Do I think the good folks of Bumble-F*ck or Kickatinalong should get exactly the same level of service as the urbanites - it'd be nice but I canna see it happening.
And if I had my hands on the consolidated revenue piggy bank I'd be spending it on medical & social services long before I upped the intramanet speed. I recognise the arguments about Tele-medicine & Web based education, but for the $ wouldn't rural communities be better off with additional teachers, community nurses, GPs etc?

Perhaps my thinking is short term & as the network is rolled out new apps will develop to a point where a town with out high end Broadband will be as disadvantaged as a town without a sealed road.
But from where I stand it aint there yet."

My reply: N-Bob, we're not asking for Thai take-aways and top-level medicine. And in fact, you've got this argument backwards. You're saying: 'why should we spend so much money on this little thing for the bush?' , but the real question is this: why the fuck should people like Natalie and I bother to stay out in the bush so you can live comfortably in the city?

Thing is, there's bugger-all keeping folk in the bush. The previous generation is slowly dying, and the younger folk are leaving. The little towns are dying. The rural identity of the nation is petering out, and the people who COULD make a difference -- people like myself and my wife, with useful skills that can really change a small country town -- don't want to be out here because there's nothing for them.

Now, for Nat that's not quite true -- she likes the challenge of rural medicine. But she's uncomfortable with the schooling provided for her kids. And she's unhappy with the lack of learning facilities, and the lack of cultural interaction. And myself, as a writer: I like the quiet, sure. But I don't like being so cut off from my fellow writers. And as a martial arts instructor, I don't like being so far from the mainstream of what's going on.

The Internet offers really useful answers. Elder Son plays math games online. We get a lot of our Spanish material that way, and a lot of our other stuff too. Natalie takes fiddle lessons from an Irish fiddler in Florida, USA. I keep in touch with you guys -- but also, with my fellow writers and publishers. And I teach via the 'Net.

Get the picture? It's not about bringing the rural experience up to the city level. N-Bob... I can live without immediate access to live theatre, coffee shops, cinema, markets, funky little stores, social events, nifty foreign cuisine, etc. I'm happy to trade all of that stuff for my clean air, clean water, open sky, and freedom for my kids.

But the truth is, N-Bob, that you WANT me out here, and my wife. You and the rest of Australia: you want the doctor out here who delivers babies and handles outbreaks and deals with industrial accidents. You want the bloke who teaches a generation of kids physical skills and self-reliance and self-discipline. You want the amateur musician who forms a local band and inspires thirty or forty kids to play music. You want the writer who's prepared to teach high school kids. You want the three smart kids who make it 'cool', in this local school, for kids to read, and learn, and study.

You want all of us out here, because our presence here makes towns like this one -- which supplies your onions, and your potatoes, and your milk, and your rhubarb -- continue to be viable. And when we've finally had enough... when people like Natalie and I, or our PhD neighbours Tony and Anna who run the nursery, or our neighbours Mike and Eddy who work at the university and so forth... when we've had enough, and we pull the plug and go because we've had a gutful of being left in the Victorian age, you will very soon discover that your city existence is a lot less comfortable as a result.

We don't need Thai restaurants. We don't need MRI machines. We don't need modern airports or public transport. We don't need international sporting venues. We don't need visiting artistes from far-flung lands. But you know what we do need? We need to stay in touch. We need to feel like we belong to a nation, not to an isolated community out the back of Ratfuck, Nowhere. We need feedback, so we know that what we're doing here is part of a larger picture. We need to believe our voices can be heard too, that we've got a stake in the dialogue and the ideas and the future of this country.

That's what real broadband means to the bush. I realise that in the city, as often as not it means gaming parity with the Americans (thanks, Moko!) -- but for all your country origins, I don't think you quite understand. You can talk about the convenience of downloading movies, for example -- but where you live, you can always drive a suburb or so and rent the movies on DVD. We can't do that. Being able to download movies out here would be... amazing. Music, too: you've got your couple-dozen radio stations, and your music stores in the malls. We don't. TV? Same thing. We can't just change cable providers, or switch to another satellite company.

Music, movies, entertainment, stories, dialogue, discussion - it's a broad, bubbling stream of ideas, and that broad and bubbling stream is the fountainhead of everything that makes us a nation, and a people. Out here, we're slowly, slowly becoming something that's not Australia, as the thoughts of the nation pass us by, and the younger ones leave, and the old folk get forgotten, and die.

Here's one for you, N-Bob

Webster

This bloke died not long ago in Scottsdale, here where I live. You should look him up. Natalie was one of the doctors who helped him out as he got older. But... shit, man. Webster was history. He was part of an amazing time in this country's growth. He was an astonishing human being, with an incredible story. Every time I ever got to talk to him, I learned the most amazing things. And if I'd had more time, if I'd had the facilities, I would love to have been able to help him chronicle his life.

If I'd had the facilities. But I didn't, did I? And so his amazing icon of Australian history perished, and with him a whole era died, and all I could do was look on and wish to hell I could have used a fast broadband connection to put him in contact with the National Archives, or someone, anyone... but I was busy struggling with three kids and day-to-day life, and the whole task of getting into contact with someone who might have supported the project was just too damned much for me. Too damned much for me, yes, and even for the PhD History professor who lives near me.

The country loses people like this every day, N-Bob. In the city, people like Webster get SMH obituaries, celebrity funerals, biographies, and lengthy, archived interviews. Out here in the country, we all knew what we were losing -- but there was no way we could do anything about it.

You need us out here. You eat the food we raise, drink the water we guide, burn the gas we drill, light your houses with the coal we mine. You clothe yourself with our wool and cotton. You holiday in the lands over our back fences, come bargain-hunting at our church sales and estate auctions, and laugh ironically at our cheesy little festivals and parades. You depend on the roads and the railways that run through our little towns.

We don't need all those marvellous things that make a city what it is. We can live without them. That's why we're out here: we value what we find here more than we value what we could find there. But we're still one nation, one people, one bubbling stream of dialogue, thought, story and culture.

At least, that's how it's supposed to be.

That expensive broadband network? Probably the single most important investment Australia will make this century -- and it will be an utter waste if it doesn't include those of us out here in the bush.

Chocolate And Autumn Sunshine

Ahem. First I'd like to thank Mr Barnes most sincerely. His kind gift of a starter-pack from Monster Apocalypse has now provided Elder Son and I with a sort of giant robot Mecha-type monster with which we can battle our Lords of Cthul and our World Eaters. It's nice to have something that passes for a good-guy in our battles.

And now that I've passed on that thanks, I'd like to take this opportunity to call Mr Barnes a twisted, deviant bastard because of his other gift. Which is depicted in the photo above.

That... remarkable item... is - well, it's a stylised cat, made of finest metallic-gold anodized plastic. If you're fucking stupid enough to put two AA batteries up its arse, that raised paw there on the right of the image will wave. Forward and back. For a very, very long time.

The Mau-Mau loves it, of course, so I can't legitimately take it outside and use it for target practice. Which means that the only thing I can do is find something equally charming to offer Mr Barnes in reply. Perhaps one of those vibrators shaped like Barack Obama? I don't know... I'll have to think about it.



And that there would be a shot of Big Bob and the Mini Flintharts on a perfect Tasmanian autumn morning, shortly after some determined sleuthing recovered the Easter goodies stolen by that bastard bunny. The bunny apparently sneaked into the cupboard where I'd been storing the baskets, and left a rather gloating note to the effect that he'd stolen their Easter choccies, and he was gonna start snacking on them unless they followed his clues.

The clues were a string of off-beat photographs of places around the house, as I mentioned before. Each photo led to the next, until the final revelation. The kids were jumping out of their skin with excitement, puzzling out each new photo as it appeared. A very close-up shot of the piano keyboard (showing two white and two black keys) fooled them for a while, and the brass doorknob had them stumped briefly, but most of them they figured out quite quickly. It was great fun to watch them charging in and out of the house, waving photographs, calling out the next clue, stampeding from location to location...




That would be the Younger Son, hoisted to the ceiling by Guru Bob. Smaller Son was deeelighted by the whole visit. I'm sure if he had his way, we'd have to adopt both Bob and Miz E as permanent household features.



Finally, Guru Bob in the grotesquely early morning on the Maroon Couch of Aggressively Cheerful Easter Chocolate Enhanced Children. If the wine wasn't enough to deliver a hangover, I'm sure the relentless energy and noise must have done the job. Sure as hell messed with my head, anyhow.

Glad you could make it by, Roberto -- and you too, Miz E. Don't take so damned long to schedule the next visit, eh?

Visit From Guru Bob

Smaller Son has been giddily looking forward to this day for weeks. He met Guru Bob last year, when the Smaller Son was only five... and I shall carry the memory of my very little boy staring up, up, upwards in amazement for the remainder of my life, I think. He was a very, very quiet boy for the time he spent in Bob's company in Melbourne, but since then, he's never ceased talking about "Big Bob".

For those of you who don't quite follow... Guru Bob is about 6' 8", I think. He's a large chap, and proportioned after your typical piece of kitchen whitegoods. Smaller Son was awestruck, and the prospect of a visit from Big Bob has had him charging about the place, telling everybody how great it's going to be, for ages now.

As ever, Bob's an obliging chap. He turned up with his lovely pardner in crime, the delightful Miz E, at roundabout four or so this afternooon. (This despite the fact that apparently the address for Chateau Flinthart simply doesn't register on the GPS gear... confound it! How do you suppose that happened?) Despite the three kids promptly going berserk, Bob and Miz E were friendly, gracious, charming, entertaining, tolerant... and equipped with quite a nice pinot noir from the East Tamar region.

Of course, I wasn't entirely unprepared. We greeted them with a nice bubbly, and then served a big platter of antipasto with crunchy croutons. The centrepiece was a big mould of minced smoked salmon, under a thick layer composed of blended sour cream, cream cheese, chopped chives and wasabi. The whole lot was drizzled with a puree of fresh cherry tomatoes and roast capsicum.

We worked our way through that lot, aided by a couple of irreplaceable bottles of Dalrymple chardonnay, and then as the kids hit the bath, I put on some won-ton soup. (Natalie's request.) After that, we opened Bob's pinot noir, and I brought out the chocolate mousse. (Yes -- with the brandy-soaked sponge-cake base... though the kids' came without the brandy.)

Then we all trundled up the ricketty ladder to the Screen Room, and slobbed out on the mattresses with more wine, and blankets and pillows and sleeping bags and popcorn and kids everywhere. Took in a couple episodes of Pinky and the Brain (can you belive Bob had never seen 'em?) and then we watched The Fall again... brilliant film.

The Mau-Mau passed out cold about halfway into the film, so Natalie took her off to bed. The boys made the distance, though. Mind you, Miz E didn't... Bob had to wake her up come the end of the film. We tucked them away into the guest bedding, and then I set about the serious business of arranging for Easter goodies to be hidden.

We're having our egg-hunting day tomorrow, to involve Bob and Miz E. There's chocolate eggs hidden all over the place for the munchkins, and once they've done that, we get the traditional Evil Easter Bunny Ultimatum.

Well... okay. Traditional around here. I don't know how it works at your place, but 'round here, the Easter Bunny turns up every year and STEALS the Easter baskets that Natalie and I put together for the kids. (Bastard that he is.) Fortunately, he usually leaves clues for the kids to follow. One year it was footprints. Another time it was a sequence of rhymed puzzle-notes, each leading to the next location. This year, apparently it's going to be photographs -- obscure photographs of different bits of the house and property. Each photograph depicts a location which holds another photo-clue, until the final clue is reached and the Easter baskets are recovered.

That's the theory, anyhow. It's 0123 in the morning. I'm tired, slightly drunk, heartburned -- but absolutely delighted to see Bob again, and looking forward to the morning's shenanigans.

What Real Internet Means To The Bush

Nowhere Bob offered the following comment:

"Man, I'm seriously risking troll status here, but you have kicked one of my hot buttons.

My father's family come from out near Cunamulla and I live in regional Qld so I have some rural chops. But when one chooses to live in a rural or regional community one weighs up the pros & cons.

Pros - kids are unlikely to learn how to steal cars & take speed in grade 7 in the one room school. Clean environment, relationships with neighbours & natural beauty yah di yah.

Cons - Limited facilities taken for granted in the Big Smoke eg; No Choice of Thai takeaways, no high-end medical facilities and limited web speed.

When I hear a rural community moan that they don't have XY and or Z I think - well you chose to live there.

Now before you roast me I do believe there should be a certain standard maintained, but (using the medical an example) I can't imagine a time when the very latest MRI facilities are in every 2bit hamlet.

What is that standard? F*ck knows. It's beyond my payscale. Should that decision be left up to the profit margin of some corporation? definitely not.

So, do I think 512 is sufficient? well no.

Do I think the good folks of Bumble-F*ck or Kickatinalong should get exactly the same level of service as the urbanites - it'd be nice but I canna see it happening.
And if I had my hands on the consolidated revenue piggy bank I'd be spending it on medical & social services long before I upped the intramanet speed. I recognise the arguments about Tele-medicine & Web based education, but for the $ wouldn't rural communities be better off with additional teachers, community nurses, GPs etc?

Perhaps my thinking is short term & as the network is rolled out new apps will develop to a point where a town with out high end Broadband will be as disadvantaged as a town without a sealed road.
But from where I stand it aint there yet."

My reply: N-Bob, we're not asking for Thai take-aways and top-level medicine. And in fact, you've got this argument backwards. You're saying: 'why should we spend so much money on this little thing for the bush?' , but the real question is this: why the fuck should people like Natalie and I bother to stay out in the bush so you can live comfortably in the city?

Thing is, there's bugger-all keeping folk in the bush. The previous generation is slowly dying, and the younger folk are leaving. The little towns are dying. The rural identity of the nation is petering out, and the people who COULD make a difference -- people like myself and my wife, with useful skills that can really change a small country town -- don't want to be out here because there's nothing for them.

Now, for Nat that's not quite true -- she likes the challenge of rural medicine. But she's uncomfortable with the schooling provided for her kids. And she's unhappy with the lack of learning facilities, and the lack of cultural interaction. And myself, as a writer: I like the quiet, sure. But I don't like being so cut off from my fellow writers. And as a martial arts instructor, I don't like being so far from the mainstream of what's going on.

The Internet offers really useful answers. Elder Son plays math games online. We get a lot of our Spanish material that way, and a lot of our other stuff too. Natalie takes fiddle lessons from an Irish fiddler in Florida, USA. I keep in touch with you guys -- but also, with my fellow writers and publishers. And I teach via the 'Net.

Get the picture? It's not about bringing the rural experience up to the city level. N-Bob... I can live without immediate access to live theatre, coffee shops, cinema, markets, funky little stores, social events, nifty foreign cuisine, etc. I'm happy to trade all of that stuff for my clean air, clean water, open sky, and freedom for my kids.

But the truth is, N-Bob, that you WANT me out here, and my wife. You and the rest of Australia: you want the doctor out here who delivers babies and handles outbreaks and deals with industrial accidents. You want the bloke who teaches a generation of kids physical skills and self-reliance and self-discipline. You want the amateur musician who forms a local band and inspires thirty or forty kids to play music. You want the writer who's prepared to teach high school kids. You want the three smart kids who make it 'cool', in this local school, for kids to read, and learn, and study.

You want all of us out here, because our presence here makes towns like this one -- which supplies your onions, and your potatoes, and your milk, and your rhubarb -- continue to be viable. And when we've finally had enough... when people like Natalie and I, or our PhD neighbours Tony and Anna who run the nursery, or our neighbours Mike and Eddy who work at the university and so forth... when we've had enough, and we pull the plug and go because we've had a gutful of being left in the Victorian age, you will very soon discover that your city existence is a lot less comfortable as a result.

We don't need Thai restaurants. We don't need MRI machines. We don't need modern airports or public transport. We don't need international sporting venues. We don't need visiting artistes from far-flung lands. But you know what we do need? We need to stay in touch. We need to feel like we belong to a nation, not to an isolated community out the back of Ratfuck, Nowhere. We need feedback, so we know that what we're doing here is part of a larger picture. We need to believe our voices can be heard too, that we've got a stake in the dialogue and the ideas and the future of this country.

That's what real broadband means to the bush. I realise that in the city, as often as not it means gaming parity with the Americans (thanks, Moko!) -- but for all your country origins, I don't think you quite understand. You can talk about the convenience of downloading movies, for example -- but where you live, you can always drive a suburb or so and rent the movies on DVD. We can't do that. Being able to download movies out here would be... amazing. Music, too: you've got your couple-dozen radio stations, and your music stores in the malls. We don't. TV? Same thing. We can't just change cable providers, or switch to another satellite company.

Music, movies, entertainment, stories, dialogue, discussion - it's a broad, bubbling stream of ideas, and that broad and bubbling stream is the fountainhead of everything that makes us a nation, and a people. Out here, we're slowly, slowly becoming something that's not Australia, as the thoughts of the nation pass us by, and the younger ones leave, and the old folk get forgotten, and die.

Here's one for you, N-Bob

Webster

This bloke died not long ago in Scottsdale, here where I live. You should look him up. Natalie was one of the doctors who helped him out as he got older. But... shit, man. Webster was history. He was part of an amazing time in this country's growth. He was an astonishing human being, with an incredible story. Every time I ever got to talk to him, I learned the most amazing things. And if I'd had more time, if I'd had the facilities, I would love to have been able to help him chronicle his life.

If I'd had the facilities. But I didn't, did I? And so his amazing icon of Australian history perished, and with him a whole era died, and all I could do was look on and wish to hell I could have used a fast broadband connection to put him in contact with the National Archives, or someone, anyone... but I was busy struggling with three kids and day-to-day life, and the whole task of getting into contact with someone who might have supported the project was just too damned much for me. Too damned much for me, yes, and even for the PhD History professor who lives near me.

The country loses people like this every day, N-Bob. In the city, people like Webster get SMH obituaries, celebrity funerals, biographies, and lengthy, archived interviews. Out here in the country, we all knew what we were losing -- but there was no way we could do anything about it.

You need us out here. You eat the food we raise, drink the water we guide, burn the gas we drill, light your houses with the coal we mine. You clothe yourself with our wool and cotton. You holiday in the lands over our back fences, come bargain-hunting at our church sales and estate auctions, and laugh ironically at our cheesy little festivals and parades. You depend on the roads and the railways that run through our little towns.

We don't need all those marvellous things that make a city what it is. We can live without them. That's why we're out here: we value what we find here more than we value what we could find there. But we're still one nation, one people, one bubbling stream of dialogue, thought, story and culture.

At least, that's how it's supposed to be.

That expensive broadband network? Probably the single most important investment Australia will make this century -- and it will be an utter waste if it doesn't include those of us out here in the bush.

National Broadband Net? Ha!

Beeso's curious as to my outlook on the NBN posited by Kruddy boy. Well, first I'd like to recommend the following link to y'all:

Crikey! to the rescue

The lads at Crikey have provided a reaction-shot to this thing that pretty much mirrors my own thoughts for the moment. I will add only one more thing, though: Kruddy's promise is 90% of Oz homes. Everyone else gets to suck satellite and wireless -- the same sack of useless electro-shit, redolent with latency and dropouts and overcrowding and brutally high user-costs that I'm currently using.

I also note that Australia is basically 90% urban. So if I read Kruddy right, he's laying out $43,000,000,000,000 of our bucks to ensure that people who can ALREADY get broadband will get MUCH FASTER broadband (with inbuilt censorship hardware, no question about it) and those who currently cannot get broadband can suck it.

So -- WTF is new, then?

Chainsaw Considerations

After much thought, I recognise the utility of the chainsaw. But I still don't like the fuckin' things.

It's not the actual usage of them. It's all the aroundgerfucken you have to go through first. Find the eye-protection. And the ear-protection. Get the fuel. Oh, the 2-stroke container hasn't been returned by the last person who borrowed it? Who was that, anyway? Damned if I can remember. Well, it's gone. Never mind: I've got a spare unleaded container. Bit of work with a permanent marker, now it's a 2-stroke jerrycan.

Add five litres of unleaded. Umm. Okay, at 40-1 that calls for 125ml of 2-stroke oil. Oh, but Andrew always used 25-1, and if anybody knew this shit backwards, it was him. He said it protected the machine more effectively. Fine. Make it 200ml of 2-stroke oil.

Okay, great. Now I need bar lube. Got just enough left. Have to remember to get some more. Now, set the saw on the bench, get out the file, and sharpen the thing. Make sure to get the angles right on all the teeth. Pull the chain through and around to get all of them. Hmm. Chain's a bit loose there. Okay. Better tighten it.

That means undoing the two hex nuts on the side of the bar. That'll take a socket spanner. Where's the socket set? Upstairs in the shed. Okay, fetch it. Looks like a 3/4 will do the job. Loosen the hex nuts. Now, clean the grub screw that governs the extension of the bar. Grab a screwdriver, tighten the grub screw. Check the chain again. Good, that feels better. Tighten the hex nuts. Put the files and the screwdriver and the socket set and the bar lube and the 2-stroke oil and the petrol and the 2-stroke fuel away. Whoops! Get the 2-stroke fuel back out. Put fuel into the chainsaw.

Set the choke. Set the throttle. Check the air-filter -- been a while since I fired this thing up. Yank the cord a half-dozen times. Cough, cough, grrrrrr.... oh, wait. What's the fucking dog doing? Why is it dancing around and barking? Oh. The chainsaw motor is freaking it out. Well, screw you dog. Wait until I do... this. (Set the throttle to go. Yank the cord.) Brrrrrrrrrrrr-RRRRRRR!

Pursued by the dementedly dancing and yapping dog, I go to the big pile of hardwood flooring -- all that's left of the shed that came down about six months ago. Enough wood there to see us through most of winter. Start cutting it up... and lo! After about five minutes, the chain comes off.

Great. I did something stupid. Oh well - never mind.

Back under the shed, in the workzone. Chainsaw on bench. Get the socket set back out. Remove hex nuts. Remove bar shield. Adjust bar to give enough slack on the chain so I can put the chain back on the drive sprocket. Thread chain over groove in bar. Hold bar precariously in position while the bar shield goes back in place. Whups! Bar has slipped, chain is off. Repeat threading of chain, etc. This time apply more care and force to bar shield. Hex nut goes in place: screw it down. Second hex nut in place. Finger-tighten it as well.

Now check chain tension again. Not quite right. Adjust grub screw with screwdriver. Use socket spanner to tighten hex nuts seriously. Put away socket set. Put away screwdriver.

Restart chainsaw. Return to wood heap. Cut for half an hour: notice that it's time to go and fetch kids. Oh well -- the chain was getting dull again anyway.

Time spent cutting: about half an hour. Time spent fragging around with the stupid fucking machine and all the peripherals: probably forty minutes.

Frankly, I'm not convinced that axes are as obsolete as everyone thinks.

The Mau-Mau's Morning

Small children learning to speak: you gotta love the workarounds they put in place to cover their occasional lack of vocabulary.

This morning, the Mau-Mau awoke with a bellyache. She was the very picture of misery. I came downstairs to find her on the couch, being queried by The Mum.

"Are you all right?"

"No. Got a tummy ache."

"Do you feel sick?"

"It's all melting and dripping down to the floor."

(Pause. The Mum looks at me. I look at her. Is this Mau-Mau code for an Incipient Brown Disaster?)

"You mean your tummy?"

"No." The Mau-Mau points to her face, all streaked with tears, just as one clear drip falls off the end of her nose. "My water."

Aha.

We tried not to giggle too much at that one.

Best guess as to the belly-ache remains hunger: she promptly scarfed up three slices of toast thickly spread with fresh avocado. It's also possible she was regretting the three-quarters of a home-made pepperoni pizza that she gutsed last night. Hopefully it's not an incipient tummy-bug, though... not sure I could take that much melting and dripping water.

Warning! Labels!

This afternoon, as I went out to cut up some firewood, I noticed an odd thing.

It wasn’t the fact that in the early 21st century, my family still warms itself around a wood fire. As far as I’m concerned, fire is an integral part of the human heritage. Computers and modems are all very well, but you really know you’re civilized when you can tame your own fire, I say. Now, if only I could chip a proper flint spearhead.

Nor was it the fact that I was personally cutting my own firewood. Being a Housebound Husband, there are limited opportunities to exercise my traditional male machismo. I don't drive a sports car. I don’t bring home a testosterone-enhancing paycheque. I don’t even like watching the Bathurst 1000 on the choob. But I do like to chop my own wood.

Anyway, what I noticed was the printed warning on the side of my $20 Chickenfeed axe. Wear Protective Goggles, it declared. And fair enough, I thought. It’s no fun getting woodchips in the eyes.

But then, as I was pulling the corroded elastic over my head, I thought: why am I obeying a stupid Chinese-made axe handle? Think about it. That warning doesn’t say "wear protective goggles to keep chips out of your eyes when chopping.” It just says “wear protective goggles." It’s like George Bush: either you’re with us or against us! Wear protective goggles or else! That’s what it really means. It’s not really a friendly warning at all. It’s an insidious attempt to take control of your life!

There’s a lot of this stuff around the place lately. My wine bottles try to tell me to Enjoy Wine In Moderation. Where the hell is this Moderation place anyhow? Why should the wine there be better than the wine here? Can I get frequent-flyer miles for my trip to Moderation City? If Pain Persists, See Your Doctor. Not Meant As A Life Saving Device. Use Only Under Adult Supervision. It never stops!

If there’s one thing that still raises the primitive beast in the heart of a modern man, it’s getting ordered around by a bunch of consumer goods. Bad enough that doctors and psychologists and feminists have all come up with reasons why men shouldn’t do fun stuff any more — now we’re expected to obey our groceries?

I don’t think so. I mean — I REALLY don’t think so. In fact, I say that it’s time we men got tough with uppity household accessories. Concentrate that oven cleaner and inhale like Bill Clinton at a Free Marijuana rally. Use superglue to stick your eyelids to your forehead while you drive heavy machinery under the influence of antihistamines. Don’t just use the hair dryer in the shower: move the whole bloody laundry suite in there while you microwave the cat! Rise up, my brothers! You have nothing to lose but your no-claim bonus. We’re repressed enough already. Let’s throw off the tyranny of inanimate objects and live as free men once more!

While you’re doing that, I’m just going to duck down to the doctors’ surgery to see about getting this chunk of ironbark out of my eyeball.

Technical Question

Is there a way to designate individual posts in this system as private, or friends-only, or suchlike? All I can find is the option which over-rides the whole structure, and makes each and every post either equally accessible, or equally inaccessible.

Change of Pace

Trying out the vid capacities of this blogger thing. If this works, you'll see a wee clip composed of shots of me and the kids. And you'll hear one of the worst versions of the classic Irish jig "Out On The Ocean" that you're ever likely to suffer with.

But it's particularly cool, because I wrangled into being, and with much cunning. Elder Son plays cello -- badly -- in that audio. But he's only been at it about three weeks, so it's forgiveable. And the fiddle that sounds melodic would be Natalie, but the wee scratchy fiddle noises are the Mau-Mau and her little pink violin, sawing faithfully away. The burbly-sounding instrument is a Low Whistle, courtesy of yours truly.

Thing is that Natalie is desperate to play music with her kids. And the music she loves is Irish, mostly. So today, I got tired of the constant depressing phone calls and the gloom and bullshit, and I took Elder Son aside and pointed out that he could easily manage to saw away on the G-note string on his cello in a simple rhythm to underpin the jig. And the only changes he needed to make? A couple first-position E notes on the D-string, and a couple open-string D.

So, there we were. And Natalie was so damned happy she charged off to get a little recorder. And really, for a group with a 3-year old on the fiddle and an 8-year-old with three weeks experience on cello playing an accompaniment designed by a whistle player... it could be worse.

That's what I figure, anyhow.