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.