Spring is in the air. Autumn is in the heart

Dear blog,

It’s been a while.

Much has happened since my last entry.

The world has changed considerably, but not many would notice. Most go about their lives in their own personal fog, seeing just in front of them, just enough to get through the haze, so as not to bump into inanimate objects, animate objects, or fall off the edge.

That’s why the main path remains the main path.

Yes, pockets of folk find minor paths and deviate, change direction, searching for newer paths, of older, smarter paths, like the one that leads to a cleaner environment, a softer, safer, kinder, smarter living place, but the big path, the one most of us are on, the one I call the lemming-path, that one remains the same, packed, chocked, clogged with scrambling, stumbling humanity.

Just when you think it is safe to relax, to buy a new telly, to go on a short holiday to Lithuania, Georgia invades your home town in Ossetia, bombs your neighbour and you freak out, scream, wail and complain bitterly, which is right and proper.

Your screams are heard and so your Russian mates invade Georgia and bomb the hell out of anybody living in the vicinity and Georgians scream and shout and run for their lives, which is understandable in the circumstances.

On another side, in the US, the election campaign, the one that never ends, takes a new and amazing turn.

A woman, one that no-one has ever heard of, is promoted out of nowhere to become the running mate of the Republican offering, John McCain.

She shoots wild animals for fun; she runs Alaska; her husband races huskies; her kids are numerous, one of them not long born; another, an older child still in school, is pregnant.

Her photograph has never appeared in any paper outside of Alaska, ever.

She stands to speak at the Republican convention.

She uses her index finger to point, they all do, it’s a feature of American political campaigning. All candidates walk on stage and point. There are 100,000 people in the room, the candidates know all of them and point at each one in turn, as thought astounded and amazed that amongst the great throng that they, that individual, of all people, would be there supporting them, the candidate.

Suddenly the entire nation is mesmerised, Sarah Pallin, the woman, is everywhere, in all papers, on all tv channels, she is magical, wondrous, she can make American great, again, if only they would allow her to carry her gun, her moose-murdering gun, into the United Nations, then we could be safe, secure in our own homes, far from the madding crowd.

Oh, forgot, the other candidate is an African-American, the first one ever. He’s been in all the papers for years, but the gun toting woman has knocked him. As far as my memory will stretch, I think he is the only candidate I have not seen point. This might be good sign, but I really have no idea.

Someone tells me an elephant has recovered from its heroin addiction. I check the papers. It seems true.

On the under-side, where I live, the Murray Darling Basin, once Australia’s food bowl, is pronounced dead, finished, buried under the weight of over-use.

On this side of under, in West Australia, August was one of the driest months ever, right before it, July, one of the wettest months ever.

Icecaps are melting. Whales and dolphins are plundered. Flora and fauna Species are disappearing. Languages and cultures are dying. Populations and mono-cultures are exploding.

On this very day I am forced to vote, under threat of a fine, for a new government in West Australia, a state that is one third of this lucky country. Lucky because we own an entire continent and don’t have to fight anyone for land, just each other and, occasionally, the people we stole it from.

The choice in this election is gloomy. The rest of Australia couldn’t care less. We are so far away, so distant, almost foreign. We’re good for a visit, for a raid: drop in, get a big paying job with a mining company, buy a house, pay no attention to the community, work your guts out, resign, sell the house, head home, pockets full.

West Australia is an open pit.

The choices: There’s an increasingly puffy looking, intensely grey haired, almost grumpy, but nice enough bloke from the deep-south who leads a pack of dysfunctional geese; and an over-fed, edgy, almost grumpy, but nice enough bloke, from a posh suburb who leads a pack of dysfunctional geese.

As for us, the voters, we are, of course, by definition, stupid, inane, incapable of thinking for ourselves, know nothing about anything and will believe anything about anything.

We are American, Russian, Chinese, French, modern citizens of the globe, you-tubers, face-bookers, vacuums.

We are Ossetians, Georgians, Tibetans, Kurds, but we own our own homes and the only invaders are drugged out psychopaths, or power obsessed narcissists.

(I have just been for a walk. I voted. For a goose, an emerging goose, and because we have a preferential voting system, of the two dominant geese, I placed the lesser goose second last on a card of five, with the big goose last. Not much of a choice between geese.)

I am now sixty.

Personal changes are occurring.

Bones, once broken, are now beginning to tell me they remember and their time has come to make me pay.

I find myself grunting, involuntarily, in quiet exasperation.

The grunts are inevitably followed by my head, shaking, as though trying to empty itself, to set free some impediment.

There’s not long to go. My time left is nowhere near the time I’ve had.

There is no doubt in my mind, that collectively, we, humans, are insane.

There are very few among the certifiably sane who are not psychopathic, sociopathic, or narcissistic.

If you have reached this far, you are probably thinking, this bloke is an incurable pessimist, no, far from it, I am a committed optimist, but also a believer in embracing both sides, all sides and today, when I woke up, I embraced the darkness.

So what’s the point, if we are doomed, if there’s no hope?

But there is, there always is. The elephant recovered and so can we.

And, anyway, whatever happens, I wouldn’t have missed it for quids, the journey. It’s been the trip of a lifetime.

Peace, love, diversity

Jon

When the Pell tolls, for whom does it toll? It tolls for us?

I have yet to meet Cardinal Pell. He seems like a warm, cuddly, bear of a man, the kind of man you would love to wind away a quiet evening with beside a roaring fire and, later, after coffee and port, without any fuss, you would lean over, grab his robe and drag him into the coals.

What else could you so with such an astounding man, Australia’s leading Catholic, our only Cardinal, a man with a Pope’s ear, a Prime Minister’s ear, a few million Catholic ears, but arrange for him to burn? There is too much at stake.

And what has brought about the fire in this blogger?

Well, I woke one cold morning this week to find my morning papers full of the Pell, front pages splashed and ringing with Pell. There was Pell everywhere. And the Pell paled, bloated and stank.

One headline in the West Australian, Perth's only and, thus, finest morning newspaper, screamed: Populate or Perish, warns Pell.

I read on. I should have gone back to bed.

“No Western country is producing enough babies to keep the population stable,” he said.

And he also said he was a “climate change sceptic”.

Cardinal Pell lives in a big house for big Catholic Cardinals. It is his right. He doesn’t read newspapers, listen to radio, or watch television. He has bishops do this for him and write him reports at the end of the week, the end of the month, the year, their lives, we are not sure when.

The bishops live in big houses for big Catholic bishops. They don’t read newspapers, listen to radio, or watch television. They have priests do this for them and write them reports, which they don’t read. They all need to get out more. They have not heard that the world is struggling under the weight of its human population, struggling to produce enough food to feed its hordes, to save its endangered creatures, its plants, its air, its very existence. Farmers are struggling to pay fuel costs, water costs, superphosphate costs, debt costs. Good food producing land is being sold to real estate developers everywhere from New Zealand to China, from Brazil to Durbin. Good food producing land is being given up to mining companies and forestry corporations in all Australian states.

The Church does nothing about this, because it is part of the great free-enterprise global world system, because the Church is about Rome, it is about power, and numbers, and competition with other leading global faiths. It is about winning and glory. It is not about the word of Jesus Christ, who would, I am sure, be none too pleased with the pomp, ceremony, glitter, tinsel, flag waving, the ritual, the secrecy and the stored wealth, that is the Church.

Oh, yes, there are good folk there. Even this same week I met an aging nun with a vibrant sense of humour, and reality, as she left a local coffee shop

“Did you have a coffee?” she asked.

“No,” I replied, “they don’t serve Protestants.”

She laughed. We all laughed. Then she blessed me.

Quick as a flash, she then said: “You can bless me too, but it won’t pay for the petrol.”

The coffee shop erupted. In that instant, that moment of utter realism, we all loved that nun.

Back to the men who lead her church.

And if they ever get out, the bishops should take the Pell for a walk, because Cardinal Pell has never heard of the Carteret Islands in the Western Pacific, the islands disappearing under a slow rising Pacific Ocean. He does not know the inhabitants of these islands will probably be the world’s first global warming refugees.

The Pell never listens to Bush Telegraph on ABC Radio National so he would not hear fourth and fifth generation Australian farmers, men and women who farm in the old and new ways, men and women with knowledge and wisdom. He would not know that they admit the country is in the middle of changes that are part of regular cycles but that there are other changes, deep changes, taking place and that these are about global warming.

Pell does not listen.

It is clear.

The man’s history is one of not hearing, or not reading, or misreading, or mishearing, or just missing.

And he is the spiritual leader of the dominant Christian Church in this country.

Jesus!

Pell Postscript

Some of the above may have been a little harsh on Cardinal Pell. He may not have actually said: "Populate or perish"
His words were reported in newspapers and we all know they are not always accurate. Your modern journo is not blessed with shorthand and often what someone seems to be saying is enough to be written as having been said. Or an editorial angle is set and all comments that approach the angle, almost hit the angle, or are on an angle three degrees from the angle, are reworked to look like just like the angle.
However, this is a blog, an excuse for a rant, and so, I take Cardinal Pell as an example, as a figurehead of his Church and then rave, because that's what bloggers do.
And this rant, sarcastic as it is, scathing as it is, has, I believe, a universal truth, which I hold to be true.
And that is that the Church is not what Jesus had in mind.
It is what Constantine The Great had in mind.

You never know ...

Jon

In response to your query about Naturale Facial Tissues we are currently in the process of getting this line or a similar line put back into stores. Thank you for taking the time to bring this matter to our attention

Angela Stenzel
Administration Assistant
Paper Goods
Buying and Marketing
Woolworths Limited

1 Woolworths Way, Bella Vista, NSW 2153
PO Box 8000 Baulkham Hills, NSW 2153
Mail Point N4.D4

P PLEASE CONSIDER THE ENVIRONMENT BEFORE YOU PRINT THIS E-MAIL

Angela

This will be a very positive move.

I have been browsing the web and there is clearly a large number of folk, like me, seeking recycled paper facial tissues.

As soon as you have them on the shelf, I will be putting an entry on my blog and in all the chat rooms I discovered where the issue is mentioned.

Thank you for keeping me informed.

Best

Jon Doust

Aren't they nice, but will a person with clout make a difference and a stand?

Dear Mr. Jon Doust,

Thank you for contacting the Woolworths Website. Feedback such as yours plays a major role in the improvements we provide to our customers.

Please be assured that your concern has been acknowledged and referred to the respective Business Team for their attention and response to you.

Your custom and feedback is both greatly appreciated.

Regards

Bev Wright

Website Feedback Co-ordinator

Woolworths Limited

Tales of Boarding, Life and Love

Ken Spillman

The Christ Church Residential Community has been abuzz with visits from two well-known authors in recent weeks.

Year 7 to 9 boarding students, who have been engrossed in Ken Spillman’s latest book Love is a UFO, took part in a workshop hosted by the award-winning author. In Love is a UFO, Dr Spillman delves into the mind of a young boy dealing with life and love in today’s online world. The story is written and presented to engage young readers and make reading a positive experience to come back to.

Dr Spillman discussed his novel and encouraged the boys to read for recreation, rather than just for school. He believes authors need to embrace the relationships between books and other media and that the key to engaging young readers is to recognise patterns of reading that are emerging in digital societies.

This week, boarders found something in common with author and comedian Jon Doust. Mr Doust, a former student and boarder at Christ Church, shared excerpts from Boy on a Wire, due to be released mid-2009. The crossover book, described as “a sort of fiction based on a kind of life Jon once knew in a private boarding school in the early 1960s”, has a resonance with boys.

Boy on a Wire is fast-paced, action-packed and full of laughs gleaned from his and others’ experiences. However, there is also a psychological side to the book, which explores bullying, father and son relationships and depression. Mr Doust’s comedy background had the students riveted as he shared stories about sleeping in dorms, communal showering and encounters with the cane.

Both authors have been regular visitors to Christ Church providing the boys with some comic relief as well as something to think about.

For more news from Jon's old school:

http://www.ccgs.wa.edu.au/atccgs/news

A reply. And so quick.

Dear Jon,

Thank you for your email. It has been forwarded to the Wesfarmers and Coles Management teams. We appreciate you taking the time to contact us. We are working hard to fix the business but it will take time. I trust however that you will start to notice a positive difference in the not too distant future.

Regards,

Jane Macneall.

WESFARMERS LIMITED A.C.N. 008 984 049

This email is confidential and may contain legally privileged information. If you are not the intended recipient, you must not disclose or use the information contained in it. If you have received this email in error, please notify us immediately by return email and delete the document.

Recycled stuff - where to now?

Not sure about you, but I refuse to wipe my face, blow my nose, or wipe other dirty bits using paper that has not been used before. In other, more direct words, I insist on recycled paper for cleaning crap off bodies or objects.

But, can you get it?

Well, once upon a time, long long ago, Coles sold two recycled brands: Elite and Safe. Safe was sponsored by Planet Ark. I bought them, often four to five boxes in a shopping. They were removed from the shelves. Why? Slow movers. Coles has no corporate responsibility when it comes to recycled paper products.

I then discovered Woolworths sold Naturale, made by ABC Tissue Products. I bought them, often four to five boxes in a shop. They were removed from the shelves. Why? Slow movers. Woolworths has no corporate responsibility when it comes to recycled paper products.

Please allow me to rephrase.

Coles and Woolworths have little corporate responsibility when it comes to recycled paper products. They both still sell recycled paper toilet rolls and, if you look real hard, you can sometimes find the paper towels.

Will they continue to sell the recycled rolls? Who knows. I have emailed both corporations and received replies unrelated to my complaints. Clever.

My next step is to work on Wesfarmers. Here’s an email I sent recently.

I know you are not Coles, you are Wesfarmers, but I get no satisfaction at Coles. Time for a new tack.

Thing is, Coles seems to be reneging on corporate responsibility for sustainable practises.

In short, the chain no longer sells recycled facial tissues and they way things are looking on the shelves I think it will not be long before it moves out of recycled paper towels and recycled toilet tissues.

This is shameful.

The products were removed because they were labelled: Slow Movers.

Give me half a day and I will knock up a list of 1000 other items that remain on Coles’ shelves that move slower than recycled facial tissues ever did.

Wesfarmers, we know you have a conscience, we think you do, it’s time you changed the Coles culture.

(If I have no success here, I’m getting on to the big man, the Goyder. He’ll see what I mean, as soon as he walks into his local.)

Cheers

Jon Doust

Two Great events to put in your diary for next year!

I'm a very lucky man.
Over the last two months I have had the pleasure of MCing bits and pieces of two great music festivals: Harboursound in Albany; Festival of Voice in Denmark.
First, there was Albany's Harboursound.
The chap above is Andrew Winton, the younger brother of the other Winton and one mean slide guitar player. His mob of muscos, Five Point Turn, played a soul-filled storm and then joined forces with local hero Zave Brown to make music to live longer with.

Above is Andy Rigby of Kwela fame. Andy worked a mob of kids and old folk with tin whistles and then marched into the famous Saturday morning Farmer's Markets.
They were not alone. Mel Robertson sat elegant with her cello and worked songs that made this grown man cry and weep and long for more.
Then there were the fabulous Stiff Ginns, Nardi Simpson and Kaleena Briggs, who made us laugh, cry, laugh again, keep on laughing, a bit more crying, and then clapp wildly.

One man who attended both festivals was the irresistible Mal Webb of Mal The World Wide Webb and Totally Goudeous and almost any group of people to be found anywhere with a musical instrument or even just pursed lips.
I will write no more about this festival other than to say than Denmark knows how to do a festival. It just knows. So, get there.
Here are some pics.

Zave Brown and Sue Cunningham.

Kavisha Mazzella and daughter Kiki.


The writer of this blog, with Kiki.

The World Wide Webb with Totally Gourdeous.

Valanga Khoas, singer, writer, storyteller, from South Africa.

Two great festivals.
Makes it hard to leave town when you have such a fine time, but I did, because the big smoky place called.
On the way I stopped to pay an exhorbitant petrol price, through no fault of the owners of the service station.
Once inside to complete the transaction, I spotted a stack of foam boxes.
"What's in there?"
"You don't want to know."
"Yes I do."
"Shall we tell him?"
"I dare you."
She told me.
"Pig sperm."
She laughed. The darer laughed. I laughed. The weekend was complete.

The photos from Festival of Voice were taken by Nic Duncan, who knows how to take photos.
You can find her at http://www.artycool.com/
The Harboursound pics were taken by Sally Malone.

MORE SHARK NEWS

Monday
Morning
Barcino, a restaurant and coffee house in Albany

The Albany schoolteacher bitten on the weekend by a white pointer has spoken.

Local doctors operated on him for close to 6 hours and he appeared on TV and radio news.

It seems when the big lady grabbed him she dragged him under water and only let go because he poked her in the eye.

This is a bloke you want with you in a crisis.

As the woman who dragged him out of the water said “he is the real hero”.

People involved in pulling him onto the beach and working to stem the bloody flow and make sure he was comfortable said he remained calm throughout, even though he was clearly in intense pain.

So, who was the real hero?

In my view, as a casual, but keen, observer, and peripheral participant, there were no heroes, just a bunch of fine people who knew each other and knew what had to be done and who could best do what and they got on with it and did it.

Excellent humans, each and every one of them and not once did I hear calls for revenge on the big fish lady.

This town, Albany, is where I and my partner intend to live, permanently. The weekend intensified my desire to live and breathe in this far corner of this vast state.

SHARK ATTACK

Note: This is a blog. It is not an accurate record of events. No-one was interviewed in the process. It is the work of the writer, his selective memory and is biased and filtered.

Searching for the white pointers at Ellen Cove, Middleton Beach.

Searching for the white pointers at Ellen Cove, Middleton Beach.

Saturday
Albany
Western Australia

It’s about 8am. I arrive at Albany’s popular Middleton Beach for my morning run and surf.

I get out of my car, run across the short piece of lawn, round the corner of the Surf Club building and face a small gathering of people around an ambulance.

Oh, I think, an early morning beach-side exercise.

I know some of them: the local member of State Parliament, a couple of friends and I recognise surf club members.

The politician turns to me and asks: You swimming?

I think: Yeah, of course I’m swimming. I swim every morning. I’m dressed for it. You know I swim. You being a smart-bum?

I nod, sideways.

“You swimming?”

“Yeah. So?”

“Shark attack.”

“Serious?”

He nods to the ambulance.

I look at the friends. They are agitated, focussed. They look through me. Something is clearly wrong.

The tale unfolds.

The early morning swimmers were about 20 metres from shore when one of them spotted a fin and said to his companion “dolphins.” His companion agreed, but then they both had second thoughts and a mate, one closer to shore, yelled “shark.” And in the same instant, the shark attacked. He yelled. The two out near the buoys decided to swim together for shore, keeping close and talking their way in. The shark circled and charged. Three times. They kicked hard and kept talking. On their way in they grabbed their mate. Another early morning swimmer, not yet in the water, saw their plight, ripped off her clothes and charged into the water, grabbed the severely injured man and dragged him ashore. Meanwhile, two others arrived, one raced in fully clothed, the other went for his mobile phone to call an ambulance. With the bitten man on the beach, they cared for him, wrapped him in towels, applied a tourniquet to stem the flow of blood to his badly lacerated leg and the man with the phone called the injured man’s wife. Within five minutes the ambulance had arrived and the injured man placed on the stretcher.

I see the fin. It’s big. Around it the surface water changes texture, like it’s tense, nervous, agitated. Then more fins, not fish, mammals, dolphins. The big fin is clearly a shark, a big fish. Others see it.

The ambulance leaves. A police vehicle drives onto the beach and heads north to warn walkers and swimmers along the beach line. A city vehicle arrives with an electronic sign: Beach closed because of shark.

Someone says the sea rescue boat is on its way. We can see it now.

The fin is moving around the pontoon, a popular destination for kids who like to jump and dive. No-one is in the water now.

I go to my friends. Now they see me. We talk. We agree to meet for coffee. They leave for the hospital with clothing belonging to the other friend, the one who was in the water, the one who was charged, and survived. She was in the back of the ambulance with the badly bitten man.

People arrive ready to swim. We send them away.

The sea rescues boat arrives. A surf lifesaver points to the pontoon. The boat circles it then begins searching in a deliberate pattern.

I stand around, listening, waiting for decisions to be made and ready to offer assistance, a car, a shoulder, whatever.

I see the woman who ran into the water sitting alone. I go to her.

“You remember me?”

“You’re the laughing man.”

“Yes.”

She laughs. Then cries. Then talks. She says she’s ok. She will call her son. She knows she’s wobbly.

I leave, meet my friends for coffee. They are wobbly, emotional, bonded.

Sunday
8am

I’m at the beach again. Talk to a bloke from Fisheries. He tells me they spotted two sharks, females, one 4 metres and the other 5 metres. Big fish. Hungry fish. I ask if it’s safe to swim, anywhere. It’s all a risk, he says.

I drive out to Goode Beach, 20ks out of town, facing King George Sound. I run in the soft sand. I run up a sand hill. I’m hot. I want to go into the ocean. I find a clear spot, no weed and watch. Nothing. I go in. I’m cautious, swim with eyes wide open above and below the surface, head swinging both ways and taking breaths from left and right. It feels good, wonderful, invigorating.

I get out, run up the beach, grab my chamois towel, turn, and tense: two fins. Bugger, dolphins.

Later Sunday morning

I’m back at Middleton Beach. A crowd is building. TV crews are lurking. Two boats are sweeping, one with a loud speaker system: “Keep away from the beach.” A helicopter sweeps with a leaning cameraman. Families arrive, park and rush to the shoreline. I meet an artist I met the previous day at the Albany Farmers’ Markets. He’s from Austria. He tells me it is madness, that on this very day many people will die on the roads, that people in other countries are starving, that people in Burma have no homes, that the Junta will take advantage and kill people they don’t like, that in Austria unspeakable things will continue to happen to innocent people and that people in the Western world watch too much television and the media feeds their insanity. Two dolphins frolic in the shallows. Some are interested in them, most seem eager for another sighting.

I get in my car and call the friends who were involved in the attack and the rescue. None of them slept well. They have heard others involved also did not sleep well. I did not sleep well, a night plagued with dreams about losing control and one about swimming over dark weed and panicking because I could no longer see the shark I was sure was there, even though I had not seen it.

A dolphin frolics while humans seeks white pointers.

For the news, as the news does it, go here:

http://www.news.com.au/perthnow/story/0,21598,23675280-5008620,00.html

If you own a house, hang on to it

If you’re wondering why this blog has been dormant, well, ask yourself this: What would happen if I tried to sell my house in a flat market, found a buyer, got all excited, named a settlement date, packed half the house, sold half the furniture and the deal fell through because the buyer could not arrange finance?

Got an answer?

Well, the first thing you should do is have a bloody good lie down because chances are you’d be exhausted from all the excitement, the going away parties, the selling and the packing.

Did we lie down?

No.

What did we do?

We unpacked, and we thought seriously about calling in a distant cousin from another country to whack the real estate agent.

Why, because we needed someone to blame, a victim, a scapegoat, because he overdid the personal deodorant? No, because he did two things we did not appreciate and didn’t do a number of things we would have appreciated.

For a start, he dropped the price on our house without any consultation. We simply woke up one morning, picked up a paper and found our house had gone from $609,000 plus to $599,000 plus.

The “plus” was his idea, part of his create selling plan.

Then, after he thought the deal had fallen through, he dumped the buyers, put the house back on the market and announced a house-open, all without consulting the vendors, the sellers, us.

We called the buyers, who we had shown over the house the previous weekend and they said: “We are still interested. His phone call upset us. We thought he was acting under your instructions.”

Instructions? Sellers would issue instructions to intimidate buyers? This happens? Anyway, good point. We suddenly remembered who was acting for whom.

Which was all fine and good but we still owned a house we didn’t want to live in any more and had a mortgage on another house we did want to live in, sleep in, eat in and do all the other things happily married baby boomers do in after they have relieved their cluttered lives of vast amounts of superfluous junk they have no wish to leave behind for their children to sift through when they finally move off to the planet they thought they were on in 1966.

In short, our agent was not acting in our interests, but in the interests of someone who wasn’t talking to us.

Such matters take their toll.

Especially on the person who is left living in the house we don’t want to live in any more and that wasn’t me.

Where was I?

Doing what I do, driving all over the South West of Western Australia, working my guts to the bone, or the gristle, talking, back slapping, hand shaking and falling onto the nearest bed in a collapsed heap dreaming dreams that suggested my life needed a settled home life.

Meanwhile, Tibetans and Zimbabweans battled enemies of a much greater consequence.

Perspective is a great leveller. We may be experiencing some confusion, but we still eat well, get some sleep, feel safe in whatever house we are in, enjoy the companionship of fine friends and here, where I am now, in Albany, next stop Antarctica, most days the surf rolls gently onto fine beach sand and I get to feel at one with the universe.

The Dangers of Facebook

Facebook, I love it. Almost.

If you are on it you will remember the cute little dog. You may well have got yours from me. “Fast forward” said the instructions and you will be “surprised”. So was everyone on my list.

Eventually, I got an irate message from a Facebook friend who claimed too many of us were sending “stupid stuff”, meaning cute little doggies, and not respecting the personal relationships, the innateness of friendship.

I apologised for the dog. Then I sat down and had a good think.

Sure, he was right, and I get the crap too, but I delete it. The dog didn’t bother me that much, and once I learnt its innate stupidity, when it arrived, again, and again, and one more time, I binned it.

But there is something, oh yes, something that really pisses me of about Facebook and that is all the people who want to be my friends who I have never heard of and once I check them out I discover they want to be my friend because they are the friend of some other friend of mine.

To quote Steve Martin, Excuse Me, being Jim’s friend gives no right to Joan to be my friend. I like Jim, but who the jack is Joan and what makes her think I will like her just because I like Jim?

And that’s not the end of it.

What about all those people I do like who get bored with Facebook and sign up to Shoulderstrap, or Earlobe, of Headspace, or any number of other Facebook Wannabes?

Well, get jacked Headspace, that’s what I say, because I barely have the time in a day to service Facebook and the 16 blogs I’m running, in addition to making a living, nurturing the marriage and pretending to father.

In addition, I’m an almost dead Baby Boomer and there’s stuff I have to do before I leave and one of the last things I need is a new website for friends I don’t know and don’t need.

There.

I feel better now.

Well, not quite.

I’m still a little nervous.

Because you and I both know that out there, in cyberspace, yes, they are amassing, gearing up, getting ready, you know who I mean, The Amway Salespeople.

Oh yes, I’m your friend, because you know Jim and I know Jim and so we should get together and maybe this weekend for coffee and an idea I want to run by you, I think you’ll like it, you could make some money, then BAM, they whack you with it, friendship is nothing more than a front to flog jack shit!

Flying

It all started with the late taxi. Sorry, the taxi that never was. It should have been, but wasn't, because when I called to ask where it was, I was told: "There's nothing coming up on screen. Your booking has not been registered."
Ok, don't panic, I've got plenty of time.
The call centre books my taxi: "Don't worry, there's plenty of taxis in the area and there should be one there quickly."
There isn't.
I call again: "Yes, your booking is registered, but you will have to wait because there are no taxis in the area."
All right, "there are taxis in the area", "there are no taxis in the area." I'm fine with that. I'm modern. I'm into chaos. I have a plane to catch.
At the top of Kalamunda Road which, by the way, offers a great view of Perth, the city, where most folk who live in West Australia live, there is a road block.
The taxi driver gets testy: "Why? There is room. These people are idiots."
We wait. Then wait. Then move.
No traffic lights work for us, not one, not even the last one, the one that lets us into the airport precinct.
I am out of the taxi, running, to the darleks, the self-boarding passenger terminals. My flight is not registered.
I rush the counter: "Do you mind, I'm sorry, my flight is leaving." The man lets me through, a kind man, a potential passenger.
At the desk, I breathe, but it doesn't help: "Your flight is closed. You won't get on."
Then I say that word, the F one, the one I don't normally utter in a public, bureaucratic setting.
The counter attendant sends me to another counter. As soon as I get there the attendant gets up and moves away to fiddle with stationary, not to fill it out in order to help an anxious passenger, no, to unpack it, to spread it out over the blank space behind him.
Eventually he turns and looks at the blank space in front of him. I fill it.
"My flight is closed. They won't let me on. They said you would put me on the next flight. Can you?"
He says nothing, not even: "Who are they?"
He doesn't look up. He works his screen. Finds something. Writes something. Looks up: "4.15. You are on that flight."
"Thank you."
I have four hours to wait. I settle in.
Airports are interesting places. I like waiting in them. In the 1970s I once lived in Heathrow for three days, waiting for a flight, any flight, home. Perth airport, with heightened levels of chaos, gets more and more interesting.
While waiting I recognise that I consider it remarkable that flights take off, stay up, and arrive at a destination. Given the increasing levels of anxiety, chaos and incompetence, it is astounding that things work, not that they don't work.
A plane arrived. It let me on. I landed in Sydney.
At the Holiday Inn reception desk I was told: "I'm sorry, but you have checked in already."
"No I haven't. Have you seen me before?"
"No, sir."
"Then this is me. This is my passport. This is my birthmark. My mother's maiden name is Brooks."
"Yes, sir."
"So, either you have given my room to someone else, or there has been a mistake, but, I would still like a room, please, any room, but one with a bed, a basin and a bible."
"Yes, sir. I will check, sir."
He leaves.
The man standing next to me asks: "You were on the Perth flight?"
"Yes, QF577, but I should have been on QF580. They wouldn't let me on. I was late."
He laughed: You know what happened to QF580?"
"No."
"It was delayed 30minutes, took off, experienced engine trouble, then returned to Perth and did not leave for another 3hours."
I laughed. What else could I do?
The receptionist returned and gave me a room.
Phew.
Ok, everything else ran smooth. Until departure.
At Sydney airport, two hours early, I booked in, thinking that would be plenty of time for the necessary folk to do what they had to do with my baggage and for me to get on the flight.
It was. I browsed. I drank coffee. I bought books.
As the lights flash "boarding" we are informed by a Qantus attendant that we have to face the counter near Gate 13 and collect a form to fill in to enable us to have our luggage delivered to us after we land in Perth.
Why?
Because there is a problem with the warning light in the baggage hold and if there is a fire on board no-one will know because the warning light doesn't work. And nobody smells anymore.
We line up, some anxious, because the boarding light is still flashing, we collect our forms, and run to Gate 7.
Guess what? Once we are in the air, flying high, and the seat belt light has disappeared, an attendant walks around handing out the very same forms we had only 15minutes ago lined up for.
I love it.
As we are leaving the plane, the only attendant I can pick under 45 laughs at me and says: "Good luck with the baggage."
"I don't know whose I'll get but it won't be mine."
He laughed: "I know."
Then he laughed harder.

LATE NEWS:
My bag arrived, yes, mine.
I looked stunned.
"This the wrong bag?" asked the courier.
"No, no, it's mine all right."
"What?"
"That's why I'm stunned."
"We do a pretty good job, mate."
He looked hurt.
"It's not you, mate, it's the others. No courier has ever delivered the wrong parcel to me. I admire couriers. Some of my best cousins have been couriers. But airlines, huh!"
He smiled: "Yeah."

Get those spots checked

This is a cautionary tale.
But first, 2008 has got off to a bad start - the stock market has crashed, the US has a an election coming up, I pulled a muscle running along the beach alongside the Great Southern Ocean, fruit and vegetable prices are set to rise, the planet is in deep pain, more people than ever have lost it - so do your best to stay sane.
By now you are wondering why the little pic above.
Good question.
It's a Squamous Cell Carcinoma (SCC).
While in Albany, home of whales, deep on the south coast of Western Australia, I decided to visit a local doctor and ask him to check the lump on my arm.
He said: Mmm, looks nasty. It's a Squamous Cell Carcinoma,
I said: Yeah, what are you going to do about it?
He said: I could cut it off for you.
I said: What, the arm?
He laughed.
I said: Go for it.
He did, like a butcher: in went the knife, one straight line, no artistry, slash.
Brilliant, I thought, I could do with another manly scar.
Eight days later, in I go, out come the stitches and I leave town.
Five kilometres up the major highway, splut, the wound opens, flesh reveals itself, blood flows.
Here's what I learnt:
- keep applying sun screen
- insist on retaining stitches until they fade
- don't go to butchers for cancer removals
- remind myself that whatever happens, George W Bush is done for

POSTSCRIPT:
The cut has healed.
It has healed nicely.
The butcher organised a better scar than first look suggested.
In fact, I will no longer refer to him as "the butcher".
Henceforth he is "the nice bloke who cut the cancer out of my arm".
All right, I know, a bit long.
What about: Quarti Tunis?
(I have no idea where that came from.)
As for you, get your spots CHECKED TODAY!

Strange Turns

The Weekend Australian
8/1/22007

Given the above article I decided to finally run a tale I first wrote for the Saturday edition of the West Australian, Western Australia's only daily newspaper. In its original form it was rejected by The West's lawyers.
The lawyers were concerned that Peter Foster might sue. I think in the original I called him a "fraud".
I rewrote the piece about five times, trying to get it right for the legal brains, but never succeeding.
Here is the version we are left with.

Every so often this column takes a strange turn.

I think it is important to note that the writer is still me, but not quite me, not the full me, the me you have grown to know and love, more a channelled sort of me, from somewhere else within me.

Are you still with me?

Thing is, truth is stranger than fiction and most of us can tell the difference, but every now and then you meet someone who can’t.

Along the way I have met more than my allotted share of these folk and, I must say, for the most part, I enjoyed their company.

Indeed, I lived in Israel for three years and while there I met five men who claimed to be the reincarnated Jesus Christ.

One was a train driver from Arkansas, another a bookkeeper from Wyoming, one was a butcher from Scotland and two were very crazy men who confronted me in Jerusalem and yelled at my face and behaved in a way that led me to believe they were not Jesus after all but people desperate to be somebody. So I gave them both time and a little money.

Along the way, many of us, due to accident, biological distortions, life circumstance, or excessive imbibing of one thing or another, manifest some of the characteristics of people without a good grip on reality.

As someone once said: There is a fine line between sanity and it’s opposite.

And someone else, George Santayana, a Spanish-born American philosopher, added: Sanity is a madness put to good use.

After all those freeform, earlier years, my life has reached another, tamer stage and is heavily influenced by a long-term and stable marriage, fatherhood, regular intakes of fresh fruit, vegetables, especially locally grown garlic, and nothing more intoxicating than air skimmed off the Great Southern Ocean.

I’ve tried stand-up comedy, street theatre, television, movies, live theater, video games and badminton, but none of them match the early days of abandonment.

What moves the blood a little is body surfing, certain kinds of performing, meeting the occasional psychopath and reading.

My tastes are eclectic. I read anything from Phantom comics to Nobel Prize winning novelists, gritty crime, rampaging adventures, philosophic meanderings and academic works on psychopaths.

Psychopaths fascinate me, always have.

I’m not big on the violent criminal psychopath, the people everybody thinks of when they think of the genre, people like Hannibal Lecter, American Psycho’s Patrick Bateman and WA’s own David Bernie.

They still fascinate me, but I don’t fancy meeting them.

The folk you and I are more likely to meet are the ordinary every day psychopaths, the workplace psychopaths, the corporate psychopaths and range of people seemingly not conversant with a the standard moral code.

In an earlier column I referred to Peter Foster, not a psychopath, but well known as a con-artist and corporate conman, a man I have never met, although I claimed in one of these columns that he was a family friend.

The corporate conman also fascinates me and recently I almost threw out a sack of newspaper clippings collected since the early 1980s, but curiosity got the better of me and the resultant lingering produced an article from the Sydney Morning Herald of June 1988, all about a much younger, recently bankrupted and much photographed, Foster.

When I say photographed, it’s not really him they want, rather his busty British ex, Samantha, his Gold Coast stripper, Tina, or his whatever from wherever who is inevitably blond, striking and adoring of himself.

But let me get back to psychopaths, who abound, according to Australian Dr John Clarke, psychologist and author of Working with Monsters, How to identify and protect yourself from the workplace psychopath.

Dr Clark describes the corporate criminal psychopaths as having behaviours that “may be criminal and/or sub criminal (ethically and/or morally wrong but technically not illegal) to gain a financial or other advantage for themselves at the expense of other people. This category includes bank employees who defraud their employer, stockbrokers involvd in scams, builders who con clients, real esrtate agents wo dupe homeowners, lawters who spwend their clients trust funds ….”

Given the tameness of my current life I rather like the ability of the mind to take the strange turn and, when writing about people who I think are somehow disconnected from social mores, or psychopathic, rather than mocking them in the traditional, arrogant manner, I prefer to find the disconnection within, the bit that lives inside me, let him out, and see where he takes me.

So next time you read this column and think: Either this bloke’s nuts, or this is complete claptrap.

Then you’d be right: I am, or it is.

HOWARD'S WAY .... OUT

It has been confirmed.
Today, Saturday December 1, 2007, John Winston Howard is no longer the member for Bennelong, NSW.
He lost his seat, he can't find it, it was taken from him, he was told never to come back that, henceforth, it would be occupied by another.
The new owner of the seat is Maxine McKew, a former ABC journalist, who delighted in squeezing French phrases into interviews with people who seemed to enjoy them, for no apparent reason.
Most people think she will be good in the chair.
There is no doubt she will be better than the man who left it, often, for long periods of time and who now has no claim on it.
John Winston Howard will be remembered as a mean spirited man who walked with a jerk and smiled like one too.
For all that, he did send troops into East Timor when others before him had fainted and he did stand up and hug people when they cried because other people he had sent to Iraq died, or were killed.
And, to be fair, during the period of his Prime Prime Ministership, he did learn to hug, seemed to embrace the hug, almost require the hug and may well have hugged the incoming PM, The Man Who Looks Like a Fish.
Kevin "The Fish" Rudd may say sorry, he may not, he might offer an apology, he might use the word "regret", we don't know, nobody does, but he will decide.
Whatever happens, we must not loose our sense of the ridiculous, this is, after all Australia.
Good luck.
(For those of you not in Australia, it is useful to remember this number: 7.)

Howard out - Howard in .....

Sorry, was there a change?
Some sad jerky old man lost his way and seems to have been replaced by a fish.
Ha, I know, you're saying: There is a big difference between a "sad jerk" and a "fish".
Yes, there should be, but is there.
Only time will tell.
It'll all come out with the bathwater.
The conveyor belt only stops when the man at the end pulls the lever.
(I have no idea what I'm saying.)
I'm confused. I need more sleep. I need some sleep.

You want to visit Australia?

My partner received the following in an email from an aunty in the Netherlands.

As yet, don't know where it has come from. Hopefully it is safe for me to take and paste and I cannot be sued for breach of copyright. If I am sued, I will take you all with me.

It is claimed the material was posted on an official Australian Tourism website and, thus, the responses were written by officials, bureaucrats. I hope so. We know we have a sense of humour, sometimes those who represent us seem to have forgotten it.

For now, let's just read and relax.

__________________________________________________
Q: Does it ever get windy in Australia? I have never seen it rain on TV, how do the plants grow? (UK).
A: We import all plants fully grown and then just sit around watching them die.
__________________________________________________
Q: Will I be able to see kangaroos in the street? (USA)
A: Depends how much you've been drinking.
__________________________________________________
Q: I want to walk from Perth to Sydney - can I follow the railroad tracks Sweden)?
A: Sure, it's only three thousand miles, take lots of water.
__________________________________________________
Q: Are there any ATMs (cash machines) in Australia? Can you send me a list of them in Brisbane, Cairns, Townsville and Hervey Bay? (UK)
A: What did your last slave die of?
__________________________________________________
Q: Can you give me some information about hippo racing in
Australia? (USA)
A: A-fri-ca is the big triangle shaped continent south of Europe.
Aus-tra-lia is that big island in the middle of the Pacific which does not
... oh forget it. Sure, the hippo racing is every Tuesday night in Kings Cross. Come naked.
__________________________________________________
Q: Which direction is North in Australia? (USA)
A: Face south and then turn 180 degrees. Contact us when you get
here and we'll send the rest of the directions.
_________________________________________________
Q: Can I bring cutlery into Australia? (UK)
A: Why? Just use your fingers like we do.
__________________________________________________
Q: Can you send me the Vienna Boys' Choir schedule? (USA)
A: Aus-tri-a is that quaint little country bordering Ger-man-y, which is . oh forget it. Sure, the Vienna Boys Choir plays every Tuesday night in Kings Cross, straight after the hippo races. Come naked.
__________________________________________________
Q: Can I wear high heels in Australia? ( UK)
A: You are a British politician, right?
__________________________________________________
Q: Are there supermarkets in Sydney and is milk available all year round? (Germany)
A: No, we are a peaceful civilization of vegan hunter/gatherers.
Milk is illegal.
__________________________________________________
Q: Please send a list of all doctors in Australia who can
Dispense rattlesnake serum. (USA)
A: Rattlesnakes live in A-meri-ca which is where YOU come from.
All Australian snakes are perfectly harmless, can be safely handled and
make good pets.
__________________________________________________
Q: I have a question about a famous animal in Australia, but I forget its name. It's a kind of bear and lives in trees. (USA)
A: It's called a Drop Bear. They are so called because they drop out of Gum trees and eat the brains of anyone walking underneath them. You can scare them off by spraying yourself with human urine before you go out walking.
__________________________________________________
Q: I have developed a new product that is the fountain of youth.
Can you tell me where I can sell it in Australia? (USA)
A: Anywhere significant numbers of Americans gather.
__________________________________________________
Q: Can you tell me the regions in Tasmania where the female
population is smaller than the male population? (Italy)
A: Yes, gay night clubs.
__________________________________________________
Q: Do you celebrate Christmas in Australia? (France)
A: Only at Christmas.
__________________________________________________
Q: I was in Australia in 1969 on R+R, and I want to contact the
Girl I dated while I was staying in Kings Cross. Can you help?
(USA)
A: Yes, and you will still have to pay her by the hour.
__________________________________________________
Q: Will I be able to speak English most places I go? (USA)
A: Yes, but you'll have to learn it first.

Garlic is in!

Yes, that's me in garlic.
The crop is ready.
It looks good, it looks great, years will be added to people's lives.
This crop was planted after Easter this year and grew with enthusiasm.
All I did was water it and weed around it.
Amazing.
So simple, why don't more folk do it?

Here's a waitress I want when I go to a restaurant

The press in the US went crazy yesterday over a story that Hillary Clinton's team had eaten in a restaurant and failed to leave a tip.
The waitress, when questioned, said she did not understand all the commotion.

“You people are really nuts,” she told a reporter during a phone interview. “There’s kids dying in the war, the price of oil right now — there’s better things in this world to be thinking about than who served Hillary Clinton at Maid-Rite and who got a tip and who didn’t get a tip.”

Read the full tale here:

Biograpgy of Bill Clinton? Not!

My last entry, "Who the heck is Jon Doust" worked so well getting this blog back on Google's first page of Jon Dousts, I wondered if it would work for Bill Clintons.
Only one way to find out.
Here it is.
Which brings me to the US election.
It's none of my business and I do not wish to be accused of interfering in the internal politics of a foreign country.
And that what it is, a foreign country, the US.
Its democratic processes are foreign to me. I don't get them. The electoral process in deciding who the next President will be seems as democratic as that of mainland China.
Indeed, mainland China's processes are completely unknown to me and they may well be even more democratic.
What is clear is that in China it is not the richest bloke who wins, so he must engage in some kind of lobbying process that gets him there, which more than likely means making mates and gathering votes.
There.
Let's see if this works.
If you want to read a real biography of William J Clinton, go here: Bill.
Then there's Bill Clinton jokes: Joke.

Who the heck is Jon Doust?

While surfing the net, checking if this blog would still rate on Google, I happened on the above heading.
Guess what? There's another Jon Doust plying the vapour world.
And he reckons he's better looking than me.
Check him out:
Not bad.
He lives in France. Got a business there. Was there during the rugby world cup and wasn't sure who he should yell for.
I was yelling for the All Blacks, poor buggers play beautiful rugby every day except the one that matters.
Now check me out:

Sorry, that's another bloke.
Obviously a bloke who has played too much rugby and always lead with his face.
No idea who he is.
This is me:

Notice the fine cheek bones and the square jaw, all characteristics of the Southern Hemispheric Dousts.
(I think the other Jon has a similar jaw. Must be cousins.)
Ok, why am I searching Jon Dousts on Google?
Well, I'm not really, just been a while since I made an entry and I wondered what that meant.
It means, this blog has slipped down the first Google page.
What does that mean?
It means I either get back to it, or it slips further.

Here's some other news
My garlic is almost ready to harvest.
Pics coming.
I have very high levels of lead in my urine.
This house we live in is for sale.
We have another house in Albany, deep south of Western Australia, where we will live from December this year.
Why?
It's colder, wetter, greener, nicer, wilder.
Yes, all good reasons.
It is on the tip of this side of this continent and the only place to follow is Antarctica.
Humpback whales love it and regularly pass by.

Whales!
Let us hope that the insane decision of the Japanese government to kill 500 magnificent humpbacks fails in its implementation, because the humpback mob will remember and may not pass by again, or may even take their anger out on folk who love them.
While you're here, why not sign this:
www.whalesrevenge.com
Or even give money to these courageous people:
www.seashepherd.org/
Or take a look at the other Jon Doust's blog:
Jon Doust
Or go here for the latest news on a new book:
The Last Whale

Interesting
This blog shows up on Google's page 22 of Jons.
Have to work on that.

Travelling around NZ, The Weekender (Albany) Sept 20, 2007

Full text:

When I told a city friend I was moving to Albany and he asked why, I replied: “Because it’s too late to live in New Zealand.”

Last year when I got off the plane in Christchurch the sniffer dog almost bit my leg off to get at the WA grown garlic and ginger in my bag, but this year I was well prepared: I packed nothing edible.

On decent towards Wellington, the small jet looked like it was headed for a large hill, or wide stretch of water, but instead it settled on a thin stretch of land between Cook Straight and the inner harbour. And therein lay the answer for the small jet, the big fellas can’t land there, not enough room.

An old friend from Curtin University met me and drove up a hill for a view of greater Wellington. Three things were immediately obvious: the wind was cold as ice; flax grew wild; the broad view of water with single-hill islands reminded me of Albany.

We didn’t stay long in Wellington, too many old times to go over, newer times to discuss and mountains to climb, so we headed north towards Mt Taranaki, or Gliding Peak.

My friend assured me we were travelling a unique route: “No-one drives up this West coast,” he said. “It’s dismal.”

We bypassed Palmerston North, made famous by John Cleese, who once said “If you ever want to kill yourself but lack the courage, I think a visit to Palmerston North will do the trick”. We missed it not because my friend agreed with Cleese, because he didn’t, but because it wasn’t “anywhere near dismal enough, in fact, it’s quite a nice town”.

We spent our first sleepless night in New Plymouth, not because we sat up all night talking, but because at 1.30am five blokes on a building site next door decided to get out the jackhammer and give the town a damned good shake up.

Next day we drove into the Egmont National Park and this was my first good view of Aotearoa, the Maori name for New Zealand, in its natural state. On my 2006 trip along the South Island’s east coast I had seen a land taken over by European and Australian flora and fauna.

And when you learn that native vegetation once covered around 80percent of both the North and South Islands, you can imagine the original beauty of Aotearoa, which means, you probably guessed, The Land of the Long White Cloud.

At the base of Mt Taranaki tourists were decked out in essential gear, eager to climb a slope, fall down a slope and, eventually, conquer a slope, but being the proud owner of more broken bones than is advisable for an aging man, I had one major aim while in the middle of the north: a hot spring bath at Lake Taupo followed by a massage.

On our way we had to stop for the house with the bike fence. If there’s one thing you notice about New Zealanders outside the cities, they know how to liven up a long drive.

In Taupo my lack of bathers was no obstacle. The staff simply offered me a hot-spring room of my own, where I could bath with my privates in private.

Our drive around the North Island was over in quick-time because my friend had a business to run in Wellington, but on my own I caught the ferry across Cook Straight, where I hired a car for another whirlwind tour of the top-half of the South Island. I nearly didn’t make it back to the ferry.

South of Blenheim I spotted some fascinating rock formations on the beach, stopped the car and ran down a heavily pebbled bank, lost my footing and launched myself into the midst of 200 angry seals.

They barked and flopped in all directions, while I picked myself up, shook the fear out of my system and cursed the lack of camera, which sat useless in the car.

Of I went for another hot-spring bath at Hanmer Springs, a delightful drive through the heavily wooded Victoria Forest Park and down to Greymouth, which seemed aptly named.

Then it was a long drive up the west coast, a long stop at Punakaiki to marvel at the blow-holes and the pancake rocks and the beaches tormented by the Tasman Sea, rocks and great southern squalls.

Three days later, back in Wellington, or Te Whanganui-a-Tara, Great Harbour of Tara, I spent two days in Toi Te Papa, Art of the Nation, a museum that reveals the art of Aotearoa in its full extent, covering a wide range of cultures, but particularly that of the Tangata Maori and the early Pakeha, Europeans.

Then it was back on board the little jet and up up and away, eventually, to Albany, Wellington of the West, Noongar Boodja, Noongar Country and home to Sprung, the best little writing festival in Gondwanaland.