The Wax Conspiracy

Commission of The Rusty Coalescence

Ethan Switch — 2009-11-02 23:46:59 +1000

Me in a kaftan working the capstan, whistle to the capta'n, "That man, with a hook hand, is a can-do man." A man with a plan, if not two hands, and a handy man at that. That that being the that that packs the rats and racks the shacks and shingles the crew o'er do a jingle to. To sing a song of sixpence, a penance of sense and dissonance putting forth dreams of hence.

Here in the now, in the presence of the present tense, part and parcel of the past participle. Touching tales to tell each other to. Rather the rough dart of a raft in half-hearted departedness. A mess at best to call all is but more for taking the time to stop and smell the pilchards.

disconnected are the trunks

Deep and luscious, a brush of this and the senses sends it this. Clearly where the air is rare, the hair is but a wispy flair. You there, me here, and we all care to wallow in our own despair of disrepair. But do you really care to bear the bare stare of the unaware?

Long out to sea, working the fee and dreaming of thee. Of when and where, oh why the skies of dreaming pies and strawberry eyes.

sigh.

boil

Belvedere Jehosophat — 2009-10-28 23:07:55 +1000

““Hurt ‘em, boys! Hurt the fuckers!” That was how the Captain of the Stormy Petrel got us fuckers – we was whalers, but we was fuckers too – to get the harpoons. I never liked killing the beasts; I had no stomach for the job. I would operate the capstan instead and winch the absurd animal up the slipway, up out of its element, and onto the flensing plan. I never took part in the butchering neither, god help me, those knives cutting into that fat. I was sick the first time I saw a flensing, you ain’t never seen a pink like that, the sea boils with blood. But it was nothin’ on the tryworks. The tryworks made me sick, all that blubber boiling, that fucking smell. But I had to load the try pots, that’s what the Cap said. “If you ain’t gonna flense the fuckers at least load ‘em in the pots,” he said. So I boiled them fuckers, and we rendered their fat into oil. I saw none of that oil money. I hated him. I hated him so much. That’s the only feeling that hasn’t changed. I was on that ship for three years. By the time I got off I couldn’t even remember the smell of the rendering, but I’m never gonna forget the Captain, good ol’ Cap. I hated him, but what could I do? It was Hobson’s choice, wasn’t nothin’ on land for a fucker like me.”

the boiling sea

Review: Che: Part Two: Guerrilla

Ethan Switch — 2009-09-13 19:05:02 +1000

Spluttering up a mean dose of determination, the lungs give out as the back of the throat cakes over with a dusty and dry void. And the asthma strikes again. And there, in the wilds of Bolivia, Ernesto "Che" Guevara hacks up the resolve, fortitude and the sheer essence of convictions to lead himself down the path of a sequel that proves that there are few exceptions to the rule. The Bolivian uprising, not so wheezy hot.

Far from it to speak fault with the film itself, second of a two-part biopic on the one-time doctor and now for all time professional guerrilla. Of the events unfolding across the flicker of the screen, down in the books and annals of history, there is something about taking an idea and stretching it beyond its skin. A breaking point that snaps back with a certain harshness and unforgiving strike.

No, what utters the whispers of failure is that of the idea of bringing about a revolution and movement to a peoples that neither cares nor wants to follow the lead of a revolutionary leader, no matter how strong and impressive their rookie campaign. One which happens to be heartily explosive and amaizeing in execution.

Benicio del Toro as Che Guevara smoking a pipe in Spanish

In this Latin America, Bolivia proves to be the end game for Che Guevara. The final battle ground and ultimately the bookend to his amazing transformation from a curious Argentinean doctor to the legend that is later screen-printed across all manner of merchandise foisting a hipster style of fashion without understanding or knowledge.

Taking the rule of sequels rarely besting the original, so it is with the deterioration of both his health and those that walk by his side that sees Guevara's follow-up campaign down amongst the exposed roots and hidden with a cover of desperation, of not being able to see the clouds overhead withering any and all ties, fading them all away into the non-responsive and unhelpful atmosphere of a shotgun firing into the dead of night and waking up with a hangover the size of defeat.

Gruelling, tension is constant and the lack of nearby water, coupled with circulating fresh air parrots a sickening blindness as the lights momentarily blackout while the teeth are fitted in. Scrambling past the one man in the audience who sports a Che emblazoned T-shirt (and who knows what, if any, the level of irony in that parade) the setting is without the pomp and ceremony of the mastermind and his success and orchestration of the overthrow of Batista's Cuban reign.

None of that, now under the cover of disguise and darkness and a handshake of pseudonyms. With the backdrop of penning The Bolivian Diary, Guerilla is a long and enduring vision. Time is gone on hours and the attention holds a strict clasp of the nape, the calm with the execution of taking a step the right away and never once letting go.

Palms sweat with each encroaching day along the trail of freeing the people from their government and spreading the butter of communism across the Latin American maize. It's export/import where the import in this case happens to form a dissonance with the Bolivian locals. With the peasants unwilling and the countryside proving to be a far more hostile environment, the aimlessness and hopelessness of it all slips mercilessly out of Guevara's hands.

Taking back all your 26 Julys

Shot entirely in Spanish and directed by Steven Soderbergh, Benicio del Toro exudes an most unmistakable gravitas and charisma in the eponymous role as the film exacts a most depressing vision of history that sees it all go from bang to whimper. It's impossible to see how del Toro just isn't living as Guevara, so within that body and role he wheezes.

Resolute all the way to the end, it's losing the faculties of breathing that leaves watching it all unfold a beautiful investment in the size of Guevara's heart as it bleeds a resounding emotion.

Another smooth Popcorning with movies, DVDs and films review by The Wax Conspiracy.

One breath is eight too many

Ethan Switch — 2009-09-09 09:09:09 +1000

Free falling through morning, a sparrow takes a dive. Calm, clipped and beating a heart of dispassionate wanting. Of something else. Anything. Nothing. A lot of things.

Falling through the sky, watching a spiral vision downward. Here there be the ground. And now the clouds. Here now a feeling of depression. Atmospheric at least.

Toward and on fast forward, so slow without repeat. Climbing and slipping. Slipping and climbing. Down, down, down. Up beaks the whirl. But upbeat? Not this world.

Morning is soon afternoon and the overcast is looming.Clouds stumbling out and rolling in from the left. Dark skies to darker hearts, sighs be blackest now.

Boom crashed the opera as the symbols play on. Lights with no cameras, but so bountiful of action. And now comes the teardrop audience, roaring of intrigue.

Wearing their staring, the din does the head in. Sadder and sadder still with each passing, lonely, second. Nothing to look up to but the buried ground.

Evening slyly casts a shadow's void along the neck. Defeat at the feet after a feat of daring. Back now to the world up there. So high.

Too far to fall for no flaw at all. Dusted, down and out, the downed is not out. Up and up again. Up, up and away again.

One more go and another to a distant triumph. Another day, another week, another hour in the dirt. So much easier to fail, to feel the hurt.

Review: Che, Part One: The Argentine

Belvedere Jehosophat — 2009-09-06 22:17:56 +1000

Che: Part One is sandwiched between Ernesto “Che” Guevara’s first meeting with Fidel Castro in Mexico, in which Guevara joins the 26th of July Movement that eventually overthrows Batista’s government, and Guevara extracting a promise that he would be allowed to export the revolution to the rest of Latin America. This not only sets up the second part of this four-hour tour-de-force, it also gives an insight into the sort of person that Guevara was. After all, the notion of exporting a revolution to an entire continent, before having actually successfully achieved one of any kind is audacious to say the least.

The movie is constructed around two connected narratives: the revolution in Cuba from when the 26th of July Movement land on the island to just before they enter Havana, and Guevara’s 1964 visit to New York City to represent Cuba at the United Nations. The visit to New York City – filmed in black-and-white, in contrast to the colour of the action in Cuba – is an intellectual anchor of sorts, a kind of philosophical and political epilogue to the revolution, in which we get to see, if not the fruits of Cuba’s revolution, at least a glimpse into why that particular struggle was deemed so necessary.

Che: Part One’s subtitle, The Argentine, acts as a reference to Guevara’s initial outsider status and his struggle to gain acceptance as the only Argentine amongst the Cubans. It is also a reminder that Guevara went into this thing rather inexperienced, but through his resourcefulness, his usefulness as a doctor and his aptitude for guerrilla warfare he became an instrumental figure in the struggle, ultimately taking Santa Clara without the help of Camilo Cienfuegos – who, incidentally, looks remarkably like a young Mungo MacCallum. In short, the two parts show a progression: the Argentine that becomes a guerrilla. It is no coincidence then that when Guevara first lands in Cuba and suffers his first asthma attack you are left thinking that this man is wholly unsuited to the task at hand. However, by the second part, which is, admittedly, outside my brief, when Guevara suffers another, this time particularly bad, attack and one of his own making having forgotten his medication it’s hard to suppress your admiration for the man’s tenacity.

The screenplay, written by Peter Buchman, is based on Guevara’s memoir, “Reminiscences of the Cuban Revolutionary War." One would expect – I don’t know, having not read it – that such a book would carry an inherent bias, a tendency on Guevara’s part towards sanitising his more questionable actions during the revolution. However, to his credit, or Buchman’s, Guevara doesn’t shy away from admitting to the UN in 1964, for example, that executions had indeed taken place under his command.

The acting, from a cast largely unknown to me, is without fault. Benicio del Toro is the obvious box office draw-card, and also the obvious choice, for his resemblance to Guevara is quite startling. His performance is so commanding, so authoritative, that, to my mind, whether accurate or not, it is how I will now always imagine Guevara to be. Catalina Sandino Moreno, Guevara’s guide and soon-to-be second wife, is another name that might sound familiar, having come close to an Oscar for her portrayal or Maria in 2004’s Maria, Full of Grace. The rest of the cast are perfect in their respective roles.

Part one is the better of the two films. However, where it trades on heroism in victory, part two trades on heroism in defeat. Both of these models are so utterly romantic that these two films will only deepen Guevara’s status as a symbol of the struggle for social change, whether you agree with the methods or not.
An excellent film.

Che

Another smooth Popcorning with movies, DVDs and films review by The Wax Conspiracy.

Review: Angels of Light - We are Him

Belvedere Jehosophat — 2009-08-28 20:53:39 +1000

When M. Gira toured through Australia earlier this year on the All Tomorrow’s Parties bill he played a few sideshows, including one at The Basement that I was fortunate enough to catch. At that show, Gira played some songs from We are Him. What was notable about the performance – aside from Gira’s booming vocals – was the simplicity of the arrangements. “Promise of Water,” for example, on the night, consisted solely of a shuffling guitar part and judiciously stamped feet.

On the record, while the shuffle is still there, it is embellished with violins, chanting, percussion and ends with a slow crescendo. “My Brother’s Man,” was another song that received the deluxe treatment on record when stabs of harmonica and guitars were added to another simple riff.

Angels of Light can be viewed as an exercise in taking Gira’s relatively simple songs and adorning them, making them more sonically textured. And with every new record Angels of Light have unquestionably improved. Part of the reason that this particular album is so successful surely rests with the impressive roster of musicians that Gira has pulled together. Most of the players can be found on the Young God Records roster, including the manic Akron/Family, but some like Bill Rieflin are old hands that have been kicking around forever.

Now, you can just make it out, but on the cover of we are him there is, near the church in the background, a cat dressed as a cop holding a truncheon. That same cat/cop can be found on the back of the record, only this time the puppy is missing, his milk has been spilled and the crow is crying. We are Him is a menacing record, which isn’t be particularly surprising as M. Gira has made a career writing menacing songs. With this batch of songs, however, the menace is pervasive. Take, for instance, the first song “Black River Song” in which a “Black River runs, beneath this ground. Black River flows forever, but he makes no sound. He runs through me here now, and he runs through your children too...”

Violence lurks underneath the surface of all these songs. “Sunflower’s Here to Stay,” which on first listen sounds like a hippy paean, soon reveals its true apocalyptic-vision colours, when the professed sunflower becomes a monster holding the world between its jaws. Or if something a little less metaphorical is your thing, then you can’t go past the “Violence, violence, is in these bones, is in these lungs...” of “Sometimes I Dream I’m Hurting You,” a song that becomes out-and-out manic as Gira calls upon the Almighty Lord for retribution, perhaps, or divine punishment.
And if there is violence in these songs there is coercion too. Gira’s creative force, an entity of sorts he calls Joseph, for whom Gira writes a song (and to whom he dedicates the record), is another compulsive force: “there is no place to run from Joseph’s truth. His hands are on your throat but feeding you.”

By the time we get to the last two songs, the two ballads that close out We are Him, “The Visitor” and “Star Chaser,” we realise that we have listened to something very substantial... and yet the talk has been that this will be the last Angels of Light record. If that’s true, it’s unfortunate, but it might be a small comfort that they are going out on such a high. When asked why We are Him was looking like being the last Angels of Light record, Gira replied, “How long does it make sense for someone to slam their head against the wall, before they realize maybe it’s best to just step back and walk around the other side...” An odd sentiment from the man who has released one of the best records of his career.

We Are Him

Another smooth Not So Live Music review by The Wax Conspiracy.

Review: Australian Pistol Shooters' Bulletin

Ethan Switch — 2009-08-23 21:21:23 +1000

With the authorities steady ready with their glocks, out drops a magazine bearing two people shooting multi-coloured guns off into the left distance. PISTOL blares large and loud for the eyeballs to line a sight in quick fashion. "Do you like guns?" they ask. "No. It's found reading material. Nothing more."

In this case, found several mailboxes away and years from publication and postal delivery. Seven to be imprecise, and holding up well with the ravages of a climate uncontrolled storage area otherwise known as any flat surface inside the domicile.

Whatever is the prompt leads a sit down at the library of the public traffic. Snack made of wanting less, needing more and getting a bargain of free that debits in a bit of hurt. Not to mention needing to wash out the ears, just on principle effect of digesting the lifeless words.

"lookin' straight at the sun"

Taking the December 2002 sample, the Australian Pistol Shooters' Bulletin was made available sometime between October and November of 2002. Which in the timeline of intra-world events, roughly represents the period in which a destruction of university-level exploits was common ground. It was also a time of Manchester's turn at hosting the Commonwealth Games for the sports inclined almaniacs.

Sharp to the touch, the subscriber-only publication from Pistol Australia proudly promotes reader submissions and material to line the borders and gutter fill. Alas, these tend toward the point of view on volunteering at an event which turns out to be better than expected for the time involved. Good times, worth the experience and all that malarkey. Dead to the waters on payback.

From this, there's a feeling of collusion in the reader-writers' ranks. Their summations of events starting off and closing out with a sameness of swapping names and events keeping the churn high and the flavour a soft-serve of imitation banana. Interest level in engagement missing the target at 50 metres.

The reporting and gistness of news on legislation about gun laws and sports shooting hardens out the rest of the magazine. Taking no joy in the aridness, the mouth sandpapers up from cover to cover. Truly this is the magazine for insiders and those wanting to be really in the know. Exclusionist on a whim, the flanks don't open up wide or welcoming to the casual read.

Bring a bottle of water to the shooting range, here's a case of reading to dehydration.

Another smooth Racking through magazines review by The Wax Conspiracy.

Review: Annabel Crabb - Stop at Nothing: the Life and Adventures of Malcolm Turnbull

Belvedere Jehosophat — 2009-07-05 22:23:19 +1000

Only the most blinkered of idiots can pretend that the events of the last few weeks weren’t damaging for Malcolm Turnbull.

I am, of course, referring to utegate, which, if it comes to claim the political career of Turnbull, might survive as something more than a vaguely interesting blip in Australian political history. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on how you’d like to see this thing pan out) it doesn’t look like Malcolm Turnbull will be going anywhere, certainly not of his own volition. I’ll get back to why in just a little bit.

Stop at Nothing was made available sometime between the 4th and 19th of June, which in the utegate timeline roughly represents the moments the shit left the hand and subsequently hit the fan.

It is in this context that Stop at Nothing becomes most interesting. In her essay Crabb reveals the personality of Malcolm Turnbull that has driven him in his multifaceted career, that of the crafty lawyer, the cutthroat businessperson, chairperson for the Australian Republican Movement, and, most recently, aspirant to the office of Prime Minister.

We can see in Turnbull’s personality that there was no other way for him to proceed on the utegate issue. Turnbull, we’re told, responds to bullying antagonistically, whilst coming across, somewhat paradoxically, as being a bully himself. He is an opportunist – though he is quite willing to force that opportunity if and when it doesn’t present itself of its own accord, as evidenced by his hostile takeover of the seat of Wentworth. Furthermore, his most famous stoushes, those in which he made his name – Spycatcher, the Costigan Commission, the Tourang consortium – all involved cloak and dagger operations of altogether dubious necessity.

How then does a person, a truculent, ambitious, opportunistic person with a penchant for melodrama such as Turnbull respond to the possession of an e-mail that could potentially inflict substantial political damage to the Prime Minister? Evidently, & to put it as succinctly as possible, he blows his load, and spectacularly.

And, to return to that earlier point, that it is unlikely that Turnbull will be quitting as leader of the opposition, especially now that he seems to have been cleared of any wrong doing by the AFP, that can also be traced back to Crabb’s essay. For the same reason that after losing the campaign for an Australian republic he moved on, it becomes abundantly clear from reading Stop at Nothing that Turnbull isn’t a careerist. He is constantly moving. Another clue, perhaps, to the disastrous haste in which he prosecuted his case?

Stop at Nothing is a good essay, one made better because of the timing of the release in that it helps answer one very pertinent question: how could he have been so fucking stupid? Crabb’s profile of the man is, all told, considerably more complex. His imperfections are balanced by the positives: the generosity, charm, wit, keen intelligence, etc. It is worth reading, however, as it allows for an insight into the man who regards himself as Australia’s alternative Prime Minister.

Stop at Nothing

Another smooth Papercuts on the Mind's Tongue: Books review by The Wax Conspiracy.

Review: Bill Callahan - Sometimes I Wish We Were an Eagle

Belvedere Jehosophat — 2009-06-28 20:12:25 +1000

To be honest, I only purchased Sometimes I Wish We Were an Eagle because I wanted to test Robert Forster’s thesis in his excellent “In Search of a Songwriter” essay/review for The Monthly. Briefly, his search for a songwriter is a search for a new genre, and one in which nature ceases to be the dominant muse.

The last Callahan record I bought was a Smog record: A River Ain’t Too Much to Love. It was after reading Forster’s review that I went back to that album and, sure enough, right there was that “neurotic and charged reading of the landscape”: in the title, in the Southern bird in “Palimpsest” and in the numerous rivers and horses that so frequently crop up.

I was interested in listening to Sometimes I Wish We Were an Eagle in the context of Forster’s essay, to see just how prominent nature was, which is, admittedly, a distinctly poor reason for purchasing a CD – and one which is rendered quite superfluous if you take a quick look at the inside of the album. What was unexpected, however, is just how good a record this is.

Callahan’s baritone is, of course, the major drawcard, and used to devastating effect with those lyrics of his: “I used to be darker, then I got lighter, then I got dark again,” he sings in Jim Cain; or his repeated “it's time to put God away” on the closing almost ten-minute “Faith/Void.” Repetition, in fact, is where Callahan gets a lot of his power. The build-up to the last line in “Too Many Birds,” and there’s confirmation of Forster’s thesis again, is an able demonstration:
“If...
If you...
If you could...
If you could only...
If you could only stop...
If you could only stop your...
If you could only stop your heart...
If you could only stop your heartbeat...
If you could only stop your heartbeat for...
If you could only stop your heartbeat for one heart...
If you could only stop your heartbeat for one heartbeat...”

Where Sometimes I Wish We Were an Eagle falters a little is in the backing music, in the accompaniment: the string and horn sections, for example, can sometimes sit a little ill-fitting Callahan’s barebones songs. Also, Jim White’s drumming is conspicuously absent and sorely missed, but that could just be from the perspective of a pretty tragic Dirty Three fan.

For the most part, however - and this is perhaps best exemplified in the coalescing of the Arabian-sounding strings/horns, the guitars and the vocal melodies on “The Wind and the Dove” - everything tends to come together marvelously.

Sometimes I Wish We Were an Eagle may not be the work of Forster’s new songwriter and it certainly isn’t of any new genre, however it’s a damn fine record nonetheless.

Sometimes I Wish We Were an Eagle

Another smooth Not So Live Music review by The Wax Conspiracy.

history, a love letter

Belvedere Jehosophat — 2009-06-08 00:10:14 +1000

When the Tsar commuted the sentence of Princess Eugenie M. Shakhovskaya, offering life in prison in place of the death penalty by firing squad, his benevolence and tendency towards mercy was celebrated across the whole of the Russian empire.
Of course, to his closest confidantes his reasons for offering clemency were less to do with a generosity of spirit than they were to do with matters of pure, crystalline pragmatism. (This idea of practicality, and this was often acknowledged — but only by those and to those close to the upper echelons of the ruling house of the aristocracy — was seen as somewhat more respectable than fanciful notions of mercy and the like.)
The fact of the matter was that the execution had been scheduled and was expected to be carried out, drearily, much like the thousands of other executions that had had already taken place in this, the glorious Russian empire.

It was, all told, words whispered to the Tsar at the last minute by a lesser, though titled, baron — one Kirill of Smolensk — which led to this unexpected clemency. Sure, the argument went, Princess Eugenie M. Shakhovskaya had committed an incontrovertible act of sedition, for which the death penalty was justified. But to persist with this execution, the Baron Kirill of Smolensk argued, was to risk making a martyr of the princess.

(This baron — mentioned now as an aside — an authority on the biological differences between rodents and lagomorphs, was to later die of syphilis. As he slowly went insane he would write frantic messages that proclaimed with an increasingly unsteady hand, "THINKING POSITIVE THINKING POSITIVE THINKING POSITIVE.")

Of course, it would be a mistake to suppose that the story of Princess Eugenie M. Shakhovskaya ended with her close brush with death. Further to her incarceration her teeth were pulled out, paraded, and later stored in the reliquary of that other great Russian institution, the Russian Orthodox Church.

the writs for the execution were issued and rescinded by the same white hands

Aporkalypse coughs up bacon lung, hammers pig meal eatin'

Ethan Switch — 2009-05-15 21:44:27 +1000

For the love of pork barreling piggy production, feasters of meat be a fickle, fear-worthy group. Thousands and hundreds strong mighty jaw line ready to shift the dinner plates from the other white meat on a scare. On WHO's advice anyway?

Weeks now of fluctuating scare headlines, the H1N1 virus (playing all the hits of the swine flu back catalogue) continues trickling away at its phase 5 of 6 designation by the body WHO.

Another day, another note and another hope for the drop off from the influenza. Ordering the entrÃƒÂ©e of hamdemic portions from a Mexican locale, the global spread of black pudding casting a shadow on bacon, ham and pork recipes.

Theory of a laboratory birthing of smallpork flying out the window as the H1N1 world tour continues apace, now making appearances in at least 33 countries. Each one gathering support from fright mites sticking to clear their forks and gullets of downing more pig-made meat chunkiness.

Propping up stocks and coffers of Tamiflu proving a juicy cut of gammon for the Zionist conspirators to salivate over. Antiviral drug clearing house of old stock in line with a rush of flu to the head and one hand in the hip pocket.

But not as great and subtle the attack of pork that protectionism and a distaste of free and unequal trade affords.

As late as November of 2008, the state of edible pigs oinking up waves of prices and flooring local production points. A ripple to shrinking the pool of homegrown farmers, forcing them to flee the ham-fisted industry. Parallel imports from cushioned rivals adding to the woes of the local plumpers.

"...There was a huge surge of imports coming from North America and Europe, mainly from subsidised countries and that meant there was no market for the Australian product if prices went way down about this time last year," Australian Pork Limited CEO Andrew Spencer.

Six months later and world points erractic fingerpaints to all manner of pig loving interaction. Though is it enough to level out the cost of porking?

Back the minds to the leaf-eaters and their plans to convert the world order food chain.

Campaigns and threats over the years to besmirch the good nosh of fish (cryptosporidium and giardia water flavouring experiment of 98), beef (mad cow disease) and poultry (avian flu) colluding the ranks of a more herbivorian society. Of meat eaters less and natural conservatives all. Sheep.

Facing years still away from public consumption of soylent green, the few remaining options for the carnivorous among us include the bouncy tale prospects of Roo meat. But even Skippy reads the news and the blood on the dance floor. A recent suicidal attempt by one of his macropod brethren fails to escape its dinner plate date. No thanks to human intervention bent on a potential dietary adaptation.

11 June 2009

Following some spotty spots of spot infestations of the infections cropping up to the top and Down Under, WHO tips the slide rule to declare pandemic status on the swine flu.

19 June 2009

Pigging out just over a week later, an Aboriginal man falls down as Australia's first confirmed swine-flu related death. Who knows if he'll also be statuefied in his honour of capping off as the first on the big brown land.

Humphrey B Bear on the loose, pantsless and destitute

Ethan Switch — 2009-04-24 20:07:42 +1000

On the run with no pants and no shirt, slippery is the bear unable to utter a self-incriminating word and without a place to call home. Tales of bankruptcy, shilling and going underground lie in the wake of wrapping up Banksia Productions. The owner and stable of Humphrey B. Bear, among other lesser cause-noting properties, done in by the South Australian Supreme Court.

Debts, to the auto-tune of $50,000, to Channel Nine going undone and unpaid and leaving the barren Bear without the tartan waist-coast off his back. Now all in his furry naked glory save for the dapper straw boater.

Days later, the name appearing amidst the scattering mess of shares over BrisConnections and the investors running back and forth with a myriad of identity issues. False, fake and out of the blue names, all used in the transfer to wash their hands over toxic stock with the aim to skirt the pay back.

"BrisConnections faces a nightmarish cash hunt for investors who have transferred their units into false names - including one who allegedly used the moniker "Humphrey B Bear"."

Life worsening for Bear looking to recover on his own. With the stench of poison stocks leeching his good name, security and background checks for new leases and employment will make making means meaner. First the ever impending threat of being done in for public indecency and now having to walk around with a name in dirt turning to tricks for income.

Calling out against such a reputation slathering of the Ursidae member on the block, the search in modesty blaise for a potential new owner to thread the pockets with new cash. "I hope there will be a purchaser to keep Humphrey going," said Marius Rudaks, of Maris Rudaks and Associates (the company behind the liquidation of Banksia).

Merely a week on his own and already facing life as a bear-slave trade card.

Bear is not meant to live alone in the world of humans.

Where in Kentucky - Mammoth Cave National Park

Ethan Switch — 2008-06-03 08:55:34 +1000

Dark and neverending is the trail of a labyrinth below Edmonson County, Kentucky. Beyond the shallow graves and lime walls, Mammoth Cave is the literal long tail of cave systems. Alas, no minotaurs or woolly mammoths call the caverns home.

Smell the fresh country air from inside the car interior. Nice warm breeze of sightseeing in south central Kentucky of the US. Take a point to the compass and a pull grabs at the hips thanks to the most extensive cave system in the world. Right there in blue grass horse hoofing country. Where poultry learn first hand of the terror down from the grin of a Colonel and his eleven secret herbs and spices.

Thanks to the wife, travel time is relaxing and near non-existent. Eyes close for a little nap and open again on the sound of a smack across the visor. Two hours from the start out west of Kentucky evaporate cleanly while spotting signs and birds through the trees. Time aplenty for eyeballs to readjust to the light of the dashboard lapping up the endless trees lining the roads. Tailing and turning from the main and into the woods. Closer and closer toward Mammoth Cave National Park.

Welcome to a hole in the ground that's not the Grand Canyon

Central time picks daylight from a broken clock and a wristwatch that tells only how many times Micky Mouse needs to stop scratching himself. Watching for the grass, thar be bushels of stools and samples from the local wildlife. Soft. Nothing from the other visitors. Facilities with porcelain makings covering well into the sink holes and wash basins. Loud PA systems beckon from the outside with those clenching turtles on with enough lead time to cover five minutes of the fold or scrunch debate. Anywhere on the park, that's enough notice to wipe the dribble and get in line, tickets in hand.

Please form an orderly line

The Historic Tour takes the day and cash that folds. Least of those bearing Hamiltons and beyond. Warm clothing, the guide warns, is the thing to bear down there in the dark underground. Small hiya introductions from the group shoot out shout outs from places as far as Australia and Germany. Even San Francisco represents.

Background on the caves and their discovery, loss and rediscovery fill the greens of the entrance and exit hole before the tour undergoes the underground. Official Kentucky humour from the wide brim hats and the chuckles are there with an EMT in the crowd. Thank you for piping up. Jokes fall flatter with awkward asides. And away we go.

Park rangers double team to guide the tour. One in front with the lights on; one in rear to switch them off. Straggling group of inmates take up the fall back; all the other tourists and pedestrian spelunkers bunch up the front.

Temperature drops quick on crossing over the twilight zone. Subterranean nature walk getting chilly with each step away from the light of day. Lines of ants breathing easier as humidity takes a back seat as the sun takes a break from facing people going close to the centre of the Earth.

With at least a century under the belt, wood, artifacts, bones, whatever and ever remain as fresh in time as Captain America before the meddling Avengers crack open a certain slab of ice. Pooling around the excavation work, all the live bodies note the lack of dead bodies, of skeletons lazing about long after the job.

No workers. Must be on strike. Or dead for decades.

Slabs of wood and lumber once under the use of the excavators and miners stripping the caves of its limestones remain pristine, unbroke. Decades into at least a century right there in the hole. Capture of the state bleeds over into graffiti clinging along the caves. Previous guides, way back in the days of buckshots and open slavery, charging nickel and dimes of freedom for the privielge to the tourists. No such thing nowadays. All hands off the merchandise and stalactites thank you kindly.

Heads and knees turn purple and soft bruising down Fat Man's Misery linking into Tall Man's Misery. Other names and labels of sections and passageways sticker themselves aptly in the guidebook. Handy in daylight, near useless looking for the tour guides to follow from down in the labyrinth. Reading material for the bats they say. And edible from the corners in.

River Styx ahead, please keep souls within

Lowest point in the tour before heading back up narrow stairs on the right. Toward the River Styx, the cold and dark trail teeters closer still with proximity making a line into the core of the Earth. Being a bible state, the eerie lurkings of the devil pop up in mention. Closeness of the tunnel toward a hell down there what gives it a gleaming echo.

Taking a breather on rickety wooden benches, lungs inhale in as much as the dead and stale cave air around. Can't get any more unfiltered and undone by motor exhaust than miles below the Earth's surface.

More history on the caves unfolds as the group give their muscles a rest. Links and carvings of the rock walls, outside the graffiti, a natural by-product of the waters carving their own niche and streams. Beyond the entrance, all thanks to the slow centuries burning of gentle erosion.

Around the landing, all behold, a towering staircase. Easy as the walk down into the bottom of the pits is, now comes the return to the surface. Open with a fantastic, if at times obscured view around, the faces face butts climbing up the staircase. Steep in angle, condensation on the metal steps make for gingerly ascension. Move too much too quick and the entire group behind may domino all the way to the base of the tower.

Drop a penny, lose a penny

Crossing a chasm after the tower, holes and interior canyons shake the waters off the grates holding the many visitors pounding and stomping across the bridge. Looking down into the darkness below, drips of water pass along and disappear. Barely with a sound. To the other side and the journey upward to light continues.

Not helping matters still, remaining sections of the cave system slightly slick with wet prints. Tender rock faces jut out to meet and match, liable to fracture or gash if falls send their victims grabbing blindly and wildy along the walls. No handles or rails in most parts. Grooves in the paths enough to signal where to step the next foot.

Natural view of the interior

Pausing along the way, out go the lights. Nothing remains in front or behind. Eyes useless with whispers of sounds making the rounds. Hands on wallets, paper or leather. Teasing into the abyss standing still, the lights flicker back on. Part of the tour, feeling the essence of the cave alone. Save for the triple dozen strong throng of other visitors to the park on this, their collective peripatetic part of the day.

Entrance and exit of Mammoth Caves

Mammoth Cave. One monster connective tissue of holes and not enough time to get lost in. After two hours in the dark, the break of daylight, sunlight in natural light, scratches across the pupils.

Debriefing outside the lip, with another group ready to descend, a large branch falls from on high barely missing two blokes.

Thus ends The Historical Tour of the Mammoth Cave National Park.

Homebrew Diary - Wheatbeer of misery

Jimmy Weasel — 2006-11-05 05:20:59 +1000

If what can turn a foul mood around becomes the harbinger of the foul mood, what happens next? Turn it into a learning experience. And when that learning curve makes a late break over the plate, you'd better start to swing away.

Getting confidence can lead to the purchase of the slightly "higher end" homebrew ingredients. Specifically, the Muntons range, and the wheat yeast. At a cost $15 higher than the cheapest on the shelf, the process started out as per normal - sterilisation, mixing, stirring, adding yeast. No real dramas.

But through the first night, the barrel started leaking. Maybe one drip every 15 seconds, which isn't much, but was determined to be between one litre and three litres of lost beer over a 2 week period.

This in addition to the fact that the brew hadn't stated bubbling lead to large amounts of concern and worry.

The solution? Seal the bugger good and proper with Selly's Aquaclear. Which, as it is able to adhere and perform its leak-filling functions under wet conditions, seemed like the best option. After 12 hours, the leak finally subsided, leaving only the inactivity of the yeast to deal with.

It turns out that the no-bubbling problem is easy fixed by time. One afternoon, four days after the batch was started, it sprang to life with a vengeance. Froth was discovered throughout the airlock and on top of the lid - filling the air with the sweet aroma of German beer. This aroma remained sweet for about a day, and then moved to a more "rank beer mat" bouquet and continued its descent into dank staleness.

At the bottling phase, there really didn't seem to be anything wrong with the beer. 52 bottles were filled, labelled and stored, and, as per usual, forgotten about until the 4-week ripening time had elapsed. This is when the horrifying discovery was made. It seems that fixing a leak with a hardware product that has poison warnings is a big mistake. It leeched into the beer and made it smell and taste like a combination of beer and super glue. Each bottle tested (about 6) from different ends yielded the same horrible result.

Total poison.

This much all-consuming disappointment has not been experienced since hearing Death Angel's song "Mistress of Pain," and, thinking it wasn't bad, downloaded an entire album without knowing how much goddamn hair metal was choking the hard drive.

Bitter tears were wept as the entire batch was opened into the sink and washed away with all the hopes and dreams of homemade German beer.

Let this serve as a lesson to everyone who springs a leak - just ride out the storm if the leak isn't too bad. It's far better to lose 1 litre than 20.

Homebrew Diary - Blackrock IPA + Hops

Jimmy Weasel — 2006-11-04 06:06:22 +1000

It doesn't take a big man to admit that he drinks. It takes a big man to get wasted and perform impromptu sermons naked from a balcony; raving upon the ravages of the insanity of stata bylaws and noisy offspring in adjoining arpartments...

Given that the first batch wasn't a failure, but exhibited signs of having room for improvement, this brew was begun with 2 goals in mind - to make the Pale ale a little stronger in flavour, and also to work out which of the sugars upon god or bog or whoever's great green supermarket shelves would yield the best of the secondary fermentation stage.

The hops component was relatively easy - add hot water and a bag of hops to a cup. Add beer ingredients to keg. Add hops to keg. Brilliant.

The sugar testing phase would be slightly more involved. This is a direct result of the risk of small eruptions of beer and broken glass should the ratio be too high. Careful amounts of: brown sugar, icing sugar, caster sugar, fruit tingles, jelly jubes and red jelly crystals were trialled.

The beer with the brown sugar had a noticeably more bitter taste than the control or "carbonation drop" beer. the caster sugar was very similar to the icing sugar in taste, but in terms of sediment, it was noted (with large amounts of mockery) that the particular box of icing sugar from which I was drawing my 3 grams was a hybrid of sugar and corn flour for the purposes of thickening confection. There was no noticeable thickening of the beer, but there was undissolved crap at the bottom. The rest, friends, is another story altogether.

The aroma of the hopped beer is a very pronounced fruity smell - fruity without being too sweet. It tastes mostly like it smells - grand. Thankfully, the testing/dicing around bottles weren't full longnecks. Two cases of Beer Lao were dutifully emptied to make 48 snack-sized beers for ready consumption. It is definitely easier to fit two stubbies in a crowded freezer rather than one longneck. And BeerLao is a powerful good beer to be drinking. Its fruity aromas increase as the temperature of the bottle rises - perhaps to allow for the hot and steamy Laotian climes from which they hail. Nice and easy to knock back. And stinking cheap. How beer that good is that cheap is baffling.

As a direct result of the correct amount of water, and the addition of the hops, the Blackrock India Pale Ale is definitely a summer beer. It is recommended that you make this one always using the hops, given the "thin" nature of the IPA. This is a great brew to sit in the sun without a shirt and swill back with a bunch of punks.

Homebrew Diary - Barrel of Blackrock Pale Ale

Jimmy Weasel — 2006-09-07 13:40:46 +1000

The journey toward enlightenment need not begin in any particular direction so much as that it needs to begin at all - and if you create your own beery reality with which to illuminate yourself, enlightenment can indeed glass you in the jaw in the comfort of your own bathtub.

Thinking about the first brew brings a nostalgic burn back up my throat. This brew is perhaps ubiquitously known throughout homebrewing circles as the "practice brew." The expectations are as mixed as they are high. And the anticipation is dangerously frustrating as the realisation of a 6 week wait is at your fingertips to find out whether you'll be a success or a drunken failure.

Take heart - the difference between a good brew and a bad one is about two and a half longnecks.

The first brew is also a great way to get a feel for how homebrew will treat a man. The style of drunkenness can only be described as "a creeper," as you don't notice the effects of the first few. Perhaps thoughts are elsewhere (perhaps about how brilliant one is for making beer in one's bathtub).

As the night (or morning in some circumstances) slips on, the steady metamorphosis into a total sot completes unbeknownst to the inebriate, who will only notice the slow effect when his words are mixed up, misused, malapropped or dangerously spoonered.

Beyond this point, there is little hope.

It has been observed (and quite probably proven) that the hangover will be less intense than spending the evening drinking a similar amount of a commercial beer. This may be due to the lack of crap added to the homebrew. Beyond sugar, water, yeast and some sticky molasses stuff, there's not much else.

So "Blackrock Pale Ale" is a great brew to start on. It's moderately cheap, and you won't feel like a dumb ass for wasting money when you screw it up. It is a little like a few of the commercial pale ales out there, but this brew #1 was a little watery, as there was an error in interpreting instructions for "fill to 21 litres" as "add 21 litres". Thus, the first brew ended up tasting like a Cooper's Mild (the orange one); Beer + water. It wasn't bad. Just thin.

Brew #1 had less clouds and floaty shit than Coopers.

*If your brew is too watery, let it sit a few more weeks. The last bottle of brew #1 was far greater than the first.

Kitchen Antics - Sweet/Sticky/Spicy Pork Stirfry

Jimmy Weasel — 2006-06-13 11:42:50 +1000

80% alliterative. Deliberate? Subconsciously. All normal thought stolen by the weight and treachery of the outdoor world. A world where a boy has to battle all manner of foes armed to the teeth just to find the time to get back into the kitchen where he belongs.

A spicy treat fit for weekends or weekdays or whenever the culinary urge strikes. Use it to impress friends and win acclaim/stunned silence/awed gasps (please use responsibly).

You will need:

700 grams pork (pre cut is just fine. really.)
Peanut oil (for frying)
Rice (for eating)
1/3 cup sweet chilli sauce
1/3 cup chilli sauce
1/2 T minced garlic
1 tsp minced ginger
Mood Music: Les Claypool's "Of Whales and Woe"
1 T soy sauce
1/3 Cup Cola (yes. cola. straight from the bottle.)
200g x 4 different vegetable of your choice (cup mushrooms, capsicum, snow peas, zucchini, baby corn and broccoli all seem to work)
2 x bottles Beerlao (iced)

Crank the bass on your stereo to its physical limit and begin the music.

Set your big, sharp knife to 'slice' and set to work on the vegies - making them like you'd find on your plate in the Asian eateries. Don't bother cutting the baby corn. Just rinse. In fact, make sure all your vegetables are rinsed, or you'll get some foul lurgy from whatever poisons were sprayed on it, or from whatever deadbeat felt up the entire produce section looking for that perfect specimen. Those buggers are known for not washing their hands properly and can pass on the gastroenteritis. This will inflame the lining of your stomach. It will not make you feel very good.

Once all vegetables are cut, similarly slice your pork into strips fit for a stir fry. Or you can buy it pre-sliced - I won't be offended.

Mix the chili sauce, ginger, garlic, soy and cola and keep to one side.

Heat the bejesus out of the oil (about 1 1/2 T) in a non-stick fry pan. Start your rice cooking - it gets hectic here. Keep an eye on the rice at all times; you'll heat it on the highest setting and ever-watching, drop the hotplate to the lowest setting until all the water is gone. Seriously. Watch it like a hawk. One with perfect vision.

Crack open a beer and get limber. You'll need your wrists and dexterity for this.

Throw your pork into the fry pan and stir vigorously. Use the handle and toss it a little. Once it starts to brown, (mostly but not totally (you should still be able to see a little white/pink)) pour the sauce in and stir for another 3 minutes. It should froth and bubble like a maniac. This is good. You'll want to cook of some of that liquid - less liquid means more stickiness.

Add your vegetables and continue to stir. After 5 minutes, your stir fry is ready. Depending on your volume of rice, it too should be soon ready.

Go Eat! Enjoy! Mingle with your Guests!

Return to Castlereagh

Ethan Switch — 2006-06-05 20:06:06 +1000

Enough to return. Enough to go back. Still, just not enough to sign up and be among the legions to call Scientology the religion of choice. And it has nothing to do with being an atheist or having something of an aversion to peanut butter in most forms.

Peanut butter, or something so very much like it, burns the air. Not the people sitting across, not the clothes, not the carpet. It's the couch with the back facing the window that faces the dreary commuters every weekday. Plush leather and a sinking feeling is what it is.

Of course, this is a few years ago, enough for an even three, and the publicity officer for the Church of Scientology, Virginia Stewart is sitting with another woman, Vicki. Three on the couch to discuss the changes made to the organisation located on Castlereagh.

All because someone isn't dead.

Ominous return

After The Hubbard is Bare, an adventure in taking a personality test toward the hills of auditing, a simmer, a boil. Through magical winds and mysterious findings, an opportunity to show the ways they have paved. Strange and odd, the request from publicity for a sit down to explain the scene and operations between the then and the now.

From the first steps through the door, a cordial, relaxing pace to the atmosphere. After all, this is just a confab. No rush to sign up or walk over any other documents or details unless needed. And none was.

Overbearing zealots hell bent on drip-lining money from fresh converts to Scientology were reason behind the first visit. A chance to partake in a simple personality test turning into a harrowing experience. From assurances of Stewart, the type of clerk back in the day are either out or have been trained in the error of their ways.

Cool rest for the non-existent wallet.

Dark secrets

From the philosophy of Scientology, a little on L. Ron Hubbard himself and Dianetics in general, two hours pass by rather quickly that it's enough for three. An open forum for any question proves the undoing. Having done little research beyond the personal experience, it's a floundering fight to keep up with supplying an interest.

Deadly hands

No visit to a place of Scientology worship is complete without testing the grippage on the e-meter. A shiny silver box with two bars hooked up to a throbbing meter. Sweaty palms defeat its readings and the squeezing holds no favours. Questions come and the need to answer lies in the nature of the e-meter. Verbalising is out and the "mood" of it all stems from the interaction of an unseen being reacting to the poll. Memories and the subconscious control this experiment.

Conversation is an observation

Betrayal, it seems, is a split second twitch. In the muscles of the eye or the shafts holding on an eyelash, anything that might linger for a moment is a sign of a thought. Even if no thought exists, the insistence that there is rides the perception that beings of the older guard exist and do in fact control the current earth bound vessel. It's a fixed gaze that rights the situation and brings the focus back onto the topic at hand.

Unfortunately, with no set topic at hand outside the world of Scientology, it's a distracting notion in itself.

Return engagement

Doors are open on another visit to the complex on Castlereagh Street. The offer of walking out with a copy of Dianetics by L. Ron Hubbard still on a standing offer. Tight and shrink wrapped like the power explosives are known to be. And how most books and guides stray so far from. One day perhaps.

Grey matter and nerves

Between the reception and the departure, time sitting and talking is enjoyable for the challenge in knowing. Far, far removed from the beat down of the young man years ago eager to dip his hands to grab a stash of cash. An enlightening meeting with no pressure at all. A different beast to the first encounter.

Who knows if that couch is still there. Not everything is as it is when you first remember it. Except for the smell of peanut butter. Or something so very much like it. Burning the air and leaving the hair in the nostrils to wonder and twitch.