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.

Review: Condo Fucks - Fuckbook

Belvedere Jehosophat — 2009-06-22 20:14:57 +1000

Of all the fake elements that make up this record – the Joseph Lieberman endorsement, the back catalogue, etc – there’s one aspect that rings true: that the bulk of the album, ten out of the eleven songs, were recorded between 3:00 and 3:35 pm.

Yo La Tengo are the Condo Fucks, and the Condo Fucks are Yo La Tengo bashing out, and recording quite badly, a bunch of old rock n’ roll covers; covers of songs by The Kinks, The Beach Boys, Richard Hell (+ others) and an in-spite-of-everything still sweet version of The Troggs, “With a Girl Like You”.

This is an indulgence record for the members of Yo La Tengo, as it will be for most punters, but it is a lot of fun. If you’re a fan of Yo La Tengo, you’d like to see them cut loose, and have a spare twenty bucks lying around, you can’t go wrong with Fuckbook.

what'cha gonna do about it

And for those interested, a few weeks ago Matador announced a new Yo La Tengo record to be released early September this year.

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

Review: Sita Sings the Blues

Ethan Switch — 2009-06-05 20:52:28 +1000

Wake up in a mop sweat in bed at number 4 Susannah Place and, if you're lucky (time travel wise), you're in the early rat-infested era of Sydney (there are no time travel insurance policies). Take an afternoon stroll through the hospital where the nurses are all Catkind, and you're in the indeterminate future far from here. Voices, smells, location and decay. All signs pointing to where you are in time and conflict. Mix them all up and something just feels rather anachronistic about it all.

Jazzing between Hindu lore, the modern day and the 1920s, Nina Paley slams a juxtapositional set of trains that converge and dance the Charleston in Sita Sings the Blues. Carrying the same sort of passengers, but with different cars altogether, the conceit that forms this animated musical plays out at least three different stories that core an underlying theme between each other.

Abridging the sanskrit epic of Ramayana, wherein the heroic Rama and his wife Sita, symbol of purity, experience much in the veins of love, commitment and social mores, it is a work that presents the story three times dressed. Subtle in some, parallel in others, the repetition of the basic narrative follows itself in a few different guises. Each one as tragic and as telling of its own time.

Serving up the dish of Hindu mythology, voices of Aseem Chhabra, Bhavana Nagulapally and Manish Acharya as shadow puppets add footnotes to The Ramayan. Essentially schooling and dissecting the poem as the entertainment plays out. Edutainment, here it is. Interjecting as they are, the constant brushing up does the main story both well but a disservice for those wanting to linger with questions for after the close of the curtain.

Shadow puppetry of Hindu poetry

Their irreverent take and attitude in shadow puppet discussion plys a soft edge of humour that ponders and interrogates the motivations of the film source. Mostly asking why Sita would be so unconditionally in love with and for her husband who without a pause turns her over for sacrifice at any attempt to calm is jealous and insecure emotional state.

Bold facing sprites take us bulk the way as a dead Annette Hanshaw sings many scratch recorded tunes from the long done era of the 1920s. Fulfilling the musical portion of the feature, the songs story the tale of Rama to spin it from the perspective of Sita. As modern as the animation flickers, soon as Hanshaw pipes them blues, there's an undeniable feeling of being in the wrong time, an odour cracks through the air and the daylight swims behind the overcast.

Jarring in a sense, it works to underscore the scene and development of the story to that point. A punctuation that manages an extra dimension of discourse, the soundtrack is basically a perfect selection of Hanshaw's performances that dovetail neatly into the socket joints. Sadness, melancholy and touches of joy jump back and forth with a smooth flow in the melodic decanting.

Like commercial telly and cutting between the shilling and the whispering TV program, throttling up and down the volume as the songs kick and swing and needle off showcases the passive interactive nature otherwise not advertised. Sever the remote from the computer and it's a bit of exercise while feasting on some entertainment.

Meanwhile, afterthought to all this is the squiggly section featuring Paley herself. Few bits and pieces with a cat's tail and a flight of no return back from India, the thread in this cotton doesn't ball up well for a strong anything other than to highlight. But at least the kids can get high from sniffing the textas if they plunge nostril-deep hard enough.

Great way to pick up the main thrust and tenor of the Ramayan. Being in the right mood or frame of mind that settles nicely to absorb emotional examination and wonder at such devotion in the face of disbelief is the hardest part.

That's all.

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

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 entrée 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.

Review: Happy Birthday, Anyway - Matt Huynh

Ethan Switch — 2009-05-11 20:54:02 +1000

Chewing through another candle, the teeth plead, "No more!" as the coating waxes the enamel without song or fanfare. The stomach ponders the meaning of strife as the delivery makes its journey out the other end. What comes back splashing isn't quite the sparkles and well wishes of the icing days before. Birthdays, eat them up while the mind is playful enough to know it's not all downhill every day.

Years now after the initial cake release, Happy Birthday, Anyway finds a chance meeting with sunshine behind clouds on an overcast afternoon. Strong of will, the pages hold on to the spine with just a single staple. The fork punch pierce of the other end never there in the first place. Environmentally stepping a stone on the recycling process. Staples throw a kink in the paper pulping process.

Everything is background noise eventually

Written and drawn by Matt Huynh, a vision waits after the day to bubble up a week later. Affecting a subtle wink, the story burns slowly--despondent--greying out the shadows. Ghostly in appearance, the characters in Happy Birthday, Anyway leave a fluid remark as they skip through the dull existence of life. Lines of their faces, their world and all its places warp the perpendicular. There are no parallels. Wriggling a tunnel that irks at the same it pleases. Rough and raw artwork in the sense of bleeding out hearts. Not in the grass of the unfinished.

And yet, there is that too.

Wonderful technique in adding another layer of sparse, right to the back of the knee, dialogue. Life is about obsessing on the right path while any path will eventually lead to the core truth of each individual. Unsettling. As it should be. Not a horror or gothic escape.

Presence is all too short, perfunctory first breath leaving a bearded lady to ask for change to buy lunch at an hour when most would question the exact name of the meal just before dinner but after the afternoon repast. Turn the back cover and the matryoshka dolls lie there open, questioning in a sense. And that's it?

So it is in the middle of the stream where the river bends around and takes a deliberate turn. Creating a world from local surrounds. The being of the setting is lonely and feeling broken. Depressing is a whole lot of emotion, like it's raining all the time. Sad and coasting by on life's harm and undone, the story leaves for more.

What fate of hope?

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

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.

Easter road toll flips the flaming wrecks back to NSW

Ethan Switch — 2009-04-15 22:26:19 +1000

Fry away the broken eggs and scrambled legs; New South Wales returns to Easter corpse making form. Upending the body count of 2008, the state showing up last year trying to unlock its doors with a wooden spoon is back again on the top of the heap.

With a dubious no show in the year before, NSW beat out the rest of Australia over the four-day Easter long weekend to notch up a half dozen bodies to stack one on top of the other and pitch a far reaching goal for the other teams to crack a skull at.

Queensland rubbing just a nick of sheen losing one body to the overall tally of death with five in the hive. This places the top two positions with a wider margin from the rest of the pack over the previous outing.

Competition proving not so fierce this year as the rest of the challengers either not caring enough or just not trying harder than they are capable of. With such a lead out, NSW drivers were remarked as being "relatively well behaved" and could have done far more to extend their ranking in the count across the year on holiday session scores.

Western Australia, a flashing hazard light in 2008, nearly nowhere to be seen in Easter 2009 on a stunning drop from six to one. A similar defeat from Victoria flopping out their 5 bodies into a singular body bag.

Tasmania, with a good showing many chocolate eggs ago, rolling back to their status quo of a single turnout for the burnout. The ACT stepping up but only pushing one across the highway. Similarly a pattern result for both South Australia and the Northern Territory to finish the count of 15 all across the roads.

Social avoision: Killing conversations in public toilets

Ethan Switch — 2009-04-08 21:35:50 +1000

Quiet is the quiet rule that exists in the realm of the public toilet. An extension to the masses of the wonders of indoor plumbing and experiments in tile decor selection. Sanctuary from the blathering blabber as the bladder and colon reign supreme over the porcelain throne. The sacred act of bowel expulsion and draining of the fluids entertains to some unfortunate few a novel arena for talk and discussion.

This is not permissible. In fact it is against the laws of expediency and concentration to conduct any kind of external business inside the echo chamber of grunt and relief. Culprits prime are that of familiarity; colleagues and friends who happen upon at the same time and strangers sharing the moment. Whatever that moment happens to be.

Two or more people letting loose in the room of tiles hardly ever work in tandem outside the nurses and carers of the world. Keeping up flow of traffic and the stake in killing conversations is all in the timing and execution.

Guess the location

Walk no closer to the doors if another person is ahead a few steps or strides. Caging the animal invariably leads to the brain of the first party to now acknowledge the presence of the second. A slippery slope that may cause splashing about with chit-chat and observations of the weather.

Timing is most opportune following an exit of the previous occupants. Though that tends to face itself with the possible lingering aftermath and assault on the olfactory if so unlucky.

Side note: If the phone rings in the middle or the end of a transaction in evacuation, let it go. Nothing is ever so important as to the need to conduct simultaneous conversations through both ends or to distract from stemming the cycle of germ transfer.

If being followed or the sounds of footsteps are shortly behind, walk past the toilets altogether and attempt another pass later on.
- Added benefit: The traipsing counts as extremely light exercise for the day.
- Possible fail point: When the toilets are at the end of a passage and not going in leads to an actual quip or remark which is in danger of blowing out to a full on confab.

Head for a stall if possible. Keeping the back is easily a deterrent to most and removes face-to-face conversation. Closing the door grants even more time alone and allows one to wait for the other party to exit ahead and without a whisper of what the weekend holds.

For those lofty enough to succumb to the mental drain of office politics in a multi-storey building, the solution is simple but with a caveat. Take a walk up or down the stairs to relieve oneself in the water closets of the neighbouring floor. The shock of seeing someone new is more than enough to have the other party keeping mum. Backfiring is possible. There are some out there who insist on meeting the new hire in a state of genital openness. They should be avoided at all times.

Public toilets, and more so that of toilets in the office or warehouse building, can too be conversation free zones.

Respect the peace and remember to wash your hands.

Review: Samson & Delilah

Ethan Switch — 2009-03-29 21:33:03 +1000

Making off with half a chocolate bar, wherein the other half turns out to be no picnic at all, the path across busy roads lead the walk to a lost huddle and hassle of a cleaner in the lobby of the State Theatre's adjunct. Wrong way, down and around a retro spin. Take an out and head down underground below the city streets. And here is the tale writ in film of Samson and Delilah directed by Warwick Thornton.

Sniffing paint never was so much fun with the laid back air of a head filling up with spots and fumes. Constant huff and snuff the stuff to fill in a day in the life of Samson (Rowan McNamara). A young Aboriginal man waffling away his existence in the outskirts of who knows where and the din of outback radio against the one song his older brother plays over and again. On another part of this shanty town is Delilah (Marissa Gibson) who takes doting care of her grandmother. They too living each day as it comes, but dealing with the waking hours in a different track, painting it all beneath them.

After the fade from black, the stillness of life in this quiet hazy craze of the daily grind is upon the eyeballs. Senses pick up fast the droll and it's already onto the relationship unsuspecting but blossoming between Samson and Delilah. Red dust of the Australian outback deftly serving as the canvas in which the two play the break to each other's foil.

Distance travels into the wild of maturing on the survival plane
Photo by Mark Rogers

Brutal is the communication between the characters; a harsh dialogue of pain, suffering and exile. Bloody eyes go no more raw than Samson's as his method of escape spins out of control and highlights his wanting wandering aspect of looking for a place to hunker down and live. Delilah's face shows all the struggle for the couple. Her hidden voice whispering with powerful hurt and unrelenting inner strength as they find themselves on the way out and back again.

Romance bubbles well to a boil of unspoken emotions as they tip toe and the two young actors create a relationship so truthful and honest they can't do anything else but be remarkable.

Isolation and being are the major thematic bones of this sense-reckoning exploration of survival in the lives of this young couple. Chaotic is the unexciting prospect of looking for a home as it wrings a therapeutic course over the glimpse into their engagement.

Loss and blindness happens to slides its dusty way in as they shuffle along the scape of life with an enjoyable and warm array of characters. Small though the cast may be, they more than make up for it in terms of presence. Scott Thornton as the homeless Gonzo under the bridge is one of the more visceral and entertaining characters. His breaks into bad sing-song providing moments of parallel levity in otherwise dour punches.

Gonzo, outside/inside his home under the bridge
Photo by Dimity Slater

Subtly the caring pace of the film creates an entire punctuation of its own rhythm and indeed another layer of dialogue.

Thornton creates an experience of sitting in the now that feels far longer than the clocks suggest upon the roll of the credits. Each minute passing by not wasting anything on the screen as the intensity is ever more increasing.

Powerfully stoic, the film is an excursion of poetic beauty leaving a wistful ash rendering of an unapologetic vision.

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

Whales on this beaching feeling

Ethan Switch — 2009-03-26 20:52:47 +1000

Off the coast and back again; a telling tale of whales and premature farewells. No sooner than finding the cool waters again off Hamelin Bay, thanks to the large effort of volunteers helping them back, a gam of whales find their bellies sandy once more only a day later. This time on the grains roughing the coast off Flinders Bay. Choppers above not a strong enough ushering force with the pod hitting the reverb for the repeat beaching.

Such an encore presentation before the lights are totally out moves the game into watching the news of the weeks before.

Earlier in the month, no less than a 200 odd sum pod of whales beaching the sands off King Island, Tasmania. Rolling back into the deep blue, a few of their number again for the encore showing with the rider left over. Dying there in view of the public, a less eaten demise than their kind found off the Bali shores.

Kicking off the year, Iceland's current fisheries ministry clomp up the orders of whale by a magnitude of six. Backhanding the take over government with an order of dead whale on its doorstep. "In my opinion, it's extremely foolish of the minister, and I can promise you that if my party can form this interim government then we will at least discuss it and find out what we can do about it," said Arni Finnsson from the Iceland Nature Conservation Association. Make lemonade sherbet out of lemons.

Japan not missing out, but falling short of their own, line up orders with Norway to import more blubber to chunder. But with the global decline in wanting to gnaw away at a big blue, creativity sparks a frying pan as variations on the theme serve new ways, like whale pepper steak and whale schnitzel, to tread the line of pescetarianism.

Whales -- ever present on the ingredients list for countries such as Japan, Norway and Iceland -- are sending a clear enough signal with their repeat beachings. The majestic aquatic mammals are looking to hit evolution hard and leap across the primordial high jump to become terrestrial mammals. Skipping millions of years of genetic tweaking in order to find solace and escape from the hungry clutches of scientific food runs.

Another week and it's got them reeling.

De-necessary slap: Friends who help, help lose more jobs

Ethan Switch — 2009-03-18 21:22:23 +1000

Coming up to spoil the second third of the weekend of shut-ins and agoraphobes, as well as those who have tingles when stepping back on school grounds and other places of public congregation, the Queensland state election of 21 March.

Leading up to the polls, the Queensland Public Sector Union are finding themselves lock-sighting Liberal Nationals candidate Lawrence Springborg in their cross-hairs. His bluster over making some 12,000 or so public sector jobs de-necessary gathering much in the way of ire and euphemism entanglement.

Aiding their viral and grassroots public awareness campaign, the QPSU run Stop Springborg with a little game of tug-o-war. On one side, the little people of the public sector fighting for their jobs. On the other side of the divide, a monster-sized Springborg.

With a little help, everybody fails

Mousing up with carpal tunnel, the aim of the game is to muster the strength to topple the gargantuan force of Springborg. After the forgone failing, which in turn signals the loss of 1000 jobs, the site goes to referral mode and suggests that a better way to tackle the problem is to fatten the numbers.

In multiples of three, the tug line grows and so supposedly does the power of the little workers. Work any way but freeze and the result is the same. One by one the little workers yanking at the chain fall into the crevasse and out scream another thousand jobs.

With one lone tugger the most to lose is 1000 jobs. Increase the army of voices and the slab splatters aplenty.

The more recruits to help a campaign to topple the monster, the more it becomes de-necessary to do so.

Lesson here is simple: Stand up alone and fail, you fall alone. Stand up and fail with friends, you fail them all.

21 March

Labor retain Queensland over the Liberal Nationals - Labor leader Anna Bligh also becomes the first woman to seat as the Queensland state premier. Springborg and the LNP manage to at least claw some seats away from the repeating party in power.

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.