Un-facebooked

I've noticed of late that I'm building up quite a collection of invitations I've not accepted to facebook (I can barely keep this thing updated, let alone join a community of zombie vampires). At last count I'm up to five. Is that a lot? I'm starting to get concerned that others have not accepted more invitations than I have not accepted.
Maybe I can start my own community, "you've been poked by a non-facebook joiner."
Surely that's got legs?

That's it (told you it'd be shorter.)

Where I been at?

I'm so poor in keeping up with this blog, if anyone was actually reading it they'd be quite annoyed, or relieved that their time is now freer.
Anyway.
I've got an excuse (don't I always), I started a new job. After many years of pounding the floor at the bookshop I've upgraded to a new scarier world of responsibility, retail as I knew it, is done for me.
Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed selling books, especially when I could recommend something truly great and have the customer come back and tell me they really enjoyed it. Small smile of satisfactions abounded.
Other kinds of smiles had to be plastered on from time to time, as "the customer is always right". The following are all good examples of things to try if you want to see a bookseller trying to smile through the pain.
- Ask for the book by "the guy with the wife, you know, the one with the red cover."
- Ask them to recommend a book to you, listen attentively as they happily outline those that they've really enjoyed then decide to buy the latest blockbuster from the Author with a name you know, even if that author, a)is long dead or b) merely inspired said book and got some other pleb to write it. Or better still, listen to it all then go buy the book at the discount chain.
- Ask if they price match and then crack a wobbly when they say they don't.
- Tell them your child reads at a fourth grade level, despite being in grade one, nothing will impress them more believe me.
- Demand to know why some random book on 12th century agriculture isn't on the shelf.
- Ask for the latest by Paris Hilton, Nicole Ritchie or Pamela Anderson.
- Say "I don't read, what's good for my brother in law?" or words to that effect.
- Get the name of a popular book slightly wrong (say you heard it being talked about on the radio) then, when shown the correct book, swear up and down that it's not the one you're looking for then storm out muttering about bad service.

Of course if you want to make yourself very popular, go into a bookstore prepared to take a chance, ask someone who looks like they know what they're doing to recommend something and just buy it. It's only a book, but it could change your life, and as a writer in a tough market, the more people who take chances on lesser known writers the better off we'll all be.

And that's my two cents.

I promise my next blog will be shorter and less preachy!

The hills have I

OK, I’ll admit it’s been a while between drinks and I apologise, but let me explain. Let me make it up to you by publishing not one but two freshly baked blogs, full of country goodness.

One of the main reasons I’ve been away from the blog is because I am house sitting for a friend up in the hills, far from mod-cons such as an internet connection. As such I have been getting back to nature, standing on the deck feeding the wildlife, wandering the national park contemplating the trees and writing angry letters to the Herald Sun about “how good those folk in the city have got it”.

Another thing I have been doing is watching the sky, praying for rain. Yes, I’ve become one of those people, reliant on water from a rusty metal tank on the side of the house and hoping that all that precious rain is going where it should go. Forget carbon neutral, I’m hoping to be water neutral. “OK, so the tank was up to here when I arrived, if it’s above this level when I leave then I haven’t used any water.” It all makes sense.

Some other things that mark me as living in the hills are:

*My car – One hubcap is missing and it’s covered in dirt from the roads I have to drive to get here. The only inauthentic part is that it’s not a 4WD or a Commodore.

*Travelling distances – I’ve suddenly discovered that I need a real reason to go all the way to the big suburban shopping mall. “Do you know how far that is?” I’ve become the opposite of the inner city snob, the outer-hills snob. Heck, everything I need is right here at the general store (well Safeway actually).

*Axes and hatchets – Before this, the only time I used an axe or a hatchet was when I went camping. Now, with an open fire, I’m out there swinging those babies all the time. I’m thinking about getting me a plaid shirt and a buxom wench to bring me a scorched peanut bar (the hard bar).

I’ve also taken to greeting my neighbours in a friendly, straw in the mouth kind of fashion, as well as squinting suspiciously at strangers. We don’t take too kindly to them folks around these parts. Hmm, maybe I should get a banjo…

Anyway, that’s it for me. Until the other blog that will be right below this one. Cool huh?!

Laters.

J

Feeling a little Harry-ed

I’ve been back from the travels for a while, experiences tucked under my belt, memories firmly filed away in my mind and a good chunk of manuscript to work on. I’m still working on the book but I’ve also found that I need some dollars to get by so it’s been back to the coal face for me (if I’m a writer and I work in a book shop, does that mean it’s back to the type-face?).

Of course working back at the book shop means I recently had the honour, nay the privilege to work on Harry Potter release day. Now I’m not going to pretend you don’t know who H.P is, in a recent survey of kids under 10, when asked the question: ‘Who do you more identify with, Jesus Christ or Harry Potter, 27 percent replied “Jesus who?”. Of course this figure, and this study, is completely made up but they illustrate a point. Probably.

So you’re no doubt aware of the boy wizard, but you may not have experienced Harry Potter release day. This is when otherwise intelligent people all over the world line up from as early as 2 am just to make sure that they get their hands on one of the twenty billion copies of the book. Just in case.

At my store it was no different. The queue stretched out the door, full of eager faces who had pre-ordered a copy. Faces that soon turned angry as people realised that they had to wait behind the other four hundred people who had ordered while non pre-order customers simply picked up a copy off the shelf. Madness.

There were a couple of bright moments amongst the grumbling. Excited kids who dressed up and cheered when they got their books, seeing those kids later in the centre already a quarter of the way through the book, and the woman who wanted to check her copies to make sure they were perfect because she was “collecting” them. And why wouldn’t you collect them, seeing as how they’re so rare? Why not collect used cigarette butts and empty coke bottles too? The worst part of that was that I got the feeling that those books were going to go home, be put on a shelf and never read. What a waste of pulp. Also a waste are the people I saw, multiple people in multiple shops, who walked in, picked up the book and read the last few pages. What’s the point in that? Sorry, but I just don’t trust people who read the last few pages of a book without reading the rest. Where’s the mystery, where’s the journey, where’s the expectation?

Of course there are plenty of people who are reading it, me included. I’ve read the others, I’ve stuck with it, now I want the pay off. I’ve been avoiding anywhere that has published spoilers, walked away from customers who stood there reading those last few pages (because you just know they’re the kind of people who exclaim in a too loud voice “Oh so Harry….” And spoil it for everyone). So I’m churning through it now, but I thought I would hypothesise on a couple of possible endings. No spoiler warning here because it’s all completely out of my own head.

- The Scooby Doo ending: Harry, Ron and Hermione capture Voldemort, pull off his mask and discover that it was old man Peterson all along. He would have made it too if it wasn’t for those pesky kids.

- The Crying Game ending: In a disturbing scene, Hermione strips off in front of Harry and Ron to reveal that she is in fact a man, if a strangely feminine and good looking man.

- The Matrix Ending: Voldemort is found in a room full of TV screens and he explains to Harry exactly what’s been going on for the last seven books, and why. Readers all over the world are none the wiser.

- The Star Wars ending: Voldemort is Harry’s father (of course), Hermione really his sister. Ron marries Hermione and peace is restored to the galaxy. Hagrid stops using words and communicates in long moaning grunts and all the house elves move to the Hogwarts forest where they build a tree top city and worship Neville Longbottom as their God. Returns as a ghost Dumbledore does. Forgets how structure a sentence does he. JK Rowling considers writing seven prequels.

- The Lord of the Rings ending: Harry and Ron defeat Voldemort. Dumbledore returns as Dumbledore the White, Hermione is revealed to be an elf and marries Ron then they all ride back to Hogwarts where Harry writes his story. Life goes on, then Harry rides down with Dumbledore to take a train to the promised land etc etc etc.

Of course it may be nothing like that, but it’s always good to imagine these things.

That’s really it for me, hope you enjoyed.

See ya.

A cure for calmness

The Matrix was right, the future is not user friendly. Blogger and the Internet in general are being mean to me, not letting me put photos on my blog either from Mozilla or IE. This means I have to publish this blog with no photos which is fine except for those with short attention spans who think 5 lines of text without a picture is too much. I mean who am I kidding, most of you have probably stopped reading already. For those that haven't, here 'tis.

One of the things I like best about travelling in Europe is visiting cities where there are no cars, Venice and Sienna in Italy for example. One of the best things about living in a city like Leuven is there is no need for a car. You can walk everywhere, which is good for the environment, good for your health and good for your hip pocket, who can ask for more?

Being back in Melbourne however, that is not an option. Melbourne city is not that big but the urban sprawl surrounding it means that walking anywhere other than the corner store is asking for sore feet at the very least.

So after months of not driving, I've had to unpack the old Toyota from storage, fill the tyres up with air, spend the GDP of a small African nation on a tank of petrol and head out onto the roads once more. All that serenity, that calmness, that sense of impending nirvana is thrown out the window, along with all sorts of insults and finger gestures as I become just another road user.

Some people love their cars, for me though I could probably happily never drive again. I support public transport, especially if it will get some of the idiots who are in my way of the bloody road. The Dalai Lama doesn't drive, that's why he's so peaceful. The Pope gets driven around and has the roads barricaded for him, that's why he can preach love to all men. The rest of us however are stuck trying to contend with Sally Suburban sitting in her 4WD with her netball skirt on and 2.3 kids in the back. Either that or Johnny revhead who thinks that because he has had his license for three weeks then he can push ahead of everyone in the race to be first at the next red light.

Do I sound bitter? It's possible, but the worst thing of all is the fact that I let myself get suckered into the world of the honkers and the pushers and the cutters in and that's when you know that you're officially back in the Rat Race.

Apart from that, things are about normal here in chilly and occasionally rainy Melbourne. Catching up with friends and family is always a treat, looking for work is a pride swallowing up at dawn siege, that I will never fully tell you about. (*Can you name the film that is from? Leave comments below.)

Leaving on a Jet Plane...

After three and a half months living here in Leuven, or Leuven la Vida Loca as the wildly unpopular saying goes, I am heading home to Melbourne. That's right, as the weather starts to turn nice, oops I mean noice - have to get used to saying that again - I'm heading home to the cold Melbourne winter as well as exorbitant petrol prices (they're bad here too but I don't drive here), water shortages, shocking public transport, newspapers and magazines I can read, TV in English (which won't actually be any better than here), looking for work (oh joy) and of course seeing family and friends again.

I decided before I go that I would give you all a rundown on what I've been doing since I've been here, so here goes:

Written 74,000 words toward my first novel.






Written 14 blogs.








Spent too much time watching videos on you tube that were put there by idiots, and were full of sound and fury but signified nothing. (See that, Shakespeare!)





Consumed Belgian Waffles, Belgian chocolate, Belgian Fries and Belgian Ice cream (no Belgians though thankfully).













Made 600 hot dinners, washed 1200 plates, done 18 loads of washing and carried 300 kilograms of groceries so Jai Faim could concentrate on her studies (also ironed twice).









Have been entertained and informed by numerous Authors, including the following: Neil Gaiman, Kate Grenville, Murray Bail (Not Footrot Flats, that's Murray Ball), Jeanette Winterson, Jim Lynch and Ahdaf Soueif (not an FHM or Ralph amongst them.), thank God for the local library.







Watched the entire series one of Friends. (whatever will happen with Rachel and Ross? Whatever happened to all of those actors?))








Watched numerous DVDs which, due to my sketchy "home entertainment system", all had Nederlands ondertitling. I don't think it affected me though so geen probleem.








Saw two actual movies at the cinema. (Spiderman 3 [3 stars] and Pirates 3 [2.5 stars])








Taught myself two lame card-tricks from the Internet.








Wandered the streets and alleyways of the Historical city of Leuven and enjoyed getting lost and discovering new places.










Visited the following Places: Brussels, Antwerp, Gent in Belgium; Luxembourg, Luxembourg; Cologne, Germany; Dubrovnik, Croatia; Bari, Bergamo, Milan, Genoa, Cinque Terre in Italy; Cairo, Egypt; and Paris, France. (if you think I'm putting a picture for all of them, you're sorely mistaken.)









So that's about it for my little adventure, soon I will be shoehorned into an economy seat for God knows how many hours until I land in Melbourne at 4.45 am, oh lucky person who gets to pick me up. See you all soon.

Greets,
J

Underground in Poo-ris

*Warning, the following blog contains toilet humour*

Ahh, Paris, the City of Light, the city of L'amour, home to The Eiffel Tower, The Louvre, Notre Dame and The Champs Elysees. Home to artists, writers and philosopher throughout the centuries, inspiration for the lovers, the dreamers and me.

But there is another side to Paris, a dark side, a seamy side, a side that can chill you to your bones or make you wish you had a gas mask. This side of Paris is not visible to the casual observer but is hidden away, deep in the bowels of the earth, where only those who are strong of spirit, not to mention strong of stomach, dare to tread. On my recent trip to Paris, with Jai Faim and her parents, I decided that I am such a person so I decided to step off, or rather under, the beaten track and experience life below Paris.

My first tour took me to a doorway on a street in the 4th Arrondisement, south of the river. It would've appeared like any other door except for the line of morbid tourists with nothing better to do on a Saturday than go into the depths of the earth and look at ceturies old bones. I had expected lank haired goths in black T-shirts and eye make up but was instead confronted with well dressed tourists and the occasional local. It takes all types I suppose.

The Catacombs in Paris were formed when the powers that be in the 18th century decided that dead people were taking up entirely too much room in the cemetaries around the city. In their wisdom they decided to dig up millions of these unfortunate souls from thier less than eternal rest and store them in a disused quarry, far beneath the streets of Paris. Some years later, a whole different set of powers that be decided that these remains were not doing anyone any good just sitting under the earth, so they decided to charge people to go down into the dim quiet depths and look at the piles of bones which had been neatly, and in cases artistically, arranged.

Being a good tourist, I positioned myself at the end of the queue and we all shuffled forward silently like mourners at a funeral before paying and heading down a spiral staircase which led us below the street, below the sewers and even below the subway system. From there it was a walk through a low ceilinged tunnel where I found myself alone in the quiet and the gloom. If it wasn't for the fact that I knew there were pushy Germans in front of me and loud Americans behind, I could've thought I was the only one down there. Not a comforting thought.

Eventually I came to a doorway that bore the sign; 'Warning, you are now entering the empire of the dead,' or words to that effect. I suppose this sign was originally intended to deter people, now it just makes for a nice photo opportunity. I took a deep breath and passed through the doorway where I encountered the piles of literally millions of bones, piled chest high and ten feet deep back to the wall in tunnels that stretch for 1.7 kilometres. I don't need to tell you that that's a lot of bones, even though I just did. It would be a veritable dream come true for the Diggingest Dog.










I walked around, taking in the bones of nameless millions of Parisians, including, it's believed, Marie Antoinette. It's kind of fitting that she's possibly stacked down here with the riff-raff, to be gawked at by anyone with a few Euro to spare. I thought maybe we could do something similar in Melbourne, only with all celebrities. There could be a whole section devoted to reality TV contestants, Slim Dusty could be propped up at a bar with no beer in his hand and there could be a special shrine for Eddie McGuire. 'Here lies Ed, boned at last.'
It's just an idea.

One thing I didn't expect was to be asked to open my bag when I climbed back up a different spiral staircase. I undid by bag and pulled out my camera, jacket, map and assorted paraphernalia and he appeared satisfied.
'Do people really steal the bones?' I asked as I stuffed my junk back in.
'Oh yeah,' he said. The two skulls on the table behind him seemed to be testament to this, and I realised the necessity for the security guard I saw sitting on a chair in the darkness below. Actually I didn't see him, I heard him. He was snoring loud enough to wake the dead.

The following day I headed out to Montmarte with Jai Faim and her parents for a morning of reliving scenes from Amelie. Unfortunately the rain started and we ended spending most of the time sheltered in The Sacre Couer, where people thought that traipsing through a service taking photographs was a perfectly reasonable thing to do. I had thought that the rain would spoil my planned tour for the afternoon but when I arrived at les Tour de egouts, I discovered that it was still a goer. So down I went again, this time into the Paris sewer systems. That's right, from the interred to the turd, from the deceased to the defecated, from the passed on to the passed through, it was time to find out whether a Frenchman's shit really does stink.

The short answer is yes. Actually that's the only answer. Of course there is waste water and rain water and all sorts of other things down there as well, so it's not overwhelming, but there's a definite miasma of nose hair curling wrongness. Still, it's bearable.

The Tour de Egouts is basically an underground museum for people who have too much time on their hands, are interested in the workings of a large sewer system or who are hiding from the law. All sorts of displays are set up showing the development of the city and the sewer system, from a stinky town where people had to watch their step to avoid the waste that had been thrown in the streets to a thriving metropolis where people have to pay to see waste. I was treated to information on how the sewers were built, how they are maintained and how they inspired sections of Victor Hugo's Les Miserables. By far the most horribly fascinating part of the tour however is the large canal full of flowing brown water down the centre of the exhibits.











This ain't Willy Wonka's magic river of chocolate!

It's hard not to peer into this free flowing filth and I found myself wondering if anyone on the tour has ever elbowed their friend in the ribs, pointed and said: 'Hey look, I think that one's mine. I know because I had corn last night.' Probably not. I am pretty sure I saw a whole strawberry float past though and had to wonder where that came from.

Like any other museum of note, this one of course had a gift shop where you could buy a toy stuffed rat. I can imagine the lucky kid who gets this present as a souvenir.
'Here honey, I bought you a rat from the Paris sewer.'
'Gee thanks, but I would have rather had some Chanel no 5.' Actually you have to be careful about that too. Being in the sewers gives a whole new meaning to Eau de Toilette.

If you take in the time spent on the subways, the majority of my weekend in Paris was spent below the ground, looking at bones, human waste and advertising that is abundant on trains and in the stations, and let me tell you there is only so much advertising one man can take. With all this in mind, I've decided to end this blog on a more innocent and sweet note, so here's a picture of a puppy in a Christmas hat.







Later.
J