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

Pod gave Rock and Roll to ya'

God bless the ipod, that blessed device of musical joy, that infernal machine of social separation and time wasting.

I admit I'm one of the podded masses, the white corded and plugged drones that now crowd our city streets, trains, planes and automobiles. Mr Sony gave us the Walkman, then reaped the rewards. Mr Apple gave us the ipod and has changed our culture.

When I bought my ipod I decided on 30 gig, in case I wanted to load it with more songs than I've ever had in my life then lie down somewhere for a week and listen to the whole thing, beginning to end. (Don't think the day isn't coming when there's some kind of competition, record attempt, reality show or website where people are challenged to do just that. It's coming, I can feel it.)

Of course having that much space means that when I go into a library and look at the CD's that I can now borrow and burn, I think, 'Hmm, famous movie themes played by a brass band from a British Coal Mining town? I'll have that.' (Sadly, that's not a joke.) Then when I get home I decide that I might as well put all the songs on, not just Superman and Star Wars and Indiana Jones. You never know when you may need the theme song from Ryan's Daughter.

This is why I love the shuffle feature, I just press that magic button and let the pod's digital fingers dig into into the depths of the lucky dip barrel and pull out an old favourite or something that I may never even have heard before, some bonus song from an obscure disc I downloaded "just in case", or some filler track from a band I do like that I'd never given the time to before. Sometimes shuffle will deposit a song on your doorstep that is truly a gem and soon makes it to your high rotation. Others are stinky dog droppings of cliches and bad guitar riffs that have you fumbling in your pocket for the skip button. This can lead to odd looks from passers by. Unfortunately, saying, "it's OK I'm just having a quick shuffle" does not solve this problem.
Of course sometimes I think my ipod is tuning to my needs, recently, after skipping a bunch of songs before letting a Bob Marley track play all the way through, the pod dredged up another Bob Marley song for the very next track. There are also plenty of songs out of the almost 4000 I have available that have never been played at all. What gives? Turns out I'm not the only one to wonder about this either, check out this article from American Newsweek.

I'm not going to mention some of the artists that have made their way onto my pod, only to have their work consistently skipped whenever it shuffles to the top of the pile. This is because some of you will deride me for having these artists there in the first place (which I probably deserve) and others of you probably love these artists. (OK, one of them is Robbie Williams, "Let me entertain you?" I wish you bloody would.)



One band I don't have on my ipod, and have been wondering about of late, is Aussie band Big Pig. If you haven't heard of them I'm not surprised, they broke up in 1990 I think, but their biggest album "Bonk" rocks it and any band that has a) Mostly Drums, b) Members that wear long aprons like slaughterhouse workers:







and c) had a song featured at the start of Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure (check the song out here) gets big ups from me. If anyone has a copy of that album, let me know. I think my ipod needs a few more songs.
That's it for now. I'm off to Paris this weekend (as you do) to buy some blue and white stripey shirts and beret's and eat some baguettes and escargot (mmm, slimy).
Until next time, keep podding along.
Au Revoir.
J

Running, jumping, making us laugh

Remember when you were a little kid and your Mum would say; 'Go outside and play, stop moping around the house.' So out you would go and you would run around the neighbourhood with some mates pretending to be secret agents, or jump off the garage to see if you could fly. It was all fun and games until you went home, tired, bloody and dirty and complained that you had to eat your vegies.

While most of us grow up and move on, it seems that some people don't. These people simply start doing parkour. Doing what? You ask. Parkour, I say. And stop interrupting.

Parkour, as described on Wikipedia is: to move from point A to point B as efficiently and quickly as possible, using principally the abilities of the human body. It is meant to help one overcome obstacles, which can be anything in the surrounding environment — from branches and rocks to rails and concrete walls — so parkour can be practiced in both rural and urban areas. Male parkour practitioners are recognized as traceurs and female as traceuses. What this means is that a group of people who couldn't afford skateboards or BMX's were feeling left out so they developed a new sport.

So now you know. Of course it's possible that you've seen Parkour, after all it's "the freshest thing crackin". The new Bond movie featured a Parkour chase between Bond and a random baddie through, over and across various 'obstacles'. TV show Top Gear featured a race between the sensible one, driving a sensible car through London traffic, against a couple of 'young blokes in silly trousers.' Parkour won that one. Even Madonna, who is apparently at the cutting edge of what's hot, despite being a fifty year old woman in a leotard, featured Parkour in a recent filmclip. There's also a cheesy movie which features a chase between David Belle, the so called inventor of Parkour and a group of other guys who are equally adept at leaping across buildings.

By the way, here's a movie cliche for you. Pay attention when you go to see a new movie that has the latest, most popular, most difficult craze, whether it's a martial art, Parkour, Skydiving or snowboarding down a mountain firing an Uzi. You will notice that the Big Boss will have a gang of henchman who are almost as good, but not quite as good as, the main character. This will give the main character a chance to show off his skills dispatching underlings in a fancy display. Of course there will always be one angry looking guy who stands over the right shoulder of the Big Boss and glares psychotically as the hero makes wise cracks. Hands up if you're ever surprised that the final showdown is between the hero and this psycho who is just as good as the hero but with the added benefit of steroids/no conscience/big muscles/bad breath. These things are no match of course for the hero's belief in what he's doing is right due to the fact he is fighting for a deceased loved one/a crippled yet plucky youngster/the fact that he has the law/God/America on his side. Here's a tip to wanna be Big Bosses. Send in the psycho guy first, if he can't beat the hero, then just bloody well give up.

But I digress...

Yes, Parkour, that's what I was yapping about. I did have a point to make. I say that David Belle is the so called inventor of Parkour, but he coined the term in 1998. It's my contention that there was another young man responsible for this phenomenon, and who was doing it, in a movie, many years ago. For the sake of my friend Mike, I'm going to reveal this person in a picture.

'No, don't get up.'

Yes that's right, Ferris Bueller, seen here doing Parkour over a couple of sunbaking ladies, he's also seen in the movie going through a house, over a fence, and through some hedges. All of which is done with style and humour and not a single henchman around. That, my friends, is where Parkour comes from.

Of course Parkour practioners, or traceurs, probably won't like this but to them I say this.

Your mother's a traceur.

See Ya,

Jeff.

PS: Rooney eats it.

More stuff about stuff you said.

More comments here and keep 'em coming. This one is from M, who said:

Oh and by the way, I think that the Tag 'Miss K' already has a home with a certain friend of mine from South Yarra. Hey is that plagiarism?!.

Mostly Unscripted says:

Plagiarism!? Woe is me to have such a thing besmirch my good name, which until now had been relatively smirch free. At first however I was blase, 'Isn't the secret to creativity knowing how to hide your sources after all?' I thought to myself. When I realised that Albert Einstein originally said this I was plunged deeper into despair. So deep that the only reply I could think of was: 'Aw shut up n' that.' Of course someone will probably write and tell me that this was originally said by Samuel Coleridge, or maybe Samuel L Jackson.
Anyway, the upshot is I had to rethink the whole Miss K thing, which seemed like a simple yet effective nom de plume at the time. Did I put hours of thought into it? No. Did I stupidly mention this fact to Miss K upon reading M's comments? Yes. Does this mean I now have to give Miss K a new, more original, more well thought out moniker? Also yes.
So after racking my brains for what seems like hours and hours, and I'm sure must have been, I've reached a consensus of one (this ain't no cheerocracy). From here on out, Miss K shall simply be known as: J'ai Faim. Hopefully this is a workable solution for all parties. If not then...shut up n' that.

What else is going on? Yesterday I saw a man washing his car with a hose. In light of what's happening in Australia in terms of water, this seemed shocking. It was almost as though he was rubbing my face in it. 'Look how much lovely water I can spray on my Volvo,' he was saying. Probably. 'After this I'm going to hose down my concrete and have a thirty five minute shower.' The arrogance of some people, or at least the arrogance that I ascribe to them in my head.
Apart from wasting water, Belgians are eating ice cream by the waffle-cone load. They eat it all year round, but as soon as the sun comes out there are queues out the door of every ice cream shop. Literally. Health experts are always pushing the benefits of a Japanese style approach to eating, what about the Belgian diet? Ice cream, waffles, chocolate, beer, and the number one favourite, chips (frites to be exact). 'Why they must all weigh 400 pounds,' I hear you exclaiming in my head (get out of there). No, they're mostly slim and trim and healthy looking. Maybe it's all the bike (fiets) riding they do. Frites and fiets, it's all about balance.

Anyway, enough of my rambling. I'm off for a chocolate and ice cream covered waffle.

Later n' that.

Jeff

Cairo Part Two: Totally Unscripted

I'll admit that I like to watch a movie or two, and I admit that I've been sucked into the romantic ideal of what it's like in Egypt. You know the kind of Hollywood notion I'm talking about, where a simple trip can lead to long lost treasure, danger and romance. Below is my photographic essay on what's real, and what ain't. (Please excuse the layout, Bloggers easy "click and drag publishing" is about as easy as clicking and dragging an elephant accross a mine field).

Travel (1)

The Ideal

The Reality

Travel (2)

The Ideal

The Reality

The Nile

The Ideal

The Reality

People

The Ideal

The Reality

Life in Egypt

The Ideal

The Reality

Treasure

The Ideal

The Reality

The Pyramids

The Ideal

The Reality

Thank God some things don't change.
Of course let's not forget Mummies and Pharoahs, Mosques and Minarets, koftah and kebabs, bargains and Baksheesh, noise, life and smiles. Thankfully not everything is as simple as Hollywood would like us to believe.

Till next time.
Jeff

Cairo Part One: Drive like an Egyptian

When it comes to world history, there are few places more mysterious than Egypt. How were the Pyramids built and why? Was Tutankhamun murdered or was it natural causes? And is there anyone left who remembers the road rules in Cairo? There are road rules in Cairo, I'm certain of it, just as there are nice neat lines painted on the roads. Unfortunately no-one is really paying much attention to either. (For the record, I suspect that the government once received a shipment of road paint by mistake and thought they should do something with it, hence the lines.)
Driving in Cairo makes you realise how much, as a traveller, you have to simply let go, hand your well being over to a man in an un-roadworthy car who has one hand on the wheel and the other firmly planted on the horn. I'm talking of course about taxi drivers.
To be a taxi driver in Cairo you need three basic things. The first of these is a car, and the only prerequisite for the car is to be black and white. Seat belts, doors that close, headlights at night, these things are all optional, to be utilised as the drivers see fit. There is talk that some people would like to see Cairo turned into an open air museum and the taxi drivers are obviously right behind this scheme, in some cases driving around in cars that are so old that the brand names are written in Hieroglyphics.
The second thing you need to be a taxi driver in Cairo is the ability to look death in the face on a daily basis. To stare into the cold endless eyes of doom, then swerve around him at high speed, honking your horn as you go. Either that, or stop and pick him up and see if you can't overcharge him for a short trip, death might be a tourist, you never know.
The third, and most important thing, you need as a taxi driver in Cairo is a fully functioning horn. Without this you might as well ship the car off to the museum and take up a life selling souvenirs at the Pyramids. I actually saw a taxi driver sitting forlornly by the side of the road on my travels, his car bonnet up, waiting for assistance. There was no actual mechanical problems, it was simply that his horn had stopped working.
Despite this, taxis are the simplest and cheapest way to get around Cairo. Or so they say. This is true up to the point where you actually have to get in one, make your destination known, survive the trip then get out and either a) argue about the fare or b), and I quote, 'Simply hand over five pounds and walk away, don't get into any arguments or discussions' (the taxis had meters, but they were never used). Most of the time we tried for option b, which meant sitting nervously in the taxi throughout the entire trip, holding a wad of bills clenched in our sweaty fists, whilst trying to also hold onto something immovable, our bags and our sanity. On arrival at our destination we would bundle out and the designated payer would thrust the sweaty bills through the window, mutter Shukran (excuse the misspelling) and scurry away. Simple.
Of course the taxi drivers, like any enterprising businessman, would try to get as much money out of us as possible, which often meant a whole trip arguing about the fare, with us threatening to get out before we would arrive and pay him less than he had been arguing for but more than the trip was worth. This worked for all parties because he was ultimately happy to get a few extra pounds and we were ultimately alive.
The other thing about taxi drivers, and this is a world wide phenomenon, is that they like to move at a fairly rapid rate of knots. A high turnover means more chance that the next fare will be some American tourist straight off the boat who wants to see the Pyramids (or the Statue of Liberty, The Eiffel Tower etc). Cairo, as a whole, is one big mass of movement that never stops and is certainly never silent. Despite this however, and the very best efforts of the men in the black and white museum pieces, the average speed of a car in Cairo now is a paltry 14kmh. Needless to say that everyone, not just the taxi drivers, is involved in a city-wide push to bring this average up, speeding wherever it is possible to do so.
In all this traffic, this maelstrom of honking and speeding, overtaking and organised chaos, pedestrians and animals, I never saw one accident the whole time. Sure nearly every car had multiple dents, so much so that when I saw someone with a new car, especially an expensive car, I felt sorry for them and their shiny unblemished duco. In the end though, there is method to this madness and everyone gets along just fine, as long as you realise that too close is never too close and being able to shake hands with the man in the next car at 14kmh is perfectly reasonable.

Stepping out in Europe.

Dag, Zdravo, Bongiorno and Hello,
It's been a while since I last blogged, but the lure of the real world was stronger than that of the virtual so in light of that I have spent the last two weeks wandering around Southern Europe with 15 kilo's of underwear and t-shirts strapped to my back.
Apart from various stopovers in cities, towns, airports, ferries and train stations, Miss K and I spent most of our time in Dubrovnik, Croatia and Cinque Terre in Italy. Any decent travel agent or website can give you the usual details of these places and extol their benefits so I won't go into detail on that score here. Instead I'm going to try and break down some of the some of the more interesting views on my travel experience.
Before I start however, I will just say that both Dubrovnik and Cinque Terre are gorgeous and anyone reading this should be suitably jealous.
Anyway below, in more or less the order that they happened, are some of the things I learned on my travels:
-The tower in the Cologne Cathedral has 509 steps, which is how many aches my body had the day I climbed it.
-Dubrovnik's streets are made of white marble which reflects the street lights at night. The marble is clean and free of dirt crusted chewing gum spots.
-In summer, it's so busy in Dubrovnik's old town that for a roughly 10 day period, the police must stand at the two city gates and control the flow of tourists. As one group comes out, another is let in. The police are essentially door bitches for the entire city ('Sorry mate, private party. Your name's not on the door.' 'Not with that Hawaiian shirt pal.')
-Milo and Bozo are not a circus act, but the names of the owners of the two villas we stayed at in Dubrovnik.
-Staying at a villa with a Croatian family next door means that the owner's mother will bake you tasty treats and pat you on the arm in a reassuring manner. Baked goods and arm pats are included in the price apparently.
-Many of the buildings around Dubrovnik are in varying forms of ruin, usually as a result of being bombed in 1991.
-This bombing had a profound effect on the city which is still being felt today. Milo and Bozo, as well as possibly every other able bodied man were involved in the defense of the city.
-A 50cc moped with two people will go seventy kmh down a slope with a good run-up.
-The same moped will go zero kmh up a steep hill, regardless of run-up.
-I look silly in a cream coloured motorbike helmet (sillier than normal.)
-The walls enclosing Dubrovnik are two kilometres around and there are views on both sides. On the outside are the ocean, port and surrounding mountains and on the inside are buildings, streets and peoples backyards.
-Both views are equally interesting.
-The houses outside the old town cling to a steep mountain along tiny streets that are made up of hundreds of steps, each one of which caused new and interesting aches and pains to add to those from Cologne.
-Croatians can, on the whole, speak better English than Italians.


-Getting ripped off by a taxi driver who drives at 150kmh is not a good introduction to a new country.
-Neither is trying to sleep on the tiled floor of a small airport between midnight and six am.
-Miss K gets sillier as she gets tireder.
-Until she just gets grumpy.
-People flying to Milan seem well aware that it is the fashion capital of the world and dress accordingly, even at six in the morning.
-Except us.
-Not even its reputation for fashion could keep the stores open in Milan on Easter Sunday.
-This fact probably saved Miss K some money.
-However it couldn't save me from 'window shopping'.
-After Dubrovnik, the dirt crusted spots of chewing gum on Milan's street stood out like tired backpackers.
-Cinque Terre is actually a huge national park surrounding five small villages.
-These villages cling to cliffs or nestle in bays at the foot of huge terraced mountains. The terraces are planted with grape vines, olive trees and more lemon trees than I have ever seen.
-Nonna's have the utmost respect in Italian families.
-Nonna's who live on the terraced mountains of Cinque Terre not only have the respect of their families, they also have huge bloody calf muscles.
-The villages of Cinque Terre have only recently been joined by train lines, but the main way to get from village to village is by walking the mountain paths. The word 'mountain' in this scenario is entirely accurate, the word 'path' however is frequently optimistic.
-Each step on the mountain takes you higher and rewards you with amazing views.
-The ratio of amazing views to aching muscles is about even.
-Sticking your feet in the chilly spring ocean after four hours of walking feels great.
-It's probably not such a blast for the fish though.
-Telescopic aluminium walking sticks with rubber stoppers are all the go with walking groups of retirees from France and Germany.
-Actual sticks from the woods have, sadly, fallen out of favour.
-There are solar powered telephones at the top of steep climbs in case you have a heart attack.
-Despite this the start of these climbs are noticeably free of signs saying 'Climbing this hill could give you a heart attack, and at the very least will make your underarms sweaty and your feet stink.' Or words to that effect.
-Crazy, rip off merchant taxi drivers that make a bad first impression for an entire country can be offset by glamorous train conductors and generous members of the public.
-Whilst the English of some Italians is not so good, once they realise you don't understand they compensate by talking rapid Italian at you, possibly thinking that the more words they say, the more likely you are to recognise one of them.
-A week in a foreign country is just enough time to get used to thanking people in their own language.
-Saying Quanto Costa to a shop-keeper in Belgium will get you strange looks.
-Just because the airport you are flying from or to contains the name of a major city, doesn't mean it's actually anywhere near that city.

So that's a few of the things I have learned in my recent travels. I am briefly back in Belgium to wash the dust of the road from my clothes and try to get used to another pillow before we head off for a week in Cairo where I will be living all my favourite Indiana Jones memories (Snakes, why'd it have to be snakes?).

A couple of little bits of other news, I have added a new link to a blog from one of my compatriots who is eager to spread the gospel of talkin' shit. See recently sited, above on the left.
For more literary and high brow entertainment, check out the Salon held by Sleepers Publishing, a local Melbourne publisher (link also above). The one coming up has the author of one of my favourite books of recent times, Craig Silvey, who wrote Rhubarb. Check it out and support the grass-roots of publishing, details are on the site.

So that's it until after Cairo.

Tot Ziens, Dovidenja, Arrivederci and Goodbye for now.

Jeff

Stuff about stuff you said...

From time to (very seldom) time, I get a comment here on my little piece of cyberspace. Below is one I thought I should comment on.

M to the I to the K to the E said...
Dear Mostly, I am concerned that you think that the bogans aren't just part of Australian Culture. They are truely an international creature that resides everywhere. Usually on the outskirts of town in sub standard accomodation. (Not if your a cashed up bogan like a brikkie's labourer). In the U.S its White trash, in the U.K they're geezers. In Ireland they call them knackers. If fact, I think that every nation has a below middle class strata that the middle class enjoy giving out on. So your amazement just illustrates that you need to widen your horizon outside Kilsyth. Excuse the anal and slanderous rhetoric but arent these blogs all about pissing people off?

Mostly Unscripted says:
Ah yes, nothing gets the blood pumping and the mind racing like a good healthy discussion on the common bogan (Naturalis Bogani). The reason for this is our deep seated fear that when you strip away our layers of urban sophistication there's a guy with a mullet and a flanny shirt shivering in the corner. Like it or not, bogan-ness (or Trailer Trashism, Geezerness etc) is in our Australian blood, like Eucalyptus oil, Vegemite, VB and a tolerance for Kylie Minogue music. We may move from the outer eastern suburbs to a townhouse in Richmond or buy copies of Ulysses and Stephen Hawking's A Brief History of Time to arrange artfully on our bookshelves, but underneath we're really just wanting to watch Kenny and The Castle and read Andrew Bolt columns (OK so maybe no-one wants to go that far). So M to the I...etc, my advice to you is to embrace the inner bogan, let it balance your sophistication, like yin and yang, or Dad and Dave. Remember it's like Mabo, it's the vibe of the thing. As for pissing people off, well I prefer to think that my blog is about communicating, entertaining and providing an empty slate which I can taint with my ramblings. Pissing people off is simply an added bonus.

As for me, well Miss K and I will soon be off on a little Easter Vacation, heading to Dubrovnik, Cinque Terra and later to Egypt. Of course we will be doing our utmost to be respectful travellers, not overbearing tourists. No doubt there will be tales arising from this trip, some of which may even be interesting.
Keep the comments coming.
J

Looza's and the idiot box

Globalisation. Everywhere you go you hear about it, pundits praise its ideals while protesters smash things in a frenzy at the very thought of it. It truly is a contentious issue. But what does it all mean? What is globalisation and what will it mean for you and me?
To answer that I must give you a little background. When I first arrived here in Belgium the apartment was equipped with some version of cable TV. Not bad. I could get CNN, BBC, MTV and and variety of other channels to keep me entertained whilst Miss K was busy with important assignments in the evenings. I would sit there and let my mind wander as I watched, whether it was news and current affairs or seeing Xzibit pimp someones ride.
One day however this was all cruelly snatched away from me, leaving me with just two Belgian channels that I can see clearly plus one that I cant. This is where I discovered the meaning of globalisation. It means that wherever you go in the world, not only are you assured McDonald's, but also versions of your least favourite reality programs. Of course I am talking about Idol, Big Brother and even, coming soon, a version of Survivor. No doubt Millionaire is coming too.
Of course everyone complains about these programs, and no one will admit to watching them, yet here they are, popping up all over the world like infected sores. Agent Smith got it wrong in the Matrix, human beings aren't a disease on this planet, reality TV shows are.
Of course there are still some English programs, usually movies, and they are on after big brother every weeknight. Oh good, I hear you say. Well...sometimes. You see the TV networks seem to have got a deal similar to one you might get from your cable provider. You take the good with the bad. So for every movie from column A, usually Hollywood "blockbusters" like Rush Hour, Legally Blond and Charlies Angels, you have to take some from column B, where Steven Segal movies reside and then some from column C. Column C is where you get movies where the headline star is someone like Treat Williams or Rick Schroeder. Column C is where you find movies by Alan Smithee.
There are also the odd TV shows in English that we get, including Boston Legal, Ripley's Believe it or Not and, ahem, McLeod's Daughters. I guess there is no way they can do a Belgian version of that show. Strewth, what a flamin' shocker!
So we're reduced to watching reality TV, which does include a Belgian version of Thank God You're Here called Godjidank. Whilst this is good for the Australian company, the Melbourne company, that devised it but hardly any good for me. It's all in Flemish. Big Brother, with the sound down, looks just like Big Brother. No doubt if I could understand what they were saying it would be the same inane drivel that the people in English speaking versions come up with. Idol is interesting in the fact that at least the songs are generally in English. Yes Mariah Carey, Celine Dion and Michael Jackson songs are tortured the world over. At least there is some fun to be had in assigning the judges personalities and then trying to guess what they are saying. The one female judge is obviously Marcia, she starts all her sentences with 'you go girlfriend'. There is a definite Dicko look alike but he doesn't seem to be as harsh as Dicko is. Not sure about Mark Holden, and that's just a general observation. I'm really not sure about that guy. Of course with the judges speaking Flemish, I can understand what they are saying about as well as I can understand Mark Holden so that is no great problem.
Of course many of our 'favourite' reality shows came from this region of the world, particularly Holland, which gave us Big Brother. One thing I also think we have to 'thank' them for is the up late game shows, which are on constantly here, and not just late. There are two channels I can get and at certain times of the day, obviously during the low times, the same game show is on both channels. This is the future of TV, they've done away with scripts and plots and characters, now they are going to do away with ideas and any kind of necessary thought. As long as the bucks roll in.
Anyway, enough of TV. What else is interesting in Belgium, there must be something more than TV? Of course there is. One of the most fun games to play when experiencing another culture is the 'look at the weird names they have for things' game. Everyone does it, even with other English speaking cultures. Some English guys I met got a kick out of the fact I said I was wearing a shirt and pants. 'Pants' are underwear, I should have said 'trousers'. Well excuse me! Anyway, this game is not as good in a country like Belgium where everyone speaks English and they know what sounds 'weird'. Not like some countries, Japan for instance where you can get chocolate filled wafer tubes called 'Colon' or a chocolate bar called 'Asse'. No such rookie mistakes here. But there is one product I have come across, a drink called 'Looza'. This stands out for obvious reasons and I have spent the better part of the last couple of days thinking up advertising scenarios for this brand should it ever come to Australia. I think I'm ready with a couple of pitches.
1. A lonely guy sits in the corner of a busy nightclub. Across the dance floor he spies a lonely girl, sitting in another corner. They look at each other, exchanging shy smiles. Slowly he raises his thumb and forefinger to his head in the shape of an L. The girl's eyes light up, she nods and returns his greeting. They get up and head for the bar, as they do a voice over comes up; 'When all else fails, go for a Looza.'

2. Voice Over: 'You can get it alphabetising your X-men comics, you can get it playing on line Dungeons and Dragons, you can even get it colour co-ordinating your sock drawer. A hard earned thirst needs a specific drink, and the drink for you is Looza'

3. And finally. An average Aussie boofhead stands in line at the bar, running over his drink order in his head. As he steps up to face the waitress he takes one look at her chest and says the immortal words. 'Five Loozas thanks.' The tag line comes up, 'we're just saying what you're all thinking.'
So those are my campaigns for Looza. It's sure to be a hit, I've no doubt. And in case you were wondering, that's life in Belgium. Oh sure there's some buildings and museums and a thousand years of history, stuff like that, but I feel I've covered the important parts. Besides with all this typing, I've worked up a thirst.
As a matter of fact, I've got it now.

Sugary Donuts and Cheesy Royals

One of the great things about living in a European city is that other European cities, as well as countries, are so close. In the time it would normally take to drive to say, Horsham, you can be in another country like Holland, Germany or Luxembourg. With that in mind, Miss K and I jumped on a train last weekend and headed out for Luxembourg city, which is not like Horsham one little bit.
So, a bit of history: If you're after a bit of a medieval experience that goes beyond Kryal Castle then you could do worse than Luxembourg, which began life as a castle on top of an escarpment overlooking a long valley. Over the years the castle became one of the biggest and most forbidding in Europe, before being comprehensively conquered and made even bigger. The town now spreads out into the valley and surrounding area but there is still quite a bit of the castle remaining. A lot of the original walls loom impressively above the floor of the valley. No doubt if I had've been an invader to the old town of Luxembourg, I would have taken one look at those walls and said, 'Well that's that then, let's go and invade Provence, before the English start buying all the property and building holiday villas.' These days the only invaders to Luxembourg, or L'bourg as the locals call it (possibly) are tourists and Miss K and I were no exception.
Luxembourg's one hostel was full of students and backpackers enjoying the simple comforts of an eight bed dorm, likewise many of L'bourg's many hotels were crowded with Germans looking for cheap booze and cigarettes, of which Luxembourg is renowned. Fortunately we managed to score a deal at the Novotel, which for the uninitiated is a large hotel chain that caters to business folk who have a meal allowance and are just in town to move some units, make some deals and press the flesh. We decided to wander through town and take in the sights on our way to the hotel. 'It can't be more than a kilometre,' I said optimistically. Of course not only could it be further, but inevitably it was. Our 'stroll' started out OK, we got a bit lost and Miss K needed to make a base camp for a while so she could stop for rations of goods from a bakery. Eventually we reached a stage where we did only have about a kilometre to go, which happened to be through a park. Sounds nice, sounds simple, sounds, in fact, like a walk in the park. Unfortunately it was more of a trudge up a steep dirt track from the bottom of the valley to the top, where the Novotel was cunningly hidden away in the business district with barely a sign to reveal its presence. Needless to say when we arrived there we were beyond disheveled, we were beyond being any kind of sheveled. They treated us with disdain, looking at my small day pack and Miss K's trolley case which had just survived some serious 4X4 action. We were backpackers on the cheap rate. To make matters worse we had to pass through a bunch of business folk who were milling in the foyer on a break from their conference on better ways to sell two and a half inch hose bits. We looked on with envious eyes as they snacked on plates brimming with cakes and donuts and other sugary things. Especially Miss K who was getting to the stage where she was ready to bite someones head off, if only to satisfy her hunger. Thankfully the gods of travel were smiling at us because after showering and appropriating all the toiletries we struck out for the city renewed. In the foyer an employee was straightening up the afternoon tea. Cakes and donuts were still in much abundance and the nice man noticed our plight, offering us a pick from the leftovers. So it was we made our way into the streets of Luxembourg with a spring in our step from handfuls of calorie laden delights we dubbed 'Foyer Donuts'.
Our remaining time in L'bourg was spent exploring the city, which is really quite spectacular. We explored the rambling foundations of the castle which extended deep into the earth and wandered for kilometres through the city and the valley below, enjoying the sunshine, the amazing architecture and landscapes. Of course we did the typical tourist thing and bought postcards which were of various city-scapes and sights. Probably my favourites though were the postcards featuring various members of the Royal family in differing states of repose and dress. Here they are in the park in white sweaters and casual pants, there they are in suits and dresses and now yet again in full military regalia. Apparently they love their royal family in L'bourg, but I'm not sure how influential they are in relation to the rest of the world. I mean have any of the young sons been on Australian Princess? Until that day comes I'll reserve judgement.
That's it for now. I'll leave you with a common expression from Luxembourg.
'Sorry, I speak only French.'