tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68512467941439056272024-03-07T18:51:23.441+11:00Idiom ZeroSlabs of text from my brain to you.Nichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11736478220623231400noreply@blogger.comBlogger73125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851246794143905627.post-18215332127804475782020-06-29T22:18:00.000+10:002020-06-29T22:18:11.468+10:00Out on the perimeter fence<br />
Lightly snowing<br />
The big man up a ladder<br />
Pulling the rusted wire taut<br />
Levering the clips in place<br />
So worn but it holds<br />
Tomorrow they will tackle the chainlink<br />
<br />
Sitting at the card table<br />
Pulling old teeth from old jawbones<br />
There is a trick to it<br />
Even now, the table covered with teeth<br />
Like a game of dominoes<br />
He still sometimes forgets<br />
The precise pressure and twist<br />
Necessary to remove them<br />
Whole to the root<br />
<br />
Later, making coffee in a tin for them both<br />
Restoring this place<br />
Where he suffered so much<br />
Most of it under the big man's hands and<br />
Instruments<br />
Stockholm syndrome it is called<br />
But the name seems inadequate<br />
For such a feeling of peaceScott Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246319380445106466noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851246794143905627.post-790713332579045912020-05-31T22:02:00.001+10:002020-05-31T22:12:32.343+10:00<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I sit waiting</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">In the gallery<br />Watching the street and</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Checking reflections for you.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">A nearby recording</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Explains Fluxus</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Or something.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The French recedes into</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The melodic honking of geese.</span>Scott Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246319380445106466noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851246794143905627.post-28410878143908501552017-12-28T19:48:00.002+11:002017-12-28T19:55:38.474+11:00Whatchoo Readin' For?<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The last time I was too lazy to post (most of 2007) I did manage a
list of what I read that year. Well guess what…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Econobabble” by Richard Denniss. Popular economics. Some
good points and from an Australian perspective - which these things often aren’t.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“The Three-Body Problem” by Liu Cixin. China’s most popular
sci-fi book. Won all sorts of awards. Mostly dreadful rubbish, although the bit
set in the Cultural Revolution was interesting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“The Long Utopia” by Stephen Baxter and Terry Pratchett.
Fourth in a series set on a string of parallel Earths. Pretty enjoyable.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Stoner” by John Williams. Easily the best thing I read this
year. Seemingly simple story of a university professor’s life, but the writing
is so accomplished it ends up building into a beautifully moving epic, yet built
from nothing really.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Under the Skin” by Jonathan Glazer. The film adaptation of
this is one of my favourite movies. The book isn’t as good, but is still an
unusual story of dog-like aliens harvesting hitch hikers in remote Scotland
for consumption as a delicacy on their home-world. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“The Rachael Papers” by Martin Amis. First Martin Amis I’ve
read. First one he wrote. A surprisingly amusing tale of a tortured teenager in
early ‘70s England.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“The Run of His Life: The People v. O.J. Simpson” by Jeffrey
Toobin. This was the written accompaniment to the screen-binge I was on at the
time here. Plenty o’ Juice. Crazy stuff. Good book. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“The First Forty-Nine Stories” by Ernest Hemingway. Great
writer. Usual hijinks in bull rings and pursuing manly pursuits. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Mother Tongue” by Bill Bryson. I re-read this one afternoon
in Hong Kong while I was feeling a bit ill. A lot of obscure facts in Bill’s
usual readable style, though I think I prefer “Shakespeare: The World as Stage”
for its insights into the English language.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Elric” by Michael Moorcock. One novel in a very famous
fantasy series. I suppose a successor to Gormenghast, or even the original
Conan novels, and a precursor to ‘The Black Company’ series by Glen Cook. “Eldritch
fantasy in a dying land” perhaps? Anyway, a bit dire.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Lincoln in the Bardo” by George Saunders. Popular and ‘experimental’
hit of 2017. The experimental side of things didn’t do anything worthwhile
besides inflating this from a short story into a novel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Bright Air Black” by David Vann. A retelling of Medea. It
opens with Medea in the stern of the Argo, standing in the decomposing body of
the brother she has just murdered, throwing pieces into the sea to slow the
pursuit of her father, who must fish each limb from the water. Amazing prose
and an amazingly fierce protagonist, unbound by the rules of her society.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Victory” by Joseph Conrad. Enjoyable psychological thriller
set in Indonesia. The protagonist was a bit too icily tortured, but there were
some excellent villains.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“The Promise of the Child” by Tom Toner. Elaborate space
opera which didn’t really grab me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Forensics and Fiction” by D.P. Lyle. Reasonably interesting
read where various aspiring crime writers ask the author technical questions
around forensic devices in their plots, e.g. “if my hero found the butler’s
body buried in the cellar two months after he was killed, what would the body
look like?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“House of Names” by Colm Tóibín. Another retelling of Greek
mytrhology, this time the story of the House of Atreus: King Agamemnon and his
wife Clytemnestra, their son Orestes and daughters Iphigenia and Electra. This
is a very realistic take – no gods or magic – which made it harsh, but I
think I preferred “Bright Air Black” for its touches of the divine, even if
they were explicable.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“The Secret Agent” by
Joseph Conrad. Lighter than “Victory” and not as good. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“New York 2140” by Kim Stanley Robinson. New novel from one
of my favourite authors. Fascinating examination of what city life might be
like after massive global sea level rises and what it means to inhabit an ‘intertidal’
space.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“I, Claudius” by Robert Graves. Got a fair way through this
before I realised I’d read it before. Still, an excellent book and I love a bit of
Roman intrigue.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“All the Pretty Horses” by Cormac McCarthy. The first in
McCarthy’s ‘Border Trilogy’. A young Texan cowboy travels to Mexico and falls
in love. Beautiful, spare prose. Lot of Spanish. Lot of horses.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“The Crossing” by Cormac McCarthy. Second in the ‘Border
Trilogy’. A young boy traps a wolf that is killing livestock on his family’s
farm, then tries to return it to Mexico. Things end badly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Cities of the Plain” by Cormac McCarthy. The last novel in
the ‘Border Trilogy’. The protagonists from the first two novels, older now,
meet while working on a ranch, and travel to Mexico when one falls in love with
a prostitute. Things end badly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“The Many-Coloured Land” by Christopher Koch. A writer
travels around Ireland to explore his family history in company with a
musician. Pretty engaging. Made me want to see the Burren in County Clare.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“American Pastoral” by Philip Roth. Once it gets past the
framing narrative, this was a great examination of a man’s inability to
understand the decline of his business and the motivations of his daughter in
bombing the local post office. It also had lots of technical minutiae about how
to make really good hand-made leather gloves, such that I now want a pair.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“The Natural Way of Things” by Charlotte Wood. Ultimately
stupid story about a bunch of ‘overly sexual’ women being kidnapped and held on
a remote property for an unspecified purpose. Then they leave.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“The Misenchanted Sword” by Lawrence Watt-Evans. Amazing fantasy book that I’ve read nearly every year since I was about 10 years old.
No thought required but a good story nevertheless.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Goodbye to Berlin” by Christopher Isherwood. Some novellas
concerning Berlin in the ‘30s collected into one volume. Bit of old time
scandal – abortions, women smoking – made more topical by passing
references to Nazis. Some good prose too. Oh, and one of the stories was the
basis for ‘Cabaret’.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy” by John Le Carré. The first
of Le Carré’s novels I’ve read. Unexpectedly meaty with some good characters,
all set in a vanished milieu. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
Scott Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246319380445106466noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851246794143905627.post-912065347342577422017-02-20T20:40:00.001+11:002017-02-20T20:40:53.207+11:00Well, Well, Well<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMcDwaEQJ5j8tNjX_XEN1KcN395x-0gvgVxl8a6eFQj2SzyOsXZvTPABZFADo2xHtoQ20R1Bwpqi8sAzD8-WbOJopQV2ukv-ClMUbVxt1h7ZggflnYarTb14F2MI3kxmBMhJ4cECL_wZQ/s1600/Well.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMcDwaEQJ5j8tNjX_XEN1KcN395x-0gvgVxl8a6eFQj2SzyOsXZvTPABZFADo2xHtoQ20R1Bwpqi8sAzD8-WbOJopQV2ukv-ClMUbVxt1h7ZggflnYarTb14F2MI3kxmBMhJ4cECL_wZQ/s640/Well.jpg" width="363" /></a></div>
<br />Scott Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246319380445106466noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851246794143905627.post-292901683544512042016-11-11T23:39:00.002+11:002016-11-11T23:40:32.532+11:00Songs of Love and Hate<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I can’t remember when I first heard Leonard Cohen, but that
deep, rich voice wells up from a long time ago. I’d heard nothing like it
before. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>The Songs of Leonard
Cohen</i> is that rare thing, a perfect album, every song polished and lovely.
He could have just left it at ‘Suzanne’ and I’d still be in awe, but then there
are another nine little masterpieces… <i>and
she feeds you tea and oranges / that come all the way from China.</i> I’ve
listened to that album so often as I went to sleep that it seems entwined in the
process of my consciousness unravelling. The strange, circular narratives of ‘Master
Song’ and ‘Stranger Song’ that your mind struggles to hold as you go down, <i>Please understand I never had a secret chart
to get me to the heart of this, or any other matter. Well, he talks like this,
you don’t know what he’s after. When he speaks like this, you don’t care what
he’s after.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">He had such beautiful words. He was so fine when speaking of
love and of the beauty of women. Every poem I’ve ever written to a woman felt
pointless when compared to <i>Walk me to the
corner / Our steps will always rhyme</i> or: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;">
<i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;">
<i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Beneath my hands <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;">
<i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">your small breasts <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;">
<i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">are the upturned bellies <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;">
<i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">of breathing fallen sparrows. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;">
<i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Wherever you move <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;">
<i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I hear the sounds of closing wings <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;">
<i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">of falling wings. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;">
<i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I am speechless <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;">
<i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">because you have fallen beside me <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;">
<i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">because your eyelashes <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;">
<i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">are the spines of tiny fragile animals.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I loved the way some of
his songs would find me in unexpected places. ‘Seems So Long Ago, Nancy’ always
put me in mind of a particular shade of green that I associate with my mother’s
childhood bedroom in my grandmother’s house, and a picture of ballerinas on the
bedhead there. <i>It seems so long ago,
Nancy was alone. A forty-five beside her head, an open telephone.</i><br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">He had such power. I
remember reading an anecdote about Nick Cave hearing ‘Avalanche’ when he was
young and being stunned that music could be like that. Such violence and
blackness, <i>Your pain is no credential
here / It’s just the shadow of my wound.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">He seemed a remote
figure when I first heard him, but then he began to turn up in strange places.
Natural Born Killers, a cover on an REM b-side. When I became interested in Zen
he’d already been there. When the poet Anthony Lawrence lectured me at university
he knew his own debts. When I visit Greece I’ll make sure to go to Hydra. Once
again it will feel like I’m following, but Cohen is always a path worth taking.</span></div>
Scott Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246319380445106466noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851246794143905627.post-3350177567891038052016-09-12T17:48:00.003+10:002016-09-12T17:48:53.410+10:00Christians: A Spotter's Guide<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Christians can be divided into 5 families: the Church of the
East, Oriental Orthodoxy, Eastern Orthodox, Roman Catholicism and
Protestantism. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Although the first two
are theologically distinct, they have less than 100 million members between
them, so nobody really cares. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The Eastern Orthodox Church has 300 million
members, but isn’t that interesting from a spotter’s perspective as its various
species usually have boring, self-explanatory names such as the Russian Orthodox
Church or the Bulgarian Orthodox Church. Be aware though, if you are keeping
individuals from the Eastern Orthodox Church in a caged habitat they are prone
to fight when placed in close proximity. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">While Catholicism is massive, with 1.2
billion followers, species are generally small and mostly concerned with
variations on the liturgies used in different countries, usually based on
slightly different scriptures or using a local language to the standard
‘Catholic’ rituals. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">For the dedicated spotter, Protestantism is the equivalent
of the Brazilian rainforest. Why not try your luck against the following list of the most common, easiest to spot species:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Lutherans</b>: the
whole reason there are Protestants. Martin Luther launched the Protestant
Reformation in 1517 with his whacked out ideas – basically that scripture, and
not the Catholic Church, is the final authority on matters of faith.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Calvinists</b>: Split
from the Lutherans because they don’t believe that Jesus Christ is <i>actually in</i> the bread and wine of the
Eucharist.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Presbyterians</b>:
Calvinists from Scotland.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Baptists</b>: don’t
baptise babies because babies don’t know what’s going on. If you want to get </span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">baptised you have to ask.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Anabaptists</b>: same
as the Baptists but they came up with the idea separately. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Anglicans</b>: basically
the broader name for the Church of England. It started when Henry VIII
renounced papal authority so he could divorce Catherine of Aragon in 1533. It incorporated
elements of both Catholicism and the Protestant Reformation via acts of
parliament in 1558 and 1559. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Methodists</b>: split
from the Anglicans because they don’t believe that all events have been willed
by God. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Pentecostals</b>:
emerged from Methodism. They believe that the Bible is literally true and in
such things as divine healing and speaking in tongues.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Quakers</b>: Split
from the Anglicans. They believe that you can access God directly. No priests are required as intermediaries.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Seventh Day
Adventists</b>: grew out of the Millerites (who grew out of the Baptists).
Jesus is coming back in the very near future and Saturday, not Sunday, is the
proper holy day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Mormons</b>: believe God
revealed himself to Joseph Smith. Smith published the Book of Mormon in 1830 as
a complement to the Bible.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Jehovah’s Witnesses</b>:
look back to the early church. Believe Armageddon is just around the corner.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Unitarians</b>:
believe there’s just one God, not a trinity.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgUFBUKxOgFQJF8vOxcJJ4FTtp9bK_uAXyZI07AMy8nWY-pt2oVKFDawAivCKt4uQncFHMJe59ULsDSuGbe0xhjwN6k-0wHanR_pTkZKa9Z65ehD9L9ZjrlH9MQ08Qn6_Rx9YL5mB-aZs/s1600/Christians.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgUFBUKxOgFQJF8vOxcJJ4FTtp9bK_uAXyZI07AMy8nWY-pt2oVKFDawAivCKt4uQncFHMJe59ULsDSuGbe0xhjwN6k-0wHanR_pTkZKa9Z65ehD9L9ZjrlH9MQ08Qn6_Rx9YL5mB-aZs/s640/Christians.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
Scott Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246319380445106466noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851246794143905627.post-7161965727974019122016-09-01T19:42:00.000+10:002016-09-01T19:42:27.386+10:00Global Warming and Freezing to Death<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Are you worried about global warming?” asked Gerry. The sun
was approaching the horizon and the whole world seemed daubed in red. Behind
him the Berg glowed pink.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“You do realise it’s minus fifteen?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“You know what I mean. Climate change.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“I don’t think so,” said the Berg. “I’ve been around a long
time… but before I was me I must have been snow and before that, water. If I
melt I’ll just be water again.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“That’s very philosophical of you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“I can feel it happening sometimes.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Gerry looked at the enormous mass of ice looming over the
boat. “What? Melting?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Maybe… You know
water is just H2O. Well, H2O is a funny old molecule.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“You’re in a funny old mood. What do you mean?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Maybe it’s the sunset… “<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Gerry snorted. “You were telling me about H2O.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Well there’s an oxygen atom, and two hydrogens, and they
stick together because the hydrogens each share an electron with the oxygen – a
covalent bond. They stick on like the ears on a Mickey Mouse hat. But the ears
are a bit askew, and so the electrical charges are also a bit askew, so one end
of the molecule is electrically positive and the other is negative. This means
that each water molecule is attracted to those around it and they bond together
with what are called hydrogen bonds. They’re not separate, but stick together
in a giant cluster, a gel.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“I think I’ve read this somewhere. More like one big
molecule?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Sort of, but the bonds break and reform very quickly – under
200 femtoseconds. Anyway, all this means water has some odd properties – a very
high boiling point for its weight, high surface tension… it’s why I float!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The colour had drained from the sea and from the sky while
the Berg talked. A cold wind made the suddenly slate sea break into chop. The
hollow sound echoed up from where it slapped against the hull.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“That’s what I feel sometimes,” said the Berg. “The hydrogen
bonds inside me are locked down, but on my surface, where I touch the water and
the air, they’re fizzing away, spreading me out… ‘oceanic boundlessness’ as
Freud might’ve said.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Gerry regarded the Berg with sadness. “I’m sorry we’re
melting you, we’re horrible sometimes.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The Berg groaned and cracked like a gunshot. The water all
around shivered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Ha! That’s very polite of you. I’ll last a bit longer yet
though. My hydrogen bonds are very stable. It takes the same amount of energy
to warm me from -160°C up to 0°C as it does to melt me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Really? Wow.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Indeed.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A silence fell between them. The sun was long gone. Hard,
brilliant stars were appearing overhead. Gerry couldn’t feel his toes any more.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“You know,” said the Berg eventually, “you’re looking much healthier
than you have been.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“I’ve been eating O’Neill.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Oh.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“When the lifeboat capsized his was the only body I could
fish out. He’s been frozen down in the hold ever since.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Hmmm. What does he taste like?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“I’ve got nothing to cook him with. Frozen, hairy, greasy,
horrific pork? I don’t know. I can taste him in my mouth all the time but I’m
trying not to think about it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Sorry. I suppose it’s a bit like me and the water.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Just shut up, ok?”</span></div>
Scott Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246319380445106466noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851246794143905627.post-50934849604766808342015-10-20T18:08:00.001+11:002015-10-20T18:08:31.579+11:00Failing To See You're Freezing To Death<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Are you <i>drunk</i>?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“No.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You swore to me there was no more booze down there!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’m not fucking drunk!” shouted Gerry miserably. “I had grease
on my glasses and I started running them under hot water and one of the lenses
cracked because it’s minus fucking thirty. I can’t see shit.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh. Sorry.” The Berg glinted in the sunshine. “I thought
you ate all the grease. And hot water?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Not edible grease. Grease grease. For the engine.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Hmmm.” The Berg drifted away from the boat a little as if
to get a better look at Gerry; wavelets sploshed energetically against the
hull. “Your head doesn’t look oversized.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“My head’s not oversized! What’s that got to do with it? You’re
really being very irritating today.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Sorry. Something’s too big though, more likely your eye
than your actual head. That’s why you can’t see. Your eye focuses light on a
point in front of your retina. If your eye was smaller you wouldn’t have a
problem.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Gerry kicked a bulkhead. “Well I do have a problem! I’m
starving to death and freezing to death. I spend my days talking to a fucking iceberg. And
now I can’t see!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The Berg trickled sulkily. “Well, if that’s the way you feel…
we don’t have to talk. I suppose it means nothing that I could help you get a
new prescription.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“A new prescription?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“That’s the spirit!” said the Berg, butting against the boat
and sending a clatter of shards on to the deck. “Have you got a ruler?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Uhh… I’ll see if I can find one.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Gerry returned twenty minutes later to find the sun had gone in
and the Berg floating in a stew of sea ice that had seemingly appeared from
nowhere. The temperature had dropped alarmingly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Got it? Great. Now measure the distance between your
eyeball and the lens you have left in your glasses. Actually don’t! It’s pretty
nippy out here. Don’t want the ruler stuck to your eyeball. It’s probably a
centimetre. We’ll say a centimetre.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“OK. Where did you learn all this anyway?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I’m made out of ice. I’m reflecting, refracting, all that
stuff. Optometry’s easy. Now. Which lens is broken? Left? So hold the ruler up
to your cheek and close your right eye. Look along the ruler and move your
finger towards you till you can focus on it. How far away’s that?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“About ten inches.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Metric, man! We’re not barbarians.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Sorry. Maybe 25cm.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Wow, you are blind. OK. 25cm is your farpoint. That’s the
point your left eye focusses at when it’s resting. If you weren’t myopic that’d
be infinity.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Infinity?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Technically, yes. The moon, the stars, they’d be in focus.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“OK. So you need a diverging lens, one that’s concave on
both sides. That’s more bad news actually.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“More?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“If you ever need to start a fire in the wilderness you have
the wrong type of lens. It won’t focus the sun’s rays to a point.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“That’s OK. When I get too weak to move I’ve still got a few
matches and a cup of diesel put aside. I’m going to set the boat on fire and be
warm again before I die.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The Berg groaned and cracked. A tern that had been perched
out of sight on its far side flew off across the water with a mournful cry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“That’s the spirit! Getting your sense of humour back – that’s
good, just let me know before you torch the thing so I can drift off a bit.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Gerry smiled. He didn’t want to admit it but the Berg’s high
spirits were making him forget the sense of hopelessness that had descended on
him ever since the lens had cracked in his numb fingers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“So your diverging lens will make things appear to be at
your farpoint. It’ll move things all the way from infinity to 25cm from your face. Neat,
hey? We just need to figure out the
focal length for your lenses. That’s just your farpoint in metres, so 0.25,
minus the distance of your lens from your eye, call it one, so let’s say 0.24.
You bang a negative in front of that and there’s your focal length! Negative
0.24.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I thought prescriptions were in whatsits… dioptres.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“No problem at all. Dioptres are just a bullshit measurement
that optometrists like to use. They’re just one divided by the focal length. So…
one divided by -0.24 equals... -4.16.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Nice mental arithmetic.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Thank you. Now optometrists like the steps to be in 0.25
increments, so your prescription, Gerry, for your broken lens, is… -4.25!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Wait I thought you were getting me new glasses?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Pay attention. I said <i>prescription</i>.
Where am I going to get new glasses? I’m an iceberg. The North Pole is just there
over the horizon.”</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Scott Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246319380445106466noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851246794143905627.post-73454850026938099922015-07-22T18:45:00.000+10:002015-07-22T18:45:04.913+10:00In the Night Garden<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">Simon watched Mum drive away. She reached
the gate and disappeared left. Behind him Dad and the man, David, the man’s
name was David, shouted in unison with the crowd on TV. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">He was stuck in this room. For the moment
he was hidden by the couch and erased by the football. To get to his bedroom he
would have to pass in front of the TV, possibly blocking the game at a crucial
moment, which meant getting in trouble. If he waited till quarter time his Dad
and the man David would be bored. He would have to talk to them or get them a
beer or sit with them or do something else he didn’t want to do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">Poking his head around the end of the
couch, Simon watched the football. Often, when a player caught the ball, no,
marked the ball, near the posts they would take a long time to psych themselves
up before they tried to kick a goal. He waited quietly, a secret third
spectator, while Dad and the man David shouted things like ‘ball’ and ‘kick
it.’ When a player finally marked the ball near the goal, Simon waited - sometimes
they marked too close to the goal and just kicked it straight away. The player
bent to pull his socks up and Simon ran from the room. Halfway up the hall he
heard shouting behind him. “Goal!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">He played in his room; then outside with
the dog until it began to rain. Dinner was crumbed fish fillets and oven fries.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">“What did you do today, Simon?” asked
David.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">“Nothing.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">Simon could see David watch him as they
ate. He was bigger than Dad, nearly fat, but he had big shoulders too so he
didn’t look fat. He had grey hair in a crew cut and a t-shirt with an ugly
collar. Simon noticed he put tomato sauce on his fish, which was yucky. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">“Hey Simon, guess what? David’s a
policeman,” said Dad. Simon looked up in alarm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">“Don’t worry mate,” said David, laughing,
“I’m not going to arrest you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">Little bits of chewed up fish and chips
sprayed out of David’s mouth when he laughed. Simon knew about policemen. Last
month he and Gavin were playing in the hedge when Gavin spotted a For Sale sign
on Mrs Fisher’s fence. The sign was tied on with black baling twine. They had
found some sharp rocks and tried and cut through the twine. Simon realised he’d
have more success if he separated the thin strings that made up the twine and
attacked them one by one. Gavin was still sawing energetically when Simon made
it all the way through his.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">Suddenly there was a step behind them on
the gravel and a hand on both their shoulders. The policeman, Bob Wilson, had snuck
up and caught them. Simon was terrified but Bob Wilson had only delivered a
very solemn speech about why cutting down the For Sale sign on Mrs Fisher’s
fence was wrong – this seemed mainly to be because she was very old. Being
caught by the policeman had been scary, but not for long. Two weeks later they
found the roller door on the canteen at the oval had been left unlocked, so
they snuck in and took as many cans of Fanta as they could carry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">After dinner Simon was allowed to watch TV
for an hour; then it was time to go to bed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">“Goodnight mate,” said David. Simon worried
he would have to give David a hug but it seemed it was ok not to. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">He wasn’t tired and he wanted to find out
what happened in the book he was reading, so once Dad kissed him goodnight he got
out of bed and crouched in the slice of light that fell in through the open
door. He was too big to have a night-light, but his parents left the light on in
the hallway until they went to bed. It was cold and uncomfortable on the floor
in his pyjamas. Even worse, across the width of the hall was the spare room. Once,
reading like this, the door swung back to reveal a dead blackness and the smell
of mothballs. He had run to his bed and hid under the covers with his feet
pulled to his chest, convinced something living in that black space would
devour him at any moment. Tonight though, after a few checks to see the door
had not moved, he soon became involved in the story. Besides, the man David was
staying in the spare room tonight. Whatever lived in there would not come out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">Simon woke up because he was cold and he
needed to go to the toilet. He was sprawled on the carpet, his book an
uncomfortable pillow. The door to the spare room was ajar, but that’s how it
had been before. He got up and glided quickly down the hall to the toilet. The blue
TV-light still flickered in the living room. He stopped when he reached the
toilet door because the light was on inside. Was there someone in there? Did
David know that when you finished you turned the light off? He reached
uncertainly for the knob just as the door opened and David stepped out. Simon
jumped and David brushed past him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">“All yours, mate.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">Simon stepped quickly inside, turned and
locked the door. The knob moved as David tried it from the outside. The room
was bright and smelled bad. David had not flushed and his pee was a dark yellow
puddle in the bowl. Simon stood on the cold linoleum and held his breath. The
doorknob turned back and forth once more and then David moved off down the
hall. Simon flushed and stood for a long time before he could pee. Eventually
he finished, unlocked the door and scurried back to his room, not flushing and
not stopping to wash his hands.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">When Simon woke up again everything was
black and there was a horrible noise outside his window. The noise mewled and
screeched and hissed, cycling up and down. His tongue felt like a dry stone in
his mouth. He could not move. What could it be? His only guess was a demon that
must surely be about to burst through the window and kill him. The noise went on
and on. Surely Dad would come. If only he could cry out, but no part of his
body would obey him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">After what seemed like hours the noise was
still there, caterwauling up and down in the darkness. Simon decided whatever
was making it did not know he was there and so would not kill and eat him
straight away. He also knew there were no stories where the little boy stayed
in bed and the noise went away. If he was to be part of a story he must get up
and look. With more courage than he had ever summoned before he closed his half
open mouth and forced himself to breath through his nose. Breathing right gave
him the courage to get out of bed and, as quietly as he could, he crept across
the room to the window. Awake, and staring into the darkness for so long, he
could see enough to know when he reached the curtains. All the time the noise
was still there, spitting and moaning like nothing he had ever heard before. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">With infinite caution he parted the
curtains and looked out into the garden. The moon was full and in the dead
white light he could see two creatures crouched before the rose bushes. The one
on the left, which he could see better, looked like someone had scribbled with
a thick black pen until they had a scribble that was a little like a person and
a little like a dog, cut it out and dressed it in a small set of clothes. The
colours were hard to make out in the moonlight, but it looked like it wore a
green pair of pants and a red jacket, a battered leather hat and carried a stick.
The other creature was harder to see because it had its back to him, but it
looked as if it were made from a lot of dead animals all joined together. Simon
could see a raggy bit of mouse and what looked like a swatch of magpie forming its
back. It had no clothes but was holding a long bone, nearly as tall as itself,
by one end. Both creatures were no more than a foot tall and seemed to be
having an argument – this was the sound that had woken him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">Simon watched the creatures for as long as
he dared. The scribbly one was making the moaning and mewling noises, while the
one patched together from dead things was making the hissing and screeching
sounds. Although it all sounded terribly violent neither creature moved very
much. They reminded Simon of two old men, querulously arguing with one another
over a fence, one sometimes banging his stick on the ground, the other shaking
its bone for emphasis.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">It was cold next to the window in his
pyjamas and when he could stand it no longer Simon wriggled a little to keep
his feet warm. It made the smallest of noises but suddenly both creatures were
silent and looking straight at him. The scribbly one vanished immediately, but
the one patched from dead things turned and moved towards him. Simon tried to
run back to bed but he couldn’t move at all. The creature came quickly to the
window, dragging the long bone behind it. It moved strangely, as if it were an animation
drawn in the corner of a book, slow then fast, jerking. When it was close Simon
saw that its eyes were just holes with tiny teeth somehow suspended in them
like blind pupils. It reached out with an arm that he saw was really the grubby
leg of a dead lamb and tapped on the window. It had no mouth at all but it asked
him a question in a voice that was wretched and dank.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span lang="EN-AU">“Who?”</span></i><span lang="EN-AU"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">The next morning Simon woke up feeling
good. Then he remembered the creatures in the night and began to feel uneasy. The
light under his curtains meant it was sunny outside, and there was a lot of
birdsong. This didn’t fit with the strange creatures and the horrible question
the patchwork one had asked him. Had that been a dream? The memory felt cold
and hard, not like a dream at all, but it was so removed from the sun under the
curtains and the birds outside that it didn’t feel like a normal memory either.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">No one else was up so he watched cartoons
until Dad came in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">“How did you sleep, chief?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">“OK.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">“Did you hear those cats? Bloody things.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">“I thought it was a monster.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">“Argh, I’m sorry Simon, I should have got
up and checked you were ok. Did they scare you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">“It wasn’t too bad.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">“Good boy.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">Dad let him have cornflakes with lots of
cream and sugar as a treat. As he was rinsing his bowl gravel crunched in the
driveway and Mum’s car pulled up outside the kitchen window. She waved to him
and Simon waved back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">“Good morning boys,” she said, coming into
the kitchen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">Simon ran and hugged her while Dad asked
her about her night. Auntie Jo had been having something called a ‘hen’s
night.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">“Were there lots of hens, Mummy?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">She laughed. “Yes darling, it was a
veritable chicken farm.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">Simon didn’t know why this was funny or
what ‘veritable’ meant, but Mum and Dad were happy and laughing, so he laughed
too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">Dad told Mum about the cats. “Did you hear
them, Simon?” she asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">“I thought it was a monster.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">“Uh-oh,” she said playfully. “Alright now
though? You know it was just naughty cats?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">He nodded and went to the fridge for some
juice. Maybe it had been cats. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">“David still in bed?” she asked Dad.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">“Yeah, lazy city-slicker.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">But an hour later David was still in bed,
even though Mum had started banging around in the bedroom looking for some
shoes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">“Go and see if he wants any breakfast.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">A few minutes later he heard quick
footsteps in the house and his parents whispering urgently to each other. He
got up and went to the kitchen to see what was happening. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">“We should still call the ambulance,” said
Dad in a voice that Simon hadn’t heard him use before. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">“Just call emergency,” said Mum. She was
crying and when she saw him standing in the kitchen door she ran over and
hugged him. He was scared.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">“Oh darling,” she said. “It looks like
Uncle David went to sleep last night and he’s not going to wake up.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">Simon wanted to ask if that was because
David was very tired, but he knew the truth. “He’s dead.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-AU">“Yes, honey.” Mum started crying again. “We
think he had a heart attack during the night.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Scott Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246319380445106466noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851246794143905627.post-27363945993962533702014-11-28T22:28:00.000+11:002014-11-28T22:28:41.723+11:00<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pKVVkiMIkM0" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">How to write a campfire scene</a> | <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X_cy4fricLU&noredirect=1" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">how not to write a campfire scene.</a></div>
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Scott Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246319380445106466noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851246794143905627.post-2800809726087899062014-06-07T21:16:00.002+10:002014-06-07T21:16:54.299+10:00Sugar Rush<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I eat a lot of sugar and
it’s been figuring as a dietary demon in various things I’ve been watching and
reading for a few years now. I’ve had a sweet tooth since I was a little kid, fuelled
by the always reliable treat in the top drawer of a dresser in my grandma’s
kitchen; crystallised in one of my few memories of early childhood when I made
Russian caramels with her. Unlike many of my friends whose passion for alcohol
has dulled their sweet tooth, mine remains keen. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">What is sugar? Sugar is a
very simple carbohydrate. Indeed, in biochemistry sugar and carbohydrate are
synonyms. A carbohydrate is a large organic molecule composed of carbon, oxygen
and hydrogen. Depending on how complex these carbohydrates are, they are
referred to a monosaccharides (the simplest), disaccharides, oligosaccharides
and polysaccharides (the most complex). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">What we think of as sugars
are actually the mono- and disaccharides. The more complex saccharides include
things like starch or cellulose (which we think of as carbohydrates) and are both
part of what we eat and what we are made of at a cellular level. This isn’t to
say though, that simple sugars don’t also form a part of us. The D in DNA
stands for deoxyribonucleic – in which the deoxyribose is a monosaccharide.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">That’s a lot of syllables.
Suffice to say sugars and carbohydrates are the same thing, and they aren’t
just what you put in your coffee, they’re basic organic molecules that are
absolutely everywhere.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">But back to sugar:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><span style="font-family: Arial;">Monosaccharides:<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">- Glucose. You can buy it as
a syrup from the supermarket. Plants make it via photosynthesis. It’s one of
the three sugars that are absorbed directly into your blood stream during
digestion. I like to add it to home-made icecream to make it smoother.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">- Fructose. Known as fruit
sugar, it is found in fruit, root vegetables, honey and maple syrup.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><span style="font-family: Arial;">Disaccharides:<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">- Sucrose. Table sugar. It
is a disaccharide formed when glucose and fructose link together. Also known as
‘white poison’ in more hysterical circles.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">- Lactose. Formed from
glucose and another monosaccharide known as galactose. It is the sugar in milk.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">- Maltose. Formed by joining
two glucose molecules. It is present in germinating seeds and 1950s
milk-shakes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<u><span style="font-family: Arial;">Pseudosaccharides:<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">- Smackose. The sugar you
can’t stop thinking about. You try to ignore it with will power and clean
living, then there’s a 2-for-1 special at the supermarket and you’ve suddenly
downed a family block.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">- Wankose. Seen increasingly
at trendy cafes that don’t appreciate that if the coffee’s good you’ll have it
black and unsweetened, but sometimes a latte with 2 sugars is nice… however not
so much if their ‘raw organic Haitian cane sugar’ that looks more like dirty
sand changes the flavour entirely.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">- Chokose. Dusted over Greek
pastries this can be easily inhaled by the novice, leading to rapid
asphyxiation. Over 3,500 tourists die in </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="font-family: Arial;">Greece</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="font-family: Arial;"> every year from inhaling chokose. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">- Artificial Sweeteners: you're eating them because you're fat, worried about the health effects of sugar, or both. Unfortunately sprinkling this shit on your cornflakes still leaves you a cancer-riddled pig at the end of the day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial;">Bonus Level:</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial;"> My grandma Barbara Stebbings’s recipe for Russian
Caramels:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2lMgA36rnKXsTz81i33uijSpRDDpul5b0rVz1c_4e1apMTR0TWeb9GUN7joD4iUhZrkczM3RY1OYybKXCW877CkPJGxU2uF9QRmxzGE3WPSSeVc2u99EuKPFH7yvBpJfge-RjBh1_0_A/s1600/Recipe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2lMgA36rnKXsTz81i33uijSpRDDpul5b0rVz1c_4e1apMTR0TWeb9GUN7joD4iUhZrkczM3RY1OYybKXCW877CkPJGxU2uF9QRmxzGE3WPSSeVc2u99EuKPFH7yvBpJfge-RjBh1_0_A/s1600/Recipe.jpg" height="395" width="400" /></a></div>
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Scott Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246319380445106466noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851246794143905627.post-81373972663949285592014-02-20T22:06:00.002+11:002014-02-20T22:06:46.722+11:00Desiccation<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The desert is in my
thoughts. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Arid nature: the barchan
dune; the thorny devil.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Desert culture: the West,
the Outback, Islam.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">That house where Levon Helm
lives in <i><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">The Three Burials of
Melquiades Estrada</span></i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The tombs of Ereth-Akbe. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Walt, burying his money. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Ballard. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I still haven’t seen
Lawrence of Arabia.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">The desert in </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="font-family: Arial;">Bolivia</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="font-family: Arial;"> is vastly sublime. We crossed the border from </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="font-family: Arial;">Chile</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="font-family: Arial;"> near San Pedro de Atacama, seven of us in a
Landcruiser, strung into a dusty line with five or six other vehicles. It was
like being on Mars. Huge plains and mountains, dry and red, baked under the
blue sky, disintegrating under radiation. We were the only thing moving or
living. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">Then, around a foothill of </span><st1:place><st1:placetype><span style="font-family: Arial;">Mount</span></st1:placetype><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span><st1:placename><span style="font-family: Arial;">Juriques</span></st1:placename></st1:place><span style="font-family: Arial;">, we come to a salt lake, Laguna Verde: out into cold
wind, thin air and harsh sunlight. Pale turquoise water laps powdery white sand
underfoot. The sand coarsens; gains colour, ascending to umber mountains. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Later that day there are
thin geysers, blown away in the wind, but which still leave the phantom stink
of sulphur in your clothes. Cracks filled with boiling mud. Old volcanoes
surround people and vehicle. Further on the mountains fall away into the
distance. Plains of sand and gravel lead to the </span><st1:place><st1:placename><span style="font-family: Arial;">Siloli</span></st1:placename><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span><st1:placetype><span style="font-family: Arial;">Desert</span></st1:placetype></st1:place><span style="font-family: Arial;"> where immense rocks have been scoured to sculpture by the wind. I climb
their flanks, quickly breathless in the thin air.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">That night I leave the
others and walk alone up a small valley carved by a stream. It is freezing and
the wind is everywhere. Eventually I find a draw and sit in silence. The little
plants in the streambed huddle in silt. The upper slopes of the immense
mountain that stands, thrumming, a short way across the plain are still lit by
the setting sun. How can snow survive up there? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">On the final day we reach
the Salar de Uyuni. Prehistoric lakes have evaporated, leaving 50,000 cubic
kilometres of salt behind. The spirit has flown but the body remains. It has
rained two days before and huge, shallow puddles stretch to the horizon,
bisected by the wake of our wheels, reflecting the world. Satellites calibrate
themselves around us. Cold seeps through my shoes and salt crunches as I walk.
Somewhere the Bolivians are extracting lithium for our mobile phones, but as we
leave I see a man sleeping, propped against one of many small piles he has
erected amidst the rain-summoned ghost of the dead lakes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Most of me wants to swap my
life for his; remain here and be eaten by the desert.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1QmYTRvVsOcDT7nH4U9eg2vQsTYbDQrST_ai_J3drsYzlE2wFnDqmDdSIYVemJ_rrGYb18qyShY0lrr4cIzgtniGj_pHOZFnnD_A0AsEFofo518kF4CFYcATbQtbeZc5lR612MNtnJVM/s1600/IMG_1602.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1QmYTRvVsOcDT7nH4U9eg2vQsTYbDQrST_ai_J3drsYzlE2wFnDqmDdSIYVemJ_rrGYb18qyShY0lrr4cIzgtniGj_pHOZFnnD_A0AsEFofo518kF4CFYcATbQtbeZc5lR612MNtnJVM/s1600/IMG_1602.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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Scott Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246319380445106466noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851246794143905627.post-51188825965314513592014-01-29T22:41:00.000+11:002014-01-29T22:41:56.532+11:00Breakfast Buffet<div class="MsoNormal">
In <st1:country-region>Argentina</st1:country-region>
you can buy your icecream by the quarter, half or whole litre. A lot of that
icecream is dulce de leche flavoured. Argentineans are obsessed with dulce de
leche, which is essentially condensed milk cooked down into a caramel with the
consistency of a very thick glue. You can buy it at the local supermercado in
tins big enough to send a class of 8 year olds into an insulin frenzy. At the
breakfast buffet in your hotel there will be small packs of it to smear on your
sweet cake (or on your very inferior croissant style pastry, the medialuna,
which I would not recommend). Sweet cake smeared with thick caramel seems a
strange breakfast choice but the Argentineans have yet to realise that a café
can serve pastries, and so they have to work with what they’ve got. You can buy
a coffee. You can buy a pastry. Just not in the same shop (medialunas are
excepted - but they don’t count). Want to make a lot of money? Open a café in <st1:city>Buenos
Aires</st1:city> that serves breakfast with pastries… but don’t
forget to charge American dollars because the local peso inflates faster than a
dead rat in the sun. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Speaking of breakfast buffets, perhaps one of the strangest
I’ve ever encountered was in <st1:city><st1:place>Buenos Aires</st1:place></st1:city>,
simply because it included small bowls of jelly. The man, let’s call him a
chef, in charge of said buffet was more concerned with presentation than actual
food, to the point where the remaining slices of bread would be rearranged
immediately after you’d taken one. Not having made the conceptual leap to
serving pastries, he must have been at his wits’ end as to what to serve the
few foreigners who visited his buffet each morning, picking at their selections
before exiting stage right; leaving behind a plate of cold toast and half eaten
fruit, never to return. Jelly must have seemed like an inspired choice. It’s in
a ramekin so you can keep it neat. If no one eats it you can put it back in the
fridge and try it out again tomorrow. The lack of an identifiable flavour made
it a little disconcerting, but overall I would count it a standout success amid
the caramel smeared poverty of the Argentinean breakfast buffet.</div>
Scott Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246319380445106466noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851246794143905627.post-38108253380111525952013-10-04T23:43:00.000+10:002014-11-28T22:55:52.293+11:00ApicideThe bees are dying. They’ve died off before, but not in my lifetime. As far as
we know, their deaths aren’t related to climate change, but it feels like that.
It feels like an intimation of the sadness I felt when I read <i>Do Androids
Dream of Electric Sheep? </i>and realised all the animals had died.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The name for the bees dying is ‘Colony Collapse Disorder.’
In the past it has had better names. ‘Disappearing disease’ and ‘Spring
dwindle’ are two of the neater ones. The current dying began in 2006 and we
have yet to ascertain the cause. Probable contenders in descending order of
likelihood are:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Neonicotinoids – these are a class of insecticide derived
from, or chemically similar to, nicotine. They are useful in that they affect
insects more than mammals, and because they can be applied to seeds and from
there, provide protection to the whole plant, especially from sap-sucking
insects. They are relatively new and their rise in agriculture coincides with
the death of the bees, so they are a prime suspect. George Monbiot, an
environmentalist whom I greatly admire, points the bone squarely in their
direction. A more thoughtful view is taken by the American apiarist and
biologist Randy Oliver, who keeps abreast of the scientific literature covering
neonicotinoids and their effect on bees. He points out that there seems to be
little correlation between the use of these chemicals and Colony Collapse
Disorder, although more study needs to be undertaken on how long they linger in
the soil, their effects when mixed with other chemicals, particularly
fungicides, and their real-world application (when used correctly they seem to
have a negligible effect on bees, when used heavily in home and municipal
contexts they can cause harm, especially to waterways). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pathogens – a high percentage of beehives can become
infested with the <i>Varroa destructor</i> mite, which weakens bees by sucking
their equivalent of blood. The mite can also carry viruses such as ‘deformed
wing virus’ and ‘Israeli acute paralysis virus.’ The fungus <i>Nosema</i> is also
thought to be a likely culprit in many hives collapsing. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
High-Fructose Corn Syrup – is there anything it can’t do?
Bees are often fed this syrup in winter when there are few natural sources of
nectar. Such a bland diet may weaken their immune system. This may be
exacerbated by bees feeding on a monoculture crop during Spring and Summer.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Apiculture – transporting a hive from one area to another
can make it difficult for bees to find their way home; it can also spread the pathogens mentioned above. Other apicultural practices being touted as possible factors leading to CCD include the artificial control of queen bees, including selecting bees for breeding based on docility (and the concurrent lack of genetic diversity this has brought to bee populations); the use of antibiotics; the selection of <i>which</i> larva is to be fed royal jelly; introducing a
new queen every two years (without interference a queen would normally reign
for five or six); excluding the queen from some areas of the hive and clipping
the queen’s wings. Lastly, the provision of such infrastructure as combs, wax
sheets and ventilation, all of which can be taken care of by the hive itself.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwxmo5yxTNshnQ64CyiULzTm0W7Kq6J_OOIFOFDWuaXbBstNjetYcZAs1t2u79jfd7M_T1bucl6fk9R-14S1XWTNb3KcMkbl6mU30h73Id3EchBcUDP1IY2xZ_9Ic0qhrlgIc69lbO2TY/s1600/dead-bee-fade.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwxmo5yxTNshnQ64CyiULzTm0W7Kq6J_OOIFOFDWuaXbBstNjetYcZAs1t2u79jfd7M_T1bucl6fk9R-14S1XWTNb3KcMkbl6mU30h73Id3EchBcUDP1IY2xZ_9Ic0qhrlgIc69lbO2TY/s1600/dead-bee-fade.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most likely Colony Collapse Disorder arises from a
combination of all of the factors listed above, probably interacting in complex
feedback loops. Although pointing at a single cause, for example neonicotinoids,
is both emotionally satisfying and automatically provides a simple solution, it
does belittle the effort being put in on an international level to pin down the
causes of CCD and combat them. Bees are vital to our food supply. They don’t
just provide honey for your toast, they provide free pollination to a vast
array of crops. So, although “ban neonicotinoids” is a catchy slogan you may
encounter over the coming years, and may prove to actually be the solution,
bear in mind too that these chemicals have been banned already in France with
no discernible effect. As yet there has been no reporting of CCD in <st1:country-region>Australia</st1:country-region>
despite our use of neonicotinoids.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A summation? There appears to be no simple cause or solution
for CCD. A combination of better beekeeping practices and more responsible use
of pesticides would seem to be a good start. Until the crisis is
resolved take a moment, next time you pass a plant covered in flowers, to
appreciate the bees fuzzing its margins, their attention to each bloom, their
tiny perfection. <o:p></o:p></div>
Scott Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246319380445106466noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851246794143905627.post-41056259968714124922013-07-30T18:32:00.000+10:002013-07-30T18:32:35.038+10:00Solar Mathletics<div class="MsoNormal">
A 1.5kW solar photovoltaic system in <st1:city>Melbourne</st1:city>
is supposed to generate an average of 5.4kWh/day. Does it?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My 1.5kW solar PV system has, as of today, generated 4079kWh of electricity
during the 9039 hours it’s been in operation. That’s 4MWh!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m a little stupid, so I used <a href="http://members.iinet.net.au/~jacob/risesetmelb.html">this table</a> to
figure out that the average day length in <st1:city>Melbourne</st1:city>
is 12.10785 hours. Then I realised the average day length anywhere on the
planet will be the same over a whole year – that is, 12 hours. That either
means the table, Melbourne, or celestial mechanics are wrong. Possibly all
three. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, the 9039 hours my PV system has been operating is
equivalent to 753.25 days.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If an average 1.5kW PV system is supposed to generate
5.4kWh/day then mine should have generated 4067.55kWh.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Only 11.45kWh off. That’s probably due to the strange error
in the solar system, and/or <st1:city>Melbourne</st1:city>’s
place in it, identified earlier.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Scott Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246319380445106466noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851246794143905627.post-13196918621623462552013-07-07T17:20:00.000+10:002013-07-07T17:20:48.717+10:00Miru Miru Mega Yokunaru Magic Eye<div class="MsoNormal">
Remember Magic Eye ™? Does it even need a ™? It certainly
makes the question mark look awkward. Anyway, back when grunge and Hypercolor™
were cutting edge Magic Eye books spent a total of more than a year and a half
on the <i>New York Times</i> Bestseller List. It was a simpler time, where
staring at a nonsensical pattern for minutes at a time in order to perceive a
poor quality 3D image was seen as a bit of a laugh. Now that we have computers
you can build them yourself (or at least get a website to build one for you),
so I thought I’d update them for the Age of Terror:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjECJcoFjWvsnhpc6Xxa1FL_grMM-jdCO8S9ar3Hik3swYvd4HAX8AhZAy1Elm9bDei25utzEJYeMf3xmPOwvY3ci-AFFS3oROAKWWNBq3WnNKYor_wZSY7BDz_qLFUbrl0Vr-I4mxJpoU/s1600/Magic+Eye.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="429" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjECJcoFjWvsnhpc6Xxa1FL_grMM-jdCO8S9ar3Hik3swYvd4HAX8AhZAy1Elm9bDei25utzEJYeMf3xmPOwvY3ci-AFFS3oROAKWWNBq3WnNKYor_wZSY7BDz_qLFUbrl0Vr-I4mxJpoU/s640/Magic+Eye.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghK8HTHYJJmLPSTczlJ76vqmdhv6eva3ElvBNhKjsNJJKz3HP7Wj02GUDL7ooiy7uVBoPv3EelITz1EyQ2LKow9FdcKnBF29tnuLO3lil7sELXBVpqlmeXurwbUKD0fT-PMu59IhLJ0uo/s1600/Magic+Eye+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="510" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghK8HTHYJJmLPSTczlJ76vqmdhv6eva3ElvBNhKjsNJJKz3HP7Wj02GUDL7ooiy7uVBoPv3EelITz1EyQ2LKow9FdcKnBF29tnuLO3lil7sELXBVpqlmeXurwbUKD0fT-PMu59IhLJ0uo/s640/Magic+Eye+2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Scott Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246319380445106466noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851246794143905627.post-68789270552114922142013-07-06T13:11:00.000+10:002013-07-06T13:11:20.835+10:00How Long Till I Get Some Fucking Marmite?<div class="MsoNormal">
Just in case you’ve been living under a rock I’ll summarise
the situation:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<st1:date day="22" month="2" year="2011">February 22, 2011</st1:date>:
the Christchurch Earthquake kills 185 people and destroys large areas of the
city – the damage compounded by aftershocks in the coming months.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
November 2011: Sanitarium shuts down production of Marmite
at its <st1:city>Christchurch</st1:city> factory… the
only source of Marmite <i>in the entire world.</i> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<st1:date day="16" month="3" year="2012">March 16, 2012</st1:date>:
I buy one of the last remaining jars of Marmite from <st1:country-region>New
Zealand</st1:country-region> eBay before <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marmite#2012.E2.80.9313_New_Zealand_Marmite_shortage">Marmageddon</a>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<st1:date day="18" month="2" year="2013">February 18, 2013</st1:date>:
I run out of Marmite</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<st1:date day="20" month="3" year="2013">March 20, 2013</st1:date>
– Marmite production starts up again</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today, 3 and a half months later, there’s still no Marmite
on supermarket shelves. Sanitarium have indicated they wish to stock the
product in <st1:country-region>New Zealand</st1:country-region>
before beginning export. Horrifyingly, I watched this <a href="http://www.3news.co.nz/A-tour-of-Marmites-new-factory/tabid/367/articleID/289243/Default.aspx">video</a>
where, behind the cheesy comedy, you can see the new plant in action. It seems
to produce a 250g jar of Marmite every 2 seconds, or 30 per hour. From this we
can start to see the true scale of the problem:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Population of <st1:country-region>New Zealand</st1:country-region>:
4,468,200</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Weeks that plant has been in operation: call it 16</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Worst case scenario - plant operates an hour a day on
weekdays: 1 jar of Marmite for every 31 New Zealanders.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Best case scenario – plant operates 24 hours a day, 7 days
week: at least 1 jar for every New Zealander</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Probable scenario – plant operates for 8 hours per day on weekdays:
another 46 weeks until every New Zealander has a jar and they can start
exporting some to <st1:country-region>Australia</st1:country-region>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Forty-six weeks! And this assumes that the filthy Kiwis are
spreading the stuff abstemiously! What if they’re eating it by the spoonful?
Slathering it all over their obnoxious, sweaty selves and then licking it off
one another with craven delight? If this is the case there might never be
enough to satiate their greed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The solution? I propose we send the Australian Navy to annex
<st1:city>Christchurch</st1:city> and divert all the Marmite
that is being produced to <st1:country-region>Australia</st1:country-region>.
Plausibly we could also send raiding parties into the surrounding countryside
to secure even more of the delicious spread. If nothing else, now that <st1:country-region>Afghanistan</st1:country-region>
is a peaceful democracy, it will give our armed forces something to do (other
than demeaning homosexuals in between bouts of sodomy/hazing-the-new-guy).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I believe we have no other option.</div>
Scott Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246319380445106466noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851246794143905627.post-42734451356137078142013-03-23T18:23:00.000+11:002013-03-23T18:23:39.214+11:00Freezing to Death in a Gamma Garden <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;">
<img height="212" src="http://mw2.google.com/mw-panoramio/photos/medium/6905913.jpg" width="320" /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Gerry leaned against the binnacle and bit into the
nectarine. Juice dribbled down his chin and he sucked frantically at the flesh
of the fruit to avoid losing any more.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Where on Earth did you find that?” asked the Berg. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Below decks,” said Gerry, slurping greedily. “There’s a
whole box of them.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But you’ve been eating nothing but pemmican for nearly two
months now.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I must have missed them. Nooks and crannies down there.
Yesterday I found a book of crosswords.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Berg cracked alarmingly. It was a sunny day and light
blared back from its surface and hurt Gerry’s eyes. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Nevertheless.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Gerry shrugged and continued savouring the nectarine.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“They’re radioactive you know.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Gerry spat the stone noisily overboard. “Bullshit.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, not strictly radioactive, but bred with the aid of
radiation.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Gerry, who had been about to go down to get another one,
turned back. “Really?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Really. After World War Two everyone was trying to find
peaceful uses for atomic energy. Just using it to vaporise Japanese people was
giving it a bad name. They made atomic gardens to try and harness its mutagenic
properties.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wasn’t this a <i>Simpsons</i> episode?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Berg trickled furiously. The sunshine had made its whole
surface run with meltwater. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Don’t be facetious. It’s entirely true. They set up
circular fields with a radioactive slug, cobalt-60 or something equally nasty,
tied to a pole in the middle. The idea was you planted a wedge of a particular
crop and let the radiation work its mutation magic. Close to the centre
everything just died. Further back though you’d get weird effects like giant
fruit or strangely coloured leaves and flowers.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Cool.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Actually, I’m finding it distinctly warm,” said the Berg.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You’re very grumpy today. So what happened with the mutant
plants? And how did they harvest this stuff?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The pole with the radiation source could be retracted into
the ground, then workers would come in to examine what had happened to the
plants.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Voila, radioactive nectarines.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Actually, peach trees mutated by radiation whose progeny
are what, today, we know as the nectarine.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’ll be damned. Any other successes?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Mint oil.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Mint oil?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Mint is particularly susceptible to a particular fungal
wilt. The Americans irradiated hundreds of thousands of shoots and then planted
them in wilt-infested fields. The resulting wilt-resistant cultivar, Todd’s
Mitcham as I believe it’s called, is now the standard crop used in the world’s
mint oil industry. You brushed your teeth with some this morning.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I ate the last of the toothpaste six weeks ago.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You’re going to wish you hadn’t when it comes time to get
all those bits of nectarine out of your teeth.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Very funny. So, nectarines, mint oil… they give it up after
that?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, it’s still happening. Not as popular as back in the
‘60s and ‘70s but they still use it to try and breed new plant varieties today.
The last success we know of was the ‘Rio Star’ – a particularly red variety of
grapefruit.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That we know of?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s all very hush hush. Genetic engineering. Radioactive
mutants. You know – things you don’t want associated with your product.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So how do you know about it?” asked Gerry, turning to head
below deck again. The sun had moved and he was in the Berg’s shadow. When he
tried to lick some of the nectarine juice from his beard it was already starting to
freeze.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“A hippy who was down here in 1976 told me. They parked
their boat alongside me for a few days. He used to like to come and and talk to
me.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Talk to you? You’re an iceberg.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“He was taking a lot of acid.”</div>
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Scott Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246319380445106466noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851246794143905627.post-12731337434245352342013-02-18T18:23:00.001+11:002013-02-18T18:23:42.218+11:00Sodom and Gomorrah<br />
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On Thursday afternoon, by an incredible coincidence, I
finished two very long books that I have been reading for a very long time.
They are Marcel Proust’s <i>À la recherche du temps perdu </i>(or ‘In Search of
Lost Time’) and Robert Jordan’s <i>The Wheel of Time. </i>Proust’s is
considered one of the greatest works of modern literature; <st1:country-region>Jordan</st1:country-region>’s
a great work of fantasy. In nearly every respect they are the total opposite of
one another. In one respect though, they are the same – length. </div>
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Oh, and they both have the word ‘time’ in their titles. </div>
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I started reading <i>The Wheel of Time</i> (or WoT as its
hoards of devotees call it) when it came out in 1990, twenty-three fucking
years ago. Robert Jordan actually died in 2007 and they had to get another guy
to finish it, which he did in January this year. It ran to 14 volumes and a
touch over 4 million words. In contrast, <i>In Search of Lost Time </i>clocks
up only 1.2 million (<i>War and Peace</i>, for comparison, totals 587,000)
across a mere seven volumes. Strangely, I read the first volume, <i>Swann’s Way</i>
at university, counted myself lucky that was all I had to persevere through,
had it itch at me for a while, then started the whole thing again in around
2008.</div>
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So, were they any good? They were, but they’re so different
I can make no real comparison between them. ‘Exile on <st1:street>Main
Street</st1:street>’ compared with Beethoven’s Ninth?
‘Terminator’ compared to Kieslowski’s ‘Blue?’ Jordan himself was an Episcopalian
nuclear engineer who served two tours of <st1:country-region>Vietnam</st1:country-region>
as a helicopter gunner (aside: Michael Herr to a door gunner in <i>Dispatches</i>:
“How do you kill women and children?” Answer: “Just don’t lead ‘em so much”).
Proust was an asthmatic social climber who spent the last three years of his
life confined to his cork-lined bedroom. </div>
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<i>The Wheel of Time</i> was epic fantasy of a sort I don’t
really read any more – I barely read fantasy at all these days. It was done
very well with a big cast of nicely drawn characters, an interesting world,
neat descriptions of sword fighting, a novel conception of magic and a
satisfying resolution. There was a certain amount of disconnect as the years
between each book meant that I started each one with the plot for the previous
volume as a dim memory. I do remember that some of the latter ones penned by
Jordan, say volumes 8-10, were pretty dull, and having a new author brought in
after Jordan died (possibly from RSI after all that typing?) was a definite
breath of fresh air to get the whole thing moving and finished.</div>
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<i>In Search of Lost Time</i> was vast and infrequently
rewarding. It forced me to read slowly and carefully due to its dense, multiply
compounded sentences, sometimes running to more than a page. It drew me in with
accessible portraits of, and ruminations on, obsessive love, then pushed me
away with the tedious minutiae at play between the aristocracy and the
bourgeoisie at the world’s longest and most boring dinner party. It left me
with an impression of Proust as an expert on memory (and what a fantastic thing
on which to be an expert), modestly possessing a huge vocabulary, preoccupied
with class and with homosexuality (or ‘inversion’ as he calls it), a pettily
jealous mummy’s boy, a tender child filled with love for his grandmother, and someone
deeply affected by flowers, particularly hawthorn blossom.</div>
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So, let me cheerfully roll out the usual clichés regarding
high and low culture. <i>The Wheel of Time </i>was a plot-driven, fun read populated
by shallow characters and showing a shallow conception of the world. <i>In
Search of Lost Time </i>was disdainful of plot; a difficult book populated by
multifaceted characters and displaying an almost painful engagement with
existence. I mentioned before that besides being long they also have the word
‘time’ in their titles. A good summation then is the thesis put forward by each
about the nature of time:</div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i>The Wheel of Time: </i>ages come and pass, history occurs
in cycles.</div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i>In Search of Lost Time: </i>people change so radically
from day to day and throughout their lives that there is no consistent ‘person’
left by the passage of time and the process of forgetting. This is only
counteracted occasionally when some chance moment throws us back to the memory
of an earlier time in our lives – this gives birth to a new being who briefly
exists outside time who can look at the past and the present simultaneously
from an atemporal perspective. <o:p></o:p></div>
Scott Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246319380445106466noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851246794143905627.post-48057402180698419472013-02-02T11:52:00.003+11:002013-02-02T11:58:51.037+11:00Culinary Nostalgia<br />
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Back in the year 2000 I lived with Tim Brennan and Conor
Grogan in a filthy share house in Thornbury. None of us could cook, but I was
still taken aback one evening when Tim served us up one of the worst meals I’ve
ever eaten. Afterwards, in a spirit of horrified awe, I wrote down the recipe.
For years I thought I’d lost it, but this morning, cleaning out some old boxes
I found the recipe for….</div>
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<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Tim’s Terrible Tea</span></h3>
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<o:p> </o:p>1 – Boil potato and pumpkin till soft, mash, mix with raw
onion and whole garlic cloves then press into base of casserole dish.</div>
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2 – Top with cauliflower and mushroom.</div>
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3 – Sprinkle with pumpkin seeds, linseed, pepper, garam
masala and cardamom seed.</div>
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4 – Make dodgy vegetarian ‘white sauce’ by heating soy milk
and adding cornflour till you achieve a lumpy liquid. Pour over vegetables.</div>
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5 – Daub with tomato paste and cover with strange chocolate
coloured yoghurt you keep in the fridge.</div>
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6 – Bake in a hot oven until the top is black and the
vegetables are hot, but have not begun to cook.</div>
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7 – Serve.</div>
Scott Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246319380445106466noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851246794143905627.post-75713447745425091172013-01-12T19:50:00.001+11:002013-01-12T20:18:34.848+11:00Guess Who?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiil5y075m7NUUiBSs9SNdK7Ogf-0dunwsDSfJ6-iGIWk07-LAg3PTjDmnFA8sweImifzRqO_OHumZRkEdannhXvm7zqY6ohtigebcy41nVEjCuVb8qyLNlLlMsHOpSrha7ZnKeZCqLutc/s1600/Kissinger+OR+Brahimi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="618" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiil5y075m7NUUiBSs9SNdK7Ogf-0dunwsDSfJ6-iGIWk07-LAg3PTjDmnFA8sweImifzRqO_OHumZRkEdannhXvm7zqY6ohtigebcy41nVEjCuVb8qyLNlLlMsHOpSrha7ZnKeZCqLutc/s640/Kissinger+OR+Brahimi.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Answers...<br />
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Bit further...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEFh5AcDnLRHkOrzUfXfl-nZgmBaFf2PawDrKge1Ai11Q_-tpRjJcyfS4RRkfby_9GSkB5xEBDOWtQhFkHztY3AzPQgOrTDeHqXUpO9W4hdiXYaeZ-1hqIKhZq124p50taLFosPny7BVs/s1600/Kissinger+OR+Brahimi+Answers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEFh5AcDnLRHkOrzUfXfl-nZgmBaFf2PawDrKge1Ai11Q_-tpRjJcyfS4RRkfby_9GSkB5xEBDOWtQhFkHztY3AzPQgOrTDeHqXUpO9W4hdiXYaeZ-1hqIKhZq124p50taLFosPny7BVs/s320/Kissinger+OR+Brahimi+Answers.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />Scott Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246319380445106466noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851246794143905627.post-50594277446597052512012-12-30T12:55:00.002+11:002012-12-30T22:03:05.182+11:00Review: The Hobbit<br />
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Peter Jackson’s adaptations of Tolkien’s works are equations
in which addition and subtraction are crucial. In <i>The Lord of the Rings</i>,<i>
</i><st1:city>Jackson</st1:city> solved the equation
well. Subtracting extraneous elements, such as Tom Bombadil, the Barrow Downs
and the Scouring of the Shire from Tolkien’s narrative made for a better movie.
Additions were minutely scrutinised and, for example in the case of a stronger
‘warrior Arwen,’ largely abandoned.</div>
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In <i>The Hobbit</i>, <st1:city>Jackson</st1:city>
has made a number of additions, both to the story and to the viewing
experience, which are largely unsuccessful. <i>The Hobbit</i> is of course a
far lighter text than <i>The Lord of the Rings</i>, really a children’s story
largely free of the deeper mythology and symbolism present in the <i>LOTR,</i>
and, as such, open to additions in order to improve character and story.
Unfortunately, <st1:city>Jackson</st1:city>’s additions
seem largely to be present in order to create enough material for three movies
rather than any other consideration.</div>
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Least successful is Radagast and his rabbit powered sleigh.
The character, barely mentioned in <i>The Hobbit</i>, is given a larger billing
in the movie as part of the sub-plot concerning Sauron’s rise as the
Necromancer of Dol Guldur. In some respects this is a good addition; it
presents the story in the wider context of a prelude to the <i>LOTR</i>, and
the scenes in Dol Guldur itself, and the meeting of the White Council, are
satisfying additions. Radagast however, is drawn as a largely comic character
in a story already full of comic dwarf, goblin and troll characters. </div>
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A second large addition is that of the orc Azog. As the
conventional hero of the story, Thorin Oakenshield requires an antagonist not
present in <i>The Hobbit</i>, and voila, another character, mostly reproducing
the role already filled by the Great Goblin, is introduced. </div>
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The addition of a major character is a symptom of <st1:city>Jackson</st1:city>’s
largest change to the equation, that of form. <i>The Hobbit</i> could have been
adapted as a single movie with some of the less successful elements, for
instance Beorn, removed. It could have been adapted quite faithfully over two
movies, perhaps with a little playing up of the Dol Guldur/Necromancer subplot
to give it more coherence and relevance as a prequel. To make the adaptation
over three movies, introducing multiple characters and story arcs not present
in the original text is an addition that would not have been tolerated in a <i>LOTR
</i>adaptation, and is only permitted now that <st1:city>Jackson</st1:city>
has attained golden child status amongst Tolkien fans.</div>
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My last gripe about form is the choice to shoot in HFR 3D.
From a purely personal and aesthetic standpoint 3D has been completely
pointless in nearly every movie (<i>Avatar </i>is the only exception) I’ve seen. HFR was continually distracting for the first hour of the film, after which either I was used to it or the proportion of action sequences was higher (it is
most noticeable in non-action sequences). We are a media savvy/saturated
culture, and that that saturation has occurred in 24fps. Until the visual
language of our culture is migrated to 48fps it will always seem jarring for
the first hour of any film. But, since our culture is unlikely to swap to HFR <i>en
masse</i> any time soon, I will have to call the horse bolted on this one. Beta
video might be better quality but VHS won. HFR might be better, but it’s too
late.</div>
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Final word: Decent movie, a few cringeworthy scenes, a few
spectacular scenes. See it in good old 2D, 24fps. 67% </div>
Scott Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246319380445106466noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851246794143905627.post-27676681987513166802012-11-06T12:24:00.001+11:002012-11-06T12:25:16.761+11:00Visual Puns and RecyclingMy new job has left me with little time to post, but in the spirit of keeping my hand in here's a little pun I came up with yesterday:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0SwOGrSE7BIj_MZYR3aRxOinewzvK_dDMBdXZ6pAW2lHPPSGkDJSugWhWZpeVtjacG9AZbO2DT2GLxO3G1C45FhM0BxfsIdTacUBcgh0RgIOrs9wtF8aKcqHdtXPTl0zGQjSs-A4nxhE/s1600/Screwdriver.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="130" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0SwOGrSE7BIj_MZYR3aRxOinewzvK_dDMBdXZ6pAW2lHPPSGkDJSugWhWZpeVtjacG9AZbO2DT2GLxO3G1C45FhM0BxfsIdTacUBcgh0RgIOrs9wtF8aKcqHdtXPTl0zGQjSs-A4nxhE/s640/Screwdriver.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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I prefer one of these myself:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZalUR-XMWFL80EwUqRdPyePUiJdRUpZjfnj5broi2N2e_Xn6QqBlibHh07wXvWt95brhPc4NFIMv0n2FfqNlCNONDsQCIdbtJIv9YEXCsXAY4GLVBdUH86Hg2bAQk267HcMigQ69o2pg/s1600/screwdriver(95).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZalUR-XMWFL80EwUqRdPyePUiJdRUpZjfnj5broi2N2e_Xn6QqBlibHh07wXvWt95brhPc4NFIMv0n2FfqNlCNONDsQCIdbtJIv9YEXCsXAY4GLVBdUH86Hg2bAQk267HcMigQ69o2pg/s200/screwdriver(95).jpg" width="145" /></a><br />
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Though it's a surprisingly mediocre drink for such a classic.<br />
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In other ramblings today is Melbourne Cup Day. As you can see from <a href="http://idiomzero.blogspot.com.au/2011/11/humanity-v-horses.html" target="_blank">this earlier post</a>, the winner today should complete the race in some time less than a minute, while possibly being outrun by Hicham El Guerrouj who, according to Ten News, is already trackside and becoming belligerent.<br />
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Lastly, a hearty congratulations to Minister for Agriculture, Fisheries & Forestry, Senator Joe Ludwig, who managed to dodge Kerry O'Brien's questions about the latest live export fuck-up like a fly dodging a rolled up newspaper. Reading between the lines, I think Senator Ludwig's point was essentially, "we put regulations in place so we can control the slaughter of animals exported overseas. If that sometimes falls in a heap and a bunch of state-sanctioned, drunken butchers happens to be let loose on the odd mob of sheep then so fucking what? We put <i>regulations in place</i> dickhead." No doubt Senator Ludwig's position will shift over the coming days in the face of the inevitable shit-storm.<br />
Typically, I've already covered things in an <a href="http://idiomzero.blogspot.com.au/2011/05/hatred-of-cattle_31.html" target="_blank">earlier post</a>.Scott Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246319380445106466noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851246794143905627.post-31364058584224211392012-09-28T15:00:00.001+10:002012-09-28T15:00:36.312+10:00Life in the Old Dog Yet<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjck4xaPp6tjU0moa1_TfRsRpJbPCZ-GGThv7PzSCw8rT3h7xWHMJefEKeVW6zsxYggkuX2TfOB94SLDz3VjtverIspjwUcc_u4R_uDqMJAr8aMxs9A1IHxZqtTLxBTwSAGPAP8VGsbhUU/s1600/Reboot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjck4xaPp6tjU0moa1_TfRsRpJbPCZ-GGThv7PzSCw8rT3h7xWHMJefEKeVW6zsxYggkuX2TfOB94SLDz3VjtverIspjwUcc_u4R_uDqMJAr8aMxs9A1IHxZqtTLxBTwSAGPAP8VGsbhUU/s640/Reboot.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />Scott Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246319380445106466noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851246794143905627.post-78198848586153271342012-07-30T15:53:00.000+10:002012-07-30T15:53:01.139+10:00Miroslav in America<br />
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I’ve <a href="http://idiomzero.blogspot.com.au/2010/09/mewling-in-face-of-my-own-oblivion.html" target="_blank">previously posted</a> about my desire to
witness or experience something paranormal; about the loneliness of being Scully
in a world of Mulders.</div>
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<span lang="EN-AU">So surely, with the ubiquity of the
internet and the bottomless well of belief that this taps into, I should have
been presented with something odd by now. With all those UFOs in the night sky,
coupled with the millions of people walking around with a camera built into
their phone, surely a few shots should have gone viral by now? Experts should
have been unable to debunk a particularly convincing image. I should’ve seen a
clip of a ghostly apparition where I thought, <i>actually… is that real?</i></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-AU">Well – almost.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-AU">You might have seen this image at some
point on your cyber wanderings:</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-AU"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHlEQTEMITeNLTc8Bco8l2gvyL6JHlbXHlRe8bz9UuWxFCvs8a7P90ZfYAurXKX1qqrFn_QjmL0BCQUoQX4yT4AUbtXATV0WdRuwH7qXRjnpgThh6iaFd61adcfK0lwEJGX_0st6t-pbI/s1600/Weird+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHlEQTEMITeNLTc8Bco8l2gvyL6JHlbXHlRe8bz9UuWxFCvs8a7P90ZfYAurXKX1qqrFn_QjmL0BCQUoQX4yT4AUbtXATV0WdRuwH7qXRjnpgThh6iaFd61adcfK0lwEJGX_0st6t-pbI/s640/Weird+2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Honestly, <i>what is that</i>? My rational side says it’s been Photoshopped, or it’s
some weird animal caught at an odd angle. If neither of those are the
explanation, then we have to go down to the basement and ask Mulder what he
thinks. I did, and his best guess is a hobgoblin.</div>
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<span lang="EN-AU">I plugged the image into Google’s new Image
Search tool which tells me that it first appeared online on <a href="http://www.fiski.net/">www.fiski.net</a> on 12/4/2006, posted by Tom
Hendrix: “Here is a strange creation, I filmed, photographed when the parents'
home in Florida (translated from Russian).” The word ‘creation’ here seems odd,
but maybe that’s an artefact of the translation engine. </span></div>
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The only other explanation I can think of
is that it’s a photo of the guy on the far right in this picture:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1E52HeNa2pL0SK3q5Wl3qDF3VdZhRWWoCXooOEiO0PCjJe2ON3fMsKkA_Q_e39zCT8v4tWYKSWnLb6gn7TMIDoVtmMHPNr9IfHXD6HOyc3svpo764mwnav6HQrg6Ew8kVofJii8BXlGc/s1600/Weird.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="430" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1E52HeNa2pL0SK3q5Wl3qDF3VdZhRWWoCXooOEiO0PCjJe2ON3fMsKkA_Q_e39zCT8v4tWYKSWnLb6gn7TMIDoVtmMHPNr9IfHXD6HOyc3svpo764mwnav6HQrg6Ew8kVofJii8BXlGc/s640/Weird.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-AU">This one first appeared online at <a href="http://www.kalerab.sk/">www.kalerab.sk</a> on </span><st1:date day="30" month="7" year="2007"><span lang="EN-AU">30/7/2007</span></st1:date><span lang="EN-AU">. Perhaps this young man, let’s call him Miroslav as this is a
common Slovak name and the website is from </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-AU">Slovakia</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-AU">,
fled the Nazis (or perhaps his uncouth brother, second from left) shortly after
this photo was taken. Escaping to </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span lang="EN-AU">America</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span lang="EN-AU">
he worked for many years on the General Motors production line, but was
continually persecuted for his unusual appearance. Eventually Miroslav was retrenched
from his job and forced to live on the streets. Years later, old and thin, he was
snapped by Tom Hendrix running across his parent’s backyard.</span></div>
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<br /></div>Scott Howardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06246319380445106466noreply@blogger.com0