Trevor Ludlow: Australian Folk Hero

When I consider the amount of money tradespeople seem to make in comparison to my meager salary as  an under-employed office wage-slave, it does give me pause to consider that I may have made the wrong career choice and should have become a tradesperson instead.

I often sit hunched over my keyboard at work, furiously typing, with visions of the life I would be leading if I had taken a different path. I see myself on a construction site; stony faced, resolute and shirtless, as I down carton-after-carton of 'Oak' iced coffee, deep fried treats from the nearest bain marie whilst casually wolf-whistling at passing women and cultivating some honest Australian melanomas.

Friends of mine who work in the building industry, or have trades themselves, are quick to shatter my idealistic illusions when it comes to this sort of work. They point out that I'm not physically fit enough, the work itself can be tedious and repetitive and I would simply not cope with hours-on-end of Triple M being blasted through the airwaves on a building site. 

This does give me pause to consider my position, and I realise that even beside these points, I would have a hard time hiding my lilly-livered past and un-calloused hands from my co-workers. What would they say when they found out I studied a semester of romantic poetry at university?

Worse still is the fact that I tend to get quite angry and have altercations with people whenever I try to complete any task involving manual labour. A lot of people that know me are aware that I'm a pretty placid fellow and nothing really riles me up, but if you've known me long enough, you'll realise that every year or so there will be some incident that sends me into an uncontrolled rage that is quite disturbing to behold. The worst part is I never know what the trigger is going to be.

The last time I remember it happening was about a year ago when I trimmed back the hedges in our garden. A modest amount of green waste was produced which was enough to fill the back of our Holden Astra hatchback. Normally I just pay the $25 fee to dump it at our local tip, but on this occasion I noticed the adjoining council let you dump a boot-load of green waste for free. I decided to travel a fair distance to take them up on this offer. 

When I arrived at the transfer station, I was greeted by a slack-jawed, overweight individual with the hooded-eyes of someone who just seemed to be going through the motions of being alive, whilst secretly praying for an early death. 

"Forty bucks," he said.

"Um, Isn't it free for a boot-load of green waste?" I replied.

"Yeah, but you've got the back seat down, so that doesn't count as a boot-load"

I could feel tensions rising. Foolishly I thought I could ease the pressure by being a smart-ass. 

"Well, I suppose I could just dump some of the waste on the pavement, put the seat up and do two trips. It would be free then, right?"

His gormless expression remained unaltered.

"Yeah, but then I'd have to call the police"

Uh-oh, the trigger had been pulled. If I was wearing purple pants they would have been torn to ribbons. Eyewitnesses would have commented that my skin appeared to turn green. I'm not even sure what I said to the guy after this point, but I know I felt deeply embarrassed and it probably involved a stream of expletives. It's weird, but in situations like this, it almost feels like an out-of-body experience and I'm just  an observer. I remember that nothing I said or did had any effect on the guy and the fact that he saw me as such a non-threat just acted as a feedback-loop strengthening my rage.

I freely admit that I was in the wrong here. I should have just taken it on the chin, but there's something about pettiness and humourlessness that I simply can't stand.

A while ago I was watching a documentary about Elton John. There was some rather candid footage of him berating someone about some ultimately inconsequential matter. His anger seemed like it would have been legitimate to him, but confusing for onlookers who were unaware of the source of the anger. I immediately recognised the behaviour as similar to my own. What to me seems like unbridled rage, to others comes across as a confusing hissy-fit. I can't even get angry properly!

Recently I had to trim the hedges in our backyard again and I was terrified of another similar incident occurring.

This time I took the waste to our local transfer station. I was charged a comparatively reasonable $25 and managed to dump the waste without incident. I felt that I had made up for my previous indiscretion and had been welcomed back into the open arms of the Aussie battlers who just go about their business with a minimum of fuss.

To celebrate my new-found status as an upright member of the community, I decided to stop at the recycling centre that had been set up at the entrance to the transfer station. If it's one thing that I'm always a sucker for, it's a fascination with things that people throw away. I spent a pleasant ten minutes rifling through some mouldy-old garbage before leaving through the side door of the building. 

A yellow-vested worker was sorting through recently-arrived stock. I gave him a pleasant smile before heading back towards my car.

Suddenly, I was stopped in my tracks.

"Where are you going?" the man said sternly.

"Um, back to my car," I said, pointing in the direction of my vehicle.

"You're supposed to leave through the main entrance," he said, in a tone which sounded like I had personally affronted him.

"Sorry, I didn't know. My car is just here," I said, Indicating that my car was only a few feet away.

"So's mine," said the worker. 

He tilted his head indicating that I should walk back inside the shop and leave through the front entrance.

I could feel the finger on the trigger. It was about to be pulled.

Pettiness... Check!

Humourlessness... Check!

But wait!

I'm an adult - shouldn't I just do what the guy wanted? 

So, I'd have to walk an extra 50 feet to my car. What's the big deal?

I considered my options. 

This was my chance to prove I was a bigger person than him.

I felt the rage subsiding.

I gave the guy a subtle wink.

I had made up my mind. 

I wasn't going to do what the man wanted. 

That would be stupid and childish.

Instead, I skipped the last couple of feet back to my car as if I was Dorothy skipping down the Yellow Brick Road. I cheerily waved goodbye as the yellow-vested man shook his head and muttered under his breath.

I hadn't done what the man wanted, but I was proud of myself for not getting angry this time. I considered my actions on the way home. In a way I was similar to Ned Kelly. Surely, I was just railing against an unjust law? In a way wasn't I just continuing the long tradition of the Australian larrikin spirit? Maybe I should reconsider my undying respect for tradespeople and the Australian working man? Doesn't this just prove they are just as trapped by rules and regulations as me?

More importantly, don't these people need outlaws like me to prove it's possible to beat the system?

"I'm the real Aussie hero," I thought to myself, as I drove off into the early morning sunrise.

 

Mull of Kintyre

It's funny how certain songs can take on different and sometimes sinister meanings to the ones originally intended when considered in a broader cultural landscape. Take for example The Beatles' song 'Helter Skelter', which is a McCartney-penned tune that allows him to serviceably ape John Lennon's stronger rock aesthetic and is ostensibly about a children's playground ride. When considered as part of Charles Manson's manifesto in the late 60s, it will be forever be culturally linked to Manson's brief murderous rampage, which is a pity, because The Beatles don't deserve that comparison.

Like The Manson Family, The Ludlow Family also have their own unofficial anthem - 'Mull of Kintyre' by Wings. Bizarrely, it is also a McCartney-penned tune, but unlike 'Helter Skelter' the song already had a bad reputation when it was released in 1977. This can simply be put down to a case of bad timing, as a gentle folk song about McCartney's home didn't really fit in with the dominant punk sound of the time. McCartney was also increasingly being criticised for being a bit too comfortable and writing too many 'silly love songs', even though ballads are probably his strongest suit as a composer - you don't need to look further than 'Hey Jude' for proof of that.

I admittedly have towed the popular line of dislike for the song and have been dismissive of 'Mull of Kintyre' in the past, but I have started to warm to it in recent years - there is just too much family history associated with the song to not have some sort of affection for it. I'm like the opposite of Alex from 'A Clockwork Orange', who was taught to associate Beethoven with ultra-violence. Instead I have come to associate 'Mull of Kintyre' with pleasant and often hysterical memories from my childhood.

For a start, every New Year's Eve our family would sing 'Mull of Kintyre' at the stroke of midnight for our celebrated Ludlow family street parties. Sadly, these occurred during the 1970s and would often involve conga lines. My mother never knew the words to 'Auld Lange Syne', so instead she would sing 'Mull of Kintyre'. This is typical of my mother's often bizarre leaps of logic and I really think she could have been a comedian if, indeed, she had ever been aware of how hysterically funny she can be. I'm still not sure.

I also seem to recall the video clip being played during the crucial nexus point between episodes of 'Doctor Who' and 'The Goodies' on the ABC. This is probably where my sister Karen developed her unwavering love for the song. I was a  bit more reticent but anything played during this time usually is filtered directly into a child's cerebral cortex and cannot help but have at least some positive connotations on a developing mind. Another favourable memory from that time is 'Love is All' from 'The Butterfly Ball'.

'Mull of Kintyre' probably reached its lowest point in my estimation during the 1990s when I played in several semi-popular Brisbane bands. I've never been in a 'grunge' band, but as a young man I couldn't help but be self-consciously aware of the dominant paradigm of the time. Often I would invite my parents to the more low-key and less sleazy shows and invariably my mother would yell out for us  to play 'Mull of Kintyre' at some point during the set. I think we actually indulged her a few times.

All the bands I was associated with invariably played at my wedding. My wife Edwina played in a band called The Zebras, who did a tight professional set. I, however, decided to just play with my buddies in a ramshackle jam-band that started out entertaining enough, but soon devolved into an unholy drunken mess. We ended the night with a funk-rock fusion version of 'Mull of Kintyre', with me slurring the half remembered lyrics over the top. It makes me laugh and cringe in equal quantities, but I think it was a fitting end to a day that began with my friends Dylan and David singing Willie Nelson's 'Crazy' through a megaphone as the wedding processional song.

I've actually been reassessing Paul McCartney's solo work in recent years and think some of it is really great. I've always liked the singles 'Band on The Run' and 'Let 'em In' but I have also recently embraced whole albums such as 'McCartney II' which is a great example of how to do a home recording and features the single 'Coming Up'. I also have developed some respect for the way he backed off from the music industry and made Wings more of a family affair. He knew he didn't have anything else to prove, so why shouldn't he just do what he wants?

Probably the main reason I have elevated 'Mull of Kintyre' to a higher status is because I've discovered another McCartney song that is more worthy of my baffled contempt. 'Wonderful Christmas Time' released by McCartney in 1980 is a woefully pedestrian and uninspired Christmas song that makes 'Mull of Kintyre' sound like a stone-cold classic. I have to admit, however, that after playing 'Wonderful Christmas Time' during the last couple of Ludlow Christmases - I'm starting to warm to it!

    

Goodbye My Love

I was reminded of the scene from Stanley Kubrick's '2001: A Space Odyssey' in which astronaut Dave Bowman was forced to shut down a malfunctioning HAL computer, as I undid the screws from the number plate on my 1971 Holden HG Sedan. With each turn of the screwdriver, part of my car's life and very essence seemed to dissipate before my eyes, in the same way that HAL's malevolent personality did in the film. In the darkness, I tried to remove the final screw by torchlight, when I was suddenly distracted by the tune 'Daisy', which drifted into my consciousness:

"Daisy, Daisy, tell me your answer, do."

I ignored the sudden pang of guilt that struck me and continued turning. The voice seemed slower now.

"I'm - half - cray - zeee."

The tune continued in the background as I noticed that the final screw wasn't coming out. It seemed to have been threaded and was turning on the spot. A final desperate cling to life? A last gasp before the grim hand of death reached out for my beloved? Memories came flooding back of our brief yet torrid time together.

* * * * *

Upon reflection, you were more like a girlfriend that my friends couldn't understand, than HAL the homicidal computer. You were a seventies model and therefore didn't have the same prestige in their eyes. Most of my friends preferred the 1960s EH series. They tolerated our affair, however, because you were a classic Holden and therefore commanded some respect. My mother never liked you. I suspect you didn't fit in to her idea of what she imagined was our family's status in society. My car was from the wrong side of the tracks and therefore our love was never meant to be.

Other less-cultured car enthusiasts were confused by my unwillingness to put mags on you, lower your suspension and generally hot-you-up. They didn't understand. I loved you for what you were, not for what you could become. That is what true love is. Unconditional.

Alas, being a male, there was always going to be something about a woman that I could never understand and I freely admit I wasn't able to give you what you needed. I never read the signs of what was wrong with you until it was too late. Problems escalated from oil leaks and worn-out gaskets to rear axle problems and a near fatal incident involving the ball joint coming off the front-left axle and the car skidding 20 meters on sheer metal. I wasn't to know that little problems would become bigger problems and eventually overwhelm our relationship. Like a typical male I never read the warning signs. 

Was it because I had no experience with cars growing up? 

Was it because I went to a boys-only high school and therefore couldn't
understand the complex female psyche?

We had so much in common. We were both born in the same year. This made me especially protective towards you. Every rust spot, dent, or skip in the motor was an analogy for my own sad decline, in the same way as a wrinkle or a grey hair. When I travelled in the elevator at Waterfront Place (one of the tallest buildings in Brisbane), I marvelled at the number of buttons that filled up the display panel and realised that I'd soon be alive for more years than the building contained floors. It made me wonder about your own dark past and who had owned you before I did. I wasn't jealous, however, just intrigued by your mystery; a puzzle I was never likely to solve.

The only thing about your past of which I was certain, involved your previous owner's promise that you'd be mine if I could rescue you from the ditch you were stuck in at the back of his house. I went to considerable time and expense pulling you out with the aid of a tow truck, before realising that I could have driven you out if I'd only checked to see if there was any petrol in your tank. I spent a considerable amount of money getting you on the road again and nursing you back to health. Being a poor student at the time, the only maintenance I could perform on you in the intervening years was with tools I owned myself - a phillips-head screwdriver and an old Target socket set. You deserved better than I could offer and I knew it. That's why I was ashamed to show you to other mechanics, for fear of the retribution I would receive because of your obvious neglect. The only person I really allowed to work on you was my girlfriend's father, because, hopefully, he would understand that I wasn't some kind of abusive monster, rather, just someone who appreciated your beauty but couldn't understand your complexities.

We were star-crossed lovers and therefore - like the best romances - our story had to end in tragedy. I realised one day that if we both were to survive, then our love had to end. We could no longer give each other what we truly needed. I decided that I had to give you to another. I realised that you might not survive the transition to another owner and that you could possibly end up being used as parts. I tried to comfort myself by considering your demise in the same way as an organ donor might. You'd die so that another may live. I selfishly wished you'd survive because that's the thought which comforted me the most.

* * * * * 

I returned to the job at hand and finally decided to wrench myself away from her clutches before I succumbed to my maudlin thoughts. She had to understand. It's was the best thing for both of us. I couldn't remove the threaded screw so I simply decided to pull the soft metal of the numberplate away. A wave of remorse overwhelmed me as I looked towards her form in the moonlight. I imagined what she must have looked like coming off the production line and the bright future that she believed surely awaited her. It grieved me to see it end, yet in the semi darkness the ravages of time no longer showed. I remember her like this. I drew the tarpaulin over and walked away. Although she may be gone from my life, I hope that somehow she'll realise all the good times we shared will remain with me forever.

A Year of Trev's Treehouse!

Here it is, friends - the fulfilment of a New Years' resolution from December 31, 2011. One blog-post every week for a year. I must say, I think it's the first resolution that I ever managed to keep. It feels pretty good.

It sure has been a lot of fun to do on weekends and helped me clear some of the cobwebs from my brain and articulate some thoughts that had been swimming around in the aether. Even weeks when it seemed like a pointless exercise were helped by the encouraging words from loyal fans on Twitter and Facebook - you know who you are - Thanks!

When I started, I considered one blog-post a week to be quite a daunting task. I found that once I started, other ideas sprang to mind, so there was never a short supply of things to write about. It also occurred to me during the course of the year that real writers write every day. Writing for one day on the weekend is not really that much of a work-load.

As for consistency of quality, the words of comedian Ben Elton come to mind. He was interviewed several years ago on the Andrew Denton program. Denton asked Elton a rather astute and forthright question mildly disparaging the quality of Elton's work when compared to the sheer volume produced. Elton's simple response was 'I don't think if I had done any less that I would have made something better.'

I didn't agree with this for years until I started writing this blog. I always thought pursuing any art form consisted mostly of divine inspiration, but I came to realise that waiting for inspiration often means essentially doing nothing. This goes for any other artistic endeavour I have tried over the years. There is a massive element of craftsmanship involved in any art produced and it is important to keep those skills honed. Elton wouldn't have produced something like 'The Young Ones' if he had not worked consistently and was lucky enough to find himself in a position where inspiration and craftsmanship coincided.

The other person which springs to mind at this all-important crossroads is Jeremy Hillary Boob PHD,  an animated character from the Beatles' film 'Yellow Submarine.' He is the quintessential 'Nowhere Man' from the song of the same name. Jeremy spends his time making poems, writing novels, composing piano concertos and painting pictures, whilst whiling away his time in 'Nowhere Land.'

I always feel a twinge of guilt every time I hear the song 'Nowhere Man.' The only element of the song that offers some comfort is the line 'isn't he a bit like you and me.' John Lennon sang that line! Maybe if he considers himself a nowhere man, then I'm not doing that badly after all.

Looking back on my earlier blogs, it occurs to me that they are stylistically similar to the more recent ones. Hopefully now they flow a little bit better. Over the course of the year I can honestly say I came to loathe any comments I made in parentheses and now try to avoid them at all costs (they still slip in from time to time.)

Also, I don't think I really succeeded in my quest to find out what a semi-colon is supposed to be used for and whenever I encounter them in my blogs they seem to be rather shoe-horned in. I suppose this is why successful writers have editors.

My advice to anyone wanting to write a popular blog would be to consistently write about one category. I find these boring, but a lot of successful blogs seem to stick to a theme. Originally I was going to call this blog 'The Long Bow' as I thought the one consistent thread in all my writing seemed to be that I tend to end up a long way from the initial starting point of the subjects I write about. Maybe this would have caught people's imaginations? Who knows?

The weekly deadline did take me to unexpected places and some interesting asides that I'm quite proud of include the political commentary of 'I Don't Know' and 'Thanks for the Advice, Gina!', the post-apocalyptic musings of 'Omega Man' and 'A Portrait of the Artist' as well as heart-on-sleeve confessionals of 'Hello You!', 'Bad Hair', 'Here We Go' and 'This Unsporting Life.'

As for reviews, my greatest success is still The Kinks' review contained in 'This is Hardcore Preservation Society Part 1', but I am most proud of the 'George Saunders: The Brain Dead Megaphone' review which was initially  not a popular blog, but has grown consistently in readership over the months.

There wasn't a big focus on art, but I thought my overviews of 'Robert Hughes' and 'Jeffrey Smart' accurately portrayed my understanding of both men. There was, of course, several self-indulgent autobiographical essays which hopefully made sense outside of the confines of my own reminiscences. These included 'Remembering the Village Twin', 'My Greatest Literary Achievement' and 'Apollo 13.'

It occurs to me that I now operate in the exact opposite manner to when I was a child. When I was little I would try anything. One week I wanted to be a soccer star, or else play the bagpipes or be a gymnast. All of these things I would give up almost instantly. These days if I start something I tend to stay with it no matter what. Surely there is some merit in quitting at the right time and knowing when something has run its course? It's something I have yet to learn.

Until then there are still poems and novels to write, piano concertos to compose and pictures to paint.

My New Year's resoltion is complete.

I'll probably see you next week.

Thanks for reading,

Trev xo

The Continuing Rise of WTF with Marc Maron

A few years ago I was getting a bit sick of inane radio talkback and was dabbling in a few audio books and podcasts to accompany me on the drive to work and weekend jogs. A friend recommended the 'WTF with Marc Maron' podcast. I don't necessarily follow up all recommendations from friends, but in this case I'm glad I did, because the podcast has been essential bi-weekly listening for the last couple of years.

As it turns out, I joined-in on the show at exactly the right time. The first episode I remember listening to was the now-infamous 'Gallagher' episode, in which Maron reluctantly interviewed ageing prop-comic Leo Gallagher. This episode marked the only occasion that an interviewee has walked out on the program, as a result of Maron calling Gallagher into question over homophobic and racist content in his stage act. It was a striking introduction to the program and instantly added a new addition to my lexicon of obscure pop-culture catch phrases - 'Aw c'mon, Gallagher!'

When Maron started the podcast, he was, by his own admission, at his wits' end. Recently fired from a presenting job at Air America, twice divorced, a recovering alcoholic, a stand-up career hitting the skids and rapidly approaching middle-age; WTF was born out of desperation and presented a more humbled individual presenting what was basically an interview-show broadcast on the World Wide Web out of his garage in the suburbs of LA.

What Maron lacked in technical expertise and a promotional budget, he made up for with a few decades of insider-knowledge of the film and comedy world and a rolodex full of contacts of people he had met over the years. The unique perspective Maron had on most of these interviews was a combination of his pent-up resentment for the success of most of his guests, combined with a genuine desire to follow step eight of the Alcoholics' Anonymous manifesto, which requires participants to make amends to people they have wronged. An episode that typifies this early interview style was with Louis C.K., who was one of Maron's estranged friends and is currently a comedy golden-boy.  It was, at times, a tense interview, but it all seemed to work out okay in the end and spawned another memorable catch-phrase - 'Are We Good?'

Louis C.K.

I'm an Australian and admittedly am not familiar with a lot of the comics that Maron interviews; in fact I would go so far as to say I veer more towards the Monty Python style of surrealist sketch comedy that often seems to vex Maron, than the heart-on-your-sleeve confessional style that Maron seems to favour. But you know what? - it doesn't matter. The professional status of the interviewee often seems to be irrelevant, because the majority of WTFs are basically intimate conversations between two human beings.

Perhaps it's the fact that Maron has been through the emotional wringer in recent years that people seem to be able to be open up to him about surprisingly intimate details of their lives. Maron himself also seems to have a sixth sense about guiding subjects towards incidents and emotions that most people would have a hard time talking about. The most striking example of this was a two-part episode featuring The Onion writer Todd Hanson. Maron felt Hanson was avoiding an issue after their initial interview and convinced Hanson to sit down for a second interview. Hanson then admitted that in 2009 he tried to commit suicide - in the very hotel where the interview was taking place! It's engaging stuff that easily could have slipped through the cracks from a less skilled interviewer.

Todd Hanson

I was initially a little wary when Maron decided to expand his interview base of comedians to also include actors and musicians, but these interviews turned out to be just as intriguing. I think it helps that I am in my early forties and Maron and I have similar tastes in music. Some musicians he has interviewed are among my all time favourites, such as Nick Lowe and Lucinda Williams. Even musicians I'm not familiar with such as Jakob Dylan have been interesting, because Maron has used his magic on them to bring out some trademark candour.

If I had to choose my least favourite aspect of the podcast, it would probably be the live shows. These usually consist of a panel of comedians in front of a live audience. They are perfectly entertaining, but lack the intimate one-on-one of the 'garage' interviews. I am, however, not averse to Maron's stand-up and actually went to see him about two years ago at The Melbourne Comedy Festival. He seemed a little disappointed that the room wasn't full, but continued on good-naturedly. I especially liked the aspect of his act where he would take out his note book and try and remember what hastily scribbled ideas for jokes actually meant in hindsight.

I saw Maron after the show and had a brief chat to him. I wanted to tell him that even though the show wasn't full, there were a lot of Australian comedians in attendance, including, Peter Hellier, Tony Martin and Gatesy from Tripod. I didn't, though - I thought it might seem a bit condescending. Maron gave me a 'WTF' sticker which I have proudly displayed on my car ever since. Recently, someone rear-ended my car and I remember worrying that I would lose my sticker when the hatchback door was replaced. This seemed more important at the time than the cost of the damage, or the fact that my daughter was in the back seat. Luckily the pane of glass with the sticker wasn't replaced. Oh - my daughter was okay as well!

Maron's pet-peeve recently seems to be that people tend to fast-forward through the introduction and outros of the podcast and only listen to the actual interviews. This is a shame. I love hearing what Maron has been up to - updates on his relationship with girlfriend Jessica, news on his bipolar father and mother with an eating disorder and, sadly, the disappearance of beloved cat and show mascot 'Boomer'. He even has helpful tips on how to 'season' cast-iron frying pans if you would care to listen.

Mel Brooks

Recently the calibre of interviewees has really laid testament to the success of the show. The one-two punch of having comedy legends Mel Brooks and Carl Reiner interviewed in the same week was especially triumphant. Brooks was clearly impressed with Maron's historical perspective on comedy and even suggested Maron would be a great late-night TV talkshow host. Maron's phoenix-like rise from the ashes has not only been noted by Brooks, but also other television producers and book publishers. Maron will star in a new comedy series later this year based loosely on his life and the podcasts and will release a book of comedy essays. His last comedy album 'This Has to be Funny' was something of a cult hit and he has recently started appearing in movies such as 'Sleepwalk with Me' and on old-pal Louis C.K.'s show 'Louie.'

Maron has confessed on more than one occasion that he doesn't deal well with success and has often counteracted this success by 'daring people to like him.' Looking back on WTF, it is this adversity that made the show appealing and a dark part of my soul almost wishes something bad would happen so we don't lose the wounded and cornered Marc Maron we have come to know and love. Mostly, though, I have faith that the newer, happier Marc Maron is mature enough now to enjoy his success. We like you Marc Maron - deal with it!

 

Apollo 13

I'd like to think I'm pretty forgiving of most people's faults, however, I just can't stand it when people are late. If I had to trace this hatred for tardiness back to its origin, I think I'd find it evolved from almost any family holiday I've ever taken. We just never could get away on time!

No matter what the destination, there always seemed to be some incident that would arise to delay our departure, usually involving arguments over the ridiculous amount of paraphernalia we would attempt to pack for even the shortest holiday. After a long and laborious process of spacial visualisation, we would depart several hours late and then sit in stony-faced and cramped silence in the car for several hours until we reached our destination.

One particular holiday debacle has always stuck with me. I don't remember where we were going, or any events on the holiday, but I vividly remember the comedy of errors that led to this particular late departure.

I suppose I would have been about ten years old when we were preparing for this fateful trip. We had no pets that required high maintenance, but I had a salt-water fish tank in my room in which I kept some semi-exotic reef fish which included a star fish, a sea anemone, a clown fish and a blue damselfish that had a striking yellow tail. Perhaps rather incongruously, I also had a whiting which I had caught fishing. It was too small to eat. He ended up being a pet instead! It sounds pretty weird in hindsight. Why didn't we just get a dog?

Anyway, my father and I had to move the fish tank downstairs to the garage, so the neighbours could feed the fish while we were away. We emptied about half the water from the tank and stored the fish in a bucket until we had completed the transfer process. Unfortunately, we were over-confident in regards to our furniture-removal abilities and the shifting weight of the water caused the tank to slip from our hands after only a few steps. The tank smashed on the floor, resulting in saltwater, seaweed and rocks being strewn across the carpet and sentencing my fish to a hellish existence inside a cleaning bucket.

My dad must have noticed the look of horror on my face and in that instant decided that the mission brief had changed. The fish were no longer simply being transported to another area of the house - now they had to be rescued! My fish were like the astronauts in Apollo 13 - there had been an accident and now their lives were in danger. The moon was unfortunately no longer in their grasp.

We lived about a fifteen minute car ride away from Cleveland Point at the time. My dad and I decided our only rescue option was to release them back into the bay. We parked near the boat ramp at Cleveland Point. The tide was partially out, revealing an expanse of thick grey mud, perpetually slimy rocks  and sharp mangrove roots grasping towards the sky. We took our scaly heroes down the slippery concrete boat ramp and released them into the shallow murky waters.

The whiting took off into deeper water straight away, no doubt pleased to be back in his natural environment. My other reef fish were a different story. They languidly drifted about, not seeming too sure what to make of this new world. Their bright colours were a striking contrast to the dull-grey of the Cleveland Point mud, which made them appear especially vulnerable.

The astronauts had been rescued and returned to earth, but it seems the world had changed around them. They were probably expecting bright corals, clear waters and a vast variety of oceanic life that you might expect on The Great Barrier Reef. Instead, they now resided in shallow murky water that seemed to stretch on forever, concealing all manor of hidden dangers.

My dad assured me that the fish would be alright, but I had my doubts. It seemed we were about to go on holiday, but the holiday was over for my beloved pets. This incident may have contributed to my life-long hatred for tardiness, but the secret hope that my fish survived only helped to fuel my belief in self-delusion.

God-speed John Glen!

A Blank Slate

A while ago I was browsing through my favourite record shop, 'Round and Round Records' on Sydney Road at Brunswick, when I was surprised and delighted to find an old friend working behind the counter. I offered a friendly 'hello' and a warm smile that only comes effortlessly through years of acquaintance. I was surprised to find that my 'friend' behind the counter didn't return my affections and remained stony-faced. Sure, we had never been especially close, but what had I done to deserve this scorn?

It was then that I realised the person behind the counter was merely a doppelganger of someone I had met twenty years previously.  In a different city! I felt mildly embarrassed and explained to the man that I had mistaken him for someone else. For some reason, I also asked if the man knew my friend. Of course he didn't, but said he'd look online to see if he could find some pictures. I begged him not to look while I was still in the store; after all, my friend was now 20 years older and didn't look the same. Maybe the record-store clerk might have taken offence?

My embarrassment would have been more severe in this situation if this sort of thing didn't happen to me all the time. I often find myself walking down the street and waving at people I think I know, only to realise after passing them and receiving a blank stare, that I'm imprinting on strangers the faces and personalities of people I've met long ago, as if time had suddenly stood still somewhere in the late 1990s.

Memory is a funny thing. I don't know if I'm alone in remembering things in non-chronological order, but I suspect I'm not. I think memory to me is something like a book. When I read a book I often don't remember all the details, but the bits I like tend to stay with me and are stored away for future reference, with the less important details being discarded and slowly dissolving over time.

Incidents of mistaken identity do tend to send me on something of a lonesome reverie, though, and I find myself dredging up details of the past that are hidden deep within the memory banks. These are mostly memories involving friends and good times, but also things I wish I could forget, like missed opportunities, stupid things I've done and time I've wasted through what more generous people might refer to as my 'laconic' attitude to life. I have more correctly diagnosed this attitude as 'sheer laziness'.

It was during one of these recent reminiscences that an answer occurred to me regarding a question I had long considered: Why would anyone become a Scientologist?

Admittedly, I know very little about the so-called 'religion', but what I do know makes it sound like a cynical bunch of bat-shit crazy money-grubbing individuals taking advantage of naive and emotionally vulnerable people. From what I understand, when you join Scientology you're expected to not bring any of the baggage of the past with you and start again as a new person. This one aspect sounds tremendously appealing. Maybe if I was freed from the shackles of my friends and family, my past and, invariably, my immense wealth, would I be truly free to fulfil my potential and become... What, a senior member of the Church of Scientology?

Hmmm... Doesn't sound as appealing as I first thought. Maybe my past isn't dark enough to warrant me taking such drastic measures. It seems I'm not yet vulnerable enough to be preyed on by such an organisation. Perhaps after I've murdered someone and can no longer live with the torturous memory, then I might reconsider my position. Until then, I think I will be happy with mildly embarrassing myself in front of strangers who I profess to know and feeling the occasional pang of guilt about things I've done in the past.

Just like most people, I suspect.