Author: Anthony

Anthony http://unclearfrisson.blog
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Amorosity now: part 1

Dance for money? No.

As a semi-retired 50-something, I make a bit of beer money doing crowd control. (Not that I drink any more; approaching 4 years sober, yay!) Lots of walking most nights, and usually I’m teamed up with a person I’ve never met before. It would be awkward to stay silent for 6+ hours, so interesting conversations nearly always evolve during the course of a long shift.

Recently, my walking partner for the night was asking where to find alternatives to sporadic event work. I welcomed the question, given it diverged from the standard ‘MMA beats boxing, yeah?’ and explained the various possibilities: construction site security, mobile patrols, pubs, and… strip joints.

“Do you work in a strip club, too, bro?”
“No, I don’t think many people would pay to see me semi-naked.”
“C’mon, I meant as a guard.”
“Right. I see ads now and again. Occasionally, I’m tempted.”
“And?”
“I never apply.”
“I see. Oh, you have a wedding band. I guess it would upset your wife.”
“It wouldn’t. No.”
“Really?”
“I’ve run the idea past her a few times, and she seems okay with it.”
“So what’s stopping you?”
“My wife.”
“I don’t follow.”
“The first time I canvassed the idea I got a green light. This was unexpected.”
“I bet.”
“Indeed. So I asked if she was worried I might ogle some of working ladies.”
“And was she?”
“No. And, to follow up, I did ask *why* she wasn’t worried.”
“What did she say?”
“She asked if ever wore glasses on shift. And I said rarely; only when checking IDs.”
“A workplace health and safety thing, surely.”
“Spot on. So she made the point that I wouldn’t be staring with much accuracy.”
“Hah!”
“Yeah, I conceded a valid point. At best, I’d be looking at heavily-pixelated dancers.”
“And that was the end of it?”
“It was not. A few months later, I was tempted to apply at a strip club.”
“And you got another green light?”
“Bingo. Which lead to another question.”
“Eyesight related?”
“No. I asked if she was worried one of the ladies might, you know, take a shine to me.”
“And?”
“She fainted with laughter.”

She’s still laughing.

I’m still trying to read the heating instructions for my microwave meal.

JetSkiing: 54 hour review

Like a lot of people during The Covid Times, we watched a heap of YouTube to pass some time. In particular, we binged a lot of local camping / caravanning / 4×4 / boating content. Inspired – and with no nautical skills whatsoever – we decided to get some boat licences, buy a Sea-Doo, and have some fun. By and large, it was a good decision, which is not to say we haven’t made a few mistakes along the way. Allow me to mention some of the things that have helped during our first 54 hours on the water.

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The The: 35 years later…

Aged 15, I caught the train to the city with my high school sweetheart. We changed into civvies, cloaked our school bags, and headed to the front row of Brisbane’s famous Festival Hall. After an iPhoneless three hour wait in a fog of second-hand cigarette smoke, Matt Johnson and co. (including Jonny Marr & James Eller) burst on to the stage and rocked out an awesome set: all our favourite tracks from Soul Mining, Infected, and Mind Bomb. At one point, Matt leaned over the barrier – singing into his trademark vintage microphone – and some of his perspiration actually dripped on to my arm. Does it get any cooler than that?! It was my first unaccompanied, grown-up gig; no live music experience since has replicated this palpable magic.

Thirty-five years on, seeing The The for a second time was something special indeed. Whilst the first half was a live performance of the new Ensoulment album (which is rapidly growing on me), the second half was pure alchemy… it’s pretty rare to sit through a set and adore each song. (Helplessly singing along to every one.) Flawless vocals. Sublime musicianship. A ten-out-of-ten show.

I was struck by a few moments between songs. Firstly, Matt Johnson speaks with a gentle clarity usually, in my experience, only afforded to the very battle-hardened. (I call this “firm kindness”.) Secondly, he made the point that he didn’t much agree with the politics of the 80s and 90s, but at least politicians back then stood for something. Thirdly, the unspoken told-you-so look he gave the audience before starting Armageddon Days Are Here (Again). Not sure what I’m talking about? Google the lyrics.

Sunday’s performance ended with Giant. I thought it apt. Giant you are, Matt Johnson. You have my thanks. You’ve had it the moment I hit play on the Infected cassette. Your music has added a vibrant soundtrack to the significant moments of my life, as music tends to do with all of us.

A quinquagenarian. (Almost.)

Approaching 50, I guess you could say I have opinions. Buckle up.

The good things first. Fatherhood is mostly a matter of wanting to be a good dad – things fall into place when you accept that precondition. Same goes for being a husband. Reading is an excellent lifelong habit with no downsides; whilst my tastes have matured with age, it’s harmless once in a while to return to airport fiction. There’s no shame in wanting to feel warm in winter – flannelette shirts are awesome, and so are nice socks. (And trousers, let’s not forget.) Using a handrail to traverse a flight of steps is fine. Comfy shoes, tick. Wind through trees on an otherwise quiet hike. Rinse aid and fabric softener. Streaming services – all of them. Recreational lock-picking. Apple One & Amazon Prime. WD-40. Ice cream. GPS. Caring for pets. Holidays – especially island holidays. Home ownership and financial security. Silhouetted eucalypts at dusk. Floating in the ocean. Kewpie mayonnaise. Time and space for deep thinking. Transactional certainty. A fountain pen that still works brilliantly after 35 years of near-constant use. Nexium. Boating. Strong coffee (from a machine). Strong tea (from a pot). Watching Douglas Murray never lose a debate. Nicotine gum (yeah, yeah, gimme a break). Cordless stick vacuums. Blue skies in winter. Moisturiser. Nag Champa. Waiters that write orders down. Art galleries. Lollies. Reverse-cycle air-conditioning. Efficient queues. Sobriety. Merit as a fiat social currency. Ryobi’s 18V garden care range. Kind people. Washing on the clothesline that dries in a single day. The Norfolk Pine I watch from the kitchen window each day while the kettle rumbles.

The not-so-good. Erratic drivers. Unmanaged expectations. Card fees, especially now that cash is obsolescent. Roof leaks. Unsolicited noise. Very small font sizes. Most real estate agents. Ironing. Being asked personal questions. Smelly fridges. The lie that is anti-dandruff shampoo. The bigger lie that is whitening toothpaste. The decline of long-form narrative. Body corporate committees. Nocturia. People who tell me they’re either the Queensland kickboxing champion or the nephew of a barrister as they’re shown the door. Needing an app for every household appliance. Activists. Days that feel implosive. Recruiters. Grind culture. Universal mobile phone obsession. Sandfly bites. The AI ‘revolution’, even though I happily own Nvidia stock. A frequent craving for solitude, even though loneliness is carcinogenic. Coding exams for underpaid IT roles. Fixing things I’ve already fixed. Crazy inflation because of knee-jerk money printing (thanks, pandemic). Poor sleep buffering: waking up with a to-do list that’s several kilometres long. Star Wars, since the prequels. Hobbies that I’ve let decay – the novel, the guitars. Inaccurate weather forecasts. Imperceptibly trending towards indolence. No more Iain M. Banks / Umberto Eco / David Foster Wallace books. People pleasing. Whatever McDonald’s did to Sprite. Losing agency and being buffeted by circumstance. Dirty feet. An outwardly subtle but internally overwhelming sense of shrinking.

Now you know.

Jimny: a social experiment

I like my car. It gets me to where I need to go, nothing more, nothing less. It gets used for the school run and the occasional drive on the beach. That’s it.

My self-worth has never been coupled to the type of car I drive. I figure it would be irrational to get an ego boost from the type of microwave oven I have, or the brand of hot water system that’s hooked up to the house. Why, then, would I feel better or worse about myself based on the type of vehicle I own?

I have noticed that, at least on the road, people do not like small cars. Doesn’t matter what road, what speed, or what time of the day, people must – almost at any cost – overtake a Jimny. It’s both peculiar and dangerous.

I have a theory about this overtaking phenomenon. Darwinian forces create biosocial hierarchies. This affects how we queue, and, by corollary, drive. We accept superiors being in front of us. We indulge peers alongside us. We absolutely expect the lesser folk to stay behind us. Deviations from these heuristics break our software.

Of course, we should be better than this. But we’re not.

So know your place small car drivers; the douchebags and weekend warriors need to get past.

And know your place lame people. Disabled people. Disfigured people. Minorities. The poor. We can’t do much about you any more; it pains us, on a deep level, to have to tolerate you at all. It really does. But, with sufferance, we will.

Barely.

Reluctantly.

Just don’t dare get in front…

Tasmania

Wow – what an awesome week! How good’s Tasssie? (Very.)

Boat trip to Bruny Island. Bus ride to Port Arthur. MONA. Iron Pot. Mount Wellington. Bonorong Sanctuary with a lovely wombat encounter. Wineglass Bay. And, of course: The Hobart Book Shop, Salamanca.

Tasmania can’t be faulted. Excellent food and service. No traffic. Low humidity. Spectacular scenery – great mix of bushland and fractal-like coastline.

Moved by these things

I don’t precisely know why, but things like the following – shuffled for good measure – choke me up a little.

  • Orange cordial in a Coke bottle. (Ice rink.)
  • Combed blonde hair, not quite dry. (Magistrates Court.)
  • Blue corduroy jacket from Lifeline. (Melbourne.)
  • Littermates crunching biscuits. (Chapel Hill.)
  • Pre-teen hearing aids. (School.)
  • Sandwiches in brown paper bags. (Cinema.)
  • Neatly ironed handkerchiefs. (Trouser pockets or closets.)
  • Chocolates and the crinkle of flowers in cellophane. (Break up.)
  • Dog closing his eyes when scratched. (Vet.)
  • Tupperware and drink bottles with Nikko-pen owners. (Bus.)
  • Pastel homesewn pyjamas. (Palliative care ward.)
  • Backpackers with accents and threadbare towels. (Whale watching.)
  • Daughter crying; nipped by the cat. (Old place.)
  • First time in the ocean / pure joy catching a wave. (Cylinder Beach.)

Some of these are my own. Some I’ve just been a witness to.

Writing again

Queues and stacks are familiar to anyone who has studied computer science. It struck me a while ago that, to my detriment, I organise my life like a stack. Writing fiction is at the base of my stack, and I only get around to writing (and painting & music to much lesser degrees) once I’ve accomplished everything on top. I really need to change my way of operating from a stack to a priority queue. Lifelong habits are challenging to break.

After a very tiring handful of years (deaths of loved ones and career chaos), I currently have enough bandwidth to resume my novel. My stack is practically empty, which is eerie – but, hey, I’m not complaining. Although re-entering the workforce is something I have to do soon enough, for now I’m aiming to get the first draft down.

For me, there’s always been more joy in producing than consuming.

Always Islands

I am, like many other people, strongly drawn to islands. I don’t quite know for certain why this is. As a kid, I was lucky enough to have annual coastal holidays with extended family – destinations with patrolled beaches, RSLs, and walking-distance cinemas. Awesome summer breaks, but probably not where the addiction began.

In my teenage years, the high school I attended took us to St Helena for a day to augment our local history studies; this not an uncommon excursion for kids in Brisbane. The same school had us camp on Peel Island a couple of times. Despite the unique beauty and fascinating recent history of Peel, these trips were not especially fun – more like chapters from Lord of the Flies. (Paul Dever, I am sorry I didn’t have more courage to stop the bullies. I owe you amends.)

I think I became an island junkie in my early 20s after spending a few months on Norfolk Island. Peaceful memories of night swims as coral spawned and walks through old pines looking for owls. It’s on Norfolk that I learned about the existence of Pitcairn and Lord Howe Islands. This was when the internet was an infant, when you still found most things out by talking to other humans or reading a book made of paper.

After Norfolk, I got real serious about my studies (academic and spiritual), and didn’t really travel much for a decade, save for some quick study-related trips to Europe, Israel and Japan. It wasn’t until I met Nicole in my early 30s that I re-engaged with islands. One of our first trips away together was to North Stradbroke Island, a place that holds ongoing significance to our family.

Since Jorja arrived in 2008 our island jaunts have become a dominant feature of our lives. Aside from frequenting the many beautiful places in our own backyard (Moreton, Stradbroke, and the Southern Moreton Bay Islands), we’ve been lucky enough to visit many gorgeous spots in the Pacific: Fiji, Vanuatu, New Caledonia, and Hawaii. We have plenty more places on the to-do list.

Being a geek, I can’t help but occasionally research why I am so enamoured. I read a lot of history books and have made islands the basis of my half-written novel. But, as yet, I have no definitive answer to the question of why? It would be derivative to conclude that I am a simple bloke and I find appeal in small, uncomplicated environments. It’s that, and a bit more. Islands bring me joy and a sense of calm. Maybe just because.

VM Squier Bass VI: more upgrades

The new Staytrem bridge arrived in the post – yay! Installing it is something I could have attempted, but I gave the job to a local guitar tech. He did an amazing job: installed the bridge, adjusted the action and truss rod, replaced the jack, and nailed the intonation.

Everything went smoothly, except for the new strings from Stringjoy; the high E (.026w) runs short of windings – only the very thin core reaches the tuner. This E string didn’t survive tuning and intonation (it snapped), so we had to replace it with a makeshift from Ernie Ball. So, for now, I’m playing with a mixed set of strings.

Even though I have a couple of spare sets from Stringjoy – since I ordered a pack of three – they’ll easily fit my UltraCure VI when I next change strings. (Presently, the UltraCure is strung happily with a set from La Bella.)

The mixed strings on the Squier are not really a problem for me; I’m an amateur, after all. But when it’s time for replacement strings, I’ll try the new Fender Bass VI kind. I ordered and received a pack from Amazon, and I can confirm the high E string is sufficiently long. Re-doing the intonation will be necessary because of differences in gauge, but this job will be a breeze on the new bridge.