He jumped at the gate and chomped at the bit, his eagerness was only matched by excitement. It wasn’t anything knew, he’d done it before, but it’d been a long time since succumbing to the enticement.

Some of them saw him as a bit long in the tooth. In fact, even he thought that of himself. But who are they, or even himself, to define if he’s past it?

When the gates dropped the crowd erupted, he knew and felt it was right. The moment he hit turf, he was surrounded by cheers, the pure spectacle of the lights and the night.

As he looked at the crowd, he saw the faces of friends, some who he’d thought lost to time. The air was electric and the emotion around him was carried like a current up his spine. It changed something inside him and his eyes widened, seeing things in a completely new light.

Looking back now to the track and seeing the end in sight; a bitter sweet taste in his mouth. For this was his moment, his return to the field. The last post means the end of the night.

He knew how to finish, no matter the placing; he pushed himself home to the stable. He dug up the grass as he gritted and galloped, needing to make the most of it while still able.

Crossing the line and slowing down; he calmed himself and collected his thoughts. The big show was over and content now, was he, to sit and lay in reflection. To think of the blur that had just passed him by and the lessons he’d just been re-taught.

Chances are few in these short lives of ours and for some it’s a lesson not learned. But this horse has learned it, the hard way at first; but now a new being born most unruly.

And this story I tell, you see for me it’s important.
It’s a story about a horse named ‘Yours Truly’.

(This post continues on from 2-day tour (part 1))

I’ve recently been reading my way through the superb accounts of Ixion, one so lucky to be there when it all began…

Reminiscenses of MC – IXION (First published 1920-1927)
XI. ROADS.
IN spite of the huge sums which are expended on roads nowadays, they are certainly worse-probably much worse-than they were twenty years ago. The impressions of oldtimers like myself cannot, of course, be wholly trustworthy. The prehistoric motor demanded one’s entire attention, and no surplus faculties were available to criticize the road surface. Moreover, a youthful body is composed of fencing wire and indiarubber, so that it sustains lightly tribulations which would be torture to a forty-year-old. Again, the primitive machines were decidedly slow, nor did they grant us such long spells in the saddle that there was time to get cramped, for we were perennially hopping off to effect some small repair or to run alongside the labouring engine up some mild hill. Nevertheless, when all these allowances have been scrupulously made, I am convinced that the national road system has steadily deteriorated since 1900 or thereabouts.

There are two types of country road in Australia. Those that go ‘nowhere’, and those that just take a little longer to get there.

Our chosen route turned out to be the former, but in the meantime I was determined to experience this particular road through my bike which, after not even a year of being it’s proud owner, was increasingly becoming an extension of my body and senses.

No wider than a single car in places, and with a surface that had undergone continual spot-patching since the time of Ixion, his assessment of modern road conditions was certainly ringing true... Ringing through my palms and elbows, and resonating in my posterior, which was suffering from my ill-informed decision to wind up the rear-suspension stiffness for ‘improved handling’ in more favourable conditions.

Despite the numerous downsides to motorcycling that any rider will recount ad-nauseum to their ‘driver’ acquaintances, these quibbles certainly reinforce the joy of the exercise.  In fact, the more drenching the rain, numerous the intercepted bugs,  frigid the air,  numb the fingers, dusty and rutted the road – the better, as this all provides the adventurous rider a sense of ‘being alive’. Certainly a resounding joy will be soaked up like a hearty soup on a freshly baked bun when those obstacles have passed, but in the meantime they make a good story on later telling. I’m sure these tales of hardiness contribute to the mysticism of the motorcyclist, but also serve to paint as being a bit strange.

Our road at this stage was heading along the base of a long gully between adjacent eucalypt forested ranges. Prosperous-looking farmland occupied much of the gully-flat and on occasion a thoroughbred, pleasantly enjoying some lush hay, would perk up and race us along their fence line. At close to 4-o’clock the air was becoming crisp, punctuated by the sweet lingering smell of burnt iron bark expelled by the occasional brick-chimney of grandiose farmsteads and claptrap hovels alike. This, was turning out to be one of those ‘hearty soup days’ and I was attempting to soak up every last tasty drop – If it wasn’t for the inconsiderate pompous suburbanite occupying the entire width of the road in his 4-wheel behemoth.

Suddenly my ears hurt, my vision became blurry and my previously relaxed torso tensed in anticipation. What was this? My bike was steady, the ‘cager’ still occupied my forward view?.. A flying-Blatty, travelling at unprecedented velocity, mere millimetres from my right-hand boot hastily answered my query.  His move would have been supreme in grace, but for his bike, which was no-doubt straining at the excessively open throttle. He did however, manage to triumph over our nemesis, who now split us on the road – a seeming eternity passed before I felt it appropriate to pass on the treacherous surface and join the gang once more.

Many narrow wooden-sleeper’d bridges on the verge of rotting, tumbling down or both, hinted that this particular road was not high on the priorities of local council or regional motoring authorities, regardless  this was now our road and we pressed on. One town we happened upon (by the name of Yarramalong), which consisted in it’s entirety of a church, a petrol bowser and a pub/mealhouse (all in one establishment), was judiciously occupied by a small crowd of friendly adventurers and their mechanical steeds of all shapes and sizes, a grin, tip of the head and a ‘thumbs up’ was all that was required to become a member of their exclusive club as we passed.

'Our Road' along the valley floor.

The sun had been hidden behind the adjacent wooded-hills for some time now, so it was fitting that we shortly came to the end of the road. Well, it did continue for some way ahead, but 2-wheel tracks through long grass and saplings isn’t well suited to the slick-soft tyres of today’s sports-bikes, or vice-versa. I had noted back at the holy pub, a side-road heading north-west and potentially over the now familiar left-side range.  A group meeting was called and following the unanimous decision – we disbanded. Blatty headed home the way we had come with an exuberant display of noise and, well, just noise (and a flash of yellow L-plates) to impress the lingering church-bar patrons.

Fading light flickering through the gumleaves,  the aforementioned side-road beckoned (which my GPS had confirmed would eventually link up with other more substantial tracks to me on to Sydney). “You’re mad to ride at dusk”, any fellow rider would say, for evening-commuting wombats are a serious hazard that can collapse a bike’s front wheel at will, likely sending you off into the bushes with the single swift flick of a trebuchet. I was eager to push-on, there was no turning back (unless this road also turned out to be a dead-end).

will be continued… (Still on day 1. Gosh.)

I was greeted by a clear sky on Saturday morning. A notably crisp (but dry) chill originated from the south-west – not very common on the coast, which immediately brought back memories of camping on ridges and mountains in NZ and closer to home  alpine regions in Vic and NSW.

Having recently purchased a set of  the best all-weather-touring motorcycling boots money can buy and proud owner of a sense of adventure, I decided it was a fine day to explore some new roads.

I had promised my youngest cousin (reluctant owner of a Kawasaki Ninja 250) , who will actually complete his restrictions 6 months before me despite being more than 5 years my junior, to take him on a ride along some of the roads I’ve often ridden. Apparently morning-of-a-ride notice isn’t early enough for someone who is ’seen missing’ from  a party the night before, but his older brother (still much my junior) was keen, ready, eager and raring to go!

similar in looks (but not as shiny)

The available party (lets call him Blatty for sake of anonymity) is the recent  owner of an ex-race used Honda CBR250RR crotch destroying, ear banging, 19krpm redlining rocket – full of rattles, cracks and loose bolts. With 80+ thousand too many abusive k’s on the clock it deserves to be ridden straight to the tip, off a cliff, or not ridden at all but placed on display in a museum with a large drip-tray underneath. Needless to say, this particular example came complete with big attention grabbing L-plates.

While passing the time waiting for the arrival of my ‘possee’, preparations were made for the journey including a rinse and smell test of my camelbak, fitment of jacket liner, spray and wipe of clear visor/sunglasses, then donning of kevlar-lined-jeans, touring boots, winter-hoodie and leather armoured jacket. No sooner had my bag been elastically strapped to my CB400 Super Four Revo ‘08 pillion seat, than I could hear the startling cacophony of a rattling, redlining sportspiped Blatty. Sure enough, while looking for the visitor parking he had frightened a dog and my poor old neighbour who was attached to the dog by leash.

Eager to cover as much distance as possible before dusk (by now it was near 2pm) we filled our bikes and other supplies at the nearest friendly service centre, then began the journey south along the eastern side of Lake Macquarie. Much of the trip (so far) was uneventful for the most part, spotted with staccato-conversation at traffic lights, the odd weave through traffic, and the obligatory motorcycle stop at Catherine Hill Bay to absorb some fresh sea air.

My biggest concern was that the possee wasn’t going to be keen to cover as many k’s as was intended (Sydney was the final stop for me, but sundown was the limiting factor for Blatty as his light wasn’t reliable and when it managed to remain lit, the beam wasn’t straight). Rather than end up dissapointed due to excessive time spent in traffic rather than new & exciting roads, we veered off our planned route and once across the freeway, headed straight into ‘the country’.

How well do you know yourself?

Do you think of yourself who, in a situation of crisis, would come to the rescue of a stranger being mugged? Would you be that person who dives into the flaming building to rescue the crying child as flames lick its cradle? It’s hard to say and I would argue impossible to know. That is, until you’re actually in that position – in that moment.

I guess it’s actually akin to the school-yard ponderings children put upon each other in an attempt to have them admit something undesirable.  Questions such as ‘would you suck your fathers dick to save his life?’. Probably not the most tasteful (pun intended) of examples.

I recall when I was first cutting my teeth on the employment scene, a fellow and far more senior employee said to me:

“Sean, this company is like a tree full of monkeys. At the top are your managers, your supervisors. They look down the tree and they see nothing but happy smiles of the monkeys beneath them. The monkeys on the bottom of the tree however, well….they look up and see nothing but arseholes.”

It’s an amusing anology for the mentality of employees and their respective positions. We all, apart from the very select few, start at the bottom of this proverbial monkey tree and we all experience what its like to work for arseholes. Those who know me are probably aware I recently proclaimed with glee about my promotion to a ’shift manager’. The job has all the perks such as increased pay, more hours and more responsiblity; however it also came at a price.

Those collegues who I previously worked with; who I considered friends and would chat with all during my shifts about lifes oddities. Well..the whole office dynamic has changed. To then, I am now one of the arseholes. Nothing has occurred that would change the status quo, other than that simple promotion.

I find my newest challenge to be one of diplomacy.  Can I be one of the few who seem to have the god-given ability to quell the uprising while satisfying the demands of the bourgeoisie? I’ve certainly known a few of these individuals and I find myself constantly asking ‘what would Jesus do?’.

And with that thought I leave you to wonder for yourself; if you were in my position would you be trying extra hard to keep your arsehole clean? Or would you be finding the nearest curry and kebab stands while stocking up on the most effective laxative your local chemist recommends?

Phonic out.

If you had asked me 12months ago if I ever thought I’d be doing what I am now, I would have laughed at you.

You see, approximately 12 months ago, I was sitting at home, basking in all the glory that is unemployment. No responsibilities and all the free fucking time I could handle. Life just doesn’t get any better.

However the dream was shattered one day when my housemate (Pastheus) comes home and says, in all his usual eloquence, ‘Are you going to get a fucking job or what cunt?’. The profoundness of the question made my inner ethics start to stir. The dream had to die.

That afternoon I looked through the job advertisements in the local rag. One catches my eye straight away; it’s a position for a Casino Surveillance Operator. ‘That could be interesting’, I thought to myself, ‘Should give that a whack!’.

That one fatal life decision put a halting fucking screech to my leisurely life-style. Now faced by 40 to 70 hour working weeks, serious amounts of over-time owing and more responsibility than a 3rd world leader, I look back with envy.

It’s not all Doom and Gloom (or Death and Decay perhaps?). I have recently earned my Motorbike license, bought said vehicle, on a handsome salary, respected by my peers (Pencils up-ended in a steaming pile of shit is just a sign of affection) and a bright future in international travel. It seems I’ve done a 180 from my last profession.

You see, I hated being in I.T. It’s a dead end game. Perhaps its I.T. in the Northern Territory, perhaps not. But the only way I could see myself getting ahead, was actually giving head. That’s not quite my forte; even though my boss was actually quite attractive, if not a complete back-stabbing fucking whore. *kisses*.

So what’s the point of all this dribble? I hear you ask. Well, it’s kind of a retrospective of my life over the last year. It may sound like I cut myself every night before going into a self fueled hate induced coma; but it’s not. I’m actually happy doing what I do and how often I do it. In short, life’s fucking dandy for me right now.

My next biggest hurdles include losing weight, making more friends and finding a female who has low enough standards to fuck me for a lengthy period of time (It’s Darwin, it can’t be that hard).

Tally-ho!

(and merry fucking Xmas).

The Australian Government has today issued their request for expressions of interest for ISPs who would want to participate in the live trials of the Government’s ISP-Level Internet Filtering scheme.  So far, there has been no further information released by El Senor Senator Conroy, his office or anyone else in the Government for that matter.

The fight is still continuing and raging, while the Government continues to run away with their fingers in their ears tralalalala’ing that it will still work. Even the countries that Conroy have claimed that Australia would be emulating are going WTF.

Actions taken by the online community have been mostly met with standard policy lines and template emails from the L&L parties that are normally based around “We value the protection of the children” toe-lines. That’s understandable given pretty much every member of the House of Representatives or the Senate has no previous history in a technical field.

Except perhaps one Liberal lower house rep who has responded with his own email saying that “The bottom line is that mandatory filtering does not work and it is up to the individual to protect themselves and their families.”  It was expected though as his own experiences in the big old technology world include a decade-plus history for the military in Intelligence and Security, a Masters in IT, Masters in Business Administration, Graduate Diploma in Information Analysis and founded an IT services firm who featured in BRW’s Fast 100 list.

Then there’s Malcolm Turnbull, new Leader of the Opposition – ex-Chairman of ISP OzEmail. (Who remembers them?)

Seems there’s lots of little fires that have sprung up in recent. Adult classification for games teasing the public with a let’s talk then scrubbing talks before it even began; The National Broadband Network is getting sucked under the waterfall as poor requirements and lack of decision makings bite back; and then the Government is determined to make Australia the first country in the world to protect the children from the big bad Internet.

Which brings me to the point, how can people who have absolutely no understanding themselves of the things that they are bringing into effect “in representation” of the Australian population have the final say?

Bring on the engineer politicians.

UserFriendly.org has some advice for the Australian Government.

Further reading:

• ? OCAU Wiki on Australian Internet Filtering
• ? Mark Newton, Filter advocates need to check their facts

Left 4 Dead is really really awesome.

I’ve been busy with a few things in the last week. Added a ‘contact us’ email link to the left in the navigation bar, should also see a new theme for the front page appear in the next week.

In the mean time I leave you with a cue for your brain to take leave.

Oscar Peterson (1925 – 2007).

WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK W…… nevermind.

Following off of somebodythinkofthechildren.com and the previous “How to be Senator Conroy” post.

5. Bully and silence your critics.

Mark Newton, an engineer at Internode, has heavily criticised the Government and its filtering policy on the Whirlpool broadband community forum, going as far as saying it would enable child abuse.

…

On Tuesday, a policy advisor for Senator Conroy, Belinda Dennett, wrote an email to Internet Industry Association (IIA) board member Carolyn Dalton in an attempt to pressure Newton into reining in his dissent.

“In your capacity as a board member of the IIA I would like to express my serious concern that a IIA member would be sending out this sort of message. I have also advised [IIA chief executive] Peter Coroneos of my disappointment in this sort of irresponsible behaviour ,” the email, read.

It is understood the email was accompanied by a phone call demanding that the message be passed on to senior Internode management.  SMH

It should be noted the SMH article makes mention that even Youtube could be censored.

Far flung, but I have not seen any mention of how these banned site lists will be generated, if the porno-really-kiddy-bad-thanasia-fiddler-banned sites will be derived from the many already commercially available filtering software available off the shelf or whether they will be outsourcing an Indian company to seek out the most horrible filth on the Internet in the name of saving the children.

On that I leave you with a word from Ben (Franklin).

Those who would give up Essential Liberty to purchase a little Temporary Safety, deserve neither Liberty nor Safety.

Also I have received a few emails regarding my lack of pictures. Here’s your damn picture.

That’s bubble-wrap.

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GNOME?

Last seen on the isle of Tasweiga.