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Thursday, February 26, 2009

NEDLANDS: On why he threw a cherry tomato at Dr Clive Hamilton at his UWA lecture, Payton L. Inkletter: “I thought the scandal might help his career.”

Be all that as it may, meanwhile:

In other news…

26th to 28th February 2009:

Thursday: Another pleasantly cool day, a mere 23 Celsius, and I set myself one must-do task among the other great if-I-can-do tasks, and that was to finish Clive Hamilton’s wonderful book. So between a big kitchen clean up and some computer jobs, I did read, and most of the afternoon was spent in peace and quiet, as Missus InkleI’lldoanythingformydad had picked Pa pree up and taken him to the local major shopping centre and surrounding mercantile establishments, particularly those of a material bent, fabric that is. So I had the blissful experience of solitude.

And it was needed, for I finally got ‘The Freedom Paradox’ finished, sitting on a milk crate (stolen, or rather, light fingered, or is that ‘actual property owner challenged’?) under my giant bamboo near the kitchen window, at half five, two hours before I would be attending his UWA lecture. I am enriched for reading the work, it is the effort of a true scholar, littered also with beautiful sentences – the skill of a talented wordsmith shining through – with the added bonus of his being a very decent and sincere human being, although I admit to garnering these latter impressions from the book only, for I knew almost nothing about the fellow before this tome. Now, some of my billions of daily readers will recall my flagging problems I was having with Dr Hamilton’s metaphysics over the last couple of months that it has taken me to read his book; my disagreements with him on these still remain, my early inklings of a parting of the ways only being the more strongly confirmed as I progressed through its pages. So how can I praise the book so highly?

Simply because the highly laudable and inspirational behaviour recommendations he champions are so clearly espoused, and the metaphysical foundations he attempts to establish to support them are concerned with arcane nuances deep in the bowels of ontology, and, in my opinion, although he fails in his attempt to lay the foundation without creating more contradictions than he removes, they are of such a nature that they don’t materially alter the recommendations for behaviour, the essence of which is to treat one another as ends in ourselves, never as means to ends. This logically extends to caring for the environment we all depend upon for our wellbeing. My differences with his metaphysics will not be shared by most, I strongly suspect; I will try to make my stance clear in my in progress critique of Richard Dawkins’ ‘The God Delusion’.

Next I shaved, showered, but had already shyted, and then shot off to the University of Western Australia in the uncannily bright light of a daylight saving evening. Traffic was good, and I just missed by two cars being breath tested and whatever else the boys and girls in blue had in mind on Winthrop Avenue near Charlie’s. I was in such a hurry to get ready I came out without my wallet, hence had no driver’s licence on me (not to mention money), nor had I put on any of my bootification scents, or aftershave spirits and lotions, but fortunately I had put on the old under arm concoction. Not that I was drunk, nor had I even had anything of an alcoholic nature to drink, providing you don’t count that tankard of Missus Inklemoonshine’s 100 proof hooch I knocked back prior to leaving to loosen me up enough to make my planned overripe cherry tomato attack upon Dr Hamilton.

I got to UWA at ten to seven, and then set off, totally los,t looking for Babies Ink&Peggletter, and finally gave up and mobbled them; Baby Inkletter said ‘Stop walking!’, so I stopped, and she said ‘I can see you’, and shonuff, across a sports oval as big as Tasmania there she and Baby Peggletter were, embracing like a lower case ‘b’, with no prizes for guessing who formed the circle on the ground of said ‘b’. I walked to them, and soon we were in a Social Sciences lecture theatre, and chose the third row back and a tad to the podium’s left; even a blind tetraplegic with Parkinson’s could lob a moto on the fine Doctor from here. It was near empty, but within twenty minutes was near full; I estimate maybe two hundred people. I asked the Babies if in their times at UWA if they had been to lectures in this very theatre: affirmative; “The seats are better now,” Baby Inkletter shared. I’d’ve hate to sat in them then! (Baby Peggletter, by the way, shared at my solicitude, that he had 25% to go to recover from hitting his head on concrete last week when he fainted at the pathology collection centre. I feel ill contemplating how bad it could have been, and am concerned at how bad it might really still be. Attention all blood collection centres: provide soft flooring in the vicinity of the vampire work, if you care about your clientele, and if you don’t, if you care about the possible law suits for lack of care.)

Clive spoke to us for almost an hour with his lecture proper, which was about economic growth as a fetish and its relation to climate change. He was excellent, relaxed, clear, and altogether a remarkably good communicator. His subject matter was rather dry and technical, yet you could have heard a pin drop, apart from one mobble phone interrupting the lecture, with the poor old dear walking out unable to turn it off, complaining that it was new and she didn’t know how to stop it. And would you believe it, that Godfather of Australian journalism, Kerry Guiseppe O’Brien, ‘Kezza’ to his mates, even got a mention, concerning an interview this well ‘connected’ journalist conducted with Prime Minister Rudd. Clive took a number of questions, which elicited some pragmatic answers, and then did a book signing.

The Babies and I shot down to him early, and Baby Inkletter had him sign her two books of his, and then he signed my copy of The Freedom Paradox. To try to avoid burdening him with too much detail, I said I’d bought it in December, but Baby Inkletter protesteth much, and so I corrected myself and said my daughter, beckoning to her beside me, gave it to me as a gift. He took that in his stride, and I shared with him that I found his writing wonderful, with many magnificently crafted sentences, and the whole thing inspirational, which moved him. I think there would be little nicer than the experience of having a reader genuinely complement your writing craft, independent of the merits of the content. Validation is the name of the game. My admission to him that I took two months to read it elicited approval, as it should, for there is much in this treatise to positively tax the neurons. Of course this was neither the time nor the place to burden him with my differences with his metaphysics; however, an email or letter might be brewing; even, heaven forbid, a critique of the metaphysical portion… And in case you’re wondering, I ate the cherry tomatoes.

I got home rather earlier than I expected, about 9.45 p.m., and poor Missus InkleByettamakesmesick had just vomited from it. She definitely is paying for its grand benefits. I watched the last half of Qanda (Q&A) on Aunty, and must watch the beginning when I can from my recording. Tony Jones had, among other guests, Labor’s Bill Shorten and The Liberal’s Christopher Pyne, of whom I think it is a bit strong of those who say his mother missed a very great opportunity to drown at birth. It was quite a trial to watch Pyne trying to be one of the boys.

Lateline saw Leigh Sales interview Niall Ferguson, a Harvard University professor, and before I comment on this, my how much better Leigh’s hair style suits her face tonight! She looks more rounded and overall nicer. In case I’m accused of sexism, the astute among my billions of daily readers will recall that I comment on Kerry O’Brien’s face, namely how preternaturally young he looks after his return from every holiday. What has stuck with me from Ferguson’s opinions was one: the problems of the looming oversupply of Government bonds around the world as nations try to raise money to pump prime their economies, with the supply-demand law causing an inevitable drop in their prices, with consequent upward pressure on long term interest rates, which would be a spanner in the works for global economic recovery; and two: his feeling that a Chinese 2009 national growth rate of 7 per cent is probably double what they’ll achieve. If he’s right, China won’t be near the global saviour it’s being touted to be.

I was way too weary to walk, which is a shame, so I did some writing instead, and curled up under the sheets before three. A special day just closed, having been able to hear and meet Clive Hamilton, and with my daughter and her partner, to boot.


27th February 2009:

Friday: Oh so tired, oh so hard to get up, and despite the alarm, I surfaced an hour after it, thinking but ten minutes had passed. The weather is warming, closer to 30 Celsius today, but the cool change with precipitation was a welcome relief. I cleaned up the kitchen, while poor Missus Inklewhackedoutandmustsleeplonger snoozed on, till after one o’clock. I did a cowboy watering outside, having not done any for at least two days, maybe three. Then I readied myself for taking Bob swimming.

He was patiently waiting on the outdoor lounge, and yet again he had a brand new pair of bathing togs today, which must be the third new pair in the month. Swan Aquatic was moderately busy, and I worked on editing (yet again) ‘Venty Still’, the progressive sci-fi story suggested and started by Baby Inkletter, aka Say H. Inkletter, which I printed out in draft before I left for Bob’s. Now that I’ve finished reading ‘The Freedom Paradox’, attended Clive’s Hamilton’s lecture, got my ‘Health Matters’ web site up, I want to ‘relax’ with getting ‘Venty StillPart One out onto the nebulous threads of cyberspace, and invite Saul and Undies to contribute to its progressive writing.

While Bob splashed about like a delirious duck, I took an apple break outside, and who should spot me?: none other than Peter W. of Balga TAFE, where I used to take Peter of Kenwick on Thursdays for his woodwork day. We had a good natter about Saul and Undies, including the classmates in Peter of Kenwick’s time. Peter W. was helping to care for two of his three grandsons while the older one was having a swimming lesson, with his mother in attendance. I was struck by how much strength had returned to Peter’s right hand, which was horribly injured with a nerve slicing 45 cm cut maybe two or so years ago. Not bad for a man nudging 70.

Bob and I enjoyed our cup of tea and walk at Fishmarket Reserve, even if Bob’s constant and virtually only topic of conversation was some several of his infinite variations on smoking, interspersed with “knock my good eye out!” suggestions. I finally got back to an empty home a whisker after half seven, for Missus InkleIvisitthepoorsickanddestitute had not long since been picked up by Murrah Deeler and taken to Sir Charles Gairdner Hospital to visit Meg, recovering from ongoing chemo treatment for lymphoma. The meal Janny cooked for the boys at home was greatly appreciated, as was her visit with Murrah. We are hopeful that the prayer round resource of friends we alerted to her health crisis helps her, in addition to the medical care.

Most of Janny’s afternoon was taken up on the phone as it turned out, to my cousin Vee’s mother, my mother, Pa pree Inkletter, Murrah, and others whose names escape me for now. My first job once home was to deliver vittles to Pa pree plus chat about the Clive Hamilton lecture and the day’s politics, then I caught the last half of The Collectors, that priceless Aunty show whose 2009 return is most welcome. Wasn’t that rhinocerous collector’s, Rita Shaw’s, ingathering a hoot, the horny old biddy! And how rich a collection of Australian timber furniture did Tim Harris discover waiting to be catalogued at New Norcia.

I did some writing until SBS late news, having missed My Beloved at seven, then back to more writing before Lateline which coincided with Missus Inkleneartranslation’s return from the hostabul. Of course, arriving at that moment meant she had my complete and undivided ignorance. Leigh Sales put two pollies together as usual, none other than Tony Abbott, the Opposition's Families Spokesman, and Agriculture Minister Tony Burke. Poor Tony Burke, having to endure several laser cutting soul searching unblinking stares from Tony Abbott, but two and a half feet away eyeball to eyeball, there in the studio. Apparently this Abbottine idiosyncrasy was honed during the three weeks he spent in space just prior to the Federal election in November 2007; you can read about that here: WARRINGAH: Health Minister Abbott blasted into space for 3 weeks by Howard; no bullshit

A couple of entries ago I spoke of Pacific Brand’s CEO Sue Morphett’s mature and professional air and carriage in contrast to Julie Bishop, but what I didn’t know then was that it is oiled by a doubling or tripling or by whatever significant factor of her salary to a tidy 1.8 million smackeroos not too long before the announcement of the shedding of 1850 jobs, and certain relocationing in China. ACTU President Sharon Burrow couldn’t have put it any better when she said that ‘corporate Australia has lost its moral compass’. Companies worldwide have the hypocrisy to rail against their workers taking home a piece of wood or a pair of gloves (which if it’s theft is wrong), while clinically organising the theft of billions of the shareholders’ companies profits by voting themselves astronomically disconnected pay packets. Utter bastards, and every case should be ‘named and shamed’ continuously, until some reasonable formula, such as variations upon and up to a fair multiple (I suggest 7) of the average wage paid by their company (excluding their own pay figures) is adopted, and preferably with the payback of the corporate clinical and sterile theft of many years. A ‘name and fame’ approach would help for those who do the right thing. Such a model would encourage executive level staff to lift the average wage of their corporations, and that would be a fine outcome, if based on genuine wealth generation. If they want to buy their companies’ shares with some of their honestly earnt pay packets, then well and good, which would be another incentive to do the right thing by their companies. They should not be given huge swathes of shares as part of performance bonuses, because many of the bastards will do anything to lift the price of the company shares temporarily, coinciding with their share bonanza. I am very happy to see the organising outrage here and abroad at these disgusting corporate practices, this modern means of stealing from the poor to give to the rich. And so, Ms Sue Morphett has sunk greatly in my estimation for being party to this latest example of executive greed. And she may yet rise, should she set the better example and become worthy of being in a name and praise-fame list as I’ve just suggested.

Missus Inkles and I nattered after Lateline, and the vibes fluctuated up and down, as is not unusual among normal married human beings, but we got through in better shape than often in the past. I returned to my writing, and as the wee small hours progressed realised that, given some health issues I was battling with, a walk was not wise, so again I missed my much loved perambulatin’ after midnight ritual, just like Patsy Cline used to promote.

Close to five I slithered in beside the alabaster dragon, who held me in her arms, and I cannot blame her.


28th February 2009:

Saturday: Never! Well, often actually, weekly as a rule, yes, it’s Sarrerdi! And what a close hot humid mother it became! Typically Febwee weather. When I emerged from the boudoir of a thousand delights the alabaster dragon had gone somewhere, probably with someone, but no prizes for guessing: she took Pa pree Inkletter shopping and here and there, which was madness again in these heat conditions – it got to almost 37 Celsius. Her sense of parental care (not least in the upward direction) duty is etched so deep it hurts.

I began the laborious process of trying to come back to some semblance of life, like those stegosaurus and ouranosaurus critters that we were taught as kids faced side on to the morning sun to collect heat with their broad plates and sails to kick start their sluggish systems. I took a couple of photos of Payton the Koala Bear outside with my magnificent emerging giant Bambusa balcoa shoot, to compare with those I took a few days back, and before I knew where I was the little people had arrived, shattering my precious solitude.

After some time with them in the lounge where Janny’s lover Hiroshi Fujitsu cooled them down, I slunk away to do some writing at the keyboard. During this sabbatical, I not only got up to date with this diary, but the forecast possible thunderstorm for Perth in the late afternoon became an actuality, and we enjoyed a moderate amount of said furniture shifting in the sky, with a couple of millimeters of rain, which prompted me to go outside and potter around among the bamboo doing maintenance jobs while getting wet; it was most refreshing, if humid.

I joined the delinquents for din dins and we watched My Beloved at the same time, then remained on to watch much of an SBS program about a group of blokes with nothing better to do than muck about making a vehicle that can beat traffic jams in San Francisco, with, thanks to the miracle that is the remote control, bits of Kath & Kim and The Vicar of Dibley on free to air Seven during SBS’ blasted adverts; yes, if everyone did what I do, there would be no commercial TV, at least as we now have it. After this I drove Pa pree home, and came back and made my first dual posting of a day from this diary to both ‘IN OTHER NEWS…’ and the MAIN SITE, with the main sited posting having just a teaser with a link to the ‘IN OTHER NEWS…’ site; this is my idea from now on, to increase the activity over at the main site, which can otherwise go months without a posting.

I returned then to editing Venty Still, my Part, specifically altering the Word document from my hand written editing on the printed pages I took to Swan Aquatic yesterday. I went for a late walk after doing stage one of a kitchen clean up, and the suburb was a bit noisier and grittier than the average Saturday night. I needed a shower on my return, for I was drenched in perspiration.

Back to the editing, sitting at the kitchen table with the print out of Venty Still, and when that was finished I came and added the edits to the Word document. At long last it was at the stage where I am prepared to leave it, although every writer, I assume, knows there is rarely ever a point where they could say they are perfectly happy with what they’ve written, especially with longer stories.

I did stage two of the kitchen clean up, and it looked spiffy, ready for Janny to throw a bomb into tomorrow, bless her fishnets, for she’s the hardest working gal in the kitchen I know. After this I took my life in my hands and slipped in beside the sleeping alabaster dragon


Saturday, February 21, 2009

ENEABBA: “Wear the fox hat!” Prince Charles implores Payton L. Inkletter, when asked about suitable apparel for the Midwest bowling club's tournament.

Be all that as it may, meanwhile:

In other news…

21st to 25th February 2009:

Saturday: Daylight some hours old, I finished the kitchen clean up, having done it cowboy style earlier. Missus InklemustgetuptotakePapreeout - beforeitgetstoodamnhot (who, it ought be noted, doesn’t mind it cowboy style either) had surfaced and jabbed herself with her Byetta needle, and instead of returning to the cot to sleep off some of her usual nausea, she remained up, and ate after the advisory hour had elapsed. Well, developments developed, for while I was outside watering the bamboos, way out behind two hedges of it, I heard a frantic knocking on the back glass sliding door. It took a moment for me to register that this meant an emergency, for I had to filter out the idea that someone was knocking out front to come in to see us. I then rushed to the laundry and helped poor Missus Inklechunderguts, who was vomiting for the very life of her, bringing up this morning’s food, underneath last night’s, as it landed in the tub. That girl is paying a very significant price for the benefits she has definitely gained from the giant goanna’s goosies that have found their way into the monthly applicator syringe; yes, you knew that the Gila monster’s saliva is the inspiration for the active ingredient, exendin-4, in Byetta, didn’t you?

After applying a constant pressure to her lower back, she continued vomiting until she was empty, poor guinea piglet. She lay down to try to recover, for she still felt she must go driving here there and everywhere to promote external harmony, while I returned to the oven outside and finished my watering front and back, by which time Janny had gone.

I came inside and ate a platter of white comforters, then washed down an embarrassment of pear slices with cheese and crackers, made by Missus InkleI’llkillhimwithkindness - ifit’sthelastthingI’lldo before she had her attack of the chunderguts. NO, I’m kidding with you!: it was some white comforters I washed down! My head and neck were reminding me they can show me pain. It was midday, I kid you not, and hey, it just occurred to me, it’s Sarrerdi! Just another point the astute Foolpie will have noted earlier that I had neglected to acknowledge. Letter bate than vener! (This last twist must be a side effect of the white comforters…)

Time went nowhere as I relaxed back in the darkened lounge, overhead fan on, sipping sarsaparilla, feeling sorry for myself, with my Logitech X-230 speakers at the pooter in the back room blaring at 75% a selection of my favourite old hits, mainly from the fifties and sixties (up until The Civil War – is he joking…?) My mood became a touch inspirational while swimming in the music, feeling that a little corner of the world might be able to become my baby mussell. I was just about to shower when the little people arrived back from their gallivant in the almost forty Celsius heat. Missus InkleIexistonlytopleaseothers - orstrictly,certainothers related to me a tad of the comedy of errors the outing had been, plus the stresses of it all.

After I was clean the dear middle aged biddy helped put me to bed, lathering my feet with sorbolene (she can make even that innocent – to you and me – activity a sexually loaded experience, especially when she works the toes; pity I was so near death and that Pa pree was in the house…) while I plastered fresh aloe on my honk – bless its fat little damaged skin – and sorbolene on my hands. A minute or two to dry in the breeze of the two fans, and she covered my legs with the sheet, and left me to succumb to the charms of Madame Nod, from The Land of.

She woke me rudely (no, really, by placing her hand in a place that would be illegal before marriage, claiming that she had been first speaking my name repeatedly: likely story) about ten o’clock, and I eventually recovered from the shock, and began the long slow process of trying to bring vitality back to the surface of my system.

I ate my din dins while watching some of ‘Stuck on You’ on free to air, and what with that of it I saw before and after din dins, while in and out of the lounge, I must have seen well over half of it, and I had no idea how funny it was. I checked the reviewer’s appraisal in the TV guide, and typically, they can be far off the mark, and represent no more than their own small and distorted view of the world. It was given 2 out of 5 stars, with the comment ‘…neither as funny nor offensive as the plot suggests.’ If you can’t recognise slapstick when it slaps you in the face, and appraise according to the norms of slapstick, get another job! I didn’t know that Matt Damon and Greg Kinnear were such good comedic actors, especially Greg Kinnear, but then I’ve not seen him in much if I recall correctly, having lived such a sheltered life.

Poor Missus Inklewearyexhaustedtiredandinhippain - duethechunderingandbadlytimedgallivanting had to go to bed by midnight, so I titivated around her, rubbing spikenard into her trotters to help her cracks, corns, callouses, and flakes – and we’re hopeful her feet will benefit as well! – before my usual hug and caress of her unlimited beauty, as she lay there all gorgeous, alabaster dragon that she is.

I mopped the floor, and then embarked on a very late walk, on this warm night, with only a little breeze around. During this walk I saw possibly the longest and brightest shooting star of my life, ending in a very wide flame. I noticed that the local mosque has had a heavy fancy new black enamelled fence put in around the park side, like the one at Baby Inkletter’s second primary school, and it must have cost a bomb (pun not intended). By the way, Telstra had the two smashed glass panels of its Dewsons’ shopping centre phone booth replaced two days ago, I forgot to mention, and as much as I have come to dislike Telstra over the decades, my hat off to them for how fast they so often get the regular vandalism repaired on this box. But for this regularly vandalised public phone box, Telstra shares would never have dropped anywhere near as low as they did in recent years, and that selfless I’m-only-doing-it-for-my-adopted-nation Sol Trujillo could have doubled his multi-millions annual extortionate take home pay, into the twenty millions range instead.

Back home, I sat at the computer to write this diary and bits and pieces, as well as a comment for Gladys Hobson’s Wrinkly Writers post, ‘What a Difference Promotion Can Make!’ I am always happy when I learn of good news for her writing efforts, for she is so good, so hard working, and so altruistic. And whenever she comments at my sites it’s a bonus, and very often a lot of fun, for she is a tremendous sport with a great sense of humour.

Next came the kitchen clean up, a daily chore of usually monumental non lapidary proportions. For Janny is one of a rare Westerner breed these days, for she makes just about everything we eat, and is not slow to cook for all and sundry as well.

I shot outside in the early morning light and did a cowboy watering of the bamboo, then finally climbed into the crib beside the alabaster dragon, to snatch (pun possibly intended) an hour and a half’s shuteye…


22nd February 2009:

Sunday: Missus Inkleupyougetyoulazyratbaztad - anhourandahalf’senuffforanybody woke me a bit after eleven, and I began to coax some life back into my frame, shaved, showered, but never shatted, and eventually joined Pa pree Inkletter and Umple Dais in the lounge, to spend the afternoon celebrating the senior’s 79th birthday.

The Babies Ink&Peggletter arrived a little after one, and spent the entire afternoon with us all, not leaving till towards seven. We had a delicious meal put on by you guessed it – did you guess me? Well, you’d be ri..wrong! – Missus InkleI’lldieinthekitchen of course. By the way, cooking’s not the only thing she does in the kitchen, but I best leave her to explain what kind of dish she finds me in each room of the house. “What’s that Hun?” “A delish dish, Payty baby!” “Oh, okay, thanks Hun, I’ve let my billions of readers know.” It would be embarrassing I suppose if she carked it in the kitchen due to calling upon, nay, threatening me to deliver with, my purple parsnip, expecting it to do far more than nature intended…

We had a great deal of fun with Baby Peggletter’s Sony Playstation connected to our Sony Trinitron and turning it into a karaoke machine. I’ve never done karaoke before, and having long accepted that I’m tone deaf, I determined to be a fool and have a lot of fun, which is exactly what transpired. I think my team lost.

It was warm outside, so Janny’s Japanese lover, Hiroshi Fujitsu, kept us all cool. Now how’s this for funny, amazingly coincidental, distressing even: Baby Inkletter related how Baby Peggletter bashed her over the head really hard the other day… They were playing some kind of computer tennis game, if I recall correctly, and her bonce was in the wrong place at the right time. But what goes around comes around: On Thursday Baby Peggletter accompanied Baby Inkletter to have blood tests, for she is terrified, seriously almost phobic, of the whole deal, and to make matters worse, her veins play hide and seek from the phlebotomist, necessitating often the painful piercing of a vein in the back of her hand. To his credit, Baby Peggwussletter is highly syncretic with our Baby, and seeing the lengths Madame Draculeesha went to to hurt her, he fainted. Over a six feet drop to the concrete floor, hitting the back of his head hard, knocking him out further. Four days later today he was still unwell with headache and somewhat dazed, (more than usual? Ho ho ho…) As Confucius say…: refer to GLEN INNES: New miniature sheep line ‘Little Aussie Bleater Arcotts’, bred by Payton L. Inkletter, in honour of Garry McDonald’s iconic Norman Gunston.

Early in the afternoon we got a phone call from Murrah Deeler to inform us that Meg has lymphoma, and has been in Sir Charles Gairdner Hospital for six weeks, four of them in ICU. This was an unpleasant shock, but not as complete a surprise as otherwise might have been, for Meg had been assiduously avoiding going to the doctor’s about a terrible swelling in her neck for at least six months as I recall, if not much longer. That is not a very rational thing to do. Especially as cancers most often respond better to treatment when caught early.

After everyone left, the Babies having taken Pa pree Inkletter home as they left, I caught My Beloved’s headlines, and then tried to sleep, for I was highly sleep deprived. However, I got maybe one hour, before I was woken by aches and pains which distracted so much I had to give up trying to sleep. So I watched Compass with Missus InkleImetmypricelessdarlingatBalingup, which was all about The Universal Brotherhood at Balingup, which broke up in the mid to late eighties. An alternative title could have been Stephen Catharsis Carthew. Stephen was the Chief Executive in a manner of speaking, while Mary Robinson was the Chairman for Life, and perhaps Fred became the figurehead President for Life.

Here is not the time, but I’ll whet my billions of readers’ appetites with the teaser that I was a member for about a year back in ’81-’82, and when I resigned, after realising the degree of the dysfunction, egomaniacism, and blatant unjustifiable meddling in we the subjects’ lives, it transpired that I was the first fellow in the history of The Universal Brotherhood Incorporated to formally resign, for I went to the trouble of writing a letter of resignation. And it came to my light many years later that my letter was never revealed to the rank and file; it was kept under wraps by Centre Corps (Core), which in retrospect doesn’t surprise me, for that was the modus operandi of the manipulating freak who ran the show (the core of the Centre Corps, a diminutive yet formidable character, who achieved alarming control over the orbiting solar system that was the remainder of Centre Corps; by this analogy, Stephen (Catharsis) Carthew was Mercury, so held in the grip of her linear gravity his face could barely turn away; she demonstrated the power of that old reliable if knotty truism, ‘the ends never justify the means’ BY ITS BREACH, in company with countless tyrants, despots, maniacs, and brutes through the ages, – and yet, believe it or not, I do have some good, even very good, things to say about the place and people as well, and even the aforementioned person, for I am a lay student of the human condition, with my own fallibilities as the best material to build my knowledge upon; but just not now… Before leaving it alone, I do take issue with Carthew’s quoted intention to write the ‘definitive history’ of The Brotherhood; all he can write is the ‘definitive biased history’, not because he is any worse than any other historian, rather because he is no different to any of us. None of us can write a definitive history of anything we were heavily involved in without our bias flavouring it, if not saturating it. A definitive history would be possible of record by an erudite outsider with adequate access to all the goings on and individuals of consequence. Not to say Carthew’s history would not be valuable, but it will be biased. Anyway, I would have neither Baby Inkletter nor her mother, if I hadn’t visited that magic conjunction of seven valleys in the magic Southwest.

Missus Inkles and I watched the DVD recording I did again later, to try to digest the job that Compass did (for example, they made no mention of the earlier Armadale Shalom days, nor the subsequent Coorow days far north of Perth, before ever the community relocated to Balingup), and then chatted about it all. I was going to try to stay up and walk and water outside and clean the kitchen and all that, but a deep tiredness claimed me, and I slept beside the alabaster dragon from about midnight.


23rd February 2009:

Monday: What an oppressive hot mother began brewing from just before mid morning! I couldn’t sleep from about half six, getting up at seven after finally throwing in the towel at trying to re-storm the walls of the City of Nod. I attended to bits and pieces on the computer, being some emails, online banking and transfers, comments, a tailored email of cancer cure information for the Deelers (I spend so much time modifiying communications, be they written, phone, face to face, to better suit the sensitivities of the receiver, especially according to the doctrinal beliefs I know they have), before attending to the kitchen clean up I couldn’t do last night, and finally getting outside to water and fertilize the bamboos and sundry plants, which are going gang busters in this heat.

I left for Bob’s at Guildford at about half two, and the heat was peaking. I took Bob to Swan Aquatic for his first of three consecutive weekly swims, and while he frolicked in the walking lane, I kept my eye on him from the sidelines, at a table, and got a fair bit of Clive Hamilton’sThe Freedom Paradox’ read, finally hitting the home stretch of Part Five. I do have issues with his metaphysical attempt to establish an absolute moral basis for human motivation, but I really admire the behaviour he promotes. It matters not that his metaphysics is flawed (although more would agree with Hamilton than with me), so long as his prescriptions for living converge upon those based on a sound ontology; and they do!

I walked outside in the grounds for a while, and the heat was amazing, so close, and it radiated out of the ground as well as from every other direction; this is why I was amazed to learn later from the Weatherzone website that Perth’s maximum today was only 34 and a bit Celsius. It felt like 44. (I missed today’s weather on TV when I got home.) This day was of the type that typically come before a change, before rain, and that is indeed forecast for a couple of days’ time. Anyway, it knocked me about.

We got to Fishmarket Reserve about half six for a cup of tea (too hot really, but Bob won’t countenance not having his cup of tea) and a walk, and I touched his belly and asked him when the baby was due, but I wish I hadn’t, because he didn’t get the joke. I smoothed his ruffled feathers by apologising a few times. I forget occasionally how touchy about certain things he is.

I got money from the ATM at Malaga on my way home, still in some confusion as to where all the last withdrawal had got to, and gratefully sank into my Player recliner at home to watch the rest of (and most of) Kerry O’Brien’s 7.30 Report. He interviewed Australia’s Federal Minister who’s always wong, Climate Change Minister Penny Wong, who has such a gorgeous little face I just want to powder her bottom, put a dry nappy on (her bottom), blow raspberries in her belly button, say ‘coochy coochy coo’, before tucking her up in a cot. All these strange emotions aside, I reckon she has a strong ability to communicate well under pressure, to formulate very coherent sentences. She should have been on George W. Bush’s payroll for giving him remedial English lessons. Also of interest to me was the story on Queensland Premier Anna Bligh’s calling of an election 6 months early. Silly girl. I won’t be the least bit surprised if the electorate turf her Government out, and she’ll have no sympathy from me. Alan Carpenter made the same arrogant move here in Western Australia last September, and was turfed out on his rear, and serve the idiot right. I find it hard to criticise him, because I had long been an admirer of his for a number of principled actions and stands he had taken, as well as his vision and aspirations in public life. Early elections should be a very last resort for overwhelming public good reasons, never to further the chances of a particular political party; whatever the merits or otherwise of Queensland’s current Labor Government, I would be happy for the voters there to turf the bastards out just on the strength of their having the temerity to call an election but two and half years into their three year term. And I extend this view of mine to any state or federal government, until the bastards get the message that treating election dates with such flippant disregard of the point of having won the last one – the point being that they were handed a licence to govern for a set term of known length at the completion of which the electorate will judge them on the merits of their full term’s outcomes, and everyone, especially business, can plan accordingly upon that set length – spells certain dismissal. So if it’s goodbye Anna Bligh, good riddance! Bring in fixed terms, each state as well as the Federal Government, do it at last, and quit messing with the citizens you are meant to be serving.

I left the lounge all animated, and delivered vittles to Pa pree, then returned, collapsed again into the Player recliner, and, eating the vittles Janny gave me, I watched Four Corners, and Matthew Carney's report ‘Pakistan on the Brink’, to be disturbed as intended, for good reason, at the religious fundamentalist madness infecting and conquering that nation with devastating effect, promising to send what of the nation has emerged from primitivity back to, and keep that that hasn’t, the pre-dark ages. Although I’m about to compare chalk with cheese, the UBI core of Centre Corps of my last diary entry, and the religious fundamentalist mindset infecting huge swathes of Pakistan, are evidences of varying intensity of the fact that the human capacity for self delusion has no limits.

I can’t recall whether I did some watering under lights or computer tasks next, but I did return to watch Lateline’s Tony Jones interview, firstly, Andrew Robb, the Federal Member for Goldstein, who surely must be Australian politics’ ‘caricaturial’ answer to former Vice President Dick Chaney, with respect to permanent scowls; secondly, Tasmanian Senator Bob Brown, The Greens’ honcho, who, typically, peddles their broken record line that unless The Greens’ targets in everything are not committed to and achieved in full, ‘we’ll all be rooned’. I stayed on to watch Letterman, and this was Friday night 20th Feb’s show, and while I can’t recall the name of the musical act at the show’s end, she was brilliant – hey! I just got her name off The Lateshow’s webpage (in itself a miracle, for it’s so poorly designed search wise, in fact, if it’s not showing on the page when you load it, you’re hardly likely to find it, if it’s a recent show) – she was Shemekia Copeland. Now wasn’t Alan Kalter’s Celebrity Guest Interview with Barbara Walters a hoot! And a welcome change from his usual gushing stream of profanities, even though it was highly sexually charged, but that seemed to do the dear old girl a world of good. The stand up of Mike Birbiglia made me laugh; if I recall, he uses a diffident manner. I hadn’t seen him before, and while I missed the first half of his routine, I thought the ending was very witty, that bit about how women fall asleep immediately after orgasm, ‘…er, whoops, that’s called a man.’

I went for a very late walk, and came back drenched in perspiration. I cleaned up the kitchen, I worked at the computer. Where did the time go?


24th February 2009:

Tuesday: I hand watered the bamboo and lawn, thirsty after yesterday’s heat, before Missus Inklelascivious developed her bedroom eyes, and I ran away as slowly as I could, until she caught me in the kitchen, where she ravished me wildly and consummately, before she drove herself to her doctor’s appointment. Without Pa pree as it turned out, for he was at Umple Daffyd’s, waiting for the annual termite inspection on his son’s behalf, who was at work at Bluescope Lysaght.

It was humid today, but much cooler. I don’t know where the time went, but I finally got into the sack at about three o’clock, and Janny had in fact returned from her doctor’s appointment, where Dr Hoffman praised her brilliant progress with many of her health outcomes since starting the Byetta regime (but my word she has paid a difficult price for using the stuff! What with repeated nausea episodes and too often full blown vomiting.) My darling kindly slathered my feet again with sorbolene, and the other day she rasped off all the cracked and cratered dry skin from my heels and periphery of each foot using our imitation foot egg thingy (I’m struggling, and failing, to think of the word for products that copy the original? It isn’t ‘rip-off’, nor ‘spoof’, nor ‘fake’; it’s on the tip of my tongue, you probably have it, but it’s failed me!), which did a great job by the way, at a fraction of the price of the dinki di model I see advertised on telly, called the ‘Ped Egg’. I don’t want to discourage folk buying the Ped Egg, mind you, as it may do an even better job, and with bells and whistles I expect that ours doesn’t have; I don’t recall where Janny got our lookalike from, maybe an op shop, maybe The Reject Shop, maybe off the back of a heavy articulated vehicle.

While I slept, Missus Inklebestdaughterintheworld got Pa pree and brought him back here, feeding him later on, and returning him toward nine. She woke me up, by arrangement, about 9.15, and I watched Foreign Correspondent, tonight’s story by Sally Sara exclusively about the sad trade in stolen Indian children put up for adoption overseas, and the Australian couple, Barry and Julia Rollings, who, when they suspected their adopted children Akil and Sabila were in fact illegally taken from their family (betrayed in fact, by their father, who sold them before deserting their mother), this inspiring couple travelled to India and reunited the children with their mother, and rendered financial assistance to her.

Missus Inkles then joined me to watch Artscape, which featured the highly talented Melbourne couple Ghostpatrol and Miso, and the hit and run applications of their art they do in the dead of night around the city, before I, brave current affairs soul, stayed on for Lateline. (When I write these diary entries a day or more after the event, I often struggle to recall particulars of these current affairs programs, and when I visit their websites to be prompted of the stories and interviews, generally they are so lamely designed that it is near impossible to pull up the previous day’s stories, even just the headings if the transcripts haven’t been completed yet, could you believe? Foreign Correspondent is an exception. Barnaby Joyce did a fairly good imitation of Barnaby Joyce in his interview with Tony Jones, as he usually can be relied upon to do.

Now being somewhat of a current affairs junkie, I watched a recording of The 7.30 Report which Janny did for me while I slept – of course I had to set it all up and tell her just to press ‘that red button’, as no woman yet born can operate a DVD player for their man, but mysteriously they can for themselves – and it was wonderful to see Kerry O’Brien meet his match momentarily in his interview with Malcolm Turnbull – who is reasonably sharp it must be said when under the pump in interviews – when Kerry asked how long the Opposition Leader had left under the low ratings he was suffering, and Turnbull, quick as a flash, shot back the question to the effect of how long did Kezza think he had at the helm of HMS Kezza Report? A moment of theatre, and the momentary look of flusterment on Kezza’s moosh was priceless.

I was way too tired to walk, and I did bits and pieces at the computer, before hitting the low thread count cotton polyester blends about three, and snuggled into the slumbering alabaster dragon.


25th February 2009:

Wednesday: The day began very overcast, and stayed that way almost all day, with a few moments of sunshine breaking through. A few light showers came along early in the afternoon, and of course this brought out the hoon instincts in the local lads who spin their wheels and scream up the wet streets, displaying their extreme lack of maturity to all the world to see, except the police, who are too busy out on the main thoroughfares speed trapping the hapless safe drivers who drift a few kmh above the limits. Janny started her day with a painful leg cramp, not the worst, but bad enough, and I had to get her heat packs, water, the Acuplus zapper dapper, and so on until the pain subsided, poor kitten.

I remained indoors all day working on the computer and doing sundry things until I took the little people before 4 p.m. to Spotlight at Joondalup for a specialled materials binge. Janny had planned to try to drive after Baby Inkletter had to cancel the outing, and her emanations gave me enough of a guilt trip to offer to take the delinquents, to be the taxi driver again. We drove there in light rain and cool conditions. I read ‘The Freedom Paradox’ while waiting in the car. I have to try to finish it within 24 hours, in time for tomorrow night’s lecture by Clive Hamilton at UWA.

Back to the computer until tuck tuck, early tonight, and then I stayed on to watch a mere four and half hours’ television, being Aunty’s big night of comedy and such like. I’ll mention, from The 7.30 Report, the sad news for Pacific Brand’s 1800 plus workers who will be losing their jobs, and the loyalty the company will be bound to lose by sending that work to China, and Obama’s claim that he’ll halve the U.S.A. deficit by the end of his first term: good luck Barack – you’ll need it; Professor Edward Leamer waxed lyrical about Obama’s rhetorical skills showcased in his first speech to Congress, admitting that he was boosted with some optimism, and that’s something good, and in very short supply, and rather priceless; from Lateline, I had to suffer through another Joe Hockey interview by Leigh Sales, wherein the Shadow Treasurer spouted forth the usual litany of criticism of anything and everything the Government does. He and his colleagues seem to believe that there are votes in constant castigation; I’m far from convinced of the wisdom of the policy. His leader, Captain Turnbull, is leading the charge to Chastisementburg; from Lateline Business, the luscious Ali Moore’s interview with Pacific Brand’s CEO Sue Morphett, who had the unenviable job of facing the press everywhere today to explain the disagreeable decision of her company to sack all those workers (and which she may well have been instrumental in pushing for; probably she was). What struck me, which might seem odd due to the apparent unrelatedness of the comparison, was the stark difference in her manner and that of recently ex-Shadow Treasurer Julie Bishop: Ms Morphett had a mature and professional air and carriage about her that dwarfs that of anything I’ve seen out of Ms Bishop, despite the rather biased opinions of her husband and father. I may be wrong, but my impressions of Julie Bishop, a local Federal Member, for Curtin and based in my own fair town of Perth in fact, is that of a person suffering from, and not coping well with, the affliction of the delusion of great self importance and the actuality of relative immaturity. I find it not at all difficult to agree with the critiques of Dr Peter van Onselon, politics and government Associate Professor at Edith Cowan University regarding her fitness for office. I’d rather be wrong, especially as many of the women in our parliaments do sterling jobs and punch above their weight, and given the relative infancy and dearth of women in politics.

I then settled in to enjoy a Letterman, but decided within a minute that it was a repeat. Afterwards, having turned TV off and come to do computing, I began to wonder if I was mistaken, and have missed a current episode. I made my judgment on the guests’ teaser list, ‘Steve Martin’ and a footballer’s name so long it should not be allowed, and I seem to recall both being guests in recent times, but I suppose he could have them back quickly.

I took a late walk, and it almost sprinkled, and the environment was pleasantly damp, only a tad, but damp nevertheless. A dampness which will quickly boil away after a couple of days as the usual summer days return. My hands stung a little from cold, which puzzled me, given that it is February, our month of highest overnight temperatures, and I put it down to simply my acclimatising to the heat these past months. [Back from the future update: a visit to Weatherzone has just put me right: it was 10 Celsius that night, which is an Antarctictine cold snap for us in February, and into the record realms.]

I did some reading of ‘The Freedom Paradox’, and got to bed about five.


Friday, February 20, 2009

LIETINNA: Strain of deception proves too much: Payton L. Inkletter breaks down; reveals to his formidable Missus that secret tube of Vicco toothpaste.

Be all that as it may, meanwhile:

In other news…

20th February 2009:

Friday: Next, carrying directly on from yesterday’s diary post, toward mid morning, I did my usual summer micro fertilizing and watering of the back garden, except for the lawn, for I was too whacked.

Back inside, as the hot day rolled in, I put a link and tweaked a widget or two among the Fool’s Paradise stable of sites regarding the new ‘Health Matters’ site. Then a very tired Missus InkleI’venothadenoughsleep got up, and after she ate to meet the requirements of the Byetta she injected earlier, she made me a crackers, cheese, and pears platter – the subtle domestic violence continues – while I watched The Midday Report. I was very weary, and struggled to stay awake while I watched some more television, Missus Inklesleepy having gone back to bed. I finally got to sleep about two o’clock.

I surfaced, after a sleep broken into two blocks by a wee wee break, at about ten. Janny had picked Pa pree up and they spent the afternoon refreshed by her boyfriend Hiroshi Fujitsu in the lounge, returning him (Pa pree) about half nine. Earlier she had driven up to the Dumplings on her own and delivered a lovely big birthday cake and card to Missus Dumpling, who turns 53 tomorrow. She was looking after her granddaughter Stella, who might be 9 or at most 10, and would have to be almost as tall as her Grandmother. We don’t have the heart (yet) to tell the old dear that she shares the same birthday as Robert Mugabe.

I watched Lateline while I ate din dins, and Leigh Sales had the job of moderating the usual free for all between two opposing politicians that is Friday night’s tradition. Craig Emerson and George Brandis locked horns, and I must say Minister for Small Business Emmerson was more lippy than the last time I saw him in one of these discussions (was it due his particular interlocutor?), and Queensland Senator Brandis – a young fellow of my age – was typically down on anything not of his own side. I can’t believe how negative and go for the jugular this Opposition is, as if they believe it’s the best way to conduct themselves, as if they have a monopoly on every correct approach to best run Australia. I can hardly think of a single prominent member of the Opposition front bench who hasn’t got this puerile attitude. I won’t be surprised if many of my fellow public see through it. I find it tiresome in the extreme, and this is not a political bias: any politician who is against EVERYTHING the other side does is playing the fool, or maybe is a fool, as far as I’m concerned.

Letterman was scheduled much later tonight, so after a cowboy kitchen cleanup I took to the computer, and got so involved, I forgot and missed it. I went for a walk very late, in warm conditions, but not very windy (the ethereal element, not my bowels) for a change.

Once back I tackled the keyboard again, and while it took a long time, I managed to fine tune my ‘Health Matters’ posting in a number of ways, having to work in the HTML side of it, due to the infernal Blogger editor’s awful limitations, not least of which is its insistence of smashing all useful formatting to pieces if one dares to enter the ‘Compose’ mode. Then I added more links in the widgets on the main site to this new page, and given my Optus throttled dialup speeds of my ADSL connection (I can’t afford their better plans), it took ages to tweak the widgets, check their finished appearances in IE and Firefox, and generally titivate around. I also added a disclaimer, at long last, to the bottom of my main site, lest I cause the meltdown of civilised society as we’ve known it.

I also tackled a problem that I somehow caused last month when I created my ‘In other news…’ dedicated site: by using the template from my ‘Visitors’ Book’ site, I ended up inadvertently having two copies of StatCounter’s HTML imbedded in the new site’s template, and so every time anyone visits just one of either site (I think it works both ways) their visit is recorded on both in my StatCounter projects records for each site. Well now I have removed – I think – the double up and redone the StatCounter widget at ‘In other news…’, but early signs aren’t good that I’ve succeeded. I’ll know better in a day or two, when I can study both site’s records carefully for possible false activity double ups.

On another subject, I sometimes am finding it a tad stressful, self induced, to come up with a new daily headline for ‘In other news…’ before the date comes. I am trying to always be humorous, and topical where possible, all the while connecting it to a real place name if I can. This is silly I know, the stress part, because heck, I’m just voluntarily fooling around. As I write now I haven’t thought up a headline for today, which will happen in about eight hours…

And as my billions of daily regular Foolpies well know, the daily diary I write is often done in several hits, thus enabling my speaking to issues raised in the self same day’s entry; I did do a new headline for today’s ‘In other news…’ not so long after that last paragraph’s rather pathetic wail: Eneabba got the gong, no less, that little town well north of where I sit, and even Prince Charles managed to steal some of the limelight.


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