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Friday, May 29, 2009

WISCONSIN: “Making love, eating salad, making love, eating salad: I’d reincarnate as a rabbit in Wisconsin any day!” Payton L. Inkletter asserts today

Be all that as it may, meanwhile:

In other news…

29th May 2009:

Friday: I had issues with the alarm at ten, so reset it till eleven, and even then didn’t drag myself off the mattress till after half eleven, then set about, on this ridiculously warm, sunny, and dry end of autumn day, getting ready to take Bob swimming. The bounteous buxomite phoned about midday and we had a good chinwag, and I put to her the plans I’m cooking to try to afford the solar panel offer twixt the Feds and the solar panel industry. She was a bit confused about what I was on about – and this time I don’t blame her – but she will consider my proposal.

I got to Guildford about half two, and we drove almost straight to Swan Aquatic, which early on resembled a ghost town, but it did pick up with the after schoolers. While Bob splashed about like a deranged blowfish I attended to the usual paperwork, some unusual paperwork, and then did a bit of long hand writing of a chapter for Venty Still well ahead of where I am. I wanted to have some practice writing of the romantic encounter I plan for a Venty and a former Dardanup lad in – wait for it – 2038, at the old Balingup property where in the real world the alabaster dragon and I met about one and a half thousand years ago. I am aiming at this stage of getting things warming up very gradually, more implicitly than otherwise, but I also plan to end this encounter rather explicitly, but hopefully with a version of taste that the discerning grown up hopefully will recognise. Explicit taste, tasteful explicitness, what should I call it? I want to pay homage to the urges of biology, without obscenity, or is filth the better term?, given that my description plans will be called obscene my many of the more prudish set for sure.

Why do ladies at Swan Aquatic call an ageing codger like me things like ‘Sweetie’, ‘Love’, ‘Darling’, in exchange for just giving the normal social rituals of greetings and such? Wimmin, deeply mysterious beasts they be.

Before I knew where I was it was time to take Bob to Fish Market Reserve, where we took a walk in the dark almost, helped by the crescent moon, around the river bank, hoping for the sound of dolphins, but being disappointed. We finished with a cup of thermos tea under the park lights of the Swift, before I delivered Bob back to House Three.

I posted a belated Wedding Anniversary card to the beast beautiful at Balingup on my way home, so I hope she gets a fillip when it arrives next week in that matchless hamlet. (I haven’t got mine from the doe eyed domuch yet by the way…)

I caught the tail end of My Beloved, then shot around to Pa pree’s with his vittles, and Umple Dais’ valuables he’d left with his big sis before he left for Thailand two weeks ago. He is due in tonight at Perth International, so methinks he’ll call to see his old man in the morning and will get his things as well as the mail I’ve been collecting. With a bit of luck I’ll get a sleep in before picking up the old hoary one for the King’s Park picnic The Babies Ink&Peggletter have arranged. Anyway, well see soon enough about that… I did a couple of things on Pa pree’s poota, then came back to catch the last bit of The Collectors, and then ate my vittles, warmed up from the frozen dinner containers my wonderful wife makes for me when she’s away. Am I worth it?

I stayed on to watch most of the SBS World War 2 documentary about Stalin and the German advance on Moscow, before SBS’ late news. I shot off to do kitchen work, programming of the new Uniden phone (which is looking a promising bit of kit), and some pooting, then dashed back for one of my highlights for the week, Friday night’s Lateline with Leigh Sales, who radiated again tonight, with her eyes and smile being second to none, repeatedly, and who proved, when those two pieces of gristle came on for the weekly political palaver, the Opposition's family spokesman, Tony Abbott, and Parliamentary Secretary Mark Arbib, that women are the rightful repositories of beauty. Leigh had that flattering hair style, light make up, especially around her lovely eyes which don’t need the poly filla that she occasionally slips up and uses, and a professional outfit, of which I have but one complaint: the pattern on the blouse is too big, and would look much better if it was smaller patterned or even plain. Big patterns don’t look good when only a tad of them are revealed. She wore this very outfit last week if I recall correctly. Black is a good choice, and definitely long sleeves, in her role chewing it with the bastards. Shorter sleeves are admissible occasionally, as Ali Moore pulls off so well, but sleeveless never.

Anyway, I felt revivified just having my eyes rest on Ms Sales, and my how civilised were the palavering political punks tonight! Tony Abbott takes a bit of stomaching for me, and I am sure I can’t pin down only one problem with his manner and motives. Outside of politics I suspect he just could become a top friend and counsellor. Stephen Long was a delight as he always is, informative, intelligent, and on top of his economics issues. The chemistry between Sales and Long is great.

Having imbibed my current affairs fix, I descended on the keyboard and wrote up a couple of these here diary entries. And before I knew where I was it was after one in the morning, no bull. Would I bull to you? Oh, also I took a risk and posted a comment on Damyanti’s site ‘Writing on Writing: Amlokiblogs’, praising her beauty, her physical beauty; she has a most femininely blessed face. And add to that the fact that her site is excellent, as well as very giving and helpful to aspiring writers, what more could a lass want?

Very late, in the time slot usually occupied by my legendary late night walks, I watched Leigh Sales' Lateline of Wednesday night the 27th May, two days ago, which I had recorded, while eating cheese and 5 pears, yes, “Farve farve farve… tyoo, farve farve farve!” pears. Leigh looked professional in a long sleeve blue shade jacket, and she used her no nonsense look to grill Foreign Minister Stephen Smith in an interview.

Now this interview is a good example of the inner mongrel phenomenon most politicians have in abundance, as well as most journalists. Ms Sales, though, doubtless had to go to some lengths prior to the interview planning how to summons some inner mongrel to ask Stephen Smith “…why do you think that there's a perception that you're a weak Foreign Minister?” The likes of the late Sixty Minutes stalwart Richard Carleton probably would have had difficulty keeping a lid on his inner mongrel, and Kerry ‘Kezza the Great’ O’Brien and Tony ‘SilverToes’ Jones I’m sure would have managed to find plenty of inner mongrel just below or at their respective surfaces to ask such a question with the seasoning of bitter herbs that it takes to do. The angelic Ali Moore of Lateline Business on the other hand would not have been able to do it. I’ll paraphrase how she would have to tackle such a question: “Mr Smith, what in your view would epitomise a weak Foreign Minister?”, and she’d likely add: “Honorable sir, your Holiness, how I love your work, and please forgive me my impertinence, do you like apple pie?, let me bake you one…”

Seriously for a moment, I suspect that these borderline rude and offensive questions and remarks asked of and directed towards interviewees would amount to some of the worst parts of the job for the more noble and decency aspiring journalists, and I do strongly suspect that Leigh Sales is in this latter camp. And so we see a microcosm here of part of the human condition, that of compromise; to live on Earth is to compromise, and the art is to improve the achievement of balance. Ms Sales has to keep one eye on ratings and the demands of her minders, another on her guests and future interviews, another on her career prospects, another on her audience’s perception of her, another on her soul growth, another on what her children, if she has any, or her spouse or lover, will think of her, and so on. A damn hard balancing act for sure, but a necessary one. (But did Leigh go a tad boasty with a Twitter about this interview the other day?)

By the time all this was attended to, it was after four in the morning on this dead still night. One would think I’d have leapt into the cot right now, but somehow more things needed to be attended to, and it was closer to half five when my head hit the stones.


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