OK, so it’s official. The Holiday period is over. Time to go back to work.

My son, Don, and his gaggle of girls; Joanne, Dawn, Vera, Andromeda, left yesterday. They are back in lovely Honiara as we speak, and my little farm is quiet.

Which, of course, is good and bad.

Good in that the noise and stress and frenetic activity decreases/ ceases. Bad in that the cute little noise makers are all gone.

And we have a huge clean up to do. Not complaining, not at all, but it’ll be a couple days of cleaning and sorting to even begin to tidy things up. Put everything away, in readiness for the “next time”.

Being a Sunday, and being the “day after” I am a bit tired. The last couple days, the last days in country for the Honiara Hemmers, saw us being very busy. Don had parts and spares and work stuff to chase. I helped where I could. Drove to Toowoomba to collect parts. Helped organise the 150kgs (over 300 lbs) of “luggage” traveling back with them. (and I thought my mother traveled heavy!)

Yesterday was a 2vehilce run to the airport. A total of 2moms, 5 little girls, 1grandma, a dad and an olfart were required to get all and everyone delivered to the airport. On time, In style. Below we have: Dawn, Joanne, Andromeda, Betsy, Nova, Vera, Gracie, Gigi.

Once I got home yesterday I vegetated. Dosed in front of the TV, cooked my beans, fed my dawgs, thought about starting the cleanup process. I lounged all afternoon. Was in bed by 10pm. Woke no earlier than 9am. I needed a big rest. It was nice.

Tomorrow is the first real working day of the year here. My projects come back on line and I want things to heat up quickly. Id like to get a lot done this year.

One of my projects, a property development gig I have been working on for a long time, should be completed this year. But that is exactly what I thought 12 months ago. I have learned my lesson. I can’t just make things happen. Especially when it comes to land development, approvals, etc, etc. But I do have my first meeting of the year 1030am, tomorrow.We ended 2022 with some great accomplishments, and now I am looking to create positive traction.

Time will tell.

And the beat do go on… I can hear it.

Smiles

More later

The first of the first on this side of the planet.

Man and Time…

Time and Man…

All I can say is: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=35p2Tvd0fss

More later

10am on Saturday the 31st. Sun is out but it has been raining. The sun will make the air hot and humid. The ground is too wet to get any work done. Its is too wet to have an extended family NY’s party. Kinda boring for kids stuck indoors and quite noisy for olfarts…

Have had “the evil twins” here for a few days. Four little girls, two 7/8 and two 6. There is strife and conflict galore. And noise. Screeches. Nova likes to howl when the spirit gets her. (wonder where she learned that?) Vera is always turning cartwheels. Ed dances through every step in life. G.G., the eldest, thinks she is the boss and is often crying because “they won’t listen to me!”.

G.G., Ed, Nova, Vera:

My old farm house has a large basement. I had it carpeted a while back. Put in a big screen TV all connected to the modern www. It’s comfortable and roomy. The floor is covered in blankets and pillows. In the “art room” I allow them to write draw be creative on the walls. Have markers and paint and a couple easels and paper and materials to make a mess and be creative. And shut the door.

This is from a number of weeks ago, when there was still blank space of the walls…

I am cooking dawg food, being lazy, listening to The Evil twins make noise. Here’s one that makes me smile…

So I cant complaint much. I do instigate a lot of the confusion. But dont tell anyone.

The world in review… from an olfart’s perspective? Well, hell! Its all fucked up. Men are women and women cant win in women’s only sports any more. I do not get it. I wish someone could explain to me how and when biological males became females. I simply not get it. It’s down right dumb to think a chick-with-a-dick is a female. I dont get it.

Not as dumb though, on waging war win the energy source that has brought mankind out of the dark and into the light.

I was a teacher in the remote Solomons and could tell which kids got the use of a light (a kero lamp) at home. Those kids read more, studied more, learned more, than those kids who did not have the luxury of after-hours illumination.

I have been hanging around third-world countries, Least Developed Countries (LDCs) for decades. I have a ‘thang” for LDCs. I have lived and enjoyed living in some of the worlds most isolated places. And without a doubt, in all my travels and adventures, life was better with after hours illumination. And not just a fire. Fires are easy but not that great for reading a novel or writing a letter. A small kerosene lamp works real well. As does a candle. I still use candles in my house. I like the feel of the soft, natural light. But ENEGRY allows society to come out of the shadows, be productive, produce and create 24/7.

In my isolated adventuring I was often forced to be parsimonious with my store of liquid energy. Those nights when there was a bright moon I’d often not light a lamp. Save my fuel for when it was really, really dark. Of course batteries are useful but all have a finite life and you can calculate through experience how much life your battery powered lamp contained. It was never long enough. And batteries are expensive. And toxic waste that we tend to forget about as we toss them aside.

In my option the war being waged against “fossil fuels” is madness. Looonacy!

As is the long term plan to redesign the modern family. To reinvent the world in a modern, non-male posture. It’s been going on for years. Decades. And the result is not good. In fact it is very bad.

On a more positive note it is noted that the world vs Covid is/ was a botched affair and all and everything we were forced to do, think and consider was ultimately based on bullshit, lies and stupidity. I am glad I am an olfart.

And babies and dawgs and olfarts rule….

Images of this past years… miles stones, millstones, passings and parties… life is indeed guud.

more later

big smiles

Time is short. For this year, time is short.

I have discussed Man and Time and the attempt to slow, or delay, or manage Time’s passing. It is an innate part of Man, the cognisant, aware, Man; that lives and breaths and thinks and ponders. The voice of the poet is the voice of Man’s yearning to understand.

It has many titles… “The Great Divide”, “The Other Side”…

I was traveling internationally with my parents. Decades ago, old folks and young family… trying to get through customs and immigration… the folks got separated, Dad ahead and mom behind, He turns and says as he walk through the no-return doors at Nadi International, “I’ll see you on the other side.”… We all laughed.

It would be considered a “dark” joke, not PC, today. A dark thought… to to see morbid-ness in the every day. To see the razor’s edge. To laugh as an anecdotal reminder as Death arises in daily life.

I learned long, long ago to allow Death to be an advisor.

Like the Dojo mat.

And the Great Deep Blue Ocean.

For an Iowa farm boy I have a lot of experience with The Great Deep Blue. Being an Iowan its only natural I know my way around a mat. Iowans are born rasslers. Cant explain why. You can understand why folks “North” play hockey. But why is Iowa the rassling centre of the universe. I do exaggerate.

The Great Deep Blue… I knew zero as a young’n, but I learned quickly, the way of the water, the truth of the tides, the wonder of the waves, and the mystery of the briny deep.

I was too young and too green when I got posted to Siota PSS in Central province, Solomon Islands. I quickly learned to feed myself from the sea. I had good teachers. It was a great experience for a young adventurer.

And it never ended. I learned that being on, in and around The Great Deep Blue would become a necessity for me.

My time in the Islands gave me very positive lessons in Death and Dying. Folks die all the time, we know that, and in the islands I learned how to place my hands on death and dying. It’s a fine skill to learn. It’s a great and glorious event to stand near. Sad yet fulfilling, and scary as hell, all at the same time.

Proximity to Death makes one aware of mortality in general and personal mortality in particular. Which takes us back to the need to place a handle on time as it passes.

Time can pass ever so slowly, or rush quickly, heedlessly forward.

As I age, my sense of time becomes more acute. Age teaches that time is finite. Age produces impatience because of the awareness of the finite nature of all and everything. Eventually one resigns themselves to a capitulation of sorts, a white flag in the battle to control time. That’s called getting old, being old, admitting one is old.

I aint there yet. Not today anyway. Some days I wake feeling sore and tired, and yes, old. But I shake the old-man feeling off, as a dogs shakes water off his coat, and move forward, albeit slowly, but forward none the less.

Much of my life has evolved around “martial arts” of one form or another. I define martial arts as anything that is combat or one-on-one or self-defense type training. I often refer to it as “warrior train”.

The world of MMA is huge these days but I was a kid when we first saw Bruce Lee, or the movie “Billy Jack”. I joined my first Dojo when I was in 7thgrade. Ive trained with masters and I have trained children and women the basics of foot stomping and running. My old Instructor, Mayor Carl Sharff, used to say, “dont be chicken, beat feet”.

I recall being a kid and deciding I was going to make a set of nung-chucks… Two large lumps of hard wood, using my dads plane I shaped and shaved for days. Fitted a bit of chain between the two and started swinging away. I “came to” on my back staring up at the sky through the big walnut tree. Id clobbered myself with the nung-chucks. Knocked myself out cold.

My theme song is “Time is on my side”. Or, maybe, “Born to be wild”. I dig the line ” I like smoking lighting…”.

I’ll end on this note. It’s a good place to end…

https://youtube.com/watch?v=egMWlD3fLJ8&si=EnSIkaIECMiOmarE

Once again, shock / horror, the year is ending all too soon. All 12 months have flashed past faster than a field rat running from my hounds.

And those field rats are crazy fast!

So are my hounds.

The day after Cmas, in many parts of the world, is called “Boxing Day”. It comes from a tradition that I find kinda cool... Boxing Day was traditionally a day off for servants – a day when they received a special Christmas box from their masters. The servants would also go home on Boxing Day to give Christmas boxes to their families.

Sure, some may take exception to the idea that anyone had servants, and that servants got a day off. Some folks can find a bit about anything to get their righteousness in a twist, but not me. Nope. I come from a long line of peasants, serfs, servants and emigrants.

In our modern world of self-flagellation and loss of sleep over matters such as reparations and retribution and compensation and such… I take comfort in the fact that “my people” never had much. They were, and I am, people of the land. Not landed, not land owners, but the worker bees. The tendering hands that produced what the land offered.

So I guess I have little to repair or atone for???

The English, Irish, Dutch side of the family tree is my Paternal Grandmother, Ida. Born a Hinde, I know less about her back ground than my other sides of the family. I recall pictures of her parents and grandparents. Their names were Burke, Barton, Wright, and Hinde. They were not ‘recent emigrants” noting my maternal great grandmother, Minnie, and her husband, Thomas were both born in the USA.

One picture I remember well was on my grandmother’s table. An old, raisin-faced woman, seated in a chair, holding a long stemmed pipe. That was grandmother Burke. Grandfather Burke was a known OrangeMan.

The German side is easy to trace. My great-grandfather and great-grandmother both came from the same village. As near as I can tell it was a mass migration. Many family members all emigrated at the same time. I recall tales of the family traveling by “prairie schooner” across the content to settle in Iowa. My grandfather, Edward, was born in the USA.

My mothers side of the family tree is kinda straight forward, kinda… three brothers by the name of Angelopolous emigrated from Greece to the USA in the late 1800s. I say “kinda” in that there are familial lies that cover up the fact that my maternal Grandfather, Andrieus, had more than one family. From what I can find it appears he traveled back and forth between the new country and the old. He fought in the Greek-Turkey war of 1897. There was a family picture of him in his white tights and fluffy dress and pointy shoes, holding a rifle. He married Vera Vrotsos, in Iowa around 1920. It was an arranged marriage. He was well over 40, she was sweet 16.

None of these folks had servants, owned slaves, or participated in any kind of human bondage, that I know of. Vera’s people were Turkish Greeks. Somewhere in that messed up history her ancestors ended up on the island of Samos. Her people were chased out of Turkey. They left ahead of the genocide the Ottomans were conducting against those inferior to them.

So why should I feel bad about Boxing Day?

Funny thing is that my wife’s family, her Melanesian sires from the island of Choiseul, were indeed slave owners. In fact, in the early 80s I met one such slave. The last of a long line of chattel that had been accumulated through blood and greed and war and death. her name was Nelly.

Nelly had been an infant when she was stolen by my wife’s maternal grandfather. yes, grandfather, not great-grandfather. His name was Kapakesa. and he was a bad-ass. Had his own cairn of skulls.

I am told that in or around 1900 a guy up on the north coast by Pongoe was being a nuisance. Another group decided to “deal with him”, and put an army together. Kapakesa was hired as a mercenary to assist. He was a known as a feared taker of heads. He joined because there was anticipation of “booty”. He participated for what he could bring home… He returned from that raid with Liliboe’s infant daughter. She was Kapakesa’s slave.

Of course there were other slaves, on both sides of my wife’s tree, but I knew Nelly. I met people in the family that were children or grandchildren of slaves. They lived as a family member. no real distinction between them and other cousins and in-laws and outlaws. They did not inherit land. that was the only real difference Nelly was introduced to me as “kapakesa’s slave”.

A life long slave, ripped in horrific fashion from her family. As near as I know all of her family died the morning of that raid.

She lived a long and fruitful life. She was a respected midwife and healer. She had a great aura.

So, Boxing Day, not something I shall get my emotions in a twist over.

My plans for today originally entailed having our extended family up to raise hell on wheels. What I call a “vroom Bbq”. But the rains have returned and it is a bit of a hassle to have everyone hanging around all wet and muddy. It is fun, it is entertaining, but the kids get hurt more and faster when it’s wet here. So we shall put the vroom-day off. Here’s a picture of Ruben and Hudson in their new riding gear…

We had our family doo yesterday. Paul and Betsy did a good job. The mess and noise and confusion, as usual on Cmas morn, was biblical. Some tears, some injuries, but mostly copacetic fun…

And the beat goes on…

more later

Big smiles all around.

A lot going on, all around. And around…

Of course the Glow Ball warming is fucking everything up. Too much rain where it’s suppose to be dry. Too much cold where warm was predicted.

As a card carrying member of the olfart club, I can only shake my head.

Any pain, strife, confusion, convulsions, and deaths taking place are self inflicted.

People living too long. A burden on society. Legalise euthanasia. Check out Canada.

A society that does not value life above all else is not cool. Lets see… According to theWHO, there are roughly 73 million abortions each year. https://worldpopulationreview.com/country-rankings/abortion-rates-by-country

So sad.

I cannot come up with words to describe my perpexitude when it comes to CA. As a youth the land of ocean and smiles was mythical and real at the same time. I often had difficulty telling real from fantasy while in CA. So many positives, I recall. Sure it had its edges. Ive hung around Englewood. Venice beach before it was cool.

What happened?

As recent as 2018 I kept an apartment in Pasadena. I have a soft spot for Pasadena, the Rose Bowl parade. NYeve around Colorado BLVD. Best street party possible.

I cannot predict when I shall return. There is more keeping me away than attracting me.

I really enjoyed living in Pasadena.

I hear the Oxford Dictionary changed its definition of Male and Female.

I may be daft but I thought we all knew what a Male or a Female were? Like dogs, lift them up by the tail and count the holes. No?

Summer in QLD is gud. weather is almost perfect and the grasses grow well. Heaps of mowing to do.

The ancient art form of animal husbandry may soon be lost. Maybe even verboten. If I can tell at a glance the difference between male or female, Im probably racist.

stream of unconsciousness …

more later

First of December. End of the year looms large. Summer is here in QLD, and just like last year, we’re being rained on. Being drowned.

I blame all weather on Glow-Ball warming.

And there are many kinds of weather to report on… the rain, of course, the dry, the in-between. And it’s changing. Every year (every day) the weather changes. Which is just plain wrong. Why can’t it stay the same?

Maybe it’s an age thing? As I age I hurt more, move slower, am less of a risk taker, and have more time to ponder the mundane in life, like the weather.

As far as time-keeping goes, 11 down, 1 to go. Then we get to start all over again. Or do we?

This past year has seen age and health and mortality catch up with a few of my compadres. Sad, inevitable, predictable to a degree.

And the beat do go on. Drummers change, drum majors come and go, but the beat remains, is persistent, consistent…

smile

more later

a nice pict of my good friend Roger and my best friend Nia…

Ive been ruminating on the above topic recently. In the past couple weeks I have been involved in discussion(s) that explore what is best when feeding your dawg, buying dawg food, and simply keeping your dawg healthy and happy and well fed.

I am a registered QLD dog breeder. I have lived with, slept with, raised, fed, been angry at, and enjoyed Dawgs all my life. There are very few windows of time in my life where I was not sharing my existence with a noble canine. And in some instances, No Ball canines too.

I currently have 5dawgs… 3bitches and 2studs. I am consciously caring for my dogs with a very long term vision. I have an intent-filled future for my dogs and my breeding programme. I am breeding amazing canines.

I have invested a shit-load of $$ in my dawgs. I spend quite a bit maintaining them. We have daily feed costs, annual vet costs, general maintenance costs.

Of course the biggest cost involved with my dawgs is feeding them.

One of the discussions I recently was involved in was the consistent use of dry dog food. Pros and Cons… Basically the fact that it’s not uncommon for folks, dog owners to exclusively feed their dogs dry food.

Been there, done that.

I was talking about the time I spend cooking for my dawgs, I choose to cook a couple times a week for my dawgs, and one friend politely suggested I buy dry.

I admit here that I use dry dog food. Quite a bit, but not exclusively. I have used a variety of dry dog food. I believe that the more you spend the more you get. There is very good dry dog food, as there is very bad dry dog food. Kinda like potato chips… some are healthier, better for you, more expensive than others.

Another aspect of the discussion herein is the use of “fresh” (meaning frozen or freezable) dog foods such as mince. Mince of any kind. I prefer kangaroo mince because it is extremely high protein content. And kinda costly, up to $8perKG. Mixed mince is around $5perKG.

An important part of this discussion is the feeding of bones to your dawgs. Some folks adamantly say no, while others, like me, think feeding bones is essential, important, required in a healthy dawg’s diet.

Stupid Facts: In order for a canine to clear their scent glads, which are around the anus, they need to have a good, strong, push-it-out dump. Often domestic type suburban dogs stink a lot because of their diet. They eat soft, processed foods and never get to take a good healthy dump. Just like us humans… a good dump is essential to good life.

But, Im not here to talk about what people should or should not do. It’s your dog. I shall tell you about what I do and why I do it.

Food is food is food… or is it? Dogs, like people, will eat just about anything. Not just what is healthy, nutritious, good for you. And like people, dogs have allergies to certain food, get diabetes, over-eat and get indigestion, get the runs, get constipated, etc, etc.

It’s sad when a dog owner, or a parent, neglects the diet of their dog or child. Child obesity is a huge problem on our planet. As is puppy obesity. Early age diabetes with dogs and children is on the rise. And it’s mostly connected to diet. Perhaps its completely connected to diet?

Yet, considering that a few dollars buys a pretty big KFC or Macdoogles hapi meal, and kids are hungry, and food is expensive, well one can see why we are where we are.

Convenience, too is a huge factor. A busy life. Drive-thru works well. As does dry dog food, a couple scoops daily in a bowl. Kids and dogs?

I personally am not a fan of fast-food. For people or dawgs. I like to cook my meals. I very rarely eat out. I know I can have better food, cheaper at home, if I cook. So I cook. Great tasty meals filled with red beans and beast and veggies. Thick rich gravies with fantastic cuts of good beast. But to do it right it takes time. And I do got time.

I know I need to eat well, as I know it’s easy not to eat well. Easy to be lazy. I make the choice to feed myself very well.

Same with my dogs. I am looking for the best food for the best price… for my fantastic dawgs…

I know that I can buy a variety of meat and bone products for roughly $5perKG. Most stores sell offcuts and bones. I have good local butchers so am never short of great bone/meat/marrow content for my pots of dawg food. Chicken necks are very good. It is good for the dawgs. Good for their digestive. I like fatty pieces of bone. I can feed them raw or I can cook them up. The fat gives the dawgs a shiny coat.

We forget too that dogs are designed to chew. Rubber chew toys do not last long in my kennels, so I like big fatty chunks of bone that make the dogs chew and chew. I often get split-shin-bones full of marrow, or flaps from the rib racks. My dawg-yard looks like a catacomb. Bones strewn all about

Some bones may not be best to just feed your dogs. I think of any chop bone or something like a T-bone. I have watched my dogs eat rib bone like I’d eat a potato chip, they just munch it down. I have also pulled stuck bones from my dogs’ mouths. So it is a fine line of sorts to walk. Some folks think all bones should be cooked. Or not. Some folks say dogs should not be fed bones at all. I suggest that smaller dogs be watched when they have a bone. But my bigger breeds have never had a serious problem.

I can only go with my experience, and that is I feed my dogs almost everything, within reason…

Right now, in my house… I have a big bag of dry dog food and a bag of puppy food. I keep dry food around for convenience. Have a couple bags of bones and a fair bit of frozen off-cuts and minced roo. I can be in. hurry and accept the convenient route, or thaw and prepare and cook…

I just cooked for my dogs. Very little left over food goes to waste here. Table scraps, stale bread, etc, etc all get thrown into the dog pot. Had enough this morn to justify a cook-up… I cook 8kgs/ almost 20lbs of food a couple times a week.

Ingredients today: a bag of beef bones, a bucket of left over table scraps, rice, bread, pizza, and more. A couple kgs of carrots with 2 packets of pasta. All up I spent $5 for the bones, $5 for the pasta, $2 for the carrots, the left overs were “free”. I’ll be generous and say I spent $20.00 all up to cook 8kgs of good, good food.

On average I feed each dog 800grams a day, maybe a pound and a half per dog per day at a cost of about $2-3 per day per dog. If I cook. And this is the best food I can give my dawgs.

Dry dog food is different… I just bought a bag of Black Hawk (a decent grade of dry food) for $160.00 for a 20kg bag, so $8 a kilo. I feed 800grams per dog per day (when I use it) so a 20kg bag has 25 feeds. 160/25=$6 a kG.

Now one might think Im a jerk for being so pedantic about feeding my furry friends but…. but! Like my kids, I want my dawgs to develop and grow and be healthy of body and mind. And when you consider that $6p/dayX365=2190, and that I am feeding 5dawgs… it do get expensive.

So, it is clear I can feed my dawgs better food for less, if I cook it.

Just like cooking at home.

My pot of beastnbeans is simmering.

Will be excellent.

Smiles

more later

I’ve been hanging around Toowoomba for a couple decades. It’s a good place.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Toowoomba

Is a Wednesday eve. Have been participating in grandson, Mendoza’s, matriculation from school.

He has been going to school here for 6 years.

It’s all done now.

Now I sit in an aged bar, Toowoomba is an old-ish regional centre. A lot of nice old stone buildings with high ceilings and dark wood paneling.

The family has been busy enjoying Mendoza’s success.

Tonight Grace and Don are off to the formal. Space is limited I don’t get to go.

So I’m on my own… I Sit in this bar and wait for a burger while sipping a cider. Old dance music plays in the back ground. The place is kinda busy.

I guess I am lucky to be young enough while being old enough to enjoy my grandson’s graduating. Speaking from experience, there are no guarantees your kid will make it through all 12 years.

I see it as a rite of passage, a societal accolade, a certified success. A pass.

And it’s good.

I’m pleased Mendoza’s dad and family could come. The little girls are so impressed.

So I’ve just about had enough of this place. And I’m still waiting for my burger.

And the beat goez on

More later

Some folks get it. Some do not… 11.11.11, I shan’t explain it, here.

Lest We Forget

But I am compelled to comment on the political scene that USofA is.

For decades the goings-on of the US political scene have entertained, maddened, confused and frustrated many an observer. As “A Stranger In A Strange Land” kinda guy, I have always been on the outside looking in. I was germinated and propagated in the US, then allowed to grow and mature in a non-US-political environment.

For the casual observer such may not be of huge import. But from a practical point of view it’s huge. Being on the outside looking in. Offers the observer a certain amount of clarity not found from within.

I have had the fortunate misfortune of spending the majority of my days in some form of Parliamentary system. Noting well that the system in the Solomons is not the system in Australia, etc, etc. Coming from the US it was quite a task to logically come to terms with the differences. To figure it out for my own mental calculations.

And, of course, there is nothing like the USofA. It is an honest aberration. Almost an accident.

I shan’t go into the various differences within the three systems I am a card carrying member to. It’d take way too long. And my day beckons. I have things to do. But as I drink my coffee, as I prepare for my list of “things to do”, I’ll comment a little bit on the recent Mid-term elections in ethnic USA…

As we have seen in recent years, the US is basically divided into two equal and very much opposed visions for the future. The recent elections are often called by the smallest margins. It’s common to see neither mainstream candidate receive over 50% of the ballots cast. It’s often a case of “too close to call”. When this happens it boils down to the State-wide “machine in power” to start the shenanigans. Right or left, red, blue, green, yellow… all political machines have a dirty-play-book.

I mentioned above “ballots cast”. Not VOTES, not votes, but Ballots. It’s not about casting your vote and filling in your legal ballot. Not at all… it’s about counting ballots. Its about fishing for ballots, harvesting ballots, manipulating ballots… Who has the most ballots at the end of the counting is where it is at.

Each and every self respecting Political-Manager has a box stuffed with ballots ready to go. Just in case. My guy is losing, and, what! Wait a Minute! A box of mail in ballots just got found in that toilet. No matter they aren’t signed or dated or that the info is incorrect or that an actual voter is 122 and died in 1976, nope, we must by law count all the ballots cast. Legal ones and illegal ones too.

So, after the dust settles, we end up in a 50/50 power share position. And if the 50/50 wielding power do not get their shit together and start looking for a common path forward, we’ll remain in a self made purgatory.

Of course our ol buddy The Donald sure as shit didn’t help much. It would appear that the players he held close lost big. It would appear as though associating with The Donald may not be good for your political future.

????

I also like the idea that some players spent tens of millions, while other only spent millions.

Sure appears to be an expensive game.

Me? I’ll stick to puppies and children. A lot more honesty therein., noting well puppies and children are notorious liars.

Smiles

More later

It is with tears in my eyes I write this obituary…

Kenny The Wadd, Doo-check, Holmes…

The above pict is early 1981 on Guadalcanal.

I met Ken in November 1980. We were both to-be Peace Corps Volunteers, went to an orientation on the East Coast. It was a Cape Cod kids meets the Iowa farm boy situation. We became friends quickly.

We spent the next 3years 81, 82, 83 being PCVs together. Most of that time we lived near each either other on the Island Of Choiseul. I was teaching at Choiseul Bay PSS, Ken was a Business Advisor based on Taro Island. By the end of ’82 we both had Choiseul ladies to spend time with. By the end of ’83 we both had Choiseulini baby girls.

Of course, times change and Ken left the Solomons (the first time) in 84. Traveled, grew, changed, came back a few times, traveled more… somewhere in there, was it the late 80s, Ken sorted the paper work out so his daughter, Roycie, could move to the US and live with her dad.

Ken was one of those PCVs that never stoped coming back. Of course, Roycie visiting her mother was important, and we all know how addictive, or maybe infectious the Solos can be. So, suffice it to say, Ive never been out of touch with Ken. My family and his are forever bound. Our daughters are the closest peers Ive ever met. PCV daddies + Choiseul mommies. A rare breed indeed.

Some where along the journey Ken got lucky and married Jennifer. Roycie struck it lucky and got the best Mom the world could conjure.

For too long she’d been the only child of a single father. A good father indeed, but we all know Moms are soooo good. Everyone should have at least one.

Just last week, I commented on one of Ken’s FB posts:

Saturday here. Been raining. The place was starting to drying out, the 60mm/ 2.5inches has made things muddy again. But that is ok. I can’t get much done anyway so it might as well rain…

I turned my ankle the other day. Was coming down off the tractor, out in a paddock, stepped down from the machine and my foot hit a tyre rut. My ankle turned and I saw stars. A 5-7day recovery. Add a couple days for olfarts….so have been hobbling around. This will take way too long to mend. It’ll be sore and weak and at risk. I’ll need to be very careful.

The trick is to not re-injure.

So I sit quiet. Do the minimal of what I must do. Sit and read and catch up on the “world as we know it”…

And I find this:

I know its suppose to be funny. I find it rather sad because there is a lot of truth in it all.

Remember this…

And this…

Sure don’t look like the “Summer of Love” I remember.

I am wondering if the values and mores of society are changing so drastically, that some of the most basic things known, proven, factual are being reversed? Point in case…

https://www.bbc.com/news/world-asia-57549653

Is female the same as male? Hubbard competed as a man, now competes as a female. Is he a female? Should he be allowed to compete against “biological” females? What does it mean to be male or female? What about The Female Athlete that he took a spot from. I bet she was disappointed. Whilst we applaud Hubbard we fail to think of the damage done to others. Its strange that we fail to admit….

Even the terms male and female, man and woman are not interchangeable. What it means to be male or female originates from physical characteristics derived from sex chromosomes and genes that lead to certain gonads, internal and external genitalia, and physiological hormones.

Modern group think does not approve of us saying a Man is not a Woman. And a Woman is not a Man.

In the 1990s I coached the Solomon Islands Olympic Team. I had a dream of participating in “The Olympics” in Sydney. We worked hard, dominated a couple weight classes in the Oceanic Olympic scene. But did not qualify for The Olympics. Very disappointing.

I feel for the young gal that has been training for years to get to The Olympics. Only to have her ticket taken by a guy. Oopps, A guy claiming to be a gal.

So, I am wondering if the values and mores of society are changing so drastically that some of the most basic things known, proven, factual are being reversed.

Gracie and I recently became Australian Citizens…

Now, it may sound corny, but I feel pretty damn good about gaining my Aussie ticket. Its a hot ticket to have. This is a good country. Noting well that I have, to-date, acquired three legit and operational passports: USA by birth. Solomon Islands by choice. Australia by very good fortune.

If you do not value your citizenship, your Nationality, then I believe there is something very wrong with you.

Another sad trend that is occurring: It has become fashionable to damn one’s homeland. I am confused by the words I hear that disparage and belittle the land of one’s birth.

Being patriotic is positive. Being Nationalistic does not make you evil, racist, dumb, stupid, pathetic or deplorable. Being both patriotic and nationalistic is positive. To be a proud American, or Solomon Islander, or Australian is good. Even great.

To teach your children to be patriotic is positive. To show pride in your homeland, your life, your family, your world… well DAMN! Did I say “DAMN!” loud enough… Its very very sad if you cannot be proud of your Homeland. Your life. Your family. Your self.

It has sadly become fashionable, in the USA (and elsewhere), to not be proud of your homeland. And to verbally proclaim such. Its been coming for quite some time. I think this slipped by most people but… in 2008 I was shocked when I heard Michelle Obama say she had never been Proud to be an American… https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LYY73RO_egw

I am and shall always and all ways remain proud of my USofA Nationality. I grew up in the USA. Was educated, trained, conditioned, taught within the USofA system to be proud, patriotic. My father and uncles were all vets. My brothers, my peers all served in uniform. We were proud of them. I said the Pledge of Allegiance daily in my school life. And we said prayers a couple times a day too. I was a Boy Scout and proud of it. I found my home in Solomon Islands when I was still quite young… landed on Guadalcanal the 11th of January, 1981. I was 23yrs, 4 months and 20days old. I built my life and matured in the Solos. And, all of us that have been infected by the Solos know, its as bad as heroin. The Solomons is a very easy place to fall in love with. And I am very proud of my Solomon Island Nationality. And now I boast Aussie citizenship. Man, what a stroke of luck! How can anyone not be Proud of their Aussie Nationality?

So, with my track record as a serial emigrant, I wonder what the folks that have so much to say on the matter know? What is their experience with emigration?

Twice I have emigrated. Each time I followed the rules, legally and transparently and honourably, obtained the rights and privileges of a citizen. Each time there was a not-so-insignificant cost associated.

When I see the burning of flags in Tehran I am not surprised. When I see the burning of flags in New York I am confused.

Did I say I am quite confused by it all…

The speeches we hear, in the USA and in other countries, touch less on tangible daily items of importance, and more on ethereal “ifs” and “maybes”… If the temps rise 2c we all die. If the seas rise 2mm we all drown. If the sky falls Chicken Little shall be crushed.

And… If we spend trillions and trillions, subsidise elite ideals and peruse confused pathways we shall survive. If we don’t change our ways NOW we shall all die. If we don’t admit we are sinners we shall curse the future of all.

If “HE” get reelected all hope is lost.

As near as I can tell, facts are no longer facts…

and I really dig the ol Skool, dark n sinister themes underlying here…

and the beat goez on…

more later

Been a good month…

Dawgs are good…

More later

Sunday 21st of the 8th month. Time sure do fly when you are having fun.

BloodSports always make a Sunday good. Means I dont have to do much. Have a great excuse to sit and be entertained. I really like Blood Sport Sundays

As I age I view the world differently. Which is only natural. From the youthful idealist to the pragmatic ol fart, in 50 years. Age is a factor.

I have recently been talking to a friend from the past, a guy I met in 5th grade. Maybe 10yrs of age, children thrust together in a classroom in a small school, in a small town, in a small world. We were both outcasts of a sort. We were both readers in a place where books were not cool. Neither of us fought to be jocks. As our peers competed for being “starters” on the scholastic teams… track and field, baseball, football, basketball, wrestling… we read, shared books, took karate, he was a musician and I a poet, we wrote songs together. And branded ourselves as outcasts. We did not fit in.

Not in that small-town, short visioned parochial world we shared.

We both left that world while still young. While our peers married their sweet hearts and got jobs at John Deere. As they all became their parents, we both moved on, moved away.

We reconnected a few years back on social media. One of those messages… “are you Mike from Independence?”… and we reconnect. Which is very good.

A sense of personal history is important. I contend that 99% of all folks are trying to be either MORE or LESS than they really are.

Knowing your past, recognising your history, being honest with one’s self lends hugely to knowing yourself.

Honesty is very important. Essential.

As I age I see more and more how people live in self made and managed fallacies. Its is often too painful, too difficult, too dangerous to be too honest with one’s self.

Our modern media filled world is full of such dishonesty.

I have discussed the need I feel to remember. To honestly remember the past, my past.

Again, honestly is very important/ essential.

We know there are society lies that we all (almost all) support. Small lies like Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy. Large lies like the”carbon scare”, “climate change”, the anthropomorphic nature of global warming, and the idea that we can buy our way out from disaster that is filled with “Ifs” and “Maybes”.

My favourite lie of this past week or so is the “Mar A Lago Scandal”.

It is what it is… the blatant weaponisation of the Federal System to persecute an Enemy.

Remember? Orange Man Bad? Orange Man Bad. Orange Man Bad.

I see a funny/ interesting/ disturbing trend… From the 60s, The AntiWar movement, The Peace Movement, The Summer of Love, MLK and the march on DC, “kill them with love”, Bobby Kennedy and his inspiring message of “a better world”, “…all we need is love…”, “The Age of Aquarius”… young Democrats standing up for free speech and equal rights…

Now the same 60s era protesters (of which I am one) vote for Bernie Saunders and his Communist agenda. Refuse to shake the foundations of their status quo lifestyles. Invest in more of the same. Wars, famine, pestilence, disease, infant mortality: All man made, part of the design.

My 60s era peers have now become Elites.

Those of my peer group who have remained thinkers, readers, researchers, seekers know that the entire scenario has been predicted, planned and prepared. I can no longer see any difference between the main-stay political parties… the war mongering, deepstate, men in black republicans are now, and always were chameleons. They come in both flavours, both colours.

No “team” has a monopoly on virtue. Or eviltry.

And it is “team” mentality that rules us.

And the beat goez on

More later

I have been ruminating on the concept of “de-civilisation”. The backwards movements of modern society, the degeneration of norms, standards, mores.

I have been doing my usual reading-up on the topic. Researching and trolling the www for discussion on this topic. Of course no one has yet started calling the “homelessness” plague “De-Civilisation”. Not yet.

Here’s some references I have dug up: https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-9142163/Photographer-spent-TEN-YEARS-LAs-notorious-homeless-hotspot-reveals-work , https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2022/mar/22/california-homelessness-crisis-unhoused-and-unequal. , https://www.lamayor.org/Homelessness

As I look at the photos in these articles I am struck by the similarities I see/ have seen in “developing countries”…

I have spent the majority of my life living as, I call it, a LDC Junkie… LDC = least developed country. I lived through the 80s as a barefoot, ragged-arsed, off the grid, “aid-worker”. I lived so far off the beaten track that very, very few folks ever got as remote as “Susuka”.

Susuka is my wife, Gracie’s, home village. Her people have been living, surviving, existing on the north coast of Choiseul, for a long, long time. On the island of Choiseul there are no roads. None, anywhere. Other than logging operations where the tropical rain forests are raped, pillaged, and plundered, there is no vehicular transport of any kind. Not even bicycles.

There are very few areas, villages, towns that have running water. Folks live off their rain catchment. And use ground water where and when possible.

There is no “power grid”. Of course there are some private generators providing power for modern necessities like video and cell phone charging, but most devices are battery powered. Most folks have a small radio to “stay in touch” with the world. A small solar panel charging a standard car battery is not uncommon.

There is no rubbish collection, no council by-laws, no speed limits, no stop lights or speed traps or any other symbols or symptoms of modern civilised society. But I dont think there are many folks on Choiseul who would be “homeless”.

If the Solomon Islands is a LDC, then Susuka is a least developed area in a least developed country. With zero homelessness

And it kinda looks like the pictures of LA… but prettier… https://www.gettyimages.com.au/photos/homeless-los-angeles

Not as bad. LA looks much worse than Choiseul.

For decades we have been shown pictures of homeless folks, living in boxes, on the highways of Manila…

https://www.google.com.au/search?sxsrf=ALiCzsbAZRptTCwKqGOSJXkvVQ9t8IZr2A:1660346340088&source=univ&tbm=isch&q=manila+homelessness&hl=en-au&client=safari&fir=7jqftCI4bgk8vM%252C1GsYh8ilfvZ7vM%252C_%253BbSdLEBgTtpaJsM%252C2mGCVCecnuvgQM%252C_%253BRLJJokaIHKJWOM%252C2f7LVXbRcPsVgM%252C_%253BuN7P85D3PYjbUM%252CGVrNMg3IvtVmdM%252C_%253Bccl5t5jOuRUopM%252CoBSuohu-mBWMHM%252C_%253B1L61bxn4wUi4YM%252C1GsYh8ilfvZ7vM%252C_%253BrFcw9EyrLXH8eM%252Cyew4N08kLwSQ-M%252C_%253B6yoUgMIpn0GjwM%252C8fUSko4OGC90RM%252C_%253BEW-qdKy9Qk5U6M%252CbqVgz5gd_2VoEM%252C_%253BJpwDychIw9MvzM%252CT7EKIPjeoB4cUM%252C_&usg=AI4_-kTitfvoOZt4WLxBO6-3uQoGBxEP-Q&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwiA_beOuML5AhVgFrcAHVOpCf8Q7Al6BAhLEDk&biw=1121&bih=1056&dpr=2

Not very different to LA?

Or the shanty towers from South Africa…

https://www.google.com.au/search?sxsrf=ALiCzsZZDcS7uuX5townzs9vG08QYFN3Ng:1660346560534&source=univ&tbm=isch&q=shanty+towns+of+south+africa&hl=en-au&client=safari&fir=ffsIDaDaeI2soM%252C8tQlFHa9PyafWM%252C_%253Btx5NNyu_lvtGbM%252CrAsq8E-bjO9EjM%252C_%253BQrkZmtdOMyi-RM%252ChFnVvXj0k1y7TM%252C_%253BBIC-2JYznCixQM%252CEeaiwBS5sxQViM%252C_%253BeDeYct9qJQ8bIM%252ChrIHTW1CI_vORM%252C_%253B7T7JvvYYO6DoOM%252C2hT5uTWi9zrgNM%252C_%253BgkvlPw-fL0xGpM%252CyBJpBIABUttyzM%252C_%253B1B0bfSuLPT_Y1M%252CAKV-jz5aOGB5EM%252C_%253BwxfMGYPTwkxPkM%252CeEHwnpWhnTOBTM%252C_%253BAuICu6weta4Y6M%252CDXENezJkLhkddM%252C_&usg=AI4_-kRoKWHjuhvmUtJ3y769TCp2XKLrrw&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwiL-sb3uML5AhUfT2wGHe_hCxUQ7Al6BAhNEEI&biw=1121&bih=1056&dpr=2

A few years ago, 2018 I was in LA. Passing through, visiting the US and preparing to ride my motorcycle a bit. For a number of years I had a small apartment in Pasadena. I kept a nice Triumph motorcycle in the underground garage…

I know a guy in LA that does airport pickups/ drop offs. We met by chance and for years I always would call Lamont up, have him meet me at the airport, take me to Pasadena, talk about the city and the state of the Nation. Always a useful intro to the US, a long chat with BigL, as we drove through LA traffic. One of the things BigL talked about then, in 2018, my last trip to the US, was the increase in homeless folks on the streets.

I saw it in Pasadena, a supposedly “up market” area… more people setting up shop on Colorado Blvd. Sorta like the days before the Rose Bowl parade, but in June… small areas of the wide sidewalks along Colorado Blvd marked off, claimed, secured by physical barriers: a bit of card-board laid on the ground, a blanket or a rug, a packing crate turned on its side, an umbrella propped sideways to give shade…

Pasadena was a nice neighbourhood, rather affluent, up-market in many ways… I walked around a lot when I was there, as I prepared for a road trip on my bike, or as I shut down things after a couple weeks of riding, Id walk the city blocks north and south of Colorado Blvd… The closer I got to the freeway(s) the more homeless Id see… I surmised that the homeless used the large undercover places – stairwells, underpasses, train and bus stations as shelter. These folks would come out during daylight hours and practise the ancient art of Pan-handling.

“Panhandling” is the practice of imploring others to grant a favor, often a gift of money, with little or no expectation of reciprocation. A person doing such is called a beggar or panhandler. Beggars may operate in public places such as transport routes, urban parks, and markets. Besides money, they may also ask for food, drinks, cigarettes or other small items.”

If I hung around Pasadena enough I would get to know some of the Panhandlers… one I recall had a dog, Id stop and say g’day, pet the dog. The owner was a young woman. Her sign said she was trying to return “home”, to the Midwest. Id ask how things were going, make a small donation, never much, never enough to cause trouble…

My elder brother has a past of being homeless, living rough, panhandling, living on the fringe. A combination of substance abuse and situations led him to being “on the streets” for a number of years. As with a lot of folks trapped n the world of substance abuse, he’d come good, get cleaned up, accept help, get off the streets, only to return at a later date. He has told me that “giving too much”, offering too much help, money, time could be harmful for all involved. So I developed a habit of saying hello, exchanging pleasantries, offering a handful of change. A couple dollars…

In the Solomons I had developed the habit to always have some “small change” in a seperate pocket, away from my main cash reserve. If someone asked for a handout, for “help” I could pull out of one pocket just enough to remain polite but not get caught up. A few dollars at most, but enough to help. Not enough to hurt.

I think there is a huge difference between helping and enabling. I know that people who are living on the streets, who are living homeless are not there by great and glorious planning and design. They are where they are through mishap, misunderstanding, and mistake.

A large percentage of those living in a homeless manner are where they are by mistake. Bad luck, even… but there is always, I believe, a modicum of choice is involved.

Unlike those in developing countries where life carries on in a sad, minimal level due to the environment and circumstances of their world, The Developed World decay comes from a lack of making good choices. In the lap of excess and comfort. Running water, power,education, employment opportunities abound in the modern world, just inside the doors where the homeless now reside…

So why the de-civilisation? Why the retro-grade movement?

I see more and more similarities between the streets of the US, the streets of LA, and the streets of Manila.

I am confounded when coming to try to explain this phenomenon.

I’ll read and think about it more. Write more… later

Smiles

The sun shines, the air is cold, the wind is sharp.

Feral deer graze in the back paddock. After studying these creatures for a while I’ve decided they are Rusa deer, not Red Deer… https://www.austdeer.com.au/rusa-deerhttps://www.austdeer.com.au/rusa-deer

Just having a conversation with my neighbour about the deer. There are a lot of folks out there that would love to come and shoot one. I am told they are very good eating. Some hunters think that the killing of feral deer is a good thing. The deer do carry ticks and parasites, in season, and they can cause problems if you’re getting deer (and kangaroos) in your paddocks with your cattle.

But I do not have cattle any more. I am not concerned about the tick season/ situation. And I find the deer to be a pleasing visual.

But I am not open to letting folks come shoot here.

Biggest issue is that hunters want to come, kill, bleed and gut the animal, and go away. Take the best parts. Leaving the offal.

This of course attracts other unwanted feral critters. Namely wild dogs.

Though I do not have a problem with wild dogs… I have two big Maremma Guard dogs that keep all intruders away… But wild dogs are a problem in this area. I do not want to attract them.

One guy I know, Mitch, is a keen hunter. Goes out west and shoots a fair bit. Mainly killing feral pigs and kangaroos that are considered vermin/ pests. They shoot and simply leave the carcass. Not shooting for meat. Just shooting to shoot, and kill.

Now my buddy Mitch has a property to the west of here. He has deer as well. And does not shoot them. For the same reason I dont shoot or allow shooting. But I know he, and others, would love to come shoot the deer here. Funny how that works.

This past week has been rather interesting, in a news/ politics sorta way…

In George Orwell’s “Homage to Catalonia”, https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/9646.Homage_to_Catalonia , he wrote of life in the trenches of the Spanish Civil War. One story tells of the famous American, Ernest Hemingway, showing up and, as a reporter, touring the front lines. He recounts how Hemingway got to fire a couple rounds from an artillery piece. Firing across the “Front” into the Fascist Spanish lines. And how, after Hemingway left, returned to his hotel and typewriter in Barcelona, the fascists hammered the hell out of the “rebels” in retaliation.

So we have Speaker, Pelosi, doing a trip to Taiwan. She did such against the advice of the Foreign Office, and under strict warning from the Chinese.

So she goes and scores some huge personal political points. Has huge exposure. Heaps of press… and then she flies home, a self proclaimed hero.

Today the Chinese have emabargo’d Taiwan. Shut it off from the world. Are staging “war games” within the 200KM economic zone.

Taiwan will take a bit of a whooping for The Pelosi trip.

I know Taiwan pretty well. Have done numerous trips, done a lot of business, made lots of good friends in Taiwan. I know the Taiwanese to be tough, tough folks. I know they will resist the Chinese aim of formal acquisition of Taiwan. I know China is making a huge effort to fulfil their goal of unification.

Why did Pelosi go to Taiwan? To show solidarity with Taiwan, to support their democratic aims, to make a statement? To gain press?

If she wanted to “do something” positive, perhaps she should have vocally said more that was positive. As it is she simply said she supports “the status quo”. Which I fear is not terribly meaningful.

The status quo is not very positive.

Why not pursue a “Two China” agenda? Like the Two Korea situation.

Today’s news from Taiwan: https://www.taiwannews.com.tw/en/index

Does not sound very good.

And the beat goes on…

I think of a couple old friends of mine that are going through health issues… TWD, battling cancer, letting the medicos cut and operate and remove, so he can survive. DokCF, undergoing chemo for a lymphoma. DokRW, living with Alzheimers, still so young, but bereft of memories. I send positive and healing vibes their way.

Smiles all around.

Hug those nearest.

An overcast, chilled, blanket wrapped morning here in my little valley. The deer are in the paddocks, the dogs are curled up in warm, furry balls. Temps today are 8c/45f – 20c/ 65f. Not much sun out.

A very good UFC card on in a bit. Blood Sports Sundays are my favourite. Ask me why I like the violence and aggression… and I won’t be able to answer. Ive been involved in martial arts all my life. I firmly feel violence and aggression is something one must learn, understand, and consider a factor of life. I have taught my children and grandchildren about violence. That the world is not a safe, soft, comfortable place. That you must walk through life prepared for violence.

Not to say being a bully, or a thug or a gangster is good or correct, but that life is predatory, and I shall not be nor shall I raise my offspring to be prey of any kind.

UFC offers a positive catharsis of martial arts, all styles, all disciplines, all practices in one place.

There is an old, old – age old – argument of “who is better”… the boxer, the kickboxer, the rassler, the grappler, the submission artist, the high flying acrobat…. And the answer is very simple… a combination of all is what it takes to beat all…

I grew up in Iowa. The land of Wrestling. Iowa is recognised as a land of elite wrestling.

The Gracie family took jujitsu and gave it a Brazilian twist. The Thai-fighting styles have been rehashed and refined and defined by many real and not so real fighters… I think of JCVanDam, and my ol buddy Steve Segal. Both trained martial artists, but neither ever “real fighters”.

As UFC has grown, developed, matured we have seen the advent of, the growth of high-tone, intensive training centres. I Think of Jackson-WinkleJohn in Albuquerque. Or City KickBoxing in Auckland. I see the scene changing, developing. The fighters are getting very much better. They have to. Competition is fierce.

There are many specialist training venues where the elite trainers and coaches make a decent living out of professionally training professional cage-fighters. People will always pay for blood-sports.

I think back to wrestling and what I call “The Grind”.

Through the 1990s I coached the Solomon Islands Olympic Wrestling team. I took very athletic island kids (guys and gals) and taught them the basics of Olympic wrestling. Both Greco and Freestyle. My favourite training session was “the pain game”.

Wrestlers learn at a young age to grind, to push, to keep going. You can see it in a fighter who has a wrestling background. They are wrestlers (rasslers) first and fighters second.

We won medals. Brought a lot of recognition to the team, the Solomons.

In the Pacific Olympic venue we were know to have an “Iowa” advantage.

So, as I wait for the fights to start, I shall ruminate, write from a stream of unconsciousness point of view…

I think the world is hobbled, injured, walking into the future like there is a stone underfoot.

The modern “Go-Green” foolishness has everyone paying more, moving less, concerned about the future. As quite adequate energy systems are being shut down to appease the elites of the planet, school aged children are taught about transgender rights, the soon to come end-days, and being prepped for a rather grim future. Where the designs of the few dictate the future of the masses.

We are in a world where we applaud the invention of gas/ methane collectors for cows, tell everyone to buy electric cars, as the elites of the world take their friends for joy-rides into outer space.

I live, proudly, in Australia. Its a great place. I worked hard and towed the line for more than a decade before I was granted citizenship. As a serial emigrant I thoroughly understand the need/ desire to relocate, to emigrate, by choice and forethought. I thoroughly understand and respect the rights of each nation to control who comes and when they come. Nationality is a valuable thing. More valuable in some places than others.

I fear that citizenship in the USA is being devalued.

I left the USA in early 1980s, January 11, 1981, to be exact.

I had by that time decided I needed to look a far from the USA, see what was out there… its is a big world. Many things about the USA have rubbed me wrong, since my youth, and I was destined to emigrate.

For me, the idea of emigration was not new. All sides of my lineage were emigrants. The German side, the Irish-English side, the Greek side… we know their stories. They taught us about the plights and perils and joys and successes of emigration.

I found the Solomons Island. I got real, real lucky. For 30 years I lived, enjoyed, and prospered in what I still think is the most beautiful and liveable place on earth.

But as I aged I found I needed to rethink my life, to consider finding a place that could cater to my needs as I aged. That could offer me the medical care and attention all old, ageing, decrepit dudes need.

So I came to Australia. It’s close to the Solomons, has about the best healthcare on the planet, and the climate is good.

One can understand why Australia is so tough on its immigration. I understand.

So, as I sit wrapped in a granny blanket, finishing off my coffee, waiting for the blood to flow…

I look toward the USA… where the Orange Man was bad. Where, by hook or by crook, he had to be deposed. anyone would be better than bad Orange Man…

So we let the kiddies loose in the candy shop. Old Uncle Joe cant keep up, has no intention of even being on the job. Like an elderly Pope, he is wheeled around and made a fool of by all. His acolytes are doing a quick-grab, stuffing their (and their cronies’) pockets full from the public coffers. The longer they are in power the worse the lunacy.

I love the idea that we can redefine failure into success… Recession becomes a good thing. Printing of billions in new currency is not feeding inflation, its stimulation for the economy. Millions of illegal immigrants are positive, they shall alleviate the employment crunch. Its all a silver lining sorta thing, as is the turd covered streets of SanFran and other “sanctuary” cities.

Defunding the police is a great idea, and not incarcerating law-breakers is a way to keep the justice system under control. Keeping the prison population in check. And if you claim to identify as a woman, they move you from a male facility, where you’re being raped daily, to a female facility, where its your turn to do the raping.

Sure, all makes sense to me.

I fear a nefarious plan, a very negative future being designed by those who think they “know best”.

And the beat goes on.

The fights shall start soon.

Some picts from the past weeks, to end on a positive note…

Smiles.

More later

Sunday here on my side of the planet. Had another few days of rain, accumulating in excess of 150mm/6inches of precipitation. My little farm is a mud puddle. The dogs are wet, muddy, with poor Nia wondering and stressing why she cant come inside. This darn Global-Warming has to find another venue to influence. I cant get much work done when the ground is a mud puddle.

Just wondering how much rain we’ve had in this year-to-date… just found this:

Sunshine Coast Airport Rainfall Reports

date	rain to 9am	interval
mm	hours
Fri 01/07/2022	7.2	24
Sat 02/07/2022	28.6	24
Sun 03/07/2022	4.2	24
Mon 04/07/2022	3.0	24
Tue 05/07/2022	12.6	24
Wed 06/07/2022	5.4	24
Thu 07/07/2022	0.2	24
Fri 08/07/2022	0.0	24
Sat 09/07/2022	–	–
Sun 10/07/2022	0.0	24
Mon 11/07/2022	0.2	24
Tue 12/07/2022	0.0	24
Wed 13/07/2022	16.0	24
Thu 14/07/2022	0.0	24
Fri 15/07/2022	0.0	24
Sat 16/07/2022	0.0	24
Sun 17/07/2022	0.0	24
Mon 18/07/2022	0.0	24
Tue 19/07/2022	0.0	24
Wed 20/07/2022	16.0	24
Thu 21/07/2022	7.2	24
Fri 22/07/2022	44.6	24
Sat 23/07/2022	18.2	24
July 2022 Total	163.4	13 day(s)
July 1994-2022 Average Total	67.0	13.4 day(s)
July 1994-2022 Wettest Total	252.6	2008
July 1994-2022 Wettest 24hr Total	73.4	24th 2008
July 1994-2022 Driest Total	2.2	2002
Jan-Jul 2022 Total	1901.8	123 day(s)
Jan-Jul 1994-2022 Average Total	1055.6	109.9 day(s)

Note that all measurements are metric so the 1901.8mm noted = 6foot3inches. I know that during one week of rain in Feb/March, I dumped over 1500mm out of my rain gauge. And feel quite certain Ive dumped at least another meter out since. I dont record my rainfall but I take note mentally as I empty the gauge, and think Ive seen closer to 3meters of rain than the 1.9noted herein.

In any event we have had and shall continue to have too much rain.

But the sun is shining and the air is warm today. I have chores to do but I’ll be lazy. Its been a rather busy past week. Don was here from the Solomons. His first trip in over 2years. Mendoza got out of school to come hang with his dad. It was good. But the house (both houses) are empty and both need cleaning. The cars need to be washed. Garbage bins go out today. Lots to do.

So I sit here, wrapped in a granny blanket and communicate with my family back in Iowa as they prepare to “farewell” my Mother.

Mom passed away 12th July my time. Aged 95, her passing was no shock. She had been fading/ failing for quite some time. She passed away in the house she considered her home, surrounded by family. Her end-life care is an example to all us ageing rebels. Teach your Children Well…

A Service will be held tomorrow, Iowa time. The family shall be gathering. Food is being prepared. I have a big family. Lots of food is required.

For a number of reasons I shall not hustle back to Iowa right now. These past months/ years of covid-confusion and restrictive social interaction has meant I last saw my Mother in mid2018. Life and externals has prohibited me and mine “getting back” to see mom as she failed. And such is life. Ive been “leaving” for most of my life. I originally “left” in January 1981. For the past 40years I have made a point of ensuring my goodbyes were said each and every time I left, again. Do not let your goodbyes go unsaid. You never know when you will or won’t get to say it all, so always and all ways say your goodbyes thoroughly and consciously.

I’ll end with a story about my Mom…

DISCLAIMER: All my stories are purely fictional. And, as usual, the names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Being raised in a family of women leaves one with a strange sense of proprieties. Being raised in an old fashioned family filled with women leaves one with a profoundly warped sense of proprieties. I was raised in such a family. In a very old-fashioned and Matriarchal family.

There was my proper and prim Grandmother. In her eighties she was the very essence of a mature matron. Erect if not stiff. Tender but very firm. She never swore. Had a small glass of schnapps on “special occasions”. Took a nap every afternoon. And wore a large hat and clean white gloves when she worked in the garden. She always smelled of roses.

There was my forceful and loving Mother. In charge of everything. She ran her world as a Master Sergeant would run an army. She knew what was happening before it transpired. She was able to see through walls and hear across large distances. She was omnipresent and clairvoyant. She was a force to reckon with.

There was the gaggle of sisters I called “mine”. I was never sure how many there were. I know there must have been better than half a dozen. Yet they changed so quickly I could never tell. They also tended to bring home friends whom they looked alike thus one could very seldom tell one visiting female from one in residence.

Within this mess of female functions existed my Father, my elder brother, my younger brother and me. We “men folk” tended to live within this flurry of the female lives that we were little more than satellites to.

I am not sure if I learned about women from my Father or the females around me. There were many, many rules pertaining to a life ordered and operated by women. Perhaps I followed my father’s and the elder brother’s lead in some things but I think that I learned most of the rules from the women themselves.

Women were to be respected. Failure to show respect could result in Mother rapping you on the head with a four-pound wooden spoon, direct and still hot from the pot of simmering stew on the stovetop. Grandmother was adept with the backhanded dishrag. Take a step away from the accepted and Grandmother would snap you about the face with a greasy and hard worked dishrag fresh from the sink. My various sisters, being younger and less trained in the ancient female arts of inflicting pain, would simply punch, bite, scratch, kick or other wise render you delirious with pain and humiliation.

Women were to be treated with honest attention and decorum. Failure to pay proper attention to a female was in direct violation to most civilized rules. One was expected to be as telepathic as they were. Failure to anticipate the need to hold a door open was a misdemeanor. Yet failure to anticipate the need to open a door – when her arms were full of something- was a hanging offense.

Women were made, came off the assembly line, equipped with the tools to investigate, try and judge any crime. They can worm answers out of you with little more than a raised eyebrow. A stern glare is enough to make a “big boy” wet himself. A smile and a bit of kindness can make even the worldliest man fall over him self to please. Women may well be the perfect creatures. They know all, see all, and understand all. They can work better than most men. The females I was raised with were always stronger than I. They could clean, bake, sew, hammer, build, paint, tend, plant, dismantle and think (so I was raised to believe) better than men.

The one thing they could not do was fart.

I was raised with the belief that women did not need to fart. I always thought they were above it. That men, being the crude and semi-domesticated creatures we are, abased themselves by “passing gas’ whilst in a communal setting. I was raised allowed to laugh and make light of the male ability to “pass gas”. My Grandfather would hold his finger out to small children and tell them to “pull it”. The result would be a startled child and a Grandfather roaring with laughter.

In the warped upbringing of the matriarchal household I felt as though it was a fair trade. I could fart and they could rule. I learned from my father that I could cock my cheek and let a “good one” rip. Grandmother would simply state that “You’re too much like your granddad”. My mother would ignore it completely. My sisters would move without comment.

I spent little time pondering this difference between the genders. There were so many differences that something as simple as – guys fart, gals don’t – made a perverse kind of sense. This sense was enforced by my strict private school education where then nuns and the “young ladies” in the school enforced rather than dispelled this belief. I actually believed that either women could not or did not need to “pass gas”.

I was sixteen. I had hitched a ride to a near by city to see a popular rock band in concert. A gal I vaguely knew from “around town’ picked me up. She was several years older and, at that time, living a “Hippy” life style. As we were tooling down highway 20 in her beat up corvair she looked soulfully at me and said “Mike, I need to ask you something very serious”.

My heart went into my mouth. My imaginations ran wild. She, this older gal, a hippy gal, was going to ask me “something serious”. Sweat broke out on my palms. I was tongue-tied. I simply nodded for her to go ahead.

“Mike”, she said, “I don’t want to give you the wrong impression but… I really need to let a fart”. And with that short introduction she cocked her cheek to the left and let rip with a prize-winning rumbler.

At the same time, as she filled the small car with noxious fumes, my life forever changed.

I was dumb struck. I am certain that my mouth hung open like an idiot’s. I am certain that I stared at her in disbelief. I saw her blush under my stare. I assume I made her feel uncomfortable. All I could do was stare. I was experiencing an epiphany.

Epiphany is the right word to use. It is defined as: a sudden intuitive leap of understanding, especially through an ordinary but striking occurrence.

Ordinary and striking are so very right.

Females had been lying. All this time. In many, many ways. I saw it clearly. My epiphany, my revelation allowed me to see it all. The hallucinogenic tab the hippy gal had given me before she farted was not required for me to see through the smoke and mirrors of this small mystery of life. No, it had not taken effect yet. I was still sober. And I would remain sober through the course of the night. The tab had been a waste. As the bands came and went on the stage. As the decibels pounded my eardrums. I kept running the scene through my mind. My epiphany had irrevocably damaged me and made me unconditionally stronger at the same time. My world had changed.

I remember thinking about the childhood story of the Emperor’s New Clothes. How everyone went along with the farce simply because everyone went along with the farce. I saw this scenario in so much of my life. It applied to everything. In the religious dogma I was spoon fed each day. In the pseudo relationships I saw others foster and yearn for. In the horseshit propaganda trickled down through the media.

I think my youthful rebellion in life began at this time. I knew now that women were not infallible and that I did not have to spend my days worrying about their superiority. The agreed farce of life became clear to me. If women need not be feared then all else was 100% unadulterated boloney.

I started my rebellion by no longer listening to the nuns in school. I went out of my way to challenge them. I began to stand up for myself and to argue with these women who ruled our academic lives. And every turn I took, every challenge I instigated, they would back down.

I do believe that I got lost in this heady world of rebellion. I know I was perverted by this revelation. It was like learning the secrets of the ancients. Like learning something mortal man was not fit to know. It was information far too serious and dangerous for a 16-year-old, testosterone poisoned punk like me.

I became a jerk. I lost my respect for women. My elder sisters would attempt to dominate me and I would pop them in the chops. All this “thou shall not hit a woman” crap was expunged from my psyche. I would argue the nuns into tears of frustration. I am certain my grandmother spent time praying especially for my salvation. My poor mother never realized what hit her.

And the years rocked by. The youthful rebellion was replaced by the need to feed a family. My wife dispelled any doubt in my mind that women did not require the release of abdominal gases. My grandmother passed away. My mother got old and my many sisters learned to never screw with me. I would still pop them in the chops.

It was a quiet winter’s eve. We were sitting at my parents’ house in rural America. My father had a nice fire going. Mother had just cooked an expansive meal. My wife was finishing the dishes. My teen-aged children were fighting over which video they would watch. We decided to play a couple hands of cards before we called it a night. The table was shifted. Chairs were carried in. The cards were brought out and shuffled. I made a pot of fresh coffee.

The general confusion that occurs at the beginning of a game of “friendly” cards was taking place. The general arguing over who kept score, (if my daughter keeps score she always wins) the vying for positions at the table (don’t sit next to my wife, she’ll look at your hand) and the establishing of the basic ground rules for the game (grandfather could not fall asleep in the middle of a hand).

I was waiting for the coffee to percolate. I had chosen a seat between the living room and the kitchen. My father was on my left. My mother was on my right. My daughter had the pad and pencil and was preparing to keep score. My wife was positioning her chair so she could see the hands to the left and the right of her. My father was taking a quick nap.

We were playing a two-decked game. Two decks were combined to allow everyone to play at the same time. It was a quick paced game like gin rummy but with more cards and more people. The deck was being split up and handed around for shuffling. My mother fumbled with her share of cards to be shuffled. A card fell on the floor. She leaned out of her chair to pick it up.

As a youth with little to do we would discuss the best farts and the best farting situations. The old oak pews in church were pretty good. The plywood seated folding chairs at the VFW were ok. But the consensus was that hard seated, straight-backed wooden chairs were the best. These old style chairs with the carved out places for your cheeks gave you a chance to “play” the chair. You could let a winner rip with out too much effort. The hard wood had a nice tonal quality. For the farting aficionado these chairs were the epitome.

I was about to stand up and get a cup of coffee. I had half turned in my seat. My father was chin on his chest napping in his chair. My daughter was laboriously writing our names on the score pad. My youngest son was arguing with his brother over who would sit next to my wife. My wife was getting the cards ready to deal. My mother was in the act of retrieving the card she had dropped.

She would have won a prize at any fart fest. If there were medals awarded for farting this would have won the platinum with diamond trim. It was possibly a world record. It started as she was in decent, hand stretched out for the card. Mother’s age and her arthritis could not allow her to cut it short by quickly sitting straight. She was committed to touching the floor, retrieving the card and pushing off the floor with her hand to gain her upright position.

It started and it lasted. For the entire duration it took her to bend over in her chair, touch the floor with her hand, grasp the card then push herself upright. I estimate it had a complete duration of something near twenty seconds.

The divergent tonal qualities achieved through the variation of the “angle of attack” through the changing of the position of the stationary cheek would have left a master in awe. It was a virtuoso use of the old fashioned hard-seated chair. I have never seen a better performance.

My father’s eyes popped open. He held his face in a noncommittal and non-commenting demeanor. My wife blushed. My daughter held her hand to the perfect “O” her mouth had become. My sons were looking around the table for a clue as to what their reaction could safely be. I fell out of my chair.

I rolled into the kitchen. I choked with laughter. I held my ribs. I was in pain. I was in awe. I could not breath for the convulsing air erupting through me. The memory of that epiphany came shattering into the light of day. It took me ages to compose myself enough to get up off the floor. I returned to the card table with my coffee.

My father had not changed his countenance. My daughter was politely smiling at a distant spot in the air. My wife was patting my mother’s hand telling her to ignore me. My son’s were following my lead and making a bit too big of a deal about it. My mother was glaring at my father. Was giving him the hard look. I had gathered myself up off the floor in time to see her point a finger at him and say. “Not a word from you. Not a damn word.”

I was distracted in my card playing. I kept falling into fits of laughter. My father had managed to not crack a smile over it all. I was impressed by his self-control. By his sense of self-preservation. I ended up losing the game. It made my mother feel better. She had been embarrassed. She deserved to win. I was caught up in the revelation type memory of that trip with the hippy girl all those years ago. I saw a story coming together.

A story about the night we had played cards and mother farted.

Sitting in Toowoomba…

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Toowoomba

Mendoza goes to school here. As did his dad, Don. Toowoomba has been a big n part of our lives for about 20years.

This is M’s last year. Tomorrow he is playing Rugby. We’re here to watch.

Don is here. His first trip off-island, from the Solomons, for 2years.

Toowoomba is always cold. Breezy. Or too hot. Its cold n breezy now.

And all is good.

Smiles