Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Here is the latest from the markets...namely that involving "Why shouldn't I call my son Clint?", now of course, the application called 'Name Guru'.
Early on the crowd was volatile and results unpredictable, and even early-on it seemed it was a day for people wanting to know if I could guess their name.
'Betcha' cant guess mine?" this bloke says to me, cocky as all hell.
"Sure I can," I said. "....Jim."
"Hah! Wrong. Go on - guess again...."
I knew I was screwed. "Nah, bugger it. What's your name?"
He looked at me, steely-eyed. ".......Dixie."
"How many Dixies you met?"
Thirty minutes later a 'Jim' did appear.
Jim: Option A: Brainwashed by society to the conformities of what constitutes a strong man in a rural environment, Jim, while a pleasant and generous individual, is incapable of dealing with highly complex issues. He is a simple fellow at his core, so maybe he's lucky that he lives a simple life.
Option B: Good bloke.
Next of course we had the dastardly trio from Melbourne? Is that right? From left to right, Maria, Rosa and Maria.
Maria: Her mum taught her to cook and that's great, but that isn't one five hundreth of the story. And she loves with all her might.
Rosa: Rosa is short in stature, of Italian descent and she has beautiful eyes. However, DO NOT anger her unless you feel like being on the receiving end of a beating. (Hello Rosa, you look wonderful, by the way!xx)
Maria, left, grabbed me and says, "Do you know, my mum did teach me to cook?..."
What delicious gals. thankyou....
Sarah Jessica Parker, I mean, Audrey, on the left arrvied with Ian. Two of my favourite name theories from the Name Guru app. Sadly, not many Audreys exist in the wild now, and I discussed with Ian, he is possibly the youngest Ian in Australia.....
Audrey: An English Literature graduate who lost her virginity way too late. But that's okay because she now makes a wonderful older lover.
Ian: The sound of a teaspoon being droppped onto a tiled floor. The ungianly twang is noise without being painful and more often it leaves a mess, but did you ever stop and study the shape of the pattern of the mess? Check it out next time. You might be surprised to discover the artist that lies within.
Yep. Looked like love to me.....(if you want that app, you two, head to www.nameguruapp.com)
Now, Robert, (on the bottom) congratulations!! Bloody congratulations! Why? Because too few 'Roberts' retain a sense of houmour on reading their name theory....
Ladies and gentlemen, Robert read his name theory and laughed so hard and with so much heart that it reverberated throughout the markets. Honestly. So bloody bravo sir!!
Luke, above, didn't mind it either.
Luke: Luke exists out there somewhere between a fluke and a stroke of genius. He courts disaster with a grin on his face but he can easily fall into a heap if the wind changes direction.
Quite early on Saturday, this duo rock up and he too muttered something about trying to guess his name. I didn't even have to think hard about it.
"Richard," I said.
And all his bravado was vanished from his face. Richard it was. Goodafternoon to you Richard. But your wife?? Is it Sandra???? Or Alison??? (I lost that page of my bloody notepad!)
Richard: The knight in shining armour with an ill-fitting helmet that badly impedes his vision 80% of the time. He rides a big black stallion not dissimilar to that ridden by Cassandra, although his task of riding anywhere quickly is made far more difficult because the horse continually tries to throw him for its personal amusement.
God bless you Richard!
Below, naturally, we have Kate and Todd. Good sports, for I grabbed them from the crowd due to their spectacular look. A lovely couple nonetheless, and arguably the most 'unconventional' Kate ever born.....
Kate: I'd check for rocks first but Kate is the name of the breathe you take before diving into a perfect blue sea. If it's a good day you'll see the rocks, no worries, and if it's a really good day, she'll take your breathe away. No question.
Todd: Todd rhymes with Oops. Not in a catastrophic way, mind you, more in the, I-forgot-to-feed-the-cat-but-now-that-I've-remembered-I-will, kind of way.
But I'd be bloody careful of Blanche, though!(From the Name Guru app...)
Blanche: Blanche lives with her dripping jewellery at a sea-side mansion at one of the 'finer' locales inside Sydney harbour, and she's gruff like that old troll that lives under the bridge and eats children.
She read her name theory, twice, looked back to me, confused. "What??" she screamed.
Blanche, god bless you too! xx
And last but not least - fair dinkum. I'm sitting at my stall, minding my own business, when this maelstrom arrives in the form of the stunning looking family below. The story goes like this- Stu and Blair(parents) live in Dallas, Texas. He's an Aussie, she's American, but Stu's mum sent them "Why shouldn't I call my son Clint?" last year when Blair was pregnant again. Evidently they consulted the book directly to name their second son.
"Here you go," Blair says to me. "His name is Rowan, and you named him!"
(Stu, Xavier, Rowan, Blair)
Rowan: Patient and contained, Rowan is the sort of bloke who makes an excellent professional photographer.
Xavier (his older brother): A private school boy and all round nice guy. He won't set the world on fire but he won't bore us to death either. Probably.
Stu: Soft like a sponge, Stu can deal with any sitution. He's probably the most adaptable and malleable of all the male species and a better absorber of shock or strangeness does not exist. One day he'll be canonised and we will then know him as St. Stu. And rightly so.
Blair: Tough on the surface, sensitive in the middle, Blair does what it takes and in a quielty determined way, (bullshit, in this case) even though her methods and her dreams seemingly unrealistic.
Yeah, I know people use the thing as a baby-name book but it still and will always, freak me out. Very humbling. But, they invited me to Dallas to come stay, and for the grand USA radio tour I think I will. Plus, I got my mash-potato recipe from a restaurant in Dallas, so that alone is worth going back for.
What a wonderful life.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Ari, left, who looks more like a Neville, was amazed that he found his name at all....
Ari, naturally, is married to April, just out of screen, who declined to have her photo taken during competition.
April: April will od whatever she can to ensure that she and her family always give a good impression of themselves, and regardless if she is the daughter, the mother, the aunty of the grandmother.
So, would you trust that man, pictured right????
Above us we have Mick's arm, tattoed just so, in case he turns up drunk at some international customs office, forgetting where is and how he got there.
And as the sun sets on another day at Eumundi, it seems that sport was the winner, dont you agree????
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Col read his name theory and looked down at his own arms (evidently chiselled from marble) in surprise, but tall. The pic doesnt do him justice but he's at least 6 and a half feet tall. I shook his hand and, in the words of Jack Black, it was like grabbing a bunch of bananas. China will make the list next edition....
And even though his spelling was Jimmi. ie- Jimmi Hendrix. So i'll deal with 'Jimmi' in the next edition. He was Irish - funny guy. Thankyou Jimmy....
..yeah, not sure I got it exactly right on this occasion Rohan. Perhaps is the book and the Name Guru app suggested that you belonged in front of the camera, I might have been more accurate?
Anyway, such is life, here on Planet Earth.
Just a reminder that the full list is now an app for iphone/Android devices, and comes with a romantic compatability function. (www.nameguruapp.com)
Books can be got from me at www.thenametheory.com
As of next week the first modern Shark ghost story will begin its serialization, here at daysofhock. The original title was 'The Arc of Tommy Shoalhaven'. It will be hereby be known as, "The shark that ate Tommy Shoalhaven."
I'll see you on the water.
Monday, October 17, 2011
....yeah, maybe the Name Guru app (and the book) got it wrong. How can someone so happy be so twisted up??
Finally, Tammy, Deidre and Phil arrived looking like they'd just stepped off the plane. Tammy liked her name theory initially and then she balked.....
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Hocking here, welcoming you back to the "Why shouldn't I call my son Clint?" arena at the Eumundi markets, where it seems the season has just ended. True, Geelong won the flag but who cares, when finally my search for a genuine Carlton cap has ceased. Before I continue, for those not in the know the Name Guru app is now out on Android!
And for iphone/ipads you can still find it at http://itunes.apple.com/us/app/name-theory/id422021442
Reading the paper quielty at my stall yesterday, a young man arrived in front of me wearing a Cartlon-member cap. My eyes lit up. I looked at the young man smiling back at me, to his father, then back to the young fellow.
"Mate! How about I give you a free book for that cap!" I asked with bated breath. "Whattaya' reckon?"
The young man grinned hard and looked to his dad. His father smiled back and shrugged. "...Yeah, go on. You've got three more at home, haven't you?"
The boy's smile grew wider than his face. He looked back to me and took the cap off. "Okay," he said.
Never before have I been so excited to hand over a book, for my long search was over.
"What's your name?" I asked him.
"Jack," he said.
(From the book and the Name Guru app....... Jack: As one of life's great experiences, Jack is the name given to the phenomenon of a parcel arriving unexpectedly in the mail from a good friend. Outstanding.)
I breathed a sigh of relief - if it had been Jake or Joel I might have been in trouble - and in two shakes I'd signed young Jack a copy.
Last Saturday, a different spectacle arrived at my stall. The first triplets to present themselves at "Why shouldn't I call my son Clint?" Back row from left to right; Claire, Carly and Liza. Front row: Another Jack, Oscar, Archie.
Man, I meet some Archies. He doesn't exist in the book, but he's alive and well in the Name Guru app. ..
(Archie: Pure as the driven snow.)
I probably should've said something like, Pure as the driven snow when he's in front of his parents.
"...nah," he said, as cocky as all crap. "You'll never guess it."
"Alright, I give up. What's your name?" I asked.
Who currently doesnt exist anywhere, yet.
Thankyou Vlad, thankyou triplets, thankyou mum, and thankyou to young Carlton-Jack.
And I love the hat brother!!!
what a wonderful life.....
ps.... CAUGHT THE BEST WAVES IN MONTHS ABOUT 3 HOURS AGO ON THE MR(Mark Richards)..........CLEAN GREEN WALLS OF GLASSY HEAVEN........
....have a nice day
Thursday, September 29, 2011
First strike : Refusing to come out of the casino and therefore desist at playing black jack, even after his girl came out of the booking. Gabriela, his now regular partner, it seemed, had to walk into the casino to fetch him. She found him sitting in front of $300 worth of chips and a bourbon and coke. Eventually she convinced him to drive her to their next booking, which he wasn’t happy about. Trace tore strips off him. I didn’t witness that tirade, which I was disappointed about, but I did refuse to walk into the casino and look for him, which Trace asked me to do, only because Gemma was at a booking around the corner. (She wasn’t happy with me either, for a few hours.)
Second strike: Why any driver might leave their wallet in the car was beyond me. Most girls were completely trust worthy, but not all of them, and not always because of their thieving natures. Courtney, the goofy smack fiend who I hadn’t seen for months, drove with Little John on a busy Friday night, mid-month, and either because of how out-of-it she was, which is what I suspected was the problem, or just because she needed the money, it was eventually discovered that she’d pocketed Little John’s wallet that he’d left in the console of his car while she was downstairs ‘sleeping’. I had no idea how it all played out, but to my disappointment Courtney was actually sacked, although not for the first time, apparently.
Third strike and The Icing on The Cake: Gabriela stormed into reception at about 1am with a remarkable tale that Penn later explained in full detail. What happened was this: Gabriela was inside ‘Tom’s’ place in Nedlands, and everything was going well. She and Tom had downed a couple of shots of Tequila on her arrival, they’d had a quick shower, and then they’d adjourned to his bedroom to get it on. Tom liked anal sex apparently, and he liked giving it in the standard fashion, ie- doggie style. And all that was grand. So, Gabriela was having a nice time and so was Tom. At one point, not far from Tom’s great moment of orgasmic arrival, Gabriela looked over her shoulder to render psychological support to her suitor, when she shrieked in horror. Peering in the window with his beady little eyes was her driver, Little John, himself, sprung like a doomsday chook in the hands of a hungry farmer who was wielding the axe. Gabriela started screaming out that she was going to kill the mother fucker, at the same time as a rather confused Tom began to orgasm. Amid Gabriela’s instant fury, which was exaserbated in the short term via Tom’s refusal to let go of her hips, given his current ejacuation, Little John disappeared from the window in a flash and, from all accounts, bolted for his vehicle. Bless his cotton socks, he knew he was fucked, and Brian was the one who picked up Gabriela from the house.
And so it came to pass that Little John was sacked, and peace returned to Galaxy Esorts until the first week of August.....
the book is currently in the hands of the editorial team and will be out soon.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Ryan and Karen pictured below who (the affable tradie' that parties so hard on the weekend he sometimes does himself damage) and Karen (in a world of death, famine, war, drought, disease, suicide, mortgage payments and stubbed toes, Karen is a welcome relief because she is Ultra-Double Normal.) arrived at the stall for "Why shouldn't I call my son Clint?"
Last but not least, I wanted to mention the girl standing next to me, below. Her name is Harlene Hercules. No, Harlene doesnt yet exist in the Name Guru app, but she will, by god. No idea what the universe will tell me about her, although I have a sneaking suspicion it will be something to do with being as mad as a cut snake yet completely lovely.
....like most of us, no doubt.
Good luck with life and the app!!!
Monday, September 26, 2011
I wrote the following essay in the middle of 2001, while attempting to learn Italian in the city of Livorno, Italy. It was about June, 2001, written over the course of a day wandering around the ancient township of Lucca. It needs a re-write, I'd say, but see how you go......
WHAT DO I WANT?
(Italy, July 2001 (begun at Pisa train station, en route to Lucca)
Good bloody question David…….not that I require 98% of these but in no particular order. here goes…
I want more money than the Pope but I don’t want it to change me. I want to be able to fly like superman and do vertical take-offs to awe-inspiring pieces of music from the likes of Pearl Jam, Rage, and that song, ‘The Captain’, by Something for Kate, for instance and- fuck it- matchbox 20 as well. I want to be able to talk to the animals but only the good ones, you know, the sharks, the birds of prey, the dogs, the whales and all the fish. I want to swim surrounded by an entourage of fish who for the time being listen to me and don’t eat each other. I want to remain hopelessly in love forever. I want a healthy self-belief and I want to be less self-conscience. Do I want to be different? I want a cock that doesn’t deflate after midnight and a lot of wine. I want to be smarter than I am and I want my arguments to make sense! I want to be able to put my feet up whenever and wherever I like and have it not deemed offensive. I want to sweat less and to be thermally cooler. I think I want less hair. I want to be able to play the cello. I want to wake up tomorrow and know Italian. I want to be less shy initially. I want to be able to shoot cum across the room if I feel like it. I want to understand electricity and motors. I want to have a natural rapport with the lower-middle class drinkers but then again do I?? I want an F-18, a Spitfire and a sense of direction. In fact, I want to know where North is, all the time, like one of those fuckwits in a Wilbur Smith novel.
And I want The Force to exist.
I want to be able to butterfly for more than 30m. I want to possess complete and unbridled generosity (I want to be less selfish). I want suffering to exist but for it not to be real. I want 50m viz most of the time - but not if this lessens my appreciation of it! I want my mountain bike to have perfectly functioning gears and brakes and I want never to be hit by a car. I want a big beautiful motorbike and I want never to be hit by a car. I want the Chinese government to get the fuck out of Tibet.
I hate them.
I want an endless supply of good gunja, coke and ecstasy and I want never to get caught. Actually, I want it to be legal for me and all my friends if they so choose. I want to be able to get drunk more easily. I want to love riding horses and I want them to like me ( the capacity to speak to them, not withstanding). I want not to feel lost on this train….no…that’s a lie. I do.
I want to understand how insects think and communicate and be able to grasp their perception. I want my hearing to be better. I want to be able to surf and to know and understand the ocean like the back of my hand and I want to feel great in any sea, on any vessel. I want to be a natural and funny public speaker and I want to be a stand-up comic, good enough to bring a roomful of people to stitches for a while. I want to get published and bring people to laughter and tears with my words, and to make the reader ponder their world, if only for a few moments. I want to have a gift for drawing and painting. I want to love all cheeses. I want to have an incredible house with a big woody kitchen that feels inviting like an old friend and be happy to live in it for a while. I want a thick lazy coffee table that I can be stood on and be used as a bed sometimes.
I want to know how to salsa and tango and I want to want to dance at every opportunity. I want to know how the Romans and the Egyptians and the Incas built all the stuff they did – ie. I want to sit there time-lapse wise and actually watch them do it. I want to know how humans can build bridges and plane wings and stuff that’s exactly gun-barrel straight, pardon the pun. I want to know how NASA can send a probe to Jupiter and get the angle of orbit-entry correct to within 0.02 of a degree, or whatever the hell it is. How do they do that? I want white and black and new and old Australians, of every colour, creed and background to somehow and someway co-exist with real happiness, and for the differences there-in to be truly appreciated.
I want to have read the classics, but then again, what a crock of shit. I want to remember all that I’ve forgotten and all that I never bothered to learn about plants and I want to know if they really do have any kind of awareness, and in what form it takes (like this grass I’m lying on now, for instance).
Once, as a single man, just once, I want a seductive sexy and older woman to gobble me up on the street or a café somewhere and whisk me away for a sexy few days. I want all cane toads, rabbits, foxes, mice, cats, that thorny-bush thing and any other introduced species detrimental to Australian flora and fauna to disappear instantly. I want to know exactly how many bricks built the fortress wall here in Lucca, Italy.
I’ve just thought of a skit…..
A roman guy walks into an ancient hardware store…
“Yeah, g’day, listen….. I’d like enough bricks to fill up Sydney Harbour and I’d like the last of them to be delivered by sometime late next century.”
I want to know if there really is life after death and I want to meet a ghost- a good one. I want a bookshop. I want to act in a movie. I want a kick-arse wine cellar and I want the patience to nurture the good ones and take the time to appreciate and detect the difference. I want a Fiat bambino 500. I want to go camping in Australia and I want a good tent and some real hiking boots.
I want never to develop prostate cancer and I want a pair of coloured jeans. I want to work for an advertising company and be encouraged to smoke a joint, during work, in the name of creativity. I want to live and meditate with the Buddhist monks for a time in an attempt to attain enlightenment, but not for years. Does this defeat the purpose?
I want to experience true happiness and contentment in my waking life, like one of those healers. I want to see that date palm in India that’s as large as 2 soccer fields. I want to come up from an incredible dive in the Pacific ocean, adjacent to Chile somewhere, with the mighty Andes towering over me. Can that be done? I want to dive in the Sea of Cortez and swim with a Hammerhead and have us salute each others’ uniqueness, and I therefore probably want a sensational underwater camera.
I want my mother and sister to always be happy. I want to be able to hit a one wood long and straight 70%, rather than 10%, of the time. I want to be more forgiving- of myself and of others. I want never to be in a plane crash. I want to go gliding. I want to hang-glide without injury and I want to parachute. I want to jump out of a plane at night over thinly scattered cloud under a daylight-bright full-moon…..that’d be fantastic. I want never to bungee jump. I want to fully understand gravitational mathematics to the point where, if I wanted to, I could calculate the probability of another planet existing, undiscovered, in our solar system. I want to know the how’s and why’s of Fermat’s theorem.
I want to understand computers better and I want to witness a space-shuttle launch a few hundred metres from the launch pad. I want to know if I produced a book of incredible cloud photos, could I sell the bloody thing? I want to learn how to become more patient. I want to function in the real world a little better, although having said that I want never to fill in a form- ever. I want to live without unreasonable fear for 12 months. I want to be in a fight one day, give abit, get abit, but prevail in the end under heroic circumstances and come out with my nose and teeth intact. I want to witness a spectacular blazing airline crash but for no-one to be killed (or is this perhaps why they’re so gut-wrenchingly incredible to hear about?). I want to be more confrontational. I want a better road sense. I want to be a fighter pilot and lead my F-18 Superhornet squadron into a wargames battle high over the north Australian desert against a mixed squadron comprising Russian mig 29’s, American F-15’s, F-16’s and British tornado’s and while hopelessly outnumbered, you guessed it, prevail in heroic circumstances.
I want to go back to that day in May of 1990 at Princess Park, Melbourne, and watch Bradley’s goal against the West Coast Eagles. I want whaling to cease immediately and forever. I want STD’s not to exist and condoms never to be needed. I want globalisation and the fervent economic rationalisation of the planet to cease and the populations of North and South America, Asia, Europe and Africa immediately reduced by 50%, but to include none of my friends, none of their friends and probably none of theirs. I want the European Euro to be abolished and all currencies returned to their original form. I want a photographic memory - actually I take that back, just a better one. I want to know how to build tables and houses and I want to both understand, and be skilled, at renovating. I want to travel back in time and watch Mt.St Helens erupt along with Santorini and Krakatoa and Mt.Vesuvius and I want to be on that ship that, in 1911, recorded the 33metre wave in the Pacific Ocean. I want group decisions to be easy and quick and for everyone to be happy. Do I want perfect vision? I want a car. In fact I want a great new car- apart from the bambino- that’s low and wide and purrs with an evil grin. I want to hang up washing only once a month and I want never to stand on bindi-eyes.
I want to lie on my death bed with no regrets and to feel wonderful and blessed with the life I have led and I want to be looking forward to the next bit, be it whatever or nothing. I want to snorkel with a pod of wild dolphins. I want more dinners with friends with good food and wine. I want the courage to do a solo dive out of a small boat a long way from shore on a glassed out day to go and hang at 30m, just watching and waiting to see what turns up. I want to know if letting a bottle of red ‘breathe’ really makes a difference. I want to know exactly why putting a teaspoon in an open bottle of champagne or beer lengthens the gas retention time. How the fuck does that work? I want a coffee machine and a heap of those little espresso cups. I want not to get so depressed at times (although I think I need it). I want to know if keeping in touch with ex-girlfriends is a good idea or not (I want to know if I’m thinking too much here).I want the ozone layer to return in all its glory and for skin cancer to disappear. I want never to be attacked by a shark or crocodile. I want to know why my grandparents took me to see Jaws when I was 8. I want to know what my other grandfather made of his time in the POW camp- I want him to be able to talk about it (did I already mention that I want not to be selfish?). I want a DVD collection that magically records my dreams every night such that I can play them back as a movie, anytime I like. I want to be a radio D.J and marvel the world with my humour, wisdom, incisiveness and view of life.
And that’s about it.
Oh yeah, I want to be an unbelievable exponent of the torpedo kick, and I mean unbelievable. I wanna be able to kick a torp‘ 90metres on a still afternoon with the sun setting behind a mountainous background. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?
have a nice day, and may each and every action contain some measure of future good....
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
There were many highlights of the day, too many to mention in fact, but I cannot go past this one. His name was Scot. That's right: that's Scot with one 't', and naturally, therefore, one might anticipate that Scot would be cut from a different piece of wood to most people. I suppose each of us is.
He was walking away when I yelled out for him to come back. "Hey, Scot, what's that tattoo on your shoulder? Give us a look?"
He came back to the table, turned his shoulder to me and says, "Oh, I'm a Jedi."
"Hey? You're a fucken Jedi? Are you serious?"
"Yep. Check it out....."
R2D2=ACDC, if you dont mind.
I had to touch the tattoo to prove it wasnt a henna substitute.
"So, what's the writing underneath the 'Jedi'? Is that the special Jedi language?" I asked him.
He looked at me coolly, barely hinting at a smile.
"....Yes," he said. "It reads, May The Force Be With You," he said.
Amen. Now that's love for you.
Scot will be in the next update of the Name Guru app for sure, and the Android version is released this weekend!!!!
So, may you live long and prosper.
Hock (Squadron Leader)
Monday, September 19, 2011
As you know, on May 20th, last year, I left Perth, and began a 12 day odyssey across the desert in a 1986 Toyota Tercel*. The car was full, as was my ipod, and I was leaving the great state of WA as part of a plan that would see me relocate my entire life to somewhere greener, somewhere hillier, and to somewhere different.
The route took me 4000km east across the Nullarbor plain to Sydney, then a further 1000km up the east coast, to the peaceful streets of Noosaville, abutted without rancour onto the end of what the world calls, Noosa Heads.
Disregarding distance, there were three distinct phases to the journey. (painted after I got to Noosa)
Now, Desert, how are you? I have a few questions for you: firstly, are you flat enough, do you think? Are there enough crows out there? Are you sick of the trucks belching their way across your sacred belly? Does the constant wind not drive you insane? Or does it lull you with old memories? What about all those poor little scrubby bush-spinifex things....are there enough of them? Are you tired of looking at them? Do they ever get enough water? And what about these humans? What do you make of them all, out there sticky-beaking? Do you really think they’re increasing their worth as free-standing individuals by being able to say, “Well, Roger, I drove the Landcruiser from Coffs down to Melbourne, along the Great Ocean Road (God it’s lovely) up past Ceduna, over on up to Perth, and then way up yonder to Broome, and then across the Gibb River Rd to Darwin. We stayed with my sister, Noreen, and then pushed on back across the top. Only took us eight months. And the petrol....well she’s a diesel, you know? Oh, the caravan uses a bit, but you know....what else are you gonna’ do? What’s five tons of burnt fuel between friends?”
I saw three wedge-tailed eagles – one that was airborne about 3 feet from my window at 100km/hr, and had he or she taken off half a second earlier, or later, I would’ve collected them, which would have broken my heart. This brings me to another question: is your wildlife getting smarter? Are you advising them, finally, not to go near the roads or are they just kind of non-existent now?
And what about all these crows? Seriously? Were they always there? A friend of mine, ages ago, once told me, Desert, that each crow was a reincarnated black fella. (I can say black fella, cant I? I used to know a black fella in Broome, and even he called his friends black fellas?) Anyway, when they told me that, I scoffed. Not for disbelieving of the afterlife – i have no idea about the afterlife, or most of this life, truth be known – it just seemed such a silly possibility at the time. But now, do you know Desert, I’m not so sure?
Have all the black fellas been replaced with crows? Is that where they went?
The city was a bit different, though. Crows didn’t exist in downtown Sydney, naturally, and i’m not sure i would have noticed them anyway. I was too stressed.
After 6 days of flat-nothing flat-nothing, Sydney, and phase 2 of the journey, proved to be a claustrophobic hell. Without a map and without the sun in the rain, it took me 90 minutes to drive from Mosman to Rose Bay. I stopped 7 people on the way to ask for help - hotel concierges, the police, coffee vendors, servo’ attendants. It was a miracle i made it.
Then, the real rain started. You should have seen it - you would have loved it. And then, my right front wheel started to click. At first a little, then alot. The more I turned the louder it got. Like viewing the picture of Dorian Gray, it snuck up on me hideously. I sensed disaster. 6 days; 4000km...nothing went awry, but now, i felt it. The Desert was coming to reap her penance. Weren’t you? I could feel you coming to get me.
Then, just when i felt like I might know where i was going, I turned a corner in Newtown, and ‘BANG!!!’ Bang went the front wheel!! Bang, i say!
The only noise louder was the echo of despair that rang out through my heart, for the Tercel had ceased. All my gear in the back, my new life, it was all about to end, here in a tropical rain storm in gloomy Newtown!! If it was Newtown. My life was over! How would i recover?
I got out of the Tercel and stood in the rain. Soaked to my skin. Drenched to my soul. What had i done, leaving Perth? All my friends? Was i insane? Surely it couldn’t be true? I rang the RAC and the NRMA answered – what the hell was happening to me? Even they struggled to know who i was! I was doomed!
Then, you Desert, you came to my aid, didnt you? It was you, wasn’t it? I looked up amid the downpour and there, right next to the car, my now silent, dead and laden car, was the Alexandria service centre! A mechanic!! Hark, I heard the angels sing! And I heard you Desert, I know that now. It was you, wasn't it?
The NRMA man arrived and towed my car 2 metres to the corner, and a further 8 metres down the street and into the mechanic’s workshop – I swear, the only dry place in New South Wales – and i nearly wept the tears of the unforsaken as Zam and Jimmy went to work. They fixed my CV joint in 2 hours, but you put them there, didn’t you Desert? You saved me. And I love you. I love all your crows. I love every lonely spinifex, who are not lonely at all, for I am with you brothers and sisters. I can hear you now. Hope not for nothing ever again, way out there in the stunning expanses, for all of us are connected, by the power and the peace and the capacity of this great brown land, to forgive.
And to live.
Australia, I love you. Every bloody centimetre.
Your humble servant,
*. As far as I can tell, a mid-80’s answer to the Subaru 4WD station wagon.
You can buy David’s app, Name Guru, at any good itunes store, and the Android version is iminent!! www.nameguruapp.com
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Yes, my dream of building and flying my own Spitfire received a timely reminder two days ago when "Jess" turned up to the stall of the book, "Why shouldn't I call my son Clint?" with one tattooed on her leg. Her grandfather was a fighter pilot in the RAF in world war 2. Lovely girl and a lovely leg.
From the Name Guru app/book....
Jess: Jess may or may not be the most stunning girl in the room, but she certainly does nothing by halves......
And proof that neither the app or the book are accurate all the time - from the Name Guru app....
Colleen: Another name that is impossible to say without wincing like you've just jammed a splinter beneath your finger nail. Is this why Colleens can be so ghastly?
Piffle, I say!! Colleen, pictured left was just delightful.......
and she bought the app. what a gal?
In other news, another swimmer/surfer was killed in Western Australia this week by a white pointer. Danni Karis, my cousin and singer/songwriter, messaged me from Sydney with thoughts of, "The Arc of Tommy Shoalhaven". The novel I wrote a few years back that tells of a young guy who becomes a ghost inside a great white after having been killed by it.
Bloody weird world, isnt it?
A few months after the book was released I flew to the UK, and took a stack of books to sell on the plane. The flight was empty and so I only sold one copy - to an Emirates hostess whose good friend was killed by a great white a few months earlier while leading a snorkelling tour at the Abrolos Islands.
Anyway, here's to living and breathing in a bizarre world.
goodluck and what a wonderful life!!
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Greetings sportsfans, and welcome to this market day, Saturday just gone, here at the Eumdundi markets, 20km west of Noosa.
Hocking, of course, was in fine fettle and all runners expceted a good day of racing (selling), and things got off to a frantic beginning.
Hocking, of course, selling his remarkable comedic book, "Why shouldn't I call my son Clint?", began well.
Rounding the first bend the sun began to shine and the punters hit their straps. More Roberts (borish) were in attendance than normal but they were fighting hard. A glorious textbook Josephine blazed into the stall as if stepping out of a limousine at the Cannes Film Festival. (See below)
Oh praise thine Josephine! And the day only got better after that.
so, I'll see you all back there again for next week's match.
Good luck. May the universal god's smile upon you.
love Hock !!
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
(while I'm writing this, at the library(my internect connection has gone to shit today) a tall girl 5 metres away is quielty sneezing, and almost stuffing her face into a row of books to secretly hide her embarrassment.....)
Anyway, I'm Hock. One of the reasons I'm here is to help remind any and everyone who reads this is that we attract every person and event in our lives. Occasionally I will have a question and I will tap into the Universe's answer by using the next song line I happening to be listeining to at the time. The results are amazing.
eg. the next ipod line is, "radiation, feel the force, a bombing horse..." which nicely describes the entire process of 'song lyric divination'.
But I digress. Dreams are a huge part of my life, and aside from various moments of social, philosophical, comical and spiritual comment, i will occasionally tell you of a dream that explained this that and the other.
I had the following dream about six years ago. No idea why. I've always called it ........
In the great hall there is an audience of peers and the respective displays of each are performed at one end.
One guy was due to be last, apparently he was the talisman - the gifted one - to whom each of us could only wonder about. I didn’t know what he did, no one did, but in the meantime each person did their thing.
In the meantime there was one guy who could somehow transform the air around him so’s to make it look like opaque leggo blocks. There were many others…..a bunch of gorgeous naked women beckoned me into their shower in the middle of all of this.
Back out in the warehouse thing, it was my turn to show my wares and I felt rather silly because all I could do was throw a baseball as far as I liked. At my bequest, the back of the building suddenly slid open and there was a field about 1km in length. At the far end of the paddock was a tall piece of wrought iron. It was brown in colour and a good 40 or 50 metres high.
‘ok’, I said, to the sitting audience. 'I'm going to throw the ball and hit it.’
I turned to face my target. I wound up and I threw the ball with all my might and while the ball made it nearly all the way- a good 5 or 6 hundred metres- its travel through the air wasn’t that quick. Truth be known, the ball grew so small that all I could do was listen for the noise of it hitting the wall, which I definitely heard. Just.
Sadly, the crowd was non-plussed. As was I, to be honest.
Then, as I walked back to my seat, there came the talisman who’d seen enough. He looked at me as I passed him and I don’t think he even acknowledged me.
What ever he was about to do was putting a expectant hush of impending greatness through the crowd.
‘What can he possible do that was so amazing?’ I thought to myself, as intrigued as anyone.
Then it began.
He got to the front of the crowd, turned to face us, and he began to spin like a dancer. Immediately a visual whirlwind formed around him. He spun and spun, moving so fast that I couldn’t even really see him. Suddenly, all that I saw around me began to alter - the people, the warehouse, everything. Shortly all of it dropped away and all I could see, as he spun and whirled in his own mini tornado, was the universe.
I could see the stars and the planets as surely as if I was hovering in space. My body didnt exist. Earth was gone. And he’d created it.
It was a miracle.
He’d created the universe.
He was the talisman.
Anyway, we'll talk! I'll talk about my app (Name Guru) next time. And a quick video about Jake.....