I'm not a great one for frequenting the ale houses of the Brisbane CBD after work, simply due to the distance I live from the city and the time it takes to get home in the evenings. I figure that leaving home at 7:15 in the morning and arriving home at 7:00 in the evening is a long enough day without stretching it out by boozing on with colleagues after knock-off time. Besides, what's the point when one or at most two standard drinks will make one ineligible to drive anyway?

That opinion aside, I strayed from the norm this evening and attended a 'farewell drinks' session for one of our younger personnel, moving on to bigger and better things. We - four of us, plus a husband of one and assorted hangers on - made our presence felt at this venue at the river end of the Brisbane CBD.

It used to be a restaurant, and from what I saw inside tonight, still is to a certain limited degree, but has mainly been transformed into a boozer of the most average form. Certainly, there's a small eatery area between the 'garden' bar and the inside bar, but essentially, this place is a pub by any stretch of the imagination. Especially on a Friday evening in a town like Brisbane. Loud, crowded, filled with 'pretty' people and frankly, not my scene.

That aside, the beers are fascinating. Knowing I had to drive home, I couldn't really stay for a session, so choices were limited. I did try a Leffe Brune, which tasted of a light hops and left a sarsparilla tang on the back of the palate, and a Hoegaarden, which is a wheat beer and something I must say I'm quite fond of. The Leffe was dark, almost cola-like in colour with a wonderful head which persisted for a long time. I found the 500ml glass to be much too much of a good thing by the end, preferring to at least halve the amount and double the experience. The Hoegaarden was entirely different. Being a wheat beer, the mouth feel isn't anywhere near as heavy as barley, but still maintains the bitterness of a real beer flavour. The beer itself is cloudy, which means that yeast is still in suspension, albeit dead. To me, this indicates that I'm drinking a genuine ale and not something which has been filtered to within an 'n'th of it's existence in order to produce a clear glassful. This beer - or probably lager depending on it's fermentation method - was quite something to savour. Light, alive in the mouth and with a lightly citrus aftertaste while remaining true to the bitter beer flavour of a european ale.

From a Brisbanite's perspective, if you're Gen Y and still inhabit the pub/club scene, then you may find this venue to your liking. For me, I found it totally lacking atmosphere, far too crowded, far too noisy and far too small for what it professed to offer. In short, simply an imposter boozer trying hard to wear fancy clothes and winding up starkers. The beer is horrendously priced, served with faux flair and serviced in a somewhat frantic manner. Perhaps because it was Friday night, I've gained a bad impression, but I'm yet to find a venue in the CBD which is much different. My recommendation? Take a leisurely drive to the Darling Downs village of Allora, for luncheon at the Commercial Hotel, Allora. No Belgian Beers, but a damn good feed, at an excellent price and the beer's cold, cheaper and frankly, better.

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I've steered clear of the Bill Henson/pedophilia hysteria to date, simply because I'm not, or wasn't until last night, well enough acquainted with the man's work or artistic focus.

Last night, the ABC acted in what I regard as the public interest by showing a documentary entitled 'The Art of Bill Henson' on the program Artscape. I made a point of watching the doco, at least half-way through. I'm not a latte-sipping luvvie, as the conservative elements in this country persist in labelling those who have artistic bents, but I do like what I like in the artistic realm. I enjoy photography myself, on an amateur level, of people and places, landscapes and abstracts, so I can appreciate to a degree why Henson would see content and context in his chosen photographic style. Frankly, it's not my cup of tea, but to a great many, it is art. I found what was shown on the doco to be confronting, vaguely disturbing and challenging. Disturbing not for the random nudity displayed, but for some of the hard vision of adolescent youth being forced to grow up before it was ready. Young bodies not yet fully formed, yet heavily painted in tattoo art. Faces which look worn and hard on 15 year olds. Gangly youths with upended beer bottles in their mouths. Anger, disdain, angst and frustration melded with an inescapable innocence and unease with a world which can't be held away long enough.

As I stated, I found what I watched to be disturbing and challenging enough to not want to watch the last half hour. That type of photographic art isn't something I find enjoyable or entertaining, however, it IS art. There is simply no escaping the fact that what Henson does is artistic. Art, that style of art being pictorial representation, is intended to make the viewer stop, consider, appreciate and absorb. If you've ever been through an art gallery, you'll know what I mean when I say that some things you'd not bother even glancing at because they simply don't interest you, while others will stop you in your tracks. Henson's work will either not interest you, or capture you. It's that simple. There is no half way.

As I say, I'm not an arty-farty type, but I find those who openly ridicule others who are, to be incredibly closeted, narrow-minded individuals who give me the impression of being intimidated by attitudes towards art, per se, which they know they don't understand. Appreciation of art, in whatever form, is purely in the mind and perceptions of the beholder. We like what we like. To openly come out and attack another individual who is recognised within his own field as an artist, a perfectionist, and someone who deliberately tries to convey a message with his art, as one of society's pariahs is not only ill-informed, but socially dangerous, both to the attacker and recipient of the attack. The implications of the Miranda Devine and Ray Hadley attack on Bill Henson's art, for Henson, are obvious. However, I wonder if Devine & Hadley, not to mention others of their ilk who are easily identified on a daily basis, stopped to think just how much they are exposing their own fear and ignorance of something they clearly do not understand?

Pedophilia is a crime. Crime's are addressed by presentation of irrefutable evidence of committal before a court of law and jury of the accused's peers. Innuendo of the kind raised against Bill Henson by what amounts to muppets acting on behalf of a larger, faceless, manipulative ideology in this country needs to be recognised for what it is. Jealousy, frustration and a newly found sense of complete powerlessness in the face of ideological change in Australian society. I'd liken Devine, Hadley and the rest of the shock genre in conservative Australia to Stadler and Waldorf. Heckling from a balcony, out of reach of the performers, usually making little or no sense but a lot of noise. A distraction to the audience and ultimately an annoyance which if continued, ends with ejection from the theatre. Muppets.

Leave art to those who want to appreciate it for what it is. Leave identification of criminals to the police.

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Nothing terribly important of social conscience or political polemic from me today. Something of a slightly more ethereal nature, albeit material at the same time.

 After a journey of 679 million kilometres, most of it in cyber-sleep, NASA's latest robot spacecraft to be sent to Mars, arrived on Monday morning AEST. It, named Phoenix because the mission had been scrapped for cost reasons, only to be resurrected after an earlier mission failure, arrived in a mode not used by NASA for more than thirty years. 

In 1976, Viking 2, NASA's second robotic Mars lander, descended to the Martian surface after a de-orbit manoeuvre not unlike that which enables a space shuttle flight to come home. It plunged through the thin Martian atmosphere, shielded from the heat of atmospheric entry by an ablative shell, before abandoning that shell and firing a set of descent thrusters to slow for what's called a 'soft landing'. How soft a soft landing is, I'll leave to your imagination. Suffice to say, Viking 2 landed safely, albeit on a slight lean of 8.2 degrees due to one footpad ending up sitting on a rock, to send home all manner of photo, biometric and telemetric data about where it was, what it was doing and how it felt. It did this for 1,281 Martian days, or Sols. Only slightly longer than a Terran day here on Earth. Viking 2 was powered by batteries. Radioisotope Thermal Generators, to be precise. Nuclear batteries.

We've become, in this high-speed, high-tech age, jaundiced about and bored with these feelers humanity puts out into our solar neighbourhood. We - some of us at any rate - decry the achievements of those who see that humanity's future doesn't lie here on Earth, but out among the darkness of space. We'll never get there as a species unless we - this age of humanity - are prepared to pay for the tiny efforts like Phoenix, the two Mars Rovers, the orbiting Odyssey and Surveyor and the far more distant missions, Cassini and New Horizons. These tiny efforts are enormously expensive, but so is the nationalistic fervour with which we build and arm our military forces and engage in our petty backyard wars of aggression. What we spend on developing our species' future is a mere soupcon compared to what we waste on killing our own kind, or planning to do so. 

So, if you're one of those cynics who don't think learning about humanity's ultimate progression is a worthwhile undertaking, stop for a bit and ponder the pictures from Phoenix sent home just moments after it landed. View the two photos up top in their full resolution and examine the surface of another world. It looks just like any gibber desert here on Earth, doesn't it? Perhaps, one day in the far future when we've made this home world of ours into a version of Philip Kindred Dick's world of the movie Bladerunner, maybe we'll yearn for a place like Mars, or Ceres, or Europa, or Titan. For mine, I'm in complete awe of the feats humanity has performed since March, 1926 when Robert Goddard built and successfully flew the first liquid fuelled rocket. In less than a century, we've gone from a curiosity in an open field, to exploration of other worlds by robots which are capable of making their own basic decisions. 

We don't do badly, but we can do a whole lot better. We simply need to realise it.

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Show us your favorite celebrity chef.
Submitted by Connie.

Nigella Lawson

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As I write this (type?) the annual thug-fest masquerading as sport is underway in Sydney. Yes, it's the rugby league State of Origami....oops, sorry.....Origin.

Look, I used to take a lot of interest in rugby league, right up to some nine or ten years ago, but something happened which dulled my interest in the sport. Maybe it's being married to a total non-sport oriented woman, but if so, why am I still besotted with motorsport? No, I actually think it's a combination of jaundice with the way Rugby League has evolved, and an intense dislike of the competitive nature of those who do follow the sport.

It's a game, that's all it is, and all it will ever be. More refined than that, it's a sport, or at least is meant to be. These day's it's a profession for the lucky elite athletic male, who, in general, lacks a certain level of higher societal mores or at least an ability to acquire same. The players are young, inexperienced in life skills and grossly over-paid for what it is they do. The flow of money into pockets of such people tends to corrupt a great many and cast a pall over the lives of those they come across. The stories about appearances of players before law courts are legion.

The game itself has changed markedly. Scrums are no longer 'fed' with the ball being tossed between the legs of two opposing front rows. It either never enters the scrum at all, or is deliberately fed into second row of the side in possession. Sacrilege in my day! Then there's the plethora of less than artistic tackling methods, from attempting to break an opponent's arm, called the 'chicken-wing', to Alan Langer's favourite, the Cumberland Throw. Little more than a trip. What ever happened to the diving, wrapped-up legs tackle?

I've been to the Cauldron several times and watched what I regard as the true artisans in the sport. Wally Lewis, Paul Vautin, Peter Sterling, Paul Sirronen, Greg Dowling, Benny Elias, Mal Meninga, in fact any of the classes of 1980 through to 1995 or thereabouts. Hardened players and skilled craftsmen in their art. The current crop, to me, are simply highly paid pretty boys in it for the money. A fast game's a good game and let's make a motza before we get too old.

Then there's the intensely parochial nature of the rugby league follower. Proud team supporters have always been a part of the football environment. I used to play golf many moons ago with a dyed-in-the-wool Cronulla fan. Back in the late eighties-early nineties when Cronulla couldn't win their way out of a wet paper bag, it was both amusing to listen to the pathetic wailing, and somewhat frustrating that this man who I'd know for more years than I care to recall, didn't really have much more conversational variety than football or horses. It's as well that he played a mean golf game.

At work today and doubtless tomorrow morning, and before/after each of the next two games, the questions are always posed. "Hey, the game's on tonight. Queenslander/Blues, eh?" then the inevitable pride or disgust depending on who you follow. It's an obsession among proponents and an expectation that anyone the supporter talks to will be interested enough to agree, disagree and generally correspond with similar zeal. Those who have no interest, like myself, are suddenly pariahs or considered something of an oddity when the lack of interest is expressed. Frankly, I think it's rude, but then again, that's a mark of the society we live in, I think. Blogging bears that out.

So, tonight's the first game of the mungo mug meet and I'm grateful there are only three games. The hoopla is relatively short-lived. The next game will be the worst, given it's in Brisbane. Traffic will be horrendous, as if it's not horrific anytime before 6:00pm anyway. The safest place is at home, well away from the drunken football follower and the inevitable crowds of people who pay scads of their hard-earned for three hours of ear-shattering human vocalising, the odd brawl, and for those with more money than sense, watered beer and a stressed bladder. Been there, done that. Don't need it anymore.

Maybe that's why I'm so anti-Origin? I've been there & done it. It's a huge bore and not at all like it used to be. Maybe I'm just your average fifty year old, jaded and intolerant grumpy old man? Just don't ask me who I follow or try to engage me in strategies & tactics for games two & three. I'd much rather chat about the finer points of V8 Supercar Regulations.

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KCRQ, or McClellan-Palomar Airport, thirty miles north of San Diego. 'DunnaRunna' made the trip from Hawaii, laden with her 320 extra gallons of avgas and some 460 kilos over-weight. The trip was a long one. Some 13 hours all together. I have to admit to 'falling asleep' at least twice, and missing two waypoints, but given the flight path was virtually a straight line, the deviation due to curvature of the globe wasn't dramatic. Makes me wonder how ferry pilots do what they do, hour after hour, with the drone of engines their only intrusion into a serene environment.

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Who was the last person you offended?
Submitted by May.

My wife. I'm always offending my wife. That's just me, I guess, and she is who she is, which is easily offended. I speak plainly, and more so the older I get. She doesn't like to hurt feelings, so she doesn't. It's said that opposites attract.

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Just in case you're wondering what's happening in my "Running Away" fantasy flight from Australia, to my $3m island in the Caribbean, here's the latest.

As you might recall, at last mention we were stranded on Frigate Shoals, awaiting a couple of drums of AvGas. Well, it arrived and we left Frigate Shoals just prior to midnight and landed at Lihue, Kauai around 80 minutes later. After a check over and refuel, it was off to the 'Big Island', Hilo International and a week's downtime where VH-NDC - now named 'DunnaRunna' - would undergo a major engine overhaul, removal of passenger seats and installation of two 160 gallon Turtle Pac collapsible fuel tanks, giving 'DunnaRunna' an endurance in excess of 14 hours, worst case. The tanks are rentable and given that FAA regulations require removal of ferry tanks immediately upon arrival at first port of call inside continental USA, why buy them outright? FAA approval for fitment of these tanks is required, obviously, especially given that the aircraft will be some 434 kilograms over maximum gross weight at takeoff.

pearl.jpg

leavinghilo.jpg

onourway.jpg

Back in the real world, my weekend was a busy one. I had to abandon and save the flight four hours out of Hilo, to be picked up again this coming weekend. The plan takes us into Carlsbad, McClellan-Palomar Airport, California. Were I actually piloting 'DunnaRunna', I'd be taking a few days break in Carlsbad before heading off on the next leg. I wonder what there is to do in Carlsbad?

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Mad Brewers Raspberry Wheat Beer

http://www.maltshovel.com.au/

As I may have mentioned in this tome, I'm a home brewer who just loves to tinker with standard worts and additives. I've used honey, plum jam and raspberry jam, as well as flat lemonade, epsom salts and finishing hops. Not all in the one brew, naturally. This evening, my other half splurged on my behalf and bought a bottle of Malt Shovel Breweries Raspberry Wheat Beer. It's an absolute winner for those beer drinkers who appreciate something different and special. Like a good wine, a glass of this ale has a heady bouquet redolent of crushed, fresh raspberries, a colour which is almost reddish, not quite brown and a fantastic, sustained head. It's flavour defys accurate description, but suffice to say, it's fruity, spicy and very, very refreshing after a stressful day grinding one's nose. I highly recommend this drop to anyone with a wont to taste and appreciate a really good brew.

Mad Brewers Raspberry Wheat Beer

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The Vocal Version

Yes indeed, Vox'ers. A t least those of you following my fantasy journey from my hum-drum existence to one I'd much rather be enjoying. Money not withstanding. Last post, as you'll recall (Ye Gods....I sound like an episode of 'Lost In Space') I'd landed with fumes in the tanks on Green Island, sixty nautical miles short of my destination of Henderson Field, Midway Island.

Leaving Green Island

After over-nighting in the back of the Rockwell Aero Commander, I presumed that a radio call to Hawaii for fuel might result in a shipment of AvGas sufficient to get me to Lihue airport on the Hawaiian island of Kauai. I also estimated - in my early morning funk - that three 44 gallon drums would do the trick. Bugger that early morning funk. I underestimated by about an hour's worth of fuel, which resulted in my landing at French Frigate Shoals, 1 hour and a few minutes from Kauai. It's a crushed coral strip used by tourist carriers to view the atoll & out lying reefs. 3000' long it's easily within the sphere of the Shrike, but as you can tell from the photo, there's nothing on it.

Frigateshoals

Kauai

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