How bizarre

I ring a friend, whose name is John, and whose wife's name is Jackie.

"Hi, Jackie, this is James," I say.
"Who?"
"James Roy."
"Right."
"Is John there?"
"I think you've got the wrong Jackie."
"Oh. Oh!"

After I hang up, I check the number I dialed. The fifth digit was wrong - an 8 instead of a 6. What are the chances, that I would get one of eight digits wrong, and get someone whose name is the same as the person I'm trying to call?

PS: I know someone will give me some guff about it being not as statistically improbable as it seems (SKR, I'm looking at you) but I was still surprised.

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Anonymity Jones bound proof

It's been a while coming, but here it is – the uncorrected bound proof of Anonymity Jones, from Woolshed Press (Feb 2010). Woo!ˆ–
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Oh dear...

Imagine this. You're a Baptist pastor, and you're about to give a sermon. You peek out from backstage. You see a lot of youth in the congregation. Except to you, it's not a congregation – it's an audience. Because you're more than just a pastor - you're a comedian. You're funny. Young people love your sermons, especially when they're "bits". Mostly you kill, you very rarely die.

So you think, What could be funnier than saying that I'm a normal kinda guy who finds normal kinda things funny, like ... say, midgets. Little people. The 'vertically challenged'. And even though I know it's not OK to publicly humiliate them, I might say it anyway, and add that even though I know it's not OK, it's just beyond hilarious. I mean, what are the chances there'll be one of these hysterically amusing so-called 'people' in the audience anyway?

Mmm. Guess what?

Pastor X, your slice of humble pie is ready to be picked up from the servery.

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Something for stressed-out HSC students to remember

I recently received an email from a lady whom I shall call Jill... mainly because her name is Jill. Her son was in the same guitar-making course as my dad, and she contacted me to let me know that her mother had said to say hi to me.

Let's go back a bit. When I was a wee lad of four or five, we were living in Papua New Guinea, on a mission college campus. I loved books. We had a lot of books in our house. I loved stories. My parents read me a lot of stories. And Mrs Palmer, who lived close by, had a lot of books, and story records. You know, dramatised stories, mostly riffing on Christian themes (being nice to people, being honest, sharing your toys, honouring your parents, washing your hands before dinner, all that kind of good gear). And I used to sneak away without asking permission and tell Mrs Palmer that my mummy had said it was OK for me to come and listen to her records. (Spot the irony?)

I recall Mum would occasionally get frustrated that she'd have to come and get me (she always knew where I was, at least), and no doubt she felt obliged to apologise to Mrs Palmer for having to accomodate her wandering lad, but I don't remember her ever getting angry about it. Maybe she knew that I was happily up to my eyeballs in that wonderful story-world, and it wouldn't have made much difference if she had kicked my tail about it anyway.

In her email, Jill calls me a 'dreamy little kid'. In my Grade 1 school report it says a similar thing: 'James would do better in school if he could stop daydreaming'. Maybe. But school ain't everything.

Good luck to all those kids doing their HSC exams this fortnight, but try not to let the stress get on top of you.
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Things that make me want to give it away

I read this last night (in the bath, as it happens), and it struck me as a stroke of pure storytelling genius.

The slippers are made to last one day – this day. They're folded out of varnished paper, with a twinkle in it. We had to go all the way to the markets at the Crossways to find a paperbinder who did shoes the old way with no glue, just sheer skill of folding and knowledge of a girl's own foot and a girl's own walk holding the creation together.
(From Black Juice, by Margo Lanagan, Allen and Unwin, 2004)

Without wanting to sound fawning, Margo is one of those writers, like Sonya Hartnett, who makes the rest of us consider turning off the computer, or hanging up the quill.

But isn't that gorgeous? Only a true master of their craft could, in one paragraph – a mere 68 words – create such a perfect snapshot of a fantasy world. And by world, of course I include the cultural aspects of that place. These paper bridal slippers fuse something that we recognise and something other-worldly at once.

If you – and Margo – will indulge me one more quote, this is from another part of the same book, and is speaking about death:

Tonight it's come for my nan, and it gathers her up out of the thing that was her self, up out of her own bones into its dark, dirty, soft, soft breast, unfisting her hands from the front of her nightshirt, laying down her remains, moving her on from us like a storm cloud dragging its rain.

It's the 'unfisting her hands from the front of her nightshirt' that really wins me. That's so much more powerful than the oft-trotted-out idea that death is just a falling asleep, rather than something we resist at the core of our being. It's good – no, it's great – stuff.


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The self-righteous git...

...is me, because I'm about to copy and paste something I saw on the Book of Faces...

The Cold Side of the Pillow is colder than normal do to being in the freezer all day.

What the heckfire is a 'colder than normal do'? A winter hairstyle sans beanie?

That is all.
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Sound like a John Green novel?

Maxine
by Donald Fagen
(from The Nightfly)

Some say that we're reckless
They say we're much too young
Tell us to stop before we've begun
We've got to hold out till graduation
Try to hang on Maxine

While the world is sleeping
We meet at Lincoln Mall
Talk about life the meaning of it all
Try to make sense of the suburban sprawl
Try to hang on Maxine

Mexico City is like another world
Nice this year they say
You'll be my senorita
In jeans and pearls
But first let's get off this highway

We'll move up to Manhattan
And fill the place with friends
Drive to the coast and drive right back again
One day we'll wake up, make love but 'til then
Try to hang on Maxine..



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I think I know how this happened.

Someone legal at Cityrail sent a memo to the Client Safety Office, stating that warning signs should be painted on platforms across the entire Sydney rail network. Perhaps the memo read something like this:

These warning signs should be clear, concise, and leave no margin for ambiguity. We suggest they read "SURFACE MAY BE SLIPPERY WHEN WET".

This memo was cut and pasted into a contract requisition to Signs-R-Us, who sent an order to their stencil-makers, who made dozens of stencils. These were then sent out to station-masters across the network, who dutifully flopped the stencils on the ground, got out their supplied cans of yellow paint, and sprayed the signs, complete with the unnecessary quotation marks. Thus:
I catch a lot of trains. This is going to be a disproportionately huge annoyance for me. Srsly.


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The Inkys shortlist - go vote!

Online judging for the Inkys awards is now open. And the shortlists are...

Golden Inky (Australian books)
Broken Glass – Adrian Stirling
Where the Streets Had a Name – Rand Abdel-Fattah
Jarvis 24 – David Metzenthen
Worldshaker – Richard Harland
Everything Beautiful – Simmone Howell

Silver Inky (International books)
Exposure – Mal Peet
Skim – Mariko and Jillian Tamaki
Paper Towns – John Green
Absolutely True Diary of a Part Time Indian – Sherman Alexie
The Hunger Games – Suzanne Collins

I have my two preferred winners, but as a shortlist judge, I'm somewhat hamstrung in my ability to name them publicly. But you can! Go here to vote: www.insideadog.com.au

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My new baby...

...which I'm yet to pick up.

That's my dad, making me a guitar. Sitka spruce top, myrtle back and sides, mahogany neck. It's all strung up and ready to play, but I haven't got it yet. Soon, very soon...

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