A cave of one’s own

Posted on April 12, 2015 by Stuart

Where once we had a shitty old broken shed in the backyard we now have something entirely different. A brand new room, in fact.

I loved the broken brick shed formerly known as my man cave. Water damaged floor, leaky roof, broken walls, dark and dank: I pretty much had the run of the place since the applications for this poorly failing space where so limited and noone else wanted to come near it. Weights, a fingerboard and an old couch were about all it was good for. I could have lived with the imperfections and limitations but the whole thing was sinking lop-sidedly into the ground. Something had to be done.

Concurrent to this has been the growing need for more space in our humble home. We’ve been using our bedroom as a study – desk and computer crammed in next to the bed, books and clothes all over each other – and it’s been far from ideal. Plus them boys of mine are getting bigger and need more cat-swinging space.

We have a decent sized backyard and we talked over the grand vision of what we could do: a new kitchen here, a family room there. But who in their right mind lives through a renovation? I’ve had too many friends try it with considerable damage to their psyches and their relationship, not to mention their wallets.

And so the plan was hatched. Let’s not live in chaos, let’s live near it. Let’s have the reno you have when you’re not having a reno.

You hear tales of people being ripped off by a building experience, so we were super wary going in. Through lots of asking around we found a bloke who would do the job for a not unreasonable amount. He did a lot of hand-holding with us to make sure we were comfortable with what we were planning, and then he brought two extra things to the table that sold me: 1. It would be finished on the agreed time, and 2. Any cost blowouts would be on him. That seems as a good a guarantee as we were going to see.

And then they went to work. Two blokes came in and went at it, tearing stuff down, pouring and hammering, building things up. For two weeks they slogged away, me doing regular morning and evening check-ins to make sure all was well, watching and loving the progress. And lo, one day the lads packed up and left, and it was done.

I spent one weekend doing the major bit of the painting, getting the inside ready to move stuff back in, and I’m finishing the rest bit by bit. It’s the long tail but the room formerly known as ‘the shed’ is pretty much good to go.

But good to go where, exactly? Where once there was a damp and broken dark hole noone but me loved, we now have a functional, clean beautiful space, and everyone in the family has their ideas about how it’s going to be used. The amount of grand ideas I’ve had to fend off are mind-boggling. Certainly the kids seem to think it’s theirs.

I’m glad I had some good locks put on them doors.

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Coffee up

Posted on January 3, 2015 by Stuart

Roasting your own coffee beans. The final hipster douche bag frontier.

My brother grew a coffee plant in his garden and gave me a bunch of green beans to take home. I was curious to see what roasting them myself would produce, and a bit of research showed that an air-popping popcorn machine would do the trick. I dragged the Poposaurus out and fired him up in the backyard and away I went.

The roasting was slow to start but sped up incredibly quickly, which meant watching for how the beans changed as they roasted was difficult. They started to brown up and make the distinct ‘pop’ I’d read about. Poposaurus never worked so hard: the husks came off and blew out of the machine, along with a clouds of the white, acrid smoke, the kind of smell that fills the streets of Melbourne, and it felt like it was really happening.

The smell started to change and I could tell I’d overdone it and crossed some kind of line, so I got the beans out and started picking off the husks. I pulled out a few clearly burnt beans but mostly it looked just like the proper stuff.

And the taste? If I’m generous I’d call it ‘French style’. Being unkind and somewhat more accurate, I’d say I burnt the crap out of it. Still, it was drinkable. And I learnt a lot for the next batch.

Projects are fun.

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Foolproof

Posted on October 7, 2014 by Stuart

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Winning streak | update

Posted on September 13, 2014 by Stuart

Ned experiences the full joy of Monopoly.

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Winning streak

Posted on September 10, 2014 by Stuart

We have a regular game night at our place. Bit of ‘Snakes and Ladders’, some ‘Uno’, some ‘Operation’ for my youngest.

Two things I can tell you about Game Night. First up, ‘fast game is a good game’ does not apply. These simple games have lots going on for junior players to follow. These nights roll s-l-o-o-o-w. Also, my four year-old would make a particularly horrific and giggly surgeon.

My oldest boy lately got really into Scrabble. I’m thrilled because I freakin’ love Scrabble. He does well with the words he knows and I help him a lot when he can’t see a good move because, of course, I play very gently. There are three reasons for me to take it easy: 1) I want him to know the fun of making and playing with words, 2) I want to encourage his interest in the game so he’ll play more with me, and 3) I’m not a psychopath. Some dudes have a ‘don’t hold back’ and ‘how else will they learn?’ approach to raising their kids, but Jesus, I just don’t see what my seven year-old gets out of me whupping him at Scrabble.

I owe a huge debt of gratitude to my father for the Leftie leaning world view he instilled in me. It was entirely unintentional and unconscious. Indeed, I’m quite sure he had no inkling he was doing it. But there’s certain behaviours an impressionable child can’t help but learn from.

Dad’s upbringing was proper working class – born and bred coastal boy who made good by joining the police and working the same job his whole life. Hard work, and hard play, typify his attitude to life. And though he undoubtedly possessed a strong Protestant work ethic and drive to keep plugging until you got somewhere, I got none of it.

Of Protestantism, it should be noted my dad was utterly areligious. Church never meant much to him: the only tangible thing it seemed to offer was the free child-minding that Sunday School enabled. I’m sure he thanked almighty God for the sleep-ins.

The character-shaping part for me was in being up close to his competitive streak. He was massively competitive in the old school Australian way and wore that loudly and proudly and in your face. I only came to recognise it later, when I saw him out-performing in sport, out-drinking men in the pub, lifting more, going longer, all of it. But looking back to when I was younger I can see that the competitive thing was fundamental. Even if you were a small child with no idea there was a competition on, it was on. All of this was for the most part fine. Not being particularly sporty or able to compete in arenas meaningful to him, I remained largely unaffected.

But then sometimes, if I was really unlucky, we’d play Monopoly.

It was the Monopoly board where my father’s alpha-male douch-baggery would find it’s perfect outlet. He was merciless. He would slowly but surely thrash us utterly and terribly, the full force of his zeal growing in space and volume as the game went on. He would gloat and tease us at how bad we were as we marched inexorably to our final defeat and his ultimate glory. It was a shitty, shitty experience every time it happened, and it built a deep loathing within me toward all competitive and sporting efforts, but most especially for everything the game of Monopoly represents.

Monopoly is a repulsive, ridiculous game. The whole pitch is that it perfectly mimics the Capitalist dystopia. What fun! You start the game happy and in need of nothing, then you’re compelled to endure hard work and demands on your time and energy and make a bunch of difficult decisions, your friends mercilessly shaft you and you finish broke and unhappy. Exactly like life in all its depressing, moribund tedium. Who in the tit would sit and play this as a fucking entertainment?

Nevertheless, I’m grateful for the early experience. It was shaping, no doubt. Knowing in my own small way what it was like to be crushed under the heel or the gleefully uncaring Capitalist overlord, my gravitation to the unfortunate and unprivileged seems, in hindsight, inevitable. A lesson to live by, I guess.

Last game night, running through some suggestions for future games, the boy mentioned Monopoly. Some of the other kids at school were playing it and he was keen to play.

I guess I’m going to have to tear him a new one. For his own sake, you understand.

Posted in worldview | Tagged competition, dad, family, monopoly, worldview | Comments Off

Bling bling

Posted on September 3, 2014 by Stuart

Shiny new bike. 2013 Focus Izalco Team SL 3.0 with Campagnolo Record EPS. Total necessity.

I am a lucky boy.

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Do it in a . . .

Posted on September 1, 2014 by Stuart

“Dad it’s costume day tomorrow at Kinder Dad and I want to go as the Flash so can you make me a Flash costume Dad?”

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And the finished product.
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Eulogy

Posted on July 8, 2014 by Stuart

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Terrence Andrew Bourke

Came to us just when we needed him. We were a young family, just a bunch of little kids. We gave him hell, as you’d expect. He and mum made each other very happy. It just took the rest of us a while to grow up and work out what a good bloke he was.

We came to see it, of course. He was calm and stable, capable. A problem solver, a cool head.

His whole life work was very important to him. He himself started very young, worked his way up. He got me my first job and helped me understand what a work ethic was. God knows I needed that. He taught me that value.

I learnt a lot more from Terry. He had a terrific way with people. Of most value to me was seeing how he managed people, be they customers or staff or whoever. He was a straight talker, knowledgeable, personable, the occasional well-chosen place for a joke. Classic manager attributes that he’d picked up along the way.

Work gave Terry a sense of purpose. Took him a while to get the hang of retirement – I’m not sure he’d ever looked up the meaning of the word – but certainly in the last few years he was really starting to enjoy it.

He enjoyed pottering around the pool, being in the back yard. He enjoyed seeing friends and watching his grandkids grow.

He came and visited us in Melbourne a few times and he was always good for a glass of red wine and few stories. He had many great memories and experiences he’d warmly talk about. He was very proud of all his children and the prosperity we’ve enjoyed. The last few years, health issues notwithstanding, he was happy. He was really, really happy.

To Terry’s kids: Margie, Michael, Andrew, Jo. You’ve lost your dad. I’m so sorry for you, and my heart goes out to you.

Mum: I’m sorry I lost your best mate. You’ve been very strong the last 18 months. We’re here for you as much as we can be.

Thanks Terry.

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Changing days, changing ways

Posted on July 7, 2014 by Stuart

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I was involved in the capture of bicycle thief once back when I was a bike courier.

The mob I worked for had a small, grimy lunch room with a bench and table out the back. Hungry couriers would gather in the mornings while we waited for the dispatch work to start, bickering with eachother like a sprawling family of idiot children fighting over chicken bones. This particular morning we sat there slagging eachother off and talking shit when one of the motorbike guys ran in a said he’d just seen some guy take off down the street on one of our bikes.

Stealing a courier’s ride while he and his bike-riding brethren are just inside the door? Homeboy was either very brave or very stupid. This bunch of squabbling bogan rabble was suddenly a unified army. As one we stood from the table. Five seconds later there twenty couriers mobilised in every direction, walkie-talkies blazing. Total rush, no doubt.

Someone called in and said they’d found the guy on King Street, and we converged. I arrived to find a shit-scared skinny dude surrounded by bristling, furious couriers. It was clear the guy was about to take a severe beating. And then the police showed up, and the group, reluctantly, dispersed. I’ve never seen someone so grateful to see the police.

For the most part stealing a bicycle is taking from the least wealthy and most defenceless commuters out there. People riding bikes are already at the bottom of the road user heap. Sure, there’s loads of very visible weekend warriors riding crazy-expensive road bikes, but plenty of commuters only have their plain and simple bicycle, no other option.

Furthermore, having your pushy stolen is a very personally upsetting thing to go through. I’ve lost a bike to a thief, like countless others have. It feels terrible. Stealing a bicycle makes you a piece of shit.

My bicycle courier days are a long way behind me. These days I am a sleepy house cat. I sit in a comfy seat and work away at my computer, and every now and then I look up at whatever horrible weather Melbourne is throwing at us that day, and I purr a happy purr. But my old bike-related rage burns deep, I’m finding, on a slightly different resonance.

I work in a big office block with special bicycle parking in the basement. There’s a lot of bikes going in and out every day, but there’s clearly a lot of other bikes that have, whether intended by their owners or not, come here to die. A good number have clearly not been touched in an age. Covered in thick grimy basement dust, tires flat, cobwebbed wheels, most of them aren’t even locked. Clearly their owners have ridden to work one day and decided fuck it, I’ll take it home another day, and then that’s how it’s stayed.

It is offensive to me that someone thinks about their bike that way. Your bike is a valuable thing: your companion, your tool. To dump it in a basement somewhere and just forget about it is messed up.

I worked at a different place for two years that had a similar set-up. For two years I chained up in the basement next to this beautiful old Gitane steel framed beauty with original Campagnolo 80s groupo and a child seat on the back. It never moved that whole time. Curiosity got to me and I asked the old-timer tech guy who said “Oh yeah, that guy left years ago. He left pictures of his kids on his desk as well”.

That’s the kind of person you’re dealing with: guy who leaves his family behind. And pictures of his kids, too.

And it occurs to me. . . it would be the easiest thing in the world to pump up the tires and ride one home.

I don’t need any more bikes. I currently own more bikes than I need and have no space or desire for more. But there’s this terrific ‘bicycle recycle’ mob who work out of a warehouse not far from where I live. They scour rubbish tips and take in old and beat up bikes that noone wants anymore and they give them love. They put on new tires, new cables, give them a spit polish and then sell them cheap to whoever wants them. They’ve helped out lots of people who probably couldn’t afford a brand new bike, some of whom are replacing stolen rides. They’re giving abandoned bikes a new lease of life. They’re doing good in the world.

I’ll let you know when I’ve figured this one out.

Posted in cycling | Tagged bicycle, bikes, cycling | Comments Off

Three men and a pile of rocks

Posted on June 9, 2014 by Stuart

Had the best climbing weekend. Me and my boys and a group of friends for a perfect weekend of perfect weather. Hanging with these two little men, pushing their limits and watching them grow to it. Ned’s climbing is really coming on: he took on the boulders even more ferociously this weekend, really putting in a proper psyched effort. And Tom was the total trouper – such a big day scrambling up and down gullies when you’re so small.

Dem boys. Love ‘em.

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