URINE TOWN WAS NO PIDDLING LITTLE SHOW

Every now and then we have the pleasure of sitting through a show that is fascinating in many different aspects. I recently took a young person to their first ever ‘live’ musical show. Up till then their only experience was to a Circus In Geelong. Inundated with technological marvels that insinuate themselves into our lives we forget sometimes that there are real people out there doing real things for real entertainment. Must we have to live in virtual worlds when our own is far more fascinating than any video game.


The 2010 Graduating Music Theatre Performers from the University of Ballarat recently performed ‘Urine Town’ as professionally as anyone who has trodden the boards of the Regent. From ‘Overture’ to ‘Finale’ the audience was totally captivated. I won’t name the performers who stood above all the others because such a list would mean having to name them all. The goodies were so gaggingly good, the villains were really venal and even the camp guy was gay. The laughs came exactly as intended by the writers. I’m am constantly amazed that these young performers can remember every line of dialogue, every word of a dozen songs and every one of the 4362 dance steps for two hours. A couple of times there were brief pauses in the dialogue but I was unable to ascertain whether this was for laughter or effect, or for a few seconds the mental thought “Oh s**t what was my next line”. Maybe the show went a few seconds over because of this but that was another few seconds of pure, unadulterated enjoyment. Who would have imagined (other than The Astonisher) that having a Pee could be so entertaining?

Tomorrow you may meet them serving behind the counter at a whitegoods store, checking out your groceries or making an appointment as a doctors receptionist, one of them might even test you for your Drivers Licence, but for a couple of magical hours they successfully transported us to another world. As I said to the young person at the time “you don’t need special glasses for this is the ultimate in 3D ”.

Keep your eyes open for even more performances from our talented local actors and musicians. Buy a ticket now for ‘Singing In The Rain’

What a pity that we can’t utilise the talent we have in Ballarat better than we do. A site to put into your favourites http://www.hermaj.com/

DAWG GAWN - II

Like a terribly written book this rag will pull out all the stops to keep you reading it. As every bad movie has a sequel so do we.


Regular punters will remember that I was telling you a story about a dog that was impersonating a rag doll with only half its stuffing. This dog after a week was slowly having its diet increased as it gained much needed weight. It was soon putting away half a kilo a day in minced Chicken and Beef. I almost said that other meat which I know would have Maxine heading off into the bush as fast as her fat legs would carry her. So I will just call it meat.

Maxine has lost a bit of her shock over this temporary addition to the household. She may be still a bit stand-offish probably because she has realised that one night this thing might be consuming her detached left foreleg.

There was however, a discovery that whatever this hairy tapestry ate its tummy did not appear to change shape. Like Yul Brynner I called this ‘a puzzlement’. After another week the house began taking on that ‘doggy smell’, but what presented itself by the side of my bed each morning was gradually appearing like a more traditionally shaped Whippet.

There was still the problem of an excessive lack of hair on its front and over the four corner bones denoting the top of the limbs that give it propulsion. Enquiry found that there was no such thing as ‘Ashley and Martin’ for dogs. A Shane Warne look-a-like he was not going to be.

I had been contemplating some exercise, but the RSPCA advised me to go easy on him for a while. That was the best advice I’d heard as I have an intense hatred of burning kilojoules. So after another fortnight we went down to Happy Valley Crossing. That first day we just wandered around looking at the waterholes and my watching for a reaction to the thought that he might not want to get wet. His first wash in the shower recess had turned into a nightmare for both of us.

But he paddled knee deep in the water quite without restraint so that fear was quickly dispelled. Seeing no rabbits nor his attempt at anything like running he refused my fresh nibbles and instead snacked away on two chicken thigh bones that had probably lain under the park table for six months.

My immediate thought was why am I feeding him top grade raw meat and bones? I had never thought of weighing him, like building anything I do it just by using one eye, but I think he was getting a little heavier than maybe the five kilo’s that he started out being. In fact by writing this I will try to get him onto a set of scales just out of interest...........an amazing 102 kilos. (I couldn’t make out where the decimal stop was while holding him up on the scales.)

The next day was hot enough to brave the chilly depths of the water at the Crossing, so with a towel in one hand and a tempting bone in the other we headed down there.

Naturally I had to go in first to test how safe it was. To allay any fears in the dog that the Creature from the Black Lagoon really lived here. I was only halfway across when I heard it.

“He so loveth his lord and master that he did taketh a leap of faith unto the waters”

Starting out like a paddle-wheeler with only half it’s blades, white water spewing skyward, he eventually settled down into a sleek swimming machine, or a torpedo heading straight for the white whale it thought was ‘Master’. He clung to me like a limpet until we got to the far side where he needed some assistance to scale the mountain out of the water. Maybe to me it was a bit of a hill, to him it might well have been the White Cliffs of Dover.

His original owner had trained him well, as he turned out to be the most polite and gentle dog I’ve ever accompanied. He would take no food unless it was clearly offered to him and he was so gentle with taking food that one night he couldn’t even break the stork off a cherry when I offered it to him. I had to break it myself and hand feed him the cherry.

One must apologise for the seemingly splendiferous writing but I have been absorbing the seemingly contradictory books written by Mark Twain and God lately. Even without using that word -

‘supercalafragalisticexpialadoshus’

I’ve managed to fill another bloody page.

Translated that means you’ll have to wait another month for the rest of it.

Fashion Concious

Here is Dawg in his latest outfit..
He thought he's go out into the paddock this morning wearing his acquisition.
Maxie and the Alpacas are still rolling around on the ground giggling and pointing at him.
We decided that it was really warm and cosy but he would only wear it around the house.

There is one small problem. When he cocks his leg for a pee it end up soaking into the fluffy bits under his tummy.
He was chasing a rabbit the other day and it ended up being scooped up inside his housecoat. Did he get a shock!

WHAT A BLOODY WASTE

Our taxpayers money? What is it used for?


If you have been to any of the Fire Guard/Fire Ready Meetings around the area you will have received all manner of goodies from Car Stickers to Rulers. This is all to attract our attention like the gaudy baubles on a Christmas Tree.

The message is important, very important, but what a wasteful way to get the information across to us. We at the Astonisher hesitate in calling it propaganda but is it not just a little bit overboard.

The last meeting I went to at Happy Valley Community Centre all attendees received a CFA package the like of which has not been seen since the last Christies Art Catalogue.

In a beautiful red folder with the appropriate logo’s we got 4 x 12 page A4 size shiny paper catalogues numbered 1 to 5. (#2 was not in the kit). Colour pictures worthy of the ‘Woman’s Monthly’ were liberally sprinkled throughout. Also included were four other pamphlets of 1 and 2 pages the subjects being Understanding Fire Danger Ratings, Understanding this Fire Planning Kit, and a Dictionary of Terms to Assist in the Understanding of this Kit. It is a case of absolute overkill. We believe that there is more paper in these folders than the Allies dropped in Propaganda Leaflets in World War 2.

This organ of information believes that all this effort could have been put to better use.

The meetings were informative and well run there is no denying that, but what we received in Junk Mail from the process could have been printed on plain paper in black and white, in fact it could have been presented in Newspaper format for about a tenth of the cost of this particular government initiative.

The cost of preparing the thing, dozens of speech writers and journalists, fashion photographers, layout artists and colour consultants, political advisors, clerks and tea-ladies, telephone cleaners and automatic door repairers would have been used to put it all together and must have run into a million dollars at least. Then there is the printing that would have been at least another million or so.

Information received recently advises us that this whole initiative raised fire awareness only about 2%.

These dollars could have been better spent providing our local CFA with the resources for fighting the occasional catastrophic event rather than providing more paper to fuel the bloody fires..

You alone are responsible to take note of Fire Danger Ratings and the prominent CFA signs during Summer. You could even be an active participant with your local CFA and not only save your own arse but the towns as well.

Going by the number who attended these meetings the First Response Team will have a very brisk business in burn cream for your ‘gluteus maximus’.

DAWG GAWN

It is still within the range of reasonable memory, even for those afflicted with ‘Alzheimers’, that I was stupidly left to look after a dog. Being in charge of a vehicle, being permitted to be a sperm donor, shaving myself, all these things are easy enough for me to do. Easy enough for anyone. But to allow me to be in charge of a dog is, I admit it myself, totally irresponsible.


The first time I saw it laying in the backyard I thought it was a kids home-made toy. Four sticks glued to the four corners of a very dead and dehydrated fox. ‘Look Mum I just made myself a marionette’.

I will not go into the reasons why I ended up with this mutt but let it be known that I did. The word ’dog’ only springs to mind after consulting several dictionaries because what landed in my lap in the car was an emaciated piece of skin and bone. The only thing that denoted it was actually alive was the fact that it planted one of the wettest french kisses I’ve ever had straight onto my mouth while I tried to take my seat behind the wheel of the car.

Needless to say that this dog-shaped wall hanging, on checking with the RSPCA, was so starved that it was probably in the process of digesting its own stomach. The Inspector did not want me to return it to the owner but to surrender it there and then. It may have been a warranted move, but as this ‘thing’ did not belong to me I was hardly in a position to just give it away.

My first steps were to give it a series of suitable gifts. Protein powders, worming chews, flea treatment and soap. It’s first real meal, all previous ingestions being small healthy snacks in the car, was 400 grams of Pet Sausage the size of a can of Pineapple, which it took into its stomach in one huge gulp. It was like watching a Boa engulf a sheep.

After a few days it slowly filled out into a male ‘Whippet’ which began the attachment process by marking all around the house. This is a high-maintenance breed, which means they never ever bloody leave you alone except when attending to their own penile needs with their tongue. They lay around wherever you are and like a painting the eyes follow you around the room. If you move it moves and those ever watchful eyes are there again.

I have nothing against dogs, but I don’t want to own one. The fact that they eat at one end at shit at the other does not phase me, even little babies do that. But you can’t use hotels with a dog, taxi’s or Eclipse Ford loaners, can’t fly with a dog and most likely can’t even smoke with a dog.

More importantly Dumb and Dumber my two Alpacas stress out and carry on like two hysterical teenagers at a horror movie whenever the dog bounces outside the house.

As for the sheep they couldn’t care less. If your brain recognises an object then you run away from it. No reason, just panic. Quiet normal for them. Mine run from themselves quite often.

It was a bit different for Maxine. She had a bit of a turn at first sighting. If memory serves me right the dog was inside when Maxine came around the end of the house looking for her afternoon snack. She bleated as is usual to let me know she was there.

Before I could get to the door the piece of rope with four legs was out to see what the strange new noise was. By the time I got to the door all that was left outside was a slowly descending pall of fine dust where Max had been standing only seconds before. It was at least an hour before she hove into sight again half-a-kilometre away.

Well look at that! I’ve managed to type my way into a corner again and unable to fit any more of the story in.

It is not as good as ‘The Bold And The Beautiful’ but if you have been sucked in by this piece of fantasised non-fiction then it will be continued.

NECESSITY USED TO BE THE MOTHER OF INVENTION

Is technology keeping up with us, which is how it should be, or are we caught up in a frantic race to keep up with technology? You just have to look at the Beer Taps compared to 20 years ago.

How many young people today have ever used a card catalogue to find a book, been amused by a Zoetrope, listened to a Crystal Set, played a Gramophone, used a Typewriter or even rode on a Running Board? How often do you catch your child reading a book, or are their thumbs over-employed playing with themselves? Have they ever seen, let alone handle a Mechanical Pencil, Polaroid Camera, printed with a Gestetner or marvelled at the glowing valves in the back of the TV.

It is easy for us to see the past, it's all around us. But looking into the future isn't even within the purview of Prophets, Mystics or Fortune-tellers. (Unless of course you believe in the science-fiction of spaceships one day coming to take us all back to Theta or wherever the hell Scientologists say we humans came from).

I consulted the town Soothsayer but all they could tell me was that there would most likely be an another over-abundance of plums at Christmas. Even he now employs the use of a computerised crystal ball.

Technology has even made some people totally oblivious to the concept of civility and courteousness. Sit in a darkened theatre or a play and it will be inevitable that little fireflies begin to glow around the auditorium. That annoying little blue glow born not out of boredom but the constant need for people to keep checking if they exist.

Nobody likes me. I haven't had an SMS for five minutes. I have to see if I have email. Maybe I'll surf around for a coffee shop for the interval.

Why is it so? Why continually break our concentration or even a conversation to check if we are still 'on line' to the outside world.

I went browsing the other day for new inventions. Maybe, just maybe sometime in the future we will not be able to do without a Video Spy Pen (For perverts), Portable Luggage Scales (To argue over at the check-in), Stereo Pest Repellent for Insects that hate Country Music), Electronic Bongo Drum T-Shirt (for Keeping Hippies amused on long trips) or the Bomb Alarm Clock that explodes every morning to wake you up. A warning comes with this last one that it should not be used by War Veterans or alternatively for Terrorists who really want to die.

Annoying contraptions aside are we preparing our kids for jobs that don't yet exist to use technologies that have yet to be invented. We had better be. Our education system is still stuck back in the 'learn by rote system' instead of the get out there and experiment model.

They still sit through endless hours of what to them is a load of bollocks until later when they grow up and find they need those bollocks. Why are they not out there turning over rocks for Biology, or getting skid marks on their pants from Physics?

Is our education system able to cope with the demands that are to come? Do Teachers even think about things to come, or are they just focused on getting children through the system without too much stress on themselves and not doing too much overtime?

I’m looking forward to advances in Fountain Pens, Paper Clips, my Sextant and Vinyl Records to upgrade my office environment, and a longer phone cord. (Mine unplugs itself just after the front gate.)

By 2050 will we have high pressure Bidets, Robotic Drivers in our cars controlled by GPS and a Hotelier that tells better jokes?

'The best thing about the future is that it comes only one day at time' – Abraham Lincoln

My farewell this month is in Afrikaans

Nou neuk af ….....

ARE THEY REALLY OLD MASTERS?

By Bob Le Billdeux - Arts & Entertainment Reporter

Here is something to open up that proverbial ‘Can of Worms’ while your breasting the bar thinking of something to argue about.


Who decided that William Shakespeare, the 'Bard', should be recognised as one of the greatest playwrights of all time? Why do our children still have to read, sit through and absorb books and plays that are as difficult to read and decipher as the Bible? How long since you absorbed yourself in ‘Alas and Alack’ or ‘Tis sweeter to absorb the barbs and arrows of astonishing misfortune than to win a fight with your betrothed’

Shakespeare has been re-interpreted so many times 'I cannot count the ways'. From the weird, wonderful and excruciating Orson Welles version, to the Modern Day Bell Shakespeare Company and even farcically (as in the 2003 film 'The Actors') where the play was interpreted as Nazi inspired by actors garbed as the Waffen Shultzstaffe.

How did it come about and who decided that really old paintings were by 'Masters' regardless of the real quality of the work in their 'Masterpieces’?

As Adolph was adored by Eva so the old Masters are adored by us. Or are they? Visit the Ballarat Art Gallery and you will find there as many great paintings as you would find in the Louvre, they are just not signed by the 'Old Masters' as exemplified by Paul Gauguin, Matisse and the predecessor of 'Chopper' Reid old Vincent Van Gogh.

Why do we 'oooh and aaaah' at a colourful sunset, is it genetic or did someone else 'oooh and aaaah' before us and we believed them? I believe that's the general case with Art. We are taught from birth what our parents believe, we ape them and their behaviours, until we are older enough to rebel against them to establish ourselves as individuals.

We sit in lifeless, boring classrooms and absorb whatever we are told by Teachers who just pass on what they are told. Except for the pure subjects of Maths, Language and the Sciences what we learn is only about other peoples opinions. It’s a variation on the concept that ‘history is written by the victors’.

Some people wander along to Art Galleries gussied up with Beret and Cravat for Men and Long Cigarette Holders and Black Ski Pants for Women. (Gender bending may vary the garb) It is there that they perambulate, pat and primp themselves moving from one painting to the next and admiring the angst of 'Woman With Fat Lips' or the ecstasy in the painting ' I Have A Horn For You'.

I dare tp suggest that there are no 'Old Masters' just really, really old paintings by equally old painters. Sometimes the 'Opportunity Shop' will have better paintings than what you see hanging on Gallery walls.

Either you like it or you don't. As the Philosopher Robert Ingersoll put it 'Art comes from inside, it is oneself', anything else is just a Daguerreotype.

Art is what you see and what you feel emotionally, what turns you on, saddens or elates you, makes you want to cry out 'I Love Life'. Art is not what some prancing and preening poonce in Paris tells you it is.

Next time you visit the Ballarat Fine Art Gallery, and I highly recommend you do, then you can decide for yourself whether the ‘Red Dot with Pubic Hair’ is either Hit or Shit.

Note: Robert Ingersoll 1833-1899 Born in New York. His father, John Ingersoll, was an abolitionist-leaning Presbyterian preacher, whose radical views forced his family to move frequently. Became Anti-religionist and anti-Monarchist, Lawyer, Colonel in the Union Army and one of the founders of the Free Thinking Society. I am not too keen on the fact that their symbol is a Pansy.