The Back of the Pantry

We've postponed grocery shopping for a couple of weeks. For the most part, it's been a beneficial exercise in frugality and resourcefulness. Alison and I don't really go for processed foods, so we don't have deep stores of rations to weed through. But, now and then, it's a good idea to consider the things that sit in the shadowy zones of the pantry, and to see what's still edible among the time capsules in the freezer. Yesterday afternoon I wanted something sweet, and the apples and bananas were long gone. Way in the back of the cupboard, between a jar of clumpy beef bouillon powder and what looked like part of an insect that never achieved infestation status, was this little purple box. When port wine-flavoured jello starts looking like an attractive snack, it's time to go shopping again.

I bought it 7 or 8 months ago because I'd never seen it before, and knew I'd be willing to try it at some point. Today was the day. Aeroplane is the Jell-O of Australia, and, by the way, it's called jelly here. I'm not sure why port wine struck the Aeroplane flavourings team as a good idea. Bertie, the jolly airplane pictured at top right, is clearly meant to appeal to kids, so there seems to be some demographic confusion here.

Flavour-wise, this is nothing like port wine, which is good because I don't like port (evidenced by our collection of dust-and-web-covered bottles given to us by friends). But I don't like this stuff, either; it tastes like weak grape juice filtered through musty carpet padding. Aeroplane offers a few other interesting varieties that I may try in even more desperate times ahead, perhaps when I've run out of syrup of ipecac: blue heaven, "creaming soda", and bubblegum.

Cat Pee

Daisy, Momo, Bamako: take note.

A package from my brother, Scott, who lives in Ellensburg, Washington, arrived recently, stuffed with some items we'd ordered from REI for a New Zealand ski trip we're planning for July. It was part of a plan we had for saving money on international shipping; I'd left my ski pants in the United States, so we had the gear mailed to him and asked Scott to add the pants to the package from REI and send the whole bundle together. 

As I rummaged though the box I discovered this note written by my nephew, Ben, who is 6. It reads:

Please do not let the cats pee in my bedroom. Thank you! --Ben

I dwelled on this for a bit, and three scenarios offer possible explanations:

1.) Ben wrote this to me, thinking I have some regulatory control over Daisy, Momo and Bamako from this great distance. (Alas, I do not.)

2.) Ben wrote the note to his parents, Scott and Kara, who either: a.) deemed it a pathetic and futile request and sent it to me at the expense of Ben's dignity, as if to say, "Dig this, Pete", or b.) have already taken appropriate measures to make Ben's bedroom a less attractive place to tinkle, and  included the note as a charming token from back home.

3.) Demonstrating a textbook example of passive-aggressive behaviour, Ben wrote this to the cats, assuming that while Scott was preparing the shipment, Daisy, Momo and Bamako would succumb to typical feline curiosity and inspect the box, thereby discovering the note and feeling chastised without the embarrassment of a confrontation.

Given that my ski pants smell like cat pee, I pick number 3.

The Chart

I am entertained by simple things. Take the Bristol Stool Chart, for example. It's a reference tool used by doctors and nurses since 1997, and it addresses a serious topic-- gastrointestinal health.

I think it's hilarious. I first heard of the chart from my friend Luce, who works as a physiotherapist at Melbourne Hospital. She knew of my fondness for toilet humour and asked me one day if I'd like her to find me a copy of the chart to hang on my wall-- perhaps in the bathroom or kitchen. I think my reply was something like, "Duh!"

That was a couple of years ago, but she still hasn't been able to find a "nice one" for me. Given the workplace context in which I imagine this chart being used, I'm willing to wait. In the meantime, though, I came across this handy pocket-sized version included with a product called Motion Potion-- one of the lamer freebies Alison got in her bag of goodies after a triathlon she ran last season.

Mike digs a latrine.

Poop is funny on its own, but I also derive pleasure from thinking about how this chart first came to be. First, the illustrations: someone drew or painted these pictures by hand. The Bristol Stool Scale may have been published in 1997, but the style of illustration, cute and storybookish, is straight out of the 1930s. These little brown piles could easily have been censored from the final edits of Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel or Fun with Dick and Jane. 


And then there's the writing. What fun! I can imagine the copy writer walking that fine line, imagining how best to describe a piece of shit and not make someone sick or collapse with laughter:

"Like a sausage, smooth and soft."

or

"Fluffy pieces, ragged edges, mushy stool."

It's like haiku. The captions are clinically precise, but reveal a solid command of visual vocabulary. Someone had fun with this even if they tried to hide it.

The Cage Fight

 (© Peter Sackett)

A few weeks ago, while hanging out with the old folks at the Brunswick Trugo Club, I met a photojournalist named Paul Jeffers. He'd taken an interest in the game much the same way I had-- having noticed its oddness and vulnerability-- and decided to start documenting the sport and its players. Before long, we were sharing ideas for other subjects we thought might make good stories. My experience as a supernumerary in La Boheme was one that I came up with. One of Paul's was to follow a 24-year-old Samoan cagefighter named Mikey Ventou'ua as he prepared for his first professional match.
Cagefighting ranks mighty low on my list of interests, varied as they may be. Conversely, it ranks very high on my list of things I don't care a lick about. But I do like a change of pace, and the design writing schtick is feeling pretty stale these days. Sure, I said, let's see what happens.

At ringside with beer.

We met Mikey briefly at his friend's barber shop in Glenroy, about 20 minutes north of the Melbourne CBD. Mikey is short and bright-eyed, and muscly in a way that reminds one of balloon animals. He was getting his hair cut in preparation for the fight; according to Mikey, this was a ritual. Considering this was the eve of his first bout, though, I wasn't sure how fixed a tradition this could have been; maybe he just looked forward to it becoming one. The next night Paul and I, having obtained media passes, drove to down to Geelong to watch the match, which was being held at the local arena.

The place swarmed with people who looked like extras borrowed from "Strictly Ballroom" and "The Road Warrior"-- among the ladies, cheetah-print stretch pants appeared in more-than-average numbers, even for Australia; scrawny, sunburned men with Red Bull baseball caps aggressively sucked cigarettes from pinched fingers; and among all, there were mongrel assortments of tattoos, infected-looking ear and neck piercings, and hair chopped and shaved into mangey patchworks.

Good day for Mikey; bad day for my hair.

Paul and I were concerned that we weren't going to enjoy this at all. We'd agreed that neither one of us liked blood, and there was going to be plenty of it on the floor. As it turned out, we both had a great time. It wasn't that we liked the fighting, but that we had such freedom to roam where we wanted. Cage fighting is just catching on here, and with our media passes, were able to hang out in the back room where the fighters were having their knuckles taped, walk out with their entourage in clouds of artificial fog when their names were announced, and circle the ring freely without getting the least bit of harassment. In the United States it would have been a different story-- we'd be confined to a more limited circuit. Paul was able to get some great shots, and I was close enough that I could hear sweat flying and the splitting of skin. We were both able to focus completely on the action without interruption, and that was a pleasure.

Photos by Paul Jeffers unless otherwise noted.

The Bohemian

A pre-performance briefing with the cast (Photo: Paul Jeffers)

I made no mention of it earlier, but I appeared recently in Melbourne Opera's production of La Boheme. No, I didn't sing. I was a supernumerary-- essentially an extra, or mute actor-- playing the maitre d' of the Café Momus in Act II. About four years ago, before I moved to Melbourne, I'd been recruited as a "super" for Seattle Opera's staging of Aida and had a terrific time of it. Among the cast of an opera, supers are the lowest ranking and, in larger companies, often kept totally separate from the chorus members, dancers, musicians and principles. We're usually unpaid and seldom talked to, or even acknowledged, by the singers. Basically, a super has little to contribute other than their physical presence. So why is it fun? Because I get to be onstage (which I love) and I get see everything that happens behind the scenes. 

Applying makeup in the green room (Photo: Paul Jeffers)

But Melbourne Opera is a much smaller company than Seattle Opera, and so I mingled with everyone. Though I had a larger role in La Boheme, I was given little direction compared to what I received for Aida; in that production, in which I was only one of almost two dozen supernumerary soldiers, we nonetheless had handlers and several stage assistants to herd us into place offstage, cue our entries, distribute and collect props and apply our make-up. By contrast, in this production I was pretty much on my own. Two weeks of rehearsal. That's was it. I applied my own make-up, watching others to learn the technique. To complete my costume I had to supplement it with items from my own wardrobe-- the trousers came from the tuxedo I wear to Freemason lodge meetings.

Waiting for Act II (Photo: Paul Jeffers)

For those unfamiliar with the story, Act II of La Boheme takes place in the Latin Quarter of Paris, in the street outside the café. As the maitre d', I'm very busy greeting customers and fretting about what to do with the principles, who can't pay for what they order. There's a nifty sight gag at the very end of the act, when I present an enormous check to a wealthy chump who's been stuck with the bill while the others have run off to play elsewhere.

Altogether, we gave six performances-- five at the Athenaeum Theatre on Collins Street, and one at Monash University. Not a single one of them was executed without some sort of minor disaster-- missing props, curtains going up before the cast was ready, plates that bounced off the floor instead of smashing, etc. Supering for Melbourne Opera was fun, though a very different experience from my first in Seattle. I'd like to do it again, but those opportunities seem harder to come by Down Under.

The Rodeo

On Sunday night, Sue, Alison and I drove north from Wunghnu to Tocumwal for the rodeo. Tocumwal is a small country town on the Murray River just over the border with New South Wales, and very popular with weekend holiday-makers. We approached the town at night, and could see their campfires flickering in the dark, tracing the contours of the Murray.

Sue kindly paid our admission of $25 per person, which I thought staggering for a small country festival. All of the action was contained within a single, large aluminium corral that had been erected for the purpose. Spectators either stood, clutching foam rubber stubby holders with cans of Bundaberg Rum & Cola screwed into them, or perched on bails of hay that flanked the corral. A few lucky folks had grabbed seats slightly further away in a small grandstand that had three rows of tiered benches. Preschoolers ran up and down pathways, waving battery-operated plastic lightsabres. Smoking teens congregated around empty fuel barrels in which fires had been lit for warmth. The rodeo action was fast and constant with scarcely a lull between events, but we had to peer between the aluminium bars to see what was happening. Modern country and western music blared over loudspeakers while the announcer shouted the names of competitors.

Sue and Alison scrutinised the program, which indicated that we'd arrived just in time for the "rope & tie," sponsored by Greenways Holiday Units of Tocumwal.  I headed to the opposite end of the show grounds to see what looked interesting among the food and game vendors.


I liked the "Circus Clowns Winning Numbers" setup; the prizes held no interest for me, but the clowns themselves looked old fashioned and slightly creepy, as their open-mouthed, disembodied heads oscillated in unison. As far as traditional carnival paraphernalia goes, these were the genuine article and it was nice to see them, looking vibrant and well-cared for. I wondered if these kinds of arcade attractions were still made. I certainly hope so.

Food-wise, the Dagwood Dog stand seemed to be doing the briskest business. A Dagwood Dog is the Australian version of a corn dog, but with a thicker sheath of fried batter. According to Wikipedia, these can also be called a Pluto Pup or a Dippy Dog, depending on the region. [By the way, all of these names struck me as better than the disgusting moniker "Krusty Pup" favoured in the Pacific Northwest.] Another vendor-- a group of moms raising funds for the local primary school-- sold hamburgers with cole slaw on them. I bought one, deciding it was the healthiest option available.

Before heading back to the show, I lingered a bit, watching a solitary horse that had been tied up next to its trailer beneath enormous red gum trees, with bark that looked ghostly and luminous in the mixture of halogen light and wood smoke that hung in the air. It was the only non-performing animal I saw. Having exhausted the quiet end of the rodeo grounds, I rejoined Sue and Alison just in time to catch the open barrel race.

The Premiers

They even spelled my name correctly.

The big news in trugo? Well, the competitive season has just come to a close and the motley crew from Brunswick won the championship. (That's my team, by the way.)

I'd refrained from writing more about trugo during the season. This blog is still too brief to support more cute reports about ring-chasing dogs and cranky, chain-smoking pensioners, so I held off. Things weren't looking too rosy for Brunswick anyway. Of seven teams in total, ours was fourth or fifth on the ladder, depending on the week. Only twice during the entire season did we have a complete team (eight players) present on a game day, requiring first-half players to play again the second half, and giving us a severe point handicap nearly every match [players who compete twice in the same game can score no more than 16 points out of a possible 24 their second time up].

I'd been performing fairly well for a first-seasoner, but then I ducked out of three games to fly back to the United States in September. Team captain Gerald Strachan's son Patrick plays extremely well, but due to his work schedule he'd been available only half the time. Doc is a hypochondriac and spent half the season in physicians' waiting rooms, and Gerald himself had a hernia operation and other similar internal maintenance to take care of. And at least a couple of times, certain folks just forgot to show up.

But as soon as the finals began, we started winning. Big. Weaker players suddenly found their swing and grew confident. Gerald healed. Doc became more interested in playing than in worrying. And Percy decided, apparently, that having a few beers at the pub before the game might help him limber up a little. Before we knew it, we'd beaten top dogs Port Melbourne by a healthy margin and claimed the title.

We got our Soviet-looking trophies last Thursday during a small, post-sandwich-and-coffee ceremony at South Melbourne. I'm not sure I'll be able to play next season, so this is a great way to end my first.