Meanwhile, back at the ranch

Kinky Friedman in concert. Brisbane 25 June 2011.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch is the name of a book by the wild man from Austineo - Kinky friedman. But in Australia there are no ranches, they call them stations. Kinky should call the Australian edition Meanwhile, back at the station...

I got introduced to Kinky Friedman from watching an obscure documentary on him many years ago. I have since read many of his books and managed to track down maybe half his musical output.

Kinky Friedman is an outlaw. He is the bold American. He had a hit called "Sold American", about a fallen country star. Kinky’s star is still shining brightly. It was my first time to see him performing live. There he was telling jokes, grinning, squinting, singing

"Remembering the times/ when coffee with a friend was still a dime..."

I just love that line. That’s the best definition of 'reminiscing' I've heard all evening.

Kinky in concert last evening was the best concert I ever attended. I have been to a few concerts by some international and local acts but Kinky topped them all. The venue was at the Visy theatre in the Powerhouse in Brisbane. This was a very intimate setting which holds 200 people – all sold out. So there he was. Just the man and his guitar in front of a microphone. The way intimate music should be played. Almost like the 60s folkscene that we read about. I was seated in the second row, no more than 5 metres from the performer. It felt like he was performing just for me. I make out that 10% of the 200 people there are new fans.

He opened with a disclaimer: ‘we deserve the right to refuse service’ and then followed with a toast to honour, saying “here’s to honor, get on her, and stay on her”. Classic Kinky.

He had many jokes sprinkled between songs throughout the evening. Some of them are funny, a couple are maybe too crude or rude. One may even be politically incorrect in today’s atmosphere, as he himself seemed to concede. That may be so for PC pedants, but in context, it is quite okay. Well he does not even say “fuck” in front of a c-h-i-l-d.

The setlist from what I can remember (Like Kinky I did have a double before the show):

• We deserve the right to refuse services to you
• Autograph
• They ain’t making jews like Jesus anymore (with an audience sing-along)
• Ol’ ben lucas (written by an 11yr old Kinky - about mucus)
• Marilyn and DiMaggio
• Rapid City, South Dakota
• Sold American
• Asshole from El Paso
• Ballad of Ira Hayes
• The wild man from borneo
• Pretty boy Floyd (encore)

Like everyone else, the man is getting on in years. But the humorous mischief and twinkle in him remains. He admits to being a young 66 years old. “I’m too young for medicare,” he says, “but too old for women to care.”
He told anecdotes about his dalliance with politics. He says he spells this as 'polyticks' meaning multiple bloodsucking parasites. He is a generous person. He told about him and Van Dyke Parks (co-tourist) drawing the fine line between music and criticism, and snorting it. He has sharp wit and he’s also eagle-eyed. He spotted an audience member wearing a ‘kinky’ shirt.
He confides that he follows current affairs: Libya and Charlie Sheen. He’s thinking of adding disgraced congressman Wiener to the list.

He also related the story of an old couple now hard of hearing, but still finding ways to communicate in their old age. The old man once asked his wife where the rake was, having to mime the question because she could not hear. The old woman replied in kind. She pointed at herself, grabbed her left breast, her backside and then her crotch. The old man could not work this out so he came to the porch for an explanation. The woman said: “I/ left-tit/ behind/ the bush.”

Jokes are often better heard than read. But it was a magic evening. Funny and entertaining. Truly a once-in-a-lifetime experience. He quotes distinguished writers such as Oscar Wilde and Joseph Heller, without pretense like many so-called artists. Friedman is an accomplished writer and novelist, and knows whereof he speaks.
He shared a few more jokes. Like about the Native American Indian's concept of ownership - and casinos. Or about the Texan billionaire telling the Mexican with 12 kids to stop bothering Jesus about his problems; or about the guy Uwe (not Hughie or Huey) who he met in NSW. Uwe comes from Kinky's 2nd favorite people in the world, after everyone else.

If you're lost, really you should go and see Kinky.

He may not be in the league of the great satirical comics Richard Pryor, Lenny Bruce or Mel Brooks, but he's made a niche for himself. I like a certain kind of outlaw. In music, Kinky Friedman is my kind of outlaw. Like Robin Hood, or Pretty Boy Floyd - the kind of outlaw that he sings about in paean to Woody Guthrie. The guitar-that-kills-fascists man still screams in Kinky’s veins. Indeed, an outlaw who you’ll never see drive a family from their home. The honest type who live outside the law.
If I was a Texan, I’d vote for him all the time, over many of those hypocrites in poly-ticks. Kinky tells it like it is. Behind his songs is couched the grim reality that wetbacks are paid only 20 cents an hour (or today's equivalent). For this he gets criticised for political incorrectness. That Mississippi hall-of-famer Van Dyke Parks is right. Kinky should be canonised. The first Saint from Texas.

Kinky also read from his book “Heroes of a Texas Childhood”. He told a touching tale about his father - how he inspired him to speak out for the underdog. Do keep preaching to the infidels, Kinky.

And Kinky. You may not have made it like Gram Parsons or Barth Grooks, but there’s still some of us who follow quality music (and books). I make out that 10% of the 200 people there are new fans. Kinky, rest assured, there will be people yelling: “what about albinos?” at least for the rest of your life.

If Kinky runs again for Governor of Texas, I fear he’ll lose again, because as he says - he’s got Willie Nelson’s endorsement.
Am sure he’ll win hands down here in Queensland. Look out Anna. And Campbell.

As the lights went back on at the end of the show, I noticed that the audience comprised of goodlooking men and women. Just like the Kinkster.
And Kinky said it himself: "a genius audience makes for a  genius performance."
Couldn't agree more.

I might go and see him again. In 25 years time. They ain't making Jews like Kinky anymore. Hey Kinkster, can you make it sooner? And are you gonna light that cigar or what?

camping and fishing in moreton island

This blog is for Peter.

Moreton Island is an ideal getaway, if for a day or two (or a few). It is perfect for those seeking a natural playground or simply to be alone with nature in its unspoiled state. Moreton is the world’s third largest sand island. It is a popular tourist destination but that’s not why i’ve gone there.
My workmates prevailed on me to go with them on this year’s fishing trip. Being mountain-born and bred, somehow the sea does not a have a natural appeal to me. And for some reason, i thought the fishing trips were on boats, and that to go on such a trip would be days of misery for seasickly me.

They’d already organised everything for the trip. All the essentials were checked off including items such as vehicular and camping permits which we needed for access to and permission to drive around the island and camp in a park, forest or similar reserve. I just needed to confirm whether i was in or out.
So anyway I relented. I borrowed a surf rod from a keen fisher friend from Besao, packed up clothes good for 4 or 5 days, and tagged along. There were ten of us in three 4wd cars. My group of three (Bertie, Peter and me) met in the office, squashed our gear in and drove to the port of Brisbane.
We fronted up to a wharf and got directed to the berth of Micat. Micat is a large speedy luxurious catamaran that runs daily trips from the port of Brisbane across Moreton bay to the island, for both vehicles and passenger.
We met up with our other fellows in the ferry and settled in the seats for the approximately 75 minute trip to Moreton island.
While en route we double-checked the vehicles and cargo (loose straps, deflated tyres, ice chests, rod holders etc including the really important items – grog).
Upon landing we immediately drove across the island to the eastern beach.

With our rods knocking rhythm on the cars's laden roof and hood, we took to the sandy dirt tracks through thick forested woods.
 

Some sections of the track are metres below the natural surface due to constant use.

We set up camp on the eastern beach a couple of hundred meters in from the beach. The designated camp site was grassy, secluded and terrace-like. It’s about 5 metres above the high tide and with enough trees offering protection from the winds. Facing eastward is the vast blue expanse of the blue pacific. Watching the waves roll in to the sandy beach reminds again of the beauty, the greatness of nature.

Straightaway after setting up the tents and mess, we hastened to the beach.

We rigged our rods, wetted the lines and got on the grog. We used waders to repel the wash from the waves but more importantly to keep warm. "Hey these waders are too small!"

I put on a raincoat to keep the waves off when i waded in.

We fished until the sun set in the west before we piled into our cars back to camp for dinner.

Dinner was a grand feast prepared by our master chef. He prepared feasts every evening, as well as breakfast, and the odd lunch, for the five days and four nights we were on the island. After dinner, the boys started a fire, and we watched the billions of stars sail slowly by overhead in the firmament, until it got too late or too cold, in my case until i got too drowsy (from 'exercising' my arm).

We rose on Day 2 to another orange glow in the east, as the sun had now made it to the opposite direction from where we last saw it, greeting us with its bright sunshine.

With the mind dulled from relaxing (no not from drinking the night before), I picked up someone else’s waders by mistake. I tried to rectify my dullness with a quick cup of coffee, before we rushed off to try another fishing spot. I waded in a few times to cast a line.

As the sun rose, some of the native fauna came to check us out. A couple of sea eagles circled around.

A Brahminy Kite even came close, daring us. I tried tiptoeing toward this magnificent bird but it must have mistaken my camera for a trap and took off.
Some shorebirds and seagulls came looking for a feed but we could not oblige them.

It’s a glorious sight when a pelican spreads its wings and glides down to land beside you on the beach.

We moved to another beach where we found some more pelicans patrolling the beach for some drunken fishermen that they can wangle fish from.

They tapdanced around trying to hypnotise us, but we stared them down and did not yield the beach.
They backed away and called their seagull mates for reinforcement.

The gulls lined up but we could not be deterred from there. I told them my friends can do a better linedance than them. My friends can do a circle dance - pattong heh. The island might be their territory, but we paid good money to gain access to this fishing real estate if for a few days. "Here's to you gulls", i said as i raised a glass and took some gulps.
My eyes were straining in the bright haze of the mid-afternoon, but still no joy with spotting where the gals, I mean the fish are.

A seagull tried to block our way and would not move off until we paid our tong in fish. Their pelican friends came to assist in their blockade so we had to go another way to get back to camp.

‘White rock’ used to be a huge white rock sticking out of eastern beach. Over the years it had stood steadfast against the elements but is now just a stump of its former grandeur. We found ‘white rock’ still holding the fort. The rock like the island is changing in response to the ocean current and winds.

The beach is pretty as a picture and vice versa, the picture is pretty as a beach.

We drew some lines on it with tyre tracks. The fish still weren’t biting so we slaked our thirst again and again.

I found a tree overhanging the beach and acted as lookout for fishing spots. From my perch on a branch I could almost see New Zealand (Hey Philip!) but no fish. We drove around to the small village of Kooringal in the south, and then went exploring.
The western beach is inaccessible even in low tide.

My company were reluctant to go the 15 km almost impassable route. From the backseat I tried to convince the pilot Bertie, that this was a once-in-a-lifetime adventure, and that we could always turn back. Peter nodded along, and so we plowed on through the soft sand, debris and fallen trees and driftwood.

We passed some dead turtles on the 15km detour. I believe they get caught in the rotors of boats, get badly cut, then crawl up to the beach where they die.

‘Green zones’ were set up to protect turtles and dugongs, but i don’t know how effective they are, as we pass a couple more dead turtles. We drove tentatively along the western beach for a good stretch but no anxious moments.

Eventually we come to the wrecks in Tangalooma.

We then traversed around the fenced-off and gated resort hotel apartments on the hillsides.

The sight of these fences is bad enough in the natural setting of the island, but even worse is the enclosed and manicured lawn of a helipad used to ferry the rich to and from the mainland.

That night we shared tales with another group who were camping with us.

The drinking, story-telling and tall tales went deep into the night as the fires burned on.
Don’t remember what dinner was. Chicken and pork chops or osso buco, something like that.

Day 3. And another glorious day like the previous two. But again there were no fish biting. So instead we toured around a bit more.

We visited a WWII defence battery emplacement bunker hill.

The views from the hill are awesome.

No sight of a foreign enemy but none of friendly fish either. There are some other wild flora that find habitat in the island, such as these bright dune wildflowers.

Back on the beach Bertie cast his line but only managed to wet his groin. Even the seabirds weren’t amused. After a few casts, we played noughts and crosses instead.

The camp was forlorn at the midmorning breakfast. At least the sun was radiant. But we’re optimists if not hardheaded fishers, so we drove along the beaches, leaving our tyremarks on the sand, as we searched for another fishing spot.

Later we went looking for the local store, for some water and ice for the beer that keeps getting warm. We did more yarning than a CWA knitting session, but what do you do when there’s no fish?

We tried yet another spot back in  eastern beach.

I set up my rod to on a makeshift pole to catch any fish passing through my section. If only there was any.

The rod stayed still as i consumed another bottle of rum. Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum.
My mates just watched me struggle with my casting form, rather my raising form.

A couple of luxury yachts cruise past disturbing the serenity.

The shadows grew longer, the husbands rang their wives, checking in saying they're behaving themselves and doing a lot of fishing, yeah right!

The pelicans tried blindsiding us for our bait – still no catch.

Bertie started posing with it instead. If it was me i would have been enjoying some pinikpikan that night.

Instead we drove up to the lighthouse on Cape Moreton.
This is a rocky headland at the north eastern tip of Moreton Island with some fishing spots and great vantage points for whale watching.

The lighthouse here was erected in 1857 and is the oldest lighthouse in Queensland. We spotted a pair of migrating whales quite far out to sea – looked like a mother and calf.

We waited for and took a couple of photos of the sun sinking behind the D’Aguilar mountain range in the far distance.

I asked Pete to take my photo as i jumped the fence (trespassed) to stand beside the lighthouse keeper’s residence. We then leisurely drove back to camp.

Day 4. We started early, before sunrise. I walked to the beach to wait for the sunrise. On the way I came across pawprints that stopped metres short of our camp. This would have been a dingo foraging for food during the night. I also tracked down some seabirds’ trails and found where they were congregating the night before.

They even had chicks with them as the smaller prints tell. We don’t see these chicks during the day. I asked them to draw a map of Australia.

They did a good trace of moreton island instead.

Again back to camp for brekky. Bert baked some damper the night before. Partly burned but good.
After some breakfast, I went exploring the edges of the campsite, I found some strange markings on a tree.

Must have been made by Martians surveying earthling habitats. A knowledgeable person in our group said it's to do with the sand mining leases on the island. A boundary marker of sorts.

I found a dead crab, collected some seashells and little polished rocks washed up on the beaches.

The afternoon distraction was provided in the form of a little driving lesson. One of the cars got bogged in the sand. No drama.

Our silhouettes were a fixture on the sandy horizon as we cast our lines into the surf from crack of dawn to lingering twilight.

Day 5. Last day and last chance at glory. But even the pelican knows it can tease me. I tried catching a fish again (n times) but as the time to go came, I reluctantly packed up my rod.

That’s forlorn looking me.

We packed up, piled onto our cars and drove to the ferry. We loaded in, waved goodbye to the Tangalooma wrecks, and lazed on the catamaran’s decks on the ride back to Brisbane.

Sailing westwards away from the island, entering brisbane harbour, we gaze back to see the playgrounds of Moreton Island that attract tourists from all around all year round.

The sand dunes, the blue waters, the thick forests and woodlands, freshwater lagoons and crystal-clear creeks, abundant wildflowers and marine life, colourful coral reefs and miles of pristine beaches.

These are some of the features for recreational activities like swimming and surfing, scuba diving snorkelling, fishing, sand tobogganing, bushwalking, dolphin and whale watching.

But somewhat diminishing the beauty of the island are the eyesores - the sand mines, the ‘desert’, even the mysterious wrecks, if one is unaware of their history.

We sailed on, meeting some yachts and other luxury playthings. Also the ships that are part of the trade and industry that keep the economy going. These container ships carry tonnes of goods and products to and from all parts of the world. And so now i know the few days of R & R are over and that the hustle and bustle - the daily grind, is awaiting.

So how did the fishing go? I just camped :-). The others fished.

Ask me no questions, and i’ll tell you no lies...

Postscript.

Last week we bade goodbye to a good mate. Peter was a most able workmate in the 15 or so years I worked with and known him. He and I shared a tent on this fishing trip. As a team, we also travelled to many out-of-town jobs, on various work assignments. Peter has passed away. His quest has ended. I trust he’s found eternal rest.
By chance i came across an article mentioning Dylan's World Gone Wrong album. So Pete, I hope  your world's gone right..

I came to the place where the lone pilgrim lay
And patiently stood by his tomb
When in a low whisper I heard something say:
How sweetly I sleep here alone.

Vale Peter.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fx2qhbPqu8A