Salvation Creek

I have just finished reading Salvation Creek, and was enthralled.  It's not always an easy read, as Maggie Tabberer (an Aussie icon) alludes on the cover, but it is an excellent read.


The autobiography centres on the life of  Susan Duncan during some extraordinarily difficult years, through to her ultimate, wait for it.... salvation.  


It's about life, love, cancer, death, dogs, nature, cooking, boats and island living.  Reading it made me rush to the phone and contact my friends and family who had recently battled cancer, just to let them know I was here if they needed me.  They may have won their battle years ago, but still bear the scars in so many ways.


But don't think this is a depressing book.  Yes, almost every major character has or has had cancer, and some die, but this is an uplifting book--one of those life-affirming stories.  She, like me, was mad enough to get two puppies at a time, and I was nodding in agreement about her travails. I was also wanting to move to an island just like she did, and start cooking more like Tracy and Lesa.


Many autobiographies are self aggrandizing, but this one seems so honest, with Susan willing to share her failures and failings.  I felt as if I just might respond in a similar way to her situation.


It's a wonderful book to read if you are interested in the Australian bush and wildlife.  Susan moves to Pittwater and lives close to nature most tourists have to pay extra to see.  She develops a love of nature she hadn't known during her high-powered city life.


This is a beautiful story, and you should pour a glass of your favourite refreshing beverage and read it with your feet up on a verandah, deck or porch.  That's what I think, anyway...






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Location Dislocation

Enbrethiliel over at Shredded Cheddar blogs regularly about settings in her Locus Focus posts, and I have always enjoyed the idea of pondering settings a bit deeper. However, the importance of place was truly brought home to me during my recent marathon Southwest road trip with girlfriends.

I had posted ages and ages ago about purchasing a book at the Brisbane airport.  For the long-haul flight to the US I grabbed Mezza Italiana by Zoe Boccabella about an Italian-Australian's somewhat unwilling connection to her mother land.


It did look wonderful, it was wonderful, I started it and enjoyed it, but I just couldn't finish it.  For many nights during our 4,305 mile (6,800km) road trip it languished on bed side tables in various hotels across the Southwest, or even unpacked in my day bag.  In the end I gave it to my lovely sister, who was excited to read it.  I am hoping I can reclaim it when we next meet. 


I took a few moments out of an incredibly packed itinerary to ponder why I was neglecting such a great book.  Then I realized the problem was the setting.  Not the book's setting, but mine.  Or rather, the disparity between the two.  The land of the Zuni, Tiwa and Acoma is neither Australian nor Italian.  Yes, we could be extrapolating to overarching themes of roots and culture in general, but it would be a huge stretch.  So I gave up on poor Zoe and bought a book more suited to the area.

Code Talker by Joseph Bruchac deals with the Navajo Marines who bravely served in World War II by sending messages that could not be translated by the enemy.  It was fabulously suited to the area, of course, since more than once I saw gentlemen of the right age proudly wearing hats proclaiming their service in that branch.


Sitting on a shelf in a trading post next to jewellery and rugs, it appeared to be a local publication, and it was priced accordingly at about $8.  However, the historical fiction was so well written, I immediately forgot any pre-concieved notions of amateurism.  


It seems so real and true, yet is not autobiographical.  Bruchac is of Native American heritage and his connection to his people and the Navajo is evident in the authentic tone of the novel.  I was transfixed, reading in the car travelling through Monument Valley, putting in a bookmark to wander through pueblos and (yet more) trading posts.  It was a perfect fit.

Actually, I bought this book for Hubby as part of his thanks-for-looking-after-the-kids gift collection, but ended up enjoying it so much it got a little worn...

Have you ever chosen a book to suit your holiday destination?

Scholastic Book Club and Dinner Dictionary

Warning-- silly, base and scatological humour ahead. Read at your own risk.

We often read at the table after dinner.  Sometimes even during dinner.  We're so literary.  Tonight Dellylu brought her Scholastic Book Club catalogs to the table to browse.  

 

She first commented on the pony series, comprising I Want a Pony, A Pony for Keeps, A Pony in Trouble, Give Me Back My Pony, Pony to the Rescue, Too Many Ponies, Runaway Pony, Goodbye Pony, The Wild Pony, Don't Hurt Me, Pony, Keep Out Pony, and Circus Pony.  The entire set is on sale for only $45, a savings of $86.88 (a BBB post, maybe?).  She reckons the best one of the series must be Too Many Ponies, because there are definitely too many.

 

Then Izzy commented on the fine book, Dr Proctor's Fart Powder.  We laughed at the title and the blurb, which reads, 'Nilly and Lisa must help Dr Proctor keep his super-strength Fart Powder safe from the neighbourhood bullies!'   Since Hubby is the only boy in the house we found the idea of a fart book hilarious.  I tried to tell them about proctology and the pun with the Dr's name, but couldn't find the word in our dictionary. It was in Wikipedia.

So then Hubby commented on a set he found, saying, 'Here are some books about ponies who don't eat enough fibre. It's called Magic Ponies Bind Up.' 

What to read when you are sick...

I have a cold. It's not a flu, as Aussies are apt to label anything that involves sniffing or sneezing. But I am resting in bed with a calendar mostly cleared for the next two days. And what does a book worm do when she has a cold? She puts chicken soup in the crock pot (check) and she reads and she blogs about books.



What do you read when you are sick? When I am sick I want to read easy, short-story type texts. Nothing too challenging or taxing. I found a wonderful book that's just right for girly reading whether you are sick or well.

I've just finished Dreaming of Dior by Charlotte Smith. She is a shameless name dropper who lunches with princes and sultans, a clothes horse who 'would rather dazzle than underwhelm'. Despite the vast chasm that separates our lives (what with me currently in bed wearing a daggy t-shirt and clutching tissues) I did warm to her.



Charlotte Smith currently lives in Sydney, so we can call her an Australian author, but she was born in Hong Kong, raised in the US and lived in Europe. This is a globe-trotting author and a globe-trotting, time traveling book.


Smith inherits from her godmother a priceless collection of vintage clothing from many different eras. And she decided to turn her gift into a book. Each outfit gets two pages, one for a fabulous illustration by Grant Cowan, and one for its story. Through the garments, the reader gets glimpses into the lives of women. We meet not just Charlotte, her godmother and family, but also American pioneer women, flappers, Edwardian adventuresses, brides and socialites.



This book would make a great gift for a clothes horse friend. You really can't go wrong here.



I loved the stories and vibrant images, and the book made me want to dress better. Right after I get over this cold...

Phryne Fisher meets Precious Ramotswe

I inhabit a world where I might be killed by a snake released in my bedroom, stabbed while dancing, eaten by a crocodile, shot in a drive-by, or pulled from a train and hung from a water tower. Yes, I do love mysteries, but it would be easy to become paranoid. Lately I have immersed myself in two vastly different mystery series.

Not too long ago, my family and I attended Woodford Folk Festival (I wrote about it here). We had torrential, terrible rains, and camping was an exercise in endurance. But our nights were made more tolerable by curling up, each on his or her camp bed, with a book light and a good book. At one point our tent collapsed, breaking poles and wrecking the camp. All we were really worried about was the borrowed camping gear and the bag of Christmas present books, not necessarily in that order.

When gum-boot deep in mud, my distraction of choice was the Phryne Fisher series by Australian Kerry Greenwood. Surrounded by smelly muck, I escaped to the glamorous 1920's where Phryne (pronounced Fry-knee) has more money than she knows how to spend, luxuriates in expensive cosmetics, wears bespoke clothes, and solves mysteries while shocking society. She is a ballsy, unconventional woman with an amazing intellect who began her life distressingly poor, and I want to be her (after she got rich). The book covers are beautiful, each showing Phryne in one of the amazing outfits from the book. I even saved one illustration as my phone's wallpaper (I am truly a book tragic).



After purchasing all the books I can find from the series (there are 17, I think, and I have seven so far) I went to the library in search of another lady detective. And Mma Ramotswe came to mind. Alexander McCall Smith's creation is 'Botswana's only--and finest--female private detective.' She is, in contrast to Phryne, a woman of tradition and national pride with a strong moral compass. Mma Ramotswe's life has a quiet rhythm, and much of her detecting is done chatting politely to people over a cup of bush tea. There's a film version, too.



One of my friends tried to read Smith's series and found it boring. I love the gentle pace and evocative language. McCall writes just as I imagine Mma would speak, and I feel like I've already met Botswana's lady detective.

The two lady sleuths couldn't be more different. Phryne screams through Melbourne in a demonic Hispano-Suiza while Mma tootles across Botswana in her tiny white van, lovingly maintained by her fiance Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. One character is free with her favours, slim with hip bones jutting from milky white skin. The other is 'traditionally built' and honoured when someone calls her fat.

Phryne makes me want to take better care of myself while Mma makes me want to take better care of everyone else. Phryne makes me want more stuff and Mma teaches me that I don't need any more stuff.

They are both avaliable on Kindle (Phryne is here and Mma Ramotswe is here.) if you are trying to save bookshelf space.

However, if, like me, you are reading the traditional, paper versions, you'll need bookmarks. For Phryne I chose a Valentino exhibit bookmark with a vintage dress that Julia Roberts wore. For Mma Ramotwse I chose Emus by Aboriginal artist Yirra-Kurl.


If you are looking to escape from your everyday life (and is that not why we read?), then I can recommend either Phryne or Mma Ramotswe. They are vastly different from one another, but both wonderful detectives.

However, after reading of these ladies' escapes you might start looking over your shoulder.

Books I Couldn't Finish

I have been away from blogland for a while, and I briefly explained why on my blog. With the quality of writing produced by my fellow bloggers I know you have been well entertained. So I'm back!

Would you believe I started this post originally back in February, then picked it up and worked on it a few months ago, then re-revisited it AGAIN just now? How's that for procrastination? So here it is, third time lucky. If it seems a bit disjointed you know why. I was afraid that if I took the time to polish it up I would procrastinate yet again!


From a month or so ago...

With all the recent talk (ed. Note; August) about books Mrs BG's dear readers and authors couldn't finish, I thought I would dust off this post I couldn't finish back in February about books I couldn't finish. I'm looking forward to finishing it!

When Sam said she'd abandoned books and felt guilty about it, I completely understand. And I am dying to know why we give up on books. Could you all please respond to the first official Mrs Baja survey?

Original post I didn't finish follows....

So, there have been a couple of books recently (ed. Note; February) that have just not worked for me. I have never thought myself very critical, fickle or discriminating, but maybe I am.

My first non-finisher is a book my beautiful mother bought me back in June. I picked it up and was so intrigued and excited by it. The author is the apparently well-known Steven Pinker, author of The Blank Slate. The cover of The Stuff of Thought: Language as a Window into Human Nature says it's 'curious, inventive, fearless, naughty', which is hard to resist.



Some of the ideas are fascinating. I liked reading about how language shapes our attitudes. For example, doctors are more likely to be in favor of a program that might save 200 out of 600 vulnerable patients rather than one that will kill 400 out of 600. Same numbers, different spin.

And Pinker quotes a study that shows when we estimate number problems roughly, we don't really use language in our heads, but when we calculate exactly, we do. So, we have an image-based estimating process, but use words to calculate.

Parts of the book made me think about my French and Italian students. For example, the idea of language not translating exactly is hard for some. I regularly have to explain that the English gerund (ex. I am running) really doesn't have an exact translation into romance languages. That concept is not expressed simply in some languages, and so, conversely, many English learners with Romance language backgrounds have a hard time choosing between 'I run.' 'I do run.', and 'I am running.'

These are all interesting ideas, and the book is very well-written, but I just haven't made much progress in the months I've had it. It's a lot of thinking for my poor brain, and I usually want to read something lighter, funnier and easier.

Well, that's where I stopped finishing my post about six months ago. Since then I have gotten side tracked reading a few more books.

Michael Robotham's Bombproof was just a bit brutal for my delicate sensibilities.

Le Testament Français by Andreї Makine is beautiful. I got it from the Heron Island swapsies library. His first language is Russian and he wrote in French. This edition is in English and it is musical, lyrical, just poetry in prose and the images he paints stay with me. I love it. And I haven't finished it… Don't know what's going on there...





Image from the National Gallery of Australia.



And to finish off this post about not finishing books I will tell you about Ned Kelly: A Short Life by Ian Jones. The Kelly family is infamous and very important to the Australian psyche. Ned was the bushranger (bandit?) who made his own armour. Does anyone remember seeing 'him' in the 2000 Sydney Olympics opening ceremony? Kind of a naughty Robin Hood.

Jones' book is an incredibly, minutely detailed account of Ned's life. No event, however small, is left out of this account. I'm not making any progress here. It may have been a short life but this is a loooong book.

If you want to learn more about Ned without having to read Ian Jones, check here. It looks like a great blog. And they seem fond of Ian's work, too.

So, ladies and gentlemen, there is my confession. Now your turn. How many books do you have languishing in your to-be-finished pile? Please don't tell me none! I might start to worry about myself.

Sugar Sugar by Carole Wilkinson

My English teacher absolutely insisted that we "relax" after exams last week by picking out a book from the wonderful selection at my school. Now normally, I am opposed to the idea of the school library due to the fact that the librarians are mean and they don't have a wide enough range of Lewis Carroll. This time though, a book on the latest fiction shelf caught my eye. So I sat down and read it until I was well into the book. And I turned out loving it.

Sugar Sugar is a fiction book set in the 70's about a young Australian girl, Jackie, living in London, who travels to Paris to fulfill her dream of becoming you guessed it, a fashion designer. Now, I know that sounds like the most predictable girly fiction book there is, but I am convinced it is much more than that.

Jackie loses her way, her dream, and her money but manages to get by in the most peculiar ways. From hitchhiking to sleeping in an Italian wheat field, this book shows traveling the other side of business class and Duty Free. And yes, there is a romance. With a mysterious boy Jackie met hitchhiking who left her politely on the side of the road. It is a very strange relationship.

I haven't finished the book yet, so unfortunately I can't ruin the ending for you, but I am dying to find out how she gets home and gets the boy.

That's about it. Read it, and live a little.

X.
For all those lovers of me out there, check out my blog.

Aussie baby books

What to give a baby? Books, of course! My beautiful great niece was about four months old and I still hadn't given her anything. See, I don't usually give gifts to the unborn, and just hadn't found the right gift. Part of my problem was a determination to give this little Texan something made in Australia. Of course everything here is made in China, just like all over the world and I was searching in vain. And because she's there and I am mostly here, I wasn't sure of colours, tastes and sizes for clothing.

Finally, a lovely friend reminded of books for babies. She commented on how much her baby girl loved the books I had given her a year or so ago. I had forgotten, I suppose, but she said her little one was responding to books at six weeks. Mine were too, but that seems so long ago. So I sought out some Aussie board books for wee ones. They must be board books, to be chewed, bashed and played with. I found a couple of good ones.

Jackie French is an author I feel close to because I started reading her articles in the back to basics magazine Earth Garden many, many years ago. She seems like a distant aunty or long-time pen pal. Her personal story is interesting: she started writing in a desperate attempt to pay some bills and she is dyslexic. So I bought Princess the book Diary of a Wombat, illustrated by Bruce Whatley.

It is just what it says-- a recount of a week from the point of view of a marsupial. Oddly I never read this one to my own kids, but I was amused to hear my twelve year old reading it aloud to her little sister and a thirteen year old friend on the way home from the shop. The story is so charming, you can't help smiling. Mothball the wombat does a lot of sleeping, but works hard to train the humans that live nearby, and they do eventually catch on. In the end she concludes, 'Evening: Have decided that humans are easily trained and make quite good pets.'

My other choice was Where is the Green Sheep? by Mem Fox and illustrated by Judy Horacek. Again, hearing this during the back seat recitation was strange. See, this book is my main foreign language teaching source with children from about three to five years old. My little students love doing hand gestures to the story, and reciting along with me. There's no Italian or French publication that I can find. I just translated it myself and show the kids the pictures in the English version, a copy of which is in almost every kindy or grade one classroom in Australia. So, I had never read it out loud in English and hadn't realized it actually rhymed!

Obviously, the main idea is the search for the Green Sheep, and we have to meet lots of other sheep before we find him. For example, 'Here is the near sheep. And here is the far sheep. Here is the moon sheep. And here is the star sheep.' The story ends as we find that elusive sheep, asleep curled up behind a bush like Little Boy Blue…er, Green. Ending a bedtime story with a character asleep is great. Sets a good example, see?

While in the post office I saw a book by Pamela Allen with a magpie on the front, called Waggle Giggle Gargle. They are charming Aussie birds that make a fun sound (click here to hear it). This one's new to me, but I've always loved her books, and I popped it in the package. Princess' Mum and Dad will have to tell us if she likes it.

So I hope Princess' parents read her lots of books, especially ones to teach her about her family in Australia. And I hope they let her chew them, too.

Which books would you buy for a baby?

Not my finest moment: The Black Russian by Lenny Bartulin

Driving home at night is one of the highlights of my week. It's so quiet and dark: my headlights cut the night and no one asks me questions or whinges about my choice of radio. I feel cocooned and in control, knowing I could just keep driving if I liked, and go wherever I wanted. Of course I always end up at home, but I know there're possibilities when I'm alone and behind the wheel.

One night a few weeks ago I was listening to Mary Lou Stephens and her show Coast Nights. I love the blues, alternative and world music she plays, and usually I find her guests interesting. This particular night I heard her interview a poet turned author who was spuriking his latest book, a suspense novel. Like, I suspect, so many avid readers I harbor a secret, burning desire to earn a living writing, so I listened with interest. I let my thoughts wander and imagined being a poet these days. In between writing poems I'd go about my quotidian life, paying bills and running errands and supporting myself writing couplets and free verse. The mind boggles. I was excited by the interview and wanted to get his book. The problems started the next day.

Rocking up to the desk in my school library, I briefly described to my friend behind the counter what I was looking for. A book called The White Russian by a Sydney author named Luke B-something. She tapped into Google Books (I never knew such a thing existed, she's so smart!) and found nothing. We tried a couple of different permutations, but, again, nothing. I felt I was blazing new territory, looking for an author so new he wasn't even on Google. Concern set in, however, when I realized I wouldn't be able to read a book I couldn't find. I tried searching the radio station's site, but oddly found nothing. Other interviews were written up for that night, but not my mysterious author. I got no help from my book-y friends. Funny music from Twilight Zone began doodling in my head.

The exact route I took to find the book on the net is lost in my browser's history, but find it I did, eventually. It's a book called The Black Russian by a Sydney author named Lenny Bartulin. Take a moment to compare this with my original request at the library. Out of all the information I had to go on, only the city of the author's residence was correct. Since Sydney's current population hovers at about 4.4 million I hadn't narrowed the parameters by much. There are only about 22 million Australians, so I had eliminated roughly four fifths of the nation. Clearly research and short-term memory are not my strengths.

It took a while, but the search was worth it. Finally, I used my gift certificate to buy Bartulin's second book, The Black Russian, and was so pleased I did. The main character, Jack Susko, owns a second-hand book store in Sydney, and just got himself mixed up in a tricky situation involving guns, theft, a rare book, double crossing women and a $3.4 million Bible. This situation could never happen to me, of course, but I can imagine myself being confused or duped or struggling to pay the bills or browsing in Jack's little shop, dust motes in the sunshine. This book was a pleasure to read.

Bartulin punctuates the book with allusions and references to books great and obscure. It is the perfect read for bibliophiles. His characters are a bit like Evanovich's, only more literary. Jack is trying to give up smoking, blindly points to passages in randomly opened books, loves old vinyl records, is barely earning enough to keep his cat fed, and even considers getting in his car and driving away. He is trying to find his way through adulthood issues like career choices and romantic relationships.

I love Bartulin's turn of phrase, and his poetry background shows in his writing. There's a one liner here for everyone:

For the physiotherapist; 'The way he stood. Kind of oily-hipped.'

For the struggling small business owner; 'He was suddenly thinking about his financial situation. Zimbabwe had nothing on him.'

For the car mechanic; 'The black plastic side mirror hung limply from the door by a thin wire, like a small, gutted marsupial.'

For the gullible; 'He stepped out of the frame for a moment and looked. Yep, there he was. Piggy in the goddamn middle.'

For the fashionista; 'Nice shoes. Not sure if they go with the bloody ear, though. Everything goes with Manolo Blahnik.'

For the confused; 'He tried to read between the lines, but it was all Cyrillic.'

I loved the book: I loved the writing and the characters, and I can't wait to find the first Jack Susko book. Since my intellectual powers are well below his, it may take me a while.

Advice for my girls

One evening not long before Christmas I was surfing the net and came across this website, 1,001 Rules for My Unborn Son. I was so enchanted with the idea that I immediately shut it down and started writing rules for my already born daughters. Had I continued to read it I would have compromised my originality, you see.

The idea appealed because I 'd like to think I am a woman with a bit to offer my kids, and God forbid I should cark it (die) before imparting all my little gems. So I started the list there and then, and it stayed in my handbag for a week or two as I kept jotting down my ideas. Trivial, serious, facetious, humourous or life-defining, I wrote them all down. Even now, there is still more wisdom to impart, and I keep a running list handy. At irregular intervals I plan to gather up books, pen and list and add a few thoughts.

The real question was into which book would I write my final copy? Then I remembered the tiny books my mother had brought back from Korea. Handmade paper was just perfect, and the small size meant I would not be trying to fill the last page after old age stole my memories. The styling is classic, understated and not girly. I got out my grandmother's silver Parker fountain pen, which lives in my wallet, and began writing. For a perfectionist this is torture, worrying over every stroke and word. But I reminded myself that my girls would be reading my thoughts, not inspecting my handwriting. If I had such a book in my grandmother's hand I would certainly treasure it, mistakes and all. Actually I do have some letters from one of my wonderful grandmothers, and they are very dear to me.

So I copied my 'rules' into the books, each as identical to the other as humanly possible, and wrapped them up for my beautiful girls. They said the little books were their favourite gifts (clever girls that they are). I know that after they have outgrown the clothes and toys, after the electronics are antiquated, they might still love these gifts.

Cat survives four weeks in freezer by eating frozen peas

When I was young, newspapers were for grown-ups and they were all the same. I remember my grandfather saying something along the lines of our local newspaper being good for lining bird cages, but I just didn't see it.

At uni I didn't read a paper because I already knew everything and anyway, who can afford that kind of outlay on a regular basis? Once I emigrated, the distinction between a good paper and a bad one quickly became clear.

My dear mother in law faithfully reads the Brisbane Courier Mail, and I must confess to reading it every time we visit. It's an easy read, that's for sure. My mother, during one of her stays here, discreetly whispered in my ear, asking if we could get a 'real' newspaper. I knew just the one for her.

I can't remember my first encounter with The Australian newspaper, but it has been a part of our lives since I emigrated. Every Saturday one of us makes sure to buy The Weekend Australian, and the week seems bleak if we've failed in our routine task. If we are away for a weekend we buy it and carry it home. I've even taken one on international flights (terribly inconvenient economy class reading material). Don't know why we don't subscribe…

The Australian is a broadsheet. It's a big format publication when the other, more populist papers seem to be half the size (like the National Enquirer, if I remember correctly). Recently I was flipping through a weekday copy in my school library near some of my students. One of them commented on the size, "What paper is that? It's huge!" It may be intellectual snobbery, but I feel an instant kinship with people who read The Australian, and have even been known to ask my students which paper their families read.

I just love spreading my paper out all over the table and folding it to get just the right bit so I can read an article. I love the heft and the flapping involved with reading The Weekend Australian. I love the way my slight OCD tendencies are needed to keep it neatly aligned. I love the amazing vocabulary, opinions and ideas it contains. I love reading while I eat and not worrying about dirtying it. I love its spot in our bookshelf. All week long it sits alone, laying flat, only occasionally sharing its space with a local rag. All week long we pull it out and read it.

I generally start the weekend with the front page and 'Inquirer' sections, work on the puzzles around Wednesday, and slog through the sports section by Friday. The paper does have some fun, fluffy articles. As a matter of fact, the title of this post comes from its website (5 March 2010). Our twelve year old lives for the fashion spread in the magazine and the short, biographical articles.

But it also has such intelligent in-depth writing. Long have I thought it made us cleverer, and low and behold, their new slogan is, 'Think. Again.' The columnists include theologians, philosophers, comedians, economists, politicians and ethicists. They stretch my mind and make me feel like an interested, informed person.

It is really the only paper we buy most weeks, but recently I have been buying the daily Australian as well. See, it is running a contest to win a luxury holiday every day. I've sent away envelopes wishing for Paris, Venice, Hayman Island, New Zealand, Switzerland, Rome, Hong Kong and Singapore. You can bet that if we win one of those luxury holidays we'll be buying a copy of The Australian Newspaper in the airport newsagent to read on the plane.

Which paper would you take?

Dr Karl

We have our own buster of myths Down Under, and his name is Dr Karl Kruszelenicki, aka for obvious reasons, Dr Karl. He's famous for being really clever, writing more than two dozen books, wearing super-loud shirts and being on the radio often. He's got degrees in maths, biomedical engineering, surgery and medicine (according to Wikipedia). He's our go-to-geek.

So I recently read his book, Dis Information and Other Wikked Myths, which is not his most recent. Here he debunks ideas that I thought were truths. Some of them have been life changing for me. For example, did you know that it's ok to have a drink while on antibiotics? Dr Karl explains the birth and growth of this 'dis information', and I have already put this knowledge to use. Who said science doesn't help us in everyday life?

He explains that Cleopatra was not beautiful, Columbus never put foot in America, germs are not spread by aeroplane air conditioners, and Galileo didn't invent the telescope. Dr Karl also sets the record straight on shark cartilage, cats' purring, vitamin C for colds, the great stock market crash of 1929 and lie detectors. He discusses the Roswell 'autopsy' and early puberty in girls (is it really caused by hormones in chicken?).

This book crosses all geographical boundaries, and has a fair bit of American content. It's a great read for anyone with an enquiring mind, or a good gift for a mind you'd like to be a little more enquiring.

A Man's Got to Have a Hobby

Caveat; my copy of this book is currently loaned to a friend, so I’ve written by memory.

William McInnes is a well-known, spunky Australian actor most famous for his role in my favourite TV series Sea Change. In Aussie lingo ‘sea change’ literally means quitting your high-powered job and downsizing your life to move to a small beach community. Figuratively it means any huge life change.

So, spunky Aussie actor decides to write a book. Should we read it or stick to perving at him on the screen? A Man's Got to Have a Hobby is a memoir of his childhood, with particular attention to his dad. He grew up less than an hour from where I live now, in a rambling house in a beach community with lots of brothers and sisters, an aunty and his parents. The house was on a battle axe (shaped) block next to the fire station, and McInnes recounts these years with skill, tenderness and humour.

McInnes paints portraits so clearly, I feel as if I knew his family through mutual friends. His parents were eccentric, and his childhood almost Tom Sawyer-esque in its freedoms and adventures. The entertaining neighbourhood characters wander in and out of the family’s life and home. What I found most touching was the relationship between the adults; his parents were in love with each other and fond of his aunty.

The protagonist, however, is his dad, and McInnes describes a man less fettered by the common drumbeat. He was a man of integrity, good humour, and industry, always busy with a project and ready to help a friend. His one-liners had me laughing out loud.

Except for one very brief scene, this book is appropriate for any age, and I was disappointed I couldn’t let my eleven year old read it. It did, however, make a great gift for Hubby. I recommend you read it, even if you’ve never seen the spunky man on TV. He writes as good as he looks.

In Search of the Holden Piazza

So here is the first of my promised reviews of Australian books that are available to American readers. I’ve checked, and In Search of the Holden Piazza by Chris Warr and Joe Kremzer is for sale from that very large online shop that is named after a very large river.

It’s about an obscure Aussie car, or maybe it’s about two blokes’ search for owners of an obscure Aussie car, or it’s about a game show, or it’s about a road trip with two blokes or it’s just about beer.

Whatever it’s about, I really enjoyed it. I am neither a car buff nor a beer drinker, but I found the story funny. Two friends are drinking beer, of course, when they decide to go in search of one of Australia’s most maligned vehicles. They both remembered the Holden Piazza being a shiny, seductive prize on Australia’s richest game show, the Sale of the Century. As impressionable young boys, they had been unable to forget the awe of its sleek bonnet or the assistant Alyce Platt’s charms. Twenty years later, they attempt to track down as many examples as they can of the original 300 models in Australia.

Locating and driving 21,000 km in one of the most unreliable cars in Aussie history is a feat in itself, without compounding the situation with a complete lack of mechanical knowledge or planning. By their own admission, ‘ if the word ‘half-arsedness’ ever makes into the Macquarie Dictionary the definition will simply feature a picture of’ them.

For American readers there is a handy map of Australia inside the front cover so you can follow Alyce’s (they named the car after the assistant, of course) progress. Many references to Australian culture (and I know there’s debate as to its very existence), sport, food, beer, music and geography make this an interesting read. Some ideas might be baffling but amusing, and I’m sure there’s a lot here to enlighten. For example, after regular references to big things a reader would eventually realize that Aussies like to use large volumes of fiberglass and concrete to create attractions in otherwise attraction-less locations. Personally I am quite proud of living near a big fruit, even though it doesn’t get a mention in the book.

For public servants with no discernible writing experience they have done a good job. I love their snappy, witty style. The plot did drag a bit towards the end; another accommodation, another Piazza owner, another night drinking beer. But, like a quirky car, I am willing to take the good with the not so good.

I do think it’s worth a read, even if you don’t drink beer.