It's nice when one machine does many things.

In choosing a car, you may find yourself drawn to three-door ‘hatches’ or ‘fastbacks’ for several reasons.

At a practical level, you can do a lot more with a hatch. Buy appliances. Cart firewood. Sleep. Such multitasking of an expensive consumer durable good is attractive.

At a social level, you’re not likely to have hordes of friends or family members to cart around.

At an emotional level, you feel safer in a hatch, as there are no side doors behind you through which attackers may force their way.

Bullying and long term alcohol use increase fear of attack.

Reduction of these deleterious elements earlier in life will broaden your motor vehicle choice down the road.

I have no reason to have a great love for Tony Cochrane, the head honcho of V8 Supercars Australia. In my mind, he and his organisation have done a major disservice in the bigger picture of motorsport in Australia. Instead of the mixture of makes, models and years we used to have in the Australian Touring Car Series (ATCC), we have a bunch of purpose built beasts that have as much in common with their namesakes as Honda Formula 1 cars last year had to an Accord, a Mercedes McLaren with an “S” class or a Toyota F1 with a Corolla Seca. (I accept this is MY opinion and not necessarily that of anyone else. I appreciate tens of thousands love the V8s and think F1 is as boring as continental drift and that’s all that matters in real terms).

In case you didn’t know,  a V8 Supercar is a custom built hybrid American NASCAR – no more and no less. The only part that is from either marque is the engine and the shape of the lightweight body panels. As Dick Johnson once remarked earlier this year, “to make it a Holden we change the motor and the panels”. And even that is debatable in comparison as to what the public can buy.

Compare this to the UK and European Touring Car series where any driver can win on any given day, and the entrants are an assortment of everyday cars suitably homologated from a whole bunch of manufacturers – Vauxhall (Holden), Ford, Honda, Peugeot, Seat, Renault, Volkswagen, Audi, Mercedes, Toyota, Nissan and more. Rivalry is just as intense between fans and the racing much, much closer, and to me, more exciting. I could BUY one of these cars, but not a V8 Supercar sadly.

I also don’t agree with Cochrane’s almost blackmail approach to the fans and Government in Western Australia by demanding the Barbagallo circuit (nee Wanneroo Park) be upgraded by figures approaching $27 million dollars. This is the man who personally makes millions out of V8 Supercars as a business. Nice if you can get it; everyone pays to be a part of his circus – fans, teams, drivers, sponsors and promoters. It’s no secret Cochrane models himself on F1 supremo Bernie Eccleston. Apparently he even owns the TV rights and has on-sold those to Channel 7. As I say, nice if you can get it. Technically, if I as a journalist go to a V8 meeting, I cannot shoot video and use it.

But this piece is not intended as a hate case against Cochrane or V8 Supercars in general. Please read on.

I have been to most of the circuits in Australia many, many times. I have represented my own magazine Australasian Camcorder, as well as other publications including The Australian, The West Australian, The Sunday Times, IBM magazine, the Gold Coast Bulletin, VideoCamera magazine, PixelMag, WISH and many others at Eastern Creek, Oran Park, Sandown Park, Lakeside, Bathurst, the Gold Coast, Winton, Symmonds Plains and of course Barbagallo. In fact I was the WA correspondent for the publications Motoring Reporter and Auto Action for over 8 years in the 70s and 80s. In short, I am an “old timer” of the motor support photo/journalistic world and been freelance ever since.

Back then, I had a season media pass and could go anywhere on the circuit I wanted. I had signed a disclaimer saying I accepted that motor sport was dangerous, and if I got hurt, or there was damage to my equipment, that was my problem. These conditions were cheerfully accepted as this was a part of the job. It was exciting.  There were risks that got the adrenaline running and you worked hard to get the ‘money’ shot that could pay handsomely. And give major kudos and credibility. I got my fair share, and it was a fun living. In WA, after the meeting on a Sunday, you’d have a few drinks with the drivers at the Espana Tavern down the road from the circuit (now THERE were some stories that will never be told), get some quotes from them and team management, head home, bang out the story on a Remington typewriter, and get to the airport by midnight to get the story (on paper in duplicate) and photo negatives in an airbag to Sydney on the red-eye midnight flight.

I have also been involved over the years in the production of many events in my capacity as the PR Manager of CBS Records (now Sony Music), a director of an import company with product launches as part of its day-to-day running and even motor sport events on a National scale. One of my (to me) major events was actually a motor sport event at Barbagallo in the early 80s which as I understand it, has still the largest spectator crowd achieved for a local event involving no Eastern State or International drivers.

Because of this, I believe I can look at the Barbagallo situation with its potential loss of the V8s reasonably impartially as a spectator, but also critically as a journalist and someone with experience over 30 years in these matters.

Two years in a row, I have walked out of the V8s at Barbagallo in disgust. Not at the V8 Supercar’s organisation handling of the event, but the local handling. Last year (2008) it was agreed that I would pick up my accreditation pass at the circuit. To those not aware, media personnel need a special pass allowing them to have privileged access to areas of the circuit for interview and photographic rights. This also involves wearing a special vest so that you are immediately identifiable by the marshals (who are volunteers) and security personnel (privately contracted for money). Sadly and somewhat amazingly, in 2008, no-one at the circuit knew where I had to go, talk to or where to park to obtain these items so after two hours of wandering from official to official, I gave up and went home. Without this specialised access, you simply cannot do your job as a journo.

This year was a bit different. V8 Supercars kindly sent me a season pass (to circumvent the above situation) so problem solved in that area as I didn’t have to pick anything up. Except at Wanneroo today. Oh it was no problem getting into the circuit and parking. Even access to such places as the grid before the start was not an issue. Once the race had started however, every 10 metres or so, some security grunt or another (who oddly all look alike – you know, big, brawny, bald, wrap around black sunglasses and beard/moustache combo) would demand to see the plainly obvious pass around my neck, and of course I was wearing the highly identifiable special media vest/bib. This can be seen at 100 paces. So effectively, it was a case of give someone a uniform and they have to prove they have earned it.

But wait. To park my car, I had to go through three checkpoints showing my media pass. And then be directed by another person as to where to park. Imagine my surprise then when over the circuit –wide PA system, my registration number is called out saying the “black Monaro rego number such-and-such is illegally parked and unless moved immediately, will be towed away”.

With a recently purchased hotdog in hand, I raced back to the car, explained to the security person I had been told to park there, and then waited for a higher up security person to come and say I still needed a special windscreen sticker. Remember I had passed three check points to get to this point.

This higher up security person directed me back to the main office to get this pass. No. They don’t do this, and don’t know who does. They directed me to an accreditation office. This was closed. I checked three more officials and they all shrugged. Parking elsewhere was full apparently.

As an aside, let me tell you about the hotdog. It was so bad as to be inedible. Seriously, I swear it was left over from last year.  Or possibly the year before. And at $4.50 not exactly a bargain. And cold.

It was all too hard; after a wait in a queue of about 20 other blokes to go to the toilet, I went home. 140km away.

Let me give a comparison. At the first ever A1GP race in Australia at Eastern Creek, the media, who after all are the people who actually promote these types of meetings, write about them, praise them, supply images, TV shows, magazines and generally give the public who can’t get there all the information they are hungry for, were treated like kings and queens. We weren’t a bother, we were an asset and to be looked after acordingly. Security gorillas weren’t a hassle; they were there to help in fact and drive us around in golf carts to get the best shots, bring us drinks, umbrellas if it rained, open doors when we were weighed down by heavy equipment and more. All done cheerfully and with a smile. The PR Company in charge were UK based. All the staff was from the UK. I wonder if that was the difference.

Marshalls were also looked after. After all, without these tireless volunteers, race meetings cannot function; these guys and girls wave flags, drive rescue trucks, provide medical aid, supervise traffic and much, much more. They were fed and watered, special shelters were designed and built by the promoters to keep them out of the direct sun and rain, and rosters made up to give them breaks.

This was, out of hundreds of motor sport meetings of all classes I have been to, the very best. And the way it should be.

I have also had excellent experiences at Oran Park (now no longer on the V8 Supercar calendar sadly), Eastern Creek, Sandown, Symmons Plains and of course Bathurst. Not to the level of that A1GP, but at least, making life reasonably comfortable. But Barbagallo seems, for some reason, to be different.

The left hand doesn’t seem to know what the right hand is doing. One person says “park there” and the next says “you can’t park there”. You can’t access the inside of the circuit without a marshal’s say so – and only at two points and when there is no racing on. Even when you can, access points are extremely limited, so it is almost impossible to get any unique shot. And the latest innovation – accepted it is series wide and not just Barbagallo – you cannot go into the pits without wearing a full blast driver’s suit for fire protection. That’s worth $1800+ and of course, must be purchased from V8 Supercars.

The catering is horrible, circuit access is dismal, circuit viewing point navigation difficult and a whole bunch of people wearing hi-viz jackets say continually, “you can’t do that/you can’t go there/where is your pass”.

So in the context of one Mr Cochrane wanting extra facilities to bring his – admittedly popular – V8 circus back to Barbagallo, I feel it goes a damn sight deeper than simply upgrading the pit facilities. Yes Barbagallo has done an amazing job since the halcyon days of the late 70s and early 80s. Old timers will remember the Marlboro Holden Dealer Team of Brock, Harvey and Negus getting a 1-2-3, Jim Richards breaking the lap record in the rain in the Big M Falcon, Peter Williamson locking his keys in the Toyota Celica and just making the start, Alfie Constanza and Johnnie Walker in the F5000 race, locals Dick Ward in his amazing Fiat Abarth, Graeme Hooley and Tim Slako in Torana A9Xs taking it up to the factory teams and the staggering Lotus Elan of Trevor Hines walloping Toranas and Falcon Phase IIIs under braking into the last corner before pit straight (we were allowed to stand there then to take photos – and that was the very best spot on the circuit and no-one was EVER hurt). And I still somewhere have a shot of someone rowing a boat down the pits after a spectacularly heavy downpour!

But the mind set of the management/committee/promotions people seems to be on the wrong track. Pardon the pun. I do remember – and here’s a scoop – a company I worked for in the late 70s seriously, SERIOUSLY thinking of putting a major long distance race on at Wanneroo Park, as it was then, with over a million dollars prize money. I was sent to Bathurst to see how that was done, as it was the pinnacle in Australia of motor sport. Drivers were interviewed (and they loved the idea and the circuit), sponsors were attracted, but in the end, it died.

Why?

Because my bosses decided that the circuit management couldn’t handle it. They were amateurs in a big boy’s world. I have to say, 30 years later, despite all the best intentions, it still seems the same. I don’t blame them. This is BIG business. And being so close to Asia it could be HUGE business – bigger than any Eastern States circuit could even dream of, but they simply don’t seem to have the acumen, the will or the nous to pull it off.

Any influx of Government funds as suggested will not help in the long term. With correct thinking, Barbagallo has the opportunity to be a major player in world wide motor sport if it is done right, but it has to be looked at as an overall picture with a five year and ten year plan + and not as a bandaid package just to make sure the V8s come back each year.

Are we too far from the mainstream? Is Bahrain? Abu Dhabi? Shanghai? Singapore? Even Adelaide or Darwin? Of course not.

We need to start from scratch with the original circuit as a template and build from there. State of the art access, parking, accommodation, camping, driver training facilities even an entertainment precinct should all be considered. Why not include a velodrome, rallycross circuit, BMX track, motocross, drag strip and so on. There is enough land.

So in principle I agree with v8 Supercars and Tony Cochrane. Barbagallo is a fabulous layout, but is let down by an infrastructure that is old and tired. I suspect a smidgeon of the old West Australian “we know what we are doing and the East should keep out of our business” attitude, but the same problems and the same questions and lack of answers were being asked 25 years ago!

Is anyone prepared to accept the vision of the possibilities and get it fixed once and for all? Or will this go the way of the World Rally Championship and countless other events?

The Deniliquin Ute Muster is an annual event that draws thousands of utes and ute lovers to the small NSW town of Deniliquin. Injecting almost 18 million dollars into the local economy Ute Muster has become a favourite event for many throughout NSW and Victoria.

Arriving back from Sydney the other day, I discovered V Australia’s wrap-around of Canvas magazine in Saturday’s New Zealand Herald.  Remembering that Virgin had recently announced a code-share arrangement with Emirates to fly from New Zealand to Los Angeles (and other V Australia destinations) via Australia, I was naturally curious to see their approach to marketing on this side of the Tasman.

The wrap-around certainly looked attractive at first glance. And God knows it must have cost a packet.  But the problem came when I actually read it.  You see, besides the vaustralia.co.nz URL, there wasn’t a single reference to the New Zealand market.  Not a single word.  Sure, the creative does a reasonably nice job of espousing the virtues of V Australia.  But is there any mention of the fact that the airline actually doesn’t fly to New Zealand?  The answer… no.

Clearly this is a perfect example of an advertising exec sitting in Sydney or Melbourne paying scant regard to what is an appropriate message for the target market.  All I can say is, “Shame on you”.  It’s a pity, because I genuinely support the notion of V Australia shaking up the Pacific-USA dominance of the historical big players.

This got me thinking about the challenges many of us face marketing trans-Tasman businesses. Working for one of only two of the big Australian banks to run a consistent brand ‘name’ trans-Tasman (the other being ANZ), it’s something I often consider.

The reality is that the brand and marketing positioning of Westpac in Australia and New Zealand couldn’t be more different.  As far as I’m concerned, this is a very, very good thing, and not because I don’t like what they’re doing in Australia.  Our respective teams share information freely, but make our own decisions about what is relevant to our respective markets.  We take the good relationship with our cousins across the ditch as a fait accompli. But, it’s not until seeing examples of a trans-Tasman marketing approach gone wrong that I really appreciate the freedom we have from the ‘mother ship’.

It will be interesting to see ANZ’s approach to their new brand which I understand is going to be rolled-out trans-Tasman, along with the corresponding brand advertising campaign. 

Thankfully we’re not alone in being given the freedom to develop a uniquely New Zealand approach to our marketing. Another good example is Holden.  It would have been easy for Holden HQ in Melbourne to have used the GFC as a perfect excuse to consolidate advertising trans-Tasman.  Thankfully, the urge was resisted and, if anything, Holden’s advertising has developed a greater sense of New Zealand-ness over the past twelve months.

I’m sure there are plenty of examples of companies who have retrenched marketing and other core functions to the other side of the Tasman over the past year.  American Express is one that springs to mind.  I get the financial benefits this may entail.  But Australian paymasters (who are more than likely not marketers) need to remember that while there are many similarities between our two markets, it is the subtle differences that can make the difference for a brand to resonate with Kiwis.  Any marketer (such as V Australia) who ignores these does so at their peril.

Holden’s opportunity to export its Caprice model to police in the US is under threat as Ford’s American division plans a replacement for the popular Crown Victoria.

Chevrolet last month unveiled the Caprice PPV (Police Pursuit Vehicle) and announced that it would aim to sell the long wheel-base Australian as a police-only vehicle from early 2011.

But Ford – who currently builds around 75 per cent of all US police vehicles – is due to showcase its new Police Interceptor in the first quarter of 2010 before its launch at the end of 2011.

Ford’s Crown Victoria successor is widely tipped to be the new Taurus, which is currently the only car it makes with similar dimensions.

Ford claims the Police Interceptor has been under development for 14 months with input from its “police advisory board” and will be built in the US with improvements to fuel efficiency, quality and durability.

The outgoing Crown Victoria is powered by an 186kW/402Nm 4.6-litre V8 and is equipped with fire suppression technology and bullet-proof door panels.

Ford says it sells around 45,000 as police vehicles each year.

The 2010 Taurus SHO with the EcoBoost V6 puts out 272kW and 495Nm and seems the best fit from the current Ford stable.

The Caprice with the 6.0-litre Gen 4 V8 compares relatively closely with 260kW and 517Nm of torque.

With around 70,000 police vehicles sold in the US each year there is still an opportunity for Holden to export close 25,000 Caprices each year.

Both new vehicles will be considered by police departments and emergency services when orders are taken next year.

by Tim Beissmann

Holden has today reintroduced the second shift at its Port Melbourne engine plant on the back of rising local and global demand for its 3.0 and 3.6-litre V6s.

Production has increased from 240-320 to 440 units per day, a move that Holden powertrain lead executive, Mr Martyn Cray, says reflects higher export orders and a short-term rise in vehicle production at Adelaide.

“Holden has received an increase in orders for our global V6 engines which are exported to markets including South Korea, China and Mexico and we are lifting production of our engines as a result.

“We are also seeing increased local demand for Commodore after launching the new Spark Ignition Direct Injection (SIDI) engine,” he said.

The daily rate will remain at 440 until the end of the year before dropping back to 400 through January and February 2010.

Mr Cray says the existing workforce will operate the reintroduced second shift, after a lack of demand forced the Fishermans Bend plant to switch to a single shift in June.

“The past year has been an incredibly challenging time for Holden’s manufacturing workforce as they manage their lives around changes in our production schedule.

“We managed to retain a skilled workforce through difficult times because we were confident things would turnaround. We are now able to lift production from within our existing team.”

Holden Vehicle Operations at Elizabeth will continue on a single shift despite production rising from 310 to 340 cars per day earlier this month.

by Tim Beissmann

Not to be confused with the Chav, the bogan’s British cousin, the new bogan male now wants to be a Chev. This utterly confusing phenomenon involves the removal the Holden badging from a Monaro or SS Commodore, replacing them with badges from a bankrupt American company. While the bogan will sometimes profess a desire to visit the vacuous crassness that is Las Vegas, it has generally been unfashionable during the last decade for the aspirational Aussie bogan to be overtly pro-American. Except on his Australian car.

The entire Holden Commodore range is designed in Australia, and built in Australia. The Australian operation designs and builds an engine that is exported to numerous other countries in which its parent company operates. In the same manner, some Holden cars in Australia use a V8 engine originally designed overseas by General Motors, and also used in Hummer, Buick, Chevrolet, Saab, Vauxhaul, Pontiac, Cadillac, and GMC vehicles. The bogan has a fundamental craving to be seen as tough, and somewhere along the line he incorrectly decided that the V8 engine in his car is a Chevrolet. Making the entire vehicle, by rational extension, actually a Chevrolet. The bogan is seemingly ashamed to drive Australian. This logic flaw is not applied to the VL Commodore from the late 80s, which used a Nissan engine. Because Japanese people aren’t tough, and the bogan needs to be tough.

The term “The Stranger” was coined for the process of sitting on one’s hand until it goes numb, and then browsing pornography. The lack of sensation in the hand simulates the experience of receiving manual assistance from someone else. In the same way, the bogan will drink locally brewed, foreign label beer until its brain goes numb. It will then disregard its otherwise rampant Australian nationalism, enthusiastically ripping the Holden badges off its car, and replacing them with a set of Chevy logos. With its car suitably enhanced, the bogan endlessly prowls the roads of nightclub districts, attempting to trick similarly uninformed bogan females into believing that he is an exotic lothario; a rare and irresistible sexual force from across the seas. All too often, the evening ends with the bogan covertly performing The Stranger on itself in a nearby carpark.

The ‘Premier’ & ‘Kingswood’!

Holden wants to have a train party for his birthday. This is fine with me. He specifically wants a Geotrax party and since Geotrax doesn’t make party supplies, it’s all on me. I think I’ll use last year’s train-shaped cake pan to make another cake wreck (only filling it up completely this time, using a mix and a half. Or maybe I’ll make the cookie cake that went over so big last month. I think I could make them as cupcakes actually. That might be kind of awesome.

His party will be on his birthday this year: Saturday the 19th. It sucks to have a birthday a week before Christmas b/c your party is always on a day when everybody wants to go shopping or to church or somethiing. I always had pretty well-attended parties when I was a kid and one good thing is that there are good deals on toys going on at that time so gift-bringing guests get a deal. Of course I was in Florida so weather wasn’t a consideration. Still, I’m always petrified that I’ll throw his birthday party and no one will show up. Once he’s in school it may be better. We also think that next year, we’ll do his party someplace else. But it’s nice to have the house all Christmas-y b/c it hides all the crap everywhere.

He also tells me he wants a pinata, or “big thing you hang and hit it and the candy goes SPWOOSH!” Other than Geotrax, “cuppycakes” and the pinata, he’s not given me any direction.

Holden & Zoe are far more interested in Santa. Holden gets the concept of Santa now. Zoe is very keyed in to Santa, since last year he brought her the three things she really wanted. As I said, the main thing she wants this year is “Lulu Kitty” — the Furreal cat that purrs when you pet it. She also has mentioned “Splatster” — which Santa has not yet found a deal on — because they can play it together. When she thinks of it, she wants the Playmobil Pet Care Center and the Barbie Pet Vet center (which is sized like a play kitchen, not for Barbie dolls). Santa has everything on his production list except the Splatster.

Holden wants “a train table — a great big one!” He likes one big item where his sister likes lots of little things. Buddy the elf is already manufacturing a train table. It’s also hard, with Holden’s birthday up against Christmas, to keep track of what I’ve purchased as birthday gifts versus what he asks for from Santa. Santa is definitely in charge of the train table. From us for his birthday, I think he’s getting the Geotrax airport at long last. If not for his birthday, then Santa will bring it.

The kids are also into board games. Zoe has been but now Holden has a real interest. He plays Princess Monopoly with us (he’s also a great proponent of anything pink). They also want some musical instruments. Santa is bringing a kid sized guitar (likely for sharing but geared more toward Zoe’s age). Zoe is mad about music class at school. She also likes P.E./gym but doesn’t always have it. I think she’s having art these days. She talks about art class but not music or gym.

So anyway…

So the short version is that Zoe is all about animals (Littlest Pet Shop, any Barbie animal toys, Build A Bear, Puppy in my Pocket, etc.) and Holden is all about trains, although he will occasionally show interest in cars, planes and music. So at least they’re easy to shop for.

Zoe and I are going to Girl Scout night at the movies (A Christmas Carol) tonight & Hawk says he & Holden are going to Lowe’s to buy tools & do “guy stuff.” I think Holden just likes riding in tha car-shaped carts.

The train should be at the mall starting tomorrow. This means Holden will constantly ask to “go shopping” — that means visit the mall. I may be able to talk him into a haircut if I can bribe him with a ride. That’s usually how it works with his father.

this is for those of you who don’t get to see what i do…just in case.

chapter one. holden
part one

“we are all of us resigned to death. it’s life we aren’t resigned to.” – graham greene

“How do you know Hayley?”

I hardly recognized any of these people. They do not recognize me either. In fact, no one knows who I am until our mutual friend, Hayley’s best friend, introduces me to her immediate family and closer friends. No, they’ve never heard of me, but “Oh you’re Lena’s friend from university. I’m sorry, but I don’t recall Hayley ever mentioning you. Well, thank you for coming anyway…” That’s a telltale sign that says I don’t belong, that maybe the deceased means more to me than she should’ve. In my head, there are plenty of explanations. There’s a). we only knew each other for a brief amount of time along with b). that we already had mutual friends that knew everything and c). just because she didn’t talk about me didn’t meant that I didn’t matter – and letter list continues to z until we repeat again by naming reasons alphabetically.

From the fresh whitewashed walls to the polished wood of the church pews, I know this place is too top-notch and clean. I can see Hayley digging her fingernails into the wall just for the sake of making an ugly scar. Then there’s the reception of faux acceptance. She would’ve hated it. Fake smiles and numerous amounts of people made the room feel as if we were in a congested tunnel. Social pollution collects like pollen on wool, but understandably, this funeral isn’t for her. It’s for the rest of the world to have closer from her departure. It’s for me. For her father in front of me. For her teachers behind me. For the empty seat beside me. If Hayley Tangles really held an iron fist in directing her funeral, her ashes would be composed of not just blood and bones but every single document and photograph of her existence. She would wish to die the same way she spent her birthdays, and perhaps disappear like the way things decay. Slowly, slowly, slowly… until you don’t remember what used to be there and until you don’t remember at all.

I yelled through the phone.

“Happy Birthday Hayley!!”

“Sh!” she hushed in an urgent tone.

“Oh…sorry?”

“I want today to be the most boring, average day of my life.”

I hesitated. Then flirted. “Then how should I celebrate the day an awesome person was born?” Well, the attempt to flirt was charming.

At least, she found it so. She giggled and I imagined her hand over her mouth as her voice returned muffled over the receiver.

“If I’m not awesome, then just appreciate me everyday. I can’t be here forever you know.”

I realize that now.

“How much did you love her?”

I look up to see Finn Matthews to my left, staring at the empty seat next to me. This is – was – her best friend, on of the only companions that could ever understand her twisted mind. Compared to him, I probably wasn’t even ranked second best. Despite his asymmetrical head and slumped composure, he had the aura of a Novel Prize winner. His intelligence exceeded his Quasimodo sweetheart appearance. Finn grew on you the way a gifted flower looks prettier and prettier every day you see it. I remember her saying that he grows into something wonderful whenever he smiles. “The world is brighter when he smiles.”

I glance quickly in his direction. He isn’t smiling and the sky is dark.

He sits down next to me, a block of black and white, disrupting my peripheral view. “Do you think you ever really loved her enough to stop and wonder why she was so destructive?” I look at his ashy hands fidget with themselves. His tone is accusing. I feel like I’m bleeding into the maroon cushioned pews while he continues monotonously. “At times, did you ever think that maybe her insanity wasn’t an act?”

“I – ” can only stutter, finding no words as he looks straight into my eyes. Then it dawns on me. Of course you fool! I realize he isn’t asking me. He’s asking himself. This is Finn Matthews, the best friend, the one who knows or thought he knew everything there was to ever know about Hayley Tangles. At least, she made sure that he knew every breath she took. The guilty weight of knowledge must rest on his shoulders – and even if I love her, there is that chance that I don’t matter.

“She asked me once if I thought she was insane.”

“…”

His black suit is a shade darker than mine, as if he was mourning harder than I was. The neatly pressed and ironed cloth looked sharp and slick compared to the wrinkled, oversized shoulders that covered my body. Without looking at me once, Finn continued to speak, almost ignoring my presence. This was a church, and I have become the confessional.

“I told her that I thought she was okay. Should I have told her that she needed help? I didn’t want her to get help because becoming normal is exactly what dilutes us. Hayley is the most concentrated special in a soul I’ve ever met.”

“I know. Me too.”

He laughs. “She was crazy, that bitch. Mentally disturbed. That’s what I told my girlfriend every time Hayley came to me with one of her stories.” In that bizarre relationship of mutual acceptance, Finn and Cassie seemed to share the one thing Hayley envied. They had the only type of beauty she was too scared to destroy.

She has a habit of letting her short legs swing over anything that allows her legs to move freely as if they were swimming. “Don’t tell her I said this because she’s my best friend, but you know I have to be honest. As cute as they are together, they never seem to be together when the reality knocks on their door. Nobody likes a hidden relationship, even if its the first honest one in our circle. That’s enough dirt on such a snowy love.”

We turn at the exact moment, looking straight into each other. He holds my eyes for a long time and we understand perfectly everything that wasn’t said. He loves her. I love her. We all love her so much that the plastic figure in the casket can only be a copy of the true relic.

She had told him she loved him and at some point, “Everyone said I was too good for her,” he explains. He shrugs casually and leans into the pew as if it had to eat him up and become his coffin. Silently, he rested his head, never asking me another question when I wanted to ask him everything. There was so much more to Hayley that I didn’t understand, that I didn’t see – and the one that mattered the most seemed to accept the fact hat she was gone. Finn sat in the silence vacuum, sucked into another dimension of his mind where he could see her again. His face is straight-laced with longing and sorrow, like the salt crusted along a martini glass. It’s sweet that he truly cares for her. It’s cruel that he has to sit next to a stranger in order to grieve properly.

Here I am, a boy that only knew her for the last two months of her life, but the overwhelming burden I feel amounts to the way Finn does. It’s only right that I can mourn for her with the one who knew her the best.

She could really turn your world inside out, that Hayley. Upside down, black and white, in just short amounts of time, she made sure you saw the world through a kaleidoscope instead of the looking glass.

I watch the black and white mannequins move across the room. Greetings, consolidating and smiling tightly, they glide aground the marble floor like ballerinas in a music box. Everyone moves with slow purpose as if talking was the glue on a band-aid that sealed the wound so it could heal. I forget how long this funeral is supposed to last but I figure I can stay until the end. After all, this is the last time I would ever be with her, even if it is figuratively.

Someone stands behind us, a girl in a soft black, and clears her throat. Oh. Cassie, Finn’s condescending and slightly stuck up girlfriend, so I hear. She’s the complete opposite of Finn and thus logically a counterpart to his soul. Well, if you believe that soul mates exist, then they are the worlds most perfect match. They are just school-mates pulled together by the idea that the rest of the world doesn’t exist. Even in this wake, Cassie holds the impression that no one can be as heartbroken as she is – that perhaps she knew something we all don’t. My lips crack at the idea that Cassie’s death is the only way to make her the greater tragedy.

Only Hayley would say something like that – only she would have found death upon death more amusing. Oh God, I miss her.

“Hello Holden,” she greets stiffly, “Hayley would have loved knowing that you came.”

Do you mean that she didn’t expect me to show up? I force a smile on my face and nodded in acknowledgment. “She would have wanted me to, wouldn’t she?”

“Well,” Cassie begins in her 4.00 GPA tone, “you hardly knew – ” She stops with a cough, choking on her own words. I see Finn nudging her in the ribcage and she quietly calms down, looking away from me. Actions do speak louder than words, and I could finally see how Hayley saw them. As long as Finn had the patience, and Cassie had the loyalty, they could be forever together.

The metaphor hit me as Finn stood up and avoided Cassie’s searching hand. Her desperation for comfort in the presence of her dead friend seemed contrived. Not right now, his eyes seemed to say as Cassie tried to hide the pain of her rejection. Kaleidoscope. Hayley’s view of the world was like looking through the lens of a kaleidoscope. Shattering, splicing and changing the world until beauty was not in the simple but in the breaking of the normal. She would have found Finn’s rejection tragically … wonderful. Am I right?

“If you’ll excuse me,” I mumble, “I need to look for Lena.” I didn’t wait for Cassie or Finn to reply but I heard their voices behind me. They made no attempt to cover up their conversation.

“How does he know Hayley?” Finn asks.

Cassie spoke loudly, using a persuasive tone in her voice even though it wasn’t important. “Remember Lena’s friends from university? Holden is the one that asked Hayley out even before they met. We visited them before in May… before Hayley left. You know.”

“Oh. Him”

Yes. I asked her out even before I knew her.

I hear Lena speaking, “So we have this homecoming dance every week and I need to get a pair of heels,” to her computer. While she remains absorbed in her conversation with her friends, I sneak behind her and listen to her conversation.

“Oh, so Lena are you going to have a date?”

The voice was soft and light, almost way I imagined a fairy’s to be.

Before Lena could answer, I yell in her ear for a her friend to hear. “Want to go to the dance with me!” It was more of a statement than a question, but just like that, I met Hayley Tangles. Yes, I asked her out even before I saw her face, but when I did put an image to that voice, I think I liked her even more. She may have been mildly disappointed with mine though.

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Barina- cheap, but not nice to drive. Sluggish gear change, jiggly ride, lumpy steering, bad build quality and straight line speed.

Cruze, new remake of the old one which was frankly…..the worst car ever. Not bad for the money, but get a Ford Focus or Mazda 3.

The Astra’s good and it’s now a serious competitor, the old one might have been boring, don’t expect more of the same. Current one’s good.

Epica: like the Barina, cheap, but not nice to drive. Except for the cheap bit, you can get stuff way better for the same kind of money.

Commodore, ultimate aussie sedan/ute. Selling like anything out there. Get a 6.0 V8 model if it’s torque & power you want.

Statesman/Caprice- What I call affordable luxury. Redifines rear legroom. Massive seller.

Captiva: 7 seat SUV.  Though Holden should  be  able to get more power out  of  the 3.2 litre V6. Still great  to drive

Sportwagon, finally a fuel saver for the V8’s. A brilliant car. Practical too.

Colorado- The diesel’s the pick. Powerful yet fuel efficient.

The House Agriculture Committee issued a news release today, which stated that, “Today, Congressman Tim Holden of Pennsylvania, Chairman of the House Agriculture Committee’s Subcommittee on Conservation, Credit, Energy, and Research, held a hearing to review opportunities and challenges facing the development of next generation biofuels. [...] Officials with the U.S. Department of Agriculture provided testimony about USDA research and financing activities for next generation biofuels. Witnesses representing companies and organizations focused on developing advanced biofuels also testified, updating the Subcommittee about the current and future direction of the industry.” Written testimony provided by the witnesses at yesterday’s hearing can be viewed here.

Reuters’s Charles Abbott reported yesterday that, “U.S. lenders are leery of putting money into cellulosic ethanol and other new-generation biofuels due to the recession and an industry shakeout, Agriculture Department and biofuel leaders said on Thursday. [...] ‘That is one reason near-term production of advanced biofuels is unlikely to meet targets set by a 2007 energy law,’ said William Roe of Coskata Inc, which has a demonstration-size biomass plant in Pennsylvania.” The article added that, “Rajiv Shah, Agriculture undersecretary for research, said he was optimistic of a significant improvement over the next five to seven years in the economics of new-generation biofuels. Feedstocks account for one-half to two-thirds of the cost of biofuels, he said, so it is important to develop biomass crops and improvements in converting crops into fuels.”

Des Moines Register’s Philip Brasher noted yesterday at the Green Fields Blog that, “The chairman of the committee, Rep. Collin Peterson, D-Minn., said that criticism of corn ethanol and its impact on food supplies and greenhouse gas emissions is discouraging investment in next-generation fuels.” “‘‘It’s no damn wonder that nobody’s investing,’ Peterson said. ‘I wouldn’t put money in with all this that’s going on.’” More details, including an audio clip, regarding Chairman Peterson’s comments were flushed out yesterday at the Corn Commentary Blog. “While praising the agriculture industry for meeting the demand for corn-based ethanol, Dr. Shah stated that ‘very importantly — increased corn acreage supported greater ethanol output.’  “Not so, said Chairman Peterson. ‘We’re virtually using the same corn acreage that we did way back in 1977,’ said Peterson. ‘The big difference is we had a 90.8 bushel average in 1977 and today we’re up to 164 bushels.’”

A news release issued yesterday by Growth Energy stated in part that, “A key Congressional committee heard testimony today that helped cement ethanol’s role as the leading biofuel to reducing our nation’s dependence on carbon-heavy fossil fuels, like imported oil. Growth Energy CEO Tom Buis said he was looking forward to continuing the debate on ethanol’s contribution to the nation as a source of cleaner, domestically-produced transportation fuel. “‘We heard it loud and clear from members of Congress today. Ethanol has a major role to play in breaking our nation’s dependence on imported oil. Ethanol can supply the clean, green transportation fuel we need today and tomorrow. But there are two things that must happen. We must raise the blend wall to E15, as we have asked EPA in Growth Energy’s Green Jobs Waiver. And Congress must repeal the ‘international indirect land use change’ scheme that erects new obstacles to biofuels production. Repealing ILUC protects the sovereignty of American farmers to make planting decisions on their own, and not based on what happens in Brazil or another country. We have a mountain of grain in the United States, which record corn yields. There is no reason why this surplus corn can’t be turned into ethanol,’ Buis said.”

Antes que nada, disculpas anticipadas por las siguientes líneas. Sinceramente no he escrito en mi vida una reseña de un libro y no tengo ni idea de si hay o no algunas normas sobre el asunto; me da bastante igual, y ahora más cuando ya he pedido disculpas por ello.

Sigo con más disculpas porque la primera reseña que escribiré en mi vida (y creo que probablemente la ultima) es sobre un libro que no me he acabado, y que estoy decidido firmemente a no acabar.

Se trata del clásico libro de Salinger “The Catcher in the Rye” (El guardián entre el centeno). Me encanta decir clásico porque hasta hace unos seis meses no tenía ni idea de quién era el amigo Salinger y menos que tenía un libro considerado un “clásico”. Supongo que ya os podéis imaginar que cuando me lo recomendaron y yo puse cara de “Salinas?”, quedó plasmado que, saliendo del genero negro, mi nivel literario esta por los suelos, cosa que tampoco me duele reconocer.

“The Catcher in the Rye” es un libro que me llega tarde. Creo que si me lo hubiera leído 10 o 15 años atrás mataría a quien osara decir nada malo de él. Se trata de un libro que, relatando una historia increíblemente sencilla, tiene una capacidad innata para revolverte el cerebro y despertar en ti el lado mas “y que cojones hago yo siendo tan normal”. El personaje de Holden no tiene perdida, la locura cuerda que se le descubre página a página, las criticas sangrientas que hace de amigos, familiares, personas pasajeras, paisajes, e incluso instantes de su vida son especialmente deliciosas y la normalidad con la que describe sus paranoias son dignas de releerse tres y cuatro veces.

El hecho que la historia suceda en las tripas más oscuras de Nueva York no deja de añadirle mas fuerza al surrealista cerebro de Holden, surrealismo que se queda grabado en tu cabeza de tal manera que tienes la absoluta certeza que si algún día visitas la gran manzana en invierno, más importante que visitar el MOMA será saber qué coño les pasa a los patos del Central Park cuando se hielan los lagos.

Como comentaba, el libro me llega tarde, mi espíritu se ha aburguesado y mi cerebro sabe muy bien como digerir los mensajes con que, de forma descarada y totalmente incivilizada, Salinger reta al lector constantemente. Supongo que por esta misma razón decidí no acabarme el libro y no querer saber qué es de la vida de Holden, Sally y los patos; mejor dejarlo inacabado y quedarse con la sensación de que no es un libro que necesite acabarse para sentirlo.

Evidentemente es un libro altamente recomendable para todo amigo/hermano/conocido de espíritu salvaje, que quieras que se coma la cabeza con su vida, su día a día y se sienta tentado a ser un loco loser que vive la vida fuera de toda regla o canon impuesto. O sea, una putada, pero una dulce putada. De echo, se lo agradezco a quien me lo recomendó, lastima que llegara 15 años tarde.

Y acabo con la recomendación de que la lectura se haga en inglés, si yo más que entenderlo lo he disfrutado, cualquiera puede hacerlo. Palabras como PHONY, CHRISSAKE, o GODDAM PANTHER no tienen precio.

A pleasure.

El guardián entre el centeno
J.D.Salinger
Lengua: CASTELLANO
Encuadernación: Tapa blanda bolsillo
ISBN: 9788420660851
Colección: EL LIBRO DE BOLSILLO (ALIANZA)
Nº Edición:1ª
Año de edición:2007
Plaza edición: MADRID

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Ahnungen…

In der Schule, dem Hort der Tage auf der anderen Seite der Träume, saß Jona nach diesem Wochenende im Deutschunterricht Delia gegenüber und verlebte in den Zimmern abseits der langen Gänge halbanwesend seine Tage. Die Welt dort blieb bis zur zehnten Klasse ein endloser Wortreigen, ein Projektionsraum für Mittagessen, die die Langeweile überlebensgroß über der Tafel flimmern ließ. Kaum ein Ort wirklichen Lernens, sondern eine Olympiade des Nachplapperns, Stätte sorgfältigen Abschreibens von Abgeschriebenem; nur ein taubes, verunsichertes Schattenspiel, dessen weibliche Gegenlichter unerreichbar auf der anderen Seite des Klassenzimmers blieben, deren Reize aber alle Träume nährten, obwohl sie dann, doch immer wieder haltlos geworden, im wegelosen Niemandsland junger Sehnsucht zerrissen.

Jona hatte längst die Wissensinseln lokalisiert, die mit in wichtiger Pose erhobenem Pädagogenfinger vermittelt und dann turnusmäßig ein wenig erweitert wurden. Das eine Jahr lehrte etwas, was das andere Jahr durch die gegebene Erweiterung faktisch revidierte. Als Botschafter des wahrhaftig Neuen begannen im Laufe der Jahre Hebelgesetze langsam und verzagt, aber doch in schwindelerregender Gleichförmigkeit nach den Früchten der Längsten zu fragen, Glühbirnen leuchteten in Physikbaukästen wie von Zauberhand gelenkt, und im Matheunterricht bekamen sie Gehirnzuwachs in Form von Taschenrechnern. In Erdkunde verdeutlichten Klimadiagramme anschaulich, dass man im Regenwald eindeutig mehr Regentonnen füllen konnte als in den Slums von Mexiko-City, und die Krönung kam im Gewand soziologischer Einbildung mit der erschütternden Erkenntnis daher, dass es wohl weder in südamerikanischen Metropolen noch im Regenwald Regentonnen nach dem Vorbild norddeutscher Kleingärtner geben würde. Gartenzwerge wurden zum Symbol kultureller Unüberbrückbarkeiten und die Lektüre der dümmsten, aber für sie schon geeigneten Englischbücher, vermengte sich neben Inhaltsangaben mit der Suche nach dem perfekten Nebensatz. In dem Maße, wie Jona Inhalt und Festigung in sich suchte, reduzierte sich der Inhalt des Schulalltages nahezu komplett auf die Frage, wer neben wem sitzt und warum.

Das Roggenfeld und der Globus…

Sogar der Kampf um die Klassenrüpeltrophäe konnte Jona zu dieser Zeit langsam aber sicher auch nicht mehr zufrieden stellen, da er gemerkt hatte, dass auch die schönsten Verweise, Strafarbeiten und Lehrerstreiche weder ihn sich selbst noch ihn den Schönheiten von der anderen Seite des Klassenzimmers näher gebracht hatten und dass die Verzweiflung der Lehrer manchmal sogar die eisernen Gesetze der Pubertät sprengte, man tatsächlich auf einmal Mitleid und Scham empfand und es auch zeigte. Salingers „Fänger im Roggen“ verlor seinen ausschließliche Vorbildfunktion als schulschwänzender Rabauke, und auch wenn bei der Buchbesprechung weiter das Offensichtlichste breitgetreten wurde, wusste Jona, dass es mehr darüber zu sagen gab und er war es leid, ständig an der Oberfläche zu kratzen. Die Welt öffnete damals langsam ihre Tore, gewann an Größe und Tiefe und machte aus dem scheiternden Schüler Caulfield den verlorenen Menschen Holden, der genauso wie Jona sich selbst und das Wahre der Welt suchte und alle Antwortmöglichkeiten von den Lehrern im Unterricht noch ausgeschlossen wurden, da sie dem Diktat der Lehrpläne widersprachen, obwohl all das, sprachlos noch, doch jeden Tag ein wenig dringlicher, hinter den milchigen Scheiben der Klassenzimmer zu warten schien. Das Roggenfeld dehnte sich in die Weite des Globus und niemand gab Jona die Stimme, mit der er dem erwachenden Bewusstsein der Verlorenheit hätte entgegentreten können.

Es blieben Fragen stehen und die Forderung, dass Mauern fallen müssten, um den Gedanken das nötige Gefühl von Vollständigkeit vermitteln zu können- neben der bitteren Gewissheit, dass sie genau deswegen nicht fielen, weil die Wahrheit der Welt der größte Feind der Regulationszentrale Schule war.

Das Formelpapier und ein kurzes Erwachen…

Daher verspürte Jona eine nahezu ungebührliche Hoffnung, als er am Anfang dieser elften Klasse im Biologie-Leistungskurs kommentarlos ein auf den ersten Blick kompliziertes chemisches Diagramm mit der Bitte überreicht bekam, eine Weile darüber nachzudenken. Ein paar Minuten versank Jona in den Formeln auf dem Papier und vergaß alles um ihn herum. Die Buchstaben und Zahlen verschmolzen zu einer Einheit, die ganz Gedanke war und die ihn mit einer Aufbruchstimmung erfüllte, die an Euphorie grenzte. Sein Leben lang hatte sich Jona im alltäglichen Leben irgendwie unförmig und plump gefühlt.

Er war dort ein Klotz, der nirgendwo wirklich hineinpassen wollte, der schon als Kind an vielen Tagen zögernd und ängstlich stundenlang auf der Schaukel gesessen hatte, bis er schließlich doch am Nachbarshaus klingelte, in dem die beiden Nachbarskinder spielten. Sie hatten alle Drei immer ihre Zeit miteinander verbracht, und es gab nicht einen Grund für sein Misstrauen und seine Zweifel, doch trotzdem hatte Jona die Gedankenlosigkeit des Selbstvertrauens schon damals so sehr gefehlt, dass er auf der Schaukel erst darüber nachsinnen musste, ob es nicht vielleicht doch Gründe geben könnte, warum sie gerade an diesem Tag lieber ohne ihn würden spielen wollen.

So ging es immer und es ging immer schief. Schon damals in seiner ansonsten unbeschwerten Kindheit rechnete er ständig mit der Bösartigkeit der Welt und versuchte sich selbst davor zu schützen, indem er vor jeder Situation in langen Überlegungen abschätzte, ob dieses Hinterhältige in den kommenden Momenten sich gegen ihn würde richten können.

Nur in den Momenten intensiver Beschäftigungen schwand diese nicht greifbare Schwere ein wenig und an diesem Tag im Biologiekurs wurde das Formelpapier für ein paar Momente zur ausschließlichen Welt. Es gab neben den Gedanken kein Raum mehr für Beobachtungen, Ängste oder Zweifel, das taube Gefühl in Jonas Schläfen schwand und es schien ihm, als könne ihm dieses kleine Blatt für ein paar Minuten eine sorglose Heimat geben; als würde die elfte Klasse als erstes Jahr der gymnasialen Oberstufe wirklich Veränderung bringen.

Verordneter Schlaf…

Nach einer Weile merkte Jona jedoch, dass die chemischen Mengenverhältnisse nicht stimmten. Als er dies verwirrt dem Lehrer zu bedenken gab, reagierte dieser ungehalten, da die frühe Erkenntnis, die dazu auch noch über das zu Erkennende hinausreichte, seinen gemütlichen Zeitplan durcheinander wirbelte. Jona bekam also den sprichwörtlichen Maulkorb verpasst und die Klasse befasste sich volle drei Doppelstunden mit dem Schema. Danach hatte die gesamte Riege der Musterschüler alle für die Klausur benötigten Definitionen fein säuberlich mitgeschrieben, während Jona nur mit steigender Wut daneben saß und die stumpfsinnige Zeitverschwendung beklagte. Er wusste, dass diese Unterrichtsverfahren als Nebeneffekt eine Eins für die schreibenden Legionen und eine schlechtere Note für ihn bedeuten würde, da er immer ein wenig chaotisch dachte, sich nicht gerne nach starren Ordnungsschemata richtete und auch manchmal Teile einer Gedankenkette in der schriftlichen Darlegung ausließ, weil sie ihm selbstverständlich vorkamen, von denen ihm aber absurderweise niemand glauben wollte, dass sie auch Gegenstand seiner Überlegung gewesen waren, obwohl er zum richtigen Ergebnis kam.

Zu den anderen Missständen kam sein saumäßiges Schriftbild als Negativfaktor hinzu, und deswegen überraschte Jona die mittelmäßige Note unter seiner ersten Biologieklausur ebenso wenig wie der vom Lehrer hinzugefügte Schlusssatz:

„Die Gliederung ist nicht überzeugend und das Schriftbild ist absolut mangelhaft. Ich rate Ihnen daher, einen Beruf zu ergreifen, bei dem keine Formen der schriftlichen Darlegung notwendig sind: Vielleicht Sänger!“

So trieb das Formelpapier wieder ab, wich das Verheißungsvolle in diesem endlosen Meer aus Belanglosigkeiten, wuchsen die Wortberge bis zum verstaubten Himmel dieser noch dumpfer gewordenen Welt. Lachen verhallte, Minuten schleppten sich lallend durch die Zeit, und während das Blut wieder aus den Schläfen lief, wirbelten gerade gerückte Thesen um das Zepter der verbrieften Intelligenz. Sie Speerspitze der Gedanken zerbrach, die Wachsamkeit und die Blicke entflohen, und je blickloser das Dasein wurde, desto stärker wuchs der pochende Schmerz um den Schädel, da alles sich nach innen kehrte, das ganze Umfeld und alle Gedanken.

In der ganzen Woche nach dem Kurzurlaub fehlte Delia in der Schule. Jona saß daher auch am Dienstag ohne sie im Deutschunterricht und dachte über den Fänger im Roggen nach. Als er am Sonntag seine Tasche ausgepackt und sich Strandsand in erstaunlichen Mengen über seinem Teppich ergossen hatte, war ihm dieses kleine, weiße Buch in seinem Regal wieder aufgefallen.

Noch leicht beduselt vom Wochenende hatte er angefangen zu lesen, doch es, wie schon damals in der zehnten Klasse, am Ende ein wenig enttäuscht weggelegt, da Salinger das mit den Enten nicht aufgeklärt hatte.

Wo blieben die Enten des Central Park im Winter?

Das schien doch der Schlüssel zu einer besseren Einsicht in dieses merkwürdige Leben zu sein, und deswegen hatte Jona mehr darüber wissen wollen. An allen Figuren, Mr. Antolini, dem Esel Stradlater, dem alten Spencer und der hübschen Sally zog die Geschichte vorbei und alles, was sie an Sinn vermissen ließen, versprachen die Enten nachliefern zu können. Doch am Ende entließ Salinger den Leser mit einem „weiß ich nicht“, die Zukunft lag vage und unbestimmt vor Holden, und was mit den Bewohnern des Parksees im Winter geschah, blieb ungewiss.

Immerhin musste Jona dem Esel Stradlater nicht hintertrauern, da es an ihrer Schule genug Esel gab. Sie traf man an jeder Ecke und meistens scharten sich auch die hübschen Mädchen um sie, folgten ihnen zu ihren Autos, streichelten unter Chevignon Daunenjacken versteckte Rücken, strichen durch gelverschmierte Haare und erprobten das Spiel mit den Gütern und die vermeintlichen Regeln der großen weiten Welt, während der Hauch des Gewöhnlichen um Leute wie Jona wehte.

Jona blickte in den Himmel, sah den Kondensstreifen eines Flugzeuges sich langsam auflösen und immer breiter werden, bis er sich irgendwo ganz hinten am Horizont im Nichts verlor, und nahm die einschläfernd vor sich hin säuselnde Aufsatzlesung gar nicht mehr wahr. Ein paar Krähen flogen kreischend um den Baum bei der Turnhalle, aufgescheucht von dem gerade vorbeifahrenden Zug. Noch war Sommer. Noch wogten die Bäume grün im mäßigen Wind, und kein Vogel verschwendete Gedanken an das Überwintern, und auch Jona umschlossen die Mauern dieses Gebäudes wie ein sicherer, langweiliger Übungsplatz für das spätere Überwintern.

Von seiner alten, ledernen Federtasche grinste Jona neben den Worten „Bier schmeckt“ eine Fratze entgegen, die jemand am Ende der siebten Klasse gemalt hatte. Auf seltsam eindringliche Weise vermittelte sie neben den Graffitiunterschriften und den mit Kugelschreibern auf dem hellen Leder verewigten Bandnamen eine Ahnung von dem Geist dieser Jugendzeit, die damals ihren Anfang genommen hatte.