Audra's Australian Adventures

And Him Whyyyyyy...

2011-12-31T19:10:00.000-08:00

Restoring order to the homestead following last night's debauchery, I tuned in some soft jazz and left the television displaying some random channel, background company, like childhood.

My attention was snapped to the screen by the opening credits of Gilligan's Island. Purposefully, I tried to shed the pallor of cynicism cast by age and experience and taste, once more, the naive simplicity of spirit that once allowed me to enjoy this show - every afternoon. I wanted not to think of the hokiness borne of perspective, but to recapture the innocence of expectations that I had...what was it now, 40 years ago? I wanted to really *remember* what it felt like to be eating a bologna and miracle whip sandwich between soft white bread from atop a paper plate made greasy with the delicious saltiness of Cain's Potato Chips under the cool air-conditioning of my Grandma's house in summer on Sandralee Drive.

If I had given in to that cynicism, I might be inclined to write about the low level of standards for humor in the late 60's, or to wax mournful over the current status of the various minor celebrities that once worked so diligently to bring me such appreciated entertainment...or I might just roll my eyes and change the channel...surely Love Boat or M*A*S*H is on...

But then, to the back drop of smooth piano sounds, some Svengali character with a neurotic monkey rows ashore and begins hypnotizing the various members of one of my many TV families, and then there is Ginger, looking fabulous in a leopard print bathing suit...and making me think of just how beautiful My Mom was to me then and still is now!

3 weeks, 6 cities, 11 flights, and 150 beers

2011-11-09T01:38:00.000-08:00

It is my plan to write up a nice tidy summary of my vacation, to thank and acknowledge everyone who took the time to visit with us on our whirlwind trip around the US - but I doubt I will be able to do it. Everytime I try to put words to my emotions, my chest contracts and I begin sobbing. I'd like to blame it on exhaustion, having averaged 4-5 hours a night of sleep for the last three taco-filled weeks, but I suspect my emotional landscape is far more complicated than that. I am a jumbled mess of joy, of longing, of pride and of confusion. It is pure wishfulness on my part to imagine that I can compartmentalize these feelings by wrapping them in witty complete sentences.

However, at present moment, two profound observations have bubbled up through the black tar soup of my recent visitations. Already, their pungent odiferousness is wafting away on the winds of ordinary life. I breathe deeply, gasping to keep the memory of the feelings in my nostrils, as if I can preserve time by mere olfaction.

1) It is a remarkable privilege to spend time with the various generations of one's family.

Being rather firmly entrenched in the middle of life (give or take a decade depending on the graces of health and circumstance), I have the fortunate perspective to look back on youth and forward to advancing age. Visiting with parents, grandparents and aunts is like looking through a window into my own future. Not the rosy imagined future of immortality and endless possibility, but of the real future of losing strength and independence, of becoming sidelined for being slow and cumbersome and possibly ornery. Visiting with siblings, cousins, and nephews is a window to my own past. Not the fairy-tale past of knowing that I was god-like in my understanding of the world and my place in it, but of the nightmare truth of how little I really knew then, and worse - of how much less I know now. I'd like to think that I can apply this insight in some meaningful way to my present life - that I can use it to make better choices, better decisions, but I am crushed by the realization of just how much about life I will never really comprehend.

2) I am homeless.

There are moments when I feel that every place I have ever lived is still 'home', but this time no place that we visited conjured up feelings of enduring security. More than ever, I was keenly aware of just how transient a life on earth really is. Driving by past residences did not invoke any sense of belonging - quite the opposite. More than anything, I wanted to belong to the road again. I could be perfectly content to continue living out of my suitcase, cruising indefinitely from couch to couch, hotel to hotel visiting friends and family, bouncing from party to party and dinner to dinner. I feel more displaced than I ever have, and the thought of returning to Adelaide is even worse. Of all the places I call home, I still feel like a complete outsider there.
So, dear readers, that is all the wordplay I can allot to my ephemeral epiphanies. Reality is swiftly calling me to heed the demands of bills, emails, unpaid parking violations and a very hungry bad kitty - those banal activities that deplete my curiosity and leave my vocabulary stranded on the bleak shores of indifference. Lest you think my whole vacation was steeped in melancholy (which it most certainly was not), I refer you to my Facebook Photo Journal - which features smile upon smile upon smile...but right now, even looking at those pictures makes me want to cry.

Run!

2011-10-08T18:33:00.000-07:00

Poor Mario. All he wanted was a bit of happy companionship on his birthday. And for awhile, he found it with the chatty American couple.

Mario splashed into his seat, having invited himself to our table, and our cigarettes. His right eye was purple and swollen, his ears resembled cauliflowers, and his knuckles bore thick calluses. His quick and easy smile revealed a mouth full of small yellow chiclets dispersed spatiously, if not randomly, along his gum line. His complexion was dark, but his accent was all ochre.

"Todays is me birfday, but me misses wouldn't come out drinkin' wif me. I am a member, down at The Stag. See, here's me membership card. Here, you hold onto that for me. I get us some free drinks down at The Stag, cuz I'm a member. Where's is youse guys from anyways? Youse from America?! For reals?! Hey, can you say this for me 'Welcome to this presentation of the NBA on ESPN!' Do you know LeBron Johnson?"

Yeah, I met LeBron once, when he came over to my house to unclog my toilet. They don't get much money, so all those NBA guys have regular jobs in the off season. And they all wear women's knickers, too.

"For reals?! Yeah, I can understand that. That's why me Mum came here from El Salvador. To give me a chance at a better life."

And are you taking advantage of that?

"Hehehhehhehheeheeh! I like youse guys. Let's go downto the Stag. I get free birfday drinks, cuz I'm like a member. They all know me there. I am there all the time. I'm like a VIP. Hey, can yuse say this for me 'Welcome to this presentation of the NBA on ESPN!'"

He smiled his stunted smile, and it seemed a very natural thing to do, to go down to the Stag with him, get some free VIP drinks, but it all went so bad so very quickly, what with the raised voice, demands to see the manager, denials of recognition, no sir, I do not know you, you need to show the text message we sent you. Come back when your phone is charged, and then arguments about the content of their computer and isn't my birfday in your system.

Kevin and I began backing away towards the door. We eased onto the sidewalk and exchanged glances.

RUN!!

We sprinted across the street and ducked down into driveway that ended in a deadend alley, contemplated ducking into an open door at the back of a restaurant, but decided we had been quick and stealthy. We leaned against a brick wall, catching our breath and wondering if we had ever been ditched like that and been too drunk to notice. Mario strolled casually around the corner.

"What is youse guys doing back here? I was gettin' us me free birfday drinks and den youse was runnin' down the street. And now heres you is, in dis alley."

He stepped behind the dumpster to piss. Kevin and I exchanged glances.

RUN!!

The Skin of a Dying Man

2011-08-06T16:07:00.000-07:00

"What have you done?"

"I woke up mad at my hair."

"I see. What's with the widow's peak?"

"I thought it would make me look like those bad ass motherfuckers in that show last night."

"You look like a mental patient."

"Will you tidy up the back for me?"

"Yes. Thank God you didn't wake up mad at your eyebrows."

My Day Out

2011-07-30T01:15:00.000-07:00

Took myself out for a drive today. Just couldn't be cooped up inside while spring is beginning to unfold, so I turned up MaGill and took to the the hills, up into Lenswood, formerly known as Gary's Flat, but renamed after a WWI battle. Gary's Flat made more sense.

There were mysterious symbols at the entrance to the roadside park. 'No raising fistfulls of foliage' and 'eucalyptus trees here'...need to know information.

I followed a path over a talkative creek, into a soggy clearing, intermittent sun showers beckoned me deeper into the woods. I sat on a log and waited for the birds to forget I was there and go about their business of squawking and swooping.

I followed green twisty roads through the hills, taking unplanned turns and obeying random signs, a strategy that lead me inevitably to a winery. The tasting room had a roaring fire and bubbling pot of pulled pork. The vintner lonely in the winter lull, happy to talk. And talk. And talk.

A simple lunch at the Lobethal Bakery in Woodside - cheese Kransky wrapped in puff pastry and a cappuccino. A disappointing chocolate doughnut for desert made it easy to justify a detour to Melba's Chocolate Factory. Big Chocolate smokestacks:

For the chocolate cauldrons:

Didn't need justification to walk next door to the Cheese Cellar Door. The lemon-myrtle chevre was divine, but the mature blue vein goats cheese left me burping clouds of ammonia.

No reason to skip the next destination on the Okaparinga Scenic Drive, the toy factory in Gumeracha housed beneath a giant rocking horse. It smelled salt and fried food - fully licensed cafe. Dad needs a drink now that the kids are all sugared up from Melba's. Take them for a walk through the petting zoo, filled with incredibly fat ducks and kangaroos.

"No dear, I don't think those are kangaroos."

"Oh, are them some of those wobballies, then?"

Brits.

In Birdwood, passed a butcher selling 'country killed' meat. Browsed through an antique store in. Mt. Torrens. Mt? Funny. Should have asked about the price of two giant animal horns, but became mesmerized by a box of old photographs. Black and white stills, portraits, weddings, vacations, school assemblies - who is the boy growing up year by year in these pictures? $4 each. I want to save these photos from obscurity. Buy them all and weave a story around them - some of the pictures are so faded, soon they will be gone. A slow fade from history.

Where will MY memories end up? No one to caretake my past. Even in families, you're only three generations away from total anonymity - unless you started a war or wrote a symphony. Will tomorrow's antique shops be filled with hard drives?

Just Say Yes

2011-07-22T16:44:00.000-07:00

I didn’t have many delusions when I signed up for this job. I pretty well knew what I was getting into, what the challenges would be for me, both personally and professionally. However, one aspect caught me completely unawares. I was not all prepared for the penetrating loneliness of this job.

It seems contrary to claim to be lonely, when I spend my entire day interacting with dozens of people. But customers are not colleagues. By definition, the relationship is mildly adversarial at best (and at times, downright hostile). There are no chatty Monday morning teas discussing weekend activities, no long Friday lunches at the pub bragging about vacation plans. My jokes are out of place and unappreciated. If I get frustrated, I can’t just turn my chair for an impromptu bitch-session to let it all out. The whole point of the sales process is to get customers talking about their needs, their frustrations, their desires. I hardly ever get to talk about my specialty subject: ME.

But there is one saving grace that keeps me from descending into total despair. Every three months, I am treated to an intense week crammed with camaraderie, complaints, conviviality, and the consumption of huge amounts of alcohol. I don’t think I could survive this job if it were not for quarterly sales meetings.

Sure, they are not all fun-and-games. There are endless hours of PowerPoint Presentations filled with incomprehensible graphs and charts meant to instil in me some broad understanding of the business – hardly relevant in the midst of a discussion about the relative merits of LNA modification of siRNA analogues. There are painful pitches from the marketing department detailing what they believe customers need – they always seem to be 3 months behind. And, there are peculiar pep-talks from upper management containing a curious blend of praise and beratement.

Last week, our Q3 meeting was attended by one of the bigger managerial mucky-mucks in the Asia-Pacific region. It was rather refreshing to hear his input and feedback on our processes, however irrelevant or impractical. He challenged us with a relatively simple task: when any of us are asked to do something, resist the natural human instinct to resist and simply say YES. This resonated for me personally, enough to speak up and voice my agreement and my encouragement that we fully embrace this simple guiding principle.

But that was before I knew I was going to be asked to play golf.

I had seriously hoped that I could make it through life without having ever held a golf club (I also hope to never see Dirty Dancing – so far so good on that one), but after piping up with my resounding endorsement for acquiescence, I could hardly refuse. And I must admit, that in spite of best efforts to hate it, I thoroughly enjoyed myself.

My pleasure had far less to do with any thrill I may have received from the satisfying PING of ball connecting with club - followed closely by POP of ball connecting with tree and the PLOP of ball connecting with pond. Without a doubt, the experience was made more delightful by the presence of kangaroos bouncing across the fairways, magpies swooping in and out of shots, and kookaburras laughing at my putting skills. But the unadulterated joy of the morning arose entirely from being allowed to spend a few hours with my co-workers in a non-work related activity joking, teasing, and giggling.

I don’t think I realized, until just this very moment, how important it is to have friends in my daily life.

Damn, I miss you all.

Dear Editor,

2011-07-13T20:44:00.000-07:00

I generally strive to protect myself from indignation, and considering the wealth of atrocities and social infractions in today’s world, I cannot comprehend why this particular incident has prompted me to put pen to paper, but the sheer ridiculousness has simply gotten under my skin.

In the lobby of the IMVS – a government facility - a flat panel television has recently been installed that does nothing more than display a bar graph illustrating the monthly water consumption of the main facility to all visitors. The screen is captioned with the catchy slogan “We’re not just committed, we do more…”

I would really appreciate an explanation as to why, against the backdrop of global warming and cuts to government services, tax-payer money has been spent on such a preposterous display of irrelevant information. How will this information impact any decisions being made by visitors to the IMVS? Why are government funds being spent on useless propaganda? Who was the mastermind that was able to justify the allocation of resources to such an endeavour while employees are losing their positions? And how did the facility manage to function entirely without water through out the month of February?

“We’re not just committed”. Indeed, *someone* should be committed…to a mental ward.

Audra McKinzie

Disgruntled Citizen

da Funk

2011-06-12T00:43:00.000-07:00

I've been waking up feeling sad and gloomy lately. I can't quite pinpoint the reason, but I find myself reflecting on my life and wondering about the future. Increasingly, I am coming to the realization that I will never 'discover' my true calling. I've been living under the delusion that one day, I will will take some turn on my life path and will suddenly and completely become infused with tremendous energy and passion....that I will find THE 'thing' that makes me devote myself without reservation to some endeavor, enriching my both my soul and the future of mankind. Now such fantasy seems as foolish as being rescued by Prince Charming.

If anything, my passion is dwindling - although there is the distinct possibility that it is being sucked out of me, but I'll explore that another day. I can't seem to muster much enthusiasm for any activity at the moment. I am dragging myself through the motions of daily life, faking it when required. I just can't be arsed about anything right now.

And speaking of arsed:

There just isn't enough frivolity or silliness in my life right now. It's not that everything is serious or dire, but there isn't any sizzle either. What happened to my 'happy go lucky' attitude? When did I stop singing? Where did I put my weird?

I perked up a bit later when we strolled through a salvage shop filled with life-sized statues of pirates, Indians, celebrities and animals. I determined I would indulge myself with the purchase of any weird and useless item that caught my fancy. An Egyptian sarcophagus? A giant shark head to plant in the front yard? A zulu midget holding a menu board, perhaps?

Unfortunately, I was disappointed that all the seemingly cool old statues, were merely plastic replicas. Although, I was quite attracted to the life-sized animatronic tyrannosaurus rex, I decided that my self-indulgent wallowing was not quite worth $25,000. However, $895 for Barak Obama seemed a bargain...but I'd hate to take him away from his current position.

So I decided to come home, make chili, and weep quietly while watching The Aristocats on TV...sigh.

Sunday Snap Shot

2011-05-14T17:19:00.000-07:00

The morning is cool but still beneath pearl grey skies. I hop on my bike and coast down to the river, lifting my head to fill my nose with the crisp rush of birdsong. Crested pigeons skitter and coo "woo-oot' in the leaves beside the trail, peep, peep, peeping as they fly away. D usky moor hens splash out of the thick reeds into the black tea of the Torrens. Across the river, a wattle bird makes a hideous noise, and I stifle the urge to make unkind anthropomorphic comparisons.

I zip past the zoo and it smells of green hay and exotic urine. Where the river gradually widens into the lake, I pause to watch a pair of black swans glide past, chatting softly to each other. I am confused. The conversation of two joggers momentarily overlays my observations. The first swan asks,

"So how have you structured your retirement portfolio?"

"I'm heavily vested in dividend paying annuities and index funds."

"Do you have income protection in case you become disabled?"

"No, but if we swim up to this lady squatting next to the water, she might give us some bread."

I pedal into the city. Of course, there is a festival being set up in the park. Volunteers in blue shirts scurry through a maze of white plastic chairs and tents. The Million Paws Walk...this place is going to be shit bark central in a few hours. I make a note not to return this afternoon.

I pause again at the spillway and watch a flotilla of pelicans drift away. Flycatchers zig and zag tirelessly above the water then dive into their mud nests beneath the dam. I wonder how many flies a human would have to eat each day to live? I think that Australia has enough to feed the entire population.

The city noises are more distinct in the quiet of the morning, their outlines unblurred by din of daytime. The squeal of train wheels on a curve, the roar of a jet coming in low over the cricket ground, the echo of the bells of the cathedral off the tall buildings flanking the river bank. I follow the bells and briefly toy with the idea of going to mass, but they stop ringing as soon as I get there, so I take that as a sign.

Instead, I try to count the cockatoos that are riotously vying for a spot on the tallest spire and watch the parishioners filing into the building. They are mostly old, but all are hunched over. The cumulative weight of a life time of guilt and piety has bent their spines...or maybe the weight of the life is the reason they find solace in the musty hollows of a large stone building. Through the doors, I can see the gold altar glittering, the priest in red trimmed bright white robes waving the gang signs of the Lord to his flock of peeps. I decide the cockatoos are having far more fun, their yellow crests lifted in comical expressions of defiance.

My fingers are going numb, so I decide to head home, but I become mesmerized by a magic leaf and stop to run my battery down as a bunch of magpie s chime like wood winds around me.

The house is warm and smells of last night's dinner. I debate whether or not to share my mundane narrative of the morning. Although pleasant and filled with sensory delights, it has not revealed any profound philosophical positions or conspicuously comical conclusions...But maybe sharing the ordinary moments of life is more valuable anyway...although not as valuable as a good disability insurance policy.

Dualies

2011-05-07T20:13:00.000-07:00

"Well the way I think of it is that the love I have for my homeland is like the love I have for my mother...But the love I have for Australia is like the love I have for my bride."
-Some Pomme Bastard

Today Kevin and I married Australia.

After several grueling weeks of filling out forms, photocopying documents, and collecting signatures from recognized authorities - Oh, and sending checks to mysterious offices - we completed our application for Australian Citizenship. Last week, we sat 'the exam' - a 20 question quiz that proves your qualifications to assimilate into this country by demonstrating your knowledge of social customs, parliamentary structure, and obscure cricket facts such as '1. a) What is the record for most consecutive centuries scored in a single test match? b) Who holds the record? c) How many balls did he face in his career?'

We passed the exam with flying colo(u)rs and returned to the immigration office for 'the ceremony'. Along with a dozen other inductees, we were ushered into a small room and handed a pledge card, a copy of the National Anthem, and a small yet highly waveable Australian flag. Before we took the pledge, we were required to watch a syrupy short film of recent immigrant testimonials about what becoming an Australian citizen means to them (see above). It was, of course, quite emotional and I managed to choke back the tears until they showed a clip of an old man lawn bowling. The ability to participate fully, without reservations or feelings of alienation, in the remarkably unathletic sport of lawn bowling is a privilege of citizenship I have previously underestimated.

The pledge cards came in two versions. Group 1 stood up and recited their pledge, followed by the much smaller Group 2. I don't recall checking the box on the application, but I was relieved to find myself liberated from the obligation of declaring my loyalty 'under God' and not at all dismayed to know that I am now on the national list of registered atheists.

Had I known I would be required to sing Australia Fair out loud in a small room full of multicolored strangers, I may have opted to forgo the whole ordeal, but there was no backing out now. Is there a UN requirement that all national anthems contain one entirely unachievable musical note? At least we were only required to sing the first verse, because in truth, very few native born Australians know the second, and the the third verse was officially dropped several years ago. Thank God. I was surprised that I actually knew the melody...It really is a crap song. Girt by sea, indeed! Tie Me Kangaroo Down would be a better choice - more suited to drunken rejoicing.

My first order of business as an Australian Citizen was to go to the toilet. I nodded a mute recognition to the young blond girl emerging from the stall, she having been among the recently pledged. However, I was compelled to break my silent musings as I unbuttoned my pants:

"Don't you want your flag?"

"Yeah, not really. I mean, it's not like I'm going to hang it on the wall in my room or anything. I mean seriously."

"Well, you could attach it to your car antenna on Australia Day, or at the very least, stick it in a shoe box and look at it again when you are 80."

"Yeah, I guess I could do that."

Exiting the stall upon the completeion of my first official duty, I handed the flag back to her.

"I really don't care what you do with it, but as a proud member of society, I would be remiss if I allowed you to leave it lying on the dirty floor of a public loo." I somehow managed to not add the word 'twat' to the end of the sentence.

So I am now a dual citizen - which fundamentally means that I am required to participate in the Australian democratic process and I can legally go to Cuba. I was delightfully surprised at how well Australians receive the news, despite their highly publicized xenophobia. They are quite welcoming and proud that I have made this commitment. There is no sense of loss or threat on their part - an attitude not uncommon towards immigrants in the US...but then, I am white and speak English reasonably good. (Don't. It is meant to be a joke.) It all happened so quickly, that I have barely had time to gauge the gravity of the decision I have just made, but I am curious to see if and how it impacts my feelings of belonging and integration, to see if I will begin to feel less like a foreign observer and more like a genuine participant. I am already considering running for local office.

But first, I gotta go buy some lawn bowls.

Flash Backs

2011-03-03T03:50:00.000-08:00

When I was...oh about 10 or 11 years old...there appeared within my kitchen a dark-haired infant and a framed photograph of Moamar Qaddafi...I do not mean to imply a connection, but as a curious young "lady", I questioned the arrival of each. The child I understood as being the consequence of a loving relationship - the portrait was evidently, an accident.

Around about that time, I also recall assuming an alternate persona that had - until this evening - remained a bit of a mystery even to myself. I distinctly remember donning one of my sister's diapers beneath my visor and a pair of mirrored lenses - unquestionably feeling as if I was wearing the headdress of petrochemical royalty - and wandering the neighborhood in roller skates with Linda Edholm speaking exclusively in an imaginary language filled with too many harsh consonants and squiggly vowels.

Around about that time, I had also perfected the art of the prank phone call - my favorite gag being to pretend that I was a foreigner with a large sum of money to distribute to obliging prostitutes, but with no means of retrieving the funds from my bank account (was I ahead of the times or what?!) Desperately I would plead for assistance, and when asked for my name, I would say "Ben Gay-Z".

When written phonetically - the way I pronounced it - it appeared to be the signature of an aging rap star - but only today did I realize that it is the name of a city in Libya.

Now, I am both delighted and horrified to discover that at age 10, I knew something I no longer remember. Was I smarter then? Or just a smart ass, a everyone in my family constantly informed me? How magical is the human hippocampus that it can stash away little tidbits like mis-pronounced names (or lyrics, on occasion) for the sole purpose of delighting you in your declining years, when sitting on the couch watching the evening news is more satisfying than toying with some old lady who is ever so concerned that you forgot where you parked you limousine filled with cocaine and hundred dollar bills?

Hang on...I must go answer the phone...

Hello? Colonel Who?? Why, of course I can give you my credit card number and address...

Like Flies

2011-01-22T20:37:00.000-08:00

There is an unspoken ediquette that no one is to speak ill of the dead...but...Craig just might be one of the most miserable bastards I have ever known.
But then, I have never been one to discard broken people. Life is hard. For everyone. And despite his faults, his enduring bitterness, his constant dissatisfaction with his personal choices and/or his destiny, I still considered him a friend. And I am sad to hear that he lost his battle with brain cancer...and regret that our last conversation was an arguement over whether it could have been cured with antibiotics.

So today, Kevin and I raise a toast to him and randomly draw on the best of times, such as they were...

On the way to Baja, the antenna of his Bronco miraculously gutted a pigeon, careening it into a bloody spiral that streamed across the windshield of our truck and splattered the front of our 5th wheel trailer. I appreciate, that to most normal people, that might seem a wretched event, but to my own warped mind, it was an amazing confluence of physiscs and biology. Be grateful I do not have pictures.

Later that night, Kevin chased Craig down the beach with a splitting maul...oh what laughs we had! Especially when He and Kevin and Robert narrowly escaped self combustion by diving behind a stray sofa lounge after lighting off bottle rockets capable of dismantling small midle-eastern villages.

In the interest of decorum, and because I do not have photgraphic evidence, I should probably not describe the image of his freshly shaven member smashed upon the rear window of our truck as we drove from San Felipe to Puertocitos...but it is a captured moment that, to this day, makes me split my sides laughing, and I wouldn't hesitate to rush into a burning building to retrieve that picture! (though it is eternally etched upon my retinas)

Curiously, Craig planted the first seed that grew into our current adventures. Late nights spent drinking cases (and cases) of Bud Light in our garage, Craig described to Kevin the wonders of Australia. Like a weed, those visions took root and refused to wilt, and here we are...

So I choose to treasure the meories:

And this one:

And to treasure the people he left behind, who I still love very much:

But mostly, I will think of him like this:

RIP Craig. I hope you find the joy in the next world you never quite found in this one.

The Commission

2011-01-03T01:34:00.000-08:00

My sister is an artist who works in yarn. In a moment of alcohol fueled inspiration, I asked her to knit me an octopus hat. She asked me to send some pictures for modeling purposes. Today, I had a great time scouring the web for octopus images. Here are my results:

When I put it on, I want it to make me feel like this:

Or possibly like this, except I don't want it to be picking my nose:

Or possibly like this (only without the bong):

I am rather fond of the sailor hat:

This is a little too aggressive:

If it looked like this, I might run into problems from seagulls flying overhead:

As far as overall shape, this is getting closer and I like the tentacles, although this picture causes me great consternation:

It should definitely have a big floppy back part, like a rastafarian cap:

How odd, this octopus looks like SHE is wearing a rastafarian hat:

This is a little too dainty and sits too high on her forehead - or maybe she just has a gigantic forehead. The tentacles should be a little twistier, almost like spirals:

If you opt for a whimsical look, I love the expression on this guy's face:

If you lean towards something less cartoonish. I like colors suggestive of this handsome bloke:

I hope that helps to illustrate my drunken vision.

And not to confuse you - I really don't want it to look anything, and I mean ANYTHING even remotely suggestive of this, but I just couldn't resist including a picture of Octopus Man:

XOXO

A Christmas Letter

2010-12-24T01:11:00.000-08:00

Dear Friends and Family,

It’s been a long time since I’ve written a Christmas letter. In the shadow of instant and constant updates on the inanities of daily life made possible by electronic social networks, it seems unnecessary and redundant. But, considering what a zinger of a year it has been for us, I felt it would be worthwhile – if only for myself – to take some time and review the changes that have unfolded over the last 12 months. I hope you enjoy this update, but as usual, those of you who are offended by impersonal communications (and you might want to review you own outbox before bristling) can respectfully go fuck yourselves.

I confess, I am sorely lacking in yuletide spirit this year. It may be an inevitable consequence of suffering from near total exhaustion, or it may be due to the fact that the sun is blazing in a clear blue sky, or, more likely, it is because this year can never compare to the joyous time we had last Christmas with our friends and family in California. We spent three wonderful weeks riding bicycles through the cold dark streets of San Jose and drinking cheap beer in dive bars, sprawling on my mother’s couch watching football while eating hot wings, and farting on the dog.

For New Year’s Eve, we packed up the whole family and flew to Reno, the proverbial scene of the crime, to celebrate our wedding anniversary. The decadence of the Peppermill Spa and Resort was in stark contrast to the Western All Star Motor Inn, and our opulent Italian dinner bore no resemblance to the Denny’s Nachos on which we had dined 20 years prior. I have never regretted that our entire wedding cost less than $500 (including the rings), just as I will never regret the lavish sums we spent on our anniversary celebrations...plus, Mom covered the cost of New Year’s Dinner with her winnings from the penny slots.

Our bittersweet return to Australia quickly descended into turmoil. Some career related drama gave Kevin his characteristic reaction of itchy feet and he began to prowl the job boards in other cities. I was less than pleased with this turn of events, having established a remarkable network of friends and colleagues over the last 3 years. With a fair degree of panic, I took stock of my comfortable apartment over looking the city and my comfortable job making graduate students cry at the university. Realizing that each of our life changing moves has been ascendant in terms of quality of life, I agreed to remain open-minded.

By February, Kevin had secured an interview with a small but expanding company nestled in the grape covered Adelaide Hills in South Australia. As usual, I fell under the spell of his romantic visions of leisurely days touring nearby wine regions, of long beachside brunches, and the slower pace of life in a small and tidy city. I confess that I was indeed captivated by the dry summer landscape, so reminiscent of California. When I found a job opportunity to pursue a new career as a sales representative with a top supplier of laboratory reagents – a company I had often dreamed of representing – I began spinning my own fantasies of a fresh start and a new life in Adelaide.

Our departure from Sydney was marked by a series of fond good-byes, well wishes, and promises of visitations. Allegedly, my farewell party at the university was the most attended in the history of our department. There were many tears, many laughs, and many glasses of wine – although not necessarily in that order. Now I regret promising Mille I wouldn’t distribute the pictures!

Ahhh, fuck it – promises are for breaking.

Soon we were consumed by the daunting tasks associated with transporting a life a thousand miles away. Once more, I was forced to reflect on the uncanny ability of ‘stuff’ to cling to a person. We came to Australia with 4 meager suitcases. In spite of my best efforts at not yielding to consumerism, we had managed to accumulate a fair number of possessions with which I was unwilling to part – mostly because they were found items. I could not help but ponder the ridiculousness of paying to move other people’s garbage interstate.

Once we landed in Adelaide, all time for reflection was gone, and our fantasies of a leisurely life all but evaporated under the stresses of our new jobs. We rented a cavernous 3 bedroom home with a gourmet kitchen in an upscale suburb within walking distance of the city. Suddenly, it did not seem that we ad accumulated much stuff at all, and realizing we had made a commitment to remain in Australia for at least a few more years, we decided it was time to ship some of our worldly goods from America.

My new job was immediately demanding of my time, so Kevin elected to supervise the packing and shipping of our furniture – which afforded him to opportunity to catch up with some old friends, eat some good pizza and stock up on affordable salsa.

And the chance to take a final picture of our beloved Cow, who sadly passed away a few months later.

One big change from Sydney living was the fact that we would once again be dependant upon motor vehicles for our livelihoods.

I didn’t realize driving was something you forgot how to do…or perhaps Kevin needs to visit the optometrist…

When I told my most wonderful mother we were moving, again, she said “Oh good! Another place for me to visit!” and true to her word, she came out in September – to what should have been a glorious spring, but was instead a stormy and lingering winter.

I managed to wrangle a few days off work for some local excursions. We took the ferry to Kangaroo Island where we communed with passionate penguins, ferocious fur seals, peckish pelicans, mouth-watering maron, lamentable lambs, and one sleepy koala perched in a tree outside a boutique distillery.

In Melbourne, we strolled through the markets and attended Dracula’s Cabaret, then drove the Great Ocean Road with our hangovers perched in our laps.

During the week, Mom occupied herself with local tours, huddled against the relentless rain and in the evening we took gentle repose on our dreadfully uncomfortable furniture. Our comfortable furniture arrived from America two weeks after her sorrowful departure.

With the arrival of our beloved couches, our house began to feel like a home and we were finally able to relax into our new jobs and begin exploring the local surrounds. As envisioned, we have taken several day trips to local wine regions, caught some of our favourite bands in nearby venues, and put our lovely kitchen to good use from the bounty on offer through the many local fresh produce markets…an activity that pleases Bad, Bad Kitty to no end.

Perhaps the most marvellous aspect of Christmas in Australia is the fact tat it shuts down so completely for the holidays. With Christmas day falling on a Saturday, and Boxing Day on a Sunday, the shops are closed for four whole days. This morning, we decided to wag work and went to the Central Markets to stock up on supplies. With a forecast of 91 degrees for Christmas Day tomorrow, I could not comprehend roasting a turkey, so we opted for a traditional seafood feast.

With the refrigerator comfortably stocked with scallops, yellow fin tuna, king prawns, and giant crab legs, with a bowlful of cherries and mangoes, with a stash of sparkling shiraz and chilled rose, I am finally able to relax, decompress, and take the time to reach out to my friends around the globe with all the best wishes for a joyous holiday season and a happy and healthy new year.

Love and Kisses,

Audra and Kevin.

Loo-ny

2010-12-20T20:36:00.000-08:00

Sorry Richard, what can I say? My head is just in the toilet lately...

By Request...

2010-12-18T04:43:00.000-08:00

Thanks to my fabulous Mom - I had some delicious Hungarian Mushroom Soup for dinner...with no toilet related repercussions worthy of discussion.

She-it.

2010-12-11T09:52:00.000-08:00

Because I have the occasion to visit a great many such facilities, it seems to me that there is a disturbing trend developing among female scientists in both industry and academia. I am not referring to the dearth of women in senior leadership roles, but to their increasing inability to shit with some degree of civility. I cannot help but wonder if there is a correlation.

I am simultaneously amused and disgusted by the observation that nearly every restroom at my customer accounts is adorned with some sort of instruction in the proper use of a toilet. These range from simple pictorial images to lengthy manifestos on the importance of hygiene in shared facilities. I am particularly fond of this highly motivational poster:

I have witnessed (and as a small mercy to my readers, not photographed) the provocations to such signage, and it is indeed hideous. At one account in particular, I found myself on the edge of enthrallment as I contemplated the physics and trajectories necessary to allow the deposition of fecal matter in such a location. Could it really be simple neglect or was something more sinister unfolding in this place or digestive repose?

Several days later, I found the answer to my ponderings affixed to a university stall:

Well, that explains how it got THERE. However, it is now clear to me that it is not a matter of malice, but a cultural issue - and a difficult one to reconcile at that. Considering the reluctance of most women to make physical contact with the seats of public toilets, it is unlikely that appealing to a sense of safety is going to convince women who have been trained to squat that sitting is a superior alternative. You'd have just as little luck trying to persuade Westerners - particularly those with bad knees or prohibitive fat depositions - of the benefits of the squat position (although a nurse friend of mine is a huge advocate, claiming that in countries where squatting is the norm, there is no such thing as constipation. I maintain that it has more to do with the unavailability of clean drinking water in such countries. Diarrhea and constipation are mutually exclusive - despite being co-listed as side effects on nearly every medication known to man.)

The simplest solution is no simple solution:

I feel this issue underpins the one of fundamental difficulties of blending diverse cultures. It is one thing to accept peculiar cultural differences as charming eccentricities, but when it comes to replacing common yet costly infrastructure, the conversation may easily turn to questions of whether compromise should rest with the immigrant or the indigenous. On the one hand, when you move to a new country, you might expect that you will need to adapt to the unfamiliar habits of your host nation (such as 12 ounce pint glasses...WTF?!). Similarly, one might feel perfectly entitled to carry forward the customs and learnings of the motherland.

Both views are valid.

Both lead to stalemate.

Both lead to shitty toilets.

Camping in (on? at?) The Coorong

2010-11-21T04:37:00.000-08:00

The Coorong is a giant spit of pristine sand dunes formed by the mouth of the Murray River that serves as an important stop over for myriad species of migratory birds...but that is irrelevant to this story. What's important is that it is a short 2.5 hour drive from my house and it was the first time I have been camping in about 7 years - 7 years? How did that happen? How is it that I have neglected to do something that I so love for so long?? It can be quite annoying, how life gets in the way of itself sometimes!

Special thanks to Joan and Gordon for instigating the event and supplying the top end gear we were lacking. Kevin imported our basic necessities from the US - tent, sleeping bags, and camp mattresses - which looked mighty puny next to their palatial canvas accommodations, but we were cozy enough. Well, I was anyway...for some silly reason, Kevin thought he would be more comfortable sleeping in the car...or maybe thought didn't really play a part in that decision.

I awoke to a symphony of birdsong. Following a delicious artery-clogging breakfast (washed down with ice cold beer), we went on a lovely morning hike around some purple salty lakes. My inadequate photographic skills failed to capture the breadth of joyous emotions I felt as we trekked through subtly distinct micro-environs. But here is the best of the worst:

At 42 Mile Crossing (I was assured the name was for the distance of the locale from town, and not from the length of the walk), we traversed the dunes to have lunch on a desolate stretch of beach bordering a gorgeous aquamarine sea. My lovely hosts then indulged me with a scenic drive in search of exotic roadkill, whereupon I added my first emu picture to my collection, but was too tired to get out to snap the golden wombat.

After a brief stop at the local store for ice-cold Coke and Cookies, we retired to the campsite for refreshing bevvies and a scrumptious dinner of fried garlic sprinkled with prawns. The evening was punctuated with praline cheesecake, and I soon drifted away into a blissful drunken slumber which prevented me from worrying about large hairy spiders and highly venomous snakes.

A pleasant consequence of life in South Australia is that wherever we travel, there is generally a wine region between us and home. We took a ferry across the river into Wellington and tasted our way through the Langhorne Creek region across rolling hills under big fluffy clouds, stopping in the German Village/Tourist Trap of Hahndorf for lunch and home made ice cream.

Despite my delight with wilderness living, it felt mighty good to come home to a blissful nap on a proper bed and a proper shower! Perhaps that is what I love most about 'roughing it' - sometimes it is necessary to adjust the contrast levels of ones life manually, in order to bring out the highlights and lessen the shadows...and sometimes a change of scenery helps add frivolity, or at least an element of quirkiness:

Just think what I could do if I actually collected my roadkill...

Unforgettable

2010-11-12T16:31:00.000-08:00

I love it when real life comes with a good soundtrack.

The incessant grinding of a tile saw across the street earlier this week provided me with a poignant reminder that my job is portable. With frayed nerves and a cranky disposition, I packed up my laptop and sought refuge in a cozy café near the beach. A steamy Chai Latte and a plate of chicken and asparagus crepes restored my calm and I soon settled into organizing my appointment calendar.

My industriousness was short lived as a large group of retired beach walkers descended on the café, breaking my serenity with the shrill chatter and loud squawking one might expect from a flock of cockatoos. I was suddenly seized by an urgent call from nature of the variety that required complete solitude and security. I cast a nervous eye towards the line of old ladies jogging nervously in place at the rear of the restaurant. I quickly packed up my bag and hit the street in search of more suitable facilities.

I walked uncomfortably down to the esplanade. My desire for privacy was rapidly dissipated by imperative need. I scanned the shoreline for the blessed facilities that without fail exist in public spaces. Australian society deems adequate waste disposal as a civil right essential to the preservation of human dignity, and for that I hold this nation in the highest esteem.

I spied the location of my ambition a block away beneath the steps of the surf club. I waddled nervously past the playground filled with friendly and confident children calling out greetings to me, fully expecting my polite reply, towards which I had neither the inclination nor the ability. I was delighted beyond description when I at last reached my destination to discover that these were not your ordinary block of cold concrete stalls, but were high-tech, self cleaning private suites. I had found a safe haven!

I pushed the green button outside a vacant room. The door opened with a whoosh. I hung my satchel on the hook and pressed the red button which closed the door, activating the nauseating music meant to deter junkies and urban campers. I then relaxed into a moment of satisfaction unlike any I had ever experienced outside of a bed (except once in a dressing room at JC Penney). It was evident this was not going to be a rush job, so I settled back and had a good look around at my temporary accommodations.

The room was clean and surprisingly free of graffiti and vandalism. Instructions above the large sink made post-evacuatory hand washing mandatory, as that was the mechanism that activated the flush. How sanitary. Located at random intervals throughout the tile walls were spray nozzles of varying sizes and angles that maintained the impeccable cleanliness. Above the sink was a sign that read:

“If this red light begins flashing you have occupied the facility for too long. Leave immediately. The door is about to open.

If you hear an alarm, the cleaning cycle is about to begin. Leave immediately.”

As I pondered the precise definition of “too long”, it suddenly seemed as if I had been in residence for an eternity, and there seemed to be no end to my fit of productivity. Time stretched dreamlike as I imagined myself grasping for my computer, clutching my pants clumsily around my waist and lurching from a multi-directional shower spray into a sea of pink-clad little girls shouting “Hullo!” I tried to explain my concerns to my internal organs, but my autonomic nervous system was not taking calls from my cerebral cortex.

Eventually, I perceived a light at the end of the strictly metaphorical tunnel and began to anticipate my ablutions. I pressed the button on the paper dispenser. With a painful grinding sound, the machine reluctantly delivered 6 inches of thin tissue. I pressed the button again. Another scant offering materialized. I pressed the button a third time. Nothing happened. I applied my 12 inches of salvation with a delicate conservation that would impress a hardcore Greenpeace activist, only to immediately realize the complete inadequacy of the resource. A new wave of panic reinvigorated my digestive tract, undoing all I had just achieved.

After an interval, the paper dispenser once more graced me with a meagre 12 inches of insufficiency. I eyed the sign above the sink nervously as I waited for the stingy contraption to reset. Grrr-rrr-rrr-errr. Wait. Worry. Grr-rrr-rrr-err. Wait. Worry.

At last I reached a state of repair that would allow me to face the world outside with confidence and grace. In fact, I felt damn good! Like I could conquer nations. I approached the sink and thoughtlessly began whistling along to the perverted muzak that filled the cubicle.

And now, forever onwards, will magnificent feelings of salvation and empowerment be conjured in my memory by the gentle strains of Nat King Cole.

RIP...the sound of breaking hearts...

2010-11-05T21:50:00.000-07:00

“We’ll take that one. The orange tabby.”
From the dark recesses of the back wall under a sign labelled ‘kittens’, we heard an incessant “Mraaoow. Mraaoow. Mraaoow. Mraaoow. Mraaoow. Mraaoow.” As if to say – "Hey! Don't Go Yet! Come see about me!"

“Wait a sec…may I hold that one? The stubby legged little Kitler?”

She was so affectionate. All full of purrs and promises

“We’ll take this one.”

We brought her home, let her loose in our penthouse Goose Hollow apartment…and she…never…ever….shut…up! Ever!

Except for the time we decided to take her to the library, when she took a silent shit in Kevin’s lap. Then *I* couldn’t shut up…in fact, I am still laughing about it now...be grateful I didn't have a camera with me.

On the Big Trip 2003, at a riverside campsite in Riggins Idaho, we thought we had lost her for good. After a family sized pizza and several rounds of beer served in mason jars (one of my favourite drinking vessels), we returned to find the screen door of our 5th wheel trailer a jar and The Cow nowhere to be seen. As dusk fell, we combed the shoulders of the highway and the banks of the rushing river by torchlight, frantically calling her name.

At last we gave up and collapsed into a pile of mutual sobs, when from the shadows beneath the trailer we heard a soft ‘mraaoow?” and The Cow Emerged, soggy with cat piss and quite full of her self. She immediately received hugs, beatings, and a violent bath:

Because we had a cat in Baja, it seemed an obvious pre-conclusion that we would certainly want another. And so when a skinny little blue-eyed Siamexican kitten was rescued from a feral litter, it was assumed that we would naturally adopt him. The Cow issued a vocal sharp clawed veto and exhibited her typical smug stubbornness, and he soon took up residence elsewhere:

“What about The Cow?” was the most difficult question in our decision to move to Australia. She was well into her 14th cranky year, and immigration regulations would require a 2 month stint in quarantine – seemed a cruel penance for a grand old lady who was so recently enjoying her rest on the oak covered mountainside of our home in Shingletown. The decision to leave her to her retirement abode was made easy by the generosity of Robert and Holly, who loved her like their own, gave her daily beatings, and indulged her incessant meowing with patience and adoration.

And it was them, not us, who cared for her in her final hours…and for that I am eternally grateful, and perhaps, as eternity stretches out, I will be able to forgive myself for not being there with her....

SHIT.

Jackaroo-O-Lantern

2010-10-29T16:02:00.000-07:00

Over the last few years, I have actively buffered myself against becoming too nostalgic about Halloween. I have not allowed myself to indulge in the wistful desire for the familiar pleasures of the season. I have not put up decorations nor made costumes nor purchased kilogram quantities of disgusting candy. By ignoring my favorite holiday, I have shielded my heart from homesickness.

But this year, despite the fact that I am enormously distracted with my new career, I have been unable to avoid it. Halloween displays have sprouted up in store fronts. The local pub is spruiking their costume party. There are piles of fat orange pumpkins in the produce section of every grocery store. i even saw some zombies and a witch smoking cigarettes on North Terrace, but that might have more to do wit it being Saturday morning than being Halloween...

It seems that in spite of this country's disdain for commercialized American holidays, the infinite appeal of Halloween is catching hold of the Australian imagination. More and more I hear of Halloween parties and costume parades. There have been rumors that some neighborhoods even promote trick-or-treating!

Does this mean that Australian culture is crumbling under the pressure of American boorishness, or or can they simply learn to take the best and leave the rest? (I'd like to believe the latter, but the popularity of Two and a Half Men seems to undermine my hopes.)

Because I am just too busy to be homesick this ear, I have allowed myself a bit of Halloween fun. I bought a candle shaped like a blood shot eyeball (although in my case, this is appropriate for all times of year). I also made a jack-o-lantern...albeit with a bit of Aussie flair:

The Nickel Ads, Redding California

2010-10-16T17:40:00.001-07:00

Momadelaide 2010 - Arrival

2010-09-22T10:07:00.000-07:00

"KRAAAAAA-POWWW!!!!"

The thunderclap sends me leaping from my bed, six feet under the surface of sleep. Disoriented, heart pounding...clock? SHIT, SHIT, SHIT. Her plane lands in 15 minutes. So much for my grand plans of meeting her at the gate with a bouquet of flowers and clean teeth. Groggy from my incessant insomnia (of which I suffer as I write this now), stumble for keys and pants, reach the car, panting, confused, distressed. I hope she brought warm clothes, the morning is shit bitter cold, dark and stormy.

She is in better shape than I am when I collect her at the kerb, she and her pile of pretty purple luggage. The usual flight chit-chat as we breeze across the city. She had a whole row, slept. Probably far more than me. She settles into her room, unpacks, showering me with peanuts and Taco Bell Taco Mix. I think she brought one pair of jeans for every day she will be here. "We have a washing machine, y'know."

I'm already feeling quite queasy as we head off to the Asian Food Court at the Central Markets for lunch. I am on the verge of vomiting, even before we see the dead guy being vigorously pumped by paramedics next to the ATM across from the Yiro stand. They put him on a stretcher and cross his arms peacefully, as if he is just having a shirtless nap in the middle of a crowded mall. A woman is wiping the tears off her cheeks as she stares out at the crowd that has gathered. Another woman has an arm around her shoulder in solace. We try to look away out of kindness and respect, but how can you not want to witness such a raw moment of humanity? I project myself into a possible future, first as the woman, then as the deceased.

"Let's go get some noodles."

Coitus Interruptus

2010-07-29T05:15:00.000-07:00

Winston wrapped his bare legs around his mother's waist. One hand tugged his white t-shirt down over his diaper, the other a fist, hid his dirty mouth. His eyes darted back and forth, eagerly seeking the contents of the house behind me.

"Hi. My name is ___ ______. I...we...used to live here..."

"Oh, yes of course, ____" I said as I grabbed the pile of mail sitting next to the front door.

"Believe it or not, there is a forwarding order for this address."

"Oh I believe it!" I handed her a stack of letters. "I've dealt with Australia Post before..."

"But that is not why I am here." Winston wiggled in her arms, clearly straining to come inside.

____ explained, apologetically, that she and her husband separated last year. He moved into the city. Winston hasn't seen much of him since, but then, he never really did. For the last year, Winston has been struggling with the concept of "home", continually asking to come back here, back home.

"It's been especially bad the last few weeks...and, well, I just didn't know what else to do...how else to make it clear to him."

"Would you like to come inside?"

She set him down, his bare feet flinching on the cold wet pavers. He rushed toward the door, froze at the threshold.

"See, Winston? Your toys aren't here. Our furniture isn't here. We don't live here anymore. Do you understand? We have a new home. This lady lives here now. This isn't our home. See? Daddy isn't here."

My heart fluttered and sank as I shifted awkwardly in my robe. I thought of my own constantly changing dream scape, of all the locations that represent "home" to me...of how they morph and blend so that some days I wake up not knowing where I am - or where I belong. Yet, I am a grown woman, self-realized who consciously makes the decisions to set my life afloat in the name of adventure. I am not a scared little boy with no stable shoreline against which to measure the tides of change.

Winston peered around the corner of the front door, scanning the living room, soaking in our camp chairs, soiled rug, and the $10 couch I bought off gumtree.com and covered with a moving blanket.

"Yes, Mommy. It's a yucky house." He turned and walked steadily back to his over sized SUV.

Fuck You, Winston.

This is NOT an Internet Scam - I Promise

2010-07-26T02:03:00.000-07:00

What:   Massive Yard Sale/ Bake Sale/ Street Carnival
Why:    See Below
When: July 30 - August 1, 7:00am - 3:00pm
Where: 1205 Kimberly Drive, San Jose, CA
How:    You go there and spend some money, take away some stuff, eat a cupcake.

You know how sometimes, when you bruise your knee, and then for some reason keep knocking that knee into things more than you normally would? Well, sometimes that can happen to a whole family.

The Kestermont Clan (of which my sister is a contractual member) has been absolutely besieged by health troubles in the last 4 years. I'd list them all, but it would sound like one of my Aunt Bette's Christmas Letters. Of course, how else am I going to elicit enough sympathy to get you off your ass?

There have been multiple surgeries to untangle intestines and fallopian tubes. As often happens with cars and computers, there were a few bits left over that didn't seem to fit when it was time to close the lid.

There were mysterious infections that lead to near amputations.

There were hemorrhoids so large they could only have resulted from the mixture of toxic chemicals and radioactive materials (there is a joke about uranium and coccyx waste in here somewhere, but I can't seem to extract it.)

There have been knees ripped from their sockets like a good greasy leg of fried chicken - if fried chicken wore cute knitted hats with ears and went skiing at Lake Tahoe.

There have been gall stones, and infections, and back pains, and paper cuts too.

But worst of all, last year Papa Kestermont suffered a head injury that put him in a coma and kept him in a hospital for over two months. He's out now, and walking, and joking, and being ornery, but he still needs a lot of care. Momma Kestermont has been managing with a little help.

But last month, she had a brain aneurysm, and now she too needs some help. Now, they all need help.

This crew just keeps smiling and laughing and loving through all of these ups and downs. So please, drop by the yard sale and take away some of their burden.
Thank you.

What:   Massive Yard Sale/ Bake Sale/ Street Carnival
Why:    See Above
When: July 30 - August 1,   7:00am - 3:00pm
Where: 1205 Kimberly Drive, San Jose, CA

View Larger Map

Experimente!

2010-07-23T02:30:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure which I like better, the product itself or the fact that the package is labelled in Korean AND Spanish.

Well, something resembling Spanish anyway. Just what exactly is a pique nique??

And just how does testosterone make it fattening?

Bad, Bad Kitty LOVES it! I caught her licking the package.

On a Cold Winter's Day

2010-07-17T22:36:00.000-07:00

Everyone assures me that this winter in Adelaide has been exceptionally nasty - that it is usually much more pleasant than this. Seems I heard the same story when we first moved to Sydney. I honestly believe we could hire ourselves out as drought busters. Whenever we move to some pleasant climate, they invariably experience their wettest year in a decade.

Despite our intense desire to remain cuddled beneath our cozy doona, I hoisted our asses out of bed and down to the Adelaide Showground Farmer's Market - a delightful collection of local producers and food artisans. In no time at all, my fingers were numb from fishing coins from my pockets, but our little basket was full of fresh crisp produce and recently slaughtered pig parts - because nothing chases away the gloom like a bubbling pot of chile verde, especially when paired with a box of cheap wine.

My chile verde recipe was graciously passed down to me by my most wonderful brother-in-law, Eddie who claims to be a real Mexican although I suspect he is actually a Shriner - although come to think of it, there is no reason the two are mutually exclusive...do Mexican Shriners ride around in mini-low riders? Why do I have trouble imagining Eddie in a miniature anything...

People who have tasted my chile verde invariably ask me for the recipe. To that I say, come spend a gloomy Sunday with me, drinking cheap wine, roasting chiles, and peeling garlic. I realize that is not practical for many of you, so here is the recipe I transcribed from Eddie and keep proudly attached to my refrigerator with magnets featuring visages of His Most Holy of Holies, and three sexually curious sheep from New Zealand (is there any other kind of sheep in New Zealand?).

I don't know why the phrase "creepy cheese eating surrender monkeys" is written on this recipe, but I do know it is critical to the success of the stew. Questions? Sorry, you'll just have to come spend a gloomy Sunday with me.

Invitrogen Threw Up in My Kitchen

2010-06-19T01:50:00.000-07:00

I'm on a first name basis with my delivery driver. Every week, Beau shows up and brings me a box full of marketing from the home office in Melbourne. Two weeks ago, he brought me TWO PALLETS of office supplies, lab demo equipment, and boxes of files packed up by the previous sales rep. Unpacking was like Christmas, except without the good cheer, annoying music, or the smell of ham.

Some of the items were useful, like banners, branded table cloths, utility carts, literature stands, and protein gel boxes...and several shirts covered with animal hair. Others were downright pathological - like reams of expired promotional flyers, a crate of Immunology catalogs from 2006, and two large boxes of squishy toys shaped like water droplets (which are fantastic for throwing at cats). Needless to say, my desk is no longer a tidy surface.

Last night I finally tackled the daunting task of sorting through all the product brochures, attempting to organize them into some useful and accessible system...then promptly returned them to boxes to await further confusion...but mostly to keep Bad Kitty from eating them.

Cue Ball

2010-06-11T19:49:00.000-07:00

I once met a woman and introduced her to another woman, and that simple act set her life onto an unexpected trajectory, altered her destiny. I didn’t know it at the time. We lost touch, just recently reconnected, and she told me of the impact that thoughtless impulse had on her life. It kind of blew my mind…made me feel like a cue ball.

Phwip – clack. Off the rail. Side pocket.
It made me think of other people whose lives I have changed – either by mere circumstance or by coincidental action – and that naturally lead me to ponder the people who similarly impacted my own life. Some people are expected to have a profound effect on the direction of your life. Parents, teachers, mentors, lovers all press against one’s destiny in predictable and unavoidable ways. But sometimes, when you trace back through time along the course you life has taken, you can identify those random interactions, those chance encounters that so clearly mark an intersection of fate that you are forced to wonder – would I be here today if that had never happened?
When I do that, I think of Marc.

Cap’n Marc – teller of tall tales and dreamer of big dreams. If we had been assigned to any other space in the campground on Key West in December 2000, we most likely never would have forged the friendship that changed our life. We spent a wonderful month going to movies, holiday parades, and rode our bicycles all over that island paradise. We had a Christmas day picnic lounging on the beach and ripped up the bars on Duval Steet for New Year’s Eve. Late one stormy night, as we huddled cozy and warm inside his motor home, drinking white Russians, he hypnotized us with stories of pristine palm-fringed beaches, cheap beer, and juicy tacos. The next morning, we pulled up stakes and drove to Cabo San Lucas - from the end of one road, to the end of another.

The drive across the continent was a blur – save for the brief respite in Austin where we stopped to visit Marc’s Mom and Marc’s Sister – but the journey down the Baja Peninsula was filled with adventure. I remember every dip, curve, and roadside muerto as vividly as if I were driving it now, and I can certainly recall the taste of each and every taco (we stopped for tacos at least 5 times a day). Mile by mile, I fell in love with that stark wild landscape, and when at last Marc lead us out a dirt road to San Pedrito, I felt as though my soul had found its rightful place in the universe.

If we hadn’t met Marc, if he hadn’t shepherded us to Baja, would we have ever cashed out of our dull suburban life in Simi Valley, would Kevin not have broken his leg, would we not have bought the house in Shingletown, would we not have moved to Australia, and would we not be currently enjoying the exciting new careers we are currently enjoying?

Don’t get me wrong – I don’t hold Marc responsible for ALL of that, but there is no question that he broke our perfect rack and sent our eight ball careening down the table.

The Luckiest Couple in McLaren

2010-05-30T00:26:00.000-07:00

We bought another car this weekend. This time not so much from anxiety as from necessity, as our jobs no longer afford us the luxury of taking public transportation. The city is a big flat grid, and travel by car is most practical, if not essential. However, we are within walking distance of the Central Business District of Adelaide, so weekend entertainment will not jeopardize my precarious driving privilege.

Of course, the most natural thing to do with a new car is to take it on a long drive, and here in South Australia a natural drive in any direction will land you in the middle of wine country (save for any westerly direction, which will land you in the middle of the Gulf of St Vincent.) We opted to take the scenic route, up into the South Hills and through the quaint German village of Hahndorf - where one can stock up on fudge, cuckoo clocks, strudel, and attitude. We hooked right in the town of Mt Barker, where Kevin works, and dropped into the luscious McLaren Vale Valley (is that redundant?) through golden vineyards and rolling green pastures studded with towering gum trees and shaggy brown cows - who, curiously, were all pointing in one direction, causing me to question whether they might possesses magnetic qualities.

We stopped into the visitor center to collect maps and brochures. The kind lady behind the counter asked if had plans for lunch. We mentioned we were hoping to eat at the d’Arenberg Winery.

“Oh, they are booked out. We’ve had to turn away dozens of people already today.”

“”rrring””

“The d’Arenberg Winery just called – they’ve had a cancellation – someone had car trouble – they can seat you immediately. Is a window seat ok with you?”

We did not hesitate.

“Well, aren’t you the luckiest couple in McClaren” oozed our hostess as she led us across the verandah (which, coincidentally was the name of the restaurant – imagine the odds!) to a table with a sweeping view of blustery vineyards and sun spotted hills.

And the food wasn’t bad either, as evidenced by the number of people with cameras pointed at their plates, who moments later dissolved into puddles of fluttering eyelids accompanied by robust yummy noises – myself included. I can’t wait to burp and savor once more the delicate joys of ravioli stuffed with blue swimmer crab and lemongrass topped with fresh lobster and a brandy cream sauce.

We took the direct route home, an engineering marvel in the face of limited funding. The Southern Expressway is fickle piece of roadway, swinging North or South depending on the current commuter demands. On weekday mornings it is a conduit into the city and reverts to southbound for the afternoon rush. On the weekends, the commute is reversed in order to efficiently whisk city-dwellers off to the vineyards and back again come dusk. Within 45 minutes, we were back home, reversing the new car into the garage…

Oops, well, it’s not quite so new anymore! Obviously, we aren’t the luckiest couple in Adelaide…

Home Spaffice

2010-05-23T03:33:00.000-07:00

I spent most of last week working from my home office - a rather grandiose term for a rescue-chair, a pillow, and a shabby old table from the Salvos. By Friday morning I was practically immobilized with a painful assortment of ergonomic injuries (Thank you to Millie for the Kitty-Cat wrist pad, which came in quite handy towards the end of the week!). By Saturday, the procurement of proper office furniture became a high priority – and while we were out, we figured we’d pick up another car, too.

Now I have a nice big desk and a fully adjustable chair, and I can spend endless hours fiddling with various levers - tilting, sinking, and leaning all accompanied by the satisfying sounds ‘pffft’ and ‘sssst’. As attached as I am to the spartan yet cheery image of my polka-dot tea-pot on my vast expanse of desk, I have no doubt that the surface will soon be covered with note books, receipts, product brochures, and cat hair.

And speaking of cluttered surfaces…while I will bring home the occasional branded mouse pad or poster detailing fluorescently labeled cell-signaling antibodies, Kevin brings me twice weekly bag-loads of sumptuous shower supplies, heavenly hand creams, luxurious lotions, exfoliative elixirs, and luscious lipsticks which dominate my bathroom counter and might give an outsider the impression that I am one high-maintenance bitch!

Last week,(at four in the morning in a frequent fit of stress-induced sleeplessness) I lit a candle, poured myself a wine-glass of cranberry juice, drew a steamy bath and set out to see how many products I could possibly use in one sitting. My normal skin care regimen consists of four products – which I have always considered excessive. However, this time I managed to utilize no less than 13 different organically grown, bio-dynamically cultured, and naturally prepared products! With an approximate street value of 687 Australian Dollars (51,407 Japanese Yen), I felt obligated to be thankful for the ensuing attack of hay-fever that followed my over-indulgent herbal ablutions – but I smelt DAMN good for the next three days… and my skin was absolutely radiant too!!

Soon, I will get out into the field and away from the nocturnal temptations of my executive-bath en-suite...and next week, Kevin gets his new car, so I will get to take possesion of the Hyundai! (...for some reason, I always feel the need to say 'Hyundai!' with an exclamation poin.)...and then we will have the capacity to chaffeur no-less than 8 people around the Barossa - so book your reservations at Spa McKinzie today...and speaking of today, our resident chef, er cook, has prepared an aromatic assortment of pickled red onions and spicy roasted carnitas...wish you were here!

Hyundai!

Analyze This

2010-05-15T16:56:00.000-07:00

After my first day of training on my new job, I dreamed that Kevin and I had been captured by a guerilla drug cartel in the jungle. The leader was a tattooed bad-ass who made us sit and watch while he gave his drugged out girlfriend carnal pleasure using a salmon...but not a whole salmon, mind you, just a nice fillet.

Movin' Movin' Movin'

2010-05-05T21:56:00.000-07:00

The frenzy of cleaning, packing, and all the love-filled goodbyes dissolved as soon as we boarded the plane. We flew across Australia with serene anticipation of our new life in Adelaide, painted on the canvas of our imaginations with soft charcoal lines and delicate watercolors. We settled into our cozy temporary apartment and enjoyed a pizza before drifting off to sleep.

Then morning broke, literally, and the harsh realities of landing in a new city flooded away all the pretty paint.

We went to pick up our car, only to be told it had not yet left Sydney.

“Then why exactly did you pick it up 8 days ago?”

“Aw, look, it had to go into the queue for the truck. It’ll be here in two days.”

Two extra days of a rental car. KA-CHING.

We retrieved the cat from JetPets without too much drama. Then she promptly disappeared into the kitchen ceiling.

House hunting had all the expected frustrations: agents who don’t return phone calls, completely misleading photos, apartments that have been let yet not removed from the web. No units in any of the suburbs we liked, perfect places in the middle of hell. Through a combination of perseverance and compromise, we managed to find a suitable dwelling. A bit out of budget, but we will be most comfortable. KA-CHING.

Then I called our removalist company to arrange delivery of our household goods which had been sent to storage in Sydney until we had obtained a destination.

“Aw, look, I don’t have anything else going to Adelaide at the moment.”

“Well, when can we get our stuff?”

“I dunno. I don’t have anything else going to Adelaide at the moment.”

“Yeah, but when can we get our stuff?”

“I just told you, we don’t have anything else going to Adelaide at the moment. If you want, we can send a whole container, but it will cost you an extra $3,500.” KA-CHING!

“Excuse me, I have to hang up and go cry now.”

I can’t be bothered to bore you with all the painfully dramatic details, but after a hundred phone calls and a thousand e-mails (and ten thousand more tears), we managed to arrange delivery of our stuff 15 days sooner than expected for less money than we had been originally quoted. CHING-KA!

Now we just have to keep our fingers crossed through the weekend that Carlos – some guy Kevin found on the internet – actually delivers our stuff!

I don’t understand why people always feel compelled to tell me how much they hate moving. It’s one of the best weight loss programs I know!

Now if I could just get the cat out of the ceiling…

Mary Poppins for President

2010-04-29T15:12:00.000-07:00

Since moving to Australia, I – daily – find myself discussing the merits of government involvement in ordinary activities such as regulating child care facilities, determining acceptable levels of corporate pollutionary discharge, and deciding when, where, or how the general public should be allowed to destroy their own health. Normally, I terminate these debates with a shrug and a dismissive proclamation of “Fucking Nanny Government!”

But today, my (weakly held and frequently contradictory) convictions are floundering somewhat against two similar but unrelated news reports. Here (in Australia), the news has been dominated – and by dominated, I mean non-stop commentary from all of the news outlets – by stories about the new and completely-un-debated-in-the-public-sector-law restricting cigarette packages from employing brands, logos, or colors while adding on a $2.40 tax (taking the price to $15.80) per pack. Back home (in Santa Clara County) the news has been dominated – and by dominated, I mean at least two people told me about it – by stories about the new and completely-un-debated-in-the-public-sector-law restricting the distribution of crappy theatrical promotional toys along with Happy Meals.
If they are so unpopular, just who is passing these shitty laws?

I’ll tell you who…Old People!
Old people dying of lung cancer who are fucking sick and tired of stepping on toxic plastic made-in-China caricatures strewn about their tidy homes by their fat diabetic grand-children who are jacked up on high-fructose corn syrup and genetically engineered soy meat-like fillers. How dare they use the government to make laws restricting public behavior!
America, more than any other civilized democracy (and by civilized, I mean not imposed by a foreign military) is completely deluded by the notion of freedom of the individual. No one is more surprised than me to hear myself dismissing the supremacy of the individual. Perhaps it is time to dust off my memories of Alexis de Tocqueville. Evidently he made a greater impact than I have recognized.
But that does not entirely address the issue of a nanny government. Let’s try a metaphor. Say, in order to develop his or her sense of personal identity you give a child a choice between playing with a teddy bear and a bag of marbles. After a quick cuddle, the child decides that sticking the marbles up his nose is more gratifying. After you return from the emergency ward, you give the child the same choice, with the same result. Time and time again, the child opts for the thrill of marble sticking over the safety of a stuffed animal, no matter how enticing you make it look. Would you stand behind the argument that the child must be allowed to decide for itself, even though you spend countless hours and dollars at the hospital every day? Or would you pitch those marbles into the sea?

I am bored with this subject now and have a sudden and inexplicable craving for tobacco, mini-cheeseburgers, and steelies.

I Don't Care About Losing All The Money. It's Losing All The Stuff.

2010-04-27T06:56:00.000-07:00

I am too tired from packing for a full-blown rant about stuff...I'll let the pictures do the talking:

December 31, 2006

April 27 2010

How did we get so much stuff in three short years? Oh yeah...I 'found' it...and now I am paying exorbitant sums of money to have other people's garbage moved half way across the continent.

Fee Fi Fo Fum

2010-04-25T17:23:00.000-07:00

Australia has an amazing penchant for charging fees to NOT provide service. I will be paying over $80 to terminate my gas and electric service. I would retell the ridiculous argument I had with AGL employee, but I am reluctant to reprint some of the colorful vocabulary I was compelled to invoke – although I am sure the recording of the call will feature prominently at the next staff training session.

Recently, we were charged exorbitant fees to cancel some flights. Fair enough – we knew the risks when we bought the ticket – but now, each time we use the credit for a new flight, we are charged a ‘credit card service fee’. Upon trying to explain that we are not, in fact, using a credit card, we were informed that the fee is to cover the revenue lost from the fact that we are NOT using a credit card. It hurt my brain to even write that.

I have alluded to this topic in a previous rant about the Australia Post – but now I have further information. Not only will we have to pay $26 per month to NOT receive our mail while we are in between addresses, we will have to pay a termination fee to stop NOT receiving our mail…PLUS, we will have to pay $36 per month – retroactively to the date that we had initially stopped receiving mail – in order to have it forwarded to our new address (assuming we ever get one!...but that’s another rant altogether.)

So, for the foreseeable future, in addition to the initial postage paid to deliver a letter to me, I will pay to have it held, then pay to have it not held, then pay again to have it forwarded.

I hope no one at the USPS follows my blog…

So Gentlemen, Deal Me Out - Do Not Try to Feel Me Out

2010-04-23T16:07:00.000-07:00

It comforts me to imagine that the entire Department of Pharmacology is waking up with a collective headache this morning after last night’s farewell party. At least I am not waking up with three broken ribs, like someone I know. Oh the high cost of chivalry.

Perhaps no single word in the human lexicon carries the weight of so much love as the word “goodbye”. It is an unfortunate aspect of emotive biology that we so often neglect to recognize and appreciate genuine fondness and camaraderie until the pressure of imminent departure squeezes deep felt emotions to the surface, where they are aired awkwardly – unless fueled by copious volumes of wine, beer, and handmade pretzels. Expressions of affection and gratitude roll off purple tongues most easily.

Neither are hangovers conducive to articulation of complex emotions. Therefore, do not expect me to blather on about how much I have enjoyed spending time with my colleagues, how much fun it has been working with the students and watching them blossom into free-thinking miniature scientists, or how very special everyone made me feel yesterday - or how sad I am to be leaving all of the wonderful people I have befriended over the last three years.

Besides, saltwater really mucks up my keyboard.

I guess I should drag my defended honor out of bed and make my poor shining knight some fried potatoes to wash down his panadeine.

Give Up Cards and Dice and Go For Shoes and Rice

2010-04-09T12:16:00.000-07:00

Footwear has always been at the forefront of my reasons for loving my current profession. Sturdy, comfortable, closed-toed shoes are an essential part of the uniform of a laboratory scientist. Safety considerations aside, I just feel at my most secure when I have a solid foundation between my un-calloused feet and the cold hard – not to mention uneven – concrete that blankets city landscapes. Sandals, slip-ons, and high heels make me feel vulnerable and off-balance when what I need most is confidence and stability.

But when we move to Adelaide, I will be leaving the lab and embarking on a whole new career in technical sales, a position that requires ‘professional dress’.
…which most certainly extends to ‘professional footwear’
…which I assume means no Fake Chinese Converse High Tops or flip-flops
…which means I have to go shopping.

I HATE shopping.

I am sure some among you are thinking, “Why not just wear simple black flats?”

There are at least 2 million pairs of simple black flats in Sydney, each with a subtle dissimilarity that makes them entirely unsatisfactory. I know because, in preparation for my job interview last week, I tried on every single pair. They are all too pointy, too square, too shapeless, too shiny, too dull, too gaudy, too ordinary, too delicate, too expensive or too ugly. In the end, I settled for cheap ugly plastic mary janes.

I also settled for those little black socky-thingies, which only show a little bit and make a world of difference in the comfort factor of my ugly plastic shoes. Besides, I see some pretty sexy women in expensive stylish shoes with those little socky-thingies peeking out from under the toe box. I despise blisters and I can’t stand my bare toes rubbing against a toe box but I hate nylons, so those little socky-thingies are going to make me very happy.

Although by no means a fashion template, I have nonetheless always had rather particular tastes when it comes to my wardrobe. I like things to fit a certain way. I like my pants to be a particular length, my shirts to cling in particular places, and my accessories to make particular statements. However, I have also always known that there would come a day when I say “Fuck it. These polyester slacks don’t look awful and they sure are comfortable. Besides, they are cheap and come in a variety of mix ‘n’ match colors!”

That day has arrived.

I am having to completely reorganize my mindset about clothing, not just to accommodate my new profession, but also to accommodate my changing body. I am finding it very helpful to think of my work clothes as a mere uniform, and therefore not bound by my stringent expectation that my attire reflect my mood as well as my personality (such as my Red Stag Karaoke Lounge t-shirt). By equating my polyester slacks to my lab coat, I can compartmentalize my compromise and preserve some of my dignity.

Of course, I always hated wearing a lab coat.

Takin' a Chance I'll Be Respectable and Nice

2010-03-19T17:56:00.000-07:00

Whenever Kevin and I are going through tough times, we generally opt for a bit of retail therapy, and the cost of treatment is usually a fair indicator of the degree of stress. When feeling homesick or lonely, we might go to the kitchen store and buy new counter top appliances. While waiting for Kevin to get his broken leg re-broken and re-fixed in English, we impulsively bought a house on 6 acres in the middle of nowhere. Last weekend, we went out to “look” at used cars, and came home with a brand new Hyundai Tucson. I don’t know if that is the vehicle we really wanted, but the 5 year warranty was a soothing balm to our frazzled nerves.

My personal stress levels reached crescendo yesterday morning when I closed the door to my bosses’ office, dropped a box of tissues on the desk and said “Kevin got a new job. We are moving to Adelaide in two months.” Then I grabbed a handful of tissues and used them.

I shouldn’t be too surprised or upset – after all, we’ve been in Sydney for nearly three and a half years. That is almost a record for us. In the last 22 years, we have held 14 addresses in 7 cities, not counting the 8 months we spent on the road calling a different place home each night.

Adelaide is a nice city and I am looking forward to adding a new chapter to my alliterative adventures, but right now, in the midst of the change, and having to see the shock and horror on the faces of my many friends and co-workers, I feel nothing but sadness. I know that once it is all under way, my stress will dissolve into the busyness of re-establishing my life in a new environment. But right now, lingering in that pre-move haze of anticipation and uncertainty, I am absorbed with unavoidable feelings of “pre-nostalgia”.

For those of you who have never made a big move, pre-nostalgia is that heavy feeling of detachment that weighs down upon your daily routine as you reexamine your surroundings from an increasing emotional distance. You think: “Gee, I’ll never eat there again” or “That’s probably the last time I will see her” or “Dang, I’ve been meaning to go there, but I never got around to it.” It is as much mourning the memories that are being left behind as it is a feeling of loss at what might have been but never quite fully materialized.

I know that many of you are mortified at making such drastic and constant changes in your life and are still constantly amazed that Kevin and I do it so often. I confess, in the non-existent privacy of these pages, that I am growing a bit weary of tearing down my life and rebuilding it over and over and over. Perhaps it is a consequence of age or a consequence of my lifestyle, but I find myself increasingly hungry for a place that feels like a permanent homestead, a place I can remodel and re-landscape and re-shape into something that fits MY fantasy, with out the fear of unexpectedly abandoning everything I have established - just for the sake of change.

But then, I start thinking about all the new memories that are yet to come, about all the possibilities afforded from ‘starting over’, the refreshing feeling of a clean slate, and how wonderful it feels to purge the closets and drawers of all the mossy possessions that inevitably gather whenever my stony life is temporary stalled on its downhill roll. I love to throw things out. And I am good at it too. Not only because it feels so liberating, but because then, when we are eventually dazed and befuddled in Adelaide, we can soothe our selves by filling the back of our new car with retail goods.

Oh, and with cases of wine. Did I mention that Adelaide (although unfortunately nick-named “City of Churches”) is located in the center of several of Australia’s best wine regions? Which provides adequate incentive for all of our new (and old) friends to come visit us. As my mom said, without missing a beat, “Cool. Another place for me to come visit you.”

Me and Steve McQueen**

2010-03-06T21:45:00.000-08:00

Feeling a little bit glum today, I broke into our stash of exotic imports…some mini-marshmallows, Frito Corn Chips, and a bottle of Riesling shaped like a poonanny…er, I mean a cat…then I settled down on the couch to watch The Towering Inferno on Channel 99, cuz I love me some Steve McQueen!

I know this movie was hokey even in 1974, and it is certainly still hokey today – but not only does it represent the cradle of genesis of the modern-day action adventure hero, it tackles themes of corporate and personal greed, ethics in engineering, and the perils of pre-marital intercourse (though I really don't see why boffing his secretary should have resulted in the incineration of Robert Wagner’s luscious locks.) And, it is a spectacular tribute to the heroism of American Fire Fighters.

Maybe I am just feeling emotional, but I daresay this movie is much harder to watch post 9/11. Before then, with the exception of the MGM fire, most of us had not seen real people leaping from burning high rises, and it is no less gut-wrenching in simulation.

“Ya’know, we were lucky tonight. The body count’s less than 200. Ya’know, one of these days, they’re gonna kill 10,000 in one of these fire traps…And I’m gonna keep eatin’ smoke and bringin’ out bodies..until somebody asks us how to build ‘em."

And, despite him being a murdering bastard, I am not ashamed to admit that I cried when OJ Simpson rescued Lisolette’s punanni…er, I mean cat.

**Possibly my favorite song in the whole world...

Punannies on the Periphery

2010-03-05T15:17:00.000-08:00

You know how, when something comes onto your mental radar – say for example Lime Green Corvettes – and then, all of a sudden, everywhere you look, you see Lime Green Corvettes?

Despite popular perception, Australia does not have a Bill of Rights protecting freedom of speech, including freedom of the press. And although you can say ‘shit’ on prime time television, censorship is an everyday reality here, especially when it comes to pornography. This week the sometimes insightful/sometimes pedantic/sometimes puerile television show Hungry Beast proposed the hypothesis that restrictions on depictions of female genitalia has resulted in a skewed public perception of the anatomy of a vagina, which has in turn resulted in an increased demand for plastic surgery in order to conform to the perceived norm.

Evidently, according to the National Classification Board governing soft porn magazines, graphic depictions of the internal labia are forbidden. Thus graphic artists frequently employ photo editing techniques to ensure that all vulvas have a neat and tidy appearance, which, in my opinion, makes them all look about 13 years old.

Apparently, an adolescence spent expending oneself to such images leaves one completely unprepared for the reality of all those ‘extra bits’, and somehow there has evolved a social pressure to have those unsightly folds trimmed away. How THAT graphic video made it past the censors, I am not entirely sure. However, I was intrigued by the notion that censorship can so skew public opinion that it is coercing women into acts of self mutilation. As if I need another reason to abhor censorship…

Yesterday, my grandmother saw her heart specialist and was told that she would not require another stint to repair a collapsed coronary artery. (Who needs a segue?!) Instead, she has been prescribed a vasodilator to help increase the blood flow to her ventricles. As usual, I did a little research on this medication only to discover it is currently in clinical trials to investigate its effectiveness as a ‘cervical ripener’. I am not entirely sure what that means, but I certainly do not want to think of it in relation to my grandmother.

A Google search of the word 'punanny' brought up an image of Ronald McDonald. Oh, please don’t bother to tell me the real reason. I impose my own brand of censorship to create the reality I choose, and in my reality, Ronald McDonald is a cunt.

Spy Cam 2.0

2010-02-23T15:27:00.000-08:00

Rumour has it that just prior to he 2000 Summer Olympics, the City of Sydney cleaned up the streets by giving all the homeless people, drunks, and nut-jobs one way bus tickets to the Gold Coast (Australia's version of Fort Lauderdale). Evidently, they have finally made their way back to Sydney, for I have noticed a marked increase in the number of foul-smelling, disheveled, and mentally displaced individuals roaming the streets and parks of the city.

I am an absolute magnet for such people. There is something about my face that says "Come, talk to me!" - possibly it is because I am usually staring at them in wide eyed wonder. Only recently have I begun to master the art of evasion while still managing to make a personal study of them.

Unfortunately, I was not swift enough to get a picture of the completely feral schizophrenic that lately haunts the bus stop at Town Hall Station as he bent over into an empty rubbish bin...partly because I am genuinely scared of him and do not ever want to be the object of his fearsome focus.

However, I was able to capture a (blurry) snap of this pungent character. He was draped in an American Flag with a New England Patriots T-Shirt looped over his neck. He also carried with him a small and impeccably clean crocheted blanket and entertained himself by showing a blank peice of paper to pretty girls. Somehow, I managed to avoid his attentions.

Spy Cam 1.0 - Good Mornin' Little School Girl

2010-02-21T19:46:00.000-08:00

I rarely talk on my phone. I type on it a lot, and since discovering it had musical capabilities, I often pretend it is an iPod. In fact, I even call it an iPod (I can hear people in England wincing.) I frequently use my phone to convert temperatures and distances into recognizable digits. Sometimes, I use it as a paper weight.

I recently discovered that my phone is also a camera - albeit, not a very good one. But a camera phone does have the distinct advantage of being somewhat incognito, such that it is possible to snap pictures of complete strangers on the train whilst only appearing to be a modestly incompetent text-o-phobe. With this in mind, I launch a new series of entries featuring random commuters, pedestrians, and other crazy street-people who, for whatever reason, catch my attention. Besides, I have lost my expatriate edge to some degree and am running out of witty cultural observations - as evidenced by the increasing number of deleted posts featuring amusing anecdotes of my cat. (I can hear people in England cheering.)

Despite the protests laid in the previous paragraph, I am still daily enamored by the school children of Australia. Evidently, they travel vast distances each day to attend the best schools. Each school has a distinct uniform - presumably so that if a group of them are misbehaving, you can dob them in to the appropriate headmaster. All uniforms include a hat. I am a big fan of hats and have amassed quite a collection of lost headgear from various institutions. However, I cannot help but ponder the disastrous rebellion that would have ensued had uniforms been standard policy when I was a child in America.

Can anyone who knew me as a child imagine me in that drab cotton dress??

I am pretty sure they were sending text messages to each other.

Activist or Recidivist?

2010-02-08T23:56:00.000-08:00

I found the following slip of paper in my mail box this afternoon:

I cannot help but wonder if this vitreol was targeted or random...

...or which is worse?

Bad, Bad Kitty Part 28 (1-27 unpublished)

2010-01-30T20:49:00.000-08:00

Perhaps people who own a cat with a taste for paper products should not assemble puzzles as a hobby:

True Blue Australia

2010-01-21T14:52:00.000-08:00

I climbed the stairs, ascending out of the hot moist air of Town Hall Station into the relatively cool breezes of George Street. A nervous woman in an orange vest and white hard hat was guarding a stack of boxes near the curb. My attention was drawn to the labels on the boxes.

"Excuse me ma'am. May I take a picture of these boxes?"

"No!" She barked with a voice that conveyed a lifetime of difficult interpersonal relations, "No you can't!"

I shrugged and climbed onto the waiting 435. I settled myself into a window seat and tucked my video camers into the open window.

"Well, we'll just see about that!"

Too bad you can't read the labels. They said:

No Problem Vomit Cleanup

And so the city prepares for the upcoming Australia Day festivities...

Summer in Sydney

2010-01-16T15:22:00.000-08:00

I daresay, that no one who knows me would describe me as “squeamish”. After all, I take recreational photographs of road kill and have been known to bring select specimens home for closer inspection. Sure, I may squeal upon finding a scorpion in my bathtub, but then I just scoop it up and take it outside. I am not bothered by snakes, rats, bats, spiders, dung beetles, mice, centipedes, or Kylie Minogue, but there is one creature on this earth whose mere existence is capable of catapulting me into an apoplectic spasm of heeby-jeebies: The (unfortunately very) Common Cockroach.

I have already blathered on at length about the origins of my terror, but that has done little to assuage my disgust at each and every sighting. In Sydney, cockroaches are not necessarily an indicator of poor hygiene, but are rather part and parcel of the seasonal fauna, becoming highly visible (and quite large) during the steamy months of summer. However, it is painfully evident when the groundskeepers have recently sprayed around the Blackburn Building. For some reason, they little fuckers like to crawl into my lab to die. I arrived Friday morning to find 48 legs and 16 antennae wriggling at me from all corners of the laboratory in the final stages of what I hope was a very painful death.

But there, at the end of the room, was one defiant monster, staring at me, challenging me. I took a timid step forward. He charged then feinted to the right, paused, checked the distance between my shoe and the centrifuge and waited. I contemplated seeking reinforcements, but there wouldn’t be time. He would surely escape. I took another step. He waited, gauging my resolve, measuring my alacrity, his beady little eyes twitching on their stalks (I have no idea if that is anatomically accurate, but that’s how it looked on my cerebral screen.)

JEESUS FUCK!

Sorry. We interrupt this narrative for a breaking story – I am writing on the edge of my seat as I relive the horror and anxiety of my moment of confrontation – when all of a sudden I am attacked by some sort of flying insect. It flew into my face, directly between my eyes! In America, I might call this a June Bug…here, I call it a cat snack. It has very sticky feet which tickle as it crawls across my fingers…

OK, where was I…crap, now the story has lost all of its tension. At any rate, I steeled myself and tried to kill the roach, but it just laughed at my feeble effort and scurried away. Sometimes, my terrible memory serves me well, and in this case, I soon forgot that the little bastard was lurking in my lab and went about the day’s experiments, all the while avoiding looking at the 8 shiny brown carcasses strewn about the floor.

I don’t know why this piece of masking tape has been sitting looped about on the glassware shelf for the last few weeks. I am pretty sure I didn’t put it there, but I am equally responsible for not having removed it, and I still have mixed feelings about it. On the one hand, if it had not been there, it would not have trapped the giant cockroach, but then neither would I have had a mild stroke as my hand brushed it upon reaching for a beaker.

There was no way I was going to engage in battle with a monster at eye level. Fortunately, the cavalry was close at hand, and Joe came and squashed the wretched beast between two paper towels. He also cleared the battle field of the victims of chemical warfare, while I retired to my desk for a soothing cup of tea to help calm my nerves.

And as soon as Markus killed the little fucker that was sitting UNDER MY CHAIR, I called Kevin and asked him to chill a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc for me. Today, I was going to need a drink.

Twitter Face

2010-01-15T13:48:00.000-08:00

This year, I have decided to make a New Year’s Resolution I can keep. I resolve to waste even more time at work. To achieve this end, I have finally signed up for Face Book.

I know I am rather late to the party, so my seemingly astute observations have probably already been had and hashed out by every member of my reading audience, but it is my blog, and I can talk about myself if I want.

Confession: I have a terrible memory. Especially when it comes to people. At my high school reunion, I had to rely on my close circle of friends to tell me who was who. I remember all the names and know that I had significant interactions with them for 4-6 years, but I also smoked a lot of pot back then…at least that excuse sounds better than admitting that I evidently make a greater (or at least more lasting) impression on other people than they make on me!

I must also confess that Face Book completely baffles me. I don’t really understand how to navigate the pages and I am not sure what I am supposed to be checking on, or how often. My inbox has become flooded with various notifications and requests, and I already feel like so many conversations are passing me by…

Still, I cannot help but marvel at the frightening insight held by this suite of software. On my very first log in, I was presented with an astonishingly accurate list of acquaintances – at least 10 of whom I have sold drugs to and 4 with whom I have shared carnal knowledge…how did they know? (Oddly, my own husband did not appear on the list!)

Which leads me to the dark side of registered social networking: With the current climate of fear and suspicion in the world today, and the ever widening definition and persecution of social deviants, am I the only one afraid of accidentally befriending someone who is a friend of a friend of a known terrorist or child molester and then inconveniently finding oneself on some FBI watch list?

Furthermore, there is no doubt in my mind that Face Book is the mechanism by which the government is populating the data tables for tehir face-recognition software. The day is not far off when I will be stopped at the airport and questioned over status updates and comments that include anti-government, anti-religion, or anti-children sentiments and interrogated as to the nature of my relationship with Scott Peterson and Martin Bryant…

With that in mind, and against the back drop of my faulty memory, I have decided to simply honor ALL friend requests. Just because I don’t remember you, doesn’t mean we cannot build a meaningful virtual relationship in the here and now. Besides, when we all get arrested for conspiracy to commit something, at least I will have a strong network of friends at Gitmo.

Here is to a Happy New Year!

2010-01-09T16:34:00.000-08:00

Having had such a wonderful time while in the US, I was apprehensive about returning to Australia - and not just because I was facing 24 hours of travel! I was heartsick at the prospects of leaving my family, friends, and a place that feels very much like home, and I expected to land under a cloud of depression and lethargy.

But quite the opposite has occurred. After a nap and a good night's sleep, I woke up at 6 am on Saturday full of energy and excitement and ready to face a new year of fun and challenges. Then I spent the day cooking and hosted a dinner party. Unfortunately, Kevin has been tackled by fatigue and a virus and has spent the better part of the weekend in bed. But I am about to go roust him for the Cowboys game...

Because I am not a diarist, but prefer to write essays (with the occasional train-of-thought such as you are presently reading), I have not recorded the details of my vacation in California in any form of narrative, but I did want to take a moment to brag about the amazing 3-day party at the Peppermill Resort in Reno that was held in honor of our 20th Anniversary. Despite the fact that Chloe blew up her knee and Robert nearly lit the dinner table on fire, it was amazing to have you all together to help us celebrate an accomplishment based on passion, stubbornness, and ultimately, love.

For those of you who would like to see more pictures, you can check out a 20-year retrospective of Kevin&Audra at: http://picasaweb.google.com.au/sandiablo1967/20YearsOn02#

And to all my readers, Have the Best New Year Ever!

American Booty Call

2010-01-08T13:37:00.000-08:00

“I forgot we had a cat.” said Kevin - an indicator of just how far removed we have been from our daily life for the last three weeks, completely absorbed in the glorious immediacy of each vibrant moment right up to the minute we walked in our front door and mundane reality came crashing down upon us in the form of 7 notifications of toll violations.

Attempting to recapture that escapist feeling, I immediately set about creating our usual post-vacation shrine of souvenir booty. I am not especially obsessed with objects and possessions, aside from their power to evoke memories and feelings, but I do love to create little displays of mementos, gifts, and keepsakes to remind me of all the fun I had with my friends and family. My emotional indulgence then fades slowly over time as the objects drift away, either through re-distribution or consumption.

Last night, nestled between clean sheets in my own bed, I immediately sank into REM sleep, and my dreams were filled with vivid scenes: sitting around the table playing games with my family – except instead of my mother’s cozy dining room, we were on my balcony overlooking Cockatoo Island…preparing for an evening of drinking and carousing with Doug and Oscar – except instead of riding bikes through the darkened streets of San Jose we were getting ready for a pub crawl in The Rocks …heading out for dinner with Beki – except instead of going up to San Francisco for fresh Dungeness crab we were going down to Darling Harbour for steak and prawns.

I awoke feeling a little heart-sick, but also all warm and fuzzy, because despite being so far away, somehow, through the magic of memory, I had managed to transport everyone I love with me here to Australia. And that is the best souvenir ever!

Now, if you will excuse me, I must contact the administrators of the Lane Cove Tunnel – perhaps they will accept a cat in lieu of payment…

Notes From America - Talking Turkey

2009-12-29T10:59:00.000-08:00

A little exercise in compare and contrast.

Good Turkeys

Better Turkeys

I wonder, if Benjamin Franklin had his way, would this freezer would be loaded with bald eagles for Christmas?

Notes From America - Consumer Price Index

2009-12-29T10:49:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I went to the grocery store and spent one-hundred and twenty-eight dollars on cheese and tampons, indisputable evidence that the “economic down turn” (sounds ever so much more benign than “Global Financial Crisis”) is indeed real – as if it wasn’t obvious from the number of boarded up business, the decrease in rush hour traffic, and the overwhelming cloud of anxiety that seems to hang over most everyone I have encountered during the last ten days here in California.

Now, I have purposely mislead you into thinking that inflation is spiraling out of control here in the colonies, but in fact, the price of goods and services have dropped considerably since my last visit a year ago. Just as travelers to Australia spend a good percentage of their time gasping at the price of avocados and milk, so too have Kevin and I been shrieking with delight at the price of meat and mayonnaise.

So, in the face of slashed consumer prices, how, pray tell did I manage to spend $128 on cheese and tampons??

Because a super market in America is like a proverbial candy store. I adore strolling up and down each aisle, fondling all the exotic ingredients and evocative products which are unavailable in Australia, marveling at the array of salsa sauces, gasping at the selection of macaroni and cheese varieties, and ultimately, wetting myself over the price of beer, wine, and vodka – yes, that’s right, beer, wine and vodka right there in the grocery store!

Which, to any astute reader, will immediately explain how I managed to spend $128 on cheese and tampons.

Epilogue
Yesterday I bought a 6-pack of 6.2% lager for $2.99! With prices like that, I could balance my entire monthly budget and ride out the recession in perfect inebriation – albeit with a decidedly pinched look on my face!

The Christmas Lap Dance

2009-12-15T20:55:00.000-08:00

Somewhere in between reports on ecological terrorism and the latest attack on personal freedom enacted by the Australian Nanny Government, I heard a TV magazine teaser for a story about the damaging consequences of children sitting on Santa's Lap. I made a mental note to blog my indignation, but then missed the show and assumed I could find reference to it with a quick Google search.

Well, evidently the internet filter isn't fully functional yet. And Thank Goodness! Depending on your personal experiences or preferences, you may or may not be surprised at what the search term "Santa's Lap" brings up, particularly among the images!! Faced with the staggering variety of Santa fetishes and the BDSM camp's answer to politically correct salutaions: "Season's Beatings" - I promptly forgot what I was doing, but I am sure to have added my IP address to the official list of Electronic Enemies of a Wholesome Web (aka EEWW).

Refining my search terms a bit, I eventually, I learned that the 'truth' behind the 'news' story I heard had nothing to do with persistent psychological scarring resulting from being the vicitim of a collective lie perpetrated by parents and society. Rather, this exciting news flash had to do with increased transmission rates of swine flu. How disappointing.

So, what do you think? Does sitting on Santa's Lap lead to long-term abberations of social behaviour and a skewed outlook on male authority?

You be the judge:

(Note to Mom - Why didn't we shop at the mall with THIS Santa??!)

A Little Whinge About Time Off Work

2009-12-02T20:24:00.000-08:00

The relaxed Australian work ethic is a double edged sword when it comes to the Christmas Holidays. On the one hand, it is wonderful that the entire country essentially shuts down from December 24th until the end of January, allowing families to have quality time together while the kids are out of school for the summer.

But, if your reproductive decisions were influenced by the ability take adavantage of off-peak travel deals, when all the little ankle-biters are safely tucked away in classrooms, then being forced to use all of your accumulated leave during the time of year when demand is high and prices are even higher - totally sucks ass.

At least, it totally sucks ass when your employer doesn't bother to tell you that you will be forced to use all of your accumulated leave until three weeks before the fact! Especially if, five months earlier, you had already booked an outrageously short and expensive, mostly non-refundable consolation trip to Western Australia, when you would have much rather spent your precious time, not to mention your 20th wedding anniversary, with friends and family in the Northern hemisphere!

Fortunately, among the personality traits which I consider myself blessed to possess are elasticity and the ability to not be overly concerned about financial losses. In a few quick clicks our entire Christmas vacation was re-scheduled, re-routed, and re-financed.

So, who wants to join us in Reno on New Year's Eve for the proper celebration you were all denied two decades ago?

Jiminy!

2009-11-30T21:33:00.000-08:00

"What the HELL are you doing?!"

A startled scramble for the remote control and the TV blinks off, hissing with guilt...

"Nothing."

"You're busted! You were watching cricket."

"I was NOT watching The Cricket."

"You even said THE Cricket. You were SO watching cricket."

"No, I wasn't."

"Well, then what was that on the screen?"

"Cricket."

"So, you were watching cricket."

"No, I wasn't watching cricket. I was watching Chris Gayle."

"OH MY GOD - You even know their names!"

" Do you even know who Chris Gayle is?"

"No. And I don't care."

"Well, then go back to bed and leave me alone."

"Wait a minute...are you watching The Cricket without any pants on...?"

"mmmmaybe..."

Let the Mo Grow

2009-11-28T15:25:00.000-08:00

November is one of the best times of year here. Not only does my birthday land at the height of the Jacaranda Bloom – like the whole city is painted purple and green – but November is when the men of Sydney grow facial hair to raise awareness (and funds) for men’s health and depression. How nice that city should dedicate an entire month to my favorite sexual fetish!

The mustache is in short supply in Sydney for most of the year, as facial hair in general is not at all popular here, which makes participation Movember particularly noticeable. And the turnout rate this year was excellent.

While I do not have the official numbers, I predict a participation of about 20%, based on the average number of “pervs per minute” (or PPM) during my morning and evening commutes. PPM is calculated as the average number of eyebrow inflections expressed as a function of the number of passengers in a given train carriage, corrected for the number of involuntary frowns, and divided by 60 minutes, and mulitpied by 100 because it makes the number sound more important.

During a typical commute, I experience approximately 4-5 ppms, depending on the destination of my train, with the number of mullet-induced frowns reducing the apparent PPM on west-bound trains. During Movember, ppms increased to 6-7 pervs per minute, but overall rates only reflected a 20% increase due to the implementation of the new City Rail timetable, which significantly increased travel times.

Since Kevin usually sports a moustache, he did his part by letting his beard grow in. There is a lot more white in it than last time. Even the big face at the entrance to Luna Park did his bit this year.

Peer Pressure

2009-11-25T13:42:00.000-08:00

Aside from the occasional whinge about the facilities and the students, I don't share much about my professional life in the laboratory in this blog, mostly because I am not especially interested in it. Mind you, I love my job and the people I work with, I just don't want to bore the rest of you with details about the contributions to substrate specificity of extracellular loops of glycine transporters. I do however, like to comment on the bigger picture of what it is like to work in the world of research, particularly in the arena of academia, where the credo "Publish or Perish" weighs heavily on everyone.

But if a picture is worth a thousand words, this video says just about everything there is to say about the realities of peer-reviewed publication. I swear, we JUST had this exact same conversation in our lab this week...except my boss doesn't have a mustache...

Happy Birthday to Me!

2009-11-22T21:30:00.000-08:00

It’s not every day I get to sit on the toilet, look out the window and watch zebras and giraffes stroll by within smelling distance…And not only because I live on the 18th floor of my building and my toilet doesn’t actually face the window, but because I live in Australia, where strolling zebras and giraffes are generally in short supply.

A wonderful aspect of life in Australia is that one is expected to be the driving force behind one’s own birthday celebrations, and this year I chose to spend the 42 anniversary of my passage into the world at the Zoofari Lodge of the Taronga Western Plains Zoo in Dubbo, a sprawling sanctuary situated a mere seven hour train ride west of Sydney. I also opted to take the train, believeing that would be part of the fun - that is until we were seated in front of a fine example of bad parenting. Fortunately, Kevin didn't believe the conductor when he told us the train was fully booked, and we were able to move into a tranquil carriage where we were free to contemplate the gradual expansion of the landscape in relative serenity. (When we returned home, Kevin could not resist confirming that a one hour flight would have been well worth the extra Benjamin!) But still, train travel has a certain soothing romance that most certainly does not originate in the buffet car. Fortunately, I packed a lunch.

Later that night, as we boarded an air-conditioned safari bus, I pondered whether cheap Hollywood thrillers are based on experiences like this or if this experience was based on a cheap Hollywood thriller – The cast of characters was perfectly updated for the times: There were two fresh-faced German backpackers, a young slap-happy lesbian couple, a 70-something man with his 40-something wife and 10-something daughter, a high-strung too-black-haired insurance salesman from Brisbane and his fidgety animal-print clad too-blond wife, a young family dressed in natural fibers requiring gluten-free, non-dairy, bio-organic meals for their 8-year old son who frequently and flawlessly quoted David Attenborough yet stuck his fingers in his ears and screeched each time our guide started the bus, and of course there was the obnoxious American couple in loud shorts who will surely be the first to be eaten by any escaped carnivores…

…except THIS American couple wrote today's screenplay and know that the Sumatran tiger is going to devour the other bus filled with over-heated, over-fed, over-extended toddlers!

I wonder how much of the behind the scenes tours, the delicious candle-lit three course dinner, or the luxurious en-suite tent lodges will be stored in the memory banks of a 2 year old - and I suspect the stand out memory for their parents will be how their children screamed and crabbed and puked their way through a 43 degree day (and the better part of a 30 degree night).

Although I didn’t get to hear any koalas fucking during the night, I did get to see a two day old baby giraffe…

...and feed carrots to a grown up giraffe...

…and feed gum branches to an endangered Black Rhino…

…and watch a couple of 1400 KG hippos tip-toe out of the water for a feed…

…and get slobbered on by a timid African Bongo…

…and see a pack of wild African dogs rip apart some kangaroo breasts…

But my favorite part was listening to two Siamang Apes defend their territory with cacophonous, yet melodious and perfectly synchronized enthusiasm…

...kind of like KevinAndAudra on any given Saturday Night.

Click

2009-11-19T14:56:00.000-08:00

The majority, if not all, of American visitors to Australia generally make the same sets of observations regarding differences of cultural quirks, social etiquette, and the subtleties of economic scale, the latter frequently taking the form of the exclamatory question “Eighteen fucking dollars for a six pack of beer!?!?” The former may include comments about the sorrowful status of indigenous peoples, the domination of television programming by exotic and unfamiliar sports such as cricket, netball, and underwater men's doubles ping-pong, whether driving on the left side of the road is practical or suspect, and the unexpected British-ness of Australia in general. Indeed, this blog is largely dedicated to the dissection of such observations.

Yesterday, the third and final round of this year's international visitors departed after a 5 week whirlwind visit, and they of course made note of all of the above – with particular emphasis on the cost of goods and services. During their frequent and somewhat emotional rants about the price of mangoes or the wretched value-for-dollar ratio of accommodations, a strange thing happened to me. I found myself becoming increasingly defensive.

And when I observed that in myself, I heard and felt a distinct 'click' from deep within my chest, an irreversible and unexpected ratcheting sound, which both thrilled and frightened me at once.

The D-Bomb

2009-11-16T03:37:00.000-08:00

The names in this post have been changed to protect the innocent...or maybe to protect the guilty...I really don't know, and that's not meant to be the point of this essay anyway...

I found out to today that a couple I know have just split up. Although this event does not really impact me personally in any way – they don't even live on the same continent as me – I was surprised at how very deeply I felt the impact of this bombshell, and I spent the day in confounded contemplation of human circumstance, social institutions, and the practicality of making promises. I can't say I have come to any profound conclusions, but sometimes I feel the need to use my blog to satisfy my own selfish explorations, not just to entertain you all.

My musings have lead me to the following questions:

Does divorce really impact those on the periphery of the drama? And if so, Why and How?

Is it merely a matter of empathy, of being capable of imagining the turbulent emotions of despair, anxiety, and uncertainty – more than imagining them, but actually feeling them in the process of imagination? Is there truly any evolutionary advantage to experiencing the pain of this form of empathy?

Is it a matter of being then forced to examine one's own relationships, to question whether the certainty you believed existed elsewhere truly exists at all? It forces one to ponder the definition, permanence, and importance of love.

There is a popular notion that when a couple divorces, friends are ultimately forced to declare their loyalty to one 'side' or the 'other'. I am not sure I subscribe to this notion, but even the best attempts at neutrality will be undone by declaring approval or disappointment at any given set of behaviors exhibited by either party.

Of course, if children are involved, there must be discussions as to the definition of the phrase “best interests” - a useless conversation really, since, at some stage in their lives, your kids will blame you for the outcome of their childhood regardless of the decisions you made. This could just as easily take the form of the accusation “Well, if you had stayed together, I wouldn't have become a needy co-dependent!” as “Well, if you had gotten a divorce, I wouldn't be such a needy co-dependent!” In other words, your kids are already fucked up – but they will get over it, one way or another, so they probably shouldn't factor in to your decision making process. Ever. Except, perhaps, in the decision to have them at all...

My mind finally wound down to one simple conclusion that brought me a bit of peace and resolution, although it didn't exactly make me feel any better. Couples, and by extension families, are something much larger than their parts – they become an entity of their own. Where as there is “Kevin” and there is “Audra”, there is also “Kevin-and-Audra” and “Kevin-and-Audra” has its own quirky personality and storyline, its own charms, idiosyncrasies, and annoying habits .

There are socially accepted mechanisms and rituals for acknowledging and mourning the loss of individuals, but it is much harder to express one's sorrow at the loss of the super-being that is created by a shared trajectory, a simple ceremony, and a piece of paper filed at the Nevada State Registrar's office.

Hey....maybe I should start a memorial park called Splitsville, where people could go when they are feeling lonely and place flowers (or bodily fluids, depending on the circumstances of the final court decisions) on little tombstones of sorts. I would charge a modest annual maintenance fee to have the benches painted once a year and to pay for advertising in the back of Women's Weekly. It would be a great place for teetotalling divorcees to trawl for dates...meanwhile, Kevin-and-Audra will be heading off to wine country to celebrate 20 years of idiot-syncrasy.

The Dark Trunk

2009-11-08T07:24:00.000-08:00

In the earliest stages of our research involving relocation to Australia, I was warned of rampant and pervasive sexism, evidenced by an anecdote in which the narrator's wife was treated poorly by a mechanic who condescendingly insisted on speaking with her husband regarding all matters automotive. I have encountered occasional comments about feminine frailty, mostly from crusty old bartenders or tradesmen and usually suggesting that I have an inherent inability to manage my own finances due to a weakness for shopping. These are easily dismissed with a wink and a confession regarding the performance of my stock portfolio.

However, for the most part, I find that Australian men are fiercely proud of successful, strong willed women and quite supportive of their accomplishments, particularly in the sporting arena, but also in science and politics. Not that I care much for the opinions of think tanks, but the World Economic Forum recently ranked Australia 20th in gender equality (with Iceland in the number one spot, prompting one to seriously ponder the phrase “relative to opportunity”.)

Despite the global ranking, I count myself very fortunate to have found an excellent auto mechanic. He is not condescending in the least, and seems to value my assessment of what might be wrong when I bring my little beater in for diagnosis of her frequent and mysterious ailments. Yesterday, he let me help him track down an electrical malfunction, called me savvy, and gave me a detailed explanation on the subtleties of proper alternator function. I actually had quite a bit of fun, playing with the circuit tester and locating various fuses and switches throughout the car.

Then he charged me $88 to remove the light bulb from my boot.

The Audra-city of Hope

2009-11-03T12:01:00.000-08:00

I always imagined that hope would sound like an angel choir or an orchestra of strings lead by a single flute or perhaps like an enthusiastic song bird on a fence post chirping across a meadow blanketed with thick snow...but it doesn't hope makes the sound:

“Hisssssssssss. Ka-chunk! Whirrr.”

Hope is a cruel mistress who seduces you into dangerous situations even though your clumsy conscience is silently screaming “She is lying! Take the bus!”

“Attention passengers on the North Shore train on Platform 16. Sorry for the delay. The signal failures in North Sydney have been resolved. We should have you home shortly.”

Twenty minutes later, the train has crawled through the city stations emerging into the sweltering evening sun light on the Harbour Bridge where a slight breeze seeps through the sliver-thin slices of space that pass for windows. The carriages are stuffed with moist and cranky passengers, fervently fanning themselves with complimentary newspapers – perhaps the most value they have ever gotten from the M X. I have sacrificed my seat to a grateful old woman with puffy arms and swollen ankles. I stretch my arm between passengers to grasp a section of the hot metal pole, steeling myself against a faint. At least I am not wearing a suit and tie.

Then the train stops. It just stops.

There is nowhere to put your eyes on a crowded train, and everyone glances around nervously, constantly shifting their focus. No one wants to be caught staring, but everyone needs to witness the agony of our shared suffering. It is too hot to chat and break the tension of our collective annoyance. Mobile phones chime incessantly with fervent messages to loved ones waiting at stations down the line. Bet their cars are nice and cool.

2 minutes. Beads of moisture trickle down my rib cage. 5 minutes. My skirt is sticking to my thighs. 10 minutes. My hair is drenched. 20 minutes. I contemplate removing my under-garments. 30 minutes. My teeth are sweating.

“Hisssssssssss. Ka-chunk! Whirrr.”

Suddenly, every face brightens at the sound of the brakes releasing their death grip on the stalled train. The glorious sound of acceleration lurches us forward bringing a small rush of fresh air down the vents. Then...

“Grrrrr, Squeeeeeeeeeeeeel. Ka-Thunk!”

The brakes lock into place and the once ebullient train slams to a stifling halt.

Despair sounds exactly like I had always imagined.

Coffee Break

2009-10-19T15:15:00.000-07:00

Who knew that currawongs also enjoy a refreshing affogato?

Double Down

2009-10-16T02:30:00.001-07:00

"Now Serving: numb-brr...twenty-aight...at...win-doh...nigh-en-teen."

"Good Morning. I should like to have my licenc(s)e back, please."

"Did you lose it?"

"Sort of. I mean, I know where it went. I just don't have it."

Australian driving privileges are linked to a point-based demerit system whereby various offences are assigned arbitrary penalties based on their heinousness. Holiday weekends automatically double the heinousness of any given infraction - as if God and Queen are especially put out when you get a little enthusiastic with the accelerator pedal on their respective birthdays. However, some transgressions are serious enough to warrant instant, and I mean INSTANT suspension of said privileges. For example, exceeding the posted speed limit by more than 45 km per hour in a rented BMW Z4...

Six months and sixteen hundred and seventy-four dollars later, I entered the tidy offices of the RTA (DMV) to request reinstatement of my privileges only to discover that, in addition to the penalties I had already suffered, my speeding violation also netted me six demerit points. However, since my transgression occurred on Easter Monday (that's an official calendar day), I had automatically reached the critical threshold resulting in an additional 3 month suspension.

"Can't I get credit for time served? Isn't it unconstitutional to penalize me twice for the same violation?"

"Sorry, our constitution does not include provisions for the rights of individuals. However, you may apply for a good behaviour bond. That will be twenty-two dollars, please."

So I made an oath before God and Queen, not to receive any demerit points for the next 12 months. If I blow it, my penalty is doubled and I will lose my licens(c)e for an additional 6 months.

Have I ever mentioned how much gambling is woven into the fabric of Australian society?

Consider it mentioned.

2009-10-04T14:25:00.001-07:00

The sun shines in my sister's smile, and now she has taken it back to California with her along with Eddie and Mom, leaving me shadowless under low dark clouds full of mist. She also left me with her cold, so three days of dreary wet weather over this long Labour Day Weekend are not entirely unwelcome. The gloom suits my current disposition and affords me the luxury of sleeping late without waking to piercing yellow rays at 5:30 am. Still - I am getting a little stir-crazy and expect the Cat in the Hat to show up any moment, even though it already looks as if Thing 1 and Thing 2 have ravaged the apartment.

"But wait?" the observant reader might ask, "Didn't your mother visit you just last month?"

Yes. Isn't she awesome?

The original plan had been for Mom, Dad, Brother, Sister, and Brother-in-law to arrive en masse for ten days of familial vacation chaos, but inconveniences of employment resulted in a scheduling conflict, and Mom decided to come twice...(er, I don't think I care for that sentence). At any rate, I reckon 7 people in a 2 bedroom apartment would have been as taxing on our collective patience as on our plumbing.

I had grand plans of merging the photostreams of the dual visitations into some sort of grandiose presentation that would fully capture the magnitude of emotion and entertainment experienced during those busy few weeks, but this cold has side-swiped my attention span and sapped my creativity, and I need to save my strength for the next round of visitors in two weeks time! Stay tuned.

However, I did manage to upload some snapshots for those of you who are interested in seeing my family make goofy faces at random locations throughout the Sydney Surrounds.

A Time to Eat, A Time to Beat

2009-09-15T16:25:00.000-07:00

I've gotten pretty good at NOT accepting the truckloads of magazines, adverts, and flyers that are thrust into my hands each morning as I make my way across the city. But, when a pretty young girl dressed as a caricature of a hippy - headband, love beads, and a t-shirt that resembled the floor of my shower in the 70's - handed me a small baggy of green leafy substance, instinct over-ruled reason. I thrust the herb deep into my pocket and walked away as she flashed me a peace sign. I felt a shiver of disturbance, like someone had just blown up a small planet, but pushed it deep into my gut and went about my day.

Later, that same disturbance welled up from the depths of my bowels and glowered at me in the form of a commercial interruption. Hippies from all directions congregated on my television screen, strumming guitars and flittering about to the gentle strains of The Byrds as billows of sweet smelling smoke engulfed their heads and obscured their vision of their hand painted combi-van.

I reached into my pocket to inspect my herbal parcel. Rosemary. I returned my attention to the love-in, which was, in fact, an Aussie BBQ.

These bloody hippies want me to eat Spring Lamb!

And yet...

Life is Just a Fantasy

2009-09-10T15:50:00.000-07:00

Aside from the dull ache of missing family and friends, the most lingering pangs of homesickness arise from feeling ostracized from the NFL. Sure, we are able to occasionally catch a game at the pub - and this year a new television channel promises to deliver three games per week directly into our living room at more appropriate hours - but what we do not get is all the commentary and analysis that makes it possible to watch the games with insight and emotional investment. Also, the games just don't 'feel' right when they are interrupted by Australian commercials that frequently malign American culture to make their point.

So this year, in an effort to feel more involved, I joined a Fantasy Football League. My excitement has been escalating steadily ever since. I even got up at 1:30 in the morning to participate in a live draft and chat with the other owners in my league, who were impressed by my dedication, even as they snatched all of my top player picks away from me. I had been warned that participation in a Fantasy League can quickly border on obsession, and the warning was entirely justified.

My excitement spilled over this morning when I awoke to the crashing sounds of the recycling truck at 5:30. I leapt from my bed, took a pass on a shower so I could catch an early train, and slid through the still-sleeping city so I could get my work done before the 10:30 am kick off of the season opener. As a cherry on top, my wonderful Canadian friend turned me onto a web site that streams every game - LIVE - and with real American commercials.

Now I can get all the commentary and analysis I can stomach, right from the comfort of my desk. Unfortunately, I cannot drink beer at work!

So, as soon as Kevin gets here, I am slipping off to the pub for an early extended lunch.

About the American Consulate

2009-09-01T11:42:00.000-07:00

Last week, I had occasion to visit the American Consulate, an experience I hope never to repeat as it lies on the pleasure scale somewhere between a trip to the DMV and having jalapeno juice applied to ones genitals. As I suspected, our 8 am 'appointment' was merely permission to come stand in line. Following a full body cavity search and a stroll through a metal detector, we were stripped of our worldly possessions and directed to a row of neatly arranged chairs. When the front row filled up, an armed security guard ushered them out of the room and harshly directed the remaining rows to move forward in a clumsy game of musical chairs with everyone clamoring to gain a more favorable position during the transition.

At last, we ourselves made it to the front row - in the second and third chair (woohoo!) and were soon escorted from the room into a secured elevator which brought us with alarming alacrity to the 59th floor, where we passed through yet another metal detector positioned in front of the world's heaviest door. All that jockeying for position was lost as we were instructed to take a numbered ticket and wait in the stifling heat of air that has been recirculated through 59 levels of public servants. Despite having passed through two metal detectors, the window agents still resided behind several inches of bullet proof glass. I was consumed by warm-fuzzy feelings of patriotism.

But then I got distracted by the view. The slant morning sun shimmered on the calm waters of the harbour. I traced the foamy remnants of the wake of the Manly Ferry as it snaked its way toward the heads. My gaze drifted out over the ocean, and I swore I caught a glimpse of the Golden Gate bobbing just over the horizon.

Our task at the consulate seemed relatively uncomplicated - we just needed some documents notarized (because the $480 charged for 6 stamps from an Australian ~~transportee~~ solicitor were unsatisfactory, possibly even illegal) in support of an attempt to refinance our home in the US...I am too strung out to rant about the stressful process of trying to find an underwriter who could not only appreciate the fact that a lower interest loan that will save us $160,000 over 15 years is indeed less risky than the loan we currently have, but who also knew how to recognize foreign income...funny thing is, I just know Chase will end up buying this loan anyway...bastards...where was I...oh yes, the consulate.

Unbeknownst to us, in addition to providing services to American citizens living over seas, the Consulate is where people go to get their visas sorted for travel to the US. It is also where people go to have their half-caste children documented such that they can be liable for future taxes to two governments at once - a process which clearly requires stacks of paperwork and a great deal of bitching and whingeing to the unflappable civil servants wisely housed behind several inches of bullet proof glass.

Eventually, our number was called and we passed our documents through a small slit in the counter where they were immediately dispersed among no less than six staff members in a flurry of un-stapling, paper-clipping, re-stapling, stamping, and signing. We became increasingly skeptical that our paperwork would return to us in any sort of order or completeness, but we shelled out another $150 anyways...a comparatively modest investment in optimism.

It was still quite early by the time we emerged into the shady cool air at street level, but I felt like I had already had a very full day. How exhausting to spend two hours on American soil in the heart of Sydney! I briefly weighed the glory of the panoramic view against the gore of shuffling papers and being screamed at by expatriates all day, and was suddenly grateful for my career of choice. I was also suddenly grateful to be born American - I would never have the patience or perseverance to apply for that privilege.

Taken to the Cleaners

2009-08-29T01:06:00.000-07:00

If you follow this blog closely, then you may know that at the conclusion of their ten day visit, my father bought me a lovely bouquet of lilies. For the last week and a half, I have been enjoying their softly scented blooms. Then last night, as their blooms began to droop, I stripped the stalks of their petals to adorn our weekly candle-lit bath (the candles were more carefully arranged this week). The next morning, the tub was trimmed with a receding series of orange lines from the abundant pollen.

Later that morning, we took delivery of our new front loading washing machine – much to the apparent amusement of our cat:

When she finally tired of watching the clothes go 'round, she promptly urinated on our bed. Under normal circumstances, this would be a death sentence, but it quickly became evident that she was in severe distress, attempting to urinate in unusual locations without success nearly every five minutes for the next hour.

“Let's just monitor her for the next 48 hours.”

“My Poor Baby!” exclaimed her concerned 'father'...

...so, we're at the vet...

And the office is wall-papered with posters declaring the unique toxicity of lilies upon cats and how renal failure will lead to lethal consequences within 3-7 days.

“Based on everything you have told me, I diagnose an acute case of aseptic cystitis and recommend a course of muscle relaxants and pain killers, plus an additional injection of pain killers. And you should switch her to an exclusive diet of wet food - or ground kangaroo if she prefers it. Also, it would be a good idea if you relocated the clothes washer and possibly booked her into a weekly massage appointment accompanied by some acupuncture to re-align her feline chakras. However, if you'd like, we can do a blood test to check for lily poisoning, and if it is positive, we can put her on a 24-hr drip and monitor her slow but inevitable decline so that she dies with dignity – but I am pretty sure it is just aseptic cystitis brought on by all the recent upsets in her life.”

“Did you just charge me $166 to diagnose my cat with stress?”

“Well, yes.”

“How about you give ME an injection of pain killers and a prescription for muscle relaxants and keep the fucking cat.”

The Flavours of Mexico Down Under

2009-08-25T02:45:00.000-07:00

“So, are you going to blog about THIS?”

“Ouch. My Grandma reads this blog…Ouch…Your sister and your cousin read this blog…Ouch…They don’t want to read about THIS.”

“That’s what I said, but you blogged about THAT!”

“Yeah. Ouch. But THAT was funny. Ouch.”

“THIS is funny.”

“Not from my point of view. Ouch. Hand me another ice cube.”

“See what you get for taking matters into your own hands.”

“I was just helping. Owwwie. You’re lucky I wasn’t feeling more generous.”

“Next time, wash your hands after you dice Jalapenos.”

Departure Taxes

2009-08-18T21:54:00.000-07:00

I broke down when I walked through the door, returning from the airport, and smelled the reminder of this morning's coffee. PapaJon wasn't swaying in the kitchen eating grapes. MommaLinda wasn't knitting on the couch frowning over the Australian news (or lack there of). BadBoyLee wasn't hiding in the bedroom chatting online with his pretty girlfriend. The Cat is still hiding under the bed. The house feels empty, like a hunger pang.

I walked from room to room, sobbing and looking for clues that they had really been here, then cried harder when I saw the flowers in the kitchen, even harder when I spotted the Benefiber. I fired up the computer to get on to my blog and write something good and mushy to make myself feel better, but before I could switch the television over to the PC, I froze.

Channel One was rebroadcasting the Swans vs Geelong footy game we all went to on Saturday Night. We were sitting in the endzone 11 rows from the field - one row behind the cheering section that waves red and white flags whenever something meaningful happens. I stared at the screen until the Swans eventually attempted to score and the camera quickly panned around to our seats.

I could pick us out!

And then it was like we were all together again, right here in my living room hanging out and having so much fun that my sides still ache from laughter.

And from LOVE.

Until this....

The Brazilian

2009-08-07T16:41:00.000-07:00

Occasionally I am asked - usually by young girls with stars in their eyes - what is the secret to sustaining a twenty year marriage. Depending on my mood, I may stammer something about stubbornness or spite or maybe try to explain my theories on pheromones, neural plasticity, and chemical bonding. But, in truth, I am just as surprised as anyone at the longevity of my relationship and I often sit stunned with slack-jawed awe as I reflect on all of our travails and adventures.

If pressed further, I am forced to conclude that the simple reason for the success of our marriage is that we have fun together. Our type of fun is certainly not for everyone, but it suits us perfectly. We spend most of our time playing together, telling private jokes and sharing secrets.

For example, last night, I drew a hot perfumed bath and littered the bathroom with candles, dozens and dozens of them on every surface. It was breath-takingly romantic and we soaked away the cares of the week in luminous bliss.

But all it takes is one little misstep to drastically alter the mood of the evening!

Twenty minutes later - after I put out the small fire in the bathroom - and after I had recovered from the peals of gut wrenching laughter that gripped my mid-section - and after Kevin stopped running up and down the hallway yelling "Ow! My Balls!" - but not until I got permission to relate this anecdote to my blogging audience - I tenderly, yet sardonically, performed the sort of ministrations that bond lovers together.

And make for great stories to tell his boss at the next company Christmas party.

T minus 7 Days and Counting

2009-08-01T15:17:00.000-07:00

I just watched a Qantas jet drift across clear blue morning skies and, depspite the fact that I have been making plans for 5 months, I suddenly feel entirely unprepared!

So here are some random thoughts to get YOU ready, in the hopes that will make ME feel ready.

WARDROBE

Weather is unpredictable - thin layers are your best friend. Days have been mild - mid 60's. The sun is bloody hot, even on cool days, but a chill settles in at dusk. Scarves work miracles in this city, and seem to be standard issue and certainly most fashionable. The footy game is at night and will require getting rugged up. Hats are good, especially on sunny walks. I recommend undershirt, long sleeve shirt, thin sweater, topped with a light jacket for ultimate versatility and responsiveness.

We have a pool/spa, and if you are the sort who feels obligated to swim in foreign seas, then don't forget to bring your swimmers and your heart medication, and possibly a shark suit.

Comfortable foot wear is essential as there will be a LOT of walking. I hope you have been practicing.

Bring at least one suave ensemble for a nice dinner or Thursday Night Pub Crawl.

ELECTRONICS

Australia is 220v with a different plug interface with a racially insensitive nick name. We have 1 plug adapter, but could probably use another - they can be bought at the airport for about $12. Most things with rechargeable batteries will run here - check the power supply to make sure it is 110-240v. (Lee, can you check Mom and Dad's stuff for them? They probably won't be able to read it...)

THE FLIGHT

Do you all have your ETA's??

It is a long hard flight. Wear loose comfortable clothes and avoid seams wherever possible. Going commando is advisable, unless you suffer from leaky sphincters. Carry as little with you as really necessary - but eye drops are a god send if you plan on watching 14 hours of in-flight entertainment. A full size pillow is a wonderful luxury on the plane, especially if you are particular about pillows. (Ours are pretty crap and we may not have enough either). I find that raising your arm rests during the flight creates more space and eliminates hard surfaces that cause bruising.

Reserving an aisle seat and a window seat will sometimes net you an empty middle seat, but since there are three of you travelling, one of you might get stuck in the middle. Aisle seats are great if you like to get up and down a lot - which is highly advisable. If you do get stuck in a middle seat, try to get one between two asian girls, as they don't take up as much space as Norwegian men, although they do tend to snore. There are often enitre empty rows towards the back of the plane, so be sure to flirt with the sky waitresses and scope out alternative seating arrangements as soon as the cabin doors are closed. Real estate is the biggest in-flight luxury and there is a mad scramble to claim empty spaces as soon as the seat belt light is switched off.

Exit rows may have more leg room, but the seats have serious disadvantages. They are usually in front of the galley or the toilet, so you get a lot of people milling around sticking their but in your face (and farting, if it is someone like Kevin). The ride is smoother towards the front of the plane, and the section over the wing is the strongest part of the aircraft. I like to sit just in front of the exit row over the wing, reasoning that if the plane rips in half on take off, I should be able to climb out fairly easily.

ARRIVAL

When you get off the plane, you will pass through immigration to the baggage claim area. Grab a free luggage cart then start crashing it into large sleepy families wandering in a cranky daze, because fifteen flights from 11 different countries all landed at the exact same time. Collect your luggage and get into the wrong line to enter customs. Hand your customs declaration form to the friendly unintelligible employee standing near the turnstiles, who may or may not mark it with a high lighter, but most certainly will direct you to another line.

Be sure to claim any food on your customs card. You may bring in 250 cigarettes, 2.25 L of alcohol (preferably Vodka, and maybe a bottle of Kahlua), and 2 large cans of tomatillos. Sorry, no carne asada or pickled eggs. Also, make sure your shoes are not dirty. And don't bring any heroin or Australian Flags.

I will try to be waiting for you after customs, but there are four different gates and no way for me to know which gate you will exit, and the exit area is mad-house cluster-fuck of screaming children, hugging travellers, and runaway luggage. If I am not standing right there, proceed directly out of the terminal through the nearest exit. In front of you will be a very large parking garage. At the corner of this garage is a cafe next to some benches and some sort of public art that Kevin said was meant to be boomerangs, but I couldn't see it. Meet me there for hugs and kisses.

Economy of Scale

2009-07-30T13:15:00.000-07:00

“It feels like Texas just has more space than most other states.”

More than a mere geographical statistic, my statement was meant to confer my feelings about the sheer scale of development in Texas. The adage states that 'Everything is bigger in Texas', and that certainly applies to roads, parking lots, and plates of food. I had not realized just how accustomed I had become to the compact landscape of my antipodean urban existence, where a 15 minute walk can take you to another suburb, past stores, neighborhoods, and parks. In suburban Dallas, it would take 20 minutes just to cross the street – which contains three larges lanes in each direction, plus two left turn lanes and a dedicated right turn pocket, and may even have an extra access road on either side to help ease congestion. I nearly had an agoraphobic panic attack driving across a 25 story freeway interchange that consumed more real estate that the entire business district of Sydney.

The old adage certainly applies to Kevin's family. The portraits taken at the reunion were veritable pyramids of aunts stacked upon children stacked upon cousins stacked upon more cousins. The adage also applied to the buffet table which sagged under the weight of delectable barbequed chicken, sausage, and brisket, platters of potato salad, green beans, fried okra, and a salad topped with Frito corn chips! Already verging on a diabetic coma from the sweet Texas tea, I was unable to indulge in the enormous dessert that was as familiar to everyone as it was anonymous. I named it “Blueberry Sprawl”.

I reckon that Kevin's family has become so accustomed to his absence that they may even forget to miss him. I am certain it never occurred to his brother or his sisters that he might show up from some far corner of the planet. The look on his Mother's face when she turned around and saw him standing in front of her immediately counterbalanced the expense and effort of the journey.

Only in Texas could a single moment be so big.

20 Hours to Texas

2009-07-25T01:37:00.000-07:00

I really should be asleep, seeing as I have to wake up in 5 hours, but it feels like seven o’clock at night, and I am all wound up from the excitement of travel, and Kevin bought me a cool new miniature computer and I cannot resist playing with it, especially since our hotel has FREE broadband internet (Australia, are you listening?)

Maybe we had simply braced ourselves for the worst, but our trip here was incredibly smooth, possibly even pleasant. I was very pleased with the quality of Virgin Airlines to LAX. Not only was there heaps of space in the seats – enough to cross your legs – the toilets featured a well-considered soundtrack. At first I found it a bit disconcerting to urinate whilst the vocalist shouted “I see you baby, shaking that ass” and I did not especially like hearing “Burning Ring of Fire” on an airplane, but it is a great song to crap to!...and I said as much on the comment card.

Descending into LAX was emotional, if not smoggy and monochromatic…nothing that couldn’t be cured by a plate of nachos and some Dos Equis. The flight to Dallas was uneventful, save for the old Mexican woman sitting next to me who prayed the whole way and held my hand during take off. Unexpectedly yet delightfully, we were greeted at the airport by Kevin’s cousin Michelle and one of her many sons (I’m never going to keep all the names straight this weekend!) She drove us directly to a gas station convenience store that sold beer – but only until Midnight! Instead, we stocked up on Cheetos, Beef Jerky, Fritos, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and mixers for all of our duty free purchases.

The air outside is thick and delicious, heavy with summer and the chirping of cricket bugs. I just want to stay up and soak it all in, to breathe in the flavor of middle America…but Kevin just reminded me it is close to 4 am…so I must try to sleep…

Two Things in Life are Certain: Death and Texas

2009-07-23T15:41:00.000-07:00

It feels incredibly opulent to say "We're going to Texas for the weekend."

Airfares being a hard-hit victim of the GFC, it really isn't all that extravagant of an expense. Time is the luxury that is lacking from our lives, from most lives. We never have as much of it as we want, even though we squander it on long commutes and Simpsons re-runs.

So, rejecting the constraining notion of 'enough time', we are embarking on a cyclone visit to the land of the Lonely Star. Kevin has not exactly maintained close ties with his extended family, but through the magic of My Face or Space Book, or whatever its called, he has recently reconnected and reconciled. Thus, he could not resist the chance to be the surprise mystery guest at a family reunion.

I figure, that if he had been close to his family, the cost of visits over Christmas and Thanksgiving over the last 20 years would certainly exceed the cost of this little junket. Really, I am getting a bargain, and I only have to spend a weekend in Dallas. Besides, I would gladly fork over 2 grand right now just to eat at Taco Bell.

Seriously, though, I love visiting Texas. It is a special state, prideful and gregarious. We are looking forward to a little shopping and a lot of eating. Kevin has been sending me menus from a place near our (well appointed yet incredibly affordable) hotel called Love and War in Texas. I print them out and hide in the bathroom, secretly pleasuring myself as I read them. We are both very excited about the reunion. It will be the first time all of his siblings have been in the same room together in 35 years.

And you cannot put a price on that!

Gulag Fondu

2009-07-19T02:45:00.000-07:00

The surest way for me to conjure up something remarkably photographic is to decide to leave my camera at home. But really, how could I have predicted that we would encounter members of the CCP butchering compassionate truthful idealists for the purpose of selling their internal organs on the back of a flatbed truck rolling down Haymarket Street followed by a troupe of skip-stepping percussionists dressed in red and yellow silk.

“Forget it, Jake. It’s Chinatown.”

I am no fan of communist China and their dismal human rights record, so I was instantly sympathetic to the plight of the protestors, assuming that they were some ethnic minority getting squeezed by the government. I was mildly less supportive when a volunteer working the end of the parade thrust a brochure in my hand and explained that the Falun Gong (aka Falun Dafa), were in fact a new religion based on the teachings of the Buddha introduced into China in 1992 to the brutal reception of the current regime.

“Why would the government target the Falun Gong for organ harvesting? Wouldn't they just kill anyone for that?”

“Maybe because they are Buddhists and their organs carry their good karma and outlaw spirituality into the high ranking party officials who receive them?”

Mind you, I am, just as skeptical of new religions as I am of the classics, but I most certainly do not support religious intolerance. But how American…how Western of me…that it never occurred to me that a cult could center around the Buddha…well according to the government anyway.

Mighty convenient, that word, when you need to get rid of a nuisance…cult.

Good Food and Wine...well, wine anyway

2009-07-05T14:19:00.000-07:00

“I what? That doesn't sound like me..."”

“You were! You were totally excited when I told you I had front row tickets to see Gordon Ramsay at the Good Food and Wine Show!”

“Really?? Because I am having a hard time imagining myself being excited about that. I barely know who he is. I’ve never even seen him on television. Wait - was I drinking?”

“Well, yeah…duh.”

“OK, that kind of explains it.”

“So, do you still want to go see Gordon Ramsay?”

“ABSOLUTELY!! If nothing else, it will be totally bloggable!” (I didn’t actually say that last bit, I just like the way it sounds now…)

Throughout modern history, there have always been famous chefs, but the recent phenomenon of the 'Celebrity Chef' is quite a curiosity. I love to watch cooking shows, but for me the food itself is the main attraction. I want a chef to explain the scientific subtleties of food preparation and presentation, not simper for the camera and recite carefully rehearsed sound-bites. I particularly dislike 'reality' style shows that exploit regrettable human behavior and encourage collective condemnation of contestants at 55 cents per SMS.

Gordon Ramsay moved to the number one slot on the National Shit List a few weeks ago when he insulted Tabloid TV Host Tracy Grimshaw. Personally, I think anyone should be granted total impunity to say anything at all about Tabloid TV Hosts, but Australians get particularly defensive when a Pommie Bastard is attacking one of their own. So strong was the public response against Gordon Ramsay, that I thought for sure everyone would forsake their $27 ticket in boycott. I was flabbergasted by the size of crowd that filled the enormous theater erected inside of the Sydney Convention Center. Despite not giving a shit about Gordon Ramsay, I suddenly felt very privileged to be sitting in the front row.

He began the show with a few modestly acceptable jokes about the Prime Minister and a back-handed apology for his earlier rude remarks against Ms Grimshaw. The audience groaned with tentative forgiveness when he claimed he had learned his lesson not to take on the Sheilas. However, absolution was soon revoked when he cast aspersions on the talents of home-grown culinary darling Jamie Oliver.

I am sure he is a fine cook, but I still cannot comprehend exactly why he has achieved celebrity status. His charm is inversely proportional to his arrogance, and his sense of humor is somewhat stunted. I hear women describe him as incredibly sexy, but I don't see it (but then, I don't care for blondes). My current working hypothesis is that he reminds women of Sting, and since they like Sting, they like Gordon Ramsay by association.

The rest of the Good Food and Wine Show was a feast of free samples, tastings, and give-aways designed to populate marketing lists. Thanks to Devona's tactical navigational skills, we were able to do two complete circuits of the exhibitor hall before the aisles were clogged with tipsy conventioneers frantically waving tasting glasses and grabbing handfuls of roasted organic almonds.

One of the highlights of the event is the opportunity to purchase 'show bags' - large sacks filled with samples of pasta sauce, instant soup, and Korean energy drinks. There were show bags of cheese, chocolate, olives, and canned mushrooms from Indonesia. Towards the end of the afternoon, I nearly collapsed from exhaustion, having been pummeled repeatedly by other people's show bags as they elbowed past me to watch the Miracle Shammy demonstration.

The Good Food and Wine Show may be disguised as a trade show of the culinary arts, but, like most events in Australia, it is really just a good excuse to spend an entire day grazing and drinking huge amounts of wine.

Sometimes, I feel so at home in this country!

About Mature Themes and Sexual References

2009-07-04T14:37:00.000-07:00

"Can you recall the last time you were flipping through channels on free-to-air-TV in America and your screen was suddenly filled with an enormous erect black penis?"

The Federal Government is going to extreme ends to protect us from intentionally accessing objectionable content over the internet...not that there is anything objectionable about an enormous erect black penis, per se, other than the surprise of finding one unexpectedly in my living room. Aside from the occasional misleading email attachment, I seldom click on links that lead me to enormous erect black penises by accident. You pretty much have to go looking for them. Under normal browsing conditions enormous erect black penises do not just suddenly pop onto ones screen. Yet, my only 'protection' at home is a brief disclaimer whispered at the beginning of a potentially objectionable program - wholly inadequate under the circumstances.

Stupid nanny government.

And might I add: damn!*

*please pronounce with three syllables

About Australian Affability

2009-07-02T20:49:00.001-07:00

“I’m not trying to pick up on your wife – I really am a poofter.” said the well coiffed gentleman as he swished into a seat at our table, his Cosmopolitan sloshing over the rim.

With an assumed intimacy, we fell into easy banter, swapping stories about art, musicals, and what it might be like to be fingered by an elephant. There was no exchange of the meaningless small talk such as “What do you do?” or “Where are you from?” that often passes between strangers who are fully aware they will never meet again and who don’t really care about the answers to those questions anyway, but cannot think of anything interesting to say. For 45 minutes and two rounds of Cosmos, we were completely immersed in the mutual pleasure of each other’s company unconcerned for the future while cherishing the past as a source of amusing anecdotes about obsessive lovers and bad haircuts. Then we kissed and hugged goodbye and ventured off to our own separate lives.

For Kevin and I, there is nothing extraordinary about such an encounter. We often attract the company of quirky characters and love to share in feisty conversation. However, THIS encounter WAS extraordinary because in the 2 and ½ years we have been in Australia this was the first and only time an Australian has initiated congenial meaningless conversation with us under such circumstances.

I do not mean to imply that Australians are in anyway unfriendly, but there is a marked cultural difference when it comes to affable discourse between complete strangers. Australians are pleasant and helpful enough, but not in the least bit forthcoming, as if their privacy needs careful guarding in public. Being one who always speaks to strangers (usually in intimate tones and about personal matters), I can always be sure that if someone on the train is chatting me up, they are probably not native. This topic arises frequently among the Yanks Down Under when they are in the mood for a whinge, often commenting about the difficulty of making friends here.

In contrast, I have heard many accounts from Australians in the US who feel overwhelmed by the outgoing nature of Americans. Just as I feel alienated that transactions are conducted with a minimum of chit-chat, they feel annoyed that clerks and wait staff inquire after their well-being and wish them a nice day. For example:

This chattiness extended to people on the street or fellow customers in shops or
waiting in queues. Strangers seemed to have no hesitation in offering directions
if we seemed uncertain which way to go, or in offering opinions or comments
about events. I was browsing in Good Will one day when a woman near me suddenly
held out a small vase towards me and commented on how attractive it was and what
a nice gift it would make. Things like this do happen in Australia too, but they
seemed to happen more often in the US, and at more unexpected moments.

This phenomenon underscores both the difficulty and significance of an expatriate experience. Although I have gained an appreciation for the simple misunderstandings that can arise out of different cultural perspectives on propriety, in the day-to-day living, I often feel isolated and hopelessly foreign. But last night, for 45 minutes at least, I felt the warmth of simple companionship and fleeting camaraderie.

And learned some very raunchy jokes.

About Australian Political Scandals

2009-06-25T23:42:00.001-07:00

One might be tempted to describe his death as ‘untimely’…unless, that is, one has an over-active imagination that favors conspiracy theories.

Although Australian political scandals are not especially scandalous, they are remarkably entertaining. The persons involved clamber over each other to gain access to the nation’s top journalists so that they may hurl colorful epithets, each demanding the resignation of the others. Parliamentary sessions devolve into flurry of posturing and squawking that more resembles a flock of sea gulls bickering over a bag of soggy chips than any form of actual governance. The coverage of these scandals usually drag on ad nauseum for weeks until someone actually does resign, or until some other more exciting news story bumps the scandal out of the limelight.

I won’t bore you with the details of the current scandal (dubbed ‘OzCar’ by the media, or alternatively “Ute Gate” by traditionalists who clearly believe any proper political scandal must pay homage to the grand-daddy of all political scandals), because, well, they are boring – no stained dresses or pain killer addictions or duck islands. At the center of the maelstrom is a very sorry looking accountant with the incredibly unfortunate, but amazingly appropriate moniker Godwin Grech.

Whatever the details of who gave whom a new truck in exchange for favorable consideration, or who fabricated an email, or who leaked it to the media, one thing is clear: poor Godwin Grech is going to take the fall.

Unless, of course, some other totally outrageous and enthralling news story should happen to crop up and dominate every spare second of media coverage to the exclusion of all accusations and allegations…something big, like oh say, three weeks of hyped-up coverage of candle light vigils, sobbing fans in sparkly gloves tossing long stem white roses onto the steps of the Capitol Records Building, and endless career retrospectives curiously devoid of the mention of plastic surgery, child molestation, and Priscilla Presley.

Now, I am not saying that Mr. Grech actually engineered a cardiac arrest from 7,000 miles away as a mere diversion, but the coincidence of timing is as auspicious as it is suspicious. If I were the Prime Minister, I would call for an inquiry immediately.

Blogger's Guilt

2009-06-20T16:43:00.000-07:00

...not to be confused with Blogger's Remorse - which can be effectively treated with a quick click of the delete button.

I am actively fighting off a bad case of Blogger's Guilt. I know I cause disappointment when I do not post with a reasonable degree of frequency. However, feeling guilt over something I am NOT doing seems a waste of time. Guilt should be reserved for colossally naughty deeds and not squandered on mere inaction. And even then, I don't really endorse guilt as an emotion worth indulging. I am so grateful that I never really took to my Catholic roots - save for my love of gruesome Christian art work and badly animated Jesus Gifs...and my new found adoration of Kung Fu Jesus Clips on You Tube.

I am sorely tempted to offer excuses and apologies for having not posted lately - but I cringe when I read posts like that on other blogs. Although I write primarily because I enjoy it, blogging is a labor of love, a gift I choose to share - and until I am under contract with paychecks and deadlines, I shouldn't feel the need to rationalize or explain that my attentions have been fully employed in other pursuits that have left no time or energy for witty commentary or that and three weeks of shitty rainy weather and painfully short daylight hours have sapped any energy reserves that have not been spent working, commuting, bathing, and keeping myself fed.

I've taken to writing notes to remind myself of topics which require my blogging attention, but they are becoming increasingly cryptic as the spark of inspiration fades over time, that and many of them are written in a drunken scrawl for example: "noise sharing? compare/contrast with carbon trading and what about lab rats for cows?"

If anyone can offer up some insight as to what I had in mind there, I promise to write it up...as soon as I get around to it.

Cinema du Tissue

2009-06-07T16:43:00.000-07:00

I don’t go to the movies very often, so when I do it is kind of a big deal. I like to get dressed up and put on some make-up, which is really stupid because I pretty much cry it all off long before the opening credits are finished. I don’t know what it is about being in a darkened theater with reclining seats and enormous sound quality that activates my parasympathetic nervous system, but I routinely weep like a widow through entire movies (which was absolutely exhausting during the three hours and seventeen minutes of Titanic).

It matters not in the least which movie I am watching: romance, comedy, action/adventure – if porno films were screened in Dolby Digital Surround Sound, I have no doubt that every cum shot would send me into spasms of lacrimation. Of course, if there is some sort of emotional draw card associated with the production, then I am likely to be a complete snot-covered mess by the time I leave the theater…which was exactly the case when we saw the new Start Trek movie this weekend.

It was a shock to my delicate system to look back on 41 years of intimacy with a collection of fictional characters, to all-at-once feel the emotional impact that a television show has had on my life. Mind you, I am not one of those insane trekkies (although at one point I was a member of the fan club and I did once attend a convention, however I did NOT dress in character – but if I had, I would have liked to have been that green lady that dances in the end credits) who knows how to speak Klingonese and can recite the technical specifications of the matter/anti-matter reactor…but I am a fan. The episodes of the original series are tangibly interwoven throughout the epochs of my own life, so much so that watching the prequel genuinely felt like catching up with old friends (except that I was drinking a bottle of Pinot Grigio while they were battling Romulans).

The power of any form of media is that it can make you feel things that are not really happening to you – like plunging into an icy ocean or destroying the Death Star. Still, I was somewhat taken aback to realize that I experience very real affection and attachment towards fictitious people. It makes me question the strength of my ability to detach reality from fantasy and wonder how easily I could become one of those sad people who send love letters to Paramount Pictures addressed to “My Beloved Dr Spock”.

So why do I cry in movie theaters? Is it for the same reasons I cry in churches? I don't cry (nearly as much) when I watch movies at home - although I do frequently cry on the bus for no apparent reason...and sometimes in the middle of yoga class...but rarely at times when it might prove useful, like getting pulled over by the police...

Ticket of Leave

2009-06-06T17:22:00.000-07:00

On Friday, we received notification from the Department of Immigration that our application for permanent residency has been approved. We now hold the Australian equivalent of a green-card.

FAQ: Does this mean you are going to stay in Australia permanently?

A: What am I, psychic?

Considering my vision of my future never featured living in Australia in the first place, I am hardly in a position to make predictions about destiny.

The primary advantage of holding permanent residency - versus the employer-sponsored work visa on which we have been living - is freedom. For the last two and a half years, we have lived with the looming worry that if Kevin should lose his job, we would have a mere 28 days to scramble ourselves off of this remote island continent. Not such a worry, really, but there is some security in knowing our deportation would now require a discretionary hearing.

What IS a worry is that Kevin is now at liberty to go to work for another employer - crazy coincidence that a head-hunter called him on Friday morning with his dream job: running the business systems for a large winery in Adelaide. However, he has assured me that he is quite happy in his current situation and has no intentions of telling his boss to get stuffed...yet. More importantly, my own right to work is no longer tied to Kevin's visa. As he pointed out, I am now free to divorce him and still keep my job...was he giving me a hint?

Best of all, moving onto PR visa gives us access to the thrilling world of socialized medicine. And, in 18 months, we will be eligible to become dole bludgers! We also now have the right to buy property, and Kevin has already presented me with a list of small vineyards in Southern Australia. Then he turned to me and said:

"Now that I have PR, all I want to do is go home."

Some days I shake my head so much I swear it is going to snap clean off my neck.

Random Acts of Marketing

2009-05-31T21:20:00.000-07:00

This morning, I woke up with a bad case of the sniffles.

At Town Hall Station, I was greeted by a handsome young man in a white coveralls who presented me with a packet of Kleenex. How sweet.

Inquiring Minds Want to Know

2009-05-21T05:43:00.000-07:00

It is impossible to make it through a ½ hour news broadcast without hearing about some sort of government inquiry. I have come to understand that ‘inquiry’ is bureaucratic jargon for ‘find someone to point the finger at.” Commissioning inquiries seems to be the primary activity of the Australian government.

Bikie gang members instigate a bloody brawl at a Sydney airport? Launch an inquiry to determine if airport security notified the federal police within a reasonable timeframe.

A ship load of asylum seekers light themselves on fire off the West Coast? What we need is an inquiry to see if the Navy should have been more polite, maybe offered them some sausage rolls.

A 19 year old slut has sex with an entire rugby team in New Zealand and then, seven years later, realizes it might have been immoral? Let’s have an inquiry as to whether or not athletes should be role models or if ‘boys will be boys’…besides, it just might divert attention away from the budget!

Inquiries inevitably lead to reports, which are occasionally released, but only years later, and only if the evidence points away from any wrong doing by the party currently in power, unless of course the report is leaked by the opposition, but even then only if there is absolutely nothing else happening in the news AND the Australian team is not doing very well in a five-week cricket match against Pakistan. The reports often contain recommendations, such as “It is the determination of the esteemed investigating committee that persons arriving in Australia by boat, with the express purpose of seeking political asylum, should not set themselves alight.”

One of tonight’s top stories was about a real estate agent who died during a severe storm in Brisbane. Seems he was sitting at his desk, talking on the phone (as real estate agents have been known to do) when a large piece of metal blew off the roof and crashed through the window, killing him instantly. I have no doubt that once the sun rises, the Bureau of Meteorology will launch a full inquiry to determine if the government took adequate precautions against low pressure troughs forming over the South Pacific.

I am equally certain that the esteemed committee will further recommend that from hence forth, desks in the work place are not to be placed within ten meters of glass windows and that workers not be permitted to talk on the phone during severe weather situations that are likely to result in injury or death.

Free to Air

2009-05-19T04:39:00.000-07:00

Our TV is free. That is to say, we do not pay for cable or satellite service. Electromagnetic particle waves magically enter our apartment, are captured out of thin air by our television, and converted into hours of high-definition, commercial free entertainment all without an exorbitant monthly fee or lengthy service contract.

I am more than a little sanctimonious about it. It pleases me not to send money directly to Rupert Murdoch, and besides, the channel line-up on Foxtel stinks – there is no HBO in Australia, but I think that M*A*S*H is on 16 times each day. As Kevin sees, it we saved as much as we spent on our TV by not paying for cable over the last 2 1/12 years, so we could afford to buy a bigger television. I find no fault with the argument.

We get 7 digital channels, 5 of which are in high definition (plus two music channels and a TV guide). Two of the channels are fully sponsored by the government and are commercial free – just like PBS in the states, except the US government doesn’t give PBS enough money to operate, so they must sneak commercials into their broadcasts under the guise of thanking their corporate benefactors. The government channels (which NEVER have a pledge week) offer a good selection of socially conscientious, intellectually challenging (except for some of the British shows) programs, and they show cool movies on Saturday night. Last month, a new all-sports channel was launched, so this fall (spring) I can look forward to some American gridiron games being re-broadcast during more suitable viewing (and drinking) hours, thus raising the point total on my quality of life index tremendously.

But there is one thing that is very strange about free TV. Every night, during the Simpsons, there is a television commercial for…free TV. Let me repeat that in case the significance did not sink in. There are commercials for free TV ON free TV. These commercials leave me confused, because I don’t understand just what it is I am supposed to do. I wonder if they show the same ad on pay TV, and why do they need to advertise free TV in the first place? And why would I want to turn off my television and log on to the Internet to learn more about the free TV I am already watching at http://www.freetv.com.au/?

Research Excursion: Blue Mountains

2009-05-17T04:26:00.000-07:00

Backed by the pretence of doing a rekky (1), we took the 2 ½ hour train ride to Katoomba and spent the weekend exploring the Blue Mountains. The weather disagreed with me greatly – it was windy and bitey (2), and I was not suitably rugged up (3). However, after a visit to the local hattery, I was apples(4).

We had brekkie (5) at a café that resembled a hobbit’s lair run by a commune of Christian hippies. It is as rare to see a Ruben sandwich on a menu as it is to see scrambled eggs. The food was flavoured with peace, love, and forgiveness. Yum.

A circuitous three hour hike that included a ride across a canyon in a glass-bottomed gondola lead us to Echo Point, where tour buses disgorged excited groups of Chinese, Korean, Japanese, Indian, and Australian tourists, who seemingly unaware of the sprawling natural beauty in front of them, instead queued up (6) to have their picture taken with a chain-smoking, didgeridoo-blowing, kangaroo skin-clad, white-washed genuine Aboriginal (7) who greeted and thanked each tourist in their native tongue and made more in an hour than I make in a day.

On our way back to the train station, I came across a tourist brochure for ‘Goomblar’s Dreaming’, featuring the very man who had just scented my sweater with his shockingly pungent armpit musk (much to my cat’s eventual delight.) No matter how I tried to reproduce the printed brochure, this is what happened:

Spooky! I wonder if he has been coming around my apartment eating up all the ice cream in the middle of the night.

________________________

(1) to gather information
(2) cold
(3) suitably dressed
(4) peachy
(5) breakfast
(6) to stand in line
(7) Blackfellah

Cover Up

2009-05-09T14:42:00.000-07:00

Not being a fan of opera, I am always on the look out for intriguing alternative performances to attend just to have a reason to belong inside the iconic Sydney Opera House.

Before the show, I like to enjoy a glass of Cabernet in the corner of a quiet lounge with purple carpet.

I adore the whimsical look of Luna Park shimmering across Sydney Harbour on the foreshore.

And, I love the polished refinement of the interior of the concert hall.

As the band took the stage, I settled into my seat and surrendered myself to the spectacle of flashing green lasers piercing a veil of theater smoke and painting mesmerizing patterns on the ceiling. My body shuddered as deep bass rifts pulsated through my corporeal senses. Haunting keyboard melodies lifted my consciousness up into the celestial ether. Each hard-hitting guitar chord sent my soul reeling through the cosmos. Quite unexpectedly, my ego came crashing back into my flesh with a palpable jolt as I came upon the sudden realization:

I am watching a Pink Floyd cover band.

Elvis impersonators excepted, I have always held a disdain bordering on contempt for acts that make a living paying ‘tribute’ to talented performers through the questionable use of near-flawless imitation. I have often ridiculed audiences that would pay top dollar in the hopes that an ersatz reminder of yesterday might reinvigorate those faded youthful emotions of open-hearted exuberance and endless possibility.

However, in the face of impending hypocrisy, I was forced to reevaluate and modify my position.

Seated in front of me were an older man and his teenage daughters, who rocked out with rapt amazement through the entire 3 hour show. I began to value the ability of a cover band to keep pivotal elements of musical history alive and accessible to new generations (although this does not explain nor excuse Rob Hanna). Although I have seen both Roger Waters and David Gilmour in concert, I never had the chance to see Pink Floyd. I don’t suffer any delusions that this current performance perfectly recapitulates that experience, but it is suggestive enough of the original to certainly qualify as a good evening of entertainment.

I concluded that some rock ‘n’ roll bands have transcended the limitations of popular enjoyment and become master artists worthy of duplication. Just as the plays of Shakespeare are re-dressed and re-told, so is the music of certain icons reinterpreted and re-exhibited. No one who plays Mozart is accused of being an impostor or criticized for not coming up with their own compositions. And while I am intensely unforgiving with any alteration of Dark Side of the Moon, the cover band did do a good job of making the music their own (although I most certainly could have done without the brutally blinding lights that were cruelly flashed into the aged faces of the audience - have some decency! the muscles of my pupil don’t respond that fast anymore.)

Along with fanciful nostalgia (and a piercing headache behind my eyeballs), my entertainment dollar bought an insightful epiphany…and a wonderful evening at the Opera House.

The Bush Master 5000

2009-05-06T21:24:00.000-07:00

Dedicated readers may recall a feisty discussion last year regarding the use of euphemisms for female anatomy in advertising. Well this blog entry doesn't really have anything further to contribute other than this hilarious 'clip':

For more thoughtful commentary, see this.

PS to my friends in the UK - I would love one of these for Christmas.

Another ANZAC Day

2009-04-26T13:42:00.000-07:00

I suffer no delusions that there is any deficit of consumption of alcohol in America, but I cannot think of any holidays where the primary objective of the occasion is to fill the pubs to capacity and drink huge amounts of beer until you piss down your leg standing in the queue for the toilet. Australia has two such holidays, and I love them.

Kevin conceded to spend this ANZAC Day crawling through Sydney's most historic pub district. The Rocks is a jumbled collection of steep and narrow lanes winding along the cliffs beneath the base of the Harbour Bridge. The site of the first settlement, it remains largely preserved today as a result of being completely ignored during that dreadful period in recent human history where old buildings were considered eye sores and were replaced by lifeless stacks of steel and concrete. Sadly, a few modern buildings have penetrated the district, but for the most part it retains the feel of the past - despite the ever present hiss of espresso makers issuing from over-priced cafes.

As I have noted previously and also mentioned here, aside from the consumption of huge amounts of beer (oh, and paying tribute to service personnel both past and present), one of the highlights of ANZAC Day is wagering on a game of two-up. This year, I decided I needed to investigate this custom further by giving away stacks of five dollar notes to complete strangers. Oddly, it was not as satisfying a past time as I had anticipated, but I am sure my conclusion would have been different had I instead been receiving stacks of five dollar notes from complete strangers. Nonetheless, the whole ritual is decidedly amusing.

At the Australian Hotel, the game of two-up is refereed by a man posing as the Pillsbury Dough Boy. He selects a volunteer from the audience to toss two commemorative pennies off a specially designed stick into the air. The tosser (wait, that's not what they are called, is it?) helps whip the crowd into a gambling frenzy by alternately pointing at his or her head or tail, the latter being more effective if the tosser is a well formed female. Wagers that the toss will result in two heads up are made by holding a fistful of dollars and slapping oneself on the head. To wager on tails, one must scan the crowd for someone slapping their own head with the same amount of money one wishes to wager. The wagers are held by the person who calls heads, so being able to remember and recognize a total drunken stranger is clearly the part of the contest that requires actual skill. I think one can make a pretty good fortune simply by looking incredibly ordinary and slipping off into the crowd before the toss. I also suspect that this is what leads to broken noses.

Once sufficient wagers are laid, the coins are tossed and the result called by the Pillsbury Dough Boy. If the coins should land one heads and one tails, the crowd erupts with an emotional round of booing. If a bad toss occurs three times in a row, the tosser must pay penance with ten push ups. Damn, my battery ran out before the midget lady in red high heel boots made ten bad tosses in a row!!

Having soon become disenchanted with giving away my money, I turned my attention instead to my favorite part of the ANZAC Day celebrations: men in skirts. Sorry, if I had realized the band was playing Australia's Un-Official National Anthem, I wouldn't have cut the video short. I guess if you are Australian, you can recognize Waltzing Matilda in a any form, especially since it is such a good excuse to sing off key at the top of one's lungs.

As usual, the evening degenerated into a fit of bad Lomography, the results of which I will spare you, save for this one which I particularly liked for no good reason.

UPDATE: This silly picture just arrived in my in-box. I am a such a face-maker. Good thing I do not take myself very seriously!

Serendipity and Perspective

2009-04-21T16:06:00.000-07:00

My morning shower was cut short when the hot water for the building mysteriously vanished.

Luckily, it started pissing down rain as soon as I left Redfern Station.

A series of other work-related catastrophes had me on the verge of being in a really bad mood today, but after checking in on Wayne, as I do first thing every morning, my trivial life immediately fell into perspective.

Dammit, Wayne, pull through so I can have a god old-fashioned whinge again.

Random Updates

2009-04-17T16:48:00.001-07:00

I've been racking up quite a list of things I have been meaning to blog about, but just have not found the time to sit down and give them a proper writing. So instead, I offer this jumbled list of stuff. Do you like stuff?

*******

Last night, Kevin and I went to a new restaurant that touts American-style hamburgers. You can design your own from an extensive list of ingredients that includes pineapple, fried egg, carrots, and - if you just cannot imagine a burger without it - beet root. It was pretty good, but everyone was eating their burgers with a knife and fork. Do Australians have an overblown sense of etiquette, or are they just afraid of their fingers? I feel like a troglodyte when I go out for Indian food with my mates. I try to explain, you are supposed to eat it with your fingers!

*******

Ever wonder what it is like at my house on Saturday morning at 7:30 am? Here is a dull video to illustrate:

*******

Last weekend, I was 'featured' in an article in the Sunday Magazine in The Telegraph. Two days earlier, I heard a comedian on Triple J saying almost the exact same thing. Plagiarist. Of course, he said it more funnier.

Reproduced here without permission:

*******

Despite the unhappy ending, we had a fabulous Easter weekend in Mudgee. The Evanslea B&B doubles as a foster home for orphaned Eastern Grey Kangaroos. Spekaing of kangaroos, here is something you never overhear in a wine tasting room in California:

“Hey, we just freed a joey that was caught in the fence down by the first paddock. He looks hurt and his mum his hoppin’ around all distressed. Can you call Kangaroo Wildlife Assistance? I'll start with the Riesling.”

Here is the blog entry I wrote, a mere three hours before losing my licen(s)ce. Serves me right for counting my joeys before they had been cut out of their dead mother's pouch:

Lately, we have been toying with the possibility of buying a new car. When
we first got here, not knowing if things were going to work out for us, we just
bought a cheap little beater. Our 91 Camry is as reliable as it is
uninspiring, and we concluded – using our own peculiar brand of logic – that if
we had a nicer car, say maybe a convertible, we would be more inclined to get
out of the city on weekends and explore our
surroundings.

Fortunately, our good friend Saji helped us put the
purchase into a useful economic perspective.

“Are you
fucking crazy? You don’t need a car.”

And so by employing
some questionable mathematical manipulations, Kevin has me convinced that we are
actually saving money by renting a BMW Z4 over the 4-day Easter Weekend to drive
to wine country. Normally, I might be inclined to argue his fallacy, but
in truth I found the idea infinitely appealing.
Mudgee is an ‘up and
coming’ new wine region nestled in the Blue Mountains about 4 hours to the west
of Sydney (4 hours east of Sydney is the Pacific Ocean), providing us with ample
opportunity to test the limits of the BMW’s performance and handling while
racking up multiple speeding tickets. In Australia, traffic offenses count
as points against your privilege to drive and holiday weekends are advertised as
Double Demerits, an intimidating alliterative and excellent source of
revenue. I saw more police on the road to Mudgee than I have in the two
plus years I have lived here. Fortunately (or not) there was so much
traffic, you couldn’t lose your license if you wanted to.

*******

Last month, in addition to being a good excuse to go to wine country, look how close I got to Chris Isaak's butt after his wonderful concert in the vineyards:

Well, I haven't quite run out of stuff, but I have run out of coffee. Until next time.

Heavy Fines, Loss of Licenc(s)e

2009-04-13T22:49:00.000-07:00

Dear Roads and Traffic Authority, NSW:

In order to do our part to stimulate the local economy – even though neither of us will receive $900 for that express purpose – my husband and I decided to spend the long Easter Weekend in the ‘up and coming’ wine region of Mudgee, where we did our best to support numerous small farms and businesses.

Lately, we have been discussing the purchase of a new car to facilitate such weekend excursions, but in the interests of our personal economy, and in order to minimize our urban carbon footprint while reducing toxic emissions, thereby helping to preserve one of the world’s most treasured and fragile natural landscapes namely, the Great Barrier Reef, we opted instead to simply rent a BMW Z4 for the trip.

I am typically a very conscientious and law abiding driver. I never drive under the influence of drugs or alcohol and, on occasions when I have believed my husband to be driving poorly, have nagged him to the point of marital withholding. Thus, I can assure you that when I entered the oncoming lane to pass a vehicle that was travelling well below the posted speed limit of 100 km/h I was driving within my usual limits of my legal accountability.

No one was more surprised than me when Constable Bearly presented me with evidence that I had achieved a maximum speed of 152 km/h. It is inconceivable to me that I could have possibly been travelling at that speed, when I had merely gently depressed the acceleration pedal just like I always do in my 1991 Toyota Camry, which is what I usually drive.

I contend that I was in fact driving in a law abiding manner and that the hyper-responsive engineering of the rented vehicle with which I was not entirely familiar was in truth liable for the transient velocity overage. Basically, I wasn't speeding - the car was.

Therefore, I do humbly request that you forgive the $1674 fine and ask Constable Bearly to mail my driver’s licence back to me immediately.

Kind Regards,

Audra A McKinzie

About Australian Taxes

2009-04-07T14:03:00.000-07:00

For many years I have lived under the assumption that Australians pay exorbitant taxes. How else could they afford national healthcare, government sponsored television, and clean public toilets, not to mention special police task forces to make sure no one downloads any controversial internet content like websites discussing abortion or the Spice Girls Reunion Tour Schedule. But it wasn’t worrying about having to pay that kept me from filing taxes for the last two years – indeed, it was quite the opposite.

Perhaps no three letters in the English alphabet strike more fear into the hearts of more Americans than do I, R and S (Yes, one can make a case for Triple K, CIA, and possibly GOP – er, wait…is there a difference?) Normal law abiding citizens are deathly afraid that the IRS will one day burst into their homes and take everything they own to pay the penalties on $25 worth of back taxes from 1972. The only person I know who is not afraid of the IRS is my accountant, Moshe and his tax attorney wife. They wrestle over the new tax code and read it to each other in bed. They live for an audit…with other people’s money, of course.

The ATO, or Australian Tax Office, just doesn’t seem to have the same sort of teeth as the American equivalent. Sure, they may assess a penalty if you are late in paying any taxes owed – or they may not, if it looks like you are making an effort or they are simply feeling benevolent that day. Tax forms are written with polite language that is intended to clarify and protect rather than to confuse and distress.

And so I chose not to file taxes for the simple reason that I *could*. Not out of any sort of civil disobedience or protest, not even out of laziness - I had all the documents together. I didn’t file simply to feel what it was like to NOT do something I was supposed to do without being scared of the consequences. Silly? Wrong? Irresponsible? Perhaps. As I have said before, I have a low threshold of entertainment, and this little act of quiet rebellion brought me great pleasure.

However, I am fundamentally a responsible person – and lazy – so I finally gathered up my papers and paid the-most-boring-man-in-the-world $400 to transcribe the numbers from my documents into a computer program. How do I always find accountants who tend to proselytize during my appointments? At least Moshe stops the clock when he pauses to take personal responsibility for the Crucifixion and explain that the Bible is merely a poor translation of the Koran – but since the-most-boring-man-in-the-world was charging me a flat rate, I let him ramble on about how horrible it was to be a 7th Day Adventist in an office full of atheist heathens while I drank coffee and wondered what he was like in bed. I reckon he is more interesting when he is asleep.

A mere 8 days later, I received two sizable checks in the mail, with a nice letter apologizing for having to collect taxes in the first place, hoping I understand, and wishing me a good day. Overall, our income tax comes out to about 21% - which is comparable to what we pay in US federal taxes. However, there is no state tax, which translates to a 9% savings for us.

So where does all the money come from to run this nanny-government? Kevin reminds me that there is a big sales tax here – 10%, but that is not THAT much more than we pay in California. I think taxes on homeowners are much higher, having to pay something nasty called ‘stamp duty’ when you buy a house, but that doesn’t affect us. Then I remeber the 45% tax on cigarettes and alcohol.

Now I know where the federal government is going to get the money for that ridiculous national broadband plan...I am going to drink Australia a new internet, but I STILL won't be able to subscribe to NFL radio.

Best Ground Score Ever

2009-03-28T19:22:00.000-07:00

A few months ago, I found a didgeridoo in the dirt behind my office. Being a large and awkward item, it seemed a most unlikely object for someone to lose. It's not like dropping a glove, which might go unnoticed until the next cold snap - I just think one would be very aware of suddenly NOT carrying a 3 foot long brightly painted wooden pipe. I was forced to conclude that it must be stolen and that the perpetrator felt suddenly conspicuous, though I could not imagine why one would ditch such an object in this particular location. I toyed briefly with the idea of turning it into lost and found, but in the end my love for a found object outweighed all of my moral qualms.

And so my didge has taken up a proud position among my gallery of adopted discards. However, last night, a most mysterious occurrence occurred...

Has the ghost of some unsettled ancient aborigine, adrift among the apartments of St Leonards come to reclaim his lost musical instrument? And why had he been dipped in chocolate ice cream...?

What in the Word?

2009-03-24T13:20:00.000-07:00

I suppose I should be rather embarrassed that a very violent episode in a very public location exposed two deficiencies of vocabulary, but such is my delight at learning new words, that I cannot be bothered to feel ashamed for not already knowing them.

When I first read the newspaper headlines about the disturbance at Sydney Airport, I had to ask a passing Australian what a 'bollard' was, this being the murder weapon in question. It quickly occurred to me that such an item is most likely called a bollard in America as well - I just never had occasion to have a conversation about one.

Not being entirely familiar with the terms used for criminal misconduct in Australia, I misunderstood the evening news anchor and believed the bikies gang members had been charged with being 'in a fray', which in my vocabulary is synonymous with being in a 'fracas', and seemed a rather innocuous word to apply to the bashing in of a man's head with a large metal object. However, upon reading about the incident further, I realized the bikies had been charged with 'affray', a word which still seems a frightful understatement.

However, understatement seems to be a prevalent trend among Australian news reports, and I am increasingly of the opinion that such a practice helps to curb the intentional hysteria that is the cornerstone of modern American journalism. I have no doubt that had the incident occurred at LAX, it would have been described as a massacre. Of course, if it had occurred at LAX, the cops would have shot all the bikers and it would indeed have been a true massacre.

Although understatement does not lessen the shock and horror of the facts, it does not further propagate those feelings. By using calming language, it is possible to move beyond the violence more quickly and get down to the more important matter of pointing fingers at various government entities for their lack of responsiveness and to promptly introduce new legislation making it illegal to be a member of a bikie gang.

Can the softening of language go too far? Can use of the wrong adjective completely deflate the intensity of an event? You be the judge in this quote from a Liberal Party (read: conservative) Senator:

"It doesn't say much for the millions of dollars we have spent on airport security, nor does it say much, in the event of a fair dinkum terrorist attack, what would happen."