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.”
29 August 2009
25 August 2009
The Flavours of Mexico Down Under
“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.”
“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.”
18 August 2009
Departure Taxes
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.
Until this....
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....
07 August 2009
The Brazilian
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.
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.
01 August 2009
T minus 7 Days and Counting
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.
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.
30 July 2009
Economy of Scale
“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.
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.
25 July 2009
20 Hours to Texas
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…
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…
23 July 2009
Two Things in Life are Certain: Death and Texas
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!
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!
19 July 2009
Gulag Fondu
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.
“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.
05 July 2009
Good Food and Wine...well, wine anyway
“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!
“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!
04 July 2009
About Mature Themes and Sexual References
"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
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
02 July 2009
About Australian Affability
“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 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.
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.
25 June 2009
About Australian Political Scandals
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.
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.
20 June 2009
Blogger's Guilt
...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.
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.
07 June 2009
Cinema du Tissue
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...
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...
06 June 2009
Ticket of Leave
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.
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.
31 May 2009
Random Acts of Marketing
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.
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.
21 May 2009
Inquiring Minds Want to Know
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.
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.
19 May 2009
Free to Air
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/?
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/?
17 May 2009
Research Excursion: Blue Mountains
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
(1) to gather information
(2) cold
(3) suitably dressed
(4) peachy
(5) breakfast
(6) to stand in line
(7) Blackfellah
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