Cover Up

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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."

The Bread Winner

“Sorry, Honey – I didn’t buy that bread you really like.”

“Why not? You said that was good bread.”

“Yeah I know, but the label said it supports women’s health, and I just couldn’t bring myself to buy it. So instead I bought the bread that supports men’s health.”

“What, you were afraid you’d start having a period, so now I have to risk growing a beard? What exactly makes a bread support ‘men’s health’?”

“Well, it has lots of whole grains to promote a healthy digestion.”

“Women don’t digest? The bread I buy has lots of whole grains.”

“And this one has soy to promote male reproductive health.”

“My bread has soy.”

“Yes, but that soy is to promote female reproductive health.”

“What is different about the soy?”

“Probably nothing.”

“Then wouldn’t my bread also promote male reproductive health?”

“Yes, but your bread is for women.”

“So now we need to buy two loaves of bread? Wasn’t there some sort of gender-neutral bread with whole grains and soy?”

“Yes, but that is for transvestite reproductive health.”

“Did it say that on the label?”

“No. Look – I just couldn’t be seen buying women’s bread when there was men’s bread right next to it.”

“Just who do you think is watching you buy bread?”

“I don’t know. That’s the point.”

“Well, how does it taste?”

“Like bread.”

Pity Party

One of the advantages – if you can call it that – to moving as much as I have is that I am seldom one of the people who get ‘left behind’. Distracted by the novelty and busyness of relocation, I am somewhat sheltered from the pain of missing my friends. My daily routine is new. My surroundings are unfamiliar. I am not sharply aware that the people I love are absent because they have never been a physical part of this present.


There are friends that come from history - for better or worse, kept because they are old and irreplaceable. Like antique furniture, they might look out of place in a modern living room, but they provide a feeling of continuity and make for good conversation.

There are friends that come from circumstance - coworkers, neighbors, or club members, essential but often superficial. Like a favorite new pair of shoes, they are comfortable and stylish, but eventually they will wear out and need replacing.

Then there are friends that come from intense mutual admiration. Like a warmly lit mirror that magically softens wrinkles, blemishes and character defects, they reflect a self portrait of confident radiance.

Richard has been this sort of friend to me, and today he is moving to London. I can almost hear the sucking sound of the emotional vacuum created by his departure. I feel like a better person when I am in his company, and his absence will be sorely felt. My own self indulgence is preventing me from celebrating his opportunity and wishing him well. Indeed, I have been quite nasty about it.

Of course, as I write this, I am immediately consumed by my own hypocrisy and flooded with feelings of regret and longing for all of those friends who I have left behind, and especially for the one I have lost altogether...



What I mean to say is:

I miss you.

Purple Penguin

It's not unusual for me to see groups of holy people on my morning commute through Sydney's Central Business District. I often see Franciscan Friars or Buddhist Monks waiting for the bus in front of St Andrew's Church. So I didn't think twice when I saw cluster of nuns in starched white habits walking through the Town Hall station.


Until I noticed that they were surrounding a nun with a black wide brimmed hat who was wearing a deep purple robe.

I was suddenly compelled to investigate their footwear: a pair of black combat boots, some fishnet stockings, a set of take-me-back-to-Kansas slippers, a pair of snake-skin stilettos.

Another quick glance before they vanished behind the closing doors of the train to Bondi Junction revealed a shaggy red beard.


Where on earth are they going at 9 in the morning? Surely, no Buck's Night starts at that hour...and their habits were far too clean for them to be on their way home from last night...

Ah yes...The Parade is this Saturday...I reckon The Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence are hosting morning tea.



Can any of my antipodean readers enlighten me as to why it is that in Australia, Mardi Gras falls on a Saturday in the middle of Lent?

Le Invitan

About Australian Grocery Stores

A trip to the grocery store doesn’t exactly constitute an ‘adventure’, but it is an activity worthy of comment, if only for purposes of cultural compare and contrast. Indeed a perusal of commercially available provisions in any foreign country is an enlightening if not confounding experience. I once spent hours in a grocery store in Zimbabwe marveling over bags of unidentifiable ingredients and calculating exchange rates – of course, that was back when grocery stores in Zimbabwe actually had groceries on the shelves, and one did not require a 24-digit calculator in order to perform monetary conversions. The procurement of basic sustenance and household items is a hot topic of discussion among expatriates, rivaled only, perhaps, by lengthy tirades bemoaning the dominance of cricket coverage on television. (Sometimes, when a game has been suspended due to inclement weather, they still broadcast hours of footage of beer drinking spectators staring wishfully at an empty pitch.)

For Americans, the most confounding aspect of Australian grocery stores is their location. It is extremely unusual (although not unheard of) to find a free standing grocery store with a sprawling asphalt parking lot. Most often, a grocery store is located within a congested shopping center surrounded by a convoluted multi-leveled garage. Frequently, grocery stores serve as the anchor shops for full-on malls, much like Macy’s or JCPenney in the States. Large malls may even have two or more competing stores, though it should be noted that there are really only two major competitors for the Aussie grocery dollar – Coles and Woolworth’s (shortened, of course, to Woolie’s and not to be confused with long underwear, the latter seldom offering avocados at 2 for $5.)

One might be tempted to assume that there is no drama associated with a grocery store being located in a mall, except one might also be tempted to assume there would be an outside entrance to such a store. There is not. Access to the market is typically deep within the center of the mall and often involves transcending levels by means of cramped lifts or long sloping escalators (more on those in a bit). Despite the inconvenience, I think it is a brilliant business model: arrive with the intention of simply buying milk and Tim-Tams, and on impulse, go home with a pair of trainers, a new doona, and a hamster (if you follow one link, make it this one!). I don’t know why Westfield has yet to implement this strategy in any of the multitude of defunct malls they have snapped up in dying US townships.

It is a popular pastime in America to lament the demise of small bakeries, butcher shops, and green grocers, these having been forced out of business by large conglomerate chains. Such is not the case in Australia, and indeed these shops are thriving, despite charging far more for their goods and being located immediately outside the entrance to the big stores. I cannot offer much in the way of an explanation for their success in such proximity to their cost cutting competitors, except that they typically offer goods of considerably higher quality and the shopping experience itself is more friendly, more nourishing to the soul than a hectic expedition through crammed narrow aisles stocked with too many choices of lesser evils.
And speaking of evil, that brings me to shopping carts, or trolley’s as they are called here (in New Zealand, they are known as ‘trundlers’, a word I adore and am striving to permanently incorporate into my vocabulary even though trundlers are just as evil as trolleys.) Perhaps evil is too strong of a descriptor, but they are most certainly possessed with a strong will of their own, owing to the fact that all four wheels turn independently and seldom in the same direction at once, such that navigating a corner often resembles a graceless modern ballet of flesh partnered with steel. If you have the misfortune of being parked on a level that is not flush with the store entrance, then you must negotiate your obstinate trolley onto a sloping escalator. The carts and escalators are cleverly engineered such that the wheels lock into place. However, being built and maintained by humans, there are occasional malfunctions. I have seen many frightened pedestrians leaping over rubber rails in fear for their lives ahead of careening carts dragging helpless old ladies behind weighty loads of discounted canned dog food.

The stores themselves are well stocked and modern, with the major differences being units of measure, an excessively large tea aisle, and the presence of kangaroo mince meat. I have a catalog of other observations, but I fear that listing them would sound like complaining…unless I were to specifically state that these are merely observations of differences and not in anyway a proclamation of superiority or inferiority of either country’s approach to edibility:

Cheddar cheese is not dyed orange nor is it widely available, with ‘tasty’ cheese being the more popular curdled milk product.
Bacon. I cannot quite put my finger on the bacon situation, but it is not at all the same entity that I know and love. I am not sure if it is a difference in the cut or the curing process, and although it seems to be more flavorful and less laden with chemicals, it does not cook up with the same satisfying crispiness that makes my heart skip a beat (literally). There is a product here called ‘streaky bacon’, which alleges to be American style, but it still misses the mark. However, the upside to this is that when I visit America, a simple staple becomes a gourmet treat.
Chips are known as crisps (so as not to be confused with French fries which are known as chips) and come in all manner of meat flavors, such as cheese and bacon, honey lime chicken, and pork roast.
Biscuits (aka bikkies) may be either cookies or crackers, but never fluffy rolls laden with baking soda.
Cuts of meat are different and have different names. I have not quite figured out from which part of the animal a Scotch fillet is derived, but it is a damn nice cut of meat. A chicken breast is still a breast, but it is hard to find one with bones that still has the skin – except at the poultry shops (not the butcher shop) located just outside the main entrance.
Every donut case ALWAYS features at least one pink donut.

One of the more frustrating aspects of shopping at any new store is getting accustomed to the general lay-out and organization. At the Coles in Lane Cove, I had the damndest time finding paper towels. There was half an aisle of toilet paper, but not a single paper towel. They were not shelved with the sponges nor with the cleaning products, nor the napkins. I finally found them wedged between onion soup mix and quince paste. At Big W, the dental floss is located, not along side the tooth brushes and tooth paste, but next to the deodorant. I have finally come to realize that many items are shelved alphabetically rather than categorically.

Perhaps grocery shopping is a bit of an adventure after all.

Geography Lesson

When I Grow Up

Yesterday, in an animated fashion, I was recounting the details of our 8-course degustation meal had in the Barossa Wine Region over the long Australia Day Weekend (I ate pigeon! It was quite good, lean and beefy and not at all gamey, though I was disappointed in myself that I could not quite get over the fact that I was eating a flying rat). I concluded my anecdote by saying “It was fun. I felt really grown up.”

Then it occurred to me, that I am 41 years old. 41 years. Yet, I only ever ‘feel’ grown up on rare fleeting occasions. Most of the time, I feel like a confused little kid, constantly befuddled and amazed by the workings of the world and always uncertain of my place in it. This thought was quickly followed by the revelation that if I don’t feel grown up by now, I likely never will. Which made me suspect that most people probably feel the same way and those few people who do feel grown up all the time are probably the very people I typically classify as boring.

I remember the first time I felt ‘grown up’ I was 17. My grandfather had given me his old 76 Ford Pinto, and I spent the day purchasing insurance, getting a smog check, and standing in line at the DMV. At each stop, I wrote a rather large check from my account that had been funded by working extra hours at the library (among other more creative and less taxable means of income generation). It was an immensely satisfying feeling to run around town taking care of business, one of responsibility and maturity.

It occurs to me that people become addicted to that emotion, which might be why people create incredibly busy lives for themselves - because even insignificant activities, like wallpapering the bathroom, arranging fake flowers, or shopping for undersized odd-shaped pillows that perfectly compliment the red highlights in the bedroom drapes can provide a sense of accomplishment. Fortunately, my own addictions tend to be more meditative than industrious. Nonetheless, I still enjoy those ephemeral moments of grown-upedness when I ever-so-briefly feel like an adult steeped in self actualization.

And that is why I love going to wine country.

Even more than drinking wine itself (which, don’t get me wrong, is absolutely wonderful), the rituals and culture of wine and wine making are the embodiment of the process of cultivated maturation which seep into my psyche as I learn about the challenges of viticulture, the turmoil of harvest, and the complexities of ageing. As I practice using the language of appreciation, I develop a sensation of mellow profundity. Contemplating the multilayered metaphors of enological traditions, I become the embodiment of wisdom and gain a deep understanding of the subtleties of the human experience.

Then, after the third or fourth glass, the spell is broken, and once more I am a giddy little child with a remarkably low threshold of entertainment:

Seurat Knew a Lot About Dots

When I was a kid, Channel 2 aired these charming little ‘commercials’ that have become an integral part of my memories of childhood, conjuring up feelings of hot lazy afternoons spent idle in front of the television in our cool dark living room. My favorite featured a little boy and an old man in a canoe. The boy asks, “Jimmy said I am ‘prejudiced’. Grampa, what does ‘prejudice’ mean?” He replied that it meant that you judged someone based on things beyond their control rather than for who they really are.

“But I don’t do that.”

“Who is Jimmy?”

“Jimmy is my Jewish friend.”

“Then you are prejudiced, because you think of Jimmy as your Jewish friend, and not just your friend.”

That last line has echoed in my mind for over 30 years. Not that it made a difference - I still use qualifying adjectives to categorize my friends, such as my Republican friend, my plumber friend, or my crack-head friend. However, I don’t treat them any differently…it just helps me keep them sorted in my muddled brain.

Another of the commercials was all about the French painter Seurat and his technique of creating scenes of harmony and emotion using colored dots. But it is not my intention to discuss the finer points of neo-impressionist art history, rather the catch phrase of that snippet has been on my mind lately as my world has been infiltrated by polka dots. And I have come to a very simple yet powerful conclusion:

Polka dots make me happy.

I have not yet dissected the reasons why such a simple design should have such a profound influence on my psyche (maybe it is because their qualifying adjective evokes images of people bouncing around happily to the strains of an accordion), but I cannot help but smile when I see them. They are frivolous, uplifting, unconcerned with rigid linear thinking, unencumbered by worries of global economic crises or airline safety records. Polka dots care not about their carbon footprint nor do they fear the CIA replacing sovereign governments with sham democracies.

One of my New Year’s resolutions has been to replace my daily consumption of coffee with green tea. To facilitate this goal, I bought myself a cute little polka dot tea pot with matching cup and saucer. These items sit beside me on my desk. I cannot help feeling cheerful as throughout the day, I reach over and pour myself a refreshing constitutional of herbal anti-oxidants, knowing that the polka dots are not preoccupied with thoughts of damaging free radicals coursing through my blood stream.

Yesterday, Kevin organized a picnic, and by organized, I mean he bought the wine, while I selected the venue, planned the menu, and did all the cooking. I was feeling a bit frazzled by the end of the day, but my mood was immediately brightened by the appearance of a rather peculiar flying insect:

I don't know if it was the polka dots or the cool little jazz-note on his tiny man-face!

Warning: Potential Time Sink

The job itself may be a long-shot fantasy, but there are hours of entertainment to be had by watching the video applications:

http://www.islandreefjob.com/

Nu Zilland - Finale

New Year’s Day arrived with a punishing hangover. Fortunately, our groovy host Steve gave us full license to sleep late, as he had given his staff the morning off anyway. I say Steve was groovy, because in my book, sporting a jazz note automatically makes one so.

We eventually dragged our aching heads and woozy stomachs and our mountains of luggage into the car and onto yet another twisty winding road, through yet more sheep pastures. The jokes bout sheep and New Zealand are no joke – there are a ridiculous number of the woolly beasts here in various stages of undress. I wonder what they do with them all when they stop growing hair? Probably auction them off as internet brides.

On our way down to Christchurch, we detoured through Hanmer Springs, a mountain town built around a hot springs resort. The tourist brochures made it look beautifully rustic, so with memories of our visit to Tabacon – a wild resort built along the banks of a volcanic river in Costa Rica – we eagerly set off in pursuit of a restorative soak in smelly mineral water.

Although the soak proved restorative, the resort itself was a bit of a disappointment. The rustic appearance of the tourist brochures clearly had more to do with clever photography than architectural ingenuity, and nothing sours an experience more than being squeezed for every nickel and dime at every turn of the corner…entry fee, towel rental, locker rental, exit fee…why not just have one fee and let me get on with it? It was bloody taxing to my throbbing head.

Reeking of rotten eggs, we completed our descent into Christchurch and opted for a quiet evening in with another bleu cheese pizza from Hell. Not the fiery depository of lost souls, but the extraordinary pizza kitchen to which I have previously alluded, who, to my great delight, turned out to be a nationwide chain. After several soaks in the Jacuzzi tub and another sleep in, we were ready to explore the greater surrounds.

We considered taking a ride on the gondola to the top of some or other mountain, but then we realized we could just as easily, if not much more affordably, drive there. Only we couldn’t drive directly there, first we had to drive through a long eerie tunnel through the mountain to the port of Lyttleton then drive up the backside of the mountain, which isn’t technically a mountain, but actually the rim of an ancient volcanic crater that rises out of the flat Canterbury plains along the coast like a giant chin zit that popped several thousands of years ago but still won’t go away.

In Lyttleton, we could not resist a visit to the Time Ball Station, mostly because we couldn’t figure out what it could possibly be. We’re still not sure about the time ball part, because we were reluctant to pay the $7 admission charge, but the hillside castle served as a communication station for ships at port through the use of a set of four coded flags. In this way, the harbour master could convey information about the tides, or the weather, or could warn the ladies that their husbands are about to return from sea and that they had better get back to their own beds.

We drove along the scenic summit drive, fearing for our lives on the narrow twisting track that dropped off to oblivion on one side. Creeping along, once more through sheep filled pastures, we followed the guideposts to “The Sign of the Kiwi”, which we thought would surely be something spectacular, but which turned out to be a sign that said, profoundly “The Sign of the Kiwi.” Eventually we came to realize that The Sign of the Kiwi was actually a stage coach stop of sorts that served wonderfully affordable ice cream.

“What flavor is Hokey Pokey?”

“Where are you from?”

“Sydney”

“Then you’d know it as Violet Crumble.”

“Er, I’m really from the US.”

“Oh. In that case, it is Butter Crunch.”

“What’s in a name?” By any other name, it was still delicious.

We celebrated our last night in New Zealand with a flash dinner at a gothic church that had been converted into a jazz dinner club. Polished wood arch ceilings and an ornate pipe organ served as a sumptuous backdrop for a dinner of beef wellington served by aspiring singers and musicians. One of the better uses for a church I have experienced. Too bad the food paled in comparison to the venue.

Our final day in Christchurch was spent shopping for souvenirs and searching for the location on the Avon River where two weeks before, a brutally murdered prostitute had been dumped. I fully expected to find a pile of flowers and ripped fish net stockings, but evidently, that is bad for tourism. However, mentioning the crime and the investigation on every newscast and headline evidently is not.

Having run out of ways to entertain ourselves and being chased from the city streets by a violent hail storm, we arrived at the (shockingly empty) airport quite early. Upon check-in the gate agent and a pretty lady with a fancy hat began whispering about us over walkie-talkies. Remembering our immigration crisis upon departure, I flashed a worried expression. But then the pretty lady softly explained that our flight had been oversold and we were being upgraded to business class. I nearly cried as a Julie Andrews tune ran through my head… “Some where in my youth, or childhood…”

And so, as I sit in the airport lounge, with the last claps of thunder and flashes of lightning clearing from the sky, sipping Speight’s Gold Medal Ale, I have had the time to bring to a close this narrative of our wonderful New Zealand vacation. If there is one lesson I have learned, one take home message from this adventure, it is this: Keep your expectations low, and you will never suffer disappointment in life...indeed, you leave yourself open to be delighted with every little thing.

And...always grab life by the balls.

Nu Zilland - Day Eleven - New Years Eve

The Kaikoura Peninsula features a wide plateau formed by uplift of the sea floor surrounded by a ledge of flat rocks that serve as the breeding grounds for large colonies of fur seals and sea gulls. Evidence of old Maori Pa (or forts) is still visible. I know all of this, because in New Zealand - unlike in Australia - such sites feature signs that actually have information on them, rather than nonsensical stories about dreamtime worms that shit out mountain ranges.



We hiked acros the large and very exposed plateau until our flesh was bright pink, then decided to return along the rocky coast - which was just as exposed and, miserably, much more difficult walking. We were absolutely fried by the time we finally returned to our car, which was luckily parked by a makeshift seafood restaurant which offered more restorative chowder.

A deep sun-burnt nap readied us for the evening festivities. We opted to avoid the crowds (ha) of the town pubs and decided to have our own party on our lovely deck.



As Kaikoura did not have much to offer in the way of a fireworks display, I decided to create my own show using a long exposure and playing with the lights that lined the boardwalk across the bay. I was throughly delighted with the results and now have sever megabytes of such:

As the other guests at the hotel pooped out one by one, we were left celebrating the midnight hour with a gorgeous 65 year-old Scotswoman, who has been surviving pancreatic cancer now for one year and three months. She had some very interesting things to say about taking life by the balls.


Happy 19th Anniversary Darling. Here's to an even better year.