I am a big fan of trivia. In the US, my favorite television show is Jeopardy. Too cheap to pay for cable (aka Foxtel), here in Australia I must settle for a quiz show on public television called the Einstein Factor, a show in which the contestants get to choose their own personal, and often esoteric 'special subject'. In Round One, they have 90 seconds to answer 15 questions pertaining to Austin 7 Cars, The Films of Martin Scorcese, The reign of Peter the Great between 1683-1684, or Nick Drake. (If I go on, I'll pick Raiders of the Lost Ark...or Molecular Biology.)
The three contestants work in cooperation or competition with "The Brains Trust", three ostensibly educated and respected scholars. Now mind you, I have absolutely no problem with racial epithets in general, and certainly none when they are directed towards The French (or Canadians, or especially French Canadians), but I was mildly shocked to hear one of the scholars on last night's show employ the phrase currently serving as the title of this entry.
I mean, it's one thing if you are a politician, a cartoon character, or The New York Post, but it seemed completely out of place on an intelligent quiz show. And, the addition of the word 'creepy' to an otherwise popular phrase added a touch of malice that caused me provocation. However, I guess I was most startled because the word 'monkey' has been volleyed around the press recently, as a result of the heated and controversial month long (if not longer) cricket match between Australia and India, in which one of the visiting players called Andrew Symonds 'a monkey.' (sniggers withheld) This incident made me think of one of Howard Cosell's famous blunders.
How delicate and precise has our language become when a word may be freely applied to one race but not another? Certainly, monkey is not the only word that fits this context, but...oh, what is the point I want to make here...?? I guess I don't want to be startled by the use of such an innocuous word on television, and I certainly don't want to listen to it debated from hell and back on the sports segment of the morning news. Besides, you don't see The French pitching a fit about it.
But maybe that is because they are a bunch of cheese eating surrender monkeys...
09 March 2008
07 March 2008
Peripheral Vision
Just before we left the US, I sent out an email to everyone in my very extensive address book announcing our departure and linking them to my blog, should they want to keep in touch or follow along vicariously. From the number of people that ever leave comments on my blog (mostly people I have met virtually or with a few notable exceptions in the flesh only since my adventure began), you might never suspect that I maintain fairly regular contact with over 150 people that I have ‘collected’ over the years. Granted, I am no Aunt Bette, who managed to remember and mark the birthday, anniversary, and any other card-worthy event of EVERY person she EVER met in her entire life (God Bless and Keep Her), but I do try. I send post cards and Christmas cards (most years) and while I do get personal satisfaction from keeping this electronic diary, every entry is written with fond thoughts for all the people I know/love who might be reading it.
Oddly enough, I know for a stone cold FACT, that the people I consider my absolute closest friends – those I have known since 3rd Grade (Oscar!), or Junior High (Beki!), or High School (Kathy!) do not, and WILL not read my blog. Ever. I reckon they think that anything I have to say to them should be said in person, and honestly, a few words just sprung to mind. I suspect Sofia might read, but I know she is busy, and I know Doug checks in on occasion when he is not too busy cracking one under the table over Lindsay Lohan mug shots or picking his mother up from the drunk tank at Elmwood. I also know that a lot of my friends and family (except maybe Lee and anyone born before computers existed, except Mom) read my updates with any regularity, even though, for various reasons they do not leave comments or write to me very often. At the bottom of my inbox is a pile of old emails that I just can’t bring myself to delete. Maybe because I think that one day they will serve as a reminder to follow up with someone, or maybe they are people I just don’t want to lose. Well, evidently, I too am floating around in the bottom of other people’s inboxes.
Last week, I got an email from one of those people at the bottom of my inbox. I wrote a long list of praises here about him, but I had to delete it, not only because it sounded like a eulogy (all about how he made my mother and my grandmother cry at my high school graduation), but because I truly he believe that one day he will be a senator or maybe even president (or at least a circuit judge in Fresno) and that a mention on the blog of an accused (but acquitted) felon might not serve his best interests in the long run. He wrote to me because he is turning 40 this year (I believe he was the baby of our graduating class) and something I wrote about it last November resonated with him (although he thinks it is for different reasons – he’s wrong – they are the same reasons!) I replied, reciting the sentiments expressed above, and he replied with surprise that I felt that way about him, having assumed he existed only on my periphery. Interestingly, I have always been under the assumption that I only ever existed on the periphery of his (and every one else at that damn school) as well.
And this is what got me to thinking enough to get to writing…on the value of collecting people who knew you when you were young, even if they are people who simply knew you when you were younger than you are today. Life races by so quickly, and so often we only have time to focus on the road ahead. But the periphery of our lives are filled with people who occasionally catch glimpses of our true selves as we whizz past. The human brain has the amazing capability to create whole pictures from many small parts. The unexpected addition of a new part can sometimes redefine the image you had of yourself. Say, for example, you are attached to an image of yourself as a nerdy outcast; it can be eye-opening to learn that someone you thought was cool thought of you as intelligent, witty, and brave...even if she thinks of herself as a nerdy outcast.
I feel compelled to end this with a call to action - to tell you to reach out to some long lost acquaintance and tell them you thought they were all right, or that you thought about them at all and then I might have made a pitch to leave me a note letting me know you stopped by for read. But, as I was searching for links for this post, I came across a similar plea on Eddie's blog, and I quickly realized my own shortcoming in leaving comments for other people, and then I felt silly for begging for attention. So, I must persevere to consider that I write for myself and me alone, for the satisfaction of working out my own triumphs, fears, and insecurities, and simply be ever so grateful to anyone who takes the time to sift through the effluent of my mind.
Thank you.
And Happy Birthday, Sam.
Oddly enough, I know for a stone cold FACT, that the people I consider my absolute closest friends – those I have known since 3rd Grade (Oscar!), or Junior High (Beki!), or High School (Kathy!) do not, and WILL not read my blog. Ever. I reckon they think that anything I have to say to them should be said in person, and honestly, a few words just sprung to mind. I suspect Sofia might read, but I know she is busy, and I know Doug checks in on occasion when he is not too busy cracking one under the table over Lindsay Lohan mug shots or picking his mother up from the drunk tank at Elmwood. I also know that a lot of my friends and family (except maybe Lee and anyone born before computers existed, except Mom) read my updates with any regularity, even though, for various reasons they do not leave comments or write to me very often. At the bottom of my inbox is a pile of old emails that I just can’t bring myself to delete. Maybe because I think that one day they will serve as a reminder to follow up with someone, or maybe they are people I just don’t want to lose. Well, evidently, I too am floating around in the bottom of other people’s inboxes.
Last week, I got an email from one of those people at the bottom of my inbox. I wrote a long list of praises here about him, but I had to delete it, not only because it sounded like a eulogy (all about how he made my mother and my grandmother cry at my high school graduation), but because I truly he believe that one day he will be a senator or maybe even president (or at least a circuit judge in Fresno) and that a mention on the blog of an accused (but acquitted) felon might not serve his best interests in the long run. He wrote to me because he is turning 40 this year (I believe he was the baby of our graduating class) and something I wrote about it last November resonated with him (although he thinks it is for different reasons – he’s wrong – they are the same reasons!) I replied, reciting the sentiments expressed above, and he replied with surprise that I felt that way about him, having assumed he existed only on my periphery. Interestingly, I have always been under the assumption that I only ever existed on the periphery of his (and every one else at that damn school) as well.
And this is what got me to thinking enough to get to writing…on the value of collecting people who knew you when you were young, even if they are people who simply knew you when you were younger than you are today. Life races by so quickly, and so often we only have time to focus on the road ahead. But the periphery of our lives are filled with people who occasionally catch glimpses of our true selves as we whizz past. The human brain has the amazing capability to create whole pictures from many small parts. The unexpected addition of a new part can sometimes redefine the image you had of yourself. Say, for example, you are attached to an image of yourself as a nerdy outcast; it can be eye-opening to learn that someone you thought was cool thought of you as intelligent, witty, and brave...even if she thinks of herself as a nerdy outcast.
I feel compelled to end this with a call to action - to tell you to reach out to some long lost acquaintance and tell them you thought they were all right, or that you thought about them at all and then I might have made a pitch to leave me a note letting me know you stopped by for read. But, as I was searching for links for this post, I came across a similar plea on Eddie's blog, and I quickly realized my own shortcoming in leaving comments for other people, and then I felt silly for begging for attention. So, I must persevere to consider that I write for myself and me alone, for the satisfaction of working out my own triumphs, fears, and insecurities, and simply be ever so grateful to anyone who takes the time to sift through the effluent of my mind.
Thank you.
And Happy Birthday, Sam.
05 March 2008
Spam, spam, spam, spam...
Dear Readers,
I really didn't want to do this, but my blog has become the target of a really nasty spammer who adds nonsensical comments to my posts in a spineless attempt to draw traffic and back links to his own worthless website. It takes me considerable time and effort to remove this gibberish from my blog. Regretfully, word verification has not prevented this asshole from posting his trash.
Therefore, I am now forced to enable comment moderation. This means that when you post a comment, it must first be approved by me before it will appear on the blog. So if you don't see your comment right away, don't re-post it 5 times. Unless I am travelling, I should be able to moderate my comments frequently throughout the day.
I hate to do this, because I know so many of you are already reluctant to post comments (whether because you can't be bothered to let me know you are reading, or because you are too high and mighty, or simply because you have nothing to say - I do not know).
Hopefully, I will only have to do this for awhile until this spammer gets bored with me. So thank you for your cooperation and for all your feedback. It is the highlight of my day to log on and know that my efforts have not merely been absorbed into the ether.
Cheers,
Audra
I really didn't want to do this, but my blog has become the target of a really nasty spammer who adds nonsensical comments to my posts in a spineless attempt to draw traffic and back links to his own worthless website. It takes me considerable time and effort to remove this gibberish from my blog. Regretfully, word verification has not prevented this asshole from posting his trash.
Therefore, I am now forced to enable comment moderation. This means that when you post a comment, it must first be approved by me before it will appear on the blog. So if you don't see your comment right away, don't re-post it 5 times. Unless I am travelling, I should be able to moderate my comments frequently throughout the day.
I hate to do this, because I know so many of you are already reluctant to post comments (whether because you can't be bothered to let me know you are reading, or because you are too high and mighty, or simply because you have nothing to say - I do not know).
Hopefully, I will only have to do this for awhile until this spammer gets bored with me. So thank you for your cooperation and for all your feedback. It is the highlight of my day to log on and know that my efforts have not merely been absorbed into the ether.
Cheers,
Audra
02 March 2008
Townsville Photo Gallery
Catching up from last week's trip to Tropical Queensland:
Taking advantage of unlimited kilometers on the rental car, we decided to spend Saturday afternoon exploring the Townsville surrounds. The urban center is actually the composite of two sister cities, Townsville and Thuringowa. The current tourist campaign is "Discover Thuringowa" and most brochures feature inviting photos of a mossy arched stone bridge spanning Little Crystal Creek Falls, a popular swimming spot. Having always wanted to swim beneath a waterfall, we set out for Central Thuringowa.
After much circling through a maze of strip malls and dubious looking housing tracts, we finally realized that Crystal Creek Falls lies just outside the rain forest village of Paluma, 80 km to the North of Central Thuringowa. In the interim, we did discover a hoard of tiny tree frogs along the edge of a rather odiferous reservoir formed by the Ross River.
An abrupt mountain range frames the coast of Northern Queensland's beaches, providing a stunning backdrop and a natural catchment for the abundant tropical rains. Thus, nestled among the tops of these ranges are beautiful pockets of lush rain forest. After an expensive and unappetizing lunch at the only restaurant in Paluma (no wonder Australians are such good picnickers), we hiked 3 km beneath a dense canopy filled with strange bird calls and lined with interpretive signs that might have been written by Mrs Petersons's Kindergarten Class along the ridge to the Witt Lookout and were rewarded with this striking view of Big Crystal Creek winding its way to the Pacific:
Halfway down the twisting mountain road, we stopped at the picnic area beside the mossy rock bridge, which had somehow become known as "my bridge", as if I was obsessed with finding it - which I was - to have a swim in the delicious rock pools beneath Little Crystal Creek Falls. Oddly, the parking lot was just beyond a sign welcoming us to the City of Thuringowa.
I am often simply flabbergasted by the amenities provided to make such amazing places so accessible to the general public in Australia. It is one area where the US almost always falls short, and I often wonder if it is just a matter of sheer numbers of people or if there is some shortcoming in our national personality that makes it impossible to keep clean functional toilet facilities in remote locations. Steep cement staircases lead away from the lavish picnic grounds on either side of my arched bridge. Groups of Tongan families (damn they are big people), teenagers, and gossiping old crones congregated in the cool pools of sparkling water that cascaded over smooth boulders. Young men scampered fearlessly up rock walls and leaped from dizzying heights into the deep green water, so confident in their immortality and in their ability to heal from any injury. As Kevin and I gingerly picked our way through the maze of stone and water, we came to realize just how scarred our spirits still are from his single misstep on a cement staircase in Mexico. We were only too aware of just how far we were from the nearest hospital. We watched the kids hopping from rock to rock with a stab of regret for our own lost days of fearlessness.
But we swallowed our fears and plunged into the wonderfully cool water. It felt like a baptism, a cleansing rebirth of sorts. I tried to swim beneath the plunge of the waterfall, but the force of the down pour matched my strength and pushed me back to the edge of the pool. We rewarded our bravery with a stop at The Frosty Mango for ice cream on the way home.
On Sunday morning, we perused the stalls of the public craft market along the Flinders Street open air mall, where we spent extravagant amounts of money on tropical fruit products. We bought pineapple wine, passion fruit wine, passion fruit butter, and mango wine. And we bought every odd and unusual tropical fruit we could find, including star fruit, dragon fruit, and Jack Fruit. (I don't want to hear any crap about linking to Wikipedia - they had the best pictures and EVERYONE knows that the information presented therein may or may not be wholly accurate and should merely serve as an introduction and a guide for further reading!)
The star fruit and the dragon fruit (both white and red) were slightly disappointing. Their texture was appealing, but they were a little short in the flavor department. But the Jack Fruit was an adventure worthy of a video. The one pictured above is on the small side. It only weighed about ten pounds. Most are about twice the size of your head. The leathery skin holds a fibrous collection of fleshy pods surrounding large slick seeds. The pods have the texture of an onion, but a very strong flavor that is a cross between banana and pineapple - sort of like juicy fruit gum. It had to be removed from the apartment after it was opened, as the smell soon became overwhelming.
I stayed on through Monday and enjoyed a lovely walk along The Strand to the Rock Pool. The Strand is a 3 km pathway along the beachfront, dotted with parks, exercise stations, water fountains, and of course, Anzac memorials. The walk culminates in a gigantic Rock Pool - an enormous enclosure by the ocean's edge filled with filtered sea water and patrolled by lifeguards - once again, serviced by extraordinary toilet and shower facilities.
Aside from being a safe and sheltered swimming enclosure, rock pools serve to protect the public from the swarms of deadly jelly fish that inhabit the waters of Queensland from November to May. There are two particularly nasty species, that according to informational signs along the beaches, if someone should fall victim to their sting, you are to apply vinegar to the site of the trauma, call for medical aid, and immediately begin administering CPR.
My friends and colleagues are a little bewildered by my enchantment with Townsville, though most have never been themselves. I reckon one of the things I like about it is that it is not particularly a tourist center. It is a place where a traveller might stop off for a few days on their way to somewhere else, but it is not in and of itself a vacation destination. Because it is a port town on the edge of the mining world (indeed, there are daily commercial flights departing the airport exclusively to the Century Mine, the Cannington Mine, and The Phosphate Hill Mine), Townsville has a distinct industrial flavor - and after visiting some shops in Central Turingowa, I suspect that there may be a fair amount of toxic mine dust polluting the water supply, as there seemed to be an inordinate number of serious birth defects. It is also a town laden with military bases, which explains the huge numbers of gigantic bars that are packed out until 5 am each weekend. But Townsville boasts some lovely public venues adorned with an abundance of quality street art. Below are two of my favorites.
These 'ant hills' were constructed from found objects collected by local school children.
I'm not sure what this is supposed to be, but to me it looks like a gigantic potato gun.
Whew, that was a long tedious post. If you're still reading - bless your heart! And, you'll be pleased to know we will be returning to Tropical Queensland in thee weeks time over the long Easter weekend, in search of still more pristine waterfalls, untasted exotic fruits, and, perhaps, the elusive platypus.
01 March 2008
Party Gras
There is nothing more startling than waking up in your own bed when the last place you recall being is at Hungry Jack’s (aka Burger King) downtown.
“Why did the gays claim Mardi Gras for their own?”
“It’s all about feathers and sequins.”
I followed the trail of my clothes, dropped thoughtfully like bread crumbs, to the living room and was delighted to see my wallet, though I wondered how the contents came to be strewn across the floor.
“How come there are 1000 Dykes on Bikes, but only 15 Boys on Bikes?”
It took me a little longer to find my camera. It was next to the bathtub. I am afraid to see what is on the video card. Did I take a bath? I smell rather clean, considering...
“Are Gays so Catholic that they celebrate Mardi Gras?”
“I’ll wager there are more gay Catholics than you would suspect. Actually, Mardi Gras celebrations here last about 6 weeks. I don’t think they quite grasp the concept of lent – or maybe they do and this is their answer…you know, we missed the Gay Lesbian Pool Party two weeks ago and the Wet and Wild Fashion Show.” Just then, the Gay Catholic Society Float gyrated past. They were all dressed as altar boys.
There is a huge lump on my forehead. I have no idea how it got there.
"The parade brings in 650 million gay tourist dollars to Sydney over the weekend."
"Gay Dollars? So that doesn't include the 20 bucks I just paid to rent a stool?"
The Castro Cotillion drifted across my field of vision, the San Francisco skyline painted down the side. Lots of leather on that float.
"Are you going to the after party? It's being hosted by Cyndi Lauper and Olivia Newton John."
"Uh...I heard it is sold out."
I took several hours of video of the parade, but it shows like the Gay Wear Bitch Project, and I am a little to off-balance to try to edit it into something cohesive. Just imagine lots feathers and sequins.
I'm going back to bed now.
“Why did the gays claim Mardi Gras for their own?”
“It’s all about feathers and sequins.”
I followed the trail of my clothes, dropped thoughtfully like bread crumbs, to the living room and was delighted to see my wallet, though I wondered how the contents came to be strewn across the floor.
“How come there are 1000 Dykes on Bikes, but only 15 Boys on Bikes?”
It took me a little longer to find my camera. It was next to the bathtub. I am afraid to see what is on the video card. Did I take a bath? I smell rather clean, considering...
“Are Gays so Catholic that they celebrate Mardi Gras?”
“I’ll wager there are more gay Catholics than you would suspect. Actually, Mardi Gras celebrations here last about 6 weeks. I don’t think they quite grasp the concept of lent – or maybe they do and this is their answer…you know, we missed the Gay Lesbian Pool Party two weeks ago and the Wet and Wild Fashion Show.” Just then, the Gay Catholic Society Float gyrated past. They were all dressed as altar boys.
There is a huge lump on my forehead. I have no idea how it got there.
"The parade brings in 650 million gay tourist dollars to Sydney over the weekend."
"Gay Dollars? So that doesn't include the 20 bucks I just paid to rent a stool?"
The Castro Cotillion drifted across my field of vision, the San Francisco skyline painted down the side. Lots of leather on that float.
"Are you going to the after party? It's being hosted by Cyndi Lauper and Olivia Newton John."
"Uh...I heard it is sold out."
I took several hours of video of the parade, but it shows like the Gay Wear Bitch Project, and I am a little to off-balance to try to edit it into something cohesive. Just imagine lots feathers and sequins.
I'm going back to bed now.
About Australian Seasons
Today is the first day of autumn. I’m sure many of you are somewhat startled by that statement, knowing that the equinox is still three weeks away. As I have mentioned previously, Australia cannot be bothered to follow the laws of physics or astronomy, but once again, they seem to be spot on. (And – courtesy of The Prof - there is a case for their rebelliousness – but I would like to remark that the Romans were wrong about a great many things.) This morning the dark clouds that have covered the sky for the last three months are no where in sight. The air is cool and dry with a crispness that makes you want to shop for new shoes, sweaters, and spiral bound notebooks. The sunlight has the unmistakable golden slant that tells your body to get ready for Sunday afternoons watching ‘the gridiron’. (More than anything else, the lack of a fall football season screws up my celestial body clock.)
Normally, I am invigorated by the first day of fall, and I welcome the relief from summer’s oppressive heat, looking forward to cozy evenings spent making stew, curling up on the couch under a Mexican blanket, and staring at women’s boots with a covetous hunger that borders on psychopathic obsession. But this year, there was no oppressive heat from which to be relieved. In fact, this was the coldest – and certainly the wettest – summer I have ever experienced in my life. Allegedly (BK, I am reporting hearsay and have not verified the facts in the statement I am about to make), there were only 2 days over 30 degrees (86 F). In February, (I did check this statistic) the mean temperature in Sydney was a stifling 24.9 (76 F) degrees and we had 448 mm (17 inches) of rain. Neither of those points truly warrant complaint, but neither fit with my definition of summer, considering ‘back home’ the average summer temperature is 94 F (34 C) with 0 inches (0 mm) of rainfall.
But blogs about weather are boring. Hopefully tomorrow, I will be writing a blog about tonight’s Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras Parade. But wait, you might be thinking, wasn’t Mardi Gras three weeks ago, and doesn’t it usually fall on a Tuesday?
Allow me to reiterate: Australia cannot be bothered by a calendar based on reasonable and predictable celestial phenomena.
Normally, I am invigorated by the first day of fall, and I welcome the relief from summer’s oppressive heat, looking forward to cozy evenings spent making stew, curling up on the couch under a Mexican blanket, and staring at women’s boots with a covetous hunger that borders on psychopathic obsession. But this year, there was no oppressive heat from which to be relieved. In fact, this was the coldest – and certainly the wettest – summer I have ever experienced in my life. Allegedly (BK, I am reporting hearsay and have not verified the facts in the statement I am about to make), there were only 2 days over 30 degrees (86 F). In February, (I did check this statistic) the mean temperature in Sydney was a stifling 24.9 (76 F) degrees and we had 448 mm (17 inches) of rain. Neither of those points truly warrant complaint, but neither fit with my definition of summer, considering ‘back home’ the average summer temperature is 94 F (34 C) with 0 inches (0 mm) of rainfall.
But blogs about weather are boring. Hopefully tomorrow, I will be writing a blog about tonight’s Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras Parade. But wait, you might be thinking, wasn’t Mardi Gras three weeks ago, and doesn’t it usually fall on a Tuesday?
Allow me to reiterate: Australia cannot be bothered by a calendar based on reasonable and predictable celestial phenomena.
26 February 2008
Ticket to Townsville
There was a famous person waiting to board my flight to Townsville last Friday.
“Who?” You might reasonably ask..
I have no idea. Even if this person weren’t famous, I would have spent every spare moment stealing glances at his amazing physique: shoulders wide enough to land a jet, arms that could launch rockets, and skin so dark you could see through time. I only gathered that he was famous because every other bloke in the waiting area was also staring at him. Or maybe we all just had similar taste in men. But when the entire starting line-up of the Brisbane Broncos exited through the gate and came up to shake his hand, I reckoned that he must be a big shot rugby player and not a junior member of parliament. However, by then, I was more distracted by the notion that the plane I was about to board had just been vacated by 32 testosterone laden athletes who had probably left the cabin smelling like a gym locker AND drunk all the beer.
I’m no particular fan of Sir Richard Branson (is being rich the only criteria for knighthood these days? Don’t you have to save a damsel in distress, slay a dragon, or take down a windmill with a toothbrush or something?), but I do like the cheeky attitude of Virgin Airlines – nay, of all the subsidiaries of the Virgin empire. If the cocky drawl of the recorded operators servicing their mobile phone, credit cards, or flight reservations desk isn’t enough to win my heart, the décor of their airplanes certainly is:
I especially like how in Australia, they don't tell you to 'fasten your seatbelt' they tell you to make sure it is 'done up'...
My poor quizzical readers, by now you must be asking “But wait, didn’t you just go to Townsville the weekend before last?”
Yes. I did.
However, the astute reader will recall that Kevin was in Townsville during my last post. He is currently servicing a major zinc-mining operation that grosses over 600 million dollars per year and is owned by one (Korean) man. Being wealthy and impatient, this client wants Kevin’s undivided attention for several weeks at a time. Kevin had the imagination and forethought to agree to extended travel time with the proviso that the client pay for my airfare to come up for the weekend. I like to imagine that the client liked to imagine that he was flying in entertainment for the benefit of his contracted guest. AND, I was perfectly happy to vacate the apartment for several days in the firm belief that my unwanted house guest would get bored without me and fly out the window in search of other entertainment.
I so want to regale you with all of the wonderful details of this most recent trip – of stories about our glorious hike through the rainforest near Paluma, of swimming beneath a roaring waterfall at Little Crystal Creek, of our visit to The Frosty Mango, of the way the sunlight danced on the receding tide at Balgal Beach, of the taste of Jack Fruit, Dragon Fruit, and some other fruit whose name I cannot remember, of the unusual number of children with birth defects at Hungry Jack’s and the Supa IGA, of the noise that seagulls make when they are fighting over soggy chips, of the smell that wafts out of bar room doors at 8 pm before they are packed out with young livers and how that is different to the smell that wafts out of bar room doors at 8 am when they are packed out with old livers, of the urgent flight of the swallows above the Ross River as the setting sun back lights Castle Crag, of the price of socks, and of the flavour of red spot prawns, of the sound of prop-job cargo planes vanishing into dark puffy cloud banks across a grey bay, of children laughing in public fountains along The Strand, of smiling puppies and sea eagles that watch you back with equal fascination, of heat, and humidity, and drought, and rain, and worry, and hope, and fear, and resolution, and doubt, and wearing a bikini at forty…
But, it is late. I am tired. And my Korean noodles are getting cold on the stove.
(Note to self: write a blog entry about the inadequacies of Top Ramen compared to the glories of instant Korean noodles.)
“Who?” You might reasonably ask..
I have no idea. Even if this person weren’t famous, I would have spent every spare moment stealing glances at his amazing physique: shoulders wide enough to land a jet, arms that could launch rockets, and skin so dark you could see through time. I only gathered that he was famous because every other bloke in the waiting area was also staring at him. Or maybe we all just had similar taste in men. But when the entire starting line-up of the Brisbane Broncos exited through the gate and came up to shake his hand, I reckoned that he must be a big shot rugby player and not a junior member of parliament. However, by then, I was more distracted by the notion that the plane I was about to board had just been vacated by 32 testosterone laden athletes who had probably left the cabin smelling like a gym locker AND drunk all the beer.
I’m no particular fan of Sir Richard Branson (is being rich the only criteria for knighthood these days? Don’t you have to save a damsel in distress, slay a dragon, or take down a windmill with a toothbrush or something?), but I do like the cheeky attitude of Virgin Airlines – nay, of all the subsidiaries of the Virgin empire. If the cocky drawl of the recorded operators servicing their mobile phone, credit cards, or flight reservations desk isn’t enough to win my heart, the décor of their airplanes certainly is:
I especially like how in Australia, they don't tell you to 'fasten your seatbelt' they tell you to make sure it is 'done up'...
My poor quizzical readers, by now you must be asking “But wait, didn’t you just go to Townsville the weekend before last?”
Yes. I did.
However, the astute reader will recall that Kevin was in Townsville during my last post. He is currently servicing a major zinc-mining operation that grosses over 600 million dollars per year and is owned by one (Korean) man. Being wealthy and impatient, this client wants Kevin’s undivided attention for several weeks at a time. Kevin had the imagination and forethought to agree to extended travel time with the proviso that the client pay for my airfare to come up for the weekend. I like to imagine that the client liked to imagine that he was flying in entertainment for the benefit of his contracted guest. AND, I was perfectly happy to vacate the apartment for several days in the firm belief that my unwanted house guest would get bored without me and fly out the window in search of other entertainment.
I so want to regale you with all of the wonderful details of this most recent trip – of stories about our glorious hike through the rainforest near Paluma, of swimming beneath a roaring waterfall at Little Crystal Creek, of our visit to The Frosty Mango, of the way the sunlight danced on the receding tide at Balgal Beach, of the taste of Jack Fruit, Dragon Fruit, and some other fruit whose name I cannot remember, of the unusual number of children with birth defects at Hungry Jack’s and the Supa IGA, of the noise that seagulls make when they are fighting over soggy chips, of the smell that wafts out of bar room doors at 8 pm before they are packed out with young livers and how that is different to the smell that wafts out of bar room doors at 8 am when they are packed out with old livers, of the urgent flight of the swallows above the Ross River as the setting sun back lights Castle Crag, of the price of socks, and of the flavour of red spot prawns, of the sound of prop-job cargo planes vanishing into dark puffy cloud banks across a grey bay, of children laughing in public fountains along The Strand, of smiling puppies and sea eagles that watch you back with equal fascination, of heat, and humidity, and drought, and rain, and worry, and hope, and fear, and resolution, and doubt, and wearing a bikini at forty…
But, it is late. I am tired. And my Korean noodles are getting cold on the stove.
(Note to self: write a blog entry about the inadequacies of Top Ramen compared to the glories of instant Korean noodles.)
21 February 2008
Eeeze No Mouse
One of my favourite childhood anecdotes occurred during a trip to Nassau with my mother. We were out for dinner at some tropical restaurant, and I needed to go to the bathroom. Being the fiercely independent child that I was, I insisted on going alone. I returned with the force of a recently fired cannon ball, shrieking at having seen a gigantic mouse atop the toilet. The waiter, in an attempt to both calm me and to assure the other guests of the cleanliness of his establishment came over and said, “Oh no leetle girl. Eeeze no mouse. Eeeze cock-A-roach!”
Now, it might sound odd, that a grown woman (and a biologist at that) who is fascinated by animal carcasses smeared across road beds and likewise charmed by even the most putrid of slithering animals should be so unreasonably mortified by the existence of cockroaches - but I am. Perhaps my intense phobia stems from the traumatic events of that otherwise blissful island vacation. Or maybe it developed during those long nights spent on the roach-riddled couch at my now-father’s wretched little apartment in Toledo (which, by the way, was the scene of another of my favourite childhood anecdotes which I will save for the occasion when I need to introduce a topic regarding exploding bottles of liquid Styrofoam and the ensuing haircuts required as a result thereof.) I won’t dismiss the possibility that my rigid disregard for the frightful insects matured that night I ate mushrooms at Mike Griffin’s house. Well, a phobia is, by definition, an irrational fear, thus I will squander no further effort on a justification for my emotions. Regardless of the root causes, the fact remains that I am extremely unsettled by the sudden and unexpected sight of a cockroach.
Now, one might make a good argument for the case that seeing a cockroach in Sydney in the summer should not be an unexpected event. Indeed, I myself have made public statements regarding the fact that cockroaches are an undeniable part of the native fauna of Australia, and that they are not necessarily an indicator of squalid poverty or poor domestic hygiene. Nonetheless, whenever I chance upon some shiny brown carapace with wriggly antenna waving at me in eager defiance as it scuttles across the halls of the Blackburn Building and vanishes beneath some misplaced piece of equipment, I cannot resist the impulse to pull my elbows close to my body and flap my hands at the wrists whilst high-stepping through the corridors in a spastic ballet accompanied by some rather unpleasant vocalizations.
Thus, with that background information, I invite you to imagine the turmoil that ensued when I, in a state of gentle repose, relaxing upon my sofa, drinking a cold beer, and watching illegally obtained episodes of South Park, observed a small dark form scurry into my peripheral vision. As my frontal cortex rapidly sorted through possible explanations for this brown blur (lizard, mouse, cock…) the wretched creature crawled across MY FOOT, at which moment my reptilian brainstem reclaimed control over my body with the vengeance of a postal worker that has been passed over for promotion for forty years. With an agility I’d never imagined possible outside of a French circus, my puny muscles launched my awkward frame across the room in a spray of golden bubbles and imaginative curses. It took a full forty-five seconds of sputtering in circles before my cortex regained control of my corpuscles and suggested to my reluctant hands to collect a shoe, but of course, by this time the little bastard had wriggled out of sight.
The situation might not have been so traumatic if Kevin were here to laugh at me, or better yet, to hunt down and kill the beast himself (a duty that I distinctly recall being stated in our wedding vows explicitly), but he is over 2,000 kilometers away in Townsville. So I am left alone, to prance gingerly through the apartment, rounding corners on tip-toe, and jumping at every little shadow that shimmies in the corner of my eye. I will change the sheets and shake out the doona (aka comforter), but I doubt that sleep will fall easily upon my worried mind. I already pity myself for the unavoidable occasion when I am awakened in the middle of the night by the pitter-patter of six sticky feet across my face.
That just may be the day I buy my ticket home.
Now, it might sound odd, that a grown woman (and a biologist at that) who is fascinated by animal carcasses smeared across road beds and likewise charmed by even the most putrid of slithering animals should be so unreasonably mortified by the existence of cockroaches - but I am. Perhaps my intense phobia stems from the traumatic events of that otherwise blissful island vacation. Or maybe it developed during those long nights spent on the roach-riddled couch at my now-father’s wretched little apartment in Toledo (which, by the way, was the scene of another of my favourite childhood anecdotes which I will save for the occasion when I need to introduce a topic regarding exploding bottles of liquid Styrofoam and the ensuing haircuts required as a result thereof.) I won’t dismiss the possibility that my rigid disregard for the frightful insects matured that night I ate mushrooms at Mike Griffin’s house. Well, a phobia is, by definition, an irrational fear, thus I will squander no further effort on a justification for my emotions. Regardless of the root causes, the fact remains that I am extremely unsettled by the sudden and unexpected sight of a cockroach.
Now, one might make a good argument for the case that seeing a cockroach in Sydney in the summer should not be an unexpected event. Indeed, I myself have made public statements regarding the fact that cockroaches are an undeniable part of the native fauna of Australia, and that they are not necessarily an indicator of squalid poverty or poor domestic hygiene. Nonetheless, whenever I chance upon some shiny brown carapace with wriggly antenna waving at me in eager defiance as it scuttles across the halls of the Blackburn Building and vanishes beneath some misplaced piece of equipment, I cannot resist the impulse to pull my elbows close to my body and flap my hands at the wrists whilst high-stepping through the corridors in a spastic ballet accompanied by some rather unpleasant vocalizations.
Thus, with that background information, I invite you to imagine the turmoil that ensued when I, in a state of gentle repose, relaxing upon my sofa, drinking a cold beer, and watching illegally obtained episodes of South Park, observed a small dark form scurry into my peripheral vision. As my frontal cortex rapidly sorted through possible explanations for this brown blur (lizard, mouse, cock…) the wretched creature crawled across MY FOOT, at which moment my reptilian brainstem reclaimed control over my body with the vengeance of a postal worker that has been passed over for promotion for forty years. With an agility I’d never imagined possible outside of a French circus, my puny muscles launched my awkward frame across the room in a spray of golden bubbles and imaginative curses. It took a full forty-five seconds of sputtering in circles before my cortex regained control of my corpuscles and suggested to my reluctant hands to collect a shoe, but of course, by this time the little bastard had wriggled out of sight.
The situation might not have been so traumatic if Kevin were here to laugh at me, or better yet, to hunt down and kill the beast himself (a duty that I distinctly recall being stated in our wedding vows explicitly), but he is over 2,000 kilometers away in Townsville. So I am left alone, to prance gingerly through the apartment, rounding corners on tip-toe, and jumping at every little shadow that shimmies in the corner of my eye. I will change the sheets and shake out the doona (aka comforter), but I doubt that sleep will fall easily upon my worried mind. I already pity myself for the unavoidable occasion when I am awakened in the middle of the night by the pitter-patter of six sticky feet across my face.
That just may be the day I buy my ticket home.
14 February 2008
23%
“Some amazing things just happened to my mouth.” Said Kevin.
Wait, I’ve gotten ahead of myself.
Did you know that 23% of all men suffer from excessive wind? I know that because there was a framed sign in the bathroom at the pub that said so. That was all it said. There was no further information nor suggestions for products to relieve such an affliction nor a number for a government hotline. Just a simple statement of fact. A fact with which, by the way, I take serious umbrage. For one thing, I have no doubt the statistic approaches 110%, and secondly, I disagree that they are the ones who suffer. Indeed, I think they rather enjoy it.
But that was before the amazing things happened to Kevin’s mouth. And my mouth. These amazing things came courtesy of the food artisans at the Spicy Sichuan Restaurant. It’s the type of restaurant I might have been reluctant to try on my own, because I would not have had a clue what to order, even though each menu item featured colourful photographs. Fortunately, we were there at the urging of the graduate students in my lab, who deftly, and enthusiastically, ploughed through the menu in an animated exchange with the waiter that involved much nodding and gesturing.
I’m still not quite sure what I ate, but it was amazing. There was some fish stuff. And some pork stuff with garlic – or was it garlic stuff with pork? I believe that is more accurate. There was my favourite dish of green beans with more pork stuff. There were stuffed dumplings and more fish stuff. And there was eggplant, which I generally dislike with an intensity reserved for purveyors of genocide, but which on this occasion tempted me to lick my bowl. The magical blend of garlic, spice, and peppers transported us all to a higher plane of existence, where vocabulary became obsolete and conversation limited to the making of yummy sounds.
However, my favourite part of the restaurant experience was the little shrine in the women’s toilet burning fragrant incense. No doubt because 23% of all women…
Wait, I’ve gotten ahead of myself.
Did you know that 23% of all men suffer from excessive wind? I know that because there was a framed sign in the bathroom at the pub that said so. That was all it said. There was no further information nor suggestions for products to relieve such an affliction nor a number for a government hotline. Just a simple statement of fact. A fact with which, by the way, I take serious umbrage. For one thing, I have no doubt the statistic approaches 110%, and secondly, I disagree that they are the ones who suffer. Indeed, I think they rather enjoy it.
But that was before the amazing things happened to Kevin’s mouth. And my mouth. These amazing things came courtesy of the food artisans at the Spicy Sichuan Restaurant. It’s the type of restaurant I might have been reluctant to try on my own, because I would not have had a clue what to order, even though each menu item featured colourful photographs. Fortunately, we were there at the urging of the graduate students in my lab, who deftly, and enthusiastically, ploughed through the menu in an animated exchange with the waiter that involved much nodding and gesturing.
I’m still not quite sure what I ate, but it was amazing. There was some fish stuff. And some pork stuff with garlic – or was it garlic stuff with pork? I believe that is more accurate. There was my favourite dish of green beans with more pork stuff. There were stuffed dumplings and more fish stuff. And there was eggplant, which I generally dislike with an intensity reserved for purveyors of genocide, but which on this occasion tempted me to lick my bowl. The magical blend of garlic, spice, and peppers transported us all to a higher plane of existence, where vocabulary became obsolete and conversation limited to the making of yummy sounds.
However, my favourite part of the restaurant experience was the little shrine in the women’s toilet burning fragrant incense. No doubt because 23% of all women…
12 February 2008
Never Ready
This morning, I dismissed the little voice in side my head that said I should carry my camera with me today. So I don’t have a picture of the inexplicable crowd that swarmed the St Leonards train station.
Or of the incredibly helpful marquee on the front of the #435 bus that read “TERMINATES – All Stops”.
Or of the amazingly filthy man sitting on the marble steps of Energy Australia telling an animated story to a constable. He looked like he had been dragged beneath the under carriage of a train…or maybe like a cat that had been sleeping on a greasy engine block.
I don’t have a picture of the burned out car with smashed windows that has been sitting in the gravel lot in front of the brick wall painted with a mural of a giant smirking skull, but was today filled with colourful balloons.
I don’t have a picture of the fire at the Broadway shops or the massive traffic back up along the main artery leading from the heart of the city into the Western suburbs.
I don’t have a picture of the torrential downpour that soaked me to the skin the minute I stepped out of the door of the Blackburn Building (which, by the way, had a fire alarm today.)
But I especially don’t have a picture of the wonderful little boy stomping happily through puddles, who reminded me that it is fun to walk in the rain.
Or of the incredibly helpful marquee on the front of the #435 bus that read “TERMINATES – All Stops”.
Or of the amazingly filthy man sitting on the marble steps of Energy Australia telling an animated story to a constable. He looked like he had been dragged beneath the under carriage of a train…or maybe like a cat that had been sleeping on a greasy engine block.
I don’t have a picture of the burned out car with smashed windows that has been sitting in the gravel lot in front of the brick wall painted with a mural of a giant smirking skull, but was today filled with colourful balloons.
I don’t have a picture of the fire at the Broadway shops or the massive traffic back up along the main artery leading from the heart of the city into the Western suburbs.
I don’t have a picture of the torrential downpour that soaked me to the skin the minute I stepped out of the door of the Blackburn Building (which, by the way, had a fire alarm today.)
But I especially don’t have a picture of the wonderful little boy stomping happily through puddles, who reminded me that it is fun to walk in the rain.
09 February 2008
Ode to the Lane Cove Library
One of the advantages of commuting by public transport is that I have an extra 7.5 hours per week to dedicate to reading, Thus I am averaging about a book a week. Not exactly ravenous, but not too shabby, considering the number of people who don’t read at all – or who will no longer read now that the Harry Potter adventures are all wrapped up.
Despite having been raised by a devout Librarian, I somehow picked up the naughty habit of buying books. Mostly, because I enjoy writing in them and giving them to people, but also because since I moved away from home, Mom can no longer erase my overdue fines. Aside from the occasional find at St Vincent dePaul’s, buying books in Australia is preposterous. Books here are outrageously expensive. Outrageously. Even used books are excessive. I had myself a little rant at Dymock’s where the clerk calmly explained that the reason books were so expensive is that Australia had to pay exorbitant fees to the bloody American Publishing houses. How does that explain the 128 page paperback, written by Australian authors and published in Sydney that just cost me $30?? (Editor's Note: Derogatory comment regarding Australia's convict heritage has been thoughtfully deleted.)
And so, I have developed a very close relationship with the Lane Cove Library. Although their collection is typically lacking any book I am actively seeking (hence the aggravation at Dymock’s), I can always find something amusing to read. And they have an exquisite collection of DVD’s, including old classics, heaps of Aussie movies, and the entire 182 seasons of M*A*S*H. (Mind you, M*A*S*H was a great show, but I am still a little baffled by its lingering popularity here. I suspect they like it because every once in a while a brave and stalwart digger makes an appearance on the show, always in a favourable light.)
The Lane Cove Library is run by a prototypical library staff: 30% genuinely helpful professional bibliophiles, 30% crotchety old farts with fat ankles, 20% social misfits without people skills who are very annoyed that you are disturbing their perfectly ordered world by moving their books around and asking questions. Since we moved to St Leonards from the Village of Lane Cove, visiting the library has become a bit of an event for us. Lately, we have been walking the hilly 2.5 Km, then stopping in at the butcher’s to collect something for dinner, or having lunch at my favourite place for Portuguese chicken burgers.
But my favourite time to visit the library is when it is pissing down rain – which it has done for about 25 out of the last 30 days. This is not because the prospect of curling up with a good book or an old movie on a rainy afternoon is so appealing…nor is it because the library is located in a cozy brick building. It is because when it rains, the roof leaks like a sprinkler. I find this infinitely amusing for some reason that can only be a defect in my moral character. (Editor's Note: A derogatory comment regarding Australian building standards has been deleted.) The floor becomes a maze of buckets catching small waterfalls. The carpet beneath the rear wall has sprouted a thick shag of white fungus. The stacks are draped with large plastic sheets. I think it is very fun to climb under the tarps and browse through the fiction titles in solitude. It's like being in a dark smelly tent with all my favourite authors telling me bed time stories.
Yesterday, upon check out, I was handed a slip of paper explaining the relocation of half the collection to temporary quarters during construction of a new library. What is odd is that the new library is going to be in an entirely different location from the current one, so I cannot comprehend why half the collection is being temporarily relocated elsewhere and half will remain where it is. My questions were answered by an angry stare from an employee clearly in the 20th percentile, so I collected my books and departed in a state of mild bewilderment that has become all too familiar to me since moving to Australia.
Despite having been raised by a devout Librarian, I somehow picked up the naughty habit of buying books. Mostly, because I enjoy writing in them and giving them to people, but also because since I moved away from home, Mom can no longer erase my overdue fines. Aside from the occasional find at St Vincent dePaul’s, buying books in Australia is preposterous. Books here are outrageously expensive. Outrageously. Even used books are excessive. I had myself a little rant at Dymock’s where the clerk calmly explained that the reason books were so expensive is that Australia had to pay exorbitant fees to the bloody American Publishing houses. How does that explain the 128 page paperback, written by Australian authors and published in Sydney that just cost me $30?? (Editor's Note: Derogatory comment regarding Australia's convict heritage has been thoughtfully deleted.)
And so, I have developed a very close relationship with the Lane Cove Library. Although their collection is typically lacking any book I am actively seeking (hence the aggravation at Dymock’s), I can always find something amusing to read. And they have an exquisite collection of DVD’s, including old classics, heaps of Aussie movies, and the entire 182 seasons of M*A*S*H. (Mind you, M*A*S*H was a great show, but I am still a little baffled by its lingering popularity here. I suspect they like it because every once in a while a brave and stalwart digger makes an appearance on the show, always in a favourable light.)
The Lane Cove Library is run by a prototypical library staff: 30% genuinely helpful professional bibliophiles, 30% crotchety old farts with fat ankles, 20% social misfits without people skills who are very annoyed that you are disturbing their perfectly ordered world by moving their books around and asking questions. Since we moved to St Leonards from the Village of Lane Cove, visiting the library has become a bit of an event for us. Lately, we have been walking the hilly 2.5 Km, then stopping in at the butcher’s to collect something for dinner, or having lunch at my favourite place for Portuguese chicken burgers.
But my favourite time to visit the library is when it is pissing down rain – which it has done for about 25 out of the last 30 days. This is not because the prospect of curling up with a good book or an old movie on a rainy afternoon is so appealing…nor is it because the library is located in a cozy brick building. It is because when it rains, the roof leaks like a sprinkler. I find this infinitely amusing for some reason that can only be a defect in my moral character. (Editor's Note: A derogatory comment regarding Australian building standards has been deleted.) The floor becomes a maze of buckets catching small waterfalls. The carpet beneath the rear wall has sprouted a thick shag of white fungus. The stacks are draped with large plastic sheets. I think it is very fun to climb under the tarps and browse through the fiction titles in solitude. It's like being in a dark smelly tent with all my favourite authors telling me bed time stories.
Yesterday, upon check out, I was handed a slip of paper explaining the relocation of half the collection to temporary quarters during construction of a new library. What is odd is that the new library is going to be in an entirely different location from the current one, so I cannot comprehend why half the collection is being temporarily relocated elsewhere and half will remain where it is. My questions were answered by an angry stare from an employee clearly in the 20th percentile, so I collected my books and departed in a state of mild bewilderment that has become all too familiar to me since moving to Australia.
06 February 2008
Burn Blackburn, Burn
Without fail, the fire alarm in the building where I work goes off every week, except for the time when there really was a fire on the sixth floor. Then it never went off. I am forever optimistic that, maybe this time, it will actually burn to the ground, and then the University could build a proper research building with functional plumbing, proper ventilation, and adequate electrical outlets. But it is always a boring old false alarm.
Except for today. Today, the building got hit by lightning. It was the loudest sound I ever felt, and of course, the fire alarm went off immediately. Eyewitnesses outside reported seeing a large yellow fireball in the vicinity of the roof. Unfortunately, the building is adequately grounded, thus it did not burn to the ground. We didn't even lose power. There was a minor explosion in a flourescent light fixture, which has filled the hallways with the dramatic smell of ozone.
The best part about fire alarms, aside from the fresh air, is the firemen. I like to sit on the brick wall across from the main entrance and wait for the firemen to pull up in their cute little miniature firetrucks. Perhaps "cosmopolitan" is a better term, but compared to the American behemoths, they look like little toy firetrucks. I don't know how the firmen can muster such enthusiasm on a weekly basis, hopping out of the cabs in all earnestness, full of gusto. Maybe like me, they are eternal optimists and belive that this will be the week when the building is really, truly on fire.
Which is ridiculous, because if it were, there wouldn't be any alarms.
Except for today. Today, the building got hit by lightning. It was the loudest sound I ever felt, and of course, the fire alarm went off immediately. Eyewitnesses outside reported seeing a large yellow fireball in the vicinity of the roof. Unfortunately, the building is adequately grounded, thus it did not burn to the ground. We didn't even lose power. There was a minor explosion in a flourescent light fixture, which has filled the hallways with the dramatic smell of ozone.
The best part about fire alarms, aside from the fresh air, is the firemen. I like to sit on the brick wall across from the main entrance and wait for the firemen to pull up in their cute little miniature firetrucks. Perhaps "cosmopolitan" is a better term, but compared to the American behemoths, they look like little toy firetrucks. I don't know how the firmen can muster such enthusiasm on a weekly basis, hopping out of the cabs in all earnestness, full of gusto. Maybe like me, they are eternal optimists and belive that this will be the week when the building is really, truly on fire.
Which is ridiculous, because if it were, there wouldn't be any alarms.
05 February 2008
Super Bowl in the Tropics
I stepped out of the dry sterile air of the plane and into the wet heat of Townsville in summer, like walking into a French whore’s g-string, except it smelled like frangipani and sea water and only cost ninety-nine dollars to get there.
Logistical difficulties with Kevin’s work travel schedule forced us to spend Super Bowl Monday in the tropics. BooHoo. Sydney’s weather has been total shithouse for the last few weeks, and I welcomed the sweltering seaside humidity. It’s not like the exhaust stained humidity of the city that clings to your eyeballs and pools in the bottom of your lungs. It’s fresh and cleansing, like being in a pretty bathtub for three days, except for the drunk aboriginals.
Townsville seems to be falling down and building up at the same time. The skyline is dotted with several cranes constructing large hotels and giant warehouses along the port, yet every other storefront along the main drag is gutted and boarded up. The parklands of The Strand are maintained with meticulous splendour, the massive fig and macadamia nut trees filled with black cockatoos and honey eaters. The brick walkways of The Flinders Street Mall are dusty and jumbled, the benches filled with black men with skinny legs and shaggy white manes drinking beer.
Castle Crag looms majestically above Townsville, staring out across the bay at Magnetic Island, perhaps longingly. After World War II, an American Corps of Army Engineers offered to dismantle the giant rock cliff to build a bridge to the island. I think they were just looking for a good excuse to stay. Townsville wisely declined. And so Maggie maintains an aura of remote mystique, even though it is only 25 minutes away by ferry and infested with luxury vacation homes and dirty back-packers.
I do not feel there is any reason for me to recap the play-by-play drama of the main event, since I am reasonably sure that most of my reading audience was among the 140 million people that tuned into the Super Bowl at some point, and if you weren’t watching the gripping second half, then you obviously don’t care about it anyway and wouldn’t want to suffer through my bombastic narrative. As per usual, I came very close to getting kicked out of the Cowboy’s League Club. What can I say, I got excited. And I had been drinking beer since 9 am. Swearing in public is frowned upon with an amazing intolerance here. But Christ, it was the Fucking Super Bowl and I was in a Rugby League Club! I pulled myself together and managed to direct my angst inward during the last few minutes of the game:
I took advantage of the occasion to revel in the glory of the anniversary of the most exciting sport’s bet I have ever made, retelling the tale to anyone who would listen. Our gains were appreciably more modest this year, though we did double our money and cover our drinks with a Giant’s win and Eli’s nomination to MVP, and if Plaxico Burress hadn’t been triple covered on the first drive, we would have paid for dinner too.
Logistical difficulties with Kevin’s work travel schedule forced us to spend Super Bowl Monday in the tropics. BooHoo. Sydney’s weather has been total shithouse for the last few weeks, and I welcomed the sweltering seaside humidity. It’s not like the exhaust stained humidity of the city that clings to your eyeballs and pools in the bottom of your lungs. It’s fresh and cleansing, like being in a pretty bathtub for three days, except for the drunk aboriginals.
Townsville seems to be falling down and building up at the same time. The skyline is dotted with several cranes constructing large hotels and giant warehouses along the port, yet every other storefront along the main drag is gutted and boarded up. The parklands of The Strand are maintained with meticulous splendour, the massive fig and macadamia nut trees filled with black cockatoos and honey eaters. The brick walkways of The Flinders Street Mall are dusty and jumbled, the benches filled with black men with skinny legs and shaggy white manes drinking beer.
Castle Crag looms majestically above Townsville, staring out across the bay at Magnetic Island, perhaps longingly. After World War II, an American Corps of Army Engineers offered to dismantle the giant rock cliff to build a bridge to the island. I think they were just looking for a good excuse to stay. Townsville wisely declined. And so Maggie maintains an aura of remote mystique, even though it is only 25 minutes away by ferry and infested with luxury vacation homes and dirty back-packers.
I do not feel there is any reason for me to recap the play-by-play drama of the main event, since I am reasonably sure that most of my reading audience was among the 140 million people that tuned into the Super Bowl at some point, and if you weren’t watching the gripping second half, then you obviously don’t care about it anyway and wouldn’t want to suffer through my bombastic narrative. As per usual, I came very close to getting kicked out of the Cowboy’s League Club. What can I say, I got excited. And I had been drinking beer since 9 am. Swearing in public is frowned upon with an amazing intolerance here. But Christ, it was the Fucking Super Bowl and I was in a Rugby League Club! I pulled myself together and managed to direct my angst inward during the last few minutes of the game:
I took advantage of the occasion to revel in the glory of the anniversary of the most exciting sport’s bet I have ever made, retelling the tale to anyone who would listen. Our gains were appreciably more modest this year, though we did double our money and cover our drinks with a Giant’s win and Eli’s nomination to MVP, and if Plaxico Burress hadn’t been triple covered on the first drive, we would have paid for dinner too.
01 February 2008
The Doctrine of Fashionism
Sydney certainly believes itself to be a city steeped in high fashion. Except for the occasional freak coincidence, my own wardrobe has consistently been at odds with the fashion industry throughout my entire life. Therefore, I am not really in a position to judge whether or not Sydneysiders dress in the height of modern fashion. However, I have a sneaking suspicion that Australia’s geographical isolation from the rest of civilization, coupled with their unique self image, has resulted in some very regrettable wardrobe decisions among Sydney’s clothes conscious.
The current trend for women is all about baby doll dresses. Loose flowing gowns cinched tight across the nipple line and cropped as close to the bottom of the buttocks as a breezeless day will allow. The result is a complete obliteration of any hint of the female form. Breasts look flattened and all other curves become invisible. This look does however place an extraordinary emphasis on the lower extremities. Many Australian women have a distinct body-type: long lean bodies and short strong legs (I am curious to know what set of genetic crossbreeds gave rise to this particular shape.) Thus the baby doll dress helps balance out their proportions. However, the overall effect is that Saturday night in the city resembles a giant pyjama party in high heels.
Note: This look is not truly complete unless you are pigeon toed.
The fashion for men is slightly less ridiculous, except for the shoes and quite possibly the hair, oh and the sunglasses. When walking through the central business district, I often get the feeling I have stumbled into a Tyler Durden look-alike convention. I actually find this look rather attractive, if not only because of the menatal associations to Brad Pitt. I don’t particularly mind the just-rolled-out-of-bed look for men’s hair, except I know that in fact they had it professionally styled and spent more than a few minutes in the mirror with some products making sure the left side was smooshed just so. But this look falls apart for me when it comes to the shoes. Most popular are ridiculously long, square-toed Italian loafers – preferably so long that the toes actually curl up, giving the effect of a pair of Persian Ali Baba slippers. This gives the Australian male a peculiar gait in order to avoid tripping, and narrow stair cases necessitate a slightly angled ascent in order to ensure the balls of the foot actually hit the risers.
When it comes to sunglasses, I am fairly certain that this unfortunate trend has indeed swept the globe, but I am hopeful that it is already dying out elsewhere. Now mind you, there was a time when I was quite smitten with Jackie-O sunglasses, but as usual, it was more for the comic relief factor than for style or practicality. Designers have taken the Jackie-O concept to new extremes, but the key to this fashion accessory is to sport a sincere expression of disaffected boredom and impatience. The overall effect is an entire city of indolent insects travelling by public transport.
One last note about footwear: I know that flip-flops (aka thongs) have risen to new heights of acceptable fashion throughout the United States and are probably here to stay because of their complete functionality and affordability. I support this trend fully and thank the powers of the universe that this trend did not persist during the seventies when the thick-soled rainbow striped version briefly made the scene. Still, I cannot visualize any major city in the US where flip-flops are such an integral part of daily business wear. Again, I suspect this has much to do with Australia’s unique self-image and also with Sydney’s close association with the beach, such that everyone like to constantly give the impression that, at any moment, they might just bugger off to go surfing.
So tell me dear readers, is the rest of the world really dressing like this?
The current trend for women is all about baby doll dresses. Loose flowing gowns cinched tight across the nipple line and cropped as close to the bottom of the buttocks as a breezeless day will allow. The result is a complete obliteration of any hint of the female form. Breasts look flattened and all other curves become invisible. This look does however place an extraordinary emphasis on the lower extremities. Many Australian women have a distinct body-type: long lean bodies and short strong legs (I am curious to know what set of genetic crossbreeds gave rise to this particular shape.) Thus the baby doll dress helps balance out their proportions. However, the overall effect is that Saturday night in the city resembles a giant pyjama party in high heels.
Note: This look is not truly complete unless you are pigeon toed.
The fashion for men is slightly less ridiculous, except for the shoes and quite possibly the hair, oh and the sunglasses. When walking through the central business district, I often get the feeling I have stumbled into a Tyler Durden look-alike convention. I actually find this look rather attractive, if not only because of the menatal associations to Brad Pitt. I don’t particularly mind the just-rolled-out-of-bed look for men’s hair, except I know that in fact they had it professionally styled and spent more than a few minutes in the mirror with some products making sure the left side was smooshed just so. But this look falls apart for me when it comes to the shoes. Most popular are ridiculously long, square-toed Italian loafers – preferably so long that the toes actually curl up, giving the effect of a pair of Persian Ali Baba slippers. This gives the Australian male a peculiar gait in order to avoid tripping, and narrow stair cases necessitate a slightly angled ascent in order to ensure the balls of the foot actually hit the risers.
When it comes to sunglasses, I am fairly certain that this unfortunate trend has indeed swept the globe, but I am hopeful that it is already dying out elsewhere. Now mind you, there was a time when I was quite smitten with Jackie-O sunglasses, but as usual, it was more for the comic relief factor than for style or practicality. Designers have taken the Jackie-O concept to new extremes, but the key to this fashion accessory is to sport a sincere expression of disaffected boredom and impatience. The overall effect is an entire city of indolent insects travelling by public transport.
One last note about footwear: I know that flip-flops (aka thongs) have risen to new heights of acceptable fashion throughout the United States and are probably here to stay because of their complete functionality and affordability. I support this trend fully and thank the powers of the universe that this trend did not persist during the seventies when the thick-soled rainbow striped version briefly made the scene. Still, I cannot visualize any major city in the US where flip-flops are such an integral part of daily business wear. Again, I suspect this has much to do with Australia’s unique self-image and also with Sydney’s close association with the beach, such that everyone like to constantly give the impression that, at any moment, they might just bugger off to go surfing.
So tell me dear readers, is the rest of the world really dressing like this?
31 January 2008
Dear Colleagues (Part 2)
Thank you for your overwhelming support in my efforts to restore the tea room refrigerator to an acceptable level of bio-safety. I appreciate your appreciation.
I have made another executive decision in favour of general-use condiments. In an effort to reduce redundancy of common condiments, such as butter/margarine, chilli sauce, fruit preserves, etc, I encourage people to share these relatively inexpensive items with their colleagues. Henceforth all un-labelled items may be considered available for general use. Please try to reserve the upper shelves for general-use items.
Despite what my husband says about me, I do not enjoy micromanaging other people’s behaviour, thus am reluctant to institute a roster system for maintenance of inventory and regular cleaning. Instead, I choose to believe (perhaps naively) that the selfless actions of mature people, acting in good faith, will balance themselves out - even if some people cannot figure out where tea bags come from…but I will save that rant for my next project.
Again, thank you. And don’t forget:
PLEASE
DATE & LABEL YOUR FOOD
I have made another executive decision in favour of general-use condiments. In an effort to reduce redundancy of common condiments, such as butter/margarine, chilli sauce, fruit preserves, etc, I encourage people to share these relatively inexpensive items with their colleagues. Henceforth all un-labelled items may be considered available for general use. Please try to reserve the upper shelves for general-use items.
Despite what my husband says about me, I do not enjoy micromanaging other people’s behaviour, thus am reluctant to institute a roster system for maintenance of inventory and regular cleaning. Instead, I choose to believe (perhaps naively) that the selfless actions of mature people, acting in good faith, will balance themselves out - even if some people cannot figure out where tea bags come from…but I will save that rant for my next project.
Again, thank you. And don’t forget:
PLEASE
DATE & LABEL YOUR FOOD
29 January 2008
Straya Day, 2008
This year, we decided to forgo the national day of public drunkenness that is Australia Day in favour of a more relaxed weekend of relatively private drunkenness. Had it not been for the unfortunate demise of Trevor Drayton in an unplanned winery explosion, we would not have been researching his family history on line and would not have followed the link to the Eagle Reach Wilderness Resort. Thus, we most likely would have had a repeat of last year’s hands-and-knees-crawl through the rancid albeit historic pubs of The Rocks. Instead, we spent the long weeKEND in blissful communion with nature atop a mountain ridge overlooking an idyllic valley that alternately cured and worsened my homesickness in regular 15 minute intervals.
Spending some quality time in a quiet A-frame lodge, listening to a symphony of insects, birds, and breezes while relaxing upon an expansive wooden deck illuminated a surprising revelation: The discomfort of my adjustment to life in Australia has less to do with living in a foreign land than with having moved from the peaceful solitude of the bush to the constant noisy grind of the hustle and bustle of city life.
City life comes with many distinct advantages such as convenient and diverse take-away food, serviceable public transport, and easy access to a variety of culturally enriching venues, which, although they often cause me to frown, also provoke thoughtful reflection and spirited discourse. But nothing soothes my soul like clean open vistas, air spiced with trees and wildflowers, while communing with (read: feeding junk food to) abundant native fauna.
Our first night, we had dinner at the TreeHops Restaurant, which boasted the culinary talents of Stephen Hitchings, Sir Richard Branson’s former personal chef. I’m not entirely sure if listing one’s former employment, particularly with an eccentric such as Sir Richard, is an endorsement of one’s talents or illustrative of one's shortcomings – after all, if it was such a good gig, why are you now working in the remote wilderness, and if it was a such lousy gig that it would drive you into the remote wilderness, why are you bragging about it? Regardless, the food was delicious and paired perfectly with a local 2006 Chambourcin, which had distinct barnyard characteristics and an unmistakable finish of pig manure (it’s not for everyone). We were distressed to learn the vineyard had recently been purchased by a wealthy woman with a love of horses who had immediately desisted all farming and wine making activities upon the property. We made a mental note to purchase a souvenir bottle to take home with us.
After a dark and peaceful sleep that was not bookended by the sound of inbound trains at 1:37 am and 4:47 am, we indulged in a hot breakfast before joining the guided walk through a unique pocket of rainforest beneath a canopy of noxious vines and obnoxious birds. Invigorated by the steep but short circuit, we opted to tackle the more strenuous Moonabung Trail. Several sweaty kilometres later, we were moping over the prospects of the return hike to our car when we encountered another couple coming the other way who informed us we were a mere fifteen minutes from the reception lodge and the bounty of free bicycle hires therein. The bicycles were total crap, but that was of no concern as we glided all the way down the road to the carpark. With feelings of triumph, we had earned a bottle of wine, a soak in the private hot tub on the rear deck of our cabin, and a couple of massages at the on-site spa.
Exhaustion from the previous day’s exertions pre-empted the next day’s plans for kayaking. No drama after an inspection of the lagoon revealed it to be not much bigger than an Olympic sized swimming pool, though it was covered with lovely water lilies and served as home to a large goose, who had been quite a nuisance to paddlers prior to the mysterious disappearance of his girlfriend. Instead, we opted for a country drive through the rolling green hills of the Allyn River Valley on a route which just so happened to include a couple of boutique wineries - and also a lavender farm (which may be the most overrated scent of modern day history) where we sampled a concoction called “Driver Reviver”…who wouldn’t become suddenly alert after being spritzed in the face with a potion distinctly reminiscent of the odour of cat piss. The highlight of the drive was a visit to the friendly owner/operators of the Camyr Allyn Vineyard, who upon hearing of our infatuation with the now obsolete Chambourcin, immediately got on the phone to their newest neighbour and helped her “unload” a case of the reviled liquid for a mere $100. Considering we spent $39 a bottle at TreeHops – and were prepared to spend it again – we were quite delighted with our good fortune. So delighted, that we felt obligated to buy some of their own delicious wine.
After a brief pit stop at the local olive farm (heh), we returned to our tranquil ridge-top lodge to complete the corruption of the dietary habits of large Australian marsupials and to further contemplate our past, present, and future positions in life. As that turned out to be way too heavy, we decided to try our hand at yabbie fishing instead.
Spending some quality time in a quiet A-frame lodge, listening to a symphony of insects, birds, and breezes while relaxing upon an expansive wooden deck illuminated a surprising revelation: The discomfort of my adjustment to life in Australia has less to do with living in a foreign land than with having moved from the peaceful solitude of the bush to the constant noisy grind of the hustle and bustle of city life.
City life comes with many distinct advantages such as convenient and diverse take-away food, serviceable public transport, and easy access to a variety of culturally enriching venues, which, although they often cause me to frown, also provoke thoughtful reflection and spirited discourse. But nothing soothes my soul like clean open vistas, air spiced with trees and wildflowers, while communing with (read: feeding junk food to) abundant native fauna.
Our first night, we had dinner at the TreeHops Restaurant, which boasted the culinary talents of Stephen Hitchings, Sir Richard Branson’s former personal chef. I’m not entirely sure if listing one’s former employment, particularly with an eccentric such as Sir Richard, is an endorsement of one’s talents or illustrative of one's shortcomings – after all, if it was such a good gig, why are you now working in the remote wilderness, and if it was a such lousy gig that it would drive you into the remote wilderness, why are you bragging about it? Regardless, the food was delicious and paired perfectly with a local 2006 Chambourcin, which had distinct barnyard characteristics and an unmistakable finish of pig manure (it’s not for everyone). We were distressed to learn the vineyard had recently been purchased by a wealthy woman with a love of horses who had immediately desisted all farming and wine making activities upon the property. We made a mental note to purchase a souvenir bottle to take home with us.
After a dark and peaceful sleep that was not bookended by the sound of inbound trains at 1:37 am and 4:47 am, we indulged in a hot breakfast before joining the guided walk through a unique pocket of rainforest beneath a canopy of noxious vines and obnoxious birds. Invigorated by the steep but short circuit, we opted to tackle the more strenuous Moonabung Trail. Several sweaty kilometres later, we were moping over the prospects of the return hike to our car when we encountered another couple coming the other way who informed us we were a mere fifteen minutes from the reception lodge and the bounty of free bicycle hires therein. The bicycles were total crap, but that was of no concern as we glided all the way down the road to the carpark. With feelings of triumph, we had earned a bottle of wine, a soak in the private hot tub on the rear deck of our cabin, and a couple of massages at the on-site spa.
Exhaustion from the previous day’s exertions pre-empted the next day’s plans for kayaking. No drama after an inspection of the lagoon revealed it to be not much bigger than an Olympic sized swimming pool, though it was covered with lovely water lilies and served as home to a large goose, who had been quite a nuisance to paddlers prior to the mysterious disappearance of his girlfriend. Instead, we opted for a country drive through the rolling green hills of the Allyn River Valley on a route which just so happened to include a couple of boutique wineries - and also a lavender farm (which may be the most overrated scent of modern day history) where we sampled a concoction called “Driver Reviver”…who wouldn’t become suddenly alert after being spritzed in the face with a potion distinctly reminiscent of the odour of cat piss. The highlight of the drive was a visit to the friendly owner/operators of the Camyr Allyn Vineyard, who upon hearing of our infatuation with the now obsolete Chambourcin, immediately got on the phone to their newest neighbour and helped her “unload” a case of the reviled liquid for a mere $100. Considering we spent $39 a bottle at TreeHops – and were prepared to spend it again – we were quite delighted with our good fortune. So delighted, that we felt obligated to buy some of their own delicious wine.
After a brief pit stop at the local olive farm (heh), we returned to our tranquil ridge-top lodge to complete the corruption of the dietary habits of large Australian marsupials and to further contemplate our past, present, and future positions in life. As that turned out to be way too heavy, we decided to try our hand at yabbie fishing instead.
For $5, we purchased a yabbie fishing kit consisting of a length of string, some frozen red meat, and some rather optimistic recipe suggestions. The staff advised us that the trick to successful yabbie fishing was to ‘flick’ the yabbies out of the pond and that this could be facilitated by tying the string to a “random stick or odd branch”. I opted for a random stick. They neglected to mention how I was supposed to keep the bait away from the ravenous long-necked turtles and swarms of hungry minnows, but it did not take me long to perfect my technique - much to the dismay of the two blokes on the other shore who had been trying in earnest to catch dinner for several hours. We suggested they try using an odd branch, and indeed their success rate improved dramatically. They soon caught their second yabbie of the day, and then left shortly after I flicked my fifth yabbie out of the pond…though in retrospect it might have had something to do with the inordinate amount of shrieking and giggling that accompanied each catch.
On Monday, always searching for a road less travelled, we followed a winding and circuitous return route to Sydney. Oddly, the road was extremely well travelled, considering the fact that we were really in the middle of nowhere. As we traversed a mountain pass into the insignificant town of Wollombi (pronounced ‘Wollombi’), we suddenly found ourselves surrounded by the chaos and congestion of a small town market day. Many rural communities have monthly markets, which are apparently a more significant social event than I ever would have imagined. With the promise of goofy antiques, local produce, and grilled onions atop fried sausage sandwiches (with coleslaw for a mere $3.50, proceeds benefiting the Wollombi Rotary Club), we braved the stifling mid-day heat and meandered through the crowds.
As nap time beckoned, we returned to the road but opted for the less travelled ‘Old Pacific Highway’, an endeavour that proved immensely satisfying as the road twisted across the traffic jams of the F3 Motorway. (Which was closed for five miserable hours the next morning following the explosion of a truck.)
On Monday, always searching for a road less travelled, we followed a winding and circuitous return route to Sydney. Oddly, the road was extremely well travelled, considering the fact that we were really in the middle of nowhere. As we traversed a mountain pass into the insignificant town of Wollombi (pronounced ‘Wollombi’), we suddenly found ourselves surrounded by the chaos and congestion of a small town market day. Many rural communities have monthly markets, which are apparently a more significant social event than I ever would have imagined. With the promise of goofy antiques, local produce, and grilled onions atop fried sausage sandwiches (with coleslaw for a mere $3.50, proceeds benefiting the Wollombi Rotary Club), we braved the stifling mid-day heat and meandered through the crowds.
As nap time beckoned, we returned to the road but opted for the less travelled ‘Old Pacific Highway’, an endeavour that proved immensely satisfying as the road twisted across the traffic jams of the F3 Motorway. (Which was closed for five miserable hours the next morning following the explosion of a truck.)
Overall the weekend was tremendously fun, as evidenced by the number of bruises, bites, and scrapes with which I returned home. And, I will forever cherish the memory of Kevin making out with a Macropus robustus robustus...
22 January 2008
Dear Colleagues,
I was so mortified by the horrific odour emanating from the refrigerator in the tea room this morning that I was loathe to place my lunch inside lest it become infiltrated by the stench. Thus, in my disgust, I went on a rampage of purging the offending appliance of shrivelled apples, mouldy bread, and numerous takeaway containers filled with frothy unidentifiable substances. If any of those items were your intended lunch, come see me and we can have a little chat about gastroenteritis.
The refirigerator (and freezer) still contain several dubious food items and the smell is not much improved. Therefore , I am VOLUNTEERING to provide a thorough scrubbing of the interior. In exchange for my efforts, I am making an executive decision:
Effective February 1st: ALL food, beverage, and condiment items stored within the refrigerator MUST be clearly labelled with a name and date or they will be discarded (or eaten) on a periodic basis with no warning or due compensation.
If you would like to discuss this policy, please come talk to me. I am open to negotiation. However, being that we are all reasonably educated and mature adults, not to mention scientists – to whom dating and initialling should be second nature by now – I do not see that there should be any objections to implementing a system that will foster a more pleasant, if not hygienic, kitchen facility for us all.
Sincerely,
Audra McKinze
The refirigerator (and freezer) still contain several dubious food items and the smell is not much improved. Therefore , I am VOLUNTEERING to provide a thorough scrubbing of the interior. In exchange for my efforts, I am making an executive decision:
Effective February 1st: ALL food, beverage, and condiment items stored within the refrigerator MUST be clearly labelled with a name and date or they will be discarded (or eaten) on a periodic basis with no warning or due compensation.
If you would like to discuss this policy, please come talk to me. I am open to negotiation. However, being that we are all reasonably educated and mature adults, not to mention scientists – to whom dating and initialling should be second nature by now – I do not see that there should be any objections to implementing a system that will foster a more pleasant, if not hygienic, kitchen facility for us all.
Sincerely,
Audra McKinze
19 January 2008
Yanks Down Under
Minutes of the Sydney Yanks Down Under Meet-Up
Chapter 457
Saturday, 19 January, 2008 17:30
James Squire Brewhouse
Darling Harbour
In Attendance:
Audra – Always happy to be in a brewery.
Devona – Got a job. Congratulations!
Jonathon – Can build serviceable furniture from empty takeaway containers.
Kevin – Didn’t yell at a single taxi all night.
Mike – Doesn’t want to hear how expensive anything is.
Natasha – Heiress to the Vernor’s Ginger Ale Empire – the paparazzi were annoying.
Saji – His accent is going to throw Australia for a loop.
Tracey – Not on the board, but a Yank Down Under nonetheless.
Val – Has an excellent collection of airline blankets.
1) Meeting called to order
2) Motion to order drinks
3) Introductions: place of origin, employment status, time in Australia
4) Floor opened for general discussion.
a. 14 hour flights
b. Apartment hunting
c. Customer service
d. Ikea
e. Gastronomy
f. Taxes
g. Superannuation
h. Vasectomies
i. Merits of public transport
j. The Cricket (Saji broke the consensus, so if you are looking for someone to go to a test with you, contact him directly.)
k. Reasons for the Australian skills shortage
l. Money transfers
m. International freight
n. Cruise liners
o. Australia Day activities
p. The blessing that is Dan Murphy’s
q. Cross examination of techniques for public urination
r. Spelling and syntax
s. Visa subclasses
t. Travel within Australia
u. Medical insurance
v. Doggy blow jobs
5) Motion to order more drinks
6) Motion to order several racks of ribs
7) Tracey and Natasha departed to make enchiladas for their Aussie boyfriends. Motion carried that Tracey and Natasha will soon make enchiladas for the rest of us.
8) Motion to order more drinks.
9) Meeting relocated to Cockle Bay for performance of Water Fools.
Sorry – bear with me for a moment while I break into a rant: Modern art in general and performance art in particular invariably causes me to frown. I suppose that the purpose of such art is indeed to encourage people to examine the deeper meaning of existence and the human experience while reflecting on the evolution of social themes, but why can’t it ever make any fucking sense!? Perhaps I am trying to over-intellectualize what is meant to be a purely sensory experience, but the imagery becomes a splinter in my brain. I know the artist is trying to communicate some great universal truth, and I feel it is a personal shortcoming because I simply cannot understand the language of a naked crone with sagging breasts and gazelle antlers spinning in circles in a fiery canoe while another lady pushes a baby carriage with a child and an alien in tow past a large floating bed tethered to a tree with sheets as another woman rides on top of a hamster exercise wheel until her head explodes. What are you trying to tell me?? MY head is about to explode!
10) Meeting relocated to Scruffy Murphy’s
11) Motion to order more drinks
12) Meeting relocated to Hungry Jacks.
a. Resolved: Hungry Jacks has the best cheeseburgers in Australia, not only because they have real pickles, but they taste great.
13) Meeting relocated to North Shore Line via Town Hall.
a. In transit entertainment courtesy of NSW Police
14) Saji departed North Sydney
a. Resolved: Saji to post pictures because my photography skills are seriously lacking.
15) Meeting relocated to St Leonards tavern
16) Motion to order more drinks
17) Motion to order more drinks
18) Meeting Adjourned
Next Meeting tentatively scheduled for Sunday, 24 February - Location TBD
Chapter 457
Saturday, 19 January, 2008 17:30
James Squire Brewhouse
Darling Harbour
In Attendance:
Audra – Always happy to be in a brewery.
Devona – Got a job. Congratulations!
Jonathon – Can build serviceable furniture from empty takeaway containers.
Kevin – Didn’t yell at a single taxi all night.
Mike – Doesn’t want to hear how expensive anything is.
Natasha – Heiress to the Vernor’s Ginger Ale Empire – the paparazzi were annoying.
Saji – His accent is going to throw Australia for a loop.
Tracey – Not on the board, but a Yank Down Under nonetheless.
Val – Has an excellent collection of airline blankets.
1) Meeting called to order
2) Motion to order drinks
3) Introductions: place of origin, employment status, time in Australia
4) Floor opened for general discussion.
a. 14 hour flights
b. Apartment hunting
c. Customer service
d. Ikea
e. Gastronomy
f. Taxes
g. Superannuation
h. Vasectomies
i. Merits of public transport
j. The Cricket (Saji broke the consensus, so if you are looking for someone to go to a test with you, contact him directly.)
k. Reasons for the Australian skills shortage
l. Money transfers
m. International freight
n. Cruise liners
o. Australia Day activities
p. The blessing that is Dan Murphy’s
q. Cross examination of techniques for public urination
r. Spelling and syntax
s. Visa subclasses
t. Travel within Australia
u. Medical insurance
v. Doggy blow jobs
5) Motion to order more drinks
6) Motion to order several racks of ribs
7) Tracey and Natasha departed to make enchiladas for their Aussie boyfriends. Motion carried that Tracey and Natasha will soon make enchiladas for the rest of us.
8) Motion to order more drinks.
9) Meeting relocated to Cockle Bay for performance of Water Fools.
Sorry – bear with me for a moment while I break into a rant: Modern art in general and performance art in particular invariably causes me to frown. I suppose that the purpose of such art is indeed to encourage people to examine the deeper meaning of existence and the human experience while reflecting on the evolution of social themes, but why can’t it ever make any fucking sense!? Perhaps I am trying to over-intellectualize what is meant to be a purely sensory experience, but the imagery becomes a splinter in my brain. I know the artist is trying to communicate some great universal truth, and I feel it is a personal shortcoming because I simply cannot understand the language of a naked crone with sagging breasts and gazelle antlers spinning in circles in a fiery canoe while another lady pushes a baby carriage with a child and an alien in tow past a large floating bed tethered to a tree with sheets as another woman rides on top of a hamster exercise wheel until her head explodes. What are you trying to tell me?? MY head is about to explode!
10) Meeting relocated to Scruffy Murphy’s
11) Motion to order more drinks
12) Meeting relocated to Hungry Jacks.
a. Resolved: Hungry Jacks has the best cheeseburgers in Australia, not only because they have real pickles, but they taste great.
13) Meeting relocated to North Shore Line via Town Hall.
a. In transit entertainment courtesy of NSW Police
14) Saji departed North Sydney
a. Resolved: Saji to post pictures because my photography skills are seriously lacking.
15) Meeting relocated to St Leonards tavern
16) Motion to order more drinks
17) Motion to order more drinks
18) Meeting Adjourned
Next Meeting tentatively scheduled for Sunday, 24 February - Location TBD
16 January 2008
Certifiable
We first encountered the concept of ‘certified copies’ when we were gathering materials for our visa application to Australia. The Department of Immigration and Citizenship requested ‘certified copies’ of crucial documents such as diplomas, transcripts, passports, birth certificates, and our marriage license. After some research, we learned that a certified copy is simply a photocopy bearing the signature of someone officious who can verify that it is indeed a copy of the original. We figured the US equivalent could only be a notary public. After much blinking and frowning and circular argumentation, the notary public refused to certify a photocopy of the original, because she had no way to verify the authenticity of the original. This seemed painfully reasonable to me. However, it did not solve our dilemma with the Australian Government. Eventually, we just ordered originals from all the various bureaucratic agencies and submitted those.
Although our visa was granted without any complications, we still have frequent occasions to supply the Australian Government with various certified copies in support of various bureaucratic pursuits, such as Medicare Levy Exemption Certificates, Notification of Passport Renewals, and It Has Been Six Weeks Since You Filed Some Sort of Paperwork Submissions. For an activity that is clearly ubiquitous, the general population maintains an amazing level of ignorance as to its execution. Asking around, I have been told several blatant lies. The most believable of these lies being that I can get such copies at the Post Office, because the Post Office does everything BUT handle mail (note to self: write blog entry on the overextended services of the Australian Post and be sure to mention the cute little Postie Bikes used to deliver mail, and the fact that they won’t pick up mail from your mailbox, and that junk mail services are sub-contracted.)
My first attempt to get certified copies was rather painless, and in retrospect, possibly illegal. I took photocopies of my passport to the Post Office on campus and asked to have them certified. My request was answered with the blank stare unique to the incomprehension of non-native speakers.
“Copies?”
“Yes, certified copies.”
“Copies, 50 cents.”
“OK, certified copies?”
“OK”. He took my passport and proceeded to photocopy each page, then handed me the stack.
“Don’t you need to certify them?”
“What?”
“Sign them or stamp them or something?”
“You want a stamp?”
“Yes, certified copies.”
“OK. You want stamp, I give stamp.” And he stamped each page with a round decal that said Australia Post and the date. Whatever.
I sent the copies off to the Medicare Office and soon received my exemption certificate. On the next occasion I had requiring certified copies, I went to the St Leonards Post Office, also staffed by non-natives, but each having a distinctly better command of the English language.
“Sorry, we can’t make copies at this office.”
This morning, running late for work and not having much to do once I got there, I thought I would take advantage of the occasion to visit the General Post Office located in a beautiful venetian style building at Martin Place. The not particularly pleasant woman at the counter informed me that Australia Post does not certify copies. I said I had had it done at another office, but she shook her head and adamantly claimed that was not possible.
“The Post can make copies, but we cannot certify them. You can get free certified copies from the Justice of the Peace at the Supreme Court, on King Street at the top of the hill. Next in Line.”
Certifying tourist documents seemed to me a mighty menial job for a high-falootin’ office such as the Supreme Court of New South Wales, but who am I to argue with bureaucratic process. I considered returning to the dodgy campus post office, but this seemed like a fun opportunity to poke around historic buildings with a semblance of purpose, so I marched up the hill.
The Supreme Court building is a cavernous sandstone (what else) structure attached to a cavernous sandstone church located in complex of other cavernous sandstone government buildings from the early years of Sydney's history. The complex sits at the bottom of a replica of London’s Hyde Park called, unimaginatively, Hyde Park. I meandered through the intricately painted arched hallways tiled with black and white marble hexagon, searching in vain for the Justice of the Peace, my curiosity aroused by the numbers of groups of muslim families huddled in anxious consultations with men with slick curly hair in sharp wool suits. What exactly happens in the Supreme Court? Finally, I poked my head inside the Sheriff’s Office (I don’t think the Sheriff in Australia serves the same function as in the States) and asked for directions.
I was sent across the street to a modern high-rise where security officers x-rayed my sushi before sending me to the fifth floor. When my number was called, I approached the lady at the counter. Despite my best attempt at perfect courtesy, I watched a sneer crawl across her face when she detected my foreign accent. She directed me to a small office across the lobby that did not require a number. At this point it occurred to me that I was probably supposed to bring my own copies with me. She confirmed my suspicions with another sneer and said “Well after all, what else are we supposed to certify for you? What did you think?” Since I was no longer in need of her services, I decided to vent the considerable whinge that was building up inside of me, including a childlike display of stomping up and down while flailing my arms about my person just to illustrate the physical dimension of my frustration.
Then I left the building before she could called security.
Although our visa was granted without any complications, we still have frequent occasions to supply the Australian Government with various certified copies in support of various bureaucratic pursuits, such as Medicare Levy Exemption Certificates, Notification of Passport Renewals, and It Has Been Six Weeks Since You Filed Some Sort of Paperwork Submissions. For an activity that is clearly ubiquitous, the general population maintains an amazing level of ignorance as to its execution. Asking around, I have been told several blatant lies. The most believable of these lies being that I can get such copies at the Post Office, because the Post Office does everything BUT handle mail (note to self: write blog entry on the overextended services of the Australian Post and be sure to mention the cute little Postie Bikes used to deliver mail, and the fact that they won’t pick up mail from your mailbox, and that junk mail services are sub-contracted.)
My first attempt to get certified copies was rather painless, and in retrospect, possibly illegal. I took photocopies of my passport to the Post Office on campus and asked to have them certified. My request was answered with the blank stare unique to the incomprehension of non-native speakers.
“Copies?”
“Yes, certified copies.”
“Copies, 50 cents.”
“OK, certified copies?”
“OK”. He took my passport and proceeded to photocopy each page, then handed me the stack.
“Don’t you need to certify them?”
“What?”
“Sign them or stamp them or something?”
“You want a stamp?”
“Yes, certified copies.”
“OK. You want stamp, I give stamp.” And he stamped each page with a round decal that said Australia Post and the date. Whatever.
I sent the copies off to the Medicare Office and soon received my exemption certificate. On the next occasion I had requiring certified copies, I went to the St Leonards Post Office, also staffed by non-natives, but each having a distinctly better command of the English language.
“Sorry, we can’t make copies at this office.”
This morning, running late for work and not having much to do once I got there, I thought I would take advantage of the occasion to visit the General Post Office located in a beautiful venetian style building at Martin Place. The not particularly pleasant woman at the counter informed me that Australia Post does not certify copies. I said I had had it done at another office, but she shook her head and adamantly claimed that was not possible.
“The Post can make copies, but we cannot certify them. You can get free certified copies from the Justice of the Peace at the Supreme Court, on King Street at the top of the hill. Next in Line.”
Certifying tourist documents seemed to me a mighty menial job for a high-falootin’ office such as the Supreme Court of New South Wales, but who am I to argue with bureaucratic process. I considered returning to the dodgy campus post office, but this seemed like a fun opportunity to poke around historic buildings with a semblance of purpose, so I marched up the hill.
The Supreme Court building is a cavernous sandstone (what else) structure attached to a cavernous sandstone church located in complex of other cavernous sandstone government buildings from the early years of Sydney's history. The complex sits at the bottom of a replica of London’s Hyde Park called, unimaginatively, Hyde Park. I meandered through the intricately painted arched hallways tiled with black and white marble hexagon, searching in vain for the Justice of the Peace, my curiosity aroused by the numbers of groups of muslim families huddled in anxious consultations with men with slick curly hair in sharp wool suits. What exactly happens in the Supreme Court? Finally, I poked my head inside the Sheriff’s Office (I don’t think the Sheriff in Australia serves the same function as in the States) and asked for directions.
I was sent across the street to a modern high-rise where security officers x-rayed my sushi before sending me to the fifth floor. When my number was called, I approached the lady at the counter. Despite my best attempt at perfect courtesy, I watched a sneer crawl across her face when she detected my foreign accent. She directed me to a small office across the lobby that did not require a number. At this point it occurred to me that I was probably supposed to bring my own copies with me. She confirmed my suspicions with another sneer and said “Well after all, what else are we supposed to certify for you? What did you think?” Since I was no longer in need of her services, I decided to vent the considerable whinge that was building up inside of me, including a childlike display of stomping up and down while flailing my arms about my person just to illustrate the physical dimension of my frustration.
Then I left the building before she could called security.
12 January 2008
About Time Off
Depending on my current disposition – degree of homesickness, level of annoyance with Shitty Rail, B.A.C. – I alternate between believing that Australians have an excellent work ethic and thinking that they are a bunch of incredible slackers. But, since I myself am an incredible slacker, I am typically in awe of the structure of Australian vacation time. Not only is my work day technically only 7.5 hours, I earn 4 weeks of vacation per year, plus two weeks of paid holiday leave over the Christmas break (not to mention two weeks of sick time) – and get this – I get paid 17% MORE money to take time off! The logic behind this brilliant piece of union negotiation is that workers who are paid hourly usually earn lots of overtime. As their living expenses generally swell to match their earnings, they can not afford to take their vacation time because their pay checks would be smaller and they wouldn't be able to cover their horse racing bets. In an effort to encourage relaxation (and perhaps give employees more time to spend in the gambling parlours), the government agreed to ‘leave-loading’, so that ordinary workers would actually use their time-off. I am on salary and do not get overtime pay, but for some inexplicable reason, I still get this benefit under my employment contract. Mind you, I am not one to complain about getting extra money, but the logical side of my brain goes into gentle spasms when I really think about this.
However, there is no denying the inherent civility of a two-week Christmas shut-down. And when I say shut-down, I mean the whole country is pretty well shut down. All major business, many retail shops, and numerous small restaurants are completely closed during this period. Only basic services such as grocery stores, public transport, and drinking establishments remain open, and with the exception of transport, even those are closed on Christmas Day, Boxing Day (whatever that is – honestly, no one really knows for sure, or really cares – it’s a day off), and New Years Day. In the States, you can usually find a grocery store that is open until 2 pm on Christmas Day for those last minute essentials (Fuck! I forgot stuffing – can’t have Christmas without stuffing), and there is always a local liquor store run by opportunistic heathens open until the wee hours for your last minute lottery needs, but here you better be prepared or else you go hungry (and thirsty) for two days.
For two weeks, the city was a ghost town. Trains, motorways (they can’t call them Freeways, cuz most of them require a toll), and city streets were all but deserted. A relative hush descended on our neighbourhood – mostly because the de-construction site across the street was closed thus sparing us from the horrors of awaking each morning at 6 am to the sound of jack hammers. Grocery store shelves and coolers became spartan. Even now, the city is calm and quiet since the schools are on holiday until the end of January and most families have fled to the beaches for their summer holidays.
Which brings me to a revelation: A two week shut-down over Christmas is a fine tradition, but a two week shut-down over Christmas, in the middle of summer, while days are long and nights are warm is totally awesome! It rekindled memories of childhood summer vacations that had been buried beneath the burden of steady employment.
To get the most from our break, we cultivated intense periods of boredom (a trick I learned from Joseph Heller - page 17, 2nd paragraph), thus making the two weeks seem as long as possible - with the exception of New Year’s Eve, which, as mentioned previously, passed in about 20 minutes. Our holiday was spent sleeping until noon, going for walks, taking naps, reading books, and staying up late watching movies. Perhaps not the best use of our time in a foreign land, but nonetheless thoroughly restorative while providing the time we needed to reflect on the last year and make new plans for the future.
More on those as they unfold.
However, there is no denying the inherent civility of a two-week Christmas shut-down. And when I say shut-down, I mean the whole country is pretty well shut down. All major business, many retail shops, and numerous small restaurants are completely closed during this period. Only basic services such as grocery stores, public transport, and drinking establishments remain open, and with the exception of transport, even those are closed on Christmas Day, Boxing Day (whatever that is – honestly, no one really knows for sure, or really cares – it’s a day off), and New Years Day. In the States, you can usually find a grocery store that is open until 2 pm on Christmas Day for those last minute essentials (Fuck! I forgot stuffing – can’t have Christmas without stuffing), and there is always a local liquor store run by opportunistic heathens open until the wee hours for your last minute lottery needs, but here you better be prepared or else you go hungry (and thirsty) for two days.
For two weeks, the city was a ghost town. Trains, motorways (they can’t call them Freeways, cuz most of them require a toll), and city streets were all but deserted. A relative hush descended on our neighbourhood – mostly because the de-construction site across the street was closed thus sparing us from the horrors of awaking each morning at 6 am to the sound of jack hammers. Grocery store shelves and coolers became spartan. Even now, the city is calm and quiet since the schools are on holiday until the end of January and most families have fled to the beaches for their summer holidays.
Which brings me to a revelation: A two week shut-down over Christmas is a fine tradition, but a two week shut-down over Christmas, in the middle of summer, while days are long and nights are warm is totally awesome! It rekindled memories of childhood summer vacations that had been buried beneath the burden of steady employment.
To get the most from our break, we cultivated intense periods of boredom (a trick I learned from Joseph Heller - page 17, 2nd paragraph), thus making the two weeks seem as long as possible - with the exception of New Year’s Eve, which, as mentioned previously, passed in about 20 minutes. Our holiday was spent sleeping until noon, going for walks, taking naps, reading books, and staying up late watching movies. Perhaps not the best use of our time in a foreign land, but nonetheless thoroughly restorative while providing the time we needed to reflect on the last year and make new plans for the future.
More on those as they unfold.
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