Glutamate in the Vineyards

While I harbour no doubts as to the critical importance of glutamate as a neurotransmitter, I am coming of the opinion, that as a platform for research, it may indeed be one of the most boring molecules in the world. I was recently given the luxury to indulge this postulation over the course of a three-day conference on the neuropharmacology of said molecule. The conference was an intimate affair with a mere 35 scientists in attendance, of which 30 were scheduled presenters. Such a cozy production most certainly facilitates the eager exchange of scientific minutiae. Unfortunately it makes playing hooky all but impossible, not only because the conference was organized by my boss, but also because a single empty chair would be more conspicuous than Michael Vick at a PETA rally.

Mercifully, the conference was held at the Hunter Valley Resort and Brewery in the middle the most renowned wine region in New South Wales. Thus in between sessions we were entertained with winery tours and tastings, and the grog flowed generously during the lavish dinners. However for the endless stretch of daylight hours, I was held captive by an under-cushioned over-erect chair in an inadequately heated room, suffering in my intellectual ignorance and struggling to keep my eyelids from fluttering to a sleepy repose. Fortunately, I have a rich inner landscape (and I was seated beside a window) such that I could indulge myself in whimsical fantasy while various Norwegians, Russians, and Frenchmen droned on about the tripartite synapse-astrocytic regulation of glutamate.



It did not help my spirit of arousal to know that while I endured such agony, Kevin was receiving a Big Kahuna Massage upon returning from a chauffeur driven winery tour. He has been working very hard lately, and I am happy that he got a chance to relax…and though I still shudder at the thought of him in possession of an ATM card and unchaperoned at a cellar door, I confess that he did bring home some particularly exquisite bottles of wine, which I certainly never would have permitted him to purchase had I been present.

After the conference, we did a little touring on our way out of the valley, visiting an olive farm (yum), a cheese factory (Yum), a chocolate factory (YUM), and Peterson’s Cellars - a wonderful maker of sparkling red wines (YUM!!). To my consternation, I could not persuade Kevin to pull over to allow me to poke and photograph a dead wombat, but I did manage to capture this shot of a mob of kangaroos as they hopped jovially into the sunset across the grassy plains. Those little black smudges are the kangaroos.

Ribs Mexican Pizza

The central urban location of our new apartment has opened up a plethora of fresh dining options, most of which deliver ($20 minimum order). Each night, our mail slot is overflowing with a variety of menus for Thai, Indian, Lebanese, and Turkish restaurants. This morning I find myself utterly fascinated with the menu from The Rib Runner and their Cowboy Delight Meal Deal. Just under $30 will get you a rack of beef ribs, a baked potato, a cob of corn, a large pizza, and a beef nachos. Sure to delight any cowboy.

From the South of the Border selections:

Tacos
4 crisp corn tacos with beef, lettuce, cheese, tomato and sour cream for your assembly. (My assembly?)

The Mexican Spud
Chili con came, cheese, corn chips, sour cream. (con carne must have confused the proof reader?)

Grande Wedges
Golden brown wedges ham and cheese. (What is mexican about that?)


and from the pizza selections:

Culo Burner
Pizza base covered in our spicy beef nachos topped with pepperoni and jalopenos (Am I to understand there are nachos on top of pizza dough??)

Aussie Outback
Tomato, onion, egg, and bacon (egg??)

Cheezy Cheese
Use lots of cheese on our great sauce (ok, I will)

Some mornings, I am just easily amused...

Yes, I Take Requests

Snoop Oop-a-Doop

Ah, if only Sydney had not been so recently embarrassed by Sylvester Stallone's flagrant disregard for Australia's ban on the importation of Human Growth Hormone, this might never have come to light. Snoop Dogg is undoubtedly a huge threat to Australian national security. Still, the country might have over looked his outspoken stance on the usage of marijuana, had he not been so recently arrested prior to hosting the MTV awards.

Immigration Minister Kevin Andrews said Snoop Dogg's visa was canceled because he had failed to pass the country's strict character test, which takes criminal convictions into account.

"He doesn't seem the sort of bloke we want in this country," Andrews told Sydney's Macquarie Radio.

Kevin and I were most amused that the news media placed a heavy emphasis on the gun that was found in his car in "a false compartment". If the gun was inside it, it must have been a real compartment, no?

(My memory is failing me, but I seem to recall something about convicts playing a pivitol role in Australian history...)


Tanks a Lot

I am sorry to confess that until brought to my attention by an alert reader, I had no knowledge whatsoever of the Tank Rampage that occured on Sydney's westside. We typically watch two-three hours of local news per day, and I have not heard one peep about this story - but then, it was rightly overshadowed by stories of more wordly significance - such as the fact that Paris Hilton had been spotted in Malibu receiving surfing lessons from some Aussie hunk. And then Lindsay Lohan left rehab, and all hell broke loose...

However, upon researching said tank story, I came upon the most deliciously irresistible photograph accompanying a story about (graphic content warning!!) Chu-Chu the crocodile, who had been evidently suffering from appetite loss - right up until the moment the veterinarian put his arm in her mouth...

Movin' On Up

I awoke to the gentle clickety-clack Doppler echo of an incoming train, heard the hissing sigh of its brakes and then the swift honk of its whistle as it pulled out of the station, bound for the city. Wiping the sleep from my eyes, I pushed myself onto my elbows and stared out the window, across the red-tiled roofs, past the skinny green steeple to the east. A raft of puffy grey clouds, their underbelly blushed crimson, drifted lazily across the colourless morning sky. The horizon swelled with light as the rising sun peeked over a slice of Pacific Ocean, cautiously at first, then with furious confidence, heralding the official transition from dawn to day.

I wrapped myself in a warm terry cloth robe and stepped out onto the bedroom balcony for a stiff stretch in the brisk morning breeze. Peering around the corner of the building, I watched the sun’s rays reflect dazzling squares of fire from the patchwork of office high rise windows. The high arch of Harbour Bridge stood sentinel before the entire Sydney skyline to the South.

I went back inside and padded down the long hall to the kitchen. As my coffee percolated on the stove, I gazed through the window over the sink and watched the evening lights blink out across the leafy northern suburbs (they are always referred to as “the leafy northern suburbs”). Small clusters of high rise apartment buildings revealed the location of each of the stations along the North Shore Line – modern villages of anonymous convenience.

Breathing in the steam of my hot coffee, I retreated to my ugly but comfortable sofa and tucked my legs up under me. Through a massive wall of glass, I scanned the extreme limits of my vision. The vast western sprawl is hemmed in by the length of the Blue Mountains, so appropriately named in the slant morning sunlight. I traced the beginnings of the Parramatta River to the arbitrary boundary of Sydney Harbour. Commuter ferries cut frothy white trails across the still cobalt water as sailboats bobbed gently against their moorings in sheltered coves.

Passing through the double door glass sliders onto the expansive main balcony, my vision was hijacked by Qantas plane on approach. I watched it pass directly over our old apartment, and mentally compared the intrusive roar of a jet engine to the romantic whisper of a commuter train. I traced its path, over Cockatoo Island and across the inner suburbs, until it turned to pass over Botany Bay, which hovers placidly beyond the casinos and hotels of Darling Harbour to the south.

I took a deep breath and smiled thinking of the admonition given to me by the rental agent when I gave notice of our intent to vacate our apartment overlooking the muddy slice of Burns Bay:

“Oh, you are really going to miss that view!”

Cignefied

As mentioned in a previous post, one of the many highlights of my morning commute is gazing at a pair of beautiful black swans in Victoria Park as my bus bumps down Parramatta Road. Recently, they were not in sight for a period of several weeks, and I feared they had moved on, perhaps north to warmer climes.

Last week, to my great delight, they reappeared surrounded by a fluffy gaggle of five fuzzy silver cignets. So cute!!

When the weather is cooperative, I get off the bus a few stops early and wander through the park. There is almost always some old chinese person doing tai chi on the water's edge. Nice place for it. Then I walk across campus, past the stately old buildings adorned with an amazing array of gargoyles and carved faces of various animals, both real and mythical (I know there is a name for those faces, but I cannot recall it - a little help...mom?). Pictured below is The Great Hall. It has classrooms with names like "Latin 1" surrounding a giant grassy interior courtyard. The classes are still used, and though they have been outfitted with modern lights and computer projectors, the seats seem to be original equipment. It also has a museum with mummies in it.

One of my favorite places on campus is called Grafitti Tunnel. By some reciprocal agreement, the university has donated this walkway to the expressive whims of the modern spray can artiste. In exchange, the rest of the campus remains free from blight. The tunnel is a constantly changing montage of art, political campaigns, and random thoughts. It is absolutely different every single day.

Then I get to the Blackburn Building. I walk past the huge dead cockroach that has been in front of my boss's office for four weeks and enter my cheery lab, gaze across the shadowy courtyard at the cracked walls and peeling paint, and think about those cute little baby swans, and I feel nothing but gratitude...and hunger, always that...

Lazy Boy

While the modern search engine is an amazing and dynamic tool (no pun intended) for navigating the enormous content (no pun intended) of the ever expanding (no pun intended) internet, clever website designers inevitably find a way to penetrate (no pun intended) popular search terms and surprise unsuspecting furniture resellers, like myself.

Honest, Mr IT Director, I was just looking for a picture of my sofa...I promise I will never use Yahoo! Search again.

World Peace Through Inner Peace

The Dalai Lama Australia Tour 2007 stopped in Sydney today. Despite the piss-pour weather, a sizable crowd turned out to The Domain to hear His Holiness. I doubt as many stayed for the free One World concert that followed. I know that an hour and a half standing in the pouring rain was just about at the limit of my tolerance.

He began, as all trained public speakers should, with a few jokes about the weather and about the quality of Australian dental work before revealing the secret to world peace – inner peace. While religious faith is a time tested path to achieving inner peace, it is not necessary for its realization. It is not enough to be pleasant, kind, polite, and cheerful on the outside when your heart harbors fear and hatred. He used the Cold War as an example. Yes, on the surface there was peace and civility, but in reality, no one was at peace because they were afraid of what could happen at any moment.

He claimed that the concepts of “me” and “them” are outmoded. In today’s world of globalization with our lives so intricately interwoven across the globe through commerce, communication, and environment, a wound suffered by one is a wound suffered by all. To damage another is to damage oneself. This is The New Reality.

He applauded Costa Rica for dismantling their army, citing the increase in economic prosperity and happiness that inevitably results from not spending the GDP on weapons. He said that because they rely on their neighbors for protection, they actually feel more secure than if they had to be on alert themselves. He proposed a unified armed force, where every nation of the world, regardless of their size, contributed an equal number of soldiers who would serve under a rotation of generals from each country who could be called upon to act in the best interests of the world when terrorism strikes. Because we would all protect each other, there could be no wars between nations.

He also applauded South Africa for employing open dialogue to solve confrontation and advocated fostering this method of conflict resolution in children from the earliest age. So that discussion, understanding, and compromise become ingrained as the default way of thinking, children must be trained in such techniques in the family, in the school, and in the community. Then, aggression and violence will not be an automatic response to discord.

The he made some jokes about quantum physics, which somehow segued into a story of how quickly the world changes. Within a single generation, enemies often become allies. France and Germany used to hate each other, now they are best friends. So fostering hatred and racism is usually a waste of time and energy that generally leaves you looking foolish after the treaty has been signed.

He then advocated cultivating compassion for animals. By understanding the fear and pain of the smallest creatures, one can more easily appreciate the suffering of one’s fellow humans. I am skeptical that western civilization will ever be able to sympathize with the tribulations of a mosquito, but there is certainly nothing wrong with the concept.

He won my heart with the proclamation that the surest way to end suffering on earth would be to remove human beings from its surface, a notion I have often advocated. However, he countered that humans should remain on earth because they have the capacity of altruism. Since altruism is unique to humans among all other species that is reason alone to justify our existence, but only if we live to fulfill its realization.

A Dead Rubber

The State of Origin is a 3-game rugby tournament between New South Wales and Queensland where the players, regardless of their current team affiliations, return to their home state to form a sort of all-star crew for the express purpose of fostering interstate rivalry and increasing the sale of alcohol. The teams are identified by color, The Blues (New South Wales) and The Maroons (Queensland), but are affectionately known as The Cockroaches and The Cane Toads respectively. For some inexplicable reason, this tournament takes place in the middle of the regular season, thereby stripping each team of their best players for several weeks.

The competition is taken far more seriously by Queenslanders. Last year, while we were touring the continent, Kevin tried to purchase tickets in Brisbane a mere week prior to the event. The ticket agent actually laughed out loud. Not wanting to suffer such humiliation a second year, Kevin bought four tickets to the game shortly after they went on sale. We rounded up a couple of Aussie rugby fans to accompany us to the match and to serve as guides, commentators, and designated drivers. Many thanks to my colleague Annie and her hubby Scotty for their enthusiastic patience with our many questions.

Following a prerequisite stop at a pub for grub and grog, we hopped a train to Telstra Stadium at Sydney Olympic Park. Tickets to all major events almost always include privileges on public transport, yet another example of Australian progressivism. Since there is NO parking at the stadium itself, tailgating is out of the question. However, there was a considerable party on the promenade with food stalls, live bands (cuz dead bands are painfully dull), and booze stands sponsored by Toohey’s, Fourex, and Bundaberg Rum (the consumption of which produces a uniquely foul odor that oozes from every orifice and gland – it is one of my favorites). Needless to say, the crowd was spirited.

After a full circumnavigation of the modern 100,000+ seat arena, we located our entry gate, our seats, and scouted the nearest beer stand and bathroom. We arrived just in time for the Australian National Anthem, which is NOT Waltzing Matilda, but DOES sound suspiciously like America the Beautiful. The teams took to the field and the competition was on.

The New South fans began with a few half hearted attempts at a wave around the stadium, which inevitably died out around the corners. Queensland fans answered back with a few well flung fingers at the crowd. The Blues reclaimed to offensive with a rousing chant of “Queensland is a wanker.” The Maroons sulked in their seats. And on the field, things were heating up too.

Queensland scored the first “try” halfway through the first half. Although good at explaining the general flow of the game, Scotty could not give me a satisfactory reason why it is called a “try” when it was quite clearly a “success”. New South Wales answered back with another successful try, and everyone left their seat at half time to get more beer.
Normally, I get quite annoyed when liquor sales are cut off following the half, but I quickly appreciated the wisdom of the practice as the young sports fans completely lost control of their senses. The Cane Toads scored another try, which completely tried the patience of the drunken Cockroach fans. They retaliated by throwing food and bottles at the nearest person wearing maroon, or, when their aim failed them, the nearest person within chucking distance – which on more than one occasion turned out to be us. Kevin took a coke bottle to the head, and I benefited from the subsequent spray. Several fights broke out, and soon the stands were swarming with police and security, firmly, yet politely evicting anyone at whom someone else merely pointed a finger.

Alas, The Blues could not recover from their display of remarkably bad manners and lost the game 10-6. This was the second game in the series, and since Queensland also won the first, the third game is of no real consequence – or as I heard a sports caster say – I just love this – “The series is a dead rubber.”

I’ll have to ask Scotty about that one…

Tossed and Found

When I was about 6 years old, in a grassy field behind our apartment in San Francisco, I found a yellow Formica table top. The tubular chrome legs which had once held it aloft were missing, but it was otherwise in excellent condition. I was very excited and ran home to tell my parents. Dad constructed some short but sturdy legs (unfortunately from some rather splintery redwood boards), and we had a new expansive coffee table. Over the years, I ate a great many meals in front of the television at that table, and though I spent a good deal of time plucking splinters from my knees, I always beamed with pride over the utility and economy of that very functional piece of furniture.

Ever since then, I have taken immense satisfaction from rescuing objects from abandon and giving them new life and purpose. I take more pleasure from salvage operations than from the most considered and extravagant purchases. Nowhere has my penchant for dumpster diving been more fulfilled as in the Northern suburbs of Sydney. I know I have already written on this subject, but my passionate feelings warrant further discourse. Perhaps it is a false pride to have so much regard for other people’s garbage, but I can no longer contain my happiness when I survey the reassigned contents of our apartment.

Among our reclaimed treasures:

Large frying pan
Ornate serving platter
Salad bowl set
Set of four stem glasses
Blender (and a good one, too)
Trash can
Mixing bowls
Serving tray
Candelabra
Glass top kitchen table
3 matching kitchen chairs
Patio rocking chair
Patio table
Bowie knife with built in compass and water tight match case, also a fishing line and hook)
Coffee table
Side table
Floor lamp
Table lamp
Computer desk
Shelves
File cabinet
Bed side tables
Elegant glass vase (now a bathroom garbage can)
DVD of episodes 6-10, Season 2 of M*A*S*H
Weber BBQ grill (came with a bag of charcoal, too)

U.S. Mail Box Push broom
Fishing rod and reel
Vacuum cleaner
Stereo radio (with cassette)
Power cord for our computer
Laundry drying rack
Laundry Basket
Ironing board
Silver Tennis bracelet
Silver necklace with green gem stone pendant

Several pieces of original framed art work
A boat hook (I’m not sure why we needed this, but we did)

Every one of these items has been given a new lease on life and are utilized almost daily with affection and bewilderment, usually in the form of “I can’t believe someone just threw away this perfectly good vacuum cleaner!!” or “Wow. This boathook is just the thing for beating on the ceiling.”

Although there is no shortage of roadside furniture and appliances, I felt justified in buying these items second hand. Thus, we purchased a couch and matching chair, a refrigerator, and a washing machine for a fraction of their cost new, and while there is something decidedly weird about Australian appliances, I nonetheless derive the same thrifty pleasure from their used condition. The money saved on the above items easily justified the purchase of a high quality bed and a beautiful flat screen TV.

Back home, we have a wonderful house, filled with excellent furniture and top grade appliances and electronics, yet here we sit on rusty patio chairs, listening to Triple J on tinny speakers, drinking wine from inappropriately shaped glasses and we absolutely ooze satisfaction. Less and less do we find ourselves pining away for our neglected possessions. We ponder the reasons frequently and have determined that (as with all matters of happiness) it results from the disparity between expectations and reality. One expects a lot from a $5000 couch or a $400 vacuum cleaner and any deficiency is magnified by its comparison to the ideal, whereas a $400 couch or a free vacuum cleaner is praised effusively for simply fulfilling its intended station.

Modern society, and especially the corporate world, speaks frequently of high expectations and demanding excellence, but it seems to me that these notions inevitably foster dissatisfaction and anxiety. But is it possible to purposely lower or even eliminate one’s expectations? Can we intentionally disregard our notion of ideal outcomes in favor of accepting the simple pleasure of what is in front of us? Is it too early in the morning for me to be waxing so philosophical? Would Paris Hilton understand a word of this essay?

The Long wee-KEND

I just wanted to put out a shout to Her Majesty. Happy Birthday, Lizzy - even though it was actually sometime back in April, and I have no idea why we are celebrating now. Nonetheless, I am grateful that you made it another year, because I really needed a day off, and because I am not looking forward to having your son's horse face all over the money. Maybe that will be just the incentive the Australian people need to push the Republican agenda.

Anyway, in honor of the anniversary of your birth, Kevin and I are going to go out for lunch - Next time you are in town, you should really stop by Ya-Habibi in Newtown. They make a nice felafel.

Cheers,

Audra

Hypocrisy, Humility, and Humanity

Over the last few days, I have found myself wrapped up in another blog (blogs are hideous time sinks) which has caused me considerable consternation and self-reflection. With out going into extensive detail regarding the particulars of the entries or subsequent comments and rebuttals, I shall suffice to say that I felt obliged to point out the author's deficiency of tolerance and compassion with regard to people who have recently caused him annoyance, citing the decline to name calling in an effort to assuage his own irritations and thereby only fostering ill will through out the world, thus generating bad cosmic mojo for the universe.

And behold, when I turned once again to my own blog, I was confronted with such an impeccable example of my own hypocrisy, that I was immediately plunged into a fit of introspection that could only be reconciled with my own public admission of humiliation. Which immediately led me to ponder, as I often do, the unfortunate pervasiveness of hypocrisy in the human condition and the purpose it serves.

Why is it so much easier to point out faults in others that we oursleves embody, yet our ego remains blind to their existence? If, as Freud would have us believe, it is a form of psychological self-projection, why do we so readily turn our scorn upon the reflection and ignoring the self that created the reflection? Why do we feel it is necessary to address the shortcomings of others? Is it possible or even necessary to atone for hypocrisy?

I found some comfort in the pages of Wikipedia (as I often do) whose discourse on hypocrisy said that pointing out behaviour that one engages in oneself is not necessarily hypocrisy - only if one condemns the other person for doing it. (For example, a smoker telling someone they should not smoke is not hypocrisy, because there is a valid arguement for it. However, saying you are evil if you smoke, but it's ok for me, is hypocrisy.) I'm pretty sure my language did not involve such condemnation, only illustration.

However, as I have now come to the open admission of my own fault in stooping to name calling and harboring ill will towards the neighbors who annoy me, I am thus somewhat liberated from the guilt of hypocrisy. And now, having conscious verbal awareness of my own shortcomings, I can better protect myself against future occurences.

So, to the monsters upstairs - I extend understanding for the energetic joys of childhood (not to mention respect the particularly long and strident urine stream with which the man of the house awakes each morning); to the cunt downstairs, I extend compassion for the circumstances of you life that have lead you to bitterness and petty uncivility.

Ah, I feel much refreshed.

Dear 16

You are a cunt.

20

Retraction

The editors of this blog offer their sincerest apologies for slanderous comments made in references to a certain best friend’s ability to read. As that friend has now re-entered the realm of conscious awareness (we welcome her back whole heartedly), we look forward to receiving more scorching repudiation of any future slanderous claims against her character.

Temporary Resident

When I am feeling lonely, I sometimes visit a discussion forum called Yanks Down Under. It is a good place to exchange whinges about life as an expat with other folks who are experiencing similar frustrations. Mostly it is populated by women who are married to or in the process of marrying Aussie blokes and who are in a panic over the state of their visa applications and are seeking constant reassurance (editor’s note: several non-flattering comments about American women and Aussie blokes have been deleted from this document – suffice to say there is a strong argument to be made against compulsory voting.)

However, a topic arose in the discussion that has inspired a great deal of personal reflection. There is a black family from Alabama living in Melbourne (which isn’t especially relevant, but raises several other interesting observations that are beyond the scope of this essay). They are apparently suffering considerable anxiety stemming from the impending decision of whether to return to their homeland, where previously unnoticed episodes of insipid racism impinge upon the emotional well-being of their daughters, or to sink new roots into their adopted country, where the acceptance of multi-cultural living extends beyond mere tolerance into genuine appreciation. The wife seems to believe that much of her anxiety would be alleviated by obtaining the status and benefits of “permanent resident”, and this is what got me to thinking…

In some way, I find the label of “temporary resident” immensely liberating. It seems to free me from the worries and obligations of being a responsible participant in this society. I feel completely disengaged from the stress of everyday life, as if the consequences of my actions here don’t really count – not that anyone is counting. I feel exempt from the need to keep up with the typical measures of success. Because I know my time here may come to end at any moment, I am imbued with a sense of appreciation for details that often escape the notice of ordinary citizens. I am able to remained charmed by facets of daily life which others find tedious and tiresome. Going to work is not so much like commuting as it is an adventure in discovery. Grocery shopping is not an ordeal, but an entertaining opportunity to compare the nuances of tastes. My paycheck seems like a benevolent gift, not paltry compensation for my time and efforts.

Perhaps it is only because I am still caught up in the novelty of comparison between the familiar and the exotic. Maybe someday I will become bored and complacent, and soon after annoyed by the trivialities which now seem fascinating. However, I like to imagine that I have gained an understanding of the bigger picture – that in life, we are all truly “temporary residents”. Against this realization, I strive to cultivate these marvelous feelings of enthrallment with the mundane. I hope to be forever amazed by color of the evening sky, of the myriad shapes and patterns of the various life forms that surround me, of the small thrill of crossing a magnificent bridge over a beautiful safe harbour – to the exclusion of feeling overwhelmed by insignificant irritations…with the noteworthy exceptions of the dearth of quality Mexican food and noisy upstairs neighbours…and possibly the very existence of Britney Spears.

Ugg!

Last week, I made my first serious social faux pax – I wore my Ugg Boots to work. The weather has been frightfully chilly and I am seriously lacking in comfortable foot wear. I had no reason to suspect that a world recognized icon of Australiana such as the Ugg Boot is the fashion equivalent of a large brass belt buckle and a cowboy hat. My kind, yet condescending co-workers granted me a partial exemption from humiliation based on the fact that, being American, I am expected to be lacking in tact and sensibility. However, they felt obliged to enlighten me to the nuances of Bogan (read: white-trash) haut couture. Apparently, my Northen Suburb post code provides no protection against being mistaken for a Westie – a social distinction which must be preserved above all else.

I had no idea Sydneysiders were such snobs. It’s not like I showed up to work with a mullet and a neck tattoo!

Later that night (after changing into stylish, albeit ill-fitting black leather boots) Kevin and I met up with a group of his work friends for dinner and drinks in the Western suburb of Parramatta – the center of Bogan culture. They all too heartily confirmed the travesty of my style trespass, and pointed out several deplorable examples of Westie stereotypes cruising down Church Street. Apparently, in the minds of Sydneysiders, a Westie is on par with a typical guest on the Jerry Springer show. To me, they looked like average people with comfortable footwear.

Oddly enough, everyone who criticized the Ugg boot confessed to having never owned nor even worn a pair. Thus I cannot help but question the validity of their convictions against the complete lack of first hand knowledge of the superior attributes of such functional and cozy podean accoutrements. Kevin says Australia would have an entirely different opinion about Ugg Boots if they had seen Daryl Hannah’s spread in Playboy.

Nonetheless, I was disappointed in myself to learn that I am not as immune to the estimations of my colleagues as I would like believe. Therefore, my Ugg Boots will be relegated to the temporary role of house slipper, and I am now faced with the unpleasant and immensely dissatisfactory task of going shoe shopping.

Science Geek Porno

OK, so maybe this won't get you as hot as it did me, but I thought this video was worth sharing! I especially like the part where the ribosomes assemble proteins into the endoplasmic reticulum. The lipid rafts and the seven transmembrane receptors are pretty cool, too.

So if you've got a good interenet connection, check out "The Inner Life of the Cell" at:

http://multimedia.mcb.harvard.edu/media.html

Cheers.

Dear 24,

You are truly blessed to have such happy and vivacious children who wake up with so much energy and enthusiasm – and such early risers, too! Perhaps some day you will be fortunate enough to have a house of your own, where your children can run and wrestle freely in the open air of your yard.

Until that day, you have the extraordinary opportunity to teach them valuable lessons about the behavioural compromises inherent to cooperative living in a high density apartment block. Take the time to explain to them that other people (who might live below you) work very hard during the week and probably look forward to the vital luxury of sleeping late (let’s say maybe…9 O’Clock?) on Sunday mornings. This will help your children cultivate an admirable sense of empathy, awareness, and social responsibility, and these qualities will help make the world a better place for everyone.

Sincere Regards,

20

Yo Ho Toh-Ho!

Although I have made a few minor references in passing, I now realize I have not described in any graceful detail the empty fields that sit beside our apartment block. Located at the end of the building, our unit is uniquely situated in that our northern windows overlook the site of an abandoned bowling green. The wide flat lawn, ringed by tall pine trees and made lush by recent rains, is the home to a prosperous warren of happy rabbits. Nightly do we rejoice in watching the brown and white bunnies carelessly nibbling and hopping amongst the verdant blades, their tranquillity disturbed only occasionally by a cacophonous dive bomb from a cranky cockatoo. Never once did I consider their presence pestilent. Indeed, contrasted to their noisy avian compatriots, I take great pleasure in their silent mammalian existence.

Now, I cannot cite any specific references, but it is my understanding that rabbits, not being native to this sunburned continent, were introduced in a manner both unfortunate and laughable in its after effects. It seems, as I am learning myself on a very personal level, that crusading expatriates invariably strive to recreate the pleasures of their origin in an attempt to assuage their wistful longing for their homeland and to maintain a sense of connectedness to the life they have left behind. The early British settlers were no exception. Amongst the valued practices of Mother England, such as planting gardens and boiling meat, hunting for sport evidently provided a gentlemanly repast which was lacking in the new colony. And, since koalas do not offer much in the way of a challenge considering that they sleep up to 22 hours a day and are just so damn cute, the founding fathers of Australia decided to import rabbits for the express purpose of slaughter by gunfire.

In 1859, 24 rabbits were released onto the property of Thomas Austin. Having no regard for the fence line and with rigorous colonization ambitions of their own, the rabbits, doing what rabbits do best in the absence of natural predators, quickly and permanently altered the constitution of the Australian bushland in a manner which can best be described by the word “devastation”. (Though beyond the purpose of this essay, I find it worthwhile to mention that nothing was learnt by this exercise - as evidenced by the subsequent introduction of the European Red Fox for identical purposes and with identical consequences.) In 1991, the population of rabbits in Australia was estimated to be between 200 – 300 million.

Which brings me to the inspiration for this tirade. Yesterday, I found the following flyer in my post box. Aside from the obvious unpleasantness inherent in this notification, can any of you, dear readers, identify the sentence which is causing me particular consternation and amusement?

Clubbing the Monkey

In honour of Cinco de Mayo (which by the by, is far more popular in America than in Mexico where it is scarcely acknowledged), we set out once more in search of Mexican food, this time operating on advice made by a dyke from New York. I must confess to having no confidence in the ability of a New Yorker to discern quality Mexican fare, and have found in general, over the course of my limited interactions with lesbians, that seldom do they share my tastes or inclinations. Upon expressing these sentiments, she informed me that she had lived in Texas for several years. I cannot say that this admission elevated her credentials in my opinion, as I am not particularly fond of Tex-Mex cuisine. However, lacking as we are in reliable Hispanic sources of gustatory recommendations, I felt obliged to investigate.

(My, but my writing style is prone to infection by my current reading selection. Any guesses as to which 19th century lady author I’ve been reading of late?)

We made our way via a complicated zig-zag of pubs and beer gardens to the lively and bohemian neighbourhood of Woolloomooloo (affectionately known as “The Loo”). After ensuring that the owners of Café Pacifico were not on an extended holiday and that the facility was not undergoing extensive renovations, we retired to a nearby roof top lounge to await their opening. As the last glow of daylight faded from the warm autumn sky, we were treated to a most wondrous overhead procession of megachiroptera. Their numbers were so staggering, I felt sure they must be swirling in a circle above the tavern – there couldn’t be so many bats on one planet! At length, the crick in my neck and descending darkness forced me to turn my attention away from their evening migration and return to the task at hand.

Outside the brightly painted façade of Café Pacifico, we could hear music, laughter, and the clinking of ice cubes in Margarita glasses. We ascended the stairs and surveyed the lively décor. Paintings of muertos festooned the red walls. The toilets were segregated by images from the popular Loteria game: El Diablito for the gents, La Sirena for the ladies. The rafters were stacked with shabby but genuine carton boxes of Pacifico, Sol, and Bohemia beer. I held up two fingers to the hosts behind the counter.

“Ah sorry, mate. We’re totally booked out.”

I looked once more around the room and observed rather vocally that there were but two other diners at a table in a hall set for at least 60. He assured me that the place would be shoulder to shoulder by eight o’clock. I employed my recently acquired whingeing skills, and began recounting our misadventures to Azteca of the previous week, my swelling homesickness, and the fact that my heart would surely break if I did not eat some Mexican food this very instant. At last he conceded and said we could eat at the bar. I would gladly have eaten in the toilet, if necessary. Then the more quick witted of the hosts suggested that we could have a table IF we promised to vacate it by 8 o’clock. I looked at the time. It was currently 6:15. I had every intention of being in bed by 8 o’colck.

“Is your service that slow?”

He assured us it was not and we assured him we would consume our meal in the allotted time frame and so we were seated at a cheery red table with a cozy candle beneath a Diego Rivera print. We ordered some 17 dollar Margaritas (have I had occasion to mention the outrageous tax on hard alcohol in Australia?) and perused the equally expensive menu. The dishes were standard fare, tacos, fajitas, burritos, with nothing that stood out as particularly exotic save for a beef dish, the name of which now escapes me…something like plato de pico pequeño.

It was quickly dawning on me that regional cuisine is by necessity and virtue, just that: regional. Although such innovations as electronic commerce and overnight freight shrink the globe on a daily basis, the true essence of a “place” is thoroughly linked to our sensual detection and can never be completely recreated elsewhere. While subtle hints can stimulate our memories to conjure up feelings of past occasions, it is the difference between being in love and remembering having been in love.

And so, because Australia is not Mexico, or California, or Texas, the food here can only reflect their unfortunate British heritage and subsequently under cultivated taste for spice. However, it does have merits all its own. The avocados here are unrivalled in flavour and texture. The quality of the beef is robust and refreshing. The corn chips were authentic and the salsa flavourful, providing considerable relief to my nostalgic tastebuds.

Overall, I would rate the meal on par with methadone – it satisfied the craving but lacked the euphoria.

The Eastern Barrios

If you’ve been following my exploits with even the mildest of interest, you may have observed that the most distressing aspect of living in Australia is my insatiable jones for good Mexican food. Whenever I chance to meet another American expat, the conversation inevitably turns to food, our longing for the comforts of familiar flavours, and the pathetic lump of sweet dough and bad cheese that passes for pizza here. I always enquire as to the existence of any authentic Mexican restaurants, and the replies invariably express the same sentiment: “Well, Café Such and Such is pretty good, but it’s not really Mexican. “

I recently discovered a web discussion forum called “Yanks Down Under”, and of course, a sizable portion of the discourse concerned food. Well, there I found a resoundingly good review of a restaurant called Azteca. According to a source at the Australian Embassy, there are approximately 750 Mexicans living in Australia, and on any given night of the week, about half of them can be found at Azteca, drinking imported cerveza and getting a taste of home.

Well, you might as well have told me that Jesus and Mohammed had appeared in a compromised position on a corn tortilla – I immediately set off on a pilgrimage to the Eastern suburbs (Is there some instinct that draws Mexicans to settle in Eastern Suburbs?). Kevin mapped out our journey, and on Friday evening, we met downtown to catch the L74 to Randwick Junction, a mere 40 minute bus ride from paradise. However, in the efficiency typical of Sydney Busses, there were no signs for the L74. There was an X74 and a 374, so we took a chance that they were headed for the same destination. Overhearing our confusion, the helpful driver asked where we were headed, informed us that he didn’t go there, and then drew us an elaborate map on the back of a bus ticket to show us how to get where we were indeed going. We thanked him profusely, and then walked the half kilometre, only to discover that he did indeed go exactly where we wanted to go, we just thought we were going somewhere else.

One block from the restaurant, saliva gushing onto our shirt fronts, Kevin said “Wouldn’t it be funny if they were closed for renovations? Remember that time in Bakersfield…” No sooner had the words faded from the air, than we were standing in front of a darkened store front, staring at a sign that said “Closed from April 23 to May 21st. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

We faced each other and burst into hysterical laughter, since the only alternative was to be really upset, and that didn’t sound like much fun. We walked across the street to the local pub, had a schooner, laughed some more, and began the two hour trek home. One bus, two trains, and a cab ride later, we sat on the couch reviewing the powerful lessons the universe had taught us that evening about desire, serendipity, patience, and calling ahead for reservations.