Tomorrow is the first day of Spring. Australia, being a fiercely independent, not to mention remote continent/country, feels no inclination to adhere to the commonly accepted celestial demarcations of the seasons. And judging from the sudden and dramatic change in the weather, they seem to be perfectly justified in this regard. The air is warm and softly perfumed with fragrant blossoms. The sky is clear and bright. United in the sense of pride that comes from having survived another winter, Sydneysiders have contracted a collective case of Spring Fever. The sidewalk cafes and courtyard pubs are bustling with cheery people displaying pale skin.
But, alas the weather forecasts predict a cooling trend and more rain by next week. Of course, I’m not too worried by this, because from my observations, Australian weather forecasters couldn’t predict a splash in a toilet bowl.
Now I know that America has its fair share of weather bimbos on television, but it is possible to find a local weather report delivered by a genuine meteorologist. Oh how I miss Chico’s Dave Vanore and his passionate descriptions of orographic flow, employing data from several models and images to explain the why and how of his predictions. It is a rare forecast here that even shows a satellite image. Most weather maps are cartoons of the continent with little suns all over it, and the forecast is simply “fine with a high of 26 in Darwin” or “mostly fine with a high of 22 in Sydney”. All weather reports include the temperatures in all the major cities, and on channel 7, are typically broadcast from some daggy outback drinking establishment with a name like “The Pub with No Beer” or a dinky town with a name like Grass Patch (Australia’s Yabby Racing Capital.)
31 August 2007
30 August 2007
A Public Acknowledgement of Sincere Gratitude
or...
Why Screwing Around in the Blogosphere is Never a Complete Waste of Time.
Despite the eight decadent years spent squandering resources for a major biopharmaceutical company, I am fundamentally a frugal scientist. I generally prefer to make do with what I have. As in my personal life, I take supreme satisfaction in resuscitating usefulness from an otherwise an obsolete item and gloat ceaselessly when I am able to save a buck. However, once in a while, even my head is turned by a new (or not so new, but new to me) technology. On such occasions, need and desire wrestle violently within my psyche, and I have several imaginary arguments with The JD in which he tugs at his mustache and frowns at me over the top of his glasses.
Thus, I had all but resigned to the fact that I would never be able to justify the purchase of a $1700 piece of equipment to replace a perfectly serviceable one already in my employ, even if it did mean eliminating my exposure to a nasty mutagen and severely reducing our lab’s contribution to a toxic landfill.
But then, an ethereal and gallant Black Knight chivalrously bestowed upon me the obvious but hitherto unconsidered knowledge that would fortify my position and ensure my victory…and he fed me a fabulous curry dinner, for which I am equally grateful.
After yet another hallucinatory conversation with my life long mentor, I performed the necessary experiments to prove beyond a doubt the superiority of the far less expensive scientific method, then parlayed that argument to justify my acquisition.
Why Screwing Around in the Blogosphere is Never a Complete Waste of Time.
Despite the eight decadent years spent squandering resources for a major biopharmaceutical company, I am fundamentally a frugal scientist. I generally prefer to make do with what I have. As in my personal life, I take supreme satisfaction in resuscitating usefulness from an otherwise an obsolete item and gloat ceaselessly when I am able to save a buck. However, once in a while, even my head is turned by a new (or not so new, but new to me) technology. On such occasions, need and desire wrestle violently within my psyche, and I have several imaginary arguments with The JD in which he tugs at his mustache and frowns at me over the top of his glasses.
Thus, I had all but resigned to the fact that I would never be able to justify the purchase of a $1700 piece of equipment to replace a perfectly serviceable one already in my employ, even if it did mean eliminating my exposure to a nasty mutagen and severely reducing our lab’s contribution to a toxic landfill.
But then, an ethereal and gallant Black Knight chivalrously bestowed upon me the obvious but hitherto unconsidered knowledge that would fortify my position and ensure my victory…and he fed me a fabulous curry dinner, for which I am equally grateful.
After yet another hallucinatory conversation with my life long mentor, I performed the necessary experiments to prove beyond a doubt the superiority of the far less expensive scientific method, then parlayed that argument to justify my acquisition.
Bolstered with confidence, I went a step further convinced the department to pay for it!
Thank You, Black Knight! I am deeply indebted to you for positively impacting the healthfulness of my working conditions, for helping to save the planet for future generations, for contributing to the financial and experimental success of my lab, and for this profound, if fleeting sensation of smug satisfaction arising from the knowledge that the many hours I spent languishing in the enjoyable musings of your blog were well spent.
Thank You, Black Knight! I am deeply indebted to you for positively impacting the healthfulness of my working conditions, for helping to save the planet for future generations, for contributing to the financial and experimental success of my lab, and for this profound, if fleeting sensation of smug satisfaction arising from the knowledge that the many hours I spent languishing in the enjoyable musings of your blog were well spent.
27 August 2007
Getting to Work Now
Aside from the Thump Factor, our primary reason for moving to St Leonards was to improve my commute to work. Our new apartment is located directly on the train line, a mere three minute walk (including the elevator ride to the lobby) from the station. Granted, the trains are far noisier than a pair of toddlers and their pissy parents, and their rumblings start much earlier in the morning - the first in-bound train arrives at a startling 4:47 am. Perhaps the trains are less annoying because I tend to think of them as my personal chariots of convenience. In fact, they do serve as a sort of snooze alarm, coaxing me slowly out of my morning slumber as their frequency increases toward peak hour. Unfortunately, this alarm still functions on weekends, except when there is track work and the trains aren’t running at all. Surprisingly, on such occasions my sleep is perturbed by their very absence, my subconscious breathlessly anticipating the sound of a horn that never blasts.
Aside from the reduction of my overall one-way travel time from one hour forty plus to 45 minutes, my commute has benefited from the flexibility of the train schedule. I need not worry about catching any particular bus or train, because I know there will be another along in 3-6 minutes. And, if for some reason the trains are delayed or malfunctioning, I still have the option to board any number of city bound busses along the Pacific Highway.
When the weather is agreeable and I am feeling energetic, I have the option to take the train all the way to the university. However, this route involves a twenty minute walk and invariably costs me three extra dollars. The Redfern Station is situated in a neighbourhood that should by all rights granted under manifest destiny be a gentrified boulevard of shops, cafes, and funky terrace homes. However, some short sighted planning commission somehow relegated the blocks surrounding the vital depot to a community of aboriginal peoples who cannot now be moved by any act of congress or commerce, and to whom I am inevitably obliged to cast a few gold coins as I exit the station in exchange for their half hearted attempt to rattle some incoherent lyrical musings across a set of ragged guitar strings until they believe that I am out of earshot. I have been sternly advised to avoid the area altogether after nightfall and for the few days immediately preceding and immediately following disbursement of the government dole checks, when drug and alcohol infused tensions plummet and crescendo in anticipation thereof. (Editor’s note: It is a rare triumph that I am able to use the word “crescendo” in its proper grammatical context, and I feel compelled to boast.)
While the weather is frequently agreeable, I seldom feel energetic in the morning, thus I typically opt to transfer from train to bus at the Town Hall Station in the centre of the Central Business District. This routing not only affords the least possible physical exertion, but also allows me a moment’s repose to reflect upon the magnificent old sandstone building for which the station is named and also to observe the ridiculous posturing and screaming of the many cockatoos who each morning perch atop the multitude of flagpoles aloft there in, as well as upon the glorious sandstone crosses of the adjoining St Andrews cathedral. Alas, one of the added benefits of our new apartment is the agreeable absence of cockatoos, thus I am now able to once more rejoice in their cacophonous existence…from a comfortable distance.
Another advantage of transferring to the bus is that each morning I am still able to catch a glimpse of the cignet swans adorning the pond in Victoria Park. They have abruptly matured into gawky adolescents, their long necks bearing thickened beaks awkwardly above ragged bodies caught in the throes of moulting, yet still they peep innocent falsetto chirps. I worry about their future. Will they be able to cohabitate in the fertile feeding grounds of the city pond with their parents, or will they be chased away on the occasion of their passage into full fledged adulthood?
But then, I wonder the same thing about the skinny university students with troubled skin who ride the bus with their ear buds wedged deep into their skulls and speak in muffled grunts only when necessary.
Aside from the reduction of my overall one-way travel time from one hour forty plus to 45 minutes, my commute has benefited from the flexibility of the train schedule. I need not worry about catching any particular bus or train, because I know there will be another along in 3-6 minutes. And, if for some reason the trains are delayed or malfunctioning, I still have the option to board any number of city bound busses along the Pacific Highway.
When the weather is agreeable and I am feeling energetic, I have the option to take the train all the way to the university. However, this route involves a twenty minute walk and invariably costs me three extra dollars. The Redfern Station is situated in a neighbourhood that should by all rights granted under manifest destiny be a gentrified boulevard of shops, cafes, and funky terrace homes. However, some short sighted planning commission somehow relegated the blocks surrounding the vital depot to a community of aboriginal peoples who cannot now be moved by any act of congress or commerce, and to whom I am inevitably obliged to cast a few gold coins as I exit the station in exchange for their half hearted attempt to rattle some incoherent lyrical musings across a set of ragged guitar strings until they believe that I am out of earshot. I have been sternly advised to avoid the area altogether after nightfall and for the few days immediately preceding and immediately following disbursement of the government dole checks, when drug and alcohol infused tensions plummet and crescendo in anticipation thereof. (Editor’s note: It is a rare triumph that I am able to use the word “crescendo” in its proper grammatical context, and I feel compelled to boast.)
While the weather is frequently agreeable, I seldom feel energetic in the morning, thus I typically opt to transfer from train to bus at the Town Hall Station in the centre of the Central Business District. This routing not only affords the least possible physical exertion, but also allows me a moment’s repose to reflect upon the magnificent old sandstone building for which the station is named and also to observe the ridiculous posturing and screaming of the many cockatoos who each morning perch atop the multitude of flagpoles aloft there in, as well as upon the glorious sandstone crosses of the adjoining St Andrews cathedral. Alas, one of the added benefits of our new apartment is the agreeable absence of cockatoos, thus I am now able to once more rejoice in their cacophonous existence…from a comfortable distance.
Another advantage of transferring to the bus is that each morning I am still able to catch a glimpse of the cignet swans adorning the pond in Victoria Park. They have abruptly matured into gawky adolescents, their long necks bearing thickened beaks awkwardly above ragged bodies caught in the throes of moulting, yet still they peep innocent falsetto chirps. I worry about their future. Will they be able to cohabitate in the fertile feeding grounds of the city pond with their parents, or will they be chased away on the occasion of their passage into full fledged adulthood?
But then, I wonder the same thing about the skinny university students with troubled skin who ride the bus with their ear buds wedged deep into their skulls and speak in muffled grunts only when necessary.
24 August 2007
About Australian Politics
Before I begin this rant, I just want to say that the Mayor of Sydney is named Clover Moore. She goes by the title of Lord Mayor. I don’t know why, but I find this amusing. Whenever I hear reports about the activities of Lord Mayor Clover, my imagination depicts the otherwise dignified politician as a frivolous animated skunk or a cud-chewing cartoon cow.
Australia is a democracy.
That statement concludes my in depth understanding of how the federal government here functions. I have had several people explain it to me, and I always find myself sporting the same expression of confusion I witness on others when I try to explain the Electoral College, which I also don’t understand.
Basically, when it comes to federal elections, you don’t vote for a candidate, you vote for the party. There are two major parties: The Labour Party, which is liberal, and the Liberal Party, which is conservative. Whichever party holds the majority of seats in parliament gets to select the Prime Minister. Currently, the Liberal Party is in power and John Howard is the Prime Minister. He has the personality of a mean garden gnome.
The upshot of this system is that the television is not clogged with political commercials for individual candidates. Advertisements are supported by the parties (not lobbyists) and refreshingly deal with policy issues, primarily concerning labour laws, but occasionally touching on how to handle the delicate matter of drunken child molestation among outback aboriginal settlements.
In spite of this system, there is still intense campaigning between the party leaders, and television journalists are the soldier pawns in a war of popularity. Every day, the morning news shows report the latest poll on who is leading the race for preferred prime minister. Favour is lost or gained on a daily basis in reaction to information supplied to the media by the respective parties under the guise of news stories.
This week’s furor concerned a visit to a New York strip club by Kevin Rudd, the Labour Party Candidate, while he was on a government sponsored trip to the United States for some reason that remains vaguely elusive. Under attack from the Christian right, his shocking defence was that he was so drunk he didn’t know what he was doing. The Australian public seemed entirely satisfied with this explanation. The "man on the street" said the incident had a humanizing effect, but my favourite sound bite came from a minister of something-or-other who said “Frankly, I am quite disappointed in Mr. Rudd. I mean, Melbourne has several world class strip clubs right here in Australia.”
Keep Australian dollars in Australian G-Strings…except here the dollar is a coin…I guess that would make Australian strippers world class.
Eventually, the broadcasters got around to mentioning that Kevin’s strip club adventure occurred in 2003. To their credit, the general public immediately recognized the story as a blatant attack by the Liberal Party and dismissed it on the grounds of poor sportsmanship.
Australia is a democracy.
That statement concludes my in depth understanding of how the federal government here functions. I have had several people explain it to me, and I always find myself sporting the same expression of confusion I witness on others when I try to explain the Electoral College, which I also don’t understand.
Basically, when it comes to federal elections, you don’t vote for a candidate, you vote for the party. There are two major parties: The Labour Party, which is liberal, and the Liberal Party, which is conservative. Whichever party holds the majority of seats in parliament gets to select the Prime Minister. Currently, the Liberal Party is in power and John Howard is the Prime Minister. He has the personality of a mean garden gnome.
The upshot of this system is that the television is not clogged with political commercials for individual candidates. Advertisements are supported by the parties (not lobbyists) and refreshingly deal with policy issues, primarily concerning labour laws, but occasionally touching on how to handle the delicate matter of drunken child molestation among outback aboriginal settlements.
In spite of this system, there is still intense campaigning between the party leaders, and television journalists are the soldier pawns in a war of popularity. Every day, the morning news shows report the latest poll on who is leading the race for preferred prime minister. Favour is lost or gained on a daily basis in reaction to information supplied to the media by the respective parties under the guise of news stories.
This week’s furor concerned a visit to a New York strip club by Kevin Rudd, the Labour Party Candidate, while he was on a government sponsored trip to the United States for some reason that remains vaguely elusive. Under attack from the Christian right, his shocking defence was that he was so drunk he didn’t know what he was doing. The Australian public seemed entirely satisfied with this explanation. The "man on the street" said the incident had a humanizing effect, but my favourite sound bite came from a minister of something-or-other who said “Frankly, I am quite disappointed in Mr. Rudd. I mean, Melbourne has several world class strip clubs right here in Australia.”
Keep Australian dollars in Australian G-Strings…except here the dollar is a coin…I guess that would make Australian strippers world class.
Eventually, the broadcasters got around to mentioning that Kevin’s strip club adventure occurred in 2003. To their credit, the general public immediately recognized the story as a blatant attack by the Liberal Party and dismissed it on the grounds of poor sportsmanship.
19 August 2007
I think this is legal in Holland
It has been three hours since I read the following email from my mother (who is coming to visit in one month - indeed I did suggest a camel trek whilst she is here) and I am STILL bursting into unexpected and inappropriate paroxysms of laughter. I cannot WAIT to hear the autopsy results...I would think that being crushed by a camel would be adequate explanation, but the fact that a professional opinion is warranted leads me to belieive that there is further physical evidence of the camel's romantic intentions that has not been revealed in this article...
DO NOT want to do this while in Australia.
Audra, change the itinerary.
Pet Camel Kills Australian Woman
By Associated Press
Sat Aug 18, 9:35 PM
BRISBANE, Australia - An Australian woman was killed by a pet camel given to her as a 60th birthday present, police said Sunday.
The woman, whose name has not been released, was killed Saturday at her family sheep and cattle ranch near Mitchell, 350 miles west of the Queensland state capital Brisbane, state police Detective Senior Constable Craig Gregory said.
The 10-month-old male _ weighing about 330 pounds _ had knocked her to the ground then lay on top of her in what police suspect was mating behavior, Gregory said.
Camel expert Chris Hill agreed with Gregory.
Hill, who has offered camel rides to tourists for 20 years, said young camels are not aggressive but can be dangerous if treated as pets without discipline.
The woman was given the hand-reared camel in March as a birthday present from her husband and daughter.
The fate of the camel is not known.
An autopsy of the woman will determine the precise cause of death within days.
DO NOT want to do this while in Australia.
Audra, change the itinerary.
Pet Camel Kills Australian Woman
By Associated Press
Sat Aug 18, 9:35 PM
BRISBANE, Australia - An Australian woman was killed by a pet camel given to her as a 60th birthday present, police said Sunday.
The woman, whose name has not been released, was killed Saturday at her family sheep and cattle ranch near Mitchell, 350 miles west of the Queensland state capital Brisbane, state police Detective Senior Constable Craig Gregory said.
The 10-month-old male _ weighing about 330 pounds _ had knocked her to the ground then lay on top of her in what police suspect was mating behavior, Gregory said.
Camel expert Chris Hill agreed with Gregory.
Hill, who has offered camel rides to tourists for 20 years, said young camels are not aggressive but can be dangerous if treated as pets without discipline.
The woman was given the hand-reared camel in March as a birthday present from her husband and daughter.
The fate of the camel is not known.
An autopsy of the woman will determine the precise cause of death within days.
17 August 2007
The Hole in My Life
There is a drain in the floor of my bathroom. When I sit on the toilet, I can’t resist leaning forward to look down it. There is water in it. Sometimes the water is gurgling, though no other pipes in our apartment are in use. Sometimes the water has a thick foul smelling scum floating on top of it. I flush the toilet to see if the water reacts to the sewer efflux. No. It just sits there. I run the bath tub. The water in the drain gurgles and I think that might wash away the smell, but the floating scum remains undisturbed. I run the sink and the shower. The water gurgles, but the scum remains. I pour bleach and perfumed oils down the drain. Now the scum smells like freshly scrubbed sandalwood.
Some days, when I get home from work the scum isn’t there. I contemplate where it went and why it decided to leave on this particular occasion. Is it in someone else’s drain? I kind of miss it. It comes back in a few days, and then I wonder why I thought of it with any sort of affection.
Sometimes I use Kevin’s bathroom. There is scum in his drain too, but it doesn’t have as much personality. It hardly ever has frothy lumps in it like mine. I once went to a town called Drain in Oregon. It didn’t have that much personality either, but it wasn’t especially scummy. But then again, it had a river and a Union 76 station.
I guess a drain in the floor is a good idea, since there is no overflow drain in the bathtub. I feel compelled to clean the bathroom with a high pressure hose and just let everything run down the floor drain, all that dust and soap residue, swirling away in clockwise direction – a phenomenon that really isn’t as interesting as it seems it would be from the perspective of the Northern hemisphere.
Some days, when I get home from work the scum isn’t there. I contemplate where it went and why it decided to leave on this particular occasion. Is it in someone else’s drain? I kind of miss it. It comes back in a few days, and then I wonder why I thought of it with any sort of affection.
Sometimes I use Kevin’s bathroom. There is scum in his drain too, but it doesn’t have as much personality. It hardly ever has frothy lumps in it like mine. I once went to a town called Drain in Oregon. It didn’t have that much personality either, but it wasn’t especially scummy. But then again, it had a river and a Union 76 station.
I guess a drain in the floor is a good idea, since there is no overflow drain in the bathtub. I feel compelled to clean the bathroom with a high pressure hose and just let everything run down the floor drain, all that dust and soap residue, swirling away in clockwise direction – a phenomenon that really isn’t as interesting as it seems it would be from the perspective of the Northern hemisphere.
10 August 2007
About Australian Appliances
Perhaps ‘weird’ is too strong a word, employed by myself in a frustrating moment of confrontation with variation from that which I have grown accustomed and complacent. Since the mind is trained at an early age to observe contrast, I cannot help but catalogue the many ways in which American household appliances are superior to those down under.
For some reason beyond my comprehension, Australian apartments come furnished with a clothes dryer but not a washing machine. Despite the abundance of discarded washers along the roadside, we opted to purchase one second hand in the hopes that we would be assured a higher quality. Our laundry alcove featured a drain in the floor, which we naturally assumed was for the drain hose of the washer, but when we tried to fill the tub, the water would simply drain out. Fuming about our poor deal, we were just on the verge of calling a plumber when it occurred to me to elevate the drain hose to create back pressure which might allow the tub to fill. Thus by tying the hose to the faucet of the laundry sink, we were able to overcome this eccentricity and save ourselves from being the subject of spirited conversation during the plumber’s happy hour.
The washer has an uncanny ability to tie our clothes into complete knots. No matter how large or small the load, the clothes emerge twisted and mangled and wrinkled beyond recognition. Since the dryer tumbler is slightly smaller than a peanut butter jar, the wrinkles become cemented permanently into the fabric. I am of the opinion that this design is purposeful, thus encouraging the use of environmentally friendly, carbon neutral air drying. Indeed, Aussies in general are very fond of air drying, and all homes feature clothes lines. Furthermore, nearly every apartment balcony sports some sort of drying rack. We even have one, found on the side of the road of course. But since is only holds about five pairs of underwear and three socks, I have yet to appreciate its full utility. And there is no way to air a set of sheets on it…
Our refrigerator was also purchased second hand from a charming old man who had received about 50 calls, but saved it for me since I was the first and my need was urgent – we were living out of a borrowed Esky - with ice at $5 a bag! At the time, we were driving a tiny Hyundai hatchback rental, and I immediately appreciated the narrow design of Australian refrigerators, as we were able to stuff it inside the vehicle. Since we are now busy and gainfully employed and take-away food plays a major role in our diet, I have not been bothered by the compact interior, but stocking in a slab of beer is much like solving a three dimensional jigsaw puzzle.
Our new apartment has a gas cook top (Hallelujah), but all Australian ovens are fan-forced electric. Supposedly this makes them more efficient, but I cannot get past the notion that heated air forcibly blown across my chicken will dry it out. I gained confidence from a good read of the owner’s manual, then discovered with frowning amusement, that both the symbols and numbers had eroded from the stainless steel surface supporting the indicator knobs (such was the case at our last apartment, too and clearly represents a flaw in their paint qaulity). So while the instructions assure you that using the setting featuring a half dashed circle surrounding a solid circle at 180 degrees will guarantee a perfect roast, it is pure guess work on my part. The instructions also issued a firm warning against opening the oven door to check for doneness but promised that perfection would come with repeated experimentation. Do I need to explain why I find that weird?
But the best part is that our new kitchen is furnished with a highly coveted brand of appliance, such that the rental listing actually boasted their inclusion as a highlight of the property. This brand name serves as an endless source of amusement to me, but then you already know how easily amused I am. They are called Smeg. Guess what I call them…
For some reason beyond my comprehension, Australian apartments come furnished with a clothes dryer but not a washing machine. Despite the abundance of discarded washers along the roadside, we opted to purchase one second hand in the hopes that we would be assured a higher quality. Our laundry alcove featured a drain in the floor, which we naturally assumed was for the drain hose of the washer, but when we tried to fill the tub, the water would simply drain out. Fuming about our poor deal, we were just on the verge of calling a plumber when it occurred to me to elevate the drain hose to create back pressure which might allow the tub to fill. Thus by tying the hose to the faucet of the laundry sink, we were able to overcome this eccentricity and save ourselves from being the subject of spirited conversation during the plumber’s happy hour.
The washer has an uncanny ability to tie our clothes into complete knots. No matter how large or small the load, the clothes emerge twisted and mangled and wrinkled beyond recognition. Since the dryer tumbler is slightly smaller than a peanut butter jar, the wrinkles become cemented permanently into the fabric. I am of the opinion that this design is purposeful, thus encouraging the use of environmentally friendly, carbon neutral air drying. Indeed, Aussies in general are very fond of air drying, and all homes feature clothes lines. Furthermore, nearly every apartment balcony sports some sort of drying rack. We even have one, found on the side of the road of course. But since is only holds about five pairs of underwear and three socks, I have yet to appreciate its full utility. And there is no way to air a set of sheets on it…
Our refrigerator was also purchased second hand from a charming old man who had received about 50 calls, but saved it for me since I was the first and my need was urgent – we were living out of a borrowed Esky - with ice at $5 a bag! At the time, we were driving a tiny Hyundai hatchback rental, and I immediately appreciated the narrow design of Australian refrigerators, as we were able to stuff it inside the vehicle. Since we are now busy and gainfully employed and take-away food plays a major role in our diet, I have not been bothered by the compact interior, but stocking in a slab of beer is much like solving a three dimensional jigsaw puzzle.
Our new apartment has a gas cook top (Hallelujah), but all Australian ovens are fan-forced electric. Supposedly this makes them more efficient, but I cannot get past the notion that heated air forcibly blown across my chicken will dry it out. I gained confidence from a good read of the owner’s manual, then discovered with frowning amusement, that both the symbols and numbers had eroded from the stainless steel surface supporting the indicator knobs (such was the case at our last apartment, too and clearly represents a flaw in their paint qaulity). So while the instructions assure you that using the setting featuring a half dashed circle surrounding a solid circle at 180 degrees will guarantee a perfect roast, it is pure guess work on my part. The instructions also issued a firm warning against opening the oven door to check for doneness but promised that perfection would come with repeated experimentation. Do I need to explain why I find that weird?
But the best part is that our new kitchen is furnished with a highly coveted brand of appliance, such that the rental listing actually boasted their inclusion as a highlight of the property. This brand name serves as an endless source of amusement to me, but then you already know how easily amused I am. They are called Smeg. Guess what I call them…
The Joys of Solitude
As I helped Kevin reluctantly pack for his business trip to Townsville, he asked suspiciously,
"So, what are you going to do with a whole week to yourself?"
I knew that the rules of courteous marital discourse dictated that I say something along the lines of how I would mope around the house, count the hours until his joyful reurn, lie prostrate on the couch simmering in the lonliness of his absence, but I replied truthfully,
"Oh, I've got BIG plans! I'm going to sleep in the middle of the bed, eat dinner standing up in the kitchen, and leave the batroom door open when I shit."
"So, what are you going to do with a whole week to yourself?"
I knew that the rules of courteous marital discourse dictated that I say something along the lines of how I would mope around the house, count the hours until his joyful reurn, lie prostrate on the couch simmering in the lonliness of his absence, but I replied truthfully,
"Oh, I've got BIG plans! I'm going to sleep in the middle of the bed, eat dinner standing up in the kitchen, and leave the batroom door open when I shit."
06 August 2007
03 August 2007
Weights and Measures
Recently, I was asked how I was adjusting to total immersion in the metric system, and I thought this might serve as a fine opportunity for a bit of a whinge.
Temperatures have not been problematic since I am used to dealing in Celsius in the laboratory – though only with a limited number of measurements. Thus, I know that a comfortable room temperature is between 20-22 C. Since 0 C is freezing, I instinctively know that anything close to that is bloody cold. Likewise, anything approaching body temperature (37 C) or above is stinkin’ hot. However, I am thrown by forecasts of 16 C but am learning from inference that wind and humidity have a profound impact on comfort.
Long distances aren’t much of a problem, though I do find I usually convert kilometres to miles in my mind. However, I am flabbergasted by smaller measures. When someone quotes their height in centimetres or talks about millimetres of rainfall, I cannot frame a reference.
When buying meat or produce, weight is not too difficult to comprehend, but it does make the prices seem shocking. With fruit I tend to convert to pounds, but with meat I have developed instincts about serving size and have no problem asking the butcher for 500 g of beef mince, though sometimes I have problems making my mouth say the words. I have a little trouble with body weight in kilos, but I am in a frame of mind to ignore my body weight anyway…putting on a couple of kilos is deceptively forgiving. Weights under one kilo are instinctive, again from my laboratory experience and also from my entrepreneurial efforts in high school.
Volumes aren’t a problem, because I know that a 12 oz beer is about 330 millilitres, a fifth of vodka is 750 mL, and a litre of petrol is freakin’ expensive.
I am considerably confounded by the way rates are measured. For example, mileage is reported as litres per 100 kilometres. This might be useful for comparison when car shopping, but I find it difficult when it comes to calculating economy. Similarly, nutritional values are reported per 100 grams, so to know how much you are consuming in a single serving, one must employ multiplication and/or division, which might explain the extra kilos mentioned above…that and the fact that an average beer here is 375 mL (and in the pubs, pints are a better value).
Most confounding is the practice of putting the day before the month when citing the date. I tend to get very confused until after the 12th of each month. However, my biggest peeve with this system is when it comes to organizing data files, which I frequently like to name by date.
I’m not saying that any of this is insurmountable or has any drastic effects on the quality of life. These are just little examples of the moments when I must pause, frown, and think consciously about things that are normally instinctually effortless.
Temperatures have not been problematic since I am used to dealing in Celsius in the laboratory – though only with a limited number of measurements. Thus, I know that a comfortable room temperature is between 20-22 C. Since 0 C is freezing, I instinctively know that anything close to that is bloody cold. Likewise, anything approaching body temperature (37 C) or above is stinkin’ hot. However, I am thrown by forecasts of 16 C but am learning from inference that wind and humidity have a profound impact on comfort.
Long distances aren’t much of a problem, though I do find I usually convert kilometres to miles in my mind. However, I am flabbergasted by smaller measures. When someone quotes their height in centimetres or talks about millimetres of rainfall, I cannot frame a reference.
When buying meat or produce, weight is not too difficult to comprehend, but it does make the prices seem shocking. With fruit I tend to convert to pounds, but with meat I have developed instincts about serving size and have no problem asking the butcher for 500 g of beef mince, though sometimes I have problems making my mouth say the words. I have a little trouble with body weight in kilos, but I am in a frame of mind to ignore my body weight anyway…putting on a couple of kilos is deceptively forgiving. Weights under one kilo are instinctive, again from my laboratory experience and also from my entrepreneurial efforts in high school.
Volumes aren’t a problem, because I know that a 12 oz beer is about 330 millilitres, a fifth of vodka is 750 mL, and a litre of petrol is freakin’ expensive.
I am considerably confounded by the way rates are measured. For example, mileage is reported as litres per 100 kilometres. This might be useful for comparison when car shopping, but I find it difficult when it comes to calculating economy. Similarly, nutritional values are reported per 100 grams, so to know how much you are consuming in a single serving, one must employ multiplication and/or division, which might explain the extra kilos mentioned above…that and the fact that an average beer here is 375 mL (and in the pubs, pints are a better value).
Most confounding is the practice of putting the day before the month when citing the date. I tend to get very confused until after the 12th of each month. However, my biggest peeve with this system is when it comes to organizing data files, which I frequently like to name by date.
I’m not saying that any of this is insurmountable or has any drastic effects on the quality of life. These are just little examples of the moments when I must pause, frown, and think consciously about things that are normally instinctually effortless.
24 July 2007
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. 
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.
20 July 2007
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...
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...
18 July 2007
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...
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...
14 July 2007
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!”
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!”
04 July 2007
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.
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.
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...
27 June 2007
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.
Honest, Mr IT Director, I was just looking for a picture of my sofa...I promise I will never use Yahoo! Search again.
16 June 2007
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.
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.
15 June 2007
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…
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)
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
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?
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?
10 June 2007
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
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
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