Addendum

Kevin came in 29820th with an official time of 113 minutes 56 seconds.

Although these photos may suggest otherwise, he assures me he was having fun:

http://city2surf.sunherald.com.au/results08video.php?intbib=27029

"Oooh, a rrrace. I hope I win!"

Four years ago, almost to the day, I was making frantic preparations to retrieve my wheelchair-bound husband from a night in the hospital as he underwent major surgery to repair the botched job done on his broken leg by the butcher of La Paz. (Note to self: avoid Mexican hospitals at all costs.) It was a very dark time in our lives, and we had genuine concerns as to whether he would ever be able to walk again.

Today, Kevin ran in the City 2 Surf Race, Sydney’s version of the Bay to Breakers, only not quite as silly. The participants lined up in Central Sydney to tackle the gruelling 14.4 (8.9 miles) course ending at Bondi Beach. Unable to run a city block even if I was being chased, I watched the beginning of the race on television from my ugly but comfortable couch. Unfortunately, I was unable to pick him out from the 70,000+ crowd. But I did see Batman and Spiderman…and Tah Man.

With a non-stop AccaDacca soundtrack piped through his ear buds, Kevin finished the race in a respectable 2 hours 15 minutes (official time and finishing photo pending) – which is less time than it took me to get to the finish line thanks to the brilliant planning by Shitty Rail who decided to perform ‘track work’ on two of the major metropolitan train lines. (As far as I can tell, ‘track work’ involves a bunch of guys in orange vests standing around shooting the breeze and smoking cigarettes – though on the upside, ‘track work’ means not awakening to the 4:47 am train.)

But I digress…


The point of this tirade is to express my tremendous pride, joy, and gratitude at Kevin’s accomplishment. (Note to self: send a thank you card to Dr Verhoog.)

Good on Ya, Kev!

Now if you will excuse me, the women’s gymnastics are on…(OK, so I lied about ignoring the Olympics…I reckon Australian sport fever is infectious after all.)


PS - For the more internet savvy among my blog audience, you can save the html located here then load it into Google Earth to see the race course in greater detail. Note that Km 6-8 is known as ‘heart break hill’ – and with good cause. Luckily, at the base of the hill there was a rooftop band playing “It’s a Long Way to the Top.” How good is that?


(Oh, and bonus points to anyone who knows the source of the quote for the title of this entry.)

Murder in Beijing

"Chinese police insist that it was a random attack."

Isn't that just what makes it so bloody terrifying? Personally, I would find it more comforting to know that he had been the leader of an international drug cartel or that the violence was the result of a passion fueled desire for revenge.

A Reluctant Spectator

It was ever so much easier to ignore the Olympics in America than in this upside down nation of sport fanatics. I had no idea just how much insipid cynicism had crept into my psyche until I succumbed to the hype and watched the sumptuous opening ceremonies in Beijing, reacquainting me with a gawping child of the 70’s, so enamored of Olga Korbut and Nadia Comaneci that she embarked on a short-lived career in gymnastics – which is the reason why at 40 I can still put my hands flat on the floor in a forward bend (although my ever-expanding beer gut is daily threatening that particular pastime.)

Aside from the sheer entertainment, the opening ceremonies served as a painful reminder of how much the structure of world has changed since I took geography in college. I was more than a little dismayed at the number of countries of whose existence I was completely unaware. Watching the parade of athletes also revealed much about the social climate of the participating nations. The cheer received by Iraq was heart warming, but the lack of female athletes from Arab countries in general was disturbing. The smiles of the competitors from war-torn African nations were encouraging, even if the numbers of participants from each team was disparate.

I still plan to ignore as much of the actual sporting events as possible, which means I am going to have to bury my head in the sand for the next two weeks. I am however, most intrigued by the socio-political dialogue initiated by this year’s venue. It has opened up fascinating discussions of communism, religious oppression, globalism, pollution, censorship, and conformity. China is clearly a world leader in at least five of those categories, particularly the latter - as illustrated by the mesmerizing synchronicity of the opening spectacle. Having suffered the abuses of a maniacal marching band director in high school, I can only wonder at the daily beatings that must have been required to achieve such precision among Beijing’s enormous color guard.

Band directors and gymnastic coaches must be cut from the same cloth as sadistic dictators.

Swear to God

If Barack Obama loses the presidential election by the number of people who write in Paris Hilton, I am never coming back.

Don't scoff. I know damn well there is a large proportion of the American public just stupid enough to do it.

Is Mystery

I woke up this morning to find my bed filled with dirt. Not just dirty, mind you, but filled with a salad of dried leaves, twigs, and detritus. Curious.

Still half asleep, I rolled over onto my side and was shocked into alertness by intense pain emanating from my right hip and elbow. Unusual.

I rolled onto my other side only to discover reciprocal wounds plus additional contusions on my left shoulder, wrist, and knee. Interesting.

I got up to go to the toilet, but my left leg buckled under my weight, knee and ankle groaning with severe sprains. Ow.


I must ring Kate and Richard to see if they are owed an apology…

A Subtle Distinction

In addition to numerous regional teams, many sporting leagues in Australia, such as soccer (aka ‘footy’) and rugby (aka ‘footy’), are also represented by national teams which frequently meet teams from other countries to compete for various bits of tableware donated by deceased royals, or in the case of cricket (aka ‘boring’), the ashes of the deceased royals themselves. Of all the international competitions, perhaps none are more anticipated than when Australia faces off with their brethren across the Tasman Sea. Perhaps the significance of this rivalry is borne of the mere proximity of New Zealand, or maybe it has something to do with their lack of ingenuity in designing a flag. Australia’s relationship with New Zealand is akin to America’s relationship with Canada – it’s like having an annoying neighbour who always borrows your hedgetrimmers or your army without saying please or thank you.

Quite secondary to the actual outcome of the game is the time-honoured ceremony which commences the contest. Before play begins, both teams face each other at center field, where the Australians, in a stunning display of civility and patience, calmly stand still while the Kiwis perform a traditional Maori war chant in which the All Blacks describe in gruesome detail of their plans to feast upon the innards of their opponents while cleansing their backsides in fountains of Aussie blood.

The Australians respond by asking the Kiwis if they might like to go dancing.


Of course, with a final score of 34-19, there just may be something to be said for waltzing...

Just About Full-Up

On Friday morning, at Milson's Point, two incongruously old pilgrims boarded the train wearing loud Hawaiian shirts and Bermuda shorts beneath their tell-tale red and orange back-packs. As they descended the stairs into my carriage, they spoke - loudly:

"GOOOOOOD MORNING EVERYBODY!! WE'RE FROM CALIFORNIA!

HOW ARE WE ALL DOING ON THIS FINE AND GLORIOUS MORNING? ISN'T IT JUST AN ABSOLUTELY BEAUTIFUL MORNING? THE SUN IS SHINING. WHAT A BLESSING TO BE ALIVE TO GET TO EXPERIENCE THIS WONDERFUL MORNING."

The passengers responded with the stoic silence that unfailingly characterizes the morning commute. The pilgrims were not offended in the least:

"GEE THERE ARE A BUNCH OF GLOOMY GUSSES ON THIS TRAIN! GUESS EVERYONE NEEDS TO RUN TO THEIR COFFEE POTS AS SOON AS THEY GET TO WORK. NOT ME. I'M LIKE THIS NATURALLY EVERY MORNING. I AM HIGH ON LIFE! YESSIR, I FEEL SO FORTUNATE JUST TO BE ALIVE AND TO GET TO EXPERIENCE THIS MIRACLE OF A MORNING. YOU KNOW, A LOT OF PEOPLE WEREN'T SO LUCKY TO WAKE UP THIS MORNING."

The train eased onto the harbour bridge as the commuters shifted uncomfortably around this intrusion into their morning quiet-time, helpless captives.

"WOW, YOU PEOPLE ARE SO LUCKY TO GET TO RIDE ACROSS THIS BEAUTIFUL BRIDGE ON THIS GLORIOUS MORNING, WITH THE SUN SHINING ON THE WATER, AND YOU AREN'T EVEN PAYING ATTENTION - WHY THAT LADY, THE ONE WITH THE GLASSES ON HER HAT AND THE RED HAIR, JUST HAS HER NOSE PRESSED INTO THAT BOOK, NOT EVEN NOTICING WHAT A BEAUTIFUL MORNING IT IS. YESSIR, WE SURE HAVE BEEN ENJOYING OUR VISIT HERE. YOU AUSTRALIANS HAVE BEEN JUST GREAT. HEY!! LET'S HAVE A BIG CHEER."

A small groan swept through the cabin.

"EVERYBODY READY? AUSSIE, AUSSIE AUSSIE..."

Silence.

"OH COME ON NOW, YOU CAN DO BETTER THAN THAT ON THIS GLORIOUS MORNING. LET'S TRY THAT AGAIN - AUSSIE, AUSSIE, AUSSIE..."

'oi...........oi...........oi' was spoken in flat unenthusiastic unison by the passengers, like a reluctant child forced to give an apology to the bully that started the fight.

"HAHAHA - NOW WASN'T THAT FUN? DON'T YOU JUST FEEL ALIVE? WE'RE GOING TO THE OPERA HOUSE TODAY. OH WE HAVE BEEN HAVING SO MUCH FUN!! EVERYONE SHOULD HAVE SOME FUN EVERYDAY OF THIS MIRACLE OF A LIFE. DON'T WANT TO WASTE YOUR PRECIOUS TIME HERE ON EARTH WITH YOUR NOSE PRESSED INTO YOUR BOOK, LIKE THAT LADY WITH THE RED HAIR AND THE GLASSES ON HER HAT."

I'd had enough. I turned around and firmly said:

"I am also from California, and every day I strive to combat the stereotype of the obnoxious American, and in the space of one short bridge crossing, you have just unravelled all of my good work."

Their glorious smiles pinched slightly as the carriage burst into commiserative laughter.

Super Holy Thursday, Batman!

My lab mate, Amelia - in her best American accent, relayed an amusing anecdote regarding one of my native countrymen in Rome, who upon taking a picture of The Pope and declared, loudly of course, "Oh, yeah! There's the money shot. I got the money shot." She was supposed to accompany me down to the CBD to see his papalness, but ducked out at the last minute with some flimsy excuse about her sister-in-law having a baby. Really, I don't see how she was supposed to help with that, other than by supporting her parents and running interference with the Italian in-laws, but, whatever.

The city streets were eerily devoid of pilgrims as I hopped a bus toward Circular Quay, which was fine by me as I have pretty much had my fill of them. Armed with a map of the planned motorcade route, I soon caught up to the cheery crowds of flag-swinging, hymn-singing revelers. The award for 'most enthusiastic' clearly belongs to the Italians, who could be heard yelling 'Ciao! Bella! Ciao!' to every passing group of female pilgrims, all of whom responded with flattered giggles of rapture. Surveying my map, I quickly developed a plan.

The Brooklyn Hotel has a spectacular bank of bar stool lined windows facing directly onto George Street along the papal passage. I staked out a comfortable location and quickly established a beer barrier between me and the pilgrims outside, liquid protection from mutual annoyance. The bar staff had been unaware of the fortuitousness of their location and scrambled to accommodate the unexpected crowds that soon filled the pub.

The motorcade was expected to pass at approximately four o'clock. By 3:45, the pub was buzzing with eager anticipation. By 4:00, everyone began to crowd near the windows. By 4:15, the wise cracks started cracking. More rounds were ordered. By 4:30, people began taking hurried but unavoidable trips to the toilet. More rounds were ordered. By 4:45, a feeling of drunken camaraderie engulfed the pub. More rounds were ordered. At 5:00, flashing blue and red lights were seen on the approach leading out of The Rocks. Everyone hoisted their camera, mobile phones, or their drinks in salute as the Popemobile came into view around a curve. A slightly irreverent cheer erupted as the motorcade roared past at speeds which would normally earn a motorist a rather hefty fine on this portion of George Street. And then it was over.

I had debated long and hard whether I should take a movie or a still shot. Worried that a movie might be too shaky and blurry, I opted for one good still shot.

The Money Shot:

I burst into hysterical laughter when I reviewed the image. All that hype, all that anticipation, all that beer. Actually, I rather like my abstract bit of papal photography. I think it nicely captures the dynamic nature of the event. However, I doubt I will be able to sell it to any tabloid newspapers.

This Morning

On my way to work, a young pilgrim family decked out in Australian Flags gathered on the sidewalk. The mum looked right at me and nudged her toddler, directing his attention toward my bus. He began stamping his feet excitedly and waved at me with enthusiasm. Slightly befuddled, I waved back and smiled. As we pulled away from the stop, I caught a reflection of the advert on the side of the bus. Fucking Kung Fu Panda.

I'm off now to see if I can see the Pope.

High Anxiety

I've been in a state of heightened worry all day long. Much of it has to do with stewing over all of the awful predictions I listened to last night, but it certainly did not help any to wake to morning news images of people lined up outside of IndyMac Bank crying over their lost funds. Perhaps no other visual seems to hearken a decade of financial turmoil than people desperate to retrieve money from a failing bank. Checking my own retirement account balance only worsened my disposition.

Although some students won a law suit repealing the 'no annoying Catholics' law, the editorial pages were filled with rants about the papal stance on procreation that only increased my own annoyance.

I spent the afternoon sitting on the most savagely uncomfortable bench listening to scientific talks of which I understood very little, staying awake by counting the "ums" of the speakers. (Kudos to the Black Knight who clocked in with a mere 26 - a model of poise and self control compared to the 129 and 178 of the other two speakers.) During the talks, I developed a rather robust and audible case of lactose intolerance, cringing with discomfort at each riotous complaint of my intestines.

I decided to leave work early. My ill mood conspired to drain away any amusement I might have found with the gibbering groups of incessantly cheerful pilgrims singing and dancing all up and down George Street. However, I managed to cheer myself considerably by farting on them on my way to the train station, secure in the knowledge that I would not incur a hefty fine for doing so.

We Interrupt WYD08 for This Nihilistic Message

I learned a new word to tonight, and I am just dying to use it.

This evening, I attended a symposium as part of the opening ceremonies for the University of Sydney Institute for Sustainable Solutions (warning: very boring hyperlink - better if you don't go there). The institute fosters a results driven collaboration among researchers from the fields of health, engineering, chemistry, agriculture, and economic policy to try to solve the world’s problems by ending poverty, feeding the populace, and halting climate change. They have 25 million dollars. Oh, and while they are at it, they are going to rid Australia of Cane Toads, too.

I pretty much knew I was a nihilist before I entered The Great Hall, I just didn’t have a tidy label for it. The environmental cynic that lives inside my brain normally keeps me away from crowds of hopeful idealists discussing the future of the planet. My general opinion that ‘we are already totally fucked’ is not very popular amongst people who truly believe that buying compact fluorescent light bulbs will save the Great Barrier Reef. I made an exception on this occasion, because I am an open minded nihilist who likes to constantly challenge my beliefs with new information.

And there was free booze.

And I really wanted an excuse to belong inside of one of the most beautiful buildings on campus.

One of the speakers claimed that there are three reactions to apocalyptic information: nihilism (eat, drink and be merry - for tomorrow we die), fundamentalism (nothing ever really changes), and activism (let's hand out flyers downtown!). According to the speaker, only activism is rooted in hope. I just don’t see how anyone can look at charts filled with alarming data and graphs of dire exponential curves and experience anything other than total despair.

The keynote address was given by Dr Jeffrey Sachs, a visiting scholar from a similar institute in the US. Although his talk dealt primarily with the economics of planetary sustainability, I still came away with the conclusion that we are already totally fucked. In fact, his talk was so alarming that a man in the row next to me had a heart attack half way through. Luckily, the audience was filled with health professionals, so there was a cardiologist on hand to give him immediate attention.

Eventually, Dr Sachs got around to the upbeat conclusion of his talk. In order to build a sustainable planet, we need only do three things. 1) Eliminate extreme poverty, 2) Control the population of the planet - and by 'planet' he meant 'Africa', and 3) Find a way to live harmoniously while we use our collective knowledge to build a global ethic that will allow for real progress. Indeed, he claimed, and I tend to agree, that WAR is our biggest obstacle to social advancement because it detracts time and resources from our common interests.

Some of his graphics reminded me of a talk I gave to my eighth grade class about the population dynamics of the planet. I reckon that was the last time I ever felt so passionately about the future, passionate enough to resort to activism. It was then that I decided not to have children. And if there were one agenda that I could really put my energy behind, it would be to try to undermine the shameful papal agenda of denying birth control to impoverished women. I truly believe that stemming the tidal wave of human reproduction is the most effective weapon that can be used against our dismal prospects.

I may be a nihilist, but I am a hopeful nihilist.

Monday - A Long Slow Inhale

George Street was decked out with brightly colored banners and the sidewalks looked at though they had been spit shined. A flock of penguins waddled down Bathurst towards Hyde Park. (I saw them on the news later – turns out they are from Tennessee.) A crowd of students wearing painfully orange hats with matching backpacks clustered in front of St Patricks. An entourage marched up the street behind a large French flag. In front of Central Station, an assembly snuggled beneath blue fleece ponchos with matching binis, ‘Italia’ stitched across the back in bold white letters. The out of town visitors are easily identified by the bulky plastic ‘pilgrim passports’ dangling from their necks, but you can pick them out from their carefree beatific smiles. Not even the dark and threatening skies could dampen their spirits.

Just after lunch, a campus-wide e-mail informed us that the University had approved a last minute route change that would bring the Cross and Iron Walk processional right through the middle of the University, culminating just behind my building (thus cutting off my usual exit). I grabbed my camera and stepped out into a brilliantly warm and sunny afternoon. Evidently, someone had called in some favors in the weather department. A faint smell of frankincense wafted across the cricket ovals as fire alarms suspisciously erupted simultaneously from several buildings.

But there was not a pilgrim in sight. I did, however find a wretched little possum on the brink of death. How fortuitous that a pathologist from the school of veterinary medicine was passing by at just that moment. With a quick diagnosis of late stage something-or-other dermatitis, he grabbed the poor beast by the tail and whisked him away to be euthanized.

Returning home, the traffic on Parramatta Road was noticeably lighter than usual, and the buses were shockingly empty. I made it to Town Hall Station in record time. The platforms for the North Shore were nearly deserted. Evidently, a lot of people heeded the government warnings and decided to stay away from the city.

What am I doing here? Oh yeah – keeping an eye out for important graffiti messages:

Me too.

The Day That Lasts A Week

Ever since our arrival in Sydney, over 18 months ago, there has been a giant billboard in front of St Mary’s Cathedral featuring a huge red digital display counting down to World Youth Day. Next week that counter hits zero as hundreds of thousands of young Catholic pilgrims from all over the world descend upon the city in search of religious ecstasy.

World Youth Day kicks off on Monday when over 200,000 pilgrims are expected to pass through Sydney International Airport and somehow find the schools, churches, and families that will be hosting them during their stay. On Tuesday and Wednesday they will be criss-crossing the city on public transportation to attend various masses and catechisms. On Thursday, the city will ascend into utter chaos for the arrival of The Pope across the Harbour via Boat-a-Cade and his exodus through the Central Business District via Motorcade. On Friday, the entire foreshore will be transformed into a modern-day Jerusalem for a re-enactment of the Stations of the Cross. Saturday features a pilgrimage walk (registered pilgrims only) across the Harbour Bridge, through the streets of downtown ending at Royal Randwick Racetrack for an all night mass. On Sunday there will be a papal fly-over (what, it’s not a plane-a-cade?) followed by another motorcade, and a final mass before everyone says tearful good-byes and goes home.

I am beyond trying to reconcile why a 7 day festival is called World Youth Day other than to simply ask what was so objectionable about the moniker ‘World Youth Week’?

The event is expected to be a bigger draw than the 2000 Olympics and the Government has issued strongly worded advisories for residents to avoid the CBD on Thursday and Friday. Unfortunately, they did not give the city a day off like they did when George Bush came to town, which either says something about the popularity of Catholicism in Australia or something else too unpleasant to ponder. Furthermore, unlike when George Bush came to town, the government has not released 2,000 inmates to clear bed space for the anticipated arrests of demonstrators. However, they have warned the populace that $5,000 fines will be issued to anyone caught annoying Catholics, causing inconvenience to pilgrims, or wearing offensive t-shirts. I am not making this up. Thus far, this new legislation has not seemed to deter the plans of the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence to distribute condoms among the pilgrims. (I wonder how many virginities will be lost during the sleep out under the stars...)

This issue prompted me to the discovery that although Australia places a high value on Freedom of Speech, it is not a legal right of the people or of the press. Indeed, according to my (Australian) sources, there is no legal contract that guarantees the rights of individuals. It has occurred to me that, for all of the shortcomings of the United States, I have perhaps drastically over-looked the monumental significance of the Bill of Rights. Nevermore.

As of this writing, I am completely undecided as to whether I should take a few days off and avoid the spiritual mayhem or if I should immerse myself amongst the pious, if for no other reason than the experience would undoubtedly provide for some excellent blog material. I must confess, I am quite intrigued by the promise of the spectacle of Pontius Pilate washing his hands on the steps of the Sydney Opera House, and it is not everyday that one gets to see the Popemobile. Besides, I just know, that in spite of the financial risks, there are going to be some fabulous collectible t-shirts for sale…

It is pronounced 'bee-en-ALL-ee'

...wasn't even one of my guesses.

Today, Kevin and I attended another event associated with the 2008 Sydney Biennale. Every morning, I walk out on to my balcony and gaze out over Sydney Harbour to admire the view of Cockatoo Island.



I have long heard that it is one of the more fascinating locations around Sydney, but for some reason I have never bothered to figure out how to get there. As part of the Biennale, Sydney is offering free ferry rides to the island. So rare is it to get something for nothing here, that I was obligated to take advantage of the opportunity.



Now part of the Harbour Trust, Cockatoo Island has historically been home to a prison and a girl's reformatory (not simultaneously), but has mostly served as a ship-building yard, an activity which ceased in 1983. The latter function has left the island covered with a fabulous collection of enormous cranes and fascinating industrial buildings. As part of the festival, artists were permitted to create installments within the various unused structures on the island.



A woman on the ferry told me that the artists faced an enormous challenge in trying to compete with the natural intrigue of the venue itself. She was so right.



If I were a better photographer, I would never run out of amazing material on Cockatoo Island. As it was, I still managed to get a few lucky shots. Look carefully, and you can spot me and Kevin in the picture below.








Fans of my previous (and now temporarily defunct) website may recall that, in addition to roadkill, I love to take pictures of bizarre restrooms. There was no shortage of wonderfully icky toilet situations on the island. Granted, these have been out of service for over 20 years, but it is difficult to imagine that they were ever pleasant places to take repose.






Aside from being filled with all sorts of large and fascinating pieces of ship-building machinery, the old warehouses and workshops were decorated with a collection of curious signs and warnings.

You may have noticed that I have not included one photograph of any of the art installments. This is because they were all either terribly disturbing or just plain stupid (except for a room-sized camera obscura and a nifty spinning disc upon which cartoons were projected in skewed dimensions, only to be perfectly reflected by a silver cylinder in the middle of the wheel - but neither of these artworks were suitable photographic subjects.) Either my mind is just too scientific to appreciate fine art, or a video of a man stitching fish line into another man's face as he bleeds and whimpers is NOT art. Regardless, I have decided that I do not like video art in a gallery setting. If I want to see a movie, I will go to the theater.

Indeed, my favorite piece of art wasn't art at all...I have no idea of the original purpose of these large chunks of metal, but aren't they just gorgeous?

Brilliant!

In the Central Business District, paramedics use BMW motorcycles as a first responder unit.

And when you hear that siren, you pay attention!

Feeling Crook

Warning: This article contains intimate digestive details. If you have a delicate constitution, you may want to pass on this entry. I know some of you are going to read it despite my warning and will probably never look at me in quite the same way again. Just be happy I have not included any pictures.



I normally have a stalwart digestive system. I typically eat anything and everything and with one notable exception in Mexico, rarely suffer ill consequences. Of course, I personally do not consider outrageous flatulence to be an ill consequence. I find farting to be more of an endlessly entertaining by-product of digestion.

However, last Sunday afternoon my lower intestines were suddenly seized by the most outrageous pain I have ever experienced (with one notable exception in Mexico). The entire lining of my digestive tract was ablaze. It felt like rodents had climbed up my ass and made a nest inside my transverse colon. By nightfall I was in tears.

“You probably just need to take a big shit,” said my husband, clearly all awash with sympathy.

I followed his advice the next morning, but experienced no relief from my agony. My entire abdomen was tender and it hurt to the touch. The simple act of walking sent spasms of pain through my gut with each footfall. I called in sick to work and spent the next two days in bed.

Come Wednesday, I was still feeling quite delicate, but I was bored to tears (Australian day time television is a horror show) and now my back was sore from lying down, so I decided to go to work anyway. For the next few days, I limped around the lab with a distinctive slouch in an effort to cushion my internal organs against the pain that still gripped my digestive tract, prompting my boss to inquire as to whether I might have a giardia infection. I dismissed the idea, since I had not been drinking from any mountain streams lately and because I did not have diarrhea – in my mind two inseparable prerequisites for a giardia infestation diagnosis.

But then, an extraordinary thing happened. I took a shit. Nothing extraordinary about that. What was extraordinary was the color. Because of my adventurous eating habits, I have produced a veritable rainbow of excrement, my personal favourite being a brilliant atomic red after eating some chili-lime-peanuts in Mexico (note: this was not related to the ‘notable exception’ mentioned above), made especially memorable because it was produced al fresco in an arroyo during a camping trip. However, I have never before fabricated a turd that was such an intense shade of yellow. The color was so striking, that it immediately sent me to the Internet in search of answers.

Now, I know the Internet is home to numerous unfathomable obsessions, and I fully expected to come across plenty of shit-fetish websites. What I did NOT expect to find on the Internet was a thoughtful and intellectual community of people who like to engage in outrageously humorous discussions of one of the human body’s most basic functions. Which brings me to the real purpose of this article: I would like to introduce you to my new favourite web-site.

http://www.poopreport.com/

This site is certainly not for everyone, but if you enjoy hearing gruesome details about excremental misadventures, then you will certainly find this site entertaining. If you’ve ever bragged about the quantity or quality of your own movements (mom), then you just might find a few humbling anecdotes amongst the links. And if you love really bad puns, you will not be disappointed.

After wasting the better part of two working days goofing around on my new favourite website, I eventually learned that yellow poop has two primary causes. One is a harmless condition called Gilbert’s Syndrome involving the improper breakdown of red blood cells. I also learned that yellow poop (especially if it is greasy and floaty, ahem) is a classic symptom of a giradia infection! Further research on giardia uncovered the fact that one may not have any or all of the symptoms and that it can be contracted from other sources besides contaminated mountain streams, such as swimming pools or Sydney Water.

As much as I enjoy discussing pooping issues, I am absolutely appalled at the idea of producing the stool sample required for an official diagnosis of giardiasis. According to the CDC, the infection may run its course in 2 to 6 weeks, and that one of the side effects can be dramatic weight loss of up to 10% of one’s body weight – which just so happens to be the amount of weight I gained last month eating super burritos and bacon while in America.

Hmmm, poop in a bag and take antibiotics or suffer a few cramps and lose weight?

I’ll have to ask my new on-line community what they think…meanwhile, I have been slouching around the house singing “Oh, Giardia!” to the tune of the Canadian national anthem.

20 Years On

It was twenty years ago today (well, in America anyway) that two worlds collided over a microfilm reader in the periodicals department of the San Jose Main Library (before it was the Martin Luther Chavez Library or whatever politically conscientious name it now has). It is weird, looking back now, to think about the future that was about to grow out of that hormone-fueled encounter. It has been one hell of a journey so far, with doings and goings beyond my imagining. Good Lord, what will the next 20 years bring?

More frequent trips to the emergency room, no doubt...

Happy Anniversary, Darling.

2008 Sydney Bitch Fest

I've long heard stories about the enormous colony of giant fruit bats (also known as flying foxes) that spend their days roosting in the tree tops of the Royal Botanic Gardens in Sydney, but I've never gone looking for them - though I have seen them in the evenings when they take flight en masse and head off to raid the night flowering plans of neighboring suburbs. The spectacle is truly amazing as the twilight is blotted out by thousands of lumbering silhouettes gliding slowly towards the horizon. It seems that a creature so large should have to flap its wings quite rapidly to remain airborne, yet these rodents of the night sky seem to drift along with the smallest of efforts.


Indeed, I still was not looking for them last Sunday as I crossed the gardens on my way to the Art Gallery of New South Wales to take in some of the exhibits on display as part of the 2008 Biennale of Sydney (if anyone can offer a hint as to how to pronounce 'biennale', I would be most appreciative - it rattles around in my brain in a most uncomfortable fashion). Australian capitols frequently indulge in city-wide themed art festivals involving a variety of venues and mediums. "Billed this year as a celebration of the defiant spirit...The theme of the 16th Biennale, Revolutions – Forms That Turn, suggests the impulse to revolt, a desire for change, and seeing the world differently." Seeing the world differently is one of my favorite past-times, so despite the warnings from my 'frown radar', we headed down to the city.


My facial muscles quickly descended into a deep frown as I viewed a video installment of a woman beating a bicycle with a club in her apartment. I was kind of smitten with a big white button that, when pushed, rang a series of very loud and very harsh bells distributed throughout the gallery. However, I can't say that either exhibit really challenged my perception of the world. I did really like the collection of chalk drawings on the outside of the gallery, though. This one was my favorite:





Oh yeah, the bats...

So, as we crossed the gardens and descended into a deep grove of trees, I heard the unmistakable chatter of a gazillion fruit bats. I swear, they must be the bitchiest species on the planet. The following video does not strive to capture the magnitude of the colony, as it would have quickly become a boring survey of tree after tree filled with bitchy brown ornaments. I did, however, attempt to demonstrate the crabby exchanges between individuals that seem to serve as entertainment through the long day. The god-awful honking in the background came from a palm tree filled with ibises. (I have a video of them also - available on request - but it did not come out very good and besides, they are really ugly birds!)

Crossing Over

As the bus rounded the corner in front of Central Station, I spotted the most glamorous looking woman standing in the chill morning sun. She was wearing black high-heeled leather boots and black slacks. Her long legs vanished beneath a stylish cream colored knitted cloak. Her long brown hair curled gracefully around her neck from beneath a cream colored knitted beret. She turned to look down George Street. She was a he.

I have to say, Sydney has some of the best-dressed transvestites I have ever encountered.