I was cooking breakfast this morning for three of my children and my number 2 son - age 9 - was talking about how much he likes fire and how when he grows up he wants to do something that's involved with fire. I suggested firefighter but he said that sounded too dangerous. Then he elaborated:
"I want a simple job but one that doesn't get you killed.... but one that does get you killed, just not too often".
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Friday, September 28, 2007
Wreck, and backhand.
On the one hand, my lovelife's a trainwreck. But on the other hand, I played tennis last night and my backhand was superb. These things do rather cancel each other out.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
One day last week I was in the building where I work, talking with a colleague as we were going up in the elevator. We stopped short of our destination, the doors opened, there were two men in suits either side of the door. Each of them gestured for the other to go in. There was an uncomfortable silence, then, as if in slow motion, the elevator doors closed without either of them moving. "You go first." "No, you go first..." It serves them both right.
You see, in a situation like this, if someone gestures for you to go in first it can be a mark of respect (more on this later, if I remember), or a power play. How? The gesturer is saying to the gesturee "Look, I'm allowing you to go ahead" and, also, possibly "you look like you need help, whereas I, on the other hand am very capable". I'm quite up to the task of getting into an elevator and I don't need someone to usher me though, so I find this all vaguely insulting. I was first aware of this when I was a starving graduate student in New York and I noticed, with growing irritation, than an Italian friend of mine would always do this. Any doorway, anywhere. He'd get to it, hold it open, smile graciously and motion you through. At first it was charmingly continental, but after a few hours of it it started grating, and it took me quite a while to acknowledge my annoyance (which seemed, and still does, a bit churlish).
I have some young colleagues who try to hold doors open for me, and I quickly educate them. "The rule", I tell them, "is that the person closest to the door goes through first", although I do of course recognise that in doing that it's only good manners to hold the door open behind you as well.
There's an extra twist to this. What if the group contains one or more women, as sometimes happens even my industry (my workplace was once described to my ex by one of the other wives as "a sea of men", which I like to imagine she said in a somewhat breathless way). I've given this some thought so that you don't have to - you'll thank me for this later, I can tell.
If it's a social situation - and especially if any part of it has a date charcteristic - then holding the door for a woman is a pretty safe bet. If it's at work and she's a client then also, holding a door open is a good bet, but that also applies to male clients too, and it's part of the respect and control dual nature of the gesture. It says "you're my guest, I treasure you" and at the same time "I'm in charge, you're on my territory (and by the way can I order you a coffee?)"
But what if it's a female colleague, someone you wouldn't otherwise hold a door open if she was male? I say don't hold the door, and I know most (certainly in my building) would disagree. I think that door-holding sends a message along the lines of "you might think that going to law school and winding up in a high-powered professional role might earn you some respect, but to me you're just a babe in a skirt", but then again I do tend to over-think these sorts of things.
I explained to a female friend the other day (who I did, in fact, open doors for) why it is that men holds doors for women, and generally let women walk in front of them. It's so we can check out their butts. I had thought this was obvious but she was surprised and vaguely titillated. She did give me a very strange look over her shoulder a few times that evening, I expect in an attempt to catch me leering at her behind. But I'm quite a bit smarter than I look (which is just as well).
You see, in a situation like this, if someone gestures for you to go in first it can be a mark of respect (more on this later, if I remember), or a power play. How? The gesturer is saying to the gesturee "Look, I'm allowing you to go ahead" and, also, possibly "you look like you need help, whereas I, on the other hand am very capable". I'm quite up to the task of getting into an elevator and I don't need someone to usher me though, so I find this all vaguely insulting. I was first aware of this when I was a starving graduate student in New York and I noticed, with growing irritation, than an Italian friend of mine would always do this. Any doorway, anywhere. He'd get to it, hold it open, smile graciously and motion you through. At first it was charmingly continental, but after a few hours of it it started grating, and it took me quite a while to acknowledge my annoyance (which seemed, and still does, a bit churlish).
I have some young colleagues who try to hold doors open for me, and I quickly educate them. "The rule", I tell them, "is that the person closest to the door goes through first", although I do of course recognise that in doing that it's only good manners to hold the door open behind you as well.
There's an extra twist to this. What if the group contains one or more women, as sometimes happens even my industry (my workplace was once described to my ex by one of the other wives as "a sea of men", which I like to imagine she said in a somewhat breathless way). I've given this some thought so that you don't have to - you'll thank me for this later, I can tell.
If it's a social situation - and especially if any part of it has a date charcteristic - then holding the door for a woman is a pretty safe bet. If it's at work and she's a client then also, holding a door open is a good bet, but that also applies to male clients too, and it's part of the respect and control dual nature of the gesture. It says "you're my guest, I treasure you" and at the same time "I'm in charge, you're on my territory (and by the way can I order you a coffee?)"
But what if it's a female colleague, someone you wouldn't otherwise hold a door open if she was male? I say don't hold the door, and I know most (certainly in my building) would disagree. I think that door-holding sends a message along the lines of "you might think that going to law school and winding up in a high-powered professional role might earn you some respect, but to me you're just a babe in a skirt", but then again I do tend to over-think these sorts of things.
I explained to a female friend the other day (who I did, in fact, open doors for) why it is that men holds doors for women, and generally let women walk in front of them. It's so we can check out their butts. I had thought this was obvious but she was surprised and vaguely titillated. She did give me a very strange look over her shoulder a few times that evening, I expect in an attempt to catch me leering at her behind. But I'm quite a bit smarter than I look (which is just as well).
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Like a what, exactly?
I was talking to a friend yesterday and he used the expression "..face like a dropped pie". Maybe I need to get out more - has this one been around for ages and I just haven't noticed it? It's succint and not quite so self-conscioususly smartarsed as some of the other (still delightful) alternatives:
Face like a:
.... half-sucked mango
.... hatful of spiders
Or, as an old friend of mine once said, in an improvement on the spider one, "face like a hatful of spiders, but with the three good-looking ones taken out".
The same friend who gave me the pie one knows that I'm very keen on colorful expressions, especially if they're crude. He told me (and I doubt he would lie about this) that many years ago he was having a drink with his then-girlfriend and her mother, and the mother excused herself to pee by using the phrase "I have to go and squeeze my mop". I've only heard this once since, at a dinner party in London. It's almost too good.
Face like a:
.... half-sucked mango
.... hatful of spiders
Or, as an old friend of mine once said, in an improvement on the spider one, "face like a hatful of spiders, but with the three good-looking ones taken out".
The same friend who gave me the pie one knows that I'm very keen on colorful expressions, especially if they're crude. He told me (and I doubt he would lie about this) that many years ago he was having a drink with his then-girlfriend and her mother, and the mother excused herself to pee by using the phrase "I have to go and squeeze my mop". I've only heard this once since, at a dinner party in London. It's almost too good.
New name?
One of my colleagues at work said that I should be called 'Fergus' and I made the mistake of saying that I didn't like the name. So now I'm stuck with it. D'oh! They've even changed the nameplate on my desk.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Supersize me!
If you go to 7-11 to buy a slurpee, as I often do, you're faced with a decision. They come in three sizes: small, medium and large. I usually only have slurpees when I'm in Melbourne, I think because I need them more down there, but I had one today in Sydney (hangover, three beers last night) and I was musing about this size issue today.
The small costs $1.70, the medium $2.00 and the large $2.30. When I first started on this downhill spiral of slurpee abuse earlier this year (in an episode I described to my friend Melanie as me sitting in a borrowed car in the parking lot of the 7-11 in Mount Waverley, having a slurpee, banging my head againt the steering wheel and weeping) I used to go with what seemed like the value play. The medium's much bigger than the small, the large is, in turn much larger than the medium and it seemed reckless and foolish not to just get the large. It's about twice the size of the small, and not much more money.
But after lots and lots of research (I have a good mental map of the eastern suburbs of Melbourne, with all the 7-11s on it) I've come to a shocking conclusion: the optimal size for a slurpee is small.
"How can this be so?", I can hear you ask. "Have you taken leave of your senses?". And so on. Just calm down. No, the horrible truth is that if you get a big slurpee, when you get about halfway through it you get a bit bored. You reach a point you never imagined existed - the point where you've had enough slurpee. (In the same way that as a 16year old, you can't imagine how, as a new parent, exhausted after sleepness nights, you can be too tired for sex.)
After quite a bit of empirical work, I realised that this point - the point where the marginal utility goes negative - is about where you would be if you'd only had the small. So there's your answer. I know you'll thank me for this later.
The small costs $1.70, the medium $2.00 and the large $2.30. When I first started on this downhill spiral of slurpee abuse earlier this year (in an episode I described to my friend Melanie as me sitting in a borrowed car in the parking lot of the 7-11 in Mount Waverley, having a slurpee, banging my head againt the steering wheel and weeping) I used to go with what seemed like the value play. The medium's much bigger than the small, the large is, in turn much larger than the medium and it seemed reckless and foolish not to just get the large. It's about twice the size of the small, and not much more money.
But after lots and lots of research (I have a good mental map of the eastern suburbs of Melbourne, with all the 7-11s on it) I've come to a shocking conclusion: the optimal size for a slurpee is small.
"How can this be so?", I can hear you ask. "Have you taken leave of your senses?". And so on. Just calm down. No, the horrible truth is that if you get a big slurpee, when you get about halfway through it you get a bit bored. You reach a point you never imagined existed - the point where you've had enough slurpee. (In the same way that as a 16year old, you can't imagine how, as a new parent, exhausted after sleepness nights, you can be too tired for sex.)
After quite a bit of empirical work, I realised that this point - the point where the marginal utility goes negative - is about where you would be if you'd only had the small. So there's your answer. I know you'll thank me for this later.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Prison
Ohhh! I just noticed, someone from Florida Department of Corrections read my blog. I doubt it was an actual prisoner though.
David and me.
I had a very vivid and strange dream last night (I just woke up) where my company wanted me to write something - a special project - about some connection between us and David Bowie. And it also had something to do with a wading pool, but I never did quite figure out what that was about. Apparently, David Bowie had had some role at or with the company stretching back to the 70s (David Bowie + 70s = my special subject) and they wanted me write all about it.
I was very happy to take on the project, as you can imagine. Then it morphed into one of my customary dreams about having responsibility for doing something and then not doing it and being caught. And there was another thread to it, I was talking to my boss (completely unlike my real boss) and even though I knew the project was something that I probably couldn't do I was saying that it'd be quite easy. I said that if I spoke to David Bowie a couple of times I'd be able to write it all up pretty quickly, and even as I said it I knew that I was just saying it for the sake of sounding good. Which I hate myself for - this is good material for my Peter session on Thursday.
I was very happy to take on the project, as you can imagine. Then it morphed into one of my customary dreams about having responsibility for doing something and then not doing it and being caught. And there was another thread to it, I was talking to my boss (completely unlike my real boss) and even though I knew the project was something that I probably couldn't do I was saying that it'd be quite easy. I said that if I spoke to David Bowie a couple of times I'd be able to write it all up pretty quickly, and even as I said it I knew that I was just saying it for the sake of sounding good. Which I hate myself for - this is good material for my Peter session on Thursday.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Fat body, and body fat
I had a body scan yesterday at BCA and no, it didn't involve rubber gloves or wet celery or anything, so please do get your mind out of the gutter.
Overall bodyfat was 24.6%, which according to most definitions, puts me at the upper end of Acceptable, and just slightly below Obese.
On other vaguely health-related news, the titanium screw in my jaw dropped out yesterday. Or, as they explained to me at the dentist, it wasn't the whole thing, just the top 1cm or so that screws into the titanium socket. It was pretty exciting but ultimately easy to resolve. The dentist (actually, a periodontist or something equally fancy) said it was unusual but not unheardof.
Overall bodyfat was 24.6%, which according to most definitions, puts me at the upper end of Acceptable, and just slightly below Obese.
On other vaguely health-related news, the titanium screw in my jaw dropped out yesterday. Or, as they explained to me at the dentist, it wasn't the whole thing, just the top 1cm or so that screws into the titanium socket. It was pretty exciting but ultimately easy to resolve. The dentist (actually, a periodontist or something equally fancy) said it was unusual but not unheardof.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Traffic - and numbers
There was an article in today's SMH about a survey by the NRMA (surely not a completely disinterested observer when it comes to traffic, but that's another quibble) that showed that drivers in Sydney who used tollroads saved a hell of a lot of time and gas money. Hardly a surprise, really. My favorite bit was this....
"Drivers living in the outer north-west and paying four tolls to get to the city - on the M7, M2, the Lane Cove Tunnel and the Harbour Bridge - are reaping a 94 per cent saving in travel time, taking an average of 47 minutes"
So if you save 94% of the time it would otherwise take to drive, and it still takes 47 minutes, that means it must normally take 783 minutes, or about 13 hours. Or maybe the journalist is clueless about numbers. Take your pick.
"Drivers living in the outer north-west and paying four tolls to get to the city - on the M7, M2, the Lane Cove Tunnel and the Harbour Bridge - are reaping a 94 per cent saving in travel time, taking an average of 47 minutes"
So if you save 94% of the time it would otherwise take to drive, and it still takes 47 minutes, that means it must normally take 783 minutes, or about 13 hours. Or maybe the journalist is clueless about numbers. Take your pick.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Improvement
I played this afternoon against M, the guy who beat me 6-0 6-0 two weekends ago (or something like that). Much better this time, 6-1 6-3, and I nearly won a couple more games.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
How many digits?
I called a financial services company about an account I have with them. First thing I get is the automated answering thing, which I don't really mind too much. But what I loved was then the voice said "now enter your account number, one digit at a time". I can only assume that they say this in the belief that if they don't, I'll just mash down all the numbers on the phone keypad at the same time. D'oh!
Tennis
I played against my friend I on Tuesday night, and I beat him 8-6. This might not seem like a big deal but it's really put a spring in my step. Why such a big deal? Two answers really.
For a start, I don't beat I very often. We used to play every week and I could usually get close but not actually beat him. He's very cunning and could usually manage to pull some trick out of his bag. Also (and this is still part of the first reason, not the second one) I had played another guy the weekend before last, someone I'd never played before, and it was very disheartening. When we were hitting up I remember thinking I can beat this guy, I hit the ball much better than him. But in fact he gave me a real pasting. It was very frustrating. While I'm pretty good at hitting the ball, he was much better at actually winning points and games. D'oh!
On a deeper level, I was spectacularly unsporty as a kid, and growing up in Australia without sport wasn't great. I eventually ended up with a bunch of friends who were similarly unsporty, and we used to drink a lot, self-medicate and play in bands. A few years ago I started playing tennis (I think I was bored, it was when I was living in Singapore) and I discovered, almost from the first time I tried to hit the ball, that I loved it. It seems to satisfy some very profound urge that I have. I don't think I've ever enjoying anything as much as I enjoy playing tennis. Which is bizarre, given the sort of person I thought I was.
Anyway, I'm playing that guy again on the weekend... should be interesting. Last time he beat me 6-0 6-0. Yes, I couldn't even get one game off him.
For a start, I don't beat I very often. We used to play every week and I could usually get close but not actually beat him. He's very cunning and could usually manage to pull some trick out of his bag. Also (and this is still part of the first reason, not the second one) I had played another guy the weekend before last, someone I'd never played before, and it was very disheartening. When we were hitting up I remember thinking I can beat this guy, I hit the ball much better than him. But in fact he gave me a real pasting. It was very frustrating. While I'm pretty good at hitting the ball, he was much better at actually winning points and games. D'oh!
On a deeper level, I was spectacularly unsporty as a kid, and growing up in Australia without sport wasn't great. I eventually ended up with a bunch of friends who were similarly unsporty, and we used to drink a lot, self-medicate and play in bands. A few years ago I started playing tennis (I think I was bored, it was when I was living in Singapore) and I discovered, almost from the first time I tried to hit the ball, that I loved it. It seems to satisfy some very profound urge that I have. I don't think I've ever enjoying anything as much as I enjoy playing tennis. Which is bizarre, given the sort of person I thought I was.
Anyway, I'm playing that guy again on the weekend... should be interesting. Last time he beat me 6-0 6-0. Yes, I couldn't even get one game off him.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Hutton --> Tabberer?
Those of you who've been reading this blog since I started will know I have an almost unhealthy interest in Deborah Hutton - and because I fly on QF a couple times a month I do get to see quite a lot of her (but not, I hasten to add, in a nasty stalkerish way). In the welcoming video for September there's been a dramatic change. She's wearing fairly severe clothes and she has her hair pulled back and it looks somehow darker. She looks - and even sounds - uncannily like Maggie Tabberer. This is a most unwelcome development, especially as I'm still recovering from being told the same piece of gossip about la Hutton by two acquaintances. I'm sure it's not true, they say that about everybody.
(I apologize to my Brazilian readers - this is very much domestic content.)
(I apologize to my Brazilian readers - this is very much domestic content.)
Nutter
Last week, when I was down in Melbourne, I had a very unsettling experience. I'd come in from the airport and had a few things with me (staying for week, so needed more than my usual little gym bag of stuff) and I was on my way to pick up a car from a friend's house. I was catching a train - yes, my life is that glamorous - on a Sunday night at about 8pm.
A few of us got on the train at Southern Cross station, and I noticed a guy already in the carriage, but I was sitting behind him and didn't register anything unusual until I'd already sat down, so I couldn't be bothered moving. He was in his early 20s, stocky, and he had been asleep. As people entered the carriage he woke up and greeted us all with a "f*Ck youse all", which I thought was a little charmless. He was clearly recovering from a very day of drinking and/or self-medication.
He went back to sleep momentarily, then when the train slowed down to stop at the next station he woke up abruptly again and managed to get to his feet. He lurched his way to the door (right past me, and I was worried he was going to fall on me) then, when he got the door, fell over. I didn't see him fall over as he was behind me but I heard it. I was in no mood to help (especially not after the "f*ck youse all" that greeted me as I got on) but I could hear him cursing and getting up. Unfortunately by the time he'd gotten up he'd missed the station, so he came back to his seat.
I don't know what it is about me, but I seem to attract this sort of thing. As he staggered past me he looked at me - I was looking at him, mostly because I wanted to keep an eye on him. He said "what's so f*cking funny, mate?". I hadn't been laughing, all I had wanted was for him to get out of the train and leave me alone. I help his gaze, all the time wondering "what can I do here that's least likely to provoke a disagreeable response?" and just said "nothing". Of course since then my head's been spinning with other things I should have said, but it wasn't a bad one.
He wasn't at all happy with that, and sat down again. A couple of times he looked back at me and called me a faggot. Which I wasn't tremendously pleased about. I should have moved away, but I had too much stuff, and I was in a bad mood already (flights had been mucked up) and I also thought that if I did that he'd probably want to make an issue of that as well so I sat there and played a game on my phone.
Then he started saying "what day is it? can any of you c*nts tell me what day it is?" and of course, "f*ck youse all". The other half-dozen people in the carriage were doing their level best to ignore him. Finally he asked a middle-aged (and terrified) couple near him where he had to get off the train to go to Bourke Street. The man explained to him that he'd gone too far, he'd have to get off at Richmond and go back. And he did in fact get off at Richmond but not before giving me one last blast (this time, I was a "c*cks*cking faggot").
Nothing very bad happened to me - there was no physical violence, and I guess that even if he had tried something I may have been able to do something about it. I've only been in a fight once, and that was with a cousin when I was about 7, but at least I could stand up and I knew what day it was, so I had a head-start on him. (He, however, had the advantage of being deranged and presumably had had quite a bit of experience with fights). And I've been called names before, but not, now that I think about it, since the 1970s (!!??!!).
A few of us got on the train at Southern Cross station, and I noticed a guy already in the carriage, but I was sitting behind him and didn't register anything unusual until I'd already sat down, so I couldn't be bothered moving. He was in his early 20s, stocky, and he had been asleep. As people entered the carriage he woke up and greeted us all with a "f*Ck youse all", which I thought was a little charmless. He was clearly recovering from a very day of drinking and/or self-medication.
He went back to sleep momentarily, then when the train slowed down to stop at the next station he woke up abruptly again and managed to get to his feet. He lurched his way to the door (right past me, and I was worried he was going to fall on me) then, when he got the door, fell over. I didn't see him fall over as he was behind me but I heard it. I was in no mood to help (especially not after the "f*ck youse all" that greeted me as I got on) but I could hear him cursing and getting up. Unfortunately by the time he'd gotten up he'd missed the station, so he came back to his seat.
I don't know what it is about me, but I seem to attract this sort of thing. As he staggered past me he looked at me - I was looking at him, mostly because I wanted to keep an eye on him. He said "what's so f*cking funny, mate?". I hadn't been laughing, all I had wanted was for him to get out of the train and leave me alone. I help his gaze, all the time wondering "what can I do here that's least likely to provoke a disagreeable response?" and just said "nothing". Of course since then my head's been spinning with other things I should have said, but it wasn't a bad one.
He wasn't at all happy with that, and sat down again. A couple of times he looked back at me and called me a faggot. Which I wasn't tremendously pleased about. I should have moved away, but I had too much stuff, and I was in a bad mood already (flights had been mucked up) and I also thought that if I did that he'd probably want to make an issue of that as well so I sat there and played a game on my phone.
Then he started saying "what day is it? can any of you c*nts tell me what day it is?" and of course, "f*ck youse all". The other half-dozen people in the carriage were doing their level best to ignore him. Finally he asked a middle-aged (and terrified) couple near him where he had to get off the train to go to Bourke Street. The man explained to him that he'd gone too far, he'd have to get off at Richmond and go back. And he did in fact get off at Richmond but not before giving me one last blast (this time, I was a "c*cks*cking faggot").
Nothing very bad happened to me - there was no physical violence, and I guess that even if he had tried something I may have been able to do something about it. I've only been in a fight once, and that was with a cousin when I was about 7, but at least I could stand up and I knew what day it was, so I had a head-start on him. (He, however, had the advantage of being deranged and presumably had had quite a bit of experience with fights). And I've been called names before, but not, now that I think about it, since the 1970s (!!??!!).
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Moral snakes and ladders
My children (or at least some of them) were playing a game of snakes and ladders this afternoon and I joined in. The game set itself is self-consciously old-fashioned, and I'm not sure whether it's a replica or a parody, but as i played it I noticed that the snakes and the ladders all had a moral dimension to them - a sort of muscular christianity, all cold showers and good works.
For example, some of the more notable snakes are:
conceit ----> friendlessness
indulgence ----> illness
indolence -----> poverty
disobedience ---> disgrace (and isn't that a word we need again?)
The ladders are a bit less fun, but some of the better ones are:
thrift -------> fulfilment
industry -----> success
patience -----> attainment
Each one has a lovely little picture, but I can't figure out how to use the scanner here so you'll just have to imagine it.
What I love about this (and if you read this blog with any sort of regularity you won't be surprised) is the certainty of it all. Industry, thrift and patience will surely be rewarded, indolence and conceit will bear a poisoned fruit and so on. If I'm going on a long plane ride I often stock up on conservative magazines so I can thrill to this sort of thing even though I disagree with it.
For example, some of the more notable snakes are:
conceit ----> friendlessness
indulgence ----> illness
indolence -----> poverty
disobedience ---> disgrace (and isn't that a word we need again?)
The ladders are a bit less fun, but some of the better ones are:
thrift -------> fulfilment
industry -----> success
patience -----> attainment
Each one has a lovely little picture, but I can't figure out how to use the scanner here so you'll just have to imagine it.
What I love about this (and if you read this blog with any sort of regularity you won't be surprised) is the certainty of it all. Industry, thrift and patience will surely be rewarded, indolence and conceit will bear a poisoned fruit and so on. If I'm going on a long plane ride I often stock up on conservative magazines so I can thrill to this sort of thing even though I disagree with it.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Time isn't elastic.
Many years ago when I was a starving graduate student living in New York I had a girlfriend who was slightly mad. I don't mean in a clinical sense, but just a little out of whack, which suited me because I was just coming out of a long period of being quite strange myself. We had the same birthday (different years though) and she introduced me to the world of showtunes, among other things. (K - on the odd chance that you're reading this, I should tell you that that thing you said to me on the uptown bus - the thing I responded to in a way that made you so angry - it was true.)
She was an achitecture student, and was very good at spatial things. But she had a real blindspot about how time worked. For example - and this did happen a few times - if we had to leave the apartment at, say, 8pm to be somewhere for something, she thought that at 730pm it was quite feasible to put on a load of laundry (coin-operated washers and dryers in the basement). A load took 30 minutes to wash, then 45 minutes to dry. So with a bit of toing and froing that's about an hour and 25 minutes.
So, at 8pm when I'm standing at the door, keys in my hand and getting anxious, she's down in the basement wondering why it didn't work. At some level she thought she could, through sheer force of will, control the flow of time. She felt that just by trying really really hard she could make the hour and 25 minute task only take half an hour, and that not thinking like this was a character flaw on my part.
This force-of-will thing was understandable as she'd had to overcome fairly severe dyslexia to get through undergrad, and I was tremendously impressed by how dedicated and bloody-minded she was. But when it came to time she didn't realise that it wasn't just another obstacle to overcome. As I heard once, in a vaguely-related context: "Gravity, it's not just another good idea, it's a law".
The first few months of our relationship were characterised by us being late for everything, sometimes catastrophically so. I was worn almost down to my core by anxiety. Part of what I liked about her was this blind certainly about things, even if she was wrong, so I was unable to take her task on it - and she was a much stronger character than me. I see most things as shades of gray, so I'm very susceptible to being led by someone who's a bit maniacal. She was fanatical about multi-tasking (even before the word was invented) and didn't see anything wrong with putting makeup on and having breakfast while driving, and she once half-jokingly said she thought sleep was 'wasteful'. No, sleep's wonderful. And multi-tasking just doesn't work. I was standing at a urinal last week next to a colleague and he was talking on his mobile while peeing. You really can't do two things at once if you want to do either of them properly, and I'm surprised he didn't end up with a wet trouser leg. (By the way, if you are peeing while on the phone and the person you're talking to gets suspicious, it's best to say you're washing your hands. There.)
Eventually she realised that if I was in charge of time and she was in charge of space we'd do much better. Which when I think about it now was a very sensible arrangement, and philosophically quite appealing too. But the whole thing cratered for other, unrelated reasons.
She was an achitecture student, and was very good at spatial things. But she had a real blindspot about how time worked. For example - and this did happen a few times - if we had to leave the apartment at, say, 8pm to be somewhere for something, she thought that at 730pm it was quite feasible to put on a load of laundry (coin-operated washers and dryers in the basement). A load took 30 minutes to wash, then 45 minutes to dry. So with a bit of toing and froing that's about an hour and 25 minutes.
So, at 8pm when I'm standing at the door, keys in my hand and getting anxious, she's down in the basement wondering why it didn't work. At some level she thought she could, through sheer force of will, control the flow of time. She felt that just by trying really really hard she could make the hour and 25 minute task only take half an hour, and that not thinking like this was a character flaw on my part.
This force-of-will thing was understandable as she'd had to overcome fairly severe dyslexia to get through undergrad, and I was tremendously impressed by how dedicated and bloody-minded she was. But when it came to time she didn't realise that it wasn't just another obstacle to overcome. As I heard once, in a vaguely-related context: "Gravity, it's not just another good idea, it's a law".
The first few months of our relationship were characterised by us being late for everything, sometimes catastrophically so. I was worn almost down to my core by anxiety. Part of what I liked about her was this blind certainly about things, even if she was wrong, so I was unable to take her task on it - and she was a much stronger character than me. I see most things as shades of gray, so I'm very susceptible to being led by someone who's a bit maniacal. She was fanatical about multi-tasking (even before the word was invented) and didn't see anything wrong with putting makeup on and having breakfast while driving, and she once half-jokingly said she thought sleep was 'wasteful'. No, sleep's wonderful. And multi-tasking just doesn't work. I was standing at a urinal last week next to a colleague and he was talking on his mobile while peeing. You really can't do two things at once if you want to do either of them properly, and I'm surprised he didn't end up with a wet trouser leg. (By the way, if you are peeing while on the phone and the person you're talking to gets suspicious, it's best to say you're washing your hands. There.)
Eventually she realised that if I was in charge of time and she was in charge of space we'd do much better. Which when I think about it now was a very sensible arrangement, and philosophically quite appealing too. But the whole thing cratered for other, unrelated reasons.
Refined
I'm always curious how people stumble across this blog - I don't do much to get it out there (sheer laziness, mostly) but I do like to check. Last night someone from the UK got on because they'd done a google search for "very refined place to live". There's something exquisitely and depressingly English about that.
I'm still getting quite a few hits from Brazil, which I attribute to the Brazilian porn site that had me as a link. I may be wrong - that was a while ago.
I'm still getting quite a few hits from Brazil, which I attribute to the Brazilian porn site that had me as a link. I may be wrong - that was a while ago.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Bulgogi
I took my 5yo twin daughters (yes, I have many children) out for dinner tonight, to a korean place we know in Carnegie. "Korean, for 5 year-olds?", I hear you ask. It's not that mysterious. They spent the first few years of their charmed little lives in London and that can be a tough city to eat in. If you have a really huge amount of money you can eat well, but there aren't a lot decent places for normal people to go.
We lived in southwest London, and not too far from us was a large Korean neighborhood. There was one restaurant, Ga-Chi, which was especially good. We used to take the kids there all the time, so the girls have been eating korean food since they were not much more than babies. It's run by a family, and the grandmother, a very dignified korean woman who didn't really speak english used to come out and make a big fuss over the girls. We keep the tradition going, and it is a source of great pride to me that the two of them (and the others too) are very au fait with korean food. A major hightlight was last year, we were in a very unremarkable pub in queensland, about to order food and number 1 daughter (aged 4) asked "Daddy, do they have bulgogi here?".
I realise I've just done a "kids say the darndest things" post. Aaaargh. I was going to take a picture of the titanium screw in my jaw and post it but it just looked too weird.
We lived in southwest London, and not too far from us was a large Korean neighborhood. There was one restaurant, Ga-Chi, which was especially good. We used to take the kids there all the time, so the girls have been eating korean food since they were not much more than babies. It's run by a family, and the grandmother, a very dignified korean woman who didn't really speak english used to come out and make a big fuss over the girls. We keep the tradition going, and it is a source of great pride to me that the two of them (and the others too) are very au fait with korean food. A major hightlight was last year, we were in a very unremarkable pub in queensland, about to order food and number 1 daughter (aged 4) asked "Daddy, do they have bulgogi here?".
I realise I've just done a "kids say the darndest things" post. Aaaargh. I was going to take a picture of the titanium screw in my jaw and post it but it just looked too weird.
Monday, September 3, 2007
Picture
I did get my picture in the newspaper over the weekend, but it was a pretty dreadful picure and I'm not going to tell you where it was. So there!
Sunday, September 2, 2007
And again!
I got a very apologetic text overnight from my mate who stood me up. Apparently he laid down for a wee nap at about 2 in the afternoon and then didn't wake up till 11pm. Then spent the rest of the night awake, so I guess he's been punished enough. I did make him buy me lunch today though.
And my breakfast date for today, H, sent me a frantic text just before we were supposed to met saying her mother's been taken to hospital. I do believe her, of course, but I'm starting to think it's me... isn't it?
Sydney airport's almost congenial on a sunday afternoon - next stop, dinner in Melbourne with my agricultural chum A.
And my breakfast date for today, H, sent me a frantic text just before we were supposed to met saying her mother's been taken to hospital. I do believe her, of course, but I'm starting to think it's me... isn't it?
Sydney airport's almost congenial on a sunday afternoon - next stop, dinner in Melbourne with my agricultural chum A.
Stood up!
Got a message from a friend yesterday morning "I'm free this evening if you want to do dinner or movies". I did have a couple of things on, but nothing that was 100% (I sometimes like to keep a bit of optionality), and this was a mate I hadn't seen for ages, so I said yes. Great. He was gonna call me later in the afternoon. I was busy, playing piano (which I'd neglected all week), doing laundry, tidying up, but by about 7pm I started to wonder what was going on. I messaged, called..nothing. By this stage, I'd already excused myself from the 2 other potential engagements I had, and was starting to feel annoyed - I'd been invited to my friend I's place for dinner and it would have been fun.
By about 9pm I was livid. By about 10 I'd cleaned my bathroom in a frenzy of anger-induced activity. I turned my phone off and went to bed. When I turned it on again this morning (I love turning my phone off at night, apparently teenagers don't do this) there was a very baleful message from him. He'd fallen asleep and had woken up at about 11pm. He did sound very sorry (and also, convincingly just-woken-up).
Bastard! But I believe him. And I did get an early night, which isn't a bad thing.
By about 9pm I was livid. By about 10 I'd cleaned my bathroom in a frenzy of anger-induced activity. I turned my phone off and went to bed. When I turned it on again this morning (I love turning my phone off at night, apparently teenagers don't do this) there was a very baleful message from him. He'd fallen asleep and had woken up at about 11pm. He did sound very sorry (and also, convincingly just-woken-up).
Bastard! But I believe him. And I did get an early night, which isn't a bad thing.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
Seatbelts
Conspiracy theorists always like to to refer to the thing where Diana Spencer is alleged to have told one of her friends, not too long before her unfortunate death, that she was worried that someone would tamper with the brakes of her car.
So why not, on the high-speed chase through Paris, do what I tell my kids to do. Pop on the seatbelt? It worked for the bodyguard.
Also on seatbelts, I read recently that when they ask drivers in the US why they don't wear seatbelts, the most common reason (beating even that it's a communist conspiracy or something) is that they don't want to be trapped in the car when it explodes after an accident, they think it's far safer to be thrown clear of the wreckage. In movies, when cars crash they explode. But that's just in the movies - it's a much better shot than the car just sitting there doing nothing.
So why not, on the high-speed chase through Paris, do what I tell my kids to do. Pop on the seatbelt? It worked for the bodyguard.
Also on seatbelts, I read recently that when they ask drivers in the US why they don't wear seatbelts, the most common reason (beating even that it's a communist conspiracy or something) is that they don't want to be trapped in the car when it explodes after an accident, they think it's far safer to be thrown clear of the wreckage. In movies, when cars crash they explode. But that's just in the movies - it's a much better shot than the car just sitting there doing nothing.
Furniture
I had a friend up to visit a while ago and she said I lived like a student. I like the place I live in because it's quite sunny and airy, and there's noone above me, but I guess it is ever so slightly delapidated, and it's certainly true that I don't have much stuff.
This time last year, all I had was a tennis racquet, a guitar and a computer and some clothes and books. I've added a bit since then: a bed, then about 6 months later a couch. A piano, a couple of chairs (one of which was used to sit the tv on, and the tv is pretty forlorn, cost me $20 and the color balance is all shot. My younger son it's the worst tv he's ever seen). I found a coffee table in the lobby of my building that appeared to be being thrown out, so I souvenired it.
Next year when my financial situation gets a bit clearer I'll buy some real stuff but for the time being this will do. For the first couple of months it was fun living like this ('keeping it real' and all that stuff) but the novelty's worn off a bit now. I used to kid myself that it looked all noble and ascetic, but it's just sheer laziness.
This time last year, all I had was a tennis racquet, a guitar and a computer and some clothes and books. I've added a bit since then: a bed, then about 6 months later a couch. A piano, a couple of chairs (one of which was used to sit the tv on, and the tv is pretty forlorn, cost me $20 and the color balance is all shot. My younger son it's the worst tv he's ever seen). I found a coffee table in the lobby of my building that appeared to be being thrown out, so I souvenired it.
Next year when my financial situation gets a bit clearer I'll buy some real stuff but for the time being this will do. For the first couple of months it was fun living like this ('keeping it real' and all that stuff) but the novelty's worn off a bit now. I used to kid myself that it looked all noble and ascetic, but it's just sheer laziness.
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