Hunk

I got a text message on the 21st, from a number I didn't recognise (or rather, one that my phone match up to my list). It said "MERRY CHRISTMAS YOU SEXY HUNK". This is a good thing, of course. I immediately texted back to ask who it was, they responded "Mmmmmm".

The next day I was still wondering, so I went back with "I still don't know who you are, except that you think I'm a sexy hunk. Which doesn't narrow it down, of course."

Then on xmas day, "Merry Christmas". I still have no idea.

Stop what?

I was driving around Melbourne this morning and saw a car that was festooned with stickers, including one that said "STOP BAD DEVELOPMENT". This is almost completely meaningless. Of course if something's bad it should be stopped, that's the easy bit.

Nuisance

My sons should really take notice of this sign. And also, people who dither in airports.

New T-shirt

In case you can't read it, it says "I judge you when you use poor grammar." And you know that's so true.

Pelligrini's

I'm staying in central Melbourne, and working in our office there, and this morning on the way to work I passed by Pellegrinis and figured, what the heck, I'd have a coffee. It was quite fuss-free, I went in, sat on a stool, ordered a coffee, was served, drank it, paid for it and left. Pretty straightforward. So what's the big deal?

As a young man I always found Pelligrinis a bit intimidating, I always got the sense that if you didn't order the right thing in the right way you'd regret it. The regulars seemed so at ease, the staff gruffly friendly with them, that the frosty reception they gave me on the one or two times I went there seemed like a deliberate slight. It was as though they were saying we don't want your type in here, mate. When I was first going out with my ex (my wife, the mother of my children etc) one of the many things about her that impressed me was that she'd mastered Pelligrini's - she was on nodding terms with the staff, they treated her with courtesy and professional respect. I loved that! She couldn't understand why I was so hesitant about the place, she'd never had any problems there, and of course I was left thinking its just me.. they take one look at me and they hate me .

Flush with this morning's success, and feeling quite chipper, I went there for a coffee after lunch. I found a seat at the bar, got out my book (finishing that Tim Winton - see previous post about bad hair and good writing). I caught the eye of the guy who works the back of the place, the guy with the cravat and the loud voice. I raised my hand, said "a latte please" and was a little disturbed by his lack of reaction.

Did I or did I not order a coffee? My old Pellegrinis insecurity came back. Was this part of the working of the place, they took your order with no fuss, in which case would catching his attention again and ordering a second time be an implicit insult? Or had he just not heard me, in which case in a few minutes they'd be wondering why I was sitting there like a fool not ordering something? My life's complicated enough without having to think all this through. I read my book, a man saves his brother from a shark, but it's caught up in an intense sibling rivalry - the younger man was a football star who'd turned his back on the game, the older man a wife-beater.

I realised that I wasn't going to get coffee. Could I just slink out, or would that just cause more problems? What if they were, in fact, making it, and so slinking out would end up in them chasing me with a cleaver? Pelli's is (or was) full of journalists so I'd be sure of ending up on the front of The Age and the Hun the next day.

He said very exapnsively to us all "does anyone need to order", so I bravely half-raised my hand and said "I'm waiting on a latte". I swear there was an intake of breath, a half-suppressed sigh. Then he said to the sad-looking guy at he front "gentleman here is waiting on a latte", in a way that suggested it was both very bold and very cowardly of me to be just sitting there waiting for one without doing much about it. A latte arrived almost immediately (suspiciously quickly, I thought even as he put it down in front of me) and it was ghastly. Too strong, watery, acrid. As I drank it I couldn't help wondering if it was a special one they keep aside for troublemakers.

I'm probably reading too much into this, but Melbourne does this to me.

As an aside, check out this menu. It's a place that's run by an acquaintance of mine, a place that's almost impossible to find. Especially the bit towards the end, the things they won't do.

Pants

I've been noticing a strange smell today, a sort of chemical whiff mixed up with something rotting, and I've been hoping it's not me. It's been following me around and i finally figured out what it is. It's my trousers! On Monday I took them into a shop to be cleaned and pressed (I do my own shirts, but I draw the line at pants) and they appear to have done them in rancid camel's urine, with a bit of acetone thrown in to give it a top note.

Xmas

I survived christmas, and for the first time in about 20 years managed not to overeat, and as an added bonus didn't have a drink either. The not drinking was mostly a result of having a strong but not incapacitating hangover after being out for a few drinks with a friend the night before, christmas eve. I do know that by the end of the night I was incoherent, but we were in pretty good shape because he gets more excited and chatty as he drinks, so as I'm losing the ability to speak he's talking more so we make do. It did remind me that if I ever want to to try chatting up women in a bar I need to stay pretty sober. And I did experience 'beer panic' again, first time since being at the MCG with A to watch the football, but part of the panic then was that we were passing ourselves off as friends.

Christmas morning I got up at 0530 (!!??!!) and arrived at my ex's house at 0600. The boys were awake, then, shortly thereafter, the girls. We did all the presents, I made breakfast, then I left at about 0900. My sister was having a christmas lunch, as she does every year, and I was invited. She asked me a few weeks ago and I said I couldn't come because I was busy. When she asked me what I was going to be busy doing, I replied flatly "I'm not sure yet". I did drop by for a few minutes about midday, then went back to my hotel room and had a nap for a few hours, then laid in bed for a couple of hours reading. Why have I not done this for so long? It was such a treat - especially on a day when everyone else is running around like mad.

Signs

Back to one of my recurring themes: funny signs. And before you roll your eyes like that, it could be worse. At least I'm not doing one of my 'kids say the darnest things' posts.

I'm staying in a cheap hotel in Melbourne (I'm paying for it myself; if it were my employer paying it'd be a bit more grand.) Directly opposite is a bar called "Mrs Parma's". It took me about a day (!!??!!) to work that one out. It proudly says it's an 'ALL-VICTORIAN BEER BAR", so there's none of that nasty interstate beer there.

When I was a lad every December the men who drove the trucks for the beer company would go on strike. Bear in mind this was just after university holidays started, it was getting very hot and dry. Because of the way Melbourne is there's only one beer company, CUB (as it then was) and there was a vaguely soviet quality to the way you'd get beer here. I remember going to Sydney in the early 80s and having to learn how to order beers, you had to specify the size of the glass and the kind of beer ("old", "new", "resch's", others even worse). In a Melbourne pub you'd just say "a beer" and the guy would pour you a beer. Interestingly, most of those Sydney beers died out: it turns out Sydney people didn't like them either.

Anyway. During the beer drought, word would go around Melbourne that a truck had been sighted coming towards the city, a truck full of beer! It was like on Gilligan's Island when someone spotted a plane or a ship, but before Gilligan managed to mess everything up so that the plane or ship passed by without seeing the over-engineered rescue signs. We'd all head to St Kilda or Port Melbourne to the pub that was rumored to have sourced some beer from interstate. If it was XXXX we'd be happy, it was a pretty good substitute for real beer. Swan or West End were generally not tolerated until we were in the second week of the strike and we'd completely lost our pride. NSW beer was very suspect. Then, eventually the beer company would do a deal with the drivers and things would go back to normal, but not before a lot of musing about whether beer truck drivers should be put under the Essential Services Act, the one that starts the army from going on strike.

Another sign, yesterday on Kingsway. A big illuminated temporary sign saying "WESTGATE BRIDGE WORKS", and I for one am glad that it does.

Boring

Number two son, who incidentally everyone thinks is a mini-me, asked me today "Dad, was it really boring in the olden days?". Hard to answer really, you had to be there.

Stalked.... Again!

WaPo checked my blog again. I'm so excited, it almost makes up for being in Melbourne where it's been raining all *&^%king day and it's freezing.

More

Can I make another of my observations about Melbourne vs Sydney? I'm going to anyway. I think that fewer people in Melbourne have tattoos, but the ones who do tend to have more. So while in Sydney about half the population aged 20-40 has a tattoo it's usually just one or two (for men a tribal thing on the shoulder, for women a flower or a bird on the small of the back or the ankle). In Melbourne it's a lower proportion but they appear to have gone for the volume discount at the tattooist. And there are many more facial piercings here in Melbourne, which does make everyone look like they come from Geelong.

I'm being stalked! (But in a nice way)

I posted a thing yesterday on Emily Yoffe's story in Slate about her experience as a drag king. She used the name "Johnson Manly", by the way. Anyway, I was checking who'd been looking at this blog this morning and I got a hit from the Washington Post!!!! For those of you who are a bit challenged clue-wise, the WaPo is the parent of Slate. Hi Emily! (And John, and the other Emily too!)

Customer?

In today's SMH there's a column by Anne Summers in which she quite rightly gets annoyed with the use of the word 'customer' when it's not really the right word - airlines call us 'customers' instead of passengers, that sort of thing. She goes on: "But the most egregious example of this came when I contacted the Australian Electoral Commission, and a recorded message advised "customers" what to do.".

Why exactly is this so bad? She says because "I am a voter, an elector, a citizen but I am not a customer when it comes to exercising my democratic right." That's true, and it's bad enough. But it's worse! In Australia, voting isn't a choice. It's not a right; it's an obligation enforeable by law. Even on an airline a passenger is still a customer in the sense that he can choose to travel on a different carrier next time, or to not travel at all. We have no such latitude with the AEC. I know I've whinged about this before, bear with me.

(For the sake of clarity: this is most certainly not a whinge about Anne Summers.)


Compulsory Voting <--- what the AEC says. Some interesting court judgements too.

Nice sign

In an alleyway off Bourke St in Melbourne, up near Southern Cross Station, a sign that says sternly "COMMIT NO NUISANCE".

Kings

There was a semi-interesting article in Slate today (and if you don't read Slate, you should) about Emily Yoffe trying her luck as a drag king. A what? It's not that hard to figure out, so settle down. It's women who dress up as men - there was a really fascinating book about it, which is referenced in the Slate article.

Anyway, the article describes her going along to an organised group thing, with a leader, who "began the meeting by suggesting we all introduce ourselves by giving our names, astrological signs, and packing preferences". You can read about packing preferences, if you must, but what struck me was the idea that you introduce yourself by reference to astrological signs - especially in a setting where women were supposed to be learning how to behave like men.

Money

I was having dinner last week with Tim, a friend I've known for years here in Sydney. He's, among other things, an academic, and also has a private practice on the side. The university he works for had offered him a lump sum one-off payment to retire. He had more or less decided whether to take this offer, but wanted to run the whole thing by me. People have a naive faith in my ability to work magic with money and numbers (not surprising, I guess, given my background and my job), but once in a while I do get to show off, and I do enjoy the fun of bludgeoning a problem with some hard-nosed analysis.

After a bit of prompting, we figured out that his overall income would be much the same . He'd just be getting all his income from private practice. But he said he liked having two jobs instead of one, there was a benefit to him in diversification, and not really in any monetary sense. "So how much is it worth to you to have two jobs?", I asked him. He shifted a bit uneasily and said it was impossible to put a monetary value on it. My response, of course was to say that I can put a monetary value on anything. Next step was to divide the one-off payment by the rest of his working life to arrive at a figure per year. Let's call it X thousand dollars a year.

I looked at the beers we were drinking, and reminded him that he'd just entered into a transaction in which he'd expressed a preference. Given the choice between $4.25 and a bottle of beer, he'd chosen the bottle of beer. People sometimes forget this.

So I asked him to choose, in the same spirit, between X thousand dollars a year and this job diversity he likes. Which would he prefer? He unhesitatingly said the diversity. So that's the answer, the lump sum's not enough. I then said if we were really ambitious he could work out the amount of money per year where he's indifferent between the two and from that we could back out the lump sum that would be required, but we were getting bored with the topic by then.

That's a big one, mister,

I stopped by the fruit bandit this morning and got some blueberries and a banana. I don't know where he gets this stuff from, but the bananas he has are freakish things, straight and about a foot long. I wouldn't be surprised if they glow in the dark too. Fruit bandit and I have an uneasy but respectful relationship; I don't trust him and he knows it. I first encountered him when I moved back to Sydney two years ago, I'd gone to his stall and bought something like one apple, a peach and a banana. He often prices things as 3 for $2 and whatnot so you can never be sure how much things are if you buy items individually. I asked him how much it all was, he looked at me, saw I had a $5 note in my hand and said "five dollars". I handed it over, thinking what an agreeable coincidence it was that I had the exact amount of money, and it wasn't until I got back to work that I realised I'd been legged over.

So, back to our story. I was going up in the elevator this morning, a fairly crowded elevator. Only one person I knew, my colleague M. He said to me quite innocently "you've got a big banana". To my credit, I maintained my composure and just said "thank you" and then dissolved into silent hysteria.

It's so not.

I know most of the stuff on here is just me whingeing about how everything's gone to hell in a handcart, but I do have to say for the record that I couldn't imagine anything positive coming out of spending time with someone who calls Brisbane 'Brisvegas'. Brissie's not like Vegas in any interesting or fun way. And someone who uses that term just isn't thinking. I expect it's the sort of thing that would sound vaguely stylish and clever but only if you were a bit challenged, style and clever-wise.

I've been to Brissie twice. First time was for a couple of hours, the second time was for almost a whole day. And I did manage to find a decent coffee, despite what people say.

Pictures

I noticed today in the Wall Street Journal, in an article about cancer patients concocting their own mixtures of drugs, that in the sidebar they had photographs of the people. As opposed to those dotty pictures. Is this the beginning of the end? What's next, horoscopes? Page three girls?

Crystal

I had a friend give me a reiki session this morning. You've already guessed I'm so not into all that but I thought it'd be fun.

My favorite bit was when she stopped, went off and got a candle. As she was lighting it she explained "this is a beautiful candle; it has an actual crsytal inside it". The whole experience didn't do a great deal for me, but of course I loved the attention.

Spun

I went to the Saturday morning spin class and we had that Kiwi lass again, the one with the lovely thick accent (previous post, "bug strong ligs"). Today's highlight was when she said we all needed to wipe our bikes down after the class because they get a "but switty". She also said she was going back to NZ for xmas and that she was going to freshen up her accent, so I can't wait for January.

There's a point about five minutes into any spin class where a thought starts running around in my head, along the lines of I don't need to be doing this, it's undignified, why can't I just give in and become the fat man I really want to be etc. But I somehow hang on. There's always the temptation to really take it easy, noone really knows how hard you're working. Perhaps sensing my moral cowardice she said to us "you've chosen to come here this morning, you might as well do it properly", or words to that effect, and being the suggestible person that I am I thought "she's right!" and I knuckled down and did what I was told.

Drinks

There was a color piece in the Australian on the weekend about 'going out' in Australia, which of course meant Sydney because that's where all the journalists live.

I read it with some interest and something caught my eye. There were two young women, one in Hugo's who said “It’s not really a thing to pay for drinks...it’s different, being a girl”. And another who said "I don’t use money, I literally brought $10 with me tonight. If you’re good-looking, people will buy you anything.”

I didn't take much notice at the time, but something about this has been nagging at me all week, and I've been trying to work out what. Some idealogical unease? Reflected shame? Moral queasiness? Finally, today, I nailed it. It's something very old-fashioned: it's jealousy.

Taxi?

I was walking home from dinner, feeling very weary and slightly woozy (after 2 light beers - I'm a cheap date) when I decided to get a back and shoulder rub at one of the chinese massage places on Darlinghurst Road. I love a good massage, but even a bad massage is still pretty good. (I'll digress on this later.) And to clarify, I'm not talking about special massage with happy ending.

I'd been to this one before. Staightforward. You say what you want, you get some of your clothes off (depending on how shy you are - in my case not at all). On the wall is a sign with some emergency instructions, including this:

In case of dislocation treat by taxi

Now, to me this reads as though if they accidentally dislocate your shoulder or your hip, they should immediately call you a cab. Seems fair. What else could it mean, any ideas? Another one is to do with pregnancy, and I was reminded of being in an aerobics class many years ago. There were about ten woman, me, and another guy. The other guy was a bit of a rough diamond, mullet hairdo and all. At the start of the class the instructor - a woman - asked the usual questions: anyone new, anyone coming back from injury, then finally "is anyone pregnant?". At which this guy turned around and asked the group "would anyone like to be?" with a fairly cheeky smile. The women were adamantly unamused; I thought it was hilarious but (wisely) kept it to myself. It was all in the timing. You had to be there.

My digression. I remember a saying "sex is like pizza: even when it's bad it's still good". I used to think this was true, but then I went to Pizza Hut.

Door

I live in an apartment building on the edge of Elizabeth Bay. I'm on the border between the seedy bit and the fabulous bit (and yes, if you must, it's another crushingly obvious metaphor for my life. stop it.). The building was at some point a hotel, and part of still functions as serviced apartments so we get people who live here (like me) and people who are just passing through for a week or a month.

Sometimes when I come home, there's someone sitting on the step. Or someone's buzzing someone on the intercom and they try to slipstream in behind me as I go in. My reserves of politeness have worn away a long time ago and I just block them "do you live here?", I ask.

Sometimes the response is "I'm waiting for my friend, (s)he lives here". This is patently ridiculous, and if I'm in a good mood and feeling forceful and dynamic I'll point it out to them. "Your friend, who hasn't responded to your buzzing him, isn't around. What exactly are you going to do if I let you into the building? Wait in the stairwell?"

Apple and.... who?

There's rumors that Apple's teaming up with Telstra for the iPhone here in Australia. It's hard to imagine a more unlikely pairing and I've been trying for about three minutes (which is my entire attention span, for those who don't know me) to come up with an appropriate analogy.

I do notice that on the Kath and Kim fansite the link to the dictionary is down. They had a nice entry under Telstra.

Bender

I was on DJ 895 tonight, the 2045 MEL->SYD, and I have to say it's always with a great sense of relief that I get on the plane back up to Sydney. My kids are a real handful and the logistics of looking after them in Melbourne while being homeless are a bit, well, difficult.

As I sat down on 22C I noticed the young man next to me was wearing a baseball cap. My views on this aren't a secret, I don't think anyone should wear a hat on a plane, but instead of working myself up into a bender of contempt and silent fury I buried my head in the book I'd just started (literally - started while I was in line to get on the plane). It was a collection of short stories by Tim Winton, a writer I'd managed to avoid so far despite having had quite a few people recommend him. Now that I think about it, it's because of his hair. (Do I sound shallow enough..?)

The final straw was last weekend, I'd met a friend in a bookshop and she'd made me buy it. In revenge, I was going to make her buy Mr Philips but they didn't have it. (My favorite sentence: "And there is something about the limitless reserves of indifference she can express, the thrilling estuarine boredness of her 'Yeah'")

I take it all back. Tim Winton's great, even with that hair. It's impossible not to love a writer who can write "Now and then the hard laughter of ducks washed up the street..". I'm quite emotionally raw on plane trips - even short and uneventful ones - and some of the writing really got me. First paragraph of a story called "Small Mercies":

Peter Dyson came home early one day to find his wife dead in the garage. He'd only been gone an hour, kicking a ball in the park with their four-year-old son. The Ford's motor was still running, its doors locked, and even before he knew it for certain, before he put the sledge-hammer through the window, before the ambulance crew confirmed it, he was grateful to her for sparing the boy.

Ooooooohhhh! Nice.

Cold

One of the criticisms leveled at Hillary Clinton is that she's cold and calculating. Which might not be a great quality in a friend, but isn't that exactly what you'd want in a President? Especially after this current one, wouldn't it be good to have one who thinks things through?

Democracy

Pleasant evening. 2 diet cokes, 2 light beers, home by 915. The other day at work we were discussing ways to improve the democratic process, particularly ways to restrict voting eligibility. One of my colleagues thought that anyone who couldn't name two novels by Dostoevsky shouldn't be allowed to vote (I hesitated on that for a moment until I figured out I'd be able to pass).

As I was driving around outer suburban Melbourne this evening (I even went to Nunawading!) I thought of another one. People who habitually drive with foglights on really shouldn't be allowed to have a say in the process. And if they drive with really bright foggies on during the day they could be taken aside and shot by goons from the Peoples' League for Taste and Decency.

On a completely unrelated note, I remember being struck just before the last US Presidential election at how many people said they hadn't made up their minds yet, and this was with less than a week to go. One thing that I thought could safely be said about the current President was that he was very easy to form a view on, either for or against, and someone who was still undecided after the first four years probably shouldn't be voting anyway. But of course in the US, as in most civilized countries, people who don't care aren't forced to vote.

Australia has compulsory voting, and Australians are very attached to the notion. It's even a crime to attempt to persuade someone not to vote here. I was once thrown off the electoral roll because I didn't have a permanent address, and in a desperate compromise with the AEC managed to get re-enrolled as an 'Itinerant Voter'. Which is the category for the homeless, the mentally ill and so forth. They explained it to me along the lines of I could turn up in any electorate and vote, so the obvious play was to go the most marginal one in the country and sell my vote. Which I didn't do, only because it would have required a bit of effort on my part. My writing this may violate the electoral act, in which case you can come and visit me in prison.

Mr Burns

I was at the Lowy Institute yesterday (yes, I can tell you're surprised) and listened to a fascinating address by R. Nicholas Burns, who is Undersecretary of State for Political Affairs, or to put it more meaningfully, the highest-ranking career diplomat at the US State Department. The content of the talk wasn't tremendously exciting, but it was delivered beautifully. And when it came to question time at the end he was superb - it's that same thing you get when you watch Federer playing tennis, it's just a joy to see someone do something - anything - that well. I was trying to work out what sort of suit he had on; he had that veneer that successful americans (especially new englanders) effortlessly adopt, and it occurred to me that if there were an Australian equivalent to him it'd be a guy with too-big ears and a bad haircut.

The one fun bit - and it caused me and my companion to shoot each other a raised eyebrow - was when he started to say 'the war on terror' but only got as far as 'war', then hesitated and backtracked, calling it instead 'the struggle against terrorism'. I like this a lot more; calling it a war just legitimises the creep of executive power.

QF409

On my usual 0700 SYD-> MEL this morning, and no, you don't end up recognising the cabin crew or vice versa, not even when I was on the flight every Friday morning.

There was an article in the inflight magazine with a heading that started "In the big, brash metropolis of Auckland...". This is, of course, absurdly comic. The nice thing about New Zealand (and New Zealanders for that matter) is precisely that it's not big and brash.

Deborah Hutton was back to her honey-blonde best on the welcoming video and I'm hoping that we've put the Maggie Tabberer phase behind us and we can just pretend it never happened.

What and what?

You know I love it when somebody finds this blog because of a google search ("my lovely older lady', 'very refined place to live', 'dry cleaning wonthaggi', that sort of thing). Well today someone found it by typing 'chunky and muscly' (without the quotes) into google. It's the sixth entry. Or probably the seventh now. Enjoy!

Pigs, and latin.

There's a great story in today's Australian about how the pig industry's in trouble. My favorite bit is this sentence: "Australian Pork's Kathleen Plowman said the industry had literally been decimated: the sow herd was down 30,000 to 300,000." Yes, I majored in Pedantics at Berkeley and so I do notice this stuff, but it would be better if she didn't draw attention to it by flagging it with the word literally.

The other fun bit (leaving aside the whole question of Australian Pork's Kathleen Plowman) is the ambiguous headline. It says "Pig industry appeals to Rudd". But if you really want to enjoy an ambiguous headline (or at least that's what I hope it is) you can't go past this one from earlier this year. Magic darts!

That roommate

This morning there were seven baby spiders on my ceiling and one in my bed. Little huntsmans. One the one hand they're small and cute. On the other hand, pretty soon they're going to be big and ugly. I've developed a fairly humane way of getting rid of them when they're on the ceiling: you scare them, they immediately rappel down on lines of spider silk, you grab the spider silk just above the spider and use that throw the blighter out of the window. As I do this I wonder about the huge huntsman in the living room the other day. Their mother? Are spiders like bears, where the mother hangs around the babies and if you get inbetween the mother and the babies, or she perceives you as a threat, you're a goner? (Hence, once of my favorite expressions, used to describe someone - usually a woman - who's insanely angry. "Like a she-bear with young".) But spiders aren't anything like bears, they're arachnids, primitive invertebrates and mercifully not as big.

I'm big in Syria too!

Not really, but someone in Syria stumbled across this blog yesterday when they typed 'crisis how to kill the last monster' (but without quotes) into google.

UPDATE: I have solved the mystery. There's some sort of slay'em video game that's made by a company called Crisis (or is itself called called, in part, Crisis). So that explains my Swedish and Syrian friends.

New guitar

Got me a new guitar, it's the one on the right in this pic. Here's what I like about it. 1) it looks hot 2) it plays very nicely 3) it's non-obvious. I'll write what I mean about non-obvious when I'm better-able to articulate it.

I had my friend E with me when I bought it, he knew I wanted a new one and suggested we go on a Guitar Safari yesterday. I owe him a dinner.