Xmas parties, and my annual morose whinge about being in Melbourne.

It's official: the next person who whinges to me about how tired they are of going out to all these christmas parties - the 'silly season' - is going to be thumped.

Why? I hardly go to any, unless you count a tepid booze-up with a law firm or an insurance company. So don't go complaining to me about how dreary these parties all with all the PR people are, or advertising, or even consulting. It could be much worse.

On a procedural note it's that time of year, so here's my annual existential misery rant. I'll summarise this time, it's quicker and it's all ground I've been over with you.

1. I have two lives (yes, only two now, settle down). In Sydney I'm a man-about-town; in Melbourne I'm a father-of-four. The separation works nicely.
2. It breaks down when I'm in Melbourne with time on my hands, as I am now
   
3. I don't live in Melbourne, so I'm effectively homeless when I'm here
4. I don't have many friends in Melbourne
   
5. The few friends I do have here don't appear to like me at all

So I can't stay home and relax because I have no home. And I can't go out because everyone hates me. Or they might as well. If this year follows the usual pattern, by the day after christmas I'll be sitting in a car in the parking lot at the 7-11 on the corner of Springvale Rd and Blackburn Rd with a slurpee in my hand, banging my head against the steering wheel and wondering where it all went wrong .

Which of course is ridiculous - my life at the moment is a thing of great beauty and joy. It's just being here in Melbourne that sets me off.

Spam Poem

I was checking the spam file on my gmail account and I noticed some very evocative headers. I can't resist it, I'm making them into a poem. Be grateful it's not interpretative dance.

I need you urgently

We have you been, honey?
Don't reject my calls!
I'm in trouble, where are you?
I had to stop after 8 inches

Why did you leave me?
I don't know where you are
We need you here, now!
I lost your cell number

Dont go home now!
Let's meet as usually
Have you changed your number?
It's cold, don't keep me waiting

I need you urgently

Cars of Glen Waverley

The suburb my mother lives in in Melbourne used to be a very anglo-celtic whitebread suburb but in the last generation it's become a favored destination for middle-class chinese (for those who don't know, 25% of Australians were born elsewhere, and if you include people who have an overseas-born parent it's over 50%). What does this mean for the neighborhood? A couple of things. For a start, the high school, which was a mediocre suburban high school when I was there a thousand years ago is now one of the best in the state and is the biggest feeder school to Monash University (when I was there they thought I was strange, and they used to throw things at me). And, of course, the culinary landscape has changed a lot. The local dining scene is incredibly competitive and fad-driven and generally excellent - for some types of super-authentic Asian foods its the middle-class suburbs on the far fringes of the city that really produce the goods. The New Territories.

But what I love most is the cars. The picure above is a good example. Notice the cartoon characters everywhere? This car also had a tissue box in the back, for extra points.

BBQ me

Me in very uncharacteristic pose: outdoors with a beer in hand. Having said that, I've been a bit of a lush lately. Four beers last Wednesday night (but I was out with a headhunter!) and three last night.

As for the outdoorsy thing, I've resolved that this summer I'll go to the beach. I seem to be the only person in Sydney who doesn't and they can't all be wrong. It's just that it's a bit hot and sandy and boring.

Counting

When I see Quentin, my personal trainer, he pushes me hard. He makes me do things that are difficult, things I wouldn't do if it were just me. And he encourages me; half-way through a set, for example, he'll say "strong" and I'm never sure whether it's a command or an observation, either way it seems to have some effect.

One thing in particular used to nearly drive me crazy. If I'm doing, for example, 12 shoulder raises and there's a fair amount of weight so that I'm struggling, he'll as often as not do some helpful subtraction for me. So that when I get to ten, he'll helpfully say "two more". Now the first few times this happened I found it difficult not to be offended. I know that twelve minus ten is two, and because I'm so acutely defensive (I'm the sort of person who automatically thinks that unsolicited advice is criticism) I found it hard to resist the notion that somehow he thought that I couldn't do even basic arithmetic.

But, you know what? It actually does help.

"... meat fall"

There was a headline in one of the papers late last week which caught my eye. The article turned out to be about a compensation settlement in an industrial accident. Nothing special about the article, but the headline's superb:

"Payout in meat fall"

"..Nation's worst job"

For serious news it's hard to go past The Onion:"Black Man given nation's worst job"

I was at function here in Sydney organised by Democrats Abroad, and during the McCain and Obama speeches I was right at the front, up by the giant video screen. There were photographers there and I'm desperately hoping that in today's paper there'll be a big photo with a caption "Emotional American expats watch acceptance speech" but it'll be me. I was, however, looking American, with a decent haircut and a Brooks Bros shirt. As usual.