Burgers

I've made no secret in the past of my distaste for the American manifestation of the humble hamburger. It may, once upon a time, have been edible, but I fear the relentless spur of competition to put more and more into or onto it has gone way past the point where wisdom should have prevailed. In short, I can't stand the bugrgers!

Americans of course don't understand just why it is that I find the things so unpalatable; within minutes of discovering how much I did *not* want to eat one nothing would do but that my wife had to take me to In-N-Out[^]. I can imagine her disappointment when their burgers turned out to be just as unpalatable. She hasn't said it in so many words but I'm sure she thinks I'm impossible to please when it comes to fast food. She's right! :-)

It seems that when the local In-N-Out opened the police were required for traffic duty in the surrounding streets for some days. I take this as evidence of appalling burger taste in the populace! :-)

Anyway, the fact is that I find the American burger has way too much meat, the meat is barelyundercooked and their idea of a burger with onions is to bung raw onions on the side! Toss in the inevitable pallid mustard, barbecue sauce, ketchup or, heaven forbid, ranch sauce, and you've got a mess!

The other night at dinner the subject of burgers came up again and, again, I said something about how much I didn't like the local version. Andrew piped up with an enthusiastic endorsement of In-N-Out, concluding with the statement 'I like In-N-Out'. Now what could I do? It was there, like low hanging fruit, demanding to be said! So I said it. 'Yeah, I'm rather fond of In-N-Out myself - but I ain't talking burgers!'.

*Boom boom*

Andrew blushed and choked back laughter. Mom? She reached over the table and clocked me one! Can't blame her. :-)

Gotcha!

As you might remember[^] my wife has been researching her ancestors for some time. Lately she's discovered that some great grandfather or other once ran a pie shop in an English town by the name of Nuneaton[^]. Me being me it was, of course, impossible to resist remarking that they couldn't have been very good pies. 'Why do you say that?' she asked. 'Well they were Nuneaton of course!' was my reply.

*boom boom*

A little later in the conversation Sonya dropped the fact that the pie shop was next door to the residence of one Mary Anne Evans. I shrugged. 'Who, pray tell, is Mary Anne Evans when she's at home?' I asked. I do sometimes talk pretentiously like that! 'Aha' she said, going for the jugular. 'So you don't know that Mary Anne Evans was George Eliot?'

Uh huh. A gotcha indeed! It was indeed feeble of me to riposte by asking if she knew who Ellen Price[^] was. But geeze, am I supposed to remember the real name of every 19th century English novelist? Don't answer that! :-)

Heard on the radio today

There's some golf tournament or another about to take place down in Tucson. Personally I've always thought that if you really really wanted so badly to get that ball into the little hole surely bashing it with a funny shaped stick is going about it the hard way. Why not just pick the ball up and put it in the hole? But that's me. *shrug*

As I was driving home tonight an ad came on for the golf tournament aforementioned. The usual extolling of virtues followed by the breathless announcement that they were restricting ticket sales to a (and I quote) relatively intimate 15,000 per day.

Yikes! Relatively intimate? Imagine being invited to the copy writers for a dinner party!

And now there are three

cats as comfortable, recognised members of our household. Ginger died this evening, very suddenly, of what the vet described as a heart attack. Doubtless he (the vet) was trotting out a formula of explanation easy to grasp when old age wouldn't fit the bill.

If this were written about a human person we'd launch into a description of early years, achievements, spice (is that the plural of spouse? If not it ought to be!) and so on. But as I'm writing about a cat those things don't apply.

Nope, he walked in late one evening about three years ago, liked what he saw and decided he wanted to stay. We took him back to his owners and he was back the next night. The night after that his owners had moved away so here he lived. The most placid cat I've ever known. Nothing except cars seemed to worry him; whilst he'd happily climb onto or into one he'd run for cover if the engine started.

He was very good with the new-comers. Where the other established members of the household (Cleo and Roo and, latterly, Kitten) would ignore the new-comer or snarl and spit he was more than happy to play and, I presume, helped them feel more at home.

I'll miss him. Rest in Peace Ginger.

Intelligence test

I was standing in the self checkout line at the local supermarket, chocolate cake in one hand, paper towels in the other. The two purchases aren't necessarily related!

Before me the usual rag tag assortment of people who can't cope with the self checkout process. Why they subject themselves and, more importantly, me, to the experience is something I couldn't say but I *have* seen some of the same folk struggling with the concept before.

But heck, this ain't rocket science. What's so hard about reading a three word instruction then pushing the correct button? Followed by swiping things through one at a time and putting them on the scales?

I will admit that the supermarket checkout *does* throw a spanner in the works by expecting some kind of personal identifier, either a loyalty card or a phone number. I refuse to play that game except to the extent of getting the 'discounted' price attached to the identifier. I find that punching in a random phone number works just fine and doubtless there are people who will, next week, sit down to their thanksgiving turkey with not the faintest inkling that my purchases helped them accumulate the loyalty points required to snag a free one!

So anyway, I was standing in the line half an hour ago watching yet another assortment of people trying to cope with a process simple enough that I reckon a particularly dull chimp could master it within seconds when it occurred to me that they really need an intelligence test to gain access to the shorter line. And then it occurred to me that in fact the entire process itself *was* the intelligence test; all that is lacking is the reward or revenge at the end of the process.

What I think is needed is a system reminiscent of the system at customs and immigration; the machine weighs the subject by a variety of criteria; how many times did they have to request a restart because they pushed the wrong button? How many seconds elapsed between scanning one item and the next? At the end they get a tag to follow the green arrow or the red one.

Green leads to the car park. And red leads to a small padded room with an automatic lead dispenser! Some people are just *too* stupid to live!!!

Die Spamming Bastards, Die!

As if it isn't bad enough copping 160 spam emails now they've spammed my Wdevs[^] blog. 160 spams in an email inbox are relatively easy to delete; not so when it's on .text.

Nope, I'm not complaining about Wdevs - they put up with my posting, which is more than I would! Nonetheless, this ain't doing my RSI any good :-( *cue soppy music on violins* :-)

Well, they got that wrong!

What American accent do you have? Your Result: The Inland North You may think you speak "Standard English straight out of the dictionary" but when you step away from the Great Lakes you get asked annoying questions like "Are you from Wisconsin?" or "Are you from Chicago?" Chances are you call carbonated drinks "pop."
The Northeast
Philadelphia
The Midland
The South
Boston
The West
North Central
What American accent do you have? Take More Quizzes

I voted today

Well actually it was yesterday but who's counting? Apart, that is, from a thousand harried election officials being hounded by anxious almost made its?

Australia is the only other country where I've voted and attendance there at a polling booth on the day is mandatory on pain of a 50 buck fine. That being the case there's nothing all that remarkable about having actually voted in Australia; one assumes that everyone has.

Not so here in the US. With a voter turnout of only 40% it's a toss up whether someone has bothered or not. So, at least here in Arizona (I can't speak for anywhere else in the country) they hand you a little sticker saying 'I voted today'. It nonplussed me for a moment but then I stuck it on my forehead and wore it all day at the office.

Laughs all round! Well, what did they expect when I became a citizen? That I'd not bother voting?

An interesting exercise. A combination of the familiar with an interleaving of the utterly strange! No surprise seeing candidates for House and Senate. Not even much of a surprise seeing candidates for Governor (a rather different office here than in Australia). But further down candidates for School Board? Approval for the continuation of judgeships? What a disappointment there was no candidate for The Office of Dog Catcher!

Ok, I'm being a little facetious. I'm just not used to the voting process being quite so granular. I'm sure familiarity will breed complacence.

Fortunately the ballots here are real paper and you mark your choice using a pen. No risk of illegitimate chads a few months hence. No touch screen computers either. I still have my suspicions about the machine one feeds ones ballot into which apparently counts it on the spot. Call me old fashioned but I really don't like the idea of computerising something as important as voting. I'd be a whole lot happier if they were counted by hand with a bunch of rival scrutineers agreeing that this ballot really was for so and so.

But I reserve the real shocker for last. It came as quite the surprise a couple of weeks ago when my wife received her sample ballot to see that it had a map printed on the front pointing the way to the polling place. 'Yes, that's right', she said, when I asked, 'you can only vote there.' I was incredulous. 'You mean that I can only vote there and nowhere else? That's the only place on the whole planet where I can vote?' Apparently it's so.

Hmmm. Much to get used to! I'm sure I'll cope.

Sonya's Europe trip

Like, I imagine, a lot of people, we have a change jar. Few things are worse than clanking around the house like some rusty old ghost so we've both got into the habit of emptying the loose shrapnel out of our pockets as soon as we get home.

On the other hand I've become quite fond of snacking on Cheetos at the office so I'm putting change in the jar with one hand and taking it out with the other. It's become quite the ritual when I get home to peer into the jar and say 'oooh' if I spy silver. Sonya's said more than twice that she'll never get to Europe at this rate; as often as she piles the odd dollar of silver into the jar I nick it for snacking.

I can't help noticing this week that the jar is stubbornly bereft of silver. I think she's taking that Europe trip to heart!

What I wanted for Christmas

Many years ago my parents asked me what I wanted for Christmas. I thought for a moment and replied 'I wanna watch'. So they let me!

*boom boom*

Yeah, an old joke. I must have been telling it at (in)appropriate moments for at least thirty years so it should come as no surprise whatsoever that when, the other night, we were talking about Christmas over dinner, I trotted it out. Andrew mulled it a moment and then let out a half embarassed laugh along with a sheepish grin. Sonya, however, looked at me and said, in a voice of incredulity, 'Really???'.

Kicking the tyres

We went house hunting today. To be honest, we're not sure we can afford to be in the housing market just yet but you've got to at least throw some numbers around. It seems that it's rather easier to do it here in the US than it was back in Australia; the last time I refinanced my house there they did the arithmetic, concluded that as I had a mere 19 years until legal retirement age that they couldn't manage a mortgage (in blocks of 5 years) longer than 15 years. Seems it's against some law or other here to discriminate on the basis of age. Score one for the US!

And we're both sick of living in a two up, two down and two in the middle condo. I can't fart without everyone in the place knowing about it! I swore black and blue about twenty years ago (when I last lived in a flat, apartment, condo, call it what you will) that I'd never live in one again. Houses only for this little black duck. And now look at me!

Toss in the fact that until a couple of months ago I was required to mail an AR11 change of address form to an obscure address in London, Kentucky, if my permanent address changed, which requirement has now gone away and we have no good reasons not to go looking! Not, I hasten to add, that the US is crawling with secret police checking on the whereabouts of every alien, legal or not. Nonetheless, there's always the nagging doubt that some important piece of immigrant related mail will fail to arrive if I dare to move residence and suddenly I'll find myself out of status. No such doubt any more. Being a citizen has its advantages!

So we set off house hunting. Pretty easy to do - the buggers just sit there on their blocks of land! *boom boom*. Sonya wants to stay within the Horizon High School district though I have to say that given the quality of output that I've seen they don't overmuch impress me. But what do I know?

Thus to a funnish afternoon of driving aimlessly around looking for little signs stuck on street corners pointing toward an 'open house'.

It's all done very differently to the way I was used to in Melbourne. There every house for sale is open each weekend until sold but you only have a half hour window when it's open. Thus the need for planning. Grab the Weekend Age property guide, turn to the suburb of interest and map out four hours of driving. Gotta get to that address by 1:15 because the agent moves on to the next house at 1:30.

Not so here. The agent arrives, opens, and sits for four hours. And then, apparently, that house won't be available for casual inspection for another month! *shrug* That's the way they do things here so one goes with the flow.

We went through this exercise just after I arrived here four years ago and I got into the habit of pointing out that the master bathroom was larger than my bedroom back in Melbourne. Not much of an exaggeration. Of course, first house we went into I *just* had to say that! Laugh from Sonya. I can still make her laugh! :-)

But there was one house we looked at (way out of our price range) where the master bedroom really was larger than our entire condo. The bed looked like an afterthought in that sea of carpet!

We did find a couple of houses we liked so I imagine it's time to talk to the lenders. Of course, the way Sonya said that word I thought she said 'time to talk to the Linda's' and I found myself wondering why on earth we had to talk to a Linda I hadn't met and just exactly what she had to do with what we could or could not afford!

Bloggers block

I haven't died. I'm just going through one of those periods where one hasn't all that much to say. Well, I could write about some of the antics Andrew's been up to lately but that way lies the possibility of my blog turning into a 'Chronicles of Andrew' and really, he's the one who should be writing that blog.

I'm told that posting about a blog hiatus is one of the better ways of ensuring a hundred blogworthy things will happen; let's see shall we?

Respect

Found at my desk yesterday morning. It's easy to see the high esteem and respect with which my fellow workers (Kathy in this case) regard me! :-)

[^]

White Menudo

My wife finally managed to find a canned foodstuff I didn't recognise. When I got home this arvo I found a rather large can labelled 'White Menudo'. I took a look at it and called for enlightenment. With a shrug she admitted she didn't know what it was either but was planning to use it for tonights dinner. Hmmm... there's brave for you!

It seems, according to the ingredients list, that it contains beef tripe and Mexican style hominy. Sounds mouthwatering doesn't it? I gloated a little, within Andrews hearing, about the beef tripe and discovered that, even though he has no idea what beef tripe *is*, he doesn't want to try it. If I said that announcement came as a surprise I'd be lying! I wonder what hoops they had to jump through to get him to try his first burger!

Four Hours

They've been running an ad on The History Channel for the last hour or so. Normally I mentally tune out as soon as the ad breaks start but after a while I started noticing this one. It begins as a discussion of erectile dysfunction; just the subject matter one wants to hear at my age!

Then it goes on to extol the virtues of a particular drug and, as is the fashion these days, ends on a breathless list of all the possible side-effects. There's one that particularly impressed me. 'Seek immediate medical attention if an erection lasts for more than four hours!'. Four hours?? Wow! I should be so lucky!!! :-)

Austin, TX

I'm in Austin, Texas, for the next few days. I could say why but if I did I'd have to kill you! j/k. No, the truth is that story is so uninteresting I reckon I'd fall asleep writing it and I'm *sure* you'd fall asleep reading it. Sufficient to say that it's work related.

The flight over was ok and would hardly merit mention were it not that I found myself stuck in the middle seat, row 15. The guy on my right was ok at first but the bloke on the left was built such that he really needed two seats. Instead he spilled over on both sides!

I could have coped with that. After all, it's only a 2 hour flight but nope, half an hour into the air the bastard opened a pack of Teriyaki flavoured beef jerky! Aromatic stuff to say the least! Not only that but he didn't even have the decency to offer any to all those within nostril-shot of it. Mind you, had he done so he'd have found himself offering to the entire planeload methinks. And then, as though encouraged by the thought that the aroma of a salami sandwich couldn't make things worse, the bloke on my right whips out said sandwich!

It's hard to say which was worse; the beef jerky or the salami sanger!

Austin might be a nice city; I haven't seen enough of it to comment though I do note that, seen from the air, it seems to have a much bigger downtown area than Phoenix. I may have enough time to check it out; if so I'll probably write about it.

On the other hand, I've just returned from a trip to the supermarket for various things I forgot (such as razors). You'd reckon I've done enough travel to not forget such obvious things but apparently not. I also took the chance to get some beef jerky and salami to go with my saltine crackers! :-)

But if the trip to the supermarket is anything to go by I'm going to give downtown Austin a big miss; four years of Phoenix traffic has made me incapable of the sort of driving patience one evidently needs to navigate Austin. In short, driving around sucks. It'd probably be a little different if I knew the place well enough not to miss turns but only marginally better. It feels as though the entire layout of intersections and the traffic light patterns are designed to make driving as slow and annoying as possible.

So I reckon the next time someone complains to me about 'what a bitch it was driving to work today' in Phoenix I'm going to laugh the bitter laugh of one who remembers driving to work in Melbourne and has survived peak hour in Austin and Chicago. We forget just how good the road system is in Phoenix!

Life is good

For 25 years or so I've been thinking I'd heard all of Anton Bruckners[^] symphonies, or at least all those I could obtain. I never did seem able to find a recording of Symphony 0 (Die Nullte) back in those days.

More recently even that curiously numbered symphony has been readily obtainable and I've been bopping to it the last few days courtesy of a Napster download.

Imagine my delight then, upon discovering that there's yet *another* symphony now available, the even more curiously numbered Symphony 00 (The Study Symphony). I foresee more bopping ahead. Life is good!

In which Andrew learns two things

The first being that I can't sing. The second? That phrases to which his friends may not pay overmuch attention will only serve to attract ridicule if uttered within my hearing! :-)

One of our cats went AWOL a year or so ago; methinks she was fed up with the constant stream of newcomers. We weren't particularly concerned about it; she was still around and she'd schmooze up every so often. The last couple of days though she's been coming in almost hourly. She never stays very long; just long enough that we know she's around and certainly long enough to be sure we all make a big thing about it.

So there she was this afternoon, sitting in Andrews lap as he sat at the computer. Andrew said 'She wants some Andrew loving'. Ye gods! Andrew loving??? Pretty big statement from a 15 year old. I couldn't resist; I started singing 'I can't get no, Andrew loving...' (sung to the Rolling Stones tune).

I have no idea if I embarassed the poor bastard or not but I do note that he had an enormous grin!

It takes a bit of getting used to...

this being an American thing!

My friend Vern[^], after a gap of more than a week, finally made a new post and I tried to make a witty reply. (Along the lines of, we waited a week for this??? :-) ).

But his blog software steadfastly refuses to accept my reply, branding it, quite incorrectly, as spam! Like I'd be guilty of such a thing?

So I dashed off an email to his direct email address. In it I said something to the effect that 'this was a fine way to treat a fellow citizen'.

See? I'm still not thinking right! What I should have said was 'this is a fine way to treat a fellow 'muuurrrican!'. :-)

The cat's throwing up!

So I've had a low level sniffle for at least the past 6 months. It seems to date from the last time I returned from The Philippines though I note that I didn't have it until *after* I returned to Phoenix and yet had it the same day I got back. *shrug* I don't think it's SARS; it's just bloody annoying.

Well, if it's annoying to me you can imagine that it's downright infuriating to others; no one wants to hear some other bastard going sniff sniff sniff all the bloody time.

This morning I was sitting at the computer doing the daily email thang and sniffing. After half a year unfortunately I'm probably not even aware of how often it happens. Andrew was sitting up at his computer doing whatever it is that the boy who won't read does on a computer when he suddenly commented that 'Ginger is throwing up again!'. Ginger is, of course, one of our cats and one of the things you learn early on in a career of cat person is that cats will sometimes throw up for no apparent reason whilst in seeming perfect health!

Momentary panic by Andrew; he hates it when that happens even though he never has to clean it up. Sonya chimed in; 'no, that's Rob sniffing'.

Moments pass and I sniff again. Andrew looks up. 'Is that you breathing?' I murmur assent. 'But I'll stop breathing if it'll make you happy!'.

Little bastard was completely prepared to take me up on that offer! Cheeky sod!

Undocumented!

I've had this nagging feeling for the last few days, ever since applying for my passport. Naturally enough, in order to actually get a passport, one must prove eligibility to hold one! In my case, the eligibility is tied to my newly aquired US citizenship and, more specifically, to my naturalisation certificate.

You'd think, wouldn't you (well at least I would but then I'm a simple soul at times), that if the passport application centre has an accredited representative checking applications, that her sighting the certificate and attesting to the same would be sufficient. But no, that's not how it works. Instead, my certificate has to accompany the paperwork to whereever it is that they process the applications. I'm advised that it will come back with the passport, 6 to 8 weeks from now.

Meantime I'm walking about with not a skerrick of proof that I'm here legally. There's a rubber stamped warning at the bottom of the naturalisation certificate advising that it's a federal offence to make a copy. No more greencard; that was taken from me at the oath ceremony. The admission stamps in my Australian passport are long since expired. And I couldn't fake the accent to save my life! Yikes! I'm undocumented!

It's probably a moot point however; in the four years I've been here the *only* people who've shown the slightest interest in any proof of legality were my employer and the USCIS (INS) folks at the various interviews I've had to attend. Oh, and the immigration folk at border crossings. I reckon if I stay within the borders I should be just fine!

Yeah yeah, I know. I worry too much!

It's just a minor detail

but the devil is, as they say, in the detail.

After some delays I finally got around to applying for my shiny new US passport yesterday. I've only been a yankee for a dozen days; what do you want? Same day application? I'd be interested in visiting the passport office near the district court where they do the swearing-in half an hour after the ceremony is over; one of the things they include in the 'new citizen' package is a map showing how to get there. I wonder how many new citizens march straight from the courthouse to the passport office?

Truth is I'm not in any great hurry to get my new passport; it's a convenient reason to be unable to travel to The Philippines. But I can only stall so long before the boss begins to smell a rat.

On the other hand, they do advise us to get a passport even if we don't plan to travel; it's a convenient way of carrying around our proof of citizenship and a damn sight easier to replace than a lost naturalisation certificate! Apparently that takes more than a year!

Thus off to the local post office on Tuesday morning to lodge the paperwork. No, you can't go to just any post office; it has to be one accredited for the purpose. Nor can you front up at any old time during business hours; no sirree bob, nope, that'd be too easy. They have, at the post office I went to, a 2 hour window 4 days a week when you can apply.

So I walk in and survey the scene. The usual long queues to the main counter. Over on the right is another counter with a cash register and a sign announcing that passport applications are only processed at that particular counter. But the counter is closed and lower down on the sign is the advice that for further detail 'see main counter'.

Sigh. Thirty people ahead of me in the queue for the main counter; two staff; the queue is moving like honey in the freezer. The bloke in front turns and, in the manner of everyone I've ever seen that far back in a queue (I've also done it and I'm sure you have too), remarks 'You'd think they'd open another counter'. Uh huh. I won't swear to it but I suspect an unwritten rule that the extra counter will be opened after the delivery of scientific proof that pigs are capable of flight.

Half an hour or so later I get to the counter! She points in the general direction of the aforementioned, closed, counter. I counter that that counter is closed! 'No', she says, 'no, you need to put your name at the end of the list on that clipboard. They'll call your name when it's your turn'.

Muttering unprintables under my breath I walk over and add my name to the bottom of the list. 5 names ahead of me so I apparently have time for a smoke. Out I go and, out of pure spite, have 2 smokes :-)

I went back in and stood around like a spare part waiting. Now there only 4 names ahead of mine and it's about this time that I notice the sign telling we passport aspirants that we should bypass the main queue and add our names to the clipboard. This is the minor detail of the title. You might imagine that the sign would be prominently displayed in a vertical position facing you as you enter the post office. Not a bit of it. The bloody sign was lying flat in a corner.

Sigh.

Eventually my name was called and up I front at the counter. Anti-climax; I'd filled out the form entirely to her satisfaction and indeed I was complimented on the completeness of the form. Not the first time that's happened; you might recall that when I had my naturalisation[^] interview the officer said much the same thing. I don't understand. I don't think I do anything special unless the specialness is to actually read the form and follow instructions! I note that, of the 4 people ahead of me, 2 were sent away to gather some missing document.

If all goes according to their schedule I should have my new passport sometime between November 21 and December 5. December 5 will suit me just fine! :-)

Knucklehead Productions

delivered their latest DVD today, all the way from Australia. 'Hank' Heino (if he can call me Chip then I can call him Hank!) directed but I notice the stars, his youngest daughter and a friend, got the Executive Producer credits.

Great art it ain't but it was certainly fun to watch. I laughed at the friend playing the part of local fireman and hiding behind a moustache that looked large enough to serve dual duty as a toilet brush! The cop trying to keep a straight face was also fun.

But the biggest laugh was at the pretentious Knucklehead Productions logo at the end! :-)

The goofs were fun too; Hank always does those well and he has the ability not to get over-indulgent with them.

Hank, was that the missus in the dark jacket waving her arms and facing the camera during the earthquake scene you shot outside the house? :-)

A chip on the shoulder

I knew, when I became a US citizen, that I'd have to endure some obloquy from my fellow Australians about it. Not that I blame them; I'd have done the same a decade ago and I'm sure any American would face the same if he took the reciprocal step.

Nonetheless, I do think that this email from Heino, reproduced with his kind consent, does display gratutious cruelty of the kind that I'd expect the Supreme Court to strike down.

Dear Chip,

Ok . . . the latest DVD has been sent . . u might already have it :)

Holiday dates as follows:

Could depart on or after Friday March 30th 2007
would need to return April 13th or 14th . . .

Your slowing on the Blogs . . .

Writers cramp? too much wanking? . . . or just thinking at an Americans pace these days lol

Chip? Bloody chip??? I'll give him bloody chip when he gets here!

:-)

Now here's a tombstone I can respect

Again, shamelessly stolen from The Genealogue[^].

Mommie Dearest[^]. You've almost got to admire the vitriol sitting behind this tombstone; indicative of decades of simmering resentments.