My contribution to Halloween

It probably wouldn't surprise you overmuch to hear that I'm not impressed with Halloween. As I said to my wife the other day, 'so what it boils down to is that a bunch of ankle biters come to your door, demand lollies (candy) and have license to abuse you if you refuse! It all smacks of legalised extortion!'.

She shook her head sadly and we changed the subject.

I go for a walk most evenings through the back streets not far from here. Usually just after sunset for no more sinister a reason than that it's just after dinner and I enjoy walking at that hour. Last night, for the first time in the seven years that I've been here, I went walking on Halloween evening. Other years I've avoided it precisely because I don't want to have to put up with the ankle biters aforesaid. On the other hand, why should I allow them to cramp my enjoyment?

Normally one couldn't tell, by ocular evidence alone, that anyone occupied the houses lining those back streets. To be sure, the lights are on but it certainly looks like no one's at home. I could count on the thumbs of one foot the number of actual real people I encounter most nights. However, much like the graves that are supposed to yield up their dead, those houses yielded up many a reveler and the streets were awash with ankle biters and parents.

It would seem that the sight of a solitary middle aged bloke walking at a smart pace (I walk very fast by most peoples standards) was so far outside their experience that it could only portend evil. How else explain the number of ankle biters starting to cross the road such that they would intersect my path who were reined in by anxious parents eyeing me as I strolled past. Once I was safely past, however, the children were permitted to cross. *shrug*

I think, in future years, I'll eschew the walk on Halloween.

Now here's a puzzle

As you probably don't remember I'm a big fan of British Comedy, especially comedy from an earlier, more genteel period, the 1960's.

My wife is long inured to the sight of me, headphones clapped on my head, laughing heartily at the latest (40 year old) tomfoolery on Round the Horne[^], especially when Kenneth Williams[^] chuckles from the sidelines. Good stuff!

And so with other shows, such as The Goon Show, Hancock's Half Hour, Much Binding in the Marsh and many others that have run on BBC7 over the past year and a half since I discovered em. Indeed, if you have a very good memory you might even remember that I posted on that very subject on April 1 last year!

Back then I expressed some surprise that I was able to get the show over the internet given that I'm not in Britain, have never been in Britain and have never paid a cent in licensing fees. Well, apparently the restriction applies to TV over the 'net. I run into the same problem with Australian TV - I can listen to 3LO Melbourne no problems, but when I try and watch ABC TV I'm sternly told I'm not within their coverage area.

The mystery deepened today, when I noticed that the program I was listening to was listed as having been broadcast at 3:00 AM. Understand that I'm using their 'Listen Again' service, which makes all broadcasts available over the internet for the following seven days.

The program was Saturdays Comedy Controller, which first goes out at 10:00 AM London time, coincidentally 3:00 AM Phoenix time. A further check and I discover that they're listing all program times in the Real Player with a first broadcast time corrected for the Phoenix time zone.

Now I can understand that BBC management might want to know the geographical spread of their internet service, hence looking up my IP address. What I don't understand is why anyone thought it worth the coding, testing and deployment costs to convert original broadcast time from London time to the listeners local time!

Seniors Menu

Uh huh - I'm now old enough to order from the cheap section at the back of the menu in the cheaper eateries around here.

I honestly don't remember Australian restaurants offering a lower priced seniors section on their menus but then again, I wasn't, in those days, eating at the kind of place that *would* offer it. Even here I go to such places under protest or when Andrew and his girlfriend are expecting us to pick up the tab; call me a mean bastard but I ain't shelling out 30 bucks a head for those two.

A few weeks ago we were in just such an eatery and I, still blissfully under the age of 55 (but only just) pointed out to my wife that I'd soon be able to order from the same section of the menu she's been able to order from for years. The waiter, cheeky young bastard, piped up and told me he'd turn a blind eye if I wanted to order from there.

I fear my wife took a great deal of pleasure laughing at me on that occasion.

Time for a good whinge

I haven't had a good one in ages!

Morgans second was delivered this week - Thursday morning to be precise. I actually didn't know the second little bastard had entered the world until Friday morning; my wife didn't think I'd be all that fussed to know. And let me tell you, she was correct.

What I did know was that on Wednesday my wife and Morgan had rushed off to the hospital on what turned out to be a false alarm; and that Morgan had been denying possible reality by saying 'it can't be born today'. When the kid's my age I'd posit that a day here or there will make no difference and indeed, to the kid today it probably also makes no difference. But it seems that the extra day *did* make a big difference to Morgan.

Everything had been scheduled to happen on Friday. I have to confess, not being a father, that I was a trifle puzzled at this 'scheduling' thing. Surely, I reasoned, a pregnancy came to a conclusion in its own time? Even if one were able to pinpoint to the second the moment of conception there is *still* some uncertainty, no?

All of which shows how out of touch I am with 'reality' today, for, as almost all of you are thinking, they had scheduled an induced birth. Such a pity for Morgan then, that nature had taken things into her own hands.

For, on the Thursday, the news came that Morgan had failed a drug test. Now you'd reckon that after some run-ins with the police, a few nights spent in gaol and the might of the State of Arizona in the shape of Child Protection Services focussed on her, that she might realise that partaking of her favourite, illegal, recreational drug a few days before giving birth to child number two might not be a good idea.

Hence her panic when nature took its course. Of course, I'm sure she calibrated her indulgence, calculated to a nicety breakdown and excretion rates, allowed for margins of error in the testing process and knew with absolute certainty that on Friday all the evidence would be gone. I'm equally sure that pigs can fly!

Well, the might of the State of Arizona swung into action and on Friday the family interview took place. I wasn't present of course; the first I knew about it was Friday afternoon when I found the family copy of the paperwork sitting on the kitchen table.

All kinds of restrictions; Morgan is not allowed, on pain of imprisonment, to take her children off the premises without an 'approved monitor' accompanying her. Want to guess who the approved monitor is?

As I said to my wife over dinner that evening, it's effectively house arrest for us! Oh sure, I can go out anytime I like. I can even hop on a plane to Australia (and I will, 117 days from now, not that I'm counting). So can my wife, if Morgan is still at the hospital. But she comes back here tomorrow and that's when the house arrest starts, for Morgan cannot be trusted and therefore my wife must be constantly here to monitor the situation.

In the light of that it almost felt churlish to object when I discovered that they are running a background check on me! I understand their logic but it doesn't sit well with the presumption of innocence. Fortunately they'll find me one of the easier investigations; I've been through it before for other purposes and haven't changed address since then. Always assuming an FBI background check is 'good enough'.

There's another family interview taking place this Wednesday and I'm still debating whether to attend. I'm not sure there's anything I could constructively add. I'd be much more likely to make things worse by objecting to the aforementioned presumption of guilt without evidence. Probably best left alone.

I'm sure that attitude is how anti-semitism managed to grow in post Weimar Germany.

7 minutes of fame

if that much!

You might remember this post[^] a couple of weeks ago.

The journalist concerned contacted me and we had a bit of a talk on the phone about my misguided attempts to locate Adams Ribs. I note that he seemed to know a lot about me before we even started! I have, it seems, left a fairly easy trail to follow on the internet. Good thing I have no known enemies in the USA.

Given that he seemed to know a lot about me before we even spoke I took the precaution of searching the internet for info about him! Turned up bugger all but then again, it was only a half hearted attempt at best. Life is, after all, too short to spend ferreting out the home address of someone you've never heard of.

Thus to the phone call aforementioned. I'd taken the precaution of rolling a couple of smokes before returning the call and smoked em as I walked back and forth chatting on the phone. As an aside, I've never mastered the art of staying put when on a mobile phone. Possibly because I hate being tethered to a land line.

A week or so later a sub editor from the Chicago Sun Times called; doubtless to reassure himself that I wasn't an invention of the journalist. My story (and his) confirmed, they went to press. You can find it here[^]. Umm, for the record, I don't recall saying that 'I took it as gospel that the restaurant really existed' but who knows; perhaps I did. *shrug*

By amazing coincidence that episode of M*A*S*H ran on cable at midnight on the day of publication; I've recorded it for old times sake. I might even DVDify it!

I have no pointy objects

I had occasion today to visit the local Social Security Administration. Call it an exercise in making sure that, when I retire, a decade or so hence, my entire 2008 income is factored into their calculations. Should make for an extra 3 bucks a month!

This was my third visit to the SSA. The first was the day after I arrived in the US, to show them the immigrant stamp in my passport and get my social security number and card, with the all important *lack* of an endorsement, the one that says 'not valid for work authorisation'.

The second visit was to show them my newly minted citizenship certificate and get moved off the non-citizens list.

I have to say that, as government departments go, they're not bad. Reasonably efficient for a walk in and the waiting times aren't astronomical. They compare very well with any of the motor vehicle departments I've had to deal with, here or in Australia.

I don't think I've spent more than half an hour on any occasion with them.

As one walks in through the door one runs the gauntlet of the ubiquitous uniformed fat guy who fulfills the role of security. Pretty friendly so far as it goes, one explains the purpose of ones visit and he touches a few areas on a computer screen and out pops a ticket. Then you go sit and read whilst waiting for them to call your number.

Except that first he asks a few other questions. You understand that there's no metal detector; no rectangular frame to walk through. Nope, just the questions. 'Do you have a cellphone?'. The answer is affirmative. 'Does it have a camera?'. The answer is negative. The guy in front answered yes to both and was told to turn it off. Since mine doesn't have a camera I was permitted to leave it switched on. I imagine they don't want you photographing the staff.

And then they ask 'do you have any sharp objects?'. Now I want any NSA or FBI or CIA wonks finding this via google to understand that this is said in the spirit of sarcasm, as an illustration of a point! I have every intention of sticking this blade in my pocket into the neck of the person behind the counter, but, being asked that question, I realise the futility of my plan and run away! 'No'. 'Ok', he says, 'take a seat and wait till they call your number'.

So just what is the point of even asking the question, if you're not going to verify the answer *before* allowing the suspect into the waiting room? A legal out? 'Yes, your honour, we did ask the fiend if he had a sharp object'.

*shrug*

I need to learn to speak English!

at least according to one deli worker.

This happened a few weeks ago and I didn't feel much like writing about it at the time, but on further reflection I think it's worth relating, if only so I can come off as a complete bastard!

I've related, a few times, the things that can happen when trying to communicate here. I speak, fairly obviously, with a strong Australian accent and, given that I was 48 when I moved to the US, I think it unlikely my accent is going to change. Partly that's stubbornness. I speak the way I speak because that's part of who and what I am, US citizenship notwithstanding.

I avoid certain words that are 'dangerous' due the possibility of misconstruction; I don't say can't for example, always using the full form of cannot, even if it's grammatically awkward.

I'll even, when necessary, pronounce the last letter of the alphabet as zee instead of zed.

So a few weeks ago it was time for the Sunday afternoon purchase of deli products for the forthcoming weeks lunch. I fronted up at the counter, grabbed the ticket[^] and awaited my turn. When it came I asked for 'a pound of Boars Head roast beef, sliced thick'. Got the usual non-comprehension. So I tried again. same non-comprehension. So far, par for the course. I don't really blame em either; I certainly wouldn't want to be standing for 8 hours dealing with the people who buy stuff at the deli counter, dickering over the thickness of beef and cheese. It's not as if the conversation we hold as part of the purchase is scintillating stuff.

I usually have to repeat myself thrice. *shrug*.

At the end of the third repeat, faced with the same non-comprehension, I'm wondering what I can do to make this easier? I have considered printing up the request and handing it over on a piece of paper, feigning muteness.

At the end of the fourth repeat the person behind the counter suggested that I 'should learn to speak english'.

Now I probably should have just ignored it. Nonetheless, this was rudeness beyond the acceptable. I've spoken English all my life and know no other natural language.

I asked for, and spoke with, the manager. He did a much better job of coping with my accent and offered to waive payment for my purchases. Nope, that's not the point and not the reason I'm complaining. This is America, the country so proud of it's melting pot immigration background. I completely understand that pride; we Australians are also proud of our immigration mix.

I insisted on paying for my lunch material. I fear he thought I was planning on suing but not a bit of it. Sue the company because of one ignorant person?

I've been back there once or twice and strangely, never seen that person behind the deli counter again. If they lost their job then I'm sorry about it, but I'm not going to apologise (much) for being offended.

Meanwhile, I've learned to appreciate it when the black girl, or the hispanic guy at the deli serves me; they actually listen and I never have to repeat myself more than once!

Mando

When I lived in Melbourne I had personalised number plates (car tags). MANDO. It's one habit we Australians seem to have, when abbreviating someones name, to stick an O on the end. Thus, when abbreviating my name from Manderson it becomes Mando and was for quite some years. Of course, when I was a short trousered urchin, my friends of the time would tee hee as they abbreviated it to Mandy and I endured that particular cognomen for a number of years. Little bastards. We'll pass over any similarly juvenile 'humour' in which I might have participated!

Now I wouldn't want you to think *I* went out and got those number plates! Nope, they were my 40th birthday present from my second wife. I was, however, inordinately pleased at receiving them and would say, to any who cared to listen, that I 'used to think people with personalised plates were wankers and now I are one'. You can tell that my standards of humour haven't improved appreciably over the last half century!

A couple of years later I awoke one Saturday morning and went out to the car, to find someone had left a note under the wiper. Uh huh. Did this mean some neighbour objected to the way I parked? Nope, it was from one Campbell Manderson offering to buy my plates, at a premium, as he'd always wanted MANDO as his rego.

A pity then that he had left no phone number, no address and I had never heard of him! Might have been able to turn a tidy profit, especially as my second wife and I had parted ways by then.

I notice that the tradition continues; someone left a note on my previous post, Three dags[^] wanting to get a quote or two from yours truly about a post I wrote way back in 2006 about Adams Ribs[^], for possible inclusion in an article to be published in the Chicago Sun Times.

Such a pity then that the journalist posted as Anonymous and I have no way to reply save through these pages.

I'd love to be quoted. Contact me at rob (dot) manderson (at) gmail (dot) com.

Three dags

Photobucket (the site I use to host images) was down when I wrote the last post. Here's a shot of three dags.



Left to right, Gary, Moi and Heino. Can you tell we get more sunlight where I live?

A misunderstanding

Andrew had been rather secretive a couple of months ago, something I put down to being 17 years of age. It turns out that I wasn't far off the mark - there's a girlfriend in the picture!

This fact emerged slowly, at least from what I could observe. You understand that I, being a curmudgeon, have certain ideas regarding how far one should go in accomodating ones step kids, and that does not include ferrying the little bastards half a mile when they could perfectly well walk it.

Thus Sonya had met the young lady in question well before I did. Suspecting that perhaps Andrew was concerned that I might embarass him I promised that I would do no such thing; even if she came to dinner on Sunday night[^]!

And so to this week; when I arrived home from the office on Tuesday evening it was to find Andrews computer strangely neglected and nary a sign of World of Warcraft. This is so unusual an occurrence that I asked Sonya if he was feeling well. Nope, it turned out that he was up in his room with a girl! Ah ha!

A few minutes later they emerged.

She's cute. As an aside, I always like to lie about the meaning of that word. I'll describe myself as being cute and when the listener, understandably, demurs, I say 'well, if you'd read the dictionary you'd know it really means 'ugly but interesting''. How cute that no one has ever called me on it!

As another aside I couldn't help but notice that Sonya would call out to Andrew every so often as he lurked upstairs with her. I understand that Sonya even barged in on them once without knocking. Apparently the imminent arrival of a second grandchild courtesy of Morgan has taught her something!

The next morning at the office I mentioned having met the damsel and commented that she was 'cute as'. Shocks all round! How dare I notice the damsels backside let alone think it cute.

After laughing uproariously I pointed out that had I meant that I'd have said 'cute arse' and *not* 'cute as'.

Really, after half a year of my accent you'd think they'd know better!

Pick the error

Don't be late!

My route to work each morning takes me Southward on Central Avenue. This time of year, that early in the day, it's still dark, so I don't see as much as perhaps I should. That'll change as we leave winter behind and soon enough I'll find myself driving in daylight.

Driving home it's still light and my route takes me North on 7th Avenue. Much the better run than Central and I'd use it on my way to work were it not that I seem to be the only Phoenix resident who actually observes the signs prohibiting left turns at that time of day. Of course it could also be that I have an aversion to using the 'suicide' lane, especially for a turn.

If you don't know what the suicide lane is, it's that lane out in the middle of the road that's for traffic in one direction in the morning and the other direction in the afternoon. We had (have) em in Melbourne too, notably Queens Road St.Kilda and I didn't like them there any more than I do here. But that's just me.

Anyway, that part of Phoenix seems to have a church on every block. Pretty up market most of em by the looks but then again the entire area is way out of my price range. There's one church though, just north of Indian School Road, that really catches my eye every evening as I drive home. I have no idea which denomination they are and don't much care but I can't help noticing the prominent sign announcing services at 10:18 on Sundays.

I'm almost curious enough to go over some Sunday and see if they really are that precise!

Dicking around

As you know, I still read the Melbourne Newspapers online every day, even now, six years after moving to Phoenix.

On the front page of The Age[^], at the bottom of the page, they have a set of links from related newspapers in four other states, supposedly representing the five most viewed stories from each online newspaper.

What's been fascinating me for the past month is the remarkable persistence of the story of the bloke caught with his penis in a jar of pasta. I suppose it takes all sorts. However, as if that wasn't wierd enough, he was apparently caught near Nobbys Beach!

I can appreciate a good nob joke as much as the next bloke but I have to wonder at how long that story has persisted. The dateline is November 20th and it's *still* listed as number 1 at the time of writing. Is it really that popular a story? Or is someone fiddling the stats to keep it around?

Childish minds wonder!

[edit] Catch it while it lasts[^]. I bet the link goes stale pretty quickly. (Which is why I didn't link it in the first place but Guy *did* ask).

It's not really my wifes fault I have white knuckles

when I'm the passenger and she's the driver.

I hardly ever use my own car except to drive to and from the office. That and the odd drive over to Frys Electronics. Apart from that, almost everywhere I go is in my wifes company and we use her car. Which means that most of the time she's the driver and I'm the passenger.

Many's the white knuckle experience and, more than once she's yelled at me to stop back seat driving. This usually happens when she swings out into traffic with a gap that I'd never essay. Of course her car's more powerful than mine; I've learned, with my cars lack of acceleration, to wait for large gaps. Causes the odd fit of apoplexy in the impatient bastard sitting behind me in his F250 but I maintain that if I were to be urged out into traffic the way they'd prefer the ensuing accident would cost them more time than my native caution does.

On the other hand, the most I've ever had to pay to fill the tank was $25 and that was half a year ago at the oil peak. These days a tankful runs to about $13. I sure don't waste the petrol!

Sonya also seems to wander around in the lane rather more than I like. Somehow I seem to be able to drive my car smack dab between the lane markings; she seems to drive as though she's keeping her options open regarding lane choice.

The other day my car was playing up. In the light of earlier comment regarding the lack of power it might seem paradoxical that I noticed it was even more gutless than usual but indubitably it was so. It felt like one cylinder wasn't firing, so we took it to the local garage.

Time was when I'd have had the bonnet up and be tracking down a problem like that myself, but that was thirty or more years ago. I used to do my own car repairs back in the days when, if one were to drop a spanner at the top of the engine, there was a better than even chance it would fall all the way to the ground. Not so these days; have you looked in the average engine compartment lately?

So my wife drove me to work on Monday morning.

They found nothing wrong and it's been running fine since then. They did suggest that perhaps we should swap cars for a couple of days; she drives nowhere farther than a couple of miles during the week and she'd be able to take it back if the problem manifested itself.

So I drove my wifes car on Tuesday. And thus I discovered that her car doesn't drive anything like as straight a line as mine does. It seemed that every second I had to do a steering correction to stay within the lane markers.

Perhaps it's not her fault at all. Well, except for one thing. When I dare to mention it she's not even aware that she's weaving from left to right. At least I noticed it!

Overdoing the politeness

Now I want it clearly understood that I have no problem with politeness. I've even been known to be polite myself. It's an essential lubricant to society and without it we'd see a lot more anarchy than we do. After all, if no one is polite then we see road rage, queue rage and worse.

Indeed, I've often ascribed the sometimes excessive politeness I see here in the US to fear; in the land where even I can own a gun if I wanted (I don't), and in a state that permits open carry and has concealed weapon permits, politeness is well advised; you don't know if the guy you snub might pop a cap in your arse! Oh, would that such politeness extended to driving!

Nonetheless, I can't help feeling it's taken a trifle too far.

These days one has to smoke outside of course, which means that I'm negotiating the doors into and out of the building fairly frequently. Me and all the other smokers! Obviously I'm talking at work - since I'm paying the mortgage at home I get to smoke inside if I choose. I choose.

Thus to walking back in after stubbing out. I've learned to check if there are others approaching the door and modulate my approach such that I'm at least twenty feet from the door as they pass through. Otherwise they feel obliged to wait and hold the door open for me.

Now I ask you, do I look like I can't open the door for myself?

Worse, one feels the pressure to do the same. Gut feel tells me that some clown ten feet away won't be terribly offended if I don't pause to hold that damn door open; closer and he might.

You can imagine how difficult it can be to modulate ones approach to be twenty feet behind the person who enters the building before one and more than ten feet ahead of the person behind one. I really should chuck it up, grow a beard and become the curmudgeon who doesn't give a damn. I've already achieved it all save for the beard!

The other day I saw someone who took it to extremes. Youngish bloke on his way out for a smoke. I kid you not, I saw this poor bastard make six false starts away from the door before noticing yet another person approach. At each fresh approach he'd dart back so he could hold the door open. It didn't seem to matter which side of the door they came from, he'd rush back and open it for someone leaving the building, or for someone entering the building.

I swear I almost longed for a weapon so's I could pop a cap in his sorry arse and put him out of his misery!

Competition

When I was in Australia a couple of months ago I took the opportunity of buying, at the computer market, an Intel Quad core processor; the price was somewhat less than I'd have paid here for it and it was, after all, bragging rights.

Perhaps I overdid the bragging - I can certainly see how Heino, hearing me chanting 'Quad Core, Quad Core' might get a trifle tired of life. But I *do* think his antidote was both misguided and over the top. For what did he do almost as soon as I had returned to Phoenix but order a Mac Dual Quad Core Xeon machine with 16 gigs of memory. My quarrel with that decision is of course that it's a Mac.

Methinks I've raised the level of competition a trifle though. You might recall that when he was here in the US a year and a bit ago we went to Las Vegas and saw The Fab Four show. Excellent show, particularly if you're an old fart like Heino is.

Thus to a few minutes ago when Heino sent me an email including a screen shot of the Mac About box showing 8 cores and a bunch of memory. What could I do but reply that Sonya and I have decided to go to Las Vegas on New Years day, for three nights *and* we're going to catch LOVE[^].

Let's see how Heino beats that!

Stupid people

I'm sure you've worked out that I have little patience for the stupid people of this world. Such a pity there are so many of them. Fortunately my wife has learned to tune out when I'm ranting about em else she'd go deaf methinks.

You know how, at the deli in the supermarket, they have this little red plastic machine that dispenses tickets? There must be just the one manufacturer in the entire world for I can testify that the machines look exactly the same in Australia, here in the US, over there in France and I even saw one in The Philippines!

Anyway, the idea is that one walks up to the deli and grabs a ticket. Then one waits patiently while the guy in front agonises over the choice of cheese and that other guy complains that the roast beef is *still* too thick even though you can see through it!

Since changing jobs I find I drink rather less and eat rather more. I'm sure the two are related; less alcohol probably means less sugar in the system. Whatever the reason I find that come 11 AM I'm ravenous. Thus to taking lunch to work each day. Which, inevitably, means that I have to face the deli at the local supermarket each week.

I gave up on the one at the closest supermarket; it didn't seem to matter what time or day I fronted up I always copped a particularly deaf woman who could not understand that when I ask for 'roast beef cut thick' that I really meant what I said. Yeah, I know, I'm sounding like that bloke mentioned before who obsesses over the thickness of his beef. But I'd have imagined that suggesting a thickness of a sixteenth of an inch might indicate that perhaps I wanted it thick! On the other hand, perhaps the thickness of my accent was the problem!

She also has a bad cold, and has had it for a couple of months now. Lots of sniffles and sneezes. Call me squeamish but I really don't want week old germs on my sangers.

So I go to a different supermarket for the deli. Not that it helped a lot; there are still stupid people who take a ticket, stand there for ten minutes while the preceding moron is served and then, when it's their turn, have no idea what they want. Hence dicking around and, in one case, a guy so clueless he waited until the question was popped, admitted he didn't know and pulled out his mobile phone to call his wife! Followed by a three or four minute wait while she ambulated ever so slowly from the other end of the supermarket to the deli counter! Idiots the pair of them!

But the ones I like the best are the ones who can't read. At least every second week I'll walk up to the ticket dispenser, take the ticket, check the number and I'm next! This despite the throng milling around waiting to be served. And when the attendant has finished with the last customer they press expectantly forward, waiting for the gaze that indicates 'you're next'. How disappointed they must be when the attendant calls out '71' and I say 'yes', hold out the ticket and get served next. More than once I've been the recipient of a glance meant to kill. I've even had people say 'I was here first', which I can't gainsay; they *were* there first.

But it's not my fault I can read and they can't. It's pretty well sign posted.

Doing a Melba

Well, my older Australian readers will understand the title. For the rest of you, Dame Nellie Melba [^], the Australian Opera singer, did a lot of farewell tours. We also sometimes twist the meaning to cover someone who returns some time afterward.

Which is what I did the other day at the place where I used to work. Actually it was my second return; the first was the day after Thankgiving. You have to understand that at the place where I used to work they don't take such things as public holidays into account when committing to deliveries. I suppose they could hide behind the excuse that Thanksgiving isn't actually a committed holiday; it's proclaimed each year by The President. Of course, failure to proclaim it would be political suicide and it's now become so associated with late November that I reckon a great many Americans would be surprised to learn it was originally held in September!

Anyway, the point is that everyone here expects the last weekend of November to be Thanksgiving. You'd imagine then that planning would make allowance for it. But not at The Place Where I Used To Work (hereinafter TPWIUTW). Indeed, they scheduled an oven delivery at Thanksgiving in 2004, 2005, 2006 and 2007 as well as this one.

Thus to a phone call from an apologetic Randy on the friday. Again, most places except retail allocate the day after Thanksgiving as a public holiday and he was pretty sure I was not at work that day. But he'd run into a problem with the Software I Used To Work On (SIUTWO - you get the idea) and hoped I'd help out. Well, I've worked with Randy for a few years and I *know* he wouldn't call if he hadn't reached the end of his knowledge in that particular area, so I was happy to help out. What little advice I could give over the phone didn't help so I drove down to Tempe. Not as magnanimous a gesture as it seems; Morgan was being more difficult than usual that afternoon. Besides, I miss the old bastard and it was good to catch up with a friendly face.

The problem was simple enough; a cable inside the PC was reversed and red faced indeed was Randy. But no matter, I enjoyed the afternoon. Great chance to catch up on the gossip.

They got that one as a freebie.

The other day they emailed me asking for some advice about multi-threaded access to the device driver. Again, I was happy enough to give some basic advice; it takes all of five minutes if it's a familiar subject to give some pointers. Alas, the pointers weren't quite enough and they agreed to my hourly rate for me to go in and look at the code. Thus to my going in again.

How depressing it was to sit at my old desk again, even if I was on four times the old hourly rate! If ever I needed confirmation I'd made the right decision to change jobs that was it.

As for whether I've fixed their multi-threading problem? Time will tell; when I left late Friday afternoon the software was in the third hour of testing without a failure and we left it to run over the weekend. I'm almost afraid to check email Monday. But only almost!

An unpleasant surprise

I was on the phone today with someone who reminded me of an occurrence that took place quite some time ago. After laughing I remarked that I really must blog about it whereupon the someone said 'oh no mate, don't identify me'. So I won't identify you, mate!

Unfortunately I wasn't present when this story took place so you'll have to take the word of someone else, related many times over the past three and a half decades. On the other hand, once you've read the story, you might agree with me that it was fortunate indeed that I wasn't present.

Our anonymous actor lived, at that time, in a small house in Williamstown with his folks. Over the back fence was a small theatre occupied by a smaller amateur theatre company. I'm sure you'll remember your nonage, when such things as fences and locked doors presented no moral impediment to exploration. When one is a dozen years old who cares about such things?

So it was that our anonymous actor and his friends of similar age were wont, during the holidays, to scale the back fence and explore the old theatre. I'd have done the same had there been an old theatre nearby to explore. Alas, all I had was the old salmon canning factory, the lemonade factory, the glass works - you know, come to think of it, I wasn't all that badly off!

One afternoon they either broke into, or found unlocked, the costume room. I prefer to think someone had forgotten to lock it. And so our anonymous actor and his friends found an old fur coat. I imagine they strutted around in it for a few minutes, tried on silly hats and bandannas and generally made complete dags of themselves. And it might have been just as well had it stopped there. But no, not for our anonymous actor. He conceived the evil idea of leaving a small calling card in the pocket.

We really don't want to think of a future pillar of society dropping his trousers and taking a crap in the pocket of this coat but, alas, that is apparently what happened.

One can only imagine the feelings of the poor real actor, member of that amateur theatre company, upon trying on the costume for their next production and placing his hand in that pocket.

But if it were a comedy production his wildest dreams will have come true, for that simple act thirty five years ago has provided me, the anonymous actor and all our friends with countless hours of amusement.

And there ain't nothing wrong with a bit of innocent laughter!

Architectural Pursuits

Back in 1975 Robin and I were going through an architecture phase, by which I mean that we were admiring buildings old and new and taking the opportunity, when it offered, of sneaking in and taking a gander at those parts not really open to the public.

As an aside I'll note that it *still* pisses me off when, having paid a few bucks for entrance to some grand old mansion or other, that all the interesting bits are off limits. Perhaps the example, par excellence, of this is at Chirnside House, at Werribee a few miles out of Melbourne. One can gawk all one wants at a drawing room filled with period furniture and old woodcuts but can one ascend into the tower? Of course not!

One afternoon in 1975, as aforesaid, Robin and I ventured into an old building on Queens Street. I'd guess it was built around 1920 and it had a staircase that wrapped around the lift well. This was back in the days when buildings still, occasionally, had lift attendants and this building, you guessed it, had such an employee. He was pretty old by our standards; I fancy he might have been as old as I am now. And he was adamant that we were not permitted to be in the building, given that we had no appointment with anyone and, indeed, hadn't even had the foresight to memorise a name or two on the upper floors from the building directory.

Well, just because some old bastard in a lift attendants uniform had said we should leave was not enough reason to leave. We faked a departure, waited until the lift ascended and took to the stairs.

The old bastard was ahead of us and, as we took the final turn in the staircase from the ground floor to the first, he was waiting for us. So down we went again. And down came the lift. A glare in our direction as we retreated out the front door and into the street.

Uh huh - not quite the end of it. This time we waited a couple of minutes and stuck our heads in. No sign of the lift and we made a dash for the stairs. This time we got to the third floor when suddenly the lift door opened and our adversary glared out. Thus up and down the stairs, followed by this pantomime demon and his glares. This went on for quite a quarter of an hour before we realised all he was doing was glaring and, thus emboldened, we made it to the top floor.

Which was quite disappointing. Just a row of office doors and no access to the roof so far as we could determine.

A few weeks ago Sonya and I were bored. So we went for a trip downtown. If you've ever seen Phoenix downtown you'll know we were bored indeed. Particularly when it was Sunday afternoon and I reckon you could fire a cannon down Central Ave and not a soul would notice.

We wandered over to the new convention centre, right next to Symphony Hall. To our surprise it was open (though it certainly didn't look it from the street) and we walked inside. No one around save for a few 'security' types and one young lady at the coffee shop who looked so bored that death might have seemed an attractive alternative.

The interior was much like any such conference centre anywhere in the world; acres of carpet, lots of large rooms, multiple floors and a bunch of escalators. We took one down, to what turned out to be the car park.

We came back up to the ground floor and then took another escalator up. And up. It does go up a fair way.

And on the down and ups we were followed, at a discreet yet obvious distance, by one of the 'security' types. Was she bored? Or did she really think we represented a threat?

I couldn't resist. As she followed us back down to the ground floor I stepped off the escalator at a landing and ducked into an alcove. Sure enough, a few moments later she came rushing past, frantically trying to find this middle aged terrorist obviously bent on bringing down the fabric of Phoenix society.

It was cruel of me, I know. As soon as she disappeared I took the escalator down, rejoined Sonya and we exited to the street. At least I gave the 'security' type something to while away the rest of the afternoon with; the task of finding the nonexistent intruder on the first floor!

What can I say?