You find the situation here at the hotel.
They proudly proclaim that each room now has WiFi connectivity for a mere P1000 for 24 hours. That's about US$20. Cheaper than at the hotel in Nice. I don't know if it's faster or if it lets me post on Wdevs for the simple reason that even though I requested a connection 36 hours ago it has yet to materialise.
One of the things I wanted to test here was the ability of a certain remotable PC product to transcend firewalls. Accordingly I installed the software on our machine and returned to the hotel hoping that by now my connection would be established. It hasn't been. I can see the wireless network but can I connect to it? Not on your nelly!
An information sheet on my table informs me that I need to dial 3 (reception) to request activation and authentication. I did so. Some rambling on the phone and the promise that their EDP people would call me back. They haven't. EDP? I thought that term went out of style about the time that mainframes were replaced by UNIX boxes...
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
Interesting people
On my flight from Phoenix to Los Angeles the other day I was seated behind the nuclear family. Mum, Dad and the infant. Dad asked the flight attendant about LAX. Where was the Qantas terminal? Given that he had an 'American' accent this naturally attracted my attention.
The flight attendant didn't know. So I leaned around the seat and advised him that we, on American Airlines, would land at Terminal 1 and he needed to go to Terminal 4 (Tom Bradley International). He seemed somewhat doubtful, fearful that LAX was like Chicago O'Hare or JFK in New York. I assured him that LAX was walker friendly. It really is. I can walk from any terminal at LAX to any other in less than 15 minutes. The benefit of sane design.
Well one thing led to another, probably helped by my 'foreign' accent. Since I was going to the same terminal I was more than happy to guide them.
It turned out that they were on their way to New Zealand as prospective immigrants, checking out their prospective new home. I've been to New Zealand twice as a tourist. Loved the place! It's my second choice for a home. (No prizes for guessing what my first choice is). The USA comes third. Let's not go there!
I hope I did my bit for promoting their choice.
The flight attendant didn't know. So I leaned around the seat and advised him that we, on American Airlines, would land at Terminal 1 and he needed to go to Terminal 4 (Tom Bradley International). He seemed somewhat doubtful, fearful that LAX was like Chicago O'Hare or JFK in New York. I assured him that LAX was walker friendly. It really is. I can walk from any terminal at LAX to any other in less than 15 minutes. The benefit of sane design.
Well one thing led to another, probably helped by my 'foreign' accent. Since I was going to the same terminal I was more than happy to guide them.
It turned out that they were on their way to New Zealand as prospective immigrants, checking out their prospective new home. I've been to New Zealand twice as a tourist. Loved the place! It's my second choice for a home. (No prizes for guessing what my first choice is). The USA comes third. Let's not go there!
I hope I did my bit for promoting their choice.
The gods are infinitely more subtle
than you might imagine. Then again, you'd reckon, wouldn't you, that at my age I'd have realised that by now.
So I tempted the gods by publishing a week or so ahead of time the ordering of an airline ticket; four or so days ahead of time the destination and finally the timing. They refused to be tempted because they had something much more exquisite up their sleeves.
Uh huh. I left home on Friday in order to be here in The Philippines bright eyed and bushy tailed, eager, wakeful and at the very peak of my form on Monday morning this timezone, in order to impress the hell out of our customer.
I might have known better. It is, of course, a public holiday here. Independence day. The commemoration of June 12 1898 when The Philippines ceased to be a Spanish colony.
Let's add another thing to the list of things I check before jetting off. Is it a public holiday where I'm going? On the other hand, I see that my frequent flyer points for the flights here have already been credited to my account. I'm thinking of Iceland for a week sometime next year; how many people do you know who've been to Iceland?
I surprised my driver yesterday. As we drove from Manila to Baguio he mentioned it was a public holiday. Quick memory scan and up came that date. So I asked if it was Independence day, adding 1898 and Spain. Amazed him! Given that he knows I live in the US he doubtless expected me to believe that Filipinos celebrate their indpendence from the US. But they could hardly do that, could they, given that that particular anniversary falls on July 4. He was delighted to hear that I knew about the Spanish rule and could even come up with an exact date.
My driver turned out to have had an interesting father; I got a lot of details. His father, it seems, was involved in the underground during the period of Japanese rule (1940-1944). He fought in the battle that reclaimed the very place where I'm writing this in early 1944. His commander was Ferdinand Marcos, later President of The Philippines. And his father was shot dead during a political campaign.
I have to admit that, though I knew that where I am right now was once a US military base, I hadn't connected the dots and realised that it was also once a Japanese prisoner of war camp. Memories of (URL)Keith came back.
We agreed, based on what I've read in local newspapers and his personal experiences that involvement with Filipino politics is probably not conducive to long life. I have to admit that I'm a trifle nervous about the news over the weekend regarding the possibility of a military coup here. On the other hand, it might make for some good blog material.
So I left the US on Friday, in order to impress customer management with my dedication to their insane demands by Monday. And they weren't there to be impressed because they, unlike me, get to enjoy public holidays (ok, I know that's a cheap shot at the management I hope aren't reading my blog). I could have stayed home an extra day. I still wouldn't have got to see The Red Green Show or Coupling on PBS.
Meanwhile, what I'm here to do is progressing wonderfully. We're almost done. And the next time management wonder why I'm rewriting something my predecessor wrote without testing maybe they'll take my word for it's necessity. Especially as I can play politics when I need to. And if I lose the political battle I'll still be alive. Maybe unemployed but that's curable. Death isn't.
So I tempted the gods by publishing a week or so ahead of time the ordering of an airline ticket; four or so days ahead of time the destination and finally the timing. They refused to be tempted because they had something much more exquisite up their sleeves.
Uh huh. I left home on Friday in order to be here in The Philippines bright eyed and bushy tailed, eager, wakeful and at the very peak of my form on Monday morning this timezone, in order to impress the hell out of our customer.
I might have known better. It is, of course, a public holiday here. Independence day. The commemoration of June 12 1898 when The Philippines ceased to be a Spanish colony.
Let's add another thing to the list of things I check before jetting off. Is it a public holiday where I'm going? On the other hand, I see that my frequent flyer points for the flights here have already been credited to my account. I'm thinking of Iceland for a week sometime next year; how many people do you know who've been to Iceland?
I surprised my driver yesterday. As we drove from Manila to Baguio he mentioned it was a public holiday. Quick memory scan and up came that date. So I asked if it was Independence day, adding 1898 and Spain. Amazed him! Given that he knows I live in the US he doubtless expected me to believe that Filipinos celebrate their indpendence from the US. But they could hardly do that, could they, given that that particular anniversary falls on July 4. He was delighted to hear that I knew about the Spanish rule and could even come up with an exact date.
My driver turned out to have had an interesting father; I got a lot of details. His father, it seems, was involved in the underground during the period of Japanese rule (1940-1944). He fought in the battle that reclaimed the very place where I'm writing this in early 1944. His commander was Ferdinand Marcos, later President of The Philippines. And his father was shot dead during a political campaign.
I have to admit that, though I knew that where I am right now was once a US military base, I hadn't connected the dots and realised that it was also once a Japanese prisoner of war camp. Memories of (URL)Keith came back.
We agreed, based on what I've read in local newspapers and his personal experiences that involvement with Filipino politics is probably not conducive to long life. I have to admit that I'm a trifle nervous about the news over the weekend regarding the possibility of a military coup here. On the other hand, it might make for some good blog material.
So I left the US on Friday, in order to impress customer management with my dedication to their insane demands by Monday. And they weren't there to be impressed because they, unlike me, get to enjoy public holidays (ok, I know that's a cheap shot at the management I hope aren't reading my blog). I could have stayed home an extra day. I still wouldn't have got to see The Red Green Show or Coupling on PBS.
Meanwhile, what I'm here to do is progressing wonderfully. We're almost done. And the next time management wonder why I'm rewriting something my predecessor wrote without testing maybe they'll take my word for it's necessity. Especially as I can play politics when I need to. And if I lose the political battle I'll still be alive. Maybe unemployed but that's curable. Death isn't.
Friday, June 10, 2005
A long walk
Back in September 1997 I went on my first skiing trip. Well that's not quite true, I did one day at Mt Buller on August 6th 1997 but my first real trip was in September of that year. 7 days non stop as a beginner. Along the way I discovered that parts of my body have unsuspected muscles. At the end of day 1 I was so sore I didn't know what hurt most - my legs or my shoulders or my feet or my... well you get the idea.
By the end of day 1 I'd learned the single most important thing a skier needs to know; how to stop! Falling over, by accident or design, doesn't count! Nope, I'd learned how to snow plough to a stop. And, by the end of day 2, I'd negotiated my first blue slope, Bloody Mary at Blue Cow, New South Wales.
I was there with my girlfriend of the time. She was a seasoned skier; she could do black slopes that scared me when viewed from below. Seen from above they terrified me! So at the start of each day I'd ski over to my class; she'd go and do her thing until lunchtime. After lunch I was a free agent until the next days lesson. So she'd put up with me wanting to do an easy green slope straight away and then entice me into something more challenging.
Between my discovery of muscles hitherto unknown and the chivvying into something more challenging tempers sometimes frayed. Thus it was that on Thursday September 11th 1997 flash point was reached. The trigger was my sitting down rather more heavily than was perhaps necessary and my spilling her coffee as a result. One thing led to another and tension was high as we walked back to the car. I changed from ski boots to my normal shoes and it all became too much. So I said I'd walk back to the hotel. She took off.
I hadn't paid all that much attention to the drive each morning from the hotel to the car park; it seemed rather a short drive. So off I set, confident that I had maybe an hours walk ahead of me, a trivial walk.
Four hours and 25 kilometres later I stumbled into our room. I'm glad to relate that what followed wasn't an angry scene. It wasn't all that sexy either; I was too tired for that...
By the end of day 1 I'd learned the single most important thing a skier needs to know; how to stop! Falling over, by accident or design, doesn't count! Nope, I'd learned how to snow plough to a stop. And, by the end of day 2, I'd negotiated my first blue slope, Bloody Mary at Blue Cow, New South Wales.
I was there with my girlfriend of the time. She was a seasoned skier; she could do black slopes that scared me when viewed from below. Seen from above they terrified me! So at the start of each day I'd ski over to my class; she'd go and do her thing until lunchtime. After lunch I was a free agent until the next days lesson. So she'd put up with me wanting to do an easy green slope straight away and then entice me into something more challenging.
Between my discovery of muscles hitherto unknown and the chivvying into something more challenging tempers sometimes frayed. Thus it was that on Thursday September 11th 1997 flash point was reached. The trigger was my sitting down rather more heavily than was perhaps necessary and my spilling her coffee as a result. One thing led to another and tension was high as we walked back to the car. I changed from ski boots to my normal shoes and it all became too much. So I said I'd walk back to the hotel. She took off.
I hadn't paid all that much attention to the drive each morning from the hotel to the car park; it seemed rather a short drive. So off I set, confident that I had maybe an hours walk ahead of me, a trivial walk.
Four hours and 25 kilometres later I stumbled into our room. I'm glad to relate that what followed wasn't an angry scene. It wasn't all that sexy either; I was too tired for that...
The gods simply refuse to be tempted
Yep, I'm off in about 15 hours time. Plans haven't changed.
My feet started itching perhaps a trifle earlier than I expected. I've had a month back home with just a single night away in Dallas and it's feeling like time I travelled again. That's the trap with this kind of job; either one gets too much travel or too little. I'd much rather be going to France again but I'm not so there it is!
There's a blessing in this trip. It means that I get to miss the big demo to a new customer next week. Whether I was going to travel or not my weekend was shot; if not on a plane I'd be spending the entirety of the weekend at the office cursing at the short sightedness of management who will never allow enough time to set up and test a demo before bringing the customer in. They'll be pulling all-nighters over the weekend and wondering why tempers flare.
Downside to flying this weekend? I have to wait 20 hours between cigarettes. Upside? I get to choose between 60 recent release movies, 120 TV shows, wine and sleep. I reckon it's a no brainer!
I've never found it all that difficult to go without a smoke when I'm flying. I know I can't have one and that's an end of it. Yeah, I could try and sneak a smoke in the dunny and it's even possible, I'm told, to defeat the smoke detectors without tampering with em (the secret lies in the fact that the wash basin has suction to ensure the water flows out - if one lights a smoke within the wash basin and exhales in that direction the smoke detectors won't fire.) Me? I'm not so desperate for a smoke that I want to risk being the one frogmarched from the dunny back to my seat and thence in the company of officers of the law off the plane. I can't afford the fine either...
My wife tells me that When she flew to Australia she got so desperate for a smoke that she went to the dunny, took out a cigarette and did everything it's possible to do with a cigarette short of actually lighting it! This on a 12 hour flight when she was wearing a nicotine patch!
Meanwhile I get to travel up the North Luzon Motorway again. That part of the trip isn't all that interesting; where it gets interesting is when we reach the end of the motorway and crawl along the MacArthur Highway. I can already see, in my minds eye, the sights I'll get to see again. The funeral places (open 24 hours according to their signs) with stacks of coffins on display by the roadside. Stacks of charred corn cobs waiting for the hungry traveller. Slices of melon, almost paper thin, hanging on threads over crates of melons. Videoke places. Signs advertising Tanguay Rhum (5 years old). And the signs announcing Barangay such and such. When I see the sign announcing Barangay Scout Barrio I'll know I'm 5 minutes away from the hotel, 8 minutes away from a shower and a shave and 15 minutes from dinner!
Then comes the ego part of the trip. Shaking hands with and warm greetings from all the waiters and counter staff and restaurant greeters and guards. Welcome back Mr Robert! Then the, well they were lies last time; this time not quite lies, answers that I'm glad to be back. Let us hope that the evangelistic waiter will let me read my book in peace while I wait for dinner and a glass of wine to arrive instead of trying to convince me, as he did last time, that the only book worth reading is the Bible!
I think I'll miss visiting The Philippines if this turns out to be my last trip there. I suspect it won't be. I even, surprising though it is to me, hope it won't be. I've come to like Baguio City and the whole interminable process of getting there.
My feet started itching perhaps a trifle earlier than I expected. I've had a month back home with just a single night away in Dallas and it's feeling like time I travelled again. That's the trap with this kind of job; either one gets too much travel or too little. I'd much rather be going to France again but I'm not so there it is!
There's a blessing in this trip. It means that I get to miss the big demo to a new customer next week. Whether I was going to travel or not my weekend was shot; if not on a plane I'd be spending the entirety of the weekend at the office cursing at the short sightedness of management who will never allow enough time to set up and test a demo before bringing the customer in. They'll be pulling all-nighters over the weekend and wondering why tempers flare.
Downside to flying this weekend? I have to wait 20 hours between cigarettes. Upside? I get to choose between 60 recent release movies, 120 TV shows, wine and sleep. I reckon it's a no brainer!
I've never found it all that difficult to go without a smoke when I'm flying. I know I can't have one and that's an end of it. Yeah, I could try and sneak a smoke in the dunny and it's even possible, I'm told, to defeat the smoke detectors without tampering with em (the secret lies in the fact that the wash basin has suction to ensure the water flows out - if one lights a smoke within the wash basin and exhales in that direction the smoke detectors won't fire.) Me? I'm not so desperate for a smoke that I want to risk being the one frogmarched from the dunny back to my seat and thence in the company of officers of the law off the plane. I can't afford the fine either...
My wife tells me that When she flew to Australia she got so desperate for a smoke that she went to the dunny, took out a cigarette and did everything it's possible to do with a cigarette short of actually lighting it! This on a 12 hour flight when she was wearing a nicotine patch!
Meanwhile I get to travel up the North Luzon Motorway again. That part of the trip isn't all that interesting; where it gets interesting is when we reach the end of the motorway and crawl along the MacArthur Highway. I can already see, in my minds eye, the sights I'll get to see again. The funeral places (open 24 hours according to their signs) with stacks of coffins on display by the roadside. Stacks of charred corn cobs waiting for the hungry traveller. Slices of melon, almost paper thin, hanging on threads over crates of melons. Videoke places. Signs advertising Tanguay Rhum (5 years old). And the signs announcing Barangay such and such. When I see the sign announcing Barangay Scout Barrio I'll know I'm 5 minutes away from the hotel, 8 minutes away from a shower and a shave and 15 minutes from dinner!
Then comes the ego part of the trip. Shaking hands with and warm greetings from all the waiters and counter staff and restaurant greeters and guards. Welcome back Mr Robert! Then the, well they were lies last time; this time not quite lies, answers that I'm glad to be back. Let us hope that the evangelistic waiter will let me read my book in peace while I wait for dinner and a glass of wine to arrive instead of trying to convince me, as he did last time, that the only book worth reading is the Bible!
I think I'll miss visiting The Philippines if this turns out to be my last trip there. I suspect it won't be. I even, surprising though it is to me, hope it won't be. I've come to like Baguio City and the whole interminable process of getting there.
Thursday, June 09, 2005
Agua Fria
Last Sunday we went for a family outing north of Phoenix, to Agua Fria National Monument[^].
Andrew, as is his wont, started the day complaining that we were forcing him, against his constitutional rights, to do something he didn't want to do. He ended the day, as is his wont, saying how much he'd enjoyed it. Being an unsympathetic Australian bastard I maintain that within our family the Constitution of the United States of America doesn't apply; we are neither a republic nor a democracy and what my wife and I say goes!
We took the Kia. A good car to drive around Phoenix in but it's not up to I-17! There's a long uphill stretch between Black Canyon City and the exit to the monument. On the flat my car can do 75 MPH (the speed limit) if the pedal's to the metal. But once we hit that long uphill stretch it started showing the strain of hauling four of us (myself, my wife, Andrew and Morgan). Halfway up the slope we were down to 50 MPH and still decelerating! 18 wheelers were overtaking us! It's a good thing I don't feel the need to compensate for personal shortcomings with my car! :-)
So we parked and went hiking. It wasn't a particularly hot day, even in Phoenix - no more than 95F (35 C). Up there, half a kilometre or so above sea level it was cooler. We actually found a stream of flowing water. Found some shade near a convenient bend in the stream and camped for a couple of hours.
It was about this time that Andrew decided that an appropriate use for an empty water bottle was to refill it in the stream and spray it toward his older sister. How little he knows of the deviousness of the human heart! We bided our time and waited until it was almost time to leave. Then we, Morgan and I, grabbed him and ducked him in the water! Some spluttering and he rises, soaked to the skin and convinced, it seemed, that he'd be wet until his deathbed. Revenge was called for! So he filled his bottle again and sprayed it at me. Heh, in this climate I know I'm going to be dry in 5 minutes!
Serious moment. I could see from his expression that he wasn't quite sure how I'd take being sprayed. I'm not his dad. That thought didn't go through my mind at the time. Why should it have? It was what should and could be, and was, a fun moment. It's the thoughts after the event that I'm relating.
So, after rolling him in the sand and then washing him off again in the stream :-) we made our way back to the car. We were both dry when we got back! A thoroughly fun day!
Andrew, as is his wont, started the day complaining that we were forcing him, against his constitutional rights, to do something he didn't want to do. He ended the day, as is his wont, saying how much he'd enjoyed it. Being an unsympathetic Australian bastard I maintain that within our family the Constitution of the United States of America doesn't apply; we are neither a republic nor a democracy and what my wife and I say goes!
We took the Kia. A good car to drive around Phoenix in but it's not up to I-17! There's a long uphill stretch between Black Canyon City and the exit to the monument. On the flat my car can do 75 MPH (the speed limit) if the pedal's to the metal. But once we hit that long uphill stretch it started showing the strain of hauling four of us (myself, my wife, Andrew and Morgan). Halfway up the slope we were down to 50 MPH and still decelerating! 18 wheelers were overtaking us! It's a good thing I don't feel the need to compensate for personal shortcomings with my car! :-)
So we parked and went hiking. It wasn't a particularly hot day, even in Phoenix - no more than 95F (35 C). Up there, half a kilometre or so above sea level it was cooler. We actually found a stream of flowing water. Found some shade near a convenient bend in the stream and camped for a couple of hours.
It was about this time that Andrew decided that an appropriate use for an empty water bottle was to refill it in the stream and spray it toward his older sister. How little he knows of the deviousness of the human heart! We bided our time and waited until it was almost time to leave. Then we, Morgan and I, grabbed him and ducked him in the water! Some spluttering and he rises, soaked to the skin and convinced, it seemed, that he'd be wet until his deathbed. Revenge was called for! So he filled his bottle again and sprayed it at me. Heh, in this climate I know I'm going to be dry in 5 minutes!
Serious moment. I could see from his expression that he wasn't quite sure how I'd take being sprayed. I'm not his dad. That thought didn't go through my mind at the time. Why should it have? It was what should and could be, and was, a fun moment. It's the thoughts after the event that I'm relating.
So, after rolling him in the sand and then washing him off again in the stream :-) we made our way back to the car. We were both dry when we got back! A thoroughly fun day!
Milk
In my part of the world, in 1962, free milk was distributed to school kids. Whether it was because we were a slum suburb or not I can't say; 8 year olds don't know about such things and so don't enquire.
We merely had to endure.
In principle free milk is a good idea (speaking as a left wing commie pinko bastard who enjoys milk). But, of course, I like my milk cold and fresh. The way the milk was delivered prevented either condition being true. School started at 9 AM and sometime between then and 10:30 AM the milk was delivered. Delivery consisted of a truck pulling up and a few crates of bottles, each half a pint, being dumped on the footpath next to one of the school gates.
One of the most coveted jobs in school was that of 'milk monitor'. Holding such an appointment entitled us to duck out of class 10 minutes early to reserve 'our' bottles. But the most coveted job of all was that of 'milk handler'. To get that job you really had to brown nose. The milk handlers got out of class 20 minutes early and carried the crates from the school gate to the shelter shed. I'm using the terminology we used at the time - all the shelter shed was was literally that - a shed that provided shelter against inclement weather. The shelter shed was also handy as something behind which we could hide whilst having a surreptitious smoke.
If you were a 'milk handler' you had real power in our terms. In winter the power didn't amount to much but come summer it was important that the crate at the bottom of the stack was the one you and your class got. The higher up the stack the warmer the milk. Somehow it always seemed that the 6 year olds got the milk at the top of the stack.
It amazes me these days how easily we were seduced. In exchange for 10 or 20 minutes outside a not terribly onerous classroom we were willing to lug heavy crates around and face opprobrium if we failed to secure the best crate for ours. Talk about the ultimate con! But of course you're reading the cynical old bastard remembering something from more than 40 years ago. At the time we were certainly delighted to be picked!
After a short stint as milk monitor and an even shorter one as milk handler (why I lost that job is the subject of another story I may someday relate) I retired into milk obscurity. I didn't particularly mind. Perhaps it was because I objected to being bopped on the skull by a boy half a head taller than I was when it came time to decide which crate was mine and which was his.
Sometime in 1964 a craze swept the school. The Sunnyboy Company had just released orange juice in tetrapacks. I haven't seen that word used on this side of the larger pond so I'll just say that it was a triangular pyramid made of waxed cardboard and filled with orange juice. One of our number, in an evil moment, conceived the idea of mixing milk and orange juice! It was every bit as horrible as it sounds and yet it siezed our imagination and we all did it.
Can you even begin to imagine what the result of mixing milk that has lain in the summer sun for a couple of hours with orange juice is like?
I'm not going to be responsible for your nightmares as a result of this post! :-)
We merely had to endure.
In principle free milk is a good idea (speaking as a left wing commie pinko bastard who enjoys milk). But, of course, I like my milk cold and fresh. The way the milk was delivered prevented either condition being true. School started at 9 AM and sometime between then and 10:30 AM the milk was delivered. Delivery consisted of a truck pulling up and a few crates of bottles, each half a pint, being dumped on the footpath next to one of the school gates.
One of the most coveted jobs in school was that of 'milk monitor'. Holding such an appointment entitled us to duck out of class 10 minutes early to reserve 'our' bottles. But the most coveted job of all was that of 'milk handler'. To get that job you really had to brown nose. The milk handlers got out of class 20 minutes early and carried the crates from the school gate to the shelter shed. I'm using the terminology we used at the time - all the shelter shed was was literally that - a shed that provided shelter against inclement weather. The shelter shed was also handy as something behind which we could hide whilst having a surreptitious smoke.
If you were a 'milk handler' you had real power in our terms. In winter the power didn't amount to much but come summer it was important that the crate at the bottom of the stack was the one you and your class got. The higher up the stack the warmer the milk. Somehow it always seemed that the 6 year olds got the milk at the top of the stack.
It amazes me these days how easily we were seduced. In exchange for 10 or 20 minutes outside a not terribly onerous classroom we were willing to lug heavy crates around and face opprobrium if we failed to secure the best crate for ours. Talk about the ultimate con! But of course you're reading the cynical old bastard remembering something from more than 40 years ago. At the time we were certainly delighted to be picked!
After a short stint as milk monitor and an even shorter one as milk handler (why I lost that job is the subject of another story I may someday relate) I retired into milk obscurity. I didn't particularly mind. Perhaps it was because I objected to being bopped on the skull by a boy half a head taller than I was when it came time to decide which crate was mine and which was his.
Sometime in 1964 a craze swept the school. The Sunnyboy Company had just released orange juice in tetrapacks. I haven't seen that word used on this side of the larger pond so I'll just say that it was a triangular pyramid made of waxed cardboard and filled with orange juice. One of our number, in an evil moment, conceived the idea of mixing milk and orange juice! It was every bit as horrible as it sounds and yet it siezed our imagination and we all did it.
Can you even begin to imagine what the result of mixing milk that has lain in the summer sun for a couple of hours with orange juice is like?
I'm not going to be responsible for your nightmares as a result of this post! :-)
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
The day the music died
I don't know about you but I've remembered dates for almost as long as I can remember anything. One date that sticks in my mind is February 3 1959, Tuesday. If you're older than I am you may remember that as the day that Buddy Holly died (The Day the Music Died, Don Maclean). If, as seems likely, you're younger than me, that day might even have been outside of your existence.
I don't remember that day as the day that Buddy Holly died though. I was too young to know about him or to care much for his music. Truth to tell, even today, nearly 51 years old, I don't much care for his music.
So why do I remember that day? I knew you'd ask and you knew I'd answer :-)
That was my first day of school. This isn't a memory imposed from a later date. I distinctly remember anticipating the day in January of 1959 and indeed I remember informing various importunate adults who thought they were indulging the cute 4 year old that I was starting school on 'Febuary 3'. I've since learned the correct pronunciation of February!
So came the day. Tuesday. School started on Tuesdays in those days in Australia; what day of the week they now use is something I couldn't answer. We did the usual tearful stuff. Yes, I bawled in much the same way that most 4 year olds do on their first day of school. I can still remember the smell of a cake of soap my grandmother put into my school kit; said kit then being placed into a shoulder bag. I don't remember anything about that first morning once I'd actually entered school. But I do remember clearly how my grandmother fetched me home from school at lunchtime.
*corny joke warning*
After lunch grandma intimated that perhaps I ought to get ready to return to school. I was shocked at the thought of returning. After all, they'd always said 'one day you'll have to go to school'. Well, I'd done my one day!
*corny joke over*
About a year later my grandmother decided that it was time I graduated to a real schoolbag. My father was still alive at the time; his old schoolbag from about 1929 was exhumed. Leather and with 'a real iron bar' for the handle part. I can remember the way my grandmother said 'real iron bar'; almost with reverence as though a real iron bar was something really special. For someone who'd lived through the great depression it probably was special. Nonetheless, when I found out that the 'real iron bar' was a chunk of iron perhaps an inch wide, 12 inches long and an eight of an inch thick it was somewhat disappointing!
I don't remember that day as the day that Buddy Holly died though. I was too young to know about him or to care much for his music. Truth to tell, even today, nearly 51 years old, I don't much care for his music.
So why do I remember that day? I knew you'd ask and you knew I'd answer :-)
That was my first day of school. This isn't a memory imposed from a later date. I distinctly remember anticipating the day in January of 1959 and indeed I remember informing various importunate adults who thought they were indulging the cute 4 year old that I was starting school on 'Febuary 3'. I've since learned the correct pronunciation of February!
So came the day. Tuesday. School started on Tuesdays in those days in Australia; what day of the week they now use is something I couldn't answer. We did the usual tearful stuff. Yes, I bawled in much the same way that most 4 year olds do on their first day of school. I can still remember the smell of a cake of soap my grandmother put into my school kit; said kit then being placed into a shoulder bag. I don't remember anything about that first morning once I'd actually entered school. But I do remember clearly how my grandmother fetched me home from school at lunchtime.
*corny joke warning*
After lunch grandma intimated that perhaps I ought to get ready to return to school. I was shocked at the thought of returning. After all, they'd always said 'one day you'll have to go to school'. Well, I'd done my one day!
*corny joke over*
About a year later my grandmother decided that it was time I graduated to a real schoolbag. My father was still alive at the time; his old schoolbag from about 1929 was exhumed. Leather and with 'a real iron bar' for the handle part. I can remember the way my grandmother said 'real iron bar'; almost with reverence as though a real iron bar was something really special. For someone who'd lived through the great depression it probably was special. Nonetheless, when I found out that the 'real iron bar' was a chunk of iron perhaps an inch wide, 12 inches long and an eight of an inch thick it was somewhat disappointing!
Scratching the surface
One of the new guys at the office is Steve. Helluva nice guy actually. He can dish it out but he can also take it. As probably the first live Australian he's ever met he's found himself talking with me a lot. (The fact that what I do affects his job might also have something to do with it). Whatever. When I go out for a smoke he sometimes follows for some 'secondhand smoke'. Well, he's also an ex smoker so I can understand that!
Being that he's a nice guy we don't restrict the conversation over a fag to merely work related matters. Thus, a couple of weeks ago, I mentioned that I'm very close to being able to apply for US Citizenship. Amazement when he learned that, even though I'm married to an American, I don't automatically get citizenship. (A common misconception I've found).
So yesterday the conversation turned on the subject of Ross Perot. Actually it was neither Steve nor myself who brought the subject up; someone else was expatiating on the subject. I said that my wife had voted for him in whichever presidential election he stood in (was it the 1996 race?). Then, throwing caution to the winds, I added that my wife had voted for President George W Bush and commented that if I'd known that at the time I'd never have married her! Just kidding!
Half a second later I realised I'd scratched the surface and found the Republican beneath. 'Well', he said, 'I don't think you should become a citizen anytime soon'. Hey, I'm already hanging from the rope so why not say that, on the scale by which US politics is measured, I'm about as far left as you can be.
At which point he said. 'You know, that's the great thing about this country. You have the freedom to say that.' Smug grin.
I couldn't let that go by without further discussion. 'Do you really imagine that this is the only place on the planet where freedom exists?'. Now he's not stupid. He can see that I am very Australian and that I have no fear of expressing my opinion (not quite true - I guard my words in certain places). So a dim idea forms that maybe, just maybe, Australians are also used to freedom. A little gentle guidance and he's now prepared to admit that perhaps such freedoms also exist in places like Britain. The rest of the world? I'm going to have to work on that one...
Being that he's a nice guy we don't restrict the conversation over a fag to merely work related matters. Thus, a couple of weeks ago, I mentioned that I'm very close to being able to apply for US Citizenship. Amazement when he learned that, even though I'm married to an American, I don't automatically get citizenship. (A common misconception I've found).
So yesterday the conversation turned on the subject of Ross Perot. Actually it was neither Steve nor myself who brought the subject up; someone else was expatiating on the subject. I said that my wife had voted for him in whichever presidential election he stood in (was it the 1996 race?). Then, throwing caution to the winds, I added that my wife had voted for President George W Bush and commented that if I'd known that at the time I'd never have married her! Just kidding!
Half a second later I realised I'd scratched the surface and found the Republican beneath. 'Well', he said, 'I don't think you should become a citizen anytime soon'. Hey, I'm already hanging from the rope so why not say that, on the scale by which US politics is measured, I'm about as far left as you can be.
At which point he said. 'You know, that's the great thing about this country. You have the freedom to say that.' Smug grin.
I couldn't let that go by without further discussion. 'Do you really imagine that this is the only place on the planet where freedom exists?'. Now he's not stupid. He can see that I am very Australian and that I have no fear of expressing my opinion (not quite true - I guard my words in certain places). So a dim idea forms that maybe, just maybe, Australians are also used to freedom. A little gentle guidance and he's now prepared to admit that perhaps such freedoms also exist in places like Britain. The rest of the world? I'm going to have to work on that one...
Let's stop playing with the gods
and announce that I'm off to The Philippines this Friday. Yep, Friday. There goes another weekend. On the other hand, the flight from Los Angeles to Singapore is an easy flight even if it does take 18 hours. Word from one who's been there; if you have to do that flight don't be tempted to stray from Singapore Airlines. Their Executive Economy class is better than most other airlines Business class.
They wanted me to go on Wednesday but I pointed out that I'd get there ready for work on Saturday morning Baguio time. Shrugs - so what? Well, what I have to do will either take one hour or it will take two weeks. If it takes one hour well and good, I'll be back in the US in less than a week. If it takes two weeks we have a problem.
The problem is that if it really does take two weeks I'll be spending most of that time waiting for a colleague to become available. He's involved in a demo back here in Phoenix. I wanted to delay my trip until we can both be there at the same time but politics raised it's ugly head; in order to keep our customer happy it seems it's imperative that I be in Baguio ASAP. So we have our fingers crossed that the only thing needed to achieve our goal is that one hours work I need to do. My confidence level is about 80% that it'll take the one hour.
If we need my colleague to complete the job I'm going to be spending most of next week stalling! And I hate having to do that.
The only reason I was able to delay the trip from Wednesday to Friday is that the people who will notice and care if I'm there or not don't work weekends. My arriving on Saturday morning Baguio time buys us nothing if they're not there to notice. And to think that when I entered this career path I imagined the only things I'd have to care about were technical things :-)
They wanted me to go on Wednesday but I pointed out that I'd get there ready for work on Saturday morning Baguio time. Shrugs - so what? Well, what I have to do will either take one hour or it will take two weeks. If it takes one hour well and good, I'll be back in the US in less than a week. If it takes two weeks we have a problem.
The problem is that if it really does take two weeks I'll be spending most of that time waiting for a colleague to become available. He's involved in a demo back here in Phoenix. I wanted to delay my trip until we can both be there at the same time but politics raised it's ugly head; in order to keep our customer happy it seems it's imperative that I be in Baguio ASAP. So we have our fingers crossed that the only thing needed to achieve our goal is that one hours work I need to do. My confidence level is about 80% that it'll take the one hour.
If we need my colleague to complete the job I'm going to be spending most of next week stalling! And I hate having to do that.
The only reason I was able to delay the trip from Wednesday to Friday is that the people who will notice and care if I'm there or not don't work weekends. My arriving on Saturday morning Baguio time buys us nothing if they're not there to notice. And to think that when I entered this career path I imagined the only things I'd have to care about were technical things :-)
Monday, June 06, 2005
Brown Nosing
Sometime in 1994 one of my bosses announced he was getting married. The date set was June 6 and I remember thinking at the time that it was a curious date to choose; D-Day and all that. Nonetheless, marry on that day he did.
The following year, as we stood outside the office smoking and as the anniversary approached I made some comment about how close we were to D-Day. He smote himself on the forehead as one does when reminded of something vital one has forgotten and thanked me for reminding him of his impending anniversary. Thus began a tradition that lasted four or five years; each year as the anniversary approached I'd remind him.
He retired sometime around 1999 and since then it's been up to him to remember - I ain't calling long distance!
The following year, as we stood outside the office smoking and as the anniversary approached I made some comment about how close we were to D-Day. He smote himself on the forehead as one does when reminded of something vital one has forgotten and thanked me for reminding him of his impending anniversary. Thus began a tradition that lasted four or five years; each year as the anniversary approached I'd remind him.
He retired sometime around 1999 and since then it's been up to him to remember - I ain't calling long distance!
Put down that weapon
The only time I ever had a gun pointed at me in anger (well more in suspicion) was in Gulfport, Mississippi in December 1995.
I was there with a friend who wanted a quart or so of bourbon. You have to understand that I know nothing about Bourbon. On the few occasions I drink spirits I prefer Bombay Sapphire Gin. So when my friend specified a certain brand of Bourbon sold by the quart in a plastic bottle I had never heard of the brand and thus had no idea what label I was looking for.
We pulled up outside a bottle shop and I went in. Found a bottle toward the back of the shop that looked like it might be right. So, being the naive Aussie that I am, I took the bottle toward the front of the shop with the intention of displaying it and looking for the approving nod that would indicate I had the right bottle.
What I heard was the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked! And a voice yelling, imperitavely, to come back now or I'm gonna shoot!
It was the wrong brand but I bought it anyway. And drank about half of it. It's amazing the galvanising effect having a gun pointed at you can achieve!
*shrug* :-)
I was there with a friend who wanted a quart or so of bourbon. You have to understand that I know nothing about Bourbon. On the few occasions I drink spirits I prefer Bombay Sapphire Gin. So when my friend specified a certain brand of Bourbon sold by the quart in a plastic bottle I had never heard of the brand and thus had no idea what label I was looking for.
We pulled up outside a bottle shop and I went in. Found a bottle toward the back of the shop that looked like it might be right. So, being the naive Aussie that I am, I took the bottle toward the front of the shop with the intention of displaying it and looking for the approving nod that would indicate I had the right bottle.
What I heard was the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked! And a voice yelling, imperitavely, to come back now or I'm gonna shoot!
It was the wrong brand but I bought it anyway. And drank about half of it. It's amazing the galvanising effect having a gun pointed at you can achieve!
*shrug* :-)
Sunday, June 05, 2005
Magnolia
I've been watching this[^]. Long movie - over 3 hours if you count the credits. I do; I watch the credits on most movies.
Given that we're going on another family outing tomorrow I wouldn't, ordinarily, have had the time to watch such a long movie and write about it (it's 2:50 AM) but this weekend just happens to be PBS 'bore the public stupid by running The Grateful Dead Movie[^] movie for the 700th time whilst interrupting every 7 minutes with a talking head pleading for money' weekend. I dunno why they don't just fork out a bit of government cash instead. It'd be cheaper than running a war in Iraq. Be that as it may, I missed my fix of British Comedy this week. British Comedy is rare enough as it is here in Phoenix - just 1 hour of it a week. In lieu of British Comedy I chose Magnolia.
A few people I know don't particularly like Magnolia as a movie. That's ok with me. There are movies we both like; movies they like that I don't; and movies I like that they don't.
I like Magnolia. A wonderfully mellifluous movie that mixes 9 or 10 different story lines and blurs the lines of demarcation between them. It just flows and it has a soundtrack that supports the flow instead of being merely noise to cover the awkward silences. Taken as music in and of itself the soundtrack isn't anything special but combine it with the visuals and it really works. The camera moves a lot - I reckon they must have worn out more than one Steadicam in the shooting!
The highlight, for me, is the extended sequence toward the end of the movie, where the soundtrack is a song who's name I don't know but the words go 'it's not going to stop', repeated over and over again. Each of the characters in the 9 or 10 overlapping story lines has reached a point of crisis and the view switches from character to character as they sing those lines.
And then we get the 'rain of frogs'. It's a reference to Exodus 8:2 (the number 82 appears throughout the movie) 'And if thou refuse to let them go, behold, I will smite all thy borders with frogs.'. It's taken me a few viewings of the movie, and some thought, to realise just how apropos the verse is to the story at that point. Hint: it's the relationship between the cop and Donnie Smith the has-been quiz kid.
Highly recommended!
Given that we're going on another family outing tomorrow I wouldn't, ordinarily, have had the time to watch such a long movie and write about it (it's 2:50 AM) but this weekend just happens to be PBS 'bore the public stupid by running The Grateful Dead Movie[^] movie for the 700th time whilst interrupting every 7 minutes with a talking head pleading for money' weekend. I dunno why they don't just fork out a bit of government cash instead. It'd be cheaper than running a war in Iraq. Be that as it may, I missed my fix of British Comedy this week. British Comedy is rare enough as it is here in Phoenix - just 1 hour of it a week. In lieu of British Comedy I chose Magnolia.
A few people I know don't particularly like Magnolia as a movie. That's ok with me. There are movies we both like; movies they like that I don't; and movies I like that they don't.
I like Magnolia. A wonderfully mellifluous movie that mixes 9 or 10 different story lines and blurs the lines of demarcation between them. It just flows and it has a soundtrack that supports the flow instead of being merely noise to cover the awkward silences. Taken as music in and of itself the soundtrack isn't anything special but combine it with the visuals and it really works. The camera moves a lot - I reckon they must have worn out more than one Steadicam in the shooting!
The highlight, for me, is the extended sequence toward the end of the movie, where the soundtrack is a song who's name I don't know but the words go 'it's not going to stop', repeated over and over again. Each of the characters in the 9 or 10 overlapping story lines has reached a point of crisis and the view switches from character to character as they sing those lines.
And then we get the 'rain of frogs'. It's a reference to Exodus 8:2 (the number 82 appears throughout the movie) 'And if thou refuse to let them go, behold, I will smite all thy borders with frogs.'. It's taken me a few viewings of the movie, and some thought, to realise just how apropos the verse is to the story at that point. Hint: it's the relationship between the cop and Donnie Smith the has-been quiz kid.
Highly recommended!
The man who can slow down time
Well, maybe I'm exaggerating :-) It's just my sense of time that's slowed down. I'm sure it's passing as fast as ever for the rest of you! The almost two weeks since I booked my holiday in Australia have dragged and dragged. Not that I'm counting, but it's still 3 months and 9 days until I leave here, 3 months and 10 days until I get there.
Of course, once I get there, the 16 days will pass in a flash and I'll find myself on day 15 wondering where the heck the time went! Such is life!
Of course, once I get there, the 16 days will pass in a flash and I'll find myself on day 15 wondering where the heck the time went! Such is life!
So far the gods are resisting temptation
Yep, no change in plans so far. So let's tempt them a trifle shall we? I'll reveal the destination though not the day :-)
The destination is The Philippines again. A hint as to the timing. I'm hoping to beat the rainy season both in and out...
Well, it's lots of frequent flyer points. At this rate I'll soon have enough for a third trip to Australia! Now to accrue the annual leave needed to use em!
The destination is The Philippines again. A hint as to the timing. I'm hoping to beat the rainy season both in and out...
Well, it's lots of frequent flyer points. At this rate I'll soon have enough for a third trip to Australia! Now to accrue the annual leave needed to use em!
Saturday, June 04, 2005
Oil in soil
We're trying to get Andrew interested in the world rather than his TV set so we come up with places to visit and drag him along. Last weekend we decided to go the Glendale Historical district (if you can describe an area that seems to have developed in the 1940's as historical). He seemed to enjoy the afternoon.
On our way back we drove along MacDowell road heading east. The lights at the intersection of MacDowell, 19th Avenue and Grand Avenue take a long time to turn green. (Grand Avenue runs at 45 degrees to both MacDowell and 19th). The area is industrial. It was a hot day and the atmosphere had that unmistakeable tincture of oil mixed with soil. Andrew complained loudly about the smell. To be honest, so did my wife. But I loved it. It took me back quite a few years. Yet, for some inexplicable reason, Andrew was unimpressed when I told him that when and where I grew up that smell permeated the atmosphere.
Doubtless his kids will be similarly unimpressed when and if he smells the odour of fermenting milk and it takes him back to 2005...
On our way back we drove along MacDowell road heading east. The lights at the intersection of MacDowell, 19th Avenue and Grand Avenue take a long time to turn green. (Grand Avenue runs at 45 degrees to both MacDowell and 19th). The area is industrial. It was a hot day and the atmosphere had that unmistakeable tincture of oil mixed with soil. Andrew complained loudly about the smell. To be honest, so did my wife. But I loved it. It took me back quite a few years. Yet, for some inexplicable reason, Andrew was unimpressed when I told him that when and where I grew up that smell permeated the atmosphere.
Doubtless his kids will be similarly unimpressed when and if he smells the odour of fermenting milk and it takes him back to 2005...
Friday, June 03, 2005
Not everyone in a trench coat is a child molester
Larry's post[^] reminded me...
In July 1999 I walked a lot. Actually there's nothing all that unusual about July 1999 - I could make that statement about almost every month since about 1990. But July 1999 was cold and windy, so I added a trench coat to my normal apparel. I prefer not to wear a coat; it just slows me down and, in the climates I'm used to, I walk fast enough not to feel cold as long as it's reasonably still.
Doesn't always work; in Nice in January this year, whilst walking to the restaurant two hundred metres away in still air with a gentle snow falling I shivered so much I thought I was going to break my teeth!
Anyway, it was cold enough and windy enough in the aforesaid July of 1999 that I needed to wear a trench coat during my Sunday afternoon walks. My walk varied according to mood; sometimes north of Barkly Street, sometimes west toward Brooklyn, sometimes east to the Yarraville Gardens. On this particular Sunday arvo it was east. Arrive at the gardens, walk along the path. Some kids playing in the sandpit. Stop to watch. And then, without any good reason, I'm accused, by the mother of one of the kids, of being a paedophile! For watching a bunch of kids playing in a sandpit!
Let's review the situation. I'm wearing a trench coat. Under the trench coat I'm fully dressed. Including underwear. I don't have lollies (sweets) in my pockets. I haven't said a word. I haven't stepped off the path. I haven't gestured. Nor have I made eye contact with any of the kids. I'm clean shaven. I'm not muttering under my breath. Oh wait a moment, I know what it was. I lit a cigarette! Yeah, that has to be it.
Well, I knew I was totally innocent but, being 45 years old, male, single and without a current girlfriend I have to tell you I felt very vulnerable to idiotic accusations. One persons paranoia made me paranoid about walking through that park again. Yeah, I've been back, but all the savour of revisiting one of the places where I used to smoke with my mates when I was 9 has been leached from the place. And all because of one fool.
Not everyone in a trench coat is a child molester!
In July 1999 I walked a lot. Actually there's nothing all that unusual about July 1999 - I could make that statement about almost every month since about 1990. But July 1999 was cold and windy, so I added a trench coat to my normal apparel. I prefer not to wear a coat; it just slows me down and, in the climates I'm used to, I walk fast enough not to feel cold as long as it's reasonably still.
Doesn't always work; in Nice in January this year, whilst walking to the restaurant two hundred metres away in still air with a gentle snow falling I shivered so much I thought I was going to break my teeth!
Anyway, it was cold enough and windy enough in the aforesaid July of 1999 that I needed to wear a trench coat during my Sunday afternoon walks. My walk varied according to mood; sometimes north of Barkly Street, sometimes west toward Brooklyn, sometimes east to the Yarraville Gardens. On this particular Sunday arvo it was east. Arrive at the gardens, walk along the path. Some kids playing in the sandpit. Stop to watch. And then, without any good reason, I'm accused, by the mother of one of the kids, of being a paedophile! For watching a bunch of kids playing in a sandpit!
Let's review the situation. I'm wearing a trench coat. Under the trench coat I'm fully dressed. Including underwear. I don't have lollies (sweets) in my pockets. I haven't said a word. I haven't stepped off the path. I haven't gestured. Nor have I made eye contact with any of the kids. I'm clean shaven. I'm not muttering under my breath. Oh wait a moment, I know what it was. I lit a cigarette! Yeah, that has to be it.
Well, I knew I was totally innocent but, being 45 years old, male, single and without a current girlfriend I have to tell you I felt very vulnerable to idiotic accusations. One persons paranoia made me paranoid about walking through that park again. Yeah, I've been back, but all the savour of revisiting one of the places where I used to smoke with my mates when I was 9 has been leached from the place. And all because of one fool.
Not everyone in a trench coat is a child molester!
Let's tempt the gods shall we
Today I booked a flight to a destination I'm not going to name, on a day I'm not going to name. I don't know how long I'll be gone. The latter is the only part of the trip I really don't know! Let's just see if events conspire against the best laid plans...
Nope, I'm not superstitious. Think of this as a test of whether anyone at the office is reading my ravings!
Nope, I'm not superstitious. Think of this as a test of whether anyone at the office is reading my ravings!
Robins Birthday
falls on June 3rd; he's 18 days older than I am and you can bet I never miss the chance to remind him of the fact. I revel in pointing out that he's hit whichever significant anniversary it is but I haven't yet. Of course, Heino, being the cheeky bastard that he is, can't resist pointing out that I hit the same anniversaries a bit more than 6 years before he does. Can't win em all I suppose.
In 1996 Heino was listening to the Doug Aitken show on 3LO Melbourne as he drove home. Each Monday Terry Lane would come on the show and relate some story or other regarding whichever famous composer happened to have been born on that day. On this particular Monday on came Terry, to relate that absolutely no one of any importance whatsoever had been born on June 3rd. Heino couldn't resist ringing Robin that evening, both to wish him a happy birthday and to apprise him of that fact!
I rang Heino to remind him that today is the day on which no one of any importance was born :-) He'll give Robin a call a little later to remind him of this singular circumstance, just in case the Alzheimers disease has finally caught up with him, 18 days before it catches up with me!
In 1996 Heino was listening to the Doug Aitken show on 3LO Melbourne as he drove home. Each Monday Terry Lane would come on the show and relate some story or other regarding whichever famous composer happened to have been born on that day. On this particular Monday on came Terry, to relate that absolutely no one of any importance whatsoever had been born on June 3rd. Heino couldn't resist ringing Robin that evening, both to wish him a happy birthday and to apprise him of that fact!
I rang Heino to remind him that today is the day on which no one of any importance was born :-) He'll give Robin a call a little later to remind him of this singular circumstance, just in case the Alzheimers disease has finally caught up with him, 18 days before it catches up with me!
Thursday, June 02, 2005
Empire Day
I should have posted this a week or so ago but the truth is I didn't even remember Empire Day until today. Geeze, I even had to Google to discover it was May 24th, Queen Victoria's birthday; I thought it was May 25th. All the sources I've read on the web indicate that Empire Day changed it's name to Commonwealth Day in 1958.
Be that as it may. I can remember as late as 1963 that we got it as a half-day off school. It was schools only and, frankly, we didn't give a damn about the Empire, it was time off from school. In the morning we were treated to an overdose of Rule Brittannia and they handed out little Union Jacks on toothpicks. At lunchtime we were free to go and wreak havoc as was our wont. And it was definitely called Empire Day. Of course, that might have been a reflection of the age of our teachers; in 1963 we were taught by Mrs Hodgson, who retired at the end of 1964.
She was a good old stick. At the start of 1963 we found ourselves assigned to her class and we went through the usual fear and loathing period. After you've seen this happen a few times you know the pattern. Slap the little bastards down at the start so they know who's boss and then back off. But of course, at age 9, we didn't know anything about that fundamental truth. By the end of that school year (Australian school years run February to December) we'd all reached comfortable accomodation, learned a lot and we respected her for being fair. If she gave us the 'cuts' we knew we'd deserved it. And if she had any doubt about our guilt she gave us the benefit of it. I, and most of my friends, were delighted to discover she was going to be our teacher in 1964.
As aforesaid, she retired at the end of 1964. I had one more year of primary school and found myself, in 1966, at Footscray Tech. And there, much to our surprise, we found Mrs Hodgson at lunchtime, standing by the gate, gazing at her former pupils. She brought us home made sausage rolls which we wolfed down. Pretty good sausage rolls they were too! She wanted every little piece of gossip we had and drank in our boyish prattle. At the time I didn't think much about it and, to be honest, haven't thought much about it since, but as I write this, I realise she must have missed her 'kids' and found retirement left her with time on her hands.
Surely she must be dead by now. Alive or not, Rest In Peace, Mrs Hodgson.
Be that as it may. I can remember as late as 1963 that we got it as a half-day off school. It was schools only and, frankly, we didn't give a damn about the Empire, it was time off from school. In the morning we were treated to an overdose of Rule Brittannia and they handed out little Union Jacks on toothpicks. At lunchtime we were free to go and wreak havoc as was our wont. And it was definitely called Empire Day. Of course, that might have been a reflection of the age of our teachers; in 1963 we were taught by Mrs Hodgson, who retired at the end of 1964.
She was a good old stick. At the start of 1963 we found ourselves assigned to her class and we went through the usual fear and loathing period. After you've seen this happen a few times you know the pattern. Slap the little bastards down at the start so they know who's boss and then back off. But of course, at age 9, we didn't know anything about that fundamental truth. By the end of that school year (Australian school years run February to December) we'd all reached comfortable accomodation, learned a lot and we respected her for being fair. If she gave us the 'cuts' we knew we'd deserved it. And if she had any doubt about our guilt she gave us the benefit of it. I, and most of my friends, were delighted to discover she was going to be our teacher in 1964.
As aforesaid, she retired at the end of 1964. I had one more year of primary school and found myself, in 1966, at Footscray Tech. And there, much to our surprise, we found Mrs Hodgson at lunchtime, standing by the gate, gazing at her former pupils. She brought us home made sausage rolls which we wolfed down. Pretty good sausage rolls they were too! She wanted every little piece of gossip we had and drank in our boyish prattle. At the time I didn't think much about it and, to be honest, haven't thought much about it since, but as I write this, I realise she must have missed her 'kids' and found retirement left her with time on her hands.
Surely she must be dead by now. Alive or not, Rest In Peace, Mrs Hodgson.
A loyal subject of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II
About a year or so ago PBS ran a documentary on the British Royal family. I watched it. I can't remember the name of the doco so I can't give you a url to IMDB.
Toward the end I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, my wife standing by the side watching me watching it. So, naturally, when a picture of Her Majesty appeared as the credits rolled, I had to stand to attention! My wife laughed and laughed, because she knows that I don't think the British Royal family is of much relevance to an Australian.
So then I told her about movie theatres in Australia in the 1960's. Back in those days movie credits didn't run to a quarter of the length of the movie (Ok, so I'm exaggerating). But compare the length of the credits for a movie such as The Great Race[^] with the length of the credits for any movie these days. Two or three screens worth of names and that was it - the movie was over and the house lights came on! Thus, when the movie ended you had two choices; either make a bolt for the exit before they showed Her Majesty and played God Save the Queen, or face peer pressure and stand to attention. We usually made a bolt for the exit!
One night at the drive-in Misery Guts was in such a hurry to get away that he forgot the speaker was still sitting on the window. This would have been 1965 or thereabouts and drive ins didn't provide a radio link; you hung a single speaker attached to a bloody great steel cable on the slightly lowered drivers side window. He took off to beat the traffic jam leaving the drive in and tore a large chunk out of the door column. That steel cable was built to take all the punishment you could throw at it!
I can still remember how heartily I laughed!
Toward the end I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, my wife standing by the side watching me watching it. So, naturally, when a picture of Her Majesty appeared as the credits rolled, I had to stand to attention! My wife laughed and laughed, because she knows that I don't think the British Royal family is of much relevance to an Australian.
So then I told her about movie theatres in Australia in the 1960's. Back in those days movie credits didn't run to a quarter of the length of the movie (Ok, so I'm exaggerating). But compare the length of the credits for a movie such as The Great Race[^] with the length of the credits for any movie these days. Two or three screens worth of names and that was it - the movie was over and the house lights came on! Thus, when the movie ended you had two choices; either make a bolt for the exit before they showed Her Majesty and played God Save the Queen, or face peer pressure and stand to attention. We usually made a bolt for the exit!
One night at the drive-in Misery Guts was in such a hurry to get away that he forgot the speaker was still sitting on the window. This would have been 1965 or thereabouts and drive ins didn't provide a radio link; you hung a single speaker attached to a bloody great steel cable on the slightly lowered drivers side window. He took off to beat the traffic jam leaving the drive in and tore a large chunk out of the door column. That steel cable was built to take all the punishment you could throw at it!
I can still remember how heartily I laughed!
Ignorance
In late 1970, when I worked for AWA (Amalgamated Wireless Australasia) we had a new guy start. His name was very English (no, even after 35 years I won't use his real name though I remember it well). Sufficient to say that if I gave the name and no other information you'd assume he was from Surrey or Hampshire or Oxford or similar.
He was Indian!
I remember, a day or so after he started, as we ate dinner on overtime*, remarking on how well he spoke English. I honestly don't blame him for laughing at my ignorance. I think that was the first time I had my face rubbed, I mean really rubbed, in the fact that skin colour or nationality had little bearing on someone's ability to speak English.
*I've eaten a few hamburgers in my time but the one I ate that night really sticks in my memory. All I have to do is remember this incident and I can taste that burger...
He was Indian!
I remember, a day or so after he started, as we ate dinner on overtime*, remarking on how well he spoke English. I honestly don't blame him for laughing at my ignorance. I think that was the first time I had my face rubbed, I mean really rubbed, in the fact that skin colour or nationality had little bearing on someone's ability to speak English.
*I've eaten a few hamburgers in my time but the one I ate that night really sticks in my memory. All I have to do is remember this incident and I can taste that burger...
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
I hope I don't have to explain this
Early in my first trip to the US, 1982, I was met some guy at the plant. He advanced, hand extended and said...
'Hi, I'm Randy'.
I couldn't resist. I shook his hand and replied,
'Hi, I'm horny myself but I don't boast about it!'
Boom Boom...
'Hi, I'm Randy'.
I couldn't resist. I shook his hand and replied,
'Hi, I'm horny myself but I don't boast about it!'
Boom Boom...
Counter productive actions
I've made no secret of how I feel about the Schappelle Corby[^] case.
But I can't but think that this[^] is only going to hurt the case. You can have no idea how much it goes against the grain to agree with Little Johnny Bastard but in this case I think he's entirely correct.
We (Australians) would object mightily if Indonesians tried to interfere in the Australian legal system. We'd characterise as terrorism the sending of questionable powders to an Australian consulate office or embassy. It has to work both ways. If it were up to me I'd give the perpetrators the same sentence Shappelle got.
But I can't but think that this[^] is only going to hurt the case. You can have no idea how much it goes against the grain to agree with Little Johnny Bastard but in this case I think he's entirely correct.
We (Australians) would object mightily if Indonesians tried to interfere in the Australian legal system. We'd characterise as terrorism the sending of questionable powders to an Australian consulate office or embassy. It has to work both ways. If it were up to me I'd give the perpetrators the same sentence Shappelle got.
It was 38 years ago today
Sgt Pepper[^] taught the band to play!
I've always had a love/hate relationship with The Beatles. Some of their music I've loved; much I've hated. If they'd stopped at Rubber Soul I'd have felt that they had a potential they never realised. For me they really started with Magical Mystery Tour and ended at Abbey Road. There are isolated gems at either end, Eleanor Rigby and The Long and Winding Road, but for me the Double White is THE album that defines The Beatles. Even it's not perfect; to this day I cannot stand Obla Di, Obla Da. Makes me want to throw something at the radio when that one comes on!
But I have great memories of racing down Mulhall Drive, St Albans, on my bike, transistor radio blaring Birthday at maximum volume (and unbelievable distortion). Excellent stuff!
I've always had a love/hate relationship with The Beatles. Some of their music I've loved; much I've hated. If they'd stopped at Rubber Soul I'd have felt that they had a potential they never realised. For me they really started with Magical Mystery Tour and ended at Abbey Road. There are isolated gems at either end, Eleanor Rigby and The Long and Winding Road, but for me the Double White is THE album that defines The Beatles. Even it's not perfect; to this day I cannot stand Obla Di, Obla Da. Makes me want to throw something at the radio when that one comes on!
But I have great memories of racing down Mulhall Drive, St Albans, on my bike, transistor radio blaring Birthday at maximum volume (and unbelievable distortion). Excellent stuff!
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