Cheap and tacky crap you can buy at a plaza near you

I went to the plaza this morning with James, Liz, Carbi and Aramis in tow (read: James and Liz went to the plaza with the dogs and I bummed a lift). I finally found an appropriate tree for Pop.

I found a really cute little fibre-optic tree that is 35cm tall (thats a little over a foot for all you yanks out there that can't mentally convert :p ). It fits all my criteria: it's less than 40cm, it's easilly portable, it's got twinkly red and orange lights, and it's battery powered. As an added bonus it's also USB powered, but I cut the cord off since the chances of him ever owning a computer at this stage in his life are less than none. I was so impressed I bought one for myself.

While we walked around looking in the crafty shops we came across this item: a WWJD? fun pak. It has the letters W, J, D and ? (but twice as many Ws as the other three, obviously), cord and beads.


Just when I thought that I'd seen the tackiest object in the entire plaza in the WWJD kit, we walked into the $2 shop. My eyes were assaulted by two Virgin Mary wall clocks, complete with neonesque strobe lights behind them. Now I've seen everything.

A lesson in inflicting pain

Number one way to make the odds of hurting someone rise exponentially:
bitch about them behind their back.

It would be even more effective if the person in question is a nephew/niece, grandchild, or some other close relation (preferably but not necessarily by blood). If you really want it to hurt, you should arrange for this person to find out from a cousin/sibling or someone of that nature -- someone on their "level" in the family hierarchy.

If you are really bold (or perhaps if the person hasn't actually done anything wrong to bitch about) you could try creating problems and then blaming them on the person, however don't seek the person's help in solving them, this will only give you more ammunition. This will give you a lot to talk about. When talking, try using inventive words to describe the person's (alleged) behaviour such as "whinge".

Guaranteed to work. Or at the very least this will serve to drive a wedge into an already tenuous relationship.

P.S. (Nov 30, 2006): Yes, this is in relation to the Christmas list. There have now been three made: the original (mine), Aunt Agony's and Uncle's (the one who is constantly taking gibes at my walking stick). I wish I was buying for one of them this year so I could get them a lump of coal, however this year I'm buying for Cal. Which is good, cos I actually like Cal and won't have to waste my money on coal.

Holding the man

I just finished reading Tim Conigrave's Holding the Man at 3,30am this morning. It is -- by far -- the best book I've ever read.

When uni finished I decided to by myself a book for graduation, something "gay themed". Since trekking down to a shopping centre of any kind is kinda out of the question at the moment, I ordered my little "gift" online: Holding the Man by Tim Conigrave and Sushi Central by Alasdair Duncan (which I've already read and loved). The package arrived at the middle of last week. I started reading and was instantly hooked.

I was faced with a dilemma: do I keep reading until dawn so I can soak up as much of the book as I can? or do I pace myself and try to spread it out a little so I can enjoy it longer? This is what I hate about good books, the power they can have over you.

I started reading on Wednesday; I loved the characters, I loved the style of writing, I could see why he fell for John. I read a few chapters each night. Luckily I didn't have to worry about being too strict on myself because I was so buggered that I didn't have the energy to stay up all night reading even if I wanted to. Over the weekend I didn't get a chance to read much because I went to Liz's on Saturday night.

Last night I played the "just one more chapter then I'm going to sleep" game for the last quarter of the book. After two and a half hours -- and a quarter box of tissues -- I closed the book and tried to sleep. I haven't cried this much since I watched the movie The Notebook (which hit way too close to home -- my Grandma died in 2003 after suffering from Alzheimer's for 15 years).

It was a difficult book. So if you're feeling strong and love a good bittersweet romance I'd recommend Holding the Man and a box of tissues.

It's excellent.

Que descanséis en paz.

Shopping

I am not an impulse shopper, not in any great way. I will grab the odd chocolate bar when doing the groceries but that's about it. Suffice it to say I'm not one of those people who can walk into a plaza armed only with a credit card and walk again several hours later with bags and bags of goodies. Admittedly this is partly due to a distinct lack of funding option, but even if it weren't for that I probably still wouldn't do it. It's just not my type.

When I walk into a plaza I generally have an idea of what I want. Recently I knew I wanted a lemon yellow tshirt. I went to a shop, found one I liked, bought it and left. Often the picture in my head is so madenly specifc that it can take a while to find something that I like and matches my mental picture.

Lately, I've been doing a lot of shopping online, particularly on ebay. The problem with using is that I am too impatient to wait for auctions to end and often only use the "buy it now" feature. My problem of having madenly specific ideas of what I want comes into play here too.

This morning I'm looking for a christmas tree for Pop, to sparkle up his hospital room a little. It has to be small (no more than 40cm or so high), be light and easilly portable, have twinkly lights( since he is nearly 85% blind with macular degeneration -- something I can look forward to myself, no pun intended) and be battery powered if possible. I would have thought this to be a fairly reasonable request! But alas, while many came close to fulfilling the above criteria, I couldn't find any I liked. They're either too tall, USB powered (what the fuck is that about!?) or just downright ugly.

I'm thinking I might have to trawl the $2 shops and pray.

Glimmer

We went to see Pop tonight. He's doing a little better. They've taken him off the drip, because it was filling his lungs with water. They've almost got the pneumonia under control with IV anti-biotics. He seemed a little cheerier although he could barely talk because his mouth and throat were filled with phlegm, which he had to cough up only he didn't have the strength. But he was smiling.

I hate that place. I don't know how anyone could get better in that environment. The nurses shout down the corridor and speak about the patients when they are in earshot. We were sitting there with Pop and heard two nurses shouting down the corridor: "Whoa there's a stink over here! Must be two of 'em! I'll clean 'em in a minute." The other night, the nurse asked my aunt in front of him "Is he all there?" -- as in has he lost his mind or not? I was fuming.

Hopefully we can get him out of there at the end of the week, depending on the results of a chest X-ray and an ECG, and into a care facility. At least when we're paying for the care we can make more of a fuss about things; in a public hospital there isn't much we can do about it.

Sensing censorship

Until about a year ago, I never really thought much about the politics of China. I had no connection to the country and no real desire to learn about it. This changed when my friend moved over there to live with her boyfriend (who is actually Canadian, but living in China). She's a self-confessed nomadic traveller who loves seeing the world so the move was perhaps a little less weird in her case. Since she moved there, and I started reading her blog (Aussie in the Orient) and chatting to her, I've become aware of how it is a totally different world to the one I'm used to.

The government of China regulates everything. The ISPs in China are given a list of websites to block, so that citizens cannot access sites that it deems to be "dangerous". Sites are black-listed if they challenge the ultimate authority of the government or could potentially give citizens "ideas" that their way of life is less than perfect. They actually employ a department of 3000 people trawl the web and leave pro-China comments on blogs and message boards. Lou can explain it much better than I can, so read this post and this post for more info).

Television channels are also regulated, ensuring that no suspect programming should infect the citizen's minds with anti-government ideals. The government has done many "documentary" shows in the style of our very own Today Tonight or A Current Affair (which, for my overseas readers, are shows that purport to be hard-hitting journalism but are in fact nothing but one-sided sensationalised opinion pieces with very little ground in reality). Lou told me about one such doco that said that there are no homeless people in Shanghai; the beggars seen on the streets are in fact not homeless but normal everyday citizens who earned their living by pretending to be homeless. Thus, the doco concluded, there is no homelessness problem in Shanghai and it's a truly wonderful modern city to live in.

Of course, my view on the situation is very simplistic, not having lived there myself, so I'm sure there's much more to it. But it is my basic understanding.

When teaching, she has to be very careful not to say anything inappropriate to her Chinese students. It is written into her contract that she does not talk about the "three Ts" on pain of instant dismissal:

• Tiannanmen -- this needs no explanation I'm sure,
  
• Taiwan -- which asserted its Independence from China, something very embarrassing for the Chinese government, and
  
• Tibet -- which has also asserted its independence but have been met with strong resistance from the government.

The government denies that any of these tragic events happened. The populace, on the whole, believe them!

I was at the hospital, visiting Pop, and the nurse (who was Chinese) was talking to Dad about some orchid that is hugely popular in China:

Dad: I've heard that its very popular over there. I've heard of clubs with 10,000 members that are lovers of this plant.
Nurse: Ten thousand. If a group assembles in China, the government gets very worried and wouldn't let it last long. They're paranoid about having another episode like 1989.
Me: Yeh, I've heard about the Chinese government's over-reaction to these kind of things. Actually my friend, who's an Aussie girl, is living in China teaching art and English. She tells me all kind of weird things about China. Like when she's teaching she has to be very careful what she says, so that she doesn't say anything "inappropriate" to the students.

The nurse, Dad and Aunt nod.

Me: She said she has to be especially careful about the "three Ts" or she could get sacked or deported. There's Tiannanmen (solemn nods from Dad, Aunt and Nurse), Taiwan (more nodding), and what's the last one ...

I had genuinely forgotten the word. I looked at Aunt and Dad, but evidently I hadn't told this story before so they were no help. Then it came to me ...

Me: Tibet! That's the last one, Tibet.
Nurse: What's wrong with talking about Tibet? That's part of China.
Aunt: Ah, you've been indoctrinated too.
Me: This is the problem. Tibet has tried to assert its independence but the Chinese government won't have a bar of it. But they tell all the citizens that its all ok, "Tibet is part of China, nothing to worry about".
Nurse: I didn't know that.

I was stunned. She seemed to be very intelligent, a little too brusque for my liking when she treated my frail grandfather, but she did know what she was doing. She spoke excellent English; she has obviously lived in Australia long enough to get a job in the hospital. She was aware of the government's tricks and lies. But she believed them without even realising it.

I told Lou about all this and she laughed, but wasn't surprised. It's a hard cycle to break when you've lived your whole life believing something.

Makes me realise how lucky I am to live in Australia. Even though I have issues with my own government's tricks and lies, I guess it's all relative: they may tell me what I can't do, but they don't tell me what I can't think.

Affirming my masculinity

Picture the setting: I'm sitting on Liz's back deck with Liz, James and Liz's parents, after having finished a barbecue dinner. We're all lounging back on our comfy chairs, sipping our drinks and chatting.

Liz: We cooked dinner, so you have to wash up.
Me: Yeh, James, you have to wash up.
Liz: Not him, he helped us cook. Mum and Dad have to wash up.
Me: How did James help us cook?
Liz: He provided a male presence.
Me: Oi. What am I then? I'm a mAAARGH THERE'S A BUG ON ME! ARGH IT'S IN MY PANTS.

Little bastard christmas beetle. It could not have chosen a more inopportune time to land on me. I hope I gave him a heart attack.

One week

The last five days have been surreal. At the end of a very long week, I look back and it seems to have flown by. Looking back on the week, it's a mishmash of events -- some hilarious, some chilling -- each clear in my mind and yet lacking clarity at the same time. I think the truth is that I am a little numb, so perhaps it's a coping mechanism?

I think that my Pop is dying. Not in the way that we are all dying slowly; but quickly, painfully. Last Thursday (I think -- my mental time-line is a little sketchy) he was admitted to hospital with stomach pains and trouble breathing. He had a fall recently. Since then he has been very frail. He has always had the usual aches and pains that come with being elderly, but this was something more. Blood tests were done and it was found he was very anaemic and dehydrated. They did something to help stave off anaemia (although I forget what) and had him on a saline drip for the dehydration.

Dad, Sister and I went to see him on Sunday.
He looked ok, considering. They had sat him up in the chair next to bed, which I thought was cruel. I could see he was uncomfortable. When we got there he was being fed by the man in the bed next to him -- Clarry -- presumably because the nurses were too busy. At one point I went to get a box of tissues from the nurses' station, walking through the ward of elderly patients; it broke my heart. As I walked back to the room I heard an anguished (yet quiet) "Help me! Someone help me up! Help me up!" from a small woman who was lying half on her side in the room I was walking past. Her face was full of terror. I called out to a nurse, sending them to her. I thought "how could anyone get better in this environment?" Pop was smiling and laughing in between the cringes from the pain of sitting up.

A tree was struck by lightening on Monday, starting a bushfire.
The fire wasn't too close to my house, but it was close enough to put us on alert. I don't remember anything about Monday, except working on the journal that I'm assistant-editing. More important memories have wiped Monday from my mind completely. I only know about the lightning because I was told that was what happened. Liz told me her sister had heard it was heading our way. I only know this because I re-read out chat history.

There was smoke everywhere on Tuesday.
It was bloody hot too. Wonderful fire weather, if you're a fire that is, not so great for the ones trying to fight it. I was woken up at 9am by Sister, on orders from Mum (who was already at work by this point) because she didn't want me to be asleep if/when the fire came. I was not impressed. I kept working on the journal, presumably. I don't remember anything else.

Burnt leaves rained down on Wednesday.
At lunchtime it was stinking hot, very smokey, and the fire was getting closer. I got up on the ladder and blocked all the downpipes with socks filled with dirt. It is surprisingly hard to fill a sock with dirt and stuff it down a downpipe! Then I got up and filled the gutters with water. It took forever and I got very impatient. It was hot, smokey and I just wanted to sleep.

Thursday was one of the saddest days of my life.
I spent the morning working on the journal and other bits and pieces. Mum and Dad were both home from work early so we all sat down and watched Hoodwinked. After the movie I was on the phone to a work friend, explaining some things as she is new to the job. I heard the call-waiting tone. Thankfully we have caller ID so I looked and the screen said "PAYPHONE". I put the friend on hold and said hello. It was my Aunt. I asked how she was, she said good, but Pop wasn't doing so well. I quickly took the phone to Dad and waited, listening to the one-side conversation. He said I'll come right down, I'll be there in an hour. I knew it was serious. When I got the phone back I finished up with my friend and told Dad I was coming with him. He said ok, let's go.

We got to the hospital and walked into his shared room. He was lying down this time, thankfully, and looked pale. "So this is what a death-bed looks like" I thought. I felt horribly guilty for thinking such a thing, but only for a second: there's no guilt in thinking the obvious. He was a little disoriented, but still smiling his wry smile that I love. There was no saline drip -- they took it away because the fluid was leaking into his lungs and feet (which, I'm told, is a classic symptom of congenital heart failure). Without enough fluid, his kidneys will stop working; with fluid, his lungs would fill up. It's a catch 22. He has pneumonia an oxygen tube to his nose. He can't walk to the toilet so he has a colostomy bag. It was so sad. He said it feels weird just pissing in bed, like it's improper. He laughed though. He kept asking what the thing on his nose was, the thing delivering the oxygen. My aunt told him its to help him breathe and he said, I know that, but what's it called. No one knew. I told him I'd google it for him.

Friday I'm numb
I got up this morning and tried to google the nose thingy. Sadly, googling "nose thingy" doesn't get you very far. Luckily one of my mates did an EMT course (something to do with Ambulances in the US, we call them something else here) and he told me it's a "nasal cannula". I quickly called Dad at work and told him. If Dad has time he'll come home before going to to the hospital, even though home is in the opposite direction. I hope I can go. I'm so fucking tired. I don't know if I can last that long though, so I don't know if I should go or not. I want to tell him it's a nasal cannula.

Tia just called to see how he is. Just now, after I'd finished that paragraph. I told her the story, she said she's very sorry and sent her love to my Dad. She asked me if he knows the Lord. That made me feel even worse. I usually love talking to Tia, we just click, but today I wanted to tell her to shut the fuck up and hang up on her.

I miss him already.

Images of Identity

A friend said to me the other day "there's no photos of you on your blog". This is untrue, there are very few photos of me, but they do exist. Since none of them show my face, I gave him the benefit of the doubt.

The reason for this is that I am not out to my parents, sister or the FAL and I don't want them stumbling across my blog and recognising me. The rational side of me knows that the chances of this happening are extremely slim and that even if they did find it they would figure it out after reading a few posts. However, the irriational side of me doesn't want to take that chance. Once I am out to them, I may reconsider, although the truth is that I quite like the (admittedly small) degree of anonymity of this blog.

In the mean time, Liz took some photos of me on the weekend, especially for the blog. This is my favourite.

Goings on

I went to stay with Liz again this weekend, under the guise of helping her set up a network between her computer and her parents'. We had a ball, staying up late watching Hoodwinked and The Producers, drinking way too much coke than is good for you and generally having a great time.

On Saturday night we hopped into the car to drive over to the local servo -- all of two minutes away -- to buy some coke. I sat in the passenger seat, stick by my side, and waited. Liz started the car. Liz reached for the gear stick to put the car in reverse. Liz put her hand on the head my stick and jiggled it around, presumably in such a way that would put the car into reverse if it were in fact a gear stick. I pissed myself laughing. Liz said "this is going on your blog isn't it?" I said "yep". Liz took the actual gear stick and moved it in I assume was the same way as she did the walking stick because the car was put into reverse. We drove off. We laughed about it all night.

Humility

If you want to experience humility, walk through a major shopping centre with a walking stick and no obvious disfigurement or disability. People, particularly older people, will stare at you -- some covertly, some shamelessly. Small children will whisper hurriedly to their parents, who will tell them not to stare. Others don't look at you in a way that makes it quite obvious that they are not looking at you. It is very humbling. At first it used to bother me but now I see it as an amusing social experiment.

When I am out with Lala, she takes no prisoners in protecting me from inconsiderate members of the public. We were in the supermarket once, meandering along, when all of a sudden "TAKE A PICTURE! IT'LL LAST LONGER!" was bellowed at a terrified looking teenager who we'd just passed. Presumably he'd be staring.

That was humbling.

Last year Liz had a birthday party at Create A Bear, a shop where, funnily enough, bears are created by customers. It was a great day in which we all gave free reign to our inner-children who barely live below the surface at the best of times. Before we got started, I was standing near the entrance with Liz and some friends chatting. I had dark sun-glasses on because the shop was incredibly glarey, one hand on my stick and the other link through Liz's arm being festive.

A few minutes later, a shop assistant scurried over to us and said "Excuse me sir, I don't mean to be rude, but are you completely blind? Or can you see some things? I'm just wondering because we'll need to clear the shop a little bit." -- "Huh? What? Oh, no, it's just glarey in here" I said, somewhat bewildered, thinking that she was simply referring to glasses ("surely other customers wear sunnies in the shop" I thought). Then it dawned on me. I'm standing with sunnies on, arm linked around someone else, with a stick in my hand. I laughed. "Oh thank goodness! This is our first birthday party and we've got a district manager coming to check on us and I was out the back thinking 'Oh my God! Not a blind guy at our first party!'"

That was humbling.

This is quite possibly the funniest sign I have ever seen. It is located in the lift at a bowling club we frequent. I think it speaks for itself, so I won't say anymore.

Have you seen this surfer?

Carbi and Aramis have asked me to ask everyone if you are, or if you have seen, their 1000th visitor. You will recognise this person because they meet all of the following criteria :

1. They got to Carbi & Aramis's blog from this site, most likely this page.
2. They use a Mac, running OSX
3. They live in Australia
4. They live in Sydney
5. They visited at 12.42am on the 16th of November, 2006.
6. And their ISP is Optus Internet.

If you are this person, please contact them so they can shower you with gifts. Or, at the very least, lick your ears.

Random ramblings #12

Some disjointed tidbits I've been meaning to blog about ...

I found this cartoon pinned to the pin board in the spare room at Liz's. It illustrates my housekeeping ethos to a tea. I showed Mum and she was less than impressed.

Many readers comment on the pictures on my blog. It seems I have good taste in men. The best comment thus far was said (well, it was typed on MSN) a few days ago by my friend Lou, an Aussie who lives in China, who said:

btw- you don't know the weird looks i got in net cafes while travelling as i looked at your blog. "why is that foreign girl looking at male soft porn?"

I was touched that she persisted in reading my blog despite the quite evident potential for embarrassment. Especially considering she was travelling through China with her parents. So this one is for you, Lou. You can show this to anyone who gives you strange looks.

I had the world's best word verifications yesterday. After the giggling subsided, I said to Liz that I should collect them and try to write a post entirely using word verifications. This is what she suggested I start with (you might have to say them out loud):
I know it's juvenile, but that's part of the fun of being young.

And on that truly disturbing note (especially for a young gay guy), I bid you all sweet dreams.

Monopolistic pursuits

This is my 100th post. I was hoping to be able to write something poignant, witty, thought-provoking, and/or otherwise brilliant but I'm too tired. Instead you get monopoly.

I stayed at Liz's last night and we stayed up till 4,15 am playing Monopoly: Stock Market Edition. I lost abysmally. We're talking millions of pounds here. It was pitiful really. In my defense, I think my tragic loss was due not only to my abject lack of strategy and technique, but also to the fact that Liz is a very skilled player. After growing up playing monopoly with her two brothers who lied, cheated, and took no prisoners in their monopolistic pursuits, she has developed a pretty savvy attitude towards monopoly. But mostly it was me.

Unlike regular monopoly, the stock market edition has companies in lieu of streets and offices in lieu of houses. What makes it really cool is that is has a little computer doo-dad that you use to do all the transactions on. So when you buy a company, you buy 5 shares. Each company has 9 share options, so by having 5 shares, you have the controlling interest. This way you can buy shares in companies that are run by opponents which serves to lower your rent when you land on them. It also means you can sell part of your company to the bank for some quick cash without forfeiting the entire company. The rent too is a little more complex than in the vanilla version, and a good deal steeper! Liz took pity on me waiving countless amounts of rent that I owed her, letting me move one more space than I should have in order to avoid landing on expensive companies, and forgoing purchases that would ultimately be costly to me. And I still lost!

This morning we had a rematch. I lost again in much the same fashion.

Second impressions

Aramis is thoroughly not happy about my being here. Read his latest blog entry. Liz just left the room to go to the bathroom (enabling me to pinch the laptop momentarily in her absence) and he followed her. He's afraid to be left in the room with me!

First impressions

I think Liz's new dog hates me. I have reason to believe he thinks I'm dangerous. I'm not sure why, but evidently there is something off-putting about me as far as he's concerned. When we met, at my house when they came to pick me up, I squatted down and said hello to him and he shrunk away. Once we got to Liz's I put my stuff in the spare room and he followed me down the hallway, two metres behind. When I made eye contact with him he turned and left. Later, as I was sitting with Liz on the lounge watching TV, I noticed him walking behind the lounge, into the study, and back into the lounge through the other door -- essentially "round the block" -- three times, looking at me furtively at various intervals. I was later informed that I was in his seat; I got up and he leaped in.

I don't get it. Everyone likes me. Even the people who don't like liked me when they first met me.

I think its going to take a lot more than my genial nature and charming humour to win him over. I kicked him in the face as I walking up the stairs with him behind me. I thought "Typical! I would kick the one who doesn't like me!" He walked away from me, unruffled, and didn't go anywhere near me until later when he hopped up on Liz's seat, next to me, but only because I am in his seat. He still doesn't look settled. He just jumped off as I wrote that.

Why doesn't he like me?

Spring cleaning

Today I cleaned.

There are many things that I do well, but maintaining a tidy bedroom is not one of them. So today, on pain of death and grounding (at my age!) from my mother, I cleaned.

I threw out 4 large garbage bag of shit -- metaphorical shit, I grant you, but shit nonetheless. The large garbage bags were not, however, of the heavy-duty variety and one of them split down the side spewing said shit all over the floor. Sadly, it could have been mistaken as part of the general decor. The split occurred because I used the non-heavy-duty bag to line my dirty clothes basket (one of the hole-y, plastic-y, hamper-y types) and chucked stuff into that. My reason for doing so was that the waste paper basket I usually use was getting full so quickly that I was changing the bag every 10 minutes and it was really starting to get on my nerves. So I lined the clothes hamper with the bag and filled it up to the top. When I tried to prise it free from the basket, pieces of shit that were jutting out at odd angles got caught in the holes of the hamper, causing tears. I gave a final hearty wrench on the bag and almost staggered backwards as the bag broke, in a spectacular shower of paper and other assorted debris, and I ended up with a chunk of black plastic in my hands.

I also changed my sheets. I don't remember when I last did it. That is a very telling fact, and one that terrifies me.

I wonder how much longer the current state my room is in will last? I'd give it a week. Tops.

Sleepy boy: not sleeping

I think I fell asleep at 5,30 this morning. The sun had started to rise. It's so bizarre falling asleep after the sun rises, like you're looking at things from the wrong side.

My dreaming was shattered, at 9,15, when the door bell rang. It was a work colleague of Dad's, come to pick him up to take him to a meeting in the middle-of-nowheresville NSW (although I didn't know this at the time). Thinking it was the Parcel Post Lady, I got up, put some pants on, and answered the door.

Me: G'day.
Work Guy: Hi Daniel, how are you?
Me: Ok. You after Dad?
Work Guy: Yep.
Me: He's not here.
Work Guy: Where is he?
Me: Gone to middle-of-nowheresville.
Work Guy: Oh, has he?
Me: Yep.
Work Guy: Oh. I've come to pick him up to take him there.
Me: Well then he's here then, isn't he?
Work Guy: His car's not here.
Me: Well then I guess he's not here.
Work Guy: Yeah, I figured that.
Me: He's probably gone to the shops.
Work Guy: Oh, ok I'll wait.

This little exchange may seem a little brusque, especially by my sociable standards, but the truth is that I was just so beside myself with exhaustion that I couldn't think. When I am this tired I have difficulty thinking in more than one mental jump at a time, and hence I tend to state the obvious, like saying "well he's not here then" when told that Dad's car wasn't in the yard.

I went back to bed when Dad arrived, 5 minutes later. I couldn't sleep. Now I was mad. I grabbed laptop and started reading friend's blogs. I went to leave a comment and found another amusing word verification. In my delirium, I read this as (and I shit you not): queer bonk. I giggled inanely for a full minute.

Shortly after this I visited another page, one that has made my entire morning. It was a mate's blog, Aussielicious, and he had posted, to my utter delight, a picture of the love of my life, Tom Welling. I have shamelessly pinched the image, but I hope that the link makes up for that :-)

So what now? It's now midday -- I can't go back to sleep -- so I'm going to have to go full circle and last the day without napping so that I can sleep properly tonight. Sigh.

I think I dreamt that Baker's Delight was out of my favourite mini foccacia supreme. What the hell is that about?

I just called the water board to tell them our metre is leaking. While on hold, the music made me think of little elephants, in pink tutus, dancing on tip-toes.

I really need sleep.

Midnight musings

Lying here, at 4am, unable to sleep, I couldn't help but think that Parcel Post Lady has been up for an hour and a quarter already.

Isn't it funny how when you try to do things quietly in the middle of the night, in a vain effort not to wake up others in the house, how you always end up making more noise than if you had have just gone about things normally?

Pissing contest

The lady from the parcel post came this morning. She's a short lady, maybe 60, with short cropped grey hair, who always seems to wear the same thing: light blue shorts and a navy sleeveless top.

When she comes she rings the bell, knocks twice on the door, and then starts walking back to her truck -- all in one graceful, fluid movement. It shits me up the wall. How she expects people to get to the door in a split second is quite beyond me.

Not surprisingly, this morning she did exactly the same thing. I was asleep when she came, so when I heard the bell, quickly followed by the familiar double-knock, I leaped out of bed, quickly pulled on some shorts, and made for the front door. By the time I got there, I could see her standing by her van, driver's door open, filling out a "sorry we missed you" card. Luckily the door was being co-operative and allowed me, in its wisdom, to open it without having to find a key (which was, naturally, back in my bedroom and would have cost me crucial seconds of hunting). I walked up behind her and called out "hello" but she didn't hear me. I didn't want to shout at the poor woman (as much as I would love to give her a piece of my mind!) so I said again, by now behind her, "hello?". She jumped. "Oh, you frightened me!"

She got out her little handheld computer and scanned the bar code on the parcel, asked my name, and handed it to me to sign for the article. "Did I get you out of bed?" she asked. "Yes," I said, "but don't worry, it's about time I got up anyway." It was 11am. "Oh, you're lucky," she cooed, "I got up at a quarter to three this morning!" She gave me the parcel and got into her van and started to drive off.

Walking back into the house, I thought "What is this? A pissing contest? I got up earlier than you so I'm better than you are!"

I hate to be so blatantly and sweepingly stereotypical (but hey, is there any other way to do it?) but what is it with older people and getting up early? Pop is 92 and gets up at around 9am. This is only because he has been very unwell lately, otherwise it would be more like 8. My other grandparents, both in their mid-seventies, also get up with the sun. I don't understand it. Not that it's any of my business really; if they want to get up at that ungodly hour then that's their trauma, not mine. Who am I to judge? What shits me is when I am looked down on simply because I choose to get up at 11am. I work, I work into the night; it's not like I am wasting time by getting up late, I'm merely shifting my day forward a few hours. So why all the judging?

Parallel universe

Sometimes I think that, perhaps, my town is in fact on a different metaphysical plane than the rest of the country.

It's difficult to classify my town or, to be more specific, the nearest "biggish town" to my place. I use the term "town" because it is not a part of the Greater Metropolitan Area of Sydney. To confuse things further, it has all the things that a typical biggish town should have: two pubs, a post offices, two (small) supermarkets, two video stores, one library, two bookshops (one retail, the other second-hand), a TAB office, one newsagent, a train station, two chemists, and three "discount shops" (you know the kind - full of useless crap that no one actually needs, all at bargain prices). We even have a stationary shop and a hand-full of clothing stores. We seem to have a disproportionate number of take-away stores, there being 12 on the main street alone.

The other day, Dad and I went to town with a simple mission: to buy a laser pointer.

We started, naturally, at the stationary shop. They said to try the post office. The post office said to try the gadget shop opposite the station or the computer place. The guy in the computer place didn't know what we were talking about, but once it was explained suggested the gadget shop. The guy in the gadget shop said to try one of the discount shops. The first discount shop (the one next to Dominos, for those who know the area) said to try the other discount shops, that they used to have them but they had to send them back because they were faulty. The next discount shop (next to the chemist) said much the same thing. The newsagent didn't know where to get one in town and suggested going to the nearest large town, down the mountain, and to try our luck there. The last discount shop (near the bookshop) also said that they had nothing, but suggested trying the stationers.

By this point, the two of us were sick of running around. We hadn't really planned our expedition out, obviously, and as such were going from one side of town to the other, rather than walking down one side of the main street and back up the other.

At the last discount shop, I finally snapped at the poor girl (who was only 16 at the most) behind the counter.

Me: You don't have any laser pointers?
Girl: No, sorry, you could try the stationers.
Me: Why not?
Girl: Pardon?
Me: I mean why don't you have any?
Girl: I'm sorry sir, I don't know.
Me: Where are we?
Girl: (looking increasingly confused) Pardon?
Me: I mean are we in (town)?
Girl: (bewildered) Umm, yes.
Me: This isn't some weird parallel universe is it? One where laser pointers just don't exist.
Girl: (silence)
Me: Because we've been up and down Main Street and, while they may exist elsewhere, they certainly don't exist here!
Girl: I'm sorry, Sir, but ...
Me: Oh I know it's not your fault (relieved look on Girl's face), it's just so frustrating to learn that the entire town seems to have been swallowed up into a giant black hole where laser pointers simply cease to exist.
Girl: Um... yeah... (nervous laugh)

And with that we left the shop, went home, and bought one on eBay.

When it rains it pours

Today I had a long, wet, strange day. I can't remember the last time I was last as wet as I was today, although admittedly, this isn't saying much at all.

I woke up at 7,10 AM -- 50 minutes earlier than planned. I should have see this for the omen it was and shut of my alarm and gone back to sleep. Dad drove me down to Richmond, where I hopped out of the car and headed into Maccas for a small breakfast of a hash brown and a sausage and egg mcmuffin. I was quietly eating in the corner of the restaurant when my mobile rang. It was a work colleague I was going to see that afternoon to sign some things; "Hi Dan, I just wanted to say that I'm not feeling well today so I've decided to stay home, but the things to sign are on the conference table so just let yourself in and I'll fix it all up on Monday". This was both good and bad -- we tend to chatter on so this meant a nice quick trip but I didn't have my keys so couldn't actually let myself in.

I called another colleague, who works in the city, and arranged to pick up his key on my way to uni. The train trip from Richmond to Circular Quay was fairly uneventful. The fun started when I got off the train -- it was pissing down in a pretty serious way. The sight of the Harbour Bridge over the Quay was positively dismal:
I've never noticed it before, but there is absolutely no cover in Circular Quay. The ground is paved with grey granite tiles, with totally less-than-adequate drainage, and was totally flooded. Luckily I was wearing my thongs so the water washing over my feet didn't infiltrate or soak any shoes. I walked over to my colleague's office, grabbed the key, then hopped a bus to uni.

Again, it appears the architect and/or engineer who designed the main walkway through the campus hadn't grasped the necessity of drainage. It too is paved with granite pavers and was totally lake-like in the torrential rain this morning. It is long. I waddled along, walking stick slipping on every third step, trying to stay as dry as possible while doing a fantastic impression of Jesus walking on water (although admittedly with less panache than I would have liked). I was halfway along the walkway when I felt cold, large drops on the back of my neck. At first I thought these drops were from an ill-aligned umbrella, but as the trickle of cold water continued to run down my back I decided there must be more to it than a simple case of bad alignment. I looked up and watched a large drop fall from the inside of the umbrella. Cold, wet, pissed, I walked slowly towards the building.

When I got into the lift I remembered that every time I use this particular lift I say to myself "I should take a photo of this". The lift has mirrors on three sides so the effect is produces is really weird:

In another building, I was amused at the following sign. It's like the uni is saying "we know that this lift is crap, so you'd better not use it as an excuse for being late to class, because it won't be accepted". What amuses me more is that they used the time, money, and resources to make a sign rather than spend it on fixing the bloody thing.

Lastly, I was sitting in the foodhall, waiting for someone, when I looked over at the next table and saw something that made me heave. A large, open tin of pal dogfood with two plastic spoons sticking out if it, surrounded by several lolly wrappers. I don't even want to hazzard a guess as to what its fate was. I tried to take a photo of it too, but it appears I fucked up because when I went to download it off my camera, it didn't exist.

The rest of the day was fairly uneventful.

I dried out by about 5,30.

My thongs dried out by 7.

Random ramblings #11

Now, I'm relaxing (which looks remarkably like procrastinating to the untrained eye). I'm lying in bed today, nursing my weary legs, and watching Monty Python and the Holy Grail. I loved this bit:

And the Lord spake, saying, "First shalt thou take out the Holy Pin. Then, shalt thou count to three. No more. No less. Three shalt be the number thou shalt count, and the number of the counting shall be three. Four shalt thou not count, nor either count thou two, excepting that thou then proceed to three. Five is right out. Once the number three, being the third number, be reached, then, lobbest thou thy Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch towards thy foe, who, being naughty in My sight, shall snuff it."

What has happened to comedy? These men were like comedic gods.

One more thing, before I go. I got the following word verification the other day:You may wonder why this is so amusing. It isn't, after all, a swear word. The reason is that I am probably the most jumpy, nervous person I know. "Grboo" is a word so often shouted at me to elicit a jumpy-screamy-petrified reaction by my friends and family. Sometimes they do it on purpose. Other times they do nothing particularly scary and it scares the shit out of me. So that's why I had a laugh at it.

Going now.
Night.

Educating Dan

On Monday I sat my final exam (well more of a class test really) for my course. I think I did pretty well. But as my entry to university rests on this course I am a little nervous.

I did sit for the HSC (higher school certificate) exams, although it took me three years to complete them rather than the normal two. My UAI ranking (the 'index' used to get into university) was fairly pitiful due to my health, so getting into university through the normal channels didn't happen. I've always thought that it is ludicrous to expect a 17- or 18-year-old to know what he or she wants to do with their life, and I was no exception to what I maintain is a fairly universal rule. The year after high school I didn't know what I wanted to do, or be, beyond being happy and healthy -- two things that seemed to be quite elusive at that point. To be perfectly frank, I was a little grateful to my illness, in a very very small and specific way, because it meant I could legitimately delay any serious thoughts about my future -- one I had no wish to pursue because I was so confused in the present.

So I continued, living a present-tense existence, not thinking about the future that scared me so. Sister started university when I was 20 and, to be honest, I wasn't too phased at being overtaken educationally by my two-and-a-half-year-younger sister. In January of 2006, having completed one year of an arts degree, Sister changed her degree. In a whirlwind weekend of research and phone calls, she re-enrolled in a different course. Her passion was palpable and it got me thinking: "I'd like to go to university too." Fucked if I knew what I wanted to do once I got there, but I made some enquiries and found a way to get in, even with a pitiful UAI.

The program I discovered is the "University Preparation Program" and is basically an alternative path to enter university as a mature age student. As I started the program, I still had no idea where I wanted to go with it. In June I an epiphany.

Having finished the University Preparation Program, I now have to apply to university through UAC (the NSW Universities Admissions Centre) like everyone else. This means that my UAI and my marks from the UPP will be used to calculate some final rank, a rank which will get me a place in uni.

The epiphany was this: I love English, I love Spanish, I love language in general, I'm a good writer, and I'm a good teacher. The truth is I am a stickler for proper grammar. Some would say I'm a grammar-nazi. The only rule that I don't strictly enforce is the one about not splitting infinitives. I feel that to effectively write you sometimes need to split the odd infinitiv