The result of the Ferrari?

Oh yes. I forgot to mention (about this: http://micsgarage.blogspot.com/2006/02/pick-which-one-is-real-ferrari.html). The MJ shoes are lovely on the court. I'll sell them and their sleek Ferrari lines to anyone.

Shouting in the streets of Sydney

I enjoy working in Sydney, there's always so many interesting people and things to see. Sometimes I wonder though.

I do NOT enjoy the fact that about the only place you can get some peace and quiet to do some reading at lunchtimes is in a dingy pub. Although I love my pubs, especially the dingy ones, I also love my beer, and that is just too much of a temptation for me while I'm on a diet. (Yes I'm on a diet.) Also they frown on you bringing your own little meals in, particularly when said little meals are wholemeal salad sandwiches. "Are you absolutely sure you won't have pie, chips and gravy with that beer, sir?" Steady. Steady...

But I digress.

Today, I went hunting for a pharmacist to buy some contact lens solution, as my left lens felt gritty and needed a clean. A colleague informed me that there is one near the corner of Market and York Streets. So off I go in the mid-afternoon.

As I was waiting at the corner, there came up behind a couple of young ladies, one carrying two half-full garbage bags, and the other pushing a wheeled spectacle display stand, minus the spectacles. I wondered for a second, then let it go, crossed with the traffic lights and went into the pharmacists. Within one minute I had chosen the lens solution and was preparing to pay for it at the counter.

The spectacles stand pusher appeared at the entrance to the store, in my wake:

(shouting loudly at the sales assistants in the store) WHERE ARE THE BLOODY KEYS TO THE BACK DOOR?

Then ensued a LOUD argument over my cringing shoulder about the location of the keys and what the bloody-hell the woman was doing without them anyway and I don't know you must have the bloody things, etc. I meekly went ahead with my purchase and resolved never to return to this particular shop. My resolution was doubled when the assistant attempted to charge me $18.75 for the product when it was clearly marked $15.95. Small amount, big principle. But he may have been distracted by the Third Battle of the Somme going on.

On exiting the store, I crossed back to where I had first met the laden ladies, and there were two older woman discussing in not so flattering terms a work colleague. I didn't deliberately overhear the women. I couldn't help but hear, as they were standing at least five metres apart and shouting the conversation to each other over the traffic noise. It was very, very surreal.

My eyes feel better though.

Pick which one is the real Ferrari

OK. Examine these two photographs.

First this one:

Now this one:

I gotta admit it is hard to tell. But here's my clue: Ferrari's are usually painted red.

I guess I better explain this.

I've been complaining about my current basketball shoes for some time now. Everytime I come off the court my ankles are sore and sometimes also my arches. Alison has quickly gotten sick of my whinging and on Saturday she finally cracked. "Alright, we are going to buy you some new shoes!" She hunted around on the net and found a shop which specialises in basketball shoes, so off we went.

At the store, there are at least 30,000 different shoes on the wall, all ugly, all gaudy, many not really recognisable as shoes. Josephine is having a great time picking out the most disgusting ones, "Dad. Dad. DAD! Buy these. Pink and green. They've got little plastic springs on the bottom."

Torn equally between the thought to leave the game altogether for much younger people and the desire to strangle my second-born child, I eventually manage to find a pair that I can stomach, mainly because they have a high back which may help my ankles. Helpfully, they are labelled "Retro", which of course aids in bolstering my self-esteem.

"Can I try a size 11 in these, please." The young bloke alarmingly brings back a 10-½ and some 11's in a different model, same brand. I tried the 11 with my right-foot only (it is a size bigger than my left) — disastrously small. He measures my right foot: "I'll bring you back some 13's."

But they fit, and they are comfortable. Ignoring the feeling that as I get older, my feet really shouldn't be getting bigger, I try a few small jumps in them to get a feel, and it feels very strange. I look at the floorboards suspiciously, thinking that they must be deliberately sprung or something so that the shoes feel more comfortable than they really are, but the young bloke assures me that the shoes have a carbon-fibre base which spreads the impact throughout the foot rather than just concentrating it in the toes. And then he gives his line that he's certain will clinch the sale:

Look at these shoes. They've been modelled after MJ's [Michael Jordan's] Ferrari. See the intake. The shape of the moulding. The same sleak lines as his Ferrari. Beautiful, aren't they?

I must admit I'm speechless. I can't really think of a way of expressing my thoughts without swearing volubly in front of my children.

I ended up buying them regardless. Size 13.

Oh yes, and before you think my girlfriend's just too good to be true, finding the place to go, taking me there, putting up with me spending 30 minutes trying to find shoes that didn't look like grafitti, I should mention this: she bought a pair of shoes herself. Hmmmm.

I'll let you know how the Ferrari's work out.

Shopping habits

[Yes it has been a long time. I can only blame it on the effectiveness of the previous and current job in ensuring that they occupy my entire brain, leaving little else for me personally. A bit sad, isn't it?]

There is a fundamental difference in the way men and women shop for presents.

Women continually shop for presents throughout the year, even if they are not aware of it. Passing a trinket shop they will automatically file the thought in their brain that that trinket would suit Uncle John or Jan or Jason. Three months later when Christmas comes around, straight to the trinket shop for that present.

Men shop usually at the last minute, and with their pathetic little (though carefully thought about) list in their hand. Most of the presents they can rush around and buy in the space of an hour within the one store, but there will always be one or two that just don't happen. This turns into a last minute panic to desperately think of something else and usually results in buying something not quite right or completely different or generic ("I thought you'd like this apple corer, sweetheart. It's yellow, like your apron.")

Speaking of aprons, and I know how this is going to sound, but I bought Alison a kitchen apron for Christmas. Don't hassle me — It's what she wanted! But going into the stores, you would not believe the crappy selection you have. And trying to find the blasted things?! The only resort is to ask one of those cranky old woman:

"Could you please tell me where the aprons are?"
"Certainly sir you chauvanistic pig. They are over there [pointing] near the tea-towels. Would you like me to point out where the shackles and whips are so you can use them on your poor unfortunate, opressed girlfriend?"

Or something like that. I mean I can't remember the words exactly, but what she said and the looks she was giving me amounted to the above. Sigh.

I have a new combined Palm Pilot/Phone. A lot easier than carrying around two items and I invariably left the old Palm at home for the sake of space in my jeans pocket. I'm going to pretend to be a chick and write down things that I see as I see them.

Maybe... If I remember.

I'll let you know my results January next year.

Mail

We have a mail/package thief in our building.

A few weeks ago I saw a notice up in the foyer from someone complaining about the fact that his/her Financial Review Paper had been stolen and would the perpetrator please return it.

One bloke has posted a notice in the elevator for the return of an video tape package that has gone missing. Apparently it is a video of him rock-climbing or something of personal interest only like that.

And my Scale Avaiation Modeller International October edition is missing. At least it is two weeks late in arriving.

I'm considering contacting the other two victims and forming a Unit Vigilante Group. I think we're looking for someone who is reasonably well-off, owns his/her own grampons, and has a slight smell of hobby plastic cement on their fingers.

Flower Power

I am quite awed by the power of the flower.

Yesterday I bought some flowers on the way home from work — that's just the type of guy I am. Not an expensive bunch, but one of those impressive-loooking, space-invading, conical shaped, multi-coloured deals.

Up on the platform I noticed it first. This young woman looked at me, glanced down at the flowers and smiled at me. Exactly the same thing from an older woman walking up the platform. What is going on?

I boarded the train, doing my customary stand-in-the-middle-because-I've-only-got-three-stops thing. As anyone who remembers the weather yesterday it was a wet and muggy day, so crowded in the little vestibule of the carriage, the faint bouquet of the flowers became a stifling, cloying stench. But that didn't stop the women smiling at me uninvited. One older, sharply attractive, power-suited woman squashed in the far corner even combined the look, glance, smile with a affectionate tilt of the head. This is probably a woman who is used to physically biting off the heads of people who oppose her in the boardroom.

So what is going on here? All have obviously made the assumption that, inspired by true love, I've bought the flowers in a spur-of-the-moment fit of passion. Don't any of these women make the assumption that the reason I've bought the flowers is in apology because I've totalled her uninsured car whilst in a drunken swerve attempting to hit a small kitten on the road on the way back from the motel with the most hated girl from her childhood sitting barely-dressed in the passenger seat and after borrowing it without telling her? That's certainly a more likely explanation.

On reflection though, I guess I shouldn't take too much stock in the flower power. I got the same look, glance, smile from the thin, clean fit and mustachioed man in the tiny tight running shorts who was standing on the pavement outside the train station at Waverton. Although I have a sneaking suspicion that the glance down was not at the flowers.

Sketch No 1

I've had this idea for a while. I don't think I've seen it anywhere. If you want to use it, contact me.

---

Scene: Smart fellow in business suit waiting for an elevator.

There is a ding and the door opens. We now see from his point-of-view as the door opens to reveal the left inside of the elevator with partial smoked mirror walls. Staying with his point-of-view, man enters the elevator heading towards the left side and presses a button. Doors close.

There is a change of point-of-view to see the man left side-on looking from the middle of the elevator. He breathes a huge relaxing sigh. He noisily scratches his under-carriage for an extended period, perhaps with a pause in the middle and then returns to it.

Then he spots a pimple on his nose in the mirror. He moves in close to the mirror to squeeze the pimple satisfactorily. It obviously pops and he wipes a spot of pimple gunk off the mirror.

Scratching his nose, he wrinkles it slightly and then inserts a finger up it. He hunts briefly and it emerges. He inspects the end of his finger and then holds his hand out at the side, flicking his fingers together to get the nose remains of it.

Straightening up, he has a slight look of discomfort. He leans slightly to one side and we hear a loud fart sound. He does a cheeky chuckle and then reacts to the obviously bad smell, waving his hand in front of his nose and the chuckle changing to a subdued, coughing laugh.

The point-of-view is now the outside of the elevator, slightly to the right. We hear a ding and the elevator doors open to reveal the man on the left looking somewhat bewildered as this is not his floor. His look of bewilderment changes to horror as a pretty young woman (that the man obviously did not see till now) quickly emerges from the far right rear of the elevator, running slighlty hunched and with both hands pressed over her nose. She briefly glances back at the man, and when her face returns to the front we see her look of disgust.

---

I swear this didn't happen to me.

Evolution

Yesterday was a beautiful spring day, so taking advantage of the weather I left the office and went hunting for food. After the kill I decided to sit down in the park to enjoy the sunshine while feasting.

There were pigeons everywhere, and a couple of white chicken-sized things with really long thin curved black beaks that a brief hunt through the internet did not find.

I noticed, watching the pigeons gathered round a pile of crumbs that used to belong to a Lebanese bread roll, that the fattest birds were the most aggressive. Obviously they were fat as a result of their aggressiveness. The other possibility, that they were aggressive because they were fat, is too complicated for me.

It occurred to me that a kind of natural selection was going on here. The aggressive pigeons were getting fat and the submissive pigeons were dying out. Does this mean that over time, pigeon aggressiveness will increase as the 'aggressive' gene is passed from parent to child? Will this mean that eventually, pigeons will be attacking us for food, rather than somewhat meekly gathering at our feet for our leavings? Has this already happened and they are simply biding their time, waiting for the most opportune time to simultaneously attack and remove us all from this world?

I left the park soon after, nervously flicking my head around everytime one of the conniving little bastards flew past.

More addiction

I have just discovered the answer to something which has been nagging me for weeks since starting this new job.

Lately I've had no drive and energy in the morning. Sometimes this lasts all day. I have heard stories of older friends who have gone through "listless" periods of their life where they don't want to do anything except sit on the lounge and watch the telly. There is no drive in their job and nothing to spur them on. I've been wondering whether I'm suffering the same thing.

But no! The answer is simple. I've discovered that the coffee I've been drinking at work is decaffinated. Yesterday morning in the tea room I overhear one of the blokes telling a new starter, "...that jar is the decaf, and that [huge] tin is the real stuff." AHA! One mug of the "real stuff" and I'm away.

The only bad thing about this is the realisation that I'm a caffeine addict. I guess I just add it to the list and deal with it when I retire?

Our US Trip: Part 8 -New Orleans - The Bell-Toucher

Friday 10th December

A late start this morning with a touch, just a touch mind you, of hangover. Probably that last Bass Ale in Ryan's Pub was off. We were woken, and not the last time on this trip, by housekeeping. The little "Do Not Disturb" sign just wasn't working its magic for us.

We'd decided that we'd had over a week in the States, it was laundry time. If it hadn't have been for the souvenir shirts boughts in LA, Disneyland, Universal and Vegas we wouldn't have made it this far. So while Ali showered, I hunted through the phone book and found The Washing Well LaunDRYteria on Bourbon Street. It was only a short walk away.

The Washing Well was yet another in those eye-opening experiences we had. The woman running the place was as old and as large as my grandmother (except alive, of course). White, she had an equally old (though slimmer) black woman working for her who she ordered around to the response of, "Yes Maam." We obviously had no clue how the system worked so the old woman took charge of it all without moving one centimetre from her chair behind the counter. Two hours to wait, so we headed off to explore.

We headed down to the Decatur and decided to have some breakfast, despite being closer to lunch, at Cafe Beignet. A beignet is a little bit of a cross between a donut and a croissant, heavily dusted, OK, soaked, with powdered sugar. They were gorgeous. Ali had a more substantial breakfast that included grits. I'd always wanted to know what grits were, and now found out. They seemed to be a sort of tasteless ground oatmeal, a little bit ilke semolina. I heaped on the melted butter and the syrup to get a little taste out of them.

We walked west up Decatur and down to the Riverfront. We were accosted by this bloke, who gave me a ticket for being "too good looking" and demanded $10 off us for the New Orleans cap he had thrust upon us. Interesting sales line. The money was for some charity so we acquiesed and went on our way. The Mississippi is a very dirty river, a bit like the Yarra on a good day. Much wider of course.

While walking along the riverfront we were stopped by a couple of black kids who looked very, very out of it. One of them was the one who had tried to con us the previous night on Canal Street. And he tried the same trick again! Either a very short memory or very very out of it. We danced through the interruption and headed for the French Markets. Well I wasn't that keen, but you know, chicks. After wasting about an hour or so looking at the trinkets and the t-shirts, we thought we heard some music, and so we followed it's siren-like calling.

We ended up in a small bar just off the Markets, where I had a couple of Heineken and Al had something exotic and chicky. The band were very basic, Clarinet, Accoustic Guitar, Trumpet, Tuba. They were playing Trad Jazz, At The Jazz Band Ball, was swinging along. I calculated that it wasn't too early to send an SMS to a friend in Australia (about 7:30am). So I sent a message to Ray saying we were sitting in a bar in New Orleans listening to the standards and got one back moments later complaining that he was in Brisbane airport listening to the rotten muzak. We listened for a while, gave the bar a tip and went on our way.

Back to the Wishing Well to pick up our laundry. We had to fold and sort it, but that was no problem of course. The poor black woman was still being ordered around, and I noticed this time, muttering under her breath as well. We walked the length of Royal to get back to our Hotel and to rest, change and to book that evenings activities. We'd done a fair bit of walking and so were a little tired. We discussed for a bit what we would do the following day, and being a bit tired and niggly, we couldn't make any decision and so decided to make the decision in the morning or later that night.

Dressed in our finest and on our way. Down Canal to Decatur, and then the long walk east to Frenchman's. The restaurant guy was right, even that way was a little scary, New Orleans did really not make an effort to entertain 21st Century street lighting. So up Frenchman's, and we were aware walking along that here were some more contemporary Jazz locations. Snug Harbor, though spelt differently gave us a beautiful and local dinner. While I had the Atlantic Salmon, Ali had the Hush Puppies, which were like corn meal dumplings. A lovely dinner and some nice wine.

Downstairs after dinner to the tiny little entertainment area. We were seated towards the back of the room, but were still close enough to see and hear everything. I sneakily snuck off a few pictures without flash which came out moodily blurred. Delfeayo Marsalis was playing with his quartet. So him on trombone. This freakishly superb musician on Piano and Guitar, a Bass (tree not electric), Tenor Sax and of course, kit. All very, very good musicians. Despite the 30 minute wait for our bottle of red wine, we enjoyed the show. Delfeayo is a great trombone player, easily the best I've seen live. Interestingly, he's a "bell-toucher", which is something every learner trombone player is told NOT to do. When he plays notes in 3rd postion, the slide handle is adjacent to the bell of the horn, and almost every time, one of his fingers flicked out to touch the bell. Even on lightning fast runs up and down the scale; flick out it goes, flick in again. It didn't detract from the performance.

Afterwards we trouped outside. Ali was excited because on exiting through the crowd, Delfeayo had looked at her and thanked her. I mean he did that to twenty other people as he walked through, but it made it special for her of course. She chatted for a little bit with the bar lady, and managed to score a free CD of Snug Harbor recordings. Woohoo!

Across the road was The Spotted Cat which was crowded as buggary, and they had a large, and we both thought, not great, Jazz band playing. There was this old guy propping up the bar despite the crush and as the band played one tune, this old bloke pulled out a trumpet from beneath him and took a turn at a solo! We had one drink each only, but we weren't really in the mood for shitty music after the good stuff we'd heard already that night, so we decided to give it up.

We'd heard about the Beignets place, Cafe Du Monde on Decatur and so we stopped there for coffee and beignets on the way back to the Hotel. The place was crowded as, and we had to fight for a table. The waiter was very attentive, and I think I remember hearing that they don't actually get paid properly by the Cafe, but they make their money from the difference between what the Cafe charges for coffee and what they charge the customers. I could not spot any price boards in the place. I wasn't impressed by the coffee though I must say. Beignet was beautiful of course. This was our last call for the night and we tiredly walked back Decatur and Canal to our Hotel for another sleep.

Gameshow advertising

One of the few things I like to watch on television, now that is is back on, albeit in a new guise, is Temptation. It's your standard three competitors, trivia and general knowledge questions, races against the clock, most money at the end of the night -type affair. I must admit to not liking the new hosts Ed Philips and Livinia Nixon, he forces his smiles too much and she's, well she's just awful.

I don't know whether it is always been the way with these shows, but twice now I've noticed that they have thrown in questions relating to advertisements that have been aired during the preceding break. A few weeks ago it was a commercial break for Jetstar Airlines, and in the next period of the gameshow, one of the questions had the answer: Jetstar Airlines.

Last night it happened again. Commercial break which included a plug for the musical Fiddler on the Roof, back to the show and there is a question, "What musical tells the story..." The answer: Fiddler on the Roof.

Now I don't have an objection to the need of a show to advertise, I mean, come on, they are providing me with free entertainment for the simple cost of me ignoring the stupid friggin' commercials that happen every six minutes or so. But this sneaky little way of tying in a gameshow question with the advert that preceeded it, I find a little disconcerting. Disconcerting because it works; I don't remember any other commercials that have been on since the show started, and these brand names have stuck in my head now. Disconcerting because I thought I was ignoring the commercials, obviously something has gotten inside my conciousness. Sneaky. Sly. Insidious, even.

Strangely I am reminded of the quote from Goldfinger -- the book by Ian Fleming, not the film: "Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is enemy action." I'm waiting for that third time.

The worst word in the English Language

[Again I delve into profanity. See this for my last effort on this topic.]

There is no doubt what the foulest word in the English Language is. As a hint: it starts with the letter "C".

I must admit, I have occasion to use this word, usually when behind the wheel of my Honda Civic, when discussing the merits of Channel 9 TV personalities, or when discussing telephone companies. Never in front of the children of course (unlike my mother who used it in front of me). But it is strongly frowned upon when I use it in the home, for whatever reason. When I do let it slip out, I hear the "C-Word signature" cough from my Chick. She does not like hearing it.

It sounds a little like "hup-hrrm", but in a coughy way.

"Gee that Eddie Macguire is a bit of a c..."
"Hup-hrrm!!!"

You get the picture. I've worked out that the cough is not because of any liking she has for Eddie Macguire, either.

Today, I got the "C-word signature" cough for another reason. I was in the office/spare room, listening to Mozart whilst working, she's in the loungeroom listening to a Charlie Parker CD. I reckon Charlie is OK, but, waggishly, while returning the Mozart CD to it's rightful place in the bookshelf in the loungeroom, I attempted to get a small rise out of her:

"<big smile>What's this sh*t you're listening to?"
"Hup-hrrm!!!"

I think if you analyze it carefully, you will realise, as I did, that she has used the C-word on me!

Defeat of the Great Green Monster

WARNING: This post is going to get a bit icky.

This morning was the first since Friday I have not woken up and immediately coughed up or spewed up huge amounts of green glutinous matter.

Yes, I've had the flu.

Last Friday was the worst. I spent all day on the lounge watching crappy daytime telly, with a prime diet of panadol and sudafed, turning paper tissues into soggy green papier mache. To rub salt into the wound, I missed out on going to the Lord Nelson with a bunch of mates. And I love the Lord Nelson.

I guess it is my own fault. I had the sniffles early last week and suspected it was going to turn into a flu, but instead of cutting out the booze and diary products and taking it easy, I pissed up, ate lots of ice-cream, exercised and played a basketball semi-final. The basketball was on the Thursday night and that was just the nail in my (albeit temporary) coffin.

[Oh in case you're interested, we lost the semi-final. Drawn at the final buzzer we played an extra period of 5 minutes, were down by one-point up till less than 1 second before the final buzzer, when our guard threw it up from half-way. Straight through, nothing-but-net, for three points. HUGE cheers! The ONLY person on or off the court who thought that the ball left his hands after the buzzer was one of the referees, who somehow managed to convince the other referee that the points didn't count. The other team congratulated us on our win, and they will now go through to play the final. I guess the best way to lose is knowing that you really truly won.]

[On second thought, no it's a shitty way to lose.]

One thing I have noticed in recent years is the way that the flu knocks me around now, compared to when I was younger. At 20, I'd get the flu and feel a little crook for one day, but usually panadol and sudafed fixed me up. Rarely did I need to take time off school/Uni/work. At 40, I am out for almost a week, with one or two of those days incapable and in bed. No amount of drugs can turn my head from a nauseous constantly-moving spring to normality. Nothing stops the tap dripping at the back of my throat.

So: is it the drugs, the age or the flu? I'm quite willing to accept that it is the age thing. But I suspect that just as much, it is the inadequacy of the drugs and the ferocity of the flu virus. It is not solely the age thing.

Blog Confessions and a solution

Forgive me BlogGod for I have sinned. It's been 16 days since my last blog...

It is quite difficult to maintain a reasonably regular blog. I think the key must be short entries. Of course the quality would drop...

I have found a partial solution to one of my problems though. The Aust Direct Marketing Assoc. has an "Opt-out" form that you can fill-in on-line to stop receiving their harassing phone calls. I heard an interview/discussion topic on ABC radio last night with this bloke who was telling about how his company does surveys and how they are moving from telephone surveys to on-line surveys. Of course everyone rang up to tell their worst telemarketing experience. At first I felt sorry for the bloke as he was at pains to distance himself from the telemarketers, but then I thought, no, well, they're just as bad. One caller mentioned the ADMA and the opt-opt form. I can't wait the six weeks "take effect period" for the calls to stop.

Of course, the bloke also mentioned random-number dialling from overseas centres, there's nothing you can do about that.