Back To The Grind

We’ve got a lot to worry about: Peak oil, climate change, Justin Bieber’s sexual orientation… to name but three. Good news though, I can take something off the table and make your day just a little easier. It appears, and thank the higher powers that this is so, that the world-wide pepper-grinder shortage is at an end.


For a while in Sydney we weren’t trusted with our own pepper-grinders anywhere but the most expensive restaurants. Even then it was a bit touch and go - they’d check your credit rating before leaving it on the table. All over town, you’d sit down to your bacon and eggs and be forced to catch the eye of the immaculately drug-addled uni student hanging on to the oversized grinder like a Beefeater to his assault rifle, and then justify your need for the rare and exotic spice with a written essay and requisition order, before the facially pierced buffoon would wave the giant chess piece over your yokes and intone, "There you are… enjoy", as though you’d just been feted by the Three Wise Men.


But I think the bubble must have burst, or else the market‘s collapsed… or the World Crime League’s conspiracy to steal all grinders must have failed, because a few times lately I have reached across the café table, picked up the pepper-grinder sitting there and just used it without thought or incident. No waiters have come rushing across and demanded to know where I got it. No one has gasped, and then behind their hands mentioned to their breakfast date, "Honey, see that guy over there in the twenty-year-old Blur T-Shirt? He just used a pepper grinder."


Nothing like that. It’s all totally normal. They’re just back there, on the table like they’re supposed to be. Next to the salt. I would also like to report to all Sydneysiders, who may have felt they were in danger of losing a hard-won skill, that it’s like riding a bike. You don’t forget how to use one.

Letting The Truth Get In The Way

One morning this week, my phone reported that a Latvian man had been arrested for shooting dead a fellow moviegoer for eating his popcorn too noisily during a screening of Black Swan.

I hoped it was misreported or mistranslated and that the guy hadn’t been arrested, he’d been honoured with a tickertape parade. Turns out I was sort of right.

It was mistranslated. Later that day, the news piece reappeared with the correction that the noisy popcorn eater had shot dead the guy who’d told him to eat more quietly. This completely ruined a perfectly good blob and therefore I will not mention it.

More Fun With Roadkill

We're on another quick jaunt in the lease car as Emergency Contact desperately needs to get the mileage up. Surely the need to hit a minimum on lease cars is driving global warming. It is just ridiculous how much we have to find excuses to drive it. I have mates who have lease cars and when they hear I'm going somewhere, they're clamouring to give me their keys. Quite the opposite to what we should be doing, really.

Anyway, it means we're out on the road again and, driving into the state of Victoria, I noticed a change going on with their warning signs. They've evolved to a more realistic representation of the things you can hit: the animals you know and love in black silhouette have been replaced by blobby shapes with comical detail and I can't really be sure about what I'm in danger of killing. The signs are probably more accurate, but they're not visual icons I instantly recognise.

Koalas have had the worst treatment. There are two signs for them and you can sometimes see them side by side in counterpoint argument for your attention. One has the koala in tree gripping pose... minus the tree. It's still in silhouette black and looks like an overweight deer wearing Mickey Mouse ears.

The other koala sign has the more standard shape, but has added facial details in white. They've given him eyebrows... and they are stupid. For the next eight kilometres you are in danger of running over Groucho Marx.

In addition to the signage, crows have provided roadside entertainment as well. I admire crows. I think they're kind of majestic and I've been told in many documentaries that they are ferociously smart. You most often see them out in pairs, which is kind of cute 'cause you get the sense of a husband and wife team out for a nice scavenge. But I saw a lone one yesterday, and no wonder. He was huge, hunch-shouldered and creepy. As we blew past at 110 my split-second reaction was that I'd caught Danny DeVito picking over roadkill. I've always had the feeling that you shouldn't be surprised if you did see Danny gumming through a carcass on the side of the road, he's always given me that impression, but it all happened so quickly that I almost wanted to turn around and go back to check and maybe get an autograph.

Stop Teasing

Burlesque; I don’t get it. On the other hand Emergency Contact does, so we sashayed into town to see the return of the Ruby Revue.

I can imagine better venues than the Arthouse in Sydney, I can imagine worse. Imagining better would involve a taller stage so you can see more than just the T of the T&A. Imagining worse is quite easy. You’re watching cabaret - just add Nazis.

To the casual observer (me) burlesque is trading under the “smut + time = class” rubric. As a basic hetero male, I find it anodyne. Don’t get me wrong, I like a good looking woman voluntarily writhing around with not much on but I don’t want to be told that it’s classy or art. I particularly don’t want it to remain suitable for all ages for the entirety of the show. What’s the point? I kept thinking that it occupies exactly the same spot in the spectrum as a drag show. It’s for women and gay men. This suspicion was born out by the crowd. There was an overwhelming majority of women.

If you are a straight guy at a burlesque show, here’s a tip for what to look out for. The thing that makes a really good performance in burlesque/cabaret style of entertainment: Infrastructure. It’s all about gear. If you are gazing into your drink and thinking of other things and you hear stuff being prepped on stage between acts, it’s time to pay attention.

Last night, every act that had props was fun. One woman did a number that started with puppets and ended with gyrations inside a costume designed by The Borg. That was a good one. Another act started with The Inchworm Song and she did her undressing as part of the chrysalis-to-butterfly metaphor. The metaphor underwent a hyper-illogical progression as she bounced out of a cocoon topless and waved some bunting painted like butterfly wings, but it all operates to its own internal weirdness and those bits were dangerously close to being real entertainment.

Burlesque is a series of short acts. An M.C. is an important link in the performances. Not only is it period appropriate, they should also pull the audience into the intimacy of the idea and build on the rhythms of the evening. I know that I speak for our table when I say that the M.C. last night failed in every part of his job except standing upright and making noise into a microphone. Cameron Knight adds a “Hot August” to the middle of his name when he does this gig, and that is all the clue you need. If you have Foxtel, you would recognise him and that’s a good thing. It means you can avoid him in the street. You could catch something.

He has talent as a guy who can stand up and make noise at a crowd but it was way too much noise, in length, volume and stupidity and his “style” was jarring in the extreme. In the revivification of an art form that is trying to convince you that women getting their kit off in time to music is not exploitative and really very sophisticated, the “I’m so drug-fucked and horny I could do boob and dick jokes all night” shtick, is moronic. He made a trial out of being in a room with professionally nude girls.

For me, there’s a fundamental problem with Burlesque. Good looking women in clothes are good looking. Good looking women out of clothes are better looking. The in between bits are not so good. Getting your clobber off is ungainly and it doesn’t matter what music you put it to, there are always too many moments of fiddling with laces and hook-eyes and zips and working out where to throw the whalebone and when it catches in your hair how do you make it look like part of the act... you can’t.

Seriously, you’re fit, funny, coordinated and nicely depilated. I’m flattered just to be here. Now get your clothes off and get back to me. Basic Boy doesn’t need all the high maintenance crap.

The Kindle Diaries - Part 6

I don't expect my opinion here to change the way you feel about owning a Kindle. I suspect that the early adopting, forward thinking Grey-Area-reader-about-town is on to their second or third Kindle by now. You've seen how cute the new ones are and even though the first one is just fine and there's nothing wrong with it at all... hey wait, is the screen staying a bit greyer than it should? Is that a tiny but visible amount of retention from the previous page I can see on the next page? No? Are you sure? Better get a new one just in case.

I am very happy with mine. It gets hours of use every day and it goes everywhere with me. There is the odd formatting niggle with some books, not enough to really detract from the enjoyment, just enough for me to think, "I would fix that if I was them," but on the whole, I couldn't be happier - except for one industrial design "feature" in one of the major accessories. The Kindle reading light.

The second most used thing in the house after the eBook, is the little reading light you can get for it. I'm not a world-class sleeper and get a lot of reading done in the small hours. The little light has been a boon. If you stick a good quality battery in it, like a lithium, it lasts for months. Like I said, hours every day and I've had one battery change since August last year. But, there's one bit of design on it that really gives me the poops - The on/off switch. It's particularly silly.

If you are using a reading light, it is very likely because you do not want to disturb the person asleep next to you. I would have thought that was probably its raison d'être but the on/off switch goes against this design imperative. Mounted on the flexible head of the light (the little bump you can see in the picture) it's a slider switch with pretty stiff notches to get between the three settings. These settings go from left to right: High - Off - Low. For those of you hip to this sort of thing, you will know the folly in placing the "off" position in the middle of settings.

Applying enough pressure to slide from one of the "on" positions inevitably fires the little switch from low to high and back again. Getting the pressure right, on a flexibly mounted head, to just get it into the off position usually requires a bit of back and forth. So what you are doing is lying there next to your slumbering partner, performing a miniature dance rave before finally getting it right and hoping you haven't woken them. I also can't believe that it would be that hard to correct. Emergency Contact's is the same model and it is wired in reverse. Low - Off - High. How hard can it be to move the off to the first position?

This is the thing that I find odd about this sort of boo-boo. These basics in usability have already been covered in other parts of the manufacturing world. If you look at a well designed modern gas stove, the circular regulating dial will go; off, then highest to lowest. This allows you to set your cooking to a simmer without the dial being knocked into a position where you're gassing yourself. Good, simple yet thoughtful design. 

A Grey Area - continuing to worry at the big issues in 2011. 

 

Assange 'Dressed As Old Woman' To Avoid CIA

The above headline appeared in the ABC News website recently. (Link)

He obviously liked the look, because he kept the hair.

Both Kinds of Music

Country and Western - the worst music in the world. Unyet... there are some C&W songs rattling around in me just dyin' to get out. Here's a little number I wrote about online dating.

Not burdened by education

Not sporting my own hair

Free from the ravages of intelligence

And lacking any flair

Chorus:

I aint got much to offer

But I offer it a lot

I aint got much to give

But I’ll give it all I got

I’ve got hidden shallows

But my ugly is bone deep

I can clear a room in seconds

Or put them all to sleep

I’m better in small doses

I like to make them beg for less

In little dribs and drabs they say

And it’s not just the way I dress

Chorus:

They say I’m a room divider

And that’s good to store some books

But they weren’t talkin’ about furniture

But more about my looks

Not overstocked in talent

Not understocked in weight

I could try harder at everything

But it’s easier to blame fate

Chorus:

The singles market is murder baby

I’m what you call a sleeper

But don’t be too put out because

My mum says I’m a keeper

So stop your complaining and whining

And start to appreciate your lot

‘Cause whether it’s cat ladies or hobos

I’m worse than what you got

They're Not Just For Christmas. They Can Be For Birthdays Too

Where we live is not the country. We pay exorbitant amounts on real estate for it not to be the country.

Something has gone wrong here. How did this happen?

I give you the most likely scenario:

“Bit of shoosh, bit of shoosh everyone. Thank you and thanks to those who’ve come in on their night off for the annual volunteer-of-the-year recognition awards.

Now, we all know that volunteering at an animal shelter is incredibly tough work. If you haven’t done it, you wouldn’t understand. The hours, the conditions, the unending heartbreak of looking after abandoned animals and of course, the rich and varied smells.

Sometimes, not often enough, you get one of those breaks that make it all worthwhile. A little kid will come in, pick out some mangy, flea bitten, bitza of a thing with nothing but hate in its eyes and froth at the jaws and they will bond instantly. You’ll get a real thrill, both emotional and legal, when you watch them walk out that door, little kid excited at the adventures to be had with his new pal, and mongrel-features excited at the thought of not going to "the farm" and maybe some dry kibble.

What I’ve found after years of doing this and finally rising to the heady heights of senior beagle-brigade volunteer, first-class, is that working in an animal shelter really instils in you a steely and profound hatred for human beings. How, as a species, are we capable of such mindless cruelty to other species? It confronts you day in and day out and every time I think of it I could just kick puppies… joke, Mrs Botherington, joke. I meant kittens.

Anyway, you find small bits of joy where you can and it is usually in the shape of nameless revenge. I would like to recognise a couple of close runners up to the volunteer-of-the-year in this field before we get to the big one.

Mandy, you are worthy of mention for convincing not one, but two people this year that hydrophobia meant the dog couldn’t wee on a fire hydrant. Brilliant. And all the more timely as rabies makes its way back onto the Australian mainland.

David, particularly good work this year, too. Bald cockatoos are never easy to unload and putting that one in a Barbie tracksuit and selling it to the Sunrise TV show for a Betty White celebrity interview was inspired. We look forward to seeing what you can do with that two legged, fringed hamster back there. Rumours are that Kyle Sandilands has bitten off more than he can chew this year, so keep your ears open for opportunities there, mate.

But on as we must to the biggy. Lizzy? Up here darlin’. Just use that tortoise as a step… that’s a girl. Lizzy, you pulled it this year. You set the bar and I’m not sure whether to limbo or pole-vault. When someone handed that foal in, in a wet sack, my heart sank like that sack was meant to. I mean, what were we going to do, here in Marrickville, with a fucking baby horse. Sorry Mrs Botherington, it still gets to me. Anyway, Lizzy closed the deal and Short Lap found a home. How you managed to convince that guy that St Bernard’s don’t have individual toes was beyond me but teaching Short Lap to fetch a newspaper was complete magic. A note here for the newcomers. That little bit of misdirection Lizzy did with the little barrel hanging under Short Lap's chin really distracted from the bridle and reins.

Fantastic work Lizzy, we all look forward to what you’re going to do with Chantelle. A reckon a camel will be the new benchmark.
So, that’s enough from me, let’s have some bubbly and a boogy… oh and before I forget, Terry left the chameleon cage open so, you know, careful where you sit or dance."

Screw The Stars, I'm Looking At The Gutter, Too

Got a phone call two days ago,

“G’day, this’s Bruce from the gutterin’ mob. I’m just orderin’ the fuckin’ gutterin’ for your place.”

“Hi Bruce. Ok good. Thanks for getting back to me.”

“Yeah, no wuckers. Is jasmine alright?”

“Jasmine? That’s... it’s…she… uhm. Can you tell me what jasmine is in bloke-speak?”

“It’s brown, mate.”

“Well, the bricks on the place are…”

“It’s not as dark as mission brown. Lighter brown. Still brown, but.”

“Sounds good. Order away. Do you need entrance into the place to do the job or can it all be done from outside?”

“Nah mate. She’s an outside job. I’ll get ’em ordered and we’ll go from there.”

Having dealt with tradies before, I then put it out of my mind. What’ll happen is he’ll order the guttering, return the guttering because it’s the wrong type, get the right guttering, use that guttering on another job he promised a mate to get done, receive reminder call from strata management after strata management have received reminder call from me, re-order new batch of guttering and so on. I won’t see the guttering guys until April at soonest.

At six o’clock this morning, they appeared on our roof and started ripping the old guttering off. That’s a less-than-48-hour turnaround. I was impressed in a sleep deprived kind of way. These guys don’t muck around, unless of course they’re actually doing our job with the wrong set of guttering because they owed a mate. There’s probably some other guy down the street thinking it’s been a while since he’s heard from the guttering mob.

Anyway, all this efficient gutter removal has presented me with a mystery. As the old stuff was being ripped off, they were emptying a ton of leaves from every section. Loads. I mean, I couldn’t understand how the gutters hadn’t just fallen off from the weight of leaves building up in them.

So what? Cleaning leaves out of gutters is one of those jobs you hear about all the time. Well, yes, if there are trees overhanging your place, but there are absolutely no trees overhanging our building. The roof-line is taller than the neighbour’s foliage. I think that leaves spontaneously generate in gutters like corn spontaneously generates in stomachs.

(For those of you wondering why I say that, it was held in popular wisdom for some time that there was a gland in the body that produced either corn or diced carrot. This was suggested because if you threw up, one of them would always be there, even if you hadn't eaten any.)