What would Darren Hanlon say? This isn't exactly as cool as a grade school class performing All These Things but maybe because it involves a fellow Aussie, Gotye it's alright. Entertaining all the same? Well, see for yourself:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=nNtoq6SJ3_A
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Friday, August 3, 2012
Socialism 101
It's been a while since I'm managed to provide an update as to our lives down here, for a range of reasons. We have been well, we have been busy and we have been enjoying ourselves. Sure, we could complain about how our winters are the same as the summer weather that you're enduring, how great the beaches are and how good cheap wine is but all of this has been said before. Another reason is that as we become more and more entrenched in our lives here, it seems much more like a routine and while life is certainly different down here for us, for better or for worse it is still just daily life.
Consequently the social observations seem to dull and what was once novel or foreign has become more commonplace. Fortunately there are still a lot of strange things to report back in various dispatches, so as your pickled minds lurch back to reality from the abuses that you visited upon them during Stampede, allow me to share with you our observations on the social state in Australia.
This is an excerpt from an e-mail that made it's way to me that provides at least an anecdotal antipodal comparison of the cost of living between two blue collar regions, one that is in the grip of a socialist regime and the other that is perhaps heading that direction thanks to some of the more recent Provincial leaders, but isn't there yet.
The email claims (although not verified by myself) as follows:
So when I was back home I took some photos in the grocery store to match some I took here before I left:
Price for New Zealand Kiwi fruit here in Brisbane:
In Edmonton, Alberta, Canada (16,000 km away from here) ($3.86/kg)
Rack of Lamb here in Brisbane: ($44.99/kg)
Back over in Edmonton: ($29.99/kg)
Bundy Rum here ($38.95 for 700 mL)
Edmonton: ($32.75 – but then was discounted down to $28.75 at the till)
Fair enough that this isn't exactly the most robust of evidence, and in fact may have nothing to do with socialism or anything other than the fact that most people are willing to pay double for things just so they don't have to live in Edmonton. However, I think that it does suggest a certain socialist leaning of the Australian markets.
Note: Bundaberg “Bundy” rum is distilled just north of Brisbane in a town ubiquitously called Bundaberg and as you go further north in Queensland people drink rum to escape the heat in quantities that make them insane. Really insane. Other Aussies call it “going Tropo” (pronounced with an elongated “oooooo”, in reference to the Tropic of Capricorn).
Northern Queensland is supposed to be a magnificent place to travel, but only before it gets “too hot” or “too humid”. In Australian terms anything over 45C is “too hot” and anything over 97% Relative Humidity is “too humid”. For me the corresponding values are 30C and 75%, particularly for Northern Queensland, but 45c and 97% rel hum sounds like the unpleasant parts of Hell, so suffice it to say I’ve avoided that area.
Why? Well, because once the weather gets “hot” the blue bottle jellyfish “stingers” or “jellies” populate the coastal waters, and while their stings are not lethal, the paralysis that they cause frequently leads to drowning which is fatal. So, if the coastal waters are out of the question, then refuge may be sought in any number of the regions rivers, provided that you can out swim or our wrassle the crocs. So, copious amounts of rum it is then while you look for a place with A/C or get Tropo enough that it doesn’t matter. So conceivably, the additional local charges on Bundy Rum is to offset the local demands on social programs, but hold that for now.
I was raised, as most good Alberta kids were, to believe that “S____ism” is a dirty word. A “red menace”. A way of life or system of government for weaklings or vegetarians, but certainly not for enterprising freedom loving souls of hearty disposition that roam the Albertan landscape, those who aspired to stand on their own feet. Fair enough. Our parents had grown up during the Cold War and McCarthyism. They had witnessed the British government impose a capital gains type tax that destroyed The Beatles (before John claimed to be a socialist), programs of government growth, a crippling National Energy Policy, etc. so why wouldn’t they be guarded and suspicious.
Even the symbols chosen for socialism (and worse communism) were ominous, the hammer and a sickle. These weren’t the stars and strips symbolic of freedom and patriotism. This wasn’t the maple leaf famous for tasty breakfasts and big trees that only live in one small region of our vast country, no hammers crush and sickles maim. I guess, unless they’re used for other things….
For our parents, socialism was bad. It was wrong. I’m not talking about the kind of socialism that pays for your university education, or justifies you drinking all the beer in your friend’s fridge, but the sort of socialism that raises taxes, misappropriates wealth and builds government machines with insatiable appetites, machines that strip wealth from private individuals like locus in a wheat field.
Before leaving Alberta I had never lived under a socialist government, perhaps the closest that I got was a socially active conservative Provincial government or a Liberal Federal government, but that was more like living in the forest with Robin Hood, with Ontario and Quebec being the benefactors, not really socialism. Besides, Robin Hood was a good guy right, his cohorts were Merry Men, they didn’t deploy missiles into Cuba. Hood’s redistribution of wealth was heroism not socialism. Right?
But Australia, as we so often see, is different and even though the factions within the same political party fight, it is still a Labor government that rules the land and these guys are socialists. “Labor government” is a term that always makes me think of Jimmy Hoffa, but again, this is different here. It would be like Jimmy Hoffa as a laid back surfer who only really wanted to work flex time, and only wanted to do the rhetoric and not the intimidation. Probably the kind of Jimmy Hoffa I wouldn’t mind standing up to. But at the same time, the average guy on the work crew is empowered to such a degree that it wouldn’t surprise me to see a surgeon walking around in a blue wife beater, just to get some R-E-S-P-E-C-T.
But still, I didn’t really know what to expect from politics when I got here and over two years later, not much has changed. Although until recently I would have admitted that I was still suspicious of socialists. That’s all gone now.
During the course of the last two years and some odd months we have gotten used to the laws of the land, the statutes and practices. To describe the plethora of laws here would be like imagining what it would be like if the Vatican merged all of its rules with those of physics and verb conjugation. So basically, three groups of rules and laws about things that I have no understanding of, in fact I think I can describe how valences in Bromine function easier than what it takes to get a dog license in Brisbane. Having said that I am currently undefeated in my defense of parking tickets, resulting in a savings of over $500.
Between the Commonwealth, State and Municipal governments that is a form, a policy, a help line, a statute or practice, all with fines backing them up for virtually every aspect of your life. Minimum wage is set around $14/h and the Commonwealth government has implemented both an increased royalty regime / mining tax as well as a carbon tax. A red menace indeed.[1]
During our time here, we have discovered one particularly important set of municipal regulation. This regulation focuses on the timing and duration that your garbage and recycling bins may be placed on the curb for collection. Failure to comply with said regulation results in immediate fines, because you can’t miss an opportunity to bolster the state coffers.
So it was with great consternation that I discovered one morning that a ‘tradie’ (short for tradesman, but applied to all working class blokes that shoulder the honest labor burden for the Great Commonwealth of Australia while the nere’do’well lawyers, engineers, doctors, dentists etc all fritter away ……) had left my bins emptied, but turned over and with broken axels. As I tried spiritedly to wheel the dysfunctional bins back from the curb, the broken axel gouged the turf leaving a tear in the sod.
Exasperated I thought, “What environmental statute have I breeched now? Is there a defense? Due diligence? Misadventure? Necessity?” But then also was also the thoughts of how I going to get the bins replaced? This was the sort of thing that needed immediate attention. Fines for lack of compliance, garbage that needs to get to the curb by the following week, pests getting in to the bins, etc. I thought of the logistics of taking two dirty bins in a small car to wherever I needed to take them, and then wait for repairs and transport them back. And then what of the costs? What if I get all the way there with these bins that don’t even fit in our car only to find out that I’m not entitled to request a repair, because I’m a tenant and not the property owner? As my despair was becoming complete, I sought refuge in the only place that I can really count on, the Internet.
I looked up “Wheelie bin repair” on the Google powered search found on the Brisbane City Council page and was directed to an on-line form that I had to complete as you would expect. “Address of bins” “contact phone number” “Type of bin damaged” “Type of damage / repair required” and so forth. Within 5-6 minutes I was completed the form and hit “send” (ok, after three attempts at the captcha phrase).
Ok, what next? Moments later, I received an e-mail advising me to make sure that the bin(s) were on the curb (fines wouldn’t apply) and that the repairs would be conducted on site within two working days.
TWO WORKING DAYS!!!!!
REPAIRED ON SITE!!!!!
I LOVE SOCIALISM!!!!
That was mid-morning Wednesday that I was launched like Spunik into an orbit of socialist love. Sure, you pay some taxes, but you get good roads, good hospitals, good schools and bins repaired at your curbside. Repairs were needed without delay. How bad could socialism really be?
After a whole other series of misadventures: nocturnal creatures that turned our garden into Fight Club; someone driving into our neighbors fence; and our daughter waking up with a nightmare; at 5 am Friday morning, the M_#$(* F_(#*ing Socialists turned up with their rubber mallets (not even the real hammers of the USSR) to carry out the curbside repairs on the bins. WTF? Could these repairs wait? 5 am? What was the rush?
Our parents were right to be wary of the Socialist. I now know why you can’t have firearms here, because people would take them up against the early morning red menace.
[1] Incidentally the Red Kangaroo is one of the largest of the species. Unconvinced? The Aussie coat of arms has both a kanga and an emu, pretty damning evidence of a socialist connection.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Happiness (The Pursuit of, or the Discovery of)
Happiness (The Pursuit of, or the Discovery
of)
Eric Weiner authored “The
Geography of Happiness” in which he levered off of Dr. Fordyce’s World Database of Happiness. It should be no surprise that Dr.
Fordyce is a faculty member of Erasmus University, Holland. There must be a strong correlation
between an abundance of grad students and the significantly liberal environment
in Holland. Can you imagine how
that conversation goes?
“So, Dad, I’ve
decided to pursue graduate studies,” announces a resolute and pround child.
“Great, what
are you taking?” You can almost
hear the relief washing over the father, with visions of his skateboarding,
heavy metal listening, gig going, no good friend and harpy of a girlfriend
cavorting son ‘straightening up’ and getting ready to ‘fly right’ and setting
on a course to be a doctor, lawyer or other leader of men.
“Happiness
Studies at Erasmus in Holland”
Long pause. Continued long pause…. “So you’ll tell
your mother then, right?”
At any rate, the World
Database of Happiness lists the scores of various states and provides a
rather nebulous “happiness index”.
Perhaps predictably, Latvia scores the lowest, with alarmingly high incidences
of suicide and alcoholism. By
contrast, Iceland, at least during the time that the book was written, boasted
the highest “happiness rating”, further making this odd is the reportedly high
level of alcohol consumption and long
dark nights. I suppose it’s a fine
line between use and misuse of alcohol.
But I also must admit, some of my happier times have included short
periods of sunlight filled with alcohol and reason enough to stay indoors….but
I digress.
Unfortunately, Australia was not covered in Weiner’s book. While I’ve no idea how this
Commonwealth of States would have faired, Brisbane should be expected to score
high. Of course this conclusion is
based merely on anecdotal observations and how much Nicole and I have enjoyed
being here. Things are still
strange and we often come across things that we don’t completely
understand.
For instance the public service announcements displayed on taxis
“Do you know where to send your mate, when he says life sucks?” Due to the
combination of soft edges and blurry graphics on the poster and illegibly small
print, it was weeks before we knew if this was a sign for suicide prevention or
a brothel.
This is especially given that suicide doesn’t seem to be much of
an issue in Brissie. Unlike any
other major city that I’ve been to with a network of large bridges, Brisbane
lacks any barriers on the bridges (except for one bridge, oddly) to prevent
people from jumping into the river.
This is not withstanding that there are bridges with a 35m (~100 feet or
10 stories)[1]
freefall from deck to a river that is deep, dirty, busy with boat and ferry
traffic and is home to roughly 500 bull sharks.[2]
In fact the landmark Story Bridge has a rail that is low enough
that at it’s mesmerizing height it appears to me that if I was as cool (and as
fit) as Daniel Craig, or really any other Bond, I would be able to jump from
the sidewalk on the bridge to the buildings or at least the cranes that are
immediately adjacent. My fitness
goals don’t include becoming fit enough.
But it least suggests that the problem of suicide isn’t that big of a
deal here.
Again, I’m jumping to conclusions regarding suicide, but consider
the following. Despite being a
very active and seemingly athletic population, but there is also 24% of the
population are self declared “smokers”.
Personally, I think that this is a throw back to when Australia monetarized
their currency, in order to make international trade possible. When the Australian dollar (AUD) was
introduced to a population that was largely based upon a penal colony, the
unofficial currency of cigarettes and Rita Haywood pin-ups faced enormous
pressure. The led to the “Smoke ‘em
if you got ‘em” policy of the Commonwealth government of the day[3]. There was a short conversion window,
but then the original currency would simply become another consumable product.
To this day, smoking seems to be enjoyed without apology (whereas
Rita Haywood posters are a more discrete indulgence). Unlike North America, where smoking in public has been
vilified, smokers don’t seem to be bothered that children are around. Even the most callous of smokers in
Calgary would make efforts to keep the effects away from children when you’d
walk past them. This is certainly
not the case here. But it’s not
just second hand smoke that imperils the populace in Australia.
Australia is loaded with dangers and things that are capable if
either causing significant discomfort or death. While we haven’t seen any crocs, alligators, deadly spiders,
venomous snakes, sharks (not even any of the 500 that are supposed to be
resident in the Brisbane River), dingos or other disease carrying creatures, we
have been faced with a particular local danger on a daily basis. A source of peril particularly
frightening to Spencer and Nicole is food poisoning. Given my role in the meal preparation, my girls have every
right to be concerned.
According to national statistics, ¼ of all Australians are
annually affected by food poisoning.
Food Poisoning, in a developed country! In fact new daily cases are pegged at 11,500 and 120 annual
related deaths are attributed.
Seems counter-intuitive, but then I discovered that food storage in a
tropical environment is the leading cause for people ingesting contaminated food.[4] I would have guessed excessive
consumption of liquid food products causing flu like symptoms, but I’ve been
called both a sissy and jaded for such views. But it is in fact ingesting food that is the culprit. (Again a lesson in Australian
culture: don’t blame the alcohol.)
As far as my level of responsibility goes, I’ve applied some basic
tort principles, were if everyone is ok after 2 days, then I figure enough time
has passed, to introduce a sufficient amount of intervening events to assuage
my liability. Unfortunately, this
is defeated when I make meals on multiple days. Upon my return to work, Nicole has been all to happy to rush
back into the kitchen and save our family from danger.
Unlike the Brisbane experience, The Gap, a suburb of Sydney has a
more interesting history. Due to
the location that includes sheer cliffs, rocks and a deep harbour, known both
for it’s population of sharks and mercurial tide, The Gap seems to be a popular
locale for making terminal decisions.
One local resident, Donald Ritchie, who lives in close proximity to this
fateful place, has become a local hero for dissuading people from their fatal
acts.[5] I would encourage you to read the referenced
article as it is very compelling, although the article lacks the words of the
siren song that Ritchie had sang.
Given the overwhelming presence of other mortal dangers here, and
Australian’s particular form of humor, you could imagine the conversation initiated
by Mr Ritchie.
“Hey mate,
feeling like a lizzie’s belly (translation - as low as a lizard’s belly)?”
“Whimper,
whimper, curse, life sucks and isn’t worth living.”
“Oh com’on
mate, the cricket isn’t that bad.”
“It’s not just
the cricket….[explanation of other less than perfectly desirable things leading
to terminal decision].
“Yeah, well
mate that is bad and I can’t say I
blame you. Hell, I’d probably jump
to.”
“Ya think so?”
“Sure thing
mate, you’re right the cricket isn’t that bad, but did you see the Wallabies
get shocked by the All Blacks again?
Hey how much life insurance do you have?”
“[answer],
why.”
“Well you know,
it probably doesn’t payout on a suicide.
Have you checked?”
“Ah,
well…no. Shit, just get’s
worse. What can a bloke do?”
“Well make,
let’s have a look-see. You know if
you die by accident or criminal wrong doing these policies pay double. That will sort things out hey lad?”
“Sure would.”
“Why don’t you
come back to my place and we can have a smoke. I think my missus has some potato salad that’s been out
since morning….maybe we can go for a swim later, when you’re ‘feeling
better’.” Of course after a smoke,
some tea, a beer and what not, everyone is feeling better, after all that’s
what mates are for.[6]
Cudos to Mr Ritchie indeed.
Anyone that chooses to become involved in the affairs of others rather
than turning back to the telly is a hero in my book. The truth is that the world is better for people like
Ritchie and his acts should inspire us all to be better. To help others. To help ourselves. To tell our families that we love them
and to try and leave our world a better place than we found it.
Of course it’s hard, but then Ritchie does represent the everyman
Australian view of their neighbors.
Aussies are quick to stop and offer a hand and don’t like seeing people
who are down. Without doubt, we need more Ritchies
in our world.
But this doesn’t mean that rain doesn’t fall in Brisbane, or even
on The Gap, notwithstanding Ritchie’s watchful presence. Brisbane’s Story Bridge has been the
site of at least two suicides since we’ve moved here, one in which a young boy
was thrown first and then the father followed him the 70m (210 feet) to hard
ground below.
Unfortunately suicide causes a variety of reactions from people
seemingly across the spectrum of emotion.
Some sympathetic and full of regret and others of contempt and derision,
but all strong and valid. I don’t
know what the answer is. Clearly
it’s not manning Donald Ritchies at every door, although that might be
nice.
The reality is that everyone has their own thing going on and you can never really tell where someone's at. Can you intervene? Is there a chance? Some hope? Sure, of course. But always? I don't know. In fact I don't really know much about suicide.
What I do know about suicide is that in the evening of 26
February my father took his own life and I was never there to talk him
down. I know that his siblings
feel remorse and sadness and that my mother, his wife who was nearby, will
never be the same. But this isn’t enough is it?
I’m not sure if it’s fair that I discuss this here in this Blog,
but I guess with the dozen or so readers it’s not like I’ve got the same
audience as Oprah and I probably am entitled to express myself in some way over
it.
Those of you who know me well, can imagine, or maybe not, the
stream of inappropriate humor that I subjected my wife to, but the fact remains
that this is an act of my father that prematurely ended a number of things and
extinguished all future possibilities.
Chances of redemption, of reconciliation or even just fulfilling his
wedding vows to my mother are all swept away, echoing like a gunshot across a
backwater along Tampa Bay.
I’ll save you the tasteless jokes, but tell you that as I’m here
now, in Tampa, dealing with the mess that has been left to my mother, my
siblings, and extended family, that feelings of contempt seem to be about
right.
Could Donald Ritchie have coaxed the gun out of my father’s
hand? The track record would put
good odds on it (although for the penchant for gaming by the Aussies, hasn’t
seemed to reach this far yet) or at least better than any odds that I might
have sported. But would it have
been enough? Maybe today, but what
about tomorrow?
It seemed to me that something that wasn’t explored by Weiner’s
book, or even really the happiness studies, is what the expectation is that
people hold. Regardless of where
you’re living, it’s you that lives there.
If you’re not happy in Calgary, New York, Tampa, Paris, London, Canmore,
Sydney or Brisbane moving isn’t going to change that.
I hope that if you’re reading this, you’re happy or willing to do
something about it.
[2] Bull sharks are smaller but more aggressive than great white
sharks: http://australianmuseum.net.au/Bull-Shark-Carcharhinus-leucas-Valenciennes-1839
[3] Ironically, 14 February 1966 marked the introduction of
Australian’s official currency.
Valentine’s Day has always been expensive, but can you imagine having to
convert from cigarettes to cash before the obligatory round of gifts and
dinner?
[4] Foodborne illness in Australia Annual incidence circa 2000 Australian Government Department of
Health and Ageing Document:
foodborne_report.pdf
[6] The suicide rates in Australia account for fewer deaths than heart
disease in Canada. http://fathersforlife.org/health/who_suicide_rates.htm;
http://fathersforlife.org/health/cansuic.htm
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Aussie Humor
Aussie Humor
As you have likely gleaned from previous postings the Aussies have
a particular outlook on life, world affairs, clothing, sporting, consumption of
food and alcohol and humor. Often
it is their humor that resonates through all other experiences.
Taking a piss
Yes, an affectionate term used to describe kidding, joking, making
fun of or otherwise tormenting another (in a good natured manner – of
course). It’s important to know
that despite how much the Aussies delight in taking a piss, that this is a one-way street that only Aussies get
to drive. Very much in fact like
their lovable koala (that’s not a bear, despite any references to the
contrary); Aussies look like fun, but have claws that they can used if
annoyed.
Nevertheless, they love a good joke and if done properly they will
enjoy, but again their favorite is to make fun of themselves or tourists. Examples of making fun of us include the
following:
Dingos – the feral dogs made famous by Meryl Streep
and A Cry In the Dark. We’ve been told that there is an
outstanding bounty on dingos. Well
there was once, but not any more.
In fact given that firearms are difficult to obtain and license, it’s
not really relevant.
Although these prevailing facts didn’t stop me from suggesting
this as a revenue source to Nicole last April. “Com’on it’s great.
I can go out, have a couple of beer bag a bunch of pelts and then be
home and still have made dinner.”
“What about Spencer?” “Well,
she’d come of course. You can’t hunt
dingos without a baby, that’s just crazy.
I’d be downwind, from a slightly elevated position the entire time, with
field glasses, a 5x rifle scope.
It’ll be fine. What could
go wrong?” Shortly after, Spencer
was enrolled in daycare on a full time basis. I still haven’t collected a bounty on a dingo, or anything else.
Bruda-bruda – a drought and flood resistant animal found
in Northern Queensland that a friend was telling me about. Yeah, I looked it up. Nothing. Bunk.
That’s the nice thing about the Aussies, you can never tell if
it’s a joke or something weird that you’ve never heard of. We’ll see how funny it is the next time
I look after his kids. I suspect
that they’ll have stories to tell their parents about dingo hunting.
It’s not just their love to make a joke but also the overall view
of the world. Again, I’m made
repeated reference to short and rather gauzy clothing worn by women here. Well with the summer routinely above
32C and the relative humidity vacillating between 65% and 99.5% the clothing
get’s shorter, thinner and gauzier.
In fact I’m surprised that there isn’t more cross dressing here. Seriously, I’ve given this one a great
deal of consideration. Really
think about it: wearing a short skirt to work seems like a way better idea than
a wool suit. Some how, as tolerant
as she is, I’m not sure that Nicole would endorse such pursuits.
At any rate, with the flimsy clothing there is a high probability
of seeing someone exposed by an errant gust of wind. This happens nearly every day. In fact I was standing waiting for a light when a fortuitous
gust of wind lifted a woman’s skirt over her waist, but so common was this
experience that she didn’t even flinch.
It was as though a gentle breeze has caressed a misplaced hair away from
her eye, rather than showcasing a lace clad bottom for the world to see. “Excuse me, I don’t mean to pry but
doesn’t that cause you any concern?” “Naw,
not really mate, I wear less on the beach, and besides mate, it stops the guys
from staring at my breasts.”
“Yeah, good thinking.” Reflecting
on this now, I’m not even sure she had breasts.
Given that the taking a piss
is a one-way street, it is a great way to wind up the Aussies who are
fiercely proud of all things Australian.
So when you “have a go” at their national symbols you’re certain to get
a reaction.
For example – The Wallabies
The Australian National (Union) Rugby Team is affectionately known
as the Wallabies. For those of you
who don’t know, a wallaby is a species of macropod, similar to a kangaroo but
smaller and very fast. The name
sake for the Australian rugby pride is based upon the originality of the
creature as well as it’s speed, agility and the fact that there is almost
nowhere in Australia in which the wallaby is not found.[1]
However, given that a) wallabies are small, b) that they’re a
source of pride in Australia, and c) that I am convincing when I play dumb, one
can have great fun with this.
“So wallabies
are just baby kangaroos, right?”
“Mate, they’re
not babies, they’re a different species, just smaller.”
“Just smaller
like babies?”
“Mate, they’re
not babies. Look, someone is going
to sort you out if you don’t simmer down.”
“I’m just
saying, babies are small and they look like baby ‘roos.”
“Look.” Now becoming increasingly agitated,”they’re
a national icon. They’re not
babies, but a separate specises from kangaroo. The rugby team takes their name because of how fast and
agile they are.”
“Ok, it’s just
that they seemed to play like babies last weekend against South Africa.”
Scream
“Are wallabies
in the same genus as kangaroos?”
I’ll have to get back to that answer, because I started running and
couldn’t hear the response over my labored breathing.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
A Stranger in a Stranger Land
A Stranger in a Stranger Land
While I consider myself to have a pretty decent imagination, there
are things that are so outlandish that even I wouldn’t have dreamt them
up. Such things are found
throughout the Australian experience.
Here is a collection of a few that have hit the high points.
Water Dragons (Physignathus
lesueurii)
While perhaps not indigenous to Australia, these lizard looking
creatures are certainly prolific. Most
of the lizards are of a modest or relatively small size, like a decent sized
urban squirrel in Calgary, but without fur, but some can be as lard as a one kg
(~2.2 lbs). As you might guess,
their name is derived from the fact that they are riparian and are capable of
running across water.[1]
The spectacle of seeing a lizard deftly running across the water
is impressive. Of course, such a
spectacle doesn’t go unnoticed and kicks off a fresh debate as to the origin of
said lizard. Was the lizard created, or did it evolve? Where does
creation start and evolution take over?
Did the dragon evolve to walk on water, was it created to, like the son
of God? Was Jesus merely created a
mortal that later evolved into a deity?
Is there something divine about reptiles, or merely another one of
Satan’s guises?
An alternative argument is that things are just strange here and
strange creatures are simply part of the larger landscape. Of course the locals referring to the
noble Physignathus lesueurii as a “Jesus Lizard” doesn’t help to quell
the argument.
Children’s Sports
Seriously? Children’s
sports? That can’t be that much of
a stretch can it? I mean we know
that the Aussies are crazy about their sports and since you can’t put kids in
coal mines anymore, you have to do something with them. In fact most parents that I know have
their kids in sport. However, as
might be anticipated, this is where the Aussies depart from others.
Rather than merely having “Mini soccer” for kids under 6, the
Aussies, have a league that allows children (of either gender) that at 4 and
older to play Australian Rules Football, a sport that the UN has prohibited
outside of this continent. (The
Scots and Irish have gotten around the prohibition by calling it “Gaelic Rules”
and thus being “cultural”, as visiting bodily harm is in northern anglo
societies.) But it’s “OK” because
“it’s not full contact” but “only skill development”. Ok then.
Right. Skills such as
jumping off another player’s shoulders (not withstanding what team) to catch
the ball for a “mark”, like “raking one’s cleats across an opponent’s chest” or
learning how to shake of having a ball accidently kicked into your face? I guess on the upside, there is less of
the chasing of butterflies that you see kids do playing U8 soccer in Calgary,
because a) butterflies are so prolific here that it’s not such a big deal to
see them and b) if they don’t keep their heads up playing mini AFL they’ll get
walloped.
I can’t believe when I see grown men playing AFL, I can’t imagine
watching children.
Estate Planning
One of the responsibilities that I had as in an in-house lawyer
was dealing with estates matters.
Without naming names, and jeopardizing my standing as a solicitor and
also adding a certain amount of dramatic atmosphere, most of the questions
involved questions posed to me about releasing funds that were under our
control. The conversation would go
like this:
So mate, I’ve
got this client who’s dead and they came in to the office today.
You’re dead
client came into the office today?
Sorry dude, you’ve got the wrong number, I can help you with a bunch of
things but re-animation is well outside of my practice area.
No, sorry mate,
I mean that my client is dead and his kid came in today asking
However this should not be misunderstood to mean that estate
planning is not widely known. I
also had a legal education provision service call and inquire if they could
sign me up for a course. You know,
because even here the implication is that you will attend a course rather than merely consider attending, because you’re just not that busy. So the course offered had nothing to do
with my practice or interests or anything really but I took the opportunity to
inquire into an estates planning course.
This is what I got:
States? Why states?
Estates.
What about states
No, E-states
You mean like e-commerce
among states?
No. Estates like dead people.
That just
doesn’t make a lot of sense mate, you want to set up an e-commerce site for
dead people?
No. How to deal with the estates of dead
people, you know like what happens to their property upon going to their great
reward?
Ok, I
send you something on property development.
I ended up receiving a
workshop on building codes. While
I suppose there could be a connection between estate planning and building
codes, it would appear that if you don’t adhere to one (the building codes) you
had better do some estate planning.
Sort of the Minneapolis Metrodome snow load rating for beneficiaries by
engineers.
I do like the idea of the
e-commerce site for dead people, arguably if I got enough subscribers I could
take it public like Linkedin and Twitter, except that I could have these
subscribers forever. There has to be a financial upside in
that….
Advertising
I just have to add the photo here.
Other shocking examples include the mobile phone advertisement
that features a cartoon portrayal of a talking moose standing in front of the
Three Sisters mountain outside of Canmore. WTF? I
understand that there are more Aussies between the ages of 18-22 in Banff
National Park than in Sydney, but really?
A talking moose and the Three Sisters? I can’t even begin to understand.
The zenith of talking animals in advertising campaign features
another Canadian icon, the beaver.
Not industrious, not a symbol of ecology, not Canadaa’s fur bearing heritage
or a plug for tourism in this campaign, but a mascot. Incidentally from a Canadian perspective, an obscene
mascot. In this advertisement for
feminine hygiene products, the talking beaver (I know, I know, but like I said,
I can’t even make this up) states that this product “…is the best care for down there.” I suppose if a beaver could talk, it would tell you what it
preferred. I still shake my head.
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