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There appears to be a sooty footprint on the ceiling above my desk. I've no idea how it got there, but I'm sure it would make a great story.
Six days remain before my second luniversary (?) at the flat. My agent chose to celebrate the occasion by organising an inspection. Personally I'd have gone with a cake and booze, maybe some paper hats, but perhaps I'm just odd. "Most people I know think that I'm crazy" ...
Saturday was spent washing clothes and watching Firefly. Not a bad way to relax. On Sunday sis dropped by and helped me clean up the place in exchange for dinner. She's a professional cleaner, which is to say she gets paid to clean things (I just get kicked). Which is to say, she's really good at keeping things clean, whereas I'm just good at being kicked.
She's too damned fussy, though. Turned up with presents — "Here's some dishwashing detergent, because I knew you'd be using a brand I didn't like." (I am. I'm using Black & Gold. We can't all afford fancy "Earth" stuff.) "Here's some liquid soap. It looks neater than dowdy old bars, and real estate agents prefer it." "Here's some soap specifically designed for zero-G kitchen use." "No, don't use that stuff to clean the floors. Here, look what else I brought."
I was torn between being grateful, outraged, and amused. The real estate agent's note — "apartment is being kept in excellent condition" — confirms it, though. I'm going to have to practise making that pasta sauce sis really likes.
» 08.04.2008 @ 1837 | navel housing |
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Lotes databases are great. I've started referring to them as "free time generators". The periods when Notus is frozen have given me plenty of time to catch up on my thumb-twiddling. Productivity, what's that? I'll work harder, not smarter.
Every Easter for the last several years, Dad and I and two of our junior umpires have headed down to Melbourne for the annual boys' softball tournament at Dandenong. It's always great to go south of the border from time-to-time, witness new ways of doing things (particularly Victorian drivers). After visiting for so many years, our Spanish is starting to get quite good, too.
This year we broke with tradition a little by inviting my sister along. She had been to Melbourne years before to play in the girls' tournament over at Waverley, but had never been as an umpire, nor attended the boys' event. It was an interesting experience for her. The major benefit was probably that she experienced Victorian umpire coaching for the first time (the Mexicans tend to be more brusque, but also more effective, than us in the ACT).
As for me, I had more fun than I think I've had at this tournament in years. I suspect part of it is being a Level 5 umpire now; you aren't treated any differently (the players don't know what level an umpire is, nor should they care), but I think I may have approached the tournament with a different attitude from what I have in the past. Perhaps less worried about screwing up and more worried about enjoying myself.
A highlight (or lowlight) of the tournament: I heard, in my three morning games, the three worst things a catcher can say to an umpire: 1) "I feel sick, and I really don't want to catch today, I told them I didn't want to play catcher, I want to go back to bed"; 2) "I'm so hungover right now, I can barely see the ball" (somehow this excuse never quite cuts it for an umpire, though); 3) "You look pretty tough, that's good, because you'll need to be with this pitcher". Want to see my collection of bruises?
» 01.04.2008 @ 1848 | softball work travel |
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Today someone asked me if they would need a stairclimber to carry a RAM chip. That is the single most awesome thing to happen this week. Possibly I'm just easily-impressed.
I have a 3 Mobile broadband modem for work now. The Internet access in the project offices is worse than dial-up (no, really, we checked. As a result, the Project Director offered us all free modems. They're to be used whenever we're on a project where Internet access is hard to come by. I think this fits the bill. Whenever we overload the office connection again, we just need to whip out the USB modems and log in to 3. Bliss. The ideal for us all would be some sort of prepaid plan, so we could pay money to use it when we're on a project that needs it, and not pay when we're not. But 3 Mobile don't give you that. They're clearly the best of the lot, though: $50 a month for 4gb a month, and you can cancel and resume at any time with no penalty. Not quite prepaid, but not bad.
I had a bit of trouble signing up. The fifteen-minute activation procedure took about fifty minutes, most of which I spent arguing with the activation guy. Because I'm already a 3 Mobile customer with my personal phone, he couldn't understand why I wouldn't want to direct debit my modem use fees from my personal bank account. But because I'm damn near broke and anyway the company will be paying for this, thank you very much, I couldn't understand why he couldn't understand. When he finally understood it was for work purposes, he then asked me for the company ABN (which I don't know) and hinted that he'd like me to set up an official company account with 3 Mobile. Yes, that's not really an option, either.
But the little modem works beautifully. I have a great connection almost all the time. And why would you go over 4gb in a month for work? That's a lot of email.
» 28.03.2008 @ 1848 | work gadgets |
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Some of the tools the company prescribe are really useful in increasing one's free time. That is to say, the long freezes they inspire in Notus Lotes lead to plenty of time to do one's own thing. Provided, of course, that "one's own thing" is not defined as "going home, drinking a bottle of vodka, and collapsing in bed", which is about the way I'd like to define it right now. There's a trap there: vodka is not very appropriate today. As a young lad of Irish descent, I should be drinking beer, or at least whisky. I guess I'll just add that to the list of things I'm getting wrong these days.
Eh, it's not so bad here. I mean, I'm gasping for a drink, but I have some lovely jazz blaring out of my computer, a friendly co-worker on company IM, and ... well, there's not much else going for me at the moment, really. Oh, well. There could be killer bees in here with me.
Easter hols coming up soon. It will be interesting to see how work deals with this. It's not looking pretty. With luck, though, by 0630 on Friday I'll be on the highway, heading down for a weekend of delight and debauchery in that most wonderful of cities, Melbourne. Well, to be more accurate, I'll be umpiring softball. Where other people will use Easter to give thanks at Mass, or even just spend time with family, I'm off to a foreign city to cop abuse at the hands of incompetent coaches. It's traditional! I've been at it for 10 years now; soon I'll have spent more Easters at softball than not.
And with that, and one more incredibly-long freeze, I think I might just give up and go home. It can wait until tomorrow. And if it can't, well, there's only so many hours of work they can expect from me. So, "thrrp" ought to sum things up well enough. I'm for bed.
» 17.03.2008 @ 2341 | softball work navel |
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Surprise! I am still alive, and 'blogging from work. I don't really have any choice, because there is no Internet access at home. That's right, I moved out. I've been in the new flat nearly for one month now. I'm also nearly broke. I don't think it's a coincidence.
I figured I'd still be able to 'blog occasionally, since The Company have a fairly enlightened Internet use policy. They say: so long as you aren't downloading pornography, supporting intolerance, or supporting terrorism with the company dollar, you can use the Internet for whatever you like — this means, of course, that watching a movie of KKK members building a bomb in the nude will result in instant sacking. Other than that, they don't seem to mind what you do, provided you get your work done.
And there's the rub. "Get your work done" tends to involve leaving the office at eight or nine o'clock — even later sometimes, like tonight. By that time I haven't the energy to goof off on company equipment. I have just about the energy to go for my walk and get on home, and very little else. The only reason I'm 'blogging from work now is because one of the tools I'm using to complete today's to-do list takes forever to load and freezes up Notus Lotes while it's loading, so I may as well goof off for the ten minutes I have to wait.
I've now been here long enough to have proof that the "after hours" lights work on a timer (I didn't need proof, but now I have it, so that's kind of nice), and I've listened to two complete sets of Jazztrack. And if I wasn't so high up in this building I could probably look out the window and see people enjoying themselves and drinking. Instead I can look at my reflection and see someone feeling sorry for himself in an incredibly dreary and uninteresting way. Hey, it could be worse. There could be killer bees in here with me.
Updates may be sparse, at least while my current project lasts. I'm sure my only reader is heartbroken by this information. But it could be worse: there could be killer bees in there with him.
» 07.03.2008 @ 2205 | work webby navel |
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I actually had occasion to use surfactant today, but I held fast to my principles. I'm not certain my replacement, thingamajig — you know, whatsitcalled, was quite le mot juste, however.
I think I can legitimately claim to have finished work at 2305, because that's when I shook hands with the courier and wished him bon voyage. It's not like I worked straight through until eleven, though. At eight we left work and went for a walk to Parliament House and back. We do that a lot anyway, but it was particularly interesting in light of the morning's event. On the way back we lingered for a while at the Tent Embassy, and enjoyed scones at the Rainbow Chai Tent. Strolling around the Parliamentary Zone and eating scones probably doesn't count as the sort of exercise we'd planned, but I'm hoping the scales will overlook that.
This morning, the Prime Minister of the Commonwealth of Australia finally said sorry for the Stolen Generations. His speech was not at all bad. He's about thirty years later than he should have been, but fair suck of the sav, an apology has only really been on the agenda since the early Howard days. From my attitude here you might assume that I'm a fan of the "just bloody apologise already" option. That's not an unjustifiable assumption. Midnight Oil: "White men came, took everyone".
There are many reasons not to say sorry, of course. People argue that Australia today is very diverse, and most of the people living here now could not have had anything to do with Aboriginal suffering. This is true. If you looked at my own family history, you might find immigrants and refugees, but you won't find oppressors of Indigenous Australians. Why should I say sorry? The theft of Aboriginal children, if it occurred on the scale commonly believed (if you're a devotee of Keith Windschuttle, you will argue it did not), ended more than thirty years ago. This was well before many of us were old enough (or Australian enough) to influence politics; it was well before many of us were born. This, too, is true. Why should I apologise? Any apology would inevitably be followed by claims for compensation, claims which should not be paid for by modern Australians. Another excellent point! Why should I admit guilt and make reparations?
The answer, of course, is that I should not. I have nothing to apologise for. Neither does Kevin Rudd or Julia Gillard or Peter Garrett or Brendan Nelson or Pauline Hanson. Probably John Howard could be excused, too, but if that little rodent can't bring himself to say sorry he could at least start practising some other apologetic lines, perhaps something along the lines of "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned ..."
There are people alive today who were alive during the heyday of the Stolen Generations. Some of them are even to blame: public servants and lobbyists and politicians and right-wing commentators and do-gooders and racists and others of their ilk, who must fiddle in the affairs of others they can't quite see as human. We'd all love to see a few apologies fall from the lips of those people at some point. They're not the only ones, though. I said that Kevin Rudd need not apologise. He needn't; he's done nothing wrong. He's not harmed any Aboriginals. Kevin Rudd should not be apologising; the Prime Minister of Australia, however, must. The 2008 Rudd Government has not harmed Aboriginal interests; the Commonwealth Government, however, has.
The Commonwealth is the Commonwealth is the Commonwealth. The Government is the same government we had at Federation, and with any luck will be the same government we will have long after Rudd and Howard and you and I are crumbled to dust. The Commonwealth Government can change its mind, and apologise in 2008 for wrongs it inflicted in 1968. We might have had a different Prime Minister, a different government-of-the-day, a different population, but the Government of Australia was still the Government of Australia. If we are expected to respect the laws passed by one government-of-the-day even as we elect another, then we can expect each successive government-of-the-day to take responsibility for the actions of its predecessors. Perhaps we can even expect it to pay for past mistakes. Sure, its tax revenues are now our money, not our grandparents'. But if we the people of my generation can get through life and count this as the worst instance of paying for our predecessors' mistakes, we can count ourselves very lucky indeed.
It's a very small thing, and inexpensive when you consider what governments usually do. Three hundred words for healing compared with billions for hurting. The risk of a few compensation lawsuits lost compared with the use of laws to bludgeon those of the wrong colour. Maybe it's a waste of taxpayer funds. If it is, at least this government-of-the-day is wasting them in interesting and exciting new ways. I'd like to see more of it.
» 14.02.2008 @ 0126 | work politics canberra weight-loss news |
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I'm not going to talk about work, because there are some words I'd like not to use on this website. Actually, there's quite a lot of words I'd rather not use on this website, including surfactant, but in the case of this particular word, there may be delicate ears reading. Or something like that.
I'm nearly through consolidating the music libraries my brother and I have amassed over years of annual-income-twenty-pounds-annual-expenditure-nineteen-six. Being good, innocent boys, the main idea was that no matter who turned his speakers on first when we inhabit the same room, the music will be tolerable to the other lad at least half the time, probably more, since our tastes overlap (a co-worker recently described overlapping musical tastes as "significant synergy in acquisition of compositions", and I think it was a joke). As it's taken me so damn long to rip every CD we both own, it looks like I'll be leaving the household the day after we start to realise the full benefits of having all discs in a single digital library. On the other hand, I can now just leave a copy on his hard disk ... and we get all each other's music. Don't tell the RIAA.
One thing that's made the job quite interesting is my brother's habit of putting discs back in any random case he happens to come across. Thank goodness for the inerrability of iTunes' CDDb-pull feature. He asked me to burn "backup" copies of two of his discs this evening, and it was only after he left that I remembered that the discs he'd asked for weren't in their cases. I'm sure they're somewhere in the pile ... I've ripped one of them, so I can just burn from the digital versions, but the other is His Problem to find. Much as I love some of their music, I'm amazed that Creedence are willing to have certain songs (you know which they are) described as their "Greatest Hits".
Two sleeps to go until zero hour (H-minus two sleeps?). Coincidentally, two sleeps to go until payday. Clearly I planned that one quite well; I certainly won't be able to jump the gun on this one, because I'm flat broke. Was it worth it? Ask me in twelve months.
» 13.02.2008 @ 0038 | work music navel housing |
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Diverting things on the Internet ...
Adrian points to The Jennine Wekipaijua, which description is hauntingly familiar.
Magnus Manske, who is not praised enough, has produced an editor activity generator. Essentially it picks up a random Wikipedia article, and tries to suggest ways to improve it. The program is not, of course, foolproof, but it deftly handles more foolishness than you'd expect. In other words, it's a great addition to the toolbox, and one day I may even find the time to use it.
» 04.02.2008 @ 0048 | webby gadgets |
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The course — how to manage projects without becoming a menace — finished late on Friday afternoon. I passed. We went out to celebrate, and separated after a couple of hours. Somehow I got lost and ended up on Pitt Street. It was an accident, I swear. I walked along, haemorrhaging money as I went, and came face-to-face with a Borders. We have one of those here, in the awful new Canberra Centre. For months I had shied away from entering the place, because I feared I would lose my soul ... or at least my credit rating. Finally, at the coaxing of friends, I crossed the threshold of that dreaded emporium. They had promised to hold my hand for the entire experience, and if necessary provide covering fire for an emergency retreat should the allure of commercialism prove too strong for me.
Their ministrations were not necessary, however. The shop sucked. It didn't even pass the Wodehouse Test (the awesomeness of a bookstore can be expressed as A = W, where A is awesomeness and W is the number of works on the shelves under the name of Pelham Grenville Wodehouse). It would not be at all an exaggeration to say I was disappointed. I may even have ventured to tut disapprovingly. But, let's face it, there was also an element of relief in there, for I had managed to enter a bookstore — no, not a bookstore; this was, I had been led to believe, the bookstore, the Ultimate against which all bookstores are measured — and come out empty-handed. This was an invigorating thought, and I took it as certification that, deep within my core, I possessed the strength to fight any bookshop and win.
So it was that, standing before this Bookish Mecca, wearied by aimless walking and emboldened by purposeful celebration, I convinced myself I had no reason to fear. Accordingly, I rushed in, nearly tripping over a couple of trembling angels on the tread.
I think it would be fair to say that the Borders in Canberra is but a pale shadow of its namesake on the Harbour. I may have felt safe and confident as I experienced the Canberran shoebox, but the Sydney store is far more sophisticated. At the door complex infra-red scanners hum into life, immediately divining one's tastes, lifestyle, and socio-economic status. My wallet was taken from me, and I found myself compelled to donate a modest percentage to the Borders Shareholder Retirement Fund. Immediately upon divesting myself of my wallet, I was accosted by two burly, shaved-headed men who each towered like the Colossus of Rhodes, only more bronzed. Although firm, they were not unkind, and appeared concerned that I should adopt only the most befitting books the store had to offer, in recompense for the extortionate amount of money already stolen from my accounts.
Half an hour later, I staggered outside, my clothing disheveled and an expression of imbecilic wonder on my dial, clutching to my breast hard-won copies of several books whose titles I cannot remember right now, and whose contents will consume much of my time for the next several weeks. I tell myself that I have been privileged to experience an unusual delta of pleasure, disturbance, and spiritual awakening, not unlike being pampered with rare perfumes and oils by killer bees as uplifting hymns play in the background.
If you ever come across me in the City of the Coathanger, do not suggest a trip to Borders, for I am subtle and quick to purchase.
» 04.02.2008 @ 0017 | work books shopping travel |
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Yesterday had all the makings of a Very Bad Day. It started with remembering that I hadn't confronted the scales in a while. As I fronted up before the daemonic, digital visage, I felt a horrible premonition.
"Premonition" is probably not the right word. It implies that the knowledge just suddenly hit me, a bolt from the blue, a message from above. It wasn't anything of the sort. In fact, the idea that the scales might not be my friend that morning was not so much a vague foreboding as a bloody certainty. The information didn't come from the planets. My ancestors and spirit guides were mute. God didn't whisper in my ear, "My son, you may not want to do this today." No, the reason I was reluctant to approach my measuring master was the sudden realisation that, however many calories I thought the whisky I'd drunk last week contained, I had underestimated. Then there were the pies I scoffed down in lieu of breakfast on Saturday morning. Then there was the pizza from the local greasy that composed dinner on Saturday night. Then there was Mum's delicious chicken kiev, which contains more calories than I would normally eat in three days, served with beans and high-carb white bread on Monday night.
Dad's scales confirmed my fears: my adiposity was undiminished. In fact, I had gained 2.5kg. 2.5 kilos! In one week! That's a month's worth of losses! I spent the rest of the day walking gingerly, in case by lurching suddenly I might unbalance the ground and tip us all off into Outer Space. I tried to ignore the way the ground shook as I walked, or the crowds in Civic using me as a portable wind shelter. During the ten minutes I took for lunch, I actually attracted a Greenpeace patrol boat, packed to the brim with hairy hippies anxious to protect me from the Japanese. Now that's a bad day.
I'm on a course at the moment, which is why I'm sitting in a hotel room in Sydney working (okay, 'blogging, but I'm just taking a quick break). The course had a pre-requisite online thingy, of which I did half on the weekend. I attempted to do the other half at work on Tuesday, but the damn thing wouldn't load. So I just jumped right in and took the final exam. It's quite difficult doing an exam when you've done the online equivalent of wagging every class. It's even more difficult when you're interrupted every couple of minutes by colleagues wanting you to work on something. I think I'll claim the hour I spent on the exam back to my project. After all, it's not like I stopped working to complete it; I just used the time I would normally have spent breathing and blinking to do some supplementary company stuff. Or, to put it another way, I utilised the corporate teaming online collaboration environment to leverage my synergy in a client-oriented context. Still passed first bloody time, too, and you have no idea how difficult it is to sit an exam while leveraging synergy. My head barely fit out the door after that effort, and I had to carry a lead weight to get my feet back on the ground.
I was on my way to the City of the Coathanger when the real estate agent rang (next on FOX: "When Real Estate Agents Attack, Volume II!"). She'd spoken to my references, and was willing to give me not just the key to a flat, but also the key to the city, her heart, and the Royal Mint. I suspect when I return to Canberra I'll run across a couple of rental referees gasping for a pint. And why not? I definitely owe them. I was a bit worried when the agent asked me, "Is it true you used to be Queen of Zamibia?", but I think I dealt with her questions deftly and with my usual aplomb. Royal blood tells, you see.
I wonder how the scales will read when I get home. Probably before facing the merciless machine I should prepare a cocktail of vodka, ice cream, Panadol and chocolate. Then I'll be prepared no matter what it says.
» 31.01.2008 @ 0028 | diet work navel weight-loss housing |
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