Getting There
Down in D.C. (or up, from my perspective), they’re known as “slugs,” commuters who cage rides from drivers trolling for passengers so they can use the HOV lanes into town. According to the information in this article, the term “slugs” doesn’t refer to the garden invertebrates but to the false coinage used in parking meters and pinball machines. Either way, it’s an unnecessary denigration of a resourceful – and resource preserving – practice. Growing up on Long Island, living in NYC, travelling through many metropolitan areas, and now living in Sydney, I’m very used to “car culture,” and how selfish it can be. Drivers do not want to share, and while their may be many reasons for this, there are no excuses. In the U.S., there are those who blame the Eisenhower administration’s development of the interstate highway system for America’s dependence on oil, but I think this misses the point. Individual liberties and the selfish perspective concomitant with any level of privilege become insistent in our lives, and automobile usage over mass transit systems is an aspect of this. It takes me twenty minutes to get from home to the office by rail. It would take twice that to drive. How many of my colleagues travelling over the same or similar routes drive? I’d guess over 70%. And how many of those ride alone? I’d put money on 95% for a significant portion of their journey. Slugging wasn’t seen much in NYC. Instead an underground economy grew up around minivans acting as informal bus lines, supplementing the existing transit system. And carpooling is a practice that never seemed to get its feet, inexplicably. (I was asked shortly after starting in my present employment if I had a car by a colleague who lived in the same suburb; I didn’t. Still, when he had one, and I offered gas money for a ride, his preference for solo driving won over his desire to share car services. Is it B.O.?) Either way – whether paid or unpaid – the needs of commuters are met, so call it whatever you want.

Migrations
Last night we went to see a multimedia poetry event over in Woolloomooloo at artspace, called One Step Forwards Backwards, which represented itself as being a reflection on the “internal poetic experience of migrant artists and writers who are searching for a human space, observing the movement of people and their compromise with the systems that humans create.” I’m not really sure what that means, or if the show actually achieved its aim. I went, however, because the poetry focussed on the perspective of immigrants and because of a statement made in the event’s prospectus that “poetry [has become] an intellectual’s subject.” Now that I’m an immigrant myself, I’ve given a little thought to my status. As an American, I’ve had my immigrant roots drummed into me over the years in such a way and to such an extent that I’ve always felt myself actually to be an immigrant, although my entire life experience up until recently has been entirely different from that of any first- or second-generation (that being the sociological cut-off for assimiliation) immigrant I’ve known or heard of. Admittedly moving to Australia doesn’t constitute the kind of disruption most migrants experience, and my culture shock just won’t compare to that of someone coming from Lebanon or China or Sudan to anywhere else. I’ve moved from one cosmopolitan location to another, both English-speaking, both Anglo-based. There are differences, and I feel them keenly sometimes, but that’s more a sense of the uncanny than anything else, that sense of unfamiliar familiarity. Nevertheless, I feel it, and therefore share something I haven’t really shared before, with a large proportion of the dislocated peoples of the world. What I remain unfamiliar with, however, is the anger this disruption gives rise to. The sadness is not completely shared, but I understand it. The focus on the routines and sense of home transposed as nationalistic pride – the beloved mother/fatherland – I also understand, even if my sense of it is tempered by my political sensibilities. Watching the images projected around the room of Middle Eastern countries, juxtaposed with London, New York, and Sydney scenes, and listening to or reading the plaints of the poets, I was struck by the sense of loss they conveyed and experienced moments of that sense myself in some of the expressions and images. It was disconcerting to see the smoke and wreckage of the World Trade Center pop up in the slides, among the other pictures of bombed-out buildings and bullet holes scattered around Lebanon and Turkey. The projected scenes of tanks and soldiers – all American, run at double-time – also left me wondering: is this meant to convey the idea that America is to blame, that the WTC murders were just the militaristic chickens coming home? I concluded, however, that instead a different meaning was intended, that the WTC in ruins was meant to bond the immigrant’s and the non-immigrant’s experiences of the world with one another: we share death and destruction and the overwhelming sense that the world operates outside our control; it isn’t all here or there, howsoever strange it may be for a Ankaran in New York or a New Yorker in Sydney or a Damascan in London. We are separate from our families and our familiars and we feel it and it affects us, but only if we fail to share what we have in common do we suffer.

Open for Business
Last night we started and finished putting books into the bookshelves. We’d spent 16 hours on Sunday with the carpenter installing bookshelves across 5.6 metres of wall, the length of the main interior living room wall. About two metres of that space is “entertainment unit,” i.e., shelving for the television, DVD, and CDs, and probably about 50 centimetres is structural, so that puts the bookshelves themselves at about 3 metres all up horizontally. They stand over three meters tall, so with the bottom space reserved for LPs, there are 6 shelves in each section, making 18 metres of books. As we approached the end of the fiction, we had already filled over three quarters of the shelves and were seriously concerned we’d run out of room. I guess it says a lot that we still have 3 entirely blank shelves – a metre or so – even after loading in the non-fiction and a separate section for poetry and drama (but I’ll let someone else do that math). My fault, I guess, since my life before marriage had been devoted largely to the accumulation of books, and my previous access to the Strand me with an inexpensive option in obtaining hardcover editions. We’ve integrated Meera’s not insubstantial collection, which is where 90% of the poetry and about half the non-fiction comes from. Tomorrow we’ll do the LPs, and I expect them to fill the remaining space. The empty-apartment echo has been reduced significantly, but I don’t know we’ll ever eliminate it entirely without carpets, and neither of us is inclined to unnecessary rugs.

Mousing Around
I like to keep up with what’s out on the ‘net these days, being someone who now participates in expanding the content thereof. Other than the ‘blogs I regularly visit, listed in the Community section to the right, there are the links I find thereon, such as How to Learn Swedish in 1000 Difficult Lessons (which I got from Berlin Blog), an enjoyable enough ‘blog by an expatriate American living in Sweden. I mention all this because this led me to Lost in Transit, a community of ex-pats, ‘blogging their experiences. If I didn’t have my own, I’d inquire about joining in, especially perhaps to note that I, too, am fascinated by kangaroos, having not quite yet gotten my fill of seeing them in the wild. I also wish to see a platypus, which are larger than I’d thought, so my chance may also be better than I’d expected.

Dreaming Art
Back when I first visited Sydney, I had the opportunity to see a show of Aboriginal art. I’d seen small, commercial knock-offs of one thing or another, usually boomerangs and tourist trinkets, all using the motifs and techniques of the paintings I saw in the museum gallery. The difference was that these pieces, work produced as singular, artistic efforts, rather than as mass-production commodities, had that mysterious, compelling quality that makes us call something art. They dots and lines captured my gaze as if I could make sense of it, decode the message, if I looked long and deeply enough; a hypnotic quality that’s often lost in modern and contemporary art (although I think Rothko’s color blocks often do something similar). We own a couple of small pieces, and they’re beautiful and strange. Now it appears the art world has discovered Aboriginal art, and it’s hit the big time: auctions at Sotheby’s. And just when we were hoping to buy a few pieces ourselves.

Power Tools
It’s been a long-standing tradition that working around the house is a bad idea for me, although usually it’s working with my brother that seems to bring on the physical trauma aspects, probably because we both have operated under the principle that home repair is best conducted with frequent breaks involving refreshing beverages. It appears, however, that whenever I am engaged in the use of tools I am better off hiring someone to do it for me, as my cuts and creaks attest this morning, following four days of moving into and setting up house at Reservoir Street, Surry Hills. Nevertheless, we are already very comfortable and secure in our new home, even if the guest bedroom remains something more along the lines of a workshop at the moment. Plus, the pictures and curtains we hung look very nice. (Thank goodness George was available, as his assistance throughout was invaluable; he’s a stand-up guy, George.) The sofa arrives today, and some bookshelves will be put up next weekend (which gives us the long Anzac-Day break to dust and order the books and records we’ll store thereon). At that point, all will have been completed, by and large. I am amazed by the expanse of this apartment, which exceeds by two bedrooms and many square feet anyplace I’ve lived before, except the Bay Shore house, growing up. It’s embarrassingly huge, almost, but we love every inch of it. The balcony is my favourite part, and a bedroom I don’t have to sidle my way through every morning. Our location in proximity to Central Station is also a big plus, as my commute this morning attests, easily cutting 15-20 minutes off, and offering a brief, brisk walk to open my eyes. Once we get the phone sorted out, and the television reception issues dealt with, there will be nothing left to do except live there, which we plan to do for a very long time indeed.

Love
Last night we went to see Arthur Lee & Love play the Gaelic Club. I’d never heard of these guys before last winter in NYC, although they’d been favourites of Meera’s for a long time. Our friend Pam took us with her partner Dan to a particularly hip Village music store (Fela boxset – I still want it, even though I’ve got plenty - on the wall, stacks of vinyl among the CDs) where we picked up a 2-CD set of the early recordings. This is some terrific pyschedelia, and it was immediately apparent in the recordings where the Doors got a fair bit of their aural schtick. I’ve been a fan ever since, and although we missed Mr. Lee at the Knitting Factory before we left town, I was pleased to see him making enough of a comeback to mount a world tour. Not everyone can (although the Violent Femmes were at the Metro recently, and who would’ve expected that? Still, no comparison for length-of-hiatus). The show was terrific, with an all-new line-up, of course, and Mr. Lee took some warming up it seemed to me. The crowd, as they so often are these days and in these venues, was enjoying socializing more than the performance in front of them, but that didn’t detract significantly from what was happening on stage. The Love sound was at its best when Mr. Lee added a third guitar to the mix, and although there wasn’t any new material, who went there expecting any? The godfathers of the Sydney music scene were also out in force, grooving to the tunes.

Moving in
We also “settled,” which is what one does to complete a real estate transaction here (rather than “close,” which is what we do in NYC), so our Reservoir Street home is ours now; we can move in whenever we like, and we like this weekend. Today is a public holiday (which distinguishes it from a regular holiday, which is what vacations are called here, something we distinguish in the US by giving it its own word), and we’ll spend the day packing what isn’t still in boxes from our last move. It’s a period of transition, so I’m not altogether certain when the phones will be up or the internet switched on (now that we’re permanently settled, we’re getting ADSL). We’re very excited.

Easter
This is the big one, the holiday that surpasses all others. Christmas in the US would be the comparable holiday. Those who know of holidays in the states might think Thanksgiving, but that’s a secular holiday. The distinction passes right by many people these days, but it’s still an important one. The Christmas tradition of decorating and exchanging gifts makes it obvious why this would have achieved the measure of cultural dominance it has elsewhere, but why Easter should be as important as it is in Australia seems mysterious, though from a Christian perspective it is altogether appropriate, as the ultimately more significant event in the theology.

Brightly Colored Coalition of the Willing
George II and his domestic security jester, Tom Ridge, might just as well push their alert-status spectrum out past the visible range of colors. Now at “Yellow”, except in NYC of course, the threat assessment has been lowered reportedly as a result of the success of the Iraq campaign and a “decrease in chatter.” I’ve come to believe that this inexpressive term for monitored communications between terrorists is as useful as the intelligence services’ recommendations. Tom Ridge warned us last month that “terrorists will attempt multiple attacks against U.S. and coalition targets worldwide in the event of a U.S.-led military campaign against Saddam Hussein.” Never happened. Why did he tell us it would? Because of an increase in “chatter.” I think he must mean “gossip.” I suppose everyone is aware to one degree or another that all lines of communication are essentially monitored for keywords and phrases and that computer algorithms determine if a particular line should be highlighted for closer scrutiny. Naturally this results in a delay in actual “intelligence” material coming to light, but it’s also going to produce statistical problems that will show spikes in the “chatter.” I don’t believe there’s any solid indication of particular threats, and the constant raising and lowering of alert levels stems from two thought processes within George II’s administration: (1) after the criticism received as a result of the inept handling of communication to the public immediately following the September 11 murders, Bush & Co. determined that more communication was better than none (despite the fact that what was really wanted was better communication; but then GWB is a known dyslexic); (2) Fear is a man’s best friend (in the words of the John Cale song). By manipulating the anxiety of the American public, the Bush-Cheney oil cartel would have an effective method of diverting and disarming its critics. Under threat, the U.S. is unsurprisingly isolationist even while it may be acting interventionally. Who cares what France thinks, or China, or anyone else? We’re all going to die . . . unless we do something about it, is the common thought. The degree of distraction provided often reduces public discourse on the policies and methods used to achieve them. Being especially critical becomes “un-American.” Those inclined to be critical become cautious, lest they are tarred as failing to support the troops or the President during a crisis. It’s nonsense, of course. The greed motivating this administration relies on our timidity to get away with their agenda. This is a similar tactic used in tyrannies around the world throughout history, which is what gives rise to the extreme accusations made against Bush Inc. Even if we get these creeps out of office in 2004, the damage they will have done will be hard to undo.

In China They Just Call It "Food"
There's a part of me that enjoys seeing the French word "cuisine" attached to the culinary traditions of one non-Gallic ethnic group or another, but I also find some satisfaction in the simple, direct acceptance of food as food, that tradition that makes pizza so nearly universally accepted, or pasta so nearly ubiquitous. Although pie in the Anglo tradition is by default a savoury dish, whereas I am accustomed to the dessert variety, only here in Australia has it achieved its apotheosis: the Pie Floater. Mmm, a delicious meat pie floating in pea soup. Now I have something to look forward to in Adelaide.
Seriously, I've had a number of meals in Sydney that were as bright and delicious as any I've had anywhere else. They have not always been "fusion," and they haven't always involved fish (although now that I am pursuing a lifestyle choice as a "pescetarian" that's changed). Kangaroo and emu, et al. will insist on appearing in many restaurants (there's a lovely image, taken literally) catering to the tourists and otherwise unenlightened diners, but offer nothing particular in their preparation or consumption than a try-it-once-it's-exotic experience. Australia has long suffered from its reliance on English cookery, but more recently it's suffered from its reputation, and that's just not true anymore. Asian and Pacific fusion have had a dramatic impact not just on what's available, but on the sensibilities of the dining public. The continued dominance of grilling as the technique of choice for many foods, however, cannot be in any way regarded as a failing: the climate demands the method, and the food is very tasty as a result.

To Market
Once we’ve completed our relocation to Surry Hills, one of the features of the neighbourhood we’ll be able to take advantage of is Paddy’s Markets, a produce and dry goods market located in the Haymarket complex. I mention this, not just because we’re interested in this ourselves, but because NYC is reviving the tradition in Hell’s Kitchen, where Paddy, whomever he was, had also operated, and during the same period. Apparently, however, he found Sydney a more conducive environment, seeing as the market maintained its presence here continuously. O.k., so obviously there was no Paddy, and the market was really only called that by the neighbourhood residents, using a common diminutive among the Irish for “Patrick” (although I note that this form was also used in a derogatory manner by non-Irish during much of the period of high Irish emigration, and this, too, may have a bearing on the source of the markets’ naming convention). Funny how all my worlds grow increasingly smaller.

Trains
I have a little history with trains. Enough to speak of now and then, anyway. Growing up outside NYC we would sometimes take the Long Island Railroad in to see one thing or another, although we’d just as often drive. As we grew older we’d sometimes take the train on our own for this or that. Busses were usually cheaper during the college years, but sometimes Amtrak would be the preferred mass transit option. In Brockport a train line ran straight through the campus, unlike the Erie Canal, which ran along what had become the edge of town, and sometimes, out of some Kerouac affinity, I’d hike the rails in one direction or another and then swing off along whatever road crossed it and find my way home. I can’t say as I got to know the town well by striking out this way, as towns in upstate NY are often just set down in the middle of miles of nothing around, SUNY Brockport being a good example, built on a swamp as it was. Ann Arbor, Michigan, however, was another story, and I sometimes wonder if you could drop me off somewhere on the edge of town even now, that I could find my way to the University. Probably not. It is one of my fonder memories of that period when engaged in this activity I found my progress impeded by a switchman who’d been charged with delivering a message to a train on its way through: Ringing Brothers Barnum & Bailey. Trains being what they are – unattached to anything but the rails – and this being pre-cell phone days, messages were passed by hand by means of a forked stick with a wire strung across the mouth of the Y and the paper slip wound around the wire. The engineer could reach down to the stick held up as he passed and scoop the message into his hand. The need for this particular communication was that the elephants had been able to open the doors of their cars and were reaching out from the moving train and grabbing branches from the trees they passed, trumpeting. So I stood with the switchman and waited for the train and watched as it went by and saw the elephants and the carneys and the moment pass into the night, a moment of light on a dark night that I will never forget. I’m reminded of this encounter by having just gone for a walk at lunch and seeing, just at that moment, an old steam locomotive with four cars and a caboose pass along the Epping rail line. I don’t know what force in the universe serves to maintain this link between me and trains, but there it is, for what it’s worth. How strange that I should see this now, when Ann Arbor is the place I most often feel most strongly connected to here in Sydney.
500 Years
It will take a long time for global sea levels to seriously threaten coastal cities if the trend reported by AVISO continues, but that’s not a reason to ignore global warming. Well, I’m sure our kids can figure something out. Maybe by then hydrogen fuel cells will be economical, and they can use the extra water to power their flying cars. Thanks to Kenneth Miles, the unaustralian, for the link.

Peace in Our Time
It’s a good thing that Saddam Hussein has been overthrown. It’s a damn shame the way it was done. Before anyone accuses me of being one of those sour grapes liberals, I am not an opponent of military-led humanitarian efforts. Somalia may have been a failure, but Haiti wasn’t, and neither was Bosnia, in the end; all three were efforts of the US acting forthrightly and without immediate need to do so. Yes, Rwanda was a failure of inaction, but in another sense, so is Iraq, in this case the failure to engage diplomatically with the other great powers and the Arab nations. The UN members who dithered and who took categorical positions against force are not to be in any way admired for their cowardice or their selfishness, but that doesn’t somehow excuse the rush to war. George Bush took the aura of moral legitimacy conferred by the WTC murders and the successful military ouster of the Taliban and squandered it by expanding the right of self-protection into acts of imperial self-aggrandizement. I note for those who have missed it that the coalition forces were very quick to secure the oil wells but have done nothing to preserve order or ensure the cultural heritage of Iraq was not lost. George II cares nothing for history, only profit. He must be relegated to the same dustbin where he would put our democracy.
Show Bush the Door in 2004!
I’d Even Vote for Gore in 2004!
Don’t Take Any More in 2004!
Etc.

Green and Gold
Although it’s April, it’s September in my heart. The air cools, the rain falls, the nights are longer and darker . . . autumn is arriving. Strange, then, that the world is still so leafy and green, when all my years of seasonal change tell me the dying colors, the golds and reds and browns, should be turning the world crisp and sere and preparing the way for silvery greys that mute the stark black-and-white edges of winter. Some mornings getting up, it feels like going to school, and some days at three p.m. I feel like going home. Easter has always been an interim holiday for me, a period not summer, not winter, standing at the cusp like a gate to pass through into a new state. I don’t have any photos of my own or a place to offer them to the passing ‘blog browser, so it’s lucky that the Herald has Sydney seasonal snaps for those who’d care to have a look. Some of the pictures don’t say “Autumn” to me, but they must have to the editors. It’s a nice gallery of Sydney imagery all the same.

Anti-Kyoto Forces Gathering “Steam”
There are so many things wrong with the newly passed House energy bill it’s hard to know where to start. No, it isn’t: drilling in the Alaska National Wildlife Refuge is unnecessary and will damage one of the last wilderness areas in the region. We don’t need the oil. As pointed out by Congressmen Ed Markey of Massachusetts and Sherwood Boehlert, energy efficiencies such as those imposed during the 1970’s energy crisis would be more than enough to offset any existing or future need for increased drilling. SUVs getting fewer miles per gallon than the biggest cars in operation during the 1980s should be subject to the same restrictions as everyone else, but the automobile manufacturers found a loophole and Congress has been letting them exploit it instead of closing it off as they should have. The efforts to offset the drilling rights with increased fuel efficiency requirements were the only positive effort made outside of voting against the bill to begin with. Then look at the other provisions: bypassing federal royalty payments, easier licensing of hydroelectric dams (ignoring the fact that the existing dams are being taken down right and left), more pipelines and power lines through federal lands, inventorying offshore drilling sites including those previously off-limits. Tell me we don’t have the most big oil-friendly government of all time. Oh, yes, of course: one failed oil man in the top seat, spurred on by his successful oil man VP. We’re in trouble if the Senate fails to act on this matter the way they should.

Friday Penance
I've long viewed the practice of 'blogging the "Friday Five" in this light, on the theory that if you can't post something, don't, and so what? But under the circumstances -- that I'm moving next week -- it seems appropriate to take on the topic. I will have lived in 9 different homes, only 1 of which was a house -- the childhood home -- and 4 of which were apartments shared with others during my university years. The favourite so far is the one I'm moving into, of course; otherwise why move? But let's not jinx that project, and instead offer the apartment in Queens. I spent 10 years in Elmhurst, which was about 9 more years than I'd ever intended. It was my first official home of my own, and that continues to resonate in my psyche, naturally enough. I made many mistakes: not changing the locks the instant I moved in; leaving the windows open even when I wasn't home (although I was only robbed once; the more significant event was the uncanny feeling I had one afternoon, and looking up, discovering a black cat crossing from the bedroom into the kitchen, from which it disappeared. Sure, the windows were open at either end of the animal's journey, it was still a bit of a voodoo movie moment). I suppose the fact that we never moved while I was growing up and just my natural entropic tendencies explain why I ended up staying there so long, but the stress of moving has never been something I've particularly looked forward to, either, then as now. I have been remarkably lucky, however, that whenever I have moved I have had the luxury of the time to do it in. Our lease in Glebe, for example, doesn't run out to the end of the month, so we have the leisure to clean when we’re good and ready, to take it easy with the cat (who won't like this, not one bit, reminiscent as it will be for her of having to go to the airport and take a 30-hour trip, like our last move required). Still, we will have a terrific place to move into, in what may be Sydney's most vibrant neighbourhood, Surry Hills. After some of the places I've lived among the 9, location is very important indeed, but even a marginal neighbourhood can be endured if the home itself is of high enough quality. No basements or attics is an important rule. Other rules are no mold, no prostitutes or street corner drug transactions. Although it's important to minimize the monthly cost, so long as you can have some takeaway Thai or a pizza now and then, you can afford it if everything else is right. Growing up, everything else would have included "secret compartment" amenities: an attic, a basement with a variety of rooms, warren-like room arrangements . . . secret passages would be nice, or trapdoors. Here in Sydney outdoor space is the premium feature. A balcony is essential, but there are balconies and then there, well, window ledges. Developers here know perfectly well that when they put up a block of apartments, they each need outdoor space, but often enough they just tack on a slab-and-railing extension less than a meter wide outside the window and call it a balcony. You might get a couple of potted plants out there and maybe a chair or two, but it’s essentially useless as outdoor space. In Sydney that just won't do, so don’t be fooled. Get the one where you can put out a grill or a table and four chairs, plus plants. Some would question my choice of balcony over having a yard (garden), especially knowing that my childhood home in Bay Shore had the best yard in the neighbourhood. The house was situated on a plot half again as big as many of the other homes, and the backyard was filled with trees. When we were small, the house next door was empty for many years, and its backyard was a veritable jungle. The next block up the street hadn't been developed at all, and functioned as a forest. All that changed over the years, naturally, but I do still have an affinity for the out-of-doors. So why an apartment? The relatively low maintenance overhead, I suppose. Or maybe it's just part of my rejection of suburban life. I like the city – a lot. And city life is apartment living. Here in Sydney I have access to the best of both worlds. I can have my city life, but it's leafy and green and has outdoor space that is my own, not Central Park. If I need a big outdoor space, there are parks – Centennial, Moore, etc. - and the beaches within easy reach. Yes, I think I’ve made the right choice.

So much for the Friday Five.

Gimmie That Old Time Religion
When Britain recognized Jedi as a religion, everybody sneered. It was just a stunt, after all, based on an internet campaign to have the category written in by people around the country during the last cenus there. O.k., it worked, but how many people would continue to say they're Jedis? I'm betting not many. On the other hand, Haiti has now recognized Voodoo as a religion, the practioners of which can perform weddings and such other rites officially upon registering with the government. I'm guessing quite a large number sign up. So do they use the French form, voudoun? Or the English? I shall refrain from the zombie jokes.

McCarthy's Ghost
Here you can see the effects of the climate of fear at work. "Democrat, eh?" snarled the officer. "We know what to do about you Democrats." I'd keep an eye on that database, because I'll bet you dollars to donuts it never gets deleted.

Hoover's Spin
I shouldn't be surprised, should I? The USA Patriot Act is one of the most sweeping pieces of law-enforcement legislation ever enacted in America, and I've sweated over the infringements it allows on Constitutional values. Today I hear that the Republicans, Orrin Hatch leading the charge, are looking to enshrine the Act permanently. But it looks very possible indeed, with the Kyl-Schumer bill open to a rider from Hatch that would eliminate the expiration in 2005. Schumer? The senior -- Democratic -- senator from New York? Yes, he’s got a bill out there that would make getting a surveillance warrant even easier than the Patriot Act already does. Schumer's bipartisan bill is transparent pandering to the fear the federal government has been whipping up around the country since the WTC murders. More police powers are not the answer; improved intelligence and better foreign relations are, not that you'll see either under the Bush administration. And I don't live there anymore, so I can't vote against the turncoat creep next time he's up.

Time, Gentlemen
Metafilter is a resource I suppose every 'blogger utilizes to one extent or another. I usually find the site so densely packed with posts that it's as daunting as a stack of New Yorkers after a month or so of just not getting past "Talk of the Town." Still, every now and then I'll go in and nearly inevitably find something I enjoy. Timemaker is my new favorite toy on the internet. I'd like to spend more time away from work playing with it. It appeals to me on nearly the same level as Cornell boxes.

2 April
Thank God that’s over. Last night we tuned in to a program we’d seen advertised earlier in the week, called “Dark Side of the Moon Program,” purporting to be an exposé of the US Apollo 11 moon landing. The show had been touted as an examination of the roots of the program, and it started with Werner von Braun and the arms race, but quickly devolved into a parody, with Donald Rumsfield, Henry Kissinger, and Stanley Kubrick’s widow all very convincingly explaining how, although there was a moon landing, everything produced in evidence thereof was actually faked, originally in preparation for failure, but in the end actually used because the program couldn’t get any pictures back. Having already been the victim of a prank (Greg, somebody’s hacked your ‘blog; it’s all porno!), I should have been prepared, but it wasn’t until the stock footage in use started getting ludicrously divorced from the discussion, particularly during Rumsfield’s discourse on CIA hit squads combing the jungles of Viet Nam for their brethren who’d perpetrated the “hoax,” that I was convinced at last of the program’s parodic content. I have to give the participants a lot of credit, although I was already convinced of the evil natures of Rumsfield and Kissinger. Meanwhile, although the list is predictably internet-heavy, it’s nice to see Dick Smith made the top 100 – and nearly top 10, coming in a number 12 – April Fool’s hoaxes of all time. Congratulations.

Souths
I haven’t been to a game yet (but I will, really), and I can’t say that I know the difference between league and union, but the Rabbitohs are my team. Known otherwise as “Souths,” for South Sydney, the Bunnies are the battlers of the league, a real working class team of heroes with the kind of history such a background deserves, and a fan base that would be hard to equal. Growing up in a household where rooting for the underdog was the norm, with particular focus on the Chicago Cubs and New York Mets, long the worst teams in baseball, I felt an automatic affinity for this team, selecting them as my own even before arriving here. (One hopes CLA is enjoying her jersey.) The Red and Green Machine had a significant fan base for many years, when television and the Murdoch empire conspired to remove them from the league. This led to street demonstrations – not one, but two – of such a scale that Souths were reinstated without missing a match. They may not be doing very well so far this year (although the games at least have been close), but any team that takes the fearsome coney as its mascot deserves support, let alone one that can inspire such passion in its supporters. I would rather their major sponsor, TV Guide, didn’t have its logo quite so large and prominent on their souvenir apparel. The team’s own logo is terrific, the colors already sufficiently lurid without the advertising.