Everywhere, But Not to Drink
Walking past the Camperdown oval the other day in the pouring rain, I was not amused to see the sprinklers on, watering the grounds. In fact, over the course of the next few rainy days, I noticed the grounds continued to receive their regular watering, which, as the weekend approached, I couldn’t imagine the local footy team appreciating, as they’d be playing in quite a quagmire by Saturday. In any event, it comes, therefore, as no surprise, that business and government are eating up the water savings made by Sydney residents, with little recycling going on, and on-going infrastructure-related losses. It’s not good enough. Local councils and the State government have to step up their game. Earth Hour is a nice stunt, but there’s more to the situation than kilowatt hours, and it’s not just a matter of desalination plants.

Health & Well-Being
I joined a gym about a week ago. It’s probably a bad move, since the only branch convenient to me is just down the road from work, but in the opposite direction from the train, and I’ll have to make a special effort to go there instead of for a run in the park, but I’ve heard that aerobic exercise is of reduced effectiveness without strength-building activities. So now I can play with the weights machines. (Yes, there are also free-weights, but I’m intimidated by the guys in there; I’m foolish-looking enough, compared to all these young, muscle-y, and, frankly, thuggish-looking people. It’s bad enough that the arrangement of the machines is, as always, such that you are constantly faced with facing others working out on their pecs or abs or whatevers, and none of them are ever over-stuffed middle-aged nerds. I’m not there for pick-ups; move the machines to provide some semblance of privacy, please.) I can also use the cross-trainers or the treadmills.

Last night I went in for the first time. I made the rounds of some of the weights machines for half-an-hour or so, then went to explore the aerobics machines. The cross-trainer I got up on squeaked horribly and it was difficult to find a rhythm. Plus, my shin splints kicked in hard almost immediately. I persisted for a few minutes, but since the panel wasn’t operable, I don’t really know how long. I moved off to a treadmill and put in a few kilometres, gradually building up my speed, as I do on the street, and pounding along. These machines are not built for hard running, since as my effort increased, so, too, did the noise, pounding along under my feet. I’m a bit of a flat-footed runner, normally, although lately I’ve been making more of an effort to land on my toes. I read on the BBC news site at some point that the foot is designed to take impact better that way, and it’s easier on your knees. Since running up on my toes also means my shin splints don’t bother me, I’m happy enough, but it’s more effort, and I can really only manage a couple of K’s that way.

The aerobic machine room is a tiered rank arranged in a semicircle in front of an array of television screens, the centre eight playing music videos, and the nine to the left and right playing one of the three commercial broadcast stations. The machine noise drowns out the music, so it would probably be best to bring headphones. I think there’s a jack you can plug into. Or I could just listen to my own mp3 player, I suppose, although I think there’d be some level of audio conflict. Still, I find when I get off a treadmill – and this isn’t new, just something I’m mentioning now – I’m actually a little dizzy. I don’t know why that is; it doesn’t happen running on the street, no matter whether it’s an easy run or hard. It’s disorienting, so music might be a bad idea, might throw off my balance more. I wonder if that happens for everyone. Maybe I’ll get used to it. Or maybe a branch will open near home and I can skip the treadmills and go run in the street after the weights. That’d be good. There isn’t really enough time for both at work, unless I go after hours, and then I feel bad about the cats, waiting for their dinner. Maybe I’m too co-dependent to use a gym.

Connected
I bought a t.v. and DVR over the weekend, with the idea that I’d catch up on some quality viewing. What I’d forgotten is that there just isn’t any to speak of. Right now, it’s pretty much all about Big Brother, and who cares? These are all incredibly stupid, narcissistic wannabe’s behaving badly in enforced intimacy, occasionally required to participate in truly pointless and spiteful activities to garner the attention of a purportedly vast audience of viewers seduced into believing they are also participating in the show, although they’ll walk away at the end with nothing more than a significantly larger telephone bill than usual for any similar period of time while somebody else gets a car. Idiots.

I don’t get home in time even to enjoy a nice Simpson’s re-run, thank God.

Also, I opted for the 61cm screen, instead of the 48cm, or whatever, and really regret that. It looked a lot smaller in the store. Stuck in the space under the stairs, it’s truly immense, and I have to sit on the other side of the room in order to see it, or wear reading glasses. I guess it’s not just ceiling heights that affect how we live, but every element of room size, including the stuff we jam into them.

Look, I bought the damn thing for the DVR, mostly. There are a large number of movies I’d like to see that I missed in the theatres, for a variety of reasons, so now I’ll watch them. I’m debating over The Departed vs. the Kill Bill’s first. Yes, it goes that far back, maybe further. In fact, yes, further. Plus, when there’s stuff on late, I can whack a disc in and program to record whatever old movie or late-night U.S. show, like Bernie Mac, I’ve been missing. If I got Foxtel (never; no Murdoch anything in my house), I could even watch baseball again. I’ll leave that as an excuse to go to the pub.

Emboldenning the Terrorists, or the Liberal Party, Anyway
Oh, no: Tony Blair's set a deadline for pulling out! What will happen in Iraq, now? All they have to do is wait until June 27, and then John Howard will announce an election, and then next year will be the U.S. primaries and Presidential election . . . why, by the end of January 2009, the whole thing could be over.

Sui Generis
I decided to pass on the complete Naked City recordings in favor of the single-CD package, once I saw the price tag, and while that was probably the right decision, I can only imagine just how far the full set could have gone. John Zorn is a fascinating musician, composing and performing material unlike anything else I’ve ever heard from anyone else. Yeah, somebody’s sure to say, oh, no, there’s this guy, and so on, but, look, this isn’t Ornette Coleman or John Cage or any of that post-fusion stuff from the ‘80’s (although Fred Frith plays bass here). Zorn’s music isn’t for everyone. It’s often very hard to listen to at all, and I like it. He’s got a very pointed fascination with movies and television, or their music, anyway. One of the first Zorn albums I ever bought was The Big Gundown, a collection of Ennio Morricone movie soundtrack songs. Naked City is like that, sometimes, with “A Shot in the Dark” and the James Bond theme being the most easily recognizable offerings. “Batman” and “Re-Animator” are in there, too, although I’ll probably have to rent those again just to refresh my memory of their dominate musical themes. I could do without the vocal gymnastics – screaming, really – but Zorn’s of that school where Diamanda Galas and Meredith Monk come from, pushing the boundaries of what constitute singing. And look: Frith, as mentioned, and Bill Frisell, the latter of whom, if you are listening to his current work, you’d never imagine here. Now that I’ve had one listen, I know I’ll start wishing I’d just bought the box.

Not Conservative Enough
Imagine: Newscorp owns Dow Jones. Not yet, but just think of what would become of the Wall Street Journal’s editorial page if it were operating at the behest of Rupert Murdoch. The mind boggles.

The Lives of Others
There seemed to be a large serving of sentimentality throughout this movie, but it avoided cliché and kept its honesty, pretty much, all the way through. Maybe some small plot-serving quibbles, but nothing that really detracts from a very powerful story. The movie’s a little long, but not uncomfortably so. I had to ask my German-speaking friend, K., to clarify one thing for me. At one point, the head Stasi officer tells a joke about the GDR’s leader, Erich Honecker, and it just wasn’t funny. That’s because it’s impossible to translate, one of those idiomatic usages that only makes sense in its native language. “Why is Honecker like a telephone? It doesn’t matter, just hang up and try again.” Yeah, look, it’s been a long time now since the Wall fell, and a lot of us have left all that behind. It’s not really gone, though, just like the war that divided Germany into East and West. The shell holes and damaged buildings and unexploded shells that still turn up in farmers’ fields and the survivors . . . these all remind us of that, but the damage and the damage they represent are no less real than that inflicted on the oppressed people of the Soviet Union and its client states, and it’s good to be reminded of it now and then, especially when the free nations of the world seem so intent on employing similar methodologies. The movie is well-acted, well-designed, well-directed and deeply moving. Having now seen two movies in a row where I walked out nearly in tears, I think it’s time to go see Hot Fuzz.

12
Based on - well, it wasn't a recommendation - word from the Counsellor, I was killing time browsing a CD shop and ended up with Patti Smith's Twelve. I have a lot of respect for Patti Smith, as a songwriter, a poet, a singer. The songs selected here are all interesting, but I have to agree with most of the reviews: sticking to faithful renditions wasn't the best choice for how to cover them. Smith's voice and phrasing are distinctive, but that's not really enough. It's good, just not great, but will bear repeated listening. "Everybody Wants to Rule the World," the Tears for Fears number, kinda sticks in my head, in particular, which may just be me being stuck in my 'eighties self.

The Namesake
For the Anzac Day holiday, K. and I went to see The Namesake, Mira Nair’s latest film, based on a novel, apparently, although it was most recently, in my experience, a short story in the New Yorker (which must have been an extract). This is probably the best movie I’ve seen since the last best movie I’ve seen in the last year. The camera conveys as much or more of the story as any of the dialogue. In fact, I’d say the dialog supports the cinematography more so than is often the case, and the visuals are stunning. Even though India looks entirely overwhelming, I was often left with a desire to visit. More importantly, however, the family saga presented is deeply affecting, as well as liberating. This movie ought to win some prizes.

Scare Tactics
What nonsense. Opposition Leader Kevin Rudd wants to set up a different national industrial relations watchdog organization than the one Howard’s put up, so we’re supposed to believe it’ll be ”hand-picked” by the unions. First off, is that worse than having it “hand picked” by business groups? Any IR oversight body needs to be fully independent, and Howard’s is no more so than what he claims the ALP will create. It’s perhaps worse, as it’s stocked with Howard/Liberal Party cronies, predisposed to the WorkChoices regime, itself weighted in favor of employers. Unlike many other areas of policy, Howard’s abandoned dog-whistling in favor of just arm-waving hysteria. Unions! Unions! Evil commies on the march! He thinks we’re idiots.

Sunshine
I’m a sucker for a science fiction movie, so I headed off early on Sunday to see this one. It’s about as improbable as any science fiction, maybe more – really, my math was never good enough to get me through high school physics, so I don’t even have that much of the necessary grounding, but just how likely is it that if the “sun is dying,” dropping a big ol’ H-bomb would restart it? What does that mean, “the sun is dying”? Is it running out of fuel? Is it collapsing? Apparently, it isn’t going nova, anyway. Does a bomb with the “mass of Manhattan” have enough to keep it burning at life-sustaining levels? Who cares? The point isn’t the pretty, pretty outer space stuff, it’s the adventure, and Sunshine manages to maintain tension levels at a high pitch pretty nearly throughout the movie, although without any relieving moments or sudden shocks. There were some pretty daggy bits of cinema business sprinkled through the movie, often enough to be distracting, particularly the “echo” of one character’s earlier remark at the moment of truth. I promise to go see something grown-up next.

New Commandments
I'm with ikkyu2, over at Metafilter
it's an amusing video, worth a youtube link.

People-Smuggling Goes Legit
Australia plans to ship illegal immigrants to America in exchange for legal, Cuban refugees, currently being locked up in Guantanamo (presumably right next to the "worst of the worst" terrorists?). Opposition Leader Kevin Rudd is struggling over the logic of this arrangement, but clearly the message is that Australia won't accept illegals, but since America already does, they might as well go there, and on Qantas, too. The nice part is, Howard won't have to act counter to Australia's international agreement not to ship refugees to countries where they would be subject to human rights abuses. I'm not sure what America gets out of the deal.

Moved
My photographic skills are insufficient to record the charm of living in a two-up, two-down terrace house.

The renovations performed on the one I’m living in were well done, creating a sense of openness even while maintaining the separation between the rooms.

And while it’s equal parts nice and annoying to have a (largely) private outdoor space,

due to the leaves and such descending at this time of year, and which the cats also enjoy (one more than the other, who remains shy of open spaces),

there’s also the neighboring oval, where the local kids play rugby,

and the local architectural features.

So, although I’m in the flightpath, the overhead planes are neither so frequent nor so low as would be oppressive, and I’m far enough back from Parramatta Road that the traffic is only noticeable from that distance in the otherwise immense quiet of very late at night, I’ve found a place to live that’s only marred by the fact that I don’t own it myself.

Sorry Sorry
To call him a “shock jock” is to excuse years of bad behavior. To pander to him, as so many, politicians often, have done is to offer support for the bigotry he perpetrated or enabled so frequently on his radio show. Firing Don Imus for his latest racist slur is only to correct a situation perpetuated for so long out of greed. That it took CBS two weeks to figure out that they couldn’t just slap his wrist and send him off to bed without supper is shameful. His apology was empty, worthless. It’s about time CBS acted. Years past time, I’d say.

Gnashing of Teeth
We hope for Iraq every day, even though we hear, every day, of new violent deaths, of soldiers or civilians or both, and yet we hope. We want their government to work, to find a way to stop the bloodshed. But they cannot even protect themselves, and we are left with unholy visions of unending violence and death and no clear way towards stopping any of what’s happening there, whether the civil war or the inflammatory massacres perpetrated by al Qaeda. There is no reasonable expectation that Iran or Syria or any other of the more militarist Arab nations would or even could stem the violence. There is little enough indication that the U.S., despite the President’s 20,000 troops escalation and 15-month tour extension, can do anything other than watch the whole country go straight to hell-on-earth. We screwed up badly and continue to make the mess worse, having failed to learn or apply, except piecemeal, any lessons from the early days of the invasion and occupation. We stand in the midst of a civil war, where either side is willing to shoot at us, to blame us, and we don’t know who to shoot at, or even which side we’re on, except to say, we’re on everybody’s side, we’re on Iraq’s side, we’re on Democracy’s side. Empty platitudes. There is no side. There’s only being stuck in the middle or getting out. If they won’t, I say we should. But that would require Bush to admit he was wrong, and he’s never done it yet.

Thirty Years On
I have no problem with Kevin Rudd going to Long Tan for an ANZAC service. The Australian veterans of that war deserve the same recognition afforded to the soldiers of Gallipoli. Yeah, it’s a political stunt, but I can hope Rudd goes in a different spirit to that offered by Mr. Howard last year, when he said he hadn’t changed his mind from his support for the Vietnam War thirty years later.

Home Economics
If I'm using this NYTimes buying vs. renting calculator even close to correctly, by not buying my own home I stand to save a considerable sum better put towards other investmentsover more than 10 years, if the present real estate conditions and other factors continue to hold true. A home would have to increase in value by nearly 20% annually for it to make sense to buy within the next 2 years. We saw something like 4% on our sale, averaged over the time we were there. At that rate, my present rent could increase by 30% annually and it would still be cheaper not to own.

Swedish Blondes
At last, back to work, a blessed relief from what seemed would be endless trips to Ikea. Sure, the furniture bought last week got delivered on time, all fourteen out of fifteen flat-packs. Only the Swedes know what happened to the coffee table, and they're not telling. But the bookshelves went up pretty quickly and everything finally got unpacked, so the house looks like home. Really, I don't mind going to Ikea, so long as there's no track-work, forcing me onto alternative bus service, which adds an hour onto the trip. And I don't mind putting the stuff together, either, although at this point, if I never see an allen wrench again, it'll be too soon.

Now, in keeping with my theme, i.e., culture-shock temper tantrums, I should just mention that the Ikea experience is slightly off from what I came to expect from trips out to Elizabeth, N.J., whereat a serve of Swedish meatballs came with red bliss potatoes. Here, in keeping with a different starch tradition, it's chips, i.e., French fries. Not that I'm actually complaining, you know, just saying, is all.

Meanwhile, I also bought some new audio equipment. For once in my life, I not only went to a dedicated hi-fi shop, but chatted with the salesman, getting the low down on the different brands and what they delivered. I could have bought a package and gotten a good deal, but went with components instead, relying on the principle that it all comes down to the speakers, which is where I spent a bit more than I'd budgeted. Nevertheless, having hooked it all up and tried out the different options: CD, tape, phono, radio, I'm amazed. This is easily the best set-up I've ever owned. The sound's so good, it's scarey, and I'm dialling down the volume just so I don't rattle the plaster off the bricks. Yeah, I'd go back to the HiFi Trader anytime, but don't expect to have to. They sold me solid, reliable equipment that'll last for years and will sound good wherever I live, I have no doubt.

Nightlight
So there I was, at 7:30 p.m., Saturday, 31 March, in my new residence, all the lights off, all the electric outlets switched off at the wall, sitting in the dark with the cats, experiencing life without electricity for the first time in many years. Funny, but the house where I’m living goes back to the 19th century, so the experience would not have been entirely unusual for its original inhabitants, who, at least, would have had gaslight, but no radio, no television, no refrigerator, telephone, any of the things we pretty well take for granted. Earth Hour would have to have been reckoned a success.

Except for the older couple next door. I could hear they were watching the rugby, cheering for some notable play. Sports-mad, some people.

But there you have it, yes, all moved in. The movers turned up late on Saturday morning, just two guys, but big, and fast and professional, too. They were flying through, until someone stole the lift key for themselves about halfway through, so moving out ended up taking three hours. By then it was just after noon, so before unloading, we stopped for some Thai food in Newtown, just the next suburb over from our destination. There are a lot of Thai restaurants in Sydney, and sometimes it seems like most of them are in Newtown. This one was pretty good, and we all felt energized for the remainder of the job, which only took another hour, even though they had to haul the bed in over the front rail of the upstairs balcony.

I unpacked for a bit, just getting some of the necessary stuff out, and headed back for the cats. I’d left a few other things back in the apartment, with the idea of cleaning and so forth, to leave the place in good shape for the new owners. I spent an hour or so on that, stuffed the cats into their carrier and headed back to Camperdown.

For the next little while, I unpacked some more, but the cats wouldn’t leave the security of the carrier. It took about an hour for the brave one to venture forth, but I’m not sure when the other got his nerve up. It wasn’t enough, however, because he went straight in behind the couch.

By Sunday morning, they were pretty free with making their way through the house, having finally ventured upstairs to sleep on the bed with me overnight and to be there to ensure they got breakfast on time. They needed a lot of reassurance throughout the day, but Felix is a nicer cat with some of the arrogance knocked out. He’ll be a trial before long, I’m sure.

I went out to Ikea for bookcases and some incidental furniture, probably buying more than I should have, but did pretty well for myself. The carts they provide to self-serve your furniture don’t take but two sets of bookshelves, though, without becoming nearly unmanageable, and I ended up employing three of them, and having to get some staff to help me move them through check-out and over to the delivery counter.

After a lot of back and forth, trains, busses, cabs, walking along Parramatta Road, I was done by about five, and even unpacked, with the flattened boxes put away in the attic. There are still things to sort out: no phone jack in the room set aside as the office, for example, so I’ll need an electrician, and I’ve got to talk to the landlord about hanging a few pictures (most of the art’s up, because there were posts in the walls already, albeit in odd positions). I’ll fill out my copy of the condition report today and that’s the lot.

Next weekend, I’ll spend Thursday putting together Ikea furniture, loading up bookshelves, and then it’s off to explore the neighborhood.