Whether the Weather be Cold

I've been regularly monitoring the BOM (Australian Bureau of Meteorology) website for weather updates for the past half hour, because apparently I have nothing better to do on this frickin' freezing winter's night.  Evidently Canberra has not received the memo stating that it will be spring in one and a half hours.  But I suppose there is never really a good reason to monitor a weather website.  Oh well, you'll just have to find a way to deal with it all.

In the past half hour Canberra was -2.6, then -3.5, then -2.3, then -1.9, with no discernible abnormal wind gusts.  Does anyone on planet earth understand meteorology? Can anyone say meteorology 10 times really fast? It's probably to do with boring air pressure or isobars or whatever.  I'm going to create my own weather website that's less confusing, where the temperature doesn't go up and down every five damn seconds.

The Curse of the Mandarin

Since I've returned from my holiday to the United States of Crazy, I've stupidly begun a healthy eating diet, which people tell me means I need to eat health food or I fail.  Well that's got recipe for disaster written all over it then, doesn't it?

So I've been eating a lot of healthy food lately, and lots of fruit, which isn't much different to usual.  But the word on the street is that fruit is healthier for you than chocolate.  Wha...??  While I find this so-called 'fact' fairly difficult to stomach, I'm going to give health food (italics used to denote derision) a shot in the name of eating-options-that-are-brain-debilitatingly-boring.

Now, bananas.  I've always been a big banana fan. They are delicious, zero drama and easy to consume.  No mess, no fuss; just a completely psychologically balanced fruit that appears to have no discernible personality disorders.  My type of fruit. I hate crazy fruit.

Citrus fruit, on the other hand, make me fairly angry. Take mandarins. They have an obstructionist manner that I just cannot tolerate. There are simply too many steps involved in eating a mandarin. I ate a mandarin today. This is what happened to me - I'm sure you've had a similar experience. Step one is always choosing one that doesn't smell like it has been invaded by a herd of marauding worms.

Step two involves peeling the damn thing; like I have nothing better to do with my time.  Mandarins need to take a banana leaf out of the famous yellow fruit's book and learn how to be peel friendly. No-one will ever love you if you continue to be a narcissistic, passive aggressive ball of hard to peel, orange annoyingness.

Step three brings you to the eating stage, but that doesn't mean you can rest on your laurels. There is still much work to be done. The eating stage involves monitoring the fruit for pips, of which there are usually about 500 of the damn things in every segment of mandarin.  And the final stage is mandarin juice.  Everywhere!  This fruit is so annoying.  

Mangoes are one of my favourite summer snacks, but they can also be quite frustrating, given that one can only eat about 30% of the fruit, and it is so slippery and slimy you need to take a shower after you've dealt with it.

I've only just started noticing avocados, after a life filled with fear and terror of putting the green slime in my mouth. They have rapidly become one of my favourite snacks, even though they come with a big pointless stone in their centre.  I think that's about it.

RIP First Moon Man

I get goose bumps whenever I hear Neil Armstrong or Buzz Aldren talk about their mission to the moon; arguably one of the most famous days in history.   Armstrong has just passed away at 82 - much to the devastation of me.

He was a great, humble man, and I thoroughly enjoyed my time recently viewing the extensive tribute to him, his fellow astronauts and all the space missions at the Kennedy Space Centre at Cape Canaveral in Florida.

NASA have long stopped caring about the conspiracy theorists and the wacky accusations the space agency faked the moon landing in an elaborate U.S. Government publicity stunt.

The so-called evidence base for the nonsensical conspiracy claims were dubious mood lighting, dodgy radiation level readings, the silky, softness of the moon's surface, and impeccable camera angles and footage, all of which have been credibly explained through evidence of the technical variety that lovers of secret plots get all cranky about. 

All but the most passionate conspiracy theorists seem to have put the fake moon landing old wives' tale to bed, what with the fact that it would be practically impossible to cover up and Soviet Russia would have sniffed out a scam a long time ago.

Although in 1982 NASA hired a space writer to definitively debunk the hare-brained rumours but decided against it, because clearly they had better things to do.  Why indeed give the clueless conspiracy nutters any more air time? 

On my recent trip to NASA I noted some compelling evidence indicating an actual moon landing in the grainy footage of all the rocket scientists and engineers at Houston Mission Control, as they tried to hide their complete horror and devastation when communication was lost with Apollo 11 moments before the 1969 landing.

Obviously NASA have a fabulous central casting unit and hired the best actors and extras of their generation for the moon landing because the raw emotion with tears, hair-raising stress and then sheer joy and exhilaration is fairly difficult to fake even if you are a talented actor like Snooki.

Armstrong was instrumental in landing the lunar module without any really useful assistance from Mission Control.  The spot that Houston had programmed in for the landing turned out to be replete with massive craters, gigantic speed bumps and deep potholes.  Obviously the local council just couldn't be arsed fixing the area up.  I guess that's a whole of solar system thing.  Plus it was the middle of the night and there were no street lights or, um, moonlight so he couldn't see very well.

So Armstrong decided to travel a bit further to find a place where he could parallel park without falling into a ditch or being carjacked by E.T.  By the time he landed, there was only about 30 seconds of gas left in the tank, so there was that too.  There isn't a petrol station close to you when you run out of gas on earth so good luck with that on a lunar space mission.  On top of that there was the whole first-man-on-the-moon expectation, so no pressure there.

RIP Mr Armstrong.

The Tart Adventures of Harry & Julian

Oh, Prince Harry.  I imagine one's grandmother is not terribly amused at one's tawdry shenanigans in the skank capital of the entire solar system with a bunch of trashy American hookers or their classy equivalent.  

Seriously, who knew there were so many cheap and tacky trashbags in the world, prepared to whip their clothes off for the international media due to their incessant need for attention?  Oh wait, we did know that.  These women are everywhere, in many shapes and sizes of Kardashian.

I imagine the latest bunch of promiscuous ladettes are employed in professions involving poles and the ensuing dancing around of or else they wouldn't be too comfortable parading themselves so overwhelmingly underdressed in a global public forum in what appears to be a bit of a honey trap. 

And I think we all know what Harry's Scotland Yard detail were doing during the naked hotel room polo match romp or whatever it was.  I imagine the attention to detail was there, but it probably wasn't focused on handing out fines for unladylike behaviour under The Police Act 1827.  I imagine what those boys want right now is an Invisibility Cloak.

In other media tart-related news, embattled Wikileaker Julian 'Sausaage' Assange is still stuck in the middle of a war-torn nation state that is not a signatory to the Geneva Convention.  Or else he's still glamprisoned in posh war-torn Knightsbridge in Ecuadorian Britain on his blow-up camp bed.  I keep getting those two confused.

Assange's Wikileaks reminds me of the wind-up jewellery box I had as a kid, which opens to the sound of ballerina music - with a magnetised ballerina flippin' around like a drunken lout on the mirrored centre stage.

Although when you pry open the Wiki box, you get a garbled lecture from Assange on blah, blah, blah, I'm going to humiliate the United States of Crazy by exposing their secrets, blah, blah, blah.  But much to the chagrin of the wannabe Bond, the United States weren't humiliated; they were just plainly and understandably rightly pissed off.

I agree that Assange should be able to release anything he wants on his Wikileaks files, but I also think he needs to accept that there are consequences to those actions.  He hasn't got his head around that yet.  Probably never will.

Of course nation states have secrets.  There's nothing wrong with government secrets when you are dealing with sociopathic middle eastern nations.  We wouldn't have the freedoms we do if governments didn't have secrets.  Oh the irony of it all, Julian.  Secrets are how countries negotiate their way through the brutal and bloody minefield that is global politics.
 
Like a game of poker, you keep your game face on, your cards close to your chest and you hedge your bets, hoping the guy on your left who is winning is from the West and not the Middle East.  But you never, ever show your hand, Julian.  It goes a little something like that.

And then along comes the progressive leftwinger windbag who decides to open the damn pandora's jewellery box in the name of open governance.  No such thing as open governance in global political affairs; people couldn't handle the truth anyway, my 'pinion. 

Kindling on the Beach

I have no idea who invented personal e-book readers, but when Amazon rubbed a bunch of twigs together to create their little Kindle, they lit a fire under armchair reading enthusiasts all over the world, which turned into a bonfire that would consume unsuspecting publishing houses around the globe. 

And, fortunately, these little electronic spot fires would allow booklovers to stop tearing their hair out when planning and packing their carry-on luggage for an international holiday. 

It meant that we no longer had to drag around a bunch of dog-earred airport novels from one country to the next, but it also means preeminent authors like hotel room heiress Paris Hilton probably no longer have an avenue to air their distinguished works.  Which is a tragedy.  Bonfire of the vanities, indeed.

Even if you weren't a big reader back in those pre-e days, everyone travelled with books, just in case your airline of choice decided to make you wait five hours in a deserted airport in Narita, Japan with nothing to entertain yourself but a completed cryptic crossword, sans eraser!  Because that never happens anymore. 

But thank god for the dichotomy of travelling with books, says Random House.  They possibly didn't say that at all, but you just know that's what they're thinking. 

Bookworms love the convenience and comfort of travelling light with an e-reader, but if you are going to a beach in a land far, far away, then you need to take an actual printed book, because Kindles don't do sand. 

Whoever invented e-book readers wasn't much of a beach bum.  Thank god for beaches too, says Random House.  I bet they did say that.

While electronic gadgets are superb for the international traveller, they are not terribly useful for international beachbummers on Waikiki Beach, where cheesy paperback, soft porn airport novels rule supreme, due to their ability to more often that not survive a random salt water attack of any magnitude.

Back in the Box

Today was my first day back at work following a month long vacay to the United States of Crazy.  Despite the fact that I couldn't go for a swim in Waikiki at 11:00, I somehow, miraculously, survived the day and ended with the same chill-Mahalo-Hawaiian attitude that gripped me in Oahu.  Brilliant.

It might have something to do with my habit of keeping my expectations low so the worst that can happen to me is that I occasionally get a bit surprised.  But attending a seminar on the Budget Life Cycle didn't help matters at all and possibly shortened my own life cycle.

After you have had a break from your life for a while, it seems that you need to relearn a lot of basic things that previously were completed in an automatic fashion, like walking on the right side of the footpath, and how much is the pentagon shaped coin worth, and, you know, the way to work and where to park.   

So I'm going to try and put myself back in the box and stop thinking about Hawaii for 24 hours a day, because I really don't think that'll fit in with my Canberra lifestyle, unfortunately.  Reality is a cruel mistress.  The conservative Canberra public servant box feels more like a coffin that is being lowered into the ground while I'm kicking and screaming, "I'm still alive!  Let me out!" 

Airline Seat Reclining Charge

I used to love travelling on a plane when I was in my twenties. The thrill of venturing somewhere new and exploring one random dirty, germ-ridden foreign city after another. The excitement when the air hostess brought around the food trolley so you could spend the next 30 minutes trying to open your teensy weensy plastic cutlery bag.

The cramped spaces didn't inconvenience me at all, the detestable passengers weren't on my radar, the waiting around and queues didn't trouble me that much, the seats were comparatively larger (in my mind only, apparently), and I'm sure that the flight attendants were far more affable than the current crop..

I've just returned from a luxurious and often draining month-long holiday to the United States, leaving a trail of seven domestic and international plane flights, numerous shuttles, many bus trips, a few taxi rides and a couple of ferry rides in my wake.

These days I'm rarely a happy long haul traveller. The most recent flight, from Hawaii to Sydney, was particularly frustrating. Flying Law dictates that the dick sitting in front of you will always thrust back their seat in an attempt to be horizontal, thus rendering your limbs useless for a period of around ten hours. If you are especially blessed, they will leave it that way during meal time.

I have found that these passengers are generally the same self-absorbed, whining, whinging morons who demand the air hostess pays attention to their pathetic little requests on an hourly basis. I'm not really sure how flying economy creates a sense of entitlement, but anyway.

On my recent flight home I had a middle-aged Australian women - let's her call her Princess Bitchface - who thought she was in first class and wound back her seat to a completely unacceptable level.  When I politely asked her - through gritted teeth - to put her seat forward at meal time she argued with me that the seat in front was back and she had no room. I stared at it and then told her it wasn't. So she begrudgingly put it forward.

For the rest of the flight I was enormously tempted to remove my scarf, lean over the chair, and put myself out of my misery. But I deemed the plane too cold, so that plan was put on the backburner until it got a bit warmer.

I could have pulled out the old mile high insanity plea at my arraignment. Or just get a couple of fellow considerate travellers on my jury. I'm pretty sure this is the reason they don't allow weapons on planes; because the sky would be a bloodbath.

Jetstar may be a subsidiary of Qantas but they charge you for everything you do, which is the direction most airlines are moving in. Ka-ching, ka-ching. Blankets cost money, water will incur a charge on your credit card and there is no such thing as a free lunch.

I tell you, I don't mind paying more for a non-budget airline ticket if it creates the illusion of customer service. Frequent Flyers paid for this trip, but I ain't flying Jetstar again internationally.

Qantas have said that their reclining seats are here to stay, so I think it is time that they start to impose a seat reclining charge system. Perhaps an electric shock for customers when they push their seat beyond a reasonable level, or a timing system, or a $500 charge on their credit card when they keep it back during dinner time. Welcome to Australia! I friggin' love this idea.

Duchess Kate's Full Plate

I've been a travellin' man for the past month, so I haven't caught much of the London Olympics. I know a lot people whinge that the Games are stupid and contrived and full of cheats that shouldn't rely on Government handouts to do their job, but I generally find that the people who make these claims are just projecting their own life's setbacks through an elite sporting event.

Okay, we get that you weren't picked for your high school basketball team, but get over it already.

I've just arrived back in the country, in time for the final days of competition, so I'm making the most of it, even if I have to make the most of it through the fill-in-the-final-days sports, like BMX biking, sailing and powerwalking through the gardens of Buckinghuge Palace.

Speaking of Her Majesty's digs, I was watching the walking race earlier, where competitors pretend they are elite athletes by engaging in an activity that is often favoured by really old people on zimmer frames to enhance their strength and mobility. 

The race feels like it's going to go for about 28 hours, so I'll check in again tomorrow to see if it's raining yet.  I'm going to take a stab in the dark and guess yes.  I noted the subtle landmark tourism campaign that the organisers have employed on the race course.

It weaves right around the Palace and then up and down The Mall. The only thing they could have done to shove the City of Westminster any further down my throat was have the walkers pace furiously up and down the corridors of the Palace with corgis nipping at their nikes.

I have also noted that British uberbrand, Duchess Kate, is leading the London tourism campaign through her attendence at every single event on the Olympic calendar.

The poor girl even had to attend the boxing finals, where I imagine she was forced to sit amongst a bunch of drunk, tattooed deadbeat commoners and watch fierce chicks beat the daylights out of each other in the name of the Olympic Spirit.  Although they were probably trying not to focus on the bit that says to build a peaceful and better world.  Duchess Kate was charmed, I'm sure.

Delta

My flight to New York last week was provided by the wonderful world of Delta, which is less wonderful and more woeful.  Delta is unfortunately named after the symbol in the Greek alphabet meaning slow and inept customer service, or after Australian singing barbie doll, Delta Goodrem.  Either way, not good.

Delta is one of the busiest airlines in the United States.  I don't know why this is the case because they are fairly shite compared to any airline in Australia.  Or maybe it just feels like they're busy when they are really just hopelessly incompetent.

IN other news, I seriously do not know what all the fuss is about New York.  It is dirty and smelly and crowded and noisy and full of brash New Yorkers and other self-absorbed Americans.  What's to like about any of that?

The Great Disney Propaganda Machine

We crept out of the Disney hotel in Florida the other day at the crack of too early in an attempt to escape Brand Disney without detection. We were headed for the concrete jungle of New York City,  where dreams are made of and, according to all reports, bad coffee is brewed.  If I can possibly make it there - and get out of Disney in one piece and without any residual brain washing or damage - then I can make it anywhere. 

The Disney brand even tried to indoctrinate us through videoconferencing facilities on the Magical Express Shuttle Bus on the way to the airport, part of a carefully calculated post-Disney experience no doubt.  Even at the airport you will find Disney and theme park-esque retail outlets trying to steal the last dime out of your pocket.  They will get you eventually it seems; even if you are just passing through Mickeyville.

We sat at Orlando airport for ages and ages, due to a big arse weather system floating in the general vicinity of where we were and were we wanted to be.  I am happy to sit out a monster storm cell, but not so much if the delay is due to a passenger who can't organise themselves to get to the airport on time.

On the last night in Disney we got to see their electrical parade, which is basically an event where all of the most interesting characters and floats are elaborately decorated in humongous chains of Christmas lights and wind up and around Main Street USA, the primary thoroughfare through the park.

I have been trying to scour a good location to view this parade for a week.  Apart from its monotonous brain-spasming catchy tune, it is a pretty decent demonstration of the all-American cheese factory that is Disney.  My favourite float is Peter or someone and his magic dragon or whatever it is, who blows misty fake snot all over the kiddies.  Brilliant.  Perhaps he had Dragon Flu.

With all the muggles and minions floating about, I am surprised I haven't contracted some lethal type of cold or flu or meningococcal from breathing in gross, deadly pathogens at DisneyWorld.  Or at least Type 2 diabetes from all the sugar I have consumed. 

Did I mention the toilets here?  They need to be discussed.  At length and right here.  The Big D thankfully favour toilets that have the decency to flush themselves.  If only people in Australia knew how to do that at shopping centres.  I suppose it is quite a difficult feat to accomplish.  Disney also provide paper toilet seat covers in your stall, presumably so you don't contract some hideous bum disease.

After doing your business, you simply flush the paper bum cheek protector down the gurgler.  The toilet in the hotel room, however, is ridiculously lazy, as it can't really be bothered flushing itself.  Perhaps it only lifts its fingers for tips, like everyone else in the service industry in this country.

The result of this is you have to hold down the lever until it is all gone; like I have nothing more interesting to do.  Fortunately these defunct toilets across America may have saved millions of people from a lifelong pattern of leaving grotty loos for the next person to deal with.

Days of Paleontology

That's a big word, isn't it? Paleontology? I'm sorry, I will endeavour to keep my loquacious confabulations to a minimum.  Most people think paleontology is just about the study of Sarah Palin, but this just isn't true.  It's also about the study of really, really old stuff.  I know, I'm a rocket scientist now.  I have a keyring from NASA's Kennedy Space Centre to corroborate this claim. 

I write on the very topical matter of dinosaurs because my Disney hotel in Florida was replete with baby-sized prehistoric, histrionic tyrannosaurus rex'.  They were everywhere.  They run in front of you as you walk the pavements of the hotel and the evidence that they don't always make it to the other side is smeared on the pretty cobblestones of the Port Orleans, French Quarter themed resort.

Ants - who are, on average, very short - probably don't even know that dinosaurs are extinct.  Not that I've seen any ants in Florida.  Or flies.  America doesn't deserve to not have any flies.  Oh wait, I did see a fly; he/she tried to steal one of my fries.  But that was just one fly, and I think the exception proves the rule, no?

Speaking of things that are or should be extinct, one can buy a leg of a T-Rex to eat for your dinner at Disney.  Or they could be turkey limbs; you really don't know these days.  Especially in Florida; land of the nutjobs.  Many people walk around with these repulsive bits of meat hanging out of their mouth like Captain Caveman, and the meat is all pink and raw-looking and still quivering in its dinosaur booties.  Seriously gross.

In other dinosaur-related hearsay - who knew there would be so much - today I ventured out into big, tall, stinking New York City for a day of stuffed creatures at the American Natural History Museum.  It was chockers full of real, fake and real/fake combo dinosaurs, mammals, tigers and other things I've never heard of.  And it was brilliant. I will discuss this at another time because it is now sleep time for me.