Google not so googly

I have been neglecting my blog lately. It's not that I haven't thought about it, far from it, I spend my days at work thinking about what I should write in my blog. Coincidentally, spending work hours thinking about my blog is also the reason why I haven't had any time to write in it. Do you see my dilemma? It truly is a vicious cycle.

There's something about being at work which makes me feel like doing anything besides work. I don't know why, it's not really like there are interesting things at work to distract me. I find it so hard to do work at work that I actually engage my desk neighour in conversation. Not a biggie really, except that my neighbour, C, has a life which revolves entirely around her children. I don't think I've ever known so much about people I've never met before. For instance, I know that C's son doesn't eat lunch until 2pm, except if it's a cheese sandwich because he doesn't like it when the cheese gets sweaty from being in the lunchbox too long. I pretty much know C's daughter's Safeway roster off by heart, because C tells me everyday. I know C's eldest son wants to buy a car, but he needs to pay off his credit card first. Then there's all that information about weekend cricket games, and the taxi driver thing. It's bloody verbal contraception.

In addition to the mind numbing conversation, there's also the entensive internet surfing and personal email correspondence which I must undertake on a daily basis. So really there's very little time left in the day to do any work, and since it's actually kind of busy, I've had to bring my work home with me. I don't mind really, I'm far more efficient working on my little laptop anyway.

Which brings me to the real point of this post if there ever was one. I've been handed a project at work which 3 years of university education and $15,000 of HECS does not prepare me for - I have to write a report on the state of the current Australian sharemarket and my recommendations for our future communications strategy. Then I have to present it to the whole entire management team. Hmmmmmm, haaarrrrgghhh, hmmmmmm. Like what the fuck?

During my university career, I wrote very little and did public speaking not at all. During an extended moment of insanity, I chose a major in Actuarial studies, which basically meant I spent my time examining stats tables and proving mathematical formulas were true (like you could prove they weren't). Even during my earlier career, I didn't write at all. In fact, I was so desperate to write something, I did Yak's homework. And gave her my lunch money. And she gave me a wedgie.

Although my current role involves writing, it's just to turn out marketing drivel like "reaching your investment objectives blah blah blah". Now I'm expected to convince using facts and stuff. It's strange that despite being on the wrong side of my twenties, I still feel like a kid who is playing dress ups. Sometimes, when I'm sitting in a meeting with people who are acting all professional and businesslike, I feel like Tom Hanks in the movie Big. I don't feel sufficiently grown up enough for this. What the hell am I going to say? I tried to google some other communications strategies to plagerise, but apparently people don't really make these things public.

I'm supposed to be working on this report and presentation right now, but my mind is a blank. My trusty google has failed me. If I'm still stuck by tomorrow, I'm going to Plan B - Fran from Blackbooks in the episode where she gets job with unknown job function. I really hope plan B works, because I really don't want to resort to Plan C - picture entire room naked. Frankly I've seen many of them strutting around in their cycling uniforms, and I must say that a little part of me dies everytime I see the un-holy union of middle-aged men and lycra.

Adventure, thwarted.

As a child, I dreamt that one day I would be a great adventurer. I would wander the globe exploring far away lands, discovering lost cities and rescuing people in trouble along the way. As an adult, I still have that dream, although these days the reality of being a great adventurer is invariably tempered by thoughts of money, traveller’s diarrhoea, and the troubled times we live in.

When I was six I had tried to live the dream. The night before the great escape I had watched a Japanese movie with my dad. I don’t recall the title or the narrative of this movie, all I remember was one scene where this guy gets on a giant steamer, and the next thing you know he’s sending postcards to this girl from all the places he has visited. I was inspired by that one scene. In my six year old mind, I had everything I needed to make a similar journey – I had $20 worth of change, there was plenty of food in the fridge for me to take, and my shiny new bike had a basket big enough to fit TurtleTurtle (my pet turtle), Mickey my bear and my favourite colouring book. It was not a matter of if, but when.

My chance came the next day when my grandma came to babysit. I knew she always took a nap after lunch, so when she had dozed off, I packed my Barbie backpack with gumboots and a jumper, and loaded the bike up with bread, some leftover chicken drumsticks, TurtleTurtle and Mickey. I had painstakingly copied out our address onto a piece of paper, intending to send my folks a postcard from each place I visited, letting them know I was fine and to please send some more chicken drumsticks in case I finished my current supply. I remember how exhilarating it felt to finally sit on that bike, the open road ahead of me, with just a few items to my name and no plans at all.

I got as far as the front gate of our residential compound. The security guard, a seventy-year old ex-policeman whom I always referred to as ‘Grandpa Security’ , asked where I was going all by myself. I told him about my plans to explore the world, how I was going to send a postcard to my parents, and how I would even send him one as well. He laughed kindly, and told me that there would be plenty of time for exploring the world when I get older, but for now, I had better go home before my folks got worried. I refused, he called my house to dob me in, and the next thing I knew, my shiny bicycle and I were heading back to the apartment in grandma's vice-like grip.

Now, twenty years later, I think back to the words of Grandpa Security and realise sadly just how wrong he was. Yes, as an adult you do have the means to travel, but you no longer have the ability to see the world as a child would. Growing up, you become aware of all the things that can hurt you, and that stranger danger is far more sinister then you could have ever imagined as a child. Adults are cautious, too aware of responsibilities, too full of preconceptions and opinions, to ever appreciate the world as a curious child would.

I realise this more then ever right now, as I make a list of all the things to take on my forthcoming trip with me. I had to laugh at just how many items on my packing list have the words ‘antibacterial’ in their name, not to mention items labelled ‘essential’ are things like immodium, travelan and toilet seat covers. I have travel insurance just in case, and an itinerary so I don’t waste my ‘precious’ time. Lonely Planet becomes the bible, and you wonder to yourself how travellers ever did it before guidebooks came around to tell them everything they needed to know. I have a checklist to ensure all the bills are paid, and I’m up to date with my vaccinations. In short, not much is left to chance. I think back nostalgically to my six year old self – that girl was ready to tackle the world without any of those things.

The challenge ingredient tonight is....blandness!

My work colleagues and I do not see eye to eye on many issues - aboriginal affairs, multiculturalism, the war on Iraq, Johnny Depp - you name it and its pretty much cross-generational Gen Y versus Boomer warfare. I try to bamboozle them with words like 'podcasts' and 'nursing home', while they calmly remind me that housing prices are rising faster then my salary and as a result I will be a gypsie tenant for the rest of my life.

But there was one issue that united us all. Regardless of race, creed, generation or colour, we all agree that the American version of Iron Chef is not fit to wipe the saki off its Japanese parent.

The Americans have managed to get rid of everything which made the original Japanese version so much fun - the drag queen host, the funny American voice overs, the Hanjin Scholar food taster who turned food critique into poetry, and those crazy challenge ingredients and receipes (sea urchin ice cream anyone?).

Sure, they have replaced the original Chairman with a very dishy Mark Dacascos, who is quite easy on the eye and makes many a lady want to take on his iron chef, he is just too stylish in his Armani suit to be amusing. Chairman Kaga on the other hand was so daggy he was cool. The outfits for a start - never since Liberace has one man worn ruffles and diamantes with so much virility and manliness. The way he refuses to take a bite out of his food, preferring to shove the whole thing straight into this mouth and slowly masticating it from there was just pure genius. Chairman Kaga was a god.

The other thing about the US series that really bugs me is the lack of weird ingredients. I'm used to seeing chefs do some kinky shit with bitter gourd, sea weed, and a whole manner of other edible stuff that freaks caucasian people out. In Iron Chef America, the caucasians clearly remembered how freaked out they were and got rid of everything a good, god-fearin' American has not heard of. Gone too are the introductions on the best time to eat a particular food, "If memory serves me correctly, a white turnip is best eaten in between full moons and before the mist has lifted on a clear Autumn morning ." Now the competition clearly favours those chefs who are innovative, but not so much so that the tasters will have to try anything they won't find in a restaurant.

Which brings me to my next gripe - the freakin' tasters! They have no personality, and make boring comments that make me long for the soleful musings of the dolled up female actresses and dignified-looking gents who made up the Japanese panel. I really can't see anyone on the US show comparing artichoke to a lotus blossom in full bloom, or compare the skill of the chef to the delicateness of snow flakes falling on the leaves of a willow. They really should have used the Hanjin Scholar guy to make those leggos commercials where that old guy just strings together big words as an attempt to sound intellectual when describing a plate of pasta. I shudder to think what Hanjin Scholar would have said about the fava beans. But now, we have to make do with drivel like "Oh my gaaarrd, this is so not Atkins. My trainer says I can't eat any carbs after 6pm. Can I just like, have a steak or something?" Ok, so I exaggerate just a little, but you know what I mean.

Oh SBS, bring back Iron Chef Japan. Bring back the voice over who says "Flame-ola" everytime a wok toss stirs up the flames in the stove, bring back Iron Chef Chen Kenichi and the 'Chinaman speaking chinglish' American accent they've dupped him with, bring back the weird food, bring back the kitsche and the tackiness, just bring everything back...but keep Mark Dacascos...in my bedroom if need be.

SBS it isn't

In a fit of nostalgia, I found myself going through an old box containing bits and pieces collected from previous travels. In among the ticket stubbs, coasters, and things pilfered from beer taverns, I found this delightful gem of a postcard picked up somewhere in Spain.

Spanish 101, Espanol for Dummies, Posing for Gringos - call it what you will, just be grateful that I'm about to make you just that little bit more 'worldly'.

Enjoy, and try to use a phrase in a sentence today.

Pole position

If you started reading this post because you thought the word 'pole' hints at some rudie nudie business, you will soon find yourself disappointed. Call me a post tease if you will, but I just don't want to put anything in the window that i ain't gonna sell in the store.

This is merely the story of me, a packed tram, two scheming Nordic backpackers, and the scent of Eau de poorly digested curry. Anyone who has ever travelled on an extremely packed tram knows how vital it is to find yourself something to hold onto quick smart, otherwise you might find yourself lurching towards the nearest stranger, invariably grabbing their privates in order to steady yourself, apologising profusely afterwards, and then spending the rest of the journey wondering whether you should offer to take said stranger to dinner and promise to call them tomorrow.

So there I was this morning, having found myself a nice little niche on the tram where I have a firm hold of a pole, no one's armpits are in my face, and I don't have a briefcase bruising my shins. I thought I had it made. Then before I knew it, my world came crashing down - my pole position was taken by stealth.

Events unfolded like a Shakespearian tragedy. Me as the hapless Duncan, Nordic backpackers as the Macbeths - the usurpers of my throne, and a mysterious gassy passenger as the three witches brewing their cauldron full of bad vindaloo. At first the usurpers stood behind me, and one tanned arm came around my head towards the pole in front me.

"gokkgoolglkookgnk" a female voice said.

Shoulder slowing follows tanned arm.

"gooodygoodygookkkygooggy" she said again.

Tall Nordic male body with backpack follows shoulders and tanned arms, effectively shifting me out of the circle of arms holding onto the pole. Macbeth slowly shifts so that I had no other option but to let go of the pole, allowing Lady Macbeth to triumphantly occupy freed up space and grab onto the pole space that was rightfully mine. So there I was, a mournful and vanquished Duncan, looking into the stony faces of my fellow passengers for signs of mutual outrage, but finding nothing more than bits of dried toothpaste around their mouths.

In hindsight, I should have gone viking on their ass, but it's never too late for karma to do its thing. Afterall, there is nothing quite like a good rectal probe by customs to add a happy ending to your holiday. Just make sure you ask for Neville.

The chairman, the dragon lady, and me

I often wondered about the sort of responsible, productive life I could have led had I not befriended people with vivid imaginations. Truly they have ruined me with their whimsy and their talk of fairies and ‘taters and hobbit warrens. Had my friends been the sort to talk in terms of five year plans and future interest rates, I might have amounted to something, but instead I while away my time having funny and wonderful conversations about the most absurd things in the universe.

I still chuckle every time I recall one conversation - it took me away from the confines of my ordinary suburban life, and made me the lovechild of Chairman Mao and Lucy Liu.

Mao, for the uninitiated, was the dude who led the Communist party to power in China in 1949. He was a paunchy man with a receding hairline, and his closes friends lamented at his poor personal hygiene. Also he caused the deaths of nearly 40 million people. Lucy Liu on the other hand is the female equivalent to Hugh Grant – I don’t know whether she trawls Sunset Boulevard looking for hookers, but her hair does most of the acting for her. So I wasn’t exactly thrilled to be accused of carrying their combined DNA. Since the accusation wasn’t based on looks (I resemble neither Mao nor Lucy), it can only be concluded that my friends see me as a despotic kung-fu hussy with unusually animated hair.

A little after that conversation, and during a quiet moment at work, I actually thought about what life would be like as the child of Mao and Lucy. An ordinary day might go something like this:

“Dad can I get a lift to school?”
“No, you bourgeois capitalist roader, you can get yourself to school the proletariat way”
“But Dad, we live nearly 150kms from school, I can’t walk”
“Back in my day we walked 10,000kms through enemy territory, with bad shoes and hardly any food. Kids these days! Don’t you walk away when I’m talking to you, you revisionist little ingrat…”
“Mum, can I get some money for the bus?”
“Honey don’t bother me now, I’m waiting on a very important call from my agent. He thinks he can get me an audition for a role as a cancer patient undergoing chemo who discovers that she was Elvis’s lovechild”
“But Mum, you would probably have to shave you head for that role”
“What! Don’t be ridiculous, I’m sure we could say that the character is undergoing a special type of chemo, one where you won’t lose your hair and you always look fresh and kissable”
“Whatever. By the way, people from “Where are they now” called, they want to do a special on your hair”

Yep, not a well adjusted child make. It certainly made me appreciate my real folks a bit more. It used to mortify me how Dad gives friends and visitors to their house Chinese triad names just cause its funny, and how mum misinterprets nearly every song she hears so that regardless of whether its hip hop, rock or country, she’ll sing it like its an aria. But compared to Mao and Lucy, they are not so bad.