Deep Thought

Deep Thought

http://www.deathbysuburb.net/

It appears that there are people out there in the burbs that have more to contemplate than ikea storage solutions, old dead dogs and note-leavers.

Facist

I spied this beauty at a rally I went to in the City a little while back. It was a rally against our Federal Government's new workplace laws.

I love a rally. It brings all sorts out to have a good old march and good old chant. My personal favourite : 'Howards a wanker' in that tune that is hard to impart here. It is a simple statement. A statement of fact that does not urge any action or reaction; it makes no desperate, howling opposition to an awful policy; it just says the PM is a wanker. You know it, I know it, and here we all are marching through the streets yelling it out, with little smiles on our faces, because its a bit naughty. And because its true. That is important.

More Ned

I have just got around to linking my mobile phone to my computer.

I installed the little CD that came with the phone about 2 years ago. See how busy I am?


I moved all the pics in my phone to me laptop and found a few favourites.

Here is one of old Ned, asserting his canine dominance over my two barking poodles. Such glamour dogs. They cannot stop looking at the camera.

I’ll have to get a pic of mum’s new dog. When we first got him, he looked like he would be a small dog. But I think we may have got that wrong.


An old friend asked me the other day whether my mum really told me that she had buried Ned in the front yard. I had to assure her that, yes, mum really did try that one on.

Its probably where I get the urge to tell the note-leaver that the barking dogs have been destroyed.

The New Burb

We are doing well in our new burb. Last night we found a message on the back of an envelope in our letter box. I have scanned it for you to see. I stomped around to some neighbouring houses last night in my respectable suit to find this idiot, but only one neighbour was home. And they are selling up anyway, so they wouldn’t have bothered. I say ‘idiot’ because I have had a bit of a look at the envelope they used. As you can see, there is an identifying mark on it: “Abused Child Trust – Platinum Class Lottery’ with a funny ass-shaped upside down love heart (what does that mean?)

I did an internet search on the ‘Abused Child trust’ even though I was a bit concerned about what would turn up on my work screen. It looks legitimate. But there is the other half of the mark – ‘Platinum Class Lottery’. And I can tell you that the envelope was opened very cleanly.

The Platinum Class Lottery is one of two things – it is like the readers digest mega lotteries (your winning ticket is inside! Open this letter RIGHT NOW!) or the ‘only 2000 tickets at $50 each’ (You are likely to win something terrific with these terrific odds!) type lottery. In any event, it is only the stupid people hidden away in these leafy suburbs that open these stupid envelopes properly and then keep them tucked away in case they have to write an anonymous note to a new neighbour.

This is why private investigators go through the rubbish of persons of interest. Turning up an envelope like this will indicate you are dealing with either an out-of-work no-hoper (one of Federal Government's favourite words for the unemployed) or retired clown that has nothing better to do than sit around at home all day neatly opening lottery envelopes in the vain hope that they will win a million dollars and be able to buy another house away from those damn barking dogs!

I am not even going to go into the stupid exclamation mark. Or the anonymity. Good grief. Are we 14 again?

We were dog-sitting yesterday and I think that our guest dog may have sparked the note. I hope this is the case. Firstly, so I don’t have to do anything about my own dogs. Secondly, so when I go door knocking tonight to identify the author of the exclamation mark, I can tell them we had the dogs destroyed lest they continue to irritate. And if there is no further barking, they may just think I am for real and that their ridiculous anonymous note has lead to the near instant death of two very lovely, fluffy black poodles.

Yes, it is altogether much better to get worked up about this note, publish it on this blog, tell big porkies about killing dogs, than go and have a little conversation with the neighbour. I could also arrange a bag of dog poo on their doorstep. That’d be funny. And to think I suggested that anonymous notes with stupid exclamation marks was juvenile.

I can out-juvenile them.

Time.

http://www.catsthatlooklikehitler.com/

Active

Its all a bit sports mad at the moment. Apparently they played the Wimbledon finals the other day, but it seemed to pass without a murmur. I was in my own sports buffet last Sunday. I played a game of hockey at 9.00am at a locale about an hour’s drive away from my home. So I had to get up early on a rainy Sunday after a 40th birthday party where the wine was decanted (and not to hide its cheapness, but to improve on its expensiveness). Very difficult to pass up good red wine. Very difficult to avoid a hangover when your alarm is set for 6.30am. We won. Actually, we haven’t lost a game for 2 seasons. Drawn a few matches, but not lost one. What do you think of our new uniforms? Pretty slimming, huh?

So, played a game, then dashed off via the holiday house for lunch and then back home for BurberKing to pack to get to the airport. Dropped him off and then had several hours to wait until Le Tour de France came on, and another several hours for the World Cup Final. Needless to say, I missed most of both. Save for the finishes. And that headbutt.

I do not really understand the headbutt. Any headbutt. I would be more inclined to give someone a quick slap. A head butt is just so… so…. so…. English.

I am sure the cyclists are grateful for the rest days on Le Tour. And so am I. It means I can get to bed at a decent hour. Unlike tonight. The stage finishes in Dax tonight. I once went to a gorgeous wedding in Dax. There was an oyster bar surrounded by Frenchmen. And me.

You know what I miss most about France? That you can buy foie gras. BurberKing misses Le Tour.

The World Game.

I wish I could have headbutted one of them.

Adieu Zizou...

Flat Pack

I spent nearly $1000 at Ikea yesterday. It's a love/hate relationship I have with Ikea. I guess that is the same for all people.

I had to buy some laundry storage solutions. I got a wall cupboard that could go in a kitchen so it is strength tested to withstand holding a 60 piece dinner set. Excellent. That means I can load it up with some serious amounts of OMO and Mortein.

The BurberKing should not have sent me to get the cupboard. How was I to realise that the laundry walls are only made of weatherboard and would not hold the weight of a kitchen cupboard capable of holding a 60 piece dinner setting?

Actually, I knew the walls were made of weatherboard, but it didn't occur to me that I couldn't simply bang any old large heavy thing into it and expect it to remain there. So, earlier this week, I made a pasta while the BurberKing came up with a solution to our storage solution.

The same problem applies to the rest of the storage solutions I bought yesterday. They all have to be applied to weatherboard. I hate Ikea. There should be flashing signs all around the store saying 'Don't buy this heavy storage solution thing unless you have checked with someone competent and responsible that the walls in your house can hold the thing up'

I might put this submission in their 'ideas box' at the front of the store next time I am there returning something.

By the way, the laundry storage solution problem has been solved, and we have a fantastic hat and coat rack. Did I mention my new oven? It’s beautiful.

I was sharing this IKEA story with some friends the other day and was pointed to this little gem: http://www.economist.com/business/displaystory.cfm?story_id=6919139

It is amazing how massive revenue raising enterprises like Ikea and the ‘Church’ of Scientology, and Hillsong are able to take advantage of charity status regimes in various countries and pay no tax. There should be a law against it…

New Burb

We have changed Burbs. Brand new Burb! We moved about a fortnight ago and our first house guests dropped in last Friday night. The loafers didn’t leave till 2am. And they know who they are. As good hosts, so as not to be rude, we accompanied the guests’ consumption of champagne and red wine and gin and tonic. We even watched the World Cup quarter final involving those cheating Italians (I may never eat Parmigiano-Reggiano or prosciutto again). The ‘soft underbelly’ of the Axis powers in WWII are also soft divers who took advantage of a soft penalty. I hope the collaborating French Les Bleus whip them in the World Cup Final.

(Of course, I will eat Italy’s finest cheese and ham again. I even bought an Italian-made oven the day after they dived their way past the Socceroos. I am not good at boycotts).

But back to my guests last Friday. They were kind enough to bring a camera (ours has broken). Around here somewhere is a picture of the Burber King in the jacket his family gave him for his 21st birthday present. I have recently been trying to negotiate the delivery of this jacket to the local OpShop by seeking the consent of his family, and I stupidly raised the point again on Friday. I should have known better. Our guests have been to Solid Gold Balls and other similar parties. As if they would permit the discarding of this authentic 1986 double breasted leather jacket with shoulder pads and epaulettes. And how happy does the ginger Fonzie look now he has allies?


Can you believe that this photo was taken in 2006? I cannot. Even though I was there when the shutter opened and closed, I cannot believe this photo was taken in a house that I live in, let alone that I agreed to purchase. By now, you may have noticed the walls. That stuff you see is cork. Cork. I kid you not. It was once fashionable to surround yourself with a material that belongs only in the top of a bottle of wine or on the end of a fork. It was painstakingly applied to the walls some 20 years ago, and it will now have to be painstakingly removed from those same walls. Odd how the 20 year old jacket and the 20 year old cork find themselves together like this.

I think we will remove the wall entirely. That would do the trick.
bk

Tortoises

Three tortoises, Mick, Alan and Les, decide to go on a picnic. So Mick packs the picnic basket with beer and sandwiches. The trouble is the picnic site is ten miles away so it takes them tendays to get there.

When they get there Mick unpacks the food and beer. "Ok Les Give me the bottle opener." "I didn't bring it," says Les. "I thought you packed it."Mick gets worried, He turns to Alan, "Did you bring the bottle opener??"Naturally Alan didn't bring it.

So they're stuck ten miles from Homewithout a bottle opener. Mick and Alan beg Les to go back for it, but he refuses as he says theywill eat all the sandwiches.After two hours, and after they have sworn on their tortoise lives thatthey will not eat the sandwiches, he finally agrees.

So Les sets off down the road at a steady pace.Twenty days pass and he still isn't back and Mick and Alan are starving,but a promise is a promise. Another five days and he still isn't back, but a promise is a promise.

Finally they can't take it any longer so they take out a Sandwich each,and just as they are about to eat it, Les pops up from behind a rock and shouts........"I KNEW IT!......I'M NOT F*CKING GOING!"

Sea

On Sunday, I spent a lovely little while swimming in the company of this gorgeous fella. We are fortunate to be able to swim among these seals as frequently as we do, and as the family has done for many years. The most beautiful things.

Down South

I just got back from going down south again. This time to a friend's farm. I put my foot through a stile and bruised my shin quite badly. Clearly I am not made for this country lark.

I also strained the torn calf muscle I have while playing celebratory kick-to-kick after the Dockers beat the Eagles in the Derby (what a game).

Easter

Like everyone else, we got out of the Burbs for the Easter break. Like everyone else, we packed up the Landcruiser and headed down souf. Camping was the accommodation of choice for the dogs and us this time. We looked in our little camping book, picked a spot on the beach, and hit the road… along with everyone else.

I love camping and I love getting away from where I live for a bit. I like being able to hang about in my play-clothes for a few days, and not having to wash my hair everyday. But getting away to go camping is a bit of a fag to be honest. Here is our small litany of ‘getting away for Easter disasters’.

• Other half wakes up at 5.00am – can’t sleep and starts doing some work (for those who know him- yes it is true – I too was shocked). I keep snoozing. I wake up around 7 – fired up about packing the Landcruiser full of shit and taking it ALLLL down souf with us. The BurberKing is still at work and I am peeved – its holiday time – work should be out the window. This ridiculous work thing ends about 10 and now we are behind schedule in the rush to GET AWAY…

• While packing, I tune into the ABC on the wireless. I love Aunty, but not today. The ABC is camped outside of Lake Clifton Roadhouse broadcasting horror stories of road deaths and the Easter Road Toll, and people speeding in their cars (presumably to GET AWAY). The radio people go on and on and on about everyone driving carefully and not speeding and the cops ‘ll get ya if ya do! My parents are also trying to get away and this radio show is freaking my mum out. I get a phone call from her, panicked about the likelihood that we are all going to DIIIIE as we drive down south to GET AWAY. I’m still packing, so am not as concerned as yet.

[I will note, though, that the people getting caught speeding and being killed in accidents over the Easter period were all locals of the country towns in which they were caught/killed. Residents of the Burbs were all tuned into the ABC and clearly aware of the dangers of GETTING AWAY. The locals were listening to their tape decks.]

• We’re packed! Dogs, all our shit, and us. Off we go. Get 20 minutes down the road and we’ve forgotten the towels, and the cooking gear. How are we? Now we have to stop at Target in Mandurah to get some new ones.
• No pictures to share with you, as we forgot the camera. It was sitting on top of the towels.
• Nothing to drink. Forgot the red wine bottles sitting very close to the towels and camera. (Obviously not a problem. Stocked up on half a dozen of Peter Lehman’s finest whilst hubby filled up the car)
• Back on the road. Tuned into the ABC again. By now this scare campaign is humorous and I cannot let it go.

• As the traffic starts to bank up, we turn left for the relative isolation of the Albany Highway. It’s a good trip down, not too busy, we’re cruising along, enjoying the talkback. We drive for 4 hours or so with barely a hold up in the traffic flow, until we get to the outskirts of Albany.

Has anyone else got an opinion on the sometimes questionable usefulness of the State Emergency Service volunteers? I have an opinion and it was reinforced by the traffic jam they caused outside of Albany. They successfully brought to a complete dead stop - along a stretch of highway with a speed limit of 110 kph - the migration of hundreds of Burbs residents and road train drivers so that they could put their hands into the windows of vehicles and deliver a little showbag telling everyone on the roads about the importance of road safety.
What were they on? Road safety indeed.

I wanted to deliver them a little pressie of my own…I can’t imagine what the truckies thought.

• Blah blah blah we find a camping spot. It’s brilliant. We set up in the dusk, have some dinner, and some wine. A little walk down to the beach in the full moon. We are AWAY.
  
• Next day. We fill the Landcruiser up with diesel. BurberKing goes to pay and has lost visa card. Must have left it at Target when buying the forgotten towels. Have to ring some poor bastard in a bank phone centre on Good Friday and report it lost.
  
• Saturday. Go surfing and fishing. This was our first time fishing. I kid you not. We bought a $30 all-in-one rod and reel and tackle fishing rod kit. We were fired up. You should have seen the other fishing rods along the beach. They were a bit larger than ours…We had to have a go at fishing, as we live by the beach and all. I didn’t hold out much hope of catch. But wonders never cease and the BurberKing reeled in a fantastic specimen. We were very excited, jumping up and down, now that we had successfully HUNTED and CAUGHT something. I didn’t see any other anglers on the beach raving about like we were, but maybe they were not as impressed by their occasional catches of tiny sand whiting as we were of ours. It was a little wee thing, and we sent it back to the sea. We threw the steaks we bought on the barbie instead.
  
• Easter Sunday. This day starts well, listening to Macca in the morning on the ABC, with the rain heading in and BurberKing’s stepmother is on national radio wishing everyone well. That was surreal. Go driving for the day. Discover one of the dogs has a tick, no – two, no - three ticks. There are ticks all over the beast. Panic. Have heard ticks send small dogs into paralysis. Much like the time I had pityriasis rosea just before my wedding, I take on board all the rumour and non-fact based comment about the affects of ticks on a small dog. This caused quite a trauma as I thought ‘mon bon chien’ was going to become paralysed and die. (thats French for ‘my good dog’ and is also the name of a boloungerie in Paris that bakes and sells canine biscotti– a dog bakery. Paris is mint. Fin Review 5.5.6) Even BurberKing noticed the dog looked a little tired…After 4 frantic calls to Emergency Vet numbers that never answered and didn’t return my calls, a call to a friend on a farm that had a veterinary dictionary (was waiting for the instruction to shoot the poor thing) and a quick squiz on the internet, we concluded that the dog would not be dying from the ticks that had nibbled into him. Phew. Drama at an end. Waste of a day worrying and running about. Went back to camp and got pissed.
  
• Easter Sunday night. Wrote letter to Macca in the Morning. Laughed ourselves silly at our attempts to imitate the oh-so-Aussie tone of the program. Stay tuned and I’ll post that little beauty.
  
• Monday – pack up and go home. That’s a whole day. Shave the dogs to weed out any last ticks.

• Take Tuesday off exhausted from traumatic getting away.
  

Toys

I do like young people. People younger than me. I like their ingenuity. I admire their strength.
Especially the ingenuity and strength of the young people that deposited this playground toy on the lake shore. Have you seen the springs on these things? They are massive! It would have taken whoever did this a substantial amount of effort and persistence. Much more effort and persistence than I would apply to such a task now. I might have given it a whirl fifteen years ago (I just changed that from 10- Even 10 years ago I was over it). Conceivably, I might consider such a task now, but I would have to be quite, quite drunk or otherwise impaired and with the encouragement of equally drunk associates.
But back to the kids. Good for them. I bet they were pretty thrilled when that spring broke. I can picture the spring pinging off and the looks of ‘what the f*k do we do with this now?’


I have made some assumptions here. I have assumed young people did this and that there was a group. I don't think there is any getting away from the need for youthful vigour to get one of these things out of its moorings. And the thought of anyone acting alone in this regard is preposterous…

Progress

I live in an old part of an old suburb. My parents live in an older part of the same suburb; and they have a much nicer view than us. If you were of a mind to chat to him, my dad would tell you how when he first bought his block there was no mains electricity or water. Even I remember when the water tank tower was taken down. The neighbours used to have a windmill. Now they have air-conditioning and one of those electric powered chairs that climbs up the stairs.

Just near to where I live, some developers are putting in a new suburb. It’s called an ‘estate’. Here are some pictures of it. There is not much to say really. You could say ‘wasteland’. Or you could say, as they do in Porpoise Spit, ‘You can’t stop progress’.

John

Here is a funny thing my brother sent me recently.

Doesn’t the PM look a little, well… little? Or maybe its my brother’s big hat and Howard’s shining chrome dome that are deceiving me.

I reckon my brother is a bit left of centre in his political leanings, so I am assuming this is a bit of a piss-take.

The guy in the blue shirt behind them certainly seems to think so.













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Not in The Burbs

I heard a funny thing on the AM breakfast radio this morning. A Bangladeshi man that suffers severe mental illness and diabetes has been kept in an Australian immigration detention centre for over 6 years. Medical opinion is that his mental illness results partly from the 6 years of detention and that he should be released so he can get the medical help he requires. If medical opinion is anything like my opinion, I suspect they also believe the man should be released because 6 years is too damn long.

When asked about the fate of this man, the Minister for Immigration, Amanda Vanstone, said that she will ‘make a decision on the case soon’.

Soon?

The man has been held captive in the detention centre for over 6 years by the Australian Government and the Minister responsible says she will make a decision on the case 'soon'.

Nice one, Mandy.

http://www.abc.net.au/news/newsitems/200603/s1604415.htm

Tomatoes

Late in 2005, I planted a number of tomato plants. I had grown tomatoes before. When I lived on a small Island of the coast of France (NB: exotic place) I bought some plants off a secretary at work. They came bagged and staked. I don’t think I ever got the plants out of the plastic bags. Still, tomatoes are resilient plants, and they survived this mistreatment to render approximately 5 tomatoes. It was not all my fault. The weather on the Island was crap.

I have moved on from this. In my present foray into agriculture, I invested in 4 punnets of eight tomato plants. And two trailer loads of mushroom potting mix. That’s what the bloke told me it was. I also bought a load of stakes, but only after this become the obvious and only thing to do as the 32 seedlings I had planted were mysteriously replaced overnight by 32 giant vines bearing hundreds of small red fruit.

It is possible that I have overdone it. I bought the 32 seedlings on the basis of my likelihood to fail. I overestimated my incompetence in relation to growing tomatoes but, on the bright side, overestimating one’s own incompetence in any field of endeavour is a most pleasant surprise.

Now the tomato vines are a faded shadow of the wonder that was there before. Only this morning I had to beg my mother to come over and pick the remaining tomatoes as I could no longer face going into the vegetable patch. Tomato overload. There is still a bowl and a colander full of the things in my fridge.

I couldn’t stand to post a picture of the sad tomato vines but I do have a picture here of my fridge. How good is it? I can tell you it was a bright new day in our household when that monster arrived.
You can see that the dogs love it.

I do not have kids. I do have dogs. Here is a picture of my (our) two dogs and my mum and dad’s dog, Ned. Ned is the big one looking at a bone in the distance, and not at the camera. As you can see, my dogs have an eye for the lens.

Ned is dead. Before Ned was dead, he was a great dog. My husband called him a ‘great big mong’. Which he was. Ned was also like Lazarus. My parents had written him off several times, as had I, thinking he was on the verge of heart failure. But every time (nearly), he came back from a little attack of ‘Nearly Dead Ned’ as right as rain.

Of course, one time he didn’t come back, and the local vet had to do that horrible task. Due to other fibs my mother has told family members about the ultimate resting place of the family pets, I asked if she had brought the big mong back from the vets that day. At first she said : ‘Yes! And your father has dug a hole in the front yard for him!’ Seconds later she says ‘Well, no. Ned was a bit too big so he was left at the vets’. Well, of course he was.

Gee, I hope the young ones in family don’t read this and piece together where Max is…

We miss old Ned.

The Burbs around here need more dogs like Ned and less dog-whingers.

Why The Burbs?
I have a lot of friends living in exotic places and doing exciting things. I don’t live in an exotic place and rarely do exciting things. Although last night, I did go fishing with some friends. We didn’t catch anything. I did not even hold a fishing rod. I sat on the beach with a beer minding the dogs while the men folk did the hunting. They aren’t very good hunters. We had toasted sandwiches for dinner (sans poissons).

But back to The Burbs. These friends, those that live in exotic places and are doing exciting things, have set up web logs and web pages so that I can see what exciting things they do in these exotic places. I am not the only person not living in an exciting place and not doing exotic things (although I did have a mojito recently). It is time our story was told. The story of The Burbs.

I must be honest. I did once live in a semi exotic place and I did do exciting things. I can prove it from the photo around here somewhere of me and my husband at the top of a mountain we walked up in France (we got the ski lift down. Phew). The grass is always greener. When I was away, sometimes, all I wanted was to sit on the beach at home. Like in the other photo of me with my sister. Now I can sit on this beach every day, I am a little bit over it and jealous of friends living in exotic places and doing exciting things. But for now, I am in the Burbs, and I do like it. I love my garden and my tomato plants. And last night, (notwithstanding the utter lack of fish), the beach was beautiful.
So for those of us that don’t live in exotic places and don’t do exciting things, The Burbs is the antidote. Read it and weep.