Steve Irwin died today. The news raced around Australia like wildfire -- I heard it almost simultaneously from about four different directions. Quite sad, I think. He may not have been the best role model for kids, but he was the real deal. Did you know that all the profits from his movie went to environmental causes?

No one's too surprised that he went out like this, except maybe those who were expecting it to be a croc. And yet, somehow, it's hard to imagine him dead.

Fun yesterday as I played golf for the first time in four years, at Yarra Bend. I was predictably terrible (shot 108, I think) but it was the soccer team's annual golf outing, and the weather was great, so it was good fun. Tons of wildlife on the course, most notably the colony of giant fruit bats, but also a lot of eastern rosellas, noisy miners, rainbow lorikeets, and a flock of some sort of black cockatoos.

Then last night we caught the Melbourne Victory beating Sydney in front of the biggest crowd in Australian club soccer history -- nearly 40,000. I'm sure it was the biggest crowd that a lot of the players have ever played in front of as well. Great game and a fun atmosphere.

Brushes with celebrity. For no good reason, here are the famous peeps I've peeped, not counting actual shows, lectures, readings, etc.:

Elvis Costello: Met him after shows a few times. Also sat behind him at a Ron Sexsmith show where he didn't perform, so it counts.

Michael McKean (Lenny of Lenny and Squiggy fame): Sat two rows behind him at an Elvis Costello concert.

Henry Rollins: Saw him in a Starbucks in London. Henry Rollins in a Starbucks.

Gurmit Singh at our grocery store in S'pore.

Molly Meldrum at a footy game. Well, they tell me he's famous.

Shaq, at a nightclub in Orlando. A head taller than everyone else, he was hard to miss.

Horace Grant, at the same club. Shook his hand.

Ted Kennedy: Spooked him in an airport when I suddenly reached into my bag for my ticket just as I recognized him. His bodyguards got him out of there fast!

Michael Stipe, on a street corner in Athens, listening to (what I'm guessing was) a backing track through headphones, and mouthing words over it.

Mike Mills, in a bar in Atlanta. Also saw him driving down the road once.

Not much new to report. Spring is slowly arriving, though, which has made us delay our search for a new neighborhood -- Albert Park is too too nice when it's warm.

Two restaurants plugs:

Santiago -- great tapas, great wine, great atmosphere. Reminded us very much of Spain.

Tandoori Times -- maybe the best chicken vindaloo I've had.

A few weeks back we saw the Picasso exhibit at the NGV. We're both fans, but Picasso's ability to excel at every medium almost makes us angry! Great stuff though.

Next week I'm claiming my birthday present -- we're going to the Melbourne Victory match against Sydney.

Eulogy for Beau


I woke up yesterday to the very sad news that Beau, one of my family's dogs, had been found dead, hit by a car.

This is the email my father sent:

To paraphrase an iconic southern writer, my dog is dead and I don’t feel so good myself.

Bubba Beau, formal name - Beauregard Bocephus (although we were never able to find a registry that would accept him under that or any other name), is survived by Sister Sadie, his littermate and constant companion as well as those of his family handicapped by having only two feet.

Beau suffered from the stigma of being a ‘Replacement’ puppy. His predecessor was a little dog (although too tall for his alleged breed), and when he just plum wore out in June of 1996 the whole Olympic furor couldn’t replace him. So a scout was dispatched to check out a nearby litter with two clear instructions: It would take two big dogs to replace Mikey, and both had to be the same sex. She listened as well as usual and came home with a mixed pair of tiny puppies. They were so small they couldn’t negotiate steps and so had to be carried out to the yard every time they took a drink or had something to eat. Fortunately they could both be transported in one hand in an act we came to call puppy juggling. That came to an end well before Beau hit his peak weight of just over 100 lbs.

They came to us about the same time as the Atlanta Olympics and their birthday was only one day away from mine. I find it much easier to celebrate theirs than mine at this stage of life.

Since he was only a replacement puppy and not a terribly smart one in my opinion (although he could be sly and manipulative) I was determined not to love him. He wasn’t even a real Labrador Retriever, although he looked like one if he kept his mouth shut. (Don’t lots of us reveal things we’d rather keep hidden when we open our mouths?) But 10 years of faithful companionship have a way of worming deep into your heart. I said he was really Marjorie’s puppy, even after she moved out on her own, got married, then moved to Singapore and later Australia. After all when they played and danced she had been known as the third puppy. And Beau always reacted to my announcements that the third puppy was coming to see him, even when the visits were years apart. But when she and Mark adopted their own Laika (kind of an Australian version of Sadie) I had to acknowledge that I was stuck with Bubba Beau. I tried to say he was a sissy and just Linda’s dog, but when he ‘Assumed the position’ (another unique training command that he obeyed usually without command) by my recliner and demanded to be patted or some other affirmative kind of bonding, it was obvious. Would a guy let a dog he didn’t love groom his ears?

Beau was a Retriever and he was genetically programmed to prove it. Sometimes he did that by lugging around some soft toy. Linda continually humiliated him and reinforced the sissy image by buying him pink ‘babies’ to play with. But sometimes a guy just has to prove he’s a guy and go out and validate his place on the table of organization. At those times Beau usually found a possum that was, most often, playing possum. Finding those in the house was a thrill for a great big fellow and terrorized the women who were lucky enough to share the experience. Linda and Becky both became expert on the inverted laundry basket method of possum removal.

We knew that Beau was a (mostly) lab dog, but like I said he wasn’t too smart. He kept getting confused and thought he was a lap dog. When he was half of a puppy juggling act that was certainly an endearing trait, and as a 30 lb. puppy it was still pretty cute. Somewhere around the 75 lb. mark it became dangerous and when he was over 100 lbs it could be damned intimidating. By the way, there’s no thrill like having a 100+ lb. puppy step on your bare foot in his rush to be the first out the door.

Beau had another life long trait. He was a runner! If there was a fence he could find its flaw. If there was electric or electronic reinforcement he knew the second the power was off or the battery ran down. And he encouraged his co-conspirator to follow his example. In the early years there was some doubt about who was lead and who was wing, but not so in recent years. If Beau was having an out of yard experience by himself he was usually docile and responsive to calls, content to show you that all the money you’d spent on fencing and gadgets wasn’t what ran his life. But if his four footed pack was completed then he was off and adventuring. At the end of the adventure we could expect a call.

“Your dogs are in my pool” was the most startling, and for several reasons. They were about half a mile from home and had had to cross a busy road to get there.

But the call always came. Since we moved to Cumming the adventures had picked up again. A new neighborhood had to be explored and again we knew they weren’t respecting the boundaries we’d have drawn. But the call always came.

Tuesday evening we got a call while we were 50 miles away from home that they were on another adventure but hanging around close to home. When we got home several hours later they were nowhere to be found. The next morning I got the call I feared – “Hey, I found your dog.” Singular, not plural. And my heart fell. These were a pair. They’d never been found apart. We looked Wednesday and Thursday morning, putting out ‘Lost Dog’ signs and all. But Thursday we had to leave on a long scheduled trip to Boston, where we had once lived with Mikey many years ago. So we left the search and answering the calls in the hands of our oldest, dearest friends and The Dogs’ Nanny. Carole diligently searched Animal Control with no results and initially was told that no dog of that description had been found on the roads by DOT. But while checking in to our Boston hotel we got the call. Beau had had his last adventure and it had ended near the intersection of Kelly Mill Road (busy - with a high speed limit) and Pittman Road. He was about a block from home and although there was some confusion in my mind about whether he was coming or going, it’s now clear that the adventure had run down and he was on the way home. I’m told he was found on Thursday near one of our “Lost Dog” signs. That doesn’t fit my belief that Sadie wouldn’t have been found Wednesday without him had there been any choice, but it must have been her arthritis that brought her adventure to a premature conclusion on the wrong side of that busy road and within sight of the place where her bubba’s last adventure ended about 30 hours later.

So again, life goes on. I won’t miss the big dumb, hairy so and so. And my keyboard’s not going to rust from my tears falling freely. Revising and adding to this days later, as more that just can’t be left out occurs to me, reinforces my original conclusion that he was a big dumb hairy beast and I’m going to be a long time getting over him.

And anybody that doesn’t think Lewis Grizzard is as iconic a southern writer as William Faulkner can kiss my grits.


Beau was a lovely dog. He was sweet, and had a very silly, easy-going personality, and, in spite of what my father wrote, Beau was a very smart dog, probably the smartest I've known, though he was equally lazy and not worried about impressing anyone.

I spent most of yesterday crying, and imagine today won't be much different. I'm so glad I got to see him last May when I was home.

I'll miss his facination with "the magic floor", dirty laundry, and anything edible (or not so much). I'll miss having him follow me from room to room when I visit my parents. And I'll miss his morning salutations of "roo, roo, roo".

He was loved. He will be very missed. And I'm sure I'll stop crying eventually.

Guinea piggery. One of Marjorie's cow orkers who's working on a psych degree gave me an IQ test this evening, and boy is my brain tired. This was the face-to-face interactive test (not an online mouse-clicky thing) and is a lot more full-on than you might expect. There were 14 tests, and most seemed to start out easy, and ended with you feeling stupid. Here's a run-down of the sections, and a representative question from each:

Information - "Who was Mahatma Ghandi?"

Comprehension - "Why is it necessary for the government to collect taxes?"

Arithmetic - "An item is on sale for one third off the original price. Its sale price is $400. What is the original price?"

Similarities/Differences - "In what way are a friend and an enemy alike?"

Vocabulary - "Define 'tangible'."

Digit span - "Repeat these digits backwards: 4,3,6,2,8."

Letter-Number Sequencing - "Given this sequence, tell me the digits in order, followed by the letters in order: 5,K,2,P,1,J,9,Q."

Performance - "What's missing from this picture?" (A typical picture: two people running along the beach, one leaving no footprints.)

Digit Symbol - Coding - Each digit had a code, and I had to draw the code for a sequence of numbers.

Block Design - "Which picture completes the block?"
Matrix Reasoning - "Which picture completes the sequence?"
Picture Arrangement - "These cards each have a picture on them. Arrange them so the scene makes a logical story."
Symbol Search - "Circle 'Yes' if one of the two symbols on the left appears in the list of five symbols on the right, 'No' otherwise."
Object Assembly - "Arrange these puzzle pieces into a coherent picture."

This after a long day of programming. But it was interesting. I get the results in a week or two.

I'm 40, darnit, and I'm allowed. I asked Marjorie if she's going to be disappointed if I become a huge Gilbert and Sullivan geek. She said she's surprised I'm not already.

I saw Topsy Turvy last night, and kept thinking, where have these guys been all my life?

I'm a sucker for clever wordplay and catchy melodies. Melbourne has their own Gilbert and Sullivan Society who are putting on a play in November -- unfortunately, it's not a Gilbert and Sullivan play. So it'll be a long while before I can experience G&S proper.

It's dawned on me how much of my music taste is the result of collaboration. I love Strummer and Jones, Lennon and McCartney, Difford and Tilbrook, Lerner and Loewe. I'm kind of fond of Bacharach and David, but was never that keen on Elton John and Bernie Taupin. Rodgers and Hammerstein are okay I guess. Who else? Does anyone even collaborate anymore, other than one-offs?

For the record, I just had my second visual migraine. Woo hoo.

There's a ping pong tournament going on at work, and I'm all bitter because I had planned on at least making it to the quarter finals (where I would have had to play a guy that used to be ranked sixth in Australia) and instead I went out in the second round. I was winning the first game 16-7, then just kind of froze up and started trying not to hit the ball into the net, which of course always results in hitting the ball into the net. To the other guy's credit, he took me off my game. Nuts. I blew $10 on a quality new paddle too.

But soccer's going good; my fitness is back and my hip has seemingly made a full recovery. There are hints here and there that the weather is warming up. Fish are jumping. The cotton is high.

Hmmm, that's odd... Eight minutes ago, I started experiencing my first visual migraine. Luckily, my brother had one a little while back, so I know what's going on. It started as a little blind spot, that was making it hard to see the letter on the screen that I was looking at. It has since grown and moved off to the left. It's now like if I were looking out a window where someone had frozen the letter "C" onto the glass, causing a rainbow diffraction effect, except that the ice is also shimmering. It should end within the half hour, by all reports, and I might get a slight headache after. Very strange, and it would be scaring the tar out of me right now (think: stroke) if I didn't know what it was.
Update: It passed as predicted, in about a half an hour. I got the slightest of headaches afterwards, which is also typical. I found this Flash animation that gives a very good depiction of what it was like (except that the distortion was more of a "C" shape for me).

I knew I could do it. A year or so ago I quit biting my nails, thanks to a product marketed under the great name of Stop That (in America, I think it's called Bittrex). Stop That is a highly bitter substance you put on your nails for a little instant negative feedback whenever you put them in your mouth.

The problem was, I still had the tendency to pick at my nails with my other nails (or even a nail clipper), quite incessantly. I wasn't biting, but my fingers still didn't look too good. I tried all sorts of tricks to stop that, without much luck.

In the last three days, though, I've quit the picking. How? With a little product called Stop That. I just applied it to one nail, and whenever I caught myself picking at my nails, I made myself take a lick. Gross, but effective. I had to reapply several times at the start. But now, after three days, I pick no more.

The Chagall print we got is Lovers in the Red Sky. Marjorie loves Chagall and goats, so it was a good choice for her, and me -- well, boobies.

It actually came mounted wrong -- with the goat at the bottom and the houses on the left. We're trying to decide whether to leave it as it is or fix it.

Happy Birthday Mom! Wish we could be there with you.

Mostly as an exercise in Google Maps, Javascript, CSS, and web hosting, I've started a page of weekly pub trivia nights here in Melbourne. Check it out, but please remember, this is not an exercise in graphic design (which I have no real flair for).

Birthday was nice, actually, and not at all angsty like you might expect. On Saturday we went shopping for art (my birthday present request; we have a lot of bare walls in our house). I didn't find any winners but Marjorie picked out a nice Franz Marc Chagall print that goes great in our living room. At night we went out for Cambodian food, which was only just okay, but the neighborhood itself was a great find that made it worth the visit. We've added Yarraville to our list of neighborhoods to consider moving to. Sunday, my actual birthday, featured soccer followed by a massage, followed by pizza.

And instead of a mid-life crisis little red convertible, we rented a Hyundai Getz.

You are cast into the world naked, screaming. You learn, you grow. Trends come and go and come again. People move into and out of and into your lives. You get wiser, but at the price of a body that heals. The world gets more accessible, more polluted, more chaotic -- more fascinating. But did the world change, or you?. Then one day you wake up and you're... 40?

The web's biggest trend of the last year or two is surely video clips, AKA viral videos. They seem to come in just a few varieties:

• Short funny clips from comedy shows, especially The Daily Show.
  
• Stupid stunts.
  
• Crazy nature vids.
  
• The video editor with too much time on his hands.
  
• People acting goofy in their dorm rooms.
  And my favorite,
  
• Musical virtuosity. Check out these examples. As a frustrated musician, these pain me a little bit.
  
  
  
  • Guitar
    
  • Mandolin
    
  • Drums
    
  
  

Il gioco ugly. People aren't very happy with the Italian team down here, myself included, thanks to last week's now infamous incident (if you missed it, see the video here). Italy's the butt of jokes continent-wide, and will be for a long time to come. The emails are flying -- there's this and this and (warning: may offend) this.

Today at soccer, a guy I was covering took a dive in the box, and later admitted it to me sheepishly. "So, are you Italian?" I asked. He laughed.

Happy Birthday Dad!! Wish we could be there to spend it with you.

I think it's time to adopt children, so that I can teach them to hate the Italian style of soccer.

Long night's journey into day.

Thursday

7:00 pm: Soccer practice.
7:30 pm: I quit because my hip is sore. Full recovery will take longer than I had hoped.
9:00 pm: Begin getting ready for bed. Set the alarm for 1:50 am, since USA/Ghana game will be on at 2:00 am.
9:23 pm: Circuit breaker trips, as it is wont to do. We can't run the dryer at the same time as the bedroom heater. I reset the alarm for 1:50, and the time to 9:23.
5:00 am: I wake with a start, and quickly realize that I should have set the clock to 21:23, not 9:23. Nuts. I've been waiting four years to watch Team USA in the cup, and now I've slept through the critical game.
5:02 am: Learn from the internet that the USA lost. Groooaaaannn... Sleeping through it was a mercy.
5:04 am: Switch on the TV, and Australia is already losing 1-0, after the second minute. Groan again...
5:38 am: Australia equalizes! Justified penalty. Australia seems to be dominating.
5:45 am: Halftime. I jump in the shower and quickly ready myself for work.
6:11 am: Croatia goes ahead 2-1, on the softest goal I've seen in the WC so far. This was our replacement keeper, who coach Guus decided to start that day, for some reason. I hate and feel for him.
6:12 am: We only need a tie to advance. For some reason, I just know we're going to do it. So I run down to the tram stop to head down to Federation Square for the action.
6:15 am: Come on, you stupid tram...
6:30 am: Arrive at Federation Square. The cops are preventing any more people from getting in, but you can see the screen from the street. On top of a small set of stairs there are two policemen on horses; squeezing behind them are two guys angling for a better view, essentially standing in a pile of horse dung.
6:34 am: Kewell equalizes! Much jumping and screaming. I timed my run perfectly, as they say.
6:45 am: The barriers come down. We all run up as far as we can go. You'd think it's Texas Hold'em night the way cards are flying on the field.
6:47 am: Game over. Jubilation! People are chanting, singing, lighting flares.
6:50 am-7:30 am: Victory celebration. Fans take over Melbourne's busiest intersection at the corner of Flinders and Swanston. Cops on horses try to move them off, but they keep filling in behind. The trams start to pile up. Fans are singing: AuzZAY! Auzzay Auzzay Auzzaaaay! Auzzaaaaay, Auzzaaaay! Somebody climbs up on a tram, dancing. After fifteen minutes, Guy with a drum starts leading people up the street, in what is now apparently a new tradition (which happened spontaneously after the last match): the victory march to the Parliament building. Sights along the way: People slamming their hands on the windows and doors of the backed-up trams. Somebody climbed atop a phone booth to dance. At the Nike store, there is a window display of Socceroos jerseys; a line of guys got down on their knees and did we-are-not-worthy bows. Fans surround a Chinese guy sweeping the walk in front of his store -- and he starts dancing with them. Somebody climbed on top of a truck and danced as it rolled down the street.

On arriving at the Parliament house, the crowd is already singing "Waltzing Matilda". I hang around for a half hour or so just to soak it all in, and burn off some more of the disappointment at the USA loss. I decide it's time for work.

On the walk to work I decide my traditional American breakfast won't cut it, so I stop for a meat pie.