Sorry I'm late

Hello again. Sorry I'm late.

Last night I dreamed I went to Mandalay again.

OK, well maybe I didn't dream that, but I did have an interesting dream. Interesting to me anyway.

I dreamed that I was at a sort of resort. I was sitting on one of those wooden recliner type things that you often see at resorts. Typically, they have white cushions attached to them, but on this occasion, they did not.

I was sitting at the end of the recliner, you understand I was not in the reclining position but rather perched toward the foot of the recliner. Sitting on the recliner next to me was Tony Blair, the former British PM. He was seated in a similar way to me, toward the edge of the recliner.

We were engaged in a game of trivia. Questions were being posed to us in turn and we were answering them. One by one the questions were asked and each time we answered correctly. The tension was building with each question. Great matters depended on the winner of this rather odd little game although I cannot say with any accuracy precisely what those matters were. In fact now that I think of it, I can't really remember any of the questions or even who was asking them. All I can remember is that we were being asked those questions in turn and Tony, in his very cultivated British accent would answer his correctly and then me, with my rather more roguish Australian accent would answer my question. Also correctly. Each of us would stare intently at the other as that person's question was asked and wait breathlessly as it was answered.

As I may have mentioned before, it was tense.

Eventually Tony was asked to name three national governmental deputies. As soon as he was asked this, I realised that had the question been asked of me, I would only have been able to name two; Joe "Big F*cking Deal" Biden and La Guillarde, also known as Julia Gillard. I breathed a sigh of relief and waited anxiously for Tony's answer.

Rather than answer, Tony began to insist that the question be directed at me. His reasons were convoluted, but seemed to revolve around two facts. The first was that as a former world leader, the question would be too easy for him. The second was that he believed that he was getting all, the hard questions and it was only fair that the order should be reversed. You should remember, dear reader, that all these explanations were being made in Tony's wonderful speaking voice and thus the spectators were somewhat persuaded.

For my part, I of course objected strongly. I suspected that this was a ruse on Tony's part as he had perceived that I was worried about the question. You will be pleased to hear however, that I defended myself strenuously. I objected vehemently to the idea of changing the order so suddenly and simply and I pointed out to Tony the inconsistency in his first reason and his second reason.

My implacable logic left Tony slightly flummoxed and he began to insist that we should provide the three answers in turn. One at a time, so to speak.

The careful reader will spot the flaw in this plan. Should I be required to provide the first answer, I had two at my disposal, however by providing the first answer I should also have to provide the third. This could leave me in a tricky spot should Tony's answer be either Gillard or Biden. So I agreed on his suggestion so long as he went first. He objected of course.

After some further argument, it was agreed that Tony and I should play paper-scissors-rock in order to decide who goes first. Tony then asked whether dynamite was allowed in the game and demonstrated dynamite as a hand held in a first with the thumb pointing upward. I told him not to be ridiculous and that we should get on with the game.

So we started the first game of paper-scissors-rock. I'll note here that we used that Japanese cry of "JUN-KEN-PO!" as we brought our fists down three times before displaying wither paper, scissors or rock. I can think of no good reason why we did this, but in the interests of maintaining the strictest accuracy in my report, I note it here for the record.

On the third downward shake, I flattened my hand out, forming the shape for paper. Tony's hand remained as a fist for a moment and then slowly he pointed out two fingers and exclaimed "scissors!! I win!"

I was apoplectic. I told him that he had cheated and that he had first shown rock, which would have lost, befoe changing to scissors. This was not in the spirit of the game and I told him so. Forcefully.

Tony looked saddened and leaned toward me. He explained that it was a little known fact that at moments of high tension, such as this so obviously was, his hands sweated a great deal. He further told me (and all the spectators that had gathered around) that he suffered from arthritis in the hands. These two facts, he explained, meant that his fingers were quite sticky from the sweat and moved quite slowly due to the arthritis. This gave the impression that he was cheating, although, he said, nothing could be further from the truth.

You should remember, dear reader, that all of this was explained in Tony's wonderfully mellifluous voice. His slow, statesmanlike intonations falling like blocks of sandstone into a beautifully constructed argument that, while perfectly argued, was patently false. Nonetheless, he had persuaded the crowd and as I tried to argue that he was being unfair I found that several of them, albeit nameless and faceless, were staring at me as though I was kicking a puppy.

It would give me enormous pleasure to report here the outcome of my argument with Tony Blair, after all it's not often that one has the opprtunity to go mano-a-mano with a former world leader, but, once again holding accuracy of reporting above all else, I must tell you that it was at that moment that I woke up.

If you've read this far then I must apologise for not being able to provide a more satisfactory resolution. To make up for it, I am offering bonus points to the first person who correctly tells me the origin of the Mandalay quote above.

The Receptionist

I had cause to attend a medical specialist on Tuesday. Last time I was there, a largish woman of indeterminate age with a broad Australian accent spent the entire time while I was in the waiting room discussing the difficulties of her ongoing renovations over the telephone. Loudly.

When I arrived this time, she was at the reception again. I interrupted her conversation by entering the waiting room and I heard her say “Just a tic love.” as I walked in. She took my name and asked me to have a seat and went back to her conversation. It was the exact same conversation as last time. I kid you not! This woman was having the exact same conversation that she had had three months earlier.

Happily, I had my laptop with me, so I made notes.

It appears that Mick is the builder. Mick has been somewhat lapse in installing the appropriate appliances. The fridge was a particularly sore point. I have to assume that it’s one of those fridges that needs to be “plumbed in” or installed in some way. My notes of her conversation say, for example, “So I said to him, I just want a fridge. It’s Christmas Mick. I mean I just want a fridge. I’m sick of trying to do everything with a bloody bar fridge.” there was a pause, followed by, “Yes! Yes! I know! Well I’m not gonna have a fridge now, am I?”

Later the conversation moved on to tiling. This was not a happy conversation either.

“He said he wouldn’t commission that because I suppose it’s not viable for him cost-wise so I suppose it’s just stuff you! … Yes! Well he’s trying to say that it’s because of where I got the tiles which was where he was gonna get them anyway.”

And finally, before my doctor called me in, I noted this

“Well that’s just pointless anyway. … YES! That’s what I said! … Oh I just said don’t bother NIck. Don’t bother. I’ve got the answer to my questions.”

Green Weekly Please.

An odd thing happened to me on Monday. Well, I think it’s odd anyway.

By way of preface, in case you are unfamiliar with Sydney’s public transport system, I should explain that on many buses in Sydney it’s not possible to buy a ticket, they must be pre-purchased. This doesn’t usually represent any great inconvenience as tickets are available quite broadly. Pretty much all newsagents, most convenience stores and several other outlets sell the prepaid tickets which can be purchased as a single ticket, a weekly pass, or as a “travel-ten” which provides ten trips with no time limit.

Where I am currently working requires that I travel by bus and train every day, so the most convenient for me is to buy a weekly pass. The weekly passes are designated by colours. A “Blue Weekly” for example allows the owner of the ticket to travel on any buses in the inner city area. A “Red Weekly” allows the owner to also use trains and ferries in the same area. There is quite a range of colours apart from these, I know there is brown, orange and purple for example. In my own case, I usually purchase a “Green Weekly” which also allows me to travel to North Ryde on those days when I am required to.

So, with that preface over with, I can tell my story, which, as I have noted before, I found odd. Amusing too.

For reasons that are unimportant for this story, I had to travel to Leichhardt in the afternoon. My “Green Weekly” was expiring on that very day, so included in my personal list of tasks was the purchase of a new one. Making my way to the bus-stop to go home, I spied two things. The first thing I spied, still in the distance, was the bus that I wished to catch. The second, rather closer, was a newsagent.

I determined that I could get into the newsagent, purchase the ticket and get back out again to catch the bus. The newsagent was directly alongside the bus-stop and as I came up alongside it, I could see that the newsagent was empty. So, rather hurriedly, I ducked intside and said, “Green Weekly please.”

The shopkeeper was a swarthy and rather hirsute man. One who would be described by television news reports as being “of middle-eastern appearance.” He spoke with a discernible accent and his response was not what I expected. He looked at me quizzically, tilted his head to one side and said “Green! … Green?!”

It is important at this point to convey the tone and pitch with which this was said. To achieve the desired effect, the shopkeeper’s voice starts relatively high at the beginning of the word ‘green’, then reaches just a little higher in the middle before dropping down a little at the end. The pitch at the end of the word is noticeably lower than the pitch at the beginning. Recall, if you can, Monty Python’s “Parrot Sketch.” Recall John Cleese’s expression of disbelief when told that the obviously dead parrot is pining for the fjords. He says those exact words; “Pining for the fjords!?”

It was with almost the exact tone and pitch with which Cleese said ‘fjords’ that my interlocutor said ‘green’. What the reply lacked in syllables, he made up for in enthusiasm. Slightly nonplussed, I said “Yes, Green please.”

Perhaps this was naive of me, because the reply from my swarthy shopkeeper was identical to his previous reply. “Green! … Green?!”

I’ll note here, for the sake of clarity, that there was no hint of humour or jest in his reply. Rather he gave the distinct impression of both bewilderment and annoyance. He looked rather as if I had asked him to serve his mother’s left forefinger on a toasted bun.

I had hitherto assumed that all newsagents sold bus passes. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps this was the cause of the confusion.

“Do you sell bus tickets?” I asked.

“Yes! … Yes!” was the reply and, I kid you not, it was with exactly the same parrot-sketch tone as the previous retort. He went on, “Yes we sell bus tickets. There’s no Green!”

Confused and somewhat uncertain, I reached into my pocket to check my current ticket. It was green, wasn’t it? I hadn’t misremembered had I? No. It was green. “Like this one.” I said.

“No. Nonono.” he said. Flatly this time.

This transaction had taken no more that a minute or two. No more than that, because although the bus had arrived maybe half a minute after I walked into the shop, it was only now that it was pulling out from the bus top. As it did, another chap walked toward me from the back of the newsagents and said. “We’ve sold out of green weeklies mate. You’ll have to go to the seven-eleven.”

I didn’t go to the seven-eleven. It was around the corner about 500 meters away and I suspected that I would miss the next bus if I went to the seven-eleven now. In Leichhardt, from this stop, the buses run every 5 minutes. So I decided to wait at the bus stop. Naturally, the next bus didn’t arrive for another fifteen minutes.

Global Warming Propagandists

The outrageously arrogant and patronising article in today’s SMH (“Grim reaper's role in climate change denial”, 28/11/2009) had at least one redeeming feature; it brought a smile to my face.

Monbiot’s claim that “any peer-reviewed journal specialising in atmospheric or environmental science” supports the Anthropogenic Global Warming (AGW) theory, even if it were true, would still be a comedy gem.  The leaked emails of the AGW propagandists have already made plain their intention to “redefine what the peer review literature is” in the event that some ill-advised journal wavers from the party line. 

Our columnist then goes on to pillory Clive James as “purveying trite received wisdom.” James’ crime, it appears, is to exhort his readers to be sceptical. To use rational and logical thought and to remember that “any theory must fit the facts, and the facts can't be altered to suit the theory.” I can see why Monbiot is disturbed by this heresy.

Monbiot’s ad-hominem attacks don’t end there however. He dismisses Ian Plimer’s carefully argued “Heaven and Earth” (and presumably all 2000 scientific references) as a “concatenation of gibberish” and any supporters that Plimer may enjoy are simply “suckers.” 

Monbiot’s crowning achievement though is his complete dismissal of the arguments of anybody over the age of 65. The syllogism is a little difficult to follow at times, but I think I can do it justice as follows;

1. People over 65 are less likely to believe the AGW propaganda.
2. Therefore we must explain why people over 65 are wrong.
3. Ernest Becker proposed a theory of “Vital lies” that people tell themselves to give their life meaning.
4. The Journal “Ecology and Society” published an article (Dickinson) suggesting that news about AGW makes people think about death.
5. Old people (presumably the over 65s?) are closer to death
6. Old people must think about death even more
7. Therefore old people a Global Warming Deniers.

If you are thinking “huh?” at this point, you are not alone. 

I’ll note here that desperate attempts to give the impression that he made the connection himself notwithstanding, Monbiot lifted the Becker connection directly from Dickinson. Kudos must go to Monbiot for actually reading the article. I'll quote one sentence here, selected at random. This is only one sentence - apparently Dickinson's conservation efforts have extended to full-stops; 

"The proximate psychological mechanisms that form the basis of the ideas presented here neither conflict with nor support hypotheses at the ultimate, evolutionary level of analysis, at which the experience of and defenses against existential terror can be viewed either as costly byproducts of the evolution of consciousness (Landau et al. 2006) or, more plausibly, as products of selection resulting from the advantages of ideologically based within-group cooperation and extra-group competition (Hardin 1968, Hauert et al. 2002, 2006, Wilson 2006)."

I’ll also note that the vision for the Journal Ecology and Society states that they “view humanity and nature as co-evolving systems that interact within the bounds of the biosphere at various temporal and spatial scales and across scales.”

I’ll finish here by proposing an alternative reason for the increased propensity of global warming scepticism in the over 65s. Perhaps they are old enough to recall the impending “peak oil” disasters that were being touted in to 70s? Perhaps they recall the global cooling disaster that loomed at around the same time? Perhaps they recall the “domino effect” that would quickly follow the fall of Vietnam to communism? Perhaps these doddering fogies that have managed to hobble their way past the age of 65 recall that we were to witness a procession of exploding nuclear power plants? Perhaps they recall that we were back to the dark ages when Y2K destroyed all our computers? Perhaps, in short, they’ve seen it all before?

Perhaps they recognise the FUD strategy (Fear Uncertainty and Doubt) when they see it?

I’ll close noting that Monbiot turns 47 next January. Presumably he will only be holding forth for another 18 years. Presumably, after that, his views will be rendered invalid by his impending death.

Chicken

I've grown very fond of chicken recently. Not chikenz, chicken. I have been fond of the chikenz for some time. This is another matter entirely.

I have no idea why I have become so fond of chicken, but I can report that in the last fortnight I have eaten three whole roast chickens by myself. I have eaten other things apart from chicken of course, but I think the fact that I have eaten three whole roast chickens in a single fortnight is worthy of comment.

There you have it.

It's all over

On Friday last (13th November) I made my way to the University of Technology, Sydney and deposited with the Faculty of Law an essay. That essay (a 10,000 word monstrosity on the approximate subject of Japanese Corporate Law) constitutes the final requirement of my Master's Degree.

This means that the course is finished, kaput, ended. I once again have the opportunity to was TV, read novels, lay on the couch, meet with friends, drink intoxicating beverages and generally have a wonderful time.

I have already started doing some of these things. I met up with Cindy and Richard (and the smaller Zielinskis too) on Saturday and we picnicked to our heart's content at the Ballast Point reserve in Birchgrove, Was very nice and I'll post some pictures before too long.

I'm reading novels again and I know how much you enjoy hearing about them! The chikenz bought me "I am a Cat," a novel of some renown, which I am reading at present. It's something of a classic of Japanese literature, first published as a series in a Japanese literary magazine over the period from 1905 to 1906. Essentially it's a story told from the perspective of a cat in a typical middle-class home from that time.

So, with my course all finished, I hope to have a little more time to provide updates here. I get my final results in mid-December and graduation is in May (I have no idea why there is such a gap) but all the requirements are complete.

Don't forget that you can comment on any of the articles by clicking on the link below. I'd be very happy to have some comments!

Why are religions tax exempt?

"Charlatanism is a necessary price of religious freedom, and if a self-proclaimed teacher persuades others to believe in a religion which he propounds, lack of sincerity or integrity on his part is not incompatible with the religious character of the beliefs, practices and observances accepted by his followers."
==========
MASON A.C.J. AND BRENNAN J
CHURCH OF THE NEW FAITH v. COMMISSIONER OF PAY-ROLL TAX (VICT.) [1983] HCA 40; 1983 154 CLR 120 

(with thanks to Tremendous for forwarding the original decision)

Haven't Posted for a While...

If you haven't already figured it out, I have been busy with my studies since I came back from Japan and hence there have been no new posts.

Tomorrow night I have a presentation due for a subject called "Global Business Competitive Intelligence". Once that's done, I've completed everything for that subject. Then, on 13th November, I have an essay due for International Business Law. Once that's done, I have completed everything for the entire course. No exams this semester! Woohoo!

So anyway, it's unlikely that I'll be making too many posts until the course is finished, although I still have the pictures from the wedding to post along with some "Last Day" pictures, so I might feel sufficiently motivated to post a couple. Depends on demand ;)

I'm typing this from my work PC, so I don't even have access to the Japan pics from here. Instead, I'll give you a couple of pics that I took in Balmain the other day. I took Spike for a walk down to Thames Street Wharf to pick up the Chikenz. She was catching the ferry home from work. Anyway, the camera came with me and here's a couple of the resulting pics!

 

 

 

Last Day

It’s my last day in  Japan and I am pleased to report that I am typing in the cafe in front of The Tobacco and Salt Museum. The museum has been on my list of things to do since I got here and while I’m glad I made it, I have once again been reminded that the things I plan to do are rarely the most interesting ones. It’s the events that occur on the margins that hold my interest most often.

Case in point is this visit to the Salt and Tobacco Museum. The museum itself was not especially interesting, mainly because it’s almost entirely in Japanese. On the other hand, coming out of the museum, I was presented with this cafe, which is called “C’est Bon Plage” and is entirely pink. C’est bon plage, as I understand it, means “it is a good beach”. There is no beach that I can see and no good reason for the place to be pink, but Japan’s a bit like that.

Another problem with visiting Japan is that the list of things you intended to do invariably contains a number of items that have not been crossed off by the end of your stay. I didn’t make it to Harajuku on Sunday afternoon as I planned and I didn’t get to the Science Museum. On the other hand, the reasons for not crossing off the items are often more interesting than the items themselves.

Yesterday we were invited to a lunch in Ginza with Shun and Ami (the newlyweds) along with Akino’s parents and her brother Noriki. Hence the Sunday afternoon and Harajuku didn’t happen. Instead we got to eat at a chinese gyoza restaurant of some renown. We arrived there to be greeted by an enormous queue that stretched down two flights of stairs and into the street. Ami had already arrived and secured our table, so we didn’t have to queue up. The food was delicious.

Afterward we went to an izakaya with some of Shun’s friends that had come over from Australia. The izakaya was famous for selling 180 yen beer. Now you might not think that 180 yen is cheap for a glass of beer (it’s about AUD$2.40) but let me assure you that it’s cheap in Tokyo. We had a great time and all got our moneys worth out of the beer!

Today, for our last day, we’ve come to Shibuya. Shibuya is one of the busiest places in Tokyo and let me assure you that’s saying quite a lot. The station is famous for having the statue of Hachiko at one of the entrances. Hachiko is a dog that used to meet his master every day at the station. When his master died, Hachiko continued to come to the same station entrance every day for several years afterward. The residents around Shibuya would greet him and feed him and when he finally passed on to join the great dog kennel in the sky, they erected a statue in his honour.

It’s a bit of a sad story, but the worst is yet to come. Apparently there is a Hollywood movie in the making, telling the story of Hachiko as only Americans can and starring … wait for it … Richard Gere!

OK, there are a bunch of other posts that I have been typing over the last few days that I’ll make over the next day or two. I also have a shedload of pictures (I took around 300 pictures at the wedding alone). For now I’m going to take some snaps of this cafe and go back to the Hachiko Statue to meet up with Akino.

See you all soon!

And here's the photos

Akino hams it up for the typhoon pictures.

Checking out the subway map to find where we have to go.

The Museum of Science. Note the little Stars of David.

Inside the Science Museum

The National Budokan

The National Budokan again. I took this picture on the way back.

Took this pic at the Gates of the Budokan

Outside the Budokan

At the National Museum of Modern Art (it was closed)