Try searching this story in the SMH for the word "labor".
I can save you the bother if you like - it's not there.
Funny how when a Democrat or Labor politician is accused of doing something naughty, the press never identifies their politican party.
Tuesday, 2 June 2009
The insanity of public school "voluntary" contributions
From the Silly today:
Hell, I spend more than that each year on tennis lessons for junior. And more again on guitar lessons. Why would I even blink for a second at putting that amount, or more, into the school if I thought it would do some good?
(And I will hopefully spend that amount on skiing for Junior this year, snow permitting).
My biggest complaint with some of these public schools is how much they underestimate the willingness of parents to cough up extra cash for worthwhile educational causes. Because if the school does not do a good job, I am going to be on the hook for a lot more than $700 over the next few years for sending him to a private school. Hell, I'd happily pay $1,000 a year.
And I'd prefer to pay it directly, out of my pocket, rather than having it removed by the taxman, shuffled through the bureaucracy, and having about $850 pop out the other end, which would immediately fall into the hands of the head office educational bureaucrats, who would spend $800 of it on new leather lounges and give 50 bucks to the school and tell them that they can only spend it on breathalyser kits and mobility ramps.
A NORTH SHORE public high school is pressing parents to make "voluntary" contributions of up to $700 a year, more than double the rate charged by most schools, to make up for a "shortfall in government funding".I have no issue with a state school tapping parents for extra cash, particularly in Mosman. I know people over there that have sent their kids to the local public schools, which have a good name, and they have incomes in the multiples of hundreds of thousands. They spend more than $700 per year on ski lessons for their kids.
The Mosman High School P&C has written to parents urging them to pay an average of $400 for subject contributions in addition to the voluntary general contribution of up to $254 for year 12 students.
Hell, I spend more than that each year on tennis lessons for junior. And more again on guitar lessons. Why would I even blink for a second at putting that amount, or more, into the school if I thought it would do some good?
(And I will hopefully spend that amount on skiing for Junior this year, snow permitting).
My biggest complaint with some of these public schools is how much they underestimate the willingness of parents to cough up extra cash for worthwhile educational causes. Because if the school does not do a good job, I am going to be on the hook for a lot more than $700 over the next few years for sending him to a private school. Hell, I'd happily pay $1,000 a year.
And I'd prefer to pay it directly, out of my pocket, rather than having it removed by the taxman, shuffled through the bureaucracy, and having about $850 pop out the other end, which would immediately fall into the hands of the head office educational bureaucrats, who would spend $800 of it on new leather lounges and give 50 bucks to the school and tell them that they can only spend it on breathalyser kits and mobility ramps.
Monday, 1 June 2009
If you import poor people, you have more poverty
That is not my line by the way. I've imported it, in the spirit of globalisation.
I do wonder at times though whether ACOSS and all the other similar special pleading groups make a connection between a barmy immigration policy and their never ending cries for "more money for the poor".
We rarely see absolute poverty in Australia any more. If we do, it is more usually an outcome of poor personal choices - drug or alcohol addiction, single parent families, poor or non-existent English skills or behavioural patterns that put off even the most desperate employer. Or a combination of all of the above.
What we mostly have today is relative poverty. Some of the past indicators of absolute poverty were ragged clothes, a starved appearance, a lack of shoes and very poor health (brought about by vitamin deficiency, poor sanitation, lack of good food and heating in winter).
Starvation is a thing of the past - remember the Irish Spud Shortage, when emaciated bodies lined the roads? These days, obesity is more likely to afflict the poor.
As for clothes, even the meanest wasters can afford numerous pairs of tracksuit pants, hooded tops and flannel shirts from Target.
And shoes? When I see housing commission kids wearing more expensive trainers than I have on, I know absolute poverty is a thing of the past. We all have flush toilets, so sanitation is no longer a killer of the poor (dysentery, typhoid etc), and although housing might be cramped and expensive in Sydney, most of the poor have a nice brick and tiled place to call home. Around here, you even get million dollar water views with your housing commission crack den.
Vitamin deficiencies and poor diet are now a matter of choice, as in what you stuff your face with, rather than an absolute shortage of fresh fruit and vegetables. If we eat salted cabbage these days, it is not because it is the only way to make it last through the winter - instead, it is a culinary preference.
Enough of our poor.
The beauty of our capitalist system is that it allows everyone a chance to lift their position in the world. You can start with stuff-all, and acquire wealth throughout your life, ending up with a comfortable retirement. Look at uni students for instance. They graduate with not a lot to their name, except for a pile of debt and a bit of paper - and the chance to leverage that bit of paper into something good. Over a working life of say 40 years, many will earn enough to raise a family, pay off a nice house, own a number of cars, take overseas holidays and furnish that house in ways that were unimaginable to the richest billionaires 100 years ago. They do that through effort, thrift and a lot of sweat and a fair amount of stress.
But they can go from owing thousands of dollars in student fees to a substantial level of comfort over the course of their life. From serious negative net worth to millionaires perhaps.
And you no longer need a uni degree to make that transition. Miners, plumbers, carpenters, electricians and so forth now generally command wages that easily catapult them into the ranks of the comfortable middle class.
An interesting statistic from the US is that over the last few decades, even as the population has been growing, the absolute number of white and black Americans living in poverty has been declining. I will have to dig the numbers up, but the number of one of those groups living in poverty dropped from 9.8 million to 9 million over a decade or two as the total population grew by tens of millions. As nasty as capitalism can seem to many, that is not a bad result.
However, the total number of people living in poverty grew. Why? Because the total number of Hispanics living in poverty grew by a greater number than those whites and blacks that emerged from poverty. And most of those Hispanics were poor, illegal immigrants from south of the border.
In other words, if you allow in millions of poor people, you end up with more poor people in absolute terms. All your efforts to lift your indigenous poor out of poverty will be nullified if more poor people keep on coming in.
Now I have no complaint with allowing in lots of immigrants. I don't even mind letting in poor immigrants - after all, my in-laws arrived flat broke and unable to speak English.
But that didn't stop them from starting a business, learning English off their own bat, paying taxes, getting involved with their church and charities, putting their kids through school and dealing with everyone they met in English, not their native language. They did not ask for government handouts and government assistance and government guidance. They just did it. They are living proof that migrants can settle and fit in and get by without any government meddling or support - as are many, many other immigrants who have hoed the same row.
And that's how I like it. If you are poor, and you want to move here - good luck to you (assuming you get in legally). Come on in and have a go. You might succeed. You might fail. That's the nature of things. But please don't expect to be showered with services and support by the government.
Unfortunately, that seems to be the way things are today. We have bleeding-heart do-gooder groups on one hand bleating for money because they think that immigrants will do better if showered with cash and services, which just act as a crutch and a brake on assimilation (instead of adapting and settling in and); and on the other we have what I call the Migrant Mafia - small groups of "spokespeople" who extort money and patronage from governments in return for votes (which they assemble via the client state).
If an immigrant lands on our shores as a poor person, they are not going to lift themselves out of poverty by relying on the state for the rest of their life. They will only become wealthy through work - paid employment, or running their own business. Getting them addicted to the government tit as soon as they arrive is not doing them any favours.
I might be hard, but consigning someone to a life time of government dependent poverty is plain cruel.
I do wonder at times though whether ACOSS and all the other similar special pleading groups make a connection between a barmy immigration policy and their never ending cries for "more money for the poor".
We rarely see absolute poverty in Australia any more. If we do, it is more usually an outcome of poor personal choices - drug or alcohol addiction, single parent families, poor or non-existent English skills or behavioural patterns that put off even the most desperate employer. Or a combination of all of the above.
What we mostly have today is relative poverty. Some of the past indicators of absolute poverty were ragged clothes, a starved appearance, a lack of shoes and very poor health (brought about by vitamin deficiency, poor sanitation, lack of good food and heating in winter).
Starvation is a thing of the past - remember the Irish Spud Shortage, when emaciated bodies lined the roads? These days, obesity is more likely to afflict the poor.
As for clothes, even the meanest wasters can afford numerous pairs of tracksuit pants, hooded tops and flannel shirts from Target.
And shoes? When I see housing commission kids wearing more expensive trainers than I have on, I know absolute poverty is a thing of the past. We all have flush toilets, so sanitation is no longer a killer of the poor (dysentery, typhoid etc), and although housing might be cramped and expensive in Sydney, most of the poor have a nice brick and tiled place to call home. Around here, you even get million dollar water views with your housing commission crack den.
Vitamin deficiencies and poor diet are now a matter of choice, as in what you stuff your face with, rather than an absolute shortage of fresh fruit and vegetables. If we eat salted cabbage these days, it is not because it is the only way to make it last through the winter - instead, it is a culinary preference.
Enough of our poor.
The beauty of our capitalist system is that it allows everyone a chance to lift their position in the world. You can start with stuff-all, and acquire wealth throughout your life, ending up with a comfortable retirement. Look at uni students for instance. They graduate with not a lot to their name, except for a pile of debt and a bit of paper - and the chance to leverage that bit of paper into something good. Over a working life of say 40 years, many will earn enough to raise a family, pay off a nice house, own a number of cars, take overseas holidays and furnish that house in ways that were unimaginable to the richest billionaires 100 years ago. They do that through effort, thrift and a lot of sweat and a fair amount of stress.
But they can go from owing thousands of dollars in student fees to a substantial level of comfort over the course of their life. From serious negative net worth to millionaires perhaps.
And you no longer need a uni degree to make that transition. Miners, plumbers, carpenters, electricians and so forth now generally command wages that easily catapult them into the ranks of the comfortable middle class.
An interesting statistic from the US is that over the last few decades, even as the population has been growing, the absolute number of white and black Americans living in poverty has been declining. I will have to dig the numbers up, but the number of one of those groups living in poverty dropped from 9.8 million to 9 million over a decade or two as the total population grew by tens of millions. As nasty as capitalism can seem to many, that is not a bad result.
However, the total number of people living in poverty grew. Why? Because the total number of Hispanics living in poverty grew by a greater number than those whites and blacks that emerged from poverty. And most of those Hispanics were poor, illegal immigrants from south of the border.
In other words, if you allow in millions of poor people, you end up with more poor people in absolute terms. All your efforts to lift your indigenous poor out of poverty will be nullified if more poor people keep on coming in.
Now I have no complaint with allowing in lots of immigrants. I don't even mind letting in poor immigrants - after all, my in-laws arrived flat broke and unable to speak English.
But that didn't stop them from starting a business, learning English off their own bat, paying taxes, getting involved with their church and charities, putting their kids through school and dealing with everyone they met in English, not their native language. They did not ask for government handouts and government assistance and government guidance. They just did it. They are living proof that migrants can settle and fit in and get by without any government meddling or support - as are many, many other immigrants who have hoed the same row.
And that's how I like it. If you are poor, and you want to move here - good luck to you (assuming you get in legally). Come on in and have a go. You might succeed. You might fail. That's the nature of things. But please don't expect to be showered with services and support by the government.
Unfortunately, that seems to be the way things are today. We have bleeding-heart do-gooder groups on one hand bleating for money because they think that immigrants will do better if showered with cash and services, which just act as a crutch and a brake on assimilation (instead of adapting and settling in and); and on the other we have what I call the Migrant Mafia - small groups of "spokespeople" who extort money and patronage from governments in return for votes (which they assemble via the client state).
If an immigrant lands on our shores as a poor person, they are not going to lift themselves out of poverty by relying on the state for the rest of their life. They will only become wealthy through work - paid employment, or running their own business. Getting them addicted to the government tit as soon as they arrive is not doing them any favours.
I might be hard, but consigning someone to a life time of government dependent poverty is plain cruel.
Small OH&S issue here methinks
From Wikipedia:
Mk 3 Centurion Type K,British Army number 06 BA 16, later devolved under Contract Demand 2843 to the Australian Army, who gave it registration number 169041, was involved in a nuclear blast test at Emu Field in Australia in 1953.
It was placed about 500 metres from the device being detonated and left with the engine running. Upon return to the tank for subsequent examination it was found to have been pushed away from the blast point by about 2 metres and that its engine had stopped working only because it had run out of fuel. Antennas were missing, lights and periscopes were heavily sand blasted and the cloth mantlet cover was heavily carbonised but the tank was able to be driven away from the site. Had the tank been manned, it is unlikely that the crew would have survived due to the shock wave created by an atomic blast.
169041, subsequently nicknamed The Atomic Tank, was later used in the Vietnam War and is now located at Robertson Barracks in Palmerston, Northern Territory. Although other tanks were subjected to nuclear tests, 169041 is the only tank known to have withstood atomic tests and subsequently gone on for another 23 years of service, including 15 months on operational deployment in a war zone.---------------
I wonder if it glows in the dark?
Sunday, 31 May 2009
Wet
There is something vaguely absurd about riding in the rain on the weekend.
No, forget that.
There is something patently absurd about it.
When you have a house which is warm and dry, with everything but a roaring log fire going in the lounge room, what sort of fool pulls on lycra and a helmet and ventures out into the tempest?
Me, of course. As I get older, I can feel more screws working loose. I must have a drawer-full rattling around up top by now.
Riding in the rain is quite tolerable as long as certain conditions are met.
First, it can't be too cold. Even in the depths of winter, Sydney is never bone-chillingly cold down here in the flat lands. Sure, it can snow up in the Blue Mountains and hail down in the Southern Highlands, but here, it's balmy by comparison. If I lived in the mountains, I'd be cycling in a wet suit at this time of year.
Perversely, you don't want it to be too warm either. I always wear glasses of some sort, even if they are clear plastic, to keep bugs and pollen and flying bits of gravel and so forth out of my eyes. If it rains on a warm day, things are fine so long as you have forward motion - the wind blowing around your face stops the lenses from fogging up. However, stop at a traffic light, and all the steaming sweat rising from your face will fog them instantly. That's not a problem if the day is cold and wet. I never thought I'd say I prefered cold and wet to warm and wet. Cyclists at rest on a warm, wet day look like steam trains with all the clouds of moisture boiling off their heads.
Then there is wind. Nothing beats the misery of grinding into a strong head wind when the rain is pouring down - or more accurately, slamming into your face on a 45 degree angle from the vertical. Or sometimes blowing horizontally into your face. Again, hence the glasses.
What I really hate is that first powerful downpour after a long period without rain. The roads are covered in grit and oil, and all that rises to the surface and is slooshed around in muddy slicks. On days like that, I arrive at work with a rooster tail of oil and mud up my back, and a face that feels like it has been adopted from an oil rig worker. Eau de West Texas Crude feels as horrible as it sounds. I am not ashamed to say that I regularly pinch J's facial scrubbing stuff on wet and wooly days, and use it to remove the road grease from my pores.
But by far, the worst thing about riding in the rain is pulling on wet knicks at the end of the day. Every place that I have ever worked at has lacked any form of drying facilities. If I ever start my own company, I am buying a dryer on the company tab. You get to work in the morning, dripping wet; shower and hang the wet gear in the change room to drip dry as much as possible. It might dry out over 3 or 4 days, but the 8 or 9 hours between arrival and departure are just not enough for a thorough evaporative process.
Ever pulled on wet bathers? That's exactly what it is like. After 4 years of doing that, I had a brainwave tonight in the shower - why not pack a dry pair of knicks in my backpack on rainy days? Has it really taken me that long to think of that idea?
Like I've said before, getting old is hell. The slowing down of one's mental processes is a tragedy to behold.
The problem with that of course is that even though you might have nice, dry knicks, you still have wet socks, wet shoes, wet gloves, a wet helmet, a wet jersey and even a wet backpack.
Oh well, back to square one.
No, forget that.
There is something patently absurd about it.
When you have a house which is warm and dry, with everything but a roaring log fire going in the lounge room, what sort of fool pulls on lycra and a helmet and ventures out into the tempest?
Me, of course. As I get older, I can feel more screws working loose. I must have a drawer-full rattling around up top by now.
Riding in the rain is quite tolerable as long as certain conditions are met.
First, it can't be too cold. Even in the depths of winter, Sydney is never bone-chillingly cold down here in the flat lands. Sure, it can snow up in the Blue Mountains and hail down in the Southern Highlands, but here, it's balmy by comparison. If I lived in the mountains, I'd be cycling in a wet suit at this time of year.
Perversely, you don't want it to be too warm either. I always wear glasses of some sort, even if they are clear plastic, to keep bugs and pollen and flying bits of gravel and so forth out of my eyes. If it rains on a warm day, things are fine so long as you have forward motion - the wind blowing around your face stops the lenses from fogging up. However, stop at a traffic light, and all the steaming sweat rising from your face will fog them instantly. That's not a problem if the day is cold and wet. I never thought I'd say I prefered cold and wet to warm and wet. Cyclists at rest on a warm, wet day look like steam trains with all the clouds of moisture boiling off their heads.
Then there is wind. Nothing beats the misery of grinding into a strong head wind when the rain is pouring down - or more accurately, slamming into your face on a 45 degree angle from the vertical. Or sometimes blowing horizontally into your face. Again, hence the glasses.
What I really hate is that first powerful downpour after a long period without rain. The roads are covered in grit and oil, and all that rises to the surface and is slooshed around in muddy slicks. On days like that, I arrive at work with a rooster tail of oil and mud up my back, and a face that feels like it has been adopted from an oil rig worker. Eau de West Texas Crude feels as horrible as it sounds. I am not ashamed to say that I regularly pinch J's facial scrubbing stuff on wet and wooly days, and use it to remove the road grease from my pores.
But by far, the worst thing about riding in the rain is pulling on wet knicks at the end of the day. Every place that I have ever worked at has lacked any form of drying facilities. If I ever start my own company, I am buying a dryer on the company tab. You get to work in the morning, dripping wet; shower and hang the wet gear in the change room to drip dry as much as possible. It might dry out over 3 or 4 days, but the 8 or 9 hours between arrival and departure are just not enough for a thorough evaporative process.
Ever pulled on wet bathers? That's exactly what it is like. After 4 years of doing that, I had a brainwave tonight in the shower - why not pack a dry pair of knicks in my backpack on rainy days? Has it really taken me that long to think of that idea?
Like I've said before, getting old is hell. The slowing down of one's mental processes is a tragedy to behold.
The problem with that of course is that even though you might have nice, dry knicks, you still have wet socks, wet shoes, wet gloves, a wet helmet, a wet jersey and even a wet backpack.
Oh well, back to square one.
The pitfalls of retaining idiots
Some years ago, I worked for a good boss with a good team of people - except for one barking fuckwit. I liked my boss, but he had a massive blind spot when it came to the turd in the office down the hallway that reported to him. He simply failed to acknowledge that they guy was useless and a hindrance and was dragging us all down. He was also the greatest source of stress in our office, bar none. If he buggered something up (which he did regularly), we all wore it.
If our workplace was Vietnam and we were yanks, he would have been fragged a long time ago.
After a few particular egregious fuckwit-caused disasters, our boss could be persuaded to realise that the guy was a complete write-off, but then his heart would soften and he would let him off the hook for the 92nd time. He could not bring himself to discipline him, let alone sack him.
Fuckwit was particularly annoying because he knew that the rest of us would carry the can for him. Let's say he was on call over the weekend, and a problem cropped up. The normal after hours procedures would kick in and whoever was on duty would phone fuckwit.
Fuckwit would not answer.
So he'd be called again and again and again and again, on both his mobile number and home number and home-office number, and he just wouldn't pick up. He'd be sent emails and text messages (we all had blackberries) and he just wouldn't answer. He'd be goofing around with a pet project, and simply couldn't be shagged to do his duty - which he was being paid for.
Eventually, the person on duty would ring either me or one of the other blokes, and one or both of us would stop what we were doing and troop into town to fix it. I didn't mind doing that once - everyone forgets where they left their mobile phone every once in a while - but this guy pulled this trick all the time. And we wouldn't get paid, because he was on call and we weren't.
The most annoying part was that come Monday, after we had wasted half our weekend solving a problem that fuckwit had created and then run out on, fuckwit would be storming around the office complaining about us "tampering" with his stuff.
Yes, we had tampered with it - it was the only way to fix the problem, and he wouldn't admit that what we had done was actually something that he should have done months ago - in many cases, he would tell us in a management meeting that he had completed a certain task. A month later, something would fail on a weekend and we would discover that he had not completed that task - in fact, he hadn't even started on it. He'd simply lied about it, and moved on. So the only reason I had to work on a weekend was because he had not done his work, and had lied to all concerned about it.
Then we were all given an opportunity to stick with what we were doing, or move on to something else.
The only two people left in our department were our boss and fuckwit. Everyone else opted to split. None of us could bear the thought of working with fuckwit for one minute longer.
Crap eventually catches up with everyone.
If our workplace was Vietnam and we were yanks, he would have been fragged a long time ago.
After a few particular egregious fuckwit-caused disasters, our boss could be persuaded to realise that the guy was a complete write-off, but then his heart would soften and he would let him off the hook for the 92nd time. He could not bring himself to discipline him, let alone sack him.
Fuckwit was particularly annoying because he knew that the rest of us would carry the can for him. Let's say he was on call over the weekend, and a problem cropped up. The normal after hours procedures would kick in and whoever was on duty would phone fuckwit.
Fuckwit would not answer.
So he'd be called again and again and again and again, on both his mobile number and home number and home-office number, and he just wouldn't pick up. He'd be sent emails and text messages (we all had blackberries) and he just wouldn't answer. He'd be goofing around with a pet project, and simply couldn't be shagged to do his duty - which he was being paid for.
Eventually, the person on duty would ring either me or one of the other blokes, and one or both of us would stop what we were doing and troop into town to fix it. I didn't mind doing that once - everyone forgets where they left their mobile phone every once in a while - but this guy pulled this trick all the time. And we wouldn't get paid, because he was on call and we weren't.
The most annoying part was that come Monday, after we had wasted half our weekend solving a problem that fuckwit had created and then run out on, fuckwit would be storming around the office complaining about us "tampering" with his stuff.
Yes, we had tampered with it - it was the only way to fix the problem, and he wouldn't admit that what we had done was actually something that he should have done months ago - in many cases, he would tell us in a management meeting that he had completed a certain task. A month later, something would fail on a weekend and we would discover that he had not completed that task - in fact, he hadn't even started on it. He'd simply lied about it, and moved on. So the only reason I had to work on a weekend was because he had not done his work, and had lied to all concerned about it.
Then we were all given an opportunity to stick with what we were doing, or move on to something else.
The only two people left in our department were our boss and fuckwit. Everyone else opted to split. None of us could bear the thought of working with fuckwit for one minute longer.
Crap eventually catches up with everyone.
Saturday, 30 May 2009
Boing
Here's the scenario:
I drive into the office carpark, which is underground. I park near the entrance, in case I need to make a hasty exit, and start walking for the distant elevator. Where I have parked is about as far from the elevator as you can be and still be in the car park, and I have a ramp to climb as well to get there.
A car followed me in. It parked as close to the elevator as is possible without obstructing the doors of the elevator.
I reach the elevator. I press the button. The elevator arrives. I embark.
I hear the driver of the other car heading for the elevator, so I press the button to keep the doors open.
I keep my finger on the button.
It's still on the button.
My finger is getting tired.
Where is this other driver? It's only 20 metres from their car!
The other driver looms in the doorway. She barely comes up to my shoulder, yet she easily weighs 50% more than me. She is wheezing heavily from the 20 metre walk to the elevator, possibly because she has to "floor it" as I was holding the doors open.
She steps into the elevator.
Boing!
It drops at least an inch. My finger slips off the button. The elevator is built to carry 10 people, yet I wonder if it will handle the two of us.
She is too breathless to tell me her floor number. She has to hold up some fingers.
She alights before I do. Again - boing! - the elevator pops up an inch as she departs. The doors close.
I do an experiment. I try dropping jumping up and down a bit to see if I can make the same !boing! sensation.
No dice.
I jump even higher.
No dice. Just a slight bong, no !boing! in sight.
We reach my floor and the doors open. At this point, I am proving that white men can jump, and I am about a metre off the floor, manically bounding up and down. I am at mid point in my arc when the doors fully open and I see several people staring oddly at me, waiting for the elevator.
I slink out, never having replicated that !boing!
How many frickin' hamburgers did you have for breakfast, lady?
---------------
This is of course one of the reasons why I ride come hell or high water. Energy in needs to be balanced by energy out, and I am fond of putting the energy in - I like my food. It has to be expended or I will be expanded.
I drive into the office carpark, which is underground. I park near the entrance, in case I need to make a hasty exit, and start walking for the distant elevator. Where I have parked is about as far from the elevator as you can be and still be in the car park, and I have a ramp to climb as well to get there.
A car followed me in. It parked as close to the elevator as is possible without obstructing the doors of the elevator.
I reach the elevator. I press the button. The elevator arrives. I embark.
I hear the driver of the other car heading for the elevator, so I press the button to keep the doors open.
I keep my finger on the button.
It's still on the button.
My finger is getting tired.
Where is this other driver? It's only 20 metres from their car!
The other driver looms in the doorway. She barely comes up to my shoulder, yet she easily weighs 50% more than me. She is wheezing heavily from the 20 metre walk to the elevator, possibly because she has to "floor it" as I was holding the doors open.
She steps into the elevator.
Boing!
It drops at least an inch. My finger slips off the button. The elevator is built to carry 10 people, yet I wonder if it will handle the two of us.
She is too breathless to tell me her floor number. She has to hold up some fingers.
She alights before I do. Again - boing! - the elevator pops up an inch as she departs. The doors close.
I do an experiment. I try dropping jumping up and down a bit to see if I can make the same !boing! sensation.
No dice.
I jump even higher.
No dice. Just a slight bong, no !boing! in sight.
We reach my floor and the doors open. At this point, I am proving that white men can jump, and I am about a metre off the floor, manically bounding up and down. I am at mid point in my arc when the doors fully open and I see several people staring oddly at me, waiting for the elevator.
I slink out, never having replicated that !boing!
How many frickin' hamburgers did you have for breakfast, lady?
---------------
This is of course one of the reasons why I ride come hell or high water. Energy in needs to be balanced by energy out, and I am fond of putting the energy in - I like my food. It has to be expended or I will be expanded.
Regret
It's been a mucky old day here in Sydney - blue skies and fine one moment, pouring with rain and windy the next. Real Melbourne weather.
I made a break for it during a sunny period, figuring the rain might hold off long enough to let me ride for a few hours. Not wanting to sweat to death during that period, I took my jacket off and left it at home. It was a balmy 23 when I left - too warm for a jacket.
15 minutes later, down came the rain - and out came this rainbow.
I had to cut the ride short. I was icing up. My feet are still frozen solid, even after a nice hot shower. It was a case of "jackets on, jackets off" - and I should have left the damned thing on. I would have been toasty warm if I'd done that.
Bugger.
I made a break for it during a sunny period, figuring the rain might hold off long enough to let me ride for a few hours. Not wanting to sweat to death during that period, I took my jacket off and left it at home. It was a balmy 23 when I left - too warm for a jacket.
15 minutes later, down came the rain - and out came this rainbow.
I had to cut the ride short. I was icing up. My feet are still frozen solid, even after a nice hot shower. It was a case of "jackets on, jackets off" - and I should have left the damned thing on. I would have been toasty warm if I'd done that.
Bugger.
How do we make solar power affordable?
I should rephrase that to be "how do we make solar power look affordable"?
At present, there is a wide disparity between the price of electricity from coal or gas-fired plants and solar/wind/tidal/moonbeams/unicorn farts. For a long time now, the strategy of the greens/loons/tinfoil hats has been to say, "Look, the price of solar has come down dramatically over the last 5 years/10 years/since the Apollo 11 landings".
Sure, but it is still uneconomic. The disparity is still huge.
So how do we close the gap? Do we strive to make solar/wind/unicorn farts cheaper?
No. Instead, we change tack and make coal-fired electricity more expensive. Once the price has gone up enough, people will say, "Look, solar is now just as cheap as coal - isn't that marvelous"?
You idiots. If that happens, solar will not be as cheap as coal. Coal will be as expensive as solar.
Sure it's marvelous, if you don't mind paying 30% of your income in power bills, or living like a stone age hunter-gatherer.
ETS - a backdoor and nice sounding method of making uneconomic ideas look palatable. I prefer to call it an IEP - Increase Electricity Price.
At present, there is a wide disparity between the price of electricity from coal or gas-fired plants and solar/wind/tidal/moonbeams/unicorn farts. For a long time now, the strategy of the greens/loons/tinfoil hats has been to say, "Look, the price of solar has come down dramatically over the last 5 years/10 years/since the Apollo 11 landings".
Sure, but it is still uneconomic. The disparity is still huge.
So how do we close the gap? Do we strive to make solar/wind/unicorn farts cheaper?
No. Instead, we change tack and make coal-fired electricity more expensive. Once the price has gone up enough, people will say, "Look, solar is now just as cheap as coal - isn't that marvelous"?
You idiots. If that happens, solar will not be as cheap as coal. Coal will be as expensive as solar.
Sure it's marvelous, if you don't mind paying 30% of your income in power bills, or living like a stone age hunter-gatherer.
ETS - a backdoor and nice sounding method of making uneconomic ideas look palatable. I prefer to call it an IEP - Increase Electricity Price.
Thursday, 28 May 2009
Meat
The results of my semi-regular visit to the butcher. It's amazing what a growing teenager will get through in a few weeks. There are 22 meals worth in this photo.
Wednesday, 27 May 2009
Australia's future
Australia's future what?
Drug dealers? Welfare cheats? Tax dodgers? Wife beaters? Car thieves?
Signs like this make me see red. Platitudes. A lot like that "we are the world" muck.
Funnily enough, I have listened to a few Obama speeches, and they are simply a whole list of platitudes like this strung together.
Last post reprised
I posted earlier this week about doing no more posts on care packs for diggers overseas. That's not because I am not sending any further packs - it's because Nilk had a brainwave and started up a new blog devoted to this very topic, and very kindly asked me to participate.
It's called Ocean, Sky and Khaki - which refers to our sailors, air scouts and troops.
Kae, Nilk and I want OSK to be a point of reference and meeting for those who wish to support Australia's Military and for members to contact us to let us know what to put in those care packages to make their lives alittle easier.
If anyone has any links or ideas for the blog please let us know at OSK.
Blurb shamelessly ripped from Nilk, who ripped it from Kae.
It's called Ocean, Sky and Khaki - which refers to our sailors, air scouts and troops.
Kae, Nilk and I want OSK to be a point of reference and meeting for those who wish to support Australia's Military and for members to contact us to let us know what to put in those care packages to make their lives alittle easier.
If anyone has any links or ideas for the blog please let us know at OSK.
Blurb shamelessly ripped from Nilk, who ripped it from Kae.
Just gobsmacked
Junior regaled us last week with the events at a school sports carnival. J and I were waiting for him to tell us how he did in the 100 metres, 200 metres, long jump and so on. And we waited. And waited.
Eventually, we got an answer as to what he did all day.
"We sat around doing nothing, then a lady lent us a basketball, so we spent the afternoon playing basketball".
Hello? Wasn't this supposed to be an athletics day? What has basketball got to do with athletics?
I assumed that the teachers had taken over running the show, so I said, "In my day, the year 12's ran the show. The prefects in each house decided who was going to run in each heat, or which field event you would do, and that was that".
I had stupidly assumed that in this age of uselessness, the prefects no longer had a role in running this sort of show, and the teachers were too overrun with work to get the kids organised.
Junior's answer just about knocked J and I off our chairs: "Yeah, the prefects run the show, but they spent all day running around trying to get kids to participate".
WHAT???? They had to ASK!!!!!
J just about blew a gasket. When we were at school, there was none of this "asking" rubbish - there was doing. As in, "You will do this or that. You may not like it, you may not be any good at it, but you will do it. Anyone who objects can take it up with Brad."
Brad* being a none-too-intelligent year 12 from a sheep farm, who was quite capable of carrying a keg under each arm - and running with them - and who also harboured a strange fondness for thumping younger kids who failed to "respect mah authoritay".
I am still in shock. I am gobsmacked. Who said teenagers have the common sense and wisdom to make decisions? Bugger me, I certainly didn't at that age.
J was most riled because these little cotton balls are going to get the shock of their lives when they hit the workforce. They'll be told to do this or do that and they'll say they don't want to, and then they'll be standing on the street with all their possessions in a bag wondering what happened; and then complaining what a cruel bastard their ex-boss was.
*Brad was in fact a composite every year 12 at our school. They all seemed to take a perverse delight in thumping arrogant little snots. Funnily enough, when I reached year 12, I developed a particular knack for chasing down, catching and whacking snotty little gobshites.
Eventually, we got an answer as to what he did all day.
"We sat around doing nothing, then a lady lent us a basketball, so we spent the afternoon playing basketball".
Hello? Wasn't this supposed to be an athletics day? What has basketball got to do with athletics?
I assumed that the teachers had taken over running the show, so I said, "In my day, the year 12's ran the show. The prefects in each house decided who was going to run in each heat, or which field event you would do, and that was that".
I had stupidly assumed that in this age of uselessness, the prefects no longer had a role in running this sort of show, and the teachers were too overrun with work to get the kids organised.
Junior's answer just about knocked J and I off our chairs: "Yeah, the prefects run the show, but they spent all day running around trying to get kids to participate".
WHAT???? They had to ASK!!!!!
J just about blew a gasket. When we were at school, there was none of this "asking" rubbish - there was doing. As in, "You will do this or that. You may not like it, you may not be any good at it, but you will do it. Anyone who objects can take it up with Brad."
Brad* being a none-too-intelligent year 12 from a sheep farm, who was quite capable of carrying a keg under each arm - and running with them - and who also harboured a strange fondness for thumping younger kids who failed to "respect mah authoritay".
I am still in shock. I am gobsmacked. Who said teenagers have the common sense and wisdom to make decisions? Bugger me, I certainly didn't at that age.
J was most riled because these little cotton balls are going to get the shock of their lives when they hit the workforce. They'll be told to do this or do that and they'll say they don't want to, and then they'll be standing on the street with all their possessions in a bag wondering what happened; and then complaining what a cruel bastard their ex-boss was.
*Brad was in fact a composite every year 12 at our school. They all seemed to take a perverse delight in thumping arrogant little snots. Funnily enough, when I reached year 12, I developed a particular knack for chasing down, catching and whacking snotty little gobshites.
Pain II
I have the answer to the busted muscle under my tit - tennis. I had a whack on the weekend, and as usual, attempted to pound the furry cover off the little green thing.
Damn this getting old!
Damn this getting old!
I don't get it
When Sol Trujilo's Hispanic heritage is pointed out, it is racism.
When Obama picks a new Supreme Court judge that is Hispanic, a huge deal is made of it and the luvvies think it is a good thing.
Am I missing something here?
By the way, I can see Sotomayer being a disaster. As soon as I heard Obama mention the word "empathy" to describe her, all I could think of was "bleeding heart".
The poor old seppos really are copping it on all fronts at the moment.
When Obama picks a new Supreme Court judge that is Hispanic, a huge deal is made of it and the luvvies think it is a good thing.
Am I missing something here?
By the way, I can see Sotomayer being a disaster. As soon as I heard Obama mention the word "empathy" to describe her, all I could think of was "bleeding heart".
The poor old seppos really are copping it on all fronts at the moment.
Tuesday, 26 May 2009
Pain
After nearly a month of miserable weather, today was a doozy - clear blue skies, 28 degrees, hardly a breath of wind. I bailed out of work as early as possible and hit the road for a couple of hours - photos from a couple of sites that I stopped at are displayed in the next few posts.
It was not the greatest of rides though. I started out feeling flat and winded. Small hills left me short of breath, where normally I'd be hardly puffing. I seemed to be 25% off my usual pace, like I hadn't been on the bike for a year rather than a month. I think I've shaken off the flu - but perhaps a bit is still hanging around?
I was hoping to ride for 3 hours, but the lack of oomph early on dictated a shorter ride. There are days when you feel that the wind is at your back and you could ride forever, and then there are days when you feel like you are dragging a tree trunk around behind you. Today was one of those "days with trees" sort of days. I took a lot of photos because I needed plenty of excuses to stop and recover - and it was a great day for taking photos too.
The kicker was when I was only about 5 minutes from home. I was sitting at a red light, and decided to swap my water bottles around - moving the empty one to the rear holder and bringing the full one forward. That might seem like a strange thing to do when so close to home, but I like to guzzle a lot of water as I wind down on the home stretch.
That simple act of reaching for the rear water bottle set off something terrible in my pecs. It felt like I had been stabbed with a hot knitting needle in the arm pit, with the needle being pushed slowly across my pec to my nipple. It was absolutely excruciating - a muscle tear in slow motion. It's happened before a few times when I have been riding - the first time when I was trying to get a bulky camera out of my back pocket (I have opted for flat-pack cameras ever since). It seems that I can't combine rides of a few hours with certain arm movements - I probably need a physiotherapist to explain why.
The lights went green, and I had to struggle off with one arm held across my chest - it hurt too much to lean forward and hold the handlebars with the bung arm. I managed to ride a few hundreds metres, and then I had to stop. When this has happened in the past, I've ridden through it - the pain being bad, but manageable. This time, there was no way I could keep going, even though I could almost see home. I had to pull over and stand on the foot path for a few minutes until it subsided.
It just so happened that I was on a busy road, and I got to see many motorists driving by with bemused looks on their faces, wondering what the hell I was doing standing there with one arm held across my body. I tried stretching the arm this way and that - nothing worked. I was going to have to wait it out.
Eventually, the knitting needle was withdrawn from my pectoral muscle, and I was able to continue. It doesn't hurt at all now, and I was able to pick up heavy stuff when I got home. Maybe it was a cramp or spasm rather than a tear?
Who cares what it was - it hurt like all buggery. Damn this getting old.
On second thoughts, it might have been the subclavius muscle giving grief - it depresses the shoulder, bring it forward and down, which is what I was doing in order to swap the water bottles around. How on earth do you perform stretches on a muscle like that before a ride?
It was not the greatest of rides though. I started out feeling flat and winded. Small hills left me short of breath, where normally I'd be hardly puffing. I seemed to be 25% off my usual pace, like I hadn't been on the bike for a year rather than a month. I think I've shaken off the flu - but perhaps a bit is still hanging around?
I was hoping to ride for 3 hours, but the lack of oomph early on dictated a shorter ride. There are days when you feel that the wind is at your back and you could ride forever, and then there are days when you feel like you are dragging a tree trunk around behind you. Today was one of those "days with trees" sort of days. I took a lot of photos because I needed plenty of excuses to stop and recover - and it was a great day for taking photos too.
The kicker was when I was only about 5 minutes from home. I was sitting at a red light, and decided to swap my water bottles around - moving the empty one to the rear holder and bringing the full one forward. That might seem like a strange thing to do when so close to home, but I like to guzzle a lot of water as I wind down on the home stretch.
That simple act of reaching for the rear water bottle set off something terrible in my pecs. It felt like I had been stabbed with a hot knitting needle in the arm pit, with the needle being pushed slowly across my pec to my nipple. It was absolutely excruciating - a muscle tear in slow motion. It's happened before a few times when I have been riding - the first time when I was trying to get a bulky camera out of my back pocket (I have opted for flat-pack cameras ever since). It seems that I can't combine rides of a few hours with certain arm movements - I probably need a physiotherapist to explain why.
The lights went green, and I had to struggle off with one arm held across my chest - it hurt too much to lean forward and hold the handlebars with the bung arm. I managed to ride a few hundreds metres, and then I had to stop. When this has happened in the past, I've ridden through it - the pain being bad, but manageable. This time, there was no way I could keep going, even though I could almost see home. I had to pull over and stand on the foot path for a few minutes until it subsided.
It just so happened that I was on a busy road, and I got to see many motorists driving by with bemused looks on their faces, wondering what the hell I was doing standing there with one arm held across my body. I tried stretching the arm this way and that - nothing worked. I was going to have to wait it out.
Eventually, the knitting needle was withdrawn from my pectoral muscle, and I was able to continue. It doesn't hurt at all now, and I was able to pick up heavy stuff when I got home. Maybe it was a cramp or spasm rather than a tear?
Who cares what it was - it hurt like all buggery. Damn this getting old.
On second thoughts, it might have been the subclavius muscle giving grief - it depresses the shoulder, bring it forward and down, which is what I was doing in order to swap the water bottles around. How on earth do you perform stretches on a muscle like that before a ride?
Great trucking poems of the renaissance
Not quite Great Trucking Songs of the Renaissance... instead, we have trucking poems from Homebush. This sign explains all:
Your tax dollars at work presumably... again.
There were lots of them. I noticed no one has been stealing them to take home. That says all you need to know.
Your tax dollars at work presumably... again.
There were lots of them. I noticed no one has been stealing them to take home. That says all you need to know.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)