FSM bless Us, Every One!

At this time of year I always indulge in a viewing of A Muppet Christmas Carol, at least once, and often any other version of the delightful workings of Mr Dickens' original story. This year saw my discovery of a recent British version, featuring the thuggish Ross Kemp as a loan shark on a London housing estate. I watched it three times, forcing different family members to sit with me each time.

This may seem a bit strange to those of you who have to deal with my usual "Bah! Humbug" attitude to Christmas with all of its modern trappings, but I will defend myself (of course). It is not the notion of a Christian Christmas that Dickens and I want to espouse, but the spirit of the season--the idea that every human being has intrinsic value; that every person has something to give, from the little drummer boy to the most exalted saint. This is the basic philosophy of humanism:

Whereas recognition of the inherent dignity and of the equal and inalienable rights of all members of the human family is the foundation of freedom, justice and peace in the world,

which is the opening sentence of the 1948 Universal Declaration of Human Rights (my emphasis).

Here in Australia, the government's response to the current global economic crisis included a one-time cash payment of $1000 per child to every family earning less than a certain income threshold.* The government encouraged families to spend this money on goods and services in the lead-up to Christmas, with the idea of boosting the economy.

I have found the Scrooge-like reactions appalling. One relative, who will remain nameless, complained that her family did not qualify for the payment because their household income was too high: "It sends the wrong message," she said, "to single mothers with five children by six different fathers, who think they can just go out and have more children and the government will give them more money." (That's a loose approximation, not a direct quote, but you get the gist.) "While hardworking people like us get nothing to help with our two mortgages and cable television subscriptions and air-conditioning repairs," she continued in the same vein. In my mind, I could hear Scrooge: "My taxes pay for the poorhouses and prisons, let them go there!"

There have been numerous news stories about families hit by the economic crisis. Last night, a family of four on the television news were shown sitting in front of their widescreen television and wondering how they were going to afford holidays next year when their mortgage payments go up. The other day a couple in the newspaper complained because it was becoming too expensive for her to drive their 4WD from the inner city to the outer suburbs four times a week to visit an elderly parent, while he claimed he had tried taking public transport to the movies instead of driving, "but it is so annoying because sometimes I have to wait for a train". I just want to grab these people by the shoulders and shake them, while shouting, "You are not poor! These are not sacrifices!"

I think it's partly the media's fault for encouraging the whingeing. It doesn't sell newspapers if you have headlines saying, "Poor people still unaffected by mortgage rate rises" or "Tax breaks no help for chronically unemployed" or "Pensioner spends government handout on food and clothing".

As the old year passes and a new one begins, I will be making a resolution to "honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year." I will be thankful for what I have, seek opportunities to share it with those less fortunate, and look for the unique gifts that every person in society can offer. I hope you will too.

* Disclaimer: we didn't qualify for the payment because we earn too much, a fact which makes me both proud and humble.

Missing child

You know how you always get those emails about missing kids but it turns out that they're not missing at all or the information is several decades old...

Well, I know this one is real. In fact, the father of the missing four-year-old is one of His Honour's colleagues. Our local news media has recently run the story and I have a copy of the court order allowing the publication of the information.

Please look at this website and, wherever you are in the world, look for the mother and child. It is thought they may be in Europe, as they were last seen in Germany.

Note that you are asked not to approach them if you see them, but to contact the Australian Federal Police.

Imperial America

So, I'm reading Death from the Skies, and I come to this footnote (page 142):

* Just to be clear, mass and weight are different. Mass is a property of matter; you can think of it as how much matter there is, and we measure it in grams or kilograms. Weight is the force of gravity on that mass, and we measure it in pounds. A cannonball has the same mass whether it's on the Earth or the Moon, but on the Moon it weighs one-sixth as much because gravity is one-sixth as strong; on the Earth 1 kilogram equals 2.2 pounds, but on the Moon it weighs about 0.36 pound.

I wish to argue this point with my American friends (and that means you, Farmer Pete). The distinction between mass and weight is valid, but you noodles must remember that you guys are just about the only ones in the world who measure weight in weird, old-fashioned units, such as pounds and slugs.

The way Phil has put it is confusing to those of us in the real (read: rest of the) world, where mass is measured in kilograms and weight is commonly measured in kilograms. For instance, in Australia, 1 kilogram of mass equals 1 kilogram of weight. Except perhaps at the top of Mount Kosciuszko, where it might weigh just a little more, or at Lake Eyre, where it would weigh a smidgeon less, but probably not enough to tip even the finest calibration of kitchen scales.

Furthermore, to be really technical, weight is a measure of the force of gravity on the mass of an object (weight = mass x acceleration, for those of you who can't recall high school physics) and it is actually measured in newtons, the SI unit of force. 1 newton is, appropriately, approximately the weight of a small apple at the Earth's surface -- 102g -- and therefore the weight of 1 kilogram at the surface of the Earth is 9.8 newtons, and on the moon, 1.63 newtons.

I raise this point--not as a criticism of Dr Plait's book or his reasoning, which is otherwise entertaining and excellent--but only because that small footnote cost me a couple of hours of brain strain and kept His Honour, AFSM, awake for at least half an hour while I bent his ear about it in bed. The text above is a distilled version of my research and reasoning that I hope will save you the same brain strain when you read the book. Which you should, because it's a great read.

I also wouldn't mind if it alerted some of our US friends that they are about two centuries behind the rest of the world when it comes to a sensible system of weights and measures, and they shouldn't just assume that "we measure it in pounds" when they are writing for an international audience.

On another astronomical note, the Hair Dude and I went to see "Time Warp", a show about space, time and magic with Dr Fred Watson from the Anglo-Australian Observatory and Matt Hollywood, magician. It was entertaining and informative, and the Hair Dude got his copy of Why is Uranus Upside Down? autographed by the star himself. I'll bet Dr Watson doesn't fool around with pounds and slugs in that book, but I'll let you know when we've read it.

Atmosphere

Last night this gorgeous sunset greeted me when I trudged up the hill with my camera. I was so annoyed! Why?


Because it was blocking my view of a celestial phenomenon that won't happen again for 18 years! I hung around for a while in the hope that the wind might blow the clouds away, but unfortunately it only seemed to be blowing them in. The following (digitally enhanced) shot is the best I was able to get through a thin patch of cloud. At least the three players (the moon, Venus at the top of the frame and Jupiter, faintly on the right) are visible, if not clear.


The one good thing about the night was that I discovered an amazing viewing spot for future use, with 180-degree views to the western horizon. And no, I'm not telling you where it is.

Maison Martin Margiella

I want to shop at this store. When am I going to Paris?

Grumpy old lady rant

Last night I went to the Sydney Opera House to see Sting and Edin Karamazov perform the beautiful Elizabethan lute music from the album Songs from the Labyrinth. I bought the album when it came out last year and loved the arrangements of John Dowland's music, so I was pleased that I managed to snaffle one of the last seats in the Concert Hall for this one-night concert. When I rang the box office to book, they made a point of asking if I was aware that this was not Sting doing his own music, I suppose to avoid disappointed fans.
Nevertheless, the audience on the night was fairly obviously not made up of regular Opera House patrons, judging by the number who had difficulty figuring out where their seats were and exhibiting the following annoying behaviours:
1. Flash photography in the Concert Hall. As if it's not bad enough that they ignore the signs on the foyer walls and the instructions on the back of the tickets, there was an announcement before the start of the concert asking patrons to turn off their mobile phones and refrain from photography -- and the key words are "for the enjoyment of other patrons". Despite all this, in a very dark concert hall with only low spotlights on Sting and Edin, bright camera flashes went off intermittently all night, even during the songs! Apart from the strain it was putting on my retinae, what kind of photos did they think they were going to get anyway? Dim, blurry pictures of two blokes on a dark stage -- the flash doesn't even reach that far. And what is it about Generation Y that they have to have photographs of themselves at every possible occasion? Are they afraid they'll forget where they've been?
2. Mobile phones. Not only did someone's alarm go off during the concert, but in the dark auditorium it was easy to see the subtle blue glow every time someone checked their phone for messages. Again, what is it about Generation Y that they can't even go for an hour and a half without being in touch with their absent friends -- during a concert, for god's sake?
3. People who, despite the box office warning, only came to hear Sting sing his own music. When they had worked through the Songs from the Labyrinth/John Dowland material, the performers left the stage. I expected an encore, because they had not played the lute version of "Fields of Gold" from the album, for example. But some people chose to leave at this point, as is their right. When Sting and Edin returned to the stage, they played some beautiful Elgar, some folky Vaughan Williams, then "Fields of Gold" and a haunting version of "SOS". The latter two songs gained more applause than any other songs in the whole concert. One guy in front of me commented to his friend, "Those people who left before he played his own stuff will be pissed off if they find out." I wanted to smack him in the back of the head and say, "Maybe they actually came to hear the Elizabethan lute music that was the main reason for the show, dumbarse." And here's another Generation Y complaint: did they really pay $140 each to come to an Elizabethan lute concert on the off chance that Sting might play a couple of modern tunes? They do have more money than sense!
Phew, now that I have that off my chest, I'm off to listen to Songs from the Labyrinth again, now with memories of an exquisite live performance to enrich the experience. Sting was absolutely charming, Edin was a lute genius, Stile Antico were brilliant (when they came on stage, Sting said, "These aren't my children, although they're the same age" -- so perhaps there is some hope for Gen Y after all). Slava Grigoryan, David Berlin and Allan Zavod were the support act, playing evocative impressionist-style compositions arranged for guitar, cello and piano. All-in-all, it was a memorable and marvellous concert.

Dietes grown from seed

I am so proud!

What I saw on my walk

I hope you can read the sign on this shopfront, it says, "Guidance from Above New Age Gift Shop Also Shoe Repairs". Good for your sole...

And below, homemade street signs:

Last month

I've been missing for almost a month, thanks to the wedding of the Number 2 Stepdaughter (henceforward to be known as the two cheeses: Cam and Bri) and a trip to New Zealand to recover. As well as spending time with the Dude, Ms ND and His Honour in Auckland, I also went to Wellington to catch up with World Citizen 3000, pictured reconnecting "BODY" to "SOUL" in the Botanic Gardens.WC3000 and I had such a good time in the windy city, because our ways of being in a city meld really well. We would start the day with a vague agenda, but if one or the other of us suggested a detour or alternative, we would just go along. We managed to tick off everything on our lists, and more, without feeling like we were rushing or missing out on anything.
It probably says a lot if I mention that most of our detours involved food or bookstores. I discovered where to get the best coffee (Pravda) and the worst (Mojo) in Wellington*. We visited the Te Papa museum, an exhibition of political cartoons, Katherine Mansfield's birthplace, the best Mediterranean supermarket in New Zealand, the Griffin Theatre (where we saw a great production of Cold Comfort Farm). WC3000 had just walked the Milford Track, a feat of which I am supremely jealous, and he was buzzing with joy all weekend. Fun!

* Esquires in Auckland was also a great find, especially the Dark Roast. I didn't get to try the coffee in Rotorua, as all the cafés except Starbucks closed at 4pm (on a weekday)!

End of the world

Just received my copy of the Bad Astronomer's new book, Death from the Skies. I haven't read beyond the first few pages yet, but I recommend it unreservedly, knowing Phil's output from his first book, Bad Astronomy, and his blog.
In the light of my recent T.S. Eliot blogging, I appreciate the reference on the cover, to "The Hollow Men":

This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

Judging from the contents list, most of the means by which the world could end are bangs--asteroids, comets, supernovae, gamma-ray bursts; however, as Phil asserts, despite all of the ways the universe is trying to kill us "you always have to keep in mind that we're still here." At least long enough for me to read this book, I hope.

Duh!

I recently tried to sign up for internet access to my internet account details (so I can read and pay bills online) with a major Australian ISP. When I was asked for an email address, they would not accept either of the email addresses (one for work, one for private email) that they provide me with. I queried this and received the following reply (copied and pasted so don't blame me for the bad spelling and grammar):

When accessing MyAccount we need a secondary email address other then email address ending in @xxxxxxxnet.com.au this is due to if xxxxxxx.com.au is not working we can still send you notification and important information to another email address. There are many free email services in the market you can signed up for (example www.hotmail.com and www.gmail.com) or you can even use a family members email address if you authorized them to be able to see some emails we may send you.

I replied politely, but what I wanted to say was:

If xxxxxxxnet.com.au is not working, I won't be able to access ANY email accounts, because I won't have internet access, you idiots! Why do you need to send me an email to tell me that my internet service is not working? Don't you think I will have noticed when I CAN'T ACCESS THE INTERNET? Duh!

If it's that urgent, call me. Oh, that's right, you're my telephone service provider as well.

So much for rewarding customer loyalty...

Pygmalion

Last night Ms Nominative Determinism and I went to see My Fair Lady, starring Richard E Grant as Henry Higgins. He was, as I expected, absolutely perfect for the role, and his lack of singing experience didn't really show.
The whole production was colourful and vibrant and the casting was, over all, very good. My main complaint was the insipid Freddie who, though he had a lovely voice, had the strangest collection of facial expressions. Instead of looking like a lovelorn swain, he looked more like he was practicing his orgasm face in a mirror. I commented on this to Ms ND during the interval, so when he returned for his reprise we dissolved in giggles at the first excruciating grimace.
Did you know that someone is planning to make a new movie version of My Fair Lady, with Keira Knightley as Eliza? I do applaud the choice, as I think she would make a suitably pouty and sulky guttersnipe; however, I was distressed by Ms ND's assertion that Brad Pitt and George Clooney were both coveting the role of Professor Higgins. Urk! The producers should just get Richard E Grant to do it (he really is the perfect Henry, despite his claims to be insulted by such an assertion).
Ms ND and I then spent the bus trip home wracking our brains to come up with a suitable alternative candidate, with little success. It wasn't until the wee small hours that an idea came to me: Ciaran Hinds!
So here's my suggested cast list for the new My Fair Lady:
Eliza Kiera Knightley
Henry Higgins Ciaran Hinds
Colonel Pickering Alun Armstrong
Freddie Rupert Penry-Jones (nice and insipid)
Mrs Higgins Gillian Anderson
Alf Doolittle Paul Hogan (although I don't know if he can sing, he's a very convincing garbologist).
Please feel free to supply your own cast options in the comments.

Well, it's exciting to me...

Fellow gardeners will understand my excitement today. These wild irises (Dietes iridoides) have been growing under the peppermint gum in my backyard for around seven or eight years. They flowered the first summer after I transplanted them (I guess they were a couple of years old when I bought them from the nursery). I planted half a dozen plants which have grown and spread naturally and provide a profusion of pretty flowers every spring.
About five years ago I found a few tiny seedlings growing in a drain, so I rescued them and planted them in a pot near the front door. For the past five summers I've been waiting for them to flower, but they just kept growing bushier and multiplying.
Now, at last, my patience will be rewarded: this morning I found three flower spikes in the pot (the tip of the third is just in the lower left foreground of the last photo). In a week or so, I'll have flowers! I am so proud!

What on EARTH!

One of my major editing projects this year was featured in today's SMH. I'm pretty proud of my small part in this huge book, so check it out. Of course, at $5,000.00 a copy for the limited edition, I don't expect you all to buy one. (There is a smaller edition available in bookstores.)
See the pretty pictures!

Nerds in love

Oh, man, Colin Firth as John Stuart Mill. I'd like to see that!

Schmapped

Check out my photograph of the Anchor Bar:

Leaving LeWitt

Self-portrait with LeWitt at MOMA, New York, 2008.

A LeWitt mural is being painted out at MOMA, San Francisco, and many are up in arms at the loss of a seven-million-dollar artwork. It's difficult to comprehend that the artwork, in this case, is not the painting itself--which was not even done by Sol--but the instructions for creating it, which are written on a certificate.
It reminds me of another work I love in MOMA, NY, which is a framed drawing accompanied by a certificate from the artist stating that the object represented in the drawing is not a work of art, and nor is the drawing of the object. Yet the object itself, the drawing of it and the certificate are all hanging in an art gallery!
During the recent Biennale of Sydney, one of the artworks involved painting the walls of the Art Gallery black, then painting them white again. I heard lots of people complaining about this not being art, some even misunderstanding and suggesting that the art gallery should have done its renovations when there was not a major exhibition on.
I love the way these kinds of artworks (and I believe they are artworks) make me think, and reassess my view of life. They are transient, oxymoronic, futile, incomprehensible, and thought-provoking. I'm sad to think that San Franciscans are losing their LeWitt, but surely that sadness at its impermanence is part of the artist's intention in the first place? (Oh no, Mr Foucault, I didn't mean to talk about the artist's intention, sir, please don't haunt me!) If just one person stops to think about that, Sol LeWitt can rest easy in his grave.

Two more birthdays today!

Happy 120th birthday, T.S. Eliot, and 110th, George Gershwin.

One of these mornings
You're going to rise up singing,
Then you'll spread your wings
And you'll take to the sky.
Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,
Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.

Livin' at large

I'm planning to emigrate... to 9491 Thooft. This little world is named for the particle physicist and Nobel prize-winner Gerard 't Hooft, who has taken the trouble to write a Constitution for future inhabitants of his asteroid. Much better than the United Nations' Declaration of Human Rights, especially Article 13, which bans all weapons.

Of course, I should adapt this constitution for my own star and its worlds, but I'm much more likely to be able to reach 9491 Thooft in my lifetime (it orbits between Mars and Jupiter) than something that's 300 light years away.

Coffee lover

A coffee-lover's blog. I'm glad I discovered this before heading over to NZ later this year: it should keep me busy checking out the java joints in Auckland.

I have only one question. Addicted to Starbucks: WTF? There isn't enough caffeine in one of their cups to addict a gnat. When I was in the US and Starbucks was the best available (much better than DD, urk!) I had to order double-shots just to taste that it was made with coffee and not dishwater.

At least East Aurora (NY) has Taste.