All Things Change

Like many things, to become weird all you need to do is take a few simple steps. That’s right, get yourself out there and go for a walk: step, step, step… I don’t mean going for an early evening exercise walk with the dog. I mean go do something in suburbia like banking, shopping or paying a bill, but don’t take the car. Ever walked to a service station? It scares the shop assistant.  

Since being back in Perth I’ve had the time and the necessity to walk during standard busy hours. As I’ve walked I’ve tried to find somebody, anybody, anywhere within sight who might also be walking. But alas except for my own reflection in the vehicles stopped at intersections I couldn’t see another person between me and the horizon actually walking. Oh sure people get to and from their car, but again that’s not the walking. 

I’ve done this test both while walking and driving, and I haven’t been able to find the single person walking. Although I do on other occasions remember seeing some people walking during day time. From a generalized recollection these walkers belonged to marginalized demographics like new arrival immigrants and Australia’s traditional land owners. 

A definite sense of isolation and vulnerability comes over you as you make your way along the perfectly built foot/cycle path. Why am I the only one? Is this safe? Am I doing something wrong? It feels wrong? Maybe I’ve exhibiting some underlying criminal tendencies! Then you reassure yourself from within, “Nooo… you’re not wrong or a criminal, everyone else is just better than you that’s all. And yes, you might as well just consider yourself weird.” 

Within 24 hours of posting my last post I came home to find the below scene.

A three year old three foot Ultra Man taking on Bob the Builder (Hou Yi- Aunty Hou). However menacing a three foot Ultra Man can be Hou Yi defended herself gallantly with the toy rake.

And yes the Ultra Man gear was a gift that made it through our defenses. It’s a struggle to hold up our pacifist ways with the ever vigilant war mongers giving my children birthday/Christmas presents. 

Three days after my last post a change in the “matrix” occurred. We called it Keagan and he is yet to acknowledge our existence. Sure he stops screaming when he’s fed, held, sung to, cuddled, rocked, washed, changed, etc. But he doesn’t really seem to mind who it is that enters his world to do this. Of course we all know there’s a difference and research says that there’s deep scaring especially when the birth mother’s not there. That aside, it is hard to find anyone as self-centered as a new born infant.

Even as I write I’ve been interrupted by a screaming baby who apparently finds gas less than humorous. So now he’s lying across my knees rocking back and forth in the hope that the motion will free the seemingly endless reservoir within.  

It’s all about timing:

If you have an awake playful baby who is about to “cut a branch from the cheese tree” then they pre-warn you with a cute smile. Evidently all smiles at this age are gas related. However this little smile is nether-the-less claimed by parents, mothers especially, creating increased attention around the baby. “Oh look. Come quickly he’s smiling”. So more people enter the infant’s universe, thus leaving themselves more vulnerable to servitude. Or… If you put the infant down to sleep and they need to “step on a frog” a slightly different approach is taken. All hell breaks loose with emergency scream alarms sounded until someone kicks the door in and applies a massage their ruby-wubby-dubby-tum-tum. 

From my limited experience I will perilously continue with the following statement and hypothesis:

Statement: Gas in the good old infant days was a celebrated collective activity when people would appear from nowhere to smile, laugh and even take photos at its imminent arrival. Males (especially western men) post infancy grow up to find bottom burps to be some what humorous. Females seem to take an alternative course of development, they become women. Hypothesis: The adult male (western) laughs loud and proud at flatulence in an all male group situation, but experience negative emotions (in the car) when others are not there to share. 

Maybe Sigmund would suggest we confront our mother’s with, “Why all the fuss when I was a baby? I was just farting. Now when I’m by myself I feel like I’m being selfish!”  

It’s a world of mixed messages… 

1   Drinking tea whle walking up stairs ends in ruin.
2   Massages are relaxing.
3   Washing a spoon under fast running water can result in awkward wet patches on your clothing.
4   A healthy understanding of alcohol is healthy.
5   Talking to insects in your car, while driving, can result in an accident.
6   The way you act outwardly affects the way you think inwardly.
7   Most advertising plays on fears by constructing a false reality.
8   Living vicariously through your kids can be quite enjoyable.
9   Many leaders have egos that need caressing.
10 People act differently and have different beliefs but we all share similar needs.
11 Husbands who try to solve “the” problem usually further provoke an already upset wife.
12 Friendship is best served as an indelible connection. 

What have you learnt by doing?

Tramadol And Weight Gain

Generic For Ambien
Relief Stress Valium
Xanax And Placebo Effects
Xanax Next Day Shipping
Tramadol Trammadol
Addiction Sniffing Tramadol

But of course there are those out there who have questions. So the answers are:

Two pink lines= pregnant.

We’re due mid July 2008. So we’re only 6 or so weeks into it.

The bub (if all goes well) will probably be born in China like her or his older siblings.

Yes it is too early to tell the baby’s gender.

Jo wants a sister, Lachy wants a brother. We’ll take what we get, but if there is someone out there that can control the outcome then we’ll take a girl. 

In my travels I’ve had the privilege of visiting 23 countries around the world. Which has left me with stories that can bore the average listener quicker than a *caravan owner’s family vacation video. Although I do treasure all I have seen and experienced in my travels. Like being shot at while climbing Barcelona’s Montjuic, or pulling a drowning kid from the Russian River (in California), or introducing myself as the Dali Lama to some Tibetan teenagers, and the list goes on… I could bore you thoroughly with it but I’ll show mercy and self control.

My self constraint though is only limited to travel stories. So here’s a few things I’ve experienced since living in the North East, of the country in which I live, that are different to my western world and occasionally alarming. Like:

1 Someone carrying a full sized refrigerator strapped to the side of their bicycle.

2 Rafting a river on inflated sheep skins.

3 Playing basketball with the equivalent of the CIA and accidentally beating them.

4 Being close enough to have a conversation with a wrecking crane driver while he swung the wrecking ball into the seven story building only 15 meters away. It got a little hard at times to talk especially when the building fell down.

5 Watching an international stadium implode, from the comfort of a five star hotel.

6 Watching just about every landmark within a half kilometer radius be demolished and redeveloped.

Which leaves me with my current obsession… DEMOLITION.

I can’t help seeking out buildings, bridges, stadiums, and any standing structure made from steel and concrete to watch it fall. There’s explosions, bulldozers, wrecking balls, extendable chomping claws, crane sized jack hammers, workers with no hard hats, and a readily made viewing area. To be exact the viewing area is pretty much where ever you find yourself: in the post office watching the wrecking ball glide past the window; or as a member of the informal street party that quickly disbands when the dust from the falling building over comes us; or from the more refined comforts of a five star hotel executive floor.

If there were a support group for demolition addicts I would need to join. “Hi, my name’s Damian. It’s been two days since I watched my last FTS (fixed structure collapse)… to be honest there’s a little bit of me wishing this building would fall down right now.” And my support group would answer, “We hear you man, just to have a wrecking ball come flying through that wall would be something else… wouldn’t it? But we gotta fight that mannnn. Like, you know, it’s destructive…” Then we’d all cry and pound our fists at the air…

I don’t need help though. I’ll stop just as soon as the banks stop handing out money to developers.

* A caravan, for the “non” commonwealth readers is a largish box on wheels with windows (and a door) you can tow behind your family vehicle. It promises all the convenience of a real home but delivers the comfort of an airplane restroom. These are usually owned by retirees and/or the mis-guided. And watching them being destroyed by monster trucks IS fun.

Being a resident in China it’s difficult to avoid Olympic hype. I find “The Games” hard to reconcile with the things I believe are important in this world. But as to not alienate myself too much from the Olympic adoring world I will only state the following two points (which are inflammatory enough) and then move on to isolate a number of events that are easy targets to mock. 

“The Olympics are a self indulgent Romanesque event where we get to pretend the world is about the latest track suit fashion.” AG Duirs 

“The Olympics are a gathering of obsessive compulsive individuals who claim to be the best in the world, but actually live a highly unbalanced lifestyle at the expense of important social, psychological, and spiritual needs.” 

In the 2008 Olympics there will be 28 sports. Each of the 28 sports has multiple events adding up to 302 events in all. Bizarrely enough I’m writing this with 302 days to go before opening ceremony. Spooky…

Most sports have developed from a practical life skill. Like the person who runs fastest generally doesn’t get eaten by the tiger; or the person who throws the spear (javelin) the best gets to kill the tiger; and so it goes on… But every now and then a sport like shot put develops, or equestrian dressage (dancing horses).  

So below is a limited list of sports that I have collected. To be honest I would prefer them gone but they could be quite entertaining if they were combined. Try combining some and outline what they would look like and send it to “All Things Change” in a comment. Also feel free to add any sports you feel I have been remiss in not including.
1 Synchronized swimming
2 Butterfly (swimming)
3 Shot put
4 Walking
5 Discus
6 Triple jump
7 Equestrian dressage
8 Rhythmic gymnastics
9 Parallel bars 

A sport like shooting has far too many events and I find boxing and wrestling a little too violent, but they are fun if you combined them with some of the above events. 

Before each post I like to talk the topic through with someone else. You know, develop a stance and consider other perspectives on the issue.

So thanks to a heated debate with my three year son I am able to present this post refined and informed. Although helpful, he’s a touch distracting as I’m needing to occasionally pause to stop him from drawing on his arms and legs. Skin, the Three Year Old’s ever ready medium.

So the debate topic was Dora the (expletive) Explorer, or more precisely the much maligned character Swiper the fox. I am very aware that attacking children’s television characters like Barny, the Tele-tubbies, and Sesame Street Characters etc is passé. But the Dora the Expletive really gets me agitated.

She’s not like other friendly kid’s characters who model nice behaviour, she’s preachy. She takes everyone else on HER adventures so no one else gets to use their imagination. She’s the kind of kid that introduces herself by saying, “Hello mister, I’m Dora the Explorer. I’m going on an adventure. I’m going to choose which friends go with me. I’m really smart. I know everything. Do you want to be my friend because I’m really great! Yay!”

Dora controls the games, makes the rules, and thinks everyone likes her.

But worst of all by far is Dora’s prejudice attitude toward to Swiper the fox. Poor old Swiper is continually accused of being a thief. Even before Swiper enters the story Dora warns everyone that Swiper just wants to steal stuff. The reader or viewer has to say/yell out loud, “Swiper no swiping!”. What a missed opportunity, because she could have said, “Hey everyone lets be nice to Swiper so then we can be friends. I think he’s lonely and just wants to join in.”

A self centered, pushy bully. But of course when I suggest to my three year old that Dora’s not being very nice to Swiper he takes the side of the ever wonderful sources of truth… TV and Dora.

On the other side of what you read here is a little bit of, what I think is called, “Blog Management”. For the more widely read blogs I assume the “Blog Manager” has quite a bit to do: adding links, signing marketing deals, writing entries, and then vetting comments. This not being a blog of such renown means that I have very little to do other than check each day to make sure that I delete and spam label the latest Viagra update from a friendly chap or chappet named “Superza” from the new comments folder.

I’m yet to actually read one of Superza’s “comments”, mostly because the message is written in what appears to be German but also because the only word intelligible to an English reader is “Viagra”. I knew I shouldn’t have written about getting old!

I’m not planning on ever needing to use the attention tablet but if “a friend I know” needs some down the track I’ll be sure to get some. Most probably from a reputable pharmacy as apposed to someone called “Superza” or “Affordablefix”.

So here’s a quick note to all you spammers out there, “Thanks for making me feel valued by giving me something to manage on my Blog. But I really don’t want your pharmaceutical goods now or ever. Like I said “a friend I know” might, but I’ll get that from the local pharmacy. Thanks for thinking of me though I really appreciate it.”

Also I’ve decided to post pone my going senile because the health club I’ve started going to has the following factual statement plastered on its refreshment refrigerators, “Anti-senile healthy club”. I’m thinking if I hang out there more, it may stave off being entertained by a children’s puppet show in a smelly senior citizens housing complex, while someone a fifth of my age wipes my chin.

Don’t get me wrong though, puppets are funny… 

I’m 33 this year and I’m pretty much in denial about aging, along with a bunch of other things.

I will admit that my body isn’t fast, slim or flexible anymore which I guess places me in the early stages of coming to terms with it. In recent months I’ve tried to get fit by visiting the gym only to discover that I have an amazing ability to strain weird and wonderful parts of my anatomy. And when I stagger into a semblance of life each morning I’m grateful for the movement I have in my hips and shoulders because there’s nothing going on in the knees, elbows, neck or ankles, etc.

I’ve actually kept a pair of trousers that haven’t fit in seven years, but I hope to wear again one day. This either shows hope for the future or highlights the level of denial I’m dealing with.

I’m watching my kids grow and my friend’s marry/divorce, have kids, buy houses, get promotions, loose hair, get fat,… oh, it goes on and on…

EVERYONE IS GETTING OLDER!

Now my grandparents have passed away, queuing up my parents generation to be the next in line. So besides feeling a little depressed for having pulled my head out of the denial sand I had it firmly stuck in, I am wanting to make sure I do a few things right, before it’s all over.

The main thing that comes to mind at this stage is to not mess up my/our kids. When we had one kid I thought we were pretty much the perfect parents (“other parents could have learnt a thing or two from us”) and then came the second child to rock our little perfect parenting world. It’s been hard but I’m now willing to admit that we can’t make “The Perfect Child ™” and even if we could the kiddilliwid would most likely stuff it up them self.

It’s intriguing and sometimes quite sad to watch parents of adult children try to teach their grown child “a good hard lesson” when they stuff up. Unfortunately we (parents) have an idea of how life is supposed to go and we project in our minds the type of person our children should be when they’re grown. This leaves some folk pretty disappointed when their kids do “the wrong thing” and shatter the fairytale. “The wrong thing” is anything that makes us (parents) feel embarrassed and then in turn angry.

When our kids are grown I hope to take the opportunity to model support and friendship during the embarrassing times, but it’ll probably only work if my expectations are based on loving my kids without conditions and not on their conduct.

One condition I do have though is if I feel good about myself because I can fit back into the trousers I’ve been keeping. If I can’t then I guess I’ll take it out on my adult kids. I’m expecting to go senile anytime soon so the trousers will hopefully give me some focus.