Sheridan’s Blog

Yesterday I rode my bike to work. I didn’t write about it last night because:
a) I was exhausted; and
b) I couldn’t sit for long periods.

I thought I was well-planned: I had the map, the water, the clothes (to wear at work), the phone, etc. I set off at first light and it was all breezy in Essendon. Got onto the bike track with no trouble whatsoever. There are no cars in Essendon at 7am, surprisingly. Sped along until the track inexplicably stopped. Other cyclists seemed unperterbed by this and just continued to ride down the large drain/creek which ran alongside the path. Without much hesitation, I followed. Not being a cyclist, I was unable to keep up with these ‘hell riders’ and as I rounded the next corner, I noticed the path had re-commenced…on the other side of the creek. The other riders were long gone, which was a good thing too because what happened next was hardly inspiring. I stood awhile beside the rippling creek (or sewage disposal drain, depending on how you look at it), pondering whether to cross on foot or on bike. It seemed fairly slippery and fast-flowing. I got a stick and measured the depth, which was not encouraging. But it wasn’t a wide creek and I had to get to work before sundown so I set across on foot. Then I continued on the path with both feet (and lower half of both legs) completely saturated. Creek - 1, Sheridan - 0.
Onwards I went, all the way up to Flemington, where again the track magically evaporated. From here, I never found it again. But I did find several very steep hills and also a nice place to stop and advise my colleagues by telephone that I had only a vague idea where I was and couldn’t accurately state my arrival time.
After being lost another 3 or 4 times, I finally made it to work (only 45 minutes late), and thus was unable to ride home since it was dark by the time I left. Thank God.

Of late I have been having some attention paid to my butt (let’s get straight to the point). This has all come about due to some kind of injury or lack of muscular support/stability resulting in a painful bum cheek. It’s really such a classy condition which is difficult to explain in a non-embarrassing way to a young, fit, male physio. In fact, the explaining part was probably more painful than the condition itself. Nothing says ‘I’m really cool and ace’ like ‘My bum cheek hurts’.
The result of all the explaining was what can only be described as the pulverisation of my buttock. Words cannot describe the feeling this kind of manipulation evokes (probably not just for me, but also my physio). Then again, my butt is not that bad - some people might take some kind of pleasure in that kind of activity. Come to think of it, I probably should be charging him for touching my arse, not the other way around. There’s so many things that can go wrong - inappropriate underwear, accidentally farting on his hand, slippage, etc. On the whole it was a particularly unflattering situation. Especially the first appointment, which was made at the last minute and left me with no time to assess the leg-hair situation and the sweaty-work-clothing scenario. It’s not how I generally prefer the first meeting with someone who is going to go the grope (fully in a medical way). To top off the appointment and complete my transformation from normal to idiot, the physio made reference to doing his pelvic floor exercises, at which time I chose to look down at his crotch. I get the distinct feeling he thought this was amusing.

The whole scenario, as enjoyable/humiliating/bizarre as it was brought to my attention the amount of trust we place in medical professionals. We tell these people anything, no matter how disgusting or horrifyingly embarrassing it might be. We do it with a completely straight face and they reciprocate by accepting this information as graciously as they can (they probably save the laughter until we are out of the building). I guess it’s a way to deal with the trauma of having someone violate your private ‘areas’ and then ask you to pay for it.

As I sit at uni with the sinking feeling of guilt that I should be studying or at least reading something, I have decided that writing something (albeit not uni-related) is almost as good. And I have a good excuse for the recent lack of writing posts. I have been writing many other things lately, few of them as interesting and fun to write as this. In a week or so we’ll have a basic idea of just how good (or totally crap) I am at writing things in general.
So uni is going well (as far as I can tell). Turning up here is sometimes likely to induce a spontaneous depressive episode. Such times I speak of are the occasions when I find myself surrounded by what can only be described as children (many of whom are just over half of my age) dressed in clothes too small for your average 7 year old. And that’s just the boys. Almost everyone here has smooth, wrinkle-free skin and weighs about half of my body weight. They swan around in their Supre clothes and ugg boots (youth does not account for taste), sipping full-fat lattes and carrying handbags into which you could easily fit a small Hyundai. They look cool in tracksuit pants. I remember the days fondly. Back then, there were those bloody mature-age students with their questions and their confidence and their personal relationships with all of the tutors and lecturers and probably all of the faculty staff, and their enviable marks and their absence of P plates and their ability to get the good tutorial hours because of their work/kids/importance and their ability to carry a brief case and not look like a loser…now I am one of them.
So I met my tutor for coffee before class, and we discussed the finer points of the current financial crisis and its impact upon the availability of tertiary study to indigenous Australians whilst sharing a platter of French cheeses with dry crackers and fresh tropical fruits plucked from endangered rainforests. I was tired from the previous evening’s dinner party I threw for the Dean and the members of the board, so my tutor agreed that I could skip class and have a brief nap if I would pay for the coffees. It’s just so hard being a mature-age student.

Anyways, as I assert my authority in class by asking questions or making suggestions using words with more than four letters, I am drawn back to earth during our twice-monthly prac class, where everyone has to show up in ’sportswear’ (’street’ clothing in not allowed), and perform gym-style activities. Although I an on an even keel with most of the girls (in the activities, not the looking good in trackies), its the young boys who out-do us all. No amount of five-letter words can save me here, so I endure it with the grace and class that only age can bring (I will it to be over and miraculously, every time, it eventually ends…)

I think back fondly to the occasion when, four days before our assignment was due, I heard several classmates comment that they had no idea where to get the information for the topic from if we were not allowed to use textbooks or the internet! Ahahhaha, I sniggered to myself. I might be a lot older but I’m also a good measure wiser, my pets.

Now I will actually do some work, lest I lose my advantage over the littlies.

Binary code makes no sense. If anyone can explain it in a way that involves some logic, please forward through instructions. The wikipedia entry on it was obviously written by someone who knows how to do it but has no idea how to tell anyone about it.

Other things I have noticed about university (which have not changed since 2003):

No clocks are on the right time, in any room. Why is this? Are they trying some kind of time-disorientation-adaption procedure?

Whilst walking to work today I came across what can only be described as the scourge of humanity. Interrupting the peace (apart from peak-hour traffic), was a man dawdling around the footpath with a leaf-blower, the most useless and abominable invention. Ever. There he was - engines blasting, smoke fumes drifting, just blowing the leaves from the front of one building to the front of the building next door. Later on, I came across two leaf-blowing men, operating right next to each other. I almost felt like pulling up a patch of grass to watch what must have unfolded later on as they met - one blowing his leaves into the path of the building next door, and the other then blowing them right back again. And I imagine the whole Sisyphean act would continue until one of the men eventually gave up and beat the other to death with his leaf-blower.
What, exactly, is the point of these stupid inventions? Whose path is so blocked by leaves and other light debris that access cannot possibly be granted? Why this fear of dead leaves? They are pretty slippery - I damn nearly fell over when I turned to dart a contemptuous glance at the leaf-blowing man as I stalked away.
Is it not lost on leaf-blowing folk that the leaves will continue to fall from trees and blow around at the mercy of the winds? And that this activity will continue, possibly forever (or until the death of all trees)? It’s not like the leaves are being collected, either - they’re just being blown from one place to another.
Do the people who use these types of devices realise just how useless they really are? Had they stayed in bed and not gotten up to blow the leaves around, their actions would have made NO DIFFERENCE. Stupid leaf men.

Gee, it’s been hot, yeah?

The other night saw me watching a dvd from the local VE, the name of which I cannot recall (nor is it important). But the premise of the film has generated much delight. The basic plot involved a woman going overseas and getting engaged to a Scottish man (a Duke, actually. Could happen. Look at Princess Mary…) Anyway, this was followed by a brief run-down of some Scottish wedding traditions, many of which involve the bride drinking or dispensing whisky and cheese. These traditions are simply some of the nicest (and perhaps bizarre) acts ever committed. Apart from marriage itself. It’s not just about the kilt, the tartan, the bagpipes, etc. Here’s one I take particular joy in:

Creeling
The groom is forced/encouraged to carry a large basket (creel) full of stones around the village until his bride comes out of her house and kisses him. This could be hours. Or weeks if he has been unattentive of late. He has to keep carrying it around (probably followed and jeered by his mates) until she does this. I’m not sure of the purpose of this ritual, but it may have something to do with the groom proving himself a worthy man. Or it might just be about torture. Either way, I like it.
The bride’s Taking Out
The bride’s equivalent is much more pleasing. She is dressed up in whatever curtains/etc her friends deem appropriate, and then taken out on the town/village carrying a pot full of salt with her. The bride’s friends herald her arrival by banging on saucepans or other kitchen implements (although in a modern society maybe they brandish battery-powered blenders or food processors). This would probably make for a less noisy arrival. In order to harvest ‘luck’ the bride carries around her pot of salt and exchanges kisses for coins. Whilst this may be seen as a touch prostitutional, I think making money from kisses (prior to the wedding of course) is perfectly harmless.
On further investigation, things get a little more bizarre in the form of incantations, spells and potions (again from Scotland, supposedly):

Two lozenges are taken, covered with perspiration (or other bodily juices) and stuck together. These are then given (in this form) to the one whose love was sought. The eating of such a thing was supposed to illicit a very strong affection. Or, if not that, perhaps a nasty case of hepatitis C.
A bit less crazy, Anglo Saxon dads always gave away one of the brides shoes to the groom, who then hit her on the head with it as a sign that authority had passed from father to husband. If any man (husband or otherwise) hits me on the head with my own shoe, I will force him to eat a lozenge (or two stuck together) soaked in my own sweat.
But the nicest tradition I have come across in my extensive, 4-day internet research spree is that of the Luckenbooth, which seems to date back to the 1600’s. The Luckenbooth is a token of love (typically a brooch or similar trinket), exchanged by lovers at the time of betrothal. Frequently they were inscribed with such words as ‘Of earthly joys thou art my choice’, which is possibly the most romantic thing anyone can ever utter. Sure beats the hell out of ‘You rock’, or even ‘I love you’.
The final part of a traditional Scottish wedding seems to be the Beddan. The bride would attempt to retire for the evening, but as soon as it was noticed she had gone (pretty quickly I’d imagine) guests would race into the bridal chamber to partake in the ceremony of ‘Beddin the Bride’. After the bride was put into bed, she is given a bottle of whisky, some bread and cheese, which she apparently handed around. Then, her left stocking was then taken off (no mention of by whom), and she had to throw it over her left shoulder amongst the guests. It was then fought for by those in the room. The person claiming the stocking was said to be the ‘winner’, and thus the next to be married. Although I’m not sure anyone wants to marry someone carrying around someone else’s dirty smelly stocking.

The other night we did something so bizarre it warrants writing about. Roller Derby. In Reservoir. Not knowing what a roller derby even was (or where Reservoir is), I decided to check it out.
According to various sources, the term ‘roller derby’ dates back as far as the 1920’s, although the format of the event may have evolved with the passing years. Back then, the emphasis was more upon the race aspect, whereas now it seems to be more about how much damage can be inflicted to the opposing team.
A gent by the name of Leo Seltzer is frequently credited with ‘inventing’ the roller derby as it is known today, although pinning down the genuine pioneer of roller-skate racing is difficult.
A roller derby is basically a race on roller skates on a flat surface (originally raced on a banked surface). Two teams (five of each on the track at any given time), race around a modified, smaller rink, often under aliases of a sexual or violent pun, and frequently in costumes which would be more at home on Halloween (or perhaps in an exotic-style lingerie outlet, or on Britney). Four out of five players are ‘blockers’, whilst the fifth skater from each team is the ‘jammer’. The eight blockers skate as a pack around the rink, trying to prevent the jammers of the respective opposing team from getting to the front of the pack. The jammers, of course, are trying to get to the front of the pack, where they will then attempt to ‘lap’ the pack as many times as possible for the next 2 minutes. Every opposing player overtaken is a point for that jammers’ team. That’s the basic rules, anyway. I sense it’s far more complex, and I was already fully engorged with the sheer insanity of it all that I could take in no further information. I await the return of the season in March 2009 to be brought up to speed (quite literally).

After watching a few minutes of Christmas greetings from men serving abroad in the Australian Navy/Army, you’d think they miss their ‘beautiful and gorgeous’ wives and kids more than those of us with normal jobs. Perhaps we all should spend a month or two on an oil platform in the Arabic sea to appreciate those around us. Are people, generally, more attractive when we’re not near them?

Just after returning from NZ, we went and got ourselves a retired racing greyhound. I found out about a program called GAP (greyhound adoption program) a few years ago at an industry event, and they seemed like such gentle animals. Not only do they adopt out these greyhounds, they also foster them out, 3-4 weeks at a time, to willing participants who can teach them about being a domestic dog. Not being a domestic dog myself, I had to be reminded of how dogs are supposed to act in and around the home.
Contrary to popular myth, these dogs all seem well-treated and looked-after, which makes sense. If your dog was pulling in a bit of cash running after a fluffy stick, you’d look after it too, I imagine. And there is quite a bit of cash in it.
The first dog we had, Stella, is a 3yo, and enjoyed running around randomly inside the house. It is an enlightening experience to meet these dogs, many of which have no experience with domestic situations. That doesn’t sound like a big deal, but when you have to coax the dog into the backseat (of a coupe), then watch as it cowers halfway up the steps, it becomes blindingly obvious that these racing giants need some help. They freak out if you wake them up suddenly or if there’s a loud noise. But they are very affectionate and a lot of fun. Due to the sheer length of their hind legs, they frequently trip over their own legs or other obstacles. They cannot sit like a regular dog, also due to the long legs issue. But the whole point of them being with us it to make them accustomed to being around people, traffic, other dogs and animals.
Over the weekend we picked up the second dog, Dream Scene, and brought her home. She’s 7 years old, and has been used as a breeding dog for a few years, given that she was a bit of an ace racer in her day. So far it has become clear that she is very much an indoors dog, possibly one who had free roam of the house and yard (if she ever found the need to be outside), and who took it upon herself to sit on every comfortable chair available. She has continued this trait with us. It’ll be interesting to see if we tire of pulling her off the couch before she gets sick of being bundled off there.
The good part about the fostering program is that you get to have a dog when it’s convenient to you. Most of the food is provided free of charge, as well as the lead, muzzle, etc. It’s an excellent way to be a part of the organisation, plus it (hopefully) gets these dogs into a good home where they can live out their lives in the lap of luxury. The option to keep the dog if you cannot part with it is also there. I suspect this happens quite a bit. After all, once you’ve done the legwork to train up the animal to be all cool and fun, you might eventually get sick of seeing the fruits of your labour go off to be a joy to someone else.