End of Ze World: A Prologue

The end is nigh.  

In five hours I will be on a plane.  By the time most of you read this, I will already be on a plane.  I really have too much to write about, too many humorous stories of five minute interactions I could stretch out into paragraphs and paragraphs... maybe even a full-length feature film.  But as my blogging has gone in the past, I pick one minor and rather uninteresting topic, throw in a few puns or clever descriptions and do my best to get a few chuckles out of the few Russians, Canadians and Hungarians reading this. 

I am spending my last few hours in Australia fighting off sleep, drinking chocolate coffee drinks, watching a wonderful series called "Black Books" and wondering what to make of the last three months of my life.  That last part might take a while.  I will try to recap some major motifs from the last few months.  Consider this the prologue to the upcoming series of final posting.

Oh heavenly days I cannot wait to be done with this blog.  Writing has, at times, felt like what I imagine spiders who get their legs pulled off by terrible children with freckles feel like.

For those of you who haven't figured it out yet, French Student Teacher is completely behind me.  But the idea of the French Student Teacher will always be in front of me.  You know what I mean.  Don't you?

Student Teaching is done.  I had a very warm goodbye from the staff.  Cards, cake and a farewell speech written by my cooperating teacher and who left sick.  I ended up giving my own farewell speech, really a bit of foreshadowing for when I will inevitably give my own eulogy due to a lack of interest and attendance.

I visited a class of grade 2 and 3 students.  They asked for my email, pulled my mustache and sang a farewell song to me.

People have asked me if I am excited to go home.  They have asked if I will miss Australia or what I rate my overall experience here.  If it was worth it or if I will come back.

The answers are: yes, yes, 9/10,  yes and yes if I can.  

I don't know what else to write at this time, except that above all things I have a bittersweet taste at the back of my mouth.  I will miss the people here and I long for the feeling Michigan dirt has on my feet.

If you read this, I will either see you soon, or never see you again.  Neither of those are sure things and sorry for the blunt honesty, but whether or not I see or don't see you again things will turn out alright.

Cheers,
Melmoth

Ice Shall Cover the Desert

I recently spent three full days in Melbourne city with four adults supervising fifty-five students.  The entire experience was better than Nicki Minaj though, like any experience there were moments that were worse than that woman whose voice has such a knack for grinding my gears, like sand... sand just gets everywhere. 

I noticed some things, I witnessed some things and I took part in some things.  I will do my best to include only the most interesting in this post.

The first day was the longest day.  Up early for school and a long bus ride into the city, followed by the house rules of the hotel.  By 11:00 AM it felt like a full day had passed.  That tends to happen when you are directed, guided and instructed.  Even as a chaperon I felt exhausted with the amount of information pumped into my brain.  Perhaps the students weren't as affected, simply because they only had to worry about themselves (which they followed through with perfection, every one of them) and not a group of veins bursting- with-hormones teens hopped up on adventure and American television.

Regardless, the first day is a blur of shops, bedazzled clothing, shoes on sale for 130 dollars, the weight of guilt from a homeless shelter visit and the sights of a tower nearly 300 meters tall.  I may take time to unpack the visit to the homeless "shelter."  Really a church trying to figure things out and help people, though their methods are a bit unorthodox.  Later perhaps.

Day two went the quickest due largely in part to the evening activity of ice-skating. This was the time I let myself be a student rather than an adult, at least in shifting towards the front of the line to snag a pair of skates.  It wasn't until I sat down, my Canadian friend Byron suggested I traded them in for hockey skates, as he had done.  At the counter, the staff member of the largest ice skating complex in Melbourne (dare I say Australia!?) eyed me suspiciously, mustache and all, and asked if I was with the school.  "Why yes, I'm on staff" I replied with a shrug of my flannel draped shoulders.  More hesitation from behind the counter.  I couldn't see his hands.  They could have been fingering a silent alarm, or a sawed-off shotgun considering how nervous he looked.  "Hey kids!  Is this guy one of your teachers?!"  He shouted towards the dozen students in line.  A unanimous "yes." rang out and he ordered a skate grunt to retrieve a pair of 11's, while apologizing to me thrice with "...I just had to make sure, ya know..."

We also had to wear helmets.  As Byron said, "It just feels so right!"

I can tell you really want to know why I loved skating so much.  I still can only half skate backwards.  I still can only half stop.  I still am kind of fast and mostly stable.  Compared to the Australians, I was like Michael Gretzky, three time curling champion!  But even this was not the reason I will always remember skating in Australia.

I am in a country where I feel as though I mostly fit in.  I feel that people mostly like me, at the least they pretend to like me to my face.  While I was shredding that ice like a every Parmesan cheese grader advertises it can shred Parmesan cheese, I felt like everyone was back in Michigan with me, rather than me being in Australia with everyone else.  I didn't feel home, but it is the closest I have gotten to feeling at home in Australia, to even feeling known or understood.  The simple pleasure of moving on the ice (and oh when the Zamboni freshened the ice) carried me thousands of miles and made me fall in love like I haven't felt since...

The final day of the trip was the students "Amazing Race."  The other teachers and myself wandered, shopped and ate food.  For an hour and a half Byron and I sat in the garden at St. Patrick's Cathedral and asked students theological and philosophical questions as part of the race challenge. 

Here is an overhead shot of St. Patrick's

I will not include the questions here because that is a great way to start a string of arguments involving people wanting to be right.  If you want to hear what kind of questions an America exchange student and an ex-Canadian now Australian ex-youth pastor asked 9th grade students while sitting in the garden of a beautiful cathedral, you can ask me for them and I'll send them along, also including the answers and why your answers are wrong. "Dead wrong."

Tomorrow I dine on Crocodile Pie.

Cheers,
Melmoth

And let me tell you, that ice-skating was better than Nicki Minaj more so than anything else I have written about.

The Edge of the Guest House

I remember my dad telling me a story about the phrase Eureka!; this phrase must always be declared as an exclamation.  

I am not sure if I asked where the phrase Eureka came from, or if he had read it in the paper, or made it up to entertain me, as many fathers should continue to do.  I do know that I will never attempt to validate or refute the story's authenticity.  I would rather be wrong for the rest of my life then tarnish, even if menially and superficially, the memory and story my father gave me.

Some scientist... a forefront thinker.  I forget who.  I know it is someone obvious like Galileo, or Plato, or Da Vinci, was floating in a bath tub pondering something about things floating and mass and the idea of displacement. 

(It is amazing how much we remember and how much we forget all at the same time.  I remember so much more than I realized by simply typing out the introduction to the story, but cannot recall the main character's name!)

He suddenly had an epiphany, as most people who are remembered or half-remembered do.  He immediately jumped up out of the tub and, in a flurry of white scientist beard and eyes sunken in wrinkles he ran down the street to screaming his wife's name "Eureka! Eureka! Eureka!" stark naked for all Glycon and Zeus to see, oozing with jealousy. 

And so, Galivincto solved a problem that had been giving him quite the itch and is remembered for his catch-phrase as well as his ability to run through a street naked and be remembered as a hero.

Today I asked another teacher what they missed most about Australia when they spent a few months working in England.  Three things stood out.  The first was space: Australia is to England as an Obese American is to an Irish midget.  

Too far...?

The food.  An obvious one here.  How huge a role food plays in our lives, and how little notice we give to eating it, and how little thought we put into not eating it and all the time in between.  Yet it is always on our minds.


I don't know what I would do if I couldn't eat.  I know what I couldn't do if I couldn't eat.  I couldn't do a lot of things.  I suppose I could decompose if I couldn't eat.  I like eating.  We all do.  I had McDonalds for the first time in Australia today.  It tasted like America and boy was it the worst way for me to feel like I was at home.

The third thing was just a sort of mishmash of missing the familiarity of the soil and all the things you do on the piece of soil you are most comfortable with. 

Sitting in an internationally focused "Guest House" hostel, I feel more at home than I have yet in Australia.  Perhaps because Melbourne on the surface is a big city like Grand Rapids or Chicago or Indianapolis.  Perhaps it's because I have thousands of Ronald McDonald calories sinking my gut through the bed mattress like an anchor cutting through sea water.  Maybe it's because I am flying home in seven days and everything but my body is already there. 

I don't know what I will miss most about Australia, and I don't know what I currently miss most about America. I will exclude missing people in my "What did/do you miss most" scenarios.  Missing people is a given.  


I do know that when I am not at the mountains, whether Rocky, Smokey or Appalachy, I miss the mountains.   I know that I miss moving East to West, following the sun and the trails walked ten generations ago.  I know I miss feeling family through the walls of rooms, or in their car as they drive home from work.  I miss knowing where police prefer to sit, and which gas stations give their donuts away at a certain time.

When I figure out exactly what it is I miss which may very well be what makes us all human then maybe I will be able to get away with running down the street naked, shouting my wife's name.  I am sure if I ever figure it out I'll be old and close to death.

Cheers,
Melmoth 

Instructions on the Bathroom Wall

A million to one.  Those are the odds I just made up that a shark will attack and or eat you when you are swimming, surfing or body boarding.  Every time an individual enters the water they have a million to one shot that a shark is going to ram into their body, eyes rolled back with their pointy teeth bulging into bones.

For those of you unfamiliar with odds... imagine you are a gladiator fighting in an arena.  In order to be given you freedom you have to beat a certain amount of guys.  The almighty Caesar points at you and bellows, "You must fight off one million mans, or all your base are belong to us!"

In all reality, the odds are probably more like ten million mans against one man.  Often people use the phrase of comparison that may sound something like, "Dude, that was a drive in movie night of biblical proportions!"  Well, if we want to go Biblical proportions on man versus man odds, Samson killed 5000.  One of David's Mighty Men killed 800.   Anyone in the Bible kill a million people?  Nope.  Do people get eaten by sharks?  Yup.  So a lot of people are swimming.  More than a million, or ten million a year.

What I am trying to say is that, it could happen to you, but it won't happen to you... it shouldn't happen to you.  What I am really trying to say is that fear is to paper as logic is to rock.

So would I rather take my chances putting my meager life savings on the roulette wheel or swim every day of summer in the ocean?  That would only up my odds of coming into unsavory contact with a meat eating aquatic monster to around ninety mans against a million mans.

I say, "Let it ride Black Thirteen!"

I did manage to stay in the water for an extended period of time, and even tried surfing.  I now know the literal definition of "catching a wave" though I was unable to trap one myself.  I came close, but they are so dang slippery.  Like an squid's head.

After my blessedly uneventful foray in the waves, I took a walk down the beach and found a mini-peninsula between two coves where the waves crashed into each other at more or less right angles.  They would barrel through one another like a relentless game of "Red Rover" and continue on into the ocean.  They left behind a sort of crisscross "X" of ripply waters full of sand and wood bits that moved like crawling bugs as the waves receded, pulling everything back only to smash it all on the shore moments later.  It was peaceful and made me think of Isidora.

On the way out, I stopped in the bathroom.  For men, peeing takes place in a long, chest high metallic trough. At eye level were the words, in a fat black marker, "Stand up on the step and piss in the urinal."

I took a picture and followed said directions.

Cheers,
Melmoth


PS
By request, here is the photo.

The Pains of Dolores

Predictions:

Church in the heart of Melbourne: Better than Nicki Minaj.

The Puffing Billy Train Ride: Better than Nicki Minaj.

The Melbourne Zoo: Worse than Nicki Minaj.

William Rickets Sanctuary: Better than Nicki Minaj.

Are you among the people in the world who have run out of gas while driving?  Me too.  Are you among the people in the world who have run out of gas while driving in a foreign country?  Neither am I.

While driving to work the other day, I noticed the gas tank was dangerously close to that big scary "E."  While rounding a corner the gauge would flex bringing that warm honey colored light on, accompanied by the harmless sounding "ping" that warns you, "Hey, your car is about to turn into a 2000 pound block of immovable plastic and steel."

That honey colored light, akin to slipping down a large flight of stairs or staring down a rather vicious looking dog in the middle of the woods, caused my life to flash before my eyes.  It was only a small piece that flashed.  It was more of a feeling than an actual memory, and with the feeling cam images.  It was dozens upon dozens of little blips of a gas gauge flexing towards that big scary "E" accompanied by a polite "ping" and the kind of sweaty stress from knowing you're going to be late.

Opposite side of the world and I have an epiphany including gas tanks.  I remembered the stress of being late.  I don't know what I thought I was missing, or what unbearable consequences I was worried about facing.  Add to these fears of missing out on the beginning of something the potential for missing out on all of that something when the gas tank turns up bone dry halfway up a hill and I recall being quite the bundle of nerves. 

It was an odd moment, where two version of me collided.  Granted, I often imagine what would happen if two versions of myself met.  Often though I imagine the two of us racing, wrestling or critiquing the other's lack of intelligence.   Often these day dreams end up looking something like that Jackie Chan movie where Jackie is told he is "The One" and he must travel to alternate universes to destroy robotic versions of himself so that his child can grow up to lead a resistance against the impending automaton apocalypse. 

The car I currently drive, Dolores, has a funny gas gauge.  It's about 1/8 of a tank off.  So when it looks like you have 1/8 of a tank left, you actually only have none.  None gas left.  And driving down the highway with none gas is Worse than Nicki Minaj.  That means that I would rather be driving and listening to Nicki Minaj if the alternative is sitting on the side of the highway, gasless, with zero Nicki Minaj.  A scary thought. 

When Dolores fooled me the first time with her gas gauge, I was given a lecture by a close friend's father.  The phrase I will always remember, "It's easier to reach into your wallet to fill up from a half tank down than it is to fill up a full tank." 

I find that it is difficult to fill up a gas tank whether it is half full or empty, so I'll just drive my car to bone dry every time.  Less fill-ups means less pain.  I can say though that I don't think I'll ever really be stressed by that honey colored-light or the "ping" again. 

Cheers,
Melmoth

P.S.  On the topic of pain, I heard a very painful phrase while conversing the other day.  The phrase was, "Well, I want to have a flexible job because my other half moves around a lot..."

I'll let you figure out who said it.

Time Trees and the Spirit of Giving

A man wiser than me just said, via my computer, "Love is not sentimentality, love is not feeling... has nothing to do with feeling.  It's not Romanticism..."

But I'm just typing that so I can read it later.  I like reading something I've heard.  Who am I talking to?  You are a blog.  You are not a: person, community, group, sentient being, penguin, cup of tea.  It is much easier to say what you are not, than to say what you are.  You are: a blog and you are turtles all the way down.

I suppose it's easier to say what something isn't rather than what it is?  Does this epiphany make me a scientist!?

My good friend, Dr. Pebblegrasper (head of the prehistoric archaeology department at Sanford U would say, "No, you are not a scientist anymore than Jesus was a Raptor."

Well, maybe I'll be a scientist yet.

I'll not write of the French Student Teacher again.  It is too painful to bring up love lost.  Too painful to think of what could have been.  As Dr. Brown described in the fifth "Back to the Future" movie, if you change one thing in the past, you "could" (scare-quotes mine) change everything in the future.

A more complex idea of this would have, not on future branching off, but thousands upon hundreds of thousands of branches branching off of branches.  Try imagining you are an avid gardener with some form of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.  Your new neighbor is Captain Planet and he just planted an ocean of mammoth Weeping Willow Trees lining every border of your property.  In three weeks you drown in your attic, buried under millions of thin, plant Willow-whips.  That's a fraction of the outcomes of your life based on choices.

As things look now, my choices will lead me to drowning in tears of lonely sorrow in a lifeless attic of my own.

Do not get so caught up in the choices you make that decide to not make choices.  It will destroy you.  It's like, trying to convince yourself you are "nothing" or like believing that you can help everyone in the world.  You aren't nothing, you can't help everyone.  If with every decision that ever presents itself to you, you sit and ponder and wonder and think think think and try to figure out the best course of action which would give you the next best course of action which would in turn give you the next possible course of action, you will bleed out your mind and soul in a cascade of splintering dominoes.

The decisions you make affect every other part of your life.  Don't worry about it.  You will do nothing and you will go mad.

I took Saathi for a walk tonight.  She is a good dog, but a terrible listener.  Still, it is amazing what a fifteen minute walk can do.  No music, no people, and a dog that at least pretends to listen to you as you rant about things which must be ranted about.  Other good listeners include: pillow, steering wheel, toothbrush (can be difficult to communicate) an open field, angry storm clouds, tombstones and pizza boxes.

While probably the worst listeners of all animate and inanimate objects (aside from grandparents who are starting to lose their marbles) cats are excused from criticism on this subject, because they simply don't care about your feelings... at all.  Your personal possessions would, if they could.

I'm leaving this country soon.  If you are an American I know, tell me if you want a gift.  It would be great if you told me exactly what you want.  That makes my life easier.  If you say, "Oh I don't know bring me back something Australian."  I will bring you back the Australian Common Cold, or some dirt.  It won't be pretty red/orange dirt, it will be gross brown dirty dirt.  Ya know, even if you tell me exactly what you want, I probably won't get it for you anyway, most likely because I don't like you.

If you are Estonian, Russian or Hungarian, I would love to get you and personally give you a gift for your faithful attempts at using my blog as a way to better improve your terrible English skills, but I will never go to Estonia, I will not look for you in Russia, and if I ever make it to Hungary, I feel like it would be similar to passing through a very small town without seeing it.

If you are Canadian, I do not want to buy you a gift.

Cheers,
Melmoth

That's a Strong Coffee

I do not know how to tell the difference, visually, between a strong and a weak coffee.  You can tell when coffee is watery, but then you just have dark water, not coffee.  I know how to make a cup of coffee, but I will never know the fine intricacies of the brewing a cup of "medium-strong" to "as-strong-as-it-can-be-without-turning-into-a-solid coffee" and everything in between.  I usually just throw in a teaspoon of sugar and a shot of milk to whatever I come up with and chug it down, savoring not the taste, but the sweet empowering magic of caffeine.

I'm more or less done teaching now.  This revelation came out of nowhere, though I am not complaining.  Students are preparing for their final exams and I have more or less finished both Plath and Macbeth (oh what happy semester it has been).  I still help out in the classes and teach here and there, but I'm on the down slide now, which is nice considering I've been fully teaching since September.

So, for those of you who have seen the Disney movie "Hercules" please cast out everything you saw in that film.  I know, I know, "Don't think about elephants," but I wanted to try and set the record straight, or perhaps give a bit of explanation to the fact that Zeus could have, and in fact should have been the ruler of the underworld.

So Zeus and Hades were brothers, along with Poseidon.  The three of them defeated the Titans, which were the gods before there were gods and as all of us Americans know, to the victor goes the spoils (see reference: WWII).  The three drew lots with Zeus choosing the sticks, and then choosing first.  Zeus drew the longest lot and received the sky, Poseidon gained the sea, and Hades, the underworld.  Some say Zeus cheated his brothers some say Zeus really just called dibs.  Either way, it could have just as easily been Hades in the sky. Poor guy is a victim of circumstance.

Either way, Hercules still kills poor Megara.

But because of Zeus and his greed, what does Hades mean now?  The waiting place of the dead.

In other Australian news, the queen (all rise) was recently on Australian soil.  She rode trams, curtsied young ladies, and wore silly hats.  She didn't stick around for "Cup Day" though.  Rumor has it she never has and never will.  "Cup Day" is the Australian version of the Kentucky derby, with silly hats called fascinators.

This is the best fascinator I could find... it is clearly better than Nicki Minaj.

Sarcasm is also better than Nicki Minaj.

So what I am saying is, fascinators in general are worse than Nicki Minaj

 Le France won the cup this year.  I know a lot of Estonians who lost money on that bet.  Betting of course, should be against the law everywhere.  Do you know what happens when you bet?  You leave things up to chance.  You know what happens then?  Chance gets rigged by your younger brother and you get sent to the waiting place of the dead.

Disjointed thoughts again, coming to you live from down under.

Cheers,
Melmoth

P.S.
I almost forgot.  A shout out to my comrades in Russia, currently in third place for views this week.

Thanks Left Ear Jr.

The internet is being a bit spotty.  Did you know most countries (I don't know if it's most countries really.  At the very least it is Australia and probably most South American Countries and African Countries, and Communistic countries...) have a cap on monthly internet download.  American's have a cap on internet download speed. 

A random website clocks the US internet download speed at around five Megabytes per second.  Said website's rating of South Korea's average? Twenty and a half Megabytes.  And us nerds wonder why the South Koreans are so good at Starcraft.

I was going to tell you how many gigabytes of information you could download in a month with no cap, but it looks like, after some aimless browsing that American Internet providers are or have adopted a cap.  It's just oodles bigger than what your average internet user requires.

All that being said, I'm typing this blog in Microsoft word, and it is unsettling.  I will have to copy and paste it over to the blog.  Could there be anything more pathetic for me to whine to the empty void that is the imaginary people who read this blog?  Yes.  Yes, I could complain about the couch I am reclining on.  Stupid couch.  Your pillows are saggy and  you smell slightly of small dog.

Have you figured it out?  I have little to discuss.  I watched football, graded papers and went for a walk.  Then I ate too much food and watched the Italian Job.  A fine film.  Too predictable, as Hardcastle McCormick complained of while watching "How To Train Your Dragon."  Shut up Hardcastle.  You don't tear down animated movies except for that Nascar one, Little Nemo in Slumberland and The Land Before Time 2-19. 

"So... what was your favorite part of the Italian Job?" asks the faceless void of data I type to.  Well, let me tell you.  The characters name was "Left Ear" in tribute to Mike Tyson, his step-father I believe.  Left Ear encounters some dogs from a distance and reports to his comrades, "I don't do dogs.  I had a bad experience."  His fellow countrymen ask, "What?  Why?  What happened?"  Left Ear replied, "I had a bad experience..."

Like any good movie going American I chuckled and thought, "Oh I'm looking forward to that coming back later in the movie." 

It didn't.

Every other scene or idea tied into another part of the movie. It was the Niagara falls of foreshadowing.

The old man who is (spoiler) killed just happens to crack safes the old fashioned way, while his daughter uses technology.  How does she crack the final, unexpected safe?  Just like dad would have.  With jazz fingers.

What happened to Napster boy?  Someone stole his idea. 

What happened to the whole gang?  Someone stole their ideas.

Dead guy's daughter never looks in the vault after she cracks it?  She does when she robs for revenge!  Sweeter than wine, revenge is.

Girl drives a Mini-Cooper like one of those soulless vehicles from that horrible animated Nascar movie, Mini-Coopers become the thrice used getaway car. (See what I did there... with Nascar?)

No imagination for (SPOILER) antagonist Steve?  Even with 35 Million in the bank, no imagination.  Even with (SPOILER) Ukrainians pointing a (SPOILER) gun in his (SPOILER) face... no imagination.

The entire introduction was simply a precursor setting up the second robbery to mirror the initial robbery of the gold.  Yes, that is sort of the whole point of the movie, but I can only handle so many introductions of ridiculously unimportant and obviously planted bits of information which will come back later as direly important before I just want to throw up.  It's like watching with the director commentary on full volume, "SEE WHAT I DID THERE!?  THAT'S A "CONNECTION!" 

I actually threw up yesterday during "Moonraker" when Bond fought off an assassin with a glass handled sword and destroyed a priceless work of art in the process.  Both items which had been introduced merely so the viewer would cringe while the fight took place.

So two things, I realize movies do this, and in a sense have to do this.  Especially when constricted within the framework of "action movie" or "spy action movie" but just let the audience figure something out on their own.  Or not at all.

I say all of that so that my thanking this movie character makes sense.  Thank you Left Ear Jr. for telling us you had a bad experience with dogs and for then never bringing it up again.  We learned so much more about your character through your silence than if you had told us any story, amazing or lame, about your bad experience with some villainous dog.

I realize this isn't supposed to be a film critique blog.  The movie was better than Nicki Minaj but that doesn't change things between you and me and the blog.  And don't listen to me anyway!  I haven't even graduated college yet. 

How about this.  The other day, I was on the train going into Melbourne.  Across the aisle was a pretty non-French girl.  She had a very realistic tattoo of a vampire girl with blood on her face.  The vampire's face that is.  Next to me a woman was listening to a song called "Unthought Known." I wrote it down, but I don't think I'll ever take the time to look it up.  I now have three very thin pocket journals.  I labeled one "Poetry" the other "Life" and the last one "Dreams." 

Cheers,
Melmoth

P.S.

That Nascar one is, you guessed it, worse than Nicki Minaj.  Also, one of my desires in life is to attend a concert of some sort where the band refuses to play an encore.  They seem so commonplace now.  They don't seem to mean anything anymore.  I'd also love to attend a football game, where the two teams play another game.

Stop Mucking Around

Today was the final day for the year twelve students at school.  It's a day called Muck-Up Day.  To muck up means to screw up.  It might have been mock-up day... but I am sure it was "muck."  You're probably thinking, "It was Mock-Up day, that actually makes sense."  You have (probably) never been to Australia, you have no idea what does and does not make sense here.

I also say "year twelve" fellow Americans, because the phrase seniors would mean not only those students in year (grade) twelve but also those in year (grade) eleven.  Australians also call chickens "chooks" and being sick "crook." The only slang term that makes sense to me is the word crook, simply because no one who takes a sick day is actually sick, therefore making them a "crook" which of course Australia (and Georgia) is known for breeding mercilessly.

I have had many good conversations in the last week.  Two of the many touched on ideas of homesickness and loneliness.  Both of these conversations brushed near the idea of being known or being understood.  There is nothing more frustrating than being misunderstood.  Now, I don't mean screaming into a Drive-Through speaker like American's scream at foreign or deaf people.  No not that kind of misunderstanding.  This is more the misunderstanding where you tell an old lady that you're going to Central America and she tells you to, "Watch out for them foreigners."  The kind of misunderstand where you laugh with tears in your eyes, and everyone else forces a grin, like a fresh ironed shirt trying to show of a wrinkle.  Does that make sense?

Being misunderstood at the Drive-Through speaker and getting pickles on your burger is worse than Nicki Minaj.  Pickles alone are worse than Nicki Minaj. But, far worse than this green little devil is living in a world dominated by polite smiles accompanied by conversation about the weather, sports teams, the news, politics and the ever present "how was your day?"

These conversations are not bad or evil or boring in and of themselves (nothing really is), but after weeks and weeks and weeks of them, one may find a desire to do anything else.  It is not boredom.  Boredom is throwing a rock at a stump.  This is life that can take place anywhere, with anyone for any duration of time.  I have seen it.

I have glimpsed life behind a desk, and it is your ten favorite songs on repeat, playing all day, every day you are at work.

There exists, as Hardcastle would say, a cultural barrier as big as the Pacific.  There are a lot of similarities between Australia and America, but if one focuses on the similarities, it is only because they hope to be understood.  It doesn't work, I tried it.  It's asking someone to read an eye examination chart with binoculars through the fog across said ocean.  Now, I'm getting along just fine over here, but it takes time to adjust to a new school, a new teacher a new pair of shoes a new biological parent and a new culture.  I am working on it, latching onto similar things, adjusting to dissimilar things.  It is a process, and a difficult one, made all the more difficult that, while there are people here to support me, I cannot turn to a close friend and say, in a very American way, "What the crap was that all about?"

So Muck-Up Day was fun. Costumes, toilet-paper, glitter and dancing.  Students in celebration that soon they will not have to be students anymore.  For them it was a day marking an end.  I saw their ending and I appreciated it (less classes for me to teach!) and all of the shenanigans that took place.  At the end it was a gym full of people that even if I were to spend the rest of my life here, would always be a distance off  and in the fog.

I'm trying to explain something I don't have the words to explain.  This is easier to explain than love, at least, it's easier to try to explain it without sounding cliche... oh... love.  I met this guy at a rest stop in Ohio once.  He said his name was Cyrus, but I am sure he made that up on the spot.  Anyway, he was staring at the woods for a good five minutes while my friends and I filled up our water bottles and bought some vending machine magic.  I couldn't help but ask him what he was looking at as we left.  He said he was looking for a Bullock's Oriole.  I asked him what it looked like. He started to describe it, then stopped himself and said, "I can tell you what it looks like, but I can't describe it to you."

Cheers,
Melmoth

Keeping On

So, it's very obvious that I miss home.

Of all my many faults... I have one shining quality.  My emotions shine as if they were neon signs.  Why is this a quality?  It makes it difficult for me to have two faces.  Depending on the and the situation this allows me to be very straightforward and honest, perhaps forces me to be so.  It is not ideal, but I am alright with it.

I have played two Australian basketball games.  The first game we got absolutely stomped.  Lost by fifty points or so.  The second game was set up to follow suit.  We were down from seven to five men and we were playing "The Spartans."  I don't know if any of you saw the movie "Gladiator" but boy are those Spartan guys (led by none other than Kevin Costner) mean!

Anyway, the teacher I worked with (Beauregard), who invited me to play on the team as "imported talent" ended up picking up another player for the night, just to give us a breather.  For those of you who do not know the finer points of basketball, (Hardcastle) having six men instead of five is a huge help.  This allows you to rotate every four minutes or so and give everyone a break.

The sixth man Beauregard found sprained his ankle, six minutes into the game.

Fortunately, we ended up playing a fairly mediocre team.  Just like the first night, they were mostly young men in their thirties or early forties.  They had a few stars with some meat blocks for rebounding and the majority of them had permanent sleeves of dark green and crimson ink that said things like, "I'll cut you to get that rebound" or "Intercept my pass and I'll scream @#%&*."

We won by about sixteen points and even the other team seemed to have a good time.  Even the other team smiled really big as they stared at us driving away in our cars.  Friendly guys.
There is a new student teacher at the school.  I don't think we will ever speak.

Nothing else has really happened that I feel like writing about, so I will recall a dream...

~~~~~~**~*~*~**D**~**~*~*~R***~***~E~*~*~*~*~*~**A***~*~*~*M~*~**~~~~~~

I was riding a tall gray stallion through the streets of Spain around 1600.  I was riding to a cliff.  I don't think I intended to go there, but I remember knowing that I would end up at this cliff by the sea.  As I was riding to the cliff I saw a monastery and my horse veered off the path towards it.  I had to gallop through a field there didn't seem to be a path.  But when the horse veered into the field birds started to drop out of the tall grass that was growing there.  Out of the tops of the grass, where the grass grains are held.  They were like very little magpies, but green.  The flew into the air and swarmed my horse, pecking at it.  They didn't attack me, just my horse.  They did this until the horse died.  I tumbled to the ground and found myself at the gate to the monastery.  I tried to lift it, but I couldn't.  So, I called out to the gate into of the garden but there wasn't anyone there.  The birds were circling the field behind me.  I kept calling out, I think I yelled lots of things.  Among them I remember yelling, "The Band!" and "Shut the curtains!"  I kept yelling until I saw someone walk from under a tree.  I couldn't tell who it was, and they didn't say anything, but they waved their arms around in the air, drawing big circles.  They kept walking towards me and I saw that it was the French Student Teacher.  She seemed to walk towards me forever but never get closer.  I got angry and punched the gate down.  Then I woke up because I had hit the wall next to my bed.

~~*R*~~*~*~*~*~*E*~~~~***A*~**L*~*~~*~*~~*I*~**~*~*~~~~*T*~**~~~***Y**~*~*~~

I dream pretty often, but I usually don't write them down because I don't want to remember them.


Cheers to you sleeping well,
Melmoth

The Sound of Fury

Last night I watched the play "The Sound of Music" was better than Nicki Minaj. I went out to dinner with my cohorts, and then enjoyed an evening of American singing accompanied with Australian speaking.  Whenever an Australian sings, it sounds American.  I don't know if there is an Australian singing voice.  This was also the case for that rappa I saw the other night, Damion Jewels.

I will admit, the only reason I initially agreed to attend this evenings event was to hopefully catch a seat next to the French Student Teacher, who I had learned was also attending that night.  When I received my ticket from Shendressa, I noticed that each ticket had a name written at the top, but that the tickets also had a seat assigned!  Hallelujah to Glycon!  I was worried about doing a figurative dance in order to acquire the seat to French Student Teacher girl's left, but now, it was all left up to fate.

We were all arriving at the theatre, located at a local high school, separately.  When I arrived I noticed the average age was about 65 (Australian Years) and thought "Oh crap, I went to the wrong play AGAIN..."  It turns out, it was just an old crowd.  Australia, is actually becoming a rather old country.  Turns out they had a baby boom similar to America.

Still I waited at the door under the ruse of the entry lobby being jam-packed and smelling like old cigars and prunes. I was hoping to strike up a conversation with French Student Teacher in case fate placed us at opposite ends of our groups row of seats. I envisioned her arriving, us making quiet chit-chat off to the side of the stairs, a sort of Venetian balcony.  Then as the ushers hushed us into the theatre, I  casually slide into line behind her, take a seat on her left (regardless of fate's seating chart!) and voila!  Three hours of romance and singing and contraband candy hidden smuggled in past the obtuse guards.

Alas, fate's 16-sided die rolled askew, and French Student Teacher cancelled, passing her ticket along to one of the teachers 12 year old nieces.

As far as I'm concerned, "The Sound of Music" ended with Mary-Ann and her family of Swiss yodelers getting caught in the mountain pass due to snow and inevitably reenacting the Donner Party's misfortune.  Oh French Student Teacher.... you were to be my Mary-Ann.... how you had my heart...

Never-Ending Cheers,
Melmoth




P.S. If you could all pray for Andrea the Palestinian, that would be great.   She is in a rather difficult relationship right now.  Her significant other has a rather fiery temper and the only way she knows how to respond is by fighting back, sometimes physically.  Pray that she might learn peace and mercy, rather than conflict.

It Must be a New Fad...

I'm a bit out of touch with fashion.  I have five dress shirts I rotate through out the week.  Sometimes the shirt I wore on Monday, I also wear on Friday.  I have two pairs of dress shoes, black and brown.  The reason I have two pairs is that I needed a pair to match both sides of my reversible belt.  I have five ties, and they take after my five shirts in consistency of being worn.  I acquired four of those five ties at a church garage sale for a quarter each.

I say all of this to let you know that I am by no means an expert in the fields of style and fashion.  Only five months ago I let someone touch my hair with something other than buzz clippers (Thank you, Karly Pebblegrasp). I am just not up to speed on how things should and shouldn't be done in the world of style and elegance.

So, I am now plead with you, man or woman from Estonia... the only person reading my blog... tell me what is the fascination with decorating your person, car home with birds in cages?  I ran into the woman with the birdcage necklace again; a dangling symbol of lost hope and an unnatural state.  More unsettling, I rode in the car of another equally pleasant young lady with what I could only discern was a caged-bird car freshener.  A dangling bird would be just fine (though in that scenario the car could signify the cage.  Yes, it might be a big cage compared to the bird, but a cage is a cage... a prison with a mall, a sprawling courtyard with fountains and a stream is still is a prison) but it had to be a dangling bird locked behind delicate, unbreakable bars.

It must be a new fad.

The reason I was in this symbolic clipper of freedom and hope was that I was invited to attend the opening night of an Australian Hip-Hop Artist known as Donald Jyles or DJ.  My party and I arrived early enough to hear an opening act.  Two guitarists and a girl keeping beat by slapping her right wrist with her left hand.  The back-up guitarist wore a Jurassic Park hat and may have played music or sang, I don't remember.  I think he was just a man in a hat.  The lead guitarist was a husky fellow with a malleable voice.  Not bad at all.

The main act was something else entirely.  I am as bad a judge of music as I am of fashion, so I will do my best to say it like it is without praising or condemning.  I do not listen to hip-hop, techno, rap or any of that jazz in my free time.  This show was not an unpleasant time.  I mostly stood in the corner pressed up against a couch and a thick ex-rugby player completely unaware of the amount of other people's space he consumed.  I ate some ice cream (wish you were there Mr. Fire) and listened to the music.  He was better than Nicki Minaj, but unfortunately he is two major butt implants and a sex-change with free spray on tan away from being heralded as the next big "feature" rapper.  If I were given his CD for free, I would not put it on my laptop but I would pass it on to a friend.   I wouldn't be surprised if someday an adequate amount of people in Australia knew the name Donald Jyles.

Tonight I am going to, for the first time to see "The Sound of Music."  I have had several people go slack-jawed when I sported a blank look during discussions of the importance of this... thing, whatever it is.  I'm not sure what to expect.  The leading lady apparently has some pretty bad throat flu and had no understudy.  That gives another meaning to the word... drama!  I feel like this blog could get me a job writing for "Glee" though I don't know because I haven't seen that either.

I could also supplement my resume by filling in for another minor character tonight thus allowing that actor/actress to fill in for the leading character of the... thing.  I'm guessing the leading character is named Jane, or Susan, or Christina.  I'm going to check.  Dang. Maria.

Oh this looks terrible.  If only I were going to listen to a reading of "The Sound and the Fury."

I'll let you all know how it goes... I cat-swear!

Cheers,
Melmoth

I predict that "The Sound of Music" will be worse than Nicki Minaj.  I also think that telling someone, "Your shirt is so loud" is better than Nicki Minaj.  

An Interview with Chaos...

Part III of the Low Income Super-Heros Trilogy, The Unlovable Android, has unfortunately been cancelled due to a lack of budget, interest and sufficient reasoning to create it, based on the inevitable past flubs of the third installments of movie trilogies (see Pirates of the Caribbean, Iron-Man 3,  Spider-Man 1-3, The Matrices 2 and 3, and Doom the Movie with Dwayne Johnson as "Sarge."

Yesterday I had an interview with the Principal, Deputy Principal and the American French living in Australia teacher who dropped that Eiffel Tower on her foot (she is out of the cast now! She is also having me over for Thanksgiving Dinner.)  The interview was for an Upper Primary teaching position with the school (grades 5/6).  I had a ripper (pronounced "rippa!") interview but will not be offered the position.  My one trump card, that I am AMERICAN, loses it's value when two other candidates play their international cards as well.  Most likely they are Serbian and Estonian.  Probably the Estonian who reads this blog... learning my weaknesses.

So, they have international trump cards, and they are trained for Primary Education.  I'm a Secondary trained bum who likes kids but has no idea how to teach them spelling.  Well, I have an idea, but I won't have a degree that says that I have an idea.  I suppose my fate is to sit in front of a television analyzing future Presidential speeches about wars on terror and wars on communism and wars on poverty and wars on duck-lip photos and wars on obesity and wars on... other things... like crime... and stuff.  So mum, relax.  I'll at least be back in America for the next few years, most likely.  I'm looking to apply to some places in Pennsylvania, Vermont, Colorado, Virginia and so on. 

So, I have begun the digital search for an occupation in the middle of the good old Red, White and Blue.  A very odd experience.  Not looking for anything in the education field.  It's not really appealing to me. The class I look forward to most is a group of top notch 11th graders and it's poetry.  I'm teaching it like what my lower level college course were like.  I would love to teach college.   High School, not right now.

I have a cold and an "intramural" basketball game tonight. I will of course do my best to score as many points as possible in honor of the retired Hall-of-Famer, Hardcastle McCormmick.  What a shooting percentage he had.

Cheers,
Melmoth


P.S. No sign of the French Student Teacher girls... I guess it just wasn't meant to be.  I have now been the target of at least three "Set-Ups."  It's like walking through a yellow smiley face mine-field.

Low Income Super-Heroes Pt. 2: The Low Budget Puppet

After arriving at the campsite, we had about two hours to set up the stage/set upon which the weekends super hero robot skits would be taking place, as well as putting our beds and rooms into order.  My bed consisted of pulling my sleeping bag out of a stuff sack and laying it out on the bed of my choice (top bunk on the right when entering the room).

After the delicate matter of ordering my sleeping arrangement, I set out to help the more knowledgeable staff set up the stage.  In events like this I do my best to be an extra pair of hands to someone who knows what needs to be done.  If I am unable to find a team leader in need of an assistant then I just float around, doing my best to make sure that the female leaders/counselors have to carry as little as possible.

In this case, I managed to bump into the tech master, Stuart and the camp director, Neville.  They were moving a dreadful green leather couch, so I did my best to assist them, though three people carrying a couch is often a stupid, lopsided sight.  After making a bit of small talk (which, if I were a superhero, small talk would be my weakness) Neville looked at me with a sort of hungry look and said, "You have a great voice.  Do you want to be a robot?"

My mind immediately ran through thousands of possibilities.  I remembered the Android Saga from Dragonball Z, Will Smith and his robotic arm in "i Am Hancock" (if only the robotic army had been able to fight off the zombie superheros... then Neo might have survived," I remembered the awesome three minute cut scene of mega dinosaurs combining together to an electric rock ballad of monstrous proportions and I fantasized about running down the street after the ice cream truck yelling "GO GO GADGET GUN!"
I knew, if this man could really grant me robotic features, or some sort of computer implants, that I would need to play it cool.  My helpful nature and baritone voice had won him over to this point, but I would need to answer this question correctly, no doubt, in order to secure my place among history at this underground mad scientists side.

Instead of screaming, "MORE THAN ANYTHING EVER YES!" I coolly created a look of minor confusion and interest and said, "Well sure, I'll do whatever you all need me to do."  As I said to myself, "that is, until I have enough power to destroy you!"
"Great!" he responded, "We need someone to work the robotic puppet on the stage table!  You have a great voice, the kids will love your accent."

I felt at that moment what Voldemort must have felt like every time Harry managed to (with blind, dumb luck) destroy one of his Horcruxes.

So, I spent a half hour twice a day for three days cramped under a table about three feet high.  I had a microphone held between my knees near my mouth so my voice could be heard and in one hand had an old coat hanger attached to the Robot Puppets mouth and in the other hand a pool cue that controlled his body.
The puppet himself was a series of interconnected spray-painted boxes.  He had sad eyes and black tubes for arm.  He had no fingers and no dignity.  His name is Ollie.

And that concludes Part 2 of Low Income Super-Heroes.  Tune in soon to read the exacerbating conclusion to this riveting trilogy which will no doubt rival The Lord of The Rings!

Cheers,
Melmoth

P.S.  Because I want to share this all with you.  Watch it dozens of times.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ct822sAXzRI

Low Income Super-Heroes Pt. I

I would never be able to be a super hero.  With my post-university life only a few months away I am beginning to feel the weighty necessity of soon acquiring some sort of job which pays an income (preferably with a very small workload).

The super-hero must take on the responsibility of bread winning, as well as
every-day-battles-to-the-death-winning.  So, while I pull out my unwashed hair at the the very thought of applying for jobs (eerily similar to applying for scholarships) super heroes not only hold down a job in order to bring home the bacon, they also save the world time and time again.  I suppose this is the challenge of Peter Parker, who always seems to struggle with his life's balancing act and I suppose this epiphany explains my fondness for the wall crawling angsty hero.

In keeping with the super hero theme of the camp, I will make this a multi-part blog post, because, you can't tell a super hero story in one go.

My weekend consisted of a camp for low-income kids.  The benefits included: kids having weekend mentors, parents getting a weekend away, affordable for families with low income and I get to hang out with kids, play games and puppeteer a robot named Ollie who will never find true love.

I'll start with a description of Han, my little buddy.  I wasn't sure what Han would look like, but I was looking forward to getting some one on one time with him.  Being a 6th year student and a boy, I was excited to have a weekend of adventures.  I was then informed that Han had Asperger Syndrome.  Bring it on.  A reprisal of King Duncan.

I didn't know what Han looked like until I saw him.  I hadn't seen a picture of him, but his yellow bedazzled cowboy hat and full body blue and red sweatsuit (an shell of clothing he would not shed the length of the weekend) gave him away.  He was one inch shorter than I and had a good 50 pounds more of gravity working on him.  He wasn't fat, really.  Just a thick built young boy.

Han's favorite topics of conversation:

• Video Games
• I was able to connect with him on several points here.  Han is rather high-functioning, but most of his focus for the weekend was on camp and his friends; exactly where my focus would have been.
• Horror Movies
• The Ring, The Blair Witch Project, any movie with "Exorcism" in it's title and a plethora of movies I had never heard of.  The conversations would go something like Han asking me if I had seen such and such movie.  I would respond with a yes or a no.  Regardless of my answer he would begin to tell me, in vivid detail about different monsters, creatures, beasts, gremlins, homonculus nightmares or ghosts/zombies/undead and their ravaging of a human person.  I would respond with something like "Well, it's a good thing all of those movies are made up."  To which he would reply, "No, only some of them are."
• That was pretty much our conversation choices of the weekend
• It was a good weekend and we did talk about more than these two things.  But those topics dominated the time.  Ahh to be young again... Oh to have another chance with the French Student Teacher....

Han left camp asking me if we could be Facebook friends, youtube account friends and if we could be "brothers from another mother."  I told him the camp would only let me be his "brother from another mother." He conceded the point only when I promised I would friend request him on Facebook in a few years.

I'd now like to take some time to discuss Grant Morrison.  Grant Morrison had an impressive beard.  It was lengthy, but did not travel up the sides of his face. It remained around the base camp of his chin.  At one point during necklace/craft making (I attempted to make a Preying Mantis about one foot in length... but I ran out of time... and skill) Grant had taken bits of wire and some beads and made a hat that wove down into his beard.

Masterful.

I had a good chat with Grant while the kids were attempting to conquer the "Tumbling Rock Wall."  We spoke about our personal histories, what we have done and will do with our lives and what we thought of things like politics and people. The best bit I remember from the conversation was centered around television.  He gave his away maybe ten years ago.  I was happy to hear that I wasn't the only crazy anti-TV hooligan running around with questionable facial hair.  He the told me, as our conversation concluded, that he was working on getting together some young guns to blow up the antennae towers, I told him to count me in either her in Australia, or to lead up a chapter back home.

At the end of the camp, Grant was praising one of kids.  He described his little buddy on the low ropes course as, "being like a bat out of hell."

I think Grant might be one of those people I'll never see again.  A ghost of a memory or a waking dream.  So, here's to you Grant Morrison, good luck with the TV Antennae and with finding yourself.

Everything described in this blog today was or is better than Nicki Minaj.  Spider-Man 3 wasn't mentioned, but now that it has I must specify that everything described in this blog today was or is better than Nicki Minaj, except for Spider-Man 3, which was terribly worse than Nicki Minaj.

Cheers,
Melmoth

P.S. Part 2 of Low Income Super-Heroes: The Low Budget Puppet, will be released on schedule when I intend it to be released in 1-5 days.

Wilson and his Promontory

I guess I can say whatever I want to on here.  No one reads it...

I have received a hateful message from a man named Lansford Covington.  I suspect it is either an insane individual who reads blogs with the intent of insulting people (as he also insulted my friend's blog Jordanias) or else, since it is a bit of a coincidence that Lansford insulted both me and Jordanias, that he is merely a creation of one of our mutual friends.

Most likely he just hates both of us.  Maybe it's Mathias.

Anyway, Near the later part of my first week of Holiday break, I went to Wilson's Promontory.  This is about as far south as you can get in Australia (The Lighthouse, which is in WP area and is the actual most southern point (this does not include Tasmania, which is like Australia's version of the UP.))

When you couldn't see the ocean it looked very much like the Appalachian Mountains in West Virginia.  I went with a first year teacher at BHCS and her two good mates.  We'll call first year teacher Sasha and her two mates Holly and Lucile.  It was a short three hour drive through a lot of rolling hills and scrubby farmlands.  Mostly green, with some hints of Australian red earth.  Holly is also a school teacher and Lucile sells things... or markets things to be sold.  She doesn't seem to like it much.  I was able to decipher her true feelings towards her work life when she told me, in regards to her job, "I tolerate it."

I was fully prepared for a two night "over-night" hike.  When I showed up with my life folded and stuffed into my hiking pack, I set it down next to Sasha's gear.  I noticed she had a blow up air mattress that was a bit smaller than my pack, and significantly heavier.  I then realized what "hiking" meant.  I was perfectly fine with this.

We set up camp, two tents.  One was a palace, akin to the tent Hermione charms up in HP 7.2 (Mostly Better than Nicki Minaj) the other was a two person tent in which you could actually fit two people quite comfortably.

The highlight of the trip wasn't "Star-Tripping" (ask Kale Fire about it) on an ocean beach, or petting/riding a wild wombat or even rock jumping in the rain along the coast towards the ocean as the tide came in.  The real highlight was seeing, from afar, Nicky Buckley and her family.

Nicky Buckley and her family is the star of a C or D grade Australian produced TV series.  They travel around Australia and report to people/families/old farts what this years hot spots are.  They were present at Wilson's Promontory shooting a promotional video for it, focusing on how the area is still attempting to recover from the devastating floods of last year.  I will most likely be featured in the episode along with Sasha,  Holly and Lucile.  When we saw the cameras, we immediately began to poorly kick a footy around.  Our ruse worked!  They began to film and very shortly asked us if we had anything besides a footy.  We had a soccer ball!  So, we kicked that around!  They then asked us if we could set up goals and have a match.  We could and we did!  They then left us and started filming the Pacific Gulls scavenging for food around a group of elderly people.

So, if ever you are looking for something to watch, bored out of your mind... look no further.  The 2011 season of Nicky Buckley's show most likely features several seconds of yours truly kicking a footy or a soccer ball around in some dirt.  While Nicky Buckley's show is certainly worse than Nicki Minaj... those few moments of fame for me were far far better than good ole Nicki.


After the filming we asked her kids, young boys around 13 years old, if they wanted to kick a footy with us.  They said yes, but then they needed to be filmed stuffing skateboarding gear into a duffle bag.  After this they drove away for a half hour, came back, and then packed up their camper and well, we didn't see them again.

So, it was a good time at the prom.  There was no grinding, lots of nature and even a few foreigners speaking cool languages on a closed down bridge!  I'm going to try to make it back there again, so I can climb some more mountains.  And maybe play footy with Nicky Buckley's kids.  I don't know where else to look for them!

Next update... Super Hero camp with the low income kids.  Melmoth doing some good deeds!

Cheer,
Melmoth

Phillip "Screwdriver" Island

The road wasn't wide enough for the holiday traffic.  The island getaway home was lent to me and my host family by Madame McGrath a former native of the US of A.  She teaches French at Belgrave Heights.  She is currently dragging her right foot around; a persistent injury sparked off by dropping a metal replica of the Eiffel Tower on her foot.

I'm not joking.

My first contact with her was me covering a class of hers.  It was a year 7 French class and they were taking a test.  Easy.  I hypnotized them with my accent and was very serious about staying quiet or having the test taken away.  Everything went fine.

At the top of the last test I collected it said, "Sorry I didn't finish it.  I'm not very good at taking tests.  Please don't make me take it again. :( "

I looked up and the girl was in tears, being consoled by her friends.  The bell rang, they all left and I wrote a note to Madame McGrath explaining the crying girl with the test half completed by the compassionate whisperings of her neighbors.  That was our first contact. Madame McGrath currently has a the only other student teacher in the school.  A girl teaching French with confident blonde hair named... well I can't tell you her name because I make up people's names in my blogs and I can't think of a good pseudonym for her so she will be French Student Teacher Girl, or some variation of that... deep sigh.  Ahh French Student Teacher Girl...

The Island is shaped like a dolphin and full of Kangroos and Wombats and Koalas that I didn't see.  I did see a Wallaby, but these things are common and are really imitators of the Kangaroo.  Cheap greedy imitators.
We did several day hikes and walked or biked around town.  I bought a cheap hoodie which I immediately cut holes in for my thumbs to stick out through.  The only other thing I almost bought was one of those little collectible spoons for my Grandma B.  There were several antique stores around full of trinkets one almost wants badly enough to buy.  Stores that live and die by the amount of impulsive buyers who flutter through their doors and along their wares floors long enough to have their eye caught by the flicker of an object from ten to two hundred years ago.

I couldn't find a spoon I was completely satisfied with the second day around (always wait until the second day to make your purchase, if you have the option) so I came back with a very generic blue hoodie.

My hoodie, while only costing ten dollars, is better than Nicki Minaj.
Wallabies are artful deceivers, miniatures attempting to steal the spotlight from the majestic kangaroo and are therefore worse than Nicki Minaj.
Me and my roommates old "Big Green" chair will always be better than Nicki Minaj, even in hundreds of years when it has rotted into the ground or been burnt into the atmosphere and joined the stars as star-stuff.

So, I am off to a weekend at Super-Hero camp.  It's for low-income kids and tries to get the kids and counselors down to a one on one ratio.  My kid is named Lucas and he is in year 6.  When I get back, you will hear about Wilson's Prom and then Super-Hero camp (no, we do not get to dress up like Super-Heroes.  I suspect the camp will be worse than Nicki, but that Lucas will be better.  That is my forecast, you'll find out soon if I'm a prophet or not.) so I have some catching up to do still.

Cheers,
Melmoth


P.S. Libby Allen on how many people are in Australia and the US, "There aren't 22 million Australians... there can't be.  Because there are only like 8 million people in the US..."

King Duncan

I have a bit of catching up to do.  I have been on three major trips, all with major happenings to inform you all about.  None of these next three posts will involved things related to academia, sports, heffalumps, fabric softener or wooden sculptors of Holly Golightly.

I recently read "Breakfast at Tiffany's."  Truman Capote is brilliant and I am 99% sure that the thousands and thousands of American girls who paste Audrey Hepburn posters on their walls have no idea who Holly Golightly is and if they do I am sure I can say to them "'oh' with recognizable relief, 'oh' with a shameful, rising inflection, 'the movie.'"

Year ten camp was overshadowed by King Duncan.  I call him "King Duncan", because I am teaching Macbeth to my year ten students.  He is not a king and his name is not Duncan, but he is in turn one of my favorite students and is also one of my most challenging students.  He always carries with him a water bottle and a ketchup bottle (In Australian, a Tomato Sauce bottle.)  He is a very picky eater, and what he does eat he suffocates in ketchup.  He suffocated a large bowl of rice in ketchup.

Oh King Duncan, you shouldn't put ketchup on your pancakes...

King Duncan has autism, severe enough that he will say, whenever he is feeling hungry, "I am hungry."  This is a statement of fact, spoken without malice to the air, usually in those quiet empty spaces that hang after sentences.   For example,

Instructor at high ropes course: "Now students, I want to challenge you!  You're going to have to give this rope bridge your all, but I know you can do it if you follow the instructions I gave you and encourage each other... are there any questions?"

King Duncan: "I am hungry."

King Duncan did not participate in the rope bridge. He did however give the rock wall a go, as well as the laser skirmish.  King Duncan however, stole the show on the Flying Fox.  The Flying Fox is a zip line that runs across the lake.  It lasts about fifteen seconds and is a great confidence building activity.  Once the individual decides to jump off the launching platform, they are finishing the activity.  They can scream and flail and crap their pants and yell all sorts of gibberish while throwing any bit of clothing they can tear off of their bodies into the lake, but they will finish the Flying Fox.

King Duncan did none of these things.

Wearing a horizontally stripped shirt and black/blue with white strip/swirl swimming trunks, King Duncan and his ever present water bottle skirted across the lake looking like a content sloth.  Not a care in the world and the hint of his rare smirk/grin on his face.

I had the best view, that of the spotter.  At the end of the line, there are two spotters who work together to slow down the incoming Fox.  It was myself and a very mild-mannered student named Thomas.  When I realized it was King Duncan (who by the way is a husky sort of boy) coming across the lake, I suggested we back up the receiving platform a bit, to give him more time to slow down.  We did.  When he was getting close to us I suggested we just hold our arms with our bodies a bit back from him.  I did.

Thomas however, the quiet but gung-ho type, steps right in front of King Duncan (who, as I said, easily weighs as much as Thomas and then another 1/3) and takes him smack full on.

I was stunned.  King Duncan went floating back towards the lake.  As he spun around towards the platform he saw Thomas on the ground and asked, "Why are you laying down?"
Thomas was fine and King Duncan was retrieved, and I was given the image that will be in my brain even as  dementia eats me up.

So, the rest of camp was fine and altogether uneventful.  Other interesting and good things happened, but nothing that you would be interested in (I'm speaking to the person from Estonia reading this.)

My next two posts will be here probably tomorrow.  I just received an email reminding me that I am a "Big Buddy" for a superhero camp starting this Friday afternoon.  Things are unraveling faster.  Boy.

Cheers,
Melmoth

P.S. I am happy to report that for whatever reason the American dollar is currently 2 pennies stronger than the AUS Dollar.  This is great for me.  Keep up the hard work guys!

Bird Cage Necklace, Foxy-Man and More Buddha Please!

Last Friday night, I went out with the staff of my school to a restaurant.  The restaurant was called "Flippin' Pancakes."  They had good food, good service and a nice atmosphere.  They did decorate the headboard lining every room with different china plates, and that looked stupid.

I had a good time conversing with other faculty, teachers and even a student teacher about my age, though she is a cute ozzie girl, rather than a forgotten literature character/folklore from Spain.

The highlight of the evening though, was the woman with the birdcage necklace.  I understand that fashion now decides people, but this necklace... I couldn't help but look at it to try to convince myself it was something else.

(What I mean by fashion deciding people is that there is, in the world of fashion the "in" and the "out."  I needed a new pair of black dress shoes.  I was convinced that the "in" shoes are a bit pointy at the end.  Very sleek, very European.  Nothing really like what you would find in America.  I did nothing to choose what fashion I would wear, the fashion chose me.  How pathetic I am.)

This fashion now is wear long looping chains with gaudy trinkets wrapped up at the end, resting somewhere near the navel.  Most of these necklaces look like a hoola-hoop of collectibles from Ariel's secret stash of junk.  This necklace was, unlike most jewelry of the current "fashion," very concise.

It was a long silver, rather plain chain, that looped down, not quite to the bellybutton of the lovely lady who wore it.  Where the chain connected, there was a good 6 inches of extra line hanging off, as if to say, "I'm a necklace that works with extra tall girls."

Attached at the bottom of this necklace was a birdcage the size of those old Silly-Putty eggs.  Inside the birdcage looked to be the imitation of a parrot.

Now, I haven't been this way long, but thanks to the influence of my good friend Cyrus Wetherbee, I am a bit opposed to the idea of caging birds.  A bird, by its design, evolution, whatever have you, exists to be in the air (obviously this is not the case with things like the Kiwi, the Ostrich or the dodo (rest in piece) but you can cage those birds, as long as you treat them well!)  No one thinks about this idea... at least it doesn't seem to me that people think about this idea, because how could one reason out the justification of clipping and or caging a bird?  I'm not planning on joining PETA, because well, that's not my thing.  But I daresay it will make it much more difficult for you and I to be friends if you can't at least see the selfishness of taking flight away from a bird so you can have a companion, or a pretty sight.  Flying birds are about as free as you can get.  And take that away, well, it's like "putting a hamster in a balloon and floating it in the air, expecting it to be quite comfortable, happy and satisfied."

The point being, when I looked at this girl with the birdcage necklace, the only thing I could hear her saying was, "I'm all about caging creatures in their unnatural environment..." or something like that.  It was very odd.  Usually I am able to dismiss these things, or people, but these thoughts of wearing a necklace that was so blatantly a symbol of something unnatural and... lonely.  Well it got to me.

The next day I saw a fine Australian film called "Face-to-Face" about reconciliation and forgiveness.  It was a good message and good acting.  Pretty swell cinematography.  I was quite happy with it overall.

Then a book store.

A new looking bookstore.  Like a freshly inflated rubber raft.  It didn't smell new though.  It didn't smell at all now that I think about it, which is a shame.  I bought a basic Australian bird spotting book (what am I turning into?  I will at least look at the pictures.) and Breakfast at Tiffany's by Truman Capote.  While carousing though, I noticed a long line of books, all sharing the same row.  It began from the end of the aisle towards the back with these different sections: Spiritual, Science, Military, History, Biographies, Non-Fiction.

I am convinced that bookstores are a sort of equalizer.  Yes, just for your money, but that is better than a lot of people anyway.  I feel like I would be hard pressed to find a topic/subject/book that when you asked for it in a bookstore you would be run out, or spit on.  Maybe a book that encouraged the mistreatment and caging of birds.

Anyway, I am sure you are thinking of lots of books about supporting Nazi's and really crude things that would get weird looks in a book store... why are you thinking about these things?  Stop it.

My two favorite titles from the bookstore: One Buddha is not Enough and The Origin of Species
Both, two books down from one another, both making lots of claims about what's what.  This is making me think of the Vegan and Vegetarian I met a few weeks ago.  They are nice people.

I'm considering changing this blog to Better or Worse than Wearing a Bird Cage Necklace...
but, instead I will just say that bird cage necklaces are Worse than Nicki Minaj. Also, at least there is only one Nicki Minaj.  I fear there are dozens of these necklaces.

I'm off to a camp for my year ten students tomorrow, so enjoy a few days without feeling obligated to read this crap.

Cheers,
Melmoth

P.S. I had to come up with a super-hero to dress up as for one of the nights.  I will be going as Foxy-Man with a fur neck covering thing.  My super power is extreme political push for the right to hunt animals for their fur.  Sub-powers include seduction, bribery and arson.

THIS BLOG IS STILL ABOUT NICKI!

Two days of blogging in a row. I guess you're lucky... punk.  You're punks, all of you.  And if any old man with a mustache crawling into his mouth ever yells from his porch at you, "You darned punk!  Grow up ya hippie!"

Immediately stop.  Walk up to that man (staying out of spitting range), look him hard in the eye and say, "I am a punk, and I'm going to spend the rest of my life farting around."  And walk away, backwards until you are out of sight.

Now, onto the first things.  I have been neglecting the nature of this blog.  So, here is a catch up list of things Better or Worse than good 'ole Nicki (who is unfortunately as admired here as she is in America:

Things Better than Nicki Minaj

• Kookaburra.  I have been given several eye witness/first hand experience stories from different people about arrogant Kookaburra who steal food right out of the hands of people about to eat it.  One person received a cut on their lips from a Kookaburra going after some chicken.  Hitchcock was apparently a prophet.
• Melbourne Weather.  It is exactly the same as Michigan weather.  For those faithful readers from Estonia (7 views), Nicaragua (5 Views) and Canada (1 View) this means that the weather is very inconsistent.  This past Tuesday it rained, was then sunny, rained again, came back to sunny as if a malevolent Venasaur had used "Sunny Day" in preparation to unleash a barrage of solar beams on a hapless magikarp.  After the sun stayed around for about five turns, it began to hail ice the size of British front teeth for twenty minutes. I hate Nicki Minaj.
• Flippin' Pancakes.  (This is the restaurant I attended last night.  Tomorrow I plan on blogging again.  If you want to read my three consecutive blogs as symbolic of Christ's crucifixion and resurrection, you may.  But only because I mention that is also Better than Nicki Minaj and I am referring to it in the Better than section.
• Coin Change.  The Australian currency system has a plasticy sort of paper money.  This is fine.  However, their smallest dollar note is numerically "five," graced with the face of an old governess "Glenn R. Steven" as far as I can make out her signature.  I believe she won her election in 1955 by promising to funnel funds towards "Boomerang Development and Lock Picking" and away from education.  I make these assumptions based on my daily observations in the classroom.  I digress.  When I make a purchase with any sort of monetary note, I expect to receive monetary notes and some small change in return.  Take the example of expecting change of four dollars and seventy-five cents.  I expect four, one dollar notes and three quarters.  I receive two, two dollar coins, a fifty cent piece a twenty cent piece and a five cent piece (which is not referred to as a nickel.)  As the change is placed into my hand, there is a moment of confusion, rage and absolute greed where I begin to form a slur of hateful belittling words towards the individual who has shortchanged me.  This lasts for a moment and is then replaced by the realisation that here in Australia, the change is different.  And they spell "realisation" with an "s."
• Pretty much everything else.

Things Worse than Nicki Minaj:

• Australian cop cars.  The only giveaway is the amount of antennae on the vehicle.  It can be any make, usually a newer model SUV type.  Local Law Enforcement will also set up speed traps. Unmarked cars on the side of the road may have radar guns with cameras inside.  This cars are also apparently able to operate the Federal mail, because if you drive too fast by these cars they send you a ticket.
• Australian plumbing.  NONE of the toilets I have encountered flush the opposite direction.  They all flush as per described in an earlier post.  Check the label at the bottom.
• Crossing the street.  If I die in Australia, I will have been hit by a car while crossing the road, looking the wrong way.

So that's a good little list to catch you all up on how I have been feeling.  Sorry about that post yesterday.  Very boring I know but, even a squirrel with 20/20 vision with fall out of tree every now and then.

Tomorrow, I will fill you in on three great stories.  The woman with the birdcage necklace, the book store and church.  Oh a pot of trouble is brewing.  

Also, my host sister now has a boyfriend. 

Cheers,

Melmoth