EQUALITY/YEAH, WE LIVE IN A DEMONGRITULE

After exhausting my emotional depth and writing talent last week (see previous post), its back to inane comments and random YouTube clips this week.

Before I do, though, I've got to say that I feel truly blessed by the many kind people that responded with support and love. I guess not many people have been left untouched by the loss of a loved one. Social media forums loke Facebook and Twitter have their many knockers, with many people dismissing them as a series of inane rants by affluent people whinging about they didn't get the coffee they wanted, or that traffic is bad, or whatever. The majority of the information on these forums may be relatively inane, but then again so is the majority of my daily conversation. They remain amazing forums for spreading awareness and concern for people.

Now that thats out of the way.....

For me, the change in weather has seemingly coincided beautifully with the sad memories of last week starting to settle.

Memories of lost ones will never completely heal, but they do become less painful. I find that the best therapy for sad times, involves lying down in the sun, on some soft grass, with a faithful dog beside you.....

The weekend papers, homemade sourdough toast and a pot of tea.....

Sunlight streaming through the window.....

Somewhere far in the distance, hearing a lawnmower whirr into life.....

Seeing that the trees are well manicured, with a restrained parade of colour, but the blossoms are not in full bloom...

You're not sure whether to read, cuddle your sleeping baby, do a load of washing or just sit there and take it all in.

Thats right, spring has sprung. It is magic. Perfectly symbolised by my coriander seedlings, emerging from the ground as I type this. I planted some coriander seeds into some pots on the widowsill with a sense of hope a few weeks ago, when the cold weather didn't look like ending. I fear that in a couple of months it'll have bolted to seed, and the whole exercise will have provided enough leaf for half a taco, but the progress has been uplifting nonetheless.

The sakura (cherry blossom) is in bloom here, and the sight is unlike anything I've seen before. I didn't think I would be seduced by such obvious beauty; I thought my appreciation of nature leaned towards the nuances of the Australian bush, of the textured colours that can take a lifetime to describe.

But no, it appears I'm a sucker for the sakura. Perhaps it is their fleeting, ephemeral quality that makes them so attractive.

 

With spring comes boundless optimism. I'm the sort of guy who walks into the casino, 'feels lucky', and promptly loses $100 on roulette. Just last year, while giving the dancefloor a bit of dougie, I attracted a plethora of young ladies who appeared keen to match their moves with me. Whilst nursing a horrible hangover the next day, I reflected that perhaps these young women had not, in fact, chosen the stallion of the floor to get loose with. Perhaps, they were gracing the oldest, most non-threatening, saddest looking loser with some badly needed affection. The duration of this reflection could not be measured in metrics; it was so fleeting that before I knew it, I was giving myself a bit more dougie in the mirror, with a knowing smile, a wink, and a bottle of gatorade in my sweaty mitts.

On this subject, I always thought that I would marry the woman of my dreams. But I never realised I would get to marry her twice, which brings us to.....

THE MOTHER OF ALL WEDDINGS

Yo yo, I heard Kim Kardashian married some guy for 84 days or summink. And J.Lo had sushi being served on naked models at her wedding.

But nothing beats marrying the woman you love for the second time.

The first time I got married, I must admit I was a little nervous. It was great and all, and I dearly loved the woman, but without getting too intimate - what if she never puts out? What if she wanted to stay chaste for the rest of her life?

These questions dogged me for days, particularly as our wedding day was such a happy day, yet lacked a happy ending....

I'm happy to report that my second marriage was a far more relaxing occasion. This time, the lady in question had runs on the board and experience under the belt (see my son for evidence). And whats more, I love her even more than the woman I married the first time.

She makes me laugh, makes me think, makes me coffee (rarely), encourages me to follow my dreams, is my dream, and is as tough as she is beautiful (heaps).

She makes me a better person and I am so grateful for her.

While Wedding #2 provided a useful opportunity to get kitted up in exotic clothing and express our love for each other, this was not the sole point of the day. It was also to provide a feature for a local festival to be held in Amakusa that day. Indeed, the dearth of local couples getting married that day left an opportunity for Emma and I to renew our vows in a formal Japanese manner, take a ride in a rickshaw, be interviewed by a local TV crew, and generally be treated like royalty. They had me at 'rickshaw'.

We started off at the local shrine. I had clean underpants on and Emma had frozen Ziploc bags of breast milk. We were down for whatever.

Two ladies asked us to undress, as my mother-in-law watched on. (Regular followers of this column should note is not normally how my day goes - normally it is the other way round).

The ladies then kitted us out in a kimono and wig for Emma, and a hakama for me, with my hair being declared suitably samurai like/awesome to be left alone.

 

After being dressed, we met the shinto priest for a quick run through of how things would roll. I recall it as something like this 'stand up, bow twice, sit down, drink a cup of sake in 3 sips, turn to your left, wave a branch, drink more sake in 3 sips, put your thumbprint on this piece of paper, bow twice. And don't mess any of it up, theres a television crew filming'. In hindsight this seems like some sort of drinking game performed for Funniest Home Videos, but it was serious as a heart attack at the time. The fact the priest had a photo of the emperor in his temple possibly indicated that his views on interracial marriage were, ahem, 'mixed', but he was admirably professional, particularly when you consider the robes he was wearing:

With many onlooking, we managed to get the bulk of it right, and before long we had safely negotiated an interview with a TV comedian, and were safely surrounded by family and friends, including our son Plax, who slept through yet an another important moment in our lives. Bless him. The comedian's repertoire seemed to consist of mocking the English language and anyone who spoke it. In addition to this, he congratulated Emma's Dad on his ability to speak Japanese, which, given he was born in Japan and lived here for the majority of his life, is perhaps not as admirable as it seems.

 

Soon we were being led along the local streets in the rickshaw, with a pack of gorgeous kids dressed in traditional garb leading the way. So many onlookers lined the streets, I felt like royalty. Sadly though, I believe my excited demeanor betrayed my peasant status, as I gleefully waved to all and sundry, instead of solemnly avoiding eye contact and deigning to display the royal wave only.

 

We eventually made it to the main street where the festival was being held. Shrieks of excitement by local kids and the scent of bbqd meat filled the air. I was persuaded to stay on board the rickshaw, despite the lure of grilled chicken, until we got to the stage.

Then it was time for a little more ceremony, before we were set up onstage, flanked by our trusty entourage and fronted by the colourful kiddies.

The ceremony concluded with us throwing out 1000 mochi pieces to the adoring crowd. Over 200 people clamoured for the mochi as we threw it. Grannies elbowed young kids out the way for a piece. It was truly a heartening sight.

After one last hat change for Emma, Wedding #2 was over.

We savoured the experience with a cup of macha green tea crafted during an elaborate, graceful process by someone who could only be described as an artist.

It was an absolutely wonderful experience and I'm so grateful and blessed to have had the opportunity.

 

See the flick below for the telly special they did on the wedding. Apologies for the dodgy footage - it was a last minute Mexican style prop-up-the-ipad recording of Emma's Grandma's TV, which explains the brown fluffy blanket lurking in the left hand corner.

 

However, please note that this certainly won't be our last wedding. We plan to get married as many times as there are Die Hard movies. That means there are 2 to go at this point, and with filming to begin on A Good Day to Die Hard in April, there could well be at least one more....

JAPANESE ENGINEERING/SHE'LL BE RIGHT, MATE

Alternative titles include: 'Japanese Engineering: Not as good as we all thought'. Or even 'What the Fukukshima Nuclear Plant Designers are doing now'

Found this little nugget of genius on the road up to the in-laws. It involves tie-wire, plastic twine and besser blocks. No word on potential compensation offered when the wind decides to drag the entire sign, blocks and all, into oncoming traffic.

 

I believe that most Australians would be familiar with the concept of 'bush engineering'. It probably first came to prominence as a concept when Ned Kelly stole a plough disc and made a metal helmet and breast plate out of it. Or when New Zealand faced a food shortage, were getting cold at night and lacked women of marriable age and started raising sheep to solve all 3 problems. I thought it was a uniquely Australian concept, involving using only the available resources to solve a problem, which in the bush can mean doing a lot with very very little. On second thoughts though, traditional land owners of the world have been doing this for millenia.

So there is something about the photo below that I love. It is a small set up that achieves 3 things:

• Shelter for farm equipment from rain
• Captures rain for later use on the farm
• Allows for distribution of the captured water via the offtake from the bath.

Every part of the arrangement below has been scavenged. And in a resource poor world, which is the way we're headed, innovation like this becomes essential.

JAPANESE INVENTION OF THE WEEK

The low hanging fruit in this category has been exhausted, and after a while the most wondrous of inventions become standard fare. I rarely stand up to pee anymore; why bother, when you've got a pre-warmed toilet seat ready to go?

However, I refuse to let this stop me. I have searched high and low. I cruise back streets and shopping malls. I am inexhaustable when it comes to seeking innovation.

After lengthy consideration, this battery vending machine was considered the invention of the week. Lets face it, in a world of late night convenience stores and rechargable batteries, a battery vending machine is hardly cutting edge. Can't jam any of these into your iPhone when you need it.

So imagine the world these blokes were living in when they devised the battery vending machine. Demand for batteries must have seemed insatiable. This would have been the era of Nintendo Gameboys, Sony Walkmans and the newly invented remote control.

People must have been waking up in the middle of the night thinking 'Shit, I left the washing outside. Oh, and I urgently need some batteries. I know, I'll quickly zip past that conveniently located vending machine'.....

WHINGE OF THE WEEK/HELLO JULIA

Dear Julia/Kevin/Whoever has assumed 'leadership' of this sheep station,

I consider myself fortunate to be an Australian. To wake up every day and dream of Vegemite on toast, the finest coffee on earth, that beautiful bloody sun shining through the majestic gum trees that the most recent arrivals to our land haven't managed to justify cutting down yet. To dream of great days, and even better tomorrows. To know that whatever it is in this land I strive for, I have a bloody great chance of achieving. To know that the people that may discriminate on the basis of race are the minority, and are easily identified by their tendency to proliferate around Murdoch publications. I'm not going to list the diversity amongst the friends I have, because it could be viewed as an exercise in how awesome I am. But put it this way, I love this country. I love it so much I had the southern cross tattooed on my chest. With a rusty nail and some leftover blue paint.

So it was with great interest that I read over the citizenship papers for our young man. Incidentally, despite being burdened with a name ripe for teasing, Gaku Plaxico Akiyama Reeves, the egalitarian nature of our wonderful country means that I have the utmost confidence that he will teased just the same as the other kids with more common names. Indeed, my brother in law, Gou Jerremy Akiyama, who is commonly referred to as Gozza in Australia, asked me with some fear, 'Have you considered that Plaxico almost rhymes with 'spastic'?'.

The 'Declaration' of the citizenship papers asks you to read a lengthy series of paragraphs authorising the Australian Government to basically do what it wants with your information, all for the greater good I'm assuming. Then it asks you to 'understand that', among other things:

• Australian society values respect for the freedom and dignity of the individual, freedom of religion, commitment to the rule of law, parliamentary democracy, equality of men and women and a spirit of egalitarianism that embraces mutual respect, tolerance, fair play and compassion for those in need, and the pursuit of the public good.
• Australian society values equality of opportunity for individuals, regardless of their race, religion or religious background.

Its the bit about the fair play that tickles my fancy. I love it. Despite the widening gap between the haves and the have-nots, our country is still one that allows for unchecked dreaming. My little man can be anything he wants, if he has the grit and determination to do it. He could be captain of the Australian rugby team. Make movies. Make coffee. Be a synchronised diver. A high court judge. A singer. A premiership winning captain of the Melbourne Football Club. Bat at no. 3 for Victoria. Get married to the person he loves.

Er, on second thoughts, no he couldn't.

Not if he's gay. He could do everything else, but not get married.

Seriously?

There are so many fundamental issues in Australia that need addressing (such as the aforementioned widening gap between the rich and poor, who will play at first drop in the Test team until Plax is ready, and who the hell is going to lead my beloved Melbourne Football Club to their next premiership), yet you choose to fiddle around and debate this topic at your Senate enquiry.

How about you wind up the debate, pass the motion, just do what is obvious to everyone and legalise gay marriage. In our society, as clearly stated on our citizenship application form, we celebrate diversity. Hurry up and allow us to bloody well celebrate it, with some lamb chops on the barbie, stubbies of Coopers and glitter sprinkled on oiled up bodies. In fact lets celebrate it with a bloody day off. I reckon even Tourism Australia could devise something involving mass gay marriage, the Mardi Gras, Dame Edna Everage, and Kylie Minogue that would possibly even be profitable. Although that may be aginst their charter.

Then get the Senate onto the complex stuff that does require more than one pinhead to consider it.

Yours sincerely,

Paul

P.S How dare you potentially rob me of the opportunity to tell Dad jokes at my son's wedding?

P.P.S http://www.australianmarriageequality.com/wp/

 

PLAY OF THE WEEK

This week I got to live out one of my dreams. To marry the woman that I love.

Sometimes the cynicism and grind of the media cycle lead me to believe that people have forgotten how to dream. That we are a culture obsessed with money and status, clothes and shoes.

Is this true? Have we forgotten how to chase the dream? I just mean the pure simplicity of doing something because you love it. Because the thought of not doing it is unbearable.

Not for the money. Not for the ladies or the free pies.

I'm living the dream right now. Sure, it may be a little less noteworthy than some, but its my dream nonetheless.

Stories like Linsanity get us pumped because we remember what it is like to live the dream. You reckon Izzy Folau gets excited about going out to play like some B-grade AFL hack in some gravel top oval in the west of Sydney? Shit, even playing rugby league is better than that.

To all you people wondering how to pursue your dream, watch this, and remember that this man is now remembered as the greatest rapper of all time.

 

 

RIP B.I.G

 

 

 

A TRIBUTE OF SORTS

I learnt that Jim Stynes had passed away today when I awoke to the sound of my son crying. He needed a cuddle, so I grabbed him and chucked on some peaceful music for us on the iPad. A message on the screen had popped up from one of my sisters : Rest in peace beautiful Jimmy Stynes...so dignified and authentic. Keep that signed photo...the mark of a great man! And yes, I am my father's daughter. Glove you tresh. Skype later xoxoxoxoxo'

I sat there comforting my little man, and he in turn comforted me as I slowly digested what was going on. Sure, Jimmy had been sick, and I had tried to prepare myself for this moment by telling myself the severity of his cancer, the highly experimental nature of his treatment and the like. However, he also played 244 games straight for his mighty Demons. You don't do that without having mindblowing resources of strength to draw on, far more than us mere mortals. So his death still came as a shock.

You can read all the reasons why Jimmy was a champion; his exploits on and off the field are well known. There are not too many people who reach the pinnacle of individual achievement on the sporting field, yet achieve and reach out to far more people beyond it. So by all means, read about his wonderful exploits, and watch the documentary on him that served as inspiration to other cancer sufferers.

But it was what he did for a young boy from the country that I want to share with you.

When I was 2 my father gave me a choice of 4 teams to barrack for that hadn't won a premiership since 1969, the year he migrated to Australia. Thankfully I managed to look past St Kilda (see earlier posts about these blokes) and the Lions (folded), although Footscray are at least a bunch of battlers who I could barrack for if need be (ie they were playing Collingwood). I don't how Dad presented the options, and what criteria I selected on, but it was the Demons from then on.

So by the time Jim Stynes ran over the mark in that epic 1987 game, I was 6 years old, and already a tragic. For some reason I had already chosen Jim as my favourite player. Maybe being the 3rd shortest kid in my class made me yearn to be big, like Jim. I remember knowing that he was Irish - perhaps I felt like an outsider too. Who knows. But sometime that next year, I sent Jim a letter.

And some weeks later, I received back a large envelope, addressed by hand, to me. Imagine my delight when I read my name on the front, turned it over and found the back of the envelope covered in Melbourne player's autographs. The letter was hand written by Jim and urged me to stay true to the Demons, despite their poor showing that year. He included a signed photo that I had sent him.

I walked ten feet taller that day. And all the subsequent ones.

Sometime later, maybe 6 months or a year, I had a rare trip to Melbourne. I came down with my Mum on the train to meet my Dad, who was staying in the city that week. Dad was in his business suit, and after dinner he off we went. To Junction Oval, of all places. It was a cold and blustery night, and the Demons were running through their paces. Dad confided in me if we acted like we were meant to be there, we could comfidently walk into the changing rooms. So we did. It was little more than a tin shed and it smelt richly of that wonderful combination of sweat, dencorub and testosterone. Dad pointed out Jimmy Stynes, as if he needed to, and urged me over to chat with him. The rooms were filled with chatter and players showering and carrying on, but Jim bent down to me as I stood patiently waiting for his attention. I told him I had sent him a letter some 6 months or whatever earlier, and how he had written back to me. He told me he remembered me. He shook my hand and we had a chat, and as we did so he looked me in the eyes. I remember all sorts of things from the ensuing half hour spent in the clubrooms, some real, some imagined - a nude Rod Grinter giving my hair a ruffle (real), Alan Jakovich smoking a dart (imagined - he wouldn't debut for a few years yet). But I will always vividly remember that Jimmy Stynes gave me his time to chat, and that he remembered me.

It doesn't matter whether he remembered me or not. A young boy is not going to delve into the probabilities of that. It was that he told me he remembered me. I was so proud. So so proud.

Jim spent the rest of his off field life making people feel like champions, through conversations like the one described above, and through the organisation he founded, Reach, who's motto is this: 'Reach believes that every young person should have the support and self-belief they need to fulfil their potential and dare to dream.'

Says it all, really.

I have had many other people in my life who have made me feel like a champion in my life. One was my mum. She passed away over 12 years ago, yet I think about her every day. I could say euphemistically that depression claimed her life. I could lie, and tell you that cancer took her, just as it did Jim. I've done that before, to spare people the inevitable embarrassment when I tell them that she committed suicide.

If you want my opinion, sexual abuse as a child is what killed my mum. She grew up in a family where the vulnerable were preyed on, where alcohol, low self esteem and deep shame combined in a cocktail of abuse and unhappiness. To me, that kind of start to life can never be overcome. As an adult, she was able to shake off bouts of depression for years at a time. But that bloody black dog of depression would always come back to visit.

My mum was an amazingly kind person. Always giving the benefit of the doubt, always encouraging. I remember when I needed some cricket practice to prepare for the weekend's game. Dad was away and Mum volunteered to roll the arm over. As she was bowling to me, she asked me for some encouragement as to how she was doing. I weep now to think that she needed her son to tell her how well she was bowling, of all things. And if you are wondering, she was bowling quite well.

I also remember the last tennis game I played. It was against my Mum. She was completely outplaying me, and kept offering encouragement and loving comments as her winning shots would inevitably elude my desperate lunges. It infuriated the angsty teenage me to the point where I threw my racket and hurled abuse. She kept lovingly encouraging me. I forfeited the match and never raised the racket again.

Above all, she was a brave, loyal, and a fighter, just like Jimmy. If she was on your side, she would always be on your side. I vividly recall her defending my honour when I had been dobbed on for drinking beer on a school bus. On a phone hook up with two of the mothers on the self appointed disclipline commitee she said 'Well I'd prefer my child to be drinking beer than being the snitch who told on them!'. She raised 4 champion children, had a loving marriage for 30 years and did it fighting low self esteem and depression, right to the very end. She broke a cycle of sexual abuse, and did it by showering her children in love and support, and telling us we could be whatever we wanted to be.

Sexual abuse can occur anywhere, amongst any socioeconomic class, but it is prevalent amongst the vulnerable, the shamed, the low self esteem sufferers. The people who don't feel they have the voice that some of us are lucky enough to have. Those that feel too shamed by their experiences to speak up.

It may be too long a bow to draw to say that Jimmy's and my mum's lives were intertwined. But I wonder how many children he has reached out to, children who were once like my Mum, those that have been given the self belief they need to succeed and be happy in life. What a wonderful legacy.

You might not be able to reach out to as many people as Jimmy did. But if you love your family and friends, speak up when you hear of something that doesn't sound right, and above all believe in your friends and family if they feel something has happened, we will all be better off. Above all, listen to the voice and encourage people to speak out.

The people that make us believe in ourselves are the most powerful of all. Much more powerful than the people exploiting vulnerable children all over the world. Jimmy made an entire football club and generations of people believe in themselves. My mum helped me and my family believe in ourselves, not to mention the other depression sufferers she shared her battle with.

Rest in peace, Jimmy.

And you too, Mum.

http://www.reach.org.au/

I got the doctor to check me yesterday - yes, the heart beats true...

LAST NIGHT A DJ SAVED MY LIFE

I'm sure there's many a DJ with first aid training and a few band-aids in the disc crate just on the off chance they could save some poor soul's life and thus bring literal meaning to the song title.

But if any DJ was going to save you, like 'bleeding from the femoral artery' save you, it'd be the bloke who wrote the song. He'd whip out the defibrillator and zap you quicker than you could say 'Hey I feel a weird tingling in my arm....and I've been really stressed lately'. From the look of him, he'd be able to adminster morphine too. Just so he could feel you up. He'd give breast inspections. With some KY jelly and his hands. He'd check prostates. With KY, but without his hands.....

Check him out at 3 minutes 10 seconds into the song.....

 

Makes you think though, what if DJs were trained as paramedics? Would the Notorious B.I.G still be with us? Would Tupac still be alive?

Trick question. Tupac and Biggie are alive and well, sippin margaritas and smokin blunts at the Black House. You think Barrack Obama got elected all by himself? You think Kim Jong-Il died of cancer? Jay-Z got Beyonce pregnant? Uh-uh. Wait till they hear Kanye West has his own fashion line. They are not going to be happy.

Anyway, this week a chopping board saved my life. Sort of. It saved my hands ands face anyway. See, I glued cut up bits of chopping board to a set of gardening gloves in order to save my soft mitts from the harsh realities of bitumen and gravity when skateboarding. You can witness the chopping board, and myself, in action here:

 

PRODUCT OF THE WEEK

When Plax was born, I was inducted to a place that I never even knew existed; the baby shop. This is a place you can buy a thermometer from for $10 when the same one retails in the hardware for $5. Among a plethora of goodies we bought was special laundry detergent for babies. Well, baby clothes, anyway. (Washing babies involves developing hand muscles to the point where I could comfortably wrestle with a python in a pit full of olive oil).

As I set about easing the burden on my darling wife by doing loads of washing, my mother-in-law advised me on the washing machine. Given it only speaks Japanese (the machine, that is. Mamiko is fluent in both Japanese and English and can intimidate in every language), I was a little nervy about the whole thing in case I inadvertently pressed 'hot wash' and immediately ruined $500 worth of baby clothes and dashed the goodwill of so many friends and family. I could just see it: 'How does that gorgeous little Ralph Lauren outfit look on him?' 'Er, about that......'

Mamiko advised that a) I should use the special baby only liquid and that b) I shouldn't wash any of my jocks and socks with the baby clothes 'in case of infection'.

A rush of emotions hit me. First of all, how can laundry detergent be only for babies? I mean I'm sure that babies are delicate and all that, but did they have this babies only stuff when I was born? I'm sure my mum would've used normal soap. And more to the point, look how I turned out; on the positive side, I was 30 years old with a full time job and some friends; on the flip side I was 30 years old, with plaits in my hair and with an unmatched ability to recite the lines to Madonna songs. I wanted to cry out to the world 'MY MUM USED NORMAL SOAP AND I TURNED OUT PERFECT, JUST LOOK AT ME', quickly followed by 'MY MUM DIDN'T USE BABY DETERGENT, AND NOW I SIT DOWN TO PEE!' and sob in Mamiko's arms.

I quickly overcame this emotion, and I don't think Mamiko suspected a thing.

However, I was also disturbed by the second part of what she'd said: 'in case of infection'. Had I been carrying diseases in my pants all this time without knowing it? Or more to the point, did I look like someone who carries infections in the pants region? Is that what everyone thinks when they see me? "Oh yeah, Paul, nice guy, sure, just don't go near his boxers". I was appalled and hurt by this, and resolved to stop playing with myself in her presence to allay her concerns about what may or may not be occuring below the belt.

I was certain that I could've used the normal detergent but raw unadulterated fear of hurting my little one overcame me and I used the baby stuff. Which incidentally retails for about double the cost of regular detergent. As the label is in Japanese I can't even analyse whats in it....

 

Makes ya wonder though, what is in normal detergent that makes it fine for us and not babies?

Anyway, whoever invented the stuff* is printing money. But this is not the product of the week.....I encountered the elusive product when I was treated out to dinner. I looked at the menu and rawed at the waitress:

'DON'T COME THE RAW PRAWN WITH ME......

Unless you have some soy sauce and wasabi to accompany it'

She acquiesced, and here we are...

 

EXTREME COURTESY OF THE WEEK

Recycling. In my apartment block in Melbourne, there is an area in the car park loosely referred to as the recycling depot. My fellow apartment dwellers, who can't be named, as I do not know their names, haven't quite grasped the whole paper in the 1st bin, other recyclables in the 2nd bin, and garbage in the large bin concept. They lump it all in together and it DRIVES ME CRAZY. Cretins probably don't separate their whites from their coloureds when they do the washing either. Probably wear odd socks. Put tomato sauce on their dim sims. Drink red wine with chicken. You get the gist.

Anyway, it was a welcome sight at the recycling depot here. People take it seriously here. Don't know whether racial categorization and plastic categorization go hand in hand, but the Japanese excel at both. Often they combine the two, and assume that white people can't separate their recyclables properly. I'm here to dispel that hurtful portrayal of us white people as large, benignly smiling folk who don't know their polyethylene terephtalate from their polypropylene. Unfortunately, my first go at recycling did nothing to dispel this myth, as I blundered about putting plastic coated styrofoam in with the normal styrofoam. Oh the shame.

So, everything is separated. Caps from bottles. PET from PEET. Coloured glass from clear glass. Everything must be washed before it is accepted and put into the large bins. Each local depot is looked over by a group of men, generally smoking cheap cigarettes. They enforce the regulations, cheerfully help out and appear to love doing so.

See that sign on the closest bin in the photo above? My Japanese is still a work in progress, but I believe it says 'The first time you put the wrongly coded plastic in here we will chop your finger off. Next time it will be your hand'.

These men, salt of the earth, are the sole reason why Japan has more than double the recycling rate than Australia. Indeed, as I consider that Australia has a skills shortage in the recycling sorting department, I will be sponsoring a couple of septuagerians from the village to come and live in South Melbourne with me.

PLAYS OF THE WEEK

I went on record (if Twitter counts) recently as being willing to lose a finger if it meant that Jack Grimes, the injury prone co-captain of Melbourne Football Club, and his fellow co-captain, Jack Trengove, could get through a season of football injury free. Shortly after posting it though, I began to think a little more deeply about my comment, which was intended to be humorous.

Like how much would a hand get me? A premiership?

Anyway, I decided to conduct a test of my own idiocy in the pursuit of vicarious sporting pleasure, with the Melbourne versus Collingwood game acting as the control:

• Could a find a live video stream of the game in acceptable quality that I could follow on my iPad
• Could I tone down my emotions to an acceptably nonchalant level, as befitting of a pre-season game
• Could I refrain from saying morally wrong things while watching the football with my son in the room

The answers were yes, no and fuck no. I said out loud some of the harshest things I have ever even thought. I may have even invented some new swear words. At one point, I accused Daisy Thomas of being a combination of all the transgressions St Kilda players have committed in recent memory. Needless to say it was a lengthy, harsh and deeply disturbing diatribe, both in deed and description.

However, given the dire state of affairs that has befallen the Melbourne Football Club since that, dare I say it, magical Saturday not two weeks ago, (WHEN WE BEAT COLLINGWOOD, SO GO SUCK A FAT ONE EDDIE MCGUIRE YOU PARASITIC LEECH) I need to go elsewhere for Play of the Week. (In case you were wondering, the calamities involve, in no particular order: an initiated indigenous community elder, a machete, Buddy Franklin, and a broken finger. Oh how I wish these things were interrelated)

So here, I bring you happier days:

 

Which brings us to.....

WHINGE OF THE WEEK

Open letter to Robbie Deans, coach of the Australian Rugby Team, the Wallabies.

 

Hey Robbie

Reeves-dogg here. Say, remember that thing that happened last year. Around the 15th of October last year. That thing. That thing that involved the pride of Australia, the thing that makes me forget all the mediocre politicians, our horrendous policies on refugees and our pathetic approach to reconciliation with the traditional owners of our lovely little spot down under.

That thing when the pride of Australia, the Wallabies, lost to the All Blacks. I remember it, Robbie. I was there. But perhaps you didn't get the full impact of that.

I'll give you a bit of a history lesson, for free. The Howards years, as the years of '96 - '07 would later be known, were dark years politically for left leaning, Che Guevara shirt wearing pinko communists like myself. However, depending on your ideological viewpoint, these years could also be viewed as the Gregan - Larkham years. And this would inevitably put a smile on your face, as you would indulge in memories of those heady days when we used to roll the All Blacks and South Africa like sleeping cows. Once we knocked South Africa out of the World Cup by a drop goal. As a joke. When France beat the All Blacks in the corresponding semi final I laughed so hard a tiny bit of wee came out.

However, since you've been on board, I've had to put up with Kevin 'Fair shake of the sauce bottle' Rudd, Julia 'I am a sauce bottle' Gillard and Tony 'Sauce bottles? Send them back. We've got enough of our own here' Abbot. And you.

In keeping with my open minded policy on all things sex and race related (particularly sex), I didn't blink when they appointed you, a Kiwi and a former All Black to boot, as the Wallabies coach. Your lauded 'technical understanding of the game' and exploits with the Crusaders left me almost excited.

However, your reign has been a tad underwhelming. Losing to Scotland. Losing to Samoa. Seriously?

I would have forgiven all for a ride all the way through to the World Cup Final. Which, as the seedings had it, was the least a Wallaby supporter could reasonably expect.

Then when James O'Connor failed to show up for the official World Cup photo shoot, I thought it was somewhat insightful that a bloke selected for what would be the highlight of his life, would choose to get on the cans and jeopardise his position in the squad. I would have been happy at that point if you sacked him and reinstated Giteau to the team. Or my Grandmother, for that matter.

But no. While this incident can hardly be blamed on you, it demonstrated the mindset leading into the world cup (although in my world you are utterly responsible for it. NB In my world there are midgets cruising around with beers a la Happy Gilmore too).. That we got served a big plate of #hardenthefuckup by Samoa was completely predictable, particularly since you had Nick Phipps starting at half back. The same Nick Phipps who was selected in the World Cup squad as back up back up half back.

How many half backs do you need?

Two more halfbacks than specialist breakaway flankers, I guess. Oh yeah, remember when David Pocock was injured for the Ireland match? I do, Robbie, I do. In case you've glossed over it, the way we played at the breakdown that night was absolutely shameful. I can imagine Phil Waugh and George Smith looking at the slop that was being served up and crying with shame. Richie McCaw was probably watching too, through tears of laughter as he got his mantelpiece measured up for the William Web Ellis Cup.

The most Australian we looked throughout the entire World Cup was when we beat South Africa, and that was through sheer guts and determination. It had nothing to do with your coaching. It was the players on the field that day that absolutely made it happen.

Before I completely combust, one more thing.

Pat McCabe. He is not an inside centre. Never was (in fact, he had never played the position prior to you, Robbie), and never will be. And yet you played him at inside centre for the entire World Cup, while everyone could see that Quade Cooper was screaming for a second playmaker to play outside him. And probably screaming at you to use your persona and reputation in New Zealand to try and influence the media to stop the hate campaign against him. Quade was vilified by the Kiwi media, and you sat back and did nothing. An Australian coach would not let that happen in a million years.

(To say nothing of the abuse that Australian fans copped from Kiwis. I'm always up for a giggle, even when losing, but I have never copped anything like this. Thanks for firing a few salvos at your countrymen over this one, too. Really appreciated it. Lets just say, Robbie, it took only a few minutes of the long walk back to the hotel from Eden Park to quickly sympathise with why France bombed the Rainbow Warrior. And I'm an environmentalist. Also, the NZ national anthem 'God Defend New Zealand' is entirely appropriate. Because noone else will)

Anyway, Pat McCabe played every game with a shoulder injury until he needed a shoulder reconstruction (he got one 2 days after the NZ game. Fact) while you had Berrick Barnes, the finest inside centre (and bloke) in world rugby, sitting on the bench. Here is empirical evidence Berrick Barnes is a top bloke:

 

See those chiselled forearms? Those angular cheekbones? The Queenslander sun-bleached hair? The strong yet caring brow? Golly I'm getting all a flustered just thinking about him.

Anyway.

Not saying that Pat McCabe doesn't have grit. But if Berrick Barnes played the bad guy in a movie, the audience would die. Most fly halves are right or left footed; very few are ambidextrous. BB just stares at the ball till it flies over the posts of its own accord. You hear about the floods in Queensland? It hadn't rained for 20 years. BB cried. You know what happened next.

That little nugget of brilliance, combined with picking a plethora of blokes with questionable injuries (Rob Horne? Dan Vickerman, who is retiring now with a stress fracture he had before and during the World Cup) is enough for me.

So to conclude in parlance you would understand: bugger off. Take Julia and Tony with you, and lets do the one thing all Australians would agree with:

Ewen McKenzie for Wallaby coach and President/Tin Pot Dictator of the newly created Australian Republic.

Quade Cooper can be Minister for Foreign Affairs. Berrick Barnes can do whatever he wants.

Yours sincerely,

Paul

 

 

*word has it Halliburton** makes all the baby goods in the world

 

**biggie and tupac own Halliburton

 

 

 

 

 

TODAY WAS A GOOD DAY (TAKE III)

Since I last checked in, I haven't magically conjured up a '64 Impala or nothing like that. I haven't seen the Goodyear Blimp proclaiming my pimpness. I haven't hit up Fatburger. My pager hasn't been blowin up.

I still get around on a ladies bike or a skateboard, or in the passenger side of the world's tiniest car. I am still a married man. I haven't even got a pager. For maximum street credibility I use Emma's grandma's old phone, which is bright pink flip phone with a doll hanging off it.

But its been a series of good days nonetheless.

Because I've done heaps of cool stuff.

I have skateboarded down the street with snowflakes flying into my face.

 

I have drunk tea with breast milk in it.

I have caressed my baby boy as he slept in my gentle, loving, massive and chiselled arms. An artists impression of this below:

+

I have eaten a foot long sushi roll while looking north north west to celebrate Japan's traditional coldest day, and to welcome spring into the house. In a highly fortuitous circumstance, the traditional coldest day was actually the coldest day experienced so far, so I was confused when everyone was complaining that it was cold.

I have had an experience at the barbers shop that could only be described as sensual. I mean, I hate to be explicit, but I've had sex with less emotion than what he coaxed out of me during that magical hour and a half. Then again, in my experience, sex only lasts a minute and a half, so that is kind of logical I guess. He shampooed and hand trimmed my hair, shaved me both ways, used 5 different lotions on my face, trimmed my nostril hair, cleaned my ears and then, to top it off, gave me a lolly bag to go home with. I almost whimpered at one point as he massaged my scalp with his strong yet gentle fingers. Lets just say that if old mate wanted to take things a step further, I was putty in his hands. (Rock hard putty. Woof woof)

I have cooked and eaten an Amakusa Daio chicken. These chickens are so massive they actually eat their own eggs for breakfast. Serious*.

LIFT YOUR GAME

I know that we have had some disagreements in the past (like the small matter of Japan bombing Darwin 70 years ago...) and other trivial ones like Australia beating Japan in the 2006 Soccer World Cup and Japan killing whales for 'scientific purposes'.

Ok, so theres a fair bit to disagree on.

But, in the interests of world harmony there are two things I believe we can agree on:

1. Sending Australia's worst beer to Japan to be sold in supermarkets is utterly disrespectful. Then, to make it a special extra light 0.5 % alcohol version is a violation of human rights.
   

 

2. Banana on pizza? Honestly? If I was Italian I'd get some sushi and pour bolognese sauce over it, just to register my outrage. Actually, no I wouldn't. I'd probably be too docile from eating so much good pasta and gelati that I wouldn't care (is that how Silvio Berlusconi stayed in power so long?)

Fatherhood

Every day I learn something new about my son. And I don't mean any of that "Oh this week I learnt that when he opens his mouth its like doves start singing and rainbows start shining and he's just amazing" type shit that Drake would sing about.

I mean practical stuff, like this:

• If your son pees midway during a nappy change, you may be tempted to intercept the urine stream with your mouth, in order to avoid urine stains on clothes and bedsheets. As tempting as this may be, restrain yourself.
  

And my so-earnest-it-makes-myself-sick advice this week:

• Remember the advice on the airlines: when travelling with children, be sure to fit your own oxygen mask before fitting theirs....don't forget that you as a parent have needs that must be fulfilled before you can take care of your precious child's. So go on, join that yoga class. Eat that donut. Drink that coffee. Smoke that dart. Skull that beer. Bump that Biggie.
  

SONGS FOR MY SON

In a sign of impending or perhaps even well developed good taste, Plax has taken a liking to my dulcet tones. So I indulge the little fella, free of charge, on a daily basis.

Songs I sang for my son this week include:

A-side: Bob Dylan - Tangled up in Blue, Idiot Wind, All I really want to do. Paul Simon - Born at the the right time, The Obvious Child

B-side: Warren G - Friends. Snoop Dogg - Aint no fun (if the homies can't get none). Notorious B.I.G - Kick in the Door, Let me get down. Diddy - Coming home.

So far, 'Aint no fun....' appears to be his favourite. That's my boy.

Product of the week

Personal hygiene is paramount in Japan. The staple, or meat and potatoes, of the hygiene world is the public bath, or onsen. Down south where we are, many people use the public bath daily, and forsake installing a bath tub in their own house.

However, in this hectic world in which we live, sometimes there is no time for meat and potatoes. Or a rigorous bathing session.

Enter from stage left, deodorant body paper.

 

Just a simple wipe over the unclean bits and you're a new man/woman/whatever Lady Gaga is. Sure its not a bath but it'll get you through the day without rude comments from your colleagues/friends/public transport co-tenants.

However, do not rub on your nether regions. It stings.

WORDS OF THE WEEK

Oshibori (see below) means towelette. It comes from the Japanese word shiboru (絞る), meaning "to wring".

EXTREME COURTESY OF THE WEEK

As Bob Dylan once asked 'Have you seen Dignity?'. Yes I have, Bob. Yes, I have. She was working the midnight shift at Players Bar on the Gold Coast.

When I was a young man growing up in the wilds of outback Australia, fast food was a rarity. Most of the time we would kill then cook our nightly meals. Sure it was tough, but it made me into the ruthless, capable, outdoorsy type larrikin I am now.

Occasionally, however, when the kangaroos and drop bears were scarce, we would be treated to Kentucky Fried Chicken from Albury, the closest big town. It was such a treat. And not just because of the 11 secret herbs and spices (of which I'm sure the dried sweat of fat kids must be one). Given that we weren't allowed to eat it in the car on the way home, the magic of the Colomel's finest dissipated somewhat on the journey into a fatty, sodden cardboard container. Upon arriving home, as soon as we'd cleared the crocodiles and emus from the house, Mum would brightly say that she'd reheat dinner. The pieces of chicken would be placed into the oven directly on the oven rack, with a tray underneath to catch the fat. The chips would be put into a separate oven tray. Approximately half an hour later, a lukewarm serve of chicken and chips would hit the table, sadly missing much of the oily goodness that they had been cooked in.

However, the magic was still to come. For after the chicken had been cleared away, there were the Colonel's moist towelletes to use. Freed from their little package, these lemon scented wonders were the highlight of the meal, as they would quickly remove any lingering grease smears. The dignity that these little squares of paper could offer was immense.

Often as I went to sleep at night, I would think to myself 'Why don't kangaroos come equipped with hot towels in their pouches, so that we can enjoy this freshness every day?'

In Japan, dignity in the form of towelettes are dispensed liberally. Often when arriving at a restaurant, a hot, clean cotton towel will be lying in wait, and not in the sinister way that I just made it seem. A quick wipe of the mitts and the face suddenly makes a simple meal seem like a special treat. Unfortunately, not as many restaurants provide cotton towelletes as there used to be, with many cheaper places opting for the disposable version. Regardless, the chance to wipe your hands and face before eating is truly such a luxury that I savour every time.

In fact, here is one from last night. (Note the fried chicken, left background)

SPORTING MOMENT OF THE WEEK

How good was the Superbowl?

It remains the sports entertainment by which all others are measured. In all ways. They make an hour long game last 3 hours of live televised coverage. While the players themselves are uniquely one-dimensional, and the lack of positional movement on the field means that you miss out on the physical mismatches that are a feature of cricket, rugby and Australian football (cue footage of Curtley Ambrose, oh so fiercesome with a cricket ball, looking meek and ridiculous with a toothpick of a bat standing southpaw style. Or George Gregan tackling Jeff Wilson to win the Bledisloe...) I still find the entire thing breathtaking.

The equivalent sporting event on the Australian calendar is the AFL Grand Final. This is essentially a drunken orgy for everyone in Australia except the players involved, and after the game they make up for it by taking to booze with the sort of testosterone laced passion that leaves the 3 journalists assigned to manning the major newspapers waiting in the office playing with the options for the headline the following day, which inevitably involves one or all of the following: 'FOOTBALLERS DRUNKEN SEX ORGY FIGHT BRAWL FIASCO'. If ever there was a time to invade Australia, this is it. Shit don't tell the Japanese this. They'll bloody bomb Darwin. Again. Even if you're a nun, your Saturday will involve a bbq at a friend's house where you'll be served meat that has been barbecued by someone who has been drinking since breakfast, appears to have a stubby surgically attached to their hand and has used 3% of their attention for cooking, 7% for watching the game and the other 90% for checking whether any of their multiple bets involving first goalkicker, what colour shirts the umpires are wearing, who sings the national anthem and whether it rains or not have actually come through. I actually remember being part of a drunken throng of people cheering for a tie, because a mate had $2 on at 100 to 1. It came through. The "half time entertainment" served up by the AFL is notorious for it's lameness (last year it was Meatloaf....Which prompted people the next day to say 'I love Meatloaf. Just not the singer'), so most people go for a drunken kick of the football, generally on the road outside their house. Fleets of ambulances patrol the streets, awaiting knee injuries, lacerations and other things that come from having 5 stubbies for breakfast, two chicken wings, half a packet of doritos and a desire to take the mark of the year.

God forbid my football team ever wins the Premiership. I'll be vegetarian (translation: off my chops, further translation: chops has double meaning of face and prime cut of lamb) for an entire week, and be even more unbearable for years to come.

In contrast, watching the Superbowl for non-Americans is like taking 12 hits of acid. For starters, it is on at an unsociable hour, generally a Monday morning. This means that you have to take a day off work to watch it live, which means either lying to your workmates (called chucking a sickie) or explaining that you are staying home to watch an 3 hours of commercials, "expert commentary" and half time shows with an hour of sport sprinkled like croutons throughout it. And where the sport itself is a series of stop start plays dreamed up by nerds on the sidelines and communicated to the blokes on the field via a device fitted to the arm of the chief nerd himself, the quarterback? Did I mention that the participants look like they've been dressed by Kanye West and Elton John after a coke binge?

Or that they run around celebrating every little play like its Dre day?

 

So yeah, after explaining all this to your colleagues its actually easier to say you're staying home to take acid.

But anyway, I loved it. At half time I was able to sing along to Madonna, (and this time there was a valid reason to) who in turn was singing along to her own tune on broadcast and generally looking like an unbelievably fit 52 year old who had a keen desire to parade her bits/get familar with other peoples bits.

 

Each to their own, eh.

All too soon, however, it was back to the sporting bit, and in a thrilling finish New York won.

However, none of this was quite as good as Linsansity......

Jeremy Lin is a young Taiwanese-American basketballer who went from sleeping on his brother's couch as backup backup backup backup backup (no I don't have a stutter, he was the 5th backup) point guard for the New York Knicks, to having the greatest first 5 starting games ever. Through injury and cicumstance, he was promoted to the starting line up after playing about 45 minutes over 6 weeks. And he took that opportunity and nailed it, in the bright lights of Madison Square Garden. He dumped 38 points on Kobe Bryant as the Knicks beat the Lakers. He not only got the Knicks winning (#linning) again, but he got people excited about winning. Now, apart from loving his dream, he's got a guaranteed contract, and probably a lot more on the way as Nike will look to cash in on his appeal to the huge China market.

The appeal to his story is partly that he's the first chinese or taiwanese american basketballer. People love that. They don't associate 6 foot 3 asians with basketballing excellence. But its also deeper than that. Son has been cut from this team and that, been written off by this scout and that, and looked down and out, but he never wrote himself off. And that is the key to it.

Because it is not a story of rags to riches - the brother's couch was in Manhattan and he had, after all, gone to Harvard on a basketball scholarship, but if ever there was a timely reminder of the rewards of perseverance and determination, this was it.

And if you need hear a some words to that effect from another great man, here they are:

 

 

As Ferris once said, ,Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.'

 

 

 

 

 

*not serious.

 

 

YOU ONLY LIVE TWICE......

[Being bathed by Tanaka's women] 
Tiger Tanaka: You know what it is about you that fascinates them, don't you? It's the hair on your chest. Japanese men all have beautiful bare skin.
James Bond: Japanese proverb say, "Bird never make nest in bare tree." 

As you can see from the above, ole JB is well aware of both the nature of our infatuation with the differences in other cultures and our need to explore them.

Noone is beyond this simple desire to see how the other lot lives (and in many cases, what they look like nude). Having said that, the Nazis probably weren't interested in exploring the virtues of the Poles when they invaded them, and I guess racists in general probably aren't overly fascinated by the body hair or lack thereof amongst their fellow planet dwellers.

But I digress.

Food is a common fascination among different cultures.

Indeed, a consistent response to me telling people I'm moving to Japan has been 'Oh you lucky thing, I love Japanese food'. Indeed. This is like claiming The Tourist will be your favourite movie because it stars Angelina Jolie and Johnny Depp.

A lot of Japanese food is fantastic. Whale meat and natto are kinda foul, I'm not into rice for breakfast, but these are minor quibbles; I'm grateful to have food to eat each day.

However, like my fellow upstanding citizens in the media business, I believe that there are some truths that must come out. Important truths, like what Hugh Grant has on his voicemail, where Harold Holt is, and if its not butter, what the fuck is it?

The truth is, there are food and beverage crimes being committed on a daily basis here. And I'm not talking about petty crimes like harpooning whales for 'scientific purposes' (Experiment 1 - what does whale with soy sauce taste like? Experiment 2 - what does whale with wasabi taste like?) or slipping radioactive material into baby food.

I'm talking fraud. On a grand, horrific scale, like putting egg, mayonnaise and seaweed on some dough and then calling it a pizza. Cod roe and tinned corn with pasta. A proper napoli style pizza would go down like the proverbial Hindenberg here. That is if the Hindenberg crash landed from quarts of mayonnaise coating its engines. The Italians in particular cop it. Perhaps it is some sort of inbuilt rage the Japanese have towards the Italians for their outrageous good looks, their infuriatingly irregular public transport, their somewhat unreliable cars and their penchant for leaders who have a sense of humour.....and bunga bunga parties.

Coffee, as I have mentioned previously, is also a complete con job here. Its like the Yanks taught them every thing they know about coffee (insert disparaging comment here), and the Japanese decided to then apply their innovation, ensuring that you can purchase ready made coffee, in a can, with sago pearls, from a vending machine with a pair of schoolgirls panties to mop your face with.

And the bread. Oh the bread. I asked a local if they liked bread, and they responded with 'Yes, I like chocolate bread'. Up until this point I wasn't aware that chocolate was a legitimate variety of bread. I thought things like sourdough, wholemeal, multigrain were varieties of bread, all of which remain unseen here.

So yeah, I guess I'm kinda missing coffee and bread, huh.

Japanese Product of the Week

Incredible stuff this week. Actually saw a breast pump in action, and we have a heated baby wipe dispenser for our Plaxico.

However, while the above are pretty cool, and assist in the day to day living of our little man, this week I'm talking about something that goes way deeper than that. Im talking about something that nourishes you. Keeps you alive. Has magic healing properties. Tastes funny.

In short, your placenta. Well, not yours, actually, but Plax's.

Thats right. In the haze of the afterbirth I managed to communicate to the nurses that we wanted to keep the placenta. They duly obliged, rolling it up in newspaper and popping it in the freezer.

Last week Johnny and I put on the ceremonial galoshes, dug a hole, plopped the placenta in it and planted a plum tree on top.

After that, we had a naming day celebration for our little man, involving the whole Akiyama family. I cooked a lasagne, with homemade bolognese sauce containing pork, beef and a mystery ingredient.

After dining, everyone felt rejuvenated and years younger.

Weird huh?

Japanese Extreme Courtesy of the Week

Saw some massage chairs at the local laundromat the other day. While definitely a good idea, this is just good business - like having a pool table in a pub.

Instead, the Japanese Formal Informal Short Term Loan is the winner this week.

The idea of giving a gift at times of change in someones life is not new, and nor it is confined to Japan. However, it is the grace and ease with which money is given, that elevates the custom to qualify as extreme courtesy here.

Obvioulsly, the concept involves the gift of money to the recipient at times when the recipient is mostly likely to need a short term cash float, such as at a wedding, funeral or births. It is always given in an attractive envelope, such as the ones pictured below:
 

This therefore provides a cash float when most needed. The recipients can use the money, and then when life has returned to relative norm, contribute to other people`s short term needs accordingly.

But here is where it gets real courteous: the giver receives a small return gift from the original recipient worth up to a third of the original gift. To facilitate this in a simple manner, there are catalogues you can order from to provide personalised return gifts to everyone.

Indeed, often after a wedding, the attendees will be sent a catalogue from which to order their return gift. I only discovered this concept when I saw my brother-in-law idly flicking through a catalogue one day. He declared 'I'll get the matching Tiffany teacups'. Kind of weird, I thought, to do your shopping from a catalogue. He then explained it was a return gift because he'd already given a present to the wedded couple. Then I just thought it was kind of camp that he wanted Tiffany teacups. Each to their own, I guess.....

Following the birth of Plaxico, we have been swamped with the kindness of friends and strangers, who have donated gifts and money to Plax's cause. This has helped to offset the costs around this time. Many of the fifts have come from people who I don't personally know - they are friends of the family or business associates.

Word of the week

Fuwa fuwa equals fluffy. Chickens are fluffy. Good onomatopoeia, but not enough to win this weeks award.

Oyakodonburi. Literally translated this is parent and child (oyako) on bowl of rice (donburi).

But in practice, this means chicken and egg served on rice.

Chicken - egg, parent - child.......

Love the logic.

Sporting Moment of the Week

In light of recent events, here is a question I know everyone is asking themselves right now.

Just who is the best red-haired athlete on the planet?

Is it Blake Griffin, a man with mad hops who threw this dunk down last week, possibly the dunk of the year?



Is it Shaun White, who threw down an incredible perfect score of 100 at the Winter X-Games last week?



Or is it Chuck Norris, who won the Professional Middleweight Karate champion title, and then held it for six consecutive years?

Trick question. Of course its Chuck Norris.

Remember, Chuck Norris did not learn karate. Karate learnt Chuck Norris.