The Rainforest

On Day 2, we took a bus trip to a train trip to a small village in a rainforest where we rode an Army Duck in a circle so we could take the Skyrail back to the bus.

Tessa was psyched!

A whole host of new modes of transport to experience and scream about in public.  When you see her next, don't freak out when she screams "Skyrail" at random intervals.  It is very unlikely that a wayward gondola is dropping out of the sky.  But (because you never know), I'd still dive to the left.


This shot was taken on the bus to the rain forest.  I looked outside and noticed ... something.

You're thinking, "I can't really make that out."  That is (apparently) the WHOLE POINT.

This genius, Call of Duty superplayer, and future candidate for the Darwin Awards painted his car in black and gray CAMO.  Because the last thing you want on a rainy day is for other drivers to see your car clearly and easily.

I'm guessing he was pretty pissed when he saw his premiums went way up.

While at Kuranda, we had a chance to see the rainforest with the Army Ducks.  Now, I was a bit nervous on this part of the trip.  From my experience, ducks can be capricious and unpredictable and it seemed the height of irresponsibility to give them semi-automatic weapons.  But I figured the rainforest was more dangerous than I realized.  

I was just as surprised as you probably are to find that the Army Ducks are not a group of heavily armed mallards.  The DUKW are six-wheel-drive amphibious assault vehicles.

Something no military wants to see.  Ever.

This is what the military want.  Steely eyed determination in the face of distraction.

We attended a demonstration of aboriginal dancing and the performers made the ill advised decision to go for audience participation.

Once again, Tessa's hand shot up with the speed of a frog's tongue.  The woman's expression tells you what it's like to sit next to Tessa when she's told to stay in one place.







We were then invited to spend some time with the friendly neighborhood croc, also known as Jack the Rippah.  Jack was a 17 foot 1600 pound crocodile.  He was also a confirmed bachelor.  And by confirmed bachelor, I mean that he ate every female croc the zoo placed in his pen.  Twelve female crocs.  As far as I can tell, this is the definition of screwing yourself over.  Zookeepers' fervent hopes to breed supercrocs proved unsustainable.

Watching Jack watch me, it occurred to me that this is exactly the time when you want some heavily armed mallards.

I have the say that the sign was both helpful and not so helpful.  After seeing the sign, I realized that Jack was just waiting for some stupid American psychologist to lean over the railing and get a good look at the size of those chompers.

Unfortunately after seeing the sign, part of me wanted to do it.






Drew doing his best King Kong vs Mothra imitation.

This is also how he looked a few hours later, when he ran up and told me that "a big snake" slithered across the path in front of him.

It's also the look he had when Tessa asked to sit next to him on the bus.

I'm taking suggestions for captions on this.  Post in the comments.  Winners get lifetime access to my blog.

My entry:  "This hot dog tastes funny."

or

"You know, I do have colleagues who glance at your blog."

View from the Skyrail.  We were told that there was a stunning rainforest below.  Drew squinted out into the fog and said "Really think there's a rainforest down there?  I mean, I don't see one.  What do you think would happen if I opened this door ..." 

After listening to me complain about the unremitting pain in my feet, Drew suggested that we review my footwear.  He looked closely at my sandals and observed that it would probably be less painful to staple tire treads to my feet.

I left my sandals in Cairns.

It turns out that there is a worldwide shortage of Berkinstocks.  

The Reef

I recognize this will drive Kathy crazy but ... Back to Uncle Drew!

The day after Drew arrived, we forced him to get back on a plane and fly to Cairns.  We figured, hey you slept from 10 pm to 3 am after a 28 hour transit ... you should be good.  We arrived in Cairns without incident and headed out for a walk along the boardwalk.  What is most surprising is that Drew does not appear homicidal or unconscious in this picture despite the fact that he was probably both.

This photo represents the sum total of affection shown between our twins during the trip.

It looks so sweet, doesn't it?

What you don't know is there was at least an 80% chance that Lily was going for a headlock and missed.






Drew and I walked along the boardwalk and I pointed out the sights, which included this warning sign.  It's a lot like the town of Amity from Jaws.  Hey, come on over to our croc and jellyfish infested beaches.  We've got GELATTO!


Drew and I walked a bit in silence, each lost in our own thoughts about life, children, politics, and possibly the Pacific Trash Vortex.

Then Drew turned to me and said "you really think there's crocs down there?"  He squinted off into the distance.  "Because I don't see any.  And I figure I'd see a croc if there was a croc down there."

I thought about his logic and then pointed out that a tourist destination seems unlikely to post hazardous signs everywhere unless there is a hazard.

Drew responded by saying "What do you think would happen if I climbed down that ladder?"

I said, "I think I'd get to see a croc."

We never had a chance to test that hypothesis because Drew was distracted by a playground with an even more chilling sign.  It likely explained the architect's overzealous use of brown on the playground equipment.

This is a sign that essentially provides a groundbreaking heads up that babies shit unexpectedly.  The necessity of this sign caused me to question the innate goodness of humans.

The next morning, we headed off to the Great Barrier Reef!  Well, not immediately.  There was a brief delay during which Drew and I waited outside for Amy and the kids (who left about three minutes before us).  After ten minutes, I began to worry that maybe "wait outside" had been confusing.  I returned to the apartment lobby and after a brief but frantic search found Amy waiting for me half a block in the wrong direction.  This happens more often than you'd expect by chance.


The weather that morning was ominous, with a 70% chance of precipitation and a 100% chance of twin meltdown.  Within a ten minute walk to the dock, we had already exhausted both of my entertaining anecdotes and I'd already answered the question "when will we get there" six times.  At the time of this picture, I had resorted to shouting "WE GET THERE WHEN WE GET THERE" to all questions.  I asked them to pose for a picture, figuring there was at least a 50/50 chance they'd fall in and I could make a break for it.

Just after leaving, the weather started to clear.

Drew filled out his diving forms while Lily asked about all of the potential dangers associated with snorkeling.  At each answer, she looked at us like we were insane.

"You breathe through a TUBE?!"

and

"We have to wear a suit because of STINGERS?"

and

"There could be SHARKS?!"








Tessa lost no time suiting up.

THERE COULD BE SHARKS!!!!!"

Our first dive spot, Michaelmas Cay.  As we approached, the captain asked if anyone on board was afraid of birds.  Afraid of birds? we sniggered.  Who's afraid of birds.  Well, whoever the poor bastard was, they had a bad time at the Cay.  There were hundreds, if not thousands, of loud and disgruntled sea birds nesting on this strip of sand.  Our goal was to get out of the boat onto the sand and get into the water before we were attacked by the birds.  I was pretty sure I got a good shot of the birds until I looked at my photos.  They're all to the left. 

Drew telling me he is not afraid of birds.  Or showing me the sign for "shark."

I went on two dives and (to everyone's surprise) managed to surface on both of them.  The most simultaneously impressive and startling creature was a jellyfish the size of a popcorn bowl.  It probably tells you a lot about me to know that I often judge the size and weight of objects in relation to a popcorn bowl.  The jellyfish just floated there in the dark, watching me.  Pulsing with an evil purple light.  Och.  Been reading too much Rowan of Rin.  No one ever told me the sign for jellyfish so I just started thrashing around and blowing bubbles out of my regulator.  Although the dive guide ignored me, the bubbles effectively blew the jellyfish into deeper waters.

There was also a fish that nibbled parasites off of other fish.  Our dive guide had us hold our hands out so the fish could do some nibbling.  I have to say, it spent a lot more time on Drew's hand than I expected.

When I came up from my second dive, Tessa grabbed my arm and said "Daddy, why didn't you say hi to me?"  Apparently, she was snorkeling immediately above where Drew and I were diving and was shouting "Dad!  Dad!  Dad!"  She was apparently pretty pissed that I ignored her.

After some exhausting snorkeling, Tessa spent a good amount of time contemplating the ceiling.

A little uncle time.

Drew is incredibly psyched in this picture.  After the trip, he told us that his primary goal was to avoid barfing in the bathroom of the boat.  After watching him grip the side of the boat in a pale, sweaty, desperate manner, that was pretty much everyone's primary goal.  We all pitched in to get him a certificate for not vomiting.

Lily, the consummate professional, even found some time to practice for an upcoming regional meet.

As a final note, I hate Subway.  I hate hate hate Subway.  Subway is run by sadists who seem to know that my children will only eat Subway sandwiches and, in anticipation of that, close all Subway locations in Cairns but neglect to tell the locals, who keep directing us to another Subway location.  So, just as a hypothetical, imagine Uncle Drew, Tessa and I walking around Cairns (after a day snorkeling/diving) sweaty and despairing and dazed in an ultimately fruitless quest for a sandwich that would pass muster with a picky six year old.

The only thing we managed to find was bats.  Hundreds of fruit bats roughly the size of my head chirping merrily above us.




This is probably the part of the blog where Kat is saying "oh c'mon.  Bats?  Really?"

Well, they're either bats or flying possums.  You decide which is creepier.

A bit of blogging help

Attended a footy game with our friends and hosts, Neil and Kathy Brewer.  As you may recall from years ago, the Sturt Double Blues are our team.  The years have not been kind to Sturt.

Rillkins felt the officiating was really subpar.  Here, she was pointing out ... something.  I forget.  I was taking this selfie.

Tessa is looking forward to bringing Footy to Lewiston.  We've got the ball and a general idea of the rules.  For example, we deduced that it is considered misconduct to spit on other players but appears legitimate to sit on an opposing player's head while you tie your shoe.

Anyway, hope you can all come over and play.

During the game, I had a very nice chat with Kathy Brewer, who has been funneling fantasy novels to our children.  Lily treats fantasy books a lot like meth.  She sits in her pajamas all day, skips meals, and rambles on and on about silver doors and dragons and portals.

Kathy was kind enough to offer a friendly critique on the blog.  Her first point was that she hadn't yet been mentioned, despite having offered several really memorable lines and anecdotes.  I pointed out that Alice really set the bar high by turning into a sheep hugger, and I suggested that people would need to do something more impressive, like converting to Christian Scientology.  Kathy said that made a lot of sense and suggested she'd look into it.

Kathy's second point had to do with the "writing."  (Scare quotes were hers).  I think her exact words were "it's a bit confusing, isn't it?  I mean, it's not in order.  Your mother's there one moment and then not and then she's back.  Perhaps it would make more sense it if events followed each other sequentially."  Those may not have been her exact words, but they're pretty close.

(As an aside that proves Kathy's point, some of you have been secretly grousing about the veracity of the blog.  "Did your mother really become a vegetarian?" Kat recently asked Amy.  "I'm never really sure what to believe in the blog."  Well I'll tell you.  Every third word is true).

Back to Kathy.  I'll admit she had a point.  Chronological order makes a certain kind of sense ... if you like that kind of thing.  Unfortunately for Kathy (and you), this blog is a lot like the movie Memento.  You will only see the the genius of it when when you sort out all the the disjointed and confusing pieces and rearrange them them into a comprehensible timeline, at which point you'll realize that I've been blogging from my basement in Lewiston the whole time.

BAM.  Take THAT Christopher Nolan.
(Movie rights are available).

New Parental Lesson

I learned two things today.

1)  There is an upper age limit on when you can sing "Shankill Butchers" to your children.

2) That limit is age six.

There is a more than probable chance that Tessa will be singing that song to herself tomorrow at school.

If anyone asks about it, I'm going to focus on the value of vocabulary terms like "cleaver" and "askew" and commonsense lessons like "lock your windows tight."

With one of her knowing looks, Amy mentioned that Tessa asked "What's a butcher?"  Amy played it safe and referenced the "going to market" conversation.  More and more, I reminisce about those wonderful pre-verbal days.

I guess it's back to the wheels on the damn bus.

Drewsker arrives

Uncle Drew arrived after a blistering 17 hour flight from Dallas to Sydney.  "Blistering" is ironic here, since Drew had three free seats next to him on that flight and managed to stretch out and have a pleasant six hour nap.  We waited for him at the arrivals gate and watched him stagger back and forth several times.

We started the thirty minute drive home from the airport.  After ten minutes, Drew suddenly panicked because he realized he was in the Laser's left front seat and couldn't find the steering wheel.

"Am I supposed to be driving?"

We got a little crazy right after he arrived.

We hit the Botanic Garden.  WOOT!

A Flower

Another Flower

And of course the Titan Arum.

Drew decided to get a closeup of the corpse flower, despite my shrieks of warning.  I later discovered that he was taking a picture of "a really big spider under that oak tree."  I never told him how close he came to being lunch to an oversized stalk of celery.

As an aside, that is the same corpse "plant" that I took a few weeks ago.  The only upside is that is no longer smells like a pre-school classroom after  burrito day.

This is an example of overeager photography.  I was excited to see the Douglas name in Australia, and therefore neglected to evaluate whether this is an interesting photo.  Which, I've decided, it is not - unless you're into pictures of withered leaves.  If so, it turns out that I have a LOT of those.

Uncle Drew and the Rillkins.

















Uncle Drew and Tessabear.

Uncle Drew reading Rowan of Rin, a fantasy novel by Emily Rodda, an Australian author.

The girls were excited to have a new reader, as they have decided that I am substandard.  Although Amy had a hard time arguing with them, I was able to come up with four important functions I serve.  But they have a point about the reading.  I have personally read over 200 pages of Rowan and struggle to remember any details.  I have a vague sense that it has something to do with a dragon, who is either named Rowan or eats Rowan or "gets involved" with a billionaire named Rowan who is into S&M.  The most profound problem with reading to your children (beyond the occasional elbow in the eye) is the sedating effect of their warmth.  I get so relaxed that I repeatedly fall asleep in mid sentence.  Amy told me it sounds like I'm having a stroke (interestingly, I don't remember her ever trying to resuscitate me or call an ambulance).

However, If you look closely at the photo, you'll see that The Great Uncle Drew isn't doing much better.  His eyes are closed.

Vegetarianism

Gaga left Australia with more than she anticipated.

She left with vegetarianism.

Now, I'm sure some of you think that's a result of Amy's newly copyrighted 24 hour indoctrination program (available for $24.99) that involved repeated viewings of PETA videos on You Tube, waterboarding, and repeated administration of gin and tonics.  And, frankly, that was probably part of it.

Last known photo of Gaga as a carnivore.

But it was mostly the sheep from Kangaroo Island.  (Note: I would have blogged this immediately after the visit from Gaga and Grandpa had I known the extent of its impact).

So here's the story.  On our way back from Kangaroo Island, we disembarked the ferry and settled on the bus back to Adelaide.  So far so good.  No vegetarian conversions.  Everyone pleased with their own culinary preferences.

Then, in a moment Gaga will apparently always remember, two large semi trucks drove off the ferry, each packed with hundreds of bleating sheep.

"Ooooh, those sheep are sooooo cute," Tessa said.

The adults nodded and murmured platitudes like "yes, they are" and "they sure do look delicious."

"Where are they going?" Tessa asked.

"Oy," our bus driver offered.  "They're headed to market,"

"But they're not the ones shopping," I added helpfully.  I've been working on my helpfulness.

Tessa looked quizzically at Gaga and then Amy.

What followed was an accurate if somewhat sanitized description of "going to market," as Amy glossed over words like "slaughter house" and "abbatoir" and "captive bolt stunning."

Reactions to Gaga's conversion have been mixed.  Grandpa Jim has adapted to vegetarianism through what I'll call gravitational acquiescence.  Sort of like when a ship passes the event horizon of a black hole; you know you're going in, so might as well get comfortable.

I would characterize her son Andy's reaction as "quietly supportive."  He used words like "are you f**$^ing kidding me?" and "it was Amy, wasn't it?!" and "we're at the top of the food chain and every once in a while, to demonstrate that, we need to kill something and eat it."

I see this philosophy as fitting right in with vegetarianism.  The last thing we need is broccoli thinking they're higher up on the food chain.

PS  Amy didn't like the last line.  She said it didn't "make sense" and "ruined the whole post" and "could drive away the six people who follow your blog."

Burning sensations

Warning:  The following image is not suitable for viewing over breakfast unless you've got a thing for knees.

If you've got a thing for knees, that's probably not something I want to hear about over breakfast.

So, what happened?  Several possibilities.

1)  I have developed an incurable and lethal form of the mange as a result of canine ancestry on my paternal side (when I heard my great grandfather was killed in a freak fetch accident, I thought he was the one throwing the stick).  While searching for a cure, I'm avoiding a shadowy government organization hoping to use my unique genetic sequence to create superdog soldiers.

2) I encountered the Nair Jellyfish while snorkeling in Cairns.

3)  I went swimming in a public pool.

Even though #3 seems the most far fetched, it was true.  Ah, the beauty of public pools.  Being splashed by other peoples' kids.  Swimming through random warm patches of water.

After thirty minutes of horsing around with my kids, I noticed a slight burning sensation in my knees.  As a forty five year old, I'm trying to get used to burning sensations in various joints, which my doctor calls arthritis and I've been trying to call "afterburn" because it suggests that I did something more kinetic than walk up the stairs.  But this BS felt different.  It was only when I left the pool, that I realized my knee was disfigured.

(As an aside, I think Burning Sensations could be a cool band name.  You know, a geriatric superband featuring Stephen Tyler, Slash, and Phil Collins sponsored by Fixodent and Biofreeze).

Australians are apparently generous with dispersal of chlorine and, in a pinch, will make do with hydrochloric acid.  They have also invented a pool bottom surface that can give you that whole body shave.

The real loss here is the lucrative knee modeling contracts that I was hoping to pursue.  Even through the disfigurement, you can see that I had the bone structure to compete with the likes of David Gandy.  Obviously, I will also no longer be competitive for Tyra Banks' new show "America's Top Knees."

EDIT:  Pat W astutely noted that Burning Sensations has already been used as a name for a rock band in the 80s.  What does it tell you that I didn't know that?  I just WASTED my teen years!  Still, I think my idea has merit.  Can't you just imagine the tension ... er chemistry between Slash and Collins on stage?

Tram

"TRAM!" Tessa screamed.  "TRAM!"

When someone screams "Tram" or "Fire" or "Trump Won Michigan," your first instinct is probably to assume that imminent death is upon you.  Maybe your life flashes before your eyes.  Hopefully that's a worthwhile ten seconds.  (At least five of my ten seconds would be twins complaining about what I cook.  You're jealous, I know).

Your first instinct is probably not to assume that there is a tram two blocks away doing what trams do.  Which is follow the track.  Because screaming Tram doesn't do anything in that situation except scare the shit out of your father.

It's an unfortunate truth, but Tessa has inherited an unfathomable (to me) fascination with modes of transportation.  It almost certainly derives from Grandpa Jim, given that my side of the family appears to regard modes of transportation as modes of transportation.  The Douglasses have as much interest in trams as we do in, say, the ingredients in baloney or the proper way to shuck an ear of corn.  It's something we might get around to figuring out but, in all honesty, probably not.

Grandpa Jim regards trams and trains as the sacred cows of the west.  He has been known to ride a train for two hours and then wait fifteen minutes to take the return train two hours.  He has been known to believe that the only problem with the three day train to Perth is that he was asked to leave the train on the third day.  During these journeys, he has been known to contemplate Absolute Block Signaling, Bulkhead Flatcars, and Journal Bearings and is more than willing to share these things with you.  He has been known to purchase timetables on Ebay for pleasure reading.  However, to my knowledge, Grandpa Jim has never screamed "TRAM" in the middle of a crowded restaurant, so I suppose Tessa is one up on him.

So, one Saturday, I agreed to spend several hours hunting down the fabled trams and taking them to the end of the line.  Tessa spent most of our time downtown shouting "Tram" in the same way that construction workers whistle at women and Dustin Hoffman counted matches in Rain Man.  Impulsive and pointless.  I felt a bit embarrassed every time she screamed because people reacted by ducking and staring wildly around (you know, for the runaway tram).  I was also afraid that an ex-military black ops Aussie might assume that my code name was Tram and take me out.  I spent a lot of time trying to decide whether performing a sidekick would rip out my hamstring.

This is the beginning of the journey.  Notice our expectant smiles.

Tessa absconded with my phone and demonstrated why the upselfie is not a good idea.

Mid Journey.  Entering the contemplative phase.  Possibly thinking about journal bearings.

Nearing the end of the journey.  Her glazed eyes probably stemming from an awareness that it's about to end.  My glazed eyes tears of joy that it's about to end.

Why did we do this?

Because it's a tram and we can.

In Adelaide it turns out you can also ride bronzed pigs.  The excitement level is about the same.

Signage

My conscience was working me over again today.  Saying things like "when are you going to post again?" and "I hope the next post is funny" and "There were still dirty dishes in the sink this morning."

This  may be a recurring post, depending on my luck at finding screwy signs.

A friendly caution?  Or a threat?

This seems more straightforward, particularly given the size of the grille.  Of course, gotta love the cheery license plate.  I'm pretty sure the driver of this vehicle was going for irony.

Not everyone in Australia buys into the "no worries" laissez faire free love revolution.

This is more of a glass 1/10 full kind of person.  

Notice the distance from the van?  That was intentional.

As an alum of University of Iowa, I was pretty pissed at this one.

This one made me even more pissed.

On behalf of all males, I took all the advertisements I could find and crammed them into the mail slot.

For those of you who still doubt that magpies are a problem ...

I was really discouraged by the last line.  I was counting on throwing things at magpies as my last line of defense.  Our options are now "stand there and take it" or "run down the sidewalk screaming" or "hide behind a nearby child."

This made me feel a little sorry for Scientology.  

You know you're in a bad spot when Christian Scientists feel the need to publicly distance themselves from you.

I could see this devolve into a religious war with no clear winner.  On the one hand, the Christian Scientists have God, unless they've misplaced him.  But Scientologists have the E-gram, Xenu, Cruise and (I assume) laser weapons.

I saved the best for last.  This was taken inside a restroom in a national park on Kangaroo Island.

All sorts of questions come to mind.  

For example, who thought it would be a good idea to use a toilet that way?  

How the hell did the park officials realize that people were doing this?  Obviously, someone either walked in on a "croucher," as I'll call them, or a croucher lost their balance and got wedged deep into the toilet.

What are the chances someone is going to walk in on me?

How many times does this happen?  Obviously enough to hire a graphic artist to do a rendering, laminate the rendering, and post the sign.  

Where were the crouchers putting the toilet paper before the helpful sign?

Is another panel missing?  Instructional depiction of proper wiping?  It might really help the crouchers.

But the last thought, the dark thought, was ... how often do they clean these bathrooms, anyway?

And ... maybe those crouchers are onto something.