Fight Club

I’ve been an admitted movie geek for as long as I can remember. My folks took me to see “The Rescuers” when I was four at the movie theater and I like it. A few months later, I saw “Star Wars” and I LOVED it. That was all it took. I have seen just about every movie worth seeing since 1977, I have analyzed them, quoted them, and cherished them. If I were asked, “What is your favorite movie?” I think I would say that it would be impossible to pick just one. However, if pressed, I would probably say “Fight Club”.

Ironically, I did not see “Fight Club” in the theater. I saw it in the condo we were renting in Mountain View, CA. Halfway through the DVD, I turned to Julie and said, “How did we miss this when it was out?” A few years later, I lobbied hard to name our first born child Tyler Durden Zlotnick. I was vetoed.

The major theme of the movie was about rejecting materialism. At one point, Tyler Durden states that marketing has us “working jobs we hate for shit we don’t need.” (just in case the boss man is reading this - I like my job, no really!) My move to Oz saw a lot of downsizing in terms of consumption and it has given me a chance to reflect upon what it that I really need versus what I think I needed.

I came to Australia with next to nothing. I had the clothes on my back and what I could carry in an oversized duffle bag. I had my laptop and some gadgets. I had four step down transformers which I didn’t really need (turns out most appliances will run on any voltage between 110-240 volts - all that’s needed is the physical adapter which is cheap).

We rented a place. I went for “necessities”. I had a mattress on the floor. Some sheets from Target. A couch, a cabinet, and a table and chairs from Ikea. We got a refrigerator and a washer and dryer. I protested but eventually caved to getting a small TV. Soon, Julie was gone to pack up our place and I was alone with next to nothing.

Immediately, I felt lonely. I missed the noise and blur of motion of my children. I missed their spontaneity and laughter. I missed the conversations we had. I missed playing with them, carrying them upside down, sitting on them and asking where they were. On Father’s Day, I was so terribly alone I almost broke down when I saw the video Julie made for me. I felt like the worst dad in the world for being away from them so long. I needed my children.

I missed Julie. I missed the quiet moments we shared when we knew the kids were in bed and weren’t going to pop up and ask for another glass of water or to use the potty. I missed the way we parent together, playing off each other’s strengths. I missed her humor, her warmth, her intelligence. I missed having someone to listen to my crazy rants. I needed my wife.

I filled my days with work, running, writing, photography, and exploring. Aside from my loneliness, I was fine. The days passed quickly and soon I was reunited with my family. The kids did an amazing job of adapting. Most of their toys were gone - placed on a container that would take weeks to arrive. They never complained about having smaller rooms or less toys. They played with each other. They asked to go to the beach. We put on our winter coats and would be the only family on the beach when it was sunny and in the mid-fifties. They collected sea shells and called them “treasure”. I was so proud of them for not caring about their possessions, living in the moment, and enjoying each other’s company.

Days turned to weeks. Weeks turned to months. For three months I had relied solely on public transportation. The first weekend I rented a car, I knew I could not go back to taking an hour to drop the kids off or pick the kids up from school (about 1.5 miles away). I felt like I had taken a vow of celibacy, received a blowjob, and had the knowledge that this bell could not be unrung. At the same time I came to the epiphany that we “needed” a car, we got the call that our container had arrived. All of our worldly possessions would be delivered to us in a few days.

I had taken so much pride in living without. We had downsized considerably. We were living with the absolute bare minimum. The first day I walked in and saw our couches, our table, our paintings, our decorations; I thought, “Our place looks so much less ghetto. It looks... nice.”

So here I am, at a crossroads. I lived like Tyler Durden for an entire season. I forced minimalism onto my family and they took the challenge and exceeded all expectations. And yet... minimalism was not the nirvana that I had made it out to be. There has to be a middle ground between excess and nothing and that’s exactly the path I intend to discover.

Wine Douchery

I had a magical weekend with Julie and the kids. We went away with another family, had perfect weather, and got to see some Australian wildlife. The cabins we stayed in were absolutely first class in the heart of the Yarra River wine country. The kangaroos would come within twenty feet of people and they were everywhere.

We got in sort of late on Friday night, so we let the kids run around the cabin, play with their friend, and explore a little bit. We did see some wild kangaroos, but I planned to spend the entire evening looking for them on Saturday. It turns out, kangaroos are nocturnal. In my imagination, just before dusk, the kangaroos get together in a huddle. The lead kangaroo tells them to bring it in and proceeds with his pre-evening pep talk.

“Joe, yesterday you really brought it! Great work. Your hopping was perfect.”

The leader’s eyes move to the next kangaroo. “Frank, I know the divorce is tough, but come on... You just mailed it in yesterday. The tourists demand better. C’mon, this is our reputation on the line.”

And so on. Eventually, the kangaroos put their paws in and put on the show as the sun starts to go beneath the horizon. And what a show they put on! I saw three kangaroos with joeys in their pouches. I saw big kangaroos. Little kangaroos. The kids went around picking up grass to “feed” them. Even the Aussies who are quite used to seeing kangaroos had a good time.

The sun went down completely and we went back to the cabins. I had an adult beverage or three by the time I was manning the barbeque. As I sat there grilling chicken and sausage, drinking a beverage, and watching a kangaroo hop by; I realized just how unique this continent is. Evolution created a completely different and successful model of life. Maybe it was the alcohol fueling this line of thought, but I couldn’t help but think that there has to be life on other planets if life can evolve this differently with a few thousand miles of geographic separation.

But I digress. I didn’t mean to blab about kangaroos and the possibility of extraterrestrial life. I meant to talk about wine douchery. Saturday, we took the kids to a winery. I know, not the most child friendly thing to do, but the scenery was spectacular, we sat outside, and the kids had plenty of room to run around and play.

I worry sometimes that I will offend my Aussie friends when I say that Melbourne reminds me of Chicago or I make comparisons to other places I have been. This country is unique and I treasure it. I have spent some time in the wine country of Nappa and Santa Barbara. The Yarra River wineries are somewhat similar. After all, good grapes are going to grow in similar climates. The Yarra River wineries are surrounded by rolling hills and neatly organized vineyards as one might expect. Except the vegetation is different. It turns out, most Australian trees are some variation of the Eucalyptes. Having not spent much time in the country, I was excited to know that out my front door is the beach and a mere forty-five minutes away is wine country in a completely different climate. Amazing!

With the kids playing noisily by a fountain, we excused ourselves to do a little tasting. I had a tasting several weeks ago and it was similar to the United States. We walked in, we talked a little, we drank some wines, we had a laugh, and we left. The bartender didn’t talk too much about the wines and it was very casual.

This experience couldn’t have been more different. The owner (she let us know it was HER winery right away) asked if we wanted reds or whites. Julie said white and my mate and I said red.

Side note... One thing I love about Australian English is the word “mate”. I would always laugh when Julie would say, “My girlfriend and I...” I would always say what would you think if I said, “My boyfriend and I...” It sounds stupid in American English. Aussies have it right. They say, “This is my mate, Paul” or “Some of my mates and I went out drinking.” It’s great. We should import this word into our language.

Another side note. I don’t drink a whole lot. I’m not against it and it’s not something I do often. Since coming of age, I have always been intimidated by wine because I am ignorant. In college, it was no problem. I drank beer. I did shots. I ordered Long Island Ice Teas. Now, right in the middle of middle age, I feel like I should know something about wine and I can go on in great detail about cheap wines, but I still don’t even know what I like. I don’t like Ripple, or Mad Dog, or Cold Duck. Aside from the price, I hate two buck chuck. I love Boone’s Strawberry hill. I barely know the distinction between a Cabranet, Merlot, or Pinot Noir. In my mind, they are all red and belong in the classification of “red wine”.

What really bothers me is that the quality of wine doesn’t necessarily reflect the price. There are some good lesser priced wines and some over priced mediocre ones. My only hope is to taste and go with what I like.

Also, I usually would deny this, but I like Chardonnay. I don’t know what is about saying this that makes me feel so unmanly. Maybe it’s the memories of Alanys Morriset’s “Ironic” and how awful that song really was, but somehow I felt like I should say I wanted to taste reds...

I tasted a pinot and it was good. Not great, but good. I felt like I wanted to buy a bottle as I had a vision of sitting on the deck of the cabin with the kids snug in their beds dreaming of kangaroos as the adults shared a bottle of wine and looked at the southern skies. The price was moderate and I wanted the task of finding a bottle of adequate wine checked off of my to-do list.

Meanwhile, Julie was praising the Chardonnay she had just tried. Ah ha - here was my chance. Julie doesn’t drink reds. All I had to do was try the Chardonnay and casually suggest that we should get it for Julie and I could save face in front of my mate. Brilliant!

So I asked the proprietor if I could try the Chardonnay. She visibly rolled her eyes at me.

“You can’t go from reds to whites. You can go the opposite way, but you can’t step down the ladder.”

“I have a very unsophisticated pallet. I assure you. Let’s give it a go, shall we?”

“The tenons in the reds are still in your mouth and it won’t taste right.”

“Try me.”

We stared at each other. It was her winery and I was some annoying, unsophisticated American challenging her knowledge and insulting her wines. I wasn’t about to budge. She made a big show of thoroughly rinsing my wine glass and poured me the tiniest of pours of the Chardonnay. It was quite good. I went on to try a Cab and a Merlot, but nothing was as good as the original Pinot.

Julie moved on to a Rose. She complimented it and my mate perked up.

“I would like to try the Rose, please,” he said.

Here I was trying to save face and keep my secret love of Chardonnay hidden and my mate drinks Rose! I snickered inside.

The proprietor was now doubly annoyed. “You can’t go from reds to whites!”

I had to step in. “I just did and it was delicious!”

Eventually, she caved and let my mate try it, but the whole experience was far too stuffy for me. Whenever I feel like I should know more about wines, I think about people like the owner of the establishment and realize I don’t want to be that person. I may be a first class coffee snob, but I vow I will never be a wine douche.

Can We Talk About the Weather?

As someone raised in Phoenix, Arizona, I never put a lot of thought into the weather. We had three types of weather: hot, fucking hot, and raining. People only talked about the weather when it was fucking hot, but that was only from late March through September. How fucking hot? It once reached 122 degrees Fahrenheit (50 degrees Celsius). Sky Harbor International Airport was forced to close because the extreme heat caused the air to be less dense and it was felt that airplanes would not be able to generate the required lift necessary for take off. That’s fucking hot.

I spent several years in Los Angeles and there were only two types of weather there. Perfect and raining. It was perfect about 98% of the time. However, I would get annoyed when rain or even the prospect of rain became a major news store for days. A single drop of rain would take a city already faced with gridlock traffic and ensure it would not move at all.

Spending so much time in Phoenix and Los Angeles, I realized I never heard “the joke” there. It was in Colorado Springs, Chicago, San Francisco, Seattle - that I would hear it at least once a month. The joke never made me laugh and it went like this, “If you don’t like the weather, just wait fifteen minutes and it will change.” Hilarious, right?

Chicago definitely had four seasons of weather. The winters were brutally cold followed by summers marked with blazing heat and high humidity. The transition was gradual from Winter to Spring and every once in a while a beautiful day would pop up in February forcing the entire city to drop everything and go outside. However, “the joke” does not apply since if a day started nice it would end nice. If it started crap, well, it would end crap too.

San Francisco did not have near the extremes of Chicago. The winters would get a bit chilly and the occasional heat wave would come in during the Summer. Still, the transitions were gradual and “the joke” did not apply - no matter how many times I heard it.

Seattle, in some ways, was the anti-Phoenix of my youth. The weather consisted of some kind of combination of cloudy, raining, and/or cold with only a handful of sunny days scattered about to trick oneself into thinking that it is a beautiful city. I have told many people in Melbourne about the thickness of the cloud cover in Seattle and I can see the skepticism in their eyes. For about eight months a year, the cloud cover is so thick that it was not uncommon for cars with automatic headlights to turn on in the middle of the day. “The joke” was told there often. I didn’t like the weather. I waited a decade. It never changed.

Well, here I am in Melbourne, Australia having moved here in the dead of winter. My mate (see I am assimilating) picked up Julie and I at the airport. He apologized for the “cold” weather and then told “the joke”. I rolled my eyes. Except... Now that I’ve been here for a few months I am ready to grant the fine people of Melbourne the right to tell “the joke”, for it is absolutely true.

I have firsthand witnessed days that started out with torrential downpours of rain, turn to blue skies and sunshine, and then back to ominous rainclouds. Julie said it the best over the weekend, “The weather here is... psychotic!”

Last weekend was a perfect example. Saturday was a typical Seattle winter dreary day. It was cold, cloudy, and constantly drizzling without quite ever managing to rain. We took the kids to the zoo anyway. The zoo was completely empty. There were no crowds, no lines, and aside from the poor weather; the day was enjoyable because it felt like the zoo was open just for us. Just before noon, I decided to get Julie and I second coffee. There was no one in line and I was chatting to the girls working at the coffee stand as the kids were amused by a bird exhibit nearby.

“Excuse me,” I said, “is today Saturday?”

“Uh, yeah,” one of the girls answered as if I were crazy.

“Well, where are all the people? The families? Mothers and fathers taking their children to the zoo?”

“The weather is a bit crap,” the girl said, “and the footy is on today too.”

I laughed. It was week nineteen of a twenty-four week season. It hammered home the point that Aussies, at least Victorians, sure love the footy. The zoo was as empty as it would be in the States for Superbowl Sunday and this particular Saturday was just a few regular season games. The finale (that’s what they call the playoffs) situations are still very much open. There were no critical games. Just a regular mid to late season day of sports combined with a mild and sporadic drizzle of rain was all we needed to have the place to ourselves.

The kids came home exhausted and we put them straight to bed. The next day, to my surprise, turned out to be one of the most beautiful Winter days I have ever seen rivaling any of the great days we had back in Phoenix or Los Angeles. The skies were blue. The sun was out. The kids spent the day on the beach, covering themselves in sand. Saturday was Winter and Sunday was late Spring/Summer. That’s weird. However, the same pattern can happen in the course of a single day with clouds moving in and out and the temperature changing by thirty degrees.

Julie has vowed to dress in layers and always carry an umbrella. I have vowed to complain even more than usual and preparing for the weather would cut into my ability to complain.

The New Normal

Contrary to what Julie says, I am not a morning person. However, I am still traumatized by the summer I spent at Camp USAFA (United States Air Force Academy) when I was eighteen. Every morning, I lay in bed terrified of what would happen next and wishing I could sleep until it happened. It would start with AC/DC’s “Hell’s Bells” being blasted in the hallway followed by an upperclassmen hitting the door so hard it would almost fly off its hinges. “Hurry up! You are late! If you are still in bed, you are wrong!”

With that, my roommate and I would fly out of bed doing a million different tasks under a crazy deadline. In the present day, the alarm goes off at 6AM every weekday morning and there are a million things I need to get done.

I head downstairs and make breakfast for the kids and coffee for Julie and I. While the kids’ breakfast cools down, I turn on the TV and stream music off of my iPhone. It’s always the same playlist and it starts with Taio Cruz’s “Dynamite”. I am not a huge fan of pop music, but Carson loves the song. The first day I tried to get him out of bed at 6:30AM, he struggled mightily. I went to wake up Zoe and came back to Carson’s room to find him hunched over his bed with his head pressed against his arm. Without a hint of malice or bad manners he said to me, “Just (pause)... Just give me a minute.” He sounded like a freshman in college who had gone out partying the night before. He knew he needed to get to class, but my poor little man couldn’t find the strength.

Anyway, since I started playing “Dynamite”, Carson now dances out of bed. Zoe and Julie will never be morning people, so I solved that problem as well. While Carson starts his morning dance, I grab Zoe and put her in our room. Zoe and Julie grump at each other and eventually annoy each other awake. Meanwhile, Carson and I embrace the morning and enjoy the music.

The music continues to play during breakfast and I have christened the morning meal “Rock and roll brekky”. The timer is set so the kids don’t dawdle too long and it’s time to get the kids and myself dressed. If I am heading to the office, I have the privilege of dropping the kids off at daycare. The bus stop is only a few hundred meters away, but walking with Carson and Zoe it feels like a few miles... The streets are fairly busy, so I hold their hands. At first, I used to call them my ducklings because ducklings always follow their momma duck, or in this case, father duck. However, that all changed when Julie bought us some coffee mugs.

Since all of our material possessions are on a boat somewhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, we have tried to avoid buying anything nice. We have nice things, they’re just in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. So Julie bought two coffee mugs from Coles, the local supermarket. Her mug has Marvin the Martian and mine has Taz. The kids were naturally curious about the cartoon characters adorning our mugs.

Non-sequitor. In American football, towards the end of the game, if the offensive team has the lead and the defensive team is out of time outs, the offense will “run the clock out”. The offense forms, snaps the ball, and the quarterback quickly takes a knee. The game clock continues to run and there is no risk. The defense knows they have lost and there is nothing that can be done about it. Both sides move with no energy and the fans start leaving in droves. Well, the same thing happens in our house from time to time. The kids are tired and know they are going to bed and the parents are out of energy. Both sides know how this is going to end and the kids barely go through the motions of protesting bedtime. I have several “run the clock out” activities to kill a few minutes before bedtime.

I had some pretty fond memories of the Looney Tunes characters from my childhood and while looking for a way to run the clock out one evening, I put on some Youtube clips of Marvin and Taz. The kids loved them and soon started repeating their catch phrases. That was all it took and during my walks to the bus stop, the kids are no longer ducklings, they are “earthlings”. Sure, people stair at the guy in the suit dragging two pre-schoolers wearing back packs bigger than they are down the street and on the bus while gently prodding them with the occasional, “Hurry up, earthlings!” but I think it’s funny.

I drop the kids off at daycare, sign them in, and give them a kiss goodbye. I head for the tram and go to the office. My two mile commute takes me just about an hour with the “earthlings” in tow. The days in the office go by fast. There is a lot to do and very little time. The camaraderie is nice even if I bust my co-workers balls once in a while.

On days I’m on the client site, my commute starts even earlier. There are magical converging, sophisticated routes combining trams, trains, and buses that take me the nine miles to Chadstone. At first, it took me almost an hour and a half. Through sheer force of will and dogged determination, I have chopped half an hour off the commute each way.

Non-sequitor. In the late 70s my dad made a colossal stink about the stupidity of ESPN. “Imagine,” he said, “a whole channel dedicated to sports! Who’s going to watch this!” Apparently, my dad didn’t know any other men over the age of twelve. I don’t think he has ever been more wrong about anything as he was about the prospects of ESPN. Just about any male my age I know socially could happily sit in front of the TV and watch Sportscenter on any given night.

In the present day, my dad has steadfastly refused to get an iPhone or an Android phone. “Who wants to pay $30 a month for a data plan!” Well, dad, I would be dead in the water without my beloved iPhone. The Metlink app helps plot my course. I get on the tram at Beacon Cove and head towards the city. I get off in front of the Southern Cross Train Station. I look longingly at the Krispe Kreme across the street and hall ass to catch my train. It’s always a game time decision between the train to Glen Waverly or Pakenham. The Metlink app is location aware and I keep hitting update as I approach Southern Cross to find the optimal route.

It’s either Platform 10 or 12, but once on the train, I have some time to relax a little. I listen to Adam Carolla complain even more than I do, read tech blogs, catch up on Facebook, and occasionally stair out the window. At the journey’s start, I see the best of Melbourne. The Yarra River is on my right. I pass the Crown Casino. The Flinder’s Street Train Station. The Eureka Tower. The MCG, home of the AFL’s Grand Finale (equivalent to our Super Bowl). The AIMEE Stadium. The high rises and stadiums fade away and I go deep into the lower middle class suburbs. The fences have graffiti tags and the architectural highlights are the occasional Target.

Depending on the time and the train I get off at exotic and strange sounding stops that are, in reality, kind of depressing. Caulfield. Hughesdale. Oakleigh. I take a myriad of bus routes from the train to the last leg of my destination, the Chadstone Shopping Center (they spell it Centre, but I’m going to spell it correctly).

I hardly have time to make myself a cup of barely drinkable instant coffee while inwardly pining for the magical Starbucks iCups that adorn the kitchens at Microsoft. Thinking of the refrigerators fully stocked with glorious Diet Mountain Dew would be too painful to even think of. The users swarm me right away with urgent production issues while I try to work on a project with a looming deadline. The days go by quickly, but every other week or so, I take care of an urgent personal matter. I go during lunch to Jasper’s “the caffeine dealers”. Even though there is a lot of work left to be done, I force myself to take my time. I painstakingly pick up the scoops in each of the displays and take several deep breaths through my nose and relish the smell of the espresso beans. With each selection, I am sure I am going to find my new favorite. Each time I go back, I make a different choice. Just a few weeks ago, I couldn’t wait to go to the few Starbucks scattered throughout Melbourne. Now (no offense to those of you who work there), the thought of drinking Starbucks coffee sickens me. Yes, I am officially a coffee douche. I am just as bad as those wine snobs who think they can smell nuts and raspberries in their Pinot Noir. There is no food I miss from the States yet, but if I were to go back tomorrow, I would miss the coffee something terrible.

The day breezes by as issues pile up and are resolved and I make my commute home. I pass the time through the dreary suburbs with my iPhone. More tech blogs. More Facebook. I wish I could text my friends back in the States, but it is already after midnight Pacific Standard Time. I think of texting Julie, but she is in all likelihood getting yelled at by our children and struggling to get their exhausted little bodies on a bus back to our home.

The suburbs transition back to the city bathed in calming blue neon light. I get off at Flinder’s or Southern Cross and keep thinking that Carson would get a kick out of these mammoth train stations, but still haven’t found a reason to take him on a proper train ride. I go home and the kids call me “Mr. Daddy”. I play with them until bedtime and help clean up. I occasionally go for a run or Julie and I relax and watch TV together.

Our apartment is tiny compared to our house back in Redmond. The kitchen is small. The refrigerator is small. All our furniture is from Ikea and I am looking forward to selling it or even giving it away. When our ship - literally - comes in, it’s going to be like Christmas, our birthday, and anniversary all rolled into one. Yet even though we are sleeping on mattresses without box springs on the floor, I am content. Our lives are full. We are focused less on buying things for the house or shopping in general. Weekends are amazing...

On Friday nights, we tell the kids that tomorrow is “Mommy and Daddy day”. We tell them on Mommy and Daddy days, it’s the kids jobs to wake up the parents. We are always awake before they are, but we stay in bed until one of them comes bumbling into our room. Sometimes it’s Carson first. Sometimes it’s Zoe. Either way, they fling open the door and jump into the mattress. There is a lot of giggling and squealing. The noise and commotion wakes up the other one and soon it’s two kids jumping up on our beds and laughing. Julie tells them to stop jumping on the bed and they stop. I tell them to stop jumping on the bed and they jump higher and laugh harder.

We go to the zoo. We go to the aquarium. We go to the beach. We take public transportation with them. We point out the sites and talk. They are no longer in the backseat watching cartoons. Whatever we decide to do with them, they are exhausted by 7. They watch almost no TV anymore during the week, so I don’t mind watching a movie with them.

I used to have a dedicated laundry day on Sunday, but now it seems like there is always a load of laundry in the washer. The stack of laundry that needs to be folded is never ending, but I never let the dirty clothes pile up too high.

Everything is new to us. Everything is exciting. There are challenges. Surprisingly, there is a language barrier. The kids are developing accents. Zoe, age three and a half announces that, “Shawks live in the dawk.” She then screams that she doesn’t want to speak in Australian and that she’s an American. We tell her she doesn’t have to speak Australian, but she’s already talking about the shawks again.

Everything is faster pace and slower pace at the same time. I feel challenged and humbled and happy. Somehow, I don’t think the novelty will ever where off and the coffee keeps tasting better and better.