Road Trip!

It is surely one of the ironies of western civilisation that Labor Day - the day when workers around the country celebrate the right to hold down a decent job - is celebrated by doing anything but. I mean, if staggering into an office at 7am with the intravenous espresso drip in one arm is worth celebrating, then how come the F3 northbound out of Sydney was chocka at 5.01pm? Surely the eager workers should be celebrating their good fortune by filing an extra couple of Form B37s just for the sheer joy of it, or polishing off an extra account reconciliation spreadsheet just for the warm fuzzy feeling of two nicely balanced columns? Heck, shouldn't Labor Day be the day you splurge on a new stapler? You know, that sleek black model on Bob's desk down in Procurement that you've been lusting after?

A quick search on the all-knowing Wikipedia reveals that little Suri Cruise is an alien and... sorry, I digress. It reveals Labour Day started out as a movement to celebrate the 8 hour working day. Rock, not having much to celebrate on that front, argued that surely on that logic the 16 hour work day is worth double celebrations.

And so, like the rest of Sydney, off they went up the clogged freeway in search of fun in the sun... and Chinese takeaways. First stop - the picture-perfect Avoca Beach. It may only be early spring, but here in paradise that means 27+ degrees, cloudless skies, and beach babes aplenty. If you look really hard, you might see one in the background... muahahahahaha :)

Women's Weekly is out in force looking for salacious cover shots as the stars come out to play. Unfortunately this pic misses out on the coveted cover spot - the editor felt sunnies that cover less that 85% of the face are like, so yesterday.

A bronzed surf lifesaver stands ready to plunge into the deadly surf at a moments notice should his seasoned gaze spot anyone struggling... to tie up their bikini.

Another stop, another beach. This is Terrigal, a pumping beach front town with a nice array of eateries. Among other things...

Dude!, feeling a little defensive there with all those bronzed six packs on display? The only six pack Rock can manage is the ice cold one in the coke freezer across the road.

Welcome aboard ma'am. A friendly conductor welcomes guests aboard the first class carriage of the fabled Orient Express. Come on, back then that hat was in, I tell ya. But is that cool or what? A B&B consisting of old railway carriages converted into cabins.

Even the toilet comes complete with working brake wheel and lever! Mei just wishes Rock was so adept at manipulating the complex toilet-seat raising throttle.

Toot toot! Until Rock can afford the Trans-Siberian, this will have to do.

So after steaming through the night, the Express pulls into the World Heritage Barrington Tops National Park. You can't really tell it's the next day in the photos, because it's just another flawless blue sky.

Barrington Tops is a plateau perched above the verdant farmland of the New England district. Not sure what made the early settlers call it that - they were probably homesick what with the cloudless blue skies and lack of incessant driving rain and all.

The view from the top. Ok, not the top. Rock's lofty claim that the guidebook's estimate of an all day hike to reach the summit "is clearly a gross exaggeration for someone of my formidable physique", proved somewhat unfounded. With four hours of backbreaking uphill slog behind them, the party was forced to admit defeat and turn around. At least base camp comes fully equip with spa and takeaway shop.

They did say we might see some feral pigs lurking in the undergrowth...

Now here's a dining room view that even Aria can't match.

In hindsight, Rock is rather glad his "we'll make the summit or die trying" manifesto went down about as well with The Party as the Let's Give Taiwan Their Freedom bill. After all, now we can kick back and watch the Grand Final.

Nothing like roughing it the hard way with only a giant spa and private balcony between you and the uncaring wilderness.

How can anyone argue against the benefits of globalisation? Now even the most obscure country town comes complete with fried rice, sweet & sour pork and chicken cashew nut courtesy of the friendly local takeaway. If the WTO could taste this, you'd have free trade by the end of the meal.

Day three - time to race the Ferraris and Maseratis back to the big smoke. But on another magnificent day (mercury hits 30), why rush it? This is The Entrance. Which, by the way, is the rather cool name for a town, and not the moment when Rock strides into frame.

In fact, The Entrance is a rather practical name for the spot (and town) where the big Lake Macquarie connects with the ocean.

But, that's quite enough folks - my stapler is waiting for me...

Dude! That was like, totally sick, man!

With Johny "Darn it I wish I'd studied Mandarin" Howard and Dubbya "Welcome to OPEC" Bush declaring Sydney their personal remember-when-we-ruled-the-free-world party zone, it was clearly cool to be anywhere else. Cool being the operative word. Australia's snow season may be about as long as George W's attention span, but that didn't stop half of Sydney from heading south one last time before swapping the parka for the speedos.

But first, a few scenic shots to set the scene. Ok, so Australian "mountains" rate about as high as George Gregan's pass on the world scale, but that doesn't preclude them from offering up a few stunning vistas here and there. This is Lake Jindabyne, at the foot of the somewhat optimistically named Snowy Mountains.

Reminds me a bit of the good ol' Desert Road. Desolate alpine scenery with an Aussie twang.

At times like these, I bet they wish they never, ever agreed to let those pesky Kiwis cross the ditch unimpeded.

Why I'll be darned if this isn't the perfect spot to sink a few oil wells folks. With Big W in town and OPEC and pretzels on his mind, it's time to lock up your national parks and slap a V8 sticker on the back of your hybrids.

But enough of the prelude (but not, unfortunately for readers, the inane APEC jokes). The sun sets over the bustling alpine ski village of Jindabyne, but not before a raid on the end-of-season bargain bins yields some so-cheap results.

Quick, snap on these skis before the last of the snow melts! Rock pauses for a photo opportunity before his bid for gold in the giant slalom.
Mei settles for gold of a different kind. Nothing warms frostbitten hands like a steaming golden chippie.

Finally, the open slopes! The snow is falling and the piste is supposed to be quick. You wouldn't have picked that watching this skier in action...

Green tracks are for newbies! Show me the black diamonds! Rock talks big before breaking the no toboggans rule on the aforementioned green strip by sliding half way down on a rather bruised ass.

Don't tell me the Great Wall of Sydney extends this far. John Howard will go to any lengths to keep the un-Australiaaans out. Too bad Kevin "Ni Hao" Rudd let himself in.

One of the many slopes Rock was too chicken to go down.

Now that man deserves an ice cold one. Ok, he doesn't, but luckily the machine doesn't care how many times you tumbled on the kiddee slopes.

Mist shrouds an early start to beat the rest of the APEC refugees back to Sydney.

But clears in time to reveal... that nothingness that is the city everyone loves to hate - Canberra. Ironically, with JWH going to such great lengths to ensure none of his power buddies had to set foot in the actual capital, a number of Sydneysiders took the opportunity to remind themselves why... they live in Sydney. Ok, it's not that bad. In fact, on a sparkling day with the nicely groomed artificial lake shimmering in the spring sun, it's actually worthy of being called a capital. Well, for Australia anyway :)

Canberra! Oh what a feeling. The feeling in question being boredom.

You know a city has image problems when all you can think to write home about is "well, they had this big fountain".

Still, there are worse ways to spend a Sunday than a relaxing cycle around the lake. Like watching the Prime Minister shamelessly flog the climate change agenda like he was born a believer.

The last time Mei was on a bike there were 1.5billion people riding with her. Actually, no, that's not entirely true. The last time Mei was on a bike was the day she realised she could fit it in the boot of Rock's Corolla for the run back to Ferg Hall.

Last stop (before the traffic jam outside Campbelltown that is) is the Aussie Museum. Basically Australia's answer to Te Papa, except instead of Vegemite tins on display they have old Holdens and footy shorts.

But the architecture is top notch it has to be said. This porthole symbolises the view the first Australians got as they first sighted their land of golden soil girt by sea. The artist seems to have forgotten the prison bars.


Now we're getting esoteric. So esoteric in fact, I can't think of a single tenuous APEC connection to make.

One thing about Canberra. You never feel crowded. No people. No cars. Certainly no politicians dumb enough to spend more than the time it takes their chauffeur to get them from Parliament to the airport at the end of the latest pointless debate.

Clearly three hours of 104.2FM pounding away in the background has given Rock a few delusions of grandeur. Mate, there's always Idol next year...

Official Pyrmont Trailer Launched!

With only one week to go to the big move (and only 2 days to go before Stevens hikes rates and smacks the latest mortgage belt suckers before they even move in), we bring you this exclusive preview of the new surrounds.

The bricks and mortar of 26 Point St. Ours is one below the top on the right-hand side in the pic (north-west corner in real-life). Oh and that inconveniently intrusive crane is from the picturesque construction site right next door. Location, location, loc... will someone turn off that bloody powerdrill!

The view from the park at the foot of the building. This avoids having to construct an elaborate di Vinci mirror system on the balcony to take advantage of what real estate agents euphemistically call "harbour glimpses".

Enjoy this while you can. Apparently Toyota is suing Jetstar for stealing what their lawyers term the "exclusive, copyrighted Toyota Oh What a Feeling jumping action" for their holiday ads. I kid you not. Given the expansive readership base of this blog, I'm already briefing my legal team for the battle ahead.

Pyrmont Point park, 2 minutes down the road. Spectacular views and a brand new park. Nice to see the tax dollar going to something other then carting big George W around in air conditioned, bulletproof comfort.

The use of diagonal elements adds a contemporary edginess to this award-winning photographer's composition, as he seeks to capture the dynamism of inner-city living. That's Rock trying out for a job writing real estate ads.

Jones Bay Wharf is just down the hill, but this is as close as Rock is going to get to the sleek cruisers moored there. Apparently some of the berths are worth more than his new digs.

Looking back towards our building. See that really nice building right in the middle of the shot... that's not it. See that quite nice one just to the left of the middle... no that's not it either. See that brick building hiding almost off frame under that aforementioned crane... that's home sweet home.

The newly renovated waterfront. Check out that cool tidal powered sculpture in the background. But don't let Johnny H see - he's not big on alternative fuels. Meanwhile the forward-thinking designers put a convenient life-saver on the railing for when the inevitable idiot decides to clamber up on the piers...

The maritime theme continues with this ode to the old whaling days. Here Rock struggles vainly to complete the Vitruvian Man pose, mercifully falling short well before he takes it to the next step and goes sans garments (and comes up even shorter perhaps?)

The next stop in the nice-buildings-Rock-can't afford tour. This is Jackson's landing, just around the corner from Point Street.

Carrying on the tour, the last stop is on the other side of Pyrmont peninsula where the mighty Anzac bridge marks the start of the real inner West. Meanwhile in the background another load of brand new Corollas arrives for Rock to dent...

Here Kitty, Kitty...

Sydney puts on a glorious mid-winter's day as the USS Kitty Hawk purrs into town on her farewell tour. 47 years after first hitting the waves, the last of the US navy's conventionally powered carriers is nearly ready to sail off into the sunset - but not before ensuring the "entertainment" establishments in the Cross enjoy one final bumper weekend...

Down at Woolloomooloo, the Kitty's escort ships are on high alert, ready to repel any flying telephone assaults from Mr Crow's penthouse at the end of the wharf.

The business end of US naval firepower. In nearly half a century of active service, this floating battlestation has seen more wars than the G Bush duo combined.

A fearsome Super Hornet remains sits idle as her top gun prowls for targets of a different kind in the bar stip on Darlinghurst Road.


AWACs support peeks over the bulkhead on the gleaming foredeck. No doubt lovingly polished by Johny Howard himself.

The usually idyllic Garden Island naval base bears more than a passing resemblance to Pearl Harbour, albeit with Kate Beckinsdale regrettably absent.

Oh saaaaaay can you see... incoming greenbacks by the dawn's early light... The bars around the base gear up for the stampede of 6,000 cashed up sailors looking to turn their first trip onto "dry land" into an oxymoron.

CV-63 in all her glory. A full complement of Super Hornet's from the VFA-102 Diamondback squadron await their next call to duty.

Captain on the bridge! Aye aye Sir!

Anchors away!