Schack family Christmas Newsletter 2011

Whilst the predominant community opinion is that the Chinese year of the rabbit seems inappropriate for the Schack family, there is no doubt a minority alternate view.

Much of theyear was spent testing some of the hypotheses presented in the book “Why Men Don't Listen & Women Can't Read Maps” by Allan and Barbara Pease.

 The first of these was that women talk more - 20,000 words a day compared with 7,000 for the average man - and they talk twice as fast. This may seem obvious to some, and many of you may recall the old joke "Once I didn't talk to my wife for six months - I didn't want to interrupt." William and Michael believed they found supportive evidence for this assertion at a Collingwood-North Melbourne football match, where it appeared a woman behind them was running in deficit on her daily word count, and needed to up the ante. Having initially assumed the person she was talking to was her marital partner, it was a surprise when she announced her early departure to meet her husband and it became apparent that some lucky stranger had been allocated a seat next to her that day.

Another proposition in the book was that women communicate indirectly, whereas men hear words literally. Michael uncovered supportive evidence for this proposition in the process of purchasing Grand Final tickets. Apparently when a woman responds to a question like “Do you want a grand final ticket?” with  “I have never been to a Grand Final – it would be an experience” it is not a literal statement of fact coupled with a thoughtful view of the future, but really means “Yes -- buy me a ticket”. In practical terms it can also be interpreted as “payment of a sum equivalent to the cost of a ticket will pacify those not included”.

Helen’s achievements included an incredible surprise of a “romantic getaway” in Melbourne. The concept of booking two hotels (in different suburbs) on the one night was just the “extra”needed for the “wow factor”.
Her references to an “overlap” as a “lap over” and “whipper snapper” as“whipper snipper” prompted an amateur, and probably misguided,  diagnosis of Paraphasia  (a form of aphasia in which a person has lost the ability to speak correctly, substituting one word for another, and jumbling words and sentences unintelligibly). However, before dismissing the diagnosis too quickly we should recall her referring to a particular Dulux paint colour as "Hog’s Breath" rather than “Hog Bristle”.
Her thoughts on chivalry received some colorful exposure after slipping on ice and tumbling into the snow at Mount Buller. The debate over whether a chivalrous man would assist a stricken lady to her feet, or take a photo of her as she struggled in the snow,  may go on for eternity, but one should not underestimatethe value such experience in contributing to the discussion on the “death of chivalry”.

A number ofquestions were raised about Michael’s consciousness during the year. There maybe a long wait for answers, but we’ll ask them anyway.
Did he just get sick of answering the phone or did he just not see it when he ran over it with the lawn mower?

What was he thinking walking into a crowded marquee at the folk festival with toilet paper dangling from the rear of his jeans?
Did he really think the biscuit tin was the correct repository for kitchen garbage?
What value did he see in storing the sugar in the fridge?
Does he really think the police would believe him went he said he was only doing 90 kmh when their radar gun indicated 110?
Did he really think wiping out the side panel of the family’s campervan would impress anyone with his trailer backing prowess?
Did he really think super-glue residue on his hands would lead others to assume he had calluses from working in the garden?
Did he reallyhave to locate all the water pipes on the property by puncturing them with a shovel, axe or pick?
Was he really trying to evaluate the idling capacity of his old Falcon by leaving it running unattended for four and half hours in the back yard while he drove to Warrnambool in another car after jump starting it with the Falcon?

Rebecca returned from overseas to witness a Grand Final loss. Having lived in India for a while she assumed it would be okay to climb in the window of her grandmother’s house – something that attracted the attention of two thirds of the officers at the Essendon police station, who suggested she might be better off at her parent’s home rather than running rampant in suburbia. Coincidentally,  her return to the empty nest vacated some years ago coincided with a rise in phone charges, an increase in electricity costs and an excess data usage notice from the Internet service provider.

Hannah excited everyone by getting engaged to Dan. Perhaps even more exciting was the valuable insight she gained into her parents’ demographic when the family attended an event at the Oakleigh RSL. Having been regularly exposed to the condom displays in the rest-rooms of inner city venues it was a revelation to find the RSL facilities sported advertisements for incontinence underwear.

William graduated from University and turned his attention to “blogging”, where his emotive descriptions of the agony and ecstasy associated with a Collingwood finals campaign attracted the attention of many. One of his final posts included the phrase “My name is William and I’m a recovering Grand Final attendee”.

The Lost Weekend

When a band from one's youth gives an in store appearance 40 years after it had its first big hit, who knows what a weekend will bring. On a Friday that promised so much, it seemed fitting that Spectrum's lunch time performance at the Basement Discs should form the prelude to a bizarre chain of events. The chant of "Someday I'll have money", although well received by the largely greying audience, seemed somehow hollow when I checked my superannuation balance and took a rough estimate of how many days I may have left to acquire some money.

I wasn't long before I struggled past a string of buskers in the city precinct to conduct one of my regular social research projects on public transport. Seeking to verify media reports of regular violence and intimidation on Melbourne's rail service, I apprehensively boarded the Craigieburn train and observed a limited degree of graffiti. No threatening fellow passengers were immediately apparent, and within a short time I was surprised to be offered a seat by a young girl. Dissecting the situation I balanced the indignity of being perceived as an "aged person in need of a seat" with my actual physical condition and gave only the mildest of protests before slumping in the seat.

Have survived at least half the trip to Craigieburn I disembarked somewhere in the Northern suburbs to take my mid afternoon siesta. This admirable Spanish custom re-energized me enough to return to the city and tackle the Deluxe Beer bar at Federation square. Whilst the variety of beers available deserved commendation, the prices urged a lesser level of satisfaction, and I settled for a glass of iced water and a cheese burger.

The early evening found me at the MCG for a football match that did not meet my expectations and within 40 minutes I decided to leave the stadium and take a seat within arms length of a statue of Don Bradman and a stone's throw from a jam donut stand. Some time had elapsed before I became vaguely aware that someone was talking to me. A slight turn of the head brought in to view a woman in tears, seemingly repeating a mantra that she had been "booed" out of her seat in the stadium for supporting the wrong team. Her tears made me think she was a Collingwood supporter, but a Cats scarf suggested otherwise. Having voluntarily vacated the stadium myself I was unable to provide much empathy but agreed that she had been treated harshly. The only response I could muster to her subsequent admission that she had spilled her beers over the offending fans was to mumble that "that wouldn't have helped". She claimed that her attempts at apology had been rejected and further confided that her husband was still in there watching the game. When she began the story at the beginning again I decided it was time to excuse myself and move on.

It wasn't long before I found myself behind the wheel of a vehicle in a narrow concourse somewhere near the famed AC/DC lane. Have exceeded the legal number of occupants (six in a five seater), it was necessary to keep a low profile before unloading a few bodies in Lygon Street Carlton and heading further North for more sleep.

The morning offered no relief to the trauma of the night before, and I recalled seeing an advertisement for a lecture at City Church on the signs precipitating the end of the world. I decided to give it a go, partially to find out if one the signs was the magnitude of the football debacle the previous evening. Before doing so I set about perusing a caravan park somewhere near Pentridge in Coburg. It occurred to me that if the end of the world was coming, such a location might be just the place to avoid calamity. The lecture did offer some solutions, but couldn't put a precise date on things. Having developed some awareness of the futility of attempting to predict the future I decided that I would probably have no use for my grand final ticket and sought out some free Wi-fi to email potential purchasers.

Some chili bean enchiladas at a bar in Brunswick supplied some sadly lacking indigestion before the band arrived and announced themselves as "The Miserable Little Bastards". Their entertaining first set ended with the pronouncement that they were going out for a bong and could be back in ten minutes, depending on how things went. When the fiddle player eventually returned to the stage, packed up his instrument and walked out the front door, I surmised the bong hadn't gone so well and it was probably not worth waiting for the second set.

The following morning I became aware I was in rural community somewhere beyond the outskirts of Melbourne. I found myself in a Church for a triple Christening ceremony before being ushered to a bar called the Pig and Whistle where an Irish music session evolved with a level of spontaneity. After several hours of jigs and reels I remembered the need to work in Warrnambool Monday morning and bade my farewells before driving off in search of potential road kill. It was nearing midnight before I was home in my bed reflecting on the reality of the three days.