Folks, I've decided to start blogging on Blogger, largely because it lets me call my blog galfromdownunder, as opposed to the more confusing galfromdownundA (due to Livejournal's limit on the length of the blog title). You can get to my new blog by typing http://www.galfromdownunder.com/blog

The actual address is http://galfromdownunder.blogspot.com

There is still a link to this, my old blog, on my home page, wouldn't want all that precious ranting from the past to go up in smoke ...

MOVIE CLIP: Traveling United First Class - A glimpse from the large padded seat (an attempt to film and be discreet at the same time).


I just spent 5 hours in a $1500 seat, and it wasn't front row at U2 either. I simply flew from San Francisco to New York City, albeit a United's P.S. (Premium Service) passenger, thanks to a friend at United Airlines ... as long as I adhered to the dress rules.

Now before I'm arrested by eco-police I'll admit my languish in the lap of lux burned almost 100 gallons of fossil fuel and created 1005 tons of carbon dioxide, according to TerraPass.com. To offset this carnage I will purchase $9.95 worth of carbon offsets, good for the return trip also. Now that my conscience is slightly clearer ...

The United First Class Dress Rules

No jeans, no tank tops, no gym wear and no revealing your assets, natural or otherwise. No thongs, tennis shoes, or hiking/'military style' boots. Now usually I travel in my wicked silver-plaqued, Harley Davidson elasticized boots, bomb-proof shoes that have taken me around wet'n'windy Ireland on a bicycle, yet are groovy enough to team with fishnet stockings and a short skirt for raves. I can pull them on and off easily at the airport security check - I can't believe people still labor over laces. This time, I thought I might err on the safe side.

"Business casual," said Suzi, my United pal. "I usually wear slacks and a tunic."

Slacks and a what? What does a gal who rides a bicycle for a living wear on United First Class? In the end I opted for black, a color that never gets dirty and hides a multitude of sins. But at the very end I could not resist throwing on my Adidas Lipstick Pink Long Coat. After all, the dress code did not list tweed, fawn, navy and beige as mandatories. If it was me writing that code I'd ban the aforementioned colors.

Being offered a companion pass by a United insider is no guarantee you'll actually fly. You're on stand by, that is, you wait until everyone including someone's pampered pooch is allocated seats before you get called up, if at all. The flight still cost my United friend money, which I must reimburse her for, but substantially less than retail - especially inside the 14 and 7-day advance purchase window. In fact, it's not a 'real reservation' right up until you're almost on the plane, so is a boon for flying last-minute, as I was.

When I trundled down the gangplank to the door of the aircraft the natural tendency is to head right for 'cattle class'. This time my boarding pass pointed me left, into what is normally a kitchenette. On this 'Premium Service' aircraft, I stepped like Alice through the Looking Glass into a whole new inner sanctum.

The first impression: giant seats floating in a sea of leg and elbow room. The seats resemble something like an inflated dentist's chair, with dashboard of controls to tilt your body in multiple positions, from sitting to reclining and every contortion in between. The seat in front of you is so far away, you have to get out of your seat and walk to your sick bag and SkyMall stuffarama catalog.

That pocket is actually a fully compartmentalized seat back to hold your laptop, Blackberry, Bose noise cancelling earphones, copies of Forbes and the New York Times ... those were the goods and chattels of the young gent beside me. I filled mine with my water bottle in its sock and my Mac Powerbook. I would have preferred a water bottle holder on my armrest, like at the movies, but see, you're supposed to sip from glasses delivered on trays in this class. At your shoulder is an additional light and - hallelujah - a power outlet, a holy grail for laptops with a pathetic 2 hour battery life like mine. At forearm's distance is a little table where drinks of whatever your request are gently laid down. In the case of my seat buddy, Jack Daniels on ice.

"Here, let me help you put that up," he said, jumping to his feet and hoisting my backpack into the overhead. Aaah, even the class of seat buddy is 'up there'. Bill was a 31 year old sapling of a finance executive, young enough to make me wish I'd studied harder and read the money pages instead of watching Sesame Street. His job required him to fly cross country a couple of times a month, staying just a few days before jetting back to his executive carpeted cubicle. For this constant to-ing and fro-ing, he considered First Class necessary to stay sane.

"It can really wreck you," he said, removing his noise canceling earphones and swigging his Jack Daniels. The constant drone of the aircraft engine seemed no quieter up here than in peanuts-not-toasted-almonds class, in fact, could have been slightly louder. He let me try the headphones and the noise cancellation was indeed uncanny - now I know why people swear by them. Apparently it makes the difference between arriving and feeling haggard or refreshed for the next day or two. Another gadget to buy from the Skymall stuffarama emporium.

I sat down and suddenly realized I left my bicycle helmet in the Brookstone stuffarama store back in the terminal. Panicking, I bolted back up the gangplank, and was bailed up by an officer who rightfully insisted my boarding pass be re-scanned for security reasons. On returning the stewardess quipped that I might want to wear my helmet "just in case". I imagine the only bicycle helmets they'd handled in First Class were that of Lance and the like.

A stewardess came around offering a personal portable DVD player to each passenger, but people were too busy buried in their laptops, stock picks, and up until the doors closed, their Blackberries.

We weren't far off the ground when the food parade began - a real focus when you're on a long flight and you've read the inflight mag cover to cover.

The first course was a serve of nice warm nuts - the premium kind, no peanuts - and more offers to get tanked.

Then a stewardess came to each passenger, addressing them as 'Mr Burns', Mr Strickland', 'Mr Knox' and taking their meal order from the nicely printed menu. I felt sure when they got to me they'd simply ask me what I wanted, but it was 'Ms Chiang' - and even pronounced my name right. They are clearly experienced in international relations.

The menu read like something from a swank restaurant. I ordered the sea bass with some impressively worded sides. Bill ordered the lamb. The meal was preceded by a seafood appetizer, consisting of the largest scallop I'd ever seen, a shrimp, and a piece of grilled squash. Then came an organic Ceaser salad. I was already full. It was served on linen and China, with cute little salt and pepper shakers I was thinking of souveniring, but the heavy, frosted glass construction suggested they were re-used. It as a rich meal, and I ate it all. It reminded me of long haul flights 25 years ago, when I was in my teens and this caliber of meal was standard in economy, albeit with plastic knives and forks.

Would I like some wine? I rarely drink, but hey, why not, it's full of antioxidants ... I ordered a glass of red, and the stewardess told me I'd have to drink the entire bottle of Bordeaux as she 'opened it 'specially'.

One thing I felt sure they'd offer were reading copies of the New York Times, but I guess that's back in Business Class. (Have you seen that funny ad - where the gentleman complains that he's paid for Business Class, so the stewardess simply grabs the curtain in front of him and swishes it behind him?). In First you're supposed to be reading the sequel to War and Peace, because you don't need to work.

"Actually, most of the people riding first are business people, it was probably booked out so they get upgraded," said Bill, handing me his copy.

Next came the dessert - home made ice cream, cheese, or a plate of monster strawberries with a dipping sauce.

Then fancy chocolates.

All through the stewardesses were attentive and friendly - they even cracked jokes, although not the hilariously brazen kind you get on Southwest Airlines ('Those passengers with small children - we're sorry'). Perhaps they have to attend a special school to served their beige and grey suited, $3000 round-trip paying clientele. If there was a tip jar I suspect they'd earn more than the pilots.

The toilets, however, were fairly standard - "with a few more flowers" - said Bill. They did have an array of lotions and spritzers with seaweed and deep sea minerals listed as ingredients, but did not mention the preservatives, which tend to give me problems. The paper had no more 'plys' than normal. I think a nice and completely unnecessary touch would be to offer people disposeable slippers. You don't want to go walking in a airplane toilet in socks, you never know what's been dripped on the floor ...

I had a great time with the seat controls, sinking below the floor, lying out flat, trying to find a comfortable angle being someone who's 5' nothing. Ironically, I derive no benefit at all from an ocean of legroom, the problem of a short person my feet not quite touching the floor - most chairs are simply not designed for people shorter than some national average.

The little touches are what make a service great. The fact the nuts were warm, just like warm bread rolls at a restaurant. Unnecessary, but nice. One brilliant touch I always cite, and have never seen on any other airline, is a simple button riveted to the seat backs on this Irish airline Aer Lingus. This is for hanging your jacket. It is such a no-brainer. On all other planes, including United First Class, your jacket has to be squashed beside you, or falls down between the window and the chair. Why not put it overhead? I just like to have it near me. I could see the gent across the aisle look up from his Sony Vaio and squint at my lipstick pink coat, which was bright enough to hurt your eyes among the sea of beige, navy and gray.

So does this service compare with other first class offerings? My experienced seat neighbor Bill felt it was a step up from Continental, and a step up from their 'regular' first class that goes to Newark.

"It's really the best for this route," he said. "Nicer seats, nicer food, nicer ambience."

He did, however, admit that Cathay Pacific's First Class was 'out of this world.'

I settled in my seat with it's nice, full sized pillow, opened my laptop and thought, I should've stuck to my day job, I could really get used this ...

Thank you Suzi and United for a safe and sumptuous passage to the Big Apple.

Copyright 2007 www.galfromdownunder.com

I'm speechless - literally. I've caught some kind of strep throat infection and I've been mute for almost a week. It's a strange experience. We open our mouths to speak and expect the words to form and when they don't, it's disquietening. Gives me a sense of how a paraplegic must feel while getting aquainted to his new situation - "legs, do your stuff!" ... but someone's cut the cord. The doc looked down my throat and went Bleeeaaah! and prescribed me an antibiotic.

I think I caught it at a rave, the Bassnectar show at the WOW Hall a week ago. All those heaving, sweaty bodies ... I might just digress here and tell you what WOW Hall raves are like in Eugene. They're all ages events. A handful of little 8 year olds zooming around with painted faces, dressed up in a kind of toddler's drag. A giant sign over the door, saying 'NO SMOKING, ANYTHING, ANYWHERE, ANYTIME. And until this concert, organic snacks and juices at the little concession. Unfortunatlely, they got some clueless girl who just went to CostCo and bought a bunch of candy. In Eugene, land of the Pizza Research Institute's peach and vegetable covered vegan special slice, anything Hershey's makes you want to retch. Oh yes, the WOW Hall's alcoholic room is banished to the dungeon, for folks whose bodies are nightclubs not temples.

The next day I rode 16 miles in 40 minutes to attend an Easter lunch. I think that's what did it.
That's 25 mile an hour. During lunch I could feel myself running out of steam. by 6pm every muscle in my body ached and the room suddenly seemed arctic. There I was, in three pairs of pants, three tops, balaclava and a giant sleeping bag over me.

A couple of days later I'm floored, and speechless.

Just yesterday, after being in bed for several days, I welcomed the chance do something I've rarely done - hang out with a girlfriend and do nothing but shop and eat. She was also sick from the rave, but the virus only blocked her ears. I couldn't talk,she couldn't hear, but you don't need either of those things to do serious retail therapy. It felt great to be out and about, driving around in her SUV, spending money on things you don't need, the antithesis of everything I stand for. We spent forever in a fairly inexpensive store called Forever 21 (she being 38 and me being 44 - is this called mid life?), where the clothes looked like someone threw a fabric factory at a room full of first year fashion students, turned back the clock, put some LSD in the water fountain and a Putamayo disc in the player and told them to go for it. I bought a whole bunch of stuff, in lipstick pink, I suddenly decided I was tired of never-gets-dirty black. My galpal and I dived into each other changerooms trying on $19 beaded bras, retro baby doll dresses, analysing styles like the editor of Vogue - all in relative gesticulating silence of course. The next day I looked at what I bought and thought, bejayzus ... what was I thinking? I'll proabably wear just two of the 5 things I bought. Aaaaaa, but it felt good. Don't knock retail therapy - it truly is a therapy. Even if I never wear those clothes it was cheaper than a therapist and I don't feel theraputed ... if they'd asked me 'and how does that make you feel?' I would not have been able to answer anyway.

By dinner time we'd resorted to pen and paper. I was always good at Pictionary but it must have been a bit trying for my friend. I realized it's actually nice to not talk. A few years ago I did a singing workshop and after getting us to flop about on the floor a la Feldenkreis, our teacher told us to go out in pairs, and get lunch and not talk. As my partner and I walked along I noticed how we became acutely aware of each other, even with minimal eye contact. We could read each other's minds. The bakery attendant assumed we were deaf mutes so gave us free sandwiches. Beggars should try this technique rather than the old unbelieveable cardboard sign telling us you need to get to Phoenix. Couples should try it and prolong their marriages.

Speaking of which, it reminds me of a technique called co-counselling, or revaluation counselling. No cost, no therapist, yet helps strengthen and prolong any relationship. You come home from work and instead of flicking on the telly, yelling at the kids or harumphing at the bills of the day, sit or lie down with your partner, not touching, and one person just expresses whatever is going on. The other listens actively and attentively but adds nothing to the convo, remaining quiet. After 10, say 20 minutes, swap.

The result is that you feel strangely relaxed and refreshed, rather than stymied by the day's shite.
Try it sometime, with someone you care about. It took losing my voice to remind me of this no-cost, therapist-free therapy. Go Google it. Recommended.

I'm off to Indiana to give a talk on Wednesday. If I don't have my voice back, I'll figure I'll field questions and type the answers on the big projected screen. Now that'll be a talk to remember!

I'm just back from doing the Bike Friday Arizona Desert Camp (click link to read the full montymedia).

The last evening was an interesting exercise in the danger of elevating your expectations.

It had been a long, hot week of riding and spirited carousing with 60 customers. A great time, really. On the last evening I postponed dinner to put together and show the group footage of the week as a swansong, as well as sit through the nth screening of my movie Route 66 By Bicycle, where n is a large number. By 9pm I was ravenous. Three of us nite owls - including a NYer of course - convened with great expectations of a relatively extravagant, sit down dinner in the relatively sumptuous (relative to Appleby's) restaurant next door. A chance to decompress and pat ourselves on the back for a time well had.

The restaurant next door decided to close early due to short staffing. But no matter - the hotel shuttle would take us to a local steak house. 'I don't feel like a steak house,' said Steve, the NYer. What about Denny's next door? 'I'm not eating in @#$% Denny's either!' said Leon, from South Africa.

Where else is there to eat, in the outskirts of Tucson airport?

How about the Casino? Although I don't gamble, my memories of casinos in Las Vegas and even civil service central, Canberra, Australia, are of a fairly cushy place, with lighting and amenities just right to keep you there as long as possible. They generally have pretty nice restaurants.

The hotel staff reception desk concurred, only we later found that neither of them had ever been to the local casino. The shuttle driver again asked if we wanted to go to Denny's or the steak house. No, we wanted something better tonight, we said.

He drove us there. He was from Kenya. He and Leon struck up a conversation about Africa. Their home ground. The outskirts of Tucson are full of long, dark stretches of empty land, dotted with lonely prefabricated structures gridded by roads roaring with ten tonne trucks. We sped a long way into the night. The neon lit, airport-hangar like structure of the Desert Diamond Casino loomed. 'Call me when you're ready and I'll pick you up,' said our driver.

On stepping inside we knew we'd come to the wrong place. This was not the kind of swank casino in any shape or form that any of us had been hallucinating about. This was a large shed, jammed with machines, grim faced people, guards, thick cigarette smoke ... and over there ... a sandwich bar. The only 'restaurant'. The air rang with the gay yet strangely melancholy burble of the slot machines. The scent of addiction was thicker than the smoke. We asked a few people if there was another restaurant. They said no, looking as dejected as we did. There was another whole wing to this structure that we explored, but all tunnels led back to that same sandwich bar.

We didn't even get as far the sandwich bar. 'I'm getting out of here,' said Leon.

'Hey I saw a place called El Mesquite' on the way here,' said Steve, one ear plastered to his cellphone in an attempt to monitor his flight back to his wintry home. He was clearly hallucinating about Mesquite style cuisine as dished up on the Upper East Side.

We started walking into the night. And walking. There was no sidewalk, just a narrow shoulder separating us from the oncoming traffic. I wish I'd turned my reversible traffic cone bag inside out, and worn it across my chest. I wish I'd brought my blinky light. Why the hell do we forget these things when we need them, and carry them around forever when we don't? At one point Leon had to leap into a ditch as an SUV swerved into the shoulder, almost knocking me into the concrete embankment. He said all this reminded him of Africa, so he was probably having the better time of us three.

'Errrrrm, I thought it was closer,' said Steve, still plastered to his cellphone and dangerously invisible to traffic in his black wool Hugo Boss lounge jacket.

'This is not New York!' said Leon, flashing teeth that reminded me of one of those large cats on Animal Safari.

We stumbled along the highway to El Mesquite. It resembled a single level public shower block with archways, loud Mexican music blasting from the portals. A kind of 'club'. Nearby was a sandwich board pointing to a hot dog stand. Steve went to check it out. There was darkness all around except for this little run-down oasis.

'We're not going in there,' said Leon.

Around this time I remembered someone once telling me, 'if you're ever somewhere you don't want to be, just pretend you're in a movie.' (Thank you Gabriel for that one). All of a sudden the movie looked vaguely interesting. Maybe something out of 'Leaving Las Vegas'.

We called the shuttle operator. He would not be able to pick us up for half an hour. And only from the Casino. We trudged back the way we came. It was 10pm. Leon had to get up at 4am.

We braced ourselves, and headed for the sandwich bar. Steve asked for a chicken burger. The cooks ignored Leon and I, while loudly stating that they were 'outta here at 10pm', and started cleaning the grill. It would be twenty minutes before we could get anything, they said, as they had to clean the grill. In the cabinet was a fairly reasonable fruit salad and cottage cheese which I claimed. Leon pulled a chicken salad from the fridge. He looked like he was about to hit someone with a crowbar and I looked around at the black flak-jacketed guards who were bigger than any of us - well, they had bigger stomachs.

We sat outside the front doors, eating our plastic box dinners on a wire seat, with a woman smoking opposite, and the roar of traffic and air conditioning ducts near by.

Our shuttle driver appeared sooner than we expected.

'When you said Casino, I was worried,' he said. 'I've never taken anyone from the hotel there, especially not to eat,' he said. 'I am so sorry.'

We finished our dinners back at the hotel, in the same area I'd done my presentation a few hours earlier.

There are a couple of lessons to be learned here.

Had we gone out there expecting little more than a granola bar, we would have considered this an interesting
adventure. The gap between expectation and reality - is the gap where people get pissed off. Close the gap - just pretend you're in a movie, and life can look pretty interesting even when pretty tragic.

And another thing we agreed - Denny's was made for people exactly in our predicament. Hungry, tired, late. Yet we snubbed it. This is one time I feel we should have been thankful for its banal presence. For the first time I got a vague inkling about why generics, shopping malls and places like Denny's and McDonalds will forever dot the landscape. Someone was waiting for us there, in Denny's getting paid to save us from something far worse - The Desert Diamond Casino.

The Foetal: As performed by the expert Tamara. One mis-timed knee placement leads to a nice black bruise ...

PHOTO GALLERY: All 6 lessons - yes, the whole pole!

MOVIE CLIPS:

Lesson 4: our progress thus far

Lesson 6: the Final Exam!

YEOOOWWW. I've got a large black bruise on my left knee from a poorly timed leg-over during the 'Extended Foetal' move (see photo, minus me and bruise). Not to mentioned a giant nimbostratus on my right inner thigh from attempting 'Upside Down' no-hands ...

Our 6 week Beginner Poledancing course is all over bar the fat lady swinging - with legs in flying V formation of course (the 'Reach for the Stars' move). I honestly thought I'd be blogging our progress each week, but when not gripping the drop bars on my Bike Friday, my keyboard fingers have been busy clutching our 50 cm diameter, demountable chrome dance pole, now lovingly installed smack in the middle of our teensy living room. We learned well over 20 moves plus a pile of 'linking' manoeuvres - amazing what you can do with a simple steel shaft. Think of it as the horizontal bar in Olympic gymnastics but rated M. My mother seems to enjoy polishing it more than swinging on it, and it's handy pillar to lean up against if you like watching the telly standing in the middle of the room ...

But back it's original purpose: to make going to the gym, yoga or pilates classes seem sexless and passe. I mean, how can a bench press compare to a stunning 360 degree bodily orbit around the pole, called Wonder Woman? Then there's 'Upside Down' culminating in a gravity-defying, worm like retreat away from the pole called 'The Caterpillar' (remember, worms have no arms).

I found that the gold bling on my gorgeous Helena Christensen shoes were getting pole-pranged, so I splurged on a pair of Bloch ballroom dance shoes - in garish gold. These have a sensible 2" chunky heel and are very supportive all over, unlike these 3"+ inverted Eiffel Towers women are supposed to totter around on (designed by men). I did try on a pair of killer stilettoes with a diamente orb and chrome sceptre for a heel - a steal at $A46 although I shudder to think of how much the Chinese worker was paid to knock them up. One of the gals in the class ordered online a pair of lethal-looking, stiletto thigh high boots all the way from over there - the place where someone told me factory workers earn 33 cents an iPod. They gripped the pole so well her friends had to peel her off it. Keep a Chinese worker from their teabreak here: http://stores.ebay.com.au/Garden-of-shoes

Some of the moves we learned were indeed risque.

Lesson 5 featured 'Flaps of Fire' - yes you read it right - a difficult move where one climbs the pole, spread eagles and slides artfully groundward sitting on one's other hand. In the UK it is primly called 'Climb and V'. What was wrong with that name? I put my hands over my ears and said lalalalalala whever the move was mentioned while imagining Micky Mouse's ears on fire.

'Feeling it More' is a simple move involving bending over with legs apart and suggestively stroking the pole three times between one's knees. Tamara related a story of a student who wanted to get the move over and done with to save embarrassment, so ended up stroking the pole more vigorously ... !

And so on - check the above Photo Gallery and Movie clips.

For the final lesson we were required to dream up a routine, bring food, and dress to kill. My mother wore sensible clothes ('now come ON, at my age ...' etc etc) I wore my old Gestapo boots, good pole-armor of one's shins and angles, and a baby doll dress with a forgiving maternity-like mid-section, that I bought for 20 bucks at the Double Pay Clothing Warehouse - a place that looks like it sells trash but is actually quite good. The other girls turned up very alluring but tasteful lingere, there was even a Playboy bunny. Not a bad Wednesday night effort for 6 students!

The three girlfriends in the class did a trio act which was bloody excellent - see clip. My routine, choreographed in the 10 minutes prior to the lesson, taught me my baby doll dress was not appropriate for doing Upside Down - it ended up around my ears. Thank Bhudda for shorts. My mother somehow sidestepped the whole exam, although did a hammed-up 'Feeling it' to the hoots of yours truly behind the camera. But then, at 68 she's allowed to do whatever she damn well pleases - including sign up for a poledancing course.

We all got a nice little certificate which will go straight to the pool room ...

So would I do it again? Lemme at it! After the inital shock of discovering how piss weak your arms are, and colliding with the pole a few times, you get more brazen. The giggling stage is over. The bruises are a rite of passage. You throw yourself at the pole before you know it you're swinging like a monkey on a vine from one arm - but hopefully looking more delectable. You start to enjoy dressing up just for the hell of it and you walk down the street looking like that, not caring who's looking. 'Better to be looked over that overlooked' says my mother. Your upper body is now getting the workout that sports like road cycling don't provide. My arms feel about a foot longer, but that could come in handy for backscratching. If you're able to to do the splits it's ideal, but if you're can't, there are plenty of alternative moves involving keeping your legs together that look just as cool. Every No Standing pole is a free piece of outdoor gym equipment (wear cycling gloves), so there's no need to cart your demountable pole everywhere. And it's a talking point. Yoga schmoga.

My mother lost a bit of her normal chutzpah towards the end of the course, seemingly intimidated by the comparitive youth of the rest of us - our ages ranged from 21 to 68. I tried to tell her that she's ahead of all the women that didn't turn up, no matter what age. Ageing gracefully is something we're faced with, and I think I'd nominate poledancing ahead of Botox anyday.

Thank you to our teacher Tamara, brilliant and beautiful - did anyone ever tell you that you look like Nicole Kidman? And thank you Polestars for making it possible for my mother and I to do this course together - and buy our own pole.

'Take it with you to America' - Tamara.
'It's staying right where it is til you get back' - Mum

www.galfromdownunder.com/poledancing Read the full story

Poledancing 101: A Mother and Daughter experience



The Pole has arrived! Or rather, my mother drove to the warehouse and collected it. I had noble plans to set up the Bike Friday trailer, cajole the Bike Friday Club of Sydney to chaperone me through the semi-industrial badlands of Botany and land it the carbon-friendly way. Turns out the box was as tall, wide and almost as heavy as I am - the warehouse manager actually used a little forklift to lower it into mum's car.

We wrestled it up the stairs and sat down to watch the DVD. I still can't believe we've gone and done this. I have to remind myself it's no different from someone laying down cash for one of those treadmills, stationary bicycles, exercise balls and mini trampolines they end up ignoring after the initial buzz and good intentions wear off.

The X-pole is basically a set of chromed sections that screw together, with a large domed ceiling piece to jam it between the roof and the floor plate. It has a discreet Allen bolt at the bottom which, when loosened, switches the pole to spinning mode - as in when you get to poledancing 9901. It comes with carry bag about the size of a set of golf clubs - so you can easily transport your equipment to your next burlesque show appearance. This ain't gonna be a regular thing after our installation experience!

Putting it up must have been a side-splitting sight for all our nosy neighbors in the apartment building next door. Imagine looking across into our tiny living room, seeing my mother up on a ladder attacking a large steel shaft with the mother of all wrenches, and me steadying it below, with my bicycle helmet on in case the wrench flew south.

We got it nice and tight, tried a twirl, and bugger it (now that I've heard HRH aka Helen Mirren utter that expletive it's now the Queen's English) if the dome scooted across the ceiling and jammed there, assuming a defiant Leaning Tower of Pisa pose. Nothing we could do would shift it, despite putting on sexy music to coax it into position, so we slinked off to bed exhausted, our 1.5 hr pole installation routine quite a sufficient workout for the night.

We had to cajole our lithe redheaded instructor Tamara to come and help, who tackled it with the wrench like a dude in a hardhat. So now, we have this giant gleaming chrome fireman's pole dead center of our living room, just begging for a plasma TV, pot plants or cake stands to be cantilevered off it.

We've already had two of our pole lessons ... my arms are ten foot longer as proof. More on this soon!

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Right now I am attending a ThoughtLeaders boot camp in Sydney, a gift of a former mentor Siimon Reynolds, who never ceases to cheerlead me whenever I see him. "Chiang, you're great, remember this," he says. With that kind of encouragement who'd dare dribble and druther? Deep thought of the day on clarity: "If the answer is not yes, it's no."

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Photo Gallery: http://www.galfromdownunder.com/galleries/WEB-pole-dancing-101-gallery

Movie Clip of our first lesson YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FgtfAllA1lg

Read the next part of this story

Where I am now: http://www.bikefriday.com/australia



Pole Dancing: A type of vertical gymnastics using a stationary or spinning steel shaft and usually, footwear with a sharp heel. Said to have been invented by a bored cleaning lady in a fire station one evening, although this has never been verified - www.woollywiki.com

'Pole dancing? Want to try it? BYO pole.'

I always say I'll try anything once, maybe even twice, and I know who I get it from - my 69-year young mother. She greeted me at Sydney airport with her latest 'why the hell not?' suggestion: pole dancing. Specifically, a website scribbled on a piece of paper: http://www.polestars.com.au

Her intention was that I do it, rather than 'what?-me-with-my-bad-back?' her, but I secretly signed both of us up for the $A39, 2 hour 'taster lesson'.

On the big night, we took ourselves into town on the bus, armed with our 'Virgin Polestar' e-reservation and high heeled shoes in a discreet bag. Yes, you are required to wear runners for the warm up, then slip into heels for the 'pole work'. I actually had my knee high black Gestapo boots crammed in there as well, after reading that one could 'grip the pole' better with them, or at least, not bang up one's ankles. Ahhh, a chance to wear them after all these years in cleated sensible shoes riding a bicycle ...

The class venue was at Jackson's on George, in a vacant bar upstairs complete with mirror ball and 4 gleaming poles. A poster on the wall set the scene: 'Afrodisiac: A heady concoction of arousing sexy funk'. Our teacher, Sarah, strode in. A tall, young brunette, with legs up to her armpits. No, higher. But not a hint of sleaze, unless you more straight laced readers are thinking that (and just why are you reading this anyway?). A former gymnast, she'd been teaching for 2 years and loves it. "I'm actually quite shy," she said, crushing my camera with her stiletto heel.

I threw my pulverized camera in the dustbin and we proceeded to fill in the waiver. Something like: pole dancing is a physical sport and no responsibility taken if you impale yourself on the said pole ... also, presumeably no guarantees you'll get rich from appreciative onlookers rushing up to slip a $50 bill in your g-string!

About seven or eight girls straggled in, looking a little sheepish, but smiley and brimming with anticipation. Not one had come on her own - it was all - 'she dragged me along.' A pair of Irish gals said they were doing it on the other side of the world where their mammy and drinking pals back home would never know.

It's interesting how there is a certain amount of apology that surrounds this activity. As if 'nice girls don't pole dance'. Well, after seeing some amazing clips from the 'Pole-lympics' in the USA a few years ago, I always thought it would be an ace exercise for a cyclist like me to get my spindly upper body measuring up to my lower half. It's like a 'vertical gymnastics', and something you could practice in the street, say, on the 'No Standing' signpost when waiting for a bus. Not to mention having a reason to get out of these damn unsexy Shimano cleated bike shoes and into my Helena Christensen hi heels and tall black boots ... yeowwww!

The flat-footed warm up in our runners was thankfully brief. I've been to too many dance classes where you spend over half of it doing boring warm ups. If I wanted to do that I'd join a gym. I understand the importance of preparation, but I feel we should encourage people to drive less and ride their bike to the class, or park/get off the bus a stop or two away and jog there.

Then came the real heel deal. Out came the silver stilettos, black patent numbers and see through peek-a-boos ... the Imelda Marcos in all of us. I am glad I hadn't turfed my Gestapo boots to the Salvos just yet.

Sarah introduced 4 basic pole moves. The first was a simple walk around the pole. Not a clomp around the cul-de-sac, mind you, but a gazelle-like sashay with a sexy little change-feet in the middle. I'll have to try this around the parking meter next time I'm being written up for a ticket ...

The next move was the Carousel - a wonderful twirl that involved wrapping one's leg around the pole, then following through with the rest of you, rather like twirling honey on a spoon. You're meant to end up squatting gracefully on both feet, but a couple of bruises on both knees show where I instead landed in a screaming heap. It's not as easy as it looks! Once down there, the next move is to swing one's legs past the pole in a wide "V", roll over and do the Marilyn Monroe beach-gal-on-her-stomach kick with both calves. See the video for my dog-paddle-like demonstration.

"I'm not getting down on that floor, who knows what's on it," said my clean-freak mother ... but she did it anyway. I've got such a great mum!

The third move I can't remember the name of, but was essentially massaging the pole with one's spine while massaging one's left thigh. That one was pretty easy, like doing squats but way more captivating to watch.

The fourth and final move was an actual pole climb - but elegantly, not like shinning up a coconut tree - then a slow slide down with knees out and ankles touching ... not exactly how a fire fighter would do it, although you might have to go put out a blaze after this sexy descent. It was called, ahem, 'The Handcuff'. A great upper arm workout for sure!

A practice session followed, then a little one-by-one recital, showing what we'd learned, with a certificate issued at the end. The class was worth it just for the certificate alone - imagine having that framed squarely between your PhD in Astrophysics and Master of Theological Studies.

Engineers will enjoy going to the Polestars and xpole.com websites and reading about the various poles one can buy - spinning ones, folding ones, titanium ones ... BYO POLE! exclaimed my mother.

We came home with big grins on our faces, all ready to sign our rent money away for the 6-week course: $A240 - not small change. I could see my mother mentally sizing up the living room of our tiny flat for one of those $A700 precision engineered, spinning titanium poles. Now did I catch her eyeing the No Standing pole out on the street?

"When me and a few friends signed up for the taster class, we were all trashing it, including me," said a fellow Bike Friday friend, Cheryl. 'But afterwards, the most rabidly feminist were the most rabidly into it!"

Goes to show that, deep down, Ms Nature has ensured that our tail-feather-fanning, head bobbing, butt-swaying and cooing instincts are alive and well, no matter how we try to squash them with puritanical sensibilities. It's apparently how we all got here, and what still makes the world go round. Plus it's a good workout, right?
TWO AMAZING POLE DANCERS on YouTube.com ...

1. TARAKARINA: My mother and I cannot stop watching this clip, largely because our legs will never be this long. Great soundtrack too, thank you TaraKarina:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=msy7TtyAVIc

2. MADELINEMODEL: An utter superwoman, this is a more provocative performance, but you will be dumbstruck by her gravity-defying skill. Almost like the camera was turned sideways.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=txtKAfSsA6s

Copyright 2007 www.galfromdownunder.com
Remember this article: http://www.galfromdownunder.com/poledancing

STOP PRESS: Mum and I just signed up for the 6-week course! Not only that, we're buying a pole! Holy helmet, are we nuts? "Ya can't play hold without a set of golf clubs,and ya can't practise poledancing without a pole" she drawls pragmatically in her best North Queensland accent.

Now, in order to capitalize on such a big investment, one has to get oneself in a 'sexy' frame of mind - not easy for 44 and 69 year old adventurous misfits like us. How to start? (Rummage rummage) ... out come my 20 year old threads, black Gestapo boots, and camera to take shots of myself in front of the mirror. "Do you think these are a bit, er, racy to post on my blog?" I ask mother. "Nah, I think they're quite nice," she says. "Better to be looked over than overlooked." I guess even the Dalai Llama isn't exactly a shrinking violet. Here are the three most lady-like ones ...


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Ho ho, Santa off to work: not in a sleigh with Rudolph but jiggling a sign at a busy intersection, trading chimney smoke for exhaust fumes.

What did you get for Christmas? Something old (score 10 points) or something new (score –100 points and go directly to landfill)?

At a recent showing of James Howard Kuntsler's 'End of Suburbia' I saw a woman get up and announce her family was giving and receiving only pre-loved presents this year – nothing store bought, as a gesture towards counter consumerism and all the fossil fuel it burns. It struck me as very practical. My stuff-of-life – now scattered across three Australian cities plus Hawaii and Oregon, were purchased with thought and hard earned cash – passing them on would grant them a whole new use-by date. Books in particular make good re-gifts – words don't lose half their meaning the moment the book goes out of the store like buying new car, as long as the dirty bits aren't missing.



Creative regifting goes beyond merely dusting off a relic and wrapping it up. For example, a cross cultural friend is into personal development. I regifted him with a Western nations trilogy of self-help that I once used for a particularly vicious attack of mid-life: Unlimited Power by Tony Robbins (USA), Become Happy in Eight Minutes by Siimon Reynolds (Australia), and The Meaning of Life by John Cleese (Britain) - so that he could compare and contrast the three. I have now freed up some valuable real estate on my bookshelf for someone else's regifted wisdom.

You can also be creative in the delivery. I had bought some close-out lingere that was too big for me. I wrapped it up and gave it to my sister's main squeeze. Why? He's the one who'll get to see it most often – on her!

The 12" Apple powerbook laptop I am writing this blog on, which also spat out my Cuba book and DVD movies, was bought on eBay as a gift to myself to enable me to work on the road.

An eco-alternative to gifting new, would be to buy an experience. For example, a pole dancing gift certificate purchased online …

Is that BYO pole? . I landed in Sydney for the first time in three years, and my mother had all but signed me up for the latest money spinner in the fitness arena - at least downunder. My mother is 68. She listens to techno and once sent me a scrap of paper saying 'if it's too loud you're too old.'

Read Wiki's definition of pole dancing, clearly written by a rebar engineer without a pulse. He neglects to mention that it was invented one night by a bored cleaning lady in a fire station. Curiously, male students are not encouraged to apply - perhaps the sleaze industry fears a deluge of gorgeous gay males upstaging and outpoling the women. A few years ago there was a beauty pageant in Australia in which a man entered and won on technical grounds. The pageant rules, drafted by a political correctness zealot, nowhere stated that candidates must be a girrrrrl ... or at least wax their mustache for the catwalk. The organizers were outraged.

So I called up www.PoleStars.com.au to book a 'taster' lesson for my mother and me, as a surprise Christmas present for her. It's not cheap - $A39 for a 2 hour lesson. You need to wear trainers for the warm-up and then, ahem, 'shoes with a heel' for the actual pole work. I wonder if my Cindy Crawford wig, bought when I used to room with Julie the wild Brit hairdresser, would be a suitable accoutrement? (rummage rummage). What about my fishnets and Harley D boots? (rummage rummage). 'Is that BYO pole?' asked my mother. The pole is supplied, though if you get hooked you can get your own, which resembles one of those extendable shower curtain rods that screw out 'til they hit the wall on either side. A Bike Friday customer up the road told me she'd already done a lesson. 'We were all trashing it beforehand including me, and the ones most rabidly feminist against it are now totally into it.'

Loitering around a local park, I grabbed onto a pole at some children's play swings to familiarize myself with the equipment. Yeeeooow. My chest still aches from pulling a muscle trying to hoist myself up it a coupla feet.

Watch this space for a full report after the evening of January 10 …

Road Warrior update. The first thing a road warrior must do when landing in a new place is to get connected again – to the phone, the internet, and old friends and family who become slower and slower to pick up or hit 'reply' on an email, the longer you stay away. After being out of Australia for almost three years, many of my friends haven't replied. The available men are all married or gay. Relationships are a living organism that need feeding and watering just like anything that poops. No wonder many people give up and commune with inanimate stuff like ipods and home entertainment systems and SUV's with tinted windows.

I notice the dearth of open wi-fi hot spots in Australia. I got terribly spoiled in the USA where you can often open up your laptop while cruising around a neighborhood and help yourself to someone else's unencrypted wi-fi. Some cities are becoming completely wireless, as in Chicago, the idea being that the community will be able to float in a sea of free information exchange.

Eventually, after imposing myself on my cousins and former colleague's offices I bit the bullet and bought this $A399 USB modem which resembles Milano cookie in iPod clothing. It's basically a mute cellphone and dishes you up internet via the cellphone networks. It's not real fast but not as slow as my mother's diabolical dial up connection. Fortunately, it came with 2 month's free internet access, otherwise it's $99 a month for 1 Gb of downloads. After just over a week I note with alarm that I have chewed through 230 Mb already. No more YouTubing! Don't send me big pictures! Unfortunately, it works only where Vodafone cell network operates, in the UK or Australia (or so they say, but someone is bound to know how to hack it) so I'll probably sell it on Ebay when I leave.


Where in the World am I now. I've just come back from a 7am solo ride around Sydney's harbour coastline and beaches. I've discovered places of utter natural beauty I never knew existed – Neilson's park, Parsley Bay, where I walked my bike up the stone stairs, to snake around the shore and up along the ridgeline. Pictures will follow.

My little flat or 'condo' as the Americans call it, is in a harborside Sydney suburb called Double Bay - or Double Pay as it is known. My ex and I bought it as an investment many years ago and now I own the mortgage. Around the corner is the snootiest suburb of all - Point Piper. Here is the view, from the window and from the roof. It makes me look like a good catch except it's about the sum total of my net worth, apart from my Bike Friday.

More soon from your roving, ahem, National Treasure. My guerilla PR manual states that with that little nod in my general direction I should do a Paris Hilton and be caught dismounting my bicycle without underwear. Ouch, imagine the chafing … some pictures follow.

Gal downunder contact details


A 50 km spin to Akuna Bay with the Bike Friday Club of Sydney


8am at Watson's Bay: Aussie firefighters await the call of Christmas day goofs in the kitchen. 'We've had 2 calls already, expect around half a dozen.'


Later that day: Lads from Liverpool in Sydney's western suburbs find a sweet harborside spot nearby to catch a Christmas fish. 'I've been coming here since I was ten.' That's my sister Far on the left.


Gal on a hot tin roof: the view from the top of my apartment building.

From Dec 7, 2006 - March 3, 2007, I'll be in Australia. My 541-513-7711 cellphone number will be temporarily suspended as it's too expensive to use when overseas. I'll instead be contactable by email (via Blackberry and the Web), Skype/Gizmoproject (username Galfromdownunder) and on a landline in Australia at +61 2 93278630. Road Warrior tip: A never-expire, no-weekly-fee calling card from www.enjoyprepaid.com, lets you call Australia from the USA for 4 cents a minute, and within the USA for 1 cent a minute. A good deal!
UPDATE: I have a new cellphone number downunder: 0420 968 967.
Australia has free incoming calls, which means you call me, you pay. Hence, send an email instead!

Tonight I went to a network marketing presentation of a product I've been using for over a year now.

I am going to share some secrets and findings.

First, a lot of people ask me what I use to look 25 at 45 (well, website photos, being low resolution, are very forgiving). I don't have the money or stomach for cosmetic surgery, so I am happy to share my not-so-secrets. At least while they're working, before I too look indistinguishable from a Chinese salty plum (that's pretty durn wrinkly if you've ever tried one).

What not to eat. I don't consume soda, anything deep fried, or anything that has partially hydrogenated vegetable oil in it - the latter is in most processed foods - take a look at the label. It's a killer. I also I avoid anything with refined sugar in it. Sugar has been shown to egg cancer cells along in a petrie dish. Eat sugar as part of the place it came from - an apple, a gloriously ripe fig, grapes, berries. Eat nuts (no more than 1/4 cup a day). EAT THINGS WHOLE. Brown rice and pasta not white, sprouted bread, beans and legumes. The moment you extract anything the body has to chemically deal with it and it's hard work.

What to drink. Next, get yourself a VitaMix blender. This is a very, very serious machine that will make anything chewable instantly drinkable. I haven't tried whizzing a three course steak dinner in it yet but I am sure it would produce a sustaining liquid lunch for the busy executive on the go. Of course you can use a good, regular blender but you'll have to whizz long and hard and the result won't be as smooth - and you'll wear out your poor blender. So, each morning I ingest the A.M.azing tonic Lance Armstrong's chiropractor and Olympian in his own right, Jeff Spencer, shared with me on the phone while upgrading his personal Bike Friday. This is my variant:

A.M.azing tonic:

2 scrubbed organic carrots
2 sticks organic celery
big hunk organic ginger, skinned (so much ginger I can't stand it - Jeff)
big organic apple

Chop small. Load into blender. Fill to within 1" of top with filtered water. Whizz the crap out of it. Taste varies with quality of raw ingredients.
If not sweet enough, add a tiny bit of liquid or powdered Stevia (a natural sweetener). A variation is to replace a carrot with a small beet, replace apple with pear. Fresh orange juice added is good too but not in blender - better in citrus press.

I have nothing to say this is the elixer of youth other than it just feels like it's doing you a hell of good.

My friend Tim bought a pressure cooker for $15 off Craigslist and pressure cooks everything from rice to soybeans. He makes the best soy milk by simply whizzing cooked beans with water in the Vitamix. Makes rich-tasting, killer berry smoothies. Get yourself a pressure cooker, cooks things fast and no flavor escapes.

Live authentically. Third, and following on from my previous post, I try to be whatever and whoever I am in the moment. This means not being phony or putting up with phony people. This is a challenge (hey, I wondered why no one's invited me out in the past 10 years) but you have to decide what kind of life you want to lead. I'd rather be alone than phony, which is why I tend to fly solo. The mental stress of being inauthentic ages you faster than the relentless marching calendar. Vipassana meditation is extremely worthwhile but that's the subject of a whole other blog entry - stay tuned.

Watch what you put on your skin. This is not just for women and metrosexuals. Putting stuff on your skin is like eating it. The fact that you can take medication, including birth control, through a patch on the skin means that when you go into the Body Shop and slather on the free testers, you're sticking a cocktail of chemicals directly in your bloodstream. Some common ingredients, like DMDM hydantoin, are formaldehyde-releasing. Not to mention preservatives. The more 'foody' and natural sounding the ingredients are, the more preservatives are needed. Otherwise it would rot like a banana in a glass jar. Or you'd have to keep it in the fridge. What's wrong with preservatives? Where some people are prone to asthma or migraine headaches, I tend to get skin rashes, triggered by stress and preservatives used in all cosmetics, shampoos, conditioners, moisturisers. For economy, companies use the mega-cheap parabens (look at the label). Go take a look on the labels of anything you stick on your skin. You'll see methyl paraben, propyl paraben, buytl paraben ...

USANA. So I searched for a preservative free moisturiser that would not need refrigeration and I found it: USANA's Sense, (with an arty stroke over the final 'e'). It felt different almost as soon as I started using it. My only criticism is the luxurious, heavy, frosty glass bottles they come in. Weighs a ton - not good for a travelin' gal!

How do you get hold of this stuff? It's sold by network marketing. I signed up as an associate, so you can get it from me, or become an associate yourself.

Network Marketing or: Lose friends who never really were friends in the first place. I personally have never had a problem with this kind off selling model, although many people do. Why? Because we hate to think our friends are benefitting from us even in a small way. And if they get rich, that's even worse. 'Every time my friend succeeds I die a little' (Gore Vidal). We'd much rather buy from a faceless exploitative conglomerate like Safeway. We'll go and mow a friend's lawn or help them move but they made a dollar out of this great product I bought? No way! As I said, I am not that kind of fair weather friend. If you got something I could be interested in I'll look. As a very good friend said, 'the definition of friendship is to use each other in the nicest most mutually beneficial way.'

I use to be a dealer for a couple of directly marketed products. Not Amway, the companies I worked for were not nearly as big or successful.

The first was a brilliant hydroponic indoor plant system called Luwasa, which has not gone to seed, I am pleased to pun. One look at the simple beauty and logic of this low maintenance, low cost system, and I was hooked. I had a whole dirtless nursery of foliage on my desk at work and people would stroll by, admiring, asking to buy. So I became a distributer, largely because I got 30% off, you'd be mad not to. I gave presentations, which gave me valuable experience at the 'show and tell' - something that Aussies don't grow up with. Not to mention garnering a useful thick skin against people who would rather go down to Wal*Mart and give their money to them in exchange for a small potted ficus benjamina.

The cheery bubble hovering over my desk burst when a couple of particularly joyless colleagues reported my selling the odd 5" fern to a client while waiting for my COBOL program to compile. I was called into the oval room and told I was not getting a raise that year, due to 'unprofessional' behavior at a client site - despite the clients proudly displaying their burgeoning Luwasa plants at every opportunity and extending my contract over and over. Ach, the penalty for spreading a little joy in the office. These days I'd get a raise, as my joyfully despicable behavior would fall squarely under the relationship marketing umbrella, otherwise known as Customer Evangelism.

My next foray in the direct marketing world was selling sniff-alike perfume, along with just about everyone else at the time. I didn't actually wear the stuff myself, I just liked sniffing it, so that was short lived. But what made those knock-off perfumes so popular? Perhaps it was, a friend told me, like nail salons - it's a little bit of luxury for under $20 that the common man can afford, in lieu of a holiday in the Bahamas or a Prada handbag.

In this decade, people seem more and more concerned with health and wellness, as things get crazier, more expensive, stressier.
Maybe that's why we're selling more and more Bike Fridays.

Supplements in trial: I'll be a guinea pig. So I'm now signed up as a USANA associate, and my next step is going to require some effort: road testing their lauded nutritional supplements. That's because I'm not a big pill-taker. They get stuck in my neck. (I've since learned the technique is to drop your chin to your chest and swallow).

The reasoning behind taking supplements, according to supporters, is the degree of oxidative degeneration that occurs in the human body due to our nutritionally depleted foods, as well as, stress, pollution and so on. The result is cancer, diabetes - all of the common killers. Of course being 'young' I haven't much paid attention to this until now...

Apparently, off-the-shelf supplements need only meet the FDA's food grade requirements, which is a lower, say, meat-packing facility standard. Analysis done on several commercial vitamin pills revealed that many contain far lower amounts of vitamin or mineral than that stated on the bottle, and some don't even dissolve - you could still read the label after it had gone through you. It is very cheap to produce vitamins at this level. I've been reading that USANA is ranked #1 for their pharmaceutical-grade supplements, which is a much higher, more costly standard, and would make them very expensive if sold in retail outlets. It has numerous athletes on its books is the official supplier to the US Women's Tennis team.

Now I am NOT a pill-taker, but whenever I get stressed or can't maintain a good diet on the road, I admit I take a stress pill - that is, multi-B plus mega C which seems to keep me rolling. I've decided that if I am going to ingest anything, it might as well be the best. And if it's good enough for the American/Canadian Women's Tennis team, it's gotta be good enough for me. (Just like I say that if Bike Friday is good enough for all these famous and serious cyclists, it's probably good enough for you).

Understanding that I am leery of sticking bad or downright unnecessary things in my body, my fellow USANA associates are offering me a sponsored trial, that is, a daily dose of USANA Essentials - a multivitamin and chelated mineral supplement - for three months.

I'll be reporting here on my progress. I very much appreciate their offer, as I don't have cash to burn on something that doesn't serve me.

I also will be testing it from the point of view of the ordinary person. Time and time again, big companies see value in only supporting 'top athletes', as if the supreme physical state of a luge champion translates in any way to the average Joe and Josephine with dullard day job in a carpeted cubicle struggling to support three kids and an overfed dog.

As I told Forbes.com's James Clash (Take a look, I'm 5th in line), I champion not so much the XP (Extreme Pursuitist), but the UP (Untrivial Pursuitist). And especially all SAMs (Single Adventurous Misfits) - welcome to my world.