Do the Evolution, Baby!

In the late 90's, alternative rock band Pearl Jam unleashed a thumping tune entitled "Do the Evolution". Quick paced with racing guitar work and vocals that have the passion and edginess only Eddie Vedder can evacuate onto the listening audience, it's a song that is great fun to jack up the volume to. A little strange though is the fact that the lyrics are rather dark, disturbed, and cynical which seems to be in complete contradiction to the music. So lets just concentrate on the title for todays post.

I've always been a person with a reasonably open mind. A curious mind certainly. But a recent event has convinced me that I had made a mistake which has thankfully been corrected.

So what was the mistake Dan? I'm glad you asked (curiosity show flashback there). It is this, that you can study something for as long as you like, you can think about it, speak to people about it, read about it, watch movies about it. But it is necessary to actually INVOLVE yourself directly in it to really start to understand it properly. Theory is great, but it only forms a foundation. The practical experience is essential.

As an example, around ten years ago I decided I wanted to learn to fly an aeroplane. As this is a costly activity I knew it wouldn't be a long term pastime but I went ahead with it anyway. I studied the theory quite intensely, discussed things extensively with the instructor and felt confident that I could achieve the goal. When learning to fly, the first hands-on experience is doing what are called "circuits" essentially taking off, flying back around the runway, landing, and then taking off again without stopping. It teaches most of the basic essentials. I was mortified to find that even with all my preparation I was crap at it. I fumbled the controls, I would land too hard or float down the runway, I would forget procedures. I couldn't understand it, even though my instructor assured me that I wasn't doing anything he hadn't seen other newbies do. Frustrated, I hit the books and theory harder but I couldn't see anything I'd missed. I returned the following week and had another go. The first few attempts were again rubbish, but then something clicked and I did a reasonably good circuit. And then another. Suddenly, the pieces fell into place and I was roaring around beautifully, and touching down smooth as silk. I can't explain exactly what it was that finally got me to understand how to do it, but what I do know is that even though the theory gave me an idea how to do it, it was the actual practice that tidied everything up.

I call that an evolution. and just like the occasional revolution, it's a good thing. But as the song title suggests, to evolve one must "do" and not just think about it. The phrase "Success is 10% inspiration, 90% perspiration" I believe quoted by Thomas Edison has never felt so true.

So This is Christmas?

A festive flair for the gallery in this post. Yes it's Christmas time again, and who doesn't like wearing a little red once in a while?

This is called, "This Is Not Xmas".

And now the ramble begins..... I'm actually not very good at doing the whole Christmas thing. I do remember enjoying it as a kid, but then something happened to me to spoil the whole thing. Enter the dissafected, cynical, smart-arsed teenage attitude, oh around the year 1988. Add a dose of compressing into one day the seeing of every person you have been trying to avoid all year. A sprinkling of showing gratitute for gifts you never wanted and will never use while your brain is not a cauliflower, and a pinch of "If we're not religious, why are we celebrating a religious festival?". Yes, it seemed my task on the day was to be a 'orrible little git. Job done!

Things have gotten a bit better, maybe.

Funny though, how I notice things that are not so good. Yesterday, I saw three seperate women completely lose it at my local shopping centre (which was heaving). I mean yelling and crying. One was because the attendant was having difficulty extracting her jammed receipt from his cash register for goodness sake. The pressure seems to be on and if the breakdown is going to happen now seems to be the perfect time.

Even yours truly is starting to lose his way a bit. For the last 15 years I've worked in an industry that views December as not much more than a cash cow. The heat is on to get all we can while the getting is good. Now, people who know me would say that I am a rather temperate person. Even during a crises I can keep my head. But last week somebody at work managed to find my "piss me off" button and bashed it several times, just like those people who think the more times you hit the button at the pedestrian crossing the sooner the lights will stop the traffic. I snapped just a bit, and gave back a volley of "back off!" suggestions. I am unfortunately not good at this, perhaps naively believing that the best way to resolve a disagreement is to discuss it sensibly. I wonder how far these things should be allowed to continue before one releases the F-bomb off?

I am however looking forward to a bit of down time after xmas. I call it "the decompression", a few days that start on boxing day and last for three days. To sit upon couches, read, sip cold beer, watch bad movies, think, smirk at my laziness, consider starting that painting I've never started (and probably never will), admire my feet, take afternoon siesta's, walk the Sydney streets, and be selfish.

How many more sleeps?

Pleasure Treasure, A Large Measure

Thumbing my way through a recently purchased paperback of non-fiction, I have received a small yet potent dose of Epicureanism and liked the taste of it. Now you, dear reader, being an intelligent and wonderful person who has accidentally stumbled across this blog in error or possibly pity, would immediately identify this as a philosophy of an ancient Greek called Epicurus. Yes, your such a smart bunny.

Essentially, what I'm talking about here is the issue of happiness and pleasure and the importance these have in our lives. I'm always amazed at how difficult we make it for ourselves in attaining these delights, when really it's there for the taking. I've been dreadfully guilty of this, to the point where feelings of shame and embarrassment are the result of indulgence in fairly simple pleasures. How ridiculous! Where did this come from? Consider:

- If you eat that you will get fat and it will rot your teeth.
- You can't wear that, it doesn't suit you.
- This is no time for laughter.
- Sex is for making babies only.

I'm sure at some stage, some do-gooding swine instilled some of these awful ideals into society. A pox on them. The Irish comedian Dylan Moran summed things up rather well:

"You have to have a good relationship with pleasure"

I particularly like the use of the word relationship in his phrase. Just like the emotional connections that are made with family, friends, and lovers, so to does one need to embrace pleasure and be at peace with it. Biologically, the human animal is hardwired with pleasure as part of the firmware and to ignore it, suppress it, abuse it, or hate it is not the way it was designed. Moran assists us further with a suggestion:

"...to lay face down on a large cushion, with a mouth full of chocolate, and something wonderful happening to my lower half"

Well, it's a suggestion anyways, and can be adapted to individual tastes.

The other thing that needs to be sorted out if happiness must be achieved is an appreciation of the self. Again, I have spent years worrying about my body image, intelligence, and perception to others. As time goes on, the realisation that you've got what you've got becomes more evident and again it's something you just have to make peace with. Now, I absolutely adore mocking myself, playfully denigrating my abilities and attributes. I think it's healthy, I really do. The reality is though that even though my confidence is not 100%, it gets better all the time. Some of the things that worried me are now accepted as part of the package. It must be made clear that it is not a display of defiance to change, but instead a refusal to allow stupid and petty hangups distract from the things that make life worth living.

Now, what did I do with that cushion and chocolate?

You've Got to Have Sole

The next addition to the Gallery.

Titled, "You've Got to Have Sole" this came out rather surprising. I always quite liked my feet, and there's no doubt that tickling my soles is enough for me to descend into a babbling mess pleading for mercy. But they are actually quite ugly. Ofcourse, they aren't there just for show, they're there for go.

Then again, a soul.... I mean a sole.... untickled.... is a sad soul.... I mean sole.

Smooth, Suave.... With a Dash of Delusional

Now, I don't want to keep banging on about this, but as clearly indicated in previous posts I am certainly a man with the style and sophistication of plankton. It's true, it's true, but what can one do?

In the hope that by evacuating this fact into the blogosphere the returned energy will transform me into S & S on legs (oh brother, this is what happens after a dull day in the office!), to whit:

Slouched upon my couch, I was indulging in a vigorous session of ponderification regarding the issue of existentialism. Climaxing with the realisation that I had no idea what existentialism even meant, I focused on the development of deep seeded envy for those who were smarter than I and could discuss the topic with ease and at will. When behold, out of the corner of my eye I spotted upon the television screen one of my favourite cartoons and was distracted enough to put all other thoughts out of my mind.

(It is perhaps prudent to point out how nicely I have shown the ability of my brain to shift gear so swiftly from sputtering along with complex topics to purring with the simple and childish. Just like my Vespa, my brain works much better when it is on a downward gradient)

Titled "The Three Little Bops", it is a triumph. Produced in the mid fifties, it is just short of seven minutes of wonderful jazz music and swingin' lyrics. As expected it is based on the "Three Little Pigs" fairytale, however there is no indication of a homosexual threesome arrangement, and the phrase "not by the hair of my chinny chin chin" is thankfully omitted, although the big bad wolf does exclaim, "...if I can't blow it down I'll blow it up" at one stage. Stop it, that mind of yours!

Essentially, the pigs are terrific musicians and the big bad wolf desires to join their group. However, his musical skills are inversely proportional to his enthusiasm and they give him short shrift. Ultimately, in what is a stock standard outcome for cartoons of the era he comes a cropper of a load of TNT. Extinguished of life, he is next noticed roasting (surprisingly happily) in the depths of hell, albeit with a sudden ability to play the trumpet with panache.

And here, here is where the phrase is uttered, words to live by:

"The big bad wolf he learned the rule,
Ya gotta get hot to play real cool!"

There's a lesson there for me...... somewhere.

*not seen the cartoon? You can find it on youtube, what are you waiting for?*

God - She Rides a Vespa

For somebody who has no strong religious beliefs, it' surprising how often my mind turns to things of a spiritual nature.

A few years ago, I resided in the lovely suburb of Glebe. I had an apartment on Bay Street, next door to the Broadway Shopping Centre and within observational distance of the tower where those two people were spotted shagging the other day. I also overlooked Greek Street, a narrow road that was more of an alleyway than anything else and was used mainly for drunks to urinate/vomit/swear at the top of their voices in. It was also where the church of Scientology has a branch, and I was constantly disappointed to not see Tom Cruise or John Travolta walking down the street headed for a meeting. Each evening, the scientologists would come back from goodness knows where in buses all dressed identically. They seemed happy enough and there was a broad cross section of age and race amongst their ranks. In some ways, I quite liked them as they seemed to have some sort of purpose in their lives and refrained from bothering me when I would be in transit to/from the pub to wet my whistle. I was a happy man living a reasonably reserved life amongst a throng of activity.

Religion, I feel is a very personal choice that we all have to consider at some stage. What you choose to believe (or not) will have an effect on your life either directly or indirectly. The key though is to ensure that whatever decision you make, it is your decision. It's also important to ensure that a healthy respect is afforded to other people's rights to believe whatever they like. I may think that someone's religion is misguided, but I'll defend their right to follow it.

For me personally, there have been times where I would have classified myself as an atheist. I don't anymore, as I feel it cuts off too many options. I've always been rather keen on options, and believe it is healthy to keep the mind open to different possibilities. I don't feel that any specific choice needs to be made, and I have no intention of doing so. Instead, I maintain a curiosity in the various faiths and try to take something from them all. I must stress that sometimes what I take is not necessarily positive and as I cheesily included in my bio for this blog, the beautiful and the ugly are equally important.

It's hopefully through a continued interest in the faiths that I can develop a better understanding of the people that follow them. Perhaps then this is my personal religion, a type of humanism.

Amen to that.

Superfluous Pants and the Technofear

When did modern technology become so rude?

Let's set the scene. Arriving back at my apartment after a day of work, the humidity and heat made my workclothes uncomfortable and clingy. I hate them really, the shirt that rubs my neck and the god-awful pants that never seem to sit comfortably. No sooner had the door slammed behind me than the work duds were dispensed with and I stood, pantsless, before my wardrobe wondering where my comfortable denim shorts were hiding. Alas, the whole transformation was done in haste and (again) I had failed to draw the window blind and had unwittingly revealed my nakidity upon the world outside my window (which is a bloody big window mind). Squealing in a decidedly non-masculine tone, I quickly saved my blushes covering up my naughty bits (yes that's right, nipples) with my hands and leaping behind an adequately sized pot plant (which was almost dead and rather small, sadly). Peculiar fantasies raced through my mind of the inhabitants in the womens fitness centre across the road seeing this spectacle and being overcome with lust. The truth being more that the viewing would be motivation enough to keep working hard to avoid looking like I. Who cares, what's wrong with naked!

Now suitably clad, I wandered down to the local shops in search of sustenance. This is usually a nightly journey as my fridge is used mainly for inedible substances. The other day I found a spare set of keys, a Jimi Hendrix CD, and a packet of chewing gum in there. Oh yeah, well what do you keep in YOUR fridge then? Yeah well, ok that does sound pretty good then being food and all. Anyway, at the shops I got what I wanted (something in a can to eat, something in a can to drink) and proceeded to one of the self-serve checkouts that are fairly new. You know the one's, where you scan the items yourself receiving nothing from the attendant other than a contemptuous sneer as you fumble about. I actually don't mind these as it is better than being served by the person who appears to be about to give up on life and bring a machine gun into work with them. The problem is that when you have finished the scanning and paid, the voice from the machine emits a firm "please take your items!" which is only one level up from "we have your money, our interest in you is now extinguished, please go away!". Rude.

Even in my home it doesn't end. Last night I was doing some things on my computer when it all of a sudden popped up a message saying a windows update had occurred and required to be shutdown and restarted. I was right in the middle of something for goodness sake. I leapt to my feet, pantsless, and shaking a finger at the screen exclaimed "You swine, how dare you!". I was then distracted when I noticed my window blind was up. Rude.

At 6:10AM this morning the shrill of the alarm broke my slumber with all the subtlety of electrodes on testicles just when I was in the middle of a terrifying nightmare about electrodes on testicles. Furious, I leapt from my bed, pantsless yet wearing a small beret on my head..... why, I hear you ask? Because it was time to get up.... oh the beret.... because I went to bed after dark and because there was no light outside I usually don't lower the blind. The beret can quickly be used to recover my modesty. It's up here for thinking, down there for dancing. And you thought it was going to be something weird and perverted didn't you? Honestly, where is your mind!

So, what all this means is that I feel modern technology needs some decent manners. The self-checkout should thank you and wish you a pleasant day. Your PC should gently enquire if it would be allright to shutdown and restart. The morning alarm should wake you by saying "psst! uhm excuse me but you really should be getting up if that's allright with you". And the system generated form letter from the local council tersely warning you that indecent exposure is a crime should instead be more understanding of the complexities associated with window blind operation and the pantsless man.

Here endeth the ramble.

The Hands that Built the Blog

As suggested in a previous post, may I present my hands. The first image is called "The Right to Reality", the second "The Left to Life".

Cheese Is My Favourite Fruit

What? Hold on there Dan, what on earth are you talking about?

Taking a few steps back, it is probably prudent to explain my gastronomic "weakness", which I incorrectly call a weakness because it is actually something I'm pleased to have. We all have certain foods in our lives that hold a special place and transcend the role of simply providing nutritional fuel. There is something else going on, something almost indescribable and illogical, but obviously very important. For many it is chocolate, seafood, or something else that sparks the culinary senses.

For me it is - cheese.

Now, let me try to explain what I mean by the title of this post, as many people would want to point out my error (uhm, if they read this blog ofcourse). When you bite into a piece of quality fruit, there is the sensation of what I refer to as the "burst", a pop of the skin that releases the juice and flavour. Cheese, in my opinion has a similar characteristic. Placed on the tongue, it sits inanimate. But as soon as the molars begin their crush, the tongue begins to explore the texture and confront the flavour, the "burst" ignites.

The other day, I indulged in some aged New Zealand cheddar. A dense, crumbly textured cheese, it had a burst that I could feel in my spine, and gave me a pleasant headache which lasted about two seconds (I'm guessing this was the pleasure chemicals being released from my brain). I had no choice but to express my delight with a rapturous "mmmmm". I ate a few pieces, and the amazing thing is that each piece was better than the last. I think my tastebuds adjusted their sensitivities to take best advantage and the suspense leading up to the next piece was wonderfully fulfilled. This was living in the moment, attention being placed on doing nothing but enjoying deliciousness and the buzz of what I presume must be dopamine lovingly injected into my bloodstream by my brain.

There's no doubt that an excessive amount of cheese is no good for anyone, and I actually have excellent skills to ensure I don't over-indulge. Actually, I think it is good to self-deny to an extent as it seems to intensify the experience, it makes it special and heightens the enjoyment. There is also the side benefit that cheese actually does have many nutritional qualities.

A food that is good for you and delicious = Joy!

The Beautiful Shades of Grey

A little while ago I watched the screenplay adapted from Frank Miller's graphic novels "Sin City". It got me to thinking about the use of black and white imagery and how much I enjoy pictures that use it effectively. I also was curious about the use of limited splashes of colour in the imagery.

Attached is a picture I zapped up tonight. Tools used were a 5 year old Kodak digital camera set for a closeup, Picasa for image manipulation, and a willing model who worked for no pay (yours truly) so as you can see a limited budget was in place for the project. Twenty images were taken with this one selected. It took about 10 minutes from click to "that'll do". I chose the eye and eyebrows as the subject because I find them the most interesting (windows to the soul and all that stuff, right?) and it's actually a little unnerving looking at it now. The furrowed brow indicating the scepticism and cynicism, the disorganised hairs of the eyebrow a reflection of the mind behind it, the slightly drooping eyelid betraying my laziness, while the cooling blue of the iris gives a sense of control to all this negativity. Anyway, I'm sure this is not an original project but I shall call the image "Blue Mine Eye". Criticisms gladly accepted in the spirit they are offered.

But, back to the issue of proper black and white imagery. Take for instance just about any of the black and white photo's of James Dean cityscapes (a favourite can be found here). They ooze cool and sophistication from every pixel (digital photo ofcourse). Not only the main character but the gritty scenery that surrounds him. The shadows and reflections sizzle and melt like thick molasses. I'm not sure if I want to be like James Dean or replace him in those scenes.

Envy, pure envy.

The Transit of the Mobile Phone Ignoramus

Blessed was I to pay another visit to the township of the new today after my rambles of the previous week. The reason? A chance to meet some accomplished affiliates of the blogosphere. But, it so nearly wasn't so.

To one stumbling accidentally upon this blog and not quick enough to strike the "back" option in their browser after realising their blunder, the author's primary mode of transport would seem obvious. But obvious it was not today, instead it was what fellow Vespa riders would refer to as "being a bitch of a thing" and not cooperating with forward propulsion on command. My relationship with my Vespa is similar to a mad dictator with his subjects and disobedience is not tolerated. Undeterred, I hoofed it down to my local train station, only to find the connection to my destination not being serviced by said transport, instead resulting in a jarring and sometimes dangerous bus ride to get me to my desired terminus.

I had arrived and felt confident the hurdles had been leaped, and a dive into conversation and iced coffee (hold the cream) would soon be underway. Alas, through poor planning and dare I say an arrogant attitude as to my knowledge of the area, I found myself located where the arranged meeting place was not. Clueless, I weighed up the options which consisted of throwing myself to the ground and bursting into tears or calling one of the affiliates. A cool head prevailed, and I took the tearless option. With a friendly "look across the road (git!)" I spotted the waving confederates.

The iced coffee was delicious, the company enjoyable. I made valuable contributions to the meeting by demonstrating my ridiculous inability use my mobile phone skillfully, the plight of Greek accordian music at 2:30 in the morning, and how to drink iced coffee without spilling it down the front of oneself (miracle!).

In an extraordinary display of forward planning (by my substandards anyway) I have already decided that next weekend I shall be visiting the Museum of Contemporary Art on the harbour and giving another one of my rambles about the experience. Perhaps if I take my laptop, and write the ramble while inside the MCA I may personally qualify as a piece of performance art. Surely this has been done before, and I will have learned types referring to me as "derivative". I've been called worse!

The Devil's Work for Idle Hands - iMacsturbation

I may have rambled in a previous post (find one which is rambless, and I'll give you a prize) about being a geek and totally out of touch with all that is fashionable and valued by real people. I may have also mentioned that it is an impossibility for me to step foot inside the Apple store on George Street here in Sydney and not drool like a mental patient at the goodies therein. Very embarrassing, but I guess we each have our weaknesses.

So it was that recently I have had to declare those loveable bastards at Apple a pack of swines, as they revealed a line up of new iMacs that seemed to be specifically designed to turn the screws on my junky like tendancies for this sort of thing. They are beautiful things, designed to work as good as they look. For 1600 knicker they are pretty well priced. The problem is, I don't actually need one. I have a perfectly functional PC that although it's a little old does the job with aplomb and does everything I need it to do. But I want one.... badly.

Whenever I look into potential purchases such as these I have a tendancy to do my homework rather well. The first issue that strikes me is the financial outlay that would be required. Through a staggering example of bad planning, my father is not the Sultan of Brunei or some other such person of equal wealth. This has meant the 1600 clams required for said purchase would need to be sourced from my personal income. Unfortunately, as that is limited and has many other strains imposed upon it, some economic juggling at master accountancy levels would certainly be required. When I consider that my Doc Martins are just about worn through the sole, my jeans are developing a "distressed" look that is genuine, and my vacuum cleaner is just about to explode, you can see why I have doubts about this being a wise decision.

Secondly, the purchase would go against a plan I was developing. You will shake your head in disbelief when I mention that in order to force myself to limit time in front of the computer, I replaced an old chair with a stool for sitting on. The idea was that it would become uncomfortable after 10-15 minutes and force me to walk away for a while. It actually worked too and I hate that stool with a passion. If I get a new iMac, I won't want to have to put up with that and the bad old habits return.

Thirdly, and probably most important... Dan get a life ! Yeah, go on say it, I know anyone reading this is thinking it.

I guess spending money and time on things that one doesn't need is not uncommon. I just seem to really enjoy wasting time on silly things I guess.

Newtown.... Trippin' Out On You

Indulging in perambulations down King Street in the locality of Newtown yesterday and also venturing down Enmore Road, I surveyed a locale teeming with a conglomeration of intense tribalism, casual indifference, wealth, poverty, sophistication, inelegance, and one or two examples of very advanced people who had decided all of these ingredients were to be tossed into the mix for their broiled persona. I was once told by a local resident that this part of Sydney is where you go "to NOT get away from it all". How true.

I actually considered establishing a residence in or very near Newtown at one stage. I used to scoot through on my way home from work each day and the wafting smells of curries, the commotion, the ne'er do well that seemed to always evacuate obscenities in my direction as I rode past, and the manicured goths (who I consider exceedingly interesting) always advertised the area as a place for living. It was mainly a financial decision that denied me the outcome and hence I finally found shelter a metaphorical stones throw away.

When I'm on these excursions, I have a stupid habit of not looking where I am going. If you see someone walking the footpath dressed unfashionably looking all about the place except in the direction of his travels, feel free to assertively request the chap to "look where your going!" as the chances of it being me are high and I won't take offence. As it was yesterday walking along Enmore Road I spotted the large sign for the upcoming B-52's gig at the Enmore Theatre. Foolishly lifting my feet insufficiently with each stride, I stubbed my right hoof and indulged in an unrehearsed performance of interpretive dance I call "Silly Man Trying Not to Fall Over". Applause and praise were not forthcoming, instead a muffled expression of hilarity was heard. I couldn't be sure where it emanated from and had brief pause to consider that God did exist and she had a sense of humour. I soon discovered the source was a scraggly little man dressed even more shabbily than I, nursing a bottle in a brown paper bag.

"Look where your going buddy!", he suggested helpfully. Wise words indeed.

I decided to recharge my batteries in case further artistic expressionism was required at a cafe the name of which has escaped me. Being a fairly warm day I ordered my personal yardstick for cafe quality:

"I'll have a regular iced coffee please"
"Certainly, would you like cream with that?"
"No, just the iced coffee please. Oh, can I also have one of those mini cheesecakes too please"
"Yes, would you like cream with that?"
"No thankyou"

I do hope I haven't accidentally made a faux pas in Newtown cafe culture. Perhaps it is rude to consume things that don't have a dollop of canned squirty cream on the side. Perhaps they thought I could do with the calories....to add to the other one's.

Deliciously satisfied, I headed for the train station, which set me to thinking of a solution to the graffiti problem plaguing Sydney. It seems to me that much of the wall art around Newtown is surprisingly free of graffiti. It seems there is a degree of unspoken agreement that they need no further adornment. However, Sydney trains represent a blank canvas, screaming out for expression. I bet if artists were given the opportunity to express themselves on the rolling stock the desire to graffiti the trains would reduce due to lack of effect.

But then I always were a dreamer.... and a tripper.... and an iced coffee sipper.

This is Meme, all Meme, and Nothing But Meme

A kind invitation by the Baroness of all things boot-worthy for the blogging world to participate in a meme had me scrambling to participate in an obvious exhibition of me tooism. I should be held accountable for my answers and if anybody was to think worse of me for them it would be unsurprising. Let's begin:

Where is your cell phone? Unsure.

Your hair? Frustrating.

Your mother? Concerned.

Your father? Unconcerned.

Your favorite food? Savoury's.

Your dream last night? Shoeless.

Your favorite drink? Iced-Coffee

Your dream/goal? Achievement.

What room are you in? Bedroom.

Your hobby? Observation.

Your Fear? Incapacitation.

Where do you want to be in 6 years? Utopia.

Where were you last night? Here.

Something that you aren’t? Savvy.

Muffins? Yum!

Wish list item? Savviness.

Where did you grow up? Adelaide.

Last thing you did? Swam.

What are you wearing? Boxers.

Your TV? Off.

Your pets? Greenering.

Your friends? Scattered.

Your life? Peachy.

Your mood? Relaxed.

Missing someone? Unsure.

Vehicle? Vespa.

Something you’re not wearing? Shoes.

Your favorite store? Apple-Store.

Your favorite color? Red.

When was the last time you laughed? Tonight.

Last time you cried? Unsure.

Your best friend? ...?...

One place that I go to over and over? Fridge.

person who emails me regularly? Spammers.

Favorite place to eat? Pubs.

And that's the way we do that then.

Because Your Not Worth It. Thank Goodness!

Well, it had to happen. During the night there was a destabilisation of the space-time continuum, obviously centred on my apartment, and I've lost several weeks. It is simply the only explanation. Oh yeah! Well, how do you explain this then.....

Awaking this morning, I pulled on my best pair of tatty jeans and matching tatty t-shirt (I'm a tatty style-meister) and stepped out of the front door for one of my rambles of a Sydney location. Soon discovering myself barefoot, I re-entered my home to complete the ensemble with necessary footwear. Todays excursion would be to Bondi Junction shopping centre, to see the "beautiful" people.

Bondi Junction shopping centre is famous for ear candling and the largest collection of diet books on sale anywhere in the world. It is a place to see and be circumvented, especially if you do not reside in Sydney's eastern suburbs. From the moment I stepped inside the complex, the complete lack of gel in my hair and the wearing of shoes that cost less than dollars 200 singled me out. Even though it is still October there are a smattering of chri$tma$ decorations appearing in the hallways SO either the explanation in my first paragraph holds true or these are decorations they haven't yet taken down from last chri$tma$. I'm right aren't I ?

The "beautiful" people who swarm through Bondi Junction shopping centre are generally dressed like shit, but a much classier kind of shit as in expensive shit. At least compared to me. Which doesn't really say much. The fashion of the season with the ladies is a pair of thongs (expensive ofcourse) with matching coloured toenail polish (which is more expensive than the thongs). The fashion for the gentlemen is a thong wearing girlfriend with coloured toenail polish that matches his car. Trinny and Susannah are full of shit, and it appears that when it comes to todays fashion I may just be the next guru.

The best seller for the day were small pots containing a turds worth of face mud for the quite reasonable price of too much. Applied liberally to the face of an evening, it is designed to open the skins pores to release the stress of credit card debt and enrich with essential something or others that I can't remember so may not be all that essential. The scientific evidence clearly indicated that nine out of ten Hollywood celebrities hadn't said the product was total rubbish and this seemed to be good enough as a flurry of desperates rushed the counter waving their visa's, mastercards, and american express's in the air in a desperate attempt to get one of the last few thousand pots of the product still left for sale. Indeed I could hear many bitchy comments and see the occasional catfight in the queue with the requisite tears. But finally, the gentleman all got their pots of goop and were busy calling their girlfriends on their mobiles as they were off doing something else, probably buying thongs.

While riding on the train back to civilisation, I reflected on my visit to see the "beautiful" people. I've always believed that it is important to travel to new places and experience different cultures and I felt richer for the experience. I was dissappointed to not see Lara Bongle (hey, when she learns how to spell her name, so will I) at Bondi Junction shopping centre, but frankly if you want to see celebrities it's still the place to go. All the "beautiful" people seem to look like someone famous..... sometimes disturbingly so.

How Do We Sleep While Our Books Are Burning?

This sort of thing worries me. See the article here.

What to do? Well, perhaps an answer lies in history. On July 1st, 1681, a Roman Catholic Archbishop by the name of Oliver Plunkett became a martyr after he was hanged, drawn, and quartered at Tyburn by the English. See here for the details of why, when, how etc. Anyway, the preserved head of the unfortunate chap can be viewed at St. Peter's Church in Drogheda, Ireland.

Enough of the history lesson, I suggest that the ashes from the book burning should be gathered, preserved for viewing at a library and canonized in an act of defiance against this abomination of the glory of the written word.

Just a thought.

I May Be Wrong, I Hope

The issue of illegal immigration, and the arrival (or attempted arrival) of boat people has confronted us again, surprisingly with little indication of a pending federal election to really take advantage of it. Ofcourse, this hasn't stopped the media from wringing every last drop of emotional fluid from the rag, as they work around the clock to sell their stories using our ignorance, racism, fear, and yes perhaps even our stupidity as fuel.

But alas, I don't wish to blog today about the media's role in all this, or even to put forward an argument as to whether the boat people should be welcomed to our shores or not. There are many blogs and opinions that can cover this, and I would even recommend reading most of them in order to develop a broad and well informed understanding of the situation.

This leads neatly to where I wish today's blog to go. Recently, a discussion regarding the boat people erupted in my office with several people donating their views. Now, the old rule was that the issues of sex, politics and religion were not desirable subjects for debate in the professional workspace as it had the potential to cause friction between workmates. I reject this, not because I'm particularly interested in the details, but because it exposes the real people behind the people you work with. It was quite amazing to hear the opinions put forward, the surprising conclusions and arguments with some being well thought out and balanced while others were simply moronic.

There seems to be a push these days that we are supposed to have unwavering confidence in ourselves. That we should stand firm with our beliefs and never let anyone sway them. Total bullshit! As imperfect people living in an imperfect world to not have doubts about our beliefs and ourselves is ignorance at its most appalling. A great many problems are caused by people who think their opinion is to be valued above all others, and those who cannot even for a moment consider the possibility that alternative points of view hold some sort of worth are to be mistrusted. Without dwelling excessively on the debate about the boat people, surely it is possible that there are valid arguments to welcome them as well as deny them access to Australia. I gained a greater appreciation for the intelligence of my coworkers who were able to argue both sides of the debate and come to the conclusion that there is no definitive answer to the problem.

Perhaps I will never be part of the confident and sophisticated people of the world. But frankly, I think I would rather spend my time with those who are a little unsure of themselves as they at least seem to have their eyes open.

The Friday Nights Green Tights

Alexander the younger, son of the King of Diampora was considered a strange boy. He was fond of riding his stallion, Popsicle, while wearing a large embroidered hat, a scarlet tunic, and bright green tights. The people considered him a dandy and laughed heartily at his unusual dress and demeanour. To any other royal of the time it would be shameful to receive such disrespect from their people, but Alexander revelled in the attention and felt if he was providing such good entertainment then what's the harm.

Whilst riding though the woods not hunting guinea fowl, Alexander heard a gentle sobbing wafting through the dense tree's. Curious, he decided to seek out the source of the sad sound but soon came across a problem. You see, the kingdom of Diampora bordered that of Aropmaid and a bitter fued between the two had existed for many years. The reasons for the divide were lost to legend, however the stories told over roaring Diampora hearths were that a representative of the King of Aropmaid had failed to remove the bunch of grapes that all men wore in their hair during diplomatic meetings when the, "Remove your bunch of grapes, NOW!" song was sung to end the meeting. Oh yes, it was a slap in the face and forgiveness was impossible.

Where was I? Oh yes, Alexander was a rather naive person and so continued to venture across the border as the sound of the weeping grew louder. Eventually, he discovered the tree's thinning out and found himself staring at a huge castle, like with turrets and stuff. A rather tall tower was at one corner of the castle, and standing at a high window was the most beautiful lady Alexander had ever seen. She had long black hair that glistened like pitch and a nose the same shape as a turnip. Peculiar emotions stirred in Alexander and for the first time in his life he regretted wearing bright green tights as much as your author has regretted writing himself into a difficult corner with a high risk of being accused of plagiarism or perversion.

"Erm, hello there, are you allright?", called out Alexander waving a purple satin hanky in the air.
"WTF!", exclaimed the beautiful lady seeing our bizarrely dressed hero, with particular concern for his tights.
"I heard you crying and thought you may be in distress. Are you?"
"Well", she said, "I've been shut in this tower by my parents who have some sort of irrational fear over my chastity. Frankly, I've had better days don't you know".
"I shall save you, dear lady, fear not!"

With this, Alexander began attempting to climb the side of the tower, which was a bloody stupid thing to do as the tower was 50 feet high and if he had walked around the side he would have found the unlocked entrance. Eventually, he found the entrance, climbed the stairs, rescued the lady, they got married, united the kingdoms, and had many children.

The End.

Post note: Some may consider the ending of this story to be rather hurried and lacking in detail, at least compared with the earlier passages. If so, I agree with you entirely but when the authors toast has just popped up his train of thought tends to wander.

Laugh, Fall Off Couch, Repeat

Documentary films have been a favourite of mine for a while now. I like to think it is because they open up interesting subjects for study and interpretation that spark my intellect to question and develop in order to become a more rounded and interesting person. Ofcourse, the truth is more that I'm a lazy git who can't be arsed to check these things out personally and it's just so much easier to watch others do it instead. Yet another of my masks falls to the floor!

Anyhoo, this leads me unsurprisingly into this trifling ramble about the latest documentary I've just seen entitled, "A Complete History of My Sexual Failures" by independant filmmaker Chris Waitt.

The film concerns itself with the shambles of a love life so far conducted by Waitt, as he attempts to find the reasons for his failure to lead a fruitful relationship with several past girlfriends. Waitt himself presents as an eerily accurate facsimile of Kurt Cobain albeit a little more hairy and a little less deceased, but just barely. He is the type of fellow who feels that most problems in life should be dealt with by sitting under a warm blanket on the lounge with a cup of tea and a confused look. You couldn't help but want him as a mate, but you wouldn't feel confident lending him anything you valued.

Besides Waitt and his procession of ex-girlfriends who deserve every sympathy, the other star of the film is his Mum who stands steadfast by her wayward son while providing "motherly" advice that is frankly priceless. A fine example of how sometimes no matter how old and seemingly wise a son thinks he is, his Mum still is able to see through his shit and tell him so. Whilst most of the other ladies in the film have taken the sensible option of persuing their lives without Waitt's involvement, his Mum makes every effort to assist with the successful completion of his film even though she doesn't much approve of it.

What is obvious is that the film is not a pure documentary. Many of the scenes would have been impossible to capture without pre-planning and scene setting and so it does divert here and there into the genre of mocumentary. This however doesn't detract from the fact that it is "fall off the couch, tears down the face in fits of hilarity" level funny. Laugh? Yep, much!

A word of warning, there is frontal nudity of male genitalia. I decided not to include it as the graphic pic included with this blog entry because that would be kind of weird. Huh? Well, I think it would be so there.

From Paper to Pixels

Having recently become an owner of an iPod touch in a futile attempt to satiate my geek thing (I have been found drooling and incomprehensible in the Apple store in George Street once or twice before), I have happily wasted many an hour prodding and cooing said device. I won't go into the details of what the little package of joy can and can't do as I fear that would probably lull any readers of this blog into a coma induced state they may very well never recover from. Instead, there is something else worth a bit of a think about.

When one takes stock of their lives, I think it's a good idea to consider the gifts they have received. No, I'm not talking about the birthday and Christmas gifts, I'm talking about things that were received that have been and will be invaluable every day of one's life. For me one gift stands out, that of being taught to read and write. Ofcourse, I didn't properly recognise it at the time but the years of work that were invested in me simply so I could take part in written communication are now cherished, and I couldn't imagine life without it. I think of the books I've read, the instructions I've been given, the letters I've received (joyous and with the occasional heartbreak), and the crap I've written and it's clear to me that written words are like a symphony. Beautiful, ugly, uplifting, depressing, hopeful and discouraging.

Where's all this going? Well, one function of my little iPod is that of an e-book reader. This is not groundbreaking as there are many such devices (including the computer I write this on) that can handle such a task. I find it interesting though the possibility of now moving away from paper books to an electronic version. The experiment has already been proven a success with downloaded music, and although CD sales will probably continue, there is no doubt that the market segment is getting smaller as people discover the convenience. I think there is a strong possibility that e-books are going to gradually eat into the paperbook market if they haven't already taken a big chomp.

Is this a cause for concern? No. Regardless of the medium with which we receive our written words they are still as powerful. The importance is in what they mean to us, what emotions they stir and our personal interpretations of them not of what the paper feels like between our fingers or the aesthetics of the cover art. In fact, it represents an opportunity for us to access more great literature than any of us will ever be able to read in a lifetime, a sea of idea's and understandings we can plunge into just about whenever we like.

There is just one other thing. What about those folk who collect books that they read once and then "display" in cabinets in their homes to impress visitors? You don't quite get the same effect with a shiny iPod on the shelf, and a shelf full of shiny iPods is very expensive and kind of ridiculous. The extinction of snobbery in literature may be a pleasant fringe benefit!

Simple Simon Avoids a Slap

The badminton match completed, Simon Egdar walked over to the service counter and returned the borrowed shuttlecock in return being refunded the gold watch he had handed over as security. He returned it to his wrist with a sharp snap and sat on the bench to change his dunlop volleys for the camel hair brogues he had bought in Morocco. As he adjusted the velcro on his left shoe, a menacing shadow spread on the ground before him and he looked up. It was an attractive lady, displaying an unattractive scowl on her face. Simon was unsure, but started to get an ominous feeling.

"Er uhm, hello Susan", he suggested more in hope than confidence.
"Sally!", said Sally scornfully.

With that one response, a key was turned in Simon's mind and his memory activated. Scenes of dancing with Sally at the Slug and Lettuce hotel, a candlelit dinner of Big Mac's, and innocent fumblings in the back seat of his Travant flooded back, along with the promise of a phone call that had not been executed.

"Oh yes Sally", he stammered, "So nice to see you again. Uhm, let me introduce you to my friend Stevens".

Stevens was Simons badminton opponent. He stood half an inch taller than five foot eleven and a half inches and was an almost perfect facsimile of the tennis player Bjorn Borg. From the moment Sally glanced towards him, a calmness and/or lack of tension decended on the scene.

"Stevens?", queried Sally sweetly, "Why does Simon call you by your surname?"
"Actually, Stevens is my first name. My parents only wanted a single child but were afraid that I would experience single child syndrome. They decided to give me a non-singular name in the hope it could be avoided. They were kind of strange", explained Stevens, straightening his headband and adjusting the strings on his wooden tennis racket.
"Interesting. Would you like to come for a drink?"
"I would love to", piped up Simon, misreading the situation abysmally.
"Not you, Simon, I'm speaking to your friend", she snapped.

The two strolled away towards the bar, leaving Simon to ponder the ability of men who possessed the looks of attractive tennis players from the 1970's to diffuse the wrath of women scorned. He committed to the idea of growing a large McEnroe like hairstyle and foolishly considered his problems solved.

The End

Body Slam Sham

Body image problems have been quite an issue for a while now. It seems it doesn't matter how many times we are told we should be happy with what we've got, many people just can't get past the shame of the extra pounds, the lack of cup size or the inches that are suggested to make one the complete package.

Why is this? What's going on here that even intelligent and well educated people are experiencing this rather ridiculous problem. Putting mental health issues aside (for they are issues that I cannot possibly discuss with any authority), I think we are faced with a rather powerful force that is keeping the problem fresh in our minds. I would refer to it as the "Denigration of Individualism" industry, commercial enterprises that have discovered that it is lucrative to crush peoples belief in themselves, and then sell them a cure. I would go even further and say that this is not only commercial, but cultural.

Who's to blame for this? Is it the media? The capitalists? Society? No, it's us, we are to blame for the predicament we find ourselves in. We listen when we should ignore. We accept when we should reject. We overly concern ourseves with the opinions of people we don't even know and don't care for. In many ways it's understandable as this appears to be an easier way to live. We keep wanting to be part of "community", to be accepted into the groups that make up the human race. But at what cost? We keep undermining one of the gifts of being human, that of independant thought, the ability to identify what is important and what is fucking bullshit. We lack responsibility, by that I mean to ourselves.

I'm certainly not innocent of this crime against myself, that's for sure. It's a war, where each day I'm confronted by another barrage of suggestions telling me I'm not all I should be. I'm not sure the armistace will ever come completely, but I'm getting better at fighting the battles.

Long Gone, Not Forgotten

Yesterday I strolled into the Australian Museum here in Sydney ostensibly to view the recently opened exhibition "Egyptian Treasures: art of the pharaohs". Ofcourse as the entrance fee included general admission to the rest of the museum, I decided to browse the other exhibits contained therein.

Since a young age I've always had a curiosity regarding egyptian artifacts and history. Ofcourse the curiosity is not quite strong enough to stir a desire to visit modern day Egypt, so when a travelling exhibition appears in my town the train ride into the city seems of little sacrifice. It may be worthwhile mentioning that even though the title of the exhibition mentions "pharaohs" there seemed to be a dramatic shortage of artifacts with direct connections to the pharaohs. Instead the displays appeared to have belonged to people who held fairly lofty social positions at the time. No matter, it was still quite an interesting experience to take a close look at these items and if a little marketing is required to get punters to support these shows, I'm all for it.

I can't remember the last time I actually saw a real mummy, but I saw one yesterday. I've plum forgotten it's name (I'm not very good with names) but in some ways it was rather unspectacular as it was fully wrapped. Of more interest was a mummified cat that peculiarly had it's nose sticking out from the bandages, clear for everyone to see. Perhaps not best viewed by cat lovers.

For people who have an interest in jewellery and other items of body decoration, there is quite a good display of these to give an insight into what was worn during the time. Others will appreciate it I'm sure, but for me the items looked fairly similar to the things people wear today. In fact, some information text on the display made the comment that much of the jewellery of the time wouldn't look out of place today. Well, maybe some of the more extravagant pieces might.

My favourite displays were the large stoneworks that thankfully are part of the exhibition, as I bet they are a bitch to transport. Many of these would have come from the ancient temples, and the workmanship on them is stunning. Considering the technology of the day, I find it amazing that such detailed and precise work was possible. Perhaps it's my strange imagination, but there is one item that is the size of a large coffee table, rather weather beaten but you can clearly make out that it is a carving of a fingernail. According to the information plate, they believe it is a piece from a full size carving at a temple. My mind runs wild with just how big that carving must have been when intact.

The other exhibits of the museum deal mainly with the natural world (animal/vegetable/mineral) and are quite extensive. Perhaps a little too detailed for a general browse, but it's actually comforting knowing that there is some knowledge and expertise of these subjects that can be accessed by the general public. Ofcourse, no visit to the Australian Museum is complete without a visit to the dinosaur exhibition. Everyone knows that they were big creatures, but it's only when you stand beside the cast skeletons that you get an idea of just how big. Amazing and terrifying.

I've written before about how historical buildings in Sydney are important because they provide "beacons of history" and "anchor points" for the stories of our past. Exhibitions such as the above serve the same purpose. I hope they can keep travelling the world so people can experience them

By the way, the entrance fee is $22, which considering the artifacts are priceless seems a pretty good deal to me.

All Aboard, and I mean ALL

Donning the dark sunglasses (for it was sunny and warm that day), he of the Dale that Rocks wandered down to his local station of the government provided transit system. Dressed in jeans, t-shirt, and newly acquired brown leather casual shoes (shoelaceless, cleverly) he had his beaten up shoulder bag slung diagonally across, containing all he required to sustain himself on his journey. Yes, it was a day in the city to be a "tourist in your own town" as the infernal jingle goes. But first, the joys of the journey.

He had always cursed the need for small change currency to purchase a ticket on the cityrail system. Cash had become an archaic form of payment in his opinion, and so was delighted to discover the ticket machine now accepting a mere swipe of a credit card and some depressing of buttons with his digits to award him the little paper pass to passage.

A colleague had once enlightened he of a detest of public transport. But he of the Dale always enjoyed his journeys, for it was his opportunity to see close up the ingredients that make up society and the many interesting folk he wish he were like if he were brave enough. The dark glasses performed admirally the role of one way viewers, allowing him to look upon the people, without them being able to detect his enquiring glances. He frequently felt unsure of this, perhaps it was an unseemly practice, but he knew that many people were unsettled by a staring stranger, and he wished them no unease.

Boarding the nearly empty train, he sat as usual upon the benches near the doors as it afforded greater legroom. In the same area was a couple with their young child and a rather extraordinarily heavy duty pram with three rugged looking wheels and stuffed with a considerable amount of equipment. They were a pleasant looking family, obviously venturing into the city also.

Stopping first at the Creek of Wolli, stepped aboard a most spectacular creature. Dressed in black leather, he sported a collection of tattoo's of dubious artistic distinction, a studded piercing for every exposed extremity (including a chain from nose to ear), and an enourmous green mohawk. He took his place next to the family, and an interesting dynamic evolved. Silence was the first result of the cultural melting pot occurring in the carriage that day, until he of the Dale noticed the young child's curiosity peaking. Since the Wolli creature had stepped aboard, the child had not set its eyes on anything else. The silence was soon broken by the child enquiring, "How do you get your hair to stick up like that?", and a collectively held breath awaited the reply. In a concise and learned voice the Wolli creature said, "I use hair gel. While it's wet I can style it like this, and when it dries it holds". "Can I touch your hair?", asked the child. "Ofcourse!", cried the creature and proceeded to lower his head so the child could carefully touch the exquisitely styled strands.

He of the Dale thanked the gods of cityrail that he had witnessed such an event, a connection between two very different parts of society that were willing in a small way to share part of what makes them who they are. The parents of the child, now having been given an indirect introduction to the creature proceeded to have a fascinating converation with him, discovering that he is studying for a doctorate, and plays an electric violin in a ska band.

He of the Dale wished he could have taken a photograph of the group, as he felt that moments like this should be captured as reminders of how vastly different people can co-exist. Perhaps, he thought, the key was to think with a child's mind upon the issue, allowing curiosity to exceed pre-conceived opinions. He of the Dale pondered for the remaining journey.

Tacky Sea Tale

Part One

Captain Maximillian Phebes looked despondantly out to sea, studying the anvil shaped storm clouds that were gathering on the horizon. He stroked his greying beard with concerned strokes and puffed away on an inch long cheroot. Ever since his days on the sub hunter HMS Undertow chasing nazi u-boats, the ocean was part of him. He turned to look at his vessel, painted in a peculiar shade of lavender, it was christened the "Speedy Raj", named after the owners tortoise, Harold. It was an iron hulled freighter and was again being used to transport a shipment of sugared plums from Port Dennessen to England.

The captain's mind soon turned to his unusual encounter with the ships owner over a year ago. Doctor Percy Quebec was a wealthy and influential eccentric who had married his parrot (named "peanuts") courtesy of a special act of parliament. He then left London to live in a cave in the Lakes District where he intended to cultivate a pineapple plantation. The Captains journey to the Doctors unusual abode was through rugged territory, but after a mornings hike he spotted the cave and the resident. The Doctor was discovered standing in front of the cave, dressed from head to ankle in the full regalia of an eighteenth century French aristocrat. However, on his feet were two hollowed out pumpkins acting as rudimentary footwear.

"Excuse me, Doctor Quebec?", enquired the captain.
"Yes my good man, and you must be Captain Phebes. Pleased to make your acquaintence", responded he with charm.

With introductions extinguished, the two men entered the cave which was adorned with expensive furniture and even more expensive artwork that consisted almost entirely of oil paintings of nudes.

"This is quite a place you have here Doctor", proclaimed the captain, "But quite out of the way, I must say".
"Close enough", exclaimed the Doctor, adjusting his powdered wig, "for important people to find me. But where are my manners, would you like a cup of tea?"
"Yes, thankyou".

With that, the doctor reached down into the lower left leg of his britches, and extracted a small silk purse that contained fine tea leaves which he emptied into a china teacup.

"Milk?", asked the doctor.
"Er, yes please", responded the baffled captain.

From nowhere the doctor produced a live goat, and proceeded to milk the animal directly into the teacup.

"There you go, my boy, enjoy"

It hadn't missed the attentions of the captain that his cup of tea had in fact been missing a crucial ingredient, that of hot water, however before he managed to broach the subject, he was interrupted by the doctor, "Well, it's been a pleasure to meet you old chap, do look after my ship now", and with that the captain was escorted from the cave and began his treck back to civilisation. Looking over his shoulder as he walked, he could see the doctor performing a morris dance in front of the cave, for no-one in particular.

Part Two

"Captain!", boomed a voice with enough power to surprise the captains cheroot from his lips and topple over the railings into the sea. It was Miles Small, the captains second in charge. He was a bulky man of inderterminate North African origin and stood at the surprising height of six feet tall, surprising because he usually stood at a height of five feet nine inches.

"Small, for goodness sake don't creep up on me like that", spluttered the captain. And then identifying the rather sudden gain in height of his number two man, he glanced down to see that he was wearing a pair of ladies high heeled shoes, silver in colour.

"What on earth are you wearing man?"
"Heels captain!"
"Why are you wearing heels?"
"To maintain a look of excellence captain"

Sensing the possibility of discovering an uncomfortable truth, the captain ceased his line of questioning and turned his attention to the important matters at hand.

"Set sail, Small, set sail for Southampton. A storm is set to strike!"
"Sorry sir, we are a steamship. We have no sails"
"Very well, set steam, Small, steam to Southampton"
"Certainly sir!"

With that the captains deputy strode away with commensurate skill in the high heels considering the pitching and rolling deck of the ship. The captain gazed mournfully at the deep green ocean, and longed for the years upon HMS Undertow hunting the nazi u-boats.

The End.

Next Stop, The Beginning

As expected, my hope to make at least one entry per week in this blog has been dashed. I was back in A-town last week on my annual pilgrimage to see those responsible for yours truly (yes still, the blame can't end after 35 years so easily) and to see the old stomping ground. Therefore blogging was put on the backburner for want of a better excuse of which I have none.

Whenever I go back home I make an extra special effort to see some of the old haunts that hold special significance in my life. I usually time this by arranging to meet an old friend somewhere and turn up especially early in order to have a nose about before the appointment. It is usually the city, as this is where most of the significant events occurred.

A-town has the dubious distinction of being rather bereft of development. The advantage of this is that it acts as a time capsule that can be unlocked on subsequent visits. I spent an enjoyable hour wandering down the east end of the city peering into bars where I had my first proper drink, first proper night out, first proper chat to girls, and first proper all sorts of things. As can be deduced in my early years everything was done with proper decorum as befits a gentleman albeit a young, naive, inexperienced one.

Some people get nostalgic about these sorts of experiences, and bemoan the passing of the years since they feel life would be better if they could go back to those carefree days. I don't. I'm glad they happened and I enjoyed them enormously, but the past is for our memories, the present is for our attentions, and the future is for our imaginations.

I kind of like being back here now.

The AFL Grass is NOT Greener

It seems the Australian Football League needs to be applauded for this weekends "Green Round" whereby the issues of climate change are being neatly linked with a few games of kickabout.

The kudo's I bestow upon them are for their efforts to display the true issues surrounding the climate change topic and environmentalism generally, a selection of some as follows:

1 - How to make a totally bazarre connection between two completely unrelated enterprises.
2 - How to exploit a fashionable cause for little effort.
3 - How to be a complete bunch of hypocritical bastards, yet give the impression of promoting an ethical cause.
4 - Promote a "message" but not participate in any "solutions".

Time for a gripe in the numerical order of the above:

1. What on earth has footy got to do with environmental issues? This is totally ridiculous. What fucking arrogance do these people have taking it upon themselves to bleat the green message to us? When their players misbehave they don't give a toss, so why do they suddenly have a concern over the health of the planet? Fix your own problems first, then worry about the rest of the world.

2. What a completely bullshit effort anyway. Putting a splash of green on your website, and getting Toyota to advertise Prius' cars (which in my opinion is the masturbatory icon of the green movement) at the games doesn't exactly say much. The lazy turds thought this was an easy way to get on the green bandwagon.

3. What appalling hypocrisy they are demonstrating. On their website they have some "hints" for us to live greener. I mean, who the fuck hasn't heard it all by now? We're not that fucking stupid (even most of the Collingwood supporters), we are aware and have been for a long time. Why are they telling us to turn our lights off when they have enourmously powerful floodlights burning away at the night games? Why are they telling us to carpool when their players are jetting all over the country in fuel guzzling aircraft? Do fuck off.

4. Its' always easy to promote a message. Actively participating in the solutions, well thats a bit more difficult and something the AFL has conveniently ignored.

This is just a typically easy way for people and organisations to exploit this fashionable issue. It costs practically nothing, it accomplishes even less, but don't we all get a nice warm fuzzy feeling from it. Just like the ETS the government is busy screwing up at the moment, I am well and truly over this shit.

A Beautifully Dark Inheritance

When we think about the ingredients that make up our personalities, it is usually discovered that there are certain people that have had a large part in forming our character. Parents are certainly prominent here, as expected, but strangely for myself I keep coming to the conclusion that someone else had an even more pronounced influence. When I mention it was my Grandpa it seems even more odd because this was a man that I didn't spend a considerable amount of time with and perhaps was not even very close to.

When I was a kid, there's no doubt that I was rather unsure about Grandpa. He never really had the typical grandparent ways about him and I really only remember sitting in his kitchen while he drank sherry or beer and smoked hand rolled cigarettes with no filters. He never got excited when you visited, and never really made a fuss over you like grandparents usually do with the grandkiddies. He was well known to frequent the local pubs and it wasn't unusual for him to arrive home in some pretty sozzled states after work. Rarely did he issue compliments to anyone.

Now, it may seem I'm painting a picture of a rather dissappointing man, but it was only when I got a bit older that I started to appreciate what he had to offer. You see, I have a sense of humour that baffled my parents. It's dark, cynical, and sarcastic and they never really got it. But Grandpa did, because he had the very same. He was very working class, preferred the company of misfits and rascals and understood the bullshit of the world and made fun of it. As can be expected, my development of the dark skills as I got older made me an increasingly more interesting person in his eyes. As a result he found it suitable to issue more details of his life, predominantly around his drinking exploits which were incredibly funny, rebellious and exciting.

When he passed away several years ago, I can say without shame that I wasn't sad. His health was badly deteriorating and he gave the impression of a man who had enjoyed himself (mostly) but was ready to call time. I was certainly pleased to have known him, and am kind of glad that there was at least one other member of the family that was as odd as myself.

I still can't quite figure how the traits jumped a generation though.

The Rule of the Fool

As it is now 16 years in the past, I feel I can now recount an experience inflicted upon me. At the time the humiliation was fairly intense but perhaps it was one of those things that breeds some character in a chap. Anyway, if I was to get diagnosed with some sort of mental disorder then perhaps this can be used as one of the pieces of the puzzle.

As a 19 year old weedy sporn, I found myself in my first full time job. If the requirements were to be scared of everything then it was clear I was highly qualified. One day while busying myself with activities that gave the impression that I had some idea what I was doing I was summoned to my bosses office. He was a peculiar fellow, wise of the world and approachable with a peculiar sense of humour:

"Take this", he commanded waving a sealed envelope in the air, "to the office of Mrs. G, ensure she reads the letter inside and bring it back. DO NOT read the letter as it is confidential!".
"Yes Sir", I stammered with fragile confidence.

The office of Mrs G, which was located across town, was a legend of my workplace. I had been warned to brace myself for my first visit. I drove carefully but quickly that day, as if I was carrying precious cargo.

Upon arriving at the office of Mrs. G I was immediately struck with a sight of heaven. In the office working behind desks were at least seven of the most stunningly attractive ladies I had ever seen. My 19 year old brain began activating caveman mode, as 19 year old brains do.

"Hello there", chirped the ugliest of the seven who ofcourse was still stunning, "can I help you?"
"I have an envelope for Mrs G", I said, although with questionable comprehensibility.
"Oh, she's just through that door. Go through".

I wandered through the doorway and met Mrs G, a pleasant middle aged lady who greeted me cheerfully. I handed her the envelope informing that I had instructions to wait and return the contents. She read the letter, looked at me intensely, and beckoned for me to follow as she walked out towards the heavenly seven. She proceeded to show each of them in turn the letter onto which they wrote comments. After each had completed this task, Mrs G wrote a quick comment, sealed the letter in the envelope and handed it back to me to be returned.

Feeling pleased that I had completed the task so efficiently, I rushed it back to my boss. Peculiarly, on my return he seemed rather disinterested, instead calling in my fellow coworkers and then giving me the blunt instruction, "you read it!"

This is what the letter contained in original print when I handed it to Mrs G:

Hello Mrs G, My name is (my name) and I am the new boy working for (my bosses name). I am 19 years old and have very little experience with girls. Can you please give me some advice?

Under this were the comments that Mrs G and her seven coworkers wrote, ranging from very practical advice which has been useful albeit infrequently, to downright disgraceful suggestions that wouldn't be out of place in a Kevin Bloody Wilson tune.

Zooming back to the here and now, I can say that I look back upon experiences like this with a kind of fondness. Although rather painful at the time, it serves as a reminder that taking yourself and life too seriously is a mistake. Sometimes, we all need to feel a little humiliated and have our self esteem roughed up a bit if we are going to be human. We keep getting told to get better and be all you can be, but I wonder if being a little incomplete, a rough edged work in progress is actually a good thing. Perhaps, being a fool every now and again is the smartest thing you can do.

Now if only I can summon the courage to look pretty ladies in the eye.

Just One More POV on Poverty

There is much that has been said by many learned folk about the issue of poverty. Forty years after the technological achievement of putting man on the moon, highly developed agricultural techniques that make famine non-existent in Western countries, and comfortable living for millions of people has us asking the question, why does poverty still exist?

It seems there are gazillions of different answers, from government corruption to common greed, and most of them are valid, but there is one explanation that doesn't get widely broadcast I believe due to its unpalatability. Poverty exists because it benefits (some) people. I would express the argument in a mathematical equation thus:

Your quality of life = (The World's Financial Wealth) - (The Wealth of Everyone Other than Yourself)

To explain, your personal wealth has a huge effect on your quality of life and to think otherwise is foolish naivety. The worlds financial wealth is a finite amount (the "there's only so much to go around" theory) so the wealth of everyone else does have a big effect on each of us. I'm as dissappointed as anyone about this, but life isn't fair and it's probably a good idea to understand and get used to it.

The fact is, there are a lot of places in the world that have resources we want/need whether mineral, vegetable, intellectual, or simply labour based. We all check the price when we purchase anything, and who doesn't love a bargain? Well, the product needs to be produced cheaply for those bargains to exist, somethings gotta give, and it's usually an unlucky person along the supply chain.

Now at this point I have to mentally slap myself, a reminder that it's all well and good to point out a problem and carry on about how dreadful it is but pointless unless a suggestion of how to solve the problem exists.....

Well Dan??? What's the answer??

First of all, I believe we need to simplify the solutions. Frankly, does anyone know what the fuck Bono and his millionaire minstrels are on about with their "Make Poverty History" campaigns? I don't think the answer is in opening up trade. I don't think pumping cash into Africa will fix the problems either. These are comfortable solutions for the guilt of the bourgeois middle class which is why they are so popular. They do more harm than good.

The real solution rests in the basics of respect of human dignity. The fact that, even though you may not know someone, a lot of good can come from just treating them properly and not taking advantage of their situation. Don't get me wrong, I'm not advocating a society where everyone has to love each other, I leave that to the mindlessness of religion, but to break it down to it's simplest form we should all make every effort to not be.... well, jerks to one another.

Pessimistically, I don't like the chances as I have occasionally been just such a jerk as have many others.