Manhood? Houston, we may have found a horizon..

It was around 1950. The blokes that survived “that other Great War” had finished their celebrations, found careers again, fathered probably a few children and life was kind of really good.

Women dutifully left the factories, shops, government offices and schools where they had all but taken over from 1939-1944 whilst the menfolk were either killing each other, running away or getting perhaps a little too close to prostitutes on their R&R. This is not to suggest that the army of feminine labourers were saintlike after hours, with a good number of flat-footed, cross-eyed and mostly deaf men getting far more than their usual share of attention.

In the 50’s, middle-class men could expect to come home from the drudgery of fairly uninteresting work to a well-cooked meal, some slippers and the evening paper and, if he was really lucky, well, let’s just say life wasn’t half bad.

Well, it couldn’t last. Fair enough really. The women didn’t take too long to realise that these “Kings” weren’t really doing miracles in the workplace any more than they had done during the war years AND they had to look after the house as well. Many women, completely justifiably, felt that the playing field should not so much be levelled as made a little less like playing hockey on the slopes of Mt Everest. The mountain-levelling earthquake variously known as “equal opportunity”, “Affirmative Action” or “gender equity” had hit these Himalayas. Of course, each of these terms had slightly different meanings, in much the same way that “Communism”, “Socialism” and “Social Democracy” do to the average punter (to the similar Chagrin of the Che’ crowd).

Just about the only bit men were fond of was the off-chance of seeing a woman get her bra off and burn it, but truth be told he would be more likely to cop a biff in the eye than anything remotely pleasing if he stood too close.

In the 70’s gender retreated like linoleum tiles as it seemed that people, like houses, were keener to sport wall-to-wall carpet and it was notoriously hard to even determine gender in many cases. Men and women, it seemed, could have any hairstyle imaginable and even the merciful patch of facial hair as some kind of male identifier was not failsafe in some parts of Eastern Europe. But unisex, like pretty much anything with the prefix “uni” fairly quickly loses its appeal and you tend to grow out of it.

In the 80’s tribalism took root in manhood and some men came out of hiding with all the tentativeness of a monster truck on top of a clapped out caravan. Punk was not dead, they just smelt that way. Indeed, anarchy found poultry in the most unlikely of fashion statements; angry men were back, and were somewhat dangerous. Skinheads thrived. The football lout raised his ugly head (but not much, since most were not endowed with a neck).

In Australia, the “Yobbo” was ubiquitous and found safe havens to the side of barbeques, with stubby holders that, when the time invariably came, needed to be surgically removed. The Australian man could laugh well, communicate poorly, watch cricket for days on end and spend, according to a study in 2003, ten times less than his french counterparts in lovemaking (a meagre 9 minutes compared with 90). Hardly surprisingly, many Australian women tend to set their sights a little higher than your average yob.

The paths diverged further, with the evolution of the sensitive, new-age guy, who was either a hippy with a haircut or an urban heterosexual male with an enterprising mind for this wide open female market, or simply just a poof.

Nevertheless, this crowd that could leave all kinds of fascination with balls behind (including both scratching and watching balls, or occasionally, simultaneously) to talk art and music and how much they adored kids and women and gender equity had women temporarily spellbound. However, if you happened to marry one, you might find them more inclined to play “Doom” ad infinitum, go out to see (yet) another band, go shopping or rifle through Architect digests than swat that bug, open the jar lid or hang some new shelves in the laundry. Dual sinks in ensuites also became de rigeur in this era as women realised finally how frustrating it was to wait in line for the sink when you are trying to get ready to go out. “Just HOW much of that $25 mousse is this guy going to use to go out for a coffee??” she found herself thinking.

The 90’s saw a sophistication of this creature into the “Metrosexual”, which was really just a very expensive version of the snag, though taking away some hard-won ground from the gay movement in the process.

The twenty first century then has left us with, what appears to be on the surface anyway, indefinable maleness. Actually, it is a good time to be a man.

These days we realise that many of the heroes of the screen from the 50s were not only fictitious but many of these “macho” men got their Saturday night dates without straying far from their own changerooms. The idea of one stoic hero against all odds saving the planet in time for tea is more fuel for parody than inspiration nowadays. Equally disdained is the foppish, pasty white almost-man that lacks wildness, drive and the ability to pursue women for the prize that they are.

No, the modern man, if there is such a beast, is, above all, authentic.

He can watch a chick flick on the odd occasion with his wife. He admits he can’t dance but he’ll have a red hot go because his wife loves it! He wrestles with his kids on the front lawn, cooks a great lasagne, thinks to bring the washing in before it rains and enjoys a cold beer and an afternoon of AFL with his mates. Some of these men might step aside for their wive’s careers, or pHDs and choose to live in places better for raising kids than climbing corporate ladders.

These men can rejoice that they are not women, celebrate their manhood and not consider passing wind in public an obligatory rite of passage (excuse the pun!). These men can laugh heartily, occasionally land themselves in risky situations and somehow come out alive and work to live, not the other way around.

If they are overweight, it won’t stop them getting on boogie boards with the kids in summer. If they are bald? Hell! Shave it ALL off!! Bald and proud, dammit!

The best lovers? Who’d ever know? Any woman who manages to find most things in the last three paragraphs in a man is far too wise to tell him anything other than he is awesome. As long as he takes longer with his lovemaking than he does watching the evening news it must be a pretty good start, eh?

Portugal, next in our “Where are they now?” series

Portugal!

Yes, Portugal, where’s that again? According to a subsequent poll, 26% of Australians believe Portugal to be somewhere “around Asia”, whilst 74% are convinced it is a rival patio company to Stratco. When most people are asked about Portugal, the first thing that usually comes to mind is “I wonder if you really would explode if you were suddenly in space?”.

This is simply not fair to this fine country. For goodness sake, Portugal has been continuously settled since prehistoric times. That is longer than Austral.. well, no, I guess indigenous Australians were there, well longer than Canad.. oh, damn, Innuit, well, Antarctica!! Can you believe that.. WoW! Even before the world invented scientists??!!

Originally named after the Roman title for the region on the Iberian peninsula, “Portus Cale” or, “Port of the Celts”, Portugal was an important trading nation and well acquainted with sailing to distant lands to explore new continents and trade exotic goods.

GenYs may be somewhat surprised to learn that in ancient times (like the 20th Century) information like that contained in the previous paragraph was prized. In an age before Wikipedia existed, people actually had to acquire knowledge slowly and show it off at any opportunity at cocktail parties. These days, knowledge is kind of like the free pens they give you at work conferences.

What else is important about Portugal? Portugal has a president. It has a democratic republic. Yep, you guessed it! BOR-RING. This is kind of like banks advertising savings accounts that have plastic cards that can be used at teller machines…who bloody cares?

For the record, here is the current Portuguese president, Mr Anibal Silva:

Now, like our previous entry about countries we simply don’t hear enough about, we see a trend: Unfortunate names for state leaders. Mr Silva would undoubtedly have a difficult time internationally but not because his name is silly. Au contraire (I would have used “Ao Inverso” but who the heck understands Portuguese??), Anibal is a distinguished and beautiful name in Portugal.

No, the problem is that in the Western world, the movie, “Silence of the Lambs”,in 1991,  starring Anthony Hopkins in his brilliant but chilling portrayal of the cannibalistic serial killer, Hannibal Lecter simply scares the spaghetti out of most of us. The world’s male leaders can handle being introduced to some guy called “Anibal”. Heck, they mostly live in parliaments with ugly men damn nearly KILLING each other (or, in the case of Taiwan when the furniture REALLY gets moving, just delete the “nearly” in the previous phrase!!).

You see, the issue is with the wives of those world leaders. When you are invited to another country as a leader, the pair of you have to stay in that person’s house!! Of course, it perhaps wouldn’t be so bad if the Portuguese didn’t love their fava beans so much and poor old Mr Silva apparently is addicted to the suckers.

So Mrs head-of-country-x leans over and sees Anibal tucking into a plate of fava beans noisily and suddenly, Mr head-of-country-x would have more chance of getting his wife to stay in a Palestinian bomb factory on the West Bank with a target on the roof and a sign out the front saying: “Well he HAS got a big nose!!”.

Which brings us to the part of the show where we miraculously give this country a makeover. Portugal is relatively easy to fix. The problem? Portuguese  are far too laid back. You simply can’t get much international celebrity when you are number 7 in the world in terms of peaceful nations. No news broadcaster can sell airtime with headlines like: “In further news, it was a quiet day in Portugal and absolutely no one was pissed off by the Portuguese.”.

Anibal, get your angular face out of your Fava beans and go annoy someone. I suggest watching “Fight Club” several times for inspiration and a couple more for some good tips on soap making.

Anibal, get-a-nuke!! It doesn’t have to be a real nuke, even a big black WW2 mine with a nuke sticker on it will do (although avoid those “ACME” mines, a little too “Wile-E-Coyote” these days!). Then call some superpowers (well OK, only the US really) “Imperialist dogs” or even better “infidels” or even even better “Canadians” . Then tell them that Budweiser beer is like carbonated cat wee (now, most Americans seem to know this but it still annoys them). Now you have yourself the chance for some first class free publicity.

The next step is to shamelessly plug your beautiful Englishman free beaches (eat your heart out, Spain!!), cheap steaks and beautiful beers and you have yourself a worldwide tourist campaign. If possible, all hollow threats against the world would ideally be carried out ON a beach by Anibal with a beer in one hand and steak on a fork in the other seated on a deck chair. He could even consider hiring a few Belgian girls to stand around in bikinis with their mouths shut. An article I read recently suggested that Belgian girls are apparently quite hot.

Finally, to the chicken. Is Portuguese chicken truly sexy? Well, actually, yes. That delicious charred outside, the layers of barbequed chilli sauce and Lemon is worth getting into a whole lot of International trouble for. At least it is better than Fava beans.

Countries we really don’t hear enough about #1: Belgium

I am often intrigued by the amount of information that hits the press from some countries, whilst others languish in obscurity in our sound bites. The first in this series that we’ll address is Belgium.

Let’s face it, this country ought to sack it’s PR department if, indeed, it even has one! Now my knowledge of Belgium is, comparatively vast, given my early penchant for Asterix books. “Asterix in Belgium” the third Asterix book I read, after “Asterix the Gaul” and “Asterix in Egypt”.

  

Now there are those feisty types that would dispute that my knowledge is still up to date. Are you trying to tell me that Flemish clans no longer wear wings on their helmets, parade in patchwork pants, eat boar and enjoy having a good biffo??

Whilst Belgium is sandwiched rather like leaky corn-relish between the two substantial slabs of bread commonly known as France and Germany and boasts the headquarters of the European Union, most people are hard pressed to even think of a single food that is famous from Belgium. Yep, I caught you thinking waffles and potentially chocolate as well. Waffles and chocolate. Well you could certainly do worse, for goodness sake, the country-formerly-known-as-the-superpower-USSR, gave us Borscht and vodka!

There may be several good reasons why we have shunned this fine country, however, and I have penned a list:

1. They have funny (and somewhat gross) names for things. One of the largest cultural groups are called “Flemish”. To an English-speaker, you might as well call them “Sputumese” or “oystermen”! This is unfortunate as it is disgusting.

Now this is a photo of the current Prime Minister, whom I would confidently bet my house that you have never heard of, Herman Van Rompey. I am telling the complete truth here. The Prime Minister is named after the place and manner in which he was conceived. This is simply cruel. It would be almost impossible for any world leader to address such a leader on camera without bursting into fits of laughter which could result in an international incident.

2. Belgium is, well, a little dull. The landscape is pretty flat, the people are just pretty nice, they keep their yards tidy but it’s just a bit… bleah. This is evidenced by their most famous of Vitamin B12 rich vegetable exports, Brussels Sprouts. Sure it’s good for you but it tastes like someone smuggled fresh grass clippings onto your plate. It may have been a much better idea to cultivate this rare Brassican in Belgium but call it “Paris Sprouts”. It would have solved an economic as well as a tourist issue in one easy move.

3. Finally, we shun this country ignorantly because it is a cultural chameleon, all things to all men (and women and possibly children and dogs too). Most of you guessed the flag wrong (right?). The correct Belgian flag is at the bottom of this post. Its people speak German, Dutch and French. they like chocolate, have lots of green fields and cathedrals and quaint pubs…Yawn. Just another Eurotrash country. Didn’t start any world wars, doesn’t blow up islands in the Pacific just for fun (I mean, the only thing that ought to be blown up with a “bikini” in the name is a photo of Jane Fonda in one, right??). they don’t have cities famous for organised crimes, prostitutes and cheap Ganja, they are just decent Europeans but a bit… vanilla.

So, to counteract this, Belgium ought to seriously consider what marketing types tend to call a “point of difference”. They could start with their national anthem: “Strength through Unity”. In the immortal words of Rik Mayall: “OH! BOR! RING!”. Instead, I’d recommend the title:”The chicks here are HOT!”.

Flagwise? Go with your strength like the Canadians did. OK, now they have GREAT Maples, presumably for making Maple Syrup. So they ditched the Union Jack for the Maple Leaf. Smart. People LIKE Maple Syrup, people generally LIKE Canadians (until they find out what annoying gits they can be!).

So I’m recommending Belgium go with a purple flag (we really don’t see enough of these) with a yellow circle and a Belgian waffle in the middle, maybe with blueberries on it. Around the circle, in Dutch, German and French, the words:
“Our Chicks are Better. Our Waffles are crunchier!”.

Now, one further thing would help immensely. Investment in Football. The country should undertake a strategic plan to put the nation into calculated debt to buy the world’s best football players and have them sponsored by Belgium’s biggest waffle company. Then they can start getting their bums into gear and start winning the European cup. This way, their expensive kits will be copied the most in China and Belgium can gain the political support of the world’s largest nation without lifting a finger to invest in tricky things like international diplomacy. This also ensures that Belgium will get into the news around the world on a weekly basis, at least.

Now, I realise I should be paid for advice like this. In lieu, please send waffles to PO BOX 1430 Brisbane GPO.

Next time in our “where are they now?” country specials…PORTUGAL!!!! Just how orgasmic IS that chicken…?

Galaxy-Building Stimulus Packages

Now this brings us to that most collossal waste of Imperial tax-payers money in recent Galactic times (or possibly a long, long time ago, depending on when you are reading this!!), the Imperial Death Star.

 

Not content with the domination of most of the habitable galaxy the Imperial Government embarked on this essential infrastructure/defence spending white elephant during what was obviously a painful and protracted galactic economic depression. I mean, even DIY droids made by nine year old water farmer’s sons were hot property, as previously highlighted. So deep was this depression that Imperial Commanders were borrowing remodelled German SS uniforms from the mid 20th Century, Star Cruisers were universally stripped of their curtain budgets and by the sounds of Darth Vader’s characteristically raspy voice, even Ventolin was a rare commodity in these times.

Nevertheless, this government saw fit to embark on the most ambitious building and defence program the galaxy had even seen: a ray gun the size and approximate shape of a planet! Now the engineers should have been sacked for similar reasons that airconditioning installers were sacked in the 20th Century when a slew of movies showed just how possible it actually was to infiltrate the most secure of establishments through airconditioning ducts. In truth, the Death Star had channels the width of Olympic swimming pools leading to a nuclear core which was only ever going to end in tears (and twenty trillion pieces).

In characteristic defiance, the rebel alliance might have urged a cash package which might have given every stormtrooper enough for a holiday on Bespin and enough exotic alcoholic beverages to get over the irritating fact that their substandard weapons were routinely thwarted by old men in brown dresses. The economy may have improved and maybe even the droid markets recovered to more affordable levels. At the very least, it would have left a great many stormtroopers in no fit state to use their guns to plug any more permanent orifices into Rebel forces the next day in a surprise attack.

Some blamed the economic circumstances on the despotic and tyrannical megalomania of the Emperor but I suspect it was the more benign political intent to get the unions off his back. Fortunately for him, there were more than a few senior union Workplace Health and Safety representatives on the ill-fated Death Star incident(s).

So as tough as things get here in Australia, we should always take the time to consider that some bugger somewhere, in a galaxy far, far away always has it worse off than us.

Star Wars Theory 101: Droid value fluctuations

With all the froth and bubble about the Australian Federal Budget this week in the media, it seemed that the public would take anything, even (yet) another NRL animal saga to distract our attention from a budget which was, almost in equal measure, as bland as it was terrifying.

Given my wish to avoid polluting this fledgling blog with any discussion of NRL (and boycotting even the temptation to grace it with a tag) I think we should deal with a far more relevant and interesting issue of interest. Namely, the economics and politics of “Star Wars”, since this has a very real effect on more of our population, here in Australia than either NRL or Federal Politics (mind you, the “Life cycle of newts” may well rank better than these!).

The most intriguing dilemma I have with the economy of Star Wars concerns the true value of droids. How much are they worth??

Some have suggested that droids (even old models like dear old C3PO and R2D2) must be of considerable value. Evidence for this viewpoint includes the fact that Luke Skywalker, Han Solo and Leia routinely waste valuable seconds waiting for these tardy droids in close escapes. Memorable examples include waiting for R2 on the flight deck on Bespin (in the Empire Strikes Back), recovering this same clumsy droid from the menacing jaws of the Saarlac in Return of the Jedi (is the Saarlac perhaps Iron deficient, one might wonder?) and Chewbacca carrying bits of  C3PO around Bespin with one arm, fending off Stormtroopers with the other and nothing more than a preened coat of fuzz as armour.

Added to this fine logic we have supporters who argue that R2, far from being a flip-top bin on wheels, is actually a powerful lock picker. Perhaps the makers of the amazing high-tech architecture often present should have invested more in security than doors than go “Phwwizzzt”. Nevertheless, if I were confronted by trained imperial thugs with blasters I would kiss that droid all over his bald Titanium head if he could zip me through a steel door instead. Heck, I might even shout him a cask of sump oil if we managed to get out of there alive!

Of course, on the other side of this debate we have what is, in classic Star Wars Economic Theory, known as the “Tatooine dilemma”.

On Tatooine, predominantly in Star Wars: A New Hope, though importantly also in Star Wars: Return of the Jedi, we see what can only be described as a debasement of the Droid Market.

Luke’s Uncle Owen is so sand poor (excuse the pun) that he is barely managing to eke out an existence as a water farmer on this desolate planet. The twin sun system, no doubt responsible for the increased evaporation, or perhaps the  reason is global warming induced by pod racers running on fossil fuels. In any case, they are by no means affluent given the clothes they are forced to wear (which we see from Star Wars: The Phantom Menace were in vogue over 40 years previous).

Nevertheless, when the local Jawa Carboot sale rolls into town on serious Caterpillar tread, we see Luke and his Uncle buy not one but TWO droids while still having to feed the family on Rancor Vomit soup. Of course, having often had to struggle up sand dunes in a wheelchair (OK, I haven’t but this is not to say that the day might one day come!) I have to query the utility of R2 and his obviously urban locomotion in that kind of terrain (personally, I’d have gone for the diesel R5D4 with Sunraysia tyres). 

In Star Wars: Return of the Jedi, Princess Leia, disguised as bounty hunter Boushh, eschews the more traditional home-baked  lasagne or bottle of Margaret River Merlot as a polite gift for Jabba for our slighty worn R2D2. In return, his expression is more one of an indifferent (or possibly constipated) slug far more than one who has just won the lottery. It seems that R2 is worth squat diddly on Tatooine.

Now there is further evidence that these droids are neither expensive nor complicated to construct. In Phantom Menace, a 9 year old Anakin Skywalker manages, rather coincidentally (given the sheer number of droids presumably available in the known universe) to have constructed the very same droid that his son would buy in the same place second hand many decades later. Saving his hard earned allowance, possibly earned raking the sand traps on the ninth hole, Anakin buys enough bits from the Tatooine equivalent of Dick Smith’s Electronics to make his very own working droid! And it speaks over six million languages!!

Now one has to ask the question why the droid market became so depressed in Tatooine, when elsewhere in the galaxy, rebel alliance freedom fighters would risk their lives to save them?

I would suggest the lack of bike paths might be a serious issue for a droid like R2. Which raises serious doubts about the intelligence of Uncle Owen and even Luke himself given their local topography. By extrapolation, even Anakin himself must not be too bright genetically, being the source of at least half Luke’s genes. This is further evidenced by the appalling acting by Anakin as he grows up in Star Wars: Attack of the Clones and Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith. So any thick Tatooine hick can knock a droid together!

A protocol droid like C3PO would be similarly anachronistic on Tatooine, being a rough trading port full of bounty hunters, weird creatures with anger management issues and has-been lounge bands. Who really needs to hear a constant stream of expletives in six million languages? With the amount of foul goop spewing from the mouths of some of these vile creatures as they speak, the last thing you need is to understand the even viler intent of their strident communication. Ignorance in this case not so much as bliss as accepting the lesser of two evils.

So we have an unanswered question on the true value of these metal misfits. Han Solo, attempting to relieve himself of his debt to Jabba the Hut, perhaps would have done far better to fill the Millenium Falcon full of junk droids, have his faithful Wookie fix ‘em up and flog ‘em all off to Rebels getting X-wings ready for attack on the Death Star! If only Han hadn’t dropped out of his business degree to join the Texas Hold ‘em circuit!!

Just How Fast is the Escape Velocity for Cultural Cringe?

I declined a suggestion today that I should permanently relocate from this fine city of Brisbane for daring to suggest that it may well be culturally inferior to its southern cousins. I’m sure this was more parochial zeal than an honest assessment of the coming of age of this erstwhile self-conscious Cinderella of Australian capital cities, nonetheless it got me thinking about perceptions of cultural richness.

My assertions about Brisbane were, principally, that it lacked the diversity and innovation in cuisine found in both Melbourne and Sydney and that it failed to “wag the dog” of fashion houses across the nation. In short, the food offered in restaurants is more similar than different and the city tends to follow, rather than set, fashion trends.

Any such assessment is bound to cause a stir amongst those understandably loyal to their city and, predictably, the exceptions to these (apparently flawed) rules began to flow. I was rather pleased about this, since I picked up another couple of good tips for restaurants that will either confirm my hypothesis or give me a bloody good feed! It was thought that I was generalising too much and that there were both good restaurants and a healthy representation of high fashion in this sunshine city.

Herein lies a dilemma. A city’s cultural reputation is almost entirely based on generalisation. It is a perception. Though this got me thinking about other cities around the world and how they may become centres for rich culture.

It seems not to be based purely on population alone. China boasts three of the ten most populous in our world and yet the meagre infiltration of Chinese culture to the west has been largely donated through one small city state to the South, not even on this list. Similarly Mexico City, Brasilia, Mumbai and (arguably) even Tokyo, whilst appreciated, do not contribute significantly to either high fashion or cuisine globally.

Likewise, the age of the city has no strong correlation either. Whilst cities like London, Paris and Rome are well into their third millennia now, the same cannot be said of New York or Sydney, for example.

So just what is it that makes one city more likely to become a rich cultural centre than another? I think I have found a reasonable yardstick, having trawled some data on Australian capital cities on the Australian Bureau of Statistics website.

I would venture to suggest that the two most important factors in becoming a leader in culture are firstly: the underlying diversity in culture of that city and secondly: the proportion of high end wealth that is resident in that city that can patronise establishments offering high food and fashion. The first is a measure of cultural capacity whilst the second is a measure of economic capacity.

When scouring the ABS, it is rare you manage to grab the exact data set that would be ideal for your research. However, I was fortunate to have found a fairly reasonable indicator for economic capacity. I would suggest that the comparisons of mean net worth for each of our capitals may serve this purpose. The reason for using this measure, rather than perhaps mean income is, frankly, that if you can honestly afford to drown in high fashion, you probably don’t have to work! Secondly, very high net worth individuals will tend to skew averages “North” for these cities (which is why medians are more commonly used in demographics, being far less affected) so cities with higher mean that median values ought to have a higher proportion of high end wealth in them. What we have then, is a broad indicator of the weight of the HUGE end of town that might support an economy of high fashion.

Now to the cultural richness. This is perhaps a little easier to pin down and the proportion of residents born overseas is perhaps a good starting point. Whilst not perfect, it at least gives some indication of fairly recent migration. Now some would argue that the cultural richness of a place like Melbourne might be disguised a little, since many of non-caucasian heritage may be second or third generation by now. I think this is probably the case with Melbourne in particular, though some would also argue that over time, a blending or homogenisation of such culture might also water down what might have been a very rich mix some decades ago. So this measure, I think is a reasonable gauge of the cultural complexity of a city.

Thus we have the average net worth ( in $AUD millions) for the city and the percentage of those born overseas. When the two are multiplied to give an index (perhaps a Cultural Leadership Index?), we find the following interesting results:

Sydney: 31.7
Perth: 31.3
Melbourne: 28.9
Adelaide: 23.7
Brisbane: 21.7
Canberra: 21.6
Darwin: 18.3
Hobart: 12

This table has a few surprises and some predictable results (what? you seriously thought of travelling to Canberra for a spot of shopping and a great meal?).

What this does tend to support is the general perception that Australians have of Brisbane as being somewhat casual and “down market”. Perhaps confirmed when you compare the number of shoppers in major centres who feel it appropriate to be browsing sans footwear when compared with fellow Aussies down south perhaps?

Indeed, Brisbane is quite culturally homogenous and positively socialist in wealth accumulation when compared with both Sydney and Melbourne. However, before I start checking my new Delica for carbombs from born-and-bred-Brisvegans, the last point I have to make is the most salient: Who lives here for the high fashion??

Indeed, Brisbane’s climate, quality of life , employment prospects and well, just the vibe, is real, unpretentious and snug like a pair of worn-in Doc Martens! Big enough for fun, small enough to not take itself too seriously, sounds pretty alright don’t you think, mate?

Which perhaps leads me to complete the point that began this blog, should I leave this fine city for daring to suggest that it isn’t a gravitational centre for high culture? Au contraire! Life is more important than food and the body more than clothes and that may well be, deep down, why many of us choose to live here.

The Courier Mail suggested that this “Cinderella City” may just be the happiest city in Australia. To Sydney and Melbourne we may well say “let them eat cake (or truffles in a bed of braised pecans in yak milk!)”.

On Camping with friends..

Camping is THE quintessential middle class family thing to do and with good reason, I’d suggest. What other mode of holiday can you justify an appalling lack of personal hygiene, cheering whilst your beloved children play with fire (and consume truckloads of preservatives and sugar right before bedtime) and sit in a chair for the greater part of the day without anyone raising an eyebrow?

Now the naysayers that I have conversed with about this primeval cornerstone of modern western family culture suggest that we are certifiable for leaving our quarter-acre blocks to live on land a fraction of the size and willingly choose neighbours who are less than a horselength away, separated by a micron of nylon. To which my standard reply would be “yeah well anyway, did you know you have a massive booger up your nose??”. This usually buys me enough time to think of something a little more relevant like: “Yes, granted. BUT THEY ARE CAMPERS!! IT’S OK!!”.

Now this is undoubtedly the most salient of points. The folk you willingly choose to live amongst for a few days in the bush are campers. At home we get the Sunday Dawn Lawn Manicurists, firing up the diesel, 4000CC ride on to lop the quixote-like blade of grass that dared grow since the lawn was “trimmed” at 11PM on Friday night. We get the teenage kid whose drum playing resembles an earthquake in a Scanpan factory. We turn the TV up over Shane and Shazza variously screaming over the remote, wailing over whose turn it is to scoop pooch’s poop from the dining table or (and this is where we risk industrial deafness from our TVs) the sound of these paragons of marital dysfunction making up again.

Of course, OUR neighbourhood is wonderful. We go camping.

This is not to suggest that  one can’t experience bad campers. Fortunately,  these fall into a couple of easily identifiable tribes. The first, and through painful experience, the most evil, are the water skiers. Water skiers have that part of the brain that feels guilt over burning fossil fuels incised with a high-powered angle grinder. They have no compunction at all using the annual production capacity of the Northwest Shelf for an easter break. They will run boats all day and generators most of the night to power full sized fridges, microwaves and even the odd plasma screen, leaving just enough power to blare the entire repertoire of the Angels and AC/DC throughout the unfortunate campsite. If you see a boat, the rule is, don’t even let down your jockey wheel, get-the-hell-out-of-there.

Now more subtle but equally annoying are the childless aging hippies with a green conscience that circles their campsite like the rings of Saturn. Their abode is modest, their meals smell of boiled tofu, jasmine and sandalwood sticks. They won’t keep you up at night, nor will they awaken you at 4:00 AM when they creep out of the crisp blackness to catch the first glimpse of a lyrebird taking its dawn dump but listen carefully and you will hear the dripping disdain upon their return as you fry up the bacon you found floating on top of the water in your esky on the third day.

“Uggh, smell that, Pig murderers clogging their arteries with saturated fats and Nitrites, I may vomit, darling!”, “Are they the urchins we saw swinging from that endangered Richmond Birdwing Vine yesterday?”, “Can you BELIEVE that with our planet choking on its last legs that they are burning logs!!!’.

It’s fine for the first half an hour and then it feels like ants crawling under your skin. What’s worse are the pangs of guilt you feel when emptying your bacon rind and prawn heads into their immaculately cleaned Jerry can, all ready for the next camping trip as they take their last toilet trip. Or, alternatively, jamming a potato up their Volvo exhaust and catching the hippies blowing a fuse all on film for the off-chance you get some “Australias Funniest Videos” footage.

There are, however, the camping heroes as well. Fine folk often in Patrols or Landys who simply call everything with wheels (including wheelchairs) “vehicles”. These guys can make a drum of cold water burn. They have higher degrees in tarpology which would enable them to cover Wimbledon faster than you could utter the phrase “looks like we’re in for a spot of rain”. These same folk would stuff their own children in gloveboxes to give you a lift over a flooded creek and would give you their last drop of milk for your milo because your daughter poured yours all over the fire to put it out.

Yes, they are the silver-backs of the camping world. Recently we had cause to thank more than a few of these fine middle-class Australians when we enjoyed the wettest camping experience since Noah’s neighbours hollered “check out our new Jayco, mate!” as the clouds rolled in.

In camping you find your real mates. Those who will sit around a fire and drink deep their warm milo in enamel mugs as they drink deep of each other’s lives. As their children play and get dirty and scratched and enthralled by the world around them. Those who delight in having only the earthy (somewhat smelly) communication with those right there and none electronically. There are no phones to answer, no emails bleating like a spoilt child for your response, no TV saturating your senses with things you don’t want to see, know about or buy.

There’s just you and your friends, morning noon and night giving each other undivided attention and the time to really catch up enough to remember why its nice to have them six feet away and only separated by nylon.

Baby Handles and Ziplock Caesarians..

The line between organic and industrial is getting blurrier by the year. Our bodies now may include funky features like ceramic crowns, straight out of space technology, Titanium body parts, cool longlife artificial pacemakers, polymeric heart valves and (yes, eat your heart out, Lindsay Wagner!) bionic ears!

Well, I think it’s high time we really ramped up this functionality. One of the most nerve-wracking things for a new parent is juggling little newborn babies. They have approximately the same head control as a 95 year old has over his bladder and are notoriously slippery creatures (mostly due to the unique combination of smelly liquids that can spray from around half a dozen loaded orifices). A simple solution? A handy-dandy Titanium handle mounted straight into the vertebrate of our little bundles of joy!

Imagine the confidence that a young parent would have negotiating that new MacLaren stroller into the boot after shopping, whilst juggling two bags of Aldi groceries and the darling little Jettt-Buzz Jones firmly held aloft with aeronautic grade Titanium single-handedly! Want to let little Jettt-Buzz experience the joy of flying foxes with his siblings a full three years earlier than they did? No problem, click your caribena onto his handle and listen to those howls of delight! Even Michael Jackson holding young Paris aloft in Berlin might have been a non-event if he simply had access to a Titanium back-handle on his wee-bairn!

Now my next suggestion has been met almost universally (yeah, ok, COMPLETELY) with derision from any woman who has had a child but I still think it merits an airing. After all, the first bloke who suggested that women in Labour bend over and score a chunky sharp between the vertebrae with a 1:100 chance of permanent paralysis was probably not met with hugs and kisses, yet women get epidurals every day now (well, only if they are in Labour, NOT Earth-mother types and pretty close to scratching their pathetic partner’s eyes out in pain). The idea? Simply suggesting that women having Caesarian sections and planning more children elect for a ziplock seal!

It would look far more attractive than a sealed Michelle-clip scar and that next bub is a two minute job with no fuss. The hardest thing would be remembering that the bright blue and yellow stripes needed to be green to be sealed well. Any doctor without colour-blindess should manage that one! It would also be handy if you found yourself with retractors left inside as they seem to be, all to commonly, these days! Don’t sue, just unzip, reach in and grab that offending instrument and hand it back to its rightful owner. It’s the 21st century, for goodness sake, we just need to be cool about these things.

Now, I now this next application will be as controversial as it is gross, but indulge me. It also gives a wonderful opportunity for women to discover the joy of pockets. Men don’t actually need a lot of pockets under normal circumstances. They are predominantly for men with communication problems in relationships with women (that is, pretty much, all men in such relationships).

Levi Strauss recognised this way back in 1886 when we sewed no fewer than 5 pockets into men’s 501 jeans. Women always ask men to carry their stuff. This is supported by statistics (that I just made up) that gay men have some 43% fewer pockets than straight men.

“Darling could you just mind my keys/lipstick/compact/fold-up treadmill? That’s a love!”. Most men, when confronted with this confident request delivered in a sultry tones with hints of chocolate and Joop! are scarcely able to mumble the less-than articulate reply: “MMmmph? Yeahalright.”.

Dr Livingstone was well able to traverse the larger part of central Africa by enlisting the help of poorly paid servants to carry his extravagant supplies of extra pith helmets. In the same way, women are able to glide into an evening on the town with 3.5 grams of silk draped over a gorgeous body on 54 g of stilettos, knowing full well that their partners are endowed with enough pockets to be able to carry their 45.6 kilograms of “essentials” required for a three hour dinner and dance.

Consider the liberation that might be achieved for our longsuffering menfolk if women could simply store such essentials in their lower abdomen? Of course, there is the fear that men may find their current, burdensome layers of clothing largely superfluous in such circumstances and opt for a nice pair of undertrunks (with an  appropriate “pocket” for storing a single credit card and car key,  complementing such trunks with perhaps a Bonds vest (if it was particularly cold in winter) when going out. I also suspect the divorce rate might climb somewhat…

Well, maybe we’d better just keep the pockets and leave the ziplocks well-enough alone, for the sake of preserving society. Maybe I’ll also skip the planned discussion on using hollowed prosthetic limbs as extra storage on motorcycles…

Au Revoir!

On new forms of poetry..

 

I was taking a cover lesson of a year 10 English class for a colleague the other day and the students were doing a poetry exam. As I mentioned that they would be studying a novel next term, there was a noticeable “Whooop” from most of the boys in the class.

Having spent the last 16 years as a teacher on a solid diet of skepticism about most adolescent boys’ latent desire for fictional literature (without pictures), I did not for a second believe that they were overjoyed at the prospect of ripping into a new tome over Easter! (Notice how my writing style has emulated an English teacher over the last paragraph?).

Anyway, I digress. It dawned on me a second later that these boys, nay, young men, had just been subjected to poetry! For a term!! Where is the humanity?

I empathised with these young Australian men, whose ordeal would best be mirrored by subjecting your average facebook-obsessed, Australian-Idol addicted lass to a full term of Top Gear and highlights from the last decade of State of Origin Rugby League as a principal source of textual discourse.

Then, my hypocrisy alert went into meltdown as I remembered that era in my own life. Actually, I read and wrote quite a bit of poetry in my late teen years. Enough to fill a copy of the Weekend Australian at least. I reflected on why this was.

Chicks, mostly. They accounted for about half the content and perhaps 80% of the motivation. Young ladies dig guys who are comfortable enough with their manhood to indulge in a little poetry. Well, so my adolescent mind told me anyway. As it turned out, this, like so many of my adolescent theories was 1% inspiration and 99% sheer bollocks. These young ladies (my wife included!) still, by and large, went for the footy guys, those on the verge of expulsion and those most likely to carry an extra Y chromosome. It turned out that philosophical nerds and female interest in try-hard sensitive-new-age-guys peaked more at 22 years of age than 15 years of age . The fact that this generally coincided with the popular thugs of the cohort variously ending up in fatherhood, unemployment or prison was probably less than coincidental.

Writing good poetry is, and most likely  should be, difficult, in my less-than-humble opinion. If it’s not, well, for a bloke, what is the point? Now Dimitri Martin, a famous US comedian, wrote a 224 word PALINDROMIC poem. Now THAT is poetry! Not just mindless stream-of-consciousness prose, overly laden with obscure adjectives and pseudo-existential babble. Yep, a real poem either has to woo chicks or be cool. There is really no other justification for delving into this minefield of masculine vulnerability.

So how did I rate my own work? Mostly dross, I am sad to say. Some interesting (and hard to write) rhyming patterns and amateur philosophy. Although I did pen one weird one called “paradox lost” in which the “story” runs backwards and each adjective is selected on the basis that it is tautological to its subject. Still, it is a silly little piece and is best buried in whichever box it is buried in currently in my wardrobe. The rest is adolescent twaddle and has about as much existential angst as a toddler who really needs to go to the toilet. Actually that gives me an idea for a poem.

I have even, with the help of an experienced colleague at work, created a new version of poetry, modelled on the classic Japanese “haiku” but more hip than an orthopedic surgeon’s dumpster. It is called a “lowku” and instead of the standard 3-5-3 pattern with its mere three lines of syllabification, a lowku requires, nay demands, a postively svelte 1-3-1. Such verse are harder than they look and can be cool, or good for pulling chicks or both as the examples below clearly show:

LOWKU a)

A
Syllable
First

LOWKU b)

Eyes
Idolise
Doll.

LOWKU c)

War
what’s it good
for?

Ok, lowku c) is not a good example of one which can be used for both, unless you happen to be targetting a pacifist in your local “Resistance” meeting but, hey, can’t hurt, right?

So what did I tell these fine young men about poetry? “Hey guys, take it from me, chicks LOVE poetry, study it, write it, read it!”. So did I knowingly perpetuate this myth? Absolutely, but I have daughters and I am happy for this myth to live in perpetuity at least until my daughters are well and truly married well. Keeps those lusty little toads off my front lawn doesn’t it?

On Earth Hour, Workchoices and Baby Boomers

One fundamental problem we have in our society is that we allow smarter people to design and make stuff for dumber people. To a Sony engineer with an IQ the size of a small planetoid, having 12 menus and 46 buttons on a remote and the ability for a TV to broadcast in English, Japanese and Esperanto… possibly simultaneously is a REAAALLY cool idea.. but they don’t get out much.

However, for the rest of us, this adds to the burden of our cruel western, middle class life. We go to work to pay off TVs we can’t pay off unless we become CEO in 2015 when the bill finally comes. Then you’d come home buggered from work trying to prove you are CEO material (again, if we weren’t so dumb we’d realise that working too hard is NOT one way to become a CEO). So, exhausted, we sit and try to watch the telly… well, documentaries on SBS at least, because we can’t operate our TVs enough to pick up any other channel. Then we slouch off to bed with this numb nagging guilt that we have just produced two tonnes of CO2 with our 56 inch plasma playing SBS.

Let’s pause and spare a thought for Earth Hour. Oh.. I love it when humanity joins together in unity and solidarity and oneness of purpose and love and, well khaftans mostly and agree to switch stuff off for an hour. Man, that inspires me. Like… like.. like Workchoices ads or those really gruesome don’t-drive-too-fast-ads I guess.

No, it’s great, It shows that we still have some baby boomers employed in mass media and not chugging around Australia in motorhomes with witty environmental stickers like “make love not war” on the bumpers. Yeah, OK you could argue that this particular slogan is really about war, not the environment but, you know, agent orange and napalm and all the diesel fuel getting the troops around and well, they do get breaks you know, it is called R&R. I learnt my modern history from MASH (and my ancient history from Asterix the Gaul).

What I want to know is why in MASH they always flew to Seoul or Tokyo for their R&R? All that diesel fuel. They could have really affordable holidays locally in pretty cheap bombed out villages and they’d be helping the environment too!

Another bumper sticker I see a lot is “No Dam” . (laugh) .Yeah, I get it. Well, kind of. No Dam what? Good one. When I came back from Hong Kong I used to see “Not happy, John” on a lot of cars, mostly government vehicles, now that I think about it. Anyway, I don’t know who John is, but man, try some Prozac or Zoloft.. THAT would make you happier. Don’t drive around being unhappy. Just stop and take some PBS sponsored medication.

No, don’t get me wrong, Xers  will testify that we DO care about solidarity. It’s just semantics and how you define solidarity. For us, we think that solidarity is important. Look, when your little baby daughter’s poo changes from liquidarity to solidarity, THAT brings a tear to a Dad’s eye…. Mostly the smell really but nevertheless important. Just different generations, I guess.

A lovely lady on the radio was talking about Earth Hour. Well, I say “lovely lady” on the benefit of the doubt that she was actually a lovely lady and not the complete numpty she sounded like. Her idea was that we should all sit around in silence, with all the power off and candles all around and just breathe in the universe and the wonder and the awe… yeah and all the flamin’ CO2 from the bloody candles!!!! Wasn’t she listening in her science classes????!