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July 29, 2005
Who Let The Kiddies Out?
What makes me sad about this undeniably good thing (don't even try, seriously) is that it didn't come about like good things should. Amanda didn't come to the conclusion that what we were doing to these children was cruel and inhumane. She didn't feel terrible about what she was putting these people through. No-one in Howard's inner circle was so overcome with shame at what their country had become that they resigned in protest and went to live in the woods with their family.
No, this came about in much the same way that a tobacco company settles claims from dying litigants: a balance of profit and loss. Moral factors, unfortunately, don't play a part; the decision is made solely on which path will end up costing less. And if it wasn't politically prudent to release the by-now-psychologically-disturbed children from detention, well, stiff shit, kids. Because you're not really people, just balls to be kicked around in political battles.
Nice to see, also, that Mandy has balanced the ledger by excising yet more islands from our migration zone. I didn't think there were any left to excise.
Posted by Peter at 10:26 AM | Comments (10)
July 28, 2005
Love A Lib Day
If, in a twisted game of Truth or Dare gone horribly wrong, I was forced to adopt-a-Liberal, even for a day, I would Vote For Petro. (I suppose you could have some sick fun with Amanda for a while, but I think I would find it ultimately unfulfilling, much like the families of murder victims reportedly feel after witnessing the execution of s/he who killed their loved one. Toying cruelly with Amanda would be diverting, but it wouldn't bring back the pieces of this nation's soul that she has been systematically removing and destroying over the past few years.)
Back to Petro. Once again, he is showing my team the way, and demonstrating with one of the most lucid and convincing defences of multiculturalism in the face of Stop Terrorism fervour I have yet read that good politics rests not upon polls or perception, but upon sound ideas presented convincingly.
Idealistic? Perhaps. Naive? Maybe. I guess I should have learnt from the ass-kicking that Glutbusters pin-up boy Mark Latham copped in the Election that the truth won't always set you free.
Again, back to Petrosexuality's pin-up boy.
Here's some of the good gear:
The environment that [religious extremists] exploit to propagate these ideas was not created by multiculturalism but is inherent in the very character of Western democracy, with its commitment to freedoms such as freedom of speech, freedom of movement and freedom of religion. These freedoms long predate any concept of multiculturalism. Indeed, in Australia, despite our lack of a bill of rights, the constitution prohibits the national government from making any laws "prohibiting the free exercise of any religion".
Keep it coming...
[Post-war immigrants] wished for the opportunity to live with dignity, respect and equality. For many, this meant retaining valued aspects of their heritage.
Give it to me, Petro!
Multiculturalism was a rejection of forced assimilation, a recognition that we couldn't make people "Australian" by demanding they renounce heritages they value. It was a rejection of the notion that Australians must conform to a common stereotype.
I know it's basic stuff, but... I don't know. I just want someone to fight for me.
*sighs*
If only he was on our team.
Posted by Peter at 01:16 AM | Comments (26)
July 27, 2005
We Can Be Heroes: Finding
We Can Be Heroes: Finding The Australian Of The Year. New comedy on ABC. Just watch it.Posted by Peter at 11:23 PM | Comments (0)
Gee, Is It 1975 Already?
Today I was "working from home", which in the code of my particular industry, generally translates as "sleeping in, reading the paper and running personal errands". And who should I glimpse in a passing car as I was cycling about but this man:
That's right. Benny Andersson of Abba.
"But", I hear you say. "That photo was surely taken in the 1970s, somewhere between 1975, when Benny and the gang performed 'I've Been Waiting For You' and 'So Long' on Swedish TV program 'Nygammalt' and 1979 when Abba performed 'Chiquitita' at the 'Unicef Gift Of A Song' concert held in the National Assembly Hall of the United Nations, shortly before Benny and songwriting partner Björn Ulvaeus took a much-deserved break in the Bahamas to help Björn recover from his divorce from bandmate Agnetha Fältskog. He must look much older now".
And you know what? Normally, I'd agree with you. Except for three factors which irrefutably confirm that the man I saw was Benny Andersson circa 1975-79.
1. He was wearing a pale blue skivvy, a look favoured almost exclusively by pop stars of the 1970s. (Admittedly, Björn was fonder of the skivvy than Benny, but we'll let that one pass.)
2. His hair retained its distinctive wave, and his eyes that dreamy shimmer.
And if you still doubt:
3. He was driving a Volvo.
Case closed. So what is Benny Andersson of 1975-79 doing in Melbourne?
Is he:
a. Earning a quid in suburban pubs playing Björn in the touring "Björn Again" show?
b. Teaching a short course at the CAE entitled "How To Write Catchy Pop Songs And Bag Hot Swedish Starlets?
c. Tweaking some of the numbers for Broadmeadows High School's production of "Chess"?
d. Collaborating with Shannon Noll on "Waterhole", an original musical based around an outback kid's journey from town pansy to Oz Rock superstar to washed-up smackhead?
e. ...?
Posted by Peter at 11:02 PM | Comments (6)
July 24, 2005
A Wig Night Out
I spent Saturday night at The Production Company's production of Kiss Me, Kate at the Arts Centre. I haven't been to a song 'n dance show in a while, and I'd forgotten how incredibly hammy and cheesy tremendously colourful and fun musical theatre could be. I particularly enjoy that very distinctive style of "acting" that chorus members of musicals get up to, a sort of hello-there-other-chorus-member-let's-have-an-animated-yet-silent-
conversation-because-really-we're-the-very-best-of-friends-and-
okay-now-I'll-head-over-here-to-my-mark-for-the-big-number-we-
came-on-stage-for carry-on that would be utterly insane in any other context. But I love it. That, and its counterpart, the goodness-me-we've-just-finished-our-duet-and-broken-from-our-young-
talent-time-pose-but-the-applause-is-still-going-and-now-we-have-
to-mime-a-little-bit-of-business-before-my-next-line act.
The show: not bad. For Cole Porter there were a few dud numbers. But the crowd: spectacular. God, when the inner-eastern musical theatre folk come out to play... A turtle-neck here, a string of pearls there. Silver fox waves here, Trude-and-Jude haircuts there.
So the Glutbusters awards are as follows:
Best Dressed (Male)
The guy standing next to us at interval. From the bottom:
Black shoes, black slacks (so far, so dull)
A pale blue and white vertical striped shirt (okay...)
A red knit sweater (it might have been a vest. I couldn't see, because topping it off was:)
A charcoal blazer. With light pale blue and pink candy stripes.
Glorious.
Oh, hang on, did I mention that he had THE MOST OBVIOUS TOUPEE IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD atop his head? Hair. Just there. No discernible root system. No sideburns. It just stopped. Tan. Waved and swept towards the back.
Best Dressed (Female) and the Glutbuster Encouragement Award (including tear off voucher for cheeseburger, small coke and small fries) for the most spectacular outfit of the evening
Production Company chair Jeanne Pratt (wife of the hilariously-named (though no-one has the balls to laugh to his face) paper tycoon Dick Pratt). Again, from the bottom:
Black shoes.
Brown slacks that extended from the ankle (pretty regulation), under the lowpoint of the overhanging breast, and came to rest around the area where the bottom of the boob joins to the torso (where, indeed, they couldn't go any further unless they were adjusted to pass over the breast)
A brown jacket (more a jacklet) that just met the aforementioned pant at its highest point.
White shirt with black buttons.
Bow tie.
"Bow tie? Dude, did you mis-type that?"
"Yeah, maybe I did. I'll type it again, being extra careful":
BOW. TIE.
And she was greeting everyone as they went in. That's right, short of decking the security guard at the stage door and running fancy-free through the dressing rooms pausing only to slap some sense into Marina Prior (and I toyed with the idea), the only way into the theatre was past the chocolate gatekeeper that was Jeanne.
Shudder.
Posted by Peter at 11:31 PM | Comments (19)
Love Shack
The Redhead and I have commenced The Great Cohabitation Adventure. So last weekend we moved. Hence the absence. My computer was either in a box, out of a box but not plugged in, or out of a box and plugged in but without internet access. And I don't like conducting my digital life from unfamiliar computers. It just feels dirty.
In the process of moving I discovered that there is probably nothing that makes me angrier than carrying large, heavy, cumbersome objects in and out of trucks.
I should have had an inkling about this one. When me and the Redhead had to move a barbecue up two flights of stairs (for the afternoon. Get that? It was only FOR THE AFTERNOON), I swear to god, she was deliberately and maliciously manipulating that thing to make it impossibly painful for me to continue, yet in her evil genius she had cunningly constructed a mechanical arrangement that made it impossible for me to stop - any weakness on my part and I would be pinned to a wall by a barbecue and slowly crushed to death. It ended with me furious, sweating and covered with all that grease-saturated sand shit they have in the bottom of them, and it very nearly sounded the death-knell of the relationship. And I tell you, if she had've pulled the pin half way up the second flight, I would have happily walked away.
But I forgot that, and manfully declared myself willing to lug crap for TWO DAYS from house to new house. Couches, tables, benches, boxes, desks, barbecues (will I never learn?) shelves, stereos, pots (cooking and gardening), a television, four stereos (FOUR!) and a European washer-dryer. When the Redhead dropped something, it was her fault for being a girl and thus incapable of tough labour in the hunter-gatherer sense. When I dropped something, it was the Redhead's fault for pushing/pulling too hard/softly.
Next time I'm paying some burly, wife-beatered men to do it. Fuck my masculinity. The burly men can have it. I'll wrap kitchen goods in paper and neatly pack them in a box.
Posted by Peter at 11:26 PM | Comments (10)
July 13, 2005
A Rhyme For Every Occasion
I love poetry. Seriously. Love the stuff. Pulled a pint for Seamus Heaney in Dublin (then he nicked a glass, but that's another story). But I've always had an issue with the whole poetry thing. 'Cause it just sits there, doesn't it? In books, or that little corner in The Weekend Australian. It never does anything. I guess what I'm trying to say, is that poetry is nice and all, but it's ultimately useless.
Until now.
In the course of research for my day job (don't ask), I stumbled across i-do.com.au, "Australia's leading wedding website". And if that wasn't inspiration enough, through it I encountered a poet not only in touch with the magic of the English language, but its until-now-untapped utilitarianism in the context of arranging a wedding.
I give you:
Alison Styles of "Styles of Writing" (clever!).
Let's have a look at some of Alison's work.
We all love wedding food. But some of us have dietary restrictions that preclude us from enjoying certain culinary delights. For example, you've invited your colleague Mohammed to your special day but no-one told you that he was a Muslim. And even if they did - halal? Faux pas! Fortunately, Alison is on hand with a handy little stanza:
Taste in food can vary.
We'd like to feed you well...
so if you have a special need,
send a note and tell!
Phew.
You know the trials of planning a big do. Who to invite? Or, more pressing, who to exclude? The last thing you want are those cretins who you wouldn't want within a mile of your party finding out about it. After all, cretins have feelings too. But how to tell the lucky invitees that there is to be a cone of silence over party discussions? Alison has the answer:
Reception will be intimate.
Not many will attend -
So please don't speak of being there
as others - may offend!
What a woman. She even has a verse on hand for getting rid of the kids:
Bring children to our wedding -
We'd love them on the scene!
Reception time however
is an adult only theme.
Also handy if one plans excessive drug use, nudity, or wife-swapping for the after-dark hours.
But what's really great about Alison is that, being a poet for the ages, she knows when to break the rules. You will have noted her slavish devotion to the meter. It is, you could say, her trademark. And what lengths she will go to to preserve the structure of her work, yet honour her muse. Running a little over in the following request to keep gifts modest, she will not dishonour her craft with a slack rhyme or an inferior phrase. No, she thinks outside the poetic box and DOES AWAY WITH ALL PRONOUNS, DIRECT OR OTHERWISE!
The day we've planned is loving,
though casual theme have sought -
If gift must bring - keep simple...
whether made, or whether bought.
Brilliant!
Your slack moll soon-to-be-ex-best-friend dragging her feet on her bridesmaid's dress?
As best friend - you I want.
Don't meet this with a frown.
I've sent you samples - helpful friends -
to groom a bridesmaid gown...
This wedding day will be here soon -
Don't bring my smile down.
Or are you an enormous tight-arse who would prefer your guests to pay their own way on your magical day?
Gifts are simply not a-fair
as for our wedding day -
we ask instead you post a-fare...
and this, for cruise, will stow away!
(The reception's on a cruise, get it? Thus the nautical theme. Note also the cunning rhyme of "fair" with its homonym "fare". Note also that the amount requested was $12. Twelve. Dollars.)
And finally, the curly area of presents (NB Can be rhymed artfully with "presence" and worked into a thankyou note).
What to do if you haven't yet established the marital home, and storage is at a premium? Why, ask your guests to give you gift vouchers! But how to do it delicately?
Our current home is temporary.
We're needing all our space...
Loving now the present thought
of vouchers Myer/Grace!
Why didn't I think of that? Or, sick and tired of receiving the same old whitegoods and crockery from the same old bridal registries? Solution: cash. Initiate a "Money Tree" (yeah, doesn't sound quite so crass like that, does it?). Remove any subjectivity and value your friends based on a simple cash figure. Here's my favourite (and there are many, many more - it seems this is a raging issue in bridal circles).
Love the joy of choosing gifts?
Wrap the chosen captive?
If thoughts elude in this regard
... money is attractive!
Yes. Yes, it is.
So. Poets. Indeed, anyone out there who smiths the word to make a living. Think long and hard about what you're doing. Because no longer is it enough to merely arrange your words so they sound nice and leave them to rot on the pages of some "book". No, Alison's raised the bar for all of you. Now, like the architecture of the etymological world, your words must do something. Because if they don't, what good are they?
Posted by Peter at 11:45 PM | Comments (36)
July 09, 2005
Happy Birthday, Helen
My Mum turned 53 today.
Three years ago, at the dinner party for my her 50th, there were seven other women (time as friends in brackets): her two best friends from primary school (42 years), her sister-in-law (28 years), the three other mothers from my playgroup (22 years), and a friend of the family from up the road (16 years). There was another best friend from primary school, but she died some years ago from a combination of massive alcoholism and multiple sclerosis. Every fortnight or so for pretty much twenty years, Mum would visit her wherever she was - various hospitals, facilities, boyfriends' houses. Often the friend would be drunk, sometimes abusive, but Mum kept visiting, and visiting even more when the friend was dying in a hospice. On the first anniversary of her friend's death, Mum went to see the parents, but they turned her away. It wasn't a date they wanted to recognise, so now Mum remembers it on her own.
This loyalty and dedication is a theme that runs through Mum's life. She has worked in the same hospital in the same job, for almost twenty-five years. About fifteen years ago she took up power-walking to stay fit. She has gone three times a week, every week, ever since, and prefers her slow and steady approach to personal fitness to my mystifyingly ineffective twice-a-day-at-the-gym-for-three-weeks-then-nothing-for-five-months strategy. Having raised three sons she has spent pretty much every weekday morning for twenty years buttering vita-weats and making rolls, every weekend ferrying one or more of us around to sporting venues, and most evenings turning the dinner down so she could pick us up from training, or rehearsal, or the train station when we couldn't be arsed walking TEN MINUTES from bus at the end of the street.
Apparently in the early-90s we were seriously broke and mortgaged to the hilt. I never knew. I still had new footy boots and saxophone reeds and Stussy pants, and went on school trips, and pocketed ten dollar notes on my way out to the movies. We still went on holidays to Lorne, or to Cohuna, or, for two magical weeks one September, to Surfers'. I didn't know that Mum was budgeting for every last dollar so that her boys could do all the things they wanted to do. I didn't know that our credit cards were long maxed-out, or that we were a year and a half behind on our school fees. And I didn't notice that she and Dad never went out for dinner, or got takeaway, or bought any booze except the occasional bottle of brandy.
Mum's youngest boy is eighteen now. The financial pressures have eased, and she has the time and some of the money to do all those things big and small that she has postponed or given up for the last thirty-odd years. She can have a glass of wine with dinner, or go out for breakfast, or get the couches re-upholstered. She can sleep in on Saturdays, buy a new camellia for the garden, and go to the theatre. And her and Dad are going to Paris for their wedding anniversary - thirty years after they were last there on their honeymoon.
My Mum has dedicated more than half her life to making sure that her sons got all the opportunities they could, and she deserves every little pleasure that comes her way.
Happy birthday, Helly. We love you.
Posted by Peter at 08:02 PM | Comments (54)
July 04, 2005
Jerry in Oz
"The make-up sodomy's the best thing about being nailed to a gym floor" - Jerry Seinfeld in Oz. Genius. (thanks Milk and Cookies).Posted by Peter at 07:17 PM | Comments (1)
July 02, 2005
Best Lonely Hearts Clubman
Hi! Thanks for logging onto "Man Up", the AFL's online matchmaking service.
There are three (3) matches for your search queries:
sensitive, fun-loving, gentle.
FRASER
G'day, my name's Fraser. Umm, I haven't really done this sort of thing before. Yeah, I'm gentle and shit, whatever. Got rid of the mullet last year, so pretty sensitive. And I get fashion and all that faggy stuff. Check me shirt. I love going out and having a good time. You know, nothing silly. Just a few shandies with some mates then home in time for Taggart. Some of the boys cut loose every so often, but I'm not really into all that stuff.
So yeah, give me a call. Love to catch up for a coffee, whatever. I'd prefer an anti-diuretic, but I'm easy.
STEPHEN & LEIGH
Stephen: Hi there, girls!
Leigh: G'day!
Stephen: I'm Stephen.
Leigh: And I'm Leigh.
Stephen: The boys call me Milney. The ladies generally call me Steve. Or the accused.
Leigh: The accused, yeah. Me too. Or Leigh. Whatever. I play football.
Stephen: They know that.
Leigh: Oh, right. I've got really muscly arms.
Stephen: Leigh, shut up, you're ruining it.
Leigh: Sorry.
Stephen: Yeah, it was all a bit of a misunderstanding that accused stuff.
Leigh: Yeah, yeah. Misunderstanding.
Stephen: It was just me and Leigh, you know and... um... God, what was her name?
Leigh: Shit.
Stephen: Oh, what was it?
Leigh: Ummm....
Stephen: Hang on, hang on... Nope. Gone.
Leigh: Anyway. Top bird.
Stephen: Top bird, yeah. So it was just me and Leigh here and whatsherface and that other one...
Leigh: Shit.
Stephen: You were keen on her.
Leigh. Yeah. God, I don't think I even knew her name then.
Stephen: Right. Top bird, though.
Leigh: Oh, yeah. Top bird.
Stephen: So. Just us. Boys will be boys, you know. Nothing in it.
Leigh: What did they say about it?
Stephen: Insufficient evidence.
Leigh: That's it. Insufficient evidence.
Stephen: So hop on, ladies. We're clean
Leigh: If we could get twins...
Stephen: Shut up, Leigh.
WAYNE
Hi. Oh, geeze.
long pause
Sorry... but...
long pause
Hi there. Phew. It's been a while since... you know... I've been in the game. God. Where do I start? Um... since my wife and I... oh, I really don't want to go into it. It was mutual, is all I'll say. But I've been a bit lonely. Was in Adelaide for a while. Back home now.
sighs
So yeah. Give me a call. I'm after companionship. Looks aren't important, really. Not to me. When I'm with a woman all I really see is her soul, her spirit, you know.
Thanks for visiting "Man Up". Hope you find the right "match" for you!
Someone's got their work cut out for them.
Posted by Peter at 06:57 PM | Comments (3)
Freeway 9
Jo from Freeway 9. Funny lady. Smart, too.Posted by Peter at 05:47 PM | Comments (6)
JPFO, Inc
What wardrobe is complete without a T-shirt from Jews For The Preservation Of Firearms Ownership?Posted by Peter at 05:35 PM | Comments (11)