Grandad Brophy comes to town!

My Grandad was in town last week. All eighty-six years of him. And to quote a massive cliche, he's still got it. Sharp jokes, flirtatious behaviour with waitresses, and a part in his hair that'd put Moses to shame.

I hadn't spent a lot of time with him for a few years, since leaving Oz in 2004. He and my Nanna did make a brief sojourn to Ireland where I drove them around the country side. It was essentially a nap on wheels though, with the pair of them occasionally waking for a coffee and cake stop (as is the wont of old people), as I twisted and turned through southern Ireland trying not to crash into their "quaint stone walls". My favourite memory of the trip was my Grandads wanderings, where we'd track through the streets only to find him chatting so some distant relative of a Christian Brother that my Grandad once met. This happened repeatedly.*

I spent some time with Grandad as my Nan got towards the end earlier this year. His spirit was irrepressible. In what was probably his finest quotable hour, he rocked up to the hospital ward to announce that outside it was "cold as a Christian charity". He told us Nanna had instructed him that if he was going to drive to the hospital after the function at the village, that he'd better not drink. "So I walked." And when he called up for test results from an unhelpful nurse he said down the line "Give it to me straight, Sister!"

I've got alot of respect for the old boy, as I reckon we all should, given their vast life wisdom (even if it is occasionally mixed in with chat about 'the darkies'.). But as we sat enjoying meals and coffees together over the last week, I was a bit torn. Do I let him just chat away, regaling tale after tale as it comes to him? Or do I interject with my opinions? Cos the thing is, I don't want him to think I'm some baggage relative that brings nothing to the table, so he then has to carry the conversation for the both of us. But at the same time, nothing I have to say has any gravity considering my relative life experience. Isn't his story about chasing an emu for CSIRO in the outback for miles only to catch it, tag it, and it fall down dead: Isn't that way more important than my discovery that you can make cheese on toast by turning the toaster on its side? Surely his story about a great uncle who helped map a pass through the Blue Mountains holds more weight than my tale of getting off at Museum station, only to discover the museum is actually closer to a totally different station? I know for a fact that his friends passing away means way more than my mates passing out ever will.

I guess the presence of those who have amassed huge amounts of life experience should be humbling. In the same breath, it should also be entertaining and frustrating. Cos that's how life is. Humbling. Entertaining. Frustrating. And old people are full of life. And we might as well enjoy that of them before their cup runeth over.

*The only other time I've been faced with this predicament (besides trying to leave a festival with a pilled up mate who insists of having deep conversations with every one they walk past. We've all been there. In both roles.) was when I travelled around northern Spain with my Dad. Despite me insisting the only language I spoke was conversational Portuguese, my old man decided I spoke fluent Spanish, as he subsequently told all manner of old Spaniard as he dragged em back towards me to answer his trivial question about the kind of stone in the arches of the church. What a mission. Oh, and in case you're wondering, es piedra arenisca.

Plastic Monkeys

I’ve got a bit chubby of late. It’s not cos I’m depressed or I’m lazy or cos of some obscure medical condition. It’s because I go to the fridge or the cupboard, pull something out, and my mind goes “We really don’t need this.” And I go “(chew-chew-chew) I agree. (chew-chew)”

This is the reason I’ve put on a few kilo’s. Greed in the face of rational thought. Indulgence in the face of reason. Doing worse when I know better. It’s pretty pathetic.

Of course I’m not the only one on this wide and beaten path. It’s becoming a quintessentially human characteristic, nay, ability. To do the wrong thing when we know exactly what the right thing is, and how to do it. Who needs better judgement when you’ve got immediate action?

As the planet tilts and threatens to let us all slide into oblivion, we stay strong; Pursuing our worldly dreams and occupations in the face of evidence that doing so will relegate our species (or a vast majority of it) to the scrap heap.

Why?

In a small industrial town in Lebanon, Yariv runs a factory. The factory produces plastic monkeys. Not big ones. Tiny little ones, with one arm up and one arm down. They are hung off the side of cocktail glasses in cheesy holiday resorts, to add a bit of fun and flair to the drink. They’re used once, maybe treasured briefly by kids, then discarded. The plastic is cheap and brittle. They wouldn’t last for long, even if you did use them again.

Every now and again, Yariv sits in his office, on his beaten leather swivel chair, staring into the middle distance. The world is dying, he thinks. Should I try and help save it? Do people really need that added trinket on their drinks? That fleeting moment of novelty before they suck back yet another Mai Tai? Maybe I should stop. The plastic is toxic once it starts breaking down, and I’m pretty sure they don’t dispose of them properly. I could make the whole world that tiny bit healthier. Safer. Cleaner. If I just do my bit...

Then the phone rings. It’s another order. Time to go back to work.

We do what we do because it’s easier than changing. But if nothing changes, and no-one changes, the world turns into the Friends box-set. An increasingly predictable and repetitive series of situations that numb the mind and soul til you just wish it was all over. I guess what I’m getting at is that the end of the world and David Schwimmer really aren’t that different. So unless you want to see Ross from friends rise to prominence once again, YOU NEED TO CHANGE YOUR WAYS BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE!!!

You have been warned

The Racist of Oz.

“All Australians are racist.”

Really?

“Yep.”

All of us?

“Yep.”

Even the black ones?

“Ye-Na-Ohh.”

I think it’s a funny statement to begin with. All Australians are racist. Cos when you think about it, stereotyping an entire nation of people like that seems, I dunno, a bit racist?

Of course some of us are definitely racist. Some people can’t stand anything different to themselves. I understand that psychology. But if they don’t like anything that’s different to them, how come so many racists own dogs?

“Yeah, but dogs are different.”

No shit they’re different, they’re dogs.

You reckon after all the time they spend together the racists would have learnt, don’t judge someone ‘til you’ve at least sniffed their bum.

Australian racism has been highlighted in the world media in the last few years. 

Once, because of a massive error in judgement from Hey! Hey! It’s Saturday! producers  . I couldn’t help but think that maybe that was a bit of a test. After seeing that people actually tuned in to watch Darrell Sommers and Red Symons heave the corpse of their careers back on to prime time, the producers went “I wonder what else they’d sit through?...” Granted, it was a mistake, but at least Darrell and Red have gone back to dipping fries.

The other event(s) that brought racism in Australia to the attention of the world media was attacks on Indian students. I was actually warned by an Indian guy in the UK to be careful when I returned to Australia because of the rampant violence. The reality was that it was a few thugs that beat up a few Indian students because they didn’t want them in this country. But he tragedy of the situation was that following the attacks, enrolments by Indian students in Australian uni’s halved. I think it’s a real shame that it doesn’t work the same way with thugs. You beat one up in the street and 50% of them disappear. It’s a shame because you randomly beat up a thug in the street, and all that happens is that you yourself become a thug. I just wish it’d worked that way with Indian students. A thug punches one in the street, and the thug becomes a diligent student with a strong work ethic and solid family ties. The characteristics, ironically, whose absence drives people to a life of thuggery in the first place.

But I do think there’s a real innocence to Australians racism. I think that because we’ve never had a war in this country, that there’s never been too much political turmoil or good reason to hate other people in Australia, our racism really is the froth on the top of a hate-latte. Soft, fluffy, and of no real weight.*

Here’s a perfect example of it to close.

A few years ago, I came home for a visit. I was watching the cricket one day, it was Australia versus South Africa, and none other than PM Kevin Rudd was in the commentary box. (This is where our priorities lay at the time. Bugger the war, bugger the poor, what we need to discuss is the seagull at silly mid-on). The game was rolling along, when a decision was referred to the third umpire, who was Indian. The third umpire ruled against the Australians, and our Prime Minister just goes…

 “Well, we’ll be reviewing his Visa.”

*I think racism in Australia arises from our lack of national identity. We’re not just straight-talking pie-eating tradies and glamours living carefree by the beach, which is how we are portrayed in the media. The reality is that Australia’s much more complex, much more multi-cultural, much more interesting than that. But because we haven’t yet defined exactly what it means to be Australian in the 21^st century, we define ourselves by what we’re not, rather than what we are. It’s much easier that way. Unless of course you happen to be ‘different’.

PS By the way. I appreciate I’m a white, middle-class male; What would I know about racism?

The Tide

There are a number of issues in Oz that are dealt with like a tide. Boat people, aged care, the plight of Aboriginals in the outback. Stuff like this. Passion, care and outrage come up and down, up and down.

“It’s inhumane! ... Oh, there’s a sale at Myer”

“Something needs to be done! ... as soon as I get back from the beach”

“Let’s march on parliament... via that nice little cafe on Crown Street.”

But as long as this tide’s going in and out, nothing will ever get done. These issues will never get resolved. That’s why, if we want to solve the boat people debacle, look after the oldies, close the quality of life gap, we need to stop the tide of apathy and empathy. And there’s only one way to stop the tide.

We need to GET RID OF THE MOON!

What does the moon do? Fuck all. Sure it’s a Mecca for weight loss and flag storage, but you know it’s also the number one cause of Warewolfery? Plus, it only ever works nights. Sometimes, it barely bothers to show up at all, and when it does it just parades around.

“Look at me, aren’t I bright?”

Have you seen the sun?

I’m just saying, if we wanna solve our problems, we’ve gotta think big. And once we manage this moon-redundancy, I’ll let you in on my plan of action to wipe out sunburn once and for all.

GILLARD’S CASTLE ™

"Welcome to the show! Are we excited? Then let’s put our helmets on, cos it’s time to play Australian politics!"

Am I the only one that feels Australian politics has turned into a crazy Japanese gameshow? Hapless contestants try unsuccessfully to jump through hoops as political commentators say everything they can to embarrass them and throw them off their challenge.

In the first round, we put half the poli’s on a seesaw and see if they can keep both ends off the ground. Sounds easy, except there’s also gonna be a crazy sumo-wrestler in red bungers trying to knock them off, starting with the contestants with the weakest principles. This one’s called “Balance of Power”

In the second round, whoever’s leading digs a giant hole in the ground and sells the dirt. Then, they have to buy back the stuff made from the dirt, and after a while, chuck it back in the hole and hope there’s enough to fill the hole back up. It’s called “Hole in the System!”

In the third round a union leader will put you in a choke-hold, and it’s up to you to see if you can do what he says, or else the grip gets tighter. It’s called “From Behind”

And in the final round, contestants will try and drive around an obstacle course in a hilarious tiny car as the opposition sit in the passengers seat and points out, not how you should go around the obstacle, but rather the problems with the way you did in fact get around each the obstacle as you pass it. It’s called “Back Seat Griping”

And for the winner today, is a huge prize! Not only will you take home a great big dose of voter dissatisfaction, but also a feeling of helplessness to go with some old, old rope tied exclusively around your wrists by country Independents. Here on AUSTRALIAN POLITICS!!!

Smokin!

Smokers! Enjoy it while it lasts people.

A few of my mates are smokers.

“Mate, just cos they change the packaging, it won’t stop me from smoking.”
Ha ha ha! Have you seen the new packs? Holy fuckamoley. They look like they could give you eye cancer just looking at them. They are truuuly, truly horrific.

Imagine being in the focus group for that...

“Well that one makes me feel physically ill, but that one makes me want to tear out my own eyeballs. Ohh, I just can’t make up my mind!”

One mate said that if the pack’s too gross to look at, he’ll just buy a cover to put them in. But with the hardline the government is taking on em, it’s probably only a matter of time before the covers have to be adorned with warnings. Inevitably, there’ll be a subsequent cover, then another warning, followed by another cover then another warning, and it’ll go on and on and on until every time you want to smoke, you ‘ll have to play and increasingly morbid game of pass the parcel.

“Oh! Oh my! Yuk! Gross! Oh my god! Jesus that’s horrible! WHAT IS THAT!!! Oh yeah, it’s Malborough time.”

Personally, I don’t think it’s gone far enough. Sure the packets are covered in open wounds, but is that really enough? I wanna see tombstones on the paper. How about green smoke? A little stock in the filter that makes a death rattle whenever you inhale? These are all good ideas, and I reckon it’s only a matter of time before we see em.

Cos it’s a hard line they’re taking on smokes. And I’m pretty sure the only reason they’ll stop short of getting a thug to whack you over the head every time you light up, is because they know the pain would remind you you’re still alive. And that’s the last thing they want.

Smokin!

Smokers! Enjoy it while it lasts people.

A few of my mates are smokers.

“Mate, just cos they change the packaging, it won’t stop me from smoking.”

Ha ha ha! Have you seen the new packs? Holy fuckamoley. They look like they could give you eye cancer just looking at them. They are truuuly, truly horrific.

Imagine being in the focus group for that.

“Well that one makes me feel physically ill, but that one makes me want to tear out my own eyeballs. Ohh, I just can’t make up my mind!”

One mate said that if the pack’s too gross to look at, he’ll just buy a cover to put them in. But with the hardline the government is taking on em, it’s probably only a matter of time before the covers have to be adorned with warnings. Inevitably, there’ll be a subsequent cover, then another warning, followed by another cover then another warning, and it’ll go on and on and on until every time you want to smoke, you ‘ll have to play and increasingly morbid game of pass the parcel.

“Oh! Oh my! Yuk! Gross! Oh my god! Jesus that’s horrible! WHAT IS THAT!!! Oh yeah, it’s Malborough time.”

Personally, I don’t think it’s gone far enough. Sure the packets are covered in open wounds, but is that really enough? I wanna see tombstones on the paper. How about green smoke? A little stock in the filter that makes a death rattle whenever you inhale? These are all good ideas, and I reckon it’s only a matter of time before we see em.

Cos it’s a hard line they’re taking on smokes. And I’m pretty sure the only reason they’ll stop short of getting a thug to whack you over the head every time you light up, is because they know the pain would remind you you’re still alive. And that’s the last thing they want.