Bitch About The Rich

Amazing.

I once went for a job as a web administrator. The selection process was fraught with many little irks and balls-ups worthy enough to be included in some Michael Moore documentary.

Well, even after I sent them a “concerned” email outlining my disdain for their selection method, and their dubious typing skills, they rang me and offered me the job... temporarily.

Obviously their primary choice has accepted the job, and then buggered off somewhere else for a while.

I told them I’d think about it... but I’ll probably decline. Mainly because if a section is dedicated to the construction and operation of a website, but cannot type a correct URL into a letter, then there are issues at play which are far too crippling for my mere meagre mind to comprehend.

So what’s in the news?

Crown Princess Mary… and some husband of hers.

Far be it for me to deride the lady, as she is obviously quite charming, well-spoken, and extremely sophisticated. Well, I figure you’d have to be if you’re going to land the biggest fish in Denmark.

I remember it being said (by the media, funnily enough) that the Danish Royals are extremely laid back, especially compared to the stiff-as-a-cadavar-tied-to-a-stobey-pole British Royals that we have predominantly been under. There have been stories of how they like to wander the streets, chatting to folks, buying beers, participating in a bit of a drinking competition* and basically eschewing any kind of royal conduct.

I can’t say for sure, but I wonder if they actually did that because there was never any kind of intense media scrutiny.

If that’s the case, then I plead with the Australian media, “Leave them the fuck alone!”

Because nothing stops you from going outside more than a whopping great zoom lens jabbed into your nose**. I can see the headline: Princess Mary Fails To Trim Nose Hairs. Frederick’s Eyes Begin To Wander.

But I’m sure there’s reader interest there. I mean, who wouldn’t be curious about how many suitcases and hat boxes Princess Mary brought to the country***?

I hope they enjoy their stay in Australia, although I’m sure it’d be more enjoyable without an entourage of journalists in tow:

“So, how’re you finding Australia, Mary?”

“Well, I’ve lived here for years, but I can say that it’s been really good. Everyone is so nice here. By the way, there’s no paper in this cubicle. Can you spare a square?”

* May be made up, but if true, you heard it here first
** I’ve heard
*** People who like to bitch about the rich need not answer

Celebrity Ads and Brick Walls

I love those adverts in where a celebrity tries to hock some product onto you. They usually go along the lines of “Hi, my name’s (insert celebrity name), and when I’m not (insert celebrity occupation), I’m popping these weet-bix like a speed-fuelled tic-tac addict.”

If I were ever to become a celebrity, mine would probably be something like, “Hi, my name’s Aph, and when I’m not making a dick of myself and needlessly thrashing my ego like an Iraqi prisoner in custody of the Coalition Of The Willing, I’m banging my forehead on this brick wall, quality built by Bianco.”

Well, that’s how it would go if by some fortunate set of circumstances you could be a celebrity for your immense ability to constantly make a dick of yourself. Mind you, that probably explains celebrities like Big Brother contestants, Johnny Knoxville, and Winona Ryder.

I guess there’s no other real point to this post, other than to outline that I seem to forming a habit of making myself appear as a tragic fool. But I guess I figure that if my purpose in life is to serve as a warning to others, then so be it.

At least I’m not purposeless, goalless or useless.

But there is no point trying to explain what happened on this blog. To have fully comprehended the horror, you’d need to have actually been there to witness the tragedy unfold before your eyes. I shudder even now.

Bleeding Obvious: Experts Say

Chinese philosophy won, and thankfully not before it was too late. And I think I realise why, now. It’s oh-so-obvious now that I think about it.

When the goal is in sight, it is all too easy to rush to make that final grab. Like sneaking up on a rare, timid, flighty bird in order to get a closer look, if you hurry those final moments, you’ll most likely be kicking yourself for ruining such an opportunity with your foolhardy actions.

The Dead Poet’s Society can kiss my arse. Seize the day? Seize your own fucking day. I’m off to the pub to drink some more beer. Whilst you’re off seizing your days, be sure to learn from your impetuous screw-ups, and file them away in the drawer marked, “Moments That Will Haunt Me For Years And Will Surface Periodically To Torture and Mock Me”.

But it is at this point I sigh, as my mindset could be interpreted as complacency. That couldn’t be further from the truth, though. But I will avoid any soapbox standing here, mainly because I don’t have one, and the horse I usually ride in on is grazing in a far paddock.

Well, what else is in the news? Ooh, let’s see.

After many years of speculation, warnings and ominous calls from “experts”, the housing boom is officially over. Which just goes to prove that if you predict it for long enough, you can automatically lay claim that you “saw it coming ages ago”, and you’ll be heartily applauded.

Despite the fact that you were stating the bleeding obvious.

It’s like me predicting that Paris Hilton will die due to her extreme lifestyle. It doesn’t matter WHEN it happens. Hell, she could be 150 years old, and die of old age... but I’ll still be there, pointing my finger and saying “She would’ve lived longer if she wasn’t so reckless earlier in life!”

So, in the spirit of the entry, allow me to make the following predictions:

• Labor will one day get into power

• In order to stimulate internet business, all sites will contain porn pop ups

• Populations will decline as people get bored with sex, due to overexposure

• Lleyton Hewitt will stop being a tool… because he will be dead

• Shampoo commercials will stop using soft porn, and go with full frontal nudity

• SMS speek wil 1 dai bi da nu inglish

• Reality TV shows will falter when all contestants want to do is get it on, but viewers are too bored with sex to care.

• American Express cards will finally be accepted in a retailer people actually visit

• The Australian accent will be phased out and replaced with a New York one. Aside from Missy Higgins who will continue to sing in that awful drawl.

• Mobile phones will be called celphones by all and sundry. Thank you, American-dominated pop culture

There you have it, although I’m not sure about the first one. But you heard it here first.

Flowers, Balls and Hallucinogens

“He who acts, spoils: he who grasps, lets slip” – Lao-Tse

“Carpe Diem (Seize the day)” – Anyone who’s seen Dead Poet’s Society

I know it may be somewhat erroneous to pit Taoist philosophies versus a saying that was relegated to a tagline from a mainstream movie, but these two seem to sum up my mental conundrum quite well.

Although it is further erroneous to only take a small excerpt from the total philosophy and somehow forge out your actions on that basis (because that quoted piece of what Lao pondered applied to a larger philosophy pertaining to those who fail when on the edge of success). But I digress.

Through the simple act of trivialisation, I have managed to take this small piece of Chinese idealism and somehow use it to plant a tiny seed of doubt within my head. Fun, fun, funno.

I had been considering doing something totally, and unabashedly reckless, and I had worked up the courage to plan out my day accommodating said brash activity. However, this little line of Taoist deterrent just flipped my day upside down, as that seed of doubt was planted, and has since bloomed into a beautiful flower of “Leave It The Fuck Alone”.

Because the flower has a point. To perform this reckless action, no matter what precautions I take, may have ramifications that will possibly a) further bruise my already thrashed ego, b) impact upon people I don’t want to impact negatively upon, and/or c) make me look like an idiot… more so.

But deep inside my head is a bitter little ball of “Fuck It, You Only Live Once, Besides You’re Off To Japan In A Year’s Time Anyway, Who’s Gonna Care Then?”

To which the flower retorts: Lock in possibility “C”, thanks Eddie.

Then the ball repeats it’s one-line vitriol, “FIYOLOBYOTJIAYTAWGCT?”.

… and so forth.

So, there we have it. A yoyo of feelings that keeps getting tangled somewhere in the middle. Bloody hell.

But, if I can walk away with something from this experience, I would cite the metaphors in this post. Talking flowers? Talking Bitter Balls that speak in acronyms? Symbolic Yoyos?

Lesson: stop drinking the Adelaide water...

My Gift

Everyone on this planet has a certain gift – a flair for being able to achieve something that very few other people could. For some it might be photography, for others it might be playing a sport, and for others, it could be the ability to sit through the entire series of “Allo Allo” without some form of mental trauma.

For me, however, it is the uncanny ability to find a parking space right adjacent to where a 4WD will be upon my return, therefore hindering my vision when I back out of the parking space.

I could park in the middle of the Simpson Desert, walk away, come back and find my poor car surrounded by Land Rovers and Hummers.

But that’s what I get for parking in a place that only 4WD’s should venture...

It seems that a NSW council is looking to double fines for those people who own “SUV’s”. One side of me thinks, “yeah, so they should. Those pricks usually have tonnes of money, and the day that I don’t see a 4WD on the road is the day I Riverdance on the Great Western Highway.”

However, the other side of me thinks, “Wait, maybe I should be more tolerant of those other people on the road, besides, I don’t live anywhere near the Great Western, and the only dance I can do is the ‘awkward-boy-shuffle’”

I honestly doubt that increasing the fines is going to deter people from buying a 4WD, so it seems erroneous to polarise car owners (more so) and create any other rifts on the roads. Hell, there’s enough road rage out there to power a small country for a week.

I hate to stereotype, but most people who buy 4WD’s (or SUV’s, or wankermobiles... whatever) are actually quite wealthy, and possibly stand a chance of not really caring about the long term expenses. Besides, speeding fines aren’t really considered when some of these young bucks buy a high performance car. Then again, neither is insurance, tyre costs or even the subsequent conjecture about their penis size for that matter.

Whilst having less 4WD’s on the road would make my driving life a little easier, I don’t think anything can stop them from being in urban settings. People have their (often misguided) reasons for buying them, and nothing is going to stop them. So, in a way I’m glad for my gift. It has taught me how to deal with the animals of the highway jungle.

…and how to reverse out when I can’t see a fucking thing.

Chasing Satire

For some time I was keen to write biting satire for The Chaser. Unfortunately they’ve shut down the paper, hoping to pursue other forms of media. Dang.

Also unfortunately, my satire was far from biting. It was more of a gnaw.

Anyway, here is the latest thing to come from my head. It might as well go up in the blog…

Male Workers Welcome Menstrual Leave

The landmark decision by Toyota to allow women 13 annual paid leave days has been applauded by the male employees on the shop floor. Also, some managers have welcomed the move, claiming that their rights have been increased as a result.

“It’s great to be able to berate my female workers now, without having to second guess whether she’s ‘up on the blocks’” exclaimed Nick Craigson, manager of the dashboard line at Toyota, “Too many times I’ve asked one of them why she did this task wrong, and I was assaulted with ‘Because I can!’

“Now I can be a typical overbearing, power-hungry, prick manager without having to anticipate a Phillips head screwdriver being flung at my head.”

But not all female workers readily embraced the move, citing concerns over a lack of an outlet during a stressful time.

“I shouldn’t be made to take out my stress at home, as I don’t want my family to suffer as a result of a gender related condition.” Said Nadia Florence, of the engineering team. “If I lash out in the workplace, it doesn’t matter because I don’t love those people. In fact, most of them are arseholes who make stupid, chauvinistic jokes at my expense.

“I am only concerned about the welfare of my children and my family”

Toyota is keen to publicise its forward thinking approach to Human Resources, by creating adverts in where females are seen to be enjoying a full night’s sleep when they have a Toyota in their garage, as well as being able to do whatever they want, no matter what time of the month it is.

Also, Toyota Camry’s are being offered with “wings” as standard, as well as ultra absorbent windscreen wipers, for heavier [rainy] days.

Like I said... it’s more of a gnaw than a bite.

60 minutes vs The Cask

I don’t watch 60 minutes all that often, to be honest. Not because it’s boring, or that I have no heart, or even that the presenters have the most annoyingly patronising voices in the world (although it’s a small factor), but mainly because at the end of the show I feel like I’ve been emotionally manipulated. Independently violated, if you will.

I like to feel as though I can form my own opinions on a certain subject. Even though my opinion may be misguided, ill-informed, reckless or downright wrong, at least I formed it myself without having some happy puppet master make me dance to his/her tune.

I didn’t catch the interview last night with Mamdouh Habib. But if by “Didn’t Catch” I really meant, “Intentionally Avoided” then yes, I’ve busted myself.

It was the way it was promoted that caused me to switch channel, then get up, and sit outside with my good friend, Chateau le Box (ie cask wine) whilst the interview was on.

The promotion consisted of the interviewer blatantly asking Habib if he were “a terrorist”, and then through some obvious little tricks of editing, they made him appear all shifty-eyed. I’m surprised they didn’t doctor the footage somehow so that he appeared to tear open his shirt to expose the 50 kilos of C4 strapped to his chest and shouting “death to all infidels!”

Of course, it was trickery. Trickery McSneak thought that it would entice people to watch, and I guess he was right. Except for me, though. Cask wine leaves a much more pleasant taste on the palette than watching five minutes of this show. Come to think of it, so does vinegar.

To those people who tuned in hopefully to watch Habib’s shiftyness, if you honestly believed this 60 minutes promotion, and thought that he would openly admit to a nation that he is some west-hating rebel, maybe you should consider a couple things:

One, if he was associated with some underground faction, hell bent on precipitating the demise of western oppression; surely he would’ve undergone some training. I’m pretty sure that part of this training would entail a session that goes something along the lines of:

“Because of the nature of our organisation’s mission statement, strategic plans and methodologies, there will be some risk that you will be asked a few questions from authorities. If in the event that they ask if you are employed by our organisation, be sure that you say ‘no’, okay? Even if you have to look into their eyes and say it. Yes, Mamdouh, even if they promise to be your friend… stop asking.”

Two, I’m no expert on the subject, but if he were associated with a terrorist organisation, I doubt that he’d consider himself as a “terrorist”. If he were, he would probably consider himself a “warrior” or something. Either way, I really don’t think that the business name was registered as “Al Q’aida Terrorism Corp. Pty. Ltd. – For All Your Terrorism Needs”

And three, this man spent years in Camp X-Ray, where professional interrogation specialists probably interrogated him, using highly special psychological interrogation techniques. If he were going to “admit” anything, he probably would have done so a while ago, unless of course these interrogation specialists didn’t think of actually just plain out asking him.

“No, wait... I got it, get a western blonde female in a short skirt to ask him… because those people in the terrorist organisations we’re trying to find seem to trust westerners, particularly blonde females who don’t cover their whole body! He wouldn’t lie to her!”

Of course, I shouldn’t judge 60 minutes without having actually watched their show last night. Meh, I think that rekindling a relationship with my old friend “alcohol” was far more important.

May I turn into an alcoholic if I am wrong.

Dear Chuck and Cam: No one cares

This is a poem for the pending royal nuptials, and the media coverage surrounding it today. Bless their cotton socks. Yes, every one of them.

We’re getting married amongst the trees
The media just love to sleaze
But in the world is suffering, tragedy, disease
Oh well, please pass the cognac, Jeeves.

Korea’s nuclear arsenal is up and away
You can’t get married if you’re gay
But please pass the paper this way
I want to read about myself today

The wrongfully jailed Guildford Four
Rising interest rates and paying more
For clothes, cars, rooves and floors
But fret not, cos we aren’t poor.

Oppression, regimes and minimal wages
Death of intellectuals and wise old sages
Bizarre weather and tsunami rages
Look dear, we made the front pages!

In this photo you look really lithe
Their coverage really intrudes our life
Yet aren’t the media who cause this strife
The ones who killed your previous wife?

Soccer hooligans, and cricket louts
A child being fought over, after tsunami clout
But we’re on the front page, no doubt
Because we’re the only ones worth reading about.

I’m sure some monarchists would disagree with me, but I don’t think anyone gives a crap about some ugly bloke marrying the broad that he’s been banging for the past 100-odd years.

Oh well. Good luck to them.

On a related note, I’m boycotting the media for the next three months.

(Oh yes... and I can rhyme one-syllable words! I'm a genius!! Pfft.)

Terrible case… of mistaken popularity

Whilst I’m hardly one who would rush out to buy the latest single from Australia’s darling, Delta Goodrem, I can appreciate why she’s so popular.

For one, she produces some melodic, inoffensive tunes that surely tickle the heartstrings of the young-uns of today. For two, she’s gone through a well-publicised bout with cancer…well, at least cancer’s weaker, and somewhat less fatal, little brother, Hodgkin’s. For three, a prominent tennis ace dumped her for a little harlot whom a fair majority of the female population despises (and a fair majority of the male population has already seen naked). For four, she was the only decent looking chick on Neighbours, and now that she’s left the series, there’s no point in watching Neighbours anymore…

And that’s a good thing.

So, sure. She’s had it rough. Fair enough.

But riding this wave of popularity would have its pitfalls over time. Take, for instance, Delta’s latest single, Mistaken Identity. It is a trite little song, presumably autobiographical, seemingly about a girl who has changed, or is changing. I dunno, as I haven’t listened to it with any depth to my perception, mainly because this song is devoid of any charm, is poorly written, strains to be melodic and struggles to sound anything other than awkward. I’m sure the thesaurus-wielding 5 year olds who had a hand in writing this torture device are proud of the fact that it has hit the top 10, and are dancing gaily upon the deck of the ship powered by the winds of disease-fuelled popularity.

If anyone else performed this song, thousands upon thousands of punters would scorn them, and they would dissolve away to nothing like a vampire exposed to sunlight.

But anyway, the pitfall is that over time, people might eventually realise that the songs she releases are crap, and then Delta might be remembered as the “girl-who-was-popular-only-because-she-was-screwed-around-by-disease-and-by-horny-tennis-players”.

Which would be a shame. Because I’m sure she’s a charming girl (considering how she handled the harassment from the Triple J mob at the Aria’s), and she has released some… inoffensive… music in the past. But honestly, how long can she surf this wave of sympathy before people realise that her music bites?

Personalised Days

Well, we are exactly one week away from Valentine’s Day. A time of the year when girls anticipate extra romance and feeling swept off their feet all over again, and at the same time guys anticipate working extra hard for their root.

It’s far too easy for me to be cynical about this day, especially considering the current situation in which I find myself. But I guess whenever Valentine’s Day came around, I was the one gambolling around the house/office/method of public transport, sticking question marks in the face of the content woman or bloke holding flowers.

… before eventually giving in, and doing the whole romance thing.

It seems that we always reserve a particular day (or even a week) to do something that we should do everyday anyway. Like talking to your mother, father, and appreciating the country you live in, or maybe even being aware of some debilitating condition like diabetes, ebola or watching The Price Is Right.

But I guess these days simply serve us a reminder of the things we should be doing, and specifies a particular day that we put aside so that we can focus on that small responsibility.

So, I propose the following days, as well as those schmaltzy voice-overs for the advertisements.

To the guy next door: Hygiene Day. “You have neighbours, and you know they have a sense of smell. Show them that you appreciate their tolerance of that dead rat odour by cleansing your house. Enter our competition, and win a years supply of Fe-breeze.

To the creepy guy who walks down my street constantly: Blinders Day. “There are days where you like to be left alone and not be talked to. Acknowledge this by respecting that other people sometimes feel this way and please not try to glimpse in their front windows when you’re walking past their house. They’ve stopped getting changed in the front room, now. Also, do not speak to them when they’re gardening on Blinders Day. It’s likely that they’ve entered our draw for an exciting chance at winning a box of sharp pencils to stick in your eye.

To the chick that lives on the other side of my house: No Make-Up Day. Yes, you’re hot. Your neighbour gets it. Sometimes though, it would be good if the amount of make up you put on couldn’t double as a sealant in the cracks of your house’s foundation. Show people the REAL you by boycotting make-up… just for a day. Get a free scraper with every purchase of a trowel at Bunnings.

To some of the guys at my martial arts club: No Ego Day. You train exceptionally hard just so you can lay claim to be able to kick someone’s arse. We know that you’re finding an outlet for being picked on in high school, so settle down on No Ego Day. Everyone else is there to learn, so coming within one-tenth of breaking the newbie’s arm just to prove how hard you are probably isn’t in line with the spirit of the day. Free balloon and propeller-hat for the first 50 customers at Dr Nick’s Psychiatry.

To the guys I play tennis against: No-Ego Day. Same as above but replace “arm” with “racquet”, “learn” with “have fun” and “high school” with “general”.

To myself: No-Judgement Day. Settle down and take it easy, sport. No one is perfect, including yourself, you judgemental prick. Buy one Chill-Pill, get one free at Bob’s Backyard Amphetamines.

I’m sure I’ve missed a few people out of this, but hey... time permitting, I might think of some more.

Thank god I don’t have to go through this Valentine’s Day stuff this year. I think I got to the point that anything I did would pale compared to previous efforts. And it's difficult to think of new and exciting ways to tell someone that you love them. Using "Wuv" wears off after three years...

WYSIWYG People.

I have spent a rather large chunk of my life being the proverbial shoulder to cry on, the listener, the friend… good ol’ reliable, Aph. But now that my life has changed, I can go through bouts of depression, angst and anger. But, in a moment of inspiration, I figured that maybe should sit back and take some of my own goddamn advice.

ie Shut the fuck up, and deal with it.

To put things simply, and without going into too much detail, I have now entered the exciting, bright, all-singing-all-dancing, yet still intimidating and scary world of singledom. Whilst I know that to be welcoming of a new relationship so soon after one just ended is grossly imprudent, that knowledge still doesn’t stop this world from plucking out my eye-balls and headfucking me until the back of my skull aches.

To which I welcome back to my life the beautiful phenomenon known as “The Mixed Signal”. It can be a beautiful thing to behold, as it swings from one side of the spectrum to the other without notice, and with the flagrant and casual indifference of a wrecking ball.

I worked in IT for a while, and I found immense satisfaction in the use of WYSIWYG interfaces (What You See Is What You Get). Anything that required me to second guess what was going to happen on the screen frustrated me immensely, and often ended up with me putting the job off until tomorrow. Or causing me to utter curse-words under my breath, which probably didn’t go down too well with some of my more conservative colleagues.

In the case of The Mixed Signal, it suggests that what I see isn’t exactly what I’m getting, in which case it’s not worth putting off until tomorrow. Or the next day. Or ever. It suggests (to me at least) that there is much more going on in the other girl’s head than is immediately obvious, which (ironically enough) sends up a clear signal to steer well wide of this wrecking yard.

Screw you, Single World. I don’t wanna play your games. And give me my eyeballs back.

Shifting focuses

My blog has shifted focus somewhat. After initially hoping to scrutinise our local paper for their lack of ability and/or talent, I realised that this idea had already been done (much better) by the documentary, Outfoxed: Rupert Murdoch’s War on Journalism.

So the blog has shifted to being the outlet for my everyday observations. If you’re wondering why I’ve abandoned one idea because “it’s been done” for an idea that that is basically being done by the other 20-odd billion (approx) blogs out there, then my response is, “Because I want to. Besides, it’s therapeutic to outlet. Surely you don’t want me to bottle everything up inside only to snap one day and begin walking down the street swinging a claw hammer at random people? By the way, where do you live, and is there a tool shed nearby?”

Anyway…

I have written and re-written this entry about five times, each one covering a different observation of mine. However, after getting about 300 words into each version, I’ve read through them, and realised how self-centred, self-absorbed, egocentric and hoity-toity it all seems.

These are precisely the traits that I treat with disdain.

People go through a stage in their life in where they must do something called “finding themselves”. It is a time of discovery in where you try to define whom you are, and what things you like to do. Some people go to bars, socialise and chat up the foreign bartender, whilst other people travel to the ends of the earth to pull beers for the local, drunken morons.

I’d like to think that I have a firm grasp on who I am, but I am starting to think that the firm grasp is turning into a bit of a chokehold. I wonder if it is truly worth stepping beyond who I am and begin masquerading in a new role that I am not initially comfortable in.

People spend many decades trying to find themselves, but what do you do when you’ve found it? More importantly, what if you feel like punching you in the face? It’s not like you can just get up and leave your brain… mind you, it might explain a few of the vacuous and frankly quite disturbing conversations I’ve been having with people lately.

Well, regardless of other people’s Houdini brains, I think I’ll keep mine around, but try to explore something new for a change. Maybe I’ll stop trying to be Dr. Relationship to everyone. Maybe I’ll stop being the nut-bag who tries to find a silver lining in everything. Maybe I can try the self-centred, hoity-toity persona, and find some solace in pointing my finger at everyone else for all my woes.

Some people live very happy lives that way.