Insight

I’ve been asked to comment on a topic being aired by SBS’s Insight program. The topic is regarding sexual politics and the opinions voiced in Maureen Dowd’s book, Are Men Necessary? When sexes collide.

The last time I was asked to comment on this show’s topic, I was interviewed, prepared for the show… and then ignored. I don’t think I’ll comment this time around, because I know the topic isn’t worth arguing over.

The genders currently are unequal, apparently. As to which way the scales lean is dependent on your experiences, and possibly on if something dangles between your pegs eleven.

From what I’ve read, there are assertions made that women are being made to look like Jessica Simpson to land a man, and that intelligent women intimidate men… and therefore end up lonely.

The excerpts continue so far as to claim that the Y chromosome has been shedding itself of DNA, like how a Hollywood celebrity sheds themselves of reality, eventually stating that with the current rate of technological development that men won’t be required for reproduction.

Men will become instinct.

But lets not go too nuts (haw haw), shall we? Although a planet populated entirely of lesbians is something that many a male probably dreams about, lets point out a couple things.

If men aren’t that important… then why raise the point about how women try to be like Jessica Simpson to land one? Men are doomed to extinction, so why bother raising the point?

The question is posed about who is to blame for the apparent failure of the feminine movement, and yet I cannot help but think that answering that with a gender is erroneous. Well… to my DNA deficient, low life expectant, cannot ask for directions psyche it is.

Because it is usually the most beautiful women that are applauded by BOTH genders. I find it hard to believe that people would model themselves on someone who is intelligent if they have the face that looks like a run over rubbish bin.

You know… like Margaret Thatcher. In fact, I believed she did a stint with a run over rubbish bin on her head to make her more appealing to the public.

So, if I had my say (which I won’t), I would state that society, both genders, the media and our stupid fucking brains that like beautiful people is to blame.

And… if there were no men left, jars couldn’t be opened, rubbish wouldn’t be moved, lawns would rage out of control, and spiders would rule the planet.

If you would like a copy of the email I received from SBS, feel free to email me. They are seeking participants in the discussion.

But if I see anyone rip off my opinion…

(this post is mostly tongue-in-cheek - I love women. I do)

I'm against captivity

I love animals. It’s true. I heart animals so much that I simply cannot squash a pesky fly, step on a spider, kick a cat or harpoon a whale, instead preferring to let them back outside where they can be free to do their daily things like flying around, creeping people out, demanding room service or getting stabbed by “researching” scientists… respectively.

On the weekend I did take an opportunity to wander around the feeding grounds at Gumeracha’s Big Rocking Horse.

It is there that you can feed the myriad of swans, ducks, peacocks, and cockatoos all in the safe knowledge that these animals don’t bite.

Well, not that hard, anyway.

I’m not a big one on keeping animals in captivity, and the feeding grounds are a case in point.

I mean, it’s not because the birds and ducks don’t seem happy. They do. They waddle about, groom themselves and stick their bums in the air as they search for morsels on the bottom of the pond.

It’s not because it seems cruel. They get food given to them for eight hours a day. Whats not to like?

However, it seems that animals share much with humans. And to highlight this I will regale part of the story.

A swan spied me from a distance, and began its less-than-graceful waddle towards me, probably seeking some food. I’ve known some swans to be right old grumpy pricks sometimes, so I thought I would distract it by throwing some food on the ground.

Nope. That didn’t stop the swan’s charge. So I threw some more. Again, it went unnoticed, the swan’s death-charge increasing in intensity.

I grew concerned. Did it really want food? Or was it planning on starting an uprising, starting with the townie holding the food-bag?

Eventually it got to me, stopped, and waited. I reached into the feedbag and held out my hand. It nuzzled my palm and fed vigorously on the feast before it. After the swan finished eating that course, it waited with an expectant look on its face (it that’s possible). So I again pulled some food out for it to shovel into its beak.

After doing this a couple times, the swan eventually lost interest in me and walked off without so much as a crap on my shoes. I mean, anything that could’ve been interpreted as thanks would’ve been nice.

A honk. A nod. An evil hiss. A flapping of its wings. Anything!

In conclusion, providing a cheap home and granting constant handouts all the time turns them into ungrateful arseholes.

So, I’m against captivity because it makes them think they’re people…

In a Fit of Cowardice

On the bus this morning, a man had (what appeared to be – but I’m no doctor) an epileptic fit.

Fortunately he was okay; he didn’t bang his head when he collapsed, and he fell onto his side so he didn’t block his air passage. Yet, what I find most perplexing was my attitude to it. “Perplexing” in the “disgusted” kind of way.

I moved to help, but stopped myself for some reason.

First there was the permeating sense that I didn’t know what the heck to do. I mean, honestly… if someone is convulsing on the floor of the bus, there’s not much you can do. And even if I were to try and help, I wouldn’t know where to start.

Then there was the wonder of whether I get involved at all. This was despite the fact that there was no threat to anyone. There wasn’t a reason to be afraid of the ramifications of helping the poor fellow. I just didn’t want to get involved.

Then I felt self-conscious; as though helping him would be reason for ridicule.

So, there I was, frozen to the spot for reasons pertaining to my own ego as some stranger writhed and winced (in what I assume was pain) in front of me.

Fortunately for him, a kindly man approached him as the fit died down. He consoled him as the gentleman gathered himself up, looking quite confused and disoriented. The bus driver radioed for assistance whilst a woman behind me dialed the emergency number for an ambulance.

The rest of us looked on.

I would love to say that I didn’t help on the sole basis that I simply didn’t know what to do, but that would seemingly suggest that if I did know what to do, I would immediately bound to the man’s assistance and save the day.

Even if I knew what to do, I still doubt I would’ve helped him. Not because I’m a callous and heartless iceman who doesn’t want to help others.

But because I’m a disgusting, self-conscious, egotistical coward.

I study a martial art, but what would I do if I saw someone get attacked in the street? Would I come to their aid?

Would I stop a bag-snatcher if he was running towards me?

The only time I’ve used the art was when I (or a friend) was threatened directly.

I’d like to say that I don’t know the answer to those questions, but that’d be lying. I do know… I just hate the answer.

Youth, Exuberance... Synergy...

My office is replete with gorgeous women. It must be said.

All reek terribly of boyfriend, and many don’t seem to carry themselves with the confidence that normally afford such creatures of grace and beauty.

But all in all, I’m working in a gorgeous place. Top-notch, high-shelf, top sorts.

And no, Andy-a-la-Sleaze has not waltzed in, hairy chest and gold chain puffed out, and mullet groomed to perfection. Firstly, because he wouldn’t have any success with lay-dehs of this calibre. Secondly, because I’m content with my lot in life right now. And thirdly because Andy-a-la-Sleaze doesn’t exist.

I have worked for a number of other organisations, in different buildings, and I don’t think ANY of them has had the hottie:male ratio of this joint.

As for the reasons for this particular ratio, I can only come up with the following: This phenomena does indeed speak volumes for our organization (Ugh, I hate autocorrect’s mania for the letter “z”):

We like to portray ourselves as a sharp and dynamic place in where we pride ourselves of the professionalism in our work, and replicate that with our impeccable grooming and taste.

Or perhaps we celebrate youth and exuberance, bringing new and fresh ideas to the plate of corporate banquets.

Or we are trying to fuse youth with experience to try and shift paradigms, redesign boxes, create synergy and conjure buzzwords so that the organization is taken seriously as a big-time contender.

Or we are embarking on a new era of Public Relations, in where we seduce our clients with alluring class, sophistication and panache.

These would all ring true, and I sincerely hope that the hottie:male ratio ushers in a new world satisfied customers and gleeful finance officers, if it weren’t for the last possible reason I can think of:

Or… the old men in charge are sleaze bags.

Short post today. In summary: Lots of beautiful women. Sleazy men in charge. Me happy. The End.

(Disclaimer: This is not a slur upon the women of this office who no doubt were offered a job on the premise of their credentials… I sincerely do think that the old men around here are sleaze bags)

Kick off to 2006

I cannot state that my New Years Eve went totally to plan.

At 5.30pm I lit the Weber barbeque, waiting anxiously for the “cool change” to come through so that it didn’t hasten to the quickness of the heat bead toting roast maker.

For those not in the know, a “cool change” at Christmas time in Adelaide, Australia doesn’t involve much of a temperature drop… just an increase in wind speed.

As the kettle was heating, I thought it prudent to rush down to the booze-o to grab a carton of mid strength beer, as guests would be arriving at 7.00ish. That would give plenty of time for everyone to gather around and smell the roasts, just enough to whet the appetite.

I thought I’d left it a bit late to fetch some beer and ice, due to the fact that everyone gets their shit together earlier than me, and maybe that bottle shops might close early on NYE.

Not a chance. Everything was open, and they had plenty of ice bags to fill my bathtub.

Into the bath went various varieties of wine, beer and spirits that I had lying around (I didn’t have enough beer, hence the booze-run), and on top of that went the ice.

A breeze had commenced, which prevented the kettle from getting too hot, too quickly. The coals were ready, so on went the 3 marinated roasts.

Guests arrived fashionably and typically late, but I had bargained on this. The place was well prepped and suitably pristine. Conversation flowed, laughs were had and drinks were drunk.

The roasts turned out beautifully. I left the carving to the group’s alpha male, and he complimented the chef on how the meat fell off the bones. Hearty cheers all around as people scoffed food, leaving only a small carcass of chicken bones and cow leg.

Drinks continued well into the night. At the stroke of midnight, cheers echoed into the breeze and swept through my empty group of flats. Fireworks popped and sizzled overhead from random parties a few blocks away. SMS’s from friends not in Adelaide or Australia surprisingly arrived on the stroke of midnight.

It all continued until 6am. I decided to go the whole way through to the following evening, but the moment I turned my back, everyone had departed. So I went to bed.

All in all, it was a flawless evening, with good times had.

So no. I can’t say that my NYE went to my original plan.

I had originally planned to get stuffed around, get calls late in the day to say that other plans had been arranged, that I would get messages from those I didn’t want to get messages from and that I would spend the evening laying on my roof, staring upwards as whoops and cheers from other neighbouring parties spit at my ears and carried upward towards the indifferent stars.

Not that I’m complaining. :)