Articles by Paul McDermott

[Munchkin]

27/11/2002 Desire feasts on golden times, where all is fair and jus
03/12/2002 Struggle at the book stand: is Adolf invading Wally's world?
11/12/2003 When the daredevil Santa virus kills the mystery
18/12/2003 Quietly crackers as bon-bonhomie goes snap
26/12/2003
Buy paradise now and get Nivana absolutely free
It's christmas and once the bloated bellies have sunsided, it may be time to begin the quest. to find the window of opportunity before work and school recommence to have a break, to get away from it all - and find paradise
These days, Paradise has been lost, regained , brought, sold autioned off and, currently, is available on Ebay at a bargain price. We've rendered our Utopian visions commonplace. Every second hoilday destination is touted as Paradise. The beatific concept has been limited to palm-shrouded lagoons with luminous, white sands and crystal clear waters. Where are the frozen tundra or the muddy, Czech, poisoned-river paradises? And why must there be so many hammocks in Paradise? And why is it so barmy? and why does everyone else find it curious that Paradise can be so easily obtained for a small cash outlay at any travel agency? how many! times have we endured those TV travellers, with their unshakeable faith in the tourist industry, leaning into our lounge rooms sipping daiquirs and stating: "it really is Paradise"? If it really were surely
there'd only be one way to get there, and it's not on any Qantas flight path.
And unless baggage restrictions to the hereafter have changed, ther is no luggageof any kind allowed - especially television cameras. That's the other problem with this extraordinary place - it's always somewhere else. If you could find Paradise here on earth, you'd want it to stay in the one spot; no go gailivanting all over the planet. But Paradise is constantly changing it's postion. Countries, which just a few years ago were torn apart by war or civil struggles are now targeted as the "New Paradises" and the old familar ones have been re-zoned as destinations of fear
We even have one specifically for "Surfers" (and, although having a replica of Michaelangelo's David in a! food hall does place it significantly closer to heaven that this Sodom with its wandering Yellow Peril, it falls just short of ideal) If Paradise were out somewhere, waiting to be discovered, you just hope it wouldn't fluctuate so much. It should be flat, the same day in day out (or maybe just on a slight tilt to give you the impression it was getting better all the time)
If you can't locate your Paradise by any conventional means, you could scour the Internet. On Ebay alone there are some 5695 idiotcally subjective purchasable Paradises. Here, in the ghettos of Pardise, there's a poster of the late-1970's rock ensemble Styx* selling for 0.01 cent US (Guess where they're standing? Which throws up some interesting crossroads in the realms of mythological geography.)
While in the heights, there's Paradise Plastic Surgery Service - price depending on seasonal demand. In this realm, your exact vision of Paradise can stare back at you lovingly through gauze banda! ges and black bruised eyes a day after the operation
Each one of these Internet Paradises is more bizarre than the previous, and they escalate insanity, reaching a pinnacle in the chillingly normal "Sniper's Paradise" - now there's a site to set your sights on. Dedicated to professional men and women who engage in the morally dubious art of shooting other people (of God's creatures) from a great distance.
Once Pardise was something unattainable - a visions so splendid that it'd be corrupted if it came in contact with reality. To retain the notion of Paradise of somewhat desriable, we mustbe cautious in it's use. When used in conjunction with words like "Caravan Park", 'PVC piping and fixtures' and 'stuffed cane toads' we rob it of some of it's evocative power. How long before our beloved Moira sells us Paradise on Bert? A 100 per cent, Australian - owned Paradise at a fraction of others, and spruiked by stodgy men with english accents. "Buy now and get Nivana! and Utopia absolutely free. that's not all. The first 100 callers will recieve this perfectly rendered, handed crafted fascimile Elysian field"
If you order now, Paradise can be wrapped and under the tree for next year.
* Styx was a harmony-laden, soft rock outfit that specialised in the hysteric, windblown, epic ballard. They were one of the prettiest bands ever formed and, in the end, their profound beauty drove male fans away
Santa sightings continue: A Japanese Santa in a giant fish tank decked out in scuba gear amorously carvorting with a giant moray eel before he rubbed his rashie on a manta ray. When will it end?

01/01/2003 Acquiring the taste for history's glittering prize
08/01/2003 Where bulls fear to stampede, Steve Waugh goes
15/01/2003 When a burger becomes a metaphor
22/01/2003 In the temple of creases, seams, slips and covers
29/01/2003 Art's cutting edge: but really, it is just plain offal
05/02/2003 Saddam's gulf between reality and his `inner self'
12/02/2003 Catch a falling dream and put it in your bag of hippy tricks
19/02/2003 White-line fever sends suburb into a spin
26/02/2003 Demonstrating the new school of thought
05/03/2003 Contemporary mythologies - Madonna on the rocks
12/03/2003 Being more than a force of nature can be a little draining
19/03/2003 The 'Open Sesame' power of a four-letter word
26/03/2003 Infotainment - the rapid response vehicle for images of war
02/04/2003 I'm not afraid of the number 13
09/04/2003 Buck up or you could go over the edge
16/04/2003 So what if animals prefer a life without liberation?
23/04/2003 Fat chance of Christ regaining Easter initiative
30/04/2003 Nose for trouble something not to be sneezed at
07/05/2003 What's in a name? More than a little mischief
14/05/2003 Take one part rich diva, mix with two parts stud
21/05/2003 Stop passing the buck on children's party games
28/05/2003 'Allo, 'allo . . . or keeping a weather eye open
04/06/2003 Bored with TV? Call Foxtel: ask for Helen
11/06/2003 On a scale of one to 25, how paranoid are you?
18/06/2003 Rene's worries become an accessory after the fact
25/06/2003 The digital revolution is here
02/07/2003 Ice endeavours acted out on an arid frieze
09/07/2003 Kids: our dependable, new energy resource
16/07/2003 Revelations of a Sunday walk on the wild side
23/07/2003 Who you gonna call? Well, Parkie, of course!
30/07/2003 A new spin on signing on the dotted line
06/08/2003 Flat out getting from A to B in festival city
13/08/2003 Edinburgh's secret is that it is cobbled together
20/08/2003 A true spirit on the fringe of humankind
27/08/2003 Visiting fast-food eater battered into submission
03/09/2003 Hateful thoughts from middle-class malcontents
10/09/2003 It's all eyes on the prawn from the first bounce
17/09/2003 When family fun turned into a runaway train
24/09/2003 It stirs, awakens, arouses: it's the call of morning TV
01/10/2003 Seeing clearly after a walk up the golden path
08/10/2003 Tectonic-like fault line shows cracks in society
15/10/2003 The new education - it all adds up
22/10/2003 Surviving that age-old dilemma

29/10/2003
Diddled by those attractive bargains
Five centuries after its origins in Morocco, the West has cottoned onto "suggestive selling".
It's been mocked and ridiculed across the globe and used as a punchline in films and plays. Its simplicity has seduced us, entering our language while we slumbered. We've all heard it, many of us have spoken it, but do we really understand what it means?
The seemingly harmless expression "Do you want fries with that?" is the thin edge of the wedge that dominates and controls the way we spend.
This story begins five centuries ago with the market sellers of Morocco. It was here a style of haggling developed where the buyer would always appear to profit. It was a deception brilliantly described in Richard Burton's wonderful lurid translation of the Thousand and One Nights. Although well-known and practised in the East, it would take until the late 1950s to be "discovered" by the West.
Post-war Europe and the Allies create a tiered technique of "suggestive selling" based on the work of the "Moroccan Masters". The objective: to revitalise cities and villages economically disadvantaged during conflict by incrementally increasing a populace's spending without their knowledge. After years of theoretical work, the concept was ready to be tested and it came down to a question of size and semantics.
Let us examine here the tri-tiered model of small, medium and large (imagine, if you will, three containers of soda pop). Originally any size was relative to the one preceding it. This needed to change for the new system to work. The population had to adopt a fresh approach to capacity and volume, one where words no longer had a connection with measurement. Thus the new "small" is the old "tiny", the new "medium" the old "small". But here's where the developers' ingenuity must be admired - the new large is the old large - just slightly more expensive.
Thus, by comparison, the new large is "enormous", and therefore the only rational choice a person could make. The result: more money is spent than initially intended and more product consumed, enabling the wheels of industry to turn a little faster. And, best of all, the customer believes they've scored a bargain.
To fully understand the effectiveness of this campaign, it's important to note only large beverage containers have been produced since 1978. Old stocks of small and medium containers have been sufficient for demand since that date.
This concept rapidly broke free of the confectionery counter with the simple template now used in virtually every industry. Everything can be made more attractive if you believe you're getting something for nothing.
You may have noticed this same system has infiltrated video rental stores, where the 3-for-1 deal is fraught with danger. The "suggestor" will encourage you to return to the shelves to take advantage of "the bargain". These well-trained trainees know what you only suspect. They know you'll never have enough time to watch three videos, you'll never be organised enough to bring them back on the due dates and you'll always be in debt.
If you're ever stuck in a line at a video store these days it's not because people are renting videos, it's because they're paying fines. They've even taken the notion further with the "only pay half the late fee if you pay when you return the video" concept. Here lies the immaculate perversity of suggestive selling. Suddenly you feel you're saving money paying a fine you wouldn't have incurred in the first place if you hadn't been tempted by the bargain.
Wherever you spend you'll find these forces at work. From Brazilian waxing (do it all for less) to car dealers and from property developers to religious organisations. Plastic surgery has embraced the philosophy. If you're going in for a touch of rhinoplasty, obviously feeling encumbered by a grotesque proboscis, you'll be offered an ear tuck or a tummy tighten as a package deal at a "discount rate".
In some countries the interminable wait for a heart transplant can be swifter if you do the whole family in one go. Even as we speak, the Americans are upgrading Iraq. There's no end to the applications for the new sell and I, for one, "am loving it".

05/11/2003
Succumbing to nags? Heaven help us!

12/11/2003
Looking a gift horse in the mouth
Modern society has devalued the true worth of our equine friends by focusing on their racing and show-jumping ability.
Horses! Horses! Horses! A week after the race that stops a nation and those prancin' thoroughbreds have not left our screens, our papers or our hip pockets. *
We've ridden on the horses' back as often as the back of the sheep, but history may record it was the horse we truly fleeced. The horse: it fought our battles, won our wars, shaped our destiny, entered our folklore, permeated our dreams. From the white steed with its flowing mane and celestial grace to the dark horses of chance or the pitch- black horses of Hades. We've journeyed hand in hoof and rump in saddle over every imaginable landscape with these magnificent creatures. So how have we allowed this relationship, one of the most important in human existence, to sour? Why do we only praise the brutish speed of the beast? Why do we ignore the passion, the artistry and unbridled intellect of horse?
In the closing quarter of the 19th century, the horse began the slow fade as a convenient mode of transport; flesh and willpower were superseded by slavishly obedient metal and gears. The horse was forgotten, sent out to pasture. In the past 30 years, this paragon of animals has fallen further, relegated to the walls of pre-pubescent girls. These poster ponies, as they've come to be called, are the new elite of the equine world. Pampered and kept in peak condition only to be snapped in salacious poses by some of the world's leading photographers. They've got the look most of their stable mates can only dream of. But this obsession with physical perfection can come at an enormous personal cost to the horse. Some, primarily the perpetually vain palomino and Dutch warmblood, become obsessed by their own reflection and end up gnawing at their mirrors like demented four-legged budgies. Others, mainly the fillies, have developed eating disorders.
While their posters sell, their visual art does not. Cats and elephants, two leading lights in the competitive world of animal art, have always been pleasant, if pedestrian, painters. The horse - a late starter in this pursuit - has trailed in the field, failing to captivate the public's imagination. The poor pony lacks the expressive action-painting paws of the cat or the pachyderm's extraordinarily multifunctional trunk. The horse was also born with a distinct disadvantage when it comes to mixing colour. This is why horses have turned their hooves to sculpture. In a new movement originating in the soft earth of villages near Seville, a prepared ground of clay is presented to the equine artist. The horse is then allowed to express by wandering, bolting or defecating over the surface. The resulting impressions are then fired or bronzed and hung as friezes. These stampings are emotive and passionate responses to the clay and have drawn praise from the art world, with comparisons to the late religious work of Rothko and the transcendental sand-mandalas of the Tibetan monks. (A recent addition to the form is the patterned horseshoe, enabling more creative and complex designs.)
The horse was a star of the vaudeville circuit 100 years ago, entertaining everyone from the crowned heads of Europe to the huddled masses crammed into circus tents. The horse was loved, it was even accepted as an equal in many pubs. Amazing stories abound: one foppish Clydesdale was praised for having the wit of Wilde, there was Sorah the Shetland contortionist that could squeeze into a glove box, and the most popular show pony of the day, Madame Zara de Pune from Cheeky Nat. Not only could she count to 10, add, subtract and multiply but she could also solve complex equations. This plucky pony alerted the authorities to design faults in the Wiggen Suspension Bridge (1904), averting disaster and saving the lives of dozens.
And what of the ancient acrobatic horses? We've seen these gymnastic marvels in Cretan cave paintings, but where are their contemporary counterparts? Why have so few made the jump to the highwire or the trapeze?
There's so much more to the horse than its racing ability. We must focus on all its talents, its beauty, art and intellect. We need to act now. We cannot wait for another Mr Ed to explain it to us.
* Obviously, with the world situation people have a tendency to panic but the expression "The race that stops a nation", does not refer to any minority group, or ethnic organisation hell-bent on destroying this most generous of countries. Yet.

[Munchkin]

19/11/2003
Combating them viral monsters
Nature's healing powers emerge after a bruising ride on the cash cow of modern medical treatment.
All my demons are coming home to roost. They blew in a week ago. I reckon it was the day I struck myself off my own Christmas list and, let's be honest, there was only ever one name on it. Those viral monsters overcame me in an instant.
Pityriasis rosea that's what the quack called them, but I know better. I recognise their little games. The way they keep me awake at night, the way they make me scratch. They hide in those hard to get to places like the back of me ganglia. Now I got a red jump-suit of lumps to wear when naked - salmon-red, copper-coloured. They say it's just a rash, but I know it's them demons. How stupid them doctors, with all their long hours of study, not to know this.
I forgot to keep my guard up and they poured through my unprotected territorial waters, wading ashore. How? Up the highway olfactory or down me gob? Am I allergic to something? Don't know. No one does - oh, she's a fine mystery indeed. What I know is this: they're externalising my internal struggle. They pop out of my skin. A legion of them marched across the sparse plain of my breastbone on day one of the campaign.
By day three they've sent out scouting parties to check for weak spots in the epidermis defence. They find them, back of the knees, scapula. They surround me dolly dots.
Day five - a force sweeps south but they're lost in the mangrove of my abdomen. Later the same day another group makes a pincer movement above my arse and descends in the marshlands. I'll never be able to track them there, that whole place is off bounds.
Then it's get meself checked out and I'm off to get fixed. Now I don't know how it sits with you, but as soon as I cross the threshold into that space, with its waiting room and antiseptic, I've gone back to the Dark Ages. Me good brain seizes and me book learning's lost and I'm a great, frightened sore held together by skin with a million minuscule Krakatoas ready to blow.
(They're acting up now. Trying desperate to stop me typing. They're all crying out to be scratched. They hate me telling ya 'bout them. It diminishes their power.)
So I'm in that place to see one of them generals. He's all smiles and handshakes and where's ya card and Give the Girl the Money. Then, without so much as a by-your-leave, it's strides down, knees up.
Before I know it, there goes me hard-earned and I'm out the door, off to get me scans. There's one fiddy I'll never see again - 'cept on a light box. And I've got me scans now tucked under me arm. Them demons didn't like that, by jingo, they complained all the way. (Why go? Have a drink! What if they kill you? Have a few drinks.) Then, you know already don't you? I've got to go back and see the general. I'm on the medic-go-round. Oh, and she's a dizzy ride, believe me. I gets sent from me general to me chemist to me specialist, and from me specialist back to me general to me chemist.
That's how they work, them quacks. One gives it to another and so on and so forth, and then you're back with all them demons still intact. If youse are asking me, they're the virus. They're the contagion.
Then there's them others, them naturalists, them herbalists. Some of thems I talk to say this is just me old life rotting away, and I'm required to undertake this journey to bear new fruit. This filth is from the earth, they say. I'll be needing other elements - fire, water, air - to be rid of it. Well, I don't hold to that mumbo jumbo, but a day at the beach has sent them scaly demons packing. I discovered the little red monsters don't like the sun. And they don't like the ocean. Don't like 'em at all.
Still, maybe we won't have to worry about them quacks with their lotions and potions and Latin names for demons for too much longer. The way it's all going, we'll be back to them comfy Dark Ages before long.

26/11/2003
Peaceful restitution of the apostrophe!
A voice can be a sporting event, but politics is where you can really show your colours.
It was a week of glory, tragedy and rebellion: seven days since Guy Sebastian was crowned; four days since Australia went down in the rugby; and three days since a peaceful protest changed power in Georgia.
The finale of Australian Idol was last Wednesday. Whether you were a follower of the series, a dedicated SMSer fascinated by the cultural significance, or bored to your brain stem, Australian Idol has been impossible to ignore. It generated phenomenal interest, ran itself ragged on media hype, was struck by scandal and created instant celebrity, testing Einstein's theories of relativity and Warholian notions of fame at the same time. As a competition, it signified that the voice could be a sporting event.
Inside the Opera House, the audience was a frenzied mob. There were more standing ovations than at a season of Pavarotti, more placards than at a revolution and more heartfelt passion than at the World Cup.
It'd be difficult for anyone to sing at the Opera House, with its history and grandeur, but, for someone who last hit their boot straps at the local karaoke, it'd be a daunting prospect. The finalists showed they all had a right to claim centre stage, with their voices soaring majestically. Guy's final performance had people in tears, partly because they couldn't see him. There was so much tinsel, a guided missile couldn't have found its mark. For a minute or two, he was completely lost in the glittering, fluttering spectacle. He appeared again when the tinsel submitted to gravity and that's when it happened. Who knows how many saw it? But for the briefest moment, his hair, the perfect catchment for a paper drop, held two silver-gold hunks of show-confetti curled into demon horns. As the congregation flocked to the edge of the stage, the "angel of Idol" became the Rosemary's Baby of song. Was it a glimpse into the future? The double-edged sword of fame? With a shake of the noble afro, they were gone. If only the clamouring masses and the gluttonous industry were so easy to dismiss.
With Guy's voice, the room found great beauty, but it also found great flaws, primarily in the area of spelling and national identity. "Guy your the best, Your the One!" A hundred signs, not one apostrophe. Of the placards lovingly worked by devotees of the 'fro, most included spelling mistakes, grammatical errors and, at the very least, poor calligraphy. The placard which read "Guy for President" was completely dismissive, or ignorant, of the Westminster system. The only way it could be given a positive spin was by imagining it was fuelled by a zestful desire to redress the forgotten topic of the republic. As we wonder what it is to be Australian, it's best not to forget we have a PM. It's understandable that a child might be loath to write Guy for Prime Minister (and the dainty, size fives of J.H. would be tricky to fill), but there's a number of high-profile positions within government that'd be attractive - Minister for Immigration, Minister for the Arts - or Governor-General. Although a spelling error on "arts" could be damaging on the international stage. More shame will descend on this country if the Swedes, the Danes and the Italians prove to be better at our language when World Idol commences. Even rugby union supporters, not known for their penmanship, had fewer spelling mistakes on their placards on Saturday night.
Saturday night! Our loss affected me and I don't even like union. Sometime after 12am, misery turned the channel to find the mocking finger of fate.
There was breaking news of the Velvet Revolution in Georgia. I felt for the dynamic people seizing power. Their passion and solidarity flooded from the screen. It was a momentous and beautiful scene and yet a trifle nauseating - history was rubbing salt into our national wounds. The rebellious Georgians were holding aloft the colours of victory, the red and white, the standard of St George. Coincidence? Or had news of the Wallabies' loss fired the locals into action? Were the red and white the colours of the opposition or had bloody, English backpackers gatecrashed another revolution?
Whatever the cause, it was impossible to like them, as our loss will be permanently tied to the Georgian triumph. At least there was no red and white at the Opera House. Hopefully, when Guy takes on the world, there'll be revenge for the rugby.

03/12/2003
Horrorscope for a blighted star sign
Born under the sign of the Scales? You'll cop a cosmic caning from a newspaper columnist today. Count on it.
We're drawing close to the close of another year. As the loose ends of 2003 are neatly tied up over the next month, it's time to cast our attentions to the possibilities of 2004. What does the coming year hold for each of us? As we're shunted ungraciously along the moving walkway of time, what horrors, what joys await? For some, the greatest aid in understanding the linear path of existence lies above us. Overhead, the mysteries and patterns of our lives play out nightly. We're descendants of the stars and insight into their passage allows us to control our destiny. The Zodiac is a gift from the heavens that holds the key to our lives. It's found in all ancient cultures and one constant unites all its disparate forms: an intense dislike of Librans.
Where all the other signs are interesting dynamic creatures made of flesh and bone, with hearts and minds, Librans are a set of scales - two prissy metal dishes, a couple or rods and a pin. Did the ancients run out of ideas?
Did they just gaze around the room and say, "that'll do"? They could've grabbed anything out of the kitchen cupboard and it would've been more interesting. They could've given another creature a guernsey, maybe something with wings. And while a set of scales may've been an olde worlde mercantile necessity, it's hardly fitting to symbolise your existence. This could be the reason why every Libran, without fail, is dull and lifeless as untreated hair.
Has a Libran ever achieved anything? Has any single member of this miserable mob of star-gazing nobodies left a mark on the globe? Has a Libran ever imparted any wisdom to the world? Has this hapless celestial clan ever produced any philosophers, poets, painters or great lovers? Ha! Can anyone out there name a famous Libran? (And justly acquired fame, not achieved through deceit or plagiarism or criminal activity.)
All our star signs' fortunes may vary, business dealings may fail, relationships may spoil, but it's nothing compared to the continuing travesty of a Libran's existence. They never encounter tall, dark and handsome strangers, they're always up to their tiny, tinny dishes in debt, awash with misery.
It's amazing that Librans, like lemmings, do not engage in a massive group culling. If your life is going down the toilet, without even the hope of a vegetarian diet to keep it afloat, have a gander at a Libran's star chart. In 2003 the most frequently used word was rocky. Their weekly readings are typified by lethargy and boredom punctuated by periods of indecision. It must be a cosmic mockery to be defined as scales when you can never get your life to balance.
Being a student of phrenology, and other lost sciences, I can confidently state that Librans are identifiable by their prominent noses and out-of-kilter ears. As Christmas parties escalate there's little doubt you'll encounter one of these unfortunates.
I've managed to do a bit of research and as far as I can ascertain no other star sign is suited to the Libran. So when they name their star sign throw them a quizzical look, as if you're not quite sure what star sign that is. Keep them under that confused scrutiny until they break. It'll only take a second. Then they'll shift uneasily and, by way of an apology, tilt their heads at 45 degrees. Their eyes will fly skyward, to the left. They'll clench their mouth in one corner and bend their arms, palms up. And then they'll move from side to side pretending to balance air. They'll impersonate a set of scales. It's the most demeaning exhibition you'll ever witness in mixed company.
You never see Taureans creating horns with their fingers and charging red cloths or Virgos out to prove it. This technique must be ingrained in Librans at birth. They all do it. It's one step away from "I'm a little teapot". And confirms in my mind their inability to function as rational adults. You're a set of scales, for God's sake, that's one step down from carrying water, you may as well be a goat.
But there's hope. With some minor adjustment we could easily reduce the Zodiac to 11 living signs. That means three extra days for the rest of us. To avoid the continuance of the Libran curse, it's considered best to avoid sexual activity with a view to birth, from mid-January to the end of February. Good luck.

10/12/2003
Smashing through the glow, with a well-sauced, verbal spray . . .
Behind the jingling bells and cheery veneer of the festive season lurks ruination. It's called the Office Christmas Party.
Oh, the Office Christmas Party, with its tantalising promise that something interesting might happen. Oh, the Office Christmas Party, with its bland inescapable conclusion. Oh, the Office Christmas Party, the ruination of the nation. As Andrew Bartlett fumbles around for where he left his dignity, much like Malcolm and his trousers but less visually confronting, we must all assess our approach to the OCP.
It's in the genetic composition of Australians to be brought undone by revelry. We're a people who enjoy too much fun - the fun beyond fun, when fun turns into a nameless horror precipitated by hours of unmitigated joy. A joy usually acquired through the unrelenting ingesting of alcohol and the manly discussion of sport.
"Christmas" and "party" are two fine and dandy concepts, but when they're brought in contact with the third element, the "office", disaster follows. With the marriage of these three words you enter a Bermuda Triangle of stupidity from which there's no escape. It takes a Herculean effort to survive the annual party with your reputation, or lack of it, intact. Only a mortal with the constitution and the mental stamina of Ulysses is suited to the task. Once you've decided to go to the OCP, it's most important you know when to leave. (Below are notes based on personal experience).
ALWAYS LEAVE THE PARTY:
• When any member of staff says, but no, I really love you.
• When what you believed was witty banter was, in fact, a year's worth of bile and self-aggrandisement (often you won't realise this until the next day which is, of course, too late).
• When anybody (including yourself) throws up in the fuchsias.
• When you find yourself dancing to the pina colada song alone, and mouthing the words.
• When you find yourself dancing between two members of staff you've never met before.
• When you find yourself dancing.
When you enter the party always check for the nearest and most convenient exits. Immediately locate the toilet. You will usually find two tables on either side of the door. These are twin whirlpools of disaster, equally as deadly. One will be laden with rubbing alcohol and what's affectionately referred to as the punch, and the other will hold crisp lines of jeering canapes. Both are capable of bringing you instantaneous comfort, both are breeding grounds for bacteria, both are a toxicologist's wet dream. (Over the coming week, six workers will be struck down by a mysterious tummy bug and five will ring in sick with some kind of unrelated alcohol poisoning).
The hum of the fluros will be seductive, and you may feel yourself veering towards the punch, but with your partner's hand steady on your rudder, chart a course between the tables. You'll find yourself on the far side of the room punchless and canapeless in OCP no-man's land. You'll notice the party has already started to factionalise. Blocking a clear run to the toilet are the people you avoided for a year, while obscuring the exits are the friends you never want to see again.
Before you can formulate your best plan of attack, you'll be caught flat-footed. Her name is Sharon but they call her the lost weekend, which is the amount of time you lose if you ask a seemingly harmless question like: And how are the kids? Sharon will cheerfully ferry you to the land of conversational death. You'll be helpless to stop her. The punch you avoided will land in your hand and suddenly appear like your salvation. Try to refrain from drinking. If you drink all is lost.
Having accepted you'll drink, as the OCP wears on you'll be lured by the photocopier's siren song, engage in an argument with a one-eyed colleague and do battle royale with some playfully festive seafood.
The next morning, the sun will beat down relentlessly, baking the few brain cells the punch didn't snatch. Outside your car the world is white, bleached of all definition. The passing trees will cause the light to strobe and even though you're not an epileptic you'll feel a fit coming on. And you know, even before I write it, you're going to spend the entire day trying to forget what you can't remember saying. Good luck.
This story is a work of fiction and in no way relates to any OCP I may, or may not, have attended in the past week. All characters are fictional and/or about to be recently deceased.

[Munchkin]

17/12/2003
Aquaplaning along a sleepless dream
When sleep remains elusive, bittersweet memories can embrace the mind, forestalling dreams and capturing a stranger's pain.
I 've not been able to sleep for the past few nights. There's no time. No time to get all the presents, no time to send all the letters, no time to sleep. And last night our apartment was assaulted on two fronts by Christmas carousing. We were caught in some devilish party pincer.
The balcony directly opposite was clustered with 20 thirtysomethings listening to Underworld and chanting in thick English accents "lager, lager, lager".
The terrace, at the back, had 30 twentysomethings bouncing with Beyonce and groovin' to R&B greats.
At some time in the wee small hours order was restored, but it was too late for me. I was caught in a rip, dragging me further and further away from sleep. My thoughts were spiralling in that manic frenzy afforded by insomnia. I needed to dive into my dreams, to immerse myself in them, but all night I was floating, flying above sleep - aquaplaning across my subconscious. With this one, old persistent memory constantly bobbing up.
It's a few years back. My girlfriend and I decided to hit the markets and dig up some unique Chrissy gifts. It's a topsy turvy world at the markets and we believed somewhere, amid the out and out dross, the detritus of second-hand stalls, and the generic ceramic clocks, we'd find something special - a pair of hand-made clogs from Mozambique, a set of carved wooden zebras from Holland.
Full of hope we plunged into the stalls, but after four hours surfaced with nothing. We needed to regroup, refresh and reassess our plan. Most importantly we needed a nice warm bevy and a place to sit. There was nowhere. All the cafes were crowded with ``successful" Christmas shoppers. Every inch of space occupied by blissful families or loving couples surrounded by boxes of kindness savouring a late afternoon latte.
We plonked in the gutter for a while, but after almost getting hit by a bus, a bicycle and a Daimler we thought it best to move. We took refuge in the local church. Off to one side, over a low wall, was a green park bench. It was here we finally sat down allowing the frantic world to pass us by.
We talked about profit and loss, and seasonal tithings, and what-the-hell was that song that sounded like Megadeath and Bon Jovi had recorded a Christmas carol together and why on earth would you play it, even at a time of "goodwill to all men"?
It was getting late and the sun was low on the horizon. I only mention this because if it was at any other angle I may never have noticed the crack.
The sunlight fell against the adjacent wall giving it a rich orange glow. About five bricks from the base of the church was a gap where some mortar had come away. The light forced itself into the breach and illuminated an edge, an edge of something sparkling from the hollow.
I rose from the bench and seconds later was excitedly pushing my fingers between the wounded bricks to extract a curled piece of paper, a letter, a petition, a message in a bottle afloat in the side of church. I half expected to open the paper to find myself the victim of an elaborate hoax, like the time I was caught in a crossfire of giggles trying to prise a glued coin from the pavement.
Today there's no laughter just the fragile paper opening/crumbling in my hands. The silvery residue that had caught my eye turned out to be dried crystalline slime from a slug's arse, perhaps countless slugs' arses. Silverfish had eaten paths through the words. Water had damaged the surface and in places the blue letters were hopelessly, illegibly blurred. The rigid rectangle of the A4 sheet had been obliterated, fraying into the air like an outline of land, worn, organic.
What remained was enough to tear a hole in your heart. It was written in a quaking spidery hand. I read it aloud in the fading light. It was a woman's story. A story of loss and unsettling tragedy, of faltering faith, of easy and desperate solutions - and of decisions too difficult to make. It was a silent prayer, a hope for the future, a plea to be remembered.
We sat for a while without speaking. Then we wondered when the letter was written, how long had it waited to be discovered, and what had become of its author. We wondered how many other messages were set adrift in the brickwork of buildings and we were reminded, in a time of joy, of the immense sadness in the world. In a day where we'd not found anything for anybody it was strange to find a little something from someone. I slipped it back into its home between the bricks.
I've not thought about that day for a long time.
Now to get some sleep.

28/01/2004
Game for anything on a slow afternoon
The game of chess is a classic: simple, elegant and open to all sorts of bizarre permutations.
W e were on a post-Christmas mission - slumming down at the nameless monster-mart in search of a way to waste the afternoon. We had to get off the street as soon as possible. It was crazy out there. People were in a returning frenzy. "Goodwill to all men" goes out the window during the January sales. There was road rage in the express lanes. All we were after was a game, a simple game. Something for two or four players. Something that evoked memories of youth and intoxicating summer laziness.
Then, like an oasis of calm in the middle of the mall, we saw it - the tobacconist's. On one side smokes, on the other side games. I'm not sure what games and cigarettes have common but here they were, united in splendour. We ducked out of the slipstream of shopping trolleys and cruised into the store.
The tobacconist, a pleasant man with yellow fingernails, wheezed his shock at our approach. No one had crossed his threshold the entire Christmas season (for gone are the heady days when the gift for anyone over 16 was a cartoon of Winnie Reds). Ah, the tobacconist's, the last bastion of smoky bad taste. Dusty shelves clustered with seamy adult games all within the reach of an inquisitive eight-year-old. Here Cluedo vied for space between walking peckers and soap-on-a-rope. The place was stacked to the roof with stuff that hadn't made the cut for the two-dollar shop. No store in existence presented a more desperate or disparate array of goods. Ramses-inspired "art works" printed on authentic papyrus-look cartridge paper jostled with "smokers' paraphernalia". Turkish hookahs stood by strangely unappealing ceramic cats. But where else would you go for some fine-leaf, easy-rolling Arkansas Port and porno playing cards?
Amid all this mess there were dozens of chess sets. I love the idea of chess, although I've lost every game in recent memory. It's the finest of all games; the simplicity of 64 squares and the elegance of 32 pieces honed over centuries to perfection. But chess is being marketed for a new generation. The game has been updated and the pieces have undergone an extreme makeover. You can now purchase The Simpsons chess set, the Stars Wars set, The Cuban Missile Crisis set or the West Side Story set. And ploughing into the pile they became more and more bizarre.
I was both fascinated and appalled by this phenomenon. How long before other classic games are corrupted in this manner? Will 'Go' succumb? Or backgammon? In a thousand years will semi-contemporary classics like Galaga or Tetris be treated with such disrespect? Will they need to be "updated"?
An exclusive Philippe Starck design had all the pieces looking like variations on extruded and elongated spermatozoa. There was a Reagan Years themed set where I discovered the king can move in any direction - including off the board. The Balkans chess set allows anywhere between two and five players and the only objective is to get rid of all the other pieces. The most recent addition was a Dr Phil version of the game where there's absolutely no conflict and all the issues are resolved before you even start the clock. This lets the pieces quietly mingle in their box in the hope of discovering worthwhile life partners. This set was in stark contrast to the most offensive product - The White Supremacists chess set. In this particularly odious adaptation there are no black pieces, just two armies of whiter-than-white, white-trash pieces. The best ending for this game would be a stalemate where two sad, lonely white kings pursue each other, one square at a time, around an empty board.
After being in the store for over an hour we were forced to admit there was nothing we wanted to buy. The storeowner lamented his business was a disaster. In his homeland everyone smoked and everyone played chess and everyone wanted to grow up to be a tobacconist. But not here. He'd not make the same mistake again. Next year he hopes to open a day spa. A day spa that caters for cigarette-smoking chess players. Sort of like a Turkish bath, he said.
Afterthought: A confession.
I once soiled my hands in India on an antique miniature set where all the pieces were carved from ivory. I know it was wrong. The pawns were delicately shaped yet barely five millimetres high and even the Queen, who towered over the rooks, was no taller than a thumbnail. The friend I was travelling with was appalled to be playing on a set peopled by the remains of a protected and endangered animal but she consoled herself because the pieces were so small. She convinced both of us they must've come from the tusks of very, very tiny elephants.

04/02/2004
The Art of Sweating, presented by Botox
What is it that makes people feel they have the right to suggest “improvements” to a total stranger?
I was working recently and a gentleman walked up to me and asked a question. It was a simple question and it was not meant to make me immediately reassess my physical appearance.*
However, this is precisely what it did because it was a question with a subtext. A subtext that suggested there was something wrong and, more importantly, that something could be fixed. Other examples of this sort of question include: Have you thought of rhinoplasty? You know that could be lasered off? Have you considered Prozac? Why don't you brush occasionally? It may not be my place, but which eye should I be looking at?
Normally you're prepared for these sorts of questions, they don't come gunning for you out of the blue. Normally you’re not surrounded by a small eager crowd waiting to hear the prognosis. There’s only one thing worse than someone sincerely suggesting you need a little work on you head and that’s a group of strangers overhearing someone suggesting you need a little work on your head.
The question: “Have you ever thought of Botox for that?”
My face froze, not in an injected way but as a natural reaction to the query. The gentleman was taken aback my expression. It was something he may not have seen for a while, especially if he had a hands-on relationship with the product. I felt around for my catalogue of comebacks and found nothing save a dumbfounded “what?” To my continued astonishment he asked the same question again, this time proffering a card. He was a doctor. A doctor should know better.
“Have you ever thought of Botox for that?”
“For what,” I cried, “Botox for what?”
I was of exposed neuroses. Why did I ask? I knew what the Botox was for. It was for my sagging jowls, for my grotesquely lopsided ears. It was to bring life back to the pale orange scum flaking off the corners of my mouth. It was for my non-existent upper-lip and the way the skin beneath my nose runs headlong into my teeth. It was to cull the crow’s feet, the ones that made my sockets into a high-density nest. Or maybe it was to lift and separate my eyebrows which have been growing together with a Kahloesque zeal for the past three years? Can Botox cover grey? Is it good for wayward nasal hair?
His response: “For the sweating.”
You may be unaware that another of the miracles of Botox is it stops you sweating, depending on where you have the shots. You’ll still sweat an equal amount just from other places. I wondered if you could choose those places.
For instance, could you seal off all the sweat glands apart from the ones around the groin? And if this worked, and you wanted to freak people out even more, could you design a sweat waterfall round your left ear? Or make your nipples into sprinklers? Perhaps you could find a creative-artistic-doctor-injector-type and modify yourself to only sweat in patterns. You could begin with simple designs, maybe a perfect circle on your back or a tetraskele on your torso. You could experiment, refining your style, creating more challenging and complex pieces: your family’s heraldic crest, the curvilinear interlacing of a Celtic cross, a blaze of snow crystals.
With the small crowd pressing closer I claimed I was happy with my sweat. “I may sweat like a pig sir,” I snorted, “but at least I don’t behave like one.” Then loudly scoffing I sent the emissary of vanity packing. There’s only one problem, I can’t let go of the card, it’s fused to my hand, constantly tempting me. Tempting me to see the “realer” me - not as I am, but how I could be: better, stronger, faster, drier than before. I keep thinking about the wonderful worlds awaiting a man with patterned sweat and after all it’s only a little botulism.
*Writing is my first love but, sadly the financial gain is not commensurate with the amount of time one spends labouring. Thus, occasionally, I’m forced to find other forms of employment so I can afford to buy myself luxuries like tap water.
#Botox, I’m reliably informed, never disappoints. But if it did, how would you know? Ninety per cent of our communication is still visual. It’s similar to when you receive a gift you dislike and even on cross-examination maintain the deceit you love it. Your family/friends only know you’re trying to protect their feelings when you inadvertently scrunch up your face. What happens if you can no longer scrunch your face? How do you voice your disapproval if you’ve lost your facial body language?
[typed by Amanda]

11/02/2004
Welcome to the university of life
Try not to fret about missing out on a place at university. There are plenty still available at the school of hard knocks.
A CLOSED LETTER TO THE MUMS AND DADS
It's important the youngsters don't read this. Hopefully they tuckered themselves out by the second paragraph and have gone to hit their Nintendo. There's another more insidious reason why unis are dangerous. I think we all know what it is. . . .
The image of the libidinous academic in a tweed jacket with patch sleeves preying on vulnerable minds and nubile bodies is as pertinent today as it was yesterday. J. P. Sartre, one of the ugliest men to ever wrangle tenure, still managed to "get it on" quite regularly because impressionable pre-fems thought he had it "up top".
Universities are the province of the elderly rake and these predators do not limit themselves to gender. Let us not deny many of these "lecher-ers" possess the Wildean wit. Which is to say, they don't beat around the bush, they're well-versed in the Samurai code, exponents of early Greek philosophy and in the words of some Roman fella have discovered "oysters are not the only fruit".
By refusing entry to so many of the underclass this government is in fact protecting their virtue. It's ensuring their sexuality isn't up for grabs and virtually handing you your grandchildren on a silver platter. Think of the heartache and soul-searching saved by this forward-thinking forethought, think of the shame it avoids. It's a brave and courageous plan and should be applauded.
There's another benefit: your children won't leave you to "live on campus" and return at Christmas with strange diseases and weird friends.*
The future looks bright for the clever country. I'll leave you with this thought - never forget that universities are "institutions", which places them in the same category as prisons, closed facilities and leprosy hospitals.
*There's no reason, with the current state of home entertainment, why young people cannot remain in their bedrooms well into their 50s. This will also allow them to take care of you in your dotage. All it takes to be a great nurse is a good attitude and a kidney dish.
Work Ethic - Edukashun 2
Once again young folk are whining about not being allowed entry into university. Has this topic not run its course? Are we not merely raking over the grass, turning over newleaves and opening old doors? Is it not better to just let it lie?

AN OPEN LETTER TO THE KIDS
So you didn't make it to university? Boo-hoo. Why should the taxpayer pay for you to get smarter? In 20 years' time you'll be the ones taking their jobs with your little bits of paper. Anyway there's nothing you can learn at university you can't learn at home, all it takes is dedication and application (or D n' A, as we used to call it). Who fostered this notion that it's the birthright of every person to seek a higher education? It's for the privileged few who have it in their blood (or DNA, as we used to call it).
Try not to get down about it. There are so many other opportunities, so many windows are about to open. Think about it for a second: you'll be with all your mates who didn't get in. And after all, life is for living, not for staying at school writing dumb papers until you're 37. What could be more depressing than that?
I've seen the best minds of my generation excited by the prospect of mental labour, of putting in a solid nine hours, getting a real day's pay for a real day's work. Get out there and toil, don't just sit around shining your arse on a leather Chesterfield smoking Gauloise and spouting Foucault. Become part of society: fewer students crammed into the packed corridors of academia means fewer long-haired louts yabbering about meaningless issues. It means fewer layabouts clogging up cafes with political diatribes. And it means a few less people the police have to quell and contain come riot time. Do you really want to go to a breeding ground of dissent where anyone with half a brain can gain entry? It was on university grounds where parasitic concepts like communism, feminism, equality and sexual freedom found willing hosts. (I'm fairly sure none of the Kennedys was killed somewhere near a university.)
The statistics suggest you were going to fail anyway. All this does is save you four years of struggle and hope. Students from lower or moderate income families always "drop out" and most of their time on campus is spent selling "crack" and attempting to corrupt the more fortunate kids. These "fortunates" are children whose only crime is to have been born to parents who loved them, worked a little harder and put something aside.

[Munchkin]

18/02/2004
Teachers, work with what you've got
Why are we so hell-bent on sending school-leavers off to university when they may possess other talents?
There has been a flood of letters to this desk after last week's column concerning university entrance and the failure of many young Australians to make the grade. It was suggested in that column that university is not for everyone. Who could disagree?
Universities are loathsome institutions who dump on our doorstep two of society's greatest evils - the lawyer and the doctor. (Both distantly related to the banker, who is merely the bastard offspring of the real estate agent and the car dealer).
Still, I digress. Although many commended the strident approach, some were upset there was nothing of a constructive nature in the piece. I've taken these letters onboard and address them now.

CREATIVE COUNSELLING
Many students desire a further education (and there's nothing wrong with this), but who put these thoughts of a higher education at university level into their heads? The answer: teachers.
The blame must be placed obtusely on the flanks of these slovenly merchants of book learning who deliver to their charges this notion they can better themselves by attending yet another institution. It's teachers who mark exams handing out gold stars and A-plus with frivolous abandon.
In league with these exploiters are the scoundrels known as counsellors. It's the job of the counsellor to instruct and aid the wayward child and to define the future role of that young person as a constructive member of society.
Telling every kid who wanders through their door to go to university smacks of sheer laziness. Counsellors have to become more inventive when suggesting careers.
They could take the cue from reality TV where it appears anyone with a bit of get up and go can go out and get it. Why not become a pop star, a grade A cricketer, supermodel or world leader? Teachers and counsellors with their negative attitude always claim these jobs aren't for everyone - well, why aren't they for everyone? Surely they're a far more attractive proposition to impressionable youth than sitting behind a desk for another four years?
How many times can you recall, seated before a counsellor, being offered anything more dynamic than the public service or university? Did a counsellor ever say to you, wow, you can really ride that skateboard, what about becoming a professional board rider? Or you're always distracting the other students with your GameBoy so why not become the general manager of a multi-million dollar computer games company?
Counsellors need to tailor the job to suit the students' needs. For example, most counsellors would see you as just another tragic Goth but you seem to know a lot about the zodiac and telemarketing, why don't you become an exploiter of dreams?
It's also patently clear some people are destined, from an early age, for a life of crime. Why fight it? With the right instruction not only could they pursue their dream but they could do it out of harms way in another country.
With your knowledge of pharmaceuticals and your anti-establishment tendencies perhaps a chemist for a drug cartel? Or, you've always displayed an aggressive disposition at school and you're very good with explosives. Why don't you look at becoming a mercenary? Here's a list of unstable governments with the addresses of rebel bases you can contact for work experience.
The beauty of these left-of-centre ideas is that some of them will accept kids as young as 12.
To illustrate the point: a few years ago I had the good fortune to meet a man who'd found his own path through life. He'd rejected all the normal avenues of work and decided to become a hypnotist and masseuse. He also discovered that he could use these skills separately or in tandem.
It'd been a dream of his since he was a small boy to live and work in the neon playground of Las Vegas. So he honed his skills, making his main area of expertise the sprains and strains endured due to the difficult working conditions of showgirls. Whether it was a simple neck rub or a pulled groin muscle in the can-can, Ron was always ready with a swinging fob watch and jar of warm oil.
I've never seen a man more filled with job satisfaction.
This was one man who followed his heart.
Let us open up those avenues for the youngsters. I can say with certainty that when I attended school and was filled with conflict about job choices no counsellor ever proposed masseuse for Vegas showgirls.
It's just something to think about.

25/02/2004
Buttering up a bloke with food to die for
For years you could get your fix in public and no one blinked an eye. But for many, saturated fat has become a secret vice.
I once knew a fella, great bloke, with a loving family and a caring, devoted wife. Every morning she'd cook up a banquet fit for a king. On a dinner plate as large as a child's head she'd sling fried eggs straight from the griddle, strips of fatty bacon, onion rings, diablo snags, two short loin chops and a chunk of av.
On the side, four pieces of toast drowned in butter. The entire meal had the salt content of the Dead Sea. It filled the house with an amazing smell, like you were ringside at a pagan spit roast, and it tasted like manna from heaven once you bunged a bit of dead horse on it.
Lunch and dinner were equally as wondrous. Here was a hard-working man who was always happy, until that fateful day he went to see his doctor.
By jingo, that day changed everything. He came home paranoid, scared to enter the kitchen. He knew what she was up to. He was sussed to her game. Fifty-five years of being happily married down the tube. The old bird was a poisoner, one of them Medici types. And it wasn't a rush job; she was taking her time.
She'd forgone the expediency of arsenic in favour of the slow burn. Any day she could've nipped out to the garden and whipped up a foxglove salad, but no, she was enjoying hardening his arteries, coating his heart in a layer of fat. He was convinced, and nothing could dissuade him from the belief that his wife had been killing him softly over five decades - with cholesterol.
The old fella's still kicking around, living on a diet of bran and raw vegetables. An uneasy truce exists between himself and his wife. He doesn't smile as broadly any more.
There comes a time when the body has had enough of taking care of itself. It sits up one day and demands attention. It wants you to focus on its needs. It tells you it's had its fill of smoky, late nights and five hours' sleep over 24 in half-hour power naps. It's had enough dietary excesses. It says it in the only way it knows - with strange and profoundly unsettling burbling noises during moments of intimacy.
You know you need to change your ways, but you need to take small steps. My first small steps led me to the dairy section at the supermarket.
As I gazed at the marvellous array of cow byproduct, I knew in my heart we'd soon have to part ways forever. I took one last, longing look at the cheeses, then headed for the health-food section. It was there I discovered some nut-based, man-made substitute claiming to be the doppelganger of butter. The label proudly boasted it had half the fat.
I rushed home jubilant at my ease in embracing a new lifestyle, but smearing the stuff on raisin toast I quickly discovered it also had half the taste. As a consequence I ended up using twice as much. I went through the whole tub in three sittings and I still needed a butter fix.
You are what you eat and it's always difficult when someone in the know tells you it's crap. Everything has been killing you for years: the coffee, the tea, clotted cream, all slowly eating away at you like food assassins.
You start fixating on weird things. The ingredients on the side of a pack of chips have all the thrills and terrors of a Stephen King novel. If you want to live you've got to stay away from the sugar, knock off the salt, avoid the crackling and sweet, fragrant fat of the duck. And lose butter, oh the butter.
I ran into the old fella again and I must say he looked a lot better apart from the permanent frown, but the pressure had got to him. He couldn't cope with the diet of a mule. So here, on a side street away from the prying eyes of the neighbours, he'd found a little culinary sanctuary.
When I caught up with him he was happily tucking into a Boston bun smothered in thick slabs of butter. He'd decided to live on the edge, occasionally. It was his secret vice, his potentially deadly pleasure, all washed down with a strong, sweet and creamy coffee. After a few agonising minutes watching me sipping my dirt-infused beetroot juice and gnawing on a turnip, he leant forward, broke off a chunk of the bun and said, "You want some?" I lunged at the opportunity grabbing the bun on the way. Ah, the El Dorado of spreads, pure butter, none of this manky sunflower rubbish. He offered me another chunk with Faustian glee and, smiling broadly, said, "Go for your life".

03/03/2004
When good recipes happen to nice pets
What's so wrong with a roasted Chihuahua or Yuletide labrador that eating pets has been outlawed in South Australia?
It's a continuing dilemma and we all go through it. The despair of finding the cupboard bare, with nothing there, not even a bone. The kids are hungry - they're crying, some moralist bunkum is blaring out from the TV and without even knowing it you snap.
Suddenly you're miles above yourself, looking down at an empty Scanpan hearing yourself say "here boy". It comes at a different time for everyone that moment when you think, I know, Rover, something different.
Adelaide, that jewel in the crown of states on the banks of the Torrens, has been awash with controversy this week. The debate has raged not over some politically challenging Korean mime troupe or a morally bankrupt festival attraction, but over the recent decision to fine the folk of South Australia for eating dogs and cats.
Now, for my money, the cat is not a good eating pet. It's a hedonistic and self-obsessed animal and you can taste it in the meat. This is a creature who'll walk through a house of soft furnishings to take a dump in a gravel pit (although cat lovers see this ability to locate a kitty litter tray as a sign of genius).
The cat may have certain benefits by way of companionship but the capacity for culinary creativity with this particular animal is very limited. You can dress it up as much as you want but you still know it's cat. It's like the meat has a mind of its own, it'll lazily sit around in your stomach and only make an appearance when you're trying to rest. Then it comes back at ya.
The dog, however, is a different story. Man's best friend is often called upon to make the ultimate sacrifice to prove that friendship. The dog is a trusting creature who'll come right up to you, wagging its tail as you sharpen the butcher's knife.
Picture the group of foolhardy alpine trekkers attempting the difficult north summit, now hopelessly lost with poor weather mercilessly bearing down upon them. Just as all hope is gone, imagine their joy at seeing a Saint Bernard bounding through the snow. Its thick pink tongue lolling outside its mouth, the heavy damp fringe obscuring those twinkling eyes. Delirious, their minds tumble with thoughts: we're rescued, we're saved, dinner.
This is a group of hungry desperate men, who'd have no qualms about tucking into the rescuer, if they haven't already started tucking into each other.
In some cultures it's thought remiss not to give the loyal animal this final honour. The best thing about the Saint Bernard is the happy-go-lucky beast comes with a whisky chaser.
Or you can attempt the difficult, yet delicious, flambe Bernard. The only drawback is the disturbing feeling you're chowing down on Beethoven, (although some aficionados of hound see this as a bonus).
The Saint Bernard is an extreme example but across the globe certain markets favour certain dogs - the chihuahua for instance. In Mexico (and some parts of North Adelaide) this plucky little champion is considered to be the quail of the canine world. They taste extraordinary roasted with a honey and lemon glaze and you just can't stop at one. I can see them now arranged on a plate and cooked so well the meat slides off the bone.
And let's not mince words - the bulging, dark eyeballs, dropped in a bubbling cerveza batter, are a real delicacy.
You can see the problem Adelaide is facing. What happens to the proud parents who bring out the fattened labbie on the return of the prodigal son?
And what will the season of joy become without the Christmas Doberman? The dog is an essential part of the human story, it's always been a faithful companion and it represents our longest and most successful relationship with a wild beast. We've invited this creature into our homes, we've given them glossy coats and good breath, we feed them better than our old people but, as I'm sure a dog understands, there comes a time for payback.
I think pet lovers are deluding themselves when they say they're not in some way responsible. You see them out there every Sunday, preening and parading, what to many are mobile meals. And what do you honestly expect if you own a sausage dog?
For the moment there are those who do and those who don't and those who do will now have to pay the price. The Adelaide community remains divided over this contentious issue. Have we, as one scholar, veterinarian and hound gourmand put it: come to a fork in the Rhode-sian?

10/03/2004
Being 'malled' by a plague of buskers
Beware: the annual migration of buskers is near and when they 'pass the hat', hang on to your wallet and lock up your children.
There's a plague of sorts sullying the Festival City. Buskers are taking over the streets. These gaudily painted refugees from the reality of nine to five are everywhere, occasionally outnumbering the civilian population. Street performers, circus acts, urban artists, call them what you will, they are a blue-green algae threatening to destroy the calm monastic life of our malls. It's getting so bad that any time you pitch a tent you're in danger of being inundated with carnie folk.
The paved and open shopping mall (an initiative of the Whitlam government adopted by the world) was a utopian dream to mingle heavy human traffic intent on commerce with people-friendly environments. How naive we were? In creating these spaces we cut an open wound into our cities. These shopping precincts festered and human bacteria poured in - human bacteria in the form of the busker. Now they threaten to contaminate us all.
THE FACTS:
1) Buskers are nomadic. They, generally speaking, have no allegiance to any street corner or city, preferring to travel to any country that's turned its folding currency into coin. The current plague has come from all over the world and Adelaide will not be their last stop. Their journey will continue. In late March/early April they'll hit the massively unprepared city of Melbourne for the Comedy Festival. From there they travel north along the east coast destabilising the economic balance of townships and exploiting for their personal gain fairs and fetes. Some time about May they'll congregate in Sydney's Darling Harbour before heading north to endearingly loot the people of Brisbane and the top end. Then it's back to Perth and out.
2) They'll drag millions out of our floundering economy and carry it back to their palatial haunts overseas. And they're rarely stopped as they flee the country. A humorous tune on a ukulele, a bit of stilt walking or a touch of face painting are often enough to distract even the most ardent Aussie customs officer. Every single one of these talented vagabonds then heads over to Holland to spend their ill-gotten gains on "ganja" and partake en masse in the Festival of Fools. (Although it's rapidly becoming clear who the "fools" are.)
3) The most essential gift of the busker is not the useless skills they've amassed (plastic bag juggling, riding a unicycle, drinking beer with their fingers, swallowing flame or doing all of them at the same time) it's "milking the punters", "passing the hat", "filling the guitar case". To achieve this goal most acts rely on the consistent application of guilt to a primarily middle-class crowd. "I do this for a living, I have no other means of support." Perhaps they should add "and I pay no taxes". The street performer will also use the ploy of "abducting" a member of the audience to use as a warm prop in their show. The hapless onlooker will be made to belly dance, wear wigs, remove articles of clothing, and be mocked and ridiculed for their physique and intelligence. The tragedy is that some people used in this manner enjoy the experience and prowl malls hoping to be chosen again.
4) Busking is diversifying. The number of pasty unskilled guitarists playing uncool, good ol' tone-deaf note-missin' Dylan covers is on the decline. On the incline are mimes, statues, belly dancers, flute players, bongo ensembles, feral drummers, face painters, rice calligraphists, jugglers, contortionists, sword swallowers and spruikers. These are people who've spent years forging their unnatural talents into a career. No matter how good they are you must avoid them. Walk on by, keep your eyes fixed on the distant Best and Lest and never turn if a mime follows you down the street.
5) Children are weak. They'll get to your purse and wallet through your children. Leave the children at home (or insist they wear "blinkers" while they're out. "Blinkers" are now available with most child-harnesses). The most important thing is not to stop, keep moving, because if you stop and watch, believe me, you will pay the price.

[Munchkin]

17/03/2004
Long-distance lover takes flight of fancy
An obnoxious fellow passenger is the unlikely romantic lead in a tale of suspense spanning two continents.
I 've caught the red-eye back to Adelaide. Actually it's a mid-morning flight but everyone is wearing the mask of the 20th-century civility. Someone forces a smile but it cracks at the corner of their mouth and they give up. The Muzak cuts out as the stewards commence the death-dive boogie - "masks will drop from the ceiling". Businessmen are coughing, papers are unfurling, more tragedy, more horror. I need to retreat from the world. In the crowded and cramped plane I want to find some splendid isolation. I want to cocoon myself in a blanket, grab an eye mask, some earplugs and fall back to sleep, only waking at touchdown, incredibly rested and refreshed just like in an ad. But you know fate has other plans.
The man who'll eventually be the last passenger is one seat away from me. He's seated in A, I'm C and we're separated by B. Most of the time, especially on short flights, you never get acquainted with the people next to you. There's an immense distance from A to C, from the window to the aisle, even when you're crammed together like sardines in the cattletruck. But A has torn down the barriers between us and he's done this because he's so damn loud. Sleep is no longer an option.
B's become a human baffle, taking the full brunt of A's vocal assault, words are ricocheting off her head and falling in my lap. A's headphones are leaking music, he doesn't realise he's wearing them or perhaps he just needs a soundtrack to speak. His gruff, Yankee voice is booming and without even realising it I'm drawn into the intrigue. And not just me, I feel the row behind us craning forward and the row in front leaning back. I like to think Australians are good at listening but, in fact, we're just a nation of proficient eavesdroppers.
A has come "all the way from America", he says, the longest trip of his life, to meet a woman he has only spoken to, a woman he plans to marry. He must achieve this whole marriage thing by a certain date, otherwise he's out the country. He's left everything behind to start a new life in, of all places, Adelaide. (A says all this with a slightly frantic and unsettling demeanour which we kindly put down to the exhaustive journey.) He hasn't even paused for breath when the snacks arrive but he unstereotypically refuses his "special meal". The attendant, being ever attentive, asks if he wants anything else. A drink he replies. As she pours he begins shouting a word at her, just a single word, a statement - DIET. He's overcompensating for the headphones again and he's so loud people three rows back can hear him above the roar of the jet engines. The only person who can't seem to understand what he's saying is the attendant; she has a horrified expression on her face. She isn't making the connection that he's talking about cola and self-consciously tries to obscure herself behind the drinks trolley. Passenger E intercedes from the far side of the aisle and a potential disaster is avoided.
Then A nudges B to get out and B nudges me. To our surprise A has bypassed the bog and is hammering on the door to the pilot's cabin. This sends an undeniable ripple of fear along the length of the plane. Relief follows in its wake as a helpful hostie redirects him to the toilets.
We're only minutes from landing when we realise she'll be there, she'll be waiting for him. And though we've no idea what she looks like, we have to see her, we have to finish the story. Strangely, hers is the first face I see at the gate, she's instantly recognisable because she's staring beyond the passengers to something greater. She's on her tiptoes. Passengers keep leaving but none of them are him. It's an interminable wait, and if it feels uncomfortably long for us, what must it feel like for her? Neither of us can believe there were so many people on that flight, they just keep coming and coming. More families are reunited and the little crowd dissipates as their loved ones return. There are hugs and kisses and amid the joy one lonely woman looking increasingly crestfallen. The final passengers emerge in dribs and drabs, then the pilots nonchalantly wander out, swinging their briefcases, then nothing. B wonders if A's reconsidered, made a run for it across the tarmac or sealed himself inside the toilet.
Then he appears, the very last passenger, and you can see her heart leap in her chest. It's the perfect conclusion to the flight. We leave them there embracing in the arrivals lounge. As B and I go our separate ways I notice a spring in her step and my eyes are no longer red.

24/03/2004
Ritual displays of the motorised male
What's to be done about the plague of young doof-doofers worshipping at the altar of their dashboards?
The super-mean, machine-man, testosterone popping like Rice Bubbles, pauses at the give-way. Oakley sunglasses shield his awkward youth while reinforcing his aggressive sporting nature. As other cars happily idle, his impatiently revs. Spudhead can't wait to get out of this pissy side street and teach the bitumen a lesson.
Despite the gaudy outward appearance of his vehicle you can feel a spiritual vacuum when he passes. An emotional barrenness emanates from the car. It's a feeling reflected beneath the rear-view mirror. Suspended in a mesh sack is a diminutive soccer ball, swinging beside the driver's head like a single, impotent, two-tone testicle (it's a familiar theme and one we'll to return to within the course of the article).
He spots a break and thuds out into the jam. Is there anything sadder than a single male sitting at the traffic lights with his car dressed up like a metal peacock waiting to be noticed?
Admittedly, there are thousands of things. For one, the over-cool occupant languishing in a soup of noise, deafening the native wildlife with an overproduced white take on black rap. Or cranking it with some sexed up R&B, praying his recent purchases of baseball caps, bandannas and basketball apparel will obscure national boundaries and he'll be perceived by the Ladieees as a street-wise African-American, a playa.
They've reached plague proportions in our cities and towns, young men wearing their cars like leisure suits of tin, lost and directionless at 170-k an hour. Needing to be seen, needing to be loved.
Back on the street, onlookers gape but not as the occupant hopes. They're not consumed with envy, they gape in disbelief and annoyance. The reasons are:
1. The high-gloss, deep-purple finish is a colour not found in nature;
2. The chrome wheels glinting in the sun could damage a child's eye with a blinding spike of photons;
3. The bass rumble from the high-response, super-external, surround-sound speakers are causing crockery to fall in nearby homes;
4. And the song, if you can call it that, is absolute unmitigated (excuse the Scottish) shite.
A single youth, rocking alone, will have the bass pumping with enough decibels to blister his eyelids and cause his retinas to bubble. The same volume will suffice for two or three occupants but will sound damp from the street. The super-absorbent, spongiform skull of the young male soaks up much of the music and contains it within the car. With six or more occupants the level drops significantly.
In his rambling and colourful treatise, Machine-Ismo: A Discourse In Modern Auto-Motives, Father J. P. Overton suggests that furry dice, the standard accessory of the hot rod, harken back to the days of the horse. He postulates if the car is a phallic symbol, the rightful descendent of the stallion, then the dice are the fluffy, bloated repository of seed. They dangle from the rear-view mirror as a comic interpretation of the animal's scrotum. If we accept this then the arse of the beast, especially on a tight, right-hand turn, is in the driver's seat.
While Latham and Howard wax on and wax off about the mental and emotional state of our young men, one thing is certain: the lads of this nation are in desperate need of some real spiritual guidance. Lone men in cars looking for love need an emotional navigator*, a rev-head with a halo, a Brahmin Jack Brabham, a Mother Teresa of motors, a cruising Krishna. Someone who can map out a course transforming them from a social menace fuelled by reckless abandon into a driving force to be reckoned with.
Father Jay (as he's known at the mission) suggests charity work: "it's in the act of giving not speeding that a greenhorn lead foot can go from zero to hero in a few city blocks". He also suggests avoiding Meals on Wheels - the dangers are apparent.
Next: Wimmin and the VeHERcile: The Car As A Substitute Venus.
* To clarify, this is a navigator capable of guiding his young charges through the treacherous landscape of their emotions (nothing compared to the twists and turns of the Bathy 1000 but still tricky). It's not a navigator prone to excessive emotion. We've all experienced that.
P.S. I must apologise for last week's column, which amounted to a lump of over sweetened tripe. I was investigating issues of happiness and depression and got sidetracked into someone else's bliss. It won't happen again.

13/03/2003
Reject Satan and all his works, sweetie
The "queering" of society continues apace - or is it just the innocuous popularity of a group of homosexuals on TV?
The fabric of our society has been torn apart by a single television show, then lovingly re-assembled with daring slashes of colour, teamed with up-turned stovepipes and sent back to the public. Better, brighter, more fascinating, the fabric of our society seems destined for big things. So some say.
Reject Satan and all his works. One of the cleverest of his works was to make people of the same sex attracted to each another. It was an idea the Dark Lord was so proud of, he replicated it. There are creatures with homosexual leanings all over the planet - this doesn't make it normal. Gay wildebeest, gay lemurs, gay whales are herd animals yet often find themselves isolated and alone. The gay crickets of the Amazon basin are seldom allowed to join in the locust plague and gay elephants never forget the pain of their decision.
We've all seen the recent footage of gigantic, gay penguin dance parties that occur as a same-sex response to seasonal mating. But every one of those "bachelor birds" getting "out of it" on an ice flow will never discover the spiritual joy of guilt, or the reproductive responsibility of family. Every group of animals has a few that like to play a bit harder than the rest, but they should do it off to the side like they've always done. Witnessing travellers on the road less travelled is not the same as condoning them or giving them a lift to their destinations.
The concern here is that if many more young men "jump the fence and join the other team to bat for Holland", it may well spell the end of civilisation. "You're so gay", has already replaced "you're so fine", "you're so fly" and "you're so stupid" as the "you're so" of choice for primary school children. When asked to explain her behaviour in the playground, Deborah (last name withheld as per school policy) a six-year-old from (name of school withheld as per government policy) replied:
"Gay is a term of endearment noting a person's people skills, their dress sense, colour acuity, and flare in the kitchen. It's no longer constrained by notions of sexuality. If we choose to demean someone in that way, we use the Australian standard 'poof'."
Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, a deceptively simple title with an alluring internal rhyme, has catapulted its five presenters into the stark light of stardom. Graced with an innate sense of style, they've won over people of all ages, religions and sexual persuasions. They're the high priests of a new crop of American religions based on salvation through external transformation. Here outward appearance has a profound effect on the inward existence. The Fab Five as they're affectionately known, are witty, urbane, self-depreciatory, hedonistic sensualists and, let's not mince words, SODOMITES*.
These gents opened the passageway and now "musical men" are liberally sprinkled throughout every new TV program. The love that dare not speak its name is shouting it on prime time, lisping its way through a dozen different comedies and roaring up the charts.
Already, this phenomenon has spawned from its unnatural loins a club hit. The song, espousing the fun of the "homosexual lifestyle" with an accompanying video, is played every Saturday morning to a primarily pre-teen female audience.
What will its long-term effect be? What if these future mothers find their young suitors less appealing than their gay counterparts? What happens if no one wants to make babies anymore? We must stop the "queering" of our country. Parents, concerned heterosexuals and scoutmasters across the globe must ask: what's the world succumbing to?
And when does the ugly underbelly of homosexuality rear its head? When do line dancin' and quilt makin' suddenly find a crossover audience? How long before our grandparents are throwing on a pair of chaps and, arses swinging in the breeze, heading out on a Saturday night? How long before other sexual aberrations such as nappy-men, lesbians and bestialists secure their own breakthrough shows?
We're in a time of turmoil. We must turn ourselves away from the TV, otherwise we're in danger of ending up like Lot's wife. And pillars of salt around the lounge room will just be another humorous chore for the Fab Five to clean up.
* In 2005, the Fab Five hope to embark on their most ambitious project yet - the Catholic Church. With their popularity at an all-time high, they head to Rome to hit the Vatican with neutral tones, replace pews with bean bags and try to squeeze the Pope into a pair of moleskins.

07/04/2004
All hell to pay? Blame those baby boomers
Don't count on any divine intervention when it comes to finding that heavenly abode. Real-estate has taken a dive.
You wouldn't call it so much a vision as a hallucination, and perhaps a little less like a hallucination and more like a dream or a long, visual thought with an accompanying oration.
The whole incident may've been brought on by the proximity of Easter, by my partially "wrapped-in-plastic" Catholic guilt, or most likely by the mould-encrusted hot cross buns I consumed prior to bed. Regardless of the reason, in the wee small hours, the ceiling above where I slept burst forth with radiance. A tunnel of light appeared, a halo of luminous gases, resonating with a voice both gentle and commanding. "By the time you kick the bucket there'll be no room at the inn."
"Hey?" I sleepily replied, with a dry mouth and my throat on fire. The figure perched on the end of the bed was smallish in stature. Looking unerringly impish and dressed neatly in a two-piece, grey suit, he peered over the rim of his rimless glasses. There was something familiar in his demeanour and I felt I'd made his acquaintance before. As he spoke he lightly fingered an ivory cane, hand carved with delicate writhing figures.
"I go by many names," he said, "but you can call me - Ron. And I like making house calls - it's good for business."
I recall thinking the patch pockets on his jacket were a major concern, what was left of his hair was working far too hard and that he was obviously embarrassed by the fact he had the feet of a goat. He kept attempting to hide them under the cushions.
"It's coming up for Easter and it's important you folk know what's going on up top. There are no more of them Elysium fields, it's concrete wall to wall, Heaven's so overcrowded, so tight, you couldn't squeeze another anorexic Carmelite in there." He continued, swinging his cloven hooves against the edge of the bed: "A number of factors combined to create the overcrowding of Heaven. The Industrial Revolution basically took everyone by surprise. The old fella knew it was coming, just not that quickly. Then there was the continuous stream of innocents turning up at St Peter's Gate from about 1901 onward. A couple of world wars, constant battles and blues and Bob's your uncle - Heaven went to Hell in a handbasket. And what are you gonna do? Move to the country?
"There was no elbowroom for all the new inductees. And sleeping rough on marble wasn't what they expected after a lifetime of kneeling and good deeds. There's no doubt they were peeved. The civic planning committee threw their hands up in disgust and the hierarchy of angelic architects folded their wings. Team that with the Son of Man's growing interest in totalitarian statues of self-glorification and you have a recipe for disaster.
"Many who found the ultra high-density living in Heaven too extreme began looking elsewhere for accommodation. Limbo was the first choice, with a few of the larger families opting to sit out eternity with the unborn. Then they started packing into Purgatory. It became so overcrowded people couldn't even do their penance. There was no room to flagellate, if you wore a hair shirt it was bound to get up someone's nose. Sort of defeated the idea of the place, but the final straw was when the baby boomers started carking it. They're ruining it for everyone, but I'll give it to them, they're a ballsy lot, think they own everything. Baby boomer settlers started snatching parcels of land in the 1st and 2nd circles of Hell. They're down there now, mixing it up with the gluttons, adulterers, users of vulgar terms and people who dress poorly. They're gentrifying the place. Instead of fire and brimstone, there's natural mud baths, a hot spring, a skin-care centre, a whole body purification plant and every morning about 150 of the lesser demons practice tai chi near the ol' human smelt. I've never seen such fine looking devils. They're growing citrus trees, for God's sake. And I gotta tell you, a bit of grapefruit in the morning gives you a fresher outlook on life."
The fella on the edge of the bed kept talking. His message - bypass Heaven, go straight for the 1st and 2nd circles of Hell. Nice lifestyle, easy for the family and yoga classes start in August. He was nice but there's something about that fella I don't like.
Truly disturbing fact: The first time I checked the word count, I'd written 666 words exactly. Seeing that particular number caused me to pause. Was it a sign? Was I tampering with worlds beyond my ken? I checked the world count another six times before finishing the piece and three of those times that same number appeared. Now I'm not a betting man, but that's gotta be a rare occurrence. Still, there's nothing to be concerned about, it's only coincidence.