On What They Should Do, part 2

“If I could be King, even for a day

I’d take you as my Queen, I’d have it no other way

And our love will rule this kingdom we have made

Until then I’ll be a fool, wishing for the day

That I can change the world...”

~ ‘Change the World’, by Sims/Gordon/Kirkpatrick

performed by Eric Clapton for the soundtrack to the movie “Phenomenon”, 1996

Last week I spoke about improving life as we know it by changing things that bug me.  Goodness knows why this conceit has not found itself popular support.  Perhaps one day.  Onward!

What they should do is stop giving oxygen to the arguments of morons like Lord Christopher Monckton, 3^rd Viscount Monckton of Brenchly (you’ve just got to love a self-important title one ‘earns’ by simply being born of certain parentage, don’t you?).  He is a climate change skeptic who enjoys inexplicable popularity in Australia, even while he is derided elsewhere as a bit of a whacko.  Among his more colourful claims is that he can cure Grave’s disease, multiple sclerosis, influenza and herpes simplex 6.  All this despite Monckton not having a single qualification in medicine whatsoever, and that he can provide no evidence to back his claims.  He has advocated the complete quarantine of every HIV carrier on the planet in order to eradicate the disease, as well as compulsory blood testing of every human being on the planet every month.  Every single person.  Every single month.

So, when he spouts what he claims are facts about climate change being a myth, you need to consider the source.  Accepting climate change advice from Monckton is like getting a lesson in civics from Mayor McCheese.

What they should do is change the scoring system of tennis.  It’s manages to skip right over stupid, and lands square on nonsensical.  First point in a game?  ‘15’.  The second?  ‘30’.  Doesn’t make much sense but at least it’s mathematically consistent.  The third point a player receives is… ‘40’.  Huh?  Did I miss a meeting?  Shouldn’t that be ‘45’?  And if opposing players have both won three points in a game, the score is ‘deuce’.  Because why the hell not? 

Also, when the opposing player has not scored yet in a game, their score is ‘zero’.  It isn’t really, but oh, how I wish that were so.  Their score is ‘love’.  Really?  Really?  I’m fairly certain there’s a sensible historical reason tennis is scored this way.  Of course, I’m lying again, there’s nothing even vaguely sensible about it and I think whoever invented that scoring system should be locked in a room with a hungry Serena Williams and an abacus as punishment.

I do, however, like the ‘advantage’ system, whereby each game needs to be won by at least two points and each set must be won by at least two games, but why must they persist with the deuce/advantage scoring system rather than the more sensible points awarded in tie-breaker games?  In tennis, tie-breakers are like a few brief moments of numerical lucidity in an hour of bug-nuts crazy.

What they should do is seriously reform the family court.  Under the current adversarial system (where two opposing parties present arguments to a judge), whoever had the most resources wins, because they can almost keep arguing forever or until the other party runs out of money, in which case they have no choice but to give the more wealthy party whatever they want.  The court and it’s surrounding systems care little for what is in the best interests of the children, regardless of the pathetic lip service they pay to such lofty notions.

What they ought to replace it with is an inquisitorial system, whereby the court actively investigates the facts, and takes all the relevant information into account, then makes an appropriate determination.  What they ought to do is forget the politically correct bias towards men as custodial guardians.  A neglectful and irresponsible parent is neglectful and irresponsible regardless of their gender.  Some judges and court-appointed ‘family psychologists’ need to check their over-inflated egos at the door and get a damned clue.

What they should do is eradicate spiders.  All of them.  Because they very much freak me out.

What they should do is put a little warning label on any product bearing the ‘bunny’ symbol of Playboy.  It should read something like this:  “Please be advised that this symbol represents the objectification and degradation of women.  The misogynistic creators and copyright holders of this symbol, who profit from its sale, are not the least bit interested in empowering women or young girls and in all likelihood despise and disrespect the female population entirely.  They are, and always have been, of the view that women are nothing more than playthings that exist for the sole purpose of gratifying men.”

What they should do is pay teachers and nurses more.  This may be tremendously self-serving, but it is true all the same.

Nursing and teaching seldom fit into the description of high-paying.  More often than not, we have to slog out twelve brutal rounds with State Governments in order to get a meagre payrise, barely keeping up with inflationary pressures.  They are frequently thankless careers.  I’ve heard the ignorant arguments that “nurses are glorified bum wipers” and “teachers get school holidays off” ad nauseum every time the issue of pay increases and working conditions are debated.  Those arguments are old and pathetic and speak loudly of the scant regard with which these professions are held.  Teaching a child to read and think and reason, or assisting one who is infirm, unwell or vulnerable may not be sexy professions, full of glory and financial rewards, but my word, they have teeth.

If only politicians of all creeds fought as diligently to improve our collective lot as they fight against wage claims by woefully undervalued individuals who do far more for society that they are ever given credit for, we’d find ourselves in utopia.

What they ought to do is just go ahead and make me Emperor of the World.  I’ll be benevolent and kind and I’ll fix stuff.  You may even get a public holiday on my birthday.  What could possibly go wrong?

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On What They Should Do, part 1

“It’s my own design

It’s my own remorse

Help me to decide

Help me make the most

Of freedom and of pleasure

Nothing ever last forever

Everybody wants to rule the world”

                                  ~ ‘Everybody Wants To Rule The World’, by Orzabal/Stanley/Hughes

                                    from the Tears For Fears album “Songs From The Big Chair”, 1985

This world is seriously broken.  I’m not sure many would dispute that.  Here are just a few ways that we can make the world a better place.  Mostly it can be improved by ridding the world of things that bug me.  Here are some of them:

What they should do is change the premiership points system for teams playing in the AFL.  As it is right now, during the season proper, the winners of each game are given four premiership points.  The loser gets none.  If it’s a draw, two points each.  The points are tallied as the season progresses and that measure is primarily used to determine where teams finish on the league ladder, and hence, who plays in the finals.  This system is all well and good, except for one detail: it’s impossible to score either one or three points for a game.  So why a total of four points for a win?  Why not two for the win, one for the draw, like the NRL use?  Exactly the same result, with a little more common sense involved.

While we’re at it, I further propose the instant retirement of any footballer who, after a finals match (where no premiership points are awarded) makes the following banal and clichéd statement: “We’re just happy to get away with the four points.”  And yes, it has happened before.

What they should do is put ads on the TV, radio and newspapers that clearly explain the Westminster system of government, because it is clear that a fairly large segment of the public-at-large haven’t a clue how it works.  I say that because I’ve heard statements like “Julia Gillard isn’t my Prime Minister/the Prime Minister I voted for” way too many times.  Let’s get a few facts straight, using small words so the knuckle-draggers can follow along at home: One actually votes for an individual who will represent them in the Lower House, or House of Representatives.  Many of these representatives, or Members of Parliament (or even MPs) belong to parties, who then select a leader.  If their party holds the majority of seats, the leader of the party becomes the Prime Minister.  He or she then notionally holds the highest political power in the country.  OK, longer words than I planned for, but let’s face it, the knuckle-draggers aren’t reading this anyway.  Or, in fact, reading anything.

Repeat after me, it does not matter which party you voted for.  It doesn’t matter if you agree with their politics or not.  It doesn’t matter if the parliamentary numbers are really, really close, resulting in a hung parliament.  Whichever party has the ability to form government selects the Prime Minister.  They can select anyone they want.  They can change their minds mid-term and select someone different.  The parliamentary opposition can likewise pick its own leader, the potential alternative Prime Minister.  Something the conservatives among us also seem to forget is that since 2007, the Federal Liberal party have had four different leaders.  That number may even been as high as five or six if former MP Peter Costello had some cojones or current MP Joe Hockey had a clue.

A quick note for those who don’t like Julia Gillard much:  While it’s true she is not a particularly inspirational leader, the alternative in Tony Abbott is surely much, much worse.  He’s without a doubt the most flaccid, uninspiring, vacuous, unimaginative, unimpressive political ‘leader’ (man alive but I’m using that term loosely) this country has ever seen.  It’s sad we don’t have a better choice when it comes to political leadership in this country.  I’m reminded of the poll taken in the USA prior to the 2000 presidential election contested by Al Gore and George W. Bush.  The poll showed that the man the respondents most wanted to take office was the fictitious Jed Barlet (played by Martin Sheen) from the television program The West Wing.

What they should do is make defensive driving courses compulsory for all drivers, both prior to getting their license and, say, every ten years thereafter.  It’s a no-brainer, really.  I’d also be happy for driver’s licenses be banned for anyone who wants a car that is able to go more than 300 km/hr over the legal speed limit, hangs fluffy dice from the rear-view mirror, and believes that shiny tracksuit pants constitutes ‘smart casual’.

What they should do is put counter-ads on TV that run straight after those daft ads created and paid for by the mining industry.  You know, the ones that suggest that just because the mining industry employs some nice people (“Look!  This guy we hired was a refugee!  Aren’t we wonderful?), that somehow they are warm and fuzzy corporations, existing solely for the benefit of mankind.  They are in fact commercial enterprises that are in the business of making mind-blowingly massive profits and would sell the kidneys of their employees, and that of their families, if such things were legal and would increase those profits.  Let’s keep in mind, that for every dollar those companies pass on to stockholders (including future superannuants), there is an owner or major stockholder or CEO or executive earning an obscene pay cheque.  I particularly recall mining magnate Gina Rinehart whining loudly about being a target of an entirely fair tax on super-profits while BRW was naming her Australia’s richest woman with a net worth of $10.31 billion.  That is billion, folks.

Same goes with those inane ads decrying the carbon tax.  They aren’t really ads by concerned and altruistic citizens with considered opinions on serious matters of policy, they are carefully designed and scripted by businesses that pollute and don’t want to pay for it.  They are mortified that their lofty bank balances may evaporate.  One of the best political quotes ever came from former PM Paul Keating who said: “In a two-horse race, always back self-interest, because at least you know it’s trying”.

~-~

Yep, the world needs some work.  Clearly, I’m just the man to do it.  There’s more I’m planning, plenty more, but I’m saving that for next week.  Tune in again, to find out what else I’ll fix once I’m in charge.

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On A Prologue...

“Tell me a story

Take me to another land

This world we were born in

Is one I’ll never understand”

~ ‘Tell Me A Story’, by Garry Frost

from the 1927 album “The Other Side”, 1990

Matt’s heavy legs shuffled on the stairs from the subway station to the bright sun of the street, his feet barely rising to the required height to avoid tripping on the next step.  He pushed his sunglasses, which he had not taken off during the train ride, harder onto his face.  If it hadn’t been for his deep sense of curiosity, he probably wouldn’t even be out of bed.

The morning rush of commuters bustled around him, power suits and hair product, peppered with chatty uni students.  Many poured in and out of the half-dozen or so coffee houses within sight, sipping on their mochas and lattes and cappuccinos. He scanned the streets around him for the cafe that was his destination.  He didn’t spot it immediately, tucked away in a dark corner adjacent to an alley, its dirty sign wearily welcoming customers to Ariadne’s Café was partially obscured by unkempt trees erupting from an uneven hole in the footpath.  Several people shot Matt grim looks as they dodged him.

The idea of visiting the least busy cafe on the street appealed to him.  Crowds made him nervous, and he wasn’t particularly keen on being recognised.  

He wandered over to the door and pushed it open.  It swung open further than he intended, clanging against an empty, dusty copper tub placed at the door for storing umbrellas. Several customers looked up at his arrival, and went immediately back to their drinks.  The blue hat Matt was there to meet was tucked away in a corner booth.  As he approached, he noticed that despite the warm weather, the blue-hatted man was in an overcoat with the collar pulled high and a blue scarf stuffed in the front.  Light powder dusted the top of the scarf and coat collar.  The scarf’s blue matched the cap, pulled low.  Dark hair stuck out from the cap, beads of sweat hanging from the tips.  Blue Hat didn’t look up as Matt approached.

Matt stood at the booth and cleared his throat.

“Just in time,” Blue Hat said, still not looking up, “Please take a seat”.

“Perhaps you could tell me why I’m here?”

Thin, cracked lips turned up at the edges.  “Please, sit.”

Matt half turned away, stomping his feet.  I need a drink, he thought.  He took his glasses off and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Look, I don’t have to be here.  You can tell me what you want, or watch me leave.” Matt said.

Blue Hat still did not look up.

“Dear boy, I asked you to come while providing scant of details as to the reason, and yet you came.  You needn’t have bothered, yet here you are.  You are here quite simply because you choose to be.  Please,” he said, turning his head slowly for the first time to face Matt, “Sit down.  I would love for us to chat”.

Matt still could not see Blue Hat’s face, the broad peak of his cap covering his face.  Large dark glasses were now also apparent, making identification impossible.  He hesitated.  

Even stronger than Matt’s spirit of inquiry was the desire for the maelstrom that was his life to be more under his own control.  Coming here was a choice, as would be leaving.  Not to mention that an engagement in the city, even an aborted one, gave him an ideal excuse to yet again avoid an uncomfortable meeting with his landlord.  And yet… and yet…

The mysterious email from Blue Hat was far too tantalising to ignore.  Short on detail, yet it seemed to know much about Matt’s situation that he had not shared with any one person.  Clever, each word chosen carefully to appeal, yet without articulating any specific aspiration.  And then ending with the most enticing offer - that of a gift that would alter his situation in ways he had not ever imagined were possible.  The stuff of dreams and wonder.

Matt turned and slowly took the seat opposite Blue Hat, mildly shocked at the sight of the man before him.  The powder dusting his clothes was make-up, which was plastered thick on Blue Hat’s face.  Sweat was visible in drops that ran down his face, leaving snail trails that disappeared into cracks in the pale powder.  Blue Hat pushed a gloved hand out towards him, slowly pushing a steaming cup towards Matt.

“I ordered ahead.  I hope that was not too… presumptuous?”

“Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got places I need to-”

“You have nothing of the sort, Matthew.  Your landlord received the message cancelling your appointment there, and was none too pleased about it.  Your lunch with Rachel is not for hours yet, and our Mr Haroldson is otherwise occupied at the paper today - some awfully important business with... ahem…  certain stakeholders, and hence not very likely to be troubling you this fine morning.”

Matt ignored the coffee and stared straight at the odd creature before him.

“Congratulations.  You’ve learned how to use Google.” Matt said.  “Who are you?  What do you want?  If you’re another journo looking to bury me, I’ve got news for you.”

“Matthew-”

“My mother calls me Matthew.  My sister calls me Matthew.  My year nine science teacher called me Matthew.  My name’s Matt.”

“Yes, quite.  As I was saying Matthew,”  Blue Hat paused, just for a moment, “I’m not here to bring torment, nor to discuss trivialities.  I’ve been watching you,”

“You and half the city.”

“...and unless I’m very much mistaken, you and I have much in common.  I was once like you.  I once knew the… difficulties you face.  Many sought my ruination under their jack-booted heels,”  he sucked a deep breath through his teeth, “But they could not have seen what was to come.  My tale was yet to unfold.   What was to emerge, like a butterfly from a cocoon, was far more than their feeble imaginations could grasp.  Matthew, you are just a simple caterpillar, but soon, you too will rise from this anaemic cage,”  Blue Hat lifted his shoulders, “And become the fulfillment of your elusive promise.”

Blue Hat eased back into his chair.  His large, dark glasses revealed nothing.  Another drop of sweat seeped its way into his scarf.  Matt knew it was a mistake coming here.  It was time to make an exit. He’d met plenty of wackos in the last few months, few of them quite as odd as Blue Hat, and none quite as cryptic.  This man is clearly ill. 

“Look, I appreciate what you’re trying to do here.  I can really get by without the pity though.  I can handle myself just fine.  So look, sorry to waste the coffee, but this caterpillar’s has enough issues to deal with just at the moment.  I’m going to head off now, OK?”  Matt gave a nervous smile and slid towards to edge of the booth.  He shifted his weight to stand, one hand on the table.

“Matthew…” Blue Hat said, “You can’t possibly leave yet.  Not before I’ve passed on what you require.”

A free hand, withered and grey, shot out, its fingertips reaching Matt’s hand.  A blue zap of light flashed between them for the briefest of moments.  Matt felt immediately as if his blood had turned to cold lead and he slumped back into the booth.  A wave of nausea hit the pit of his gut.  He gaped at Blue Hat, a thousand blue points of fire dancing between them.  Time seemed to crawl, and Matt found himself aware that no-one in the cafe was reacting in the least to what he was experiencing.  Blue Hat wore a self-satisfied grin.  Or was it relief Matt saw in his smile?

Blue Hat spoke but his words were nothing but a droning buzz.  He raised himself from the booth and seemed to glide across the room.  Matt opened his mouth but no sound came.  He tried to lift himself, to protest, but his body would not respond.  Blue Hat had nearly reached the door, slowed, bent over and coughed.  A few more paces saw him reach the door and as he opened for it, Blue Hat stumbled.  He grabbed the edge of the door and avoided colliding with a pair of young woman who recoiled as they passed him on their way in.  It was only then that Matt’s head began to clear and his arms and legs once again became obedient.  He stood and watched Blue Hat struggle in one final effort to launch his frame out the door.  Matt moved towards the closing door.  The nausea had passed and Matt felt his strength returning, knocking some chairs aside as he darted for the exit.  He reached the door just before it swung shut and stepped out into the bright light of the morning, ignoring the bellowing barista behind him.

Matt scanned the street, but didn’t spot Blue Hat.  What caught his attention was the squeal of brakes and a scream.  A white delivery van had come to a halt across the street, surrounded by billowing blue smoke.  Matt ran across the road towards a gathering crowd on the side of the road.  The van’s driver nearly fell out of the vehicle and stammered “I didn’t even see ‘im!  He was just there!”  Matt pushed him aside effortlessly despite the driver’s large size.  In front of the van he saw Blue Hat lying crumpled on the ground.  His body seemed slight.  Matt knelt beside him and reached out and touched Blue Hat’s coat and found it dripping wet.  A large puddle spread over the surface of the road and the coat fell away from Matt’s hand.  Blue Hat was gone.  His shoes and clothes lay on the road, empty…

TO BE CONTINUED...?

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On Pets

“All things bright and beautiful

All creatures great and small

All things wise and wonderful

The Lord God made them all”

~ ‘All Things Bright And Beautiful’, lyrics by Cecil Francis Alexander

Lyrics first published in 1848

When WonderWoman and I married, I became the father of a small black and white feline named Sparkle.  As WonderWoman had Sparkle before we met, I had no say in the name.  More’s the pity, because it’s pretty lame.  Naming pets is fraught with difficulty.  Does one pick a pet name, like Rex or Spot or (God forbid) Sparkle?  Or go for a ‘human’ name like Max or Sam or Milly?  They have similar problems at the zoo, especially when some adorable new critter is born out of a breeding program.  For reasons escaping all sensibility, they always pick a foreign name that Australians can barely pronounce because it’s got five syllables, no vowels, and three silent P’s.  If the damned orangutan was born in Australia, just call him Kevin or Bruce or Wayne and be done with it!

But back to the cat.  I didn’t pick the name, but the animal is pretty sweet.

Sparkle, like most cats, can be very affectionate but only at those times of her choosing.  Those times usually defy predictability.  For the most part, though, she loves her daddy.  She’s not a lap cat, but loves to rub against legs, and if you’re sitting on the floor, she’ll lean into you, pressing her small frame lovingly against your body.  What I love most is her vocabulary.  She has all manner of squeaks and squawks.  We sometimes nick-name her ‘the meow-ow’ due to her penchant for extending her cat-cries to multiple syllables.   She has quite the set of lungs, and can extend one meow longer than any cat I’ve ever heard.  When you address her directly, she often answers directly.

While I was growing up our home had several pet cats, each different from the last.  The third was pure white with an incisor that sat out of his mouth just so.  We had to colour his ears black with permanent marker in the summer to prevent sunburn, and you can just imagine how ecstatic he was about that particular process.  Because he simply wasn’t quite odd enough, my brother, in a fit of subversion, named him Phydeaux.  One of my favourite childhood photos has Phydeaux perched contentedly on my lap.

At age twelve, I scored my first dog.  A scruffy beast, I named her Scrappy after Scooby-Doo’s rambunctious nephew, Scrappy-Doo.  She was everything a dog ought to be: friendly, loyal, and exuberant in her affection.  She loved to chase and fetch, and adored chasing the wild rabbits among the brambles near our local oval, despite the futility of the exercise.  Once, I threw a yellow tennis ball to a blind corner of the back yard for Scrappy to fetch.  She zoomed after it in all haste, only to return with a small lemon fallen from a tree near where I threw the ball.  She returned it clenched firmly in her jaws, but seemed almost relieved to be rid of it, the sour juice on her tongue proving a less than pleasant taste.

A precious memory of Scrappy is the sight of her snout sticking through one of the triangular gaps in the large driveway gate at my mother’s house.  She would stick her nose out whenever I came home, a greeting I never tired of.

When she was ten, and I twenty-two, she became ill, and after a short period of illness, she needed to be euthanised.  Anyone who has lost a pet knows the heartbreak of it, but like most, I can say with absolute certainty that the wonderful years together (all of my formative teenage years at that) were well worth the expensive vet bills, and the sadness of her death.

Studies have shown that pet ownership has significant physical and psychological benefits.  Animals, mainly dogs, have even been used as therapy for the elderly, infirm and unwell.  My advice to you, dear reader, is go and give your pet a friendly cuddle (unless it’s a puffer fish or a particularly nervous rodent or something).  If you don’t have a pet, go and get yourself a fluffy moggy, or a joyful cavoodle, or a clown fish or a parrot or an octopus or a frill-necked lizard.  Look after it, respect it, love it and learn from it.  You’ll not regret it, even if it has a terribly feeble name.

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