Tuesday, December 8, 2009

Roman DNA

Are we the same as the Ancient Romans, deep down?

Of course, we're not exactly the same. But still - are we pretty much the same? If you took the average guy, swapped his shirt and trousers for a tunic, and put him to war against Carthage, would he behave like a Roman, i.e. utterly ruthlessly?

I went to Rome recently and was stuck by the single-minded militaristic nature of the Ancient Romans. (Modern ones are quite nice). That probably sounds obvious - everyone knows that the Romans were bloodthirsty bastards. But historians are fond, these days, of saying that nothing has changed: it's the same old human nature, just dressed up a little and made to look nice. Our inner Roman is still there.

At first, this seems crazy. We're not particularly violent, after all. But the historian will point to similarities. Look at sports festivals: they're just like Gladiatorial contests! etc. But I am more of an optimist, who likes to think that we somehow managed to tamp down the violence a while back. To support this, I've jerrybuilt a dodgy social Darwinist theory to back me up.

First: think of how pale a facsimile ball sports are of blood sports. We have got to the point where watching someone pass a round object to another person quenches the bloodlust that could only have previously been quelled by witnessing the bloody deaths of brutal fighters in the ring. Isn't that odd?

This may sound crazy, or even borderline eugenicist, to others, but: what if we have had the violence systematically bred out of us over the years? To see what I mean, think of this: most extremely violent people, in Roman times, had the opportunity to rise to the top levels of power. Where are the people with violent tendencies now? Unlike in Rome, in Australia far more of them are in prison than in the military. Being aggressive towards others, in a secular democracy, generally gets you incarcerated rather than revered, except for a few small subsets (bikie gangs etc.). Now, if you're in prison, you have fewer opportunities to have children. Could a society like ours, that generally condemns violence as a vice, therefore, instigate a kind of genetic 'feedback loop' that steadily breeds violent tendencies out of the population? Or is it obnoxious just to ponder this?

I realise that a good argument against this theory is the recent existence of totalitarian states such as Nazi Germany or Soviet Russia. These obviously contained many extremely violent people, and they were only a few years ago - too short a time for any significant genetic change to occur.

But still - we're so much less violent these days than we were that it's hard to believe nothing's changed. Has our 'genetic temperament' changed at all since Ancient Rome? And if not, how do we manage to be so darn peaceful to one another most of the time?

Sunday, November 29, 2009

An escalating conundrum

Being processed through the intestines of an international airport recently, I noticed a strange phenomenon: traffic flow on working vs. non-working escalators. Let me explain.

When pedestrians are presented with a choice between taking the stairs or taking the escalator up to the next floor of a building, I estimate that 10% take the former, 90% the latter. Those who take the stairs when the escalator is working are generally fitness freaks or masochists. This makes sense.

However, when the escalator breaks down, something unexpected happens: the percentage of people taking each form of conveyance is reversed: that is, 90% of people now take the stairs, while only 10% walk up the broken escalator. Why should this be? If neither option offers an advantage over the other, the percentage should be split equally, surely?

The answer seems to be that people who are walking up a broken escalator automatically deduct the escalator's expected speed from its actual speed - that is, walking up a broken escalator feels like you are going backwards; whereas walking up stairs doesn't. This is the opposite phenomenon to the strange sensation of jumping off a trampoline and onto unexpectedly unyielding ground: the ground feels unnaturally hard as our brain has adjusted to the bounce.

Incidentally, the escalatorial behaviour of Europeans is far superior to that of Australians. The reason? Europeans instinctively know that it is polite to stick to one side of an escalator when stationary, so that people who choose to walk up can do so unimpeded. Australians seem to have no concept of this. It annoys me so much that I've been tempted to pitch a series of community service announcements to the Government, aiming to raise public awareness. But that's probably a bit obsessive.

Saturday, March 28, 2009

The Monkey Speaks

Those privileged enough to see the New York Times' Head Performing Monkey, Tom Friedman, on Lateline the other day were in for a treat. Beginning the interview with his trademark lack of humility - "And I'd just like to say hello to all my fans in Australia" - Friedman, disconcertingly resembling Dr. Phil in appearance, content and delivery, went on to offer his scarily off-the-planet analysis of the causes of the US financial crisis.

Friedman, who writes about global economics with all the subtlety of an ADD child playing Hungry Hungry Hippos against himself, told the host the following (I'm paraphrasing, as usual):

"This year, the world hit not one wall but two. The first was financial; the second, environmental. This year, the earth hit its carrying capacity. The US business model is unsustainable. We borrow money from China so that we can borrow more of their junk, devaluing our currency in the process by stacking the Chinese treasury with US dollars. Then we do it all over again. When the US lost the ability to pay for the junk, the system collapsed.

Now that other developing countries are starting to consume like Americans, the earth could no longer sustain what we all were doing and it said, 'enough'."

This is true in a sense: the US-based model of growth is unsustainable all right. But Friedman effectively blamed the rising middle class in the developing world for what was going on. Of course, this is nuttier than feeding time in the elephant enclosure. The world didn't suddenly hit an 'environmental wall' in 2008, and the developing middle class's increased resource consumption didn't cause the crisis.

The crisis occurred because - and this is something that the frantically pro-US Friedman is congenitally blind to - the US financial system is run by criminals. I don't mean that in a bug-eyed Chomskian way, but criminality is really the only logical definition of what was going on. The US, like Russia, had become a society based on gangster capitalism. And now that Obama and co. have done their best to ensure that this clique of suited psychopaths will be able to continue pretty much as they were - albeit with a few mild spanks on their Armani-cosseted botties - we can all look forward to a Dow Jones recovery curve flatter than Boris Karloff's head.

The conversational low point was Friedman's assertion that "the time for fairness is over" - as if 'fairness' was something that only know-nothing NASCAR-appreciating Joe Sixpacks wanted. By denying the need for a massive, exhaustive purge and nationalisation of the US banking system and shifting the blame onto those nasty poor people screwing up the environment, Friedman confirmed his status as the most hilariously over-promoted source of authority since Prince Charles.

So, please allow me to present my alternative analysis of the causes of the financial crisis (note: metaphorical representation only):

Saturday, March 14, 2009

They shoot elephants, don't they?

According to its bloviating media cheerleaders, the United States is a Leviathan guided by two warring and equally profound spirits (one oddly represented by a Donkey and one by an Elephant, but let that pass). The two-party system - or so the theory goes - ensures that one of these folksy animals doesn't get too large a share of the public's attention. If either voice dominates the political landscape for too long, everyone will end up either a. making bead necklaces and singing Kumbaya with a bunch of gay kindergarten teachers (Donkey dominant) or b. shooting immigrants for fun while levelling national parks to get the oil underneath (Elephant dominant).

From this unending process of struggle between the Voice of Tradition and the Voice of Progress, a great nation is forged. Or so the theory goes.

But US politics is funny, in a terrifying way, because one of the guiding spirits has Mad Elephant Disease and should have been taken out into the back paddock and shot in the back of its wrinkly grey head a fair while back. That would be the logical way to quell the rabid, paranoid rantings of a political party seemingly unencumbered by humility, compassion or logic.

That's why it's so funny to see the conservative journos weep tears of blood at Obama's dramatic left-wing-isation of the economy over the past few weeks (and don't get me wrong, he really hanged, drew, quartered, cremated, exploded and danced on the grave of post-Reagan politics pretty enthusiastically). Representatives of the Southern Baptist Convention, gun nuts and little else, Republican party members are slowly starting to realise that most people see them as a bunch of nasty, crazy, greedy, racist, rapacious nut jobs, fit for little but toenail harvesting.

'Reaching across the aisle' in this situation to reach some post-partisan agreement - as recommended by self-fellating hicks like Rush Limbaugh et al. - would be like awarding joint custody of a child to a charity worker mother and an axe-murdering father (caring Mom on Mon, Tue, Wed; psychopathic Dad on Thurs, Fri, Sat).

It won't work, blowhards, because people all around the world are really, really scared of y'all.

Questions for Nokia

Dear Sir or Madam,

I am the proud owner of a Nokia Mobile Telephone, circa 1998. It has served me well during the time that I have been using it. Last week, however, when I was lying in bed, I decided to play one of your company's built-in games for a while rather than getting up and going to work.

The game that I chose was called 'Nature Park'. Although the gameplay itself was quite entertaining, I have several questions that I would like to ask you in relation to this product.

In case you no longer include 'Nature Park' with your new mobile telephones, allow me to refresh your memory: the game is a Tetris-like challenge, in which the player must arrange a series of coloured shapes neatly into a grid as they fall.

Here, then, are my key queries:

1. I do not fully understand why the game is titled 'Nature Park'. The grid seems to be located in some kind of 'space' setting, with a background of stars and galaxies. The most curious item in the background, though, is probably the Chipmunk-type animal that levitates next to the grid. The Chipmunk is housed in a small flying saucer. Although I realise that many nature parks do contain chipmunks or similar animals, I am also quite certain that few of these transport themselves in personalised flying saucer-type machines.

(n.b. I did, briefly, form a hypothesis as to the 'nature park' title: the omnipotent flying-saucer-travelling chipmunk could be seen as a comment on human fallibility - in which case the earth itself could be seen as a kind of 'nature park' for the omniscient chipmunk's benefit, with the human species as the main attraction - a Nietzscheian reversal of fortune, if you will. Please let me know if this alternative hypothesis is valid.)

2. The allegiance of the chipmunk in relation to the human player is unclear, or at least unstable. The chipmunk looks pleased when the human player scores points (i.e. his flying saucer starts jiggling up and down rapidly, and he starts smiling, insofar as this is possible for a rodent). But when the human player completes a level of the game, the chipmunk's flying saucer appears to crash. I cannot understand why the chipmunk would be happy at the player's success if the player's completion of a level results in the destruction of the chipmunk's primary mode of transportation. Further, the chipmunk's eyes begin to widen in agitation if the player is in danger of losing the game. But surely the chipmunk would be glad, not agitated, at the failure of the human player if this were the only way to save his saucer. (To further complicate matters, the chipmunk smiles when a point is scored. Why is this?)

3. On level 2, Chipmunk #1 is replaced by Cat #1 (also besaucered), whose prominent eyelashes and red, full lips lends it a feminine appearance. Again, Cat #1's attitude towards the human player's success or failure is unclear. Cat #1 licks her nose with her tongue when the human loses points. Does this mean something?

As I have not yet progressed beyond Level 2, I am unable to comment on further animal observers included in 'Nature Park'. However, I would be most grateful if you could address my current issues.

Kind regards,

Tim

Thursday, March 12, 2009

The Moral Centre of Rugby League

For those who are used to piss-takes on this blog: this is a bit more serious.

The news tonight was full of a story about a Rugby League star who has (I was going to say 'Fallen From Grace', but it should be obvious that Rugby League stars begin from a place a fair bit lower than that) screwed up, made a mistake and been a naughty boy - a bit of a wild lad, really.

That's how the press is treating it, anyway. For the record, the guy (whose name I can't remember, which might save me from some legal implications of writing about him) is alleged to have raped a teenage girl last weekend.

Of course, because he's a sportsman, and a famous one at that, the unctuous soft-pedalling by his emotionally retarded cronies begins immediately.

The dilution of the alleged crime is assisted by the news networks' insistence on using the term 'sexual assault', which is to the term 'rape' what 'prisoner abuse' is to 'torture'. (Technically correct, but not quite as, well, you know, indelicate. Do we have to use the 'R' word? He's such a great player...)

And the excuses start immediately for Mr. Fallen Hero. There are the solemn denunciations of the code's unhealthy affection for alcohol, with Mr. Alleged Rapist as an innocent victim (Chastened teammates: "If only he hadn't drunk so much! If only that bottle shop hadn't been open! If only that girl hadn't dressed like a...sorry, is this microphone on?").

Then there are the 'hard hitting' angles from the ABC news room, including the Suggested Punishment. And what draconian punishments they propose. A sporting 'personality' of some sort said on the 7:30 report (I'm paraphrasing here, of course): 'You have to hit 'em where it hurts - a fine won't deter 'em. You gotta ban them from playing - that's the only thing that'll teach these lads!'

So, let's get this straight. A Sporting Hero allegedly rapes a girl. A bunch of his friends go on a Government-funded show and tell us:

a. People don't rape people - beer rapes people; and

b. If he really did do it, well, gee - maybe he shouldn't play rugby for a while.

A sanctimonious suggestion. One thing that would work rather better than being deprived of some mano-a-mano combat for a fortnight would be an extended stay in, oh, I don't know, a prison? You know, with criminals who aren't famous.

This may sound pretty obvious for those who have not been lobotomised repeatedly with a dirty trowel, but what other profession on earth allows its members to get away with such appalling excuses for alleged criminal behaviour? (Movie stars don't even get a look-in in comparison, nor do any of the other absurdly privileged professions.)

A couple of random memories of the same phenomenon:

- Andrew Denton's appalling interview of the charmer Wayne Carey, who proved that you don't have to be a League player to be a violent criminal, although it does help. Denton, bless his heart, brought out the compassionate side of Carey for his audience - which was understandably obscured at the time, as Carey had recently assaulted some cops. Oh yes, and...ahem, allegedly...glassed his wife in the face.

- The SMH's bleeding-heart coverage of the, ah, alleged rape scandal that engulfed the Bulldogs a few years back. Headline: "Shattered", over a shattered bulldog logo. Yep, the SMH was sorry for the club, not the woman.

- The mysteriously restored reputation of Gary Ablett Snr. ("Hey Dad, wasn't there something with him and an underage girl who died and some ecstasy tablets-" "Shut up, son, he was a great player, ok?")

Friday, February 27, 2009

A Great Party Rebuilds

Speaker: Bobby Jindal, Gov. Louisiana (Repub.)

Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen. [Applause].

I'll cut to the chase. Speak plainly. We got whupped out there last November. [Pause - no response] More whupp-oed than Jesus! [Pause]. Y'know, in 'The Passion of the Christ'!
[EVANGELICALS applause. The other person in the hall is silent.]

So - here we all are. The Republican party base. And to think those Dems said that we could hold our conventions in a phone booth! [Loud boos, jeers]. Well. I'd hardly call the Lynchburgh Pre-kindergarten Recreation and Rumpus Room a f***in' phone booth, would you?!

I'm sorry, mother.

I have been called upon to reconstruct the party's philosophy after - I'm speaking carefully here, y'know? - after that b****ard stole the f***in' election. I'm sorry - won the election. Are them words perty enough for you, Frank Rich?

In order to win the next election, we have to reaffirm our principles. Go back to what made this party great.

VOICE IN CROWD: Slavery? [confused murmurs]

JINDAL (flustered): Ah, no, no. Calm down.

VOICE IN CROWD: Gays out of the army!

JINDAL [amidst wild cheering]: I want, uh, real suggestions here. What are we gonna do next time? We can't just front up to the American people and say: 'No more gays!', can we? Folks? (Laughs nervously).

CROWD: No more gays! No more gays! No more gays!

JINDAL: Ah, yes - four more days! Four more days! I hear ya. Be quiet now. What do we like? Let's try and get a basic framework drawn up here. I'll draw a mind map. Republican Party: For. Anyone?

CROWD MEMBER: Playstation 3!

CROWD MEMBER: Twinkies!

CROWD MEMBER: Penthouse!

CROWD MEMBER: Han Solo!

CROWD MEMBER: Fartin' in my jacuzzi!

JINDAL: Right, right. Do we have any more, well, more policy-based suggestions? [Silence]. Ok, what don't we like? Reach deep into your conservative hearts - in the grand tradition of Edmund Burke and William F. Buckley Jr. - and tell me what we're AGAINST!

CROWD MEMBER: Hard words!

CROWD MEMBER: Weird food!

CROWD MEMBER: Spectacles!

CROWD MEMBER: Pussy little asian cars!

JINDAL (writing furiously): Hang on...pussy...little...cars...ok. We have, well, a lot of material here. A heckuva lot of material. We are gonna be a force to be reckoned with again. Hands up who want some Robin-Hood-equal-opportunity guy stealing our money while we're asleep? Huh?

CROWD MEMBER: You mean Jesus? [Hysterical whoops and screams. All hands go up.]

JINDAL: No - that's not who I meant, people! Hands up who like bad democrat man? [All hands go down].

That's the ticket. Those dems and their 'brains trust'. All that thinkin'! Well, we got a brains trust, too! Our very own brains trust! I am excited about the future of the Republican Party, people. Very excited. You'd better watch your back, Democrats!

CROWD MEMBER: I'm hungry.

Monday, February 23, 2009

Rock n' Roll Morals

SPEAKER: Good afternoon. I'm speaking live from Harvard University, where I'm attending a conference panel entitled 'Artistically-inclined Rock Singers Heinously Outraged at Liberal Explicitness' (ARSHOLE).

On the panel are ex-Poison singer Brett Michaels; ex-Soundgarden singer Chris Cornell; and current AC/DC singer Brian Johnson. Greetings, gentlemen.

ALL: Good afternoon.

SPEAKER: Let's start with you, Brett. How did ARSHOLE start?

BM: Well, we in Hair-metal, Hard Rock and related subgenres are tired of being willfully misinterpreted, and hence marginalised, by an increasingly coarse public.

SPEAKER: Care to elaborate?

BM: Certainly. I'm talking about the alarming tendency of the mainstream media to read unintended messages into our lyrics.

SPEAKER: Could you provide an example, Mr. Michaels?

BM: One of Poison's records, 'Open Up and Say...Ahhh!', was purposefully (I believe) characterised as a reference to an - in my view - deviant sexual practice.

SPEAKER: I see. And what was the record intended to be about?

BM: My desire to become a doctor.

SPEAKER: A...doctor?

BM: Yes.

SPEAKER: How long have you had this wish?

BM: For as long as I can remember. Since I was a child, definitely.

SPEAKER: You got waylaid, then?

BM: You could say that. I 'fell in with the wrong crowd', as the cliche goes - a crowd that seemed to think that injected illegal substances and cheating on one's current partner constituted a valid life plan.

SPEAKER: Did you find that your personality was altered as a result of the company you kept?

BM: Yes, regrettably. There is a certain post-performance demographic known as the 'groupie', for example...

SPEAKER: Please go on.

BM: ...a term which refers to a tradition where members of the band retreat to their trailers for meaningless sexual encounters with uncommitted women. After these experiences, I invariably felt cheapened. None of them wanted to discuss the music. There were times when thoughts of my poor wife almost prevented me from going on stage.

SPEAKER: Mr. Cornell, would you care to comment on this disturbing trend?

CC: I had a similar experience during the recording of our album 'Louder Than Love'. I spent several months crafting a song about the difficulties of empathy.

SPEAKER: What was the song called?

CC: 'Swallow My Pride'. As should be obvious from the title, it's about the desire of a caring partner to inhabit their loved one's subjective experiences.

SPEAKER: And the media attacked you?

CC: They distorted the song's meaning to suit their own perverted ends. [Transcriber's note: voice starts to quaver at this point]. I can't even say out loud what Kerrang! magazine claimed it was about. Sometimes I think Axl Rose was right about them. They misinterpreted him, too.

SPEAKER: And these misunderstandings dogged you throughout your career?

CC: Of course. There was a song called 'Mailman' on our album 'Superunknown', which contains the couplet:
'I know I'm heading for the bottom/
But I'm riding you all the way.'
That song was never the same for me after the critics got to it.

SPEAKER: What was 'Mailman' intended to be about?

CC: I would have thought it was obvious: it is a song about my appreciation for the good work done by the US Postal Service.

SPEAKER (Hesitant): So...how would you explain the 'riding' reference?

CC: That part is a dialogue between a postman and his van, spoken while riding down a hill. When I used to watch 'Postman Pat' as a child, I always thought that Pat looked happiest when riding down a hill in his smiling van. It's a love song, I guess.

SPEAKER: Thank you. Finally, Mr. Johnson: You believe that your quartet has been especially hard done by?

BJ: Without a doubt.

SPEAKER: Ok. I'll read out several of your song titles, and you can tell the audience what the actual - as distinct from the perceived - subject matter is.

BJ: I'd be glad to.

SPEAKER: Let's begin. 'Givin' the Dog a Bone'?

BJ: That's about my toy poodle, Latifah.

SPEAKER: 'Big Balls'?

BJ: That's about my ten-pin bowling career.

SPEAKER: 'Sink the Pink'?

BJ: That's about my hobby - billiards.

SPEAKER: 'Let me Put My Love Into You'?

BJ: That's about sharing cupboard space after getting married. It's a difficult issue.

SPEAKER: 'Cover You in Oil'?

BJ: I like to cook roast chicken. It's self-explanatory.

SPEAKER: Thank you, Mr. Johnson. May I ask you all what you're working on at the moment?

BM: I'm writing a concept album about the urgent need to reform the American Medical Association.

SPEAKER: Do you have a title?

BM: 'Spreadeagled'. That's a reference, of course, to the American Eagle - standing in for the country as a whole - and how thinly its resources are currently spread due to lack of healthcare reform.

SPEAKER: Mr. Cornell?

CC: I'm trying to repair the damage done by the previous reaction to my work, by recording a rock opera about the doomed love between a horse and a unicorn.

SPEAKER: What is this album called?

CC: Its working title is 'Impaled on my Massive Horn'. I think that brings the pathos of the subject through quite well.

SPEAKER: And you, Mr. Johnson?

BJ: AC/DC are recording a new single especially for ARSHOLE.

SPEAKER: Entitled...?

BJ: 'Tits Tits Tits'.

SPEAKER: What is this one about?

BJ: The joys of ornithology.

Thursday, January 22, 2009

Rejected Inauguration Speeches

Although Obama's inauguration speech was co-written by the 27-year-old Jon Favreau, a number of speechwriters were reportedly under consideration for the task.

An envelope with two speeches, apparently rejected, was found on the lectern by an observant cleaner after Obama had finished speaking. They are reproduced in their entirety below.

REJECTED SPEECH #1:
'A Happy Day for Rapacious American Imperialist Dogs'
By John Pilger, author of 'Napalm America!'

Welcome, Americans, and thank you for taking time off from your sweatshop-exploiting purchasing frenzies to attend today.

I am being sarcastic, of course: I do not wish to thank any of you. This is because you have not participated in the democratic process.

Last November, you voted for, and "elected" [remember air quote gesture here] one candidate only: the dollar. None of you participated in anything resembling a democratic process. Voting, for you appalling bottom-feeding scum, is simply a process of electing your favourite mass murderer. Every ballot cast was like a dagger in the heart of someone from South-East Asia that you don't care about, and who probably made your shoes.

You all disgust me, but worse - you profoundly scare me. A goose-stepping cavalcade of heavily tranquilised matrix-monkeys would show more independence of thought than you violent, somnambulistic, bloodthirsty goons.

I stand before you as the perfect Manchurian Candidate. I will dedicate myself to achieving your depraved, violent goals - shovelling cash into the gaping maws of murderous client states.

The slogan for my presidency should have been 'Yes, I can' - as you have no wills of your own. And do you think electing my Doppleganger would have made any difference whatsoever, you Imperialist pawns?

So, repeat after me, automatons.

Overthrowing democratically elected governments? [Crowd will respond: 'Yes, you can.' Pause for laugh here.]

Cutting swathes of destruction through the ranks of our "enemies"? [again, remember menacing scare quotes here. Crowd will respond: Yes, you can.]

Using the blood of innocents as a delicious breakfast condiment and licking your lips afterwards? [Crowd will respond: Yes, you can.]

Thank you, rabble. You disgust me.


*

REJECTED SPEECH #2: 'Stop Voting for Nazis, you Pussies!'

By Daniel Pipes, author of 'Can't We Just Move the Arabs to Syria or Someplace?: Notes Towards a Solution to the Middle Eastern Conflict'.

Thank you, fellow Americans, for electing a closeted Islamo-Fascist to the White House. A 'negotiator'. [sneer here].

As everyone knows, negotiators love the Nazis. Underneath my stars and stripes lapel pin is a swastika - but you were all too appallingly stupid to notice. Blinded by your lazy liberal love of hummus and falafels.

Well, I love a falafel as much as the next guy - but you can't run foreign policy on the principles of a delicious deep-fried vegetarian chickpea-based snack.

The fact is, residents of the greatest country that the universe has ever known, you've been sold down the river by a bunch of liberals. Again. Idiots. All that stuff about 'love' for other countries - is that what you were expecting today? There are no other countries - only enemies. And most of these enemies speak other languages. Funny languages that don't make sense. And you should never trust someone who speaks funny. Have you people learned nothing from Liberace?

To my solutions. Our defence budget is far too small. Next year, every child will get a free handgun, their parents a free F-16. For America's strength cannot be summed up in its people, or its ideals, or its diversity. Our strength is in our military, eggheads. You know, in strong stuff. Made of steel. (I honestly can't believe I have to explain this.)

For those who think 'the pen is mightier than the sword', or some other defeatist crap: watch this. [Take bic cystal ballpoint pen and machete out of briefcase here; pulverise former with latter.] Bullshit!

We have been losing wars because we are weak. Korea? Not enough guns. Vietnam? Not enough choppers. Iraq I? Not enough remote controlled missiles. Iraq II? Not enough Hummers.

It's time to get real, America, so we can win this thing. [Spit in disgust here.]

See ya.

Sunday, January 11, 2009

Bring me your tired, your huddled....

And now for another excerpt from the collection of odd accidents that was my childhood.

My elder brother was having a Barbecue at his place - an event that I, a devoted and practicing carnivore at the time, was understandably excited about. This time, however, I was at - there's no easy way to put this - cricket practice (a story for another post) - and I wasn't able to get to his place until everyone else had already arrived.

'Tim!' they all said, with that warm tone of welcome that adults use on children, and which children inevitably love (even if they pretend they don't).
'I just have to get changed, and I'll be right out', I said, greatly looking forward to the awaiting succulent hunks of charred meat.

I went into my brother's room (I had, with unusual foresight, brought a change of clothing for the occasion). Halfway through changing, I looked in the corner of the room and saw... a mysterious black bag. Can you, in your heart of hearts, blame me for opening it?

The bag contained a big, red, heavy bowling ball. Most children, on finding such an object, might think: 'wouldn't it be fun to roll this across the floor for a bit?'

Not I. Instead, I thought: 'wouldn't it be fun, and even a little flattering, to pose with the bowling ball in front of the mirror?' (I had a rather strange body image at the time, I think.)

So, I gingerly took the ball from the bag, and slowly walked towards the smoked full-length mirror, my posture resembling someone who had just gotten a gigantic arm made of lead unexpectedly riveted to their right side.

It looked pretty cool, I must say. With my index and middle fingers lodged in the holes, I preened awhile and imagined myself as the junior 10-pin champion of the universe.

Next, I truly went for the epic. Imagining myself as a perfect (and non-hermaphroditic) hybrid of Michaelangelo's David and the Statue of Liberty, I slowly extended my right arm above my head, and held it aloft with ball attached.

I should stress at this point that my brother used a 16-pound ball. 16 pounds is around 7 kilograms - approximately the mass of an adult human head.

Triumphant, reveling in my own titanic strength, I looked proudly at my straining, wiry, right bicep-tricep combo, capped with the magificent red sphere. But I let my marble/copper sculpted daydream run away with me, lost concentration for a small interval, and closed my eyes.

When I opened them again, I noticed that the ball was forcing my ball-gripping fingers into a direction that they probably weren't supposed to go. Without support, the bowling ball surrendered custody to its old master - gravity.

Or, to put it another way, I dropped the bowling ball onto my face. Which is not quite as much fun as it sounds.

Regaining consciousness on the floor in a pool of my own blood, I opened my eyes to a closeup view of the blood-covered sphere and thought: isn't that funny: my blood's exactly the same colour as the ball!

Just switch to everyone else's perspective for a second: quiet boy goes into room to change out of his gym gear. Emerges with mild concussion, smashed lips, and bloodied face.

I couldn't talk for several hours, which did make explaining rather difficult.

Friday, January 2, 2009

The Saint

The Obama photoshoot in the GoodWeekend a few weeks back was a little bit concerning, I thought. It was a great set - I spent about 15 minutes swooning over it - and it reinforced my crush, as it probably did for other readers.

But one photo stuck out: it showed Obama sitting with his crossed feet resting on a table. The caption described the holes in the bottom of his shoes, which had been made by all the walking that he had been doing during the campaign. It was the hardship that he'd been through that we were encouraged to see. The worn-out shoes became a shorthand for the man himself.

A similar thing happened with the 'news' that Obama is going to purchase a tuxedo for his inauguration. He only has one beaten-up one, apparently, which he purchased years ago. This is appealing, of course, but it's also fairly irrelevant.

Looking at the photos, I found it very hard to slough off the sense of awe that I felt, and feel, towards him. I don't think it's an exaggeration to say that a large section of the population - me included - is 'in love' with him, insofar as one can fall in love with a stranger. This is a helpful attitude to have when you're supporting a campaign, but perhaps not so helpful when you're dealing with a sitting president.

It's hardly Obama's fault that he is, well, not exactly aesthetically or charismatically deficient. However, I think it will be a challenge for the world to judge his presidency in a disinterested manner. The Republican Party's 'Obama = Celebrity' ad worked, in part, because there was some truth in it.

Of course, the fact that it was nasty, paranoid & racist gave it a little help, too. God bless the GOP!