It’s a pretty sad state of affairs when you're so pessimistic about an issue that you worry when someone takes a principled stand on something. Yet I now feel even less optimistic about US gun laws than I did before.
When Obama praised Australia's gun laws and suggested they should be emulated, I was astonished and relieved. (A large proportion of US citizens fail to see the bleeding obvious link between heaps of guns and piles of corpses.) But I started to change my mind soon after.
Don't get me wrong: Obama's praise of our gun laws showed that he was indeed serious about ending mass shootings. Yet of course, the problem is that Australia-style measures are unlikely to find support with almost half of American voters,who view gun ownership as a fundamental part of their, and their country's, identity.
Remember, Obama didn’t back some half-assed gun confiscation measure today -- he went for the full Monty. When these laws were introduced in Australia, they ended mass shootings instantly. There's only one way to crush gun homicide, if you're serious about it -- take guns away from 'good guys' and 'bad guys' alike. Real life isn't Dirty Harry, and you're endangering everyone around you if you think it is.
Obama understands that gun laws can only be tackled on a federal level. As Mother Jones pointed out recently, state gun bans don't work that well, because you just can get one from the next state over. (The NRA and its acolytes know this, of course, which is why they're so vehemently against a federal ban.) The exception that proves the rule, of course, is Hawaii.
Yet I'm starting to think that Obama's surprisingly tough stance might be the biggest miscalculation he's ever made. For example, I can easily see the Republican Party using this announcement to stymie the remains of Obama's presidency. It would also be very easy for them to tar Hillary Clinton with the same brush, given that she also supports stricter laws.
From there, it's only a short step to Republicans painting Democrats as a threat to glorious liberty. (Oh look, it's already happened.) Considering how crazy and unelectable the Republican Party's become, this could be their best shot at getting back into power. Moreover, if things go wrong, it could be years until the Democrats are able to extricate themselves from being damningly accused of sanity.
As someone who detests nonfictional guns, I can’t believe I’m already starting to see Obama's remarks in such a negative light. Possible outcome: Obama floats rational gun laws, more sweeping than anything that has been implemented in the US. The Tea Party use these suggestions to whip half the public into a frenzy (unfortunately, the vastly scarier half). The whole thing explodes in a vast mushroom cloud of macho states-rights lunacy.
Howard banned pretty much all guns back in 1996. It will be interesting to see whether Obama does the same, or only goes after semi-automatic assault rifles (now euphemistically called 'long guns' by fanboys). Unless he wants to roll the legislative equivalent of an icosahedral dice, he'll stay well away from handguns: the US public will never go for it. Handgun ownership in that country now has the feel of an eternal physical fact, like the chemical composition of hydrochloric acid.
If Obama & Co. come up with a carefully expressed plan to ban semiautomatics with large clips, he may have a fairly good shot at actually getting this passed. The problem is, supporters of extreme gun laws are much scarier than, say, animal rights advocates. Piss off the latter group, and you may get a few loud protests here and there. Piss off gun rights activists, and who knows what the hell you're in for.
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
Monday, June 2, 2014
Solar planes?
When the
era of cheap air travel ends in a haze of kerosene fumes, we may have to once again view the world's faraway places only in our imaginations.
Yet even though aircraft cause around 5% of CO2 emissions, perhaps there's a way out. I recently read an article about the first viable electric airplane, a creature which was previously deemed unfeasible. For now, it's only small with limited range ... but it's possible.
Let's get serious, though. What about powering 400-person planes, say, with completely renewable fuel sources? What about the entire world's fleet?
Solar-power air travel might be a fix. Not directly -- we can't run a massive aircraft on solar -- but perhaps we can run it on hydrogen made from solar. If solar power
continues to expand at its current rate, we might be able to develop a surplus
store of hydrogen to supply the aviation industry.
Let's figure out how much hydrogen (H2) fuel we'd need to get from Sydney to Dallas on a 747. (The world's longest route, I think.) A 747's tank holds 240,000L, so let's assume that monster route uses the whole darn lot.
A solar plant can make hydrogen via electrolysis -- that is, splitting water into its constituents of hydrogen and oxygen. According to Popular Mechanics, creating 150 million US tons of hydrogen (around 140 million metric tonnes) would take '113 million 40-kilowatt systems'. This works out at 4520 GW.
Let's say we need four times as much hydrogen to fuel the plane as we would need kerosene -- near enough to 1,000,000L. (Hydrogen has less energy content than kerosene.) One litre of liquid hydrogen weighs only 70g. So, 1,000,000L of hydrogen -- the amount needed for our flight -- would weigh 70,000kg, or 70 tonnes.
Now, we have to figure out how many times 70 goes into 150 million. Answer: 2.14 million.
So, 4520GW/2.14 million = 2.1MW. A 2MW solar plant like this one could theoretically produce enough hydrogen fuel for a single Sydney--Dallas flight every hour. Let's say this particular solar array could produce 5 flights' worth a day.
There are around 15,000 commercial aircraft in the world--say, the equivalent of 5,000 747s. That means you'd need 1000 2MW solar arrays to produce enough hydrogen to supply the world's passenger aircraft fleet.
I feel like there are many, many places I could have made a miscalculation. What are people's thoughts on my back-of-the-envelope calculations?
Monday, June 10, 2013
Minor Irritants
These are a part of life. Not just my life, of course. But what I'm thinking of is bodily irritants -- small imperfections or injuries on the surface of the body that aren't large enough to be worrisome, yet aren't small enough to ignore.
My latest acquisition is a burn on my RH thumb, received for absent-mindedly testing the toasted sandwich maker to see if it was still on. It was. The burn is small, quite hard, and perfectly circular. It's a reminder of the gap between what I would like my body to do and what it actually will do.
That's because the thumb pulp that's burned comes directly into contact with the pen while writing. When I'm not writing, I don't even remember that I have a burn. Yet when I pick up a pen, it's suddenly annoying. The small circular burn temporarily becomes the centre of my world.
My consciousness of the burn, and the necessity of performing an action (such as handwriting) that counteracts my body's present wishes, shows the difference between humans' and animals' experience of bodily irritation.
Most non-human animals see discomfort as something to be avoided, even if that means modifying otherwise rewarding behaviour. If the original behaviour is retained despite the irritation, then the reward obtained must be substantial. (An example of this would be a rat knowingly receiving an electric shock by pressing a live food-release lever.)
Yet humans seem to have a different attitude to their minor injuries and abrasions. Instead of becoming something to ignore, they become something to obsess over. Our centre of consciousness is temporarily relocated to become engulfed by the burn, cut or bruise.
I'm going somewhere with this, but I can't figure out where. More thinking needed.
My latest acquisition is a burn on my RH thumb, received for absent-mindedly testing the toasted sandwich maker to see if it was still on. It was. The burn is small, quite hard, and perfectly circular. It's a reminder of the gap between what I would like my body to do and what it actually will do.
That's because the thumb pulp that's burned comes directly into contact with the pen while writing. When I'm not writing, I don't even remember that I have a burn. Yet when I pick up a pen, it's suddenly annoying. The small circular burn temporarily becomes the centre of my world.
My consciousness of the burn, and the necessity of performing an action (such as handwriting) that counteracts my body's present wishes, shows the difference between humans' and animals' experience of bodily irritation.
Most non-human animals see discomfort as something to be avoided, even if that means modifying otherwise rewarding behaviour. If the original behaviour is retained despite the irritation, then the reward obtained must be substantial. (An example of this would be a rat knowingly receiving an electric shock by pressing a live food-release lever.)
Yet humans seem to have a different attitude to their minor injuries and abrasions. Instead of becoming something to ignore, they become something to obsess over. Our centre of consciousness is temporarily relocated to become engulfed by the burn, cut or bruise.
I'm going somewhere with this, but I can't figure out where. More thinking needed.
Thursday, June 6, 2013
Circular Thoughts
Most of the time, I'm amazed at the sheer versatility of the human mind. It's been said before ad nauseam, but our mental capacity and imagination is pretty amazing by any standards -- even if we're inevitably biased in the matter.
Yet some things make me think of the engineering problems in our mental processes. Or, should I say, my mental processes. It's often difficult to determine how easy it is to step outside of one's own perspective and inhabit someone else's; evaluating the efficacy of one's own thinking patterns is particularly fraught.
Still. The flaw I'd like to focus on is the 'feedback effect' in thought: that is, the human tendency to focus on a trivial detail or irritant, and return to it again and again, multiplying it several-fold in the process.
This is extremely familiar to us, but why does it come about? Many of our other habits of thought are cleverly designed--attention, for example. The 'cocktail party' effect, where we are able to snap our attention into focus when we hear our name in a crowded room, has obvious utility for our ancestors.
But the gradual amplification of a small grievance through repetition seems to help no-one. If I had to come up with an evolutionary just-so story for this trait, I'd guess that attention feedback was designed to prevent us losing track of small grudges and grievances. Early humans, whose brains were focused entirely on keeping detailed accounts of their immediate social sphere, would have had plenty of cause to crystallise a specific hostility towards another member of their tribe.
There is also a clear physical incentive. Embellishing and deepening the antipathy felt for a rival through obsessive mental repetition would give the aggrieved individual a motivation to take action against him. In a small band-like society, where assuming a position of power must have meant physically overthrowing your opponent, being able to 'work up' a head of anger over a minor incident would have been a great asset in the right circumstances. If there are serious strictures preventing an usurper from killing a rival, mechanisms that temporarily override those apprehensions might be necessary to move up the food chain.
Of course, our current society doesn't reward the escalating feedback effect of anger. Instead, this impulse is punished. Those with a particular tendency toward anger may have been rewarded far more than a similar character would be today. The casual culture of violence toward one's enemies has only recently faded, and there are still many noble examples of it
I know that we aren't completely trapped within the biological structures handed down through the generations. Still, having spent the best part of an hour constructing elaborate fantasies of retribution over a trivial matter, I realised this: we're more in control of our behaviour if we remain aware of when our impulses override our thoughts.
Yet some things make me think of the engineering problems in our mental processes. Or, should I say, my mental processes. It's often difficult to determine how easy it is to step outside of one's own perspective and inhabit someone else's; evaluating the efficacy of one's own thinking patterns is particularly fraught.
Still. The flaw I'd like to focus on is the 'feedback effect' in thought: that is, the human tendency to focus on a trivial detail or irritant, and return to it again and again, multiplying it several-fold in the process.
This is extremely familiar to us, but why does it come about? Many of our other habits of thought are cleverly designed--attention, for example. The 'cocktail party' effect, where we are able to snap our attention into focus when we hear our name in a crowded room, has obvious utility for our ancestors.
But the gradual amplification of a small grievance through repetition seems to help no-one. If I had to come up with an evolutionary just-so story for this trait, I'd guess that attention feedback was designed to prevent us losing track of small grudges and grievances. Early humans, whose brains were focused entirely on keeping detailed accounts of their immediate social sphere, would have had plenty of cause to crystallise a specific hostility towards another member of their tribe.
There is also a clear physical incentive. Embellishing and deepening the antipathy felt for a rival through obsessive mental repetition would give the aggrieved individual a motivation to take action against him. In a small band-like society, where assuming a position of power must have meant physically overthrowing your opponent, being able to 'work up' a head of anger over a minor incident would have been a great asset in the right circumstances. If there are serious strictures preventing an usurper from killing a rival, mechanisms that temporarily override those apprehensions might be necessary to move up the food chain.
Of course, our current society doesn't reward the escalating feedback effect of anger. Instead, this impulse is punished. Those with a particular tendency toward anger may have been rewarded far more than a similar character would be today. The casual culture of violence toward one's enemies has only recently faded, and there are still many noble examples of it
I know that we aren't completely trapped within the biological structures handed down through the generations. Still, having spent the best part of an hour constructing elaborate fantasies of retribution over a trivial matter, I realised this: we're more in control of our behaviour if we remain aware of when our impulses override our thoughts.
Sunday, June 2, 2013
Glittering Commodities
You can be as sceptical as you like about your susceptibility to materialism's gleaming surface. I know I am, most of the time. I look at all those people in shopping centre car parks, blindly grasping at whatever happens to be on the bargain rack in a futile attempt to convince themselves that it's all important. I'm not like that. Advertising doesn't work on me.
And then one day, I get it into my mind that I absolutely must have a particular object or other, and I find out (again) that the impulse is shockingly close to the core of my soul. In this case, it was a TV -- and then, of course, all the magnificent and absolutely necessary accessories that go with it.
Being fully on board in this case -- looking at speaker package deals uncharacteristically late at night, in the interests of shaving off a hundred bucks or so off my coveted 5.1 dream system -- makes me think that the feelings many people get from shopping on a regular basis might be worth it after all.
What I mean is: a common criticism of consumerism as an ethos is that it is only fleetingly satisfying. After all, no sooner have you purchased the latest model of car, say, than you crave the next one. Chasing a concrete object is a doomed quest, because your disappointment is engineered into your lust.
Still. The chase, if it's prolonged in a productive way, can bring a lot of pleasure. I can understand the perils of being able to have anything and everything you want straight away -- King Midas and Co. taught us that pretty well when we were kids. Yet if there's a temporary barrier between you and your chosen object, then perhaps the pleasant time spent imagining its reality is valuable in itself.
Since purchasing the TV -- which I spent several months beforehand mentally placing in a corner of the lounge -- I am now engaged in the same activity with the speaker system. Drawing pictures of speakers in the air has amused me greatly, to the point where I have to remind myself to think of more pressing matters when absolutely necessary.
I understand that I'm channeling intentions and focusing my resources onto hypothetical lumps of wood and plastic. But I'm still letting my imagination roam happily among the always-open, fully-stocked 'On Sale' aisle of the mind.
And then one day, I get it into my mind that I absolutely must have a particular object or other, and I find out (again) that the impulse is shockingly close to the core of my soul. In this case, it was a TV -- and then, of course, all the magnificent and absolutely necessary accessories that go with it.
Being fully on board in this case -- looking at speaker package deals uncharacteristically late at night, in the interests of shaving off a hundred bucks or so off my coveted 5.1 dream system -- makes me think that the feelings many people get from shopping on a regular basis might be worth it after all.
What I mean is: a common criticism of consumerism as an ethos is that it is only fleetingly satisfying. After all, no sooner have you purchased the latest model of car, say, than you crave the next one. Chasing a concrete object is a doomed quest, because your disappointment is engineered into your lust.
Still. The chase, if it's prolonged in a productive way, can bring a lot of pleasure. I can understand the perils of being able to have anything and everything you want straight away -- King Midas and Co. taught us that pretty well when we were kids. Yet if there's a temporary barrier between you and your chosen object, then perhaps the pleasant time spent imagining its reality is valuable in itself.
Since purchasing the TV -- which I spent several months beforehand mentally placing in a corner of the lounge -- I am now engaged in the same activity with the speaker system. Drawing pictures of speakers in the air has amused me greatly, to the point where I have to remind myself to think of more pressing matters when absolutely necessary.
I understand that I'm channeling intentions and focusing my resources onto hypothetical lumps of wood and plastic. But I'm still letting my imagination roam happily among the always-open, fully-stocked 'On Sale' aisle of the mind.
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
MYKI -- Cargo Cult?
I mentioned Cargo Cults on Facebook yesterday, and it got me thinking about the Myki ticketing system. I'm aware that this issue has done its dash as the water-cooler topic du jour, but please indulge me.
Myki could perhaps be usefully thought of as a cargo cult. For those who aren't familiar, the original Cargo Cults of the Melanesian Islands were instigated by people who wanted to spark a repeat of the massive influx of US supplies during WWII.
The people looked back at the circumstances in which supplies were last received, and tried to replicate them precisely. This involved painstakingly setting up 'airfields' -- complete with wooden aeroplanes and an air traffic controller -- which superficially resembled a US Air Force's base. Surely, if the physical circumstances of the original event were replayed, the desired bounty would return.
Everything was perfectly arranged, yet it didn't work. The Cargo Cultists had mistook the outward sign of a phenomenon for the phenomenon itself.
It seems that we're in a similar situation with Myki. Here's my guess: The people who decided to implement the system in the first place must have looked around the world, and saw many excellent public transport systems. Curiously, each of these amazing PT networks also boasted a brand-new, shiny, ticketing system.
It's now probably impossible to know whether someone held a meeting and said: 'If we change the tickets, perhaps the trains will run on time!' I'm sure nobody said it in such bald terms, because they would have been laughed out of the room.
Yet I'm not so sure that it wasn't a large factor. Consider: converting a battered, borderline-dysfunctional PT system into a substantially better one is punishingly hard and expensive. However, rejigging a single component of this system -- unfortunately, the one whose existence is predicated on all the other components functioning perfectly -- is much easier. It's still hard, but nowhere near as gruelling as making substantial improvements to trains, tracks, signals, and all that heavy infrastructure drudgery.
To see this more clearly, stop focusing on whether Myki does or doesn't work, and what you can do on it. It doesn't really matter, because even amazing ticketing systems can only provide marginal improvements to the complex, decaying system which support them. Even if Myki had worked as promised, it would still have represented a massive misallocation of resources -- the equivalent of repainting your house when its foundations have been eaten through by termites.
Thinking back, it's strange that more people didn't find the initial claims made for the system fishier. The information that would be collected, remember, was going to help the operators run things more efficiently. This is a category error, though. Fine-grained information, such as the frequency of passengers at certain times of day, is next to useless if there aren't enough resources (read: rolling stock) to redistribute in the first place.
So next time you're cursing Myki for not reading your ticket properly, don't. Instead, curse it for having been conceived at all.
Myki could perhaps be usefully thought of as a cargo cult. For those who aren't familiar, the original Cargo Cults of the Melanesian Islands were instigated by people who wanted to spark a repeat of the massive influx of US supplies during WWII.
The people looked back at the circumstances in which supplies were last received, and tried to replicate them precisely. This involved painstakingly setting up 'airfields' -- complete with wooden aeroplanes and an air traffic controller -- which superficially resembled a US Air Force's base. Surely, if the physical circumstances of the original event were replayed, the desired bounty would return.
Everything was perfectly arranged, yet it didn't work. The Cargo Cultists had mistook the outward sign of a phenomenon for the phenomenon itself.
It seems that we're in a similar situation with Myki. Here's my guess: The people who decided to implement the system in the first place must have looked around the world, and saw many excellent public transport systems. Curiously, each of these amazing PT networks also boasted a brand-new, shiny, ticketing system.
It's now probably impossible to know whether someone held a meeting and said: 'If we change the tickets, perhaps the trains will run on time!' I'm sure nobody said it in such bald terms, because they would have been laughed out of the room.
Yet I'm not so sure that it wasn't a large factor. Consider: converting a battered, borderline-dysfunctional PT system into a substantially better one is punishingly hard and expensive. However, rejigging a single component of this system -- unfortunately, the one whose existence is predicated on all the other components functioning perfectly -- is much easier. It's still hard, but nowhere near as gruelling as making substantial improvements to trains, tracks, signals, and all that heavy infrastructure drudgery.
To see this more clearly, stop focusing on whether Myki does or doesn't work, and what you can do on it. It doesn't really matter, because even amazing ticketing systems can only provide marginal improvements to the complex, decaying system which support them. Even if Myki had worked as promised, it would still have represented a massive misallocation of resources -- the equivalent of repainting your house when its foundations have been eaten through by termites.
Thinking back, it's strange that more people didn't find the initial claims made for the system fishier. The information that would be collected, remember, was going to help the operators run things more efficiently. This is a category error, though. Fine-grained information, such as the frequency of passengers at certain times of day, is next to useless if there aren't enough resources (read: rolling stock) to redistribute in the first place.
So next time you're cursing Myki for not reading your ticket properly, don't. Instead, curse it for having been conceived at all.
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Enforced patting
It's been a long time -- so long, in fact, that I'm not sure whether this blog actually functions anymore. We will see.
I'm starting this sucker up again to encourage me to write stuff down. With luck, the ideas that I'm going to throw around on here will be good fodder for articles eventually, probably published in obscure journals if I'm lucky. However, that should be no obstacle for a writer.
Anyway. Since I last wrote on here several years ago, I've lost one dog (my first) and gained another couple. This piece is based on my thoughts about one of these dogs, named Marlon.
Marlon, like all dogs, enjoys being patted. He's a dog of the 'gently roughing up' school -- nothing too precious. Yet one quirk of his behaviour got me thinking about an important difference between their consciousness and ours.
When I stop patting Marlon, he tries to force his head into the gap between my arm and my body. In other words, he will try and instigate a pat by force. In once sense, this is perfectly understandable: pats are pleasant, and all animals seek to maximise pleasure.
If this action were performed by one human to another, though, it would be profoundly odd. This, of course, is because an affectionate touch between humans only has meaning due to its voluntary nature. The sensation itself is not the point -- a hug, for example, is special not because of the physical sensation it engenders, but because of the feeling behind it.
In order to take pleasure from a hug, one must understand that one is being shown affection by another person. The gesture of a hug represents the recognition of another person as a 'being in itself', rather than a 'being for others'. (I am rusty on Satrean terminology -- if I've got this backwards, I'm sure my non-existent readers will correct me.)
The dog, on the other hand, does not seem to experience me as a self-contained being. True, he understands that I don't always do what he wants me to. To Marlon, I have more autonomy than a plastic toy or a slipper.
But I'm still not fully autonomous for him. The strange feeling that we get when we suddenly think about all the self-contained perspectives that exist in the world doesn't occur for a dog. Judged on Marlon's behaviour, I guess that I don't really exist for Marlon when I'm not standing directly in front of him. From a dog's perspective, humans resemble the radical sceptics' idea of objects: they only really exist when you look at them. After that, you cease to be a part of the dog's universe.
The enforced pat brings this home vividly, because the willingness of me to pat Marlon clearly doesn't enter the equation. It's a strange disjunction. From my perspective, I'm patting Marlon because I'm fond of him. Yet from his perspective, a pat from a patting machine that shared my physical characteristics would do just as well.
When I'm doing the patting, the illusion of two perspectives that recognise and respond to each other is inescapable. Yet as the enforced pat suggests, this may just be a human way of projecting more agency onto the dog than he actually possesses.
I'm starting this sucker up again to encourage me to write stuff down. With luck, the ideas that I'm going to throw around on here will be good fodder for articles eventually, probably published in obscure journals if I'm lucky. However, that should be no obstacle for a writer.
Anyway. Since I last wrote on here several years ago, I've lost one dog (my first) and gained another couple. This piece is based on my thoughts about one of these dogs, named Marlon.
Marlon, like all dogs, enjoys being patted. He's a dog of the 'gently roughing up' school -- nothing too precious. Yet one quirk of his behaviour got me thinking about an important difference between their consciousness and ours.
When I stop patting Marlon, he tries to force his head into the gap between my arm and my body. In other words, he will try and instigate a pat by force. In once sense, this is perfectly understandable: pats are pleasant, and all animals seek to maximise pleasure.
If this action were performed by one human to another, though, it would be profoundly odd. This, of course, is because an affectionate touch between humans only has meaning due to its voluntary nature. The sensation itself is not the point -- a hug, for example, is special not because of the physical sensation it engenders, but because of the feeling behind it.
In order to take pleasure from a hug, one must understand that one is being shown affection by another person. The gesture of a hug represents the recognition of another person as a 'being in itself', rather than a 'being for others'. (I am rusty on Satrean terminology -- if I've got this backwards, I'm sure my non-existent readers will correct me.)
The dog, on the other hand, does not seem to experience me as a self-contained being. True, he understands that I don't always do what he wants me to. To Marlon, I have more autonomy than a plastic toy or a slipper.
But I'm still not fully autonomous for him. The strange feeling that we get when we suddenly think about all the self-contained perspectives that exist in the world doesn't occur for a dog. Judged on Marlon's behaviour, I guess that I don't really exist for Marlon when I'm not standing directly in front of him. From a dog's perspective, humans resemble the radical sceptics' idea of objects: they only really exist when you look at them. After that, you cease to be a part of the dog's universe.
The enforced pat brings this home vividly, because the willingness of me to pat Marlon clearly doesn't enter the equation. It's a strange disjunction. From my perspective, I'm patting Marlon because I'm fond of him. Yet from his perspective, a pat from a patting machine that shared my physical characteristics would do just as well.
When I'm doing the patting, the illusion of two perspectives that recognise and respond to each other is inescapable. Yet as the enforced pat suggests, this may just be a human way of projecting more agency onto the dog than he actually possesses.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Richard Dawkins vs. The Magnificent Robyn Williams Extravaganza!
Dawkins couldn’t get a word in at his own talk, and everything devolved from there.
Robyn Williams is the world’s foremost expert on evolution. Or that’s what it seemed like at Friday night’s discussion, when an uncharacteristically meek Richard Dawkins was swamped by the motor-mouthed, name-dropping, painfully star-struck Radio National host.
The audience – naively under the impression that they were attending a Richard Dawkins lecture – soon realised that the Oxford Don was merely an entree to the main event: Williams, Williams, Williams! In over an hour of 100% structure-free rambling, Williams managed to sabotage all potentially interesting avenues by waxing lyrical about anything – absolutely anything – inhabiting his brain at that moment. Williams on his “mate” Andrew Denton. Williams on how Christians made him mad. Williams on... well, any old crap. There was the odd little chirp from Dawkins, but this was Williams’ night and he wasn’t about to let anyone forget it – least of all an audience who paid to see someone else.
This might not have been a problem if Williams possessed any interviewing skills. However, he proved to be not only appallingly egotistical, but also incapable of asking questions that made sense. They twisted. They turned. They collapsed inward like black holes with self-esteem issues. To make things worse, RW was clueless about most of the audience’s level of background knowledge. Those who expected to hear Dawkins explain evolution’s magnificence with the aid of illuminating examples were instead treated to RW’s screeds about the origins of “messenger RNA” and other esoterica. It was needlessly arcane, but who cared? That awfully clever Robyn Williams chap understood it all perfectly!
To quote a typically incisive RW question: “How did you get through last year, Darwin’s year? Did you get through that alright?” (Subtext: “ol’ buddy ol’ pal?”) RW became so toxically unbearable after a while that I started wondering about totally irrelevant stuff: what’s “self-replicating molecule” in sign language? Where did Dawkins get that snappy suit (Saville Row, surely)? How long did it take to build that kick-arse pipe organ? And (most urgently): when, oh when, will RW shut up for five bloody seconds?
What Dawkins did manage to say was very entertaining, especially when unfairly taken out of context (which he fortunately didn’t have time to provide): “When you cross a male with a female, you don’t get a hermaphrodite”; “If you wanted to breed champion high jumpers, you could do it”; “There might come a time where you can cross a Labradoodle and a Labradoodle and get another Labradoodle”; “God made the venomous eastern groin groper”; “If you had 100 St. Bernards and 100 Chihuahuas, I don’t think you’d see any interbreeding”. Glorious as all this was, I was hoping that Dawkins would get the chance to become more than a surrealist quote generator. But nope.
The closest the night came to a real discussion was when Dawkins tried to come up with an evolutionary explanation for homosexuality. According to Dawkins, homosexuality might have come about because cavemen might have needed some guys who were really crap at hunting to guard the women without wanting to shag them. (This was about as plausible on the stage as it is on the page.)
It was left to question time to salvage the night’s entertainment value, and there were a couple of doozies. My favourite preamble was: “I’m going to ask you a question that I don’t want you to take the wrong way. The question is about giraffes.” The man then asked what we’ve all been dying to know, namely: Why are some giraffes’ necks longer than others? Doesn’t that mean that the cute little giraffes can’t reach the treetops? And doesn’t that therefore disprove evolution? (Ha! Checkmate!) Dawkins despatched the hapless guy by lobbing the following grenade: “There will always be some height of tree that, if you were a little bit taller, you could reach; and if you were a little bit shorter, you couldn’t.”
Damn straight, Richard. That’s what we pay you for!
Robyn Williams is the world’s foremost expert on evolution. Or that’s what it seemed like at Friday night’s discussion, when an uncharacteristically meek Richard Dawkins was swamped by the motor-mouthed, name-dropping, painfully star-struck Radio National host.
The audience – naively under the impression that they were attending a Richard Dawkins lecture – soon realised that the Oxford Don was merely an entree to the main event: Williams, Williams, Williams! In over an hour of 100% structure-free rambling, Williams managed to sabotage all potentially interesting avenues by waxing lyrical about anything – absolutely anything – inhabiting his brain at that moment. Williams on his “mate” Andrew Denton. Williams on how Christians made him mad. Williams on... well, any old crap. There was the odd little chirp from Dawkins, but this was Williams’ night and he wasn’t about to let anyone forget it – least of all an audience who paid to see someone else.
This might not have been a problem if Williams possessed any interviewing skills. However, he proved to be not only appallingly egotistical, but also incapable of asking questions that made sense. They twisted. They turned. They collapsed inward like black holes with self-esteem issues. To make things worse, RW was clueless about most of the audience’s level of background knowledge. Those who expected to hear Dawkins explain evolution’s magnificence with the aid of illuminating examples were instead treated to RW’s screeds about the origins of “messenger RNA” and other esoterica. It was needlessly arcane, but who cared? That awfully clever Robyn Williams chap understood it all perfectly!
To quote a typically incisive RW question: “How did you get through last year, Darwin’s year? Did you get through that alright?” (Subtext: “ol’ buddy ol’ pal?”) RW became so toxically unbearable after a while that I started wondering about totally irrelevant stuff: what’s “self-replicating molecule” in sign language? Where did Dawkins get that snappy suit (Saville Row, surely)? How long did it take to build that kick-arse pipe organ? And (most urgently): when, oh when, will RW shut up for five bloody seconds?
What Dawkins did manage to say was very entertaining, especially when unfairly taken out of context (which he fortunately didn’t have time to provide): “When you cross a male with a female, you don’t get a hermaphrodite”; “If you wanted to breed champion high jumpers, you could do it”; “There might come a time where you can cross a Labradoodle and a Labradoodle and get another Labradoodle”; “God made the venomous eastern groin groper”; “If you had 100 St. Bernards and 100 Chihuahuas, I don’t think you’d see any interbreeding”. Glorious as all this was, I was hoping that Dawkins would get the chance to become more than a surrealist quote generator. But nope.
The closest the night came to a real discussion was when Dawkins tried to come up with an evolutionary explanation for homosexuality. According to Dawkins, homosexuality might have come about because cavemen might have needed some guys who were really crap at hunting to guard the women without wanting to shag them. (This was about as plausible on the stage as it is on the page.)
It was left to question time to salvage the night’s entertainment value, and there were a couple of doozies. My favourite preamble was: “I’m going to ask you a question that I don’t want you to take the wrong way. The question is about giraffes.” The man then asked what we’ve all been dying to know, namely: Why are some giraffes’ necks longer than others? Doesn’t that mean that the cute little giraffes can’t reach the treetops? And doesn’t that therefore disprove evolution? (Ha! Checkmate!) Dawkins despatched the hapless guy by lobbing the following grenade: “There will always be some height of tree that, if you were a little bit taller, you could reach; and if you were a little bit shorter, you couldn’t.”
Damn straight, Richard. That’s what we pay you for!
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Mossad Little Story
Scene: Deep inside a top-secret Mossad training camp, a LEADER is talking to two SOLDIERS.
SOLDIER #1: ...it’s just not working anymore. People recognise me when I go down the street. I buy a litre of milk and the guy at the counter’s, like ‘hey, did ya whack Mohammed whatsisname yet?’
SOLDIER #2: Yeah – I thought we were meant to be, you know, a secret assassination service.
SOLDIER #1: And whose idea was that nude Mossad calendar, anyway? I can’t face my mother-in-law after that. She keeps glancing at my –
LEADER: Sorry, sorry. We were running low on funds and –
SOLDIER #2: It’s the principle of the thing. I shot a guy in an elevator last week and he made kissy-faces at me before he hit the floor in a pool of his own blood. It was embarrassing for both of us. And my daughter only sold ten packets in the Mossad lamington drive. Who thinks of this stuff?
SOLDIER #1: Yeah. We’re just not as secret as we used to be. I was out with my wife in Tel Aviv last month seeing Andrew Lloyd Weber’s Mossad!, and –
SOLDIER #2: Oh, cool – how was it?
SOLDER #1: Great. Steve Martin did an awesome Netanyahu. But Omar Sharif as Arafat? Ham. Anyway, the whole cast clapped me at the end. I was stage-whispering: “secret service! secret service, remember?” – but they just weren’t listening. I’m telling ya: fame’s a double-edged –
LEADER: Ok, ok, point taken. We’ve got a whole raft of new tactics to implement, and –
SOLDIER #2: Don’t give me that management talk. I thought the whole deal was going to be, like, all exciting espionage-type stuff, with grappling hooks and all. This is nothing like that Spielberg movie: there were no porta-loos in that. This is the worst training camp ever.
LEADER: Just listen. This is the next generation of disguises. How would you feel about becoming a citizen of a country so utterly insignificant that most of the world is utterly unaware of its existence?
SOLDIER #1: Canada?
LEADER: Better, much better. Somewhere a million miles from bugger-all. [He upends a cardboard box on the desk. The contents spill out, including two Akubras, two Driza-bones and two pairs of R M Williams boots. The two soldiers gaze in awe.]
SOLDIER #2: That is just –
SOLIDER #1: Brilliant. Utter brilliance. Where did you get all this stuff?
LEADER: Someone left them in the storeroom of their Parliament House for some reason. [Shrugs]. Here are your passports.
SOLDIER #1: Awesome, that’s – wait. You stole me a woman’s passport? Oh, for f**k’s sake.
LEADER: Look, it’s not like we can go in to the airport cafe and say “Oh hello, I’m a Mossad agent, can I please have a soy latte and some passports, please?” Always such ungratefulness!
[Soldiers look at each other in utter disgust.]
LEADER: We can change the photos later, or you could grow your hair a bit
SOLDIER #2: I always thought you’d look good with tits anyway. [Sniggers. SOLDIER #1 punches him.]
LEADER: We thought very carefully about this. It’s a country with worldwide cultural invisibility: the perfect crime. It’s incredible, actually – their Minister for the Arts used to be a rock star! [All laugh]
SOLDIER #1: But that’s impossible. Surely they have, you know, a national cuisine or something?
LEADER: Nup. They ripped it off...wait for it...the English! [LEADER and SOLDIERS erupt into laughter for 5-10 minutes.] No, quieten down, boys, I’m serious. It took them one hundred and fifty years to realise how badly English food sucked.
SOLDIER #2: So what did they do then?
LEADER: They ripped it off everyone else – including us.
SOLDIER #1: The bastards. So how do they talk? Do we need to learn how to speak like them, too?
LEADER: I have taken the liberty of learning their, um, ‘dialect’. [Looks at sheet] Please listen to the following sample sentence and repeat. “Daryl went to a B&S in his lowered Torana. Met a sheila and got a root. Drank shitloads of tinnies and had a prang. Pigs went ballistic. It was a total balls-up.”
SOLDIER #2: And that refers to – ?
LEADER: Mating, gustatory and legal mores.
SOLDIER #1: Wow. I really don’t think I could learn that much in such a short –
SOLDIER #2 [looking at the sheet]: Belt up, mate. Cop it on the chin.
LEADER: That’s the spirit! Soldier #1, why can’t you be more like soldier #2?
SOLDIER #1: There’s something that bugs me about this.
LEADER: Yes?
SOLDIER #1: Aren’t they sort of our...allies? I mean, don’t they just say ‘go for it!’, whatever we do?
LEADER: Yeah, so?
SOLDIER #1: So, why are we stealing their passports and all? Isn’t that, well, mean?
LEADER: Don’t worry: their Government won’t do anything about it.
SOLDIER #1 Ok. [Looking at sheet, speaking hesitantly]: Blood-y...rip-per?
LEADER: That’s the spirit!
SOLDIER #1: ...it’s just not working anymore. People recognise me when I go down the street. I buy a litre of milk and the guy at the counter’s, like ‘hey, did ya whack Mohammed whatsisname yet?’
SOLDIER #2: Yeah – I thought we were meant to be, you know, a secret assassination service.
SOLDIER #1: And whose idea was that nude Mossad calendar, anyway? I can’t face my mother-in-law after that. She keeps glancing at my –
LEADER: Sorry, sorry. We were running low on funds and –
SOLDIER #2: It’s the principle of the thing. I shot a guy in an elevator last week and he made kissy-faces at me before he hit the floor in a pool of his own blood. It was embarrassing for both of us. And my daughter only sold ten packets in the Mossad lamington drive. Who thinks of this stuff?
SOLDIER #1: Yeah. We’re just not as secret as we used to be. I was out with my wife in Tel Aviv last month seeing Andrew Lloyd Weber’s Mossad!, and –
SOLDIER #2: Oh, cool – how was it?
SOLDER #1: Great. Steve Martin did an awesome Netanyahu. But Omar Sharif as Arafat? Ham. Anyway, the whole cast clapped me at the end. I was stage-whispering: “secret service! secret service, remember?” – but they just weren’t listening. I’m telling ya: fame’s a double-edged –
LEADER: Ok, ok, point taken. We’ve got a whole raft of new tactics to implement, and –
SOLDIER #2: Don’t give me that management talk. I thought the whole deal was going to be, like, all exciting espionage-type stuff, with grappling hooks and all. This is nothing like that Spielberg movie: there were no porta-loos in that. This is the worst training camp ever.
LEADER: Just listen. This is the next generation of disguises. How would you feel about becoming a citizen of a country so utterly insignificant that most of the world is utterly unaware of its existence?
SOLDIER #1: Canada?
LEADER: Better, much better. Somewhere a million miles from bugger-all. [He upends a cardboard box on the desk. The contents spill out, including two Akubras, two Driza-bones and two pairs of R M Williams boots. The two soldiers gaze in awe.]
SOLDIER #2: That is just –
SOLIDER #1: Brilliant. Utter brilliance. Where did you get all this stuff?
LEADER: Someone left them in the storeroom of their Parliament House for some reason. [Shrugs]. Here are your passports.
SOLDIER #1: Awesome, that’s – wait. You stole me a woman’s passport? Oh, for f**k’s sake.
LEADER: Look, it’s not like we can go in to the airport cafe and say “Oh hello, I’m a Mossad agent, can I please have a soy latte and some passports, please?” Always such ungratefulness!
[Soldiers look at each other in utter disgust.]
LEADER: We can change the photos later, or you could grow your hair a bit
SOLDIER #2: I always thought you’d look good with tits anyway. [Sniggers. SOLDIER #1 punches him.]
LEADER: We thought very carefully about this. It’s a country with worldwide cultural invisibility: the perfect crime. It’s incredible, actually – their Minister for the Arts used to be a rock star! [All laugh]
SOLDIER #1: But that’s impossible. Surely they have, you know, a national cuisine or something?
LEADER: Nup. They ripped it off...wait for it...the English! [LEADER and SOLDIERS erupt into laughter for 5-10 minutes.] No, quieten down, boys, I’m serious. It took them one hundred and fifty years to realise how badly English food sucked.
SOLDIER #2: So what did they do then?
LEADER: They ripped it off everyone else – including us.
SOLDIER #1: The bastards. So how do they talk? Do we need to learn how to speak like them, too?
LEADER: I have taken the liberty of learning their, um, ‘dialect’. [Looks at sheet] Please listen to the following sample sentence and repeat. “Daryl went to a B&S in his lowered Torana. Met a sheila and got a root. Drank shitloads of tinnies and had a prang. Pigs went ballistic. It was a total balls-up.”
SOLDIER #2: And that refers to – ?
LEADER: Mating, gustatory and legal mores.
SOLDIER #1: Wow. I really don’t think I could learn that much in such a short –
SOLDIER #2 [looking at the sheet]: Belt up, mate. Cop it on the chin.
LEADER: That’s the spirit! Soldier #1, why can’t you be more like soldier #2?
SOLDIER #1: There’s something that bugs me about this.
LEADER: Yes?
SOLDIER #1: Aren’t they sort of our...allies? I mean, don’t they just say ‘go for it!’, whatever we do?
LEADER: Yeah, so?
SOLDIER #1: So, why are we stealing their passports and all? Isn’t that, well, mean?
LEADER: Don’t worry: their Government won’t do anything about it.
SOLDIER #1 Ok. [Looking at sheet, speaking hesitantly]: Blood-y...rip-per?
LEADER: That’s the spirit!
The ASIO Connection
Scene: KEVIN RUDD is delivering a press release about the new refugee measures.
RUDD: ...and so it’s ‘no more Mr. Nice Guy’. These imposters don’t stand a chance. We’ll throw the book at them. This is our finest hour. [Pause] Alrighty then, folks! [Cheerfully] Any questions?
REPORTER 1: Mr Rudd, do you really think it’s appropriate sending ASIO crack forces to spy on defenceless people who desperately need our help?
RUDD: More than appropriate. It’s fantastic.
REPORTER 1: What do you mean, ‘fantastic’?
RUDD: For the economy. This will cost the taxpayer an absolute bucketload.
REPORTER 1: But...isn’t that a bad thing?
RUDD: No: it’s all part of the stimulus.
REPORTER 1: How does that work, exactly?
RUDD: We throw stacks of your money at useless stuff. The more useless the better!
REPORTER 1: Yes, but...
RUDD: And that gives us stacks more money to buy lots more useless stuff from other countries. And then they buy even more useless stuff from us. Round we go! It’s a great system – have you not read Keynes? [Pause] Oh, you simply must. Hilarious guy! [Chuckles, then quickly assumes sober face] For further details, I refer you to my essay in –
REPORTER 1: Uh, that’s ok, thanks.
RUDD: Anyone else?
REPORTER 2: But isn’t the whole motion highly unethical?
RUDD: Everything that we do is ethical. [Smiles benevolently while interlocking fingers together in ‘joining’ motion.] Absolutely everything. We’re the ALP: the party of the people. Of you and me. Us.
REPORTER 2: The more cynical among us would say that you’re trying to repeat Howard’s trick of demonising refugees for your own political gain.
RUDD: Well, that simply isn’t true. I don’t even like cricket.
REPORTER 2: Does the phrase, “We decide the people who come into this country and the circumstances in which we come” ring a bell?
RUDD: This is totally different. Gee whiz, folks!
REPORTER 2: So why ASIO?
RUDD: They are among our greatest Australians. [Under breath]: Those reffos should be grateful. [Aloud]: We look forward to a co-synergetic relationship evolving between these two valuable communities.
REPORTER 2: Are you worried about the fact that ASIO are notoriously inept?
RUDD: I have no idea what you’re talking about.
[The meeting is interrupted by an ASIO operative descending from the ceiling on a rope. He is wearing a burglar’s mask and a black-and-white striped shirt.]
ASIO OPERATIVE: K-man! [Attempts complicated secret handshake, which is rebuffed by a frostily unreceptive RUDD.] Whaddaya think of the new uniform? [Modestly] Designed by moi, natch.
RUDD: Roger, this is not an appropriate time.
ASIO OPERATIVE: Sorry. Could you offer your advice on a...certain departmental matter?
RUDD: Well, I suppose this might be a good opportunity to discuss this complex new policy at a valuable public forum.
ASIO OPERATIVE: Totally. I have, uh, several alternative policy outcomes I would like you to examine.
RUDD: Well, ok. As long as it’s strictly related.
ASIO OPERATIVE: [Excitedly opening a packet of false moustaches]. Oh, I love this. This is awesome.
RUDD: I don’t see how this is –
ASIO OPERATIVE: Ok. Ok. Which one do you like the best? [Rapidly puts on each moustache in turn.] Curly? Bushy? Straight? Hitler? Strongman? Walrus?
RUDD: You’re wearing fake moustaches on board refugee boats?
ASIO OPERATIVE [nervously]: Yeah. [Long pause.] Uh, isn’t that what we’re supposed to be doing? [Pause.] Does that mean we have to ditch the tea-towels as well?
RUDD [hurriedly]: What have you found out?
ASIO OPERATIVE: So far, our reconnaissance missions have revealed lots and lots of important facts.
RUDD: Facts? What facts?
ASIO OPERATIVE [changing subject]: Hey, look: my pen turns into a flick-knife. Cool, eh?
RUDD: Please. Discuss your findings to the gallery.
ASIO OPERATIVE: OK. All on the QT, mind.
RUDD: Of course.
ASIO OPERATIVE: Well – for starters, they’re pretty skinny.
RUDD: Whom?
ASIO OPERATIVE: The terrorists, of course!
RUDD: Refugees. Call them refugees, Steven.
ASIO OPERATIVE: You said that they would blow the place sky-high if we let ‘em off the boat.
RUDD: That’s enough. What else?
ASIO OPERATIVE: A lot have scary beards. And a high proportion of them seem to come from...
RUDD [eagerly]: Yes?
ASIO OPERATIVE: Overseas.
RUDD: ‘Most’?
ASIO OPERATIVE: Well, some of them were from Australia. [Long pause] Actually, now I think about it, all the ones from Australia were ASIO operatives.
RUDD: Anything else?
ASIO OPERATIVE: Yes. Something very important. There’s a serious problem at Christmas Island.
RUDD: A riot?
ASIO OPERATIVE: Worse. Much worse.
RUDD: How could it be worse?
ASIO OPERATIVE [in stage whisper]: Santa’s gone missing. [Long silence]. There is a Santa, isn’t there? [Longer silence].
RUDD: Well...
ASIO OPERATIVE [crestfallen]: Worst. Day. Ever. [He shimmies up the rope and disappears into ceiling cavity, leaving RUDD alone on stage.]
RUDD: ...and so it’s ‘no more Mr. Nice Guy’. These imposters don’t stand a chance. We’ll throw the book at them. This is our finest hour. [Pause] Alrighty then, folks! [Cheerfully] Any questions?
REPORTER 1: Mr Rudd, do you really think it’s appropriate sending ASIO crack forces to spy on defenceless people who desperately need our help?
RUDD: More than appropriate. It’s fantastic.
REPORTER 1: What do you mean, ‘fantastic’?
RUDD: For the economy. This will cost the taxpayer an absolute bucketload.
REPORTER 1: But...isn’t that a bad thing?
RUDD: No: it’s all part of the stimulus.
REPORTER 1: How does that work, exactly?
RUDD: We throw stacks of your money at useless stuff. The more useless the better!
REPORTER 1: Yes, but...
RUDD: And that gives us stacks more money to buy lots more useless stuff from other countries. And then they buy even more useless stuff from us. Round we go! It’s a great system – have you not read Keynes? [Pause] Oh, you simply must. Hilarious guy! [Chuckles, then quickly assumes sober face] For further details, I refer you to my essay in –
REPORTER 1: Uh, that’s ok, thanks.
RUDD: Anyone else?
REPORTER 2: But isn’t the whole motion highly unethical?
RUDD: Everything that we do is ethical. [Smiles benevolently while interlocking fingers together in ‘joining’ motion.] Absolutely everything. We’re the ALP: the party of the people. Of you and me. Us.
REPORTER 2: The more cynical among us would say that you’re trying to repeat Howard’s trick of demonising refugees for your own political gain.
RUDD: Well, that simply isn’t true. I don’t even like cricket.
REPORTER 2: Does the phrase, “We decide the people who come into this country and the circumstances in which we come” ring a bell?
RUDD: This is totally different. Gee whiz, folks!
REPORTER 2: So why ASIO?
RUDD: They are among our greatest Australians. [Under breath]: Those reffos should be grateful. [Aloud]: We look forward to a co-synergetic relationship evolving between these two valuable communities.
REPORTER 2: Are you worried about the fact that ASIO are notoriously inept?
RUDD: I have no idea what you’re talking about.
[The meeting is interrupted by an ASIO operative descending from the ceiling on a rope. He is wearing a burglar’s mask and a black-and-white striped shirt.]
ASIO OPERATIVE: K-man! [Attempts complicated secret handshake, which is rebuffed by a frostily unreceptive RUDD.] Whaddaya think of the new uniform? [Modestly] Designed by moi, natch.
RUDD: Roger, this is not an appropriate time.
ASIO OPERATIVE: Sorry. Could you offer your advice on a...certain departmental matter?
RUDD: Well, I suppose this might be a good opportunity to discuss this complex new policy at a valuable public forum.
ASIO OPERATIVE: Totally. I have, uh, several alternative policy outcomes I would like you to examine.
RUDD: Well, ok. As long as it’s strictly related.
ASIO OPERATIVE: [Excitedly opening a packet of false moustaches]. Oh, I love this. This is awesome.
RUDD: I don’t see how this is –
ASIO OPERATIVE: Ok. Ok. Which one do you like the best? [Rapidly puts on each moustache in turn.] Curly? Bushy? Straight? Hitler? Strongman? Walrus?
RUDD: You’re wearing fake moustaches on board refugee boats?
ASIO OPERATIVE [nervously]: Yeah. [Long pause.] Uh, isn’t that what we’re supposed to be doing? [Pause.] Does that mean we have to ditch the tea-towels as well?
RUDD [hurriedly]: What have you found out?
ASIO OPERATIVE: So far, our reconnaissance missions have revealed lots and lots of important facts.
RUDD: Facts? What facts?
ASIO OPERATIVE [changing subject]: Hey, look: my pen turns into a flick-knife. Cool, eh?
RUDD: Please. Discuss your findings to the gallery.
ASIO OPERATIVE: OK. All on the QT, mind.
RUDD: Of course.
ASIO OPERATIVE: Well – for starters, they’re pretty skinny.
RUDD: Whom?
ASIO OPERATIVE: The terrorists, of course!
RUDD: Refugees. Call them refugees, Steven.
ASIO OPERATIVE: You said that they would blow the place sky-high if we let ‘em off the boat.
RUDD: That’s enough. What else?
ASIO OPERATIVE: A lot have scary beards. And a high proportion of them seem to come from...
RUDD [eagerly]: Yes?
ASIO OPERATIVE: Overseas.
RUDD: ‘Most’?
ASIO OPERATIVE: Well, some of them were from Australia. [Long pause] Actually, now I think about it, all the ones from Australia were ASIO operatives.
RUDD: Anything else?
ASIO OPERATIVE: Yes. Something very important. There’s a serious problem at Christmas Island.
RUDD: A riot?
ASIO OPERATIVE: Worse. Much worse.
RUDD: How could it be worse?
ASIO OPERATIVE [in stage whisper]: Santa’s gone missing. [Long silence]. There is a Santa, isn’t there? [Longer silence].
RUDD: Well...
ASIO OPERATIVE [crestfallen]: Worst. Day. Ever. [He shimmies up the rope and disappears into ceiling cavity, leaving RUDD alone on stage.]
Cabinet Reshuffle
Scene: A Liberal Party ‘cabinet reshuffle’ meeting. In attendance are ABBOT, BISHOP and JOYCE.
ABBOTT: Now, we’re all here to talk openly. This isn’t the Labor Party, you know, where the leader –
JOYCE: – Shut up, Tony.
ABBOTT: Sorry, Barnaby.
JOYCE: This meeting is eye-poppingly redundant, a point which I will demonstrate by popping my eyes out of their sockets and subsequently reinserting them. I am – quite literally – gobsmacked that such a ridiculous meeting is occurring right now.
ABBOTT: I don’t think you mean literally –
JOYCE: – Enough, college boy. Not all our mummies were flush enough to send us to Ye Olde Oxford Towne. [Sniggers bitterly].
ABBOTT: Barnaby, Julie has something important she wants to say. First, though, Julie, could you be a dear and iron this –
BISHOP: No, Tony. [Glares at him with utterly inhuman coldness and ferocious intensity.] I. Wish. To. Speak.
ABBOTT [wincing]: Meee-owww!
BISHOP: What has recently occurred is deeply unfair.
ABBOTT [in a professional tone]: Now we’re making progress. Why, Julia?
BISHOP: Because Barnaby gets to be Finance spokesman and I don’t.
ABBOTT [patronisingly, soothingly]: But you’re Deputy Leader, Julia. That’s the second most important position in the whole wide world. What more do you want? You’d get to be leader of the party if I ever went under a....truck.
[There is total silence. Abbott’s face turns ashen as he contemplates this possible future.] Of course, you could choose a more, well, ‘traditional’ portfolio.
BISHOP [sulkily]: Like what, Tony?
ABBOTT: Well, you could be minister for whaling prohibition, for example.
BISHOP: We don’t have a minister for whaling prohibition.
ABBOTT: We can make one! [Quietly]: That’d stop the sun from shining out of Bob Brown’s –
JOYCE [seething]: – The only proper place for a whale is in a fucking tuna can.
ABBOTT [agitated]: Barnaby, please. At least try to cooperate.
JOYCE [muttering]: Chowing down on those giant useless grey water-loving bastards is pretty much the only thing the Japs’ve done right since WWII.
ABBOTT: That’s enough. You just can’t say things like that anymore.
JOYCE: You thought it was piss-funny before –
ABBOTT: – I became leader. Julie?
BISHOP: Barnaby doesn’t know the first thing about economics.
JOYCE: I was an accountant before I came to this dump, Julie. You might not have heard of us: we eff about with bloody complicated numbers all day and make ‘em add up, whether they like it or not.
BISHOP: Running a country’s economy isn’t like running a household budget, Barnaby.
JOYCE: Too right it is! When my kids waste their pocket money on crap, I send ‘em to their rooms. So when Kev pisses my money away on total crap, I –
ABBOTT: Not total crap, Barnaby: climate change is total crap, remember. Except when we’re speaking in public. Then it’s –
JOYCE [mockingly]: – ‘the greatest human challenge of our time’, yeah. I read your brown paper about it.
ABBOTT [incensed]: It was a white paper, Barnaby.
JOYCE: Not after I wiped my arse on it. [Laughs uproariously while vigorously nudging Abbott.] Your Uncle Kevvie won’t let you say stuff like that anymore, Tony Boy, will ‘e? That mongrel’s got yer balls pickled in a jar beside his –
BISHOP: – I really don’t appreciate that kind of hyper-masculine language, Barnaby. And besides, we’ve both seen plenty of Tony’s –
ABBOTT [flustered]: – That’s quite enough from both of you. Julie, Barnaby knows plenty about economics: watch this. Now, Barnaby, if you have 5 oranges and I take 3 oranges, how many oranges do you have?
JOYCE: Hands off my fucking oranges, you grasping Bolshevik bastard.
ABBOTT [wearily]: It’s only a theoretical problem, Barnaby. We discussed this, remember? Nobody’s going to take your oranges.
JOYCE: You’re just like the other mob. Bleeding me white. Sucking me dry. Taking my oranges and giving them to Japanese refugees.
ABBOTT: Our refugees don’t come from –
JOYCE: Whose side are you on, anyway? All I know is my oranges are gone and now I’m bloody hungry. I know the other mob are saying that I can’t tell my squillions from my zillions. Fine. The important thing is, they’re both bloody big numbers, and there’s one thing I do know.
ABBOTT: Oh? What’s that?
JOYCE: Ten hap’orth farthings’ worth of bloody oranges won’t cover more than three pissteenths of a bushel of twice-fathomed acreage. Not within a bee’s franger – especially when the barometer’s dropped clean under threescore bars!
[ABBOTT and BISHOP glance at each other worriedly].
JOYCE: That’s real maths. For real men. Bloody metric system made everyone soft in the head. Kids don’t know how to count without taking their electric arithmicators out of their baggy pockets. Pants down round their arses of course. As usual.
BISHOP: This is what I’m talking about, Tony. Barnaby clearly presents us with a PR liability.
ABBOTT [grave]: Julia.
BISHOP: Yes, Tony?
ABBOTT: Do you remember when you were finance minister?
BISHOP: Oh, yes. I learned...so much that week.
ABBOTT: Yes. But what did you actually achieve?
BISHOP [fishing crumpled diagram out of pocket]: I educated the public about the fiscal benefits of the Laffer Curve.
JOYCE: Pointy-headed crap –
ABBOTT: Give it a chance, Barnaby. [Hesitantly]. Ah yes, the ‘Laffer Curve’. Remind me, Julia?
BISHOP [increasingly confident]: Well, the ‘Laffer Curve’ is a mathematical formulation that dictates the inverse relation between taxation and revenue.
ABBOTT [intrigued, despite himself]: The inverse relation?
BISHOP [in schoolmarmish tone]: Yes. You see, Tony, if you tax rich people, they get angry.
ABBOTT: Ah.
BISHOP: And if you give all the rich people’s money to lazy poor people, they get even lazier!
ABBOTT: Right-oh. [To self]: All single mothers, no doubt.
BISHOP: The rich get too angry to make the money. The poor get too lazy to do the work. And we get –
JOYCE: – screwed, I’ll bet. Bloody poor can’t get lazier than they are already, if you ask me. Sponging little parasite Whitlamites sitting in their raggedy jackets drinking Chai Teas off scummy little saucers –
ABBOTT: Shhh, Barnaby. Go on, Julie. What’s the alternative to taxing the rich?
BISHOP [beaming]: We must let the magnificent businesspeople of this nation replenish the coffers of plenty with their overflowing bounty of beneficent public generosity and charity.
ABBOTT: So we stop taxing them?
BISHOP: Yes.
ABBOTT: And we’ll get lots of money out of this?
BISHOP: Oh, lots. It’s all been worked out by people in America!
ABBOTT: What about the poor?
BISHOP: The Laffer Curve will instil them with the cleansing desire to be absolutely all that they can be!
ABBOTT: By taking away their food stamps?
BISHOP: Of course, Tony. The Laffer Curve therefore increases State revenue as well as delivering the priceless gifts of spiritual and moral victory to the less ‘achievement-inclined’ among us.
ABBOTT: Now that’s the kind of Christian charity I can relate to. You’re re-hired, Julie. [Long pause.] Barnaby?
JOYCE [awkwardly]: Yes?
ABBOTT: Give me back my wallet.
ABBOTT: Now, we’re all here to talk openly. This isn’t the Labor Party, you know, where the leader –
JOYCE: – Shut up, Tony.
ABBOTT: Sorry, Barnaby.
JOYCE: This meeting is eye-poppingly redundant, a point which I will demonstrate by popping my eyes out of their sockets and subsequently reinserting them. I am – quite literally – gobsmacked that such a ridiculous meeting is occurring right now.
ABBOTT: I don’t think you mean literally –
JOYCE: – Enough, college boy. Not all our mummies were flush enough to send us to Ye Olde Oxford Towne. [Sniggers bitterly].
ABBOTT: Barnaby, Julie has something important she wants to say. First, though, Julie, could you be a dear and iron this –
BISHOP: No, Tony. [Glares at him with utterly inhuman coldness and ferocious intensity.] I. Wish. To. Speak.
ABBOTT [wincing]: Meee-owww!
BISHOP: What has recently occurred is deeply unfair.
ABBOTT [in a professional tone]: Now we’re making progress. Why, Julia?
BISHOP: Because Barnaby gets to be Finance spokesman and I don’t.
ABBOTT [patronisingly, soothingly]: But you’re Deputy Leader, Julia. That’s the second most important position in the whole wide world. What more do you want? You’d get to be leader of the party if I ever went under a....truck.
[There is total silence. Abbott’s face turns ashen as he contemplates this possible future.] Of course, you could choose a more, well, ‘traditional’ portfolio.
BISHOP [sulkily]: Like what, Tony?
ABBOTT: Well, you could be minister for whaling prohibition, for example.
BISHOP: We don’t have a minister for whaling prohibition.
ABBOTT: We can make one! [Quietly]: That’d stop the sun from shining out of Bob Brown’s –
JOYCE [seething]: – The only proper place for a whale is in a fucking tuna can.
ABBOTT [agitated]: Barnaby, please. At least try to cooperate.
JOYCE [muttering]: Chowing down on those giant useless grey water-loving bastards is pretty much the only thing the Japs’ve done right since WWII.
ABBOTT: That’s enough. You just can’t say things like that anymore.
JOYCE: You thought it was piss-funny before –
ABBOTT: – I became leader. Julie?
BISHOP: Barnaby doesn’t know the first thing about economics.
JOYCE: I was an accountant before I came to this dump, Julie. You might not have heard of us: we eff about with bloody complicated numbers all day and make ‘em add up, whether they like it or not.
BISHOP: Running a country’s economy isn’t like running a household budget, Barnaby.
JOYCE: Too right it is! When my kids waste their pocket money on crap, I send ‘em to their rooms. So when Kev pisses my money away on total crap, I –
ABBOTT: Not total crap, Barnaby: climate change is total crap, remember. Except when we’re speaking in public. Then it’s –
JOYCE [mockingly]: – ‘the greatest human challenge of our time’, yeah. I read your brown paper about it.
ABBOTT [incensed]: It was a white paper, Barnaby.
JOYCE: Not after I wiped my arse on it. [Laughs uproariously while vigorously nudging Abbott.] Your Uncle Kevvie won’t let you say stuff like that anymore, Tony Boy, will ‘e? That mongrel’s got yer balls pickled in a jar beside his –
BISHOP: – I really don’t appreciate that kind of hyper-masculine language, Barnaby. And besides, we’ve both seen plenty of Tony’s –
ABBOTT [flustered]: – That’s quite enough from both of you. Julie, Barnaby knows plenty about economics: watch this. Now, Barnaby, if you have 5 oranges and I take 3 oranges, how many oranges do you have?
JOYCE: Hands off my fucking oranges, you grasping Bolshevik bastard.
ABBOTT [wearily]: It’s only a theoretical problem, Barnaby. We discussed this, remember? Nobody’s going to take your oranges.
JOYCE: You’re just like the other mob. Bleeding me white. Sucking me dry. Taking my oranges and giving them to Japanese refugees.
ABBOTT: Our refugees don’t come from –
JOYCE: Whose side are you on, anyway? All I know is my oranges are gone and now I’m bloody hungry. I know the other mob are saying that I can’t tell my squillions from my zillions. Fine. The important thing is, they’re both bloody big numbers, and there’s one thing I do know.
ABBOTT: Oh? What’s that?
JOYCE: Ten hap’orth farthings’ worth of bloody oranges won’t cover more than three pissteenths of a bushel of twice-fathomed acreage. Not within a bee’s franger – especially when the barometer’s dropped clean under threescore bars!
[ABBOTT and BISHOP glance at each other worriedly].
JOYCE: That’s real maths. For real men. Bloody metric system made everyone soft in the head. Kids don’t know how to count without taking their electric arithmicators out of their baggy pockets. Pants down round their arses of course. As usual.
BISHOP: This is what I’m talking about, Tony. Barnaby clearly presents us with a PR liability.
ABBOTT [grave]: Julia.
BISHOP: Yes, Tony?
ABBOTT: Do you remember when you were finance minister?
BISHOP: Oh, yes. I learned...so much that week.
ABBOTT: Yes. But what did you actually achieve?
BISHOP [fishing crumpled diagram out of pocket]: I educated the public about the fiscal benefits of the Laffer Curve.
JOYCE: Pointy-headed crap –
ABBOTT: Give it a chance, Barnaby. [Hesitantly]. Ah yes, the ‘Laffer Curve’. Remind me, Julia?
BISHOP [increasingly confident]: Well, the ‘Laffer Curve’ is a mathematical formulation that dictates the inverse relation between taxation and revenue.
ABBOTT [intrigued, despite himself]: The inverse relation?
BISHOP [in schoolmarmish tone]: Yes. You see, Tony, if you tax rich people, they get angry.
ABBOTT: Ah.
BISHOP: And if you give all the rich people’s money to lazy poor people, they get even lazier!
ABBOTT: Right-oh. [To self]: All single mothers, no doubt.
BISHOP: The rich get too angry to make the money. The poor get too lazy to do the work. And we get –
JOYCE: – screwed, I’ll bet. Bloody poor can’t get lazier than they are already, if you ask me. Sponging little parasite Whitlamites sitting in their raggedy jackets drinking Chai Teas off scummy little saucers –
ABBOTT: Shhh, Barnaby. Go on, Julie. What’s the alternative to taxing the rich?
BISHOP [beaming]: We must let the magnificent businesspeople of this nation replenish the coffers of plenty with their overflowing bounty of beneficent public generosity and charity.
ABBOTT: So we stop taxing them?
BISHOP: Yes.
ABBOTT: And we’ll get lots of money out of this?
BISHOP: Oh, lots. It’s all been worked out by people in America!
ABBOTT: What about the poor?
BISHOP: The Laffer Curve will instil them with the cleansing desire to be absolutely all that they can be!
ABBOTT: By taking away their food stamps?
BISHOP: Of course, Tony. The Laffer Curve therefore increases State revenue as well as delivering the priceless gifts of spiritual and moral victory to the less ‘achievement-inclined’ among us.
ABBOTT: Now that’s the kind of Christian charity I can relate to. You’re re-hired, Julie. [Long pause.] Barnaby?
JOYCE [awkwardly]: Yes?
ABBOTT: Give me back my wallet.
Monday, February 8, 2010
They stole my invention.
It's happened to all of us. You're innocently watching TV, walking past a shop, or reading the paper, when you notice something that looks really cool. It does the thing that you have always wanted to do, in the best possible way. This is fantastic for the world, fantastic for everyone! Hooray!
And yet it's not fantastic for quite everyone, is it? Because you have been storing this vision - now inexplicably made flesh - inside the 'to be invented' sector of your brain ever since you were twelve. Just planning, sequestering it away essentially. You were sitting on a gold mine, to be opened up when you had a lazy couple of grand to swing the plan into action.
And now Fischer and Paykel, or Sony, or whichever upstart you care to name, has gone and somehow excavated your brain contents when you were sleeping and fed the output into their Inventomatic-3000. Because here it is. Your invention. Your Golden Ticket to the nerdy version of Euro Disney.
This happened to me last week when walking through Myer's electronics department. I was looking for something I didn't need, when I was confronted with something I needed even less: I had to have it. But it was...
A Risotto Machine.
No, hear me out. [Guards: cover all exits and bolt doors]. The risotto machine that I invented when I was about 16 consisted of a paddle-type contraption that was designed to constantly stir the rice, evenly and thoroughly. Suspended above the rice was a drip-feed contraption that would gradually release the stock into the rice. Seeping, stirring. Seeping, stirring. So simple, yet so profound.
The Sunbeam Risotto maker - $99 decimal point ninety bloody five bucks - had all of these things. It's criminal and wrong. The company obviously had a complex network of spies in my high school quadrangle, listening to my every brilliant utterance.
I feel like the guy who invented the phone before Alexander Bell: Elisha Gray. After years of inventing, he went down to the patent office with his 'personal electrical dual-way voice communicator', or whatever he called his phone, one arvo.
Gray: 'I would like to patent my personal electrical dual-way voice communicator, please.'
Receptionist: 'Sorry, Mr. Gray, some guy patented one of those this morning.'
Gray: That's a jolly shame. Oh well, bye-bye!
Actually, that's not what he really said. This risotto's for you, Elisha!
And yet it's not fantastic for quite everyone, is it? Because you have been storing this vision - now inexplicably made flesh - inside the 'to be invented' sector of your brain ever since you were twelve. Just planning, sequestering it away essentially. You were sitting on a gold mine, to be opened up when you had a lazy couple of grand to swing the plan into action.
And now Fischer and Paykel, or Sony, or whichever upstart you care to name, has gone and somehow excavated your brain contents when you were sleeping and fed the output into their Inventomatic-3000. Because here it is. Your invention. Your Golden Ticket to the nerdy version of Euro Disney.
This happened to me last week when walking through Myer's electronics department. I was looking for something I didn't need, when I was confronted with something I needed even less: I had to have it. But it was...
A Risotto Machine.
No, hear me out. [Guards: cover all exits and bolt doors]. The risotto machine that I invented when I was about 16 consisted of a paddle-type contraption that was designed to constantly stir the rice, evenly and thoroughly. Suspended above the rice was a drip-feed contraption that would gradually release the stock into the rice. Seeping, stirring. Seeping, stirring. So simple, yet so profound.
The Sunbeam Risotto maker - $99 decimal point ninety bloody five bucks - had all of these things. It's criminal and wrong. The company obviously had a complex network of spies in my high school quadrangle, listening to my every brilliant utterance.
I feel like the guy who invented the phone before Alexander Bell: Elisha Gray. After years of inventing, he went down to the patent office with his 'personal electrical dual-way voice communicator', or whatever he called his phone, one arvo.
Gray: 'I would like to patent my personal electrical dual-way voice communicator, please.'
Receptionist: 'Sorry, Mr. Gray, some guy patented one of those this morning.'
Gray: That's a jolly shame. Oh well, bye-bye!
Actually, that's not what he really said. This risotto's for you, Elisha!
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Out of key?
Figuring out whether most bands are playing out of key is a science. It's not difficult to detect when, say, The Living End or - well, insert post-1970s-band-that-I've-never-heard-of-here - drop a semi-semitone on a hangover.
But AC/DC are different. Not because of the backing - there are few things more unambiguous than the perfect E-major in-keyness of Malcolm Young every day of his adult life. Rather, because of the vocalist - or 'vocalist' - Brian Johnston.
I know this is not the first time that this blog has raised the spectre of a band more associated with Triple-M listening, Hooters-frequenting, Bacon-Busting subscribers* than with vegetarian nerds with macho dreams. Who still watch 'Thriller' on a regular basis. But still.
Procrastinating for a few hours like I generally do on Sunday nights, I noticed that The Australian's website contained footage of AC/DC's 'Black Ice' tour, recorded in Auckland last week. The exerpt was 'Rock n' Roll Train' - another piece frequently discussed on the blog.
So, what was wrong with the performance? For the first 10 seconds, I couldn't put my finger on it. The performance sounded like two songs playing at the same time. Then I realised that the problem was with the singing: Brian started off in no key at all, then gradually moved up to something approaching the 'correct' key.
The most disturbing part of the whole experience was the fact that Brian's unusually heightened musical ineptitude creating a kind of Brechtian alienation effect - that is, it enabled me to sit back and listen to AC/DC with my ears and brain instead of my testicles for a change. Figuratively speaking.
They are all alarmingly old. And ugly. Has anyone else noticed this before?
What's more, as Robert Forster said in The Monthly a while back: a 50-year-old Angus looks quite strange in school uniform.
It's all sacrilege, I know it is, but it was only temporary!
The other members suddenly (and temporarily!) looked like geriatric old men who had wandered into a film casting session for the 'Rock Band: AC/DC' computer game. Cliff Williams, the bass player, was caked in makeup. Phil Rudd, the drummer, looked as if he was trying to remember where he put his slippers. The fact that there is a gigantic mass of the world's population - including, and especially me! - who loved these odd little old men totally mystified me in that brief instant.
But then I listened to an awesome version of 'War Machine' in Berlin on YouTube, which made it all better. That lurching, 30-second thicket of self-realisation was quickly banished.
*i.e. the restaurant, not the actual biological formations. (Apologies for Mark Dapin for the use of asterisks: sometimes it's the only symbol that will do).
But AC/DC are different. Not because of the backing - there are few things more unambiguous than the perfect E-major in-keyness of Malcolm Young every day of his adult life. Rather, because of the vocalist - or 'vocalist' - Brian Johnston.
I know this is not the first time that this blog has raised the spectre of a band more associated with Triple-M listening, Hooters-frequenting, Bacon-Busting subscribers* than with vegetarian nerds with macho dreams. Who still watch 'Thriller' on a regular basis. But still.
Procrastinating for a few hours like I generally do on Sunday nights, I noticed that The Australian's website contained footage of AC/DC's 'Black Ice' tour, recorded in Auckland last week. The exerpt was 'Rock n' Roll Train' - another piece frequently discussed on the blog.
So, what was wrong with the performance? For the first 10 seconds, I couldn't put my finger on it. The performance sounded like two songs playing at the same time. Then I realised that the problem was with the singing: Brian started off in no key at all, then gradually moved up to something approaching the 'correct' key.
The most disturbing part of the whole experience was the fact that Brian's unusually heightened musical ineptitude creating a kind of Brechtian alienation effect - that is, it enabled me to sit back and listen to AC/DC with my ears and brain instead of my testicles for a change. Figuratively speaking.
They are all alarmingly old. And ugly. Has anyone else noticed this before?
What's more, as Robert Forster said in The Monthly a while back: a 50-year-old Angus looks quite strange in school uniform.
It's all sacrilege, I know it is, but it was only temporary!
The other members suddenly (and temporarily!) looked like geriatric old men who had wandered into a film casting session for the 'Rock Band: AC/DC' computer game. Cliff Williams, the bass player, was caked in makeup. Phil Rudd, the drummer, looked as if he was trying to remember where he put his slippers. The fact that there is a gigantic mass of the world's population - including, and especially me! - who loved these odd little old men totally mystified me in that brief instant.
But then I listened to an awesome version of 'War Machine' in Berlin on YouTube, which made it all better. That lurching, 30-second thicket of self-realisation was quickly banished.
*i.e. the restaurant, not the actual biological formations. (Apologies for Mark Dapin for the use of asterisks: sometimes it's the only symbol that will do).
Sunday, January 17, 2010
World's Gayest T-shirt
The escalators at Flinders Street Station now seem to be my primary Human Folly Observation Point. I'm not sure whether this is because so many people use the escalators, or whether there is something about Flinders Street that makes people act oddly. Nevertheless, it is indubitably true.
Yesterday, as I was about to catch a train, I noticed a man (approximate age: 50) at the top of the escalator wearing a pink T-shirt. There's nothing unusual about that. Case closed.
Or is there?
The back of the man's pink t-shirt was decorated with a large love heart, including an arrow pointing to the wearer's right. Inside the heart were written the following words:
"I love this man with all my heart".
This meant, of course, that anyone standing next to Mr. Pink t-shirt wearer - willing or no - would be temporarily thrust into the shoes of his beloved.
I thought I was the only one who noticed the t-shirt. However, a man ahead of me (who was in a hurry) noticed it too. Although Hurrying Man desperately wanted to catch a train that was just about to leave the platform below, the only available position on the crowded escalator was the one right next to Mr. Pink t-shirt.
Hurrying Man, realising that he had just been forced to assume a position for which he considered himself unsuited, tried to diagonally push ahead of Mr. Pink to escape the t-shirt's accusatory motto. But his passage forward was blocked, and he was forced back beside his newfound true love.
Hurrying Man's next - and brilliant - move was to move backward. Although this would place him further away from the train, it would also put a dampener on the situation's incipient homoeroticism. But it was no good: by this stage, there were a bank of people behind Hurrying Man, preventing an easy escape from ManLove's granite-carved, accusatory message.
For the rest of the escalator trip (all this, miraculously, happened at lightning speed!), Hurrying Man assumed the posture of a laboratory rat in a cage who had suffered repeated electric shocks. That is, he demonstrated behaviour that Psychologists have termed 'learned helplessness' - the name given to the despondent and submissive behaviour that develops in lab rats after they realise there is nothing they can do to evade randomly-administered punishment.
I am not sure whether Pink T-shirt man was aware of all this, or whether he was completely oblivious. However, it was worth it to see Hurrying Man being hoisted out of his comfort zone for 15 delightful seconds.
Yesterday, as I was about to catch a train, I noticed a man (approximate age: 50) at the top of the escalator wearing a pink T-shirt. There's nothing unusual about that. Case closed.
Or is there?
The back of the man's pink t-shirt was decorated with a large love heart, including an arrow pointing to the wearer's right. Inside the heart were written the following words:
"I love this man with all my heart".
This meant, of course, that anyone standing next to Mr. Pink t-shirt wearer - willing or no - would be temporarily thrust into the shoes of his beloved.
I thought I was the only one who noticed the t-shirt. However, a man ahead of me (who was in a hurry) noticed it too. Although Hurrying Man desperately wanted to catch a train that was just about to leave the platform below, the only available position on the crowded escalator was the one right next to Mr. Pink t-shirt.
Hurrying Man, realising that he had just been forced to assume a position for which he considered himself unsuited, tried to diagonally push ahead of Mr. Pink to escape the t-shirt's accusatory motto. But his passage forward was blocked, and he was forced back beside his newfound true love.
Hurrying Man's next - and brilliant - move was to move backward. Although this would place him further away from the train, it would also put a dampener on the situation's incipient homoeroticism. But it was no good: by this stage, there were a bank of people behind Hurrying Man, preventing an easy escape from ManLove's granite-carved, accusatory message.
For the rest of the escalator trip (all this, miraculously, happened at lightning speed!), Hurrying Man assumed the posture of a laboratory rat in a cage who had suffered repeated electric shocks. That is, he demonstrated behaviour that Psychologists have termed 'learned helplessness' - the name given to the despondent and submissive behaviour that develops in lab rats after they realise there is nothing they can do to evade randomly-administered punishment.
I am not sure whether Pink T-shirt man was aware of all this, or whether he was completely oblivious. However, it was worth it to see Hurrying Man being hoisted out of his comfort zone for 15 delightful seconds.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
The Bicycle Thief
If you are lucky enough to be in possession of my brain - and I don't mean in a 'jar beside the bed' sense, so don't get any ideas - you may have the unique experience of losing and regaining your faith in humanity on a rapidfire basis. Let me explain.
Nothing makes me more upset than theft. When you leave something somewhere with a reasonable degree of security, I think you have a right to expect it to be there when you get back.
Imagine my disappointment, therefore, on Tuesday afternoon. On getting to Yarraville Station after work, I went to unlock my bike, only to find that it had vanished. This unexpected event allowed me to tap the deep, dark reservoir of cynicism that I generally try to keep a lid on in order to function relatively normally. Some of the questions I asked (silently) of the world were:
- why are people so dishonest? I'm not dishonest, so why is everyone else?
- why did the bike lock company make such a shitty lock? Is it just something that looks tough but is designed to crumble in a real conflict situation, like Mr. T?
- is the bike lock company more or less culpable than the thief himself?
- why did the thief spend so much time sawing a huge lock off a crappy bike? Does he hate me personally?
- does he in fact know me?
- and what's happening to Yarraville, anyhow? Last time I looked, it was a shiny, newly-gentrified yuppie paradise. What's with the horrific (bike-related) crime rate?
I brought up all of these issues to anyone who would listen over the next week. Uniform reaction: disappointment in humanity. When someone else shares your disappointment in humanity, it's - well, how can I put it? - really quite a lovely and satisfying feeling. It almost makes getting the thing stolen in the first place worthwhile.
My parents, all things considered, were very sympathetic. Inured by now to my habit of, well, losing stuff, they almost seemed pleased that I had something stolen for real this time. Walking through Yarraville with Mum and Dad, lamenting my misfortune to the tune of soothing parental tut-tutting, I saw something chained to a No Standing sign that looked familiar.
"Why, that bike is just like the one that was stolen!" I thought, amazed at the coincidence. "And the helmet is the exact same colour as..."
Oh.
Nothing makes me more upset than theft. When you leave something somewhere with a reasonable degree of security, I think you have a right to expect it to be there when you get back.
Imagine my disappointment, therefore, on Tuesday afternoon. On getting to Yarraville Station after work, I went to unlock my bike, only to find that it had vanished. This unexpected event allowed me to tap the deep, dark reservoir of cynicism that I generally try to keep a lid on in order to function relatively normally. Some of the questions I asked (silently) of the world were:
- why are people so dishonest? I'm not dishonest, so why is everyone else?
- why did the bike lock company make such a shitty lock? Is it just something that looks tough but is designed to crumble in a real conflict situation, like Mr. T?
- is the bike lock company more or less culpable than the thief himself?
- why did the thief spend so much time sawing a huge lock off a crappy bike? Does he hate me personally?
- does he in fact know me?
- and what's happening to Yarraville, anyhow? Last time I looked, it was a shiny, newly-gentrified yuppie paradise. What's with the horrific (bike-related) crime rate?
I brought up all of these issues to anyone who would listen over the next week. Uniform reaction: disappointment in humanity. When someone else shares your disappointment in humanity, it's - well, how can I put it? - really quite a lovely and satisfying feeling. It almost makes getting the thing stolen in the first place worthwhile.
My parents, all things considered, were very sympathetic. Inured by now to my habit of, well, losing stuff, they almost seemed pleased that I had something stolen for real this time. Walking through Yarraville with Mum and Dad, lamenting my misfortune to the tune of soothing parental tut-tutting, I saw something chained to a No Standing sign that looked familiar.
"Why, that bike is just like the one that was stolen!" I thought, amazed at the coincidence. "And the helmet is the exact same colour as..."
Oh.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Where's My AM Radio?
I recently purchased an MP3 player from Dick Smith. Being a cheapskate who is convinced that the Apple Corporation ranks at the very bottom of the bottom-feeders (despite its talent for making lovely shiny things), I purchased a series of inadequate MP3 players until I found this one. It's perfect and it only costs $40. Oh, it's not cool - Dick Smith is never cool - but it is sleek and compact and mine.
It has everything: except, I just found out, an AM Radio. Being at least 10 years' out of touch in terms of musical matters, the main radio station I listen to is Radio National. It rends my heart to write those words, but there you are. Becoming one's parents is never a pleasant process.
So, I am now wondering - why do MP3 players lack AM radios? Although a significant proportion of people who purchase these items are 'cool', an equally significant minority - namely, me - are not. And I bet Dick Smith, of all people, spends a large part of his radio-listening quota listening to Radio National.
As far as I can tell, it would not cost anything extra to include an AM receiver with all MP3 players, as AM radios are more low-tech than FM ones. (And they're both pretty darn low-tech these days). Is this a conspiracy to drive us all into the arms of FM, whose main benefits seem to be Hamish & Andy (admittedly divine) and RRR blues Marathons?
It has everything: except, I just found out, an AM Radio. Being at least 10 years' out of touch in terms of musical matters, the main radio station I listen to is Radio National. It rends my heart to write those words, but there you are. Becoming one's parents is never a pleasant process.
So, I am now wondering - why do MP3 players lack AM radios? Although a significant proportion of people who purchase these items are 'cool', an equally significant minority - namely, me - are not. And I bet Dick Smith, of all people, spends a large part of his radio-listening quota listening to Radio National.
As far as I can tell, it would not cost anything extra to include an AM receiver with all MP3 players, as AM radios are more low-tech than FM ones. (And they're both pretty darn low-tech these days). Is this a conspiracy to drive us all into the arms of FM, whose main benefits seem to be Hamish & Andy (admittedly divine) and RRR blues Marathons?
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?
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.
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):
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):
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