Sunday, October 30, 2005

Go figure

I've just come across an article in the Sydney Morning Herald saying that the US Congress is in the process of cutting $574 million from the food stamp budget, potentially depriving 300,000 people from this basic level of support. I also learned that 12% of households (almost 1 in 8) in the States are currently on the food stamps program - many of them the "working poor" that we'll soon be emulating here in this supposed land of milk and honey.

So I looked up the financial costs of the war on Iraq. $204.37 billion and counting. More than 350 times the amount they're cutting from the food stamps budget. Or, conversely, enough to add almost 106 million more people to the food stamps program. And if it's true that the rich have been given more than their fair share of tax breaks in recent years, then whose money are they using anyway?

I'd really prefer to blog about stupid things that people do. Or the meaninglessness of life. Or even the goosebumpy sacredness of the universe. Hell, I don't care - it's all just material to weave into some kind of shape that might amuse. But like a moth I just cannot seem to turn my face away from the blinding heat of the obvious, the shameful, the elephant in the room. So I'm going to start writing more about these sorts of things. I hope you do too.

Photo courtesy thedak

Tuesday, October 11, 2005

4 God so luvd da world

Now call me old fashioned but is there something fundamentally (ha ha..) wrong with translating the Bible into SMS language? Or is it just me? Until now I've been pretty sanguine about the suggestion that Jesus was married to Mary Magdalene, measured in my assessment of Piss Christ, bemused by the intelligent design contortionists (sorry - no link - don't want to encourage them...) and moved by The Last Temptation of Christ. I thought I was fairly balanced. Neutral. Open minded. But this?

I can just imagine Bible scholars all over the world stopped mid-air in their endless debates about the subtle and major differences between Greek and Hebrew, the transcendent and the immanent, the cup and the lip.

Is the power of the Bible in the poetry of the language and richness of metaphors, or is it really just the story - the telling of the literal, the gist, the synopsis? Is there a pierced modern day St Pauline surfing the information superhighway, ripe for her SMS to Damascus?

I then started to wonder whether there are any sacred cows that can't be milked for their SMS goodness. Why stop at the Bible? For instance, would Elizabeth Barrett Browning have snagged her man if she'd texted this?
how spunky r u?
jeez - whr do i stRt?
Im rly rly stoked
my fElnz 4 u cud fil da entrtainmNt cNta
or mAbE evN da melburn crickt grnd!
but ur pritE hot in frnt of da TV 2, evN in yr tracky daks
& Im not stuffin u round here or tryin 2 mAk myslf look big
itz jst Im so Xited i cud spit
ur da best thng since da teenaj mutnt ninja turtls & dey wer KEWL
thinkN bout u mAkz my hed spin
fair dinkm if NEthing hapnd 2 me i reckn i'd stil dig u heaps
Jesus...

(thx 2 hankerific 4 da photo)

Friday, October 7, 2005

The nature of things

Sitting in a doctors surgery nursing my black mood, listening to a podcast on bio terrorism, scowling at the wall. Out the window there's a fruit tree bouncing in the breeze, heavy with blossom, scent blaring. Blah. Piss off. Spring, schming.

A little old lady wanders in carefully holding a plant cutting - a delicate orchidy looking thing or something. "Ooh!" the girls at the desk squeal in unison. Some discussion about how someone's aunt took a cutting the other day and how well it's doing. I'm in little Italy - they're always swapping plants'n'things. The excited squeals descend into a sonatina of murmurs and clucks, lulling me into snooze mode. And then all of a sudden I feel really alert (but not alarmed).

Nature is open source.

THE UNIVERSE IS OPEN SOURCE.

There's plenty more where those cuttings came from. The more clippings they take, the better it'll grow. Everything we need or will ever need already exists in some form - we live within an unimaginable abundance of elements, raw materials, scripts and stand-alone environments. That old lady is a goddam hacker. The secretaries are pirates. That tree outside is an API in the hands of a good gardener. Even that red-faced squalling baby on the floor is open source, launched a matter of months ago. Some members of that baby's species know how to hack enough code to make another one. But fortunately most people prefer using the original program.

The operating system and all peripherals are totally interoperable. Everything within infinite coo-ee is except for a bunch of materials created by a few generations of intelligent hacks (enough to trigger a mass extinction in some cases, but even nature generates those from time to time). And another bunch of opportunistic bully boys think they can licence and control things like food and medicine just because they've learned how to spell its genetic code and have lodged a form. But hey, that's hardly bothering me now because something really obvious and important is revealing its beauty to me in this otherwise very bland and ordinary day.

Wow, eh? No wonder so many people are sharing things, creating collaboratively, fighting the introduction of arbitrary and repressive laws, contributing to the greater good and so on. It's in our code. It's natural. (It's bloody obvious once you start thinking about it!)

Go, you good thing.

Photo by josef stuefer

Thursday, October 6, 2005

Weapons of face construction

What is it with staff who work in the cosmetic counters of major department stores? I've visited three in the last two days and feel positively terrorised.

[you have been spared a long, LONG description of me eventually buying something - trust me - you have been SPAAAAAAAAAARED - UGH! ]

In the end, feeling like a total disgrace as a woman and ignoring the misgivings of the rational part of my brain ("you spent how much?!?") I pathetically explained that I'm "just not that into cosmetics" to the woman processing my credit card. She stared at me with total shock said "Really?! They're my LIFE!!"

That helped. Until then I honestly had started to believe there was something fundamentally wrong with me that I needed to work on.

Even if you're not buying cosmetics or planning to stop to look at anything, be prepared. The staff strategically place themselves at the intersections of the various islands of glass and panelling so that they can aggressively lunge at unsuspecting customers with bottles of perfume, aftershave and other stuff to slime you with. Don't be taken in by the quasi-nurse uniform starched dresses and nice smiles. They're bloody ruthless.

You have been warned.

Wednesday, September 28, 2005

Who was that masked bandito?

In the three months (eek!) that I've been blogging I've been so concerned about overcoming core reluctance, feigned indifference, blinding vacuity and performance anxiety that I haven't really thought about anyone else. (Which just proves my point about the essential narcissistic nature of blogs but let me get off my soapbox for a moment...)

Last night, as I was dropping off to sleep, I thought about Robert. Which would be fine if someone knew who Robert was but I don't. And the only reason I was thinking about him(s) is that I came across him(s) twice in the one day.

The first was "robert" who quite reasonably replied "Yarr!" to my post on Talk Like a Pirate Day. The second occurred when I was reading Tim's blog and found a comment by "ROBERT" (who wrote "This article clearly states the mindset of the author. It is intelligently drafted to create intrest of the reader. It brings out the worth of the subject" - ha! How cute is that?).

Now really I couldn't give a rats arse about the real Robert(s) (see soapbox...) but it did get me thinking about whether there was a potential new market out there for people who don't want to get their pens dirty on a blog, but might want become the new handmaidens and hooligans of the Internet by surfing blogs the way some people surf the corners of other people's towels on a hot crowded beach as they make their way from A to B.

That's how I imagined our Robert(s), descending on each blog like a bumble bee, leaving random notes, floating over to the next port of call and so on. And yes it was late and yes I was tired.

For several decades there was a man called Arthur Stace in Sydney who would write the word "eternity" on sidewalks all over the city. Pommies had Robin Hood. In Spain they had Zorro. Which got me thinking - what masked banditos have we got on the internet? Hackers? Phishers? Dickheads who design those annoying popups? Nup. Robin Hood gave to the poor. Zorro couldn't help but exude devillish charm - leave him alone. And Arthur Stace would never have scribbled "F**K U" in chalk. Even if he had lived long enough to encounter SMS. It was "eternity" or nuthin'.

So I'm proposing that we develop a new social art form that fills the gap. Something that's fun but not cruel. Challenging but not dangerous. Where people can play ping-back-pong because it's there. Until they can think of something better to do with their time.

Handmaidens (male and female of course - no need to discriminate here just because we're using historically gendered terms) could waft about in a cloud of lavender and whimsy, leaving ambiguous haiku, new age blessings and zen koans, thus interrupting the thread of the heated discourse and pouring balm on troubled souls (assuming bloggers have souls, that is...). Hell, they could even wander the Net correcting people's spelling. Now that'd be really vexatious - er, I mean venturesome - wouldn't it?

Hooligans could snub their snub noses at episodes of hubris, poor attempts at humour or any blogger who puts an "e-" in front of an ordinary word when the ordinary word would have done quite nicely without the pretentious embellishment. Or perhaps they could work in teams and think up modern day versions of the Jack Handy Deep Thought: "If you want to be the most popular person in your class, whenever the professor pauses in his lecture, just let out a big snort and say "How do you figger that!" real loud. Then lean back and sort of smirk." and make some kid's day.

Bandito flash gangs could play hide and seek, leaving clues as to the next blogstop and then converge there to play Scrabble with the letters of the first paragraph. Hell, the possibilities are endless!

I think it'd be fun. More fun than having to think of more dumb things to write in a blog I don't even really feel has a purpose for readers who don't exist in a place that isn't real except as an abstraction of Tim Berners-Lee's mind that caught on...

And it'd help me take my mind off this.

(Ola! to phatfred for the picture of the cute banditos!)

Sunday, September 25, 2005

Boys Town

You've gotta feel sorry for the boys at Blokesworld. It's like they're at the wheel of a V8 for the first time with half a case of beer in the back, no food, the quiet girls have gone home and the louder ones just scare them silly so they have no alternative but to act like boofheads. Which is pretty fortuitous because they are and they can.

Screened on Channel 10 this show (which emerged, crapzilla-like, out of the bowels of community television) has apparently become a bit of a hit with lads who find themselves alone at home on a Friday night after a night on the turps. No surprises there.

What's most perplexing about the show (in a show that doesn't exactly tax the brain) is the number of women who seem thrilled to be part of it, from the playbunny who hosts the "Show Me Your Tool" segment to the witless "exotic dancers" in the Pole (dancing) Position competition who vie for their moment of glory in the land of pastel porn. I can't help but be reminded of the Big Brother contestant who gave another contestant her teeny weeny gym panties as a fetish and then was horrified to learn that the boys were sniffing them for clues. I mean - what did she think they were going to do; frame them?

Scanning the Net for some kind of insight into this depressingly familiar genre I came across this:
The main sexual stereotype is the whore/tease. The woman is viewed largely as a sex object who is there for the mens' sexual fantasy...

... Another sexual stereotype is the Lesbian/man hater. This may be triggered by the woman's appearance, particularly if she wears androgynous clothing or has short hair...

... The more wholesome images are those of "good" women... [such as]

Mother - older women or more homely women can elicit a mothering stereotype they are supposed to be kind and caring, but not intelligent and assertive.


Daughter - [men] may attempt to offer guidance or protection and assume the woman is gullible and naïve....

and finally this:

... A stereotype that is neither wholesome or sexual, but is often used to describe powerful women in managerial positions is the "ballbreaker". Such women have authority and are too threatening to openly sexualise, but are also too strong to fit the nurturing stereotypes.
Wow, I thought. That's so illuminating. Pity it's about a prison population. You'd almost think they were talking about the boys from Blokesworld.

(Picture by Brite Lights Photos)
Maybe there was another way of looking at it. Perhaps a look at the socialisation of children would provide a clue.
Everyday notions of gender are generally expressed in terms of differences - differences that are not equally valued. They are also not symmetrical in that masculinity tends to be defined as that which is not feminine, but femininity is not defined as that which is not masculine.
Now correct me if I'm wrong, but are they suggesting that "blokeyness" might be defined not by what it is, but by what it is not? A fancy way of describing the more familiar "girl germs" theme of early boyhood? Hmmm.

Further in the document the researchers suggest that girls experience strong gender conformity pressures in relation to body image, which is no surprise and may explain the craze for saline breast implants as well as the apparent need to be physically desired at all costs, even if the gazer includes a large contingent of the slobberati class. On the other hand,
Boys create and preserve ...masculinity through fear of whatever might be constructed as female, since whatever masculinity is constructed is better than femininity.
Unsurprisingly, "[t]his creates problems for both boys and girls."

However it could start to explain why there are so many people who seem to be propping themselves and each other up with a hyper-masculinity (and hyper-femininity in the case of the bunnies) that's as marked in its essential fictitiousness as that of any drag queen or pantomime artist. And anyone who doubts whether it is a symbolic enactment of some inner conflict should just watch any episode of The Footy Show.

Now I'm not against entertainments that lampoon the sexes nor averse to "politically incorrect" representations per se (like this picture of a duck that I found on Flickr) if there's at least some humour or irony or something in there other than a 'same shit/different day' kind of banality. Even Benny Hill, one of the fathers of the slap and tickle genre (which I suppose is what Blokesworld and The Footy Show are at root - so to speak) was at least genuinely humourous and inventive. The Carry On contingent were not, relying instead on a repetitive and tiresome theme of infantile transgression/naughtiness that explains alot about British politics and education systems but not much else.

Anyway, my theory is simpler than that. I reckon the boys from Blokesworld were bottle fed and just haven't gotten over their exclusion from a very mammalian and reassuring form of human bonding in their early years. So I reckon we need to institute a Boobs for Bottlefed Boofheads Day where every woman in Australia displays her breasts for a day so that these poor suckers can finally overcome their emotional anorexia and get on with the business of graduating from infancy.

PS: Mock-apologies to anyone I've offended with the image of the baby and the breast - I don't think it's just coincidence that images of breastfeeding are the most unlikely representations of the human body that you'll ever see in our society. And if that's not an indication of the confused perversity of our times, I don't know what is.

Thanks to Christy Scherer for beautiful baby and mum photo.
Top marks also to Debbie C. B. for the Ken and Barbie orgy.

Monday, September 19, 2005

Avast, ye scum ridden weevil shaggers

Ahoy, me hearties! Given dis be Talk Loik a Poirate Day, oi'll be deliverin' me prattle from a perspective wot may trouble dem among yers dat fink talkin' proper is evidence o' gentility and good breedin'. But if ye be concern'd about learnedness and talkin' proper then ye'd best be heedin' me warning to yers on dis fine September day.

Oi'v heard some talk among de heathens 'bout the nefarious villains dat be plannin' ter pollute de hearts'n'minds of th'littlies in dem thar schoolrooms of de northern colonies. And blow me down, but dey be finkin' o' startin' de same codswallop in deese parts too!

Oi mean - just listen ter dis quote from de Washington Post fer a start:
"With the president endorsing it, at the very least it makes Americans who have that position more respectable, for lack of a better phrase," said Gary L. Bauer, a Christian conservative leader.
(Oi can fink ov lots ov "better phrases" but bein' a lady, oi'm gonna avoid sayin' fings here dat'd make a sailor blush).

Anyone wiv 'arf a brain who's travel'd a bit could tell yers wot aur mate Charlie woz goin' on about back in 1859. And anyone who cain't see the resemblance between monkeys and man ain't lookin' hard enuf. We also knows de world ain't flat even tho' some thought it so for 'undreds 'n 'undreds ov years and probly still do in some parts. Even Marco Polo knew better'n'dat when 'e did de spaghetti run to China an' first encountr'd aour Lord FSM in 'is noodly glory.

Normally oi'm a big believer in "live and let be" but bein' a mudder o' seven luvly sprogs, oi fink de time has come to stand up to de vile dogs who be wantin' us to go back to de days o' dem primitives, who as yer know couldn'a see lightenin' wivout finking it be de anger ov de gods. Mebbe dat suited me in my poiret days, cuz t'was loik takin' candy from veritib'l babes but oi'm fearin' for me culture now - me scallywaggery and me freedom in a world dat is increasin'ly in de hands of an international legion o' darstardly louts wiv nuffin between their buccaneers 'xcept sawdust 'n villainry. Fings are serious!

In fact, oi'm so flabbergasted 'bout dis issue dat oi've written a pome ter express me feelin's (wiv apologies'n'fanks t' young Willy Yeats):
Turnin' an' turnin' in the widenin' current
De parrot cannot 'ear the poirate
Fings fall apart; de keel cannot hold;
Sheer mutiny is loosed upon the seas
De ceremony of innocence be drowned;
De best are lily liver'd varmints, while the worst
Are full of wrathful scoundrelness, comandeering the deck
And shivering me timbers.
Naow oi ain't 'ad much book learnin' but it's bloomin' obvious dat dere ain't no designer up dere in heaven - any mug who's been at a live birth'll tell ya dat. Oi mean, take a look at the geezer who's running fings in de world! If anyfing, it's a case of unintelligent design, an' ter be frank, oi dunno why de so-called intelligent design network don't embrace dis more fully given dere fondness fer imaginin' skullduggery and evil everywhere dey look.

De universe ain't evil - it be absurd and de sooner we just accept dat, de sooner we'll all get our sea legs fer livin'.

Now call me a salty old hussy but oi misses de olde days wen de lubberly Johnny Scopes was almost drawn and quartered in de great Monkey Trial. T'was alot harder in dem days ter speak yer mind on dat sort of fing and oi'm hopin' dat Scopes' story'll give you young'uns a bit o' conviction in the comin' dark days when ye may need ter fight fer yer intellect'l freedom.

Before oi go oi'd loik to warn ye 'bout dese clowns who be makin' a mockery ov de whole fing. Intelligent fallin'? As an intelligent fallen woman, oi'd loik ter respecfully demur. And praise be ter de great god FSM dat oi can still have me own views in dese nouveau dark ages before de dawn (of Aquarius oi'm told - gawd 'elp us!).

Anyway - oi'd loik ter fank yers for listenin' to me warblin' on dis blessed day - yers really are a rum pack'o'coves, y'know. Happy Talk Like A Poirate Day ter one'n'all. Even 'im.