I have always been a big fan of the show ‘Futurama’. It is about a young man called Fry who is (ironically given his name), frozen cryogenically for 1000 years and emerges in the year 3000. He eventually meets a crazy inventor (and relative), who shows him his universal translator. Unfortunately it still needs work he explains: “Currently it only translates english into some dead, archaic language.”
“Hello!” says Fry.
“Bonjour!” replies the machine.

Being anti-French (using the term Gallic would probably give comfort to the enemy), has a long history in the US. There is even the long running gag (before it was corrected), that when you entered “French military victories” into Google, it would respond “did you mean French military defeats?“.
Personally I think it’s all an incredible waste of time but like so many other pointless hatreds, it has real political impact.
As the Republican candidates sling mud ever-lower in their race, it seems Newt Gingrich has struck a bizarre tactic that will be made all the more worrying if it actually works:
He has accused Mitt Rommney (according to The Age), of speaking French.

Not saying anything particularly unpatriotic however, just using the language generally. Apparently bilingual ability is an inherently bad thing, or possibly it just makes a candidate more of a ‘them’ than an ‘us’.

It seems Mitt hasn’t immediately returned the claim, but other commentators have. I’m having ideas for a larger article, of the ridiculous things that affect such amazing events. Right up there is my other favourite random fact of the alternating bald/hairy pattern of Russian leaders since the Bolsheviks.

A few years ago I went to a comedy show called The List Operators. As the name would suggest, they had a range of lists they would make, even taking suggestions from the audience. The one that stuck in my mind was “Countries It’s OK To Be Racist About”. France was in there and the only other thing I remember was that China was added but hastily removed.

I really wonder what that list will look like in years to come. Not only in the eyes of the US voting public Australia as well. However the one definitive thing is there will still be such a list.

Adieu

It’s a funny thing, getting older. There’s plenty I could go on about here but I think for now I’ve just got one thought on it.

Ageing is the process where  friends and family get older and strangers get younger.  During which time you watch both groups, not certain you belong in either.

It’s been a long time coming but I finally bought a new car. Well not a new car per say, but far less used than all my previous ones. My old 1991 Subaru Liberty wagon had been a trusty nag since 2007. But like the Blues-mobile, it finally gave up the ghost. I absolutely loved that car, in spite of and because of all its flaws.

Known as “The Ubertron”, it was a silver/grey colour, littered with minor dings in the sides and peels in the window tint. It usually sat low on creaking suspension and despite an automatic transmission, could handle roads I had absolutely no business taking it down. There was a function that raised the car through some sort of airbag system that could give it a few extra inches of clearance. All you had to do was press a button and wait several minutes for a flashing light to stop. Then congratulations, it was time to pretend it was a four-wheel drive. It also had randomly locking doors, cup holders that prevented access to the radio when in use and a 3.5 mm port for plugging in music players. Although it tended to make an incredible screeching noise when I tried, so I stuck to an FM transmitter instead.

In retrospect, it really wasn’t all that surprising that things went wrong. This particular car rolled off the assembly line in 1991 and promptly went on to do… nothing. It was bought by a couple in Canberra that used it to go to the shops occasionally, maybe the odd trip further but nothing major. It sat in the front yard (not driveway) and mostly passed time trying to convince burglars that someone was home. It was the second car of a couple that only really needed one. Hence it wasn’t driven regularly, but neither was it serviced or cared for and inaction took its toll. The Ubertron stuck to this sedentary lifestyle for about another 26 years. Eventually the couple that owned it were moving away, either overseas or elsewhere in Australia. The Ubertron came back on the market.

As for me, I was living in Fremantle, WA at the time. I was driving a Suzuki Swift that had belonged to my grandmother and spent most of its life on the northern coast of West Australia. As such it was held together by rust and had all the power of a wound-up rubber band without the acceleration. Not to mention a curious defect that meant engine oil would ooze out of the dash and drip on my legs as I drove. Forcing me to line the floor with newspaper and roll up my pants whenever I got in. This was when I was about to move to Melbourne and there was no way the Suzuki would join me.  It was so unsafe that not only would it fail the rego inspection, they would most likely have to evacuate the garage and get the army to do a controlled explosion.

In any case I was struggling to find a suitable car to replace it. I was very interested in Subarus and there were plenty in WA. The initial problem was mileage. Given that WA seems to cover two thirds of the earth’s surface, finding an affordable, Subaru road-warrior with less than 300,000 on the clock wasn’t easy. Not to mention, like my grandmother’s Suzuki, local conditions gave many the same chronic rust problem that meant half the chassis could disintegrate if you went over 80.  Having no luck in WA, I asked my dad in Canberra if he could keep an eye out for me. He, like many fathers, is never happier than when given A Task to concentrate on.  It’s a generally male thing, but seems more noticeable in fathers. Smart women know to let guys keep their seemingly idiotic hobbies (within reason). If they’re not so distracted, they may try to turn their hand to fixing the plumbing or renovating the house with no other qualifications than what the Y chromosome provides. The trade and general fixit industries thrive on such experiments.

Anyway, my dad threw himself into The Task with more vigour than I was using and gave fresh options every couple of days.  I was mostly underwhelmed by model or overwhelmed by price. But then there came a silver/grey 1991 Subaru Liberty Wagon. Only $5,500 with under 140,000 on the odometer.

Perfect!

Subaru? Check (it’s a brand thing).

Wagon? Check (I needed the space for weekends away climbing).

Acceptable price? Check (see cheap as possible).

Given I was on the other side of the country, it was up to my dad to handle most of the particulars for me. But I gave him the money and he gave me a car that would carry me for the next five years. It came with everything I wanted (except several speeding tickets the previous owner racked up before selling it, but that’s another story).

I know, pretty pimp right?

 

I finalised my affairs in Perth and flew to Canberra to collect and drive it to Melbourne. We got along great from the start, although there was one major problem. I left Canberra in high spirits and began the several hours high speed to Melbourne. This was before the Hume was a mess of road works, heavy machinery, lollipop men and bloody-minded caravan drivers. I flew out of the ACT, hit the cruise control (what a glorious feature!) and headed West. But as I slowed down, the car began shaking, rising and falling as if the entire road was made up of speed humps and cattle grids. Speeding back up to 100 soon solved that problem and all was silk. But every time I slowed down it happened again, bucking and heaving as if I was on a 4WD track that was nothing but flawless bitumen for everyone else. Arriving in Melbourne was interesting as it was a constant rodeo doing 60km through city streets. I played casual, hanging my arm out the window and pretending I’d had some fully sick hydraulics installed in a car that was as old as glasnost. I took it to a mechanic who set me straight. I needed four new tyres STAT. The problem was that the car had spent too much time sitting around doing nothing. The tyres themselves had sagged out of shape like an ageing movie star and the drive from Canberra heated them up and caused more trouble. When going 100, centrifugal force kept every nice, round and smooth. But slow down and they reverted to something closer to an oval at best. There’s a reason there’s never been any successful variation to the shape of the wheel.

So began a series of occasional mechanical adventures. After years of sluggish activity and a quick repair, I took it hundreds of kilometres, most weeks. Not just city terrain either. There was bush, dirt roads, rocky roads, heavy loads, the lot. All this action took a toll. The CV joints eventually went, the muffler made enough noise to convince people I had a V8 and during one trip to Canberra, the water pump exploded and left me with a wildly steaming car out the front of the Lodge. I’m probably on a list somewhere as a suspected car bomber. Even a strut on the boot broke during a trip meaning the door wouldn’t stay open. A friend with some initiative found a large, sturdy stick, sawed it to an appropriate length with a pocket knife, bandaged the end to make it soft and voila! We now had means to keep the boot open when packing – a feature I kept even after I repaired the door, just in case.

But for all the troubles, there were plenty of good times. The Ubertron took my friends and I to Arapiles, the Grampians, Black Ian’s Rocks, Camel’s Hump, Mount Macedon and more. At Mt Taylor in the ACT, the road was so terrible getting up it in anything less than a tank was a miracle. A friend and I were so grateful we got out and took turns hugging the car.

This joy is real.

 

The tarp covered boot easily took two camp chairs, three tents, climbing racks, ropes, pillows, cooking equipment and eskys without having to make someone get in the car first so we could pack around them. Oh yeah, that thing had space. In fact I always wondered if that would get me in trouble. The boot was always covered in a blue tarp and had several old ropes lying around. It made me paranoid about being pulled over in case the cops thought I was a serial killer out trolling for victims.

But most of all, it was comfortable. It was like driving your favourite doona. Something you felt safe in, didn’t have to pose and everyone was comfortable to quietly settle in after a weekend away. It wasn’t pretty, particularly speedy or reliable (eventually). But it was mine and I used it to benefit myself, my friends and a phase in my life I greatly enjoyed. I take some comfort knowing it’s gone to a semi-retired mechanic that wanted something to tinker with. Maybe with a new engine it will ride again, but maybe not.

Either way I’m pleased that while plenty of people have had a 1991 Subaru Liberty Wagon, I’m the only that can lay proper claim to The Ubertron.

A friend asked me for an email copy of an old post of mine. It was all about the perils of tactics in modern dating and just how vicious it can get. In the best traditions of dictatorships everywhere, I did some retrospective editing before sending it out.  See the updated post here.

Dear Mr Spielberg,

(Can I call you Steven? I think I will)

First off, congratulations for securing the rights to the Wikileaks movie – internet-related movies are so in right now.

Forget an introverted computer geek getting billions but not the girl, wikileaks has it all. It’s a fascinating mix of idealism and anti-establishment anger followed by the inevitable government backlash you get when faced with the unthinkable: Highly effective hippies.

Say what you like about the good or bad of the wikileaks phenomena – it got press and lots of it by actually doing what they threatened.

From humble beginnings to super-stardom, as a conflicted young soldier allegedly leaked classified documents to an eccentric computer whiz of many hairdos. A man who guards his sources like a Swiss banker and yet promotes his holdings more widely than a Charlie Sheen tweet. Nowhere was this more clearly demonstrated as the hundreds of thousands of diplomatic and military cables that were released on the net and in conjuction with major newspapers.

But there is a delicate matter here to be handled. A movie about wikileaks is going to be fraught with controversy and debate. The good versus harm, the freedom of information versus the protection of state secrets and the lives that depend on them. This divide has seen ski-mask wearing protesters hurling themselves at police in Assange’s defence. Then on the other side have been virtually apoplectic politicians, unconsciously spitting with rage as they call on the death penalty for such espionage.

But I’m confident you’ll approach these issues well.  You are no stranger to divisive subject matter such as Munich, but there is one thing that concerns me greatly about this potential movie. It’s something that no one else may pay attention to but has the potential to bring the whole thing down.

The accents.

In particular, the Australian accents.

It’s a movie largely about an Australian, his rebellious teen life in Australia and his subsequent travels around the world.  I just want to make sure that this doesn’t degenerate into a Kath and Kim special.

But having invoked the cult of “lookatmoi” I have to admit, we Aussies deserve some of the blame for this. This is a stereotype that perhaps we haven’t fought as hard as we should, having even encouraged it in some instances.

Damn you Paul Hogan, you set us down a terrible path. Admittedly one we have been coasting on.

Hollywood has a patchy record in some areas, but nowhere is it worse than it’s treatment of the Australian accent.  Why? What is it about our nasal twang that is so hard to replicate? Why do Americans say Australia! Then immediately produce something that sounds like an 18^th Century English cockney that spent the last decade in South Africa?

With a concussion.

Bad accents are something that have always permeated movies. From the wildly racist (Mickey Rooney’s Japanese man in Breakfast At Tiffany’s), to the close but confusing (James Coburn Aussie in The Great Escape), then the times where they just didn’t try (Tony Curtis and his Arab character with the bronzx accent: yonda lies da castle of my fadda da Caliph).

But my aussicentric view is fixed on our own accent and some of the major howlers. Infamous examples include the Simpsons Down Under episode. A show that caused such an outcry that after some reflection, caused Matt Groenig to publicly apologise.  I don’t think the problem was that we were made fun of, lampooned or humiliated – it’s that they did it with so little accuracy! Australians do (or should) have a sense of humour about themselves. But if you’re going to mock us, then please do your research.

Bad Australian accents that litter American TV as well, but out of the pantheon available I’ll have to nominate Lost.

Yes, I watched Lost for as long as I could. I struggled with the plot to the best of my ability, then something popped in my brain and I found it hard to concentrate on whateverthehell when I had no sense of balance and my left eye filled with blood.  I’ve heard other dedicated fans came away with much worse…

But what’s that I hear you cry? Am I abusing Emilie de Ravin? She was an Aussie actress wasn’t she?  Yes she was and she did a good job. What bothered me were the other efforts at Australians. TV series don’t necessarily tape everything in order. Sometimes when they’re on a location shoot they get great swathes of footage for the series as a whole. What I noticed about Lost was every time they did an ‘exterior’ scene (with Sydney landmarks prominently featuring), they got real Australians to act. When they did ‘interior’ scenes (such as allegedly at Sydney Airport, but most likely an LA studio), suddenly we had a grating attempt at channelling Steve Irwin with a nasal infection. Sometimes we had the two clash in the same episode.

Then some smoke spoke to people or a primary school teacher turned out to be Hitler in disguise or something.

But I digress, I suppose I’m just confused that one of the best representations of an Australian accent by an American actor was done by Ron Perlman in ‘Enemy at the Gates.’

-       Where he played a Russian.

But enough finger pointing at Hollywood, a few other things furthered this problem.

1. We pander to it.

It’s true. From Kath and Kim to Croc Dundee to numerous advertising campaigns that crashed to earth, we’ve helped mould the easy-going, inarticulate image ourselves. You know it.

1. There is no standard Aussie accent.

I’m not going to stand here and claim no one says ‘sheilas’ ‘strewth’ ‘bloke’ or ‘crikey’. Some of us always do. Some of us rarely do and others not at all. We’ve been wrestling with this since Federation and it’s not going to go away soon. The accent varies from state to state and territory to territory. Steven, you’ll never get it perfect but you can get a lot closer. Just remember we’ve never represented your President or senior leaders as sounding like Cletus The Slack-Jawed Yokel from The Simpsons.

In finishing just remember this about Julian Assange. Hero of free speech or post-modern terrorist, I leave to you.

But he isn’t Alf from Home and Away.

 

I have a couple of hobbies that keep me as close to sane as I ever get.  Most people who know me are well aware of this, plus my habit of not devoting as much time as I should to either.

The first is rock climbing.  I absolutely love it.  I want to write about all the emotions I experience when climbing, the different reasons I do it and all the wonderful people I’ve gotten to do it with.  But that would take far too long and I’m far too tired at this point, so let me just say this.

Never once have I spent the day climbing or done related activities and felt like I wasted the day.

Not once.

This is a big thing for me.  I always like to think I have done something with the day.  Even if I did nothing with it, I like to think that’s because I slated a few hours of nothingness in.  But rock climbing has never left me with the feeling of “oh man, I could have slept in!” I’ve arguably accomplished a lot more in the office on a standard day, but never had the same feeling of accomplishment.

So that’s rock climbing for me in a nutshell.  There’s just one problem:

I’m not very good at it.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not absolute crap.  I have a lot of strength for a guy my size, but freely admit that my technique needs some work.  Also some of the mental barriers of climbing cliffs at your absolute physical capabilities proves a challenge too.  So in essence I am and always have been an enthusiastic beginner.  Perhaps an intermediate in some circles. But I moved interstate a while ago and my climbing rapidly fell away.  There was just no time for it and what with a new demanding job, no energy either.  I joined the local climbing club and went along to the wall for a few sessions.  Trouble was their all much younger and have nothing to do but exercise 12 hours a day.  Then I appear with my over 30, unmaintained physique at the end of a long day and it all ended in tears.

To get my fitness back up I began riding to work.  Or catching the bus and walking back.  That’s great for cardio but it doesn’t do a whole lot for climbing strength.  Aha!  I thought.  The national library is on the way home for me!  Capital bouldering all the way around!

Yes.

And no.

Yes there is bouldering, but it was way too difficult for a person such as myself.

In the end I bit the bullet and returned to a local climbing gym.  I discovered they have a bouldering wall full of big, juggy holds and is about 10m long.  So now I just get on the easy stuff and do about 5 laps until I can’t go no more.  Then it’s a few minutes rest and onto the walls angled at 45 degrees or so.  A few big strength building exercises and then back to the easy wall for some more laps.

It’s a way to ease myself back into the rhythm of things.  Plus it lowers the chance of an injury by trying something too hard too fast.  My main problem is to expect too much too quickly so some basic workouts help me in a variety of ways.  Building up fitness is good, but so is building up patience.

 

Oh and before I go, the other hobby?

Writing.  Something else I dearly love but don’t dedicate enough time to.  However like the climbing, I have formulated a plan.

 

Consider this a lap.

I’ve been thinking about something.

In the last few years I’ve been hearing a lot about weddings.  As a guy who is no longer worthy of the title ‘young adult’, I’ve been attending quite a few as they are the traditional stomping ground of people my age.  Yup, it starts with not understanding what’s happening at Triple J anymore and finishes with friends getting hitched left, right and centre.

Consequently it’s something I’ve gotten to observe and really reflect on how bride focussed it is.  This is no secret I realise.  But how would things go if it was a ceremony was organised and done with purely men in mind it would be a different affair.  What would happen in this scenario?  I’ve broken it down into the most likely concerns.

The Go Ahead

Ok the first concern is whether the actual event would happen.  It would have to be elevated to the status of the bucks party, 21st or post-girlfriend piss up that are the hallowed holidays of menfolk.  Left purely to men, the institution of marriage and traditional family faces a greater threat than from any right wing fear of homosexual unions.  But no, gay weddings are not included in this scenario.  This stream of consciousness is aimed at your bog standard straight bloke.  The sort that can be relied upon to forget birthdays, preferred flowers and how he met his first lust.  Gay weddings I suspect would often be fortresses of good taste and manners, they can’t be trusted to ruin a good wedding beyond presenting the incorrect chromosome combination at the altar.  Humans being what they are, I’m sure there are thousands of homosexuals who refuse to throw out that chili stained t-shirt with the rest of us, but their highly visible representatives ruin my wedding vibe.  The devious swine would most likely respect things like beauty, tradition and love and so must go.

But once the wedding for your straight guy becomes something he willingly misses the footy or that doco on snipers, it’s all on.

The Venue

The choice of venue is tricky as it’s already a broad church (pardon the pun).  Thanks to the declining influence of religion (and the alleged collapse of western society), people now get married in all sorts of weird places.  But now under The Rule of Man?  Well, footy grounds, backyards, anywhere you could reliably fill an esky with ice and have the wafting scent of burning snags breeze by during the ceremony.  An worthy mention is a widescreen TV somewhere within view for the groom during boring bits of the ceremony.  Such as waiting for the bride to walk up the aisle (seriously, that’s a long wait for a guy).

The Groomsmen

Would be armed.

The Bridesmaids

Would still be dressed/organised by the bride.  There are some lines we dare not cross.  Not just before out wedding anyway.  Not in public.

The Dress

Would be just as beautiful, graceful and stunning as they always are now.  Just held together by velcro…

Any Objections?

Ooh, this’d be good.  A guy acting on the whole “anyone who knows of any reason why these two should not be joined in holy matrimony” bit will hold his piece or rest in peace.  Objections can be made but a circle will be cleared and it’s Thunderdome time!  This is a fight to the death, possibly with the skull of the loser used in a toast at the reception.  Groomsmen are not allowed to interfere unless it looks like it’s going really badly.  A notable exception to this rule is if the groom is overruled by a majority of his mates “Who Know She’s A Shocker”.

The Vows

The bride can make whatever oaths of love she likes.  So can the groom, but all that is actually required would be a sheepish grin and “aww yeah, she’s alright I s’pose…”

The First Dance

Would be an event for the bride and bridesmaids only.  Preferably to whichever popular clubbing song makes all the girls in the place dirty dance.  (Seriously ladies, deny it all you like but there’s always one that makes it happen).

The Speeches

Would be moved waaaay back in the evening until a lot more has been drunk.  Not only would they be a lot more interesting, but you’d be forgiven to utterly ignoring them or walking out to the bathroom halfway through.

So there you have it.  Many of the main points as seen through a lens of total, stereotyped male control – as if the Taliban were allowed to get pissed.  A joyous event focussed on love and beauty now given healthy and comforting doses of violence and emotional constipation.

But speaking of the Taliban, I recently read of Osama Bin Laden and one of the marriages to his wives.  It is alleged they held the ceremony separately, men in one area, women in the other.  They didn’t even meet at their wedding ceremony!  Now that’s simplifying things.  In a ludicrously complicated way.

Finally before I go, a bit of advice for the women folk re: last names.  Plan on not taking the last name of Your Bloke?  This is a hotly contested issues these days – lots of wailing and gnashing of teeth.  But there’s one thing I’m really sick of hearing when this is brought up:  Women who claim they don’t want to take the guy’s last name because they don’t like tradition.  Cop out!

There are a host of legitimate arguments to be put forth for not taking his last name.  You can argue this issue on so many fronts!  By stating it’s just that you don’t like tradition, all you’re doing is giving the guy an iron clad excuse not to fork out for a dress, cake, limo, rings or a wedding venue that isn’t an R.S.L.  Oh you like those traditions?  Too late!  Eloping!

Just a quick note today.

I see that the Premier has promised “never to raise water restrictions again”.  That just seems like a big ask for me.  In all honesty the science is a bit beyond me but this article has a fair go.

I guess my problem is the assumption that he has made that he has rendered drought (or at least extreme drought), a thing of the past.  Fresh water for all!  Water everything as much as you like!  Point the hose in the air and simulate rain for all the children under 7 who don’t know what you’re talking about!

History is littered with the abandoned cities that assumed they had as many resources as they would ever require.  Not that I think that is likely to happen here.  It’s just that the announcement that you’ve instantly solved (despite the loud complaints of many other actors), a chronic feature of the Australian landscape seems a bit much…

I’m reminded of a job I had in my younger days working through uni.  I was working for, shall we say, a major clothing brand and I absolutely hated it.  On sundays I had to open the shop at the ungodly hour of ten and sit bored until about one when my first customer would walk in, avoid my eye and leave again.  One particular Sunday morning was cruel because I had a late night and at some stage in the morning, a falling tree cut all the power.  My alarm clock at the time relied on the mains.  It wasn’t one of these fancy new ones that has a battery and you can make phone calls on.

Suffice to say I was late.

When I opened the shop (30 minutes late), I had the manager of another store checking where I was.  Apparently some mighty machine in the heart of their dark empire goes ping when a store doesn’t open on the dot.  Within another 30 minutes I had the Area Manager bustle up to my shop to abuse me.  She was a scarily keen women with the intense attitude and uncomfortable staring of a true believer.  She fucking loved that store, or rather brand.  She was a high priestess and couldn’t understand how us lazy, proletariat scum didn’t give thanks on bended knee at every opportunity.  Just for the righteous gift of working there!  Blessed be!

So I let this woman who was four-fifths hair do lecture me for a while.  I explained, nodded, yessed and aha’d and all the right spots.  Then she wanted me to promise that it would never happen again.  Not just being late, but that entire story.

I was still young enough to know everything so I tried reason.  I pointed out that while I regretted being late, I couldn’t guarantee I would prevent falling trees in future.  Anything else I would certainly combat.

No good!  Swear!  Swear dammit!  You have dismayed your high priestess!

In the end I tried to guess where she was amongst all the curls and swore.  Yea verily, I would never be on the receiving end of a blackout again.

Like the Victorian leader, nature will never affect our business.

The ukulele community is surprisingly large.  Mostly thanks to the ranks of ex-guitar players who are trying to impress somebody.

This is a weird legal precedent.  It better not be used to support the hordes of the walking dead once they rise and stalk the earth – slowly.

http://www.theage.com.au/world/zombies-have-free-speech-rights-too-us-court-rules-20100226-p6nq.html

What the hell is going on?  Fortunately this wasn’t some sort of cuddly attempt to humanise the brain hungry horde.  It’s one of the primary rules of surviving the zombie apocalypse: They’re Not  Your Family Anymore.

No I just think these guys were lucky the police in question didn’t just open up with sidearms and shotguns to stop the infection where it lurched.  It’s the only way of dealing with Zed, they don’t know or react to anything other than extreme violence or the sweet gamey tang of human flesh.

Still, I would’ve laughed to see the expression on the muggers/drunks they go to put in the same cell.

“Holy crap!  I’ll talk I’ll taaalk!! Aaaarghhh!!!!”