On the Loss of Teachers

It feels like I shouldn't name them like that in the title. It feels so uncovered. So I changed it.

It would have been fine to name them while they were alive. Or if not ok, something I could rationalise - but suddenly it feels like I'm trying to reanimate the dead by using their names.

But there they are.

Mr A - Year 7 History.

His classroom was a typical history classroom. His pointer of choice the 1 metre ruler, his medium: blackboard of course. He could've used whiteboard if he wanted it. But he didn't.

He loved the classic movies. Ben Hur, Cleopatra - he'd bring them up when we studied ancient societies, and tell us what was real, what was crap, how many horses were injured, how much they cost. And sometimes that would blend into a story about how he used to go to the school as a schoolboy. As if it were just a few weeks ago.

But that was near the start of his life. When he probably took those little satchel backpacks and had packed lunches and milk got delivered and teachers hit students and the school had a boarding house...but classrooms still got dusty on sunny afternoons. And he would've soaked it all up. Little Master A.

When I met him, he was in the last few years of his life, even if none of us knew it at the time.

He was quite large, and always had a cup of coffee. His voice was gravelly but very good to listen to. You'd never get bored listening to Mr A. He sometimes got angry, but that was probably because Year 7s are shits sometimes. Or maybe it was because he knew he was dying. I really don't know.

Ms M taught me what schadenfreude meant. I don't think it's because she had German heritage, that was just a coincidence. Ms M was very clever, and she always seemed very unwell too. (I wrote "but" in that sentence the first time I wrote it, and upon re-reading it seemed strange that her health should be some kind of negative qualifier to her ingelligence.)

She smoked lots, and was often away. As a Year 9 student who loved English I found it sad that she was so frequently absent and sick. I also found it sad that she didn't mark our assignments very quickly. I never got a poem I wrote about robotic train passengers back from her, and it disappointed me for a long while after.

I wanted to hear what she had to say about it. Because when she marked things (eventually), she actually commented on your work and said some things that made you realise that she was someone who really got language. And it made me sad, that she didn't mark that poem.

But you can't be sad about these things with friends, so we'd make jokes instead. She always used to say, when pressed for the return of work, "I've got your work, it's at home in a box somewhere". We would imagine impossible volumes of boxes, all stacked, teetering in her house, as she wades her way through a waist-deep pond of essays, short stories and ill-conceived acrostic poems.

I have the sudden image of my robotic passenger poem, sitting there somewhere in a mess in her house that nobody knows what to do with, marked and commented on by Mrs M, who is now dead. If that is the case, I will never know.

She retired before she died. Very shortly before. It must have been a strange moment - deciding to retire, because you know you will be dead soon. I find it hard to imagine being in that position.

And when she did retire, they ran a farewell section in the yearbook. It was the year I left, I guess. And I was struck by a moment of her, one of those marbles. It's a photo of her with a group of students from my school. She is maybe in her early thirties. She is slim, with frizzy hair, and is smiling in an open-mouthed laughing kind of way. The students around her are smiling too. The strangest part though, is that they are in casual clothes, in front of a curtain. I do not think it is at school. But I think they are her students. There's something I find very beautiful about the photo. Not just because everyone seems happy, but because the idea of the students having some kind of party (a bottle of Solo announces itself in the corner) with Ms M, and everyone there being happy, seems like a really great moment.

Ms M told the class once that when she first arrived at the school, there was a big problem with misogyny amongst the staff. She told us that it had caused her to have a nervous breakdown and triggered a bout of serious depression. I wonder if she felt that around the moments when that photo was taken. I wonder also when she started smoking.

The biography in the yearbook says that she worked at the Curriculum and Research Branch as the German Consultant for Victoria for a couple of years before becoming a teacher. I wonder when she last thought about the two years she worked there. I wonder if she thought about it before dying, and what kind of significance they played in her overall life.

I do not think she was married. I wonder whether she nearly was, and whether her life would have changed if things had worked out differently. She might be alive, teaching, or running an advertising firm in Berlin. Nobody knows.

Most of all, I feel sad that she died as an adult who should have been only a little past middle aged. I found an analysis of a text she wrote, looking at a piece of Australian gothic literature and the gender power relations described within it. It is about a lot of oppression and fear.

I think that Ms M felt this for some of her life. She told us she did. But I really hope that there were more moments like in that photo. Because that's the point of those moments. They're there, someone back however many years, and in whichever location. If you go there, you would find that moment when Ms M was happy. And so that's why I love the photo I have of her.

And why I'm determined to make sure that I have more of those moments in my life.

And finally, I reach this point.

I realise the things I knew and didn't know about Ms M. The things I will never know - what was her favourite dessert?

But I realise I knew more than I first thought, and in my way I did know Ms M. And so finally I can greet her death with more than the automatic sadness for a sickly English teacher. I can cry for her.

Marbles, Lost My

Clear glass marbles, with a dash of colour through the middle.

That's what it's like - when you see someone in one of their moments. One of the scenes with them that get frozen in your head, that you will revisit and polish in strange and pleasing colours until-

It's like a small marble, that moment - with the person at the centre, the bluish swirl that sits inside. It doesn't know it's inside a marble - everyone else can see the marble, but the swirl inside never can. It's too busy being a swirl.

Another marble.

There is a photo and a story, and I think about them both quite often. The photo is of a young New Zealand nurse who is now in her eighties. It is black and white, but her smile is so alive. It spreads across her whole face.

The story goes like this. This nurse, she is very intelligent, and she jumps over fences and laughs and makes people do spontaneous things. She is loved by everyone.

The brief story sometimes seems more vivid to me than when I see the woman in her eighties. She is quiet, and smiles at me with watery eyes. She rarely speaks. Sometimes she says "hello, darling," or "goodbye, my love". But mostly she sits and sleeps.

If I put the two marbles next to each other, it is sometimes difficult to see that the swirl in the centre is the same.

I feel like I spend lots of time collecting marbles.

They always seem so dusty when I pull them out years later, and I wonder why I keep them.

The Fashionability of Cynicism

People have had an awful lot to say about what Julia Gillard's been feeling and expressing lately.

She's been wooden, stiff, mechanical, and unfeeling we've been told. Everyone's been luxuriating in elaborate performance analogies, with images of over rehearsed lines and stale gestures flying across newspapers and the online world.

And following yesterday, when she made an emotional tribute to both victims and volunteers of the Queensland floods, she is under a new form of criticism. She has expressed emotion, and it seems that many are crying false.

And I believe that the main reason that this is happening is because of the earlier reports. Because of the assessments with all the vitriol of a film critic and the maturity of a child, claiming that a mechanical delivery represented an inability to feel. Suggestions that the Prime Minister is incapable of expressing emotion properly. All of these reports have been doing their job, hemming the public perception of Ms Gillard into a small box.

And suddenly when she breaks the box we thought we'd only just established, we are confused.

But rather than realise that human behaviour is incredibly complex, and not something which can be so easily read, predicted, and judged as the last few weeks' headlines would have us believe, people assume the opposite - this current behaviour is a charade.

And this is the problem I have with an obsession on how politicians 'perform', as everyone becomes an expert on what advice Ms Gillard is getting, and on when someone should express grief and how.

As "james from sydney" opined on a Herald Sun article: "the time for that emotion was at the time of the crisis, at that instant, at least that would have been a little bit more believeable."

It would be unthinkable to suggest to someone who has recently lost a loved one that there is a correct way to express emotion - that the crying must come first, and that mechanical shock is always wrong. Yet it feels to me that a similar standard is being applied by some people here.

I, like most Australians, have no way of knowing exactly what our Prime Minister is feeling at any given moment. Like any of us, her emotions can manifest themselves in different and sometimes uncontrollable ways - perhaps even more so, given the constant stress she is put under to behave in certain ways.

And so I do not believe any of us can really make smug, sweeping criticisms of her 'performances' without failing to consider what it is to be human.

As a teenager, I haven't been exposed to politics for long.

But I firmly believe, and will continue to believe, that a healthy political scene is one where policy will be the subject of discussion, not emotions, appearances, and performance.

Stupid, Misinformed Comment Repeated

A poorly-thought out and offensive comment made by somebody of little to no importance was amplified across news organisations today.

The comment, made by a model, irrelevant politician, or actor, is likely to inflame a social issue which is already difficult, and help spread misinformation, clouding key facts around the issue.

The inane quip, which has been pilloried in headlines around the web, was not corrected until the final two paragraphs of the story, when an expert who spends their whole life correcting the misconceptions voiced by the person maintained that "this kind of talk is damaging, and sets back the debate several years".

Ms Fitzwilliams, a social psychologist from the nearest university (located by the reporting journalist), however, suggested that "it's important for rubbish to be printed and validated, if only so that someone can quietly contradict them at the end of the article, once most people have stopped reading."

Ben Clarke, who read the story, had a different take. "Yeah, what they said was right, you know," he opined of the factually inaccurate and ill-informed comment-maker. "Everyone only jumps on them because they're talking some sense," he added, raising the owner of the widely reported words to a level of social martyrdom.

The journalist who broke the story and cobbled together some quotes congratulated themselves on finding a scoop and shedding insightful light into a complex and multi-faceted issue.

Some Stuff I Learnt Today

1. Some people are never happy, even when you get them a table on the verandah for 10 and they didn't have a booking.

2. Some people stop talking when you take their dishes. I often assume it's because they were in the process of unburdening childhood psychological scars to their fellow diners. Or maybe they think I'll judge them.

3. Some people are perfectly happy to pay quite a bit for a meal and then not eat it all.

4. Sometimes people set themselves dining challenges - like the "how great a surface area can I cover with this dip" or "I'll wedge some serviettes and rubbish into the table because that will be helpful" challenges.

5. When you put coffee and tea dregs, leftover lime spiders, lemon squash, water, and milkshakes into one bucket, it looks like this:

Yes, it was a very big bucket. And when you put your hand in that mixture to fish out solids, it will be cold.

6. Some people like to play little dining games - like "how precariously can I stack these dishes to 'help' the waiter" or "I am an adult and will drop food all over the floor" (a less arduous variant of its sister challenge).

7. Running an efficient dish cleaning system can be immensely satisfying.

8. Watching other people undo your system can be immensely unsatisfying.

9. Working in a team to clear dishes can be heart warming.

10. Some people do not want your help, but would rather be confused by themselves. Perhaps being confused in front of another person is stressful.

Dismantled

Every time I look at ads recently, I've been seeing much more than I used to.

Since working on ads and public relations projects in an organisation for the last few weeks, I've begun to understand how they work and are shaped.

And so I no longer see an ad telling me to buy something - instead I see images, drafts and drafts of them, worked on by someone in long hours between lunch breaks, of unproductive office hours spent checking emails or reading newspapers, of mental blocks. I see an ad and I see the person who worked on it, who was perhaps proud of it by the end, happy with the border colour change they made in the final copy, or the changing of "great" to "awesome" somewhere in the copy.

And it makes everything about ads feel more human and alive.

Ads written by people who wondered perhaps, during idle moments, whether they should change jobs, whether they were happy, if they would come up with something better.

And eventually they met their deadline or were satisfied, and the ad was produced. Then they went on to create more ads, and by the time they're laid in their grave there will be a trail of work left behind with their invisible mark on it.

Like empty rooms and houses once lived in, breathed in, swore in, hated in, loved in.

And in a way the ad becomes something beautiful.

Like a small piece of insignificant permanence left by someone who in 100 years will probably be forgotten. Perhaps it will be uncovered by someone studying cultural history. And they'll laugh at the misguided values or artistic direction, wonder at the person who made it, and pass over it.

But somehow this thought loses its impact once it is articulated as I've tried above. It becomes a tired thought, trotted out in many guises. Words fail it, and it disappears as either odd and incomprehensible, or commonplace and weak.

Words, words, words.

WAKE UP!!!

It has been brought to my attention very recently that this blog has been napping for an unacceptably long time, even for something which has recently returned to the taxing business of churning out the drivel dancing around in its head for other people's judgement-free enjoyment.

So if I am waking it up, then what sort of sleep has it had?

Was it a siesta, taken on a summer afternoon, as the Spanish sun beats overhead, high in the noon sky, and the village slumbers behind drawn blinds with ice packs on their eyes and glasses of water by their bed?

Or was it a coma? Doctors milling about the bed, frowning and shaking their head. 'It's not going to make it,' their stethoscopes sighed. 'It has been having respiratory problems almost every since it was born. It was never long for this world.'

Or was it just a natural, genuine sleep, the kind which comes at the end of a day?

And now as it awakes, I realise it was a nap. It sits up from its bed, not quite refreshed nor fully rested. It has a slight headache, and that dizziness that comes from short sleeps. But it was a sufficient nap. And as it rises from bed it feels stronger again. It will take on the world!

This blog is alive. And now it's awake.

But it doesn't want to fall into old habits.

Old habits of newspaper trawling, issue picking, sensibility, humourless attempts at analysis, a grab at 'serious writing'.

Not yet.

It's summer, and for the blog, as it stretches and stumbles down the stairwell to get something to snack on, that means lazy stories and narratives full of images incomprehensible to anyone outside its mind's eye. It means a complete and utter relinquishment to cognitive indulgence, without thought or care for the ride of the reader.

'And why shouldn't I enjoy a lazy summer?' thought the blog, as it stepped outside into the dreamy, hazy heat.

I've Been on Holidays?

Whilst holidays might be an inaccurate term, suggesting that this blog is something I work so hard on that a break is warranted, I'm going to go with it.

I've been on holidays.

Away from newspapers, headlines, blogs, staying-up-to-date-newsreading-online, away from feeling compelled to consume and produce content in order to pave the way for a career or future that is unshapen and blurry.

Whilst this is a great shame, not least because I've missed Christmas, one of my favourite times for writing and blogging, it does mean I'm going to try and come back with newfound energy, enthusiasm, and excitement.

"I'm Sorry Sir, This Card Has Been Cancelled"

It's a great part in the film, isn't it?

That bit where the protagonist tries to use their credit card and finds it does not work. This is usually because they are either broke, or the government/other powerful body is trying to bring them down.

I wonder if they have agencies specifically for that line. The "I'm Sorry Sir, This Card Has Been Cancelled" Agency, which has a variety of talented actors who specialise in different deliveries:

Passive aggressive/assertive: "I'm sorry sir, this card has been cancelled."

Sympathetic: "I'm very sorry...but this card has been cancelled."

Deadpan: "Sorry, this card has been cancelled."

But when it happens in real life it's kind of embarrassing for both the shop assistant and you.

Hayfever Sweeping the State Due to "Christmas Allergy"

The sharp increase in hayfever and asthma attacks across Victoria can be explained by unseasonably premature Christmas celebrations, according to an expert in Social Phenomena from the University of Melbourne.

Dr Wendy Sharpike, who completed her doctorate paper Yuletide Allergies: When Christmas Tries to Kill You in 2009, has identified the proliferation of general festiveness as the primary cause.

"This year, we have seen unusually early reminders that Christmas is coming. Appallingly unmusical arrangements of Christmas carols blasting through department stores, glittering reindeers and Christmas trees adorning ever corner...these are the kinds of things that can trigger severe allergy attacks."

The spike in hospital admissions with serious asthma is a something that needs to be linked with its true cause, Sharpike said.

Above: Sharpike describes in detail the "hellishly deadly tripwire of allergy triggers that is Myer in November."

"Too often these allergy trends are brushed under the dusty carpet with explanations about pollen counts and other ridiculous theories.

"We have to stop accepting such unscientific explanations, and begin to consider what is actually causing these problems," she added, steadily appearing more unhinged.

While her comments have been almost unanimously slammed by health experts and immunologists across the state, Sharpike is adamant that the allergies will only be stopped when Christmas is toned down.

"It doesn't require for us to completely trash Christmas. But certainly, the government - whoever that is - needs to step up to the plate and put in place some comprehensive guidelines for the two factors which my study has shown to be directly linked to allergic reactions: tastefulness and timeliness."

Qantas Plane Turbines "Spewing Confetti"

A Qantas plane en route to London was forced to turn around and return to Sydney airport when confetti began to explode from two of the wing turbines.

The colourful shower of small, coloured pieces of paper began as the plane passed over Brisbane, approximately 730 kilometres from its starting point.

Staff said that passengers were "equally delighted and terrified" by the multicoloured swirl issuing from the wing turbines, which was visible from window-side passenger seats.

The shenanigans didn't stop there, as, upon finally landing the plane, more than 2 hours after the confetti explosion began, staff opened the overhead luggage compartments to discover a troop of performing monkeys and tiny piglets.

The monkeys then climbed on top of the piglets and rode them around the inside of the cabin, whilst juggling red and yellow balls.

Passenger reactions ranged from admiration and adoration of the impossibly small riders, to disgust that monkeys and piglets had been rifling through passenger luggage.

"I found it terribly amusing," Victorian secondary school teacher Glenda Murray said.

"There's only one thing cuter than baby monkeys and baby piglets. And that's baby monkeys riding baby piglets. While juggling."

It is unknown exactly where the performing troupe came from, or how they got onto the plane at Sydney airport.

"At this point in time, we're running through a backlog of our security checks, and we're just trying to ascertain exactly how this breach has occurred," one Qantas security official said.

Qantas firmly denied suggestions that this latest plane fault is proof that the airline has become a circus.

"We are currently investigating the exact reason for the confetti and performing animals. We are confident that it is not a problem affecting other planes in this fleet," a spokeswoman said.

UPDATE: 6.45

It has been revealed that the baby monkeys and pigs were escaped from a Japanese zoo, where baby monkeys and baby piglets have been specially bred from a performing pair.

I'm A Real Journalist?

One of the projects I've set myself these holidays is to work on getting some journalism written and published.

Journalism is a funny field in this way, really, because unlike doctors, or teachers, or engineers, you don't need a degree. If you want to do journalism, you need to go out and do it.

So when I found out about a Greens forum in the city yesterday, I thought it would be a good idea to go along and cover it and try and get something published.

So I turned up, pen, paper, and clipboard in hand, and tried to be a journalist.

Feeling a little bit ridiculous, I had a chat with a man who was waiting outside as well beforehand. He described himself as a "not uncritical" Greens supporter, who was more interested in affordable housing than climate change. He also spoke of an interest in democracy, and his view that the Greens have a more transparent approach to this than other parties.

I spoke to newly elected Senator Christine Milne before the forum about her experiences with the balance of power and influence on policy. She talked about the conversion of the luxury car tax to a vehicle efficiency tax, which she said would work as a motivation to move towards more efficient cars, rather than function as a more arbitrary revenue raiser on luxurious cars.

I was considering asking her for an update on her potatoes , but then the talk started and we went inside.

During the talk, Adam Bandt talked about how he'd found the balance of power, and the Climate Change Committee.

But it was Christine Milne, the Greens climate change spokeswoman (and Deputy Greens leader), who had the most to say about this.

In discussing the Climate Change Committee, she raised several interesting ideas:

- Having experts a part of the committee, rather than using them in a solely advisory role, prevents politicians from getting away with playing political games and deliberately attempting to derail or mislead. While experts are certainly not infallible, this did make sense to me.

- A committee will enable politicians to change their opinions and be supported by the consensus of a committee - defending them from words such as 'backflip' and 'dodgy'.

And one of the most interesting aspects of her speech (I must admit I was a tad seduced by her clearly framed, forthright arguments), was her discussion of climate change communication in general. I found this particularly interesting as it is something I've been learning about at university this year.

She outlined, like most climate change communicators, the danger of assuming human beings are rational actors. What academics term the 'information deficit model', this approach assumes that once the facts of climate change are filled in, people ought to appreciate and understand that something must be done.

The danger of this approach is to create fear without agency. People may agree that climate change it a problem, but may not know what to do with this newfound sense of urgency, anxiety, and concern. Hence, if they cannot act or change their behaviours in a way which complements their attitude, it is their attitude which must change. And it is usually a change to confusion and disillusionment, and the relegation of climate change to an issue of lesser immediate importance.

Instead, the dominant climate change communication discourse (which Christine Milne discussed) involves the 'ecological modernisation' argument, where climate change is presented not as a problem which must be solved through a series of actions which lead to negative economic growth, but instead as an opportunity for change, and the creation of a new economic paradigm where economic growth and climate change action are not incompatible.

As I left, I was filled with a range of thoughts and feelings.

I was unsure that I could turn what I'd seen and noted into a concise article that would be suitable for publishing somewhere. There were so many different threads and ideas. How could the article be balanced, if I was essentially reporting what the Greens leaders said to a small gathering of supporters? Yet it would seem inappropriate to me to counter what was said with another point of view from an irrelevant setting.

In the end, this is the article I came up with and have sent this morning off to an online newspaper for potential publication:

Perhaps owing to the rainy Melbourne weather, Sunday afternoon timing, or the end of year exam period for university students, it was a modest audience who greeted Deputy Greens Leader Christine Milne, MP Adam Bandt, and inner-city Greens candidates at yesterday’s forum on the balance of power and climate change, held at the State Library.

With the Victorian state election less than two weeks away, and the election of up to four inner city Greens candidates seemingly within reach, Senator Milne focused on how the balance of power the Greens won in the Federal election had been successfully harnessed as a “pathway to government”, citing the inclusion of Indigenous people and local councils in the constitution as an important gain.

She also looked to the opportunity that gaining lower house seats on November 27 would offer with “the linking of policies from local, to state, to federal.”

Particular emphasis was given to climate change and the Climate Change Committee negotiated by the Greens, which Mr Bandt described as “a reset button.”

Senator Milne discussed the inclusion of experts in the committee rather than involving them in a solely advisory role. “It is really hard to run political games when there are experts in the room,” she said. She also spoke on the psychology of the committee, which she said would give politicians room to change opinions and be supported by the consensus of a committee.

The meeting concluded with a sense of optimism for the coming election, as Brunswick candidate Ms Cyndi Dawes was hopeful about the result, “whether we win one seat, or three seats, or four.”

This is an outcome which became less likely last night, when the Liberal party announced its intention to preference the ALP ahead of the Greens in all lower house seats.

While The Age, the Herald Sun, and The Australian have all unanimously asserted that the Liberal’s decision will almost certainly enable the ALP to retain these seats, ABC election analyst Anthony Green had a different take on the implications, writing “the Greens can still win Melbourne and Richmond.”

I'm not sure that it's going to be published.

I don't feel that it's excellently written. It is jumbled, and perhaps tries to tackle too much in so few words (right up against the word limit for publication in this particular online newspaper).

But at the same time it has made me feel good, because it is a beginning.

Who Is Getting Up?

I've recently signed up to a number of email newsletters from across the political spectrum, so I can have a look at the sorts of communication different groups put out.

One of these groups is 'GetUp!', which is, according to its website, "an independent, grass-roots community advocacy organisation giving everyday Australians opportunities to get involved and hold politicians accountable on important issues."

There are strong elements of populist rhetoric on their website and across their communications. While 'populist rhetoric' might sound an alarming or derogatory label, it simply refers to a discourse which centres upon the actor or central figure of 'the people' - a homogenous, virtuous group sharing common views and opinions.

'The people' are usually at danger of having their voice suppressed by others. In the discourse adopted by GetUp, the people must have their voice heard so that the democratic process can occur unimpeded.

Their very name, 'GetUp!' is a call to 'progressive' Australians to stand up and take action on a range of issues. GetUp collected data informs us that their supporters are people concerned about climate change, asylum seeker and refugee rights, water, renewable energy, and healthcare.

This data helps make clear exactly what the term 'progressive Australians' means when used to describe 'the people' GetUp represents.

GetUp asserts that the organisation is "not for profit and receives no money from any political party or the government. We rely solely on funds and in-kind donations from the Australian public."

In this sense, GetUp posits itself as a conduit for progressive Australians, which, through advertisements, online campaigns, and petitions, can help citizens engage with their politicians. It helps them have their voice heard.

Another populist group active in Australian politics (which I stumbled upon during a uni assessment) is the Australian Tea Party.

Unlike GetUp, which claims to represent progressive Australians, The Australian TEA Party writes that "We unite behind three main concepts: Free Markets, Fiscal Responsibility, Constitutionally Limited Small Governments."

A smaller afterthought notes that "Individual freedom is of course assisted by following these 3 concepts."

However, while 'progressive' is different to 'small government' in focus, the populist elements remain the same. The Australian TEA Party is "a grassroots citizen empowerment movement". It knows that you feel as though you have "lost your voice", and that "real choices that would actually work - making life better - are never presented" in contemporary politics.

Interestingly, on both of the websites for these groups is the symbol of stars, reminiscent of the Australian flag. Both of these groups suggest that they represent Australians.

They are both speaking on our behalf, both claiming to be organisations belonging to us, yet they have very different ideas about what we want.

So, which of them is right?

There is a dichotomous distinction which is usually made when labelling or discussing populist groups. They may be deemed true grassroots movements, set up by a number of concerned citizens to deal with issues which are important to them.

Or it may be what is called 'astroturfing', or falsely claiming to originate from the ordinary public, when in fact the group is carefully managed by one or several businesses (or politicians, other bodies with ample funding behind them), and has the aim of dealing with issues important to these businesses through the voice of 'the people'.

E.g., it is much more convincing to have a grassroots movement of citizens advocating that we should stop being mean to banks, than to have banks tell us to stop being mean to them.

GetUp certainly has a stronger claim to be able to speak for their more targeted demographic of progressive Australians. Petitions are supported by these people, and campaign videos virally distributed by them. In this way, GetUp is closely involved with its 'people'.

The Australian TEA Party's legitimacy as a representation of people's views is not as transparently displayed on their website, with a general sense of all-encompassing inclusivity attempting to sweep the reader up. It might be reasonably speculated that this is an astroturf group, supported and perhaps managed by businesses and banks who would very much like to be less regulated and monitored by government. But we cannot be sure.

This is why populist rhetoric is something like ventriloquism. People speaking on 'our' behalf put across 'our' point of view. Imitating 'our' voice. The danger being, of course, that the many groups 'speaking on our behalf' might prevent us from actually being heard.

The similarities and differences in both of these groups shows that pointing the finger at an argument and labelling it 'just populism' fails to appreciate the complexities of populist rhetoric. Like clothing, it may be used to dress up arguments and give them authority or the backing of the Australian people/battlers/progressive Australians/fair dinkum Aussies.

But it is not an evil in itself.

It is the ends to which it its immense motivational power is harnessed which must be examined. And most importantly, who is channelling the voice of the people?

Tickets for Thinking Pug's hilarious 'Puppetry of the People' cost $550 for adults, $549 for concession, and go on sale next March.

"Edgy"

Last night I trusted my Mum to cut my hair.

It was the first time I've done this, and I did it because it saves money, would be a valuable bonding experience with my Mum, and would avoid these conversations:

Hairdresser: You're still at uni, right?

Me: Yeah, we're on holidays now actually, so that's good.

Hairdresser: Got any big plans for the weekend?

Me: Oh, you know, just general tidying up, catching up with some friends.

Hairdresser: Yeah, that's nice. That's good, to have a quiet weekend.

Me: Yes it is.

Hairdresser: Mmhm.

*silent snipping*

Hairdresser: Can you hold your head straight for me again?

*adjusts head*

*more silent snipping*

*snip, snip*

Hairdresser (to lady next to me having her hair dyed): How are we, Mary?

Mary: Oh, not bad, love, not bad.

Hairdresser: Getting up to much this weekend?

Mary: Going to a wedding, actually.

Hairdresser: A wedding! Oh, that's nice.

Mary: Yes, yes. It's my niece.

Hairdresser: I went to wedding the other week. And it was a funny wedding, I can tell you that! They wanted to have a cruise ship wedding, so they packed us all onto a cruise ship and it was stuffy and hot - that was at 6 o'clock, but then they didn't serve dinner till 9 o'clock!

*snip, snip*

Mary: Oh.

Hairdresser: Yeah, it wasn't a very classy wedding, you know.

But here were the things that went on while getting my hair cut by Mum:

- lots of "hmmm"

- lots of "what do we do here?" not in the sense of an expert giving my some choice, but in the sense of someone genuinely pondering what on earth they are meant to do

- lots of "SNIP" followed by near hysterical laughter and "It's good, it's good"

The final "edgy" (Mum, 2010) haircut had be terrified before looking in the mirror, fearing it would be something like this:

But in fact it is quite a respectable haircut. And a bit edgy.

Daytime TV

Daytime television nearly always leaves me feeling depressed, confused, and upset at the hours I have lost watching it.

And so the last time I was watching, I decided that it was time to get to the bottom of why.

The reason became patently clear once I started actually looking for it. It isn’t the programming, even though the mildly amusing 80s American ‘thrillers’ enjoy a more privileged midday movie position than they should.

The reason is what goes in between the programs.

It’s the ads.

Ads in different timeslots address us differently. During Masterchef, we might be bombarded with ads encouraging us to incorporate Western Star butter into our culinary adventures, or to use Handee Ultra when we (or our exceptionally gifted children) make a mess in the process of crafting the perfect chocolate fondant.

But daytime television ads are different. These are just some of the things they tell us:

- You are flabby, and need to purchase an Ab-Pro or similar to tone your body

- You are fat, and need to join Weight Watchers to lose the weight and keep it off

- You are too hairy, and need to go to a painless laser place to remove unwanted hair

- You are going bald, and need to visit Ashley and Martin (I’m never sure whether this name is the two surnames of the business partners, or the first names of a homely couple who run a pretty slick hair regrowth clinic)

- You have bad teeth – they are either too sensitive, and you need Sensodyne (advertisement complete with erratic camera cuts), or they are yellow and unattractive, in which case you need a UV whitening light (a solarium for your mouth? Sure, sounds harmless enough)

- You need Foxtel, because the fifteen or so free to air channels are not enough to satisfy your endless search for mind-numbing content. Also, your life will revolve around recording, re-watching, replaying and basically living off, your new Foxtel channels

- You are involved in a lengthy and very costly legal struggle, and require some ‘no win, no cost’ lawyers to help you out with an obligation free phone call

- Your skin is too pale; you need to tan up either with a spray, lotion, or good ole’ solarium

- You have severe acne which is inhibiting your life – you must use the same thing that Delta Goodrem used

- You are in severe debt, and it is time to call a helpline

When I’m pummelled with these ads during the day, I begin to feel sick. I feel that my life is wasting away in front of the television. How will I foot the bills for the arduous legal battle I’m embroiled in anyway?

By addressing us with these messages, the advertisements attempt to shepherd people into the respective roles, and it is this that depresses me.

The final message is, perhaps, all things considered, the kindest one.

Having constructed daytime TV watchers as balding, pasty, chubby, legally hopeless, hairy, gat toothed, debt-ridden, afflicted individuals, the advertisements at least have the mercy to remind us that we will probably die soon.

Grandparents, ruffling a small child’s hair before staring down the camera and smiling serenely as they say,

“We love to keep active and enjoy life. But we know we won’t be around for much longer.”

Then some crisp, suited up woman usually spring in and starts spruiking a funeral plan or life insurance scheme that will mean no family has to bear the financial burden of all the funeral costs. It is always entertaining to watch them attempt to make the proposition of “if you give me your money now, I will help pay for your funeral later” sound tasteful.

And that is why I don’t like daytime TV.

Angry Lady Waits in Queue

An angry woman today waited in a queue, and was dismayed to find that none of the others waiting in the line wanted to share in her outpouring of caustic anger.

The lady was one of several people waiting in a queue at a petrol station when a malfunctioning credit card system caused a delay in service.

The lady, who was waiting to purchase a 600 ml Diet Coke, initially expressed her frustration at the delay by stamping her foot and exhaling loudly. However, when the boy waiting in front of her unwittingly made eye contact, she took the opportunity to articulate her stormy anguish.

"Seriously, he is a f--king dickhead," she opined of the man behind the service counter, adding, after the boy gave absolutely no signs for her to continue her emotional outburst, "seriously, he must be f--king retarded or something."

The boy, who was calmly smiling and nonplussed as he waited to buy six bags of ice, did not join in her speculations as to the competence of the easily within-earshot serviceman, instead avoiding her wrathful gaze lest he incite her to greater acts beyond verbal aggression.

Mother of two Sandra, who was present at the incident, voiced her frustration at the lady. "It's always sad when there are angry people who can't step back and get some perspective on these things."

The lady's unsolicited monologue came to a pithy conclusion after the wait was prolonged for another unbearable minute.

"It's official. He's a f--king retard."

AFL and War: Let's Make a Comparison

One of the footballers said, after the draw last Saturday, "It was war today, and it's not too often you come back and fight a war a week later, but we're up for it."

Mmm, grassy.

Afghanistan

This is no new analogy. AFL is frequently referred to in terms of battles, heroes, casualties, carnage, etc.

The media loves to hype up just how much all Melbournians love the football. And by writing and exposing us to pieces on how football is our religion, or how the only thing that people will judge you by is your AFL team loyalties, these trends (if they ever existed) are strongly reinforced.

My tutor from last Semester suggested that sports are some sort of 'war substitute', which satiate some sort of inherent human desire for conflict, presumably analogous to the 'hate speech' in 1984.

But this becomes confusing if we consider that we have no need for a substitute - Australia is involved in wars already. Why don't people follow the conflict in Afghanistan with the same zeal and passion that they follow the battles, triumphs, and losses of their chosen football teams?

I guess it's because

a) Nobody knows who the sides are

b) Nobody knows anything

I feel so unable to comprehend any of it - sure, I might know that Hamid Karzai is the current Prime Minister, and that the Taliban are still preventing stable governance. But how can I possibly hope to really know anything? All I know are words and figures. They mean little. I read this fascinating interview with Australian journalist Michael Ware, who has spent many years in Iraq, as well as Afghanistan.

He describes the lives of people in Australia (and, I suppose, all people living in affluent nations) as "a bubble floating on the sea of humanity", and notes that once he left it, he is unable to step back inside it in the same way.

I sometimes wonder whether I want to be able to step out of the bubble, and die having known what people are, what they do, why they do it.

And I think that this is why it is so ridiculous to compare football with war. Most people making the comparison have never been on a battlefield. Everything I read about war and violent conflict seems to agree upon the random way in which life and death are handed out.

Nobody goes into a football field expecting they might die. Football is so securely entrenched within the bubble - in a bubble of advertising for sponsors, of team colours, umpires who can stop the 'battle' with a blow of a whistle, and an audience who can actually see and know exactly what goes on on the battlefield.

...and perhaps we would care about them when they did happen.

Blessed Fat Chips

Some soft news writing from journalism today:

I approach the shop slowly, drinking in the brightly lit display of curry puffs, hash browns and spring rolls. The smell of sizzling oil wafts delicately from the back kitchen. Engorged pizzas drip with cheese. And chips. Glistening, golden brown, oil-saturated chips

I approach the counter, and am greeted by a cheery girl, wearing a yellow t-shirt, boldly emblazoned in red with the name of the shop, Fat Chips. She smiles from behind her rectangular glasses.

The question tumbles from my mouth like a potato cake into the fryer. Why Fat Chips?

“People like chips. Students like chips!” she explains passionately, adding that everyone is “all laughing together” when they encounter the refreshingly irreverent name.

A community is formed around Fat Chips, she says, as RMIT teachers and students (attracted, she reflects, by their cut-throat prices) frequently buy their food there, and come to “know us”.

As we speak I look down, and notice that we are standing at the other side of the store. On display at the bench are sandwiches, vegetarian focaccias, carrot, chicken and beetroot wraps. I buy a fruit salad, a goodwill gesture.

These offerings seem incongruous with the gleaming, salty foods presented at the other end of the store. Yet I am beginning to feel that there is much about Fat Chips I do not understand.

I begin to ask another question, but a sudden flurry of customers down at the chips end of the store distracts her, and I realise I will not even have another chance to ask another question, or even her name – my brief glimpse into this noble institution is over.

As I bite into the apple in my fruit salad, it tastes floury and insipid.

Perhaps the apple is not enough. Perhaps I crave something more. Perhaps I crave... fat chips.

Just Say Hi!

The greeting of a stranger is a lovely thing.

It's one human saying to another 'we are united by the fact that we're both humans, both outside/inside/trapped in this deadly labyrinth, and in this spirit I wish you well'.

But it doesn't always happen seamlessly. I have decided that there are really three groups into which stranger greetings fit:

1. The Warm Greeting - this is the friendly, genuine, greeting. It can occur in any of the following places, though this listing is by no means exhaustive: parks, residential streets, otherwise nearly empty corridors in buildings, stairs, lifts, doorways (though these are usually much briefer). The greeter will usually bestow a smile, eye contact, and a "hey". They will usually maintain eye contact, allowing for the recipient of the Warm Greeting to respond. Both parties then disengage amiably, and continue on their ways, each feeling a little lighter.

2. The 'Let's Do This' Greeting - almost always, a male greeter delivers this particular form of stranger greeting. It begins as soon as the two have identified each other. Their paths will intersect. The greeter and greetee mentally steel themselves, preparing their lines. But not too early! NEVER too early, because then a conversation has been opened, and it may be several seconds before they pass one another. Instead, at the last moment, a 'Morning' is thrown out, reciprocated, and a shared sigh of relief is exhaled as they pass one another, their civil duty done.

3. The 'AVOID GREETING AT ANY COST' - this occurs when one party has an aversion to any kind of stranger greeting, and so will completely avoid eye contact, staring straight ahead, or at a watch, or mobile, or impromptu newspaper fashioned from some leafy detritus on the footpath. This works well if neither parties wish to engage in a greeting, but can cause hurt and embarrassment if one party does not recognise the intentions of the other, and either attempts eye contact, or volunteers a nod and 'Hello' automatically. The other person will usually pretend not to have noticed, and continue walking.

I am so tired that I can't even fully comprehend how boring a topic this was. But I have thought this when I go for a walk in my local park. I wanted to draw some pictures for it, but I have decided that they don't always enhance a post, especially when they are appalling.

Sorry.

Enough Is Enough

Tired Gelati Gecko,

This Dr Jekyll/Mr Hyde farce has carried on far enough.

I'm going to be damned blunt here - pull your socks up. Your wallowing and splashing about is unwarranted, and lowers the overall tone of an already troubled publication.

You could take the time to write something humorous, or clever, or even both. But oh no, that's too much effort for crazy old Tired Gelati Gecko. All he wants to do is go around telling people every little bit of our business. Well oh no. Enough is enough.

Not here you don't, no sir!

I am going to change the password to this blog, in the hope that you will not be able to get your demonic (yet admittedly very capable) hands on it.

And if that fails, I shall chain myself to my bed until I am rested enough that I can know you will not rear your troublesome mind.

I regret that I am driven to this course of action.

Yours in severity and responsibility,

Gelati Gecko Proper