Down with the resolution



Published in the Weekend Australian January 16 - 17 1999

Concerning your resolve. How many weeks is it since you made that tortured promise? How many nights have you awoken in a cold sweat, your boiling eyes dragging you from some hideous nightmare? How many times have you gone over the impassioned

The reason we make promises on the eve of a new year has nothing to do with the hope and hidden promise of what is to come. It is based on the fact that at any other time of the year no one would be gullible enough to do something so idiotic. Were you

everyone else shuffled out of 1998, as they congratulated you and patted your back, they were oblivious to the little black cloud of misery you'd tied to your head. Since that groundbreaking foolishness you've been searching for something to release speech that condemned you to this unmitigated sadness? As the months pass, and the rosy veil of stupidity is lifted from your mind, you realise how desperately dumb it was to make a new year's resolution.

over stuffed with Christmas joy or full to the brim with ale, eager to make an impression or convinced change was necessary? Was it at the bustling dinner table or whispered in the sanctuary of the bedroom? As you here it is. The three areas you must address in order to break the promise: personal, emotional, legal.

Personal. To make a resolution suggests that there is something about you that is wrong, vulgar, unattractive, odious, belligerent, crass, objectionable and yet, somehow, redeemable. You are placed in the unenviable position of admitting to a character flaw or personality trait that you can rectify. It's never enough to say you'll fix it, it has to be seen to be fixed. For a resolution to be complete it must be witnessed. And there's the problem: we're obsessed with magnanimous gestures and god like goals we can never hope to achieve. Resolutions should be human and shallow, like ourselves. I vow to be more attractive, or more popular, or dress to the left. In 1999 I promise to eat less dog food, not chase the elderly, be pleasant when I can be bothered. If we allow our evil nature to dominate, then the resolution would be a thing of self destructive joy. I promise to be hedonistic, obsessive, to gamble, to drink excessively, to smoke until my cancered colon is ripped from my body. When you realise your objective was unattainable, you're ready for the next step.

Emotional. We rarely, if ever, change to suit ourselves; we do it to accommodate others. There's a tenet you can live your life by that ensures the peer pressure involved in making a resolution becomes a thing of the cast. It's a simple and dignified mantra that you can chant in front of a mirror or, if the need arises, it can be spoken aloud "1'm OK, you're stuffed!" Once you have decided to solve the dilemma of your resolution, by bringing it to a premature end, you may need the support of your family and friends. If you can't break a promise to those closest to you, who can you break a promise to?

It's different to stand up and proudly proclaim that you're weak and you lied, at the same time once it's done, it's done. The onus then falls on whoever cares to accept it or not. If they do, the time is ripe to make other confessions; I assassinated the Archduke Ferdinand, the Marconi scandal was my fault, I encouraged Bourke and Wills on their fateful trip. While they're stunned into silence, you could take the opportunity to mention all the failed resolutions from years gone by.

Legal. No court in the land could prosecute you for having failed to deliver on a new year's resolution, so legally speaking you're in the clear. (Unless your resolution contravenes the law eg: to break out of prison before March.) If it ever makes it to the courthouse there are dozens of reasons why your promise would be considered invalid. You were adversely affected by the altruism of the evening and rendered momentarily insane. You were swept along with the mob mentality of a group of bare arsed, trumpet blowing revellers. You were face down in a mass of someone else's stomach lining with a yard glass fused to your lips as you threw up your resolution.

In the end you can't change who you are. The sun and moon are chained to their course and birds flock together: there is no escape. It's time to accept that you're a deceitful pile of bacteria ridden skin held together by ear wax and bad breath. If you were capable of being a better person, you would be ready. So this year, resolve to never make another resolution. They say you're only as good as your word, but then they're the ones smart enough to keep their mouths shut.

The Olympic pyrrhic



Published in the Weekend Australian January 30 - 31 1999

We are facing a crisis of confidence Our national identity and amorphous Australian psyche are under threat. In the next few years the character of this country may be changed forever. We've been content to be the "forgotten continent", allowing a trickle of fortunate foreigners to savour the splendour of the lucky country. We've only ever made the international gossip columns with stories of dingoes, babies and tennis heroes. Our isolation has allowed us to develop an independent spirit, a larrikin nature but, most importantly, it has allowed us to be overlooked.

Yet overnight Australia has become the world's oyster. Sydney is the place to be at the end of the century (according to OPrah). This awareness began when Sydney was selected as the site for the 2000 Olympic Games. It may well become the darkest day in Australia's history. For most of us, the staging of the Games is secondary to that momentous moment when an envelope was opened, a syllable was lost and the Games were ours. As a nation we felt the ticker tape break on our collective chest. We were winners and we were guilty of every vulgar emotion that accompanies victory pride, self righteousness and, in some circles, arrogance. The little Aussie baffler had won a major international competition and was instantly transformed into the little Aussie prick.

The years rolled on and the sweet taste of victory corroded into acidic bile. Thus, in these days of Olympic ennui, the advertising world has been called upon to remind us of the wonder of winning. They're attempting to drum up a patriotic fervour to send us over the top for Howard and country with stirring images and an uplifting song.

In the song a piece of anthemic codswallop there's an irksome reference that could leave you unsettled in your Jason Recliner. As the melody reaches a crescendo, we are referred to as the "chosen people". Admittedly, poetic licence was taken with this line. It's a romantic notion to be considered the chosen people, to prevail against the odds and in a real sense we were "chosen" over Beijing and Manchester*. However, if we're being totally honest it wasn't really a choice of Sophiesque proportions. And besides, if we go around singing out loud that we're the chosen people, it may cause more problems than it's worth.

There are several minority groups, nations and organisations who would claim they are the true chosen people. These chosen people have God on their side (whichever God it is) while we, at best, have the Olympic committee. If we are to retain our national character we must ad now.

We have two options open to us

The first is to purposely stuff up the Games. We could put razor blades on the vaulting horse, grease up the Graeco Roman wrestlers, fill the dive pool with foam. Or we could just let people complain about the contaminated water and the lack of toilet facilities.

The second option is the more compelling give the Games back. How magnanimous and inspirational would it be if we returned that slightly soiled Olympic flag? If, in an unparalleled ad of generosity, we offered the Games to our rivals? Socially speaking, China is coming along in leaps and bounds, and with global warming Manchester is getting a bit of sun.

Come 2000, do we really want millions of pesky foreigners taking guided tours through our untilrecently untouched wilderness? Do we want our wonderful secret of sun and surf, deserts and snow covered peaks, to be beamed to billions of homes around the world? It will only create an atmosphere of jealousy.

To call ourselves "the chosen people" is symptomatic of the way our perception of self is being altered. We are moving from the uncultured anti hero slob, to the pesto and rocket loving aesthete; from the underdog, to Der Uber Hound. If truth be known, most Australians only wanted to win the Games to beat Ol' Blighty and that other evil empire; putting them on is too much bother.

If the Games are about anything it's the slightly flawed concept that we all get together in friendship to compete against each other. In 1956 the world allowed us to slip back into obscurity it's doubtful we will be so fortunate after 2000. It may be time for the chosen people to make a choice. O "Manchester: A savagely depressed city where it constantly rains. Beijing: The only international record China held was for human rights abuses. It's doubtful synchronised tank movement could become an Olympic event.

Copy rights



Published in the Weekend Australian February 13 - 14 1999

Originality is dead. The need to be unique and progressive should be condemned as a thing of the past, an antiquated mode of pragmatism that's had its day. Creativity creates contempt, art creates envy and all forms of extreme personal expression leave in their wake the flotsam and jetsam of failed lives.

As a growing number of our literary giants and giantesses are accused of plagiarism, as every second song you hear has the melody of a golden oldie, when contemporary films are identical copies of classic movies, we're forced to accept the notion we're running out of the big concepts. For centuries humanity has tirelessly reworked ageless themes, but it's becoming increasingly apparent our imagination has a finite capacity for original thought. These days, everywhere you look, everyone is copying everyone else. This need not be a bad thing. In recent years the quality of the copy has surpassed the original. It's often more accessible and brings with it a multitude of other enviable characteristics. There is no need to maintain this nonsense that a copy is inferior. A plastic rubber plant has all the appeal of the real thing, paper flowers will never die and watching Grease and Happy Days was far superior to living through the unmitigated boredom of the 1950s.

My own understanding and love of the reproduction comes from personal experience. When I was a child, my family possessed a tea towel emblazoned with Da Vinci's Mona Lisa. This everyday domestic rag possessed all the magnificence of the Milanese portrait but, unlike the original, it was also functional. We were even lucky enough to have a slight ghosting effect due to a printing fault. In our kitchen the Mona Lisa was a tangible beauty, not a pompous leering mystery behind six inches of bullet proof glass.

Years later, when I saw the masterpiece, I was unprepared for how truly dull it was. It certainly could not match the personality of our much loved tea towel. Where were the years of grease and peanut oil that gave her olive skin a jaundiced glow? Where was the triangular scorch mark that removed her left shoulder? And where was the delicate tear that made her appear the victim of failed facial reconstruction? I left the overcrowded Louvre depressed and elated. In every respect the tea towel interpretation of Da Vinci's creation, kept safely in a kitchen drawer, was superior.

In regards to the Mona Lisa, Duchamp's version ("She has a hot arse") surpasses the original and our tea towel exceeds that of Duchamp's. Art has always been plagued by plagiarism: Da Vinci pinched from Giotto, Rembrandt ripped off Manteena and Picasso stole any idea that wasn't nailed down. Even Paul Cezanne's self portrait is said to be a copy of an impression of someone else. The act of borrowing is not limited to the art world, it occurs from the boardroom to the tearoom, in every field of research and in every area of study. Perhaps the driving force behind any original idea is the hope that it'll be copied.

When we realise the entire world is engaged in this task we must ask: what's so good about originality? We can delude ourselves, but the majority of us were born to copy, it's in the very fabric of our being. Our bodies are constantly replacing tissue and blood and replicating cells. When we reproduce we give birth to tiny versions of ourselves. As we grow and mature, we do so by imitating the actions of others. The title we give to this activity is learning, but in actual fact it's just copying. Our entire education system is based on this act and the winner is the one who copies the best.

The hypocrisy here is if we're caught doing what comes naturally we're branded with the stigma of "cheat". We must re evaluate this system because there are not enough unique thinkers to go around. We should remove the stigma, celebrate the copy, and accept that mimicry is the sincerest form of flattery. Let the rest of the world spend money and time searching for original ideas and when they find them, we'll do what we've always done, we'll rip them off.

We must not feel too negative about these thoughts, after all, they're nothing new. Most of what is written here is taken verbatim from other articles. I have copied, pilfered quotations and stolen entire paragraphs and who cares? After all, as someone who I can't be bothered naming once said, if you steal from one author it's plagiarism, if you steal from many it's research. We should stop this senseless struggle for the new and accept the supremacy of the copy, the hybrid, the reproduction. It's only human to want to reproduce: we are in the end just a copy made in the almighty image of someone else.

Deconstructing construction



Published in the Weekend Australian February 27 - 28 1999

Sunday morning and my recently attained sleep is shattered by the fire alarm in a nearby block of flats. An armada of screaming fire engines arrive but i's all sound and fury, and significantly no fire. The apologies and giggles of embarrassment are almost enough to lull me back to sleep around gam. Thankfully a tone deaf electrician, singing a medley of 70s disco classics, arrives around ten to fix the alarm. I'm not against free expression, I just believe that it should be practised in the privacy of one's own home (and practised quietly). In their wanderings the noise makers have scoured most of our country; their blisteringly unexpected sounds infiltrating, penetrating, permeating every part of our lives. They've forced their way into our quiet time, destroyed our peace of mind and now infest our brains.

I have had the opportunity to stay in various cities across this wide land and experience the jarring noises of each: a Perth hotel was remodelled as I tried to sleep; in Melbourne the house next door was demolished; in Sydney roads were reshaped; in Brisbane a car alarm sounded for three days. (Conversely, in Canberra I begged for a little sound, yet it maintained its eerie silence).

The only joy my ears received over this break was the comparative quiet of air travel. If you ignore the turbo charged lawn mower moaning of the jet engines, the teething babes and the hysterical claustrophobics then it's almost restful. The best aspect of flying is that it's difficult to make repairs while in mid air. It's a relatively safe bet there'll be no maintance crews hammering away at 40,000 feet as you begin the traumatic post film slumber.

On the ground it's a different story. Is there any airport in this country that isn't being rebuilt?

As you leave the airport, any road that it isn't being replaced? As you reach the city, any block that isn't undergoing transformation? And when you arrive at the sanctuary of your home there is invariably some prat* next door renovating.

It may be the unfortunate side effect of those damnable home improvement programs: 7 am Saturday every idiot with a hammer drill warns to use it to create a fashionable, painted pine toy box, or pine tool rack, or a much needed pine toothbrush holder. Out come the rusted circular saws and sanders, their atonal squealing melding with the annoying currawongs to compose a distorted symphony to the dawn. Then there's the restless traffic, the unfilled buses, the non muffled motorbikes, the untrained husking washing machine, the hum of the fluoros the list is endless.

It's considered economically beneficial for the wheels of industry to turn, but must they turn so loudly? The reworking of the world has become so frenetic 'round my neck of the woods that from one day to the next I cannot recognise the place where I live. We must start to catalogue what was because it won't be there for long. A building is torn down, another one thrown up. There's always a barrier, or a new fence, or some hideous council approved sculpture blocking the door. The only thing these changes have in common is that they make noise, lots of it.

The cumulative effect of this is frightening; high tension wires look more relaxed than most of us. We live in a state of extreme agitation. We need the soothing sound of an authority figure screaming, 'Shut up, all of you, just shut up!" But who would hear them above the clamour?

We have almost forgotten what silence sounds like (knock on wood). We exist in a world where construction, road works, renovation, fire alarms and burst water pipes are an ever present threat. We're the victims of a continuous aural assault. And I've come to the conclusion that these sounds are intentional.

I've become so obsessed by this paranoid thought that the workmen and workwomen are no longer just working outside they've infiltrated my head. At night I can hear jackhammers chewing through the soft, grey concrete of my left hemisphere, widening the grand longitudinal canal. Urgent and much needed repairs are being made to my cerebellum. Cracked water mains have flooded the marshlands of my memory. Everything is pushing in on me. Perhaps it a merely cyclical, these things often are, I will wart patiently for the gentle return of silence.

Sunday morning and the electrician has failed to fix the faulty alarm ... (*I used the word "prat" because this is a family magazine and I was not permitted to use the more abrasive, yet technically correct term "*****".)

All together now



Published in the Weekend Australian March 13 - 14 1999

It's not music that brings the world together, but a piece of cloth: the uniform. It's a universal language understood by all peoples.

To define, delineate and defend, there is nothing more unifying than a uniform. It makes a statement, denotes your occupation, declares your rank or your position in an organisation it announces your presence.

Now the uniform is under attack. It is under attack from the very people who wear it, it is an attack from within (this all sounds slightly totalitarian, but hell, it's telling it like it is).

Over the past three decades, the myth of the individual has been accepted across the globe. This has led those engaged in menial labour or servitude to question authority.

They have demanded equal pay, to be protected in the work place, to be treated with respect, to wear what they want to wear. This final indignity is a direct attack on the uniform and began in schools in the mid 1960s. Schoolchildren with weak, liberal minded, dope smoking parents were allowed to express their individuality by wearing whatever their little hearts desired.

Are we surprised, 30 years on, that three quarters of the population is illiterate? Illiterate and happily wearing thongs to school.

It doesn't end there. In the armed forces, police and clergy, there are go getter fashion activists who are stripping the uniform of its power. I will give you one example as a template to understand the danger this poses to society: The uniformed, mounted police officer vs The casual look cop on a bike.

When the conflict of ideals turns sour and the battle of words becomes a real battle, the uniform has invariably been in the front line. Watching a precision team of riot police twirling batons and decimating sparrow limbed academics is a marvellous thing.

The vision of a well dressed police officer astride a mighty heaving stallion, flecks of spittle dried on its flanks and ready to charge, is a powerful and frightening image. Often, just the sight of mounted police is enough to discourage would be demonstrators from senseless acts of demonstration. The uniform and the horse moving with balletic splendour: ranks shattering, the students falling, skulls popping under hoof.

Ask yourself this question: When the hour of truth comes, will the police force be up for it on mounted bikes, wearing shorts with ankle high white socks? I think not. Figure hugging shorts never really made it as the attire of oppression. It may have something to do with the musculature of the kneecap provoking humour.

And it's doubtful whether a bike could instil the same sense of fear in a group of blood crazed demonstrators. Even the classic 1972 Chopper, with streamers on the handlebars and a double length banana seat, wouldn't be up to it. The bike helmet, while essential for protection of the scone, is often not a good look over the plum red face of a wheezing constable.

Then there is the sad indignity of the bike when faced with a steep incline. I have witnessed a cop, sweat pouring from his brow, flecks of spittle drying on his flanks, overcome with exhaustion, pushing the useless hunk of metal to the top of the rise. It says a lot about our society when, these days, all a villain has to do is find a hill and the chase is over.

Still, I have nothing but praise for the police in this attempt to blend in with community. But how long will it be until they're on skateboards and rollerblades in black lycra thongs and tank tops tagging trains? Or before the army wants to go into battle with platinum wigs, printed floral gaberdine slacks, boob tubes, sandals and facial hair? Does it matter if they're all wearing it? Yes, it does.

It's important that, as we attempt to integrate various institutions into society, we do not become generics and our figures of authority do not become figures of fun.

What would happen to the rich, textured fabric of society if business people stop "power dressing" or if the clergy all adopt casual gear? We are defined by what we wear; clothes maketh the man and the woman and the celibate. Why change the habits of a lifetime?

Birds and bees do it why are we any different? And this pathetic attempt at justification by saying uniforms are oppressive is totally transparent of course they are oppressive: that's what they're meant to be. If we continue in this farcical attempt to be like "the people" we will achieve it and no one will know who anyone is.

Society needs structure. To enforce this structure you need recognisable forces. Bear in mind: without a wimple there never would have been a Flying Nun. If this world comes apart at the seams because we've lost respect for the uniform, then sadly, we'll all just have to wear it.

The hole truth



Published in the Weekend Australian March 27 - 28 1999

There is nothing to write about. I have sat in a daze staring blankly into the empty, yet luminous, screen on my computer. The new file I have created for this task needs to be filled, I have to give it form and substance, to allow it to exist, otherwise it will be condemned to the electronic waste bin.

In the days of longhand, to take pen to paper was a joy. To mark the feint ruled virgin white of the sheet with an indelible blue black ink was powerful, invigorating. To witness a waste bin filled with failure at least gave you a sense of progress. Here, there is only the empty, flickering screen, the faint hum of the hard drive and the slow clatter of the keyboard. It's difficult to think in this post Saturday night state; the contents of my skull are dehydrated, the synapses misfiring, the thoughts muddled. I'm trapped and require something to prise me loose. At present the file and I are one, we're both empty vessels that need to filled.

Thus in my less than human, slightly nauseated condition. I find myself fixated on a little hole. It's the one thing that has always confused me about the Apple Mac (all the models I have ever used have it). It's an opening on the hard drive just beneath where you place the floppy disc, and if the disc is seized you penetrate the hole with a paper clip to free it.

Does this strike anyone else as odd? Surely it's one of the more disturbing aspects of the computer age that if a machine this complex malfunctions, it requires a paper clip to fix it. Doesn't this cut against the mythical promise and the entire ethos of the computer age that we could save forests and jungles from devastation by dispensing with paper? And if we don't have any paper, why the hell would we need paper clips? Would we keep them on our desks as a memento of the old days, like reusable plastic Post its or digital desk calendars?

It's a strange dilemma. You could have an entire library stuck on a floppy and unless you can find a paper clip you can't get it out. The greatest power for centuries at your fingertips, to unlock the stuff of dreams or a second rate computer game, and it's reliant on a bent strip of metal.

Was it someone's idea of a joke? Why didn't the designers or engineers put an extra little button there so if something did get stuck, you could simply press it? And why does it get stuck in the first place? Couldn't those same designers have designed it a bit better so that the disc never got stuck? This minuscule advance would take away the need for the paper clip. It might mean a bit more sweat at the drawing board, but someone is paying a fortune to hordes of gifted, bespectacled, sexless freaks for this sort of leap of the imagination.

And though I do not want to dwell on the financial outlay, it seems a bit ripe, after you've spent your life savings on this modern marvel of circuitry and science, to have to go out and purchase a paper clip.

Is there some government body guarding consumers against this sort of racket? With every computer purchased over $5000, you should be entitled to a free paper clip. Is that too much to ask?

Perhaps the makers of the Apple Macintosh are in league with paper clip multinationals. The paper clip manufacturers, realising their imminent demise, attempted to ensure their survival by crawling into bed with the enemy. Does it come as any surprise that the initials of "paper clip" are P.C.?

All this may seem like an overreaction but believe me, when it's late, past the deadline and the floppy gets stuck, you'll reach for anything to shove in that hole. You tend to lose all sense of reason and propriety. You're driven by the toaster mentality when the toast gets stuck and, being fully conscious of the dangers involved, you reach instinctively for a knife.

I love my old Power Mac, but some days I find myself staring at that little hole and just wondering why. This paper clip conspiracy might be part of the same oversight that gave birth to the Y2K bug and the potential end of civilisation, but I choose to believe it's a marvellously intricate idea. It raises questions about our over reliance on machines and at the same time speaks of the interconnectedness of all things. Apple might have brilliantly presented us with the physical representation of a parable: the lion (computer) needed the mouse (paper clip) to remove the thorn (floppy disc) from its paw (hard drive). What lessons can we learn? The hole has been filled, the screen is full of words and all that remains is to get it out of the machine and down on paper.

An age old dilemma



Published in the Weekend Australian April 10 - 11 1999

This is the Year of the Older Person. So far I have missed the celebrations but they're happening all around us: on cruise ships the Latino strains of the Tijuana Brass are dislocating hips, in rest homes there are orgies of laxatives and sponge baths, and by this bleak 'September of their years' some of our older people will be finding love.

Celebrating the older person is a beautiful idea, but there are practical concerns that must be voiced. The first: Perhaps the older person has enough to celebrate with the arrival of Viagra. Does the older person really have the heart to celebrate anything else? OPs (older people) have been telling us for years they're sexual beings, driven by dark animal urges to forage licentiously and procreate. I believe most of society accepts this we just don't want to think about it too much.

The second dilemma (this may appear callous on the surface, but take a minute to visit the depth), how many of the goodly, wintry folk are going to make it to the celebrations at the end of the year? I'll warrant a great number of the geriatric funsters, who started in January on a high, won't be there for the closing party.

It's a terrible thought to have amid all these festivities, but it's something we must be conscious of. It's all fun now, but by May the croakers will be a bit teary and looking for somewhere nice to lie down. They'll be tuckered out by June and spend the rest of the year complaining. In August they'll be having an afternoon nap lasting until October. Let's not even think of all the arrangements we'll be making in November and December.

Thankfully, younger people are becoming older people everyday. We may take some solace in the fact that the end will be just as full of back ailments, fatigue, dementia and weeping sores as the beginning.

"You make me feel so young, you make me feel like spring has sprung..."

Where young people are dynamic and wild, old people are shrewd and wise. OPs have acquired a lifetime of knowledge, understanding and wisdom, they have battled for love and liberty, and they have made fine jams. The marvellous tales the elderly could tell would keep the no gooddrug addled young people of today entranced for hours if the fogies could just remember them.

Most of the time, the rebels ofyesteryear are sitting two inches from the TV ("I remember before TV, what fun we'd have, sitting around a wireless and looking at it... ") lusting after the Queen Mum's fashion sense or praising the straight down the line policies of Pauline.

There's nothing new about the Year of the Old, and there is no time citizens, giving them the tribute and kindness they deserve. I, for one, enjoy the company of OPs, though I must say, I'm not that keen on the smell. It is my belief we should heap praise on the elderly every year, but not enough to strain their hernias.

The old may not be our most precious resource, but we only have to look at such classic films as On Golden Pond, Grumpy Old Men and Soylent Green to know their real worth. And in the end, if we reach the end, we all get old. Any spindly, glaucoma ridden creature reading this knows only too well what's waiting for us once we throw up the sweet wine of youth.

"When I was very young, it was a very good year... "

I have tried, in this article, not to succumb to the stereotypical image of the elderly as petulant, grumpy monarchists whose only joy is to be a burden to their family. This sort of attitude would be as blinkered as suggesting that all young people are misguided, useless republicans whose only joy is to be a burden to their family. I failed in this task because I feel bitter and cheated: they've managed to do it again.

They've managed, which is more irritating than anything else, to screw up our chance of having a Year of the Older Person when we are older people. Once again the previous generation has had their cake and sucked it up with a straw, too. They had the wars, the '60s, the atomic age and the Beatles; we got disco, the '80s, AIDS and Kajagoogoo. By the time we reach the OP years, it'll be time for the Year of the Young Person again, or of the Foetus, or of the Unconceived.

It is said that youth and all of its trappings (spontaneity, excessive joy, foolishness) are wasted on the young; this year they belong to the older person. So, to all the lucky OPs: Celebrate, but watch your backs.

The doppelganger affected



Published in the Weekend Australian April 24 - 25 1999

I was sitting on a train, it was early morning and the journey I had undertaken was drawing to a conclusion. This was the final destination on my voyage of selfdiscovery, and I discovered I should have got off at the previous stop.

I had been backpacking with a friend and in my delirium something peculiar occurred. An ineffective, unpolished train mirror caught my reflection, distorting my head to "elephant man" proportions. It was a disturbing sight, so I began staring at the other less elephantine passengers. Then I became aware of a disturbing pattern the 18 people sitting in the carriage were each paired off with someone else. This gave the appearance of nine groups of two rather than 18 individuals. The disconcerting aspect was that everyone looked like the person they were sitting next to. Friends looked like their friends, wives looked like their husbands, and husbands looked like their wives: two businessmen in dog dropping brown pin striped suits, two youths decked out in sports logos and matching acne, a husband and wife in camelcoloured trench coats and cowboy boots. I felt I had entered a mobile village of the damned, a subway of similarity, the visual equivalent of the doppelganger effect.

Had I been drinking or was I seeing double? Perhaps they lived in houses without mirrors and took turns being the looking glass. Perhaps they shared a brain. Perhaps the explanation was Darwinian. What I witnessed was merely the need to reproduce without the messy physical process no stains, blame or shame. I had the frightening thought I was aboard some kind of "style ark". Had God instructed Noah to collect two of every badly designed garment to save them from the coming holocaust? It made sense because the last time I saw outfits this bad they were on the Christian TV ads.

Did each person think their duplicate looked good because they looked exactly like themselves? Or had these people known each other for so long that, like pets, they gradually grew to resemble each other? Or was it something more insidious? Was I in the midst of an impromptu twins convention? Were there nine people with ideas on how they should look, and another nine, the hangers on, who just ripped them off? Who was the creative force in the choice of wardrobe and who was plagiarist? At the beginning of time there must have been someone whose brain burst with the brilliant concept of teaming ugh boots with stonewashed denim, then this one moment of clarity and individualism was stolen by a generation of thieves.

The one thing I couldn't fathom was the conscious desire to dress like someone else. Without getting into the obvious fetishistic fun of masquerades and dress ups, wearing the same clothes as a friend or partner seems, pardon my honesty, freaky. Then I recalled once speaking to a matching couple. They were wearing identical outfits: shell suits in pale blue with luminous viridian bands and bright pink piping, white socks, runners and baseball caps.* Their reason for wearing the same clothes was that they could always find each other in a crowd. To them, the embarrassment at having the most grotesque, clown like costumes as everyday wear was overpowered by this practical concern. What they so resoundingly lacked in taste they made up for in commonsense. As they wandered off into the body of the crowd, instantly being obscured by a flock of football jumpers, I wondered: if I looked like that would I want anyone to find me?

The experience on the train demonstrated that we are perfectly capable of cloning each other without the help of science. It was unsettling and gazing around the compartment I was forced to stifle a giggle. My travelling companion' asked me what was so humorous and I didn't have the heart to tell him, especially when I realised that we too looked exactly the same, apart from the hessian sack he was wearing on his head. Twin dark blue backpacks, steel capped shoes, black jeans, T shirts and faces flushed red and exhausted from running for the train. The reflection in the warped mirror proved to be fatal. One of us was a duplicate, a carbon copy of the other. The question that puzzles me to this day is which one?

* I must stress this is a matter of personal taste. I have always believed you should wear what you want (in the privacy of your home). Although I am not enamoured of the shell suit I can understand its appeal in terms of comfort. I would, however, give this advice: be careful near an open flame.

While my catarrh gently weeps



Published in the Weekend Australian May 8 - 9 1999

WARNING: PLEASE DO NOT READ THIS IF YOU ARE EASILY OFFENDED BY SICKNESS AND ITS OFTEN BIZARRE RAMIFICATIONS.

I have of late been gripped by the fear that I will not make it to spring. The reason for this is that for around six months I have been stupidly battling the same cold. I'm certain it began sometime last summer.

I have so much phlegm on my chest, more of it every day, and there is nothing I can do to get rid of it. I am filling up internally with mucus, I make a sloshing sound whenever I walk, a sea of slobber is lapping in my lungs. I had accepted it as part of my life an unnecessary, upsetting part of life or at least I did until I came to "the understanding". I have been able to cope with the extra strain this thing has placed on my body; what I have not coped with is the mental and emotional strain.

My fears have taken the form of daydreams, nightmares and musings about what could be happening with my cold. The other day all the madness dissipated, and a clear blue and brilliant day emerged from the chaos.

The cold was growing inside me, feeding off me, and that's when the revelation occurred. I've had this virus for more than six months; that puts me at the end of my second trimester. As absurd and deluded as it may sound, hope surged in my heart; just 12 more weeks and it would all be over.

After nine intolerable months of gestation, I'll finally give birth to a seven kilogram bouncing ball of phlegm. A phlegm baby, a child composed entirely of snot and mucus, fruit of my lungs, custard apple of my eye, a spit off the of block.

I don't know how it happened. These things go around it's not like I was careless. There must have been something in the air that day. I remember everyone was sneezing, not even bothering to cover up. I walked right into the thick of it. I didn't care; we were young and everyone was doing it. Still, when I realised my body was changing it was too late to say, 'I should have had protection', a nasal spray or some sort of pill.

You have to nurture a phlegm baby by really watching your diet. Nothing nutritious can pass your lips. You can't have vegetables and fruit, or echinacea, or antibiotics any of these things could kill the baby, or worse, stunt its growth.

You have to smoke constantly. You have to drink whenever you're not smoking. You have to avoid handkerchiefs and tissues. You have to work extra long hours, consume thickshakes, avoid the sun, stay in bed, watch Oprah. If you do all these things, you'll give birth to a healthy hunk of nose floss.

Therefore, I'm a little worried because I didn't realise what was going on until quite late in the gestation. I'm concerned I might have eaten something decent in the preceding six months.

That's why I have to go in for an ultrasound to see if everything is normal. Just to check and make sure my spawn has a creamy complexion, not green or yellow, not too lumpy, not too smooth. See if the little one has all its fingers and toes.

I have thought a lot about the impending birth. Will I need drugs for the pain? An epidural? Should I go for a natural birth or caesarean section? Should I go all hippy and hunker down in the flotation tank?

There are so many questions, and all the medical fraternity I've approached seem reluctant to discuss it with me.

The caesar concerns me, purely on the vanity level." I'm aware it's unusual, something out of the ordinary. I'm certainly not as young as I used to be. But just because I'm a bit older, that's no reason to treat me like a freak.

I can suffer the indignation for now and the whispered comments and the stares, because it won't be long before I hatch my little clotted gummi bear, my sticky pudding cherub, my soft succulent snot nosed kid.

When that day comes, I'll push my glutinous fledgling along in a stroller, another lone parent struggling with my offspring, and the only thing that will swell in my chest will be pride. People will stop me in the street, peer at the product of my nasal cavity and say: "Oh, how cute, he's got your cold."

"The visual imagery that would usually accompany this comment is so grotesque that I have decided to withhold it. However, if you are in an experimental frame of mind you may conjure up your own image. The magazine and I take no responsibility for the infection of the body or mind that results from this piece.

Where is thy sting?



Published in the Weekend Australian June 5 - 6 1999

The universe of carnage that spills from our TV sets reminds us of the fragility of life and how funny it can be if someone else cops it. Australia has embraced the recording of disasters since Australia's Funniest Home Videos. We laugh as a nation united if a child walks into a swing, bites the dog or punches an unsuspecting uncle in the testicles. Any accident, in or around the home, that's not recorded has become a complete waste of time.

We've also discovered that if your clumsy kid is caught in the salivating jaw of the family pit bull, you could be in for big money. But for many of us Australia's Funniest just doesn't do it anymore. We've had to move on to something harder, something a bit later in the evening where the fun never stops: When Animals Attack. What Went Wrong? World's Wildest Police Videos. World's Funniest Natural Disasters. When Cows Explode.

It's good to know the world is currently obsessed with observation. Every day, more and more surveillance cameras are put in place. We delude ourselves that this is for our own protection when we know in our hearts its prime function is for entertainment. These cameras are working tirelessly to bring us the accidents, crimes and great comedy moments of the future.

Every night we're presented with a variety of gruesome choices as our post prandial entertainment. The spectacle of "reality" wins every time when pitted against Shirl repainting the pine. And Getaway seems too bourgeois when you can witness desperate human beings willing to overcome any obstacle in their bid to "get away' from the hands of the law. What can compare with that grainy, out of focus, shaky cam video action? We all confront the same questions of taste as we witness another oil tanker exploding, another fire in a New Delhi shopping mall, another bovine bomb imploding and yet who can tear their eyes away?

It's contemptible but, as a spectator, a voyeur, it's damn engaging. The precarious moral subtext these shows use to justify the material is often more shocking than the footage. The reality is the camera lies. But the cameras used on Reality TV not only lie, they're unfaithful, fickle and a drain on your emotional resources. (This may be the reason Real TV is so popular it treats you like one of the family.) There will come a time in the not too distant future when we crave something harder. Have you noticed that a few too many people survive these disasters? Where's all the stuff they're keeping from us? Where's the real "real" TV? It hasn't made it to these shores yet but it's out there somewhere circling, waiting for its moment Death TV Death TV makes Australia's Funniest Home Videos seem like the soul of discretion and propriety. The only positive thing about Death TV is, if you play it backwards, you might actually get a happy ending.

On Death TV, people have had their video cameras on, loaded, focused and full of tape when calamity befell them. As tragedy struck, they had the good sense to fire up the Sony. That old videotape of Dad's ill fated parachute jump doesn't make viewing the home movies much fun, but why should the nauseating image of Dad bouncing on the desert floor like a house brick gather dust when it could be sold and make him a posthumous star (albeit a falling one)? After all, he would've wanted it that way.

Are we ready for the husband encouraging his wife to video him as he communes with nature? The loyal wife continues to film, her hand frozen in disbelief as he tragically communes with a seven foot grizzly bear that removes his head with one swipe of its paw.

Surely a headless man riding a bicycle is funny? And surely it's social satire when the newlyweds drive into the back of a cement mixer? And surely it's ironic when the exploding cow's intestines hit the protesting vegetarian in the mouth?

These are the wonders that await us when we take that inevitable step into the abyss of bad taste. As another parachute fails to open, our families will be brought closer together through someone else's sadness. We'll all continue to enjoy Reality TV as long as the reality isn't ours and that's where we must change our attitude.

It's not good enough to sit at home and watch someone else's reality. It's time to get out there and make our own. I believe we have an obligation to give back a little of what society has given to us. To give back some of the fun, laughter and disaster that have given us so much joy. When that fatal hour arrives, is it too much to ask that a family member is standing by with the camcorder? Isn't it about time we made Death TV a natural part of life?