Rant Spam

I'm no longer here, I've moved locations.  Don't bother asking why, I guess a change is good.  In any case if you still want to hear my rants go over here.  

 

What a great and gay way to retaliate.

 
Just how the hell does this address anything to do with AIDS?  Call me crazy but a few words and a crate of condoms would do far more to prevent the spread in West Papua.

For crazy government policy go here.

I've come up with a new term:

Senial: (noun) A condition resulting in the  forgetting or denial of the existence of poor artistic contributions and continuations (most commonly movie sequels).  

It's a wonderful, self-serving condition and it has helped me enjoy my entertainment.  For instance, I know in my heart there is only one Matrix movie, Blues Brothers film and two seasons of Deadwood.  
They really should look into making more Matrix or Deadwood sometime, I think they have real potential.  

No more Blues Brothers though, that would just be crass.  

In any case this is a condition that has great benefits for those who employ it.  You can watch what you like and wish for more fantastic writing or performances.  Everything finishes on a high and you will live in hope for a great sequel one day, or remain happy that this self contained story has happily waltzed through three acts and can now be sealed like an ancient tomb.  

In it's right form this condition should leave you wistful, not angry.  Any lack of action can be attributed to the oily, troll-like studio executives, an untrustworthy collective that crumbles to ash in the presence of cohesive originality.  They feed photosynthesis style, on the mania surrounding todays 'it' people and finish with a soup made with the bones of the creative.

They will continue to gorge without our condemnation, they are deaf to it.  With senial, this is no longer our concern.  

But enough of movies, you can apply senial to so many different occasions and styles.  What if Van Gogh never went through that brown period that irritated you so much?  What of classical music?  These adorable and prolific child/teen geniuses that filled the world with such beauty?  What if they retired early instead of becoming the nitpicky, technical bastards that wanted to mentally destroy musicians for the next few hundred years?

There's no end to the potential!  Albums, careers, authors that lack J.D Salinger's iron self-restraint, movements, anything!  It can be chosen, ignored praised or unconsciously damned as you like.  

Hang on, people have been doing this always?  How could I forget?  I must have blocked it out...  I hope the name is mine at any rate.

I wonder how many people will forget I wrote this?

Spring carnival is upon us again, oh joy of joys.  So who's going?  Well who in Melbourne isn't?  It's like a mad craze - correction: It is a mad craze.  Once again we all frock up for the joy of watching a bunch of midgets spend a couple of minutes whipping horses.  

 

I guess I've never really gotten into it.  Just like any party where I was the only sober person, it simply isn't fun.  I don't get the jokes, can't enjoy the sensation and don't see the point of what everyone is doing. I used to live in North Melbourne - major transit point for everyone heading to the races, or the zoo.  Hard to tell which was which after a while.   Always a good look though, everyone in formal wear packed in trams until they can barely move, like some sort of windowed shipping container.  I half expect to see burly men in high visibility vests and hard hats organising the destination:

"Oy Frank!  I've got another con  for the races!"  

Frank consults his clipboard and scratches his head.

"Posers or poseurs?" 

"Uhh, what's the diff?"

"Rates."

"Ah.  Hang on I know!  I'll check the polyester count."

 

Don't get me wrong, have a great time.  I think it's wonderful that ordinary people finally have a chance to dress up, soak up sun and rub shoulders with organised crime at an event that isn't a prize fight, new club opening or a council fundraiser.  

But were I there I would only cramp everyone's style as they rub shoulders and other body parts with the faux rich and classy.  In the meantime can sit at home with my medos and cool fan and concentrate on the money I'm saving by not worrying about transport, over-priced booze, bad food, inevitable dry cleaning and broken sunglasses. 

It's promoted for both the lads and ladies of the day.  The ladies flock to the turf so they  can admire all the gowns, beauty and inherent opportunity for the social equivalent for sticking a shiv in each other's kidney's at the first opportunity.  The sweating men in suits, while not so gown conscious, certainly do appreciate the parts the gowns miss.  This is generally done in between consuming their 14th beer and trying to convince ladies to risk their louis vitton gown on a quickie in the porta-loo. 

With a moderate degree of success.

Besides, if I'm at the races then there's a good chance I'll have a fully blown psychotic break.  The sort of thing that starts with the smouldering remains of a racecourse, and like all short men, finishes with my mighty war marchine darkening the face of half the world.  These wretched and rapidly sun burnt idiots make the inevitable jockey jokes and they're all convinced they're the first ones to do so.  The guys hang about braying in the suit that the girlfriend they plan to cheat on picked out for them.  Sharpening that pick up line that doesn't achieve true focus and wit until filtered through the 14 beers.  Then the girls think it's the height of class as they screech with drunken joy, having just found out wine also comes in glass bottles, to do the same then fight for a spot in the men's loo after leaving their shoes in a horsepat outside. 

 

I can still remember one spring carninval when I had finished work and was grabbing some chips in KFC.  I was a hungry lad, looking for a grease fix to put the finish on the fine vodka I'd had after a hard day and night of watching my social betters get blasted.  A bunch of drunken girls from the races staggered in for a fix they'd feel guilty about later.  One of them giggled up to me and said "Oh that's so funny!  You look just like a jockey!"  

"That is funny" I replied.  "Because you look just like a horse."

 

Fortunately I was leaving and her brain had a semi-permanent 30 second delay on anything that was said to her.  Possibly I've spent too long being the bartender for the supposedly rich and classy receptions.  It's made me a little jaded.

 

But in similar cases I've learnt to enjoy the sad and sorry sight of the ladies returning from the races.  The gowns destroyed, hair a mess and hand-eye coordination shot to hell, that's when you really see them at their best.  Just like how some style icons would look good if you dressed them in a garbage bag, so can you tell a lot about someone after a 14 hour drinking session in 30C+ heat.  If any of those ladies are still looking good then I bet they've never had to do any heavy lifting or pay for their own drink ever in their life.

 

A great day out apparently but I've destroyed myself far more easily, cheaply and with greater impact than I think is had at the races.  

 

Also I'm told some horses go around in a circle but who goes for that?

The world financial crisis has had a number of knock on effects.  Banks are being nationalised, America can't afford itself anymore, Russia is in negotiations to buy Iceland and the media is increasingly crammed with smug lectures aimed at Gen X and Y about how we had it all and have now lost it.  

Oh yes, the elbow-padded baby boomer intelligensia are busy knocking the loose tobacco from their smokum pipes and swapping superior stories of the hardship of their generation and the ease of ours.  It's like Monty Pythons Old Yorkshire men escalating tales of hardship and how the youngsters of today know nothing.  

Yes decry the economic situation but do you have to be so damn smug about it?  Ooh, we got everything on a platter!  No, actually we rented everything on a platter.  You lot still own everything!

 Man I just love grand statements like this.

Then read this.

Possibly this as well.

This is interesting too.

Finally for a more regional flavour...

And I think we've got a problem.  At the very least they need to rename the award.  

http://www.paperchainbookstore.com.au/PaperchainBookstore/events.cfm?events_id=132&view=detail

All I'm saying...

Israel, Singapore, Korea, Turkey, Italy, the list goes on.

All these countries have something in common - National Service. The concept of national service got stuck in my mind when I found out Italy still has it. Why Italy? I didn’t think they were up to much militarily these days. Like everyone else in the EU I thought they did most of their combat by aggressively using agricultural subsidies and trading organised crime groups with their allies.
But I suppose it has its place and it’s quite important to some people. Being a young(ish) Australian I’m not really into national service. Not that I’m attacking our military history. Anyone who thinks ANZAC day is losing its luster needs to try getting Aussies out of bed before sunrise at any other time of year. In fact I think the Melbourne Cup each November starts at around 3 in the afternoon because we’re all still recovering from May’s dawn service.

But national service? Is it really necessary? Why does it keep popping up from time to time? True it can boost defence, prolong civil war and is probably a significant factor in the party reputation of Israeli backpackers, but it always seems to come up in grim circumstances or for severe reasons.

Fortunately it isn’t in question right now but it’s always there in the background. It’s occasionally blurted out on some radio programs where people decry the moral and disciplinary decay of the younger generation. As evidenced by their lack of enthusiasm for fixing bayonets and sticking one in Johnny Foreigner.

In some countries I can readily see why they do it. The volatile nature of international relations means that while a bloated military budget and synchronised marching is scary, nothing beats the threat of a domestic population capable of highly focused hyper-violence. But in our case? I was pulled into a conversation concerning the Australian case for so called National Service. Forget its current form I said. It doesn’t fit with our needs and there is another option that should be considered. While I think that Australian National Service or conscription would most likely only benefit the New Zealand travel industry, it should be instituted with a bit of a tweak.
But don’t get the armed forces involved, I’m not arming a bunch of malcontents who were just forced to forgo their holiday time. But I can certainly give them the will and the drive towards that celebrated deadly level of discipline and intent. There is another industry that always gives new challenges and a suitably eternal enemy:

Hospitality.

This is an umbrella term for a number of occupations, but the first things that leap to mind are clothes retailers, waiters and waitresses, barmen and bargirls, essentially roles that boil down to serving food and drinks, listening to complaints, making chit chat and taking a giant pile of crap from people. For the purpose of this article I’m going with the term “waitslave.” I think it nicely encapsulates all elements and doesn’t offend anyone who wants to be singled out in their servitude.

We’re told individuals often go into this industry because they have a fondness for people and enjoy working with the public.
Hah! Suuuuure.
People often go into this industry because they have a fondness for food and enjoy using shelter. No offence to those who want to make this their career. If you enjoy it then good for you (but how can you like people that much? Seriously!?)

Not that I’m not excusing bad service either. Never fear, I’m not defending the staff who abuse you because they wish they were in Europe. Nor the ones who abuse you because they are in Europe but didn’t think they’d have to do this again before hostel bar nights got the better of them.
But if you want people trained to deal with extreme physical exertion, violence, exposure to new cultures, repetition and strict discipline-based hierarchy then go no further. Each business has a pecking order and you are very much aware of where you come in to things. For example, anyone who has had to serve under a psychotic drill sergeant has met a head chef by another uniform.
Like the military, conformity is the first order of business. Everyone is made to dress the same or at least adhere to the same kind of trendy. Then comes the introduction to the powers that be, the rules to help you survive and then you’re off. No detail is missed as the fresh meat is quickly trained, armed with a mis-spelt name badge and pushed out into the field. No soldier is forced to come under enemy fire so quickly.

Much of the conflict in hospitality comes from this simple rule: If you treat someone like you have low expectations of their competency, they will retaliate by failing to meet them.
If someone rude bustles up and clicks their fingers, loudly demanding service whilst ignoring the 35 glasses you’re desperately trying to safely put down, then there are options. Generally in the face of such aggression, the zone becomes free-fire with tactics like the small arms fire of the question attack (one of my favourites):

*snap* “Vodka and lime! Hurry it up!”
“Certainly sir, would you like ice?”
“Yes”
“Which particular vodka? We have quite a range I can list for you”
“Any vodka!”
“Right you are. And the lime? Squeezed or bottled?”
“Squeezed!”
“Tall or short glass?”
“Short, just make it already!”
“Of course sir, sorry about that. (Move a few bottles around and get a glass). “Sorry was that a no to the ice?”

Should the customer be so foolish as to demand to see the manager, I had my own counter-tactic depending on the venue. Customers think this is the Shock And Awe of salvos. But use your environment, pubs and bars are best for this sort of thing. Upon demand I would immediately go find the manager while the customer warmed up whatever tirade about rights and service they had in mind to get me fired with. Upon finding the boss-type I would warn them of the drunk causing trouble at the bar and would offer to fetch the bouncers. Managers are often far too busy abusing their position to deal with drunks. People would then splutter something stupid and bouncers have a lower tolerance threshold than I do. The results of such a situation can be both spectacular and rewarding.
However calling in superior forces is the final resort of the waitslave and can even incur collateral damage depending on the bouncer.
Here’s an example of what happens when the enemy badly underestimates you and your reinforcements
Waitslave: “Sorry but if you keep it up you’re going to have to leave.”
Drunk Idiot: “Yeah? Just what are you gonna do about it?”
Waitslave: “Me? Nothing.” Waitslave gestures towards the door where a bouncer-cum-gorilla with the t-shirt of a five year old and the steroid regime of a champion racehorse awaits.
“Him? He’s going to do something horrible”
“Yeah? Well me and my mates-”

(This is generally all the DI remembers. Especially since he next wakes up in hospital with a bunch of friends that will no longer talk to him. Even if their jaws weren’t wired shut).

But this is combat, the sharp end of the waiter’s friend. You also learn camaraderie, the importance of the group effort and how to take rest on the rare occasion you get it. You may be carrying slabs over your head for the first half of your 13 hour shift to support the people actually serving at the bar. Then you all get a short breather before the late crowds come over the hill like a horde of Russian conscripts.

But the usefulness of making everyone do this? Maybe they’d learn some respect, earn a few callouses and pick up a few effective tricks for when dining out and falling prey to lazy or rude waitslaves that are a disgrace to the apron.

Perhaps there’d be less of an enemy after all.

Want to give a generation some empathy, useful skills and the instinct to kill? Forget national service, national servitude is much more character building.

Finally, one of the great corporations appears to be pulling stumps and heading away from our shores. That's right, Starbucks is closing the majority of it's Australian stores and sulking all the way to the pavilion.

The main story is here:

http://www.theage.com.au/opinion/memo-starbucks-next-time-try-selling-ice-to-eskimos-20080802-3oyp.html?page=-1

But we should be wary. Major corporations much like the common cold or the living dead, once thought to be defeated can come back without warning.

As Barry Humphries said, most American shops should be banned from using the term coffee. They only sell brown drink, nothing more.

But I have to say the American reputation for poor coffee has always mystified me. How does a country with 20 million Italians manage to ruin coffee?