League of Unimpressive Gentlemen

I'm sitting here watching this Q&A special on Australia's relationship with the Monarchy.  Right now, I've heard just about enough from Amanda Vanstone who has to be one of the least impressive individuals of all time.

Apart from her horrid, priggish performance as the Howard Government's Minister for Immigration and Multicultural and Indigenous Affairs, I am reliably informed by my good friend Judi (not her real name), that Ms Vanstone spent every day of her post-Parliamentary 'fall-job' as Australia's Ambassador to Italy, scoffing spag bog in a backstreet Roman trattoria.  Judi, who stumbled across the classy, but admittedly unassuming diner was alerted to Ms Vanstone's culinary habits by the over-sized Australian flag and signed coat of arms hanging on the wall (not, she informs me, by the broken chairs), and was informed by the waiting staff that Her Excellency did not once miss lunch while in-country during her tenure.

By the looks of Ms Vanstone this evening, I would offer that she might not have missed breakfast, morning tea, dinner nor supper, either.

Oh, but Vanstone's not nearly as unimpressive as Angela Bishop – Kar-aest Almighty, won't she just have oh-so-much to recommend her contribution to humanity when she reaches those Pearly Gates!

Australia's international ambassador for the promotion of spag bog.  Pic: http://nicholsoncartoons.com.au

City of Cull-cha

"So what kind of place is Adelaide, anyway?"

My friend, Mr Belfast tells me it's the serial killer capital of Australia.  Other reports make mention of bikie-dominated organised crime.  MasterChef would tell us it's all Asian gastro-culture, or young engineering students who also excel at the culinary arts.  And art itself seems to be a biggie for Adelaide as well; a thriving scene of galleries, live music and comedy.

But what strikes us as we come down off the Adelaide Hills to the flatlands and the coast?  A scary, black, hot-rod ute with male and female mannequin heads sticking up out of the covered tray, their faces set in frightened screams and their manacled feet hanging out the end.  An Australian flag flying above a surfboard bolted to the roof, and bumper stickers featuring skulls, bourbon and porn ... and this one gem which I particularly liked,

"The real forgotten race (White Australians)".

What kind of a place is Adelaide?  Serial killers, bikies, avant garde art installations and racism - I think this particular road user just about covers them all.  Lock yer doors, people!

Welcome to Adelaide, where the locals are real friendly.  Pic: http://www.sodahead.com

Starrs in his eyes

Ringo sighs as he stares out across the street through the foggy murk.  He sucks deeply on his rolley and lets the burning air fill his lungs to near-bursting, enjoying the unbearable pressure before slowly exhaling.  The frigid, opaque air mirrors his dank mood; fifty years ago, he, George, Paul and John had been chased down this very sidewalk (admittedly in reverse order) by fifty screaming, lust-crazed nymphs in miniskirts, go-go boots and all gagging for some hardcore Mersey Beat.

Today, the odd passer-by neither recognises him, nor cares.  It's the last throw of the dice for Ringo; his solo career and hit-and-miss studio collaborations have not kept pace with the party scene he has well and truly over-stayed, and now he's back where it all started.  Back at the office of his Darren Lamb-type manager, begging for a job.  He's desperate; he'll take anything.  He flicks his butt into the mist, flips his collar up over his neck, and heads inside.

Ten minutes later, Ringo's sitting next to a wooden desk, doubled-over with his face in his hands, sobbing.  "This is really all you've got?  A children's TV series about a model train set is all you've got for Ringo Starr, one of the most famous musicians of all time?"

The tall manager nods somberly, "Afraid so".

He sighs, thinking of his maxed-out MasterCards.  "Alright, I'll take it".

Thomas throws Ringo a bone ... a very large bone, as it transpires.  Nine lives, Ringo.  Pic: http://ttte.wikia.com/wiki/Ringo_Starr

Ikea – it's Swedish for "Get me the f@rk outta here!"

The only thing worse than going to Ikea on a Saturday morning, is going to Ikea on a Saturday morning ... with a mission ... with a two year old!  Throw-in a red wine induced, slightly fluffy mental capacity, and needless to say my Saturday morning was like being in labour*.

It's hell!  One spends the first 20 minutes trying to drag Hambones through the one-way-maze of display lounge rooms (which not even a tradie named Sven would have been able to produce with Ikea products alone) in an attempt to get to the bed section before he goes completely bananas and rips one of the flat screen TV's off the flimsy, artificial walls.  But all your efforts are in vain as you dive to save some Swedish, faux designer vase which has been launched off a plush display couch by your talented offspring.  This, of course, releases him from your impatience- and alcohol-induced, rigor mortis grip, amd within a heartbeat, he's halfway up a towering stack of cheap wine glasses.

By the time we did make it to the beds, we were completely shagged and more or less passed-out on the Kings while the darling cherub disappears into the bathroom section to the crash and bang of falling implements. 

I've always known that Ikea on a Saturday morning was hell – it's because irresponsible, hungover parents with kids let their monsters go berserk ... now I get it.  Have a little sympathy, will ya?

Looks bad enough with a hangover – add to it a thousand screaming children, straight in from AusKick, and see how much your $3.99 Swedish meatballs are hardly suitable compensation.  Pic: http://thecuriositiesofacollegekid.blogspot.com

  

* I know, I know – I just throw it in there to get a reaction!

Potty Mouth Blues

Talk about some bad luck this week.  A double bike puncture Friday week ago saw me having to replace both tyres, and the day after picking up the newly shod unit, one of the buggers was already flat.  With that sorted, I lasted 2 days before blowing one of ‘em, and on the first ride after that fixing, the other blew.

“Just bad luck” says the funky technician with the tied-back dreads and low-waisted hipsters.  “You would have been better off buying the more expensive tyres”.  No shit, Sherlock!

To add insult to injury, about 10 minutes before learning of this most recent flat, I nearly came a cropper of a rather aggressive, 8ft tall pedestrian who executed a hazardous runner through some stationery traffic and forced me up against the curb.  This was around midday on Saturday, through the central shopping district, and this dude hadn’t been the first during that hairy, downhill traverse to cause poor old Donkey’s adrenal gland to vamp into hyperdrive, so I gave him all six barrels of abuse, to which he responded by stretching to full height and offering his own a colourful serve of rhetoric, accompanied by a furious red face and shaking fists.

Perhaps I need to calm down a little and hold-off on disparaging remarks calling into question the sexual orientation of peoples’ mothers.

Time for Donkey to take a chill pill before jumping in the saddle.  Pic: http://bmxroots.com/?author=3

Grumpy Old Man

This week I've donned the tweed jacket with patches on the elbows and I'm playing Professor Donkey up front of class, pontificating on all things applied and statistical.

Most of my pupils are older than your average students, and subsequently, their life and professional experience are plain to see from their insight and the thoughtful way they approach their learning, particularly during participative group activities.

But there are a few much younger bods who are straight out of their undergrad studies, and who have comparatively very little life experience. 

Each day I've watched one particular, younger student, clearly struggling with some of the difficult concepts we're exploring through group activities, more or less throw a tantrum and storm-off to work alone, rather than through collaboration with her classmates as intended.  Today, the issue with which she found such exception was related to an iterative exercise exploration and mapping people's ideas and thought processes, which was evolving in organic, radiating thought bubbles from the centre of the table.

After about an hour of complaining bitterly, this young woman completely lost-it with her group members, and demanded that, in order for her to be able to follow the discussion, the ideas they were transposing to the paper needed to be presented linearly (from the top of the page to the bottom, and not radiating in all directions); "I'm sorry, but my mind just doesn't work that way, it's going to have to be changed".

Now I don't want to sound like some old man banging-on about the "younger generation", but aren't the Facebook and Twitter Generation supposed to be more able to think in three dimensions than us paper-based folk?  It's a testament to the patience and empathy of the latter that the former got her way, but the imaginative processes which had been unfolding only a few moments before immediately ceased, and the self-satisfied Ms Tanty was neither encouraged to acknowledge, nor apologise for her atrocious behaviour, and she certainly was unsuccessful in grasping any of the learning on offer.

How about a little less frivolous, self obsession, Gen Y; time to toughen-up and get on board the world around you.

No discussion about Gen Y would be complete without some reference to their media spokesperson, Josh Thomas – Car-iced, with this annoying little twerp at the helm, it's no wonder the rest of us have had a gutful! Pic: http://www.theage.com.au

Fines fail to deter cyclists running red lights

From today's Age:
http://www.theage.com.au/victoria/fines-fail-to-deter-cyclists-running-red-lights-20110410-1d9fb.html


Isn't it great to have such a wonderful, informed, slightly left-leaning daily broadsheet to keep the news on the straight and narrow - Geezus, The Age!  Why not just give Andrew Bolt the Editor in Chief possie and be done with it - far better to incite already alarming driver hatred for cyclists, than to offer the balanced view that we two-wheelers face every day, such as being regularly cut off while in designated bike space, rammed from behind on roundabouts, literally knocked sideways from indicator-shy taxis, having to swerve into traffic to avoid pedestrians walking off curbs without looking while on mobile phones, or watching-out for people making a run for the tram despite the last flash of the 'red man' having been well and truly rested.


Why aren't there covert police operations investigating these, daily events?  And while I'm at it, how about tackling all the ridiculously fast, loud, hotted-up, hoon mobiles and motorbikes, all over the roads in the day and night - perhaps that might be a better use of the law enforcement dollar?


But thanks The Age - this is great stuff.  All I need now is a few more angry Commodore, taxi and 4WD drivers giving me the forks while swerving across bike lanes 'for fun', abusing me for assuming my designated place in front of them at the lights, or pulling-up and opening car doors in no-standing, designated bike zones.


How 'bout some reflection of where we'd all be if the the tens of thousands of cyclists traversing the inner city each day decided to add a couple of wheels and a V8 engine?  How 'bout some balanced perspective? - my elbows, knuckles, knees and nerves depend on it.

Never mind the stabbings and arm robberies.  Criminals; every one of 'em.  
Pic: http://www.theage.com.au/victoria/fines-fail-to-deter-cyclists-running-red-lights-20110410-1d9fb.html

Maintaining his [razor's] edge

Around here, you couldn't throw a brick without hitting either a hair dresser or a barista, so what is it that makes Namir so special?

I have been sitting here waiting for an hour and a quarter now, and I am about to take the chair for my monthly groom; the guy before me laughed as he sat down to the sound of Namir's scissors snip-snip-snipping the air, remarking that a two hour and fifteen minute wait is definitely a record for the barber.

And so it is, on a Saturday afternoon, that if you want to get a trim from this Iraqi powerhouse, you have to wait for it.

If you weren't prepared to, you could go across the street to the fat, scowling Lebanese wannabe, or even further along to the eye-fluttering Vietnamese girls ... they're all the same price, and probably just as good as each other, but they are not Namir.

What's so good about him?  Well it could be that he's a great hairdresser, but I am hardly a reliable judge, given my sparsely tufted pate, and considering most of the guys I see waiting in here seem similarly, follicularly challenged, I don't think professional prowess is really the deciding factor.

So if not the workmanship, one can only assume it's the entertainment that keeps people waiting, and waiting, and waiting.  Namir is a performer; one of those old-style barbers who keeps his scissors snipping at the same rate as his flapping tongue, and he'll maintain the active engagement of his audience in communal conversation beyond the capacity of even the most accomplished, high-earning, business conference facilitator.

And no topic is too great for this well-read Sergeant of the Scissors; news, current affairs, world events– he'll tackle them all it all.  Namir on Libya (after a half-hour of animated, insightful diatribe);

"Anyway, I'm only Namir; I can't change the world.  [Turning to his client] But I can change your world – how'd you like it?"

He's also been known to dish-out candid marital advice to the many beefy, tight-shirted, swarthy clients who are known to frequent Namir's waiting room, and he's not averse to telling them to piss-off if they say something denigrating about their women.

Sensitive, new aged barber-man?  I'm not sure his magazine collection would quite get him across that line, but his waiting room is definitely an entertaining way to while away a Saturday afternoon – there should be more of it.

There's worse places to get a haircut.  Pic: http://www.designswan.com

Drag queens for the kiddies

Oh yeah – I do very much love a provocative title.

Hambones was going nuts this morning, demanding to watch a DVD of his new obsession, Thomas the Tank Engine (urgh – there really is an argument for Warner Bros-type cartoon violence, and that’s it right there).  But because we are fantastic, attentive and engaged parents, I opted for a book instead … well, actually, I opted for the audio CD which tends to come with any children’s book worth its salt these days.  So while I flew ‘round the house packing bags, scoffing toast and scrubbing armpits (don’t worry, I always wash my hands before scrubbing my armpits), I powered-up the hi-fi for the wee one to listen to Margaret Atwood reading her illustrated children’s book, Up in the Tree.

Yes, THE Margaret Atwood; doyen of fine, feminist-leaning literature (I always get into trouble when I go with that description at our book club - I thought this site could use some provocativeness).  Normally she’s writing about the poor plight of women in North America, or about post-apocalyptic mutant freaks and their interactive politics.

But here, she’s released a hand-drawn, minimal colour, illustrated kids’ book that she wrote years ago, while a student.  Whatever your opinion of Ms Atwood’s work (and I’ll admit that mine is not particularly high), this book is a very pleasant, stripped-back piece of honest literature, and I love it.  So does Hambones, as it happens, so we both sat and waited for ‘Aters’ to crank-up and provide us with a whole, new, loving perspective of the story we had been reading for a year or so.

But what do we get?  Some deep-voiced, heavy-breathing drag queen in a hurry to get to her next Abba Tribute Show such that she’s through each page quicker than Hambones and I can even follow them.  Of all people who I thought might have taken the time to inflect surprise, emotion and drama into the tale, it might have been the author.  We’re really sorry to have taken-up so much of your precious time in the studio, Margaret … selfish cow!

Pic: http://www.bloomsbury.com/Up-in-the-Tree/Margaret-Atwood/books/details/9780747594178

Guilty pleasures

Mrs Donkey's on some kind of health kick, so while I count myself a very lucky Donkey indeed to have my darling wife prepare an evening meal for me, tonight all we got was an entre ... soup!  So while most blokes disappear out to their shed of an evening to play video games, drink beer and watch porn, my lonesome, guilty pleasure these days consists of nothing more than to sneak away for an egg and bacon roll. 

C'mon Mrs D, all I ask is for a potato or two!

Mmmm ... better than sex.  Pic: http://www.smh.com.au

What'll it be, Gents?

I'm about to head-off to the pub.  Perhaps that's not a very remarkable statement to you, and indeed, not five or six years ago, it might have been a statement I'd have uttered two or three times a day.  But at my current stage of life, visiting the pub on a Sunday afternoon is somewhat of a foreign experience ... and I'll admit to being a little nervous.

I wonder what happens at the pub these days?  Will we nonchalantly drink our beer at a ridiculous pace in order to passive-aggressively assert our manliness over our friends and their girlfriends?  Will we all fall over ourselves to reach the bar before each other in order to buy more jugs of beer before the ones we have are even empty?  Will we stand on the tables, crushing ashtrays and knocking glasses over as we shout Irish rebel songs to unknown women across the thoroughfare?  Will we spill beer all over ourselves and walk around looking as though we've wet ourselves?  Will we wet ourselves?

I really don't know what happens at the pub these days, but I am hoping that my years of training have prepared me such that I'll be able to blend right in.

This was too good to pass-up; this pic that came up on a Google Images search for 'beer'.  The source is The Tele (http://www.dailytelegraph.com.au) ... need I say more?

A gutful has been had

As if sitting in a dark room in front of a computer all day wasn’t cause enough for my sallow, jaundiced complexion, I now have even fewer motivations to step out into the light.

Some years ago I came to develop skills enough to produce a damn fine espresso beyond the capabilities of most of the grease-monkeys serving up their very special brand of rank, brown dish water in the local cafes, so there’s four or five fewer trips out of the house each day.  Fortunately for me, I’ve still got a massive, blubbery belly to fill, so the lure of tasty morsels still has me hooked…

Or at least it had, until today.  Today, while out grabbing some lunch, the penny dropped on something I’ve had an inkling of for some time, but was never able to completely put my finger on.  I am sorry, Food-Preparing People of the World, but a thin smear of mashed avocado does not constitute a legitimate ingredient, deserving of the privilege of ‘dish naming rights’ (a-la the ‘A’ in BLAT).  Where do you get off suggesting that greeny-brown skid-mark is adding anything to my sandwich experience?  At home, I’ll go to the trouble myself of cutting out big, creamy chunks of avocado flesh for my filling, and enjoy the wonderful flavour and texture that its addition brings to my life.  When I’m out, and I’m paying big moolar for my food, I expect fantastic, luscious, even cocaine-laced chunks of avocado to ooze out of my sandwich, dribble down my chin and form rotting brown stains on my lap – I don’t just want a serviceable meal, I want a dining experience.  I mean, it’s not as though you’d get away with ketchup being the constitution of your tomato sandwich, now is it?

So, I’ve had a gutful of the short cuts and cost savings; I’m staying home where I can get a decent feed, from now on, and I’m gonna eat as many avocado chunks as I dare.  When they happen upon my bloated, pale, lifeless corpse hunched over my laptop in the dark in a few years time, no doubt they’ll have to bash a whole in the roof and crane me out – but better fat and dead than … y’know.

Pic: http://typeaparent.com/