Perhaps some middle ground?

Further to my experiences yesterday of professionals providing we punters with a littletoo much detail about the machinations of their responsibilities in theinterests of outstanding customer service, today we have an all-too-different approach on offer.

Now to be clear up front, today’s long haul flight is my first in many years which has not been with an Asian carrier, and this is my first time ever to have flown with Australia’s national carrier on any journey longer than a couple of hours, so the approach to customer service that is being displayed by the flight crew today may simply be a reflection of cultural diversity.

If one were to view the key to herding passengers on and off a plane and through the lengthy flight as being a customer service exercise best executed with a gentle, carrot and stick mentality, then one can clearly see from amongst the Southeast Asian carriers a pleasant, gentle, overly hospitable manner to coax people along, much as you might expect to experience when invited to share a meal in the home of a Thai or Vietnamese host.

This contrasts dramatically with our Australian hosts who are today dispensing with the carrot, grabbing the stick in two, muscular, tattooed sheep-shearer’s arms, and adopting a threatening stance while staring down any potential opposition with aggressively flared nostrils.  Today, we passengers are being subject to a high rotation of disgruntled, waspish directions from the ageing purser in her most condescending, School Marmish sneer;

“I would like to remind all passengers that the Captain has put the fasten seat belt light on and you are all to sit down immediately”, followed a couple of minutes later by an even more snidey,

“Passengers are again reminded to stop getting out of your seats”, and a few minutes later – thoroughly pissed now at the passenger body’s general affront to her authority,

“Right, now … for the safety of all the passengers you need to siddown and keep your seat belt on!”.

And then, in a final, exasperated attempt to address the insolence of the anarchic, seat-belt flaunting passengers throughout the cabin, our irritated purser must have gone to a higher authority.  The Captain’s voice crackled aggressively on the intercom,

“Ah it has been brought to my attention that passengers are not observing the fasten seat belt sign.  May I remind you that I control this vessel and it is not your decision to walk around the cabin … it’s mine!”.

Ha!  If there’s one thing that’s gonna drive this passenger to mile-high lawlessness, it’s a direct order from someone in self-imposed authority!  Two days; two customer service don’ts!  How ironic that Australia’s national carrier is currently in political hot water at home for sending all its maintenance services offshore to Asia; the exact place which would serve it well in terms of learning some improved approaches to customer service.

The purser on today's flight delivered a pretty good rendition of the embittered, angry school marm.  Pic: http://www.flickr.com/photos/leahpraytor/5042543533/

Vocational Training

Every job in the world has its perks … and its lurks; the butcher is a legally sanctioned killing machine who gets to walk around all day with a lethal weapon at his hip … but spends his days up to his nuts in guts; the baker makes tonnes of dough*, but is up at 1am and covered in flour; the candlestick maker does a roaring trade each year during Earth Hour … but has hands covered in burns; the primary school teacher get 38.4 weeks a year holiday … but those bloody kids; and the podiatrist gets around in a Maserati with a hooker on his lap … but suffers a daily ordeal of toe-jam and horny old nails.

Obviously, in business as in life, there’s no such thing as a free lunch, and in order to enjoy the good, you have to put up with a bit of the bad.

Here in Vanuatu, the good is most certainly the fantastic climate, the laid-back pace, the wonderful people and the brilliant, sparkling sea, and understandably it is not uncommon for adventurous folk from places like Australia and New Zealand to move here and sign-up for an extended, working tropical holiday through managing small scale tourism businesses such as resorts and restaurants.

Over Easter, the Donkeys visited one such establishment where a young couple taking a break from a year or two on the backpacking trail, had recently arrived to service the needs of their fellow travellers, and at the same time, enjoy living on a stunning coastline in one of the world’s few remaining tropical coastal wildernesses.

But instead of being happy with the perks they enjoy every day, at three weeks, they are at each other’s (and their resort guests’) throats; he wanting to hang-out all afternoon with the young [and female] guests and she wanting to visit the local tourist sites because, as she would tell all within earshot, “it’s not fair.  I have been here for weeks and I never get to go anywhere”.

Every job has its perks, people … and its lurks.  The explosive sunrises, azure reefs and balmy evenings aren’t free; you might also have to do some work, like stock the larders, fix things, clean things and look after guests.  One thing’s for sure, as someone who paid for my explosive sunrises, azure reefs and balmy evenings, I was not entirely happy with the nagging lurk of a disgruntled and dysfunctional resort management. 

Still, life has a way of working itself out, and looking around at the haunted looks of my fellow guests every time one of these managers walked out onto the balcony, I have a feeling that they may soon find themselves enjoying far more ‘me time’ than they’d signed-up for.  It’s called hospitality for a reason … and it aint about you!

Bit of a mixed metaphor here, but the point is that even these guys suffer lurks in return for the perks of their jobs … and they don’t look to be complaining.  Pic:  http://www.robertabaird.com

*urgh – that was terrible

Scott Morrison; MP, racist … bully

Scott Morrison’s interview with the ABC’s chief politicalcorrespondent, Sabra Lane, this morning from Adelaide was an exercise in everything that is rotten about politics in Australia today.  The leaderless cancer eating away at the ranks of the ALP is so malignant that the Opposition knows well it need do absolutely nothing to get into power in September … nothing at all … not even needing to develop workable, articulate or costed policies.

This was certainly clear from a snarling Scott Morrison this morning whose aggression right from the go-get soon descended into paranoiac accusations of the ABC meddling in Coalition affairs, and eventually into outright bullying in his juvenile attempts to disguise the clear fact that the Coalition has not even attempted to cost what they are claiming they will do to ‘stop the boats’.

So it seems that Mr Morrison and his Coalition need not exercise any of the baby-kissing traits of conventional politics in the lead-up to this election.  They simply do not feel they need to be liked, and discernible, well-developed and articulated policies appear to be unnecessary also.

No one’s arguing that our current lot are doing very much for our best interests at present, but at least there is some compassion in the way they talk to and treat the electorate.  Not so Mr Morrison and his ilk.  I mourn the loss of humanity as a trait we value in our leaders.

Introducing the Coalition’s new media advisers.  Pic: http://csu301d.wordpress.com

Gen Y stinks

It's not as though anyone pretends to love catching the tram to work ... especially at this time of year.  I mean it's crowded, damp, cold; there's never a seat for you to park your weary butt after dragging it across city blocks in order to hook-up with the illogical tram routes, and people are generally rude and as grumpy as you.

As if all that's not bad enough, this morning I had to stand next to two young guys who I am pretty sure ... hang-on ... [sniff sniff] ... yeah, I'm sure they had both been rolling in poo.  I lifted my nose (now on auto-shutdown) over the top of my magazine, and dared to view the source of this funk, but on viewing these fragrant specimens, I could see no brown smears, nor any other visible sign of soiling on their outer garments.  But I could smell them ... perhaps not poo after all, but certainly a rather putrid mixture of cigarette smoke and the stale odour of unwashed bodies.

As I retched and searched around for a place to stand at the other end of the carriage, these two stinky youths started talking about a girl of their acquaintance, whom they supposed was "going to be there later", and who they were expecting would bring some of her friends, and, from their leering tone, these two were pretty certain they were going to see some action as a result

Whaaaaaah?

Now I've never pretended to be an attractive Donkey, but even back in the day, when I was even more pimply, whiney and awkward than I am now, I still went to a lot of trouble to make an effort, and one of the first things one learnt when one was trying to attract a mate, was that the reek of unwashed adolescent boy was almost certainly the first criteria on that massive list of rejectable pre-requisites that the Presentation Nuns used to instil in their young borders, right from Day 1 (I know what you're thinking, perhaps Donkey might have had a little more luck if he'd cast the net a bit wider than the local Catholic girls' school – but we'll deal with that another time).

But the point is, one made an effort ... if not to smell like the Celvin Klein counter at Myer, then at least not to reek like stale faecal matter.

Still, these young turds thought they were in with a chance, and from the sound of their conversation, they didn't appear to be complete strangers to the female flesh.  So was it the young Donkey who was wrong? – going by my track record, it's possible – or are young women these days into the stinky stuff?  Either way, Melbourne's unfortunate commuters ought not to have to eat the shit sandwich yet again, this time by being forcibly exposed to the offensive courting rituals of Gen Y.

"Yeah Dude, let's go get some action".  Pic : http://8mm16mmfilmscollectibles.com

Now for today's puff news piece

I can always rely on China to haul me out of a writer's block.  Further to my recent remarks about the poor status of animal welfare at the Adelaide Zoo, this report in today's The Age is completely outrageous!

There is just so much wrong with this article that I dunno where to start; a zoo (being an institution supposedly in the business of protecting the lives of animals) breeding a tiger and a lion ... for what reason?  Or were they just locked-up in the same cage together? 

Then there's the mother abandoning the cubs (which under the circumstances is probably completely natural, even though the in-depth analysis from the reporter attributed this outcome to "unknown reasons"), resulting in two of them dying of weakness [presumably from malnutrition/starvation].  Sure, this sort of thing would happen in the wild, but isn't there supposed to be supervisory care of animals in zoos?  Surely the zoo staff would be tasked with paying extra special attention to newborn cubs?

And then there's the statement, "...zoo staff found a dog ... to feed the surviving cubs".  Ah geez.  Pretty lucky to have that dog hanging around – and she looks so impressed in the photo, too.  What sort of outfit is this?

There's so much more going on with this story than has been articulated in this three sentence grab.  I don't know who I am more angry with, a Government which treats its caged animals only slightly better than many of its citizens, or The Age, for spewing out this regurgitated, Chinese propoganda. 

And don't be blaming all this on on-line content killing the print media – I paid the full $1.70 for the print version, and that's where the story was!  Grrrr.

This poor girl's eyes are as dead as my faith in the international community to support both human and animal rights in China.  Pic: http://www.theage.com.au

Editorialising

Partly because I am so high brow and intellectual, but mostly ‘cause it’s the only channel on the TV here, I’ve been watching a lot of BBC World News lately.  I’ve noticed that in the midst of the hard hitting analysis and commentary, a lot of the reporters try to editorialise, and show a bit of flare, but with only very rare success.

For example one reporter, in describing the Libyan rebels’ brave stance against Gaddafi’s ruthless military juggernaut, said “…despite the sporadic mobilisation and apparent lack of discipline amongst the rebels, the militia leaders assure NATO that their forces are indeed well organised.  From here at the front line, however, one could only describe their position as organised chaos”.  Hmm, pithy - not bad, I suppose.

Or how about this, “for now, the world is asking, is there a cure for the US’ Afghanistan headache?”, lame!

And tonight, this one nit wit described Gaddafi at one of his recent, rare press appearances as wearing “his trade mark dark glasses”.  Hmm … trade mark?  “Distinctive”, I’ll give you, but surely if Muammar Gaddafi’s got a trade mark, it’s more in the line of political and military obstinacy and ruthless, blood-thirsty butchering and maiming of innocent civilians.

If you’re going to free-style it off the auto-cue, BBC World, at least have a go at keeping things on the straight and narrow as you fall over yourselves trying to let fly with the witty one-liners.

TM

Pic: http://www.thewashingtonnote.com

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

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!

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

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

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/