So my Nanowrimo campaign has ended successfully. I made it to 50178 words, with just over four hours to spare, in further demonstration that not only can I produce copious amounts of nonsense in a relatively short time span, I can also do it according to a carefully managed schedule. A big thanks to everyone who got behind me to get it done. And a raspberry to those who thought they could stop me.
It still needs some fairly heavy duty proof reading, but if you want a copy of the manuscript let me know. And if you pledged to sponsor me, I’ll be ‘round to collect sometime before Christmas.
Make of that what you will.
Garry with 2 Rs
30 November 2012
28 November 2012
I'll Show You Sexist
Sorry, but it’s time for another pseudo-political rant. I do try to keep these at a minimum, but I’m sure I’m not the only one who’s more than a little fed up with the quality of ‘debate’ from our federal politicians of late.
Let’s get the biases out of the way first; yes, I lean slightly to the right. No; I probably wasn’t thinking of voting Labor anytime soon anyway. But my rant isn’t really aimed at Labor (although they get the brunt of it by virtue of being in government); it’s aimed at the culture of federal parliament in general.
Firstly, I’m a little bit sick of the overuse/misuse of the word ‘sexist’. And don’t get me started on ‘misogynist’. Having dabbled with a spot of chauvinism myself, I feel qualified to remark that the speech writers charged with driving the rhetoric of political debate either don’t realise that they are mischaracterising what these words mean, in which case they should be fired, or they are fully aware that they’re mischaracterising what these words mean, in which case they should be fired.
It’s old news by now, but just for context let’s look at the attacks on Federal Opposition Leader Tony Abbott.
It’s not sexist to disagree with a woman, particularly if that woman happens to be the leader of the party opposing yours. Questioning the competence and integrity of a government cannot be called misogynistic simply because the Prime Minister is female. One does not automatically earn the label ‘sexist’ by being a member of the Catholic Church.
And – most strikingly of all – it is not sexist to demand the resignation of the speaker if he’s been caught sending highly inappropriate and - yep – sexist messages to his staff concerning female body parts. As rousing as Prime Minister Julia Gillard’s response to this was, as and much as it was a great relief to hear her speak with some sincere passion as opposed to the bland, focus-grouped rhetoric that has come to characterise the Labor party since the Kevin 07 election campaign, the fact that she continued to support such an obviously messed up man right up until he resigned, and that she then jumped up and down calling Tony Abbott, instead of Peter Slipper, a misogynist left me a little bewildered.
Tony’s got issues, there’s no denying it. But I really don’t see how ‘sexism’ is supposed to be one of them.
Fast forward a few weeks and now the Prime Minster has come under renewed scrutiny over some bank records from years ago that might or might not show (if she would just do the right thing and confirm what happened) that Julia Gillard, who was working as a lawyer at the time, was involved in a rort of union funds. Or that her boyfriend at the time was, and gave her the money, or not. Whatever.
The point is that the response from the Labor party, rather than to cooperate and demonstrate to the people they are elected to represent exactly what happened, has been to come out swinging, accusing the Opposition of a smear campaign. Apparently seeking integrity and full disclosure from members of parliament is not as important as ignoring/changing the meaning words to manufacture the idea that the opposition leader has a problem with women. It’s come to the point where the opposition has wisely chosen to have Julie Bishop, rather than Tony Abbott, spearhead the attack on the Prime Minister’s credibility, because she’s obviously not sexist because she’s a woman (just have a sit and think about that one for a bit).
But for me, the clincher came earlier today, when Steve Gibbons broadcast a message on Twitter, in which he called Deputy Opposition Leader Julie Bishop a bimbo, and Opposition Leader Tony Abbot a douche bag.
First, let’s deal with the fact that the quality of political debate in our country has now descended to the level that small children get in trouble for in the playground. Seriously – we teach our kids that this is a bad way to behave. And here are our federal politicians going at it like naughty school kids. That’s bad enough.
But then Steve realised he’d gone and left a muddy footprint all over the hypocrisy line by using what was perceived to a be a sexist term to attack the opposition. He issued a retraction, in which he apologised for using the word ‘bimbo’ and substituted the word ‘fool’. As if that’s any better.
And let me see if I have this straight: If you call the Deputy Opposition Leader (who happens to be a woman) a bimbo, you have to issue an apology because that’s inappropriate, but if you call the Opposition Leader (who happens not to be a woman) a douche bag in an open forum, then that’s fair play. I don’t think I could construct a more ridiculous or ironic situation if I tried: Apparently our leaders are obliged to treat women differently to men, because if they don’t they’re being sexist.
How the hell did that happen?
I don’t even care which ones are and aren’t sexist anymore, the term is so over-used and over-applied that it has practically become meaningless, at least in the political polylogue. I’m just about at the point where I will vote without question for the first party to propose a policy – any policy – without first using it to create a wedge against the other party.
Make of that what you will.
Garry with 2 Rs
Let’s get the biases out of the way first; yes, I lean slightly to the right. No; I probably wasn’t thinking of voting Labor anytime soon anyway. But my rant isn’t really aimed at Labor (although they get the brunt of it by virtue of being in government); it’s aimed at the culture of federal parliament in general.
Firstly, I’m a little bit sick of the overuse/misuse of the word ‘sexist’. And don’t get me started on ‘misogynist’. Having dabbled with a spot of chauvinism myself, I feel qualified to remark that the speech writers charged with driving the rhetoric of political debate either don’t realise that they are mischaracterising what these words mean, in which case they should be fired, or they are fully aware that they’re mischaracterising what these words mean, in which case they should be fired.
It’s old news by now, but just for context let’s look at the attacks on Federal Opposition Leader Tony Abbott.
It’s not sexist to disagree with a woman, particularly if that woman happens to be the leader of the party opposing yours. Questioning the competence and integrity of a government cannot be called misogynistic simply because the Prime Minister is female. One does not automatically earn the label ‘sexist’ by being a member of the Catholic Church.
And – most strikingly of all – it is not sexist to demand the resignation of the speaker if he’s been caught sending highly inappropriate and - yep – sexist messages to his staff concerning female body parts. As rousing as Prime Minister Julia Gillard’s response to this was, as and much as it was a great relief to hear her speak with some sincere passion as opposed to the bland, focus-grouped rhetoric that has come to characterise the Labor party since the Kevin 07 election campaign, the fact that she continued to support such an obviously messed up man right up until he resigned, and that she then jumped up and down calling Tony Abbott, instead of Peter Slipper, a misogynist left me a little bewildered.
Tony’s got issues, there’s no denying it. But I really don’t see how ‘sexism’ is supposed to be one of them.
Fast forward a few weeks and now the Prime Minster has come under renewed scrutiny over some bank records from years ago that might or might not show (if she would just do the right thing and confirm what happened) that Julia Gillard, who was working as a lawyer at the time, was involved in a rort of union funds. Or that her boyfriend at the time was, and gave her the money, or not. Whatever.
The point is that the response from the Labor party, rather than to cooperate and demonstrate to the people they are elected to represent exactly what happened, has been to come out swinging, accusing the Opposition of a smear campaign. Apparently seeking integrity and full disclosure from members of parliament is not as important as ignoring/changing the meaning words to manufacture the idea that the opposition leader has a problem with women. It’s come to the point where the opposition has wisely chosen to have Julie Bishop, rather than Tony Abbott, spearhead the attack on the Prime Minister’s credibility, because she’s obviously not sexist because she’s a woman (just have a sit and think about that one for a bit).
But for me, the clincher came earlier today, when Steve Gibbons broadcast a message on Twitter, in which he called Deputy Opposition Leader Julie Bishop a bimbo, and Opposition Leader Tony Abbot a douche bag.
First, let’s deal with the fact that the quality of political debate in our country has now descended to the level that small children get in trouble for in the playground. Seriously – we teach our kids that this is a bad way to behave. And here are our federal politicians going at it like naughty school kids. That’s bad enough.
But then Steve realised he’d gone and left a muddy footprint all over the hypocrisy line by using what was perceived to a be a sexist term to attack the opposition. He issued a retraction, in which he apologised for using the word ‘bimbo’ and substituted the word ‘fool’. As if that’s any better.
And let me see if I have this straight: If you call the Deputy Opposition Leader (who happens to be a woman) a bimbo, you have to issue an apology because that’s inappropriate, but if you call the Opposition Leader (who happens not to be a woman) a douche bag in an open forum, then that’s fair play. I don’t think I could construct a more ridiculous or ironic situation if I tried: Apparently our leaders are obliged to treat women differently to men, because if they don’t they’re being sexist.
How the hell did that happen?
I don’t even care which ones are and aren’t sexist anymore, the term is so over-used and over-applied that it has practically become meaningless, at least in the political polylogue. I’m just about at the point where I will vote without question for the first party to propose a policy – any policy – without first using it to create a wedge against the other party.
Make of that what you will.
Garry with 2 Rs
16 November 2012
The Write-Me-Back Falls: Episode 2
Previously on Cum Tacent Clament…
“We’ll always have Paris!” yelled Oxfam Girl as she vanished into the blackness. I don’t think I ever wrote about her in Paris, but that’s women for you.
“That wasn’t very sporting,” I said indignantly.
“Who said I was going to play fair?” asked the woman in black, as with a nonchalant flick of her head she slipped back her hood revealing…
And now, the next thrilling instalment of Write-Me-Back Falls:
“Oxfam Girl?’ I spluttered in surprise.
“Of course it’s me,” said the woman in black, who did indeed appear to somehow be Oxfam Girl. “Don’t you ever read your own blog? You must have figured out by now that any time a mysterious unknown woman shows up, it always ends up being me.”
“Yes,” I admitted, “But I just… Did you just push yourself off a cliff?”
“I did,” she said cheekily, “but you must have known I’d be back. You can’t push someone off the Write-Me-Back falls in the middle of a thunderstorm and expect that she’s not coming back.”
“I suppose that’s true,” I conceded, “it’s just that normally people wait until after they’ve disappeared before they reappear. And they don’t make a habit of paradoxically making themselves disappear in the first place.”
“Quite right,” said an indignant voice behind me, with the sort of tone that would make people who like the sound of finger nails on black boards wince. Just my luck. What was she doing here?
“Biscuit Lady. How lovely to see you again,” I said, in my most gentlemanly voice.
“That’s Ms Lady to you, young man,” sniffed BL, “and how dare you let me catch you out here with a poor defenceless young lady in the middle of a thunder storm. For shame!”
“What do you mean defenceless?” I asked. “Last time I saw her, she was having a light sabre duel with you on my front lawn. And she was winning.”
“Silence!” demanded Biscuit Lady.
“I don’t think that encounter was actually real,” added Oxfam Girl unhelpfully.
“Shut up both of you,” I snapped. “This is my blog! I’ll be the one who decides what’s real and what isn’t, thank you very much.”
“My dear boy,” said Algernon Moncrieff, who had materialised beside me, “You’re currently standing on top of Write-Me-Back Falls in the middle of a storm, having an argument with an imaginary girlfriend and an anthropomorphic projection of out-dated societal expectations. And, might I add, you’re losing. Are you sure you’re in the best position to be making reality judgements?” I turned around to punch him as hard as I could, but he had already disappeared. Besides, he did have a point.
“Okay, fine,” I said, since doing anything other than agreeing with them probably wasn’t going to get me anywhere. “If you’re both here and ganging up on me, it’s obvious that something fairly heavy duty is going on my subconscious. What’s on your minds?”
“It’s your mind, not ours,” sniffed Biscuit Lady. Trust her to expect me to take responsibility for everything.
“And how do you know you’re not just wasting time while you’re supposed to be writing NaNoWriMo?” asked Oxfam Girl, who was developing a nasty habit of missing the point completely.
“Stop changing the subject and tell me what’s wrong,” I yelled.
“We can’t,” explained OG in a voice that implied I was missing something flagrantly obvious, “We’re not all here yet.”
“Oh good grief,” I groaned. “Who else could we possibly be waiting for?”
“For me, of course,” said a voice behind me. And since I was standing with my back to the cliff edge, that was a little disconcerting. I turned around slowly and realised that it couldn’t possibly have been anyone else.
“Nice of you to join us,” I said to…
TO BE CONTINUED...
“We’ll always have Paris!” yelled Oxfam Girl as she vanished into the blackness. I don’t think I ever wrote about her in Paris, but that’s women for you.
“That wasn’t very sporting,” I said indignantly.
“Who said I was going to play fair?” asked the woman in black, as with a nonchalant flick of her head she slipped back her hood revealing…
And now, the next thrilling instalment of Write-Me-Back Falls:
“Oxfam Girl?’ I spluttered in surprise.
“Of course it’s me,” said the woman in black, who did indeed appear to somehow be Oxfam Girl. “Don’t you ever read your own blog? You must have figured out by now that any time a mysterious unknown woman shows up, it always ends up being me.”
“Yes,” I admitted, “But I just… Did you just push yourself off a cliff?”
“I did,” she said cheekily, “but you must have known I’d be back. You can’t push someone off the Write-Me-Back falls in the middle of a thunderstorm and expect that she’s not coming back.”
“I suppose that’s true,” I conceded, “it’s just that normally people wait until after they’ve disappeared before they reappear. And they don’t make a habit of paradoxically making themselves disappear in the first place.”
“Quite right,” said an indignant voice behind me, with the sort of tone that would make people who like the sound of finger nails on black boards wince. Just my luck. What was she doing here?
“Biscuit Lady. How lovely to see you again,” I said, in my most gentlemanly voice.
“That’s Ms Lady to you, young man,” sniffed BL, “and how dare you let me catch you out here with a poor defenceless young lady in the middle of a thunder storm. For shame!”
“What do you mean defenceless?” I asked. “Last time I saw her, she was having a light sabre duel with you on my front lawn. And she was winning.”
“Silence!” demanded Biscuit Lady.
“I don’t think that encounter was actually real,” added Oxfam Girl unhelpfully.
“Shut up both of you,” I snapped. “This is my blog! I’ll be the one who decides what’s real and what isn’t, thank you very much.”
“My dear boy,” said Algernon Moncrieff, who had materialised beside me, “You’re currently standing on top of Write-Me-Back Falls in the middle of a storm, having an argument with an imaginary girlfriend and an anthropomorphic projection of out-dated societal expectations. And, might I add, you’re losing. Are you sure you’re in the best position to be making reality judgements?” I turned around to punch him as hard as I could, but he had already disappeared. Besides, he did have a point.
“Okay, fine,” I said, since doing anything other than agreeing with them probably wasn’t going to get me anywhere. “If you’re both here and ganging up on me, it’s obvious that something fairly heavy duty is going on my subconscious. What’s on your minds?”
“It’s your mind, not ours,” sniffed Biscuit Lady. Trust her to expect me to take responsibility for everything.
“And how do you know you’re not just wasting time while you’re supposed to be writing NaNoWriMo?” asked Oxfam Girl, who was developing a nasty habit of missing the point completely.
“Stop changing the subject and tell me what’s wrong,” I yelled.
“We can’t,” explained OG in a voice that implied I was missing something flagrantly obvious, “We’re not all here yet.”
“Oh good grief,” I groaned. “Who else could we possibly be waiting for?”
“For me, of course,” said a voice behind me. And since I was standing with my back to the cliff edge, that was a little disconcerting. I turned around slowly and realised that it couldn’t possibly have been anyone else.
“Nice of you to join us,” I said to…
TO BE CONTINUED...
07 November 2012
The Write-Me-Back Falls: Episode 1
So Nanowrimo is going well. You can see the progress metre
on the right side bar showing you my journey to 50,000. I’m about a day behind
schedule, but there’s plenty of time to make that up.
Strange things start to happen to your brain when you start investing this much mental energy into one pursuit. The other night, somewhere between choreographing a space-age bar fight and staging a daring escape from a locked cargo hold, I had a visit from an old friend. Someone I hadn’t seen for many years, and to be honest, hadn’t expected to see again. I certainly never expected to hear her knocking on my door at two in the morning.
Strange things start to happen to your brain when you start investing this much mental energy into one pursuit. The other night, somewhere between choreographing a space-age bar fight and staging a daring escape from a locked cargo hold, I had a visit from an old friend. Someone I hadn’t seen for many years, and to be honest, hadn’t expected to see again. I certainly never expected to hear her knocking on my door at two in the morning.
What followed was complete and unadulterated nonsense, but
by now you’re almost certainly not reading this blog because you’re expecting
it to make sense.
Gw2Rs: Oxfam Girl? What the hell are you doing here? I’m
supposed to be writing a science fiction novel in a month, to say nothing of
the other side projects I have on the go. I haven’t got time to waste writing
made-up adventures for some imaginary girlfriend I haven’t seen since I was in
Europe.
Oxfam Girl: Shhh. I need your help, Sugar.
Gw2Rs: I am not your sugar. What’s wrong?
Oxfam Girl: I think someone’s trying to kill me.
Gw2Rs: What makes you say that?
Oxfam Girl: The last three nights I’ve been visited by a
mysterious stranger who does nothing except say “your time has come” and then
disappear.
Gw2Rs: Wow. That is mysterious. What does this stranger look
like?
Oxfam Girl: Sometimes she’s wearing a jet black robe with a
dark hood.
Gw2Rs: Sounds about right.
Oxfam Girl: Other times she’s wearing red bathers.
Gw2Rs: Eh?
Oxfam Girl: I don’t know. You have a weird imagination.
Gw2Rs: Me? I’m not the one who… yeah okay, whatever. Why is
she trying to kill you?
Oxfam Girl: That’s what we’re going to find out. Follow me.
Gw2Rs: Where are we going?
Oxfam Girl: Wherever we have to. Just hold this quokka and
think of home.
Gw2Rs: … ? … No.
We teleported anyway. Next thing I knew we were standing on
an ominously jagged cliff top in the middle of a thunderstorm. Very dramatic. A
bolt of lightning out over the ocean revealed the woman in black standing a few
feet from us. Before I even had a chance to start writing a witty and
internally asynchronous introductory monologue for her, she calmly walked over
and pushed Oxfam Girl off the edge.
“We’ll always have Paris!” yelled Oxfam Girl as she vanished
into the blackness. I don’t think I ever wrote about her in Paris, but that’s
women for you.
“That wasn’t very sporting,” I said indignantly.
“Who said I was going to play fair?” asked the woman in
black, as with a nonchalant flick of her head she slipped back her hood
revealing…
TO BE CONTINUED
Because I’m really supposed to be working on my Nanowrimo
story right now.
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