Check This

I’m still struggling to find work over here.

The rejection letters are piling up, my motivation to persist in what appears to be a futile endeavour is at an all-time low. You can only expend so much energy for zero result before the idea of expending ever increasing amounts of energy at an increased rate begins to look less like diligence and more like time wasting. It’s been said: 

Winners never quit and quitters never win. But those who never win and never quit are idiots.

I was complaining about this to a colleague this week who told me ever so lovingly and socially aware…ly that I have a roof and a part time job already and I have food. I should really check my privilege.

What should have happened next is this:

I glared at her right in her socially conscious eyes, lowered my voice to that dangerous level my friends could tell you about, and paused while I waited for the strings section to start. Just quietly at first, but with the sort of tremulous crescendo that tells you someone’s about to say something very significant (Thanks Aaron Sorkin).

“Check my privilege? I know exactly where my privilege is. How could I miss it? It’s been shoved down my throat every day since I was eight. Every time I’ve achieved something, only to be told it’s not worth as much as the girls’ achievements because of gender equality. Every time I’ve striven as hard as I can to meet the standard expected of me, only to see the standard lowered to assist those who come after me, because of equal opportunities. Every time I’ve filled out the diversity section of a job application, knowing full well that my “privilege” is placing me at a marked disadvantage (Piano part comes in here).

“I’m aware that my demographic does not face the same challenges as other ethnic, social or minority groups. My challenges are very different and I accept that. But I didn’t choose to be part of my demographic any more than anyone else did. I had access to a safe upbringing and a quality education that others might not have had access to, it’s true. But I got that opportunity because my parents worked damned hard and gave up a lot of stuff for me and my sister. If being white placed my parents at an economic advantage, I don’t think they got the memo (inspirational French horn solo). Respectfully, they might have done a lot better for themselves in Darwin if they were Greek or Chinese. There were plenty of other white boys at my school who went on to achieve nothing at all, so don’t tell me the things I do don’t count because I’m male, middle-class and white. 

"And if you call me Anglo-anything I’m going to punch you right in your racially insensitive throat. I’m Australian. I have never been to England and am not allowed to even if I wanted to, which I don’t. I despise England, its culture, its cricket team and everything it stands for as a country (Floor toms. Oh yeah, this is awesome). If you have a problem with my past, then fine, but if you call me Anglo again you're about to have a problem with my present.

"And I’m not even saying things have to change to help me out. I’m saying that when I raise a problem I’m having, don’t just ignore me because "people like me shouldn’t have problems". If I complain about a service that isn’t working, don’t expect me to leave you alone and fill out a form on the internet and then ignore me again. And if I tell you that I’m struggling, don’t send me into counselling to teach me that everything is fine and I’m just thinking wrong. (Bright trumpets and the sound of crowds cheering in the background! Cop that!)

"I didn’t choose any of this. I was born male, white and clever. I’m pretty sure you weren’t born self-righteous, judgmental and rude. Check your attitude, bitch! (booming brass finale, roll end credits)”.

What actually happened next is this:

“I suppose you’re right.” 

And I walked away and calmly got on with my day, because the same privileged upbringing that she so resents in me has taught me to be polite and not yell at people in the street. And I left my symphony orchestra at home today.

Look, I’m not saying she doesn’t have a point. But it’s one thing to help the “under-privileged” with extra concessions. It’s quite another to tell me that nothing I do, say or experience is worth a damn because I’m a white man. And don’t tell me no-one is saying that. I’m well aware of that. But I’m also sure I’m not the only white man who feels like he’s supposed to apologise for who he is every time he needs something and has had enough. Is it any wonder mental illness and suicide rates among men are out of control in our country? Fortunately, my privileged background, upbringing and education have made me strong enough and smart enough not to hurt myself or anyone else, but that's not the case for everyone.

Next time you ask me to check my privilege, consider well what might happen if I did.

Garry with 2 Rs

Let Us All Rejoice

Australia Day is one of my favourite days of the year, probably second only to Christmas. For me, it’s a great day to spend time with mates, celebrating the freedom, lifestyle and general awesomeness that characterises our country.

Yet for some reason it continues to polarise peopleinto camps of those who love to get together and have a great time and those who think that’s a terrible idea.

It’s been particularly trendy this year for people to post opinion pieces about how Australia shouldn’t be celebrating. That we’re all just drunken bogans and that doesn’t count as a culture. That we shouldn’t be celebrating the arrival of European settlers because it’s distressing to the indigenous population. That Australia is a crap place and what have got to be happy about anyway?

With the qualified exception of sensitivity to Indigenous Australians, these are all stupid ideas. And even that sensitivity seems to be the domain of inner-city intellectuals, rather than anything generated by Aborigines living in traditional lifestyles. Living and working among aboriginal people up here, I’ve never heard anyone use the term “invasion day” except on the news from Canberra.

Honestly, I’d be open to changing the date, but not to moving the celebration away from summer. And I’ve had about enough of being told that enjoying my great country by having a barbeque with friends isn’t a sufficiently sophisticated way to celebrate.

There are plenty of places around the world where these people could go if they’re concerned that my celebration of life doesn’t have enough cello ensembles. Those are the sort of places that don’t go in for this terribly common barbequing thing, largely because their weather is crap and so are they. I’m sure they’ll all be very happy together.

As for the rest of us: Let us rejoice, for we are young and free.

Make of that what you will.

Garry with 2 Rs

Human Services - Part Four

Monday 21 October

My promised confirmation letter never came. I fronted up to the Centrelink office again to make some noise about it. They took my Centrelink number and made sure all my details were up-to-date. They were.

I was assured that my claim was being processed and told to wait a few more days.

Thursday 24 October

My promised payment never came. I fronted up to the Centrelink Office to bang some heads together. They took my Centrelink number and made sure all my details were up-to-date. They were.

Once again, I received that pained, slightly lost expression from a Centrelink employee faced with everything she had asked for. She agreed it was strange that I hadn’t been paid and called up someone at DHS in Canberra to ask “what the hell?” I secretly imagined the Canberra people asking my Centrelink lady for her ID number and date of birth.

After squinting, nodding and saying “mm-hmm” for a few minutes, she hung up and informed me that my payments had been approved a week ago, but that they required a final sign-off from the team leader in the Darwin office, who hadn’t got around to it yet.

“I guarantee you that she will call you by tomorrow afternoon to sort it all out,” she promised me. I thanked her for her time and left.

Monday 28 October

My promised phone call never came. I fronted up to the Centrelink office again to burn the building down and scatter the ashes as a warning to others. They took my Centrelink number and made sure all my details were up-to-date. They were.

Today’s service provider informed me that my payment had been approved, but that I had to make a report of my employment details for the past two weeks in order to unlock it.

“I’ve been unemployed for almost four months,” I answered. Again.
“Okay,” he answered, “and in that time have you done any paid work?” I stared incredulously at the man for a few moments to figure out if he was kidding or not. He wasn’t.
“No,” I answered very slowly and carefully, “I haven’t done any paid work during my time of unemployment.”
 “Okay,” said the man as he ticked a check box on his clipboard and entered my answer onto my Centrelink records. “Your pay will be processed overnight and will be in your account tomorrow.”

The Story Doesn’t End

Looking around at the faces of the other people waiting for attention from the Department of Human Services, I am acutely aware of how fortunate I am. Sure, I’m unemployed and banging my head against a wall, but I have the necessary education and cultural confidence to stand up for myself against what would otherwise be a bewildering and utterly devastating wall of needless bureaucracy and staggeringly ineffective communication. I have emergency funds on hand to keep myself from starving or losing the roof over my head. I have a blog on which to vent my frustrations and the knowledge that even when things go completely and utterly pear-shaped, I’ll probably be okay.

But what of the other dozen or so people waiting for service alongside me at any given hour of any given day who don’t share my privileged background? Those who don’t speak fluent English, or don’t understand why people will ask so many personal questions before agreeing to help you, or haven’t been educated to understand the processes the office is going through. Hell, I have an honours degree and some it still left me mystified.

My point isn’t “Thank God I’m not like that tax collector over there,” but more to wonder how many people in much worse circumstances than me never manage to get the help they need because they don’t have what it takes to be more belligerent than the computer system. My unemployment support eventually did come through. But I’ve worked for an Indigenous credit union. I know how many cases come through every week from people expecting financial support that never comes. I’m sure there are a booklets and booklets of reasons why we can’t have a slightly more efficient welfare system. I just can’t think of a single one right now.

Make of that what you will.




Garry with 2 Rs

Human Services - Part Three

Wednesday 16th October

A requirement of my application was to attend an appointment with a local employment adviser. It was a session to make sure my job searching skills were up to scratch and that I knew how to create and present a resume. I don’t want to be too cynical about this process, because for many people, particularly those afflicted with long-term unemployment, they are important skills. But for me, who is only at Centrelink in the first place as a last resort because my well developed and polished resume is achieving jack squat in the workplace, attending a meeting with a job coach did seem like a bit of a waste of time.

Fortunately, the nice ladies at Wise Employment tended to agree with me. They were confident enough that I’d find work soon. The fact that I still haven’t is quite beside the point, obviously. After an inordinate amount of IT troubles, I finally resolved to send them my resume by email from home, which I could have done without the appointment, but that’s fine. At least we got the box ticked.

Friday 18th October

I received a letter from Centrelink informing me that I had an appointment scheduled with Wise Employment on Wednesday 16th and warning that there would be consequences for my application if I failed to attend. Fortunately for both me and for Centrelink, I am a time traveller. Or just do what I need to without a two-days-late letter to tell me. Or whatever.

Human Services - Part Two

Tuesday 15 October

I arrived promptly at half past nine and checked in with a different concierge at the Centrelink office. A lady came down from her desk and called my Christian name. Myself and two others with the same first name stood up. She picked me seemingly at random and we got started. Her first question was what my Centrelink number was. I informed her that I still didn’t have one. She looked up my name and date of birth in the database and confirmed that I was there and was an adult. She also confirmed all the details I had given the lady on the phone the previous day. It turned out that a few of them were wrong, so we fixed them.

Most troubling of all was that I had elected “prefer not to disclose” in the field that identified whether I was Indigenous or not. The lady on the phone just went ahead and filled in “no”. It’s not that she was wrong, because I’m as white as it gets, but more that she just completely ignored my input and went with own assumption based on the sound of my voice (and possibly the fact that I used the phrase “prefer not to disclose”). And the lady face-to-face in the office refused to fix it, because I so obviously wasn’t indigenous, and she clearly didn’t understand why I was upset about it. It seems like such a small thing, but when you’re working for a world that treats everyone the same, to have the box casually ticked for me against my wishes really made me mad.

She asked me if I had brought my bank statements with me. I said I hadn’t but that I had a hundred points of ID with me and had been emailed a separation certificate. I got that look of “what are you talking about, you idiot?” I pointed out that the lady on the phone had asked for my separation certificate, which I hadn’t had a chance to print yet. The Centrelink lady used her “patience with the pre-schoolers” voice and told me I didn’t need it, that I needed three month worth of bank statements. I pointed out to her that she had already obtained all my BSB and account numbers, that she should be able to make the enquiries herself.

She couldn’t, so I asked if I could make another appointment to come back and see her in an hour with my bank statements. The earliest she could see me was half past two that afternoon. So I went down to the bank for my printed statements and then home to kill an extra four hours.

At twenty past two I fronted up again and gave the name of the lady I needed to see. She had gone home for the day, so I was given to someone else to look after.

“What is your Centrelink number?”

I explained that I didn’t have one and that I had been in earlier to register my details and had returned with my back statement, which I presented to him on his desk.

“Do you have a hundred points of ID?”

Luckily for the idiot, I still had my passport in my pocket, but I explained again that my ID had already been registered that morning.

“I’ll just have to get my supervisor”.

His supervisor turned out to be the charmingly level-voiced woman I had spoken to the previous afternoon before being handed over to the phone lady.

“What’s your Centrelink number?” she asked.
“I don’t have one,” I answered and I pointed to the idiot’s computer screen.
“Ok, let’s have a look here.” She spent a few minutes reading over the file, before firing up the pre-school teacher voice again “It says here you need to come back with three months’ worth of bank statements.” I pointed to the documents on the desk in front of her and decided to remain silent.

The lady and the idiot both looked slightly confused. Having someone show up at their desk on time with all the paperwork they needed obviously didn’t compute with their understanding of how their job was supposed to work.

“So do I just scan these onto the database, and then give him his number?” asked the idiot in a moment of serendipitous clarity. The lady considered this for a few moments, before answering
“Yes,” and walking off to ‘assist’ someone else.

So after two full days of errand running and appointments, I took my nine digit Centrelink number and left. Easy as that.

Human Services - Part One

So I’m back in Australia, and after two fantastic adventures in America and Thailand, I’m back home and right up against the pointy end of this whole unemployment business. My plans to secure work in Australia while I was gallivanting all over the world didn’t play out how I had hoped, so with my expectations in my boots and my pride scattered over the footpath somewhere, I fronted up to Centrelink to enquire about unemployment benefits. What follows is an account of my week-long dance with the bureaucracy.

Monday 14 October

I’ve never been particularly enthusiastic about the efficiency of operations in the Department of (so-called) Human Services. But I was determined to keep my cynicism in check and give the system a chance to work. So I fronted up just after lunch time and spoke to the guy with the iPad taking names and numbers.

Naturally his first question was what my Centrelink number was. I told him I didn’t have one that it was my first time, and to be gentle. He took my name down and added me to the list. I asked him how long it would be before it was my turn. He gave me what I think he imagined was a sympathetic smile and said “probably about forty-five minutes”. I settled in to wait, and worked on memorising some more of First Corinthians. I’m not really getting anywhere with that project either.

Half an hour later a Centrelink employee called my name and took me over to her desk. She asked me what my Centrelink number was. I told her I didn’t have one because it was my first time. She knew just what to do. She took me over to an office phone, dialled the number for the Centerelink hotline and handed me the receiver.

“Is this something I could have done forty-five minutes ago?” I asked, in that level and controlled tone of voice that my friends have learned to recognise as an alarm bell.
“Yes,” said the woman, and she walked calmly back to her desk, like it was a perfectly normal way to treat someone. On the flip side of the coin, she made my level tone of voice sound like Kevin Max’s vibrato.

I don’t know where the lady on the other end was speaking to me from. I assume Canberra, but it was clear that English was not her first language. But that was fine, I could understand her first question just fine:

“What is your Centrelink number please?” I explained that I didn’t have one, so she started looking through the database for anything that matched my name and date of birth. While I sat the waiting, it was all I could do not to burst out laughing as the Centrelink office background music wafted around me.

“Hey, we just met,
And this is crazy.
But here’s my number
Call me, maybe?”

Eventually the lady on the other end told me she had found and old record of me, dating back to my mother’s records, but unfortunately it was a child record. She asked for my permission to upgrade me from a child to an adult. I informed her that I have been trying to find a way to do that for a number of years now and that it was likely to be a long and complicated process. She didn’t even stop for breath before telling me no, it would just take a few minutes. Either she didn’t get it, or she was sick of smart-arses like me trying that joke out over the Centrelink self-help hotline.

Once I’d officially passed my bureaucratic adolescence, we were able to get onto the really good stuff. Like all my contact details, and how much my clothes were worth, and was I currently receiving dividends from being the chairperson of any corporations and how old my car was. The woman was being very thorough, so as not get any of the steps wrong. She appeared to be under the impression that I was an idiot, and triple checked everything before telling me three times the next steps I had to take. I had an appointment with a Centrelink adviser for the following morning, for which I would need one hundred points of identification and a separation certificate from my last employer. I also had an appointment made for me with the employment support agency down the road, to help me build a resume and connect me with potential employers.

After double checking that I understood I would need my separation certificate and one hundred points of ID the following morning, the call ended and I made my way out of the office. I glared as hard as I could at the original service provider who had wasted so much of my time. He didn’t notice.

I spent most of Monday afternoon chasing up my former employer for a copy of my separation certificate. They were very good about it, and I had been emailed a copy by half past eight the following morning, just in time for my second Centrelink appointment.

Rethinking My Whole Life

When I was a kid I watched way too much Lois and Clarke. I don’t know what it was about the show that appealed to me at the time, but it really sucked me in. I used to make sure I could be at home to watch it on TV, and if I couldn’t be there I would make sure Mum taped it for me. On VHS. Yes, I’m that old. Shut up.

It was at about that time in my life that the idea of becoming a journalist started to appeal to me. It would be easy to assume that it was all about wanting to be Superman, but my passion for writing and for public information has only strengthened over the years, while my obsession with the Man of Steel has thankfully declined. A bit.

By the time I left Darwin to travel to university, I knew there was only one field of study for me. I had good enough marks from high school to study just about anything that wasn’t medical, but to my extended family’s despair I enrolled in a bachelor of arts program and signed up for a journalism major. As an extra side project for interest’s sake, I also enrolled in introductory linguistics. Nothing was ever going to come of that, it was just for fun really.

Five years later I held a Bachelor of Journalism and an Honours Degree in linguistics. Many of my colleagues from the school of journalism went on to cadetships and positions in regional dailies. Some have gone on to do some great things. One of my colleagues is now a political reporter for ABC TV in Canberra, and another has just become an editor at ABC radio in Queensland.

Me? I decided to put my job offer from the Border Watch (the local daily paper in Mt. Gambier) aside and entertain the strange idea of working as a professional linguist for a speech technology company in Sydney. I figured I could always become a journalist later, but the opportunity to work as a linguist was only going to come up once in a blue moon.

With the benefit of hindsight, moving to Sydney was an excellent decision, as it was in Sydney that I first met Kim. But that’s another story that everyone’s sick of by now.

When I returned to Darwin a few years later, the plan was that I’d be able to walk straight in the front door of the NT News and say “job please”. The weeks I had spent as an intern during my studies coupled with being a local boy were supposed to be a watertight guarantee. Unfortunately in the intervening years the entire management and editorial staff of the paper had changed (it does that about every six months) and no-one knew who I was anymore. My applications landed in the pile of applications from every journalism graduate in the country, and I slunk off to become a trainer at a locally run credit union.

Two and a half years, one promotion, and five applications later, I managed to wrangle myself another two week voluntary stint with my local newspaper. Perhaps this was finally my chance to put aside this project management nonsense and fulfil my destiny as a newsroom cadet.

Well, I was offered a “research position” with the Northern Territory Government instead, and for the last twelve months I've been once more managing recording projects in other languages, despite no such activity being found anywhere in my current job description, which is admittedly fairly vague. It seems my true destiny is to sit in front of computers in quiet rooms, listening to other people record languages I don’t understand. This realisation would be extremely depressing, if I hadn’t had an equally powerful revelation this week about journalism.

I don’t want to do it.

It came this week as our televisions, newspapers and computer screens were flooded with images of the Boston Marathon bombings. Twitter exploded with expressions of support, the news had images of the aftermath on repeat for at least a whole day and online news was full of opinion pieces about how this was further demonstration that no-one should ever feel safe and terrorists are lurking behind every corner. Let’s bomb them. Three people were killed, which is a tragedy. One of the victims was a child. Look at this nice picture of him.

Meanwhile in the same week, 39 Afghan civilians were killed by US armed forces, who blew up a wedding celebration for some classified reason. And as we prepare to pull forces out of Iraq, a series of up to fifty explosions killed 46 people in Baghdad and injured over three hundred. That one happened at almost exactly the same time as the Boston attacks.

But look at this picture of a dead American boy. It’s a tragedy.

Well, okay, yes it is a tragedy and my prayers are with his family. My prayers are also with the families of the Iraqis and Afghans hurt and killed at the same time, even if the media don’t give flying fig about them.

And it’s not just a symptom of our society’s general ignorance. As soon as people become aware of these facts, they are as shocked and disgusted as I am that we could spend so much air time lamenting the loss of three people, when almost thirty times that are being blown to bits overseas, some of them at our hands. It’s not that people don’t care about it; it’s that the mainstream media are telling us not to care about it. The commercial news values of every major media outlet have dictated that the loss of three white people in America is worth a full day’s uninterrupted coverage, but the death of close to a hundred people in the Middle East isn’t worth reporting.

That’s inhuman, inconceivable and repugnant. I want no part of it. I’d rather record notices in Kriol telling people to take their kids to school than walk within twenty metres of a newsroom this week. And so would Superman. So bollocks to my journalism degree. I’m going to go and do something worthwhile with my life.

Make of that what you will.




Garry with 2 Rs

Christmas Spirit

I’m a little mixed up this morning. I try to keep on top of headlines and opinions, and this morning, just a few days after the darkness of the Sandy Hook massacre, I’m reading stories and articles about how people are angry about being encouraged to give to charity.
It’s a week before Christmas. Matt Young is telling us he won’t be giving to charity to because his inner-Sydney urban lifestyle is too expensive. And also in Sydney, a bar in Surrey Hills has banned the Salvation Army from entering its establishment because apparently the homeless people at the Salvos shelter up the road are often intoxicated, and the pub doesn’t hold with that sort of thing. And to top it off, someone is trying to kill Oxfam Girl, whose only crime is being too imaginary.

I don’t mind people having a go when the charities get a little too cheeky. I’ve been known to have the odd crack at them myself. But the Christmas season is not the time to start whining about people asking for money on behalf of those less fortunate, especially when the only reason we’re complaining is because the cost of living is going up, which, while it’s a nuisance for us, is likely to be catastrophic for those who are struggling to get by as it is. And not struggling in the sense of “I’ve no money left at the end of the pay period," but struggling in the sense of “I guess I can go live in my car for a while.”

Okay, so groceries are expensive. Petrol is insane. Electricity bills are set to go through the roof. The point we all seem to miss in this is that even when they’re expensive, we still have ready access to food, fuel, electricity and roofs. There are plenty of people, even in Australia and in the centre of Sydney who struggle even for these basic things. Not just struggle to pay for them; they don’t get them at all. Thank God for organisations like the Salvos who are prepared to stand in the gap and speak for them.

It’s fine if you don’t like their religious stance. And it’s fine if you want to criticise their corporate structure. But if you can’t spare some change for the homeless while you’re enjoying your nine dollar apple cider, then I don’t care what your philosophical or economic stance is: you’re doing it wrong.

So in this season of giving, try to find a little bit of extra light in your heart, and buy a sandwich for an inner city wanker who might have to unplug his plasma TV for a while to manage his electricity bill.

To the rest of you: Merry Christmas!



Garry with 2 Rs

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

I Am Religious

I am religious.

I’m not really supposed to say that these days, even (some might argue especially) on Good Friday, because apparently it’s not a very comfortable idea.  Most modern churches suggest (with a certain degree of merit, I’ll concede) that we shouldn’t aim to be religious, but that we should aim to be loving, faithful and spirit-filled and evangelical. But not religious.

Religion, they tell me, is just a bunch of rules from traditions that just want to tell us what we should and shouldn’t do. And that’s not what Christianity is about, they tell me. So I really shouldn’t be religious.

Bollocks to that. I’m religious and I’m proud of it. I’m all in favour of telling the establishment where to get off, and I’m the last person you want to try and boss around, but I have absolutely no qualms in calling myself religious. Possibly that is simply because they told me not to, and I have a pathological compulsion to not do what I’m told, but I’ve been doing a lot of thinking today, and I’ve decided it’s more than that.

I get into a very loving and well-intentioned argument with people from my church every year because, for reasons I don’t really understand (I’m certainly not going to use words like “laziness” or “ignorance”) we don’t run a Good Friday church service.  My argument usually starts out with something like “Of course we have to a have a Good Friday service, we’re freaking Christians. Who else is going to run it?”

The counter argument they come up with is usually something along the lines of “We’re not running one because we don’t really feel we have to. If we’re only doing it out of tradition, obligation and religion, then it’s better not to do it at all.”

I have a lot of respect for that line of argument, except that it’s completely wrong. Tradition and Religion don’t have to be some big scary institution telling us what to do (though unfortunately sometimes that does happen). At its most fundamental, religion is just the schema through which we all take our personal faiths and beliefs and share them corporately. And I don’t just mean corporately as a congregation, which I think is where I think "They" and I aren't quite connecting; I mean corporately in the sense of a world wide religion. It’s a way of unifying ourselves and strengthening one another through our common experiences. And on Good Friday it’s an opportunity to reflect on the Earth-shaking events that made that unity possible in the first place.

“Oh, but it’s just a personal thing. I don’t need to go to church, I just reflect on Good Friday at home with my hot-crossed buns.”

Wrong again.

No matter how important we might imagine our individual selves to be, the celebration of Good Friday is bigger than any one person. We don’t just celebrate it as individual Christians. We don’t even celebrate it (or not, in our case) as individual churches. The crucifixion of Jesus is commemorated by Christians all over the world, and rightly so since it forms the foundation of our beliefs. As a world-wide movement, we should be marking events like Easter corporately, and setting them apart as important days.

And if that means I have to subscribe to the term ‘religion,’ then colour me religious. I go to church on Sundays to meet with other Christians. I only eat hot-crossed buns on Good Friday. I take my Christmas decorations down at Epiphany. I know what Epiphany is.

Do I have to do these things? Of course not. But by deliberately doing them I take my place in something much bigger than myself, and take a moment to consider that there might be something larger and more important than what the latest vision for our congregation of fifty people might be.

I mean there’s no point in just doing those things for their own sake. The sort of religion that just goes through the traditional motions and doesn’t actually love anyone is completely useless. But conversely, the sort of religion that is all very lovely but doesn’t actually do anything isn’t much good either. It’s no good trying to convince everyone how our lives have been transformed and we’ve been completely remade if we can’t even set ourselves apart for one day to celebrate it. That's why we have festivals and traditions. It's why we get married by ministers of religion. And it's why we go to church on Good Friday.

I'm religious. Deal with it.

Garry with 2 Rs

Possibly My Clumsiest Metaphor Yet

I had intended to post a very moving and reflective post about what a gigantic pile of useless junk 2011 was. But as much as whiny self indulgence is the flavour of choice for the mystery stew that is Cum Tacent Clament, it’s probably easier in the end to point to my handily tabulated list of objectives for the year and note that anything that isn’t theatrical or … buying a phone has been a comprehensive non event. I could have given you two, maybe three good (well…) paragraphs all about the awesome things I failed to do last year, but instead I thought I’d tell you all a story which encapsulates nicely the spiritual, psychological and indeed sociological journey of the year that was.

Our story begins on Boxing Day, when my valiant laptop, veteran of an honours thesis, a trip to Spain and more hours of online gaming than I care to think about, crashed three times in succession while attempting to play the Doctor Who Christmas special. The constant freezing and inability to run anything more complex than iTunes I can live with, but start messing with the Doctor and you’re on borrowed time. I made the reluctant decision to find a new one in the post Christmas sales.

Wednesday lunch time saw me spending my lunch break in an electrical goods store. I probably don’t need to name the specific store, but it's one that would be regarded as hardly normal.  It’s not an easy place to get any service, but I find the best strategy is to stand next to something expensive and try to look gullible. A passing sales assistant swooped in like a magpie and soon had me comparing prices, hardware specs and brand names. I told him I’d go check my bank balances and get back to him.

By Thursday lunch time I’d made up my mind about which model I wanted and come to terms with the extent to which I couldn’t afford it. I resolved to buy it anyway and headed back out to the shop. I found the same salesman who had been so helpful the day before and told him which one I wanted. We spent a good twenty five minutes filling out forms and entering contact details into every known database on the planet and then came the killer question:

Salesman: How are you wanting to pay for that?

Gw2Rs: Credit card for now.

Salesman: Yeah, sorry. Our eftpos system is down.

There is something quietly satisfying about being sold a computer by an organisation with chronic IT problems Apparently it hadn’t occurred to him to tell me he had no way of taking my money before spending half an hour trying to sell me something. Or perhaps he assumed I was carrying enough on me to pay for a mid-range laptop computer in cash. He asked if I would be able to hang around the shop for half an hour while they tried to fix the system. I had to get back to work, but I told him I would try to get back after work before the shop shut. Unfortunately all our remote branches at work decided that Thursday would be a good day to implode, so I didn’t make it back until Friday lunch time.

After helping the sales staff settle an argument about credit card payments (operations supervisor to the rescue!), I finally got my hands on my new computer. As always, time was against me and I had to leave it in the car and head straight back to work.

Once again, my attempts to leave the building by five were thwarted by the dastardly powers of general incompetence, but I did make it home by twenty past and took my new toy out of the box. I was shocked and greatly annoyed to discover that the computer I had received seemed in no way to resemble the computer I thought I had purchased. That all the labels had the wrong thing on them was my first clue. I had ten minutes to spare before the shop shut and it would take me about fifteen to get there, so I called ahead to see if someone could hang around and help me exchange the computer.

They refused.

At this point I started writing this post, full of righteous fury at the shop, at 2011 in general and at Karma. Having spent the last three evenings staying late at work to fix other peoples mistakes, the unwillingness of the shop to stay for five minutes to fix their own screw up seemed to me to be just a little unjust. They thought they could push me around like some inconsequential consumer; little did they know I’m a world famous blogger with no less than eight online followers. Oh boy were they ever going to be sorry. However, their imminent downfall was delayed by one evening, as I got an invitation to go have a swim and watch Doctor Who with my friends (It was a delightful evening), so I saved my post to finish later.

Saturday rolled around, as it usually does. At last I was able to confront these villains, these two-bit hacks of the computer retail community. I marched in with all the sense of moment I could muster (it wasn’t much, but I was proud of it) and demanded satisfaction.

It turns out I’m a complete knob who can’t recognise his own computer when he’s looking straight at it. They hadn’t given me the wrong machine at all, just one with unexpected stickers on it. It was the correct laptop all along. I politely thanked them for their time and got the hell out of there.

The moral of the story? I have a new laptop, and 2011 can go and die alone in a dark hole somewhere.

Happy New Year

Garry with 2 Rs

Being Ungentlemanly

A co-worker today described me as “a well groomed gentleman”. I very nearly beat her about the head with the toner cartridge I was carrying for her. The very cheek of the woman.

I didn’t mind so much being called well groomed, although she went on to qualify that remark by saying she was impressed by the fact that I had ironed my shirt, despite the fact that I hadn’t. I believe I did own an iron at one point. Last time I saw it was about seven years ago in Brisbane.

No, my beef was with being called a gentleman. I’m sure she meant well enough by it, but it’s one of those words that never fails to get my hackles up. I can not and will not be classified as such.

“Oh Garry, whatever could you mean by that?” asks an imposing woman in a floral dress holding a plate of biscuits. “How could you be opposed to gentlemanliness?”

To be honest, I do find this state of affairs a little disconcerting. I hadn’t realised there was an anthropomorphic projection of polite society watching over my shoulder, and I’m buggered if I know where she came from. Doesn’t she know it’s bad manners to sneak up on a man when he’s blogging? Good biscuits but.

Obviously it all comes down to definitions, and on that point most people I talk to about this end up disqualifying themselves from the conversation. As I see it, you’re only allowed to talk to me about gentlemanliness if you can define it without using the words “door,” “seat” or “bus”. You would be surprised how many people fail at this, which actually speaks to the heart of the problem more directly than you might think. If a gentleman is defined simply as “someone (presumably a man) who opens doors for ladies and offers them his seat on a bus” then it’s not worth much, is it? Anyone can open a door. So can velociraptors. What’s your point?

“No no no,” says Biscuit Lady, “it’s not just that. It’s about being polite, and showing respect. Being courteous.”

Baloney! Baloney I say! That’s just another slightly more convoluted way of classifying a man by what he does, not who he is. A man may be as well spoken, sophisticated and ‘gentle’ as can be, and still be a complete creep. I’ve heard men speak eloquently and graciously about how they believe the aboriginal race to be inferior, how we ought to just ban Islam outright and how homeless folk on the street really only have themselves to blame, all to the supportive nods and smiles of the ‘gentlemen’ around them. You can keep that, and keep it as far away from me as you can.

So what is a gentleman, really?

A wise man (I think it was Zorro) once said “A nobleman is nothing but a man who says one thing and thinks another”. I think that’s a little closer to the truth than the bus thing, but I’m going to go out on a limb and propose my own working definition. To me, a gentleman is a man who fulfils all the expectations that society makes of him. That sounds like a noble aim, until you start to look under the rugs and behind the cupboards of the society that’s making the expectations. The biscuits may taste delicious at first, but in the end they have a habit of rotting your teeth, turning your stomach and dislocating your shoulder.

Basically, a gentleman is man who does as he’s told.

I, on the other hand, aspire to be a man who tells society where to get off (Yep, that means you Biscuit Lady) and what it can do with its expectations. If that means I don’t get an invitation to your daughter’s coming out party, then so be it. I know who I am and who I am not (so does she, come to that) regardless of whether I fit your preferred mould. And if you think I’m going to do as I’m told by some old bat who isn’t even really there, then you’ve got another thing coming.

Classify that, bitch (you can leave the biscuits, though)!

Meanwhile, back in reality (or what passes for it in my life) the whole revolution is actually a lot less rebellious than it sounds. I’m not going to go around refusing to lift, open or carry things, but if I do open a door for you, it’s not because I’ve been taught I have to; I honestly believe I don’t have to. If I open a door for you, it’s because I choose to, which actually makes it much more meaningful than anything a gentleman could possibly conceptualise, let alone sneer at.

Besides which, I catch busses so rarely these days that it doesn’t really matter. But just be aware that if you call me a gentleman as you sit in my seat, there’s a reasonable chance that I’ll take it back again.

Make of that what you will.

Garry with 2 Rs

Oh Chaplain My Chaplain

In the days since the announcement of the federal budget, many writers, bloggers and journalists have been quick to criticise the Government’s proposed increase to funding for school chaplaincy. Critics have been upset on two fronts; firstly the amount of money being invested in the program and secondly on the notion that federal funds should be used to give religion a place in public schools in the first place. And while these concerns are certainly worth discussion, I suggest that this week the role of the school chaplain has been given a bum rap.

There are a number of points to be made here. The first is to highlight the distinction between chaplaincy and religious education. Chaplains are not teachers; they are employed as counsellors and advisors. The notion of a chaplain coming into a classroom and proselytising to your children is utter rubbish. Chaplains are employed to serve, encourage and to provide advice and/or guidance where it is sought or needed. They are not employed to impose, indoctrinate or even (heaven forbid) promote religious values in schools.

Some public schools do allow religious groups to run religious instruction classes. These are always optional; parents who would prefer their children not to receive RI have the right to ask for their child to be excused. Every RI program I’ve ever been involved with has been run under strict guidelines under the watchful eye of a school staff member in order to prevent any hint of “brainwashing”. And fair enough too. But teaching children a few bible stories and encouraging them to obey their parents and treat others as they want to be treated themselves doesn’t constitute the insidious threat to liberty and democracy that is being touted by opponents to the new funding.

Besides which, that’s not what school chaplaincy is about; school chaplaincy is a completely different occupation.

Chaplains are on hand to meet the needs of students or staff who have problems or questions of a spiritual nature.  Whether Australia claims to be a secular society or not, it stands to reason that those seeking answers to spiritual (or philosophical, if you prefer a secular term) questions, especially in the formative years, should have access to those able to answer their questions, or at least provide some direction for finding the answer for themselves. Whatever your personal position, the realisation of a spiritual identity (of any faith, or no faith at all) is an aspect of education to be encouraged, not sneered at.

Some have suggested that a religious chaplain couldn’t possibly provide any valuable help for students of a differing religious background. That’s nonsense. A skilled chaplain will recognise and respect the diverse beliefs of any who come seeking guidance. As has been pointed out numerous times, sermonising, proselytising, evangelising and any other forms of religious promotion that so incense the guardians of liberty in our society are strictly off limits. But you don’t have to promote your own religion in order to guide a young mind towards finding the answers they are looking for, or at least towards asking the right kinds of questions.

This is the part of the discussion where someone jumps in with a moving and impassioned testimony of how some RI teacher sent him to stand in the corner because he said he didn’t believe in God, or some crazy fundamentalist tried to cast a demon out of her after playing some rock and roll at music class, and asks how we can possibly spend government money on ramming religion down the throats of those who don’t want it.

I don’t have any defence to that. That sort of vilification, where it occurs, is unacceptable in any society, religious or otherwise. But the answer isn’t just banning religion from schools altogether. Students need to have access to resources to guide them in finding answers to questions that are just as important (some might argue even more so) than anything on a NAPLAN test. It’s not the role of teachers to provide this support, nor should it be. And while the single most important role to be played in the moral upbringing of a child is that of the parents, it’s important for parents to be confident that their children have access to the appropriate support mechanisms while they are at school, which is the majority of their time during their upbringing.

Yes. The system needs work to make sure that all chaplains are properly trained, qualified and experienced and to ensure that all worldviews are being respected and catered for. I don’t pretend to know the best way to do that, but it seems to me that an increase in Government funding – if properly handled – couldn’t possibly be a bad start.

Make of that what you will.





Garry with 2 Rs

Not So Everyday Rewards

In this week of North American ceremonial gratitude and North Korean certifiable lunacy, I thought it would be nice to take a look at the historical background surrounding why I get so annoyed when I walk into supermarkets.

I got this new rewards card thing set up at Woolworths the other day. Basically, when the computer reminds me to scan it at the checkout, if I’ve spent over a certain amount it gives me a cheap petrol voucher or enough frequent flyer points to get from Darwin half way to Mandorah. I only ever spend enough in one hit if I’m buying a fortnight’s worth of groceries or a year’s worth of T-shirts from Big W. The cheap fuel saves me maybe five dollars a fortnight, and one day I might accrue enough FF points to splurge on a flight to Katherine and back, but my basic assessment of the card is it’s completely useless.

Naturally Woolworths are keen to encourage me to scan it, because it’s an automatic source of market research, building over time a picture of who I am and what my shopping habits are. As a man who is resistant to participation in such corporate systems (and as a man who just likes to be difficult) I resent being a faceless statistics generator, and have begun a silent campaign to throw as many spanners in the works of their research as possible. I’m out to see how far off I can throw the averages.

So that’s two litres of coke, a loaf of bread, five hundred grams of pasta and a travel edition game of hungry hungry hippos.

So that’s two litres of coke, a frozen pizza, an onion and a pair of fluorescent green lady’s bike pants.

So that’s two litres of coke, a packet of frozen peas, five dozen wire coat hangers and a packet of batteries.

Take that , Mr Corporate Research!

And another thing…

It is a well documented matter of public record that the founding fathers of America, cognisant of the gaping celebratory void between Father’s Day and Advent, instituted the festival of Thanksgiving as an intermediary holiday in order to stop department shops putting up Christmas decorations in October. There’s also some gobbledegook going around about a bunch of religious refugees and a boat, but something tells me that wouldn’t carry much weight around here.

So in the absence of Thanksgiving and Halloween, Casuarina has had tinsel and reindeer hanging from the ceiling since some time in that netherspace between the AFL grand final (both of them in this year’s case) and the start of the domestic cricket season that we like to call mid October. And now the freaking music has started up, well outside the officially ordained borders of Advent (which I confirmed earlier this week by consulting my mother’s liturgical calendar). I’m over it already, and it’s not even December yet.

On top of the plastic Christmas gunk, there are those new automatic checkout devices they’ve installed. You can walk up, check out and pay for your own groceries without the need to wait for a checkout operator. That sounds like a great idea, except that it doesn’t make the slightest difference to the customers, who now just have to line up to use a machine instead of a checkout operator. The only people taking any benefit from it are the corporate owners, who now only have to pay one or two people to run around whenever the things breakdown or have a system error or over charge someone or run out of money, instead of paying people to provide any kind of service.

And the machines can only talk to you in pre-recorded voices, making their sing song chorus of “thankyou for shopping with the Fresh Food People” enough to induce me to punch the thing in its face. Fortunately it doesn’t have one. Any minute now I’m going to announce a boycott of supermarkets altogether, except that then I’d be one of those people who shop at outdoor markets, and if I combine that with being one of those people who whinges about society on his entirely-irrelevant-to-anyone-but-him-and-his-mum blog and being one of those people who works in the finance industry, I might just have to go and shoot myself.

And so I wish my American friends a happy Thanksgiving. I wish my compatriots in Australia a happy Valentine’s Day, since apparently getting in three months early is the thing to do these days and I wish my friends in Adelaide my sincerest condolences on having to live there. Oh, and in case I don’t get around to it later…

Happy Christmas!

Garry with 2 Rs

The Eleventh Hour

Gaaaargh I hate my generation so much today.

This morning in my office, it was realised that we had forgotten to acknowledge someone’s birthday earlier in the week. So we got her a cake today to make up for it. All good. At five minutes to eleven they called us all into the tea room for happy birthday and a piece of mudcake. I subtly pointed out that that the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month was possibly not the most appropriate hour to bursting into jubilant song.

My co-workers looked at me like I was the one not getting into the spirit of things, until it gradually dawned on them that maybe we should be observing Remembrance Day. I had a hard time keeping a straight face (Giggloop anyone?) as we all stood for two minutes, staring reflectively into our slices of chocolate cake. But at least we observed it.

Then at lunch time, I was asked by a shop assistant if I was wearing a flower on my shirt for Gay Pride Week. I have no objection to Pride Week, but I had had just about enough of general ignorance for one day, so I explained I was wearing a poppy for Remembrance Day. I dared him to ask “What’s that?”

He did, so I beat him to death with his own iPhone and scattered the pieces as a warning to others.

Okay I actually glared at him like he was some sort of imbecile (which he was) and directed him to the Legacy stand. He walked to the bus stop instead and started tweeting about it.

#dickhead

Lest we forget (and don’t you forget it)

Garry with 2Rs

Is Anyone Not Aware of Breast Cancer?

Last night three of my female friends posted unusual updates on Facebook about where they liked it.

I wanted to know what was going on, so I Googled it (I often find this approach less stressful than talking to women). It turns out it’s a campaign to draw attention to October being Breast Cancer Awareness Month. It’s an idea along similar lines to last year’s effort which centred on posting your preferred bra colour on your favourite online social network.

Like most men, I like breasts and I hate cancer. I would prefer it if the two came together as infrequently as possible. But I can’t help but wonder why breast cancer in particular gets a whole month’s worth of awareness. Yes, it’s a terrible disease that according to the Australian Cancer Council affects somewhere in the region of one in nine women. Yes, it is the second most common form of cancer in women behind skin cancer (although it also comes in behind lung cancer, stomach cancer, bowel cancer and liver cancer if you add men to the equation). But come on – a whole month?

Last month in my office we attempted to raise money for prostate cancer research by holding a weekly barbeque each Friday at lunch time. We gave up after the first week due to lack of interest and managed to raise a triumphant eighteen dollars fifty which just about covered the cost of the meat. And don’t get me started on the questionable symbolism of combating prostate cancer by holding a sausage sizzle.

Just this week in the same office we participated in National RUOK? Day in aid of combating the insidious rise of suicide, which according to a federal government fact sheet claims more than 2000 lives in Australia each year. The basic idea was to spend some time making sure your friends and co-workers were feeling okay. We also get behind Daffodil Day, Jeans for Genes day, Red Nose Day and Australia’s biggest morning tea.

They’re all great ideas, but my point is they’re all just for one day. Why does suicide get one day with an awkward acronym while breast cancer gets a month, a viral internet meme and pink lights or ribbons strung up all over the place? And when is it going to be national liver cancer awareness month?

I’m trying hard not to arrive at the cynical conclusion that it’s because breasts are much sexier than suicide. And frankly I’m failing. I know which one I’d rather talk about. I suspect any given group of Australians in any pub in the country could come up with as many distinct synonyms for ‘breasts’ as there are other varieties of cancer. The Australian Cancer Council lists sixteen broad categories of them on its website. The American cancer institute list several hundred different types. Cancer varieties that is, not synonyms.

I’m not saying we shouldn’t be aware of breast cancer, or even that the awareness campaign itself is not a great thing. And I don’t mean to belittle the suffering and experiences of those afflicted with this terrible condition. All of us need to be aware of what can and is being done to combat and, more importantly, prevent this disease.

My point is that there’s got to be a more universal way of promoting the need for research and action; some way of drawing attention to the issue that focuses on the cancer, rather than the breasts.

When it comes down to it, I don’t care where you put your handbag and I have only a passing interest in what colour your bra is. If we’re really serious about taking on cancer, can’t we find a campaign we can take seriously?

...




Garry with 2 Rs

I Love You Baby

I went through a phase a few years ago when I got passionately vocal about my distaste for weddings. It might have had something to do with the frequency with which they were occurring; at one stage I got back from uni break to find four couples had become engaged during July. It was a strange sort of a phase because I enjoy a nice dinner and a catch-up as much as the next guy, and Christian wedding services are usually (depending on all sorts of things) quite nice. I think after my fourth or fifth wedding in quick succession the excess pageantry and forced emotion started to grate on me. Thank goodness, weddings amongst my contemporaries these days are becoming increasingly rare, possibly due to almost all my contemporaries being married by now.

The wedding craze being over, the latest craze is equally insidious in terms of forced enthusiasm. It consists of a couple rocking up to church one morning sporting a newborn baby and immediately being beset by flocks of churchwomen babbling unintelligibly. Said flock then invites their begrudging husbands/fiancés/boyfriends/me into the huddle to meet the newest addition to the congregation and to try to come up with a compliment for the baby that sounds credible and sincere.

I don’t find babies attractive. I find them small, delicate, messy and loud. I can understand why parents of newborns are so besotted; that’s a tangible biological connection. I don’t understand what goes wrong in the brains of the gaggle of clucky womenfolk at each new arrival. Rhetorical questions like “hasn’t he got lots of lovely thick hair?” or “he’s got a lovely strong grip on him, hasn’t he?” or “isn’t he just as cute as a button?” are not only strange things to say, in many cases they’re patently absurd. Babies are generally bald and weak, and buttons aren’t remotely cute. So I guess that last one might actually be true.

The point is, I was pleasantly surprised this month to be informed of two new engagements of old uni friends in Brisbane. Hopefully this signals a turn in the tide of public behaviour and we can go back to fancy parties and church services instead of hospital visits and arranging our social lives around breast-feeding schedules.

We can only hope.

…



Garry with 2 Rs

How to Recognise Different Types of Social Justice Issues From Quite A Long Way Away

This morning I was surprised and slightly confused to read about the current policy priorities for indigenous Australians being championed by Amnesty International.

Let me state from the outset that I am generally a fan of Amnesty, and support them financially on a monthly basis. But I’m not entirely sold on this morning’s effort. I appreciate the concern, and it’s certainly a good thing that someone out there is looking out for the rights of indigenous Australians. I would just rather a slightly more realistic and pragmatic approach be taken.

Claire Mallinson, speaking on behalf of Amnesty, told ABC reporters that the Northern Territory Intervention is discriminatory and a violation of human rights. In particular, she was concerned about the basics card. You can find a summary of Amnesty's position here.

And now: Some background.

In 2007 in the lead up to his last federal election, then Prime Minister John Howard announced a national emergency response based on a report into child abuse and other social issues affecting remote indigenous communities. Given the timing of the announcement, it was difficult not be a little cynical about the politics involved in the scheme. Also, activist groups in southern states (made up largely of white uni students who had never met an aborigine in their lives) started jumping up and down, decrying the racist imperialism of the Howard Government, foaming at the mouth and falling over backwards.

Since all that went down, very little has changed. Standards of living in remote communities are still ridiculous in comparison to even the dodgiest houses in major cities. Amnesty International is, quite rightly, pretty annoyed about that.

One change that has been implemented is the Basics Card, which is an income management tool that helps to ensure money in remote communities is being spent on food and utilities and not on gambling, alcohol or other problematic social habits. Given the extent to which the issues of neglect and child abuse are interwoven with alcoholism, gambling, substance abuse and domestic violence (to say nothing of cultural disenfranchisement and wholesale national indifference) this makes a lot of sense, and by and large the response I have seen in my travels to remote communities is that the basics card has been helping a lot and the elders are keen to continue using it in communities where the difficulties in spending money wisely have as much to do with appalling levels of literacy and numeracy as with criminal neglect.

So I was a little surprised to read that Amnesty was so vehemently opposed to it. Their argument is that it is discriminatory and needlessly restricts the freedom of those for whom the program is implemented. And admittedly, it doesn’t help matters that the anti-discrimination laws had to be revoked in order to institute a program that specifically targets aboriginal communities. To find out more, I did what I always do when I’m politically confused: I paid a visit to my friendly local shopping centre charity spruiker.

Garry: Can you tell me why Amnesty are opposed to the Basics Card?
Amnesty Girl: The main problem is that it makes life more difficult for people in remote areas. Women in those areas used to pool their money and once a month go shopping and buy all their groceries in bulk. You can’t do that with the basics card. Also, it’s discriminatory. We feel it’s not right that this system be imposed on Aboriginal communities and not everyone else.
Garry: Surely the basics card is more about preventing the money being spent on gambling or petrol sniffing or something, than fostering convenient shopping arrangements.
Amnesty Girl: The intervention was aimed originally at reducing child abuse. We feel that imposing this restriction on aboriginal communities simply because they are aboriginal does nothing to prevent child abuse.
Garry: But aren’t all these problems interlinked?
Amnesty Girl: Of course. But it’s discriminatory to apply it only to communities because they’re aboriginal. We have problems with child abuse where I’m from, but the Government doesn’t make us use basics cards.
Garry: Where are you from?
Amnesty Girl: New South Wales.
Garry: …
Amnesty Girl: Did you know that Northern Territory has the highest instance of alcohol abuse in the world?
Garry: Yes I did (it was also in the news this morning).
Amnesty Girl: So why don’t they just put us all on Basics Cards?
Garry: Thanks for your time.

The answer to her question is that in larger cities and even in regional New South Wales there is considerably more access to police, health services, counselling services and financial management assistance than there is in East Arnhem Land. It’s not discrimination to tailor specific solutions to specific communities with specific (and chronic) needs. In fact it’s called good governance. To regard me, with my privileged upbringing and tertiary education, as requiring the same care and attention as those bought up in near enough to third world conditions isn’t social justice; in fact it’s called idiocy. Aboriginal people need our support and it is our moral responsibility to provide it, antidiscrimination laws be damned, not least because it’s was us that screwed them out of their land and culture in the first place.

I could have stayed to argue with Amnesty Girl, but I was running out of lunch hour. Also, I’ve been watching old episodes of The West Wing, and couldn’t help but feel it was more Lymanesque to simply end the conversation and walk off smugly in the knowledge that I was much better informed and vastly more intelligent. Furthermore, I needed to return my James Bond comic to the library.

And now: Number one - The Larch




Garry with 2 Rs

P.S. I realise the Amnesty International link is quite dated. By the time I got back to news.com.au to find the quote from this morning, it had been deleted. I'm not sure what to make of that.

Bed Time

The biggest disadvantage of my move to Coconut Grove has been shifting from a furnished unit to a completely unfurnished room. I don’t own any furniture apart from a plastic trestle table and a glass top coffee table I ‘inherited’ when a mate moved house and couldn’t fit it in his new place. I don’t currently have any of the more useful items of bedroom furniture like a bed or a wardrobe, or even a chair. I’ve borrowed a thermorest from a friend for the moment, but since it’s tax return time I decided to start looking around for something a little more substantial.

Fortunately my house is just around the corner from the Homemaker Village, which promised everything I could need to furnish my home, including a large chain store which specialises in beds, so I figured I’d be fine. I’d just pop over and see what they had, and maybe pick up a new laundry basket while I was there.

I was well prepared for how expensive beds can be. Manchester stores are quite obviously designed to intimidate people who really don’t have any business being there by putting all the really impressive looking king size displays right at the front, complete with a price tag that might as well say “don’t bother”. But I figured somewhere out the back in a less seductively lit corner they must just have a standard single mattress section.

Not so much, as it turns out. The “specialist” bed shop didn’t stock anything smaller than a queen size, which for me was annoying. I’m still on a fairly tight budget these days, and don’t really have the funds, or space for that matter, for a full-on double bed. And let’s be frank: I’m a well behaved (well…) single Christian, so I don’t really have any need for a double bed.

Don’t look at me like that. It is what it is.

I arrived quite quickly at the suspicion that I wasn’t going to find anything helpful in the bed shop, and just started wandering aimlessly, looking at various bedroom settings and avoiding judgmental glances from shop assistants who obviously didn’t think I should be there either. Some of them were really nice (the furniture, that is, not the assistants), and if I were a recently married billionaire I could have had a great time choosing upholstery for my master bedroom

Without warning I arrived in a section with single mattresses and even single bed frames. They didn’t seem to be too expensive either. I almost smiled to myself, but something wasn’t quite right. As I tried to imagine what each one might look like along the far wall of my room, I realised they were all unrealistically short. I looked around to find a wall full teddy bears and duck-themed wall paper. I had unwittingly walked into the kids’ section and was drawing concerned stares from parents standing protectively in front of their children. I left.

I realise that I am part of an increasingly small minority here, but I resent the implication that once you reach a certain age you are assumed to be either married or lecherous. I’m not judging those who choose those lifestyles (okay, I am a little judgemental of people who choose to be married) but as someone who chooses neither of them I am feeling decidedly uncatered-for. And surely it can’t just be those Christians who bucked the trend of getting married in their early twenties that shop for single mattresses. There must be plenty of folk out there who, for one reason or another, “don’t entertain much”. If I didn’t have my religion as an excuse I’d probably be one of them. I think it’s high time single people all over the country stood up against this sort of commercial discrimination and fought for their God-ordained right to sleep on their own. And in the meantime, next weekend I’m off to an op-shop to buy a second hand single mattress. Thank God for the Salvos.

And then I looked through every single shop in the Homemaker Village and couldn’t find a single washing basket. Apparently promiscuous billionaires don’t do laundry either.

…



Garry with 2 Rs

The View From the Middle of Nowhere

I'm writing this from the visitors' accommodation in Milingimbi, just off the North coast of East Arnhem Land. Stranded from the rest of civilisation, and cut off from the internet (don't ask me how I'm posting this... wibbly wobbly timey wimey), it's just me, the land, the ocean, my bible, my notebook and my iPod.

Okay, okay. I also have a fridge, an air conditioner and a TV. But there's nothing on except repeats of Two and a Half Men, so my iPod's been getting a fair work out. I've been re-living and re-loving Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog and I've decided that our lovable and piteous antihero wasn't that far off the mark.

Just before TAAHM, Channel Nine News informed me of the following:

Kevin Rudd's government has announced that after getting themselves elected by promising to open around 250 new childcare centres to relieve the chronic national shortage, they've decided they're going to build 38.

The Melbourne Storm have announced that they've been cheating for the last five years at least by rorting the salary cap system and have been stripped of three minor premierships, two premierships, a million dollars and all points for this season, past and present. No-one would ever have accused rugby league players of being able to count, but this sort of "do whatever it takes to win and bugger the spirit of the game" attitude really belongs in some other country. Like England.

In another brazen display from Rudd's goons, they've also gone and announced that an enquiry into the debacle that was the home insulation scheme has found that fixing the mess is likely to be really difficult, and really really expensive. So they've decided not to.

And did they send out Peter Garrett to face the music? No. He was hiding in an office deep within Parliament House somewhere. So did Kevin, who just two months ago was so keen to take responsibility and show us all how up front he was, front up? No. He was hiding in Tasmania. He would probably have been even further away, if it wasn't for that damned Icelandic volcano. Instead they arranged a press conference with some dubious looking assistant minister for who-cares-what? A man so otherwise irrelevant I'm not even going to bother looking up who it actually was.

On top of all that, and despite a very strongly worded request to join a Saturday league, I've been consigned to an E grade cricket team playing on Sundays, which means choosing between playing sport to do something about my physical fitness, and investing my Sundays in intercongregational activities to do something about the spiritual health of the local Church. I mean, I realise I'm close enough to useless and not getting anywhere, but this might just be the final insult.

I'm also rubbish at cricket.

Yes indeed, as the Horrible little Doctor put it:

"It's not about making money. It's about taking money; destroying the Status Quo. Because the Status is not Quo. The world's a mess and I just need to rule it."

I've been considering the various avenues available to me in terms of affecting the obviously necessary pardigmic social change. I could become a politician myself, but they all seem to be increasingly useless. I could become a religious leader, but, for all I see, we have too many of them as it is (more on that later). I could found an underground resistance movement, but bringing a campaign of violence and destruction of property to the streets of Palmerston wouldn't actually set me apart from the local high school students. And no-one seems to pay them any attention.

So logically the only recourse left is to become a lone-wolf masked vigilante and prowl the streets at night, seeking out injustice and crushing it under the heel of my rocketboots. To the secret lab, Emilio!

No. There's no secret laboratory and no mad yet devoted assistant. And who calls their sidekick Emilio, anyway? Lame. I guess I'll just stay here in the visitors' accommodation and continue to combat the forces of evil by blogging them to death.

And that's the news for this Thursday the 22nd of April. A Current Affair is next, but for now: good night.




Garry with 2 Rs

P.S. I apologise for the overtly political tone this blog has now taken. We will be returning to the regular scheduled service of absurd sexist ecumenical idiocy as soon as possible.

P.P.S. Anyone else think Jonathan Uptin needs a more creative sign-off?