The Waiting Room

No magazines, no pamphlets, just a blaring TV containing screaming greedy loud Americans, banal commercials. Old fart across on the red coach can’t stop playing with his phone, stupid beeping sound, he looks up, I want to scream at him to shut up, shut up, shut up, its bad enough that I have to wait in this pastel hell hole for 40 minutes without your stupid beeping orchestra. I never get over how crappy people look in this surgery, much prefer Dr Puppies – I mean Wong but then I hate the long queues, unavailability, over priced fees and small children but at least they have magazines. Oh so poor looking: cheap jean jackets, old Jewish whingers, Daily Telegraph readers, token Asian person. How long is this going to take? 3 doctors that barely speak to you for 5 minutes before they eject you, collect a Medicare cheque, write a prescription or just tell you to rest at home. Why oh why? Money: the great equaliser. Get a piece of paper with a diagnosis I already knew, I could diagnose myself if not for a lack of authority to get prescription medication – a diagnosis I got 4 days ago but for the money I need a little piece of paper, 2 hours for a tiny amount of money but my credit card is a hungry beast that knows no products I can resist: CDs, DVDs, laptops, courses. If only I could stop spending, makes me want to but that new CD now. I’ll get it after my appointment, 1,2,3 I need the new Britney CD, at least at her concert there was a hot DJ in pants that barely covered her arse that kept me amused. The man with the phone finally stopped, it’s a shame he seems to be so impatient – wrong place to be buddy – wrong place. Pregnant woman rubbing her stomach, like we can’t see your pregnant! Like sand through the hour glass these are the days of my life – how long is this going to take?

The above was inspired by a task set to my class to write a stream of consciousness piece based on a short story we discussed in class.

E-tiquette

Of all the new problems that membership of the online community would present, the last one I expected was to have too many followers. Self esteem issues aside, my circle of friends is sparse and outside of the people I live with there aren’t many I would regularly associate with. Much to my surprise then when my Twitter following started to increase and suddenly it seemed my random musings on song lyrics, HBO TV series, films and bus passengers actually had an audience. Moreover, when students started following I was quite chuffed that they actually found me interesting outside of the marks and class work I gave them.

Unfortunately, this brave new world has hit a road bump: a superior at my school is now following me!

At first I was surprised and actually considered it not a problem. The stuff I Tweet is nothing to be ashamed of so what did I have to worry about? Then I got to thinking about the implications of these new synapses in my social network. Would he now discover my love of Britney and share it with others in the staffroom? Would my karaoke habits, already a talking point among students, become a performance review topic? Would my so far uninhibited ramblings suddenly become grounds for dismissal?

All these questions and more ran through my head and I started to panic. The merest slip of a key stroke could spell the end of my teaching career and any future job prospects. So I made a decision: I would make my first Twitter block. It wasn’t a decision I took lightly but one I needed to make for myself and my tweeting sanity.

However, this decision of itself presents a whole new set of issues. What does that now mean for my relationship with this person at school? Does it warrant an email of apology or perhaps a brief explanation? While I mean no disrespect, I feel that a line should be drawn between my private online life and my professional relationships. I don’t feel as if I should have to mute or censor my tweets for fear of offending a superior. Also, could it not be seen as a subtle form of Big Brother?

Am I paranoid? Maybe but where as a student can connect and engage with me without directly affecting my job prospects, the same cannot be said of a superior. So consider this a formal apology but also a declaration of independence.

Vive le twitters!

Clichéd E-crap (2009)

To twitter or not
to tWitter?
that Is the question.
a Totally clichéd
abuse of The
shakEspeare verse
whateveR

A tribue to the night sky

A poetic tribute to the night sky as seen upon leaving the old Rozelle hospital tonight…

Cobalt (2009)

This might…
probably…
does –
sound weird:

but the sky
a velvet cloth across the night
was the richest, deepest
cobalt blue

and clouds
angelic, soft
bursting forth their
halo light

that my eyes beheld
but my
camera phone
these false words

fail

Guess who ISN’T coming to dinner

No, this is not a blog on Sidney Poitier and, to be honest, for a film fan it is a shame that I have never really seen any of his films and as my colleague at work, AL, is fond of taunting me with: “For a film fan you don’t really appreciate anything before the 1990s do you?” That being said, I figure that there are so many films being made now that it would be quite hard to catch up now.

About five years ago I had a traumatic experience at Acer Arena, Sydney. The experience haunts me to this day and I can honestly it has changed my perspective of the world. In particularly, it has changed my perspective of one man: the Undertaker. Granted, he is a wrestling character and has a real name and life outside the squared circle, but for the sake of argument and from my perspective he is his character.

Previous to this traumatic experience, the Undertaker had been the one larger than life character in all of WWE; The Rock was already making his transition into Hollywood, Bret Hart had lost some of his lustre in his post-WWE funk and I knew enough about what the industry was like for those who lived it to appreciate the hardships it entailed. Despite this though, the Undertaker (even taking into account his Harley riding stage) remained the imposing and unshakable big guy of the WWE: a genuine monster in a land of genetically and pharmaceutically enhanced monsters.

The traumatic experience itself was relatively benign to any outside observer: I saw him walk into the arena with no pyrotechnics, special effects or smoke. More shocking of all:

HE WAS BALD

I was gob smacked. Standing in the nose bleeds, his stark, balding, middle aged head dominated all. As he approached JBL to wrestle in the night’s main event, a world title match everyone knew would be a DQ, all I could think was: he’s bald. The match itself was predictably thrown out when Renee Dupree interfered but I had been scarred for life.

The net result of this was that I can no longer taker the Undertaker seriously. All I notice now when I see his entrance on TV, pay-per-view or DVD (the last is best as I can fast forward while he take 10 years to walk down the ramp) is the way in which the camera hides his balding head and the deft way in which he flicks his hair over to hide the bald spot (or is it just hair plugs?). Either way, the aura and magic of the Undertaker went up in smoke.

What do these two seemingly unconnected recounts have in common? It is the fact that I would never invite the Undertaker to dinner. This is not because I have something against bald people or wrestlers or people who like to dress in all black, it’s just that I wouldn’t want to ruin my already shattered image of him further by meeting the man behind the façade. Same goes for some of my favourite artists: Chris Jericho, Elton John, Rufus Wainwright, Woody Allen and Quentin Tarantino. I love these people’s work to death but I don’t think I could stand being in the same room as them for a long period of time.

The reason is that these people play characters in my life just as much as the Undertaker. They have characteristics, appearances and mannerisms that I love in art but I would be annoyed at if I had to put up with them for an entire meal or alternatively be shattered to discover they were put on: such as Allen not being neurotically Jewish or Elton being just a regular guy who could play piano. This is a mistake many people make in wanting to meet their idols: these people can’t match the reality or expectations we have of them and frankly it’s not really fair to expect them to either.

That all being said, there are a few people (living and dead) I would like to have dinner with:

Bill Clinton – apart from wanting to share a cigar with the man (just kidding!), I think he would be an interesting person to discuss world events with and I heard he has a magnetic personality.

Sophia Coppola – my favourite director, her relatively quiet persona makes me think she would have a range of deep views on various topics plus I would love to pick her brain for her film inspirations.

King Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette – probably the two of the most maligned historical figures plus I think Marie Antoinette has great fashion sense and would be interested in Coppola’s film about her.

JFK – after ensuring that my wife wasn’t anywhere near him, his historical legacy and playboy attitude would be great to encounter as a contrast to his almost saintly historical life.

Elvis Presley – the King, enough said.

My Prerogative

This blog is to all the haters out there. You know who you are! The ones that make snide remarks when her songs come on or smile sympathetically at those that express any admiration for her talent. More over, this is addressed to the hacks that compose Today (weekend edition), whose combined charisma makes a cardboard box look like Bert Newton and whose opinions aren’t worth a cent that you are paid by the morons who hired you at channel nine.

Why am I so angry? It’s because I’ve had enough of the mindless criticism and ridicule of Britney Spears. So if you are one of the mindless, moronic and unthinking masses who see the name and automatically line up a dozen or so sarcastic remarks then I want you to bugger off now! That’s right, clear off and read another blog and please never read this page again because as far as I am concerned your opinion is valued as much as the morons on Today (weekend edition). However, if you would like to be enlightened please read on and if you still feel the same way then good riddance =)

The next issue then is why I feel the need to defend Britney Spears? Quite simply, she is good at what she does and she deserves credit for it.

Is she the world’s best singer? No.
Is she the world’s best dancer? No.
Is she a great role model for young girls? No.
Is she mother of the year? No.

Can she sing? Yes.
Can she perform a dance routine? Yes.
Is she entertaining? Yes.
Is she successful? YES.

That’s why people hate her so much: pure and simple jealousy. They see a young woman that has money, influence, fame and can’t stand that it isn’t them. Most people will deny it and cite her miming, weight issues and mental health issues. However, don’t we all have our issues? I know plenty of teachers that aren’t overly good at what they do but that doesn’t stop them being successful or holding down jobs for over a decade. Am I jealous of these hacks? Hell yes! Do I wish I could have their success? Once again yes but do I constantly mouth off about them? No because that’s the way the world works people. The world is run by and dominated by the mediocre to untalented. Countries, even the most powerful one in the world, have been run by idiots; at everyone’s workplace there are hordes of untalented employees in middle management and I’m sure we all have extended family members we simply shake our head over their success despite the drunken pants dance and stupid comments they’ve done at multiple gatherings.

Enough of the haters and let me explain why I like Britney Spears. In a nutshell: she is entertaining and she produces music that I can easily listen to. Do I listen to her lyrics and wonder at the mindlessness or repetitiveness? Occasionally but then I could list hundred of other acceptable music artists who are just as mindless or even more so. She produces catchy music that I can listen to any time and enjoy while also producing eye catching video clips and performances. Enough said: she’s entertaining and one of the biggest pop stars I grew up listening to.

So to all those fans, keep your heads up and if anyone criticises you for listening to Britney Spears then either ignore them and pity their ignorance or punch them in the face for me and shove a copy of …Oops I did it again! down their throat and do an acoustic version for their listening pleasure – if only that would shut them up =(

Muffin Tops

Muffin Tops (2009)

my head
is full of gr-
-eat ideas for
blogs, novels, b-
ooks, films. A smor-
-gasbord of creativity, bu-
-rsting to escape, unleash up-
-on the world

but
sadly
they rem-
-ain like m-
-uffin tops, seper-
-ate, isolated, juicy b-
-ut unsubstantial, a tast-
-e of genius, too brief to be
appreciated

If I had to identify one cause for my failure to have won a Booker Prize or Noble Prize for Literature by now I would say it was the blank page.

The tyranny of the blank page!

I have lost count the number of times that the most intriguing of titles and enticing of opening lines have died on the operating table of the blank page. Left to die in an ocean of white; surrounded on all sides by empty margins and unfilled spaces. I, the surgeon, desperately seeking a resuscitating breathe: a quote, a sentence, at the very least a word. Anything that jump-starts the promise of inspiration that originated from a song lyric, snatch of conversation or passage from a book.

The casualty list of the past few days has been disheartening. The emergency ward of my blog folder the site of failure after failure of creative will. Homage to Rufus Wainwright deflated by an afternoon nap, an exploration of movie soundtracks overcome by school work and finally a reflection on education superseded by marking. All these failures are unacceptable: each one fully formed in my head, each on a reminder of my failings as a writer.

Even this entry has been a struggle against the forces of blank pages. A sustained resistance following my poem made proffered terms of safe withdrawal enticing. The desire to end after such a short foray into the creative sector of my brain was only proof of my weakness. I wouldn’t write at all if I didn’t have this blog.

What then would I do?

Pleasures of Franchises

I’m not sure when it occurred. It came as a reality to me only in spurts and slithers: meaningless chatter over coffee; a heated debate over a final supper. But from where did this hatred emerge? What sinister acts produced such an embittered response?

Why do people so dislike American franchises?

I personally find this a hard thing to fathom. Intellectually, I find it hard to get worked up over a logo that represents a stock price that represents a group of company executives almost half a world away. Practically, does my own act of corporate defiance really count as a body blow against their ultimate economic gain? In my own head maybe but can the CEO actually see me shaking my fist at him when he reads a spreadsheet? Would s/he even care?

An American “friend” of mine, J, was one of the first of these new breeds of people who hated the American franchise. On my first trip to LA, I was enamoured with a new coffee chain that I encountered: Starbucks. Located directly across from my hotel room, this bastion of coffee and cakes became a daily ritual for breakfast: a fresh coffee, brisk sunshine, me and my book. In fact, wherever I went I would make a point of visiting and photographing my visits to these houses of coffee. It became a running joke between T and I that I was on the Starbucks tour of LA.

However, J was none to pleased when I innocently suggested one morning that we get a coffee. Little did I know of the crimes of this corporate giant and listened with horror as J exposed my newly found home away from home. So it was with decidedly less relish that I sipped on my cappuccino and tried not to feel like I had personally plundered and ripped off the coffee growers of the world.

J however was only one in a long line of people who on my return to Oz began preaching about their celibacy from the corporate giants of American greed that were invading Sydney. They marked with horror the mushroom like explosion of Starbucks in every suburb and the menace of Krispy Kreme on the street corners and suburban shopping centres. I continued, unaffected and fuelled the monster. Was I the only one who did not see the impending danger?

Time went by, Starbucks and Kispy Kreme went from abhorrent to average and slowly these friends drifted away. I still feed the monster but do I still not get it? Maybe the monster seduced me with her false promises of equity and ethical practice. Maybe I have lied to myself so many times that I can no longer spot it. Maybe I was born too cynical to even try to fix it. Or maybe, just maybe, there is beauty in the beast.

Ode to Starbucks (2009)

I have followed the green mermaid
Across continents and cities
Searched for her through malls and shopping centres
Looked longingly at her from across lights and in darkened shadows
Visited hourly, daily, weekly:
Addicted to her decorated cups, recycled holders and sweet bagels
Lining up in weather foul or fair, queues long or empty
Craving, needing, impatient, demanding.

Oh how I hate you!
Your monotonous menu bores me
Your prices offend my common sense
Your standard furniture so stale and ungainly

Yet I cannot live without
The comforting certainty of caramel macchiato on demand
Your clean and comfortable décor
The pleasant air of chatter, coffee and gossip

Oh joyful monotony
May you live forever unchanged