I'm sure there's many a DJ with first aid training and a few band-aids in the disc crate just on the off chance they could save some poor soul's life and thus bring literal meaning to the song title.
But if any DJ was going to save you, like 'bleeding from the femoral artery' save you, it'd be the bloke who wrote the song. He'd whip out the defibrillator and zap you quicker than you could say 'Hey I feel a weird tingling in my arm....and I've been really stressed lately'. From the look of him, he'd be able to adminster morphine too. Just so he could feel you up. He'd give breast inspections. With some KY jelly and his hands. He'd check prostates. With KY, but without his hands.....
Check him out at 3 minutes 10 seconds into the song.....
Makes you think though, what if DJs were trained as paramedics? Would the Notorious B.I.G still be with us? Would Tupac still be alive?
Trick question. Tupac and Biggie are alive and well, sippin margaritas and smokin blunts at the Black House. You think Barrack Obama got elected all by himself? You think Kim Jong-Il died of cancer? Jay-Z got Beyonce pregnant? Uh-uh. Wait till they hear Kanye West has his own fashion line. They are not going to be happy.
Anyway, this week a chopping board saved my life. Sort of. It saved my hands ands face anyway. See, I glued cut up bits of chopping board to a set of gardening gloves in order to save my soft mitts from the harsh realities of bitumen and gravity when skateboarding. You can witness the chopping board, and myself, in action here:
PRODUCT OF THE WEEK
When Plax was born, I was inducted to a place that I never even knew existed; the baby shop. This is a place you can buy a thermometer from for $10 when the same one retails in the hardware for $5. Among a plethora of goodies we bought was special laundry detergent for babies. Well, baby clothes, anyway. (Washing babies involves developing hand muscles to the point where I could comfortably wrestle with a python in a pit full of olive oil).
As I set about easing the burden on my darling wife by doing loads of washing, my mother-in-law advised me on the washing machine. Given it only speaks Japanese (the machine, that is. Mamiko is fluent in both Japanese and English and can intimidate in every language), I was a little nervy about the whole thing in case I inadvertently pressed 'hot wash' and immediately ruined $500 worth of baby clothes and dashed the goodwill of so many friends and family. I could just see it: 'How does that gorgeous little Ralph Lauren outfit look on him?' 'Er, about that......'
Mamiko advised that a) I should use the special baby only liquid and that b) I shouldn't wash any of my jocks and socks with the baby clothes 'in case of infection'.
A rush of emotions hit me. First of all, how can laundry detergent be only for babies? I mean I'm sure that babies are delicate and all that, but did they have this babies only stuff when I was born? I'm sure my mum would've used normal soap. And more to the point, look how I turned out; on the positive side, I was 30 years old with a full time job and some friends; on the flip side I was 30 years old, with plaits in my hair and with an unmatched ability to recite the lines to Madonna songs. I wanted to cry out to the world 'MY MUM USED NORMAL SOAP AND I TURNED OUT PERFECT, JUST LOOK AT ME', quickly followed by 'MY MUM DIDN'T USE BABY DETERGENT, AND NOW I SIT DOWN TO PEE!' and sob in Mamiko's arms.
I quickly overcame this emotion, and I don't think Mamiko suspected a thing.
However, I was also disturbed by the second part of what she'd said: 'in case of infection'. Had I been carrying diseases in my pants all this time without knowing it? Or more to the point, did I look like someone who carries infections in the pants region? Is that what everyone thinks when they see me? "Oh yeah, Paul, nice guy, sure, just don't go near his boxers". I was appalled and hurt by this, and resolved to stop playing with myself in her presence to allay her concerns about what may or may not be occuring below the belt.
I was certain that I could've used the normal detergent but raw unadulterated fear of hurting my little one overcame me and I used the baby stuff. Which incidentally retails for about double the cost of regular detergent. As the label is in Japanese I can't even analyse whats in it....
Makes ya wonder though, what is in normal detergent that makes it fine for us and not babies?
Anyway, whoever invented the stuff* is printing money. But this is not the product of the week.....I encountered the elusive product when I was treated out to dinner. I looked at the menu and rawed at the waitress:
'DON'T COME THE RAW PRAWN WITH ME......
Unless you have some soy sauce and wasabi to accompany it'
She acquiesced, and here we are...
EXTREME COURTESY OF THE WEEK
Recycling. In my apartment block in Melbourne, there is an area in the car park loosely referred to as the recycling depot. My fellow apartment dwellers, who can't be named, as I do not know their names, haven't quite grasped the whole paper in the 1st bin, other recyclables in the 2nd bin, and garbage in the large bin concept. They lump it all in together and it DRIVES ME CRAZY. Cretins probably don't separate their whites from their coloureds when they do the washing either. Probably wear odd socks. Put tomato sauce on their dim sims. Drink red wine with chicken. You get the gist.
Anyway, it was a welcome sight at the recycling depot here. People take it seriously here. Don't know whether racial categorization and plastic categorization go hand in hand, but the Japanese excel at both. Often they combine the two, and assume that white people can't separate their recyclables properly. I'm here to dispel that hurtful portrayal of us white people as large, benignly smiling folk who don't know their polyethylene terephtalate from their polypropylene. Unfortunately, my first go at recycling did nothing to dispel this myth, as I blundered about putting plastic coated styrofoam in with the normal styrofoam. Oh the shame.
So, everything is separated. Caps from bottles. PET from PEET. Coloured glass from clear glass. Everything must be washed before it is accepted and put into the large bins. Each local depot is looked over by a group of men, generally smoking cheap cigarettes. They enforce the regulations, cheerfully help out and appear to love doing so.
See that sign on the closest bin in the photo above? My Japanese is still a work in progress, but I believe it says 'The first time you put the wrongly coded plastic in here we will chop your finger off. Next time it will be your hand'.
These men, salt of the earth, are the sole reason why Japan has more than double the recycling rate than Australia. Indeed, as I consider that Australia has a skills shortage in the recycling sorting department, I will be sponsoring a couple of septuagerians from the village to come and live in South Melbourne with me.
PLAYS OF THE WEEK
I went on record (if Twitter counts) recently as being willing to lose a finger if it meant that Jack Grimes, the injury prone co-captain of Melbourne Football Club, and his fellow co-captain, Jack Trengove, could get through a season of football injury free. Shortly after posting it though, I began to think a little more deeply about my comment, which was intended to be humorous.
Like how much would a hand get me? A premiership?
Anyway, I decided to conduct a test of my own idiocy in the pursuit of vicarious sporting pleasure, with the Melbourne versus Collingwood game acting as the control:
- Could a find a live video stream of the game in acceptable quality that I could follow on my iPad
- Could I tone down my emotions to an acceptably nonchalant level, as befitting of a pre-season game
- Could I refrain from saying morally wrong things while watching the football with my son in the room
However, given the dire state of affairs that has befallen the Melbourne Football Club since that, dare I say it, magical Saturday not two weeks ago, (WHEN WE BEAT COLLINGWOOD, SO GO SUCK A FAT ONE EDDIE MCGUIRE YOU PARASITIC LEECH) I need to go elsewhere for Play of the Week. (In case you were wondering, the calamities involve, in no particular order: an initiated indigenous community elder, a machete, Buddy Franklin, and a broken finger. Oh how I wish these things were interrelated)
So here, I bring you happier days:
Which brings us to.....
WHINGE OF THE WEEK
Open letter to Robbie Deans, coach of the Australian Rugby Team, the Wallabies.
Hey Robbie
Reeves-dogg here. Say, remember that thing that happened last year. Around the 15th of October last year. That thing. That thing that involved the pride of Australia, the thing that makes me forget all the mediocre politicians, our horrendous policies on refugees and our pathetic approach to reconciliation with the traditional owners of our lovely little spot down under.
That thing when the pride of Australia, the Wallabies, lost to the All Blacks. I remember it, Robbie. I was there. But perhaps you didn't get the full impact of that.
I'll give you a bit of a history lesson, for free. The Howards years, as the years of '96 - '07 would later be known, were dark years politically for left leaning, Che Guevara shirt wearing pinko communists like myself. However, depending on your ideological viewpoint, these years could also be viewed as the Gregan - Larkham years. And this would inevitably put a smile on your face, as you would indulge in memories of those heady days when we used to roll the All Blacks and South Africa like sleeping cows. Once we knocked South Africa out of the World Cup by a drop goal. As a joke. When France beat the All Blacks in the corresponding semi final I laughed so hard a tiny bit of wee came out.
However, since you've been on board, I've had to put up with Kevin 'Fair shake of the sauce bottle' Rudd, Julia 'I am a sauce bottle' Gillard and Tony 'Sauce bottles? Send them back. We've got enough of our own here' Abbot. And you.
In keeping with my open minded policy on all things sex and race related (particularly sex), I didn't blink when they appointed you, a Kiwi and a former All Black to boot, as the Wallabies coach. Your lauded 'technical understanding of the game' and exploits with the Crusaders left me almost excited.
However, your reign has been a tad underwhelming. Losing to Scotland. Losing to Samoa. Seriously?
I would have forgiven all for a ride all the way through to the World Cup Final. Which, as the seedings had it, was the least a Wallaby supporter could reasonably expect.
Then when James O'Connor failed to show up for the official World Cup photo shoot, I thought it was somewhat insightful that a bloke selected for what would be the highlight of his life, would choose to get on the cans and jeopardise his position in the squad. I would have been happy at that point if you sacked him and reinstated Giteau to the team. Or my Grandmother, for that matter.
But no. While this incident can hardly be blamed on you, it demonstrated the mindset leading into the world cup (although in my world you are utterly responsible for it. NB In my world there are midgets cruising around with beers a la Happy Gilmore too).. That we got served a big plate of #hardenthefuckup by Samoa was completely predictable, particularly since you had Nick Phipps starting at half back. The same Nick Phipps who was selected in the World Cup squad as back up back up half back.
How many half backs do you need?
Two more halfbacks than specialist breakaway flankers, I guess. Oh yeah, remember when David Pocock was injured for the Ireland match? I do, Robbie, I do. In case you've glossed over it, the way we played at the breakdown that night was absolutely shameful. I can imagine Phil Waugh and George Smith looking at the slop that was being served up and crying with shame. Richie McCaw was probably watching too, through tears of laughter as he got his mantelpiece measured up for the William Web Ellis Cup.
The most Australian we looked throughout the entire World Cup was when we beat South Africa, and that was through sheer guts and determination. It had nothing to do with your coaching. It was the players on the field that day that absolutely made it happen.
Before I completely combust, one more thing.
Pat McCabe. He is not an inside centre. Never was (in fact, he had never played the position prior to you, Robbie), and never will be. And yet you played him at inside centre for the entire World Cup, while everyone could see that Quade Cooper was screaming for a second playmaker to play outside him. And probably screaming at you to use your persona and reputation in New Zealand to try and influence the media to stop the hate campaign against him. Quade was vilified by the Kiwi media, and you sat back and did nothing. An Australian coach would not let that happen in a million years.
(To say nothing of the abuse that Australian fans copped from Kiwis. I'm always up for a giggle, even when losing, but I have never copped anything like this. Thanks for firing a few salvos at your countrymen over this one, too. Really appreciated it. Lets just say, Robbie, it took only a few minutes of the long walk back to the hotel from Eden Park to quickly sympathise with why France bombed the Rainbow Warrior. And I'm an environmentalist. Also, the NZ national anthem 'God Defend New Zealand' is entirely appropriate. Because noone else will)
Anyway, Pat McCabe played every game with a shoulder injury until he needed a shoulder reconstruction (he got one 2 days after the NZ game. Fact) while you had Berrick Barnes, the finest inside centre (and bloke) in world rugby, sitting on the bench. Here is empirical evidence Berrick Barnes is a top bloke:
See those chiselled forearms? Those angular cheekbones? The Queenslander sun-bleached hair? The strong yet caring brow? Golly I'm getting all a flustered just thinking about him.
Anyway.
Not saying that Pat McCabe doesn't have grit. But if Berrick Barnes played the bad guy in a movie, the audience would die. Most fly halves are right or left footed; very few are ambidextrous. BB just stares at the ball till it flies over the posts of its own accord. You hear about the floods in Queensland? It hadn't rained for 20 years. BB cried. You know what happened next.
That little nugget of brilliance, combined with picking a plethora of blokes with questionable injuries (Rob Horne? Dan Vickerman, who is retiring now with a stress fracture he had before and during the World Cup) is enough for me.
So to conclude in parlance you would understand: bugger off. Take Julia and Tony with you, and lets do the one thing all Australians would agree with:
Ewen McKenzie for Wallaby coach and President/Tin Pot Dictator of the newly created Australian Republic.
Quade Cooper can be Minister for Foreign Affairs. Berrick Barnes can do whatever he wants.
Yours sincerely,
Paul
*word has it Halliburton** makes all the baby goods in the world
**biggie and tupac own Halliburton
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