I'm a reformed drinker. Not quite a teetotaller, but not an imbiber either.
I'm sure you would all be highly impressed if I told you this was because I have realized that I am a better person without the alcohol. Unfortunately, this is not the case.
I have cut down because I was diagnosed with epilepsy and alcohol is considered a trigger for seizures.
I'd also like to say about how not drinking alcohol is so wonderful and how it has given me a new lease on life. Sadly, though, this is also not the case. And I'd hate to come across as (even more of) a sanctimonious wanker preaching about why you should start staying home on a Saturday night drinking green smoothies and watching romantic comedies rather than throwing down buckets of the old golden throat charmer and getting dougied up on the dance floor.
I miss having cheeky lagers in the outer with one of my best mates at the footy. The sun shining down, a couple of sherbets in my mitts, the Dees staring another loss in the face - they are fine memories. Similarly, those glorious days of throwing down margaritas, smoke clouds, beats pumping, ladies grinding, mirrorball rotating. And that was before getting out of the car....
Sure, there are some benefits to the dry lifestyle. No hangovers. None of the sunday dreads. More money.
It has also given me license to drink copious amounts of caffeine now. While I feel slightly fraudulent when listening to most of my music collection now, which variously promotes the benefits of alcohol, drugs and womanising, I'm not actually convinced that the protagonists live that way any more than I do. (Apart from Snoop Dogg. Respect).
When I tell people that I can't drink, most people suggest that surely I could have a couple of drinks. Which, on the recommendations of my neurologist, I probably could. But who wants to stop at a couple of drinks? Talk about red rags and bulls. Either give me the keys to the Ferrari or don't let me start the engine. Its that simple.
But lets face it, if I was undiagnosed with epilepsy I'd probably be pumping my last 2 dollars into a pot of Tooheys and a punt on the Orient Express at some RSL dive in Geelong. Lets just be grateful this is not the case.
Being on the wagon, or at least in the vicinity of it, has allowed me some time to think about drugs and their role in society. Perhaps the focus on marijuana as a 'gateway drug' is the most humourous one. This argument goes something along the lines of 'If the kids smoke marijuana, next they'll try even crazier stuff like cocaine/heroin/Occupy Wall Street/rap music.......'
If we're serious about gateway drugs, what about alcohol? You know, the stuff that comes in bottles and helps people overcome their inhibitions/gain confidence/drive/forget stuff/etc. I can't think of a single friend or family member who at the least haven't put themselves at risk by using alcohol. Personally, I've managed some stupendous feats with a few sherbets under the belt. You think sober people decide to eat 54 oysters in a sitting? Urinate out of moving vehicles? Break into Rod Laver Arena? Jump into Darling Harbour? Fall asleep on trains and do the loop from Olympic Station to Central 5 times?
I also think it is somewhat hilarious that presidential candidates over the years have claimed 'Oh I smoked marijuana. But I did not inhale'. Barack Obama broke rank when he said 'I inhaled frequently. That was kinda the point'. Now old mate Barack is cracking down on the medical marijuana industry in the States. The state with the biggest number of potheadsconesmokersdopefiends medical marijuana patients is California. Coincidentally also the home of the late Eazy-E, Tupac, and the very much alive Snoop Dogg and Dr Dre. Apparentally medical marijuana can help with numerous health issues, including lack of appetite, 'pain' and lack of appreciation for Seth Rogen films. Grandma, if you're reading this, get ready for some home made cookies and a movie-a-thon.....
Anyway, the regulation of medical marijuana is kind of 'relaxed' in California. As evidenced during my recent visit to LA, pictured below. The Feds aren't too happy about this, and have launched a joint combined operation to weed out get rid of illicit suppliers, and ensure that medical marijuana users are getting high treatment for medicinal purposes.
Indeed, the federal Bureau of Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms sent letters to gun dealers warning them they could not sell guns to known medical marijuana users. This same Bureau stated that the Mexican government seized 68,000 guns from 2007 to 2011 that can be traced to the USA. Obviously there is a link here. Perhaps its all those stoned Californians forgetting where they put their guns and these subsequently being shipped south of the border. Call me a crazy liberal tree hugging pinko commie organic decaf latte sipping vegan, but I reckon the issue may not be stoned people with guns. It may not even be alcohol and guns (although admittedly these do not seem like a good combo - Plaxico Burress anybody?).
It just may be guns.
The defense cracks a bottle, puts his feet up and smokes a bucket bong rests.
FATHERHOOD
The last time my biceps glistened in this fashion was when my entire torso was slathered in olive oil and I was dancing with other oiled up workmates in a way that could euphemistically be described as 'provocatively'. There were mitigating circumstances, sure, but wailing 'It was for charity**' won't help you as you get dragged into the Human Resources office for about 15 different code violations, will it now.
This time my arm is glistening because my dear son has quietly puked all over my arm. Since I said goodbye to Ron* I always thought that my days of having warm sick pouring down my body were over. However, it appears that it was only the end of the beginning.
*Bacardi and his good mates Cooper, Sol, Corona et al.
**Actual charity, not a stripper by the same name.
Truth in advertising/Anyhow, have a Winfield
With the recent hoo-haa (massive segue - remember those 'cut the hoo-haa' ads that were a real hit in the 90's? No? I rest my case) over cigarette branding in Australia, I have viewed the dart ads in Japan with renewed enthusiasm. Given that by now everyone knows that smoking will kill you, (except perhaps that 2 year old Indonesian boy with a 40 a day habit) the content of the advertising is hilarious. I can't imagine that it would convince anyone to start smoking - after all, its not Paul Hogan saying 'Anyhow, have a Winfield'....
Actually, being unable to understand much of the written language in this country has given me a much better perspective on the imagery used in all the ads.
Example 1. Feel like a sport stick? So does this guy. And he has crazy hair, horns, and lightening bolts coming from several orifices. Take that, cancer.
Example 2. Like menthols? Smoke these ones and you'll turn into a horse. A black one.
Example 3. My Japanese reading is not quite perfect, but I believe the small sign to the right of the poster says 'If by any chance you can taste any of the pictured herbs in your chicken, we apologise profusely and will replace it immediately'
Example 4. Smoke these and you may get eye cancer. But who cares? WE'LL GIVE YOU YOU'LL AN ELECTRONIC EYE!
Example 5. Advertising boffins 'We need to sell this creamy powder. Lets call it some awesome name in English like Creap'. Nerdy office guy 'We should at least do our due diligence and check if that name has any unsavoury connotations'. Boffins 'Yeah. Or maybe we should just break out the champagne now at how awesome the name is' (cue champagne corks popping).
PLAY OF THE WEEK
In a bid to avoid the piece by piece destruction of the Melbourne Football Club, in a stunning turn of events I have wholeheartedly offered my support to the Hiroshima Carp baseball team. Similar to the Melbourne Football Club's employment of a new coach (insert circus music soundtrack here), there were strict criteria applied to this process:
I needed a team to barrack for.
They wear red, and occasionally, blue.
The team has won 1 championship in their entirely unglorious 62 year history. In their current state, they look like never winning one again. Particularly now that I support them.
During a recent family visit to Hiroshima, I was won over by the city itself, and I decided that they were the team for me. I had seen a lot of enthusiastic baseball fans on their way to the stadium that day, and by the time my souvenir-keen Dad called me to ask if I wanted a Carps cap late that afternoon, I was committed.
Later on, as I proudly sported my new cap, the demeanour of other fans indicated that the Carps had suffered a heartbreaking loss. A forensic analysis revealed that:
Dad had gone to the stadium in the last innings to buy the hat, and thus register my support for the Carp
The mighty Carp had been winning 4-0 until the last innings, precisely the time that I was officially on-board as a supporter.
At that point they promptly conceded 5 runs and lost 5-4.
The gift/curse of my support was confirmed.
To make things interesting, I have contacted Centrebet about the odds of a double success sometime within the next 10 years. Read below.
In other news, I never realized that Corbin Harris was such a beast of a skater. I had seen him on Fuel TV and quickly judged that he was a bit of a pretty boy. However, after seeing his new part in the Element video, I have changed my mind. He's no Dave Mayhew (one of my favourite skaters, who incidentally also designed some of the most awesome skate shoes ever) but he goes hard. More than happy to have him at the Melbourne Football Club.
Originally I started this blog with the honourable intentions of providing a little entertainment for my own purposes and also to maintain a little sanity while immersed in Japanese culture.
However, as longtime followers* of this column will notice, I feel it is becoming more and more necessary to rant at least once per post. I fear this may be the way all so called writers evolve. First it begins with humorous observations to entertain. Then as our confidence grows, we feel the need to educate. Then, a couple of single malts down the road comes the need to pontificate. From there it is a bloody slippery slope to dictating to the masses, where abiding by the law and displaying general human decency is optional. Hello Murdoch/Kyle Sanderlands.
Talking of tinpot dictatorships, our neighbours down the road, aka North Korea, decided to rattle a sabre (literally - the only other option was a donations tin for spare change), so instead of the world media taking a balanced view of things and paying them no attention, they freaked out and gave that idiotic regime all the attention they wanted. The looks on those smug North Korean official's faces as they answered questions about the 'missile' launch were so infuriating. Talk about fiddling with sticks as Rome burned (and starved).
Interestingly, the world's media outlets then posted follow up articles refering to the 'much hyped missile launch'. Which they had no hand in, obviously. Aside from the 'much hyped' bit, obviously.
As for the missile itself, upon closer viewing on the TV pre-launch, I decided that it posed no threat at all when I saw one bloke fixing roofing nails to the fin. Roofing nails. I mean I'm no rocket scientist, but I'm thinking that roofing nails don't quite cut the mustard in terms of structual integrity.
Oh, and talking of abiding by the law, or not, it was with absolute outrage that I saw a bit of press on the Catholic church's involvement and cover up of sexual abuse. For the last few decades, the priests involved thought they could 'deal with this sort of thing in house'. ie without the involvement of the police. And we're not talking isolated cases here. We are talking systemic abuses and subsequent cover ups, condoned by senior figures in the hurch. Disgusting. The only other example I can think of who prefer to deal with law transgressions in this covert way are criminal organisations such as the Mafia, who also deal with transgressions of their own code and the law 'in house'. Even the most shambolic excuses for sporting clubs in Australia, rugby league clubs, defer to the police when one of their players inevitably has a few too many sherbets and assaults someone.
Australia has enshrined in law such wonderful things as freedom of discrimination on the basis of colour, creed or religion. Which means that you are perfectly entitled to run a crackpot organization that has archaic views on gays, marriage, contraception and is governed by old men that have never had sex. (Please note that according to the wonderfully tolerant catechisms of the Catholic Church, the only way a gay person can work for a Catholic school, is if they profess to be a Catholic, and that although homosexual they do not have gay sex. Figure that out). However, if you want to operate within our society, with all the protections and benefits that confers, including freedom to teach religion, you must be prepared to abide by the same laws which are in place to protect everyone. Especially the most vulnerable in our society - the dispossessed, the abandoned, the children.
I'm not saying that the Church is evil. Many great things have been done by followers of the Catholic faith. But many great things things have been done by people of all faiths, or no 'faith' at all. Personally, I think there is a marked distinction between people who are Catholics and people who espouse the teachings of Jesus.
People who profess One Love. Not tolerance. But love.
And if you truly love people, you know that doesn't mean you get to make up your own rules.
Other than amateur looking missiles going awry, and outrage at the bullshit behaviour of the Catholic Church, it has been a splendid few weeks here in Amakusa. Beautiful days spent kicking the Sherrin under the cherry blossoms, shredding a few hills on my longboard, having friends to stay, it has been a whirlwind of gentle, relaxed activity.
As I sit here with my son sleeping on my chest, I give praise to all those who have made sacrifices so that I can live such a blessed life.
Happy ANZAC Day.
*Thanks Dad.
Fatherhood
Talk about ups and downs. Sometimes I think I'm going through menopause. Some days all I feel like doing is staying in my pyjamas, making bread and reading utter trash online. And my facial hair - astonishing!
Life is funny.
Sometimes you will be laughing with your child, with both of you unable to explain just what is so funny.
Other times, my son cries so hard it makes me cry. Then again, I once cried during Street Fighter: The Movie, when Jean-Claude Van Damme makes a speech about democracy. So I guess you should make your own judgement as to my tear threshold.
But today, I'd like to treat you to the 10% rule of fatherhood. Even in our luxurious, time rich existence in Japan, I have experienced the following:
You will forget approximately 10% of what people say to you. Generally the important bits. I have (apparently) had entire conversations with people that I do not recall in any way whatsoever. Worse than Bacardi blackout.
You will take 10% longer to do things, because inevitably there is vomit on your shirt, what appears to be peanut butter on your arm and you haven't gone to the toilet in 2 days and you don't know what to address first. Mainly because the peanut butter may not be peanut butter.....
This is compensated for by the development of extreme skill in doing several things at once. Women refer to this as 'multitasking' or even just 'living'. For the guys out there, imagine you're watching the footy, having a beer and talking to a mate on the mobile. Conceptually, that is what it is about. Realistically, its about slurping a cup of tea, getting dressed, mentally calculating whether you have time to do a load of washing and all the while holding what feels like an extremely delicately packed 8 kg bag of ripe avocadoes that is equipped with one of those bomb timers like off Speed (starring Sandra Bullock. Mmmm); you stop moving, it explodes.
You will be 10% more tolerant and understanding of everyone, except people who cut in front of you at the supermarket. That sort of shit will rile you up and keep you awake at night.
Mothers and fathers of the world, I salute you.
Music of the Week
Thankfully, my son has embraced classical music. It would have been so embarrassing if he started listening to whatever it is the youth of the today rot their brains with.
No such worries in this cerebral household. His favourite pieces include:
Life after Death (Notorious B.I.G)
Doggystyle (Snoop Dogg)
Liquid Swords (GZA)
I just hope he appreciates Eric B. and Rakim too.
Sporting Moment of the Week
Given the Dees continue to disappoint (for the extent of my lifetime so far, unless you include the glorious 1987 'night grand final' in which we smashed Essendon. And I do), there are no football related plays to talk about, I'm afraid.
Instead, you have the following to to choose from. Either some carefully edited footage of me skateboarding, set to some classic hip-hop, in which you will be able to observe that I have ruined my jeans, my skateboard gloves, and some kneepads.
Or a short 19 second video of my son showing aptitude and comic timing all at once. Please put the volume on for full effect, so that you can hear the commentary.
This weeks's Quiz (with apologies to John Clarke)
Please view the photos below. Then skip straight to the section below for the answers to the 11 most commonly asked questions.
The correct answer is b) The small child is on the left of the photo. On the right of the photo there is a large fish.
False. The name Plaxico was popularized by the NY Jets football player of the same name, who gained infamy by accidentally shooting himself in the leg with his own concealed handgun at a nightclub, and subsequently went to jail. Humorously, the gun was concealed in the waistband of his tracksuit pants at the time of the shooting. Plexiglass is a product used by car manufacturers for windscreens.
Correct. I did not catch the fish. I only catch fish smaller than my child. Jerremy Akiyama caught the fish.
True. Jerremy is a show-off.
False. Plaxico is not yet eating solids and most certainly did not eat a fish approximately that size prior to the photo shoot.
True. Man has walked on the moon, and sequenced the genome, but we are no closer to knowing how many chins to the nearest 10 that my son has.
False. His cheeks have not been digitally enhanced.
Correct. Picture 1 is the closest to a Mexican stand off the Japanese public have ever seen.
None of the above. We are not sure if he looks happy in the second photo because he has been told he can eat the fish as part of his 100 day celebrations, or whether he was looking forward to wrestling the fish as part of his 100 day celebrations.
After exhausting my emotional depth and writing talent last week (see previous post), its back to inane comments and random YouTube clips this week.
Before I do, though, I've got to say that I feel truly blessed by the many kind people that responded with support and love. I guess not many people have been left untouched by the loss of a loved one. Social media forums loke Facebook and Twitter have their many knockers, with many people dismissing them as a series of inane rants by affluent people whinging about they didn't get the coffee they wanted, or that traffic is bad, or whatever. The majority of the information on these forums may be relatively inane, but then again so is the majority of my daily conversation. They remain amazing forums for spreading awareness and concern for people.
Now that thats out of the way.....
For me, the change in weather has seemingly coincided beautifully with the sad memories of last week starting to settle.
Memories of lost ones will never completely heal, but they do become less painful. I find that the best therapy for sad times, involves lying down in the sun, on some soft grass, with a faithful dog beside you.....
The weekend papers, homemade sourdough toast and a pot of tea.....
Sunlight streaming through the window.....
Somewhere far in the distance, hearing a lawnmower whirr into life.....
Seeing that the trees are well manicured, with a restrained parade of colour, but the blossoms are not in full bloom...
You're not sure whether to read, cuddle your sleeping baby, do a load of washing or just sit there and take it all in.
Thats right, spring has sprung. It is magic. Perfectly symbolised by my coriander seedlings, emerging from the ground as I type this. I planted some coriander seeds into some pots on the widowsill with a sense of hope a few weeks ago, when the cold weather didn't look like ending. I fear that in a couple of months it'll have bolted to seed, and the whole exercise will have provided enough leaf for half a taco, but the progress has been uplifting nonetheless.
The sakura (cherry blossom) is in bloom here, and the sight is unlike anything I've seen before. I didn't think I would be seduced by such obvious beauty; I thought my appreciation of nature leaned towards the nuances of the Australian bush, of the textured colours that can take a lifetime to describe.
But no, it appears I'm a sucker for the sakura. Perhaps it is their fleeting, ephemeral quality that makes them so attractive.
With spring comes boundless optimism. I'm the sort of guy who walks into the casino, 'feels lucky', and promptly loses $100 on roulette. Just last year, while giving the dancefloor a bit of dougie, I attracted a plethora of young ladies who appeared keen to match their moves with me. Whilst nursing a horrible hangover the next day, I reflected that perhaps these young women had not, in fact, chosen the stallion of the floor to get loose with. Perhaps, they were gracing the oldest, most non-threatening, saddest looking loser with some badly needed affection. The duration of this reflection could not be measured in metrics; it was so fleeting that before I knew it, I was giving myself a bit more dougie in the mirror, with a knowing smile, a wink, and a bottle of gatorade in my sweaty mitts.
On this subject, I always thought that I would marry the woman of my dreams. But I never realised I would get to marry her twice, which brings us to.....
THE MOTHER OF ALL WEDDINGS
Yo yo, I heard Kim Kardashian married some guy for 84 days or summink. And J.Lo had sushi being served on naked models at her wedding.
But nothing beats marrying the woman you love for the second time.
The first time I got married, I must admit I was a little nervous. It was great and all, and I dearly loved the woman, but without getting too intimate - what if she never puts out? What if she wanted to stay chaste for the rest of her life?
These questions dogged me for days, particularly as our wedding day was such a happy day, yet lacked a happy ending....
I'm happy to report that my second marriage was a far more relaxing occasion. This time, the lady in question had runs on the board and experience under the belt (see my son for evidence). And whats more, I love her even more than the woman I married the first time.
She makes me laugh, makes me think, makes me coffee (rarely), encourages me to follow my dreams, is my dream, and is as tough as she is beautiful (heaps).
She makes me a better person and I am so grateful for her.
While Wedding #2 provided a useful opportunity to get kitted up in exotic clothing and express our love for each other, this was not the sole point of the day. It was also to provide a feature for a local festival to be held in Amakusa that day. Indeed, the dearth of local couples getting married that day left an opportunity for Emma and I to renew our vows in a formal Japanese manner, take a ride in a rickshaw, be interviewed by a local TV crew, and generally be treated like royalty. They had me at 'rickshaw'.
We started off at the local shrine. I had clean underpants on and Emma had frozen Ziploc bags of breast milk. We were down for whatever.
Two ladies asked us to undress, as my mother-in-law watched on. (Regular followers of this column should note is not normally how my day goes - normally it is the other way round).
The ladies then kitted us out in a kimono and wig for Emma, and a hakama for me, with my hair being declared suitably samurai like/awesome to be left alone.
After being dressed, we met the shinto priest for a quick run through of how things would roll. I recall it as something like this 'stand up, bow twice, sit down, drink a cup of sake in 3 sips, turn to your left, wave a branch, drink more sake in 3 sips, put your thumbprint on this piece of paper, bow twice. And don't mess any of it up, theres a television crew filming'. In hindsight this seems like some sort of drinking game performed for Funniest Home Videos, but it was serious as a heart attack at the time. The fact the priest had a photo of the emperor in his temple possibly indicated that his views on interracial marriage were, ahem, 'mixed', but he was admirably professional, particularly when you consider the robes he was wearing:
With many onlooking, we managed to get the bulk of it right, and before long we had safely negotiated an interview with a TV comedian, and were safely surrounded by family and friends, including our son Plax, who slept through yet an another important moment in our lives. Bless him. The comedian's repertoire seemed to consist of mocking the English language and anyone who spoke it. In addition to this, he congratulated Emma's Dad on his ability to speak Japanese, which, given he was born in Japan and lived here for the majority of his life, is perhaps not as admirable as it seems.
Soon we were being led along the local streets in the rickshaw, with a pack of gorgeous kids dressed in traditional garb leading the way. So many onlookers lined the streets, I felt like royalty. Sadly though, I believe my excited demeanor betrayed my peasant status, as I gleefully waved to all and sundry, instead of solemnly avoiding eye contact and deigning to display the royal wave only.
We eventually made it to the main street where the festival was being held. Shrieks of excitement by local kids and the scent of bbqd meat filled the air. I was persuaded to stay on board the rickshaw, despite the lure of grilled chicken, until we got to the stage.
Then it was time for a little more ceremony, before we were set up onstage, flanked by our trusty entourage and fronted by the colourful kiddies.
The ceremony concluded with us throwing out 1000 mochi pieces to the adoring crowd. Over 200 people clamoured for the mochi as we threw it. Grannies elbowed young kids out the way for a piece. It was truly a heartening sight.
After one last hat change for Emma, Wedding #2 was over.
We savoured the experience with a cup of macha green tea crafted during an elaborate, graceful process by someone who could only be described as an artist.
It was an absolutely wonderful experience and I'm so grateful and blessed to have had the opportunity.
See the flick below for the telly special they did on the wedding. Apologies for the dodgy footage - it was a last minute Mexican style prop-up-the-ipad recording of Emma's Grandma's TV, which explains the brown fluffy blanket lurking in the left hand corner.
However, please note that this certainly won't be our last wedding. We plan to get married as many times as there are Die Hard movies. That means there are 2 to go at this point, and with filming to begin on A Good Day to Die Hard in April, there could well be at least one more....
JAPANESE ENGINEERING/SHE'LL BE RIGHT, MATE
Alternative titles include: 'Japanese Engineering: Not as good as we all thought'. Or even 'What the Fukukshima Nuclear Plant Designers are doing now'
Found this little nugget of genius on the road up to the in-laws. It involves tie-wire, plastic twine and besser blocks. No word on potential compensation offered when the wind decides to drag the entire sign, blocks and all, into oncoming traffic.
I believe that most Australians would be familiar with the concept of 'bush engineering'. It probably first came to prominence as a concept when Ned Kelly stole a plough disc and made a metal helmet and breast plate out of it. Or when New Zealand faced a food shortage, were getting cold at night and lacked women of marriable age and started raising sheep to solve all 3 problems. I thought it was a uniquely Australian concept, involving using only the available resources to solve a problem, which in the bush can mean doing a lot with very very little. On second thoughts though, traditional land owners of the world have been doing this for millenia.
So there is something about the photo below that I love. It is a small set up that achieves 3 things:
Shelter for farm equipment from rain
Captures rain for later use on the farm
Allows for distribution of the captured water via the offtake from the bath.
Every part of the arrangement below has been scavenged. And in a resource poor world, which is the way we're headed, innovation like this becomes essential.
JAPANESE INVENTION OF THE WEEK
The low hanging fruit in this category has been exhausted, and after a while the most wondrous of inventions become standard fare. I rarely stand up to pee anymore; why bother, when you've got a pre-warmed toilet seat ready to go?
However, I refuse to let this stop me. I have searched high and low. I cruise back streets and shopping malls. I am inexhaustable when it comes to seeking innovation.
After lengthy consideration, this battery vending machine was considered the invention of the week. Lets face it, in a world of late night convenience stores and rechargable batteries, a battery vending machine is hardly cutting edge. Can't jam any of these into your iPhone when you need it.
So imagine the world these blokes were living in when they devised the battery vending machine. Demand for batteries must have seemed insatiable. This would have been the era of Nintendo Gameboys, Sony Walkmans and the newly invented remote control.
People must have been waking up in the middle of the night thinking 'Shit, I left the washing outside. Oh, and I urgently need some batteries. I know, I'll quickly zip past that conveniently located vending machine'.....
WHINGE OF THE WEEK/HELLO JULIA
Dear Julia/Kevin/Whoever has assumed 'leadership' of this sheep station,
I consider myself fortunate to be an Australian. To wake up every day and dream of Vegemite on toast, the finest coffee on earth, that beautiful bloody sun shining through the majestic gum trees that the most recent arrivals to our land haven't managed to justify cutting down yet. To dream of great days, and even better tomorrows. To know that whatever it is in this land I strive for, I have a bloody great chance of achieving. To know that the people that may discriminate on the basis of race are the minority, and are easily identified by their tendency to proliferate around Murdoch publications. I'm not going to list the diversity amongst the friends I have, because it could be viewed as an exercise in how awesome I am. But put it this way, I love this country. I love it so much I had the southern cross tattooed on my chest. With a rusty nail and some leftover blue paint.
So it was with great interest that I read over the citizenship papers for our young man. Incidentally, despite being burdened with a name ripe for teasing, Gaku Plaxico Akiyama Reeves, the egalitarian nature of our wonderful country means that I have the utmost confidence that he will teased just the same as the other kids with more common names. Indeed, my brother in law, Gou Jerremy Akiyama, who is commonly referred to as Gozza in Australia, asked me with some fear, 'Have you considered that Plaxico almost rhymes with 'spastic'?'.
The 'Declaration' of the citizenship papers asks you to read a lengthy series of paragraphs authorising the Australian Government to basically do what it wants with your information, all for the greater good I'm assuming. Then it asks you to 'understand that', among other things:
Australian society values respect for the freedom and dignity of the individual, freedom of religion, commitment to the rule of law, parliamentary democracy, equality of men and women and a spirit of egalitarianism that embraces mutual respect, tolerance, fair play and compassion for those in need, and the pursuit of the public good.
Australian society values equality of opportunity for individuals, regardless of their race, religion or religious background.
Its the bit about the fair play that tickles my fancy. I love it. Despite the widening gap between the haves and the have-nots, our country is still one that allows for unchecked dreaming. My little man can be anything he wants, if he has the grit and determination to do it. He could be captain of the Australian rugby team. Make movies. Make coffee. Be a synchronised diver. A high court judge. A singer. A premiership winning captain of the Melbourne Football Club. Bat at no. 3 for Victoria. Get married to the person he loves.
Er, on second thoughts, no he couldn't.
Not if he's gay. He could do everything else, but not get married.
Seriously?
There are so many fundamental issues in Australia that need addressing (such as the aforementioned widening gap between the rich and poor, who will play at first drop in the Test team until Plax is ready, and who the hell is going to lead my beloved Melbourne Football Club to their next premiership), yet you choose to fiddle around and debate this topic at your Senate enquiry.
How about you wind up the debate, pass the motion, just do what is obvious to everyone and legalise gay marriage. In our society, as clearly stated on our citizenship application form, we celebrate diversity. Hurry up and allow us to bloody well celebrate it, with some lamb chops on the barbie, stubbies of Coopers and glitter sprinkled on oiled up bodies. In fact lets celebrate it with a bloody day off. I reckon even Tourism Australia could devise something involving mass gay marriage, the Mardi Gras, Dame Edna Everage, and Kylie Minogue that would possibly even be profitable. Although that may be aginst their charter.
Then get the Senate onto the complex stuff that does require more than one pinhead to consider it.
Yours sincerely,
Paul
P.S How dare you potentially rob me of the opportunity to tell Dad jokes at my son's wedding?
This week I got to live out one of my dreams. To marry the woman that I love.
Sometimes the cynicism and grind of the media cycle lead me to believe that people have forgotten how to dream. That we are a culture obsessed with money and status, clothes and shoes.
Is this true? Have we forgotten how to chase the dream? I just mean the pure simplicity of doing something because you love it. Because the thought of not doing it is unbearable.
Not for the money. Not for the ladies or the free pies.
I'm living the dream right now. Sure, it may be a little less noteworthy than some, but its my dream nonetheless.
Stories like Linsanity get us pumped because we remember what it is like to live the dream. You reckon Izzy Folau gets excited about going out to play like some B-grade AFL hack in some gravel top oval in the west of Sydney? Shit, even playing rugby league is better than that.
To all you people wondering how to pursue your dream, watch this, and remember that this man is now remembered as the greatest rapper of all time.
I learnt that Jim Stynes had passed away today when I awoke to the sound of my son crying. He needed a cuddle, so I grabbed him and chucked on some peaceful music for us on the iPad. A message on the screen had popped up from one of my sisters : Rest in peace beautiful Jimmy Stynes...so dignified and authentic. Keep that signed photo...the mark of a great man! And yes, I am my father's daughter. Glove you tresh. Skype later xoxoxoxoxo'
I sat there comforting my little man, and he in turn comforted me as I slowly digested what was going on. Sure, Jimmy had been sick, and I had tried to prepare myself for this moment by telling myself the severity of his cancer, the highly experimental nature of his treatment and the like. However, he also played 244 games straight for his mighty Demons. You don't do that without having mindblowing resources of strength to draw on, far more than us mere mortals. So his death still came as a shock.
You can read all the reasons why Jimmy was a champion; his exploits on and off the field are well known. There are not too many people who reach the pinnacle of individual achievement on the sporting field, yet achieve and reach out to far more people beyond it. So by all means, read about his wonderful exploits, and watch the documentary on him that served as inspiration to other cancer sufferers.
But it was what he did for a young boy from the country that I want to share with you.
When I was 2 my father gave me a choice of 4 teams to barrack for that hadn't won a premiership since 1969, the year he migrated to Australia. Thankfully I managed to look past St Kilda (see earlier posts about these blokes) and the Lions (folded), although Footscray are at least a bunch of battlers who I could barrack for if need be (ie they were playing Collingwood). I don't how Dad presented the options, and what criteria I selected on, but it was the Demons from then on.
So by the time Jim Stynes ran over the mark in that epic 1987 game, I was 6 years old, and already a tragic. For some reason I had already chosen Jim as my favourite player. Maybe being the 3rd shortest kid in my class made me yearn to be big, like Jim. I remember knowing that he was Irish - perhaps I felt like an outsider too. Who knows. But sometime that next year, I sent Jim a letter.
And some weeks later, I received back a large envelope, addressed by hand, to me. Imagine my delight when I read my name on the front, turned it over and found the back of the envelope covered in Melbourne player's autographs. The letter was hand written by Jim and urged me to stay true to the Demons, despite their poor showing that year. He included a signed photo that I had sent him.
I walked ten feet taller that day. And all the subsequent ones.
Sometime later, maybe 6 months or a year, I had a rare trip to Melbourne. I came down with my Mum on the train to meet my Dad, who was staying in the city that week. Dad was in his business suit, and after dinner he off we went. To Junction Oval, of all places. It was a cold and blustery night, and the Demons were running through their paces. Dad confided in me if we acted like we were meant to be there, we could comfidently walk into the changing rooms. So we did. It was little more than a tin shed and it smelt richly of that wonderful combination of sweat, dencorub and testosterone. Dad pointed out Jimmy Stynes, as if he needed to, and urged me over to chat with him. The rooms were filled with chatter and players showering and carrying on, but Jim bent down to me as I stood patiently waiting for his attention. I told him I had sent him a letter some 6 months or whatever earlier, and how he had written back to me. He told me he remembered me. He shook my hand and we had a chat, and as we did so he looked me in the eyes. I remember all sorts of things from the ensuing half hour spent in the clubrooms, some real, some imagined - a nude Rod Grinter giving my hair a ruffle (real), Alan Jakovich smoking a dart (imagined - he wouldn't debut for a few years yet). But I will always vividly remember that Jimmy Stynes gave me his time to chat, and that he remembered me.
It doesn't matter whether he remembered me or not. A young boy is not going to delve into the probabilities of that. It was that he told me he remembered me. I was so proud. So so proud.
Jim spent the rest of his off field life making people feel like champions, through conversations like the one described above, and through the organisation he founded, Reach, who's motto is this: 'Reach believes that every young person should have the support and self-belief they need to fulfil their potential and dare to dream.'
Says it all, really.
I have had many other people in my life who have made me feel like a champion in my life. One was my mum. She passed away over 12 years ago, yet I think about her every day. I could say euphemistically that depression claimed her life. I could lie, and tell you that cancer took her, just as it did Jim. I've done that before, to spare people the inevitable embarrassment when I tell them that she committed suicide.
If you want my opinion, sexual abuse as a child is what killed my mum. She grew up in a family where the vulnerable were preyed on, where alcohol, low self esteem and deep shame combined in a cocktail of abuse and unhappiness. To me, that kind of start to life can never be overcome. As an adult, she was able to shake off bouts of depression for years at a time. But that bloody black dog of depression would always come back to visit.
My mum was an amazingly kind person. Always giving the benefit of the doubt, always encouraging. I remember when I needed some cricket practice to prepare for the weekend's game. Dad was away and Mum volunteered to roll the arm over. As she was bowling to me, she asked me for some encouragement as to how she was doing. I weep now to think that she needed her son to tell her how well she was bowling, of all things. And if you are wondering, she was bowling quite well.
I also remember the last tennis game I played. It was against my Mum. She was completely outplaying me, and kept offering encouragement and loving comments as her winning shots would inevitably elude my desperate lunges. It infuriated the angsty teenage me to the point where I threw my racket and hurled abuse. She kept lovingly encouraging me. I forfeited the match and never raised the racket again.
Above all, she was a brave, loyal, and a fighter, just like Jimmy. If she was on your side, she would always be on your side. I vividly recall her defending my honour when I had been dobbed on for drinking beer on a school bus. On a phone hook up with two of the mothers on the self appointed disclipline commitee she said 'Well I'd prefer my child to be drinking beer than being the snitch who told on them!'. She raised 4 champion children, had a loving marriage for 30 years and did it fighting low self esteem and depression, right to the very end. She broke a cycle of sexual abuse, and did it by showering her children in love and support, and telling us we could be whatever we wanted to be.
Sexual abuse can occur anywhere, amongst any socioeconomic class, but it is prevalent amongst the vulnerable, the shamed, the low self esteem sufferers. The people who don't feel they have the voice that some of us are lucky enough to have. Those that feel too shamed by their experiences to speak up.
It may be too long a bow to draw to say that Jimmy's and my mum's lives were intertwined. But I wonder how many children he has reached out to, children who were once like my Mum, those that have been given the self belief they need to succeed and be happy in life. What a wonderful legacy.
You might not be able to reach out to as many people as Jimmy did. But if you love your family and friends, speak up when you hear of something that doesn't sound right, and above all believe in your friends and family if they feel something has happened, we will all be better off. Above all, listen to the voice and encourage people to speak out.
The people that make us believe in ourselves are the most powerful of all. Much more powerful than the people exploiting vulnerable children all over the world. Jimmy made an entire football club and generations of people believe in themselves. My mum helped me and my family believe in ourselves, not to mention the other depression sufferers she shared her battle with.
Rest in peace, Jimmy.
And you too, Mum.
http://www.reach.org.au/
I got the doctor to check me yesterday - yes, the heart beats true...
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
The answers were yes, no and fuck no. I said out loud some of the harshest things I have ever even thought. I may have even invented some new swear words. At one point, I accused Daisy Thomas of being a combination of all the transgressions St Kilda players have committed in recent memory. Needless to say it was a lengthy, harsh and deeply disturbing diatribe, both in deed and description.
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
