I'm sick of this blog. All blogs. In fact, I'm finding the internet as a whole rather lacklustre.

I'm indifferent to my inbox, bored with babble and phed up with Photoshop; eBay is nothing more than sad, stale and senseless squander. HTML can go to hell. I never thought I'd say that, but there you have it in black and #EEEECC.

I'm signing off for a while. You'll find me in the garden.

Australia's Glory Daze

I've banged on about The Big Issue here before, so if you'd like a refresher on why it's the best print publication I'm aware of in the country, I suggest you make a detour here.

One of the columns I particularly enjoy is that of editor, Martin Hughes. That I'm likely to be inviting Mr Hughes to avail himself to my professional print skills next year is incidental to my praise here, although if he views me more favourably as a result then no harm done, eh?

I've been watching the recent poncing about of John Howard with a very jaundiced eye indeed, and have been sketching out plans for a discussion of the topic, but found that Martin has done just that in the most recent Big Issue and far better than I ever would have. So, without permission but with full credit to the man, this is what he said:

Among the gongs Prime Minister John Howard has received in recent weeks is the Woodrow Wilson Award for Public Service from the US government. Quick to share the honour with the whole of Australia, the PM says it's a mark of our newfound respect around the world -- with the clear implication being that it's all down to his outstanding leadership.

One thing for certain is that the PM, on our behalf, has a grossly overinflated sense of the nations' importance. Think back, for instance, to the government's chest-beating about Australia being a leading partner in the Coalition of the Willing against Iraq. The US, Britain and Spain hosted a 'Moment of Truth' summit in the Azores a few days before the invasion and Australia -- after all its huffing and puffing -- didn't even get a place on the dais.

The US establishment is clearly keen to keep Australia's support and will do whatever it takes (which evidently isn't very much) to mollycoddle our PM and his cohorts. But the media seem to have bought this story about newfound respect; certainly nobody has critically examined the claim.

As someone fortunate enough to have travelled extensively in recent years -- primarily as a travel writer -- I can only presume the PM is referring to those parts of the world where he seeks respect, as in the corridors of power in the US and Britain. For it does not correlate with my experience, travelling as a sensitive 'New Australian'. While we're still partly seen as laid-back and friendly larrikins, we're also frequently perceived these days as arrogant, loud, intolerant, parochial and -- this will hurt -- tight-fisted.

But this is hardly surprising when you consider that international perceptions of us are funnelled through the frighteningly narrow prism of our movie stars, sports people and budget travellers, as well as the Prime Minister and the things his government does.

The image of us as stingy -- which I, personally, have spent a small fortune trying to dispel -- largely comes from our huge numbers of budget travellers struggling to get a band out of our emasculated buck. Our reputation for arrogance stems from the fact that we seem to produce ambassadors more in the mould of Lleyton Hewitt and Russell Crowe that Ian Thorpe and Cate Blanchett. But these perceptions are superficial and ever-changing.

Much more damaging to our international reputation are the Australian stories that make international headlines, which seep into the collective conscience. Some of the biggest news to travel in recent years has been: the Tampa refugees and our treatment of asylum seekers; the electoral success of Pauline Hanson (nobody appreciated that it was largely within one state); an assortment of backpacker murders; two fingers to Kyoto; the welfare of Indigenous Australians; the rape of Tasmania's forests; Sydney 2000; and the Rugby World Cup.

Only the Olympics reflected favourably on us, and in any way represented the Australia I chose to live in. The PM even managed to turn the Rugby World Cup into a public relations embarrassment when he presented the medals to the victorious England team with all the grace of a bulldog that had found a nettle in his bowl.

In Buenos Aires earlier this year, my relief at finally tracking down an English-language newspaper quickly turned to shame when I read the Cornelia Rau story on page three. That's typical of what people -- at least those who read newspapers -- want to talk about regarding Australia when I'm overseas. That this government has strengthened its grip on power despite/because of these headlines goes a long way to defining us as a nation.

Australia's reputation today is very different from what it was a decade ago, when I decided to move here. I know from my time in Ireland that it's difficult for a small, insecure nation to acknowledge its irrelevance. But at least Ireland when we realised we were a global nonentity we decided to distinguish ourselves by being the friendliest damn nonentity on the planet.

The biggest danger in getting ideas above our station is a lack of humility. Australia is a young, friendly, progressive and confident nation (trapped in an old conservative's body politic) and we should be mindful of conveying that image of ourselves, both when we travel and when we vote.

So Prime Minister Howard, as generous as you've been in your willingness to share this award with the rest of us, to spread the credit for our newfound repect in the world, we couldn't possibly accept -- it's all yours.

Blessed Are The Sweet of Tooth

I've always been more than a little sceptical when I read about miracles. And I've always been more than a little excited by bowling shoes.

Many years ago I had a pair of ex-rental bowling shoes. I loved them. They were red, black and white and had the size -- 7-- stitched into the heel. They were unusual, they were comfortable, they were a conversation starter and they were damn cool.

Time rolls on, and the shoes and I parted company. I've missed them. A few months ago while browsing eBay it occurred to me that if I could get another pair of this funky footwear, eBay would surely be the place, so every couple of days an email hits my inbox telling me when another pair has been listed. They're never the right ones, though; too big, too small, too dull, too modern. I'd all but given up.

Fast forward to today. The third day of a headache that flirted on the edges of migraine shuffled me out of work early, but I decided to swing by Reverse Garbage on the way home to pick up a few supplies. I planned to hop off the bus at the stop outside the Malay take away nearby, where I thought I might get a spicy midday bite and torture the staff with my own special interpretation of Indo-Malay conversation, but instead found that a vintage clothing trader had moved into the store since I'd last visited. I stepped in to inspect.

Browsing the racks of infinite coolness, I turned to the chap behind the counter and said, "Do you ever get bowling sh..." as my eyes fell on two perfect pairs. "Hey, I used to have a pair with a seven..." as I turned one shoe over to reveal that number on the heel.



It was bizarre. They were the very image of my much-loved and long-lost pair. A mere $25 dollars lighter, I skipped down to Reverse Garbage where I found, priced at $1, an as-new video of a film I'd -- just a week ago -- decided to track down, and some leather offcuts I'd been hoping to find for attaching handles to bags. They were remarkably fortuitous events. One could even say...miraculous.

Friends, it's time to reveal the initial find of the day: at the office this morning, while browsing a bowl of assorted sweets I happened upon an unusual specimen, one that looked eerily familiar...



After all these long years envying those rare individuals who sit down to dinner and find Jesus gazing up from their fish fingers, finally my time has come. I have been touched, smiled upon benevolently from above. I am the blessed recipient of the Holy Virgin as she has appeared to me in gelatinous form, and miracles have followed where I've carried her in my pocket.

I sent a gushing text to Mr T, whose sage reply was, "I've got two words to say to you, Zézette: e. Bay."

Any suggestions on a starting price?

The post I'd intended to make today will have to wait; I've whiled away half my day doodling on the creative arm of the Safari, so I should probably get along with some 3D living.

A Cure For What Ails You

I've been burdened recently with an inconvenient surplus of money, energy and patience, and a troubling lack of splitting headaches. How fortunate then that it's Ekka time.

In addition to relief from the ailments above I've had my refreshing yearly dose of cowshit on my boots and smell of hay and livestock, quite the panacea for a country girl city-bound for over a decade, and the cattle shed provided the kids with an unforgettable lesson in telling the difference between boys and girls.

One of the treats this year was The Human Cannonball, or as the Curious Snail would have it, The Human Lady Cannonball. Yes, the projectile is a gal, a 21 year old American lass who continues the family tradition of being shot into the air, apparently. I lent my support by having the bejeesus scared out of me when the cannon fired and ramming my steak burger into my face. What better way to show solidarity with the sisterhood than wearing a barbeque sauce "smile" from ear to ear?

Walk Like A Man...

...then walk like a woman. (Or something in between.)




As some visitors will be aware, there had been the animated version of the Biomotion Lab's Gender classification: analysis and synthesis demonstration; that is, a kinetic illustration of the differences in the way men and women walk. To see it now -- and that's something I'd strongly encourage you to do -- you'll have to click on the button above.

Unique, Like Everyone Else.

The surreal and the mundane are a pigeon pair: one begets the other. The suburbs highlight the odd the way that night shows up the stars.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I catch the same bus to work every day: the 120. It’s a regular commuter run in the mornings. Everyone on board – myself included – has their personalities idling in neutral as they ride into their CBD servitude, a twenty-minute salvation between the chaos of getting ready and the graft of work. Many of us take the opportunity to read. I finished my most recent novel last night, so spent my travel time today alternately gazing out the window and observing my fellow passengers, speculating about their lives, stories, tastes, lovers, families, experiences, backgrounds. Sometimes I catch small slices of life that lift the gravity from the corners of my mouth.

This morning as we traversed Greenslopes I saw a man walking down a garden path. He was dressed in a plain, work-a-day office outfit*, one not out of place in an insurance office or one of the duller government departments. What drew my eye was not so much the man (or his apparel), but what filled his hands: in one an enormous fuscia-pink double hibiscus flower, the other a shiny chrome yabby pump. What the relationship between these two items might possibly be, or where they are now I can only guess. I’d imagine that that he’d be surprised to know that they’re also on your monitor, though.

Less immediately striking but certainly more thought provoking was that I boarded the bus with my doppelganger. I didn’t recognise the similarity at first. It became apparent during the course of the journey. About my size, wearing jeans, boots, plain tee shirt. She carried a satchel and read “Introducing Stephen Hawking” through a tangle of hair, pushing her spectacles up the bridge of her nose all the while. I suppose everyone feels they’re unique, quite unlike everyone else and I’m no exception. I’d never thought of myself as a “type” -- more a misfit than anything, so I was intrigued by this mirror across the way. I wish I’d known how to make contact with this sister/stranger. I would like to have gotten to know her. But then, maybe it's for the best; perhaps there’s only room for one of each type in any social “world”.

*or disguise, perhaps -- who am I to judge?.