"Yes, we are all unique!" "I'm not". "Shhh..."

I was watching Monty Python’s ‘Life of Brian’ on Tuesday night and got to that classic scene where all Brian’s followers are outside his window early in the morning to seek his guidance and Brian tells them “you don’t need to follow anyone! You are all individual!”, to which the crowd replies; “Yes! We are all individual!”. (Again, apologies for the shocking grammar. I just needed to quickly get my point out there.) 

(Also if you have not seen ‘Life of Brian’, please treat yourself and rent it from Network Video. You can rent 3 DVD’s for $3.50 a week.)

Anyway; my main contention; I’m growing very tired of all these people with their ‘quirky’ blogs; with their pretty pictures and funny metaphors and vain photographs of themselves which they have clearly taken with their camera set on self timer and quickly thrust upon some tree or bed-stand before the timer goes off.

They all go on about their individuality and how they’re different from everyone else, but after reading ten or so of these blogs not one clearly stood out in my mind. There was no meaning; no point. No discussion of worldly issues, or even issues important to the writer. Bloggers of the world: I don’t want to read a letter about how chairs are awesome, or how your teacher for maths today was “really shit but whatevs”. I don’t care about this “cool and quirky pair of shoes” which you saw in a shop window “and I could just see some magical person wearing them in a forest”. Please. Stop.

Now please don’t get me wrong. Some of these people can actually write. I just finished reading a very imaginative short story involving a bulimic Hermione written by an old school peer. Three cheers to Charlotte; that was the best piece of writing I have read for a very long time. It was dark and witty, but also drew a spotlight to the very real issue of anorexia and other related body image issues in today’s society. If you would like to read; thevelveteenhappiness.blogspot.com/Bravo and kudos. This is what I want! I want cleverly articulated pieces which discuss current issues. I want people to discuss the thematic preoccupations and hidden connotations of, I don’t know, Star Wars or Sale of the Century, if that’s what floats your boat. I want to read short stories and weirdly beautiful poetry.  I don’t care what it is you write about, but if you are going to go to the effort of putting it up there in cyberspace, make it something different to the other millions of bloggers out there. Please do not fall victim to this new genre of blogging which seems to have captured (literally) the imagination of everyone. For it seems nowadays that there is only one type of writer out there; the “Quirky Individual”.

In support of today’s piece, I pulled out the trusty dictionary and looked up the meaning of the word ‘individual’.  ‘Individual’ means: 

-characteristic of a particular person or thing : individual traits of style.

-having a striking or unusual character; original : she creates her own, highly individual, landscapes.

In what manner is discussing what you did in the KCF carpark on the weekend with a person named ‘Splonk’ or whatever his name was striking or of unusual character, when the very next blog I read will discuss pretty much the exact same thing? How is discussing the theoretical magical properties of the quaint teacup you drank from in a cafe characteristic of your persona, unless you have a career in the tea industry or are an antique dealer who specialises in crockery?  

Yesterday I read an editorial letter in my local paper written by an 80-year-old man in which he expressed his thoughts on the desalination plant being built in town. He discussed how his family for generations has only ever used tank water and have never had to rely upon the towns main water supply. This gentleman’s main point was that a desalination plant was totally unnecessary as it is not an issue of not having enough water, but using the water that we do have more efficiently.  Sir, I tip my hat to you, presuming that I am wearing a hat. Jolly good and all that jazz. Sure, the letter was very long winded and a bit boring, but you spoke with passion and you wrote about something that is dear to you. 

Now that I have finished sounding like a VCE English teacher I am going to apologise. Firstly, once again for my terrible prose for this piece, but I was far too distracted and consumed with...not anger, but an emotion very close. More like, ‘passionate discomfort’.

Second apologies go to all you bloggers out there; the ammatures, the professionals and the rest. I sincerely love reading all sorts of blogs. Truly I do. Some of you out there are immensely humerous and witty, and you make me laugh. Some people have fond some unbelievably beautiful photography and artworks out there which I am glad you have decided to share with the rest of us. But please! If I have to read one more blog that is the exact same as the last 23 I read, I might end up going nuts and eating all the cereal in Safeway in my underpants before being carted off to the asylum. I also thank-you. Thank-you all for making me reflect upon my own writing, and for making me re-evaluate what I want people to think when they read my works. Perhaps ultimately I don’t want to be the individual. Perhaps I don’t want to be different. Because it seems it is ‘cool’ to be weird, to be eclectic and odd. Maybe I can be normal and middle-class, middle-man and middle-back seat. And in that way I will be different from everyone else. In the end I will be unique; just like the rest of you.

Now I’m just starting to piss myself off...

bridge over troubled waters

As a child of the much contested Generation Y, I am familiar with technology and all its follies.

 I listen to music on my iPod whilst I lodge my tax claim online and simultaneously download the latest episode of my favourite television program which I foolishly missed last night whilst I was you-tubing that hilarious cat which plays the keyboard. You could say technology, were he a person, and I hold hands frequently and are about to tell our friends that we are ‘getting serious’, and are thinking of buying a dog. Or possibly a new computer.

Needless to say, much like a young couple embarking on a serious relationship, technology and I frequently have our differences with result in shouting and hammers being thrown about, after which we ignore each other for days at a time. 

Like that time I got excited about Simon and Garfunkel touring Australia and, through my rather vigorous arm movements, knocked my coffee all over the keyboard of my computer (whom for some reason was known in my household as Byron; but that’s another tale for another day). 

Byron didn’t believe me when I apologised and promised it was an accident, and swiftly reposted my pleas by shutting down and refusing to turn on for three successive days. On bended knee I begged and pleaded with Byron. I showered him with gifts of new printer cartridges and I even cleaned all that feral dust off his face. I even flirted with the idea of buying a newer, more advanced laptop and leaving Byron in my technologic dust as I skipped off with my latest love Mr MacBook Pro. 

But, oh joy! Byron, after his week-long slumber, arose from the sleep of the dead and rejoined me in our harmonious world of Facebook-ing and word processing, and together we made our first purchase together; Simon and Garfunkel’s Greatest hit’s album from iTunes.

Yet while I can accidentally spill coffee over my electric other-half and drop him on his head when re-arranging my bedroom, Byron can give it as well has he takes it. I’m sure I’m not the only person in the world who gets frustrated by their computer telling them what to do. You know what I mean. You go to delete an old discarded word file or photograph from three years ago that you no longer need. Simple. Or so you thought. 

Before I delete anything, just in case I’m not sure, Byron likes to just confirm that I do indeed intend on deleting this file. Yes Byron, I’m sure. 

“This file will be sent to the trash bin. Are you sure you wish to continue?” 

To all you computers out there; hear this. I have pressed the delete button; I am pretty sure that I intend to DELETE SOMETHING.

It’s much the same as my Wii game. Every 15 minutes or so, Wii likes to ask, no not ask, more like demand: “Why not take a break?”; which is accompanied with a pleasant image of curtains swaying in the breeze by an open window and a table, where presumably I will be taking my ‘break’. 

Listen here Wii, if I was in need of a break, I would have TAKEN ONE!  This is where, sadly, the fractures in the bedrock of my electric relationship begin to show. This, is the beginning of the end.

I, much like many involved women, can hold my own in my technologic relationships, yet every time Byron did that annoying thing where he freezes and needs to be restarted was just once too many; and that squabble we got into over the possibility of deleting that file titled ‘hot Hollywood dudes’ from Year Eight was just the straw that broke the camel’s back. 

Byron and I have had to part ways once Mr MacBook Pro came on the scene with his promises of simple deleting processes and his remarkable ability to dry out quite quickly. Wii and I have also experienced similar artistic differences and I have once more reverted to my old Playstation 2 and Crash Bandicoot game which never tells me to take a break, but rather orders me to pick up my game and SHOOT THAT BADDIE! Bazooka guns and simplistic 2D graphics, come unto me as the evil Cortex yields to my furious shooting efforts. Gen X eat your heart out.

So, as for technology ruling my life; thanks but no thanks. I like you, but not in that way.

A labour of love

Some years ago, a slightly pompous and therefore British fellow by the name of Robert Owen believed that people should have 8 hours to work, 8 hours for recreation and 8 hours for sleep. And if I remember correctly-I can’t actually be bothered to look it up- this Robert bloke helped to foster the philosophy known as the Eight Hour Movement.

And this then brings me neatly to the year 1856, where the first Labour Day parade was held in Melbourne on April 21st, to celebrate the 8-hour working day.  And this was all jolly good. 

Now snap forwards into the year 2010, where on this day, the 8th of March, I sit in my bedroom on my slightly untidy bed writing to you and steadily eating my way through a bag of peanuts M&M’s, which is what old Robert Owen would have wanted.


 Back in 1856, people where out in the streets of Melbourne, rejoicing in their new-found freedom.  Yet today, in the year 2010, on this very public holiday, I have a very jam packed day involving me, a vacuum cleaner and my little red car.

Which brings me- bear with me- to my main point; where has the celebration and sense of occasion gone from these public holidays? From what I can gather, back in the day public holidays such as this Labour Day long weekend where the product of the public’s two fingered riposte and protest to ‘the man’, aka the government, doing what it has always deemed to be their responsibility; running our lives and taking our money. Which is why, from what I can gather, the public holiday was devised; to be a celebration of sleep-in’s and lazy coffee’s on a Monday morning.

Nowadays, a long weekend usually involves families consisting of two parents and 2.5 children cramming themselves and their dog into their Pajero or other horrible four-wheel-drive which they do not need considering they live in the city, and setting off for a relaxing weekend down in the country or by the beach with three million other stupid touristy people who’ve all had the exact same idea.

People, I ask you; have we all forgotten the good work of Mr Owen and his ‘888’ philosophy? Where have the street parades and celebrations gone from this public holiday? Holidays, by definition, are a time of relaxation, of celebration and fun. Now, everywhere I look I see stupid city folk with their sticky children screaming at seagulls and trees and other assorted items of Mother Nature which ‘we don’t have in the city’. Should we be fighting for the restoration of the essence of the public holiday? Or do we just sit by and watch the long weekend that we all hold dear to our hearts turn into somewhat of a job in itself?


 Dear reader, this has turned into somewhat of a revolution; the fight agains stress and tension and traffic jams and dippy tourist people, the fight for a proper holiday? Perhaps in a hundred years time they will remember us; the children of the revolution, and we will be celebrated with an even longer weekend, where it is illegal to do anything other than walk the streets, hand sweets out to children and shaking hands with your fellow man whilst the band plays. By point of illustration, the great Aristotle once said; ‘The end of labour is to gain leisure.’