Brilliant disabusal.

A perfectly pitched response to climate change deniers taking delight in mocking a woman whose home in the Solomon Islands is slowly being flooded:

Out come the selfish, bigoted, narrow minded recalcitrants again on their hobby horse that everyone in the climate science community, the political class and the bulk of humanity are wrong and they are the only ones who have access to the truth. They squeal like stuck pigs every time they think that they might have to think about someone but themselves. Long after effective climate action has been taken and we have moved on to the next challenge to humanity and the planet they will still be promoting their shonky science and insisting they were right all along.

We need a new category in the Darwin awards for those who have done most by their sheer obduracy and pigheadedness to threaten the future of humanity. This lot would be the clear favourites to scoop the pool. The fascinating thing about this whole debate is the passion with which the denialists hold their views and the determination with which they struggle to avoid producing any peer reviewed science to support those. It is not hard to find the reason why of course, as the material they need does not exist.

They go on quoting 'facts' they have trawled from the internet which, on examination turn out to be fraudulent or irrelevant to the science. It is a tribute to the capacity of humanity for the endless pursuit of meaningless activity.

My new favorite song ...

... is called 'Question and Answer' by Pat Metheny. Here's it performed at a 2008 jazz festival by Metheny and Gary Burton, with Steve Swallow on bass and terrifyingly good Antonio Sanchez on drums.

Part I's above, part II's below.

Watch for Sanchez's drum solo around the 5 minute mark in part I and Metheny's 4-minute synclavier solo at around the 1:30 mark on part II. Some people are simply stinking with talent.

Sublime speech for a losing cause.

I've never heard words as wise & wonderful in a Staten Island accent before. NY Senator Diane Savino stood before her colleagues last week and made a simple plea for fairness. The marriage equality bill failed to pass but Sen. Savino's speech is a glorious, unqualified success.

Aren't they all puppets?

In my last post I wrote that Aussie politics is a "wisdom-free entity in which 99% of time, energy and press coverage is spent on who's in charge, who wants to be charge, who used to be in charge ..." and on and on.

Guess what the New South Wales Labor party did yesterday? Ousted its leader of 14 months, a former 'garbo' (garbageman) named Nathan Rees, and replaced him with NSW's first female prime minister, US-born Kristina Keneally (right). Knowing he was on the way out, Rees had this to say yesterday morning: "Should I not be Premier by the end of this day, let there be no doubt in the community's mind, no doubt, that any challenger will be a puppet of Eddie Obeid and Joe Tripodi."

Hence, today's papers have labeled Ms Keneally a 'puppet premier'. She later retorted in Parliament: "Let me be absolutely clear on this: I'm nobody's puppet. I am nobody's protege, I am nobody's girl."

{yawn}

It's all just a big bloody sandbox to these nitwits.

One columnist opined that Keneally's "American accent will probably put western Sydney voters off." Yeah, that's sure to be her biggest drawback ... not her membership in the ever-swirling cesspool that is Australian politics.

Misspelling wisdom.

Other than books & films derived from the wafer-thin imagination of Stephenie Meyer, there's nothing less interesting to me than Australian politics. It's a wisdom-free entity in which 99% of time, energy and press coverage is spent on who's in charge, who wants to be charge, who used to be in charge, and who conceivable down the track could be in charge if only they 'put their hand up' and 'front up' to the task of being head-shouter for their party.

Malcolm Turnbull (right), the leader of the opposition party (the party that lost the last election) got voted out today and replaced by a lunatic named Tony Abbott (top left). Turnbull was kicked to the curb because of his support for Prime Minister Kevin Rudd's emissions trading scheme (ETS). Abbott, who only weeks ago also favored passing Rudd's ETS legislation prior to nations of the world gathering in Copenhagen to discuss global warming, has done what most politicians do: Alter his position in exchange for political power.

Without getting too technical, it's possible for a prime minister to call for a double dissolution when the two houses of parliament cannot agree on a bill. Clearly, the ETS legislation is now dead, so some will call on Rudd to 'dissolve' both houses and start afresh if he believes the majority of Australians want this bill to pass.

An article in this morning's Age newspaper included a classic misspelling that captures voter sentiment on the entire mess:

The Liberals also decided to vote down the emissions trading scheme legislation if they could not defer the bill this week. That move will give the Government a trigger for a double-disillusion election.

The spelling has since been corrected. I think they had it right the first time -- most voters are undoubtedly dissillusioned by a group of (mostly) men who spend their days and nights scheming to claim the mantle of a flacid throne.

Not Melbourne, but not bad.

A rudimentary audit of antipodean cities would deem Sydney the most scenic, Melbourne the most cultured and Brisbane the most fortunately placed, as it sits between the Sunshine and Gold coasts and is tantalizingly close to the Great Barrier Reef. I was willing to forgo anything resembling a cafe lifestyle up here but have been pleased to discover Brisbane's got pockets of cafe 'hoods. One is West End, a few blocks from my place, where I've become a regular weekend visitor to the Three Monkeys Coffee & Tea House (above). Sprawling haphazardly with table-strewn hallways and softly lit kiosks and decorated like a Moroccan brothel, I half expect to discover a cadre of Middle Eastern men sharing a hookah as I pass through. Maybe next time ...

11/26 tribute

Read by cinematic living legend Amitabh Bachchan.

Ummmmm ....

#44 & a gift of Mooloolaba.

I realize not a single soul give's a rat's ass about it, but the number 44 has held great significance to me since Reggie Jackson signed with the NY Yankees in the winter of 1976 and debuted with the Bronx Bombers in the championship season of 1977. He'd worn #9 with Oakland and Baltimore but that number was taken by the Yankees outstanding third baseman Graig Nettles, so he switched to #44, a number I'd go on to wear whenever possible throughout my athletic career. I followed Jackson's tumultuous 5-year stint with the Yankees like a hyper-nervous parent watching a daughter perform her first ballet recital: each at-bat had me leaning towards the TV, palms sweating, heart racing, my limbs paralyzed with dread and hope. Ridiculous, of course, but at the time it seemed necessary, like Jax needed me to suffer for his sake.

Which only proves I've been a nutjob from an early age.

I turned 44 yesterday. As Aradhna's still in Melbourne I had to do something special for myself, so I took advantage of Brisbane's stellar public transport system and traveled to a beach paradise called Mooloolaba along Queensland's magnificent Sunshine Coast. The trip began with a 6:30 am train out of Central Station in Brisbane's CBD to the 'hub of the Sunshine Coast hinterland', otherwise called Nambour. Its Main Street (left) was mostly asleep at 8:30 on a Saturday morning but I found a bakery offering decent coffee and flaky apple turnover that filled me up for the bus ride to Alexandra Headlands just north of Mooloolaba. All told the trip took a little over 3 hours and cost less than $9. Of course I'd rather have driven but our car's in Melbourne and public transport is always a writer's friend -- so many stories to overhear, engage in or create from scratch. Plus, this bus ride featured a completely unexpected encounter with the Big Pineapple. A pair of Asian girls got off to see it, allowing me to snap this photo of Queensland's most beloved 'big' attraction from inside the bus:
Hopped off the bus along the esplanade at 'the Alex' and immediately came upon this view looking south towards the beach at Mooloolaba (right). The sun was hot -- this area is considered 'sub-tropical' as it sits just south of the Tropic of Capricorn -- but an onshore breeze cooled things nicely. I walked the top of the headland as it gently descended to Mooloolaba's beachfront and quickly understood its popularity and roaring Lonely Planet appraisal (I don't go anywhere in the Southern hemisphere without consulting LP). Its fish-hook-shaped stretch of white sand ends at a jettied inlet for Mooloolaba Harbour. Scrub trees offer shade along the beach's fringe from about its mid-point down, but most folks opt to linger at the dozens of cafes, restaurants and shops (left) across from the beach's northern stretch. I changed into board shorts at a luxuriously appointed changing facility and walked south, past Mooloolaba's main beach (below) and to a slightly more secluded spot between a turquoise Pacific Ocean and tranquil scrub.Several hours of swimming and walking to the southernmost tip of the beach later, I showered, changed, grabbed a lovely lunch from a busy outdoor cafe and bought a few souvenirs 'for the folks back home'. Walked to 'the Alex' for a bus to Landsborough Station and the trip back to Brisbane. The bus quickly filled with 'schoolies' heading to the Gold Coast (southeast of Brisbane) to celebrate the end of Year 12 (in US-speak, their high school graduation).

On the train I took a seat opposite a large 18-year-old of Pacific Island appearance. He asked if I was going to Brisbane and we didn't stop talking until parting at Brisbane's Central Station 2 hours later. Too much detail to include in this post, but 'Paul' or 'Pao' was born in Papua New Guinea and moved to Noosa, QLD when he was 13. He's one of 9 sons of 2-time PNG prime minister Paias Wingti but didn't mention that until late in the conversation. We talked about rugby union (which he plays), NFL football, growing up in PNG and Noosa, how to hide a machete in cargo shorts, what happens if you drink a litre of cooking wine on an empty stomach, his idea to offer himself as an informer to Gold Coast police to earn booze money, the initiation rituals of his family's tribe in PNG, how his great-grandfather saved his tribe from slaughter early in the 20th century by bargaining for firearms with white settlers and killing each and every one of their enemies .... and so on.

I doubt a 12-year-old Joe Wall would have imagined spending birthday #44 in such fashion. More importantly, what would Reggie Jackson think of it?

What's nice about reaching the age of 44 is not giving a damn what Reggie Jackson would think of it.

"Hard to believe I was in America.'

Hurricane Katrina exposed a facet of United States reality that an ad-revenue-dependent media never shows. This clip from Countdown of a recent free health checkup in New Orleans does the same.

Do those who bellow against the 'evils of government-run healthcare' have eyes? Ears? Hearts? Or do they see the skin color of the US citizens shown in this clip -- men & women with jobs, families and, all too often, untreated illnesses -- and think rancid thoughts that would have made Ronnie 'Welfare queens drive Cadillacs!' Reagan proud?

I grew up with racists. Their words and opinions echo in my memories. What's shocking about the United States in 2009 is that nearly identical words and opinions to the ones that made me cringe at family gatherings are now expressed openly via the vast right-wing media.

This conservative, corporate media is beholden to insurance company and pharmaceutical ad revenue. The poor people shown above waiting in line for health checkups in New Orleans don't produce revenue for anyone but themselves and their loved ones.

They have as much chance as the 9th Ward had against Katrina.

Market mangoes, South Bank sand & 'Tum Mile' ...

... pretty much sums up my first solo weekend in Brisbane. Above is South Bank Parkland's riverside beach (with Brisbane's CBD looming in the distance), a remarkable engineering achievement that's roughly 500 metres from my South Brisbane apartment. Didn't partake of its cool waters today. But will soon.

Made a mistake yesterday. Busy morning but not-busy-enough afternoon left too much time to miss Aradhna, who's 1700 kms away in Melbourne tending to loose ends and pondering her next career move. Let me correct that: Aradhna doesn't ponder -- she acts. We stay in touch throughout each day but it's not nearly enough, especially when I'm staring into space conjuring images of her loveliness. Today was action-packed (if you consider 8 am laundry & vacuuming 'action') but yesterday had one clear highlight: Discovering West End Markets.

West End is one of Brisbane's few bohemian suburbs but after two 2 years in Melbourne -- where bohemia stretches from the CBD like crude oil from a ruptured offshore rig -- I'm spoiled. So it was cool to discover West End has a hippie-infused Saturday morning market (right) near the Brisbane River, about a 20-minute walk from my place. Handmade crafts, candles, incense, organic herbs, tie-dyed baby clothes & lots of fresh fruits & veggies brought people of every stripe in droves. A stall dedicated to locally grown mangoes was enough to guarantee my continued patronage. Last year at this time I was in Fiji, where mangoes grow everywhere and villagers sell plates of freshly picked fruit along roadsides for pocket change. Tom Robbins once described a mango as a "ripe peach doused with kerosene." One taste of the molotov cocktails of sensual fruit flesh I bought yesterday and anyone debating a trip to Australia would be racking up Qantas frequent flyer points faster than you can say "I just had an indecent thought about a Queensland mango!"

Today's early morning domesticity was followed by a walk to the South Bank beach shown at the top of this post. I'd visited it during the week Aradhna & I spent in Brisbane in early 2007 but forgotten its sublime design. It includes an extravagant kids' section that rivals the priciest of water parks. A fire hydrant is the closest most kids in New York City get to a water park.

Followed South Bank's bougainvillea-draped footpaths to the Goodwill Bridge that crosses the river south of the CBD (right). Veered right at the bridge's end to Brisbane's Botanic Gardens, a lush oasis on the CBD's southeast flank that stupefied me in 2007. Queensland was at critical drought stage then -- the state is still benefiting from record rainfalls that fell in 2008, which means the gardens are even greener this time around. The following photos show a lovely shade tree, frangipani flowers & a bamboo grove:Brisbane is Australia's third largest city but has a paltry CBD. Unlike Melbourne, which salvaged at least some of its gold-rush-financed Victorian architecture, Brisbane's CBD is mostly modern, and therefore largely uninteresting to me. It does have shops, however, and my studio apartment lacks certain amenities. Queen Street's pedestrian mall (left) is another Brisbane landmark that impressed Aradhna & I during our previous visit. Brisbane's universities are popular with Asian students so Queen Street was chock-a-block with pretty, light-skinned girls in short shorts, many carrying umbrellas. Map-clutching tourists walked slowly, like wounded prey (I'm not a pickpocket but know easy marks when I see 'em). Packs of dull Aussie teens added nothing but cheap clothes and bad skin to the streetscape.

Drifted to King George Square down Albert Street, where this church (right} maintains its dignity despite the encroachment of steel & glass heathens. If King George Square conveys anything about that member of the royal family, it's that he was an empty, joyless man. Hate to come off like a Melbourne crank but its Federation Square overcomes questionable aesthetics with a public space that's always buzzing with life. On a sun-kissed Sunday afternoon Brisbane's old Town Hall (left) overlooked a people-less public space. Maybe it's a matter of population: Melbourne has nearly 4 million inhabitants, Brisbane nearly 2 million. Melbourne doesn't have world-class beaches within easy driving distance, however. Who'd want to hang around a paved city square when white sand and turquoise surf are less than a quarter-tank away?

When I miss my wife I watch a Bollywood film and miss her even more. Go figure. Today was no different. Caught Tum Mile at the Brisbane City Regent on Queen Street. From a dour exterior I entered a relic of Brisbane's gilded age. Tables line a wall of a tiny cafe that could be found in a Melbourne laneway. I grabbed a coffee for the film and went up a flight of stairs. What I saw was astounding: A magnificently restored cinema lobby (below) that wreaked of 1920s extravagance & optimism.I downloaded Tum Mile's soundtrack weeks ago so already associated its music with weekends spent in the company of my pajama-clad wife ... but enjoyed the film nonetheless. Ironic that ads for 2012 are splattered across every Brisbane bus stand, as Tum Mile uses Mumbai's devastating 2005 floods as a device to bring a long-separated couple back together. 2012 -- Hollywood's latest CGI-instigated manifestation of a 10-year-old boy's classroom doodling -- is disaster porn. In Tum Mile, the mayhem of a natural disaster doesn't play second fiddle -- it lingers in the hallway, hoping to audition. Unlike many Bollywood romances this one features two believable characters portrayed by young & hungry actors. Well done, but likely to disappoint teenage Indian boys hoping to see chunks of Mumbai washed into the sea.

It was nearly 5 pm when I crossed back over the river via Victoria Bridge, which connects the CBD's north to South Brisbane. South Bank remained full of parents & kids & couples happily sprawled on footpaths and plots of grass as before. These photos begin with a Victoria Bridge-view of Brisbane's 'eye' (apparently a mandatory accessory for every major Aussie city):

Late afternoon at Streets Beach, from a different angle.Brisbane CBD from along a riverside footpath in South Bank.The natural beauty of Brisbane is breathtaking. Now only if I had my equally breathtaking wife with me to enjoy it sange sange ...

The Gabba

This painting, found beneath an overpass near the Gabba, perfectly captures the holy trinity of Aussie blokes: cricket, beer & footy.

One of the more remarkable differences between Melbourne & Brisbane is symmetry. Melbourne was planned by a man named Robert Hoddle in the 19th century. His legacy, besides a consistently traffic-choked street named after him, is a magnificent grid that encompasses the most logical of CBDs and corresponding suburbs.

Brisbane, on the other hand, is a city in flux. Clearly developed with little or no masterplan, its current stewards seem keen on instilling order on its hodgepodge streetscape. My 30-minute walk to work takes me from South Brisbane to Woolloongabba. Depending on the route -- a bevy of snaking side streets make my choices seemingly endless -- I pass a string of road diversions, torn-up sidewalks and signs heralding Brisbane's improvement.

Yesterday I took a route that led me past the Gabba (left), Brisbane's largest sports stadium. Its formal name is the Brisbane Cricket Ground, but it's also home to the AFL's Brisbane Lions. The AFL was once called the VFL -- the 'V' standing for Victoria, which is where the game was invented and is as ingrained into the culture as the Queen. Oddly, Brisbane is an AFL stronghold, and I look forward to seeing the Tigers play the Lions at the Gabba when footy season returns.

The photo below is of a painting a few metres from the one shown at the top of this post. Don't know if it's meant to mock Aussie sports culture, but it certainly captures the ethos of this 'tribe'.

Brisbane balcony views.

Despite having her own business to run, Aradhna devoted tremendous effort & time into finding me a place in Brisbane before I arrived on Tuesday afternoon (insert Moody Blues song here). The top photo was taken after Julie, who manages the 6-story, 4-year-old building with husband Steve, gave me the keys. It's looking north towards the CBD, though Brisbane's skyline on the opposite side of the Brisbane River is mostly blocked by apartment buildings. I'm in a great location, with top Brisbane neighborhoods Southbank & West End within easy walking distance.

I also walked to my new employer's office in Woolloongabba yesterday. Takes about 40 minutes -- an opportunity to walk off 2 years of an indulgent Melbourne cafe lifestyle. Bus and train stations are nearby in case of stormy weather (insert pop standard tune here).

Brisbane is 1700 kms (1100 miles) from Melbourne and every bit as different. Typically Australian in that people drive into the city from distant suburbs to work, but its proximity to the Sunshine Coast (north) and Gold Coast (south) means these commuters may reside on or near some of this planet's most spectacular beaches. This alone would explain Brisbane's more relaxed culture, but its tropical climate can't be overlooked. While Brisbane has a higher average yearly temperature than Melbourne, its summers aren't as brutal. Melbourne bears the brunt of northern winds that blow across a continent's worth of desert. The temperatures and winds that led to February's 'Black Saturday' were unlike anything I've ever experienced: pure, searing, heat. In Brisbane you'll sweat; in Melbourne you'll get pan-fried.

Enough weather. Here's a couple of morning views from my balcony, first looking west:
This is looking southwest, with a corner of my building:

From coffee city to pineapple state.

Last Melbourne coffee (above) courtesy of Cafe No. 5 (left) as I leave for Brisbane on a balmy summer morning. Heading north, closer to Australia's tropics, but should find it cooler in Queensland's capital city. Sam, Cafe No. 5's proprietor, thought my move to Brisbane was months away. Everything about this move has been off-the-cuff, on-the-fly, flying-by-the-seat-of-my-pants, leaving little time to say goodbye to Melbourne friends and cafe acquaintances.

Took the train into the CBD with Aradhna, as usual. I stopped at the cafe, she went to her office to print my flight details, and we met at Southern Cross Station (right) where I caught a Sky Bus to the airport.Melbourne lacks a rail link to its two airports. Dumb. Even Brisbane, a smaller city, has an Air Train, which I'll hop upon arrival this afternoon and take to Brisbane's CBD. Aradhna found me short-term accommodation in South Brisbane, not far from my new workplace.

So here I sit at Melbourne Airport with a window view (left), waiting for boarding call. A family chats to my right. My flight lands in Sydney, where I'll switch to a Brisbane-bound plane. Thinking of the 2 years Aradhna and I have spent in Melbourne, how much we've experienced together, what awaits us in Brisbane. Not sure exactly when we'll pack up everything and move north. We'll be apart for at least a couple of months. [sigh} Miss her already ......

Bad break for a dear friend.

My friend Karun (left, with fiancee Apurva) appeared on the front page of today's Age, for a very wrong reason:

Angry students gathered outside colleges demanding answers. Karun Sachdeva, 24, from India, was studying at International Design School. He said he did not know whether he would be refunded the $2500 he had paid for the next semester. "I made the biggest mistake coming to study in Australia," he told The Age. "The quality of education here is shit. We have nothing but the media to rely on now [to protect our rights]."

Sadly, Australia-based 'schools' that aggressively market to overseas students have proven time and again to be scam artists that pocket tuition fees and then fold, leaving foreign students to fend for themselves in a city that's proving increasingly inhospitable to students from the sub-continent.

I've yet to meet anyone in Australia who works as hard as Karun or who more desires to build a quality life for himself and his lovely fiancee (whom I met for the first time this week -- she recently arrived to begin a Master's program in physical therapy). His faith in Australia may be shattered, but I hope his faith in himself and his bright future with Apurva remains strong.

Good luck, bhai.

Spring Racing Carnival.

So it's the final day of Melbourne's Spring Racing Carnival. 'Oaks Day', it's called, and it's a day dedicated to 'ladies' sporting short skirts and elaborate hats. A Google search of 'Oaks Day' delivers a universe of gambling sites, however. This is not a revelation. It's the black heart of it all.

Tuesday was a holiday for Melburnians. Literally. They are the only people in Australia granted a public holiday for a horse race. Yesterday's papers were adorned with color photos of the the winning horse, jockey, and trainer across front pages. Inside, shots of female racegoers in fancy frocks and hats were deemed worthy of great gobs of newsprint. The winning horse, a long-shot named Shocking, won some 'punters' big bucks but the biggest winners by another form of long shot were Melbourne's mob of legal bookies.

And I think it's all horseshit.

Yeah, I know nobody likes a killjoy. But holidays dedicated to gambling fail to capture my imagination. This is the second year Aradhna and I have been Melbourne residents during this gambler's bacchanalia. I was mercifully in Fiji last year, but Aradhna attended the Melbourne Cup with a work colleague and had fun. I take no moral high ground regarding people's enjoyment of a week-long celebration of horse racing. To each his/her own. All that interests me is comparing media coverage of the horses and their coterie of handlers, trainers, owners and jockeys with the media's glamorization of all-things-gambling.

It explains a lot about Aussie culture.

A great reward of living abroad is exposure to local traditions and public spectacles. Civic celebrations are best, as they involve no invitation or membership. Melbourne is a city that likes to let its gel-coated hair down with massive fireworks over the Yarra on New Year’s Eve, week-long AFL Grand Final festivities, a taxpayer-subsidised Formula One Grand Prix and more. The one event that pulls everyone in, however, is the Spring Racing Carnival. It's known as "The race that stops a nation."

How pervasive is Spring Racing Carnival? On Monday a morning radio show kicked off with a group whinge about being at work, as most employed Melburnians help themselves to a 4-day weekend. I was working in Sydney during my first Melbourne Cup. It wasn't a paid holiday but could have been, as everyone's minds were on the race and liquid lunches dominated.

As I write this in a CBD cafe a parade is taking place a block south along Swanston & Elizabeth streets. Horses, scouts, jockeys, trainers and assorted stragglers holding flags are marching past crowds massed behind police barricades. Very civilized.

The scene in and around Flinders Street Station on Saturday afternoon, however, was like dress-up day at the DMV. Vivid and profane were the word balloons that spawned from the parade of stiletto-propped dirigibles that greeted us as we walked along the promenade in Southbank. We’d just watched Up at a theatre within Crown Casino’s fortress of dark walkways, designer shops and adjacent gambling dens and had made a bee line for the first door. Mixed with standard late Saturday afternoon strollers but not blending, the elegantly adorned but ragamuffin horse race attendees included clusters of flesh-oozing young women, couples of men and women and never-more-than-two older women strutting withered flesh, blown-out bellies and tired eyes. No one was misbehaving, no one appeared drunk, but it was obvious they’d all been drinking and were destined to do a lot more before peeling off their dapper duds.

Guess I can be thankful for not having to witness that ...

More madness from Voreqe.

Many Indo-Fijians support Commodore Voreqe Bainimarama's actions since he abolished Fiji's constitution, sacked its judges and shackled its press. They believe the longtime military leader's stated desire to abolish systemic racism and return Fiji to its pre-1987 status as a mostly harmonious nation.

I believe Bainimarama is a thuggish product of Fiji's military who's only interest in democracy extends to its ability to reward him and his cronies.

Yesterday Bainimarama again behaved like a belligerent child in a sandbox when he expelled the top diplomats of Australia and New Zealand's for undermining Fiji's judiciary. The claim is based on Bainimarama's desire to import hand-picked judges from Sri Lanka and travel restrictions placed on Fijian government officials by the governments of Australia and New Zealand, two countries that account for 60% of Fiji's tourism industry.

The Fiji Times, once a proud beacon of journalistic freedom, has only one story on Bainimarama's latest act of national suicide. It reads like a press release.

The wonderful people of the Fiji Islands are at the mercy of madmen.

Monday morning in the park.

On the way to the CBD from Jolimont Station, Aradhna and I walked through Fitzroy Gardens and tourist-favorite Captain Cook's cottage (above) this morning. Built in 1755 in Yorkshire, England, it was purchased in 1933 by a Melbourne philanthropist who offered it to the city as a centenary gift, packed into 253 cases and 40 barrels, and shipped to Australia. Today it draws busloads of tourists seeking a transplanted peek at life in 18th-century England.

From a springtime bushwalk ...

Taken during a long walk Aradhna & I took along the Main Yarra Trail as it winds through the Yarra Flats from Heidelberg to Templestowe. Amazing preservation of bushland less than 20 kms from the Melbourne CBD. A photo gallery of the day's sights (of which Aradhna was the most beautiful) may be found here.

Crown Casino Chutzpah

Australia is the Gambling Continent. No other country comes close -- one in 50 Aussies has a gambling problem, 4 out of 5 adults gamble, 24/7 gambling parlors inhabit even the smallest of shopping strips, bookies run ads during sporting events that all but scream "Bet! NOW!" and 'taking a punt' is something you just do, not think about.

People are free to spend their money however they want, of course. Like the tobacco industry, casinos pay off government officials, tut-tut warnings and rake in silos of cash. Self-destruction is sport among humankind -- casinos are just one more playing field.

In a recent article about a millionaire gambling addict named Harry Kakavas who claims he was enticed to return to Melbourne's largest gambling den -- the Crown Casino -- by the very people who were supposed to turn him away, I came across this spectacular quote from Crown's CEO, John Williams:

Similarly, Williams said he did not think Kakavas' gambling was unusual. A loss of $2.3 million in 28 minutes was the recreational gambling of a successful and focused businessman, he told the court. ''That was a way for him to celebrate those successes,'' Williams said.

Imagine how he'd celebrate failure ....

"But I didn't MEAN to offend anyone ..."

Goddamn I'm sick of that predictable response from racists, bigots, homophobes ... the great grab bag of ignorant pukes who only apologize for moronic statements and/or behavior to cover their cowardly asses. The latest I found on Crooks & Liars:

A Geneva High School teacher is being accused of making anti-gay and racist comments in his classroom.

Dave Burk, who teaches consumer education, is accused of making the comments by his students during an Oct. 5 lecture on tax money involving the National Endowment for the Arts.

"How would you feel about your tax dollars going to pay some black fag in New York to take pictures of other black fags?" Burk allegedly asked, according to student Jordan Hunter.

Burk's attorney, D.J. Tegeler, said Monday he was not personally aware of the terms Burk used to his classes, but that Burk apologizes for any offense.

That's nearly identical to the 'apology' issued by the clowns who performed in blackface (and, in the case of Michael Jackson, 'whiteface') last week on Aussie TV. Disingenuous doesn't begin to describe it. At least this jackass Burk didn't call his remarks a 'tribute' to those he mocked, unlike the minstrel schmucks.

A new Andrew Denton-produced comedy on ABC last night had a segment on the 'Outrage Industry', a dismissive critique of those who pay attention to culture and object when necessary. I'd rather be a self-righteous, PC-spewing lefty than bite my tongue at overt, backward, and pitifully defended racism and/or homophobia. Yes, we ALL KNOW IT'S WRONG -- but not all of us are hip and world-weary enough to smirk and nonchalantly spout post-racial platitudes in an extremely racist world.

The world I grew up in is much like the Australia of today. There are outright bigots, but most people preach tolerance and express distaste at overtly racist and/or homophobic behavior. From what I've seen, it's 'un-Australian' to speak up about what offends you, however. Better to whisper happy words and deified intentions ... la la la ... or as an anonymous commenter wrote in response to my 'Jackson Jive' blog post:

I'm an Australian by birth and generational history, but am patriotic to no land. If I was to say that I was patriotic to anything at all, I would have to say that it would be to Love and Truth.

I've never written a cross word about a comment left on this blog because I'm honored by them all. But ... I can't imagine the self-satisfaction it takes to claim value neutrality. This commenter went on:

Sorry to say Joe, but I feel that this article makes you sound just as bad as the people you're offended by.

I'd respond, but I gotta find a field of wildflowers and butterflies to protect me from being aware of the world I inhabit ....

'Lobbyists out, lobbyists in'

American hero Bill Moyers describes a creeping vine that swallows all it encounters in Washington, DC:

If you’ve been watching the Senate Finance Committee’s markup sessions, maybe you’ve noticed a woman sitting behind Committee Chairman Max Baucus. Her name is Liz Fowler.

Fowler used to work for WellPoint, the largest health insurer in the country. She was its vice president of public policy. Baucus’ office failed to mention this in the press release announcing her appointment as senior counsel in February 2008, even though it went on at length about her expertise in “health care policy.”

Now she’s working for the very committee with the most power to give her old company and the entire industry exactly what they want – higher profits – and no competition from alternative non-profit coverage that could lower costs and premiums.

A veteran of the revolving door, Fowler had a previous stint working for Senator Baucus – before her time at WellPoint. But wait, there’s more. The person who was Baucus top health advisor before he brought back Liz Fowler? Her name is Michelle Easton. And why did she leave the staff of the committee? To go to work – surprise – at a firm representing the same company for which Liz Fowler worked – WellPoint. As a lobbyist.

You can’t tell the players without a scorecard in the old Washington shell game. Lobbyist out, lobbyist in. It’s why they always win. They’ve been plowing this ground for years, but with the broad legislative agenda of the Obama White House – health care, energy, financial reform, the Employee Free Choice Act and more – the soil has never been so fertile.

Colbert slays his doppelganger.

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Mocking Glenn Beck may be easier than pushing a fork through mashed potatoes, but it's still fun to watch a master swordsman like Colbert cut his doughy-faced doppelganger into a thousand pieces.

Post full o' Posies

Melbourne is ripe with spring. A stroll through Ivanhoe & Eaglemont yesterday was ablaze with proof.

Aussie TV time warp.

So have a look at this 'comedy skit' -- one in which Harry Connick Jr was forced to witness as a celebrity judge -- and then digest comments made afterward by one of the black-faced 'performers':

Dr Anand Deva, who played Michael Jackson in the skit, said the act was meant to be a tribute to Michael Jackson.

"It certainly was not meant to be racist in any way at all," Dr Deva said.

"I think he (Connick Jr) is taking it the wrong way."

Dr Diva said the group had tried to find Connick Jr after the show to set him straight and apologise.

"I suspect things are probably a bit different in America in terms of what that (black face) means," he said.

"I understand the history of the black face but certainly it was not construed in that way at all."

Dr Deva said if Hey Hey producers had said the skit may be offensive, he and his friends wouldn't have done it.

What is it? Are people capable of being this tone-deaf, or just incapable of understanding the world around them?

The shit that passes for entertainment on Australia's commercial TV networks is shocking. I'll always remember Win Butler of Arcade Fire asking 'What the fuck is up with Australian television?' during their Big Day Out show last year. I wasn't alone -- it truly is a debased medium.

This racist crap took place on a 2nd 'reunion' episode of an Australian variety show that was big in the '70s & '80s called 'Hey Hey It's Saturday'. (Only in a nation of very low expectations could a show with Saturday in its name be broadcast on Wednesday, but I digress.) The reunion shows have drawn huge ratings. There's always something to be said for nostalgia -- but have a look at all the smiling, laughing faces during this minstrel skit. Is this what people are nostalgic for? If Connick Jr -- a man who's spent the bulk of his life performing with African-American musical geniuses -- wasn't on the show there wouldn't have been a peep in the Australian media about its offensiveness.

I've often referred to Aussie culture as being in a time warp, circa 1972. I'll have to scale that back a few decades. On Australian commercial TV, it's 1952 -- only with bigger screens & high definition.

Let's overcome the 'tyranny of dead ideas'

Greensborough surprise.

Got a call yesterday from Wildlife Rescuers for a 'wallaby relocation' in Greensborough, one of Melbourne's leafy northeast suburbs. Arrived at the home of a man named Joel, who'd made the call. His back porch overlooked a recently replenished Plenty River and the wallaby pictured above. The animal had been laying on the steep riverbank for the past week, disappearing for short periods of time but always returning to that spot. Was it injured? Suffering from an internal disease? Disoriented?

This was a tricky call. As shown in this photo, the riverbank was between a rain-engorged waterway and a barbed wire-topped fence surrounding the rear of a business. Hardly an idealic spot for a wild animal, and the riverbank's steepness made it difficult to reach in case it was injured and required a trip to an animal hospital.

Another volunteer had arrived before me, an older gentleman named Dennis, but he was inexperienced on situations like this and, like me, lacked a 'roo bag' for capturing the wallaby if it needed medical attention. I called Narelle, Wildlife Victoria's large animal expert (whom I've praised in previous posts), for advice. Despite being home with her kids -- it's school holidays time here in Victoria -- Narelle said she'd join us shortly. In the meantime, I kept watch of the wallaby from a walking track on the other side of the river. Joel said one of his kids thought he'd seen the wallaby hopping on one leg. This was soon proved untrue as the wallaby rose from its spot and moved slowly down the riverbank. Everything about its movement seemed true. It stopped after 100 metres as Dennis and I followed along the walking track on the opposite riverbank.

An over-riding concern of mine on wildlife rescue calls is to minimize stress to the animals. My cohort didn't share this concern, however, as he trudged his way through high grass and brush to the river's edge. This drove the wallaby from its spot in the open to a cluster of dense brush higher up the riverbank. I did my best to keep it in sight. Dennis eventually joined me and sheepishly admitted his foray had been misguided. He left to wait for Narelle in front of Joel's home while I kept watch. Thirty minutes passed before I saw any movement -- the wallaby was grooming itself, a good sign. Walkers, joggers & bikers passed me on the walkway, no doubt wondering why a man was standing perfectly still & staring across the river.

Narelle arrived with a fellow volunteer 30 minutes later. After filling her in on all that had transpired, the two of them walked to a bridge downriver and then toward the wallaby's hiding spot. Suddenly, TWO magnificent, healthy-looking wallabies came into view, bounding their way back upriver. I followed their progress, reporting back to Narelle on a cell phone that we had two healthy wallabies (below).
I asked Narelle what she thought about their situation. She said this reasonably isolated spot along a riverbank was as good as any in suburban Melbourne, and supposed these wallabies had become inured to the human activity along the other side. In other words, they were fine, and needed nothing more from us. I went back to Joel's home and reported that he had 2 marsupial neighbors, thanked him for contacting Wildlife Rescuers and asked that he call Narelle or me directly if he noticed either of them in distress in the future.

Welcome to 1972.

The Age reports that the Victorian government is set to announce a 'controversial compromise' that will in effect allow church groups to discriminate at will:

Under the deal, Mr Hulls will allow church groups to continue discriminating on the grounds of sex, sexuality, marital and parental status and gender identity. But they will be unable to discriminate on the basis of race, disability, age, physical features, political beliefs or activity, or breastfeeding.

Australia is a magnificent land, but in many ways, its geographical isolation is matched by its ideological backwardness.

The Ties That Bind

We all know the tenuousness of bonds. Family, friendship, workplace ... regardless of their perceived sanctity, the bonds between us snap without warning.

Bruce Springsteen is a legendary singer, songwriter, performer, liberal activist & patron saint of Asbury Park. His music defines moments, months, years ... eras ... of my life, and the lives of many people I know. Growin' up and becoming a man without his impact is unimaginable.

Springsteen turned the ridiculous age of 60 yesterday. 'Ridiculous' because it's 25 years since the release of Born in the USA -- which means 25 years since I picked up a reserved copy from a record shop at the Morris County Mall the spring I graduated high school. 'Ridiculous' because The River is nearly 30 years old -- which means memories of listening to my cassette recordings of the 'new' double album in the back of yellow school buses going to or returning from away basketball games certifies me as a Very. Old. Man. Springsteen, 60? F*cking ridiculous.

Every two weeks my friend Wil Sperry broadcasts a 3-hour radio program called 'The Will Sparrow Show'. I've been Wil's 'international co-conspirator' since March. Yesterday's show featured special co-host Frank Cole helping Wil celebrate Springsteen's 60th b-day and upcoming NY area concerts with 3 hours of songs that are as familiar to me as the fingers typing these words. Listening made me wistful, and got me thinking about walking the Asbury Park boardwalk on quiet winter mornings ... Driving with Jeff along backstreets in piece-of-shit cars listening to Jeff's latest Springsteen bootleg discovery from the Englishtown flea market. The dozens and dozens of times I've left a venue with a sore jaw after smiling and singing for 3 hours along with 5,000 or 18,000 or 75,000+ others. (Perfectly captured by the photo atop this post taken in an emptying Meadowlands parking lot many years ago.)

Mostly, listening to Wil & Frank made me miss the brother- and sisterhood of friends who've graciously allowed me to share the joy of Springsteen shows with them. There is nothing -- nothing -- like it in the world ... and it makes wishing a complete stranger a very, very happy 60th birthday not so f*cking ridiculous at all.

Dil Bole Hadippa

Aradhna & I enjoyed another fun-filled Saturday afternoon courtesy of a Bollywood film, this one a masala of typical blockbuster issues -- patriotism, India/Pakistan relations, gender equality, the prodigal Desi, national sport (in this case cricket) -- and outstanding bhangra music. Gorgeous Rani Mukerji, an old-timer in Bollywood years for a woman, overcomes a predictable story to energize every shot.

Trickle-down scapegoating.

Glenn Greenwald nails a particularly repugnant Republican tactic that was perfected by ol' Ronnie Reagan and thrives today in the right-wing hullabaloo over ACORN:

If one were to watch Fox News or listen to Rush Limbaugh -- as millions do -- one would believe that the burden of the ordinary American taxpayer, and the unfair plight of America's rich, is that their money is being stolen by the poorest and most powerless sectors of the society. An organization whose constituencies are often-unregistered inner-city minorities, the homeless and the dispossesed is depicted as though it's Goldman Sachs, Blackwater, and Haillburton combined, as though Washington officials are in thrall to those living in poverty rather than those who fund their campaigns. It's not the nice men in the suits doing the stealing but the very people, often minorities or illegal immigrants, with no political or financial power who nonetheless somehow dominate the government and get everything for themselves. The poorer and weaker one is, the more one is demonized in right-wing mythology as all-powerful receipients of ill-gotten gains; conversely, the stronger and more powerful one is, the more one is depicted as an oppressed and put-upon victim (that same dynamic applies to foreign affairs as well).

It's such an obvious falsehood -- so counter-intuitive and irrational -- yet it resonates due to powerful cultural manipulations. Most of all, what's so pernicious about all of this is that the same interests who are stealing, pillaging and wallowing in corruption are scapegoating the poorest and most vulnerable in order to ensure that the victims of their behavior are furious with everyone except for them.