PELICAN
n a k u To
Edition 7 Volume 82
Pelican [adj]

 The Pelican is a desert rat. It hunts in packs and is known to lay its eggs in the half-eaten bodies of its prey. It is found in the Northern deserts of Africa. It was named by Theodore Roosevelt in 1906, after his favourite French concubine.
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spotl.guild.uwa.edu.au spotl.guild.uwa.edu.au TO ADVERTISE IN PELICAN
TO CONTACT PELICAN Visit first floor Guild Building P: 6488 2284 E: pelican@guild.uwa.edu.au
Please contact Alex Pond P: 6488 2211 F: 6488 1041 E: membership@guild.uwa.edu.au
20
The Man-Julian Candidate: Julian Hilton reflects on his career in politics.
18
Pastry Chef Blues: Yvonne Buresch ponders pastry for Pelican
26
What are the upsides to dating the disabled? Alex Griffin investigates.
regular stuff
04 your leaders 06 regular columns 10 evil eye 46 howl
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12 JG demise 14 what not to say 16 haunting of len lesser 18 I like pastry 20 julian is a c*nt 22 I am an error 23 crazy koalas 24 scots are drunkadoodles 26 dating the disabled 27 naughty in coles 28 embracing error 30 chokin’ a chogm 31 tea! 32 cheeseburger
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34 fuckin’ street press 35 gigs 36 reviews
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A Day in the Life: P.R. Poopie guides you through an epic adventure!
film
38 reviews 44 george lucas sux ballz
BOOKS
40 literary errors 42 reviews
arts
45 reviews
contents
03
Win from Win your from smartphone! your smartphone!
Credits Editors // Koko Wozniak & Patrick Marlborough Design // Wayne Chandra Advertising // Alex Pond Cover Art // Alice Palmer Arts Editor // Sarah Dunstan Books Editor // Ben Sacks Film Editor // Callum J Twigger Music Editor // Josh Chiat Politics Editor // Thomas Adolph
Sub-editors // Mark Birchall, Josh Chiat, Lachlan Keeley, Alice Mepham, Sarah Motherwell, Michael O’Brien, Tom Reynolds
Contributors // Thomas Adolph,
Illustrators // Stephanie Ball, Evelyn
Kiya Alimoradian, Ella Bennett, Mark Birchall, Yvonne Buresch, Josh Chiat, Fay Clarke, Jakub Dammer, Charmaine De Souza, Richard Ferguson, Alex Griffin, Annabel Hennessy, Lara Hentrich, Kate Hilgendorf, Julian Hilton, Ben Johnston, Lachlan Keeley, Zoe Kilbourn, Katrin Long, Bill Marlo, Alice Mepham, Michael O’Brien, Daniel Pillar, Ajax Poncini, Kaitlyn Plyley, Kate Prendergast, Ben Sacks, Melissa Schober, James Spinks, Callum J Twigger, Lauren Wiszniewski.
Froend, Emily O’Keeffe, Alice Palmer, Ena Tulic, Camden Watts.
Pelican needs an editor for 2012! Pelican editors are appointed by the UWA Student Guild and are required to put out eight editions of the student paper per year. You can get as creative as you want with the paper, but here are some key objectives that you might like to consider: • Getting students to pick up the paper • Representing a variety of different viewpoints • Painting a picture of campus life in 2012 • Getting people involved with the paper • Creating an intelligent, funny and immensely readable final product
A candidate must: • •
Have been a Guild member for two years (or as long as they’ve been at UWA) Not have run in the Guild Elections in the last two years
• • • • • •
An evident passion for Pelican and what student press stands for Creative flair A strong vision for the content and design of next year’s paper Ideas about ways to get writers involved, retained and motivated Demonstrated time management skills and strategies for meeting deadlines Experience in writing, sub-editing, art directing and co-ordinating
Things that will definitely help your application:
Your application will consist of:
Alice Palmer
Alice Palmer studies Art/Science at UWA, and has always been interested in practising fine arts, particularly using traditional mediums and techniques. She has recently returned from Italy, where she completed the summer school at the Florence Academy of Art. If you would like to contact Alice, you can email chook123@iprimus.com.au.
• A portfolio of all relevant work • An application that includes your vision for the paper Editing Pelican is traditionally a solo job, but the last two years, we’ve had two editors working in a partnership to edit the paper. If you intend to apply with a partner please present strategies for how you will divide/share the workload and how you will handle
creative differences.
For more information, contact Alex Pond, Memberships Officer at membership@guild.uwa.edu.au or pop by the Memberships office on the first floor of the Guild hall. APPLICATIONS DEADLINE: 5PM FRIDAY, 7 OCTOBER 2011. Submit applications to the Memberships Office or Guild Student Centre.
Photo by Melissa Schober
Editorials Presitorial
Like every other UWA student, I despise Guild elections – that horrible week where swarms of over-confident students leer at you from the major pathways that lead to your classrooms. For one week, you change paths so that your walk to the Science Library isn’t interrupted by that vapid person you went to high school with (once upon a time), greedily seeking another vote. This year has been worse than most, for me. Unwittingly, Pelican was dragged into the Guild election gossip wagon. Up until two weeks ago, I did not know that one of Liberty’s policies was to bring in a Subway on campus. Although I think that it’s an awesome opportunity for students to be in control of the Guild – which I’ve always seen as the heart of UWA – I try to live in a bubble when it comes to student politics. Any insinuation that Pelican is reprinting election material is absolute rubbish. The student newspaper, although funded by the Guild, doesn’t take sides in Guild elections. Patrick and I control what gets published and Guild Council has no authority to censor opinions. I hope that Pelican remains this way. The student newspaper is a unique workplace and being involved with this community of writers is a wonderful experience. A lot of this is due to the Guild and I sincerely hope that Pelican can continue to exercise its freedom. I hope that the Guild Council for 2012 will recognise the role that Pelican plays in student life and that they never interfere with what gets printed in our paper. We have one edition left of what has been a ridiculously fun, frustrating and stimulating year. I encourage any eager writer to send us an email or visit us in our office before our term as editor is up. It’s easy to spot our office from all the others on the first floor of the Guild: it’s the one with loud rockabilly, an offensive whiteboard and the smell of boy. Kokszhniak
I’m not much for correctness. This greatly affects my ability and style as an editor. I’m not particularly anal when it comes to speling/gramer. It is only after harsh conditioning from Koko (wire hangers hurt) that I have learnt to care about the differences between a hyphen and an en-dash. I’m not overly fond of political correctness either. In fact, I think my time at the Pelican has made my dark sense of humour so dark that it now effectively emanates negative light. It is black humour in black face. Over the course of this year our office has become a hot-bead for obscenely offensive humour. Casual anti-Semitism and ‘jocular’ homophobia is made semi-ok by the presence of Jews and Fags in the office. OH GOD!?!? Do you see what I mean? My filter has completely deteriorated. There is no place for Pelican people in the real world anymore. The line of socially acceptable comments has become so blurred that I am frightened to attend any high-end social gathering. As soon as we leave the bubble of this office and our continual riffling is exposed to the judgment of the public – or the ‘normals’ – we are looked upon like a travelling troupe of circus freaks and retired S.S. Officers. But this is why I love Pelican. Coming to UWA would have been a HUGE mistake if it wasn’t for this lovely rag. My best memories, friends, jokes, events and work have all been the result of attending my first Pelican meeting – way back in 2009. It was easily the best decision I’ve ever made. The simple truth is – Pelican is damn fun. Not many offices have spontaneous dance parties to 50s rockabilly. We might be the freaks or ‘errors’ of the Guild – but shit – we are proud of it.
Patterik Marlboro
We all make errors. But it’s not the errors themselves that matter, it’s whether you realise your errors and correct your ways. That’s why friends are important – friends point out your most fundamental mistakes so that you can become a better person. At the time of writing, this University was in the midst of Guild Elections. I know what you’re thinking: “those slimy student politicians, selling out on friendships for a few measly votes.” But you know what? I’m thankful for Guild Elections. Not because I’ve had the privilege of serving students for four years, but because I never truly understand how many errors I’ve made until opposition candidates (my friends) bother to point them out. So far this week I’ve had a number of errors drawn to my attention. To my far Left, the Socialists kindly point out that I’m living in a “post-capitalist utopia where racism, sexism and war are things of the past.” On my far Right, the Liberal Party gently remind me that I’m resistant to free market principles, anti-fun and too progressive on women. How have I gone so wrong? I never realised that my professional and pragmatic approach to student representation was having such a negative impact on students. But it’s the way you correct your errors that matters. So for the last two months of my Presidential term, I pledge to pull myself back into line. For the Socialists, I pledge to declare war on racism, sexism and war. For the Libs, I will privatise all the fun and women on campus, because the free market always wins out, right? Surely then the only person upset will be the ‘average’ student, the moderate who believes their Guild should be run by an independent and pragmatic group of passionate students. But I’m willing to take that risk. So I guess the moral of the story is to keep your friends close, because only they truly know your fundamental flaws. If you’d like to point some more out for me, I’ll be eternally grateful.
Tom Anchovy-Nazi
ed +Pres
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WHAT’S ON CAMPUS?
Letterz to the EDZ Catering Controversy In response to feedback of Edition Six’s catering article, I wanted to clear up that there was no political influence on the article. I find the accusation of it being a STAR-backing propaganda piece amusing, considering not only my personal political persuasion, but also the fact that the article concluded by suggesting people disagreeing with the current situation to get involved in Guild politics. I approached that article from the point of view of someone who typically complains about Guild food. In fact, I mentioned past bad experiences with campus coffee. However, three sentences into the first draft, it became pretty clear to me that students already have online access to archives of anti-Guild-food content, and it would be pointless and probably boring to rehash the argument from that standpoint. I approached people who are actually involved with Guild catering to get their side of the argument, which spawned the exploratory – rather than opinionated – style of the article. While you may disagree with the interviews or content that I chose to include, you’ll notice that I did little more than summarise two interviews and explore the current situation, doing my best to refrain from inserting personal opinion. In fact, Tom received approval to be interviewed in the election period, and it was all done above the board. I can guarantee you that the published article was identical to the final draft I submitted and had no political influence. Of course, you are welcome to conduct interviews and write an article on other aspects of the story. That’s the best thing about the Pelican – it’s a student paper. Daniel Pillar
Join the Young UN Women Australia Perth Committee on Friday November 25 to celebrate fashion and the end of exams! The Committee is hosting a fashion parade fundraiser at Skatt in Mt Hawthorn in conjunction with the Rotaract Club of Perth to raise vital funds for UN Women’s Pacific Facility Fund and Hope Uganda. Stay tuned for details at our Facebook group: facebook.com/?ref=home#!/groups/83885484573/
MSU proudly presents: Dark Temptation. Enjoy a five-hour drink package, threecourse buffet, live music, dance, raffle prizes, and much more! Location: Astral Ballroom, Burswood Date: Friday, September 30 Time: 7pm – 12.00am Prices: Members: $120, Non-members: $130 For further information please contact 0423 425 995 or email msu.committee@ gmail.com
The UWA Jazz Club, in association with JazzWA, is proud to present Jazz on the Oak Lawn! From 1pm on Tuesday October 25, a group of Perth’s finest jazz musicians will perform some funky modern jazz on the Oak Lawn. Come and hear what your lunch hour has been missing.
UWAnime Marathon We’ll be screening new OVAs and movies all night! Date: Friday, September 30 Time: 1pm – 9pm Where: Social Sciences Lecture Room 2 Cost: $3 UWAnime members / $4 Associates / $5 General Public More info: uwanime.org
UWA’s Japanese Society (JapSSoc), presents its yearly karaoke party on September 28, 19:30–22:30. Have a go at both English and Japanese songs with games and prizes to be won. It will be a great night of food and drinks with a Japanese flavour that everyone can enjoy. If you’re interested, contact us on japssoc@gmail.com
The Conscience of the People –––– Kate Hilgendorf ––––
When campaigning for an organisation such as Amnesty International, there is one particular question that I am continually asked: so why are you an activist? As with most things in life, it’s not a simple answer. Israeli writer Amos Oz summarises it well, however, in that “activism is a way of life”: it can embrace you through a singular passionate issue, or encompass you in the drive for the overall future of improved human rights standards worldwide. But I digress. Why am I an activist? Because there are still people in the world, in our own Asia-pacific region, who are jailed, tortured and have their human rights violated for a conviction of belief. In a number of articles this year, we’ve referred to Peter Benenson, founder of Amnesty International. Writing on the detention of two Portuguese students in 1961, Mr Benenson first coined the term ‘prisoner of conscience’. The term refers to people who have been imprisoned exclusively for the peaceful exercise of their rights, which are protected by the Universal Declaration of Human Rights.
With over 270 individuals at risk supported by Amnesty International in 2010, it is clear there is still a long way to go. Many people, upon approaching an Amnesty International stall still ask, Well, what this all is really going to achieve? The answer? More than you might think. For prisoner of conscience Ratan Gazmere in Bhutan, the difference was between dying in prison and freedom. Ratan was arrested in 1989 in Bhutan along with five other men for distributing pamphlets criticising the Bhutanese Government’s repressive cultural integration policy. For these actions, the men were sentenced by trial (for treason), tortured and jailed. Have a look at some of the posters on campus today; imagine a situation where expressing many of these kinds of thoughts could result in immediate imprisonment. Eventually Gauti, Ratan’s wife, was granted access to visit her husband. Sitting beside one another, Ratan continued to draw the letters A and I on her back. Gauti’s friends suggested he may have meant Amnesty International, whom she immediately contacted. By
1990, Ratan was an Amnesty International prisoner of conscience, and hundreds of thousands of letters began to pour into the nation’s post office, calling on the Bhutanese Government for his release. Eventually freed in 1991, Ratan stated, “Amnesty International saved my life…I know for sure that without their support and all the letters people sent, I would be either dead or still be in jail. Instead I am free.” This is simply one success story. There are many more. And there are many still to be written. Su Su Nway, a member of the National League for Democracy in Burma, is serving an eight-year sentence for participating in peaceful anti-government protests. She also has a congenital heart condition and is separated by 2000kms from her family and friends. Prisoners of conscience are at the heart of Amnesty International and we will continue, as put by ACT activist Dorothy Bennett, “being a voice for the voiceless”. For more information on any of the Individuals at Risk in this article today, please go to the website amnesty. org.au. For all upcoming events for the Amnesty International group on campus, send us an email at amnesty.uwa@gmail.com
devil’s advocate CONCENTRATION CAMPS FOR THE DULL -------------------------------------------
Of all the monstrosities in existence, is there anything worse than the dullard? That tedious little nit of a creature that inhales fun and exhales tedium. They come in many shapes and in many sizes and from many different backgrounds, and one thing is certain: you cannot avoid them. Whether you are at a party, on the bus, in a tutorial or simply at work, the dull individual will make himself or herself present and bother you til no end. The horrifying thing about the dull is that they essentially run the world through a vast network of seemingly unconnected systems. They control the media, politics, are present in all artistic mediums, and influence the way in which we ourselves behave in society. At the heart of every dullard is the desire to convert you. They want you to be as boring as them. It is for these reasons, after considering this great threat, that I propose the only reasonable solution: concentration camps.
Pete Scotch -------------------------------------------
seem ‘edgy’ and cringe as they shout ‘LOL’ at their own jokes. If you see someone engaging in any of these activities, then you have spotted a dullard. Once identified, the dullard’s forehead will be stamped with the letters ‘DMF’ (dull mother fucker). This will help people avoid them at parties. After identification, a circus train will take them to the nearest camp. The program will rely heavily on fed-up friends and family members dobbing in suspected bores. Don’t hesitate! The more time you spend with a dull person, the greater the chance of becoming dull yourself!!! STEP 2: How will you rehabilitate the dull? The camps and camp programs are specially designed to eradicate boring bastards. As you enter CAMP A1 (referred to as The Chocolate Factory) you are greeted by a sign over the central gate that reads “If you are bored, then you are boring”. This is the central philosophy of the camps.
“What’s this great offense!?” I hear you shout, “is this man proposing a Holocaust? Even in jest, this is not appropriate.” This is the typical response of a dullard, if you had it – I’m sorry to say – it may be too The Holocaust is the epitome of what happens late. In no way do I propose that we murder dull people like the Nazis murdered millions. The when dull fiends gain power. Only the most Holocaust is the epitome of what happens when wretchedly boring bastard with absolutely no dull fiends gain power. Only the most wretchedly boring bastard with absolutely no imagination or imagination or sense of humour would come sense of humour would come up with something up with something as horrific as Auschwitz and as horrific as Auschwitz and the Third Reich. Bureaucrats made the Holocaust possible. Adolf the Third Reich Hitler is DULLARD # 1 in my book. My camps are not monotonous grey buildings of industrialised mass murder. Rather, they are fun-loving centres of forced rehabilitation. Their goal: to exterminate the dull. STEP 1: How do we identify the dull? There are ways to spot a dullard. Most are easily recognised through conversation. Are they discussing their TER score years after graduating? Dull. Are they offended by words such as ‘cunt’ and ‘cumhuffer’? Dull. Do they harp on about their career prospects? Dull. Do they talk about climate change, “boat people”, the Carbon Tax? So very, very dull. The dullard sticks out. Place them in a situation that requires creativity or imagination and watch them flounder. Better yet, force them to be funny. Cower at their awful attempts to
It is important that the dullards are forced to mingle. Groups such as ‘student politicians’ and ‘trendy scene kids’ will be forced to bunk with the ‘ironic geeks’ and ‘café-poets.’ This is to teach the dullard that there is more to life than that which they already know. Most surround themselves with other dullards who find each other interesting. This is one of the leading causes of low self-awareness in the dull. From 8pm until 6am the dull will be forced to participate in an orgiastic masquerade ball. The waiters are all dwarfs or trained monkeys. Each guard is hand picked – they must be people of the upmost interest i.e. the charismatic Irishman you meet in a pub who knows everything about anything and/or a well travelled oceanographer. The guards are there to enforce interesting conversation, lead in with humorous anecdotes, and provide examples to the dull of what it is to be an interesting person. A dixie-land jazz band plays swing
numbers all night. It is important that the band is completely black. The ball will have a constant flow of free alcohol and various other substances. The dull are not to rely on these however. The mix of circus animals and freaks that mingle with the crowd will confront the dull and force them to act and talk differently. Anyone who mentions their “career in advertising” will be promptly executed via knife throw. The dull are then forced to sleep in until 12pm. Dull people are prone to waking up in the am’s to attend some awful “job” or – heaven forbid – “go for a run”. They all sleep in individual tepees – sex is permitted, but only if it is unspeakably filthy. The rest of their day will be spent with a force-feeding of their pitiable imaginations. Required texts are Peter Pan, Cannery Row and The Day of the Locust. Books, albums, films, theatre and art will be rammed into their consciousness. They are not allowed to critique or offer theories of understanding. Indeed, academics are kept in the bowels of the camp where they can’t interfere with the others and are forced to play Super Smash Brothers 64. The dullard is then free to roam the grounds. The camp is a mix of landscapes – with special castle and circus areas and even an underwater area for the unfathomably dull. Anyone who claims they have “something better to do” will be forced to prove it. Failure to do so will result in 48 hours of drunken conversation with the camps P.O.I’s (People of Interest). The routine will vary day to day and the interned will be kept on their toes constantly. Failure to do or say something interesting after day three will result in a creampie battle with a cripple in a wheelchair. To the death. If they persist in being boring then they will be employed by the financial or legal arms of the Camp. If we eradicated the dull from the world, then what is there to distinguish the interesting? Who determines these arbitrary categories? Fuck! It’s one of them! Wont, ironically, a world without dull people be less interesting? Oh sod off, you dull cunt! Of course if none of my ideas work, we can just gas them.
Illustration by CamdenWatts
devil’s advocate
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how to
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HOW TO TRASH GRAB ––– Daniel Pillar ––– Some call it crap. Some call it yesterday’s treasure. Some call it bogan bait. No matter what your persuasion, it can’t be denied that there can sometimes be plenty to gain from bulk rubbish collections. There’s probably a well-travelled route etched into the ozone layer from the tonnes of carbon monoxide expended from scabbing ex-loved goods, pointing out to regressive dole bludgers generation after generation along with the address for the nearest Cash Converters. Yet we all know that there is one group of monetaryunfortunates out there that have to venture further into struggletown than your average old-stroller-salvager. They’re you and me: the students of this generation that chose education over full time employment and independence over home-cooked meals and free rent. So until our fancy degrees get us recliner lounges worth more than the aforementioned falcons, we’ll take any free furniture, whitegoods and almost-working home gym equipment we can get. Now before you ask, ‘trash grabbing’ isn’t just what those seedy old guys are trying to do at the Paramount. Its alternative meaning is a calculated, contrived exercise involving the extraction of items, useless or otherwise, from a refuse pile on a verge. Under the cover of darkness, the trashgrab is a stealthy exercise. In the middle of the afternoon, it’s the blatant robbery of kerb-gold. So here are some handy tips. When trash grabbing, you need to be one step ahead of those who spend their afternoons patrolling the Western suburbs for goodies to de-dust and on-sell to a pawn shop.
your home, you want to check that it’s lice-free and doesn’t have too many holes, stains or blood. Nobody wants an ex-murder-weapon toaster in their kitchen. And to see these potential blemishes, it’s important to conduct your scouting by day. However, when you do, you’ll come in to two separate barriers. Firstly, there’ll be competition, and believe me it will be fierce. As a child, I once walked home from a friend’s house to see two separate groups of people fighting over a broken go-kart my parents had added to our frontyard trash dump. This caused me great emotional scarring, not only because I didn’t know my go-kart was being donated to the rubbish-tipgods, but that its journey to landfill heaven was cut short by quarrelling scab convoys. From that day forward I knew that if I was to successfully raid scab piles, I’d need to hit them far before the masses. So when you are scouting, consider doing it in the earlier hours of the morn, or you might encounter the same scary sight I did as a young child. Secondly, this
allows you to avoid heckling from the
Objective one: Pimping your accommodation Vintage is in, now more than ever, and what’s more vintage than a pre-(but no longer)-loved lounge that’s been dumped on the side of the road like an unwanted Christmas puppy? Rescuing such seating apparatus can add a touch of class and a hearty, musky odour to your apartment. Often, a quick wash might even change the colour of the item, from a nice dusty grey to a bright vomit green shade. Much of the Pelican office is in fact ‘decked out’ with rescued furnishings. But before you bring an item through to
ex-owners of your new found treasure. A friend of mine was collecting a chest of drawers from a residence in Dalkeith when a stingy lady/crazy bitch came out and demanded $20 for the kerb-ridden item. As you’d imagine, a large argument ensued, resulting in the lady taking the chest of drawers inside. Yet as soon as she believed the coast was clear, she returned the chest of drawers to the outside pile, and the friend swooped in (this time with assistants) to claim the prize, only to be chased down the road by the screaming old lady. Of course, once you bring these treasures home and pimp your apartment, you may realise that rusty old table might not quite match your green sofa as well as you’d hoped. But at least you’ve got a story to tell and have done your bit for the environment. That is, until next year when you put it on your own rubbish pile after upgrading to a superior scab-find. Objective Two: Public space decoration Another quick-to-mention use of rubbish piles are those raids that occur in the dead of the night, for nothing more than drunken entertainment. Friends of mine have carried verge-dumped sofas for kilometres, only to re-dump them on a set of monkey bars at the local playground. Office chairs are great to ride down inclines with and speed up your journey home from the local tavern. And if you’re keen to test your skills in interior design, consider using the furniture from the local piles to deck out an underconstruction house in the neighbourhood. Plus, if you decide the rest of the trek home is a bit too far, you can always crash at this newly furnished house for the night. I hope these skills allow you to harness the often-ignored usefulness of other’s exloved items. I for one was able to cross “throw and smash a TV” off my bucket list thanks to Sorrento’s last bulk collection, and the opportunities for you to do the same are seemingly endless.
Illustration by Ena Tulic
Illustration by Evelyn Froend
evil eye
10
EVIL EYE: AN ISLAND IN THE STORM Thomas Adolph examines a crumbling Western realm and ponders Australia’s place in the new paradigm.
For all of modern history, Euro-American economic power has defined world politics. Well try not to blink, cos you might miss the sunset. In 2008, the Global Financial Crisis, or “GFC”, maimed the vast majority of Westernstyle economies. A downturn in finance and housing markets unlike anything seen since 1929, the GFC has stuck around much longer than anyone expected. With the US and Europe struggling to address their structural challenges, investment in Australia has failed to match the promise of our comparatively sunny economic outlook. As the likelihood of a Greek default grows, concern is mounting that we too have become complacent in our prosperity. A Chinese century now seems likely, with the West playing second fiddle to a vibrant and prosperous Asia. Australia has an opportunity to seize a share of the limelight, if we can only avoid the fate of our allies. The United States has been unsustainably spending for many years. In August this year the national deficit threatened to hit a ‘statutory ceiling’, a measure that is supposed to prevent reckless fiscal policy from becoming a habit. Every few years, the government writes new laws to adjust the ceiling upwards, allowing just a few trillion more to sneak into the budget. In 2011, the United States government is $14.3 trillion in debt. To put that number in perspective, the collected spending on both wars in Iraq and Afghanistan has been $1.3 trillion. It’s clearly gotten a bit out of hand. China, to whom most of that money is owed, has issued stinging censures to the US, telling them to “curb their addiction to debt” and “learn to live within their means”. But the debt-deal isn’t really the story. The cuts it imposes to the $3.7 trillion 2012 budget is only $21 billion. In the next 10 years, it will only decrease the deficit by $2 trillion. Its real effect is that it demonstrates Washington’s inability to reliably manage the country’s serious economic problems.
Recessions rarely have the reach to hurt the very wealthy – it is the low and middle-income earners who suffer the direst results. Many experts have attributed this second round of problems to the pronounced wealth inequality in the worst affected nations. In the US, 20% of the income share is controlled by 1% of the population, and the median wealth of white familles is 20 times that of their black equivalents. It is well known that crooked wealth distribution stymies steady consumption and that consumption fuels growth. The US derives 60% of its wealth from average consumers, a group that hasn’t spent real money since the crash in 2008. Compare that to only 20% in China, whose insatiable state-driven consumption has led to steady GDP growth of 9 or 10% annually. They are only beginning to unlock their consumer base – the US just needs
The party will keep Gillard on as leader, if only as a sacrificial lamb on which they can later hang the tax agenda to wake theirs back up. Corporate, investor and household confidence have suffered major falls in the months since the deal was struck, even here in Australia where the dollar (Aus) and the trade terms are strong. Even the more optimistic estimates for the 2012/13 financial year predict a growth of only 2% in the USA, with the jobless rate stuck at an intractable 10%. There is a long history in America of filling the gaps in monetary policy by borrowing. Reagan presided over an economic resurgence, yet he increased spending and lowered taxes. Such policies reflect the fundamental madness of democracies everywhere: voters want big government at low expense. It can’t be done. The way most governments try is by borrowing the difference. The only President who achieved
a budget surplus in at least 40 years was Bill Clinton, who reigned in spending and hiked up taxes. The surplus was demolished in a year by George Bush Jr, and Barack Obama inherited a federal tax rate of 15% GDP (a historic low) and spending a 24% GDP (irrationally high). The President is faced with a powerful right-wing movement called the TEA (Taxed Enough Already) Party, who are incapable of understanding those numbers. Obama has no option but to correct the disparity, a move many economists believe will further destabilise the country. Unfortunately, the more sensible move of ‘stimulus now, deficit reduction later’ is being held out of reach. President Obama and Republican House Speaker John Boehner nearly reached a $4 trillion budget bargain before the vote but were foiled at the last minute by the fairly toxic atmosphere between the parties on Capitol Hill. For many years, both Republicans and Democrats have targeted electoral seats held by moderates on the other side. Practically speaking, these are always easier pickings than the deeply ideological candidates from the farther wings of politics. Moderates – the class of politicians usually capable of compromise – are now practically extinct in Washington. This makes the likelihood of a smart response to the debt crisis desperately unlikely. Europe is the third great trading entity in a finance sector now dominated by China and the US. Its shared currency, the euro, has been placed under massive strain by irresponsible spending among the smaller, less affluent countries that are party to the union. As their economies unravel, investors and lenders become increasingly nervous about the ability of such countries to honour their debts. The value of money goes up as the euro unravels, leaving the few responsible spenders to bail out their reckless neighbours. For example, Germany spends 87% of what it earns. They make smart investments, tax responsibly, yet still enjoy world-class health, unemployment and pension
Currently, 70% of Germans would rather leave the rest of the Union to their troubles. But whether they bail out Greece or not, the German people are in for a bit of a bruising. Forty per cent of German exports don’t leave Europe, and every country apart from France would be looking at a recession if the euro went under. Currently the world can actually afford the luxury goods Germany is selling; the euro’s weakness has made the cost more manageable. Competition from countries with a much weaker currency would price them right out of the common markets. It’s probably the only thing keeping the bailout on the table. If they decide to throw their weight behind the beleaguered currency, Germany would move to guarantee the loans made out to the flagging euro
economies. It would also involve some sort of statutory control allowing Germany to enforce the responsibilities the borrowing countries take on. That will be a bitter pill for governments already facing violent opposition to rather ‘soft-touch’ austerity measures. The recent uncertainty has bred radical political interests in each of the affected states. Barack Obama is struggling with the popular Tea Party and similar far-right groups have sprung up around the Euro-Union. In response to the rising popularity of these anti-immigration platforms, German Chancellor Angela Merkel, British Prime Minister David Cameron and French President Nicolas Sarkozy have all spoken publicly on the failure of the multiculturalism doctrine in the last six months. Australia faces its own political woes, despite the deceptively sunny economic outlook. Prime Minister Julia Gillard has faced ongoing pressure due to record disapproval ratings, as the carbon tax, resource tax, productivity and immigration clutter the national agenda. Leadership worries have also dogged the beleaguered Prime Minister, as Kevin Rudd, Simon Crean and Pelican favourite Stephen Smith are floated as potential replacements. Yet their obliterating defeat in NSW should warn the Labor Party against setting up another leadership carousel. The balance-tipping handshake with Independents Oakshott, Windsor and Wilkie belongs to Julia Gillard. A second spill may also provoke resignations in protest, further jeopardising Labor’s grip on power. The party will keep Gillard on as leader, if only as a sacrificial lamb on which they can later hang the tax agenda. After several weeks of volatile
financial markets, the government may soon face a more pressing concern. The US has learned harsh lessons since 2001. Foremost, they have learned the limits on what they can achieve by starting wars, and the degree to which they can afford to wage them. They are now faced with a decline in geopolitical relevance, crushing debt and a crisis of domestic partisanism. The euro may prove unviable without the extraordinary economic circumstances of the 1990–2008 period. Germany must decide whether saving its neighbours is worth a trillion dollars, or risk hurling the Union into an uncertain future. For both continents, stimulus spending to prompt growth at the lower end of the income spectrum will address the twin problems of low consumption and xenophobia. Despite its clear connections to Asia, Australia is not immune to ripples in the West. On September 13, $45 billion was wiped from the stock market in a single day. Productivity problems will force hard decisions on our policy makers in coming months, as indices hint at a softening economy. The market has done exactly what we asked it to: it fed money into the parts of the world that were growing, were pricing competitively, were building, and were producing good ideas. Unfortunately, that’s just not the West anymore. Whispers of a Chinese bailout in Europe have only cemented the view of a changing world order. Even a hint of Chinese involvement would substantially boost wobbly investments and lending in the region. Australia must acknowledge its geographical and economic reality, and act with uncharacteristic decisiveness if it hopes to be part of a strong, dynamic East.
Illustration by Thomas Adolph
support. Comparatively, the Greeks spend 157% of their GDP every year and haven’t stopped rioting since the first austerity measures were proposed. German Chancellor Angela Merkel has faced record downturn in popularity as she contemplates spending the trillion euros her taxpayers have diligently saved to haul the Greeks, the Irish, the Portuguese and the Spaniards out of mess they’ve made for themselves. For these deadweight euroeconomies, borrowing is so expensive that the interest would wipe out whatever headway they might make by growing. In the old days, Greek and Portuguese Governments in trouble could just devalue their currencies to attract investors to local markets. Now, in order to correct the irresponsible decisions of earlier regimes, many countries are implementing deeply unpopular austerity measures.
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Chieftain Judicio French, What’s the dealio? First femme PM just wants the High Court to cut her some slack, yo! ------------ Michael O’Brien ------------
After the recent High Court decision – often referred to as “The End of Gillard” or Plaintiff M70 v Minister for Immigration for those wishing to remain politically neutral – was handed down, it became glaringly clear that the decision did not turn Australia’s pre-existing asylum seeker law “on its head”. Assuming you love your crack in a nutshell – i.e. you are not a Law student and you can’t be bothered syphoning through 34,000 words of judgement – the ruling suggests that the government cannot dispatch Australia’s legal obligations under convention to protect refugees, to other countries that are unable to exercise such protection. The decision sits comfortably in line with the trend of other notable decisions made under the French High Court in 2010 – a year where the bench engaged in constitutional creativity. Contrary to popular belief, in M70 the Court did not seek to place insurmountable restrictions on creating an Off-Shore Processing (OSP) ‘solution’; they were simply interpreting the Migration Act as written and therein came to the consensus (6-1) that certain refugee criteria need to be met for a country to be appropriate for OSP. Essentially, these three criteria behave as conditional limits on Minister Bowen’s power (under s. 198A of the Migration Act) to declare Malaysia (or anywhere else) as a location to which Australian asylum seekers can be taken for processing. According to the new M70 test, for Malaysia to qualify it must be legally bound by international law (or its own domestic law) to: 1. Provide access for asylum seekers to procedures for assessing their protection needs; 2. Provide protection for asylum seekers pending the result of their assessment; and 3. Provide protection for declared refugees pending their re-settlement in the chosen country. The High Court concluded, seemingly correctly, that Malaysia ticked none of these boxes. In addition to these criteria, the Migration Act also requires that the proposed country meets minimum human rights standards in providing asylum seekers protection.
The unique nature of the transfer “arrangement” with Malaysia – i.e. it was not legally binding on Malaysia and Malaysia isn’t a signatory to the convention – means that the ruling of the High Court has no practical legal precedent. It is possible that the above criteria could have existed to rebuff the Pacific Solution under Howard, but the High Court was never called to review Phillip Ruddock’s declarations under the Pacific Solution. The result is that there has never been a definitive interpretation made by the High Court of s.198A of the Migration Act. For the last 10 years there have been several successful legal challenges to decisions made by Immigration Ministers to revoke visas or deny refugee status, foreshadowing the judiciary’s emphasis on international obligations under the Migration Act. Nevertheless, an administrative challenge to an international agreement for countering illegal immigration practices remained nonexistent in Australia, until now. So that is what we do know from the High Court judgement. What we don’t know is how the Australian Labor Party (ALP) is possibly able to repeatedly shoot themselves in the foot. Today, the government is still coming to terms with its High Court defeat. Its instinctive reaction was to grasp for the cold comfort of laying blame on an activist High Court, rather than conceding it was caused by flawed policy or flawed legal advice. Labor’s bitter reaction to the decision of the High Court made their handling of asylum seekers look that much worse. Gillard’s comment, which sparked the furore around separation of powers, particularly singled out West Aussie Chief Justice Robert French stating that when he “considered comparable legal questions” in his role in the Federal Court he made “different decisions” to those made by the High Court. Without launching into a separation of powers spiel on the PM’s obligation to avoid politicising the decisions made by the independent judiciary, it is well accepted that criticising
French looked opportunistic and vengeful. Precedent necessarily influenced French’s past decisions made in the Federal Court – it was a hierarchy issue. The High Court has no such restrictions. As David Marr said, the High Court has embraced its “traditional role as guardian of liberty”; it’s their job to hold the government accountable, exercise judicial power and sometimes provide work for lonely human rights lawyers. Although I accept that Robert French should be open to criticism at times, the derogatory term ‘activist’ gets thrown around far too often, and it suggests that the judge has stepped outside the limits of their role. Labor has subsequently released their revised legal advice relating to the implications of the decision in M70. The ALP understand, after discussion with Solicitor-General (if you still trust him!), that the legal complexity introduced by the “activist-lead” High Court means that both Manus Island (PNG) and Nauru are no longer politically viable options for OSP. Whether Labor do push ahead with OSP is up to their cabinet, however after the collapse of the Malaysia solution they appear wary to soften their newfound hardline approach, instinctively favouring the creation of spur-of-themoment legislation to circumvent a distasteful High Court bench. Legislating around this decision is going to be a legal and political nightmare for the government, especially when it comes to their insistence that any Labor asylum solution will ensure that unaccompanied minors are also dispatched to south-east Asia. Pushing ahead with this particular aspect of their policy appears to contradict the central tenets of Labor party ideology and fundamental legal principle. Colin Barnett hit the nail on the head when he commented that it will be to the “eternal shame” of the ALP that they tried to send unaccompanied children to Malaysia. If you are still reading this, after all that fun, it is time to find a scapegoat: what evil force is bringing down the government?
1. Tony Abbott/Coalition POLICY: Whilst the Federal Opposition blab on about their own track record of success with their universal solution of “PUSH THE BOATS BACK TO INDONESIA!” or the slightly less offensive “SEND THEM TO LIVE IN A VOLCANIC JUNGLE!”, their hidden secret has always been that such agreements to detain refugees in Nauru are founded on the condition that the majority will be eventually re-settled in Australia. Pacific Island nations cannot feasibly be expected to handle the introduction of thousands of new arrivals into their fragile economies on a permanent basis. Despite this policy being inherently flawed and superficial, there is little argument that it had the desired practical effect of reducing boat numbers.
BLAME: Abbott remains steadfast in his support of Howard’s Pacific Solution. Abbott should be criticised for enlivening Australia’s pre-existing suspicion of boat arrivals, and thereby engendering a leadership void within both major parties on the issue. Partly due to the weight of Abbott’s rhetoric, our prime minister has become completely enslaved to an asylum policy for OSP that is now outdated according to the High Court. Blaming Abbott entirely for Labor’s demise is of course misguided when Abbott holds no power within the Labor party and functions as an inactive observer seated across the chamber. Perhaps Abbott sees a future election being decided on the basis of asylum seeker policy and he genuinely believes his Nauru solution now holds the moral high ground. If it’s true, then he is halfway to The Lodge already. It’s surprisingly simple.
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2. The media POLICY: {make statement Re: media moguls having vested interest in non-Labor governments} {say something generic about the unethical role of Newspoll in politics} {insert a mention of Lindsay Tanner’s book} {Factoid: Hundreds of thousands of asylum seekers arrive in Europe every year, compared to 8,000 in Australia} {15-second soundbites suck! Q&A rocks my socks!} {close paragraph suggesting the news media are sexist… “Who cares about Julia’s colourful wardrobe?”} {blahdiblahblahblah….}
BLAME: Honestly, blaming the media, what a cop out? When everyone starts suggesting that conservative newspaper columnists are the catalyst for Labor’s downfall we have definitely hit a new low. Labor’s public relations failures are entirely their own making. In general, current government ministers have little or no room to move when answering the tough questions in interviews, but instead preface their vaguely rehearsed, non-committal party-line speech with statements like, “the Government has its own position on this matter; we will not be dictated to by Tony Abbott, of course.” The key words, here spoken by Greg Combet, are “of course”. If the public is convinced that Abbott isn’t dictating to Labor, then why is there a need to remind us that Labor’s policy is idiosyncratic? Gillard’s government is so focused on making it clear that Labor are their own free-thinking entity distinct from the Coalition that they fail to exercise their own self-professed reformist thinking.
BLAME: When looking for someone to blame for the nightmare that was the Malaysia Agreement, it is hard to go past Gillard and her Immigration Minister, Bowen. Their desire to create a uniquely Labor approach to OSP was badly advised and quite limited in scope. It is inconsiderate to claim that the High Court ruling has “changed the paradigm” of refugee law. If Labor were serious about becoming the party of great reform, they would have quickly realised the shortcomings of OSP and counter-punched the media circus with a genuinely unique policy approach. The High Court’s decision should not be taken as an indication of the need for further legislation to re-legitimise Labor’s existing policy – it is a repudiation of that exact policy. Robert French and his peers have provided Labor, the Coalition and the Greens with a golden opportunity to sit back and carefully re-evaluate our approach to asylum seekers in the light of our human rights obligations and our irrationally nasty national discourse.
CAUSE: For me, the key issue causing all the heartbreak for the ALP is their tendency in several policy areas to broadcast the success of their policy objectives when the relevant job at hand is only half-completed, or not completed at all. The announcements of the Mining tax, Carbon tax, National Health Reform, Pokies reform and the NBN were all premature. After all, it was Gillard who in May rushed out an announcement of the ‘Malaysian Solution’ even before it had been negotiated with that country. It is then left up to Labor Government ministers to negotiate a patchwork of rushed statements designed to clear up any embarrassment caused by their premature self-congratulations. While Labor attempt to patch up their asylum seeker policy from the ruins, they have 335 men, women and children on Christmas Island being kept in physical and legal limbo. Will Christmas Island remain our barbed-wire welcome mat forever? How many more legal challenges will these people have to endure before their claims are processed here?
Originally, the term ‘Malaysia Deal’ referred to prostitutes during the Vietnam War. It was the name given to the act of paying a Vietnamese prostitute money to have sex with your ethnic friend.
Illustrations by Stephanie Ball
3. PM J Gillard/ALP
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SAYING THE WRONG THING WHEN YOU COULD HAVE SAID SOMETHING MORE APPROPRIATE: A ROUGH GUIDE ------------------------------------------
Ella Bennett
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Situation: You’ve just seen Sweeping Emotions: The Moviefilm Person Q: “…that film was a tragic reminder of the futility of life.” You: The only tragic reminder of futility is the film grant they squandered. What’s really futile is making a film without an accredited casting director. The clay vase I made in year 9 Art would have made a better wheelchair-ridden half-sister than Natalie Imbruglia. And the dialogue…the script seemed to have been written by child with an exaggerated lisp using Windows speech recognition software. Nothing has sounded less like English since I spoke to that Chinese man with the weak bladder. The whole thing has just made me depressed beyond pills. Not because of the plotline, no – I only wish the manslaughter had actually happened to most of the actors, so I didn’t have to cast eyes on this abomination. As it is, though, I vomited into a bucket earlier so I may just go home and microwave that and then put my feet in it to soak, you know, so there’s an upside to my day. When you could have said: I too am adrift on a river of melancholy.
Situation: Break time at the biscuit factory Person 74B: “I’m looking to slash work stress in half.” You: I find sunlight always elevates my mood, even when I am faced with the bleakest of tasks. Assembling biscuits got you down? There are mental games you can play that allow your childhood imagination to run wild, literally wild, like a wounded stingray, thrashing about in the shallows, hopelessly, its life slipping before it like the money from your purse when you’re not watching creepy Tim over there – look, he’s got your tenner – the money you were going to spend on a fruit pie, apple, maybe apple and rhubarb, the latter’s unique flavour subtly stinging your palate, the barb, literally stinging you, as would the wounded stingray as you tried in vain to help it, it would only be thinking that you meant harm by him, and you’re looking into his big, brown stingray eyes – you’ll have to flip him over first, he won’t like that, no, more stinging – because all you wanted to do was take home that fruit pie, bathe it in custard and set about fulfilling your life, beginning with your stomach, because we always want to tackle something big first. So it’s really about being in control of your mind, and then you’ll find that biscuit assembly is really not so dreary. When you could have said: Try some low frequency humming accompanied by the sipping of a viscous chamomile infusion. It’s actually kinder on your oesophagus that way.
Situation: Before the first date with Rich, that cute guy from chemistry
Illustrations by Ena Tulic
Person S: “But what am I going to wear?!” You: I’ve not met Rich, but guys from chemistry have failed you in the past, looks-wise. I’m not even sure if he’s cute. That’s what you said and I’ve seen you chatting up a piñata once when you were wasted on sweet vermouth. Generally, you don’t look too bad for someone who doesn’t care about their appearance. Rich probably wouldn’t even notice. That’s not exactly why guys want to go out with you, is it? Clearly this Rich guy is way into personality. Plus, how do you know this is a date? Maybe he wants some advice on how to look average. Or maybe it was one of those dares, like in She’s All That, only they meant not to pick you; they pointed to some other girl with a smaller forehead but you walked in front of her to get your beaker of chloric acid when he looked, so he was all, “shit, they seriously don’t want me to win that $5 back.” He knew you were so desperate that you’d agree immediately, so before asking you out he had a really filling meal, and that way at least one part of his day was satisfactory. No – no wait, I’ve got it. He’s so interested in dating a funny girl that he actually asked out a real-life joke. When you could have said: You want your clothes to say, “I could be interested in this going somewhere,” so you should definitely wear the moccasins.
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Situation: The person who was supposed to bring soda water to the party forgot to bring the one thing they were asked to bring. Tension is high. Person $: “Hey everyone! I have arrived at the party!” You: Listen, $. I took the time to invite everyone around here. I swept the floor. I discreetly removed my father’s collection of racist news clippings that he keeps in a scrapbook with “That’ll Show Them” written on the cover. Margaret cut work 16 minutes early so she could get to Rick’s Boulangerie with enough time to get a good deal on a dozen rhubarb danishes. Do you think we invited you here so you could forget the one item you were asked to bring? Is that it? Why would you think that, though? I mean, what sort of mental process are you running when someone says, “Hey, before you come to the party, stop and pick up some soda water?” Do you have a mental process, or does your brain consist of an empty water bottle and a breadstick jammed into a pot of Clag glue? How was your childhood? Fraught with such unfathomable horror that the very mention of soda water forces you to recess to primitive thought? You can’t even seem to clothe yourself appropriately. This is a party. If you’re going to wear a burlap sack, would it have killed you to wear one that didn’t have yesterday’s nachos settled into the crotch? Begone, wastrel! When you could have said: Hey, did you remember the soda water?
Situation: You are vegetarian, out at a restaurant with extended family. Person Filial: “So, are you going to get the mushroom risotto?” You: Well, it’s the one thing on the menu that doesn’t contain diced animal parts, so, yes, Uncle Duncan. I think I will get the mushroom ris…oh, no! Wait a minute! Now see here! Every other item on the menu contains meat, you see what this means? Uncle Duncan, I hope you are listening – you have helpfully informed me that there is one, just one, vegetarian option on the menu and, since I am vegetarian, pointed out to me that that is the only meal I may select for myself this evening. Yes, cleverly done, Uncle Duncan. I couldn’t have seen it for myself, the vegetable content of this one dish of risotto. Isn’t it a pity that the carnivorous options on the menu don’t stretch to human testicles, Uncle Duncan, otherwise I’d highly recommend you eat some, as I am well aware that you eat meat, Uncle Duncan, and you just might like to go suck on some balls. When you could have said: Your girth alone could provide all of Ghana with some much-needed protein, Uncle Duncan. If we’ve learned one thing, it is that society is a cruel mistress who will take your frustration and categorise you as mentally imbalanced because of it. Heed this: just because you delve into a downwards-spiral rage, you are no less human. You may, however, never speak to these people again.
Winston Churchill famously said to FDR at a meeting at the White House, “If you are going to make the effort to sit in a wheelchair, can your wife at least make the effort to wear a bag on her head?”
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The Haunting of Len Lesser ------- Ben Johnston -------
It was late at night when a noise in my apartment woke me up…Or was it early in the morning? You know, there really ought to be some sort of standard for these things. You’ve got some people calling it early, other people calling it late – it’s chaos. Did you ever notice how the later it is in someone’s life, the earlier they start saying it’s late? Anyway, I’m trying to tell a story here. It was either early or late, something had woken me up, let’s just try and keep it moving. I got out of my bed to investigate. I was used to being woken up by noises, but mostly it was just people walking into my door without opening it first. What’s the deal with
that? It’s a two-step process: turn knob, open door. I think what gets most people is the order. It’s not really negotiable. There’s no option to open the door, then turn the knob. This didn’t sound like someone reading the door manual backwards though. I could have sworn I heard a faint cry of “Hello, Jerry!” echoing down the hall, but it was probably my mind playing tricks on me. An old friend of mine, Len Lesser, had recently passed and that was kind of a catchphrase for him back in the day. I hadn’t thought much about it for a while, but since he’d died it was closer to my mind. I made my way down the hall, brushing past my bike where it hung on the wall and heading towards the kitchen.
sake! But after you and that Larry David came along, I was typecast as Uncle Leo. Just look at my credits afterwards! Uncle Jimmy on Just Shoot Me! Garvin, on EVERYBODY LOVES RAYMOND, for crying out loud!” As the rant continued, the spectre of Len became more and more agitated, almost yelling as he listed the terrible sit-coms he’d slummed through to pay the bills.
In the dim light everything seemed to be in place. My Macintosh computer, my rows of cereal boxes, it was all where it should be, but I couldn’t help but notice a chill in the air and the way the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I hadn’t been this stressed since Mr Marbles had been out to get me. I walked around the room, but I still couldn’t put my finger on exactly was bothering me. Muttering “Alright already” to myself, I turned to go back to bed, but as I started to move I felt an icy force seize me by the arm and a horrible voice rasped, “What are you, too tired to speak to your Uncle Leo?”
“Ohhh, but that’s not the worst! Once you die, there’s nothing to anchor you. No real sense of self anymore. You become what people remember of you. You think anyone remembers anything of the real me? Now, most people have friends, a loving family – those memories hold them together. But me? That all gets drowned out by the slobs thinking of Uncle Leo. My son, your cousin Jeffrey, he can’t compete with that, even if he was thinking of nothing else all day. And how could he, working so hard at the Parks Department?”
In blind terror, I jerked myself free of the grip, jumped back and knocked my favourite Superman statue off its perch on my bookshelf. “There must be some mistake,” I blurted, “I don’t have any Uncle Leo!” “Oh no? Fifteen episodes, Jerry. Seven years we worked together. And to say nothing of the syndication, the re-runs screening around the world, over and over. More people know me as your uncle than as the man I was.” “Len?” I breathed, turning towards the sound of the voice. And there he was: transparent, blue, pretty much how you would expect a ghost to look. Which, now that I think of it, seems like something of a cliché, but at the time it didn’t really occur to me. “That’s right! Len. Not Leo. Leonard King Lesser. Before you and your show I was a successful actor. Sure, not a household name. But I got by! Dragnet, The Cosby Show, Get Smart, The Monkees. I was in Kelly’s Heroes with Clint Eastwood and Telly Suvalis for Pete’s Illustration by Ena Tulic
“Len, please. We all had that problem. Poor Wayne still has people sneering ‘Hello, Newman’ at him. Jason had to grow a beard to distance himself. Michael went back on the road, tried doing stand-up, and it was a disaster.”
It was hard not to pity this ghost of a man. “Len?” I said gently, “there is no cousin Jeffrey from the Parks Department. He was from the show. Don’t you even remember what was real, Uncle Leo?” A terrible look of confusion crossed his face as he thought about this. “Uncle...Leo? I don’t...” His eyes were vague, unfocused, and even his blue glow seemed to be fading. He’d come to blame me, but it seemed like the memories my apartment brought back were weakening his grasp on the living world. “Len?” A quiet “Wha...” escaped his mouth, trailing away to silence, and then, suddenly, his ghostly form collapsed into nothingness and he was gone, maybe to a better place. “That’s a shame,” I shrugged to myself, and in the morning carefully swept up the mess and went down to Monk’s for a coffee.
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FOOD ERRORS... LIKE GIVING ME A JOB IN A PATISSERIE ------------------------ Yvonne Buresch ------------------------
Illustration by Camden Watts
In previous editions of this most distinguished of fish wrappers, I’ve used material from my own life for articles. When I found out the theme for this one was ‘Error’ I got a bit worried. Would I have to actually (perish the thought) come up with an original idea? I don’t want to examine my life too closely for possible errors. Most of the people I went to high school with have already graduated uni, gotten proper jobs and bought houses. I don’t want to be a Sally Sadpants who writes about all the mistakes I’ve made in my personal life either – as hilariously unsuitable, unsympathetic and insane some/most of my ex-boyfriends have been. Therefore I’ve chosen to write about the most lasting, committed and deliriously happy relationship I have had: the relationship between food and myself. Some of what follows is about encounters I have had with food which I bow my head and humbly acknowledge as mistakes. Some of it is about encounters which other people view as mistakes but which I defiantly enjoyed. If you have ever eaten a whole packet of jellybabies and not regretted it, you will know exactly what I mean.
When I was 19 years old I worked in a patisserie. After the shy-person hell that was Greenpeace (accosting strangers in the street and trying to engage them in conversation) and impending-horror-movie-doom that was nighttime door-knocking for Optus, working in a patisserie seemed heavenly. I fucking love pastries. More than I love my own mother. Just being surrounded by them and being given the privilege of breathing croissantscented air all day seemed to more than make up for being paid only $5.80 an hour. When I went for the job interview I was still svelte from the six-hour daily walk door knocking entailed and I was dressed all in black. Black is slimming and seemed retail-y. I’d seen other girls working in patisseries wearing head-to-toe black and decided to dress aspirationally. My boss saw that I was young, thin and female and therefore probably watched what I ate. She had a policy designed to prevent theft by employees: let them have as much as they want of whatever they want and quite soon they won’t want anything. This had worked previously with others. There was an apprentice in the kitchen who’d had a vanilla slice twice a day every day for two months and then got sick of it and brought salad to work. The boss told me that I got the job and that I was allowed to eat however much I wanted of whatever took my fancy. There were two important things about me that she didn’t know at the time. I have no self-control. And I fucking LOVE pastries. The following few months were basically a real life version of that Homer Simpson daydream where happy music is playing and he’s in the Land of Chocolate, taking bites out of everything around him. I suddenly found myself in the Land of Pastry surrounded by deliciousness made tangible. There is some holy magic in pastry, I’m sure of it. There is no way that a croissant, made up almost entirely of butter and air, can be that seductively moist and yet simultaneously crisp and golden and just the right amount of chewy and melty and moaningly delicious without some High Priests of Pastry sacrificing unicorns to a virgin or something. I was allowed to eat everything. I was allowed. No, more than that. It was my duty. I had a duty to my customers to know everything I could about the product range we offered, so I ate everything and put on 12kg in two months.
This is how my typical day was consumed: 6.30am. Start work. Delicately tear apart and devour piping hot croissant fresh from the oven, unless it’s Saturday. Saturday means raspberry danish. 7.30am. Finish setting up. Make myself a hot chocolate. Put about six marshmallows at the bottom of the cup and two more on top. 10.30am. Blueberry Teacake. Put it in the microwave for just a few seconds so that the custard in the centre is not compromised but the outer cake and crumble topping are warm to the touch. 12.30pm. Lunch. A whole chicken Turkish bread. Brushed lovingly with a good amount of oil and squeezed tightly in a hot panini press until it crispens and embarrasses itself with melted cheese. 1.00pm. Dessert. A wedge of cake from the “sample”. Cut one-centimetre square samples for customers, cut wedge for self. Not a slice. A wedge. Imagine the shape of a Stealth Bomber. 2.30pm. Make myself a flat white. Use gingerbread men as biscotti. 3.30pm. Empty and clean the pie warmer. Finish work and walk home, taking leftover pies. Usually eat one before I even get there. I lived across the road. Once, I accidentally damaged a customer’s chocolate mousse cake. I had slapped the side tab of the box lid right onto the middle of the cake and neither of us had noticed. The customer discovered it when she got home and drove back to exchange it, incensed. I gave her a free and perfect one and bought the damaged one myself, ashamed of my own incompetence. I took it home and forgot about it until the next night. I was watching a movie on TV in that weird early evening period which feels very late to people unfortunate enough to have early morning starts. I was hungry and decided to take advantage of the ad break to raid the fridge. I spotted my mistake cake with surprise and delight. I cut it into pieces (couldn’t be bothered having to wash the knife more than once) and took one back to the couch. Except I didn’t. I had absentmindedly put one piece in the fridge and taken the rest of it with me to the couch. There’s nothing quite so illogically depressing as having to get back up
There were two important things about me that she didn’t know at the time. I have no self-control. And I fucking LOVE pastries. again right after you’ve sat down, so I figured I’d leave it til the next ad break. I don’t remember which movie I was watching but I sure as hell remember the cake. It was a marvel of mousse engineering. Layers of chocolate sponge were interspersed with layers of chocolate mousse so rich, so smooth and so chocolatey you’d think it was a ganache. The layers of chocolate sponge supplied structural support, allowing the cake to stand by itself, but it also made it more delicious. The mousse seemed even more dense, more intensely chocolatey and even more tonguecoatingly creamy when juxtaposed with the sponge. The chocolate sponge layers were like a self-made billionaire’s impoverished childhood or a movie star’s years spent waitressing – they made the chocolate mousse seem even more special. By the time the next ad break rolled around there was no cake left in front of me. I’d eaten it! Nearly the whole fucking thing! The only reason I hadn’t actually eaten the whole cake was because there was still that piece in the fridge! I blame the Delicious Food Pixies, who are like The Silence from Doctor Who. You don’t ever remember seeing them, but suddenly you look down and that packet of Tim Tams on your lap is empty. Sometimes, for one reason or another, the patisserie kitchen was short of staff. I was called in to help and did dogsbody jobs that didn’t require much experience or skill. My least favourite of these jobs was washing up. Why they didn’t have a proper industrial dishwasher was beyond me, and after a few hours wearing a wet apron encrusted with bits of dried-on pie gravy and standing on a box in front of a huge trough washing the same goddamned balloon whisk for the fourth time in an hour, I was usually ready to stab someone in the eye with a dough hook and little provocation. I did it though, and didn’t complain because if I didn’t complain then maybe next time they’d give me one of the good jobs. These included packing the petit fours into boxes, which could usually be sorted on a “two for the box, one for me” basis, and decorating chocolate mudcakes. Decorating the mudcakes involved a large piping bag of chocolate ganache and a star-shaped nozzle for piping rosettes onto the cakes, or my outstretched tongue if nobody was looking. The life of a pastry chef is not all it’s cracked up to be. Working with the fine flours required for high quality products can lead to sinus trouble. I used to have a boyfriend who was a pastry chef and he insisted that every time he made a recipe using cocoa he’d sneeze brown for three days afterward. He was an arsehole, but he made amazing butterscotch madeleines. If I was lucky, the combination of long hours and a sinus full of flour would put enough pastry chefs down for the count for me to get my favourite job. My absolute, can’t-believe-
I’m-getting-paid-for-this, all time favourite job. Decorating gingerbread men. The standard gingerbread man decoration was tasty enough. Chocolate pants, Smartie buttons, fondant face. At the best of times the survival rate for gingerbread men I was decorating was not high, but I think I once ate five. One day I had a Eureka moment and realised that instead of taking the “Oops I smudged it, better eat it” approach I could customise a gingerbread man specifically for my consumption. I was allowed, after all. The chosen one’s chocolate pants got higher and higher until it became a chocolate fullbody suit. A super thick full-body suit, for warmth. He was a gingerbread arctic explorer. An arctic explorer – gingerbread or otherwise – would have a bit of snow on him, so I laid on the squiggles of white fondant. I took a minute to ponder buttons. Would a super thick arctic full-body suit have buttons? I decided it would. Suppose he got attacked by a gingerbread polar bear. His comrades would need to access to the wound quickly without having to remove the whole suit, so it would be sensible to have lots of sections, and lots of sections need lots of buttons. Perfectly reasonable. I displayed the kind of creative genius which can
come only from gluttony, and word of my skill quickly spread through the kitchen. I began to take requests. Don’t like chocolate but love fondant? Here you go, a gingerbread Albino. Keep him away from sunlight please, he has sensitive skin. Gingerbread woman? Sure! Her dress? It’s a bit see-through because it’s just a mesh of buttons (she’s a bit of a slut). One request for “as many Smarties as you can fit on” I chose to take literally and carefully lined them up, brow furrowed in concentration, standing them on their edges in the half-set chocolate. Of course, these golden days of over-decorating gingerbread men and generally eating every second thing I saw couldn’t last. My boss finally figured out that I was eating most of her profit margin and cut me off. Did I start eating sensibly? Did I hell. I ate two bags of Mi goreng for every meal for the next two weeks. If you want to know what this does to your insides, tune into the next edition of the Pelican, themed ‘Crass’.
John Candy famously gorged himself to death on pastry in 1994. He ate 342 cream buns, 112 cannoli, 456 jam doughnuts and an undetermined number French Fingers.
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Why I ran for student council ------------------- Julian Hilton -------------------
My name is Julian Hilton and earlier this year I ran for student council. Why I decided to do it still remains a mystery to me. I’m 21 years old. I’m a member of the Labor Party and a politically active person. Raised by a single mum, we moved around a lot but her job as a nurse was always enough to sustain us. That’s where I like to think I get my political leanings. While my mother was never pro-Labor per se, she was always anti-Howard. With this in the forefront of my political consciousness, it just seemed to make sense that I should join the ALP. I can quite easily say that I would like to be an MP somewhere down the line. From the onset it would appear that politicians are, in a sense, celebrities: Leaders of People. Who wouldn’t want to make decisions that effect millions of lives, shift billions
of dollars at the swish of a pen and travel all over the world? Now, I am in no way comparing the happenings of the Guild to that of the Government – even though some Guild councillors would have you think otherwise – but I am suggesting that a similar need for control and power drives people who run for office.
Fellow electees were running on quite specific issues and had many friends on campus to vote for them. I had one, and he purposefully didn’t vote because he hates student politics and wanted to spite me. I was quick to realise just how out of touch I was with my fellow students, even though I had been at UWA for almost four years. But I don’t see that as a bad thing.
Yes, many in politics would say they do it because it’s rewarding, they can help people and also shift policy to fit their own political leanings but all this comes second to a need for acceptance and authority. If you can name me one truly modest and forthcoming Member of Parliament, I will get on my knees and unzip then and there. The reason I feel I can say these kinds of things is because I am finding a lot of those proclivities in myself.
I guess I had forgotten somewhere over the summer break why I try to minimise my time on campus. I find that most UWA students are boring, arrogant and filled with a great sense of self-entitlement and worth. This is something I cannot stand and goes against my core values. Why would I want to represent a group of people like that, let alone run in an election contending against the worst of them?
Sure, I joined the party because I agreed with the core values of Labor. I think a Labor Government is better than a Liberal one. But who wouldn’t want to be Keating, screaming insults across the chamber, or Curtin, leading our nation through such turbulent times? Our heroes’ actions and eternal memory seemingly define our ambitions and aspirations.
While I do think I’m a power-hungry cunt who strives for control and approval, at least I’m self aware enough to realise it. Most aren’t. It’s this introspective self-analysis that’s lacking from so many people on campus: the inability to look at themselves in an objective and critical way, to be light-hearted and not so serious.
So what better way to begin a life of power and control mixed in with an insatiable lust for love and remembrance than a dabble in student politics? After all, it’s where Bob Hawke started along with many of our former premiers and opposition leaders. Many of my Young Labor friends were involved with the Guild and some rather attractive girls had put their hands up as well. Now before I continue, let me just make it clear: I did not win. I am in no way affiliated with the Guild or any committee nor do I have any say in Guild decisions. Which is probably a good thing because the minute I put my hand up for election my long demise down the ally of boredom and intense laziness began. Let me explain. I ran on the ticket with Star – the Young Labor and Greens peoples on campus: Left leaning like-minded fellows such as myself. Champagne Socialists would be an appropriate title. From the onset, I let it be known that the official reason for running was to campaign on the issue of more funding for the Arts Department. Any Arts student will tell you that class sizes are getting bigger and bigger. With the introduction of workshops instead of tutorials and the cancelation of some units, the learning environment for an Arts student on campus is getting worse and worse. To this day, I still don’t know if the Guild can affect Arts funding it was the only real issue that truly affected me and that I felt passionately about.
There are people I know who choose to censor themselves on Facebook just in case someone uses it against them for political purposes in the future. Whilst running, we were coached against posting certain things on Facebook, as it might hinder Star’s chances in the election. Why should a student be made to feel like that? I post what I want, when I want on Facebook and don’t give a fuck what others think about it. There’s nothing I love more than sharing with all my friends, including Labor MPs, my manic-depressive, drunken posts screaming; “I’M GONNA KILL MYSELF,” at 2.39am on a Tuesday night. Fuck it, live your life! We need to live our lives to the fullest and not be hindered by vague fears of future political havoc and isolation. This is my main beef with student politicians. It’s the careerist mentality that drives this seeming undertone of stupidity and boredom that is ruining the current political climate on all levels and on both sides. But the process constructed around Guild elections fosters and promotes this kind of attitude. I mean, here we were, a collective body of young adults, prime for fucking, taking drugs and breaking the law, having our photos taken (please observe the hilarity at my photo), distributing flyers, interrupting lectures and having policy meetings (that I never went to) on social policy, catering policy that go on all night. Now, as a university student who is 20 years old, when it came to a decision between this or going to
While I do think I’m a power-hungry cunt who strives for control and approval, at least I’m self aware enough to realise it. a party with some of my best friends where there could be potential for getting some punani, what wins out? My involvement with the election reached extremely low levels. As people began to take it more and more seriously I got less and less interested. While those running already had existing networks of friends to turnout and vote for them, I didn’t and there was no way I was going to start now. The Guild is an important aspect of our university life. It governs our vital campus services and is really helpful in creating a sense of unity and family among students. Without it we wouldn’t have Pelican, Prosh, Uni Clubs, Union Balls, Band Competitions and a whole wealth of fantastic
events and institutions. Hanging in the Pelican office I’ve gotten to know many of the Guild employees and they’re all really great people. But getting to know them has also been a huge downer, as I now can’t help but fear for them. Especially when their employment prospects are seemingly put in the hands of rich, overprivileged, unqualified students who would never admit to a mistake and can’t see past their own petty self interests. If anyone reading this article is thinking of running for Student Council, I would have a few bits of advice: 1. Never think you are better than the people you are trying to represent. You are just a wart on the ball bag of a fly hovering around a piece of shit known as the Australian Collective Political Conscious. 2. You are a student first and foremost, not a politician. Don’t ever let student politics compromise the chance for you to live your university life to the fullest. 3. Stay true to who you are and always remember to look hard in the mirror before making any subjective statement about anything or anyone. There is nothing worse than manufactured and hypocritical human beings that can’t understand the irony of their own situation. Having said that, I followed (and continue to follow) these steps and didn’t get elected. In fact, it had the extreme opposite effect. Maybe people like me weren’t made for politics or any kind of manufactured fake and almost unendurable environment of partisan hackery. I can only hope it’s not true and continue to plug away at following my beliefs, values, dreams and hope they take me to a place of fulfilment and happiness because that’s what life is all about.
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My Biggest Mistake Beach Bum Beach Baby December 23, 2007, Cottesloe Beach. Someone is leaving the country, so my friends from high school and I determine to send them off in the most imaginative way possible by swimming in circles in the heat. I, (pudgy, pale, barely pubescent) am not in my element. At all. Hoping to avoid inevitable sunburn, and the embarrassment of exposing my stubborn bulging midriff to the sleek and tanned beach bum beach babies, I wear a t-shirt instead of the de rigeur bare chest. I also demur on the opportunity to demonstrate my interpretation of the freestlye (wrestling a seagull with a bowl of jelly), instead bobbing up and down in the shallow areas, being crashed by the dull, bearish waves. A particularly massive wave connects with my chest, forcing my shirt incredibly tight against my frame; I hear the curious sound of suction – a strange, seismic slurping, yet I dismiss it. Perturbed by the closeness of the shirt to my skin, I grab roughly at my shirtfront to renew the space between them, lifting with the shirt my nipples clean off my torso and into the ocean.
Alex Griffin
Parking drama There’s nothing like waking up to your own body clock after a nasty week of late night essays and snooker-bar shenanigans. That aggravating buzz of an alarm clock is the last thing you want to add to a lack-of-sleep headache and stress of impending mid-sems, so I thought that disabling it to scavenge some zzz-time would be a fair investment – I’d probably just waste time on Facebook if I got to uni early anyway. How wrong I was. After spending half an hour awake and waiting for the shower to be ready, 15 minutes in the queue at Muzz Buzz, and 50 on the freeway amidst road works, I arrived at the corner of Mounts Bay and Hackett Drive (on another note, what the hell are they doing on the freeway that justifies slowing us to 60 km/h?). But that was just the beginning. I got to uni at 10am, thinking I could get a bay. I tried the Rec Centre. I tried Business. I tried Eng. I tried following people. I tried Broadway. I tried The Pit. I tried Reid. Failing that, I tried bailing. After 45 minutes of bay searching, I gave up. But then I finally found a car park – on Thomas Road. Some idiot rear-ended someone and the wreckage closed two lanes of traffic. Altogether, it took me 200 minutes to drive to uni, turn around and come back home.
A Gay Affair I recently moved out of what was originally an ideal residence. It was spacious, had a great location and cheap rent, so I overlooked the absence of lease documents in optimistic spirits. Plus, the old gay guys who lived there would be moving out shortly after my arrival. It took weeks to see a house key or wardrobe; mail under multiple surnames came in and the gays’ erratic, bizarre behaviour escalated. After one of them insulted my taste in food, he madly shovelled boiled cabbage into his mouth, exclaiming his love for cabbage. I came home the following night to the disappearance of furniture from my bedroom, which they had sold. The gays proceeded to offer me a dirty soft toy that the dog had clearly had its way with. Upon their departure, they left a rat infestation for us to deal with and slices of bread carefully and purposefully placed behind the fridge. At this point, their sanity was becoming a debateable topic. This was later confirmed whenI found out that they weren’t the owners after all and that they were making money off us students without paying their own rent. They’d even tried to purchase expensive cars with cheques for a fake business, so the police charged them for fraud. They packed up and left to escape warrant on their house and to avoid standing trial. “David” and “Tony’s” true identities remain a mystery to this day. I’m not positive, but I’m pretty sure I was living with insane people. Either that or they need to tone down on the drugs.
Grace McKie
Perhaps my mistake wasn’t sleeping in, but bothering to wake up at all.
Daniel Pillar Pumping mistakes Mistakes? Me? Oh, all the time. I could write about reading the bus timetable wrong or something very ordinary, but I can’t imagine that would get a reaction. I’m hoping for: “What? She took the wrong bus? HAW HAW HAW! How droll...” But it’s really not. There’s always the time when I misjudged the opacity of my skirt and ended up flashing half of Morley by wearing something designed entirely for the beach and the beach only. That was a definite error of judgment. But I was 12, and therefore, am excused. Perhaps you would be amused by the fact that I thought Body Pump was some kind of aerobics class, only to turn up and find it was weightlifting. Oh yes. Error...big time. There I am struggling with a measly 3kg, while bloody Arnold Swartzawhatever next to me is casually pumping 50kg while chatting up the instructor. The thing is, errors are what make life fun. So, in actuality, they aren’t errors. They are unexpected, and retrospectively hilarious, happenings. Mistakes? Me? Never...
Djuna Hallsworth
Illustrations by Julian Hilton and Stephanie Ball
THE EUCALYPTS HAVE EYES
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---------------- Kate Prendergast ---------------September 18, 1998 Dear Stranger, My name is Harold Moon. What you are about to read may surpass belief. But for the fate of your life, your country, your very species, I beg you – trust me. I tell you true. I write this now on the stripped hide of a rat. Dear Dave. Until yesterday, Dave was my only friend. We used to exchange stories of our youth and play pick-up-seaweed in this stone prison by the sea. But winter is coming. I can feel it in the slow-sliding fangs of the night air. I hear it in the squawSQUEEsquawSQUEE of the cormorant. I can see it on the Cliff Richards calendar on the cave wall. So my survival instinct kicked in. I did not want this godforsaken cave to become my catacomb, and Dave had already nibbled away half my thigh. It was him or me. So I skewered Dave with a finely honed shell, shed a bitter tear, then skinned him and ate him. And now I write on my dead friend’s pelt. A pelican’s feather serves as my quill, dipped in the blue-black ink of a squid that washed up on the morning tide. Having been in my university days an inquisitive youth who liked to settle down with a fine malt and read journal articles at the end of a long day of having no friends, I knew a little about the nuclear tests commissioned by Britain in South Australia. I knew about how, in an imperial act of nominal determination, the language of the native Tjarutjav people was appropriated to rename the area ‘Maralinga’ – literally translating into ‘thunder fields’. I knew that at the end of the ‘Dirty Road’ on the margin of the Great Victorian Desert, seven major tests were performed and several hundred minor ones. I had trembled with outrage when I read of the forced exodus of Aboriginals from their homeland, of the bodies of cancer-raddled young children that had been secretly ‘harvested’ for scientific
analysis, of how troops were ordered to crunch over the bomb-glazed sands of a nuclear site just hours after detonation wearing only cotton clothing. But what I and no one else knew about was the Jacuzzi Menzies wanted to buy and the small plot of Australian turf he sold to Macmillan to get it. As Menzies pleasured himself in the warm jet-stream, wiggling his over-large eyebrows in ecstasy, Operation Bubbleburst was unleashed upon a region in central Western Australia. On a still night in the summer of 1962, some of the residents of the nearby township of Bangoola chanced to look out their windows and see a faint luminescence appear over the valley. But they then twitched their mothballed curtains aside and thought no more of it. Thankfully, these good folk were outside the radius of the nuclear shadow. The chosen valley may have been devoid of human life; but amongst the scented glades lurked an ancient colony of creatures. As the explosion hit and the fierce nuclear winds bowled them out of their cosy hidey-holes into the scrub, they were shoved out of their very species as well, mangled and splayed across the tree of life… A few weeks ago I had gone on an expedition to the Gibson Desert to find inner peace and milk cane toads for their trippy juices. A chase after one of those warty bags of psychoactive fun led me to an oasis of eucalypts in the middle of the wasteland. I peered through the foliage. To my surprise, a pair of eyes blinked back at me. I stared into those black eyes – black as coal, black as music by real rap artists. I saw death in those eyes. Then I realised it was just me – I was looking rather gaunt at that time, having lived off only thin wombat stew and essence of toad for the past few days. More eyes appeared, then out they came. Shuffling, hopping, hobbling and bopping, scuttling and chuckling, puffing and grunting, crawling and moon-walking, they emerged from the forest fringe.
me of the Plutonium radiation that wriggled insidiously into their flesh and began its malicious corruption. It told me of the pain, the humiliation, the dingos’ derision and the kookaburras’ mirth at their hideous hides, their inexplicable multilingualism, their super-koala strength and their strange, exceptional powers of tea-brewing. It told me of their vendetta against mankind. Then with a swish of something shiny at my periphery and a receding protest of “hey, I LIKED that teapot”, I fell into blackness. I awoke in this cave. I tell you now, compatriots: they will not compromise. Arm yourself. Kill any koala you see. Gun them down like any other bogan who gets in your sights. September 28, 1998 Tragedy! Horror! They’re dead, ALL DEAD! Not the humans. They’re fine. Bitterly I acknowledge that civilisation persists. See, I managed to bring the koalas round. Beneath their tumescent bodies and extra limbs, they really are the most down-to-earth marsupials you could hope to meet. They promised only to kill Menzies. I said he died 20 years ago. They said, How about the Prime Minister then. I said yeah okay. Another Liberal with eyebrows like slugs: same difference. But someone found Dave. And that someone called the army. And the army called pest control, because be damned if they were going to waste their time killing furry muties when they could be shooting Muslim fanatics. But the pest control brought guns. The entire clan was razed to the ground. I should never have killed that rat.
They were koalas. But wrong. Very, very wrong. In accents of broad boganesque, one spoke. “Wouldja like a cuppa?” “Erm,” I said. “I’m alright thanks.” “You will drink the farkin tea,” it said softly, menacingly. “Well okay,” I said.
Koalas are known for something called the ‘pouch chant’. Every blue moon, at about 3am, Koalas emit a low humming noise from their pouch. It is known as the ‘Symphony of the Bush’.
Illustration by Camdea Watts
A kettle was brewed. Tea was poured. I sipped nervously and reflected upon their tasteful crockery collection. It drank deeply, extending a long, sharp-nailed, grey-furred pinkie. And as we drank, it told me their story. It told
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Scot-spotting --------------- Richard Ferguson ---------------
Och aye, the Scots are a misunderstood bunch. The traditional image of the Scottish people is perhaps one of the more widely-accepted ethnic stereotypes. A modern man may question racist depictions of an Indian as a turban-wearing holy man or a German as a blonde-haired Nazi. However, even the most educated will look into the eyes of an innocent Scotsman and say, “Oh my God, do you, like, play the bagpipes and shit?!” The blame for these foolish stereotypes lies with – as the Scots would say – many a “stupid ba’bag”. Some are lies spread by the English propaganda machine in a sad attempt to belittle the superior race of the British Isles. Others are Hollywood creations constructed for American audiences who can understand only so much about Scotland’s true intellectual culture. Most of the blame though, lies with the Scots themselves and their desperate endeavours to lure foreign tourists. Whoever is at fault, it is time to tear down these stereotypes and reveal the true face of Scotland. To rip away the tartan veil that is the Scotsman stereotype, one must debunk stereotypes about his environment – the ‘land’ in Scotland. According to modern myth, the Scotsman lives in a rural setting equipped with green hills, rolling valleys and wee woodland animals all singing ‘Auld Lang Syne’. However, grey is a more apt colour to describe Scotland than green. Scotland is dominated by its urban areas, most notably Glasgow, Great Britain’s third largest city. This is a city built on ship-building and re-born as Scotland’s tertiary hub, most notably for the media and financial industries. The closest thing to greenery in Glasgow is Queen’s Park which is sandwiched between one of the city’s major hospitals and a popular restaurant district.
Glasgow itself hosts a population of over one million, while another two million live in other urban areas like Edinburgh, Dundee and Aberdeen. This is compared to a population of approximately 900,000 living in rural areas. Even those few who live in the rural areas such as the Highlands tend to migrate to the urban areas purely due to the economic pressures of the rural environment. Small rural communities do exist of course and they try their best to live off the myth, but even they are evaporating. The clearest example is the fact that the film Braveheart – that is all about Scotland – was shot in Ireland. The urbanisation of Scotland has changed the country so that it can no longer live up to the legend. The appearance of a Scotsman is one deeply rooted in the minds of foreigners. They come to our grey land expecting gruff men with tartan skirts and hair redder than the Socialist Alternative. Instead, they find rather ordinary people with sensible and a pretty dull range of hair colours. Perhaps the clearest symbol of the Scottish stereotype is the kilt. It is true that even Scots see the kilt as an integral part of the Scottish identity, often rolled out at the most officious of occasions. However, the stereotypical Scot is also as tight as a duck’s arse so kilts play a limited role in their lives. A decent kilt without the necessary accessories is – at a minimum – around 350 pounds. To buy such an expensive but inefficient piece of clothing would be unattractive to even the most patriotic of Scots. Kilts are a beloved symbol of the Scottish race but they would rather spend their money on a trip or a plasma television. Scotland is stereotypically seen as the homeland of the ginger race. Whenever a stereotypical Scot is presented by Hollywood hacks, they are expected to own a head of flaming, auburn locks. This stereotype does actually have some basis in fact. Scotland has the highest proportion of red-heads in the world at 13% and 40% carry the recessive redhead gene. The constant connection, however, seems to be based on the prejudiced assumption that both Scots and redheads have uncontrollable tempers. That point is a very subjective matter, though evidence such as Scotland’s high murder rate and a 2002 study showing that red-heads are difficult to sedate suggest that both groups have a wee tendency to fight. The appearance of
It is a little known fact that Mikhail Baryshnikov, ballerina and actor, is actually Scottish. He was born in Edinburgh and returns every year to visit his elderly coal-miner father, who only now has come to appreciate his son’s art.
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The stereotypical Scot is also as tight as a duck’s arse so kilts play a limited role in their lives. the stereotypical Scotsman does have roots in tradition and ethnic biology, but they are largely used as metaphors for the ‘angry Scot’. Two prejudices appear to epitomise the Scottish stereotype: all Scots have bad tempers and they are all alcoholics. Both are massive generalisations and would usually be seen as offensive if applied to another group. Yet evidence seems to support the notion that your average Scotsman is pissed in a variety of ways. Scotland’s biggest national crisis is alcohol. Statistics gathered by the Scottish Health Survey in 1998 and 2000 found that Scotsmen were more likely to exceed the recommended limit of alcohol than Englishmen and one in 40 deaths in Scotland are directly linked to alcohol abuse. It is such a corrupting influence that the Scottish Government had to ban advertising on sales of
Utopia Pelican Mag ad 270mmx150mm-FA.pdf
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alcohol and are reviewing rising the purchase age of alcohol in off-license premises from 18 to 21. To say all Scots are alchies is a generalisation, but the demon drink’s hold on the Scottish people is shown again and again to be a strong one. Rage is seen as the cornerstone of the Scotsman stereotype. From The Simpsons’ Groundskeeper Willie to The Thick of It’s Malcolm Tucker, pop culture portrays the Scots as raging maniacs on the verge of committing homicide every five minutes. Oddly enough, Scotland’s murder rate is rocketing ahead of many European countries, suggesting that the Scots may have a few anger management issues. A United Nations report in 2009 showed that in one year, the murder rate in Scotland rose by 30% – a rate only beaten by countries like Bahrain and Tajikistan. What is even more shocking is that this was considered to
be a 32-year low for the nation. Alas, it appears that William Wallace’s fondness for carrying a big knife has caught on with his descendants. Scotland is engrained in the minds of the world as a very particular place. Whether you look at Trainspotting or Braveheart for inspiration, the Scottish stereotype is always there. The old stereotype of kilts and sheep may have evolved into something a bit more cosmopolitan but the basic character is still there. The anger and the drinking are tied to the Scots as much as kangaroos and mateship are to Australians. Don’t let this be your only view of the Scots though. They are a kind and humorous folk who welcome the company of foreigners. However, get in their way and they’ll fucking kill you!
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PELICAN DATING ADVICE: PROS AND CONS OF DATING THE DISABLED ------Alex Griffin------
Illustration by Ena Tulic
PRELIMINARIES Life is less like a box of chocolates and more like a painful eternal clusterfuck of decisions: no one wants to make an error. Every day we face choices that determine who we’ll become and what will occur to us; even that greasy cuntlicking box of chocolates entails a dilemma. Pelican cares about you, more than your mother or your God, and does not want you to meet harm. It would be painful for Us. Avoiding errors requires making the right decisions when the important questions in life come up. When you’re forced to answer crucial problems like “Do I get a nose job?” or “Can I afford John Mayer tickets AND the castration surgery necessary
TV networks, in a symbiotic relationship, prey on the disabled, offering them speedily installed wheelchair ramps and shower safety aids in exchange for objectification and the company of Scott Cam decked out in Hard Yakka and a hard-on. If your backyard needs some celebrity vajazzling, bang that quadriplegic hottie.
to attend?” and, the ultimate focus of today’s article, “Do I date that disabled dick/ chick?” we’re here to help. As a magazine well known for our right-wing politics and neo-liberal purview, perhaps the optimal way to approach this fundamental question is a rational cost/benefit analysis: do the costs of dating a disabled person outweigh the benefits? HOW TO DO, NOW Parking: alright, this one is a freebie. How often have you been escaping from a Woolworths, shoplifted lunchmeat in your coat, with a burly security officer in hot pursuit, only to realise your car is so far away you’re more than likely to collapse under the weight of anxiety and prepackaged meat before you escape to the safety of your Mazda? Too often. If s/he’s ACROD, s/he’s A-pproved. No longer fear having to accept a parking space in an adjacent suburb when you go shopping. You’re in benefit city. SPEAKING of benefits, dating the differently abled can be quite the financial boon. Currently, a disability pension can be worth up to $670.90 a fortnight, which equates to about 14 11-inch Apple Macbook Pros a year! That’s more than you and your disabled mate can carry at once, that’s for sure (especially if s/he doesn’t have arms no more after the thalidomide). Throw in the $600 carer payment and the $3 weekly pharmaceutical allowance and you’re living like kings. Of course, to receive such a sum requires either significant hardship or consistent and concentrated rorting, but as the political football has well and truly been inflated when it comes to the issue of disability payments, starting a relationship now may well pay off even significantly in the near future. How many laptops can you carry at once? Sexually, costs and benefits differ from case to case, like any relationship. However, considering you’re romantically involved with this person, giving in to the overwhelming and obvious temptation to use them as a means to pick up cute social workers and part-time physical therapy practicioners is ethically more-than-dicey ground. That said, Pelican can state with confidence that the people who work in these industries are generally pathologically disposed towards serving out casual pity/empathy sex akin to how a pez dispenser doles out bite-sized pieces of marginally satisfying sterile sweetness. Tread carefully.
On a less physically taxing note, have you ever wanted to toss the coin at a football game, or have your backyard renovated by the stars of Channel 9 on a Very Special Episode of The Block? These special events don’t tend to occur to those whose greatest hardships in life have involved mundane everyday things like getting stuck inside a zipper or experiencing menarche at the peak of a high school swimming carnival. TV networks, in a symbiotic relationship, prey on the disabled, offering them speedily installed wheelchair ramps and shower safety aids in exchange for objectification and the company of Scott Cam decked out in Hard Yakka and a hard-on. If your backyard needs some celebrity vajazzling, bang that quadriplegic hottie. In this vein, making babies with a partner who is genetically disposed to propagating cripples means you have a higher chance of a sit-down television special come Telethon time as your child becomes a part of the West Australian social fabric for a weekend, symbolically transmogrified as an emblem for the public’s delusional belief in their inclusivity, social justice, etc. Handled well, this could be a springboard for wider advertising revenues, scholarships (who likes to pay for education? No one!) and apparel sponsorships. When K-Mart come a knockin’ for a mascot to flog triple strength bicycle safety helmets, open that door before they grab some other cripple, you doofus! Love is also pretty cool as a kind of benefit from a relationship especially when you’re the one calling all the shots since you can walk unimpeded. As politically geared funk-rock band Gang of Four suggested in the liner notes of their 1981 record Solid Gold, “all relationships are power relationships”. We’ll give them that, but we’ll say USE THE POWER instead of sharing it around like a lefty-nympho greeny holocaust of a person. CONCLUDING The costs of being in a relationship with a disabled person cannot really be estimated or simply listed, since all people are different (yes, even the disabled), and love and shit is like a free radical pronumeral which oscillates wildly, obscuring all kinds of difficulty while amplifying joy beyond comprehension, logic or rationality. You may have to do something that you may not have done before for this person you love including, but not limited to: arguing with Centrelink employees, going through anxiety over a loved one’s illness and unscrewing a prosthetic arm. However, if you enjoy using someone’s wheelchair while they are sleeping, experimenting with a cocktail of drugs that were never designed for you, vicarious suffering, modifying your home for ease of access or experiencing a completely different weltanschauung, this is the way to go. Happy mating!
Get Money, Get Paid… Just Casually
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-------- Ajax Poncini --------
Like you, I was once a sprightly young lad, with a bag full of résumés and a pocket full of dreams. I would start work fresh and enthusiastically but over time, the boring work, the lack of entitlements and pathetic pay rate made me lose motivation. I needed the money. So how was I to regain that motivation, or at the very least, make the work hours go by faster? It all started at the rebellious age of 15, where making inappropriate loud noises in public places was all the rage. I was working as a Deli Assistant at Coles for a squalid $9 an hour. It wasn’t long before I lost the motivation to wrap cold meats on demand. I knew I was worth more than $9 an hour, so to add some value to my time, I would stuff my face with ham and cheeses in the back fridge. Good old Coles, making your dollar go further. I began to wonder…how many fuck-ups could I commit before I lost my job? I played chicken with the clock every lunch time. We were allowed one-hour lunches and two 15-minute tea breaks. I would take lunch and then four tea breaks a day, each 20 minutes long. During these breaks, I invaded the community fridge in the lunch room. No one’s lunch was safe. Especially not Assistant Store Manager, Andrew’s. Twenty-seven and living at home with his mother, he always brought in fresh banana bread to work. At first, I only took enough for him not to notice. Within three days of banana bread kleptomania, I was eating the entire slice. He knew someone was eating the banana bread, but he didn’t know who it was. He wanted to find out. His solution: he started writing his name on the paper bag he brought his banana bread in. I’m really not sure why he thought this would help. Despite all of this laziness and thievery, I was never caught. In fact, the management at Coles had “noticed a positive change” in my behaviour so they promoted me to Dairy Assistant. Apparently the last casual to work in that department had drunk six Supershakes and eaten four Rainbow Paddlepops – and had been caught. Rookie. Everyone knew that Coles did not take kindly to
thieves of frozen dairy treats. He had been leaving the wrappers in the fridge out back – an amateur mistake – but I was much better than he was…or so I thought.
then, I heard an announcement on the intercom. Andrew was being called to the delivery area. He was going to walk past the fridge and see this dairy massacre. I was fucked.
It was a much better job than the deli. I would stock the shelves quietly, occasionally having to deal with some migrant Italian lady who constantly complained about her osteoporosis, even after I handed her the calcium-plus milk. She tried to set me up with her granddaughter. I told her about my policy on dating Italian girls. I was out of control. The Dairy Department opened my horizons to hundreds of potential free snacks. There were cheeses and yoghurts lining the shelves as far as the eye could see. I was drinking bottles of Pura Light Start – just because I could.
I panicked. I was going to pay for all my sins. I was going to have to face the fact that I was going to lose my job and ruin my reputation. I was probably going to be charged for all that milk too.
That didn’t stop me almost losing my job. Had I found the real level of fuckuppery required to lose a casual job? One of the jobs of every Dairy Assistant is to cart milk crates from the back dock, where they were delivered each week, to the fridge. I was pushing a cart with 27 milk crates on it, arranged in a 3x3x3. In each milk crate were nine bottles of Browns 3L Milk. That fateful day, I bumped into the open fridge door knocking most of the crates off the cart – milk all over the floor like a creamy, white tidal wave. I must have cost Coles at least $950.
“What the fuck happened here?” I was caught in the act. I was about to lose my job. I waited for him to tell me to throw in my Coles hat and to never come back. Andrew gave a sigh and then he said, “go grab two mops and let’s clean this shit up.” I didn’t lose my job. Apparently, Andrew was in a good mood today. It was his birthday and on top of that, for the first time in a long time, Andrew was able to sit down at lunch time, open that paper bag he brought from home every week and take a sweet, satisfying bite of the most delicious banana bread in the world. I had no regrets stealing it from him the next week.
I needed an exit strategy and fast. I was about to begin cleaning up the mess hoping that Andrew wouldn’t see this fuck-up to end all fuck-ups. But
Illustration by Stephanie Ball
Casual employment: a financial means to an end. I say this because I can’t think of a single person who goes to bed excited for their checkout job at K-Mart the next day. As casual employees, we don’t get sick leave or holiday entitlements. I think every casual staff member feels dirty after a hard day at work for whoring themselves out for $10 an hour. But it doesn’t have to be that way friends.
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Embracing Error --------------- Jesse Parmar --------------“Any man can make mistakes, but only an idiot persists in his error.” – Marcus Tullius Cicero
I sat there in admiration. Fruit loops with melted peanut butter running through it – culinary genius. Had I revolutionised breakfast time dining forever? Surely no mind except my own could phantom this brilliant collaboration of food? Alas, upon first mouthful, I realised what I had dreamt was gastronomic genius was in fact a culinary calamity. Whilst trying to wash away what I imagined was the taste of diabetes from my palates, I weighed up the opportunity cost of my actions in creating this monstrosity. Was I in error to assume fruit loops with melted peanut butter would taste good? Indefinitely. However, having recognised my error did that mean that this exercise was a waste of time? I would say no. The prospect of being erroneous holds particularly negative connotations and not just in regards to what constitutes a good breakfast time meal, but across far more serious, divisive issues. Be it climate change, religion, politics or a whole host of other issues, being ‘wrong’ holds such stigma, that many of us do our upmost to refrain from an admission of error. But, the question must be asked, is being ‘in error’ all that bad? One who faced this prospect of being in error was epidemiologist Sir Archie Cochrane. Some years after World War Two, whilst working in a hospital, Archie Cochrane wondered whether heart attack victims would better recover at home instead of the hospital. Putting forward his question to contemporary cardiologists, Cochrane was ruthlessly scorned by his colleagues who were certain that their hospitals were the best place for heart attack victims to recover. Nonetheless, in time, Cochrane received permission to undertake an experiment to explore the idea further. In his experiment, people recovering from coronary problems were divided into two groups: one group recovered within the hospital wards and the other group recovered at home under the care of a visiting GP. Following his experiment, Cochrane gathered his colleagues to show them the preliminary results. Handing out a table of his results it was evident that patients ought to be in hospital, not home, for their recovery – something Cochrane openly admitted.
Illustration by Grace Mckie
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In light of this admission, Cochrane faced uproar with many of his colleagues deeming him unethical for conducting the experiment. Eventually, once the criticism had subsided, Cochrane went on to explain to them that he had in fact switched the columns within his results: patients recovering at home did recover better than those staying in the hospital. In Cochrane’s own words, he “let them have their say for some time, then apologised and gave them the true results, challenging them to say as vehemently, that coronary care units should be stopped immediately. There was dead silence and I felt rather sick because they were, after all, my medical colleagues.” A quintessential ‘awkward turtle’ moment thus ensued. Looking back on this story, it’s easy to see things from Cochrane’s colleagues’ perspective. For the most part, Cochrane’s fellow cardiologists did not question and condemn Cochrane out of misplaced egoism but out of an earnest belief that they were doing what was best for their patients. Although Cochrane’s results were far from readily conclusive, the point of incrimination arises when wondering why Cochrane’s colleagues were so adamant on protecting a theory not yet fully explored. Why did they so vicariously hold onto what they hadn’t tested themselves and, more importantly, why the fear of being potentially wrong in the untested methodology? The mindset and motives of Cochrane’s colleagues is evident today. Amongst modern day debates, for the most part, neither side holds their beliefs for the sake of self-aggrandisement but out of the honest belief that they are doing what is right. Take the carbon tax, an issue that has just about divided our nation. Proponents of the carbon tax support it for the sake of the Earth, which they feel is in danger. Conversely, those who rally against the carbon tax usually do so for one of two reasons. (1) They earnestly believe there are better ways of dealing with climate change; or (2) they sincerely feel the Earth is in no danger and, amidst times of economic uncertainty, would rather spend their money caretaking for themselves and their family. Whilst we tend to incriminate others on the opposite side of what we believe, in most cases, their motives are far less malicious than first conceived
and their reasons for belief aren’t all that farfetched or fatuous. However, whilst a more positive recognition of others’ motives is helpful, it doesn’t alter the fact that even with the most earnest altruistic motives one can still be erroneous. The most benevolent motives should by no means serve as an excuse for ignorance and mindless adversarialism. Yet, like Cochrane’s colleagues who fiercely held onto the untested, so many of us when entering a debate draw our battle lines, dig our trenches, grit our teeth and assume infallibility. (For an example of what I’m talking about just watch the recent protests for and against the carbon tax, a Bill O’Reilly interview, Bill Maher discussing religion, parliamentary question time or, if ever home sick on a weekday and incredibly bored, an episode of The View.) Why? Because, God forbid, we might be wrong in our first assumptions, thus further perpetuating society’s intolerance of error. With neither side willing to concede error even in its most minute proportions we are left in a cycle of quarrelling and condescension and no closer to attaining truth or figuring out an appropriate course in action for the future. I feel this is odd, to say the very least, seeing as how intrinsic the concept of error is to many a world view. For evolutionists, our very existence is as a result of trial and, importantly, genetic error. Likewise, for Christians, the Bible too has something to say about the matter with Proverbs 18:2 saying: “a fool finds no pleasure in understanding but delights in airing his own opinions”, in essence reminding us to avoid mindless adversarialism in our pursuit for truth. Furthermore, Liberal philosophers across the nations and ages have recognised the value of error. One such philosopher was J.S Mill who, in his book On Liberty (big shout out to first year political science students) said: There is no greater assumption of infallibility in forbidding the propagation of error...judgment is given to men that they may use it...because it may be used erroneously, are men to be told that they ought not to use it at all?
In his book, Mill goes on to elaborate on this idea, saying that we ought not to assume ourselves infallible and instead celebrate diverse opinion. Mill argues that from this diversification of opinion, via appropriate assessment of others’ opinions and our own, we can attain truth provided we are, when necessary, willing to admit error on our behalf. Such thinking is reminiscent of philosopher John Locke who said “truth is not taught, but found” reiterating that more often than not, we are to look beyond ourselves and our own opinions to find truth. Opinions are great and a heap of the time we may be right and others will be wrong. However, other times we may be in error and others may well be right. For such an error to be constructive it ought to be recognised for what it is – an error. The key is for both sides to be willing, when necessary, to admit their own errors and be able to do so free from fear of judgement. But how to get to a point where we no longer fear being in error and are able to admit when we are wrong? Gandhi once said, “We must become the change we want to see in the world”. This truth of this holds today. If we want to be (to borrow a phrase) “moving forward” and want our opinion to be heard by others and for others to admit when they are wrong, we too must come to accept the fact that we, in our thinking and viewpoint, may also be wrong. As arduous as it may be, the less we fear and hate an admission of error, the less others will come to fear it too. So, melted peanut butter and fruit loops do not go well together. I made a mistake, an error – something I admit. But on the plus side, I can learn from it, knowing not to try the same thing again. Also, to those reading this, you too know that it is a bad idea and with this perhaps previously unknown, collective understanding, this error can be prospectively beneficial. Via a process of alteration, trial, error and refinement, this could be the first step in a path to attaining breakfast time bliss.
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Choking on CHOGM ---------- Mark Birchall ----------
If a tourist asks me to describe Perth to them, I tell them it is like a heavy fog that slowly but surely sucks the life from you. By the end of your visit you find that you have become a soulless husk, something which is only useful if you are seeking a career in politics. And that is probably why the heads of governments from all over the Commonwealth are lining up to meet in our city. The most erroneous part of CHOGM, is the fact that it is pointless. It is essentially a large meeting of politicians. How productive. We already have a city where we pay disingenuous cunts to stand around and agree that they cannot agree to anything. It is called Canberra. It is a large meeting of international delegates, but haven’t these bastards ever heard of Skype?
Illustration by Emily O’keeffe
Illustration by Camden Watts
The CHOGM website hints that issues to be discussed may include climate change, human rights and good governance. This isn’t particularly promising. Human rights are a legitimate problem in a lot of Commonwealth countries – and we all know how well politicians deal with legitimate problems. If they are anything like Tony Abbott, the default reaction is to say “Uhm” and “Ahh” until the people listening to you fall asleep. Furthermore, I would expect the Polar ice caps to melt before any concrete or world-altering climate change agreement is ever reached at CHOGM, and good governance is something that they all could probably use a lesson in. I’m still not sure what CHOGM stands for. I considered e-mailing their website but then realised that was a much too rational course of action. My initial assumption was that it stood for Cats Having Orgies with Government Ministers, though several angry librarians have since told me that this abbreviation is incorrect. Interestingly, I am not the first to ponder the meaning of the name. According
to one of Margaret Thatcher’s former aides, she used to say that CHOGM stood for “Compulsory Hand Outs to Greedy Mendicants”. (Mendicants are poor people.) The people of Perth will undoubtedly welcome the extra 12,000 people to the CBD. And why wouldn’t Australia want to play host to the political powerhouses of Namibia, Guyana and Nigeria? The flaw in the organisers’ planning is that people hate other people. I cannot see Perth, as a community, having no anxieties about having to accommodate these extra individuals. It would be a lot easier to simply have 12,000 cane toads descend upon us, as you can simply put them in a bag and freeze them. Of course the arrival of these political delegations means massive inconvenience to anybody who lives in the city. Who are these delegations made up of? Usually they include a world leader, a sous chef, a mechanic (in case Julia Gillard’s robotic face breaks down) and 45 aides who have a Masters Degree in ‘Nodding at Bullshit’. It makes you wonder why they can’t meet in a deserted, lifeless town. Rockingham would be my suggestion. I feel genuine sympathy for the thousands of police that will be deployed to protect CHOGM while the dignitaries are here. Surely guarding a discarded throat lozenge would be more interesting than protecting a woman who is so old that she is liable to kark it at any moment. Even if this was not the case, the likelihood of some kind of attack is minimal. Not even terrorists want to come to Perth; if you’re going to die the last thing you want to see is that ugly new building in the CBD. Not to worry though, residents of Perth will not be excluded from this all-ages event. For some family
fun, people can head on down to the CBD and enjoy being beaten by police batons or dispersed with tear gas at one of the many protests, or hop on the “Stop and Search” ride. The government has only really given these invasive new powers to police so that they have something to do while they walk aimlessly around the streets of Perth looking for people to arrest. If you’re a police officer and you’re reading this instead of foiling a home invasion or a murder, you truly are the lucky ones. Normal members of the proletariat often carry casual drugs or alcohol on themselves. With this in mind, you can get your hands on a lot of good stuff without paying for it; think of this as a special police lucky-dip, where everybody in the CBD is playing! There is one angle I have yet to consider. If, by some slim chance, the Queen does pass away in Perth, then we will finally be put on the map. The tourism industry is in desperate need of an economic boost, and people would flock to the poorly constructed and extremely over-budget memorial we would construct. Citizens of Commonwealth countries such as Botswana, Mauritius and Zambia would soon be saying: “I’m going to Perth.” “Where?” “The place where the Queen died.” “Oh! Of course, why don’t we all go?” Talk about free advertising.
Jasmine Good on carpet rides
Herbal Psychedelic mind-states may occur.
T Chai
Spice to get excited about.
Green
English Breakfast
Illustration by Grace Mckie and Alice Palmer
The Kermit of alternative teas
Earl Grey Was never given a first name by his mother, but is suspected to be called ‘Coyote’.
Approved by British PMs of the 17th century
Rooibos The tea that ends appartheid.
Russian Caravan His short stories were not actually that funny.
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r e g r u b e s e Che t Quest
------ Lachlan Keeley -------
0.
You are in your BEDROOM. It is a pretty good BEDROOM, as far as bedrooms go. There is a COMPUTER, which can access the INTERNET and a poster of PRINCESS DIANA (R.I.P). You are feeling a bit hungry and are bit bored from sitting on the INTERNET all day. What do you do?
• • •
HANG OUT ON THE INTERNET (GO TO 1) EAT FOOD (GO TO 2) GO OUTSIDE (GO TO 3)
3.
You put on your BROGUES and leave the house. You thought it was a SUNNY DAY, but you were NOT CORRECT. There is the potential for rain, but luckily there are a lot of TREES around so you may be able to take COVER underneath them to avoid MOISTURE. You are walking along the STREET outside your HOUSE. Where will you go?
•
GO TO MACCAS YUM CHESEBURGER (GO TO 5) GO TO BRO’S HOUSE (GO TO 9) SHIT ON THE GROUND (GO TO 17)
• •
6.
GO TO 8.
9.
You make your way to your BRO’S HOUSE. His name is JOSH. He is pretty cool most of the time, but other times he can be LAME. Especially when he talks about boring stuff like GIRLS and FEELINGS. Josh says “Hey man.” You are in JOSH’S ROOM. What do you want to do?
• • •
You open your INTERNET BROWSER and look up your favourite website. Unexpectedly, it is full of pictures of CUTE ANIMALS. This is not normal. There are also pictures of people engaging in CORPOPHRAGIA. You’re not sure why you are looking at this stuff. Suddenly you get an email from your BEST BRO. It says: “Hey bro come hang out.”
•
HANG OUT WITH YOUR BEST BRO (GO TO 9) STAY ON INTERNET (GO TO 19)
•
4.
You mix the CARROTS and remaining GOON together and create some HAUTE CUISINE. Unfortunately, it tastes of BUTTS and you die from MOUTH HERPES.
BAD END
CALL JOSH A FAG (GO TO 16) PLAY VIDEOGAME (GO TO 18) JOSH IS BORING WHERE ARE THE CHEESBURGERS AT (GO TO 5)
You find a FEATHER BOA lying on the side of the STREET. You equip the FEATHER BOA, which increases your GAYDAR RATING by +5, dramatically increasing your ability to locate nearby GAYS. You quickly discover a group of GAYS hanging out by the TRAIN STATION. They are talking about DICKS, which is what GAYS generally tend to do. Do you interrupt their conversation?
• •
2. • • •
You go downstairs to your KITCHEN and look in the FRIDGE. There is a NEARLY DEPLETED GOON BAG and a few shrivelled CARROTS. You should probably go to the SUPERMARKET or something.
EAT THE CARROTS AND GOON (GO TO 4) GO TO THE MACCAS YUM CHEESEBURGER (GO TO 5) EAT HEALTHY AT LOCAL FOOD STORE FOR HEALTH (GO TO 6)
5.
You leave the HOUSE and begin to walk to McDonalds because you don’t have a CAR and are very ENVIRONMENTALLY CONSCIOUS. The GREENS are pretty cool in your opinion. Especially that BALD GUY. Suddenly, you are inspired to go marching for GAYS. Do you accept this inspiration?
• •
GO MARCH FOR GAYS (GO TO 7) CHEESEBURGER BETTER (GO TO 8)
8.
7.
Please try to not be so FUCKING BORING. •
1.
YEAH (GO TO 10) NAH (GO TO 11)
10.
You decide to talk about PENISES with the group of GAYS. However, you suddenly realise that you forgot to bring your PENIS with you. The GAYS mock your lack of PENIS and you WEEP. You run away to go and cry in the TOILETS but slip on the FLOOR, and fall into the toilet, which actually turns out to be a BOTTOMLESS PIT THAT SMELLS OF FAECES. Oh no!
BAD END
You begin to walk to MCDONALDS but are overcome by a severe feeling of NAUSEA. Suddenly, you realise you are taking part in a CHOOSE YOUR ADVENTURE GAME against your own WILL. You are not sure what COURSE OF ACTION to take. You decide that complaining to some kind of AUTHORITY ON LITERATURE will be better than doing nothing. Which AUTHORITY do you choose?
• • •
R.L. STINE (GO TO 25) ITALO CALVINO (GO TO 27) DAN BROWN (GO TO 24)
11.
You go to leave but suddenly one of the GAYS sees you and says “You should come hang out and talk about testicles and how they relate to MODERN MARXIST THEORIES OF ECONOMICS.”
You find yourself inexplicably drawn to this topic of conversation since it is so INTELLECTUALLY STIMULATING. After a lengthy session of point counterpoint, one of the GAYS propositions you for MARRIAGE. Do you decide to CHALLENGE THE SYSTEM?
• • •
YES YES YES (GO TO 12) “But what about Israel?” (GO TO 13) THIS IS DUMB (GO TO 15)
12.
You MARRY Bob Brown and spawn hundreds of BALD, ENVIRONMENTALLY CONSCIOUS children. Congratulations, I guess!
GOOD END?
15.
You use your INVISIBLITY WATCH to sneak away from the group of GAYS. It is a very useful item and you feel quite SILLY for not remembering to use it as often as you ought to. You wander back to the street your HOUSE is on. It looks like it is starting to RAIN. What now?
• •
PERFORM INTERPETATIVE RAIN DANCE (GO TO 23) GO HOME (GO TO 0)
13.
You offend your HOMOSEXUAL COMRADES with your contrived FAUX PAS and they decide to SACRIFICE you in a VOLCANO to satisfy the BLOOD LORD ELLEN DEGENERES. The VOLCANO is very hot and incinerates your FORESKIN.
JEW END
16.
Josh is a SENSITIVE INDIVIDUAL. Your questioning of his SEXUALITY/INTELLECT causes him SEVERE PSYCHOLOGICAL TRAUMA and he suffers SEVERE PANIC ATTACKS and INSOMNIA for the rest of his life. You are a BAD FRIEND.
BAD END, BRO
18.
You insert Josh’s newest COOLBOX 400 GAME into the COOLBOX 400. It is called OYSTER FARMER FANTASY and is a VIRTUAL REALITY GAME. Josh remarks that it is PRETTY DIFFICULT and also that IT IS DANGEROUS TO PLAY ALONE. What course of action will you take?
• •
PLAY OYSTER FARMER FANTASY (GO TO 20) VIDEO GAMES ARE DUMB LIKE JOSH (GO TO 16)
19.
You decide to stay on the INTERNET. The ANIMALS and CORPOPHRAGIA begin to have a HYPNOTIC EFFECT on you and you find yourself becoming quite TURNED ON. Your GENITALIA begin to swell up due to the OVERWHELMINGLY TASTEFUL EROTICIA. Two weeks later you die from THE GUSH.
14.
You roll the DICE. Since you have a +2 SLEIGHT OF HAND rating from your MASTERIES, you are permitted to choose what the result will be.
• 18 (GO TO 26) • 17 (GO TO 17)
17.
You SHIT on the GROUND. Because you’re a FUCKING RETARD.
WORST END POSSIBLE
20
You begin to play OYSTER FARMER FANTASY. It is a pretty good game. Josh says that a popular internet GAMING WEBSITE gave it a median score of 7.98 out of 10.
You ignore Josh and begin to indulge in the VIRTUAL REALITY EXPERIENCE OF A LIFETIME. You are in a MEDIEVAL TURNIP FIELD. A LARGE HAIRY MAN is walking towards you. He carries a LARGE SACK in his FIST. What do you do?
• •
RUN FROM SACK MAN (GO TO 21) IT’S TIME TO D-D-D-DUEL (GO TO 22)
BAD END
23. 21.
Since OYSTER FARMER FANTASY is a VIRTUAL REALITY game, when you try to run in the game you run into a WALL in REAL LIFE. You fall over in the GAME and the HAIRY MAN stuffs your VARIOUS ORIFICES with his SACK OF OYSTERS. You choke to death SLOWLY and PAINFULLY.
BAD OYSTER END
24.
You track down DAN BROWN. He is in a CAFÉ consuming a caffeinated steamed milk BEVERAGE whilst hanging UPSIDE DOWN from the CEILING. He smiles at you and then mumbles something about TAXIDERMY. You become CONFUSED for FIVE TURNS. You must roll a wisdom check higher than 18 to vanquish the CONFUSION.
• •
27.
ROLL DICE (GO TO 14) What (GO TO 17)
You suddenly realise that ITALO CALVINO was a very BAD CHOICE. Embracing the nature of META-FICTION can have SEVERE CONSEQUENCES.
You relinquish the control of your BOWELS and then decide to begin reading a CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE game in the PELICAN. It is called CHEESEBURGER QUEST.
•
GO TO 0
22.
The HAIRY MAN is taken aback by your AUDACIOUS NATURE and hesitates in his advance. You convince him that you are the TRUE HEIR to the OYSTER THRONE, forced into exile long ago by THE EVIL GRAND VIZIER, etc, etc. The HAIRY MAN cheers, and raises his SACK to the sky in an ecstasy of joy at the long-awaited return of the land’s TRUE AND BENEVOLENT MASTER. You are taken to the OYSTER CASTLE and are instated as LORD OF THE OYSTERS. YOU ARE WINNER.
GOOD VIDEO GAME END
Remembering all that your BUTOH MENTOR KAZUO OHNO taught you about INTERPRETATIVE DANCE, you remove most of your clothes and begin to perambulate around your NEIGHBOUR’S GARDEN rather enthusiastically. You climb into your NEIGHBOUR’S KOI CARP POND and yell at some CLOUDS. The CLOUDS are in a good mood today, so they respond to your BUTOH DANCE and begin to CONDENSATE. A large OBJECT hits you square on the HEAD. Luckily, it is a rather SPONGEY object, so your HIT POINT loss is MINIMAL AT BEST. You stare at the ground, and to your immense joy discover that the OBJECT that hit you was a CHEESEBURGER. Your BUTOH DANCE has caused the CLOUDS to rain CHEESEBURGERS! Good job. You eat at least 50 of them and then have a HEART ATTACK. But in the BEST WAY POSSIBLE.
YOU WIN
25.
You attempt to locate R.L STINE since you read a lot of his GOOSEBUMPS CHOOSE YOUR ADVENTURE stories when you were younger and he seems to be an AUTHORITY on the subject.
In your search, however, you discover that all of STINE’S works of LITERATURE were actually crafted by GHOST WRITERS and that the man himself NEVER EXISTED. Your head SPONTANEOUSLY COMBUSTS in SHOCK.
META-END
26.
DAN BROWN smiles at you again and begins to talk in a clear, reassuring TONE. He explains that your ADVENTURE is actually just WORDS printed on LOW-QUALITY PAPER due to BUDGET CUTS. You feel sad. Why did they have to cut the BUDGET? DAN BROWN is unable to answer your query, but suggests that you bring it up at the NEXT GENERAL MEETING. You thank him for his valuable advice and leave the CAFE, feeling slightly less NAUSEOUS. You return home.
•
GO TO 0
error
33
music
34
FUCK YOU
STREET PRESS --------------------- Josh Chiat ---------------------
Pelican doesn’t often have to bow to the pressures of advertisers. In fact, I find myself hard pressed to think of a moment when we’ve ever censored the content of Pelican in order to appease an advertiser or publicist. Of course, I’m sure this happens implicitly in the minds of writers as they’re submitting their interviews and articles to the watchful eyes of the Pelican Editors, but I’ve never felt seriously pressured to consider the feelings of an artist, label or public figure simply to keep receiving their free shit.
Of course, it doesn’t have to be this way. Everett True’s own Plan B magazine operated successfully for many years with (low-paid) staff often printing negative criticism of artists and labels without a decline in advertising revenue or publicist engagement. Just because Justin Edwards (a colleague of True’s) wrote negative things about artists on Collapseboard.com this year didn’t mean he got barred from receiving a photography pass to Splendour on the Grass. In fact, he gained respect from publicists for the “trouble” he caused them over the course of the year – publicists who, let’s face it, probably don’t believe in most of what they’re peddling. Giving out honest criticism and opinions is part of any music writer’s job, regardless of their level of experience, and they shouldn’t be directed to deliver anything other than their own perspective.
We like what we like, we hate what we hate and we call it as we see it – it’s the liberty of the disrespected student press. Low advertising means the freedom to direct the word ‘cunt’ where you like. So here’s where I point the finger and direct my hatred towards some “literature” that keeps on keeping on without the slightest hint of change or upturn in product: FUCK YOU STREET PRESS If this seems a little glib for analysis, let me expand upon only a few of your biggest errors. Stop Reprinting Copy In America the ire of some music critics (*cough* Chris Weingarten *cough*) has risen up against the recent influx of un-qualified bloggers and hype aggregator websites that “reprint copy” and all promote the same (Pitchfork-approved) bands. Some people might not realise it, but our street press has been doing the exact same thing for years. Look, I understand that you’re working against a tight-ish deadline, but you could at least change a few words from the copy that some semi-professional PR firm just sent you. A short example: I received an email regarding Chris Brown’s F.A.M.E tour a few months ago offering tickets to give away (or albums, I’m not sure) and ignored it on the grounds that Chris Brown IS A WOMAN-BEATER. Obviously X-Press had no such ethical qualms and reprinted the email word for word in their next issue, along with the details of the demonic give-away. Get An Original Thought I don’t think that the writers that “work” for Drum and X-Press are like hipster goldfish: fake glasses concealing the five second attention spans that lie beneath. I’m sure they are intelligent people with some opinions on some things sometimes. Let them blossom. Say what you want about the Pelican but our publication provides a space for writers to be thoughtful, critical, original and creative. Your average street press article won’t do Illustration by Camden Watts
much more than reprint a few short excerpts from a 15 minute interview with a bored musician, tell you when something or other is on or that “X” festival’s line-up’s looking scrumptious this year, uniquely having recycled only half of last year’s local talent. Why not let your writers put their brains and their pens to work and say something interesting that exceeds the 200 lousy words they get in their review of whatever Pitchfork liked last week. And pay them sometimes, maybe. I got told a story recently about a writer who spent 12 months writing for one of the street presses without getting paid. There’s only so long that someone will accept free tickets for time-consuming scribbles. Pathetic compensation breeds apathetic work. Who gives a fuck about your advertisers? Don’t take this one from me, take it from legendary rock critic Everett True. When encountered by street press writers for the first time in Brisbane and asked what he did when he had to say nice things about bands he disliked, he said “Don’t fucking say nice things about them.” Knowing that sales aren’t actually important to a free magazine, the magazine should be liberated to run what they want, how they want, when they want. Not so in the street press world – the overbearing looks of publicists and advertisers determine, apparently, that you need to be nice to whoever gives you their time, out of courtesy if nothing else.
Think carefully about what you’re offering to us In the internet age, you’re just a slow weekly news ticker. Yes, you’re free, but so is the internet. Yes you give us interviews and band profiles, but so do those bands’ Facebook and Myspace pages. Sure there’s a gig guide and (about 20 or so) pretty little social photos, but we can now find those… where was it again? I think I said the internet. So all of the little things that comprise “news” in your magazines can now be found online, without the environmental damage of wasting 30,000 editions worth of paper every week. You might try to claim that the physical format provides a greater aesthetic – which would be fine if the paper quality weren’t so shit and the design not so obnoxiously garish. I’ve seen your excursions into Facebook as well, which mostly end with you claiming “firsties” on some festival bill announcement because you’ve received an exclusive pass to release it ahead of the end of the general embargo (today it was the Breakfest Festival announcements. Great work Team ☺). Congratulations wankers, you can head to the AV Club’s comment section to receive your prize. In case you don’t know, that’s like jail in music crit monopoly. Do not pass go, do not collect 200 new likes, and don’t panic when the other commenters wish CANCERAIDS upon you. With the street press abandoned to the AV Club comment section, here’s a little happy bit about the rest of the internet For some interesting and insightful commentary coming from Australian free music writing, check out the aforementioned collapsedboard.com and, if you’re looking locally, lifeisnoise.com.
music
35
The Brow Horn
BIG BOI
Orchestra EP Launch The Court Hotel
METRO CITY
After being crowned the winners of the West Australian final of the National Campus Band Competition in 2009, the last two years have seen The Brow Horn Orchestra (TBHO) become a popular name in Perth. Many will know the 8-or-more-piece collective from recent summer festival performances as well as concerts at a number of university events. Renowned for energetic live shows, TBHO perform with a great awareness of, and connection to, their audience and the launch of their debut EP Can’t Afford This Way of Life was no exception to this.
The blame, I suppose, falls on the promoters. A figure as important to the history of hip hop as Big Boi should be able to draw a full house to Metro City. Perhaps not at the $70 originally quoted, though when it became two-for-one a few days before the gig, a tighter-packed crowd might have been expected. A number of people that I talked to said that they didn’t even know the gig was on until they heard about it on the Sunday morning after it, a display of why Facebook shouldn’t be the primary source of promotion for companies looking to save a bit of cash.
Advertised as a ‘two-stage micro festival’ at the Court Hotel in Northbridge, the launch showcased a host of local dance and indie-pop acts such as The Sunshine Brothers, Sam Perry, Sun City and Bastian’s Happy Flight. Playing on the main stage before TBHO, The Sunshine Brothers were a definite highlight of the night. Reggae grooves, reverberated vocals and jazzy horn melodies, set the scene for an infectious performance.
That said I appreciated the space, which gave me the freedom to move as much as I liked. After struggling through fashion blogger and support act Theophilus London’s set (a spot that could’ve been much better filled with an upcoming southern rapper like Yelawolf or Big K.R.I.T rather than the JJJ buzzed London), Big Boi’s hype man started the show by pulling 10 girls out of the crowd to dance on stage with the man himself (though I can’t vouch for his taste in women).
September 9
Electronica duo Sun City were the last act on the indoor La Discothèque stage with a set that seemed to go down well with the under-20 crowd. Cheesy, 92.9 friendly and somewhat unmemorable synth-pop beats meshed with average vocal arrangements into something Bag Raiders would be embarrassed of. The Brow Horn Orchestra took the stage shortly after The Sunshine Brothers finished on the main stage. From the start, the band worked well with their big audience, showing impressive control over the crowd. Guest vocalist from Katie Campbell was one of the high points of the performance, while the overall ‘spring break/leavers’ vibe of the show was perhaps its lowest. Newer tracks from TBHO have a more chill feel to them than their older ones and are much less ‘Cat Empire Lite’, both great things. Still, the constant vulgar shit-talk from the band (“we’ve had a fucking good night / you’ve been a fucking great audience”) and every single one of the 35 inflatable beach balls being thrown around in the crowd merely served to remind that any maturity in the band’s sound or performance is only skin deep. TBHO’s EP launch was a fine showcase of some of Perth’s upcoming popelectronica and indie acts. The band performed well to its impressively large turnout, filling the air with upbeat, if teen-oriented funk. Maybe I’m just getting too old for this kind of thing. Kiya Alimoradian
September 3
Regardless of the “dancers”, Big Boi’s performance itself was a massive rush of adrenaline. The OutKast rapper launched through a collection of old and new songs (only his own verses) at breakneck speed, performing a sharp and detailed set with a top quality live band of a DJ, drummer, guitarist, bassist, horns and sideman C-Bone. Even with such a great band at his disposal, and minor sound issues, Big Boi managed to shine on top of it all. Along with releasing a series of great albums in a row, OutKast also have one of the greatest singles discographies in hip hop history, choosing their boldest and most intense tracks for release. Live, that makes for a great experience, with Big Boi cycling through ‘ATLiens’, ‘GhettoMusick’, ‘Ms Jackson’ and the great, immortal ‘B.O.B’, one of my favourite songs given full band and DJ treatment, before moving into a string of tracks from his terrific solo debut Sir Luscious Left Foot. The crowd peaked during ‘Shutterbugg’ before his encore of ‘Tangerine’, ‘Spottieottiedopaliscious’ (where the band took turns soloing and jamming) and ‘You Ain’t No DJ’, the skittering centrepiece of Big Boi’s 2010 masterwork. To see Big Boi on his own, headlining, was fantastic after his emasculated performances in front of shitty crowds waiting for T-Pain and Ne-Yo at last year’s Winterbeatz. Big Boi’s, musical and dramatic sound performance more than whets the appetite for the inevitable reunion of OutKast in the coming years.
Josh Chiat
36
music
music reviews Kitchen’s Floor
Lucy Peach
The cover says it all. The kids are getting smarter, sure, but they’re still sad as fuck. Kitchen Floor’s last record (2009’s Loneliness is a Dirty) was a hall-of-fame lesson in lo-fi DIY guitar punk scrape, and Look Forward to Nothing is more of the same: 10 gloriously opaque songs whirr by in 20 minutes that stink of rot, fuzz and anomie.
Wax and Wane, the debut EP release from Perth singer-songwriter Lucy Farley (stage name Lucy Peach), is easy to enjoy. The songs are catchy and well-produced; the sound is bluesy and simple, at times reminiscent of Fleetwood Mac and at others Cat Power.
Look Forward To Nothing
Wax and Wane
Akin to Taco Leg playing the Guided by Voices songbook, the songs here combine garage-pop smarts with scuzzy anti-melodies and more genuine woe and craft than Damaged. This record revels in contradictions; in the strangely uplifiting nugget ‘Graves’, all of the friends end up “buried in the yard”. Even more logic-defying is the instrumental centrepiece ‘Every Day’ that feels overlong by the end of the first minute but celestial by the end of the third. That takes craft. ‘No Love’ and ‘116’ are also standout “pop” songs that are equally unsafe to play on radios in the waiting room of a psychologist. Sure, the record tapers off after the bleak, adventurous jangle-grind of ‘Kidney Infection’, but to go out on a bang would be unseemly for such a comfortable downer of an album. Kitchen’s Floor have the Rosetta Stone for this kind of stuff, and Look Forward to Nothing is no disappointment.
B+
Alex Griffin
The title track and opener, ‘Wax and Wane’, showcases Farley’s impressive voice amidst folky guitar riffs and baritone ukulele. The harmonies in the chorus are reminiscent of Chan Marshall circa The Greatest, with Farley’s backing vocals running smoothly throughout the song. The closer ‘The Day the Night’, a warming and sweet track laced with subtle synth melodies, is probably the most memorable on the release. At times however, Wax and Wane falters in its simplicity. While each song has its own appeal, the EP as a whole seems a little too familiar, too safe. The music exists more as an homage to a genre than an addition to it. However, one of the most pleasing aspects in Farley’s music is the variation in her voice from one song to the other. Each track sounds as though it might be someone else, which adds an intriguing layer to what could have otherwise been rather ordinary music. This is a satisfying first release from one of Perth’s up and coming indie-folk artists that suggests great things to come. While at times perhaps a little too familiar, the evident influence of yesteryear blues-rock gives Wax and Wane a very smooth, timeless feel.
B-
Kiya Alimoradian
Phrase
Usurper of Modern Medicine
Melbournian MC Phrase (Harley Webster) describes his third record as “not a hip-hop album but an album with rap on it” – and he’s right. Babylon is like any other collection of solid Australian pop, but featuring lyricism at another level. That level doesn’t rival anything being produced by Kanye or Jay-Z right now, but it’s impressive nonetheless.
You know that unclassifiable and obscure genre of music that critics and artists try to explain in a single word but always end up feeling compelled to mention a combination of the following: noise/ experimental/ambient/electro-whatever/postsomething/avant-garde. These bands are invariably influenced by Krautrock bands like Can or Neu! and more recently by ‘Japanoise’ bands like Boredoms. Such bands also fucking love touring Japan.
Babylon
Acid Chess EP
In the lead-up to the release of Babylon, Webster has stressed the insight and maturity he’s gained over the past few years. This feeling underpins the entire album, and in Webster’s hands the eponymous city becomes a motif for higher consciousness – mundane adulthood taken to a mythic level. In stark opposition to Babylon is the bottle shop, with liquor referenced as a soul-sucking negative force in his life. The metaphor is hypnotic, and it’s impressive that Webster has been able to produce such a unified record (with a slight detour to the Facebook phenomenon in outstanding track ‘The Book’). Refreshingly, Webster chooses session instrumentalists over the hackneyed soul samples currently favoured by Australian MCs. Joey Waronker’s funk-infused drumming cements most tracks in traditional hip hop, although the album frequently teeters into pop territory – notably the first single, ‘Apart’. Featuring Davey Lane of You Am I, ‘Apart’ is fun, but not the best representative of the album, with more Bluejuice party-rap than any other track on Babylon. Guineafowl, Jimmy Barnes and Sparkadia’s Alex Burnett all make appearances on Babylon, as do vibraphones, flutes, guitars, and an extensive line-up of keyboards (including Moogs, lucky us). The record fits snugly into that special brand of Australian pop not quite twee enough to be indie, and although Babylon is by no means a revolutionary album, Phrase is very much his own man. Zoe Kilbourn
B+
Perth’s very own experimental scene is one of the strongest in the country with Injured Ninja and the drum ensemble Epic of Gilgamesh being the most notable groups. After hearing their debut EP, Acid Chess, and seeing them perform spectacularly in support of Sydney’s Seekae in August, I think you can now add Usurper of Modern Medicine to that list. The beauty of this genre is that the bands are so crazy about improvisation and undermining traditional song structure that they tend to open up new worlds in recreating their music live. At a Gilgamesh show, for example, you could expect a shirtless and war-painted tribe of 20 or so to come streaming onstage, with anywhere between 5–9 drummers performing at any one time. I recognise that it sounds ridiculous, but with such an insanely noisy set-up and the reverberation of vocal chants, the music can transcend into the spiritual and inspire the most bizarre dance parties. Although Usurper use a much less onerous set-up with three members and a focus on loops, fuzzy bass, samples and keyboards, the results are no less transformative. This four track EP is a sprawling, diverse contribution to Perth’s experimental collection. Experiencing their eight-minute riff-tastic epic ‘AutoCAD Disaster’ live was worth every cent of the $23 I paid to see Seekae. Michael O’Brien
B-
music
37
Unknown Mortal Orchestra
360
Unknown Mortal Orchestra
One could be forgiven for thinking that any young performer promising a mix of “Captain Beefheart, Sly Stone and RZA jamming” is either seriously deluded or insufferably conceited. Yet, the eponymous debut from Portland-based musician Ruban Nielson largely delivers upon this grandiose claim, resulting in one of the years most enjoyable and hypnotic albums to date. The opening bars of catchy lo-fi opener ‘FFunny FFrends’ immediately claim the listener’s attention; indeed, even days afterwards it’s a struggle to forget this musical earworm, and the rest of the album builds upon this solid foundation. Never relying solely on cheap hooks, Unknown Mortal Orchestra employs a unique blend of funk-inspired drums, hazy guitar riffs and distorted vocals. ‘How Can U Luv Me’ is easily the album’s most user-friendly track and is, in contrast to the rest of the record, uncharacteristically exuberant – so much so, that it undermines the album’s tightly constructed “detached” aesthetic. Astonishingly, Unknown Mortal Orchestra only checks in at 30 minutes, a sparse efficiency that compromises Nielson’s debut, giving the impression of an unfinished product. Still, this is a rare record that has managed to produce on the back of huge blogosphere hype. This is nothing to be sneezed at given the often ruthless search for the ‘next big thing’ by certain high profile internet publications; a quest that, more often than not, leaves listeners disappointed and young musicians disillusioned.
A-
Alice Mepham
Falling & Flying Some people don’t care who LMFAO are. They’re missing out; LMFAO provide me with a code of obvious lameness to compare shit like Falling & Flying to. So when 360 goes into a flat sing-song in ‘I’m OK’’s second verse and performs “the only percentage that I know’s a hundred” the same way LMFAO’s Redfoo robo-croons the lyric “walk out the club with a hottie or two” in ‘Champagne Showers’, I find it hard not to laugh. Instead of the D. Guetta EPIC SYNTHS sound that LMFAO have co-opted to help bored clubbers pass the time, 360 aims for the heart of the Triple J faux-indie market by piling on the occasionally generic electro beats to pave over the significant cracks in 360’s technique and lyricism. These beats will quickly date, and the cracks indicate a big gulf in ability, even between 360 and other mainstream Australian rappers. The best beat on the album, ‘Just Got Started’, boils down ‘Harder Better Faster Stronger’ to its softest elements. And that’s the highlight. When the backing does enough, 360 ruins things by either rhyming the word change with change four times over (‘Throw It Away’) or bringing in dull guest vocalists to sing cringe-inducing hooks (Josh Pyke, Gossling) when it would be best for all of them to just get out of the way and let producers Stylaz Fuego and M-Phazes take over completely. Lyrically, you can follow his stories, but his only interesting one – his “life-changing accident story” – is told so glibly that he might as well be rapping about shuffling. At least when Kanye came to he had the wherewithal to realise he was in the same hospital where Biggie Smalls died.
Gotye
The Brow Horn Orchestra Can’t Afford This Way Of Life
Making Mirrors
If you’ve never heard the Brow, it’s probably because you haven’t looked at a concert line-up for the last twelve months (including UWA’s own O-Day). Their closest comparison is maybe The Cat Empire. To the uninitiated, this may be accurate, but listen closer for a heavier hip-hop influence and a youthful dash of rebellion.
If you haven’t heard ‘Somebody That I Used To Know’ yet, then you’ve been living beneath the sea, the water above you muffling the aural heartbreak being transmitted by literally every radio station at the same time.
The EP starts with ‘Every Single Day’, a strong track that demonstrates all of the strengths of the Brow’s multi-faceted approach. The delicious horns and hook (“you make me really wanna, really wanna, really wanna feel again”) lift the listener to those fluttery feelings of elation. This much positivity can often be interpreted as “cheesy” which is why the later raps work well to ground the whole experience. This dichotomy of light and shade can be heard throughout the majority of the album and works to great effect. ‘Kick Back & Fight’ takes a rebellious stance to those who wish to impose on a righteous good time. This seems to be a central idea to Brow-ism and it’s damn hard to argue with. Still, alongside festival-ready tracks like ‘We Were Where The Heart Is’ and ‘Dreams Do Come and Go’ are low-key meditative tracks like ‘King’. When the full sound of the festival faves gets overwhelming, these provide a great counterbalance. Brow’s live performances are an energetic, life-affirming experience. One can only hope that, in the future, the even mixing on the EP doesn’t negate the kick from the drums and horns that forms so much of the live experience. However, this is a minor quarrel and on the whole it sounds very polished. Having finally released a six-track EP, there is little doubt The Brow Horn Orchestra will spread its musical tentacles and infect an even wider audience than they currently enjoy. Jakub Dammer
D+
Josh Chiat
B+
It cannot be denied that it is a brilliant song; it has found commercial success whilst maintaining Gotye’s eclectic sound. However, ‘Somebody That I Used To Know’ represents the best of what Gotye (Wally de Backer) has to give on this album. Making Mirrors is largely comprised of tunes that sound like watered down versions of first class songs from his second album Like Drawing Blood. Making Mirrors, when compared to what I consider to be Gotye’s previous genius, is average bar a few exceptions in ‘Somebody That I Used To Know’, ‘Save Me’, and ‘Eyes Wide Open’. It is likely that my love of Like Drawing Blood has rendered me an overly harsh critic, and there is no doubt that Gotye’s “average” is better than anything Chris Brown’s ever released. I guess 3/12 tracks ain’t bad, but I had great expectations for this album and honestly, I feel a little ripped off. Ladies and gents, especially those of you who have jumped on the Gotye bandwagon since 92.9 and Nova started playing ‘Somebody That I Used To Know’, do yourselves a solid and buy Like Drawing Blood (and tack ‘Somebody That I Used To Know’ on the end of the playlist).
C+
Katrin Long
film
38
The Eye of the Storm
Submarine
Friends With Benefits
Horrible Bosses
Directed by Fred Schesimi Starring Charlotte Rampling, Geoffrey Rush, Judy Davis
Directed by Richard Ayodae Starring Craig Roberts, Yasmin Paige & Sally Hawkins
Directed by Will Glutch Starring Mila Kunis & Justin Timberlake
Directed by Seth Gordon Starring Jason Bateman, Charlie Day & Jason Sudeikis
Fred Schepisi’s latest directorial offering The Eye of the Storm is a truly stunning example of modern Australian cinema.
Here are the facts you need to know:
Judy Morris (of Happy Feet and Babe: Pig in the City writing fame) has adapted Patrick White’s Nobel Prize winning novel to the screen in a risky move that could easily have seen the complex and dense story losing some of its depth and charm. White’s remarkable writing ability and Morris’ apposite adaptation, combined with the outstanding acting talent, confirm The Eye of the Storm’s status as a spectacular entry into Australian cinematic history; one that is simply not to be missed.
2. It was directed by Richard Ayodae (“eyeoh-WA-dee”), who you may know as Moss from The IT Crowd, Saboo from The Mighty Boosh, Ned Smanks from Nathan Barley, and a bunch of other UK comedy esoterica.
Rampling plays the aged, dying and very wealthy Elizabeth Hunter, the histrionic and intrinsically lonely mother to the embittered and perpetually absent Basil and Dorothy who have returned home to the Northern Sydney ‘burbs to see their mother of her last legs and, more importantly, to claim their inheritance. The children’s contempt for their mother’s neglect in their childhood is suppressed as they see her fast approaching the end, though they struggle at times to control their disdain for her dramatics and constant attempts to make up for a lifetime of neglect and hedonism. In a last ditch attempt to control some aspect of her existence as she slips in and out of states of dementia, stubborn Elizabeth tries desperately to reconnect with her disengaged children before deciding when exactly she will pop her clogs. The Eye of the Storm is darkly funny and surprisingly heartwarming. It leaves the audience questioning their mortality and, more poignantly, the importance of family.
1. Submarine is a very good film.
Now that we have that over with, I feel that it is important to state that Ayodae is a fucking film nerd. Due to this, there are a number of references to the work of Jean-Luc Godard throughout Submarine – especially some sections of the soundtrack, which have either been taken directly from Georges Delerue’s score to Godard’s 1963 film, Le Mépris, or have been deliberately composed to reference leitmotifs found within Delerue’s score. Along with the soundtrack – and the previous comments are not a criticism, in fact, they suit the film well! – there are a number of inter-titles that appear throughout the film, all of which mimic the style of Godard’s own notoriously minimalistic titles. The acting in Submarine is very good, to say the least. The protagonist, Oliver, is portrayed very well by first-timer Craig Roberts, who captures Oliver’s despair at the mundaneness of his teenage life adequately and makes him a very relatable and an enjoyable character. Noah Taylor is another highlight, portraying Oliver’s sexless, paralytic, marine biologist father, Lloyd, in such an accomplished way as to make him the most sympathetic and human character in the film. However, it would be possible to go on and sing praise for all of the actors in Submarine, since Ayodae seems to have stumbled upon some magical directorial technique that has allowed him to obtain superb acting from everyone involved. And by having set a precedent of such quality, I already want him to make more films – right now! I DEMAND IT!
B+
So yeah, you should probably go see Submarine right now. Put down this magazine, wipe your ass and get to the cinema. It’s an impressive debut, made by a funny and talented man who will hopefully be inspired to make even more films of a similar pedigree in the future.
Katrin Long
Give him your money!
A-
Lachlan Keeley
Two high-flying-business types emotionally crippled from past relationships discover they are equally commitment-phobic yet horny, so decide to get it on like Donkey Kong in order to…er…relieve themselves of New York’s corporate pressures. Seen No Strings Attached with Natalie Portman and Ashton Kutcher? Then you’ve more or less seen Friends With Benefits. Despite its homogeneity, this film is not without its charm, though to be completely honest with you, most of that charm lies in the chiseled abs of Justin Timberlake (Dylan) and the perfect body of Mila Kunis (Jamie), both of whom spend a considerable amount of time in the movie very scantily clad. This is very much one for the Gen X-ers, with its playful plot investigating our generation’s comfort with notions of casual and meaningless sex compared to views evident in our parents’ generation (where sex as a young adult was generally expected to be accompanied by genuine emotion and monogamy). However, what starts out as a conscious attempt to avoid the clichés of your average RomCom (one scene sees Jamie screaming “Shut up Katherine Heigl, you stupid liar!” at a poster for the tragic 2009 good girl-meetsbad-boy chick flick The Ugly Truth), ends up melting perfectly into the mould of every other fluffy example of this tired genre. There are a few genuinely funny moments in Friends With Benefits, but for the most part, FWB is about as easy a ride as Dylan and Jamie appear to be.
BKatrin Long
The major selling point of Horrible Bosses is its premise. If you’ve ever worked, chances are you’ve fantasised about wiping that shit-eating-grin off of your employer’s face. Horrible Bosses taps into that mindset and shows you how life could be if you had the balls to harness this fantasy. Three downtrodden buddies (Jason Bateman, Charlie Day and Jason Sudeikis) drunkenly agree that their lives would be just that much better if their bosses (Kevin Spacey, Jennifer Aniston and Colin Farrell respectively) weren’t around anymore. The trio devise a plan to make their dream a reality – but, of course, all does not go as planned. Though predictable at times, Horrible Bosses is a very funny film. Yes, a lot of the humour is racist (JASON SUDEIKIS CALLED A BLACK DUDE “BROTHER”!) and sexist (JENNIFER ANISTON’S EATING A BANANA LIKE IT’S A DICK!). Luckily, this movie manages to deliver these kinds of jokes well, without going overboard. Overall, the casting is solid. Jason Bateman plays the straight-laced voice of reason for an eighth year in a row, so you already know he’s got this down pat. Aniston strays from her girl-next-door image and, for lack of a better word, sluts it up (comically, of course). Day and Spacey have incredible comedic timing, and are arguably the funniest (and most over the top) of the bunch. The only thing that really irks about Horrible Bosses is Jason Sudeikis’s involvement. Sudeikis plays Kurt, who is supposed to be a slightly arrogant womaniser. Now, if real life has taught me anything, it’s that womanisers are known for their good looks and/or large bank balances. Kurt doesn’t make a lot of money, and the fact that he’s played by Sudeikis means that he’s also ugly as sin. As a result, his character isn’t believable or endearing in the slightest. Sudeikis hate aside, Horrible Bosses was an enjoyable film.
B
Charmaine De Souza
film
39
Final Destination 5
Hobo With a Shotgun
Drive
Smurfs 3D
Directed by Steven Quale Starring Nicholas D’Agosto, Emma Bell & Miles Fisher
Directed by Jason Eisener Starring Rutger Hauer, Pasha Ebrahimi, & A Shotgun
Directed by Nicolas Winding Refn Starring Ryan Gosling, Carey Mulligan
Directed by Raja Gosnel Starring Neil Patrick Harris, Katy Perry, Hank Azaria
The cities in which films of the Final Destination franchise take place are very unlike any city we would actually live in.
To be blunt: if you liked Machete, you’ll probably enjoy Hobo With a Shotgun. It does everything Machete does, but with less Mexicans and Lindsay Lohans. Hobo makes up for this deficit by including jumpers with bears on them and homeless people being forced to eat broken glass. An inspired improvement, if anything!
In this very dangerous world the characters inhabit, shopping mall escalators are powered by giant factory cogs, acupuncture needles are 3mm thick steel weapons and almost every appliance short-circuits/overheats as part of its daily function. Human bodies are also different; blunt objects slice through limbs, femurs splinter into wood-chips and heads burst like water balloons. The film’s premise is the same as all the others: a teenager visualises their death along with all their friends and manages to save everyone before it actually happens. BUT death doesn’t like to be cheated and one by one they all die in a string of bizarre, freak accidents. With each Final Destination film, the level of gore and brutality seems to rise (someone gets strangled in the first film) and Final Destination 5 is no exception to this trend. The gore is so over the top that the film is practically a comedy. Nonetheless, director Stephen Quale does a good job drawing out the death scenes and the first few are actually quite tense. Ultimately, this is a pretty bad film. The acting and dialogue are typical of teen horror films and the gratuitous gore is ridiculous (the gymnastics scene is my favourite, look up ‘Candice’s death’ on Youtube). This isn’t a film with any underlying substance, but given that its sole purpose is to entertain it does a good job. Indeed, bisection, impalement and bloody amputation are a few of death’s favourite things.
C-
Kiya Alimoradian
Obviously, since Hobo is for all intents a modern remake of typical grindhouse cinema, it is a reasonably violent affair. Rutger Hauer stars as the titular hobo ¬– in what is, to my memory, his only other role since playing the lead replicant, Roy, in Blade Runner, about 29 years ago – and his grizzled face and voice fill the role more than adequately [ed’s note: see Confessions of a Dangerous Mind]. The rest of the cast play their characters as ridiculously as possible - but in a good way! – especially Brian Downey, who plays the greasy impresario crime boss, Drake – a role that permits a significant amount of scenerychewing, but again, in a good way! One of the more mysterious parts of Hobo are “The Plague” – two independent mercenary possibly-robot terminator-ey types, who have their own in-film video game and seem to have been set up for their own spin-off feature, which will probably follow the same vein as Machete, Planet Terror, and Hobo. So yes, Hobo With a Shotgun is a film you’ll enjoy if you like seeing people killed in silly, violent ways and having said killings followed up with ridiculous one-liners. There’s social commentary about crime and poverty or something in there, probably, but when it comes to this kind of film, that sort of stuff doesn’t even take the back seat – it’s stuck in the boot somewhere, whimpering beneath a mutilated cadaver. If you’re looking for a caustic social satire, maybe you should try Chalet Girl instead. [Ed’s note: do not try Chalet Girl instead]
B
P R Poohpie
Refreshingly restrained, and evocative of the Coen brother’s Blood Simple and Fargo, Drive is a pulsing Los Angeles noir from Danish director Refn. A misanthrope of the Eastwood genome, the Driver (Ryan Gosling) is a stuntman during the daylight hours and a getaway driver under the cover of dark. After entering a platonic relationship with his petite neighbour, Irene (played by a waiflike Carey mulligan), the Driver commits himself to a heist aimed at appeasing Irene’s husband’s debts to the Mob. To reveal any more of the plot would spoil the richness of the film; suffice to say that it hurtles towards a conclusion that’s both furious and tragic. Refn tastefully constrains the Driver’s dialogue to a starved minimum, while Mulligan’s Irene provides a soft but nonetheless assertive foil to Gosling’s tempestuous protagonist. Ron Perlman and Christina Hendricks drop in for brief but vital roles as greaseball gang-trash, and together the cast creates a gloriously seedy underbelly that throws the Driver’s unyielding sense of personal morality into stark contrast. The film’s violence is swift and explosive: skulls are pulped and arteries get severed, but nonetheless, the film exudes a diplomatic sophistication absent from so many other by-the-numbers Hollywood thrillers. And as a delicious peripheral, Drive’s pulsing synthesized soundtrack is absolutely stunning. It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to commend an American film’s soundtrack, and an even longer time since I’ve been able to recommend an original American thriller. Don’t miss Drive.
A
Callum J Twigger
What did you do to commemorate the 10th anniversary of 9-11? I went to a screening of Smurfs 3-D. A Hollywood reimagining of the iconic little blue mushroom folk, Smurfs 3-D is destined to become a cornerstone film in the modern American canon. Visionary director Raja Gosnel (Beverly Hills Chihuahua) takes the audience into the dark recesses of the American psyche post 9-11. Gosnel’s America is harsh but humble. It is obviously wounded. His New York is still dazed by the fateful tragedy of that cold September day. Much like Polanski’s defining masterpiece, Chinatown (1973), Gosling uses his characters to examine the murky realities of America’s identity in a new century. The film brilliantly explores ideas of change and meaning and offers a chilling portrait of a country caught between a glorious past and an uncertain future. Integral to the strength of the film are the characters and performances. The Smurfs themselves operate as foils for old American ideals. In the Smurfs we see the 20th Century America – that of innovation, empowerment, individuality and ingenuity. In the bitter Gargamel we see a contorted image of the fears and paranoia that have dominated the past decade – conspiracy, deceptiveness, Zionism and hair loss. Hank Azaria gives a chilling performance as Gargamel, I would go as far as to say his representation of pure evil is the greatest in recent memory, outshining even Heath Ledger’s performance in The Dark Knight. It would be amiss not to mention the scene-stealing brilliance of Neil Patrick Harris, whose New York everyman leads the audience on this tormented journey. Katy Perry has her film debut as Smurfette, a performance I suspect will be much talked about come Oscar season. Smurfs 3-D perfectly surmises the existential angst and delirium of the ‘9-11 Decade’. It is a work of genius, one which strikes at the heart of America’s struggle with selfdenial and hypocrisy. After the audience is obliterated by its magnificence, they are left to ponder not only the meaning of this marvellous work of art but the very meaning of ‘self ’. A gem for the ages.
A+
Patrick Marlborough
literary
40
Literary Errors --------------- Lachlan Keeley & Patrick Marlborough ---------------
Literary scholars Patrick Marlborough and Lachlan Keely have uncovered the hidden unpublished gems of literature that editors and authors wanted to remain unread. Here they are presented for you for the first time in the page of Pelican. In 1967, Jack Kerouac was asked to write a blurb for the 10th anniversary edition of On the Road. His editor decided that it may alienate his “filthy cunthead know-nothing” audience. It’s been 10 years. Ten years of bullshit celebrity recognition from thin-necked punks with no chest hair and dames as flat as ironing boards. Great. I’ve loved every minute of it. Oh yesyesyes as ol’ Dean woulda said back in the day, it has been one helluva trip. I love going on talk shows obviously drunk and with a bit of piss staining the inside of my pants. These are the golden days. Yesyesyes we all burnt like big ol’ Roman Candles didn’t we? Yeah, by we I don’t mean you: 20-something, beretwearing faggot. I mean me and my BUDDIES: most of whom have been driven to an early grave by this cult of personality bullshit. You goddamn Jew faggot pricks. You’re as bad as fucking Allan. I told him, I ain’t no faggot, he can suck me off – sure – but that doesn’t make me a goddamn fag. And would you kids stop sending me your fucking writing? You are all abominably awful. You are all fuckin’ no good bums. You think we didn’t work? I’ve had jobs all over! So did Neil! So did Allan! Shit! You Jew bastards. SHUT UP MA I’M TRYIN TO WRITE HERE! I AINT DRINKIN TOO MUCH, SHIT! … did I write that? Oh well who gives a shit, spontaneous prose, right? Yeah, on that, I planned this fucking book for years – I didn’t just make it up on the spot. So it’s been 10 years of your bullshit. I’d like you all to know that you’ve helped me drink myself to an early grave. Don’t you know that God is Pooh Bear? Jack
This poem is from Bukowski’s unpublished book of poetry Sunshine, Lolly Pops, Sobriety, and Nice People (1985), which was discovered in a bolted desk in his editor’s office.
Bukowski in Disneyland I went to Disneyland The other day And the excitement that filled my heart Was like no other I exchanged all my money For Disney Dollars And found my self filled With a great sense of freedom And I went into the Disney store And finally got one of those Mickey Mouse hats I’ve always Wanted And then! OMG! I met my favourite Disney character, Bambi And I had my picture taken with Bambi And I cried cos I was so happy And then I met a pretty lady And we had charming conversation But I told her I’m not interested in A relationship that doesn’t have Love At its centre. Oh Mickey, your embrace Is sweeter than that Of any dime-store liquor bottle
Charlotte Bronte’s Love Letters: Letter to Constantin Heger Charlotte Bronte was madly in love with Constantin Heger. He inspired the character of Rochester in Jayne Eyre. Nowhere was her passion for Constantin more boldly displayed than in their romantic correspondence. This letter, however, is omitted from most anthologies. Dear Contantin,
Hunter S. Thompson was used as a spokesman for gun safety by the NRA in 2005. They pulled the campaign for obvious reasons.
Illustration by Ena Tulic
DON’T PUT THEM IN YOUR MOUTH HST
Your cock. In me. Now! Love, Charlotte
In the mid 1930s, Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald were roped into hosting a morning chat program on the ‘wireless’. Only one episode was aired. This is the transcript of the recording. The Absinthe Hour with Scott and Ernie [INTRO music plays] F. Scott Fitzgerald: Why are you standing? Ernest Hemingway: Haemorrhoids. FSF: Oh. Producer: [whispered] You guys are on! [pause] FSF: Hey, hey, hey! Welcome to The Absinthe Hour with Ernie and Fitzy! I’m Fitzy and this is Ernie! EH: Fuck off ponce. FSF: Haha! Well it’s eight in the morning, so you know what that means? EH: Your wife is off fucking some other fella? FSF: Haha! Well, no, it means it’s time for today’s third cocktail! [at this point there is a three-minute silence in which only the pouring of liquids and the shaking and stirring of drinks can be heard] FSF: Dandy! Tom Collins, just the way I like it! Mostly gin, really. In fact, I’d say it’d probably taste better as just straight gin, but I don’t want people thinking I have an alcohol problem! Haha! [silence for a moment. There is the sound of a lighter] FSF: You smoking another Cuban? You sure smoke a lot of them. EH: You sucking another cock? You sure – FSF: Haha! What a swell day! Let’s hear from some of our listeners, shall we? EH: I’m deaf from the war. FSF: Caller number one! What’s the jazz on your end? CALLER#1: [yelling] HI THIS IS FAULKNER. YOU ARE BOTH PUSSIES EH: [yelling] FUCK YOU FAULKNER! FSF: [yelling/slurring] YEAH FUCK YOU! [the phone is slammed violently] FSF: I guess he had to go beat up his wife or something. EH: [grunts] FSF: So Ernie, what’s been to any bull-fights lately? EH: Anyone ever told you that you look like a gazelle? Shit. It’s been two weeks since I shot something. [pause] FSF: [slurping noises] Okay! I think we’re ready for caller number two! CALLER#2: Hey baby… EH: I think it’s for you ponce. FSF: Who is this? C#2: It’s Zelda dahling! Oh baby…oh my sweat baby…where are
Ayn Rand, author of Atlas Shurgged and Other Drivel, was famous for her detailed diary entries. This is an entry she wrote at the age of 7; it is (naturally) written in the third person/with substituted names. Patricia Dedalus stared out across the grey concrete wasteland that was the playground. Her world was still. She cleared her youthful throat and stared at the pink teddy bear she grasped in her pale, sculpted white-marble hand. The other children on the playground had absolutely no idea of what the bear represented, and she was glad. Holding it tightly to her young body, she approached the jungle gym, a thin smile spreading its way across her face. Gertrude Lockerlisten, a skinny, constantly snivelling girl, was trying her best to suspend her body above the ground with the help of the jungle gym bars. Patricia suppressed her urge to giggle at Gertrude’s weak arms and sat down at the end of the metal sculpture. Gertrude suddenly noticed her and a single bead of sweat slithered down the side of her blushing face. “What do you want, Patricia?” she asked. Patricia was silent but raised her eyes up to meet Gertrude’s line of sight. She then pushed forward an arm towards Gertrude, the arm that held the pink bear. Gertrude’s eyes lit up. “OOOOH! It’s so CUTE!” she exclaimed and foolishly reached forward one of her own arms in an infantile attempt to claim the bear for herself. Her other arm was not strong enough to suspend her body above the ground, and just before she collapsed onto the dirt in a pile of tangled limbs, the light in her eyes faded to a pale grey. Patricia giggled at the spectacle of Gertrude’s painful landing and cleared her young throat again. “I will never share this bear with you,” she whispered, clutching the bear to her body once more. “Altruism is the doctrine which demands that man live for others and place others above self.” Gertrude looked confused for a moment, and then broke into tears. Between her sobs she managed to cry something out. “What the fuck are you talking about? We’re seven fucking years old.”
you? The party is still ra-a-aging! FSF: Party? What party? Zelda: The party at the Meredith’s! FSF: Jesus Zelda! I left you there over a week ago! MAN’S VOICE: This is Mr. Meredith! Please come and collect your horrid wife! *the phone is slammed violently* [there is a long pause in which only slurping and the scratching of a hairy chest can be heard] FSF: Gee isn’t gin just the swellest drink, I – EH: Why’s she called Zelda? She a fucking gypsy or something? FSF: Come on Ernie, let’s just talk about the gin… EH: You drink too much of that pussy shit and you’ll end up as batty as your broad. [there is a brief pause followed by what sounds like a violent scuffle] FSF: [slurps] I happen to think Zelda is a pretty name. EH: [hearty laughter] That’s cos you are a ponce. Next thing you’ll be telling me she’s got a [Fitzgerald begins humming loudly over Hemingway] and that she’ll only do it on Tuesdays! FSF: [extremely long slurp] EH: She still sayin’ yer dick’s too small? [there is the sound of breaking glass and another scuffle] EH: You are easier to beat up than Joyce. FSF: Beat up or beat off? You two should sit in a pub and jack off to each other’s farts! [sound of a loud smack] FSF: Haha! I’d have felt that if it wasn’t for all this gin. Let’s keep talking about gin Ernie! EH: I once saw an eight-year-old kid shot through the head in Spain. His face was blown clean off. [there is a long pause] EH: Where was his gin!?! FSF: [pouring a drink]. Well here’s some for me. [pours drink on ground] and some for that little guy. EH: I’m gonna go blow my brains out [sound of footsteps and slamming door] FSF: Haha! Oh Ernie, you are such a blast! [another long slurp followed by breaking glass and the sound of someone toppling to the floor] [OUTRO music] END RECORDING
literary
41
Books
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What Pelican read this month C
and terrorism ... playground bullies and modern-day shock-jocks, and about the ... dangers of social and political discourse being hijacked by fear and opportunism.”
A-
There’s also Mr. Hibma, Toby and Shelby’s teacher, who doesn’t much like teaching. Mr. Hibma looks at the world with a scornful eye and we, in turn, are encouraged to look scornfully at him. His pretentious attempts to differentiate himself from his redneck peers are funny for a while, until he too begins to contemplate murder.
Johnson’s debut novel certainly has its moments of intrigue and uncertainty, but in all honesty, I found this novel slightly irritating.
Watch Out For Me Sylvia Johnson
Australia, 1967. 4 children tell a lie to get out of trouble with shocking results. 40 years later, in a post 9/11 world, a summit attended by heads of state – including the American President – will see the appalling consequence of that childhood lie come back to haunt them. At its heart, Watch Out For Me is a psychological thriller, which deals with an “end of innocence”, guilt, prejudice, fear, and terrorism. In an interview with the author by Booktopia, Johnson said “... I’d like to think there are idea ideas in the book about the links between childhood
B+
The “post 9/11” paranoia frustrates me. For one, I don’t like having to take off my shoes in the security checkpoint at airports, I don’t like having to buy a $5.50 bottle of water on the other side because I can only take 100mL through with me, and I especially don’t like airport security staff rummaging through my bag when boarding an American flight – I mean seriously, they’re tampons, not fucking bombs. Watch Out For Me only served to heighten this irritation. However, it is a reasonably disturbing psychological thriller that leaves you on tenterhooks as the shocking events unfold. As such, I would recommend this novel to people who want a story which unfolds in an almost Kate Atkinson-esque manner. Lara Hentrich
Cool Water Diane Warren At 62 years old, Canadian writer Diane Warren has left her full-length debut until late in life. The question one asks upon finishing Cool Water is, “why the wait?” Her laconic and unassuming novel had Canada’s literati asking the same question. Cool Water took home the nation’s most prestigious literary honour – the Governor General’s Literary Award. This is an endorsement that has elevated Warren into the lofty company of Margaret Atwood and Michael Ondaatje. The novel is set in the fictional prairie town
Citrus Country John Brandon If you’re feeling particularly concerned about the state of the world – or just generally fragile – you probably shouldn’t read John Brandon’s latest novel. Citrus Country could very well be the final straw in your breakdown. The subject matter’s pretty bleak: in a sleepy Florida town a 14 year-old orphan, Toby, kidnaps a toddler, locks her in a basement and proceeds to date her older sister, Shelby. To make matters worse, he doesn’t feel particularly bad about the incident. Toby’s dead parents and mean uncle are not enough to induce sympathy for him. What’s even more depressing though, is how
of Juliet, Saskatchewan (That’s northwest Canada for the geographically challenged, such as myself). It follows the lives of a handful of residents over the course of a day, with surprisingly interesting results. ,Despite this, those expecting a plot-driven narrative will find themselves disappointed –the focal point is the township’s wry and matter-of-fact characters. They are what ultimately makes Cool Water a success. Their development is underscored by Warren’s masterful description of the Saskatchewan landscape. Warren’s protagonists transform along with the landscape, but to her credit this never comes off as trite or heavy-handed. Cool Water is not without its flaws, however, and although minimal they do detract. Interesting minor characters are wasted and underutilised – they are afforded little meaningful development in their own right, seemingly existing either to advance the plot, or as a Greek chorus passing comment on the narrative’s more dramatic developments. Warren also fails to escape the trappings of her earlier short prose. As a result, Cool Water reads as a series of loosely connected vignettes rather than a consummate whole, creating the impression of an incomplete narrative. Alice Meplam
Brandon treats his likeable characters. The smart and determined Shelby is left broken, and we are assured she will continue to be disappointed throughout life.
A-
What They Do In The Dark Amanda Coe Allow me to begin with a well-worn but utterly appropriate cliché: I found this novel captivating from start to finish. Amanda Coe is a leading British screenwriter whose credits include Shameless, so there’s been considerable buzz around her first novel. In light of all this hype, What They Do In The Dark could have easily turned out to be a disappointment. Instead it’s a satisfying testament to its glowing advance praise.
While the plot sounds like the stuff of soap operas, Brandon’s simple prose manages to keep the story grounded in reality. Brandon stays away from the usual clichés of crime novels and his sharp dialogue is a particular standout point. The continually pessimistic tone, however, becomes draining pretty quickly. All in all it’s a good book; it’s just not much fun. How much you enjoy it will depend on your stomach for gloom. Annabel Hennessy
It’s an undeniably creepy story. Set in Yorkshire during the summer of 1975, the narrative splits its time between the real-life escapades of two schoolgirls – privileged Gemma and brazen, neglected Pauline – and the film set where Gemma’s idol, child star Lallie Paluza, spends her days. Without wanting to give too much away, all three girls are exposed to the seamy, tabloid side of life. Adults are manipulative and predatory, and the once ‘pristine’ Gemma loses her grip on right and wrong as fantasy blurs unnervingly into reality. Yet this is not a straightforward tale of innocence corrupted, and the novel continuously resists simplistic character distinctions. The plot takes somewhat predictable turns at times, though it’s nonetheless engaging to watch it all unfold. Coe compensates for these occasional slips into the obvious by developing the characters of Gemma and Pauline. This is done in a way that demands complex reader responses to their respective predicaments, and ultimately, their shocking crime. Skilfully layered British wit also adds a dimension of comic relief to the narrative, without diminishing its sense of gravitas. Deeply uncomfortable and riveting throughout, What They Do In The Dark makes a damn entertaining read. Fay Clarke
books
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B+
You’ll Be Sorry When I’m Dead Marieke Hardy The little girl in this book didn’t dream of growing up to be a hairdresser, or an astronaut, or the first woman Prime Minister of Australia. No, as a young‘un she dreamt only of becoming a prostitute. Despite this introduction, You’ll Be Sorry When I’m Dead isn’t a fictional work about a messed up child with questionable aspirations. May I present the incredibly candid, in-your-face, tragi-comedic autobiography of screenwriter, blogger,
B+
SVK Writer: Warren Ellis Artist: D’Israeli Published by BERG SVK is an unusual comic. This doesn’t come from the plot, which – while well told – is a pretty standard spy story. Recovery agent Tom Woodwind is an interesting lead but still from the Ellis playbook of cynical badass. What makes SVK unusual is that the story isn’t complete unless you have a special ultraviolet torch in your hands while you’re reading. Many would write SVK off as a gimmick because of the little plastic torch that comes with the comic.
radio broadcaster, and general funny woman Marieke Hardy. At 35, the selfproclaimed raconteur has taken the time to flesh out her existence in an articulate, sometimes self-deprecating, always amusing way. Hardy chronicles life experiences ranging from the heartbreaking (finding out her best girlfriend is months away from succumbing to breast cancer) to the vaguely pornographic (threesomes with an ex and a prostitute). Through all of this, the most charming aspect of this book is her honesty. She even includes correspondence between herself and various family members, friends, and exes mentioned in the book, allowing them a published reaction to the way in which she has depicted them in a particular story. While at times a tad indulgent and overtly “AREN’T I FUNNY? HAR HAR HAR”, You’ll Be Sorry When I’m Dead is compulsively readable. There is something incredibly charming about Hardy; she fully embraces her awkwardness, her manic personality, and her propensity for making incredibly bad life decisions only to come out the other side with a bruise or two and a new anecdote about a French bulldog named Bob Ellis. Kat Long
B-
The Cat’s Table Michael Ondaatje In The Cat’s Table, an 11-year-old boy sets out on a 21-day journey on an ocean liner from Ceylon (now Sri Lanka) to England in the 1950s. The narrative begins with this childhood voyage, then follows the young boy’s journey to adulthood and understanding the world around him. The book has a nice, humble quality to it. The lyrical splendour and heaviness that Ondaatje pumped out in The English Patient has been done away with and replaced with a very simple and subdued tone. He produces gentle, nostalgic passages
However, Ellis and D’Israeli are very smart comic creators, and they use this gimmick to do some very smart things with the medium. The story can be read with and without using the SVK torch to illuminate the ultraviolet-inked thought bubbles. SVK is an intelligent piece of science fiction, reminiscent of the work of William Gibson (who writes the foreword). It is set in the present day and shows the pervasive influence technology has on society. The new technology introduced in SVK is a fictional but logical extension of the modern surveillance society. One particular line near the end of the book chillingly resonates with our own CCTV world. SVK is a comic book rather than a graphic novel – at best it’s a graphic novella. At around 44 pages long the world it describes feels like it should be further explored. Unfortunately, SVK can only be bought by mail order from BERG. This means the comic is dear, although still very much worth it if comics and the surveillance state are of interest. SVK is available for sale from getsvk.com Kevin Chiat
B-
All For You Sheila O’Flanagan Lainey Ryan is a female who’s lead stepped straight out of a pulp romance novel. She is remarkably beautiful, successful in her career, and dreaming of her fairytale wedding to ‘The One’. We know this story, and it always ends with a diamond ring. But Sheila O’Flanagan adds something unusual: Lainey has a fire-breathing feminist crusader for a mother. When Deanna Ryan – a famous feminist often mistaken for Germaine Greer – comes back into Lainey’s life, she is not impressed
depicting the journey itself and the main character’s hometown delights, with descriptions such as “the hemp rope that hung slowly burning outside the cigarette stalls in Bambalapitiya or the Pettah market. He also peppers the bulk of the novel with some very pleasant two-page character vignettes: a girl who wakes up at dawn to roller skate along the deck; a whimsical pianist holding the burden of some unexplained heart-break; and a garden guru with his own cabin full of collected flora. Unfortunately, this same simplicity and gentleness tends to generate a sort of limitation: it sometimes makes the story come across as just a little bit…well… tame. Ondaatje creates these fantastic little character sketches but refuses to delve any deeper. Instead he simply moves on to another character, another plot turn, another fleeting little insight. In some ways, this book nudges you along with its charm and loveliness, while in other ways it makes you yawn by never doing much more than scratching the surface. James Spinks
by Lainey’s boyfriend, Lainey’s job as a “weather girl” (even though she is actually a competent meteorologist) or the fact that Lainey would just love to get married. Deanna is exhaustingly militant. She is known for her best-selling book, Tit Power. Meanwhile, Lainey is facing the demise of yet another relationship, and uncovering secrets about her mother and her absent father that she never expected. In All For You, Sheila O’Flanagan creates a soft-hitting exploration of reactions to the feminist movement. Deanna is a feminist stereotype who begins to question her relevance; Lainey embodies the confusion of young women trying to reconcile their need for independence with their desire for meaningful relationships. At first glance, each character introduced to the story seems to fit an archetype, but O’Flanagan allows them to grow outside of their pigeonholes. Here’s a book for fellow ladies who want to read a different twist on the standard “OMG-she’s-30-and-she-can’t-get-aboyfriend” formula. It combines the comfortable escapism of chick lit with gentle commentary on society – an easy read for a sunny afternoon. Kaitlyn Plyley
film
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George Lucas re-releases his bowels ------ Tom Fonder -----I seriously doubt any filmmaker has managed to show such a level of contempt for his own fan base as George Lucas. With every subsequent release of the original Star Wars trilogy comes a new wave of horribly misguided edits and alterations to a beloved cinema classic, immediately followed by a veritable hate-storm of vitriol and bile toward its creator. And rightly so. Whilst Lucas has every right in the world to butcher his own films, his decision to allow a culturally significant piece of cinematic history to waste away in the Lucas-film archives rests upon far shakier ground. At this point in time, there exists no legitimate, unaltered copy of the original Star Wars trilogy available, other than the horrible non-anamorphic DVD transfers released in 2004. After waiting more than two decades for the opportunity to watch and remember the films fans fell in love with in theatres, Lucas practically spat in their face by providing the worst possible transfer available with absolutely no attempt at a proper restoration that may have cost his company a fraction of their millions. With the advent of the complete saga being released this week on blu-ray, fans are once again in a state of fury. Why? Because not only are the original theatrical releases once again conveniently missing, but also we have even more horribly tacked on tweaks, additions and edits to look forward to. Personally, I won’t be bothering with this set or any future sets that do not include the theatrical cut of the original trilogy, and I would implore others to do the same. At this point it’s not unlike paying George Lucas to take a huge shit directly in your mouth. It’s clear that he no longer cares about the fans or the integrity of his work, so it’s time to vote with your wallet and stop giving in to what you know is an inferior product. The bottom line is that there is absolutely no good reason why a restored, high definition transfer of the original trilogy can’t be included with any given Star Wars release. Relatively speaking, such an endeavor would take just that a little bit more money and time for a whole lot more potential profit, respect and customer satisfaction. Ridley Scott can do it with Bladerunner, so why not Lucas? This would please everyone. All the hate, outrage, and complaints would practically disappear overnight. It would seem like a no brainer – an irrefutable win/win scenario. Alas, it is but a pipe dream. Lucas will never wake up so long as the cash keeps rolling in.
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The Laramie Project Western Australian Academy of Performing Arts The Roundhouse Theatre The Laramie Project, directed by Chris Ilott and written by Moises Kaufman and the Tectonic Theatre Troup, is a unique piece of verbatim theatre and a relatively rare exploration of the creative role of an actor. Created as the result of a yearlong residency in the American small town of Laramie by the Tectonic Theatre Troupe, it is an investigative drama depicting the people of Laramie immediately before and after the violent death of a young, gay university student. It was created from over 200 interviews – residents, students, media, religious leaders and politicians are all portrayed with accuracy.
The WAAPA students largely accomplish a polished and spare production, free of extraneous noise or heavy moralistic preaching. Costumes were restrained and plausible, which only enhanced the tangibility of these people’s lives. Also, deftly handled were the many uses of music and film, some relayed live onto large backdrops. In many productions this can be simply tacky, but the direction handled the many approaches to theatrical space in a way that guided the flow of the plot and emphasised the dialogue, rather than detracting from it. The simplicity of the set and movement left a black space – a kind of quiet void between actor and observer which worked very well, and very few in the audience were not moved by this chilling crime, and the people that created it. Would you like to see more from WAAPA’s graduates? ‘Behind the Scenes’ at QV1 on Monday October 31 is free, and showcases imaginative costumes, props and other pieces by graduating students in Costume, Design, Props and Scenery, Stage Management, Lighting and Sound.
B+ Alice Palmer
Much of the text comprised of actual transcripts of interviews, journal entries and court records. The company
particular to females. As the ‘dancer’, who we first see at the beginning of the piece, wrapped in nothing but very low light and the sound of her own feet, frantically tries on costumes later in the piece, I picked up a sickening sense of destroyed-self worth and damaging standards. This trope continued throughout the piece and came to a literally monstrous head where the dancer, faced obscured by garish makeup, becomes a spider trapped by her own web (the ropes on which she performed, high above the audience), her long, stilted legs just impeding her (a nod to the uselessness of stilettos?).
She Dances In The Dark Natural Wings (Dawn Pascoe and Nikki Dagostino) The Blue Room Theatre When my mother and I were waiting for the theatre space to open in the Blue Room’s dimly-lit, jewel-tinted lounge, a quietly spoken elderly woman whose face we could not see in the dark slid up next to my mother and said, “Ah, Signora Dagostino!” My mother might be lucky enough to have a first name which means ‘jewel’ in Italian and lovely olive skin that doesn’t age, but she isn’t Signora Dagostino, who we can only assume is performer Nikki’s mother. This curious incident of mistaken female identity (in the dark) got my mind ticking before the performance and made me appreciate some of the smaller details in She Dances in the Dark that draw attention to the things that ‘cloud’ and ‘obscure’ self-identity in contemporary times,
Both the performers were incredibly talented – there is something charming about a beautiful girl with a sorrowful brow in a tiny black tutu, playing the accordion. However, I think She Dances in the Dark was ultimately limited by the space in which it was performed. The ceiling was not high enough, and the compelling scene in which the dancer eats a muffin that has been thrown on the floor for her like a ravenous dog, smearing it into her body, left a vomit-worthy smell of chocolate dust in the room. This isn’t a staging or a performance or even a venue problem however, it is simply that the piece is more suited to a ‘fringe’ space. Perth needs to see more performances like She Dances in the Dark: performances that sit in the in-between, ‘negative’ spaces of femininity and don’t spell it out for you. Watch out for “the boutique fringe at the edge of the world”: Fringe World in Westralia from January 25, 2012.
B Sarah Dunstan
arts
is relatively small, with only eight actors portraying over 60 people involved in this vicious crime, from the grandiose and homophobic rantings of puritanical preachers to the acidic views of other gays living the small-town life. It is clear that although it would be all too easy to condemn many of these characters (the picketing of the notorious Fred Phelps, for instance), the text allows many a quiet dignity or easy humour. An experience that, when so well directed, is truly devastating.
Belong Bangarra Dance Theatre Heath Ledger Theatre
Belong is an exploration of Indigenous Australian identities, told in two parts: ‘About’ by Elma Kris, and ‘ID’ by Stephen Page. Kris’s piece, centred on the mythology of the Torres Strait winds, could be seen as a more ‘gentle’ introduction to the Page’s unsettling piece. Both pieces are permeated by violence – taking on the form of the competing winds – some aggressive and some subtler in ‘About’ and more obvious violence in ‘ID’. Both are about how ‘competing interests’ shape identity, with the moments of great loss and destruction in ‘ID’ counterbalanced by an overarching theme of permeating and enduring identities. Aside from a crafty episode of “blackface”, memorable moments of ‘ID’ include a man choking by a smoke-filled hose, gassing alive at the hands of two prison guards. As he dies, his body jolts in spiritual possession but my interpretation is that he is being spiritually dispossessed, his body wrapped up like a meat carcass after his death and dragged off stage. In another part, a looming, ghostly image of a group of people loom on a screen at the back of the stage – perhaps a nod to both the endurance of identity, in the immaterial world, and the issue of photographs of the now-dead ‘living into’ the material, digital age. The costumes by Emma Howell were beautiful and perfectly uncoordinated, with the women wearing coordinating colours in different styles that suited their characters as well as tying them to the group. Perhaps this is a testament to Kris’s background as an adoptee within her community who ‘discovered’ her classmates were her biological sisters? It is certainly open to interpretation, but smaller details like this carefully draw attention to issues of displacement on the smaller scale of families rather than looking at Indigenous Australia in umbrella terms. To say the very least, all the performers are incredible, particularly in ‘About’, where they embody the genderbased ‘energies’ that Kris wanted to characterise each wind with. A wonderful, giving show that makes you suddenly aware of the blood pumping around your body, constantly. Next at the State Theatre Centre of WA, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, presented by Black Swan Theatre Company until October 2.
A Sarah Dunstan
howl
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HOWL #15 A BRIEF HISTORY OF MY ATTEMPTED SUICIDES
“No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun – for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax – This won’t hurt.” – ‘The Football Season is Over’, Hunter S. Thompson’s suicide note. I am an attention seeker. I am also a prima donna as well as a hypochondriac. I have Quixotic delusions; I have read too many fantasies. Mix this in with a fascination with death and then mix that with a penchant for large quantities of gin and whiskey and you have a person who is perhaps too willing to threaten to kill themselves. Of course, I am far too cowardly to ever do so. Many close friends have been subjected to my exaggerated threats to leap off apartment buildings, swallow drain-o, or step infront of a bus. It’s become something to laugh about, and rightly so. There is nothing more pitiful than a shrieking drunkard who threatens to wipe himself off when there is probably a room full of people who are more than willing to do it for him. Suicide is a less than fabulous punch-line to a poorly told joke. I often think of Hemingway and Hunter S. Thompson killing themselves. The image enthrals me. Two great minds that must have – once – bubbled over with thoughts, words and amazing sentences, ended in an instant and with a big BANG. When I see Hemingway shoot himself, I see a splatter of words and pages shoot out the back of his head. Both men thought they were losing their edge. Maybe they were right. The ability to end your thoughts instantly is more than fascinating to me. So, as an enthusiast and avid hobbyist, I have naturally attempted it may times. Not out of a morbid desire for release or out of self loathing. No. Those things are just the flimsy pretexts that help drive my scientific fascination and violent quest for discovery. A kamikaze conquistador. This is a brief list I have compiled of my attempted suicides. ATTEMPT #1 5/6/1997 REASON: Realised the impossibility of bringing dinosaurs back to life.
METHOD: Sepuku with plastic light-saber At the age of seven, the only thing I wanted to be was a palaeontologist. More specifically, I wanted to be Alan Grant, i.e. Sam Neil’s character in Jurassic Park. I dreamt of riding velociraptors and fondling Laura Dern’s arse through her ridiculously high-wasted jeans. I was playing with my plastic Triceratops, “Horny”, in the sandpit when the realisation that it would be impossible AND dangerous to bring dinosaurs back to life really struck home. I burst into tears. The weight of the world came crashing down on me and for the first time I realised the awful permanence of death. I grabbed my plastic light-saber, nodded confidently at my friend, and attempted sepuku. ATTEMPT #2 6/6/1997 REASON: Realising the impossibility of lightsabers. METHOD: Eating large quantities of sandpit sand. Let’s just say that as that plastic light-saber broke, so did my heart. ATTEMPT #13 16/9/2007 REASON: First heart break METHOD: Jumping off Fremantle traffic bridge. I don’t think I’ll let my kids read books. They lead to devilish acts of infidelity and sordidness. Many hint at the benefits of suicide, and if the book doesn’t, the author does by filling there suit with rocks and wading into a lake. I was 17 and had been reading a lot of romantic poetry and other wank drivel from ages past. I had been obsessing over a particular girl for years and my disfigured notion of ‘love’ had transformed me into a sulking homunculus that rambled the streets late at night moaning to itself. I had a copy of The Sorrows of Young Werther in my pocket – a book that was infamously blamed for the suicides of many young German fops back in the day. I was returning from a friend’s party in North Fremantle and was bemoaning the fact that the Girl
I Loved had rejected me for the umpteenth time. I use ‘rejected’ loosely, because in reality I just leered at her from the other side of the party all night. I convinced myself that Goethe had it right, or at least Werther was, and that suicide was the only viable option. With my book and half empty bottle of scotch, I climbed the railing of North Freo’s traffic bridge. I made sure that I was over the cement base, so that I didn’t just dive into the river. Skull first – that was the plan. I stretched out my arms like a shit-stain messiah and got ready to make the plunge. I fell. But unfortunately I fell backwards, smacking my head on the pavement. I woke about a half hour later with a sore head and a deep sense of regret. Though I suppose a three-foot topple is better than a 30-foot plunge. ATTEMPT: #24-ongoing REASON: Women/alcoholism/attention seeking/ literature/university/family/txting METHOD: Drink, jumping from low heights, banging head in cabinet doors etc. “Urgh…mumble mumble…no one loves me…I can’t create anything great…I don’t wanna be at uni…what am I going to do with my life…why doesn’t she love me…I can’t write anymore…I’m not as good at songwriting as Bob Dylan…is my cock the right shape? … why doesn’t she love me… but what is the right shape, really?” and on and on ad infinitum. These are recurring bouts of cowardice that have me txting far away friends, ex-lovers, and current concubines. I’ve become a ‘big fan’ of bashing my head repetitively into things, but my skull is particularly thick, so this rarely produces the desired result.
Your homework this month: 1. Boredom: Make a list of reasons to stay alive! 2. Ejukate: Read some late Hemingway, i.e. The Dangerous Summer 3. Strange: Keep on living!
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