Public Address - Club Politique (Home)

Bye Bye Birdie | Jan 19, 2005 12:52

So there I am all settled in for a news marathon. SBS world-news from 6.30 to 7 (the 6-6.30 news here, like New Zealand, is basically infotainment, I watch re-runs of Dr. Who on ABC instead). Then the ABC news from 7-7.30, then the 7.30 report. The drama I'm trying to get all angles on? Bye bye Mr. Mark Latham it seems.

Unfortunately, half-way through the SBS news I get the call to help out by doing an emergency shift in the sink. It seems the dishy 'cracked it' to use the local vernacular, and stormed out in a haze of those wavy anger lines you see in comics. And flies. You can never forget the flies.

Anyhow, so this means that with Fro-Man beating a hasty retreat from being 'paid out' (vernacular) by one of the chefs I was unable to watch the good insider interviews that would have aired on these channels. Goddamnit. You get the vibe of the thing though (vernacular). Mr Latham, after two bouts of something called 'pancreatitis', the loss of an election, and something else I'll mention later, has formally resigned from both the Leadership of the Parliamentary Labor Party and his seat of Werriwa.

We all should have seen this one coming. Latham's been under siege since November, and the likelihood of him surviving another putsch in the party were looking slimmer and slimmer by the day. Although much of the media speculation was of the usual 'internal party ructions' reporting that seems to always occur after yet another loss to an incumbent Government, there was always this undertone of something brewing.

And there it is, the thing brewing was Marks' pancreas. And probably from too many brews (and stress). Shortly before the last Federal election this one brought Mark down, and his strange absence during the obligatory Tsunami disaster shock-horror public statement rounds was obviously not because of callous disregard for the suffering of hundreds of thousands, but conveniently, because he was at deaths door.

Or at a resort getting some R&R just like his doctors told him too. But hey, I'm suspicious that he'd already decided to quit politics on advice, and thought, 'Bugger it, me saying "omagod!" and waving cheques I don't actually sign isn't going to do anyone any good when I'm bailing first chance I get anyhow. So there.'

Strangely though, editors such as the guys at The Australian are using it as an excuse to put the boot in. Maybe I've a soft spot for Latham, as I've said before, anyone who calls the Liberals' foreign policy 'a conga-line of suck-holes, leading all the way to Washington' gets my vote, but I think people may be over-playing this Tsunami thing and his lack of comment. In fact, both his lack of comment and the lack of consideration for the fact of his illness, screams petty politics.

The guys over at Troppo Armadillo think that Michael Gordon's article in The Age is probably the best comment so far, and I tend to agree, although the number of people referring to Kim Beazley, the former leader, as a 'safe pair of hands' is probably the kiss of death for the big fulla. Although you might also want to read Tim Dunlop over at the road to surfdom, who makes some good points about keeping the next campaign economics-focussed.

Thing is, Beazley has the distinct taint of being a loser to Howard, although he was of course ripped off in 2001 in regard to the Tampa. Much like the last election, Howard stepped in a used a last-minute issue to really hammer home the message that Federal Labor didn't really have what it takes to 'look after' the Australian public. This time it was the forestry issue, where he appeared in front of a crowd of cheering timber workers, and last time it was the famous 'we decide who comes to this country' speech, while 438 refugees floundered in the open seas.

So while Beazley may be a great conciliator, and provide a bit of stability to Federal Labor after the humiliating loss in 2004, I'm suspicious of his lack of ability to produce the needed kind of visionary policy to capture the Australian imagination. Safe pair of hands, sure, but we already have one safe pair of hands on the national tiller. Little, grabby, midget hands, sure, but safe and predicable nonetheless.

You can say whatever you like about Latham. He was a bruiser who broke a cabbies arm when he thought the guy was trying to steal he wallet, he made up some great phrases that were borderline obscenities when describing the Liberals, he called a prominent female journalist a 'skanky ho', Dubya 'the most dangerous President in living memory', and he basically burnt his bridges in the way he resigned.

But, for a while there he really did invigorate the Federal Labor Party. His 'ladder of opportunity' speech and ideas were really good, and I'm of the opinion it actually reached a lot of people. Also, during the election campaign Labor did actually look like an alternative government, they had numbers, Latham was high in the preferred PM stakes, and the Liberals weren't actually producing any new policy, but were simply throwing money at everything. It was a long-shot, but compared to Labor under Crean they were far and away better off.

I think I know what really scuttled Latham though, and it's a three-second video grab of Latham exiting a radio interview and coming face to face with Howard, maybe two days before the election. Now, Latham was doing great up to this point, and seemed to be convincing people that he wasn't the bovver-boy he seemed to be depicted as all too often. But, in what would doubtless have been played time, and time, and time again during the next election, is footage of him 'stepping up' to Howard and basically going eyeball to eyeball with him, big firm handshake and all.

Anyone saw that footage and didn't think 'thug' is fooling themselves. Howard just kind of patted Latham on the arm and asked if he was 'alright?' (leading me to think he's been bullied before). The contrast? Exuberant, aggressive youngster, and that mature, steady hand thingie again.

So will Beazley make it? I can't say just yet. We'll have to see how Labor falls into line, or if Beazley even gets picked to lead. There's still a chance Kevin Rudd could get lucky. But, someone wants to tell Julia Gillard that Aussies aren't ready for a female leader just yet, any more than Americans want Hillary to get to the White House.

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Engagement | Jan 12, 2005 15:04

Back in Wellington it was the Southerlies that were the ones to watch out for. Here? Northerlies. 39 degrees yesterday, and nowhere to hide. Yay. Luckily the cool change came through around midnight and today is a pleasant 29. Good news.

In the bad news stakes though is the same weather patterns causing these fires in South Australia. Before Christmas I remember reading some Sydney reporter for the NZ Herald waxing lyrical about how great all the rain in NSW had been, you know, verdant lawn and all. My first thought? Munter. After a big rainy season it takes about 5 minutes for a 44 degree day to turn that stuff to the perfect tinder. Let's hope for no more loss of life.

Meanwhile, in both the good and bad news stakes is how much I depend on the web for good information. It's bad news because I'm still out in the boonies, net-less (but enjoying the space and privacy). It's good news because isn't the web the best source ever? I miss it. I remember back in the day, having to do stuff like buy newspapers, or consult things like books or magazines to find out great stuff, but no more!

One of my favourite stories is of a mate back in '92 who told me he had a "modem". I said, "What, like in that film wargames? Let's crank it up!" We spent the next 20 minutes perusing the text-only bulletin boards at the Victoria University server, looking for the results from the local chess club. Hi-tech and awe-inspiring stuff let me tell you. I was gob-smacked by it.

I mention this because without the interweb (and still living in Clayton) I can only talk about two things. The crazy neighbours, or the work I'm doing on the thesis. Lucky you.

Oh, I could also talk about the news I'm seeing on TV, but all I've noticed recently is Howard making the mistake of referring to "his decisions, and those of his government" in a particular kind of way. But I don't want to be the one to warn him about hubris. My spidey-sense tells me he's in for trouble if this gets too grandiose.

Greatest Aussie PM ever? Only if you consider being ruthless enough to exploit the Tampa in 2001, and to 'progressively' adopt all of Hanson's policies since '96, mumble mumble....

Anyhow. My thesis. At the moment I'm reworking the introduction, and it's requiring me to take a 'big-picture' look at what I've written. It's interesting, like all projects I do I'd now like to rewrite a substantial portion of it, but my commonsense tells me that the threat to my pride at not producing the 'best thesis ever' needs to take a back-seat for awhile.

But hey, I've been looking at the subject of nations and nationalism for near on fifteen years and I still don't know everything. So maybe I just need to be a little more humble and just produce the best I can in the time I have. Or, to be more precise, in the time I've had. Six years on one project is more than long enough.

It seems like only yesterday that I was consulting with people at and around Auckland University about the prospect of taking up a Ph.D. I pretty quickly noticed that people were using words like 'ordeal', 'loneliness', and 'arduous'. I should have listened.

The thing is, pretty quickly you become one of the few experts in your chosen field, if not only because there's so few people who want to be such a specialist. Consequently, you end up being unable to talk about the details of what it is you know with normal people, and it means you can enjoy the bestest and mostest fun social life ever, but there's always this weird and intangible 'distance' between what you know and your ability to explain it.

This must be what being Batman was like. But hey, it's better than waking up in the morning and thinking, 'I will be a dishpig forever'.

To be honest, I wouldn't give up the last six years of character-building for anything in the world. I undertook this task because I knew it would be the most difficult thing I'd ever undertake. I knew that it was the pinnacle of my chosen field. Sure, I'll never get the same kind of recognition as wearing that silver fern, but I know that I've accomplished something that few others have.

Except for the 10,000 Ph.D.'s that graduate very year in India. But most of them are in computer science or telecommunications, so sweet as.

FYI, I've entitled the thesis 'The National Cell', because it captures nicely the main motivation behind the project, which is to justify diversity in contemporary nation-states. The aim is to illustrate how in countries like New Zealand and Australia the people form a kind of 'organic whole' in terms of their social and political interaction.

The analogy I like to use is of an apartment complex, with each residence forming a kind of 'cell' that contributes to the overall dynamic of the entire complex itself. In one cell you have the smell of curry, they're English, in another you have the sounds of a didgeridoo, they're Japanese tourists, in another you have really loud talking, they're Canadians trying to explain why they're not American.

My interest is the interplay between each of these individual cells. In a real apartment block people can come and go, but if your apartments are the individual minorities in a nation-state then each type of person is pretty much stuck with one another. Sure, you can try and isolate yourself from the types of people you don't like, but most normal people will try to find a way to get on.

In my experience the main cause of trouble in these types of circumstances is usually misunderstanding. So you can always try to make the complex more harmonious by ensuring that every apartment is stocked with the same kind of person, but this is a fallacy. If one thing is true in the real world it is that people always form cliques, and sometimes on the flimsiest of excuses. This means that harmony is always under threat from argument.

My opinion, based on the opining of a lot of other people who like reading, is that you don't have to try to entirely stop conflict. Instead, you make sure that the structure and systems of the apartment block minimise the opportunity for conflict, and encourage communication to prevent misunderstanding. In a practical sense, you make sure that the feng shui of the building is good, you know, no one interrupting other peoples privacy or what they consider 'their business'. And you make sure the English have good extractor fans, the Japanese have good sound proofing, and you quietly reassure the Canuks that no one thinks they're American, because Americans don't say 'aboot'.

Conflict in the form of arguments will still occur, after all it is natural. Some people just like to argue. But instead of freaking out about the possibility of conflict, you expect it, and make sure you can prevent it from ever becoming violent, a far scarier proposition.

In essence this idea pivots on the word engagement. You want to make sure that it's no one group that calls all the shots in the apartment block. Sure, a group committee might decide to ban curry, but it has to be a collective decision that allows for the fact that the English seem to depend on this stuff, and might not be able to do without it (or might be willing to put up a fight to keep it), and make sure the English are included in the decision.

Translating this idea into academic jargon is of course 'fun' and challenging. I'll keep you posted on the progress, and in the meantime enjoy the rest of what holidays you may have.

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Solitary Man | Jan 06, 2005 18:41

Call me gullible, but I watched The Day after Tomorrow a couple of nights ago, and now I'm way too edgy about the weather. Thing is, as soon we start to get regular rain I get all suspicious and excited, as if that's at all unusual.

Sure, sure, sure, I know that I shouldn't link anything as vague as a piece of eye-candy with the real thing. But, after some of the dry-spells I've experienced over here I start to be on the constant lookout for rain, if not only to break the monotony. Is it my fault that every time we get a bit I think, this is 'the big one'?

I guess my only real excuse for resorting to a film like that one was desperation and boredom. Looked great, sure, but it had a plot so thin I wouldn't let my daughter out of the house in it, and dialogue so boring I thought seriously about just switching off the sound altogether and listening to a CD instead. My only bad, but stock standard excuse, has to be that I'm only house-sitting for mates and it's their fault.

For those of you who know Melbourne, I'm taking care of a place (with no internet) out in the country. I mean this place is too far from the local telephone exchange to get broadband!! The section is HUGE though, the backyard alone being bigger than my entire flat back in Carlton, and the nearest shops are an over-priced petrol station, a dodgy pizza place and an under-stocked dairy. As I write I'm pausing to look out the kitchen across a vista of daisies and dandelions to the back fence, way in the distance past the Mandarin tree.

Where am I? Clayton.

OK, so I can't lie well. Clayton is actually barely outside Zone One, but it's still a half hours drive from where I usually live, which is 10 minutes north of downtown. And for those of you unfamiliar with PT here, the train/tram/bus system uses 'zones'. You can PT anywhere in Zone One for up to two hours on the one ticket, and all for about $A3. Outside of this is Zone Two (unsurprisingly), and is pretty much the 'Burbs. The most obvious difference is that they can't get trams. And outside of that, somewhere, is Zone Three.

I think. Or at least I heard a rumour. One day I'll have to go see if it's 'real'. I'm actually suspicious that this whole Zone Three thing is a story made up to scare children. You know, "be good or we'll go live in Frankston".

And, to be even more honest, Monash University is out here, and I spent my first year in Melbourne living on campus. But only because I had to! Pesky damn non-negotiable leases and desperation for a place to live. Pretty much as soon as I could make up any excuse I could I bailed.

The one thing about being out here that's blog-worthy though is how culturally different it is to Carlton. My neighbourhood is so damn white. Plenty of Italians and Greeks sure (my barber likes to tell every Kiwi he meets about 'us' saving them on Crete), but still, white. I went out in the car to find food yesterday and it really struck me how multicultural the local shopping strip is (of course, in Carlton I can walk to the shops). There's the ubiquitous Italians and Greeks, but also Vietnamese, 'Chinese', all kinds of 'Indian', Africans, Polynesians, Crackers, a Subway.

Anyhow, I digress. The opportunity to rifle through a friends private things without actually burglarising them aside, this house-sitting lark isn't too bad, as I'm sure you're all aware. Thing is, I've been thinking about making the move to living by myself for a fair old while now. What's kept me back is mostly the cost, but equally important is that I just like being around people. So this staying here in Clayton alone thing is a bit of a litmus test to see if I can cope.

Thus far no worries, just being away from the NOISE housemates make is fantastic. No hushed humping. No being accused of responsibility for someone else's mess. No wondering, where in the hell did my [insert object here] go, and who the hell took it? No bad cooking smells. No having to watch 'Everybody loves Raymond'. No being hassled about lying in a bean-bag for 14 hours playing Xbox and eating tim-tams and KFC and sinking bears while only wearing boxers (it was a Sunday).

I mean, this morning I got to walk from the shower to look in the fridge, naked. There wasn't even any food! I just wanted to strut! And with only the baby Jesus to tutt-tutt disapprovingly! Bliss.

Oh, and 'ladies', you're going to want to picture some seriously pasty-white skinny-male action there.

There's every chance that I'm just rehashing some good stories that everyone else has already written, if not only He died with a falafel in his hand, but here's a few housemate stereotypes I won't miss should the fortress of solitude ever eventuate.

The Pilferer. The one you find chowing down on your or flat food at 3am, night on the piss or not. They inevitability "promise" to replace it, usually with supermarket-generic shyte you wouldn't even use to wipe your dairy air.

The Stinkers. The ones who just plain stink. They can't seem to do anything about it. They just stink. Their room is often worse, and the stink seeps into the hallway and towards your room like a rolling miasma of festering stench. It's especially great when they have the room nearest the front door, so it steps up to welcome you home, every, single, day.

Mr. Lover Lover. Need I say more. The ones who try to fill that hole in their empty lives with bonking. They inevitably have hordes of boy/girlfriends over, all of whom you get to share the couch with at some stage before they make weak excuses to never be seen again. The best, in my experience, was a housemate who deliberately brought a guy home at 7pm, so I'd know (or approve of?) who she would later hump, loudly, at midnight. I was in a six-month dry-spell. Thanks for the picture.

The Accountant. They always have money for booze, drugs, baccy, but can't get it together to pay the bills any earlier than a month late. They also constantly borrow "one or two bucks for the tram", that adds up to hundreds by Christmas time.

The Parental Unit. Most often a single person wishing they weren't, the Unit is the one who disapproves of nearly everything. Nothing is ever clean enough. There's too much loud music, booze and bonking, and not enough flat outings. There's too much time spent on the PC/xbox. Are you wearing a hat when you go out in the sun? We've all lived with these. Usually the flat outing is when things catch up with the male version of this type.

The Pilferer Mk.II. You can NEVER leave more than your 'very last beer' in the fridge. And they'll still try to take that one ("I'll buy you two beers tomorrow!").

The Pedestrian. They'll constantly offer you $5 to drive them to: their dealer, the bottle shop, their partner, work, the airport. And all as if $5 will compensate for the hassle of being regarded as a personal chauffer. And you can never get that perfect shape you had in the bean bag back again once you get home.

I could go on, but this is an old gag and I'm sure you've heard it all before. We'll see if I can afford the luxury when 'real' work rolls around in February, when the thesis WILL finally be submitted.

And, as a final note, it's great to see so many people digging deep to help the Tsunami countries. But, watch who you're donating money to. Dodgy internet scams aside, I've heard that allegedly some of the major aid organisations only let as little as three percent of the donated cash get to the ground. The rest apparently disappearing in 'costs'. So, if you're looking to save the children with anything like a significant proportion of your own or someone else's money, you might want to do a little background checking.

From multicultural Clayton, Talofa.

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