Happy New Beer!

Yay!

As most of you lot will know, I'm a big fan of test cricket and over the past couple of weeks I've been following the New Zealand and Indian matches fairly closely.

Unfortunately, this also involves watching a lot of commercial television, an action normally on a level with inserting red hot needles into one's scrotum.

One ad that particularly irks me is for a health insurance company - whose name I can't be arsed finding out - which involves ordinary looking schlubs finding their "healthy selves", said "healthy selves" having a slightly manic healthy glow which I find deeply unsettling.

Oddly enough, both "normal" and "healthy" selves seem to be having an absolutely cracking time, with the punch line being that the company can help you find your "healthy self".

I don't think that's likely to happen to me.

Healthy Ramon: "Normal Ramon! It's me, Healthy Ramon!"

Normal Ramon: "Yes, and?"

Healthy Ramon: "I here to say that you too can have my healthy glow!"

Normal Ramon: "Oh?"

Healthy Ramon: "You just need to give up the booze!"

Normal Ramon: "Yes?"

Healthy Ramon: "And the fags!"

Normal Ramon: "Right."

Healthy Ramon: "And the fatty food!"

.......................

.......................

.......................

Normal Ramon: "Fuck off, you weirdo."

That's it for 2011 comrades and what a long, strange trip it's been.

See you on the flip side*.

* Whatever that may mean.

Erin go Bragh!

Possibly not an historically accurate representation.

Well comrades, it seems to be an unending cavalcade of horribleness this week; Japan, Libya, the cat next door.

I’ve been trying to make sense of it all but every time I’ve sat down to write something I just get too depressed and end up staring moodily out of the window, which doesn’t do anybody any good.

In the meantime, The Boy is very excited about the Saint Patrick Day celebrations at his primary school*.

Not many people know that Saint Patrick was probably originally from Wales but in what was a piece of very successful sixth century spin, the tourism authorities back then realised the Welsh do not have a reputation of roistering, good-natured drunks and thus the decision was made to focus on the Irish portion of his CV.

Hope you all have fun tomorrow.

*And no, the school won’t be serving green coloured beer.


It will, of course, be serving ordinary beer**.

** Possibly not true.

He what!?

Jonathan Franzen. Does he take his glasses off when he puts on the blindfold?

I’m a sucker for a decent red read as the next alcoholic* but in the past I’ve tended to shy away from so-called “blockbuster” novels, such as Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections as I suspect I either won’t understand it, won’t enjoy it or might run into some hideous geek from a Book Club while buying it

That said, I also enjoy a good bureaucratic fuck-up, so I was rather amused to see this story about Franzen’s latest novel Freedom.

The story notes

Tens of thousands of copies of Freedom, the new novel by bestselling author Jonathan Franzen, have been recalled after an early draft of the book was printed by mistake.

Best-known for his bestselling 2001 novel The Corrections, Franzen has received a tidal wave of hype in Britain and the United States for Freedom, with one reviewer calling it the "novel of the century".

But publishers HarperCollins say the version of Freedom released in Britain last week contained dozens of mistakes.

"It was a typesetter's error. The books have around 50 punctuation and spelling mistakes. The typesetter sent the last-but-one version," a spokesman confirmed.

Readers with the botched copy of the book can exchange them for new ones by calling a special hotline "and we expect the new edition, including the final corrections, to be available early next week," the spokesman said.

Now obviously, I suspect people who received the faulty version will hang onto it on the off-chance of making an absolute motza out of it later but what really had me scratching my head was this comment.

Freedom - the story of a dysfunctional American family - was a labour of love for the author, who at times he wrote blindfolded and with earplugs to overcome crippling writer's block.

Now the earplugs I can understand, but blindfolds?

However Jonathan Franzen is an award winning and highly praised novelist and I am not, so I thought I’d give it a crack.

Ckfjgpdpf kfoodiir fjjjtkjelocfpototridkrir ofgofidrp fffoirptpgpgiririeopotiiri fff;

Once I get to the required 500 pages, I might send it in to the Man Booker people.

Wish me luck.

*Which is obviously why I tend to avoid Man Booker winners.

Me v. McDonalds!

While I was growing up my parents were convinced that McDonalds was a tool of American imperialism and refused to take us there.

When an adult I wasn’t all that into to their style of fast food anyway* with the net result that when, on the rare occasion The Boy forces me to that particular establishment, I am somewhat flummoxed when confronted with the McDonalds menu.

This, in turn, leads to the sort of laughable misunderstandings, much loved by a certain type of indie film.

Witness this exchange from the other night.

Me: “Ermmmmm. Ummmmmmmm. I believe I’ll have the ‘super happy fun meal’, thanks.”

Bored McDonald’s chick: “whaftawhaftawhafta fries with that?”

Me: "Sorry?"

Bored McDonald’s chick (slightly louder): “whaftawhaftawhafta fries with that?”


Me: “Yes, I believe I will have a medium portion of chips with that, thanks.”

Bored McDonald’s chick: “whaftawhaftawhafta medium fries?”

Me: “Yes, medium chips sounds lovely, thanks.”

Bored McDonald’s chick (clearly deciding that I’m a dickhead and she wants me out of her queue): “whaftawhaftawhafta drinks as well?”

Me: “OK, can I see the wine list, thanks?”

Horrified McDonald’s chick: …………….
……………..
……………..
“We’re not allowed to sell alcohol, sir!”

Me: “OK, I’ll just have a Coopers Ale then.”

Honestly, I might as well be wearing a pince nez and frockcoat.

*Much more of a kebab man**, me.

**Especially after a couple of Coopers.

It's Politics Slam Friday!

Works for Liberals too.

Well ,the Federal election campaign is in its final leg/quarter/lap/whatever bullshit sporting metaphor the meeja are using these days and despite all the hand wringing about “how boring the campaign was”*, I’ve actually quite enjoyed it.

This is more than I can say above the coverage, both print and electronic, which has been beyond appalling.

The Smage has been obsessed with long, unfunny “colour” pieces and somebody should really tell the bods over at the new 24-hour news channel ABC 24 that journalists interviewing journalists about what another set of journalists said is less than riveting.

Most of the really useful stuff I’ve come across has been from the Internet, with Crikey and Peter Brent’s site Mumble being the standouts.

That said, I still have no freakin’ idea about who’s going to win, but if pressed I’d say a Labor win is more probable than a Liberal win and a hung parliament not probable at all.

If the ALP can minimise its losses in NSW and Queensland, using the advantage of incumbency, and pick up some seats in South Australia and Victoria, then we can look forward to another three years of Ranga Rule.

It may very well be that the Tories will pick up more votes but still have fewer seats.

So there.

Nyerr.

And on a final note, if people want to join me for the local Labor Party election night piss-up, then shoot me a line and you can be entertained by the site of me drinking beer, swearing at the TV and generally carrying on like a lunatic.

Can’t say fairer than that!

* A line the meeja has used about every single freakin’ election since 1980.

The Great Charity Swindle

I was strolling along Exhibition St with a friend, Tex, heading towards Chinatown. We were meeting my brother, Fanta, for a meal of steamed pork dumplings and cheap beer in a dark, dirty eating house located in a seedy alley where we planned to discuss obscure films viewed by perhaps just 8 people huddled in a dank theatre in the back streets of Brunswick.

"Great day, hey!" shouted Bubbly Young Irish Guy (BYIG) wearing a bright orange t-shirt and skipping over to us. "Hey! You dudes got a couple of minutes to chat about world hunger and the west's reluctance to make a difference?"

"No," I said, preparing to move on.

"Well, I have a couple of minutes," said Tex, always eager to please, and much to my chagrin.

"Great," said BYIG. "Basically what I need is for you to commit to many months of periodic payments to my organisation, Amnestfam Green-Vision, which will assist families to buy goats and shit."

"I already give to your organisation," I said, grasping Tex's shirt and encouraging him to keep walking.

"Really?" asked a sceptical BYIG.

"Yes, really," I said, sensing an argument and deciding to stay put. "I really do. I put coins in tins, I donate larger amounts when I can and I encourage others to do so."

"But signing up is really important. It means a constant flow of money, a good supply of goats..."

"I can't commit to regular payments. I don't earn much money. Like I said, I give when I feel I'm able to."

"I'll sign up," said Tex, trying to allay the tension and feeling somewhat positive after several cups of coffee at a dingy Flinders Lane cafe called The Bosch.

"But you don't earn much money either," I protested, annoyed Tex was getting between me and lunch.

"It's not much," said BYIG. "Ok. I'll need your bank account details."

"What?" said Tex.

"Your bank account details so we can make direct debits."

"You're shitting me," I said.

"I shit you not."

"I'm not giving you my bank account details," said Tex, beginning to realise he was in too deep.

"It's the only way we can sign you up."

"But I don't know them off the top of my head."

"I'll be happy to ring your bank and confirm your details. Give me your phone and you'll need to have your credit or debit card and driver's license handy."

"You're shitting me?" I repeated, so flabbergasted I was having trouble articulating.

"I already told you I'm not."

"Well fuck that. I'm not giving you my bank account details!" declared Tex, suddenly defiant.

"Yeah," I agreed. "Who the fuck are you?"

"I represent Amnestfam Green-Vision..."

"Yeah, but who the fuck are you?" I asked. "Come on Tex, let's go have dumplings."

"Think of the poor Africans while you eat your lunch," shouted BYIG, turning to a hapless business man eating a sushi roll. "Hey! Great day huh?"

*

This is largely a true story, and my attitude has finally been justified by the recent reports that many of these collectors are employed by a marketing company. This is, of course, not particularly surprising. However it means that a portion of your donation goes to a corporation and not to the kids or the goats. I'd want to know what portion makes it to the poor African fellow ploughing the field, and what portion to the managing director of Cornucopia, and I'd want this stated up front. If it's not stated, or the guy in the t-shirt doesn't know, then the whole affair can be considered a dodgy sham (as opposed to a fair sham).

For the record, I think people should give to charities if they are lucky enough to be able to afford to. But it should be the individual's choice which charity he or she gives to and when and how much.

*

Incidentally, it also pisses me off when someone does the hard sell on me in general. Whether it's a charity, a Lygon St restaurant or a professional tout on the streets of Bangkok, I will not buy a goddamn thing if somebody tells me to. I want the decision to be mine. I want to employ my free will, resist hard selling, resist advertising and resist all forms of marketing. Of course it's hard to say whether I've managed to avoid these influences, given the insidiousness of advertising. I mean, beer ads do make a great point.