A very personal form of resignation
In this, my final blog for 2006, I thought I'd do something a little more personal and emotional, and actually list all the flaws in my character that I would dearly love to change in 2007 but, unfortunately, all I could come up with were, maybe I should drink less water to save the dams, and maybe I'm too old to be using the expression "bust this, homeys, props to ma peeps."
So, because I'm pretty much a near-flawless specimen of magnificence, I've decided instead just to list all the things I've been doing in 2006, that I'll just keep doing next year, it's what I like to call my New Year's Resignations.
1. I will persevere with my loathing of lettuce. It's got nothing to do with the taste or texture, even though it's like eating crunchy Kleenex, but it just takes up too much room in my fridge. It won't fit into the vegetable bin, it won't squeeze into the bottom shelf, so it's got to go on the upper shelf, taking up prime fridge real estate, pushing the margarine and cream cheese so far up the back I have to nudge them out with a continental cucumber.
2. For another year, I will continue to enjoy any live TV interviews using satellite linkups. I love the three-second sound-delay while the person being interviewed waits for the question so, even though they may have just discovered a cure for cancer, they always look slightly stoned and glazed-over, like Courtney Love at a court hearing.
3. Pandas will keep on repulsing me, with their dopey smiles and splotchy faces, WHY DOES ANYONE LIKE A PANDA? They are just boorish bamboo chewing black and white oafs, with sunken junkie-eyes, that heroin-chic look was so '90s.
4. I vow to keep checking every spam email in my junk inbox, just in case, JUST IN CASE, an important email accidentally wound up in there, this happened to me recently, with all the emails I was getting my from my good friend, Penny Stocks. And another time, an email from my mother wound up in my junk inbox, I had to explain to her that it probably wasn't a great idea to entitle her emails "Son, are you having problems with erectile dysfunction?"
5. I don't know why, but Bono and his wonderful heartfelt generous charity work WILL CONTINUE TO REALLY REALLY IRK ME. I know he's just being caring and compassionate, but there's something deeply irky about him ridding the Third World of debt and saving the lives millions of starving children, it might be the indoor sunglasses.
6. I promise to persist with my appalling phone manner: I'm OK at the start of phone conversations, and I'm alright in the middle of phone conversations, but I have NOOOOOO idea how to end a phone conversation. I can't just finish with a normal "goodbye". Instead I usually do a sleazy "seeya, mate", or a dodgy "take care". Recently I was talking to a friend and, at the end of the conversation, I attempted an extremely regrettable "ciaociao for now-now", then I put down the phone, and we never mentioned it again.
7. I will continue to boycott Spiderman movies until Spiderman starts cleaning up after himself. He just sprays his webby-stuff all over New York City, it's a disgrace. Big jerk.
8. And finally, being the radical anti-establishment urban rebel that I am, I will continue to torment big businesses by going onto their websites, heading for their online merchandising page, then making like I'm going to buy something really expensive but, just when I have to type in my credit card details, quickly shutting off my computer, leaving them devastated because they've just lost a sale. Oh, yeah, I am a Menace 2 Society, homeys, props to ma peeps.
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
The joy of Christmas (alone)
At 11.00am on Christmas morning I awoke in my abode in Waterloo, Sydney. I could look forward to a continental-style breakfast, a few hours reading in my room, many more hanging around in front of the television and, finally, an eight-hour sleep. And all of this I would do alone.
Spending Christmas alone is usually assumed to be a bad thing. Mine may sound to you desperately sad, all too reminiscent of that tragicomic icon of modern male inadequacy, Alan Partridge. But when some charity reported that nearly half a million older people would spend Christmas by themselves, no one asked how large a minority were relieved not to have to bother with it any more. My experience of this ultimate anti-Christmas, and those of the other festive refuseniks I met along the way, suggests that any pity or mockery is displaced. Envy might be more appropriate.
The cabbie who took me to the shops on Christmas Eve was certainly more than happy to be working the next day. Apart from the large number of "wheelchair jobs" resulting from non-emergency ambulance crews taking their holidays, there were lots of people who by early evening were "desperate to get out", he said, making the drive surprisingly easy. After all, what else would he be doing, with no wife or kids to be with? "I'd be down the pub talking a load of old rubbish with my mates," he said.
I got to a pub to find it about two-thirds empty. I walked in and headed for the bar, where I was served by Vazken. He wasn't over the moon to have another shift the next day, but as an Armenian Orthodox Christian, his Christmas is on January 6 anyway, so it was no big deal. According to the last census, rising percentage of Australia's population is not Christian at all. With more than one-quarter of the population with no reason to see the 25th as special, why should it be strange not to celebrate it?
Indeed, I was to meet many more non-Christians, including the Muslim cashier at the Travelex foreign exchange counter, who thought it was "brilliant" to be working on Christmas day because of the extra pay. It was as though, for one day only, the sizeable non-Christian minority got to run the country.
Perhaps what I meant was that by refusing to accepting an invitation to share someone else's, which would never really be mine celebrations, I had defied the expectations of those who think there is only one right way to celebrate, one they may not enjoy, but feel obliged to enact.
There's nothing wrong with a good family gathering at Christmas for those who have a family arrangement that allows it, an opportunity to make it happen and a cultural background that makes Christmas mean something. But if we're honest, there are many people who don't fit this mould. They should not be made to feel like like social pariahs for opting out of the traditional Christmas, or any other widely observed celebration. It is much sadder to attempt to cobble together a traditional Christmas from pieces that don't fit than to throw them all away and do something completely different instead.
On New Year's Eve, another trial of enforced jollity, I will be raising a glass to my fellow Christmas refuseniks who dealt with their situations with honesty and defiance. And I'll be doing it quietly in my bed, avoiding yet another celebration that some see as unmissable. If you feel pity, there's no need. And if you feel envy, there's still time to do something about it.
At 11.00am on Christmas morning I awoke in my abode in Waterloo, Sydney. I could look forward to a continental-style breakfast, a few hours reading in my room, many more hanging around in front of the television and, finally, an eight-hour sleep. And all of this I would do alone.
Spending Christmas alone is usually assumed to be a bad thing. Mine may sound to you desperately sad, all too reminiscent of that tragicomic icon of modern male inadequacy, Alan Partridge. But when some charity reported that nearly half a million older people would spend Christmas by themselves, no one asked how large a minority were relieved not to have to bother with it any more. My experience of this ultimate anti-Christmas, and those of the other festive refuseniks I met along the way, suggests that any pity or mockery is displaced. Envy might be more appropriate.
The cabbie who took me to the shops on Christmas Eve was certainly more than happy to be working the next day. Apart from the large number of "wheelchair jobs" resulting from non-emergency ambulance crews taking their holidays, there were lots of people who by early evening were "desperate to get out", he said, making the drive surprisingly easy. After all, what else would he be doing, with no wife or kids to be with? "I'd be down the pub talking a load of old rubbish with my mates," he said.
I got to a pub to find it about two-thirds empty. I walked in and headed for the bar, where I was served by Vazken. He wasn't over the moon to have another shift the next day, but as an Armenian Orthodox Christian, his Christmas is on January 6 anyway, so it was no big deal. According to the last census, rising percentage of Australia's population is not Christian at all. With more than one-quarter of the population with no reason to see the 25th as special, why should it be strange not to celebrate it?
Indeed, I was to meet many more non-Christians, including the Muslim cashier at the Travelex foreign exchange counter, who thought it was "brilliant" to be working on Christmas day because of the extra pay. It was as though, for one day only, the sizeable non-Christian minority got to run the country.
Perhaps what I meant was that by refusing to accepting an invitation to share someone else's, which would never really be mine celebrations, I had defied the expectations of those who think there is only one right way to celebrate, one they may not enjoy, but feel obliged to enact.
There's nothing wrong with a good family gathering at Christmas for those who have a family arrangement that allows it, an opportunity to make it happen and a cultural background that makes Christmas mean something. But if we're honest, there are many people who don't fit this mould. They should not be made to feel like like social pariahs for opting out of the traditional Christmas, or any other widely observed celebration. It is much sadder to attempt to cobble together a traditional Christmas from pieces that don't fit than to throw them all away and do something completely different instead.
On New Year's Eve, another trial of enforced jollity, I will be raising a glass to my fellow Christmas refuseniks who dealt with their situations with honesty and defiance. And I'll be doing it quietly in my bed, avoiding yet another celebration that some see as unmissable. If you feel pity, there's no need. And if you feel envy, there's still time to do something about it.
Sunday, December 24, 2006
A tough time of year for singletons
It’s all going off around my new pad at the moment. There have been two of us, boys living among the clutter for the last few weeks and it feels as if we are all jolly young students again. We shouldn't really be living like this as we are definitely the wrong side of 18. It would be far more normal, according to my mother, to be living alone in a nice little flat back home in Bombay.Bizarrely enough my roomie – found himself a girlfriend just in time for the festive season. Miraculously he has magicked up a divine female who he is spending New Year snuggling up to - well done mate.
This time of year is particularly trying for singletons, we all know that, and my house is full of hormones and drama. I am single and new in Sin Sydney. So am mooching around the place feeling sorry for myself. I seem to burst into tears a lot of the time for no reason and think that maybe I could be medically termed depressed at the moment. I am thinking of toddling down the road to ask the doctor for some seasonal happy pills.
The fact that all my mates in the new city are already off for “our” Christmas and New Year holiday without me riles too. I was supposed to be on a “cheer up” date the other night, but that ended up in me talking about my ex-girlfriend and she about her past. Great night that was. It was hardly surprising that there was no follow-up call. Then a dear friend who has not had good sex since cows were edible in India rings to tell me he has spent the whole of Sunday in the most rapturous lovemaking and tender embraces with a divine new goddess he picked up on a plane. It’s all getting a bit much, with even my neighbour singing carols on the bloody stairs. Lah did dah.
I’ve always believed — that the single most important thing in life is to find a person with whom you can share your life intimately: your other half, your best friend, your lover, a person to whom you can confide all your secrets, the one you go to first with good news and first with bad. We all look for it, and it’s a rarity, a privilege. If you find it, then I believe you’ve won the greatest prize there is. And if love is the greatest prize, I don’t know what comes second, but whatever it is, it’s so far behind, it’s like a runner being lapped by everyone else on the track.
I suppose I feel Miss West's experience ought to be celebrated. She is an exceptional woman. I knew that, and so does everyone who knows her. She had such dignity and selflessness, such compassion, understanding, patience — so many things. Knowing I was loved by somebody as fine as her gave me a strength, a self-confidence that I don't have without her. She validated me. I still grieve over her loss, her absence. I still think: “Oh, if only she were to walk through the door now...” The pain doesn’t go away. Nothing helps; nothing compensates for her not being here. However good life is now or may become, it will never be as good as life before Miss West. It’s too late. But even now, she’s my constant companion. I think about her every day and I dream about her most nights. When it comes to making decisions, I still think: “What would Miss West say?”
I pay the price of my indiscretions. My immaturity and absolute blindness in not realising what I had, failure to treasure it, nurture it, has led to me loosing the most valuable person to ever walk into my life. Sin of breaking a heart was committed by me - repentance not in sight. I suppose it comes back to that old question: is it better to have loved and lost than not to have loved at all? There’s a wonderful film called Shadowlands, which tells the story of C S Lewis and his love for this woman, Joy, who becomes terminally ill. When she’s dying she says to him: “We can’t have the happiness of yesterday without the pain of today — that’s the deal.” And I suppose it’s the same with me.
Its not the fall which kills you, its the landing! I kept falling for four years without once realising. Crash landed last year, and trust me it hurts. Where I go from here is any ones guess.
Friday, December 15, 2006
Bridget Bond
Was trying to explain a female friend recently, men are predictable. Their desires are simple: to be unquestionably powerful, acquire the world's most beautiful women and drive the swankiest cars. This not-so-secret male fantasy has fuelled the unparalleled James Bond franchise since its inception. In fact, Bond is to men what Harry Potter is to kids. Both recreate daydreams about either alpha males with guns or boy wizards with magic wands.
But if human fantasies translated into literary and cinematic figures can become such instant hits, where has the secret fantasy of women escaped to? Why is there no franchise detailing the adventures of a goddess every girl wants to be? And what would this goddess be like? Imagine a female character who is stunningly beautiful, filthily rich, insuperably powerful and irresistibly attractive to men.
Would women queue up to watch her escapades many times over? In all likelihood, no. Such a woman has in fact been equated to evil incarnate, as Miranda Priestly in The Devil Wears Prada. Then, is the fumbling, pitiful Bridget Jones the heroine of the female race? Women certainly empathise with her but, as we all know, nobody would want to be her. Rachel Green of Friends and Carrie Bradshaw of Sex and the City are possible contenders for the position but neither could command her own franchise or be as undisputed an aspiration as James Bond.
Women have traditionally been conceived as objects of desire, not desiring subjects. Has the modern woman not yet shaken off that blindfold to define her own superwoman? The conventional heroines of women were figures like Jane Austen's Elizabeth Bennet, who is rewarded for her relatively freethinking mind by being married off to a rich man. In India, the culturally enforced ideal is Sita. Every woman should want to be like her, to the point that some women actually do. How unfortunate that the female fantasy isn't the feisty and eminently likeable Draupadi, with her five husbands, unconcealed sexuality and obvious power.
In truth, though, there seems to be something wrong with each of these characters. Maybe a female fantasy hasn't yet been pinned down because she would need to be regulated by ideas of political correctness. Or perhaps this vacuum in popular culture will always exist because women will never settle for being as uncomplicated and predictable as children and men.
Was trying to explain a female friend recently, men are predictable. Their desires are simple: to be unquestionably powerful, acquire the world's most beautiful women and drive the swankiest cars. This not-so-secret male fantasy has fuelled the unparalleled James Bond franchise since its inception. In fact, Bond is to men what Harry Potter is to kids. Both recreate daydreams about either alpha males with guns or boy wizards with magic wands.
But if human fantasies translated into literary and cinematic figures can become such instant hits, where has the secret fantasy of women escaped to? Why is there no franchise detailing the adventures of a goddess every girl wants to be? And what would this goddess be like? Imagine a female character who is stunningly beautiful, filthily rich, insuperably powerful and irresistibly attractive to men.
Would women queue up to watch her escapades many times over? In all likelihood, no. Such a woman has in fact been equated to evil incarnate, as Miranda Priestly in The Devil Wears Prada. Then, is the fumbling, pitiful Bridget Jones the heroine of the female race? Women certainly empathise with her but, as we all know, nobody would want to be her. Rachel Green of Friends and Carrie Bradshaw of Sex and the City are possible contenders for the position but neither could command her own franchise or be as undisputed an aspiration as James Bond.
Women have traditionally been conceived as objects of desire, not desiring subjects. Has the modern woman not yet shaken off that blindfold to define her own superwoman? The conventional heroines of women were figures like Jane Austen's Elizabeth Bennet, who is rewarded for her relatively freethinking mind by being married off to a rich man. In India, the culturally enforced ideal is Sita. Every woman should want to be like her, to the point that some women actually do. How unfortunate that the female fantasy isn't the feisty and eminently likeable Draupadi, with her five husbands, unconcealed sexuality and obvious power.
In truth, though, there seems to be something wrong with each of these characters. Maybe a female fantasy hasn't yet been pinned down because she would need to be regulated by ideas of political correctness. Or perhaps this vacuum in popular culture will always exist because women will never settle for being as uncomplicated and predictable as children and men.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
BRIEF CASE: Life is Contrary
Gosh, life is way too confusing — first there are the manufacturers and advertisers jumbling up my poor mind with their plethora of choices about which flour (fortified, multigrain, soya-enriched), which bread (white, brown or wholemeal), which soap (with glycerine, moisturiser or exfoliating particles?), which toothpaste (with or without fluoride?), which TV (how many inches? Plasma screen or LCD?) and which washing machine (front loading? Top loading?) to buy. On top of that the stress of trying to decide which caller tune for my mobile. Help! If I don't decide fast they'll sms me 30 more options. Life in earlier times must have been easier, I think blearily, head full of decisions made, not made, to be made. Tea or coffee? With ginger or cardamom?
Decisions, decisions — hang them all — I settle down to read a book of proverbs instead. Proverbs. Where would we be without them — those pithy sentences which sum up the accumulated wisdom of the human race? But very soon it becomes clear that whoever they were who handed us down these proverbs were equally big on choices. No one-size-fits-all wisdom for them — they certainly didn't believe in putting all their eggs in one basket.
Go figure these. Does a stitch in time save nine? Or is it better to go with 'if it ain't broke don't fix it'? Is it more prudent to play safe and thus not land in sorry circumstances or should one go with the nothing ventured, nothing gained philosophy? Do opposites attract or is it birds of a feather that flock together? Should you strike while the iron is hot or would it be wiser to look before you leap? Should I trip through life happily, secure in the belief that the best things in life are free, or should I look suspiciously upon free lunches and other freebies? Is forewarned truly forearmed or is it okay to go with the flow and cross one's bridges once one comes to them? And count those drafted chickens too, only after they are hatched?
And after that, does one call in many hands to make light work of the chickens or will too many cooks spoil the murg tikka masala? The truth ain't no easy answers. Life's contrary, that's what.
Gosh, life is way too confusing — first there are the manufacturers and advertisers jumbling up my poor mind with their plethora of choices about which flour (fortified, multigrain, soya-enriched), which bread (white, brown or wholemeal), which soap (with glycerine, moisturiser or exfoliating particles?), which toothpaste (with or without fluoride?), which TV (how many inches? Plasma screen or LCD?) and which washing machine (front loading? Top loading?) to buy. On top of that the stress of trying to decide which caller tune for my mobile. Help! If I don't decide fast they'll sms me 30 more options. Life in earlier times must have been easier, I think blearily, head full of decisions made, not made, to be made. Tea or coffee? With ginger or cardamom?
Decisions, decisions — hang them all — I settle down to read a book of proverbs instead. Proverbs. Where would we be without them — those pithy sentences which sum up the accumulated wisdom of the human race? But very soon it becomes clear that whoever they were who handed us down these proverbs were equally big on choices. No one-size-fits-all wisdom for them — they certainly didn't believe in putting all their eggs in one basket.
Go figure these. Does a stitch in time save nine? Or is it better to go with 'if it ain't broke don't fix it'? Is it more prudent to play safe and thus not land in sorry circumstances or should one go with the nothing ventured, nothing gained philosophy? Do opposites attract or is it birds of a feather that flock together? Should you strike while the iron is hot or would it be wiser to look before you leap? Should I trip through life happily, secure in the belief that the best things in life are free, or should I look suspiciously upon free lunches and other freebies? Is forewarned truly forearmed or is it okay to go with the flow and cross one's bridges once one comes to them? And count those drafted chickens too, only after they are hatched?
And after that, does one call in many hands to make light work of the chickens or will too many cooks spoil the murg tikka masala? The truth ain't no easy answers. Life's contrary, that's what.
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