Defence of the Fertility Control Clinic

The front gate of the Fertility Control Clinic in East Melbourne is a frontline of the struggle over life and death rights in Melbourne.

A group of Catholic protestors (the Helpers of God’s Precious Infants) meet there at 7:30am, six days a week, to protest patients’ moral rights to a legal service, authorised by elected representatives of the people of Victoria three years ago. The protest expresses their unflagging commitment to expunging this parliamentary offence against the revealed word of their god.

Anyone who’s ever been in a car with children will know that when they’re not crying, pulling each other’s hair or stuffing bit of fruit behind the car seats, they’re asking endless, unanswerable questions. Why is that cup blue? Why is France so far away? How long is it since you’ve been in an elevator? Why do the god people think that Jesus died for us, didn’t he just die? Did he die for Jewish people too? And why does that do me any good? Can I have a biscuit? Why do I have to have a sister anyway? Why is leaving a light on going to make the world warmer? Will the greenhouse effect thing mean we get more tomatoes?

Mostly all these conversations do for me is prove how little I know about light refraction, geography, comparative theology, linguistics and the art of saying no. But the climate change one threw me a curvier than usual ball, because I thought I did know about it. Not only did I study it at university, but I regularly get into shouty conversations at the local about climate change, how much more evidence do I need of my all knowing brain than a science elective and some late-night, wine-fuelled table thumping?

The taxi driver in Maui picked the accent straight away.

“Look out!” he said. “The Aussies are here!”

Turns out he used to date a woman from Australia. She used to bring tour groups to Hawaii and when she did, she brought a leg of lamb for him.

“She’d drop the lamb on Maui, go do her tour on the big island, and then come back here and cook me the lamb. Pretty sweet set up.”

I asked him if he’d been to Australia.

“Spent some time in Sydney,” he told me. “Was thinking of settling there until you guys went all socialist.”

Oh, Jesus, I thought. Here we go. I’ve lived in the US and I’ve had these conversations before. You are on a hiding to nothing. No matter what facts you array against their anecdotes and Trivial Pursuit-level knowledge of your country, you cannot shift their preconceptions. Still, I couldn’t resist.

“So you want to compare economies?” I asked.

First of all, let me make it very clear: I do not have a problem with science. Secondly, let me make it even clearer: I have a problem with science.

It would seem that today science has taken over all aspects of our society: industry, government, even the medical establishment; I ask you, when did we as a people decide to grant dictatorship to this insidious discipline? When did we decide to abandon personal responsibility, individual freedom, and Christian conscience to the dogmas of “the scientific method”? I hate to be the sort of person who points out the similarities between the scientific establishment and Hitler, but it seems as if in today’s technophiliac, test tube-obsessed, petri dish-worshipping world, there is nobody else willing to take up this most vital of cudgels.

Perhaps I should preface this article with “I’m not a scientist, but…”.

A long time ago, people used to believe that it was necessary to cut up a cow or a slave to make sure the Sun came up each day, because the Sun was a ball of fire being dragged across the sky by some god or spirit. Or perhaps it was a self-propelled being of fire, either way it and/or its carriers had to be kept fed and happy.

They didn’t know this as observed fact, but there were apparently well-informed shamans or priests who said it was so, because visions and don’t argue with me or you’ll be the next one in the fire-creature’s tummy. The ancients knew it because they were told; it was all the evidence they had.

I know the sun’s going to come up every morning, and I know that it’s because (in very simple terms) the Earth is a huge spinning ball of rock orbiting the Sun, which is an even-huger ball of burning gas.

I never used to drive my car. It sat outside my house, different random parts either rusting or drying out depending on their orientation, the windscreen collecting dust, leaves, and at one point a mistakenly-applied-by-council ‘abandoned car’ sticker. Each year, registration loomed like a shadowy, expensive ogre, rendered marginally bearable by Bill, the World’s Most Forgiving Mechanic. Eventually, though, I realised that my car was more painful trouble than it was worth, so I got rid of it.

Now I’ve decided to do the same thing with my uterus. A reasonably accurate analogy except that Bill has never tinkered with my uterus or given it a pink slip*.

I won’t go into too much detail for risk of making blokes do that she’s-talking-about-lady-parts face that blokes make, but I have a couple of nagging medical problems with my uterus. Nothing serious, but definitely annoying, occasionally painful and everyday-life-affecting. About a third of all women have the same affliction, but I’m just really, really good at it. There are a couple of procedures available for treatment, and I’ve chosen a hysterectomy. I could not be more excited about it.

Soften The Fck Up is an initiative aimed at breaking down the “tough Aussie bloke” façade and getting men to open up to each other if they are depressed, worried or, as they put it, just feeling crap. On their website, they say,

“We’re standing up to be counted. We’re saying it’s time we chuck out that tough Aussie bloke stereotype and bring back the laid-back Aussies. Speak up if you’re not feeling right. Soften the fck up like a real man would.

Look after your mates if something seems a bit off. Ask them if they’re okay. If they’re really okay. Ya gut will usually be right, even if your mate doesn’t wanna talk about it. Grab a beer and have a chat.”

I wanted to like it. I really did. Mike Stuchbery and Ben Pobjie, who I respect both as writers and survivors, have written articles for them which gives the initiative some credibility. But the more I looked at it and the more I thought about it, the angrier it made me.

While it’s wonderful that people are getting the message out about depression and mental illness, it seems to be being done in such a dumbed down, made-for-television way that I wonder whether it’s simply trivialising something that was previously ignored.

In the last six weeks of 2011, I attended six weddings. Week after week I found myself donning a suit to spend the day eating, drinking, making merry and dispensing presents like it was Christmas. And then I did it all over again, because it actually was Christmas. Well, except for the suit.

Now, I’m not mentioning this marital marathon to boast about my popularity — after all, if I was a boastful person, I wouldn’t be so popular, would I? I’m raising it because while each individual event was delightful, the cumulative effect was bizarre. I felt like I’d overgorged on joy, much as I also overgorged on wedding cake.

Now, each wedding was entirely lovely. Each featured heartfelt, sincere vows and lovely music, and I’m even counting the couple who walked down the aisle to the theme from Star Wars. There were funny, moving speeches, with the one I made a particular highlight, for me at any rate. And each event gave me the chance to catch up with lots of old friends, most of whom I was surprised to learn I still quite like.

My summer of weddings wasn’t exactly a unique experience, of course. We Aussies like to cram our nuptials into those precious weeks when the weather’s warm and expatriate friends are in town to update us on how much better life is in London and New York. One couple chose a date a week before Christmas only to discover that both sets of parents had gotten married on the very same day. Which was a lovely, romantic coincidence, despite suggesting that both kids had forgotten their parents’ wedding anniversary.

I imagine most of you reading this have a blog or your own little website, a place where you’ve invested time and energy so as to carve out your own little corner of the web. You’ve probably bought your own domain name, or have a cool name on tumblr and you’re quite proud of it.

Imagine that you’re wrapping up the year and you’ve written a list of your favourite songs from the past year. Imagine then, that someone in the comments posts a link to one of those songs, where someone else can download it. Under the proposed Stop Online Piracy Act (And Preventing Real Online Threats to Economic Creativity and Theft of Intellectual Property Act), you are liable for the content posted and, should anyone follow the link and download the song, your domain name can be seized and your site blocked from major search engines. All for one little comment. There’s a fantastic infographic at www.americancensorship.org/infographic.html that explains how this system works.

Now you might be wondering why I’m more than a little bit worried and more than a little bit upset about a bill that would seemingly only affect American web users. Think about how many different web services you use that reside in or were created in, the United States? Tumblr, where this piece was first published, is hosted in the US.

In 1796 a very special and very dangerous kind of idiot was born.

Smallpox was running rampant throughout Europe until a brilliant surgeon named Edward Jenner noticed something interesting. Victims of the less dangerous cowpox disease appeared immune to smallpox. He tested this theory by injecting an 8-year-old boy with pus from the sores of a cowpox ridden dairymaid. The outcome of that simple but disgusting experiment was that, almost 200 years later, smallpox was eradicated. We also got a new English word — vaccination from the Latin word for cowpox vaccinia.

Given the horrors of smallpox, one would assume that this action would be hailed as a laudable enterprise. Unfortunately for the more rational population, a group of anti-vaccination propagandists began spreading the word that the cowpox vaccine maleficent. A newspaper cartoon from 1802 bears the caption “The Cow Pock -or- the Wonderful Effects of the New Inoculation!” and features a stunted dwarf carrying a bucket labelled “Vaccine pock hot from the cow” to a room full of patients. These unfortunates find miniature cows erupting from various parts of the body. A woman vomiting up a cow while another crawls out from beneath her dress is particularly repellent.

As a full-time technology journalist who has specialised in the critiquing of video games for over a decade, you’d be amazed how many times I’ve been told that I have “every teenage boy’s ultimate dream job”. What amazes me more is the fact that I haven’t rammed a joystick down the throat of every person to have uttered this infuriating sentence. In just a handful of words this seemingly innocent statement not only belittles the career path of a thirty something professional, it also sums up how misunderstood and incorrectly stereotyped today’s interactive entertainment is. The truth of the matter is that video games are big business, and this revolutionary form of entertainment is no longer solely enjoyed by pimply pre-pubescent boys.

As a 36 year old male surrounded by friends who share the same passion for blasting animated pixels into the digital afterlife, I know through my own day to day observations that not all gamers are still in high school. Thankfully you don’t need to take my anecdotal evidence as the only proof - there’s also a comprehensive report that backs up my conclusion - the Digital Australia 2012 report. To be clear, this survey was indeed commissioned by the iGEA (Interactive Games & Entertainment Association), an organisation with a vested interest in spreading the truth that gaming isn’t just for geeks. However, the author of the report, Jeffrey E. Brand Ph.D of the School of Communication and Media at Bond University, has strived to ensure that it’s as objective as possible, sampling 1200 random Aussie households to find out the truth about how Australians really play in the 21st century.

Oh yes, I’m the great pretender
Adrift in a world of my own
I play the game but to my real shame
You’ve left me to dream all alone

They may have recorded this over fifty years ago but The Platters knew what they were talking about. Why bother actually learning how to do something, when you can simply pretend? There’s no point in making an effort when you might not turn out to be any good... so fake it instead. Who’s going to know?

Welcome to the Age of Pretence, a world where simulation is cooler than reality. Pretending is a billion-dollar industry these days; nowhere more so than the gaming industry. Early flight simulators may have been the domain of the military, but since then there’s been no looking back. From the comfort of our lounge rooms we can hurtle around a race track, or pilot a jet fighter, or blow holes in a succession of enemy soldiers. All in the name of good clean fun.

I used to love watching acclaimed kitchen goddess, the luscious Nigella Lawson, when she first appeared on the small screen as the West’s primary exponent of food porn. By God she was sexy, I thought, and her defiance of the fashion imperative for women to starve ourselves so we’d look like end-stage junkies was refreshing.

But lately it seems to me that Nigella’s spontaneity has waned, to be replaced by rather more artifice; she is now imitating her original self, as if that original has lost interest in the proceedings and withdrawn, bored, to observe. Another aspect of Nigella’s personality hams it up until she’s almost a parody of herself. This may well be intentional, and if so, she needs to ham it up a little more to reassure us. I suspect though, that Nigella really has lost interest in the character she created, but how does one discard such a popular and revenue-generating persona?

Some people hold political affiliations with an almost religious fervour.

Their political beliefs shape everything, from their world-view to where they buy their groceries. Almost every major decision is influenced in some way by their political beliefs. Along with their entrenched views often comes something far more concerning: the complete inability to consider alternative points of view.

We all know bigots — people so slavishly devoted to an idea that they will not countenance any alternative. But I’m talking about something a far more subtle and insidious.

Take your average left wing adherent. It’s not hard to find one — social media is saturated with bloggers and tweeters ranting about the evils of Tony Abbott, the hated legacy of John Howard and the moral deficiency of the entire right wing.

To this adherent, the IPA is the birthplace of devils and the Liberal party is where they are nurtured The right winger is selfish, xenophobic, homophobic, sexist, heartless and devoid of compassion or any other redeeming feature.

Most of us have memories of staying in a caravan park. Whether it was as kids, parents, schoolies or backpackers, the caravan park is something that we share as a common piece of our past. Some of the memories are fantastic, like your first kiss on a summer holiday to the coast, in the dim and cool confines of the canvas annexe beside your parents’ van. Some memories are dreadful, like tents collapsing in the rain, algae in the pool, or worst of all, getting tinea from the amenities block on that one time you forgot to wear your thongs in the shower. It’s rare to find someone who grew up in Australia who doesn’t have at least one story about staying in a caravan park.

Caravan parks are undergoing a renaissance as a growing number of Baby Boomers take to the road in an assortment of vans and motorhomes, while their kids begin the cycle with their own families, in tents and camper trailers. Unlike hotels or holiday units, where holiday makers carry on the same isolation typical of our normal lives, in a caravan park everyone lives partially in public, sharing their space with strangers and in turn, observing and being observed by those around them. There are some lessons that we could learn from caravan parks as we look to build a more equitable and sustainable future for our society.

An hors d’œuvre course to the French, like antipasto to the Italians, is the start of the midday meal. Individual, small, simple dishes designed around an aperitif to stimulate the appetite, make for a novel, but civilized and leisurely approach to. In a world where we constantly try to eat less and where the time and money afforded to meals and manners is so diminished, it seems sensible to identify dishes once attributed to the hors d’œuvre course. After all, hors d’œuvre dishes are a very simple affair and work perfectly as an easy light meal or snack with a robust glass of chilled wine. These versatile ideas are particularly pertinent in the warm summer months where we may be less inclined to cook, yet wish to take to full advantage of the bounty of summer ingredients.

Hors d’œuvre are never overworked, nor do they appear contrived and certainly they are never reconstituted from leftovers or something intended for something. Essentially hors d’œuvre should be exactly the right food for the moment. It may consist of a selection of small dishes served with piles of the best and freshest bread. Alternatively it may be a single large salad such as a Salad Niçoise, or dish of prawns and beans. Either way, everyone serves themselves from the table. So long as you render the care and respect the food and your guests deserve everyday ingredients will provide visual appeal that induces excitement, as though they are seen and experienced for the very first time.

Wine retailing, like the rest of the retailing world, is going through a bit of a seismic shift from bricks & mortar to clicks & order, which some might characterize as more of a stampede. In the past year or so, the Aussie consumer has awakened to the benefits (mainly price but also selection) of buying online thanks in a large part to the whinging of Gerry Harvey (Harvey Norman) & his retailing mates.

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