Archive for July, 2010

How long can I write for, though a paralysing hangover?

July 25, 2010

This is an experiment, to watch what goes on when a merchant wants to give away his nicest coat, a homeless man makes warm company, a politician craves peace and the earth shrugs off its own creatures with natural disasters and calls to Man, “Look! I can do it myself, you don’t have to burn any more coal!”

Watch a stereotyped youth wave away society’s little assumptions, made by thinking one thing so often it becomes true to them. One person can do this, and we call them judgmental. When a society does, it’s national identity. Gen Y’s national identity is apathy for the lifestyle around them (laziness), seeing past the predecessors’ need to earn more than others and choosing a smile over a dollar (wasting their lives in their parents’ worn out dens), the evolutionary lust for new ways to live (all ungrateful), the confusion when they follow every forefather’s belief that possessions and income make a person better, and buried in their new clothes and phone bills, they still ask “When does life start, when do I feel fulfilled? What did I do wrong?” (all reckless materialists). They ignore what they know their world and themselves need, to chase what outdated authority has convinced them they ‘should’ be, and fill the inner gaps that appear with whatever rush is closest (all drunks).

God, my head hurts. I can’t see the keyboard. What in hell’s blindest blackest deeps did I do last night?

In the 19th Century, this represented a youth enduring nightmares, and domination by little sharp-nailed goblins. Now it moans, "All I remember is, I passed out at a Tijuana pony show and woke up under a midget."

Even the young accept that their peers have abandoned the world that raised them, and feel no comfort in their parents’ morals. The popular angry opinion is, “They just don’t try. They laze about, and don’t want to achieve anything.”

No species is ‘just’ lazy and survives past one week. Even sloths choose to move slow, because they only eat leaves which lend them almost no energy. They didn’t just change their attitude – which too many working people consider tricky – they decided, “let’s snatch a hold of our entire goddamn metabolism, and slow it down to almost nothing, then just learn to kick the hell out of our preadators.” The Karate Kid’s plot is realistic if you’re a sloth, and instead of Mr Miyagi you have Charles Darwin.

This picture melts you. Until you learn that the sloth just won an arm wrestle, and is snapping his defeated foe's wrist off to celebrate.

My editor asked what’s wrong with my generation the other day. I handed him a list of intellectual friends and their numbers, for interviews in the election coverage (does the alcopop tax still exist? Jesus, my eyes are deflating and it hurts. Triple vodkas and  an iron-fisted drinking game named Buffalo conspired to murder me last night). The first wouldn’t answer – I learned that at the time, he’d been made useless by drunkenness. The second, he woke up with a daytime call. When he put that Generation X outburst to me, I gave away my people’s secrets. “Yeah, they’re so apathetic, my generation don’t aim for anything.”

Now I – and you Taoist philosophers – realise this was a compliment to the species’ next caretakers. When we refuse to reach for a solution that doesn’t make sense to us, we ask why our lifestyle exists. If there’s a kinder, more efficient, sensical way to exist, we’ll form it among ourselves. Gen Y is sweeping clean the old mind’s crippling egotism and, the way young people do once in every age, reinventing their potential. Once, we only trusted feudal barons with greed. Then, Industrial Man woke up and each family had a member counting their coins. Now we drift to trusting each human with nice things, and the young watch five-year-olds carry mobile phones with no nagging urge to buy them nicer, newer closer-to-a-living-thing-that-can-think ones than their friends’. With no pressure, when we ask “Is this a good thing?” we feel the answer arise with the question.

It’s not bad until the little girl needs it to be a good person.

We consider this, peer around and, holy tapdancing Jesus made of bread, we see adults who believe this. The most avid businessmen. When an idea’s loudest voices repulse us, we turn away from it. When that disgust rises in us each time someone tells us to make more money, of course we throw up our arms at society. We work with the mind and the heart, something the shallow-minded don’t try understanding. At your next dinner party, watch the crowd. Which one is loudest, and which is learning the most? Which seems to be the most intelligent? If you guess right, you’ve chosen three different people. Yet a movement’s loudest voices advertise it, and the rowdiest are usually the angriest. Anger breeds extremism – angry people have no limits. So the angriest and loudest in material society barks at us to get up, work, earn money, spend, earn, spend. “Why?” “Because!” “Because why?” “Because it’s what you do!”

Knowing what we do now, Gen Y chuckle at them and shake our heads. Let us figure out why we work first, then we’ll build whatever beautiful, life-affirming thing you desire from work. Our way, not the old one. If you disagree with this, we accept this – be old fashioned. Write your books by hand, take spears into a war, make sure you die with honour so the enemy can’t rape the losers to shatter their will. We are your future, we’re time, and we are changing. Until we get up, all the answers we craved satisfied in our heads, watch us roll in the decadence you call happiness, and the depression rate soar.

That’s why Gen Y is lazy. We refuse to make elderly mistakes.

"MATTHEEEEEWS!" ... well, if the speech bubble's correct, "STOCKPHOTOOOOO"

Sweet bucket of three-nippled Ukrainian circus babies, all I want to do is sleep. It feels like the inside of my head is melting into a puddle of noxious sludge, and the fumes are giving me headspin, and probably cancer of the mind. Why do I do these things to myself?


Trolling Griffith: Hate Ahoy!

July 8, 2010

Griffith, I might not be with you much longer.

Work is picking up in Melbourne. If I find myself there with a houseful of drunken students, I promise to write every week I can. For now, you deserve an early going away present.

While I’m here to watch the fallout, I’m going to type every thought that makes me pause and wonder, “Wait, should I write that in public?” I know you scratch your heads sometimes and ask, “What’s he on about? He’s not picking a side.” That’s because you expect a shock jock. Us columnists have convinced you that to be skilful, we have to hate someone.

"It is hatred, hatred only, which raises me from my cold bedsheets and into the letters page."

See, opinion journalism is just like those wrestling shows your 12-year-old nephew likes. But nobody knows it’s fake. Instead of punches, we throw insults. Our signature move is our political bias. Mine is the Society Has It Wrong, which grown-ups call Philosophical Anarchism. So my arguments are never totally left or right wing. You forget that sometimes, it’s better to fly straight ahead. Not every argument has to end with someone wrong. Please stop screaming for me to break a fold-up chair over someone’s back, there’s always a better way. That’s why every shock jock is closed-minded.

What I write often isn’t my real beliefs. I’m a mind-opening entertainer.

Speaking of irrational! Damn it Atheism, you used to be a beautiful philosophy. “Maybe there’s no God. Maybe this is it, right here. Well, let’s make it into something worth living.” That was you 200 years ago. Now it’s “Whine whine irrational, whine hypocrisy, wahh wahh science wahh, invisible friend, bawwww.” Good-o, even if there’s no evidence that God is fake, using the word ‘science’ makes you automatically right.

I admire tolerant Atheists to the emotional brim. Each of your intelligent lieutenants has a bloodthirsty, loud army to defend. If you base your beliefs on hatred and intolerance, because you oppose hateful bigots, you’re a dictionary-defined hypocrite.

Richard Dawkins is running the world’s biggest daycare centre, where everyone has ADHD.

"Why must you hurt me this way, accursed Matthews?"

At the election, Julia Gillard will gag on Kevin Rudd’s head, which she bit off like a praying mantis. Serves her right for censoring the internet. A few thousand banned sites, most of them legal, including legitimate businesses added either by accident or to help a politician’s agenda. I love her, so do you. Don’t lie. Still, if Labor is a party, the mandatory ISP filter is the ridiculously large beer bong, or that one girl who hooks up with everyone to prove a point. It’s not there for anyone’s health, but to improve their standing – or, at the party, leglessness. Australia will realise this when child porn rings don’t end, bestiality videos keep flowing in, Queensland dentists continue operating, religions besides Catholicism keep thriving and we still live in a land not completely lined with gumdrops, where some fairies will never grow their wings. Or, when the nude young man realises, “I don’t know what that chick was trying to prove, but this itch will not go away and it terrifies me.” Labor get the sleazy wench, and we get the clap. That is why I’m an anarchist.

Stephen Conroy is a power-hungry political cowboy, who can suck Jake Gyllenhaal and Heath Ledger’s pube-mustachioed Brokeback cocks.

Goodbye, Griffith.