Completely Unnecessary

A couple friends and I took a trip to charming Adelaide last month.

Cleaning out my mobile’s inbox has yielded some treasures of Melbourne bias against their South Australian neighbours.

Everyone I was in communication with that weekend expressed concern after learning I was in Adelaide, but two reactions stand out (names removed to protect the guilty):

One: Why the fuck are you in Adelaide? And, yes, of course it’s a hole.

Two: Yikes! How did you end up there?

No one assumed we’d gone there of our own free will.

To be fair, we spent most of the weekend terrified of inappropriate touching and/or being vomited on. (I haven’t been as afraid of being touched since a man in San Jose, Costa Rica grabbed me and asked for money.)

One incident in particular, I think, sums it all up pretty well. A girl in a kebab shop walked up to Violeta and me and declared, “I’m not going to kill anybody tonight!”

She was an employee.

On the upside - there is great Greek food (and fig martinis) and a reasonably good breakfast place. (Your concierge, however, will not know these things. I could be a better concierge after one weekend in Adelaide than either of the two men employed by they hotel at which we stayed.)

In summary, Melburnians may hate Sydneysiders, but they are dismayed by Adelaideians (Adelaidwegians?)

[Sigh, I will do anything to avoid work. I have both cleaned out my inbox and then blogged about it.]

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In yet another act of shameless self-promotion, that Victorian suffragists piece I’ve been crapping on about for a year and a half has been published by the Public Records Office Victoria.

You can click here for the full issue of the journal or link directly to the article in html or pdf. (I recommend the pdf - they made the pictures look all fancy!)

Here’s the abstract:

In 1891, women’s suffrage advocates collected the signatures of some 30 000 Victorians, all supporting the vote for women. Quickly dubbed the ‘Monster Petition’, it remains one of the largest documents ever presented to Parliament. Some of the most famous names in the suffrage movement grace the ‘Monster’, but the majority of women who signed it were not well-known names. This paper explores the lives of seven women who were left out of the history books. Working-class and living in Davis Street, North Carlton, Agnes, Eliza, Helen, Ellen, Sarah, Ada and Jessie were not ‘history makers’, yet they still made history. Their stories paint a fuller, more accurate picture of women’s history and the history of the suffrage movement in Victoria. This paper argues for the significance of all historical figures, and suggests that the smallest of us can play a role in major historical events.

The other articles look really interesting. And the whole journal’s online and free to read!

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Spring!

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Look, I’m not the fittest cat on the planet. I do things like reading for a living and abhor things like running. It’s clear to me that I’m not most likely Olympian.

In addition, there are some sports that just look really difficult. Like hurdles. Or shotput. It looks hard as hell to throw a shotput. [Or is shotput the name of the sport and the ball is called something else?]

But while I’ve accepted the fact that I will never be a shotputress, I’m pretty convinced that I could play water polo at an Olympic level.

Granted, tonight is the first time that I’ve ever seen water polo on teevee, but it looks mostly like short bursts of swimming (check), treading water (check) and close-range throwing (checkish).

[Also, why isn't it called 'water soccer' (or 'football'), since it closely resembles soccer and completely lacks any sticks.]  [To that end, why isn't polo called 'horse hockey'? There's a sport I could get behind.]

Actually, the only thing keeping me from a water polo career is the thought of being wet again today (or ever again). I know we’re all supposed to be happy about the precipition given the status of the dams, but cold, driving rain is my least favorite weather ever. I felt (and looked) as though I’d been drowned when I got to school today.

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Sometimes you get what you pay for - sometimes you get a lot less.

I’ve been going to the Biba Academy to get my hair cut since I’ve lived here. Like the Aveda School, they’re generally good and all supervised - I’ve gotten one relative dog of a haircut, but whatever.

My hair’s pretty easy to cut - being stick straight and all - and the uptick in Australian salon prices is one of the few cost adjustments I just haven’t gotten used to. (My housemate, Kass, and I now judge the price of big ticket items in terms of how many of her accidental $200 haircuts they cost. For instance, a pair of $150 boots are only 3/4 the price of a haircut. Sold!)

But I’m making more money now, so I thought about treating myself to the lifestyle of those not living off student loans. But in the end, I figured, what was the harm? I’d have them keep it long, and if I didn’t like it, I could go somewhere more expensive in a couple weeks.

So much for that.

Despite my exhortations to keep it longish, but to take some length off the back and generally cut into it to keep it interesting, I am now NOT the proud owner of about two-thirds of my hair.

I have to take my glasses off during haircuts, so it’s always like my own little version of an Extreme Makeover reveal when I put them back on. I can see shapes, however, and I could tell that this was going a bit weird.

We got to the end of the cut and it was pretty blunt and conservative. So her supervisor and I were both like, “Okay, add some layers and break up the line.”

Suddenly, there was lots more cutting. (And pulling, jesus she was like removing follicles to razor my hair). Getting nervous, I joked, “Heh. Better watch out or I’m not going to have much hair left,” as she continued her flurry of inspiration.

About a minute later, I was done joking. “You need to stop cutting. Now.”

The long and the short of it (mostly short) is that my ‘keep it long just in case it’s not what you want plan’ is stuffed. And the front won’t stay behind my ear enough to stay in my helmet, so biking is going to be a joy. Not even Sunny’s grilled pork sandwich has rallied my flagging spirits.

I was having a chat with Avi the other day about how even if we made it super rich, we wouldn’t live in crazy flash houses and the like. We’d be able to live the same or a little bit better and just work way less. (Avi did, however, want one Lamborghini).

Apparently, Pluto, god of money, doesn’t see it the same way. I feel I’ve been punished for considering vaguely excessive expenditure and then rejecting it.

Well, at least I have no split ends. (That, of course, would be impossible considering there is not a single hair on my head that avoided losing several inches of its length.)

Actually, I can sum up the haircut in one quick moment. She went to get a mirror to show me the back, but then stood directly behind me, making it impossible to see anything. I kept trying to get her to move to the side so I could engage in this pointless activity (there was no chance I was letting her back at my head even if it’d been weird), but she just kept standing there. I was literally waving my arms to the right, trying to get her to move, but to no avail. I was like, “Okay, it’s fine. Where’s my coat?”

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Given the fact that I’m routinely told that people’s first impression of me is ‘terrifying’ (and here I am just a snugly little panda), I am sometimes amazed by the things people to whom I haven’t even been introduced will say to me.

Will it surprise you to find out that there’s an example?

Perhaps it’s my penchant for dodgy karaoke bars, but here is an actual interaction I had last night:

Some Guy: Can I ask you a question?

Me: Sure.

Some Guy: You’re a pretty girl with nice boobies.

Me: That is… not a question.

Some Guy: Oh yeah. Can I try that again?

Me: By all means.

Some Guy: There’s a beautiful girl here with nice boobies.

Me: Yeah, still not a question.

He later informed me that I had a ‘nice ass’. It was also not in the form of a question.

A girl could want for a larger pool of adjectives.

I can’t decide if I’m a good feminist or a bad feminist for thinking this was a hilarious interaction. (I was more annoyed by the random who decided to play with my hair at one point - because, no touching).

So here’s the question - why do I appear to frighten those who wind up becoming my friends, whilst people I would never associate feel totally at ease with me?

Are you guys just masochists?

It’s my nice boobies, isn’t it? They’re so nice, it’s scary.

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Or not me.

Chris sends me a link to this video today, with instructions to watch the Chicago section at 2:25:

I’ve watched the girl in the center like a hundred times now. That’s fucking got to be you.

Chris’ filthy mouth aside, he’s almost right. The girl, standing a little bit in front of the crowd making an ostentatious fool of herself ought to be me.

But it’s not.

An edited version of our conversation says more about how my friends view me (and how I view myself) than just about anything else:

Me: That’s not me - though I grant that her spastic movements might lead you to think that.

Chris: It’s a combination of things. The glasses and hair are reminiscent of yours, as is the “I’m being funny right now” facial expression. And the black tank top/cropped pants combo seems like a plausible outfit for you. I feel like if you were to replace whoever that is, the difference in grainy internet footage would be pretty much indistinguishable.

Me: Yeah, it’s really the mouth-open facial gesture during the ’sexy bit’ that makes it seem like me. If she’s from Chicago maybe it’s just something they taught us in public school.

Between this and the girl from Iowa, I’m not as unique and precious a flower as I’ve always assumed.

Though I am disappointed that Chris thinks I would wear those shoes.

(Btw: To Matt, the creator of the film - why such short shrift to Melbourne? We get half a second of Fed Square at 0:56 and that’s it!)

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The Age really stuffed up the other day. See, a new GG’s been appointed in Australia - Queen’s rep, we’re not a republic, it’s a thing - and, get this, she’s a lady.

Yet the Age’s initial article really only managed to gender-tag her in two sentences:

Prominent lawyer, academic and women’s activist Quentin Bryce will replace Major General Michael Jeffery as the Queen’s representative in September.
…
Ms Bryce and her husband, Adjunct Professor Michael Bryce AM AE, have two daughters, three sons and five grandchildren.

The first one isn’t that bad, and they saved the child-tagging for the last sentence. They do manage to give her husband’s honours (AM AE) without noting hers (AC, which is higher), but, overall, a poor showing.

Let’s see if the Herald Sun can do better. (The HS actually ran two articles, both of which are timestamped at 12am, so we’ll look at both):

Article One: First Lady takes G-G reins

KEVIN Rudd has broken with 107 years of tradition by announcing the appointment of Australia’s first female Governor-General.
…
Ms Bryce, 65, is a married mother of five with five grandchildren.

She is a former federal sex discrimination commissioner, law lecturer and a delegate to the United Nations Human Rights Commission.

Ms Bryce’s husband, Adjunct Prof Michael Bryce, is an architect and design expert.

I was unaware that we were referring to a historical pattern of sex discrimination as tradition, so good to know.

The HS also did a much better job of getting the crucial info that she has grown children (and therefore won’t be abandoning them to do this ‘job’ thing) higher up in the story. Description of husband’s profession, check.

That’s pretty good. What else does the HS have to offer?

Woman of substance (and I swear to god this is the lede and opening sentence):

QUENTIN Bryce is a trailblazer in a twinset. Australia’s first female Governor-General has a long record of public service and personal achievement.

Feminist, lawyer, community activist and grandmother, the Governor of Queensland is also a monarchist who believes Australia is well served by its system of government.
…
Ms Bryce was recently recognised by Harper’s Bazaar as one of Australia’s best-dressed women.

She is married to architect and designer Michael Bryce, and the couple have three sons, two daughters and five grandchildren.

Bam! That is some awesome gender-checking. That’s going to be hard to top. But I bet the 2003 Age and HS can do it! I’m sure they described then-appointee GG Michael Jeffery’s appearance, marital status, number of children, position on feminism (or other -isms), and the profession of his wife.

What? They didn’t mention any of those things [the HS article is only available on LexisNexis, so you're going to have to trust me; they mention his wife in an attached Biography]. That’s odd. I wonder why that kind of information wasn’t relevant to his appointment?

You’ll be glad to know, though, that the Canberra Times [also LN] carried an article about Marlena Jeffery the day after the announcement. She had done her husband’s dry cleaning in anticipation, has a ‘terrific smile’ and was looking forward to decorating the family house.

[Note: All articles have reduced Bryce's title - she is currently the Governor of Queensland - from 'Her Excellency' or 'Governor' to 'Ms'. This however, is a consistent Australian convention for both sexes (e.g., Mr Rudd), so I'm not counting it.]

If you feel like reading more, the Daily Telegraph (Sydney’s Murdoch sister to the HS) had comments about Bryce’s breeding and praise from fashionistas.

Links:
Australia to get first female GG [the Age]
First Lady take GG reins [Herald Sun]
Woman of Substance [Herald Sun]
PM names Michael Jeffrey as next GG [the Age]
Why Quentin Bryce is not just your Everage Governor-General [Daily Telegraph]

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Well, thank god.

Yesterday [10 April, 2008] 235 Age journalists voted unanimously for a motion accusing their editor in chief, Andrew Jaspan, of degrading their ability to produce independent journalism.
…
These journalists have grown increasingly angry and desperate over recent months at what they see as an unprecedented erosion of the ideals that have guided the newspaper in the past.

The meeting included open displays of anger with the editor. In one particularly telling exchange the night news editor, Patrick Smithers effectively accused Jaspan of telling an untruth.

The meeting was in response to the Age’s coverage of Earth Hour, the content of which appears to have been driven by… promoters of Earth Hour. Journalists reportedly watched in horror and then malaise as their content was replaced by boosterism pap.

MediaWatch also ran a segment about emails from an EarthHour rep to Jaspan on Monday, 7 April.

The journalists have pledged to meet again and to protect and encourage independent journalism at the paper.

To Age journalists I say: Amen. Your writing - when I can find it beneath the gay-pedophile-hussy-teacher-child-torso-murder-shock stories these days - is still top quality. Fight Jaspan, and the readers will be behind you.

It’s behind their pay wall, but Crikey also has audio of Jaspan being told off. Zing!

The moral of the story is: beware the wrath of angry journalists; they will tell you what an ass you’re being, record it, and then pass the tapes onto a site that will play them over and over and over.

Man, I sure hope none of them have seen the website… they’re gonna be pissed.

Andrew Jaspan? 235 Age journalists can’t be wrong [Crikey via Ramon]

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I have no empirical way to test this - or, shall I say, no desire to empirically test this - but I’m pretty sure that the man who lives next door to me walks outside every time he needs to blow his nose.

I just can’t imagine that it’s a coincidence. Aside from his (recently-infrequent) early morning ‘Heeeeeeeys,’ I never hear from him. Other than nose-blowing.

It just seems really odd when utter silence is occasionally punctuated by nasal pyrotechnics. Let me stress to you that these are not just your average hankie moments, but long, honk-filled purges of his sinuses.

It’s the kind of nose-blowing that makes your unfortunate and curious neighbors look up from their reading in the hopes they might see the schnoz in question.

And then press the ‘Post’ button on their blog…

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