Monday, August 23, 2010

Paul Sheehan, and while a few loons depart, the squawking on the pond is just as loud ...



(Above: vale Wilson and Steve. Both hall of famers on the pond, but now sadly it's time to get down the wooden 'pro patria' honour board, drag out the gold gilt, and inscribe their names to celebrate their passing).

Looking at the glass half full - as we love to do on the pond because we love a cliche and a half glass full of a good SA riesling or shiraz - the news that Wilson Tuckey has gone down caused more than a few corks to pop, or screw caps to be unscrewed, on the weekend.

Sure it means that the squawking on the pond has dropped below aircraft engine decibels at maximum roar to a pussycat purr, and some will miss the crazed bugger, but here at the pond we're exceptionally pleased that the electorate took an ironbar to the man, and destroyed his bizarre 'mad uncle' dream of becoming a new Billy Hughes and lasting for fifty years in federal parliament.

If we had a spare dollar for the Godwin's Law jar, we'd made a cheap joke about the reich that only ran thirty years (Tuckey's dream in ruins).

Never fear. The pond shall never lack for first class prize loons, and on a Monday Paul Sheehan is a first class loon of the first water with chocolate medal and bar.

Aghast at the election result, Sheehan doesn't round up the usual bunch of suspects - which is to say grasping Celts and their lazy doltish ways, or Canberrans, or Greens. No, this time, in The Yarra monster is killing us, it's Melbourne and Melburnians:

A great sucking force can be felt around Australia, siphoning resources southwards, down the hungry throat of Melbourne. Australia makes, Melbourne takes.

Keen observers remember that previously it was all the fault of Canberrans:

Our own Prime Minister is implementing his vision of a rapidly expanding federal government and bureaucracy. So far this vision has delivered a spectacular combination of sweeping ambition and systemic failure. All the while, Canberra enjoys full employment and a housing boom, while the rest of the country pays for this brave new world every day, in every way.

And of course on a global level, the Celts:

England makes, the Celts take. The economies of Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland are essentially state-funded.

Sheehan spends an inordinate amount of time berating Melbourne and Victoria for growth driven by immigration, but it's actually much simpler. While you might think Victoria is full of nice people, I know for a fact it's full of Irish bludgers, the lot of them connected to me in some mystical incestuous way by their Celtic genes, or more directly by bloody marital vows. Oh to live out James Joyce on a daily basis ...

Where you might have thought Melbourne to have a large Greek community, the reality is that it's full of Celts and Canberrans, all of them on the take.

Phew, there, done it, I've saved you the trouble of reading an entire Paul Sheehan column in which he parrots the Dick Smith line about immigration by resorting to the thoughts of Bob Birrell, and the greedy ways of Melburnians.

Having berated Melbourne as a Yarra monster, Sheehann grudgingly includes Sydney:

Having drawn a picture of Melbourne's bloated needs, fairness demands the lens be widened to include Sydney. The wider picture is not pretty. The great sucking force is not just coming from Melbourne.

Yes those bloody Celts in Sydney are on the take too.

The result?

So almost the entire export surplus of the two resource-boom states is essentially being transferred to Melbourne and Sydney and their regional economies.

My personal solution?

We need to build a Yarra in the Kimberleys full of grasping Celts so that the mineral wealth can be spent on the spot and in situ, while the concept of national economy disappears up Sheehan's and Birrell's collective fundament. Better still, let's turn Perth into Melbourne so they can use their resources properly. Oh hang on, we'll need a few migrants for that ...

Whatever, here's the new slogan here at the pond! Trams for the Kimberleys, or light rail for Perth, if you want a more modernist catch phrase.

The great irony is the mining boom underpinning Australia's economic prosperity requires only modest increases in immigration. Here, too, Birrell is a willing heretic. In a new paper written with his colleague, Ernest Healy, they conclude: ''The Labor government's high immigration policy has little to do with the skill needs of the resources industry.''

Indeed, which is why I constantly marvel at the way an industry and a business I know something about in the IT sector, currently relies heavily on the 457 regime, and without it, would find it simply impossible to mount its current push into south east Asia. Well over half the staff are on 457's ... and damn it, those Scandinavians and Indians know how to code ...

What this says about the education programs of state governments, led from behind by the Howard government for a full decade, is another matter, except to say that as a forward thinking country Howard was as dumb as Sheehan, and as much of a tech head as Tony Abbott ...

Heigh ho, never mind, if you want to read more about all the ills that immigration brings on the country, you can read Sheehan, but we will settle for this one:

It increases Australia's greenhouse emissions, per capita.

It makes it unlikely Australia can meet its targets of greenhouse gas emission reduction.


Um, Mr Sheehan, in the spirit of Australia gives, Woollahra takes, Australia gives, Herald columnists wank as they take, surely you remember Beware the climate of conformity, in which you firmly established that Ian Plimer was a visionary:

The hypothesis that human activity can create global warming is extraordinary because it is contrary to validated knowledge from solar physics, astronomy, history, archaeology and geology.

That's why we had to develop an entirely new thesis to explain global warming, which happily pinpointed the scientifically verifiable insight that gas emissions could be cut in half by the simple expedient of silencing conservative columnists in the Fairfax and Murdoch presses.

All of this poses the question, if Melbourne is going to become a city of 5 million people, but only by sucking resources from the rest of the country, what's in it for the rest of the country?

Nothing. It should not be surprise then, that on Saturday night Victoria, the state so reliant on big government and big immigration, went hard for Labor and a Melbourne Prime Minister.

It wasn't just parochialism, it was greed.


Um, actually, the good city of Melbourne voted in their infinite wisdom for a Green in the lower house. And in the upper house that prize gherkin Steve Fielding has been swept from the field, with his likely replacement a Greens candidate Richard Di Natale. That's why Bob Brown could boast From where I sit, that's a greenslide (here).

I don't know how Australia will recover from the shock. Wilson and Steve both gone, and bugger me dead, it's a green slide.

Still looking at that glass half full we always have Sheehan ...

Why not amuse yourselves, gentle readers who've made it this far through Sheehan's folly (a much worse drop than Lake's Folly), by heading back in time to as recent as February 2, 2010, wherein the dumb Sheehan spends his time quoting the likes of Viscount Christopher Monckton as he broods on Ten debates the greens didn't want to have.

Can a man be unerringly wrong on matters of detail, rhetoric, economics, love, pain and the whole damn thing?

Yes.

So here's our own rousing conclusion to Sheehan's parochial piece:

It wasn't just parochialism of a Sydney kind, it was just plain bare faced greedy commentariat cupidity.

And now, since Jon Stewart has his moment of zen to end his show - Jon you can always park your slippers in the antipodes, with or without scratchy beard - here's another moment of zen:

Yamaoka Tesshu, as a young student of Zen, visited one master after another. He called upon Dokuon of Shokoku.

Desiring to show his attainment, he said: "The mind, Buddha, and sentient beings, after all, do not exist. The true nature of phenomena is emptiness. There is no relaization, no delusion, no sage, no mediocrity. There is no giving and nothing to be received."

Dokuon, who was smoking quietly, said nothing. Suddenly he whacked Yamaoka with his bamboo pipe. This made the youth quite angry.

"If nothing exists," inquired Dokuon, "where did this anger come from?"

Silly Zen master. He should have said:

If Paul Sheehan exists, I know where this anger came from ...

(Below: and now, since if you do a google image search on Paul Sheehan these days, you might get an actual portrait, or you might get bizarre images from loon pond, here's a couple more conflationary images, showing that in Borrisoleigh Ireland there's a Paul Sheehan leading a useful life running a restaurant and doing good work in the community. And to be sure it's in the county of Tipperary, home of many of my Celtic genes, and a grand place to visit.

So it goes, some Sheehans give, and the Celts take ...)


Sunday, August 22, 2010

Barney Zwartz, and in a post election mood as the nation goes loony, solemn talk of music, beauty, chickens and militant atheists ...


In what can only be construed as a major election victory for the pond, the country has seized the moment and swung solidly every which way to ensure the triumph of loonish principles.

A hung parliament, Wilkie maybe up in Tasmania, PM killer McKew down, the youngest ever politician voted into parliament, an indigenous candidate up in the west, a sprinkling of independents of a wild cat kind, a Green in Melbourne, the Greens with the balance of power in the Senate, once the detritus is cleaned out, and Tamworth as always at the centre of the universe.

Any one who wants to run the country with that balance of power, well good luck with that. Will the NSW Labor party learn anything, and discover the need for principle and discipline and policy and leadership? Is there any irony in Bob Carr's promise of a railway line, which turned into an Olympics and no railway line, derailing a government? No satirical comments please, but when you can't bribe the punters with promises of fairy floss and billions of dollars in railway lines, things have come to a pretty pass.

Will Abbott maintain the discipline he discovered in the campaign and keep things on an even keel as the going gets tough? How soon to the next election, and the next sausage sizzle at the local primary school?

Will all the experts who talked endlessly about the female factor, and the way women would vote for Gillard simply because she's a woman, and because women are empty headed bubble headed boobies, and so stick together through thick and thin, bother to retract one word of their simple minded scribblings?

The good news is that with the Greens getting their watermelon paws on the levers of power, Miranda the Devine is likely to go into such a funk meltdown that the level of hysteria in Murdoch land could reach Faux Noise proportions. And so might Cardinal Pell. Naturally the Devine is so deluded that she can't see ahead more than 24 hours in the news cycle, and penned these immortal words here:

As West Australian results started trickling in, and the prospect of the Coalition governing with Greens and independents sank in, the mood grew more joyous.

Allow me to re-phrase that. As the prospect of the Coalition governing with the secular atheistic dangerous, should be hung from lamp post pinko homosexual pervert watermelon Greens sank in, the Devine grew more deludedly joyous.

Well there's more commentary than fleas throughout the land this quiet, reflective Sunday, and so it seems as good a time as any to revisit Sir Marcus Loane, some time Archbishop of Sydney's wise words:

As God is the Head
of Christ, so Christ is
the Head of Man and
as Christ is the Head
of Man, so Man is the
Head of Woman.


Well at least that's the way he was quoted in an old Oz flick, Going Down, and as politics for the moment are in a lull before the next storm, it seemed as good a time as any to drop in on our old mate Barney Zwartz, brooding and mulling over The boot changes feet - but still crushes.

What with all the political squawking, we sometimes forget to check his scribbles, but it seems good old Barners is terribly worried about militant atheists, though he doesn't come out with it like a man.

Instead he pretends he's only channeling the views of a ratbag American commentator:

US academic and commentator Mark Helprin argues that militant atheists* and secularists are working to impose a rigid non-religious orthodoxy on wider society that, if not opposed, will end religious freedom. The ugliness of former religious marginalisation of unbelievers threatens to become “an equally repulsive mirror image”.

Poor old Barners doesn't seem to understand that starting off a debate about faith by invoking militant atheists is a bit like an atheist evoking fuckwitted Christians. Oh well at least militant Christians. Or Islamics. Or whatever.

It seems that, compared to people who blow people up, kill, maim or annihilate them in their quest to convert them so they can spend their next life in paradise amidst virgins, the militant atheist chappie is totally unreasonable:

The anti-religious employ reason unreasonably, apply moral pressure immorally, deny the shortcomings of their own ideology, misunderstand separation of church and state, offer no satisfactory replacement for religion, and are simply blind and deaf to the most transcendent longings. “Belief has been attacked of late with a fervour that suggests the desire not merely to disprove but to annihilate it,” Helprin writes.

Barners re-tells a Helprin anecdote about a fist fight, suggesting that a fist fight - as a kind of metaphorical example of the futility of t smartarse college debating points - is the kind of tactic Richard Dawkins employs. At least I think that's what he's saying, though whether he thinks being a physical bully boy or a college smartarse is Dawkins' game, I couldn't quite determine.

But what I did love was when Barners got on to the matter of faith:

Since time immemorial, insistence on a sole path to truth has been essential to intolerance. Long the preserve of religion, in the 20th century it went atheistic totalitarian, and has now reached the free West, Helprin says. “The intolerant will tell you in the same breath both that they are not and that they have every right to be; that historically and by nature religion is intolerant and therefore should not be tolerated.” And the enemy can be summarised as faith.

This so resolutely loopy as to be quite charming. The enemy is faith? By golly, it's time to have a word in the ear of all those Christians and Muslims dedicated to their faith.

The enemy is faith? I began to think I was in a bizarro world where Christians attack faith as a problem while pronouncing their faith and decrying their faith all in the same two in one holy duopoly breath ...

It seems what really gets the Christian juices flowing is a bit of advertising:

Helprin attacks the atheist bus campaign that began in Britain and has reached Australia. “Signs on buses tell you it’s OK not to believe in God. Admitted, but what of signs that said, “it’s OK not to be gay”, “it’s OK not to be black”, “it’s OK not to be a Jew”? While true, these statements are more than the simple expression of a point of view. Accurately perceived, they are an ugly form of pressure that while necessarily legal is nonetheless indecent.”

Indeed, though I prefer a sign that says "it's OK not to be a Nazi" because then we'd be more clearly in breach of Godwin's law, especially since there are any number of Christians and Islamics, especially of the racist or sexist kind, who will tell still tell you even unto this day that it's not OK to be gay, it's not OK to be a Jew (come on down Mel and tell us what they did to Jesus), and it's not OK to be black, especially if they happen to be Islamic, born in Kenya and lack a birth certificate.

When you want ugly forms of pressure that might be legal but nonetheless decent, where do we put Cardinal Pell calling Greens pinko pervert secular poofter loving watermelon commies? Sure he used more subtle language, but we got the message ...

Well I guess we can just hang around waiting for Barners to unfurl that sign saying it's okay to be gay and get married in a gay way in a Christian church ...

But back to the subterfuge of quoting a ratbag American as a way of making his points yours:

He says the case against religion rests on three accusations - that historically it has been destructive; that it is incompatible with democracy; and that belief in God is unsupportable – and addresses them in turn. These arguments are familiar to regular posters, except perhaps the democracy one.

This is the idea that Christians want to introduce a repressive theocracy, though the US has never come remotely close and the powerful opposition includes most clergy.

Lordy was it only the other day I was reading Ken Silverstein's Tea party in the Sonora in Harpers, about the total collapse of Arizona at the hands of Republican crazies (behind the paywall, no link):

Soon the committee (the Senate appropriations committee) began to debate whether to post the Ten Commandments at the entrance to the old state capitol. A six-foot granite version located a few hundred feet away did not, it seemed, sufficiently convey the state's piety. "George Washington, our first recognized president of this republic, said you cannot properly govern without the Bible and God, and I couldn't agree more. And John Adams once made the statement that this republic is designed wholly for a moral and religious people and will survive under none other," Pearce, the measure's sponsor, told his colleagues. After a few minutes' more debate, the measure passed, and the committee, having done the people's business, adjourned for the day.

Yep, those poor hapless Christians tormented on all sides by the notion that the constitution, drawn up by more than a few atheists, separated church and state.

On the other hand, I guess we could try setting up a rival brand of religion, housed in say a mosque, in say New York, or say wherever else you might think you can because you own the land, in the currently fevered United States, and see how we might go ... never mind the constitutional rights, just watch the repressive hysterical Christian theocracy go about its business of making damn sure no NIMBY mosque is built anywhere NIMBY to me

Talk about motes and eyes. But Helprin, courtesy of Barners, is just getting warmed up:

On separation of church and state, Helprin says atheists who insist church beliefs must be excluded from the law miss the difference between exclusively religious doctrines, such as the divinity of Jesus, and social ones such as the prohibition of murder. “Primitives” on the religious side think if something is religious doctrine it should be law, but they are far fewer than primitives on the secular side who think if it agrees with religious doctrine it must not be law.

There are so many stupidities involved in this particular line of reasoning that I simply don't know where to begin. Put it down to my primitive nature and my instinctive notion that the Romans actually had a few laws about murder and theft and such like (except when it came to Carthage and Christians in the good old early days) , and surely it agreed with their religious doctrines, but frankly, since I'm not keen on murder, I don't mind if they evoke a couple of dozen deities as the reason for the ban.

But quickly let's move on to the ineffable, because the ineffable is always so ... well, dammit, ineffable:

His next argument is that art and theology are particularly powerful because they dare admit the ineffable to which, because it is beyond reason or measurement, science must be blind. “The ineffable makes itself known in flashes too transient to contain and without the confines of reason. Art exists, however, to fix imprecisely the quickly fading after-images.” To the extent that beauty is immobilised by being defined, it, like God, will vanish from sight.

Ah whenever someone gets to the simplistic mindless notion that beauty = art = truth or whatever, we know that a remedial course in aesthetics 101 is required, though when it comes to music a little mathematics would also help. Usually these quaint folk never head off to talk about Shostakovich or Bartok or other modernists of an even more ungainly kind, but get stuck somewhere in a time warp with Bach or Mozart.

Of course we wouldn't dream of mentioning that S and B and quite a few others, in all kinds of aesthetic fields, be it literature or the plastic arts, busy working away at the arts, are or were in their day atheists.

It gets even more tricky and poignant if we break Godwin's Law and mention the role of music in Nazi concentration camps, or Hitler's love of Beethoven, not to mention Wagner. It's a truism, but it's also compelling, that after a hard day's work killing people, more refined Nazis would retreat to a quiet domestic life to enjoy their love of classical music.

So let's talk of chickens:

A chicken that listens to Mozart hears exactly what you do, but you hear more. Science can identify the difference between you and the chicken, but cannot isolate what you hear and the chicken doesn’t, which nonetheless clearly exists. The chicken (the atheist) “might challenge you to explain your higher apprehensions. Except in the language of beauty, to which he is deaf, you could not. Thus believing he had won the argument, he would crow.”

Actually there's not even the beginnings of an aesthetic argument here, since the point made about chickens and/or atheists is of such mind warping naivete, there's no point beginning. But let's just remember for starters that the language of art is not exclusively or only the language of beauty, it is the language of humanity, and so atheists have as much access to this language as others (or else how do atheists manage to create works of a sublime kind?)

Let's make a few notes. How about atheist Janacek and surely one of the most sublime bits of religious music ever written, the Glagolitic Mass? What about Delius, Debussy, Bizet (atheists), Holst (eastern mystic), Mahler (converting to Christiantiy was like putting on a new suit), Mozart (Freemason), Nielsen (agnostic veering to Platonic deist), Schubert (atheist) and so on and etc.

There are more things dreamed of in the philosophies and thinking of composers than are dreamed of by chickens, and usually this sort of argument is mounted by people who neither love nor understand music, or the other arts, and what they can be used to express, and how the arts can be deployed by diverse folk ranging from fundamentalist Christians to fundamentalist Communists ...

And golly we haven't even got on to the ecstatic mysticism produced by drugs or a good fuck.

Helprin doesn’t think this analogy will persuade an atheist about God, but might “counter the arrogant notion that the faith and astonishment of billions across cultures and time is an absurdity to be addressed with exasperated contempt”.

Actually the absurdity to be addressed with exasperated contempt is the attempt to ignore the history of religions and the activities of true believers determined to convert, or to keep people converted to their faiths. Sorry, but the Inquisition and the worst excesses of religion continue to be an absurdity to be addressed with exasperated contempt, and too many to list here.

He concludes: “What is at stake is more than a matter of civil liberties. One of the greatest gifts to man and among the most beautiful and comforting things in life is the occasional glimpse of an insubstantial light beyond the dark clouds of mortality. To catch sight of it demands apprehension beyond reason, and a facility exercised in the appreciation of beauty and what we imprecisely call the education of the spirit. An aggressive minority of some who cannot replicate this in themselves has come forward to attack what for others is the most luminous and self-evident of all truths, even as it is expressed in a variety of ways. They deny that this light can exist and demand agreement by force of negative reasoning. But no matter what their success in appropriating politics and governance to their purposes, belief that is self-evident to heart and mind cannot be extinguished any more readily than the sun.”

Which is about as nonsensical a set of non-sequiturs as any troll looking for a reaction in a forum of atheists might produce in a desire to stir the pot, get the juices flowing, and watch all the ants get agitated, especially those who can't quite glimpse a bearded dad up in the sky promising glimpses of of insubstantial light ... let alone substantial light. Damn these modern long life light bulbs ...

Barners loves to troll, and sure enough, as a result, he regularly scores high sets of comments. This little flurry of faith floozies produced a handsome 186 at time of writing.

It also produced The clown shoe still capers, an entertaining read by P Z Myers at Pharyngula, who gets agitated about the straw men and the chicken atheists set up for the fall by Barners and his free way with quotations:

These would be the atheists who claim that because the Bible says murder is a crime, murder can't possibly also be a secular law, and therefore atheists are free to kill people.

Of course, there are no such atheists that I know of, and that would be an utterly ridiculous and irrational position to take, which means that if that's what Helprin is arguing against, he's got to be stark chittering freakbar nuts. Which implies that he's arguing that the imposition of purely religious rules on secular society is reasonable — which makes him merely right-wing teabagging American nuts, which isn't really much better.

The other thing that amazes me is how dim you can be and still be a widely published defender of religion. Standards are pretty low, I guess, or desperation for anyone willing to praise vapor and lies is pretty high.

Barners of course, being cunning, presents this as just being about teaching the controversy, a handy technique for when you want to lead with creationists, intelligent design, tea baggers, Sarah Palin, truth, beauty and chickens. Here's how to do it:

Over to you. Do any of these arguments resonate? Is Helprin over-reacting? Is he right about the limits to reason, the profundity the “chicken” cannot hear, the extra dimension beauty brings? Is he right about the aggressive dogmatism of the new atheism? Where does he err?

Yes that's class trolling, trawling for feedback. And Barners attaches a consoling footnote:

* NOTE 1: By militant atheists I do not mean every atheist, only that small minority that insists their view is the only valid one.


So naturally I'll add my own:

* NOTE 1: By fuckwitted Christians I do not mean every Christian, only that small minority that insists their view is the only valid one. After all, Christians who embrace secularism atheism and watermelon Greens might get to run the country ...

And so bounteous thanks unto Barners for helping me recover from the election night party ...

Of which beauty will you speak? There are many: there are a thousand: there is one for every look, for every spirit, adapted to each taste, to each particular constitution. (Eugene Delacroix)


Saturday, August 21, 2010

Christopher Pearson and bunging on peculiarly mirthless laughter of an inherently patronising kind ...


(Above: my very own personal elephant stamp).

Is it just me, or do others have a sense that the country is sliding into terminal idiocy?

What bright bureaucratic spark thought it was a good idea to have gherkins stationed at polling booths handing out elephant stamps to people who voted?

Sure we were in a primary school to do the dirty deed, and what a sad and sorry state the computers in the classroom were in, and don't you worry about Tony 'the luddite' Abbott caring about that, but do adults have to be rewarded for doing what is compulsory by giving them a tragic elephant stamp? (By adult, I exclude the loud boastful preening peacock of a loon in the queue explaining to anyone who might listen, and the many who didn't, that he intended to vote Liberal. It's a secret ballot, you ten year old, keep your opinions and stupidities to yourself).

The infantilization of politics in this country is bad enough, but do we also have to infantilize the right to vote? With a bloody elephant stamp?

Never mind, I was wondering how the chattering commentariat elites were going with their high minded consideration of policy matters, and their firm stance against nattering nabobs of negativity, and who better to turn to than Christopher Pearson in Rudd's assassins can expect no Labor mercy:

She imagines that what her admirers would call feistiness is a generally endearing trait. Many, especially middle-aged women, see it as vixen behaviour. She relies on smiles and little laughs to buy time to think in interviews. Yet it's a peculiarly mirthless laughter, as all but the besotted know, and it's inherently patronising.

Yep, Club Sensible is at it again. It's particularly pleasing to see that Pearson knows what middle-aged women think, and how they deplore inherently patronising vixenish behaviour, because no doubt that means he understands why many, especially middle-aged women, think he's the fuckwit bitch from hell.

Especially when it comes to convenient Club Sensible memory lapses about what actually transpired during the Howard years, when Tony Abbott alternated between being Howard's faithful attack dog and was rewarded by being allowed to become his faithful lap dog:

Another way in which she patronises her audience is to tell whoppers about her opponents -- especially on the subject of Work Choices and Tony Abbott's record as health minister -- that would strain the credulity of a 12-year-old.

What that says about the credulity of chattering conservative commentators of a Catholic kind is another matter altogether.

Never mind, let's check out how the streak of paranoid resentfulness, a particularly virulent virus common in all commentariat commentators, is going:

It's a poor reflection on local journalism, especially in the electronic media, that she's hardly ever taken to task for it, while Abbott is judged by more exacting standards.

Yep, he's judged by much more exacting standards, except of course by bitches from hell and middle-aged women who love his vixenish behaviour and his peculiarly mirthless laughter, never mind that all but the besotted know that it's inherently patronising.

Why when Abbott smiles it passingly reminds me of Vlad the impaler or the crocodile in Peter Pan giving a toothy grin, or so I'm told by scribblers who focus on matters of important policy.

So we pass our days reading the stupidities of what passes for political commentary these days in that heart of the nation The Australian. No wonder we flee the dead heart, and huddle by the sea, dreaming of escape ...

But what's even more amusing is Club Sensible's attempt at balance:

Mark Kenny, political editor of Adelaide's The Advertiser, asked the only brave question at Gillard's National Press Club appearance on Thursday. "What choice, indeed what chance, do voters have of making an assessment of the parties when both sides engage in such egregious misrepresentation of the other's policies?"

Given Labor's vengeful attitude to the fourth estate, the "plague on both your houses" element of his reproach was only prudent. He didn't get an answer.


He wouldn't have got an answer if he'd bothered perusing the rest of Pearson's befuddled column, which spends the usual amount of time maliciously mourning the absent Rudd - having spent years attacking Rudd - and then getting into the tribal chiefs and the callow faceless men.

The notion that such a rabid supporter of the Liberal party has suddenly turned even-handed, 'pox on both your houses' sent me into gales of mirthless laughter, especially as he spends his entire column wishing a pox on the Labor house alone.

If this is balance, don't let Pearson get on a see saw or we'll all slump so far to the right even Genghis Khan couldn't save us.

Well we'll see how it all shakes out in the end, but wouldn't it be grand to see a column speculating on what might happen if Abbott had a narrow win, and then began to stumble around like an elephant stamp in a darkened room, and big Mal suddenly loomed up large alongside him, and gave him a peculiarly mirthless laugh of an inherently patronising kind ...

And that I'm afraid is where we must leave Christopher Pearson, beavering away on the board of SBS as that network is driven into the ground, in much the same way as the National Museum is a shambolic wreck, and his fine insightful political commentary, since by eight p.m. tonight the nation will be throwing its "I Voted" memorabilia into the dust bin, and Pearson's views will be digital wrapping paper for digital fish and chips.

Here's hoping that however it comes out it causes Pearson unending pain.

Now excuse me while I practise my peculiarly mirthless laughter of an inherently patronising kind so that I too can become a wise member of the political pundit elite, sipping on my port while lolling in my leather chair at the club ...

I myself have never been able to find out precisely what feminism is: I only know that people call me a feminist whenever I express sentiments that differentiate me from a door mat or a prostitute. ~Rebecca West

Miranda Devine, and paranoid scribbles from a bilious boat drifting in the light of the moon ...



At last the big day's arrived and so an end to all the yammering ... not that the yammering will ever stop, since the pundits and the chattering conservative elite never rest, but at least on Sunday there'll be the muted sounds of an inspection of the entrails following this day's slaughtering of the beasts ...

Must get on the move early, before the lamingtons run out, or I'll be left with a difficult choice between patty cakes and chocolate crackles, neither of which I like ...

As for the other choice? Vote for a man who's scribbled that reintroducing fault into divorce proceedings is a wise move forward? Vote for a man who believes in transubstantiation, and as a result the regular ingestion of actual flesh and blood, which either makes him barking mad or a man with a Papua New Guinea cannibal mind set?

Vote (indirectly) for jolly Joe Hockey to run the economy when I wouldn't buy a used car from him? Vote for a party that blathers endlessly about great big new taxes, then announces a tax on big business and dollops out the result on an extravagant piece of middle class welfarism?

Vote for a mob that proposes to keep the boats down to three a year, and will resign on the spot the day the fourth boat arrives ...? Vote for a mob of tech head dunces who think that a move to the nineteen nineties is sharp technological footwork, and climate change a mere passing fad and fancy? Vote (indirectly) for Andrew Robb, the most boring man on earth, who seems to have got over his recent depression by giving it to me ...? Vote for a mob who shed tears for billionaires while we ship our mineral wealth overseas? Vote for a mob anxious to consign people to guano processing?

In all, I'd rather be bound on a wheel of fire, my tears scaling me like molten lead. But then perhaps I'm of imperfect mind, and a tad bewildered.

As for the other mob, what to make of Conroy and his great big filter, and the single most stupid policy announcement of the entire campaign, the calling together of 150 citizens good and true, to contemplate their navels and climate change ...

And as for the Greens in NSW, what a pity Lee Rhiannon is the top Senate contender.

Could today be the day to ensure that some fellow loon, hapless failed believer in democratic processes, gets their deposit back?

Well vote wisely and vote often, and don't buy the crackles, you'll only regret it later.

Happily for the Labor party, Miranda the Devine produces a column which might provide a last minute swing to Julia Gillard in NSW, as she scribbles Faceless fools scar Labor for life.

Yep, it's another day of blathering on about faceless men. And then she names them:

Take a bow, Mark Arbib, Karl Bitar, Bill Shorten, David Feeney, Don Farrell and Paul Howes.

Which immediately makes me wonder if the faceless men have had an operation in the style of Nick Cage in John Woo's Face/Off, since the last time I saw the likes of Bill Shorten, he still had his face. Or perhaps it's just another contradictory idiotic stupidity from Miranda the Devine?

I know, I know, rhetorical questions with obvious answers are a cheap debating trick, but what can you do with people who blather about faceless men and then name them? While rabbiting on about the amoral trickiness of the faceless men, as if they remain impenetrable and aloof ...

As usual with the Devine the only interesting thing is how she reveals herself in her metaphors:

Still, you have to marvel at Gillard's ability to maintain composure while the Potemkin Village hastily constructed around her ill-gotten office kept collapsing. From day one of her campaign, if it wasn't Bob and Blanche and Paul Keating feuding, it was the ghost of Rudd haunting her in high impact media leaks, or it was Mark Latham crashing around telling uncomfortable home truths.

Yep, here we go with the usual notion of Mark Latham as the village idiot telling uncomfortable home truths, while that other village idiot Malcolm Fraser goes unmentioned ...

But note in particular the use of Potemkin Village, much favoured by conservatives in the United States. If you trot off to the wiki here, you'll find at least an argument that the concept of the Potemkin Village is largely mythological:

According to Simon Sebag-Montefiore, Potyomkin's most comprehensive English-language biographer, the tale of elaborate, fake settlements with glowing fires designed to comfort the monarch and her entourage as they surveyed the barren territory at night, is largely fictional.

Aleksandr Panchenko, an authoritative specialist on 19th century Russia, used original correspondence and memoirs to conclude that the Potyomkin villages are a myth. He writes: "Based on the above said we must conclude that the myth of "potyomkin villages" is exactly a myth, and not an established fact."

But of course a myth is perfectly suited to the mythological scribblings of the Miranda the Devine, whose nonsense on most occasions resembles either a minotaur or a unicorn.

The rest of the Devine's piece is typically an offensive bit of brooding about conservative women and the hapless fate of people with a pugilistic New Guinea cannibal mind set:

As the faceless men had calculated, he had to campaign with one hand tied behind his back. Pitting a tough guy, already pinned with a supposed lack of appeal to women, against a silky female against whom he could not use his pugilistic gifts must have seemed a stroke of genius at the time. As Barnaby Joyce put it in June: "Nobody wants to see you beat up on a chick – it's a bad look."

Fuck off Barnaby. Gee you born in Tamworth clowns are predictable. No wonder I seized the opportunity to avoid kissing some kissing cousins, and settled for kissing horses.

As usual, it's all the fault of the feminists:

Throughout the campaign, Gillard was protected by a feminist praetorian guard of eagle-eyed offence-takers jumping on the vaguest hint of sexism. Thus, Abbott's innocuous "no means no" was reinterpreted as a brute attacking rape victims.

Actually it was just a piece of mindless, if revealing, stupidity, and amazingly the Labor party never exploited Abbott's belief that reintroducing fault into divorce proceedings was a good idea.

The Coalition never exploited the target-rich “living in sin at The Lodge” issue when her de facto relationship with Tim Mathieson briefly became a topic of community debate.

Because then they would have been totally fucked. Which of course didn't stop the likes of Janet Albrechtsen trawling through the barren gutter, or others tittering behind hands about the hairdresser partner, and living in sin in the Lodge, and the need for a marriage quick stix.

Not to mention both sides failure of nerve when it comes to gay rights and marriage.

In fact, four of Abbott's best political assets, his photogenic wife and daughters, were fairly low-profile this campaign, compared to wives and children of previous elections. No Women's Weekly covers for them. The feminine angle was monopolised by the Prime Minister.

Lordy, lordy you mean they should have dressed Tony Abbott in a frock and stuck him on the front page of the Weekly to get the cross dressing vote? Not that there would have been anything wrong with that, it would have lifted the campaign out of the rut of tedium.

Such delicate treatment cannot be said to have been afforded Abbott, who was pilloried throughout the campaign as a sexist, old-fashioned, untrustworthy, extremist, Catholic jock, in snide asides, low blows and a barrage of distasteful attack ads. In one, a cartoon showed a scrawny Abbott prancing about in a pair of red budgie-smugglers and a sumo-style Joe Hockey with pendulous man-boobs.

You mean they didn't put Joe Hockey in a dress? Oh wait, that's right, Joe prefers a tutu:


Abbott sailed through the bile, remaining good-natured and unrattled.

Perhaps like the owl and the pussycat when they went sailing?

The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
'O lovely Pussy! O Pussy my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!'

Meanwhile, the brooding Devine shows how easy it is to write a column that mounts not one single political argument, but instead prattles on about personality attacks, having herself embarked on the process by berating faceless men who just happen to have faces:

Perhaps he adopted Margaret Thatcher's attitude.

“I always cheer up immensely if an attack is particularly wounding because I think, well, if they attack one personally, it means they have not a single political argument left,” Britain's only female prime minister once said.


At this point of course it's beneficial to drag in matters of extreme irrelevance:

Thatcher, of course, was subjected to the most vile personal attacks, just as was, more recently, the US Republican Sarah Palin and her daughters. Even Barack Obama disparaged Palin obliquely with a remark about putting “lipstick on a pig” during the 2008 US presidential campaign.

Yes, what an outrageous denigration of pigs who like lipstick. As opposed to dummies in possession of a tweeter:

Now how about a dash of paranoid spice, resentment, fear and loathing?

No man making such a comment about a female politician from the left would have escaped unscathed.

And Gillard would never have had such an easy time as a Liberal, because it is open season on conservative female politicians.


Open season on conservative female politicians? Julie Bishop's death stare has surely been one of the campaign highlights. But you know how it is, once a paranoid's got paranoia firmly in the teeth, like a bull terrier all it knows how to do is shake it to death:

The left has no scruples because its women consider conservative women to be traitors, who must be punished with special savagery. In their world, conservative feminists are simply not permitted to exist.

On what far fetched deluded paranoid bizarro world does the Devine live? Perhaps it's a world where with a flick of the pen, she can call for the hanging of greenies, and they're simply not permitted to exist?

Well clearly it's a world where she can manage one last mangling flourish as she broods about Gillard getting caught out speaking off the cuff, in the manner of a Sarah Palin carrying an ink-scribbled note on her hand. Does she brood about the media's strange fascination with it, and the strange way that it echoes Palin's experience, and how it might have been better to dwell on the substance of what was said, rather than the manner of the delivery, and so avoid the relentless tedium of all the squawking about how Obama uses teleprompters (remember all that stupidity, so long ago and on another planet?) As opposed to being a stumble bum like George Bush?

No such luck:

Who cared whether she had notes, if she spoke well? But what was deadly about the episode was what it revealed about the Labor campaign's automatic reflex to gild the lily beyond belief, with no mind to the truth. It is the way lawyers work, twisting reality and logic to create a new truth, and moving forward quickly before anyone notices the trickery.

Yes no one noticed the trickery and so Miranda the Devine didn't scribble her column and I didn't read it and so we moved forward to a new truth ...

But you see it's really wheeled out so that the Devine can deliver a rhetorical flourish to round out the piece:

Today is the moment of real truth - not the manufactured one. Either way, it won't be pretty for the faceless men.

WTF does that mean? If the faceless men with faces win, then they'll have won, and it'll be pretty. There might be a few casualties, but as any conservative knows if you send any of the lads out of the trenches to face the machine guns, you have to expect a few losses for the greater cause. Just don't send the senior officers over the top, and all's well.

If the faceless men with faces lose, then Australia will have voted into power its third or fourth practising cannibal, after James Scullin, Paul Keating, and the ambivalent Rudd, raised a Catholic, given a good Marist belting, and settling for a waffly Anglicanism which didn't stop him scoring some blood and flesh at the mass to commemorate the canonisation of Mary Mackillop. (here).

In case that happens, perhaps I should buy a large sponge cake, and stock up the cellar, because when it comes to practical economic matters, Abbott continues to show he's the child of B. A. Santamaria ...

But how will it go? How does our fearless braveheart scribe call it?

History will decide whether the Coalition went too easy on its opponent.

Well damned if history will decide whether the pond ever went too easy on the Devine. I've never read a more eloquent piece in favour of voting the Labor party back into power, and thereby pissing off the Devine for another paranoid three years as she scribbles for Chairman Rupert ...

Hang on, she's still scribbling for the Herald. Will the promised day of the 'Devine free' rag never come to pass? When is she going to leave, and close the door firmly behind her?

To answer that, we offer the end of Edward Lear's poem:

II
Pussy said to the Owl, 'You elegant fowl!
How charmingly sweet you sing!
O let us be married! too long we have tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?'
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the Bong-tree grows
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.

III
'Dear pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?' Said the Piggy, 'I will.'
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.


Yep, some day I'll dance with delight by the edge the sand in the light of the lovely moon ...


Friday, August 20, 2010

Sophie Mirabella, and dopey Sophie goes up against foolya Joolia ...


(Above: it's a stretch to get from Noel Coward to dopey Sophie Mirabella, but we get there).

What's been great about this election campaign has been the high minded, articulate, insightful level of the discourse. The cut and thrust and parry. The wit and incisive explanations of where Australia should be going and how we might get there. The dedicated attention to policy, the resolute refusal to indulge in cheap shots and personal abuse.

The Punch, Australia's most retrograde conversation, has helped enormously by regurgitating the sublime thoughts of one Sophie Mirabella, who never descends to the playground or to childish invective, but always keeps her eye on policy matters of the most elevated kind.


What's that you say? "Foolya Joolia" seems a trifle coarse, perhaps not even secondary level sledging but more the kind of thing you might get in the playground of a badly run primary school, as young boys run about teasing redheads (yes you bastards you'll pay and pay).

Tush, shush now, that's just a playful subbie at work, demonstrating yet again that The Punch is home to playful wags with the minds of ten year old boys. Let's quickly scan the text to prove that they had no Mirabella basis for the header.

Oh dear:

“Foolya Joolia” decries negative campaigning while personally attacking Tony Abbott at every opportunity.
“Foolya Joolia” declares Rudd had lost his way to justify knifing him, but then sings his praises and asks for his help.
“Foolya Joolia” finds time for fashion shoots and guest editing women’s magazines, but couldn’t be bothered attending meetings of the National Security Committee.
“Foolya Joolia” justifies her Government’s flagrant waste and overspending with the hollow argument that our economy isn’t a basket-case (yet), even as she racks up $100 million every day.
“Foolya Joolia” prays while at the same time declaring herself an atheist.
“Foolya Joolia” cries “Yes we will” when her Labor Government did so very little (and what they did do was badly botched) during their first term.
There’s a lot about Labor’s campaign that has been smokescreen and subterfuge. It may get them across the line and further entrench the ‘detested caste of ruthless robotic machine men' who installed "Foolya Joolia".

Immediately we felt the need to join in the game at the same elevated, Shakespeherian rag, so elegant, so intelligent.

Ya ya dopey Sophie, mopey Sophie, Dirigibella fella dressed in yella.

Loopey Sophie, ya eat green custard. And so on and so forth.

I suppose the truly amazing thing is that Mirabella thinks playground taunting an effective political debating style. But mere idle abuse is merely idle ...

Instead of actually reading Mirabella, a torture at the best of times, I began to think of wordsmiths with genuine skill in delivering an insult:

When Shaw reportedly wrote, "I am enclosing two tickets to the first night of my new play, bring a friend ... if you have one," Churchill replied: "Cannot possibly attend first night, will attend second ... if there is one" - so creating the kind of rare badinage that is recounted gleefully by generations. (here).

Well we can gleefully note that Mirabella's rare kind of badinage will be recounted gleefully by cretins. It lacks even the crude vigour of the rough hewn sporting type, as also told in the same story:

Playground insults, then, are most effective: any taunts involving immediate family or partners, specifically the suggestion that you may have been intimate with them recently, should suffice; as should barbs based around physical, sexual or sporting prowess. The less convoluted and mature, the better: if in doubt, the phrase most likely to generate outrage is the universal "Your mum", which translates seamlessly across language barriers.

Cricket, though, is renowned for "sledging"; legendary tales abound of verbal skewering between players. When the Australian paceman Glenn McGrath lazily asked Zimbabwe's Eddo Brandes, "Why are you so fat?", Brandes swiftly riposted: "Because every time I shag your wife, she gives me a biscuit." Likewise, the former Australian wicketkeeper Rod Marsh once reportedly greeted Ian Botham on the pitch with the opener: "So how are your wife and my kids?"


By the time I'd discovered that sticks and stones has been around for a long time, since as early as 1872 (here):

Sticks and stones
May break my bones
But words will never hurt me.


which led me to playground songs, here, and 'one two, buckle my shoe, and knick-knack paddywhack, which led me to truce terms, here, I'd almost forgotten dopey Sophie.

I'd drifted off to a time when cowardly custard was all the rage, though it's alarming to discover that Noel Coward got into that game with Cowardy Custard.

And then I found that it turned up in 1899 as:

Cowardly, cowardly custard,
Eats his mother's mustard. (here).


It turns out that site has lots and lots of nursery rhymes and splendid riddles and if you're not singing London bridge, you can be discovering arch Victorian humour:



In Tamworth, if you're of a certain vintage, saying someone drank their bathwater was all the rage. I never understood what it meant, except that it seemed more like wise advice than abuse, because bath water tended to be full of dirt and soap and precious bodily fluids. Still it seemed more sophisticated than the invitation to shove a giant woolly Pioneer bus up my bum.

And then it came to me in a flash.

Dopey soapie Sophie drinks her bathwater.

Which reminded me that somewhere else in the full to overflowing intertubes dopey Sophie is still blathering on about "Foolya Joolia" thinking she's scoring political points when she's actually revealing herself to be a first class dill.

A diller, a dollar, a ten o'clock scholar!
What makes you come so soon?
You used to come at ten o'clock,
But now you come at noon.

Well I never understood what that meant either, but I reckon for lowering the tone of the debate to the level of ten year old boys, dopey Sophie makes a first class diller dollar ten o'clock scholar.

Is it any wonder, with the infantilisation of debate doing the rounds at the moment that the Gruen Ultimatum (or Transfer or Nation or whatever) and the Chaser lads are the only two bits of relief from the torture?

I see I haven't scribbled anything at all about dopey Sophie's actual words:

The real risk this Saturday is that the worst government in Australia’s history will get the second chance it does not deserve and we cannot afford.

The worst government in Australia's history? What a load of buttocks, what a load of rhetorical bunkum, futtocks to you dopey soapie Sophie.

How fucking stupid can you manage to sound in your bid to whip up alarm and panic and fear and loathing? You insult cretins and cretinism generally with your stupidities ...

The real risk this Saturday is that dumb fuck politicians will get voted back into office, and that's a second chance they don't deserve and we can't afford, but it's going to happen anyway.

Another three years of dopey Sophie punching us drunk in The Punch ...

Quick, I feel faint, more nursery rhymes please ...

Goosey, goosey, gander,
Whither shall I wander?
Upstairs, and downstairs,
And in my lady's chamber.
There I met a dopey soapie woman
Who kept on saying her prayers!
I took her by the left leg
And threw her down the stairs.


Thursday, August 19, 2010

Miranda Devine, the fiendish fearsome greens, and yet again the end of the world nigh ...

(Above: memories).

Sometimes the best part of a column by loony commentariat commenters is getting to read the wags at the end, and so it is with Miranda the Devine's heartfelt piece Felled by an invidious green plot, scribbled in support of John Gay, former chairman of Gunns.

Finally, Miranda Devine is supporting a gay! Typically, it is a timber mining executive.

The rest of the column is such a loaded, prejudiced piece of bilious hogwash it is of course perfectly impossible to judge the truth of 'he said, they said', 'he did, they did' accusations, except of course to say that all greens are bad, and all timber fellers good.

The point of all the fear mongering? Let's cut to the chase and the final par, since sometimes Miranda the Devine is so excruciating to read, a short cut is the only answer:

What the green movement has done to Tasmania's timber industry, it will do to the rest of the country. Those purported 13 per cent of people planning to vote for the Greens on Saturday had better understand exactly what they are voting for. It's not about saving trees. It's about ''moving backwards'' to the dark ages.

And who's to say the dark ages were worse than the medievalism of the Catholic church, the Devine's pet institution?

It's at moments like that kind of verbal extremism that I like to wander back to the good old days of Lake Pedder, which you can read about here, and in its wiki here and also here. No doubt way back when there were Devines scribbling about how Tasmania would move backwards to the dark ages unless Pedder was flooded, and as a result a couple of creatures disappeared forever from the face of the planet.

There was a better outcome with the proposed Franklin dam, and no doubt there were Devines scribbling furiously about how Tasmania would move backwards to the dark ages, but truth to tell, on balance it's hard not to argue that things worked out better than they might have if the unreconstructed tear it up, flood it, fuck it over brigade had had their unbridled way. Lord knows we find it hard to quote Bob Hawke, but here he is in the wiki:

And as you look at the arguments and the positions of political parties today you see a complete replication of what we experienced back there in 1983. The conservatives: they never change, they never learn. What was their argument back then? You can't do this, it will cost jobs. It will cost economic growth. You can't do it, you mustn't do it.

Indeed. For a state that trades on tourism and its unblemished beauty and its handsome wilderness and its untainted foods, some Tasmanians go to any lengths to bugger up the charm of the place - and its economic potential - in order to keep Japan and its paper wrapping fetish well supplied. So much paper and box and gift wrapping abuse, such an exercise in futility.

But back to the Devine. Perhaps the funniest thing in her solemn study of the travails of Gay is the way she fails to mention the vicious bloody minded legal action embarked on by Gunns as a way of enforcing their pulp mill mania.

And when it comes to where the pulp mill went off the rails she has to resort to the wretched Paul Lennon blathering on about Malcolm Turnbull and Geoffrey Cousins:

Lennon blames the then environment minister, Malcolm Turnbull, for ''sitting on his hands'' over approval for the pulp mill before the 2007 election, under the onslaught of a campaign in his eastern suburbs Sydney seat of Wentworth by the businessman Geoffrey Cousins, who appeared out of nowhere to wage a virulent campaign against the mill.

Phew, at last a reason not to vote Liberal. They're a bunch of do nothing greens, easily swayed by businessmen waging virulent campaigns. Hang on that means big Mal and Geoffrey Cousins and Dick "stop the growth now" Smith are greens. Eek, the greens is all around us.

But it's when the Devine gets into paranoid deluded assertions that the fun really begins:

The delay, Lennon says, stopped the pulp mill in its tracks. Gunns is now in closed-door negotiations with the Wilderness Society over whether it will be allowed to continue with the mill.

Say what? The Wilderness Society is so badly split it couldn't organise a chook raffle in a leagues club (Wilderness Society split, Split leaves activists in the Wilderness).

Wouldn't it be better if Gunns talked to actual banks or investors willing to invest in the pulp mill? Hardened souls who might brave the greens, and who think that the financials of the place are more than an each way bet.

Gunns says its northern Tasmanian pulp mill site is ready to develop, if it secures investment.

The company's latest profit statement reveals it is still working on mill finance, five years after selecting the site...

... In April, Gunns called for investors in the Tamar Valley pulp mill and is talking to three parties. (Gunns pulp mill ready, but waiting).

Then of course there's the variant argument that Tasmania might be better off if it claimed its environmental management will be better than Indonesia's or Malaysia's

''Who is actually going to believe that environmental management is going to be better in Indonesia or Malaysia,'' Lennon says. The campaign ''exposes the real agenda of Greens''.

Um, don't the greens get agitated with Indonesia and Malaysia too? Is the real agenda only to persecute poor hapless innocent forestry workers in Tasmania, as well as iddie biddie Gunns?

But then reading the Devine is always a topsy turvy surreal experience. After delivering a litany of complaints about the treatment of Gay, along with requisite adjectives, like chilling, damaged the company, wrecked the state economy, clear warning, emboldened activists, bogus campaigns, catastrophic, conscience-less dishonesty, hero of the working people, cowardly institutional investors, greenies in suits traducing Gay and Japan, dropping Tasmania like a hot potato, personal vilification, torture, home under assault, stink bombs, dead possums spitting, media sitting on the fence, a good man's reputation destroyed, family tormented, security system installed, rock bottom prices for winery and hardware sales, quasi-religious force, and so on and on and so forth and etc, we come to this:

One Tasmanian political insider says Gay's failure was that he was ''out of touch with the way to operate a modern business''.

''He's a lovely bloke but he didn't have the skills or the layers of bureaucracy, or the PR people you need to manage the campaign for the pulp mill.


No doubt that's all the fault of the greens too.

Meanwhile, I'm always astonished - and astonished by the way I'm astonished - at the way the Devine, a stout hearted Catholic, ascribes evil to religion:

Like any quasi-religious force, the environmentalists needed an arcadia to save and a demon to fight. The cute island state and the ''rapacious logger'' fitted the bill.

Why that sounds just like the Catholic church. Fighting demons and offering up arcadia of a pie in the sky in the by and by. Or the Devine herself, come to think about it:

Like any quasi-religious force, the ratbag commentariat commentator needs an arcadia to save and a demon to fight. The cute Gunns pulp mill and the ''rapacious greenies'' fits the bill.

As for the actual truth of the matter, who knows. We make only one guarantee. You won't have a clue from reading Devine's one-sided account.

Will the Devine's alarmist hysterical fear mongering, conveniently raised just a couple of days out of the election, a tad surprising for an issue that's been burbling along for years, affect the turn out for a greens vote this Saturday?

Unlikely, as the presence of a frothing, foaming, fuming ratbag at the entrance to the polling booth might create a temporary sense of unease, but finally not become a distraction from the decision to be made.

And also unlikely if you judge the result of the lathering by the many negative responses in the comments to the piece. To take just a couple on the front page (and never mind the typos):

The "evil" Greens are at it again, with their dastardly plans to stop poor little innocent logging corporations from turning old growth forest into paper. I can only imagine the terrible impact it will have on stationary cupboards around the globe. The horror of having to email that excel spreadsheet rather than print it out in all it's papery glory. Such a tragedy. All those paper shredders around the world going unused. It really brings a tear to the eye.
Miranda, you so right. Tasmania should unroll the NBN folley and bank it's future on paper. Don't let those Greens take us back to the dark ages with their zany ideas of an economy not built on producing paper. Paper is the future. Can't everyone see that? Thank you Miranda for speaking out. Lets stop the craziness before it's too late!


Humour as a response to paranoid foaming? Yep, it's the only way. You could try the informed debate approach:

Thank you for this Miranda. You made me go and look to see what information there was on the Net regarding this matter. This is what I found..
http://www.wilderness.org.au/campaigns/gunns-pulp-mill
http://www.gunnspulpmill.com.au/faqs.html
http://www.wilderness.org.au/campaigns/gunns-pulp-mill/tas-future-threatened-pulp-mill
http://www.tamarpulpmill.info/
http://www.tasmaniapulpmill.info/
http://www.foe.org.au/media-releases/2007/turnbull-decision-on-gunns-mill-fails-tasmanias-forests/

Readers might get a bit more balanced viewpoint off looking at both sides of the argument. Even a cursory skim of the evidence seems to indicate that your article might be just a tad biased... Just a tad.


Could we just add Kevin Rudd's $110 million gift to Gunns pulp mill?

But of course a calm moderate debate with the likes of the Devine is simply impossible. That's why she's a loon pond hall of famer.

Meanwhile, just as I watch television to see the expensively mounted advertising distracting from the terrible American and Australian dramas to hand, from now on I'll read Miranda the Devine simply so I can soak up the comments attached to her column.

It's a way of restoring a little hope and a little sanity and a little faith and perhaps even a little charity as I brood about my hill of beans in this troubled world ... and perhaps even a sense of balance. She might be paid a shit load of money to abuse anyone to the left of Ghengis Khan, but the more extreme she gets, the more the centre holds ...

Put it another way. Quick, write as much abuse as you can, because soon she's heading off to News Corp, no doubt as a way to lure enraged punters behind Chairman Rupert's paywall. Now let's count down the days before we can light the fireworks and celebrate ... in a green, environmentally sensitive way of course ..

(Below: more memories from the corner of my mind).

Peter Garrett, Bob Carr, and not a peep to disturb the intense silence required for the y'artz appreciation ...


(Above: the snap used to launch the ALP's arts policy online. Could anyone have chosen with any more rigour a snap so resolutely devoid of creativity, meaning, and usefulness and relevance?)

So there we were in a large auditorium feeling a little queasy, until we worked out we were trapped with perhaps the worst Federal Arts Minister in living memory.

And that memory includes Charles Roderick 'the Rod' Kemp, who boasted of a very small bar fridge in his office, the smallest cellar in the land, utterly incapable of handling a Brendan Behan should he have done a tour of the antipodes.

And now we have the Labor party's arts policy, and what a grandly titled thing it is, Investing in a creative Australia.

Yep, ten million smackeroos for up to one hundred and fifty new artistic works, presentations and fellowships. I got so excited I immediately began working on my concept for an idea about a rock musician who decided that the only way forward in life was to become a dull grey tedious enigma who imitates either a rock or Chauncey Gardiner, and is completely incapable of actually doing anything.

Meanwhile skulking at the fringes of the event was Bob Carr, who in Oliver Sacks style, mistook the Olympics for a hat, and thought building an Olympics was building infrastructure, and why was I surprised to hear this very morning that NSW managed to spend seventeen bucks per person on the y'arts, while South Australia tripled that and Victoria did handsomely and in terms of streetscapes Melbourne is always an amusing place to visit while courtesy of the state government we point to ... the harbour ... oh and look at the Opera House sitting so majestically on the harbour, and we must get around to fixing it one day ...

Just another way the NSW state government couldn't get its act together and punch its way out of a wet paper bag, artistic happening though that might be.

Dare we wonder why the punters are muted about the y'arts?

It got us wondering if we should do a Mark Latham, since a vote for Peter Garrett seems like a vote for infinite grey bland vistas of torpor. Until we remembered that even at this moment our valiant troops are fighting to give the people of Afghanistan the right to vote, and once the WMD disappeared from Iraq, the only reason to be there was to topple a brutal dictator and give everyone the right to vote.

Ah yes, the precious right to vote. Worth killing for and getting dirty deeds done dear, and sending the boat people travelling in search of a mythical land where the right to vote is held dear, and the right to process people in the guano fields even dearer ...

Oh dear, off track again. Not that there's any joy in checking out a Liberal arts policy, courtesy of Steven Ciobo. That's Steven Who from Surfers. All he's done is muttered about the flaws in the Producer Offset scheme and the resale royalty scheme, fair enough points but hardly a policy (And the Liberal Arts Policy is ...?)

Punters might groan (Email to the Coalition Shadow Arts Minister, Steven Ciobo MP in pdf form), but of course if you're running a campaign on excessive government waste and the ruination of the economy and excessive government spending and the need to hack and lay waste to bureaucrats to prevent the country turning into Bangladesh, you're not likely to want to dwell on poncy elites indulging in the y'arts.

Yet curiously when over 10,000 people voted in The Drum in a poll, question 573, they came up with this result:

What policy area would you like to hear more about during this election campaign?
Arts 29%
Communications 3%
Economy 8%
Education 5%
Environment 18%
Health 9%
Immigration 5%
Indigenous Affairs 5%
Industrial Relations 2%
Infrastructure 10%
National security 2%
Population 4%

Not in the land of the invisible grey men thank you very much, and what else can you expect of the cardigan wearers at the ABC, when the likes of Tim Blair campaigns regularly for the right of punters to drive V8s very fast in very predictable circles for a very long, boring time.

There have been a few attempts to whip up interest, such as My analysis of the ALP's arts policy (with an accompanying Crikey piece that lurks behind the paywall).

Meanwhile there are interesting structural questions - will anyone tackle the moribund Australia Council, will someone do anything about the mess that's resulted from merging various screen bodies into one monolith while the feature film sector keeps sliding down the rabbit hole to complete irrelevance, and can anyone explain what SBS is doing displacing a private group to run an arts channel behind the Foxtel paywall while its own multi-channels and its core channel are a complete mess, and the board's best solution is to extend the term of the man who created the mess?

Of course if you have to get your teeth fixed, or you're struggling to get by, or you're gay and want to get married, the arts are hardly front and centre. But then it's a matter of people with the vision thingie, who might just be able to explain why the street art in Melbourne gives it a vastly better feel than the dismal profile Sydney presents to the world, and who might be able to convey why government and Australians should be engaged with and active in the y'arts. And even excited by them, and why there's more to life than tabloids and V8s.

Vision thingie? Do grey invisible men have vision thingies?

In the rush to the bottom, in the very notion that government expenditure is bad and invariably wasted, things get lost, and one of them is a decent set of arts policies, on both sides of the political fence.

Worse, when matters of art have occasionally risen to the top of the news cycle, as in the Bill Henson affair, Garrett has shamefully gone missing.

Is it possible to move Australia forward while dog paddling on the spot?

Will things get better under either an Abbott or a Gillard government?

Ever heard a politician expound at length on the ongoing usefulness of libraries?

Ever heard a politician expound on Mahler? Well as Paul Keating found out, stick your head above that parapet, and people of the luddite philistine cretinous anti-education Janet Albrechsten kind will take cheap shots at you for the rest of your French clock loving life.

Was that the point of this bit of street sculpture in Melbourne?



Ah Melbourne, we loves youse, even when uncertain as to meaning, though at a pinch we could always wheel in Freud or oysters ...



UPDATE: just caught up with this bit of blather by Garrett Labor's efforts a hard act to follow, which turned out to be a dirge of a read which was a had set of facts to swallow.

The OZ is promising a follow up tomorrow from Steven Who from Surfers, which no doubt will start by explaining how they're about to launch an actual arts policy some time soon.

As for Garrett? Who wrote this blather for him?

Amid this burgeoning activity Labor has eschewed the faux culture debates and arguments around false dichotomies, such as art v sport, that characterised the Coalition's approach to the arts in government. Rather than viewing the arts as an ideological battleground, we have concentrated on better program delivery, providing a stronger foundation for the creative sector in the future. In less than three years Labor has achieved a great deal for artists and arts organisations, delivering real reform and new investments.

No you haven't you goose, Screen Australia is a mess and so is the Australia Council. Look under your nose.

As for dynamic ways forward?

We will, as a priority, finalise the development of a national cultural policy and undertake public forums in each state, with a new policy to be concluded within the next 12 months.

And it seems that the NBN will solve everything with digital creative enterprises.

Stop prodding me with that broomstick, I just want to go to sleep ...