Hhhwwerrrkkkkk ...

One thing I cannot stand in others is a lack of etiquette. Although I was not brought up a member of the British aristocracy, I believe quite strongly in the preservation of certain social graces. Although minor issues such as the surgical use of cutlery do not concern me, I do find myself quite bereaved when certain persons decide to make known their various bodily functions in public.

Having spent a significant portion of my life in the Middle East, the sight of both men and camels hawking their lungs out in public was commonplace. Of course, the frequency of such sights does not mean that I grew accustomed to them over time. These scenes were consistently repugnant, especially where the culprit was a bearded Arab male who had vigorously chewed on tobacco in the minutes preceding the act. Some men drew more attention that others, hunching back their shoulders and breathing in deeply before unleashing a dark brown stream of filth onto the pavement. Not satisfied by the result, some would snort repeatedly in the hope of sending thick mucous careening from their sinuses into their mouth in preparation of an even more grotesque feat of repugnance.

Tissues must have been scarce on the streets of Saudi Arabia, as rarely did I see someone blowing their nose in the socially acceptable manner. Most chose instead to place a stained yellow finger (i.e. from smoking) onto one nostril, only to then bend over sharply and blow hard into the dirt. Results were mixed at best, with some succeeding in dislodging only a portion of their nasal content, the remainder clinging precariously to nostril, upper lip and finger. The subject would then swing his head from side to side, staring cross-eyed at the lengthening stream of snot that trailed from his nose. Passer-bys did not pay much attention, aside from casually crossing over to the other side of the street in the hope of avoiding a runaway booger.

Upon having finally succeeded in clearing his nasal passages, the subject would triumphantly wipe his hand on a nearby wall and then proceed on his business.

Rather thankfully, sights such as those described above are not particularly prevalent in Sydney. There’s a limit to human tolerance and mine was thoroughly tested when walking through the markets and bazaars of the Middle East. In recent years, I have not seen anything quite as grotesque as a man blowing his nose into the dirt. However, I have born witness to something infinitely more repulsive.

Some days back, I was waiting patiently for a train home at Sydney’s Central Station. Standing some 40 metres away from me was an immaculately dressed Asian woman. She appeared to be Japanese and was dressed in an expensive looking pinstriped suit that complimented her Bally briefcase. Although her features were not perfectly visible from a distance, she appeared quite striking in her understated elegance. Drawn by curiosity, I walked a little closer to her and noticed that she had her head bowed and was slowly turning on her heels. This behaviour struck me as being somewhat peculiar, and I was left utterly horrified upon learning its purpose.

The lady in question was standing in a perfect circle of phlegm. This she had chosen to deposit on the ground on her own accord, quietly hawking it up as she spun slowly on her heels. A businessman standing nearby caught me staring and glared back as if to admonish me for being a pervert. However, his chastising features soon changed when he caught a better look of what had left me frozen in horror. We both looked at one another in a quite moment of acknowledgment, knowing that from that point forth we could say ‘You don’t know the things I’ve seen’ if quizzed on a sudden mood swing by friends, family or co-workers.

What possible purpose is served by a man or woman who stands in a circle of phlegm? Perhaps it serves to ward of evil, I’ll never quite know. Whatever the truth of the matter may be, I hope that people know better than to engage in such behaviour in public.

One day, me write a novel ...

One of these days, I intend on writing a novel. Not just any novel, however, but a internationally acclaimed literary tour-de-force – the reading of which will be deemed compulsory at ivy league institutions such as Harvard, Yale and Princeton. Of course, a few of the finer details are yet to be worked out – plot, story line, characters, beginning, middle, end etc.

Writing a great novel is not just difficult, it is damn near impossible for the vast majority of those who pursue this formidable dream. Thousands try. Few succeed. There is a certain perversity in its pursuit, due in no small part to the uncertainty that comes with writing. Will readers appreciate and understand the written word in quite the same way as the writer?

On a more pressing note, a great novel should ideally come with a great title. This goes well beyond what most ordinary people dream of. Even a good novel, blessed with a great title, becomes immortal. A novel requires tens of thousands of words, but the title can only be allocated a few. It must be short, succinct, captivating and capable of arousing curiosity, interest and emotion. The talent to say much in a few words rivals the more-lauded talent to do so with many.

In thinking of great titles, a few come to mind. These are listed briefly as follows:

(i) Children of a Lesser God
(ii) The God of Small Things
(iii) The Buddha of Suburbia
(iv) My Beautiful Laundrette
(v) Crime and Punishment

There are, of course, numerous other titles deserving of inclusion in the above list. It goes without saying that a great novel should be able to stand on its own. However, a great novel title also has to embody the novel itself.

Before I so much as put pen to paper, I shall work diligently towards thinking up a great novel title. The title will be the most important aspect of my literary masterpiece, especially since I probably won’t have the backing of some televised Oprah Book Club segment on free-to-air TV.

Some preliminary ideas are as follows:

Antoinette’s Areola
- Erotic adventure featuring a fictional French woman with superb nipples

Passing Wind in Wyoming
- Diary of an American storm chaser with a penchant for souped up cars.

Arse of Darkness
- Horror novel about a demonic backside run rampant in modern day New York.

In the event that one of the above ideas ever reaches fruition, I will no doubt hire a competent visual artist or photographer to assist in designing the book cover. Hopefully, my first novel will not be ‘Arse of Darkness’, as cover photography in this case may well require the services of a miniature camera, a proctologist and a model with a dubious personal hygiene and a high threshold for physical discomfort.

As has been made evident by now, my ideas are plentiful but commitment is clearly lacking. Writing involves a massive input of effort over a prolonged period, and is best achieved in a writer’s room. Ideally speaking, such a room should be housed in a rustic log cabin that is entirely cut off from the grid (i.e. no electricity and running water). My only company would be an antique typewriter, candles, an endless supply of strong black coffee and nature (e.g. several inquisitive squirrels).

One day, I hope to achieve my dream of writing a literary masterpiece of the highest calibre. Chances are that it may not be a bestseller, and may in fact attract adverse reviews if not an internationally organised book-burning ceremony. However, royalties and public opinion are not so much my concern. What’s important is that I am satisfied with the book, that it reflects an accurate transliteration of my thoughts and feelings to the written word. If this is achieved, I shall be more than content.

And now, to retreat to my bedroom and write the opening chapter of Antoinette’s Areola.

Burn baby burn ...

Several years ago, I wrote an essay on racial profiling that commented at length on the often dire effects such practices have on various ethnic groups. What I neglected to mention, however, is that minorities tend to sometimes profile their own.

For example, if you are Chinese and walk into an Asian restaurant chances are that you won’t be allocated steel cutlery. Instead, it will be assumed that you’re competent in using chopsticks and do not require the service of a knife, fork or spoon in finishing your meal. Similarly speaking, a person from the subcontinent will automatically be assumed as having both a palate and stomach for spice if seated in an Indian restaurant.

A fine example of the above occurred some months ago when I attended an Indian restaurant in Glebe in the company of two friends. The three of us, being Indian in appearance, were presumably assumed to be such by the wait staff who served our food with more than a fair dose of chilli.

To call the dishes hot would be an understatement. Lucifer himself may well have been serving in that kitchen. If so, I assume that he would have either spit into the food or done something infinitely more repugnant. I’ll put speculation to rest for present purposes, in an effort to preserve my sanity and to maintain good taste.

Although I cannot say with any degree of certainty where the chillies in these dishes hailed from, I can take an educated guess. Chances are that they were grown by psychopathic inmates in the confines of some long forgotten jail in deepest darkest Africa. The soil would have been close to infertile, nourished only by the decaying corpses of those buried in shallow graves. These would be the bodies of evil men, mad dog killers whose very presence in the soil sullies the earth. Water would have been scarce, causing some inmates to urinate on these hellish chilli plants at various times of the day. A few may well have passed kidney stones.

Few, if any men, could comment on what it would feel like licking a lollipop composed almost entirely of battery acid. Although I am in the same boat, I can now boast of an experience that is comparable, if not worse in nature. After the very first bite, I began sweating profusely and my mouth felt as if it were on fire. It was as if someone had made a miniature Molotov cocktail using those cute 60ml liquor bottles one sees in hotels, only to throw it into my mouth. Under my breath, I cursed repeatedly at the mothers, grandmothers, wives, sisters, aunts of the chefs in question – wishing every female in their family dead so that further propagation of their kind would cease entirely.

Without the first morsel having even passed down my throat, I began wondering whether I would be defecating blood that evening. My mind was replete with images of internal organs being dissolved on account of whatever demonic ingredient the chef had seen it fit to put in my food. It beggared belief that I would so much as have a bowel left were that food to pass through my intestines. I wanted to ask for water, cold milk, ice cream but could not speak properly because of excessive panting. Although my two friends were similarly troubled, I cared only for my own salvation, knowing full and well that I would drink their blood was it sufficient to quench the heat that plagued me.

Without saying anything, I folded my napkin and walked out … making a beeline for the nearest 7/11. Once there, I purchased 3 iceblocks known as ‘Calyppos’. Even before my money went into the till, I was frantically unwrapping one and shoving it down my throat, frantically chewing on raspberry flavoured ice and not caring an iota for the impending ice cream headache that would eventuate as a result. Appeased somewhat, I walked back into the restaurant and handed the remaining two iceblocks to my friends, both of which accepted with a whispered ‘Thank you’.

Some of the wait staff watched the above events unfold with both amusement and derision. Our obvious discomfort was noted by several other patrons, some of whom asked us openly whether our food was too hot. It was tempting to respond with “WTF do you think?”, but we settled for a courteous “Yes, it is rather spicy for our liking”.

Upon hearing our response, some of the Anglo-Australian customers looked at us with utter disbelief, as if we were all African American men over 6’10 in height who did not play basketball and had no knowledge of the sport. Having born witness to the sight of three curries not enjoying their curries, they approached their own food with marked trepidation. Rather amusingly, one of the wait staff actually explained to onlooking patrons that our dishes had been prepared extra-hot because we looked to be Indian. Uh Huh … and how many Indians enjoy crapping out dissolved internal organs following an evening meal?

Soul of the city ...

On more than one occasion now, I have listened to a friend speak of a city as if a living person. The aim is ostensibly to romanticise a geographical location such that it assumes an almost human persona. Although bordering on the unusual, such practices are nothing new. For example, aircraft and seagoing vessels are often referred to fondly as ‘she’, most commonly by doting owners and the odd historian.

Although I cannot lay claim to Sydney, I do consider it my home. After having spent half my life residing in over 20 countries, it was a welcome relief to have finally found a base in November of 1989, the month in which my family immigrated to Australia.

Prior to having moved to Sydney, I was unaccustomed to living in ‘big cities’. My father, an ex UN diplomat, routinely had his family accompany him to various hell holes around the globe, predominantly to small towns in nations with an almost non-existent infrastructure. I was used to desert conditions, having lived on the edge of the Sahara for some seven years, surrounded by wide open spaces boasting views to the horizon in almost every direction. Although Sydney does not offer a similar experience, there is something to be said about standing at the edge of the Tasman Ocean, contemplating the depths of the ocean and the numerous secrets she may hold.

In choosing a favourite place in Sydney, I would have to pick Cremorne Point. This particular area, situated on the lower north shore, is home to the wealthy and few from the west traverse there for any other reason aside from a picnic, or perhaps mere curiosity over how the ‘other half’ lives. Accessible by ferry from Circular Quay, Cremorne Point offers breathtaking views of Sydney Harbour and the CBD skyline at all times of the day. It is also home to the Cremorne Point Lighthouse, a modest yet picturesque structure connected to land by way of a small walkway resembling a pier. Although relatively unassuming to look at, this particular building is lent an aura of mystery owing to a small steel plaque commemorating a young girl who drowned there many years prior.

Several days ago, I decided to make my way to Cremorne Point in the early evening following a rather terse argument with my folks. Following this little altercation, I felt somewhat suffocated in my own home and experienced an almost unnatural need to be outside. Upon having finally made it to Cremorne Point some one and half hours later, I found a vacant bench and spent several hours staring out over the harbour to the city skyline. The view at dusk was nothing short of breathtaking, and it amazed me to realise that such a beautiful scene could be enjoyed and appreciated without interruption from either locals or tourists.

Despite being only a few kilometres away from the hub of one of the world’s great cities, I still felt alone. The view across the water presented a world that could not have been in starker contrast with my own immediate surroundings. It was abuzz with activity – ferries drifting in and out of the commercial piers of Circular Quay; a million and one shimmering lights giving life to towers of steel, glass and concrete; the silhouettes of countless strangers walking around the sails of the Opera House; flocks of seagulls circling the aircraft warning lights on Governor Phillip Tower. By way of comparison, my surroundings were unnaturally still, as if I was staring out from within a photograph in a perfect state of solitude.

The ferries seemed usually quiet that evening, such that I could hear little, if any, signs of human activity. Despite straining my hearing, the only perceptive sounds were that of waves lapping the shore, the occasional buzzing insect and the wind meandering through trees and shrubs. I started wondering whether cities did indeed have souls and, if so, how best to describe Sydney’s.

Given the unquestionable beauty and grace of Sydney Harbour, any purported ‘soul’ would no doubt be female. She may be unhappy about the numerous tunnels and infrastructure projects ravaging the natural beauty of her home, but would find solace in the few nature reserves still left relatively undisturbed by man. She would mourn over the countless steel and glass structures being erected on an almost weekly basis, buildings which seem to almost block out the sky and cast long and foreboding shadows over the landscape. In the evening, she would stare in wonder at the thousands of windows aglow with lights and moving silhouettes, contemplating who these people are, where they came from, whether they are good or bad, whether they feel her presence in the same way she feels theirs …

There is no doubt in my mind that some of you will see the above as romanticised and sentimentalist claptrap. Having read the paragraph several times over, I am similarly inclined. The visible sentiment in those words is more an expression of my own thoughts and feelings about Sydney than that of any supposed ‘soul’ that the city may possess. It’s also an apt reflection of what can happen when you sit on a park bench by yourself in a state of semi-depression, sip contentedly at single malt scotch and then begin contemplating whether a metaphor can have a tangible persona.

Despite my current cynicism, I can see a certain aesthetic purpose in ascribing a human person to a city, specifically one boasting remarkable physical beauty and an unparalleled diversity of people.

Scent of a woman …

It goes without saying that most of you will find this post to be rather crass. However, there remains the off-chance that a few ‘oddball types’ may be disturbed yet strangely aroused.

The topic borders roughly on fetishism, namely the fascination some men have with female flatulence. Yes, yes …. I understand the psychological disturbance some of you are no doubt feeling now given the ‘stinking’ subject matter. A few months back, a friend of mine with a fascination for Japanese culture directed me to a website titled Scent of Woman’s F*rt. Like most people, I viewed this group email with a combination of abject horror coupled with curiosity. It almost beggared belief that there existed men, ones hailing from an overly conservative and polite culture no less, who would be aroused by the sight, sound and smell of a woman breaking wind – but there are, since there seems to be a niche market for pop-off videos.

Since I can no longer find the site online, I may describe it in some detail now. The squeamish are advised to switch off right now.

The website in question was quite descriptive; after all … one cannot enjoy olfactory stimulation from a video alone. It described in vivid detail the ‘adventurous’ dietary patterns of the women in question, comprising primarily of vegetables such as cabbage and turnip. Pictures of women bending over in preparation of letting one rip were plentiful, as were a number of sound bytes whose content one could never describe using words alone. Although I cannot speak for others, the subject matter of this site can only be described as unsettling in the extreme. Like most men who adore women, I was confronted with a very real yet unpleasant fact – women break wind.

Alluding to an old episode of ‘Third Rock from the Sun’, I remember a scene in which Albright breaks wind in Solomon’s company. Rather than being distressed or shocked, Solomon is instead overjoyed at the underlying message he has just heard. In his twisted alien mind, his relationship with Albright has reached a whole new level of intimacy, one in which each is content to expose the other to the once private workings of their bodily functions.

I honestly cannot say what drives certain people to be turned on by subject matter such as that described above. Interestingly enough, academic literature discussing the fascination some have with sadomasochism is plentiful. However, there is little to explain why anyone would be turned on by the flatulence of another.

I know for a fact that toilet humour is exceptionally popular in certain parts of South East Asia, notably Korea and Japan. For example, numerous Korean game parlours boast a popular arcade game known as Boon-Ga Boon-Ga (known in English as Spank ‘em). The object of the game involves the player jabbing a plastic finger into a jeans-covered bottom, which protrudes from the machine as if the person’s head and torso were stuck inside. The harder the jab, the more amusing the face pulled by the computer generated character you have chosen to humiliate.

Boon-Ga Boon-Ga is also known as ‘Pokey Man’ by doting fans. Proponents of this game argue that it is harmless, and used primarily as a means of reducing stress. Players can choose between various targets, including ‘ex-girlfriend’, ‘ex-boyfriend’, ‘gold digger’ and ‘mother-in-law’. Despite its dubious nature, fans argue that it does not lead them to grope female straphangers on Tokyo’s subway or otherwise engage in questionable sexual practices.

Although Pokey Man does raise eyebrows, it’s nowhere near as disturbing as the original topic of this post – which is ‘Scent of Woman’s F*rt’. Rather thankfully, Japanese game manufacturers have not yet designed a game which provides olfactory stimulation and involves players thrusting their noses into a ‘curvy lingerie covered bottom’. If they ever decide to do so, I’ll come to realise that the oddities of this world probably do defy explanation … and that I need to be cautious in opening any emails providing further lurid details of the fetishes of Japanese men.

Nice doggy …

Although I do not have a canine phobia, there are certain breeds capable of instilling more than a minor degree of anxiety in my mind. Two such breeds happen to be Dobermans and Rottweilers, an interesting observation since my family owned two Doberman guard dogs some two decades ago (both of whom were vicious bastards to put it mildly). Although not a threat to their owners, both hand a fondness for pawing frantically at their owners and in the case of a certain toddler in a stroller (i.e. yours truly), rolling him around the house like a human pinball.

Over two decades have passed since I last owned a real pet. Of course, fish do not count. Just over a year ago, however, one of my father’s friends asked whether I would mind ‘conditioning’ a young malamute pup over several months. This fellow, a seasoned breeder of Arctic sled dogs (albeit based in Australia), believed that a dog developed a much better temperament if made accustomed to being around young animals and children when young. The dog in question, a purebred worth some $5500, was known simply as J5 at the time he was put in my care. Upon acquiring this adorable little bundle of fur, I named him Shadow. Apparently he liked nothing better than tailing my mother around the house, nipping playfully at her heels and overturning her washing basket at every conceivable occasion.

In less than a week, Shadow became my new best friend. To tell the truth, I felt like this little animal loved me. The more telling likelihood, however, is that he was dependant on me for attention. My parents aren’t exactly the ‘pet loving’ type and, amusingly enough, seemed apprehensive about a little wolf-like pup sharing the same house as them. However, I completely and utterly adored him. In a household where stress levels reduced everyone to the brink of insanity, he remained something of a constant, seemingly unaffected by mood swings or other trivialities which render human interaction so unbearable at times.

On one occasion, Shadow’s owner decided to drop by with Shadow’s Mom in tow. Shadow’s Mom was a ‘big bitch’ to put it lightly. Given the fact that I am using doggy terminology, this is not being unduly offensive or uncaring. This particular Malamute must have weighed at least 40-something kilos. She also looked more ‘wolf like’ than any dog I’ve seen before, huskies included. It dawned on me, that in time, Shadow would lose his puppy cuteness for something else – powerful shoulders, a menacing jaw line, and eyes that only a predator can possess.

OK, maybe I am exaggerating. Shadow’s Mom was perfectly content in my company and felt at ease with resting her formidable head on my lap. I, on the other hand, was not quite as comfortable. For one, her snout was so close to my crotch that any misguided sense of security I may have held was dispelled in its entirety. Second, she kept glancing up at me with a ‘You have no idea what I’m thinking or might do’ look. Sensing my unease, the owner called her back to his feet, perhaps finding the whole episode to have been highly amusing.

Some short months later, I had to return Shadow to the breeder. Being a family friend, he was wary of my obvious discomfort at parting with Shadow and asked whether I’d like to keep him. After all, he had numerous other pups from which to make a fortune. Despite my insistent begging, my parents declined the offer. I watched sadly as Shadow was laden into the back of a BMW station wagon and driven away, hopefully to find an owner who’d care for him as much as I did.

Shadow did leave a host of good memories though. Overturning the washing basket on himself and scooting around the hard, urinating on my bed every second day (young pups have no bladder control for several weeks following birth), keeping me company as I slaved away on a doctorate in the late hours of the evening, attracting some stunning female joggers to my side in various parks. Ahh yes, Shadow was a real hit with the ladies, possessing more charm than any cute baby. I’d watch him fondly as he was snuggled close to a young lady’s bosom, wondering for all the world why I could not have been born a mutt. Although proud of Shadow, I also felt a hint of jealousy because I knew that he could lick any girl’s face without having first taken her out to dinner. I now know where the phrase ‘lucky dog’ is derived from.

Aside from simply being obscenely adorable, Shadow proved something of a mystery as well. For example, I remember watching a documentary on cats titled ‘Caressing the Tiger’ (yes, I know it’s a bad choice of title) some months back. The base message was that numerous people loved cute little kitties because of their closeness to the ‘big cats’ – lions, tigers, cheetahs and leopards oh my!! Aside from their inherent cuteness, they were also respected and admired because of their close familial ties with the world’s most feared predators.

Similarly speaking, Shadow captivated me on account of the disturbingly close genetic heritage he shared with wolves. He certainly looked like a wolf pup, with his strongly defined jaw, predatory eyes, and mass of white/grey fur. When in the company of such an animal, you feel almost privileged to have earned its affections. It amazed me to no small end that, in a few months time, he’d probably grow to a size and shape that would instil the average Joe with thoughts of whispery Transylvanian forests and of wolf packs collectively howling at the moon. For the time being, however, he appeared impeccably docile and playful, incapable of bringing down anything aside from the odd washing basket.

Playing with Shadow, I came to realise how close a human could get with an animal. I looked out for him ceaselessly, ensuring he ate well, received plentiful exercise, and was generally kept company throughout the day. It made me realise how so many of us bestow more affection on an animal than a human being. Here was something which, in a natural habitat, would act out of necessity and need alone. It would not take more than it needed, the bare essentials to facilitate survival. By comparison, his owner was of a species renowned for wanton destruction and pillaging of almost everything, including its own kind. Were Shadow capable of capable of processing this in his little puppy head, I wonder how he’d have felt about keeping me company.

A long time has passed since I last saw Shadow, at which point he was being driven away from my home in a blue station wagon. Shadow appeared rather reluctant to leave, mirroring my own feelings in letting him go. However, he did leave behind some treasured memories – chasing Mom around the yard as she hung up the washing, waking us up at ungodly hours with short bursts of ‘Yipe, Yipe, Yipe’ barks, urinating on my bed at his leisure, keeping me company whilst I slaved away on a doctoral thesis.

No doubt Shadow is in greener pastures now. Given his impeccable pedigree, he has probably been put out to ‘stud’, a physically exertive but nonetheless enjoyable pastime. Who knows? Several years down the track I may well end up with one of his descendants, a ‘Shadow 2’ if you will who’ll provide countless hours of loyal companionship, and see it fit to piss on my bed at his leisure ….

Ethnic comedians are a godsend …

Several weeks ago, a friend of mine (popularly known as Gizmo) recommended that I download a 75 megabyte video clip from the net. The content of this particular file was not dubious as some of you may be inclined to presume. Rather, it concerned a stand-up comedy performance of one ‘Russel Peters’, an Indian comic resident in Canada. Readers who hail from an Asian background, specifically Indian or Chinese, are advised to download this clip at their earliest possible convenience. By far, it is one of the most hilarious stand-up performances I have seen to date, and undeniably unique owing to the ethnic background of the comedian.

Peters does exceptionally well in lampooning the myriad of cultural differences between Asians and … well, just about everyone else. He is capable of impeccably impersonating a strong Indian, Chinese and Canadian accent and satirises his own parents to no small end. One can only imagine how his poor conservative folks feel about being the butt of most of his jokes.

The most amusing aspect of Peters’ performance would have to be the caricatures of his very own father. Although possessed with a thick Indian accent (funny at the worst of times), this man was nonetheless capable of uttering words stained with the threat of impending violence, and against a child no less. His favourite saying to the young Peters was as follows:

‘Sumbady gonna get a-hurt real baaad. I am nhaat saying who, just sumbady. But I think you know him quite vell’.

In responding to the above words, the young Peters experienced a myriad of emotions – ranging from guilt to hope to suspicion to sheer terror. For example, was the threat directed specifically against him or a family member? Was it wrong to wish that the subject of impending violence was his brother? If he knew this person ‘quite vell’, as his father alleged, did it necessarily mean that he himself was the target?

It goes without saying that some members of the Indian community will find Peters’ brand of comedy offensive, namely the manner in which he satirises his own parents and parodies the Indian accent. What’s most amusing, however, is that Peters’ statements are more ‘fact’ than ‘fiction’. It is exceptionally difficult for a young Indian male to impress a western lady with his accent, Indian fathers are rather prone to violence, Indian mothers are obsessed about marrying off their offspring with disturbing expediency, Indians in general are stingier with money than a Scottish financial planner.

In past times, I have asked myself at what point comedy ceases to be humorous, especially when it pokes fun at an entire culture or people. The line is very fine indeed. For example, following the American ‘incursion’ into Afghanistan numerous American comics alluded to Afghani culture, primarily with a view to satirising it. Robyn Williams, in an appearance on Letterman some years back, ceaselessly parodied the Afghani language (i.e. the rather harsh manner of speech) and made the odd comment about the relationship of male Afghans with their donkeys.

In the end, I was both laughing and squirming. It did not seem to be very PC and, quiet honestly, appeared to denigrate a culture that has existed for thousands of years – and has more to offer than donkeys, camels and other barnyard animals. Williams’ humour led to gross generalisations of ‘all’ Afghans, including those living abroad.

Despite the obviously distressful situation Afghanistan is now in, ill-considered jokes abound which satirise Afghanistan’s non-existent infrastructure. References are often made to ‘taxi donkeys’ and ‘hut hotels’. Images which reduce some to tears (inc. those seen on World Vision advertisements) are reduced in our minds to subjects of amusement and comedy.

Anyway, it appears that I have led and otherwise light-hearted post into a pretty serious discussion. My apologies for doing so … lets get back to Peters shall we?

In watching Peters, who has built a living on lampooning ethnic groups, most feel “OK” in responding with a smile or a hearty laugh. The fact that the comedian in question is ‘ethnic’ himself acts as something of an authorisation allowing non-ethnics (yes, I just made that up) to laugh at the cultural peculiarities of various minority groups. Rather amusingly, it appears that it is only OK to laugh when minority groups lampoon themselves.

And this one time ….

It’s easy to hate people who do not let you get a word in edgewise. Don’t get me wrong, its not that I like talking about myself. However, every once in awhile I prefer to steer a conversation towards matters more pressing than haircuts, favourite sandwich fillings, white sugar v. brown sugar etc.

People often mistake me for being shy, if not downright rude when it comes to socialising. Nothing could be further from the truth. The simple fact of the matter is that I am not one for idle banter. Neither am I at the opposite end mind you. For example, was I to meet someone at a party my conversational starting point would not be neo-conservative politics in the US or the impact of colonial literature in post-apartheid South Africa. Rather, there has to be a middle ground between idle chit chat and ‘me-so-smart-and-sophisticamated’ ramblings.

On more than one occasion now, I have found myself a social function talking to some woman about her hairstyle, clothing, dietary requirements and favourite shampoo. This statement is not meant to cast aspersions towards women nor make a gross generalisation of the supposed conversational skills of the female of the species. Rather, it’s an observation of how reluctant some people can be to move away from their purported ‘comfort zone’ when meeting with a stranger. Social conventions seem to dictate that the conversation must be light-hearted, highly impersonal unless you’re discussing grooming habits, devoid of ‘religion and politics’, incapable of drawing out opinion on contentious or topical issues.

Of course, there are certain social scenes in which the abovementioned convention is done away with almost in its entirety. Legal Practitioner Parties (LPPs) are one such example. In that situation, the aim of any conversation is to prove that your intellectual penis extends far beyond that of the person with whom you’re conversing. The discussion can become exceptionally personal, as you are quizzed on your secondary schooling (public or private), tertiary entrance rank, undergraduate and postgraduate studies (honours, masters, doctorate), employer (top tier, mid tier, suburban practice, in-house, public service), income (yes, nothing is sacred) etc. Once answered, these very same questions are then asked again, but this time directed to your partner (assuming you are in a relationship).

The above behaviour is best described by some as either ‘wankerism’ or ‘big dickedness’. It can be readily observed in most upmarket watering holes around Sydney, specifically those in and around Circular Quay (a lawyer hotspot). Although entertaining to watch, the situation is markedly different should you find yourself inadvertently becoming a participant. You see, one object of social wankerism is to subtly insult your companions, such that they do not immediately realise the slight against their name. This particular aspect of a wankerist’s social interaction can take years to refine and develop, and further requires an intimate understanding of their friends’ weaknesses.

In seeking to counter a wankerist, the best approach is to simply ignore the person. A wankerist will take great offence at being ignored, as acknowledgment, attention and recognition provide a greater buzz to him/her than cocaine. In the unfortunate event that you are ever approached by a wankerist at a social function, the following lines work wonders in defusing the situation:

“Yes, how fascinating. Goodbye.”

“Congratulations, you friends must be very proud. Do you still remember their names from when your first imagined them as a child?”

“A lawyer huh? If you can interpret complex legislative provisions with such ease, why not a bored face?”

“I noticed your partner asking a few of her colleagues to have a quick peek at her briefs. She mentioned that a senior associate offloaded them to her several weeks ago. Someone should talk to her about that. It really doesn’t sound healthy.”

In the event that the above does not work, kindly inform the wankerist that you must excuse yourself briefly in order to get a VB from the bar. Upon hearing this, the wankerist will no longer wish to be in your company, owing to the abject fear of being seen with an individual drinking local beer.

On a more serious note, I have recently come to realise how many ‘masks’ we wear when dealing with different people. Most of us are multi-faceted in that nature, changing our personality as readily as a chameleon changes colour in order to meet the expectations of different social groups. To some extent, I am little different. The ‘work me’ is a much different creature from the ‘social me’. More alarmingly, the ‘social me’ is not exactly static. It can sometimes change slightly in order to better accommodate, or rather complement, its surroundings.

Put simply, I can be either silly or serious depending on the company I keep. Quite thankfully, however, I do have a number of close friends with whom I can be both. It’s reassuring to see that they can ‘read between the lines’, appreciate my rather unusual blend of cynicism, satire and humour, and respond with unrestrained wit and flair in equal measure. Every once in awhile, it is therapeutic to laugh and giggle moronically at politically incorrect jokes that would leave others dumbfounded, to appreciate the timeless beauty of toilet humour, to make light of the dark, to ignite one’s gaseous emissions in a dimly lit room … ok, maybe not the last one, but it does go hand in hand with ‘making light of the dark’.

Sleazy music videos ….

Is it just me or are lyrics in R&B singles getting seedier by the day? It’s not too long ago that I remember hearing a certain track with the chorus ‘Stroke it for me’. Although uncertain, I believe that these lyrics come from a single by Aaliyah, a ‘promising’ female vocalist who apparently died in a place crash quite some time ago.

Glad to know she left the world with such a deep message.

As far as some female R&B singers are concerned, the underlying message seems to be ‘the nastier the better’. More amusingly, the subtle sexual messages in lyrics are being dropped in favour of explicit instructions:

“Lick my neck, lick my back, lick my pu**y and my crack.”

Hmm … charming. Despite being rather in your face, excuse the pun, one wonders whether the above words are any better than Mariah Carey’s ‘And it’s just like honey, when your love comes over me.’ Oh well, guess she’s just another female vocalist who prefers the ‘in your face’ approach.

Occasionally, I do watch shows like Rage (ABC) and Video Hits (Channel 10). Classic rock seems to have taken something of a dive, in favour of R&B, Hip Hop, Rap etc. I really don’t know what the correct terminology is – it mostly sounds the same, and it all sounds like sh*t. As one commentator famously said when remarking on a Spice Girls video, “It is like watching a porn video, only with worse music”.

Amusingly enough, a number of male R&B singers – notably Judakiss and 50 Cent – release ‘wet & wild’ versions of some of their commercial music videos, namely those involving bitches, whores and booty. These clips will never be shown on free-to-air television, and it’s essentially a given that they’ll never see the light of day on MTV. However, they are readily available using online file sharing programs such as Limewire or Bittorrent. Even more disturbingly, they are downloaded in vast numbers the world over, such that other cultures may also learn of the importance of ‘shakin dat azz’, ‘backin it up’ and ‘makin dat azz clap’.

Difficult as it may be to believe, I am not a wowser. ‘Wowser’ is a slang expression, most commonly heard in Australian and New Zealand English, referring to a person whose overdeveloped sense of morality drives them to deprive others of their pleasures. I would hate to any such thing, it is not my intention to deprive countless impressionable teenagers of ‘booty pop’ – especially in its visual form. Rather, my argument begs the question of whether we need so much of it. No matter what you do, eye candy is not going to compensate for bad melodies and worse singing.

It’s a little sad to note that one of my favourite bands, Black Eyed Peas, have sunk to a new low by singing about ‘all dat azz’, ‘all dat junk inside your trunk’ and ‘lovely lady lumps’. Man, I think we’ve had enough by now. We’re overloaded on images of powerfully built African American and Latino women gyrating in front of cameras while gawking rappers look on in a stupor. If you want to be seedy, take a cue from Chris Isaak, who set a new benchmark for sensuality and sleaziness in his infamous music video for ‘Wicked Game’. A certain degree of ‘class’ helps alleviate, if not nullify, the very real perve factor of that particular clip.

Leaving aside visuals, the lyrics of ‘booty pop’ leave a great deal to be desired. For one, the grammar could not be more horrendous. For example:

Incorrect: “I likes dem girls who likes dem girls”.
Correct: I like women with homosexual tendencies.

Incorrect: “I likes the way yo azz be vibrating”.
Correct: “I quite enjoy watching you wiggle your bottom”.

I may well be guilty of being picky here. After all, it’s unreasonable to expect young males with little or no secondary schooling to employ the Queen’s English with quite the same panache she displays. For example, “One rather likes the way one wiggles one’s bottom with sufficient vigour to elicit earth tremors” does not have quite the same ring to it as “I likes the way yo azz be viiibbbrrraatttingggg. Shake dat ting like yo wanna start an earthquake”.

I guess we can expect stars like 50 Cent, Judakiss and Eminem to further assist in the denigration of the English language by continuing to produce, sell and market their wares the world over. After all, if you’re appealing to one of the lowest common denominators in society (e.g. sexually frustrated white males with no sense of cultural identity who ‘adopt’ the worst excesses of popular African American culture), then there’s little if any point in seeking to be sophisticated.

As for intellectuals such as me, we’ll simply have to make do with skin-tight ballet costumes, attractive European flautists and the like. There’s something to be said about leaving a little to the imagination AND having some restraint over the baser of emotions ….

How I wish I could play guitar …. (sigh)

For those who don’t already know, let’s just say that I’m a Dire Straits fan. Unlike some, I do not class myself in the ‘hardcore’ fan category and a portrait of Mark Knopfler is not affixed to my bedroom ceiling. In actuality, I know very little of the man aside from the fact that he’s an exceptional guitarist.

Speaking generally, women seem to take a much greater interest in a man if he’s artistically inclined. Poetry and writing may not suffice, however, unless you’re dating a literary academic in her mid-50s. It’s music which proves most captivating to the female of the species, acting as an almost infallible lure – albeit of the auditory kind. Others have suggested a double-choc coated Tim Tam at the end of a string, but some women may well find that demeaning.

It’s not just the supposed interest of women in guitar-playing men that makes me wish I could play, although Toni Braxton proved rather persuasive which she sang “I wish that I was in your arms like that Spanish guitar, and you’d play me all night long till the dawn”. I like the fact that it’s a versatile instrument, capable of being utilised for a number of styles from folk to jazz to rock. Also, if imbued with the ability to play guitar, I may well become a more interesting person.

The fact remains that I have few interests outside of work. Well, I do but they’re mostly academic and normally have some correlation with my professional interests. Few women would so much as look in my direction if I explained my passion for continuous disclosure provisions, socially responsible investment, codification of the natural justice rules in statute, taxation of cross-border transactions etc. Yes, riveting stuff isn’t it?

I do some others interests of course – contemporary English literature, creative writing, satire, travelling, exotic coffee blends, snooker etc. However, few of these involve any degree of ‘performance’. As you are no doubt aware, assuming you watch Discovery Channel, the female in most bird species has to ‘approve’ of a show performed by the suitor prior to engaging in any mating ritual. This often involves a display of plumage, but extends further to actual ‘bird calls’ – which can be quite musical in nature.

So, it follows that if I wish to attract a decent bird, I may well need to put on something of a show. A tutorial in ASX Listing Rules will probably be regarded with some disdain, as would a lengthy essay (written in the ‘magical realism’ style of Ben Okri) declaring my unabashed love and affection. BUT, what about an acoustic performance on a 12-string? Success is next to guaranteed with each note you strike. You don’t even have to be particularly gifted or talented. It may well suffice to learn a few different songs, become technically proficient at playing them, practice emotive facial expressions in front of a mirror (in striving for a particularly tricky or high note, just make the same face as for when you’re having difficulty passing wind), and make sure your nails are well manicured.

It doesn’t sound so hard, but the fact remains that I cannot read music, nor can I be bothered at this late stage in my life. It’s as difficult and troublesome as learning a new language, although some may disagree. Having come from something of a Middle Eastern background, I do not see myself as being particularly musically orientated. It seems to take too much disciple, dedication and practice over time. If only I could devise some way of downloading scores of music lessons into my brain using a stock-standard cable internet connection …..

Oh well, stuff it … I’ll just pay for se .. err .. music lessons like everyone else.