A Baby Boomer Has An Earnest Chat With Melbourne’s Weather

Boomer:

Hello. Thanks for coming. Please, take a seat.

…

Boomer:

You can’t? Why?

…

Boomer:

A meteorological phenomenon? What’s that?

…

Boomer:

Yes, but’s wrong with being called ‘weather’? That’s what you are.

…

Boomer:

I don’t see how that is stopping you from taking a seat.

…

Boomer:

*scoff* Have it your way then. I personally think my chair is more than capable of handling your so-called immensity.

…

Boomer:

Anyway, we need to have a little chat about your performance in Melbourne the last few weeks. Frankly, it’s just unacceptable.

…

Boomer:

Why? Because it’s irregular. It’s spring and it’s cold. I’m supposed to be out watching my gardener trim the petunias at the moment, not tucked up inside with my central heating switched on. Gas bill will cost me the proverbial, especially with the missus constantly fiddling with the thermostat. I’m always telling her that 24.5 degrees is optimum. She’d rather we live in a broiling swamp.

…

Boomer:

Yeah, listen, I know this is Melbourne – four seasons in one day, haha – and Melbourne has its, um, penchant for being a bit – whadda call it? – hipster. Bit original, individual, bunch of laneways and graffiti and that stuff. I mean, I get culture. I go the museum and the musicals. But I don’t see how that excuses this complete refusal to align with traditional weather –

…

Boomer:

… if you say so – meteorological

*under breath* silly term –

patterns.

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Boomer:

My fault?

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Boomer:

Ridiculous. Clearly, you’re not working hard enough. Just gotta get your foot in the door. Start from the bottom: bit of 20 degrees here or there. Maybe, a cheeky 25, you know? It’s the problem with your generation, you just don’t have the value of patience that defines people like me. Too eager to switch from 35 degree balmy days, to 12 degree freezers. Shows a complete lack of persistence.

…

Boomer:

Not that easy? Of course it is. As they say, you can’t spend all your chips on avocado and expect to own a house.

…

Boomer:

Apply to you? Well, it’s the gist of the thing isn’t it? Instead of just taking the easy way – punishing us with rain and hail temper tantrums, bit of artic wind – you could just get your head down and save up some of that rotten weather, turn it into something nice for the rest of us.

…

Boomer:

What do you get in return? Isn’t the satisfaction of a job well done enough? I don’t get how you all think that your every action is worthy of payment. We all need to make sacrifices to get what we want.

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Boomer:

My sacrifice is taking time out of my day to talk to you.

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Boomer:

It’s hard to concentrate on what you’re saying when you won’t just sit down.

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Boomer:

I still don’t get why your abstraction is a problem. No flexibility. Gotta be willing to put in the yards. When I was learning to sit, I started small, with a stool. Eventually, with a great deal of hard work, I graduated to a nice lounging beach chair in Sorrento. You people have no appreciation of the process.

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Boomer:

No imagination, either. An absence of limbs is not an excuse, weather.

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Boomer:

I think I’ll call you what I’m most comfortable with, thank you very much.

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Boomer:

Are you going to do something about this unseasonable chill, then? I’ve got the races and my beach house waiting for me. Can’t really do much at either if it continues raining and being fucking cold.

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Boomer:

That’s just plain disappointing. Back when I was young, there was never this kind of drama. You could tell the date by the change in weather. 

...

Boomer:

Really, it’s like buying a house. Just got to work hard – like I did as a young man – and you can get a nice townhouse in Malvern. You, weather, just need to work at it a bit, get over complaints about ozones and emissions – a pair of excuses, at the end of the day – and get it done. Plenty of opportunity out there for a nice day if you're willing to look. Might need to scrape by a bit at first – few less boutique beers and trips to Europe, so to speak – but that’s the way it goes. Can't be spending all that hard earned sun in Mykonos.

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Boomer:

Where are you going? Fuck, you’re all so indecisive and flaky: whatever happened to commitment? To regular, good old-fashioned weather?

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Boomer:

Global warming? A myth created by Greenies who wanna lure us into socialism. So, no, it’s not my fault. You’re just lazy. Keener to post yourself on Instagram with some kinda motivational message, then actually live that message and achieve something.

…

Boomer:

Yeah, is that so? Whatta snowflake. There’s two sexes, and the weather is the weather. And, currently, you’re doing a shit job. Work harder.

automatic search erasure with a cleaning mechanism and a crane

Greetings, investors! My name is Hector Faigle, CEO and Chief Technician at KustomCompLTD!

            (wait for applause)

And do I have an opportunity for you!

With the lives we lead online, there’s always someone watching. The government. The social media. Invisible creatures going by unconscionable aliases dwelling in the corner of the internet. And worse still, friends and loved ones. They observe, analyse and judge. Who wants to be judged for what they do in private with their digital selves?  

            Some would say that the answer lies perhaps in shutting down. Switching off. At best, controlling our online habits. Reclaiming and rewriting, maybe even eliminating our online personalities. I say that such solutions are nothing more than thinking small! Refusing the gifts technology has given us! In these days of our enlightenment and access and fantasy made real, why turn our backs to the internet? Why refuse ourselves?

            See, my current girlfriend and I, we are deeply in love. The proper kind of soul to soul understanding. She gets me. I get her. We like the same televisual entertainment. Have similar senses of humour and both thoroughly enjoy West African cuisine. Life moves pleasantly along. Supportive and affectionate, filled with Ghanan curries and long bouts of Netflix.

            But does she need to know all about my online life?

            I have this close friend. We’ll call him Harry – for anonymity’s sake, of course – and he had a girlfriend who happened onto his personal, internet habits. And, well, Kate was somewhat perturbed. Which isn’t to say that Harry’s tastes and viewing rituals online were any more peculiar than the next persons. Not at all. Who are you – am I, to judge? I mean, one man’s fetish for feet is another’s longing for dark vans, chains, foreboding music, and little blondes with blushed cheeks. Right? It all amounts to the same thing: personal, private enjoyment.

Did you know that ‘fetish’ means to be in awe of something? Apt, isn’t it? Are we not entitled to enjoy a little show every now and again? Have our awe bodily inspire us? Give our quieter, but no less urgent desires, a little attention? Can we not light a few candles, dim the lights, turn up the speakers, and indulge?

            Kate seemed to think not. Seemed to think Harry’s own penchants were her concern also. A betrayal of taste and common decency, she said! Like he would ever ask her to partake in his fantasies. Unless she wanted to. It’s not like they’re that dangerous in properly controlled conditions, with the right safe bells nearby for her to ring after the ritualised gagging. It’s all performance people! Not real, but fantasy’s reality.

But, in the end, these are private concerns of the flesh. And Harry’s privacy was compromised when Kate stumbled, firstly, into his office unexpectantly, then secondly, into his personal computer’s search history. (I’m still yet to figure out how one accidentally opens another person’s search history, but Kate was an honest woman – her own internet life (of course, according to Harry) was littered with Practicing Truthfullness memes and Honesty Forums.)

            Kate and Harry were close. A lovely fit. I mean, no one questioned the strength of their bond. They were what all their couple friends aspired to. It seemed like fate. Even after it was all over, after Kate had let the chained blonde out of the bag – so to speak – their friends were still certain they would make amends. It didn’t seem right they said. I certainly thought so.

But her judgment of his innocent little predilections, and understandable predilections for the innocent, left a permanently bad taste in the mouth of their relationship. Harry never felt safe indulging around her again, lest she mistakenly opened a window she would never understand. Not that they could be ‘understood’ in the conventional sense. No. They were beyond understanding, I assure you. More sensuous than anything.

            Oh, he was a broken man when she left him. I, personally, up-close, had to bear witness to the tides of erotica and amateurs and black van rouge videos he bathed in to exfoliate his hurt. These videos and fantasies, so often a source of comfort, became a blasé glut. He drowned in them and forgot his simple pleasures.

He said, that it all became too easy. There was less rush, less satisfaction. There was guilt, but the wrong kind.

            I watched his malaise sadly and I grew concerned with my own totally normal, regular infatuations and habits. Not that his were not, you know, normal – mostly. Honestly, I can see the particular appeal: the control, the shadows, the shine off the chain.

But instead of dwelling in desolation, worried forever that my significant others were always bound to uncover my satisfactions, I rose up to create a better world. Not just for Harry, but for others. For those who just like the occasional release without being accidentally discovered for their individual delights. For those whose tastes tend to side with what the rest of the world may unfortunately call ‘unusual!’ For those who value well-made technology that enhances and protects their online selves. For those who love the game of evasion, but not the risk of ever losing.

            I designed the first Very Private Cumputer (VPC)™ personal laptop.

            (wait for rapturous applause)

Now, you may be asking yourselves: well, haven’t we mastered computer design? What more could possibly be added to my well-made, sleek little laptop? It does all the tasks I need it to. Some I don’t. And, hell, some I don’t even know about.

            (wait for laughter)

            And, even then, Mr Faigle, surely you know that there are ways to delete search history, to control your online persona, to be more selective about when to indulge so as to avoid prying eyes?

            Well, of course there are! But that requires so much boorish planning. So much clicking and cleaning up. Who has time for that? And who is to say it is even comfortable? Perfectly safe? We all make mistakes, friends. These days, these mistakes can be gargantuan, leading down the path of public humiliation, judgement, or a Kate breaking your heart over some very small personal pleasure, shot in perfect HD to get the lighting on the chains, cheek’s blush, and side nipple just right.

            With the VPC™, I can guarantee you all the enjoyment of your personal moments, along with privacy, comfort, and, above all, SIMPLICITY!

            The VPC™ is ergonomically designed by the best German and Dutch engineers, with a dual mouse feature. Finally, you’ll be able to handle your ‘mice’ simultaneously

(wait for laughter)

without ever having to awkwardly cross arms! Or, alternatively, switch it up and try out your other hand for a bit of a stranger experience! Either way, you’ll find this to be the most comfortably designed laptop you’ve ever seen. Heck, sometimes I have to hide it from my current girlfriend who adores its streamlined features and adjustable screens and keyboards. It’s my turn, Hector, she’ll say.

            (wait for thoughtful pause)

            And, you know what, she can have it. (When I’m not using it, anyway!) I’ll never have to worry about her finding any mess on my VPC™, because it features a discrete Japanese-made self-cleaning system, with a six ply tissue dispenser, desticking mister, and a one of its kind Catching Glove which can be fitted to almost any household drainage system. In our world of convenience, why continue with thin  tissues when a perfectly adequate Catching Glove is right there? 

            That’s not all, either! The VPC™ also features a unique in-built security system that automatically keeps your computer free of pop-ups, viruses, government watchdogs, and unfortunate accidental Social Media shares. It automatically erases your search history, while maintaining a finger print locked personal history of your beloved videos, performers, scenes, and sites! If I want to go straight to my favourite completely normal live stream, all I’ve got to do is wipe my thumb across the print reader and my VPC™ sends me straight to the peep show. What a service! And no accidental, Kate-like stumbling across your own special video stash, like the old days!

            The security measures don’t stop there either, because you’ll never have to worry about people sticky beaking (accidentally or deliberately) into your private business ever again!

            (wait for applause)

            The VPC™ features 360-degree motion sensors that alert you to any immediate dangers to your personal enjoyment, which can be toggled to monitor distances from six to 50 meters. Never get caught out surprised again! Be aware of your surroundings! Personalise your alarms sound from over 100 options!

            Of course, I know sometimes we all get lost in the thrall of our pleasures and with a system like the VPC™, with its beautiful 4K HyperReal screen and a carefully curated surround-sound system, it is all too easy to ignore its inbuilt warning signs. Which is why I am so excited about the revolutionary design of the Crane. Attached to the rear of your laptop, the Crane is suspended over your head and attached to the rear of your pants. If all warning signs are ignored and someone is detected by your VPC™ to enter your special pleasure palace, the Crane goes into action, quickly yanking your pants back to their acceptable on position, before withdrawing behind your laptop and opening Excel.

            Brilliant, no!?

            (wait for rapturous applause)

            This, folks, is the game changer! It has already saved me from potential embarrassment in front of my current girlfriend – a close call it was too! – and could have saved the otherworldly bond Harry had with Kate: the one everyone thought would last a lifetime because they had it all and it worked so well and they just seemed to walk in one another’s steps in perfect synchronicity. Never would she have seen, nor heard, those videos, and busted him in the act, chain wrapped delicately around his neck, oil greasing his chest, pants around his ankles – the Crane would have saved him.

It isn’t worth trying to get over the loss of people like Kate in your life. Harry says he’s ok now. Been very busy, I assure you. But we all know he still hurts and his little online worlds and pleasures have never been the same.

According to such distinguished websites like pcworld.com, computerreviews.eu and safeerotica.org, VPC™ is the way forward for laptop design! Acclaimed online reviewer and prominent Pornhub commentator, Barry Snife, recently wrote: ‘For the amateur purveyor, or homegrown connoisseur, the Very Private Cumputer™ is the way forward for properly hiding your pornographic habits.’

In the old days, we’d stash our magazines under the bed, and Kate would have turned a blind eye. But, these days, with limitless exciting options to explore, we need something more than a bed, something more than merely changing our habits. Now, all you need is a personalised VPC™ laptop!

Why I, Dr Dick, Should Be Prime Minister

Attention fellow citizens!

            Today is the day I announce my intention to be Prime Minister of this fine, wild, sunburnt nation of ours! I wish to take the reins of the bucking brumby that is our island and tame that wilful beast, whipping it onwards to better tomorrows, like a monumental jockey winning the Melbourne Cup of being a great nation!

            But, why you, Dr Dick? Why should we elect you our Prime Minister? Our figurehead? Our supreme ruler? Why should you be the captain of our Spirit of Tasmania lost in the tumult ridden seas of our modern world?

            A fine question and one worth a strong answer!

            I am a man driven by his convictions. I stand by my beliefs as the swagman stands by his jumbuck – taking them to my grave. Particularly, the conviction that my convictions are in fact malleable. A man should stand by their beliefs, their ideologies, their driving philosophies, as a man should also stand by their willingness to abandon them if they are proving to no longer be profitable!

            There is nothing braver in this dusty bushranger tundra of ours than a man whose conviction is to have no conviction and thus have greater conviction than everyone else!

            I will never hold back when it comes to this fact! And I will stand by all the truths and non-truths in the unfolding narrative of my rise to power, giving credit to all ideas, for this is the genuine democracy of our thirsty archipelago girt by sea.

Should one man dispute that the Yarra is in fact turquoise, I will readily agree, even as I stare at its unique shade of brown and see therein only crystal.

Boat people are a problem, but not. Boats are the real problem, or the sea. Refugees don’t exist, except when they do.

Climate change is a myth, and also real. An energy initiative is the only way to fix it, though I do not believe in crafting an energy policy, though maybe later, if people want one.

African gangs in Melbourne are a problem, but also not, though I do and do not go out for dinner in Melbourne some nights, and African gangs may or may not be why.

Clearly, I give my ears to both sides of the debate: from the north of Queensland, to the boroughs of Melbourne's inner city, fact and truth reside everywhere, even in falsehood and lies. For I have feelings about the issues. 

            Is this not what we need today in our great Southern land of kangaroos bounding freely across the eucalpytus horizon? The ability to have many feelings about many issues? And to then articulate them? Like my feelings about immigrants. These are complex feelings, because there are lots of them. Feelings, that is. 

            Should I become Prime Minster I will continue to have many feelings, and I will boil them down, make them simpler, craft them into phrases palatable to your damper taste buds. And, like our emblematic kangaroos, I will leap from one feeling to the other, exploring them, breaking them down, giving them to you. 

            Experience? What about it?

            As I am an academic and clearly smarter than the average punter, up above while everyone is down under, experience does not matter, for my wits will travail and succeed on all the rugged Burke and Wills paths of our problems.

Even should I lack the title of doctor – which I do not – I would argue experience remains irrelevant in the echidna dirt of our storm boy washed shores. What we need is an absence of experience in governing to govern effectively. To climb the grassy knoll of our Parliament requires no mountaineering equipment. I see a lack of experience as a new start. And in the great Bathurst race of life that our nation is caught in, isn’t it an amateur we need at the wheel? One brave enough to hit those corners hard, with no prior knowledge of what can go wrong, so that everything can potentially go right? But, faster.

            A vote for me, Dr Dick, is a vote for a man with conviction, on the side of fact and feelings, with fruitful inexperience, who will be willing to put aside running Australia so that I can maintain my grip on power, as a koala hangs onto a tree when chased by a territorial cow.

            I can be that koala. We can all be that koala.

            Dicks your pick.

Some True Facts About Peter Dutton

·       Peter Dutton is, in fact, a semi-sentient potato. Now this is well known. What is less well known is his particular species of potato: he is an unwashed russet burbank potato left outside in the sun too long. This explains his sickly bluish tinge, unsightly tentacles, and the slight stench of ferment about him. Peter Dutton is on his way to becoming a really cheap, nasty vodka.

·       In his previous life as a cop in QLD, his workmates referred to him as only Dirty Ol’ Russet.

·       His oft documented fear of ‘people of African appearance’ and ‘Sudanese gangs,’ has its nexus in both his inherent racial insecurities (a trait common to semi-sentient potatoes and other edible tubers – see also, Eric Abetz, semi-sentient turnip) and his fear of the dark and, more specifically, dark colours (no one has told him the irony of this fear, considering he is, in fact, a semi-sentient nightshade). As such, Peter Dutton is also terrified of: black or navy suits (and only wears them at parliament under great duress while heavily medicated), shadows, ninjas, having his night light switched off when he’s going sleepys, most black animals but particularly black bears, the sun setting, pirate eye patches, black holes, cauldrons, and –

·       He is deathly afraid of the Indigenous people of Australia (well, as scared of them as he is of ninjas, and Peter Dutton is very frightened of ninjas). The Indigenous flag terrifies him, mostly the top half. This partly explains his decision to absent himself from Kevin Rudd’s apology speech. (Also he misheard Tony Abbot who said there’d be ninjas there, but may have been using another rhyming n word. Either way, Peter Dutton wasn’t taking a risk, being deeply alarmed by both possibilities).

·       Peter Dutton believes that climate science is a form of black magic. Peter Dutton is terrified of black magic, and often feels compelled to tell his conservative allies that they must be wary of black magic and their practitioners. His fight against black magic is at the core of his ideology.

o   A generalised list of people whom Peter Dutton thinks use black magic: immigrants and refugees, the gays, women (he is particularly suspicious of the vagina, which he  associates with black holes and cauldrons), the Lebanese community, African gangs, Melbournians (particularly Melbournians with the gusto to visit restaurants at night) and, of course, Malcolm Turnball.

·       Peter Dutton’s private police unit, Border Force, is often given the secondary task of monitoring black magic and keeping watch on dark shadowy areas near Peter Dutton, lest either an African, ninja or black bear is hidden within.

·       Peter Dutton never ventures out at night to dine. He finds the experience too stressful – from the whole ‘night time’ dilemma, to dealing with peasant wait staff who do not appreciate the political class to which he belongs. Also, African gangs. African gangs everywhere.

·       Peter Dutton would put the very idea of dark colours and dark races in offshore detention if he was able. He is currently working on how to make this achievable.

·       Peter Dutton’s biggest dream is to ride a stallion adorned with Trump’s toupee, while shirtless, alongside Vladmir Putin, across the tundras of Russia, hunting foxes, black bears and undesirables. They’d be sweating and Putin would be licking Dutton’s vodka flavoured skin. And they’d both be white together. And neither would acknowledge the weather, for the weather is black magic and not worthy of their haughty concerns. And there would no gays anywhere.

Georgia's Tray

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The 12 Biblical Rules of Hospitality (Old Testament)

If thou doth turn a deaf ear to a waiter’s greeting, then thou shalt be forever disfigured, finding thine own tongue rendered mute and thine own ears turned unto globular masses.

If thou doth impede the passage of a waiter’s walking, then thou shalt be hobbled at the knees.

If thou doth interrupt a waiter’s specials sermon, then thou shalt be deprived of taste, smell and sight.

If thou doth use cutlery with graceless ineptitude, then thou shalt feed from a trough.

If thou doth recoil from the hearty touch of gluten, then thou shalt forcefully partake of the glutinous Body of Christ.

If thou doth click thine fingers in the manner of a wanton peasant for a waiter’s attention, then thou shalt find the divine privilege of opposable thumbs no longer available to thee.

If thou doth fail to account for the activities of thine children, then thine children’s adorable little heads will toil diligently as toilet brushes for eternity.

If thou doth find the act of sitting graciously an unbearable chore, then thou shalt no longer comprehend the act of sitting itself, forever bewildered by chairs, stools, couches and on and on.

If thou doth leave thine phone in the place where a sacred meal is to be set, then thou shalt be made to dine on thine phone.

If thou canst handle thine alcohol, making grotesque mockery of holy dining manners, then thou shalt be cursed to a lifetime of lemon lime bitters, the coward’s beverage.

If thou doth finds the words thank you to be scarce in thine mouth, then thou shalt utter no other words but thank you so long as life is present in thine body.

If thou doth linger past one’s welcome and grasps not the concept of closed, then thou shalt be entrapped in a moment’s perpetuity, no longer a creature of time or God.

thoughts of a hot day

I am not of the heat, but within it.

I am, in fact, Ra.

To dip in the oily rag like waters of St Kilda and feel the slime of its sand nestling around, not between, my toes. Refreshing.

Is that the cool ripple of air conditioned condensation playing across my brow? Or doth my own sweat create its own fearsomely duplicitous mirage?

There are only so many layers to remove before we reach the skin and I would like to strip down past my skin and be truly naked, truly exposed, and perhaps truly cool.

All the grandparents are on park benches wearing slacks and their insides are becoming medium to medium-well and sweat nestles gently in the folds of their wrinkled skin, granules of perspiration promising a coolness not to come.

Alas, it is all now a cruel mirage. A promise of respite, but just another hot gust of wind.

Thoughts tentatively reach for the beach, but are accosted by men in speedos complaining of the temperature of the sand turning their feet to stone as lava does.           

Now for the fever dream: the same nightmare hallucination of Tony Abott and Andrew Bolt engaged in tender coitus, whispering of the global warming fake news, more coal they add to the fire they lay before, turning orange and white, in a bed of toupees. And, here, I am left stricken by these beacons of paleness invading my flash fried thoughts.

I cannot flee the inferno. I cannot flee the inferno’s infernal thoughts playing at the margins of my dwindling sanity. 

I am a sloth in a tree in a great fire.

Is that now Trump who joins the fray? Or some magnificent golden being whose court I must attend? Do we all talk to the sun at Fire Island?

I am, in fact, merely a servant of Ra. Hardly an Aztec. A slave whose heart placates confused gods who breath fire.

I am a Prophet of the Cool Change and I will write its prophecy as soon as I rebuild myself, as Alex Mac, would from the pool of warm salty water I have become.

We are now a living 42 degree day with the strong chance of bush fires and a total fire ban.

I am made of boiling water meant for pasta.