The Chairman of the Bored

Dear None,

 

In the absence of any recent contributions from the inimitable Andy to the documentation of human idiocy as expressed in world signage, I offer the following shining example of glorious obliviousness.  Read this: http://www.guardian.co.uk/theguardian/2008/nov/01/5 

 

I've always hated those 'out of office' replies.  If I have sent an urgent email, I really want to cling to the notion that the recipient has read it and is not responding because they are either lazy or spiteful.  It helps, because it gives me something to channel my anxiety into - rage.  I'd rather that than the knowledge that my missive is just sitting unheeded in an inbox.

 

But that's just me.  Yes, I know that I am a bit deranged.  Thank you.

 

Cheers,

 

The Chairman of the Bored

Dear None,

 

As much as it might seem that this blog has descended into the grip of an obsession with Arnel Salgado, I must share this bit of news.

 

I am not a fan of Facebook (this is not the bit of news).  It strikes me as fundamentally pointless and irritating, not to mention an invasive waste of time.  But alas, I have found a redeeming feature.  There is a movement afoot on the site to pay tribute to that eminently worthy man of letters, Arnel Salgado.

 

Here it is.  I love the write up.

http://apps.facebook.com/causes/26483

 

If anything could induce me to enter the hellish gates of Facebook, it would be my desire to support that most noble and overdue cause. 

 

That said, I'm still not joining.  Not unless Arnel joins first.

 

"Surmise!"

 

Tune in next time for a quotable quote from Gatley on Libel and Slander.  Don't wait up.

 

Cheers,

 

The Chairman of the Bored

Dear None,

 

I have had some confusing news.  On a whim, I decided to calculate my expected lifespan.  Rather than going to reputable and moderately scientific sources, however, I elected to try my luck on Google.  The results were a tad skewed.

 

I first went to http://www.deathclock.com/ and entered my information.  The result informed me that I would meet my end on January 25, 2034 (at 9:25am, to be precise).  This was slightly alarming, especially considering that I would like some time with the grandkids.  So, like a good patient, I sought a second opinion.

 

I next went to http://www.deathtimer.com/ where I entered the same information, plus my country of abode.  Clearly Death Timer is a far more optimistic bearer of bad news because its prognosis was that I would be in use until January 6, 2065.  While I was disappointed that they would not venture an exact time, I did note that January is commonly regarded as a bankable tombstone inscription for me.

 

What do we learn from all this?  On the one hand, if you want to stack your chips on the first result, I would urge you all to make friends with me now, because you don't have long in which to ingratiate yourselves into my testamentary bounty.  On the other hand, you would have another 31 years of my company in such a case if the second estimate proved true.  Let us assume that radiation poisoning has granted us a third hand.  On that hand would be the possibility that I may make it to the median range between the two - July 2049.  If this were to be the case it would be terrible, because I want to see if all the climate change estimates for 2050 will come true.  Then again, maybe there's a dodgy estimate website that can help...

 

By the way, I notice that for once this blog has traffic (read: lots of people want The Fireless Inferno).  I would like to remember this time in history, so, if your have time while you pass through, please leave a comment.  Or come back after you have read the book and recovered your health and tell me what you think of it.

 

Cheers,

 

The Chairman of the Bored

Dear None,

 

The late Sir Robert Megarry V-C wrote three terrific volumes of a book called Miscellany-at-Law: A Diversion for Lawyers and Others in which he set out amusing, profound or ridiculous statements by judges and lawyers and unusual cases or pieces of legislation.  As an eminent British lawyer and judge, it was only infrequently that Sir Robert's gaze turned to law of the land down under.  However, if there were ever a fourth volume (the third was published in 2005) put together under the hands of someone as skilled as Megarry was, I would like to suggest an addition, taken from regulations under the Corporations Act 2001.

 

I extract the relevant portions below from Corporations Regulations 2001 (Cth) Schedule 6, Part 2, paragraph 6203, subparagraph (e), concerning names that are unacceptable as registered names for corporations:

 

"[For paragraph 147 (1) (c) or 601DC (1) (c) of the Act, a name is unacceptable for registration if the name:]

...

 (e)    in the context in which it is proposed to be used, suggests a connection with:

                          (i)    a member of the Royal Family; or

                         (ii)    the receipt of Royal patronage; or

                         (iii)    an ex‑servicemen's organisation; or

                        (iv)    Sir Donald Bradman;

                        if that connection does not exist;"

 

For non-Aussies, Sir Donald Bradman was a legendary cricket player from the 1930s.  What gets me is that I never knew that the Don was in such high demand as a business name.  Why is he singled out as the most desirable former sportsman whose reputation can be highjacked?  Is he such a popular figure in the national consciousness to need as much protection as the Royal Family or the ANZACS?  I know that he is sporting royalty, but are there really crowds of dodgy tradesmen and con artists lining up to capitalise on him - more than any other person in the country?  I find it odd that out of every Australian living or who has ever lived in the history of the nation, only Don Bradman is deemed to need specific statutory protection on the same level of necessity as the Royals and the RSLs.

 

Only under the Howard government, the same government that wanted to put 'mateship' in the Constitution, could this happen.

 

Cheers,

 

The Chairman of the Bored

Dear None,

 

I recently wrote to a friend who, like the readers of this blog (I assume too much), hears from me infrequently at best.  Because I do not have the time to write a real review of House of Flying Daggers (that would take effort), allow me to extract from my correspondence a passage which says in short what I would say about the film.

 

"[House of Flying Daggers] is a piece of classic cinema.  To my feeble mind, HOFD is one for the ages, like Gone With the Wind or My Fair Lady.  My reasoning is as follows: despite the minimalist plot, the continuity goofs, the moments of absurdity and the truly bizarre and almost farcical revivals of mortally wounded characters, this movie is all about the grandeur and turbulence of what film can and should be.  It is sweeping, swirling, agonising; by turns exciting and meditative.  It is artsy action with a gutsy score and dazzling colours and intricate details inserted where least expected.  To my mind, it harks back to the age of myth, where slight gaffes do not detract from the tenor of the tale and the magnitude of epic behooves the audience to let slide their credulity.  The single greatest aspect of that movie, in my thinking, is the fact that it there is not really a 'point' or a take-home message to this movie.  There is no bigger picture.  The outcome of battles and the fate of empires is not important, nor is it the aim of the film to gift-wrap the story with a moral.  The film focuses on the implosion of a relationship between three people.  In the words of Donne, "Nothing else is".  It is a slice of the characters' lives, lives which - both in the 'reality' of the characters' world and in our own actuality - do not have immense significance.  Yet, the emotions and human qualities of these fictional people resonate with the viewers.  Even when they act illogically and rashly, without even being convinced or aware in themselves of the necessity for their behavior, they reflect the manners and means of mankind."

 

I could say more, for instance, about the sometimes cheesy lines ("No, like a playful wind") or the eternally amusing longevity of the dieing character played by Zhang Zi Yi, but refer to the above comment about lack of effort.  Besides, I really do like the film and I want to gloss over its flaws in the hope that I can get a job as Zhang Yimou's Australian publicist.

 

On a more disturbing note, everyone will now realise that I talk to my friends in much the same manner as I address the general public on this site.  How unfortunate.

 

Cheers,

The Chairman of the Bored

Dear None,

 

The long awaited moment has arrived.  That splendid tome, that masterpiece of literature, that...

 

Come to think of it, the book is long-winded enough and, to those who know of it, deserves no introduction.

 

And so, I present to you, in PDF format, The Fireless Inferno by Arnel B. Salgado!

 

For those who don't know of it, look here: http://web.archive.org/web/20021011212800/www.atbp.com/etc/zafra/purple.htm

 

There is a very long and interesting backstory to the acquisition of this rare and fabulous book, many efforts put forth by Stani, Ipi and myself.  We also thank cokeinapepsi cup for her gracious and vital assistance where we needed it most.

 

Savour. Devour. Surmise...

 

The Fireless Inferno - Arnel Salgado, Royal Printers, Baguio City, Philippines, 1991 http://www.megaupload.com/?d=7UQ38GB3

 

Better get it fast before Megaupload deletes the link.  It took ages to upload, so the motivation to do it again is in short supply.

 

If you find this book in hard copy, please buy it and support the author.  Heck, buy me a few copies too and support me as well (I really mean this, but I will be happy to pay you back.)  This is supplied for personal use only and only because it is no longer in print and the printers have no means of reprinting (believe me, I asked them - I even offered to pay for a run of a couple of hundred).

 

Elatedly,

The Chairman of the Bored

 

Dear None,

 

You've seen the photos, you've heard the hype - now, read the review!

 

MYMP performed at Rooty Hill RSL on the night of 1 December 2007.  Two white guys, of whom I was one, saw the show from the very front of the Tivoli Room. 

 

MYMP is a band with a sound that should never have become so popular.  They rely on light and sweet vocals and music with a strongly acoustic feel.  They perform mostly covers of 80s and 90s hits and play the nightclubs of Manila.  And yet, they are an award-winning, fan-screaming sensation.  They are relatively conservative and polite, with no revealing outifts or on-stage cussing.  Their name 'MYMP' stands for 'Make Your Momma Proud', which is an odd name for a popular band, to say the least - unless that band is popular in the same demographic as The Wiggles.  MYMP are a small-time folk band that has hit the big-time.  They consist of Juris Fernandez and Chin Alcantra as the frontline troops with the rest of the troup being John Angeles, Oja Jimenez and Emil Rivas.

 

On the night, the show started later than advertised, like all Filipino shows (which run to Philippine Standard Time (PST), that is, 3 hours late).  The support acts were, as usual, local talent each with varying degrees of justification for claiming that title.  A stand out was Reggie Daguio whose voice was superb.  Too bad the only feasible chance of him gaining widespread attention is something like Australian Idol.  Daguio was a fitting precursor to the professional musos that the audience came to see.  I also thought that the first band to perform was quite good.  I am divided on the question of Iskatchtape, the 'punk' high school band who were one of the opening acts.  The sound was acceptable, even good, but the whole business was sullied by the wannabe rock-chick antics of the lead singer.  She looked good and had the enthusiasm, but the use of the microphone and the pointless bombastic rhetoric was lost on an audience that were tired of front acts.

 

After the front acts, there was another long wait before the main event.  Then, it began.  And I saw, and look! it was very good.

 

For those who know MYMP a bit, you may recall the struggle that Juris had in surmounting the high notes in Eternal Flame and some other of the tracks on Beyond Acoustic and Versions.  Be assured, however, that this concert gave proof positive that Juris' voice has matured from those times.  Not once did she falter.  High, low, powerful, soft - her range and voice control is unsurpassed and without flaw.  The quality of her voice is not strained, it droppeth like the gentle rain from heaven.  You wait for a trip up in tone, key or rhythm (or at least I do, being the pessimist I am), but it never comes.  Juris is at the peak of her game. 

 

The same is true for Chin.  Gone are the clumsy vocals of of the earlier albums (remember 'Would you be my girl friend?' <shudders>).  At the concert, he oozed style.  Chin has long appeared to be veiled in Juris' shadow.  Of the two frontpersons, it was clear who wore the pants - Juris.  But the Chin on stage in Sydney surprised me.  He didn't have much to say - all the banter and commentary was provided in fine form by Ms. Fernandez - but he had a stage presence and aura of cool which the virtuousity of his guitar skills enhanced to the heavens.

 

The group performed many songs from their albums, all of which were music to the ears (cough) of a die-hard fan like myself.  They held off on singing 'Tell Me Where It Hurts' to the point where I thought they would not perform it, but suddenly, there it came, their signature song.  Even my Dad, who does not care for Pinoy music at all, liked some of what he heard them sing that night.  As for me, I sang along incessantly, like a corny white guy at a Pinoy concert...oh yeah, that's exactly what I was.

 

Somehow, MYMP raised the roof.  They are not about loud sounds and tearing riffs.  No, what they are about, waht defines them, what makes MYMP divine is the shimmering and gloriously unadorned voice of Juris Fernandez.  That is what you go to hear when MYMP plays.  That Voice, so perfectly set against the backdrop of Chin's guitar and the backing musicians.  It has an innocent, light-hearted quality and it makes your head tingle ever so slightly, as though it were cool champagne.  It sounds like bells, lighter and more melodious than you have heard before, and it draws you in and makes you smile.  I said before that MYMP is an anomaly in the world of popular music.  That is true.  But the grace which saves it from the cloister is the sense of summer and of sweetness in the vocals which render well-worded lyrics like you wouldn't believe.

 

That was a night that I was thinking, at the last moment, of missing.  I'm glad that I didn't.

 

I know nothing about music.  If I did, maybe I wouldn't rave so much about this band.  Or maybe I would rave with more passion and better articulation.

 

Cheers,

The Chairman of the Bored

Corrupt Thai cops are being made to wear Hello Kitty armbands in public as a punishment.  Teletubbies would work well over here.

 

Here is the link tho this and other assorted weirdness: http://www.sgforums.com/?action=forum_display&forum_id=2286

 

Cheers,

 

The Chairman of the Bored

Dear None,

 

Writing in this blog makes me feel like a character from a Wong Kar Wai film, particularly 2046.  You might recall the scenes where the characters refer to finding a tree, carving a hole in the trunk, whispering into the hole and covering it up with mud, so that no one would ever hear.  That's me.  Maybe it is because there are no pretty pictures or youtube links.

 

I really need to put more effort into this blog.  From now on, I will review more movies, more books and more personalities than ever before!

 

Wow, a resolution.  Let's see how long that lasts.  This Saturday is the start of the Japanese film festival.  Looks like I'll be going solo.  There is also the MYMP concert, so I'll have a lot of grist for my criticism mill.

 

Determinedly,

 

The Chairman of the Bored

Dear None,

 

I sit here before you today an almost free man.  I have just come out of my final exam (for which, in true form, I was half an hour late).  The marks will be released around 18 December, so here’s hoping.

 

Anyway, I promised myself that I would write something about the show I saw on Sunday 24 November, 2007.  Thus far, I have been verbally telling everyone I know about it, but the story is getting triter each time, so hopefully it will better bear the telling in writing.

 

Two days ago, I saw Miss Saigon at the Lyric Theatre in Sydney.

 

If you live in Sydney, SEE IT soon, because the season here closes on 9 December 2007, so you have not got long.  Of course, there is always the Brisbane show, but unless you are free and easy enough, that won’t help you.

 

I was not crazy about going to see this show.  I did not want to strain my already exhausted finances.  But, since my Dad and I had not been to the theatre in longer than it is decent to admit, we decided to go.  We got seats in Row C, towards the middle, so we could see the actors’ spittle at times, but not feel it on our faces.

 

The show is a relatively new one, definitely not from the golden age of musicals.  However, it still glitters.  The lyrics do not have the same economy of expression which still says all the right things that My Fair Lady or Cabaret does, but the language still has its charm - a lot of which has to do with the delivery.  As for the delivery, it was superb.  I would really prefer to be able to rubbish the show, as it would allow greater scope for delightfully wry witticisms and creative put-downs.  Sadly, the show deserves praise, almost exclusively.  The songs really do resonate with the audience and, after repeated exposure to them, tend to catch on as much as the old musical tunes. 

 

The purpose of poetry, I maintain, is to make a person think of an idea in a way that they had not before conceived of it.  The songs in Miss Saigon do this, on a similar level to those in The Phantom of the Opera.  It takes skill to make this happen.  ‘The Movie in my Mind’ suffers almost immediately, in my opinion, from having a title which tends to cheapen it.  However, the lyrics are so excellently woven, that the song becomes on its merits truly poetic.  ‘Bui Doi’ is another song that runs the risk of cheesiness with a line like “They’re called Bui Doi” (which comes across like a comic Gilbert and Sullivan song, trying to take itself seriously), yet the other words of the song rescue it from this fate.  Only just, I might say.  It is a rare song that can incorporate (especially as its name) a foreign language word or phrase with the main text in English without sounding pretentious.  There was electricity in the air when ‘The Heat is On In Saigon’ was belted out; the same was true of ‘The American Dream’.  ‘The Morning of the Dragon’ was suitably chilling.  The love songs were the highlight for a romantic idiot like myself (sorry Hon, ‘bobo’ :p.).  ‘Sun and Moon’ was very tender, as were ‘The Last Night of the World’ and ‘Why God, Why’.  They all had an intimate quality to them, even though they were coming through loudly on the speakers (the performers had carefully disguised microphones on their faces to ensure that the audience could hear even whispers, which was a great boon for especially subtle method acting).

 

The staging and sets were realistic and functional and the transitions seamless.  The use that was made of the stage space was terrific.  The ‘Dreamland’ and balcony sets looked incredible, as did the Bangkok red light strip.  The hovel in which Kim and her son live in Bangkok was also suitably in parts both wretched and lovingly homey. 

 

Much is often made of the presence of the helicopter and the Cadillac in the production.  The Cadillac was acceptable.  Any more ostentation than that would detract from the body of the work.  The helicopter was a CGI screen job which might have been more cleverly rendered to make the scene more believable.  The sight of soldiers apparently disappearing downward through the side opening of the craft is not entirely convincing.  On the other hand, the speakers were used to great effect to give the immense throbbing noise of the chopper rotors, conjuring up thoughts of that other great classic to emerge from the rottenness of the Vietnam War, Apocalypse Now (I know of course, that it is now cliché to make Apocalypse Now references in relation to the Vietnam War, but I can’t help myself).

 

Kudos goes to the orchestra down in the pit at the front.  They did the music proud.  And although I could only see tufts of hair on the top of the conductor’s head and the occasional swipe of the baton, just knowing that they were down there and that the whole thing was not digital made so much difference, believe me.

 

Of course, everything comes down to the cast.

 

I do not want to buy into the Lea Salonga v. every-other-actress-to-play-Kim debate.  I have not seen Salonga live, nor Ampil or any of the others, though I am sure that they were superb.  I have only seen Laurie Cadevida in the role of Kim.  And brother, in my opinion, look no further.  Cadevida makes the role her own.  No comparisons are needed.  She has a sweet-yet-powerful-voice and an innocent face which suit the part of the ingenuous Kim perfectly.  There was not a moment where she slipped up; the illusion that this was a poor Vietnamese girl was sustained throughout.  She proves herself a versatile and dynamic actress, with all of the range needed to fulfil the demands of a character like Kim.  Cadevida is luminous on the stage and never cheapens the production with kitsch, even though the storyline makes such a risk very possible, given the cynicism of our times.  In each scene in which she appeared, Cadevida drew the audience in with her presence.  I read a comment on the internet by a viewer that Laurie Cadevida should be given the role of Kim if a film is made.  I agree.

 

Australian David Harris plays Chris, the GI who loved and lost Kim (literally).  It is always a proud thing when a home grown boy can take on a role and mix it with international artists.  Harris makes it work.  The Aussie accent comes through at times, but never disturbs the suspension of disbelief.  He makes it work.  Chris is a weak point in the script: his role is similar to that of Tony in West Side Story, except that he is no way near as pure.  To get the audience to believe almost immediately that he has a heart of gold and can fall sincerely in love overnight is a tall order.  Harris…what else can I say?  He makes it work.

 

There is obvious chemistry between the two leads, Cadevida and Harris.  You can see this by observing closely how little time in their scenes together passes without their lips together.  Honestly, seeing the two of them eating each other like that makes you hungry…  They both seemed to be enjoying it immensely (obviously).  I wonder how much kissing is directed and how much is improvised because they really do take every opportunity.  I caught myself waiting for a slip up with the singing because they were out of breath or broke away from a lip-lock too late.  Amazingly, this never happened.  Now that’s talent.

 

The lovable (?) rogue of this musical is The Engineer.  The love story, the tragedy – this character is the keystone that keeps everything together.  In this production, the part is brought alive by Leo Tavarro Valdez.  It is hard to imagine a better performance in this role than that of Valdez.  He makes it high energy and excruciatingly comic, while also being convincingly despicable, cruel and self-serving.  The Engineer reminds me somehow of the Emcee in Cabaret, but with a far more substantial part to play.  He is the great realist of the show, he ‘knows how things work’.  With his ludicrous facial expressions (and diabolical facial hair), Valdez really brings alive the role of the Saigon Mephistopheles, selling girls’ bodies and souls for cash and the chance of a US visa.

 

The role of John, Chris’ GI buddy is played by Juan Jackson.  Jackson has a rich, operatic voice that seems capable of doing anything.  The same may be said for Jackson himself, who carries well both the rough and ready nature of his character in the first act and the dignified, almost sage-like quality of John in the second act.  Unfortunately, at times the same operatic character of Jackson’s voice can make it difficult to pick up all the words, but once the audience has become accustomed to it, this difficulty subsides.  There was one moment of (unintentional) humour during ‘The Confrontation’ when John interrupts the scene between Chris and Ellen.  Admittedly, this may have been a fault of the script.  John comes in a little too abruptly and seriously at that moment to maintain the gravity of the situation.  In fact the gravity turned to levity, as the audience let out a short burst of laughter, which did not seem entirely appropriate at that serious juncture.  Then again, this moment may have been an intentional attempt to lighten the mood.  Let us give the benefit of the doubt and say that it is so.

 

The rest of the cast complement these four perfectly.  There was no discordant jangling anywhere in the casting.  Even the relatively minor roles are well casted.  I will say briefly that RJ Rosales, who played Thuy, made a comparatively small role very memorable with his air of quiet mania.  His appearance in ‘Kim’s Nightmare’ was particularly eerie.  And of course, everyone in the audience was a sucker for the little boy who played Tam.  A video of the behind the scenes preparations reveals that the children playing Tam are trained to behave on stage by making things into a game for them.  The strategy and any associated bribery seems to have worked, except for the fact that the Tam on the night that I saw it seemed to have absorbed the depression and foreboding of the story because he didn’t let out a single smile, even when Kim solicited it.  The dancers, too, were superb and the choreography, spectacular.  Didn’t I tell you there was nothing missing from this production?

 

The first act convinced me; I went out in the intermission and bought the complete soundtrack cast recording.  Sitting there in the theatre, I had the quiet feeling of wonder mingled with melancholy that the feelings portrayed were real, that these things did happen, that these people were real.  It moved me – to tears, yes, but more importantly, to reflection on the nature of human history and experience.  It made me want to save the characters from their fates if I could.  It made me want to have a share in their pain and their ecstasy.  It was powerful.  Sitting there, watching, listening, I also felt that there was within me the seed of great things, if only I could make it grow.  That is what great art, in this case, a great musical production, can do: it gives inspiration and ideas, however inchoate.

 

Miss Saigon is alive.

G'Day, (yes, inject some local flavour.  That way, everyone will know that I am Aussie, or, at least, playing one on TV.)

 

[I have recently become aware that I have been making a very big mistake by not leaving a line between the salutation and the first paragraph.  Now, I aim to make amends by leaving lines whenever I can be bothered.]

 

....

 

It is with great pleasure that I announce to all of my followers (of whom I have none) that I am on the brink of completing my travails at university.  As a fitting tribute to the end of a pursuit which has seen me do nothing in the face of having so many things to do, on a level never before seen, I am writing a little something in this blog which has also lain dormant for so long.  This is, of course, very strange and rather a pointless thing to do, because, on reflection, I have even less to say now than on all those occasions when I saved my time and everyone else's by not saying anything.

 

I suppose I might be able to fill up some space by pasting some youtube links or other distracting items in this post which would make it seem like I am witty, cultured and ever so eclectic in my tastes.  But those who know me already really do not need convincing on that subject.  They know full well that I am somber, shallow philistine who doesn't care for such trivia.  Also, I can't be bothered right at this moment.  Maybe later.

 

In view of the momentous and auspicious occasion (which I have not as yet explicitly mentioned) which is upon me - the last class of my undergraduate university 'career' - a few words might be in order.  Unfortunately, I can't think of any.  [As you can see very clearly, my university life has been one long slide into inarticulate lethargy.]

 

Ah yes, here is something.  I will try to get it out without missing too much of the aforementioned last class.  I am always about 25 minutes late for this class, so it should not matter terribly much anyway. 

 

My first year of university:  Everything was new and interesting.  There was motivation and novelty floating around everywhere because 'heaven lies about us in our (academic) infancy' and trailing clouds of glory do we come.  High School Legal Studies came in very handy because practically everything I came across in first year afforded some opportunity to draw on some of the learning from that esteemed subject.  As a result, by calling upon previous knowledge, I was able to convince my professors either

i) that I had done a lot of reading; or

ii) that I was merely possessed of immense and inherent gifts of legal genius.

This was also the year of the Study Group, starring Nelson, Megan, Priscilla, Bernadette, Kirren, Simon and myself.  They were good notes.  Very good. (Everyone join hands and sing 'Glory Days'.)  I also had the chance to become disillusioned with Psychology after doing two introductory subjects.  Good marks were had all round.

 

My second year of university:  Wherein our hero discovered that a number of his friends (Megan, Simon) had skipped out and gone to another university.  This troubled him, as it would mean finding replacements for a rapidly shrinking study group, or in the alternative, doing his own work.  As usual, readings started out in earnest like a personal resolution not to eat chocolate, but began to decline and fall like the Roman empire.  Non-university-related reading continued apace, as did the consumption of chocolate.  Notable additions this year were Analiza (where on earth are you these days?) and Sandy, who were assimilated into the study group.  Notably absent was my Arts degree, which was dropped like a hefty Commercial law textbook.

 

My third year of university:  Like most things in the middle, they are boring and plain, like Peter or Jan Brady.  I really don't remember anything interesting about this year.  I have the sneaking suspicion that I probably did very little.

 

My fourth year of university:  Oh, that's this year, right?  Well, more of the same.  After first year, everything gets blurry and segues into everything else.  My progress has been roughly like that of a balloon that is blown up and not fastened at the end and which just zips aimessly around the room, except without the funny noises and smacking into walls.

 

The future:  What will I do now?  Right now?  Oh yeah, I still have one more class.  It ain't over yet.

 

Obliviously,

The Chairman of the Bored

My view is that, in the modern world, the problem is not that everyone’s a critic, but that virtually no-one is - at least not in the dogged, heckle-them-off-the-stage sense.  If more people were, then the polity would get away with far fewer gross infractions than they presently do.  Instead, we have largely become a society of intellectual neuters, stuck in the rut of accepting the mushroom treatment with little serious thought.

 

Nevertheless, the modern age (the post-modern age? - historiography can scar one for life) has mass-produced at least one type of social variant which nullifies much of the useful tradition built up around intellectual snobbery (bows to Mr O’Farrell).  In former times, writers who were read were, in general, persons who gave their life to their craft and released the product of their efforts upon a waiting world with great care and contrivance.  Many took great care to inject their work with learning, subtle artistry and grace.  Nowadays, a breed of individual has arisen from the technological soup which pours forth it’s thoughts in syndicated form without having much of anything to say.  Of these, I am foremost, as Paul said.

 

I am speaking of course, of the blogger.  The tragedy of modern literature may well stand to be the horrible fact that everyone’s a writer.  A field of endeavor which was once open to either the highly gifted or the triumphantly illiterate is now trampled by all and sundry.  All and Sundry follow the Seinfeld school of composition in that their tomes largely consist of strings of incidents, meaningless in themselves, but which, taken as a whole, turn out to be...well, meaningless.  Now Seinfeld was a great show, but cheap imitations are for the Chinatown street markets, not for genuinely engaging Nothingness.  As I have said, I speak as a blogger (part-time, in therapy).  But I recognise the Dark Side of my industry.  What would have become of Shakespeare if people nailed voluminous manuscripts on their doors for the ‘benefit’ of their equally boring neighbors, pages filled with the intricate idiocies of their lives (if such they may be called)?  Well, he would still have done well, but that’s not the point.  The point is: Why the ubiquity of mediocrity?  If there were no blogs, people would still lead their same, drab, wretched lives, but fewer people would learn about them.  Genuine members of the literati would be spared the indignity of having their craft ravaged by self-righteous wiseacres and boring but rugged individualists.

 

To my mind, such as it is, there are four main reasons for the popularity of blogging:

 

• People are bored and want to expunge the feeling/kill time/inflict their boredom on others.

 

• People are possessed by an overwhelming urge to become a spectacle and the prey of voyeurs and other strange strangers.  This is also the case with those people who broadcast their lives on webcams or make photo blogs of themselves, as well as contestants on stupidifying and debased ‘reality’ shows

 

• People have delusions of adequacy or grandeur, and somehow feel that they have something to say that is just as worth hearing as those who get paid for their opinions.  This may well be so, but that is scarcely a fitting reason to say it.  In a society where real talent is subordinated to the Peter Principle, there can be no exception made in the area of literature and journalism where there is none made in the realms of government or inheritance of hotel empires.  It would be almost obscene.

 

• People want to have a sense of expression, of ownership, of creatorship.  This is perhaps the least inane reason for blogging.  In a world where the bank owns your house (or, has an equitable interest in it), the finance company has a charge over your car, the credit card company retains title over your groceries (well, not quite, but it sounds good) and your wife is controlled by your mother-in-law, a small amount of free webspace can go a long way to giving someone a shelter of contentment in the face of ‘the general cussedness of things in this world’.  It is also a place where teenagers and other juvenile-minded persons can vent their angst in a way that does no more harm to anyone than cause the occasional wince on the brow of someone who actually knows how to spell.  The sense of omnipotence that can result from inflicting your thoughts on unknown others may assuage the pain of the powerless and shore them up emotionally to be again harassed by the boss, harangued by the spouse or otherwise berated by a variety of old friends, acquaintances and strangers in the ever-encroaching real world.

 

Of course, there are true geniuses who write blogs simply for the edification of a public which has come to view the web as something necessary for daily life.  I happen to be personal friends with most of these altruists (most of you on my contact list may presume to include yourselves in the ranks of these - but don’t ask me to confirm if you don’t want to risk being disappointed).    But the rest of us bottom-dwellers really should be ashamed of ourselves.  Verily, it is a modern tragedy that in this day and age where we so desperately need critics, everyone’s a writer.

 

Tongue firmly in cheek,The Chairman of the Bored

Usually, I am staunchly of the opinion that MX, the free newspaper handed out to all takers in the thoroughfares and train stations of our once great City is a blight on the already fairly unbeautiful media world.  It could hardly be else, for it comes from the sallow halls of the people who bring you the Daily Telegraph.  Granted, the fact that it is free renders it marginally better than the DT - which the victim actually pays for - but it is still a pretty nasty bit of rag. 

 

As I say, these were my views until a few days ago when I read what has to be the most -thought-provoking news article I have ever encountered.  It is short and simple, so I will reproduce it here, in its glorious entirety. 

 

Subway Rampage
Saw attack victim critical - MX Friday July 7, 2006, page 8

A man grabbed two cordless power saws off a New York subway station workbench and went on a rampage today, swinging the saws at passengers and slicing open a man’s chest before running away. 

 

The 64-year-old victim is in hospital in a critical but stable condition. 

Police were searching for the suspect, described as a thin man in his 30s, who was possibly carrying a teddy bear.

 

Wielding a saw in each hand, the man took a swipe at one passenger on a platform and missed, police said. 

 

Moments later, he cut into a man’s chest at a turnstile before bolting out of the station, still carrying the power tools, which were later found in a rubbish bin.

 

 

Now... leaving aside the peripheral questions of how on earth power tools were allowed to be accessible to commuters on the subway, I come to the point that has intrigued me:

Why a teddy bear???  I struggle to picture the man, 30 years of age, who nestles a teddy close to him on public transport and who then attempts to dismember fellow citizens with misappropriated power tools.  How did he carry the teddy if he was “wielding a saw in each hand”?  Is that why he missed the first passenger?  What was he doing with the teddy?  What would motivate a person carrying a teddy bear to become a homicidal maniac on the spur of the moment?  If he is in the habit of carrying teddy bears in public, might that aid in his capture?  What should be the procedure I follow if I encounter a person holding a teddy?  I see them all the time!  Goodness knows they look suspicious enough - pretending to sleep, sucking on bits of plastic for no apparent reason, being pushed around in small trolleys by women - what are we to do? 

 

Maybe we are dealing with a diabolical genius who had a definite plan: perhaps he knew that the saws would be there waiting for him and he planned and schemed up the perfect ploy to ensure that he would be difficult to describe with any more specificity than to say that he was “thin” and “in his 30s”: carry a decoy teddy.  Who could capture a reliable mental image of him when the thing that would stick out in their minds would be the somewhat incongruous teddy bear?  Then he could just dump the teddy and wander the streets looking like any other reasonably well-adjusted, thin, 30-something-looking man.  Genius!  Maybe the police should search some more nearby rubbish bins to see if they can find Pooh.  Who knows? They might be able to get a lead on his accomplice.

 

Forget Moriarty, we have a new Napoleon of crime.

Telstra called today at my work.  I put them on hold....it felt good.  Although it wasn't exactly equal payment - we have no hold music.  I did rather feel pity for the hapless cog-in-thecorporate-works who was trying to have my ear.  After all, he is not responsible for my past experiences with Telstra and the many happy hours of repetitive classical music enjoyed in conjunction therewith.  He has probably even never worked at the Telstra customer assistance call centre.  If he had, (instead of ringing me in a bid to get my company to give them more business) maybe I would not have had to wait so long for "the next available customer service representative."

 

Since this journal is intended to continue in the finest traditions of bemused criticism that led to so many executions by guillotine in Revolutionary France, I will now regale you with my comments on some of the multifarious delights of speaking to, or rather, trying to speak to, various helpful organisations by telephone.  There really is no purpose to this entry, and I am aware that I am not due for several months yet, but I am feeling either generous or bored (I forget which) and this is the result.  Also, some of you left comments last time which encourage me in my efforts (such as they are).  This, by the way, is illustrative of the general principle behind those signs which one sees in the less impoverished zoos of the world, which usually read "Please Do Not Feed the Animals".  Kindly keep the comments coming.  Keep the coming comments kindly.

 

One never calls Telstra (for the purposes of this monograph the example of Telstra will be used, but the same points could be made in application to any large company or organisation that has a switchboard and a chip on its shoulder) for mere social reasons.  It is always to complain about something or to ask for something.  Perhaps they are simply tired of being made a convenience of, so they respond by making it inconvenient to do so.  After all, it isn't like we are paying them to provide us with services.  Actually... wait a minute... hmmmm... 

 

<To Be Continued...>

Hello all, or, as is more likely, none,

Well, I got the classes that I wanted.  I have also finished the subjects and am waiting for my exam results.  So, from an idler to idlers, here is my next piece of dubious erudition and even more dubious wit.  Expect the next exciting episode in a few months time.

 

Since man (and more recently, woman) began to learn, those pedagogues whose will has prevailed over the wishes and interests of lesser creatures decreed into existence a method of ascertaining precisely - or rather, generally - how much of their labour has been to good effect.  It is these efforts which have given rise to the exam and in later days also to other forms of academic assessment.  These modern scholastic perversions often take the form of 'viva voces' or oral tasks which have as their conceptual basis the idea that public humiliation builds character.  To some extent this is true and it has the added benefit of singling out orators with a possible future in politics or newscasting and marking them for audience disbelief at an early age.  The oral task, like some of its collegial colleagues, is often part of a progressive assessment regime (in much the same way that Facism was considered to be progressive by some) which is conducted during the period of study, not at the end.  A number of justifications are offered as a rationale for this phenomenon.  One is that it allows students (as well as teachers, parents and other forms of coercive authority) to gauge the progress or otherwise of the student and remedy any defects (congenital or otherwise) in the teaching method and/or the student.  Another is that it allows students who are intimidated by - or simply have no knack for - exams to 'shine' in other ways.  It is difficult, however, to see how a changed form of assessment could in any conceivable way deliver those who are either naturally gifted with incompetence or who for other reasons do not acquit themselves well in end of session examinations by the use of mid-session assessments.  If one has not been successful in cramming at the end of the session, what is the likelihood of meeting with a greater state of contrived preparedness during the period of 'study'?  This all points to the primary reason for having alternative forms of assessment...and I forget what that is.  Ah yes, here it is: the reason for the constant and scarcely edifying barrage of in class exams, oral tasks, moots, assessable debates, essay assignments &c which all contribute to a final grade is the basic desire cruel desire of educators everywhere to create a climate of fear, uncertainty, academic zealotry and sleep deprivation on a constant and unremitting basis.

 

Not wanting to disarm old weaponry, the final exam is made to coexist with these more recent innovations in educational torture.  This system has proliferated and is now accepted as the vogue style of exacting vengeance on students everywhere for the treatment which the more daring, neolithic or ultra-intelligent ones of their number accord to their teachers and professors (or maybe simply Associate Lecturers).  From such basic levels as the HSC and pre-school entrance examinations to undergraduate and postgraduate university, formal examinations are made to coalesce with alternative assessments.

 

Part of the joy of the whole superlative system is the relaxing and sprawlingly luxurious period of waiting entered into by students while waiting for markers to finish chatting to coworkers and drinking their coffee and get back to underselling the students' young futures by the award of outrageously (yet, it must be conceded, scarcely undeservedly) low marks.  Were it not for this sublime, Elysian, Arcadian and interminable length of time, the above would never have been composed.  More's the pity.

 

Adieu.

 

The Chairman of the Bored

 

 

Sigh...the last time i tried typing a blog, i deleted the whole stupid thing by accident.  And it was soooo long too. Grrr.  Well.... right now I am at uni waiting for my online tutorial registration time to begin. I cannot convey to you how much I HATE registering for classes.  Not only does it mean that one actually has to go to class at some later point in time, but it is very stressful.  It is a constant process of refreshing the page and trying to beat the other 200 ppl who want to take one of the same 30 places in the class that you want. Adding to one's misery is the fact that there are so many ppl on the website that it takes forever to load. Picture me (if you dare) sitting around muttering the mild imprecations that I allow myself ("dammit", "confound it all", "curses" and so on) - I don't swear - staring at a screen that seems to be taking its own sweet time to appear.  My mind (such as it is) is busy working on terrible imaginings that the classes I want will all be filled up by now, that my friends and I will be cruelly set asunder for a whole semester and that the computer I am using is the laziest most malificent hunk of circuity this side of 2001: A Space Odyssey. At the same time, my bladder, excited by all the annoyance (as bladders inevitably are), is also working overtime, causing me to squirm in my seat a good deal more than i usually do. Half an hour more.....maybe I should visit the restroom.... Ah, forget it.

 

Last Friday was a terrible day. (Another one, I hear you cry with either genuine concern or horrified boredom.)  First: the text message outbox on my phone was deleted.  I gave my mobile to a friend at the office to test her SIM card and when I got mine back in, all the msgs were gone.  This started the day on a terrible downward spiral.

Second: My boss asked me to find a letter from an actuary who is an expert witness in a case that we are handling.  I couldn't find the file with the report in it so I called directory enquiries, gave the fellow's name and asked for the business number.  There was only one listing,so I took the number and decided to call to find out if it was the right one.  There was no answer.  Then, I found the file.  While I was looking through it, I heard my boss taking a call.  Then I heard her explaining about how she needed the report for monday (today).  Then...the conversation, as she told me, went as follows (expletives deleted):

My Boss: Mr - ?

Mr - : Yes?

My Boss: The matter is in court on monday, Mr - , and we need you report.

Mr - : What report? What the %@*# are you talking about?

My Boss: Uh...the er actuary's report.

Mr - : What the %@*# is an actuary??!!

My Boss: (Beat)....It's an accountant...

Mr - : Accountant??!!! What the %@*# are you on about? I'm an %@*%ing roofer!!

(At this point I decided to enter the room, knowing that I was probably in for it.)

My Boss: (Looking pointedly at me) I'm sorry Mr - , My clerk seems to have rung you by mistake. I'm sorry.

Mr - hangs up.

I would have got a stern ticking off but for the fact that I couldn't stop laughing and the laughing fit infected her too.  Pretty soon, my idiocy was spread around the office. Sigh.

 

Third: A barrister called and asked for my boss.  When I asked who it was, he mumbled his name and then mumbled "barrister" after it.  The way he said 'barrister', it sounded like he was making an admission that he was of dubious parenthood :p.  I tried to restrain my rising laughter at this new comic element when my boss walked in.  I put the ilegitimate advocate on hold and told her he wanted to speak to her, with laughs breaking up my words.  "Stop laughing!" she yelled as she started grinning uncontrollably too.

 

Fourth: I was walking back to the office from a court and was in a hurry.  I was waiting to cross a street and hoping that it did not start raining again when a bus whizzed past through a puddle and completely soaked my trousers, from thighs to feet. A girl standing next to me saw it, but had the good grace and forbearance not to laugh.  But I, the old sufferer, merely looked heavenward with a pathetic sigh and whispered "Anything else you want to throw at me?" (This was of course done merely for comic effect - if only for my own amusement when it comes to spouting apt lines.)

 

Fifth: I turned down a person who was giving away free newspapers in an underground walkway.  Two paces later, I tripped up some stairs.  I could almost hear the newspaper guy smiling and saying to himself "Didn't want a paper...hehe."

 

Well, now that you have a good idea of my capacity and sobriety...

 

Later,

The Chairman of the Bored