Songs Of A Sentimental Geek

"Ding, dong - the myth is dead!
Which old myth? The Howard myth!
Ding, dong - the Howard myth is dead!

"It's dead like the Democrats -
they'll go, the party will implode
now Costello has flown,

"So everybody:

"Ding, dong at Bennelong -
Howard's gone, he won't hang on -
Ding, dong - the Liberals are dead!"

Pardon the obscene gloating, but after eleven years of having my views utterly unrepresented at a federal level, it's hard not to scooch down the hallways in a semi-permanent victory dance.

Since Saturday night, I've been drafting this blog in my head, plotting out new and inventive ways of repeating myself - health, education, infrastructure, Aboriginal affairs, trade with China, Kyoto - but everything I want to say has already been said, intelligently and ad nauseam, by more knowledgeable commentators than me. Howard is gone, and that's the bulk of what matters.

But politics is never so clear-cut as The King Is Dead - Long Live The King.

Because Kevin Rudd, although, yes, a Labor Prime Minister, and a decent economic manager, and a fluent speaker of Chinese, and quite emphatically not John Howard, is still worthy of suspicion, even - perhaps especially - by those who voted him in. There are two extremely good reasons for this, viz:

1. He is still human.
2. He is still a politician.

The day any Prime Minister, President, Dictator, Chancellor, God-King or Lord High Screaming Oligarch gets into power and does everything they said they would, exactly as was promised and as easily as they said it is the day hordes of demonic cherubim flood the Earth and institute a global moratorium on pants. It has not happened. It was never going to happen - and, indeed, never will. Even as I write, some pre-election promise or other is undoubtably being sidelined in accordance with the ever-shifting, primordial muck of compromise that is federal government. But should something dear to my heart get shafted, then I will feel every bit as happy to complain about Kevin Rudd as I have been about Howard - without the slightest tinge of hypocricy.

Here's why:

Back when I was in primary school, I used to play soccer at lunch. In keeping with the fact that we were all nine years old, the only rules involved the presence of two teams, a roundish ball and a mutual desire to kick said ball between either of two "goals" - usually a pair of fence posts versus a tree and a rubbish bin. Everything else was fair game, a policy I wholeheartedly embraced. Running with the ball, I decided, was not nearly so much fun as trying to take the ball from someone else, and so my method of play became to switch sides as soon as the team I'd been playing for had possession. In the run-up to the election, these fond memories started to worry me, because deep down, I've always loved being the underdog. Had those soccer games actually been a disturbing harbinger for my future moral/political life - would I go on to become a Liberal voter as soon as the ball changed hands?

And then I came back to reality. Soccer, like most sports, is a poor metaphor for politics, because it involves two mutually exclusive agendas, well-defined goals, evenly matched teams and zero grey area. No one party will ever entirely support your views - or at least, their actions will never be identical to their rhetoric. At its most basic level, politics is about finding someone who can do what you want and making them do it, either by granting concessions elsewhere, twisting their arm or offering incentives. Beyond the necessary evil of party loyalty, fidelity has, in practice, little or nothing to do with good government, simply because the Perfect World option is so rarely compatible with the pragmatism of what can actually be managed.

All of which means that even though I think Labor is far and away the lesser of two evils, they'll still deserve backlash when the feces hits the rotational cooling device.

But, in the interim, I've still got this pesky speck of optimism left. Colour me crazy, but I just can't seem to stop smiling at the thought that the economy might become important, not for its own sake, but as a means of providing better social and public services. As wild cheers grip the floor of Parliament, I imagine Julia Gillard and Kevin Rudd climbing onto one of those spectacular wood-and-leathern tables and making like Paul McCartney, singing:

"I'll give you all I've got to give
If you'll say you love me too,
I may not have a lot to give
But what I've got I'll give to you
'coz I don't care too much for money -
money can't buy me love!"

Political Quote-Mongering

As Saturday's election looms, I can't resist quoting Anya, of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, in reference to John Howard. Thus:

"Captain Logic is not steering this tugboat. I smell Captain Fear at the wheel!"

And with Pamela Curr speculating - not unreasonably - whether today's 'magic boat' of asylum seekers might have been nudged along for the festivities, it's small wonder. Coast-guard to Liberal Party: you are taking on water. Keep your necks out of it and wait for the Defence Force to send out the Emergency Flotation Device (currently deflated and draped concealingly over a bevy of large, helicopter-shaped objects).

Or, to quote Lorne of the Buffy spin-off, Angel:

"If I was about to face your future, I'd make like Carmen Miranda and die."

Annabel Crabb has (as usual) hit the nail on the head, remarking on the strangeness of John Howard guaranteeing his retirement from politics - however hypothetically - instead of hanging on like Monty Burns to a wad of greenbacks. Much like the Richard Nixon of Futurama, one imagines Howard persisting as a not-so-spectral talking head (gefilte fish jar optional), haunting parliament with such rousing dictums borrowed from the future Earth President as:

"Let's storm the place!...Without my prior knowledge."

But, as they say, it's rarely wise to count one's chickens before they hatch - or to assume that a grinning, bespectacled, bean-counting unionist will break shell in place of a blepheronic*, troglodytic, Republican-fearing shemp. As A. A. Milne once beautifully opined:

"You never can tell with bees."

Well, politicians. But the principle's the same.




*Blepheronic - A sadly defunct adjective descriptive of anyone with abnormally large eyebrows.

Breeding Familiary

When the guy who works at your local take-away starts commenting on your new hair, you know you've well and truly stopped cooking.

I'm not quite sure where it began. First, it was the StarMart employees, memorising faces as we trotted up for milk or catfood on the cusp of the graveyard shift. They'd ask after our cats, we'd answer, jokes all round. Then it was the pizza delivery guy. Admittedly, our favourite place only ever sends the one bloke, but ever since he came to our door on auto-pilot with a neighbour's order, I think that excuse is bunk. And now the deli attendant, who not only commented on my haircut, but noticed the all-but-intangibly failed effort at going a different colour.

Truly, these are grim times.

Setting aside the shame of being recognised for our currently less-than-stellar dietary habits, it's a curious kind of relationship to have with people we see regularly but superficially. It's different to school, work or university, because the familiarity there is impersonal: beyond your immediate circle of friends and acquaintences, it becomes a matter of recognition without interaction or, by and large, interest. Nothing about either party is given away: you are each just passing by. But the people who serve our meals, examine our shopping trolleys and provision us with alcohol only ever appear to us in their official capacity, while we are forever off-duty. The pizza guy knows our address, our cats, and our predeliction for meat lovers' and the Mediterranean special - but we know nothing about him.

Food-wise, I have a habit of entering ruts. Once I find something I like - deli pies, sushi, sashimi, Boost smoothies, toasted chicken-cheese-and-tomato sandwiches - I have a tendency to go nuts. Provided there's a nearby outlet, I'll eat the same thing for lunch all week, every week until a new craze comes along - and in the meantime, the service folk get to know me by sight and dietary preference. Having worked in hospitality, I remember things from the other side of the cash register: amazement at regular coffee-drinkers who would come in for the same four, ill-advised short blacks every second day, conscientious consumers of wheatgrass shots who dropped by via the gym, breakfast stalwarts addicted to hotcakes with syrup. Apart from trying not to go crazy, there's precious little intellectual stimulation in the food service industry, and the consumer usually provides it. We behind the counter remember, and after a while, we'll know you don't need a menu - just a swift injection of caffiene before your bowl of nachos.

And now, I, too, have joined the ranks of the Predictable Customer. Long story short: familiarity may well breed contempt - but so, it seems, does a prolonged and exclusive affection for Hollondaise sauce.

Encore!

In lieu of the fact that I didn't win on the Melbourne Cup, I spent much of yesterday evening and afternoon watching glutionous amounts of Buffy and Angel. By now, I've seen every episode at least once - more like twice or three times, in most cases - with a select few being even more familiar. I never tire of them. In ages past, this ability to continually rewatch favourite flicks has been remarked upon by family and friends, who generally can't bear to watch or read something more than once. Repeat performances, when they do happen, are spaced years apart, with few exceptions.

I have never understood this.

Presumably, my parents thought this predeliction for hiring the same seven films each time we went to the video store was a childish phase I'd grow out of - a sort of juvenile conservatism, wherein only the familiar is acceptable. But insofar as books, films and TV shows are concerned, it never has. On the surface, people often assume that either I'm too boring or precious to try something new, despite the fact that I do like to branch out. It's the sheer number of repetitions which startles them. But there are advantages to watching things over and over - not always to my favoured extent, but twice or three times in general - which are often overlooked.

For one thing, there are some subtleties of plot that can only be appreciated when you know what to look for, and which otherwise go through to the keeper. To take an example from Buffy and Angel, a running joke about The World Made Entirely Of Shrimp, derived from one character's shoddy explanation of possible worlds, spans several seasons of both shows, and is only really apparent with a rewatch. Regardless of genre, writers like to hide lead-ins to crucial events, like deaths or changes to relationships, much earlier in the narrative. Murder mysteries are the obvious example, but also a poor one: once they know whodunit, most people don't bother with a second viewing. This is because the tension in murder mysteries relates to our ignorance of one crucial fact, which the set-up is designed to remedy; take this away, and there can be little left to enjoy. But in other genres, writers can and do seed references to later events in a way which is only apparent the second time through, and which can be immensely satisfying, especially with characters we care about. George R. R. Martin, creator of the Song Of Ice And Fire series, is deviously brilliant at this. In Book 2 (to pick an example at random) one character, called Daenerys, has a vision of crucial events which don't take place until almost two books later, and which don't - at that point, anyway - relate to her. Not the kind of thing you notice first time around, but once you have, apart from making your eyes widen, it inspires confidence in the writer: evidence, plain and simple, that their story is following a planned trajectory.

In digital media, second viewings also make the dialouge easier to follow: because we already understand the plot, we can worry less about the setting and listen more to the wordplay. I'm a big believer in watching favourite films with friends - not just for the joy in sharing them, but because two sets of eyes and ears are better than one. Back before Quine and I were together, he and my then-boyfriend, Seafood, convinced me it was a travesty against God and man that I hadn't seen Eddie Murphy's Coming to America, and sought to rectify the situation. They'd both seen it only once, back in the dim days of youth, but assured me that time could not have altered this classic. We watched. I enjoyed. One line in particular made me laugh: before the Prince has left Africa, he and his faithful friend are staring at a map of the United States . Awed, the Prince comments on the sheer size of the country - how much there is to explore; how many endless possibilities!

'So,' the friend asks, deadpan. 'Where shall we go: Los Angeles, or New York?'

As I rolled around on the lounge, Quine and Seafood stared at me. They hadn't noticed the joke. I made them rewind the tape.

'Ohhh.'

I've learned a lot about narrative structure from revisiting books and films. Once you know what's happening, it's like peering behind the curtain: you see what tools have been used to set the stage, and are in a position to judge their success. Perhaps more importantly, you learn to identify familiar tricks in different stories. After long exposure, I've grown particularly adept at picking the killer and motive in murder mysteries. Quine treats my habit of prophecying the payoff with jovial irritation: jovial, because he enjoys the theories, and irritated, because when I'm right, it can ruin the ending for him. For me, however, enjoyment is increased. Instead of sailing blind into the murder, I have a secret weapon: knowledge of narrative imperative. What actual clues don't give away, the shape of the story might - and does, more often than not.

But beyond my seer-like grasp of cop show finales, there's a more important reason for revisiting favourites: the characters themselves. As Roald Dahl wrote at the end of The Giraffe, The Pelly and Me, 'A good book never ends when it's full of your friends' - because there's really only two places beloved protagonists can live: you head, and the place where you found them. So rather than setting aside the habitants of Joss Whedon's Buffyverse (to pick an example purely at random), I visit from time to time. Some stays are longer than others, but I think it's fair to say that I've always gained from doing so.

Which is why, when I get home and drop gratefully in front of the TV, I won't be slothing. I'll be enriching my grasp of narrative causality. Natch.

Dualism

Are you a cat person, or a dog person?

If asked that question, I'd normally answer 'cat' - that was until either Boof or Nano (I suspect Boof) dragged a dead pidegon into our house at 5AM and left it outside our bedroom door, whereupon Quine, my husband, trod on it with bare feet. This has made me a temporary swing voter.

Prior to living with Boof and Nano, Quine was entirely a dog person. Nowadays, he's about a 50-50 split; or perhaps 60-40, seeing as the cats are here, while his childhood dog is in another state. Stretch that to 70-30, when Boof, endearing black fellow that he is, falls asleep on his chest; maybe even 80-20, if Nano does something cute. But switch those numbers around again, if we go to visit Gus.

That's the trouble with dualistic pidgeonholes. They just aren't helpful.

The cat-person, dog-person divide is a common example. Should one answer that they like both cats and dogs equally, they are accused of fence-sitting. A reply to the effect of being a horse-person, rabbit-person, budgie-person or mouse-person is frowned upon as a non-sequitur. Socially, we like nice, clean distinctions. Two categories is preferable; three or more is considered unwieldy. Tea or coffee? Personally, I drink hot chocolate instead of either. Result: raised eyebrows. Gay or straight? If someone answers 'bisexual,' it's considered a cop-out, even if it happens to be true. The assumption is that they're either ashamed to be gay, or straight and wanting to sound more exotic. Result: scoffs of derision. League or Union? Actually, I don't care about either. Result: filthy stare more commonly reserved for Milton Orkopoulos. Labor or Liberal? Not the only two parties, but people mislike being told that while you're going to vote for Kevin Rudd, you've actually got more in common with the Greens, and wouldn't it be nice if some bright young thing reformed the Democrats? Result: glazed expression, audience falls to floor, insensate.

At school, the schism was Maths and English. You picked sides early on: declaring for both was unheard-of, while favouring neither meant you were stupid, delinquent or both. And it wasn't just the students who thought so. After I made my English preferences clear, a succession of Maths teachers took this to mean that even though I was bright, their efforts at knowledge transferral were better spent elsewhere. I saw the same thing happen to Maths kids in English classes. Even among society's adults - parents and non-parents alike - the idea that you're either language or maths-oriented is treated not so much as suspicion, but fact. Hence the stereotyping at university: Arts students can't count higher than twenty, and Engineers struggle with more than three words per page.

At a glance, it's hard to say whether Western religion has provided a cultural context for these black-and-white divides, or if it simply sat well with something older. No matter your background, good and evil are ancient notions, reflective of other naturally occuring dualities: light and darkness, night and day, sun and moon, male and female. But even though some of these distictions are absolute, others are more blurred, with plenty of grey to explore.

When circumstances dictate that we draw a line in the sand between good and bad, the disputed ground becomes nonexistant, growing again when we have the luxury of leeway. And it's important to remember that you can't have the grey without the extremes: there's no such thing as a middle point without something on either side. But when it comes to the small things - cats or dogs, tea or coffee, Ray Martin or Kerry O'Brien - we could stand to ease up a little and let a few third alternatives through to the keeper.

Yes or no?

Real Mature

Whenever I've read columns about Big Kids, Peter Pan Syndrome or Men Who Won't Grow Up, I've nodded my head sagely: a sign of the times, I think. Because I agree that, yes, there is a certain type of perennially childish bloke who fits these descriptions, I've let it fly under the radar. But reading Sam de Brito's latest offering, I realise how little thought I've really given my position. First and foremost, it strikes me as odd that we only ever talk this way about men. Which seems a gross inequality: whereas unattached 30-something males are touted as being selfish, emotionally immature louts who look no further than their next shag, beer or Halo deathmatch, unattached 30-something women are simply labelled "career driven." Childishness is hardly restricted to those with a Y-chromosone, and ambition is not a by-product of oestrogen. So why are only men seen as immature?

For a while now, I've had my suspicions - shy, nameless thoughts perkolating somewhere in the hindbrain, but never fully articulated. Today, they have come clear. Behold my revelation: being "career driven" is just the same as having an unhealthy fixation on boozy one-night stands, because both behaviours are equally immature. There are many ways to define maturity, but I would contend that an ability to balance (or at least juggle) all the spheres of one's life is a key point. Immaturity is picking a selected aspect - such as play - and running with it to the exclusion of all others, and whether this is because we find it easier to deal with or simply more enjoyable, the result is the same: an immature person. Being "career driven" is viewed as socially acceptable only because we have a tendency to conflate fiscal success with personal development. Surely, we think, if someone is out climbing the corporate ladder, they are Meeting New People. They are making Plans For The Future. They are Building Their Nest Egg and Taking A Long-Term View Of Their Happiness.

I submit to you that this is not the case.

The problem society has with immature men is the lack of priority they give their romantic lives. No commitment - just a few sexual partners here, a smattering of girlfriends there, and no thought of settling down. Plenty of time for that later on. Why not enjoy their youth?

Compare with career-driven women. Not enough time for romance; they're busy working hard getting the good job, breaking the glass ceiling, saving money. Partners, children and houses can wait until after they've got the corner office. Plenty of time for that later on. Why waste their best years?

The problem with both positions is the belief that relationships will happen as scheduled. One day, the logic seems to go, they'll get sick of all-night raves or have finally gotten ahead, and will wake up the next morning to find their significant other helpfully strapped to the wardrobe, ready for use. These are people who have taken the phrase stages of life literally. Instead of a measurement applied largely in retrospective, they view it in the fashion of an 80's arcade game: a series of distinct, 2D screens to be dually progressed through, acquiring new tools in a pre-determined, linear sequence. You only progress to the marriage level after you're heartily sick of goofing around with mates or uncovering career path. The idea that any of these might be achieved simulteanously or returned-to later is either uncomfortable, too difficult or unthought-of.

And this is the crux of the matter. When immature men carouse, wench and party like it's going out of fashion, it's as if they've convinced themselves that committed relationships can't be fun. No more XBox, no more drinking, no more passionate sex - better cram it all in before that happens! Similarly, it's as if career-driven women think that family responsibilities preclude a great job. The question becomes one of child-rearing and time out of the workforce - a genuine consideration, to be sure - but where offpsring are on the cards already, the fearful need to have the career now, lest it be denied later, seems identical. Once I've had children, I won't be able to get back on track - better climb the rungs first!

(For the record, neither the traditional 'male' immaturity nor the desperate career drive are gender specific: vice versa, some girls just wanna have fun, and some blokes crave high-power jobs. The diversity is omnipresent, but stereotypes are more specific, and the above criticism applies equally to all parties.)

Getting married and having children doesn't equal maturity; neither does indefinitely postponing the future, earning a boatload of money or doing everything we legally can plus a couple of things we can't. (Britney Speares could be a poster-child for all five.) Maturity is a tricky thing to define, and we all have our own specifications - but at heart, I think it means the ability to deal pragmatically with life. Long-term goals are all well and good, but if they aren't grounded in reality then you might as well plan to invent a green elephant. With all the freedom of choice we have nowadays, there's a tendecy to assume that 'everything' is an option: twenty years of childhood, a decade to party, a decade of career-building, a decade to get out of debt, a decade to save, and another twenty years to raise a family of our own. But biology is a harsh mistress, let alone alcohol, HECS, the ATO, the Reserve Bank, real estate agents, Eros and Lady Luck. Sooner or later, the immature 30-somethings of this world will be forced to take the plunge and try a few things concurrently, or without their preferred amount of money in the bank - it's that, or risk missing out altogether.

Because sure as things aren't getting any cheaper, twenty, plus forty, plus twenty does not equal retirement at 60.