Get It? (Find out at the end)

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Welcome.  Well what a week this has been and has yet to be with Titans doing battle all over the place.  Trump/Clinton in the ol’ US of A and on Saturday the Doggies and Swanies in for the mutual kill at our AFL Grand Final, a game not understood at all outside the antipodes.  It’s like that South American ultra-fast game with a ball, wall and scoop; thrilling for the locals but for outsiders, well acquired taste comes to mind. Trump/Clinton on the other hand, we can all understand; well we think we can.  For me it continues to gobsmack me how something so conceptually simple as one man, one vote first-past-the-post good ol’ fashioned Greek Democracy can be made so impossibly complicated by a Nation who had all the thinking time in the world to divest themselves of the Brits and start with a clean sheet!  Caucuses, Primaries, Colleges, I mean..’what th’’ is that all about.  Then there seems to be placard carrying people who can swing faster than a mature party in Miami! And then there is the money; clearly Marshall McLuhan was on the money when he coined the phrase The Medium is the Message because over eighty million and one people watched the Great Debate (me being the one and I don’t think the pollsters knew that I was actually watching because they didn’t call).  This was Number One, the First of Three and, so we are told, Clinton sort of won.  But did she?  Oh the intellectuals, the do-gooders, the thinkers, Les Résonables, the Latte Lesbian Left or whatever the latest ‘Culcha Vulcha’ trendies movement as defined by the Demographers Dictionary suggests, they clearly understand Ms Clinton and forgive her email cleansing faux pas and cannot understand how anyone can imagine Trump as having ‘The Right Stuff’. But, when you look at ‘The Map’ that sorts out the States/Colleges/Primaries/and Caucuses, well why then is there such an even split?  Could it possibly be that America, the greatest social experiment in the last 300 years, is not the crucible for intellectual thought, creative illumination, and seat of scientific learning but a bull-pit where winners are grinners, climbing on the carcases commercially deceased and having the same attitude as the Greeks to the concept of taxation.  Could it possibly be that Les Résonables are in fact Les Misérables , the flotsam that has been down trodden by the Wannabe Riche Classes who hold wealth to be the only true God and you only get that when you have a benevolent White God in the second row of the deity stakes.  Are we about to see The Great Dictator rise to the pampering of the best seat in the house, White of Course, because he is reaching deep into the gene pool that can genuinely imagine the possibility of having a Kardashian on each arm?  Are we about to witness the rise of the Trumpeters akin to the military classes of the German uprising where the populous will attack the intelligentsia in swarms like Brown Shirts but in denim and Stetsons?  Will the gun rule at long last and the Trumpeters kept amused with permission-to-kill tickets and fed on a diet of Burgers and Moonshine?  America will be Great again, well within its own boarders of course, let’s not get too silly here.  We outsiders will watch Reality TV wondering if the Host, Mr Trump of course, will press ‘that button’ just because he can and watch the audience scream in rapture as the trails of ICBMs fountain out of the mid-west’s somnolent pastures and start the end.

“I have a dream” is more like a night-terror and Civil War comes to mind and whereas the military classes of old, in all jurisdictions, the police included were the gentle servants of the people, the next phase will be just the opposite.  When you have hundreds of thousands of quasi-military trained bloodstock to energise you have a potent underclass, primed to be given the authority to take as long as they pledge allegiance to The Great Dictator.

Round Two, we are told, will be the round where the gloves come off, where the underbelly of collective corruption will be unzipped for the Best Ratings Ever!  Will Trump ever actually finish a thought and make a full and complete statement?  Will Clinton wilt under the spotlight of Mr Clinton’s appetites for the internals of interns?  See you same time, same bat channel.  Oh and did you get the picture?  Dic-Tator silly

 

Such is life.  Until the next time this is Brodie Goozée

The Medium not the Message

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As weeks go, I do have to say that the last one has been a bit hectic. My Local Community Radio Station in which I volunteer, has absorbed an inordinate number of hours due to people being away or having more pressing things to do.  The net result has been three 0500 risings and the delivery of a chirpy attitude to the breakfast show listeners, the panelling of an Arts program and the launch of a totally new program called The Age Stage.  Now to those not in ‘the know’ panelling is an act of switching buttons, sliding sliders so music and voice merge in a seamless ebb and flow, setting levels and clock watching.  When you panel, you say nothing, you are invisible and your reactions and thoughts about what is being talked about is of no consequence whatsoever. You are a start maker, not a star.  When you panel for your own show, well that is different.  The panel is now an instrument to be played to your tune with your music selection’s final beat gently evaporating upon the arrival of the news stream which waits for no man, nor woman, nor any other gender I suppose.  Community radio is a passion of mine because in a place like Australia it is an umbilical cord that joins the nation, particularly the rural bit.  In places where neighbours are half an hour or more away by car, popping in for a latte is not often on the schedule.  To find out what your Community is about you rely on Community Radio to deliver the news, gossip, information and scuttlebutt.  Without it you are alone with the wind, the crows, the buzzing flies and your thoughts until someone rings you on your satellite phone.  Of course it is not quite so essential on the non-rural space but we still explore boundaries that go beyond commercial bubblegum; it’s a shame we don’t earn what some of the commercial idiots earn but that’s what you sign up for.  The big earners on ‘normal’ FM are more often than not miro-trumps appealing to the ignorance of the swarm.  When they rant the unwashed listen and the unwashed become ratings and ratings becomes addictive to advertisers.  So red-necks get to hear about panty liners and all is well with the world.  Of course advertisers love noise, they cannot get enough of it which is why our Olympiads are now on a media and sponsorship merry-go-round telling the same story over and over and over.  Advertisers’ chequebooks are being waved live autograph books and those that succeeded are being set up, well not for life, but for a few months in any case.  They all disembarked their Qantas charter the other morning without a customs official in sight.  You could have flown in with enough chemicals to set you up for two lives and handed it over to grandma in the welcoming melee and no one would have been the wiser, particularly if you had won nothing and thus you would be safe knowing there was no lens pointing in your direction.  Then the awkward questions like “do you know each gold medal cost the Australian tax pay x million, how do you feel about that?”  What was the other one “…do you think you have done us proud by coming 8th in the first heat?”  On the plane coming over the Chef de Mission (she didn’t so much as cook a lamb chop by the way) might have had the presence of mind to give a lecture over the PA about delivering really clever smart-ass responses to the dumb and dumber classes of the press.  For example when asked by a person with the IQ of a cane-toad and armed with a microphone “do you think Australia deserved more for the millions it invests in sport” you might reply “certainly and if they could do a better job of masking the good stuff, boy would we give you a real return on….how much did you personally put in the tin by the way miss never-heard-of-you and do you really trowel on that face cream to cover some really bad skin condition”?  Now that would be a headline!  The poor kids will be off the main page soon and be back working as an intern bringing lattes into the boardroom so everything will go back to where it was and where it should be because…..  Such is life.  Until the next time, this is Brodie Goozée.

It doesn’t make cens-to-us

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It has been a week of great ups and downs in Oz, well not just in Oz, but for Aussies all over the world.  On the upside the Olympics started with a collective apology for cutting down the rain forests of our planet thus giving us a case pf atmospheric emphysema and a promise to do better with each and every athlete planting a seed to put it all to rights.  A lovely thought, a positive one, one that underpins the idea of what goes around comes around as my beloved often reminds me when I am a bit grumpy.  I thought they did a pretty good job of an Opening Ceremony with their reduced budget and the radiant aztecy sun thingy was a flourish to a torch light ceremony that did look a bit pedestrian at the beginning.  It had, as they say a ‘WOW’ factor.  We then went on to surprise ourselves by winning precious metal medals in a pleasantly broad spectrum of sporting activities.  We also managed to give the Red Bear a jolly good prod and it didn’t like it.  The newly smartphoned and newly educated classes assaulted the Twitter account of a young Australian swimmer with tirades about him not being very polite to call their hero a drugs cheat.  The fact that he is and was suspended seems quite forgivable to the digital masses who wave their iphones like little red books but maintain their ability to act like a swarm with a single purpose.  This all adds greatly to the sense of camaraderie for which sport is famous.  It is also great media and that, when all is said and done, is what this is all about.  However, China acting churlish, winging about being blackballed over building new islands in major seaways, about having their culture, wealth and middle class tourist behaviour questioned is, in fact, the pre-cursor to self-arming themselves with socio-political excuses that will give them what they need to flex some very highly weaponised muscle in the not too distant future; watch this space, you have been warned.

So while that tale continues to unfold on our shores we held our own domestic quad-annual event, that being the Census of which I spoke in my last ditty.  I seem to remember saying that the lead up, in terms of direct male and the ABS’s hopes we would all ‘go digital’, was all going very pear shaped.  I implied it would implode and it duly did on the night.  Had we relied on the snapshot of Australian life at 11.34pm last Tuesday, our nation would be 4/5ths male and 1/5th female, it would be 80% unemployed and 80% on benefits. It would have half of its heritage from Deli and the other half from Vietnam.  It would have one car, have no plans to get a new one, was highly skilled in serving petrol and saying ‘have a nice day’.  As I warned you, beware the jedi knight answer to the question about your religion, well we are mostly Buddhist.  This was because our snapshot upon which we will build our planning for the next four years comes from the only form to get through and was from 367B Springvale, road, Nunawading, a share house of students.  A little skewed you might say and I think you are right.  I stopped trying to get my form through last night a 9.26pm.  I pulled the plug like turning off the life support system of a dear friend and all my hard work evaporated into the pixilated ether.  Not doing it again so there. Once is enough and you will have complete sympathy with me if you have read the wretched thing.

So back to Karma.  Yesterday I found a travel bag on wheels and an extendable handle next to a ghetto blaster on the pavement.  Had we lived in Belgium, France or possibly even the UK I would have called the police.  They would have evacuated the area for two block in all directions, and a man wearing a green padded space suit would have taken his radio controlled mini tank and blown the crap out of it.  Papers and lengths of cassette tape with assorted stanzas of Bon Jovi would have fluttered to the ground, it would have cost half a million dollars and several locals will have got their moment on the tele at 6pm saying how terrifying it all was and shouldn’t happen in Mornington 3931.  I didn’t call the police.  I took the two offending items into the Men’s Shed.  I will explore more about that in another episode, but it is empirical to this tale.  I wanted to pen the case but not be accused of possible theft of an ipad or something so I got witnesses.  We unzipped and checked the contents.  It was the life’s work of a dance instructor, everything you could possibly want to run a dancercise class for those aged 50+.  I know this not because I do it but the paperwork was very instructive.  But who owned it?  No business cards but there was a letter from an insurance broker.  A bit of sleuthing might work was the collective opinion of the septuagenarians helping me with the puzzle.  We called and confused the insurance company but just when we thought we had an ally we found the owner’s name.  All Good as they say today.  I rang twice and sent a text message saying I would leave it at my local Radio Station which as just around the corner.  Just before I turned off the life support for my Census form I thought I might ring one more time because I was really quite worried about this woman.  Had she been kidnapped?  Was her future income irrevocably lost  forever?  I did get through.  “Er yea.. thanks” she said “I went to the station and got it.  I did try to call…”  Yea.. thanks I said and hung up.  The stupid woman hadn’t called, she just didn’t have the manners to ring and say thank you.  In dancing the expression when you go on stage is ‘break a leg.’  Well if karma has anything to do with it, she will.  Such is life.

Until the next time, this is Brodie Goozée.

In the Australian vernacular, Cop You Later

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Welcome,

This is my 125 podcast, each 2 minutes longs, that is 250 minutes or a shade over 4 hours of murmurs, meanderings and musings. I set out to see if a 2 minute audio ‘chunk’ was an ideal ‘listen-to’ length. I never got an answer to that question but it seems that some have held fast to the model so I will say it is, at least, not too long to bore people to death. Its time to hang up my microphone because I am getting stale and searching for ideas in an information landscape that is getting repetitive. When that happens, you start to impose yourself upon your audience. I have had 2500 plus listens which is most rewarding but it works out to less than 10 a day. I am also a little jaded about the stories, most of them based in things that anger me, disappoint me or frustrate me. The wit, such as it is, may have entertainment value but only in endorsing what is wrong with the world not what it right. Larry, who listens, constantly, is forever sharing things in his space that are about beauty and wonder, he promotes the good in life with only an occasional tilt at the stupid and ignorant. I admire that perspective, it is based upon light rather than darkness. I have read pages from all of my followers and many of my ‘likers’ and the majority focus on the wonder of life, the planet and the journey. Sure you have ups and downs but the ‘ups’ win hands down. So this is it well in terms of Such is Life. I guess that says it all really, the last words of Ned Kelly, the Irish Australian rogue with a Robin Hood flair; the resignation, the sense that ‘in the end it all comes down to…’ Without realizing it I picked a title that best fitted my own character, one of ‘resignation’. Well I am not going to resign, I am going to somehow get of my posterior and do something, what that something is, I haven’t the faintest idea but my time is running out and I am not going to waste it by complaining. So thank you, each and every one of you. My comet came into your orbit for a little and now is swinging of into the great mystery. Who knows I might send in a signal from time to time.

Please, whatever you do, take care out there.

With love and thanks

 

This has been Brodie Goozée

Bully for Alan Jones and see how it feels, maybe.

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Alan Jones is at it again although this time he is crying ‘poor’ at so many levels. He is claiming that the possible pending defamation suits are acts of bullying and from him, that is really rich. Odder still is that Clive Palmer is offering to pick up the legal bill as if the millionaire broadcaster doesn’t have enough of his own negotiable bling to pay his own way. I have often fired my own little broadside at the man because he gets my goat with his antics. They are pungent, acidic and corrupt (see putrid definition) and he hurts people. In the Sydney Morning Herald piece about ‘The Demons that drive Alan Jones’ October 20 2006, I looked for reasons that would allow me to understand why I have a real aversion to the man, not out of choice, I don’t like feeling this way about any human being but there is something about his presence, his image, his persona that physically repulses me. I found nothing in the article that I would consider an excuse for the way he behaves. He is gay and was so scared of his sexuality during his high school years he turned into a bully to mask of his effeminate side. It thinks that’s the root cause of my polar repulsion, not his sexuality and not his effeminacy, it the resulting bitchiness that is at the epicenter of the man and that quality looks and feels wrong in the ultra-masculine bombastic blokey approach he has. It’s a lie. When he is on song as a commentator he can hold the undivided attention of the culturally impaired but when he gets it wrong and goes on one of his rants he sort of ‘squeals’ and when, as on the more than acceptable occasions he has been abusive on air, he whines in his thin apologies. If they find him guilty of defamation I hope the damages are ‘larger than life’ too.

Such is life. Until the next time this is Brodie Goozée

How can the civilized world deal with children who will kill without compunction?

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Yesterday I questioned the possible future requirement for the world to be forced to rethink how it behaves in light of the IS gangland global growth. When at school I was a member of the Army Cadets, I didn’t particularly like it but I did like to shoot the old WWII 303 riles on the range. I remember very clearly the sense of power holding a gun elicited. Of course it was all very Boys Own and fueled by my phantasmagorical imagination and gallons of testosterone but just the feeling alone in a teenager is something I have never forgotten. I also remember making wooden guns and looking down the pine barrel and getting my unsuspecting ‘victim’ in my highly accurate toilet role sniper sights. I would make a ‘Pffd’ sound as the silenced phantom bullet left on its inevitable killing trajectory delivering an equally phantom recoil. War, hunting, assassination and saving the maiden play I suppose still goes on. Since these play dates with my zombie mates, because I could never actually kill them, I have hunted real animals, always for food. That never made me feel special either because death was a real outcome complete with blood but the gun thing was always there. Guns equals power equals control and if you are in a toxic environment where someone gives you guns and as much ammo as you could possibly want you will stick the muzzle around a corner and spray a cloud of lead in the direction of a foe. It is not real, it becomes real when you get hurt or are up close to a victim or fallen comrade, this is when toys become weapons. Many of the IS children are no longer children, they are tragically killing machines, they know no better and we have to know how to manage our feelings and our responsibilities in stopping them. This is going to be just one rethink of Civilization.

Oh so sadly such is life.

Until the next time this is Brodie Goozée

To ‘T’ or not to ‘T’, that is the question!

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Call me old fashioned but I have never worn a T Shirt with a slogan or message on it unless there was a specific purpose, like a large 69 on my back on a playing field or something more official like Safety Officer at our yacht club. These Tees have an operational purpose, they advise the reader that the person wearing this garment has a specific roll to play in the current situation. Of course you can wear your ‘event’ T to go to the local supermarket but then it is out of context and becomes something else. Even though I was a child of the 60’s where this undergarment suddenly rose to prominence as slogan carrier systems or just tie dyed, they never appealed to me. I was violently opposed to wearing a company logo unless I was paid by that company to wear it, no free fee marketing Adonis me, but like the blooming of the poster business they became the media for the eclectic announcements like ‘Tuesday is my Friday’ or ‘REACH’ emblazoned in 450 point Helvetica in black. People paid heaps for the clever ones and for those who could not read or for women who did not like their chests being stared at while the reader was trying to decode the message, there was always the smiley face. But there were no smiley faces in the Australian Parliament when a journo who was authorized to be in the Parliament returned from his jog and told to turn his T inside out to hide the offensive but perfect example of journalistic crassness printed on said T. I do have to say it was the most obvious headline in the world but does that disenfranchise our journo’s right to freedom of expression? Since when have security become our style police and how do we define taste vs social inflammation? Je suis a wanker, yes, bit Charlie not really. But such is life.

Until for the next time this is Brodie Goozée