gigdiary

Gen Y are great. They speak English, usually, although you will hear conversations with a high proportion of the word ‘like’. For some reason they like this word. They can count, but not twelve times tables, yet more importantly they’re not all vacuous idiots.

Thanks to Mamamia I’ve met a few Gen Y writers and am in awe of their verbosity, that’s btw an old man term for having a large vocab. Even better than the large vocab, they seem to have great ideas and a wonderful understanding of life as we see it.

I take my hat off to them. Memo to Gen Y males, taking one’s hat off used to be a gesture of respect when entering a building. It was also so you didn’t look like a dickhead when eating at a restaurant with you latest girlfriend and her parents.

So rather than Muslim Frockwatch, I think a promotion of Gen Y writing may be in order. They may be few and far between, but rest assured the quality will be astounding. I mean if it gets past old Gig it’s gotta be good.

First cab off the rank is, of course, the wonderfully tenacious 5ft0

Update: I don’t know how I missed this. Must that rock I live under. Tina 5ft0 is also a well published writer.

I love reading SMH. However, where once jocularity was reserved for Column 8 and the backpage comics, it’s now slap tickling you from the front page. Where once we had to read about the war in Vietnam, or pious pronouncements from the Prime Minister declaring our allegiance to Britain, or even Paul Keating’s dour warnings of the banana republic we had to have, this array of issues no longer causes us to knot our brows.

It’s lite and fluffy all the way with SMH today. If it’s a slow news day, or in internet parlance, a slow half hour, a photo of a cricketer on the front page will lift our spirits. This also works in winter, when a picture of a grimacing footballer in action stirs our blood in a way that would make Pavlov proud.

Politicians also add to this merriment. The slightest off-colour remark by a member from the other party guarantees at least a thousand words of copy, and the seemingly neverending rebuttals. ‘Who does the ironing in your house’ was one recent column filler. May as well have been who let the dogs out.

With Kevin 07, hoping to be Kev 11, on one side, and the boxer formerly known as the Mad Monk on the other, politics can become a trifle boring. Fortunately SMH holds its highest card till last, and usurps all other stories, even the NRL bad boys, with the ever relentless ‘Lifestyles of the Rich and Vacuous’.

There is a wide scope here for creative thinking and the journos are more than up to it. Headlines shout loudly, then report an almost unrelated story. To wit, the Bingle Bungle apparently descended further into the sewer yesterday, one earnest Bach. of Communications graduate reported. Turns out she threw her engagement ring down the toilet. That boy has a bright future ahead.

Still, I shouldn’t complain, after all I’ve been able to cancel my subscription to MAD Magazine. Comedy this good doesn’t come cheap, but apparently with SMH it does. The only catch is that they want you to believe it’s real.

Spoilt brats. One gets to parade around in her underwear in the name of so-called modelling, the other gets to throw a cricket ball, much like every boy in the 50s and 60s, only now he’s supposedly a hero.

Life intervenes, she has a root, her paramour clips her photo in the bath, she waits two years to do anything about it. He sends it to a hundred of his mates, one sends it to Women’s Weekly, where it is seen by two hundred thousand people. She refuses to talk to him, but agrees to talk to the mag that plastered her across the nation, for $200,000 of course.

Welcome to the world of Gen Y. Spoilt, over-indulged, media fixated and a waste of space.

Spoilt brats.

I don’t recommend Tony Abbott for PM, neither do I dismiss him. Stranger things have happened. Howard came back from the dead, and despite the naysayers, managed to deliver a worthy, though not necessarily popular, political agenda for ten years. While Rudd was a breath of fresh air in the early days of his tenure, he has now shown himself to be increasingly inept in the achievement stakes, although he is particularly adept at spending money saved by a previous government on frivolous stimulous packages.

It has been said that Labour wins when the Liberals have amassed enough money for them to play with. This worked quite well, in retrospect, with the Whitlam administration. Gogh, having little or no experience at dealing out the dosh, gave willy-nilly. The result was free universities for all, a national health care scheme called Medibank, and a myriad of other unheard of social reforms. Whitlam may not have done his sums, but he had his heart in the right place.

On the other hand, we now have a teenager at the helm who is looking shiny, but by all accounts is so far coming up lacklustre.

A result other than Sorry Day would be welcome.

Money doesn’t solve everything, but it solves a hell of a lot of problems, and a lot of us would agree, but it doesn’t solve everything. Depression has been called a middle class affliction. Unfortunately, poor people have neither the time nor understanding to latch onto such a term, they are too busy being depressed. They don’t have enough to eat, they can’t pay the electricity bill, and they, through whatever fault, are once again lining up at Centrelink.

There, they are treated like scum, given a pittance, and told, shamefully, to go out into the world and better themselves.

This would seem to indicate that these people, who should have real mental problems, are shunted aside in favour of a middle class complaining of the black dog of depression. Middle class people have resources, books, advice, attention, media, but continue to wallow in the mire of what they claim is an unhappy life. Rather than moan and groan about it, pro-active action on their part would be seen to be a worthy step in the right direction.

Further to this case is the upper class, who by all measure have never experienced either middle class angst, or lower class struggle. It seems that some of these people, superficially endowed with predetermined destiny also suffer with depression, it’s called ‘gnashing of the teeth’.

Mouth guards are apparently on high rotation in this class.

The Academy Awards, the Oscars, a longtime tradition in Hollywood is almost upon us. My only recollection of anything remotely to do with the Oscars is the voice-over on Bugs Bunny cartoons, ‘and now the Oscar Award Winning Rabbit, Bugs Bunny’.

People do, however, take these shenanigens seriously. None more so than the Razzies. The Razzies began as the Golden Raspberry Awards, a pisstake on all that is glam, glitz and glaringly awful about the Academy Awards. Now in their 30th year, the Razzies command almost as much attention as the back slapping event itself.

This year is no exception, and true to form they managed to inveigle gorgeous and funny Sandra Bullock to accept the award for worst actress. Appearing with good grace, and a darn sight more humility than most Hollywood actresses can garner on the big night, she raced in to collect her miniscule award before returning to a meeting with a media mogul.

In a twist that has farce falicitating fact, she is also nominated for Best Actress in the Bugs Bunny Awards. Yet I don’t reckon she gives a rip. After all, she’s already won the big one.

Do you feel like yelling, “there is no dinner, there is no TV, if you don’t behave”, but are scared to because that’s not what today’s parenting advice advises?

Well, in reality, children need not be asked what they want for dinner. Children are not there to be negotiated with, they are there to be taught, shown by example. Giving them own way is fraught with danger.

Like pets, children will not hate you for being disciplinary, but rather will take advantage of you if you let them run free. There is nothing to be gained by treating your children as adults. It is misguided. They are not adults and require firm handling, both for your sanity and their sakes.

This isn’t just for you, it’s for them. A free-range childhood is a recipe for disaster later in life.