The City Built On Brown

The city I live in, like most cities, has a nickname Townsville becomes Brownsville – or for some out of towners Boringsville, and Bogansville. This first nickname, most Townsvilli’ites would agree, aptly sums up the town’s surrounding area. The landscape is dry and lifeless; the trees always look as though they are having a bad day and would rather make friends with the dirt than put up with the bother of photosynthesizing.

However, one of the main reasons Brownsville deserves its name is not distinguishable to the untrained eye. The ever so valued perfection of suburbia comes at a price. In order to achieve a healthy looking lawn, of the kind that stretches for miles across Brownsville’s suburbia, the city’s residents pull out all the stops. Late at night, when they are sure no one is looking, Brownsville residents will clamber out onto their lawns, and turn their sprinklers on. By morning no one is any the wiser that the large majority of lawns in Brownsville could have ever looked like a dry wasteland.

Now if you’ll allow me, let me throw some numbers at you; you may catch them however you see fit. This traditional nighttime ritual is repeated 365 nights a year. I am going to go out on a limb guess that the sprinkler is on a minimum of four hours a night. That brings me to the final number: 1, 460 hours a year is spent covering up every crack and crevice of Brownsville’s otherwise imperfect lawns.

Now I would be wrong in merely implicating Brownsville’s self-conscious suburbanites in this nightly ritual. Townsville City Council also adopts the practice, and has made a point of shoving a sprinkler into every square inch of dry, public land. These are discreetly placed, though, of course, and are not noticeable unless one happens to be striding home along a footpath at the three or four in the morning, in which case getting home dry is in the very low of possibility standards.

Brownsville is currently under level 1 water restrictions. To be fair, Brownsvilli’ites aren’t braking any laws, they are just skirting within the boundaries of them. Heaven forbid we reach level 4 water restrictions though, or Brownsville residents may be forced to give up the key to the secret of their suburban perfection.

As a newly settled Brownsville resident I am saddened to think that I am now associated with a town so vain that they would so readily waste an increasingly precious resource in order to feed their own silicon delusions. Citizens, we are Brownsville! Embrace it!


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Dark Delicious Dreams

His face has been rapidly growing with popularity. His wit, charm, and pre-disposition to slicing up living things have been slowly worming their way into your television, online routine, and even I phone. He has become the head, and body of a cult success, without all the psychological manipulation, and theft. Yep, that’s right it’s Dexter! If you are still not sure who I am talking about, I would suggest removing yourself from underneath your rock.

For those of you unfamiliar with the cult phenomenon, Dexter is a, now, very popular television series. The premise that the show is built around is the character Dexter’s weakness; essentially, he is a murderer. Dexter’s unorthodox character trait is both what the show’s fan base is built around, and the snag holding the show back from full blown mainstream popularity. To his fans, though, Dexter may as well be the patron saint of killing.

The show began to gain wide-scale popularity around season 3. During that time Dexter has been nearly found out twice, with close calls usually surrounding his job as a blood spatter analyst at the Miami police department. The tension, and the heat didn’t hit the fan though until the most recent fourth season. Dexter encounters several huge problems ignited by his attempts fit into the role of family man, when his wife, on top of three children of her own, has his baby. The last season of Dexter was produced with cinematic quality, from the sophisticated, and superb storyline, right down to a fantastic use of symbolism, and overall beautiful cinematography.



Now, with more fans than ever everyone has their eyes peeled on the next season. The stunningly brilliant end to season 5 left fans on a doozy of a cliffhanger, and many have been making predictions as to where the show will head. The trailer hit the net a couple of days ago, and it looks like the show is moving to an even grimmer, and darker place. My prediction is, though, that this will only serve to increase the frenzy and excitement around its fan base.


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What is not so popularly known about Dexter though, is that it is actually based on a series of books by Jeff Lindsay. The books essentially provided the characters, and setting for the television format, and the show went on a journey of it’s own from there. The surprising part of this scenario, though, is that the books, while a more than pleasant read, aren’t quite as sophisticated as the storyline written for the television series.

If I had not already made it painfully obvious, I think I am in love with the Dexter franchise as a whole. I have rarely seen such quality come out of American TV, and, personally, I think you’d be crazy not to lap it up.



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Your Not From Around Here Are Ya Boy?

My last trip to Cairns, a city not far from mine, was in most respects pleasant. I spent my days ploughing through junk food, and reaching an almost comatosed state in front of the television, some of my favourite past times. However, one of my nights in the city was completely ruined when I learnt of something absolutely disgusting. My Dad had came home that night and told me about something that he had heard on Hack – a radio program on Triple J. The following day I was forced to find out if what I had learnt was true, and the all-knowing entity I like to call Google confirmed this for me. In Queensland, the state I live in, also known by the name of the “Sunshine State,” “The Land of the Wet and The Humid” or “Your Not From Around Here Are Ya Boy?” is home to a law called the Gay Panic Defence Law. Upon further research I discovered just exactly what this defence entails.

COME WITH ME ON A JOURNEY....

So, ladies I would like you to imagine that you have a penis. Yeah, yeah don't get carried away. Now, no matter what gender you belong to, I would like you to imagine you walk into a bar. No, I know what your thinking there isn’t an Englishman or Frenchman to be seen, and the bar man does not have some quirky comment waiting for you upon your arrival. No, in fact the bar man is actually a surly looking bloke by the name of Steve. Steve pours you a couple of drinks, and after awhile you notice yourself beginning to loosen up a bit.

A guy is sitting beside you. This guy looks fairly harmless, not quite as intimidating as the man pouring your drinks, but not too pooncy either. You strike up a conversation, and you two hit it off for quite awhile. The guy, who by know you have learnt is called Mark, offers to buy you a couple of rounds. Obviously, you have no objections. More drinks than you can remember later and this guy suddenly starts behave a bit strangely. He puts his arm on your shoulder, and gazes into your eyes. You quickly shrug this off. Then he puts his hand on your leg, and you begin to clue on to what is happening. His hand still on your leg he says the words you were dreading. “Want to come back to mine?” You panic, everything in the room begins to spin. You act on your first instinct and punch him in the face. Filled with rage you don’t stop, you just keep hitting him. He has fallen to the floor, you kick him and you hit him some more. You begin to calm a little, and realize that he is unconscious.

You run out of the bar in a flurried state, and the consequences of your actions are suddenly begin to flood your mind. Reaching the street corner you stop suddenly - “oh crap I’m going to jail.”

Well my friend that’s where you’re wrong! The gay panic defence law essentially allows a man to claim that he is suffering from what is called ‘gay panic,’ upon using physical violence against a gay man that has in some way propositioned him in order to minimize his sentence, even sometimes if this results in death.

For example the Ruks case - http://shirtliftersoftheworld.com/2009/11/gay-panic-defence-successfully-argued-in-former-murder-trial/.

This law doesn’t just stop at the borders of “Love They Neighbour and Thy Cousin” Queensland though. The concept of ‘gay panic’ was actually spawned in America. ‘Gay panic’ is a big topic, so I won’t go into the details, but, basically, it is considered to be a psychological disorder. Check it out:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gay_panic_defense

Now, please correct me if you have drawn other conclusions upon reading this blog, but it seems to me that current Queensland law is basically feeding our public this message: “Homophobia getting you down? Bash a gay man today.” In fact, I believe this may even be a useful and effective strategy to be implemented into Gillard’s campaign trail. If you see her plugging her ‘solution’ for asylum seekers, or her response to Abbott’s education stimulus, ask her why she isn’t reaching out to the homophobic community in “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” Queensland.

This law epitomizes so much that is wrong with our current justice system. Our law doesn’t recognize that homophobia is not and never shall be acceptable, and this needs to change.

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Tweens and Their Perverts

Whilst meandering through my local shops I can’t help but notice a growing trend. I will often be toddling back towards the exit struggling with my ambitious amount of grocery bags, when I will pass a group of young girls. These girls usually have big, and extremely fake hair, sophisticated, and revealing clothing, and don’t look a day over 13. Younger teens (if you can even call them that), trying to pass for 20 year olds have seemingly become so common that no one feels the desire to stop and stare, except me.

The town I live in has a predominately under 20 population group, and walking down an average city street it becomes fairly clear that it is dominated by youth culture. Soon, though, it will dominated by tween culture. If you are unfamiliar with the word ‘tween’ think Eminem mashed together with the Wiggles, and playing Barbie dolls before a solid night of underage drinking. Tweens, are not quite teens, but definitely no longer children, and they are making more effort to grow up faster, and faster. I find it disconcerting watching these tweens strut confidently through the shopping centre, buying more revealing, tweeny clothing, with their tweeny bank cards, and chatting animatedly on their tweeny I phones.

I believe one of the reasons for the local mentality that this sort of display is entirely natural springs from my town’s beauty pageants. 13-year-olds dressed to the nines strutting down catwalks and being judged by a bunch of older men. Surely I am not the only one who can begin to think ‘something’s really not right here.’ 13-year-olds no matter how mentally mature are still more physically close to children than the 20-year-olds they so desperately want to become. Frankly, I can’t understand why. I’m 20, and it’s not at all glamorous. Being 20 is trying to stretch out your food budget, and it’s trying to balance due dates with working hours, and the occasional spot of alcohol poisoning.

So, I say to tweens everywhere: Stop it! Stop it now! Everyone will still love you if you learn to enjoy being young once in a while! Well I can’t make any promises when it comes to the perverts that make up the panel of my local beauty pageants, but the world could benefit from a little less exploitation anyway.


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Cry, Cry, Love Me Society

Show business and the need to please.

My recent copious amounts of time off from university work has meant that I have spent a lot of time streaming. Lately I have taken to re-igniting my love of BBC comedy, and in doing so have set about on many a Youtube stalking sessions of my favourite British comedians. During one particular stalking session of Russell Brand I came across some footage of a radio segment he was hosting. Simon Amstell, who was co-hosting the segment, brought up the accusation that many celebrities are ‘in the biz,’ if you will, purely for validation. Russell Brand in his surprisingly charming cockney accent replied with “of course we all are, that’s horse rubbish if you disagree,” (or something along those lines).

This remark hit me across the face like a cold wet fish. I had always suspected that many celebrities were in the game, because they are driven by a need to be liked, and desired, but I could never even entertain the idea that my favourite actors, singers, and comedians were all driven by this need. When it comes down to it though, celebrities are more or less performers who must continue to win the heart of the public in order to maintain their status. I think the question really needs to be asked just what kind of person feels the constant desire to please other people? One would instantly assume that insecurity must surely play some part in this.

The more I delve into this question, however, the more complex I realize it truly is. When it comes down to it most celebrities received their status, in the first place, because of a drive and a motivation to practice their craft. In this sense it does not separate them from say your local fast food worker. They perform their job because it’s what they know how to do, and they have bills to pay. Even if they did do it to please other people, it seems to me that in some way or another we are all trying please other people with our jobs. A chef cooks food to see other people full and happy, a doctors helps sick people to see them well and happy, a scientist attempts to better understand the world, and eventually make it a better place to live, thus seeing others are happy. Is the desire to contribute to society in general a sub conscious desire to please other people? If so does this mean that in some way we are all insecure? Or merely generous?

What do you think? Why do you do your job? Do you think in some way that makes you insecure?


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The Pitfalls of Brownsville

A mother greets her son. Her knowing smile tells him ‘not to worry I wont embarrass you.’ She ruffles the top of his head. A distilled glee radiates from the boy, and the mother beams with pride.

The boy’s brothers run up to greet him searching for the insult that will best convey their affection. “You look stupid in that hat” one of the brothers says, their quiet admiration now beginning to show. The boy picks up his khaki clothing and knapsack, and with relief prepares for the rest of his journey home.

I live in a city that is home to one of the biggest military bases in Australia. Our budget thrives predominantly on the town’s involvement with the defence force. ‘Lavarack Barracks’ as they are called are essentially our bread and butter.

I see sights like this all the time young boys coming to the city to train for their ‘long’ and ‘prosperous’ career in the army. Hoards of men in open sided khaki trucks jeering and shouting at each other as they are transported to and from different sections of the base. Every time I see one of these trucks passing through our often quiet roads I can’t help but recall every doomsday movie I have ever seen.

I am often hearing complaints from women my age who’s boyfriends are overseas – again. These women become different people for three or four months at a time. They act as though someone had left a hole in their stomach - constantly depressed or angry. In two weeks I will be attending the memorial service of a young man killed in Afghanistan.

Every moral code I have ever stood by tells me that what I am witnessing is wrong. Does this mother not realize that she is supporting the preparation of her son for his early death? Don’t these women understand that it’s quite probable that one day their boyfriends aren’t going to come home? Don’t they ever ask why they are shipping their kids off to face almost certain emotional trauma?

A pointless war has nearly reached a pointless end, and now America is just fishing for minerals. I simply don’t understand how an endless charade that is getting nowhere can manage to fill Townsville residents with such swelling pride that they would overlook something like the death of a young boy.


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Oh Joyous Days! ...Well, Sort Of.

Last week was a week to remember. Prime Minister Gillard – it’s going to take awhile before those three words roll off my tongue. Gillard’s move to the top brought a glimmer of hope into my tired soul, UNTIL I remembered how it had happened. Yes, this is a joyous day for Australia, but forevermore shall our first female Prime Minister be labeled a ‘ball buster.’ Perhaps this is an inevitability in the first instance. Most women in power are looked upon by the male sector of western society as a threat to the very foundations of our patriarchal existence.

I was sent into a further spiral of gloom after a casual catch-up with Facebook. There it was a group entitled “How can Julia Gillard run the country from her kitchen?” Bras of the 60’s just began to mend themselves back together. This Facebook group was one of many sexist groups that have brought me to an almost breaking point. What’s more disturbing is that the large majority of people who join these groups are women.

(Apparently sexism and bad spelling are unstoppable bum buddies)

They have really driven home for me just how much Australia is plagued with ‘behind closed doors’ or ‘tainted with hilarity’ kind of sexism. The kind of sexism I am referring to is usually the type embraced by women. These women are loud, boisterous, and tend to believe that telling their friend to “make me a sandwich bitch” is some form of empowerment.

Perhaps this is a subconscious, desperate cry from women to gain some control over these sexist remarks in the first place. Back in my high school days I would constantly be subjected to one of my best friends favourite catch phrases “suck my cock.” She adopted the saying purely because she felt if men could say it, then she should be able to as well.

All the same these lovely Facebook groups brought about the realization that Julia Gillard probably wouldn’t have made it as PM under any other circumstance. Still, the polls are looking up and Gillard currently holds the most popular vote. Maybe, there is hope for Australia yet.


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