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Wednesday, November 14, 2012
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Marketing firm guy #1: "So, if we get Sam to say that his BMX racing was affected by acne, he won't come off like a unprincipled insincere sellout?"

Marketing firm guy #2: "No, no...not at all."
I want to tell you something...I don't know you, but I'm going to tell you anyway.

I'm losing my hair.

Have been for years now. A steady creep has left some sizeable bare paddock up the top end, if you know what I mean. A Widow's Peak has become some ruffles of hair hanging on to the mountaintop for dear life.

But...here's the problem. Please hold on, I need-- I need a tissue. Okay, I think I'm alright.

Here's the problem: it's affecting my confidence. It is. My confidence is-- is-- I can't say it.

Going?

Now, losing my confidence is a terrible thing. My confidence, man...it used to allow me to get out of the pool with the sexy woman in the one-piece looking on at my rippled abs. My confidence used to allow me to walk down the street with my work colleagues, all of us sharply attired in suits, and look back at the hot woman who just passed us, giving me a sensual glance.

My confidence-- it's abandoning me, jumping this Titanic like so many soggy rats.

What will I do without my confidence?


Okay, enough mockery

There's been this trend, the last few years, with Australian TV. All these baldness cures have exploded, and so have the ads which encourage people to buy them. And they all use the word, 'confidence', which apparently is in such short supply that it might soon be publicly traded.

Ooooooo...sciencey.
There's Ashley & Martin where the guy in the white lab coat (he says he's not a doctor, so that's pretty shady) stands in front of a bunch of digital graphs and every time text appears, each letter appears with a beep
or boop sound.

Makes it all seem sciencey and serious right?

Because I used to think they'd just toss the hair of a young man into a cauldron, say a few spells and that's how they'd get your hair to grow back.

There's a couple like that. They go down in sincerity (and up in frivolity) 'til you arrive at the storied depths of Leimo which sounds so much like Lame-o that it just makes me smile.

Leimo is THE ULTIMATE HAIR RE-GROWTH SOLUTION!! ONLY $79.99 AND IF YOU'RE NOT SATISFIED WITHIN ONE MONTH THAT LEIMO IS THE ULTIMATE HAIR RE-GROWTH SOLUTION THEN SIMPLY RETURN THE PRODUCT FOR A FULL REFUND!!

Even if I were to dabble in witchcraft (the Leimo ad had no digital graphs or beep, boop sounds), I wouldn't waste the effort it would take to visit their website.


He's on TV, he must know where my confidence is

Then there's this other ad. Sam Willoughby, who's a BMX rider I had never heard of before seeing his commercial on TV, has a problem. He has acne. Well, had acne.

I immediately found myself developing a bond with Sam...you see, he-- he's had problems with losing his confidence too. He told me that when he got acne, it affected his racing. I can totally see how that would happen.

Men, when your confidence leaves you, you gotta understand how crushing it is. I can barely spoon my cornflakes some days.

Sam's issues ultimately have been dealt with and I pray that he never again has to deal with losing his confidence.

Now let's be real here for a minute. Let me just say this one thing:

Fellas, have you been so wussified that you'll fall for this 'confidence' nonsense? Have you totally abandoned the thought of being a man? What is all the metrosexual garbage still doing on our TV? What men have been so emotionally castrated that they fall for this junk and hand over their money to charlatans like these???

They couldn't even be bothered coming up with a name that didn't sound like LAME-O, for crying out loud!

I get that commercials are there solely to rip you off with stuff you don't need that never lives up to expectations. Cynicism 1, Naivety 0. Got it. The Big Mac never looks like on the ad. Caveat emptor.

(Brief side note: I am a retail mercenary. I will go into a store and bargain myself down to the best possible price wherever I can. Then I'll use that and do the same with the next store to see if they'll beat store #1's prices. And so on. They're ruthless. So am I. Side note over.)

But let's not abandon our dignity so much that we'll fall for the nearest guy on the street corner selling us junk we don't need at prices we can't afford. I mean, put your pants on and go to the doctor first, for goodness sake. I'm sure you would, I'm talking to the guy behind you.


Where's my foundation make-up?

Just sit back, relax and watch the top ten Chuck Norris moments. That's how real men get down.
There's a tedious pseudo-sermon on how men are being transformed slowly into women, but we won't do that now. Just know that it's manly to care about your appearance, it's not manly to worry about exfoliating your skin. There's a difference.

Mrs Speech is feminine, I'm masculine. We appreciate each other that way and the way that God made us. Individual and unique.

What really rubs my fur coat the wrong way is the people on TV shamelessly promote trash using shameless methods. See that video, at the top? Sam actually has a straight face. I'm not sure how he does it. Someone in the comments of that video said he made eighty thousand for that campaign. Maybe that's how he does it.

Men, your confidence is NOT tied to this rubbish! You can't possibly lose a race because of acne. See past the drivel and get on with your life. If need be, get over your hair loss, or acne, and focus on the important stuff.

I'm losing my hair, sure...okay. But my confidence exists independent of my 'hair loss condition.' Know why?

I have a cap.
Tuesday, November 06, 2012
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Little men in silk pyjamas riding horses.
Today (Tuesday) is Melbourne Cup day.

For those outside Australia, this is the premier non-religious social occasion/non-holiday of the year. I'm not sure what kind of bizarre non-category that is, but the Melbourne Cup is tops in that category.

Basically, 24 horses run 3200 metres (2 miles) in about three minutes, and lots of cheering takes place. Last year's prize purse was almost $6.2 million. The Melbourne Cup is one of the world's premier races.

It's known here as the race that stops a nation (that's its very self-important unofficial title). I can remember school days where the whole school yard would be quiet at that time.

It's traditional to eat chicken on Melbourne Cup day. Don't ask me why! When I worked for the State Government here in Queensland, we'd all bring a plate of stuff, finger food, you know, French Stick, coleslaw, salad, salami...what Australians think of as cosmopolitan food if you're wearing a black faux-peacock fascinator with a cream silk ensemble and open toe rhinestone buckle pumps. (It's not really though).

Traditionally, the people at the race get dressed up to the nines, and I mean...the nines. Top hats and black suits/dark ties for the men. Swank, silk and socialising for the women. Lots of booze.

You may detect a slight hint of yawn from me. I know Mrs Speech loves the idea of going to the race, getting dressed up, holding a champagne flute (if not actually drinking champagne) and generally taking in the grassy, excited atmosphere of a million people about to lose a lot of money.

But for me, it's just a horse race. But man, do people in this country get worked up over it.

Mrs Speech and I will be saving our celebratory excitableness for tomorrow when the next U.S. President is announced.
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
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When I grew up we had a clacky TV. I Can still see it now: a brown wood-panelled ugly dog of a machine, with a bubble screen that made it look bloated from endless Happy days reruns.

And there was no remote. My goodness, no. Might as well ask for a smartphone back then. This was the mid-eighties. You had to actually get up off the chocolate brown cotton weave couch and change the channel yourself.

The buttons made a clack sound. Clack. Josie and the Pussycats. Clack. He-Man. Clack. Scooby Doo. Saturday Morning was clacks and Coco Pops.

I grew up in that era, where TV was the gathering point for our house, the watering hole of outside interaction and how many questions could we get right on Sale of the Century?

I was a fan of Tony Barber, but he always seemed a bit smirky.


Say it ain't so!

We have five main channels here: ABC, Seven, SBS, Nine and Ten. Each station owns one or more other stations which seem to be primarily for showing endless repeats of 'classic' shows (The Love Boat, anyone? Charmed? Dr Quinn, Medicine Woman?), bizarre guy shows (Coal, Ice Road Truckers, Megastructure Demolition) or in the case of Channel Nine and the Olympics, the exact same content on both channels.

Listen buddy...put some quality locally-produced shows on TV. NOW. Got it?
Channel Ten owns Eleven and One. One was created for the very valid purpose of providing sports content all day, every day. Its content was however last year 'rededicated' to shows like Bondi Rescue, Get Smart and M*A*S*H.

There are also infomercial stations broadcasting 'shows' like Oreck Air Purifier (my favourite!) and Ninja Knife Cutter (ooooh...Mrs Speech could use that for Christmas. All sewn up).

Channels Nine and Ten are in huge financial difficulties. The private equity firm, CVC, which bought Nine a while back, handed over almost $1.5bn for it, also purchasing $3.6bn in debt. The further two billion dollars they pumped into it is also gone.

Channel Ten's ratings are so poor they might as well start showing the Ninja Knife Cutter. After all, it slices and dices.


I'd rather watch grass grow

The main problem, at least on the surface, is the turgid lineup of prime-time programming, which of course is the time-slot where the numbers come from - both ratings and ratings' cousin, advertising dollars.

I haven't witnessed a disinterest quotient this high since Brisbane City Council introduced bikes for rent in the city.

All the star power in the world wasn't able to save this tired format.
The problem - and I know Mrs Speech will want to weigh in on this - is that prime-time content seems to be either a) US shows 'fast-tracked' (more on that later) ie Big Bang Theory, Two and a Half Men, that odd new self-serving Matt LeBlanc show, etc...or locally-produced shows which utilise trends discarded years ago.

People will think what they will about the American shows; most of them aren't to my taste. I've been meaning to delve into Breaking Bad and Mad Men, though.

But the Aussie ones are worse. They're mainly reality TV shows which draw on an ever-descending spiral of the concept of derivation.

That is, each year they're paler and paler copies of shows from the year before.

These are Channel Nine and Channel Ten's major locally-produced shows for this year:

  • Being Lara Bingle (let's follow around a third-tier celebrity!)
  • Can of Worms (panel discussion - things like, 'if you could have one superpower, what would it be?'...I kid you not)
  • The Shire (compared by many to Jersey Shore)
  • Everybody Dance Now (post-Olympic dance competition which, though massively hyped, failed spectacularly)
  • Don't Tell The Bride (what would happen if the groom was allowed to plan the wedding?)
  • Big Brother (grinding my teeth)

People refuse to watch these tv shows. Personally I'd watch...well, anything really. SBS shows the news from various countries. I'd listen to the Cyrillic intonations of Macedonian news before causing my brain to contract by tuning in to Can of Worms.


The Chicken had to have come first

Aussie programming has always been reasonably derivative. The Price is Right, Jeopardy, Wheel of Fortune...Seven shamelessly copied Neighbours with its summer lovin' Home and Away. Those kids and their surf-related angst issues.

But the lack of originality alone is not imploding the major networks. A funny thing happened to Australian TV over the last five years.

It really, got lost in a back alley off a dark city street one night with rain falling heavy upon the well-worn concrete...and was mugged by the internet.

Let's face it...TV wandered down here after a night at the pub and really got what it deserved at the hands of the internet.
People wanted what they considered (and read, was) quality programming and stopped waiting for it from the US. Ten may fast-track Homeland within a week or two, but it's available on the internet within hours of being shown in the States.

A recent case involving the second largest internet provider in the country, highlighted this problem.

In 2008 iiNet was sued by the Australian Federation Against Copyright Theft (AFACT, on behalf of Channel Seven and many major international film distributors) alleging that iiNet had a responsibility to ensure its customers did not download content via BitTorrent. A judge in 2010 ruled in favour of iiNet and then earlier this year the High Court threw the case out.

The point is, people want their content NOW. And will watch it on a laptop, instead of a 42 inch screen if they have to. This is happening a lot.

Fewer people watching their favourite shows on television means less advertising money.

Poor local content means fewer people watching television too.

Both issues affect TV's bottom line. Ironically, the lack of advertising money is probably significantly affecting Aussie stations' capital outlay on new shows. Which then tend to be poor. And which people don't watch. It's like the chicken and the egg.


I refuse to watch the telly on my wristwatch

So what now? Who knows.

Seems reasonably clear that content is moving online. Smart TVs now can access the internet, albeit under the constraints of the manufacturer's frontend software. I can plug my laptop into our TV if I feel like buying a long HDMI cable.

The crossover is really, taking shape. Don your silver jumpsuits, and all that. Tron will soon be here.

No. No. No.
You can also watch on your phone too. You already knew that. Seriously, when the programming on your digital TV is so...analogue...why would you bother? The market has already proved itself aggressive enough to choose what it wants, when it wants. If the networks don't actively seek to catch up, they'll become about as relevant as CDs, which were essentialy relegated to the status of artifacts as soon as the internet realised that a four megabyte file could be downloaded in anyone's bedroom.

There's a blog post somewhere in the deintegration of the Australian home. Dinner in the fifties was around the table. Dinner in the eighties was in front of the TV. Dinner now can be wherever your laptop is; families have more than one computer.

The gathering point for your house, the watering hole of outside interaction, can be wherever you want it to be. It's fluid. It's not stationary. Don't try to fight it. The tube as we know it is dying, in this country.

Some days I bloody miss that clacky television.
Look happy, be attentive and wear an apron. Okay, you can leave that last part out.
It was back around, ooh, February I think.

We were at Dick Smith, which is an electronics store here in Australia. I was doing my bricks-and-mortar research on computers, having already done the online kind and gotten in the ballpark of what I wanted.

Mrs Speech and I wandered around the laptops. The tech specs for each machine were on A4 flyers tucked underneath in little pigeon holes, only they had been mass-misfiled and no flyer matched the computer it was underneath.

We spent ample time looking confused. No help was forthcoming.

Finally I sauntered over to the checkout, and asked for help. The girl had dyed hair and a facial piercing I can't quite recall. No biggie. She can look however she wants as long as she helps me.

"So, I'm looking for abc computer, with an xyz graphics card."

"Um, okay."

"Can you help me find that?" She wandered over to the flyers and began to sort through them, her apathy bleeding through every sigh and unpleasant facial expression.

"Um, you can look at the flyers. They show what the computer has."

"Yes, I did that...they're mixed up."

"Um, okay. I don't know." She looked through more flyers and began half-heartedly rearranging them. That was going to be a twenty minute job. She had this passive-aggressive thing going on that suggested I was taking up her time.

"Do you work in...computers?"

Seriously, am I keeping you from something more important?

"No. No-one works in any particular department anymore. We all do the whole store."

Well................dandy.

Long story short, she reluctantly found someone else to help me, who knew what I needed to know. We left without making a purchase.

Is there anything more omnipresently irritating in modern western consumer life, than bad customer service? Is there anything that can, as consistently, get you to grind your teeth in frustration?


Your service needs some first aid

We were recently at the mall. We ducked into the chemist to find out how much some bandages were. Our local pharmacy is awesome and sells them on the cheap.

We hit the first aid section and squeezed past an older lady customer who chose to not move even though she had ample room on her side of the aisle. Again, no biggie. She was obviously distracted speaking to the pharmacy employee who was assisting her.

Mrs Speech and I tried to find the bandage for a couple of minutes. I think we looked appropriately lost and in need of help, displaying all the signals:

  • Shrugging shoulders
  • Looking around aimlessly
  • Picking up various items, looking at the packaging, then putting them back
  • Shaking head
  • Mumbling things like, "no, I guess they don't have it."

Pharmacy employee was three feet to our right when this occurred. But when she had finished helping older lady, she turned on her heel and left. You'd have to be a goldfish not to pick up on the signals we were displaying.

In the digital economy, you don't get to be this bad at retail service. And, ironically, his job is now owned by a bank of servers.
Then there was the girl at Rebel Sport (I'm not picking on the girls, honest. I've had some fantastic service from women over the years). We were looking for running shoes as our walks were taking on the hardship of one of those brutal twelve hour triathlons.

I waited four feet from her, holding a shoe I wanted to try on. Aren't they supposed to acknowledge your presence, you know, sort of "I'll be with you in a minute" ? That sort of thing? When we finally got her attention she was lovely but before then I felt like the invisible man.

Watch me invisibly walk out the door with a pair of shoes I haven't paid for. Then see how quick you pay attention to me.

This is a serious issue beyond personal irritation. Australian retail did not get the jump it wanted last Christmas. For the past couple of years sales have been sluggish, even though our economy is strong.

But when you can buy most anything online and save yourself time and money doing so, why would you drive to your local, put up with parking issues (Westfield is charging to park at some of its malls), crowds, rude gen-z schoolies, and all the rest of it, just to be ignored, sighed at, patronised and otherwise passively neglected?

Power Retail pulls no punches. Australian businesses suck at customer service. They're awful. They don't bother.

The report also shows that two-thirds of Australians will abandon a sale due to poor customer service, while more than half will spend more with a company that is able to provide good service.

Kids come up through the ranks of the fast food franchises learning personal organisation and point-of-sale technique. But they don't learn how to be professional in their service. It can be like talking to an eggplant, some of these kids. I was the same way when I was fifteen. You have to teach them.

If not, they become part-time salespeople in their early twenties who fumble with flyers under computers while demonstrating that you are absolutely, taking up their time and HOW DARE YOU DO THAT.


........His name was Sonny

After Mrs Speech and I left Dick Smith, we visited another computer retailer named Harvey Norman. They had a computer I was interested in. Salesman could see I was interested.

I asked if I could spread the payments out over layby rather than put down the whole amount at once. No deal.

How come?

"Well, computers are you know, advancing so quickly, you could you know, get two months into a layby, change your mind, and then, you know, we're stuck with an obsolete machine."

Gerry Harvey kind of looks like the Russian Back Channel guy from The Sum Of All Fears. That was such an ordinary movie.
Uh-huh. If computer technology truly advanced that quickly, the friendly android from iRobot would be sorting our socks for us by next year.

That layby thing is a policy issue and Harvey Norman has its own set of management concerns that will do them in, in the end. They're run by an older dude who frowns upon this internet thing as a way of snagging customers and who generally exudes a crusty, inflexible attitude to retail proceduralism.

Then there was the time - I can still make Mrs Speech laugh while acting it out - before we were married when we were in Chicago for the day, and we wandered into a jeweller, browsing for engagement rings.

Kind saleswoman showed us one or two, and as soon as we expressed the slightest interest (literally five minutes in) she plopped a block of in-triplicate forms on the counter and proceeded to sign us up for a payment plan.

To this day, when I'm walking through a store and a salesperson asks if I need help, I think of that moment, look them directly in the eye and tell them I'm just browsing around. They back off.

I can seriously think of a dozen similar stories to share but after a while I think you'd be even more bored than you perhaps are now.


You feel my pain, right?

But eveyone's got 'em. I don't know you but I know you have similar stories.

And it's killing the retail sector. As I said, if the cost and convenience of shopping online isn't enough, poor service will absolutely destroy brick and mortar. It's the last straw.

It's flipped completely and become a buyer's market and former icons are suffering for decades of inaction on this vital issue: treat me well, and I might return. Don't, and you'll see the back of me quickly.

Don't call me mate, or luv, or - if you ever want a sale from me - 'darl', don't try to be my friend, DO wear appropriate clothing to work, don't push extra stuff on me I don't need, don't ignore the signals.

Your business depends on getting cash from my wallet to your till.

Yes, please.
One of my earlier experiences with customer service was when I was at university. I came back from a lecture one day and stopped at a cafe in the Myer Centre. They had good lasagne and I was feeling mildly Romanesque so I rocked up to the counter.

There were two trays of lasagne: the one on the left looked like it might have been rejected by the starving kids on a World Vision commercial. Curled and cloyed together as with glue that pre-schoolers use, its pale,dry rancidity was eclipsed in pure desperation by the steaming pan it was still sitting in.

As though the fact that steam rising from it could convince a guy that it was still fresh.

Pan on the right had new lasagne. Legitimate steam rose from its freshly cooked cheese, neatly cut squares of Italian delight topped with non-wrinkled tomato.

Said to man behind the counter, "Can I get a lasagne, please."

He begins to plate up the stuff from five years earlier.

"Um, actually...d'you reckon I could have some from that newer pan?"

He looks at me challengingly.

"do you want it or not, mate?"


That cafe is no longer there.
Thursday, September 06, 2012
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Smell the romance in the air. No wait, that's the pizza place.

(Click the image and hold down left mouse button to navigate.)

What's your shops?

Here in suburban Australia everyone has their shops. Not the big behemoth malls, which dot the landscape like chateaus in medieval France - quick, take refuge, the English longbowmen doth approach! - but, the little ones which cater to the five minute needs of us suburbanites.

When my (Mr Speech) family first moved to Brisbane, our shops were on the street where we lived. More precisely, they were directly opposite our house. It was not far to walk to get a meat pie and a magazine.

They did not occupy prime position on a main road of any sort. They were
Some of the greenery out front of our shops. Most of the treeage ahead was removed so we could all see the McDonald's sign. Beyond these trees you can now see the McDonald's sign.

(Click to enlarge.)
awkwardly placed, on a small strip which looks over backyards to the back and faces jaded 1970's Queensland facades. It was as though the land once housed people but was suddenly re-zoned when someone decided goodness, we don't have a fish 'n chip shop within five minutes' walk!

At the time, the bakery, newsagent and trading card shop were all very popular. The trading card shop was not popular for too long; when the market went south so did its revenue I suppose and the pony-tailed young man who stood aloof behind the counter disappeared.

For much of my adult life I have lived five minutes from that place, in a different suburb, and with its own shops.

Our shops are called Wishart Shopping Village. It's not so much a village as a small retail junket astride one of the busiest roads in southern Brisbane. It's kind of a large-ish truck stop, with all the conveniences one would expect for truckies hurtling between the airport/port of Brisbane and the southern suburbs.

Every suburban shops has one of several things: a newsagent, a fish 'n chip shop, a doctor's practice. Some have video stores. Ours used to until the complex owners in a fit of lunacy typical of small-time local moneygrubbing, forced them out.

There's usually a pharmacy as well, and maybe a dentist. There's always a convenience store, a mini-mini supermarket where you can spend five dollars on milk, if you really have to.

Our shops have a bit more because they sit on the truck route: we have two doctors, a chiropractor, a florist, a real estate agent and a pathologist. We have a Red Rooster, which makes average fast food. We have a McDonald's next to Wishart Shopping Village, which makes average fast food.



The pizza shop...new and improved well, just new.

(Click to enlarge.)
There's a pizza place with a bit of a story. It used to be really lovely; run by a qualified chef, with indoor/outdoor seating, red tablecloths and al fresco gas heating which belied the fact that it's basically next to a highway.

The atmosphere suffered a little but not more than the fact that people stopped going to their local pizza place and buying twenty dollar pizzas. You can get three from the larger chains for that price, and soon it was not unusual on friday nights to look over and see an unbroken chain of empty tables. I think the high rent did them in just like the video shop, in the end.

One day there was an official notice on the door from complex management saying they were in breach of their lease terms, next to a letter thanking loyal customers. The place sat empty and after a few months it was taken over by the yokels, who tried to sell the same twenty dollar pizzas, only with a big garish vegas-style neon light out front which murders any chance of atmosphere. Just like the highway has always tried to do.

The McDonalds is a major addition that was just completed a few months ago. It used to be a shabby little petrol station constructed from off-white bricks. The off-white was not a good choice for a place basically exposed to a lot of oils and fumes and stuff. It took on the oeuvre of a joint to avoid unless you needed pastries at midnight and iced coffee, which I sometimes did.

They blew it up (not literally) and replaced it with a combined McDonald's/petrol station which has schmance value up to here. It's very classy. High ceilings at the bowsers so you don't die from, you know, breathing while you're filling your car up. And the McDonald's has class. I'm afraid to walk in there - they'll find out I don't drive a BMW.

The chippy. Scourge of cardiologists everywhere.

(Click to enlarge.)
The doctors' practices are a boon to our suburb (you can visit them for an ECG after you've been to McDonald's) as is the dentist, and I'm sure the chiropractor to people whose bones are inside out or whatever. The florist has been a boon for Valentine's Day.

I don't know exactly why any of this matters. I don't know why there is a lady we know by name at the convenience store, or why when I leave my doctor's office I walk around the back way to the front of the shops, or why the Indian woman who runs the fish 'n chip shop once asked me if I was divorced, because my wife was in America, and she hadn't seen her with me for a while.

I'm not sure it does really matter.

But I know this: suburban fragmentation has led us to become a bunch of individuals who never speak. Mrs Speech and I live in a fairly tightly-packed unit complex where no-one talks to each other and I'm pretty sure the same dynamic pervades our culture generally. No-one knows each other. Whenever they talk about 'community' I wonder what galaxy they are living in; the fifties are long gone and we're social mercenaries when we leave work.

But the local shops is where we come together. It's where we say hi once in a while, or excuse me if we need to get past someone in the convenience store. It's where we have a friendly chat with someone not of our family, just because for the time it takes to swipe our credit card, that person is in our life. It's nice. It's rare. It's valuable and possibly crucial.

And when the entire world figures out that absolutely everything can be done online, it will be extinct. But for now, we have our shops.


The author of this post would like to thank Mrs Speech for her superb photographic abilities.
Yup, that's about what they look like.
Q. What's the difference between a troll and an ogre?
A. An ogre moves out of his parents' place and becomes a middle manager.

Here in Australia, there's a story circulating right now about a minor celebrity named Charlotte Dawson.

Ms Dawson was the subject of a hate tweet. She was told to go hang herself. She responded by finding out the tweeter's employer (tweeter left a trail), then reporting the tweeter's behaviour to that employer. The tweeter was then put on paid leave from her position.

Ms Dawson then ceased to be the subject. She became a target.

A torrent of abuse suddenly was hurled her way with every possible contortion of the phrase 'go hang yourself' used in hashtags.

Let's have a look at some of the lovely messages sent her way:









The above messages are by a long way the more tame ones. Others I couldn't justify embedding on this blog. I feel like I need to wash my hands.

Ms Dawson, who has a history of depression, was taken to a hospital emergency ward on the morning of August 30th where she received psychiatric care at St Vincent's Hospital in Sydney. She is now being looked after by friends.

Now in the interest of presenting all sides of the story, it appears early on she tried to dish back what she got, responding at a less crude level to the sewage being hurled in her direction. This is called feeding the trolls. It is also akin to putting out a fire by pouring cooking oil on it.

You can't reason with these people. You cannot engage them, co-operate with them, discourage them, threaten or insult them. Any attention you give them will encourage their acts of juvenile animosity.

I (Mr Speech) have been the subject of trolling, on a website I had in the late nineties. It was not serious, and it stopped after a couple weeks. For unrelated reasons I have not participated much on the internet; I'm more an observer and likely will stay that way except for this blog. I don't have a Twitter or Facebook account. Mrs Speech has both.

Things were not always this way on the internet. There was once some degree of civility, except of course for the always-present exceptions, there to frustrate the rule:

I've watched it begin as the odd revolting comment in the odd corner of the cybersphere in the late '90s to now, where it's everywhere all the time.

I remember chatting online when I was in my late teens. We didn't get this sort of thing. The terms 'flaming' and 'flame war' were really on the periphery of internet culture, as though most online users themselves were the mainstream with a separate seedy undercurrent to whom such terminology was more familiar. I'd wager most people today who spend any amount of time online are acquainted with the term, in theory if not practice.

The Atlantic ran an interesting article online about the possiblity of software which helps civil discourse on the internet: primarily on comment threads, where the one-eyed man is king too often. It references a Scientific American article entitled "Why Is Everyone On The Internet So Angry?"

The Atlantic's comment boards could do with a little housecleaning:

I'd say someone's so friggin' dumb he thinks a German-sounding login must mean that the user is German. You need to mind your manners, Boy. You go round shouting s*** like that, someone might clout you in the piehole.

You cannot reason with these people.

I don't pretend to know exactly why this phenomenon has taken shape with such virulence and ferocity. But the clues are there if you look hard enough.

The Scientific American touches on the circumstantial factors involved. I agree with them completely.

The power of anonymity is critical when addressing online behaviour. You rarely if ever see someone acting blatantly rude to a complete stranger one-on-one, without provocation in the offline world. I can't recall having once witnessed something like that. You read about assaults and such in the news, but at a petty level, it rarely happens. People without that kind of serious criminal intent just aren't that courageous. Those bloody kids on that bus notwithstanding.

Yup, that's about what they look like.
The other side of that coin is that online communication turns other people into abstract objects; even those with little pictures next to their names do not appear like humans to us. How can they be? They don't exist. The only evidence of the possibility they exist is a few pixels on a screen, stored on a server. With a lovely picture to go with it.

There is no real interaction taking place, no engagement. There is no body language to decipher, and I suspect deep on a neurological level we are programmed to humanise based on body language; a bison does not smile and tilt its head when you compliment its shoes. Humans do human things. Avatars do not.

It is difficult sometimes - it can take conscious imagination - to digest that whoever we are communicating with online has more humanity than the hair dryer.

But this alone does not explain online vitriol. The gentleman with the German sounding name in the above quote is commenting on a political issue. If 'commenting' is the right word to use. He may not even be trolling. (Click the arrow to see the thread).

Politics has become the death knell of civil conversation, in western society. Here in Australia, our Prime Minister recently had to defend herself against allegations dating back to the nineties, when she was a lawyer in private practice. She referenced the alternate reality in which many of her detractors seem to be living, and the casually boorish nature of their obsession:

I paid for my renovations. And, well, in terms of people who continue to circulate these claims, will the misogynists and the nut jobs on the Internet continue to circulate them? Yes, they will, and it wouldn't matter what I said and it wouldn't matter what documents were produced...

...It's to do with this, you know, sort of Americanisation of our politics, this eccentric lunar right Tea Party-style interventions that we are seeing in our politics and there is nothing that a person of reason can do to deal with it.

Our opposition leader, Tony Abbott, has helped this along quite nicely. His soaring oratory, capable of lifting people to the stars base and populist rhetoric, repeated ad nauseum, and then ad hominem just in case you didn't hear the first time, has simultaneously dumbed down Australian politics and aggravated an already blood thirsty conservative bloc.

A year ago he attended a Tea Party-style rally at which protestors held signs calling our Prime Minister 'witch', something that rhymes with 'witch' and other uncouth epithets unworthy of debate on federal issues. He endorsed them by being there.

Americans have their own style and it has played out furiously in the years since Barack Obama became President. I've read comment page after comment page on the Obama presidency, with the same kind of revolted fascination I hold when I see one of those really weird lizards at the zoo.

Obummer, Obomber, Oblamer, Oblameo, Obummy, Obooger. These are some of the names I have heard Americans call their President. I made that last one up, but I'm sure it's out there.

It's a very raw ugliness that speaks more to the person saying it than to the target. Its genesis lies at the level of the political and media elite, who over the years have ascertained that appealing to the abject, most contemptible level of name-calling gets you votes, viewers and hard earned cash.

Rush Limbaugh on 13 year old Chelsea Clinton:

Socks is the White House cat. But did you know there is also a White House dog?

Mitt Romney:

You know, out-of-touch liberals like Barack Obama say they want a strong economy, but in everything they do, they show they don't like business very much.

Ann Coulter:

So maybe it’s time to start imitating liberals in another way and go after the Obama children.

Newt Gingrich:

What if [Obama] is so outside our comprehension, that only if you understand Kenyan, anti-colonial behavior, can you begin to piece together [his actions]? That is the most accurate, predictive model for his behavior.

David Letterman on Bristol/Willow Palin (daughters of Sarah and Todd):

During the seventh inning, her daughter was knocked up by Alex Rodriguez.

Glenn Beck on President Obama's intentions towards AmeriCorps:

I mean, this is what Hitler did with the SS. He had his own people. He had the brownshirts and then the SS. This is what Saddam Hussein -- so -- but you are comparing that.

Trent Franks, Congressman, R-Arizona:

(Obama) has no place in any station of government and we need to realize that he is an enemy of humanity.

There is an ocean of this rubbish on the internet.

But the problem is that vitriol is its own particular trickle down economic. Citizens see their leaders treating each other like trash, upping the ante with so much hyperbole and cynical rhetoric that they can muster with profound exaggeration par for the course, that they simply elect to use a usually, more debased facsimile.

Why would President Obama dislike business? That doesn't make an ounce of sense. But carry on, regardless.

Politics in America is rarely discussed humanely.

Yup, that's about what they look like. (Click to enlarge.)
Early in his term, I noticed an internet "blame it on Obama" meme, where literally everything was blamed on Barack Obama. It became so ridiculous that it developed into irony and was thus rightly used to mimic the most inane buffoons out there.

Leadership always counts.

But even if it didn't, we'd have one final insurmountable problem which would likely still result in the existence of trolls, flamers, and the just-downright-nasty.

Humans are terrible people. Just naturally.

My initial experience with this theme comes from the Bible, which states that "all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God." (Romans 3:23) And it's so very true.

I realised this earlier this year when I thought of an interesting way to test the idea. Take a normal person, and strip away normal social conventions. Take away the usual, unwritten requirement of society to be civil and polite, and see what happens.

I came to the conclusion that there are two very compelling situations in which people show their true colours as a matter of routine circumstance, in the absence of much regulation.

At sporting events, people are encouraged to be passionate fans. But there is example after example after example after example of fan behaviour that crosses the line. A culture, probably encouraged by absurd ticket prices, that encourages fans to think that they can do whatever they wish. The insults become incredibly personal. As an NBA fan, I've read about players' mothers, wives, girlfriends and children being targeted by fans.

The major leagues in America have stepped up to combat this kind of ruthless semi-hooliganism, but it seems fair to assume people's natural inclinations are to at the least adopt a passive-aggressive mentality, and at the worst to attack a player without regard, because after all, isn't that your right when you show up to a baseball game?

Or, put another way: why are fans not sweet little prepossessing angels when they attend? When addressing the issue of people without restraint, there will only be one outcome.

That was the one example I could think of regarding human behaviour in the absence of regulation.

The other?

Right here, folks.

And this is the crux of the issue. I know people who will argue until they run out of breath about the needlessness for regulation, but when society is facing harm from people out only to make themselves feel better by destroying others, surely an appropriate legislative response should at least be considered.

How about we start with a government-mandated requirement that people who leave comments on websites and forums must give their name, address and phone number. Make them accountable. Minors must provide a parent's details. No details, no comment.

Most of the tweeters attacking Ms Dawson used accounts with no followers; they were set up with the idea of anonymity so they could, with such typical courage, lay in to her with a digital two by four, without consequence.

Bring them into the light.

Let's start there. Let's bring this thing called the internet back to a place of respectability and dignity. Where debate is conducted between civil people and name-calling, trolling and flaming are left to the kids in the playground.

And then let's deal with that, because like much else in the world, the two inevitably overlap.

(The troll) ended up being a 12-year-old girl in a wheelchair who was horribly abused in her offline life and this was a way of making herself feel better and heal.
Friday, August 31, 2012
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So...the olympics ended. 'Bout what? Three weeks ago?

For us here in the antipodes, the big story was the lack of gold medals. We were hoping to achieve a top-five place in the medal tally, and instead spent about three quarters of the tournament battling Aruba and the West African People's Republic of Mbombo for 967th place.

So I clicked CNN yesterday expecting to find that the entire GOP elite had been flattened in Tampa by Isaac, or that a supervolcano was set to kill us all in a hail of fire and destruction (my word, it's true!) and instead, came across a different story. The London 2012 Paralympics have been opened.

With their own opening ceremony and everything! I didn't even know the Paralympics had an opening ceremony. I find this interesting.

Firstly, they got eighty thousand people to the opening ceremony. I'd never have thought. I repeated this number to Mrs Speech several times. Eighty thousand? Really? Every paralympic/disabled/handicapped/'special' sporting event/ceremony/etc that I have ever seen on tv has been watched in person by roughly the same number of people who like to dip their celery in chocolate milk.

But they got eighty thousand. Good on them.


"That was my destiny! And you cheated me out of it!"
I have no dog in this particular fight. I have never watched a Paralympic event or actually, a disabled sporting event of any kind. As a matter of taste, the number of able-bodied sports I will watch is also limited. I refuse to watch much of anything that takes place on or in the water, or involves a horse, or people running, walking funny or riding a bike for long periods of time.

I am, however, highly uncomfortable with patronising disabled people. I cannot imagine how hard it is to live without limbs, sight, hearing or any other basic human function. I'm not sure how I would deal with the daily difficulties of getting around, brushing my teeth, or in general my terrible klutz-iness.

So I find it perturbing that paralympians have their own unique sporting event. And that it's held so long after every able-bodied athlete has fled back to the four corners, that no-one really is focussed on sports anymore. There are supervolcanos to watch for, y'know.

I'm sure at some point in some highly able-bodied IOC meeting, someone jumped to the grand conclusion that it would make paralympians feel awfully special if we just held a whole other olympics for them. But let's call it the Paralympics. Who cares if it sounds like a sporting event for people who jump out of airplanes (which I might just watch).

This is the ultimate in misguided empathy. Good fences do not good neighbours make, in all circumstances. I won't cast aspersions on anyone's intentions, because for all I know those IOC chaps may have had the best for disabled competitors. But every artificial fence that is erected between one demographic and another only serves to isolate them, and us.

I once enquired about living on campus at the University of Queensland. One dorm I phoned, I believe it was St Leo's College, a gentleman with off-handed faux courtesy and an overdeveloped sense of je ne sais quoi, informed me that I was free to apply to live in the dorm, but it was for Roman Catholics, so...

I was not a Roman Catholic. In fact, I'll eat my celery dipped in chocolate milk before I bow to a man in a ridiculous pointy hat.

Every artificial fence that is erected denies someone.

I'm not on an equality crusade. I in fact very much dislike the western contemporary equal-rights fetish which is currently being manifested principally vis a vis gay marriage (which will happen regardless of what we Christians do to try to stop it).

But I'm even more opposed to tokenism. Symbols without real depth. What's the point? Why did the RNC choose to have Sikhs lead them in prayer at the nomination convention? Will Paul Ryan now settle into a life of turban-topped campaigning until the election?

Symbols without real depth are meaningless. Most thinking people can see through patronisation. I imagine disabled athletes live with it a fair bit.

So, why not integrate the Paralympics with the Olympics?


Quad rugby. Ouch.
Seriously, where's the issue? So the circus goes for three weeks instead of two. You deal with a few more athletes, and a few more tourists. And you make people with a disability feel like Olympians.

Disabled sports instantly gains the cachet of the highest-profile sporting event in the world, and the benefit of integrated sponsorship and coverage of disabled sports intertwined with Usain Bolt jogging the last forty metres because trying as hard as you can is so...trying.

The Olympics in turn, gets more participation at the fan level from tourists who are already gee-d up about the Olympics and thus might view wheelchair rugby as a legitimate sport and not something 'they' only 'play' in 'their' games. And with more fan participation comes more money, right?

It can make money, and has the benefit of being good policy.

All it really needs is will. I'm surprised in this day of demanding our rights (see above) that the disabled sporting community hasn't popped its head up and said "excuse me" a bit more on this issue.

Surely it hasn't escaped them that they are being excluded from legitimacy as a result of amateur empathy?