What would you do?

Here's an ethical dilemma for you:

http://www.smh.com.au/digital-life/computers/worse-than-jail-sentenced-to-life-on-youtube-20110325-1c9di.html

Stumps

Friend on the phone. Hand the phone to Tan who’s cutting 7 month old baby C’s nails. Tan, distracted as she take the phone casually asks me to finish cutting’s C’s nails. There’s only one more to cut. Thumb nail. Jumped up on my second cup of coffee I take the baby and proceed to demonstrate my breath taking efficiency and ingenuity with the nail cutters. The rules of nail cutting:

1. Restrain baby
2. Distract baby
3. Don’t allow baby to see what you’re doing

But I’m a prodigy. I put him in the high chair where he is free to move, see and most importantly, participate. I take his little hand and deftly slip the cutting implement under the nail and snip. My brain is confused. Baby C’s brain is confused, he was watching as well. For moments forever sliced more finely upon repeat play back in my mind I look for the Houdini like slip of the hand. THe nail was clearly in the blades. I cut. I look and the nail is intact. But I felt the resistance of the cut. Something fell out onto the shiny white table of his high chair. It looked like nail. He begins to wail and then scream. There’s blood. My heart shrinks. I have cut my little baby’s thumb. It’s a tiny sliver. Tan’s hung up and standing next to me in a blur. She is completely non judgmental, quietly explaining the rules again. Meanwhile grief and guilt are wrestling on the floor of my mind and in the commotion they blame my wife. It’s her fault. She should never handed those baby nail cutters to a maniac. Moments later he’s fine, he doesn’t mind. I’m quietly haunted. I’m so careful, usually. We have a great time together. My wife and I have agreed that our baby should have talons, lest he end up with stumps.

Excuse me, but that stick appears to be on fire

This is another extract from the emails I sent to my sister back in 04 while I travelled through Turkey with my dear friend Darren, hence forth known as Daggs.

Dear C.

Okay. Some time after arriving in Fethiya Mark our guide offered to take us to the Barber for a shave. This struck me as weird. What’s wrong with the privacy of one’s own bathroom. Darren seemed confident about the whole thing so I mildly followed along.

Mark drops us off and says see you in forty minutes. The place was empty except for a couple of barbers and three of their friends drinking tea or something. So without much ceremony we’re seated and this chap starts lathering me up.
And proceeds to get WAY too intimate. Far to close to my personal space, right up in my face. I quietly explained that really, in Australia, we only let women do this sort of thing. Otherwise nice men, like your dear self, get smacked in the head. I laughed kindly as I said this. Turns out that none of them spoke English. He keeps working away and then pulls out a cut throat razor, and starts shaving.
He shaves, good.

And the he starts again.

After dousing me in this lemon smelling stuff, he finishes shaving and then gets out the scissors. Trim, trim, trim - happy, happy, happy until he shoves them up my nose. What the hell compelled him to do that? Up. My. Nose. Have you seen my nose? Is there something you haven’t told me. Is this dear sweet soul the first to confront me over this issue? I doubt it. I sat very still - saddened by the subtle violation. Perhaps he was laying bets with his mates about how he can stick scissors up the nose of Aussies.

Then he walks off.

And reappears with a blazing stick. Just in case you missed it: a longish stick that looked an awful lot like it was on fire. He then placed the back of his palm against my face and started hitting this blazing stick against my face just above his hand. And yes it was hot. A hot burning stick being smacked against my face.

The funny thing was they all started laughing when I said 'Holy Crap what is THAT?' As I said, none of them spoke a scrap of English until a taxi driver walked in and started answering our questions in English. Apparently the fire burns off ear hair. That’s refreshing. Who wants ear hair. But is there such a thing as a preventative for ear hair? Because I ain't got any.So why was he burning down my face? Another dare perchance. Reckless individual, I could have been anyone. Unfortunately for me I was a nobody from Oz.

Possibly to make some amends for potentially setting me on fire he then proceeded to massage my face, eye lids, neck, parts of my back - and it was only our first date. Having a man doing that who I can’t communicate with is just wrong on so many levels. Having done all of this, he shaved my face again. I would have had a face like a baby’s bottom had it not been set on fire.

The Business of Monkeys

A couple of years ago in the midst of my stint doing stand up comedy I talked about going to the zoo a young family, much like my own and all the associated merriment. I recall that at the time the zoo was going through some sort of financial difficulty and were lamenting this in a very public fashion. Having said this I may have dreamt it. In one particular section of my 'gig' I considered that if the zoo wanted to fix it's fiscal problems it should allow people to bring their dogs along. In fact it should become a more interactive experience. Take for example the smaller monkeys, the Tamarin Monkey.



Not a particularly beautiful creature but versatile, I think you’ll find. Why not have races, create little vests and racing caps and secure the tiny simians to the backs of Jack Russels or Silky Terriers with a spot of gaffer tape. In fact, why not dress them up as ninjas? Of course with that kind of breed you run the risk of the dogs turning on their riders and tearing them to piece. Not a spectacle for the younger ones but a revenue raiser none the less. It was met with deafening silence from the audience. In fact they looked horrified. I was, of course, joking – reflecting on the dangers of commercial enterprise compromising the integrity of innocent ventures like a trip to the zoo. Well, it seems someone somewhere didn’t have someone in their life to say, ‘No – that’s a really bad idea”. Or perhaps they didn't raise the idea in front of my particular audience. . I will concede however that perhaps the Kelpie breed and whatever that terrified monkey is were perhaps a better mix than I envisioned.

On the subject of Englýsh.

Currently I am attempting to read through a history of Political Philosophy from Socrates to Rawls. The thought of it drains the blood from my hope. My Blog has been nagging at the loose threads of my mind for months now and in keeping with bumping into C yesterday (one of my students from the Philosophy class last year – I call this person C not out of any malevolence but that’s the first letter of their name and I’m not sure if they would want me writing names in blogs etc… so out of respect for them I’m simply writing ‘C’) I have decided to write something. Given the constraints on my time, that is how long it is possible for a person like me to sit in one place and concentrate I have decided to shorten the process by sharing some of the emails I wrote to my sister during my trip to Turkey in 2004. I’ve always meant to record these on my blog but never made the time. I also have four hours of video recording of our trip that I will one day get around to editing.

Well things have continued to remain interesting. Today is Saturday and it is really cold here. Spent some time in McDonalds writing and thinking.

Couple were getting a little too hot and heavy in one of the booths so I got out of there. No one was in there anyhow and I wanted to be where the action was. The other action. This McDonalds has a great view of the square, which is actually a circle, so that’s why I sat there writing. Most people were across the road in a big Turkish fast food place that serves bread stuffed with cheese etc... I tried to ask one of the staff why McDonalds was empty, he just kept saying yes.

I'm starting to develop this expression - kind of a bored stare of mild disbelief, it stems from the following - you ask someone on the street if they speak English? Like in the following example where I had taken an interest in a peculiar building with a dome shaped roof covered entirely in grass.

I politely inquired of a gentleman who looked like he was waiting for someone,'Do you speak English?'
Very enthusiastically, 'YES, YES, speak English!'
'Good. What is that building over there?' I pointed at the large ancient ruin with grass on it’s roof in the middle of this giant turning circle (called a square) surrounded by new and old five to six story buildings - obviously of some significance this building. It’s right in the middle of everything.
'Taksým square.'
'No...' I pointed at the building, making square in the air with my fingers around the building and for some reason began speaking in pigeon English'...building right over there, building in front of us, right in front, what is building?' This is a terrible habit of mine. I tend to mimic the inflection, if not the accent and general way of speaking.
'Is bus.' Man is clearly surprised at my stupidity.
'What? No behind bus!' Now I’m making jumping signs with my hands,’behind bus is building, what is it?'
'Is city.'
'City' I repeat. 'That tiny little building is a city.'
'Yes is city' Man is now making broad sweeping gestures.
I stare politely at this man before wishing him a good day by saying Merribah which is actually hello.

I was asking Darren something about the structure and another man interrupted, answering my question he apparently overheard about whether or not anyone spoke English. 'Yes I speak English,’ he said and then had absolutely no idea what I was talking about - structure with no windows, in the square, very old, grass on top, what is it?. Zip. Stare. Finally answers 'Hotel' Yes, of course. Thanks. Thanks very much, it’s clearly a hotel with no windows and grass for a roof. It turns out that when people answer "Yes, I speak a little English!" that is precisely what they mean, that is the only phrase they know - "Yes, I speak a little English."

This old lady walks into a bar...

"It's not that I'm a control freak, it's just that you don't do what I want." She yelled that last bit at me in order to get my attention. My dearly beloved talks a lot about controlling behavior, and quotes that woman Beyonce or Oprah or something like that.


Today I’m going to talk about Battlestar Galactica.

Those words relegate me to the dank and shadowy internment of geekdom or nerdom. Does it save me from being either, that I haven’t really worked out which is which? Surely knowledge of which is which would mean it would make me one of those. But given I don’t know…

I’ve made the mistake of telling someone I figured them for a nerd and they became indignant and insisted they were a geek. They went on to explain that geeks were kind of cool whereas nerds were social misfits. You know – during the formative stages of their life they could only make friends with computers and books and subsequently found actual human beings laughably disappointing. You’ll know the type of person I’m talking about because they’re always laughing cynically at the most inappropriate time. Alternatively they say the sorts of breathtakingly insensitive things that leave people shuffling inches in the opposite direction. Failing that they have breath that could stun a chimp.

See, the extent of my relationship with computers is word processing and itunes (I feel technically proficient because I can upload podcasts - hell, I'm dancing in a tight circle because I use terms like 'upload'). I wouldn’t claim too loudly that I’d got the human side of things worked out though. The only thing I’ve established is that people, by and large, want to be lied to. If they ask you how they look, you’ve got to subtlely assess what it is they want to see in the mirror. Then you give feedback on those grounds. You don’t go in blind. Phrases like “You’re joking, right?” or “That’s a little tight, don’t you think?” or “I’m going to walk near to you, not next to you because I don’t want to be beaten to death along with you.” I realize that sounds cynical, but think about it, how often do people like to be 'told it straight'? There's a half dozen anecdotes I could tell right now. I should mention the time a Dr. tried to break something to me gently, seeing that he was struggling I told him to just given straight. That cost me three months of worthless anxiety 'cause it turned out he was wrong. Hack.


Worse still is the teenager. They crave affirmation while at the same time encouraging you to take to them with something blunt. They don’t want to hear anything that even hints at some inadequacy or misunderstanding. They must be approached in much the same way as a large bear must be approached. Any bear for that matter. I sometimes explain to a class “It’s funny you say that because teenager is actually Latin for ‘thinks with mouth open’, except ‘thinks’ is one of those tricky words that doesn’t quite mean what we think it does – the closest translation I can muster up is clay pot…”

On another note but still the same tune, sort of…
I have a class of older students that I attempt to teach Philosophy to. I say attempt because by and large their intellect leaves me for dead. Some of these people are humiliatingly smart and some days class feels like a gladiatorial arena.

Anyway.

This one time I’m chiming on about old people (just for laughs - whose going to know? Gormless, I know) and one of the girls looks, I don’t know, pale. So I ask if she’s ok and she says no, her grandmother just died. And then I’m in a really awkward spot. If she’s lying and I say “Far out, I’m really sorry” she may laugh and go “You’re so stupid… she’s not dead, YOU’RE A FOOL!” and then the room will spin slowly shifting in and out of focus as people laugh and point . So I decide to play it safe. “Well, let’s face it though,” I say building up to a punch line as the rest of the class breaks into a look that could only be described as horror, “there’s nothing worse than having to share a table with an old person, the noise they make when they're eating, those slapping gums...” and with that she’s out of her chair and three steps in she’s not crying, she’s choking on her grief.
There’s a stunned silence. For about a second. And then, predictably, the room turns. “You’re a BASTARD Mr.Limb” and there’s projectiles made up of pens, tissues and other fairly unimportant but potentially sharps bits showering across at me.


It’s funny, I really sit down to write this blog to try and compile some sort of dialogue about what I’m thinking about and reading in the hope of dialogue with people out there in the icy reaches of cyber space. If you want to be challenged have a read of FULLMETALSEAN. His last blog is friggin mint. I recommended the thing he comments on but lets face it, he actually watched it, and then deconstructed it opening dialogue on the 'net. My blog is like little pieces of a puzzle that when you finally get most of them down and step back it just spells the word DYSFUNCTION, and worse it’s all on a background of blue with clouds so it takes forever to work out where the pieces go. Don’t get me started on jigsaw puzzles. I think I can justify spending the odd hour on the PS3 when it comes to jigsaw puzzles.

So, next blog Peter Gabriel’s SACD releases and Battlestar Galactica. And my Empire Strikes Back card collection. BTW... just for the record, not a fan of Star Trek.

The distinction concerning extinction

The following is an actual extract from a moment in class where I answered a question pertaining to the various theories in regards to the extinction of the Dinosaurs. I wrote this down a little while after it happened out of sheer astonishment.

Precocious Student: So what wiped out the Dinosaurs then?
Me: Well, they think it was a meteorite that hit the Earth.
PS: Huh? A meteorite killed the Dinosaurs?
Me: Yes.
PS: What it just hit and killed the dinosaurs?
Me: (patiently) No. It struck the earth with such force that it blew millions of tonnes of dirt into the higher atmosphere where there isn't the wind to clear away dust and muck and this blocked out the sun. No sun means all the vegetation died, which in turn killed the Dinosaurs who ate vegetation and when they died there was nothing for the meat eating dinosaurs so they died. That’s how the theory goes.
PS: Yeah, then where’d the meteorite come from. It just appeared out of the sky and killed everything?
Me: Yes.
PS: What? A meteorite just came from nowhere?
Me: No it came from space.
PS: So a meteorite came from space and that’s how the Earth was made?
Me: What?
PS: So a meteorite came from space and that’s how the Earth was made?
I turn in exasperation to no one in particular.
Me: Can you understand why I get frustrated?
Seconds later I’m met by another student who challenges me.
Sneering students: I was told that it was extinction that killed the dinosaurs.
Me: Yes, a meteorite hit the Earth, killed the dinosaurs. They all died
S.S.:Yeah but they were supposed to have been killed by extinction.
Me: They all died, they all became extinct. That rock hitting the earth resulted in the dinosaurs dying. That is called extinct.

I’d like to point out that this does not represent the majority of students. In fact this sort of exchange is usually had by a very particular type of student. Those that show not the slightest interest in listening to anyone else’s opinion other than their own. This is often coupled with this sort of sneering attitude that presumes you obviously have no idea what you’re talking about, in fact, according to their assessment you must have come down in the last shower because unless you're drawing your information straight from Neighbours or Home and Away you're obviously talking absolute nonsense. Dinosaurs, as everyone knows, weren't killed by a meteorite, they were killed by extinction.

Sorry about turning off the ability to leave comments anonymously. Situation developed last year where someone was being intellectually disruptive and one of my dear friends attempted a literary spear tackle. So now feel free to comment if you so desire.