Monarchist drivel......

Mr Abbott says:

http://www.theage.com.au/news/opinion/monarchy-is-the-tie-that-binds-us-together/2006/11/28/1164476200735.html

I say:

Blogs: A big herd of self-obsessed cows blocking the information superhighway

Who's got time for all this blog bizzo? If the rapid rise of individual blogging outpaces the number of people buying computers, we may reach a stage where there is no-one left in the world with time to read them? Yes it's gloriously democratic to be able to express an opinion for all the world to see, but who cares? Isn't blogging just an online version of boring your mates at a BBQ with the minutae of your life? Hell's bells perhaps we're confusing documenting with living. Putting aside people who control nuclear weapons and those who aspire to control them, does anyone really care what someone on the other side of the world did today? And even if they care, is it healthy for them to do so. Can there be too much information?

On an individual level, I need help. I'm all for diversity of media, and would be the last to suggest the internet equivalent of book burning. But I'm screaming out for someone to create an information sorting device that brings the internet back to a human dimension. I want a single page that contains all I need without distracting me with links to things I don't - the internet equivalent of the sexily simple iPod.

I like to know stuff. This is not a bad thing. But it places me in mortal danger of losing a balance between accumulating information and deploying it usefully. I find myself info-grazing far beyond the purpose of my search - to the info-antipodes and back in half an hour.

Tim's impossibility theorem: Amount to learn = infinite; Time to learn = finite; Chance Tim can absorb everything he wants = zero;

In search of self discipline, I'd like to install a restraining device on my computer - a succession of pop-ups activated whenever I click an article link.

(Pop up 1) Tim, you've clicked on a link to an article about Lebanon. Are you sure this is what you want? (Yes to proceed) (No to refrain from distraction)

(Pop up 2) Tim, do you really need to learn about Lebanon right now? (Yes to proceed) (No to concede you're just procrastinating)

(Pop up 3) Tim, first persuade me that knowing about Lebanon will nourish your presentation on economic development tomorrow. (Fill in explanation to proceed) (No to return to presentation preparation)

(Pop up 4) Ok Tim, you either need to know about Lebanon or you're a lost cause - (click here to proceed).

If someone invents this, please let me know. In the meantime good old-fashioned self discipline shall have to do.

If you have time, check out this link to Tory boss David Cameron's blog - I'm wondering whether a person with time to write a blog should be allowed to run a country?

webcameron http://www.webcameron.org.uk/

And this journo reckons he's just being a tosser.

http://media.guardian.co.uk/site/story/0,,1957952,00.html

Quietly praying for a drubbing

I've been keenly anticipating The Ashes series since discovering that the suburb next door is called 'Tufnell Park' - apparently not named after England's most hilariously poor cricketer. Memories flooded back of the ruthless flaying of English cricket by the likes of Border, Waugh, Taylor and Boonie. But ever the cautious fan, I've been hosing down my internal hopes of a pommy thrashing - just in case. The only thing worse than a repeat of the Rule-Brittania-singing, St-George-flag-waving hysteria of last year, would be humiliation at my having predicted a bloodbath.

So, I'm responding to congratulatory comments with a sober-faced nod - presenting the face of reasonableness and balance as a Trojan horse for my escalating excitement. I'm making excuses for England's cricketers and invoking the oppressive heat of an Australian summer in their defence. All the while gleeful at the seemingly dischevelled state of their players (is that botched botox or sunburn on Flintoff's nose?). Its too early to tell, but things look promising. Five-nil is not too much to ask. Wouldn't our queen be pleased!

btw - I sighted our very disowned Rolf Harris last week..... waxing lyrical outside the opening night of Dirty Dancing. Thought I'd squeeze in a spot of celeb spotting while waiting for my bus home from school.

Night haunts of London

Friday night activity of the week was 'Because the Night', an uber-contemporary art event sprawling though a disused victorian-era town hall. Old horror films projected on walls, new films of hip-hop culture and pirate radio, cabaret, talks about insomnia and ghosts, music about the life cycle of moths.... and a sillouettist.

A highlight for me was a collaboration between a writer, a soundscapist and webdesigner. They explored the lives of those who inhabit nighttime London, often unseen: cabbies, sewer workers, cleaners, police, lifeline operators, security guard etc. The reflections were melancholic, capturing the entrails of the city, the discarded emotions, the refuse, the rebirth of the city each morning and the interconnectedness of our lives with those untold.

The website for the collaboration is brilliant - make sure you listen to the soundscape.

http://www.nighthaunts.org.uk/flash.php

First strike

Instead of factually reporting day one of the ashes, the Telegraph - that favourite rag of belching pipe smokers down the local - chose instead this.

"Australia - a few facts. It's the sixth largest country in the world, and the largest island and its people have the biggest egos, despite residing in a vast useless desert full of spiders."

hmmm. Gloves off then. I would have thought "Oh shite! The aussies are going to eat us for breakfast" would have been more appropriate. Instead, a return to the safe chortling ground of post-colonial diminution. Chortle, chortle, chortle, where's my pork pie then lovie?

Fitter, faster, sunnier, happier - stick that up your hairy empire-lusting nostril.

All the rage in Bloomsbury

How long do you need to be a cyclist before you can claim the high moral ground? I'm at about four weeks, and can feel a distinct superiority complex creeping into my road use.

Last night, after many hours in the library, my route home was temporarily blocked by a london cabbie who wanted to turn across my path. He saw me late, braked appropriately, but still his bonnet blocked my way. Though I was in no danger, I found myself waving a fist at him. In body language I was trying to convey "you buffoon, can't you see a three-pronged flashing halogen - not only do you endanger my precious life with your blindness, you insult my people, the global carbon neutralising corp - we are the future and you are a relic." I think he got the message. He stopped, rolled down his window and in an unexpectedly feminine voice said "orite ma'e, don't get carried away now."

Then this morning, I was holding my own in the Bloomsbury bustle. A delivery van changed lanes and ate up the thin sliver of bitumen with my name on it. Once forgiven, but when he repeated the act at the next lights, I theatrically removed my bike from the road, looking around to see who had witnessed this travesty. The bus driver behind, gave me a world weary shrug. Direct action required. So I rolled through the gridlock to Mr deliveryman, and knocked on his passenger window (no fist this time). I gesticulated feverishly toward my precious sliver of road with a "wherethehelldidyouthinkIwasgoingtogoyouninkunpoop" expression on my face. He saw a man waving angrily. He honked his horn to say "you cycling vermin, you have no place on this road - I got a two wives and six kids to feed and if I don't deliver this truckload of potata crisps by 9 my boss'll have my balls for breakfast." I heard only honk. I rode onward to school, leaving him traffic-bound in my wake.

Somehow, the exchange was good for us both. I was exhilarated by my act of davidian defiance in the face of his goliathan road manners and started dreaming up grandiose schemes for public expenditure on inviolable cycleways (perhaps elevated like monorails). He, satisfied to have clearly made his rebuttal, and gagging for a bacon sandwich.

A future of triumphant mediocrity?

This is worth a read - Lindsay Tanner on 'the light on the hill' - lifelong learning

http://media.theaustralian.news.com.au/sydins.pdf

And an interesting aside from an academic in the ensuing debate.

"The usage of the word “elite” in modern Australia is telling - attached to the word “sportsman”, it’s a desirable description. However, attach it to the word “academic”, and you’re beneath contempt."

I agree with Tanner's thoughts on the contemporary applicability of Donald Horne's book. Our anti-knowledge culture is incompatible with a skill-intensive future. More champions of the book required.

British weather optimism

Much as we round up 98c to $1, so the BBC weatherman applies a dash of statistical flexibility to weather forecasting.


"The weather symbol shown for each day in the five day forecast represents the predominant weather expected on the day in question. This is calculated based on a weighting of different types of weather, so if a day is forecast to be sunny with the possibility of a brief shower, then we will see a sunny or partly cloudy symbol rather than a rain cloud."


Blinkers people! Pretending the clouds are not grey doesn't make the rain go away! Surely the chance of rain (read guaranteed downpour) should be sufficient to add at least one lil' raindrop to the fluffy cloud? People who trust the venerable BBC get wet. Especially those trying to be sexily carbon neutral on a bike. Perhaps the BBC thought police are applying the placebo effect to weather - if we think its sunny outside we'll feel happier as we furrow around in office buildings. All I know is that tomorrow is forecast below....... time will tell whether I arrive at school looking like a drowned water rat.

Long live ideas

Of all the obituaries for Milton Friedman, none are as succinct as that penned by his son - www.daviddfriedman.blogspot.com

Cattle die, kindred die,

Every man is mortal:

But the good name never dies

Of one who has done well.

Friedman was a man of ideas, passionate about public policy (even if he questioned the public aspect of it) and questioning of embedded conventions (conscription, tax, the size of government, methods of analysing of the economy etc). Whether you agree with all his arguments (and I don't), the above qualifies him for hero status. Rarely do academics make such a singular impact on public policy, and across so many state boundaries. His life work preaching rigour in analysis and challenging accepted wisedom should be an inspiration for dynamism in policy creation, no matter of what variety: just because it is so, doesn't mean it shouldn't be forced to prove it is so. He has done well.

This is school

The living environs

Protesting in the free world

I'm frustrated by the antics of self-appointed thugs who hijack worthy causes like 'make poverty history'. I wish they'd acknowledge the efforts governments do make to improve the world. And I wish they'd pause to consider the complexity of the issues. I'm a little embarrassed for their sins of rational thought as much as for their acts of mindless criminality. A few thoughts that spilled from my de-radicalised fingers follow.....

Sweet democracy. Quietly it knits a web from our individual preferences to manage our complex societies. We get consulted from time to time, and do our best to appoint professionals to manage things in between. There are flaws, but its our least-worst option.

Democracy allows us to protest freely whenever we disagree - and whenever a flotilla of men in dark suits float into harbour. The wearing of suits is apparently secret code for "we want to crush the world's poor under the mighty fist of unrestrained capitalism." I have serious issues with such simplistic nonsense - just because it sounds good coming from a megaphone doesn't mean its right.

On Central Banks and democracy: I'm not alone in noting the central fallacy of the last federal election - the debate on which party would keep interest rates lower. Alas, the buck actually stops with the Reserve Bank Board - appointed men in dark suits. What does this mean for democracy? Should Central Banks be independent? And further, should we object when independent central banks meet alongside elected treasurers to discuss global issues? And what on earth does this have to do with throwing urine-filled water bombs at police outside a McDonalds restaurant?

There are a variety of views on Central banks independence. Perhaps the most persuasive argument in favour is in order to prevent elected governments from manipulating interest rates around election time. Studies of non-independent central banks showed a correlation between cuts in interest rates and elections. A cut a year out from an election would stimulate the economy, create more jobs, and reduce the size of mortgage repayments. It was also inflationary - but this was OK because the bad effects would only kick in after the election. But the punters are cleverer than governments. They came to expect a pre-election cut to rates, as well as the inflationary aftertaste and pegged wage claims accordingly. Wage claims offset the 'surprise stimulus' by introducing earlier inflation, making the whole process a little pointless - but that didn't remove the temptation.

So central banks were separated from the mothership and we all lived happily ever after, safe in the knowledge that 'long-termism' drives our monetary policy. Critics would have it that in this long-term planning, central bankers are biased by the aversion of their banking chums to inflation (it erodes the value of loans, the backbone of private banking profits). Fair enough, but without the capital in the first place we'd all be living in shacks and eating grass for dinner. Central banking is an arcane and intricate business. Decisions are made quietly, beyond the understanding of punters like me. Data gets crunched and decisions get made. What better target for the megaphoned claims of 'secrecy' 'conspiracy' and 'the slaughter of african babies.'

On the G20 Meeting: Should they be allowed to meet? Absolutely. The global depression in the 1930s came about in part through a lack of policy coordination between central banks and governments. Old recipes failed. New ones needed to be discovered. More talking, and more agreed cooperation may have averted the economic calamity that beset the world. The G20 grew out of the 1997 Asian financial crisis suggesting its intentions are generally honourable. 1997 caused great damage to the economies of South Korea, Indonesia, Thailand and beyond. And the people who paid the price were the poor, the unskilled and the vulnerable. Private money took on central bank money and won. Learning from this event, and planning for the next time private money loses faith in a developing country economy, seems eminently sensible.

So how to persuade Melbourne's missile throwing protesters that the G-20 meeting is virtuous. Perhaps Oxfam, (that supremely sensible NGO) could use its research nous to demonstrate the importance of central bank independence and coordination, particularly for the world's poor. Perhaps a counter-rally could remind the particularly violent protesters that they live in a democracy, a democracy (whatever its flaws) that elected the current Treasurer. Further, that the people of Soweto elected the Finance Minister who is representing South Africa at the G20 Meeting by a 67% majority - and they adore him because he is pro-growth and job creation. And that the Reserve Bank governor of South Africa was St Mandela's economic advisor. Complex issues deserve considered responses, not simple 'men in suits are bad' jingoism.

Throwing things at McDonalds was cool in Seattle a decade ago. In 2006 Bono wears a dark suit and engages world leaders in rational discussion. Same argument, different method - I know which I prefer.

The Barbican: Brutal or Beautiful

As arguments go, few are as irreconcilable as the question of what makes good art. Individual preferences can lead equally easily to speed-painted pink flamengos at sunset as to Jackson Pollock's famous poles. While all views should be valid, is it possible to set up a heirachy of preferences related to art. If 900 people prefer speed-painted flamingos hanging over their bed and 100 people prefer a screaming Pollock, is the former therefore better art? Or is good art only determined by scholarly debate. If 100 people in berets prefer Pollock and 900 people in acidwash jeans prefer flamingos, do the beret's votes carry 10 times more weight?

I ask this question in relation to London's Barbican - a 1960s mega-construction of galleries, theatres and housing, all draped in lumpy darkgrey concrete (even the book glorifying the construction describes the 'acres of concrete' as "relentless"). My first thought was "Hidious." Why build a block-size shrine to concrete in the middle of London's gorgeously weaving streets. I soon discovered that such a view ran contrary to the beret brigade - and indeed international architectural consensus. What we see is not a concrete monolith but a visionary example of post-war architecture - elevated pedestrian pathways, free from traffic and not a Victorian flourish in sight. But shouldn't art speak for itself, independant of Those Who Know. Just because a building is 'Important' doesn't mean its not hideously ugly, or even a mistake. Surely, inaccessibility should detract from worth.

Luckily speed-painted flamingos are not better art than Pollock despite being more accessible. There is a valid place for grand ideas and experiments. New ground must be broken somehow. So a middle ground might suggest that such 'visionary' efforts should be limited in scale (just in case they turn out to be horrendous). Jackson Pollock used big canvases but they can still be hidden inside a gallery and offset by calming Monets and Van Goughs. At 35 acres, the Barbican may be a test case for this principal of hideability.

By the hand of JM Keynes

This evening I opened a well thumbed volume of The Economic Consequences of the Peace, J M Keynes prescient warning on the harsh reparations imposed on Germany at Versaille. The effect of a thousand deferential fingers shows on the yellowed paper. The edition, printed in 1924, was donated to the LSE library from the effects of Sir Montague Burton, a prominant Jewish industrialist knighted for his services to industrial relations - he fed and provided free dental and eyecare to his textile factory workers. Turning to the preface of the book, I noticed that it has been signed, in grey-blue ink, by "JM Keynes 18 May 1938" - touched by the man himself just as his pessimism saw effect and the world descended into war, again. He writes:

"In this autumn of 1919, in which I write, we are at the dead season of our fortunes. The reaction from the exertions, the fears, and the sufferings of the past five years is at its height. Our power of feeling or caring beyond the immediate questions of our own material well-being is temporarily eclipsed. The greatest events outside our own direct experience and the most dreadful anticipations cannot move us. We have been moved beyond endurance, and need rest. Never in the lifetime of men now living has the universal element in the soul of man burnt so dimly."

about blogs.....

There is a button near the top of your screen that encourages the blogging equivalent of channel surfing. I suggest you try it in moderation - "next blog". There is an army of people out there sharing their views with the world. So many that my faith in the uniqueness of my creation is shaken. For example, in my short journey away from 'bidip' I discovered the following:

A knitting catlady who writes extensively on both topics.
A treatise on the problems with bus routes in Israel.
A site of shoe pictures from Spain.
An author of "paranormal romance novels" from Texas
A rustic looking poet from Crete
A camera-photo record of life in New york
The progressive renovations of a groteque American cottage
And this lil piece of gold http://wikidumper.blogspot.com/

All these are windows into people's unique little worlds. Peeking at some feels a little invasive. People are very honest - and the world is watching! But are they? Do these words disappear into the misty swamps of the web's antipodes? Is there a reader for every word written?

Inspired by catlady, my self-disciplines henceforth will be these - I will aim for brevity. I will only write sentences that add something new to the world. I will never write "nothing happened today." And I will be utterly unfussed if my words are destined for the swamp.

But for Sharon from Kansas who has three kids and a husband in the army and likes stamps, I dearly hope lots of people read your words because you sound like a genuinely good sort.

UFOs and Kylie's Bum

Further to the below there appears no quality differential between the free-for-all papers and those that cost pennies . The friday Daily Mail adopts an open approach to factual standards with "The aliens are coming, warns ex-MOD chief."Apparently while heading the Ministry of Defence 'UFO Project' Mr Nick Pope learned that other lifeforms have visited earth "and more specifically Britain." But having quit defence for a career writing about alien life (is this a euphemism for being institutionalised) Mr Pope is very concerned that MoD cost-cutting is leaving Britain "wide open to aliens". *cough* Luckily page three dealt with more temporal matters - the size of Kylie's bum (3/4 page "Does my bum look big in this? Er, yes, Kylie").

And in an example of the 'time-inconsistency' problem applied to cricket, the Mail's back page seemed not to notice England's flogging in Canberra. Back page headline: "G'day mates, the name's Flintoff" with a pic of exhuberant high-fiving english players - clearly quite early in the game. An article inside ("Aussies running out of players") draws a connection between the rural drought and the imminent demise of Australia's cricket geritocracy. Apparently all Aussie cricketers drive combine harvester and crop dusters in their spare time. Stereotype is a powerful thing!

Tittle Tattle but no Tut Tut

It is amazing that in the spiritual home of newspapers so much dros gets published. The Financial Times and Guardian aside*, the average p-geezer gets by on a daily diet of scandal, and expose - the literary equivalent of pork pies and deep fried mars bars. Do they love it? A sample observation of tube readers suggests no link between reading about Kate Moss's cocaine-fueled exploits and inner happiness. The train is confettied with free copies of the 'London Paper' and 'London Lite' - enough tittle tattle to fill a thousand Herald Sun's - and yet nobody breaks the vow of tube silence. Not even a private "tut tut" about the latest ministerial orgy. S I L E N C E. And visual silence too - no smirks cracking through the morning makeup. After the 15 minute tube ride the rag is tossed aside as if it added no value, delivered no news, and provoked no inner conversation at all.

So why publish them? Does the content gestate for a few hours and re-emerge at coffee break, or in the pub at night, or on the extra-marital pillow? Perhaps they are published to enable tube riders to avoid eye contact with other punters. Perhaps in time the 'news' will come to replace 'weather' as Britain's conversational flotsam of choice. And there's so much juicy material, whether or not its complete bollocks. A recent edition reported a rapid increase in tropical fish in English waters due to climate change - including a mermaid sighting at Cornwall! Can we expect a country happy to be delivered news riddled with the tangential fantasies of work experience copyboys. Why not I guess - after a long day punching keys, perhaps nothing cushions a ride home to suburbia like a smattering of political humiliation, celebrity gossip and starsigns that predict good weather.

*hereby acknowledging my newspaper snobbery but hoping it is offset by my affection for both left and right wing rags.

Woe woe woe (a lament on intercontinental sporting shame)

A simple but timely question - why do we Aussies vest our national reputational responsibilities in the unreliable hands of sportsmen? In two deft (daft) manoevers our fittest and most-mulleted have again reminded the world of our capacity for boof-headedness. In India and Ireland the bombastic behaviour of our sportsmen threatens to untie the solid bonds of friendship. Someone needs to remind our lads that - and the cliche rings true - its not just about winning!

Sadly, our best moments on the sporting field in recent years have been in defeat. Our graciousness in losing the ashes temporarily restored humility to the arsenal of our cricket team. Even Shane Warne looked like an adult. And our sad tumble out of the soccer world cup reminded us of the microcosm within which we 'dominate' international sport - Commonwealth Games ooh aah. It seems we need to lose more often to remember again the rewards and responsibilities of winning.

So my recommendation for the day is set up a giant shiny mirror running from Karatha to Cairns. We could see ourselves as the world see us: myopic in our pursuit of sporting success; bursting with hubris; and convinced our geographical blessings were hard-earned. Unfortunately I now see exhibitions of national sporting pride through the prism of Cronulla - boorish, exclusionary and utterly lacking in self-awareness.

But perhaps national pride is just universally ugly. It is by definition exclusive - to be enjoyed only by those whose fortune of birth aligns them with the winning colours. Short of abolishing nations and all other forms of human grouping, we're stuck with it. So in this imperfectible world our lads could use a few lessons in fair play, graciousness in victory and reputational responsibility off the field. Then I can stop feeling embarrased about something over which I have no control, and avoid tarring the good sports amongst us with the Cronulla brush.

I'm a convert to the cycle. Little did I realise that while I was feretting around underground, jamming my poor nostrils into the un-deoderised armpits of strangers, above ground cyclists were happily weaving among the buses and taxi's and winning the race. So now I've joined them. It takes less than half an hour from home to school (downhill-ish) and on the way back the slope is compensated for by the lack of traffic (17 minutes door to door the other night). And I have a set of flashing halogen lights that make me viewable on google earth. The benefits are threefold: no tube fare everyday; arriving at school with a 30 minutes blast of oxygen in my brain; and the acquisition of a modicum of fitness. Not to mention the sudden absence of armpits from my life. Best of all I now join the sanctimonious elite of bike riders who scowl angrily at the drivers of carbon burning steel monsters - in a city like L there is just no excuse, unless you're posh or famous, both of which are fair cause. Ah the sweet carbon-monoxide scent of the high moral ground :)