Keep on Truckin'

This week California passed legislation for a trial of computer-assisted driverless vehicles. I don't think they're ever going to catch on.

If other motorists are anything like me, the feeling of being in control is an enjoyable sensation and giving up this control would be akin to simply catching public transport. The only real advantage would be slightly fewer objectionable odours, stains and unhinged fellow commuters.

My main concern, though, is how people will release the pent-up anger and aggression that driving affords as an outlet for the average citizen. This is especially worrying in The United States where citizens have 'the right to bear arms'.

I, myself, have been known to transform from the affable Dr Jekyll that the world has come to know and love, to a sinister Mr Hyde when placed behind the wheel of a car. I'm only aware of this when there are passengers in the car with me and another car cuts me off. After the 'red mist' of rage subsides, I often notice fear and shock in my passengers' eyes. This is usually followed by a scramble for the door handle. It seems that most people would rather take their chances and jump from the car at high speed, than be in a car with the beast that has been unleashed.

This is my natural driving state and it only recently occurred to me that this is probably how my daughter picks up naughty words that I'm careful to avoid saying around the house.

There are things I simply love about driving, especially rituals involved with the long-distance road trip. I love leaving the comfort of the big city and encountering the little signs that let you know you're in the country, such as bristly-hair still on bacon ordered from road houses and milk-skin on coffee that you order by the mug. I even like whispered insults directed at us city-slicker types from the burly men in the exclusive 'truckies' section of these road houses.

One of my favourite overheard insults was on a trip with my friend Glenn. One truckie saw us approaching, rolled his eyes and whispered to his friend "Here comes George and Mildred."

Glenn has always had quite bouffant hair, so I suppose I'm George:

I have to admit, it does hurt my pride, though, as I find the idea of being a truck driver rather appealing. I like the idea of constantly moving and seeing new things and people every day, as well as honest work where you can see the fruits of your labour and friendships forged with people that may live hundreds of kilometres apart.

I also like country music compilations purchased from service stations (preferably on cassette), mystery food from bain-maries, cheap sun glasses and souvenir truckers' caps. I like those beaded orthopaedic seat covers that truckers always seem to have and the way kids in cars always do the 'pulling motion' to get truckers to blow their horns.

In my flights of fancy, I envisage that I'd become a talked about and beloved figure, bringing a wry smile to the faces of fellow truckers and a sparkle in the eyes of weary waitresses, when they see my rig approaching. I would graduate to being one of the elite few in the 'truckies only' section, exchanging knowing stares with other truckies when hapless city folk wander into my world.

Sadly and inevitably, one day waitresses and patrons along The Pacific Highway will be concerned that 'Big Trev' hasn't made his scheduled stop and will be inconsolable when they hear the tragic news that I have died. Considering the lifestyle, it will most likely be as a result of complications from diabetes. I know I will have died happy, though, after leading a productive and honest life, with my only secret being the location of the graves of all the missing hitch-hikers over the past few decades.

Even though I'm not a truckie, I have learned a lot about the lifestyle through innumerable trips between Brisbane, Sydney and Melbourne playing in rock bands. The first thing you learn is whether people are cut out for this lifestyle. I remember on our first trip to Melbourne, our van hit a kangaroo at about 2am in the morning. Everyone scrambled to inspect the damage and consider our options - except for our singer at the time, John - who pretended to be asleep. We were all flabbergasted! Sure, it's important to turn a blind eye on occasions when you're in a band, but this was neither the time nor the place. The band didn't last past this first visit to Melbourne.

On another trip to Melbourne (with a different singer), our friend Martin came along. We didn't have to take any musical gear, so we only hired a sedan instead of a Tarago. The journey, whilst event-free, was hellish, with poor old Martin stuck in the back seat in the middle between two drooling, drunken, smelly boys, asleep and leaning against him. This seemed like a life-changing trip for Martin, as soon after he got married, had some kids and basically straightened-up and flew-right. I'd like to think we helped him gain some perspective on his life through that trip, but the lesson I took away was 'don't skimp on the Tarago if you can afford it.'

The horrors of being trapped in the back seat are enough to make me happily drive entire trips from Brisbane to Sydney without changing drivers - but I'm not a Nazi about it - if someone offers to take over then that's okay. This is one of several unspoken etiquettes that exist on the road.

Others include:

• The driver is in charge of the stereo (once again, don't be a Nazi about it, though!)
• Whoever rides shotgun has to navigate (if need be.)
• There needs to be a popular consensus on bathroom stops and you can't just stop every time one person needs to go.

As with anything, it's always important to set goals. When we would travel from Brisbane to Sydney overnight I always liked to time it so that we would arrive in Sydney at about 9am for breakfast in Newtown (Lou Jacks was a popular destination). An early arrival would mean you would then have the whole day to muck around, shop and book into hotels before playing a show in the evening. It makes sense, but a lot of road tricks I have picked up through trial and error.

Here are some of them:

• Get plenty of sleep before going on a big trip.
• Don't drink too much coffee if you're driving. Drink water instead. This way you stay hydrated and know when you're actually too tired to drive.
• Don't drink too much water or you'll need to stop for the bathroom too often.
• If the car is aquaplaning then don't slam on the brakes.
• Similarly, if a load of building materials falls off a truck and heads towards you, try and drive around the obstacle rather than stopping. (This actually happened!)
• If you have a trailer, don't get into a situation where you have to reverse out of a park. If you do have to reverse with a trailer, then remember to turn the wheel in the opposite direction to the one in which you want the trailer to go.

Writing this blog does instil a sense of nostalgia in me and is a painful reminder that I haven't done a road trip in a few years. Maybe I'll do something about that one of these days. I realise I'll probably never be a truckie, but that still won't stop me from grabbing a country music compilation and hitting the road.

In the meantime, I hope I've offered some informative tips and helped ignite a passion for motoring in you, dear reader.

Maybe someday I'll see you out on the roads!

Just don't cut me off!

I Won the Lotto!

About seven years ago I lives in a suburb called Lutwyche in Brisbane. Our house was literally across the road from a pub called 'The Crown'. The food there was okay and most of the patronage consisted of a bunch on uninspired-looking locals who basked miserably in the gloomy atmosphere of a half-hearted attempt to fit-out the decor in an 'Irish' theme.

The main reason that anyone seemed to bother going to the pub was to enjoy the delights of the 'gaming room', where a plethora of pokie machines were crammed into a cordoned-off section from the main room, leaving narrow corridors for punters to sit uncomfortably amongst the whirring noises and flashing lights.

Some afternoons during the week, I would find myself at a loose end and amble on over to play the pokies and have a beer. Sometimes I would win, but more often than not I would probably lose about forty dollars. I went in quite prepared to lose this amount. I saw no real harm in this activity and only felt guilty in the same way a pigeon might, as he continuously presses a buzzer to be rewarded with birdseed in some sort of laboratory experiment.

Something happened one day, though, that changed my mind.

As usual, I was sitting at my favourite machine trying not to make eye-contact with the endless stream of pensioners that entered the establishment. I couldn't help noticing that a girl sitting next to me was unusually young-looking. I hastily glanced over and conceded that she could be old enough to be here - after all she seemed to be quite comfortable smoking her cigarette and drinking her beer. She also had the resigned look of someone who is used to gambling and losing. To top it all off - she was also about six months pregnant!

It would be an hilarious joke if it wasn't true. It's like some ghastly skit about how bad a start in life you had, which is why you could never catch a break.

"I was born to a single mother with gambling problems who smoked and drank while pregnant. Now I have severe learning disabilities and the only job I'm fit for is a politician!"

Suddenly, it didn't seem like just mindless fun anymore. The pub and the gambling industry itself seemed to be complicit in profiting from the disadvantaged. I pretty much gave up going to The Crown soon after this and now don't really gamble except for the occasional game of Keno. I'd like to say it was because I nobly took a stance against the injustice of the industry, but the truth is I think I just figured out I wasn't a very good gambler.

Last week, however, I reverted to my old ways. Along with around eight million other Australians I partook in the Oz Lotto super-duper mega-draw that had the staggeringly-large jackpot of $100 million. I did an online quick-pick which cost about $15 and made me feel very uncomfortable as I strongly disapprove of the ads being shown with Merv Hughes about how 'easy' it is to bet online.

After I made the bet, it annoyed me that I spent the rest of the day considering how I would spend the $100 million, even though I knew full-well that the chances of winning were one in 3.7 million. They don't call it the idiot-tax for nothing!

I fortunately know that I'm bad with money, but news reports where they would ask random pensioners  what they would do with the winnings further incensed me. Most of the answers were along the lines of 'Oh I'd go on a nice holiday and give some money to my family' - Do these people know how much $100 million dollars is? People with no imagination should not be allowed to win the prize. Off the top of my head, how about:

'I would hire someone to vanquish my enemies'

'I would drape myself in the finest silks and be carried everywhere by pole-bearers'

'I would rent advertising space on billboards around the country which would feature my smiling and benevolent face'

'I would buy-back the bones of The Elephant Man from the Michael Jackson estate'

These are all good suggestions, but whenever a jackpot this size comes along it's always accompanied by muck-raking current affairs stories about people who have won the lotto and blown the lot.

Keeping this in mind, I eventually decided that the best thing to do would be to try and keep relatively busy and just live off the interest from the money. After careful consideration, I decided that buying a vineyard would be the best idea. Sure, I have no skills in farming and whenever I look at a plant it seems to visibly wilt, but, being suddenly independently wealthy, it would not matter if I made a profit or actually produced anything at all. In fact, it'd be beneficial! I wouldn't end up drinking the proceeds of the vineyard and inevitably become a bloated alcoholic corpse.

Being the glass-half-empty guy that I am, this initial rush of euphoria didn't last long. I could still envision myself winning this fortune, but I also started to contemplate the trappings of my winnings. If the fact that you had won became common knowledge, surely you would be accosted at your home by pan-handlers and charitable organisations? It's annoying being harassed by companies like Greenpeace (who I fundamentally agree with) when I'm broke. Imagine what it would be like if I actually had some money!

Security would suddenly be an issue. What if all the people that knew about my dark and sordid past suddenly decided to blackmail me? Even worse, what if someone decided to kidnap my daughter and hold her for a huge ransom? I would then have to hire some Liam Neeson-like character to get her back. Sure, I could just pay the ransom, but I don't negotiate with terrorists!

By the time the draw came around on Tuesday night, I was secretly hoping that I wouldn't win. I didn't watch it live, but I was notified of the result the day after, by email. Just as logic would predict, I had failed to win anything. My secret relief was tempered by an annoyance that in some games I didn't get a single number.

This week, I'm glad to not have that false-hope eating away in the back of my mind. If I think objectively, I really have won the lottery. I'm a fairly well-educated middle-class white man living in a pretty well-off country, I've had a relatively incident-free upbringing and now have a happy and healthy family myself. The world is geared towards people like me to succeed.

So why does it often not seem like enough?

Ultimately, I think gambling appeals to the worst aspects of people's characters. For the majority of people it's probably just greed, but the real bad guys in my opinions are the ones in charge of the gambling syndicates who feed off people's desperation, when odds are stacked so far against the punter. Ozlotto is innocuous enough and a lot of lotteries even give back to the community, but maybe these lotteries make gambling seem commonplace and harmless which could entice susceptible people to more dangerous forms of gambling.

Of course, this could all just be a bunch of sour grapes from my now-unattainable vineyard.

* * * * * 

By the way readers. The title of this blog isn't as misleading as you might think. My wife Edwina actually won $48 in the lottery. This begs the question 'How much money would someone have to win before you would consider murdering them?'

Luckily for Edwina I think it would have to be at least triple-figures

Bad Hair

I think it's true for all of us that there is a divide between how we see ourselves and how others see us.

In my mind I see myself as a foppish English private school boy, skipping merrily along the riverbank on the way to rugger practice with my chums - thick, lustrous locks blowing in the wind and a long fringe dangling playfully over one eye.

The reality is somewhat different. I'm a 41 year-old Aussie house-husband desperately trying to hold on to some 1990s slacker ideology. My hair is grey and wiry with a receding hairline that gives a sort of silver-mohawk effect, like some sort of over-used toilet brush that's being sold at a garage sale.

It's not what you'd call a best-case scenario.

I'm lucky, however, because I was able to hang onto my hair long enough to trick a woman into loving me and eventually marrying me. Freed from the fear of having to appeal to the opposite sex, I can now happily let myself go to seed. I do feel sorry for the poor girl, though, because what she ended up with probably looked a whole lot better in the catalogue. Buyer beware!

There is the fear in the back of my mind that I might one day find myself single again. Going on a blind date with a woman now would be the stuff of nightmares and I think I would spend the whole date apologising for my lack of sex appeal as large clumps of hair drift down into my soup bowl. The date probably wouldn't even make it to the main course. Afterwards I would retreat to catacombs under the city where I would hide away from the prying eyes of strangers and the cruel unforgiving glare of the sunlight. At least here I would be some sort of urban myth and create an air of mystery!

For the past few years I have gone to the barber sporadically and in-between have tried to cultivate an Albert Einstein look. Because I'm such a cheapskate, I consider it value for money, but also I don't enjoy the look of nervousness from barbers who seem to be trying to hide an 'Oh my god - there's nothing I can do for this guy' look of terror on their faces.

If I'm honest, I think even my attempt to look like Einstein has been unsuccessful.

I think I look like this:

When in reality I probably look more like this:

I do feel a twinge of guilt when I think about the amount of time and energy I have spent worrying about my hair and what I can do with it. Surely this energy could have been better utilised exploring world's beyond our solar system, or finding a cure for the myriad ailments that ravage our modern world?

I think it's only fair, therefore, that I share some of my exhaustive research with you, dear friends.  

After careful consideration about the best possible hairstyle for a balding man, I consider this to be the champion: 

That's right folks! The Danny Devito bald ponytail as featured in the movie 'Twins' wins my vote as the best hairstyle a bald man can attempt.

My reasoning for this is that, above all, you have to own your baldness and nothing shouts out 'I'm bald!' more than the contrast between the hair at the back of your head and veritable desert that exists on top. I realise that anyone attempting this hairstyle has to be supremely confident and not every man can pull this off without the added benefit of being a beloved Hollywood movie star and powerful force in the entertainment industry.

For the less successful bald man I would offer this advice:

The worst thing you can do is the combover. Wake up! - you're not fooling anybody. Also, don't waste your money on any lotions that promise miracle results or wigs. My theory behind this is that even if you can fool everybody else, ultimately you can't fool yourself. I'm sure that when Shane Warne looks in the mirror every night he still sees a chubby little baked-bean eating rampant texter with thinning hair, rather than the supermodel-dating Sam Newman-apeing nightmare he has become.

It's almost another issue entirely, but hair should also be age-appropriate and even those blessed with ample follicles should try and at least have a hairstyle that reflects the dignity of their years. Those desperately but unsuccessfully hanging on to their youthful 'dos include Paul McCartney, Rod Stewart, Ronnie Wood and Elton John's 'ginger wig'.

Only African-Americans and possibly Asians should attempt the 'shaved head' look. Sam Jackson looks cool, but Britney Spears looks less-so with a shaved head. There's an important message here - if you're going to attempt this look- make sure you're head has a good shape and is free from scars. Also, a lot of men seem to couple the 'shaved head' look with ample facial hair which, to me, gives the impression that they secretly hope their facial hair will migrate to their head.

The best look, in my opinion, for the less-confident bald-headed man is what I call the 'Sting' look:

There's enough stubble to suggest that he's aware of his receding hairline and he still proudly shows it off. He also has a great-shaped head and has an air of confidence and acceptance.

Unfortunately for the average bald-headed man, Sting also possesses a fabulous physique, piercing blue eyes, strong cheekbones and an insatiable tantric sex drive.

Oh dear - If you want me I'll be hiding down in the catacombs.  

Five Thousand Blog Views

Well folks - My blog has been viewed five thousand times since I started it in February!

Huzzah!

My new year's resolution was to do one blog entry a week for a year. I believe this one is my 36th, so I'm well on track. I can't remember what the purpose was when I started, but I think it had something to do with sharing my unique vision with the world. Now that I lead a hermit-like existence I am no-longer able to chew people's ears off at the pub with my relentless yabbering, so I now consider this to be my primary pointless-conversation outlet. It's probably a useful mental-health activity, too. It can't be healthy keeping this amount of bullshit to yourself!

In hindsight, it might have been a good idea to find out what a blog was before I started. I'm still not sure. I don't really read other people's blogs unless I stumble across them or else I'm personally directed to them by the author. I know enough about blogs to be relatively sure that five thousand views in nine months is not a particularly good strike-rate. I think it averages out to about one hundred and forty views per week.

I normally attack new projects with an unbridled enthusiasm coupled with unrealistic expectations - and my blog is no exception. Surely there would be an incremental amount of views every week as my fan base sky-rocketed? I naively thought that every one of my blogs would receive views every week, so by this reckoning I should now be celebrating a readership in the millions... Sadly, this has not been the case.

Those that know me well are aware that I'm prone to daydreaming and in my best-case scenario at the beginning of this project I expected by now to be some sort of internet-sensation with perhaps a book deal in the works, a weekly agony-aunt column in a major metropolitan newspaper and the likes of Rupert Murdoch and James Packer knocking down my door; desperate to secure my services to help them steer their media empires into profitability in the new millenium. I would smile and wave my hand casually dismissing Packer and Murdoch saying 'no deal - I'm an artist, not a businessman' - and they would skulk away dejectedly with their shoulders hunched.

Honestly, I think this integrity may have prevented my blog being more successful. One of my most popular blogs on a week-to-week basis was called 'The Tree - Gorillas in the Midst' which was about the invisible hierarchy that existed at my high-school. It wasn't a particularly great piece of writing, but when checking my statistics I noticed that a search for 'Silverback Gorillas' had brought people to my page. The story only has a passing mention of gorillas and a picture. I thought this wasn't fair to all the gorilla enthusiasts out there, so I deleted it.

My most popular blog by far has been about The Kinks and revolves around my love for the relatively obscure but excellent album 'The Kinks are The Village Green Preservation Society'. The Kinks' website 'Kinda Kinks' posted a link to my article which increased my readership about tenfold (for that week, anyway). If I was clever I would have just written about The Kinks every week, but this would have been against my different-story-every-week mandate.

Which is not to say I'm completely without a commercial sensibility. I've reviewed other albums such as 'Talking Heads '77', 'Modern Lovers: Live!' and 'Aaron Freeman's Marvelous Clouds' to relatively successful ends. In other instances I've even left in references to such obscure things as The Salvador Dali Museum, Bob Dylan, Tuxedo t-shirts and Party Zone Pinball because they lead readers to my page even though the blogs are ostensibly not about these subjects at all.

I must admit to writing about 'populist' subjects on several occasions just to see how it would affect the traffic to my site and while '500 Episodes of The Simpsons' was quite popular, other populist attempts such as 'My Thoughts on Prometheus' and the Star Wars-referencing 'Parents Against Light Sabres' proved less-so. It made me consider that a subject can be so popular that any writings about it can be simply lost in the deluge of internet garbage. Writing about subjects with a small but dedicated fan-base seems to produce better results unless you're a big-name writer or writing for a popular website.

Some of my favourite blogs have involved re-posting some of my stories I wrote as a child, such as 'The Beginning of Life on The Moon' and 'The Tin City'. I was literally in tears of laughter re-reading some of these, but I think some of the tears may have involved lamenting that my story-telling abilities have actually decreased since I was ten years old. I think I managed to successfully channel the spirit of the young Trevor in blogs such as 'A Portrait of The Artist', 'Thanks for the Advice, Gina' and 'Omega Man', which involved fictionally extrapolating real life scenarios. At least it seems I haven't lost my passion for science fiction and flights of ridiculous fantasy.

While statistics can be encouraging, they can also be frustrating, because you don't know exactly who those readers are. I often mention that I write a blog to friends to see how they react and am usually greeted by blank stares. This could be taken a number of ways:

1. They haven't read it.
2. They have read it and think it's awful.
3. They are dumb-struck by my genius.
4. There is a secret pact between my family and friends to stage an 'intervention' any day now to stop me from continuing this ridiculous and destructive pursuit.

Ultimately, I do this blog for myself, but I was recently surprised and perturbed to discover my wife doesn't regularly read my blog. She does ask about it, though and encourages me to keep going.

Other sources of encouragement I would like to thank are: Raychel Plath, David Hannah, Michelle Ransom, Karen Ludlow, Mum and Dad, Ben Corbett, Heinz Reigler, Chris Yates, Cameron Collie, Jo Thomasson, Debbie Winther, Cameron Allen, Matt Lobb, Dan Barrett and anyone else that may have re-tweeted or shared a link to this blog.

Finally here's a link to the trailer for 'Twilight: Breaking Dawn Part II.' It's a steaming pile of shit, but it might inadvertently attract hapless readers.

I'll see you all next week!

Love,

Trev x

Trev's Halloween Horror-Movie Primer

I spend a lot of the day watching children's films with my four-year-old daughter. While I enjoy a lot of the films and even get a bit teary and emotional during some, I still like to spend my adult viewing time watching people be dismembered, possessed, stalked and tortured.

I love horror movies!

When I was a kid, I think I just wanted to watch horror films because I knew it was a taboo. It was also the early 80s and the golden age of VHS and horror films. Even today, nothing beats that grainy picture and warped sound you get from a tape that has been watched hundreds of times. I think it really adds to the macabre movie experience.

The first film I remember being truly terrified by was 'An American Werewolf in London' - especially the iconic practical-effects 'transformation' scene that was later appropriated by Michael Jackson for his 'Thriller' video. After countless horrific nightmares and waking up in cold sweats, it eventually dawned on me that the film was actually a comedy. Even more recently I was watching a re-run of it on TV and noticed that one of the evil townsfolk at the inn on the moors at the beginning of the film was Rik Mayall from 'The Young Ones'!

Our neighbours were a bit older than us and one weekend in the 1980s we spent an afternoon watching horror films at their house. This was a momentous afternoon in my horror education. This is where I first became aware of David Cronenberg's work through the film 'Scanners'. I later became a big fan of Cronenberg, but I will admit that Scanners is not his best film. It was visceral enough to get my attention at the time, though.

Another film we watched that left an impression, but has been almost universally forgotten since was 'Deadly Blessing'. I actually came across a copy recently for five dollars at a newsagent and noticed it was directed by Wes Craven who went on to do the 'Nightmare on Elm Street' films as well as the 'Scream' franchise. I didn't buy it - but in hindsight, it probably would have been worth it for the cover alone! My reasoning at the time was it probably hasn't held up too well and I didn't want to spoil my horrific memories of tiny flying orbs that would dig into your skull and then drill a hole in your brain! Some memories are too precious to taint.

I've never been a big Wes Craven fan, but I increasingly became a fan of David Cronenberg's over the years. It was when his version of  'The Fly' came out when I was in my teens, that the rusty penny in regard to horror films dropped once again. I read a review that stated 'The Fly' was an allegory for the AIDS epidemic and since that point I have re-evaluated a lot of horror films I loved and noticed subtext that I had missed previously. I came to realise that horror films weren't necessarily mindless violence after all!

Of course, horror films are not known for their subtlety and it now seems rather obvious that slasher films such as 'Halloween' and 'Friday the 13th' (which were made in the 1970s) were a reaction to the sexual promiscuity of the 1960s and 1970s. Usually in these films the promiscuous teens would get picked off first, followed by the stoners and various other delinquents until only the 'virtuous' teenage girl survives.

Other films have slightly more subtle messages. John Carpenter's 'They Live' and George Romero's 'Dawn of the Dead' are about rampant consumerism. 'Night of The living Dead' has themes regarding civil rights and a lot of 1950s sci-fi horrors including the excellent 'Invasion of the Body Snatchers' concern the cold war. It seems most really good horror films reflect the fears of the time and even James Whale's 'Frankenstein', which is based on Mary Shelley's gothic classic, was updated to reflect the horrors of mutilated soldiers returning from war.

Really great horror films are able to tap into primordial fears, which is probably why a film such as the 1922 silent German expressionist film 'Nosferatu' (which is a thinly-veiled Dracula rip-off) still works so well. The dimly lit, grainy black and white really taps into that caveman-like fear of what is lurking just beyond the camp-fire light.

I suppose the dominant form of horror these days is known as 'torture porn' and I'm not really a great fan because a lot of the subtext is replaced with just a barrage of senseless violence designed to test an audience's threshold. This, in itself can be construed as a comment on the casual violence everybody puts up with from the media on a day-to-day basis, but as a viewer I often need a little more than that.

There are exceptions to the rule, of course and I think the film 'Hostel' is quite clever in the scene where sadistic rich people bid for the right to kill an American tourist. The tourist buys enough time to escape by saying something to his captor in his native German, which makes the captor hesitate. There are no subtitles and the onus is turned back on the audience (who are most likely westerners that speak only english) to consider that if they were in the same situation they would most probably die.

Although it is considered more of an 'art' film Michael Haneke's 'Funny Games' also toys with audience  culpability. The story concerns a home invasion by two psychotic youths. They perform various acts of torture and violence toward the family. There is one shot where one of the youths breaks the fourth wall and says something along the lines of 'this isn't going to end well' directly to the audience. He's basically daring you to keep watching, even though you know nobody is going to survive. I have to confess here that I only watched a further twenty minutes of the film. I couldn't see the point in taking the dare if you knew what the outcome would be. I'll try and watch the whole thing one-day, but I appreciate the film as a social comment.

Haneke actually made two versions of 'Funny Games' - one in his native Austria and a more recent Hollywood version. I must confess - I've only seen the Hollywood version. This is usually the case with me and even during the brief explosion of Japanese Horror, I really only managed to see the American version of 'The Ring'. My defence for not seeing the original is simple - I thought the remake was pretty good! Perhaps a lot of the defenders of Japanese horror are being overly precious, but I must admit to scoffing at the thought of seeing the Hollywood remake of the Swedish film 'Let The Right One In' because I think the original is a modern classic and shouldn't be tampered with. I admit to a double standard here.

Takashi Miike's 'Audition' is also quite an interesting 'torture porn' film. It's unusual because the first three quarters of the film are almost a gentle-romance, where a lonely businessman 'auditions' women for a film part that does not exist in the hope of finding a girlfriend, only to be excruciatingly tortured at length by the object of his affections during a the final 20 minutes of the film. Surely, this could be seen as a pay-back to all those 70s slasher films that dared to pass judgement on women's promiscuity?

Luckily, there seems to be a trend to more 'classic' storytelling in modern times and I quite like the recent films of director Ti West who made 'House of the Devil' and 'The Innkeepers'. West's films are almost a throwback to classic 1970s and 1980s horrors but probably with more of an emphasis of character development. I think he appreciates that you need to understand and care for a character, so it matters later in the film whether they live or die.

Another director I quite like is Guillermo Del Toro. His early horror film Cronos, which concerns a wind-up brooch that offers eternal life but turns the owner into a blood-sucking monster, is certainly unique, and while he went off the boil a bit when he made the Hollywood film 'Mimic', he certainly returned to horror-form with 'The Devil's Backbone' and, of course 'Pan's Labyrinth'. 'Pan's Labyrinth' is great because it can be taken as a fairy story, an escapist fantasy or a film about the brutalites of war. It's this blurring of the lines between what is real and imagined that I quite like, which is further explored in two Spanish films that Del Toro produced for directors JA Bayona 'The Orphange' and Guillem Morales 'Julia's Eyes'.

Perhaps Del Toro understands the link between fairy tales and horror. Surely, fairy stories, like horror stories, are designed to help audiences deal with and confront hidden fears. They may even help people  hide from the horrors of the real world. With this in mind, I reckon my daughter and I do not have such different tastes in movies after all.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Here We Go!

I travelled to my spiritual home of Brisbane this weekend. The flight up and the return flight were both ridiculously early in the morning, so I abstained from partaking in my usual in-flight nerve-calming routine of downing a red wine, playing a sudoko and zoning out to my iPod due to societal pressure. In fact, I pretty much just fell asleep straight after take-off and didn't wake up until just before landing. It made me wonder if I had actually gotten over my irrational fear of flying.

I did, however, scan the faces of the flight attendants to try and detect any traces of fear behind the painted-on smiles. I also weighed-up the other passengers to see if I could defeat them in a fist-fight and scramble over their incapacitated bodies to the emergency escape hatches if the need arose. I never pay much attention to the safety demonstrations, but I assume they say something along the lines of 'every man for himself'.

My mind is usually drawn to the same morbid questions when I fly. 'Should I get life insurance?', 'Will my superannuation cover the lavish cost of my funeral?' and 'Will the person next to me be some dim-witted bore who insists on telling me their life story?' I do marvel at the wonders of flight - but I do so in the same way as comedian Steven Wright does. He said something along the lines of 'I don't think it's amazing that airplanes can fly through the air, I think it's amazing that you can sit there at 30 thousand feet and order a coke.' We have taken all the romance and wonder out of flying and simply turned it into a below-average dining experience.

I think my fear of flying comes from the flight resembling an existential allegory for life. Sure you can influence to a certain extent what happens in the cabin on a flight, but ultimately it is up to the captain to decide how long the flight will take and the final destination. I'm a nervous passenger in a car and in a plane I also feel the same lack of control. I, personally, would feel much happier flying the plane, but I think the rest of the passengers would be supremely less-happy.

No passenger wants the story of their flight to end like an episode of 'Air Crash Investigation'. I still remember one episode I watched in which the captain lost control of a massive 747. They played an extract from the black box flight recorder of the captain speaking seconds before the plane crashed - killing everyone on board - and the only three words he said in a relaxed but resigned tone were 'Here we go!' - it still sends chills down my spine.

When I turned 25, I thought it would be a good milestone to try and get a different perspective on the narrative of flight - so I decided to go sky-diving at Byron Bay. I thought it'd make me feel like I'd defeated my fears and gained control of my own destiny, but ultimately all it did was make me feel nauseous and realise that birthdays are really just a perfunctory number with no cosmic significance. Also - my friend John who went on the jump with me and went back to Brisbane first, basked in all the adulation for his bravery - even though I was the one who jumped first!

I wasn't always afraid of flying and I remember as a kid travelling to England when I was about seven. I loved it! I have fond memories of eating ice-cream, visiting the cockpit and receiving many souvenirs and smiles from the hostesses. I probably even wanted to be a pilot for a while, before realising how much attention in school it would require to achieve this goal.

I didn't really fly again until my early twenties. There were economic reasons for this because there was very little competition among airlines in Australia and it was simply too expensive. The major airline has always been Qantas but there were other major players who came and went over the years with the most notable being TAA. This, combined with my incredible poverty, did not eventuate in air travel being available to plebs like me until young guns such as Virgin Blue and Tiger Airways showed their faces on the scene - god bless you capitalism!

A notable and extravagantly expensive flight I remember taking in 1992 was to the first Big Day Out concert in Sydney. I think it was the first flight I had taken since I was a kid! I was hoping to be lavished with the same attention as I had back then, but the flight crew didn't seem to take as kindly to a drunk twenty-somethings who hadn't washed in three days as they had to a cute little seven year-old boy. Instead of ice cream and a visit to the cockpit, flight attendants looked nervous and tactfully asked passengers who were near us if they were interested in changing seats. They all gladly accepted this option.

Unfortunately, this flight seemed to set a precedent for future flights and when I travelled to Europe a few years later, I found myself trying to drink as much as possible. I blame Australia's love-affair with sport for this as The Australian Cricket Team in the 1970s always tried to set a record for how many beers they could drink on the flight to England. For interested readers who are keen to give it a shot - the current record is held by David Boon who drank 52 beers on a 30 hour flight!

I've played in rock bands since the early 1990s and it wasn't until the early 2000s that I found myself in a band popular enough to be able to afford air travel in Australia. This presented a whole new set of problems and life-lessons for me as a flyer. Like Boony before me, I soon came to realise that pacing yourself is very important. Especially if you're playing in several different cities in a very limited time period.

This was probably my most paranoid and pathetic period of air travel. One time after staying up all night in Melbourne, an early flight to Adelaide found me clutching an air-sickness bag for the majority of the journey. I wish I could say I learned something from this, but unfortunately I don't think I did.

Eventually I moved to Melbourne and left this rock and roll hedonism behind me, but as a traveller - and now a parent - I found there were still lessons to be learned. You have never experienced the true abject horrors of air travel until you've traveled with a child! I think parents have some respect from the flight attendants but the realities of dealing with a child in flight are very daunting. Children don't like the change in air pressure on a flight and other passengers are all-too-quick with advice for dealing with a child struggling to cope. This does not translate well to parents whose nerves are usually beyond-frazzled by this point and usually the only thing that stops me from attacking other well-meaning passengers is the embarrassment of being filmed by A Current Affair while being escorted by air marshalls following a mid-air incident.

On the return flight to Melbourne today I think I finally found some closure on my sins as an air traveller. I felt unusually blessed when I found I had a whole row of seats to myself and I was cheerfully looking forward to sitting crumpled in the corner with my sunglasses on listening to Townes Van Zandt. I was so involved with my own thoughts, that I didn't notice a woman had come and sat next to me. She eventually poked me enough times to get my attention and sheepishly asked if her young son could come and sit next to me. I didn't hesitate in saying 'of course!'. I had finally found some empathy for my fellow passengers and in doing so had somehow been forgiven for that Big Day Out flight and innumerable hung-over tours of the nation since.

My hope for the future is that I can complete the circle. I envison myself as an elderly pensioner wearing a hawaiian shirt and travelling to the moon eating a bowl of ice-cream. The flight attendant comes over to me, smiles and asks if I would like to visit the captain in the cockpit.

"No, That's okay", I will respond.

"I trust him."

A Message from PALS (Parents Against Light Sabres)

As a parent, I'm concerned about violence in the galaxy and I believe there is no greater threat to the safety of our younglings than the so-called 'elegant weapon from a more civilized time' - the lightsabre.

Well I can tell you this, dear reader - there's nothing civilized about a lightsabre!

Crime statistics show that lightsabre-related maimings account for eighty percent of all known limb losses in this quadrant of the galaxy... and most of these have been inflicted by self-appointed policemen and spiritual leaders - 'The Jedi'.

'The Jedi' are, in fact, so insidious that they exploit not one, but two, archaic amendments to the galactic constitution. They claim, as part of their spiritual beliefs, that they are entrusted by some ill-defined 'Force' to be allowed to wield such weaponry. They also shelter under the second amendment which allows citizens 'the right to bare arms'.

Well, once the Jedi are through with their victims, they usually have no arms to bare!

How can we stop this Jedi scourge?

I'm sure we're all aware of the unfortunate incident in the Mos Eisley Cantina in which an elderly and confused Jedi managed to sever the arm of a young, aspiring starship captain who simply insisted that he didn't like the look of this old man's young friend. Surely we're all entitled to an opinion?

Did you also know that not even half an hour later - in the same cantina - a known associate of this old Jedi - a Mr Han Solo - managed to shoot and kill colourful local character and respected businessman 'Greedo' in cold blood?  Don't be confused by dodgy CCTV footage here, readers - Mr Solo definitely shot first!

The message we can take from this unwarranted bloodshed is that violence begets more violence and following this incident this doddering old Jedi was again briefly spotted duelling with Lord Vader before being fittingly (and mercifully) vaporised!

Unfortunately, one of the great wonders of our age 'The Death Star' was destroyed as a result of this man. He somehow convinced the weak-minded 'Rebel Alliance' to attack an unprotected thermal exhaust port which led to the space-station's destruction. Luckily engineers are working on a new Death Star as I write this.

The point is - if this old man hadn't possessed a lightsabre - then this incident might have been avoided!

Parents Against Light Sabres (PALS) suggests that all lightsabre users be registered. Any elderly users should also undergo a compulsory yearly competency test to ensure they still possess the faculties to use the devices properly. We don't let the elderly drive land-speeders without a yearly test, so why let them use a dangerous weapon?!

I know what you're all thinking - the Jedi are nearly extinct in this part of the galaxy, but I can assure you that their patent brand of civil disobedience and hokey mysticism is popular with certain degenerate members of the youth of Tatooine. We need to legislate lightsabre laws now to stem their use before we are over-run by testosterone-fuelled young men brandishing dangerous weapons.

Here is what PALS proposes to legislate to the Galactic Senate:

1. Make all 'light' emitted from lightsabres a dull grey colour. Studies have shown the bright assortment of colours in which lightsabres are currently available are attractive to a young demographic. We need to remove this appeal.

2. Similarly, the sound emitted from lightsabres has been deemed 'appealing to the ear' and even quite soothing. We need to either remove all sound completely from the devices, or else make sure they emit instead something like a comical 'honking' noise.

3. Make lightsabres non-lethal. There is no reason for any non-military citizens to use lethal force! PALS suggests instead that maybe lightsabres could 'stun' their victims and then maybe send an alert to any nearby stormtroopers or battle droids that can legally deal with the injured party.

4. Have an in-built hand guard. This should be obvious!

PALS needs your support to push these changes through the senate because, as we know, they never seem interested in any laws that don't involve trade tariffs. It has even been suggested that this bill will not go through because the prosthetic-limb lobby have a strong interest in keeping light sabres on the streets. More disturbingly, The Emperor himself and Lord Vader are rumoured to be practitioners of the ancient Jedi religion and are strong advocates for 'The Dark Side'.

God help us if this is true!

We believe that in this era of unprecedented military build up that public safety and the safety of families should be on the galactic agenda. It seems The Empire are so busy building defence infrastructure that they are ignoring public safety.

Worryingly it also seems that military training is not up to scratch and most storm troopers that come out of the academy these days can barely shoot straight and are little more than laser-fodder.

How are these soldiers expected to defend helpless citizens?

It's time to legislate against lightsabres now before it is too late!

Thanks for your support,

PALS