Sicko

Jerry Seinfeld was right when he said 'If your body was a car - you wouldn't buy it.' The maintenance required is ridiculous. Especially after the age of 40.

Until a couple of weeks ago, I hadn't been physically ill for a number of decades. Sure, there was the occasional flu and inevitable hangovers resulting from endless nights of self abuse, but other than that I had pretty much considered myself to be 'right as rain.'

My usual strategy when getting the flu is to just ignore it and push on regardless - like some sort of stiff-upper-lipped infantryman in World War I. Unfortunately, during a recent battle with a cold, the enemy overpowered my unknown soldier and I quickly developed pneumonia.

Perhaps it had not been a wise idea to go on a 10 kilometre run a day after missing work with a chest-cold? Nevertheless, I stand by my mantra that it 'seemed like a good idea at the time.'

I consider myself to be quite optimistic and the positive experiences I took away from my illness included: a relaxing five-day bed rest, catching up on the last series of Mad Men and a comical encounter with a mouse while waiting to have X-rays at the local hospital.

More than anything, though, I took the opportunity of being sick as a way of recalibrating what the term 'sick' meant. I hadn't been sick for so long that I was worried I might have accidentally and unknowingly been in a constant state of sickness. How does anyone know what 'sick' is if they are always 'well?' For all I knew I was constantly at deaths door. My 'normal' might have been someone else's 'wretched.'

Luckily I was able to identify the symptoms of 'no energy,' 'a persistent cough' and 'a throbbing pain in my head' as being 'unusual' and decided to seek medical advice. I was prescribed a course of antibiotics. These, combined with feverish sweats and codeine, had unexpected results when it came to thoughts and dreams over the course of my illness. I had descended into the maelstrom of sickness and desperately clung to thoughts as if they were flotsam and jetsam that would buoy me back to health. Unfortunately, in my weakened state I found it hard to separate moments of clarity from mad delusions.

My usual dreams of teeth falling out and being late for exams were supplemented by visions of giant babies eating rusted playground equipment and entertaining the thought of becoming an evil alien overlord. These dream scenarios all seemed equally vivid and plausible. At one point I even considered the option of moving to Zimbabwe as a perfectly sane and reasonable idea.

After a few feverish days, however, I awoke from a cold sweat one morning into a moment of clarity. Maybe it was a state that christians might term 'born again.' Feeling marginally better, I considered the possibility that I was 'on the mend' and in that moment a truth was revealed to me as if trumpeted from angels on high. The truth was this: "Nothing feels as good as feeling well!"

Instantly I hatched plans to stop drinking, eat better and use my time more efficiently. Maybe I would even start being nice to people. The possibilities of the good I could do in the world seemed endless  - as long as I could just find a way to get out of bed and stand up for longer than half an hour.

Of course, my symptoms improved rapidly as the antibiotics took effect and unfortunately my mind just as rapidly returned to its usual 'well' state. Thoughts of being healthy were replaced with a desire to have 'fun.' The longing to return to the cold night air and the unhealthy lifestyle that had contributed to my downfall is a phenomenon I can only speculate as being similar to the mindset of someone that has survived an airline disaster: To truly get over the disaster you have to face your fear and get on board another flight.

Author Stephen King did something similar when he was run over while walking along the road near his home in Maine. He decided to buy the truck that had hit him so that he could wreak his own vengeance and take control of his own destiny once more by personally beating the crap out of the vehicle.

In a similar way I had to return to my old life and claim my own destiny. I had to once again return to being king of my domain where a pint of Coopers was my Chalice and a greasy kebab at 1am was my sceptre.

I'm happy to be back to my usual state, but part of me hopes that next time I'm sick my epiphany to strive for constant wellness will stick.

Another part of me is mistrustful about listening to the ramblings of a fevered mind.

After all, there's no way I'm moving to Zimbabwe!

Archaeology

All around me people seem to be going on exciting overseas adventures. My wife is currently in America touring with her band The Zebras, while I spend three wonderful weeks at home with my daughter and my parents. I don't think I've spent three weeks with my parents for about 20 years... God help me!

Previously, when my wife's band toured, she suggested I come along for fun. I found this incredibly insulting, as I still harbour increasingly-unlikely rock star dreams of my own. You don't go to an Eric Clapton concert and find David Bowie sitting dejectedly at the merch table! Also, the fact that the dog tends to leave the room every time I even look at my guitar tends to suggest that I'm not ready for a North American tour just yet. 

I have been overseas on several occasions - mostly around Europe and America - and from my modest travels I have discovered one thing - I hate being a tourist. This mostly stems from being an Australian backpacker in England while in my early 20s. The stigma of the drunken Aussie yobbo overseas cluttering up youth hostels and stealing all the bar jobs is well deserved and I confess that I did very little to challenge the average British citizen's perspective of this stereotype.

I travelled for several months around Europe by myself and found it to be a crushingly lonely experience, which wasn't relieved by the fact that I was sharing the company of similarly displaced individuals. How I longed to assimilate and seamlessly step into the cultures I was outwardly observing, like some sort of shape shifting space man, walking unquestioned through their alien societies. My cloaking-device always seemed to falter, however, and I couldn't help but feel like the 'other.'

Upon reflection, the reason I felt like this was because I was looking for a 'when' rather than a 'where.' For example, when I was in London in 1994, I couldn't understand why it was not 1968. I expected to get off the train at Waterloo Station and see Terry and Julie holding hands and staring in each others eyes, oblivious to the world passing them by, while the sunset lit their youthful faces. Instead, I alighted from the train to find some wasted hood-rats huffing paint from a plastic bag and a bunch of pissed-off commuters.

Similarly, In Berlin I couldn't escape the feeling that I wanted to be in the city at least a few years earlier to witness the fall of the Berlin Wall. If I was being honest, however, I probably would have preferred to be there in the 1970s, when the wall was still up and I could wallow in the romantic decadence that seemed to exist on the edge of the city's political and ideological divide.

I felt the same in America when visiting the famous punk club CBGBs in the mid 2000s. Sure, it was as dirty and squalid as it's reputation had led me to believe, but the creative spark that had made it a cultural touchstone in the 1970s and 1980s seemed to have moved on. New York was no longer Scorsese's Mean Streets or Woody Allen's Manhattan and instead had become gentrified to the extent that nobody actually interesting could afford to live there anymore. Sadly, CBGB's closed down a few months after I visited, but ironically opened up in Las Vegas, where visitors could visit the ghost of a former venue that in the new Manhattan had already become a ghost of its former self.

I suppose what I was looking for in my travels was a feeling that I was part of the Zeitgeist. I have since come to understand that this is not an easy thing to find and more often than not the Zeitgeist finds you. I probably have been a part of it several times in my life, but usually when I was there I didn't know about it or even care. I think it has to do with a 'grass is always greener' affect where nobody thinks their own story is particularly interesting.

This is why my favourite travel destination so far has been a place I barely knew anything about - the city of Prague in the Czech Republic. Unhampered by any cultural expectations, I was free to be surprised and delighted by a city that was steeped in history, but at the time was waking up to a new-found place in the modern European landscape.

I have to admit that things didn't start out well in Prague. It was popular for tourists to billet with families in Prague at the time, but I didn't feel comfortable doing this and instead sought some other accommodation. Unfortunately, the compound I ended up staying in seemed to be some sort of ex-soviet military installation on the outskirts of town. During the night of my first stay the constant slamming of heavy iron doors convinced me I might have accidentally become an inmate in a military prison.

Luckily, the overlords of the facility gave me a day pass the next day and I was delighted to find the contrast between my lodgings and the city of Prague itself only added to the jaw-dropping beauty of the city.

To an Australians' eyes, countries like England seem old, but comparatively Prague seems positively ancient. I would describe the architecture as medieval. Walking through Prague felt like being in the movie 'Snow White.' The best thing about all this ancient architecture was there always seemed to be some accompanying story of suicide, murder or some other shady dealings happening under a veil of secrecy.

Probably the most famous landmark in the city is the Astronomical Clock in the town square that features intricately rendered figures of morbidity such as a skeleton representing death and figures depicting vices such as greed, vanity and entertainment (?)

The story goes that the official who commissioned the clock was so impressed and delighted with the artisan's efforts that he promptly poked the poor guy's eyes out so that he wouldn't create anything again to match the clock's beauty... Reward for a job well done!

Equally as beautiful is the Charles Bridge that crosses the Vltava River. I was interested and surprised to learn that there was a 'John Lennon Wall' at one end of the bridge. Apparently it was something of a symbol off freedom for young people in Prague during the 1980s. I think I had come to believe after one day in Prague that there was still very little western influence in the city. This may have come from the fact that I tried to order a Coca-Cola from a local merchant and he didn't understand what this was. I found this charming, but in hindsight, maybe he just didn't understand my accent.

As my stay continued, I came to be aware that a lot of people in Prague were enthusiastically embracive of the new western influence. I was in two minds about this. I understood that the west represented freedom to the people of Prague, but one day while waiting at the train station I noticed someone walking along the platform wearing a 'Saturday Night Live' jacket. I immediately recognised a kindred spirit. 'Saturday Night Live' even now is a cultural touchstone, but the jacket this man was wearing was a silver retro-style number from the late 1970s. If so, then I think this fan might have been disappointed when he finally laid eyes on the show. John Belushi died decades ago. Like me, this new-found capitalist wasn't looking for 'somewhere' but 'somewhen.'

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

We bought a new car from a car-yard about six months ago... well, it was new for us, but second-hand technically. It runs pretty well now, but trying to get the company to fix problems we encountered with the car under warranty was a harrowing experience. It's only now that I am able to look back and laugh at how comically inept almost everybody involved with the business seemed to be. If I was a small-minded and petty man, then I would name and shame the company, so, seeing as I am - let me reveal it to be Preston Motors at Essendon.

I should have known things were going to be tough when the salesperson bore a strikingly similar demeanour and beaten-down world-weariness to Mr Lundegaard from the film 'Fargo.'  He seemed to be unconcerned and simply shrugged off obvious problems I noticed were wrong with the car. Whilst this did not instill confidence, we cautiously decided to buy the vehicle on the proviso that these problems would be fixed. They were eventually, but only after constant prompting from us. I have never seen a business so un-enthused about someone offering to give them large sums of money. Was I right in thinking they even offered us 'Truecoat' at some point?

Anyway, after we bought the car, other problems were revealed. We had a three month warranty, so we didn't consider it to be a big deal. It wouldn't have been either, if they were able to diagnose the problem correctly, keep us informed about what repairs were going on and offer us some support in terms of a courtesy car for the duration of the repairs.

They did none of these things. The front counter team seemed friendly enough, but they also had a habit of developing amnesia whenever I called their office. This seemed strange to me, because you think they would remember someone who regularly blew-their-stack every time they called. Maybe this is not uncommon. Every time I spoke to the manager, it felt like I was Homer Simpson talking to Mr Burns. Once again he had forgotten my name, even though we had met hundreds of times before.

Ultimately, I suppose they did everything they were contractually obliged to do, but the seeming lack of concern and feet-dragging made the whole experience completely exhausting.

It's situations like these that usually remind me of the book 'Zen and The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance', which I read in my early twenties. I can't say that I can actually recommend it, because it's one of those hippy metaphysical tomes such as 'Jonathan Livingstone Seagull' that feel like they belong to a bygone era and scarily verge on one of my most hated of literary genres: The self help book. There's nothing wrong with people helping themselves per se, but I object to one-size-fits-all solutions to difficult life problems.

Anyway, one of the themes of 'Zen' was the search for 'quality' and what this means. The book uses motorcycle maintenance as metaphor for dealing with life's problems as they arise and the quest to fix them in the best manor possible. This sounds like a worthy quest, but the protagonist's obsession with maintaining and improving on this quality ends up sending him mad and ultimately needing electro-convulsive therapy. I want the people who sold me the car to be more interested in quality, but even I don't wish this sort of cruelty to befall them. Perhaps some of the slack-jawed, lethargic salespeople at Brunswick Street, Fitzroy could use the occasional jolt, though.

I suppose it's important to make a distinction between 'quality' and perfection. I don't expect perfection. In fact, I don't think such a thing exists. People try, of course and one of my personal movie heroes is Stanley Kubrick. I came across a quote from him the other day - 'You either care, or you don't.' This blew my mind! You really can see in his films that he put 100 percent in everything he did and also expected no less from others. It shames me to admit it, but if I had ever worked with Kubrick in any capacity, then I probably would have been fired the first day.

The most common complaint about Stanley Kubrick films is that they feel too 'clinical.' Whilst this is something I admire about his films, I can also see that it is a genuine criticism and a lot of other things I appreciate in life are enjoyable because they are 'imperfect.' I prefer music that doesn't always sit on the beat, enthusiasm that trumps technical ability and drawings done by my 5 year-old daughter. Hell, Louis Pasteur wouldn't have discovered Penicillin if he hadn't been lazy and left a mouldy orange out on a bench for too long!

Ultimately in the book 'Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance', the protagonist comes to the conclusion that you need to find a middle ground between the 'romantic' notion of living in the moment and the need to diagnose problems before they happen and appreciate technical quality.

Maybe Stanley Kubrick is right - either you care or you don't - but caring isn't an absolute and you need to accommodate the human element and happy accidents.

With this in mind I think everyone should care about what they do... except for used car salesmen - this is too much to ask - All I expect from them is that they give the impression that they care.

My Favourite Album Cover: The Kinks' 'Muswell Hillbillies'

I'm a bit of a sucker for album cover art. I like everything from Tiki gods spewing forth fire and destruction on old Hawaiian albums to dystopian future landscapes depicted by unsmiling synth-wielding minimalists. My favourite album cover, however, is firmly rooted in the year 1971 and the city of London. It's the Kinks' slightly schizophrenic ode to Americana and condemnation of urban renewal entitled 'Muswell Hillbillies.'

The cover is a photo of a typical london pub (presumably in Muswell Hill) which is sparsely occupied in the afternoon by what appears to be 'the regulars.' There's some besuited businessmen in the background, an old man in the foreground and a hard-to-define casually dressed man staring disdainfully to his right sporting a moustache and an orange jumper. He looks like the sort of stereotype that Steve Coogan based his Paul Calf character on: Unemployed, student-hating, extra-strong lager-drinking man's-man. You might argue that his jumper looks slightly effeminate, but the orange colour is all the better for disguising blood stains when he head-butts you in the face after daring to make such a comment.

The full glory of the cover can only be appreciated by opening the gatefold sleeve. The second half of the photo features the members of The Kinks in all their bell-bottom wearing, tie-dyed, long hair and bearded 1970s glory. They look relaxed and oblivious to the fact that Mr Orange Jumper looks ready to take them on single-handedly and give them a right bollocking. Presumably The Kinks' celebrity status and regular custom at the pub makes them tolerated by the staff and there appears to be a reluctant truce in effect.

Besides being an hilarious image, it also makes me nostalgic for my own youth. Half way 'round the world in Brisbane, Australia, I myself was able to illicit similar disgust in people for doing so very little. I was born the year this album was released, but by the early 1990's this 'hippy' look seemed to have come around again and I was an enthusiastic adopter. I felt like I was doing something right when my friends and I would walk into a pub with long hair flowing, ironic t-shirts, pirate earrings and beads and watch as all conversation seemed to suddenly cease. If it was the old west, then I would imagine the guy playing honky-tonk piano in the corner would suddenly stop also. As it was the 90s, maybe the CD in the jukebox just skipped.

Of course this shock effect can't last forever. Over time we seemed to bridge the divide between The Kinks and Mr Orange Jumper. Gradually we went from being 'the outsiders' to being 'the regulars.' Both have their good and bad points, but I always tried not to roll my eyes at the latest cocky young upstarts that came through the door.

* * * * * 

In 1994 I visited London. I was curious to talk with my uncle who managed pubs in Muswell Hill in the early 1970s and enthusiastically asked if he had any good stories about The Kinks. He seemed to be rather dismissive in the way Mr Orange Jumper might be, but it also might have to do with a big city trend of seeming casual and dismissive of people that add cultural relevance to the place where you live. My theory is the bigger the city, the more dismissive people are.

When I lived in Brisbane, I was always delighted to see local heroes Grant or Robert from The Go-Betweens walking down the street, or Ed Kuepper from the Saints. Now that I live in Melbourne, however, it seems like nobody bats an eye if Cate Blanchett is sitting at the table next to them. My small-city mind in 1994 could not grasp the fact that there was no annual Kinks holiday in Muswell Hill, or at least a monument in the town square!

That trip to London also reminded me how different pub culture was in England. Pubs used to be packed at lunch time with people downing pints in thick smoke-filled environments before reluctantly returning to work. Australians certainly didn't seem to smoke as much as the English, and it is one vice I have never really succumbed to. I remember almost getting into a fight with someone at a pub in London because I told him I didn't smoke. It seemed like an unfathomable concept.

I have to admit there are things I miss about smoke-filled pubs. The lighting was less harsh and made you feel like you were in some sort of film-noire with the light carefully dissipated and lending an unearthly aura to everything. Today the light is a lot more harsh and smells besides the heavy aroma of tobacco are all-to-easy to detect. Also, it's hard these days to know what clothes you wore out the previous evening without being physically repelled by how much they stank of cigarette smoke.

I haven't returned to London since 1994 and I find it hard to fathom how much it must have changed, with new anti-smoking laws and a general greater emphasis on healthy living. I'm reminded of one of the themes from 'Muswell Hillbillies' - urban renewal. It seems in my absence London has had another shift besides a physical transformation to a cultural one.

I can imagine if this album was made today the cover would be very different. The Kinks and Mr Orange Jumper would be leaning against the bar sharing a pint together and laughing at the people seated near the window. The air is smoke-free and pure. The people near the window are sipping green tea. They are not looking back, however and are oblivious to the fact that the other customers are laughing at them. They're too busy looking at their iPhones.

Hmmm, I might join Ray and the boys for a pint.

Alfred Hitchcock: The Masterpiece Collection Blu Ray

I usually like to indulge myself and buy a Blu Ray box-set to watch over the Christmas holidays. This year I purchased 'Alfred Hitchcock: The Ultimate Collection' to watch at my parents' house in Brisbane during our two week stay. My thinking was, at the very least, it would be a couple of hours of uninterrupted 'zone out' time to avoid awkward family conversations, nurse hangovers, or avoid the Queensland heat. It turned out to be quite engaging for everybody - It was a Christmas miracle!

My favourite memory of Christmas this year was sitting down as a family and watching 'Psycho' - even my five year-old daughter enjoyed it! I contemplated how shocking the film must have been in the sixties when it was released and how matter-of-fact the idea of a psychopathic killer with a multiple personality disorder is now. How times change.  I think the best way to enjoy these movies is to remember the historical context of the time and that ideas which seem outdated now were actually quite progressive back then. We need to remember it wasn't that long ago that people were shocked because 'the butler did it' or creepy little kids 'saw dead people.'

I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the earliest film in the collection is actually one of the best - 'Shadow of a Doubt.' According to the booklet accompanying the Blu Ray, it was also Hitchcock's favourite. It's theme of evil bubbling under the surface of suburban middle-America is reminiscent of David Lynch's 'Blue Velvet'. Joseph Cotten's simmering 'Uncle Charlie' is almost as creepy as Dennis Hopper's character in Blue Velvet, although not as wildly camp and over-the-top.

Similarly, 'Saboteur' seems to serve as a template for a lot of chase films to come and even for Hitchcock's own 'North by Northwest' (which isn't included here). The film that seems to borrow most from 'Saboteur', however, is 'The Fugitive', with obvious themes of a man on the run from the law attempting to prove his innocence by catching the man who is actually responsible.

'Rope' in my opinion, is one of Hitchcock's best because it is set in one room, has only a few characters and is a relatively straightforward story. These types of films give Hitchcock the chance to work within his limitations and be a bit more experimental. In this film the camera really is another character and my favourite shot is one that lingers on a chest in which a dead body is concealed, while the main characters talk off-screen, oblivious to the fact that the maid is clearing away some books and about to reveal their crime.

The successful collaborations with Jimmy Stewart are also featured. Watching 'The Man Who Knew too Much' made me for the first time realise that I was watching Blu Ray and not a fuzzy cathode-ray image, like I had seen when I was a child. I find watching a Blu Ray isn't always a good thing and can often take you out of the story.

In 'The Man Who Knew Too Much' I was constantly distracted by the amount of blue screen shots that Hitchcock used, mainly because they obviously were on location in the Marrakech, but then suddenly it would revert to a studio recreation. I checked on the special features and found that Hitchcock was notorious for hating to film on location, but also on this occasion their filming schedule was interrupted by Islamic holiday of Ramadan and they were forced to pick up some shots in the studio.

Similarly, I realised for the first time what a beautiful and intricately constructed set 'Rear Window' was filmed on. It's great that Blu Ray allows you to see details you normally wouldn't, but it takes a bit of training to teach yourself not to focus on these and stick with the story.

'Vertigo' is the film that everybody talks about these days. British Film Institute judges bumped perennial favourite 'Citizen Kane' in favour of 'Vertigo' as the 'best film ever made' last year, which, to some, has been a controversial decision. There are certainly some innovations which are now standard such as the 'dolly zoom' effect and animation to depict his character Scottie Fergusson's mental state. These effects can appear quite laughable to a modern audience, but again, you need have to watch them from the point of view of the audience of the time.

The thing that still resonates with Vertigo, for me, is the theme of obsession and identity. Fergusson, wracked with guilt after failing to save a woman he loved from falling to her death, is obsessed with  changing a woman who is a dead ringer, into the woman he lost. Cleverly, Hitchcock informs the audience through a phone conversation that it actually is the same woman and she was playing a character all along as part of a murder plot. It makes the transformation all the more excruciating to watch. Who exactly did Fergusson fall in love with?

To modern eyes, a lot of Hitchcock's films - including Vertigo - seem to have pacing issues. Vertigo ends in the sudden death of Kim Novak's character. Modern audiences expect some sort of epilogue, but in this instance it just cuts to the credits. If Hitchcock had made 'Alien' - which certainly is indebted to his masterful use of suspense - then the film would have ended when the 'Nostromo' exploded and there would have been no final act where the alien was actually aboard the escape craft.

'The Birds' also has an abrupt ending where the survivors simply just 'leave' in a car. It seems a little anti-climactic after the first half of the film is involved in intricate character development. Big concept horror films to come, sadly, seem not to be concerned with the 'character' element of the story at all.

The one script that I believe still resonates with modern audiences is 'Psycho'. Mainly because it wilfully subverts audience expectations at almost every step of the way. It starts off as a simple story of a femme fatale stealing some money from her boss and fleeing across country, only to suddenly become a murder-mysery in the second act when the heroine is famously dispatched by kindly motel proprietor Norman Bates (or was it his mother?)

The policeman investigating the case is also unexpectedly dispatched before finally the femme fatale's concerned sister discovers the grisly truth. There are so many red herrings and unanswered questions, but I wonder what actually did happen to all that money that was rolled-up in newspaper and hidden in the night-stand next to the bed?

Curiously, The only unnecessary element of Psycho is the epilogue where the police chief explains the nature of Norman Bates' mental illness... Please - even my five year-old daughter knows what a psychopath is!

The last four or five films are not among Hitchcock's most celebrated, but there is still a lot there to love. 'Marnie' is probably among the most famous, but for me 'Frenzy' is the most successful because Hitchcock filmed it in England where he obviously felt comfortable. Times had changed, however, and Hitchcock's attempts to appear 'edgy' (was this the only Hitchcock film to feature nudity?) felt a little bit forced in an environment where the Hollywood studio system was collapsing and films such as 'Apocalypse Now' and 'Easy Rider' were now leading the way as part of the New Hollywood.

To me the Leon Uris-penned cold war thriller 'Topaz' is the least successful of these later films. It's too sprawling and epic for Hitchcock's sensibilities. It's understandable that he would try and appeal to modern audiences who had become hooked on James Bond and international spy thrillers but, to me, it is the intimate stories and discrete locations that allow Hitchcock to weave his magic.

Hitchcock's final film 'Family Plot' does a lot to rectify these excesses and is quite an enjoyable and lighthearted film. What could have been a heavy kidnapping plot is subverted by a wonderfully goofy performance by Bruce Dern and even the villan William Devane is so over-the-top camp that it is hard to hate him. It's not Hitchcock's best film, but it is a fun note to go out on.

Having come to the end of this blog, it suddenly occurs to me that maybe Hitchcock was right - some stories don't need an Epilogue - the content speaks for itself! If there's one thing I can take away from watching all these films is that style and fashions change over the years but wit and insight are perennial. Therefore let me simply say:

The End

What was the question, again?

At work this week we had to complete an online test regarding harassment. It described morally dubious scenarios followed by a set of multiple choice questions. I consider these tests simple to pass if you possess a modicum of common sense, some social skills and no sociopathic tendencies.

It wasn't as easy as I expected.

Maybe I'm a sociopath!

Anyway, I approached this test in the same manner as any number of standardising procedures I've encountered since my school days. I went in feeling confident of my knowledge and what answers they  were looking for, but found the questions to be framed in a way that it made me reconsider my answers and end up choosing the wrong ones. I call the syndrome 'snatching defeat from the jaws of victory'. I passed the test - luckily - but it made me despair that I even got one answer wrong.

An example of this kind of self-destructive thinking could be best illustrated by considering a question I was asked in a test I sat for a university entrance exam. On the surface it was a simple mathematical question where I was asked to calculate the weight of a fish given certain information. Later in the question they referred to the fish as a shark. This threw a spanner in the works.

"Is a shark a fish?" I thought to myself.

"Surely, they have cartilage instead of bones?"

"Does that put them into some other aquatic animal category?"

"If so, which one?"

Before I knew it, I had wasted ten minutes on one question. I decided (correctly) that they were looking for a purely mathematical answer instead of 'A shark is not a fish' - which would have been wrong, anyway (I looked it up).

I don't know what this sort of thinking says about me. Is it good that I look for deeper significance in what was designed to be a straightforward question?

Am I paranoid that the world is trying to trick me?

Am I genius who sees connections others don't?

... maybe I'm just dyslexic?

Ultimately, I think that I'm no different to anyone else and I sometimes put too much significance on the wrong things. Since the test, I've become more aware of examples in society where others have looked for an answer and ended up getting the question wrong. The constant barrage of advertising over the Christmas period made me come to a conclusion about our current capitalist society: 'People these days seem to be interested in products more than their content.'

I came to this conclusion as a result of my post-Christmas capitalism malaise, where I really didn't get as excited as I wanted to about big ticket items released in the second half of last year.

My suspicions were aroused by the new Apple iPhone. Surely releasing a device in several new colours, with the only new security upgrade being fingerprint recognition to meet some arbitrary product release deadline, is the equivalent of The Simpsons releasing a Malibu Stacy doll with a new hat just to draw the attention away from other competitors?

I desperately wanted to giddily wait in line to get a new iPhone like an excited little girl and claw at someone's face rather than not be the first to possess one, but some stray Marxist DNA must have prevented me from falling for this capitalist con.

Being able to access the internet on a smart phone is great, but to me, no phone company has thought of anything as revolutionary as texting. The joy of telling someone something without having to actually speak to them was very liberating. The ability to ignore people is equally as liberating. It's hard to think of some feature a phone could possess nowadays that could be as revolutionary. Instead, Apple seems to be focussing on marketing rather than thinking of useful features.

Similarly, I was less-than moved by the new X-Box One. It's clunky design left me wondering where to shove the coal in to make it run; but moreso I was wondering what possible features it could have that would make it superior to any other product on the market. Despite the obvious advances in graphic capabilities and internet connectivity, there have really been no advances in first-person shooter games like 'Doom' that have been around since the 1990s.

At this stage, for me, the best feature of a game console would be some sort of cerebral implant that left me not feeling guilty for the hours I invariably would waste playing a game. I would also need some way to extend the brief seconds of euphoric victory I get when completing a game before the inevitable hollow remorse felt when I realise the victory has no real-world implications.

These are both examples of people fetishising the product when what they really are craving is better content.

Even companies like Spotify who actually provide content seem to have the question wrong. They boast that they provide millions of songs for your listening pleasure, but what's the point in that? I would argue that anyone who enjoys listening to that many songs and feels equally moved by all of them is at best a robot and at worst a sociopath (see first paragraph).

Companies spend so much on research and development that they need to be sure they have a big hit when they release a product. This results in content being dumbed-down to such an extent that nobody really gets the maximum enjoyment out of products such as computer games and Hollywood movies. In the search for a 'hit' they are ensuring that nobody really enjoys the product. That's why TV is faring a lot better these days because cable stations can afford to appeal to niche markets.

We live in a post-modern world and maybe this lack of focus on content is simply a symptom of all the classical storylines having played themselves out. The ancient Greeks said there were only seven stories anyway, so I guess we had a pretty good run for a few thousand years.

Even if this is true, I consider myself a pretty eclectic dude, so I like the idea of being able mix and match ideas from the rich wealth of culture we have accumulated over the millenia...  surely there is an infinite number of permutations of ideas and we're not at the point where we have recycled so many that we have reached some sort of cultural end game? I'm not a purist, and I can see no problem with incorporating ideas from the past to make something new, just as long as we don't insult consumers' intelligence and end up with something like Baz Luhrmann's 'Romeo and Juliet' (or any Baz Luhrmann film).

The possibilities are endless. All we have to do is remember what Kevin Costner said quoting Lewis Carrol in a movie about JFK by Oliver Stone:

"We're through the looking glass here, people!"

Straight Outta Compton!

It was in the mid 2000s that me and the wife went to the US for a holiday. We started in San Francisco, traversed the country for a few weeks and ended our trip with a couple of days in Las Angeles. On the second-last day before we flew back to Australia, I was desperate to do something that I didn't consider to be on the standard itinerary of an LA tourist.

I remembered a TV show I had seen a few years earlier - 'Journeys into the Outside', which was presented by one of my favourite British pop stars - Pulp frontman Jarvis Cocker. In the show, Cocker travelled America looking at 'outsider' artworks, which were often of dubious quality, yet always accompanied by interesting stories and colourful, often desperate-sounding characters who created the works.

One of the artists I knew quite well - Reverend Howard Finster - who designed Talking Heads' 'Little Creatures' album cover, but the rest of the artists depicted in this documentary as part of the 'folk-art' scene were new to me.

Someone who stood out from the pack was Simon Rodia, an Italian immigrant construction worker who built an impressive interconnecting system of towers (some of which are almost 100 feet high!) in his back yard in the LA suburb of Watts, over a 33 year period. They have henceforth become known as the Watts Towers. Rodia apparently signed his land over to a neighbour and disappeared once the towers were completed and was never seen again. This story sounded intriguing to me and a visit to the towers seemed like a perfect way to spend our last day in LA.

There was a Watts Towers Tourist Centre listed in the phone book which I rang. I explained to the friendly lady on the other end that we were currently staying in Beverly Hills, had no car and were wondering how to get to Watts. She said there was a bus that went directly to the towers but it was not operating that day and the best way to go was by car. She said I could also go via the 'Blue Line' train and get off at Watts Station before ominously adding that this was  not advisable.

The fact that LA apparently had a public transport system was news to me and I felt encouraged by this revelation. Some trepidation tempered my enthusiasm when I looked at the 'Blue Line' train route and noted that Watts Station was only two stations away from the infamous suburb of 'Compton'.

My middle-class white, suburban mind automatically conjured-up sounds and images from the classic NWA gangsta-rap album 'Straight out of Compton' and their stirring call-to-arms anthem 'Fuck the Po-lice'. The media had led me to believe that South Central Los Angeles was the home of indiscriminate drive-by shootings, prostitution and drug deals. Surely, the media wouldn't lie to me?

Further investigation of the town of Watts also revealed that it was the centre of race riots in the 1960s which basically flattened the town to the ground. I noted that the one landmark that wasn't touched during the mayhem was the Watts Towers. An image of an angry African American about to throw a molotov cocktail at one of the towers entered my mind. I could picture his expression softening as he gazed in wonder at the towers, before instantly deciding to spare the artwork and simply torch a nearby car instead.

Surely a town of art lovers couldn't be as bad as we were led to believe? We decided to head to Watts and investigate for ourselves.

The train station seemed clean and well presented like a giant public lavatory. We excitedly stepped on to a train carriage that could have been in any major city in America, but rather incongruously was in LA. It was quite a long journey and the train became full as we got nearer to our destination. I realised as we left the metropolitan centre that my wife Edwina and I were now the only white faces in the carriage amidst a sea of Latinos and African Americans.

We had been to Disneyland the day before and Edwina decided to wear her crisp-new 'Thumper' t-shirt,  as depicted in the movie 'Bambi'. The juxtaposition of this look against the 'Boys in the Hood' Gangsta chic which the rest of the carriage seemed to have adopted made me want to burst out laughing, but I knew I wasn't in any position to risk losing even an ounce of street-cred. Our journey continued without incident except for one of those deaf-mute beggars who seem to exist the world-over that offer you a card instead of the usual elaborate cover story to disguise their alcohol, drug or gambling dependency. I like those stories! Is the card simply a form of laziness, or is it legit?

We eventually made it to Watts Station. I was relieved to see the towers rising majestically from the landscape. They wouldn't be difficult to find amidst the vast blocks of single story housing that seemed to comprise the majority of Watts. After the train crowds dispersed, I was surprised by how desolate the town seemed. My first thought was that everybody was at work, possibly even taking care of the carefully manicured lawns we had just left behind in Beverly Hills.

We walked towards the towers. The town didn't feel any more threatening than some of the tougher areas of Logan City near Brisbane where I grew up. It seemed to suffer from the same lack of infrastructure that left older folks stuck in their homes and bored kids wandering the streets with nothing to do. The only noticeable difference in Watts was a smashed television set in the middle of one street and more security; with bars on the windows and multiple locks on doors. Hardly welcoming!

The road opened up into a park area where the towers were located. On the ground there was a timeline depicting the history of the civil rights movement in the area, which seemed to be presided over by the adjacent towers that stood like wise-old sentinels.

An iron fence surrounded the towers and a few other stray visitors circled the area. Presumably, there would be guided tours of the structures - but not this day. I was thankful for this - after weeks of having tour guides explain on what level we should be appreciating certain landmarks, I was happy to develop my own impressions of the towers. I didn't need any explanation to appreciate the towers - their mad glory and beauty amidst a sea of unremarkable housing was self-evident.

It occurred to me that the towers could only have been made in the time and place they had been. Tight planning regulations these days would certainly prevent any similar unsanctioned displays of creativity. It seemed like the towers were a much needed focal-point for the town, in the same way that a town square might have been in some idealised 1950's America. I'm sure Watts residents have come to appreciate the towers, but direct neighbours presumably must have lived in fear of the spires snapping off and impaling them while they slept. Luckily Rodia seemed to be confident of his abilities even though he built the towers without any plans.

Although Rodia was an Italian immigrant, the towers, to me, seemed to be similar to the work of Spanish architect Antonio Gaudi, even down to the intricate mosaics, which in this case consisted of broken bits of pottery and even 7up bottle caps. I could imagine him picking up stray bottle tops and bits of ceramics on the way to work, while spending his days planning the next extension to his masterpiece. For all their unique majesty, ultimately the towers seemed to be simply a way for Rodia to make more interesting use of his spare time.

I had been to England and Europe a few years prior to this American trip and had surprised my friends and relatives with some less-than-insightful comments in my postcards. One comment especially stuck in my mind. I described Big Ben as being 'not that big'. Some iconic images are so saturated by media coverage, tourist pamphlets and endless documentaries that their real-life presence can never live up to the weight of the cultural baggage they carry with them.

Our trip to Disneyland was a classic example of this phenomenon. The iconic 'Magic Castle' structure which appears on every Disney product in real life seemed tiny, faded and made out of cheap plywood... There wasn't even a magical flying fairy circling the castle and sprinkling pixie-dust like on all those DVD intros I have watched over the years. One can't help but feel a little disappointed!

The Watts Towers are increasingly being recognised in popular culture and have even appeared on an episode of The Simpson and in the 'Grand Theft Auto' video game series. Like Disneyland, the towers are also presented as 'one man's vision', but to me, the major difference is that Disneyland represents capitalism and the rise of consumer culture to please the masses, whereas The Watts Towers exist for no monetary gain and simply to remind people that there is still a bit of magic left in the world. Let's hope that their growing prominence in pop culture does not result in any of this wonder being diluted for the casual observer.

On my last day in America it felt enormously gratifying that something like The Watts Towers could still exist in modern America and even be appreciated and preserved. After all, isn't the myth of America supposed to be at least partly about the individual having a voice and being able to triumph through ingenuity and hard work? Surely, the Watts Towers are a prime example of this?

Thinking about the towers now - almost ten years later - they tend to mean something different to me. During the last decade I have moved from Brisbane to Melbourne and now feel like I understand the immigrant mindset somewhat. My move was not as dramatic as Simon Rodia's move from Italy to Las Angeles, but I do feel that if you move to a different town later in life you can never feel fully accepted by a native community and escape the culture that defined you during your formative years.

The best you can hope for is to insert some of your own culture into the place that you have moved to - Simon Rodia did this spectacularly with the Watts Towers.

I suppose the towers are 'outsider' art purely by this definition, but to me they are just 'art' and like all good art their meaning changes as the viewer grows older.

I wonder what the towers will mean to me in another ten years' time?