“Chipping at an Iceberg with a Fork”

I am taking the points given form the comments form my last post, which lead to the discussion on certain aspects. I will admit that I tried to cover a broad rang of topics, while trying to express my reaction to a fifteen minute radio interview. With that, I concede that each point is a topic within its own right and I really just glossed over them. I thank the thoughtful comments, By Kate and Devil’s advocate, for pointing out that my passions on the agreement at hand, could be clouding my representation of the situation.

To that end I will address one topic which I quoted in my title. Subsequent conversations, on what I had written, exposed a though by Kate, who works in the field of child welfare. She said, “It’s like chipping away at an iceberg with a fork” (in reference to her experiences in welfare). I have seen first hand, the mental and physical drain on people who undertake this noble work. I think, to that end, that I am justified in saying that if that is the case then you have to start chipping and keep chipping at some point. I was not suggesting that banning alcoholic adverting or mediation is a cure, other, it is a point worthy of consideration. I am under no illusions that the topic has a “quick fix” but , if I may refer to Father Riley, find that if an impassioned plea is given to someone that has worked in this field for so long, isn’t it something worthy of consideration? Isn’t experience worth more than hypothesizing? I will agree that that is a separate topic within itself.

Back to the situation at hand, I feel that there are similarities between a welfare worker and a mechanic. If a mechanic is presented with a vehicle, they will toil to do the best they can to repair a car with the resources available to them. When the car leaves their care, no matter what advice is given to the owner, some will return with the same afflictions due to the way the car is treated by the owner. The mechanic is then repairing the same faults that could have been averted if their advice was adhered to; it then becomes a frustrating and repetitive process for the owner and the mechanic. If equated to child welfare, once a worker has done what they can, with the resources available to them, who is responsible for any subsequent improvement? I was once told, “The best administrator for your own affairs is you!” If I can use that in relation to my slimily, If the owner of a vehicle doesn’t take responsibility for it, how good can a mechanic actually be? In the same way, if the guardians of a child, if they have any, don’t take due care, what help can a welfare worker give? If the “client” is older and don’t take responsibility for their own actions, the same applies. “Action and consequence” is again another topic.

I cannot give any solutions to the welfare question as I do not work in the field. I can only offer my opinion and, hopefully, productive and healthy debate on the issue.

The Devil that Brought Down a Saint

For those of you that don’t know this man, he is Father Chris Riley. He, in my opinion, is the closest thing to a living saint. For over thirty years this man has devoted his life to improving what society would call “Youth Rejects”. His successes in this field have been too numerous to mention. He runs last chance missions to get youth to be productive members of society. Those who the traditional institutions have given up on as “lost causes”. So imagine my surprise to hear this man in utter anguish over a situation that he felt was out of his hands.

In the eves there seems to be a demon that is undercutting his efforts to provide under privileged children a quality existence. For anyone who has met Father Riley, you would know that he is not one to become upset easily. Though he is a Catholic priest, he is not standing on religious rhetoric to advance his cause but his, before mentioned, thirty years of experience in dealing with said children.

Who is this demon you may ask? The commercial, advertising giants, for alcoholic products and how, even though they deny it, their deliberate targeting of youths. Father Riley, recounted in anger, how he personally knows of girls as young as eleven that would sell themselves for “a couple of cans of bear”. He recounted how one father that, that he knew of. “sold his eight year old daughter” for the same amount. Father Riley said that he could not call this prostitution but a deliberate act of child abuse, that there are paces where this was known and an accepted activity.

Father Riley is a reasonable man and is not calling for the abolishment of alcohol, he is protesting about the blaintent targeting of youth by the marketing of such products as “Fairy Dust” and the timing to when these products are advertised such as with sporting activates and the like. But his call for moderation and responsibility seem to be falling on a deaf demon too interested in profit than the impact they are having on youth. You would think that a man and his team that have worked with “hopeless causes” would be in the prime position to be heard. Especially given the amount of time he has spent and his devotion to Australian youth, not to mention his successes in this field.

If none of this stirs you in the same way it has me, then you have my pity and disgust. There is no call, what so ever, to make youth a demographic to the alcohol industry. If a man with thirty years experience in the field of youth welfare can’t sway the demon they spare a thought for the youths and what they will subject themselves to for another alcoholic fix.

Food of the Gods

There was a B grade movie I saw when I was a kid about a storm that uncovers an ooze form the ground that was eaten by vermin and made them grow into giants. So the bulk of the movie was about these giant rats going around eating everything. Then a storm happened to hit my town and I was made to feel that life was imitating art.

I am not normally one that eats a lot of fast food but my dinner preparations were halted by a storm and subsequent blackout. There in a dark house and with hungry people I went out to try and find something for them to eat. It seemed that the only thing around was the fast food places. Why is it that such place’s have backup generators as if prepared for such eventuation’s? It was like the ooze form the movie being uncovered by the storm.

So I decided that this would be one of the rare occasions that I would have this food. It was to be nothing more than a “stomach filler” till such time the power was restored and I could continue to cook my own meals. So I look my place in line behind two young girls that were already at the counter. Like most young people they were taking their time deciding what it was they wanted. But then the group in front of me grew. First they were joined by another young person and then tree more entered with what seemed to be two minders. Now the first two had the money to pay for their order, the subsequent group just jumped the line and stood in front of me with no regard for the line that was behind me. The other youths had the normal indecision but put their orders through to the girl serving at the counter. Just when you thought the ordering was done and the line could move on, the minders ordered. This held up the poor girl at the counter even more and while the queue behind me grew.

It was at this point another register opened and being next in line I got served. I had been waiting in line for nearly twenty five minutes now so I knew what I wanted to order in reality I knew only seconds after reading the menus. A simple order given and off the girl went to fill it. These two minders grew irate at the fact that my order seemed to be being filled faster than theirs. It was not that the case that they were chopping and changing their order and conferring with each other on what would be the healthier choices to make, it was not the fact that they had ordered custom menu options that had to be made or procrastinating over which diet drink was to accompany their meal. I had been whole heartedly been transported into that “B” grade movie I mentioned. I had found the giant rats.

With venom they started to abuse the girl that was serving me, stating that they were there “first” and that their order had not been received yet. If they had only bothered to look beyond the first row of bay marries they would have seen their order being made. But not satisfied that they were still waiting, or that their order was more like calculus to fill, they had the gall to say that they were there “first”. Full of their own self importance they started to abuse the girl serving me, and the poor girl could only say in her defense that she didn’t take their order and was working on mine.

It was at this point that I had had enough. In the movie the rats finally get destroyed by the characters in the film destroying a dam and drowning them. These two “Rats” had just destroyed the dam of patients and unleashed a torrent of verbal Karma. I spoke up:

“Fist of all you were not here first, I was. You jumped the queue without any regard to who else was standing in line. You ordered custom items that you took ages to decide on only making us wait longer to be served. If you bothered to open your eyes you can see your order being made by the girl that served you in the back. Now because I made a simple order and it is being filled by someone else you want to attack her because your majesties are not being served to your satisfaction. Grow up, get over yourselves and your petty self importance”.

To Our Glorious Dead

On the same ground as the cenotaph, in the middle of the city of Sydney, the powers to be erect the city Christmas tree every year. Now with all the recent attacks on Christmas I find myself looking at two monuments that seem to conflict, or do they? Just meters away from each other, you are looking at a monument to those who have died in conflict while the other, supposedly, to remind us to live in hope of peace on earth and good will to men.




Then the thought hits me that these are two monuments to traditions that are under attack. On the 25th of April, Australia celebrates ANZAC day. Minority groups and pacifists attack this day as a tribute to war. They think it an irony that we celebrate a military disaster and the senseless loss of life. Not that to all serviceman that this is a day to remember those who are no longer with us, men and women they may have served with in action or not. That this day, this ground and monument, is most probably the most sacred testament to their devotion to each other and to their country, regardless of the religious affiliations, they come to honor each other and to the hope that never again will we engage in such hatred again.



Minority groups again attack Christmas. In recent years, shopping malls have been under attack for playing Christmas carols in shopping centers, Santa is under attack for his traditional “Ho, Ho, Ho” and recently not allowed to Christmas parties as he may offend some religious groups. So the placing of the Cities Christmas tree on the same ground now holds the same significance as an Australian tradition under attack now seems so relevant. When you take into significance the real-estate that they occupy in Martin Place tradition and history were made here. This is the place that all distances from Sydney were once measured, it was the place that our countries first Prime Minister, Edmund Barton, was sworn in and being such a young country, traditions are something that we have too few of.

It has to be remembered that this country was first settled by Christians, and with them they brought the tradition of Christmas. If you take the religious significance out of the event, to hold one day a year where we bestow good will to all men, then the name of the day is insignificant to the bigger picture. It is that wish that will avoid such monuments such as more cenotaphs and war memorials. It is such a little ask to hold the spirit of something and to celebrate it with the significance that you want to bestow it.

Going to Miss You George

22 November 2007 makes the passing of a good friend. It was my sad duty to take a loyal member of the family to the Vet and to return without him. He was brought to the family 17 years ago and this picture was taken this year while he still looked like he was still a puppy but in dog years he was 121 years old.

He had a fetish for human food and never much liked dog food. A fussy eater he was more human than dog. He was always willing to lend a paw even if it just got in the way. A dog who’s barking woke me to a home intruder or trespasser more than once. His early warning to one last year helped save my life.

I ask your forgiveness as I saw your big brown eyes close for the last time today. I wish you rest and to never again suffer form that brain tumor. I am going to miss you old mate.

Just a Pile of Rocks

I suppose a few rocks piled one on top of the other would have no significance to anyone really. Just some fools monument that has no meaning to anyone. But these stood as a memorial of a time nearly 26 years ago when I would share the last few days with a good friend.

I first saw this memorial on the way to a school camp. We had to walk to the camp as the bus we rode could not cross the ferry. I walked with my mate some distance to the camp where we would spend the week for school. It was about this time that I was first developing my love of photography and would carry a camera everywhere I went. On the walk and barely stopping I spotted this monument and took a snap. At the time it amused me that someone would take the time to stack a pile of rocks in such a fashion. I knew the picture would not turn out so great but to my surprise it did, though I always promised myself that I would go back some day and take a better one.

Just a few days after that camp, my good friend died in a car accident. It would be the fist time that I would feel the weight of a coffin as a pall bearer but sadly not the last. I remember getting the pictures back and showing my friend and we both agreed that one day we would take the trip together and do it again. Sadly that will never happen but, Andrew, I kept my part of the deal.

I met the son of the owner today and he took the time to show me the camp. He told me that it was his grandfather that had erected the pile of stones. He told me that stones had no significance other than to be a decoration. It is funny how they look so much smaller than I remember them. As I walked, I saw the shack we stayed in as well as the hall. All I could see was a young boy sitting in the spot smiling and sharing jokes, a young boy that would never grow old. Even after all this time and nothing to go on but a memory, I found those rocks.

I went to a bar and had a few drinks and my mind dwelled on how circumstance had brought me to a place so near these rocks. I reflected how life can bring you so close to keeping a promise but keep you distracted enough not keep it. But today I kept that promise.

The Wog

To those who are not familiar with the term “Wog”, it is a colloquial term for someone who is an immigrant to Australia, and can be extended to the children of said people. It is usually a derogatory term used to express bigotry toward your heritage. It is in some way, a way to make you feel inferior to those who were born here and have blood lines that extend to England. Due to my olive skin, brown eyes and black hair, I am branded with this title form time to time. My father is an immigrant and my grandparents on my mother’s side did too. Had I not inherited the Mediterranean complexion, and more the “Arian” of my mother’s side, people would not have a clue to my heritage. It is usually during the winter months that I find trouble as I still appear tanned.

When growing up as a child I was feared to be deaf because I didn’t speak. It was ruled out because I would do as I was asked. However, I would be asked to do things in three different languages, all of which I still understand and two of which I can speak fluently now. With immigrant parents you are exposed to cultures that extend for thousands of years. They are the product of them, passed down by countless generations but you are on your own. You don’t belong to one or the other and have to find a compromise to satisfy all of them, a perpetual world of understanding without belonging and continually judged on things that were not of your choosing.

I had been recently called a “Wog”. The distaste of this label was exasperated by the person calling me it. Here I was confronted by a person that had not worked a day in their life. Their only claim to being Australian was the fact that they had been born here and had family ties to convicts. A person who had health issues because of their obesity and lifestyle. A person who’s self obsession is their self and that everyone around them is inferior to them. I get called this, when this person knows, I have represented and served for this country. I have worn its uniform and stood accountable with my life for it. I have earned everything I have ever owned and my title of being Australian.