Recently, I travelled to Thailand. My wife and I enjoyed a truly magnificent time there, in respects as varied as learning about Buddhist temples to relaxing poolside with a cocktail, but there was just one thing that irked. Really irked me. It was being corrected by the Thais on my pronunciation of English.

Now, as a well-qualified English teacher, I don’t consider it brazen of me to presume the high ground on how one does and does not speak English. And whilst I am a firm believer in the notion that when one travels abroad one ought conduct oneself in a manner commensurate with the laws and values of the country one is in. You won’t see me stealing a worthless beer mat from an Aussie pub in Bangkok and telling the police that it was just for a laugh by way of excuse – idiots like that deserve to be looked up. And if I had a dollar for every scantily-clad American woman I saw ostentatiously decrying the discriminatory prudery of the Thai Buddhist temple guards denying them access, I would indeed be a much wealthier man. But, being told how to speak my own language, is not one of the occasions when I will acquiesce to this adage.

Let me explain what I mean. If you drive a taxi in Bangkok it’s highly profitable to know some English. In fact, that can be said of anyone in Thailand. Now, given that you’re over there in a foreign country and not at home, it’s your job to make yourself understood – even if it requires a lot of repetition, careful enunciation and patience. All of this is fair enough. And you have no right to lose your temper or become impatient with the locals when they cannot understand you. But I’ll tell you when you bloody well do have the right! When they have the indecency to correct your English.

A typical example:

“I’d like to go to the Millennium Hilton on the Riverside,” you say.

Thai taxi-driver gives you a quizzical look – too many words.

“Millennium Hilton – Riverside,” you simplify.

“Malinyum Hill-thon Riv-sigh?” questions your driver.

“Yes! The Millennium Hilton, Riverside!” you exclaim joyfully.

“Malinyum Hill-thon Riv-sigh,” corrects your driver, condescendingly.

That’s just not right!

Look, if I pronounce your language wrong I will duly apologise and try to get it right next time with the help of your correction. But the Thais seem to have a prevailing arrogance that their monotonal hiccuping is a veritable rendition of English.

No, it’s not! I don’t give a damn if I am in your country – you’re speaking my language. And whilst there may be many a time when I believe it prudent to actively resist the long arm of cultural imperialism from embracing you, this is not one of them.

Narrative Structure of a T.V. Sitcom

In order to make a 22-minute (30 mins with commercials) T.V. Sitcom (Situational Comedy) both interesting and amusing, the writers of the show must follow very strict guidelines in terms of plot structure.

Above is a diagram, known as Freyatg’s Triangle, which explains how the plot of a T.V. Sitcom is structured.

Events in any episode, of any T.V. Sitcom, are structured approximately as follows:

BEGINNING:

1-3mins = The audience sees the characters in their “normal” state of existence. They are doing ordinary things like watching teleview (cf. The Simpsons), or having breakfast in the kitchen (cf. Two and a Half Men) or arriving home from work (cf. King of Queens). Within this first few minutes a disruption or complication is introduced that drives the action of that episode; this is known as the “incentive moment”.

4-18mins = This is a period of mounting conflict. The disruption or complication gives way to “rising action”; the characters work to resolve their problem and get their lives back to normal. In the process of trying to solve their problem, the characters encounter increasingly difficult obstacles and conflicts. For example, the cast of Futurama have been employed to deliver a package to a distant planet and in the course of doing this they are help captive by violent space aliens; Throughout the episode they must overcome increasingly more difficult challenges in order to free themselves and get back home; At around the 18min mark they will face up against their final and most difficult challenge, such as the leader of the aliens.

By increasing the intensity of the difficulty faced by the characters, the show is using a technique called “accumulation”.  In theory, it should get funnier as the show goes on.  

When the “accumulation” peaks, it is known as desis; this is the most intense and difficult moment for the characters in the episode. Ideally, it is also the funniest moment or “the big laugh” of the episode.

19-22mins = Once the show has “peaked”, the audience will rapidly lose interest. So, the show must be wrapped up quickly. In these final few minutes, we see the characters resolve their difficulties and differences. The denouement or moral of the story is revealed. The “falling action” leads to a happy resolution for all the characters by the end of the episode. Once the Sitcom episode is over, there is almost never any consequences or lasting effects for the characters to deal with. Comedy is really about “getting away with it”, whilst Drama is about “dealing with things when they go wrong”.

Just heard of this guy. He’s got a mixtape out now, The Potential, which is definitely worth a look. He completely kills it on “Awesome”. Don’t know who produced the beat, but it’s bangin’. And Tyga flow is as dexterous as I’ve heard for a while – changes up his cadence several times throughout the song. Check it out!

If I Get Locked Up Tonight – Eminem

Hit Me Off – New Edition

What’s So Different? – Ginuwine

Beep Me 911 – Missy Elliot

No Diggity – Blackstreet (ft. Dr. Dre)

Operation Blade – Public Domain

That is the question! Whether it is worth running the risk of contracting Swine Flu from a public toilet, or wiser to suffer the slings and burning arrows of an engorged bladder.

Not for the first time, I count myself blessed for having been born a man. I can get in and out of a public restroom unmolested, my greatest hazard being the handle on the door to exit. But my heart rends for women. Not to sound all Biblical, but in a Swine Flu obsessed world, it is the uncleanliness of women that will be the undoing of us all.

If you keep a large dog in a small house or apartment – you deserve to have it bite you. And your children.

A recent article in the Sydney Morning Herald (2-3 May, 2009) reported that “Dog attacks are more common in inner-city areas than in the western suburbs.” Well, duh. People in the western suburbs, as gullied up as they may be, are at least imbued with the common-sense understanding that large dogs need large spaces. Staffordshire terriers, Australian cattle dogs and German shepards are the three biggest offenders of biting attacks. With “263 attacks in people, which resulted in 169 injuries, 23 hospitalisations and one death” so far this year. And it’s only May, people.

Look, I don’t care how small your penis is or how desperately insecure a woman you are from watching too many episodes of Today Tonight – You should not have a big dog if you live in a densely populated area. You don’t! I’m no PETA-donating vegetarian, but I like dogs. I feel for dogs. And I understand why dogs who are kept chained up or cooped up all day in tight confines may snap. It’s not their fault – it’s their brain-dead owner’s fault. How feral would you turn if someone locked you up in a room the size of a bed all day long? 

And, perhaps, most upsetting about all this is the pathetic euphemisms we use to spare the feelings of us over-sensitive humans. Especially, if they are directly at fault. Offending dogs aren’t killed. Hey, we don’t even say “put down” anymore. Too inhumane. Instead, we use the terms “disposed of” or “destroyed” – as if they were no different from any other faulty consumer item. Which, sadly, is how too many self-centred yuppies consider them. I may be a snob, but I draw the line at being directly responsible for the prolonged suffering of anyone that lives under my roof.

The breeds that bite don’t need to be made illegal, stupidity needs to be made illegal.

“To forget the past is to be destined to repeat it”

Most people don’t consider themselves crazy. Sure, mediocre and uninteresting individuals will call themselves “crazy” in a vain attempt at uniqueness. And loads of people pay a great deal of money to mental health “professionals” to have themselves diagnosed defective in some way; so as to validate both their feelings of inadequacy and their sense of entitlement to an elevated level of deference from their family and friends. But, putting all these societal trappings aside, people don’t consider themselves crazy – that is a label reserved for others whom we find threatening, incomprehensible or simply unpalatable. 

But, I’ve come to realise, we’re all crazy! That’s right. You, me, all of us. It is the work of social theorist and psychologist Dieter Henrich that has brought me to this realisation. In his essay “Hegel Grundoperation”, Henrich explains that human consciousness is comprised of an I-subject and an I-object. In order to speak about our thoughts, our feelings, our reactions, our minds (both to others and to ourselves) – we externalise our consciousness from the confines of our minds. In other words, when you admonish yourself for being scared or shy, your I-subject is telling your I-object to behave. When you can’t help but react in an emotional and irrational way despite yourself, your consciousness is being objectified by an I-subject that you believe yourself not to be in command of. Confused? I don’t blame you.

So what does this all mean? You’re nuts, basically. We are all. In a way, we all suffer from Dissociative Identity Disorders (formally known as Multiple Personality Disorder). In order to talk to ourselves, or to talk about ourselves, we must separate or disassociated our consciousness.

In other words, you have to be more than a little crazy to be called sane.

From gyno-centrismto phallo-centrism. Flight of the Conchords has done it again. This song is the catchyest thing I’ve heard in a very long time. Beware, if you play this song it will get stuck in your head. And before you know it you will find yourself walking around singing “Too Many D**ks (On the Dancefloor)” – and that can wind up being all sorts of embarrassing.

Enjoy!

Margaret Atwood’s 2006 short story collection is as broad, sprawling and internally conflicted as its central character. Nell. But how can a collection of short stories have a central character, I hear you say? Well, with Atwood nothing is ever straight forward. And so it is with Moral Disorder in which we are told a series of short stories from, what initially seems like, various 1st-person perspectives. Atwood carefully conceals the time, place and identity of many of the narrators in these stories – insisting, instead, that you slowly piece it together through diligent appreciation of the person’s character, psychology and behaviour. A process which is fun and irritating in equal measures, much like a challenging crossword.

Typical of Atwood, all the stories here are centred on women. The characters are deeply fleshed-out, so much so that they seem more real to you, by the time you get to the last page, than the people you know in reality. And it is this willful suppression of our true minds, especially from those most close to us, that is the central theme of the novel. A truly timeless theme.

Unfortunately, the brilliance of Atwood’s psychologically insightful stream-of-consciousness style and penetration into the hear of the human condition is marred by her gyno-centrism. All her female characters are so well drawn that they transcend the page, but when it comes to male characters (whether minor of major) she stoops to cliche’ and generalisation. Much of this could be forgiven in the stories that centre upon the narrator’s experiences as a young woman, but not so when she has grown older and supposedly wiser. Such parochialism can be effective character development, but not so when we are dealing with a character who is delivering great insight about the changes in the world around her. When the narrator has reached the almost omnipotent insight of her twilight years, it is simply unbelievable. And you cannot exuse it as a willful omission, without having to concede that Atwood is guilty of the ultimate feminist hyprocrisy.