I was just lurking about on the dock this one afternoon at work. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Daniel drive into the back of a trailer on his forklift. Next I heard the crunching sound of the dock leveller dropping down because the truck had pulled away from the dock. At first I did not notice anything wrong with this situation.
As I focussed on the scene, I could see Daniel reversing back out of the trailer with a pallet on his tines. The truck was moving forward. This all took place in a very short space of time, but it was as if time had slowed down. It almost seemed like an optical illusion. The forklift was reversing back towards the rear door of the trailer and the trailer was moving forward away from the dock. The gap was getting wider and wider.
It is a large drop out of the back of one of these trailers.
Then it hits me: THE TRUCK IS PULLING AWAY FROM THE DOCK AND DANIEL IS REVERSING OUT OF THE TRAILER!!!
HOLY SHIT!
I opened my mouth to shout out a warning, but all that came out was a jumbled mess. Something like “AAAHWOOOSHIIISTOOODAANNN!!!”
Luckily for all involved it was enough to get Daniel’s attention and he hit the brakes on his forklift. The rear wheels actually dropped out of the rear of the trailer; but the bulk of the forklift remained in the truck. Daniel was sitting there in shock. The prime mover stopped and the driver jumped out. He looked back to see the forklift teetering out of the back of the trailer and placed his hands either side of his head in horror.
Fuck that was close!
Incident reports had to be filled out, and I got plenty of laughs as I tried to describe the warning I yelled out. I was hoping for “Daniel stop!” or something similarly coherent; but my mind was reeling from the panic. Regardless, I am glad I made enough noise to get Daniel’s attention and avert a very serious accident causing massive trauma or possible death.
“I’M AS MAD AS HELL, AND I’M NOT GOING TO TAKE THIS ANYMORE!”
Network (1976)
In regard to empires and/or powerful nations I have mentioned a few ways for them to falter or fall altogether: All manner of political machinations and treachery can displace a rightful leader without any need of overt violence; maybe an assassination here or there on the sly perhaps. However, some do prefer the expediency of a military coup, although this may set a very messy precedent resulting in civil war.
Invasion and subjugation may have less to do with the internal politics of a state than the previous perils, but bad governance can be responsible for weakening an empire or creating hostilities with powerful peers. If that is the case, all three calamities stem from a hollowing out of the core. A weakening of the belief structure that holds a society together.
Citizens lose confidence in their leaders. They begin to doubt the validity of the institutions and conventions they once held high. It could take the shape of anger or apathy at a seemingly unfair system. Maybe it emerges as decadence or nihilism at a complete lack of meaning. Either way the empire rots from inside and the foundations become shaky.
Whether going soft through debauchery or lack of passion you become vulnerable to any antagonists. The sharks, be they internal or external can sense the blood in the water. The only way to restore faith in the system may well be a dramatic upheaval at the top. Not merely a massive election defeat, a total ousting; hostile takeover! Be it political chicanery or Colonel Coup and his skullduggery soldiers, a regime change is on the cards.
While either of these outcomes represent a monumental failure, there is another outcome that leaves little doubt as to where the popular opinion lies among the citizenry – revolution! No ifs, buts or maybes; the ones running this state fucked up big-time!
These people misread the room to such a staggering degree that the very sheep on whose backs’ they ride have tossed them in the dirt. There will be a reckoning and there will be blood! To be on the receiving end of a population pushed too far is horrific fate indeed. I mean we’re talking “let them eat cake” kind of out of touch stupidity here.
The heads being called for will now see, for probably the first time ever, how precarious their power can be. If they are fortunate enough to have the military and any other security forces on side they may stand a chance. Although continuing to govern after a violent uprising will require some serious brutality and paranoia.
If the populous is well equipped and intensely devoted to their cause things could go either way. If they manage to sway the military and/or security forces to join the revolt, things are looking very grim indeed for the aristocracy.
Let’s assume the insurrection is successful. Heads roll, blood flows and many more are incarcerated or exiled. What happens after the smoke clears?
The grievance responsible for most insurgencies usually stemmed from wealth inequality and the lack of rights for the peasantry. Basically, the poor were fed up with being treated like shit. Not an uncommon complaint; pretty fucking universal actually! Only the degree varies. The haves always seem to want more and are often oblivious to the misery of the unwashed masses.
Fucken hell! Egypt, considered one of the ‘cradles of civilisation’, built the bloody pyramids! One of the first empires, and their most enduring legacy is monstrous status symbols built by countless slaves and exploited workers! Civilisation? Not much has changed.
So, every once in a while the conditions are just right, and a few sparks set the seething lower class alight.
“Equal rights and justice
And if he doesn’t get it
He’s gon’ to take it any way and anyhow…”
“Can’t hold us anymore
We’ve had enough of jive and bluff
We want our share for sure.”
“Piece of the Pie” Jimmy Cliff
A champion (or shit stirrer, take your pick) comes along and convinces the plebs the time has come. “The suffering ends now!” The organisers who get behind this leader do so because they share the distress of the aggrieved and are willing to go all in for victory. The willingness to go to war with one’s own ruling class does not come about lightly. It is spawned by overwhelming resentment and furious anger. That kind of passion cannot be faked. The imposters will wait and see how things turn out before stepping into full view.
I do not know where the tipping point is, but once the balance shifts from protests and riots to full on uprising there is going to be carnage and mayhem! The people in the thick of it are in a life and death struggle; defeat is death. Those who lead (at least near the front) are true devotees to the mission of bringing down the cruel overlords and bringing tangible change to the lives of the downtrodden.
The Russians called for “Land, peace and bread”
The French wanted “Liberty, Equality and Fraternity”
The soon to be United State of America screamed “Give me liberty or give me death!”
These and other successful tyrant takedowns all had a similar theme; that of stop shitting on us and share the fucking food, and all the other good stuff you motherfuckers are hoarding”
Those leading the charge had noble enough intentions and were genuinely striving for a better society. Sadly: “The road to hell is paved with good intentions” (Saint Bernard). I am sure the people who took control after the victory were honourable; they were also naïve in many ways. They overestimated the efficacy of their new and improved model of society, and they underestimated the darker side of human nature.
I will go into more detail about the various visions of a fairer state; some were more successful than others; some are all but extinct now. The troubling thought I will conclude on is this: in every single scenario after the purge eliminated the ‘bad’ leaders, it didn’t take very long for a new guard to manoeuvre themselves to the top spots and bask in the ill-gotten gains of exploitation and crookery. New system, new leaders – same appalling gap between rich and poor; same unscrupulous behaviour benefitting those at the top, while sucking the lower class dry.
“The more things change, the more they stay the same.”
Here you have a choice. Relish the lyrics as they are; or read my subjective interpretation.
The fact that I will use so many words attempting to capture what the songwriter captured in so few should help with your decision.
The magic is all there in four lines.
The following is my experience when I hear these lyrics and that itself changes over time.
I have wanted to find a way to plug this into a post since I very first began. It never seemed to fit, so here it is. Gerry Rafferty’s lament over the fading façade of the big city. Almost like a reply to songs in the vein of “New York, New York” that sell the fantasy of endless opportunity among the bright lights.
New York, Hollywood. Anywhere that’s not this shitty little town in the middle of nowhere or this endless suburban landscape of mediocrity. Gunna get my ass to metropolis and stake my claim! Become a big shot: fame, fortune, success!
People flock to these melting pots with all manner of aspirations, but whatever the specific goal may be in (showbiz, business, politics) the wish is the same – happiness! Many will get chewed up and spat out. Most will fall into some kind of groove and eek out an existence. Some will find love and/or joy living a modest life with a decent income and home. Very few will “make it”, whatever the fuck that means anyway.
The person in this song does not seem to be scaling the lofty heights of their chosen destination. If success was the penthouse, they appear to be toiling away in the dingy lobby. Not necessarily the underbelly, but very fucken far from the glitz and glamour of their dreams. At this point they would be happy to get a room on the first floor.
Surrounded by countless others coming to terms with a similar rude awakening. All that crushed ambition shuffling along on grimy streets looking longingly up at the lights in the luxurious apartment buildings. Those ‘winners’ ride high on the backs of the never-ending supply of wannabes streaming into the city every day.
Yeah, it’s a bummer, but what an awesome four lines. 36 words hit the target dead centre! I just spent 266 writing my clunky attempt at laying out some kind of explanation about how those words hit me and I could write more and still never capture the poignancy it stirs. So I will stop here.
Moe: Hey, Homer came up with the drink, but I came up with the idea of charging $6.95 for it.
The Simpsons: “Flaming Moe’s”
The tale of the artist/inventor being duped is a way too common one. Being gifted and then putting in the time and effort required to create something great doesn’t leave a lot of time for learning business skills. Taking that valuable talent/invention etc. and using it to create revenue is a different skill entirely and neither skillset can squeeze anywhere near as much money going solo compared to working together.
If integrity and transparency exist, we can end right here and wish these partners the best. It does happen, I’m sure; we just rarely hear about it because there’s no drama in things running smooth. Also, when it comes to shared endeavours and money people have a tendency to put a lot more emphasis on their contribution over that of the others.
In the case of our mates Homer and Moe we have a clear division: Homer invented the cocktail and Moe had the means of distribution. This is often the sticking point for most fledgling entrepreneurs and/or inventors: how to get your product to the customer? If, like the Flaming Homer, it can be easily made and served, you have the benefit of skipping the whole manufacturing process; which introduces a whole new bunch of ‘partners’.
However, if the Flaming Homer/Moe was to move to the next level, it would definitely require mass production, and I doubt Moe has the means and necessary licenses for that undertaking. Thus, it probably would have ended much like the episode was headed before Homer spilled the beans. They would have sold the rights to a manufacturer; at best they would have gotten a percentage agreement.
So, I suppose it would have extended the quote a little:
“Yeah, Homer came up with the drink and Moe made it popular, but those small timers never could have taken it national and supplied the market.”
Technology has broken down many of the barriers that held the little guys down, so maybe a comparison of the old and new gatekeepers is in order:
For the budding entrepreneur the game changed significantly with the likes of eBay and Amazon combined with electronic payment systems. Nowadays if you can figure out how to safely and securely mail your merchandise for the right price you’ve got a fighting chance. Might have a bit of trouble mailing potted plants you sold on the internet though.
That kind of stuff probably still requires some kind of store. I remember my sister and her homemade scented candle phase. She sold a lot through word of mouth and people grabbing them straight from her. Once a month she would have a stall at a local market on a Sunday and turn a small profit. Her biggest boost came when the people who ran a second-hand goods store across from her house agreed to sell them. I don’t know about the split, but she never gave up her day job, and I never saw any obvious signs of wealth. She eventually branched out into mail orders, but the time and effort became too much, so it petered out slowly.
My mother had her own money-making idea regarding her lush garden after seeing the price of many plants she had growing profusely in her yard. Just buy the pots and soil and voila! They wouldn’t keep them in the 2nd hand store, so we left them on my sister’s porch and posted a sign in their window. They were nicked before her next market day.
We never invested any more time into ironing out the details and therefore we never became merchants. Who’d have guessed it takes research and persistence to get a feasible business up and running? Cue the coming together of the ideas-man/woman and the business savvy sidekick.
Thinking of them as a sidekick would probably be your first mistake in terms of underestimating their potential; both to make or break the mission. Not to mention rip you right off if you’re not paying attention. Something as transferable as making scented candles from packets or potting profitable plants from a prolific garden probably wouldn’t justify such a specialist; that would have to be you.
However, if you have a unique product or talent. Or maybe a new design or twist on an old one, you may require the assistance of an experienced representative. Someone to tout your wares and get a good price: a manager, an agent, a promoter – in short, a hustler! Herein lies the warning. This person has spent years learning and fine tuning their skills of persuasion; gathering contacts and figuring out how to maximise profits from the fruits of other’s labour.
“As hard as I worked in the gym and the ring, there were hundreds of people working just as hard figuring out how to get my money.”
Paraphrasing something I heard Mike Tyson say once.
Don King was not an anomaly. He was extremely good at what he did, but he wasn’t a new character. For all intents and purposes Michael Gudinski was a saint in terms of equitable music promotion. Although my inner cynic cannot disregard an old saying about con-men: “the best cons go unnoticed”. Maybe the notorious Mr King wasn’t as clever as we all thought and the real G.O.A.T of the grifters is out there being hailed as a person of impeccable character. I have no reason to suspect Mr Gudinski just for the record. It was just one of those devil’s advocate thoughts that pop up.
Either way, the inherent talent, training and effort you put into creating your art, skill or widget, has probably been matched by the person best suited to be your mouthpiece and moneyman. Your cousin Fred may mean well and have your best interests at heart, but there was a reason I left out the word marketable from the first sentence of this paragraph. Who decides what is marketable? A quality spin doctor with good contacts can open doors and make things happen.
Hell, a brilliant one would have an honest crack at selling a polished turd and I wouldn’t bet against their success. A good product/idea with a great hustle can easily outperform a technically better competitor if the sales pitch sucks.
And on that note, I shall conclude. As usual we will return and turn over some more rocks in the future.
Long before the term “toxic masculinity” was coined, film makers have been deconstructing the idea of machismo and heroism. One genre in particular has an intimate relationship with the theme – the western. While it is true that most protagonists in these movies are stoic tough guys, not all are portrayed as one dimensional as the stereotype suggests. Good guys and bad guys often operate in the grey zone between righteousness and evil. Most great westerns, even the over-the-top shoot-em-ups present characters with some kind of internal conflict; maybe not multi-layered, more kind of questioning the path they are on.
“Unforgiven” (1992) is arguably the greatest deconstruction of the western movie, and all its motifs. As a young man I thought it was the first, beside comedies and satire, to rip in like it did. After many more years watching and rewatching countless westerns, I have realised that critiquing the concepts of its own genre was very often one of the very tropes of these films:
What makes a man strong/brave?
What makes a person good or bad?
Is anyone all one or the other?
Can a bad person or a coward find redemption?
A western without nuance can be a boring affair.
And so, we meet Johnny Ringo, The Gunfighter. Fastest gun in the west. As soon as he is recognized, the conversation swiftly turns to his showdown prowess. Yes, Johnny is a one-dimensional character in the eyes of strangers at least. Just a walking yardstick for anyone who wants to take the fatal test.
Trouble is, Ringo is getting really tired of being every wannabe gunslinger’s chance at fame. He has finally figured out how hollow, not to mention dangerous, being so infamous is. A lonely life with no home; always on the move and always looking over your shoulder.
Shit, imagine the paranoia! Every man you killed has at least one person looking for revenge. Every stupid young punk with a point to prove seeing you as some sort of title shot; not everyone looking for a fair fight neither. Especially against a seasoned killer like Ringo.
I remember laughing so hard during “Little Big Man” (1970) when Jack Crabb hangs out with Wild Bill Hickock. Jack is so chuffed to sit beside such a famous bad-ass and is genuinely confused by Bill’s hypervigilance and anxiety. After asking Bill what he’s so nervous about, Wild Bill flatly replies, “gettin’ shot…gettin’ shot”. Who wouldn’t?
The Gunfighter opens with Ringo entering a bar minding his own business. Pretty soon the local quick draw blowhard tries his luck and learns the lethal lesson. Ringo had no choice but to defend himself, thus he is clear in the eyes of the law. A barman informs him that the dearly departed dueller he just beat fair and square (or technically with a handicap since he waited for the soon to be corpse to draw first) has 3 brothers who won’t be much interested in sporting chances and such. Notch up another kill and 3 brand new mortal enemies for Johnny Ringo.
Ringo hits the trail and the brothers are soon in pursuit. Rather than try to outrun them, Ringo lays in wait and ambushes his aspiring assassins. One might expect Ringo to kill them, but instead he disarms them and sets their horses free giving himself a nice long headstart. Ringo doesn’t kill in cold blood apparently.
This is the first incident in this film that reminds me of “Carlito’s Way” (1993). Carlito has had enough of up-and-comer Benny Blanco and finally snaps. Benny ends up battered and sprawled at the bottom of a metal staircase. Carlito’s right-hand-man Pachanga insists they must kill Blanco and is more than keen to do the deed. Carlito relents in what seems like an exhausted attempt at stopping the cycle of violence. Similar to Ringo and just as foolish.
Ringo uses his extra time riding to the town of Cayenne for his own attempt at redemption. He wants to find his wife Peggy, whom he hasn’t seen in 8 years, and his son, who doesn’t know he exists.
The town marshal, Mark Stratton, turns out to be an old friend of Ringo who has given up the outlaw life. Although he still appears drawn to the wild side having chosen such a risky profession. He later tells Ringo a tragic tale of him and his gang running amok somewhere with guns blazing. An innocent girl got killed in the chaos and no one could ever be sure who shot her. That was the last straw for Stratton.
Although, just like Ringo he wasn’t cut out for much in terms of an honest living. So, he didn’t lay down his guns entirely and turned his hand to keeping the peace instead. A small blessing for not being a famous shootist like Ringo; the long-lost friend who just rode into town and made his job a hell of a lot more difficult.
That little anecdote seems like a neat explanation for the marshal’s change of heart. It is that, but I sense more. It is a gruesome reminder for those who may still be romanticising Ringo’s life. Yes, he the men he killed were trying to kill him, and he has a code of honour so to speak. However, we will never know if any innocent people got wounded or killed during any of this wanton violence. We must also remember that Ringo was once the young upstart looking to prove his gun toting capability. He might remember things different, but surely he provoked some of those dead men on his list into a fight they didn’t want.
Stratton trusts that Ringo’s latest slaying was in self-defence. He is also certain that the brothers with the vendetta will be arriving soon enough. Determined to avoid a bloodbath he tells Ringo to keep moving but is stonewalled by Johnny’s insistence on seeing his family before he goes.
Ringo assures the marshal that his pursuers can’t possibly get to town for a long time. Stratton accepts this and understands Ringo’s yearning to see his wife and son. He also understands that a man like Ringo has an uncanny ability to draw dim-witted troublemakers with guns like a siren’s song.
He orders Ringo to stay in the town saloon and even has a rifleman posted outside with orders to shoot if he steps out. Stratton now has two missions: find Peggy and have his deputies help him get every sick-of-living pistolero they can think of out of town until Ringo is long gone.
The number one contender for Ringo’s next victim is the young upstart Bromley. You know those famous last words, “he don’t look so good/tough/fast to me.” They can chase the early-grave applicants out but keeping them away is near impossible.
Ringo finally gets to speak to his estranged wife who has changed her last name to conceal their relationship. More evidence of the toxic fame that follows Johnny Ringo. Peggy also asks him to keep his identity from his own son to try and protect him from the curse of the blood-soaked crown.
Ringo explains his exhaustion and promises to go somewhere where he is unknown and start over. This is the starkest paradox of the ‘being a real man’ cliché. Ringo is no doubt a competent combatant, but that has many drawbacks. Not least of which is how much longer will he even be around to take care of his loved ones.
Ringo’s unrivalled skill and cunning are the very magnets drawing the relentless peril to him. He has no homestead or farming skills. No trade with which to make an honest living and provide for his family. Life expectancy of a marshal or sheriff isn’t much better than he has now, and it will plumet the moment he is recognized. The fearsome reputation he so desperately desired as a young man has all but sealed his fate.
Peggy refuses his offer but agrees to reconsider if he can find a way to live in peace. Cue Stratton to hustle Ringo out of town while the gettin’s good. You guessed it…too late!
The brothers have made it to town and the next Carlito’s Way inspiration kicks off. The finale of the 1993 film has Carlito and his lover trying to escape some mafia goons and board a train to a new life. They make it after much suspense and just as they are about to get on board…fucken Benny Blanco! “Remember me?” Bang, bang.
Well Stratton’s deputies catch the vengeful trio before they can strike and apprehend them. Ringo begins his ride off into the sunset…fucken Bromley! “How ‘bout it Ringo?” he calls out seconds before shooting him in the back – dirty little fucker!
Stratton gives Bromley a sound thrashing as everyone rushes to the downed Ringo. Mortally wounded, Ringo insists that all witnesses saw a fair fight.
“Don’t do me no favours Ringo” Bromley snarls – dumbass.
With his dying breaths Ringo explains the punishment awaiting his murderer. An often-debated piece of exposition; some think it was unnecessary. Whatever way you may lean personally there is no denying the awesome retribution Ringo’s ‘favour’ ensures.
You frequently hear terms like “hanging’s too good for him”. What should be done instead? Life imprisonment at the taxpayer’s expense? Some kind of grotesque torture?
Well Bromley handed Ringo and the witnesses of his cowardly act his own comeuppance on a platter. At least hanging for first degree murder would have been quick. By handing over the gun-fighting championship title to Bromley he also bestows all the anguish and paranoia that goes with it.
There is no cash prize or profitable livelihood for the title, just some fame which might get you a few fans and will probably see men step aside for you – hell you might even get laid or offered free food and drink sometimes. For that privilege you must be ready to engage in a life and death shootout every time some aspiring asshole wants to take a shot.
A brilliant ending and one that for some reason makes me imagine a Twilight Zone episode that I cannot put my finger on.
“We’ve got some big contracts coming up, so there’s gonna be heaps of overtime! Take a look at our other depot when you get a chance; they’ve been doing 12 hours most days. You won’t see an old car in their car park!”
Paraphrasing a manager during a depot meeting long ago
This was meant to be a motivational speech I suppose, and for many I’m sure it worked wonders. Especially the overtime hogs who were almost always the laziest workers in the joint! Forever having smoko breaks and miraculously vanishing whenever the shit hits the fan.
One trope that always amazed me was when the effort-allergy sufferer used their extensive hours as an excuse to do less. “I’ve been here since (fill in a time for which this person undoubtedly gets penalty rates and thus more money than others on the same shift for). Not once in my 30 odd years of work have I heard a boss suggest that one of these passengers cut back on their overtime.
“Maybe you’re overdoing a bit. All that lurking around on the sidelines must be exhausting. Maybe just do your core hours for a while; build your energy back up. You won’t be missed.”
If you have been reading my stuff for a while you’ll already know I was one of the stupid people who thought we were expected to get the job done. This was one of those ‘work till finish” gigs, so the sooner you get it done the sooner you get out. Not a great incentive for people looking to milk overtime.
Me and any other dopes are up there rowing our asses off and these guys are dropping anchors left right and centre. Talk about working at cross purposes. Volume often waxed and waned throughout the year, and we could never be on the same page. During a quiet period, they would curse us for finishing on time. Mind you, when I say on time, there was usually at least an hour or more overtime regardless. Never enough for them:
“Time and a half? That’s shit! I want double time! I want tea money!”
During a peak period, we would curse them for putting on the cloak of invisibility and doing all in their power to drag the chain. It was an impossible gulf to bridge. People who wanted to squeeze every penny versus those who value what little free time they could get.
“Just come and sit in the lunchroom with us.”
“I wanna finish this shit and knock off.”
“Don’t expect me to help then.”
This was a union yard if you hadn’t already guessed. The supervisors were fighting an uphill battle wearing greasy shoes trying to get the double-time bandits to take the hand brake off. So they would inevitably ride the simple fools who wanted to clock off at a reasonable hour while the human hinderances went on their third lunch break. Interesting vision of unity.
A quick tangent which will make sense soon: A mate of mine was one of those home loan comparers and he sat down with me one evening with his laptop. After going through all the figures, he concluded that he could approve me for a sizeable loan. However, he added that as a friend he would not recommend it because my earnings were reliant on overtime and that could vanish rather quickly.
Like I said before, we always had overtime, it’s just that we didn’t have the copious amounts the milkers were after all year round. Considering I had no desire to be doing regular 12 hour days; I decided to opt out of becoming a homeowner. Not more than a year or two later my mental health took a severe downturn, so the overtime would be off the table sooner for me than the rest anyway.
Looking back, it is a strange paradox: I didn’t have the energy to exploit the overtime because I worked more than my fair share thinking I was picking up the slack for the deadshits. They would have loved nothing more than for me to relax with them and let someone else do the hard yards. It wasn’t pure laziness per se; it was strategic inefficiency, a wage maximisation ploy. In their eyes the company made plenty of profit and they were merely getting their noses into the trough.
Unfortunately for me I hated the idea of not pulling my weight (I have no idea how that translated into me running myself ragged other than naivety). I also hated the idea of spending almost every waking hour at my job. The conversation was hardly riveting in that fucken lunchroom and there was only a couple of people I actually enjoyed talking to.
Another bizarre behaviour I witnessed was that around half of the extra-hour-hogs weren’t doing anything constructive with their earnings. Sure, half of them were paying off a home or even dabbling in investment property. A few were world traveler types out gallivanting and looking for adventure, but a startling amount would piss it away on either booze, drugs, prostitutes or gambling; or all the above!
I imagine this overwhelming urge to indulge was a reward for the hours they sacrificed. A cruel vicious cycle. The other overtime extenders would spend the money they gave away hours of their life for on luxury items. Fancy cars (just like our manager promised!) and clothes, jewellery and all manner of big boy toys: Jet skis, pool tables, trail bikes, hot tubs, home theatres; whatever the latest status trend happened to be. “I deserve it.”
The gravy train continued for maybe another decade, but the winds were definitely shifting. The days of good money for next to nothing were coming to an end. New legislation was tying the unions hands, and the smaller operators were being merged into huge corporations. The great purge in pursuit of profit was beginning.
Most of the old timers got their homes paid off and maybe even a nice nest egg or investment property. Many who bought in when I didn’t were at least lucky enough to have purchased before the prices skyrocketed and managed to pay a large chunk off before the overtime dried up. Many have a second casual job or some kind of side hustle desperately trying to attain homeownership; the rental market is an absolute nightmare!
The era of near endless overtime and frivolous penalty rates is pretty much over now. Unless you are one of the dinosaurs riding the wave of an old school agreement that can’t be reneged (yet) you have to make do with whatever crumbs fall your way.
I was 11 years old when The Karate Kid was released. Back then it took a while before any big movie made its way down under, so I was probably 12 when I got to see it. I can still remember rushing into the cinema with my mate Jonno because we were late. We missed the beginning, but by the time the credits rolled we exited elated right alongside the rest of the packed theatre.
We all walked out of that movie with a sense of hope and maybe even a little thirst for vengeance on a few people. I have never seen any statistics, but I would be very confident that enrolments in martial arts schools spiked markedly not long after that film was released. Who wouldn’t want to take down bullies?
Me and most of my friends were not among the tough kids in school and we weren’t fighters, so we were very keen to learn how to kick-ass; especially when it required no actual fighting!
Think about how absurd the premise was:
Daniel had taken a few classes at his old home.
Mr Miyagi was trained by his father, and we have no information regarding if he ever had to use it.
Mr Miyagi trains Daniel and they never go any harder than very light sparring.
The Cobra Kai psychos train full contact against various opponents, and most have competed in one or more tournaments.
Johnny and his pals are black belts, and I highly doubt that John Kreese would be giving those things out lightly.
Daniel enters his first tournament after training with Mr Miyagi for around 7 weeks and takes out Cobra Kai.
Where’s the problem?
First off, I don’t think anyone, at least us kids, caught on to the 7-week thing. We were all on board and just accepted the montages as meaning a lot of time had passed. We all understood that it was a fantasy and many aspects were exaggerated, but none of us could shake the idea of secret techniques and training methods that transform a wimp into a bad ass. It might take a few years, but it was possible.
Never mind that we never saw any of the tough kids using anything more than wild punches and sloppy wrestling whenever they scrapped. We all doubted when our fathers would insist that a good boxer would destroy one of these Karate clowns, yet as we moved into high school it was often the kid who had trained in boxing who did the most damage. Although any kid willing to trade blows earned respect and those giants who were big for their age also held a lot of sway.
I never saw any of the kids with black belts (usually karate or taekwondo) use any snappy techniques if they did actually get into a scrap, but somehow the myth survived.
My Greek friends were all enrolled in goju ryu karate at the St. Peters town hall. For some reason my mate Wayne and I enrolled in the taekwondo classes that ran on alternate nights to the karate. I can clearly recall telling one of my cousins about the class and him saying “Taekwondo is good, that’s all of them combined”. I was feeling pretty good after that. A perfect example of our total ignorance right there folks. What the fuck is “all of them” anyway?
The Ultimate Fighting Championship was still almost a decade away and I have mentioned in an earlier post our extremely limited exposure to what was going on in the rest of the world. Grappling was not really a thing. Wrestling was either the phony Pro-stuff or the boring Olympic stuff. Without knowing the difference between judo and jujitsu they both meant the same thing to us and seeing it in the movies it looked damned effective and used a lot of strikes.
We understood that Kung Fu was different to karate, but all the different styles were incomprehensible to us. Like karate, kung fu was an all-encompassing term; maybe slight variations here and there, who the fuck knows? Those chop saki guys (and gals) kick serious ass. Our blind spot was that this all happened in fictional movies or TV shows.
The only time we saw two fighters go at full force for real was boxing or the new (to us) sport of kickboxing. No prizes for guessing which one our fathers preferred and recommended. This was not Muay Thai mind you. No elbows, knees or legs kicks yet. Most of us wouldn’t see that until a few years later.
Somehow our wishful thinking convinced us that the new breed of kickboxers were just karate blackbelts who made the transition to going hammer and tongs in the ring. You could train techniques with light sparring in a dojo and when you get that black belt you can go full throttle with someone trying to take your head off.
All this while knowing damn well, that the reason none of us took up boxing was because sooner or later you were going to get punched in the face – repeatedly and hard. I don’t think anyone connected those dots in that exact way, but that was the major flaw in the average karate dojo system. We didn’t fight.
Ironically, the karate school that would probably prepare you best for a street altercation would be Cobra Kai. That kind of intensity, pressure and pain would require the kind of fear conquering needed to perform in a violent encounter. Criminal charges and psychological damages aside, Johnny would be much better equipped than any McDojo martial ‘artists’.
Like I said earlier, in the hierarchy of the school brawlers I cannot think of any martial arts experts, and this goes on through most of my life in bars, on the street, on the news. An entire industry built on fantasy! How much money was spent on getting fit, flexible and gaining the ability to kick hard, fast and accurately? It wasn’t wasted, unless the person actually believed they would be able to fight like Bruce Lee did in his movies for real. Looking back on this post, one thing stuck out to me. The martial arts we held in such high esteem were the very ones we saw characters in the movies use to beat up multiple bad guys. The myth was born on the silver screen. As kids we lacked the real-world experience of our fathers who had yet to see one man take down a bunch of blokes on his own using high kicks and fancy moves. Maybe a nutter who punches like a thrashing machine and has a rock for a head, but not a kung fu master.
Anyway, Wayne and I didn’t last too long at St Peters Town hall. If memory serves me, we dropped out when they told us we had to pay for yellow belt grading. More laziness I would say; the money was just a good excuse.
I would continue searching for that mystical system that could make me a bully-basher without having to get punched or kicked in the face and I would continue to see untrained people beat the shit out of people without connecting the dots. I learned a lot; how to fight was not one of those things though.
The Abrahamic religions all advocate The Golden Rule in some form or other. “Do unto others, as you would have them do unto to”. In simplest terms: if you wouldn’t like to be on the receiving end, don’t dish it out; or “don’t knowingly act like a cunt”. From Hinduism to Buddhism, Taoism and Confucianism it stands as a guiding principle. Many moral and ethical philosophies land on the same theme regardless of a God, or Karma or any other Higher Power. It just makes sense! Or does it just make us feel a little better?
Every society has those greedy manipulators who claw their way to the top spots with no regard for the welfare of their fellow man. Divine punishment or troubled conscience be damned! Many will use the honourable card solely for the purpose of deception – Bastards! Either as a way to disguise their own selfish intentions or to guilt their opposition into surrendering leverage of some kind.
That is so low! Not only are you a self-serving prick, but you even weaponize the noble intentions of others to your advantage. Make no mistake my friends, these are the people who make it to the top. The top, not just up there, the top; the shot caller. They may keep a few upright characters around if they are useful, and everyone is useful when a scapegoat is needed.
However, the majority of top-level corporate or political players have, in Mafia terms “made their bones”. Not necessarily committed cold blooded murder but gotten their hands dirty just the same. You do not get invited to sit at the big table if you don’t have dirty laundry. A clean-skin is a liability in that room. We need to know about at least one juicy transgression before we can be sure about you.
How many tales about corrupt cops contain a line similar to this: “I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t take the money”. Trust is an ironic word to use considering we are talking about crooked police officers. Kind of like the ‘honour among thieves’ oxymoron. A code of ethical standards meant to be adhered to by a bunch of immoral rule breakers.
It’s more a kind of contract in essence. “If you try to fuck us, we got dirt on you too”. The Mafia code of silence (Omerta) is a great example. “We’re all in this dirty business together.” The concept behind ‘snitches get stitches’ has a genuine notion of justice in this sense. “How dare you get righteous with us you fucking hypocrite!”
Of course, all of this just gets utilized as another weapon in the arsenal of the assholes. Being staunch and never squealing are just another “do as I say, not as I do” tool. Just like the old chestnuts: “I think that is fair” or “negotiating in good faith”. Fuck off! Fair is a very subjective concept and as for negotiating in good faith – do you believe in unicorns too. Do you reckon swearing on the bible or any other book is going to persuade a villain to tell the truth?
The best players in the power games are not the ones who operate on trust in the sense of fidelity. It is trust founded on predictability; if you know the other person will always take the self-interested route you have a twisted trust in them, or their behaviour at least. A true master of the game knows that anyone is only as successful as they are useful, including themselves. You only get to stay at the big table if you are bringing in the profits or it is too expensive to get rid of you. Once you have served your purpose you will be tossed aside as soon as it is safe to do so.
Most of us do not have the stomach for that kind of ruthless scheming so we just do our jobs and keep our heads down. It can be comforting to believe that ‘the meek shall inherit the Earth’ and other such ideas.
“Those treacherous tycoons will burn in hell, while we luxuriate in paradise”
“Karma is coming for those greedy executives and corrupt politicians. We’ll get the last laugh”
“Religion is the sigh of the oppressed creature, the heart of a heartless world, and the soul of soulless conditions. It is the opium of the people”
Karl Marx
We have yet another chicken and egg proposition here. If we go from an atheist assumption: did the powers that be create religion to placate the miserable masses and keep them subdued; or did the masses create religion to make themselves feel better regarding the atrocious inequality of wealth – maybe it started with the plebs and the aristocracy ran with it for its pacifying effects.
Ooooh, does that get your blood boiling? Just picture the upper crust assholes sniggering at the workers. “We got those imbeciles believing we will suffer for all eternity, so they don’t revolt. They just keep toiling and waiting to die. Idiots”.
The theological alternative is quite intriguing also. Are these malicious magnates flirting with eternal damnation for a fleeting period of pleasure? Have they actually sold their souls for power and prestige?
Whatever the metaphysical or purely psychological motivations may be, these individuals have separated themselves from the flock and feel a sense of entitlement that sets them on a path of degradation. While their external circumstances may be magnificent their internal world decays. Or that is what we like to think anyway.
I’ve got a lot more grist for the mill churning from this one. As a Cyberdyne Systems Model 101 once said “I’ll be back”.
I was just a kid, around 10 or 11, accompanying my dad driving around the back streets of Marrickville. Going up one particularly steep hill there was a small utility truck ahead of us. There were two kids sitting in the back of this truck with one leg each hanging out. The kids in the back weren’t anything new; this being the early 80s seat belts were rare and sitting in the back like that wasn’t unique in any way.
It was the legs hanging out that caught our attention. I don’t remember if anyone said anything, but I definitely recall a sense that these kids were pushing their luck.
I don’t know if the truck went over a bump or what, but one of the kids fell out of the back onto the road right into the path of our car. My dad had to hit the brakes hard to avoid squishing this kid.
We avoided disaster and dad got out to help the kid. I saw him speak to the driver and if memory serves me correctly I believe the kid got back into the back of the truck. I am not certain of this so I will not comment further.
Flash forward and I am now around 17 years old. My father has left my mother and settled down with another woman. She already had three kids of her own; two sons and a daughter. The eldest boy was 15 years old and we got on really well. We even called each other brother.
So one afternoon I am sitting in my brother’s granny flat out the back of dad’s house. We have just finished smoking bongs and are well stoned; that wonderful feeling of floating on the coach listening to music and just chilling out.
Through the haze I hear my brother’s voice: “do you know that when I was a kid your father nearly ran me over”.
Holy crap!
You’re that kid!
The ‘pushing his luck’ kid!
I am still blown away at this fact: My step brother and pot smoking compadre was that very same kid from my childhood memories!
Well thank the heavens it hasn’t happened…yet. The future the film was predicting took place in 2020; phew! We dodged that bullet. Unfortunately, we are continuing down the exact path that will land us in a similar predicament – fuck. Overpopulation, global warming and pollution are still on the increase with no signs of slowing down.
The movie was released in 1973, based on a novel written in 1966. So, to the writers, 2022 seemed like long enough for us to fuck things up. The population of New York in 1973 was 16 million. In 2026 it is 20 million. That’s half of the predicted 40 million in the film’s 2022. So, I suppose we managed to keep the global warming and pollution at bay too…for now.
In this dystopia we have successfully fucked the entire planet – ecocide. The water supplies are strictly rationed and food as we know it is a distant memory. People eat processed food wafers produced by the Soylent Corporation. Shit! Imagine having a monopoly on what everyone eats! Overpopulation = more profits! You bloody beauty!!!
Soylent yellow was their first product, made from soy and lentil. Its successor, Soylent Red was made from krill. Soylent green is the new kid on the block; tastier and more nutritious! Imagine existing on a diet of wafers; no variety whatsoever. Eat it or starve, we don’t give a shit.
The film is based in New York where housing and room in general are nightmarishly scarce. People live in absolute squalor, and civilisation is hanging by a thread. People have to queue with containers at public taps and then cart the water back to their hovels. I assume bathing, at least in clean water, is a distant memory too. Can you just smell it?
Naturally, the elites still have spacious apartments along with access to running water and fresh food; these are now some of the greatest status symbols on earth!
“Hey did you hear Tony had steak and salad the other day? Talk about opulence!”
These buildings are heavily fortified and patrolled by armed guards to ensure the riffraff don’t try and pinch a bit of lettuce – the scum! I am guessing that the main clientele here would be the executives of that fucken Soylent Corporation. Must suck to have been climbing the ladder in McDonalds only to see the entire food chain turn to shit.
These upper-class assholes even have concubines! They call them furniture and share them around like toys. No human rights, who are you going to complain to anyway? Plebs down on the filthy streets eating shitty crackers and struggling for mere survival, while these pricks have sex-slaves, real food, ample water, air conditioning, plenty of room and privacy and access to whatever entertainment is still available. What more could you want? Perhaps your own personal bodyguard just in case some disgusting commoner makes it across the moat, past the armed guards and through the security system and then has the gall to ask for a crumb – impudence! They do have bodyguards just in case you were concerned.
It is a genuinely horrific vision of societal collapse; made even more terrifying by its possibility. It was not caused by a nuclear war or pandemic. It was the result of business as usual. We just continued on wrecking the joint and reproducing ad nauseum. People protested, recycled, turned vegan (I’m not sure how far the solutions had come by 1973) and whatever else, but they could not prevent the relentless march of ‘progress’. No cataclysmic event, just a slow, grinding decline with no hope.
The tragic result of “endless growth on a finite planet”. Corporations need ever expanding growth. Nations need constant GDP growth. So, we take and take ever more resources to create wealth. What the fuck is wealth anyway?
I was going to quote lyrics from “King of Pain” by The Police here, but I reckon they deserve their own post, so I’ll go with a more famous and apt quote:
“Only when the last tree has died and the last river been poisoned and the last fish caught will we realise we cannot eat money.”
“Native American saying”
This movie IS that fucking realisation! Or maybe just a few steps before it. The elites still have a tiny stash of goodies for themselves. Only time will tell if they will runout entirely first or the furious masses will tear their ivory towers to the ground. Either way the end is near. After the masses consume any and all excess provisions from the stash…best not to think about these things.
If you still hold the tiniest sliver of optimism for ‘civilisation’, how about this? When the inevitable and frequent riots break out among the street trash the powers that be have an extremely effective response that leaves no doubt about their sentiments; a cross between a bulldozer and a fucken garbage truck! Have you got that image in your mind? Streets packed with rampaging rabble and an armoured garbage truck scooping people up and tossing them into the back like filth.
It seems the only dignity left for the downtrodden in this hellscape is the assisted suicide offered at government clinics. Euthanasia is treated much like giving blood is to us these days. Let’s be brutally honest, anyone applying is doing the world a favour at this point.
So, there you have it, the dismal destiny of the human race as predicted in a 1973 film. I wouldn’t worry too much though, we’ll probably get wiped out by some unforeseen catastrophe long before we sink that low.
Oh, I almost forgot; the title of the film; the new and improved Soylent Green. This one is made from plankton apparently. Yeah, we’re really scraping the bottom of the barrel here. No crop production possible on the land we’ve ruined, therefore no food for breeding animals on top of no more ingredients for Soylent Yellow. We fished the oceans and waterways so thoroughly that only the tiniest creatures are left for us to pilfer for sustenance.
Just one problem; there is no plankton left in the oceans either. That’s correct folks; we’ve stripped the world’s resources completely bare. Not even so much as a speck of nutrients left. Except for…
“SOYLENT GREEN IS PEOPLE!”
The infamous line from the film’s climax. You heard it right; like starving castaways on a desert island, we are down to cannibalism. Unknowingly for the majority of the population as the credits roll, but the truth is out – eeeewwww!
I reckon it might be tough getting a booking at those assisted suicide clinics for a while after that news breaks. I also reckon plenty of people will go on regardless:
“Maybe things will improve with a few million less people.”
“We didn’t kill them”
“At least they get to give back to society in a small way”
“Kind of like being an organ donor”
“I’m sure it’s all done hygienically and we won’t get sick”
What do you think you would do?
Is this the ultimate doom scenario for our greed and misuse of the planet or what? We succeeded milking the earth so well that there was nothing left. We took so much and grew so big the only thing left to eat was ourselves. Holly shit!!!
I have two questions though:
Did we actually eat all the insects?
Are we sure there’s not at least one colony of shifty rats hiding out waiting to claim victory after we’re gone?
MINDLESS MUSINGS 