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Way back some time in the last century when I was in high school I was part of an unusually close group of friends. There were five of us in total. It’s not really clear what bought us all together as we didn’t have anything observable in common except for irreverent senses of humour, an incination towards the theatrical and a tendency to call “bullshit” when we saw it (usually emanating from one of the other four) which tended to alienate us a little from other students, not to mention the teachers.
Chris, Phil, Jess, Garry (well…) and Dan.
Actually, the other thing we had in common was that all of us had parents associated with the staff or governance of the school we all went to. It was an extremely poorly kept secret that said parents had a number of informal betting pools running.
1) Which of the five would be the first to get married?
2) Which of the four guys would end up marrying Jess?
3) Which of the five of us would turn out to be gay?
Our school being of the fundamentalist Christian persuasion, obviously there was no actual gambling involved, especially on that last one.
Shortest odds for first married were almost certainly on Daniel, who was the oldest of the gang and had been voted the southern hemisphere’s most eligible bachelor (his parents had objected to the use of the term ‘sexiest man alive’) three years straight, albeit by a panel that consisted of the other four of us. Consensus on which one of us was going to marry Jess depended on whose mother you were talking to at the time.
In the end Chris was the first to go, in what was described in hushed tones as something of an upset. However, he had to go all the way to New Zealand to do it, which was agreed by most to be cheating. Jess went next and threw a spanner in everyone’s mother’s works by not marrying any of us (actually, Jess’ mother was probably quite relieved). At least she had the common decency to marry a local. Just a year later it was Phil’s turn.
And then there were two.
Ever since Phil’s wedding back in 2006, Dan and I have been engaged (huh?) in a gentlemen’s wager. I say gentlemen’s wager, but I really just mean friendly competition, as there were no stakes riding on it, and I’m not a gentleman. Basically, we decided to see which of us could go the longest without getting married.
If that seems like a reasonably pointless (not to mention backwards) competition, that’s just because… it is. But when you think about it, it makes much more sense than trying to see who can get married first. For one, it provides an extra layer of disincentive to do something stupid too soon if you get romantically entangled (“Maybe we should take this to the next level… nah, I wouldn’t want to lose a bet to Dan”) and also it has the added benefit that if you lose, at least you’re getting married, so that’s some sort of consolation. As endurance sports go, doing it this way has also made it much more competitive, as remaining single has historically been something both Dan and I have been pretty good at. It’s been six long years, and neither combatant has shown any sign of flagging.
That is, until now.
Yes that’s right, I have an announcement to make, the repercussions of which could shake the very firmament, but probably won’t. It has come out of nowhere and taken more than a few people by surprise, especially me, but… I, Garry with 2 Rs, am now officially…
The winner!
Indeed. Dan announced his engagement last weekend, and I am now The Last Man Standing. It has been suggested that perhaps I shouldn’t be as happy about this as I so obviously am. However, these suggestions have, without exception, come from people who gave up and got married years ago and are just jealous. As Josh Lyman so eloquently put it:
“I drink from the keg of glory. Bring me the finest muffins and bagels in all the land”
Or as Horatio Nelson said:
“First gain the victory and then make the best use of it you can.”
And as Sachin Tendulkar put it:
“You can’t hold a ceramic tiger with a pair of size nine mittens made out of apricot jam”.
…
The point is that, the wager now being won, I can stop playing. All this time people have assumed I am single because I’m a cynical cranky debt-ridden misogynistic bastard (or possibly that I turned out to be the gay one. I don’t know what the odds were on that and I don’t think I want to), when all the time I was just trying to win a bet. And now I have.
So it’s time for a new game. I was going to call this new game “Travel Monopoly Junior” but apparently that’s already taken, so I’ll leave the title open as a work in progress. Everyone else around me having been disqualified on grounds of matrimony, the new game is a variation of solitaire and begins when the person left of the dealer rolls a seven. Winner is the first person not to die alone. Spades are trumps, it’s tippy-go and only one person gets to be the top hat.
Make of that… nope. Just forget it.
Garry with 2 Rs
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My parents sent me a very strange link this week. It’s a real estate listing for our old family house.
Background? Sure!
My parents bought the house when they were first married and lived in it until they moved to Adelaide about six years ago. I was born in Royal Darwin Hospital and from the time my parents bought me home to the time I set off for university some eighteen and a half years later, 22 Kailis St was the centre of the known universe, at least as far as I was concerned. I knew every corner of the garden and was partially responsible for the destruction of a decent portion of it. I knew where to sit after school so as not to let the glare from the afternoon sun disrupt my view of the television. As I got older I learned which step not to tread on when I was coming home late because it went “clunk” and woke up the whole house (I later learned that my mother would lie awake at night waiting for the clunk so she’d know I was home safe). I also knew how close I could get to the motion sensitive light before it would go off, and how fast I could get away with moving once I was in range. I could get up in the morning, walk from my bed to the lounge room, pull out the stool, plug in the headphones and start piano practice without necessarily having to open my eyes first.
I can still remember the incomparable feeling of dislocation I felt the night my parents told me over the phone that they were selling the house and moving to South Australia. I was in my room at St. John's College in Brisbane, amongst close friends I had known for three and a half years by that stage, and yet I suddenly felt completely adrift. An image of Morpheus watching the destruction of the Nebuchadnezzar comes to mind. Thank God my friends, possibly in response to the far away look in my eyes, had the sense to declare an emergency late night pancake run.
There is something frighteningly powerful about the fact that, since that night almost six years ago, I haven’t held any one residential address for more than a year. Even now that I’m back “home” in Darwin, I’ve still managed three separate addresses in eighteen months.
It would be a fantastic story of coming full circle if I could walk into the real estate agent’s office tomorrow and put down an offer too good to refuse. Unfortunately there’s the small matter of “offers of five hundred and seventy thousand dollars or more” to contend with. I’ve done the maths on the bank website's loan calculation wizards. In my current financial situation I could get pre-approval for a home loan of just over eighty thousand, which might buy me half a parking space in Mandorah.
Besides, the current owners have completely remodelled the interior. It looks amazing, but nothing like what I remember, possibly due to most of the walls being missing. They’ve repaved the driveway, added air-conditioning, laid down polished floorboards instead of carpet and changed all the window fittings and … just about everything else. So it wouldn’t really be like living in my old home again. Those days are irrevocably gone. Plus, as my friend pointed out, while I could be the owner of the house, I wouldn’t actually be able to move into the master bedroom, because that’s my parents’ room. That would just be too weird.
No. I’ll just watch with interest to see how the sale goes, and then go back to walking along the street every so often and remembering one of the best upbringings a boy could have. And then I'll reach the end of the street and turn once again towards either the future or Tracy Village Sports Club, depending on whether we’re being literal or whimsical. And, as the great man once said:
“The future hasn’t been written yet. So make it a good one. Both of you.”
…
Garry with 2 Rs
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In the days since the announcement of the federal budget, many writers, bloggers and journalists have been quick to criticise the Government’s proposed increase to funding for school chaplaincy. Critics have been upset on two fronts; firstly the amount of money being invested in the program and secondly on the notion that federal funds should be used to give religion a place in public schools in the first place. And while these concerns are certainly worth discussion, I suggest that this week the role of the school chaplain has been given a bum rap.
There are a number of points to be made here. The first is to highlight the distinction between chaplaincy and religious education. Chaplains are not teachers; they are employed as counsellors and advisors. The notion of a chaplain coming into a classroom and proselytising to your children is utter rubbish. Chaplains are employed to serve, encourage and to provide advice and/or guidance where it is sought or needed. They are not employed to impose, indoctrinate or even (heaven forbid) promote religious values in schools.
Some public schools do allow religious groups to run religious instruction classes. These are always optional; parents who would prefer their children not to receive RI have the right to ask for their child to be excused. Every RI program I’ve ever been involved with has been run under strict guidelines under the watchful eye of a school staff member in order to prevent any hint of “brainwashing”. And fair enough too. But teaching children a few bible stories and encouraging them to obey their parents and treat others as they want to be treated themselves doesn’t constitute the insidious threat to liberty and democracy that is being touted by opponents to the new funding.
Besides which, that’s not what school chaplaincy is about; school chaplaincy is a completely different occupation.
Chaplains are on hand to meet the needs of students or staff who have problems or questions of a spiritual nature. Whether Australia claims to be a secular society or not, it stands to reason that those seeking answers to spiritual (or philosophical, if you prefer a secular term) questions, especially in the formative years, should have access to those able to answer their questions, or at least provide some direction for finding the answer for themselves. Whatever your personal position, the realisation of a spiritual identity (of any faith, or no faith at all) is an aspect of education to be encouraged, not sneered at.
Some have suggested that a religious chaplain couldn’t possibly provide any valuable help for students of a differing religious background. That’s nonsense. A skilled chaplain will recognise and respect the diverse beliefs of any who come seeking guidance. As has been pointed out numerous times, sermonising, proselytising, evangelising and any other forms of religious promotion that so incense the guardians of liberty in our society are strictly off limits. But you don’t have to promote your own religion in order to guide a young mind towards finding the answers they are looking for, or at least towards asking the right kinds of questions.
This is the part of the discussion where someone jumps in with a moving and impassioned testimony of how some RI teacher sent him to stand in the corner because he said he didn’t believe in God, or some crazy fundamentalist tried to cast a demon out of her after playing some rock and roll at music class, and asks how we can possibly spend government money on ramming religion down the throats of those who don’t want it.
I don’t have any defence to that. That sort of vilification, where it occurs, is unacceptable in any society, religious or otherwise. But the answer isn’t just banning religion from schools altogether. Students need to have access to resources to guide them in finding answers to questions that are just as important (some might argue even more so) than anything on a NAPLAN test. It’s not the role of teachers to provide this support, nor should it be. And while the single most important role to be played in the moral upbringing of a child is that of the parents, it’s important for parents to be confident that their children have access to the appropriate support mechanisms while they are at school, which is the majority of their time during their upbringing.
Yes. The system needs work to make sure that all chaplains are properly trained, qualified and experienced and to ensure that all worldviews are being respected and catered for. I don’t pretend to know the best way to do that, but it seems to me that an increase in Government funding – if properly handled – couldn’t possibly be a bad start.
Make of that what you will.
Garry with 2 Rs
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I’ve recently received a revelation about what I’m doing wrong when it comes to getting people to read my blog. The penny began to drop when I noticed my sister had been asked to guest post on someone’s blog. Something about being an Australian in Canada or something, on a blog about female geeks or some such. The drop was complete and made that irritatingly unsatisfying “ping” sound on the concrete of my consciousness when Jess, who is basically my brother from another mother, (or to use the feminine, my sister from a … a blistered … twister? Never mind) started joining up with a network of blogging mums. I realised what my blogging experience is missing: a collective!
The problem is… what the hell kind of messed up collective could I possibly get away with joining? Jess suggested joining the blogging mums’ society and crying to the sexism police if I was refused membership. It sounds like great fun, except for the part where I piss off a whole social network full of pregnant and/or post-natal women. Maybe later.
I’m not sure there really exists a network that CTC would slot into naturally, as the whole point of tacently clamenting is that there’s probably no other place in the cyberverse where I could get away with it. If we did form a cranky, cynical, independent, socially awkward writers’ network, I can only see it lasting a month or so before some prawn decides he’s too cool for the collective, takes his cricket bat and goes home.
There’s a reasonable chance that prawn would be me.
A week or so ago, Laurie over at Hipstercrite republished an old piece listing tips for generating higher blog readership. It’s full of great advice that I’ll probably never follow, but it also recommends an online network known as Twenty Something Bloggers. To qualify for that network you just have to be twenty-something years old and have a blog. Being of the ripe old age of twenty-mumble, I decided to sign up.
It took them a few days to verify the account, but now I have a shiny new 20sb profile. It’s a bit like Facebook, but only for writers. Now the quest is on to find user groups for topics I’m interested in. Having decided to raise the bar for myself, I’ve typed in searches for ‘religion’, ‘philosophy’, ‘linguistics’ and ‘cricket’. There aren’t any groups for those. Can you believe it? Most of the groups were focussed on acquiring followers for their own sake, which seems a little bit wanky to me. Everyone wants more followers, but who wants followers that are only following you because you’re following them? Join the collective and we’ll all go round in circles!
In the end I joined two groups: the Australian Bloggers group (17 members, which might explain a lot) and the “I support Velociraptors” group (37 members). Most of the other interest groups centred on regions of the US or on what colour hair leads a woman to have the most sex. And as tempting as it might have been to join the ‘fashionistas’ group (763 members?) I think I might just keep my blog tucked away quietly in the obscure corners of the internet for a little while yet. The blogosphere, it seems, is still not ready for blogs by men from Australia who haven’t even read Twilight (Seriously! A 20-somethings’ network with a Twilight fan group (173 members) How does that even happen?).
Actually, blogs by men full stop seem a little difficult to come by. There’s a group for us (129 members) but I’m not really sure I could bring myself to join a group called ‘boys’ club’. Especially when we’re outnumbered by the ‘chick-lit lovers’ (363 members) by almost three to one.
Nope. I think I’m just going to have to generate readership the old fashioned way.
Osama, while planking a Harry Potter Fan Fic conspiracy theory, could cover-up the evolution of Dancing With The Stars in the Middle East. Boobs!
Google to the rescue. Make of that what you will.
Garry with 2 Rs
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The Arafura Games are with us once again. The city is full of lost looking athletes with ID badges on, and helpful looking volunteers in green shirts. The restaurants, souvenir shops and nightclubs are all rubbing their hands together with glee and the traffic around Marrara Stadium is above average, but not too bad.
Also, apparently there’s lots of sport on.
Last night I went to watch the sepak takraw. It was a double banger for me, because not only did I get to watch my mates playing for the NT team, I got to watch some of the really good players with the Malaysian and Thai teams. It’s pretty amazing watching those guys hanging upside down in the air and still kicking the ball with so much power.
The NT side? Not so much, but it was still awesome to see them out there representing the Territory and showing what they could do, which was a darn sight more than most people. Once again it made me feel nostalgic for the old days when I used to be able to do that. I went looking for my old NT sepak jersey, but I think it might be in the pile of stuff still in the cupboard at my parents’ house with my scout uniforms, astronomy books and various other pieces of evidence of things I used be good at. Come to think of it, I don’t know how I managed to get through high school without getting beaten up every other week. I’d love to get myself back up to that level, but somehow it seems consigned to the past almost as comprehensively as my maths competition certificates.
As if to punctuate the point, today I’ve been off work nursing a bung ankle. The mild post-viral arthropathy I get from time to time decided that this week is the week (probably due to the rapid onset of the dry season) to not be quite so mild and I’ve been having trouble walking, let alone turning back flips. I have it all under control, with a large dose of rest and an even larger dose of ibuprofen, but I can’t for the life of me figure out when I stopped being the guy out there doing cool stuff and turned into the guy sitting at home taking pills and whingeing about how the weather makes his joints ache. I’m only twenty-mumble years old for heaven’s sake.
What I should really do is stop whinging to my computer and get up and do something about it. Unfortunately my ankle is still having none of that so I guess it’s DVD o’clock. Now let’s see, will I go with Evita, or Four Weddings and a Funeral?
Yes okay, forget high school. I don’t know how I get from here to the weekend without getting beaten up.
Shove it
Garry with 2 Rs