Is 2018 The Year of the Mandal?

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It’s holidays, and we’re in the midst of the annual migration of well-laundered baby boomer men. They’re at The Beach, enjoying Leisure with their Family.

At a certain age, men wriggle out of the last vestiges of their adult form and return to a pre-pubescent larval stage. They begin to wear children’s velcro sandals.

Initially scientists assumed this was due to the Mandal’s superior level of comfort and versatility, however this theory was quickly disproved. Unlike children’s velcro sandals that roughly follow the child’s footprint, Mandals extend at least three centimetres beyond the toes, providing a large footbed that frequently trips the wearer, compounding the their lack of proprioception due to chronically swollen feet. Congestive heart failure is a tricksy beast.

Initially it was assumed the wearer had simply purchased a sandal that was too large – exhibiting the boomer’s deep and unremitting fear of any level of discomfort, no matter how minor, in everyday life. However, closer inspection reveals that the Mandal is in fact designed to extend out the front of the foot. The sizing is correct.

Perhaps the explanation is cultural; the large, frontal extension resembles the suburban verandah? Or maybe it serves to maximise one’s footprint, a literal expression of the baby boomers moral purpose? Perhaps it is a boomer expression of ethnic identity, referencing a nostalgic time when Australia was cleanly divided into skippies and wogs. Australians of southern European extraction would not be seen dead in velcro fucking sandals.

The only threat to the Mandal is the burgeoning trend of NormCore, where hipsters are busily inverting the inherent ugliness of 90s Boomer-Dad-fashion. If you can’t buy their houses, gently mock their footwear.  Take that!


Fuck off with your ankle bracelet

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One week ago, without even having to inconvenience myself by robbing a petrol station or raping someone with a broom handle, I was issued with an ankle bracelet.

Yep, my workplace was participating in a corporate ‘wellbeing challenge’. Staff were organised into teams and pedometers were handed out.

All you have to do is measure how many steps you take in a day!

Apparently, this is because our employer is dedicated to staff wellbeing;

‘For those of you lucky enough to have your zero hours contracts renewed for another six months, we really care about your personal wellbeing! Look! There’s even a video! And hell – o! It’s funky!’

In the olden days, by which I mean the period immediately preceding the age characterised by endless moaning about how millennials are too lazy and entitled to commit suicide already, working for a living defined you as a lifter, rather than a leaner. Lifters were masters of their own destiny, less scrutinised than those languishing in the nationalised cost of labour market elasticity.

Where was I? Ah yes, work makes free. It’s got a lovely ring to it, don’t you think?

Male, white collar workers could drink till it came out their ears, drive badly and eat Big Macs off the arses off as many Brazilian models as they liked (I fondly imagine this is what they were up to anyway), with little oversight. Women, of course, could work as much as they liked but were still subject to open scrutiny. Who is paying the price for your selfish obsession with paying the bills, bitch? (At least some things never change).

However, by and large, working for a living placed you under less scrutiny than being on welfare. Or at least that what’s my ankle bracelet told me to say. Because I’m not being ‘scrutinised’. I’m simply being trained in methods so I can scrutinise myself.

To be sure, the pedometer is not forcing my behaviour, it’s not making me walk around the suburb in my slippers in the dark, counting each step as I go. No, that’s not how this shit works. Social control must be subtle. It must appear sensible and self evident. It must legitimise itself. You must want to do it.

My ankle bracelet encourages me to think about my body, my self, in a particular way. For instance, it enables me to think of all the walking I do as discrete parcels of exercise. this fits in nicely with the idea of the compartmentalised self, where activities such as ‘walking’ are realised as both a noun and a verb.

Walking can be slotted into a rubric of self-care and public health. It helps me to work on my body, where my body is a commodity that I produce myself, with the help of other products of course. The pedometer strings together a strategy of the body, a way of thinking about my output as compartmentalised. It also gets me used to the idea of complete monitoring.

The pedometer is accompanied by helpful tidbits of information;

‘Did you know that you actually do exercise in your ordinary life, just by walking around?’

Here it connects the very act of moving from the bed to the bathroom, for instance, with a regime of order that is intrinsically connected to the larger structures in your life – a seamlessly integrated alliance of work and public health,

‘Woah. You mean just by walking around I’m getting exercise? Every step I take actually counts? I’m totally going to start snorting coke off the downstairs toilet cistern from now on!’ (FYI – this type of response elicits the ‘you are not a team player’ derisory sigh in the tea room, and a suggestion that perhaps I am not a Model Employee).

Right up until the moment it went into the ocean, the little plastic pedometer was educating me in the right way to think about my body, how to regulate myself. This is what Foucault would call governmentality – the conduct of conduct.

“Governmentalities are both mentalities and technologies, both ways of thinking and tools for intervening, and it is important to keep in view the irreducibility of one to the other” (Miller and Rose 2008:20)

I like this because it makes me think about Actor Network Theory. I like the conceptual slipperiness of ANT, the idea that there are connections between things, networks, ideas and what Papuans might call Kastom. I like that it’s a way of finding traces of power, but it’s not absolute. Power is in flux, constantly, and the objects things and networks all shift in relation to one another, sometimes becoming one another. Foucault is often presented as more fixed, when in fact I think his work is more like ANT. The panoptican, for instance, is presented as a metaphor – here is a building that represents a way that people can think about themselves in relation to the control of the state. Well, no, the panopticon is more than a representation or a metaphor. Foucault’s genealogies work more like fashions of thought, for me anyway.

The pedometer, for instance, makes me think of myself as a knowable, homogenised commodity. All the walking you do is rendered the same, whether it’s getting up to a baby in the middle of the night or snorting coke off the downstairs loo. Walking is an essential human activity (for most people). It’s essentiality is a wonderful thing to give you a sense of control over. The pedometer co-opts walking into a regime of order and homogeneity. It’s the McDonaldisation of your steps! Excuse me, Kate Tempest, I believe I’m being noisy now….is this thing on…?

OK, McDonaldisation might be a bit clunky.

But perhaps we can think of walking as connected to exercise. Everything is now exercise. And what is ‘exercise’? It’s moral, self-management in the pursuit of a commodity-body, where the emphasis is on the through-put of the images of self, rather than the self itself.

The idea that walking at work can be exercise is something interesting too – it joins the world of the personal and labour….Hey, you’re actually performing a first world leisure activity (exercise) while you’re working! WIN! You should be thinking of your job as a vocation, because that’s how winners think about work. Yeah, think of yourself as both producer and product, where work is something that produces you. The real you. The one that feels gipped when you have to ‘give up’ work to look after kids.

Exercise is also connected to risk. We’re all familiar with this message – if you don’t exercise you’re volunteering yourself for a cascade of neo-liberal reversals. You’ve brought this on yourself. Fatty.

Risk is an aggregation of destinies, in this way I am connected to everyone else. This gives me both more control (I must get off my arse immediately so I don’t end up with diabetes) and less control (this aggregation of information, called risk, knows more about me and my life chances than I do myself). What it does do is homogenise me, and make me more controllable. I’m a standardised metric. The only purchase I have on risk is through the chirpy, pastellised infographics on the train station walls (as long as the message is expressed in two moronic words or less).

Get Active! Just Quit! Fuck off!

So, risk does two things –

One: it encourages me to think about myself as part of a polity, as connected to everyone else. Moreover, it makes me think I have a particular responsibility to mobilise and care for my body in a morally acceptable way.

Two: There is something called ‘risk’ which knows more about my life chances than I can know, but is ‘good for me’. It also exists within the realm of professionals – biostatisticians, psychologists, public health experts. I should trust their judgement and wisdom.

I must learn to be comfortable with acquiescing my sense of personal control. The pedometer can help with that. It gives me a sense of ‘self-care’ and primes me for being controlled.

If I feel uncomfortable with this then it’s because I’m not sufficiently fluent in these techniques of the self. This is when Foucault is most visible – when everyone else in the tea room thinks the ‘steps project’ is a ‘bit of fun’ and ‘enters into the spirit of the thing’ and I feel like I’m on page 67 of 1984. Sure, there are ways of getting around this – loudly but casually referring to it as the ‘Pedo Challenge’ certainly makes for good tea room banter – but generally I think there’s no way out.

I’ve snorted way less coke off the downstairs loo since I got rid of the pedometer though.






Gen Y; Just like Gen X but with interest

With all the media pitching and yawing about Gen Y unable to buy houses for the same reasons as Gen X only people give a fuck about them….it’s worth making the only statement that needs to be made;

Sydney house prices have risen 88% since 2009. The price-t0-earnings ratio is all you need to know. Not much can keep up with that kind of growth. Everything else is just intergenerational warfare to keep us all entertained.

As I have said before, the comes a point where growth impacts its own growth. Sydney is at the point of pole-axing itself. It is reducing itself to a hollowed out facade of banal avarice and 100% proof suburbia, a museum exhibit. I love Sydney but it’s on its way out.

Sewing generations

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Hey, I can see early puberty from here!

Having children ushers in a period of reminiscing so profound you could be mistaken for the Garbage Heap on Fraggle Rock. It’s become fashionable amongst the aged to claim that we’re being increasingly unmoored by technology, but I don’t think that’s the case.

I spent part of this morning parked up in front of a laptop, browsing sewing patterns with my daughter. Being a fossil hunting pirate surgeon who makes machines that distribute water/food colouring/manky flour-paste over the lounge room does not preclude frocks.

The method might have changed, but the practice is the same.

As a kid I accompanied my mother to the sewing shop, where, under bright fluoro lights, I would select a dress pattern. The pattern books were huge and positioned on architect’s tables. There was a small wooden stool for little girls to stand on while their mothers leafed through outsized pages of sewing patterns.  Tabs marked the age categories in each book – babies, toddlers, 3-4 and so on.Boys were banned from the sanctity of the dressmaking shop.

My mother would heave slabs of pages over where they would land with a whump, blowing a cool, faintly vinegary breeze into face. There was a sense of order and ritual to this almost silent activity, my mother efficiently flicking through the pages, occasionally pausing on a pattern she thought suitable,

‘What about that one?’ she’d ask, in a whisper.

‘Yes’ I’d breathe, trying to imagine how I could possibly look as glamorous as the smiling, insouciant girl in the picture who was no doubt an American and also probably swallowed bubble gum.

Fast forward thirty years and we don’t go to sewing shops anymore. I’m sure the books still exist, now firmly in the domain of hipster crafting shops where women buy $100 a metre Japanese slub linen to look like they’re wearing an Amish horse cover.

The process is the same, though. My daughter still sits beside me, cruising through patterns, asking if that’s something I could make her.

“I like that one!”




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Review; Grit by Angela Duckworth (or Detritus, for Early Adopters)

When choosing a pseudo-scientific theory, nine out of ten people who buy cosmetics off the television prefer post hoc, reductionist, wooly fabulism!

Buy now! Success in three easy steps/easy-to-drink Insta-Shake/slimline suppository!

Related; How to make money selling self-help books for losers.

Step One; develop a ‘scientifically proven’ psychological theory that reveals that 100% of non-losers became non-losers by…….not being losers.

Step Two;  Sell book to losers.

Homeowners lament life on Earth

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-pic from ABC News

Battlers in one of Sydney’s wealthiest suburbs, Collaroy, have lamented the government’s disregard for damage to their properties, following storms that left some residents without the ability to swim in their own pool.

‘What is the point in even having a pool to swim in if the ocean beside it is going to take it away?’ said Lenora of Collaroy Beach, adding that her husband, Tony, had been a member of the Pittwater Sailing Club for 35 years.

On top of that, many residents are dealing with the news that insurance companies will not cover damage due to existence on the planet. In a statement, the Insurance Council of Australia said;

“People often think insurance exists to compensate for damage due to known risks, and that premiums will scale in accordance with that risk. This is simply incorrect. Insurance is simply a direct transfer of wealth from policy holders to share holders.”

For Tony and Lenora of Collaroy Beach, this news is especially galling. As shareholders in three of Australia’s biggest insurance companies, they are left with little choice but to spend two thirds of their quarterly dividend on repairing their beachfront property.

“It’ll be a struggle, but at least no lives were lost and the patio is largely intact.”


I hate unnecessary duplication. I mean, what’s the point in having technology if you’re going to waste time and money getting enraged on separate occasions? With today’s busy lives it makes sense to combine these important and liberating expressions of futility into one electro-mechanical device.

Well today I can finally announce a revolution in household frustration, a prototype machine that combines a vacuum cleaner, printer and desktop scanner. Now, I know what you’re thinking; ‘I don’t get enough white-hot rage as it is!’, or ‘How will I be wrenched from the asphyxiating, glacial mundanity of life if I can’t kick the fuck out the vacuum cleaner twice a week?’.

Well don’t fret, because this machine will provide so much incandescent rage you’ll wonder how you ever navigated the pastelised banality of modern life without one.

This revolutionary machine, currently called ‘Gaar-FUCK 30i6i-&66j 234’ utilises the latest in adaptive technology to ensure a sense of rage so acute you can’t help but feel vibrantly alive.

For instance, remote sensors assemble a file of your home’s potential storage options and automatically reconfigure the machine’s dimensions to slightly larger than the available spaces. Got a suitable cupboard? Think again! A dedicated door sensor triggers a range of flexible tubes to launch themselves out of the storage space when the door is almost closed. Pressing on one section of flexible hose causes another to pop free and smack the operator in the face. This feature rated particularly highly with focus group participants, who likened it to making a balloon animal out of a cheetah.

Developments in quantum computing have enabled perhaps the most impressive feature of the Gaar-FUCK 30i6i-&66j 234, Cartridge Entanglement. Cartridge Entanglement renders the print function non-operational unless all cartridges are full, even if your document only requires black and white. A series of pop-up warnings will appear on every device in your house, while a 5 litre, high-pressure cartridge sluices the surrounding area in archival ink. Cyan? Now you fucking know.

The Gaar-FUCK 30i6i-&66j 234 comes with 16 USB cables, 8 black, 8 white, to ensure maximum camouflage amongst other household ephemera. It will not operate without all 16 cables, however there is also a remote control, peppered with symbols in straightforward Vedic semaphore.

The Gaar-FUCK 30i6i-&66j 234 ships overnight from Iceland, in its own polystyrene aircraft hanger.

Send money now!