Missing in inaction


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Well I know I missed last Friday and I am sorry if you were expecting a ‘call’ that never arrived but I was busy filling in for my youngest in an emergency capacity which required being in Adelaide. By the way this also gave me an opportunity to try an Air B&B experience for the first time and I do have to say it was a happy one. Selection was fairly straight forward although I was a bit worried for a moment that I had booked two places but that was eventually sorted. After a 12 hour drive (should’ve relied on Google Maps and not my memory) I arrived to a slightly nervous owner who, like me, was a newbie to this game but by the time I had been shown my room and private bathroom, had the plasma tv operation explained, asked if I could operate an espresso coffee machine and shown my breakfast allocation I was more than happy. It was but a hop skip and a jump to the Adelaide Show Grounds where my three day activity was to take place and all was within a simple drive. If I could find a place like this for the price that I paid there is no way, if I had my own business that I would book a hotel, there is simply no point in spending three or even four times what I paid for a place to wash and sleep and have a light brekkie. For a person with a startup business I think this has to be to go but a word of advice, don’t pay bottom dollar because you always get what you pay for.

But the weekend was not going to be easy because my only grandson left us to go to his dad in America for a holiday and from there to Dubai where her will return to his mum, my eldest, and make a new life for themselves. I gave him a kiss before he went and he was very cognisant of what was happening but hey, if going to Hawaii, South Carolina, Paris and then Dubai was on offer looking miserable was never going to be easy for the little chap. Now the house is so much quieter, not riffled with “Hey Grandpa” questions about the meaning of life and everything (mainly to do with fishing but then he can find a life-message and offer a Fishing parable to prove the point at the drop of a hat. Statements like ‘Grandpa, are sharks angry and if they are could we reduce attacks on surfers by making them happy?) Try working that out in 20 seconds or less! Those constant like thought bubbles no longer pop around our house and we are all the poorer for it. So I missed his departure and then it was the turn of my eldest and after working all day Sunday I thought I would see if I could surprise her and get to the airport to give her a departing cuddle. At about 3.30 in the morning I had one of those sudden moment where you cannot be positive that you didn’t, just for a second, nod off and that was my cue to stop and have a nap. I got out of the car and had a stretch and looked up into the night sky. There above was a carpet of light with patches of brighter galaxies. In the Australian outback when away from cities and towns, if you are lucky enough to not have a moon or cloud the skyscape is a thing of true beauty and incomprehensible wonder. Getting your head around knowing that some of the light you are looking at comes from a star that has long since vanished makes one feel so very insignificant and temporary. But it also reminds you that as unimportant you may be to the cosmos, on an earthly scale you have the privileged of both creating and protecting this remarkable marble. As Australia still continues to mine filthy coal because it is cheap and decry the reusable energy forum while the barrier reef is cooking like the frog in boiling water story, it proves that we are just as greedy as the rest of the world and my grandson will sadly pay the price within his lifetime. I have run my race and had my opportunities but I still have a clear mind, time on my hands to make myself a political nuisance and thus should get off my fat arse and see if we can stop the greed and bring humanism into the political and social limelight.

Ah well, Such is life. Until the next time, this is Brodie Goozée, and if you enjoyed this Blog, feel free to pass it or a link to a friend. Ooo Roo


Captain fires Captain


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Well I for one would like to offer my sincere regrets at the firing of the Captain that has been faithfully flying Mr Trump and his entourage around and showing to the masses just what they can all achieve with a little bit of effort and a great many lawyers. He is, of course, not trained for Airforce 1 and so is now surplus to requirements. I gather he was ‘let go’ via a tweet but with one last duty, that being to fly the thing to the plane bone-yard and hitch a ride back in the back of an indigenous Navaho’s truck. He was, of course, not alone in praying that his boss would fail in his bid to become part of the world’s laughing stock of leaders like Putin, Duterte, and Theresa May. In so doing he knew he was to be eliminated from the ranks of the employed because he is under a 463 page employment agreement forbidding him to ever talk to another human being let alone work for an airline. Mind you, saying “Good morning, this is President’s Trumps ex captain flying you this morning on a short hop to Crapsville Tennessee,” might end in a mid air disaster worthy of the TV series Air Crash investigations. “It was eventually found that the Captain had had his throat cut with a plastic knife courtesy of woman in business class who was aggrieved at the political outcome of the election. Next week, we ask ‘how did President Trump get the installation of a round waterbed into Airforce 1 through the FAA.” Nope the poor ol’ Captain is on the beach until either Trump is shot, is impeached or 4-8 years are up. With no Obarmacare to look after him and assist in him getting over his complete loss of self worth and value to the community, he may well take the easy way out in a winged suit from the top of Trump Towers.

Of course he might wake up to the fact that the 6 million Mexicans that are in need to deporting could be another potential use for the Trump jet although a paint job would be on the cards. The only trouble with that is the return flight would be empty with very little freight opportunities either so unless the government pays for a return ticket the economics do not bode well. Perhaps some of the old TV contestants could give him some advice, probono of course. Either way Airforce 1 is up for a facelift if Mrs Trump has her say and her interior designer from Slovenia gets his hands on things. I hope they have a seat out of the way for their son, what they put him through the other night needs to be looked at by The Hague, it was torture by TV. Those looks of worry, the need to pick his nose and not do it then try to do it without the cameras noticing was a clear state of panic about the man who was doing all the talking. Who was he? He wasn’t his father that’s for sure I mean his father has never said a conciliatory thing in his life and yet, there he was saying how he admired his adversary when just that morning he was promising to put her in front of a firing squad picked from the North Carolina Local Militia who he was going to charge a grand each for the privilege! The little man needs a shrink and soon, he needs to be prep’d for what lies ahead with how to air-kiss being the first thing on the agenda but I guess his siblings can get him up tp speed with that skill. Still it is going to bugger up his prom when all he will really want to do is do as his Dad did and grab his dance partner by her cat which seems odd to the poor fellow but it sounded very Presidential. Did he have to give her a cat instead of the corsage which he thought was the go at such posh events. Anyway time enough for that, all he want in his cabin is a kick-arse plasma screen and an infinite selection of Apps. Someone is going to need to find one that involves a football so he can help out his old man that’s for sure.

Ah well, Such is life. Until the next time, this is Brodie Goozée.

Power Play


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Or…Read on McDuff


Sorry I missed last week’s musing, I was laid out by man-flu which meant that I slept a great deal and felt so utterly miserable and sorry for myself that now, as it passeth from me, I feel fully ashamed of myself.  Curled up under the covers with Miso soup and tea to comfort me, my iPhone playing audio books while I slipped in and out of my ‘delirium’ and family staying away as far as possible just in case it turned out to be the plague.

The thing about being crook, not a crook you understand just the commonal garden Australian sick-type crook, is that you mind goes to some pretty weird places and your dreams take on some level of metamorphosis that would have Jung smiling and saying “No, not really, are you sure, well now that is something we should explore a little further don’t you think?”

For three days and three nights in my intellectual wilderness the common thread of my ‘dreamtime’, please don’t ask me why, was ‘how much wealth is enough and when does it lose its glory and become ugly, grotesque, ill-mannered, common, classless and distasteful.’  I looked at Trump, a man asking one of the most powerful and influential nations in our small planet to elect him as their Leader because he has made a great deal of money and this skill is supposed to have given him the mental ability to service the American People in all matters required to be the leader of that Nation.  I look at the artificial lips on the faces of his courtesans, the perfect hair, the, I have to assume, impossibly expensive clothes.  The air kisses, the ‘purchased’ elegance that is such a bad fit to the characters playing this terrible game, the belief that money gives you a wisdom of unique insights into understanding the global condition of Humanity.  I doesn’t though does it?  Of course Clinton is no innocent in these Stakes but right or wrong, she at least gives a whiff of matriarchal humanism to this cock-fight for supremacy.

Then, in the confused way of temperature induced imaginings, I look for someone I can say ‘look at (A), she/he was/is made of the right stuff, a leader of people, an impartial judge, a Solomon who would slice the child in two if that’s what it takes to be equal and fare.  You know what, I cannot see an untainted example through history.  One might just say that Gandhi came close but arguably only because he chose to live simply and that made him odd when placed beside the concept of what a leader should be. He was certainly not perfect and as guilty as the rest when it came to the real endgame, Power.

So, is it possible for people to become Powerful without wealth, without the ugliness of self-belief giving you Star status which in turn allows you the privilege of doing what you want when you want to do it?  It that the final frontier, the ability to do anything you want, no holds barred. Is it us that have set the bar that says ‘I may never be in a position to press the button but I sure want to know that I approve of the one who will, that is the power of my vote, his finger is a surrogate for mine’. Are we all so intellectually barren, so devoid of considered thinking, so petty in our imagination or sense of what Life means that we allow what is happening in America take place at all, let alone deliver an outcome.

Where oh where is there a unilateral thinker, untarnished by life, balanced and imperfect but shaped by honest mistakes rather than living by them.  Why are humans, with all its achievements in art, in thinking, in science and now with its ability to look into the world anywhere, any time on a portable device for clarification of what the Planet is experiencing, so revolting as an animal who has been given the privilege, along with every other form of life, to live in and care for this little place we call Earth.

Glad I’m feeling better, it was getting a bit weird there for a while but…

Such if life.  Until the next time this is Brodie Goozée

Australia has V.D. (Vernacular Disorder).

budgerigarListen here…



Language is a wonderful thing; the variety, the way sounds are made and their interpretive meaning is one of the wonders of the world.  As a tribal protective medium it works a treat insulating the tribe from those who would listen in, it only gets complicated when the tribe wants you to listen in.

Strine, the quasi-official English dialect spoken by Australians is not, in fact, a language at all, more a tourist ‘thing’ but there is some truth to the fact that the way we say things can, for the uninitiated ear, be a problem.  The ubiquitous ‘she’ll be right’ meaning everything will be just fine, hunky dory, ripper, or ‘no worries’ is indeed a pronouncement. In speech they are a natural expression suggesting that all is well with the world.  But when it appears in print, well that is when it takes on a completely different character. NO WORRIES is more a statement i.e. there are no worries here to be had, leave your worries outside if you please or a statement of fact that at the time of reading there is, in fact, nothing to concern yourself with.

So what are our international visitors to expect from the headline ‘Budgie Smugglers return home!’ a story that hit the tabloids this week.  You would have to assume a cartel of smugglers dealing in the illicit supply of yellow, green and blue budgerigars, probably to the English, have arrived back in Australia but that is not the case at all.

To understand this you need to visualise something.  Imagine a smallish dead bird, wings folded neatly over its back, beak tucked into its breast, head forward lying front down on a table.  Now over the stop of this stretch a piece of spandex or similar material so the shape of the bird protrudes from the fabric. It forms a sort of slope up the wings to a bulge at the end.  Now try to imagine that from a vertical viewpoint.  Remind you of anything? Think male bits and swimming costumes. Getting the idea now? That’s right, the front of a young buck wearing a pair of lycra tight swimming costume looks like a dead bird, the budgie bit, hidden in a stretch fabric pouch, the smuggler bit.  Ergo ‘budgie smugglers’ are a synonym for swimming costume.  Who would have thought.

Strine is full of such eclectic descriptors ‘dry as a dingo’s donga’ is another phrase that has to do with a male gender appendage.  It means thirsty but I have never taken a close look at a dingo’s donga so I cannot tell you from experience if their a peculiarly dry or not.  The point is that language is often more of an idea that a fact.  “Its pissing down’ does not have to inform you that we are talking about rain, you just get the idea, you get the picture.  When spoken it works, when written down it has a completely different character and can be very confusing.

Visitors who try to use slang in any country always end up looking stupid so trying to say ‘g’date mate’ will almost certainly make you come a gutser because you will not be able to come within cooee of the way it should be said and when it should be said.  It needs to be slow, soft almost with an almost silent ‘g’ and there are, phonetically speaking, at least to ‘a’s’ in ‘mate’…..’g’dai maate but never a pronounced ‘I’.

Rhyming slang percolated from the mouths of Cockneys in London, Frog and toad etc, why, who knows.  Why make something short and succinct like phone into dog-and-bone or stairs into apples and pears.  In print it makes no sense whatsoever ah, but spoken it enriches expression and adds colour and spice to the way we communicate.  There have been the bad periods in expression; the 70’s had the misfortunes of adding ‘but’ at the end of every sentence. “I’m staying home tonight but”.  It was horrible but no less ugly than the current ‘like’.  Everything is ‘like’ as if the English speaking world cannot find the descriptors it is seeking.  Sown throughout the spoken words,  it is a slang of no colour, no imagination.  It is empty of expression, meaningless like ‘but’. Give me ‘strine’ any day just don’t write it down.  Such is life, until the next time this is Brodie Goozée .

Get It? (Find out at the end)

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Welcome.  Well what a week this has been and has yet to be with Titans doing battle all over the place.  Trump/Clinton in the ol’ US of A and on Saturday the Doggies and Swanies in for the mutual kill at our AFL Grand Final, a game not understood at all outside the antipodes.  It’s like that South American ultra-fast game with a ball, wall and scoop; thrilling for the locals but for outsiders, well acquired taste comes to mind. Trump/Clinton on the other hand, we can all understand; well we think we can.  For me it continues to gobsmack me how something so conceptually simple as one man, one vote first-past-the-post good ol’ fashioned Greek Democracy can be made so impossibly complicated by a Nation who had all the thinking time in the world to divest themselves of the Brits and start with a clean sheet!  Caucuses, Primaries, Colleges, I mean..’what th’’ is that all about.  Then there seems to be placard carrying people who can swing faster than a mature party in Miami! And then there is the money; clearly Marshall McLuhan was on the money when he coined the phrase The Medium is the Message because over eighty million and one people watched the Great Debate (me being the one and I don’t think the pollsters knew that I was actually watching because they didn’t call).  This was Number One, the First of Three and, so we are told, Clinton sort of won.  But did she?  Oh the intellectuals, the do-gooders, the thinkers, Les Résonables, the Latte Lesbian Left or whatever the latest ‘Culcha Vulcha’ trendies movement as defined by the Demographers Dictionary suggests, they clearly understand Ms Clinton and forgive her email cleansing faux pas and cannot understand how anyone can imagine Trump as having ‘The Right Stuff’. But, when you look at ‘The Map’ that sorts out the States/Colleges/Primaries/and Caucuses, well why then is there such an even split?  Could it possibly be that America, the greatest social experiment in the last 300 years, is not the crucible for intellectual thought, creative illumination, and seat of scientific learning but a bull-pit where winners are grinners, climbing on the carcases commercially deceased and having the same attitude as the Greeks to the concept of taxation.  Could it possibly be that Les Résonables are in fact Les Misérables , the flotsam that has been down trodden by the Wannabe Riche Classes who hold wealth to be the only true God and you only get that when you have a benevolent White God in the second row of the deity stakes.  Are we about to see The Great Dictator rise to the pampering of the best seat in the house, White of Course, because he is reaching deep into the gene pool that can genuinely imagine the possibility of having a Kardashian on each arm?  Are we about to witness the rise of the Trumpeters akin to the military classes of the German uprising where the populous will attack the intelligentsia in swarms like Brown Shirts but in denim and Stetsons?  Will the gun rule at long last and the Trumpeters kept amused with permission-to-kill tickets and fed on a diet of Burgers and Moonshine?  America will be Great again, well within its own boarders of course, let’s not get too silly here.  We outsiders will watch Reality TV wondering if the Host, Mr Trump of course, will press ‘that button’ just because he can and watch the audience scream in rapture as the trails of ICBMs fountain out of the mid-west’s somnolent pastures and start the end.

“I have a dream” is more like a night-terror and Civil War comes to mind and whereas the military classes of old, in all jurisdictions, the police included were the gentle servants of the people, the next phase will be just the opposite.  When you have hundreds of thousands of quasi-military trained bloodstock to energise you have a potent underclass, primed to be given the authority to take as long as they pledge allegiance to The Great Dictator.

Round Two, we are told, will be the round where the gloves come off, where the underbelly of collective corruption will be unzipped for the Best Ratings Ever!  Will Trump ever actually finish a thought and make a full and complete statement?  Will Clinton wilt under the spotlight of Mr Clinton’s appetites for the internals of interns?  See you same time, same bat channel.  Oh and did you get the picture?  Dic-Tator silly


Such is life.  Until the next time this is Brodie Goozée

Feeling a little Crabby this week…


Now listen here…..!


We have a journalist in Australia called Annabel Crabb and very funny she is too.  She is not what you might call a comedienne but she has that obtuse vision of life that makes her observations often side splitting.  When she finds a topic that it not tickling her funny bone, one that reaches deep within her, there is still humour albeit restrained but the sadness of the topic is clear for all to see.  So this week, in the Sunday Age, she reviews the maiden speeches   of our new Senators and gives a poignant review of the first address, in this her second term, of our own Trump, only female.  Under the cloak of Parliamentary protection Hansen does what Trump does, use hearsay and the internet to ask if there is a problem.  Years ago a very clever Pharmaceutical company’s whole marketing approach was to raise a new problem so that it could deliver a solution.  It would ask something like “Are you sure you are fresh; how can you be positive?”  Then the answer “None of us can be sure unless we use Product X, only then will you know you are Fresh.”  Problem…..solution.  Hansen doesn’t need a solution to stir up the redneck, ultra-conservative, ignorant, un-read, tele-fed flotsam, she just has to ask the question.  “How can you be sure we will not be run by Sharia Law in a few years?”  “How can you be sure that Muslims will not claim benefits for multiple wives?”  “How can you be sure that the Muslims will no rise up against Christians and kill us all in our beds?” “How can you be sure they will not take all our jobs?”  Trump is the same.  “How can you be sure Clinton is not a Communist plant?  How can you be sure Clinton is not connected to ISIS?”  Because you can’t be sure then they could be truths is the response.  In the English Game of Thrones the classic response of ‘you might say that, I couldn’t possibly confirm or deny…’ is the great pot-stirrer.  Of course there is an element of truth in what Hansen says, some live by Sharia Law and like it, others hate it and most fear it but it does exist.  In Muslim countries where the law permits, multiple wives are a reality and if we end up with a Muslim majority in this country through a mass discovery of the faith by Mr and Mrs McDervish, Tappolopolous, Patrone, Wong or Huen, then her warnings will come to pass.  But the Greeks, Italians, Vietnamese, Irish and Chinese do not run this Country as a solo block, they never have and they never will.

What she has not had the courage to say because she hasn’t got the follower base is that almost all wars since the beginning of Civilization have had a Faith component.  Because smarter people had the ability to meet the ‘unexplained questions’ like ‘Where do we come from’ with stories of wonder and magic that satisfied those questions and thus control the masses, Faith has been pivotal in defining one tribe over another.  Today we do not need those parables, stories, fables to make a decision, we have access to almost all knowledge via the internet and Google doesn’t demand your abeyance, well it might make it awkward from time to time but it doesn’t control you.  The Net can help us prove anything, black is white, aliens live among us, we are going to be destroyed by a new planet.  All faiths started as a Conspiracy Theory and now you can help yourself to a Faith of any nature your mind desires; somewhere on the Net will be the Creed, Bible, Koran, book, scroll that will prove the idea to be the truth.  So now we have the internet we don’t actually need the churches, mosques and other expensive real estate.  We don’t need the hidden wealth and jobs-for-the-boys to keep the washed and clean in line.  We can now ask You Tube and take it from there. Then, we can move forward and remove all Religions from public view and visit it on demand like ebay when the need arises from the comfort of our smartphone on the train or at the desk when one should be actually working.  With that out of the way we can get down to the things that really matter like poverty.  Remove religion which will stop most wars, educate everyone on you Tube and learn how to make anything and grow anything and everyone will stay where they are and Mrs Hansen will be happy.  Such if life.  Until the next time this is Brodie Goozée


More Class than Farce

first class carriage

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There is an old word to do with behaviour and it is called style.  It was usually attached to people of social stature and then migrated as a monica to the moneyed nuveaux riche post industrial revolution.  Class was another such adjectival noun that in the first instance defined the social, and thereby financial/political devide, strata and then as a quality based upon uplifting values.  They are linked, Style and Class but in our egalitarian Australia I put it to you that Style now usurps Class and even that has been stolen and refers to our fashionistas.  The point is there are  some people you meet to whom you instinctively have a more than courteous  attitude, they have that certain je ne sait quois than commands a little reverence, a predisposition to respect.  Then there are those who don’t.  This week I have met both.

Both have achieved a more than an average level of financial of financial success. One is so anti a broad spectrum of socio political issues you can imagine them in another time and another place of supporting some our most lethal political regimes and in todays currency kissing the coat tails of the wannabe Trump.  The central ethic of this individual is ‘anti’.  Anti Muslim, though try suggesting the word Racists and prepare your ears for a tirade of the weirdest collection of rationales.  Anti Labour, anti Unions,  anti Left and we had only been acquainted  for the shortest of periods.  The ‘Anti’ was a furnace of intellectual bile feeding a life and blaming the world for personal outcomes.  People don’t work, , Unions kill enterprise, the smart car stays at home so the riffraff don’t point and laugh or cut him off so he drives a ute and loves the mateship of tradies nodding in appreciation when going off to work. The central anger, the I-am-better-cos-I-made-a-quid and people need to respect me was the Omega to the Alpha person I met.  Female, of immigrant class stock, worked hard with her working class but highly admired husband who died too soon.  His workforce loved him, would do anything willingly for him, never complained about meeting his tax liabilities, employed refugees of all persuasions. His and her values we noticed and admired.  A Doggies supporter for ever, she became a ‘den-mother’ and is now the VP. She surmounted the pain of his loss and did it again when her own daughter died next to her on a plane trip from America from a heart attack caused by her diabetes. She had the spur to expand her philanthropy with support for finding a cure for the disease.  She co-founded the push for girls to play footy in memory of her daughter’s passion to kick the Sherrin.  In all the time I spent with her there was not one single reference to being anti anything or anyone.  There was a calmness, a control and perhaps most of all a wisdom.  She didn’t blame her God for her woes, she and her husband flourished their business because of recognising that their workers were people, able to make mistakes and take advantage but they didn’t out of respect.

Two different experiences of two individuals that could be classified as achievers.  But when you look through the lens of Style and Class they are as opposed as Communism and Fascism, north pole to south pole.  I have had more than my fair share of meeting Omegas in my life for they are in every walk of life, all political persuasions, every financial strata.  But the Alpha, they are so rare.  The ones that try to do something on the positive side of the social ledger and do not seek adoration or attention for their good deeds.  Thinkers with heart and soul, some rich some poor; it doesn’t take wealth to earn respect, it takes wisdom and that is why there are the Cans and the Cants.

My grandfather drove trucks when he closed his business he set up a trust so all his employees’ children could get a private education.  I was a beneficiary. I was an army brat in an era when the Indian Raj ethic was alive and well.  My father became a General but he never forgot his father’s approach to his workers or his customers; respect and the promotion and search for the best in people.  Army pay never made you rich so his philanthropy was not the gift of millions but the gift of help, of kindness to all peoples.

Such is life.  Until the next time, this is Brodie Goozée.