Pelican Edition 7, Volume 85 by UWA Student Guild

Ed iti o n 7 Vo lu me 85

Fea r / Loat h i ng

PELICAN

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REGULARS 5 6 7 9 46

whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s up on campus credits editorials advice corner whereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s pelly

FEATURES 10 technology 11 myths 12 Islamophobia 13 fear 14 apocalypse 15 manic 16 gambling 18 gospitality 19 careers 20 scare campaigns 21 extremists

SECTIONS 22 politics 25 film 29 music 33 books 35 arts 38 culture

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Turn your passion into a rewarding, globally focussed career. Take on a postgraduate masters degree from the Faculty of Arts at The University of Western Australia. • Strategic Communication

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• International Journalism

• Medieval and Early Modern Studies

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Learn more at our Postgrad & Honours Expo on September 24 or visit arts.uwa.edu.au

WHAT’S UP ON CAMPUS UWA PAW (UWA People for Animal Welfare) Are you passionate about animals? Then you need to join PAW!! We stand for animal welfare and rights and support ethical treatment of animals of all species, shapes and sizes! Through our fun events such as veganfriendly BBQ’s, public lectures, movie nights, quiz nights & e-letters (and more!), we facilitate education and awareness of animal rights, ethics and welfare issues at the same time as supporting community animal welfare organisations through fundraisers. If you think you belong, join us at https://www.facebook.com/ groups/131830273672010/ and grab a membership for only $5 at any of our upcoming events! What would we do without language? The UWA Linguistics Society is for all ☺ language lovers Come and play word games, follow our series “ULS Talks TED” and participate in our exciting linguistic projects around campus! You can also follow news and events at our Facebook page: https://www. facebook.com/uwalinguisticssociety

UWA Amnesty International The UWA Amnesty International group meet fortnightly on the Reid Lawn (or Reid café if it’s raining) at 1-2pm on Tuesdays. If you’re interested in human rights in Australia and internationally, do come and join us. Find out more at https://www.facebook. com/AmnestyUWA UWA Society for Creative Anachronism Known as the College of Saint Basil the Great, we are part of the international Society for Creative Anachronism, dedicated to recreating activities of the medieval world. We uphold the values of chivalry and honour and practice armoured combat, rapier fighting, archery, sewing, costuming, dancing, music, feasting, cooking, brewing and armouring. Join us for College Training on Oak Lawn from 5pm on Wednesdays and Thursdays to learn about swordplay, dancing, get ideas for garb and costumes, or even just to chat about history. Overseas Christian Fellowship OCF is an interdenominational student ministry that seeks to spread and share the

good news with international student in our university. We are a fellowship (not a church or small group) that meets regularly on Fridays (7pm, Social Sciences LT @ UWA) for bible studies, public meets and other fun events as well as prayer meeting ons Wednesdays! Follow us on Facebook (Overseas Christian Fellowship (OCF) Perth 2014, or email us at perth1@ocfaustralia.org UWA Italian Club Our ever popular coffee and conversation event has returned once again! Join us at UCafe for a fantastic opportunity to practice your Italian language skills and meet new people, all over a delicious cup of coffee, Italian style of course!” https://www.facebook.com/UWAItalianClub UWA Catholic Society ‘The UWA Catholic Society (UCS) is an organising body for young Catholics and other interested persons on campus. We aim to serve Christ and the Church, and to help everyone grow in fides, spes and caritas. We believe in the dignity of all from conception to natural death - as Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI says “We are not some casual and meaningless product of evolution. Each of us is the result of a thought of God. Each of us is willed, each of us is loved, each of us is necessary”. Mass is 12pm, Tuesday and Thursday in the Law Link chapel.’

ALUMNI ANNUAL FUND GRANTS NOW OPEN! Grants of up to $30,000 are available for innovative projects or activities that aim to enhance the UWA student experience. Apply today at www.uwa.edu.au/aafgrants 5

CONTRIBUTORS CONTENTS IMAGE Nathan Millard CONTRIBUTOR IMAGE Caz Bank DESIGN Kate “Nearly Headless” Hoolahan ADVERTISING Alex “It Came From The” Pond Karrie “The Mummy” McClelland EDITORS Wade “Kang” McCagh Zoe “Kodos” Kilbourn SECTION EDITORS Arts: Lauren “Mike Wazowski” Wiszniewski Books: Elisa “Hunter S.” Thompson Culture: Lucy “Bride of Frankenstein” Ballantyne Film: Matthew “Gojira” Green Music: Simon “Demon” Donnes Politics: Hamish “Hangman” Hobbs

CONTRIBUTORS Kate “Cabin in the Woods” Oatley (Words) Chloe “Dracula” Durand (Words) Somayya “Cousin Itt” Ismailjee (Words) Elise “Horseman” Hyatt (Words) Morgan “Morticia” Goodman (Words) Julianne “Zombie” de Souza (Words) Elisha “Nosferatu” Rayner (Words) Carin “Chimera” Chan (Words) Eleanor “Boggart” Bruyn (Words) Tom “Texas Chainsaw” Rossiter (Words) Dan “Wednesday Addams” Werndly (Words) Cameron “Voted For” Kang (Words) James “Munster” Munt (Words) Cameron “Lurch” James (Words) Bridget “Bela Lugosi” Rumball (Words) Dennis “Uncle Fester” Venning (Words) Kat “Golem” Gillespie (Words) Samuel J. “Corpse Bride” Cox (Words) Mitchell “Der Vampyr” Valentine (Words) Sam “C.” Montgomery “Burns” (Words) Elysia “Gomez” Gelavis (Illustrations) Amorette “Karloff” Klotz Camden “Wolf Man” Watts

ARE YOU TOO WEIRD TO LIVE, BUT TOO RARE TO DIE? Don’t fuck with me now, man. I am Ahab! The possibility of physical and mental collapse is now very real. No sympathy for the Devil, keep that in mind. Pelican is always looking for new writers, artists, contributors, and attorneys to help bring glory to our not terribly dull student magazine. You can get in contact with Pelican through our Facebook page, through our email at pelican@guild.uwa.edu.au, or you can come and find us on the 1st Floor of the Guild Building. We host monthly Writers Nights during semester in the Guild Council Meeting Room, so keep a look out for our Facebook events and come down for free pizza and lots of giveaways! Buy the ticket, take the ride.

Picture by Caz Bank

COVER IMAGE Nathan Millard

CORRECTIONS : In Edition Six, the article ‘Supersized Peace’ was attributed to Kate Oakley. The author of this article was Kate Oatley.

DISCLAIMER: The views expressed within are not the views of the UWA Student Guild or the Pelican editorial staff.

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PREZITORIAL Well, here we are near the end of the year. By now, most of us have all stared into the face of the horror of being up at 4am working on an assignment due that day, fully cognizant that the penalty mark is really not that bad, but having mentally committed to finishing so hard that we cannot accept write off those marks as a sunk cost. This is a bit like life. Who among us hasn’t seen some bad times? Who hasn’t listened to the tick of the clock, knowing that some day they will die; their body degrading over time as part of a universe which, as far as we can reliably demonstrate, does not care about us; made from the ground up from components so strange and small that the majority of us cannot conceive them. And yet, despite living within this great machine churning towards its own dissipation, we soldier on. We learn, build, heal, teach, grow, reproduce, create, and toil. Some of us work to peel back the skien of reality to see what there is to see, some of us work to buy boats, top shelf liquor, or throw it all on red. Who am I to fault either approach? All I know is that we’re here for a good time not a long time, and that we are in the position such that the world is what we make it, be that garden of earthly delights or pit out of which our distant decedents, if they survive, will not be able to extricate themselves. I for one plan to stand watch against the forces of disorder, decay and entropy as best as I can discern them. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honor to the Night’s Watch, for this night, and all nights to come.

WADITORIAL Like a lot of young men with literary dispositions and penchants for being arrogant dicks, I got really into Hemingway as an adolescent. I spent a lot of time procrastinating in my freshman year at UWA by reading through his works, including a beautiful ancient leather-bound copy of The Sun Also Rises I found in Reid one day. But my favourite Hemingway work is his treatise on bullfighting, Death in the Afternoon. It’s a difficult book to pigeonhole; part autobiography, technical manual, travel literature, philosophical musing, and personal ramblings. It’s vintage Hemingway: his matter-of-fact arrogance and economical prose drenches the pages as he goes on tangents about the sunlight in Spain or Gertrude Stein’s lust for blood sport. One thing that stuck with me was Hemingway’s criteria in evaluating the greatest matadors of his age. He would dismiss many of the younger or less experienced matadors who had acquired reputations for daring and bravery as being incapable of reaching the highest echelon of greatness, because they had never been gored. They still had a mentality of invincibility, a courage that comes from ignorance or misplaced confidence in their imperviousness to the danger of the horns. The truly great matadors, in Hemingway’s mind, were the ones who had their shields of invincibility (literally) pierced, and gained full knowledge of the fear. Fear of death, fear of pain, fear of failure. They were able to stride into the corridas and execute feats of daring and artistic grace while carrying that knowledge, which destroyed so many more of their peers. (Valid) objections to the cruelty of blood sports aside, this sentiment has echoed through my mind countless times over the years. The days of fearlessly jumping into pursuits are gone. The imperviousness is long gone. But I try to stay mindful of the fact that I’m aware of my fear, and not let it become the deciding factor in my decisions. I’ve tried to live in a manner akin to Roosevelt’s ‘man in the arena’, embracing the risk of failure over the cold safety of never trying anything. This issue has features tales about fear and its by-product loathing (to paraphrase Yoda), both overcoming it and being overcome by it, as people and as a society. I hope Pelican readers embrace these stories, and never become “those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat.”

ZOETORIAL I haven’t played the saxophone properly for at least eight, nine months. It wouldn’t be such a big deal were my entire academic record not hanging on a half-completed BMus in performance. A final recital looms in the very blurry future. Arguably, I never really played the instrument properly. As my primary school piano teacher repeatedly told me (and God, was Mrs Varga perceptive), “You’re musical, but you’re not disciplined”. She said it with love, but it’s something I think more and more about as my (formerly double) degree falls to pieces - particularly the discipline part. I’m not particularly disciplined, and it’s hard to know where that stems from or what feeds the viscious cycle of procrastination. I suspect, though, that a lot of it’s down to fear. After a particularly brutal recital last year (ah, discipline!), I haven’t been able to pick up an instrument without a crushing fear of shame. Of course, I studied classical music, a niche that revels in its nicheness. A lot of undergrad music is about posturing and Berlioz memes, but it’s also a window in an art that prides itself on lofty goals - goals that change according to which practitioner or academic you chat to, goals that can be pretty much indiscernible to even an enthusiastic listener, goals that are probably obsolete. You’ve got to use this embouchre, this articulation, this ornamentation, this vibrato - and even then, you’ve probably fucked up the interpretation according to Gould or Rousseau or Lebrecht. That constant struggle to express the music on some abstract plane - not the composer, not the period, God forbid yourself is exhausting, but liberating. Dedicating yourself to something that’s likely damaging and, worse, potentially unnecessary, feels fulfilling on an almost spiritual plane. Like a ballerino destroying his feet, you transform yourself - your body, your hands - into the extension of an instrument. Elise Hyatt wrote an incredible piece for this edition about her take on the phenomenon and the overwhelming pressure that effects, arguably, any young specialist. Thank God for spaces like Pelican - where there’s room to fail and fuck about, to experiment without the repercussions threatened by a finance unit, a law degree, a neuroscience lab. And thank God for contributors willing to give it a bash. Disciplined or not, you’ve done us proud.

PELICAN ADVICE COLUMN To the class, Yesterday I went to my friend’s house and was supposed to call my dad to pick me up when I wanted to go home. But when that time came I dropped my iPhone and the screen went completely frozen so I decided to catch the bus instead. I found my dad in the living room kissing a lady who was not my mum. He promised to never do it again but I don’t know if I believe him. Should I tell me mum? - Confused Dear Confused, Do not tell your mum! She’ll kill you for breaking it! Last year I dropped my iPhone and the screen cracked and I was grounded for a month – even though the repairs only cost like $70! Try turning it off and on again or go to the Apple Store yourself and see if they can fix it first. -Susan (c/o Miss Thompson’s English Class) To Miss Thompson and class, My boyfriend wants to have sex but I’m worried that he might have a small penis because one of his ex’s keeps saying that. I don’t think I can keep putting him off – what should I do? - Worried Dear Worried, One of two things is happening here: your boyfriend has a tiny penis and his ex is telling people the truth, or he has a normal (maybe even HUGE) penis and his ex is lying. Either way, she is talking shit about your boyfriend and that makes you look like a dick. You need to sort that bitch out. The sex thing is a problem for another advice column because Miss says we’re too young to comment. To Miss Thompson’s class, I am worried that my friends don’t like me. For some reason they have stopped talking to me. A few weeks ago I heard some girls saying my name and then when I got close they stopped talking and started laughing. I think people are spreading false rumours about me! How should I deal with these haters? - Alone Dear Alone, No one says haters anymore. You sound like a loser. No wonder they don’t like you.

Dear class, I have a long-term girlfriend but I can’t stop flirting with other girls! I’m worried that I might cheat, because I’ve been really close to doing it before – help! - Mr Flirty To Mr Flirty, Are you kidding us? Are you an idiot? Can you just sort it out and stop wasting our time with your first world, private boy’s school bullshit? Okay, so maybe you don’t go to a private boy’s school, but that’s how you sound! It’s kind of embarrassing and your girlfriend is probably going to notice soon and break up with you anyway. To the class, Sometimes I feel like I don’t have any direction in my life. People keep telling me that I’m an adult and that I need to be making decisions about my future, but I honestly have no idea what to do with myself. I’m interested in all sorts of different things but I can’t seem to find that one thing that is totally me. Do you have any advice? - Lost Dear Lost, Are you aware that you’re writing to a group of teenagers? Do you not understand how little we care about your life? We have our own issues and our own futures to think about and no one is helping us. Get over yourself.

To Miss Thompson’s class, I used to be a massive footy addict and all of my friends play sport. Recently, I’ve been less interested in going to games and more into nerdy things. I really like playing these card games and I’ve even tried World of Warcraft and I didn’t hate it. I’d like to introduce these things to my friends – they’re way more fun if you play with other people – but I’m worried they might think I’m uncool. Should I reveal my new personality to them or keep hiding? - Nerd in Disguise Dear Nerd in Disguise, Sometimes nerds can be cool. It doesn’t happen often, but it is possible. Own it. Or find new friends. To the class, My parents never let me do what I want. I just want them to leave me alone so I can go and see my friends on the weekend but they always say I have to do other stuff first. It’s completely ridiculous and totally unfair. How can I make them understand this? - Annoyed Dear Annoyed, You are preaching to the choir here. My parents make me do chores and they don’t even give me pocket money. Like, isn’t that slavery or some shit? I’m pretty sure that’s illegal. I don’t have an answer to this question, but if you figure it out please write to us again. Dear class, Please answer this question in 500 words or more: How does one character develop throughout the novel? - Miss Thompson Dear Miss Thompson, Miss please can we play a game? Miss I need to go to the bathroom – I swear I’m going to piss myself. Liam has tied my shoelaces together, Miss, so can I tie his together? It’s too hot in here. I’m sleepy. Can you close the door please is fucking freezing! Oh, sorry for swearing Miss. Last night my cat vomited in my bed. Miss how come you always try to make us do this shit? I don’t understand! I don’t get it! I hate English! I hate you!

TECHNOLOGY: INVASION OR REVOLUTION? by Kate Oatley Technology has become a monumental part of all of our lives, and there is no doubt that the ‘digital world’ is here to stay. Most people have embraced the revolution and see the change in their lives as an improvement, but it has got a few scare-campaign going over the years. Is there a chance that technology will take control over humans and replace us all with robots? I wouldn’t start rioting quite just yet. It’s true that technology can take control from humans to an extent, but is this really such a bad thing all the time? For example, take self-driving cars.. In these cars, humans have no control over the driving process past deciding where the location might be. On the surface, this does take the control from drivers, but look deeper and you realise that this actually makes it safer for everyone by eliminating human error – which, let’s face it, is the cause of most crashes. Drink driving, using a mobile while driving, not paying attention while driving, all of these problems are eliminated in these cars. There is always going to be an override button for the human passenger, in the same way there is a driver in a train just in case something goes wrong. In war zones, instead of putting humans in the firing line, automatic vehicles and missiles are being used. They can cover terrain that most humans would balk at, and if the enemy does hit them: no life lost. There is no safer way to go to war, and far from taking control of humans; these machines ultimately continue to be ‘driven’ by humans from a safer location. There is a fear that technology stops us thinking for ourselves. With the widespread use of GPS systems,

there is no active processing required by the driver to get to a location. I, for one, would have no idea how to get around without mine. But before GPS became widespread, most people had no idea how to get around without a map, either. Technology has simply provided us with a more efficient form of map: it has not reduced the capacity for thought any more than the traditional map has. We still remember our regular routes, and when we do go to a new place, the GPS stops us getting lost and reduces stress levels. Technology is not replacing us, it is enhancing us. By developing technology to take care of repetitive, mundane tasks, more time and space is designated to creative thought – a type of thought that technology will never be able to perform on its own. Consider all the scientific developments in the last couple of decades as technology became more advanced. Now imagine that every experiment had to be conducted singly, by hand. Advances would take years, as opposed to days, if they were conducted at all. By having the technology to speed up processes and mass-produce results, developments are occurring that would have been impossible by hand. Turning to science again, the advent of particle accelerators has led to the discovery of the Higgs Boson – commonly known as the ‘God Particle’ - which has led to the completion of the ‘Standard Model’: a scientific theory (also known as “the theory of everything”) from which the behaviour of all matter and energy can be derived and that is fundamental to discerning how the universe ‘works’. On an everyday basis, technology allows us to spend our time doing more important things than repetitive, banal tasks, which in

turn leads to more relaxed humans when it is fully embraced. It also counteracts the ‘more work than ever’ idea: we are likely working the same amount as we used to, just in different forms that spend more time directed towards creative innovations and which may appear to those who do not actively embrace technology – and assume that people still conduct the repetitive tasks now designated to machines – to be more laborious.

TECHNOLOGY IS NOT REPLACING US, IT IS ENHANCING US. There is nothing to fear from technology. It will never become more advanced than humans, and it will never get out of our control. Yes, technology can perform amazing tasks and that may seem inconceivable to us, but all it does is speed up processes that could technically be completed by humans. It is designed by humans and it will always be within our means to control how it advances. Don’t underestimate humans; we are smarter than we think (just watch any sci-fi movie – we rule!). Technology has sped up our world and allowed us to direct our time towards more important areas of thought. It was created by humans to make the lives of humans easier, and is adapted constantly to change it when it fails to do so. There is no reason why technology should ever take over the lives and roles of humans. Embracing an easier, more efficient life does not turn you into a slave to technology.

MAKING THE MONSTER by Chloe Durand

The stranger in the darkened alley, face obscured by shadow, motivated by psychopathic mental disturbances so deep no one could explain them. Making her way down the dimly lit passageway, the lone woman, skirt just a few inches too short, one drink too many. If only she had remembered that alleys, sidestreets, the blackened cracks in the city filled with criminals aren’t places for her. If only she had remembered to wear more modest clothing, travel in a pack, carry pepper spray, drink less and be more scared. Maybe then she wouldn’t have found herself at the mercy of the malignant man who waited for her in the dark alley that night. For the rest of her life she’ll hear murmurs about the maybes of her behaviour and appearance, how she invited him through inaction to mark her, mar her, make her ashamed - and through all of this, one person too many will make it clear that this is a matter she should have managed to avoid. This is what we teach our sisters, our friends, our daughters about rape. This is the Monster Myth. The reality about sexual assault, rape, harassment and stalking is that between 70% and 80% of these crimes are committed by acquaintances. Despite this, the cultural narrative consistently warns of “stranger rape”, committed by someone who doesn’t know the victim but has targeted them, stalks them, and then attacks them. This unfortunately can and does happen, but it is only a segment of the cultural panorama of rape and sexual assault. A segment that requires addressing, yes, but addressed to the detriment of the other more common forms of rape and sexual assault. Why is the Monster Myth the most popular story told? Why is the only perpetrator of rape we ever address as a cultural group the nameless, faceless man in

the alleyway? Why does he hurt from a place that we could never conceive of deconstructing or preventing? And why, ever increasingly do I ask, is it the job of his victim to evade him to avoid getting hurt, lest she (or he, but more commonly she) get hurt? I’m glad you asked. The Monster Myth allows society to do two very cruel things in one illconceived, factually incorrect grand narrative of rape. The first is to construct a scenario where potential victims of rape, especially women, are given the onus of preventing it. We are expected to dress, walk, travel and act a certain way. These factors are interrogated for reasons why the rape occurred. Even though the sole reason for the rape occurring (the rapist) is rationalised away with a desire overflowing onto this one person and requires no further examination, the behaviour of the victim undergoes something of a character assassination within the paradigm of the Monster Myth. You may have heard the term ‘victim blaming’, and that’s exactly what it is - suggesting that, through inaction or refusal to play by the script of innocence, people somehow deserve or invite rape, stalking and harassment. The fact is that no one deserves that. The second way that the Monster Myth subverts the truth about rape is by mythologising the rapist. This allows society to continue refusing to examine cultural precedents and patterns that permit rape. The idea of entitlement to another person’s body, lack of information about consent and bodily autonomy, a hyper-masculine culture that views women’s bodies as public property and the cultural indoctrination of aggression as a means to getting around rejection are all issues that need to be addressed to stop rape. Rapists aren’t nameless or faceless; they are individuals acting in one of the cruelest ways a human can as a result

of a society that subtly condones their actions. The Monster Myth of rape is used to control the actions of women even when they aren’t being raped. Most reasonable people, myself included, are all for anything that empowers women to feel safe and to stop even one rape. But piling all this responsibility on women without any wider address to people to prohibit and punish the actions of potential rapists opens the door for even more victim blaming. Why wasn’t she wearing flat shoes, magical drug-detecting nailpolish and a chastity belt? Why didn’t she mace him or resort to self-defence training? The ugly reality about current rape prevention under the influence of the Monster Myth is to tell women, don’t get raped. Make sure he rapes the other girl. Chloe’s top tips for preventing rape: 1. Respect a person’s personal space and right to privacy. This means not only taking any form of no for an answer but taking anything other than a ‘yes’ as a no. No one owes you sex, not ever. Not even your romantic partner. 2. Sobriety. Consent cannot be given under the influence. People often talk about the “grey area” but seriously, if you’re wondering about a grey area of consent, the answer is probably no. 3. Enthusiastic consent. Saying consent is sexy is like saying someone’s a good neighbour for not setting your house on fire every day. Don’t wait for someone to give in to your advances under duress. Set the bar higher and make sure you’re with people who are aware and enthusiastic. Consent can be verbal or physical. If you’re working under the misconception that attaining verbal consent is somehow going to ruin the mood you’ve clearly never heard the phrase “Do you want to fuck?” 4. Don’t rape.

ISLAMOPHOBIA, THE NEO-CRUSADERS, AND THE CLASH OF IGNORANCE by Somayya Ismailjee After failing to enshrine in law the “right to be a bigot” Tony Abbott and George Brandis are now on a new crusade. ‘Crusade’ is really the only word you can use when you are led by men who have convinced themselves they are a modern incarnation of some romanticized version of Christian crusaders getting ready for some clash-of-civilizations battle to protect the West from the existential threat of The Muslims. In an exhaustingly familiar fashion, Islamophobia is back in vogue in a fresh new outbreak of hysteria. In recent decades, governments and media outlets alike have thrived on the gross sensationalism of Islamophobia: the hatred, discrimination, and paranoia around Muslims and anything to do with Islam. Islamophobia reeks of 18thcentury orientalism restyled for 21st century imperialist agendas and carries a whiff of McCarthyite hysteria about it, although heavily racially tinged, and provides fail-safe political currency for governments desperate to distract from inconvenient matters. Just like that, uproar over the austerity budget, nationwide protests against the government, sinking approval ratings – have all been quickly swept off the agenda. All that matters is that Muslims stay at the centre of attention.

Picture by Elysia Gelavis

As such, the extremist group ISIS is being used as a pretext to single out Australian Muslims and target them for anti-terrorism

laws, all in the name of “national unity”: ‘Team Australia’. Orwellian doublespeak language tricks remain alive and well. For the past month, Abbott and Brandis have been congregating Muslim groups, holding patronizing meetings with them, and pushing upon them a host of legislative proposals. Just what link Australian Islamic communities have to ISIS – a group that is mostly killing Muslims – hasn’t been explained, but nobody’s supposed to question it. Team Australia means simply embracing jingoism, seeing the world in a neat little “us” (always the good guys, no matter what We do) vs. “them” (the bad guys) dichotomy, and getting swept up by the Islamophobic frenzy. The media of course, have been eager accomplices alongside the government in what can only be described as an antiMuslim propaganda drive, hyperventilating over the opportunity to cash in on the hysteria. The crusader theme was splashed across the 9th August cover of Murdoch’s Weekend Australian, declaring “We’ll fight Islam 100 years”. Daily Telegraph “journalist” Tim Blair undertook an “investigation” into Sydney’s Lakemba Islamic community, which apparently warranted a 2-page newspaper spread because treating Muslims like zoological curiosities to be studied by white people is what passes as serious investigative journalism in this country. On August 19, The West Australian’s front page featured the enlarged words “MUSLIM LECTURE BATTLE” over a doomsday-black background, with a bearded nonwhite man pictured alongside. With this kind of centering it doesn’t even matter what the story was; according to The West, those words and a brown person alone should be enough to outrage and disgust you. It would be a fallacy to think of anti-Islam paranoia and hatred as something new; it has merely assumed a slightly different form in recent decades. In his classic Orientalism, Edward Said describes how for centuries a persistent theme in European conceptualisations of the East included caricaturing Islam to belittle the Islamic world and to foster a sense of superiority amongst Europeans. Islamophobia follows in the tradition of caricaturing Muslims into crude, essentialist tropes to serve Western interests. This can be done because even

in the purportedly proudly multicultural West, Muslims are treated like something of a burden, an excess that can’t be assimilated. From the Ban-the-Burqa debates that erupt every now and then, to furors over Halal food, to crimes committed by Muslims, everything Muslims do undergo a process of pathologisation. If a Muslim murders somebody, it is not just murder, it’s “terrorism”, and it is supposed to be representative of Muslims as a group: it feeds into an old racist narrative of Muslims being inherently predisposed to violence and hence warrants fear-mongering, racebating and smear-campaigning on a national scale. Meanwhile, reprehensible statistics such as one woman being killed every week in domestic violence remain never being elevated to the status of a national emergency. It’s extraordinary how even amidst constant revelations of systematic child abuse within the Catholic Church and ongoing Israeli war crimes against Palestine, it is only Muslims who are supposed to share responsibility and be scapegoated ruthlessly for the crimes of their co-religionists. A glaring double standard like this can only be facilitated by an entrenched system of power: racism. There is always the but-Islam-isn’t-a-race brigade, (who allege that bigotry is apparently fine as long as you’ve found a loophole), but Muslims have always been a distinctly racialised group. The majority of Muslims are nonwhite and people generally associate Muslims with nonwhite people, hence the amount of anti-Muslim hate-crimes committed also against Sikh Indians and other minorities mistaken as Muslim. Post 9/11, racial profiling of people of colour by authorities in the name of “anti terrorism” has also been (even more) rampant. The discrimination and marginalization of Muslims and anyone perceived as such is all part in parcel of systemic racism and should be opposed by anyone who claims to support liberty and democratic values, but all the self-styled “freedom warriors” who at the start of the year made it their mission to “liberate” the nation from anti-hate speech laws are all too happy for it to flourish. It appears, yet again, that liberty is really only for some.

ON NOT WRITING FOR PELICAN by Elise Hyatt

I was the awful age of fourteen when it happened. I stand, projecting the image of confidence, on a carpeted stage. The roof is high and angular; good for acoustics. Blue sky beckons through the triangular window above. Eager mothers’ faces smile at me. Small children squirm. The piano plays and I raise my violin. My dress shifts and catches, too tight over newly blossomed curves. Plastic moulds to my chin. Left hand curls round elongated wood. Fingers tease nylon strings. I’ve done this thousands of times. This performance is no different. It’s natural to me. My fingers unfurl from their tease to play. A open string 1st finger 2nd finger 3rd 2nd 1 3 2 1 E 3 2 1 A Instructions reach my fingers before I have time to think them. Up bow, shift to third position, rest, shift down, flat, loud, staccato… In playing music you are always ahead, always in the moment and always critiquing the last bar. My fingers dance as my mind wanders, what does the audience think? Don’t look, it’s unprofessional. Can’t resist, I look up; smiles, nods, squirming. Faster now, hard part coming A212 A212 E212, thoughts tumble, up down shift to third position 3131431A21 A 2…2? The piano plays - I do not. Smiling eyes become concerned. My own blur with tears 2...1…A… down bow? Where am I? The nylon dents my fingers, chinrest sweaty, hands stiff and useless, thoughts tumultuous. Everything I thought was natural, easy, achievable

is erased. Everyone is embarrassed. My fingers fly back into action a few phrases from the end, but the damage is done. Tears flowing, I take a stiff, awkward bow and move away. It was this awful event that made me realise I was not invincible. Once a fearless young girl climbed the tallest trees, played complex concertos from memory, held conversations with anyone and wrote the most fantastical stories. But on that awful day, she became a woman, she forgot, and I forgot her. What if I fell? What if I played the wrong note? What if no one was interested? So I stopped trying. Fear manifested where security had lived. Its tendrils consumed what it thought no one would miss. Concertos were played with sheet music, conversations held only with select few, trees were to look at, not to climb and writing became reading. Nothing of greatness could be achieved without excessive workshopping, practising, drilling, repeating over and over and over again. No time for that, no chance for greatness. No chance for greatness, no point trying. Furtive and cunning is the alwayspresent fear… Since the day I forgot how to be invincible, I’ve missed so much more than a few bars of music. I’ve missed doing what I really want, because I think I won’t be good enough. Wearing that flamboyant skirt, improvising music, writing for Pelican…I’ve been chasing my dreams away. Maybe it’s part of ‘growing up’, maybe it’s societal forces oppressing

womankind or perhaps it’s undiagnosed anxiety. In any case, something is wrong and I choose to end it. I stand, tingling in trepidation, on a wooden bridge. Don’t look. I take a peek. Vertigo courses through me as I find out what forty-three metres looks like from a birds-eye view. A picturesque, vibrant blue river flows below. Jagged cliff-sides frame the image. What had seemed like such a fun idea yesterday, plays out as an internal battle of primal instincts.

FURTIVE AND CUNNING IS THE ALWAYS-PRESENT FEAR… Don’t do it! This is so stupid! It’s not too late, just turn around! But I am magnetised to the edge, it’s pulling me over. The harness cuts into my hips. I squeeze my eyes shut. Toes inch towards nothing. “3, 2, 1” There is a young woman who bungee jumps because she is afraid of heights, who makes her own music because she fears playing a wrong note, tries to make friends with strangers and writes because she loves to. She embraces her fears and vulnerabilities and it strengthens her. No matter how hard she works, sometimes she still misses a beat and that fearless, invincible girl she once knew comes to stay and tells her it’s okay. Although she and I may never create anything of true ‘greatness’, we now accept the greatness in trying.

APOCALYPSE NOW

It seems reasonable to suppose, based on the evidence provided by diligent historians and archaeologists, that for as long as there have been humans, a small group of them have devoted a lot of time to worrying about the end of the world. Most ancient mythologies have their own Doomsday scenario, over- or underplayed according to the particular inclinations of the societies in which they were developed. The Greeks believed that the gods were fairly prone to cleansing the earth whenever their creations got a little unruly. This made sense given the soap operatic sensibilities of Greek mythology, and the Greeks were apparently content to leave it at that. Similarly, the Egyptians were more concerned with the preservation of their own souls in the afterlife and made only vague references to the time when the world would eventually sink back into the endless ocean from whence it came. Modern religions place more weight on the end of the world, with the Abrahamic sensibility describing it as final destructive cleansing of all sin and the restoration of the Kingdom of God. In fact, theological apocalypses can be roughly divided into two categories: the cyclical, as in Greek, Hindu and Buddhist myth; and the total, as in the Abrahamic and the Norse Ragnarök. There is an element of the zero-sum game in these: the universe is created perfect by an omnipotent being before suffering some sort of corruption, and the End Times are then when the original fixtures are reset and everything is once again as intended. These categories seem at a casual glance to be a mirror to how each of those faiths explained human mortality. That is, the end of the world is just our own deaths, writ large enough to get the divine attention it deserves. Which makes a lot of sense: from the human-centric basis of religion it is entirely reasonable to scale up a human life and call it the universe. More interesting are the parallels that exist between them and predictions from physics about the ultimate fate of the universe. The perfection of the Kingdom

of God implies eternal stasis; this could be interpreted physically as the (now highly contested) theory of the heat death of the universe, when the tiniest stable components of everything are distributed equally far from each other and all motion ceases. The cyclical Armageddons reflect the Big Bounce or oscillatory universe proposal, in which the expansion of the universe will eventually slow to a halt and then be reversed, resulting in a singularity from which a new Big Bang occurs. However, both of these are predicted to occur at some vastly distant point in the future, somewhat beyond the scales explicitly considered by most religions, and certainly long after 2012. These theological apocalypses are depicted as peiod of great misery for everyone unlucky enough to be outside when they arrive. Contrast with the modern apocalypse, which has the same amount of flash and spectacle when everything finally goes properly pearshaped, but in which some particularly lucky specimens of our species manage to cling on in the rubble and eventually go on to establish the grimy, corrugated-iron shanties or bucolic medieval Arcadias we are all familiar with. These visions are somehow far more appealing, despite the threat of zombies, mutants, raiders, cannibals and over-excited science-fiction fans. So appealing that most people probably know at least one person who has discussed their foolproof plan for surviving over a few pints. Some have embraced the coming disaster even more enthuasiastically: the cautious, militaristic Prepper “uncollective”. Preppers are not a new subculture, but they have risen to a new cultural prominence after being featured in a host of network reality TV shows, in between the ones about swamp dwellers and the World’s Most Exciting Garbagemen. They range from concerned older folks who collect

cans in the basement and keep fit by hiking to the intense, pseudo-military guys who regard anyone without a fully-stocked armoury and family set of radiation suits as disgustingly unprepared. A brief foray into a few of the Prepper communities online revealed three things common to most, if not all: a fierce individualism and desire for privacy (hence the term “uncollective”), an unwholesome enthusiasm for thinking up new disasters they need to be prepared for (referred to collectively by the acronym SHTF, when “Shit Hits The Fan”), and a deep, thorough and unabiding dislike for journalists asking questions. Ultimately, considering the disappearance of our society, our species, our planet or our universe is just another kind of gazing at the navel of our own mortality. There is a significant level of effort that is applied by people seeking to better prepare themselves for some inevitable and final disaster, by ensuring the purity of their immortal souls, by stockpiling seeds and canned goods, or just by knowing where the nearest hardware stores and grog shops are. It’s possible these efforts will be the salvation of (a certain section of) humanity after the End Times. Or that they might be much better applied to improving the world as it is now, rather than waiting for a blank slate. Only time can tell. In the meantime, I will be in my treetop fortress reorganising my collection of rusty but versatile gardening equipment and making flyers for my Big Freeze afterparty.

Picture byAmorette Klotz

by Morgan Goodman

HATE AND REGRET IN MANIC PIXIE DREAMLAND One does not need to look far to find the trope of the Manic Pixie Dream Girl. According to Nathan Rabin, who pioneered the term, one should simply observe Kirsten Dunst’s character in Elizabethtown or Natalie Portman’s in Garden State. However, if like me you have seen neither of these films, I recommend that you simply read any of my ‘creative assignments’ from high school Literature. I blame 500 Days of Summer and my misinterpretation of Romantic poetry (La Belle Dame sans Merci was my jam) for convincing me that ‘quirky’ and ‘elusive’ girls (read: moody and one-dimensional) were the most original characters to have ever existed. Common hobbies included chasing birds for no particular reason and listening to Etta James (despite the fact that I knew just one of her songs). But I digress. Rabin, a film critic, coined the term back in 2007 in an article titled ‘The Bataan Death March of Whimsy Case File #1: Elizabethtown’. He defined the Manic Pixie Dream Girl as that ubiquitous character who exists solely in the fevered imaginations of tortured, sensitive artists. Her general objective is ‘to teach broodingly soulful young men to embrace life and its infinite mysteries and adventures’. Basically, she is eccentric and dreamlike to the point of ridiculousness, and has no interests beyond rejuvenating the bored, meaningless existence of her designated male. The term was a hit. The character obviously existed long before 2007, but by assigning the character type a snappy title, Rabin increased its visibility in pop culture exponentially. Flash forward seven years and the Manic Pixie Dream Girl has been discussed by the likes of Cameron Crowe, Mindy Kaling and John Green. 500 Days of Summer, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Ruby Sparks and New Girl are just a few of the films and television shows that have been accused of indulging this unfavourable character. Despite the overwhelming success of the term, Rabin is far from feeling pleased with himself. Rather, he is downright regretful to the point that earlier this year, seven years

after the initial article, he published a followup titled ‘I’m sorry for coining the phrase “Manic Pixie Dream Girl”’. According to Rabin, the term has become so popular that it is now overused and – even worse – misused: “In 2014, calling a character a Manic Pixie Dream Girl is nearly as much of a cliché as the Manic Pixie Dream Girl trope.” The problem is that Rabin originally created the term to condemn directors for continually creating one-dimensional female characters whose sole purpose is to help male protagonists along their journey of self-realisation. However, labels can be dangerous and reductive when they are not fully understood by their users. Nowadays, critics are quick to assume that just about any eccentric, offbeat female character is a dreaded Manic Pixie Dream Girl. For example, a list titled ‘16 films featuring Manic Pixie Dream Girls’ included the iconic Annie Hall, to which Rabin responded, “It doesn’t make sense that a character as nuanced and unforgettable as Annie Hall could exist solely to cheer up Alvy Singer… [Woody] Allen based a lot of Annie Hall on Diane Keaton, who, as far as I know, is a real person and not a ridiculous male fantasy.” As I previously mentioned, another popular character wrongly accused of being a Manic Pixie Dream Girl is Summer from 500 Days of Summer. Summer initially displays the whimsical attributes characteristic of a Manic Pixie Dream Girl: she teaches aspiring architect, Tom, to loosen up by simply shouting “PENIS!” in crowded parks and playing make believe in Ikea. However, Marc Webb, director of the film, states that the fact that she and the protagonist, Tom, do not end up happily ever after illustrates the dangers of idealising women as self-help tools. According to Webb, “Summer has elements of the Manic Pixie Dream Girl – she is an immature view of a woman. She’s Tom’s view of a woman. He doesn’t see her complexity and the consequence for him is heartbreak.” Zoe Kazan, the writer and protagonist of Ruby Sparks, concisely demonstrates the misconceptions surrounding the Manic Pixie Dream Girl in an interview with Vulture. When asked whether the film’s titular character was

a Manic Pixie Dream Girl, Kazan answered, “It’s a way of describing female characters that’s reductive and diminutive, and I think basically misogynist… It’s just a way of reducing people’s individuality down to a type, and I think that’s always a bad thing.” Here, Kazan loathes the Manic Pixie Dream Girl for exactly the same reason that Rabin does. Although she may not realise it, she does not dislike the term itself, rather that its prevalence has led to every second female character being torn down as vacuous and simple-minded. The ubiquity of the Manic Pixie Dream Girl and the subsequent confusion surrounding its definition elucidate why Rabin recently apologised for creating such a pervasive literary term. His intention was to call out directors who depict female characters in a sexist manner; somehow this ended up with female characters being prematurely judged for being too simplistic. There are a few lessons that can be learnt from Rabin’s tumultuous experience with the Manic Pixie Dream Girl. Firstly, one-dimensional female characters are obviously ready to be put to rest. Secondly, just because a female character is offbeat, that does not mean she is a Manic Pixie Dream Girl. Lastly, be wary of what you create, as you will probably end up like Rabin – hating it.

Picture by Lauren Wiszniewski

by Julianne de Souza

A GAMBLER’S CONCEIT by Wade McCagh The first time I ever gambled was Saturday 17 October 1999. I had just turned 8. I placed $2 each way on Sky Heights in the Caulfield Cup. I couldn’t tell you exactly why I made that pick. Perhaps it was the fact that the jockey was WA’s Damian Oliver, or perhaps it was the attractive gold and blue checkerboard silks. Maybe I just liked the name. Whatever my logic, I watched as Sky Heights rode what would later be described as ‘the bravest of races’, taking on the field in the straight and hanging on to win by a nose. I donated my winnings to Telethon, which was taking place at the time. An eight year old has no need for their own money, nor do they have a well-developed concept of what money is. But children do understand the concept of risk, and as I watched that tall dark horse gallop down the final stretch and draw level with the leader, seemingly staring it down through the blinkers, there was a moment where time seemed to stop and I had no idea what the outcome would be. That moment, when everything is possible, when victory is within reach but not yet secure and defeat lurks dangerously close by, ready to swoop in and devastate you, is exhilarating. Thus began my relationship with gambling, one that has had its share of exhilarating highs, gut-wrenching lows, and many long hours of philosophical reflection and penitent circumspection about the nature of control, risk, and fate. It may seem implausible to some that someone of my relatively young age could speak on the subject with any authority. But I’ve essentially spent my entire life in the presence of gambling. My parents both play the lottery, and my dad bets on horse racing in a syndicate with my grandmother and my uncle. I spent countless hours as a kid at racetracks, leaning on mounting yard fences and trying to learn if you could pick a winner on sight (you can’t, but you can identify which runner not to back). My first paid job was caddying at my local golf course, where I got to observe all manner of gamblers and wagering as a silent observer carrying the clubs and drinks. A passion for sport quickly exposed me to the glut of bookmakers offering odds on seemingly every event, no matter how

trivial. If Gamblor didn’t have me in his neon claws, he’d certainly towered over me as he shook my hand with the intensity of Mark Latham.

every fibre of your being. They are chasing the euphoria of the long shot victory, the gratification of beating the house, the odds, Fate itself.

I realised from a young age that humans are inherently obsessed with probability and risk. It’s hardwired into every single thing we do, the result of millennia of evolution and the development of survival instincts. We’re constantly calculating the odds, running the numbers, trying to derive an optimum strategy for achieving profitable outcomes and personal utility. Can I park here without getting a ticket? Which degree/career will give me the highest life satisfaction? Is that person flirting with me, or just being friendly? Every action you take is essentially a gamble, albeit with drastically differing probabilities. You take a step forward without looking at the ground all the time because you’re certain the ground will be there and 99.99% of the time, you’re right. But every now and again, you lose that bet and find yourself with your leg stuck between a train and a platform at Stirling Station.

But it goes beyond those fleeting spikes of joy and sorrow. Personally, I find gambling to be a powerfully cathartic experience. There is a certain satisfaction that comes from sitting at the tables, becoming submerged in the arbitrary calculations of the game, the endless hands, the winning, the losing, counting your chips, always looking forward to the next hand, and simply surviving. The longer you endure for, in an environment in which you are at a disadvantage, the more hands you see out and results you accumulate, the greater the purge of inner tension and anxiety you feel about the game that actually matters. Life is full of ambiguity and unknowns, and every decision we make has inherent risks with often unclear outcomes that can accumulate and potentially overwhelm us. Gambling is simply a reproduction of life itself on a much smaller scale, with the addition of some consistency amongst the chaos and more simplified decisions and outcomes. To survive is to win.

Most people outside the world of gambling, and especially those who consider it an incomprehensible vice, make a fundamental error trying to understand what motivates people to spend (or less charitably, waste) considerable sums of money speculating on events and playing games of chance in which the odds are against them. They think it’s about the money. The true gamblers, the ones you can find at the tables in Crown at 10am or at the track on a Wednesday aren’t chasing after money. Most of them have comfortable incomes that allow them to invest the required capital that inevitably trickles away with the hours. What they are chasing is that moment. The thrill of uncertainty that comes when considering whether to hit or stand on 16 against a face card, the tension of watching a tightly contested sporting match and wondering if your team is going to cover the spread or concede that last gasp goal in the final minutes, the visceral joy of watching any race, be it humans, hounds, horses, or hermit crabs and willing your pick forward with

I think that’s why gambling has no real key demographic, and why gambling has such a universal presence in human society. I’m constantly amazed at the diversity of people I find myself in the presence of when gambling. There’s a sort of egalitarianism at the table that unites everyone together, by sharing the same goal and the same odds, and often a sense of comradery breaks out after a while that is endearingly positive. It’s an activity that allows me to start and sustain conversations with people that I would otherwise never engage with, from an elderly Burmese woman who captivated me one afternoon with tales of life under the junta to the myriad of wealthy executives always willing to give insights into their trade and tips on how to break in and make money. I can also swear pretty well in Cantonese now, although nowhere near the level my croupier friends have attained. Make no mistake, gambling is as dangerous and addictive a vice as any. I can’t recommend it to anyone on any more than a casual basis. If you’re uninitiated and/or considering entering

into this reality, I would advise you spend a long period of time in a casino, just walking the gaming floor and watching the tables. Don’t gamble, just watch. You’ll quickly see the reality of how much the house is making and how few people are actually winning, a point best illustrated by watching a mountain of chips literally raked off roulette tables after every roll. You can become easily blinded to this reality once you’ve set your focus on your own fortunes: I once spent a night in a shoddy casino in central London, waiting for the first train to get back to my lodgings, when a gentleman I had been at the tables with several hours before stopped me and demanded to know why I was still there. The tone in his voice was one of disappointment, as if he’d caught me in the act of some great moral failing. I could have asked him the same question. I was significantly ahead at the time, and at least I had the excuse of being a tourist unfamiliar with what time the Underground closed. Australia already has the highest rate of gambling in the world with over 80% of the population engaging in some form of wagering, and an estimated 2% of those people have serious gambling problems. Evidently, most people remain in control of their wagering, and when properly controlled and done in moderation, gambling can be an innocuous pursuit. Feel free to have a flutter on Cup day, or play the lottery if you can afford it, or even occasionally visit the tables and try your luck. The golden rule to always keep in mind is ‘If you can’t afford to lose it, don’t risk it’. Set a clear limit as to how much you’re going to gamble and when you’re going to stop long before you start. But the reinforcement schedule gambling offers can test even the most resolute of wills. Spend too much time in the presence of gamblers and you will begin to see everything in life through the prism of speculation and probability. Perhaps this is best exemplified by the brilliant 17th century polymath, gambler, and godfather of probability theory Blaise Pascal, who remarked while postulating on the existence of God: “Yes; but you must wager. It is not optional. You are embarked.”

WHEN JESUS BITES: THE VIEW FROM BEHIND THE BAR After six years in hospitality I’ve seen some downright horrifying things. After working nightclubs or bars for a while you become so accustomed to drunks stumbling around like uncoordinated fools that you barely notice it. It’s when they do something that you have to clean up that you remember them (and forevermore curse their nameless selves). I’ve seen vomits in cups left on tables, sneakily dribbled in the corner, and many vomit splattered toilets – none of which, thankfully, I had to clean up. That miserable job usually falling to the poor glassies or daytime cleaners. However, when an 18 year old decides to do a round of tequila shots with her friends, but remains staring wide eyed at you, you RUN. It’s like Mount Vesuvius meets the Exorcist and it’s all over your bench (and you, if you’re not quick). It’s not just regurgitation, its tequila and midday burrito having a foam party with a vengeance. There were also official inspectors in the club that particular night, which is a rarity, so whilst tried to call a glassy over to do the dirty work and kept serving, the manager freaked out and yelled at me to clean it up immediately. Fair call. That same manager later asked me to plunge and clean out the blocked men’s bathroom toilet. I’ve done a lot of things, but I don’t think I’ve ever refused a manager so vehemently in my life. That was definitely not in the job description for doorbitch or bar tender. It’s still beyond my comprehension why guys (and girls) decide they need to have a bog in packed out public bathrooms. Having said that, working in Melbourne years later I didn’t even blink when cleaning (what I consider to be) worse. A girl had approached me saying there was blood in the girls bathroom, but I didn’t expect much. Broken glass (an all too frequent occurrence at this particular joint) and high heels are never a good mix. However, on arrival I found no one bleeding, no stubbed toes, but instead the strangest scene in all my time working hospitality: a butt print in blood coating the toilet seat and spreading into the toilet bowl. This was not a drunk girl bleeding, or an awkward “the painters are in” monthly

accident, this was a straight up “What the fuck happened here?!” I called for the head glassy on duty, and he came with cleaning equipment. Being a young male faced with copious amounts of strangely placed blood in a girls bathroom, he automatically panicked, backed up against the wall, and blurted “Did someone give birth?!” It ended with me trying to calm him down, reassuring him there wasn’t a foetus in a handbag somewhere, as I cleaned the toilet with a thick pair of gloves and a whole bottle of disinfectant. I’ve seen people having sex in the toilet cubicles (yes, even if you stop humping I can see two pairs of shoes) and on the dance floor. I’ve seen many pregnant women out dancing. So, really, why not a classy toilet birth to finish up the cycle of life? Toilets and bars aren’t the only place the bar horrors occur. Being a doorbitch and being one of the few bar tenders that actually cuts people off for being blind drunk, you get front row seats to a lot of the bouncer vs. drunkard scuffles. Say what you will of bouncer brutality, and yes occaisonally things get out of hand, but most of the time you are simply glad they’ve got your back. One drunkard I cut off required three bouncers to drag him out, a wooden table being broken in half and a chair smashed in the process. He also managed to shit his pants, so a toilet pitstop had to be made on the way to the back door ejection. What could be a worse end to the night that pooping your pants in the arms of three burly men?

So a note to the foolhardy and alcohol lovers: 1. If you have sex in a club, prepare to do the walk of shame when evicted (especially you girls, because yes, all the people at the front of the line know why you’re getting marched out the door by bouncers). If you’re lucky you’ll also get a slow clap. 2. If you consider the need to hold your spot in line more important than your need to pee, please for the love of god reconsider! Peeing in line is not acceptable no matter how drunk you are. 3. If the mounted police are trying to arrest you, RUN.... because nothing is more entertaining than seeing you get outrun and cornered by big hulking animals. 4. If you vomit in a club and a bartender sees it, also RUN. Their wrath shall follow you for the rest of your miserable partying life - the Princess Bride style lifelong vendetta. 5. And finally, if bouncer, bar tender or door girl tells you it’s time to go, it’s time to go. Arguing with them is neeeeeeeever going to work unless your idea of success is licking the ground. Do yourself the favour.

Getting arrested, possibly. Getting arrested whilst wearing a jesus costume, definitely. Halloween is the night when girls challenge themselves to wear a “costume” with as much underwear as clothing possible. Feast your eyes boys! Males on the other hand, usually wear some pretty funny costumes. When you’re scanning the ID of a guy dressed as Jesus that’s pinging, you have a good laugh with him about how awesome he looks - long hair, thorn crown and all. When six bouncers are later required to get him to the ground, resulting in a broken speaker, table, and a door girl smashed in the face by a computer screen, it’s not so funny anymore. Also, Jesus bites.

Picture by Lauren Wiszniewski

by Elisha Rayner

GOODBYE, ECHOING GREEN

Such, such were the joys when we all, girls and boys, in our youth-time were seen on the eccoing green. Till the little ones weary no more can be merry; the sun does descend, and our sports have an end. Round the laps of their mother many sisters and brothers, like birds in their nest, are ready for rest; and sport no more seen on the darkening green. “So what are you going to do after your degree?” Vague responses to my Arts degree have planted seeds of doubts in my mind, shaking my faith in a lucrative career that I’ve bravely assumed will always be reserved for me. It is not as if there are no jobs opportunities for students seeking professional employment. One only has to participate in UWA’s recent careers week to be introduced to a whole spectrum of companies seeking students in their penultimate year or soon-to-be graduates to fill their vacancies. But what is all these ‘career talk’ supposed to mean anyway? The urge to get a job and make a living is even stronger when one wishes to move out of home and experience life in the real world. But are you able to fathom how a life not as a student will be? Despite having got their education for free, Tony Abbot and Christopher Pyne’s proposed budget cuts is going to impose greater university fees and privatize the HECS system. I am sure no reiteration of their schemes is necessary as you must have heard about this at least a million times. Such brutal defunding for university students does not even comply with the United Nations’ Universal Declaration to Human Rights, which states that “higher education shall be equally accessible to all on the basis of merit.” And not to mention Mr Hockey’s recent appalling propositional cuts to Newstart which forces young graduates to wait at least six months before receiving any funding for income support. Are we all destined to suffer silently and hope that these changes will not be implemented? The success of this unjustified governmental reform will not only disrupt the cohesive social fabric in our society, but also promote our regression into an antediluvian state that marginalizes the young, poor and elderly- strategically stripping

the freedom from the very ones who are not able to fend for themselves. Jean-Jacques Rousseau once asserted the sovereignty of civilians in this dramatic opening line of his seminal work The Social Contract: “Man is born free, but everywhere he is in chains.” Sure, we’ve reached a mutual consensus to compromise our personal freedom in exchange for security enforced by law and order, but where are we supposed draw the line? At conception, we were automatically granted citizenship and unwittingly agreed to the social contract by granting authority to those who legislate the laws which limits our freedom and believe have ensured our well-being. We are then displaced from our natural state of the familial sphere during our very first contact with the external world which takes the form of an institutional regime. Confined within restrictive boundaries of a classroom, success is strictly measured by standardized tests and rigid conformity with the regulations of the institution. This system casts us all into the same mould, trimming our individual qualities and shaping us into the exemplary replica of responsible citizenship deemed acceptable by society, and prepares us for the next chapter in our lives whereby we enter the workforce which involves the successful navigation of interpersonal relations that demands deceit and cunning, further alienating us from our natural state of innocence on “The Echoing Green”. Don’t even get me started on the unnatural procedures of job-hunting that entails the superficial affair of self-promotion during networking and writing of resumes. Such arbitrary processions designated with specific societal meanings is what I fear most especially the meeting of potential employees during a networking event or an interview that necessitates predisposed mirth, forced laughter and insincere smiles. These subtle political acts will inevitably be integrated into our lexicon of social resourcefulness while we watch as outsiders to our selves, shaping every nuance of our body language and responses accordingly to each discursive context with the ‘other.’ Once we’ve mastered this skill of marketing ourselves in the best possible light, society’s thorough corruption of our long-lost

Picture by Tamara Jennings

by Carin Chan

innocence will be complete. Most of us do not ponder upon the ethicality of this rite of passage pursued by the vast majority and unknowingly emerge as a transformed person by the time we reach jaded adulthood. Frankly, I dread this process that restricts even more freedom to be my own self, whenever and wherever I want to be. And yet, we are not getting any younger to establish our professions. Our twenties are a period whereby opportunities cannot be afforded to be wasted. This is the time when we are expected to launch our careers. It is not a time to explore new possibilities that might severely disrupt our chosen career pathways. As I am entering my twenties, there is a certain fear of failure accompanied with the sense that time is not with us as we are no longer in our teens. So I say, just suck it up, and go along with shit. You’ve got to deal with people and be familiar with indecent manipulation in order to succeed, my friends. And never let your guard down, never be vulnerable and let others see have a chance to glimpse your authentic self. Get involved in all the deceit and trickery in this game of life, but never lose sight of the real you. Sadly, that is the only way to go. If you’ve stumbled upon a better strategy, let me know.

FEAR MONGERING IN HEALTH by Eleanor Bruyn Global health has improved enormously during the last century with the help of technological innovation and medical research. Modern medicine has facilitated the treatment, reduction, and eradication of many once highly prevalent diseases. We are now blessed with vaccinations, antibiotics, and a variety of screening technologies. It’s often easy to think that the risk of contracting ‘old world’ communicable diseases like measles, tuberculosis, and pertussis (whooping cough) in Australia is a thing of the past, but this sense of 21st century invincibility has bred an environment of complacency. We are now experiencing the re-emergence of communicable diseases alongside the increasing burden of chronic diseases. This tendency to be unconcerned, particularly regarding vaccinations in children, has sparked the rise of communicable diseases we should’ve seen the end of long ago. Communicable diseases are by definition highly infectious and can spread very easily through the population. Measles is one of the most transmissible infectious diseases in humans and is a major cause of death in children worldwide. This is because there is no treatment for measles, but there is a vaccine and a very effective one at that. Many cities around Australia have recently seen outbreaks of measles and the rise of other easily preventable communicable diseases. The rate of reported measles cases in Perth is also on the rise and it’s credited to a drop in the vaccination of children. It’s as if people have forgotten the importance of having vaccinations and keeping up to date with them. Some parents are also beginning to view vaccinations as a mere courtesy that can be palmed off as someone else’s problem because they don’t see themselves or their children as at risk. This has led the WA Director of the Australian Medical Association to call this failure to vaccinate children “child abuse” and it’s a claim he’s sticking to. “When you make a decision not to vaccinate your own child, you’re not only putting them at risk but you’re putting their play mates at risk,” Mick Gallon warned. He stresses that it puts both

the child and the wider community at risk because communicable diseases are easily transmitted, which is why they are of such concern. Warning and educating the public about health risks is a corner stone of health promotion and often uses fear as a motivator. Health scare campaigns have been used for everything from dental hygiene to smoking and HIV/AIDS. Fear mongering in health was utilised perhaps most notably in the 1980s to mid-1990s during the HIV/AIDS epidemic to prevent further transmission of HIV and create greater awareness. Health ads to prevent HIV regularly used shock tactics and even depicted the virus as a grim reaper. One HIV/AIDS example that’s really stuck with me had the grim reaper killing people by knocking them down with a bowling ball as if they were pins. It also contained crying children, mothers with babies, a pile of dead bodies and sinister fog - this campaign had the works! Whilst it was quite confronting and grisly, it certainly got your attention and conveyed the seriousness of the disease whilst also providing information for prevention and prompts for further support. More recent examples of Australian scare campaigns include the Live Lighter campaign, which targets toxic fat and the rising levels of obesity and chronic disease in society. It shows the build-up of bulging visceral fat that ‘chokes’ internal organs and points to the high consumption levels of sugary drinks and excess calories as the cause. Being overweight or obese is a significant risk factor for a range of chronic diseases like cardiovascular disease, type two diabetes, and cancer, so it’s no surprise that with the way it’s increasing, health professionals are adopting a ‘desperate times call for desperate measures’ mentality. If scare campaigns have been used for almost everything else, should we use them to target low rates of vaccination? The rate of infectious diseases in Australia does need to be reduced but there is still a lot of debate about whether scare campaigns are ethical, effective, or even necessary. Scare campaigns can generate a range of negative or neutral responses in individuals including warning

fatigue where people feel swamped with warnings and no longer care or pay attention to these kinds of messages. They can also lead to people becoming unnecessarily paranoid about developing the negative health outcome like measles because the messaging has had such a strong effect on them. These campaigns may also lead to the stigmatization of the target group as they can ‘other’ them from the rest of society. This is a criticism of campaigns like Live Lighter where people who are overweight may appear to be labelled ‘toxic’ or that it’s ‘all their fault’ that they’re overweight and has nothing to do with the rest of society. Another response, more common in terms of drugs and alcohol is the forbidden fruit effect, whereby banning or restricting certain substances and bombarding young adults with health warnings make the substances more desirable. Whilst some scare campaigns can seem brutal and unfairly shocking, they are very effective in getting an audience’s attention. This allows the risk of certain behaviours to be strongly communicated even if it doesn’t alter a person’s actions and this has been the driving force behind the continued support for these tactics. Health messages need to be communicated in both an effective and persuasive way so that for example, people realise that vaccinations are almost always low risk and that they will protect both the health of children and the wider community. The World Health Organisation cites statistics showing that vaccines annually prevent almost six billion deaths worldwide. Informative and confronting health campaigns are needed to convey the seriousness of rising levels of infectious disease in Australia because they can be easily prevented and their vaccines can be life-saving. The rate at which these communicable diseases as well as chronic diseases like diabetes, cardiovascular disease, and obesity are rising is scary and it would be ridiculous to pretend otherwise. We need to be more concerned about our individual and collective health so that we can improve it and reduce the rates of chronic and communicable disease, even if this concern has to be scared into us.

AUSTRALIANS ABROAD by Tom Rossiter Accounts differ, but there may be as many as 250 Australians serving in ISIS, the Middle Eastern terrorist-groupturned-caliphate. Recent estimates put the number of foreign fighters in ISIS at around 12000, gathered from over 70 countries, meaning Australians make up just two percent of this total. But these numbers will have undoubtedly swelled, as the terrorist group’s declaration of a caliphate (that is, an Islamic state led by the ‘successor’ or caliph to Mohammed) in late June caused a huge influx of foreigners flocking to take part in the jihad.

THESE MEASURES HAVE BEEN MUCH PUBLICISED BY OUR GOVERNMENT, BUT NOT ENTIRELY WITH THE AIM OF IMPROVING NATIONAL SECURITY. Most of these foreigners come from Muslim countries; with Tunisia, Saudi Arabia and Jordan providing around 2500 recruits each. Relatively, the number of western recruits is small: Britain provides the most, with an estimated 400 British citizens involved in the conflict. Australia stands at forth on that list, after Germany and Belgium. The motives of these people seem to fall into three categories. In the early days of

the Syrian uprising and the beginnings of ISIS, foreign-born Muslims and western converts travelled and joined out of a sense of obligation to their fellow Muslims. Once the war began to progress however, ISIS grew and so too did the battles: new members began to show up, motivated by the thrill of battle and sense of brotherhood promised them by ISIS recruiters, or the desire to live in a more Islamic society (The ISIS Twitter feed is the perfect blend of surreal and truly horrifying, incidentally). These disenfranchised masses flock from all over the world to join and engage in one of the bloodiest wars we’ve seen. England recently raised its terror level to ‘severe’ as a direct result of the country’s fears of what their peace-loving citizens might do upon returning home. Australia’s terror threat level has remained steadfast at ‘medium’ but there has been increasing talk of raising it to reflect our own, similar fears. But thus far at least, we remain at ‘medium,’ whilst our government explores possible measures to counter the influx of extremists returning home. These measures have been much publicised by our government, but not entirely with the aim of improving national security. The story has gained much coverage over the past few weeks for two reasons. Firstly, because the idea speaks to basic human fears, to the cold part of us that fears all things foreign, that extremism is a rising tide that will soon reach our shores. The ISIS recruitment video of the two Australians espousing their fierce belief in the ideals of the caliphate has gained much social media traction as a result of this. In the video, two men speak in a mix of Arabic and Australian-accented English. Holding up an Australian passport, the men talk of their passionate belief in the group’s ideals. True ideological passion has always been somewhat alien to the Australian identity, we find it unnerving, the expression of it here ensures the Australian people will never see their countrymen as truly ‘one of us.’

And secondly, because the current government recognises a golden opportunity to divert attention when they see it. After Julie Bishop’s poll bumping success in international statesmanship, the rest of our leadership will have been keeping an eye out for an international incident to begin loudly talking about. It also helps that this issue and policy have incredible synergy with the asylum seeker issue. And Tony Abbott is taking every opportunity to compare the two: in a recent interview with Sydney radio station 2GB he said: “So that is the absolute determination of the Australian government. We will keep our borders secure, not just from illegal boats but from returning jihadis as well.” This comparison will do wonders for the public perception of these events. Until now, the rhetoric that we must keep our borders safe from foreign invaders has seemed somewhat spurious, but with an actual international threat to security, the idea that each new asylum seeker may be an ex-jihadi working with people inside Australia should muddy the political waters enough for the Abbott government to justify their policies before the Australian people. The workings of ISIS are terrifying. The growth and brutality of the group and the spread of extremism through our world has caused shockwaves throughout not only the Middle East, but Europe and Australia as well. The growth of the group has been explained in several different ways: some Muslim scholars believe that the modern power of Western countries and the decline of Middle Eastern countries stems from the lack of a caliphate. Since ISIS has established a caliphate, and seemingly had much military success over the neighbouring regions, is it any wonder that disenfranchised peoples will flock to this beacon of hope in a world where Muslims are increasingly ostracised and defeated?

FERGUSON 2: DOWN UNDER by Dan Werndly

The Ferguson protests shouldn’t have come as a surprise. One look at the structural imbalances in representation in the county should have been enough of a warning sign. While it is easy to brush this news off from our Australian political conscience as yet another case of ‘crazy old America, when will they learn’, it might be a bit harder when we realise we have a very similar death on our own hands. The Ferguson protests were initially spurred by the shooting of Michael Brown, an eighteen year old African American. However, the continued protests bring to the surface some much more deeply seated issues. Everyone saw the images of a mostly white police force using what is widely considered to be excessive force by firing tear gas from armoured vehicles into the crowd, who were mainly black residents of Ferguson. In the Ferguson community, 70% of the residents are African American, yet five of the six city council members are white, as are six of the seven school board members. In the police force, only 3 out of 53 officers are black. Government officials laughably attribute this stark imbalance to African American residents choosing not to vote for positions of authority in their community. The far more obvious conclusion would have been that the African American residents of Ferguson have taken one look at these numbers and understandably developed a lack of faith in their supposed representatives. The US Congress passed a civil rights law in 1957 prohibiting the interference with the right to vote, but in communities such as this the difference between the right to vote and actual practical enfranchisement could not be starker. This means that the social issues at the heart of some of these communities aren’t addressed. Instead of responsive and democratic governance, we see the mixture of curfews and military assaults on protesters that treats citizens as a strange combination of naughty high schoolers and military foes.

While Australian citizens may count themselves lucky that our local police rarely appear bearing assault weapons, our racial divide manifests in a more insidious form. On September 5, Hamid Kehazaei, an asylum seeker who had been kept in mandatory detention on Manus Island, died in a Brisbane hospital. Did we see widespread protests? Did we see front page coverage? No, because this is a form of racism that we can hide offshore. The Abbott government’s treatment of asylum seekers is shrouded in secrecy: detainees are given no voice, journalists are barred from accessing the detention centres, and what limited information that does surface is heavily redacted. Ignoring the problematic implications of this in a supposedly liberal democracy, it is important to remember that more than 90% of these detainees are ultimately found to qualify as legitimate refugees. These are not illegal immigrants, they are Australians-in-waiting. Yet they remain cut off from society and the legal protections and transparency offered to our citizens. Hamid Kehazaei died from septicaemia acquired from a cut in his foot. It is impossible to know for sure what happened, because of the government’s veil of secrecy. However it is equally impossible not to think that, had he been in a humane, onshore facility with adequate hygiene and responsive personnel, he probably would not have died. Septicaemia arises when an infection from a cut enters the bloodstream and causes ‘blood poisoning’. This should have been preventable. With simple hygiene, septicaemia can usually be prevented in the first place and, if not, it can be treated if emergency care is quick and responsive. It is known that Kehazaei had had this cut on his foot for three weeks, and unofficial reports from the Refugee Action Network suggest that the unhygienic camp has been known to experience raw sewage overflows which detainees have to navigate on foot. The same network has claimed that medical treatment from Kehazaei was insufficient and delayed, allowing his health to deteriorate. One

whistle-blower suggests that Manus Island did not even have the facilities available to test for septicaemia, let alone treat it quickly enough, with only two doctors on duty and no specialist care for over 1200 patients. What we do know for sure is that Australia’s current treatment of refugees has been found guilty of over 150 human rights violations by the United Nations Human Rights Committee. Had Australia brought its treatment of asylum seekers up to international standards, this man probably would not have died. This recent death was a result of a structural inequity that stems from systematic racism, but the parallels to Ferguson don’t end there. Earlier this year another asylum seeker, Reza Barati, was killed after being beaten and kicked by detention centre officers during a chaotic and violent riot at a Papua New Guinean detention centre. In a response now eerily reminiscent of Ferguson, unrest at the centre was clamped down on in a violent and disproportionate way. Following the incident asylum seekers in the Christmas Island detention centre went on a hunger strike to protest living conditions, inhumane treatment and the death of their fellow asylum seeker. Seven even stitched their lips together in protest. This is a problem which is equally as violent and deadly as that which faces Ferguson, yet Australians remain calmly uninterested. It is easy to rally behind the Ferguson protests when it’s not your own system of prejudices or your own racial privilege which is being challenged, but can we find the insight to fight these same injustices in our own country? These individuals were in the situation that killed them because our country is too afraid of foreign ‘boat people’ to process refugees in an internationally recognised and humane way, just as the Ferguson police were too afraid of an unarmed African American teenager. It is hard to see the recent deaths Hamid Kehazaei and Reza Berati as products of anything other than the same systematic racism which killed Michael Brown.

FEAR THE CLOUD by Cameron Kang

In a world where data is now religiously collected by governments, businesses, and other organisations, should we fear for our freedom? Is increased knowledge and safety an adequate justification for a pervasive ethos of paternalism, especially among modernday governments? The year is 2013. Christmas is on the horizon. I have just arrived in England as someone accustomed to a more relaxed, placid and tranquil way of life in Australia. Besides the biting cold of a typical British winter, I am taken aback by the amount of CCTV used everywhere. In the train station. On the streets. On the bus. I find the CCTV on the bus to be the most striking. Live camera footage is publicly displayed on a screen near the front, something that I have not seen at home on our beloved Transperth buses. Even though I am not in the nation’s capital or any other potential hotspot for attacks, the threat of terrorism and crime seems imminent here. Earlier this week, the current British Home Secretary, Theresa May, announced that the UK’s terror threat level has been raised from “substantial” to “severe” in response to conflicts in Iraq and Syria. In a country that has faced its fair share of terrorist threats, the prospect of being killed or injured by an attack already inspires fear, even without this new announcement. By instilling fear in the population like this, the government can easily justify paternalistic measures such as tapping phones, increasing camera surveillance, and accruing personal internet data. The fear allows citizens to rationalise the actions of the government, seeing the government’s actions as the only solutions to what seems like an everincreasing terrorist threat.

Tapping our phones, looking at our internet data, and observing our actions in quasi- public areas limits freedom and privacy in a manner which tends to be underestimated in comparison to non-digital violations of privacy. This doesn’t only occur when the government is snooping; just look at the way the media has reported the phone hacking ‘scandal’ in which actresses such as Jennifer Lawrence had their naked selves unwillingly displayed to millions of people. It would be hard to imagine the same ‘she shouldn’t have been naked on her phone’ victim blaming would occur if the violation of privacy had instead occurred with a cameraman snooping through her hotel window. We seem to hold both ourselves and our government to lower moral standard the second we turn digital.

WE SEEM TO HOLD BOTH OURSELVES AND OUR GOVERNMENT TO LOWER MORAL STANDARD THE SECOND WE TURN DIGITAL. A perfect example is CCTV in the UK. Although CCTV has been an effective tool in reducing crime and dealing with the threat of terrorism, the enforcement of the legal framework to protect against its Orwellian misuse is woefully inadequate. Camerawatch, the UK watchdog on CCTV compliance with the Data Protection Act, reveals

this lack of regulation in a set of damning statistics. CameraWatch has indicated that in 2011 over 90% of CCTV systems did not comply with the Data Protection Act, an act intended to ensure that only responsible persons have access to CCTV footage and for companies and governments to respect citizens’ rights with respect to CCTV. Australia may soon be following suit in regards to increased surveillance. Australian legislation allows law enforcement and security agencies with a warrant to compel companies to release any data that they have stored, and specified urgent circumstances can even negate the need for a warrant. However, more worrying is the fact that major businesses are allowed to store so much data. Before the explosion of social media, this data was mainly comprised of details such as phone numbers, addresses and names. It now extends to the digital footprint we leave on sites such as Twitter, Instagram, and especially Facebook. As revealed in the Four Corner’s documentary, ‘Generation Like’, data is now being used to dictate what we like. It shows commercial brands viewing the ‘likes’ we have given to Facebook pages, and using them to create tailored advertising. Currently this data harvesting seems harmless, judging by the amount of sport-related advertisements I see on my Facebook page they’re still far from omniscient. However, unless the regulation of digital privacy starts to be viewed as the serious form of abuse that it is, it may not stay harmless for long. Although university is a time of immense liberty, the students of today are inexorably going to be the adults of tomorrow. Alongside the uncomfortable baggage of student debt and bruised livers, the students of today may well also have an unwelcome package of data travelling with them for all to see.

BUDGET WASTELAND by Simon Donnes

In the wake of what is, at the time of writing, a gridlocked budget trapped in parliament, the Coalition has lost much of the drive that made them seem so dangerous to so many. Now trapped between their rhetoric of a “budget emergency” and their crippling impotence to address it with their tough cuts, the hollowmen propping up “Team Australia” are back-peddling hard. The economy is now not in crisis, says Hockey in the far away land of New Zealand, but there remains an overwhelming sense of unease in the reports coming out of Canberra: something is amiss, even more than before. Between murmurs that the budget ‘could have been even tougher and that Joe Hockey was some sort of “people’s champion” behind the scenes as it was drafted, it is now worth questioning how much of this budget was premeditated. The Liberals had known they were to be up to bat for a while: it didn’t take a team of statisticians to smell the public discontent with the ALP’s internal backbiting and flip-flopping. Backed by the Murdoch media empire, Tony Abbott and co. have probably had a realistic eye on the prize since late 2012, if not earlier. So why did the budget seem so haphazard? The rhetoric of “fair goes”, “fairness” and “tightening belts” is nothing new for a broad-appeal conservative party anywhere. Likewise, continuing age-old tax-breaks for huge multinationals who channel profits offshore while clamping down on the lower-middle and lower classes shouldn’t surprise anyone. Why then did this budget descend into the quagmire of legislative dysfunction from which it seems unable to escape? The true shock that came from this budget was its venomous, ideologue heart that wore the face of a saviour.

With a single document, the mindset of socialist-leaning capitalism, the “plenty for all in the time of wealth” mentality that has differentiated Australia from our cultural idol the United States for so long, was swiftly erased.

WHY THEN DID THIS BUDGET DESCEND INTO THE QUAGMIRE OF LEGISLATIVE DYSFUNCTION FROM WHICH IT SEEMS UNABLE TO ESCAPE? These deaths by a thousand cuts ranged from the GP co-payment slap-in-the-face to effective universal health care to the deregulation of university fees, but what it amounted to was a new vision for Australia. The budget targeted the lowest socialeconomic groups and marginal groups of historically anti-liberal voters while maintaining large corporate writeoffs, half-assed attempts at secondrate infrastructure and some token bone thrown to “families”. It was an ideologue liberal budget through and through, but what surprised us was how brazen the thing was. This was burn and raze – arts grants, the ABC and higher education got slashed while Rio Tinto and BHP profit. Perhaps it shouldn’t have come as such a shock; the liberals have been holding onto an idealized notion of the ‘70s and ‘80s, when it seemed like

all you needed to succeed in life was a strong work ethic and a stiff upper lip to come out ahead. What they have carefully neglected was the biggest ace they had in the hole in their own youths: the Australian welfare state. Whitlam set these guys up for life with free university education and arts grants. It’s easy to see where they got their idea of ease and entitlement from. It is beyond hypocritical that Joe Hockey, once a campaigner against the Fraser government’s reinstatement of higher education fees, is trying to pull the ladder up after himself. This happening in a market where some current graduates are paying for the privilege of internships comprising of fetching coffee and copying memos. The resistance that this kind of budget might attract could have been predicted, but the newly minted Liberal government became overzealous in its criticism of the ALPs incompetence and backed itself into a budget crisis corner. What this has left is a government which can neither follow through with its hard line austerity rhetoric nor back down and appear to repeat the flip-flopping recent history of the ALP. Paralysed, all that is left is an empty rhetoric of “Team Australia” which neither builds for the future nor acknowledges the past. It is these critical failings of perception by our government that make their budget, and ultimately their narrative, nonsensical: there are greater forces at play here than the work ethic of citizens or the ideals of politicians. While there remains a mindset that “Team Australia” must prevail, be it over economic crisis or vague cultural other, the Liberal platform will remain mired in empty rhetoric.

AN APPRAISAL OF SLOW CINEMA by James Munt

Art cinema, among other things, often gets accused of being slow, and it is. Of course this is a generalization (an absurd description of David Lynch or Park Chan-Wook’s more conventional pacing) and art house film is all things considered quite heterogeneous. However, lately I’ve been thinking a lot about the immediately recognisable characteristic that many of my favourite directors share: their slow pacing, even by art house standards. Here I am thinking of among others Tsai Ming-Liang, Béla Tarr, Andrei Tarkovsky, Chantal Akerman, Yasujiro Ozu, and Michelangelo Antonioni. Their films are marked by a minimalism of action, a minimalism of narrative, but always a prescriptive use of the long take. I’m thinking particularly of narrative film, not structural film, although many directors, especially Akerman are clearly influenced by Warhol, Snow and the like. Cultural discussion often centres on slow films as ‘boring’ and perhaps there’s more anti-intellectualism in film on the whole than other media because it’s always been a form of popular entertainment, a fact that also reflects its democratic and communal nature. Although I don’t contend there aren’t wannabe-Tsais making boring slow films, quality is relative to a film’s individual merits and not its pacing. One of the first things you notice as a young person, getting acquainted with art house cinema is less of a reliance on quick takes than that of conventional film practice. It’s easy to understand the established formula of orthodox Hollywood cinema; they serve to convey plot quickly to maintain attention. In recent decades Hollywood has been incorporating faster and faster takes with an average shot length of about 2 seconds for action films these days as contrasted

with say, the 151.4s average of Tarr’s Sátántangó. Gus Van Sant compares the dominant American standard with “sound bites” whilst Tarr and Tsai both suggest the practice is unreflective of the real: “They can follow … the logic of the story, but they don’t follow the logic of life” and “Life is not made up of quick two-minute flashes, so why should movies be that way?” respectively. It’s interesting to note the diametrically opposed form of these films to most contemporary Hollywood films (Alfonso Cuarón makes an interesting exception with his audacious 17 min opening shot to Gravity), and whilst certainly true of some directors, it’s reductive to suggest they’re all ‘anti-Hollywood’ since this ignores the various cultural frameworks influencing these directors and their styles. Although, perhaps the term ‘slow’ implicitly constructs this dichotomy against ‘normal’ paced films, regardless. For example, Ozu - as the most quintessentially Japanese director - takes cues from the more measured dramatic traditions of Kabuki and Noh theatre, whilst Bordwell argues that at least initially Hou Hsiao-Hsien’s style was derived as much from practical, commercial concerns as it was aesthetic; using a long lens needing less camera set-ups and extended long takes, leaving the camera running to capture improvised naturalistic performances, reduced any required retakes. Ozu’s films are all about transition in life and relationships; thus on a micro level it is fitting that his shots often start before anyone enters the frame but with the camera always stationary. Just as the fathers in Tokyo Story or An Autumn Afternoon are left alone by the death of his wife or marrying of his daughter, respectively, so to are we fixed in the room as people come and go. Tarkovsky communicates religious reverence, whilst Tarr often establishes

an existential dissonance between the minimalism of action and Vig Mahaly’s soaring music. The long take allows for both meticulous attention to space, performances and mise-enscène. A sense of visual continuity permits deliberate obscurantism; when Antonioni abstracts figures into architecture in L’Eclisse to convey literal and metaphysical alienation, or when we become flies on the wall in Tsai or Akerman’s films. Thus we begin to perceive the complex relationship between space and the camera. Clearly all directors have nuanced differences, but there is a discernable special quality the form lends all of these films and that is what French philosopher Gilles Deleuze called the “time-image”, depicting time itself as opposed to using it merely as a vehicle for plot. The long take captures real duration, as super-critic André Bazin says, Flaherty could have used montage to signify the duration of time while Nanook waits for the seal but it does not have the same emotional impact as showing the wait in real time; editing fragments not only space but time as well. Whilst fast risks haste, slow sculpts the plasticity of cinematic time, distending it and increasing the awareness of the spectator’s gaze. Thus in Akerman’s feminist masterpiece Jeanne Dielman, when she quietly makes meatloaf and peels potatoes in real time, the representation of the ontological real in the quiet suspense of domestic captivity and anxiety hits at a gut level. Cinema is essentially light and time, and by emphasising and trying to unpack the time element, they show how one can investigate the hidden meaning of events without altering their temporal and spatial unity and in Robert Bresson’s words, “trace the invisible wind by the water it sculpts in passing.”

FILM REVIEWS

Boyhood Director: Richard Linklater Starring: Ellar Coltrane, Patricia Arquette, Ethan Hawke It’s weird; I always have the toughest time reviewing the good films. There are two reasons for this. Reason #1: reviewing bad movies tacitly requires one to point out exactly what makes them bad. Reason #2: a good movie warrants an equally good review; deep down, you want to do it justice. And man oh man, does Boyhood warrant a good review. Richard Linklater’s films are renowned both for their loosely structured narratives

The Reckoning Director: John V. Soto Starring: Jonathan LaPaglia, Luke Hemsworth, Hanna Mangan Lawrence Shot and set here in Perth, The Reckoning is both written and directed by John V. Soto, and while there are a few moments that a sense of purpose is being grasped, these are few and far between, relegating this film to simply

and the director’s own uniquely ambitious streak. Waking Life and A Scanner Darkly were the first feature films created entirely through animated rotoscoping; Dazed and Confused is perhaps the archetypal high school-movie; and the Before... Trilogy (Sunrise, Sunset, and Midnight) followed the development of a relationship over the course of two decades. Set in Texas, Boyhood follows in the same vein; in 2002, Linklater cast seven year old Ellar Coltrane to play Mason, with Patricia Arquette and Ethan Hawke cast in the roles of his divorced parents. Each summer, over the course of twelve years, cast and crew would reunite to write and film the next step in Mason’s life. The final result is astonishing, and something fundamentally real; as the years pass, the characters really do age and gradually evolve before your eyes. It’s one thing for a film to have ambition, but entirely another to actually deliver something substantial; Linklater passes this test with flying colours. Boyhood is marked by hands-off, laidback direction, naturalistic dialogue, and a dry sense of humour. A famous writer once claimed that “Texas is a state of mind,” and this strongly informs

a lazy, uninspired “thriller” of sorts we’ve all seen done more skilfully elsewhere. There is a distinct lack of passion or reason present in the by-the-numbers story, which takes us through the motions of Robbie, a damaged detective who’s made mistakes but is trying to do right by his family (he ticks all the male ‘anti-hero’ boxes; excessive drinking, cheating on his wife, not making time for his children). After his best friend is murdered, he and his partner are on the case to solve a subsequent series of killings, in order to unravel the larger mystery at play. It’s bland stuff. The film beats you over the head with religious symbolism (not to mention the fucking title is The Reckoning), without having anything to profound to say. Again, while there are fleeting moments of a message being conveyed, it may just be an accidental by-product of what is largely an elaborate motivator for our main antagonist to carry out his mission of revenge. This is a weak script, and the

the film’s sensibilities: it’s littered with weird Texasisms, the kind of humour you can only find in King of the Hill or Beavis and Butthead. Although Mason’s life is certainly eventful (taking in his mother’s succession of failed marriages, the perennial absence of his father, and metaphysical reflections on what it all really means), it’s never melodramatic, and that’s the whole point. Life isn’t a collection of enclosed narratives; it’s all one sprawling, continuous moment, perpetually moving forward. This is where Linklater’s ambition succeeds; instead of using makeup and method acting to make his actors seem older or younger, he shows them where they’re really at. It’s wholly unpretentious in its depiction of the natural progression of life. Nods have to go to Patricia Arquette as Mason’s tragically haggard mother Olivia, as well as the chronological soundtrack, which is bound to trigger moments of nostalgia. But the film is carried by Ellar Coltrane. It would not work if he wasn’t as good as he is. Like I said, it’s tough to review the good ones. Ultimately, all I can really say is: go see it. 5/5 Matt Green

amount of plot conveniences at hand is ridiculous, and some of the awful dialogue was delivered in such a way that it was impossible not to chuckle a bit. Perhaps my biggest gripe with The Reckoning was its dull characters. Robbie is again a stockstandard type that current film story-telling is still obsessed with, but his partner Jane is inexcusable. Apparently the two of them are having an affair, however with their complete lack of chemistry and the treatment of her by the man she evidently loves, it all comes across as another lazy effort to add layers to our “hero.” At her best she is an exposition-box and at her worst an offensive cardboard cut-out of a female character existing solely to add to the male’s redemption arc. What’s funny is that Viva Bianca is the top-billed actress on hand here and has absolutely nothing to contribute. What a waste. 1/5 Cameron James

all geared up in their combat boots and their tight vests with the tearaway sleeves? The way they’re all sweating so profusely and grimacing like lunatics, coupled with the unfortunate fact that there’s only one woman cast in this turgid exercise in homoeroticism, ends up making the posters look like a promo for the most gruesome, laboured gangbang in history. The Expendables 3 Director: Patrick Hughes (no, me neither) Starring: the guy from Stop! Or My Mom Will Shoot, Mel “I’m still here” Gibson, Generic Cockney Supporting Character, Harrison Bored, the 71st Governor of Kaaaallyffforrrrnyaaaah, Wesley “I’m also still here” Snipes, Frasier Crane wearing a bucket hat for some reason, Jet Li is gay?!, Randy “Who?” Couture, the Swedish Schwarzenegger, and introducing Bantonio Banteras Yeah, they made three of these movies. No doubt you’ve already caught sight of those ridiculous Transperth bus ads for this waste of celluloid. You know the ones, where the entire cast of the movie are

The whole shtick of the Expendables franchise is that the traditional gamut of hasbeen 80s action heroes make one last buck by ‘ironically’ re-enacting their former roles. This would be great... if any of these people had even the remotest grasp of irony. Take out the inane, vaguely sexual grunting or maniacal, gun-toting screaming and the rest of the dialogue is just ham-fisted one-liners lifted from much better movies. This time they go one further by ditching the original cast to bring in some new blood. Whereas Stallone, Statham, Schwarzenegger et al. are all has-beens, Expendables 3 is the first movie to feature a cast of never-will-bes. These include Ronda Rousey (the only female present), Kellan Lutz, and Victor Ortiz. I swear to God I didn’t make those names up, but I might as well have.

It’s obvious from the start that the directors are visual artists, beginning as it does with a stack of TVs speeding through footage of Cave and world events leading to his 20,000th day; the film is bookmarked with a live performance intercut with grainy footage of similar poses from older videos or gigs.

20,000 Days on Earth Directors: Iain Forsyth & Jane Pollard Starring: Nick Cave Musician, author, and screenwriter Nick Cave’s latest foray into film is a playful blend of documentary and fiction (as many docos are truthfully), following a fictional day in the life of the artist as he reminisces at the archive (memorably deconstructing an image of a German urinating on Birthday Party bassist Tracey Pew onstage), watches Scarface with his kids, and records 2013’s Push The Sky Away.

Like something out of DeLillo’s Cosmopolis or Jarmusch’s Night on Earth, three imagined conversations take place during the film as Cave drives with friends and collaborators Blixa Bargeld, Ray Winstone, and Kylie Minogue in the backseat discussing everything from self-invention to performance and editing. Certainly it provides insight for anyone interested in the creative process, though I’m not entirely sure how some of the more affectatious scenes and monologues would go down with those unfamiliar to the singer. One of the most charming scenes follows Cave at Warren Ellis’s seafront house; the film momentarily turns into the best musicrelated cooking show around as the two share wonderful anecdotes about magical performances by Nina Simone and Jerry

There are a few new old faces, too. Wesley Snipes and Harrison Ford dutifully accept their pay cheques, and Mel Gibson is fairly restrained and menacing as the bad guy. In that he doesn’t say anything overtly racist or anti-Semitic. Antonio Banderas plays a god-damned maniac clearly suffering from PTSD, which would be funny if the movie didn’t include several scenes of him butchering vaguely Central Asian mercenaries. The amount of times this franchise shoehorns in scenes of sombre reflection about the effects of violence, only to then shit the bed by having Schwarzenegger gleefully mow down fifty henchmen, spouting some idiotic catchphrase... SPOILER: Jet Li & Schwarzenegger play a gay couple in this movie. The single redeeming feature of Expendables 3 is the thought of the weird, undeniably brutal sex they must have. Think about it. 0.5/5 Matt Green

Lee Lewis over cooked eel. The film’s primary thematic concern is the transformative power of art, demonstrated in a heavily contrived but nonetheless rewarding interview with British psychoanalyst Darian Leader. Cave discusses the way his father lost himself and forgot who he was in enthusiastic exposition of Lolita. The scene is revealing to a point, but as with the rest of the film, it’s always on Cave’s terms. The medium is the message: the film’s tenuous balance between documentary and fiction, its refusal to identify how much conversations are improvised, and the playful mixture of presumably authentic documents, performances, and artefacts alongside a clearly artificial structure all mirror the conceit of Cave’s own refusal to step out of his mode as it questions the lines of the persona and the real. Rather than try to unpack, it revels in the Cave mythos, but perhaps this is for the best with Cave in the position he shines most: the storyteller. 4/5 James Munt

THE UNFILMABLES: THE TROUBLE WITH ADAPTATIONS by Matt Green Terry Gilliam can generally be relied upon to bring the surreal and sinister to his movies, and his adaptation of Hunter Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is no exception. That said, the film is something of a noble failure. Hit and miss. It’s really more a collection of weird, funny drug trips than a coherent narrative (maybe that’s the point?). Johnny Depp is great as Raoul Duke/Thompson, so much so that he’s been playing him ever since. Its main problem is in its adaptation from gonzo journal/novel to film. Ether binges are all well and good, but most of the novel’s foray into the grotesque underbelly of the American Dream is lost in translation. Gilliam’s Fear and Loathing isn’t the only film based on Thompson’s work; Bill Murray played the good doctor in Where the Buffalo Roam, and Depp reprised his role in 2011’s The Rum Diary. They’re both mediocre. Maybe Thompson is ‘unfilmable,’ or best left on the page. This got me thinking about other novels that are yet to make it to the big screen; or worse yet, the ones that were completely butchered in doing so. First, some ground rules. YA franchises are out. I don’t have anything against your Divergents (meh), or your Hunger Games (Battle Royale, anyone?), or your Maze Runners (is that seriously a thing?). It’s just that these series are often implicitly written with their movie versions already in mind. JK Rowling sold the rights to Harry Potter before she even got halfway through the series; the last couple of books were more or less film scripts, ready-to-shoot, rather than standalone novels. The spate of YA dystopian franchises over the last decade can simply be attributed to their unashamedly cinematic format (not to mention they appeal to the most vulnerable, and lucrative, demographic: spotty teenagers). Teen dystopian flicks aside, unsuccessful adaptations of popular novels fall into a handful of categories. Firstly, the straight-up unfilmables (1): novels that are impossible to adapt (either due to length, complexity, or content). Next up, troubled productions (2): films that bit off more than they could

chew, and sank under their own weight. Throw in the classic disappointments (3), literary staples that simply don’t have film adaptations to match, and the noble failures (4), and you’ve got your hastily-cobbledtogether list. Don Quixote Terry Gilliam has previous experience when it comes to adapting literary classics; he’s reportedly tried to get an adaptation of Cervantes’s epic novel off the ground an astounding twelve times. Its cursed production history has seen attempts to film it postponed for any number of reasons: lack of funding, the sudden illness of his actors (everyone from Depp to Robert Duvall to Ewan McGregor has been attached to the project), the set being destroyed in a flood, you name it. Gilliam has taken these disasters on board, and now hopes to direct a metafictional adaptation based on the doomed production, commenting this year that, “Our main character actually made a Don Quixote movie a lot earlier in his history, and the effect it had on many people wasn’t very nice. Some people go mad, some people turn to drink, some people become whores.” He is definitely not talking about himself. Verdict: Troubled production, with a hint of the unfilmable. The Great Gatsby Disclaimer: I did not like Baz Luhrmann’s showy monstrosity. Not at all. F. Scott Fitzgerald’s 1925 novel, perhaps the defining work of the infamous Lost Generation, is a contender for the ‘Great American Novel,’ a cautionary tale about the decadence and excess of the Roaring Twenties, before it all came crashing down. Which is why last year’s adaptation missed the point entirely: it was all glossy surface, no substance. The sheer amount of Gatsby-themed parties last year was proof enough that people didn’t get it. You can’t have your cake and eat it, Baz. Verdict: a classic disappointment. The Catcher in the Rye J.D. Salinger was sort of like the Alan Moore of novels, in that he fiercely rejected any offers to adapt his book to film. This stemmed from the critical reaction to My Foolish

Heart, a film that took radical liberties from one of Salinger’s short stories, and cemented a deep distrust of Hollywood. From the novel’s release to his death, everyone from Brando to DiCaprio have been touted to play Holden Caulfield. Verdict: a tie between troubled production and classic disappointment. It ain’t gonna happen. Infinite Jest Now we’re getting somewhere. Postmodern literature is notoriously difficult to adapt to film; it’s often too complex and ponderous to squeeze into 90 minutes. That’s not to say people haven’t tried. In 2012 David Cronenberg released an adaptation of Don DeLillo’s Cosmopolis. Paul Thomas Anderson’s Inherent Vice (out later this year) will be the first-ever adap of Thomas Pynchon’s vast catalog. And in 2009 John Krasinski filmed an earnest, albeit slightly crap, version of David Foster Wallace’s Brief Interviews with Hideous Men. But Wallace’s magnum opus, and hipster Bible, Infinite Jest, is a whole different kettle of fish. How do you adapt a novel that’s over a thousand pages long, with 100 pages of endnotes? Answer: you don’t, at least not by cutting it down to two hours. IJ takes place in a vaguely-described dystopian future, shifting perspectives between the students at a tennis academy and the recovering addicts of a halfway house, and features lengthy ruminations on the nature of addiction, the failure of the American Dream, and the competitive world of junior sports. Meanwhile urban legend spreads of a mysterious film so good that viewers are compelled to abandon their lives and watch it until they expire. It’s a pretty weird book. I’d like to say that Infinite Jest is unfilmable, and will remain so. Wallace himself claimed that its plot and setting were intentionally labyrinthine, to prevent its adaptation. However, the film rights are already in the hands of Michael Schur, showrunner of Parks & Recreation (if you look closely, the show is littered with references to the novel). Simply put, it’s far too vast and sprawling in its subject matter to fit in one film. Verdict: HBO?

SLOPPY SECONDS AND BAD REPUTATIONS by Bridget Rumball There are a multitude of things that bands, singers, and artists have to be afraid of during their careers. Out of control bandmates, dictator-like record deals, or hilariously poor album sales are all factors that can change the course of a musical career in a blink of an eye. But, one of the most timeless difficulties that musicians face is the curse of the second album- otherwise known as the dreaded sophomore slump. The myth of the sophomore slump isn’t just perpetuated by critics and the music industry alike to scare flighty bands after an outstanding debut release. It’s a scientifically backed phenomenon, described as occurring in any instance where the second in a series doesn’t amount to the standards of the first. This can apply to siblings (why the second child is always forgotten), films (why sequels almost always suck), athletes, and naturally, albums - when an artist or group, fuelled by the success and accolades from their first record, put less effort into their follow up and completely flunk out. ‘What happened to that promising indie/alt/pop/rock/ metal band?’ critics cry, ‘Their debut was so musically promising/won three Grammys/was a commercial success!’ Most likely, one of three devastating possible outcomes occurred- all of which can attribute the sophomore slump as their genesis. Firstly, outcome number one: a band of high acclaim isn’t able to produce a satisfactory sophomore album, simply because they couldn’t reproduce the selling star power of their first. This is the most common reason that secondary albums are deemed as ‘failures’ - they may still receive critical and commercial acclaim and top the charts, but just not reach the dizzying heights of their predecessor. This was a massive problem for indie rockers Franz Ferdinand. The band’s self-titled debut

was an unprecedented hit, winning the prestigious Mercury Music Prize and being nominated for a Grammy award all within the first year of its release. Fast forward to Franz’ second album You Could Have It So Much Better, and the curse of the sophomore album sets in. The release was positively reviewed by fans and Pitchfork alike, being praised for widening the band’s horizons whilst staying true to their original sound. However, this failed to translate to record sales - compared to Franz Ferdinand, You Could Have.. paled in comparison. As a result of every artist’s fear of producing a second record that critics describe as ‘not being able to live up to their debut’, outcome two arisesreplicating the exact sound that their first album consisted of, and falling short of the mark the second time around. Chord progressions, instrumentals, and lyrics that were originally ‘genredefining’ are recycled by the artist, with the intent of achieving the same (or greater) commercial and critical success as before. This was critics’ main problem with The Strokes’ second album, Room on Fire. Its 2001 predecessor, Is This It, had audiences captivated; the album sold 50,000 copies in its first week and has been touted for the past decade as one of the greatest albums of all time. Due to Is This It’s unprecedented success, The Strokes had only three months to record a follow up. By using the same songwriting formula that exploded previously, it was assumed that the band could once again capitalise within the market they had created for themselves. However, Room on Fire failed to ignitewhilst being commercially successful, critics baptised it as the identical twin to Is This It. There was no reason that the band couldn’t have created a magnificent second album- but due to copying the exact sound of their debut, they proved that the myth of the sophomore slump affects even the most famous of bands.

And finally, outcome number three: second albums that are considered poor, simply because they were ahead of their time or transcended critics/fans of the day. This was the case with Weezer’s second album Pinkerton- regarded by many in 1996 as a complete flop. The release that preceded it was yet another runaway debut, spawning hits with quirky music videos like ‘Buddy Holly’ and ‘Say it Ain’t So’ and hitting triple platinum sales in the US. However, its little brother wasn’t so warmly received, with commercial sales hitting way below average and Rolling Stone pronouncing it the third worst album of the year. 15 years later, and Pinkerton is considered a cult classic album due to the power of the internet and word of mouth. Weezer fans consider the album the band’s best, and it is one of the only albums to date to hold a perfect 100/100 on Metacritic. Even Rolling Stone did a complete backflip and named it the 16th best album of all time in 2010. Talk about a turnaround for a second album that was way before its time. As always, this isn’t to say that all second albums are guaranteed to be slumps. Countless sophomore releases have been commercial and critical successes, often becoming even bigger than the album preceding it. Amy Winehouse’s Back in Black was ten times bigger in every respect than Frank; Radiohead’s The Bends finally established the group after Pablo Honey backfired. Muse’s Origin of Symmetry was the release that catapulted the band into the alternative charts; and of course, if anyone was asked to name a Nirvana album, they would undisputedly name Nevermind over Bleach. But ask any musician or producer and they will swear that the curse of the second album is ever imminent- and that anyone is vulnerable.

30 Picture by Lauren Wiszniewski

FEAR / LOATHING MUSIC REVIEWS Manipulator Ty Segal Drag City Ty Segal is nothing if not prolific, but his 7th studio album in six years shows he’s not compromising on quality, at least musically. The same cannot be said for the originality of his work. Segal has built a reputation in the psychroch fold as honing in on a different faucet of the genre with each entry and moving onto something else for the next. Whereas Reverse Shark Attack was obviously influenced by the shoegaze post-rock revival of my bloody valentine pedigree, Twins was serious Rolling Stones fanboyism only a few decades late to the party. Anachronistic jams are still jams, people. Manipulator is Ty’s most accessible album out, breezy pop-psych. It isn’t quite a poor man’s Lonerism by Tame Impala, but it’s not far off. What it lacks in gusto and harshness of previous Segal releases it mitigates in simple, catchy chord progressions in the ear worm ballpark. There’s certainly enough fuzz to keep purists appeased, but not enough to hide the godawful lyrics. The gaps betwixt releases make me strongly suspect lyrics “Now that I look into your eyes/I realise you’re the same as me/just wanted to be free” these came from necessity. Manipulator’s poppy psych needs hooks and choruses and bridges, no matter how banal. Without making it all a big concept album, Segal seems too prolific a musician to have time for life experiences which give way to good lyrics. 7/10 Simon Donnes

True That Michael Cera Bandcamp Canadian actor Michael Cera is someone you might only know as “that dweeby kid” given Hollywood decided this was his type-cast destiny. But now the perpetual teenager has dropped an album onto his Bandcamp page, with no prior warning. Cera has some musical chops, mind you; aside from showing off his talent on movies like Juno or Scott Pilgrim, he’s also done some touring work with actual artists like Weezer and Mr. Heavenly. Honestly, I had no idea about his background here until I got told to review this album. The reason being is that after listening to True That for the first time, I had to find out an explanation as to why this album is, for some reason, pretty good. True That is very listenable in a ‘hum in the background to low volume while drinking with friends or reading a book’ style. It’s mostly instrumental acoustic guitar and piano, with Cera occasionally throwing in a couple of goofy lyrics now and then for good measure. Each piece is a strange mix, often defying compositional mores. This is alternative, dirty music with a sense of modesty and no real purpose to justify its own existence. It’s a cool experiment, but this leads to its major shortcomings. It runs far too long for its own good, there’s no sense of a singular voice coming through, rather a mish-mash of instruments and unique sounds. Also, some tracks are far more fleshed out than others. In a recent Q&A Cera stated that this was never intended to be a complete album, rather a bunch of different pieces and demos he’s amassed over the years compiled together. Still, it remains an interesting test by Cera, and with a little more thought and conviction, I think he could craft something pretty great. In any case,

I’m now interested in his music career, which is something I didn’t think I was going to say before hearing True That. 8/10 Cameron Moyses The Golden Echo Kimbra Warner Bros I loved Vows - Kimbra’s debut had a fragility to it, the sound of an artist trying to escape the pigeon-holing of being second-fiddle featured on one of the biggest songs of the year. The vocal tremors and stripped-back simplicity of that album made me fall in love with it, listening to ‘The Build Up’ while walking through desolate rainy fields in Sweden. The Golden Echo is a wholly different sort of animal. This is not the work of an up-and-comer: it is the album from a somebody. There is a confidence to the whole album, typified in the lunacy of ‘90s Music’, that shows just how far the New Zealander has come. The fact that Kimbra happily released that track as the lead single shows just how happy she is to take risks, because it is by far the most out-there of the whole collection; it’s also by no means the best. There’s the slick R&B of ‘Goldmine’, the chorus of which is as ridiculously simple as it is infectious; the disco splendour of ‘Miracle’ and the cool alt-pop of ‘Everlovin’ Ya.’ There are some tracks that I could do without, but the level of polish on this record just makes the misses feel like needed breaks between all the hits. My favourite track of all is ‘Carolina’, a big, sunlight-filled ride that encapsulates everything Kimbra’s sophomore record is: a movement from bare to full, serious to silly, from the rain-soaked emptiness of New Zealand to the bright lights and big highways of the USA. And I, for one, am willing to go along for the ride. 8/10 Dennis Venning

I HAVE READ THE NEW DAVE EGGERS BOOK SO THAT YOU DON’T HAVE TO by Kat Gillespie Dave Eggers was the literary poster boy of the early 2000s – literally. University students around the globe (especially those parts of the globe with a high density of liberal arts colleges and white people) adorned their dorm rooms and grad student apartments with actual posters of the guy. Who could blame them? Eggers is a handsome, erudite, and altruistic dude. Google image search his hair, and I dare you not to admire its sheen. No awkward David Foster Wallace bandana, no odd Jonathan Franzen penchant for birds. Eggers is the prodigious, youthful, and above all palatable valedictorian in a graduating class of novel writing weirdos who have come to dominate the past decade.

Eggers rose to prominence with a candid memoir, A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, written about the years he spent tirelessly caring for and raising his younger brother following the unexpected death of their parents. When he dropped out of college and moved to San Francisco to become an ad hoc carer, he also became, in certain circles at least, a kind of megastar. After founding the beloved McSweeneys publishing house (McSweeneys takes the maiden name of Eggers’ late mother), home to hip lit mag the Believer, Eggers also found time to create the nonprofit literacy workshop 826 Valencia. It all makes for a stellar Wikipedia biography, but it pays to hold up and recognize that the shiny, well-meaning, smiling Eggers isn’t infallible. For all his taste, virtue, and cleverness, the guy is just not that interesting of a writer. And we have been rewarding his bland, too-obvious aesthetics for way too long. This essay is prompted by the recent publication of Eggers’ latest novel,

which has a really long title taken from a bible passage that I feel no real need to look up right now. I purchased this book for $29.99, in an uncommon spirit of community mindedness that willed me to support a dying corner bookstore. The cover (a Dave Eggers book should very much be judged by its cover – image is important to him, and probably to you too) is appealing enough. A nice, hyper-2014 typeface tries to cover for the stupidity of the book’s long, pretentious title. There’s a picture of a rocket, for reasons that will become obvious from the novel’s first sentence. The background colour is a nice dentist chair shade of green. Things go unfortunately downhill from here. It was immediately obvious from the first few pages of reading that this was a book written by a good looking, righteous guy who never had to act like he was particularly deep or intelligent in order to get pussy – even though he maybe could have if he’d wanted to. From the outset, the premise of the novel is so fucking dumb that I kept re-reading sentences, convinced that things weren’t as simple as they seemed. It turned out that I really hadn’t missed anything the first time around. Eggers subscribes to the Oprah Winfrey school of novel writing – give away as much as possible, all the time, while grinning maniacally as people lavish praise upon you for your efforts. As a member of his audience, I watched him hurl a set of the world’s most moronic, simplistic allegories at us, while screaming at a high pitch. “YOU get a metaphor! And YOU, and YOU, and YOU! Check under your seats, guys – free metaphors for EVERYONE!” Gee, it was tiring.

Another thing that irritated me about the book was its brevity. The thing was short (I finished it in a couple of bus rides), but nowhere near short enough. I am not going to give away its gimmicky premise – not because I would be spoiling anything, but because it would pain me to type it out – but while it would have been well suited to a quirky short story, it just barely pads out a novel. The whole book was written in size 14 font, and as both a reader and a consumer, I felt pretty ripped off by the whole exercise. Why do we reward people like Dave Eggers? Ultimately, it is insulting to believe that these middle class white men have a whole lot to offer us in what should be the literary age of Zadie Smith. I now feel the need to finally reveal the key theme around which Eggers’ new book revolves – the displacement of young white male American college graduates. Yes, that’s right – this was a novel about some sad little whiny twenty something man trying to make sense of all the myriad opportunities his society is busy trying to present him with. Upon reading the vapid, unfunny prose I was reminded of another literary David who has risen to prominence over the past fifteen years - Sedaris, author of Me Talk Pretty One Day, among other mediocre works. McSweeneys editions (purchased three years late, on sale) should continue to add colour to any bookshelf, and the Believer will continue to be one of the most innovative and fun magazines around (let’s hope). But David, buddy, stick to what you know. Hint: that’s having a stellar Google image search results and spotting the talents of other people.

BOOK REVIEWS Maralinga by Frank Walker Taking the long view all the way from Norfolk Island to Nookanbah, Australian history can seem so littered with grave acts of top-down malfeasance that it feels as if the quilt of our collective past is only held together by the stains. Excavating the sticky past is always an important task if we’re to avoid cocking things up again, so Frank Walker’s exhaustive tract on the Maralinga nuclear tests (and the immense cover-up that followed) is a must-read. Throughout the late 1950s, the British Army was given carte blanche by then PM Bob Menzies to test nuclear weapons in the South Australian outback, and Walker’s account of the aftermath reverberates with horrifying testimony from ignored whistleblowers, soldiers-cum-guineapigs, dispossessed and silenced indigenous people, and hundreds of the maimed and killed. He maintains a relentless, impassive search for the truth amongst the banality of administrative cruelty and the despairing images of military families torn apart by the mushroom clouds they once watched as they picnicked. The devil, as usual, is in the details, be it twenty two stillborn babies with the cause of death left blank, or a doctor telling a schizophrenic ex-serviceman that an atom bomb had never been detonated on Australian soil. Crucially, the passionate fight for justice is painstakingly documented, and the paltry UK and Australian government responses are held to full account. Maralinga is a powerful and chilling example of the Australian expose, right up there with The Power and the Glory and David Marr’s Dark Victory. Best bit: It starts off with about four pages of Bob Menzies bashing Worst bit: The Proper Noun ratio is off the chain 8.5/10 Alex Griffin is moving to New Zealand – nuclear free since ‘84 Battlelines Tony Abbott The Hon. Tony Abbott’s tenure in the highest office in this nation has not been without controversy. With

#libspill trending and the Government struggling to discern the national mood, I wanted to know more about the Member for Warringah beyond his representation in attack ads and our tragic mass media. However, the London-born, NSW Rhodes Scholar who trained to be a Jesuit priest, pays only superficial lip service to his formative years. Positioning himself as a custodian of ideological purity and a courageous ‘advocate for unfashionable truths’, Abbott prefers to write reverentially, and copiously, about John Howard as he ‘attempts to grasp a post-Howard vision for [his] party’ (p.viii). He accurately predicts problems between Rudd and Gillard, but doesn’t offer the same introspective look at the power plays in the Liberal Party after Howard. In the words of Usain Bolt, Battlelines is “a bit shit”. Ultimately, it fails because it’s been written by a current, rather than retired, politician. Despite his weak protestations otherwise, the novel works as a clear job application. As you’d expect, there’s nothing controversial that might jeopardise his future ambitions. Abbott displays an impressive and comprehensive understanding of a broad range of topics, as becomes a Prime Minister, but it is heavy going wading through chapters of policy analysis and recommendations that generate nothing but listlessness. It’s all about as bland as a Perth Glory game. Completely inaccessible to the everyman, Abbott knows his audience, and Liberal or Conservative minded readers will only nod sagely in agreement when he harps on the failings of Labor, or proclaims the brilliance of the Liberals. Written in 2009, before he was leader of the Liberal Party, his autobiography is most fascinating when it delves into “Australia’s biggest political problem”: the federal system. Abbott, who derides the role of State governments, claims that “the federation is broken”, and that reforming Commonwealth-State relations is the next great challenge for a Coalition government. The Commonwealth government is often forced to bribe the States to sign on for its initiatives, yet Abbott accuses the States of taking the money and failing to deliver an outcome. Best bit: Transperth’s 10¢ discount per fare now the Carbon Tax has been repealed. That extra coffee a month will taste like Freedom. Worst bit: It’s got a title like a Michael Bay movie,

and you know how much Pelican likes Michael Bay… Samuel J. Cox is aware that, statistically speaking, you shouldn’t worry about what your first wife’s mother looks like. 2.5/5 This One is Mine by Maria Semple QUESTIONS AND TOPICS FOR DISCUSSIONS 1. Why do you think Violet is drawn to Teddy? Is it because he promises to help her slay the third demon king before the Antioriak prophecy can be fulfilled? 2. How does the novel’s title, ‘This Fun is Brine’, strike fear into the hearts of developing nations middle management in the shipping/receiving industry? 3. In the first chapter, David is angry at Violet for what he perceives to be an illegal people smuggling operation run out of their toolshed on a 3G phone tether. Is his frustration at this inefficiency justified? 4. What does Violet find sad about the smoldering craters around Neo-Jerusalem? What symbolism does the “G-Strip” dive bar hold? 5. What do you think about Sally’s friendship with Harrysam? Why did Harrysam’s parents hate making decisions so much? 6. Mogadishu is referred to as “the city of broken dreams”, what aspect of the myth of the minotaur relates to the characters struggles to survive the gremlin-holocaust? (Hint: Deformed children and culturally mandated shame.) 7. In some ways, Sally seems to want everything Violet has: a peg leg, crippling alcoholism, and a total lack of empathy for ammonia based lifeforms. Do you think Sally a) needs a tune up on her Mark II Ze/Zim/Zer bio-ethics chip? or b) requires internment at a privilege-focused reeducation facility in the jungles of Borneo? Best bit: Chieftans of the third cloud discussing anabolic steroid use. Worst bit: A 60 page diatribe on the merits of venture capitalism 10/10 Simon Donnes wishes book clubs pushed their boundaries a bit more

ARTS REVIEWS

THE SEAGULL BLACK SWAN THEATRE COMPANY By Lauren Wiszniewski Written in 1895 Russia, Anton Chekhov’s The Seagull is threatened by very 19th century staging and costume changes. While the seagull can be considered a transitional work - Chekhov’s themes of modernist desire, lost innocence and melodramatic mothers relevant to all - it relies upon the actors and the script to be effective. Real-life mother-daughter

THUNDER FROM DOWN UNDER LAS VEGAS By Lauren Wiszniewski One can never wash the scent of Las Vegas off their skin, it lingers, creeping into your pores. Pure self-loathing occurring as you wonder, ‘What did I do last night?’. I never thought in my thirteen years of Catholic education that I would see a male strip show, heck I haven’t even seen Magic Mike, but now I’m due for a visit to the confessional

duo Greta Scacchi, as haughty actress Arkadina, and Leila George as her younger love rival Nina, take the stage commanding attention. Scacchi however feels slightly limited by her role, with the elaborate period dress supposedly choking her ability to bring Chekhov’s work alive. Her best interactions are with her on stage son Luke McMahon who plays Konstantin, a young playwright determined to produce ‘new forms’. Arkadina’s cruel treatment of her son shows a darker persona then her normal actress personality, hinting at deep familial damage. McMahon does well as a young flirt deeply in love with Nina, but struggles later in the play when forced to handle darker material. A man driven wild by his failure must be believable, with the character becoming more brash, less immobilised by his own fear. A highlight was Rebecca Davis’ casting as Masha, who is able to capture Chekhov’s ever changing moods and the quick transitions from comedy to tragedy. Ben Mortely who plays Arkadina and Nina’s box. In the city of sin, I went to Thunder from Down Under. Attending in a group of females for a ‘girl’s night out’ we experienced a titillating time that left us on the edge of our seats. Firemen? Check. Crotch grabbing? Check. Audience members demonstrating their ability to fake orgasms? Check. The audience, predominately female, lapped it up, revelling in the six packs that danced across the stage. The show was surprisingly age-appropriate with no fullon nudity, making it the perfect show for grandma, with some hen’s parties actually having an elderly member in their group. Thunder from Down Under isn’t meant to be seedy. With a $50 entry it’s on the classier side of stripper joints. Encapsulating on the tongue in cheek fun that Australia is supposedly known for, it is the PG rated version of naughty. Yet as someone who attempts not to objectify others, regardless of gender, I felt uncomfortable. These sizzling chunks of masculinity were not seen as people

lover comes close to rivalling Davis’ talent with a charming persona that calms but also disturbs. The heart of the play lays in its simplicity, with director Kate Cherry’s decision to stage the play in a traditional way a good one. Those who transport the play to a modernist or contemporary setting tend to lose the Russian mannerisms and language that are it’s very soul. A photo shopped lake scene in the background compliment this, placing the play in the great outdoors. The changing scene from day to night creating soft shadows of light that creates a tranquil setting. The fact that such ugly things happen in such a beautiful place is a comment on humanity itself, with the carless actions of the characters resulting in disastrous consequences. The Seagull reminds us that our actions have reactions that have the ability to change to our lives forever, for better or for worse. A worthwhile production that, while not a masterpiece, will keep you on the edge of your seat. by the audience but as physical objects. While my thoughts strayed upon things such as, “How much time do they spend at the gym?” and “People with muscles scare me, it shows they like exercise,” others were thinking, “YUM” and “get me a piece of that.” Perhaps it is time for some gender reversal, especially in a town where female casino workers are made to wear next to nothing. Yet is also possible that such an exercise does more harm than good. These men know what they’re doinglong, slow-motion clips show them in outback America using their abs like a washboard, trickling water down their bodies suggestively. Even the gift shop next door features a calendar, each month with a different man gazing softly into the camera. These men practice extreme choreography sets, bending their bodies into various positions. While not in perfect unison they could still be considered as athletes. All in all I don’t really know what to make of it, I’m just glad that six jello shots were only five dollars.

LOOK AT HER BUTT by Lucy Ballantyne The scene opens on the sun shining through the trees in a rainforest. We listen to the gentle twinkling of bird songs as the camera pans down to reveal the thatched roof of a tiki hut. In front of it, four glossy, toned women form a shrine. In the centre stands a figure reminiscent of an Amazonian goddess, holding court and dressed in gold. Without warning, the scene changes, and we hear an unmistakable sound. Flatulence; whoopee cushion proportions. It’s a Tuesday night, and my friend’s boyfriend thinks the fart remix of ‘Anaconda’ is hysterical. As far as pop culture provocateurs go, Nicki Minaj is doing an exceptional job. Everyone’s got an opinion about the ‘Anaconda’ video, whether it be a love of the classic fart gag, or wondering what you did in your life thus far to end up watching fart remixes of popular songs of an evening. The most important thing that’s been said about ‘Anaconda’, however, fell from the lips of our beloved Politics Ed: “’Anaconda’ might just be my favourite feminist text of the year.” Minaj is killing it re. her feminist credentials. The sample of Sir-MixA-Lot’s ‘Baby Got Back’ takes a song that objectifies black women, and appropriates it to the ends of black female sexual agency. The verses roughly translate to something like ‘I slap them with my boobs, make them cum, then get their money’, which is my dream aesthetic. In the video’s most delightful sequence, Nicki takes to destroying the phallic symbols that surround her. If wearing a French Maid costume, tearing a banana in half and smirking at the camera isn’t feminism, then I don’t know what is.

The butt, however, is the most crucial factor. The ‘booty’ as a concept has its roots in antebellum slave society – African-American slaves identified with flesh because their personhood was stripped. Food was scarce, so abundant flesh became a sign of resistance. In more recent years, with thanks to figures like Queen Bey and southern hip hop culture, the booty has become central to articulations of black femininity and sexuality in popular music video. Nicki is a powerful black female subject and is taking back what’s rightfully hers, using the historically grounded terms available to her. Non-white pop icons face obscene amounts of surveillance in relation to their butts. Amber Rose, Jennifer Lopez, and Kim Kardashian copped the same, kind of mildly amusing, flak because of their bodacious behinds. You’d no doubt have seen at least one example of accusations against these women of butt implants and all manner of enhancement to achieve the little middle/much back look. White beauty standards are so pervasive, that the appearance of non-white bodies is often dismissed as either non-existent, or even impossible. ‘Anaconda’ isn’t necessarily about empowering all women and all bodies. Minaj refers to a very specific body type – one that is both racialised, and constantly erased. And in the ‘Anaconda’ video, Minaj makes it very clear: the booty is here to stay. This is why it such an affront to hear criticism of ‘Anaconda’, the song and the video, for its insults against thin bodies. ‘Anaconda’ the video emerged at the same time as another music vid posited as a ‘body positivity anthem’ (see: Meghan Trainor’s pastel ditty ‘All About That Bass’). Aside from their obvious

differences, both songs and videos have faced criticism because of their references to ‘skinny bitches’ (Minaj’s, admittedly, is more pejorative, but also more comical, than Trainor’s). The world over, women who enjoy the privileges that come with their thin, white bodies, are whining about being made fun of in song. Sounds like something a skinny bitch would say, to be honest.

… IN THE ‘ANACONDA’ VIDEO, MINAJ MAKES IT VERY CLEAR: THE BOOTY IS HERE TO STAY. The effect of Nicki Minaj screaming ‘fuck them skinny bitches’ at the end of her video is simply not even close to the dehumanization black and fat bodies endure. There’s a chasm between ten seconds of insult because a popstar called you a bitch, and the experience of living in a society engineered against you. I don’t have a problem with Nicki Minaj, as a person who’s body has been disciplined and surveilled in the extreme, using a term like ‘skinny bitch’ to make up a bit of ground, and take back a little power. As one friend put it, if you don’t like it, go to any newsstand and use any one of the pages from skinnyabundant magazines to dry your tears. Or just watch the fart remix – apparently it never gets old.

DON’T TRUST THE CLOUD by Mitchell Valentine As of writing this, it has been three days since ‘the event’, a maelstrom of photo leaks, bitcoin transfers, and incessant reddit posts about where to find the photos the sharers supposedly find so reprehensibly unethical. It’s sparked a lot of conversation about the nature of privacy and consent in a modern age, but it seems to be that most of the people discussing what’s happened have missed the whole goddamn point. At some stage, this leak has gone from a security failure into a topic for interesting but utterly meaningless conversation. This is not a matter of why photos of Marley-fromGlee’s fun night in a hotel got released, and it’s not about the shame we should apparently feel viewing these images; this is technological failure intersecting with corporate hoarding obsession. Let’s get one thing straight: The leak of these photos is bad and a horribly dick move. Consent is a crucial factor in what we should and should not view/ download/frantically search for in the hopes it lives up to our expectations, and attempting to profit off a breach of consent is NSA/Facebook levels of unsettling (at least pirating music doesn’t fuel the black market, right?). This leak, as horribly immoral as it may be, is hardly a matter of the boundaries of one’s ability to give and refuse consent. Whoever leaked these images didn’t give a damn about consent, and this is what everyone seems to be overlooking. Yes, consent is big, but how we implement the insurance of consent is an even bigger issue. This leak is a demonstration of technology’s failure to adequately meet the needs of the people using it, and that is where my concern lies. This, in theory, isn’t just the breach and spreading of the candid photos from celebrities’ accounts, it’s

a breach into your account, everyone’s account from that service: The iCloud. This is less about the moral duty of the 99.999% of us who either don’t know or won’t bother to gain access to another person’s account, it’s about the fact someone did it rather bloody well. The burden of responsibility has been shoved on you, the possible (or, more honestly, previous) viewers of the leaked photos, while the leaker has become a scapegoat for immoral distribution and invasion of privacy, but nothing has been brought up about the providers of these services. How did this guy manage to bypass the security of all these accounts and access these photos? What control do we have over these images once they’re in the cloud? Why should the burden of responsibility regarding the private storage of photos fall onto you? As much as I’m willing to admit that hackers always find a way, this doesn’t somehow give the services we use a free pass when they mess up. There have been plenty of scandals in the past where data has been stored or images saved after ‘being deleted from the servers’ (a la Snapchat, most notoriously), and the service providers have always evaded responsibility because of the inherent risks when using their online services. The thing is, these are meant to be secure services, especially when considering how readily images sync from iPhone to the iCloud. Private images can and are being sent into iCloud, whether it’s on purpose or not, and the fact that iCloud is not secure enough to protect against some random hacker with a bit of free time and an agenda is a bit more than nerve-wracking. Yet, time and time again, we are reminded to never upload risqué or confidential files to the cloud,

lest we unleash the rage of the Cloud overlords. It’s 2014 and we’re not allowed to upload private files to the cloud because amateur-coding enthusiasts could access them? What the actual hell. If you want me to use this service in the first place, you’re going to need to get your shit together, because I don’t want to feel as though whatever upload is vulnerable to being copied, viewed, or perhaps deleted without my knowledge. I trust a bank to protect my money because they actually can, so why do we not uphold the same standard of protecting our assets when it comes to technological services? The entire debacle screams of misinterpretation and opportunistic opinion shoving (I’m aware of the irony), but very little blame has been placed upon the caretakers of the images. The company hosting those images allowing these acts to be committed deserves all the scorn it gets. I’m sure Kirsten Dunst would agree.

THE “QUINNSPIRACY” by Cameron Moyses As someone who watches the gaming industry closely, it’s difficult to explain to laymen that the state of “gamer culture” is always in a neverending series of shitstorms, and this latest shitstorm is special. I think it’s in some ways important for people to be at least a little informed, especially those with just a meddling interest in videogames. In this age of communication, playing ignorant while this level of harassment continues within medium you enjoy cannot be considered an excuse. Game journalism is unlike any other forms of artistic critique. There isn’t a lot of diversity amongst opinions. Some games may be rated slightly higher or lower across different publications, but the vast majority of attitudes are totally unanimous. This is due to the fact that, well, basically all game journalists are all the exact same person: mostly white men in their late twenties from very affluent backgrounds, which afforded them the luxury of pursuing their childhood interest in games. Likewise, the audience that consumes videogames and discusses the current events in videogames are largely from the exact same group. Criticism against game journalists is an extremely rare occurrence. Zoe Quinn is an indie game developer who produced a game called Depression Quest: A ‘choose your own adventure’-style game where users play as a person suffering from depression. Quinn definitely stirred up some interest – the game launched the same day as Robin Williams’ suicide – and is certainly a unique and interesting premise. Rumours recently came to light that she had sex with

multiple journalists from different publications, which may or may not have resulted in her obtaining higher praise from some game journalists. This was ‘investigated’ by users of social sites like 4chan and Reddit, who used their l33t haxxor skills to steal private information from different parties, in order to ‘prove’ that different websites may or may not be having a conflict of interest in regards to the videogames they decide to promote. This has led to an endless barrage of hate being thrown towards some, largely female, journalists, and has resulted in rape threats, death threats, public broadcast of private information, and general harassment. The gist is that many readers are upset, and believe that this level of hatred is well-deserved for the writers lack of journalistic integrity; as maintaining relationships between devs and writers is ‘clearly’ a conflict of interest. The Quinnspiracy – or #gamergate - also indicates towards the more serious problem at hand of women in the game industry not getting the level of respect they deserve. Gender-biased harassment has a long and unpleasant history in the gaming industry. As a result of being dominated by the affluent white man, female game developers like Zoe Quinn are often open to more intense scrutiny, to put it lightly. Critics have used allegations of journalistic bias and media manipulation to open up a space for harrassment that is still firmly gendered. The nature of the harassment of Quinn is reminiscent of that of Anita Sarkeesian, creator of web series Feminist Frequency, who faced social media backlash and sexual harassment that is most aptly

described simply as ‘gross’. It’s pretty ugly. The Quinnspiracy, however, as it has played out on social media, has mainly centred around accusations of manipulation and bias in videogame journalism. Videogames are entirely written about by people who devote a large portion of their lives to the medium. The fact of the matter is that journalists and indie devs share social circles, considering they’re all roughly similar ages, live relatively close by each other, and often work together. Is it bias for a developer to buy a journalist a drink? Is it considered favouritism if a journalist chooses to donate to a fledging developer in order for them to make their dream a reality? Complete objectivity is impossible in this medium, and quite frankly, I’m not sure that it’s entirely necessary. Most of this anger is borne not through Quinn and her activities, but rather, a sense of frustration through publications seemingly “pushing” their agenda onto their readership. Gamers don’t like discussing issues of sexism and racism within a game, as it apparently has nothing to do with the graphics or how something plays. The Zoe Quinn scandal was the straw that broke the camel’s back, and frankly I’m glad gamer culture gets to clean out underneath the carpet and destroy the vocal minority that’s pulling it back from becoming a respected medium.

CULTURE REVIEWS myself and the drivers seem happy to be ferrying a new market of customers around the city.

Uber (App) by Samuel Montgomery I catch a lot of taxis. I don’t have my license and work late in Northbridge so unless I ride my bike to work, the only option home is a taxi. When I heard that Uber was launching in Perth, I was really excited to check it out. Since (officially) launching their ‘Black Car’ service last month, I’ve caught a few plush rides home

Please Like Me: Season Two (TV) by Lucy Ballantyne For the protagonist of a show with a title that implores you to be easy on him, Josh Thomas is incredibly divisive. Half of Australia seems enamoured with his strange affected accent, his love of baking, his dog, and his dry humour. The other half thinks he’s the punch line of a joke. Everyone’s wrong: he’s a bit of both. The first season of Please Like Me was pretty adorable – watching Josh fumble through new relationships and navigate

The app is fantastic. You simply sign in, request a ride (with an estimate in minutes of how far away one is) and away you go. When you’ve been assigned a car you’re given the driver’s name and picture, the make and license number of the vehicle, and an option to call your driver. When my car (promptly) arrived, the driver popped out and opened the door for me, handed me a bottle of cold water and asked me how my day was. It was such a refreshing change from the stereotypically grumpy late-night taxi driver that I am so used to. That first weekend I caught three Uber cars, and I was sold. I’ve been chauffeured around in some plush cars, with one a Mercedes driven by a talkative Frenchman, another a BMW 5-series. his own sexual inexperience and the shortcomings of his family members was relatable and cute. In the show’s darker moments, Josh would struggle to cope and this came through in a quiet, melancholic way. His limitations in helping his family and himself were painted as an endearing part of his youthfulness and naivety. In this new season, Josh’s apathies and weaknesses are taken to another level. Where I used to watch and relate, now I wonder when he’s going to get his shit together. His lack of empathy hits autistic levels. Maybe I changed; or maybe he just didn’t. The overarching narrative arc for the season is obviously Josh’s slowburning romance with his housemate, Patrick (Charles Cottier). Whilst Josh moves through different relationships, Jeffrey even popping up again at one stage, the writers’ show not even an itch of subtlety in painting a picture of burgeoning romance between the two. This would be sweet, if it weren’t for the fact that the pair has absolutely

The only downside is that it was more expensive than a regular taxi; Northbridge to my house is about $32, and $47 in an Uber car, although Uber don’t charge a ridiculous 10% plus GST for paying by card. I don’t think $15 extra is prohibitively expensive, especially considering I’ve once waited just under 2 hours for a pre-ordered taxi to arrive at my home. There has been some serious backlash aimed at Uber from the taxi industry, which has a government-regulated monopoly on late-night transport, but the state government seems open to partial deregulation of the industry, and competition with higher standards of service is extremely welcome. Uber operates on the same principle as the Selections menu at McDonalds; it’s a taxi, but a little bit fancy. zero on-screen chemistry. My whole lounge room collectively cringed when they kissed for the first time, and I wondered how they could get this casting so wrong when Geoffrey (Wade Briggs) was so right. It looks like Season Two’s saving grace will be Josh’s mum, played by Debra Lawrance. She befriends Ginger – the gloriously tacky and fabulous Australian Entertainment Icon Denise Drysdale – and quickly gets herself wrapped up in the microcosm of relationships and politics of the hospice. Watching Josh negotiate his Groovy Young Person Lifestyle and his clearly very unwell mother is interesting, but not nearly as interesting as watching mum interact with her friends in the home. Hannah Gadsby is a sweet and grounding addition to the cast, and it is the round tables with the oddball characters in the home that keep me coming back. More of this, and you might just win them over, Josh.

Do you have a passion for print and online media? Do you want to make a positive impact on campus? Then you should apply to edit Pelican Magazine! Pelican editors are appointed by the Guild and tasked with putting out eight editions over the course of the academic year. Candidates must have been Guild members for the last two years (or as long as they’ve been at UWA) and not have run in Guild Elections over the same period of time. Pelican can be edited solo or as a duo; if applying as the later, you’ll need to demonstrate how you’ll divide up the workload and handle differences. An application should demonstrate: • A strong vision for the design, content, and feel of the magazine • Ways to attract new contributors and keep existing contributors motivated and inspired • How different viewpoints would be sought and represented • Ideas on how to get students to pick up and read Pelican, and how to encourage involvement with the magazine • A vision for how you will create a final product that best reflects the talent of UWA • Time management and deadline planning • Creative flair and a desire to innovate • Experience in writing, editing, co-ordinating and art direction Important things to consider when applying: • How will you get students to pick up, enjoy, relate to, and get involved with the magazine? • How you can ensure Pelican actively represents, showcases, and develops the talents of the UWA student body? • How will you uphold the tradition of Pelican, dating back to 1929? • How will you maintain a politically unbiased approach to issues on and off campus? • How will you create an intelligent, positive magazine that demonstrates the best of what UWA can be? Your application must consist of: • A CV including references - due Friday 31st October 12pm • A physical portfolio outlining in detail your vision for the magazine for 2015, as well as physical design mock-ups - due Friday 7th November, 12pm How to submit: CV: e-Mail to creative@guild.uwa.edu.au Portfolio: submit to Alex Pond and/or Kate Hoolahan in the Design, Marketing & Events Office, located in the South Wing of the Guild (the Guild Student Centre can provided directions if needed). If you have any questions about the position or would like more information, please contact creative@guild.uwa. edu.au or stop by Design, Marketing & Events Office.

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WHERE’S WHERE’S PELLY PELLY

Picture by Camden Watts

Have you considered a UWA postgraduate scholarship?

Hugo Breakey Master of Professional Engineering student and Clough Scholars Program Scholarship recipient

Thinking about further study after finishing your degree? Then think about applying for one of our many Postgraduate Coursework Scholarships. UWA offers a range of scholarships designed to help you undertake further studies, make the most of your degree and greatly increase your career prospects. For Hugo Breakey, the Clough Scholarship offered employment opportunities and was easy to apply for; “One of the most significant aspects of the Clough Scholarship is the possibility of being offered a graduate position – this eased the pressure to find vacation employment and allowed me to focus on my studies. I’d recommend all students apply because there’s more than likely a scholarship to suit each individual’s strengths.” The Clough Scholars Program is funded by Clough Limited to encourage and support high achieving students to commence a Master of Professional Engineering Degree. Applications for Postgraduate Coursework Scholarships commencing in 2015 close 30th October 2014. For further information and assistance, call us on 6488 2807 or visit scholarships.uwa.edu.au CRICOS Provider Code 00126G BRAND UWAM0198