Word-whore. I write 'em. I talk 'em. Information, politics, media, and the cybers. I drink. I use bad words. All publication is a political act. All communication is propaganda. All art is pornography. All business is personal. All hail Eris! Vive les poissons rouges sauvages!
Rhys McDonald, who comments here and lives in our village a long way from our village up the coast somewhere, is apparently too shy to pimp his rather amusing cartoon of this week’s poster boy for post-natal abortion. Enjoy.
Actually, it’ll be interesting to see what sort of satire is generated by this boy. Do tell me if you see anything.
[Update 21 January 2008: For some reason I thought Rhys was a local. I was wrong.]
The Corey Worthington Delaney story symbolises everything that’s bad about our mainstream media.
They simplify everything into a simple binary questions of good versus bad. They give this attention-seeking waste of carbon atoms exactly what he wants: the oxygen of media attention. And they get basic facts wrong just to make a catchy headline.
OK, I’m giving him oxygen too. And I’ll be honest, I’m revelling in the glory of such a moron becoming Australia’s new global representative. But here’s what I don’t like about it.
First, Corey doesn’t face a $20,000 bill. That’s just a number being kicked around indicating the cost of the police operation to shut down his elegant soirée.
I’m pretty sure I know why my story about “protecting kids on the Internet” was bumped from Crikey today. How can I possibly compete with a newsmaker like Corey Worthington Delaney (pictured)? And how can I possibly compete with Crikey‘s comprehensive coverage of this new Australian success story?
It’s not so much about protecting kids from the Internet, but protecting the Internet (and us!) from Corey.
Any promoter would be pleased with a turnout of 500 for a simple house party with no outlays, just an invite sent out on MySpace. But then a helicopter arrived on the scene, some police cars got damaged, Mr and Mrs Delaney found out, the neighbours were p-ssed off and the Police Commissioner called a press conference.
It looked like Corey was set to be devoured by a salivating news pack. The sixteen-year-old came with shades, a naked friend running down the street, a pink doona doubling as sarong, and the quote “I can’t remember. I was just off my head”.
Crikey lists much of the good media coverage — including a talkback caller who somehow managed to blame John Howard. For me, though, the highlights are The 7.30 Report‘s serious piece (including child psychologist and police youth worker), and A Current Affair‘s Leila McKinnon doing the extended interview (where they get his name wrong).
The irony is, today the Victorian claim their tougher new powers to target rowdy behaviour around Melbourne nightspots have been a great success.
[Update 16 January 2005: I’ve changed Corey’s surname from “Delaney” to “Worthington”. Apparently Delaney is his parents’ surname but not his. Or something.]
Despite having written a lengthy serious essay today, I know that regular readers will be thrilled to hear that both pairs of used knickers are now in my possession!
If you’ve only just joined us, I wondered aloud why we’re afraid of wearing someone else’s underwear. And the conversation has continued as a pair of used knickers made its way down the laneway and into a corner.
Well, I have the abandoned women’s knickers, and Quatrefoil has sent me the freshly-washed men’s underpants which she found in her possession. I guess I’ll have to figure out which to wear first now, eh?
This is blog post number 801. It’s time for something special. Time for an extended essay encapsulating several trains of thought which I’ve been following for some time.
We are the 801,
We are the central shaft
And thus throughout two years
We’ve crossed the ocean in our little craft (Row! Row! Row!)
Now we’re on the telephone,
Making final arrangements (Ding! Ding!)
We are the 801, we are the central shaft
So sang Brian Eno in the song The True Wheel from his 1974 album Taking Tiger Mountain (By Strategy).
Eno says he wrote the lyrics while visiting New York:
I went to stay with this girl called Randi and fell asleep after taking some mescaline and had this dream where this group of girls were singing to this group of sailors who had just come into port. And they were singing ‘We are The 801 / We are the Central Shaft’ — and I woke up absolutely jubilant because this was the first bit of lyric I’d written in this new style.
Yes, apparently in the 1970s a musician wrote a song while under the influence of hallucinogens. Who’d have thought.
Society generally frowns upon people who make important decisions while under the influence. (By an odd coincidence, Hugh MacLeod posted some vaguely-related thoughts only yesterday, in dying young is overrated, revisited.) However the more I look, the more I worry that we’re governed as if our societies were hallucinating. And even worse, it’s as if they’ve forgotten how to remember the lessons of the past.
I’m worried that we’re governed by Hallucinating Goldfish.
Continue reading “Post 801: Kill the Hallucinating Goldfish”
For some reason, the purple knickers (which I wrote about last month and the other day) are now wedged in the side of a garage door.