Random Swill

Abercrombie & Bitch*

You have to love media / entertainment / corporate types — ok, anyone who makes an outrageous public statement or is quoted in an interview and then, faced with a blast furnace of (justified) public outrage, bleats “I was taken out of context”.

An uncool A&F customer searches for an apology (and a shirt)

The current Abercrombie and Fitch imbroglio (as opposed to Imbruglia, Natalie — the Australian singer) is quite hilarious. The company’s CEO Mike Jeffries is facing a firestorm (again) for his mind-neuteringly odd comments that his clothing brand is “absolutely exclusionary” and he doesn’t want fat and “not so cool kids” wearing them.

Jeffries made those comments in 2006, but they have come back to bite him on the arse (presumably clad in one of his “prep fit shorts”). He issued a statement this week, saying he believes the quote was “taken out of context”. Then this — “I sincerely regret that my choice of words was interpreted in a manner that has caused offense.” So it’s the interpretation that’s the problem?

I’ve only been in an Abercrombie and Fitch store once. It was a new store in Singapore and for days leading up to the opening, ridiculously ripped shirtless guys, with eyebrows manicured by a topiarist, were (presumably) paid to stand out the front. They didn’t look overly fat and they definitely weren’t “not so cool” given Singapore’s humidity. This parade of pecs was possibly a ploy to keep people like me out, but ignoring that, I braved the beefcake, ran the gauntlet of gleaming white teeth and entered. I’m not sure whether Jeffries had been tardy paying his power bill, but It was so dark in there I couldn’t see a thing — let alone clothes. I needed one of of the mann-equins to come in and smile. So I “exclused” myself and left.

Maybe they should release a range of designer miner’s hats so at least you can see what they’re selling and Jeffries may also be able to see his head that’s so far up his…*

*taken out of context

©Steve Williams 2013

My First Rifle? Another WTF About Guns

So. Where do you start with the total WTF-ness of the tragic story of how a five year boy shot his sister with his own rifle. Yep, his own rifle — a gun aimed at (pun intended) kids.

Iver gun – and know how to use it. An ad from 1904.

You have to feel for the family, but what sort of parent buys their five year old a gun that shoots anything more deadly than a foam Nerf-style pellet or water? What sort of company makes these guns?

That one’s easy — Keystone Sporting Arms — who manufacture a range of Crickett rifles and pistols for adults and rifles for kids. “My First Rifle” is conveniently available in a choice of blue or pink. Lovely. Can’t wait for the Hello Kitty or One Direction models.

I’m sure they are not the only company to offer a kids sorry, “youth” range of firearms, but have been thrust into the media glare with the recent shooting. Their website makes for interesting reading — the “Kids Corner” is worth a look. There are photos of kids holding up targets and the occasional dead animal who I assume was on the receiving end of “My First Rifle”. The photo of a baby in camo gear “holding” a rifle is somewhat disturbing. I hope that was submitted to support a Parent of The Year nomination. The beaming little girl holding up the box containing her new rifle complete with a Disney-esque cartoon cricket also caught my eye. I hope the cricket isn’t the next target.

It seems little has changed, guns have been pointed towards children for over a century — the photo on this page is an ad from 1904. Good to know the Iver Johnson revolvers “shoot straight and kill”, but reassuring that “accidental discharge is impossible”.

The whole gun debate / right to keep and bear arms etc is far too complex to be covered in any detail here, though you have to wonder about the logic of manufacturing and marketing guns for kids as young as five. Sadly, the two year girl who was killed by her brother won’t be able to.

©Steve Williams 2013

A Gushing, Moving Experience

I’m very average at charades. Come to think of it, I had never attempted it / them — until the other day. I was pathetically trying to demonstrate to several bemused Thai guys the difference between a clothes dryer that works, and the ornament loafing in our new apartment in Bangkok.

Sadly, this was not one of the men in our shower

Hilarious.

Though my piece of resistance was the earlier performance of good v crap water pressure. This involved comedically graphic arm and thumb-up and thumb-down movements. Momentary panic set in when I was trying to recall whether “thumbs up” was considered offensive in Thailand. Apparently not — only in Afghanistan, Iran, Nigeria and random bits of Italy and Greece.

Thankfully my performance only resulted in much laughter. I would have loved it if one of my shower-mates had exclaimed in a plummy, silver spoon-esque British accent “Bravo sir, author!” Regrettably, no.

Standing in the bathroom gesticulating wildly and extremely expressively about the strength of our taps made me realise that this is why we travel or have a moving experience to another country.

It’s all about the experiences — whether posing for the OTS (Obligatory Tourist Shot) in front of your global landmark of choice, to a more obtuse, yet equally memorable mental snapshot such as encountering a work-experience scam artist in Paris, who severely needed to work on his pitch (that story is for another time.)

Travel – and life – is merely a set of experiences nailed together… appreciate and enjoy every one of them.*

*At the risk of sounding like one of those rather shitty inspirational quotes on an even shittier desktop calendar.

©Steve Williams 2013

Shitty Parenting?

So I received this sms today: “Woman changing dirty nappy at the next table in our restaurant.”

“Change your kid’s nappy over there”

What is it with some parents? I repeat some parents. At the risk of encouraging a “shit-in” in the lobby of the randomswill corporate HQ, since when is it ok to change a nappy in the middle of a restaurant? *crickets* *tumbleweeds* Exactly.

Do these people lose their minds when they have children, or were they always like that? Did they always have an I-can-do-whatever-the-f-I-want mentality or is just because they have bred?

Remember that recent-ish breastfeeding brouhaha? Australian television personality David Koch was virtually pitchforked for giving his opinion on a story that a nursing mother should be more “classy” in public. The torrent of abuse (obviously not all from mothers) resulted in a “nurse-in” and outraged comments from “lactivists” — you really hope whoever came up with that one had a smile on their face.

Exactly when did parenting become so political? When did motherhood (and fatherhood) become so militant? When did “lactivist” and “nurse-in” creep into the vernacular? There was another recent case when burning torches were directed at a Sydney café owner — with threats to burn down the premises in response to a discussion she had with a breastfeeding customer. I’m not suggesting nursing mothers moonlight as arsonists, this was more the work of some bandwagon-jumping nutjobs.

I grappled with the whole breastfeeding thing a while ago, to summarise — nursing mothers should not be shamed into retreating anywhere, especially a disgusting toilet, but it might be nice if they showed a bit of discretion rather than boob.

That attitude I mentioned earlier seems to be getting worse — with increasing parenting fails — kids being allowed to run around screaming in cafés/ expensive resorts / hotels / wherever — all because mum and dad want some “me time”. Then there are those Mad Max-inspired strollers blockading doorways and footpaths, to today’s effort — nappy action in a restaurant.

Actually, I might need one of those, because it’s starting to give me the shits.

©Steve Williams 2013

Abscessed With Medical History

The chances are fairly slim, but if I were ever to have something named after me, I would prefer a star in a galaxy far, far away — or a postcard-inducing beach — rather than an abscess.

Doctor Strangelove demonstrates Alien Hand Syndrome (wthellokitty.tumblr.com)

I’m sure Sir Benjamin Collins Brodie was a rather pleasant chap who liked patting puppies and drawing unicorns — and by all reports was an outstanding surgeon and physiologist. However, it is an interesting way to be remembered — some poor buggers’ abscess sticking out of his shin being named after you.

Fascinating is it not? Learned medical practitioners devoting their life’s work to science, resulting in their name being solemnly invoked many years later by a poker-faced specialist diagnosing you with Schnitzler Syndrome. Sadly nothing to do with crumbed chicken, this is a rare disease characterised by chronic hives first scratched away by a French dermatologist (according to Wikipedia, so it must be true).

The honour roll of eponymously named medical conditions is rather enlightening.

Bright’s Disease sounds actually rather cheerful, named after one Richard Bright — turns out it is a not overly tremendous chronic nephritis of the kidneys — that was suffered by the author of Dracula, Bram Stoker (there’s one for your next lull in conversation).

Speaking of those blood-filtering organs (note seamless Dracula segue), Brewer Kidney has nothing to do with drinking copious amounts of amber fluid; George Emerson Brewer knocked the top off that one.

Alliteration buffs will applaud Horton’s Headache, though sufferers of those bastard cluster headaches named after Bayard Taylor Horton will no doubt ask them to keep it down a bit.

In closing, Doctor Strangelove Syndrome is rather gripping — for the fact that it is named after a fictitious fanatical doctor in a classic film, and is otherwise known as Alien Hand Syndrome — where your mind believes it has a hand of its own — or something.

That could come in handy drawing unicorns.

©Steve Williams 2013

America — land of the free, home of the loud

Dear people of America…

I love your country. It has given us so much: wardrobe malfunctions, the Ferris Wheel, the pop-up toaster, chocolate chip cookies, Elvis, windscreen wipers and cheese-in-a-can.

But one question, why are you so f’ing loud when you travel?

By “loud”, I’m not talking about the blinding-white sandshoes, mismatched migraine-inducing clothes, stupid hats and mandatory “fanny pack”.

No, I’m talking about loud as in volume.

Is it really necessary for entirely unsuspecting, innocent people in a hotel lobby / restaurant / bus / train / plane / cafe / whatever / wherever to hear absolutely EVERY SINGLE WORD OF YOUR CONVERSATION? Really?

I realise it’s a well-worn, overused, hackneyed, clichéd stereotype, but seriously, you people are living it — loud and unfortunately very clear.

After my eardrums were recently on the receiving end of an aural attack, it finally dawned on me what that American term “DEFCON” means: “You’re deaf, so this conversation has to be at full volume.”

In closing, I hope the star spangled banner continues to wave o’er the land of the free and the home of the brave et al, but can you just keep it down a bit?

Thanks.

PS, If you’re travelling to a country where English isn’t the first language, speaking at restaurant staff at the top of your voice won’t instantly make them fluent in “your language”.

PPS, The “h” in the word “herb” doesn’t need to be silent.

PPPS, The word “fanny” has a somewhat different meaning in other parts of the world.

©Steve Williams 2013

Food Photos — It’s already been shot, just eat it

When Frenchman Joseph Nicéphore Niépce shot the world’s first photograph in 1826, it was of the view out of his window, thankfully not of his coq au vin.

A restaurateur’s deterrent against food photography

Speaking of such meaty subjects, I’d like to discuss food porn — amateur photographers recording their food for posterity instead of merely eating it. Today, if your phone isn’t equipped with a camera, you’re using iTroglodyte. That means basically everyone is a photographer — and this isn’t a good thing, especially when you’re trying to eat.

Amateur restaurant food photographers should be skewered, basted and lightly roasted. Instagram and Twitter have a lot to answer for. Why do you need to photograph your food before you eat it? Who are you going to show these badly composed, badly shot and badly shit photos to? Is the plan to bore your Facebook friends into a coma?

It is always a dining delight when the couple at the next table is photographing their fettuccine or shooting their shark fin soup. This is often undertaken with a ginormous SLR, emitting strobe flashes that illuminates the food and everyone in the vicinity like an atomic bomb has just detonated. If I wanted to book a table for two in an epileptic fit inducing lighthouse I would.

That’s just the entree — for main you get to sit and back and marvel at the elaborate production of the couple photographing each other eating said food. Are we talking foreplay to some 9½ Weeks inspired erotic food-feeding-frenzy? Hope the shark fin comes to life in the bedroom.

There was a hallelujah moment recently when New York restaurants started banning food photography. The usual “freedom of everything” suspects choked on their amuse-bouche in predictable outrage, but f. them — they should be skewered as well.

I’d take a photo of that.

©Steve Williams 2013

You’re unAustralian if…

To celebrate Australia Day, one gazillion rainforests have been slaughtered creating weighty tomes of “what it means to be Australian”. Bugger that.

As a Wattle-waving Aussie, I reckon you’re unAustralian if…

If you don’t know what this bloke is, you’re unAustralian

*You don’t use “yeah, no” regularly in a sentence.

*You know the mysterious second verse of the Australian national anthem.

*You don’t return from a Bali holiday wearing a Bintang beer singlet and / or braided hair.

*You use the word “sheila”.

*You don’t know what Wattle is.

*You think Australian cricket captain Michael Clarke is still some “up himself wanker” (even though he has scored about 7,003 runs this season and won test, one day and backyard matches).

*You don’t know what “wanker” means.

*You don’t drown your meat pie in tomato sauce.

*You don’t eat meat pies.

*You prefer a Sauvignon Blanc with a melon and ripe gooseberry nose to a stubbie you’ve opened with your eye socket.

*You don’t know what a stubbie is.

*You don’t think Kylie is bunging on that pommie accent.

*You don’t know what “bunging on” means.

*You drink Foster’s beer.

*You call a “prawn” anything other than a “prawn”.

*You’ve never had a bindi stuck in your foot (not the Indian forehead decoration or Steve Irwin’s daughter).

*You like the song I Still Call Australia Home even with Peter Allen bunging on that crap American accent.

*You prefer to sit on the grass at the beach rather than the sand.

*You take a soccer ball to the beach.

*You call a soccer ball a “football”.

*You respond when some bogan chants “Aussie!, Aussie!, Aussie!…”.

*You don’t know what a “bogan” is.

*You don’t think the lead singer of AC/DC is still “the new bloke”.

*You don’t return from overseas bitching about how everything is better / cheaper / tastier / bigger / less crowded / less smelly / less foreign than here at home.

*You actually enjoyed the movie Australia.

Subway – A Case of Foot in Mouth?

I think everyone needs to calm the hell down.

A firestorm was unleashed on the good burghers at Subway after they suggested that the word “foot” in their famous “Footlong” sub is “not intended to be a measurement of length” and is merely a “descriptive name”.

The one on the left may or may not be the foot in question

Fair enough. Which bit of that don’t you get? Who would reasonably expect that something called a “Footlong” would actually be twelve inches in length? That’s just being pedantic. Maybe they should also clarify that a “sub” isn’t a naval vessel designed to operate underwater.

“Subwaygate” — I’m surprised the usual adding of the prefix “gate” to any controversy hasn’t been done in this case — fired up when some smartarse Australian kid actually measured his sub and discovered that it allegedly pulled up an inch or so short. Who takes a tape measure to a sandwich shop?

It all depends on how you define the word “foot”. Surely assuming that his lunch should actually be twelve inches or thirty point something centimetres is a bit of a stretch. Maybe they were inferring a human foot size. That would give them a bit of scope — “a foot” could mean anything from an NBA size gazillion to one of those unfortunate victims of foot binding.

Do you seriously expect to believe everything that an advertiser or company tells you? Next you’ll automatically assume that something “made in Australia” actually is, rather than in a foreign Victorian style sweatshop (the era, not the state), or a “low fat” product isn’t chockfull of sugar.

Seriously, haven’t you realised that an asterisk at the bottom of a newspaper ad or the words “conditions apply” in a radio commercial translates to “everything you just read or heard is complete bullshit?”

No onion on mine thanks…

*This article may or may not contain false indignation.

An open letter to Hugh Jackman

Dear Hugh,

Ok, I get it… you’re an outrageously talented, actor, singer and dancer, Hollywood, Broadway and TV über-star.

The ugliest photo I could find (courtesy paulcush.com)

You are an incredibly devoted husband to Deborra-Lee and loving father to Oscar and Ava. A generous philanthropist, you support and raise awareness of numerous charities and community projects. You’ve been voted the “Sexiest Man Alive”.

Your mantelpiece is groaning under the weight of awards including an Emmy and two Tony awards, as well as Theatre World, Broadway Audience, New York International Independent Film & Video Festival, Australian Film Institute, Film Critics Circle of Australia, People’s Choice, Teen Choice and Scream awards and now a Golden Globe. You might be adding to the collection with an Oscar.

You’ve hosted the Oscars and Tony Awards to critical acclaim. You’ve played (in no particular order) characters as diverse as Wolverine, Jean Valjean, The Easter Bunny, Van Helsing, The Drover, Curly, Peter Allen and even a bloody penguin — and that’s just off the top of my head. You love footy, play the piano, guitar, violin and practice yoga. (UPDATE: as Geoff Thomson — another great cricket name — rightly says below, our Hugh can also “play cricket and face Warnie in the nets.”)

The perennial nice guy, your dazzling personality and laconic Australian humour shine through in every interview and appearance. Everyone loves you, there are no skeletons in your closet, you don’t try and run over paparazzi or throw phones at hotel staff.

I hope you realise just how much you make all us other Aussie blokes feel totally worthless and inadequate. Congratulations on the Golden Globe, you bastard.

Regards,

Steve Williams

*To read this in another locale (with bonus amusing comments) Punch on at…

http://www.thepunch.com.au/articles/screw-you-hugh/

random swill

words, images, stuff… randomly

Abercrombie & Bitch*

My First Rifle? Another WTF About Guns

A Gushing, Moving Experience

Shitty Parenting?

Abscessed With Medical History

America — land of the free, home of the loud

Food Photos — It’s already been shot, just eat it

You’re unAustralian if…

Subway – A Case of Foot in Mouth?

An open letter to Hugh Jackman

Follow random swill

words, images, stuff… randomly

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Follow random swill