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Time for action in Coogee

August 26th 2008 05:56
I read at the ABC online today that a young man by the name of David Keohane may not recover from the senseless bashing he received about 2 weeks ago.

Click to the article here

It was just a matter of time before it got to this in Coogee.

Weeks ago I wrote this to a spokesperson of the Australian Hotels Association, who in the 27 March 2008 edition of the SMH online made some attempt to defend Coogee publicans against residents’ calls for earlier closing times of the pubs.

This is what I wrote:


“Sally

I read your comments in today's online version of the SMH.

Cause and effect is always tricky to pin down. But, as Coogee residents close by to the Palace and the CBH, my family and I wonder who else - but drunken louts from establishments owned by your members would be on our pavement at 3am in the morning vomiting in our street and damaging our cars.

I have about $1000 worth of damage to my car and feel highly aggrieved by the moral high ground that your association is taking.

The bottle shops ain't open at 3am. Your members still selling liquor, responsibly or otherwise, at 3am remains an issue.

Your members' responsibility as part of a community-wide contribution or solution (as you put it) is not to be selling liquor to anyone at 3am or until 6am. Who the hell needs to be drinking at that time?

I wonder what the results would be if everyone who left the Palace or CBH at 3am were alcohol tested? My bet is the overwhelming majority would be so pissed that it would be a joke for the owners of the establishments to try and defend their claims to responsible serving.


I don't think it’s prudish or conservative for these places to shut shop at midnight.

Your comments, sadly, are nothing but PR spin. Hopefully the police and the council will see it that way.

Regards

Zed”


I received no reply.

Today I felt galvanized to write again, because cold indifference and apathy are the enemies of change and hopefully this will be start of the groundswell to which I refer:

“Sally

I never had the courtesy of a reply to my last e-mail. Bearing testimony, I guess, to the fact that the AHA doesn't really give much thought to this kind of feedback.

I was just wondering what the AHA's position is on the beating of Mr Keohane a few weeks ago?

I was also just wondering at what point across the spectrum: from vomiting on the sidewalk, to ripping up street signs, to bashing, to murder; your constituents, will pause to consider their complicity in their customers' behaviour.

There is a groundswell amongst desperate Coogee residents to mobilise so that your members are given formal notice of their duty of care. We intend to do it over and over and over again, by letter, in the media, in the council, in the police stations and in any and every public forum, so that the next time property, or God forbid, a human being, is damaged, it will be your members who will have to answer in the place where it hurts most - their bank accounts.

Take this e-mail as the start of the AHA and it's Coogee members being put on notice. For every Friday and Saturday night that I have to yell at drunken customers at 2am and 3am tearing up street signs and damaging cars (acting - if you like - as the security guard that your customers should have on patrol) you and your members will get an e-mail. Equally other Coogee residents are going to do the same.

We want action from your members, of course it's too late for Mr Keohane and his parents and family.

Regards

Zed”

I guess, to some extent I am just venting my frustration and anger at the unfathomable contradiction that a week ago we were marvelling at the wonder of a whale 25 metres from Coogee Beach and only the week before a man lay dying in our streets. I am not one to speak out, to march, to sign petitions. But the anguish of the Keohane family has moved me to take this one small step. I will slowly chip away at fellow Coogee residents to start the barrage of correspondence. There is some small naive part of me that imagines that the AHA and the pub owners will respond with vehement indignation and tell me that I have jumped the gun and that they have all of these issues well under control, have established committees and working groups and have a plan of action that is about to be implemented (security guards have been hired, closing times have been moved earlier, CCTV cameras are installed everywhere, a fund has been established to help the Keohane family....) and they resent my insinuation that they don't care or have done nothing. I will gladly make that apology if I have to.

healey@aha.org.au is the e-mail address of the AHA Director, National Affairs.


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Local Hero

June 17th 2008 07:44
Ricky Gervais, when interviewed for Desert Island discs on the BBC, said (I am paraphrasing) that he was depressed by young kids’ desire for fame. Apparently when asked what they want to be when they grow up, most British kids polled said: “Famous”.

Poor Ricky found this distressing because all they want is the fame and not the hard work it takes to get there. What people only see, he says, is George Clooney on the red carpet and they forget how much fun George really had working hard to get there. (I don’t get the George Clooney thing by the way. I get Jack Nicholson and Meryl Streep, but not George and Brad and Angelina.) All of this was interspersed by Ricky spouting forth all the appropriate rags to riches stuff he went through: “… working class up bringing, dad a labourer, raised by mum, a humble housewife…” Good on ya, Ricky.

He is right though, our sorry society is celebrity obsessed. We are sadly seeking out fame and fortune because somehow Paris Hilton and Corey Washington (I cringe that I actually know who these people are and that I am adding to the terabytes of space already devoted – literally - to them) get some limelight. And it becomes aspirational. To be famous, for no reason.

Now Ricky plays all humble and shirks the limelight, but you can’t help but think that there is a part of him that is saying: “Hey, look the f*%# at me." (As he would say, but which I have edited out as I suspect the Orble-filter has pended my publication. I am following up on this and you can count on a nasty letter to the times about censorship). "That is pretty terrific for a brick layer’s son from Reading.” And I have no problem with that. I guess there is a part of me that also wants to be famous. At the end of long runs I imagine I am running into an Olympic stadium somewhere and the crowd is chanting my name: “Za To Pek, Za To Pek, Za To Pek…”

In one small way I was a hero, at least in my daughter’s eyes, for a day. I was no Emil Zatopek but thankfully I was no Corey or Paris either.

Appropriately it was Australia Day 2008. We were down on the beach, as one does. Quietly waiting for another round of race fuelled riots, which mercifully never materialised. But I did have an ongoing sense of hyper-vigilism for the day mainly because of the droves of testosterone and oestrogen fuelled teenagers that flooded the beach and adjoining reserve.

Why do I feel so threatened by packs of teenagers?

Shrieking young girls egged (pun intended) on by the horrible squawk of male puberty drowned out any conversation we wanted to have. And they destroyed any opportunity to just sit and reflect on what Australia Day means, actually. An honest fire juggler struggled with his kerosene and childish abuse from these kids. There was persistent clumsy pawing at the girls. There was the usual acne-embarrassed-kissing going on. We sat on the plaza as the sun set behind us. Patiently minding our own business, quietly reminding ourselves that we too were once young. I tried desperately to see the same prankish innocence in their behaviour that I like to think marked my teenage years. Yet, somehow, this generation X (Y, whatever, as they would say) lot seem to have an edge to them: maybe desperation to impress, to be famous, and without care.

Somehow they represented the dashed innocence of previous youth, of my parents’ youth, of my youth, and worse yet, they set the tone for denying my kids the innocence of their youth.

It boiled over when one of these impress-my-mates-desperados who had been lurking around us stole a piece of pizza right from out of my 10 year old daughter’s hands.

Outraged. I was on auto-pilot as I gave chase, no thought of the damage that a horde of UDL soaked teens could do to a mild mannered office worker. The villain escaped momentarily, the pace of youth too much for an ageing marathoner. But slowly slowly catchee monkey. I returned assured in the wisdom that the offender will return to the scene of the crime. Sure as hell 5 minutes later he was back. All the sass, know-it-allness, tech-savvyness, face-bookness, i-Podism, and net information that these kids have and still this little speck of humanity in his over-confidence figured he wouldn’t be recognised.

It’s the real world you live in mate, not some cyber avatar society.

My loyal sidekick, Josh, spotted him and within a flash I jumped up and affected an arrest. It was the old style forearm clamp. I marched him to a cohort of NSW’s finest for a stern warning. Now I know a lot of people have issues with the law, but the young officers (some of them not much older than the tossers who caused all the trouble) who were out on that day battling scores of pissed revellers had a sense of innocence and justice that seemed old fashioned.

Anyway the offender was scolded and we were given the assurance by the police that his parents would be phoned. It looked like stern warnings all around. For a second there it was 1979.

And when I returned to my daughter, the look in her eyes was enough for me to imagine that I had a red cape, a forelock and I was wearing my underpants on the outside.
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A night at the opera

June 12th 2008 03:22
Last night was “SOO II”.

If this is meaningless to you, indulge me with an elaboration.

It stands for “State of Origin Two”.

Still confused?

Probably, so let me take this one step further, at the risk of boring you to death, because I suspect if you don’t know by now what I am referring to, then you will be one of the vast majority of the world (and of several in this fine sun burned nation for that matter), who don’t give a shit about sports.

So, as briefly as possible, State of Origin is an annual 3 match rugby league series contested between players representing New South Wales and Queensland. In short, in Australian eastern seaboard sports terms, it is HUGE, it is a BIG DEAL. I LOVE IT. I don’t think there are many sporting contests to match its ferocity and parochially driven passion. I hate missing it.

Last night I missed it. I was peeved when the missus informed me that she had tickets for the Sydney Opera House and my attendance was required. No excuses, be there. I am not really a culture vulture when it comes to performing arts, so drama and opera, even some live music performances pretty much leave me cold. I was faced with the depressing prospect of a night at the Opera…. House, on the night of a big huge massive football match.

Quick confession, I’m prone to these, and this is a tad embarrassing because I have withheld some information. The event I was attending at the SOH (this one you sports haters will get) was the NSW Public Schools Arts Unit Annual Jacaranda Concert, or something like that. And, um, my daughter was performing there.

It struck me as I walked through the drizzle up the stairs to what is a pretty impressive piece of architecture,

(Quick aside: I gather the SOH has been declared as some sort of world heritage place – sums up how young we perceive this country to be if a seventies building is the best we can come up with for this sort of icon conferring. Maybe the judges should go bush and find something from 40,000 years ago?, maybe they have and no-one has told us, and that says something as well, anyway)

that I was not alone in missing the footy. In fact there were several hundreds of thousands of Sydneysiders going about their business oblivious to what was happening on a football field somewhere in Brisbane. And suddenly I felt better. Bullshit, it actually only lasted about 30 seconds. The fact is I remained peeved.

Long Sentence Warning – Approach with Caution

But, once I had sat down inside the SOH and had been treated to 2 hours of superb performances from school kids from all over NSW (from Cobar to Wollongong and beyond), from all age groups, playing all sorts of weird and wonderful instruments (well to me anyway); and had the privilege (and bristling pride) to see my daughter playing with 699 other recorder players on one of the world’s finest artistic platforms, along with 200 strings players, a didgeridoo player (I swear you could feel the music coming up from deep inside the earth and up through his feet and body and out in that hypnotic growl), a swing band, Japanese martial arts drum players, wind ensembles, percussion groups, duets, quartets and very big orchestra type thingies [deep breath]…

I took stock and realized I would not have missed that for the world. The fact that these were kids out of the public school system (straining under under-funding) trained and coached and mentored and tutored and practiced and rehearsed and composed and counted and organised over and over and over again beyond the call of duty by public teachers made it even more worthwhile. So, yes I had one of life’s little lessons last night.

Incidentally, Queensland absolutely thrashed the pants off NSW in the football. No matter, let those Cane Toads come down here with their violins, oboes, clarinets, cymbals, cellos, double basses, pianos, marimbas, triangles, kettle drums, piccolos, tubas, and what have you and we'll give them a music lesson.



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It’s time to `fess up!

By referring to a line from a Gordon Lightfoot song, I may be giving myself away. In “Sundown” he sings about “… a room where you do what you don’t confess


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I seldom get to fly. But Thursday was one of those rare days where business took me to Melbourne. Where, by the way, it was raining. The cab driver assured me this was the first time in six months that they had rain. Uh huh, yip right.

Now because I am of the lower caste of air passengers who only has a Mud Class Frequent Flyer Card I was told – by the team of puffed up Qantas officials (hey is that a redundancy?) - as I trotted loyally alongside my Boss that I was not “allowed” in the Qantas lounge. My Boss trumped the puffed up officials by waving his Platinum Card in their faces. It was as if Moses had cast his rod on the water (an ugly image I know) and the Red Sea parted


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How sore was your vasectomy?

April 29th 2008 09:21
It was at the point that the surgeon said: "You should grit your teeth now" that I started wondering if I should have opted for the sedative or even the general anaesthetic.

I got over the pain of the needle going through my scrotum and even the pressure of the anaesthetic filling the tiny space of my vas deferens with the resultant excruciating squeezing sensation, from the inside; when he said: "OK now let’s do the other side


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How to get your attention?

April 29th 2008 03:39
This is a blog, in the words of the one TV character I most identify with, George Costanza, about nothing.

I want to test how hard it is to become a cyber celebrity through drawing attention to the inanity of my daily life


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