Ewe and Me

A sprinkling of imagination

2015-08-29T16:04:00.001+02:00

We have a lot of stuff.

The thought struck me as I was putting away some clean laundry, the last in a very long list of chores I had to do today. The average person has many, many items of clothing and shoes, not to mention any number of winter weather things like coats and scarves. I myself have a formidable collection of t-shirts.

And then zooming out a little, most people live in a house, either their own or rented. Every house filled with what we consider essential – kitchen appliances, television, furniture. Bathrooms, washrooms, studios, terraces.

At least in this house, there are several other roommates – dogs, a cat, fish. Plenty of people have pets as well, though maybe not as many. Still, we keep them because we like them.

A lot of people also own their own car or other mode of transport. Some people travel frequently, others wish they could travel more.

Then there are the more abstract belongings we have. Family comes to mind, as do friends and colleagues. For most, there are any number of people to call when they are in trouble or lonely or looking for something to do.

Most people have paid employment.

Even further beyond that is a relatively stable political system, idiots notwithstanding. If you’re willing to wait long enough, the national health service will give you any treatment you need. So far, no war. We have a relatively good quality of life. Very few actually go hungry. Even the small things, like an identity card, are part of a safety net we, for the most part, aren’t even aware of.

We have a lot of stuff.

What would it take to give that up? To leave behind everything you own, everything you’ve worked for. I cannot imagine what it would take, what external force would be great enough, to abandon my friends and family, this apartment I’ve worked so hard for. I cannot imagine not having a government that will, in its own way, help me when I need it most. I cannot imagine not knowing what comes next.

For a lot of people fleeing war-torn countries, this is a reality. Money they save goes to pay for a journey they may not survive. Their children could wash up dead on a Libyan beach. They themselves could spend months detained and tortured by unscrupulous traffickers. They might be trapped in the hull of a rickety wooden boat when the engine begins to fail. And if they survive that journey, what awaits them is hostility and suspicion, thinly veiled hatred and the secret wish they had never made it at all.

And still, this is better than the alternative.

I think a major part of the Maltese people’s racism comes from an inherently poor imagination. They’ve never had to think what it would take to make them give up their homes, families, and savings, so they never have. They look upon others who have had to make that decision as though it was one they made freely. They consider refugees selfish freeloaders, here to steal our 'jobs and women'.

Under every single news piece about refugees, you find the almost admirably committed commenters who helpfully suggest that refugees ought to help rebuild their own country, instead of fleeing to others.

And every time I cannot help but wonder – when was the last time you overthrew a dictator? Ended a war? Stopped a famine? Surely, since they dispense this advice so freely and frequently, they must have some great font of experience upon which to draw. I wish they could explain (in detail, ideally with diagrams) how they would go about single-handedly fixing deep-seated corruption, institutionalized inequality and civil war. Please, do tell.

Again, a little imagination goes a long way. Just think – it is preferable to make the journey from Eritrea, Somalia, Syria, and Sudan than it is to continue living in these countries. How easy do you think it would be for the average man to completely overhaul the system and create a new utopic society everyone wants to live in?

The phrase “go back to your country” has been bandied about so often it’s become a cliché. Still, there is always at least one commenter who feels the need to reiterate. Now I’m gonna lay some important knowledge on you folks. It’s not gonna happen, what with the law and all that. Sorry. So you’re going to have to start making some other suggestions.

Nope.

2015-03-20T10:39:00.001+01:00

I’m not big on politics. Never have been really, which makes me a strange animal on this island of fanaticism and a culture of die-hard everything. Even after working in a newsroom, where politics make up about 90% of our daily workload, I cannot get excited about this stuff.

If anything it’s turned me even further away from the petty back-and-forth, ‘Mummy! He pushed me!’ attitude that the whole system seems to subsist on. There are precious few things in this world that will have me foaming at the mouth with rage (aside from morons who don’t indicate on roundabouts) or clutching my chest with overwhelming passion and the democratic process is, perhaps regrettably, not one of them.

But for the first time ever, I’m sharing referendum-related posts on Facebook. I’m hitting ‘Like’ on anti-hunting status updates. I may have even joined a ‘Vote No’ group. In an era of armchair activism, I’ve basically pledged my life and that of any future offspring to this cause.

There are a number of reasons for this, all of which combine to form an argument strong enough to rouse me from my indifference and, I suspect, have done the same for many others.

First, spring hunting is bad science. You don’t kill things before they’ve had a chance to create more things. Otherwise you’ll soon run out of things to kill. Pretty basic concept, when you think about it.

Next, I firmly believe that wild animals who have escaped man’s irresponsible stupidity thus far and continue to make it on their own should be protected. Thousands of species of plants and animals have disappeared from existence thanks to overhunting, habitat destruction and climate change.

Those are all on us – this would never have happened if we cared a little more about the creatures we share our planet with. The ones still surviving – everything from turtledove and quail to penguins and elephants – should be protected from our own carelessness, now that we have the benefit of hindsight. Repeating these mistakes is nothing short of irresponsible.

On a more local scale, hunters tend to be idiots. They are the first out the gate, whenever a hawk, stork or crane plummets from the sky in a flurry of blood and feathers, to say that they condemn illegal hunting.

Good job lads. Releasing a press statement is taxing work, I know. But what would really make me believe the words you say is when, the next time a protected species is blasted out of the sky, a band of you noble gentlemen frogmarch the culprit to the police station yourselves. You cannot expect me to believe that you, a group so tight knit you’re willing to face criminal punishment together after assaulting birdwatchers and setting cars on fire, have no idea who is shooting these birds.

I also firmly believe that anyone who resorts to violence to get their point across deserves a little reprimand. When you take to the streets, waving imitation guns and baying for blood, the only thing that comes to mind are the countless times I’ve been threatened on public land. The times my dogs, happy to be outdoors in what little open space we have, have faced shouting and the occasional kick in the ribs. The times I have cut a walk short because the countryside, bristling with gun barrels, RTO signs and middle-aged men with a gruesome hobby and functioning firearms, no longer seemed like a good idea.

I don’t like that our politicians - spineless and viscous, like human octopi but dumber, contorting themselves through the tiniest of gaps in the hopes of winning themselves another term in office, another obscene pay cheque, more shots fired on civilian vehicles – have no balls. They are being gripped firmly by the short and curlies by a group of camo-clad men waving guns.

I’ll wager that at least some of our elected representatives will admit, under extreme duress, that they too are repulsed by the actions of Maltese hunters. But still they call for a Yes vote. Not only is your own stupidity on show but you’re using your ill-deserved power to influence the vote of others. Short-sighted and irresponsible are good words to use but I'll bet my hat most of them don't know what those words mean.

So on that not-so-distant Saturday, I will wake up at a reasonable time, traipse down to the voting station and mark an X on that ballot with as much conviction as I am capable of. My only regret is that we cannot ban the act year round.

It's been a funny ol' year - 12 Months of Funny

2014-12-28T07:58:00.001+01:00

Christmas time is a mixed bag.

No, scratch that. Christmas time is often a series of Chinese torture-like events, crammed one after the other, that would make a Zen buddhist cry. Food, good cheer and booze are forced upon you, pushing you into a near-continuous struggle to stay awake/not explode all over the ponsiettas.

As a rule, I dislike Christmas. I’m often too broke to buy all the gifts I want to and hate feeling like I’m being forced to spend what little money I have at this one specific time of the year. If we could stagger them, I’d buy much better gifts for everyone. Promise. And if the producers of Christmas songs aren't marketing them to CIA operatives using 'enhanced interrogation techniques' then they really must not enjoy heaps of money.

Another Christmas ‘thing’ that seems to become lodged in tradition, despite its sell-by date having long since passed, is the panto. I’m not trying to piddle all over the immense amount of money, energy and time that goes into these productions. Even if a performance is crap, so much went on behind the scenes that it deserves, if not accolades, then at lease respect.

But let’s face it. Beyond aged 12, the panto gets a little repetitive. Adults seem to lose that ability to forget what happened 52 weeks ago so the magic is somewhat muted.

The Comedy Knights’ Christmas special - this year entitled ’12 Months of Funny’- was not without its throwbacks to last year's show. In fact, at least two sketches were modified 2013 versions. But honestly, they were so good the first time, it wasn’t a matter of sitting through them so much as giggling preemptively when the props and costumes pinged familiar. Pia Zammit’s recurring ode to the PN is, without fail, a thing of beauty, in that ‘this is funny but also painfully true and why are we still in this mess?’ mix of emotions.

Comedy is kind of a thing now. And though I’ll admit to not having returned to a show since it first became popular, some time in the chilly months of last year, I can see that folks are taking an interest in the art of making people laugh.

This year’s show, once again held at the Salesians’ Theatre in Sliema (thank the sweet Lord for that parking tho), hit a lot of pretty funny notes. Last year, you could tell the troupe was finding their feet - figuring out what works, what doesn’t and what could. The cast, for the most part unchanged from the last instalment, remained solid. Last year offered more concept-based sketches, involving exponentially more Baby Jesus Theft and something about insects, and which ran a greater risk of falling flat.

This year was better. The turnout was too - no doubt word had spread about this ‘alternative to Panto’ and all of Sliema seemed to file into the hall.

And so it should have, seeing as some of the sketches were entirely about the town. Who knew the locals were so amenable to laughing at themselves*? The accent, obviously, came under fire. And Sliema secession was suggested too. Garbage collection would, however, be relegated to someone from Zejtun.

Local politics had a much bigger role this year. Although to be fair, the year we’ve had, the jokes really do write themselves.

Another crowd-pleaser was the (not undeserved) potshot at the ‘local tourist’ fad currently gripping the community of … well I’d hesitate to call them hipsters, because they’d love that, but let’s say community of beard-appreciating, authenticity-hunting youngsters? Yeah, them. Anyway.

This year’s songs were significantly more polished than last year’s too. Although I may just be saying that because two of them were re-worked Book of Mormon songs and there’s no surer way into my heart. The MEPA-friendly parody of ‘Let it Go’ was tear-jerkingly funny.

There was perhaps a single sketch that did not draw the laughs. I lie, there were two. One was a touching tribute to Maurice Tanti Burlo, complete with a musical hat tip to the irreverent, poignantly observant cartoonist who paved the way for what comedians today take for granted. The audience, still catching their breath from the preceding sketch, exploded into the most reverent applause I'd ever heard at a comedy show.

The other was a sketch involving Santa’s visit to George Pullicino’s house, which was perhaps a little too Panto for the audience, who I believe wanted to get away from the red-and-white deluge of cheap laughs.

The rest of the laughs however were genuine, often honest-to-goodness belly laughs. The political satire was hardly subtle. Then again, politics in this country hardly ever is. Throw in a nice singalong, sharp comic timing and the way Chris Dingli looks in a wife-beater and sweat pants, and we have a Christmas winner.

*Although I bet most were laughing while saying ‘U le ajma, we’re not all like that ay maa’.

Bye bye birdie

2014-04-25T19:27:00.000+02:00

We, the Maltese people, are simple folk. There are but a few things outsiders need to know about us. We’re generally loud, often short and we feel strongly. This feeling we do can and is applied to everything, from politics to football to which place makes the best pastizzi. Every emotion is cranked up to 11. We feel about everything.

Which is probably why it is so hard to reason with us. Logic has no chance to squirm in there, making room for itself between heartfelt diatribes and the furtive slamming of keys are the internet becomes the new village pjazza. We shout things because we believe that that legitimizes our feelings even further. Never mind that tiny, objecting voice of reasonable thought.

This is not cool.

This same approach is being used with regards to the spring hunting issue. I believe I've been clear about this in the past but, just for posterity, I'll say it again. I am categorically against hunting in Malta. The island is too small, the people too undisciplined to do it responsibly so nobody should do it. Yes, I include all those hunters who "obey the law". These mythical creatures, their magical powers bandied about by the FKNK, held up as paragons of responsible hobbyists; yes, they too should have their guns taken away from them and anyone caught hunting should face some seriously harsh penalties.

Oh, they cry, but why punish those who do not break the law along with those who do? This isn't fair! Who said anything about fair? If the FKNK and KSU cannot keep these gun-toting morons in check, then yes, ban the barbaric practice altogether.

And I'll be perfectly frank - these trigger-happy idiots who can't keep their ammo in their rifles and empty it on anything that flies over head? They do not fill me with a feeling of safety. They obviously operate with complete disregard to the law. Do you really think they'd think twice about filling me or my dogs with lead if we happen to disturb them in the countryside?

It's like dealing with children. If you can't play nice and not whack your sister in the face with your toy truck, then you shouldn't get to play with it at all.

An on-giong video diary (click here for rather upsetting footage) has drawn the usual xenophobic remarks. "These foreigners!" they grumble in Facebook status after Facebook status. "Ahjar jaraw x'jaghmlu f'pajjizhom."

This logic (yes, I know, distinctly local aversion to the word aside) holds no water. One is not bound to being concerned about one issue at a time. You can be worried about bird slaughter in Malta and about the badger cull in the UK AND about the humanitarian crisis in Syria. The human mind is capable of many a complex emotion. And just because it takes a British man, with the benefit of years of BBC television experience, to bring this horrific practice to the attention of the rest of the world, it does not mean that Britain is trying to push us around.

There have been remarks that sarcastically ask Chris Packham, the guy behind the videos, to show the millions of birds being shot over Malta as he promised to do. No, idiots. He does not mean that millions are shot at one go. Millions are shot per year. Millions of birds are stopped from breeding, torpedoing their populations so that people all over Europe are deprived of an ever-shrinking biodiversity that deserves protection. The birds are not yours to slaughter. And, because many years of constant hunting have diminished populations, fewer and fewer birds are making their migratory trips at all. Eventually, they are going to shoot themselves out of a hobby. Shame everyone else has to suffer with them.

Error 404: Wage Not Found

2014-03-26T19:27:00.002+01:00

Update: I did finally receive my wage thanks to a little legal wrestling and the intervention of the DIER.

My name is Rachel Agius and I have been shafted by Network Publications.

I feel like a statement such as this requires a little backstory, so get comfortable, for it is neither short nor terribly exciting but it tells of a series of events that has been repeated over and over again. It seems a shame to let it go undocumented.

Picture it, if you will. A lowly graduate, looking for a job. Echoing loudly in her head is the adage that nothing good ever comes of an Arts degree. Eventually, an opportunity presents itself.

I go to the interview knowing full well the somewhat dubious history of the company I hope will employ me. The carcasses of unpaid freelance invoices piled high at its door, the garnishee order in its recent past still biting at its ankles. So yes, I knew. Similarly clear in my head was the desperation that begins to sting after a few months of being unemployed. So I went. And I got the job.

I was to be a content writer, splitting my time between attempting to resuscitate a floundering web portal and writing for the print magazine, which was somehow, by the very skin of its teeth, still clinging to the prestige of its long-departed golden years.

The people I worked with were great, given the circumstances. In spite of a thinning budget, fewer and fewer in-house staff and only a handful of freelancers willing to work with the company, they still created a monthly magazine that retained some semblance of quality. But of course, few were happy with the state of affairs.

In the 5 months that I worked there, our salaries were always late. It started out with a few days at first, a short delay (we thought) because advertisers were not being prompt and such. Then it started to get worse

Now we were being paid nearly two weeks late. Those with house or car loans or rent payments to consider began to get desperate. My final salary came in two parts – half on a Friday and half the following Monday – towards the end of the next month. It was becoming unbearable.

So when I eventually found another job, I knew I was not going to get paid for that last month and a half easily. Pulling teeth was going to look like a walk in the park. So I did the responsible thing and consulted a lawyer. They suggested I give a deadline by which they had to pay and should that deadline be ignored, they would be hearing from my lawyers. I gave my notice and eventually left. This was mid-February.

At this point, things got… shall we say interesting. I sent a polite reminder to my employer and the company accountant, once again informing them of the deadline, seeing as my previous emails went unanswered. In what I can only assume was an accident, my employer replied to my email and called me a bitch.

To be completely honest, that is the most harmless thing I have been called in a long while. But this was getting old. I forwarded this email to my lawyer, who in turn sent a strongly worded email to Network Publications, demanding the money owed and pointing out that virtual error.

A week or two later, my lawyers receive a letter from their lawyers. In it, the boss apologises for his actions and promises that a cheque is being drawn up. This usually does not take – assuming it is written with a regular pen and not, say, the blood of a virgin born in the third week of July under a full moon – very long, but I have come to understand that things work at a different pace in the legal world. So I waited, still hopeful.

Two weeks later and my mother calls me at work. Something arrived in the post, the return address read Ta' Xbiex, which is where the company offices are. At this point, I breathe a sigh of relief. Could the saga really be over? Only yesterday I schlepped all the way to Valletta, abusing of my current boss’s kindness in taking an extra hour, to wait for a half hour until the guy at the Department of Industrial and Employment Relations saw fit to end his lunch break and return to his office to meet me. Never mind that I had called the previous day and made an appointment. A man’s lunch break is not to be messed with, apparently.

Only yesterday did I sit before this man, who was obviously overworked, underpaid and probably not terribly interested in his job while he carefully calculated how much I was owed and then filed a claim on my behalf. Only yesterday did I drive like Satan himself was revving his chariot behind me, after the van that was to return me to the car park idled for 15 minutes just coz, so I could get back to the office in time and not jeopardize my current employment. Finally, the end looked to be nigh.

My relief was short-lived. Once I got home and opened the letter, I did find a cheque. I also found the semblance of an apology – a rehash of an email we received every single month, explaining why our pay was going to be late, as if that was of any concern to us.

Upon closer inspection however, it turned out that the cheque is forward-dated, to the 31^stof May. That’s two months from now. Assuming there is money in the source account - hardly likely, given the company's history - I will only be able to cash this cheque on that date. The likelihood that that cheque bounces is high. The rage within me was great enough that my mother thought better of attempting to stem the torrent of expletives that escaped me with her usual sigh of displeasure. The woman does not appreciate harsh language but in this case, even she could not deny that this shit was fucked up.

So here I am, writing about this travesty of a company. For years, Network Publications has been messing people around. I have heard of freelancers who are due amounts well into the thousands of euro for work done years ago. It is with a resigned sigh that those freelancers talk of that money – they have given up on ever seeing a cent. I am writing this because someone needs to speak up.

Network Publications and other companies like it have been abusing of freelancers since time immemorial. Network in particular has even been abusing of its full-time employees. While I understand that perhaps this may not be a wise choice – publishing this here, under my own name – there are three very important reasons why I chose to do it.

Firstly, someone had to. This company has been stealing (because that is what it really amounts to) from freelancers and paying its employees late or, in my case, not at all, for too long. Why should it come to legal proceedings to get what is rightfully mine? I showed up to work every day and did my duty. It is only right to expect a timely pay cheque in return.

I understand that sometimes, the fight is not worth it. I was a freelancer too and if this had to happen to me then, I would have cut my losses and tried to make ends meet another way. Many freelancers simply do not have the time and money to pursue all those who have denied them their money. Someone should really say something about that, so here I am.

Second, everything I have said here is 100% true. There are other things I could tell you all about, things I’d heard through the grapevine or rumours in the corridors. But I chose not to because I cannot verify those things. What I have written here however is completely true. I have the documents and emails to prove it and should anyone require such things, I would have no problem in providing them with copies.

My third reason is that I have nothing to lose. My time with Network gave me many things – the chance to meet new and interesting people, the chance to work with good and decent co-workers – but one thing it took away from me was the possibility to create a savings account. I have nothing to lose because any money I saved in the past was used to tide me over while Network deliberated on which employee they could afford to pay next.

I end this (admittedly cathartic) tirade by saying this. I am currently a full-time employee elsewhere, still hiding my disbelief when my pay arrives on time. But I am still a freelancer at heart and I still do freelance work on the side. My loyalties lie with you. So, my dearest freelancers, masters of your trade, the creative ones who choose to do what they love even if it means going hungry - don’t take this shit. As much as it hurts in the short-term, refuse to work for those who do not pay you. Refuse to work for free. 'Exposure' does not pay the bills and every time you accept to work for free you are reinforcing the idea that it does.

Speak out about those entities who think your work is good enough to feature on their websites, in their blogs or on their billboards but not good enough to pay for. It may not be the most lucrative choice but hell, they’re probably not paying you or paying on time anyway. Let others know who these entities are so that the rest of us are not unprepared if an offer of work comes our way. Do yourself and everyone else a solid. Stand up for what is yours and maybe someday the industry will start to appreciate what we do.

Teensy poetical update

2014-03-02T14:59:00.002+01:00

Gosh it's been ages. Things happened. Nothing hurts.

Well that's mostly true. I mean it has been ages, things did happen and the majority of stuff doesn't hurt but I'm sure there's something I've missed.

I've been busy, either way. So here are a few haikus to walk you through the last month of my life.

Looking for new digs.
Moving house seems far.
Can't wait, get it together.
That's the one, shit son!

Weekend in Spain.
Layover was nuts.
And back again was much worse.
But wow that jamón.

Weekend in London
Miles in museums.
Mormon boys on stage, hurrah!
Ottolenghi's swell

A new job
Off to a newsroom
So busy, shouty, crazy.
And pay was on time.

Now that you're up to speed, I leave you with this.

Insert pun about selfies here

2014-01-10T10:16:00.001+01:00

Everyone has been going on and on about the teeny weeny "scandal" that hit this godforsaken rock a short while ago. You know it's serious because Ira Losco talked about it.

Every other status was (briefly) preoccupied with comments of varying flavours about the discovery of a Tumblr account dedicated to what could be called revenge porn. This is a thorny subject at best, bringing in elements of privacy, 'decency', the ubiquity of personal technology and our relationships with it. All very tangled up with our culture's views on sexuality.

So when this guy made a video, I paid attention.

He has the commitment and the balls to make a video every week. And he's funny. I don't know which I admire more in a person-I know-on-Facebook-but-have-never-met.

Generally I watch and nod my head. Often I giggle a little. But the belligerent badger within me found some objections to this line of thinking. And because a) I am belligerent and b) I have a blog, I figured why the hell not put 'em here.

First, let me reiterate my position on sex education. It should come from school primarily, parents next and well-informed literature after that. It needs to happen. It doesn't. This is a giant fucking (hehe) problem. Similarly, I think shaming women for doing whatever the fuck they like with their bodies is a lousy, misogynistic asshole thing to do.

Second, let me reiterate my position on our sexual culture. Slowly - and by that I mean a pace that would make a glacier look like it was trying to get to a hair appointment on time - I think people are loosening the fuck up. Yes, people are still weird about a lot of things. Yes, discrimination can and does happen if something about an unorthodox sexuality had to come to light. We need to talk about things but when talking about things can get you ostracised, it's tough going. It's there but I think it's changing slowly. Not fast enough but there's only so much we can do until people wake up and realize that no, they don't have to beat themselves up about liking a bit of porn every so often.

On to my objections. When I was first told about this series of incidents, the first thing that came to mind was (and I quote) 'he's a dick and she's an idiot'. The first part is pretty self-explanatory. It was a dick move to release images to the public that one was given in confidence and with the implicit understanding that they are not to be shared. Here's someone else who I think should keep things to himself. Moving on. The second bit might need a little unpacking.

Even if you engage in the most simplistic way with the internet, you have come across stories with headlines like - 'Teacher fired after pornographic image discovered online'. Hell, look at the Anthony Weiner debacle. What do we learn from all these sad tales? That having nude pictures of yourself leaked to the public will lead to life-altering, earth-shatteringly damaging consequences. Whether those are warranted is another argument altogether. People are stupid and they are even more so when hiding behind a keyboard. Why anyone should get a grilling because they expose a sexual side to themselves is beyond me but I think that that goes much further than my little blog could ever hope to explore and it is something that is by no means unique to the local culture.

Another thing you might have noticed - anything on the internet does not go away. No matter how long it's been sitting there, stuff on the internet sticks around for pretty much the rest of time. So one indiscretion could be rediscovered over and over, without warning.

So my problem with the naked selfies thing is not that these girls (and guys) took pictures of themselves to make themselves and/or their lovers happy. What gets you off is not my business (take note, anti-civil union, anti-gay adoption nimrods). Whatever floats your goat.

For reference, that's what that looks like

My problem is that these women in these pictures have shared these images, regardless of the ever-present risks; ones we are reminded of often through the misfortune of others. Not that they trusted the wrong person. Everyone does that at least once in their lives and the emotional trauma of that alone can be excruciating. I'm saying why take these pictures when the overwhelming evidence suggests that if those images are leaked, shit is going to go down? And it will remain there until the end of time because the internet does not forget?

Another statement that didn't quite feel right was the comment that people are riding this sordid, scandalous wave in search of their own little slice of the limelight. Yes, agreed and I think it's an international thing. But in that case, one should stay the hell away from Facebook. All it is - every single image, status, 'Like' - is an expression of a near-masturbatory desire to be acknowledged. If getting attention was not the point, the naked images would not have been made in the first place. If not for attention, why bother making videos or blogs at all?

And I would hesitate to overestimate the intelligence of the virtual hive-mind. These are the people who thought Asos was giving out free shit. Like a lot. These are the people who repost, retweet re-everything remotely interested until literally an entire newsfeed is occupied by the same damn thing all day. And then they move on to the next thing. Like a mindless snowball of virality, careening in, over and through the online landscape (and people's lives), it demolishes everything in its path with the same, dull-eyed, ravenous vigour. I honestly believe that the bile and rage are not personal at all. That same emotional outburst could happen as a result of a super cute picture of a panda or an image showing the brutality of war. People feel they have an opinion on everything and that opinion needs to be expressed as loud as possible. It doesn't matter what the appropriate emotional response is as long as it is metaphorically screamed from the rooftops.

And that should be a source of temporary comfort for the people at the centre of this 'scandal' - that once the general furore has died down, the next reiteration of their mistakes will be tame in comparison. The next time (and there will probably be a next time) their pictures surface, the reaction will be more like 'Yeah, seen those' rather than 'OMG MUST SHARE WITH EVERYONE I KNOW'. Because people don't want to seem like they're not up to speed with everything.

In closing, I would like to say that first, I am in no way blaming these girls. They are victims of a cruel prank that can have lasting repercussions. I am not saying that the denizens of the internet are not generally wankers. They are. And I am not saying that maybe everyone needs to rethink the way they regard nudity, sexuality and self-expression. They do. I'm saying that, as internet users, people need to understand that while they might disagree with the rules, they are, simply by virtue of being connected, playing the game.

Words of wisdom from a man in a dress

2014-01-06T14:53:00.000+01:00

I would apologize for the blog drought this little alleyway of the Web has been experiencing but I feel that's overdone. Life got in the way of posting, which is ironic because most of my life is spent...posting.

I want to say that interesting things have been occupying my time. That I've started a new cult or a line of clothing for agoraphobic dogs. Sadly, that is not the case. My new phone did arrive, after a great deal of drama involving a slightly retarded room mate and an ever-forgiving Mother Google. I have fully assimilated it into my soul and will be expecting our human/tech love child in 666 days.

Speaking of unholy emissions, it seems everyone's favourite man-in-a-dress-aside-from-Braveheart is having a field day with the press. He revealed, in what I imagine was a sickeningly smug theatrical whisper, that he had spoken to the Big-Man-In-The-Dress himself and that the BMITD was nothing short of 'shocked' about the idea of letting Adam and Steve tie the knot. The holy hard-on that must have ensued at seeing himself quoted on the front page of the Sunday papers probably poked some poor choir boy's eye out.

Not only does this man, who is meant to be entrusted with the sins and private worries of the Faithful, seem unable to keep a private conversation to himself but he also seems more than a little bit likely to embellish his story. I sincerely doubt that the BMITD himself believes our island paradise to be in an exceptional danger given that it has one of the highest concentrations of Roman Catholicism in the world. We're basically a little Catholic colony, the perfect combination of sun, sea, fun and bigotry for the world-weary Christian.

Back to our bishop. Frankly, who gives a shit? Let him say what he wants to, let him repeat the exchange that occurred during his little tête-a-tête with the Pope like the little snitch he is. He's barking louder because he's slowly, surely, painfully being castrated by the dwindling numbers of churchgoers, by a growing voice of disbelief and outrage from the thankfully sane segment of society. Everyone knows a gay person and most of those people have come to realize that we are not in fact Satan made flesh. We're just regular folk whose anatomy precludes us from adding to the already critical mass of human beings gradually eating away at the earth. And some of us* are nice enough to want to raise the products of ignorance, accidents, broken homes and just general bad luck of straight people.

The problem of abandoned or otherwise orphaned children is one that heterosexual people created. There are more kids without parents out there than there are families willing to adopt them. And this bishop dude is trying to say that giving those kids a home that is not an institution - and remember how those Church-run ones treat their charges? - or a lifetime of upheaval through the foster care system should not be allowed because Mummy/Daddy and Mummy/Daddy are not Mummy and Daddy. It is literally a matter of a single chromosome. That holy wine must be some dank shit if this makes sense to him.

Oh and one last thing. The politicians who B-Dog insists should vote according to their moral duty, should do just that. Except that their moral duty is to represent the constituents who voted for them. Some of those constituents are raving liberals who will have us dancing naked in the streets and all families considered equal in legal terms.

*Not me. Heavens no.

Poetry and other indulgences

2013-11-06T19:44:00.002+01:00

February 17th

I posted this here for two reasons. The first is that it is one of my favourite of Hughes' poems. Sharp and bloody and gruesome and reverent. The second is that I spend my days writing and rewriting mostly fluff pieces and sometimes I like to remember that there are better ways to put words together than that. Moving on.

It was mid-August. Sweltering. We'd spent the day by the sea. It was the day I discovered how much fun snorkelling could be. On the way back after our day out, due to an unfortunately situated slippy patch, my iPhone and the person carrying it fell into about 5 inches of water. Said person was disgruntled but fine. My phone, on the other hand, was not. Efforts to resuscitate it were futile.

Since then I've been making do with an elderly Nokia, one that has buttons and no internet capabilities and some excellent battery time. Aside from that last quality, I haven't exactly enjoyed my foray into the world of vintage telephony. Most notably, friends have responded to my baffled look when the conversation becomes alien to me by saying 'Oh yeah. No Whatsapp'.

An outcast, pariah or weirdo I have not magically become. Or at least, not any more than usual. I spend a great deal of my day at some form of computer or tablet - there is no shortage of screen time and I can't remember the last time I have been completely unreachable.

But there is a smartphone-shaped hole in my existence. People seem to believe that I am some sort of anti-tech, hippie, modernity-averse rebel. Couldn't be further from the truth. I love technology. Phones, computers, tablets, robots, aircraft, engines, circuits - all great!

I'm not saying this isn't a First World problem. I'm not. It is. But gosh do I miss having a 'regular' (because they have become the norm) phone. I miss making fun of Instagram hipsters while secretly applying filter after filter to my artistically blurred images. I miss completely forgetting about Twitter half the time then guilt-posting for a week before forgetting again. I miss knowing the weather in seventeen different countries for no reason other than liking their names.

So I have bitten the bullet, as it were, and bought myself a new phone. Will it increase my blogging frequency? Unlikely. But I will be very grateful for any commissions that come my way, in order to subsidize my latest acquisition. Check up top under the 'Commissions' button to see how you can get in touch and help fund my forays into expensive personal technology.

12 paws

2013-10-20T10:30:00.000+02:00

Living with animals is a constantly rewarding experience. For example, I am never at a loss when I feel that a piece of black clothing is missing some white dog hair. Similarly, I am never at a loss when I feel depressed and need a kind soul to comfort me.

They're also great teachers. No, this isn't going to be one of those admittedly amusing short-and-sweet sayings you sometimes see dogs lovers share on Facebook. Because most times, humping or peeing on something will get you arrested.

Not always possible.

But my three, wildly different dogs have taught me many things over the years we've shared together. Sadly none of them are brief, catchy witticisms but I thought I'd share the little bits of wisdom, one for each paw, here.

Nina

When being asked to do something you don't like the sound of, feign deafness until asked again. If it doesn't sound like a good idea at the time, don't be afraid of being suspicious. Despite this, you should respect authority and eventually do as they say.

Don't be afraid to be a little silly sometimes. Even the most serious person/dog can have playful moments. No one will hold them against you. Stop immediately if anyone tries to join in because...

You are better than everyone else. You don't make mistakes, just calculated deviations from the expected behaviour.

Be eager to learn, even if the biscuit reward is a long time in coming. That knowledge will eventually lead to more biscuits down the road and more biscuits are always better.

Toby

Don't worry about how you look in photographs. Let your hair/ears flap in the wind, crack a broad smile and enjoy the looks on people's faces as you whizz by, head out of the window and drool flying haphazardly.

It's ok to have a sensitive side. Whether you're a big strong beast or a delicate flower, you deserve to have your own feelings. Let people know when you're sad. They might help by offering biscuits or, at the very least, a scratch behind the ears.

Run. Run until you can't see where you started from. But not so fast that you miss the interesting things along the way. Keep your eyes (and nose) open for adventure and run towards it when you catch a glimpse.

Use your assets to your advantage. Never underestimate the power of puppy eyes. Or of an insistent tapping with a paw. Find out what people respond to and use it again - wisely - in future.

Maggie

Be enthusiastic about everything. Kick up your heels and gallop wherever you go. Your enthusiasm will bring a smile to people's faces and happy people are better, more biscuit-giving people.

Fear is a normal part of life. Don't beat yourself up about feeling frightened. Letting a little pee go isn't a crime either.

Never stop being curious. It keeps you young and makes good use of your neck muscles.

Show the ones you love that you love them. Let them know that they are what makes life worth living. Be generous with kisses and cuddle up to your favourite person often. Accept all affection gratefully.

Four wheels good. Two wheels better.

2013-10-16T19:00:00.000+02:00

Today was off to a slow start. I did that thing were your alarm goes off and you blink and suddenly it's half an hour later and you still smell like the dog who carefully climbed into bed without your permission. I don't mind waking up early but waking up startled? I look and feel like a zombie all day. A very twitchy, wide-eyed zombie who can't even keep their breakfast brains down.

So I get my shit together, make the aforementioned dog promise never to do it again and shut the front door behind me. Throwing a leg over the bike, I find myself wishing I didn't have to face the chilly wind, the other semi-conscious drivers on the road and that incurable condition, every biker's bane - helmet hair. But things need to be written, emails avoided and the general appearance of a productive grown-up kept up.

And it's fine. The starting off - coaxing a 15-year old machine to life first thing in the morning - is always hard. But once it gets going, it sounds thoroughly pleased to be awake. Which makes me feel a little less like I've been hit by a bus. From then on, I kind of manage to forget what just happened and what lies just ahead.

To you a nightmare. To me a challenge.

Before starting lessons in March, I had never ridden a motorcycle. I had admired the beautiful machines from a distance but never really got close enough to get to know them. I'm not sure when I snapped. It must have been another one of those interminable mornings, spent staring at the exact same license plate, series of scratches and dents and faded bumper stickers of the car in front of me, for the better part of an hour.

What can you do in an hour? I can do a number of things. Wash and dry at least two dogs. Write most of an article. Almost get through to a real person on a government phone number. But to spend an hour in traffic? To watch your life and your petrol trickle away right before your eyes, to the tune of the insufferable pop songs on repeat on local radio, seems a little like a waste.

So I made plans. I got in touch with a driving school and booked a few lessons. I went to the first one feeling both excited and a little fucking terrified. We've all seen the gory, gruesome results of what happens to motorcyclists when things go wrong. Road rash, broken bones, paralysis. What the frak was I doing, getting on one of these death machines?!

Slow down, Sparky. Lesson One consisted of getting to grips with the controls of a small scooter in an empty lot. Death machine it certainly was not. But goodness it was fun! I've been riding bicycles since I was a kid so balance was never an issue. With the wind in my hair and my eyes streaming from the breeze, I felt a rush of adrenaline as I raced around the car park.

I use the term 'raced' very loosely. As I sped up and down the deserted open space, I felt a twinge of fear when I accelerated too quickly or built up too much speed. I held on for dear life, sure I was going to fly off. At some point in this breakneck escapade I looked down at the display. I was doing a grand total of 30 km/h.

It's amazing what a difference a windscreen makes. In a car, 30 feels like a snail's pace. With nothing in front of you but road and only a small visor to protect your face, 30 is a whole lot faster. That's what I learnt during Lesson One. Even when you're not going very fast, you're still going pretty fast. This was further reinforced around Lesson Six when I braked a little enthusiastically and skidded a few feet across the asphalt. I was only doing about 10 km/h but my jacket was ruined and my knee still looks a little funny, even after the impressive purple bruising subsided.

Lessons eventually moved to the open road and again, the terror set in. What if's zoomed round my head like caffeinated hamsters. But eventually they died down too. Not completely, of course, and it's a good thing too. Nothing like the fear of impending catastrophe to keep you vigilant.

I've been driving unaccompanied for about a month now. Going from guided lessons to real life presented similar liberties and obstacles as when I first started driving a car. Firstly, the bike was different. My slow-but-sure Daelim is not as sprightly as the Yamaha 125 I was driving before and is a little more heavy to maneuver. It's also up to you to stay safe - there's no one behind you with a hi-viz vest making sure no one overtakes too closely.

This is what mine looks like

Still, we're doing well. My commute is, on average, around 15 minutes. Oh and another interesting point on the learning curve. That fearless weaving through slow traffic? Those close shaves with car mirrors while whizzing past the morning gridlock? Yeah, they don't cover that in lessons. That one is on you. And till you get the hang of it, it's a pretty daunting prospect. But as with most things, practice makes perfect. Or at least, it makes for fewer clipped mirrors and angry motorists.

The romantic in me wants to make a grandiose comparison. Like how motorcyclists are the urban cowboy, navigating through the mindless car-cattle that are mostly placid, queue-forming beasts who sometimes misbehave and try to get you killed. I could say that the feeling of freedom that, paradoxically, comes with putting your helmet on is one you cannot really explain. But I'll leave you with one single, highly relevant fact. I spend 10 euro on fuel every ten days. Are you convinced yet?

A little housekeeping

2013-10-15T23:11:00.000+02:00

Greetings kittens! My goodness it has been a while hasn't it. I can explain but at this stage I doubt you're listening. And I don't blame you. Very irresponsible of me, leaving you out here all alone. Sincerest apologies.

Things have been changing around here. Get this - I now write for a living. Yes yes I know - I've been doing that for years. What's changed? I'll tell you what's changed. I no longer have the privilege of doing so in my underwear. Still, the regular pay cheque is a welcome addition.

In an effort to breathe a little more life into this blog, I'll be mucking about with the way it looks. I tire of this colour scheme. It does nothing for my complexion. So mind the heavy machinery and we'll hopefully be back to a regular posting schedule shortly. It might be a little slow at first. Coming up with ideas for someone else all day leaves me precious few for my own personal use and abuse. But I shall try!

In the mean time, here's a classy cat.

And now for something completely different

2013-08-29T09:49:00.002+02:00

I've been a little busy lately and haven't been able to keep up with the veritable cornucopia of local foibles. Here's an excerpt from a piece I wrote, and have yet to finish, after a recent holiday. I figure I could post it in instalments, when I don't have the chance to blog about serious things like self-immolating buses, racism and controversial graffiti.

There's this bit of land in south east Sicily that I keep returning to and the budding anthropologist in me tingles with the prospect of one day studying the tiny community that lives a respectful distance from our boundary fences. It's a nice change from the decidedly unwanted intimacy I share with the neighbours at home - I wonder if Maverick and Shanaia have taken in the laundry like their mother asked them to about a week ago.

The trip to Pozzallo, a 90-minute boat ride away, often reminds me why I need a holiday in the first place. The operator used to offer trips to Catania, aka the shopping mecca for Maltese mothers, their bored husbands and awfully behaved children. While that route has been discontinued, many locals and their broods have taken to holidaying in Pozzallo and hunting for bargains there and in the nearby towns. Occasionally the adults have the foresight to charge some kind of device or to bring crayons and paper to occupy their offspring but other times, Emrick and Nirvana take to running up and down the aisles to amuse themselves. I don't know what's worse - the annoyance of brats dashing around the cabin or their parents' futile attempts at getting them to sit down for half a second. 'Emerson, jekk ma tpoggix bil-qieghda, nifqak'. Luckily the film being shown on the many TVs in the cabin usually holds their attention long enough for me to tie their shoelaces together. Only another hour to go….

After the predictable crowding around the exit, despite being told to remain seated, the rabble disperse down the stairs and into the Sicilian air, a bracing chill in winter and a brittle heat in summer. A 30-minute drive gets us to the little hamlet we will temporarily be calling home. While it's hardly completely isolated from civilization - the highway is maybe a mile away - the silence is profound. As a city kid, I'm used to the noises of traffic and road works and Maryrose from across the street calling the layabout husband a muntun ikrah. Here though? Here it's just magpies squabbling over bird politics, the occasional braying of an irritated donkey and the distant intermittent hum of agricultural vehicles. The first time I came here, the quiet was unsettling. Oppressive and muffled, having nothing to occupy my eardrums was the source of the tiniest, almost unnoticeable anxiety. I got over it pretty quickly when I realized the donut guy, the ice cream van and the bigilla dude had no way of reaching me here.

The front gate lies at the end of a private road (read: dirt track over a dried up stream bed) shared with two other families. In the winter, it's not unusual to see rabbits darting back into the undergrowth as the rev of the engine gets closer but in the summer, the vegetation is burnt to a golden crisp, the air is hazy with ripples of heat rising off the ground and the rabbits are deep underground in the cool comfort of their warrens. A cluster of squat, square buildings comes into view, sloping roofs covered with curved, ceramic tiles that once might have been reddish brown but are now grey with age and spattered with lichen. The sound of an unfamiliar vehicle draws out any number of dogs from the shady outbuildings. The Little Fox was nervous and suspicious of us when we first visited but now he trots over gleefully, baring his teeth in a somewhat conflicting show of happiness. He knows we bring food with us and the shaggy brown creature rarely returns home when we're around. A white, short, bow-legged female called Pippi sometimes comes too. She is the favourite of one of the neighbours' kids and as such has been taught to 'sit' and 'shake'. The rest of the group is a somewhat unpredictable combination of Pippi's offspring. Neutering dogs is not standard practice here and besides, the dogs are alarm systems, vermin control and theft deterrents, not pets. Puppies are born as often as they can be produced but few make it to adulthood. A motley collection of dogs accompany the car to the gate and wait as someone gets out to open it, demanding a scratch behind the ears. Not a bad welcoming committee, even if they are covered in fleas.

Racist to the finish line

2013-08-03T17:03:00.000+02:00

With the temperature frequently in the 30s and lots of swimming to be done, I have to say it's been difficult for me to get wound up about much. Given that I spend half my time in the comfort of a temperature controlled lair and the other shopping for Dewfresh, '60% pork' sausages, nothing has been getting under my skin deep enough of late. With a(nother) degree under my belt, I figure I've earned a month or two of sun-induced apathy on all fronts. It is too hot and I'm too relaxed to get worked up.

Of course it was never meant to last. And last it did not. The immigration crisis (as the fear mongers are so intent on calling it) and the human rights violation Joseph tagħna¹ only narrowly avoided brought up some pretty intense feelings for everyone. As with everything from a football match to the village festa, this issue polarized the nation² and is still causing poorly constructed outbursts on everyone's favourite news portal. Half were outraged that these invaders, these freeloading, thieving, raping, socially and religiously inflexible illegals were not going to be shipped off to right back to their savage, uncivilised land. The other half have at least a small measure of compassion and reason.

All the hubbub brought the crazies out in full view. I consider myself lucky in that my Facebook feed showed, for the most part, that the people I know were shocked and horrified at the mere suggestion that any of these migrants might be denied protection and sent off to a fate that does not bear thinking about. There were a few racist pustules that needed excising but these numbered perhaps two or three. Still the whackjobs wormed their way into my consciousness and managed to break my self-imposed exile from intense feelings. And here we are.

First, we seriously need to get over this fear of strangers. It kind of shows how little faith you have in your elected officials, the police force and, if you really wanna stretch it, your god that you believe that because black-skinned folk show up, society, justice, freedom and everything else we generally take for granted is going to go up in flames, leaving behind it the charred wreckage of a culture that never stood a chance. Without immigration, we wouldn't be here. Everybody who came here (and we have been pretty much every European power's bitch since some guy in Sicily thought, I wonder what the pygmy elephants look like further south) left their mark, on everything from our architecture to our language, our social structure and, most importantly, our genes. We are the results of centuries of international shagging around. Talking about purity, about being a separate culture is absurd. And the people who end up here? They don't want to be here. They do not come with the intent to subjugate or change our society or ransack churches or whatever crime our previous overlords had in mind. They are here by accident and they, like me, can't wait to gtfo.

Which brings me to my second point. So these migrants end up here, after a harrowing journey across open water with no promise of arriving anywhere at all. If you were to go by the ToM comments, you would assume that after setting foot on our hallowed little pebble, these people are treated to what basically amounts to a free holiday. They get healthcare, free accommodation and, you know, nothing bad. I don't know about you but every time I book a holiday I'm careful to choose a destination where I will be discriminated against on a daily basis and have my identity stripped away because having a particular skin colour obviously means that I come from a certain place and am a certain way. And don't forget the living space! I myself like to choose a nice and reliable open centre - cramped, sweltering, filthy and with little to no privacy. For the long term, I would consider my employment prospects. I'm really into having no job security, being paid minimum wage or less and having to hang around busy intersections in hopes that someone likes the look of me and gives me something to do for the day. I don't know which migrants the rabid racists have encountered - I'm sure they all drive Audis and enjoy full body massages daily, all the while stealing our jobs and ruining our lives in general - but I can tell you that according to pretty reliable sources, most migrants here face daily hardships and struggles that make me think no, this is not a fucking holiday for them.

And you'd think, what with our constitution bearing the standard for Roman Catholicism and all, that we would be keen to prevent suffering. Guess not.

Contrary to popular opinion, I'm not naive. I mean sure, I almost dared to hope that AD would make it to government but we're all allowed a fantasy now and then. This is a complex problem that will not be solved by simple, singular measures, posturing in order to 'stand up and be counted' included. There is probably little we can do to stop the inequality, military and social unrest and corrupt governance that forces people to leave their families behind to spend what little they have on a ticket off the continent on less than reliable vessels to an uncertain fate. But a little sensitivity, a little compassion goes a long way. First, recognize that the people who arrive here are not just 'blacks'. Eritrea and the Congo and Somalia and Ethiopia - these are separate nations, with their own vast variation in language and culture not just between them but within them as well. Shipping everyone off to Libya to 'send them home' is like forcing me to go and live in some remote Italian village because hey I'm European right? Never mind that I can only string very basic sentences together in Italian and could never bring myself to be interested in football.

Second, gently but firmly remove head from ass. Migrants are not moving in to your living room and helping themselves to tea and biscuits. They are not stealing your jobs but they do wash the dishes when you're done at that restaurant and they do lay the bricks to make the stylish apartment building that's being built next door. If you are concerned about the survival of your culture, you need to take a trip to Toronto and Sydney and pay very close attention. Some of the cultural artefacts they cling on to are almost entirely forgotten here - that's what a preserved culture looks like, acting as a sort of mummified link to a precious and familiar past that is hardly recognizable to us living here today. The culture we currently live in, the one you're so concerned about, has never been static or any particular 'way'. Tourism and legal migration have created a social environment that includes influences from west and east Europe and further afield. Industrial investment comes from across the globe and is cause for celebration and a source of pride. Your culture is changing and it's not the black guy sweeping the streets that's causing it. Get over yourself.

Third, instead of organizing failed protests, do something constructive with your time. I get that it's a small country and things are getting crowded (try board a bus between May and October and you'll see what I mean), but sending people, real human beings much like yourself, into situations that are almost guaranteed to result in mistreatment, torture and death is not the answer. Push for a restructuring of policy, make a racket that the EU cannot ignore, without endangering other people's lives. Or even threatening to. It's childish and petty and may have some serious, unpleasant and unexpected backlash. Stop making out that your life is being drastically affected by 'boat people' when you can't bring yourself to loudly and obnoxiously speak out against environmental degradation, hunting, the shocking rate of illiteracy in some communities and other issues that do not make you as uncomfortable. Because let's face it, you're only getting worked up about this issue because it forces you to share with people who are different to you. One who are, at least in theory, equal to you and who cannot be abused, mistreated and discriminated against in the way your Neanderthal consciousness demands of you.

¹ Let it be known that I have little to no political affiliation. I lost my faith in local politics a while ago, roughly the time this government was elected and not a single seat was won by the green party. I have no preferences. This guy and his diehard fans just give me the creeps.

² A big phrase for something closer to two rival flocks of parakeets squawking it out than anything substantially alarming.

Regular Scheduled Programming

2013-06-22T08:45:00.000+02:00

My goodness it has been a while! Four months, to be exact. Which, incidentally, is how long it takes me to a) realize it is (was) now final year and b) do something about it. Now that that's done and dusted, I figured that I could no longer ignore my bloggy commitment and would need to return to the wonderful world of making shit up sooner rather than later.

Sadly, as it has been four months, the process takes a little practice to get back into, as it were. I imagine it's like riding a bike. Which something I've been doing the past two months. On one of these, if we're interested.

Yes I have been tearing around the island (slowly, timidly but with a growing sense of confidence) on one of these babies, under the watchful eye of a nice, patient instructor named Robert. Soon, I will not be the hot, bothered, increasingly sweaty idiot, stuck in Marsa traffic for an hour, directing unpleasant and threatening thoughts to the lucky bastards whizzing in and out of the rows of cars, breeze in their faces and destinations that much closer. I will be one of those lucky bastards.

And speaking of lucky, I'd like to take a second to be grateful for my good fortune. Today is the final day of the local Pride Week and while it's not nearly as decadently wonderful as say San Francisco, Amsterdam or one of the other big cities' festivities, it does make an effort and gets points for trying. My feelings towards the festivities aside, I know things could be worse. Much worse. Like, 'cannot leave my house for fear of persecution' worse. Or maybe 'cannot return to my house for fear of persecution' worse. And despite the religious bigots digging their heels in and refusing to move towards the light (which is fine - I am sometimes at a loss for something to write about and they are so obliging!), there are signs that suggest that things are looking up, at least in public's perceptions and even (though I hesitate to get too excited until something concrete shows up) the law.

Yes, I know this post was not as side-splitting, thought provoking, genially entertaining or generally life altering as what you, esteemed readers, have come to expect, demand and deserve from this blog. But one needs to ease in to things gently. And one is still feeling a little mentally sluggish after a marathon of exams and essays so one will need you to cut one some slack. Things will be back to normal in no time.

Gif me a second to explain

2013-02-18T10:45:00.000+01:00

Well I've finished all my first semester essays!

Buuuut that means that there is nothing preventing me from starting to study for finals.

Overstating a little

So obviously I figured I'd write a little something before plunging myself into Hamlet. No, not like that. Weirdos.

Let us begin our roundup. A week ago, a certain small snippet appeared in the newspaper which.. made clear certain things about me and the SO. Namely that a) we have a pretty funny how-they-met story and b) that I look good in a tie. Some people were not aware of these two facts beforehand and a few had strong reactions. 'I had no idea you looked so good in a tie! Why didn't you ever tell me?!' was one. 'Your story is not that funny. In fact, I didn't even finish reading it.' was another. The former was as much a surprise to me as anyone - how could you not know? The second was.. well it was predictable and a little sad. Who cares what you think about our story? It is objectively excellent so there.

Another person who seems to think his opinion should be of interest to everyone is my dear dear friend Joe Zammit. I've never met the man but he's given me so much grief and the beginnings of a peptic ulcer that he almost feels like family. Someone equally pissed at him is the bishop. Whose article reads along the lines of: ' Joe. What are you doing? Joe. Stahp.' Although granted, his message is not any less ridiculous. I think the church needs to understand that it is no longer the source of moral guidance for the majority in our society. Most of us turn to the internet for that nowadays. So really, all His Bishopliness is doing is reminding the Rabid Fans how to be bigots accurately. Showing them what they can and cannot use in an argument in order to reinforce their hateful and prejudiced outlook. If you're going to spout nonsense, make sure it's nonsense we all agree on.

Other nonsense includes any and all political activity. I somehow managed to get myself onto a number of lists so I get called at awkward times, often repeatedly by different representatives, and asked whether anyone in my family needs transportation to our voting hall or if anyone in the family needs assistance with flight arrangements. At first I was annoyed. Then I fucked about with whoever was calling. Told them I was voting for Zaren. Told them I was too high on marijuana to understand what they were saying.

And now, alas, I must return to my work (read: must carefully debate whether today is THE day to start studying). As always, thanks for reading and comments are much appreciated. Here's to a week filled with cuddly animals and unexpected pay rises.

Wouldn't it be nice

2013-01-17T13:34:00.002+01:00

... to have something else to talk about?

I've had to put a previous blog post on the shelf because something else showed up today, like how when one moment you have a cat and the next you have a cat and the hairball it just puked up. There I was, minding my own business, when suddenly...

Now, I'd like to think that I am moderately adept at stringing words together. But in this case, I simply do not have them. I will instead demonstrate my reaction.

Let's just say that a social experiment is currently underway.

Moving on, I would like to address some of the ridiculous claims being made about The Gays. I feel I have some authority on this matter because ... I read a lot. Ok, here it goes.

If such a child sees one of his two fathers sodomising his other father that child would be in great danger of following that example - and we don't want that, or do we?

- taken from a ToM article, written by FRANCIS SALIBA, M.D.*

First, witnessing one's parents ... er ... getting down, as they say, never has that reaction. While I've never had the misfortune of stumbling across that kind of situation, I would imagine that 'MY EYES! MY EYES!!!!' would be a more likely reaction than 'Damn. That's hot.' If someone has the latter reaction then I think there are other issues that need to be addressed.

Second, that nefarious final clause. Thrown in there, no doubt, to highlight the nefarious intention of The Gays to annihilate the human race by promoting butt sex and an appreciation for musical theatre.

Third, butt sex is totally not just a gay thing. But I must applaud FRANCIS SALIBA, M.D for his capacity to insult several groups of people with his single comment - The Gays, the sexually liberated and the marginally intelligent. Bravo, sir!

And whilst we are " bending" the moral foundation of society should we allow other alternative sexual practices to become acceptable ???
Just because people enjoy a swinging lifestyle should they be offered civil rights ? Perhaps we can have 3 wives each ? and 3 husbands. as well.

- taken from the same article, written by one adam spalding

First, did anyone else just think of basketballs?

Second, hehe balls.

Third, he makes it sound like the entire Western world (never mind those savages elsewhere) totally and completely depends on the possibility of one man marrying one woman. Seriously, everything depends on it. Can you read a paper in the morning over your orange juice? Only because men marry women. Can you walk down your street safely? Marriage is the benevolent force that keeps shit together.

Fourth, this 'bending' he speaks of? Happens all the time. Mostly among straight folks, because there are more of them. And the difference between a swinging lifestyle and a gay lifestyle is that the former is much easier to hide in plain sight - the neighbours could be banging your other neighbours and thanks to some basic covering of tracks, no one would be any the wiser. But holding hands with the SO is still invokes a double take from more people than you'd expect. Swinging couples are offered civil rights - they can get married, they can have and raise children. Polyamorous families exist - more than two parents, different sexual combinations etc - and they have their ups and downs too. The only reason they do not demand rights (which would, by the way, affect everyone else as much as granting gay rights would i.e. not a sausage) is because they are so small in number. Heck, Mitt Romney is a Mormon. You know, the Conservative (not to be confused with the tomato paste) who ran for President of the USA? Yeah. Him. Mormon. Known for their well-dressed, if annoying, representatives and for having many wives.

I AM AGAINST GAY MARRIAGES AND CHILD ADOPTIONS BY GAY / LESBIAN COUPLES. EVEN GOD, HIMSELF, WE KNOW THAT THERE EXISTS IN GOD THE PATERNAL LOVE AND THE MATERNAL LOVE. NOW, SOME SUPERMINDS WANT TO TURN GOD'S PLAN TOPSY-TURVY, BECAUSE OF EGOISM. NO, FOR THE SAKE OF THE CHILDREN ADOPTED WE SAY "NO". NO TO GAY MARRIAGES AND NO TO CHILD ADOPTIONS.

- taken from the aforementioned Facebook group, written by one Tony Mahoney

First, stop shouting.

Second, assuming we take the bible to mean God's plan, we debunked that old thing years ago. The mid-1800's, to be exact. That's when slavery was abolished pretty much worldwide. And we all know how the bible feels about slaves. For the unenlightened, I shall summarize. 'Keep slaves. Treat 'em nice but you're the boss'. When that went out the window, so did the credibility of the text as a moral guide.

I'll leave you to gaze in awe at the comments and members of this group - everything's public, that's why I left all the names in. Oh and apparently, a number of people have been added to the group without their knowledge or consent. If you're not into bigotry (I hear ya, it's very 1900s), you can remove yourself from it. But not before hitting that 'Report' button on your way out. Beggars can't be choosers - when material presents itself, I'mma blog the bejesus out of it but frankly, I'd love a new topic to work with.

*Every time I read his name, I feel like he should be either a) walking around with a cane, curing mysterious illnesses while passing inappropriate remarks or b) wearing a cape, mask and Y-fronts over Spandex, brandishing his medical degree like a sword.

Interlude

2013-01-06T22:39:00.000+01:00

My goodness my goodness! Father, it has been almost a month since my last submission. Nothing terribly noteworthy has happened in that time. I did get my car fixed, which brings to an end the little game I was playing with my neighbours, seeing how long it would take them to get irritated at the fact that my dusty old bucket hadn't moved from their neck of the road for a while. I am nearly giddy with excitement that I can drive myself around again without having to rely on the beleaguered SO or the temperamental bus system. Although the fuel expenses have returned, I do not miss having to leave home an hour and a half before any engagement, only to marginally improve my chances of getting there on time.

Christmas was a subdued affair for the most part and New Year's was similarly mellow - I remember everything and not a hangover in sight. This probably means I'm getting old but fuck it. These days I get excited about going to bed so the bar ain't set very high. I have a long list of movies I would like to watch and an even longer list of things I have to do - the two weeks of break did absolutely nothing to shorten the latter and served only to lengthen the former.

The political crap begins once more tomorrow. Sometimes I wonder how the veteran bloggers - with their frequent posts - do it without putting a bullet in their heads or in those of the morons around them. Local politics is like living with two autistic toddlers - loud, incomprehensible and contrary. Only with autistic kids, you can teach them to communicate. These idiots are beyond help, bludgeoning the unsuspecting civilian with tired slogans, sniping billboards and childish back-and-forth. I'm an indifferent liberal, get me out of here!

My next post will be infinitely* more interesting and it won't take a month to write so stay classy, readers, and tune in again soon.

*Within reason

Good Jesus is watching you

2012-12-10T15:10:00.000+01:00

It's always about the gays isn't it? It seems like the one thing preventing the salvation of everyone on Earth is same-sex attraction. Why are the militant religious nutjobs always after the homos? In a completely Freudian sense, it could be a latent desire for the lifestyle. How is one man marrying another man going to bring the world to a crashing, sin-basted halt if it wasn't for the sneaking suspicion every Christian has that they too will succumb to their urges to bang well-sculpted men? In every Christian lies the secret wish to give up Jesus Christ and take up with Jesus, the gardener with the diamond cut abs.

Good Jesus

Bad Jesus

I know that all I seem to be bleating on about lately is the depressing state of the nation's prejudice. Frankly, if I didn't, I would have nothing else to write about save the yearly Christmas-is-crap rant and maybe a few pictures of Norman Reedus being awesome with a crossbow. The locals seem to hate everyone! And I think it's so cute that the ToM commenters who, in some cases, spend long long minutes typing out each post using only two fingers, carefully copying out their favourite lines from the Bible, think they will make any sort of difference in the world, whether related to the news item or not. I don't know about you but seeing one comment after the other spewing homophobic bile makes me roll my eyes, not rethink my entire lifestyle. "Darling, I can't be with you. I don't want to be a vessel of the Devil's lust," said nobody, ever.

People the locals hate

More people the locals hate

So as the faithful raise their cries, clutch their pitchforks and freeze multiple portions of imqarrun for the impending armageddon, I would like to congratulate those homos in Washington, Maine and Maryland who stuck it out. Who put up with haters like those crawling about the cesspit that is the ToM comments section for years and years, to be rewarded with recognition. Count yourselves lucky, folks. At least it's on the ballot where you live. I still get weird, borderline aggressive looks when I'm out with the SO. We have a long way to go and frankly, I'm not sure I or most of my peers have it in us to stick around while this backward little dustheap gets its head out of its own ass, looks around and gets a grip. To those who do stick it out locally, you have my support, well wishes and a blog archive with plenty of snark to keep you going.

Braying for Salvation

2012-11-14T09:37:00.001+01:00

As I sat down to lunch a few days back, drawing the crumpled cafe newspaper towards me, I had to take a long, deep breath before I could pick up my chicken, cheese, chutney and mushroom toastie. The letters section of the paper caught my eye. Namely, this article caught my eye. As I didn't have my laptop with me at the time, my fury was vented old school - on a sheet of paper - and had to sit there until such time as I could get home and proofread it. I've already sent it off to the paper in question (where else would a battle such as this be appropriate, if not in the carefully curated selection of bile we are presented with every day, in the middle pages of the Times?).

If I'm honest, I'm not sure they'll print it. Or at least, if it does show, it will do so long after the initial crap fest appeared. So here it is because I tend to feel validated when I share the venom with others. It is as short as I could make it but with the benefit of 20/20 hindsight, the letter presents a number of the fossilized arguments which are commonplace among the local herd of bigots, constantly trotted out like tired mules in an effort to rebuke all confrontation. I think those arguments are ripe for the euthanizing and that might indeed *SPOILER* be the topic of another post in future.

With reference to yet another of Jacqueline Calleja's morally enlightening letters to this paper ( Adoption by Same-Sex Couples, November 9th), I feel compelled to report back with a few scientific findings of my own. The American Psychology Association, one of the most highly regarded mental health institutions in the world, has stated that based on a consistent body of research, it finds that same-sex parents are just as likely to provide a healthy and loving environment for their children as their heterosexual counterparts. In essence, kids with two parents of the same sex are just as emotionally and academically developed as peers raised in heterosexual households.

And if you get past the religious dogma pounded into the welcoming skulls of the faithful, it is not hard to see why. I would argue that the sex a parent has absolutely no bearing on their ability to love their child and provide for him or her. A stable household, good employment and the health of the relationship between partners is much more important. This is where adoption agencies and their very thorough vetting process come in. Nobody adopts a child on a whim. Most straight couples think long and hard before deciding to have their own, let alone embarking on the long, expensive and nerve-wracking process of adopting someone else's. On merit of this perseverance and determination alone, I would say that most gay couples who are deemed fit to adopt by the relevant authorities are more suited to be parents than the two clueless teenagers who were never educated about contraceptives (another topic Ms Calleja and I have disagreed on in the past) and as a result became parents long before their own childhood was well and truly over.

Despite the string of poor arguments Ms Calleja's letter was riddled with, it was her final paragraph (no doubt thrown in there as an attempt to connect emotionally with her audience) which was the most offensive. Equating having two mums or two dads with having one parent and a tragic loss is both ridiculous and an affront to anyone with more than an ounce of emotional intelligence. That little girl, who tugged so vehemently at Ms Calleja's heartstrings, wept not because she lost a mummy. She wept because she lost a parent, someone who loved and raised her and who she could not imagine life without. I wager those tears would have been just as real and just as heartfelt if that little girl was mourning the loss of one of her dads or one of her mums.

Something about taking the law into your own hands

2012-11-05T20:25:00.001+01:00

I am hesitant to take on student issues (beyond the usual gripes about admin inefficiency and the fact that I'm missing a kidney from that one time I really really needed a parking space on campus), lest the overworked academic masses think I'm turning on them and using my powers for evil instead of entertainment. But I think I'll make an exception this time just because the dramatic wailing and gnashing of teeth just cannot be ignored.

This week, student news source The Insiter posted an online article (here) about how, bless their poor cotton socks, law students are being subjected to the horrible horrible process of being held accountable for their lecture attendance, or lack thereof. You know, that system that most other faculties have been enforcing for years now? Anyway, the student reaction was as predictable as it was pathetic. Collectively, something along the lines of 'Uwejja how unfair ma!' Some tried to articulate themselves better than my mostly-accurate general stereotype would have you believe. Read the link above and this one for a delightful selection of reasons why the local student body is in fact a little bitch.

Someone once told me that being a student at UoM was (and is, really) my full time job. Hence the monthly 'salary'. I've always regarded it that way since then. So imagine my disbelief when some students are expressing disdain at having to do the job they're being paid to do. Sure, the employer might be a little shit sometimes, making you stay late to do meaningless or unpleasant chores, but you are being paid so you do them. Eventually, the payout is a degree. You want the degree, you do the work, simple as that really.

One argument put forward amid the cacophony of angry protest is that students should want to go to lectures. Like they ought to feel this moral compulsion, a tenacity toward the pursuit of academic and professional development that they cannot and will not ignore. This philosophical, almost spiritual calling should be inspired by the deft skill and pure force of charm of those delivering the lecture. Like apparitions of knowledge, the lecturer must enrapture and enthral, inform and enlighten, sing and dance... wait no scratch that, I was thinking of something else. Even abroad, where students and/or their parents pay through the nose for a world class education, you'd be hard pressed to find a student who has not once thought, Christ, this is boring. Everyone can think of several better things to do when faced with the prospect of being made to do something. My dentist appointment next Wednesday? I'd rather be extracting lint from between the toes of an elderly gibbon than sit in that chair while my dentist makes disheartened sounds at the sight of my overcrowded jaw and veritable magpie nest of fillings. But, as being a grownup will no doubt show you, sometimes you have to do things you don't like.

Similarly, outdated notes and a lack of textbooks are quoted as reasons why the big mean University should not expect anything but the modicum of respect and participation it has so far received. As one newly-fledged blogger (though I do hesitate to use that term) laments, how could the innocent student be expected to thrive under these deplorable conditions? I have three words in response. Suck. It. Up. Outdated notes still require learning. A lack of modern and updated textbooks leads me to believe that once they graduate, the LLD alumni retain that apathetic, complacent, entitled attitude they spent so long cultivating at university and never bothered to produce anything academic again. I was going to make a joke about how many of them should have all the time they need, in between the filing and photocopying, but I won't go there because I know that filing and photocopying are no easy task.

It would seem that while most of us, like the schmucks we are, have been turning up to lectures for years because attendance is important (never mind the sometimes mind-numbing boredom that might ensue), the law students have had it easy for a very long time. And now, like the Christians of old, thrown into the arena with hungry lions for the pleasure of a blood-thirsty crowd, they too must bow to the whims of the faculty they are part of. I think their protest, really, is more towards the fact that they are suddenly being held responsible for their actions, like the rest of us plebs in the Arts and the Health Sciences, rather than towards the new regulations. Because heaven forbid our free, nay, subsidized education require a little effort.

Walking Debt

2012-11-04T13:21:00.000+01:00

This week has been shit. If I could just find the receipt, I'd send it back with a passive-aggressive letter of complaint and a free stool sample. The first half was congested and plagued by the headache signature of the common cold. I spent a few days holed up, either at home or in the SO's living room, watching one episode of 'The Walking Dead' after the other. Between my coughing and their gurgling, I think I've been thoroughly desensitized to all the horrible sounds the respiratory tract has the capacity to produce.

Someone pass me a lozenge

The next part of my week saw the spectacular crash and burn of my finances. Some unscheduled car repairs, a heap of text books and notes and a penchant for Turkish food have seen the numbers nosedive to depressing depths. I'm officially bankrupt. This after having been almost immediately dismissed at an interview because I am 'overqualified'. What does that mean, exactly? I'm a graduate looking for a minimum wage part-time job. I hardly think a request for a pay rise was my top priority. So that was disheartening.

Amazon.com - Best Online Realtor

But other things have been not-that-shitty. I've started taking guitar classes, getting one step closer to becoming an 'Irresistible Chick Magnet'. All I need now are a functioning car and a bank account that doesn't make the US look comfortably well off.

I'm also in the running to win a gorgeous piece of (totally frivolous, otherwise overpriced) technology, thanks to the Sunday Circle, a stack of dog treats, a marker and an endlessly patient terrier. I've already harassed most of my friends for votes but here's the link and the video in case you're feeling generous and can spare exactly 1.5 minutes of your time.

Furthermore, the draughty sound coming from my imaginary bank vault has spurred me on to do something I've been meaning to do for a good few months. I have updated my 'Commissions' page with a price list and you can take a look at that on the bottom right of this page. This update, along with my snazzy business cards* makes me feel both proactive about the 'get a job, don't die in a cardboard box' thing as well as super funky cool.

The next thing on the list is a revamp of the look of this blog. I know I've neglected it somewhat this past month and I feel like a change is in order. I think this template is a little clunky and not as streamlined as I like my websites to be. Expect a little dust and bring a hard hat. There will be new things coming soon!

*Ask me for one next time. I like handing them out.

Hot Topic

2012-10-10T16:58:00.002+02:00

What is with this gosh-darned country? I know, I know; how much time do you have? But seriously though. It's October - folks abroad are marvelling as leaves turn brown, carving out pumpkins and wrapping up warm. Meanwhile I'm sitting here in very little clothing trying not to die of dehydration (I'll let that delicious image simmer for a moment).

I turned 24 the other day. Sure, the 'magic' of birthdays tends to wither up and die once you're past the age of parent-sponsored parties, heaps of gifts and just generally being congratulated that you did not die for another year. But I still set out with a spring in my step and a smile on my face as I, taking some initiative now that I'm older, congratulated myself on not having died since the last October 4th. Money troubles mean that gifts from family are usually of the financial kind and I am most appreciative of that but sometimes you just miss the wrapping paper and ribbon and things you know?

Anyway. So I toddled off to school, avoiding the Freshers' Week crowds and noise and harassment via leaflet and sat down in my first class of the year. A realization slowly began to trickle into my head as the minutes ticked by and less and less of what the lecturer talked about made sense - this shit is hard, yo. I know that sounded a) very pretentious and b) like a terrible impression of a black gangster. It's not like I'm some crazy intelligent, if misguided and socially disadvantaged, youth on the streets of Brooklyn, just waiting to be taken under some venerable teacher's disciplined-but-well-meaning wing. I'm not suggesting that I'm some prodigy but I'd like to think that my many many years in tertiary education have made me better at the whole learning thing. I'm better at taking notes and picking out the important stuff than I was when I first started this convoluted journey (which, for the curious, began in 2006). But there I was, thoroughly lost as one lecturer replaced the last and still, things were unfamiliar. I blamed one of two possible causes. Either my brain, newly aged by 365 days, had broken down due to overheating or I was out of my depth. I'm not sure which I'm leaning toward, to be honest.

But more things were destined to vex me this week. Some guy thought it was cool to run some other guy over because that guy insulted him by questioning his rock-hard heterosexuality, back in 2004. In a truly spectacular demonstration of the courts' efficiency, the case was brought before a judge this week . The magistrate acquitted the grevous-bodily-harming wingnut (ok ok, gave him a 'suspended sentence' - same thing) on the grounds that he had a reputation to protect and that his home town was especially intolerant to such intimations. Now, I know a few folks from Mellieha, who have lived there since long before 2004, and I find, through my small but reliable sample, that they're equally tolerant/homophobic as the rest of this backwater cesspool we call home. As such, I know that these adorable Northerners will have no objection to me coining a term at their expense. Next time, when some jackass cuts you off in traffic, skips ahead in a queue, acts obnoxiously towards your girlfriend, don't go for the bog standard 'faggot', 'pufta' or other homosexually charged term. Use something more culturally relevant, something that will hold up in court as you defending your rights/woman from the dreaded Northman - notorious womanizers and traffic hazards. Call that bastard a 'Melliehi'.

Coming Out A Bigot

2012-09-23T15:47:00.001+02:00

I was listening to Dan Savage's 'Savage Love' podcast the other day. If you've never heard of him, google the man and read his weekly column. It has changed the way I view relationships of all sorts and is handy in keeping up to date on the LGBT news in the U.S. And the guy is funny. Anyway. Dan, being a raging homo himself, often gets calls from kids, mere teenagers, posing questions about coming out to their parents or other loved ones. Sometimes the problem is relatively straightforward ('Are there any resources I can give to my parents?'), other times not so much (one call comes to mind wherein the caller's mother was a religious pastor in their community and he wanted to come out to her with the least possible upset to all involved). Dan himself had started the 'It Gets Better' video campaign which to date has had thousands of submissions and helped countless youngsters.

As the train of thought wandered away from that station, I thought of the way things are changing for the better with each consecutive generation. The grip of the Church is loosening a little. LGBT visibility is the best it has ever been - gay characters appear on television, well-known people are coming out, everyone knows someone whose sexuality doesn't quite fit the mould and that's fine. Gay marriage is discussed (though the balance of those discussions is debatable, particularly locally where everything is tied to one political party or the other. Just FYI, my standpoint on that is that you can agree with everything under the sun in principal. But until you say 'Yes, I want every individual to have the same rights and I will make that happen', I am not voting for you). But before this turned into an uncharacteristically optimistic post, I came across a Facebook exchange that made so little sense, it still baffles me.

In essence, one man posted a status that said that while he is fine with gay marriage (bless his little tolerant heart), adoption of children by said married folks is not 'in the best interest' of those children. A barrage of opposition followed, stating quite rightly that having a mum and a dad is no guarantee that said child will have a stable, loving, nurturing home to grow up in. The original poster agreed. Someone else brought up the fact that in some circumstances, children are brought up by two same-sex parents anyway - a mother and grandmother, siblings, whatever. Original poster agreed; the sex of the 'parents' didn't matter. So, basically, this man thought that a) parents, biological or otherwise, of opposite sexes do not ensure a good upbringing for the child and b) in caring for a child, the sexes of the parents are irrelevant so long as the child's physical and emotional needs are met. He said all this like there was a case to be made. At first glance, there really was not. He started out disagreeing with the idea of a same-sex couple adopting kids and ended by having no opposition to the principal itself.

This, I think, is a smoke screen, frequently employed by the anti-gay-everything folks in a sad attempt to hide their fears. They worry that by having Dad and Daddy as positive rolemodels, little Junior would think it's ok to be gay. Worse still, they worry that by talking and growing up with Junior, their own kids will think so too. To quote a handy Maltese word 'jithajjru'*. They might be tempted to try it out, unaware of the depravity they are about to commit. What bothers these people is that eventually, once everyone figures out that gay men are not automatically pedophiles and gay women are not failed and dissatisfied housewives, they will have to talk to their children. Explain things to them. In other words, they'll have to parent. And in talking to their kids, their bigotry might start to show, creating a sharp contrast between the loving same-sex parents and the seemingly normal families they raise, and the dismissive and disgusted attitude they will undoubtedly attempt to pass on to their kids. Eventually, they will call you on your shit and start to realize that not everything mum and dad say is right. While this is normal part of growing up for most people (that sudden realization that your parents are people too, with flaws and biases of their own), it might be a little shocking for those families whose kids are expected and sometimes encouraged to live at home well into their thirties. Their intention is to make it more difficult for their kids to 'be gay'. What they're really doing it making it harder for them to come out.

I've often said that the best punishment for homophobes is to have one of their own kids come out to them. That incongruity between love for your child and baseless, dogmatic belief can go one of two ways - a tearful acceptance or a painful estrangement. Homelessness in the U.S is disproportionately represented by LGBT teenagers kicked out of their houses because their parents couldn't put to rest their bigoted views. Luckily, things are changing. As more people begin to let those views go, the shitty parent is now seen as the Bad Guy. No longer is the child blamed for something they cannot control. The parent, the seemingly rational adult who raised that child, is now the focus of disbelief and anger expressed by an increasingly understanding society. The pressure is on them to get over themselves and embrace their children, the ones they implicitly promised to love till the end of their days. I wonder if and/or how these bigots' ideas will change when they see that their political views will have a direct and negative effect on those they love instead of being an abstract set of opinions that have no impact on them at all.

*Newflash: You can't catch it. Otherwise not a single heterosexual soul would have ever left all-boys' or all-girls' schools, ever.

Wet Blanket

2012-09-06T12:10:00.002+02:00

Occasionally, something snaps. I make no qualms about voicing my distaste for a lot of things on this little rock. Hell, most of this blog is me bitching about one thing or another. But this morning the proverbial camel's scoliosis held out no longer. The metaphorical (and final) straw came this morning as I stood in line to buy a carton of milk. Two chattering old vultures were busy yammering loudly at each other, making my still swimming head pound with each obnoxious syllable. As one of them made to leave, the other turned around to finish of the conversation in a similar booming tone. Even though I was standing right behind her, she thought nothing of yelling at her friend, straight into my face. I think something in my expression got significantly and noticeably homicidal because the clerk, who had urged both screaming harpies to quieten down several times, let me pay for my solitary purchase immediately. Maybe she was worried about what a chalk outline and yellow tape would do for business.

The story, as many do, goes further. I wasn't in my town this morning, where they believe in not making eye contact and going about one's business in silence. I was in the south, staying with the Significant Other because our house had no electricity. Going on 36 hours without power makes everyone a little desperate. My mother was worried about the contents of the freezer, two computers and the modem got fried during the storm and I had literally nothing to wear because laundry day can't really happen without a functioning washing machine. So I legged it south and breathed a sigh of relief as the internet connection was restored, little green lights flickered on as electronics charged and a faint hum from the wash room told me that I would have clean undies for another week. As I write this, two days* after we lost power and countless images of the past few days having floated past my newsfeed (Msida underwater, Birkirkara underwater etc.), I can't help but lose another fraction of hope.

Our country is headed into the ground. There, I said it. One exceptionally stormy 24 hours brought an island and the lives of many to a grinding halt. You know, a storm like the ones we have every year. The same roads flood. Many more become a hazard as tarmac and debris form an obstacle course for anything on wheels. Sometimes people get hurt. The towing companies and insurance firms have a very busy week. Why is this still happening? Why does it take a dozen phone calls and nearly two days of helplessly watching peas defrost and battery levels fall until someone is sent to restore power? I, like a prophet of old, will tell you why. Because the people charged with dealing with this sort of thing are too busy hanging on to the perks of their job. I wonder how many of them live in low-lying areas themselves. I'd imagine anyone having to deal with knee-high rapids on a regular basis would be in a much greater hurry to solve the problem. That this is an indication of a greater problem goes without saying. It is said, after all, that the people get the government they deserve.

'Oh lighten up!', I'm often told. 'Appreciate what you've got!'. A few days ago some patriotic soul made an admittedly appealing video about Malta. (Link Here). It made expats homesick and flooded my newsfeed, along with comments such as 'Proud to be Maltese!', 'Love my country!' and so on. Yes, I get it, it is pretty. I appreciate that I can forget to lock my car at night and not have anything stolen from it. I really appreciate the free education and I'm a fan of the healthcare system too. And granted, the place is pretty, albeit a little too hot for my liking. It is a tourist haven with a low crime rate, more history than it knows what to do with and pastizzi. But frankly, those appealing aspects do not, at least for me, outweigh the issues that drive everyone up the wall. A quirky, inefficient bus system is no great inconvenience when you're here to soak up the sun and relax. The same cannot be said when you need to get somewhere on time. The relaxed attitude of the locals is wonderfully refreshing when you're on holiday but not when you need any sort of service in a reasonable amount of time. The lively women who talk and take ages in shops may seem quaint and rustic to an outsider but for someone with sensitive eardrums and things to get done, they are just another symptom of the selfish, inconsiderate and utterly oblivious attitude that makes us an adorable place to visit and a nightmare of a place to live.

*Written two days post-storm, posted three days post-storm from the Uni canteen. Free wireless for everyone!