Posted September 17, 2007

GIMME SOME COURTNEY LOVIN'

I was disappointed with the poor excuse for a protest at APEC last weekend. Here we were, a chance on the world stage to stand up and show people what it meant to be an Australian.  And what happened?  Three-fifths of bugger-fucking-all.  The cops, who were doubtless all keyed up for some ring-a-ding action, were reduced to having to pull suspects off the grass in Hyde Park, spilling the odd latte.  Not a single Starbucks or McDonalds window was smashed.  Our hotshit new water cannon went sadly unused.

What sort of message does this send to the world?  Our leftie agitators are weak as piss!  I know a few one-time leftie agitators – now retired to the suburbs and agitating in front of the teev along with Kerry O’Brien - with misty-eyed memories of being hammered at Vietnam moratorium marches and nuclear disarmanent rallies and I think I can put at least one finger on the failings of their current counterparts – they don’t drink.

This lays bare the true story behind all the anti-drinking palaver of the last several years – it’s riot control!  At this point, it’s worth noting that of a small sample of football fans entering the MCG that night, one third were already over the limit.  Notably, there were no riots at the footy.  The MCG, however, was full of Gen Xers and balding babyboomers.  The protest was full of those namby-pamby Gen Yers.

Lately, I’ve stumbled across a few articles on the net about how employers should treat Yers, despite them being rude, outspoken, whatever.  Suck up to ‘em, treat the little darlings with kid gloves.  Actually, all the Yers I know are good folks.  They like staying out late drinking, they like guitars-and-drums-rock&roll, but they don’t bother with protest marches.

Maybe they don’t bother watching the ABC or SBS enough to absorb all those sanctimonious attitudes, that tend to decry fun as some kinda distraction from the important things in life, like protesting against the free enterprise system.  Which is, thus far, the only economic system that demonstrably improves quality of life and generates enough wealth for the hardworking folks in its universities and research centres to be able to put time and effort into figuring how to cope with massive blows like climate change.

Well, on that subject, it did give us Al Gore, too, he of the carbon footprint equivalent to several million hungry Africans, but you gotta take the good with the bad.  Incidentally, George W Bush’s Texas ranch is the very model of an ecologically concsious home. If only he could grasp the irony…

Fact is, we live in what is increasingly becoming a nanny state.  Don’t do this, don’t do that, don’t have fun.  Germ hysteria among young mums is breeding a crop of kids with severely reduced natural resistance to simple bacteria that we wouldn’t notice.  Stranger-danger phobia means those same kids don’t get to hang out with their mates, free of mum’s deadening hand, to explore their world and use their imaginations and maybe fall out of a tree and break their arm.  It strikes me, among the kids I’ve met, that they’re a lot smarter than their parents generally give them credit for.  

But as if that aint enough, look at the way the nanny state treats us adults! Evil-eyed Tongans lurk around the doors of late night pubs refusing entry on the spurious grounds that “You’ve had enough.” It’s hardly the fucking point, is it?  What the fuck else are late night pubs there for?  Then there’s speed cameras, which I consider a crushing blight upon my personal pursuit of happiness.  Despite having written off numerous cars and motorbikes, I’ve only ever hit another vehicle once, and that was when I fell asleep.  Bit of a shame, that bike was a helluva lotta fun.

Anyway, I trust in you readers being smart, well-informed folks who can figure out where this is heading, so I’ll just leap ahead to the solution. Women.  Two women in particular.

Democrat presidential nominee frontrunner, Hillary Clinton.  Rock and roll tragic and Hillary’s should-be running mate, Courtney Love.

Okay, I bet some of you have just choked on the bongwater, but trust me, this is a match made in heaven and exactly the tonic the western world needs right now. Hill’s a real hardarse.  Not for nothing did John Birmingham name the carrier in his excellent WW2.1 trilogy USS Hillary Clinton. She’s got the grim and serious side of things locked down.  But in a world in desperate need of some passion and honesty, she’s gotta dump all those career politician types and get Courtney into the camp.


Courtney Love, honest?  You bet.  She’s in to the rock and roll lifestyle way too deep to be anything else.  Sure, she might lie and cheat in order to sleep with another girl’s man, or score some good drugs, but in doing so, she is being true to herself, y’dig?  If she wasn’t hopelessly honest, she’d’ve never released a song like ‘Mono.’ It’s the single greatest chick rock song ever released.  Some of it’s about Kurt, some of it may be about Dave Grohl, even.  It’s a confessional, a psychological textbook case crammed with loneliness and abandonment, it’s a great song and she really gets stuck into singing it.  Plus, it features one of my alltime fave couplets:

Give us brilliant boys we wanna fuck
Full of ecstasy, hard drugs and bad luck

This, on an album titled ‘America’s Sweetheart.’  The lady’s got a sense of humour, too.  She’s also a great example of that American talent for re-invention and the drive to be a rock star.  From groupie, to hacking gtrist, to rock goddess, to getting the boob job and going to the gym and being on the cover of Vogue modelling haute couture.  Her latest appearance in the public eye was some of those ‘tasteful’  nude (ie, no map of Tassie, and just a hint of nipple) pix in Harpers Bazaar.

Yeah, we know she’s a fuckup – but who amongst us could seriously blame her for that?  Not I.  And she’s made a success of herself in her chosen field of endeavour.  Not just in music, she was great in ‘200 Cigarettes’ and even if she was kinda playing herself, she still showed great screen presence and a classic cinematic relaxed attitude in front of the camera.  I gotta admit to a strong personal resonance to that movie, tho, connected as it is to a beloved but insane ex-girlfriend.  She really dug Courtney, more than a hint of identification there, I’d guess.

So, we got here a woman with the balls to share herself with the world, to reinvent herself, who pulls herself up, falls over in a dribbling heap, and gets back up again.  Being a self-made woman, she’s demonstrated more chutzpah than most Veeps of recent memory.  Gore simply took over the family business, Quayle was a borderline illiterate idiot, Cheney didn’t want the job, fuck, if only he’d stuck with Halliburton, eh?  And you wouldn’t want to see any of ‘em in a glittery red little cocktail dress, hey?

Think of the possibilities!  With Hill and Courtney in the White House, respected world leaders would fight each other for a photo op in the Rose Garden.  Cabinet meetings, in those low soft armchairs, Courtney’s legs stretched out on the coffee table.  Keep Condi on as Secretary of State, the most powerful nation the world has ever known, run by three women. That’d piss the serious fucking hell outa those shithead Wahabaist Muslims, eh?

And here’s where Courtney could really play her part.  Honest, passionate, crazywild, she’d set an example for every young woman in the world - if I can do this, so can you.  She’d turn the world on its fucking head.  Moreso, she’d be a shining beacon against the dull-witted creep of asinine conformity.  She’d smoke those White House cigars!

After all, this is a woman who once stated “Cultural revolutions are in the hands of guitar players.”
 

 

 

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