In my life, I’ve had five headaches. Including hangovers. Extraordinarily fortunate by any measure. But each one has been the worst pain imaginable for any human being and nothing could cure it and it will never end. Until it ends and everything goes back to normal. I’ve never had a broken bone and been hospitalised thrice but only once as an emergency. Even in matters of the heart when I thought this is the worst pain ever and no one has ever felt pain like this and I would rather die than go on and every heartbreak song was written just for me, ends. And then shit gets way better. Have you met my wife? Waaaaay better.
(Awkward segue)
Special forces soldiers, of which I am the opposite, are trained in hand-to-hand combat. The training involves conditioning to remember that a punch, cut, stab, slash, through-n-through bullet wound is not the end of life. If you can still move, you can still fight.
Same for mere mortals such as I. Or is it me?
I’ve had times where the pain (which is just a feeling and you all know how I feel about feelings) seems insurmountable. A very wise friend told me once, ‘this moment is not the rest of your life.’ Such a great line to remember. Just like spring always follows winter amazing stuff always happens after the shitty times.
A constant reminder stuck just below eye level on my desk. I find fear comes from not knowing the right, best, correct, most effective or simply from an unknowing path forward. Those of you who have been following along will already appreciate my stance on taking action; any is better than none.
For me, hard work has almost always involved thinking. I’ve never worked a job digging holes although that is not to say I’ve dug a hole. Many years ago I helped my brother-in-law dig a trench for him to lay an electrical conduit. Conduit is straight. My trench was not. I think then he realised that my talents lay elsewhere and digging trenches was not one of them. Staying awake during meetings has on occasion constituted hard work. Dealing with some particularly difficult clients had been hard work. Trying to get paid by those same clients had been very fucking hard work. Lugging tons of gear from studio to location and back again is hard work. Lifting tons of steel in a gym is hard work. Having patience is hard work. Not punching dickheads in the face is hard work. But I think working hard is incremental. It’s one more set. One more rep. One more headline. One more idea. One more hour thinking of a better solution. One more phone call. One more doing what I don’t want to do because I might fuck it up, get it wrong or take the safe route.
I know this to be true because if my ego was my friend it wouldn’t have fucked up my life so many fucking times.
Once again dear reader I’ll take this opportunity to remind you my degrees are not in psychiatry or other fields of mental health so anything year read here is one step above complete and utter rubbish.
However in saying that, my major educational endeavours have dealt very closely with the exploration of the ego and to that end I can attest if you are following your ego as some kind of life coach your will be fucking up beyond all recognition in the not too distant future.
Human beings seem to be the only animals on the planet to indulge the ego. All the others just get on with getting shit done; which is mostly eating and rooting and generally trying to make it through to tomorrow which just became harder for whales because Japan has declared open season on them once again. Of all the atrocities man carries out on other men and the environment this one seems to impact me the most. Perhaps I was a whale in a past life. I’d love Sea Shepherd to get their hands on a used Russian submarine and just destroy the Japanese whaling fleet with depleted Uranium torpedos boat by boat. No quarter, no mercy. But that’s not why you’re here today.
More proof of the evil ego possess comes from that literary giant Stan Lee. In ‘Guardians of the Galaxy 2′ the character Ego, a God-like creature, admits to ‘planting cancer’ in the brain of Peter ‘Star-Lord’ Quill’s mother. Ego, portrayed by Kurt Russell (no relation AFAIK) then gets his ass handed to him (after doing the man-dance on epic scale) by Star-Lord for committing this most heinous of crimes.
I was very fortunate to have my ego removed by succession of creative directors as I worked my up the greasy ladder of the advertising industry. One by one, papercut by papercut my ego was whittled away to nothing more than a shell made of soft brain tissue. It took some time, many years and was incredibly beneficial because I used to be a real asshole.
Think I’m a wanker now? Should have seen me in action 25 years ago!
My mum used to say, “there are plenty of tombstones in the cemetery for people who died defending their rights.” Typically she was referring to other road users who, while defending their right-of-way would do something stupid.
If you drive you know this situation. And it isn’t getting better out there. How many times have you experienced someone roar past you only to be at the same set of traffic lights moments later.
When I was learning to ride the instructor cautioned us to ‘ride to your limits – by the time you catch up to your mates they’ll only just be taking their helmets off’. It is so true. The first couple of long day rides I went on with more seasoned riders I was always at the tai; where I liked it. And always when I caught them up my coffee was still hot.
But this saying extends way beyond driving and riding. I’ve deployed this maxim with customers, clients, staff, suppliers, managers, friends, family, strangers and wives. And almost daily on Twitter.
Who has time to argue about shitty, insignificant rubbish when there is so much to do. You want to tell me black is white? Fine, I’m colour blind so go your hardest. Feel in the mood to tell me my language is too coarse? Ok, but fuck off anyways. If you want to argue shit then you need to look at your life and expand your horizons. Look up from the dirt and start seeing the clouds.
And I know this to be true because I used to do it every-fucking-day in some lame ass attempt to prove false superiority.
Buckle up kiddies; only 12 sleeps to go and this shit is getting real, bitches.
Many years ago my sister was at a school careers night. She was in 4th form (as it was then called) and the school had invited a range of local business owners and other professionals for the kids to talk to about life after school, ie, work.
One of the invited was a B-grade Australian TV celeb. And B-grade is rating him really rather high. He was then a weatherman for the ABC. In fairness, this carried a little more kudos in our family as dad worked for the ABC too, behind the scenes. Although, for many years I did think my father was the ABC 7:00 PM news reader. Follow my 5-year-old logic here. 1) Dad was never home at 7:00 PM. 2) Dad looked a lot like James Dibble who really was the ABC 7:00 PM news reader. Ipso facto, my dad was James Dibble. Not so much it was pointed out to me. Dad was actually moonlighting in a second job as a projectionist around Sydney’s drive-in theatres.
Anyways, my 14 year old sister strikes up a conversation with this wannabe meteorologist. He asks, “So little girl, what do you want to be when you grow up?” My extremely creative sister responds, “I want to be a graphic designer.” “Really?” says the dude who now has to work for a commercial network and hasn’t got a creative bone in his body, “that’s hard to get into. Maybe you should try something else.” Can you hear the dreams of a little girl’s balloon popping? It was 1980 and if I had a time machine i’d go back to that moment and punch him in his nose so hard it would go back into his brain.
This is not to say my sister’s life and career haven’t been fantastic and she enjoys her role as the registrar of a private girl’s school very much. But still, that bloke’s a cunt.
Fast forward a couple of years and I had a similar experience. Dad had taken me to Film Australia’s Lindfield HQ where he was catching up with some of his old mates. I was there because it was school holidays and couldn’t be trusted alone at home. Like history repeating itself one of dad’s mates (whose only experience in film production is showing the finished product on a big white sheet) asks me, “So little boy, what do you want to be when you grow up?” Firstly, I have never been a ‘little’ boy. I answered, “I want to be a cinematographer”. Like a ninja decapitating an enemy’s head he quipped, “So, you want to be unemployed.” My dreams were dashed at the same rate that laughter filled the air. Their rationale was Australian cinematographers rarely worked professionally.
Fuck those fucking fuckers. Now in those days I didn’t know an aspect ratio from an ISO so I’m not suggesting Kev Costner should have called me to shoot Dances for him. But in that short time, my course was readjusted down a very different path. Which has still been amazing and I wouldn’t swap for anything… except maybe an Oscar.
I remember the first time I had this thought. I’ll be happy when I get a bike. The pedal kind. That’s how young I was. Sure, as a pre-teen, my mind was not really considering the ramifications of basing my happiness on external things. Happiness for me then was defined as food and other basic necessities which were mostly delivered by mum and dad.
As my interest in photography grew so did my desire for new gear. I needed the latest and greatest, I thought. At that age not realising that the greatest images taken to that time had been captured with little more than a Kodak Box Brownie.
So the cycle continued and grew and diversified into other areas. I secretly congratulated myself on achieving all my ‘goals’ of acquiring the things I wanted. In reality, all I’d been doing was acquiring debt for things; nothing very clever about that.
It took a long time, many credit cards and massive life-changing event to realise these things were actually doing the opposite for me. I’d like to say that I have changed my ways entirely but the truth is I still like nice things. There’s a Mercedes-AMG GT with my name on it somewhere in my future. I do not however
I had a chance meeting many years ago with a very wealthy Australian fashion brand owner who steered (pardon the pun) me in the right direction. While giving me a tour of his new Ferrari F430 he said, “I never buy anything like this unless I can afford to pay for it three times over.” He wasn’t trying to be a wanker or show off. But it was a lesson well learnt.
I’m pretty sure I own fewer things now than at any other point in my life. My tools are generally not the latest but function very well. The toy, trinket and gadget collection has shrunk considerably in the past decade. But my experiences have grown monumentally.
This guy says it best.
Relative happiness is happiness that depends on things outside ourselves, such as affluence or social standing. While the happiness such things bring us is certainly real, it shatters easily when external conditions alter. Absolute happiness, on the other hand, is something we must find within. It means establishing a state of life in which we are never defeated by difficulties, and where just being alive is a source of great joy.
Tis the season to be jolly. So why are so many people not? The pressure we put on ourselves, and others, to deliver a TV level of Christmas perfection causes more angst than merriment.
Many years ago I relaxed both my expectations of others and perceived expectations put on me. I used to buy (literally) into the ‘dollars equals love’ bullshit equation. Guess what?
Ah Christmas. I’ve been very fortunate to have never experienced the family dramas that many seem to endure. Mostly due to the fact that my family was very small. For many years it mum and dad, big sister and me, a grandmother and great-grandmother. Then the great-grandmother died. Then mum and dad got divorced and it became just mum. Then my big sister got married. Then had number 1 daughter. Then number 1 son. Then grandmother died. Then I got married the first time and my family exploded. Then mum died. Then I got divorced. Somewhere along the way, dad came back. Then I got married again so my family grew again. Then number 1 daughter got engaged and now married so the family is fucking enormous. Lots of personalities with opinions that need to be shared through the amplification of alcohol.
The above quote is from Craig Ferguson, a Scottish-American actor-comedian and recovering alcoholic who uses this little ditty at family functions and other events to curb his enthusiasm for pointing out other people’s idiotic points-of-view.
From this point, he arrives at Harmony. A destination not oft visited by many including yours truly until recently. It is such a pleasant locale unlike the nearby towns of I’m Right and You’re Wrong.
But the real beauty of Harmony is how easy it is to get to.; just follow the directions above.
The number of times I’ve tied myself in figurative knots over things which have turned out to be (and in reality always were) complete and utter shit is staggering. I wish I learnt this one way before I was 30.
Few things are actually, really important and they are all pretty obvious but not appreciated until they are lost. Health would be #1. Love would be #2 (giving and getting) and arguably #1. #3 for men is probably career or at least dollars in return for labour; aka contribution. For women, #3 would be family, I guess. And career. 🤷♂️#woke #glassceiling #etcetc
I’ll take this opportunity to rant a little at the media. Like any business, they need to create income. They sell advertising space to create revenue from presenting information packaged in a particular style defined by the publisher. Not fucking rocket science. So then, why do they present so much fucking bullshit like, at the time of writing, Karl Stefanovic’s divorce, marriage, removal from hosting duties of the Today show and his brother’s ah, let’s call it firing, from the same program? FFS, it just doesn’t matter. I get the vultures are circling mentality of the competing networks and rival print publications but seriously if you read this shit you are either next to be fired from that show or are so fucking devoid of mental function that I suggest you take a long walk off of a short pier.
This world has serious problems which need serious solutions and the most powerful and influential industry in the world feeds the masses on who’s fucking who. Well, fuck that shit. We need to stop clicking on those links, reading those bullshit, made up stories. They are nothing but a distraction to get us to look at ads for shit we don’t need to impress people we don’t care about.
These are the two finest examples of the problem. The first written by my favourite TV screenwriter, Arron Sorkin is from ‘Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip‘ which I don’t think ever aired in Australia. The scene shows the Executive Producer of a Saturday Night Live TV show loses his shit on-air and rage against the industry.
With the exceptions of ‘The Empire Strikes Back‘ and ‘The Godfather: Part 2‘ follow-ups, sequels and second acts are rarely as good and even more rarely better than their original. Both these films had the same creative forces driving the project and many if not all of the acting talent from the original (even Sir Alex Guinness returned for his ghost scenes in Empire). Occasionally the thrid movie can return the franchise to the limelight as with ‘Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade’ and ‘Oceans 13’ but abso-fucking-lutely not as with ‘The Hangover 3’; they would have retained more dignity by just asking for donations as people walked out of ‘The Hangover 2’.
Look at the ever increasing train wrecks of one-hit-wonders the music industry forces upon us on what seems like a daily basis.
Originality is a wonderful thing. Its enemy is risk. And it appears to me that the world is becoming a more risk-averse place moment by moment. The chances of getting an original creative production green-lit are getting slimmer all the time. Big production companies invest heavily in sentimentality by rehashing childhood concepts so we get 6 more episodes of Star Wars then we needed, another reboot of Star Trek and for some fucking unknown reason two versions of Footloose with rumours of another spin of the wheel in 2020. FFS!
Years I ago I was told that Sony Films make 20 movies a year knowing only 10 will make money, but they don’t know which 10. With an investment strategy like that, it is plain to see why they have to be very wary of originality and why we get Footloose Part Fucking 2. I hope the towns folk win this time.
It can be even worse in product development. Every year car companies show their wares at car shows around the world. The most technological advanced, aeronautically designed, fucking awesome machines that make you not care about where petrol comes from, how much it costs and what the environment is all about anyways. Then, after all the excitement we get the same old boring shit year after year. And to illustrate my earlier point about sentimentalism, Chrysler gave us the PT Cruiser and now Ford us delivered the latest iteration of the 1960’s mass market Mustang which it appears has become the new bogun-mobile. Apparently, ownership requires sagging testicles, baldness, zero taste and being OK with spending more than an equivalent Mercedes-Benz with far better build quality. And still, Ford almost went bust a couple of years back.
When I look at great creatives there is very little if any repetition in their work. Sure, they have developed their own style which they then overlay on top of original concepts. For example, JJ Abrams has a penchant for lens flare which he uses liberally in his films and TV shows. The stories are vastly different (with perhaps the exception of the Star Wars v Star Trek crossover). Annie Leibovitz’s photographic style will go down in history as singularly unique yet no two portraits resemble each other. Brett Whiteley always painted the female form from a particularly unflattering angle. No two works are the same.
I have struggled with originality since first stepping into an advertising agency. There’s an unwritten adland rule that says, ‘any ad is original if the idea first appeared 10 years ago or 10,000 kilometres away’. I saw that rule deployed many times. I saw creatives pitch ideas using the original concept in a foreign award annual as the rationale for selling the idea! I’ve also seen a guy fired for doing that so all’s fair in love and advertising. I shared office space for a long time with a painter (not of houses) who only painted from photos. And not his photos. After winning a rather prestigious art award with one of his painting (with some serious cash and kudos as the prize) the well-known judge enquired as to whether the painting had been created from life or photo. When he replied from a photo she said, ‘if I had known that you would not have won.’
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