Packaging Can Hold Items, But Not Anger or Love.

My boss mentioned to me the other day, when I complained of the excess cardboard and Styrofoam in the import desks and chairs I am tasked to put together, that the packaging industry is 'the best one to be in'. I like knowing things for sure and rarely take anyone’s word point blank, I am the pain in the ass googling your dubious or semi-dubious claims mid-conversation, but I took his with a fair whack of credence. He is a business owner, and has been going ever-steady for 20 something years. Anyway, turns out he is right, https://www.visiongain.com/Press_Release/546/Global-packaging-market-to-be-worth-709BN-in-2013%E2%80%9D-says-Visiongain-report . Go ahead and scan, it isn't exactly Twilight or something else that people like reading. But the number should jump out, 709 billion dollary-doos. With that kinda dough I could buy me some eyeballs, or recreate NASA 38 and one half times. It seems it is in the best interest of the industry to pack the holy-shit out of everything.

But I am a begrudging believer in that old beauty; capitalism. I will deal with the excesses of the packaging industry at work because I too live and die by the bottom line, the dollar (or the Pound sterling if you round your vowels and drink tea). Where I am less accepting is in the home, as a consumer.

You have won the game. You spent untold money on getting me to the point of looking at, let alone buying, your product. Don't bend me over now. Just let me get it in my greasy mitts so I can realise what a disappointing and unnecessary purchase it was, stew in the depression of wasteful spending until I can go out and buy some other space-age and impossible to open dodad, lather, rinse and repeat.

By now you have probably conjured some or another image of an item of packaging that has broken your heart in the past, but let me be specific so I can keep this shittiness from killing me early.

Hard Plastic Vacuum Sealed Goods.

My best guess would be that this is the inbred child of security and display. Sure, it looks good on the shelf, but you can't exactly slip it out of its cover and pocket it. Logical enough. But for the same reason it is not an easy steal it is also an easy frustrator. Likewise, the same reason it looks good on display is why I want to get to it as soon as possible. This combination has led me, at various times to; using serated knives, chopping as though I was trying to split wood, burning my way in and chewing for countless hours on unforgiving plastic.

Thing is, I totally get the purposes of this kind of packing. The other thing is, I have seen it done better, we all have. The simple button/hole with staple method is much less maddening and equally secure and pretty. Doing it any other way is encouraging homicide in normal suburban consumers, who only wanted razors and not the slaying of human meat.

Shit That Makes Me Wanna Keep The Box.

I fucking hate clutter. Anyone who knows me will hate this about me, but also vouch for its truth. Clutter is as bad, or worse, than a gastro infection that causes you to shit and puke out ten percent of your mass. It may even be worse than unforgiving cotton underpants jammed between your buttocks on a hot day, at very least it is line ball.

Then the point of high-end companies like Apple, Samsung, Sony and LG is to jam unforgiving cotton between my buttocks. Sure I am a fan of the product itself; works great, does everything I need of it, makes me look like I have some sense of taste and so on.

The unfortunate by-product is packaging that has that same appeal. Sure it is good to look at, but the bigger predicament is the cost of high end goods. In tossing the box of a smartphone or laptop or whatever, I feel like I am throwing money away. On their end the it is simply a way to make their shit look as good and high-class as it is. On my end, it's why I have a useless wood-grain Samsung phone box cluttering the fuck out of my emotional China Shop.

CD's

I am one of those dumb fellas who still, on occasion, buys CD's. I don't really do it for some weird righteous reason, I am not better than you and I am not trying to support true artists or something. I just like the booklet. The music was never the be all, end all for me. I like reading the lyrics, the thank-you's and where that shit was recorded.

I do prefer records, though not because I am a hipster hell bent on image. Proof? This is me right now:

The bottom half is grey also, like my soul.

I like records better because they sound better and also because, unless you are an arse hole, you can't fuck their packaging up. It is forgiving cardboard and unless you are wearing sports footwear a step won't make a huge difference. Also the artwork is bigger and the liner notes are often more in depth.

Forward! CD's for the most part, are made of plastic jewel cases. Likely efficient to produce but a fucking nightmare if you buy one. The hinges fail, they crack with a strong wind and the packaging they use for double-albums is a whole other blog. The reason the discs themselves prospered as they did is that they are nearly invincible. Provided you take care of them they will, theoretically, play forever. Or, at least, for a long ass time. Vinyl does not have that, but at least you can't fuck the sleeve up unless you are trying to. Some people just want to see the world burn.

Dust Jackets.

I know, this is the thing that will determine the value of your super rare book. But most books aren't super rare and any hard back falls into one of two categories:

1. It has the same image on the dust-jacket as the cover.
   In this case there is exactly zero point in a dust-jacket, unless it is a first edition.
2. It looks cooler without the dust-jacket.
   The thinking behind dust-jackets is that they can, sometimes, contain more information without cheapening the book itself. A good example is Billy-Bob Clinton's creatively titled 'My Life' which features this generic ass picture.
   
   
   

The book beneath that bullshit cover though, kinda super classy. Black fabric with gold lettering, like most books that have a dust-jacket.

My other major issue is that it is pointless either way. Dust is not the problem it once, apparently, was. We have vacuum cleaners, feather dusters and we don't primarily live on the plains any more. Also, how do paperbacks deal with dust? Is it merely the realm of high-society?

Non-Twist Top Beers and Beverages.

You guys know how sometimes people pretend they are cooler than they really are, right? Their uncle might have been to Vietnamn, they are fifteenth cousins with Brad Pitt or their Dad was one of the original Hells Angels, and one of the most ruthless. In fact, Hells Angels are only as calm as they are today because your mates dad was so psycho?

Yeah, well this is the drink version of that. Something so pristine you need to buy a special thing to access it, or fuck up your benchtop or teeth. Cracking these things open is a hot skill for the fact it has to be. If you have a slab of Becks and no opener you have to improvise.

What I am saying is that the difficulty in opening a beer should not equate with the quality of said beer, yet it does. The rule is basically this; a pop-top is a superior drop and is thus worth the time in popping said top.

It is super not true. Every beer in the world should be a twist top. I don't care how classy you feel popping the top on a cold one, it should be easier. An ale or lager should not be judged on how hard it is to drink. The opposite ,it should be judged on how smooth it goes down.

Toilet Paper.

Everyone who has an arse needs to wipe it. For those among us who take yoghurt ads seriously that will be once a day, to others I hope at least a couple times a week. Of all the things for sale, sold and marketed every day it is fair to say that some incarnation of toilet paper is needed by all.

The packaging is not my true worry with this industry. Clear plastic seems appropriate, easy to break into, easy to discard. My problem is the fucking glue.

We aren't Rockefeller's, we go down home on shit-tickets. The problem with that is that the cheaper you buy the more glue they use. The idea is to keep the roll from unfurling in transit.

Though the more cynical part of myself (which is to say, me), would say they over-apply to ruin the roll, and the next, and next in an effort to get you to buy cheap poo-paper sooner than you need it. The world is out to fuck us, you guys.

If those in the packaging world could address these problems, I think my life would be perfect. Or, most peoples lives would be a sliver better.

NP.  

When Writing Fucks You, Hard.

My complicated relationship with language came along in my very young years. I had, at that time, no compulsion to words; except for the fact that I liked writing bad poetry. I suppose I still do. I wrote of my fathers friends mainly and I don't think my verse was too shabby. Here's a slice:

Heres To Stan.

Heres to Stan, we love stan

Heres to Stan, to Stan

The Handicapped man.

I read the poem to my old man who pointed out something very important. Pretty obvious what it was.

'Handicapped means like, disabled' he said, in a political correctness that didn't quite compute with the time. Cripple was still a survivor in those days,

But here is the thing, I was raised in an iron-clad circle of blue-collar workers. Handy, or being handy, was a thing of almost nobility, of virtue. In my brain then, handy-man was a good thing to be.

We were working-class, solved problems domestically, caused problems domestically but always handled our own. Obviously we needed doctors, but being as self sufficient as possible was a real pride point. And paying some arsehole to do a basic was about as emasculating as it got. Get a mate to do it and piss it up. Maybe not correct, but this was the ethic and one I can't fully escape.

And so handy entered my vocabulary as something of pride. Handicapped seemed to further it and work with my rhyme scheme, so clearly I was chuffed. Then, as things do, the truth hit me. I was calling a member of the extended coal family a disabled guy. Though a devastating case of pot abuse and cuntiness eventually proved me right, my failure in language rings on to this day.

And on to exhibit two.

There was a time, in Catholic school, when the idea of secret notes appealed to me. I had a teacher, who I shan't name because I don't remember her name (though it was certainly something Italian), who wore toro red lipstick. She also wore pencil skirts, had a disastrous 90s haircut and wore crisp red suit jackets. It was grade three and might have been my first sexual experience, though it was probably just a case of me liking her as a teacher (as a friend, though I was a catch back then).

Regardless I spent the entirety of an evening writing and re-writing a letter to her. I worked it in and out, much more than I do today, making it just right. Then I signed it.

Feeling proud I recruited my old man as an audience. He absently nodded along with the letter until I got to the sign off. What was the sign off? From your secret admirer.

'That means that you, like, love her' the old man explained, half-pissed.

'But I do Dad' I cheered, thinking he had got my point.

'No like, you want to kiss her. Like me and mum.'

I was horrified, I thought it only meant something platonic. I was in love with the teacher and the world was over for me.

Exhibit 3.

Another poem. I was big on poetry at one time though I mainly enjoyed coming up with the rhymes. Couplets were a thing of beauty to me. Coming up with the right one and getting the syllables in order. A thrill when you hit it right, I didn't draw.

But here is another slice of my pre-teen poetry that highlights my point:

Dad and Tim like footy and cricket

But I think we should just fricket.

Inventiveness is next to godliness. Artists learn from their previous art and this is a lesson in the value of an extremely cringe-worthy piece. My dad, who had stopped being a literary critic and started being a drunk again actually loved this piece, in all its infantile charm.

I still have issues. Paramount amongst them is how I was so eager to bastardise a word that early. I'd heard the 'friggin this' and 'friggin that'. I had also heard many 'fucks' but knew enough to know that 'fuck it' did not fit the symmetry of this piece.

Secondly, I criticised two things that are now dear to me. I know that at one time they were a good excuse for a piss-up and so a good distraction for the old man. This is, I guess, why I suggested we should 'fricket'.

Though in retrospect I love both games and wish away any idea of 'fricketing' it. They are both still good excuses for a piss-up and now I understand.

But those things led me to write on, for some reason, and are the reason you are reading this now.

Language still bugs me, luckily I am super handicapped at it.

NP.

Let Them Eat Dirt.

My cousin had a baby recently. Not recent in terms of a babies lifespan, the tyke is a year old, but recent in the mind of my ageing ass. A few months ago she said, casually and in the run of a bigger conversation, something very interesting.

'I talk about her because that's what I have to talk about. People talk about work, or study, I talk about the baby'

It was a glorious moment of self-awareness that I have not seen in this generation of tech-savy new mothers, and it gave me pause to think about how much baby-related status updates annoy me. The usual run of things is something like this:

'Billy is teething'

'Don't, really don't rub rum on his gums. They say you should, but it is the worst thing you can do. Literally the WORST. Paprika was teething and Darren rubbed some rum on her gums and she was up for, like, days'

This is Paprika, sink or swim? Your Call. 

Firstly, it is entirely possible that Paprika was an exceptional case, or was constipated or was annoyed by the insane fluorescent shirt you were wearing.

Second; one baby with his or her own weird personality and preferences does not make you an expert on children. There are few universal truths in this world, especially when it comes to babies. My own mother who graciously bore five tall and big-headed (literally, not egotistic) children has words of wisdom, that apply to all of her children. Because your baby responds to certain things does not qualify, or even allow, you to dish that advice out as gospel.

But with social media out of the picture, there is another big failing new mothers make, and keep in mind this is coming from a cynical, bachelor male.

Your kid should not be too clean. Basically, let them play in all sorts of shit. You may think, 'that's gonna make them sick', but its just the opposite. The immune system needs practice, and if you have a chronically sickly child it is likely your fault. My little brother has this problem because, at one time, banana milk was an enormous bone of contention.

For the same reason chicken-pok parties exist it is a good idea to expose your little bastards to as much awfulness as early as possible. I think it should be obvious here that I am talking about bacteria and the like, things of the physical realm. Don't give them your emotional faults, they will have more than enough of their own soon enough.

NP.

Parent's Just Do Understand.

Parents just don't understand. Will Smith said it, and it might have been one of the few things that fuck-face ever said correctly. I am not talking about hormones; the fact that you are almost certainly cooler than your friends, listen to way better music and use way better words. It's chill that they don't though , because your parents are way different than you.

Truth!

There isn't a problem with our mother's computers that we shouldn't be able to solve. For the last, what feels like several, years I have been solving my mothers computer, and phone, problems. It's troubleshooting, with more trouble than shooting.

But the fact that my mother needn't, or can't, waste her time on a computer as she doesn't understand them doesn't mean she is hopeless or pathetic. Time has not passed her by, I mean with technology it definitely has, but with anything meaningful- not even close.

Technology is something meaningful, like really. It has enhanced our lives in ways anyone who is able to access this blog already knows about. And at some point this enhancement, this making shit easier might mean we literally cannot live without it. More than just, it sucks super dick the internet went down again.

My point then. My mother, your mother, everyones mother is a Liam Neeson, with a very specific set of skills. Mainly aimed at staying alive, living fruitfully and frugally as possible and getting the most of everything. Our specific set of skills? Reading and recognising spam and scam email, accessing a plethora of bullshit cat pictures and videos people falling down and getting into comment wars on the real use of medical steroids.

Then why my anger whenever my mother calls asking how to access her email? Because it is simple to me, it is something I (and pretty much all of you) have done thousands of times. And it is frustrating beyond belief to attempt an audio-only explanation of something so familiar to someone so unfamiliar.

Then again, why no anger when I phone her in a real predicament like getting nicotine gum out of pubic hair or boiling a slab of corned beef? The easy answer would be that my mother loves me more than I love her and, as such, is more patient with me.

But it is more than that. If she forgets her email password or the steps to recovering it, too bad, she goes without email for a few weeks. You know what can't wait a couple of weeks? Nicotine gum in pubic hair or a raw slab of corned beef. And anyone who sends an email is contactable by some other means. A rotary phone or, at least a telegram will suffice to relay information, banks still have branches, pizzas can still be ordered and news can still be read in paper form.

And yes, to the cynics out there, we can figure out our laundry, recipes and the best uses of bleach through the same technology our parents curse. But it is, and always will be, the way some asshole does it; it will never be like mama used to do.

So my thesis goes; if your mother phones you with some strange internet quandry, don't be angry or frustrated, be proud. Proud that you are feeding back into a well of wisdom that you will draw from more often, like the next time you need to get blood out of underpants. That is a boss thing to know, and your mother already does.

NP.

Mac N Cheese For The Soul. A Moment of Sanity in A Food Obsessed World.

Pork and beans, remember pork and beans? Of course you don't, no-one does, except from Westerns, remember Westerns? Of course you don't. Time was we would eat to sustain ourselves, to keep from dying. Now, we eat to fortify our status, for an experience like climbing a mountain or circumnavigating the earth or as a human step at reaching immortality. The restaurant you eat at seems the story and not the meal itself, you are a beacon of iron-will if you opt for almond milk and, oh, did you try the yak milk yoghurt? No, well go fuck yourself.

I need to make a few things clear. Number one, I am a fatty and like eating. Number two, I know there is a disparity between the meat of pigs anuses and trotters (otherwise known as devon) and grain fed pork belly. I am not an idiot, nor am I a pedantic eater.

Pretentious eating is an industry now and we have to accept that. It is the reason Masterchef kills in the ratings, the reason Jamie 'Fuckface' Oliver has his own line of condiments and the reason McDonalds is moving into slow roasted beef and such.

Anyway, we all have guilty pleasure foods. Now they are more like judge jury and executioner foods and I aim to make a case for each of them, in all their depraved glory.

Fish and Chips.

It is as basic as it gets. Or was. Things like sweet potato scallops (or potato cakes to some) have crept in. It is no longer random sea-meat (also the name of my nautical themed all-male strip club) it is specific. It is not 'Fish and Chips' it is, now, Barramundi and Steak-Cut chips. It is far too gourmet for the once crowd of miners and blue-collars it once served.

The point was to eat it and enjoy it as it was a food of the people. Something affordable and accessible to anyone and everyone. Now though, fish and chips as we know them has become the lowest rung on the ladder that has built itself above them.

In not showing my age (25) Fish and Chips has grown in price not relative to inflation. To sound like an old fogey; in my day you could get enough to feed the family for six bucks, now in the twenties.

Hot Dogs.

There are theories on hot-dogs. One friend of mine has a theory that the key is not slicing the bun, but penetrating it. Wide enough that the dog can fit with two millimetres play either side for condiment application. The idea is that you coat the dog itself and twist it into place; thus coating both dog and cavity with condiment. It is not a bad theory, especially from a guy who routinely fills a salad bowl with cheese and bacon balls, tomato sauce and cheese to top and microwaves that bastard.

Still, for all the solid conventional theories out there, people still want to reinvent our humble hot-dog. I am, obviously, a huge fan of sausage. In some ways sausage defines our national identity. Polish, Danish, Hungarian, Australian, British and Spanish sausages all say something about the nation. But it is the realm of none of them to end up in the humble hot-dog.

To make them at home, a round of hot-dogs will run you under ten bucks. Yes, it is mostly anus meat, but that is not why you eat a hot-dog. You eat it for taste and satisfaction. A pub in Melbourne has been marketing hot-dogs with chorizo. I do not see what makes this a hot-dog. It is nothing more than a yuppie sausage sandwich and there is certainly nothing wrong with that.

Pies.

The reason places like Pie-Face are allowed to exist are the same problem with the pie industry. The fact that our meat filled, pastry parcel ever got that far should be a shame to all of us. It used to be, you wanted a pie you desperately sought out a bakery, you might have even had a favourite. Some did them deep-dish, others as thin as possible. Some with mushroom, potato, curry, egg and bacon. That isn't dead but it's dying. We would sooner pay 6 bucks for a pie than seek them out independantly and naturally, we just go to the usual chain. Seems a shame, though the bigger shame is that sausage rolls have always been better.

Chips.

Or crisps to our British consumers. Remember when a chip was just a chip. You had four flavours (Original, Salt and Vinegar, BBQ and Chicken). It is fine if you don't, I do. It was a good time. Then light and tangy showed up and, while delicious, forever threw the balance of the chip world off.

But nothing would throw a spanner into the works like the deli style crisp. Original became Sea Salt, Salt and Vinegar became Sea Salt and Balsamic Vinegar, BBQ became Smoked Ribs and Chicken became Honey Soy Chicken. These varieties are always two or more dollars more. Yes, they kick ass, but that isn't the point.

What we never knew, would never have hurt us. Shame on you, expanding food industry.

5 Heartbreaking Songs About Pathetic or Negligible Issues.

All My Rowdy Friends (Have Settled Down)- Hank Williams Jr.

This song, as the title may suggest, is about the life of a back roads country bachelor who's friends have all found sustaining lives and significant others, away from drinking a shitload or, as Hank 2 eloquently puts it; 'nobody wants to get drunk and get loud'. Apparently they also don't want to 'get high on the town'.

If you are, as I am, a committed bachelor or a late bloomer to the ways of the woman then this is a natural problem. The party has to end and it sucks when it does. So lyrically the song is a semi-fair portrait of a real(ish) problem. Except getting drunk and loud just makes it seem they don't want to be belligerent and shit-faced young men any more, because they aren't.

The more baffling thing though is the way its played as a half-ballad. It is seeming to make the plight of an overzealous alcoholic who can't move on a legitimate problem. A problem like your lover jilting you, or if your pick-up not starting, or if your dumb boss making you work when you had Allman Brothers tickets and told him that several weeks in advance.

In a similar fashion Australian band Skyhooks had an early hit about all their friends getting married. Except they lay the problem at the feet of the wives and Father time; 'yes they're all growing old, they're all going out on the weekends, they're all doing what they're told'.

...Or, maybe they are just trying to compromise with an important person they have decided to spend their lives with, the general way relationships should work. Do you just have to shit on their happiness because you can't down beers and do bong hits with them? Additionally, you are probably of a similar age, maybe they are just growing up.

Lifestyles Of The Rich and Famous- Good Charlotte.

Don't we all remember this one. The band had carried just enough of their shitty upbringing through to bitch about something most of us hate, rich people. Also famous people, and their lifestyles. When this song came out in 2002 I was too young to really appreciate the irony of the thing. The irony should be apparent to anyone remotely familiar with the band. They spent the entirety of a soon to be huge single, bitching about the very thing that single would cause them to be.

The song and the album and equally ironic album it came from The Young and The Hopeless broke the band, big-time. In the years since they have become less young and hopeless, though more rich and famous. Should we rob them? I mean, they do have mansions?

New Tattoo- Motley Crue

This song actually kicks ass. The title track to the 2001 album shows something of a sensitive side to the 'Worlds Most Dangerous Band'. But the lyrics are borderline nonsensical. If you don't wish to listen it is essentially a drunk Vince Neil calling his, like, fifteenth wife to tell her he just got a New Tattoo. Though it emerges that the said tattoo is something closer to a metaphor, or at least a weird Motley Crue metaphor.

I think, the tattoo represents the poor woman he is drunk dialling, the lyrics ' one love, one woman, you're my new tattoo' represent the commitment and exclusion of all others that marriage calls for and the 'everyone will see my new tattoo' shows his willingness to accept her in the course of public life, I guess.

Then what's the problem? The drunken tattoo as a milestone of an apparently important relationship aside, it seems trivial for a rock star with a new wife. To the patron in that world a new wife is like a new pillow-case. He has laid his heart out, accepting this woman as something as permanent as a tattoo. But there is also something insidious about calling it his 'new tattoo', implying it will one day be as old and unwanted as his other 35 year old ex-wives.

Though hardened Crue fans will be saying 'Nikki writes all the songs, what are you blaming Vince for', because they are part of the same machine, and ethos. Nikki was on his second wife when the album came out, Vince on his third. They also both had a shit-ton of tattoos. No word on how many were 'New'.

My World- Guns N' Roses.

Okay, I know, this isn't really Guns N' Roses, it's just Axl Rose being weird again. But it comes under the same banner and so I reluctantly class it as a Guns N' Roses tune, true fans will know he added it last minute without any ones consent (Not. Even. Slash.). But that isn't the problem, the problem is the faux badassery put forth in the 'tune?'.

Essentially, the world described is 'a socio psychotic state of bliss'. Which I guess means Axl Rose is happy being crazy. I guess the point is that Axl isn't a prima donna who sometimes doesn't feel like playing and so fucks hard the fans who have paid and waited to see him (and his band, I guess), it is that he is crazy; like all good artists should be. Also, probably that he is hardcore enough to deal with his world and no-one else is.

Trouble is, at the time it was released, I kinda did wanna 'step into' his world. He was a world famous rock-star on a massive tour. He made a ton of money off that tour and album and who wouldn't want that, plus chicks and drugs probably.

The double trouble is, this song is super shitty and was out of line with the other tracks on the album. It is kinda like the usually great Dee Dee Ramone's synth-soaked, over-produced and awful rap album.

Just like the weird Spandex bike shorts existed, in his world, while the rest of the band had apparently 'been delayed by the real world' and wore bad ass garments like flannelette shirts, top hats and tight jeans. 

Dear Mr. President- Pink

O.K, ignoring the fact that Pink should now be called 'Blonde' or some other thing, this song is kinda melodramatic. I mean, yes the problems she mentions exist and continue to exist beyond the Bush administration she was criticising. And yes Pink has gone some way to addressing those problems. But as a mouth-piece for the downtrodden, this song leaves a little to be desired.

The lyric 'let's pretend'... 'you're not better than me' for a start. In 2006, Dubya's approval rating was right around 30 percent, catastrophic for a politician. Luckily, he was in his second term. Pink, on the other hand, had that same album declared platinum and a tour that earned 42 million in Australia alone. Who is better than who?

The other thing is the 'hard work' she repeats in refrain, toward the end of the song. Pink really knows nothing of this hard work. She has never been minimum wage with a baby on the way, nor had to rebuild her house after bombs took them away, nor building a bed out of a cardboard box. It would seem Pink 'don't know nothing about hard work'.

Or knows, literally, as much as Bush.

But big-dicked Tommy, you all say, Pink is just the mouth-piece, Bush did bad things and someone had to make a point of it, in art!

I don't disagree, but I would say that Pink has no right as a mouth, or any other, piece. She was wealthy when she made the song and knew as much about hard work as picking outfits and learning to work the rope in a super sexy way. Bush had a coke habit, that is hard work.

As for, 'How do you sleep, while the rest of us cry?'. Pink cried, no doubt, all the way to the bank.