I feel the need to write something about the ouster before I get breakfast.

1. The faceless men of the ALP

"The faceless men of the ALP, desperate to scramble onto any floating device believe if they execute the prime minister politically, they may save themselves and the little bit of power they hold in the Labor caucus,"--Christopher Pyne, June 2013

"Wayne Swan and Julia Gillard must bear the responsibility for Labor's mining tax and deal with the consequences its near non-existent revenue"--Kevin Rudd, February 2013

I'm of the opinion that Kevin Rudd's statement--that responsibility for the failure of the RSPT to benefit the Australian people should lie with Gillard--evidences an unwillingness to oversee any increase to the 40% tax in the event of a return to power. There was a time and a place for a high RSPT, and it was in 2010, when the mining boom was at it's peak. 

The investment pipeline for mining operations has narrowed considerably over the last year as demand in China has cooled, as I discussed here. The last two years has also seen an explosion in the natural gas sector, largely due to pervasive hydraulic fracturing in the American mid-west. This means increased competition with Australian energy commodities. 

What does this have to do with the Gillard ouster? The reason Rudd was ousted was because the "faceless men of the ALP"'s interests were:

a. keeping the RSPT low (and their investment portfolios high) and; 
b. keeping the ALP in power

The reason they're permitting Rudd back into the lodge is because his wings have since been clipped by macroeconomic factors. Gone are the days where it was viable to establish a Norweigan style sovereign fund for the Australian people with our mineral revenues. Where it was possible to generate massive royalties from mining in 2010, attempting the same policy in 2013 would result in massive capital outflows, something of which Rudd is all too aware.  In other words, a Rudd government is the only way to ensure that the interests of the ALP technocrats are guaranteed, whereas this was not the case in 2010. 

2. Rudd and Julian Assange 

Kevin Rudd found himself in the minority when he defended Assange's human rights, calling Australia a ""nation of laws" where in the case of an Australian citizen leaking confidential information,  "the normal procedures which apply to any such matter would be first of all obtain a report and recommendations from the AFP and other Australian judicial and regulatory authorities," he said.

I sincerely hope that as PM, Rudd will take the reins from Foreign Minister Carr and negotiate an extradition deal for Julian Assange, who just marked his one year anniversary of seeing the sun. 

What to take away from the PRISM leak

There are two key revelations that have come out of Edward Snowden's leak. First, that the FISA foreign intelligence court makes requests to the NSA to monitor domestic terrorism suspects without warrants. Second, the PRISM initiative whereby private tech companies agree to make their remotely stored data accessible to the NSA.

 Of the two revelations, the second is clearly more significant.

Edward Snowden in his Glenward interview makes specific reference to the retrieval of conversations with friends. If you become a target of state or federal investigation, they will look back on all of your records from early life to try to prove that you were always a bad seed, that your actions were the lifetime in the making.

The fact is that most people do not spend their whole lives planning subversive plots against the government, and so the value of retrospective information about suspects from the age of twelve presents limited value to the security community in preventing attacks and as evidence of conspiracy to commit terrorist attacks.

The way I see it, retrospective information, for lack of a better term, is valuable to the intelligence community for two reasons. First, it can be used to make ad hominem attacks on individuals whose motivation for committing terrorist offences would seem to be in response to conditions specific to the period in which they took place. That is to say that it would divert the focus of the controversy from the conditions that caused them to protest to the personalities themselves.

Second, it can be used as a recruitment tool, to screen members of the intelligence community who might harbor radical leftist sympathies.

Mrs. Unitis wants the D Day

MRS. UNITIS WANTS THE D DAY

by Matthew Bugden

I'm so hungover. 'My God, I didn't know you could get this hungover ', I think. It's like a fat guy is ironically pretending he can play the tuba--in my fucking brain.

My hostel was a stone's throw from the National World War II Museum, and I had hung around in the common area making conversation specifically to avoid lines. Also the midday heat, but mostly the lines.

A peppy young thing checks my ticket and directs me into a long line of tourists. She flashes me a smile that exposes the pink of her gum line, so wide it looks uncomfortable. I imagine her getting home and letting her face sag with a loud 'uhhhhh', like a salesman peeling off his braces.

'So hungover' I say again, this time under my breath like a prayer. How did this happen? I recall Pre-gaming at the hostel. I bet a Chinese American guy, an interior design student from New York (why do I recall this?) an absurd number of drinks that the favourite, the Heat, would close out the game. They had been twelve points up with nine minutes remaining. There was no way the Heat were going to lose. LeBron was raining three's, and they could have tied the game on backcourt points alone.

It was only after the ensuing Bacchic revelry that I realised he was a rich kid who had made the bet just so he could feed me unlimited beers. Then he would receive double the cost of the alcohol back in pure entertainment: watching me make an idiot of myself, puke everywhere and tell girls at the bar things that don't even sound good in my head. Well, mission accomplished, buddy. Later I walk through the Manchurian exhibit, not letting myself feel anything—out of pure spite.

The once pleasantly column-like line of people is getting all wavy; people are leaving it to shake the hand of the guy in front of me—a big ol' red-faced veteran. He's wearing his whole goddamn uniform: camo, medals, unwashed boots still caked with Afghani brain matter—the full get-up. But, get this, he still tries to act like he doesn't want any applause or special treatment. 'I'm just one man, everyone there's so many people working together...'. 

I stand there and suffer everyone in the line telling him how much of a hero he is. One spaced out looking teenager in a Nine Inch Nails t-shirt walks up to him, big gulp slushing around in his stomach, blisters on his fingers from all the COD he's logged, and actually says 'thanks for the freedom, mister'. I wince. The vet says you're welcome, calling him 'son'. He turns back to his wife—a straight-up knock-out--and the kid, not taking the hint, stands there awkwardly for almost a minute.  I half expect him to ask for cuts.

Two more people walk over and thank the vet, dropping F bombs all over the place. One guy, wanting to be an individual, thanks him for his liberty.

The people in the line, all the while, don't seem to mind any of this line business. Quite the contrary, it's like they're enjoying it: moving about as fast as stranded explorers in the Arctic. I am reminded of Grayson, a skinny sunburned ECON kid I met in Athens, Georgia whose name I only remember because of the joke I told about Gray-son being the name of a child of mixed race parents. He gave me a look like I get the joke but there's no way in hell i'm about to stand here and laugh at being called the product of interracial breeding.

Rolling up a banknote, Gray-son told me that Americans love their lines extra long. Of course, he wasn't talking about museums. But then again, seeing these people now, I wonder.

We finally get packed in to a movie theatre where we're told we'll be watching a forty minute '4D' film called 'Beyond all Boundaries', narrated by Tom Hanks. I wiki '4D film' on my iPhone and the discover that

4D film or 4-D film is a marketing term for an entertainment presentation system combining a 3D film with physical effects that occur in the theatre in synchronization with the film. (Note that 4D films are not actually four-dimensional in the geometric sense of the word.)

I am shocked to discover that

there is no consistent standard among films for the application of these marketing labels

and that

4D films have occasionally been marketed as 5D, 6D, or 7D films in order to emphasize the variety or uniqueness of their theatre effects

Then I overhear 'Thank you all for coming today. I see we've got a veteran in the crowd today.' Johnny Unitis once again does the 'i'm just one man, there's so many people working together...' like he didn't wake up in the morning and make the decision to wear his fatigues to a war museum.

'Let's show this hero our gratitude for protecting our freedom'. Everyone claps, including myself. Moments later, footage of goose-stepping SS soldiers fills the screens, and Sheriff Woody himself tells us that partially due to economic factors, Japan, Italy, and Germany had fallen under the spell of totalitarianism. 

I find myself seated next to Mrs. Unitis, who is on the edge of her seat with excitement as a menacing looking panzer tank rolls straight for her, missing her by a hair's length, and then on through the Low Countries as though nothing had happened. She ducks as a thick brambly vine in the Ardennes forest threatens to blight her perfect skin. The wehrmacht unleashes its panzerkammer on sleepy, unsuspecting Parisians.

The chairs rattle loudly. I realise they vibrate to simulate heavy machinery and artillery explosions. 'This non-visual feature must be the famous for marketing purposes only '4D' i've been hearing so much about', I think.

Another tank zooms past, this time part of Rommel's Afrikakorps. The Fuhrer has had to prop up Goering's beleaguered forces by opening up yet another front. A shell explodes and the chairs once again vibrate pleasantly. Johnny Unitis' blonde wife's bare legs hunch up. A whimper escapes her mouth. She looks embarrassed.

A second later, Mr. Hanks interrupts normal radio broadcasting to inform us that the Japanese have just bombed Pearl Harbour. FDR assures us that we didn't want a war, but now that we've got one we're going to give it all we've got. Morale is high. Everyone in the theatre is very excited, especially, for some reason, John Unitis' young wife.

An anti-aircraft gun rocks the chairs violently and catches Mrs. Unitis and I off-guard. 'Again', she whimpers. I look at her. The inhibitions she had before are gone; they've been replaced by a look of raw cookie-dough pleasure. She turns excitedly to her husband and gives him a look that says 'We're gonna kill whole cities full of Japs in a few years, aren't we!'. He scowls at her, a reminder that he's just one man, that there will be so many people working together.

The Battle of Midway, D-Day and VE Day cycle in a blaze of 4D explosions and chair vibrations. Mrs. Unitis is now pressing her butt down on the seat as hard as she can, closing her eyes and tilting her chin back slightly. She is in ecstasy as the German city of Dresden crumples like newspaper in the fire.

Then, its August 6, 1945. The screen flashes white light. Mrs. Unitis' eyes are wide with anticipation. She licks her lips and pushes down on the chair with all her weight. A grainy photograph of a mushroom cloud, and thirty seconds of the strongest vibrations in human history. Her toes curl as 150,000-246,000 insects whisper Sayo-nara to each another.

When it's all over, John Unitis stares in disbelief at his wife. Though she will later deny it, she has just had the best war of her life. He shakes his head as God-Emporer Hirohito announces Japan's unconditional surrender in a voice thick with shame. He can't compete with that. 

Everyone in the cinema issues a sigh of relief. The invasion of mainland Japan, in preparation for which the US Army Office made an initial order for 200,000 body bags, will never take place. Finally, there is peace in our time. I wonder what will become of all the leftover body bags. They should probably take them along to Indochina in 1956. I realise it's a localised conflict that will be over before American boots even touch soil--but it's better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it'. 

The film ends with the words 'Dedicated to all the men and women fighting for our freedom overseas'. Everyone applauds then shuffles out. I run my hand along Mrs. Unitis' seat. The fabric is as wet as the beaches of Normandy.

THE END

haven't been posting as much as I probably should

View Larger Map

This is looking more and more like my place until Late September-October.

So this was a burger with bacon and eggs, Chipotle on a croissant bun

The new vampires

Last night I was hanging out with my Couchsurfing host and her other three surfers, two of which I want to write about briefly. They were people I wouldn't have encountered had I not couchsurfed in the South. I soon realised that they actually lived in Raleigh, and were couchsurfing because they were 'between places'.

The pregnant couple's names were Alana and Herb. Alana was a 33 year old Caucasian woman, 7 months pregnant and easily 350 pounds. Herb was a 24 year old African American man. Herb was out in Raleigh looking for work, so that Alana 'would have time to heal' after the pregnancy. I saw that Herb had marks all up and down his arm, and considered the possibility that he was a junkie. We got onto the topic of drugs, and he said that he was boring and didn't drink, smoke, or do drugs. I asked him, with a candor that is unlike me, what was with all the marks on his arms if he didn't do drugs. He replied that he donated plasma. I asked for how long. He said it had been his and Alana's primary income source for 8 1/2 weeks. He said that CSL plasma in Durham, about half an hour from Raleigh, paid more than Biomach in San Diego, but BioMat gave you cash instead of a debit payment.

Both wouldn't let you donate more than twice in 48 hours, otherwise I am sure Herb would've donated more frequently. He said he knew people that donated year round. I asked whether they both donated, and Alana said she would once the baby was born.

I asked him whether he was concerned about donating that much plasma, and he refused to even entertain the possibility that it was doing damage to his immune system. He said the only thing that bothered him was they make you stay 4 hours but don't pay you by the hour. Then he told me that for a while he felt like he was doing good by donating as regularly as he did, because he was helping sick people. But one day, he asked the nurse where the plasma was going and she said that it was used by pharmaceutical companies, to make tylenol, and by the military. Again, he said he didn't want to think about the enormous amount of plasma he donates being used to make bombs. The idea visibly upset him--his eyes glazed over and he stopped looking at me as we talked. Eventually I had to walk back to my surfer's house (I had stayed with Stephanie, their host, the night before) because it was too upsetting. I told them that I would stay in touch on Couchsurfing, that I would add them as friends, and that I wanted to see some baby pictures, and this made them happy. They squeezed my hand as we said goodbye. They were that glad to have made a friend.

I don't think they realised how disturbed I was by their story.