Featured PristineChapel.2

Greetings, and great things.

Welcome to Steamed Up; my little corner of the internet.  But there’s nothing smutty going on here. It’s not THAT kind of ‘steamed up’, Sir/Ma’am!

Don’t expect a lot about Steampunk. That’s just one of my sidelines. Here you’ll meet the real me. It’s where I come to be honest, or crazy, or intense, or downright friviooius. [Oooo; that’s a keeper! I enjoy random typos.  (I also like using brackets. To me, punctuation marks are sculptural materials.) (Does that annoy you? Tough!)]

Poke and pry. Comment. Enjoy! Thank you for visiting.

[HEADER IMAGE: That is the recently discovered miniature or ‘cartoon’ painted by Michelangelo, believed to be his original idea for the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Scholars now believe he had misheard ‘Sistine’ as ‘Pristine’, but soon realised his error.]


The trouble with T̶r̶i̶b̶b̶l̶e̶s̶ CAR PARKS

Where we walked. Or took the bus downtown.

I was so in love! We’d walk a lot, go downtown (Literally. She lived at the top of Stuart Street, Dunedin – famous for having the world’s steepest street), and when we got home we’d canoodle halfway between her gate and front door. I remember it well; there was a huge mature hedge, a picturesque gateway through the gap, trees, a deep mossy lawn, a weathered old concrete pathway leading to her parent’s 90-year-old Victorian house.

I went back there a decade later. On the exact same spot was a supermarket car park. I stood there, trying to drag her place back to mind. Nope. History had been broken and scattered. The tsunami called ‘Progress’ had swept away my memories. Fuck.

Unless you’ve lived your entire in a hippie retreat, you’ll know these things. And if you’re an urban dweller, you’ll know them all too well. They barely existed when I was a kid. We rode our dinosaurs to school, then just let them roam. Dad had a car; a tiny dark-green Ford Prefect (later he become famous in a Certain Sci-fi Book, but in those days he was just a humble British working-class car). Mum drove too. They just parked on the side of the road wherever they could find a gap between the dinosaurs.

Ditto downtown [see note earlier]. There were no car-parks! Streets, yes, and that was where cars stayed. But over the decades, as I came and went, my beloved city changed. Supermarkets became a thing. Car-parks became a thing. And my city (once a charming mash-up of Victorian splendour, some Edwardian, a bit of Deco .. and that modernistic crap that followed) was ruined. Now it has gaps; blank paved patches of land where magnificent buildings once stood. Each of these former patches of paradise is painted like a Monopoly board but without any colour, character, or variance. It is dead land. Artistically dead. Historically dead. Literally dead, except maybe a tiny strip of nature along one edge. And occupied by 3 or 4 cars on average, year round.

I currently live in the most tragic of urban sprawls, a city that apparently claimed at one point that it was bigger than Los Angeles, not by population but by land area. In other words – the sprawliest city in the world; Brisbane. As mentioned, it’s spacious. Yes; it’s green. There are a lot of trees; that’s nice. And there are a lot of motorways. A lot of motorways.

[Elsewhere, cities are tearing out their motorways and restoring inner-city districts]

They get bigger and bigger all the time. The city grows at the edges, creeping into the bush year after year. (‘The Bush’ is a very Australian term. It means many things but mostly: 1) Any kind of Australian native forest; 2) The geo-political landscape known as ‘Rural’.) The actual real bush bush – an entire ecosystem that has been there for a billion years – is barely valued in Aus. Here they sell ‘bare land’, and to make bloody sure of it they flatten every living thing upon it, down to grass. Sometimes lower than that. Tragic.

Anyway, this sprawl exists because generations of city planners have laid it out solely predicated on The Car. Awful AWFUL suburbs of convoluted streets that never seem to get anywhere (seldom ever in a straight line), and finally, after driving 4.6 km (approx 3 miles) to achieve a straight-line distance of 1 km [see example], you reach the supermarket / shopping-mall / sports-complex / workplace / school, and start trying to find a park.

This is actual. About 10km from my place. There is another place where, in order for people to reach a business *literally over their back fence*, they have to drive 2.8 km.

Car-parks are a tragedy. There are just SO MANY THINGS WRONG WITH THEM:

  1. Paved and drained. They are like enormous house-roofs; waterproof and fitted with drains to swish all that nasty problematic (utterly perfect) water away and out of sight and dump it into the nearest waterway. The land stays parched while the waterways flood. Worse than that, most of the wetlands are gone. This unnatural flood rushes to the sea, scouring the creek-beds, wrecking ecosystems, and drowning people in their cars. Seriously, in every big ‘rain event’ here, someones dies.
  2. Heat and shade. Have you ever crossed a road in bare feet, in summer? Brisbane has a 6-month summer. We cover the landscape in literally thousands of hectares of road, and the same again in car-parks, and few if any have shade. The solar energy could run the nation, but instead it radiates back into the atmosphere the moment the sun goes down, at a different wavelength that is blocked by ‘greenhouse gasses’. Car-parks accelerate global warming.
  3. No trees. [See 1) & 2)]
  4. Occupancy. Every business puts down as much car-parking as it can, supermarkets and malls being the worst offenders. These car-parks are utterly full for about 3 days a year (it’s called “Christmas”). They do have other peak times – weekends can slam the bigger ‘destination shopping’ places. Full again for 5 or 6 hours. BUT REMEMBER THIS: they are utterly empty at night. The average annual occupancy of a car-park is in the order of 10%.  On average, 90% of this land are empty; achieving nothing more that some global warming and the occasional drowning.

I generalise. Some are better than others. Some do have lots of trees. Some don’t waste land because they are under buildings. They are not the primary problem, cars are. BUT –

We could do a lot better. A whole lot better. Watch out for my follow-up blog.








Excited, I followed Mother the day I turned 5 and sat in a huge classroom with about 1,000 other noisy little humans, and promptly spaced out. A successful day involved eating my lunch and getting home without being accosted by either friend or foe. Autism: It’s a sort of invisible stretchy membrane that prevents a lot of stuff getting transmitted either way.

They kept me in that class for two years; told my mother I was intellectually impaired. But enough teachers spied the genius lurking behind the bushes. Those genius teachers found ways to draw out what was there (I was an art prodigy) and gradually my wheels engaged (never perfectly, for mine spun too fast for whatever track they put me on). I finished high school Dux Math & Science. Some of my friends became doctors (the girls did!).

[Fast-forward some 35 years]

My son seemed hopeless. At 3, 4 and 5, teaching him to read became a battle that he always won (and I lost, so I just resumed reading him high-school text books) and he was finally assessed as being severely dyslexic (*and* with dysgraphia). “He’ll probably never read for pleasure,”said the assessor, “He may never read at all.”

But my son stood listening to the expert that day, just out of our sight, and the next day he was gazing determinedly into a book. Within a month he was reading Harry Potter. Max crossed some ten years of education in the space of five weeks.

Take heart. We all travel at different speeds *and* wavelengths, but sadly, Education still manages to transmit on only one. Having the Smarts sure helps — it can bridge a lot of gaps given time — and so does determination, or even better: a Sense of Direction; a Calling. I know this because I never had either and spent my life in a ship with a lot of sails (and a crew that could reconfigure them at will) but with no chart, no compass, and a captain too prone to the cry of sirens.

In the end, and to my surprise, I became a (moderately) successful writer.

[EXPLANATION: – this short piece was in response to an article on Medium. The article is right here: https://medium.com/synapse/too-dumb-to-be-a-doctor-2aa51d577e8b#.3kxnm4v26

Medium seems to be a place with some really high-end writers from many fields (at least they’re the ones that get their stuff featured every day).

Medium is right here: https://medium.com/

‘Pwned’ ‘Owned’ ‘Disowned’

There’s this phenomenon I’ve noticed. Getting ‘Owned’. No, I don’t mean ‘beaten in a game/sport/argument’. I mean, ‘getting Owned’.

It became very noticeable recently during an event called the Eurovision Song Contest – a curious ritual that has beset the planet since 1956. Australia was permitted an entry in 2015 (to mark the 60th Anniversary), and again in 2016. Aus put forward its promising front runner, Dami Im, and it’s here that my commentary starts.


You see – Dami Im is, in some ways, my neighbour, or at least this is how the media has worked it up to be. More than that; she is Every Australian’s Neighbour. Unless you’re Korean that is, in which case she’s your neighbour and all those upstart Johnny-come-lately Aussies can just wait in line to rub off a bit of her fame thank you very much!

But it’s damn hard to get Owned. Here’s how it went for young Ms Im: born in South Korea she emigrated to Australia at the age of nine. (Australia, it needs to be noted, is (generally speaking) one of the most racist places in the world. My heart goes out to her entire family trying to integrate themselves into this strange new world.) So okay there she is, dropped into a ‘city’ called Logan (one of those ‘Satellite Cities‘ that keep springing up all around the world at the stroke of an administrator’s pen, although in the case of Logan it is more technically an ‘Edge City‘.)

I live in Logan, BTW.

She goes to school, then on to a rather exclusive high school where she kept her head down by all accounts and did not reveal or exhibit her long-held dream of public singing. She’d already achieved very highly elsewhere in musical arts. (It’s all in Wikipedia, go read it) Moving on from that she pursued her dream and eventually achieved a notable victory in some TV entertainment thing called ‘The X Factor’. (I don’t watch TV.)

And POW! Suddenly my local paper is filled with huge headlines about ‘Our Star!’ and how she went to John Paul College and oh how wonderful/notable she’d been and an interview or two with the principal, and yadda-yadda-yadda. Discovered. Owned!

Next round: She gets chosen to represent Australia at this Eurovision thingy. And she reaches the semi-final .. and she reaches the final … and Australia is on the edge of its collective seat!

And suddenly the media go nuts. The pwning process ramped up to the nth degree! Suddenly she became Australia’s New Darling. She was So Australian!  Hell yeah, mate! Totally! The perfect representative!  “We all love ya, Dami! Go, go, go for gold!” Australia adored her fashion sense and her confidence and her pride and most of all Her Voice.

This is all going on and I’m slowly waking up to phenomenon via Facebook and I’m like, oh, wait, isn’t this the same woman who did okay at some talent thing a while back? I google it. Oh yeah. So I got onto YouTube and I caught up on her performances and I was all like … ‘Why is everyone raving about that voice?’

(Let me digress: I have a tin ear I’ll admit it, but even though I tried, I came away thinking, “Yes, it’s strong, but it does not dance like a butterfly and sting like a bee. It has more the beauty of a rhinoceros beetle.” I believe she has yet to find the songs that match her voice. What she was trying to sing were ‘too girly’, and consequently she could not actually render them well. Sure, sure, she hit the big notes, she had the power, but her voice … to my tin ear … was rather awful, actually. Personal opinion only.)

So, Media Storm, Mega-Hype, everyone was pumped to sit down and watch her win … and she didn’t. But Aus had a new idol and celebrated her anyway. I’m not knocking it; it was a really huge achievement. Props to her and to everyone who supported her, mentored her, put her through her musical paces and helped her go places! And I guess she came home and the cameras were all there and they threw rose-petals under her feet etc etc.

dami-im2What’s it called, ‘Power-shaving‘? Rub yourself against the Alpha-Ape and you’ll feel important too. Suddenly Dami belonged to Australia / Queensland / Logan / her old school / the supermarket where she had a holiday job / the guy who once sold her dad tyres… and I imagine Korea was working hard at reclaiming her too as Their Own Daughter. Fine. That’s true. She is.

But the thing is – nations, neighbourhoods and high schools never do it for anyone else. We don’t mob someone in the street just because she/he was born here/grew up here/studied here.

Nope. You have to be Really Frickin’ Famous first, then it begins.

Australia is notable for doing this ‘Owning’ think. Just off the top of my heard they have claimed Phar Lap (racehorse), Split Enz (band), John Clark (comedian), and Russel Crow (actor) all originally from New Zealand. Oh the audacity! (But not Ged Maybury.) (Yet.)

But there’s a dark underbelly to the phenomenon. I’ve experienced it. Move into a new place (town, district, street, nation) and even though you’ve already got something – a bit of fame, a backstory, talent, achievements – they don’t matter a jot because you’re not ‘native’. Not born here? – Tough shit. Didn’t go to school here? – Tough shit. Wrong colour? Funny accent? – “Tough shit, mate! I don’t care about your Nobel Prize in physics, you’re nobody in this town. Oh look! That kid just came 3rd in the national physics competitions! Holy wow! Call the newspaper! Give him the front page. HE’S A LOCAL!”

I’ve seen far more column space giving to some no-name first-time hey-wow-this-woman-just-wrote-her-first-children’s-book than I ever got in a certain town.

Seriously, it is a thing. If you’re the ape that walks in from outside, you’ll always be the outsider. The locals will never forget it. Be remarkable and they’ll yawn and look the other way. But do something exceptionally extraordinary and suddenly it’s a game-changer.

And if you do anything bad you’ll be branded forever as ‘the one from Over There‘.

Anyway, I’ve noticed it. It intrigues me. It’s a thing, that’s all.

[BTW: I’ve been well-received here in many other ways. I know hundreds of good-hearted Aussies that have made me feel welcome in many lovely ways. Thx, peeps!]




The Cucumber in the Room


“I suppose it is tempting, if the only tool you have is a hammer, to treat everything as if it were a nail.” [Origins of the quote]

I’ve seen this in many contexts – notably in the world of psychology/psychiatry where it was originally coined (and where I most recently heard it), but it definitely applies elsewhere and everywhere. And it is both scarily accurate, and scary. It is a tool for tyrants as much as about professional bias. It’s called ‘Conformation Bias‘.

EXAMPLE – At one point in my life I was a dedicated follower  of alt.med and often trekked off to visit the latest  fad-practitioner. I blew a lot of money on these guys, and sure enough, I came away suffering the exact same problem that all my friends suddenly had.

I saw it later in a different city. There was this (self-proclaimed) expert on Asperger’s Syndrome and yup: sure enough, every kid who went to him had Asperger’s (surprise, surprise!). These well-meaning cranks were treating every patient with the same hammer. Some were downright scary; they were obsessives. I saw it elsewhere, I saw it often: “Got health problems? YOU NEED AN ENEMA! YOUR BOWEL IS BLOCKED! EVERYONE NEEDS AN ENEMA! IT’S THE ANSWER TO EVERYTHING!” (I declined the offer, BTW)

I’ve encountered people who have reacted to everything. It’s like their life-journey has imprinted them with the notion that everyone is out to get them – to make them wrong or put them down, to shame them in an argument, to steal their dignity, to rip out their core-sovereignty (to coin a phrase). These people are carrying a sort of North Atlantic Missile Defense Radar Detection System, and anything, anything, flying in the sky will trigger the alarm. All defenses will fire. Angry rebuttals. Counter attacks. Another argument begins with all the twists and tricks that are well documented elsewhere. BAM! Every time. Every conversation. And their confused victims react ditto, they rise to defend themselves, all the anger/reaction/defense patterns – and BAM! THERE IT IS: SUSPICIONS CONFIRMED!

Two clans meet in the jungle. The alpha-males immediately spring forwards, ready to defend their group, hackles up, pumping out a challenge. Moments later the other group pump up the volume too. Told ya! They’re ENEMIES! Look at the aggression! Close ranks!

My point being that this isn’t the exclusive domain of whacko health professionals. Everyone does this. Racists. Politicians. Shock-jocks. Your mother. You. Me.

Humanity evolved from some sort of proto-human/primate-thing and we still carry the genetic codes that protect us. (DID protect us.) EXAMPLE: we’re genetically programmed with an ‘instinctive’ fear of snakes. As are cats. Put a cucumber behind a cat and when it spots it out the corner of its eye it’ll freak the f**k out! YouTube is full of videos of this. Here’s one: Cat&Cucumber. Yeah: Hah-hah!

I live in Australia now, but I grew up in New Zealand which has no snakes. You’re not even taught about snakes, you’re not trained to be alert. Snakes are a non-issue. But after unexpectedly encountering blue-tongued lizards in my own Aussie back yard … POW! That ol’ snake-panic reaction sure did kick in. Blue-tongues resemble snakes by size, motion, shape and their sleek scaly texture. And their legs are tiny. Yup: I freaked the f**k out! [Why We Are Afraid of Snakes]

And they’re adorably cute!

‘Hey Ged, Hello! It’s a long stretch between genetic fear of snakes and Confirmation Bias, mate!’

I’m not so sure. There are genes for many behaviours. Our genetic ancestry accounts for a lot, and they ALL enhance our collective survival whether biochemical or behavioural. EXAMPLE: Boys mature significantly later than girls, because those that did (long long ago) stood a better change of not being driven out by the alpha males too soon and dying in the wild without the clan’s protection and nurture. We resist diseases (until we meet humans from the other side of the world and then we’re screwed.) We like copulating, we care for our young, we maintain tight-knit social groups … But we never evolved beyond being susceptible to zillions of types of cancer. Why not? And what does it prove anyway?

It proves that Evolution Is A Thing, that’s what. Generally, cancers tend to kill us at a late age, so being susceptible to cancer does not in any way prevent us from surviving puberty, copulating, being successful parents, and passing on our cancer-prone genes. Ditto all the other diseases and conditions that beset us in old age. How many people lived long enough to ever get arteriosclerosis back in 190,000 BC? Huh?

So I’m proposing that Confirmation Bias is the cucumber in the room. No-one talks about it, but it’s always there on the floor behind you (and behind me and behind all the Trump Supporters too, and everyone else who so readily becomes convinced that they’re Always Right, or that The World is Out To Get Them so they have to carry a military-grade automatic weapon to the supermarket, or that Their God is the Only True God, or that Everyone Needs an Enema. Or whatever.)

Confirmation bias is our security blanket, no matter how you dress it up. It’s the smell of your own tribe. It’s instinctive. It’s nice to know that you’re always right. That you’re the alpha-male/alpha-female in your health-care profession. That your patients gaze up at you adoringly as your hit them with the same hammer. That you’ve always got a firm opinion about everything.

And if you’re a despotic ruler of a nation (or an office in the public service or just your own family), it’s very easy to play upon the fears of your minions and victims. Or just fuck with their mental state. Leave some fake snakes lying around and let everyone know that you’re the one who’s gonna save them! A cucumber will suffice,  but don’t get it confused with an enema. Watch out! It’s right behind you!







Spill the wine

I have this cup here .. just a moment; I’ll take a photo:

plastic.cup 005

It’s an ordinary disposable plastic drinking cup. This style came out some 30 years ago, and hasn’t changed. An entire generation has known them. Trillions have been made, used once and thrown away. Ubiquitous, mass-produced, and unremarkable except for one detail: The design is really fu*ked.

‘Huh?’ Yes. ‘How?’ Let me explain. Fill this with any kind of drink, raise it to you lips, and drink. Some liquid will immediately spill out and down your front. Annoying, embarrassing, and the result of entrenched bad design.

It’s all in the rim, or more precisely the cavity under the rim. It is approx 3.45mm wide and 2mm deep (measuring upwards). I doubt you could design a more effective way of collecting liquid from inside you mouth and channeling it straight out again. Every day, half a billion people spill their drinks, but I guess that detail didn’t matter to the original designer(s), or those who continue to crank out these failures.

I know my structures. That curl-over rim was about creating some rigidity, but in so doing they sacrificed a core function of any cup. All to save a a few milligrams of plastic and/or the expense of re-building the injection moulds. This design never should have gone into production, but I imagine enough people didn’t give a shit on the day its principal flaw was discovered. “Users be damned. We wanna make money!” I imagine said.

BUT WAIT, THERE IS MORE. My intention with the following short list is to (hopefully) draw the attention of emerging designers to what I see as a kind of disease, or myopia, that besets the design world. And it’s not a new one, either.

ITEM #2 The Automatic Gear Shift – Imagine you came across a deserted alien vehicle parked in the woods. Curious you enter, and soon find the driver’s seat. There’s a hi-tech view-screen and lots of bizarre controls, but hmmm – they sort of make sense, especially that big lever at centre. You sit, ready for some fun, and push that sucker forwards. The vehicle slams backwards. Furtively you flee, muttering, “Those aliens are fuckwits.

Seriously, how could anyone design a control stick that you pull backwards when you want to go forwards? It is completely counter-intuitive. This one astonishes me every single day.

ITEM #3 Google Maps – There used to be a perfectly good version of Google Maps, so of course because it wasn’t broken, they had to go and fix it. I fought hard to retain the original, and took every opportunity to point out many design flaws in the new version. (I was ignored, pretty much, since no-one answered. But after a while those things did improve. Then, quite recently, I noticed something that (to my autistic mind, at least) is just plain stupid.

Once you can find it, there is an extensive menu of controls and options. [Extreme top left; that 3-bars symbol]. So try it: once you’re in ‘Earth’ mode, open the menu, and the 2nd item down is ‘labels on’“Okay, that’s informative, but I don’t want labels on. I want to see ‘Earth mode’ as it is. How do I turn the labels off?” I hunt around for an obvious control, but there is nothing that looks like a switch. Nothing actually called ‘TURN LABELS OFF’.

<Screams> “How the fuck do I do this?!”

And the answer is to click ‘labels onwhen you want labels off, and click ‘labels off when you want labels on. Sure – the words are telling me what the current status is, but they are not in any way signalling to me that they are a control, and even as a control they do the exact opposite of what they say they will.

I actually asked for interface customisation like being able to drag the controls around the screen and set my opening defaults. Got a crappy product instead.

ITEM #4  The New Christchurch Railway Station. They build a new one in the 1980s. [My review is right HERE: Sorry, it’s a bit long-winded. I was like that in 1999.]

To cut to the chase: The architects designed it with a huge glass wall facing roughly northeast. All very sculptural deconstructionist. Looked great. And every morning for at least half the year, the morning sun beamed right into the building and directly into the eyes of the counter staff. They literally could not see who they were serving! That entire fuck-up was created by the designers, yet in 1973 I was sitting in classes and being taught to consider the seasonal solar cycle, penetration angles and consequences. Go figure.

ITEM #4 The Bosch Wall Oven. I was delighted when my wife agreed with to me to buy a Bosch oven. I regard Bosch as world’s best. If Bosch made cars, I’d be all – “Shut up and take my money!” So we got it home and it was installed under the gas hob, and it was all just fine and we put in a roast, then an alarm started bleating. Dafuk?

For a little while neither of us could figure it out, then we realised that a bunched up tea towel on the oven handle had been the trigger. I soon deduced the reason: the tea towel was partly blocking the hot air outlet and well d’uh: over-heated oven iz bad! We soon learned to be less slovenly.

But next morning, the alarm went off again! The oven was stone cold. It wasn’t even on! I was merely leaning against it. The alarm – designed to alert people to overheating due to lack of a cooling airflow – was completely un-linked to the temperature of the oven!

90% of the time it achieves nothing, and is just plain annoying. Worse than that, it made this Bosch fan 50% less impressed with Bosch. That’s a lot of PR damage. And the worst thing? I can’t disable it, or rewire it. Once again end-user be screwed.


ITEM #5 Blow Heater – At the other end of the technology spectrum is our blow heater. We’ve currently got two of these little buggers, and we’re about to buy a third. It would easily be the 11th or 12th one we’ve had in the last 20 years. They run, they have a cut-out that is linked to internal temperature (in yer face, Bosch!) and they fail within a few years.

One does not need to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce where these are made: China. Much has been said about ‘Made in China’ so I won’t go over it all again. Just to note that in my experience: Well-made, reliable, long lasting products don’t get made there.

We bought two of ’em the first time out. One failed within two months. Back to The Warehouse ( – “where everyone gets a bargain!”). They replaced it without a murmur. The 2nd one failed soon after. This was getting suspicious! Taking up my trusty surgical implements I did a post-mortem … and found the nasty secret.

The circuit was simplicity itself. But lo – there was a noticeably fat resistor in the line. It was blown. I knew enough about circuits (Dux of my school in math& sciences), and this did not seem right. I’d never seen this in a heater or a toaster. After all – the heating coil is a resistor itself, with precisely known properties. I came to realise that they had obsolescence designed right into them. Manufactured to fail.

We keep buying them. They all fail. It is always the resistor. I open them up, snip out the fried resistor and solder the circuit back. After that it runs just fine for about 5 more winters until the coil gives out. I don’t mess with that. They go to landfill.

How many millions of these things have been made, sold, and gone to landfill far sooner than they need have? The sheer utterly cynical waste of our planet’s resources disgusts me. Seems as long as it looks good on the shelf at point-of-sale, that’s all that matters. I HATE that design attitude!

Speaking of design in regard to these heaters, Their ‘design’ keeps changing. Stylistically they change every few years. But on the day I do the inevitable surgery, it is quite apparent that nothing has changed inside. I could take the innards out of a 2016 heater and drop it neatly back inside a 1996 body. Same old same old; designed to fail.

[UPDATE: We acquired our new heater – the model at centre of my montage. And .. (wait for it) IT HAS A SCREAMINGLY OBVIOUS DESIGN FAULT!! Having moved the controls to the very top, they had to severely compromise the handle. It’s on the back, barely deep enough to get 4 fingertips into, and if you actually try – YOU CANNOT PICK UP THE HEATER. It swings from your fingertips and flips down onto the floor. Every. Time.]

To me, design is not tinkering with the outsides. It is not about looks. Sculpting the outside of an office building is not design unless everything on the inside is considered and challenged and improved on too. Example: without changing anything inside, you can sheath an entire building in ‘glass-curtain’. Then everyone bakes every winter as the sun belts in. The air-con strains to cope and the running costs go sky-high. It was a big problem when I was an architecture student. The world was only just waking up to it.

It is like putting new clothes on a fashion model who suffers constipation. No matter how many garments she wears, the duration of the applause or the number of awards the fashion designer is given; she is still sick inside. Nothing changes.

Design needs to go far deeper. Unfortunately, most people pursuing a career in design are pawns in the bigger game called ‘Capitalism’, and capitalism, like the fashion industry, is all about selling everyone ‘the new look’, be it heaters or cars or buildings, and screw the end-user. But forget all that; have some more wine (down your front)!

Here’s another commentary about design, by design expert Lena Groeger:


The Daggers Flung (Part 1 of ‘Flung Aside’)


People who get nostalgic about childhood were obviously never children.” – Bill Watterson

Mum and Dad were already at war before I arrived, and it just got worse. All of which was hidden from me on the surface, but of course we all have some kind of emotional sonar operating, even if you’re autistic.

On that note, the theory has been floated that autistic children are not grossly insensitive and thus closed from the world, but are in fact the complete opposite. Everything pours into them as a constant screaming medley of sensations, loud noise, lights and motion, and the autist must rapidly build defenses or remain permanently overwhelmed. I’m seen this first hand in my own son, who basically spent the first 3 years of his life screaming in terror. The book was called “The Crying Baby”, but there was more to it than that.

Like a camera loaded with hyper-fast film, the aperture must be progressively stopped down before any decent photos are achieved. Minimum interaction with humans and their emotional noise and signals (oft indistinguishable) prevents overexposed film and emotional burn-through. Close it out. Play alone. Immerse oneself in an obsession. Hide. Literally – hide. I did that. I often hid. Safe at last!

But is there more to us than just the five senses? (There are in fact many more than five, but another day, I think). Yes there is. To quote Philip Larkin. “They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do.” And my parents were no exception.

People unconsciously play out complex games to get their needs met, seldom directly. And if one’s primary needs find absolutely no source of succor, one’s efforts are diverted into a secondary gameplan. Example: any attention is better than no attention.  Children learn to meet their needs by being little criminals. They’ll break things, they’ll break the rules, they’ll employ expletives – anything to get a rise out of mum/dad; teachers; authority figures. Very successful strategy. Prisons are packed with people reaping the ineffective consequences of this pattern.

Crime starts young. It is created by disengaged parents, and even more effectively by an absent parent. Sad & very fucked up.

But that was not the way of the Gedi.

My dear mother, trapped at home by a horrid controlling husband, without love and with one child already (hitting 2 and losing his charm), needed someone to give her any sort of love, and I became the designated saviour. The Wanted Child, perfect, serene, and unconditionally loving. Increment by increment my dear mum injected me with a complex venom. I needed to remain rescue-able. And she needed to be needed.

Dad, on the other hand, was merely waiting for me to grow out of nappies (none of which, I’m sure, he ever touched) and get big enough to kick a ball. And when that day came I began to prove useless as a son. I had no aptitude for sport. I was clumsy. I was left-handed. I was also a wimp, a blubberguts and a sissy. Physically fragile, and emotionally too. The most minor of setbacks would send me running to mummy, and my father soon enough took his place on the other side of that same circuit. His criticism, anger, and not-so-subtle remarks stung me again and again.

Worse: I absorbed them and made them my own. I am 63; he has been dead twelve years; yet they still remain operative despite the awareness I now have. Somewhere back then, at a very young age, I became determined to never succeed at anything. And so far I’ve been a roaring success at it.

They fuck you up, your mum and dad. 
They may not mean to, but they do. 
They fill you with the faults they had 
And add some extra, just for you. 

But they were fucked up in their turn 
By fools in old-style hats and coats, 
Who half the time were soppy-stern 
And half at one another's throats. 

Man hands on misery to man. 
It deepens like a coastal shelf. 
Get out as early as you can, 
And don't have any kids yourself.  -  Philip Larkin

Now I try to not hate Dad. He was doing his best. He was replicating what he learned from his daddy who was apparently a total arsehole. Alternatively I could describe him thus: ‘he was Scottish’. None of my Scots ancestry ever reached me, not one crumb, except the brutal School-of-Hard-Knocks lessons my grandfather dispensed to all his sons. I guess it evolved as a way to ‘toughen you up’ so you could survive a brutal working-class life. At home, school, on the streets, in the workplace. The Scots are renown for their pugilism.

But compared to my grandfather ‘Peter-Pop’, Dad was a kitten. He was kind, forbearing. But inevitably his disappointment would show, his impatience, his unpredictable anger (which was probably spilling over from elsewhere as his first marriage turned to crap).

Thus I danced between my two parents, savaged by my father then rescued (but never re-empowered) by my mother. It was a perfect circuit, but is hard to deduce exactly who was the battery & who was the lightbulb. Maybe it was just two batteries and the wiring (me) what got hot. Or was I a capacitor? Anyway – there was no off-switch.

HIT PAUSE. – I don’t want to fling you into a black pit of despair. There is a silver lining in all this – of sorts. Larkin was far from the only one to realise this, and far from the only person to treat it as a permanent cycle. Which it isn’t. Tune in soon to PART II: ‘Fung Aside’ and a truly remarkable story.

POSTSCRIPT I: That sequence in Calvin and Hobbs was the most intense, beautiful, tragic, heart-wrenching things I have ever seen in a cartoon. Watterson never flinched in his depiction of childhood, and here he was at his best. Nothing compares.

POSTSCRIPT II: Flung is one of my favourite words. It is a word that takes no prisoners. It is assertive, adamant, unambiguous.  It evokes an action, either violent or done with disgust (or both). Intended. Forceful. As Yoda once said, “There is no unflung.”

Flung Aside

“Life is a highway / I want to ride it / all night long…”  – Tom Cochrane

One of my most enduring memories was coming across a top-flight sports-car upside down in a ditch on a highway in the middle of nowhere (which on that occasion was the middle of North Island, New Zealand). It was the 1970s, so no mobile phones. We stopped to investigate, fearing the worst. It was inverted, but intact. nothing for it: I scrambled into the ditch and finally worming my head in to check for trapped people.

Another car had stopped soon after us and they hurried to the scene of the crash too. Suddenly a powerful torch stabbed at me from the other side and a panic-stricken voice shouted, “Oh my God there’s someone in there!” but there wasn’t (except for my head). The driver had already pissed off, without even leaving a helpful note. We soon did the same thing. I imagine that same scene repeated itself all night long.

As to the highway of my life: I’ve been down many highways, literally and figuratively; and had some quite splendid adventures. I’ve been nearly-famous. I’ve performed in front of literally thousands of people on a few occasions, & cumulatively to 50,000+. I’ve sat in a room waiting to be announced author of NZ’s Children’s Book of the Year. (As earlier emphasised – the word ‘nearly’ figures in this.) I’ve been a ‘key-note’ speaker, and so on.

And every time – like coming off a rollercoaster, I was all: “WOO! Let’s do it again!” Every time. (Well: every time I proved good at something. Which was often enough.)

But on my highway, I always ended up in the ditch and walked away from each crashed car. Oh they ran well until then, proper little sports cars some of them. (I won’t bore you with the entire list. Let’s just say that in most instances it involved being on stage in some capacity. Public speaking. Workshop presenter. Storyteller. Stripper. That sort of thing.)

I have a friend. He’s a psychologist. After one of our men’s groups he asked me, “So how come you’re not successful?” Upon reflection it was not a casual question, nor was it asked (as I took it) in a perplexed/empathetic kind of way. I had no answer, but it sank into me anyway, like a depth charge. It’s still there.

What has been flinging me aside? I kept putting it down to circumstances; Bad Luck; Market Forces; it is just ‘how I rolled’ (<cough> into the ditch, every time). As some people like to put it – I blamed things. Other things. I have sat with professional psychologists, psychiatrists and counselors, and every time I tried to tell them “I have a fear of success” absolutely none of them took it up. FAIL!

But I was right: If I ever succeeded, especially Something In My Fathers’ World (sports, career, normalcy, holding down a government job for 38 years), it would break the programming my parents injected, and make him out to be a liar. (I mentioned his sideline barracking in the previous post, but to summarise: his final remark about me – uttered two months before he died – was, “So how’s that no-hoper getting on?”)

The only way I could completely fulfill his expectations was to keep on failing. I had been the mysterious force flinging myself off the highway. I was doing it via various strategies – usually by leveraging my circumstances at the time. After every success, as I walked away thinking, “Ooo! Nailed it! I have got to do more of this!” I was already plotting out exactly how I was going to fail to do any more. Unconsciously.

Really, there is no better explanation. Not a blinding flash; this hasn’t required expensive cathartic therapy; It has just been the sound of a penny dropping from the top of the world’s tallest building for 60 years. You have no idea how important this is to me.

NOW I PROMISED YOU AN ASTOUNDING STORY, all hinging of the word ‘Flung’.

As a boy I followed my big brother around. Gordon was 2 years my senior, and more physical than me, more social, and more in touch with reality. Thus he was my guide (to trouble) and saviour (when he wasn’t thumping me). He was also part of a gang that went around together. It’s what boys do, worldwide. Membership was fluid. I barely knew any of them; can’t remember a single name now. The Big Boys Gang.

The thing about these groups is, they’re very local. Other gangs, just a few street over, had their patch too. Strangers all. And thus, of course, they were Our Enemy. My gang said things about them, how they were all stupid, or all violent … Basically, they were Other. (And our gang was, in their eyes I’m sure, equally ‘Other’.) Fights sometimes happened. So we stayed away from their territory, and they from ours.

Come winter and we’d inevitably get snow, and since we were literally on the edge of town, adventure was to be had going upwards past the farmland, into the bush, and if conditions allowed, we could get to the very top of our local mountain; Mt Flagstaff; 2,000ft high.

“Let’s go see how deep the snow is!” “Huzzah!” “(etc.)” Off we went, with Gordon’s Little Brother tagging along. We hurried up the road and within an hour were well into the native bush on a track overgrown with scrawny trees. Everything was dredged in thick powdery snow. Then we noticed we were being followed. It was another gang, the one from the next suburb over: Halfway Bush – a rough tough state housing area. Trouble coming!

My gang sped up. Faster, faster they went, and I began to fall behind, panicking, gasping, struggling along in my gumboots on the deep snow and mud, too blown to as much as shout “Hey, wait up!” Well, I did, but it seemed the snow absorbed all sound. Panic shrivelled my voice, and I had every reason to panic. Pounding up behind me, just paces away, was an alien gang of towering 8 & 9-year-olds. Then they caught me.

Ever seen those nature programs when the cheetah catches its prey? How the poor beast, knowing it is doomed, instantly ceases the struggle? That was me. I went into shock, braced myself for awful things, and the humiliation began. They promised frightening things coming soon, declared me a wimp, sissy, etc (‘wimp’ and ‘loser’ were not used in 1959, but you get the idea), roughed me around, rammed snow down my collar, then flung me deep into scrubbery, laughing. What a hoot!

I tripped on a dead branch, fell painfully in a shower of snow, and listened to them laughing and jeering as they moved on. I was, understandably, rather glum. I fell at once into a severe depression, being – with all my might and skill – the miserable hapless victim … trapped … severely in need of rescue … soon … which finally did not come.

Believe me, I really radiated victimhood and neediness. I wallowed in the moment, I really worked it, but I had no audience. There was no Mother to pull me out. No feckin’ brother, either! Just silence, discomfort, some minor scratches and bruises, and my bum attitude.

I should be grateful for that moment. I finally got sick of being a pathetic wimp/sissy/loser, regained a bit of spine, struggled back to the track, saw nough of my group, and (hating them and their utter failure to protect me) I went home.

Now here’s the kicker:

40 years later I was living in Temuka (- a small country town in NZ’s South Island), and I befriended the guy at the local video-hire place. We’d talk about many things. He bought some of my books. I gave him a woodworking commission. Then one day we realised that we were both from Dunedin. In fact he was from Halfway Bush. We had lived a mile apart, but worlds apart too. Different school, slightly different ages, etc… “You know it was a funny thing; that:” I began, “We boys all had our little gangs, almost street by street, and we treated each other as strangers; enemies; but really we were all the same. Just kids. Yet there was this ritual of humiliating that we just had to dish out to each other…” And I began telling him about my lonely assault in the snow…

And he suddenly became very shifty. Very, VERY, shifty. Suddenly: no eye contact. Slowly my story dried up. Something was amiss – And we both quickly moved on, “Yeah, boys will be boys, eh?!” “Yeah, hah-hah-hah.” He did not admit it, but I knew then that he had been there that day. There was no mistaking it. Him and his gang. He remembered.

How freaking bizarre is that?!



Pocket Monsters vs Cross-dressing Robots

Let me be quite clear from the beginning; I hate Transformers.

I’ve hated the things from the day they came out. Hated every aspect of them, including the ham-fisted original TV series, the recent reboots, and in fact their very existence here on Earth. It is not professional jealousy. It was an idiot concept from the get-go; a glaringly contrived excuse to sell more plastic to gullible kids.

I mean – Interstellar robots from a far distant planet, right? And they look exactly like trucks? Also, why be in disguise? If they’re hiding from the other guys, why not just use their hyper-mega-radar detector thingies that they’ve surely got, considering they’re made of advanced alien technology and can fly through space? I mean: ‘hello?’

Oh, and they were all men. With distinctly human personalities. That speak English. At length (kinda like a TV script loaded with tiresome exposition) despite having hyper-mega-ultra-speed radio channels that work in space. Yeah. Right.

The only thing that impressed me was the design aspect – how the parts pulled out and rotated and clipped together again to make them look like mega-trucks or high-end sports cars. But never Toyota Corollas. I love that clever stuff. Utterly wasted here.

Anyway, it recently occurred to me that Transformers are very much like Pokemon. They both have two forms, Stored Mode (non-combative) and Deployed Mode (combative). They each have stages of development. In Pokemon they ‘evolve’, and in Transformers they get rebuilt all the time, or rebuild themselves. If you’re into collecting you’ll soon realise that the permutations of Transformer are rapidly approaching infinity. We’ll soon be tearing apart entire planets just to keep up with the trillions of ‘repaints’ and mods; the Original Series Re-release Series; the Animated Series; the risible Dino-bots and their inevitable re-boot;  the fucking Protector-bots and yadda yadda yadda. Not to mention the new awesome/creepy versions from the reboot-movies. (I hear movie #112 is under way.)

And each series started out with about a dozen basic models, then they started adding more and more as the product gets more and more popular. Remember when there were 52 Pokemon? Wow! 52! So many! Now there are 718/750/722/726, depending on which web-site you consult. Not to mention some 36 different poke-balls.

But seriously – I’ve got to hand it to the Pokemon writers and artists. They just keep coming up with the most awesome looking creatures:Pokemon3

But what about those poor chumps tasked with perpetually re-inventing the Transformers? I imagine it goes a bit like this:

CEO: “So what have you got for us this week, boys?”

DEVELOPER #1: (nervously) “Ahhh, we’ve got some great stuff, chief!”

CEO: “You’d better! Last week’s releases pulled in dismal sales. Only 2 million.”

DEVELOPER #1: “No worries. This set is going to nail it. So this is Roto-Rooter. He …”

CEO: “What the fuck is a roto-rooter?”

DEVELOPER #2: “It, um, it removes blockages in sewers. But we were just going on the name, see? It’s really strong, really macho. And look, he’s go this coiled arm thing that…”

CEO: “Oh for fuck’s sake! You might as well have just called him Enema or something.”

DEVELOPER #3: “Ah, we did that last year, sir. y’know, the Medic Series?”

CEO: <does a facepalm> “Oh yes: Medi-Vac; Transfuse-Ion; Hyper Dermic; Neck Brace, and N-Emma…”

DEVELOPER #2: “You did ask us to introduce another female character…”

CEO: “Yes! And I told you to call her Nukular Emma!”

DEVELOPER #2: “Uh, yes, but a lot of kids couldn’t pronounce that, so we …”

CEO: “Look, we’re not going to ever do another series for girls, okay!? Transformers are boys’ toys! Besides, who the hell wants a combat robot in a maid’s outfit!?”

DEVELOPER #2: “The Japanese market was beginning to …”

CEO: “Screw the Japanaese market! It’s a lost cause.”

DEVELOPER #3: <consulting his phone> “They’re now up to 8,950 Pokemon…”

CEO: <dangerously> “One more strike, Kevin, and you’re sacked. Got that?”

DEVELOPER #3: “Yes, sir. sorry, sir.”

DEVELOPER #1: <clears his throat cautiously> “Kevin sort of has a point though, Sir. If we could widen our sources to include other species, so to speak …”

CEO: <angrily> “When I was a developer we put out Dino-bots; Eagle-Bots, Vampire-Bots, Mutant-Bots, Zombie-Bots, Rhino-Bots, Trilo-Bots, the entire Micro-Bots series, the Burrow-Bots and the Platobots …”

DEVELOPER #2: “Except everyone called them the ‘Plato Bots’.”

CEO: “Idiots! Hadn’t they ever heard of a platypus? Plat-O-Puss!”

DEVELOPER #2: “You’re right, sir. Let’s swing back to old-fashioned Transformer Traditions. The KitchenGirl Bots were just .. wrong. I mean ‘Iron Stand’; that sounded good. A strong woman, standing her ground …”

DEVELOPER #1: “And she complimented ‘Ironing Board’ perfectly.”

DEVELOPER #2: “I thought ‘Coffee-Tron’ looked great!

DEVELOPER #3: “Yeah; ‘Stove Master’… ‘Power Point’ …’Blender Blade”…”

DEVELOPER #1: “I loved Blender Blade!”

DEVELOPER #2: “Yeah, but ya can’t beat those fucking feminists, eh?”

DEVELOPER #1: “Nah, nah, they just … didn’t get it.”

CEO: “Guys, love to talk but we need our factories starting tonight! So what else have you got there? Yeah, yeah, Roto-Rooter, stick with that, he’ll do. Come on, come on!”

DEVELOPER #1: “Alright; aaaand here’s Barrow-Wheel – folds down into a single wheel. He just sort of crushes everyone. This is Vise-Grip – ‘the grip of death’. Sawblade – kinda obvious,  really. Ahhh; Pinch-Bar.., oh and this is their leader: Mulch-Master!”

CEO: “Didn’t I ask for a Combiner Set?”

DEVELOPER #2: “Sure did! We’re on it, boss.” <he clips the prototypes together> “And there he is: huge! We thought we’d call the combiner version ‘Toolshed’!”

CEO: “Haven’t we done that already?”

DEVELOPER #2: “No that was Tool-Belt. Three years ago.”

CEO: <almost weeping>”Surely we’ve got something better?”

DEVELOPER #2: “We’re all out of ideas, seriously. For cars we’re down to the Fiat Bambina or the British electric  milk cart.”

DEVELOPER #1: “I think the wombat is still begging, if we’re doing animals.”

DEVELOPER #3: <looking back at his phone> “Uh oh, they’ve just passed 9,000.”

CEO: “Right! that’s it! You’re sacked!










Strange Acts of Intuition in Cinemas

Dunedin/1960s. From a young age I’d go downtown and take in a movie, sometimes alone. There were James Bond movies. I remember ‘The Guns of Navarone’. I liked the good-guys/bad-guys stuff. War. Anything a teenage knob could get into: car chases; explosions.  Sometimes men and women would talk for ages then kiss. Oh God! B-o-ring! We’d wait impatiently for the real action to resume.

My taste in movies widened, thank goodness. But it was a slow evolution.

[A digression: I had a friend, Stephen C. He was quite the thinker and a socialist I suspect. Certainly not a Royalist. In those days they played “God Save the Queen” before the movie and the moment it began, everyone would stand. We’d all been trained. I mean – Ermagawd THE QUEEN! Then one day I noticed Stephen still sitting. WTF (or 1960s equivalent)! Urgently I whispered at him, but he did not arise. I feared vague terrible consequences; a righteous telling-off by some outraged authority figure and a public shaming, I guess, but it never happened. Anyway he talked me around to ‘the dark side’ and I became a rebel too. We daring young men in out stay-seated machines, defying the Might of the Empire and 1,000 years of obsequious grovelling. Even so, I was shit-scared.]

And so many decades passed and I sat through a load of movies. In my 2nd year of uni, film festivals became a thing in NZ. I was in Auckland by then. I ended up seeing loads of weird shit – sorry; ‘Art-house Movies’. Lots of them, and my brain retains fragments of some. Odd vignettes of costume dramas, love tragedies, turgid studies of nihilistic angst (sorry, Bergman, but it was true!). There was a fabulous animated sci-fi movie, and also the dullest movie of my life: Solaris.

life rolled on. I was young cashed up and curious, but most movies were a waste of money. I got nothing out of them. Eventually, eschewing art-house fare and my attempts at being an intellectually sophisticated adult, I went back to the ‘actioner’. No satisfaction there either, until Star Wars arrived. Finally everything I needed!

But gradually the movies got better, and gradually I forged stable relationships wherein I had the bonus of having a regular movie-going buddy. Bagdad Cafe was so wonderful, I saw it three times. When Harry Met Sallyyes, yes, YES!

And now to the present. I went to see The Lady in the Van with my wife. Her mother insisted we should go – “you’re gonna love it!” and we did. “what’s it about?” – “Some guy gets lumbered with a crazy disgusting old lady for 15 years, after he lets her park her van in his driveway…” “Okay – got it.” and off we go. and I’m watching it … five minutes in … and suddenly I go. “OMG that’s the driveway where she lived. They actually went back and filmed it where it happened!

Now I hadn’t read that. I don’t listen to radio. I knew absolutely zip about that movie. But I intuitively flashed up that fact. I would’ve been broken-hearted to get home and discover it hadn’t been so, but I was right. Bang-on!

Ex Machina. I went with my scifi-breathing son. We loved it. It really was extraordinary; Best Sci-fi Ava! And we’re sliding along with it, 40 minutes in, mesmerised by her see-thru arms and the intense dance of conversations and nerve-wracking undercurrents … and suddenly it happened again. The human guy asks her, “If you could get out of here, where would you go? What would you look at?” And my mind immediately flashed to a certain location in Japan. (You know it; it’s world-famous, but I won’t spoil the movie, okay?) and although I didn’t get it exactly right – I got the concept of it exactly right. EX-ACT-LY. That was her answer to his question.

Holy. Fuck.

But this is not about movies. It’s not about ‘intuition’ or the extraordinary powers of the human (or robot) mind. It’s about being autistic.

Being autistic is life-long. There’s no cure. [Parents, let me repeat this, THERE IS NO CURE!] Those 2 or 3 decades  of going to movies was entirely about me being autistic, and nothing to do with Bergman and his ilk being incompetent. They made great movies. What made them ‘art-house’ was because they were entirely about the human condition, entirely for the ’emotional IQ’ of the viewers. About relationships, love, loyalty, rivalry, conflict, hidden agendas, madness, grief …

I’d often watch movies and think, “No. Don’t believe it. People aren’t like this. No-one could be such an areshole/so violent/so evil. No-one could be that driven/desperate/that much in love as to [INSERT EXTREME BEHAVIOUR]. These are just characters made up by script writers to try and create ‘drama’. They’re over-working it. Pure fiction.” 

Because I had no connection to it. Even though I had grown up in a totally fucked-up family full of violence and despair, I remained disconnected from my own human condition or anyone else’s. That was why movies made no sense. Time and time again I’d sit through 90 minutes of sheer pointless nothing. ‘Solaris’ was sheer pointless nothing. Seriously. Absolutely none of it had any impact on me whatsoever except to utterly bore the shit out of me. (Salman Rushdie called Solaris “a sci-fi masterpiece.”)

So what changed? I can now watch a movie and feel very intensely for the characters. I can ‘read’ the emotional subtext in a scene without dialogue. I seldom see a character now where I go – “Uh-uh, nope, can’t believe that! Who wrote this shite? doesn’t he know anything about human beings?”

What changed was that I grew up. What takes a few years in a child took sixty years in me. But at least it happened. I learned the language of the soul, of love and pain, of the wabi-sabi of life, of exhilaration and seething anger and depression and despair. It’s the same language that Star Wars is written in (ham-fistedly by George Lucas, it has to be said), and all the weird-shit movies too. It is what some people carelessly just call ‘intuition’.

But it ain’t. It’s in our Ape-ancestor genetics. Or we learn it. Or we don’t. Or we can’t be arsed straining our emotional solaris and just go buy tickets to the next big actioner. But intuition is being able to double-guess a robot.

(Or was I double-guessing a writer?)




Why does ‘Questionnaire’ rhyme with ‘Millionaire’?

And why does it have two ‘N’s? I always spell it wrong!

Anyway, I’ve spend the last year and a half* composing a questionnaire for you – all 47 of you in the world who have read my book or know about it – and I’d be grateful if you spent 17 seconds of your life filling it in. Then print it out on heavyweight gold-embedded paper and send it to the following address: Millionaire’s Row, Brisbane, Australia.

Thanks! Here’s the link:


[ * I exaggerated by a factor of 365.]