Ah, wasn't that something? From the first counted votes in the early morning (Melbourne time) until its mid-afternoon denouement, Indiana was a feast of democratic theatrics. If you couldn't set aside the time to follow the narrative as it played out, let me recap.
Indiana belongs to two timezones (Eastern and Central), and has the unusual, arguably dubious practice of closing polls early at 6pm — not so strange to Australians, but then again we don't vote on Tuesdays. So at the groggy hour of just after 8am, results started to trickle in from the Eastern majority of the state. Beginning, as usual, with rural areas. Those deep southern tracts that Bill Clinton spent a week traversing repaid their debts and left a tip. Hillary streaked to a 30 point lead that simmered and settled into a high-teens holding pattern as Fort Wayne proved an Obaman buttress — but while the percentage held, the vote difference grew: first ten thousand, then twenty, then quickly enough forty. Marion County, host to liberal Indianapolis, began its slow churn of results, and eventually the vote difference stabilised at fifty thousand displaced chads. Consequently the percentage shrank, dipping to 53:47 with the surprisingly pro-Obama votes from the Catholic northern county of St Joseph.
Just under four hours into the count, the percentage came to rest at 52:48 in Clinton's favour, a net advantage of some 40,000 from just short of a million votes. The university town of Bloomington in Monroe Country was secreting predictably Barack-loving numbers, but only in counterpoint to the wide rural stretches of lower Indiana turning out on behalf of the woman who wanted to save them $50 at the gas pump over summer and protect them from vile gun-control laws.
Two counties reserved their judgement at 0% counted, hanging like Damoclean swords or waterbombs over the numerical status quo: Lake County in the north-west — home to the city of Gary and 8% of Indiana's population — and Union in the mid-east, in deep Clinton country, which looked ominous until one glanced at the census data (something like 0.1% of the state).
On the 29th of March this year, the mayor of Gary — a man by the name of Rudy Clay, an unabashed Obama supporter — claimed that the city would be the talk of the nation two months later on election night. Gary, you see, has a history of electoral king-making, because it produces results like molasses makes bubbles. Clay said that day that Gary would be the name on the lips of newscasters: "They are going to point at Indiana and say Hillary Clinton is leading by one point but Gary ain't come in yet."
He was only out by a percentile or two.
So we waited. Clay had the numbers — we knew this because other mayors of Lake County appeared on the networks and explained that they'd tendered their machine votes at half-six Central. But Clay had a sense of drama akin to the great Elizabethan playwrights. It was not until 1:45pm, just short of midnight in Indiana, that Clay dropped a 28%-of-the-vote bomb on a frothing commentariat: this quarter of Lake had gone 75:25 for Obama, yielding him an eighteen thousand vote gain, and tightening the margin to 23,000.
The sanest voice I've found in US electoral psephology put Obama's chances of winning Indiana at 30% when this information was divulged. If anything like that ratio held in Lake, the state (and likely the nomination) was his this night.
But Clay had a finer ear for melodrama. He waited forty minutes for the chattering heads on the cable nets to exhaust this tantalising revelation, and then produced the 56%-of-the-vote enigma: Barack's advantage reduced to 65%, his gains in Lake minor but still enough that when extrapolated made every vote count.
Then, gaining my admiration for his gumption, he made himself available to the media. He talked and talked and talked about the so-called reasons for the delay, and said at one point "there's more results coming in about 20 minutes", deftly dodging the ham-fisted attempts to pin him down for (quite obviously) staging the scene.
But wasn't it a dream? For a long moment, Obama had the nomination if he could just pull out 20,000 punctured ballots, and how couldn't he in Chico Gary? Of course Clay gave us his third act right on time, a 98% fizzler, when the inevitable south of Lake County redressed the imbalance initiated by Gary, leaving Hillary comfortably 30,000 clear.
All of which means that West Virginia looms next Tuesday, a presumed victory for Clinton, like Kentucky a week later. But when Kentucky votes, so does Oregon, and it is the likely win there for Obama that should finally resolve this, if Clinton does not tender her handkerchief in the face of the inevitable this week. And not before time: this has been good, but it has become damaging, and we've seen multitudinous sides of her that really we'd rather not have. I'd like Oregon to bring this thing to an end, in part because it and Wisconsin are my two favourite American states I've never seen.
Joseph | 7 May 2008 | 0 comments
Don't get me wrong, I'm as much an admirer of the opening scene of Lost in Translation as anyone. But this, this is execrable. Its only virtue, perhaps, is that Scarlett Johansson has demonstrated for all time how to murder a Tom Waits song. No-one need ever try again.
There's a whole album of this shit.
Awesome.
Joseph | 6 May 2008 | 0 comments
Also, the prickles of stars when the moon's hid. G'night.
Joseph | 25 Apr 2008 | 0 comments
This guy says that the perfect pop song runs for two minutes, forty-two seconds, no more, no less. He claims to have proof, which is sporadically convincing.
So I created a filter in iTunes: File->New Smart Playlist..., select Time from dropdown, 2:42 in the text field, OK. And my doubts disappeared. Not a bad set list, if from a small and biased sample.
Joseph | 17 Apr 2008 | 8 comments
I don't use my phone much. Certainly not for talking to people. I do everything in my power to avoid talking to people on the phone.
I message people a bit. Not enough to be all that quick at it. Not enough for it to cost me anything — my phone bill has been $16.50 every month for the last 12 months, except in December when Kelly's ute broke down and we wasted 20 minutes on hold to the RACV. Not enough to have given up my regard for punctuation or my disdain for abbrs.
What rankles me about my phone is that despite some 2Gb of storage, I'm only allowed 4Mb for my messages. It's infuriating, because those messages are part of my written history. They're the best thing on my phone, and Nokia has granted me no way of exporting them. Everytime I'm forced to do a cull, twenty or thirty koans vanish into the void. I hate to tell you this, but I tend to delete your messages rather than mine. Not your good ones though — I'm trying to keep those, although Nokia has other ideas.
I have 1099 messages in my Sent Items folder. For a random sample, I'm going to take the 30 middlemost messages (534-563) devoid of context and dump them here. It's navel-gazing, but this is a blog, right?
Hang on, it's going to take a few minutes to scroll to them. Typing one-handed. Bring on the 3G iPhone already. Dum-de-dum. Is Everybody Knows This is Nowhere Neil Young's best album? I sometimes think so. Oh look, 420. If you recognise one, let me know. Alright, here goes nothing. (Reverse-chronological, for the record.)
So obviously that was my francophilean phase. For a lot of them, my guess is as good as yours. Incidentally, I won that poker game. And bizarrely, the only two text messages I've ever previously transcribed on this blog were in that random sample. That was unlikely. In summary, Nokia sucks.
Joseph | 3 Apr 2008 | 1 comment
So, two facts. Both rendered indisputable like erosion renders things indisputable: by the steady drip-drip of me saying it over and over. First, I live in Carringbush and the Tote is my local. Second, I do like my booze.
Except, one of these isn't quite true. With a good arm I could throw a stone from here and hit the Tote. But as this posited stone approached the top of its arc, it would fly past another watering hole. That one, if you're being pedantic, is my local. It's a corner hotel, built in a Walt Disney castellian style, with bright turquoise spires projecting from every perpendicularity. From a distance you'd say it's almost cute. Actually it's rough as guts. The closest I've ever been to mugged was walking past the front bar one Sunday afternoon, when a bloke with one arm wrapped around his girl put his other hand on my chest and inquired after my finances. That was something of a quandry, because you don't want to antagonise a belligerent man in front of his woman. The situation was eventually defused by the security guard who (oddly tenderly) embraced my assailant, turned to me and said "You'd better get the fuck out of here, bro".
I probably owe that guy a beer.
Anyway, the Tote is my local. The alternative doesn't even really register anymore. But this evening I had some work to do, and by extension that involves a dose of the great programming elixir. This pub is by any measure the most convenient of my available liquor vendors, and tonight I figured that having navigated the shadier streets of Gotham, nothing in Carringbush could hold any terrors. So I ducked across the road into the bottle shop, looking for a white wine. I cast my eyes about the shelves for a second, and then the proprietor appeared. "Have you got... oh," I said, as I found the fridge on the other side of the counter. She sort of snorted, and I looked at her.
She was a short, stocky woman with close-cropped hair. And a well-groomed moustache.
"...Could I get the Jacobs Creek Chardy?" She snorted again, we swapped bottle for change, and I was almost laughing. God I love Carringbush.
Joseph | 1 Apr 2008 | 0 comments
You might think I cut my own hair because I'm a cheapskate. There were times (good times) when that might have been a fair accusation, but these days I like to think it's demonstrably false. It's not because I'm anti-social either, though to a certain extent I am — unless I've been drinking. But of course there's Dr Follicles on Gertrude, where they ply you with Coopers ale as they tame your tresses, which would be the perfect cure if shyness or misanthropy were the ailment.
In fact, I cut my own hair largely out of obstinacy. When I was five (yes, twenty-five years ago), my mother took me to a hairdresser on Hamilton St, Mont Albert, and I got freaked before I even sat in the chair. I don't remember why, but I ran out onto the street, and no cajoling nor ultimatum could bring me back into the shop. I swore to my mother that day I would never, ever go to a hairdresser, or hair stylist, or hairmonger, again.
So for the next seven years, Mum cut my hair. She had a whole armory of scissors, I remember: some thin, some curved, some tapered for the fringe, some with teeth like crocodiles, all very cold against my skin. Despite the professional quality of her arms cache, and her diligence and patience, she usually managed to nick my ear or the back of my neck, and always, without fail, I looked like a bucktoothed goofball at the end of the procedure.
Now when you are being stubborn, and people are being accomodating, and then you have the temerity to complain in spite of their goodwill — what usually results is a stand-off. So by twelve years, when my appearance, I guess, started to matter, and yet I still would not betray my five-year-old self, but nor could I have my hair cut by my mother, she devised an ingenious plan. "You will go to the barber," she said. "He's different from hairdressers." I remember being doubtful. But I was in a no-win scenario, so I took her at her word and for two years, on an occasional afternoon, I trudged down Broughton Rd to Elgar, where Joe the Barber had a shopfront. It said Joe the Barber in the window, even if it had no white and red poles. He was old and Italian and loved his soccer and cigars. He'd say "How would you like it?" and I would mumble something like "Short back and sides" but it didn't matter — he just got out his shears and gave me a uniform #2 every time. He didn't talk much, which was really how I liked it.
I eventually wised up though. The bloke was a hairdresser. And I had sworn off them. So I started cutting my own hair when I was fourteen or fifteen. At first I did this with Mum's ordnance of cold steel, pointing one mirror at the front of my head and one at the back. The results were mixed. But I was entering a period of my life where mixed results were good. I started dying my hair — for a long time fixated on a product that gave me a lustrous "Mahogany Copper" mane, before I moved to jet black. When I got a girlfriend, Suwindi, she cut my hair a few times. She once shaped the crown of my head into a crude Eye of Osiris, it was completely awesome. You can still kind of make it out in my Year 12 handbook. At the end of that year I attended Presentation Night and accepted a prize with a small, skin-white X shaved into the middle of my head. And when I moved to Sydney there was the relatively notorious occasion where I asked my friend Elanor to "make me look like a mangy chicken." She (bless her) said "okay!" and deftly wielded the scissors, both of us giggling maniacally. I sort of did look like a black-feathered moulting rooster at the end of it.
Usually though, I was the one responsible for the crimes against my coiffure. In my twenties, as my radicalism faded and my contentment grew, I discovered these things called clippers, which you could buy at the supermarket for fifteen bucks. I had always assumed they were the exclusive property of barbers, like scalpels for doctors. Ever since, my routine has been largely unchanged. At an interval of two or three months, I go to the bathroom and (NSFW warning) strip naked, not out of any bizarre fetish but simply because I hate getting stray hair on my clothes or towels — it prickles my skin. Then I just do what Joe the Barber used to do — roll the #2 across my head for ten minutes. When done, I jump in the shower.
Of course, every time I'm obliged to do this, I feel the need to improve my technique a little. I learned that "jigging" the clippers around my head, rather than a smooth push, was much more efficient in claiming chunks of hair. I devised an ingenious method for keeping the back hairline mostly straight: wrapping one hand from earlobe to earlobe, and then pushing the #0 clippers up my neck until I hit my index finger. I have a canny knack now for hearing when the clippers are full and need to be tipped into the plastic bag in the sink.
I suppose with all this practice and conscious technique improvement, if the digital economy ever goes south, I'd make a pretty good barber. Five-year-old Joseph didn't say anything about that.
Joseph | 27 Mar 2008 | 2 comments
Muxtape is a great, simple idea that suffers from a few inadequacies in the execution: uploading several songs is a click-click-wait-click-click-click-wait-etc process, songs are listed in reverse order by default, only one tape per account (so no making a tape for someone in particular, or doing a Theme Time Radio Hour), and so on.
Still, I'm sure they'll figure it out, and if they don't, someone else will. Probably the RIAA will stomp all over the idea before perfection is achieved, anyway. Meantime, here's mine. A fairly random sample of internationals I've been listening to recently; I was planning to create a separate Australian list.
Post one in the comments, if you're so inclined.
Joseph | 26 Mar 2008 | 1 comment
I'm back in Melbourne after two weeks in the States. There's one less thing I haven't done, and it sort of feels that way.
I asked a few people about the election when I could. Not an easy thing to bring up with strangers, and particularly Americans. Most of the people I spoke to about it were my age and younger, and most of them said something along the lines of "I'm not interested in party politics". Of the committed, they divided pretty evenly between Barack and Hillary. I didn't meet anyone who identified as a Republican. The sample was small enough to be incredibly pointless (maybe 10 out of 270,000,000 or so), but I was struck by the level of disinterest anyway.
In other news, apparently while I was at SXSW, Ms Fits' Reasons You Will Hate Me won a Bloggie. Of course it's for Fits' skillfully crude humour, rather than the design or functionality of the site (for which I'm broadly to blame), but still. Congrats, ma'am, even if you didn't get a statuette.
Anyway, if you read one or two of the entries in my American diary, cheers. It was fun to write regularly, gave me a helpful prism through which to comprehend what I was seeing and doing, and I enjoyed channelling the ghost of old Tocqueville for a few weeks. Also, thanks to the folks who made suggestions on my itinerary — I acted on most of them, and improvised elsewhere, and saw a lot more than I otherwise would have. Now, who's up for a beer?
Joseph | 24 Mar 2008 | 7 comments
In case you hadn't spotted it in the sidebar, for the next week or so I'm taking notes in my American diary.
Joseph | 12 Mar 2008 | 2 comments
Topographic view
The qualifier
Two weeks with the apple and the lone star (illustrated).