Children's Author Staying – So I'm Not Blogging 😊

One of my best friends, Isobel, is coming to stay tonight. She's a children's author, young adult mostly. We live in different states; us in Victoria and them in Queensland so I don't get to see her that often. I think the last time was a couple of months ago and I stayed at her place on the Great Ocean Road. Fantastic place to write with a view of the ocean...

She's bringing her guy and so, with the Squeeze, the four of us are going to make pizzas and do that strange thing people used to do before social media.

You know?

Converse.

In the real world.

We probably won't have a phone between us. No social media. No doomscrolling. No arguing with strangers on Facebook. Nothing.

Bliss.

We'll probably have a night of music. Playing it, rather than just listening to it. Pity the only instrument I play is the tambourine. 😊 We have a couple of acoustic guitars, a mandolin, a ukulele, a slide guitar, a cigar box guitar, a Fender Telecaster and a Stratocaster, just to name a few.

And I still can't play a bloody thing.

But I love nights like this.

Because as much as I enjoy writing and social media, nothing beats sitting around with good friends, eating too much, talking rubbish and laughing until your sides hurt.

It certainly beats the Squeeze and I sitting in front of the television every night dreaming of a different life.

Although, to be fair, he's probably dreaming of a life where I don't exist.

Mind you, after twenty five years together, I suspect I've crossed his mind as a murder suspect more than once.

Still, he'll have to keep me.

I know where the guitars are hidden.

The Death Of Embarrassment

I don't know exactly when it happened, but I think embarrassment died sometime around 2015…

There was no funeral. No minute's silence. No flowers.

One day people simply stopped being ashamed of anything and carried on as though this was perfectly normal.

Once upon a time embarrassment was useful. It stopped you from doing stupid things in public. It prevented you from dancing on restaurant tables, filming yourself sobbing after a break-up, or announcing intimate bodily functions to complete strangers.

It acted as society's handbrake.

Not anymore.

These days people record themselves crying and upload it to millions of strangers. Couples broadcast their arguments. Families reveal every scandal. Influencers discuss things with the internet that previous generations wouldn't have discussed with their doctors.

And apparently this is now considered authenticity. I'm old enough to remember when people suffered humiliation in private.

If you tripped over in the street, or at the shopping centre as I did… You got up as quickly as possible and scurried away for checking on the bruises.

Now you end up on Facebook with dramatic music and hundreds of views.

They film themselves having emotional breakdowns. They confess things online that should probably remain between themselves, a close friend and perhaps a licensed therapist. Nothing is off limits anymore.

Births.

Deaths.

Divorces.

Medical procedures.

Family feuds.

The strange thing is that nobody seems embarrassed by any of this.

Meanwhile, I still apologise to mannequins if I bump into them. I whisper when discussing personal matters at the chemist. I still lower my voice when talking about money. And if I accidentally wave back at someone who wasn't waving at me, I spend the next six years considering emigration.

Perhaps I'm showing my age. Or perhaps embarrassment existed for a reason.

Maybe not every thought needs to be shared.

Maybe not every moment needs an audience.

Maybe some things are meant to remain private.

And perhaps civilisation began its decline around the same time people started filming themselves crying for content. Because if aliens landed tomorrow and spent ten minutes on social media, I suspect they'd quietly return to their spaceship and decide humanity wasn't quite ready for first contact.

And honestly, I couldn't blame them.

Why Is Everyone Filming Everything?

Nobody experiences life. We document it for strangers.

I don't know exactly when it happened, but somewhere along the way we stopped experiencing life and started documenting it. Filming it. Apparently nothing happens anymore unless somebody records it.

Nobody just goes to a concert anymore. They record the concert. They hold their phones in the air for two hours filming something they'll never watch again while blocking the view of the poor bastard behind them. Annoying? Well, I've been that poor bastard, so yes. I've also had the pleasure of being the blocker at times. Jon Stevens on Saturday night, for example. But I only filmed a little of it, just so the world would know I was there.

That seems to be the way of it now. People don't go on holidays. They create content. Nobody eats lunch. They photograph lunch. Nobody sees a sunset. They film the sunset. Nobody attends weddings. They spend half the ceremony trying to capture the perfect angle for Instagram while the bride and groom are standing there wondering if anyone actually saw them get married.

My son got married last year and the celebrant asked everyone not to film. They had professional photographers taking millions of fantastic shots that anyone could have later. They simply asked everyone to enjoy the moment. Sans phone, at least for me, was fabulous. Well, it was after I got over the first withdrawal symptoms!

I saw footage recently of people filming fireworks. Fireworks! As though there won't be another lot next year. As though their grandchildren are going to gather around one day and say, "Grandma, please show us that blurry video of New Year's Eve 2024 again."

And don't get me started on people filming complete strangers having meltdowns in supermarkets. Once upon a time you'd quietly think, "Hell, that bloke's having a bad day," and move on. Now everyone whips out a phone and hopes to go viral.

We're no longer participants in our own lives. We're unpaid camera crews. Everything has become content.

Birthdays. Engagements. Car accidents. Marriage proposals. Gender reveals. Funerals. Apparently nothing is allowed to happen unless complete strangers can watch it later. And the strange thing is, I don't think we're even doing it for ourselves anymore. We're doing it for people we don't know. People we'll never meet. People who will scroll past our precious memories in about three seconds before watching a cat fall off a sofa.

Maybe I'm showing my age, but sometimes I think the best memories I have are the ones nobody photographed.

The holidays where nobody carried a phone.

The concerts where everyone sang instead of filmed.

The dinners where we talked instead of taking pictures of our food.

Perhaps memories were never meant to be content.

Perhaps they were just meant to be memories.

The Professional Wrestlingification of Everything

I've come to the conclusion that professional wrestling escaped the ring years ago and quietly took over the rest of society.

Not actual wrestling, of course. Nobody is getting hit over the head with folding chairs in Parliament. Although some days, I'm not entirely convinced that they shouldn’t be…

No, I'm talking about the “spectacle”.

Everything has become bigger. Louder. Angrier. More dramatic.

Nobody simply disagrees anymore. They destroy. They annihilate. They humiliate. Apparently, every argument must end with somebody being body-slammed into oblivion while a cheering crowd waves digital signs in the comment section.

Politics became wrestling years ago.

Then social media joined in.

Then the news.

Then celebrities.

Then influencers.

And now ordinary people seem to have joined the cast. Every opinion requires an entrance. Every disagreement requires a villain. Every discussion needs heroes, betrayals and shocking plot twists.

Even corporations have learned the game. Once upon a time companies sold soap powder. Now they issue statements. They take sides. They apologise. They clarify. They release carefully worded responses to controversies nobody had heard of six hours earlier.

Everything has become theatre. Nothing can simply exist without an audience. If a celebrity breaks up with their partner, we pick teams. If two billionaires have a disagreement, we choose sides. If somebody says something stupid on Twitter, half the internet grabs popcorn while the other half searches for a folding chair.

The strange thing is that professional wrestling has always known exactly what it is.

Entertainment.

That's the joke.

Meanwhile, the rest of us are pretending this endless drama is perfectly normal. Perhaps that's why everyone seems exhausted. We're living inside a twenty-four-hour pay-per-view event. And there are no off-seasons. No wonder people are tired. No wonder everyone is angry. No wonder we're all permanently waiting for the next shocking betrayal, devastating comeback or explosive revelation.

Personally, I miss boring. I miss the days when the most exciting thing that happened was someone forgetting to put the bins out. These days, civilisation apparently collapses three times before lunch.

And somewhere, in the middle of all this madness, common sense is lying unconscious under a folding chair while Karen from Facebook climbs onto the top rope to defend her views on seed oils.

Honestly, if aliens landed tomorrow, they'd probably assume humanity settled its differences through professional wrestling and YouTube comments.

And frankly, I wouldn't blame them... 

So You Want to Become a Professional Wrestler?

I suspect nobody wakes up at six years old and says, “When I grow up, I’d like to wear sequins and jump from ropes, on people.”

And yet, somewhere out there, a young person is watching grown men in tights insult each other before body-slamming one another through a table or chair and thinking, “Yes. That’s the career for me.”

Professional wrestling is fascinating because it might be the only occupation where being loud, dramatic and completely unreasonable is considered a job skill.

And I don't know; I'd say the money is pretty good. I mean look at The Rock...

The first thing you need is a name. You can’t just be Steve from Geelong. No. You need something terrifying. “The Crusher.” “The Executioner.” “The Viper.” Or if you’re over sixty and your knees click when you stand up, perhaps “The Arthritic Menace.” lol and you'd be too scared you'd break something so there is no jumping off the ropes for you!

But, then you need a costume. Normal people wear sensible clothing. Wrestlers apparently raid the reject section of Spotlight and emerge covered in glitter and fake leather and usually, bad hair.

Of course, wrestling isn’t just about athletic ability. It’s about creating a character. A villain. A hero. Someone the crowd loves or someone they desperately want to see punched in the face.

Come to think of it, that’s exactly how politics works these days.

Nobody debates ideas anymore. They create personas. They insult opponents. They perform outrage. Their supporters cheer wildly. Facts are optional. Drama is mandatory.

Perhaps politicians should simply stop pretending and embrace it.

Imagine Question Time with entrance music.

The Prime Minister bursts through the curtain to AC/DC. Which kind of reminds me of when Joan Kirner was premier; she dressed in leathers and sang Joan Jett, I love rock and roll. I think White was on guitar (the Minister for Health)

It was hysterical!!! I loved her for that... Joan Kirner

The Opposition Leader enters riding a Harley-Davidson while smoke cannons explode.

The independents come out carrying steel chairs.

At least we’d all know what we’re watching.

And unlike politics, professional wrestlers have the decency to admit it’s entertainment.

Your Opinion Is Not A Wrestling Personality

I have noticed something rather strange about modern life…

People don't seem to have opinions anymore. They become them.

Once upon a time, you could think pineapple on pizza was an abomination against humanity and still get on with your neighbour who thought it was perfectly acceptable. (I actually think its perfectly acceptable to; but I like heaps of chillis! So Pineapple goes out the window.

Now? Apparently, you must defend your position to hate pineapple, to the death.

Everyone has become a professional wrestler.

Not literally, of course. Nobody is leaping off the top rope in Woolworths. Although give it time…

But we have all developed wrestling personas. There are the heroes. There are the villains. There are the loyal fans. There are catchphrases. And heaven help anyone who wanders into the wrong corner of the internet wearing the wrong colours.

People don't simply disagree anymore.

They issue challenges. They cut promos. They deliver verbal body slams.

They announce that they've "destroyed" somebody with facts and logic, which generally means both parties spent three hours arguing with complete strangers while neglecting to empty the dishwasher.

The strangest part is that nobody is allowed to change their mind. Changing your mind used to be called learning. Now it's considered betrayal. You must remain faithful to your tribe, your team and your chosen champion until the bitter end.

Meanwhile the rest of us are sitting in the cheap seats wondering when having an opinion became a full-time identity. I miss the days when people argued, had a cup of tea and then moved on. Now everyone behaves as though civilisation itself depends upon whether a stranger on Facebook agrees with them.

Honestly, the only thing missing is entrance music, sparkly underwear and a bloke with a folding chair.

Why Is Everyone Filming Everything?

Nobody experiences life. We document it for strangers! I don't know exactly when it happened, but somewhere along the way we stopped experiencing life. Instead, we film it. Nothing happened that isn’t filmed or documented somewhere… If you pull your head back from the phone, you can see what is really looks like! Sigh...

Nobody just goes to a concert anymore. They record the concert. They hold their phones in the air for two hours filming something they'll never watch again while blocking the view of the poor bastard behind them. Annoying? Well, I’ve been that ‘poor bastard’ so yes. I’ve also had the pleasure of being the blocker at times… Jon Stevens on Saturday night, but I only filmed a little of it, just so the world would know I was there.

But that seems to be the way of it now. People don't go on holidays. They create content. Nobody eats lunch. They photograph lunch. Nobody sees a sunset. They film the sunset. Nobody attends weddings. They spend half the ceremony trying to capture the perfect angle for Instagram while the bride and groom are standing there wondering if anyone actually saw them get married.

My son got married last year, and the celebrant asked everyone not to film. They were getting millions of fantastic shots that anyone can have – they just asked everyone to enjoy the moment. Sans phone, at least for me, was fabulous. Well, it was after I got over the first withdrawal symptom!

I saw footage recently of people filming fireworks. Fireworks! As though there won't be another lot next year. As though their grandchildren are going to gather around one day and say, "Grandma, please show us that blurry video of New Year's Eve 2024 again."

And don't get me started on people filming complete strangers having meltdowns in supermarkets. Once upon a time you'd quietly think, "Hell, that bloke's having a bad day," and move on. Now everyone whips out a phone and hopes to go viral.

We're no longer participants in our own lives. We're unpaid camera crews. Everything has become content.

Birthdays. Engagements. Car accidents. Marriage proposals. Gender reveals. Funerals. Apparently, nothing is allowed to happen unless complete strangers can watch it later. And the strange thing is, I don't think we're even doing it for ourselves anymore. We're doing it for people we don't know. People we'll never meet. People who will scroll past our precious memories in about three seconds before watching a cat fall off a sofa.

Maybe I'm showing my age. But sometimes I think the best memories I have are the ones nobody photographed.

The holidays where nobody carried a phone.

The concerts where everyone sang instead of filmed.

The dinners where we talked instead of taking pictures of our food.

Perhaps memories were never meant to be content.

Perhaps they were just meant to be memories.

The Entire Internet Thinks It's WWE

I've come to the conclusion that somewhere along the way, we accidentally turned society into one giant WWE event. Everyone is yelling, everyone is angry and everyone is cutting dramatic speeches. Every disagreement has become a steel cage match. I don't remember signing up for this, but apparently, we're all contestants now.

Social media isn't a conversation anymore. It's Monday Night Raw with Wi-Fi. Nobody simply disagrees. No, they absolutely destroy someone. They obliterate them. They humiliate them. Apparently, careers are ended before breakfast and civilisation itself hangs by a thread every Tuesday afternoon.

The audience loves it. We seem to have convinced ourselves that every issue requires heroes and villains. Good guys. Bad guys. Cheering sections. Catchphrases. All that's missing is entrance music and a bloke with a microphone yelling, "Ladies and gentlemen, weighing in at 220 pounds and representing the Department of Outrage, please welcome Karen from Facebook!"

The news isn't much better. Everything is BREAKING. Everything is EXPLOSIVE. Everything is a BOMBSHELL. You'd think meteors were raining from the sky. Meanwhile, the rest of us are standing in Aldi trying to remember whether we bought toilet paper. Actually, I’m only guessing that paragraph because I don’t watch the news anymore! For that exact reason!

Celebrities are feuding. Influencers are exposing one another. Politicians are body-slamming each other on television. People are cancelling people because someone was offended by someone who was offended by something somebody said six years ago. Honestly, I don't even know who the dickheads are anymore.

At least professional wrestling has the decency to admit it's entertainment. The rest of us pretend we're discussing serious matters while behaving like fans in the front row holding signs and screaming for blood.

We've stopped talking to each other. We've started performing for each other. Every opinion is a promo. Every comment section is a Royal Rumble. Every news cycle is WrestleMania. Somewhere in the middle of all this madness, common sense is lying unconscious under a folding chair while twenty million people argue over who won.

I suspect if aliens landed tomorrow, they'd watch us for ten minutes and conclude that humanity's primary form of government is professional wrestling with smartphones.

And honestly? They wouldn't be entirely wrong.

😁

I have to say, "common sense is lying unconscious under a folding chair" is one of those lines I can absolutely hear in your voice.

Living With A Wrestling Fan

I live with a wrestling fan.

Not just someone who occasionally watches it. No. I mean a proper fan. The sort of man who knows everyone's name, their history, their finishing moves and apparently who betrayed whom back in 1998.

Meanwhile, I am still trying to understand why grown adults in sparkly underpants are throwing each other through tables.

The Squeeze watches wrestling with all the seriousness of a surgeon performing a heart transplant.

"Watch this!" he'll say.

I'm watching.

I have no idea what I'm watching, but I'm watching.

Some bloke with hair down to his waist has entered the ring to music that sounds like the soundtrack to Apocalypse Now (I love the smell of napalm in the morning...) while the crowd loses its collective mind.

Apparently, this is important.

Then another bloke appears and everyone boos.

I ask why.

"He turned heel."

I don't know what that means.

Apparently, he used to be good, but now he's bad. Or he used to be bad, but now he's good. Or he pretended to be good while secretly being bad and now everyone knows. 

Honestly, it sounds less like sport and more like high school. And don't get me started on the names.

The Undertaker.

Stone Cold.

The Rock.

John Cena.

Randy Savage.

These are not names. These are things you'd order from Bunnings.

Then there are the moves.

People are thrown off ladders.

Through tables.

Onto chairs.

Onto other people.

And somehow, they all get up and continue arguing.

Meanwhile, if I sit awkwardly on the couch for twenty minutes, I need to stretch before standing up.

What amazes me most is the commitment. The fans know the storylines are ridiculous. The wrestlers know the storylines are ridiculous. Everyone knows. And yet thousands of people willingly suspend reality for a few hours and cheer like children. Hell, even my grandma loved wrestling! 

Which, when you think about it, is actually rather lovely.

The world is serious enough.

Perhaps there is something comforting about knowing that somewhere, every week, two grown men in sequined underpants are pretending to hate each other while fifty thousand people scream in delight.

And if that makes the Squeeze happy, who am I to judge?

Although I still maintain that if someone hits me with a folding chair, I'm not getting back up. I'm sixty-four. I pull a hamstring putting on my socks.

Politics Has Become Professional Wrestling

I have reached the conclusion that politics is no longer politics.

It's wrestling.

Not actual wrestling, mind you. Nobody is in the ring with Trump, lying on all fours with him. Although, give it time.

No, I'm talking about professional wrestling.

The Squeeze loves wrestling. He watches it with all the seriousness of a man observing open-heart surgery. Meanwhile, I sit there wondering how grown adults can become emotionally invested in two blokes in sequined underpants pretending to hate each other.

Then I turn on the news.

And suddenly it all makes sense.

Politics has become wrestling.

Everybody has a favourite. Everybody has a villain. Nobody changes sides. Facts are optional. Outrage is mandatory. The crowd's chant. The commentators scream. The fans buy merchandise. And every week there is another dramatic comeback, shocking betrayal or feud that absolutely nobody saw coming, except everyone did because it happened three months ago.

The amazing thing is that wrestling fans know it's entertainment. (...although won't admit it unless pushed)

Political fans seem to think it's life and death. Spartan's; in the arena - and the crowd baying for blood.

People no longer discuss policies. They discuss personalities. Nobody asks, "Will this improve the economy?" They ask, "Did you see what he said?" or "Can you believe what she posted?"

At this point, I expect election debates to be sponsored by KFC and settled with folding chairs.

And social media hasn't helped.

The internet has convinced everyone they are either defending democracy itself or fighting evil, depending on which team shirt they are wearing.

Honestly, I think we'd all be happier if politicians entered Parliament with theme music and pyrotechnics. At least then we'd know where we stood.

Because let's face it, politics stopped being boring for some people years ago.

It became entertainment for the brain dead.

And the entertainment became an addiction.

Which explains why half the world is furious before breakfast and the other half is selling T-shirts.

Personally, I'm waiting for the day somebody jumps off the top rope during Question Time.

At this point, I wouldn't even be surprised. 

Nobody Warned Me About The Passwords

When I was younger, I had this vague image of retirement.

I imagined leisurely mornings. More cups of tea. Perhaps the odd crossword puzzle. Maybe even some gardening... Anyone who knows me knows that the plants and I have a very easy relationship. My kitchen is like an indoor forest. It reminds of an old Australian Crawl song... 'the gardens full of furniture, the house is full of plants." Except in my case, my garden's full also!

What nobody warned me about was the passwords.

Sweet Jesus, the passwords.

At sixty-four, I spend half my life trying to prove I am actually me.

Everything requires a password. Banking. Email. Streaming services. Shopping accounts. Government websites. Medical appointments. My fitness watch. The television. The remote thing that controls the garage door. I fully expect the toaster to demand two-factor authentication any day now.

I like my phone, where everything compares me to the thing it has mapped and knows it is me...

Oh but passwords... Heaven help you if you get one wrong. Not only have you entered the wrong password, but now you're locked out because apparently you are a criminal mastermind attempting to infiltrate your own Outlook account.

Then comes the reset process.

First, they send a code to your email. Except you can't get into your email because you've forgotten the password. So they send a code to your phone, which you can't find because you've put it somewhere "safe", which in my house means it has vanished into another dimension.

By the time I finally gain access, I can't even remember what I wanted in the first place.

We used to remember phone numbers; admittedly, they weren't that complex then. I knew everybody's birthdays. I could recite addresses from twenty years ago. Now I have forty-seven passwords and can't remember why I walked into the laundry.

Apparently, this is progress.

And don't get me started on the requirement to have one capital letter, one number, one symbol, one Egyptian hieroglyph and the blood of a virgin just to sign in and check your electricity bill.

Then they helpfully ask if you'd like to save your password. Of course I would. But no. Apparently saving it on one device doesn't mean it will appear on another. That would make life far too simple.

Meanwhile, my mother managed perfectly well with one key and a purse full of twenty-dollar notes.

I don't remember her ever needing a verification code to boil an egg.
Nobody warned me about the passwords.

And if retirement was supposed to be relaxing, somebody forgot to tell the internet.

The NDIS Said No. The Raspberry Jam Said Yes.

At sixty-four, I thought life would be settling down. Instead, it appears I'm reinventing myself. Again. God; I’m so sick of it…

Barwon Health is behind me. The NDIS said no to funding my university course. I found the yummy jam I'm after online. Google knows exactly who I am if you type in "Dating a Hunchback", which frankly is not something I ever expected to put on my resume.

I have somehow written 564 blogs and several books, most of them while working full-time. I have survived 29 brain operations, raised a family, become a grandmother and watched Geelong lose enough football matches to qualify for trauma counselling.

And now I'm investigating digital marketing courses and wondering whether Pinterest can make my sites famous. (Of course, dating a hunchback or Secretwomen haven't leapt in views so perhaps not…)

But still, this is not how I imagined retirement. Not by any stretch of imagination.

Mind you, I never really imagined retirement. I just assumed it involved more glasses of lemon water and fewer passwords. Instead, I spend my days arguing with Outlook, checking blog statistics and ordering raspberry jam directly from the manufacturer because civilisation has apparently collapsed and Woolworths no longer stocks the good stuff, nor Coles!

The funny thing is, despite everything, I'm still making plans. Which tells me something. Perhaps I'm not finished after all.

Perhaps this is simply Act Three. And it had better be a hell of a lot more financial that the first two! And let’s face it, if the first two acts are anything to go by, this one should be interesting.

564 Blogs And Still Annoying People On The Internet

Yesterday I got 268 visitors to my blog.

Now, before anyone starts applauding, let me point out that the day before I had considerably more. In the world of blogging, this means I spent several hours behaving exactly like a share market analyst watching a stock crash.

I checked the statistics repeatedly.

Maybe the counter was broken.

Maybe Google had accidentally disconnected Australia from the internet.

Maybe everyone had collectively decided to go outside and enjoy their lives.

The possibilities were endless.

The strange thing about writing online is that you start out convinced you're writing because you have something to say. Then somewhere along the way you find yourself refreshing analytics at ten o'clock at night wondering why David from Nebraska hasn't read your latest masterpiece about social media, narcissists or the collapse of modern civilisation.

Apparently, my self-worth is now directly tied to a graph. This is probably not healthy. When I started blogging years ago, I didn't even know what analytics were. I wrote things because I got to laugh my ass off. If ten people read them, fantastic. If nobody read them, I still had a laugh writing them – that was my biggest laugh actually.

Now I can tell you exactly how many people visited, where they came from, what they clicked on, how long they stayed and precisely when they got bored and wandered off to watch cat videos.

Knowledge is not always a blessing.

One day you feel like a literary genius because 2,000 people read a post about true crime. The next day only 268 people turn up and suddenly you're convinced your career is over and you'll die alone surrounded by unpublished blog posts and empty coffee cups.

It's ridiculous. The truth is, 268 people is still a lot of people. If 268 people walked into my lounge room and asked me to entertain them, I'd have a nervous breakdown. Yet online we somehow convince ourselves it's not enough.

Human beings are greedy creatures. Give us ten readers and we want a hundred. Give us a hundred and we want a thousand. Give us a thousand and we're disappointed it wasn't two thousand. Nothing is ever enough.

So today I've decided to be grateful for my 268 visitors. Thank you to all 268 of you.

Especially the one person in Brazil who appears to read absolutely everything I write. I don't know who you are, but at this point we're practically family.

The rest of you can lift your game. I'll be checking the stats later. 😏

AI - The Sky Is Falling!

The other night I had a friend over for dinner and as invariably happens, it ends up with a lively debate. She doesn't use AI... Which is probably healthy. But I spend ten minutes asking ChatGPT whether a Facebook miracle cure is bullshit (and 90% are crap!) 

She spends three hours watching cat videos and people fighting in supermarket car parks. Let's not pretend either of us is saving the rainforest. 😊  

The water usage isn’t the argument! But it is with everyone I speak too about AI.  A lot of people see headlines about AI using water and assume that every question is somehow draining a reservoir. The reality is much less dramatic. The environmental impact is real, but it's also part of a much bigger conversation about how we power and cool all the technology we use every day.

The better question is:

"Is the value we get from it worth the resources it consumes?"

That's the same question we ask about agriculture, transport, manufacturing, air conditioning, football stadiums, and just about every modern convenience. All of which uses water.

I’d say the argument should be around people. The number of authors that had their work stolen. Or musicians. Anything creative.

But the really terrifying truth is that in the newspaper yesterday (online) talked of the 80 plus jobs that are/will be defunct thanks to AI. Idiot men, thanks to them, lots of people will be out of work.

It’s okay for the Elon Musk’s of the world! It’s even okay for me who is at the end of my work life! But I think about anyone with young children; and how bleak it must seem.

Yes, AI uses resources. So does Netflix, Google, Facebook, air conditioning, online gaming, and half the things we do every day. The real question is whether the benefit is worth the cost.

Modern Society Rewards Loud Mouthed Narcissists

I’ve started to suspect that modern society doesn’t just tolerate narcissists; it rewards them. In fact, if you gave a narcissist a handbook titled How To Take Over The World, it would probably just be a copy of the latest thing... Think about it.

We now live in a world where confidence is often mistaken for competence. The loudest person in the room is assumed to be the smartest. The person talking constantly about their achievements is seen as successful. The person posting endless photos of themselves staring thoughtfully into the distance apparently possesses wisdom that the rest of us can only dream of.

Meanwhile, the genuinely talented person is sitting quietly in the corner wondering if they should apologise for existing. Social media has poured petrol on this fire.

Once upon a time, being obsessed with yourself was considered a character flaw. Your mother would tell you to stop showing off. Your friends would roll their eyes and tell you to pull your head in. (and those of us in the real world, would still say it)

Now? You can build an entire career from taking photos of yourself in a skin tight tracksuit while holding a smoothie.

The internet has created a system where attention is money, and narcissists are natural-born millionaires. They don't suffer from self-doubt. They don't spend three hours wondering if their email sounded rude. They don't lie awake at 2am replaying a conversation from 1998. (like I do)

They simply wake up every morning convinced they are fabulous; and entitled.

The thing is that narcissists often look successful because they're willing to do things most normal people won't. They'll promote themselves relentlessly. They'll claim expertise they don't have. They'll take credit for group efforts. They'll step over people without losing a second of sleep. Many decent people struggle because they're busy worrying about whether they're inconveniencing someone by existing. (they are the people we won’t kill when we take over the world…)

I've worked with people who could barely operate a stapler but somehow convinced everyone they were strategic visionaries. They spoke in corporate buzzwords, nodded thoughtfully during meetings, and managed to climb organisational ladders like caffeinated possums.

Politics isn't much better…

The danger is that we begin to mistake narcissism for leadership.

Real leadership isn't standing on a stage demanding applause. It isn't posting motivational quotes over photos of yourself. It isn't telling everyone how important you are. Real leadership is usually much quieter.

It's showing up. Doing the work. Taking responsibility when things go wrong.

Most of the genuinely impressive people I've met spend very little time telling you how impressive they are.

The narcissists, however, will happily provide a PowerPoint presentation.

We're constantly being told to build our personal brand, promote ourselves, create content, become influencers, optimise our image and market our lives. At some point we stopped asking whether someone was kind, decent or trustworthy and started asking how many followers they had.

Maybe the real rebels these days aren't the people shouting for attention. Maybe they're the people quietly getting on with life.

Being decent human beings when nobody is watching.

Everyone Has A Journey Now

I swear everyone has a journey these days.

Not a holiday. Not a bad week. Not a phase. A journey.

You can't simply decide to eat more vegetables. No. You are now on a wellness journey. You don't start jogging. You're on a fitness journey. You don't buy a budget planner because you've spent too much money on rubbish from Facebook. You're on a financial journey. (I should be on one of those!)

Everything has become a journey.

Personally, I think most of us are just wandering around lost. I know I am. Just trying to muddle my way through life!

I see people online announcing life-changing transformations because they've spent three days drinking green smoothies and writing affirmations on their phone.

Three days.

I've had colds that lasted longer than some people's personal growth. The internet is full of people explaining how they became enlightened after a weekend retreat involving herbal tea and mindfulness.

Meanwhile, some of us are just trying to remember why we walked into the kitchen.

I particularly enjoy the wellness crowd. Oh and the influencers! Don’t even get me started on being an “influencer”.

Apparently, all my problems can be solved if I purchase a supplement/tonic/bullshit; available for only $29.99 a month plus shipping. Conveniently, they also sell it.

I have reached an age where if somebody says they're on a wellness journey, I immediately assume they're about to try and sell me something.

The reality is that life isn't a journey.

It's mostly a series of unexpected events, wrong turns, forgotten passwords, mystery subscriptions and trying not to fall over while carrying a cup of coffee. Some days you're winning. Some days you're looking for your glasses while they're sitting on your head. And that's okay.

Not everything has to be a journey. Sometimes you're just a person having a Saturday.

Why Is Every Product Is Now A Subscription?

I have spent the last few weeks trying to cancel ridiculous subscriptions I didn't even realise I had. At this point, I am fairly certain I am financially supporting half the internet.

It starts innocently enough.

You buy something online. A program. An app. A service. A thing that promises to organise your life, improve your photos, teach you Italian, make you fitter, thinner, smarter or somehow transform you into a better version of yourself (and I’ve tried them all!)

You click "Buy Now." What you don't realise is you've actually entered into a lifelong financial relationship with some fucker that you can’t get in touch with!

Nothing belongs to you anymore. You don't buy software, music or television. You rent it. Soon I'll be subscribing to socks. For just $14.99 a month, a fresh pair will arrive at your door along with a motivational quote and a reminder that cancelling requires a court order.

The best part is trying to leave. It takes days to track down an email address. Signing up takes approximately six seconds! Cancelling requires the determination of a hostage negotiator.

The button is never where you think it should be. If there is one at all! You click Account. Not there. Settings. Not there. Billing. Still not there. Eventually you're directed to a page that says: "We're sorry to see you go, but your next giraffe is already in the mail, so you'll need to pay for that one first."

No, you're not. If you were sorry, you'd let me leave.

Instead, I'm forced to answer seventeen questions about why I want to cancel. The truth is because I have absolutely no idea who you are and I’ve got 16 bottles of lymph node stuff already! Apparently six months ago I thought your service would change my life. Today I can't even remember what it does, or it was just more crap that didn’t work.

The internet has become a giant collection of tiny monthly payments quietly draining our bank accounts while we sleep.

Five dollars here. Ten dollars there. Seven dollars somewhere else. Before long you're spending enough each month to adopt a small horse.

These days I think the safest approach is simple. If someone offers me a free trial, I run. If someone wants my bank details, I become suspicious. And if something promises to change my life for only $9.99, I immediately start looking for the words "per month" hidden somewhere in microscopic writing at the bottom of the page. I assume it's about to become another subscription I'll spend three weeks trying to cancel.

Because if experience has taught me anything, it's that the internet isn't trying to change my life. It's trying to bill me for it!

Ahhhh - For my next blog, I was thinking: 

How To Stay Away From The Light

A practical guide for people who have had enough medical procedures to qualify as frequent flyers.  :)

Why Nobody Can Just Be Bored Anymore

I was sitting in a waiting room the other day and noticed something strange. Nobody was just doing nothing. Not one person.

There were six people in the room. One was scrolling Facebook. One was watching videos. One was typing furiously into their phone like they were negotiating a peace treaty. Another was listening to something through earbuds. Even the teenager who looked permanently exhausted was still staring at a screen. Nobody was just sitting there.

And it got me thinking. When did boredom become illegal?

When I was a kid, boredom was a normal part of life. You'd sit in the back seat of a car of mum and dad’s old Ford, staring out the window for three hours wondering if sheep ever got bored of looking at other sheep.

You'd lie on the lounge and stare at the ceiling.

You'd wander around the house annoying your mother until she eventually told you to go outside and find something to do. Outside… It is only a concept these days. Probably why they build new subdivisions with no yard and fake grass. You couldn’t even have a pet!

Now the second we experience three seconds of silence; we reach for our phones like they're emergency medical equipment. Waiting in line? Phone. At the supermarket? Phone. Sitting on the toilet? Definitely phone.

Some people can't even watch television anymore without simultaneously scrolling through another screen (Squeeze, I hope you are reading this…) Apparently one source of entertainment is no longer enough. We now require entertainment while we're being entertained.

We've become scared of our own thoughts. The moment our brains aren't occupied, we start looking for stimulation. News. Social media. Videos. Games. Shopping. Anything.

Everything is available instantly. Which sounds wonderful until you realise our brains never get a break. Boredom used to be where creativity lived. Some of the best ideas I've ever had arrived while I was doing absolutely nothing.

Just sitting there. Thinking. But now, we've filled every tiny gap in our day with noise.

Podcasts while driving. Music while walking. Videos while eating. Social media while watching television. Messages while pretending to work.

At some point we stopped leaving room for our brains to wander. And wandering is important. That's where reflection happens. That's where ideas happen. That’s where best sellers are written.

The Whole World Is Addicted To Outrage

I’ve been thinking on it, and I don’t think we’re addicted to social media. I think we’re addicted to outrage. Somewhere along the way, being mildly annoyed stopped being enough. We now require full emotional combustion before breakfast.

You can wake up in the morning, make a coffee, open your phone and within thirty seconds discover seventeen things you’re supposed to be pissed off about. A celebrity said something stupid. A politician said something stupid (when don’t they?)

Someone was offended by something stupid. Someone else was offended by the people who were offended by the stupid thing. Then another group got offended by them. And now everyone is pissed off. By 8:15am, you haven't even put undies on and you've already mentally fought three wars and told a politician to shut up.

The internet rewards outrage because it is engagement. Nobody shares a post that says, "Well, that's a reasonably balanced point of view." No. They share the one that makes them want to throw their phone through a window.

The algorithms know this. The system isn't broken. The system is working perfectly.

We're the problem.

I watch people online looking for reasons to be angry. Not finding them, they create them. A joke becomes an international incident. A typo becomes evidence of moral collapse. Someone accidentally uses the wrong word and suddenly they're being discussed like they've personally caused the fall of civilisation.

It's exhausting.…

The funny thing is most of us are living ordinary lives. We're walking the dog. Doing the washing. Trying to remember why we walked into the kitchen and standing for two minutes until you remember!

The world has always had problems. Serious ones.

Wars.

Poverty.

Crime.

Disease.

But now we're also expected to be emotionally invested in every minor disagreement occurring on every corner of the planet simultaneously.

No wonder everyone is tired.

We've become outrage collectors.

We gather grievances like other people collect stamps. "I can't believe this happened." "Wait until you hear about this." "Oh, that's nothing. Here's something even worse." The strangest part is how quickly yesterday's outrage disappears.

Remember the thing everyone was furious about three weeks ago? No? Exactly. Neither does anyone else.  Because we've already moved on to the next emergency.

The outrage machine must constantly be fed. Meanwhile, outside, the sun is still shining. People are walking their dogs. Kids are kicking footballs.

Most of life remains stubbornly normal. Maybe that's why outrage sells so well. Normal doesn't generate clicks.

Peace doesn't trend.

Contentment doesn't go viral.

But anger?

Anger is internet gold.

So these days, when the latest global catastrophe appears in my feed and complete strangers demand my immediate emotional participation, I sometimes do something radical.

I put my phone down.

I make a cup of tea.

I pat my dog Sharpie.

I ignore everyone.

And somehow, despite my lack of outrage, the world keeps turning.

Who knew?

Filmed, Photographed, Reviewed, Liked, Shared

Social media used to be a place where people shared photos of their lunch and argued about whether pineapple belonged on pizza.

Now it’s a full-time psychological experiment.

Every second video starts with someone telling me they’ve discovered a secret doctor don’t want me to know. Apparently, doctors don’t want me to know anything. They don’t want me to know how to lose weight, grow hair, reverse ageing, improve my eyesight, clean my oven or communicate telepathically with my dog.

Then there are the influencers.

One woman tells me she became a millionaire by waking up at 4am and drinking lemon water. Another claims she retired at twenty-seven after discovering passive income. Meanwhile I’m fairly certain most of them are earning money by teaching other people how to earn money by teaching other people how to earn money.

It’s like a pyramid scheme wrapped in a ring light.

Everyone is an expert now.

A bloke who failed Year 10 is explaining geopolitics, not that that bothers me so much. Some people who have brains don't do well in the school system. A woman who bought a jade roller yesterday is suddenly a medical specialist. Someone who owns two rental properties is teaching financial literacy. And all of them are speaking with the confidence of people who personally invented electricity.

The advertisements are even worse. “This one simple trick melts fat while you sleep.” Fantastic. If that worked, Australia would be a nation of supermodels lying unconscious on couches.

Then there are the videos where someone cleans an already spotless house while dramatic music plays in the background. Look at me putting away three coffee mugs.

You’re not a domestic goddess, Karen. You’re loading a frigging dishwasher!

The strangest thing is how seriously everyone takes it. People have friendships, relationships and complete emotional breakdowns over comments made by strangers whose profile picture is a cartoon frog wearing sunglasses. We’ve somehow convinced ourselves that likes equal approval, followers' equal friendship and viral fame equals success.

It doesn’t. Most of it disappears tomorrow and nobody remembers a thing.

The internet promised to connect humanity. Instead, it turned us into unpaid actors in our own reality show, desperately refreshing our phones to see whether strangers approve of what we had for lunch.

The real world is still out there.

The sun still rises.

Coffee still tastes good.

Friends still laugh.

And none of them require a hashtag.

Sometimes I think the healthiest thing you can do is put your phone down, walk outside and remember that not everything needs to be filmed, photographed, reviewed, ranked, liked, shared and monetised.

Some things can simply happen.

What a radical idea. 

Why Social Media Turned Us Into Performers

To me, I don't see social media as making us happier, smarter, more connected. I think it turned us all into performers.

At some point we stopped living our lives and started presenting them.

Every meal is a photo opportunity. Every holiday is content. Every opinion is a carefully worded statement designed to attract applause from complete strangers who, if we're being honest, probably wouldn't lend us twenty dollars if our car broke down.

I watch people at concerts holding their phones in the air recording the entire show. Nobody is actually watching the concert. They're filming themselves proving they were there. It’s astounding. We've become our own marketing departments.

The internet has convinced us that every moment of our lives deserves an audience. Look at me. I write a blog. The irony is not lost on me; here I am writing a blog. But at least I'm honest about it. I don’t take a shot fifty time until my ass looks just right…

The difference between sharing your life and performing your life is subtle. One says, "Here's what happened." The other says, "Look at me having this happen."

Social media rewards the second one.

The happiest marriage suddenly becomes a public relations campaign. The family holiday becomes a travel brochure. The gym visit becomes a documentary series. The morning coffee somehow requires three photos, a motivational quote, and a hashtag.

And heaven help you if you simply eat breakfast and move on with your day.

I sometimes wonder how many people are actually enjoying their lives and how many are just producing content about enjoying their lives.

We are constantly documenting our existence as if a panel of judges is waiting to score us out of ten. The strange thing is that most of us know it's bullshit.

We know the perfect family photo was taken thirty seconds after someone threatened to leave. We know the inspirational influencer probably cried over a blocked sink this morning. We know the smiling holiday selfie doesn't show the argument over directions, the sunburn, or the stomach bug. (Please note: I had sunburn and a stomach bug while I was in Vietnam!)

Yet we keep performing. Perhaps because we're terrified that if we stop performing, nobody will notice us at all.

Meanwhile, the Squeeze remains completely immune to the disease. He doesn't care about followers, algorithms, engagement, or personal branding. His social media strategy appears to be non-existent. Honestly, he may be the healthiest person I know.

He's just living his life.

We like to put our phones away while out for dinner; and secretly wonder about the other couples there who both sit, romantically with their phones. I’d love to go up to them and say, ‘what’s so fucking important..?’ but of course never do…

Maybe that's the trick.

Maybe the best moments are the ones that never make it online.

The conversations nobody records.

The dinners nobody photographs.

The holidays nobody turns into a highlight reel.

The ordinary, messy, unfiltered bits of life that are actually worth living.

Of course, if you enjoyed reading this, please like, share, subscribe, leave a comment, ring the notification bell, sacrifice a small goat to the algorithm, and tell twelve friends. Apparently, that's how we're supposed to live now.

The Curious Case of Humanity's Obsession With Murder

There is something I need explained to me.

Why is everyone so obsessed with murder?

Not committing it, mind you. Just listening to it.

My son drives to Melbourne for work, which is a fair hike from Geelong. You'd think he'd fill the journey with music, comedy, or perhaps something educational about history, science or how to become a millionaire.

No. He listens to podcasts about serial killers. For two hours. One there. One back. Voluntarily. Apparently, this is normal.

In fact, judging by the popularity of true crime, it is more than normal. It is practically a national pastime. Millions of perfectly respectable people spend their evenings listening to detailed accounts of dismemberment while folding laundry.

If someone had suggested this twenty years ago, we'd have staged an intervention. Now it's entertainment.

You can barely open a streaming service without being offered a choice between "The Killer Next Door," "The Killer Across The Road," "The Killer's Cousin's Neighbor," and "The Killer Who Liked Gardening."

Everyone seems fascinated.

Meanwhile, I spend the entire time wondering why anyone would voluntarily fill their head with stories that ensure every strange noise in the house after dark sounds like the beginning of an investigation documentary.

Perhaps that's what I don't understand.

Life already provides plenty of things to worry about. Bills. Money. Trump destroying the world. Aging. Technology. The possibility of accidentally sending a text to the wrong person. Yet millions of people willingly add "grisly murder details" to the pile.

And they love it. They discuss cases over coffee. They binge-watch documentaries. They know the names of killers I've never heard of! And I've heard of some; watched television; the odd doco. But some of them can recite timelines, evidence, suspects and court proceedings with the enthusiasm usually reserved for football statistics.

It's extraordinary.

Society has somehow normalised being casually immersed in the darkest corners of humanity.

Maybe it's because we like mysteries. Maybe it's because we want to understand evil. Maybe it's because our brains enjoy solving puzzles. Or maybe we're all just a little bit weird.

Whatever the reason, I remain baffled.

I'll stick to music on long drives. My son can keep his serial killers.

Although if he suddenly starts taking notes, I may have questions…

The Grandparenting Olympics

Today I was on babysitting duty  

Not officially, of course. Officially, my son, his wife and my granddaughter came over to watch the football. Unofficially, every grandparent knows that when small children arrive, you’re automatically drafted into service whether you signed the paperwork or not.

The plan seemed simple enough. We’d watch the Cats. We’d have a chat. We’d enjoy a relaxing evening.

That was the first mistake.

Because football and grandchildren exist in entirely different dimensions.

The football was on television. My granddaughter, however, was conducting important business everywhere else. There were toys to investigate, cupboards to inspect, snacks to negotiate and grandparents to keep fully occupied at all times. I spent most of the game wandering around the house performing duties that apparently only Nana was qualified to undertake.

And that was only one. We had four of them to contend with.

Every now and then I’d glance at the television and discover something significant had happened.

“Who kicked that?”

Nobody knew.

We’d all been distracted by these tiny humans, who one at least, had decided a plastic spoon was the most exciting invention in history.

My son and his wife settled in to watch the game. My granddaughter settled in to supervise all of us. She takes her management responsibilities very seriously. My grand babies just played and had fun.

And then there were the Cats.

Oh dear.

I don’t know what happened. Perhaps they left their talent on the bus. Perhaps the football gods decided Geelong supporters had been a little too confident. Whatever the reason, the Cats lost.

Nothing quite ruins a football evening like watching your team go down while a toddler is simultaneously demanding entertainment and trying to feed a biscuit to the cat.

Actually, that’s not true.

The toddler made the loss easier to take.

Because while the scoreboard was disappointing, I spent the evening surrounded by family, listening to laughter, watching my granddaughter discover the world one tiny adventure at a time, and being reminded that some things are more important than football.

Not many things.

But some.

Besides, next week the Cats might win.