I know, I know, I promised to sorry let me catch my breath for a sec promised I’d write you a leng, a lengthy epistle days ago.
And it’s not as. It’s. Not as if I’m unaware or anything like that, of my duty to blog.
Rest assured: yes, with such a powerful voice comes a keen knowledge of the debt I owe your children, and your children’s children, to use it as prolificly as I reasonably can. Every day above ground for one small man is a giant gift to mankind, and when at last the clicking of my keyboard falls silent it will be too late for regrets. I do not think that you shall ever see the ilks of me again. Not any generation soon.
Loath as I am to give unsolicited advice, readers, I confidently fear you people are going to look back and curse yourselves, wishing against wish that just one of you had had the ass-getting-up-off-of to get up off of your ass and open a Patreon account for me (something YOU KNEW I was too self-effacing to do personally).
Then maybe—you’ll upbraid yourselves, as you toss and turn in the hour of the sheep-proof fence—just maybe, Brad finally could’ve quit his day job as a German translator or medical student or comp-sci tutor or whatever it was (something in the hurting-people sector anyway, I think) to devote himself full-time to helping them. What fools we were circa 2013–2028.
That’s just my concern. Take it or leave it, I thought you deserved to know.
In any case, my absence from these pages in ultimate days isn’t your fault, reader. For once.
It was the future’s fault. As you probably know, the future is the children of Australia. And said future has been holding what we call a wag-off, or bludge-in.
Across the continent, the continent’s top pubescent minds have been on a truancy strike for the last day or two (the press isn’t sure). Their point: to decry grownup inaction on today’s number one childhood fear, more popular even than the dark, closeted razor-murderers, dunny snakes and other classics: climate change.
Only in the last couple of hours have the streets of our capital cities* started returning to the local equivalent of normal. As koncerned kidz cede our seedy CBDs to their relaxed elders—the barking-mad thus making way for the barfing-drunk—discourse on the street has slowly but steadily improved. You could almost think it was an ordinary Friday night, if only the chunder-lined gutters weren’t clogged with placards denouncing governmental sanity in suspiciously-adult handwriting.
In Canberra our elected betters spent the week showing off their inability to learn from conditioned stimuli, with a conga-line of suckers up to and including PM Scott Morrison falling into the same trap: remarking, out loud, that it was a school day—shouldn’t these school kids be in school? Which is, of course, bollocks when the very atmosphere herself is at stake, and to the surprise of nobody with half a brain, said bollocks were gift-wrapped and handed back to their owners by a commentariat that skews heavily towards baby-boomer izquierdistas nostalgic for their own, decidedly less-pointless, student-activist days.
(Dear white male Aussie politicians, but I repeat myself: thanks for the laughs. I have twitten you about the perils of relaxing your cremaster so much that your brains fall out in the past, but I haven’t done so in the future, so I fully expect your history of misplacing your bollocks to repeat itself every night next week on Tragedy Central. If I miss it I’ll catch the reruns on the Comedy Network.)
So I think my excuse for failure to blog in the first degree pretty much invents itself: the entire national infrastructure Down Here has been paralyzed by civil disobedience. Differently-disabled. Specialympicized.
Teenagers are the pillar of the Australian economy, just as they’re the focal point of terrestrial existence in general. It’s every high-school teacher’s recurring nightmare to enter the room and find their class literally decimated to a manageable size as a result of yoof activism. Imagine how a St Johns Ambulance volunteer or a nurse at a refugee camp would feel if a sudden falloff in caseload meant they were finally in a position to give each patient the attention they needed. That’s the horror scenario countless grownups faced this morning as industrial [sic] action [sic] entered its first or second day.
No, joking aside, it really is a major fucking inconvenience to a car owner like yours truly when the entire city he calls home is declared a 40 zone following sightings of escapees from the local Schoological Park, or ‘schoo.’ One thing climate crusades and children’s crusades have in common is that I can’t help feeling sorry for the participants, which forces me to brake. And when these two demographics come together in a perfect storm of pitifulness, I can’t even bring myself to inch forward from the braked position, gently ploughing the sea of almost-humanity aside, as is my tactic of choice on such social-history-making days.
For a recovering believer like your author, today’s traffic was exactly the kind of stressor (which is how us overeducated types spell the word “stress”) that’s been proven to trigger relapses of Wishing Someone Would Do Something It, where ‘it’ equals carbon, pollution, dioxide, overpopulation, ocean schweppervescence, dangerously low infant mortality rates, time since last hit, or other object of jonesing.
With my very dignity thus at stake, I knew I had to find a distractor quick-smart. (If I’d wasted less of my life at university I might have gotten away with a mere distraction, like normal people.) My go-to list of porn sites is probably of limited interest to CliScep readers, but during the refractory periods in between I did manage to compose a letter to the local Communist gazette. Since it’s vanishingly unlikely the Syndey Morning Herald will publish it, however, I paste it hereunder. For entertainment purposes only, you understand; forgive the five or six concessions to non-scientific, climate-innocent English.
I may not believe in the science, but I’ll defend to the death the right of semi-educated teenagers to skip Maths, History and Science in order to raise much-needed awareness of their opinions about adiabatic lapse rates, black-body radiation physics, proxy validity in paleoclimate reconstructions, and the myriad other domains of knowledge required for forming a scientifically-literate position on global warming.
More power to them. If I were young and naïve enough to mistake an IPCC report for a scientific paper, I’d also feel an ethical responsibility to decry government inaction on behalf of the planet I was about to inherit.
If the PM wants to blame someone, he should confine his criticism to the education system. It’s an open secret that teachers of everything from English to Religious Studies use An Inconvenient Truth as an electronic babysitter. Teaching is the hardest and most underappreciated profession in the world, but if you’re struggling to come up with a lesson plan, how about devoting a couple of hours to critical thinking and skepticism?
[my real name]
[where my kids go to school]
[my jogging route]
* Of course, the only cities we have in Australia are capital cities, for which you can thank the foresight of our cathedral-wary Founding Farmers. The pleonasm was strictly for the benefit of international readers.