When I was walkigto work this morning I saw a dog, a large boxer, wandering idly about the main street. I got that feeling, that "I could just walk away, I'm in a hurry, I've got lots to do this morning, what responsibility is it of mine?" feeling.  That feeling made me feel shitty, so I thought, the least I can do is to check the dog's collar and give its owners a call, let them know where their dog was.

I followed the dog and asked a few nearby people if it belonged to them. Negative. I was trying to get close to the dog when a man walking two small yapper type dogs approached. The boxer was very interested in the small dogs, and their owner didn't seem too concerned. At least until the boxer, predictably, decided the yapper dogs needed to be dealt with, and went for the throat of the closest one. 

I am ashamed to say that I hesitated out of fear, and so I wasn't able to get the boxer off the small dog until it had done some serious damage. When I had a hold of the Boxer I screamed at the man, who was still standing about like a fuckwit, to pick up his dog. He didn't. He just walked away, dragging the small dog ebhind him. Literally dragging. The small dog was in shock or worse, and the man hadn't seemed to notice that it was unable to stand, let alone walk. He was dragging it along the concrete on its side. I shouted at him again that his dog was hurt, and he turned around, and seeing that the dog could not stand on its feet, he picked it up and walked away.

Which left me holding the boxer, not knowing what the fuck to do next. The owner of a nearby shop was standing outside, arms folded, looking on cheerfully. I asked if she sold rope in her shop. She nodded. I asked if I could have some of her rope, she nodded, but didn't move. I asked again. The same response. "I'll buy you some rope" said a woman I hadn't noticd previously. And she went in adn bought me a lead. I was in a bit of a fluster, and the lovely lady, whose name was Julia, stood nearby (she was afraid of the dog so wouldn't come too close) and between us we managed to find the number of the closest vet, call them and be told all we could do was call the RSPCA or bring the dog into the vet. 

Funnily enough, it was the same vet that treated the dog Asha attacked a few months ago. God knows what they think of me there. 

Anyway, I was too scared to walk the dog through the park and up to the vet, as she was a strong dog, and had already proven her aggressiveness. I haven;t walked a dog since Asha's attack. So I accosted the next man I saw (Random guy who turned out to be Nick, student, local, on his way to train station to go to uni) and asked if he would  mind walking with me to the vet. If only Nick had been around ten minutes earlier. He agreed immediately, and we walked to the vet, dropped the dog off, and turned around and walked back to Epping. When we went our separate ways, I thanked him and said that I was sorry if I made him late for his class. He said:

"That's OK, it was an ethics class anyway".

There is so much rant inside me, but I've run out of energy.

Thanks Nick and Julia, who helped when everyone else kept walking.

Cruelty in dessert form

It's hard to go to the gym. Even though I know I enjoy it, the motivation it takes to actually decide to go is phenomenal in itself. 

You know what makes it harder? Cheesecake.

There is a cafe at the entrance to my gym. It opened not long ago, and started out selling healthy wraps and yoghurts and a variety of salads. The muffins appeared a few months ago and the friands not long after. The salads are taking up noticeably less shelf space. Today, there was cheesecake. 

Is this not one of the cruellest things to sell at a gym cafe? Assailing me in both directions: as I come in (vowing to run off last night's dinner), and as I leave (vowing not to immediately replace the calories I just burned).

I mean, I thought the vending machines with chocolate and chips right next to the treadmills were fucking enough to contend with, but now cheesecake? I can't take it. And the girl really  took her time making the fifty billion coffees for all the people ahead of me, so I stood in line and watched that cheesecake for about fifteen minutes. 

Obviously this is a conspiracy: 

"Eat cheesecake! Oh damn, now you need another six month's gym membership, what a shame." 

Bloody capitalist parasites. 

idealistically speaking...

At Easter, I was talking to a homeless guy on George street. He said to me, "I was 15 down, but you made it 14". When I asked him what he meant he replied that on a good day, he gets 3 people an hour stop to give him some change. But that day I was the first person in five hours who had stopped. First of all  - 3 people an hour? What the fuck is wrong with everyone? Second, five hours with no-one stopping at all? I repeat the fucking aforementioned interrogative.

I saw an artwork today at the Sydney Museum of Contemporary Art that really pissed me off. I have to acknowledge the possibility of over-reaction due to "difficulties associated with menses" (thank you wikipedia o stalwart of political correctness), but I think even at another, less...imminent juncture I would still have suffered that mental gag reflex. The work was a collection under glass of cardboard signs purchased from homeless people in Melbourne. The signs were nothing so different from those that one might see on any busy street in any reasonably large city. Brief notes of explanation and exhortation, directed to the same end: please give me a few dollars.

What the fuck purpose does it serve to put these together as a "work of art" in a fucking museum? Here's a thought: go outside, walk for two minutes in any direction and you can see your own "real life" fucking version, where you can contribute to the actual cause, rather than sigh, think profound thoughts, vow to give to the next vagrant you see, and then promptly forget about it as you are struck by the next inspiring piece of self-congratulatory, furiously ego-wanking "artwork".

My question is this; how does such a collection raise awareness, as it were? Is it because these signs in their original context are rarely read due to the head-down pretend there's no-one there response most beggars prompt? If so, how is setting the signs out so aesthetically (most notably, without their human author present) going to change anyone's reactions? If you can't have compassion when the face of the poor is staring you in the face how the hell is going to a posh fucking museum where people happily pay extortionate amounts for stupid postcards going to make any difference? 

And isn't it exploitative? Yeah OK, the artist paid for the signs, good job, real social awareness there, but isn't it, in fact, going to eventually benefit that same artist, if not in immediate monetary reward, then at least in increasing exposure to his/her work, which presumably would be hoped to lead to financial gain at some point in the future? 

I'll admit it is possible that I missed the point. Perhaps the artist is actually incredibly socially oriented and works hard for a multitude of causes and produces art fit for the Museum of Contemporary Art in their spare time. Fuck knows. But art should stand on its own should it not? This piece to me seemed to stand on the fucking tired feet of those who would better use them to congregate around the Museum door and demand fair recompense for their lives on display.