Dear Mr. Stewart,
My eligibility for the office of Daily Show correspondent is apparent: I find U.S. television news a compelling work of creative non-fiction; also, I enjoy being pantsed on occasion. (Please note that I will be commuting to the Comedy Central offices on my Marin Portofino which, in spite of its exotic name, was constructed in Seattle and speaks only English. I will therefore need an English-speaking bike rack to be placed in the vicinity.)
First, allow me to outline the pressing need for an Oceania Correspondent.
- Someone will have to find New Zealand on a map at some point: an Australian might fail, but they are far more likely to give it a fair go than a yank, provided they are in the mood.
- It is well known that the incomplete Australian constitution is ripe for abuse. Being that there were no forefathers to pen the damn thing at Federation, a mostly sober fellow who was in the vicinity at the time, and happened to have a pen on him, simply jotted down a few ideas (“Westminster system mostly okay, be nice to have a bicameral setup, U.S. head of state a headache waiting to happen. Instead recommend PM for ass-kissing abroad, and ceremonial GG for tea parties and rowing races.”) But as you know, ambiguity breeds anarchy. You will want to have an informed native on the ground when the pot boils over in response to taxation of tampons, whether “mateship” is a cultural value, or whether or not we think the PM did a good job of picking the Boxing Day cricket match lineup. The Australian Constitution is the brief Scrabble rules pamphlet of the sovereign library. Any American will attest that it was not only necessary to qualify, augment, widely publish and repeatedly quote their badgering constitution, but that Scrabble debates could only be decided fairly by the introduction of a new, wieldy, squirrel-bludgeoning Scrabble-specific dictionary. Until Australia straightens out its founding principles on paper, the threat of war will, like a summer apricot, turn dark and ominously foul our fruit bowls with its watery fermenting displeasure.
- The popularity of the South Carolina and New York state governments rests on their ability to appease our tetchy souls of the real calamities of the day. “Foreign oil dependence sinking U.S. empire--Wait! The entire New York legislature has been spending state money on signature cocktails at the Village Inn!” Similarly, I believe Americans can find respite in the cartoonish dance of day-to-day democracy in the halls of the Australian House of Representatives, via broadcasts of Question Time. While “Question Time” sounds like an innocent and inviting opportunity for “show and tell,” or “there’s no question too stupid” tutorials on the obtusities of parliament, “Question Time” is in fact our version of Commedia D’ell arte. Politicians don their toupees and produce props, gags and wisecracks as representatives speak on the issues of the day, without a shred of deference. The PM can often be seen making an earnest case for lowering tax rates on coal producers while the opposition mock, cat-call, laugh at, and harass him, in an attempt to bring light to environmental responsibility. It’s all a bit like the Daily Show.
- Australia remains repressed by British rule. Homegrown hegemony has enjoyed middling success, with disproportionate pride hedged on the success of soapie stars in Hollywood, but we remain a subject of the crown, many of us still forced to eat “fritters,” corned beef and white sauce, or cream of cauliflower soup when visiting an older relative. So, added to the risk of popular uprising is the very real risk that England will decide to exercise its sovereign strong-arm on the Australian Commonwealth, perhaps by instituting mandatory boaters for all high school students. Only I, an Australian-born, can register the cries of the subaltern, who are currently distracted by a Melbourne-Melbourne Aussie Rules game. To a republic!
- Lastly, we do colonial charme even better than you guys. Guv’na!
- Have you been out here? Come for the wide open space, but make a point of taking it in from your Denali or Jeep as you collect mail, prescriptions and fast food, visit ATMs, ford mountain passes, and drop off dry cleaning, video rentals and pets through the driver-side window. It’s pretty wacko.
- Discover why the most ugly boots are in fact the most coveted, most expensive boots in Colorado, New Mexico and Wyoming. Pointy, of poxy snake-texture relief, marbled, smelly? You’re onto a winner. Next, try on high jeans, something that wicks moisture, or a Nuggets jersey.
- The hipster explosion. Yes, out on the frontier, you’ll find part-time poets, musicians and sculpturists breaking conceptual boundaries (sure as mason-jar glassware, they can be broke!) as they brew their own kombucha on the communal dinner table. Bike culture is big in Denver, and bike aficionados breathe through their rims, metaphorically speaking, provided it isn’t snowing, raining, tornadoing, or sprinkling that clear, skinny rain you sometimes get on days with slightly see-through clouds.
- Although Colorado wasn’t added to the Union until 1876, the motto of “Don’t tread on me” holds dear to the rugged wagon people who grind up I-70 each weekend in a slow-moving traffic jam – only their motto is twofold: for those driving VWs, "Don't need tread." For all others, “Don’t tread on snakes.” Snake-bites will foul up an otherwise great weekend of bushwalking, nullifying the triumph of making it through the Eisenhower Tunnel.
- I’m going to be honest. I don’t just find the west and its slogan belt-buckles odd, I find most of America to be completely dotty, which is why I’d love to earn my dinkles making fun of it.
- Lastly, I work in a cubicle. I’d rather work in your cubicle. At this point I will negotiate down as far as Senior Getter-Of-Danishes, or Sub-Associate In Charge of Cleaning Up the Butchers Paper after an Intense Brain Storm Session. And I’m qualified.
Janet Manley
Great postbike life
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