A (Bon)Soiled Reputation

I found out something interesting today.

Apparently, all Bonsoy soy milk was recalled not too long ago. Something to do with iodine which has apparently caused thyroid problems in a bunch of people. Naturally, when I heard the news I had a minor panic. I had to have some blood tests this morning to check my parathyroid and I used to work in a café that served Bonsoy as its primary soy option. I had coffees with the stuff most days. Not because I thought it was healthy or any of that but because damn, that stuff is tasty. But don't worry, further research has revealed that the thyroid and the parathyroid are completely different things and, as previously hypothesised, I'm a complete and total hypochondriac.

But I'm glad I read about this Bonsoy thing. As you probably know, I spend a lot of time reading. One area I'm interested in, being a vegetarian and all, is the ethics of food production, including organic foods and genetic modification. It's a very interesting subject. I've read a lot of arguments against genetic modification in food products and, as with most subjects, some are more convincing than others. But there's one argument I've never liked that keeps coming up. When certain strains of fruit or vegetable are modified to, let's say, became more resistant to pests, they obviously test them to see whether they have any serious side-effects on people who consume them. When the modifications are shown to be harmless you often hear someone saying that sure, now it seems like there's nothing wrong with it, but hey! You don't know if it will turn out to hurt us in the future!

I hate this argument. For those against genetic modification I would hasten to bring up the fact that the work of scientists like this excellent dude have meant that crops have been able to be provided to buttloads of people who would otherwise have died of starvation. But whether GM foods are good or bad is not the point here. The point is that if you're going to try and ban something based on a completely hypothetical future where it might turn out to be bad for you, you should apply it across the board. Ban everything that could maybe one day turn out to cause some kind of problem. Oh wait, that's EVERYTHING.

And this Bonsoy thing proves a neat little point. You see, the kind of people who use that argument are usually the kind of people you see drinking soy milk. And no, that doesn't apply to all soy milk drinkers. As I said, there are some of us that just drink it because it's super delicious. But there is a specific sub-section of soy drinkers that can be summed up with one word: hippies.

I'm sorry hippies, but you know it's true.

You see them when you do café work. They come in groups for their soy chai lattes, always with their babies in hand-made booties. I sometimes wonder if those babies are present because the parents also hand-crafted their own condoms. There was a drink at my favourite little café in Newcastle that was a latte with soy milk and dandelion extract, written on the menu as an L.S.D. If that's not aimed squarely at this exact demographic, I don't know what is.

Some of them drink it because they're vegan, some of it drink it because maybe they heard it has some kind of health benefit (I also see that a lot with gluten-free products). Some drink it because, well, maybe it's just the culture. They're the type of people who only buy food with the word 'organic' on the label. And don't get me started on that old pearl. The problem is, you can define 'organic' as any product derived from a living organism. Technically, it's true. It may have been ground up with the hooves of a thousand mutated puppies living their lives in a perpetual hell, but if it comes from a living organism, it's technically organic. Then you can sell that product with the word 'organic' on the label. Maybe you're not supposed to, but nor are you supposed to use misleading pictures to make your food more appetising than it is. If it's technically legal and it can rake in the dollars, people will do it.

Then they bring out 'certified' organic. There are actual certifications that you can get that your food is organic. The ACO certification is, I believe, a good one. But unfortunately, these certifications aren't compulsory for any food using the label of 'organic'. And as a result, there's nothing stopping some marketing genius from making up his own certification to make it look genuine. The word 'certified' means nothing if you don't know anything about who is doing the certifying. You can't just take their word for it. It could just be some guy in a factory taking the packaging and saying 'This bread is organic, as certified by my dick.' That'll be $15 a loaf, don't forget the canvas bags.

But now, as if specifically formulated for me to prove a point, it turns out that of all the things that are making people sick, it turns out it's the soy milk. Even better, the ingredient in Bonsoy that was causing all the trouble? It was the SEAWEED EXTRACT. If you're eating something that contains anything derived from a plant that was grown underwater, that's instant hippie credibility. And then it turns out THAT'S what's bad for them.

And no, it's not all soy milk that was harmful and Bonsoy is back on the shelves now, the problem having been rectified but, really. You can't help but love that sort of irony.

-Smackie Onassis

P.S. There is a new poll, based on the results of the last poll. As requested (by Vegatrain) I am keeping this one open for a bit longer.

Canada/More Fun With Namesakes

I love Canada. I seriously do. I have never been there but it is basically my holy land. I would love to go there, traveling around, skiing and seeing all my favourite bands. I have a bunch of family there too, so I could probably get accommodation pretty easily.

I've always felt like I can relate to Canada. As some of you may know I spent a bit of time in my youth kicking back in Toronto, NSW. If you listen to Darren Hanlon as obsessively as I do, you know that NSW has a tendency to steal the names of other, more famous places. I guess it might be to make believe that the location is more exotic than it is. I remember being on the phone to someone in another state and mentioning that I was in Cardiff for the day. This was the Cardiff that was only about twenty minutes drive from my house, but I think it says something about what I'm like that the person I was talking to not only assumed I had spontaneously left the country, but wasn't even that surprised by the idea.

I spent time in Toronto mainly because I went out with a guy who lived there. Oddly enough, when he was a kid he had actually lived in Canada, gone to high school in Sydney and then found himself living in Toronto, NSW. I guess there's something to be said for familiarity. Possibly the most Canadian sounding thing I did there was when was when I found myself drinking with a brass band at ten in the morning at the Toronto RSL, although I was sadly the designated driver. You have no idea of the looks I received when I turned down the free beer, even though it was ten in the morning. 

I remembered another thing that makes me feel like I have ties to Canada after receiving a letter from the optometrist who prescribed me my first pair of glasses. His name was Brian Adams and I always thought that was the funniest thing in the world. I love namesakes. More specifically, I love comparing people to their famous namesakes. Dr Brian Adams may have been my favourite, but there have been others that I've known. 

My best friend in high school was a particularly good example. He was one of the best people I've ever been friends with, just because of the sheer level of absurdity I could get away with in conversation with him. Every single person we knew was convinced we were doing it, but we were honestly just really good friends. One of the most wonderfully random phone calls I have ever received was when he called me out of the blue after we hadn't seen each other in a while, and duly informed me that he was in an airport in Sri Lanka. The thing is, his name was George Martin. I hesitated before including his full name out of fear he might find this by googling himself, but then I remembered that this entry would be nowhere near the top of the google results for that particular search term.

I've often wondered if having the same name as someone so closely connected to the Beatles affected the way he listened to music, because he was very retro. He listened to a lot of vinyl, but it wasn't a hipster thing. It was more to do with the fact that almost all the music he listened to had been released before the invention of the CD. 

There was one particular day when we were out together - we had arranged to meet at a butcher. Solely for the pun value. Which we didn't shut up about for a long time, even though it doesn't work that well in past tense. From the butcher we wandered down to the Beaumont St Beat, a shop that advertised itself as the only independent music retailer in Newcastle. I was always insanely jealous of the people who worked there, who got paid to know more about obscure music than anyone else. It was kinda my dream job.

There was an album that George wanted that wasn't currently in stock. He put in an order form, but gave them my number. I think it was because he was going on holidays and didn't want to miss the call. The thing is, it was a Beatles album. I am so glad that I was the one who answered the call when the CD arrived. I'm fairly sure that if either of my parents had answered a call from a music store saying they had a Beatles album reserved for George Martin, they would have hung up straight away.

-Smackie Onassis

Let's Cyst Again

I have detailed a few of my more interesting ailments here. In some ways I feel like this blog is starting to read like a medical history. Admittedly, I'm a bit of a hypochondriac. This is true. But I have had quite a lot of medical dealies that weren't the result of my own paranoia. When I broke my hand, I remember denying for hours that it was broken on the basis that I didn't want to have broken a bone in such a phenomenally stupid manner. As you probably know, I would go on to much bigger and stupider injuries. My medical woes aren't always the result of me being an idiot though. I was thinking about this the other day, and it reminded me that I haven't yet mentioned that time I had a bit of the old plastic surgeries.

Yes, you heard it hear first folks: Smackie Onassis had plastic surgery. When I start off telling this story, even when I preface it by explaining that plastic surgery and cosmetic surgery are not the same thing, everyone has the same reaction:

"Boobs, right? I knew it."

No, I did not have breast augmentation. Look through my school photos if you don't believe me. I was already being catcalled by boys in my class when I was 12 years old, something I found more than a little strange and frightening. I have back problems as it is, I can't imagine anything I would want less than big old fake breasts.

The surgery I had was not cosmetic. There was a cyst growing in an unfortunate spot on my forehead and even though it posed no real threats to my health, it was getting bigger and it was a pain in the arse. Also it was in the middle of my damn forehead and all my friends kept trying to squeeze it. So, I was booked in for minor surgery.

It was just a local anaesthetic. I could understand that - general anaesthetics are much riskier. Unfortunately it meant I was wide awake while a surgeon cut open my head. I'm not going to lie to you, it was pretty awful. The worst thing is, it grew back. I was booked in for a second operation.

About halfway through the second procedure, I felt the surgeon stop what he was doing. It was then that I heard the single last thing you ever want to hear when a medical professional has a scalpel sticking into your head.

"Huh."

Something had surprised him.

"So that's why it grew back," he continued, muttering to himself. And yes, even though this was many years ago I can remember exactly what he said. It's not the kind of thing you forget.

"Hey! Awake down here! What's going on?" I would have spoken up if I could manage to get my vocal chords working. I didn't actually say anything, but I guess the doctor remembered where he was and decided that I would probably want to know what had happened.

"Don't worry," he said, "There was a little nest of them in there. I'll be able to get them all out."

Admittedly he was talking about sebaceous cysts and not horrifying spiders, but that's kinda the image that is conjured up by that particular turn of phrase.

The rest of the surgery went off without a hitch and I got to walk around for a bit with my head bandaged up like an old-school slapstick actor. My only disappointment was that he had been such a good surgeon that my scar was barely visible. You may think that's a good thing, but keep in mind that the tiny excuse for a scar that I do have is at the top right of my forehead, just below my hairline. If he hadn't done such a neat job, I would have the exact same scar as Harry friggin Potter. I can even remember my little sister telling me I should ask him to cut it in the shape of a lightening bolt, but I wasn't game to make jokes during a surgical procedure. 

There is still a scar there, it's just not one you'd see unless it was pointed out. I guess that's kind of ideal, really. Facial scars aren't really viewed as the pillar of feminine attractiveness. Still. Harry Potter.

-Smackie Onassis

The Best Shop That No Longer Exists

I did another shift at the op-shop yesterday. It's great because volunteering means I get excellent things even cheaper than I normally would. Two sweet rockabilly dresses and a great jacket for $20 is the sort of charity work I can get behind. Yesterday I didn't find as much funny stuff as last time (although there was a pair of pants with a built in bumbag, for people who don't even want the option of not looking like an idiot), but it did remind me a lot of when I worked at the clothes shop back in Newcastle. I mentioned it briefly in my entry about insane role models, but that brief couple of paragraphs doesn't really do justice to how amazing a job it was.

As I mentioned, the shop's owner hired me pretty much out of the blue, on the basis that I came into his shop sometimes and he thought I was cool. For the sake of a joke, we will call him Bernard. When I started working for Bernard it was just a shift every now and then when he wanted to go do something else. When he realised that I was able to turn up for shifts at short notice (I lived around the corner) and that I had a knack for convincing people to buy things, he started giving me shifts all the time. He was dramatically underpaying me - we both knew it. I didn't care. It was a cushy job and he was a funny guy, so I never pushed the issue. I got to dress how I wanted, read on the job and play my own music. I viewed it as a bonus that I was even getting paid at all.

It was a small shop, with a lot of really unique stuff. Barramundi skin boots, polka-dot tops with suit-style tails, you name it. Because there was a lot of stuff that you wouldn't find anywhere else, people were always very disappointed when I didn't have their size.

"Can you check out the back?" was the most common question I would hear. I would agree to have a look, but it was almost always to humour them. Admittedly, the shop did look like it had a back room. It didn't though. There was a little corridor behind the till, but it didn't go anywhere. Customers, however, didn't know that. Whenever someone asked me to have a look for something out the back, I would just go and stand in the corridor. The whole thing was out of view of the shop, so to the customer it would look like I was disappearing into a vast, stock-filled area. In reality, I would be half-heartedly flipping through the one rack of clothes that we had there. I would open the little bar fridge, the only other thing that was hidden in the corridor, and see what Bernard had in stock. For the record, I never saw anything other than wine and random condiments in that fridge. There might have been half a kebab for a while, I'm not really sure. You can see why I gave my boss the name Bernard. I always pictured him telling a customer that he was going to look out the back for something, only to pour a drink and laugh to himself. 

We used to spend a lot of time laughing at our customers. While there were some great items in the shop, there were also some seriously awful ones. I remember coming in one morning to be shown the latest item of stock. It was a handbag, designed for carrying around a tiny dog. We had hysterics, joking about the kind of person who would buy that. Later that afternoon, I checked in with him on my way home.

"Did anybody buy the dog purse?" I asked. He looked at me with the utmost seriousness.

"A woman has gone to buy a dog so she can use that bag."

I kid you not. I only wish that I could have seen that unfold with my own eyes.

The thing about Bernard was that I could never quite predict what he was going to say. He never felt the need to give his conversations any kind of prior context. Instead, he would jump right to the point. I remember one morning, I came in to open up the shop.

"Do you like dead animals?" he asked me, straight up. I was a bit taken aback. I figured that this was some kind of pop culture reference that I wasn't getting, a band that I should be familiar with but wasn't because I didn't listen to the radio.

"Um..." I stuttered, thinking fast about how to bluff my way through this situation. Luckily, he didn't seem to expect a reply, leading me to a locked cupboard at the back of the shop. He opened it and as it turned out, he meant dead animals in the most literal possible sense. It was a mink stole, the kind with the stuffed head and feet still attached.

"Someone donated it to the shop," he explained, "I'm not sure what to do with it."

I'm not sure what ended up happening to it - it was never put on display. I'm honestly not sure if he was actually against fur or whether he was aware that a lot of his customers were the type of people I call "corporate hippies", the type who are happy to drive an expensive 4WD halfway across the country to attend an anti-coal protest. Although, just because it was never on display doesn't mean it was never sold. He often brought special items out of that cupboard for certain customers and I didn't see it again after that.

Hey. Hey you guys. Maybe it was STOLEn. B-because it's a stole? Guys?

Guys?

-Smackie Onassis

Oh For Heaven's Namesake

I have a pretty common name. Just today I was picking up my new glasses (you guys have no idea how good it feels to be able to read without straining my eyes again. I look very "Perfection as a Hipster" right now) and the woman informed me that I had the same exact name as a girl her 12-year old son had a crush on. As much as I would like to think of myself as a pre-teen heartthrob, this girl was also 12 and in her son's class.

Like most people, I have googled myself numerous times. I myself have never done anything significant enough to merit being a top google result, but some of my namesakes have. There was a jazz singer with my name and an actress who was on Heartbreak High, apparently.

The best one, however, is possibly among the greatest results anyone has ever received when typing their name into google. I got on Triple J breakfast talking about it once. All the callers before me were pretty boring, things like "Yeah apparently there is a pillow with my name" and "There is a PORNS actress with my name!". Of course there's a porn star with your name. There is a porn star with everybody's name.

But mine, mine was great. I found it in some kind of historical archive recounting old legal documents from centuries past. My namesake lived in Salem, Mass. a couple of centuries ago and, as the documents say, "she would be a burden on the town for many years to come". It seems that after her husband died, this woman decided to spend her time being publicly drunk, having illegitimate children and wasting many of the town's dollars in having her "cared for".

There is one thing I don't quite get though. I mean, this was Salem. And she wasted a lot of the town's money. Do you think there was one guy in all those council meetings who ever spoke up to say:

"Hey! Um, hey guys? I know this is a touchy subject and all, but this is Salem. We could probably get away with just, you know, burning her at the stake? It would save us a lot of money."

But, she ended up dying years later from something alcohol related. One of the many reasons I would count her as my favourite namesake.

-Smackie Onassis