Apple Juice Essay (Rant)

I love Apple juice. But it’s turning me into a Reaganite. Wow. I bet you don’t hear that every day of the week chums. I will elaborate.

The existence and the ready availability of apple juice for my own consumption challenges all of my irreligious and socialist tendencies to such a degree that I quail in primal fear at the thoughts which begin to pervade my mind. What? That’s mental! Well, no it isn’t, but before I explain this ridiculous claim I’ll give my own unique, personal evaluation upon the lovely liquid.

Apple juice is the juice of apples, basically a liquid extract of that lovely fruit, the bane of Adam’s and probably all of humanity’s existence, if you follow certain Abrahamic monotheistic religious traditions. Apple juice can be made in factories. Just like peaches. I learnt this fact from a very interesting and informative song. It was called Peaches. Fittingly. Apparently peaches come in a can. They were put there by a man, although the exact identity of this man is never specified, in a factory of a town that is also unspecified. And if the protagonist of the piece had his “little way” he would consume his choice fruit of peaches “every day”. This sums up my attitude to apple juice.

Glass of Apple Juice

Despite Visual Similarites It Does Not Taste Like Urine

Apple juice is the fuel of my existence. Just like petroleum products are to today’s modern economy, papyrus was to the Egyptians, and the ridiculously named unobtanium will be to future human society if the movie Avatar is of any credence. Apple juice is powering my fingers as I type this blog post at thirty-three minutes past three on a Wednesday morning, though the corn chips earlier also helped. When I walk home from my college of education, a nice cold drink of apple juice cools my prostrated form, sweating profusely from the Australian sun, and puts my brain into some semblance of working order. When suffering severe emotional stress, one can sip apple juice in between sobs, its sweet nectar soothing oneself into a state nearing contentment. Indeed, the fact that there will be a bottle of apple juice in the fridge, to be sampled at any time, puts me at ease. To use an old Australian phrase, “she’ll be apples.”

There is a twofold problem here however. Probably more, but I can only think of two right now, and my fingers are tired from practicing ukulele chords all day, but that’s another story. The first is religious.

Given that apples are so referenced in the creation myths of Christianity, Judaism (I think), and possibly Islam (though I haven’t checked) and most likely in various other belief systems across the planet, and given that the fruit is so delicious, intricately fashioned and perfect for my consumption, perhaps creationism has some credence. Is it even possible for apples to occur (that’s a suitable verb isn’t it?) through the process of evolution? I doubt this. Several years of atheism presented by bitter agnostics (the public education system) rails against this tendencies, and all sorts of evidence in favour of evolution pops up like the lid of a broken, and sadly obsolete, Walkman. Unfortunately I am to content to listen to hard evidence, or read hard facts. Mmm… Apple.

Number two! I get apple juice from a shop. I live in a little cardboard box/hovel/beachside apartment and cannot grow apple juice. Even if I sowed the little plot of grass outside the lobby with apple seeds, I doubt that anything would grow there due to the biting coastal winds, and even if they did, they would probably taste salty or get pinched by scrupulous holidaymakers from Melbourne or some other freezing wet slum from down south.

Graffiti of Mustachioed Hipster On Wall

This Is Melbourne

This being as it is, I am forced to obtain my apple juice from secondary providers, that is, one of the two big supermarket duopolies, Acme Foods and Vittle Corp. Well not really, I could go down to one of my local fruit shops or something, but one time I did that, and only succeeded in buying exactly the same brand of apple juice that I got from the evil people at approximately two times the price. Really it wouldn’t make a difference anyway. Two fruit from the same tree.

So, bearing all above in mind, my apple juice habit, disgusting as it is, is dependent on capitalism. Now, we probably could set up some worker’s collective in Nimbin or something, and grow apples there organically, and spike the juice with THC for extra effect but where would that get us in the long run? Probably not that far considering that I’m not self-disciplined enough to complete a music assignment, and I dislike the taste of THC. Therefore we must rely on capitalism, as a necessary evil in the obtaination (that’s a word) of this utter necessity.

Cat That Looks Like Banker

And They Wonder Why Wall Street Is Occupied...

So despite all of my hatred of consumerism, waste and top hats, I must begrudgingly give capitalism some credit and thanks due to its irregular supply of apple juice, depending on my irregular supply of capital. And I do declare henceforth that the smooth (arguable), efficient (arguable) and ethical (kind of bullshit) manner that the system of capitalism employs to deliver goods and services across the globe does give some people, some benefits. But I generalise massively. I should however remind the reader, that without a generous dollop of socialism, (the depraved welfare state) I would not be typing this article, not be able to use a computer, and probably having to sip droplets of my beloved juice off cans left discarded at the side of the road.

In reiteration: I should stop overanalysing apple juice as soon as possible.

My First Writing Thingy

Quite recently I was asked to participate in a blog chain. A most arcane series of posts by an insane cabal of angst-filled, pimple-faced teen writers, a demographic of which I, for better or worse, am a part of. The brief was simple enough. It was “What do you first remember writing of your own free will.”

I was wrong. This is not simple. This is actually quite difficult. It takes a lot of effort for me to go back through the preternatural ether of my early existence, past dinosaurs, echidnas, sand and strange smelly things to pick up such a strange morsel of remembrance. I have however located it. It is my name.

Unfortunately, due to privacy issues I can’t tell you my name. So that destroys what may have been a wonderful, thought-provoking post about my name and its Hebraic origins. I learnt a bit of Hebrew last week for faeces and laughs. I can still remember a couple of basic phrases like the assertive “Slikha!” and the perennial “Ani mevin ivrit?” Ah, Hebrew. What an idiosyncratic language, like the multi-coloured swirls of oil in the potholes of the road of existence, you never fail to provide me with a sense of exhilaration and renewed enthusiasm with this grey and robotic world.

But returning to the topic at hand, I do remember something… So clear now despite its temporal distance… Like it was yesterday…

*bites capsicum and looks off into near distance*

It was several pages of a marvellous epic, a tale about two Kiwis (the birds not the people) named Tooa and Ayot. It detailed their whimsical journeys to the beach and back, and the start of a journey, via container ship, across the wide Pacific Ocean to mysterious Pitcairn Island.

In hindsight it contained some quite advanced concepts, like the futility of anthropomorphising small flightless birds, a certain human hunger for the different things (through an Avian prism), and a titanic struggle against the forces of nature in their heart-pulsing search for small littoral crustaceans.

I think it was at that moment, with my highly detailed plot structure, character profiles, and intricate illustrations, that I knew what path my life would go down. I knew that my lifelong dream would be achieved. I knew I that if I knuckled down, tried hard, pushed myself to my utmost limits, I could become an apprentice baker in a rural branch of a gigantic supermarket conglomerate.

Want to follow our blog tour? Here are the participating parties, day by day
October 15th — – A Farewell To Sanity
October 16th — – Eat, Sleep, Write, Repeat
October 17th — – Tay’s Tape
October 18th — – Novel Journeys
October 19th —- – Red Herring Online
October 20th —– Kirsten Writes!
October 21st — – The Incessant Droning of a Bored Writer
October 22nd — – Here’s To Us
October 23rd — – Teens Can Write Too! (We will be announcing the topic for the next month’s chain)

The Revolutions of 2011

Much of this blog is satirical, tongue in cheek and whimsical in nature, and yet I like to imbue all of my posts with some inner and somewhat serious philosophical truth. Sometimes however, as silly as I am, I like to make a serious and fundamental point about something that is occurring in the world, in a straightforward and hopefully succinct manner.

Corporate America

This is one of those times. I recently watched The Baader Meinhof Complex, an award winning film by Uli Edel about the Red Army Faction, a left-wing terrorist group that carved a bloody swathe across Germany in a series of brutal politcally motivated attacks from 1970 to 1998. Watching that movie has made me think a lot. Whilst it made dead certain to me the absolute moral repugnancy of much of their actions, which included bombings, assassinations and sieges, the movement that this extreme and in many cases misguided group sprang out of inspired me.

From the early sixties up until quite recently, perhaps the fall of the Soviet Union in the 90s, there seemed to be a strong, consistent anti-capitalist, anti-materialist protest movement that existed and was active across the world. It was primarily motivated by, but not excluded to, students, trade unionists and the broader left. In my opinion this was a great and noble thing. Here was a movement that went against the values of a burgeoning, and rapidly sprawling superficial society obsessed the material. That resisted the urges to merely consume, work and die, that despised the dead end 9-til-5 job, and bemoaned the yawning gap left by the waning religions, replaced in futility and desperation with material wealth and superficial greed. They called for community rather than individualism. They resisted.

A key example, perhaps the strongest, most pure illustration of the ideals expressed above was May 1968. In mid-1968 France was shut down. The students occupied the universities, citizens put up barricades in the streets and two thirds of French workers went on an independent and general wildcat strike. Here was a movement inspired by the counterculture, against conservative values, with whiffs of the surreal Situationists and hostile to the bureacratic establishment. They were neither pro-West nor pro-East, they opposed not only the church and the conservative parties, but also the main leftist organisations, including the communists, and prominent trade unions. There were independent, idealistic and proud, but went out, perhaps mercifully with a whimper rather than a bang.

Street Barricades in Paris 1968

But this was not only restricted to France. All across the world people protested against imperialism, inequality and consumerism, trends which seemed to spread from the West across the so-called Iron Curtain and other un-alligned states. From 1960 to 1980 the world, especially the West, was dominated by social unrest which stemmed primarily from these grievances. But now that movement seems to have faded. People seem contented with their latest gadgets, their gourmet foods, alcohol and designer clothes. Neoliberalism and the free market, fused to a varying degree with leftist tainted ideals to appease and quieten the masses, seem to have taken the fore. The resistance looks dead or castrated compared to the days of our parents and their parents, and I occasionally look back upon the world in that time, and ask myself if I was indeed born in the right decade.

But then something like the Arab Spring happens. Something like the current protests in Wall Street and before that, the union protests in Wisconsin, the anti-cut movements in London and Greece and Spain and across Western Europe. When I see my fellow youth, indeed, when I see the people of the world from all walks of life coming together in an effort to change this ridiculous society and broken immoral system I am heartened. I’m sure I don’t identify with every protester out there, from the Egyptian Islamist to the Anarchist from Greece, but the fact that people aren’t simply going to sit around in slothful apathy and take this shit is definitely heartening. The people if united, organised and motivated can achieve great things. Be inspired and fight for your freedom.

Unmitigated Travesty in Wharf Street

With the civil war in Libya, the irritating machinations of various local political parties and that whole global warming thing, the truly important things in life sometimes slip underneath the radar. There is no better example of this than the disgusting, shameful and undemocratic fiasco going on in a certain section of Wharf Street, Forster.

It seems that a certain section of shop front along the hallowed street is STILL being held up by steel props, for more than a whole month! That is greater than either 30, 31 or perhaps even 29 days! 28 in a leap year.

These props, purportedly present to hold up certain sections of roof, pose an unmitigated security threat to the local community. Unlike other obstacles such as chairs, trees, boxes or large dogs. I, and most leading experts, propose another more nefarious reason behind this. That the Illuminati, working with their lizardman allies, have decided to turn the Forster CBD into a temple for their heathen alien religion.

Patrons Dining

Uberknownst To These Innocent Patrons An Alien Temple May Be Directly Underneath

Why else would these props still be up? There is either a dark temple far beneath the surface of the fruit shop, or there is an invisible temple floating above the roundabout, where invisible, or at least semi-transparent alien life forms, known as the Gregories, float up on coloured balloons to sacrfice rabbits with complimentary steak knives.

What we need is a Day of Rage. We need to mirror the efforts of those protesters at Wall Street and get out on the pavement ourselves. We need to protest against the Aliens and the elite who fund their existence! We need to attempt to find the invisible bonds that connect the invisible temple to the roundabout! We’ll probably need an infared light and a radar, and would have to search very closely, since the roundabout is covered in shrubbery.

If the temple is elsewhere however, we will simply walk up and down the street, yelling and all that, just in case the evil Alien overlords emerge from their preternatural dens.