I headed downtown to the CBD after work at the beginning of the week to take in a screening of Michael Moore’s latest cinematic gem, thanks to the Australian chapter of Democrats Abroad. The film, Capitalism: A Love Story, is a good one. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, and you’ll furrow your brow and clench your jaw in anger. This is because, while we were all privy to the ins and outs of the money wizards and their doings last year, there are some things that we don’t know. Really.

Moore presents certain historical facts as a backdrop to the current economic state, and thus is able to produce a narrative of an economic rise and subsequent, and necessary, fall that could have been avoided. And we all know what happened. Somewhere along some line it became common practice to disregard the people’s best interest. It’s easier to hook a person who is in poverty. They won’t fight back or raise their voices lest The Man come down with a heavy hand. Or so some might think.

There are those who remind us that, even though our voices might feel small, they can sound big. One of those voices manifests itself in films. Capitalism: A Love Story very necessarily tells the story of our current economic state. It tells us about the people that put us there and the back-room deals that have kept us there. But it also reminds us who we are. And that, if we so choose, we have a voice to use. Just like the voices the Chicago factory workers used to protest their sudden layoff without pay. The family who forced their way back into the home they had been evicted from.

One of the features of the film that resonates the most is the people and these stories. Pushed to the limits of their bank accounts, where do they turn? What must the feeling be, knowing that the people who put them in that situation were nowhere near struggling for their next meal? Moore reminds us by turning the camera on the fighters or those who are finally sick of taking it, that it’s we, the people, who have the power. The power of a vote. The power of a voice. And he reminds us, though he doesn’t need to, that we rocked that power last November.

Now while it’d be pretty easy to blame the banks and the last few presidents and the rich people alone, that’s not entirely fair, as the film manages to point out. Was it only capitalism spun out of control? Not necessarily. Perhaps it’s what capitalism breeds.

About a year ago, I edited a chapter to be submitted to a book about narcissism. We discussed some of the broader issues she raised in the chapter about narcissism, which mainly touched upon the acquisition of goods. Part of that discussion was about narcissism being some of the cause of the economic situation. Gotta have that house. Gotta show everyone that I’ve made it even though I can’t afford it. I’ll just use credit. I’ve done it, though I don’t own property. I’ve got student loans I’d rather not think about and credit card debt because of careless spending when I didn’t know any better. Or, rather, when I knew better but that didn’t matter. I wanted the watch. And the music. And that other watch. And the clothes. Spend, spend, spend. We’re all complicit in this. Unfortunately, some of that seems is innocuous. The pursuit of the “American Dream” isn’t illegal. Short-sighted and without merit, perhaps, but not illegal.

These are the things on my mind after having seen Moore’s latest. So see it. Talk to friends about it. Argue with friends about it. And maybe now we can do a little collective learning from the past and present.

Seriously. I’m published. Razed.

It was an understated event. I didn’t throw a party. Oprah’s producers weren’t blowing the ringers off my non-existent agent’s phone for an appearance. And I have not had to reject masses of autograph seekers in crowded auditoriums. I’ve only told a few people, and four of them have purchased 10 copies, which means $33.40 in my pocket. So how did I accidentally publish myself?

The tale begins in November 2007 when I took up the challenge to write 50,000 words in 30 days for National Novel Writing Month. I made it to 50,000 but the story wasn’t finished, so I took it to about 56,000. It took 26 days. After I saved the document for the final time, I closed it and, though I thought about it every once in a while, it remained closed.

Then in October 2008, I, along with all the other “winners” — those who reached the word-count goal — received an e-mail telling us that a company called Create Space had agreed to print, for free, proof copies of our submissions, or books. While I didn’t necessarily think obtaining a proof copy would cost a crazy amount of money, I’m a fan of free. I had six months. I’m also a fan of deadlines. Six months would be plenty of time to rework it. Add some chapters to fill in some holes. Develop the characters a little more to give them some more depth. Make the setting more of a character than it was, which would put it more in line with what I originally intended.

Five months later, I finally got going on the first draft, which I wrote in 26 days and hadn’t read since I closed it more than a year earlier. Then I got a job. For a minute, I even gave up on the idea. It’s just a proof copy, I said to myself. Technically, I could take it to Kinko’s (or whatever the Sydney version is) and get it into some type of book form. That was just for a minute, though. Unfortunately, my lack of motivation, or fear, or insecurity, or laziness, or whatever it was that prevented me from taking a real stab at it, meant I only had time for a read-through.

Finally, with one day left before my six-month window closed, I went to the Web site to begin the quick and easy process of ordering my proof copy. Yeah, right.

Ninety minutes, three versions, and two days later, I finally succeeded. I had to design three different covers, search far and wide for a suitable-to-me cover picture (turned out to be one I took), and settle for a really poorly written description. But my submission was finally accepted. And as a part of all of this, I had the option of selling it on Amazon.com.

After going through all that, there was no way I wasn’t going to put it online for sale. It’s $15. I get $3.44 for each copy sold (or something like that). And I’m published. Sort of.

I finally got my free proof copy in the mail. I saw my name on the binding. On the front. I flipped through Razed, stopping at a few randomly selected sentences — three, to be exact — cringing at all of them. And why wouldn’t I: 26 days; no editing.

But then in some strange display of maturity, perhaps influenced by the fact I couldn’t do anything about it, I didn’t seem to care. I cringed, yes, but I wrote the poorly constructed sentences, which contained metaphors as lofty as hot-air balloons on a summer’s day. Really. And I accepted them. It is, after all, my book. If I can’t accept my own writing, then I can’t expect other people to.

I got a taste of being published — my name on a book and all that. It’s actually pretty sweet. And I want it to happen again. But next time, I want someone else to do it for me. And I want Oprah’s people to call.

I made it about 15 months without having any conversations about my accent. But now that I’ve got a job and am encountering more people every day, the conversations and comments have tended to come quite regularly.

From this, I have learned one thing: Australians will go out of their way to avoid insulting a Canadian.

There are a few different beginnings to the conversation I generally have about my accent, but I will use just one example, as I believe it best illustrates my point.

Aussies: Yoouu’rrrrree …….????

At this point, the Aussies know I’m American. They just know it. However, it is also at this point they recall the unpleasant feeling they experienced when they came right out and asked a similarly accented individual if they were American. There is clearly some sense-memory activity happening here beneath the surface, because they seem to wince a little inside. But there they stand with their heads slightly cocked, hoping desperately that I will intercede.

Me: American.

Relief. “I knew it,” they might be thinking, happy they were right (albeit on the inside), suddenly nodding confidently. It is now when the exchange starts using more words, as they explain their hesitation.

Aussies: I thought so. You just never know, though. You’ve got to be careful when you ask someone if they’re American. I can’t tell you how many times I have asked a Canadian if they’re American. They do not like that. Oh, they get so upset and offended. Did you know that? So I don’t just come right out and guess anymore. It’s dangerous.

By now, there is no holding back. The conversation has careened off the track of my accent and Americanism to the dangers of ruffling Canadian feathers. I listen because there seems to be a lot of emotion in the issue. I smile because it’s funny. And I don’t take anything personally, as the Aussies continue to discuss the grave mistake of suggesting to a Canadian that he or she is American.

And then there was the time a guy called and said he thought I was someone else putting on a silly accent.

You sort of insulted me just then, I told him in the light-mannered tone in which I meant it. He laughed a little before admitting that he hadn’t really realized it till after the fact.

They love us down here.

I recently (as in a few months ago) applied for and received a Queensland driver’s license. I put it off as long as I could, mostly because I don’t drive here regularly and also because I thought I’d have to relinquish my New York license. But I finally started going through the motions of filling out the app and was stymied by a question: What complexion are you?

I skipped it. The information is not important. Not only that, but I really didn’t know how to answer the question. It wasn’t multiple choice. I had only a line with space enough for one word and not, as I would have preferred, a few lines for, say, a couple of sentences to describe it. So…light? Dark? A little of both?

With my application filled in (except for that stupid question), I hoofed it to the Queensland Department of Transport and waited about 10 minutes before I was called to a window. By now I had forgotten the complexion question and was instead filled with dread at the prospect of having to take a driving test: written or otherwise. You see, back in the day when I was 15 and a half, I took the written driving test. Three times. And the driving driving test? I passed, but I had forgotten my permit, much to the chagrin of my shocked driving instructor who drove me home when it was all done. (At the time I thought he was just giving me a break. No.)

So I was relieved to find out that I wouldn’t have to be tested. I simply had to choose how long I wanted the license to be valid for and pay for it. But not until she scrutinized my application through a seemingly permanent scowl, which I watched closely in order to detect a flinch that might signal a problem with my application. And then I remembered the issue of my complexion.

I looked back to the question to find that she had filled it in for me, because, clearly, this was not a topic for discussion. That is when I found out (finally!) the answer to that complex question. That is when I found out that I am of medium complexion. Medium. Ah-ha! The word never came to me during this process.

I walked out of the office after 30 minutes with a really cheap license (think Blockbuster membership card) and the answer to my complexion issue. Medium. But I was and still am baffled.

What purpose does it serve the Queensland government to know that they just granted a license to a medium-complected American with Australian residency? The race and ethnicity questions on American apps are aggravating enough, but at least there seems to be reason in it. The issue of one’s complexion, however, is just plain stupid. If it’s political correctness they’re trying to achieve, they fail miserably. It’s being too careful. And I wouldn’t think it yields any useful data.

Medium. It’s as stupid as saying I’ve got a tan.

Updated:

I decided to look up the word “medium”; I can’t be bothered to include all of the definitions, so I will cite only the adjectives that might refer to complexion:

1. About halfway between two extremes of size or another quality; average.
2. (from the late 16th century just for fun) originally denoting something intermediate in nature or degree.

Lame, Queensland.

In response to the terrorist attack against the Sri Lankan cricketers the other day, the International Cricket Council has put Australia at the top of the list to host the 2011 Cricket World Cup. It’s scheduled for Pakistan.

But James Sutherland, Cricket Australia’s CEO, seemed to be a little unexcited about the prospect.

He was in front of microphones this week to discuss his earlier decision to cancel Australia’s tour of Pakistan last year. And then his attention turned toward the World Cup.

“Officially we are the standby host for the 2011 World cup,” Sutherland said. “I think our strong preference is for the event to go ahead in Asia hosted by the countries the ICC sees fit. We’re the host for 2015 and we’re confident we can put on a fantastic event for 2015, but we want the appropriate lead time into that event because of all the planning considerations necessary for it.”

So while Australia is considered Asia, this sounds like he’s trying to get out of it due to the lack of planning time. Well, there are a whole lotta people out of work in Australia, and I’m sure a lot of them would jump at the opportunity to help plan the event.

I’ve got a lot of problems with Cricket Australia, including its sub-par Web site. So, unfortunately, if it blows a chance to host the Cricket World Cup in 2011, it unfortunately won’t be a surprise. Contrast this lack of enthusiasm with England whose sports minister has said Pakistan could play its ‘home’ games in England.

In the meantime, the girl and I are going to hit a few of the matches of the ICC Women’s World Cup in the next few weeks. It’s the governing body of Australian cricket I don’t like. But the teams? I love ‘em.

The girl and I have been in our (small) Darlinghurst apartment for about five weeks now, and everything is pretty much the way it will be furniture-, utilities- and comfort-level-wise. Except it’s been six weeks since my last haircut. And I still don’t have a job.

Without the benefit of nepotism, the 13 resumes and cover letters and selection criteria essays have pretty much gone unnoticed. So it’s time to start making some phone calls. After spending last year in Brisbane, unable to work due to my non-residency status, I was looking forward to being legal and employable. But like everywhere else in the world, Australia is laying off people making people redundant left and right. And front and back. This should be fun.

And so should Mardi Gras, which is on Saturday. This isn’t, obviously, the New Orleans version, but rather the 30-years’ strong version of its gay pride parade. At least it’s at night. I kind of feel like if you’ve been to one gay pride parade, you’ve been to them all. Or at least if you’ve been to parades in L.A. S.F. and N.Y., you’ve been to them all.

Since Sydney doesn’t have the option of being initialized, and since the parade’s at night, this could be a bit different.

Step number whatever in my seemingly endless transition into life as a resident of Australia is to move to Sydney from Brisbane. I’ve been waiting for it desperately all year, which is not to say there is anything wrong with Brisbane. There’s not. I just don’t like it.

But to find a place in Sydney, we had to spend some time there, so we decided to rent a car and drive down the New England Highway for what was supposed to be a 14-hour drive. It ended up being about 15 and a half, which was all right by me, because I love a road trip.

The girl began the first leg, so I could have time to orient myself to the backwardness of the whole driving thing. Sure I’ve been here a year now and have been in my share of cars and buses, but some things take longer to adjust to. More on driving will come another day. I just did my job on my side taking pictures of leaf-less trees, singing (mostly showtunes) and keeping my eye out for things to break the monotony.

And there was plenty of that.

There were the numerous road signs announcing coffee, fruit, nuts, etc. My favorite, however, was a simple one posted to a tree that read: ‘The Return of the Lord is Near.’ Fitting given the fact that we were listening to (I was singing) Jesus Christ Superstar. That’s the buzz.

Some road signs are repetitive. I understand that drivers need to be aware of things. I understand that, especially on a stretch of road like the New England Highway, weary drivers might blink and miss the turnoff to civilization. Or a pair of Uggs. We had four reminders that our chance to buy a pair, or perhaps another similarly lined product, such as maybe a car cover or boxers, was coming up.

I wasn’t in the market for a pair of Uggs, nor will I ever be in the market for a pair, and the four signs wouldn’t change that. Nevertheless, we finally came upon the shop where we had the opportunity to see its full name: ‘The Ugg Boot Lady.’ And why shouldn’t the boot in the sign be pink?

Along the New England Hwy, goats are wanted, towns are named after pastries (Scone), statues are erected for scary-looking, long-dead bushrangers (Captain Thunderbolt), pet Maltese Terriers (little white fluffy doggies) cross the street with no owner in sight via the crosswalk in Murrurundi (okay, just the one that I had to wait for as he took his time), hollows are named Doughboy, waters are named Beardy and dry creeks have ironic names (Deepwater).

It’s not all dry, though. The storm we watched coming for about 15 minutes finally hit and forced us to a shoulder in Armidale to watch with other overly cautious drivers.

And then there’s Tamworth. I was expecting to see more people in these parts, but highway keeps you pretty much on the outskirts. I was thankful for this, because Tamworth is called the “country-music capital of Australia,” and I have an aversion to country music after 1980.

I was even more thankful for what the highway brought to us. On the left, to my utter surprise, amazement, and, finally bewilderment, was the Abraham Lincoln Motel. We should have spent the night. It is now on the list of things to do while I’m here.

You need a closer look.

Abraham Lincoln. Tamworth. It makes no sense, but I’ll take it.

There was more to the trip, but this gist will have to do. We made it to the girl’s mom’s house in the Blue Mountains at 12:30 a.m. (11:30 Queensland time) and went to bed. And that was just day one.

It happened a few days ago. I got the letter in the mail granting me this temporary spouse residency thing. Of course I was happy. Relieved, too, because for 12 months, the appointment to lodge my application for an interdependency visa loomed large and was the hinge upon which life after it would swing. And now it’s over.

So what’s it all mean? The most important thing is that I can work. Yep. I can be the foreigner that I am trying to get a job in a bad economy. Unfortunately I have to edit for more than food, so here’s hoping Sydney has some action for me. It also means that I can visit other countries and come back to this one without being interrogated and searched by customs. I’ve also now got a Medicare card. It’s kinda crazy. I could get sick tomorrow. I mean, really sick with the snot and the blood and maybe even the need for surgery or something. And I could take my handy dandy Medicare card with me and it’ll be taken care of. Just like that. Or something resembling that.

In two years, they’ll come at me again with a request for more proof that the girl and I are still the girl and I. Once they’re satisfied, they’ll grant me permanent residency. And if I’m still here three years later, if Meredith isn’t yet ready to give the States a go, I’ll be able to try for dual citizenship. That’s still a long way off.

It’s been a tough year, with missing people, adjusting to another country and the strange, somewhat archaic things it does sometimes, and not working. But now that it’s after the fact, I wonder at the ease of it all. The relatively simple way in which it all went down. America? Hello? I’m a dyke living with my girlfriend full-time, legally, in her country because mine doesn’t have that kind of law. Twelve months here, a little bing, bang, boom, and bam, I’m a resident. In the States, no such luck.

Nevertheless, I’m here. An expat American Yank who’s got a soft spot for the game of cricket and is deathly afraid of spiders, both of which are in abundance in this underworld continent. But during this hot Christmas season, I’ve finally got some legitimacy. Now all I need is a job.

The other day, I started filling out an application for a Queensland driver’s license. I’m not very excited about it because the licenses here in Queensland are lame. They’re like the library card your little country-town library gave you in 1975. Pretty poor stuff. And there’s more.

I only made it halfway down the first column of the application before I was met with the usual physical characteristic requests: Eyes? Brown. Hair? Black (I normally would have said brown, but the girl tells me it is black). Complexion? Bl– Wait. My complexion?

I knew immediately it was one of the stupidest questions (besides “Your race?”) I had ever seen on an application. But my next thought was that it might very well be an easy question to answer. Benefit of the doubt. They do things differently down here. So just answer it, I thought to myself. Okay: Light? No. Dark? Nowhere near. Then I’m thinking they’re looking for stuff like “olive-skinned” or something. Green? Kalamata? Black. Figures.

Some might not consider this a big deal. Just answer the question. But I’m sick of it always being up for discussion. And maybe that’s because the only link to my skin color is, well, my skin color and not. I wasn’t raised in that culture bit of it that people might assume I was raised in. The rub. So I hate such questions on an application, because all I do is stare at them and twist myself into circles trying to answer it in a way that will satisfy me.

The first time I got all circled up was just after I graduated from my undergrad in 1996. I went to a job fair all nervous-like and kind of dressed-up. I had a leather case thingy that was filled with college-level editorials I’d written, despite the fact I wasn’t trying to be a journalist. When I arrived, they told me to fill out their application.

So I sat down all confident with pen in hand and wrote my name in full. Then I got to that question — “Race” — which was followed by a whole bunch of words that were preceded by boxes. One of the words was “Other.” But that was followed by a line. Explain yo’self! Well, there’s never enough space for me to really explain myself fully, so I just sat there. For ten minutes. I can’t put just white, because I’m not. I can’t put just African American because I’m not. And I had just graduated from college and left friends of all ethnicities and races who told me I belonged to theirs. I kept sitting, thinking, for ten minutes. I don’t remember what I put.

I stopped filling out the driver’s license application, because I had run out of energy. I’m assuming I’ll have to present it at a window to a personn, so I’ll just tell them to fill it in if they insist. But then today we saw “Australia,” and I learned a new word that just might fit perfectly. It’s a word that a driver’s license official here might just have no problem using to describe my complexion: “creamy.” It’s used over and over to describe the young Aborigine in the film. He’s mixed. Aborigine mother and white father. Half-caste, they were called. “Creamy.” I hate people sometimes.

Creamy. Jesus.

What’s your complexion?

I know we’ve had all year to prepare for the immigration appointment. Gather this and that in various pseudo-organized piles around the apartment. Compile it into a big-ass notebook neatly. Get signed what they want signed. Show up. Smile. I’m pretty sure I’m prepared. Except for the smiling part.

Maybe it’s because I’ve still got that pesky little interrogation and search I had to endure at customs in June. Or maybe it’s because I just hate being under a microscope, having to somehow prove I am genuine in doing what I am doing. Nevertheless, it’s a process I knew we’d have to go through and the time is here. Tomorrow.

So we’ll be waking up and getting dressed. I will be wearing pants for probably the fifth time since I’ve been here in about ninety-degree morning humidity. And we’ll be taking Betty with us. Betty? Betty is the four-pound compilation of our years together. And all I gotta say is she better come through, because, while I miss the U.S. very much, it’s not time to go back yet.

Meet Betty.