We hold these truths to be self evident

Lord Bowen, in his now famous judgement, cemented in the public mind the enduring image of the "reasonable man"; the ultimate antihero who rides the bus to work and is as average as they come.

What this man knows and what he can foresee have been the subject of much legal debate over the years. To aid our ailing courts and to limit litigation, we, as a society, hold these truths to be self-evident. In other words, don't say you weren't warned:

Coffee is hot - says so on the lid. Giving yourself a singe Brazilian by holding it between your legs whilst driving is nobody's fault but yours.

Roads are slippery when wet - almost anything is.  We're not putting those signs up any more.

Driving through flood waters will kill you. We are not coming to save you if you do it and there will no longer be any "indicators show depth" rubbish.  All such signs will be replaced with a simple "Road flooded. Just don't" sign.

Internal combustion engines produce carbon monoxide which is fatal if you inhale too much of it. No more warnings in manuals or on stickers near the fuel tank about running your generator in your bedroom.

And on the subject, if you're smart enough to read, you should have enough brain cells left to know that concentrating or inhaling the contents of a can of toilet spray is not going to do you any good. That space on the packaging will be intentionally left blank from now on.

Plastic bags are not toys; nor are dynamite, arsenic or uranium. The last three products don’t come with warnings printed on them not to let your kids play with them, so nor will plastic bags.

Red means stop, do not go.  If the flashing red light and the sheer tonnage of the 90 car on coming freight train aren't enough to make you wait for 60 seconds, then evolution has assigned you to the scrap heap of history.  A sign reminding you not to cross when the red light is flashing is not going to help you any.

Those long black things above your head are power lines and they're up that high for a very good reason: 11kV  is more of a morning heart starter than anyone other than the chronically dead need and, no, you won't just get the humorous x-ray skeleton effect and the crazy scientist hairdo.  We are not spending another cent of taxpayers' money telling you not to touch them.

Beaches, rivers, and the like don't come with depth indicators.  Having a handy chunk of Australian manliness nearby bedecked in striking red and yellow is not a promise that it's safe to dive in. Walk in first, test the depth, then give way to your testosterone fuelled stupidity and plunge in from whatever height you deem prudent. We are not in the business of making the entire planet safe for drunken clowns.

And finally if you set fire to your flatulence, you don't get to sue the makers of the cigarette lighter for your Johnny Cash experience.  You are responsible for keeping your own arse out of trouble.

On Patriotism

Say you are a president (prime minister, supreme leader etc) and your government is running out of ways to get people to like you, the best recourse is a call to patriotism. After all, there’s nothing more honourable than mindless, to-the-death loyalty to a group of people belonging to an abstract concept and residing in an arbitrarily defined piece of the planet and nothing more reprehensible than a traitor.

Patriotism will get people lined up behind you. If it works, you get a lifetime prime-ministership and a state funeral of Churchillian proportions. If it fails, however, remember they’re standing behind you. You’ll get a drunk-and-disorderly mug shot on CNN, a brief trial and an even briefer experience on the end of a rope. This is not a risk free strategy.

More dangerous than failure, however, is the possibility that you’ll launch your patriotism push and that someone will start thinking. Do everything you can to prevent that happening. If you think about patriotism you come up with something like this:

“But you know as well as I, patriotism is a word; and one that generally comes to mean either my country, right or wrong, which is infamous, or my country is always right, which is imbecile.”

(from Patrick O’Brian’s Master and Commander)

Infamous and imbecile are not words you want to be associated with – don’t let anyone think! In terms of the general population, that’s not a problem - lotteries continue to make good profits and Big Brother has made a comeback – but you might get some smart-arse “thinker” type that gets some air time; make sure you have Will McAvoy and Aaron Sorkin shot early in the piece.

In fact, the general population are your strongest allies here. Give them some happy images, a theme song, a logo and some heart rending stories of courage and loyalty and they’re sold. You can then have the Southern Cross / Union Jack / Stars and Stripes etc on the back of every other bumper and tattooed on the upper arm of every third jock in the country.  You’ll know the patriotism program is going well if the meme self-evolves into logos like “Australia – if you don’t love it, leave” or “Adapt or piss off!” No-one really cares what aspects of Australia are in the “must love” category or who exactly should leave if they fail to adore these sacred relics – it just makes people feel like they’re one of the good guys; almost as good as a soldier on the front line because they stood up for their country. And all that without the necessity of a uniform, any kind of discipline or firing even one neuron into life let alone a shot of any kind.

Play with people’s feelings. People want to feel proud but, in general, are too lazy or disorganised to accomplish anything themselves to feel proud of. So pride is generally a vicarious experience. Pride in the accomplishments of one’s children, in the game played by one’s football team or in the accomplishments of the “great men and women” of one’s country.  Most people haven’t done a damned thing to contribute to any of those things but, like lions without mating rights, they feel like they belong to the pride anyway. Think about this though:

“I’m proud that my kid did …..”

There’s an important ending to that sentence which is the emotion that dares not speak its name:

“and your kid didn’t.”

Pride and patriotism are about defining your group in opposition to another group, then feeling good about belonging to your group. It’s the acceptable-in-adult-company version of the sentiment that our children express as “I’ve not an ice cream and you haven’t got one. Nah nah na nah nah!” You need an “other”, a “stranger”, a “them”, an enemy.

Your whole scheme will come undone, however, if you try to specify what unique qualities your group has that these others do not.  “We live in a free country”, “we speak English”, “we eat bangers and mash”, “we are united under God”, “we wear our national clothing with pride” …. At this point people will start to realise that almost everyone has ice-cream. Don’t go there. Stick with some flag waving. The flag, after all, is probably the only thing (apart from its name) actually unique to your country. The flag is a great asset, if sold correctly:

“We are proud of our flag and stand united behind …”

Proud of our flag? Its design elements? Probably not. There are some flags out there that you would fail a first year design student for creating – even allowing for a plea of insanity as a mitigating factor. Proud of the fact that our forefathers (use old fashioned words here – “forefathers” sounds a lot better than “geezers”) fought under it. Ah! Now it’s a sacred relic that can never be criticised, changed, burned or parodied. By the way, I hope you like what your my-brain-just-fizzes-a-bit first year created for you, because you’re stuck with it now.

The best thing for your patriotism program is an actual war. Once war is started, there’s an unspoken rule that you have to be for one side or another, you’re no longer allowed to see the merits of both cases or be selectively critical of the actions of either side; for us or against us. So people are obliged to line up behind you.  Reframe any criticism as undermining the efforts of our brave men and women in uniform and you’re bullet proof – which is probably more than you can say about the brave men and women in uniform.

Patriotism is a great plan provided no-one thinks too hard. Unite the country behind the flag and position yourself as the person holding the standard. Then hope that you don’t lose.

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Dear Mrs Whittaker

Thank you for your letter to Animex regarding the themes and characters in our children’s television programs. 

Our creative department was thrilled to hear some of your suggestions for morals and important life lessons that could be taught through our shows.

In all honesty, we were getting tired of the same trite rubbish. We’d done “it’s important to stick by your friends” six times this year along with four instances of “bullies don’t win in the end”, five “my family is the most important thing in the world” along with three “don’t lie to your parents”, eight “try hard even when you fail” and fifteen cases of “unlikely but heartfelt love triumphs over all”. Even the intellectually dullest child, that needs a plot re-cap after every ad break, should have gotten those by now.

Darryl, our creative director, will be in touch with you shortly to work through some of your suggestions including:

“Mum and dad aren’t made of money.”

“Sometimes, you’re just going to have to thump the bloke.”

“Parents have bad days too. Learn the warning signs.”

“Timing is important. Asking for a new app while dad’s cooking dinner with one hand and feeding the screaming baby with the other is a bad idea.”

“Other kids lie. They are not going to the moon for holidays (and no, you are not the deprived offspring of terrible parents).”

“What you saw mum and dad doing is not something to share with your friends.”

And

“See that hobo over there? That will be you, if you don’t work harder at school.”

We’re not sure, however, how to make thirty minutes of television out of “Just sit still and be quiet for twenty minutes, for God’s sake!”

There’s not much we can do about the depiction of bad guys. We’re bound by the industry standards to limit depictions of people that do evil things to a list of three stereotypes:

Young and outwardly psychotic: This is the young, crazy genius type of bad guy that has abandoned all human feelings in the pursuit of an intellectually defined goal. Bounces around a lot. Hair not under complete control. Voice sounds like it’s still breaking. Giggles.

Middle aged, saturnine sociopath: Probably traumatised by some event in his or her past. Has brooded a long time over a plan to conquer the earth or destroy the city or otherwise take complete control to satisfy the demands of personal demons. Tall, thin with a deep voice and equine features. Laughs from the chest, barely audible until left alone then the full Satanic mirth is released.

Obese, greedy and wealthy: Always male, always middle aged. Never knows when to stop. Wants it all for himself. Too much gold, rings on at least 6 fingers. Laughs out loud with head thrown back.

Female evil is allowed to wear pure white, otherwise its black or closely related shades of purple, blue or maroon. 

There are good reasons for this standard. We need children to grow up, ready to accept government propaganda that people designated “baddies” are two-dimensional evil personified, against whom any aggression or atrocity is justified. “Us or them”, “with us or against us”, “war against the Hun” and so forth.

Contrast this with your suggestion: evil done by an otherwise normal 5’10” housewife with a C-cup bra and a slight insecurity about her abdominal fat. Not pure evil, helps out at school, but is driven over the edge by the endless demands of life into actions she might, in other circumstances, come to regret.

We can’t allow evil to be done by real people otherwise the kids might start to develop some sympathy for bad guys. We never show henchmen on their coffee break or the evil genius photocopying his bum at the office Christmas party for this reason. Bad guys turn up out of nowhere, wreak havoc, are vanquished by good, then slink back to their lairs to brood some more. That’s how it has to be.

Thank you, however, for your excellent plot suggestions.

Yours faithfully

Brad Gregory

Managing Director

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Singin' it don't make it so, sista

My son has a toy that, when you press the big orange button, sings a jolly song about counting to ten. The toy is apparently targeted at his age group despite the fact that he can't as yet talk, differentiate the air con remote from the telephone handset, or even wipe his own nose. Notwithstanding any of that, the little ditty ends, "It's fun counting with a friend!"

 No, it's not. Count von Count has completely failed to convince generations of children that counting by yourself is fun. Social enumeration is only practised by people who are on the cusp of institutionalization or being employed by the Australian Bureau of Statistics, which more or less amounts to the same thing. Singing it in a voice that's enthusiastic bordering on hysterical doesn't make it true

 My bank manager is similarly cynical. I told him that I had both rhythm and music but he insisted that he could, indeed, ask for something more in the form of a mortgage payment. I mentioned that I also had my man and his only response was to observe that my wife was probably unpleasantly surprised after all these years.

 In the special case of country music, the disconnect between lyrics and reality is probably a blessing. Given how cheerless most country music songs are, making them real would raise the suicide rate in our rural areas from its already tragically high levels to depopulation material.

 Our children are being set up for significant disappointment by this same problem: singin' it don't make it so. Weasels don't go "pop" (unless you microwave them) and birds baked in pies tend not to sing afterwards. Many tragic boyhood experiments could and should have been avoided. It's only a blessing that we haven't added a verse to the popular song to the effect that the cat in the dryer goes round-and-round.

 Australians are well aware of this problem. I have walked past endless surfwear stores and have never yet heard a ghost. It also appears, following recent changes to government policy, that we do not have boundless plains to share for those who've come across the sea. What we do have to share is a set of leaking canvas tents but on someone else's land - a long way away from us. The land is, however, girt by sea so at least that bit's right.*

 People looking over the river Jordan waiting to be carried home are not going to get a band of angels, unless the Israeli army has a battalion with that nickname. Visitors to the Serengeti, out for an evening stroll, will probably find out the hard way about the lion's sleeping patterns and, despite my best John Travolta walking style, and the inconvenience of carrying a tin of paint everywhere I go, the charity collectors still think I have time to talk .

 And anyone that's ever tried to make a living from music will tell you that Dire Straits didn't have a clue; it's certainly not money for nothing.

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 *Notes for non-Australians: You need to know two pieces of music to understand that paragraph. The first is “Waltzing Matilda”, a folk song that functions as an informal national anthem. It tells the story of a sheep thief who, rather than being captured, throws himself into a billabong (a kind of water hole) and drowns. The last verse tells the listener that “his ghost may be heard as you pass by that billabong”. Listen here http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=scciOUrRwIk.

The second piece is the real Australian national anthem “Advance Australia Fair”. Bloody awful piece of music – like most national anthems. Listen here http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3CuMR6M8yIA

“Girt” means “surrounded”

You're not promising much

Inspired by my hair conditioner which offers only healthy looking hair (my emphasis), I started to look at what other pseudo benefits I'd bought into.

My kids love a breakfast cereal that offers to turn them into sporting super heroes. However closer reading of the proposition propounded clarifies that the six pack is only available if the cereal is consumed as part of a balanced diet and accompanied by regular exercise. Under those caveats, it might as well be a banana or a chocolate bar; they're certainly cheaper per kg.

The box my wife's vitamins come in illustrates all the benefits of the product, including increased energy and more attractive children. Sign me up for that! Ah, but before you commit to the contract, take special note of clause 5.b.3.ee which notes that the product is only of benefit if you have a vitamin deficiency in your diet. My wife isn't malnourished so it looks like we're stuck with the kids we've got and we're going to have to find another way to stay awake longer than our offspring so - that we can get some Scrabble in.

I go for a semi-regular session in the play room of my mistress, also known as my remedial massage therapist. On the wall is a sign suggesting that a gift voucher would solve my imagination deficit problems on those special occasions because a remedial massage enhances wellbeing. Now you would want to know your friends and their predilections pretty well before you gave them a voucher for that much pain administered by a woman other than their spouse. Asides from that, I'm not sure that "wellbeing" means anything other than "feeling good". It's usually presented as a pair with "health" - i.e. "health and wellbeing" - so it's not synonymous with health. It seems to be distinct from material success and spiritual riches. As far as I can see, it's a vaguely defined concept with no accepted metric or benchmark level. On that basis,  improvements in wellbeing caused by a 50 minute beating are causally indistinguishable from the placebo effect or the sense of relief you feel when you stop beating your head up against a brick wall. Red wine will make you feel good too and you don't have to endure gross violations of your human rights to get it.

Even my toothpaste has wussed out. "Helps fight tooth decay". What do you mean "helps"? Are you in the trenches with me or aren't you? No one ever got a VC for helping do acts of conspicuous bravery.  Man up!

How would it be if our wedding vows were like that? "I promise to appear to devote my life to you,  to try to be true to you - as part of a balanced diet and regular excursions - and to help raise the kids but only if you can't manage it on your own. "

Yep! Not promising much.

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Driver spotting - an activity for those long drives

Driver fatigue, often brought on by the tedium of watching the little white posts tick by, mile after sun-baked mile, is a major cause of serious car accidents in Australia. Playing games can keep you alert and alive. Here, as a public service, is my contribution: driver spotting. Mark off all the types you see.

Rebel without the balls. This driver's masculinity and sense of control over the world is threatened by a sign telling him how fast to drive. He's too scared of the police to really speed though, so he will drive just 3 or 4 kph over the limit. That will show them! (in a way they won't actually see)

Leader of the pack. This guy is easy to spot; he's up front. He has to be up front. He isn't necessarily unhappy with the speed of the lead car, he just doesn't want to follow. You'll see him overtaking from 4 cars back at the first opportunity, then he'll sit in front of you, probably driving exactly the same speed that you would have but he's got to lead the line, dammit!

Chicken feed. This guy is so badly henpecked that there's no other name for him. He'll have his wife next to him up front. She never actually drives but she knows all about how to do it or, more precisely, how not to do it. Recognise this guy by the sensible family car, the religious observance of the speed limit and the nervous up-and-down tic of the head he's developed from checking his speedo all the time.

Safety car driver. This driver is almost exclusively retired and is likely a frustrated wanted to-be cop. Could well be a member of a volunteer emergency service; has the whole disaster response plan for dam burst or some equally unlikely but spectacular disaster memorised, word-for-word. His role is to make sure everyone else on the road is safe. He'll drive just under the speed limit, brake six times earlier than he needs to, leave three weeks between him and the car in front and is the only bloke on the road to do the recommended speed on corners. As you pass him, look for the self-righteous expression on his face and the pole lodged in an uncomfortable place.

The cowboy. Don't fence this guy in. If he's stuck in a line, even for a few minutes, his claustrophobia kicks in. At the first opportunity, safe or otherwise, he'll dig in the spurs, punch the accelerator and you'll smell the testosterone as he roars past- continuing until he's the only car in sight.

The pilgrim. Probably a grey nomad or something similar, travel is holy thing for this driver; to be treated with reverence and never to be rushed. Driving for this guy is like being in a procession to church. You’ll see him sitting up straight behind the wheel of his camper, eyes firmly forward and doing 15 kph under the limit. He knows where he's a-goin' and which rivers he has to cross. Glory, hallelujah!

The Borg. Man and car are inseparable. What this guy lacks in bodily strength and sex appeal, he makes up for in his car. Big 4WD. Turbo diesel with 18 cylinders, triple overhead grunt boosters with a winch, a spade and a snorkel. He could tow an elephant through a tidal wave. The only thing he really needs , though, is the Golden Gate strength suspension to support his weight but, by God, he's twice the man you are!

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The sad but inevitable death of Thomas Williams

Ladies and gentlemen, friends of Tom Williams,

It is lovely to be with you here in St Cedric’s to commemorate the life of Tom Williams; a life which has touched so many of us here today.

Tom was, I think you’ll agree, universally admired and liked. He was hard working, a loving father and dedicated husband. He gave generously to his community and served as an example to many.

In his job with Ginatrix Software, Tom was an innovator; a great programmer and visionary manager. It was through his vision that Ginatrix grew from a small firm of 4 people to the success it is today. Tom was admired by his staff, firm but fair and always kept his people motivated, focussed and doing rewarding work.

Outside Ginatrix, Tom was known for his work with the local BMX clubs. Seeing them as a way to give young people something to do and an outlet for their energy and need for adrenalin and risk taking, Tom gave generously of his time and money; building and maintaining facilities, organising events and getting local sponsors on board to provide bikes and equipment for kids from families that couldn’t afford them.

At home, Tom was a model father to Jake, Emma and Matthew. Although he loved his work, he was always home in time for dinner and bath. As the kids grew, they knew that dad would be there every night to help with homework, hear their readers and build the latest Lego creation.

In all, Tom was the man many of us aspire to be.

It therefore came as no surprise when Julie, his wife of 10 years, stabbed him violently to death one night at a local restaurant.

In her subsequent statement to the police, Julie was distraught, and I quote:

“I couldn’t put up with it anymore. He was perfect. How can anyone be married to a perfect man? How could I get one up on him? At coffee, the other girls would be bitching about their lazy, scruffy husbands. I couldn’t join in. Tom had always just finished mowing the lawn or fixing the roof or something. They would giggle and buy sex toys to make up for their man’s tiny member or lack of skill. Tom was hung like a rogue elephant and had the hands of a harpist. I’m an adult, for heaven’s sake! If I didn’t have something to complain about, I couldn’t have an adult conversation.

Good with the kids, admired in the community, handy around the home. There were no levers, no weaknesses, no little cracks into which I could insert the crowbar of feminine manipulation. He didn’t even drink that much for God’s sake!

The dinner was the final straw. It was our anniversary and he’d remembered. It was the restaurant that we had our first date at, even the same table. He’d had a horse drawn carriage pick us up, gave me a ring and listened attentively, smiled and played with my hand under the table while we chatted. I couldn’t take any more of it. I just took the steak knife and [breaks down into sobs].”

The life of Tom Williams was one well lived but ultimately one where his fatal character flaw led to the tragedy of his death. I hope his fate will not be forgotten and the lessons of his life passed on to men of the future.

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Working in the city

Is there any more dread announcement for staff - other than "the Christmas party will be at that new mud wrestling place this year"- than "we're moving to a new office in the city"?

Why? What did we do wrong? I just had my morning routine sorted, I can park near here, I even bought a house near here. Now you want to transfer me to Hell! I hope your credit card gets skimmed you miserable #/$*! I hope a part goes wrong in your car that has to be ordered from Pyongyang.

Unless you're one of the top six people in the company, you've just taken a minimum $200 per month salary cut; parking or bus tickets. But there is no parking so it’s all the dramas associated with public transport: late running, mumbling crazy guys on the bus, mumbling crazy guys driving the bus, concussion from "unscheduled stops" etc.

And city office space costs, so expect to be downgraded from cubicle to take away noodle box with so little room to move that you can only have earwax on a timeshare basis - and God help you if you don't lay your daily quota of eggs.

Cities are not built for people. You can't get there, you can't park and you can't get anything done for the crowds of other desperate, frustrated people. Even when you're so fed up and befuddled that buying the Ab Swinger Cruncher Super Pro seems like a good investment, you can't get out. There are blokes living under blankets in our CBDs that only went in to buy some shoes - twenty odd years ago.

So why are they? Cities, I mean.

To understand cities you need to understand people. Do you remember high school? Remember the biggest, loudest jock in the place? He's now a CEO and still needs people to know and admire how big he is - if you get my drift. So he builds a skyscraper hoping that we equate size with importance with size.

By the way, that’s the real reason for the glass ceiling. It’s not that women can’t run successful companies, it’s just that the engineering behind building fifty storey simulacra of female genitalia is way too complicated; and don’t get me started on trying to find the CEO’s office.

So the Jock-In-Chief now has his erection and his mates all want to be near him. In high school, it was in the hope that they’d get the next sexiest girl in line after “she” - who was always the purview of the JIC. Now his mates want reflected glory, and the next sexiest PA, so they build edifices near the JIC and coat them in that eye-blitzing mirror glass stuff.

Employees, in this little analogy, are like people getting picked for sports teams. The jocks take it in turns to pick players and the adult equivalent of the pimply kid gets to be Milton Waddams.*

 

 

Cities are not functional habitations for people. They are not eternal symbols of the glories of our civilization, they are the architectural equivalent of the football team photo. You know the one; captain in the middle of the front row, faces set in attitudes of chronic constipation and, for reasons that pass understanding, all their fists held tightly clenched on their knees.

 

And, like the high school football team, it only looks good in the photo. They always got their backsides handed to them on Saturday but “they weren’t disgraced”, according to the coach at assembly on Monday. Cities are ranked – and I use the word advisedly – in a “live-ability” index but it’s only to see which one gets to take home the wooden spoon; they are never going to be places you’d choose to spend your time.

* Milton Waddams is a character from "Office Space", one of the funniest movies since Life of Brian. If you haven't seen it, go out and do so - especially if you've just started back at work.

 

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Marketing at the markets.

This brochure is written for people who want to make a living at local markets.

Knowing your customers.

There are very few genuine hippies in the world. Most people coming to the markets are McMansion dwelling 9-5 ers, with two cars, a beer fridge and wi-fi, that want to feel good about themselves for a bit. Shopping at markets is hippie-lite for them; not returning to nature, more dropping in on nature for a herbal afternoon tea. If something is "local", "hand made", "home grown", "organic" or "recycled" then buying it becomes almost a gift to Gaia rather than a guilt-ridden act of consumption. If there are old-fashioned - ideally wooden - toys for the kids then parents can offset the guilt of many hours of Minecraft by buying them (in much the same way that fresh fruit in the lunchbox offsets the packet of chips).

Presenting your goods

 It should go without saying that plastic packaging is out. No shrink wrap, no vacuum pack etc. At most, a little straw around some of the more fragile items. Don't have more than two of any one thing; the other benefit of buying at a market is that you will have a unique conversation piece that allows you to show off your Mother Earth side "I bought these at a lovely little market up in Hidden valley. Local artist. Very talented." Implication: "if you were as in tune with the ley lines as I am,  you too would be able to sense the presence of this kind of unique talent." Handwritten price tags, hand made signs and cash only terms complete the presentation.

 Presenting yourself

 The market character is second only to the pottery leaf earrings as a talking point for the professional weekend hippie. You need to fill that niche. Start with appearance: hairiness is expected. The spirit of the Earth goddess cannot be bought from someone with a Brazilian. A beard is expected for men and luxuriant underarm growth for women. Dreadlocks are good but waist-length hair will do at a pinch. Clothing must look hand made and definitely no corporate print t-shirts. You must be the person they don't dare to be: the one that stood up to and rejected corporate capitalism. Get a beaten up old car to bring your goods to market, even it you drive a new model Jeep the rest of the time.

Props

There's a great deal you can do here for very little outlay.  a dream catcher with some feathers in it is a start . A few sticks of incense - subtle fragrance,  almost but not quite like marijuana - smoldering off to one side.  A hidden stereo playing sitar music. These are all the basics. Someone's granny - if you can borrow one for a day - knitting or spinning behind the counter emphasizes the home made message. For the advanced stall holder, an exotic pet like a sloth or an owl is the ultimate signal to your customers that you live on another plane of existence and your wares are like holy relics - a chance to touch the divine.