Subjectivity, Semantics and Shoes…

For those of you unacquainted with Australian society, it is essentially a pub culture.

Of course, America has its pubs, bars, drinking houses and “dinner and dancing establishments” if you’re in Salt Lake.

But Australia is replete with what are called “clubs”.  Most of them are Returned Services League (RSL) clubs – these are clubs that commemorate military veterans.

RSL Clubs are a curious blend of bar, casino, cafe, restaurant and theater; where you can grab a beer, a coffee, or a meal, play the slots (pokies as they’re known) and watch a psychic medium do bad cold readings, or a washed-up 80s band like The Radiators singing their one-hit wonder “You give me head” even though they’re well into their 50s…

…that is, you can do all of this as long as you’re not wearing a hat…

You see, RSL Clubs have a conservative dress code. Despite Australians’ fondness for casual dress, Australia is also fond of its bureaucracy, and its dress codes; school kids wear uniforms, staff wear uniforms, and to get into most clubs you must resist the urge to wear daring apparel such as shorts, baseball caps, ankle socks and overalls. If you disobey the rules (and didn’t even know the rules) you will be refused entry…

Your clothing must be neat, clean and unrevealing. Mens’ shirts must be collared.

Once my brother tried to enter the Manly Leagues Club wearing a polo-neck shirt.

“It doesn’t have a collar,” the bouncer pronounced.

“But it does have a collar,” my brother argued. “In fact, it has an extra-long collar,” he said as he extended the rolled collar and tugged on it to show its length.

The bargaining was to no avail, and he was refused entry into the club.

And then it happened to me on Friday night…

I went to Dee Why RSL Club to meet up with my mates Duffy, Billy and Phil. I was greeted at the entrance by a doorman who asked for a membership card or ID. I compliantly showed my driver’s license, and everything seemed fine, until he suddenly looked down and announced:

“I’m sorry, I can’t let you in… You’re wearing thongs.”

(Come now, Yanks… you know by now that thongs are flip-flops and g-strings are thongs. Okay, I was wearing a thong too, but most of you know that also…)

The doorman saw my confused look, grabbed a card of guidelines and pointed to a rule that read:

No thongs after 8 PM

“Oh, come on!” I scoffed, searching for counter-arguments. “I’m not barefoot. The thongs are clean. In fact, they’re expensive thongs, not cheap, tatty ones.”

“Sorry, that’s the rule,” he shrugged. “You can go home and change your shoes if you like.”

“Is there a manager around who could reconsider your decision?” I appealed.

By now, a few other doormen had also appeared, all curious as to what was going down. A manager was phoned, and he soon arrived. Then they all just stood there, when somewhere else in the club someone was probably slipping date-rape drugs into some chick’s drink, or a few yobbos were starting a fight at the bar.

I counted a total of six tall, burly, beefy Aussie blokes encircled around me. I felt like I was the football in the middle of a football scrum, except these guys were staring at my fucking shoes. I looked down at my offending feet, wiggling my red-painted toenails uncomfortably as these meat-heads decided the fate of my evening.

As if on cue, another female guest arrives, shows her membership card and saunters on in – wearing thongs!

“Hang on a second, there’s an inconsistency” I twigged, suddenly filled with ammunition. “She’s wearing thongs, but you allowed her in. Is that because she’s a member, and I’m not?’

“No,” said one of the muscular yet simple oafs, “she’s wearing dress thongs… but your wearing beach thongs.”

(He was so dumb I just knew that he’d left out the apostrophe in “you’re”, even when he spoke…)

…pause…

“Who are you? The fashion police? That is subjective!” I snapped at them.

“Are you authorities on thongs? How do you differentiate between dress thongs and beach thongs?” I demanded as they all stood there, blinking stupidly at me. I pointed to their club rules and raised my voice, “Do the rules state acceptable materials or colors or designs that constitute some sort of thong taxonomy?”

There was a stunned silence, until one of them asked with wide eyes, “Are you an English teacher?”

“No,” I corrected him.  “I’m a semanticist and I once defined the word walk,” I said firmly, realising how fucking peculiar that sounded.

I continued. “My point is, if you can’t clearly define the different types of thongs then you’re discriminating against my shoes!”

The manager’s eyes flashed at the insinuation of discrimination.

“You can come in, Miss,” he said politely, waving me in to the club grandly. And so I walked in, wearing my “beach thongs”…