AUDREY AND THE BAD APPLES

Competition winner!

2009-11-19T11:39:00.000+10:30

After some deliberation, I have decided to award the $60 buysterlighting.com voucher to......

There were some cracker entries - I admit, honourable mention must go to Daniel R, who appealed to both my sense of righteousness and my intellectual vanity - but in the end I had to give it to Meva for being both of-the-moment and critical of pop cultural bandwagons that behave as if an untalented, slightly deranged upstart has not only reinvented the wheel but decoupaged it in sparkly glue.

Thank you all for entering and joining in the great tradition of accepting free promotional gifts from companies looking to expand their market.

Competition time!

2009-11-17T15:58:00.005+10:30

Some time ago, I received a very nice email from a lady who works at www.buysterlighting.com. Through said nice lady, I was asked if I might be interested in reviewing one of their products. Given as I am to jumping aboard anything remotely resembling a Free~~dom~~ train, I of course replied that yes, I would be very interested in reviewing anything she wanted to send my way.

Having a little peruse on the site, I found many lovely lighting things including this ode to retro living. Sadly, the budget allocated to my humble little blog did not extend to retro excellence. Not for the first time do I curse my inability to turn a hobby into a millionaire's playground, and while I'm at it I also curse my inability to resist eating large slabs of cake at inopportune moments i.e any time that I hope to continue fitting into my jeans.

Thanks to buysterlighting.com, I have a $60 gift voucher to give away to one very lucky reader of ye olde Bad Apples. I myself will be reviewing this functional-for-the-office product in the next week or so, which is most fortuitous as a) I like to read late at night but am scared of the dark and hate jumping out of bed to turn the light off and b) I tend to enjoy things that are free with approximately 50% more enthusiasm than things that are not.

So to win the voucher, all you need to do is email me on audreyandthebadapples AT gmail DOT com and tell me in 25 words or less why I shouldn't be embarrassed about being afraid of the dark or sometimes sleeping all night with the lamp on when I've ill-advisedly begun thinking of the girl from The Ring and more recently the trailer for Paranormal Activities, which I'm still going to see even though it is a Bad Idea and will mean that I have to start sleeping in the daytime and living at night, and possibly have to move to northern Alaska or one of those other weird regions where the sun never sets.

UPDATE: Competition closes at 4pm on Wednesday 18 November.

Anthems and odes

2009-10-26T10:44:00.001+10:30

Sometime in the past week, the upper part of my left thigh has achieved an admirable state of tumescence. First a mere trace, then a deep, mottled violet and now a blushing lavender, the lump is obvious and tender, causing me to wince every time I accidentally brush against it. Such are the perils of fresh meat training – in an attempt to imitate some version of a vaguely athletic person, I’ve set my sights on being a roller derby girl.

No, I haven’t seen Whip It and yes, I do like the short shorts thank you very much. Wrapped up in those deliciously obscene little numbers with socks rising up my calves to meet the protective knee pads and swishy black and red ankle skates on, I feel powerful and Bodaecia like – even when I’m smacking down on the same left thigh spot for the fourth time that evening.

Everything I’ve ever heard from derby girls about their sport makes me want to be a part of it – the strong focus on feminist principles and athleticism coupled with a cheeky coquettishness makes it a sport I can really get behind. On the first night of training, Barrelhouse Bessie (from the Adelaide Roller Derby League) stood before all the freshies and in her great, booming voice told us in no uncertain terms that anyone caught saying anything negative or mean about another girl would be asked to leave immediately and never allowed back into the league. Preach it, sister!

100 nervous ladies competing against each other could so very easily lead to the kind of bitchy cliques that diminish women on the whole, but it’s amazing how simply being warned against it on threat of expulsion helped everyone to relax, get along and focus on the task at hand – namely, moulding ourselves into some semblance of a competent skater in order to pass muster at the first round of testing. Perhaps because of this, it suddenly became so much easier to approach virtual strangers to arrange casual skating outings – we’re all in the same boat, so we may as well sink or swim together. There’s a camaraderie about the sport (or at the least the way Adelaide practices it – I’ve heard it can be different elsewhere) that’s very appealing to me. I can see why some derby girls end up devoting their every waking hours to it.

And tangentially, I want to use this recent exposure to the derby culture to talk more broadly about the relationships women have with each other; specifically, the things we do to or for each other that create lasting impressions without our knowledge. Obviously it’s important to live your life in a way that is gracious and kind towards others – but often it’s the seemingly inconsequential actions or statements that can help or haunt people for years to come.

After my last post, I received an email from a lovely lady I knew at school. Until a couple of years ago, we hadn’t had any contact since we all gratefully left that panopticon of hormonal angst. I had always liked her, even though we moved in different circles. Sarah had been friends with that particular brand of school folk glibly christened The Beautiful People, while I ran with the kinds of untamed brumbies who devote their lives to debating and drama, and the dedicated pursuit of school prefectdom.

In the grand scheme of school politics, the former manage to irrationally hold onto absolute popularity despite being not well liked by pretty much anyone outside of their own strata – the latter are tolerated because they’re fairly inoffensive and can always be relied upon to bring cigarettes to parties and school camps out of some kind of secret desire to engage in a skerrick of rebellion. Mutually, they regard each other with a kind of respectful indifference, able to exchange pleasantries one hour and absolute disregard in another.

I liked a few of them though. Sarah ended up in my drama class and delivered a sterling performance of Abigail in one of the many annual performances of The Crucible that seems to be favoured by year 12 classes. I remember the night we found out Sarah had been given the highest mark by the moderator. To her face, I was supportive and congratulatory; but backstage, I wasted no time exchanging bitter and basically cruel words with another friend. How could Sarah have been given the best mark when she hadn’t even been doing drama that long? It was clearly ridiculous and she didn’t deserve it but everyone knows the moderators are corrupt anyway and besides, we do drama for the love not the grades, though it would be nice to be recognized for our clear and enviable talent.

Just as I was finishing twisting the knife in the back of this girl who, despite being completely entitled to ignore me based on social standing alone, had always been nice to me, I realized she had overheard everything. Obviously upset and betrayed, she ran to the bathroom to compose herself while I, caught up in a drama of my own making, proceeded to work myself into a wailing lather. My reaction then was borne out of a 17 year old girl’s desire to engage in meaningful activity (which, to a 17 year old girl, usually consists of crying, arguing, issuing forth lofty platitudes, and then crying some more).

But over the years, I thought more and more of that night and how deeply cruel and selfish my reaction was to Sarah’s success. She had clearly delivered a better performance than me and everyone else in the class – it was obvious. And why shouldn’t she enjoy the pleasure of that? How could I have participated – nay, led – something that tried to ruin that for her?

At more than one point in my life (countless, if I’m honest), I have said or done something to another person with the deliberate intention of hurting them; of chipping away at their self esteem and tarnishing their golden moments.

Strange, the things we choose to remember. I remember that night so clearly, and the shame of that behaviour has only grown with the years. But funnily enough, when I met with Sarah a few years ago for brunch and finally took the opportunity to apologise for it, she confessed she had no memory of it whatsoever. Instead, she told me that she hated high school; that despite what other people thought of those Beautiful Folk, she (and many others) had been miserable the whole time. Sarah especially was a sad person for a long time, and had little to no faith in herself. I’m talking serious depression – the kind of bone draining, black fog driven by a sadness so deep it can seemingly not be soothed.

More than my own mean actions towards her does it sadden me that such a nice, beautiful person spent so many years in hidden anguish. And here’s the thing – while I was remembering the one thing I did to betray a girl I genuinely liked and admired, Sarah remembered me as someone who always stood up for what she believed in and was nice to be around. Half of the incidents she’s thinking of are completely lost to me. We focus so much on the formation of our own memories. We forget that we have just as profound a role to play in the formation of other people’s.

We have all of us done things out of cruelty. If we’re lucky, we’re the only people who will remember these ill advised descents into jealousy or pettiness and we’ll use the shame of these memories to help us become better people.

But occasionally, we are the bearers of actions so pure and well meant that they don’t even register with us as being meaningful. A throwaway sentence here, a compliment to a stranger there or just a moment of comfortable silence in another’s person’s company – as the radiant Sofia would say, there are fairies in this here garden.

So I’d like to take this opportunity to thank a few people who have, in ways I imagine they have no recollection of, changed my life for the better.

When I was in year 11, I confessed to my sort of friend Jaci (I say sort of, because she was much cooler than I was, way more beautiful and definitely more worldly – at 16, I was still far too terrified to talk to a boy let alone kiss one or do anything else that teenagers enjoy) that the prospect of taking my clothes off with a fellow struck the fear of God into me. “Jaci,” I said, “all I can think of is that he’ll take one look at my thighs and be absolutely repulsed.”

With all the knowing confidence of a more experienced woman, Jaci turned to me and said, “Clementine, you shouldn’t worry about those things. Trust me, the last thing a guy’s going to be thinking of if he’s naked with you is how big your thighs are. He’s seen you with your clothes on – he knows how big or small they are.”

Less than a minute’s worth of conversation that I’m sure Jaci has completely forgotten, and yet I know it’s had a long lasting impression on me. Clothed, I fret about the size of everything – does my face look fat from this angle, is anyone looking at me and thinking I should be embarrassed to leave the house, does this skirt make my legs look like tree trunks? But since that conversation with Jaci, I have (without consciously recognizing it) never worried about what my body looks like when the clothes come off and the lights dim low. That kind of self confidence where it matters should be bottled and force fed to girls as soon as they hit puberty.

Then there’s Siobahn. What can I say about Siobahn except that she is one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever met, and her entire way of being makes my heart retreat to innocent games of hopscotch and making daisy chains in the garden. Siobahn and I were both Wendy’s girls during high school. Perhaps it was enforced servitude to bright pink shorts that bonded us. I don’t know. We were never particularly close in high school. I liked her but didn’t trust her social ranking. Another of the Beautiful Folk, she seemed too blessed and pretty to actually be as nice as she seemed.

Then school finished and BAM! Siobahn became a different person. She shaved her head, moved to Darwin, traveled around Australia and the world, lived in South America and grew her hair back and knotted it into dreads. Last year I ran into her at a women’s film festival in Adelaide and was captivated. She is a treasure waiting to be discovered, shining bright but hidden within a map made not of geography but of time.

In January, I literally walked into her in a convenience store in Barcelona and was again bowled over by that luminescent creature before me. Together, we huddled over glasses of wine and crawled beneath the top layers of conversation to discuss everything blanketed beneath. We traipsed around Barcelona, taking silly photos in alleyways and getting lost in claustrophobic ghettos. I remember thinking that she was one of the most interesting and warm people I’d ever met, and that I was so lucky to have her skip briefly in and out of my life in a small corner of the world.

Now she’s returned to Adelaide with the beginnings of a small person inside her. She’s going to be the most wonderful mother. Some people do not appear often in our lives, but flutter around the edges. Occasionally they duck across our paths to give us the briefest of touches, pressing their palms against the wall of our memory to find a way in once more and settle in the comfy chair that will always belong to them.

And so finally to Sarah, the girl who started me on this line of questioning in the first place. She may not realize it, but she exists in my mind as a pillar, occupying the same clearly defined lines that mark out people of my daily acquaintance. There are few to whom I haven’t recounted the story of that brunch – the revelation that, despite what others may have believed, her so called easy life was laboured and painful and that what we choose to believe isn’t always fair or real.

Knowing what I now do, I treasure her smile even more. I remember that once upon a time I allowed jealousy to harm her, but that she turned out to be a better person than I by forgiving and ultimately forgetting; and that despite even all that, she still does me the honour of offering me her friendship and admiration. She may not believe it, but it’s people like her who make the world a nicer place to live in for people like me, who have so often bowed to the temptation to make it a meaner one.

Perhaps it’s true that those who cause us to make changes within ourselves are not those we see everyday but those who force us to turn inwards. The echoes that they leave behind reverberate on the vast landscape of our souls and only occasionally reach audible frequency. They are both memory and reminder that we were once held in the palm of a greater kind of beauty and that, if we follow their example, it’s possible to take others to that wondrous place too.

Wine wobbling widely

2009-10-08T22:34:00.004+10:30

Good lord but it's been an age. Call it post holiday brain dysfunction, call it longing for warmer climes. Either way, it's been a good break. As Adelaide shuffles slowly towards something resembling spring, I can only hope I have a few deliciously coy love affairs heading my way. Spring flings are definitely the best way to celebrate the season.

Tonight I gave a speech at the SA Writers Centre for a poetry competition run by said Writers Centre and the Mental Health Coalition. I was asked to speak to the theme of challenging stigmas through writing. Unlike most of my speeches, I wrote it well in advance of the deadline - at least 5 hours before delivery. What can I say? It's not flippancy which makes me act thus but the constant inability to do anything outside of a pressure cooker.

Predictably, I spent the time leading up to proceedings loitering around the food table with a seemingly bottomless glass of wine in hand. It might surprise some to know I'm terribly shy, at least at first, and find it quite awkward to converse with strangers unless I'm two and a half sheets to the wind. This might explain why I make dreadful decisions concerning the pursuit of romance while half plastered and riding high on the good humour of Dylan Moran...but that's a story for another time...

With a bellyful of cheese and vino, I was introduced by SA's Channel Ten Sports Reporter Mark Aiston, who is quite simply one of the loveliest and most humble men you'll ever meet. Really and truly, I was blown away by his complete lack of pretension and sensitivity. What a guy!

And being unable to deliver witty, pithy speeches off the cuff, I proceeded to deliver said speech with my laptop balanced precariously on the lectern and one eye on the crowd. I reproduce said speech for anyone who may be interested. I cut out some of the proselytizing (which it turns out, I did seek to do after all) and some other bits here and there, but this was the original version. I shall be interested to know the thoughts of other writers out there. Part of me suspects it may be hopelessly self indulgent, but I suppose that's part and parcel of being a writer as well so perhaps it's prevalent in some way. This is possibly why I've signed myself up to a Fringe show that involves me reading out recreated diary entries from my early teenage years.

I say 'signed up' as if I'm being coerced when really there's no one involved in the production or decision making process except me. I'm such a douche sometimes, but luckily for you, a douche prepared to make a complete and utter humiliation of her formative years. And if recent events are anything to go by, pretty much every year that has fallen subsequently since then. I AM SUCH A DORK and should never be allowed near wine or men again.

Anyhoo, here she is:

****

For as long as I can remember, I’ve written things down – my teenage diaries are littered with embarrassing entries whose content all either invariably ended with the declaration that my life was OVER, or that I was in love with yet another impossibly attractive and unattainable boy who didn’t even know I was alive because I was FAT and UGLY and therefore my life was OVER.

I have sheets of song lyrics and poems I would be too humiliated to even show to my best friend – and she knows about the time I publicly molested a fellow outside the Crown and Anchor.

I could literally show you reams and reams of terrible things I’ve written over the years. As I said, I've always written things down.

But it wasn’t until I started writing things down for other people that I actually became a writer. And when you become a writer, you start to realize how your words can affect other people. A good writer can move people to laughter or tears or outrageous fury – a great writer can move them through all three stages in the one piece.

I don’t know if I’m a great writer, but one thing I’ve learned over the past few years is that the first step one needs to take on this path is to become an honest one. You have to be willing to open yourself up completely regardless of what people may think of you. Much like falling in love, writing is less about telling someone something you think they ought to know and more about discovering hidden parts of yourself – confronting them head on and experiencing all the beauty and pain they have to offer you; staring your detractors square in the eye to say, “This is me, and nothing you say can shame me into being any different.”

So I find it difficult to wrap my head around the concept of challenging stigmas through writing. To challenge is in itself a deliberate act, and while I have made many deliberate decisions as a writer, I have never done so purely with the intention of challenging the status quo. When I wrote my column for the Sunday Mail, they were fond of couching me as the ‘controversial’ columnist. In turn (though not necessarily because of this), a large chunk of readers often responded to my pieces with the accusation that I was being consciously provocative to court outrage and page views.

I have to say that I find very few things more offensive than the suggestion that the urge to write, to share ideas (and yes, to additionally challenge opinions I believe to be incorrect or misguided) is somehow motivated by a desire to be contrary or supercilious. Such accusations are nothing more than thinly veiled attempts to render you and everything you stand for as meaningless – to say that someone courts controversy is essentially to say that they believe in nothing other than that which will isolate them from the flock, regardless of what it might mean.

I have never written anything I don’t believe in 100%. On occasion, I have changed my viewpoint, such as following the Bill Henson affair. Part of being a great writer is also being willing to allow others to open your mind; to lift you from a place in which you thought you had laid down solid roots and instead transport you to unfamiliar territories – to lay you down on disconcerting lands whose beauty inherently lies in its promise to show you something you never previously would have thought possible.

My most ‘controversial’ column was written early on in my stint as a Sunday Mail columnist, and for the purpose of tonight I’ll use it as an example. Please understand that my intention is not to proselytize but merely to provide the most obvious example I can think of of challenging stigmas, whatever that might mean.

It was prompted the week prior because someone had sent me an outraged letter objecting to a comment I had made supporting reproductive rights and access to state funded, legal abortion. Frustrated by the modern day scarlet letter that all those who’ve had abortions seem destined to be forced to bear, I wrote an unapologetic piece detailing my own life – over a period of 18 months, I had not one but two abortions. I didn’t apologise for them then and I won’t apologise for them now.

But the point of my column at the time was not only that I wouldn’t apologise for them, but that women in general shouldn’t have to. That a large proportion of women who do speak of them in trembling, apologetic tones are merely responding to the general social expectation that they SHOULD wear their decisions like a scarlet letter, trumpeting familiar claims that it was the hardest choice they’ve ever had to make and so on and so forth.

As was to be expected, I was slammed widely from all quarters. People I’d never met took it upon themselves to call me, by turns, a slut, a whore, a bitch who should keep her legs closed, an abomination, an evil baby killing machine and (perhaps most amusingly) someone who was so repulsively unattractive that it was a wonder I’d found anyone willing to sleep with me at all let alone impregnate me. I even had someone write to inform me that the good Catholics of Rome were praying for my soul.

Most disappointingly, people who claimed to be pro-choice lambasted me for going through the procedure twice – after all, hadn’t I ever heard of contraception? Because as we all know, accidental pregnancies are like acquired immunity – once you’ve had one, it just can’t happen again! To whatever extent your pregnancy was 'accidental' or the result of contraceptive laziness is really irrelevant to me - if you agree with the right to choose abortion, it's none of your business how or why that decision comes to be. It frustrates me to this day that some people who claim to be pro-choice seem to treat abortions like get out of jail free cards – in their world, a woman is entitled to one (provided she demonstrates the requisite self flagellating regret, crawling on her belly to beg forgiveness from the court of public opinion).

The point of my column was not to shout from the rooftops that I’d had two abortions and refused to apologise for them (which is not the same thing, as some people argued, as being flippant about them) – it was to demonstrate to the public that, despite what we are led to believe, when it comes to such things I am but one woman in a sea of many. I wanted to stand up there and say that I will not be crippled by a sense of shame foisted on me by a society that forces me to qualify decisions made regarding my own body and mental capacity. That, more than anything, what I felt was sheer unbridled relief – and that I am by no means the only one who feels this way.

Despite that column and despite the work I continue to do today regarding abortion activism, I cannot change the minds of people who insist on seeing a person like me as some kind of hideous succubus intent on enacting genocide against the poor defenceless babies of this world who are unfortunate enough to be conceived in the bellies of the strident, man hating feminists who refuse to accept the god given truth that their bodies don’t belong to them but rather to those who are better placed to make decisions regarding said bodies – widely (and deeply) held convictions that are so outrageously extreme as to be laughable.

It’s true that there are none so blind as those will not see. The act of writing something meaningful, challenging or not, is wasted on those who are willfully incapable of empathizing with the words. Writing for an audience – great writing – is an invitation. A great writer asks her audience to consider something from a different perspective, to view the world through a lens that may not be palatable to the reader but is at least interesting in some way if only because the work is honest.

But one of the greatest strengths a writer can have is letting others know that they are not alone; that feelings they may have had which seem abhorrent or unacceptable are indeed not isolated to them alone. That their desires and dreams are not ridiculous; that their fears may be lessened simply through the knowledge that someone else has experienced them and come out the other side – scarred, perhaps, but intact.

Our society is entrenched in fear of the unknown, and of being different – for example, nobody talks about death in a way that is tangible or visceral. Nobody talks about what it’s like to want to die as a philosophical base for pondering. Nobody talks about what it’s like to want someone you love to die, sooner rather than later, because later means more pain and anguish for them.

Owning a fascination with death, sex, love, desire, good, evil and shades of grey in between, vengeance, hatred, compassion, selfishness – the most base emotions that add up to who we are as people... These are the things we don’t talk about, not really. We don’t talk about them because we’re afraid of seeming different, harsh, emotionless, damaged, wrong somehow.

The things we don’t talk about could fill a book.

I am not afraid to write about things that other people find uncomfortable, because writing is in and of itself a challenging medium. So perhaps it stands to reason that when I began writing this speech, I couldn’t really come to grips with the concept of what it meant to challenge stigmas – but the process of writing, examining my own thoughts and laying them bare on the page, has opened my mind to what it might mean.

Challenging stigmas is not only done for the benefit of an audience willing to engage and alter their viewpoint. It’s also done to provide others with a voice; a point of recognition in which they can see they aren’t quite so alone. I may have been called every name under the sun by people who couldn’t understand why a woman would not bow and scrape for forgiveness because she happened to fall pregnant twice and had the determination to deal with it in her own way – but I also received countless letters from women offering their thanks. Thank you for telling my story. Thank you for making me feel like the decision I made was okay. Thank you for letting me know that I have nothing to feel ashamed of.

This room is filled with writers, all of whom challenge stigmas in every piece they write not because they are deliberately provocative or seeking to change the world – but because they are honest and capable of speaking to the people who feel they are terribly alone. If we wait for social stigmas to be broken down by the people who are desperately holding on to them, we’ll be waiting forever.

We challenge the system and eventually rebuild it by giving a voice to the people oppressed by it. In writing for others, we are actively working to create and explore a new world – and that is the pursuit which has always been the fundamental purpose of reading.

***

I closed the night by eating more cheese than is humanly possible and flirting with some kind of short filmmaker wandering about the traps. LEARN YOUR LESSON ALREADY WOMAN.

ponderings

2009-09-18T08:04:00.000+09:30

You know what're weird?

Bears.

Love in the time of cauliflower

2009-09-16T10:33:00.009+09:30

There are perhaps few things prettier than a quaint New England town in early fall. The leaves hover betwixt the decadent richness of summer and the sparseness of autumn, poised to break away from the towering branches they’ve clutched to since winter’s icy grip was loosened by the first rays of a spring sun. Though still largely green, clusters of orange are beginning to appear in the dappled foliage, belated freckles popping up on a face set to wither.

I’m enjoying what will probably be one of Boston’s last really warm days before hibernation occurs and the townsfolk rescue their North Face jackets and snow boots from the closet where they were, in a moment of triumph, banished to so many months ago. Nowhere else have I experienced the seasons more vividly than in North America; each one operates as a perfect bookend on a circular shelf.

As the church bells chime above me, I amuse myself by adopting the same casual stance as the Harvard students surrounding me. Colourful chairs are scattered about the lawns, studious folk sprawled across them with the various accoutrements of those engaged in the activity of learning – laptops, textbooks, iPods and dreamy, far off reveries. For a moment, I can pretend at least that I’m one of them and reach out for some kind of connection and sense of belonging on a trip that has largely been absent of such feelings.

Douchebag Warren: "YOU....got into Harvard?"
Elle Woods: "What, like it's hard?"

I never thought I’d say this, but I’ve grown weary of New York. I like to think of it as a city that stimulates the intellect, while Barcelona arouses the soul. I once thought I couldn’t wait to be submerged again in the thrum of Manhattan; to be carried along by the unquestionably strong heartbeat of that city and wash up on the shores of perfect happiness. But ever since leaving Spain, I’ve felt nothing but anxiety about a need to return.

I’m sure it’s partially to do with the way things finished with the Chileno. There are perhaps few more tragic romantic trysts than the ones that drown under the weight of their own false promise. By the end of my trip, the Chileno and I struggled to find words to say to each other. Stranded in the curious jigsaw of burgeoning relationships, we lacked the implicit ease with which to find comfort in each other’s silence. A naturally quiet person, he remained tightlipped while I fell further and further away.

When we found ourselves saying goodbye at the airport, it wasn’t with the fevered desperation of lovers on the brink of separation but with an unacknowledged melancholy. Anxious butterflies had heralded my arrival four weeks prior; this time, when I walked through that airport gate all connection would fade away and we would become two people who knew each other once.

Of course, it didn't help that he flew to Greece that day and promptly fell in love with someone else.

But these are some of the memories I take with me from that city of wonders: cigarettes smoked over café con leches amongst jovial Catalans while the August morning unfurled languidly outside; gazing at architectural feats of such perfect beauty that, were words even necessary, they would have been hard pressed to emerge from a mouth fixed wide open in amazement; the musical rhythm of the city, feet on pavements keeping beat to the tune of staccato conversations and yells of ‘hey chica!’ and ‘guapa!’; floating about in the cone of silence created when one partially submerges their head in the Mediterranean sea, just contemplating the life and listening to the ocean’s murmurs; vibrant Peruvians feeding me ceviche while fellow diners, arrested by the music, fashion a makeshift dancefloor and let loose to the whoops and cheers of their audience; the spark of satisfaction that came when my mediocre Spanish began to resemble something approximating conversational, and the realization one day that if I just let the lyricism of others wash over me, understanding would come in with the tide; riding my bicycle through the quiet streets at midnight, thinking of Daniel Sempere and the Cemetary of Forgotten Books and wanting to believe that it really exists; watching the sunrise on a northern beach with a motley crew of impossibly attractive musicians, singing ‘Baby I love your way’; and that delicious feeling of possibility that this could be the point where your life changes completely, that you’re about to jump off the precipice and land in an Oz of your own creation with a road paved not from yellow bricks but cobbled stone.

So perhaps it turns out that I fell in love after all, but not in the way I expected. As someone remarkable once said to me, ‘falling in love isn’t about discovering someone else but about discovering yourself’. The Chileno and I may have exchanged a passionless goodbye that Friday morning some weeks ago, but beneath the shadowy veneer that cloaks a world of fantasy, Barcelona and I were locked in the kind of embrace that turns cynics into believers and breathes life back into hearts of stone.

And as far as love affairs go, that ain't bad.

Mallorca Nights and Your Essential Guide

2009-09-02T09:46:00.002+09:30

As far as days went, it was shaping up to be pretty perfect. The Mediterranean reclined languorously before us, a plump and undulating doyenne wrapped in a sheath of turqoise, each murmuring wave a new secret whispered in our ears. Above her, the sun cast forth his golden arrows, trying to penetrate the surface of that glittering beauty whom he saw every day but who as yet remained devastatingly out of reach. How he envies the sand! An unremarkable wastrel, blessed to spend an eternity beneath the ocean and her tempestuous mood; to enjoy not the sensation of her crashing upon its shore but the insistent tug of her caress as she continues to whisper secrets to those watching from beyond.

In possession of a small jug of sangria, I considered the scene before me, marveling at how one place could be so full of imperfect beauty. I brought to mind oh-so-eloquent monologue delivered by the inimitable Shug Avery in Alice Walker’s The Colour Purple when she illuminates Celie as to the true nature of this entity we call God.

Ain’t no point in worshipping the white man’s God, Shug tells Celie, because there’s no room for you in their world. Do you think their God would make it so some folk were better than others just ‘cos of the colour of their skin? God ain’t no He – he ain’t some white man in the clouds. Whatever God is, it’s all around us. It’s in the flowers, in the trees, in the beauty of a sunset. Those white folks, they spend they whole lives tryin’ to please God – they don’t realize that all the time God is trying to please them right back.*

“Yer, but tha’s the problem wiv café food, innit? You dunno wot yah gonna get. Tha’s why I reckon that, even vo it might be more expinsive, your be’er off eating in the ‘otel.”

“Yeah, tha’s right. ‘Specially somewhere like Spain, innit?”

And snap. Reverie scattered with the instant application of British Package Tourist. Quelle sur-fucking-prise.

I imagine British tourists are to Spain what Australian tourists are to Bali. Undesirable, scandalously ill bred and completely lacking in any kind of cultural sensitivity whatsoever, but drowning in the kind of extra money that people who truly love flat screen TVs always unfortunately seem to have. They are also tiresomely predictable yet endlessly amusing because of this.

The basic itinerary of the British Package Tourist is not without its subtle nuances and complexities, but armed with the right information it’s fairly simple to follow. If you plan on ever becoming one but are unsure of what the protocol is, never fear – I have compiled a complete guide for you. As with anything in life, the motto is BE PREPARED. And thanks to me, you may now avoid the kind of embarrassing faux pas that will have you questioning whether or not it’s more appropriate to drink your companion’s pina colada through a straw or simply lick it directly off their breasts.

BRITISH PACKAGE TOURISM GUIDE FOR FIRST TIMERS

Pitch up to Gatwick for the 6am red eye, bleary eyed but already coated in tanning oil in anticipation of the weekend’s festivities. You sideeye your fellow passengers, ranking them in order of Shaggable to Handsy Uncle Reg or The Fat Friend. You make sure to consume at least four drinks on the flight so that you can hit Spain in style, bonding with your fellow passengers in the process. Handsy Uncle Reg is in fine form, knocking back seven cans of lager and showing off how loudly he can belch. Remember to applaud. It’s good manners.

You arrive at your hotel in the bus arranged by the travel company, new best friends in tow and duty free liquor already cracked open. Shaggable is surrounded by a posse of besties ranging from almost-as-hot to they’ll-do to only-if-the-others-are-taken and one friend who will, before the week is over, inevitably don one of those novelty aprons with plastic breasts (for the men) or let Handsy Uncle Reg shag them on the beach but only from behind (for the women). Full of piss and vinegar and an unbridled sense of sexual optimism, you check in amidst the sounds of girlish squeals and football songs.

By now it’s almost 11am and the ferocious Spanish sun is well overhead. This means it’s time to head to the beach with all your essentials – cigarettes, tanning oil, latest Dan Brown novel (for the tour’s intelligensia) and Union Jack beach towel. Because England experiences approximately 93 hours of sunshine a year, you’ll want to jam all your tanning time into this week - never forget that the basic aims of a package tour to Spain are to return with a killer tan that will inspire envy in all your co-workers, cornrows (or another variation on an exotic hairdo) and a treatable STI. Thrush doesn’t count, unless you acquired it through drinking too much beer and forgetting to pee in the sea after that incident with Handsy Uncle Reg.

With that in mind, you’ll spend the first two hours lying on your back and carefully turning every 30 minutes. This is Spain, so ladies, feel free to remove your bikini tops. Not only will it help avoid any unsightly tan lines, it might just help grab the attention of Shaggable and co so that they know that a) you have a great rack and b) you’re up for it. Don’t worry if you hear a slight crackling sound – it’s just the sound of your skin aging 20 years. BEAUTY IS PAIN.

If you’re organized, which you’ll want to be – you’re British after all – you’ll have appointed someone to act as alcohol runner to the chiringuitto. Unless Shaggable is up there engaged in a competition to see who can build the highest tower out of beer cans (for the men) or comparing breast augmentations (for the ladies), make sure the runner is someone else (preferably the second most attractive speciman in your group because competition is competition and it’s a jungle out there). Forget that Spanish sangria rubbish – you’ve been looking forward to this holiday for months and it’s time for you to indulge! The chirringuito will no doubt have a selection of fancy cocktails, so feel free to be a bit wild – although if I might make a suggestion, Sex On The Beach is an appropriate choice because it’s not only exotic, it’s also quite pithy and clever.

You should be a bit tipsy now, which is exactly where you want to be. If you’re a lady, you’ll have already read your airport purchased copies of Heat, OK! and Woman’s Own, but it’s probably best to leave Cosmopolitan and Sugar for day two – you like to keep stimulated and you don’t want to run out of reading material.

Now that that lovely sun has made you all toasty and warm, you’ll probably be thinking about a dip. Time to grab your best girlfriend and head to the water, offering silent thanks to Maybelline for creating waterproof mascara – it’s unlikely you’ll putt your head under because you’ve just had your holiday highlights done, but there’s a high likelihood you’ll end up rousting with some of the lads. You’ll want your eyes to remain come hither in case Shaggable decides to splash you.

If you’re a lad, keep an eye out for when the ladies head to the water. They’ve had ample time for tanning while you’ve been walking around with your Union Jack towel draped around your neck pretending to be a matador, but now’s the time to think about moving in for the kill. You’ll no doubt have your eye on the best looking bird in the flock, but here’s a sly tip – flirt openly with her less attractive friend. It will drive her crazy with the kind of jealousy that can only come with entitlement, and will (if applied correctly) almost certainly guarantee you a blow job behind the karaoke bar later on.

By this stage of the proceedings, you might be feeling a little overwhelmed with all the holiday hijinks. This is completely normal – you’ve spent the last ten months living in the geographical equivalent of clinical depression, and all this sun is probably going to your head. Pace yourself (not too much!) – you have all week. Why not go and spend some time by the hotel swimming pool? That way you can lounge about in the water AND have the perfect view of the sea.

5pm rolls around (where does the time go?!) and it’s time to start thinking about freshening up for dinner. Proper British people eat dinner no later than 7:30pm so they can fit in more time for drinking, and if you want to fit in you should behave no differently. While casual dress was fine for the beach, you’ll want to look a bit fancier for the first night’s festivities – particularly if you’re planning on heading to the Britannia later on. Ladies, this means you’ll want to don your best, most sparkliest drapey halterneck number. It may be tempting to wear everything you own in white, but let’s not be too hasty – there’s still a few days of tanning left before you can capitalize on just how good a white minidress with criss-crossed back looks against your brown skin.

Lads, this one’s much easier for you because the only variation you require to your normal Home outfits is some kind of sombrero or cargo pants that detach at the knees. Ignore the lay in your bag – it’s not Spanish and you only packed it because you’re planning on going as a hula girl to the costume party the hotel will be hosting in the Mermaid Bar later on in the week. For now, all you need worry about is whether or not your collar is popped correctly. Don’t fret if you’ve forgotten your hair gel – one of your friends is bound to have brought some so there’s really no need for anyone to miss out on potential bathroom sex because their widow’s peak wasn’t teased to perfection.

You’ll find it’s easier to congregate in the hotel lobby ahead of dinner time. By now you’re all old friends and selecting dinner mates is just a matter of course. Having said that, you still want to maintain a modicum of decorum – this means no belching at the dinner table unless it forms the punchline of a joke or removing someone’s knickers with your teeth. There’ll be plenty of time for that later when DJ Ricky Z gets the party going.

Here things will start to get a bit hazy. There’s no point in going on a British Package Tour unless you spend 95% of your time at least slightly drunk. But come 11pm, all that Sex On The Beach starts to catch up with you and you’ll find yourself approximately 135% drunk. This is okay in and of itself – preferable even. But here’s where things get tricky – to be a proper British Package Tourist, you have to take care to be as acutely offensive as possible to everyone else bar your fellow BPTs. Sounds simple in theory but can actually take a bit of practice to get used to. For example, it’s okay to yell obscenities at some scrag tottering down the street, but what if she’s part of your tour or shagging someone in it and you didn’t notice before? This defies the natural sense of camaraderie that will befall any BPT group, and must be avoided at all costs. On the other hand, when handled deftly, it can work in your favour to call someone a cheap and nasty bitch because it could actually be a compliment indicating to them that you understand they are willing to let you suckle on their breasts as part of a drinking game.

If you’re not confident with being able to tell the difference – and anyone other than a seasoned British Package Tourist or an Essex local would not be remiss in admitting confusion – then I find it’s simpler to follow what seems to be the essential rule of British Package Tourism, and that’s to be as rude as possible to anyone who appears to be an actual resident of the foreign country in question. Not only does it solidify your connection as a group, it reinforces to the subject of your approbation that their reliance on their own mother tongue is an inconvenience you did NOT request when parting with hard earned pounds (and the exchange rate!) as part of YOUR holiday, and that if they will INSIST on being a Spanish chimmy changa chocolate dago bar, they could at LEAST have the DECENCY to learn how to speak proper. CAPEACHY?

Let one of those rip on your first night and that STI is as good as yours. Probably a few of them.

As for day two and the rest of the week? Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

NOTE: The Essential Guide to being a British Package Tourist is also relevant to Australian Tourism with a few minor word changes.

*Paraphrasing from Walker's text.

Dinky Di Barcelona Part One

2009-08-28T22:23:00.005+09:30

*I began this a few days ago, so have aktch already been to Berlin and back. More on that later.*

The woman totters around behind the bar on thick wedge platforms, cork heels wrestling with the sticky intractability of a floor whose most intimate acquaintance is always spilled alcohol.

Poured into the kind of dress a flapper might have worn had the style tended towards vampish rather than boyish, and legs criss-crossed by the spiderwebs of nude fishnets, she gives the appearance of someone who does not quite seem to know where they are or what they’re supposed to be doing there, but keeps looking around to try and figure it all out. It’s as if somewhere between deciding whether or not she should damn it all to hell and just paint her living room walls chartreuse already or wait to consult the tarot first, she simply fell asleep in her living room and awoke to discover her shabby yet chic abode had been unknowingly converted into a dive bar catering especially to lesbians and the British; however, lacking the language with which to converse with either group, she now finds herself being forced to make endless cocktails in whatever glasses she happens to have lying around her kitchen while trying to resolutely explain to people that, look, she knows she lives on a ground floor in La Ribera (and that can be confusing), but tonight she was really just looking forward to dying her hair with teabags and watching the Astro show on teevee so could they all please vacate her house and leave a middlish old woman in PEACE for ONCE in her wretched life because if they REALLY want something to drink there are any NUMBER of illegal merchants in the street who would be only TOO HAPPY to sell them a few cans of “sexy beer” at a VERY reasonable price?

“Sorr-ee! No understandy! I want TWO *sticks fingers up in peace sign* mo-hee-toes POOR FAV-OAR SIV OO PLAY. Moo-choss grassy arse!”

At which she begins an under-breath muttering likely to last well into the next day and possibly beyond.

Meanwhile, the Sri Lankan Princess and I argue over whom our fair bartender resembles more. Sri Pri seems to think she’s reminiscent of Penelope Cruz’s character in Vicky Cristina Barcelona. However, I feel (given the demonstrative evidence on offer) that my argument is more compelling.

Ghowst-bustahs. No, I’m sawry, Venkman’s nawt avaaailable.

The Sri Lankan Princess has come to Barcelona en route to Berlin, where we will both be in a few days. In a crazy kind of reverse stereotype/amazingly self aware political correctness/unracism, it is *I* and not *she* who does they ferrying around on two wheels. Having secured for myself a few days prior the luxury of una bicicletta (while mine mourns my absence at home), I took no time in depositing Sri Pri on the back and proceeding as the two gadabouts that we are.

Amusing on day one and slightly diverting on day two, by day three I am prepared to outlaw all forms of dinkying, ferrying and/or transferring that involves two wheels, cobbled roads and a blazing hot sun. Navigating your way around bloated tourists for whom having a passport involves forgetting the rudimentary rules of functioning in society is hard enough without having to take into account the gravitational force of a pillion passenger.

Day two of Sri Pri’s visit sees us getting extraordinarily drunk at a late night tapas bar in La Ribera. With bellies full of sangria, we spend the next half an hour trying to remember which way is home and swerving along streets designed solely with the aim of confusing their inhabitants. I am reminded of the labyrinthine quality of Rome, a city in which the streets quietly move about like puzzle pieces, delivering you to the exact point you started at despite the fact you KNOW you have been walking straight for the past 45 minutes. As with there, I keep expecting David Bowie to pop up in some tights to hypnotise me with his devilish eyes.

Sarah…fuhget about the buyby.

Eventually we end up in another late night tapas bar, albeit one decorated in a thin film of grease and apparently labouring under the impression that fluorescent bulbs are the most preferable form of lighting for 2am on a weeknight. To Sri Pri’s discomfort, we encounter there one of those especially unfashionable forms of skinhead whose wardrobe naturally consists only of drainpipe jeans, long laced boots and a pair of braces purchased at least 20 years ago in the Eastern Bloc. Being white, I’m naturally only suspicious of his sartorial choices. But for a petite, dark skinned woman, I can understand that concerns probably extend beyond whether or not the lad has showered in the past week.

The difficulty of course with modern skinheads is that one can never tell if they are white supremacists, post punk anarchists waiting in vain for the revolution or middle class hipsters slumming it in public before going home to their carefully decorated hovel to congratulate themselves on having a subversive haircut. I observed a tableful of them the other day having afternoon tea with plates of yellow frosted cake, so quite frankly I don’t know what to believe.*

Regardless, it makes Sri Pri feel infinitely better when our skinhead traipses out into the night and we are left in peace with the rocket fuel masquerading as drinks and the tinkling soundtrack of a pokie addict disposing of his rent in a corner machine.

One thing I’ve learned about Spain is that they are fans of the free pour. While Australia doles out its spirits with the exacting fury of an autistic despot, in Spain the basic rule of thumb seems to be that as long as the spirit fills at least 50% of the glass, you’re doing okay. This translates into the kind of drinking experience which sees you fill the tiny cavern at the top with whatever mixer you’ve requested, close your eyes and pray for God’s mercy before taking two gulps of almost pure liquor. Having performed this little ritual, you will thus have adequate space in which to transform your drink from something that could power a small vehicle into something that becomes marginally more pleasant to drink. It’s truly brilliant, and one of the reasons why Spain has Penelope Cruz and we have Nicole Kidman.

Transfixed by the sound of the pokie addict’s soul being crushed, we remain in that grim watering hole for the better part of an hour before unwisely cycling through the jigsaw that is Barcelona – the Sri Lankan Princess reclining in style and me pedaling through the mental fog of ten alcohol units too many on streets whose incorporation of traffic lights is arbitrary at best.

TO BE CONTINUED.

* Apparently food concerns are quite common amongst skinheads if this is to be believed. I don't know. I always expected they had slightly bigger things to concern themselves with than whether or not peanut butter sandwiches are wrongtown usa.

Ser o no ser...esa es la pregunata.

2009-08-11T07:04:00.007+09:30

I'm sitting in an apartment with the french doors open and the sounds of a Spanish street filtering in from below. Every so often comes the roar of a scooter shuttling forth from the traffic lights. The Spanish television may be supremely bad, but the balmy night air is more than making up for it.

Spain is unquestionably beautiful.

I spent most of today wandering through the gothic quarter, revisiting parts of it I discovered on my last trek through this city. My Chilean has disappeared to Madrid for a few days so I am At Liberty on the streets of Barcelona. This roughly translates to me making extreme mistakes in Spanish and most probably being taken advantage of by shifty shopkeepers who can tell that I don't know what the real prices of things are. Honestly, two euros for a couple of bunches of coriander? I KNOW YOU ARE ROBBING ME BLIND YOU SPANISH HARPY. Still, without the proper tools to argue, what can I do? Grin and bear it, and bide my time until I can take her down with an impeccable grasp of the vocabulary for "you are a thieving wench and I know what your game is."

When I arrived last week, the Chilean fetched me from the airport. He greeted me with a very manly hug and a bottle of water, because "I thought you would be thirsty after your long flight." He then took me to a local Peruvian restaurant for lunch and then to a Mexican restaurant for dinner. Indeed, he has been feeding and watering me quite adequately since I arrived. I'm just about to start sprouting flowers I think, possibly in some shade of cerulean.

On Thursday, Chile took me to the beach and laughed as I marvelled at all the magnificent breasts on display. Old, young, big, small, fake, real - they really let it all hang out here. He seemed mildly amused when I told him that such a thing would never occur in Australia. The Christians For Conservatism would have all their best agents on the job, filing calls to shock jocks all over the country to engage in a mass hand wringing over declining moral values and their devastating impact on children. I mean, imagine if a child were to go the beach and see actual breasts just.... there. NAKED. As if they were normal or something! As if they were in fact not something that children see all the time (because their mothers have no doubt continued to wander around the house topless, away from the prying eyes of the morality police) but were instead dirty funbags with the power to turn men into raging sex machines and steal the souls of innocent babes. Anarchy, social decay and eventual apocalypse would almost certainly be destined to follow. The human race as we know it would go tits up.

Anyhoo, Chile and I discussed the difference in gender relations between the two countries and their respective conservative values. I can't speak for Spain at all having merely a few weeks observation under my belt - and I'm sure there is rampant conservatism here in parts - but there is definitely a joie de vivre that is lacking in Australia. I don't think you could ever suggest to a Spanish person that work was as important as family, music, food or sex. They would probably laugh in your face, and then go and make a baby with someone while eating tapas off each others torsos.

I suggested to the Chilean that Australian men were different to Spanish men in that they weren't particularly adept at wooing women, and seemed to have a swaggering sense of their own right to exist. He said that it sounded like they were muy machista. But aren't Spanish men also muy machista, I asked him? Yes, he replied, but it's different. Here it's more about how women can't drive cars, which is why you can't drive mine.

I had to laugh. Hey, nobody's perfect. If someone's going to be supportive of me writing about gender relations and generally being a hoyden then I can't really complain if one of his few failings is that he refuses to let me behind the wheel of his precious baby. And I much prefer to read books while in the car anyway. If he won't let me drive, then I won't let him converse.

Besides, he's lovely. In a fit of pique the other day, I told him how frustrated I was at my poor (read: pathetic) Spanish. I tried to explain that it was frustrating for someone who makes a living from communicating, and generally probably does a bit too much of it if anything, to be unable to properly express herself to people. He kept reassuring me that it would all come with time, and I can't get angry because then I'll just give up. He said I have to recognise that it's a process and that the hard is what will make it rewarding in the end.

It's supposed to be hard! The hard...is what makes it great.

On Saturday, we went to Ocata (north of BCN) to engage in some specifically excellent activity. Chile's brother - a musician of grand talent and who spreads it around - was playing with one of his bands Dinatatak at a tapas restaurant on the beach. I don't mean one of those restaurants in the sense that Gringos is on the Glenelg foreshore, and if you're really lucky you can be verbally assaulted by some schmuck cruising outside the Grand before having someone puke on your shoes. This kiosk was set up on the actual beach, in a kind of cabana. The patrons sat on plastic chairs and tables, and the band played from beneath a tent like structure.

When we arrived, the moon was hanging low and full bellied in the sky, burning the colour of burnt amber. It reminded me of my favourite passage in the whole world, from Cormac McCarthy's The Road: "By day the banished sun circles the Earth like a grieving mother with a lamp." If the sun is a grieving mother with a lamp, this moon was the mother who watches over her well loved children until they fall asleep. The music, the food, the passion of the people watching against the backdrop of a beachfront of towering apartment buildings with laundry adorning the balconies - it all transpired to make for a perfect evening.

After Dinatatak was finished and the kiosk had packed up for the night, we all sat near the water and played music until the sun came up. With their crazy fingers, those musicians worked their magic on all manner of guitar strings as we laughed and sang and drank copious amounts of liquor. We finally tumbled into bed at about 9am, bellies full of sweet rum and hearts as full as that amber moon, the Spanish sun beginning its slow burn on a perfect Sunday in Barcelona.

Brother Chile is playing on Thursday night at a restaurant in Barcelona with his three piece. Because we've been practicing songs together on my ukulele (which he could play perfectly within about three seconds, rendering my own attempts pathetic and shallow) I'm going to sing a couple of songs with them. This is officially one of the highlights of my trip, because I both love to sing and am a showpony, and singing in English is at least considered far more acceptable than insisting on speaking in it because your Spanish brain is the equivalent of a retarded two year old's.

I was made that way....

Also, Brother Chile is just simply one of the nicest people on the entire planet so it's always a pleasure to do anything with him.

Ah, Barcelona. Right, Brother Chile is teaching me ukulele now. Time to be humiliated.

Barcelona bound

2009-08-05T08:27:00.001+09:30

In anticipation of some hot romance and midnight beach swimming, I’m sitting in the airport lounge at JFK waiting to catch a plane to Bar-the-lona. I am almost 100% certain the Chilean is meeting me at the other end. At the very least, I’ll be staying with him for the duration so I shall be very strict with myself about learning some form of Spanish conversation over the next month.

This may or may not transpire entirely through a superior ability to order drinks, discuss the delicious qualities of Spanish food and praise the concept of siestas, none of which have yet been covered by the learn-through-irritating-jingles language cd I bought yesterday. I am now able to talk about seeing the colours of my life when picking out daywear (“mire los colores de mi vive!” sp?) but remain ignorant as to why this particularly floral turn of phrase is necessary in anything other than an off-Broadway musical number.

What I *can* be certain of is that I will likely never need the seemingly extensive construction site/building vocabulary that seems to form a large part of many of the Spanish textbooks available in this fair country. Whilst I’m sure there are some people for whom the Spanish translation of “that’s an effective way to sand a plank of wood” is helpful, I am not one of them. I make it my business to avoid discussing menial labour in English. I therefore see no reason to start conversing on the matter in Spanish, unless attempting to speak with handsome carpentry types in admittedly single entendres.

I imagine there shall be much flirting to be had – with or without the Chilean, as this is Spain after all and I am both human and cheap – but as we all know, the language of love requires not working vocal chords but simply a masterful grasp on the power of doe eyes and a lilting hip.

Speaking of doe eyes, I am sad to report that I have (as yet) failed to upgrade myself on this leg. I blame this entirely on the surly and frankly tiresome attitude of my check-in attendant. ‘Rotan’, if that IS his real name, could barely wait to tell me I’d exceeded my luggage allowance and gleefully watched while I was forced to empty half of the Strand’s back catalogue onto the airport floor. I am now carrying approximately 436 books on my back, none of which I shall read on the airplane as I plan to engage in some fairly committed drinking and then passing out. So they are effectively useless, and therefore I hate each and every one of them, even the David Sedaris ones.* On the other hand, I did manage to talk my way into the pre-flight supper club at the BA lounge and am thus gorged to the brim with garlic prawns and asparagus sears. The silver tongue, I has it.

With any luck, there will be some form of mindless movie on the TV menu starring Paul Rudd or an equally hysterical definition of handsome. I *don’t* plan on watching (500) Days of SummerNew Moon comes out. When I can summon the energy to think of it without wanting to kill both its stars and then the writers and then myself for good measure and then the stars again, I shall summarise it for you.

All you need know is it is the kind of addictively terrible schlock that needs to be discussed but not seen, because seeing it will destroy the remaining part of your soul that managed to escape the hamfisted hipsterdom of nauseating films such as The Darjeeling Limited, Lost in Translation and, the grandwizard of self indulgent hoohah himself, Garden State. Natalie Portman, Braff? Honestly? Honestly? With your chin? Also, Reality Check called and told me you need to stop skipping your appointments because he is sick and tired of your BS.

Right-o, voy a Barcelona. Tengo veintiocho! Quiero un bocadillo de quesa!

* Not really David! Don’t leave me!
if it’s on the TV menu, as I had the very great misfortune of seeing it with Dot the other night. We agree it could possibly be the worst film ever made, at least until

baffling

2009-07-30T12:09:00.006+09:30

Could this be the most counter-intuitive advertisement ever?

I mean...they've actually used Comic Sans MS. To tell you the truth, I'm a little surprised they haven't whacked the ubiquitous clip art sillhoette on for good measure. I hesitate to imagine the folk exploring their creativity with this number, but I suspect it will include a lot of scrapbookers looking to make the transition to the www.

Live from Hoboken, NJ!

2009-07-30T04:58:00.009+09:30

After tramping around the city for a week, I hopped on the PATH train yesterday to visit my darling friend the Baby Mama in Hoboken, New Jersey. It is therefore from here (there?) that I currently write. Specifically, from the insides of the Frozen Monkey Cafe, a particularly Melbournish cafe resplendent with formica tables, coloured lamps and a much desirable free wifi connection.

The sky is having a mothu uckin stroke outside. Much as it has been doing off and on all week, the intense humidity and grey skies have combined to produce one almighty thunderstorm. You can't really tell from this picture, but the rain is coming down in sheets while a low rumbling alternately pulsates through the heavens.

It seems to have settled in for the duration. Previous thunderstorms this week have wandered in and out of the city like an itinerant alcoholic at a small and intimate dinner party. The sky will open to send raindrops the size of buckets from within its belly. New Yorkers rush around with utilitarian rainshields draped across their bodies - plastic slickers, the kind designed specifically to make the wearer look both hideous and sweaty. They are invariably doomed once the rain stops and the sun appears in all its blazing glory.

One woman hid beneath the shadecloth at Fairways (a local supermarket on the UWS) the other day with a rainhat fashioned out of a plastic bag. It looked most uncomfortable and even more unflattering. I've seen tourists don slickers at the merest whiff of rainy provocation, so intent are they on protecting their precious Abercrombie and Fitch duds that they'll risk turning their bodies into a sauna just to avoid a few drops. Me, I like the rain in summer and enjoy the sensation of standing beneath it while everyone else rushes for cover. But then, I come from a country where rain has been a fantastical myth for the better part of half a century and so probably treat the experience of it much as one might a mermaid suddenly emerging from the sea and asking for directions to the nearest Starbucks.

As far as living goes, it doesn't seem to get much better than in Hoboken NJ. A mere 20 minutes (if that) by train from Penn Station on 34th and 6th in Manhattan, residents can enjoy a much more relaxed pace of life this side of the Hudson. Known as the Mile Square City, brownstones line the residential lanes either side of Washington St and rent can be managed at a fraction of the price one will have to pay to live in Manhattan. Dot and Blaine are currently househounting on the Lower East Side and are looking at around $1800 a month for a studio, POST economic downturn. But in Hoboken, it seems you could rent a sunny one bedroom for around $1300 and have the luxury of your own balcony with waterfront views. Baby Mama owns a condo between 2nd and 3rd Sts and has her own private deck on the rooftop that lends itself perfectly to summer night barbecues (or 'cook outs') and romantic second date kissing.

Although there are lots of negative views of Noo Joisey (Blaine did a particularly splendid impression of the average NJ guy the other day. It involved talking a lot about footbawl and beeya, and how to achieve the poifect tayen), Hoboken seems to exist as something separate. Home to the first officially recorded game of baseball in 1846, it boasts a population of slightly less than 40,000, most of whom are aged between 25 and 44. Of course, the population is also almost entirely white which is either a result of or a reason for the system of gentrification that began to occur in the latter part of last century. 23.8% of people living in Hoboken are married couples, but they need not fear their partners looking across the river for something better - Hoboken loves romance you see!

Say it with butt plugs

The most recent Mayor of Hoboken is the city's youngest ever - at 33, Peter Cammarrano III began his term on July 1, 2009 and is the city's 37th Mayor.

Peter Cammarano cares about YOU!

But before you get too excited about potential victories for youth in politics, things aren't as rosy as they might seem. On July 23, after just 23 days in office, Mayor Cammarrona was arrested as part of a major corruption and international money laundering conspiracy probe known as Operation Bid Rig.

Whoops!

He was charged with accepting $25,000 in cash bribes from an undercover operative. Amongst those arrested in the op were several rabbis in New Jersey and NY, another local Mayor and an Assemblyman. Way to go team!

As well as being the home and birthplace of Frank Sinatra (who wasted no time in declaring his love for New York - loyal much?), Hoboken is also home to Maria Pepe, one of the first girls in the US to play Little League baseball. When Pepe joined the same neighbourhood team as her friends, the coach kicked her off which caught the attention of the National Organisation for Women. A court case followed, which resulted in a ruling declaring that Little League must allow girls to try out. Little League then began a program specifically designed for girls. Pepe may not be as internationally famous as Ole Blue Eyes, but in a world where women tend to be ignored in history, I'd like to introduce all of you to her now:

dirt in the skirt, maria!

Being as I have a nose for vintage stores and the like, I discovered a little dressmaker/vintage clothes seller a few doors down from Baby Mama's house. We got to talking and she revealed she doesn't really know what it is 'the young girls' want these days. I assured her that she could make a killing if she made wearable vintage style dresses for girls of all sizes, and told her about a particular dress of mine (the green one with white spots for those in the know) which is a guaranteed winner on all lady bodies. Because I am a wheeler and dealer, I told her I'd bring it in for her to make a pattern out of. In exchange for some website help and a bit of advertising know how, she's going to fashion me up a few. Am I resourceful, or what? Perhaps I'm just awesome. WHO CAN SAY?

I'm heading to Brooklyn tonight to stay with the delectable Gin and Tonic. I realised that I can catch exactly one train between there house and Dot and Blaine's, which is almost amazing considering they live in different boroughs. I hope BlaDot don't move too far away from the AC line and spoil this massive convenience. *crosses fingers, looks winsome*

In preparation, I have brought along A Tree Grows In Brooklyn. It is my hope that in addition to reading an American classic, I shall be able to recognise the various historical elements of Williamsburg featured in the book and thus come to feel I am some kind of academic expert by way of appropriating a false level of knowledge with strangers. See also: the TenMus, the UWS, Central Park and the Australian System of Government.

Oh yeah, I also got a new tattoo the other day. I returned to Addiction NYC on St Mark's Place in the East Village, the same place I had my russian dolls done. Fortunately for me, the surly bastard who inked me last time was gone. I am told he quit in an alcoholic depression, his girlfriend having left him because he is, among other things, a monumental cockhead. This doesn't surprise me in the slightest. I instead had the great pleasure of working with Beanz (Beans?), a chap of great good humour and talent. Although he confessed to being not much of a reader, he allowed me to recite to him from David Sedaris' Dress Your Family In Corduroy and Denim, and while he didn't share my belief that "Us and Them" might be the funniest thing ever committed to print, EVER, he did seem to enjoy "Six to Eight Black Men", even contributing his own little tidbits of information regarding European Christmas traditions.

As for the tattoo, it is a picture of two autumn leaves swirling around on my upper thigh. I'm unsure if I exactly love it just now - it needs to heal and come down in colour a little bit. Plus, I have monumentally fucked up body issues which I am possibly going to explore shortly here because they are really mentally screwing with me at the moment BUT THAT IS A STORY FOR ANOTHER TIME. Anyhoo, here is the pickchar.

Also, I am experiencing some form of tingling in my right fingertips. This concerns me, and gnaws at the propensity towards hypochondria that I've held in check for the past 6 or so years. Multiple sclerosis? Parkinson's? Oncoming stroke? Too much caffeine? It is likely one of them, but who's to say which. I hope it's the last one. I did have three big mugs today and a diet coke. In light of that, it's probably NOT Parkinson's.

Rain has stopped. Alcoholic sky passed out in the heavens somewhere. Off to Brooklyn.

melon head

2009-07-27T08:39:00.010+09:30

After the TenMus, Dot, Gershwin and I walked around the corner to eat lunch at Katz's. Locals know this as New York's oldest and best delicatessen. On the other hand, you'll probably know Katz's from this classic movie scene:

According to Katz's website, to be considered a true delicatessen you have to "continue a tradition of meat preparation and preservation predating refrigeration". Located on the corner of Houston (pron. House-ton) and Ludlow, the deli was established in 1888 by a Russian immigrant family. For a local community forged on immigration, Katz's food was a link to the Old World. In a New World so heavily populated by transient eateries, fast food outlets and corporate domination, it's reassuring to know that one of New York's most lasting and popular restaurants remains family owned (although ownership transferred to Fred Austin and his wife Juli in 1988).

I ordered what turned out to be a $15 sandwich. This sounds ridiculous until you realise that a sandwich at Katz's basically translates to stuffing half a (cured) cow between two slices of bread. Observe:

Needless to say, I had to give half of mine away but I derived great pleasure out of sampling some of the finest pastrami the world has to offer. As the old dad joke goes, "Two Chinamen walked out of Katz's. One says to the other, 'The bad thing about eating here is that two weeks later you're hungry again!'

I'm uncertain as to why the joke references Chinamen in particular as I've certainly never come across a Chinese restaurant where an abundance of food hasn't been consumed. Perhaps the joke would be more accurate were it to feature WASPs, or perhaps the lady who serves ~~a lettuce leaf and half a tomato~~ salads in the David Jones food court. But then the joke would have to include something uncomfortably close to home about value for money, and she might have to start confronting herself with some home truths.

Then again, she IS Chinese, so perhaps there's something in that after all.

Hey, here's another funny joke!

Q. What's the difference between Bono and Jesus?

A. Jesus doesn't think he's Bono.

Classic.

After Katz's, we wandered into the sixth circle of hell, better known as Century 21. A discount designer department store, the average person can handle about four seconds inside before experiencing the very real urge to kill themselves. Describing it here is giving me terrifying flashbacks, the memory of crazed women grabbing for shoes and DKNY mini skirts having me reach slowly towards a knife, or perhaps a heavy blunt object of some description. Even their website is offensive, the mind numbing musical beats a portent for the throb your head will experience once two feet inside the store's perimeter. It's like what would happen if Supre married David Jones and insisted they hold the reception in a basement with extremely surly caterers.

Later, we picked up Blaine and headed to JG Melon, a burger and beer staple on the Upper East Side. It opened back in 1972 and has been serving some of the best burgers not-that-much-money can buy ever since. In amongst everything that New York has to recommend, its command over the humble burger has to be near the top. In Australia we get bogged down by the idea that a hamburger has to be overflowing with gourmet ingredients who all then end up competing for to be the most dominant flavour. Do we really need to adorn a beef patty with a fried egg, relish, beetroot, sweet onions, cheese AND a fucking salad? No. We do not. We definitely don't need to then stuff said burger contents into an impossibly unwieldy bread roll.

But New York, it knows what it's doing. Patty and a soft bread roll, cheese if you're after a bit of a kick and onions if you don't mind something messy. Personally, I prefer to chow down on a patty and bun while railing at the years I spent eating inferior imitations.

Of course, every time I want a cigarette I have to go and stand on the street and endure the moral judgement from other patrons, their pursed lips and shocked faces saying it all. She's doing what now? Smoking? Right here, on the sidewalk, by the gutter when I am clearly sitting four metres away from her and TRYING to enjoy my low carb beer and conversation with similarly nasal New York Dames Who Dine? That is just the MOST.

All of this is a mystery to me. I mean, how else do they stay so rigorously thin? No one likes running that much and even if coke weren't so hopelessly passe the economic downturn would have seen fit to destroy the industry. The well-to-do ladies of the Upper East Side might smoke most of their calories, but they sure as shit don't let anyone see them do it.

Tired of the humiliating excursions outside and done with our (admittedly delicious) burgers, we headed back to the UWS for some Responsible Early Bedtimes. This put me in good stead for the next day, when I headed out in the blazing hot sun to wander around Greenwich Village. I had hoped to see some kind of hopelessly cool celebrity lurking around a coffee shop so that I might duly ignore them and pretend to be a real New Yorker, but alas such a treat did not greet me. Instead I had the great fortune of meeting a crazy dude in Washington Square Park who spent approximately 45 minutes explaining to me the hidden secrets of the cosmos.

According to Kevin, it's due to a government conspiracy that the 13th zodiac sign of Ophiuchus has been covered up and abandoned. A brief search on Google reveals that Ophiuchus is known of (and probably exists, I guess - I mean, you're getting an excellent insight into my research skills here. Someone on Yahoo! answers says it does, so I'm prepared to believe that's true) and lies somewhere between Scorpio and Sagittarius. Nostradamus predicted that 2012 will see us living under the sign of Ophiuchus, and that great famine, war, terror and all sorts of crazy shit will become de rigeur. This pretty much ties in with the Mayan predictions of the end of the world, and also mental Christian stuff about Jesus returning and smiting us.

Kevin didn't tell me any of this though - that came from "Claire" on Yahoo! answers (thanks Claire!) and I'm just going to go with it. Kevin didn't really seem to know what he was talking about, except he knew that it was bad and it had something to do with Men In Power Being Cunts. Or whatever. (He also went into great detail about the mosquito bites he'd gotten on his upper thighs, going so far as to peel his trousers back and show me. Apparently they all live in a puddle outside his apartment that he can't get rid of. So....that was nice.)

Kevin told me that time isn't real, and that we're all actually living an hour and 58 minutes in the past. Which either makes me REALLY late for everything I turn up to, as opposed to just moderately late, or incredibly on time. I'm not sure how that works, because unlike Kevin I am not a cosmologist.

As far as Ophiuchus goes, I suppose it could be possible that the Son of God will return to Earth in a blaze of righteous glory on Dec 21, 2012, to send most of us to hell and take the believers back up to Heaven Land for corn dogs and twister. But I kind of prefer "sos89"s version of how the sign was lost:

"Probably because most people wouldn't be able to pronounce it. As bad as sagittarius seems, I think that Ophiuchus is the hardest of the zodiac signs to say/prounounce/spell. I mean it isnt anything like saying cancer or leo."

Well, quite.

Next time, in the amazing adventures of audrey in the big apple!

Audrey gets another tattoo, charms tattoo artist.
A brief and possibly only semi-accurate guide to the names of neighbourhoods in Manhattan.
How to speak like you're from New Jersey.
Random meetings with interesting men in parks and shoestores. But not in a whorish way.

97 Orchard St

2009-07-26T23:28:00.009+09:30

One of the best things about staying with Dot is that she's a wealth of local information. Because she has a degree in Art History, she's naturally interested in discovering a lot of local shit. And because I'm a lazy scholar, I'm naturally interested in draining her brain of facts and pretending the subsequent knowledge is the result of hours of personal study. It helps to make me appear both smarter and more interesting while having to expend the minimum amount of time required. Some people live by inspirational mottos - be kind to others and it will come back to you; every cloud has a silver lining; life is like a box of chocolates. I prefer to live by the creed that if you can't make it, fake it.

On Friday, Dot and I went with her visiting sister Gershwin to the Lower East Side Tenement Museum to learn a little about immigrant history in late 19th century New York. The Museum offers the kinds of tours my best friend mtk would go gaga for. I imagine that when she eventually visits the Tenement Museum, she will fall to her knees and beg it to marry her and spend the rest of her life trying to defy nature so that she may bear its children. The basic story of the TenMus (this is not an official abbreviation by the way - I just made it up, so best not to use it in conversation in an attempt to appear local and In The Know) is thus - between 1863 and 1935, the tenement building at 97 Orchard St was home to an estimated 7000 people from over 20 different nations. Orchard St was known as a Jewish enclave, and the eight city blocks it covered was lined end to end with similar tenements - the iconic buildings you think of that are multi storey featuring fire escapes on the visages.

The actual definition of tenement is 'dwelling', but its use refers here to a dwelling that is occupied transiently from one person to another. Multiple families lived within the tenement's walls in sectioned off apartments of two or three rooms. Essentially, tenements in the mid to late 19th century were what we would refer to as slums. With no official city housing code, fire escapes didn't become de rigeur until the turn of the 20th century. The first patent for a fire escape was registered in the US by Anna Connelly in 1887. As our excellent tour guide explained to us, the lack of interest in the health and safety of tenement residents (read: the poor) went a long way towards establishing a city code in New York.

As the years progressed, codes were established around housing, sanitation and safety. The creation of New York City became a model for the rest of the country, meaning that the establishment of city codes for all citizens can largely be attributed to the history of the tenements on the Lower East Side. The particular tour we took recreated the life of the Moore family, who lived at 97 Orchard St for about a year at the end of 1869. Although we were initially shocked by the conditions preserved at the house - all the residents shared outhouses in the backyard, with only a small spigot of water to flush, wash with and use for cooking and drinking - our tour guide surprised us with the information that, as far as tenements went, 97 Orchard St lay more on the middle class scale of tenement living.

Basically, the fact that they had a spigot at all made it a more well to do residential property. An Irish family living in New York during this period would have considered it a step up in the world to live in Kleindeutschland (the name given to the Orchard St neighbourhood). Prior to moving there, the Moore's lived at 65 Mott St which was located in the notorious Five Points area, a much poorer Irish neighbourhood and historical basis for the movie Gangs of New York.

When the Moores moved in to Kleindeutschland, they brought with them their three daughters Mary, Jane and Agnes. Bridget Moore (nee Meehan) was, we are told, likely a former domestic like many of the other single immigrant women at the time. After marrying Joseph Moore, it's probable that she ceased going out to work but possibly began taking in other people's laundry. Unfortunately for the Moores, even living in a relatively 'middle class' slum still made them poor - and that meant they were subject to the prejudices and disregard of a city that at the time also boasted extravagant wealth and opulence.

While living at 97 Orchard St, baby Agnes succumbed to marasmus, a disease common amongst babies at the time. Because immigrant women were likely to be undernourished and overworked, it wasn't always possible for them to breastfeed their children. In fact, it was staggeringly implausible that most would have been able to manage it. As such, their children were fed with the milk that was brought in from farms outside of the city and taken to the slums. Because people will always try and pull a fast one over on the poor, being as they are clearly not as important as the rest of us and certainly don't deserve the kind of basic level of human respect that those in power do, you'll be unsurprised to discover that, among many other crimes against humanity, the milk they were forced to drink (by sheer virtue of the fact it was the only source) was essentially poisonous.

Called 'swill milk', its story goes a little something like this: the sick and malnourished cows living on farms outside of the city would be drained of whatever milk they had to ferry over to the slum dwellers. However, in order to make it spread a little further the milk sellers would dilute it with water. This made the milk an off grey colour, so they would then mix chalk into it to bring it back to a milky white. But as if this weren't bad enough, once they got to the city (especially through the summer heat) the milk would be obviously bad and smelly. So to counter this, they would then mix in ammonia to remove the stink. Basically, they were serving up poisonous skank water dressed up as nutrition to the folk on the Lower East Side because hey, who gives a fuck about the poor people anyway? As a result, many children failed not only to receive vital nutrients they were actively be poisoned by the 'swill' that was being fed to them.

But what was anyone to do? They had no other alternative at the time. I mean, this was a city that waited until 1879 to enforce a housing code prohibiting windowless rooms (a code Dot thinks has been overwhelmingly ignored if the amount of apartments she's viewed recently are anything to go by. Though perhaps the buildings are 'pre-code', which is an abbreviation you may feel free to use being in actualy circulation and not just the result of my lazy typing). In a country that is still afraid to talk about socialised medicine for fear of being branded communist, I find the story of swill milk to be a stark reminder of our responsibility to those who cannot afford the luxuries many of us take for granted.

After Agnes' death, the Moores moved out of 97 Orchard St and to a considerably slummier dwelling at 224 Elizabeth St. At the time, burials were reasonably expensive. The $25 it might set a family back to properly bury their child could ruin everything they'd been working for up until that point. It's likely that the reason the Moores moved yet again (as they were a transient family to begin with - many tenement owners lured residents in with the promise of a month's free rent, so families would find themselves moving once or twice a year just to cut down on costs) was because of the financial strain of Agnes' burial. Bridget would go on to have five more children, of whom only two would survive. Bridget herself died at the age of 36 from a weak heart (probably brought about by the intensive labour of 8 children in less than desirable conditions).

Sidebar: It's stories like these that make me rail so much against idiotic sites like Joyous Birth. I am very much in favour of home births and midwifery, but the idea that it is a woman's natural instinct to give birth and she should just be allowed to toddle off into the bushes to do it and anyone who tries to stop her is OPPRESSING her and making her a victim of BIRTH RAPE is fucking bullshit. You know what the difference is between being allowed to do that willy nilly and having actual professionals involved? Not dying.

The Moores' story is just one of thousands at 97 Orchard St alone. It's amazing to think of so many people entering and leaving a residential dwelling such as that. It's more amazing to think of the countless others who do it across the Lower East Side in significantly less well-to-do environments, with no sanitation, fire escapes or basic plumbing. 97 Orchard boasted a saloon in its basement - I found myself wondering the other day just how much trouble that caused for the young girls and women living in the tenement.

On the other hand, I was struck by the sense of community that such living conditions would engender. While life would have been undoubtedly hard and unenviable, there would (I imagine) have been a certain level of camaraderie amongst its residents, particularly the women and children all working and playing together in the tenements' hubs. While it's not a life I would want to live, I do think we miss out by not taking the best parts of it such as the concept of family as a community rather than a bloodline.

The most incredible thing about 97 Orchard St however is its preservation. By sheer luck, it has been preserved as it stood in 1935 when, rather than continuing to modify it in accordance with radically changing housing codes, the residents were evicted and the building boarded up. Only the store fronts were left open for business. It was left unoccupied and untouched for a further 50 years until it was rediscovered again in 1988. Layers upon layers of peeling plaster work adorn the tenement's inside walls, while cracked linoleum and exposed boards form the floor. It is truly an incredible example of living history.

(After the tour, we took part in Kitchen Conversations, a session which allowed the tour participants to discuss their thoughts with a TenMus facilitator. Alex told us that the TenMus had purchased another tenement further down the block and would be recreating the life of, among others, a Dominican family living on the LES in the 1980s. Dot suggests that in 20 years time they can purchase another former tenement and recreate the fascinating home life of 21st century hipster.)

Much as I experienced while standing outside the Tower of London of the Colloseum, I felt the ghosts of 97 Orchard St moving around me. Not in a literal sense, but figuratively - I like to imagine it as layers up on layers of history, all operating within the same space of time but with different spatial awareness - the wallpaper we erect over the existing patterns in no way negates that they exist, and in certain spots you can see where they stand together, crackling and peeling away as one.

The glimpse into history that 97 Orchard St provides the modern viewer is so precious, and the work the TenMus does in preserving it as laudable. I can't help but think of the many thousands of other families fucked over by the system and struggling to live within what were essentially slums. The Moores would be blessedly ignorant that their lives have become one of the historical fixtures for modern visitors to New York City, and yet they have touched the lives of millions of visitors to the TenMus over the years.

And then there is this little story. Long after the Moores had quit 97 Orchard St, a Russian family moved in. The Katz family suffered no infant mortality rates as the city had by this stage vastly improved their health and sanitation codes, as well as enforcing a system of checks in city schools. One of their daughters would grow up to be married and have children of her own, no trace of the marasmus that took Agnes' life so many years before.

But here is her name, scrawled in tentatively new cursive of a child and peeking out behind the peeling wallpaper of one of the upper rooms at 97 Orchard. A little girl leaving her mark on the world as so many children have done in so many living rooms across so many years. Ruth Katz.

We all of us contribute to the world, no matter how big or small we are, and we can never be sure if actions that seem to us mundane and everyday will fade away to dust or be gifted to future generations as a testament to how people like us lived in a time people like them have difficulty imaging. At the first entrance to 97 Orchard St, a sign stands bearing the words:

"You are walking in somebody else's footsteps. Who will walk in yours?"

Adventures on the UWS

2009-07-24T01:26:00.006+09:30

O, how gratifying it is to lead (probably briefly) the kind of life in which one can boast early morning intense productivity and be ready for playtime by 11am! I have spent an entirely pleasurable New York morning that has seen me:

1. take a little stroll in the UWS;

2. drink coffee in the kind of improbably tiny cafe that somehow manages to be indelicately snooty while enjoying the contradiction of selling boiled eggs on the counter;

3. read the New York Times at said cafe in what was no doubt the manner of a hopelessly self-conscious lady tourist trying to appear as if executing a natural daily activity; and

4. applied for this job.

Please to all be crossing your fingers and toes so that I might muscle my way into the hearts and minds of the nation's youth through the power of enforced library time educational TV!

Dot's UWS walking tour was everything it promised and more. Through Dot's exceptional tour guide capabilities, I learned the following:

1. The San Remo building (located at the end of Dot's street on Central Park West) has at various stages been home to Glen Close, Donna Karan, Mrs Kutcher (nee Demi Moore), Bruce Willis, Steve Martin, Aaron Spelling (RIP you dead, mad genius), ~~Oh No Who Invited Him?~~ Bono, Steven Spielberg and Dustin Hoffman (who still resides there). I like to think of them all in committee meetings, arguing over mundane residential trivialities such as could Demi and Bruce please stop having such loud, animalistic fornication and could Bono please stop ministering in the building foyer, because while they get that the situation in Africa is shit and would love to help, they might remind him that he's not exactly giving up all his worldly possessions to do anything other than annoy the entire world with his preaching pomposity and highly overrated music and perhaps it's come time for him to move on because, really, he can be such a drag.

Then we came to the Dakota, which many of you will know as the site of John Lennon's assassination. It was built in 1880 and is a monument to Germanic, gothic design. Yesterday, some workmen were painting the iron Santa gargoyles out the front an imposing black. It therefore does not surprise me that entry to the Dakota is extremely strict and overseen by a residential committee. Famous residents include Lauren Bacall, Roberta Flack, John Lennon (obvs) and Sean Lennon. Rejected by the board? Gene Simmons, Billy Joel, Melanie Griffith and Antonio Banderas. I think they're all living somewhere on Sunset Boulevard now.

The Majestic is an art deco building that was the former home of the Luciano crime family. As such, many shady dealings have occurred there including the shooting of one Frank Costello in the Majestic's lobby. Dot instructs me to say 'maffia' instead of 'marfia' if I want to fit in. I quietly advise myself not to wander around NY saying anything about the maff/marfia at all if I don't want to get shot.

The Ansonia (see below) was built in 1904 and is famous for many reasons. Dot confirms my suspicions: that it's Beaux-Art (an architectural style she taught me about moments before), a flamboyantly designed and slightly ostentatious towering building that seeks to appear much swisher than it is. It's probably one of my favourite buildings in the world. Its original Turkish baths were converted to an infamous gay bathhouse and in 1977, a heterosexual swingers club opened called Plato's Retreat. Plato's Retreat was the launching pad for none other than Bette Midler's singing career. The Divine Ms M was accompanied by that timeless and most excellent musical genius Barry Manilow, of whom I won't hear a word spoken against. Because he is MUSIC! and he writes the SONGS!

Sidebar: These are just some of the reasons why it fucks me off to no end when people try and whitewash Bette Midler as some sort of pathetic, suet pudding 90s musical muck whose sole purpose was to appeal to an easy listening crowd of dull, middle aged shiksas. The Wind Beneath My Wings is not her entire ouvre, you ignorant numbskulls! She was a gay icon before Kylie Minogue even had a forehead in which to pump full of botox! She is a musical maverick! Educate yourselves!

Ditto to anyone who likes all kinds of music "except country". You don't even deserve to live.

Anyhoo, the Ansonia was also the filming location for Single White Female, which means it was the site for one of the greatest schlock films of all time and has had Jennifer Jason Leigh in its folds which makes it officially awesome.

It was beautiful..but I can't go around looking like you anymore.

And to conclude the highlights of yesterday's tour, here is Jerry Seinfeld's carpark:

Following Dot's tour, we ate lunch at a local Jewish diner where I ate a cobb salad that was roughly the same size as Bono's ego. Unlike Bono though, it was supremely satisfying and delicious. I was also pleasantly surprised to discover that the diner's 'large' diet coke came in a glass almost as long as my forearm. Along with being situated in the arse end of the world and boasting Shane Warne as a citizen, under distribution of post mix soda is one of Australia's many cultural downfalls I feel.

After lunch, Dot and I headed to SoHo. (Well, she headed there. I sort of rolled, the enormous lunch providing a circular tyre in which I could comfortably propel myself down the city streets. Because of the inordinate amounts of fizzy drink consumed, I had no fear of losing pace with Dot, being able as it were to achieve short burst of acceleration through the release of bottom gas.)

We quickly bypassed the tourists vying to take photos of the half naked models parading in front of Abercrombie & Fitch (possibly the whitest store known to man - you can famliarise yourself with it here) and joined the other tourists convulsing in Forever 21. Truly, you don't appreciate how gross mass consumption is until you've been in a store stuffed to the brim with poorly made monstrosities shipped straight in from China. I really want to buy an F21 patchwork dress but all I can think of is the 3 year old girl who's stitched it in exchange for a low grade chipped lollipop and the promise of a night's sleep in a cardboard box. Ethical quandary...

The dirtiness of F21 was quickly eradicated when Dot and I visited my favourite bookstore in the entire world: The Strand. 18 miles of books and all of them joyously priced. Keen not to be outdone by my former NY jaunt (which saw me parcel home an entire box of Strand treasures for the low, low price of $100 - so, not so low after all), I loaded up with David Sedaris' "Holidays On Ice" and "Dress Your Family in Courderoy and Denim", Jean Rhys' "Wide Sargasso Sea", Alice Sebold's "Lucky" (a memoir about rape! fun!) and Betty Smith's "A Tree Grows In Brooklyn" of which I have heard much about and have always wanted to read. I plan to return to purchase some extra pretty postcard collections of turn of the century men being 'affectionate' with each other.

The day was marred somewhat by a run in with one of the kinds of douchebags one has the unfortunate luck of running into occasionally. In New York, women will often find themselves stopped on the street by spruikers paid to try and lure them to beauty salons with promises of cheap 'dos and pamper sessions. This particular spruiker thought he would charm us into reversing our initial 'not interested's by telling us about his recent trip to Australia (and who, incidentally, upon learning that I came from South Australia asked if that was where Canberra was..). Things went from bad to worse when he began to tell us about all the many Australians he'd met.

"Australia? I've been there. I've met Abbos and Lebbos and...."

....at which point I interrupted him to say, "Right, we're going then."

Having second thoughts though, I persuaded Dot to wait for me while I went back to explain the offence in his statement. After all, I reasoned, he may not know that it's incredibly uncool to refer to Aboriginals and Lebanese people as such. I reproduce our conversation for you here in full:

Me: Look, I just thought I should let you know that it's really inappropriate to use the terms 'abbos' and 'lebbos'.

Douche: You know what, I'm actually part American Indian so it's okay.

Me: It's not okay. That's like saying it's okay for black people to talk about 'niggers'.

Douche: Yeah well, what about yobbos?

Me: That's a totally different thing! It's not racist for a start. You just can't talk like that!

Douche: Yeah well, I'm American Indian so I'm an abbo.

Me: Fuck dude! Shut up with the 'abbo' comments!

Douche: Look, I'm American Indian so I can say what I want.

Me: I don't give a fuck what you are, you cannot talk about Aboriginal people and call them 'abbos'!

Douche: You know what? I lived there for four years, so bobs your uncle. I hope you have a nice life.

Me: If you'd lived in Australia for four years you fucking moron then you'd know that Canberra wasn't in South Australia.

At this, I executed a perfect storm off, leaving him to scramble in embarrassment by trying to cover it up with cocky bravado. Cunt.

The worst part is that he'd vaguely mentioned something about comedy earlier on. As in, I think he considers himself a working comedian. Dude, a) racism is only funny if you're exposing the ignorance of people like you, not revelling in it; and b) if you were actually a working comedian you probably wouldn't have to stand on the street trying to sell haircuts to women who don't need them.

Later, Dot and her husband Blaine and I went to the Hi Life to drink pitchers of beer and inadvertantly disrupt the service by giving our orders to people not assigned to our table. We are so provincial like that.

Now if you'll excuse me, I must away to the outside of Dot's house - or, in the American shorthand Dot and Blaine have been teaching me, "I need to motivate". I have a date with a certain Israeli fellow tonight and it is absolutely vital that I find something to combat the humidity frizz that has assailed my hair. Preferably sans the help of a racist, low rent 'comedian' with delusions of hilarity.

audrey in the big apple

2009-07-22T22:22:00.013+09:30

Those of whom aren't following me on twitter (and thus being exposed to my ~~questionable~~ awesome twaikus) will be unaware that I'm currently indulging my pleasure zone in New York and generally being a gadabout in slip on shoes and jaunty summer outfits.

I know, I know. I'm effectively unemployed, I have basically no savings and should probably have considered turning 28 to be some kind of sign that I try to get my life in order. But what they hey, right? When Qantas posts ridiculously cheap sale prices on their website, it's practically compulsory to take advantage of them. I take no responsibility for responding as intended to their seductive attempts to woo passengers.*

Actually getting to New York turned out to be a breeze. I didn't even need to take the valium pills I'd stowed away in my wallet for just-in-cases. (Sidebar: Amusing Dad Moment - when I told him I had some backup valium, he became very stern, took a deep breath and then said, "My fear is that you'll become addicted." Meanwhile, all the middle aged women having dinner with us began raving about how amazing the big V was. It's almost as if men are from Mars and women are from, I don't know, Venus or something!)

But I digress.

Because I'm a mind magician, I seem to be quite adept at getting myself upgrades here and there. In the past, it's only ever been to premium economy which is, as the name suggests, just like economy but ever-so-slightly less shit. I really lucked out this time though - Brisbane to LA was spent luxuriating in the space age pods they've reserved for the folk rich enough to pretend that 20 hour flights are at all conducive to business dealings. For your benefit, I've included a picture below of the mini houses they provide for this class of traveller:

A complicated array of buttons on the pod's armrest will, when massaged correctly, collapse the entire inside tray into a bed. This comes in especially handy after consuming the copious amounts of highbrow liquor they provide, the ceremonial presentation of which is kicked off before the plane has even started cruising the runway. There are little shelves to put your books in and cubby holes for the various accoutrements of travel - pawpaw lip cream, evian face spray, nuclear strength anti-aging hand cream.

Unfortunately, I forgot that last one. As a result, my hands currently resemble what I imagine the withered claws of Miss Havisham would look like were she to strap herself into a long haul flight and drink far more red than was necessary before passing out in a dehydrated stupor to dream of new and more inventive ways to crush the souls of young lovers.

Of course, now I'm ruined for future travel expeditions. How can I wallow with the peasants back in strap now that I've seen how the other half live?

After 27 hours in transit, I landed at JFK last night in the midst of a summer rainstorm. The air was muggy, the sky was grey but driving through the city as the sun was setting was one of the prettiest times I've ever seen it. Although it's been seven months since I tramped through these streets, it felt like I'd never left. There was Grand Central, towering over 42nd street like it always has. Here's where you cut through Central Park to get to Columbus. There's Dot's house, tucked away on W74th street amidst tree shrouded brownstones with stoops and iron railings. The air always seems alive with possibility in this city, and the great gulps of it I drew in last night replenished a spirit in me that, I'm sad to say, has been drowning a little bit in recent months.

Two glasses of wine later and I promptly passed out on Dot and Blaine's couch with my earphones plugged into the musical stylings of Michael Giacchino. (Yes, I love the music in Lost enough to buy it from iTunes, WHAT OF IT? I like to listen to There's No Place Like Home and get a bit swept up in the delicate crescendos while daydreaming about Desmond's half naked torso. LET ME CHOOSE MY CHOICE. *distracted*)

Now it's mid morning. I've been up for almost five hours after jetlag pulled me out of a comfortable sleep at 5:30am. Because the light was streaming through the windows and I have some summer clothes that have been begging for action these past four months, I sprang out of bed and Went Exploring. Dot and Blaine live one street away from the Strawberry Fields entrance to Central Park, so I spent an exceptionally pleasing hour wandering up and down the little hills in the park, watching morning runners and dog walkers and generally feeling like if I don't move here for keeps within the next three seconds then my life will be meaningless and sallow and devoid of all notions of pleasure.

The weather boasted that perfect combination of humidity being held at bay by the crisp remnants of morning dew on grass. As I walked, it began heating up in the way that summer mornings do - slowly but surely, the air turning thick with summer swell, sweat droplets almost but not quite forming on one's decollatage, the exposed limbs of runners glistening in the morning light. As always, I was amazed that this oasis of nature lies smack in the middle of a city as intense and urban as New York. Adelaide can waffle on all it likes about its parklands, but until they build a baseball field and a zoo in the middle of Victoria Park, I will determine to remain unimpressed.

Must dash. Dot's taking me on a self devised walking tour of the Upper West Side, resplendant in important facts about local celebrities and the history of nearby buildings. I keep telling her she should charge for these wacky tours she creates - without her by my side in the Met last winter, I would have remained the ignorant, unartistic dullard I am inside and written off everything remotely abstract as 'shit, more shit, utter shit, shit that's taking the piss, shit'. Of course, I remain an ignorant dullard in many other areas, but I can at least now appreciate the notion that negative space in art is not always a case of the artist having a laugh - although, I maintain to this day that The Art Gallery of SA's 'Red On Black' is the artistic equivalent of brewing instant coffee in a plunger and calling it espresso. While wearing a beret.

In two weeks, I'm flying to Spain for a month to play with the Chilean, swim in Barcelonan beaches and become well versed in the art of Gaudi, Picasso and Dali. I anticipate lots of bicycle riding, broken Spanish and afternoon siestas. Then it's back to New York for two weeks before flying home to begin preparing for Adelaide Fringe 2010 - this year, Emily and I are writing a show about the landscape of love. (With Ms Davis' supreme talent, it will naturally be excellent so please do come along for some storytelling and more odes to old male rockers like the J.Cash and the Stones.)

Even though promises to blog more are really indicative of nothing more than the author's own (perhaps misguided) assumption that anyone actually cares if they blog less, I know I've neglected the apple barrel of late. What can I say - it's been a tough few months. But for those readers who have remained loyal, and for those who just pop in on occasion, I will be blogging this overseas jaunt relatively intensively to make up for the fact I wrote barely a skerrick about the last one.

So, you know. Come on by if you're interested.

Now, off for walkies and talkies. Later, I may call on the Israeli and kiss him on the lips while the summer heat settles outside. I may definitely do that.

* (Besides, when I think about it my employment situation isn't all that dire. I'm writing for a TV show now, don't you know.. *brushes fingernails against lapel foppishly*. And I'm heading to Queensland in November to work on a digital storytelling project for the State Library up there. On paper, things are looking pretty good.)

28 bottles of wine on the wall..

2009-06-30T00:58:00.001+09:30

Ah Melbourne, thou dost always bring a warmth to my heart even in the dead of winter...

I met with the lovely Mel Campbell this morning and chinwagged about the execrable articles in the new Sunday Life magazine, why white people love Mad Men and the none-too-tiny nugget of genius that was Germaine Greer's epitaph for MJ.

You may know Mel from A Wild Young Under Whimsy or just generally being an interesting Lady About Town. Anyhoo, we put away truckloads of coffee and I felt slightly anxious for the remainder of the day, which was primarily spent poking about overpriced antique markets and tacky, overpriced shitholes on Chapel St.

I was also beset by an unfamiliar sense of shock when I realised that the Footscray Coles would be packaging my goods for me in a *spits on fingers in manner of Catholics warding off evil eye* plastic bag. Truly, I had the same reaction I might have done had someone wandered into The Elephant Walk and lit up a cigarette. I mean....you just can't do that. Clearly the Great Plastic Bag Ban SA Edition can already be declared a successful social experiment if after only a few months people are already brainwashed into believing that the world prior to it existed in some kind of Carrollian dimension populated by talking eggs and this man:

Ah Depp. I thought that Willy Wonka might be a one off, a strange anomaly in an otherwise ordered and correct world - but no, it appears that you are capable of assuming multiple guises in which the likelihood of desiring boudoir intimacy with you would be virtually zero. Curses.

On Saturday night, I exceeded all prior levels of tacky white trashness when I attended my dear friend's birthday dinner and got blazing drunk on overpriced-but-shitty red wine. I then proceeded to drink two more of said bottles in the gutter outside with a motley crew of fellow trashbags who, tangentially to this experience, all claimed to be suffering from swine flu. Some other hijinks occurred which I think may have involved raucous discussions about slut shaming at The Union and possibly some ferocious haggling with a taxi driver. I woke up on a floor in Fitzroy the next morning with a cat curled next to my face and my liquid eyeliner still in place.

Yes, I'm nothing if not neat in my fooliganism. I may be a boozehound, but I like to think I'm a remarkably well preserved one.

This will come in handy, as I am one year older today - today (which is I suppose tomorrow, sort of, it being past midnight but today by the time you'll be able to read this) being my beeday, my 28th one. Which sounds a lot older than 27, and veering dangerously close to the dirty thirties. I wonder, will it still be acceptable for me to read Sweet Valley High books in the bath when I'm 30? Now that I'm old, will I have to give up watching ABC afternoon kids dramas? Is 28 really too ancient to consider party make out sessions one of the highlights of the week?

I jest, of course. One is NEVER too old to read Sweet Valley High books in the bath. That Jessica is such a scamp. A manipulative, sex crazed, wonderful bitch of a scamp.

tweet tweet...

2009-06-25T14:17:00.005+09:30

Ahead of my rapidly approaching descent into the jobless market, I have made somewhat of an astounding decision. While it fundamentally goes against most everything I believe in and will almost certainly lead to total brain rupture and spasmodic arthritis of the hands and wrists, I cannot in all good conscience avoid this path.

I have *hem hem* joined Twitter.

As Mr Collins would say, let me outline my reasons for marriage.

Firstly, it will serve as a great time filler in between geeking out over DVD box sets (speaking of, I'm almost up to date with Lost - suggestions for next celluloid obsession below plz) and peddling my wares to printy type places about the country. Secondly, it occurs to me that it may be some kind of career minded thing to do, given that I can use it to peddle MYSELF to any kind of public that chooses to be interested. And thirdly, which perhaps I ought to have listed first, it is the very great wish of my honourable patroness the Lady Catherine de Burgh that I do so, and in return she has promised to build shelves in my closet.

To be fair, that second part works well in theory but we're all friends here so I can be honest. I am less likely to use it for anything of substantial merit than I am to post photos of poorly thought out fashion choices like this, and attempt to solicit people's thoughts on the inherent tackiness thereof:

I refer of course to the tattoos, though the dubious choice of a singlet in June would understandably warrant its own discourse.

In conclusion, if you do that whole Twitter thing or just like to follow raging egomaniacs like myself, you can find me on www.twitter.com/audreyapple.

It could be fun. I'm considering making my 'thing' to update about current events and anti-feminism but communicate only in haiku. Maybe. Here is an example of a 'retweet' (check me out with my lingo...) to rachelhills re the media's reaction to the NRL sex 'scandal'.

Clare, she was branded

A slutbag who lies.

And Johns? A man amongst men.

Genius. Who can say?

And so, if you like

You can follow me right here

And lo! See me tweet!

That is all.

an exercise in non sequitur thinking

2009-06-24T01:05:00.009+09:30

Well, it's been a while but the time has come to revist an old friend. I say friend, but obviously what I mean is she of the horrendous-vile-harpy-contributing-to-the-destruction-of-the-world-as-we-know-it-through-the-use-of-mind-numbing-online-columns-and-poorly-researched-(if-at-all)-columns-on-gender,-dating-and-why-women-are-really-nothing-more-than-batshit-crazy-marriage-medusas-intent-on-trapping-men-by-filling-their-empty-depressed-wombs-up-with-~~collateral~~-babies!-and-then-giving-up-on-sex-because-now-the-ring-is-on-the-finger-they-don't-need-to-do-it-anymore-oh-and-also-men-are-heaps-nice-and-shit-and-women-just-won't-give-them-the-chance-because-they're-stuck-up-bitches-yay-pretend-feminism!

I am of course referring to Samantha Brett or, as I like to call her, That Fuckwit.

After all this time, I'm still uncertain as to what exactly qualifies Brett to speak with any kind of authority on relationships. Is it that she's been in some? Because I've been in some too, but you don't find me peddling misinformation and stereotypes online to a mostly moronic public. Which is a shame really, because I could teach people a thing or two about a thing or two - namely, that it is unwise to date a man who genuinely believes himself to be a Sith Lord and that men who take road trips when you've scheduled an abortion and then forget to call to see if you're okay are probably not what you'd call 'keepers'.

Luckily, you have me to read That Fuckwit's crap so you don't have to.

*hem hem*

This week, Brett asks the incredibly on-trend question of whether or not the anti-feminist movement is back in vogue. Only four hundred million similar articles or television segments have been produced on this in the last week, so we're fortunate that Brett has added her two cents to the vacuum of considered thought on this matter.

I had expected that she'd make mention of 60 Minutes' heinous report last week that suggested more and more young women are embracing 'traditional' roles of femininity - spurning the workplace to stay at home and look after Their Men, attending trite tupperware style retro kitchen wear parties and generally ignoring the fact that they've failed to borrow rampant alcoholism, sexual oppression and gut wrenching melancholy from the decade they've decided to idolise.

(You get the sense that reporter Ellen Fanning is doing all this through gritted teeth here. As an older woman in a sexist industry on an especially sexist network, it must have felt like chewing glass to construct a report on a 'phenonemon' that is essentially bogus, overblown wishful thinking and reflective of nothing other than some people's desires to will it into existence. I'm sure the presence of Germaine Greer was the studio's only concession to her complaints.)

But if there's one thing we've learned about Samantha Brett it's that she's fond of posing initial questions and not only blatantly failing to answer them, but in fact failing to tie them in any way, shape or form to the actual content of her ~~bilge~~ columns.

She begins by recounting the ~~fabrication~~ tale of a dinner she shared with a male friend recently. While dining on 'sushi and sake' (oh Sam, you are like, soooooo Sydney and cosmopolitan! Get down with your bad self!), she asked him why, if it was so easy for women to find men to sleep with, they couldn't find anyone to commit to them.

Interesting question, Sam. Of course, my initial response would be that you shouldn't seek answers to it from someone who'll offer you the following:

"Oh that," he replied. "Well, that we'll only do when it becomes obvious that a girl we're pseudo-dating proves to be the perfect girlfriend. With so many options these days, why settle for anything less?"

He went on to explain that while he'd happily bonk his dutiful f--- buddy, the thought of committing to her (and ditching the other three women on his speed dial) was enough to make him cringe...

Apparently his bonk-buddy didn't possess enough sex appeal, didn't have a great sense of humour, didn't talk enough about interesting topics, wasn't ambitious enough, didn't flatter his ego enough and wasn't - what he deemed key to getting him to commit - feminine.

"She dresses too much like a man," he exclaimed.

Ah-huh!

See, your friend is a fuckwith. While I understand that you're That Fuckwit, you need to be aware that he's That Other Fuckwit - and his essential douchery when it comes to sleeping with women he has no respect and no discernable admiration for yet considers himself better than is not explanation enough for the disconnect between sex and the willingness to commit that it requires an 'Ah-huh!' on your part. I mean, are you actually that person who believes every lame thing an emotional fuckwad says is indisputable evidence for Why The World Is What It Is?

Here is a verbal painting of your brain.

"He says he won't commit because she's not feminine, meaning that she doesn't flatter his ego enough. Ergo, this must be true and she must be Letting The Side Down with her comfortable shoes and inability to pander to the emotional needs of childish men with a penis complex. Ergo, this must be true of all situations in which men are reluctant to commit to women.

I am now equipped to pen an ill-conceived and spurious treatise on something unrelated to this matter but pretending to be. As usual, I shall offer up no conclusion but leave it to my readers to try and spin some kind of cohesive thought structure out of this mess. Also, I shall cash my ridiculously large check which I continued to bank when other Age writers were on strike, because I have no morals or sense of unity."

She continues:

So was this the issue of contention when it came to the modern female single epidemic?

Brett then goes on to discuss the work of Helen B. Andelin, a Mormon mother of 8 and general thorn in the side of women with, you know, brains. Andelin founded the Fascinating Womanhood movement, which basically instructs women to defer to their husbands in everything, act girlishly and deny their own essential sexuality. Andelin wrote that:

"Sexuality in a woman does not arouse love in a man. Love is aroused by wholesome feminine qualities."

But Brett's hypothesis as always fails to deconstruct the rubbish she's actually talking about. She provides a whole bunch of quotes which, both on their own and in context of Adelin's book, are certifiable garbage - yet the only hint she gives at her disapproval of these ideas is labeling the book 'tedious' and at times hilariously outdated.

Eff, she can't even discern the theoretical difference between the random opinion of some twat she's drinking sake with and actual in depth studies on the views of men and women.

"Perhaps. But when I delved deeper into the topic, it appeared that it wasn't only their dress sense that was sending men away in droves. And it's not even something recent either."

See what she did there?! Firstly, she lied because she said she 'delved' when we know that at best she's conducted a pathetic straw poll of one. She then assumed that That Other Fuckwit's one example of cuntish behaviour was actually the result of some kind of vast action on behalf of women everywhere. WE are sending THEM away in droves with our expectation that love means never having to say you're sorry for wearing sneakers and enjoying financial independence! In droves!

Surely the appropriate response here would be, 'Get over it you self absorbed, arrogant douchebag. Admit that you don't want to commit because what you really want is a woman who'll submit to your assumed brilliance, let you be smarter than her, funnier than her, more powerful and more successful, and who will look good hanging from your arm in front of all the other smart, funny, powerful, successful men you fancy yourself to be in competition with. Fuck this shit, I'm off home to drink vodka and tell everybody I've ever met about what a wanker you are."

But instead of dismissing her friend's views on femininity and commitment as outdated claptrap AKIN to the kind of malarkey pedaled by Adelin, she assumes that his explanation is both correct and universal.

I mean, FUCK. It's offensive enough that she's even provided with paid writing work but you'd think the woman would be forced to actually follow the basic tenets of opinion writing. Namely, have one.

Personally, I like what commentor Ms Magoo has to say.

"I think that for anyone who wants to become a Mormon, give birth to eight children, marry a dentist and pretend they are living in the 1960s, this could be a useful resource."

I'd like to amend this slightly to apply to Brett's site as a whole and say that for anyone who wants to lose a few IQ points a week, learn how to give birth to nonsensical theories, commit themselves to following the inane babbles of an imbecile with too much air time and pretend they are living in Sex and the City, this is an essential resource.

After all, where else could they read such stellar material as this:

"Women don't give enough men a chance any more," a twentysomething male single friend told me over drinks last week. "That's why so many women are single. You should do a column on that: 'Why more women should give more men a go.'"
I was intrigued as he continued: "You see that woman talking to my friend over there?"

He gestured over to a short, balding bloke with pale skin and a leather jacket who was attempting to chat up a bored-looking busty brunette.

"Now, he may not be the best-looking guy in the club, but I happen to know that he is a really great, decent dude. But look at her - she's not even going to give him more than two minutes of her time before she walks away. That's modern women for you."

Obviously it came as no surprise that Brett didn't bother to question why the short, balding man thought he deserved a busty brunette when there are far more noticeable absences of short, portly women being given the time of day by chesty men.

But what could you expect from a woman who describes vomitous marketing tie in and hideously dated battle of the sexes film vehicle He's Just Not That Into You as "Zeitgeist-defining"?

Samantha, your brain called. It wants its bond back.

GFC. I knew him, Horatio...

2009-06-19T16:41:00.003+09:30

For the first time in what seems like an age, I'd actually planned to do some site maintenance today. I was up practically at the crack of dawn, bunkered down at the kitchen table and sifting through some websites of varying interest.

Having finally fast forwarded to the future and hooked my house up to the World Wide Web, I took some time to appreciate the ease in which most other middle class people live. Good food, fast internet, warm houses. Life was pretty good. For me, at least.

I was even resisting the urge to submerge myself in season 4 of Lost. Last night, we learned that the island is mad wack when it comes to time, and that Hot Desmond narrowly escaped time travel related nutjob brain failure by anchoring himself to the lovely Penny. We also learned that Kate is not the bundle of awesomeness tha we previously assumed her to be, but rather a vicious harpy who toys with the emotions of that fine hunk of manhood, Sawyer. (sidebar: perhaps one of the funniest moments ever had Sawyer interrupted while reading Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret. He found it 'predictable'.)

In amongst all this learning, we ALSO learned that Locke is going progressively mad as he becomes more obsessed with the island's secrets, and Juliet purses her lips too much. Oh, and that Hurley is just about the cutest thing to have ever been created for television, ever.

But any fan of Lost would know these things already, and would in fact be about a season and a half in front of me. SO DON'T SAY ANYTHING.

Anyhoo, I was ignoring Lost in favour of my shiny new internet connection and the myriad of different things there were to get mad about today. There was the Liberal staffer caught groping the breasts of his colleagues and superiors at Parliament's mid-winter ball. Is it facepalmishly amusing that he worked for the Opposition's Spokesperson for Women, Sophie Mirabella? No, it just makes it sadder. And by that, I of course mean Cirque de So Lame. Honestly, dude? If you're going to be a gross douchebag who assaults women in public, do you think you might attempt to do it with a little more finesse than a 12 year old schoolboy at his first mixed-party-in-a-basement? You don't ask to grab someone's 'boobs' at a ball.

Then there was this lovely speciman (and doesn't he look a treat in his Today Tonight-esque mug shot there?) who's seriously attempting to pass off running a puerile cyber bullying website as some grand defence of free speech.

"Many of the victims are teenage girls who have had their name, photo and phone numbers posted, accompanied by invitations to bombard them with abusive phone calls and text messages or ask them for sex."

But what does Andew Pallant have to say about it?

"I don't put the pen in anybody's hand!"

Dude, that's the defence equivalent of responding to anything your sister says with "I know you are, but what am I?" and farting in her face. Grow up. These are real people's lives, you scum sucking misogynist douchebag.

This morning, I also learned that calling your fetus a 'fetus' and choosing to abort it might mean that later down the line when you actually want to keep your pregnancy, your crazy lady brain won't be able to distinguish between the two. So, you might actually HAVE your baby and think, but hang on! isn't it a fetus?

*confused*

And then you'll kill it. So ladies, make sure you NEVER refer to the thing growing inside of you as ANYTHING other than a BABY because you just might find yourself facing a life sentence and not quite knowing what happened. This message has come to you courtesy of a male columnist with no discernable fucking idea of what it feels like to have something growing inside of you, fetus or otherwise.

So there were all these anger-making (yes, I've read Scott Westerfeld) things to write about this morning, and I was all set to do it and spurning Lost and everything in favour of being a PROFESSIONAL person with GOALS and MOTIVATION.

And then I got a call from my editor telling me my column has been nixed. The paper is taking a new direction and I apparently do not fit in with that vision. Pants.

To my credit, I did not at that moment collapse into a heaping wreck and decide to take refuge in the warm, inviting hollows of Sawyer's dimples. Instead, I've done more work in one day trying to line up freelance work than I have in the entire past 14 months. Complacency is a terrible thing, but the removal of it is a fantastic motivator...

Ah well. I have a hollyday lined up to New York and Barcelona in August. Maybe I'll just stay there and ply my wares on the streets. I can change my name to Lila and acquaint myself with the world's oldest profession. Considering I've been doing just that for the last six months in this job anyway, I should be a dab hand at it.

And now I'm off to get blazed and excuse myself for smoking.

welcome to the house of fun..

2009-05-26T23:38:00.004+09:30

I had the very great fortune of being given a free ticket to see the legendary Pink play at Adelaide's Entertainment Centre.

Sparkles, glitter, gothic funhouse themes...what more could you want? Pink disproves the anti-feminist argument that those who dislike hyper packaged sexuality dislike the act of being sexy in its entirety. With a twinkle in her eye and a set of stomach muscles you could break teeth on, Pink aims a sharpened middle finger at the pouty lipped, bedroom eyed, touseled haired plastic trolley dollies that are spat up by the pop music machine every few months or so; it would be impossible to imagine her pole dancing to lyrics that ask men if they wished their girlfriends were as hot as she.

I don't find the idea of women taking their tops off in bars 'empowering', nor do I find the fact that we can 'choose' to plump our breasts up or pay for labia tucks or sleep with 200 AFL players signs that women are in control of their bodies and filled to the brim with any kind of real self determination.

What I find empowering (and ugh, I am loathe to even use that word, so wholly has its meaning been decimated by the hordes of people who've decided it simply means having the ability to choose anything. If you need it, it can be found languishing in an oubliette of irony for the rest of eternity...) is the sight of a fit, strong woman owning her body on stage in a way that doesn't include silkily draping herself over dudes, or having serpents slither across her breasts, or engaging her nether regions in a manner that implies she's getting fucked while her mouth moans and her eyes look vacant. I love that she sings on stage while jumping around, and she doesn't get tired because she is that fit. I appreciate that, amidst all the frenetic energy and silliness, she can find time to turn the lights down low and sing less popular emo songs on a stool (even though I hate stool singing as a rule).

This is a woman who appears to kowtow to nobody, yet who appears also to love the members of her ensemble back up. Her husband features in a music video which is also a kiss off to him and their marriage - that that can even happen I think demonstrates something very special about their relationship.

I don't know, what can I say. She's a fucking icon. From the smashing covers she did tonight of 70s glam rock, I'd love for her next album to be a tribute to the hyper masculinised rock bands of old. Girlfriend has got pipes on her.

But I think what I love most about her is that, in a sea of people young and old, male and female, a female pop singer can be so incredible (even if you don't fancy her music much), so persuasive and so frakking badass that it can inspire a middle aged man with a shaved head and earrings to get in first at the merch table so he can enjoy the entirety of the arena spectacular dressed like this:

Simply superb. You really are a mother frakking rock star, lady. *salutes*

A babe in the woods

2009-05-25T12:05:00.015+09:30

Day the last of my grand detox program.

I thought I'd be more excited. After 15 days of being denied any of the enjoyments that basically make life worth living, I thought I'd be chomping at the bit to retoxify my innards. Booze, cigarettes, copious lashings of caffeine, a monster steak... How can one ever grow tired of these?

Turns out they can. Or, at the very least, after a significant distance from them they seem less important. For the first time in a long time I feel pretty healthy. Clean. Purified. Like a shamen.. *doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo*

Of course, who knows how long that will last. I'll probably be 500 cigarettes down by Saturday- particularly as I finally get to meet the inimitable Ms Cynic - and my entire left ventricle will be pulsing with coffee. Still. It feels pretty good right now.

I'm almost afraid to reacquaint myself with alcohol. I honestly can't remember the last time I went for two weeks without a drink. I would bet 500 billion smackers though that it hasn't been in the last ten years. That's a fairly frightening reflection. Four days before Operation Detox began, I put away four bottles of wine with a friend. I mean....that's just ridiculous.

I do sometimes worry that I'm an alcoholic. I don't drink alone and I don't need a nip of whiskey to wake me up in the morning. But I'm beset by a startling lack of self control. Once that bottle is opened, it's gettin' drunked. I am nothing if not wholly committed to finishing what I started, particularly when it's bad for me. See also: men, food, habits, self deprecation.

Anyhoo, I may or may not write at some point on Ms I've Slept With 200 AFL Players And I'm Fine So Clearly "Clare" Needs To HTFU. Then again, after fielding a majority of comments on yesterday's Mail blog that demonstrated a stellar inability to understand the difference between liberal attitudes to sexuality and assault, I just might not. To be honest, I'm tired of immersing myself in the cesspool of ignorance that seems to comprise the brainmass of the general Australian public. Time to move to Barcelona and marry my Chilean I think...*

Until then, below is yesterday's column. Now that I've been marginalised (literally), I have less words with which to flesh out my argument. As such, I couldn't elaborate on the fact that I believe the double standard when it comes to older parents signifies that women are still expected to do the majority of the parenting, while fathers (especially retired ones) are best employed at teaching children about natural confectionary and giving donkey rides.

For an extra specially fun read, check out the comments afterwards on this Jezebel thread. Many of them defy logic. I love Jezebel, but I especially love how determined most of the commentors are to appear as enlightened superior beings with a talent for biting wit and more than a touch of the dipsomania about them. How very Wilde of them.

******

Despite all it’s given us, there are times when I wonder if science is used to interfere too much with the natural order of things. We have America’s Octomom making a mockery of the IVF system, designer babies looming on the horizon and now yet another post menopausal woman has joined the fray to tinker with nature’s reproductive plan.

Last year, Briton Elizabeth Adeney reportedly travelled to the Ukraine to receive IVF treatment. As a result, the 66 year old is now eight months pregnant and awaiting the birth of her first child.

Despite fiercely maintaining her privacy in this matter, online newspaper commentors across the world have been quick to label her selfish while lamenting the fate of the ‘poor child’ involved. And while I share their concerns, I also grow tired of the hypocrisy surrounding elderly parents.

Unlike most first time mothers, Adeney’s in a position to offer a substantially good life to her child. A wealthy businesswoman, Adeney owns her own home and has already secured the services of a live in nanny to assist with the baby.

Ah! but I hear you scream. A nanny! She’s having a baby and she doesn’t even plan to raise it herself! And then she’ll die! SELFISH!

True, Adeney will be in her 80s for most of the child’s teenage years. She won’t have the kind of energy that parents of young children are ideally in possession of – but then, many young parents of young children lack that same joie de vivre. We are supposedly in the middle of a childhood obesity epidemic after all. The risk that she will die before her child reaches adulthood is high.

But I can think of at least one other person for whom that will also be the case. In fact, they have an edge on Adeney of about 4 years.

In October 2007, the Sunday Mail announced the news that Philip Satchell’s wife Cecily was pregnant by writing, “Retired radio legend Philip Satchell turned 70 last Friday with more than one reason to crack the bubbly – he'll soon become a dad again.”

The double standard was just as apparent then as it is now. While Satchell was to be applauded, congratulated and patted on the back, women like Adeney are viciously dismissed as both ‘desperate’ and ‘selfish’.

Another local ‘legend’ has also recently joined the league of older parents. At 61, Graham Cornes has become a father for the fifth time.

Now, it’s possible I may have missed it given how grossly disinterested I generally am in the Cornes’ lives**, but I’m fairly certain that Graham has also avoided the worldwide approbation and outrage currently being levelled at Adeney.

For the record, I think Adeney IS too old to give birth to a child. British law would certainly not prohibit her from adopting and goodness knows there are children in need of financially stable, loving homes.

But what’s good for the goose should be good for the gander. If Adeney is too old to have a child, why are we still ‘cracking open the bubbly’ for men like Satchell and Cornes?

*****

Am I missing something here? Intellectually I can get the argument that science enables us to do lots of things and this is no different. After all, once the baby is born (and out of the woods, rather than IN them so to speak) does it really matter how old the mother is? Sure, Adeney will be 80 when Adeney the Younger hits pubescent horror but so are plenty of fathers. Is it that she's raising the child alone? Well, she has a nanny, money and (presumably) the kind of love to give that comes from defying all odds to have a child. The baby will arguably be better off than many in its generation.

I mean, I'm comfortable with my apprehension because I distribute it evenly between men and women. I have a basic view that people shouldn't be reproducing after a certain age. (But then, I have some other views I would never dare share with anyone other than my close friends for fear I'd be labelled a Nazi supporter of eugenics. Heh. Turns out I actually am a femi-Nazi.)

Can general opposition to older mothers be reduced to the fact that we can't escape the visceral reality of what's happening to their bodies? Specifically, that pregnancy by its nature is a side effect of sex and therefore reminds us of it.

Essentially, are people disgusted simply because they don't like to think of post menopausal women - and their attendant post menopausal, dried up old grey leathery veejays - getting frisky?

* And the dear chap sent me a message today telling me he's waiting for it. Tempting, tempting, every day...

** For the record, I am actually so disinterested in the Cornes' lives to the point that I woke up in a panic sometime before dawn on Saturday fretting that perhaps Nicole had lost the baby along the way and I was about to commit an obscene act of cruelty.

Buying the milk when you get the cow for free....or something like that.

2009-05-20T15:22:00.009+09:30

Hmmm.

Online virgin Alina Percea reveals her $20,000 sexual encounter

A TEENAGER who sold her virginity online for $20,000 has revealed the details of her tryst with the winning bidder - a 45-year-old man - in Venice.

Alina Percea, 18, auctioned her virginity on a website so that she could afford to pay for her computing degree.

The winner of the auction was a 45-year-old Italian businessman but she had no qualms about going through with the deal.

The businessman from Bologna paid for her to fly to Venice where the couple toured the sights before spending a night in a luxury hotel.

It's not the auctioning itself that I have a problem with. Of all the horribly impersonal things in the world, this rates fairly low on the list of things that hurt my heart. As I wrote for my Sunday Mail blog back in March:

The value placed on female virginity through the ages has always been despicably high. Hanging the marital sheets out after the wedding night to display the telltale signs of deflowering; women undergoing hymen replacement surgery to ‘fake’ virginity for male family members who seem to think it’s any of their business; the idea that women need to somehow ‘save’ themselves for their husbands because their virginity is the most precious gift they can give them – virginity has ALWAYS been commodified.
It’s just that the sale of it was never controlled by the women who actually owned it.

In Alina's case, even her autonomy in selling her virginity (and, as I also wrote for the Mail, I still can't quite grapple with the idea that one could ‘sell’ something as abstract as virginity – or more specifically, that one could ‘buy’ whatever elusive and yuksome feeling they imagine comes from being the first to stake their claim on previously unchartered territory. All hail the conquering hero! and so forth..) was undermined along the way:

The auction was hit by controversy three weeks before its culmination when a teacher at Alina's former school claimed she was not a virgin.

But Alina, who had already undergone a medical examination, was seen by a second doctor, who confirmed at a press conference she'd never had sex.

And...that's gross.

Sex is not drenched in intimacy each and every time you have it. For many people 'intimacy' doesn't even have to be present to have an enjoyable, satisfying sexual experience.

However, I would imagine that the majority of people - and I'm going to go out on a gender limb here and say perhaps females especially - would like to believe that their experience of losing their virginity is going to an enjoyable, respectful affair, hopefully done with someone they like and maybe even love. I mean, I can't imagine anyone actually idealises the idea of losing it in a backseat or at a house party with someone they barely know. Even people who claim they want/ed to just 'get it out of the way' probably wouldn't, if they were being honest, say that those were ideal situations within which to Do It for the first time.

That's not to say I think it should be candles and rose petals - it's different for everyone. For me, it was enough that I was with someone whose company I really enjoyed, who I didn't find sexually threatening in any way (vastly more experienced, domineering, overly persuasive etc) and who, apart from dating, I was actually friends with.

Alina doesn't contradict this desire. In her online ad, she wrote:

"I don't smoke and own a certificate from a gynaecologist which says I'm a virgin. I want my first time to be special and not very abrupt....I want to meet a gentle, respectful and generous man."

She also explains in the article that she'd been hoping to "meet a nice man, like in the film Pretty Woman".

And okay, I have a *facepalm* moment at that, but I also have to remind myself that there are far fewer opportunities for women in Romania and to earn $20,000 for one night's 'work' so that she can make her dreams of going to university a reality is not for me to judge.

So what if it's, as some ~~illiterate online forum fans~~ critics argue, 'nothing more than prostitution'? Is it the prostitution itself that offends them, or the idea that a woman might choose it for herself rather than having the socially sympathetic ease ofbeing the victim of a pimp (or father) who forces her into it?

For that matter, is that why the auctioning of virginity is considered so offensive - because the person determining the situation, parameters and outcome of its loss is a woman who, while not necessarily required to be in command of her emotions regarding the situation, is at least in command of the financials?

So many interesting things to ponder regarding the commodification of sex. We've created (and been complicit in that) the kind of society where sex can sell pretty much anything, yet women are still called sluts if they deviate from what's expected from them (or, as Emily Maguire says and I always quote, have sex in a way that the namecaller does not approve of) or behave in manners non compliant with the notion of a genteel, 'self respecting' chaste kind of woman or an emotionally crippled, dirty slut. There are so many avenues to wander down with this topic, most leading to some kind of social self reflection.

But what does the comments board on this article yield instead? The following:

This is unreal. I had no problems with this 'woman' doing this however, after reading that they used no protection and her idea of being safe was taking the morning after pill - I am horrified to say the least! She didnt want her first time to be 'abrupt' - one day is not adrupt? What a croc! We shouldnt even be advertising that this happened! This so called woman needs to face reality and needs some education on how to act and how to be a responsible adult!

Posted by: whatcanIsay of

Colour me completely unsurprised that there's not a skerrick of outrage or criticism levelled at the man who paid to deflower her. But then again, how could he have refused? He's a man! And as the next few comments will demonstrate to you, they simply can't be held responsible for their manly urges when slatternly whores parade it about it in front of them.

Observe:

I wonder if in 7 years or so, if she changes her mind and regrets her decision we can be subjected to another trial by media who can ask why he didn't take responsibility for her "vulnerability"?Then he can be sacked from his job and have his life ruined.

Posted by: No means No and yes means maybe of who knows where it ends

Because the two cases are strikingly similar. Oh, except that they're not, not at all. For a start, there was only one man in that hotel room in Venice as opposed to an entire rugby team who weren't fucking invited. And I'm pretty sure none of them gave "Clare" chocolates prior to assaulting her, degrading her and laughing about it.

Then we have:

In a few years she is likely to regret it, just like that group sex girl in NZ.

Posted by: John of Golden Grove SA

Ah yes, the 'group sex girl'. Firstly, it wasn't group sex. Secondly, if you're going to bother to cast aspersions on the validity of people's stories whilst simultaneously likening them to other incidents whose only similarity is that there is both a woman and sex involved, then you might at least give them the courtesy of referring to them by name and not just as 'that group sex girl'.

But this one's my favourite.

excellent - so in a few years we are going to have another media frenzy about another 'responsible' and morally intact 'lady' who is claiming violation of her by evil males; Now as she regrets her decision, she would like a 'trial by media' of the 'said' male to make him pay for taking advantage of her - oh, and of course an, unknown cash payment from the trash media for telling her 'story'.

Posted by: bicks of syd

Some favourite words and phrases here:

media frenzy - NRL players do something heinous and wrong, media reports, nation debates. ZOMG LEAVE THEM ALONE THIS IS NOT A FEEDING FRENZY!! WHATEVER HAPPENED HAPPENED SEVEN YEARS AGO! WHAT MAN WOULDN'T ETC?!

'responsible' and morally intact 'lady' - Firstly, she went into that room with them so she's already a big fat slut. Lady? I don't think so. Morals? Hardly. And we all know that morally bankrupt whores GET WHAT'S COMING TO THEM.

claiming violation - Liar.

evil males - Feminist conspiracy! Why must they continue to castrate us and stop us following our neeeeeeeeeds? For eff's sake, they were only having a bit of fun and she was TOTES UP FOR IT. Slut.

now, as she regrets her decision - Because rape when committed by men we know and respect and could totes have a beer with down the pub is never actually rape. We all know it's just some dumb bint regretting it afterwards. And well she might; I mean, I'd probably regret it too if I was getting it on with a couple of hot rugby guys (not that I'm gay) and then heaps more just turned up and used me in turn and laughed about it and basically, the sex that I thought I was going to get turned out to not be the sex I had and they made me feel scared, dirty and ashamed because they were basically forcing me and pretty soon I didn't even know what was going on and then EVERYONE said I just a dirty liar out to ruin careers and marriages. I would totally regret that. But it's hardly rape, because how were they to know that treating someone they're gang banging - and who didn't invite them in the first place - as less than human is wrong?

unknown cash payment - Liar AND a grifter.

trash media - I mean, imagine them actually reporting the news! And discussing it! Especially when these aren't even Muslim rapists*! I mean, THAT I could understand because we all know how they treat women....but this is the NRL! They're like us! But stronger!

'story' - Which has ruined the lives of good, decent family men for whom this happened seven years ago. Fucking slutbitch cumstain whore from hell and her fucking lies.

And I was having such a good day.

I wrote the following comment. Unsurprisingly, it hasn't been uploaded so I shall publish it here. Ah! The power of the internet...

Are you serious? You are actually attempting to connect this situation with the fallout from the 4 Corners story? Did you even watch 4 Corners? Have you read any of the articles connected to the story? If you had, you'd realise that there is a gaping difference between a girl selling her virginity online and being extremely open about the fact, and a girl who consented to having sex with two men, found herself in a situation with more than that, was very probably (and by her own claims) humiliated and degraded by them - within a culture which we KNOW has a habit and history of this kind of behavior, and of a fairly vile attitude towards women - to the point where she has suffered PTSD, and that she is now the subject of a swagload of hatred from people too stupid to accept that obtaining sexual consent does not give someone the right to invite other people without permission or treat their sexual partner with less respect than they would an animal.
Matthew Johns IS culpable for her vulnerability in that situation - by his own admission, he left the room when he realised other players had entered and were watching. One woman against a roomful of rugby players? Are you honestly going to sit there and claim that SHE'S the malicious
predator in this situation?
Here's a novel idea - if rugby players and their ilk don't want to lose their jobs for being involved in degrading pack sex parties, perhaps they shouldn't, you know, be involved in them.
It's NOT "Clare"'s fault for revealing what went on. It's their fault for doing it. She may have been silly enough to trust two rugby playes with her body, but silliness and stupidity do not deserve to be punished by rape and sexual abuse.

And in case that didn't sink in, from an article I'm working on at the moment:

Because even if the sex was consensual, one could reasonably argue the intent behind it wasn’t; that is, the sex itself was likely far from respectful or with a view to mutual enjoyment.

This was about domination and degradation – it’s pretty hard to come much closer to degrading someone than lining up to screw them while your teammates loiter around watching, as if the main participant was little more than a mechanical bull.

There are days when I truly do hate society at large, and could quite happily beat the living daylights out of every dumbfuck, ignorant shit-for-brains who crosses my path. In this light, I can totally understand why Alina Percea auctioned off her virginity.

What I hate most about shit like this is that it puts me in a position where I have to remind myself that there are exceptionally good men in the world and not all of them think like that - because the temptation to just shut up shop and fuck off to an unchartered part of the tropics can be overwhelming.

The worst part is that we can be certain those rallying around the NRL, the code, the right of those men to behave the way that they did - like the members of all the Facebook groups I cannot bring myself to look at - have probably not read a single discussion piece on the case and are instead basing their opinions solely on the tactical debating sources of the noughties - soundbites and screen grabs.

I wish I could put my heart to bed with a cup of homemade chicken soup and a copy of Oliver Jeffers Lost and Found.

* Because you just know that if these men weren't rugby players but were instead Lebanese Muslims, the public reaction would be oh so very different. See also: Aboriginal, poor, African.

and the circle of stupidity continues in Australia's Great Sporting Codes

2009-05-15T13:57:00.005+09:30

Much time has passed since I've dwelled on this page. This is not for lack of trying or even desire, but rather more because I am completely incompetent and find simple tasks like choosing internet providers wholly insurmountable. How can it be that difficult to connect the internet? One would imagine the process must be undertaken in complicated clicks and grunts for the amount of trouble it's given me.

To be fair, the extent of my research has been googling 'internode' and perusing their packages. How quickly it all fell into the Too Hard basket. It seems like it would be easy to select a service and follow through, but that would require one to deal with lengthy phone calls and fiddlesome contracts. SIGH. Not for the first time, I wish I had a little gnome to run around and complete my errands for me. Or a house elf. I would call him Dobby II and give him a little bed by the fire and everything. Then he could bring me a chamberpot of some description when I wake in the night needing number onesies but am too tired to crawl to the WC. And he could just deal with all my fuss and bother and my life would be so much SIMPLER.

I'm currently on day 5 of a complete body detox, so I could perhaps be forgiven for not realising that an obnoxious cyclathon being conducted in the mall to the thumping beat of oppressively awful music was in fact a fundraiser for juvenile diabetes. As such, it so happens that I stood there for a good five minutes with a carefully composed look of derision on my face and a slight lip curl. This is repeat lesson #293450 in why the execution snobbery is at best concealed and at worst mindnumbingly stupid.

Speaking of mindnumbingly stupid:

Matthew Johns.

It was a fair bet that it was this case which would tug me out of my wintry hidey hole and back into Blogland.

I mean. Honestly. Apart from anything, can we all just say together, 'ewwwwww'?

For a start, can we all just stop with the crocodile tears already? Regardless of whether or not there was anything for Johns to be 'caught' for (excepting adultery), why are tears such as these always so conveniently shed after the fact? I can understand Johns' emotion - at a stretch (although I can't help but feel like it was all a bit 'woe is me' rather than actually regretful). But why on earth would Phil Gould feel it necessary to get caught up in the hubub on last night's Footy Show and shed tears for his mate and all the hardship he and his wife have gone through?

Here are a couple of things that immediately spring to mind when thinking about both those issues:

1. Yes. It is extremely hurtful and intrusive for Johns to have part of his sexual history paraded before the public to be judged and condemned. Welcome to your average rape trial. How many times have women who've brought cases against rapists - sporting stars especially - had their own private lives laid bare before the both the legal court and the one of public opinion? How many of them have had to read that it was their decisions, their behaviour, the pattern of their sexual history that led to them being raped. What else did they expect?

Johns has had just this one case trotted out for the public and it has professionally, for the moment at least, ruined him. But the difference between the two scenarios is that some people will blast a woman for behaving provocatively, or having dared to have sex in a way that they choose not to approve of, and will tell them they should be held responsible for their behaviour. What did you expect when you went home with him? What did you expect when you got drunk with him? What did you expect when you let two men have sex with you and another three wanted to join in? Just what exactly did a slut like you expect?

And yet those same people respond to cases like Johns' with outrage that a man could be vilified for a sexual encounter that happened seven years ago. It's in the past! It shouldn't matter! How dare anyone dredge this up and try and besmirch a good man's name!

O, the hypocrisy! I can never quite come around to the acrid taste of it.

2. Phil Gould's tears. Gould, like many commentators, have gone to lengths to express their admiration for Johns' wife. Apparently 'incredibly brave', she has naturally gone through the wringer having to deal with media scrutiny and embarrassment because seven years ago her husband couldn't just not keep his piece in his pants but got himself involved in a situation which should be extreme even for an adulterous husband. Trish Johns has come out in support of her husband, even going so far as to sit next to him while Tracey Grimshaw grilled him on A Current Affair. It reminds me of the Elliot Spitzer press conference, when either Feministing or Jezebel applauded Spitzer's wife for seemingly being the first publicly wronged wife to not give her husband a pass by standing by as the cameras rolled to bask, if not drown, in his humiliation.

While it's none of my business whether or not Trish Johns appears publicly beside her husband or not, I do question applauding her for it. Ah, the poor, woebegotten wives, dealing with our lot. How very bloody brave we all are. Applause from Gould and his ilk for the strength and calibre of Trish Johns - but very little from the sporting fraternity for all the women who've bravely brought rape cases to trial when the likelihood of winning is not only minimal, but they also have to contend with being called sluts and liars and just out to make a fast buck at the expense of Good Men who couldn't have been expected to control themselves under the circumstances.

Here's what I think about it. Johns may well be an innocent victim in this scenario. He claims the woman was a willing participant, though I suppose we'll never know for sure. It's possible she consented to having group sex with 2 or 3 players and perhaps a few others joined in because, well, she's there and she's obviously loving it so as if she's got a right to say no? Sadly, most courts at that time would probably have agreed.

It's also possible that she's said yes to all of them, said no at one point and they just kept going. It's even more possible that she said yes, as Johns claims, but was subjected to acts of humiliation and degradation - to the point Johns felt he needed to apologise the next day for - because why should a woman who consents to having sex with five or more rugby players, while others watch, be deserving of any kind of sexual respect or consideration?

Whatever this was, consensual or not, no one could ever argue it was done in the spirit of mutual respect or enjoyment. This was a gang bang. Forgive me a spot of parochialism, but I'd wager these players would never want their sisters, girlfriends, mothers or daughters to behave like this. Indeed, to stretch they stereotype further they would be baying for blood from the men involved. Trish Johns herself said "I certainly wouldn't like it to be my daughter."

And thus they draw a distinction between women of calibre - ones they'd date, marry, be friends with, call family - and women who are there as nothing more than to serve as sexual objects for their mutual enjoyment and use. "Clare" may very well have been complicit in this - but it's an incredibly sad day for us all when a group of men would perpetuate an activity which anyone could reasonably deduce as having a power imbalance and as being degrading and humiliating (if not only through sheer lack of respect for the woman involved as anything other than an object to be used) - and that a woman might be either too consumed by the idea of rejection, of using sex to gain some flimsy and superficial feeling of power or simply too afraid to say no in the first place.

Johns may well be the NRL's sacrifical lamb, but he's a necessary one and the NRL and Channel Nine have only got themselves to blame. I believe Mike Harris of Prahan articulates it perfectly in his Letter to the Age:

I AM not a fan of Matthew Johns or The Footy Show (either code). And in no way do I support the boorish, thuggish and misogynistic behaviour of footballers across all codes. However, Johns seems to be the scapegoat in what is a typically superficial response from the rugby league administration and the media. That is, find the highest-profile person involved and land the blame there while giving lip service to the need for reform.

If Channel 9 were seriously concerned at such poor behaviour, it would have sacked Sam Newman from the Australian Rules version of the show long ago; but seemingly ratings outweigh social responsibility. If the NRL were serious about improving the behaviour of its footballers to socially acceptable standards it would do a lot more to punish and stop such behaviour. When Canterbury breached the salary cap, the league's response was severe and cost the club premiership points — the club hasn't reoffended.

Well said Mike. Well said.

Ring a ding ding

2009-05-09T00:06:00.003+09:30

I'm fairly sure that you've just let the cat out of the bag Mr Southall.

"There's a speck of coral in the Whitsundays called Heart Reef that is about to play a pivotal role in the life of Ben Southall.
As its name suggests, it grows in the perfect shape of a heart.

And it's the first place the winner of the Best Job in the World wants to visit when his girlfriend Breanna flies in from Vancouver to join him for his six-month stint promoting the islands of the Great Barrier Reef.
It doesn't take a genius to work out why he wants to take her there - he hopes she'll say I do."

If she's very lucky, you'll film the event and post it on the travel blog you are being paid insane amounts of money to write so that everyone in the world can share in your special, private moment.

Did I mention that I hate public proposals? And women who squeal when they're given a ring?