she's got potential...

Bloody Oath!

2011-07-11T00:54:00.000-07:00

Imelda May - Inside Out (Live on The Graham Norton Show)

2011-06-24T10:11:00.000-07:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x4Ut9_PS_DA&feature=related

Of Semantics, Sexuality and Sensitivity

2011-06-22T09:52:00.000-07:00

How sensitive is too sensitive when it comes to the use of language and its affect on people? Added to that, how many people need voice their offense at the use of a particular word or phrase before we demand its removal from the language?

Yesterday the following status update appeared on a facebook page supporting Gay Marriage:

FYI: When talking about coming out and the process of learning to embrace your sexuality, please don't use the phrase 'coming to terms with your sexuality'. Finding out your best friend died or being diagnosed with cancer is something you 'come to terms with', not being gay. Lets embrace our sexualities and use language that reflects that we are proud not simply tolerant of our sexualities.

Since then, the ensuing argument amongst the group’s followers has gone from people simply disagreeing with its offensiveness, to people offended by being told what they should and shouldn’t be saying, to people who appear so relieved to find someone equally offended that they sound a little, err, orgasmic with excitement.

Personally, I found it a bit of self indulgent waffle from someone who wanted to say something profound but came of sounding a bit glib. There again, maybe it’s just the opinion of someone who had it a whole lot easier than I did. Being gay was definitely something I had to come to terms with, as did the people around me, and I did “just have to deal with it” – another phrase they derided further into the argument. Of course you have to deal with it; otherwise you end up unhappy, closeted, maybe suicidal, or stuck in a marriage you aren’t suited to. Worse, you might end up a member of the clergy.

But I digress. Most interesting to me was that much of the feedback was along the lines of “who are you to tell me what I can and can’t say, particularly since I came out during the AIDS crisis in the 1980s?” Now this opinion I really am intrigued by. Not because of its validity or otherwise, but because of the meaning of words in relation to time and society, and the era you’re living in. And it’s kind of ironic (I say ‘kind of ironic’ because there’s always some wanker ready to point out that what you’re saying isn’t actually ironic – usually it’s me to other people, so consider this a pre-emptive strike!) that this argument of semantics is happening on a site that supports changing the meaning of marriage to include same sex unions.

I love the fluidity of words, and their ability to morph over time. Take the word ‘gay’. I can’t think of another word in the English language that has travelled such a very long way in a relatively short amount of time.

The last couple of years has seen quite a movement against the expression “that’s so gay”, a phrase that just doesn’t rate with me. I mean, I get why it annoys people, I really do. I fully understand why people find it offensive to hear kids using so nonchalantly. But I am personally not insulted by it, because as far as I can see, the intent to offend isn’t there.

Which isn’t to say that it’s not what started gay being used this way in the first place. I’m sure it was. But I feel that the use of the word has taken on a life of its own and moved very quickly to mean something else entirely. My brothers have used the expression ever since they can remember (they’re both in their late 20s) and I know I said it when I was at school, which is an astoundingly long time ago. For me, its offensiveness has worn away to the point that it’s just another benign saying.

In my lifetime, my awareness of gay has travelled from hearing my grandmother describe happy kids playing in the park as “gay”; to seeing Enid Blyton’s Noddy & Big Ears no longer able to enjoy “gay times” together; to meaning what I told my parents 15 years ago, “I’m gay”.

In much the same way as bad became something to aspire to in the 1980s, and sick now means good, a word that once meant happy now means something’s a bit crap. For a while, somewhere in the middle there, it also meant queer (another word that once meant something else), but it seems that as we’re becoming more aware of all the variations in sexuality, gay is being used less and less by the very community it’s meant to be describing. In fact, it’s pretty much only heterosexuals who aren’t sensitive enough to distinguish between gay, homosexual, lesbian, transgender, intersex, bisexual, camp, pansexual, queer and whoever else I’ve missed out, isn’t it? It’s still just the Gay Mardi Gra to the greater public, far as I can tell.

So why don’t we just let the word go? If they want to use it, let them use it. Except, wait, we will need to come up with something new for the homosexual boys. Maybe poof? That used to mean a footstool, even if it was hijacked from the French and spelt differently. Actually, there’s an idea! Why don’t we give gay two different spelling? Gay as in Elton John, and ghey as in “that’s so ghey”. Problem solved! Genius, even if I do say so myself!

Still, if the majority are offended by its modern usage, who am I to deny them their view? If it’s offensive to the majority, well then...I’ll shut up on the subject. I suppose I am blasé about gay because although I am gay, I don’t really identify as such. Lesbian sums me up a lot better, albeit one with very camp tendencies. But gay is such an all encompassing term that if I want someone to know something about me purely through words, I don’t think gay effectively pinpoints the way I see myself.

For my part, I’d rather focus on abolishing the use, particularly by media outlets, of the phrase “admitted they were gay". Nothing shits me up the wall more than when I hear this used to describe a celebrity’s coming out. To admit to something means to confess to some wrong doing, and for a media outlet to run a super hyped story about someone finally admitting they’re homosexual just reeks of salacious gossip and whispers in the parlour room. I don’t like it at all. To allow it to be used to describe the often painful process of coming out is to perpetuate the belief that there is ultimately something wrong and unnatural about any sexuality that falls outside of the heterosexual ‘norm’.

The worst part? I’ve heard three people this week say it about a mutual friend’s recent coming out. “Did you hear ____ finally admitted he was gay to his parents?” For Pete's sake people, what is there to admit to? What is this insinuation of guilt we’re encouraging? What is there to be guilty of in my case? Sucking the odd nipple? Touching a few vaginas? Right then – Dad & my brothers, I’ll see you kids in hell!

It's bullshit, so I'm on a mission! I never want to hear that damn word used again, unless it is without connection to someone’s sexuality, because the very next journalist to announce someone “admitted they were gay” will wind up being admitted to hospital with injuries that I will later admit in court to causing.

Tracy Grimshaw – I’m watching you.

by caz.

2011-06-19T22:15:00.001-07:00

A MOMENT

2011-05-23T02:46:00.001-07:00

“Hold your hand up.”

“Why?”

“Just do it. Palm facing me.”

I held my hand up as she asked. She pressed her hand against mine, aligning our fingers and wrists.

“Do you feel that?”

“What?”

She pressed more firmly. “That.”

Slowly I began to feel the gentle pulse of her blood and mine beating at my fingertips.

“Yes.”

“That’s our hearts beating together.”

I lifted my head to look at her face, and watched as a tear slid down her cheek. As I moved to wipe it away, she clenched her fingers around mine.

“Leave it” she whispered. “It’s happiness, that’s all.”

by caz.

Good For A Laugh

2011-05-23T02:29:00.000-07:00

Was it ever more than just a chase,

a game to claim a prize?

Was it all strategic,

and not authentic?

Did you pat yourself on the back?

Good on you for having a crack,

another one under the belt.

Change focus quickly,

there'll be another one imminently.

I guess it's all good for a laugh.

by caz

MY FAVOURITE THINGS

2011-05-18T05:57:00.001-07:00

Music - Richard Rogers, lyrics - Oscar Hammerstein & Me.

Drinking at lunch time and long into night time

Partying all night and trying to score a line

Not going home to the fat lady sings

These are a few of my favourite things

Walking home barefoot with high heels in handbags

Thinking you’re hotter than models in fashion mags

Falling asleep in a taxi driven by Singh

These are a few of my favourite things

Girls with their tits out and bums out and fake tan

Vomiting in bushes while the blokes drain their beer cans

Ordering kebabs and pizza and chicken wings

These are a few of my favourite things

When the glassing starts

When the cops come

When I'm arrested with the lads

I simply remember my favourite things

And then I don’t feel so bad.

by caz.

Ramblings

2011-05-16T06:46:00.001-07:00

And see, the funny thing is, occasionally you can read too much into a situation. You can over-analyse everything, and make something out of nothing. You can try and stop your heart with your head, which never really works out well. You can ask yourself and others a million questions in an attempt to figure it out, when you aren’t supposed to understand anyway. It’s just life, the reasons aren’t always clear. You can try to avoid situations in order to avoid pain and confusion. That never works, you just end up regretting not giving it a go. And you can drive yourself crazy wondering why you did it, why you always do it, why you are the way you are. And really, none of that matters. We are what we are and will always be.

by caz.

2011-05-16T06:45:00.001-07:00

LIFE PLAYLIST

2011-05-16T06:44:00.000-07:00

100 songs that most transport me, in no particular order:

1. Bright Eyes - Art Garfunkel

2. Jolene - Dolly Parton

3. Spanish Harlem - Aretha Franklin

4. Cry Me A River - Julie London

5. Tiny Dancer - Elton John

6. The Gambler - Kenny Rogers

7. Po Karekare Ana - Kiri Te Kanawa

8. Flying Over Africa - Out of Africa Soundtrack

9. Drop The Pilot - Joan Armatrading

10. You’ve Changed - Sia

11. Another Piece of My Heart - Erma Franklin

12. I Don’t Feel Like Dancing - Scissor Sisters

13. Linger - The Cranberries

14. Too Funky - George Michael

15. Love Cats - The Cure

16. Proud Mary - Tina Turner

17. On A Night Like This - Kylie Minogue

18. Rock The Casbah - The Clash

19. I Don’t Wanna Talk About It - Rod Stewart

20. Empire State of Mind - Alicia Keys & Jay-Z

21. Scenes From An Italian Restaurant - Billy Joel

22. Something To Talk About - Bonnie Raitt

23. I Remember You - Bette Midler & James Caan

24. Young Hearts Run Free - Kim Mazelle

25. Fire & Rain - Marcia Hines

26. So Far Away - Carole King

27. Hallelujah - kd lang

28. Physical - Olivia Newton-John

29. Crazy - Gnarls Barkley

30. Superstition - Stevie Wonder

31. Somebody To Love Me - Mark Ronson feat. Boy George

32. Son Of A Preacher Man - Dusty Springfield

33. Six Months In A Leaky Boat - Split Enz

34. Scar - Missy Higgins

35. Into Temptation - Renee Geyer

36. Annie’s Song - John Denver

37. Hold On My Heart - Sarah Blasko

38. Mickey - Toni Basil

39. She Bop - Cyndi Lauper

40. How Will I Know - Whitney Houston

41. Anywhere Is - Enya

42. Flashdance - Irene Cara

43. Learning To Fly - Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers

44. Karma Chameleon - Culture Club

45. Walking On Broken Glass - Annie Lennox

46. Heart Of Glass - Blondie

47. Brass In Pocket - The Pretenders

48. Teardrops - Womack & Womack

49. Don’t Go Breaking My Heart - Kiki Dee & Elton John

50. The Beat Goes On - Sonny & Cher

51. Rooms On Fire - Stevie Nicks

52. Paper Aeroplane - Angus & Julia Stone

53. Bring Him Home - Les Miserables Soundtrack

54. Let’s Dance To Joy Division - The Wombats

55. Don’t Stop Believing - Journey

56. Take On Me - A-ha

57. Dance The Way I Feel - Ou Est Le Swimming Pool

58. Chasing Pavements - ADELE

59. God Only Knows - The Beach Boys

60. Back To Black - Amy Winehouse

61. Kids - MGMT

62. I Say A Little Prayer - Dianne Warwick

63. Kiss - Tom Jones

64. One Crowded Hour - Augie March

65. Flame Trees - The Sacred Heart School Choir

66. Walk Like An Egyptian - The Bangles

67. Head Over Feet - Alanis Morissette

68. Cecilia - James Last

69. Puff The Magic Dragon - Peter Paul & Mary

70. Cherry Cherry - Neil Diamond

71. Wish You Well - Bernard Fanning

72. Beast Of Burden - Bette Midler

73. Rhiannon - Fleetwood Mac

74. The Way You Make Me Feel - Michael Jackson

75. You’re So Vain - Carly Simon

76. She Loves Me - The Beatles

77. Don’t Pay The Ferryman - Chris De Burgh

78. My Baby Just Cares For Me - Nina Simone

79. Tainted Love - Soft Cell

80. You’re My Best Friend - Queen

81. Mr Bojangles - Robbie Williams

82. Buffalo Stance - Neneh Cherry

83. Ruby Tuesday - The Rolling Stones

84. Anything You Want - Roy Orbison

85. Papa Don’t Preach - Madonna

86. I Just Wanna Make Love To You - Etta James

87. The Promise - Tracy Chapman

88. Handle With Care - The Travelling Wilburies

89. You Gotta Love This City - The Whitlams

90. What’s Up - 4 Non Blondes

91. I’m Your Man - Wham

92. Bright Side Of The Road - Van Morrison

93. Sweat (Aha La La La Long) - Inner Circle

94. I Try - Macy Gray

95. Sway - Bic Runga

96. One Night In Heaven - M People

97. Perfect Day - Lou Reed

98. Stay (I Missed You) - Lisa Loeb

99. Smile - Lily Allen

100. You Make Me Feel Like Dancing - Leo Sayer

People’s taste in music says a lot about them. When I look at this list, I remember the people and places who impacted on me. Some of those people, I know, will recognise themselves in this list.

The Road to Happiness

2011-05-16T06:41:00.002-07:00

Here’s to choosing

my happiness and joy

my fate and future

and regaining control.

Here’s to learning

the lessons I’ve learned

and taking them with me

the next time I jump.

Here’s to finding

the strength inside me

the light in my heart

and landing on my feet.

by caz.

A Problem For Writers

2011-05-16T06:41:00.001-07:00

You know what I find the hardest part when I write something? That people always recognise themselves, even when they weren’t the inspiration in the first place. And that when I write I risk hurting people who aren’t in fact the target.

When I write it’s because I feel the need to get something out, and obviously there was an event or a memory that has been a catalyst for that need, but it’s not that simple. I rarely write anything specifically about one person or event. There’s always ghosts of other people, other memories and other moments.

Writing, for me, is working through flashes that come into my head, but those flashes are often not related to present day. For a start, it takes me time to work through and process things.

It’s like this blog. Much of what I’ve posted was written a long time ago, but it’s only now that I feel ready to ‘put it out there’ as it were. Old journals have been pulled out, dusted off and ripped apart - metaphorically speaking. What has been interesting to me is how little changes, when I was wholly convinced so much had.

So, my message is this:

If you recognise yourself in someone’s writing, relax. Chances are it’s just an apparition.

Before You

2011-05-16T06:39:00.000-07:00

I wonder if the sky

was as blue before I met you

Or if the stars shone quite as brightly in the dark?

Were puppies just as cute

and did wine taste just as sweet

when I drank it without you?

Did flowers bloom as prettily

did birds fly round so gracefully

were people just as nice before I knew you?

You’ve made me see the light in life

and all the good that surrounds me.

I wonder when the Winter comes

will you still be around me?

by caz

The One I Lost

2011-05-16T06:38:00.000-07:00

When life moves on

And I’ve moved on

And I have my head once more

When the trembling stops

And the calm returns

And my heart feels strong again

I’ll think of you as I always do

But with a softer edge

As the one I lost to the big wide world

You’re a lucky planet, Earth!

LIKING PEOPLE.

2011-05-16T06:36:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine said yesterday that people liking each other is the most important thing in the world. She’s right, of course. Except that occasionally the world decides that, while it’s important, it’s not important right now.

Sometimes, no matter how much two people like each other, you have to put that aside, file it away, shove it in the bottom draw. It’s not easy, in fact it’s really fucking hard. But you do it, because there’s really no other option.

Maybe one of the people doing the liking hasn’t finished working out what they like within themselves first, or maybe they want to know whether there are better options in the liking department. Maybe they’ve thought they have liked people before, and realised that the feeling was transient and not based on real liking at all. Maybe they doubt their liking instincts, or the liking is a smidge one sided.

Sometimes it’s just the case that there’s a whole world to be experienced, and for the time being that’s a wee bit more important than liking, or being liked by, anyone. And it’s a sign of how much you like someone that you would hate to see them miss out on seizing absolutely everything on offer to them.

So…have faith that the world knows what it’s doing. What may appear to be lousy timing may in fact be a blessing in disguise. And try to remember never, ever, to stop liking.

by caz.

Marion

2011-05-16T06:35:00.000-07:00

Smooth hands of thinning skin

Translucent in some places

Yellowed nails from wear and work

A lifetime etched in traces

Across her lovely face

And in her shining eyes

Hardship and a life lived tough

A woman of no standing

And yet she was my sun and moon

My night and day, my breathing

I Laid A Hand

2011-05-16T06:34:00.000-07:00

I laid a hand

across my heart

to check it was still beating.

I had expected

it would stop

while I was softly sleeping.

But the beat was strong

and the sun came up

and the birds had started chirping.

So I guess that means

I’ll be okay

That my world will keep on turning.

A MOMENT WITH YOU.

2011-05-16T06:32:00.001-07:00

Have you the time

to walk with me a while?

I feel the need

for a moment with you.

I don’t mind

where we go to

so long as we’re together.

Hold my hand

if only in your mind.

Imagine

my arm around you.

Walk slowly down

the pathway.

Savour every step.

by caz.

HAPPINESS

2011-05-16T06:30:00.000-07:00

When you can’t see the bath for the bubbles

When your dog sits on your lap

When your morning coffee has just enough heat

When the rain beats on the roof.

When the wine is smooth and the curry mild

When the laughs come freely.

When Summer’s here and the air is warm

When the beach is calm and blue.

When clothes fit and your jeans look good

When birds chirp in the morning

When flowers smell divine

When the music is just what you needed.

When your bed envelopes you

at the end of the day

When the mangoes are ripe

and the watermelon sweet.

When your friends are amazing

and your family is all you really need

When there’s plenty to live for

but you realise this is the moment.

by caz.

Notorious

2011-05-16T06:28:00.000-07:00

Vamp. Tramp. Temptress. Seductress. Tart. Trollop. Words that conjure up such wickedness, such evil, such sensuous manipulation of men!

In what is primarily still a man’s world, where things are seen and documented from a male point of view, the worst villains are always women. Sure, there have been some seriously devilish men, but the best of the worst are always the women. Just ask the happy folks at Disneyland. In a recent poll of the “Best of the Worst” villains, three of the top five characters were women. It seems even the kids are picking up on just how vindictive women can be...

In our culture, women are portrayed as either angels or monsters – never anything in between. Yet even the angels among us are assumed to have a repressed manic energy. “Hell hath no fury as a woman scorned” and all that. Women are expected to go mad at some stage in their lives – it’s just a matter of when.

Why? Is it really all Eve’s fault for believing that dastardly serpent? Was Adam so peeved with his woman for denying him a life spent lazing around in Eden eating mangoes, that he felt obliged to teach every man after him never to trust a woman?

Or was it Adam’s mythological first wife, Lilith? She liked it on top, but he wanted to make love missionary style so he told her to bugger off. Given that most men would be content with sex in any position, was Adam perhaps a repressed homosexual? That’s it! No wonder the Catholics have exerted so much energy repressing women and bolstering the position of men. The last thing they would want made public is that the father of mankind is a raving poofter!

Then there was Pandora and her irresistible box of evil little voices. Her curiosity didn’t just kill the cat; it damned mankind for all eternity.

It is a theme that runs consistently through history, from ancient mythology to present day. Women stuffed up by taking the initiative, and refusing to wait for a man. Interestingly, the very characteristics that make these women a target are the same personality traits admired in men – aggression, courage, strength, independence and dominance.

Of course, as the feminists have been pointing out for the past 40 years, we’ve historically only ever heard the bloke’s side of the story. Maybe both Eve and Pandora were sick of languishing with the limp wristed other halves, and desperate for a bit of excitement. Who knows? Lilith certainly wasn’t going to hang around, sexually frustrated and subservient to her husband’s urges. The world’s first feminist, was our Lilith. Germaine Greer in full flight was never a patch on Lil, who screamed and cursed Adam for banishing her from Eden, and spawned evil little babies to harass her ex husband.

We will never really know what caused women to obtain such a violently unattractive reputation, although perhaps Freud went some way to explaining the problem all men face, when he admitted that for all his psychoanalysis, he never could work out the intricacies of the feminine psyche. I suspect a lot of the mystery surrounding women relates to men’s view of ‘that time of the moth’, and their utter bemusement at the mood swings, cravings, obsessions and trauma that females go through every month. Part of the expectation that women eventually go troppo must surely come from generations of men watching their mothers’ journey through the wonderful world of menopause, without actually understanding what the poor woman was enduring. This thinking, by association, must culminate in long lasting cultural references to the Mother-in- Law figure.

What we do know is that the motif of the dangerous woman remains current in our culture and shows no sign of abating. Within society, we don’t ever anoint a queen of ‘nice’ (well, we have Miss Universe but no one in their right mind takes that seriously), yet we always have a reigning queen of all that is conniving, manipulating and obsessively sexual.

In every generation, there is one woman anointed by society, who embodies the archetypical temptress. A mysterious, dark and untouchable fembot, whose only aim in life is to suck the essence out of every man she encounters. These women come primarily from the rank of actress, perhaps as a result of the flamboyant nature of the business and because as a profession it was always seen as only a slight step up from prostitution, although there has been the occasional politician, author and painter.

So what sets these women apart from their peers?

Well, firstly they act as though men’s only use in life is to provide a little light entertainment; they appear to believe that men are an unnecessary appendage in life. This is a woman who we could never envisage living for her family, standing in the kitchen making her husband’s dinner, hanging out the washing, or ducking through the supermarket, a kid on her hip, grabbing toilet paper, sugar and milk. Audrey Hepburn, widely considered one of the most beautiful women to have ever lived, couldn’t have cut it as a vamp. She was too domestic, too devoted a wife and mother, too darn nice. Instead, one imagines a real vamp waking slowly just before lunch, wrapped in satin sheets, hair shining in the late morning sun, her luscious ruby lips calling for a Bloody Mary to get the day rolling. These aren’t the sort of women you wouldn’t take home to meet your mother; they’re the sort of women who wouldn’t want to meet her anyway. Wanton women, who care for nothing other than their own peace of mind, are somehow Succubus incarnate. It is as though women, in forsaking their duty as controller of domesticity and childrearing, are letting down society. The inability to become breathless with excitement at the thought of a new washing machine in which to clean hubby’s clothes is seen as almost deviant in mindset. Indeed, many continue to believe that the family is the very foundation up on which we depend, without it we are ruined. Every woman who consciously chooses to ignore her social responsibility represents one more tear in the moral fibre of society. The “Post War Happy Housewife” must be determined to lose herself in the happiness, and cleanliness, of her family. Any other way of life just isn’t normal.

Secondly, a vamp is nobody’s fool and nobody’s victim. She most certainly does not require rescuing. Marilyn Monroe, the world’s most famous sexpot, doesn’t fit in with these women as she always had a quality about her that seemed fragile. Even in a low cut, figure-hugging sequinned number, all lips and tits and breathless singing, she appeared as though a little girl secretly dressing up in her mother’s clothes. Men yearned to be the one to save her, yet the only thing that could have helped her was a large dose of what a true vamp possesses in truckloads – confidence. Vamps exude self-assuredness. They live to please themselves and are not fazed by outside opinions. They aren’t the sort of women to check themselves when they bend down so that their underwear doesn’t show. Rather, they’d be quite happy if someone did get a flash of their undoubtedly sexy underwear.

Most importantly, these are women who have never apologised for their behaviour, as they frankly don’t see what needs repenting. Where men historically flex their muscles, or those of their troops, women flex their brains and squeeze their opponents by the heart or the testicles – whichever they reach first. What’s more, they get away with it, via a raised eyebrow and a determined pout. There have been some ballsy women throughout history – Queen Victoria, Joan Crawford, Margaret Thatcher, yet they never really got away with being iron fisted. Mostly, they were just written off as uptight bitches who ‘need to get some’.

Why do we bestow on some women an almost reverential form of fame, while others are hard-hearted old bags?

An undeniable part of the allure must their beauty, although it is by no means the only reason. Grace Kelly was a stunning woman, but always seemed to have something ultimately wholesome about her. Jane Fonda almost had what we’re looking for. Barbarella proved beyond doubt what a little sex rocket she could be, but then she went all serious, all activist, all aggression and frustration. Hanoi Jane didn’t exactly exude sex appeal riding in a tank during the Vietnam War, in her camouflage gear and with her hard hat slipping sideways off her head. Not even if the world did know she was pretty gorgeous under all that dirt and dust!

No, it is more than just beauty. It is an awareness of their attributes, combined with a total disregard for their looks, a slightly untouchable quality, a self sacrificing sense of humour, and a twinkle in their eye that indicates there is serious mischief to be made. No matter how bad they are, you can’t help thinking they’d be fun to hang around.

Their effect is measurable on both males and females. Men seem to behold the seductress in morbid fascination – at once repelled and aroused at the thought of a woman proving them redundant, while women are caught between jealousy and admiration. In either case, the world is in awe of the vamp.

So, are these man-eating, praying mantis-like, hyper sexualised, masculinised women all bad? With the media constantly chugging out constructed images of the world, who knows? We do know that their very existence threatens the makeup of society, the way we are conditioned to expect women to behave, and the standing of man and women as equals; with men a little more equal than the women.

Yet the vamp is a necessary evil. We need rebels and rule breakers amongst us to provide the excitement and interest in life. We need them so that we may safely experience danger by living vicariously through the experiences of those daring enough to take a risk, and we need them to measure ourselves against. In short, we need the sinners as much as the saints in order that we may live a little easier within our own mundane lives.

The power she wields over society ensures there will always be women who would relish the opportunity to personify all that is deliciously, hellishly, sensuously alluring, untrustworthy and villainous about women. It is, after all, what sells stilettos and red lipstick – year after year, generation after generation.

2011-05-04T16:11:00.001-07:00

the acceptance of vulnerability

the letting in of love

the shock of discovering feeling is preferable

to self preservation.

jumping when you shouldn’t

choosing heart over brain

finding calm in uncertainty

liking the change.

not falling apart

due to lack of control

going with the flow

and surviving the ride.

by caz

DO NOT SWALLOW!

2011-05-04T06:40:00.000-07:00

This is not what you think it is.

I was cleaning the loo the other day using one of those cleaners in the bottle with the swanlike neck that is ostensibly to help you get in under the rim, but in fact means you squirt craploads of disinfectant out in the very beginning, before running out just prior to completing the bowl’s circumference. I was trying to navigate the final squirt of solution around the bend when I saw in bold print on the label:

DO NOT SWALLOW!

Really? Who is that message for? Presumably the only people who would even contemplate putting the spout in their mouths are toddlers or morons – neither of whom can or would read the bottle first. It would have been better had the warning read NEGLECTFUL PARENTS SHOULD NOT BUY THIS PRODUCT! Or,SERIOUSLY DUDE, THIS AIN’T CORDIAL!

But stuff’s like that now. Not just the warning labels, sometimes it’s the serving suggestions. My butter container actually says SPREAD ON BREAD. Hmm, ground breaking idea.

Quite often it’s the whole stupid blurb on a product that upsets me, especially the ones where some marketing guru thought it’d be a good idea if the thing itself appeared to try and talk to you.

An example: I was staying with my brother and noticed his girlfriend’s shampoo and conditioner. COLOUR ME HAPPY pleaded the shampoo, DANGEROUSLY STRAIGHT claimed the conditioner. Even her face cleaner was called WASH OFF! – complete with exclamation mark. The back of these bottles was worse, giving the products personalities and attempting a dialogue with me.

SHAMPOO: “I’ll protect your colour treated hair because I’m packed with conditioners to help keep your hair healthy and truly radiant. And that’s a sign of happiness.”

Is it really? I thought smiling was a sign of happiness? Or laughing.

The conditioner was worse, it had vaguely homophobic undertones.

CONDITIONER: “I’ll get right to the point. It’s easier to get straight.”

It then got all condescending with me:

“Can I be straight with you? You don’t have to work as much. Get the look with a big dose of my conditioning...and move in a fine line.”

Weirdly, the directions for use (again, is that really necessary? Are there actually people confused by how to use conditioner?) were kind of creepy, somewhere between Mills & Boon and Sex Predator:

“Use me: Massage me in, relax, rinse me out, walk straight ahead.”

UGH! I instantly felt like a dirty old man had whispered into my prepubescent ear. Good thing I was in the shower at the time.

I don't get it. I don't get why shampoo can't just say "this shit cleans your hair", and conditioner say "this stuff makes your hair smell better & stops the comb getting stuck in your knots." I reckon we'd all get the gist.

Tampons are another one. You know you can buy them in silver foiled packs now? That's good. Us girls like to be a bit 'showy' with our sanitary protection. Combine the blinged up little box with a super cool ad showing a bunch of models dancing around a nightclub toilet flicking their tampon packets open and shut in time to the music, and you've got one super sexy status symbol. NOT. Nothing, and I repeatNOTHING, is going to make us get excited about getting our period. Unless we were freaking out about an unwanted pregnancy. Actually, that's a great idea for a tampon ad. A teenage girl stressing out that she's up the duff, then excitedly running to the chemist when her period belatedly arrives. The conservatives would hate it, it's bound to get extra publicity.

It's all such rubbish. And it makes me feel that we're considered a pretty stupid bunch of consumers. Sure, some of us probably are. But I'm pretty certain all but a few real nutters out there DON'T ACTUALLY THINK THE SHAMPOO IS TALKING TO THEM. At all. Not even a mumble.

Radiant hair is just a sign of a good hairdresser, after all. I don't care what my shampoo tried to tell me over breakfast this morning, I know I'm right.

Falling...

2011-04-27T07:35:00.000-07:00

Before we notice our heart beat hasten,
our chest tighten, our temperature rise.
Before we hear ourselves say something stupid
while trying to be cool.

Before we feel our mood shift
at the briefest contact.
Before our cheeks flush.

The moment when we first feel ourselves falling
falling…falling…
fallen.

We should have caught ourselves long before.
Should have,
but by then it’s too late.

If only we noticed the signs
before they became signs.
It would be so much easier.

And yet,
would you give up those few moments
of falling
when being caught was possible?

I wouldn’t.

2011-03-22T07:16:00.000-07:00

Carrie McCarthy

2011-03-22T07:06:00.000-07:00

Carrie McCarthy: "We seem to be going through a stage in this country where there isn't one single politician who isn't a dithering, spineless waste of time and money. Is there actually a difference between donkey voting and voting for donkeys?"

An Open Letter to Senator Ursula Stephens

2011-03-09T23:43:00.000-08:00

Dr Stephens,

I have just read in a news report that you are voting against gay marriage. Aren't you the former parliamentary secretary for Social Inclusion? I guess the word 'former' is the clue there. Clearly that position was not a good fit for you.

You say the vast majority of people you spoke to were against gay marriage. I wonder how many gay people, or supporters of gay marriage, you actually spoke to? Not many? Not surprising really. You probably didn't want to get too close.

I would ask that rather than canvasing random constituents on the issue of gay marriage, you seek the opinion of people who's lives are actually impacted by this archaeic legislation. If it doesn't affect Mr & Mrs Jones directly, don't ask their opinion. Especially don't ask it in such a way as to taint the questioning by letting your own bias on the subject show through, which I suspect given your lack of support for it, you would do.

And please don't when defending your decision say you have 'lots' of gay friends. I'm sure if you know any at all, they don't consider you any friend of theirs.

You are everything that is currently wrong with Australian politics. Ignorant, unbending, out of touch with the real world, and devoid of genuine compassion (the pictures of you with children and old people on your website reek with insincerity. It's the old pollies kissing babies thing, isn't it?)

Gosh, you must be so proud.

Sincerely,

Carrie McCarthy

Date A Girl Who Reads...

2011-03-08T18:10:00.001-08:00

Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes. She has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.

Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag.She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the book she wants. You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow.

She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.

Buy her another cup of coffee.

Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.

It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.

She has to give it a shot somehow.

Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.

Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.

Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilightseries.

If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.

You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.

You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.

Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.

Or better yet, date a girl who writes.

Rosemary Urquico

International Endometriosis Week

2011-03-08T16:22:00.000-08:00

This week is International Endometriosis Week, an issue very close to my heart. Well, actually it's an issue close to my ovaries, fallopian tubes, uterus, bowel, kidneys and, according to the surgeon's report, my Pouch of Douglas - whatever the hell that is.

For 13 years I was left to suffer the debilitating symptoms of Endometriosis as the condition went undiagnosed. From the first day of my second ever period, I began a way of living that was entirely based around my very unpredictable menstrual cycle.

Once a month, quite often twice, my entire life was brought to a screeching halt by the arrival of 'The Period'. Its onset meant at least two days in bed with a migraine headache that no amount of medication would shift (although I never tried general anaesthetic – I suspect that may have worked), and at least three days of pain in my abdomen so intense that it caused nausea, vomiting, cold sweats, shaking, diarrhea and fainting, and required two Panadeine, two Nurofen and half a bottle of red to cope. It was all a bit Elizabeth Taylor, but at least the combination knocked me out for long enough that I could sleep through the worst of it. I then had a week of, and I’ll leave out the graphic details, extremely heavy bleeding which left me tired, anaemic and run down.

The rest of the month was spent getting more and more uptight about its return, whenever that may be. The erratic nature of my menstrual cycle meant I soon learned never to leave home without a large supply of Tampax Superplus, a few Nurofen & Panadeine, extra sanitary pads, and a spare pair of undies. Travelling filled me with angst. If I happened to be away from home, or unable to get home, the whole experience was humiliating for me and confusing for everyone else. How I could go from perfectly fine one minute, to an ashen grey, sweating, shaking, vomiting mess the next, was well beyond most people’s comprehension. Generally the reaction was to suspect me of ‘putting it on’. Once while travelling from Langkawi to Brisbane with a group of work colleagues I barely knew, my period unexpectedly turned up as we flew into Kuala Lumpur’s old airport. I was wearing white linen pants at the time – make your own conclusions there – and was left to sort myself out in a revolting public toilet in a decrepit airport in a primarily Muslim Asian country that didn’t freely sell sanitary protection, all the while experiencing a cold pain so strong it felt like a knife slicing through me. The only toilets available were of the squat variety, with the restroom attendant sporadically sending a burst of water from a fire hose under the stalls to clean the toilets out. Trust me, no one goes to that trouble for attention.

For years I tried doctor after doctor, sent from specialist to gynaecologist and back again, and was referred to many GPs who were apparently “amazing” with women. I was put on five different contraceptive pills, sent for three ultrasounds, given Wild Yam Cream, Evening Primrose Oil, organic tampons, had an operation to widen my hymen, prescribed copious packets of Ponstan, Naprosan, Naprogesic and Voltaren, boxes of Panadeine Forte, had acupuncture, Bowen Therapy and Electromagnetic Therapy, took magnesium supplements, iron tablets, ginger tea, special diets and applied heat packs. It was all a load of rubbish, and culminated in one doctor telling me that the best thing I could do was have a baby as that generally “sorted things out”. I was 15.

Finally, at the age of 26, I found a GP prepared to listen. When I met her, she was the President of the Australian Medical Association, and therefore had a few good contacts. One of them was an Ob/Gyn who was at the time President of both the Australian Federation of Medical Women and Medical Women’s International Association. My point in telling you this, and I do have one, is that this is the standard of doctor I had to find before getting a diagnosis. Within six months of meeting these women, I was essentially clear of the Endometriosis that had been festering inside me and causing me so much distress.

The thing that really irks me is that it took so long to get the correct diagnosis and treatment, and that it took two female doctors at the absolute pinnacle of the Australian medical profession to diagnose something as common as Endometriosis. Most women aren’t as lucky as I was to come across the level of expertise I found. After years of being sent for ultrasounds, I was told that Endometriosis rarely (as in never) shows up on those scans. That the only way to properly diagnose endometriosis is via laparoscopy.

This is pretty mundane stuff as medical problems go. It’s not like I was suffering from some weird African flesh eating virus no one had ever heard of. Endometriosis is a condition that affects approximately one in eight women, roughly the same as the rate of men suffering prostate cancer from what I’ve read. Granted, cancer kills, but quite frankly, so does a fragile mental state, and I most definitely had one of those by the end. Unbeknownst to me, I was also displaying classic symptoms of Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder (PMDD), which is essentially like having an incredibly bad bout of PMT all month. Constantly in a state of high agitation, I was permanently moody, depressive, lacking confidence, lethargic and generally difficult to get along with. I had no sex drive, no motivation and no patience for anyone. My relationships with my family and partner were fractured. I am told it is common for women with Endometriosis to also have PMDD. If only I had known this sooner. Imagine how the people around me must have celebrated this secondary diagnosis - “Thank god they can give the bitch drugs!”

The doctors I spent years going to for help were completely ill-informed and ignorant to either of my conditions, something that only served to drag the whole frustrating experience out and make it even more upsetting. I’m not sure much has changed. And for this reason I say to any woman who suspects her menstrual problems won’t be solved by a cup of tea, a Bex and a good lie down:

Demand your doctor investigate fully. The majority of women have periods that only last a few days, and experience little or no pain. If you deviate from this, demand a laparoscopy. Take control of your health yourself. If you don’t feel you’re being listened to, demand they start paying attention, or change doctors. Just push and push until you feel satisfied that you truly have examined every single aspect of the problem. Your doctor may not take you seriously, that doesn’t mean you don’t have to. The immense feeling of having your life back, of being able to live spontaneously and free of the stress of Endometriosis is worth whatever was required to get you to that point.

And if anyone ever dares say to you, “C’mon love, take a Panadol and get on with it”, give them an uppercut. Actually, give them two.

If you would like more information on Endometriosis, go to http://www.endometriosis.org.au/

Dear Meryl

2011-02-08T15:36:00.001-08:00

Dear Meryl, I managed to fancy you when you were dressed like Julia Child, a nun, all your characters in Angels in America (that was pretty tough on me honey, good thing you were great in it), the bad mullet in Silkwood, the whole Music of the Heart era, and that ugly POW moment in Sophie's Choice...but I'm not sure how I'm going to get through this one. I may have to keep my eyes closed. I hope you understand. Ever yours, Carrie

You

2011-02-04T18:09:00.000-08:00

"I thought you said you'd never done this before."

You shrug. "I haven't."

Yeah, perhaps.

I feel sweat run from between my breasts, down my side, under my back. I shift onto my stomach and you try to look shy.

"You seem to know your way around a woman's body pretty well."

"And you said you don't like complications."

You're nodding towards my bedside table. A solitaire and a plain gold band. It's my turn to shrug.

"I don't. Doesn't mean I don't have any though."

I reach for water and you get up. Two minutes later, you're dressed and picking up your keys.

"It was great." You run a finger down my leg and squeeze my toe. As you leave, I see you've left your jacket behind. I don't call out. I want a reason to see you again.

Two days later and I've hung your jacket away. Paul hasn't seen it, wouldn't have noticed it was new if he had. But I don't want him to know about it. It's my secret. You're my secret. When I'm alone I bury my face in the suede and inhale your scent, your hair, your skin.

I am taken by you.

A week goes by and I can't get away from you. I dream you, I see you everywhere. I am intrigued by you. This isn't the way it should be. I haven't considered falling for you. Women are fun, nothing more. I married Paul for the other stuff - security, companionship, his love - not so much mine. And if I'm honest, for his money. And my parents. Marriage got them off my back. We were so young.

I never saw a future in women until you.

Damn you!

A fortnight later, you unexpectedly ring my doorbell.

"Hi."

"Hey."

"I left my jacket."

"Yeah."

You've cut your hair. I tell you I like it, though I think it's sexier long.

I push your fringe out of your eyes. You take my hand away from your face.

"I don't know what I'm doing here."

"You came for your jacket."

"You know what I mean."

I raise myself up on one elbow and look at you. Your cheeks are flushed from heavy breathing, bare skin, breasts touching breasts, wet fingers, soft lips.

Such soft lips.

"Why did it take you so long to come back for your jacket?"

You wave your arm around the room.

"This. Him."

I draw my leg back from where it lies touching you. When you leave, you double check you haven't left anything behind.

You send me a bunch of white lilies. There is a note thanking me for looking after your jacket. It's ridiculous of you, but they're beautiful.

Paul arrives home, sees the flowers. He asks where I bought them. I wink.

"Secret admirer."

He laughs, goes for a shower. While he bathes I caress the petals and imagine I'm touching your lips.

Those soft lips. I have it bad.

In bed I feel Paul moving closer to me. I no longer like the feel of his scruffy beard on my back. I try not to pull away. He wants me but I can't. I feel like I'm cheating on you.

The next morning, Paul doesn't leave as early for work. He's lingering. I know he's bothered by last night's rejection, though it's not as though it's a first. I don't know what to say. I don't trust myself to speak. His hurt is making me feel dirty.

I wish I could see you.

My sister has left her kid with me for the day. She wants to go to the park, and the dog needs walking. I am happy to escape the house.

Sitting on the seesaw, she watches as two teens in school uniform walk past holding hands. She says her teacher makes her hold the hand of a boy in her class when they walk to the library. She wants to know why they hold hands now.

"They're in love."

"Yuck."

I tell her I agree.

Paul is home from work early. He wants to talk.

"Is everything okay?"

"Yes."

No.

He looks around my office. He pulls a book from the shelf, flicks through a few pages, puts it back.

"You've got so many books. Have you even read them all?"

I shake my head. I know he's trying to ask me something.

"I've never really looked around your office. Strange, isn't it?"

I try to smile, but I'm scared I'll cry. His pupils quiver as he searches my face for a sign of, what? Guilt? Innocence? He knows, he must do. Or is my conscience just working overtime, making me panic?

He shivers.

"It's cold in here. Want a drink?"

"Yeah."

I follow him downstairs. The back of his neck is still handsome. It was the first thing I noticed about him, sitting behind him in class. His neck was beautiful. It still is. He's starting to go a bit grey now. I like what it adds to his face.

Later, Paul and I make love. It is love, I love him very much. But I need to think about you before I can come.

Afterwards, I lie awake thinking about you and Paul. He'd like you, if he didn't know you'd fucked his wife. I fantasize about bringing you home, living with the both of you, a threesome. Guys love that shit, don't they? Paul wouldn't want to share me though. And I don't want to share you.

I listen to Joan Armatrading in the car. I understand her music, the torture in her lyrics.

"I have a lover...who loves me...how could I break such a heart...and still you get my attention..."

I want to scream.

I know! I get it!

When I get home Paul is sitting on the lounge room floor slugging a beer. I don't think it's his first. I assume he's watching television, until I see the petals scattered over the carpet. He's destroyed my flowers.

Your flowers.

He knows, I see this now. How? Maybe because I was different in bed. I tried not to be, but I know I was. Less connected, slightly distant. I know I've changed.

Paul is desperate for answers, but he isn't asking any questions. I sit next to him. He offers me his beer, grabs my hand as I take it from him. He kisses my ear. The intimacy of it makes me cry.

"I'm scared."

"Me too."

He doesn't want details. Just reassurance. We lie on the floor, bodies intertwined and stay there, just feeling each other breathe.

I can't keep seeing you. I have too much to lose.

Before bed I gather up the crushed petals, and throw them in the bin.

Months later, I still think of you. I wonder if you know why I had to let you go. I'm sure you do. I tell myself I made the right decision.

It wouldn't have worked anyway..

My mobile rings and I know it's you before I even see the number.

"Hi."

"Hey."

"I probably shouldn't be ringing you."

We've been at this place before.

A conversation

2010-07-26T04:35:00.000-07:00

"Well that's that then!"
"What do you mean?"
"It's over."
"What is?"
"We are."
"Who are?"
"Me and her."
"What?"
"Yep."
"I don't understand."
"Me either."
"But why?"
"I don't know."
"What happened?"
"Dunno."
"Jesus!"
"Yep."

It's About Time

2009-10-15T02:28:00.000-07:00

Well, it is about time. For someone who calls themself a 'writer' I have been rather inactive in the writing department of late. I could blame life, and work causing me to be already brain-dead by the time I sit at my computer. I could even blame Facebook, or iTunes for that matter, for wasting all my precious spare time. But really, it's just been me. I know I should be activating myself, but gosh isn't it easy to just do nothing! Lovely, undemanding nothing. Maybe watch a little Law & Order, or an episode of Boston Legal - anything really, so long as it's nothing!
BUT - here's the thing. I miss doing something! All these thoughts buzzing through my head every day, building up so that eventually I will either explode from massive idea overload or become a schitzophrenic. Something must be done!
I was, for quite a while, intimidated by the fact that I hadn't written anything for so long that I'd actually left it too long... That to suddenly start blogging again would be weird. Why? I don't bloody know. I guess it's a little like a painter staring at a blank canvas, unsure where to start. I was daunted by the prospect.

But something changed recently. I went on holiday. To New York City. I spent seven glorious weeks in NYC, and it completely revitalised me. I can still feel the energy of the city pulsating through me, my excitement levels have not decreased one little iota since returning home. Being amongst it all reawakened everything in me, and now I just don't want to waste a single minute of this life.

So tonight, red wine in hand (or more correctly, in my bloodstream), I am feeling rather daring. Tonight I start afresh!

But perhaps I'll just watch a little SVU before I start...

Maggie

2008-05-14T04:03:00.000-07:00

Fifteen scribbled pages
And still I can't explain
What she means to me

She is at once too much
And not enough
Of a presence in my life

Too much because I worry
There'll be nothing left once she's finished
Giving herself away

Yet not enough because I can't
Imagine a time
When I won't need her

For ten thousand nine hundred and fifty days
Three hundred and sixty months
Or thirty years, she's held my hand

She's watched my back
Dried my eyes and stroked my cheek
Without me asking

And she's held me close
Til I stopped resisting
All her wisdom

I love her more than all the world
All the birds and trees
And ants and fishes in it

She's my mother and I am lucky
Just for the simple fact
She loves me

JOBS FOR WOMEN

2008-02-05T03:59:00.000-08:00

TRULY AWFUL METAPHORS!

2008-01-26T13:41:00.000-08:00

METAPHORS FROM STUDENT ESSAYS

1. Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two other sides gently compressed by a Thigh Master.
2. His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a tumble dryer.
3. The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn't.
4. McMurphy fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a paper bag filled with vegetable soup.
5. Her hair glistened in the rain like nose hair after a sneeze.
6. Her eyes were like two brown circles with big black dots in the centre.
7. Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.
8. He was as tall as a six-foot-three-inch tree.
9. The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease.
10. Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left York at 6:36 p.m. travelling at 55 mph, the other from Peterborough at 4:19p.m. at a speed of 35 mph.
11. The politician was gone but unnoticed, like the full stop after the Dr. on a Dr Pepper can.
12. John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.
13. The thunder was ominous sounding, much like the sound of a thin sheet of metal being shaken backstage during the storm scene in a play.
14. The red brick wall was the colour of a brick-red crayon.
15. Even in his last years, Granddad had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long it had rusted shut.
16. Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do.
17. The plan was simple, like my mate Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work.
18. The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for while.
19. "Oh, Jason, take me!" she panted, her breasts heaving like a student on 31p-a-pint night.
20. He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck either, but a real duck that was actually lame. Maybe from stepping on a land mine or something.
21. Her artistic sense was exquisitely refined, like someone who can tell butter from "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter."
22. She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.
23. The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a lamppost.
24. The revelation that his marriage of 30 years had disintegrated because of his wife's infidelity came as a rude shock, like a surcharge at a formerly surcharge-free cashpoint.
25. The dandelion swayed in the gentle breeze like an oscillating electric fan set on medium.
26. It was a working class tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with their power tools.
27. He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a dustcart reversing.
28. She was as easy as the Daily Star crossword.
29. She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli and he was room-temperature British beef.
30. She walked into my office like a centipede with 98 missing legs.
31. Her voice had that tense, grating quality, like a first-generation thermal paper fax machine that needed a band tightened.
32. It hurt, the way your tongue hurts after you accidentally staple it to the wall.

Boystown

2008-01-26T13:19:00.000-08:00

When evaluating the statement that "Australia is a Sexist Society", initial images are of placard waving women marching on Parliament House, Germaine Greer espousing her views in The Female Eunuch, and business women bemoaning the existence of the glass ceiling. These images are real, and absolutely justifiable, however after 40 years of the feminist movement being active in Australia, a new wave of gender inequality seems to be upon us. For the men in society aged 40 years and younger, who have lived their entire lives in a post feminist Australia, what affect does the concentration on women's issues have on them? This essay will analyse whether in raising awareness of women's rights, a world neglectful of the changing needs of men has evolved.

Steve Biddulph, in his book 'Manhood', discusses the rise of the men's movement. He says that while "women had to overcome oppression, men's difficulties are with isolation" (1994: 4), stemming from men's tendency to internalise problems. Biddulph goes further to state that the three most instrumental factors in men's problems are: "1/ Loneliness; 2/ Compulsive Competition and 3/ Lifelong Emotional Timidity" (1994: 4). These can all be attributed in some degree to the environment in which a child was raised, and te quality of the male influence a man received as a young boy. A concern raised in recent political debate has been the significant lack of strong male role models in many children's lives. This is particularly important for boys learning to become men in households where the father figure is absent or unreliable. Girls are not similarly affected, in that they are able to connect with women on which to mould themselves in virtually every facet of life. Commonly, children start life with their mother as primary care giver, or at day care where the vast majority of kindergarten teachers are female. As they reach school age, they enter a world where male teaching levels are on the decline, or in some cases, simply non existent. Biddulph approximates that one in three boys have "no male figures at home, and no men active in their lives" (1994: 118). School becomes the last resort for male interaction and influence. It is not surprising therefore that boys account for over 80 percent of children with learning difficulties (1994: 119), which when ignored can lead to increases in crimes and violent acts committed by men. When a child is ignorant to alternative displays of masculinity, violent behaviour remains the only way to be noticed (French 1999: 139). Consider these figures taken from the Wesley Mission's website:

Our prisons are full of men (90%), they are not full of women (10%)
Our juvenile detention centres are full of boys, not girls
Approximately 90% of our school suspensions and expulsions are boys, not girls
Our remedial reading classes are full of boys, not girls
Well over 80% of our drug and alcohol abusers are boys and young men, not girls and young women
The rate of suicide in the 15-24 year age group for males is nearly seven times the rate for females in the same age group
Injury rates for males are three times the rate for women
There perpetration of violence and abuse is approximately 95% male

Due to the expectations placed on men to never appear the victim, men as they develop become and increasing liability to themselves. The feelings of loneliness and isolaation discussed by Biddulph put men at much greater risk of suicide, substance abuse, ill health and accidental death. The Wesley Mission's research for "Suicide In Australia, A Dying Shame" evidenced that men are as susceptible to depression and mental illness as women, possibly even more so. Medicare statistics show that women use medical services more regularly than men, and are more willing to try alternatives such as counselling and therapy sessions. In addition, a joint study between the University of Melbourne and La Trobe University, found that of 2151 participants, "4.7% had been assaulted in some way during the last 12 months; 5.7% of men and 3.7% of women" (Heady, Scott, de Vaus: 1999). They were able to see that rates of domestic violence against men by female perpetrators were at least equal to that of male abuse against women; yet male victims remain the missing link in demographics, as due to the stigma attached, many assaults go unreported. Most telling however, is data relating to current suicide rates in Australia. The Wesley Mission found that out of 2683 suicides in 1998, 2150 of these were men. For every suicide, there are five attempts by males to take their own life, and male suicides outnumber female suicides by four to one.

A relatively new and seemingly benign development has been the emergence of male bashing as a form of humour in the media. While sitcoms have long had an unspoken rule regarding the portrayal of mothers as strong figures above foolish thought (Hayward in Biddulph 1994: 28), husbands are seen as the 'loveable dope'. Sitcoms, such as Home Improvement, are hugely successful and work on a concept of an inept husband with a wife who treats him as one of the children. Similarly, advertising techniques are becoming increasingly blatant in their use of gender stereotypes as an advertising ploy. The Advertising Standards Commission dismissed complaints made against a Voodoo Hoisery ad featuring a woman walking three naked men on dog leashes, ruling that the advertisement was a "satirical comment on a patriarchal society" (Wilson: 2002). Meanwhile, an advertisement for Chivas Regal, of a good looking woman in a miniskirt getting out of a car, with the line "Yes, God is a Man", was pulled from circulation and amended, due to its apparent offensiveness to women (Ligerakis: 2000). The furore that would ensue if a television show based around imbecilic women, or a billboard showing three naked women being led doglike through the streets by a man, can not be overestimated. Images such as these are detrimental to teh way men are viewed by others, and the way they view themselves.

Perhaps the best argument for the men's movement's existence can be found in a quote from the On Line Opinion website:

"Anyone who would deny there is a bias against men's rights needs only to look at the agendas of government-sponsored conferences on this subject, examine the list of guest speakers, or for that matter consider that the 'Male Helpline' in Queensland has closed because the Queensland Premier refused to provide the paltry amount needed to keep it open. What price the outcry if it was a women's or children's help line?"

Until such time as governments, communities and individuals give equal credence to the pains of both men AND women, Australians will always live in a society that is sexist, unbalanced and unjust. When men can cry freely in public without ridicule, obtain counselling without awareness of the stigma, and receive equal recognition in such things as custody battles; only then can Australia truly claim to be free of gender equality.

Rosser Park Field Research Project 2005

2008-01-24T05:45:00.000-08:00

There are few places one can walk with a dog leash in one hand and a bag of faecal matter in the other without fear of being arrested for intending to commit lewd acts of fetishism. There are equally few places where not carrying either item is considered downright bad form. Rosser Park, at the end of my street, is one such place.

Within our culture, we tend to romanticise the idea of the dog park. Movies depict likeminded couples meeting via their slobbery dogs, impressionist painters created images of people walking their canine friends in their artwork, and books are written about dog walking and what people learn from time with their pet. Yet in reality, for most people walking the dog is just another chore that must be attended to - like hanging up the washing or taking the kids to school, albeit a chore that the majority of people enjoy.

The observations I have made in this project come from my daily walks in and around the dog park over the past twelve months that I have had my dog, with two or three visits a day in the last fortnight to focus on the people.

THE SPACE:
Rosser Park is an environmental park in Benowa. Although it is primarily a dog park, areas of it are set aside for bird watching and therefore designated strictly dog-free. It has recently been earmarked as the site of the future Gold Coast Botanical Gardens, and is currently undergoing some socmetic changes which have altered the layout of the park slightly. In addition to the bird wetlands and the dog park, there will soon be a visitor's centre, cafeteria, guided walk and a sensory garden. New rose gardens have been planted as has a butterfly garden full of larvae attracting plants, and excavation has begun for the new buildings.

The rose garden is a particularly puzzling development, as is the council's tendency to plant palm trees in odd spots of the park, i.e. around the wheelie bin we put our dog's poo in. It is obviously an attempt to beautify the area, but I do wonder whether it is for the benefit of myself or my dog - though Charlie does have quite an interest in botany! It is ironic that the concept of the city beautiful is alive and well in an already naturally beautiful location. For what purpose could we need a rose garden in a wildlife park? Were the colours of the birds not enough? Do roses attract native birds to the area? I was under the impression roses only attracted bumble bees and old ladies.

These features have been implemented to encourage pride in 'our' park, yet there are obvious signs of public responsibility already. That people stop to pick up dog poo, and admonish those who don't, that people turn up day after day to the area, and that there is virtually no litter should lindicate that there is already a fairly high level of pride in Rosser Park.

Unlike densely populated cities such as Sydney, space to exercise a dog is not a rarity in South East Queensland. Gold Coasters quite commonly have backyards, as the apartment living ideal hasn't caught on to the same extent, and we have a whole stretch of beach that dogs can be walked on. Our dog parks are therefore a bit of a luxury, as opposed to a necessity. As such, they aren't particularly busy spots. At most, there may be about 20 dogs in the park during rush hour.

THE PEOPLE:
Dog parks are great places to observe human interactions, as although we are generally all strangers, we are guaranteed to have at least one thing in common with others in the park - our dogs. Interaction stems from an awareness of a common bond. As I walk my dog daily, I regularly get to see firsthand how different people are when they're out with their dog.

The therapeutic benefits of owning a pet are common knowledge, and it does seem that people are more relaxed and somehow softer. I know in my case, the barriers I put between myself and strangers within daily life do not exist to the same degree when I am out walking Charlie. I am far more willing to believe - purely by their association to their dog - that people in the park are decent.

The peak periods - early morning and late afternoon - see the dog park morph into a giant mother's meeting as people stand around admiring their 'children', and surreptitiously checking that their dog is the cleverest, most personable, most well behaved in the park. I know this, because I am guilty of it. I also vehemently believe you can absolutely tell a person by the character of their dog. The woman who walks two perfectly manicured Collies, and who would never dream of letting them swim in the lake, walk through the mud or roll in the grass, frankly doesn't look like she'd be much fun. Conversely, people walking excitable Labradors & Golden Retrievers tend to be pretty happy and affable. What my dirty, scruffy mutt says abou me I can't be too sure, but because he is so friendly and ridiculous looking, some is always asking me about him.

There is a definate hierarchy within the users of Rosser Park. Highest of all are the dogs, followed closely by their owners. They have right of use in the park, even the council signs say so, with notices to the general public to be aware dogs will be off leash and running around. They are the prime reason for the piece of land existing as it does. The owners, due to their close relationships to their dogs, are VIP users purely by default.

Of the owners, there are those who are happy to stop and chat to other 'parents', and those who hurry past urging their dog to catch up. These people would never be seen joining in with the social aspects of the dog park. Some of them use walking their dog as a form of exercise, and therefore don't want to have to stop ever five minutes while jogging around the block. Others just tune out to avoid the obligation we feel to acknowledge people we pass every morning. A very good family friend, Don, walks his Golden Retriever in Rosser Park at 6.00am every morning. I see him often, and although he generally stops to talk to me, he has recently taken to wearing earphones so he doesn't have to stop and talk to anyone. Some use the park to train their dogs, although how anyone expects their dog to remain focussed when there are 20 other dogs running around having a great time is a mystery to me. Their motivation seems to be showing off their dogs talents, as they can be seen smiling smugly every time their dog manages to 'sit', 'stay' or 'roll over' on command.

Unsurprisingly, women are by far the most willing to stop and chat. Unlike the men, who are generally there to do their duty as official walker of the family pet, women are more likely to take time to make connections in the park, and appear to be there purely because they enjoy spending time with their dog. It is simliar, I suppose, to women nattering to other women about their children. Yet despite being such friendly places, there is relatively little human contact other than a brief "Good Morning." There are groups of people who gather round and make small talk while their dogs play, but most contact is made on a very superficial level, and friendships don't appear to extend past the confines of the park. I see many people i recognise from the dog park when I am at the local supermarket, and I never stop to say hello. Yet two hours later we may by chance be walking our dogs and the same time and end up prattling on for half and hour.

There are strict rules for how to go about initiating conversation with others in the park. It is far more likely that a stranger will address my dog Charlie than they would me, as there is a highly technical system in place that governs relations between humans. Strangers in the dog park adopt a complex method of communicating with each other by addressing the stranger's canine companion. This can be done on behalf of their own dog i.e. "Rover, say hello to the little puppy", but equally as likely is a direct connection between dog and human - "Hello little cutie! You look like you're having fun." There aren't too many places where it's completely normal to see an adult talking to an animal, nuch less reacting as though the animal is actually talking back! However, a stranger conversing with your dog does not necessarily mean you can enter the conversation. The signal for human to human communication to commence occurs only after that stranger has asked your dog a question they obviously want a real answer to, such "What is your name little puppy?" or "How old are you, little man?" At this point, the owner is finally allowed in to the conversation.

Further proof of the lack of human to human interaction in the dog park is that several people call out "Hello Charlie" to my dog as we pass, yet no one knows my name, nor I theirs. I do, however, recognise Alfie, Bella, Butch, Hootch, Cleopatra (awful name for a dog), Millie and Leroy the Labrador - whose Japanese owner always calls out "Harro Chawie's mum! You seen my dog Reroy?" The only time you really see people making a point of talking to each other is if there is a vicious dog in the park, or one that appears overly boisterous. In dire situations such as this, people make a point of connecting with others. Another example of people keeping an eye out for each other is evident in the way some efficient sould has tied several poo bags to a big hold in the fence, to alert other owners that their dog may get through. There is a spirit of camaraderie within such actions that suggests we are citizens of the dog park community as much as of the Gold Coast itself.

Fairly low in the social pecking order are those people who come to the park without a dog. Like all minority groups, they are treated with a level of suspicion ordinarily reserved for strange men hanging around a kiddie's pool. These people use Rosser Park as they would any other, passing through on their morning or evening walks around the block, riding bikes, using the park as a playground, and coming down to picnic with the birds. Given that it is a designated "off leash" area, it would seem unlikely that people wary of dogs ever set foot in the park, yet it happens. It is a bizarre sight to see someone uncomfortable with dogs trying to have a picnic on the grass when every Fido in the neighbourhood is running freely around them.

A very popular spot in the afternoons was the kid's swings and playground, where mothers regularly brought their kids after school. They seemed to have a whole little community of their own going on near the swings, made up of regulars who'd sit and chat while their kids played. Due to the revamping going on, the playground has been moved to a spot within the off leash area of the park. Interestingly, the original layout of the park is so ingrained in the regular user's memories that dogs are now running all through the playground, and area from which dogs are strictly forbidden. Consequently, fewer kids are actually on the swings at the moment. The mothers who used to bring their kids down to the park after 3pm haven't been seen since the playground was shifted.

Backing on to one side of the park are several houses. What is particularly interesting is the way those residents have claimed pieces of the park for themselves. Each house shows signs of the owners attempts to appropriate a little bit of land as an extension of their backyard. Several homeowners have staked out their patch by planting jacarandas, poincianas, oleander, jasmine and wisterias directly outside their property in order to add small touches of themselves to what was already there. It's a little like the way explorers once gallivanted around the globe sticking empirical flags in foreign soil. Others have constructed pontoons or rams directly into the lake. Taking this concept to a whole new level, one bloke religiously mows the grass outside his property, so that within the park is a perfectly manicured section of lawn. His attention to detail is commendable, as he never seems to overstep the invisible lines and start mowing his neighbour's grass.

Every house has a gate in their fence providing their own personal entrance to the park, despite the fact that few of these homes actually house dogs, and a few residents always seem to be lurking around in case some dogs dares to poop on their lawn. The result is that walking down this section of the park feels a bit like trespassing on private property. The majority of walkers don't seem to go down that side of the park. Although I walk there, it does feel vaguely like I'm cutting through a back alley. It's a shame, given this area is the shadiest, prettiest spot in the park.

It is this competition between those who currently use the park that will be interesting to watch as the redevelopment continues. If the anticipated tourism becomes a reality, the space will be very different from its current incarnation. Botanic Gardens seldom welcome dogs with open arms, as it is possible that we may get to a stage where canines are no longer Top Dog, so to speak, of Rosser Park. Having said that, hell hath no fury like a dog owner banned from a dog park, so I can only assume we won't go down without a dogfight or two!

Facebooking My Demons

2008-01-23T23:12:00.000-08:00

I am in the midst of a very weird experience! Yesterday I, after much pestering from several friends, joined Facebook. And it has been a minor revolution. Yesterday morning, there was a long list of people I've often thought of over the years but for whatever reason had lost contact with. Almost 48 hours later and I can't get over the people I'm now communicating with! Friends from high school, people I travelled with, even someone from primary school that I really had to comb the cerebral archives to remember. It's amazing, and addictive. Such an easy way to stay in touch that I'm finding myself frustrated by those I know who aren't yet on it. So silly really!

And yet, as I traced through the collections of 'friends' on everyone's pages looking for people I recognised, a funny thing started to happen. I sort of reverted back to my social position in high school. Most people I went straight in, clicked on and submitted a friend request. No problem, I know they'll want to be my friend! But there were quite a few others over whom I hovered the mouse before deciding 'Nah, they might not respond'. Social death Facebook style!!! I didn't like the idea of possible rejection, or them thinking I was just being a 'hanger-on'.

What is that about????? It was straight back to the awkward & socially tumultuous times I experienced in high school. I was never one of the tarty 'popular' girls, but nor was I a complete social pariah. Mostly, I think people found me a bit weird because I wasn't easily classifiable. I sort of just drifted towards whoever was talking to me on any given day. Every day was another experiment in having to pretend I fitted in. What's weird is that I don't feel that ever anymore, so why does the idea of hooking up with school friends bring it all back? Why does that time of my life weigh so heavily on me that almost 14 years after I graduated, I still obviously haven't left it behind? Why do I still care what they're thinking???? I'm not at all fazed by people in my current life, so why these people with whom the only thing I really have in common is our education? I even caught myself looking at the picture of me I posted, thinking "Jeez, it's a bit cheezy. People will think I love myself". Who gives a rat's arse really? Well, me apparently!

Truthfully, with the exception of the few I have had a little contact with, most of these people don't know me at all. Nothing about me. My interests, likes, loves & what my every day entails. What's more, we're adults & we've all grown up. We may even find that over the past decade we've become even more alike. Who knows? Problem is, I probably won't know because I'm not sure I can take that first step & put myself out there.

Am I going to end up on Dr Phil? I hope not. I hate him!

Paul Potts - Sounds Like Small Pox

2008-01-21T03:20:00.000-08:00

Well aren't we all swept up in the fervour surrounding Mr Paul Potts from Wales! Everyone saying what an amazing story it is, what a sensation he is, what a discovery by the Britain's Got Talent team...

For those who don't know, this is his audition where everyone got all shivery and goosepimpled!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1k08yxu57NA

A seriously debt-ridden mobile phone salesman, Paul Potts was evidentally taking some mental health leave from his job when he auditioned for Britain's Got Talent (thank you wikipedia!). And unless you're totally unaware of anything that goes on around this planet, you'd know he went on to win the thing.

But isn't his success less to do with his singing voice, and more to do with the fact that his story is the embodiment of all our own deepest, daggiest dreams and wishes? I mean really, the moment he stepped onstage, all nervous and unpolished, the judges rolling their eyes and stealing cynical glances at each other; weren't you reminded of those times - those embarassing, awkward times - when you locked yourself away as a child/tween/teen/tragic 20year old, and behind a safely locked door sang your heart out, the mirror your audience and a fat Nikko pen your microphone? Do you remember imagining the applause, the ensuing fame and adulation and, most importantly, the knowledge you had proven all your detractors wrong - that you were indeed someone truly amazing, someone to envy and admire.

There has been so much about Paul Potts and his unbelieveable talent, his charisma and his screen presence. Yet that can't be all there is to it. For a start, he's not even all that good. Hang on. Let me quantify that. He is good. Very. Provided you're comparing him to me or any other musically challenged person he's exceptional. But he ain't no Carreras, Domingo or Pavarotti. If you listen for it you can hear his lack of experience and the rawness in his voice. Yet in 2007, he sold more copies of his debut CD here in Australia than Pavarotti, despite the fact that fat ol' Pav even went so far as snuff it - generally a sure-fire sales booster.

All of which leads me to the conclusion that the 'hair on the back of the neck standing up' emotion I, and evidentally the judges, felt while watching his performance was due not just to his obvious ability, but even more so to the realisation that, for at least one person on the planet, the showstopping applause and wonderment did not remain imaginary. Watching him in the moments after his triumphant appearance, bewildered and shellshocked by the rapturous applause washing over him, I remembered how I felt standing in my bedroom at the end of a stellar performance, gazing out across an illusory audience made up of all the kids and teachers at school who'd given me grief. I remembered staring each one in the eye and daring them to tell me I wasn't any good. And they didn't, because I'd left them all speechless.

And it occured to me...in succeeding so fully and fabulously, and on such an international scale, Paul Potts wasn't just living his own Victory Moment, he was living all our Victory Moments. This unassuming, almost agonisingly shy bloke, had become the epitome of all our deepest, weakest insecurities, and the mind games we play to keep ourselves from drowning in them.

Or is it just me?????????

For Lorraine

2008-01-12T03:08:00.000-08:00

You would have done it too I reckon. If you were me, that is. Eight kids, one with Downs Syndrome, and a useless bloody arsehole for a husband. No money, no house, no food, let alone a job or future. Just one clapped out station wagon and enough money to keep the arsehole in cigarettes. Nothing but my faith, and my eight beautiful children, to keep me going.

Me of all people, sitting here waiting to be told what happens next. I heard you talking about me to the cop on duty. Something about ‘down and outers’ and there being no hope for us. Funny that, ‘cos at sixteen I thought there was hope for me. That’s when I met my Harry. I thought he’d come to take me away to see the world and save me from my dad. How was I to know when he came along he wasn’t a good catch? All I knew at the time was that whatever he offered me must have been better than the way the old boy treated mum.

Poor mum. She was a peculiar little thing. Her and me, and my sister Annabel, we were like the whattayemacallit, the Secret Service, the way we’d silently pass messages between each other. Just about anything we said or did would start my father off, so we all got pretty good at saying a lot without saying much. No wonder I fell for Harry, anything was better than home. For years after I left I couldn’t sleep at night, ‘cos of all the guilt I felt at leaving mum and Annabel behind. Deep down I knew I had to though.

We moved north not long after getting married, and started a family straight away. I didn’t plan on that happening so quickly, but you can’t always choose the way the world works. Being that I was seventeen and knew nothing about kids, it was all a bit much really. By the time I was 32 we had eight kids, and the oldest ones were having to help me with the youngest. Harry never helped; he just came home from work, yelled at everyone, then went to the pub.

When Harry got a job driving trucks, I thought it would be better for us ‘cos he’d be away more often. But truckies are a bunch of pigs and the blokes he worked with were the bloody worst. He’d get home in the middle of the night after being away for a few days, full of wind about how all the blokes’ wives give ‘em a bit of slap and tickle when they get home. If I didn’t want to, which I mostly didn’t, I’d get the slap and he’d get the tickle, if you know what I mean. Eventually I realised it was easier just to lie there and take it than cause a fuss. He’d get his way anyhow, so may as well make it easy on myself.

He lost that job not long after he started anyway. I don’t know why, he never told me about it. All I knew was that it meant I had to work four jobs to keep us going while he sat at home smoking his fags. The kids were miserable at home with their dad, and they were mad at me for not being there. Every time I tried to talk to Harry about looking for work it’d start a blue, so I gave up. Then one Sunday after church he belted the youngest, our Catherine Elizabeth, over nothing. I couldn’t take it anymore. That night after he’d gone down to the pub, I packed the kids up in our old station wagon and started driving. Harry’s reaction when he got back must have been something fierce, but I’ll never know. I didn’t think about what I would do once we got where we were going. I just knew I had to get my kids out of there before I talked myself out of leaving.

The oldest ones came with me, and it was okay the first couple of nights. All bunked up in a room at the Flag Inn. But for the past week we’ve slept in the car outside a surf club. I can’t believe that the kids haven’t gone mental. I suppose they know what I’m trying to do for them. The boys have taken turns sleeping outside in sleeping bags, making sure I was always in the car with the girls. I just lay there while they slept, crying silently at what I’ve done, knowing that I’ve got to get somewhere for us to live, and that the little ones are missing school, but that there’s no way we’re going back.

Perhaps I should have phoned a women’s shelter, but I grew up being told that the church was the cornerstone of society, that if you had a problem the best person to talk to was the parish priest. So, this morning I drove me and the kids to the same church we’ve been to every week. We got there early to try and catch Father Dean before the 10am service. I spotted him in the car park. He remembered us, asked how the kids were, how Harry was. I told him I’d left Harry, that I want to try and give the kids a better life. I told him I was hoping the church could help us get sorted. He just shook his head and said how sad it was when adults put their personal needs before the children. He told me that children deserve the benefit of both a mother and father, that with eight dependant children there isn’t time fore selfishness and that I need to return to Harry and sort things out for the sake of the kids.

Can you fucking believe he said that? Selfishness! For 22 years I stayed for the sake of the kids, and because I thought that’s what wives did, and here was a priest telling me he couldn’t be seen to condone a wife and mother leaving her husband at the ‘first sign of trouble’. I couldn’t believe what I’d heard. I would have expected that crap in the days when Tommy was a newborn, when the doctors were still describing him as my ‘mongoloid son’, and advising me on how best to handle the embarrassment of a deformed child. But nowadays? How could they do that to me? Abandon me like that, after I’d been to church every Sunday since I can remember, and done my bit for the cause by giving birth to eight more Catholics!

I was a bit dazed, so I pushed the kids into a pew at the back of the church, and sat down. My head felt like it was going to explode. I feel like I’ve been let down by everything I’ve held on to my entire life.

When Father Dean got to his sermon, he started on about the value of family, having children, and giving them a loving family to grow up in. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Is stood up, and made my eight stand up, and then I yelled out

“What makes a family if we don’t?”

Father Dean spun round. The doddery old shit almost keeled over in shock when he saw it was me. A woman in front tried to calm me down, but I was too bloody cranky to stop. “I came to you for help in keeping my family together, and you’ve turned me away.” Father Dean went to say something, but I couldn’t bear the thought of hearing one more word from him.

Now, I know I shouldn’t have done what I did, the truth is I never stopped to think. I just did it. I stood up, turned to face the back of the church, and hitched up my skirt. Then I pulled down my knickers and mooned Father Dean.

I heard the noises of people gasping in shock, but I heard a whole lot more people laughing and whistling. Through my legs I could see Father Dean recoil in horror. In an awful moment I remembered the kids, and quickly got myself together. Eight faces, eyes wide, mouths open, glaring at me, their ears and necks crimson, totally embarrassed. I whispered I was sorry and covered my face with my hands. Then, you know what? Someone started to clap, then a few others joined in. Not everyone, a lot of people were obviously disgusted by me. But definitely some there were trying to show me support.

Some loyal parishioner must have called the police, because the next thing I knew I was being led up the aisle by a female officer, who was saying something to me about a report of a disturbance and they’d come to sort it out. I guess when they’d heard my story, and seen my kids and the state I was in, they decided the best thing would be to bring us here and work out if I am actually a head case…

So here I am, being assessed by you, waiting to find out what happens next, and what you lot will do with my kids. All I wanted was a life for me and my eight beautiful children, and I’m fed up with being let down. You would have done it too I reckon. It’s easy to say otherwise in hindsight, but I reckon you would have done it too.

Oscar's Red Carpet

2008-01-11T13:38:00.000-08:00

It used to be that the Oscars was the show, yet every year an estimated audience of one billion viewers tunes in just to watch special coverage of the Academy Awards Red Carpet star arrivals. Not the ceremony itself, just the red carpet. Why? What is it about that long stretch of cerise shag pile that makes people tune in? Do we really need a show about stars arriving for another show? Yes, apparently.

“The Oscars is the highest example of red carpet spectacle in the world” (HREF1)

Nothing screams to the world “I have arrived” the way an invitation to walk the red carpet does. In that respect, it becomes important to our society to see who exactly is granted this privilege, and evaluate whether they deserve it. Likewise, there is pressure on those we are watching to meet our expectations and fulfill our need to watch “the popular and the beautiful celebrate their popularity and beauty” (HREF1). School formals, corporate functions and rugby awards nights all hijack this symbol in an attempt to bring a touch of Hollywood to their night and make attendees feel special. Every movie premiere and every awards show in the entertainment industry stages their own red carpet arrival, but of all the red carpets in the world, the one belonging to the Oscars is the reddest.

“The famous Red Carpet entrance has, over the years, become the setting for rampant individualism and competition. Who is wearing the best dress? Which up and coming is dating which executive? Who’s in the ten-mill bracket this year? Who will win that gold icon, join the ‘in’ crowd and add another zero to their pay packet? Which post bash party will be the most exorbitant? This frothy pre-ceremony catwalk preserves the highly ideological notion that something called talent brings you happiness, power, good looks and fame.” (HREF4).

As the only part of the Academy Awards to directly involve members of the general public (fans can purchase tickets to sit in the bleachers running the length of the red carpet, but entrance to the ceremony is by invitation only), the red carpet is the one moment where some degree of interaction between celebrity and fan is possible. As such, it is the only place where a degree of intimacy can be imagined by the audience, the main ingredient in a successful relationship between media products and consumers. What is interesting is how the red carpet walk has developed from a chance for stars to be interviewed and show off their outfit to mean so much more. Rather than just being a glorified catwalk, the red carpet has become its own little world, with its own customs and expected codes of behavior, dress and social standing. So iconic has the image of the red carpet become, that it now exists in a separate place within society.

Although the classical rituals of laying robes for royalty and religious deities were adopted innocently enough by Hollywood almost a century ago, red carpet events have really evolved with the advent of pervasive global media coverage. Despite its long history, the red carpet was made for the media of the 21st century, even to the extent that the exact colour of dye used on the rug is one that best shows up red on television (HREF2). The Red Carpet now stands alone as a symbol of power, glamour and success – three highly valuable commodities in our society. The Red Carpet Foundation, naturally based in the United States, describes the red carpet as one of the entertainment industry’s “longest lasting legacies…playing a unique role in our cultural identity”. (HREF3)

Yet troublingly, this cultural institution is one built on façade and superficiality, a result of image after image being created without any substance to it. Unlike the Oscars ceremony, which does have the business of presenting awards to quantify its existence, the red carpet exists purely as a media spectacle. It is there just to be looked at, and in this respect fits neatly into the work of post modern theorist Jean Baudrillard.

Baudrillard was concerned with the post modern preoccupation with appearance, what a self centred emphasis on image and style becomes the dominant force in how we create ourselves (Elliott 2001, p131). He theorized that a world consisting of “glittering media surfaces and radiant commodified images” (p140) would lead to what he termed a hyper-reality, where repetitious images of excess intensify in the collective minds of the public and become more real than our actual reality (p136). Perhaps when Baudrillard first tossed about the idea of hyper-reality he had some premonition of the space we now know as the Oscars Red Carpet. Foxtel’s 24 hour continuous broadcasting “Live From the Red Carpet” summarises everything Baudrillard pointed to when he became concerned the audience was the victim of the image. Round the clock coverage of actors and actresses arriving on the red carpet, overlaid with inane commentary by supposed style gurus, does not advance society. The viewer remains stagnant, simply consuming image after repetitious image. His ideas about a world driven by explicitly excessive and transparent imagery could surely find no better fit than within an analysis of the way this seemingly inconsequential event has been packaged for society’s consumption.

“Who arrived with Donatella Versace?”
“Who’s going to Elton’s party?”
“Did anyone see Oprah talking to me?”

“Does Joan Rivers like my dress?”

To some level, we are all susceptible to the razzle dazzle of high wattage stars, and it is this form of seduction that is at the heart of Baudrillard’s notion of the hyper real. The version of the red carpet that we see on television is pure fiction, a ‘fantasyscape’ (p136) that becomes more vivid and intense than the more benign, less perfect reality that exists behind the cameras. The viewing audience in not privy to the networking, marketing and publicity seeking games that go on between the Hollywood studios as they fight to get their stars on the red carpet.

We hear rumours of designers lavishing stars with gifts and money in order to get them to wear their gowns, yet we see no evidence of this. All we, the viewers, see is the end result – ethereal Hollywood goddesses gliding down the carpet. Nor are we privy to the sight of said goddess being led by her publicists away from lesser known media entities, and towards the ones who matter – Joan Rivers, Oprah Winfrey et al.

Media coverage has ensured that an audience clamouring for a glimpse of their favourite star is given ample quantities of what they want. Even their arrival at an event becomes valuable currency for a society demanding information about them. The Red Carpet provides the perfect opportunity to cover, without distraction, the stars and their image. Inevitably, the 30 minutes a star spends on the red carpet becomes worth more to audiences than the two minutes they may spend presenting on stage.

Part of the fascination with watching the red carpet must also lie in seeing famous faces allowed to act in ways considered taboo in ordinary society. Thos who are granted the privilege to walk the real Hollywood carpet find they are also accepted into and arena where ‘anything goes’, where extreme examples of behavior are not only condoned, but encouraged. Where else are we allowed to talk about ourselves, encourage gratuitous compliments from virtual strangers and blatantly preen ourselves for photographs? The result is what Marxists would consider a highly fetishised space of “irrational reverence or obsessive devotion”, where stars compete with each other to enact expected modes of behavior (HREF1).

Partly a throwback to the bohemian image thespians have long cultivated within society, where marginal tendencies were encouraged, there are stars that make a point of being the most extraordinary of all attendees. Celebrities such as Cher, Angelina Jolie and Bjork have created a reputation for trying to shock on the red carpet by wearing eccentric clothing, kissing their brother, and laying an egg (?!?!) respectively. In the ordinary world, to enact these forms of behavior attracts criticism for displaying narcissistic tendencies, broaching taboo forms of behavior and generally considered off-putting, yet on the red carpet it is accepted. This is one occasion that is all about maximum exposure, and whatever can be done to heighten the attention is just part of the game. If you don’t want to be noticed, best you sneak in through a side door.

It is commonplace for stars to wear haute couture gowns and designer diamond jewellery borrowed for the evening, so much so that media don’t ask ‘What are you wearing’, but ‘Who are you wearing’. Now, any female will tell you that borrowing clothing from a shop to wear to a party then return it the next day is one of the biggest crimes a girl about town can commit. Yet for the Oscars, designers like Valentino and Versace WANT the actresses to do it. Not only that, but sometimes the gowns have been worn a couple of times before! Julia Roberts started a continuing trend when she wore a vintage gown the year she won her Oscar. Where else can a woman admit to wearing a second-hand dress to a black tie event?

Jewellers such as Harry Winston give literally millions of dollars worth of jewellery to veritable strangers and presumably cross their fingers it will all be returned in one piece – all for the possibility that someone watching at home will rush out the following Monday to grab a pair of earrings as seen on the lobes of Gwyneth Paltrow. Ironically, the only person I heard admitting to the crime of wearing her own jewels was the perennially plastic Dolly Parton. “Whay would aye wear someone else’s stuff when aye can wear maye own?” she hollered to a stunned Richard Wilkins. Indeed, but if your boobs once belonged to the makers of Tupperware, what difference does it make whose diamonds you wear?

Of course, the notion that stars inhabit a world far removed from the great majority is not new, and the sight of the red carpet at the Oscars is only the manifestation of this fact. On a daily basis, celebrity allows for excessive displays of behavior as it “radiates greater material and symbolic power than non celebrity” (Rojek p31). It is seeing so many people in possession of this power all in one location that is truly dazzling to audiences.

Recently, Hollywood has begun to use the red carpet as a means of communicating to the wider community. In 2001, the glitz and sparkle of the red carpet was hyped unprecedented levels as Hollywood attempted to counteract the downturn in the USA economy. The following year, as America reeled from the shock of 9/11 and US troops were days away from being sent overseas, the red carpet was shortened, stars were discouraged from acting as outlandishly as previous years and the majority of the world’s press were denied access. The following year, it was back in all its glory – shinier than ever (HREF4). Small changes may be made to the televised ceremony, but the red carpet remains the site where Hollywood chooses to make the most visible statements. This, more than anything else, confirms the awareness that all eyes are on the red carpet. When next you watch the Oscars look closely for the second carpet, the other entrance that the stars don’t use. Often visible in the background, it’s for the other attendees – the ones that are not famous and therefore hold no social currency. It is the best illustration of what we consider valuable and praiseworthy.

There is a great romanticism about the Oscars and its history, and it seems cruel to treat it too cynically. Yet so much of what is celebrated during this annual event is intangible and, for most people, unobtainable. In many ways it summarises much of what is worrisome about our culture today. Soren Kierkegaard, as far back as the mid 1800s, foresaw the future of the human condition if we continued to place too much social importance and emphasis on the surreal. Believing that human experience in modern times consisted of three spheres – aesthetic, ethical and religious, with the aesthetic sphere being considered the lowest of them – his work centred on what he saw as the decline of religious, the ethical, priorities (Carroll p184). He theorized that if left only with the aesthetic sphere of pleasure and sensual experience in which to experience life, we become focused on the pursuit of temporal happiness, and indulge in passion and beautiful pleasures, a state he likens to the love affair (p 185). While on the surface it doesn’t sound like too bad a state to be in, anyone who’s experienced the rollercoaster of a love affair knows that eventually things crash to the ground and the illusion is shattered. What Kierkegaard is implying is that without an ethical or spiritual base to fall back on, it is not enough to just have everything looking and feeling pretty as it is in Hollywood. We require the substance underneath to sustain us when the shiny media image presented to us begins to tarnish. Real life can’t be stage managed the way the red carpet is, so us mere mortals require something more tangible. We may all secretly crave a chance to set foot on Oscar’s red carpet, but we don’t really want one running through our own house, do we?

Good Cop, Bad Cop

2008-01-02T02:37:00.000-08:00

“Let’s go figure out who the bad guy is, all right?”
Mr Pink, Reservoir Dogs

Bent cops, crook politicians, underhand media tactics, internal cover-ups, spin doctoring, hookers, developers, payoffs, con men and movie stars. Are we talking Queensland in the 1980’s? Well, no. But you could be forgiven for thinking so. It’s crime, Hollywood style.

In the days of Bogart as Private Investigator, it used to be so easy to sort out the goodies from the baddies, the trustworthy from the outright scoundrels. No matter the problem, with Bogie in his ubiquitous trench coat and fedora, as Marlowe or Spade, it would be resolved one way or the other. If you were in trouble, you phoned the authorities. And if the nature of your troubles meant that wasn’t an option then you hired a private investigator. Pretty straight forward – unless the dick you hire is a crook, no more trustworthy than the guy you’ve hired him to sort out. Nowadays a girl could get the impression she should be as wary of the cop flashing his badge as she is of the burglar flashing his weapon.

What is it with today’s crime fighters? Why do they seem to have so much trouble working out that they’re the ones who solve the crimes, not commit them? Is it really that hard to stay straight when surrounded by all those crooks? If you believe Hollywood, even the straightest of honest cops can be bought if the price is right.

Maybe Bogart’s film noir detective could be momentarily distracted by a great pair of legs, but that was as far as his devilishness went. Part of his allure was surely that he gave the appearance of being a rogue without actually having to be one. His success came from being able to ride with the criminals while not letting himself ultimately become one. Surrounded by moral corruption, he had his own moral code that allowed him to operate within crime circles while maintaining his professional integrity. The hope we held that the detective would prove to be honest was generally fulfilled. He was the perfect hero, “neither sinner nor saint, he was a little bit of both” (Rafter 2000: 73).

A good look at today’s class of heroes shows us a motley crew of gangsters, mobsters, kidnappers, pimps, gambles and hit men. Identifying the dodgy players has become an almost impossible task in Hollywood productions, as the world begins to demand narratives that don’t always take the moral high ground. Today’s audiences are very different from the pre Vietnam, Watergate and Al Qaeda aware consumers, who had implicit trust in their authorities and organisations. To a generation yet to be exposed to media saturated in conspiracy theories, it was not impossible to expect cops to be upstanding members of the community. Now, while audiences may desire law enforcers with strong ethics, they aren’t shocked if they don’t turn up, nor are they particularly inclined to trust them if they do.

It appears that movie producers are aware of this loss of naivety and innocence as post-Vietnam movies reflect a lack of confidence in government, protective services and other organisations acting as society’s guardians. Documented examples of police brutality and inefficiency have created a culture that demands to know who exactly is in control. If we can’t count on the police, and if we suspect we aren’t getting the right information from the government, then exactly who is in charge? Film and television, as the main purveyors of our cultural activities, reflect these changing mindsets.

A film such as LA Confidential should (being based primarily around a group of cops from a major downtown precinct), be teeming with decent human beings, yet there’s not a decent figure amongst the characters. Sure, Basinger plays the hooker with a heart of gold role, but she’s not above screwing her boyfriend’s colleague when her pimp asks her to. Set around the working relationship of three very different detectives, the audience is left in no doubt of the film’s message – that anyone can be corrupted if the price is right, or the motivation spot on. They don’t trust each other – why should the audience?

From the moment we are introduced to the highly moralistic character of Ed Exley (played by Guy Pearce), we know that by movie’s end either he’ll have had to confront his ethical beliefs, or the audience will hate his moral crusade. It is only through his wavering, and subsequent ethical dilemma, that Exley becomes likable. Until that moment of realisation, not only is he ostracized by his world weary colleagues, but by the audience as well. Until he shows his ‘inner criminal’, we loathe him, and certainly don’t align with him.

Positioned as Exley’s polar opposite in LA Confidential, Bud White (Russell Crowe) is a man on a mission to avenge every act of violence against women, and will break the law to do so. Problem is, when things get a bit grim his personal life, he gives Kim Basinger a smack across the face highlighting how the strongest convictions can fall apart if the right buttons are pressed.

Perhaps the only character we can rely on is the consistently corrupt Jack Vincennes (Kevin Spacey), a figure who would never miss the chance of a payoff, yet is forthcoming about his activities, and refreshingly self-mocking.

What remains constant in today’s crime films is that the audience is often left rooting for the supposed criminal rather that the crime fighter. Criminals are now often drawn in such a way that their charisma overrides any judgement we may make about their clandestine activities. Positioned against a dodgy cop, the crim doesn’t look so bad!

Sometimes we justify their criminality with movies such as Thelma and Louise, and sometimes we glamorize their criminal careers in films like The Godfather trilogy. Interestingly, The Godfather was always intended to highlight the gritty futility of mafia crime, yet its subsequent cult status within our culture highlights the way the audience reveres and condones the characters and their lives.

There is an undeniable attraction to the glamour of crime, to the sheer recklessness of the criminal’s actions. Certain characteristics of criminals become admirable – their daring, their icy demeanour and the ability to switch off their emotional response. The criminal hero’s allure lies in his sense of adventure, his romantic temperament and his stalwart belief that his actions are justifiable. Just think Warren Beatty in Bonnie & Clyde, one of cinemas most likeable bad guys. If a guy can go out breaking skulls all day, then come home bearing roses for his wife, he is all the more admired. Depictions of gangsters who return for dinner at 5 o’clock give their lives a sense of normality. For the viewer, the hero’s criminal activities are just a form of employment, comparable to a lawyer, bank manager or insurance salesman.

Martin Scorscese’s Casino highlights how a group of people we’d normally have little compassion for can endear themselves to an audience to the extent that we cheer them on and relish their success.

Take Ginger (Sharon Stone), a character who is glamorous, intelligent, powerful, infamous and sexy. Did someone say drug addicted whore??? Who cares! She’s hot, she’s got great clothes, and she brought the whole shebang to its knees! GO SISTER!!!

Even Joe Pesci’s portrayal of the emotionally barren Nicky Santoro can evoke affection from the audience. Perhaps it’s the way he says ‘FUCK’ with complete abandon, or the way he pats his wife on the bum. More likely, our admiration for Santoro stems from the total audacity of his actions.

It is a visual extension of the feeling we get when we talk our way out of a speeding ticket, or drive home a little tipsy without getting sprung by the Booze Bus. Society loves getting one up on authority and celebrates rebellion in various forms. Anyone who’s received so much a parking ticket knows the urge to get revenge on Big Brother. That there are people in the world who enact these fantasies is a given, but for the majority of us our only insight into this world is via crime reports in the news (Bond Potter 1998: 59). Films allow us access to a life of crime without the risk of ending up in the clink.

Popular absurdist films such as Pulp Fiction, Fargo, and to a certain extent even Casino, refuse to let the audience take crime too seriously by filling the screen with delightfully despicable characters we can’t help but like. We enjoy them because they enact to extreme levels every outlandish fantasy we’ve conjured up about teaching that parking inspector a lesson. Absurdist films work on our natural assumptions of crime and those who commit them by taking hose assumptions and throwing them back at us, so that murder and mayhem are treated with an unexpected quirky edge (Rafter 2000: 47). Whether the criminal ought to be punished for their misdemeanours becomes inconsequential as we begin to see them as we see ourselves – the perpetrator of the crime suddenly becomes the victim of a greater injustice. Never mind they’ve previously kidnapped a child, shot her mother and stolen a car; we know how they feel because we’ve been in trouble with the law too.

In reality, we’re just a bunch of cowards living vicariously through rebellious film characters as a means of safely resisting authority, allowing film to nourish our “secret voyeuristic desires” (Rafter 2000: 43).

As a cultural conductor, film provides the perfect place to enact the antagonism we feel towards the justice system without having to consider ourselves common criminals. Today’s films, by allowing us to experience both sides of the law, make us feel just a little less morally compromised. We never be no Spade or Marlowe, but we ain’t no Nicky Santoro either!

City Folk

2007-12-16T00:52:00.000-08:00

“The city is not a concrete jungle, it is a human zoo”
Desmond Morris, The Human Zoo

Ever noticed how cities are full of people wearing black from head to toe? Stand in the CBD of any city from Auckland to Singapore, New York to Paris, and you’ll see thousands of people rushing around like funky Matrix cast members, complete with slick hair & sexy sunglasses. It’s the universal uniform of the inner city; so much so that a bird’s eye view of Central Station in any of these cities will leave you in no doubt that colour was outlawed by corporate fashionistas a long time ago. Inhabitants wear black like armour, a symbol of ‘I belong here’ and ‘I fit in’. It is just one form of behaviour humans adopt in order to survive city life.

Urban myth tells us that cities are full of unknown dangers, and that the best way to stay safe is to avoid drawing unnecessary attention to ourselves. Don’t make eye contact on the subway, don’t talk to strangers, and don’t wear loud clothing. So where does this leave human relationships and interaction within the city environment, when trains are full of people reading the paper, and buses full of passengers gazing out the window to avoid making pleasantries with the person sharing a seat less than a metre in width? Human contact in cities is made up of short, sharp exchanges between people – bus drivers, subway ticketing officers, newspaper sellers etc. Hollywood has romanticised the city, whereby strangers fall in love on trains or during their lunch hour in the park, yet the reality is that all this human contact makes people withdraw. It is not natural for us humans to be comfortable with strangers invading our space, and the tendency of the city to force us within arms reach of people we don’t know leads us to respond in ways that counteract this violation (Sennett 1994, p.17). Our initial reaction when confronted with someone we don’t know is to take a step back and evaluate, an action that is not necessarily appropriate when trapped in the confines of a seat on the bus or train. Our response, therefore, is to shut the intruder out. Visitors from out of town interpret this behaviour as sullen, rude and arrogant, when in fact it is merely a form of self preservation. Silence becomes a way of maintaining privacy (1994, p.343).

After 9/11, t-shirts stating “I LOVE NEW YORK” became a way of showing support and solidarity with the residents of New York City. City living people the world over suddenly became very aware that in today’s world, to be a resident of any big city means looking out not only for muggers, junkies and prostitutes, but also suspicious men, abandoned packages and low flying aircraft. Given that people’s compassion was directed towards the inhabitants, not the skyscrapers, shouldn’t the t-shirts have read “I love the people of New York”? Consciously or otherwise, we equate cities with the people who operate within them, making the city more than just cement, steel and glass. The movement of the people, acting like blood through the city’s veins and arteries, override its inanimate nature.

Cities bring together an amazing cross section of humankind that may otherwise not mix. Well paid executives pass unemployed people on their way to the welfare office, school children learn on streets where hookers and rent boys patrol, two men hold hands as they walk past St Mary’s Cathedral (perhaps consciously), people visit art galleries and museums situated in manicured botanical gardens used by sporting teams and fitness fanatics, students wait at bus stops and subway stations being used as shelter by the homeless, and Chinatown incorporates a traditionally hostile mix nationalities such as Korean, Malaysian, Japanese, Vietnamese and the odd Turkish pide shop. It is this convergence of cultures, beliefs, backgrounds and class that makes the city fascinating, and brings tourists back to previously visited destinations time and time again. While people undoubtedly travel to see for themselves famous structures such as the Eiffel Tower, the Sydney Opera House and the Golden Gate Bridge, they surely do not return to a city to see the same buildings and monuments repetitively. They return for the ambience, the vibe and the people.

Anyone who has lived and worked in the city will tell you city people are different. They’re intense, focused, career driven and social. Generally, they can also be lonely, stressed, dissatisfied and bordering on bankruptcy from too many nights out trying to fill these voids. Much of this is to do with the fact that people are initially attracted to the city at a time in their lives when opportunity and career advancement must be sought out and seized at every opportunity. Consequently, each year sees thousands of individuals flock to ‘the big smoke’, leaving behind families, friends and support networks. The result is cities full of virtual strangers affecting relationships with each other in order to face the isolation that being in a city can bring. Social networking becomes important as a means of filling the void left by displacement and the loss of ‘home’. Intense connections are made hastily, which is not to say that all relationships are false, only that they are borne out of necessity rather than evolving naturally. Inevitably, the pressures of finding a comfort zone in this foreign territory become a breeding ground for ironically anti-social behaviour such as recreational drug taking as a means for coping. Perhaps the party pills provide some relief in the crippling isolation, given their intention is to promote feelings of contentment and joyfulness.

A few years ago when I was living in Sydney, a funny email did the rounds titled “You know you live in Sydney when…” This email consisted of a series of tongue-in-cheek one liners regarding the peculiarities of Sydney life, such as “a truly car space moves you to tears”, or “you prefer Kenyan to Nigerian coffee beans and can tell when they’ve been mixed with South American coffee”. It also had one that struck me as particularly insightful. “You know you live in Sydney…when you know everyone’s mobile number and email address, but not their surname or where they live.” This one was really true! My social circle was full of people I hardly knew, and I wasn’t the only one. It took a joke email to bring home just how shallow and glib city life can be, yet researchers such as Emile Durkheim and Max Weber produced many works relating to the subordination of individuals in the city, and the way trying to maintain a sense of belonging and community spirit within such a vast area subjects people to impersonal relationships within a fragmented society (Davies & Herbert 1993, p. 15).

A study by Suttle in 1972 sought to have cities analysed along the lines of a social construct rather than in an ecological context, as urban places are not “given, concrete entities”, but rather a “product of the way individuals or social groups interpret, perceive and assign meanings to their cities” (Davies & Herbert 1993, p.85). Interestingly, when describing this most impenetrable of locales we have always used language that suggested an ‘aliveness’ and humanity. Cities hustle, pulsate, breathe and hum. New York is the ‘city that never sleeps’, Brisbane is a ‘young city maturing quickly’, Melbourne is ‘cultured’ and, in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, the media is showing us that New Orleans has ‘a heart’. Utilising such terms helps to soften the hard edges of the city, giving those who reside there a sense of ownership, and almost parental pride in their town. Community based festivals are held as a celebration of the residents and what they bring to the district, and public spaces are adorned with banners extolling the city’s virtues, giving those who use these areas the “warm fuzzies” about their city (Zukin 1995, p. 4-19).

Public spaces are an important part of the identity of the city, as the spaces designated ‘public’ gives an indication of the people within the metropolis, acting as a “window to the city’s soul” (Zukin 1995, p.259), and display a cross section of the ethnicities, lifestyles and cultures. These spaces may be parks, museums, pools or galleries, yet they all offer a place where strangers can intermingle freely (1995, p.260). Given the inclusive nature of the public space, people from wealthy suburbs, housing commission developments and tourists are all equally allowed the opportunity to participate and enjoy. This democratic ideology is tempered however, by the rules and restrictions imposed by councils and municipal bodies who dictate where citizens can picnic, walk, and swim, rollerblade, cycle and walk their dogs. When city parks are used in lieu of our own private backyard, any regulations restricting our use of this space become threatening. Our sense of freedom in this free space is challenged. Graffiti and a gang mentality emerge in direct retaliation to the authorities as a way of reclaiming ownership of the space by the people. Sadly however, these actions are often seen as elements of inner city crime and therefore push the everyday citizen further away from using public spaces. Inner city balconies can be seen crammed with pot plants, shrubs, mini herb gardens and the occasional water feature, as citizens attempt to create a private space out of reach of the city.

Life in the city is a life of compromise. You can choose to be near public transport or near the beach, live in the CBD right near work or live a little further out to save rent money, pay exorbitant car parking fees or do away with the car all together, and stay home to save money or go out to meet people. Yet despite all of the angst that can be caused by city life, we still celebrate our cities, envy those who have city glimpses, let alone city views, from their residences and are proud and defensive of our urban environments. Being within a city is like being in another world, one that is never really dark due to al the street lights, on where an open bar or pub can always e found, buses and trains always run, supermarkets open 24 hours and shift workers ensure there are always a few people milling about the streets. It is a hyperactive environment kept alive by the ebb and flow of its inhabitants. Cities market themselves according to their virtues, be they palaces, casinos, beaches or attractions. Souvenir outlets everywhere have postcards, t-shirts, beer coolers, pens and snow domes emblazoned with a place name and a few instantly recognisable landmarks. Yet seldom are the people of the city celebrated, despite being the vital organs that sustain the city’s existence.

Inevitably, this invisibility can be harmful to the human psyche. Given that our bodies are so closely linked to environmental conditions such as what we breathe, hear, drink and wear (Sennett 1994, p.261), it is no wonder that the sensory deprivation of modern cities leads to a mass exodus of people looking for relief from the “dullness, monotony and tactile sterility afflicting the urban environment” (1994, p.15). Each weekend sees outlying beaches and country areas of the city inundated with people escaping for a quick reprieve from the pressures. Despite the ideals of the city beautiful as a means of counteracting this need, how many people walk through Sydney’s Hyde Park on their way to work and take time to acknowledge its beauty? How many Sydney commuters on the Manly ferry look up from their books and newspapers to enjoy the sun glistening off the water and the glass of the buildings? How many more wish they could just jump in their car, turn on the stereo and the air conditioning, and pull up directly outside their work in a conveniently placed car space, thereby missing the whole city experience? Nevertheless, we return again and again to the city, and adolescents still dream of escaping their parental abode and losing themselves in the metropolis. Paradoxically, it is this feeling of having lost ourselves that inevitably makes us yearn for a life outside of the civic area, where walls are not built and people can live freely.