Goose feathers and Lobster tails

The return

2011-12-20T01:03:00.000-08:00

Autobiographical blogging feels like going back to Catholic confessional.
You feel compelled to confess, feel cleansed for having done so, then later wonder if
that priest really is trustworthy. Cyberspace is no priest. (Maybe that's a good thing!)

I stand poised at mid life, looking back over the past and it is quite a spectacular litter
of intense fiery passions gone awry, misadventures in exotic locations, promises made and broken, spiritual highs, alcoholic actings out, parties with hellaciously funny people, quiet moments with inspirational surrounds, nutty workshops to improve my nutty self, social networking with some very anti social beings, showbizzy "look at what I can do" narcissistic gatherings. I've worn many masks, drunk many drinks, entertained many philosophies and had many lovers. I've been hurt and betrayed until I thought my heart would burst, and I have been hurtful and betrayed others.

I feel like I've been climbing a mountain these past few months and I am standing on the top looking out at the lifescape below. It hasn't all been bad. Memorable moments like questing (no food or water) for four days in midsummer in Michigan woods in Native American way. There were sweat lodges, sings, pow wows and drumming- oh how I loved that drumming. There is the time I camped out under a full moon with mates in the middle of a dry river bed in the Northern Territory on route to Roper river to spend time with the loving Aboriginal mob there. That was a life changing experience, a turning point in my life. I had yearly walks at Gwongerella taking in the eucalytpus soaked air as trod the circular path underneath the waterfalls to the rock pools below. In stand up and acting, there were moments of sheer perfection, when you just rode the energy of laughter and reaction from crowd/mass spiralling upward into happy happy...(and ofcourse the funnier but more humbling times when drunken mobs revealed their underbelly and sank their teeth into your act, tore it apart then ate up your ego!)

I had a solid family foundation. Childhood was happy with simple summers of pulling bindiis out of feet, hopping across hot sand dunes to get to a salt watered ocean of foaming fun, runs to the shop to buy hot fresh made sausage rolls...weekly picnics with family, usually with an ant bite drama, or some small mishap that had us irritated then laughing at the end of the day.

I'm standing on the mountain.

I'm looking forward. There is still life ahead. There are still adventures. I don't seek to repeat some of the old lessons. It is the quieter stretches full of spiritual promise and emotional maturity that beckons me now. It is time for me to be kind, to myself, and to others. It is time for me to listen more carefully, speak less, but more clearly, to put the passion in my creative works and not towards men and relationship. It is time for me to stop seeking a beloved and allow one -if out there- to present themselves. It is time for me to live in ease and peace. The wild ride of my youth has come to an end. It's time for me to let it go.

It is time for me to forgive old grievances, and let the bitterness melt butterlike into the
sweet past.

I am blessed. It is my family, it is my friends who have sustained me through this long journey. It is those bonds I treasure and want to nourish. In all journeys, eventually there is a return. It is time for me to return the love.

I had a dream

2011-12-03T09:37:00.001-08:00

There is what you want, and then there is what is.

"What is" is the hardest thing to face for idealists
like myself.

I am not blessed with the noble dreams of
a Martin Luther King...

I had a dream recently where my subconcious
revealed so much ridiculous content.
My ex husband, and rebound boyfriend stood
together in a darkened room
lit overhead by a flood light. They both held
shotguns by their sides. It was
as if they were displays in a waxworks
museum.

I was crouched in a darkened corner viewing them.

I remember saying to myself in the dream,
"Is that was what I was afraid of?
Squiddly diddly and Jabba the hutt?"

And I then opened an escape hatch in
the corner of the room behind me
and crawled out.

The dream ended. (with no credits!!)

Who knew my subconcious could have held
onto such sarcasm? But in the dream it was the
sarcasm that led me to escape. Or maybe in the dream
I saw things as they really were. I had given away
such power, such love to characters who really
weren't worth that energy.

I had been intimidated by their threats: threats
of abandonment, physical threats, threats of
witholding love, threats to my emotional,
physical and spiritual wellbeing.

What was that? Love? Or a bizarre addiction to
pain that I have had? Why the need to prove myself
worthy of love to those incapable of giving it?

When I google searched for squiddly diddly,
I found a little smiley faced octopus creature
who tried in vain to get fame and recognition.
It fit the description of my ex husband quite well.
I was amazed to find that I had held onto the
memory of such a cartoon character. I had forgotten
it even existed.

The tricky part is acknowledging (as with all dreams)
that every character in your dream does represent
an aspect of yourself. So I have squiddly diddly
and jabba the hutt male energies.
I have people pleasers and people
consumer energies present. I have threatening
qualities that I have to work with. Where have
I hurt and/or threatened others? Where have I
behaved like a two dimensional cartoon?
Jung where are you when I need you?

I hope the escape hatch means I have removed
myself from these static energies. Now that I have
named them and observed them (still and waxlike)
I am capable of transforming them into
more nobler aspects.

Astro boy and Luke skywalker perhaps? Atom Ant and
Milton the Monster?

Who knew that my love life would have come to
have resembled a cartoon?

I'm still grieving over these energies too.
Ridiculous grief....Betty Boop in mourning.
Lots of listening to music, sexual naivety and
blinking. Innocent and imagined
powerlessness.

Bring on Roger Ramjet.

A Tree by any other name is still a tree

2011-11-26T10:46:00.000-08:00

"Holiday tree!" Gasp! Shock! Horror! The latest facebook hoax states that the Whitehouse is now calling, what used to be called the Christmas tree "Holiday trees"! Some Christians are outraged. "They are taking the Christ out of Christmas" they claim. "Go home if you minorities don't like our American ways" shout others in facebook capitals. The debate rages on with people agreeing, liking, poking, and copying and repasting in fury and self righteous social networking reaction. No one has checked their facts. They sit on their chairs and tip tap on smoking keyboards creating a reactive hate movement, building collectives of Christian Christmas revolution.

Ah, that Americans could be so easily fooled and pushed to anger? Who knew?

Who knew the Christmas tree, whether plastic or real was considered to be a source of such nationalistic fervour? Who knew that American pride could be so badly damaged by the renaming of millions of Asian factory made plastic imitation conifers? Who knew that so many Christians could feel so wounded that they could turn to hatred and intolerance so quickly?
And who knew that such spiritual facism existed? Who knew so many wanted to occupy your chimney?

Shame on you you followers of Kwanza, Hanuka, yuletide soltice merry makers. Shame on you Buddhists, Jehovah's Witnesses, Hindus, Moslems, wiccans and sufi followers.

Shametide.

How dare these millions of people, "minorities" threaten the beloved naming of worldwide plastic.

We won't even mention the gay folks who might dare to do obscene things with tinsel at Christmas.

Um. Isn't it all a bit silly? Come on now America. It's a tree. I hate to tell you this, but trees grow all over the world, not just in your country. (Well admittedly you have chopped quite a bit down in other countries - perhaps that was so other people wouldn't have access to trees at Christmas so you wouldn't be threatened by other Christmas tree rivals?)

The origins of the tradition date back to Ancient Egypt, to Ancient Rome, to the Druids, the pagans and many many other religious traditions...OTHER than Christianity. I bet they were a bit upset when the Germans (and Martin Luther) pinched the idea. In fact Christ wasn't even born on the winter soltice.

As for the whole "if you don't like our Christmas tree and if you're from another country, go home" argument. Um...well there are some who might tell you to buggar off from their countries where you have gone in uninvited - the places you have sent your youth to die in the name of the "freedom" you now deny others to share.

If the naming of a plant has created such furor, but the naming of a war didn't, ("freedom") then the truth of the Ugly American mythology that has bullied and dominated our world for so very long has truly come to light. People are not outraged by a war? But they are outraged by the naming of a tree?

A belief system, so flimsy, so easily threatened can go against it's own major tenet "love thy neighbor as thyself" to hate, rage and complain about what they call a tree? Perhaps George Carlin's quote is apt here: "leave symbols, for the symbol minded." What kind of religion is this?

To be true to this belief, there ought to be a CHRIST mas tree that hangs on it's boughs, the dogtags of all they have killed in the name of freedom (their own and others who have been victimised in this latest atrocious war), there ought to be golden bullets and decorated oil wells adorning the branches, and then by the nativity scene of Mary, Joseph and the baby Jesus, armed guards and soldiers outside the barn with the three wise prisoners. Instead of "Peace and goodwill to all men" please hang the words of truth that ring out loudly during this debate: "Peace and Goodwill to all, except for Moslems, Gays, Jehovah's Witnesses, Wiccans, Hindus, Jews, 'minorities' and anyone who doesn't think like me."

Jesus didn't have a Christmas tree.

I have learned something though, alot of American Christians are easy to piss off- they are ready to hate over a tree...just don't tell them their version of St Nicolas, was hijacked by coca cola. They might detonate the nuclear bomb if they find out Santa isn't real. Ssshhh.

This year, I am going to decorate a rock. I am calling it a Holiday rock and I'm going to honor what I have thrown.

how to tell if you have attention deficit disorder

2011-11-18T20:05:00.000-08:00

You can tell if you have attention deficit disor...
if you have trouble thinking things through long enough to...
and if you find yourself jumping from subject to....
swans are nice aren't they?...

If you are a brilliant starter but lack the follow through to see the project
through to completi...

they mate for life did you know? swans I mean....but...

have trouble gettting organised with the small everyday tasks ....
it doesn't mean you are "hyper"...that's hyperactivity...

swans aren't hyperactive by the way...

but if you daydream alot...kind of zone out....this could be a sign of attention def...

more people should be like swans...sigh.

you can also hyperfocus....be very very very focussed on one single thing..(it often means
add folks get brilliant grades)....

consider the lily...

and add folks have brilliantly creative minds....

swans, lillies and glassy dreamscapes.

good girls and bad boys

2011-11-18T19:47:00.000-08:00

There's the old cliche'd observation about "good girls" being attracted to "bad boys."

It's wrong. Again, a sexist observation.

It's the bad boys who are attracted to the good girls.

One thing I am thankful for and that is that I never really knew what a "good girl am I"
until I met the mother of all bad boys.

He's an ex gangster, and pimp.
He moved on (if not while with me) immediately to date a sex offender. EEEEEEk.

Yes, I am a "good girl"- it is through his moral insanity, and those who surround and enable him that I have learnt that I am wayyy more moral than I thought.

Being too trusting, too naive, and too gullible can take you into into dark dark territory.
I feel like Persephone who's just been dragged up out of the abyss.

Where's my pomegranate? I earned it!!

good grief or bad?

2011-11-13T00:16:00.001-08:00

Grieving is a serious business, it's been over a year since my
ex husband ran off with his ex wife. (And it's humiliating
to mourn a such a cliched scenario.)

It's been a short while since my rebounder relationship went bung.
(Another womanizer- another cliched con).

The whole year has been marked with betrayals and losses.
You can tell when you've got it bad when you're reading the book
of Job thinkin' "what's he complainin about....?"

But there comes the time when you can't help but think,
"when am I going to get over this?" You want to be able to
let mates and family know: "scuse me but I am temporarily
insane while I am in mourning"...

You can tell your friends and those who love you are worried about
you too. So you try to do the smiley Walmart greeting face...but..
it's fake. It's dishonest. You end up feeling like a kid at a sports event
who fumbles the ball while his family are watching.

It's a self centered damned business too. I keep trying to pop
the balloons at my own pity party, my thoughts become environmentally
unfriendly recyclers, and my heart feels like a cheese grater- riddled with
holes and crumbs of old crusty love.

I keep stepping on my own self esteem.

I understand that grief is necessary. I am allowing myself
to fully feel, (without the numbing agents I used to employ:
vodka and red wine), but just when does bad grief become good?

Where are the jokes in all of this???

Breaking the cycle.

2011-11-11T16:43:00.001-08:00

Ever looked back on your dating/romantic partner pattern?
I keep dating the same person wearing a different mask.

Often I am attracted to what appears to be kindly, spiritual,
intelligent and charming. Take off the differnt masks and
there is bluebeard, ready to attack me for having gotten
hold of his key to his forbidden cupboard (full of the bones
of ex lovers.)

Sigh.

And I have a new personal red flag. Whatever they say they
are, (often emphatically) it's usually proven they turn out
to be the very opposite. If they tell you they are 'honest' - they
generally turn out to be the worst liars possible. If they
pride themselves on being able to "understand women" - watch
for the misogyny to peek out. If they tell you they value fidelity
more than any other quality, you can be sure you are about
to deal with a sex addict. Self confessed rich men borrow money
off you, and "romantics" will do no more than a quick run
at a burger joint drive through for dinner.

It always turns out to be the opposite of what they promote themselves
to be. I should do the same.

I've decided to tell 'em I am a proper bitch....

Getting over heartbreak, 101.

2011-10-18T01:10:00.000-07:00

How to Get over a heartbreak.

1. Cry alot.
2. Eat comfort foods.
3. Don't remember any good times, that will
keep you stuck. Try to remember all the horrible things
so that you can remember why you broke up in the first
place.
4. Cry some more.
5. Eat some more.
6. Use the anger to clean up your living space.
7. Only hang around friends who tell you how his eyes
were too close together anyway. At this stage,
you need emotional enablers.
8. Cry some more.
9. Eat some more
10. By now you should have eaten so much
you should be puking.
11. By now your body should have run out
of snot and salt and grief like liquids, so that
it is not possible to cry or eat. You should be looking
in the mirror saying "holy crap I got to do
something about this."

Keep repeating this process until the ex is fully out of
your psyche.
12. When you start to notice the sun is shining, and
that there are some cute men out there..you are over it.

The fall

2011-10-12T16:07:00.000-07:00

I fell down. When you fall down sometimes you scrape your knees, get bruised, or break bones.
My friend Simon falls alot. It's part of his physical condition, he knows it, expects it to happen and has prepared himself by knowing what moves to make to help prevent damage. He has learnt how to protect himself for falls. I admire my friend. He has taught me alot.

My falls aren't the physical kind. I fall emotionally. I try to think of why I fall. Maybe it was because I wasn't looking where I was going? Maybe it was because I wore the wrong kind of footwear? (Shouldn't wear high heels while mountain climbing). Maybe it was because I wasn't really sure of my footing in the first place? Maybe I was pushed?

I've learned that the reason doesn't really matter. "Who dunnits" don't always address the solutions- the future personal "to do" lists necessary for healing.

Life is full of falls. I have fallen down alot in my life. It's just annoying that I keep falling in the same way and in the same place.

I wasn't prepared for the last fall and I hadn't learned to protect myself, to fall in a way that would cause me the least amount of damage. There was nothing to cushion the blow.

Obviously I fell from a great height..because I really fell such a long way, screamed a long time, and landed very heavily. I tried to use alcohol to ease the pain. It didn't really work, just gave me a headache and dragged out the hurt. The drunken broken hearted only end up validating the heartbreaker- "that's why I left" they say, pointing self righteously toward the mascara smeared in the tequila soaked puddle at their feet. (Ofcourse it had nothing to do with their stone cold sober lies and carefully planned betrayals.) I forgive myself my heartbroken
reactions. I understand why I fell.

Where I landed was great pit full of muddy anger and slimy self pity. There were tears of loves gone by, floating timbers of former relation-shipwrecks, ripples of "who done me wrong" resentments bubbling with "if only's"...

It's a slippery mix and hard to climb out of. At least it's warm. Climbing out of it means facing the cold brisk air, shivering as you dry off.

You have to be careful as you pull yourself out of this slow-sanded pool. Don't be reaching
out your hand for help.

Caped crusaders who need "damsel's in distress" appear wearing hero masks. They hold out a hand to help you up and out, only to backhand you with the other and push even deeper into the pit. Spider man turns out to be sticky boy, superman turns out to be mega pimp, and batman turns out to be a blood sucking dracula. Behind every hero mask hides a bluebeard.

I've been such a sucker for superheros. My first love was astro boy. I guess that was an early indication that I would be bound to find two dimensional lovers in my future. My romantic life has the storyboard of a cartoon.

In the pit of the broken hearted you need to be still. Others may call out to you, encouraging
things like "get over it" and "do you need a wahmbulance" and "you wet your bed, now lie in it"...and "get off the pity pot" -you can't always heal the way others insist you heal.

I tried it. I tried faking happiness. "Look at me, I have moved on! Ta da, I am
so looking for a bonk right now and I am sooo big and stwong!" Nah.
That have a nice day shit is for the shallow, the narcissistic and the
hollow hearted. I just have to wait. I have to wait for time to do it's thing-
put a bit of gaffa tape around my soul, stay honest about how I feel and rest.

You have to be still. If you thrash around the wounds open, they bleed.
Then those pesky vampires appear. They come to feed off that energy..
the blood. Your misery simply becomes a feeding sanctuary for fang wearing
love vultures.

Good grief or bad... it cuccoons you in a salty blanket. I guess that helps you heal. If the grief wasn't there when you came crashing down you might smash into a million fragments. At least it softens the fall.

Life is full of falls. I fell without a parachute and as I hurtled towards the earth I really thought someone would save me. I really thought leaving myself so unprotected was a brave proof of my love and courage. It was just stupid.

I am not guilty of faithlessness, I am however, guilty of stupidity.

I know though, that if stupidity was a crime I would be in a very crowded jail. I've not been the only fool in love. I just want to stop being a repeat offender.

I have had the kind of blind trust and naivety that a telemarketer prays for. I walked with a bullseye on my heart, and my heart was on my sleeve, not a safe place to wear it.
My pain isn't private either. As a child I was a better seeker than a hider. I would make
a terrible poker player. Because of this I don't fit in well with this mechanical reasonable
time. I love therefore I am. I wonder how Mrs. Descartes ever coped with Rene? All that amming and thinking- no room for soul in that "reasonable" world.

Mastering emotions is one thing, denying them another. Making "reason" the ruling
way of being seems to be like pimping out your own humanity to please an automative
society. Surely that time is at an end.

This last year I found out my husband was having an affair, I lost my house, my dog and all I knew to be love, stability, home and belonging here in this foreign land. It was like being
in a bad country song. It hurt - and to be hurt by such a cliche brought me to
my knees. Ugh...to be left for the "other woman" is utterly devastating. No need to
go to an ashram to get your ego broken, just date my ex.

No amount of pleading, crying, screaming and praying changes anything. It
did help me move through things faster though. Slowly I began rebuilding...
I began to try to renovate myself...self examination followed by action to
be sure I took responsiblity for those areas within myself that may have
been non relationship friendly. I began climbing out of the pit.

then ..someone gave me a hand..and offered me a comforting heart...

and words. Words words and words. Such beautiful words. "You're beautiful" and
"I love you" and "I love the 'essence' of you." When did that change into "you're an asswipe
and a simple bitch", and "you are replaceable" and "you've got to change"?
How do "I love you notes" scattered around a room become "an irritation and indication
of 'excessive behavior traits'? Drawers full of porn are okay? "I love you notes' are
sick? And so I fall again...

He wore a superhero mask and Michael Jordan shoes. He spoke in 12 step cliches and prayed in the warm limelight of grateful sponsees. He was more X than Malcolm, more talk than
walk and put the ass in Onestas.

When his mask slipped, there stood the familiar grinning bluebeard.
Turned out all he ever wanted was a temporary tooth fairy. I was just a
replaceable vagina, an exotic trophy to wear on his arm at various occasions,
and back up mature aged booty for in between his affairs with barely legals
and crack ho cinderellas.

His serenity nearly killed me. He has groomed his enablers to disregard
the fourth step. He is part of a group conscience that seems to have no conscience,
their silence a mere tacit agreement that this outdated sexism and predatory behavior is acceptable. Kelly's bar becomes Killers bar. How can there be principles before personalities
when the group is ran by the unprincipled?

My love and trust in others has cost me. I am four thousand dollars in debt. I
ended up in a hospital three times this last year. I am exhausted. I am pissed off, and hurt.
I can't heal wearing someone else's band aids.

I won't lie about it. I will try
not to lie in it. But I don't want to reach out to be hurt again.

I am going to climb out of the pit.

I am going to make my own way.

I am going to be like my friend Simon, and
learn how to protect myself for life's inevitable falls.

There will be no more "falling in love."

I intend to rise in love- along with the like hearted.

I love therefore I am.

The River

2011-02-12T18:39:00.000-08:00

I am at the time spoken of
when the river flows very fast.
And so, it's better to go with the rushing waters
not hang on to shores past...
past sands
past lands
past flanks of roads once travelled
past broken levees
and shifted ground
past dreams unravelled
and rusted crowns.

Did you ever see the clouds spirit sigh
as it drifed overhead?
And know it's calling?-the glow of promised water
a song sung to your last
last lie
last chant of your goodbye
last cry
last flighte of holds once tight held
last song by unheard angels
and redman sky?
-last sunrays faded
and darkened waterfalls?

I am at the time they had foretold of
when water rise rushes down
and I go with the rapids
floating so I won't drown
go down with what needs to be submerged
down in the levles deep dark below
down in crumbling caverns
and abandoned caves
down beneath the overflow
and racing waves.

how to tell if you are dating a control freak

2011-01-16T22:16:00.000-08:00

Did you check with them first to find out if you were allowed to read this?

Healing through humor

2010-05-01T17:57:00.000-07:00

So I should have learnt to be American. I should have learned to sue.
Meanwhile, here's how an Aussie deals with injustice. Humor.
Let me give you a warning,
let me give you advice,
if you go to Grand Canyon
you might hafta think twice...
there are bobcats and lions,
bears and the rest,
but nuthin' as nasty asPark Ranger Hoese.

CHORUS:
She's got a mean face
and a great big butt
she hunts down tourists
in her Ranger truck
she'll give you a ticket
if you wear a grin
she's more scarey than the
drop on the south side rim.
Wa-ooooo

She hates tourists with a passion
she hates children too
that khaki ranger beast
will come after you
if you're on vacation
she won't let you rest
there's nothin' as nasty
as Park Ranger Hoese.

She's got a mean face
and a great big butt
she hunts down tourists
in her Ranger truck
she'll give you a ticket
if you wear a grin
she's more scarey than the drop
on the south side rim.
Wa-ooo.

If you are clean and sober
and you have a good time
she'll still breathalyse you
make you walk her line
if your record's clean
and you pass all her tests
she gets as mad as a skunk
with bad pms.

(v/o:"She'd call for back up if you farted in a forest"... "She's a bigger ass than a
canyon trail donkey" "now I know why them forests are petrified!")

She's got a mean face
wears her badge up front
I'd love to shove her tazer up
her crusty old ..........rock front
if you ever see her on the canyon rim
do us all a favor and push her in!

America's empty pew syndrome

2009-07-28T17:37:00.000-07:00

Jesus Christ wasn't a Christian and if results from the American Religious Institute survey are correct, then it would appear, neither are many Americans. According to polling data from the 2001 ARIS study, American identification with Christianity has suffered a loss of percentage points in the last 11 years. Christine Walker, writer from the Huffington Post, reported in her 2008 article, "The Great Evangelical decline," that half of the southern Baptist churches will have shut their doors by 2030 if the current decline in membership continues."

Highlighting these changes in the cultural faithscape, former U.S. President, Jimmy Carter recently joined growing numbers of Americans, cutting ties with traditional Christian Churches. He says his reasons are because of his opposition to sexism within the southern Baptist community.

"I personally feel the Bible says all people are equal in the eyes of God, that women should play an equal role int he service of Christ in the church."(qtd in Atlanta Journal-Constitution.) Mr. Carter is not alone in these views. Some congregations quit two years ago when the southern Baptists declared that wives should "submit graciously" to their husbands. Baptists share their views towards women's roles in the church with other Christian religions.

In October last year, the vatican issued a strong warning to those supporting the ordination of women priests. Father Bourgeois of Georgia, received a warning letter from the vatican's doctrinal watchdog, the Congregation for the Doctrine of the faith. They advised him that if they did not receive a written recant, he would be excommunicated within 30 days.

Shrinking numbers of American nuns over the last few decades has spawned an investigation by the vatican into "Sister Leadership" matters. The doctrinal assessment comes as a result of the vatican's belief that American nuns are not sufficiently promoting the Church's line on homosexuality and other issues.

Not everyone agrees that Christian America is in crisis. Writers, William C. Symonds, Brian Grow and John Cady in their "Business Week" essay, "Earthly empires," claim gallup polls revealed a "rising fascination with spirituality in the U.S." They suggested events of September 11th, along with rising numbers of aging baby boomers, (as you get older your spiritual interest grows), accounted for the sudden mass soul search.

They cite examples of the southern Baptist billions pumped into building theme styled churches to support their claim. Cowboy worshippers, biker chapels, and mega churches are part of the new glory glamour. Children's pastor from the main campus of Goreshcel's Life Church believes "kids are bringing their parents to church," and so justifies the creation of a 3D Christian theme park, "toon town."

Other evangelical entrepreneurs had plans underway for the construction of "Bible park USA" in Tennessee, and for traditional Christian tourists, Jesus is crucified 6 days a week at Orlando's "Holy land" park.

Inspite of their optimism, Symonds, Grow and Cady have neglected to acknowledge it's more likely that non Christians will outnumber Christians by the year 2042. Ironically it could just be that their enthusiastic claims for Christian success, may in fact, account for the waning interest of the formerly faithful. They've possibly outlined the reasons for the nation's empty pew syndrome.

Perhaps people don't want commercialized Christianity? Perhaps they've had enough of McJesus style worship? Perhaps after the scandals of pedophile priests in the Catholic church, they don't want to, (as the Goreschel New Life Church pastor suggested), have their children
used as targets? Perhaps the three male writers have misunderstood why half of the American population are possibly disatisfied with a dated religious patriachal system? Women don't want to have to break another glass ceiling, especially one made of stained glass. Maybe gays want inclusion rather than to be used as religiously sanctioned scapegoats for hate? And perhaps the baby boomers seek something more spiritually significant than "Holy Land USA" to find deeper life meaning?

Mike Harton, writer with the "Richmond Times Dispatch" in Virginia, wrote recently in his article, "Churches facing the boomer challenge," that "boomers are eclectic in their sources of
spiritual cues and do not fit the required conformity of many congregations." In contrast to
the claims made by Symonds, Grow and Cady, Harton observes that baby boomers are less loyal to the faith traditions of their parents.

As for using the examples of Christian theme parks to prove the alleged swell of evangelical
interest, - that's like saying Chucky Cheese is responsible for the renewed interest in goat's milk fetta.

Both Christian amusement parks have run into trouble. The Orlando Business journal reported in January this year, that the fifteen acre "Holy Land Experience" was suffering from financial losses due to less than hoped for attendances. They sold out to Californian Christian company, "Trinity Broadcasting Network." A spokesman for the network said they had no plans for expansion of the park.

Meanwhile in Tennessee, residents in Rutherford county opposed the construction of "Bible Park USA." It would seem that hell hath no fury than a Christian entrepreneur scorned, because developers have since filed a $2million dollar federal lawsuit against the county claiming their zoning application was "improperly denied."

Symonds, Grow and Cady point out how former President George W. Bush and the republican right enjoyed support from the evangelical movement. This maybe true, but the writers fail to connect some important dots. If, as they said, "ranks of Americans who express no religious preference had quadrupled since 1991," could it be possible that George W. Bush and his government played a role in the drops of numbers of faithful? Did people become disenchanted during his Presidency? Did they lose faith after September 11th due to the way he reacted to events? The Christian tenet, "love thy neighbor" certainly did not play a part in this famous methodist's foreign policy.

"Newsweek's" published poll results, revealed that the number of people who considered the U.S. as a Christian nation in 2005 was 71%. That number fell during the Bush era to as low 62% in April this year. While Symonds, Grow and Cody proudly lauded, "the triumph of evangelical Christianity was profoundly reshaping many aspects of American politics and society," they did not say how.

"We were duped," argues Christine Wicker. "All the hype proclaiming an evangelican resurgence was merely that- hype, a furious shout from a faith losing it's grip, manipulation by a relatively small grop of dedicated, focussed, political power seekers."

So, while the old time relgious crusaders clutch at straws, building super dooper Jesus Lands, Virgin Mary-go-rounds, guilt trips and talking in tongue towers; while world harvest churches rape their congregations for what little tithes they can get, the majority of Americans are leaving the church pews in quiet steady droves.

Not surprisingly, one of the nation's fastest growing religions is Wicca, a neo pagan nature based religion. With the growing concerns for environment, and rising numbers of women disillusioned by the misogynistic machinations of a fading patriachal power system, more are turning to the Goddess worshipping spiritual traditions. The original inhabitants of this land, the Native Americans share similar belief structures. Perhaps America has finally come full circle and is about to embrace what truly is the "old time religion?" If so, could this be America's national Karma?

If this trend continues, America will no longer be "one nation under God," but perhaps,
"one nation under the Goddess."

Bail out the rich

2009-07-09T06:54:00.000-07:00

What do you do when there's a leak in the boat?

Bail out! It doesn't matter who created the hole, cos if you don't bail out, then everybody on board drowns. This is why I believe that bailing out the auto giants, "big three", GM, Chrysler and Ford, that dynamic duo of housing, Freddie Mac and Fannie Mae, and indeed the banks,"the big lot of 116", and, -oh hell, any ol' millionaire who's having a tough time. (Let's give Donald Trump a coupla squillion while we're at it, he could do with a new toupee.).If we don't bail these guys out we sink too. That's what we're told. (Apparently none of us can swim!)

With the average American 16,000 dollars in debt (excluding mortgages), and over all consumer debt up 20% since 2000, allegations that the nation's populace are financially illiterate may be fair. The obvious solution is to make sure the averageAmerican has no way to get their hands on any more money. Give it to the CEO's!

The way to look after the little guy, is to save the big guy first! That trickle down theory is the warm wet flow down the trouser leg of a Hank Paulson onto the rest of us....eventually.

Remember that savings and loans crisis of 1987-1989? They were bailed out for a relatively cheap 250 billion. And who profited in the end? The Wall streetbankers who were able to snap up some of those institutions at bargain prices whenthey eventually turned healthy, thanks to the bail out. And now, with a trillion dollar bail out rescue plan, it's inevitable that Wall street will profit again. They couldn't do it without us.

We're the little guy, the taxpayers, the rescuers. We're the powerful ones. Without us where would they be? We can't let the plantation go down. What we've got to accept is that America was, is and always will be a slave based economy. The credit companies, banks and institutions profit from our debt and misery. Should the average American prosper, the entire system might collapse.The illusion of freedom is there, but those of us at the bottom of the financial tier are still bound by invisible chains. We might not like the masters, but the fact is, if the plantation does goes down, where do we go? China?

Already China's premier, Wen Jiabao has expressed concerns about its massive holdings of Treasuries and other U.S. debt, appealing to Washington to safeguard their value. Certainly when AIG received it's bail out and offered it's top executives million dollar bonuses, China must have felt reassured. They knew the money was not in danger of falling into the wrong hands, that of the average financially illiterate, debt ridden American working class! By helping the capitalists, perhaps China presents it's case for communism? It doesn't need to go to war to do this, just lend money.

Why do we stop at money anyway? If we really want to bail out the rich, let's give them more. 47 million Americans have no medical insurance. There's a wonderful crop of organs to be harvested, blood to be drawn; a ready made market for human body parts for the rich just waiting to be exploited in that section of the populace. Like money, what the heck does the average American know what to do with an extra kidney anyway? Give to the needy. The rich are needy for more. Let's all give them our first born children too.

Some foolish suggestions from economists say the problem is not with the banks and institutions but with the housing market. They point out that the best place to start remedying the Nation's economic woes is to begin by addressing the problems there. By putting money back into the hands of the average American and bailing them out of their mortgage and housing debts, institutions risk losing out from their crisis profiteering. That can't happen. The working class are only guaranteed their right to the pursuit of happiness in the constitution. Nowhere does it say they have the right to actually be happy.

As our numbers of homeless grow, (currently estimated to be 3.5 million) and poverty rates increase (35.9 million living below the poverty line), so will the optimism of our nation's wealthy. For the more the numbers of a recession wearied populace grows, the more the wealthy have available to exploit. The more they cutback on education spending, the less likely it is for the average American to be able to literate in any area of life. Uneducated, with no medical insurance, home or money, yet powerful enough to bail out a multi billion dollar institution? Bail out the rich? Ofcourse we say yes.

The poor are too sick and tired to say "no", and thanks to the education system, to illiterate to spell it.

how to tell if you are delusional

2009-06-08T18:26:00.001-07:00

If that's the Virgin Mary you can see in yer doughnut...chances are...

Harry Willmore

2009-05-20T09:25:00.000-07:00

Harry Willmore. My uncle.

He always wanted to fly. He joined the airforce when he was only 18 years old. At 19 years old, he was in the middle of a war. Vietnam.

He survived it. He survived it the way all vietnam vets survived it, traumatised. His wounds were the invisible kind. The ghosts of Vietnam were always around him.

He was able to achieve what his own father sadly, had not been able to do for him, for his mother or for his sister: he was able to overcome his life challenges to become a responsible and emotionally loving husband and dad. He has five amazing children: Damon, Sean, Renee, Brad and Mark- my cousins- all awesomely talented adults with families of their own.

No one could escape the double act that Uncle Harry and his mother, (my grandmother) Florence Willmore created. It pissed all over Australia's famous sitcom "mother and son"..!!! Together they took the most painful parts of their relationship experience and exploited it for all it was worth comically. They always had everyone laughing. My mother, his sister Marlene couldn't escape his good natured ribs either. We all became his unwitting stooges! His irreverence was part of his life energy. And that irreverence carried over right to the end. I don't think I know of anyone who could have had the composure and mischieviousness to go for a joke in their last breath. My uncle did.

Harry was the bloke who bought you a beer in the pub. He told jokes to everyone. He would rage against social injustice, (and sometimes the price of a beer), and often come home barefoot after giving a homeless guy his shoes. He would rant about the evils of drug addiction, then help a junkie out by giving him food, and lodgings for the night on his couch.
He would burst into loud tantrum-like-angry-tirades over the ills of the world, then go out - quietly- to try to solve them in his own way.

We will probably never know how many lives he touched. He never bragged about his
humanitarianism. He just helped people who he saw in pain or poverty. His capacity to give was as natural as breathing for him.

He coulda been a professional stand up comic. He did give it a bash and did great at it. But he put his family first. He coulda been a professional actor, he scored a few roles in some television series of the day, but he put his family first. (Show business is a notoriously dicey if you want to make a solid living. Raising five kids called for more financial consistency. My Uncle Harry knew that.) Harry Willmore coulda been anything he put his mind to. He chose to be a family man. He loved family more than anything else.

He went on to train as a medic, and worked as safety officer on the oil rigs. He then began his own safety consulting firm. The irony is that he spent his life helping others, and seeing that others were safe, both in his personal and professional worlds, but could not address his own medical needs.

A chain smoker, and boozer! These were his drugs of choice, and who could deny this extroverted larger than life character these socially acceptable self medicaids to help him alleviate the day to day emotional pains he carried? He knew the risks, and took his chances, preferring to have a boistrous energy packed life, rather than a safer sedated one. He needed these small addictive comforts to help him deal with his ghosts. These were his choices.

He was alive. He was full of life. That's why his passing hits home so very hard. It leaves us with a void, a vaccuum.

He entered a room like a happy whirlwind, tossing jokes and one liners around like matches that caught alight in everyone's heart. It didn't matter who you were, how down you felt, how inappropriate you might have thought it, he got under your skin to make you laugh.
That was one of his many gifts. You could love him or hate him; he had the ability to make sure though that you never ever forgot him. And he never held a grudge. He had alot to teach all of us about forgiveness.

Lots of people were praying for a miracle healing this last week, when it was learned he was so ill. But the miracle really, is that he survived as long as he did to inject as much love and positive energy into all he met during his life. Cancer wasn't frightening for him. It was just a "bloody nuisance." It held him back from what he wanted to do. He's already moved on. He's already healed. The true healing now occurs with those of us who are left behind. Can we live, and love with as much joy and forgiveness as he showed us how to?

He was born in England, and he died in England, but his spirit is Australian. His artwork is scattered all over Melbourne, Ivanhoe, in pubs, delicatessens and on murals of restaurants. They weren't hung in fancy art galleries, Harry was a pragmatist! Alot of that artwork went to pay bills, to send children to colleges, to buy presents for grandchildren, to take his beloved wife Marion out to dinner, or sometimes he would whip up a mural for beer money. No worries. He wasn't selfish about it. If he got beer money he would shout you one too if you were "with him".

He was the quintessential working class hero.

Uncle Harry was a proud man. Not for him a long lingering fade out in a wheelchair. He would have given any carer he'd have had hell! He went out surrounded with love. Love from all over the planet. And while it is good to know he is not in any pain anymore, while we understand it is just his body that has been shed, it is because we loved him so much that we mourn so deeply. His kindness and generosity knew no bounds!

The legacy he leaves is one of love, joy and committment. Love of family, love of life, and committment to see that all who he came into contact with, left with a smile or with a lighter heart.

My mother and father, Frank and Marlene Hampson, and my brothers and sisters, Glenn, Guy and Sarah, are deeply bonded to our Willmore clan, thanks to the love of family that's been nurtured by Florence and adopted by Harry and Marlene. We hope our Willmore cousins know -wherever we are on the globe, the Hampsons are here for them in their time of grief, bonded by the love we all share for their dad.

I guess we can take some comfort in knowing that we all have a great welcoming committee waiting for us when we pass over. Harry will be there with arms open wide for a welcoming hug, he'll thrust a champagne in your hand and have you laughing in the light. He's most likely redesigning the "after life tunnel" as I write.

There's a part of me that wants to scream "you bastard" for his leaving us so early. You know he would argue back if he could. But it was his time to pass. His mission was accomplished! And now it is our time to honor his life and legacy by trying to implement some of what we learnt from him in our own lives. Our mission is to make meaning from what we learnt from him.

I believe it's time to love each other, especially during this time of mourning. It is time to be kinder and more generous to each other, knowing in our hearts that when we hear Harry Willmore's famous phrase "are ya with me?" that indeed we are. We are with you always in spirit darling Harry. And now you can finally be free to fly- on your own terms, and in peace.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Urtiyp-G6jY

how to tell if you suffer from bulemia

2009-05-13T13:14:00.000-07:00

If you are planning on eating a seven course meal, ordering the "Lunch with bucket on the side".....

chances are..........

how to tell if you suffer from intermittent explosive disorder

2009-05-13T13:03:00.000-07:00

La la la la la.....f*ck you!

I had a room in Singapore

2009-03-20T07:29:00.000-07:00

" If I know a song of Africa, of the giraffe and the African new moon lying on her back, of the plows in the fields and the sweaty faces of the coffee pickers, does Africa know a song of me? Will the air over the plain quiver with a color that I have had on, or the children invent a game in which my name is, or the full moon throw a shadow over the gravel of the drive that was like me, or will the eagles of the Ngong Hills look out for me? "- Out of Africa.

I sometimes mused that I was a poor version of a Karen Blixen, a blue collar traveller. "I had a room in Singapore".

In 1994 I managed a comedy room at Singapore's "Riverbank club". It was a tiny theatre space on the third floor of a building nestled in among cafes, clubs and pubs along the Singapore River at Boat Quay. We booked two Australian comics per month. Each comic had to fill in required paperwork six weeks in advance before the 7-9 hour flight that took them north to the steamy equatorial urbana. Part of the paperwork included a copy of their comic routine. Each routine was to be scrutinised by the government officials for approval, (a bit like how it is here with some control freak venues in Columbus Ohio today). Having to explain jokes to uniformed officials was a surreal experience.

The "guidelines" given were that there were to be no cussing, swearing, no jokes about drugs, sex or religion, no subversive political references and no "creating political unrest," (whatever that means!). It was my first true taste of how powerful jokes were considered to be. Who'd have thought a comic could be a threat to a foreign country?

Not an awful lot of material left for a comic to cover really after that when you think about it. But there were some fine comic performers who rose to the challenge. It was hilarious watching each other twist our routines into "Disney-like" versions of what we would perform on our own home turfs. Comics who bravely performed at the Riverbank included: Julia Morris, Kitty Flannagan, Paul Brasch, Simon Rogers, Alan Glover, Fingers Demain, Peter Fox, Judy Glen, Bill Bailey, (U.K.), Terry Hansen, Jonathon Atherton, Andrew Goodone, Haskell Daniels, Dan McCartan, Jimmy Rice and Mr. Jimmy Borg.

Inside the comic network, it was considered a "badge of honor" to tackle some of the more difficult gigs on the circuit. This was certainly one of the more "difficult gigs". Not alot of money on offer either: one thousand bucks a week, for six nights per week, two shows per night (each spot 20-25 minutes). That works out to less than a hundred bucks a show- small pickin's when you consider how hard a comic works to gather up that amount of material. We did however manage to keep it just on actors' equity minimum and it is due to the goodwill of the comics who chose to perform that the gig survived for the year. Agents Ingrid Ricciardello and Fidele Crisci were incredibly supportive.

Every comic struggled at various points. The audience were not used to the bold brash hard and fast delivery style that was in vogue at the time. Most Singaporeans used English as a second language, so adored puns; the sort of pun that even kids at a pre school might groan at could garner a huge laugh at the Riverbank. There were two kinds of crowds, those that had been exposed to the Bill Cosby show, and others who'd seen pirated vids of Eddie Murphy's "Raw". So when we came to town, they were disappointed cos we weren't doing dentist routines, or wearing leather and cussing. And, we were white. (As with most countries, racism is alive and well. Racism, after all, doesn't have a color.)

There was a whole section of Singaporeans who had either travelled overseas to study, or had had their compulsory army training in Australia. These were the people that gradually began showing up at our club and building up some laff energy. They were hungry for some fun. Ex pats came, but were often disappointed because we could not "let rip" with as much freedom as they had hoped we might do, (hey they never saw the contracts we had to sign!) Older Singaporeans were completely baffled by the stand up comedy phenomenon and eventually drifted away from our clientele. A few locals tried to do some stand up comedy, and although we tried to be supportive of what they attempted, the locals were having none of it, and so would be Singer stand ups, became disheartened and often faded away into darkness, like a quick Singaporean sunset.

A bunch of us visited the local drag comedy show in town. It was full of puns, mime acts and some pretty rough jokes about bodily functions. They had a good following but it was tricky to understand why so many grown adults would laugh at so many poo jokes and turd references.

Then it dawns on you. Singapore is "clean". It's what every tourist will tell you when they first arrive, "my it's so CLEAN here". And they are ever so impressed. Yes, it's clean - but it's very manufactured cleanliness. They have public toilet flush inspectors (yes this is a real job), and the inspectors would fine people in public toilets for "not flushing". It was a 500 dollar fine.

There is no graffitti. The way most rebel is by expressing themselves in the most basic of ways. The public toilets are traditional squat holes - tastefully positioned among bathroom floor tiles. And so, around that gaping floor orifice, were the results of where the rebellious had purposefully missed. One would tip toe delicately through public bathrooms, and quickly learned NEVER to wear long trousers or skirts for fear of it traipsing through the trail of human waste dripping along the floor. So much for 500 dollar fines! However, it explains why poo jokes are popular. (None of us however, were able to quite make that cultural comic leap, so we left the poo jokes to the local masters of the genre.)

The beaches there were built from reclaimed sand. (pumped out from ocean beds some miles out at sea). Once, when they were busy setting off explosives offshore to deepen shipping channels and reclaim sand a pilot whale beached itself. It was all torn up. Everyone had just seen the movie "free willy" so they made a big deal out of trying to push this poor tattered creature back into the sea. Not surprisingly it rolled belly up and died. Al Gore would have spat up his noodles.

In the parks and on the beaches are loud speaker systems piping out "relaxing music" so there's no way to find anywhere that's silent. It was like being in George Orwell's wet dream.

I got the impression that there wasn't a blade of grass planted in Singapore that wasn't first approved of by the government.

One of the more interesting social experiments was the government run dating service. Singapore had achieved zero population growth. In order to encourage people to reproduce, the government first decided that they needed to encourage people to date and marry. However, only college graduates could date each other, and those without degrees had to date others who were similarly intellectually matched. (In other words, the government were keeping the smart asses away from the dumb f*cks.)

Lee Quan Yew, the Prime Minister had a daughter. She was an Oxford graduate. She married another Oxford graduate. Lee was apparently quite proud of this fact and used his family as an example for Singapore's non co-operative non populaters. Unfortunately his daughter and son in law gave birth to a down syndrome albino child. The local rumor was that she had suicided by throwing herself off a building.

The government disbanded their dating service after that.

My bosses told me we were not allowed to discuss this onstage. (We never did, but we did find out that if you were "off microphone" you were having a "conversation" and as such this did not constitute a "performance". There were many hilarious "conversations" that took place on the tiny stage at the Riverbank. And it never created social unrest!)

Once we had befriended the cast at the local drag show, we became an unofficial gay bar. My boss was furious until he saw the bar totals at the end of the night. In Singapore there is apparently no such thing as "gays". It is considered an "illness". We made friends with alot of Singapore's "sick" people and had a blast.

Visiting performers were on one month contracts. I was there for a year. My job was to book the comics, oversee the barstaff, compere the shows, run the advertising and promotions of the venue. I was putting in 12-14 hour days and by the end of the year was pretty burnt out.

I met up with alot of overseas performers who had similar experiences, musicians who were expected to put in long hours, performing standing up on a bar, cos their venues had no stages, an improv troupe who found the government restrictions on their performance style almost impossible to work with, trained dancers who were horrified to find that they were working in nightclubs as little more than glorified escort girls...everyone had their story.

My unofficial role as tour guide for visiting comics was more rewarding. Fun was to be had squiring comics to local jazz bars and eateries. You soon get to understand that in the Singaporean culture, "saving face" is a big deal. If a waiter brings you a cup of tea when you've asked for a milkshake, you understand that they are telling you "we don't serve milkshakes". They are not going to use words to tell you that, that would be "losing face". You are supposed to just know they don't serve milkshakes. You can accept the cup of tea, or order something else. This might take awhile as you are offered many items rather than get told "we don't serve that," in the process. I watched as many comics had -what we came to call- a "Singapore snap!" They might lose it, thump hands on tables and yell "but all I want is a milkshake, I didn't ask for a cuppa tea!" The Singaporean will stand smiling politely and just watch. It's almost sadistic. What's happened is that the person screaming and yelling has just "lost face." (When you lose your temper, you LOSE.) The racist dictum there states that Ang Moh's are always losing face.

Most comics coped pretty well with the culture shock. There were a few cases where I had to step in as "madam bitchy pants". Totally no drugs. Yes, they are available in Singapore, the guy who sells it to you, will also sell the info to the cops that he just sold drugs to a whitey. In Singapore they hang you for drug possession, even if it is a pinch of lil ol' Mary Jane. The law also includes "guilt by association". One comic gets busted, then we all go.

One young American student was caned in Singapore while we were there. He'd vandalised some cars. The caning incident made international headlines. Singapore prides itself on it's hardline approach.

I also had to warn comics about romantic liason with Muslim folk in Singapore. They have their own court system. In short, if you break a Muslim heart, you might end up in muslim court, and the outcome might not be very Christian.

Then there was the time we worked out our phone was tapped. The "click click clicking" sound was offputting and quite paranoid making. We checked in with some local ex pat teachers, and apparently this was common practice for the government to do this with foreigners' phone lines. Maybe they needed some good one liners from us? (God knows even government officials must have got sick of the local puns and poo jokes!)

One bunch of comics and myself decided we'd go check out the redlight district. "Little India" is a little network of run down cement shacks lining some cobblestone alleyways. In the front of each cement brothel is a condom seller. Big cardboard placards depicting graphic photos of distorted pus spewing and wart covered penises (or should that be penii?) assist him in warning the customers of what might happen if they don't buy his wares. One wondered- if the sight of some very mean looking sari clad ladies sitting on cement benches with arms folded didn't put the customer off, -that the piccies of warty cocks might just be enough to chase them away altogether. It all seemed to defeat the purpose.

Food in Singapore is spectacular. Makan time can include: Chillied stingray, North Indian fish head curries, unbelievable dishes -eggs pickled in horses piss- and laksas that just either melt in your mouth or clean your system out in ways you never thought possible. (This may also explain the state of the public bathrooms).

Kerioke is taken very very seriously in Singapore. We learnt not to muck about with songs. Most locals were very offended when or if we did. We were once escorted off the building premises, for safety reasons because a gang fight had broken out in the kerioke bar below us.

Apparently one gang member sang "I did it my way", but it was known to be the member of the rival gang's song. Yes, it's funny. But remember, in our culture guys have been known to fight over pool games. So I guess it's all relative.

Towards the end of my run in Singapore I was exhausted. It seemed the more I was able to achieve, the more my chinese bosses expected from me. There were many business meetings, (don't show your hand, most believe quite heavily in palmistry and can see from the lines on your hand whether or not you have a good "money line"...apparently -surprisingly enough- I don't have a good money line), many visits from a Malaysian bomo, (like a "shaman") who would help with the feng shui, many dinners with visiting "guests" of my bosses.

My bosses began to ask for comics at a cheaper rate (pretty darned impossible- comics were quite rightly already concerned about the low payment rate in Singers), wanted to know why comics couldn't just use material from each other to fill when or if they were short on time (the word "plaguerism" seemed to be a foreign concept too), and I was just plain ol' homesick. I couldn't take noodles anymore.

It was time to say "nee how ma" for the last time.

"If I know a kerioke song of Singapore, of the gecko and the Asian new moon sitting on the Hilton, of the pathways linking buildings, and the airconditioned faces of the retailers, does Singapore know a kerioke song about me? Will the air over the riverbank quiver with an off color joke I have told, or the audiences retell a joke of mine? Or the full moon throw a shadow over the concrete swimming pool where I did laps? Or will the seagulls of Bedok look out for me?"

http://www.visitsingapore.com/publish/stbportal/en/home/what_to_see/singapore_river/boat_quay.html

St patrick's day

2009-03-18T12:47:00.001-07:00

I wish our celebrations were more in keeping with the event being honored. Why a parade for St. Patrick's day? Ireland isn't really known for it's parades. That's like having an annual world wide Palestinian picnic in the park day!

Shouldn't we be more accurate?
I think happy street bomb lobbing would be more in keeping with the Irish tradition.

how to tell if you are hyper aggressive

2009-03-18T12:45:00.001-07:00

Wanna fight?

how to tell if you are delusional

2009-03-18T12:39:00.000-07:00

how do you know this is really a blog?

how to tell if you suffer from martyr sydrome

2009-03-18T12:37:00.001-07:00

If you are looking at a depiction of the cruxifiction of Jesus Christ, and find yourself uttering in reaction, "You think you had problems?"....chances are...

how to tell if you are aggrophobic

2009-03-18T12:32:00.000-07:00

When you begin censoring road maps... when you've had to put your plastic globe in the closet, when you write postcards from exotic locations to yourself that say "wish I wasn't here"............

The ego

2009-03-18T12:15:00.000-07:00

I am.

Not "I think therefore I am" -apparently though, that discovery was an evolutionary step in human conciousness. The trick is to "get behind the thought". It's the thoughts that create our emotional reactions, and sometimes those emotions don't do us much good. I could tell you what I think and feel about all that, but that would defeat the purpose wouldn't it?

So I've finally caught up with the work of "Eckhart Tolle". It's good stuff. Basically it deals with how to rise above the ego. The only question that remains to be asked, is - if he sincerely follows this philosophy, why does he need to put his photo on the cover of the book?

I think the website advertising his books, his workshops, his seminars and his videos say it all.
http://www.eckharttolle.com/eckharttolle

However, if I follow the philosophy he espouses, then I am not supposed to "think" about it am I? Judging by the amount of followers he has, and the amount of money he's generating as a result, it is clear there are many who are not thinking at all. Nothing original in that really, many religions prefer mindless followers. Is that just my ego talking? My thoughts in reaction to his words? Is my ego attaching itself to emotion? If I call him just another narcissistically disordered money grubbing guru wanker then am I just being "triggered" and caught up in needing to defend my own less evolved position? I am sure Mr. Tolle would charge me lots of money in a workshop to help me process this.

I've meditated on this, gone behind the thoughts that have come up as a result, and worked through the emotions. Here's what has emerged from my deep inner space.

I am.
Mr. Tolle, you are not.

how to tell if you are completely whacked.

2009-03-11T12:29:00.003-07:00

You are.

Welcome to humanity.

how to tell if you are dislexic

2009-03-11T12:26:00.000-07:00

If you are reading this no problems, then chances are you're probably not.

If you are redaing thos ni prebloms, than chences you are are you are are...

how to tell if you are an alcoholic

2009-03-11T12:11:00.001-07:00

Wanna drink?

how to tell if you are a sadist

2009-03-11T12:08:00.001-07:00

If the thought of eating a bucket of plump fried potato chips in front of a annorexic makes you laugh...

Jealous Metal

2009-03-11T11:46:00.000-07:00

Indonesians used to say that all things have spirit. Their polytheistic world view meant honoring the spirits of man made objects to: the bridges, the buildings, and cars. Cars are made of metals, all comes from the earth, and the earth is a living entity.

It is true.

Our black ford escort is in love with my husband. She gets jealous. We used to joke about how she would always break down if my husband spent too much time with another vehicle. It was the 1969 old ford truck she was most jealous of. When my husband finally sold the truck, she began humming again like a nascar racer.

My husband has three vehicles now, a GMC truck, the ford escort, and a quad.

Yeah, it's sickeningly cute of us, but we named the vehicles: Shelia the truck, Jecolia the escort and Barry the quad. Barry was christened by my husband's eldest son.

My husband is careful to tend to each vehicle, devoting time to each of them equally.
Jecolia is jealous metal. She will break down if he spends too much time on the others, he even had to get rid of the riding mower because she got so upset in the summer, spewing oil over the driveway like a vehicle spurned. It was a case of engine gone mad!!!

Last weekend he screwed up. He gave Sheila a tune up, then took Barry for a spin. He towed the boat on the back of Barry to take to the garage for it's annual clean up.

Jecolia threw a hissy and now she's refusing to budge. It's her wiring apparently. But my husband and I know better.

She watched through her widened headlights as the object of her desire, my husband, lovingly wiped Sheila's hood, as he took Barry through the green tinged post winter grass around the garden, as he pushed all vehicles aside to give his boat the well needed shelter from the elements in the comparative comfort of the garage.

I'm thinking Barry might not be Barry. Barry may well be Barry-lina. Perhaps my husband's son wasn't able to correctly identify quad gender? (I think you have to peak under the bumper.)

I am thinking Barry's a bitch! Who knows what whisperings occur late at night between vehicles? I feel sure that Barry-lina's at the bottom of all the troubles. I feel sure she's taunted Jecolia, "he prefers my plush vinyl quad seat to your scratchy covered buckets anyday."

And so Jecolia sits in the driveway, her spark gone, and tail lights drooping.

how to tell if you are a compulsive liar

2009-03-05T00:28:00.000-08:00

If I told you I knew the answer to that I would be lying wouldn't I?

The gigs to avoid if you are doing stand up comedy.

2009-03-04T21:08:00.000-08:00

If you are embarking on, or working on a career in stand up comedy, there are some guidelines you can incorporate to ensure you avoid guaranteed death. Most bookers do not understand how to set a room for comics. Don't encourage 'em.

1) If you are asked to drop or change material, about five minutes before you walk onstage,
you know you are about to walk the tightrope of doom. Words are your only tools, if someone tries to censor that, -specially at the last minute- they've taken away your props!

2) When the person booking the room starts telling you and other comics jokes before you do your gig, run.

3) Any coffee shop gig with an audience less than ten people. (especially if they are all republicans)

4) Any room that smells like vomit.

5) Any room with tiled floor (otherwise the sound of stillettos clattering across floors between jokes will haunt your dreams like a recurring distorted version of "stomp" for years.)

6) Any gig being compered by an act who has "The amazing" or "The great" as part of their stage name.

7) Any gig where a stripper is on after you.

8) Any gig where the stripper is on before you.

9) Any gig in a shopping center mall.

10) Any gig where the jugglers act died.

11) Any gig where the jugglers act killed.

12) Any corporate function that starts with prayers.

13) Any gig (other than festival gigs in outdoor tents), that has plastic tables. (And there's a reason they serve alcohol in plastic cups as well!)

14) Any gig that wants to put you on during dinner or dessert.

15) Any gig being compered by a rabid Christian or new ager who insists on the right to cut the sound at any point during your set. (cos you know they want to!)

16) Any gig where the main acts wear sequins.

17) Any gig where the bookers demand you don't "swear".

18) Any gig where the bookers demand that you do "swear".

19) Any gig that puts your name up in chalk. .....and gets it wrong.

20) Any gig that has a heavy metal band on before, or after you.

21) Any gig that has children in the audience (specially your own).

22) Any gig with another comic present recording your material.

23) Any gig where the entire audience are wearing cardigans and hearing aides.

24) Any gig where the backdrop consists of a glass window that show through to the amusement park rides and fireworks displays going on outside.

25) Any gig that has a list of performer rules and guidelines longer than a comic's set.

26) Any gig in a Chucky Cheese

27) Any gigs run during an active pool comp (in the pool room.)

28) Any gigs where the dressing room is the men's toilet.

29) Any gigs where the cappucino maker is louder than the microphone.

30) Any gigs with no back door.

How to tell if you're a control freak

2009-03-04T21:05:00.000-08:00

If you are reading my blogs and feel compelled to edit.............

how to tell if you're a sex addict

2009-03-03T09:59:00.001-08:00

If you are masturbating while reading this, if you are only reading this while you are waiting for your triple x porno tube vid to load, if your partner is hoping you have an affair just to give them a break...

chances are....you might be David Duchovny

how to tell if you suffer from bipolar personality disorder

2009-03-03T09:56:00.000-08:00

If you are reading this post and have decided you might go for a bit of a walk on water later, then come back read this again and slash your wrists....

you might want to change your medication dosage.

how to tell if you have obsessive compulsive disorder

2009-03-02T13:03:00.000-08:00

If you are reading this blog over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over..............

how to tell if you have a histrionic personality disorder

2009-03-02T12:58:00.001-08:00

If you've got music playing loudly in the background, if you are just reading this blog to while away the time while your nailpolish dries, if any of these blogs made you laugh, shout, or burst into tears, if you feel that you absolutely must meet me in person, engage and seduce me.....

ahem.

chances are....

how to tell if you have a schizoid personality disorder

2009-03-02T12:48:00.000-08:00

If you are secretly reading this blog, want to comment but don't,
if you go to yoville but only ever throw snowballs at yourself,
if you only go to strip clubs for the free buffet meals...

chances are...

how to tell if you suffer from avoidant personality disorder

2009-03-02T12:05:00.000-08:00

How to tell if you suffer from avoidant personality disorder....hmm

I'll get back to this...

how to tell if you are passive aggressive

2009-03-02T12:03:00.000-08:00

If you are reading this blog and you think "hmm this is great material, fabulous stuff....
not bad for a white trash import"....

chances are.....

How to tell if you have a dependant personality disorder

2009-03-01T11:24:00.001-08:00

If you are using somebody else's computer to read this,
if you have to ask them what the password is to log in,
if you read this then have to check with someone else to find out what this means...

chances are you have a dependant personality disorder.

How to tell if you are paranoically deluded

2009-03-01T11:20:00.000-08:00

If you have decided this post is out to get you.....
chances are....

how to tell if you have borderline personality disorder

2009-02-26T12:40:00.001-08:00

If you have been reading this post and you really love it,
then you decide you hate it,
then you love it again,
then hate it....

you might have borderline personality disorder.

how to tell if you suffer from skitzophrenia

2009-02-26T11:08:00.000-08:00

If the voices are telling you you do not suffer from this illness,

chances are that you do.

New age zombies

2009-02-26T10:29:00.000-08:00

Zombies- the living dead.

In the world of all things cute, "Facebook" there is an option for members to play a game called "yoville". Yoville is a cartoon world where you creat a little avatar -you choose all the features, eyes, nose, ears, eyebrows, eye and hair color. You choose a little outfit for your avatar to wear. You are birthed into yoville owning your own cartoon apartment.

You animate your avatar, and are given points for dancing, fighting, kissing and interacting with other avatars. Interactions are rewarded. Options for more personal interactions are playing "tic tac toe" and "rock paper scissors". (genius)!

You can work in the little widget factory for cartoon money, you can gain "energy points" by spending cartoon money at the coffee shop or diner and eating cartoon pizza and/or drinking cappucinos. If you never got enough of playing with Barbies as a kid, this is the game for you.

Seems innocent and simple enough. I went to visit my husband's avatar in his cartoon apartment. There was another girl avatar in his bedroom. It startled me. Was my husband seeing other avatars behind my two dimensional back? Was he tic tac toeing around on me?

Caught up in my animated emotions, I quickly left and did what any disgruntled cartoon girl does. I changed my hair do in two right clicks of a mouse. Then I visited yoville's nightclub. I discovered you can type your chat in speech balloons. There was alot of graphic hanky panky going on in that nightclub. People asking for more than a game of tic tac toe. Avatars exchanging real life information, for offscreen rendezvous. I found you could click on an avatar and it would lead straight to the member's facebook profile. It was interesting to see whether the real person lived up to their cartoon represented self. In some cases the avatar was far more attractive than the real live person! (nice avatar shame about the face!)

I visited the yoville gym, bank, shopping mall and other fictional places that offered pretend goods for real money. (People spend REAL money on this!)

Then I got adventurous as I examined other options offered: the yoville "adult nightclub"!
That's where the real action is. There were avatars getting down! Speech balloons read like captions from a 1970's porn mag.

The comic side of me got the better of me. I typed in "Jesus loves you" and other such religious epitaphs, and got thrown out! Lol. I was bounced by cartoons for not being rude enough!

I went back to my husband's avatar's apartment. Ahh, good he was alone at last. I threw a snowball at him. He threw a snowball back. I danced with him, he danced too. The weird part is that my real life husband was not online. His avatar was interacting without his knowledge or control. Which begs the question, what do our avatars get up to when we are not online?

In the adult nightclub, there were many non online interactive avatars. If you sat and watched the screen for long enough you could see a "speech loop". Non peopled avatars advertising triple x sites. Cute invites to "cum see me play" were issued, followed by ritualised responses. The "real peopled" avatars continued chatting in amongst the avatar issued spambots. After about five minutes, back to the "cum see me play" routine.

This is our culture's new version of a zombie. We are the creators of our own living dead.

I am waiting for the day that someone brings the yoville chat transcripts to a courtroom to sue a partner for having inappropriate relations with a cartoon. Or for the day when someone sues yoville home depot for non refund for cartoon apartment furnishings.

The truth is, we think we are in control. But are we?

The zombies are taking over.
Be afraid, cute, but very afraid.

How to tell if you are narcisstically disordered

2009-02-19T12:53:00.000-08:00

If you are reading this post and you are upset because you aren't mentioned by name, or a photo of you has not been placed here...chances are good you are suffering from narcissistic personality disorder.

How to tell if you are having a manic episode.

2009-02-19T12:42:00.000-08:00

If everything feels like you just won the lotto and you can't make it to the end of this post..........

prolly a manic episode.

How to tell if you suffer from anxiety.

2009-02-18T09:46:00.000-08:00

When you jump in frightened reaction to your own unanticipated small fart,
you are probably suffering from anxiety.

We'll never win the war on terror without a good tune!

2009-02-15T10:57:00.000-08:00

War songs! Good tunes that unite people against a common foe. Even the overture of 1812 is stirring stuff!

World war Two?

"There'll be blue birds over, the white cliffs of Dover..."
"Long way to Tipperary"
etc. Whistling, marching feel good as you stand shoulder to shoulder to fight the Germans, the Japs, or whoever it is that's doin humanity wrong!

It's why the Germans never won. They had crappy songs. Can't exactly march along to beer barrel polka tunes.

And although the songs during the Vietnam era were good, you can't exactly feel united and honorably "fighty" while marchin' along to "heard it through the grapevine" or Jimmi Hendrix.

And that's prolly why we lost that one. Bad tunes.

Going to lose the Iraq war too.

Too much heavy metal. And country and western doesn't exactly cut it either. Not exactly feel good as you march along stuff....

What we need is good honest feel good fightin' music.

How to tell when you are depressed.

2009-02-13T22:26:00.000-08:00

How do you know if you are depressed? There's alot of information out there. It can be depressing just trying to google your way through it.

Here's the general clue:
if you are too sad to whistle
and too sad to wank

chances are good you have depression.

Gallipolis

2009-02-05T10:23:00.000-08:00

You're straight and rigid,
can't move your hips.
You're cold and frigid,
yet you've got loose lips-
the clicking tongues
that ruin lives;
the tut tut people with
busybody eyes,
cornbread brains,
and gravy souls,
thin layers of blame are
filled with holes
sliced open by knives
from floral scabbords.
Skeletons hide in ev'ry cupboard.
Revenge here's a virtue
Freedom's a sin.
All are judged by wealth
and color of skin.
Ev'ry meal is served with fries
ev'ry conversation full of lies,
and ev'ry wall has ears
ev'rything is smeared
with sugar-coated spit
and your honeyed-hate.
(You're deep fried shit
is hard to take!)
"Welcome" you smile
yet sneers aren't concealed.
Your down home approach
has not revealed
sincerity, love or true faith.
Go back to your trailer dreams.
Go wrestle snakes
during your hollow hymns.
Your Goddess was raped
by y'all long ago,
by coalmines, phosphates
and polluted snow.
I see your safe little paintings
in your safe little frames;
all still lives and blandscapes
and all the same.
No passion, no art,
no joyful expression,
all static and frightened
figures of repression.
Repressions you chose
Repression you've craved;
tell me why your souls'
not yet been saved?
For all your churches
for all your bells,
competitive clanging
Christian hard sell.
If you're saving "sinners"
sin's what you'll find,
those aryan demons
possessed your minds.
There's your cardboard Jesus
-by Bob Evans old farm,-
he's white, blue-eyed
but bearing arms?!!
White visions of Christ
white sugar, white bread
white only graves for the
white only dead.
White picket fences
round the white only homes
white sheets in white dryers,
burnt corners coated in foam.
Dangerfield rainbows
in black and white
prove no committee here
finds a color they like.
You've killed your children
by grounding their fire
you're frightened they
might act on your secret desires
to toast Dionysius
to run with Pan
to dance around cedars
to torch the klan...
to drink the nectar
of forbidden fruits
to mix flesh and skin
destroying the roots
of the "must be's, should be's"
from the tree of Dumbth...
that poisons the earth
and blots out sun.
Inside each heart
is a trapped scream.
No boxed up law
can contain it's stream
of echoes, echoes bounce off stars
visible echoes in children's art
crying "freedom, freedom
in ev'ry mark and line,
shaping "freedom, freedom-
don't police my mind
with your disapproving looks
and your patronising prayers
your quotes from good books
and judgemental stares.
Let me howl at the moon.
Let me express my bliss.
Don't imprison my soul
Oh Gallipolis."
The trickster here is alive and well
foundation of quicksand
sucking us into
bottled laugh hell.
For this french city
was built on a lie.
The nights here are loud
from long ago sighs
from ghostly first settlers
still stalking the skies.
Middle classed dreamers,
tricked by their own kind,
have left their imprint-
soul shadow behind.
Gallipolis is loud
with the Raven's laugh
they swoop on owls,
after dark.
The french city gossip
the french city hate,
the small town suspicions
seals it's fate.
Labels are stuck on
ev'ryone's head.
Like parasitic spirits,
like crowns of lead.
No alchemist's art
can shift this law,
the crow's fly backwards,
the virgins are whores.
It's maya, illusion,
it's the Judas kiss,
all betrayal, confusion
in Gallipolis.
It's wide open spaces and small narrow minds
stains on welcome mats,
hidden moonshine.
It's black-eyed wives
and teenaged moms;
it's disabled husbands-
misogynistic sons.
It's anti-abortion
it's anti-sex education
it's anti-precaution
and pro child medication.
It's anti-joy, anti-happy,
anti-art, anti-fun,
anti-rollerblading on sidewalks
but pro rights for guns.
It's lacey curtains
and hummingbird feeders,
cash under the table
and crack addict leaders.
It's Baptist hookers
and born-again drunks,
it's racists with halos,
and rose-perfumed skunks.
It's "they keep to their place,
and we keep to ours,"
It's straight little rows
of imported flowers.
It's social workers
with anti-social laws,
it's Ohio red-bird
with vulture's claws.
It's covered with chocolate
it's filled with cream,
it's a suicidal diabetic's
total wet dream.
It's shootin' rabbits,
it's huntin' deer.
It's aiming high
for that Walmart career.
It's drunken judges
it's corrupt police.
It's greeting card journalism.
It's a salad with grease.
It's "if you scratch my back"-
"I'll stab you in yours"
it's sinus infections
amd allergy sores.
Even the mothman left
cos he couldn't compete
with the e'er present evil
of french city's elite.
With dysfunctional families
who stick to their own-
it's small town arrogance
right to the bone.
The riverbank statues of
"the first view".
claim what? "Injuns were blind?"
You've forgotten them too?
Your history's selective,
your bigotry well,
nurtured by the collective
in this cheesecake hell.
You lead inauthentic lives
masked in medicated grins,
nothing penetrates
your city's thick skin.
All hail looney town
and the great GDC
run by the madmen
where the inmates are free.
Hyperactive cowboys
in homophobic best
hide their brown papered pornos
full of rump pumpin' butt sex.
Gallipolis, with it's small town pride,
it's small town thinking,
is the open mouthed bride
of Atlantis-sinking
Atlantis-gone.
A watery permanence
with unconcious song-
that burbles through oceans,
rises in mists,
drifts up the river
to Gallipolis.

Break invisible chains
of family guilt.
Shake away shame,
burn grandma's quilt.
Revive your heart;
adventure, explore.
Make your life your art,
reclaim spirit, restore
your broken hope,
swim up river
get wet and float....
away...away...from this bitches abyss
be free and leave.
Leave Gallipolis.

(written in 2001. I didn't like Gallipolis very much. )

Fox Drama-rama! Weather could kill you! EEeek!

2009-02-04T11:10:00.000-08:00

Could be it's just me.....but the weather reports on the local news channels have me howling with gales of good deep gut laughter.

Right now winter is in full swing in the northern hemisphere, in Ohio and -gosh-who'd have ever thought it? It's snowing!! Just like it has done for the last century -every frikkin' winter.

Instead of an objective report on temperatures, snowfall and windchill factors, stories are peppered with personal commentary on -"bbbrrr" -how cold it is, and advice-"wrap up warm, there's a bit of frostbite about, your digit might drop off"! They speed up the pace, feign concern as they report the number of accidents there's been on the icy Columbus roads (very few really, much to the consternation of the news editors I'm sure). There are heartrending tales of unsalted avenues and hardluck stories showing us which poor yuppie had to resort to the common folk labor of shovelling snow off the cement driveway in front of their double garage. Just when they've convinced you that half the north pole has slipped and fell onto 170 they change tack, and tell you where you can go for the latest winter coat sale! ("Look good or drop dead" being the thinly veiled message here! It's never too cold to be a capitalist!)

Once winter is over, then Fox's fear mongers, botox heads and doppler dingbats get busy -panic reporting on scarey springtime- "eeek, watch out for the pollen! - Big yellow chunks of ' terrorist Al Qaeda fuzzballs; they're just lookin for a nose dive right up your sneeze hole!"

They'll tell you over and over, to: becareful of going outdoors because of dem sneaky allergy attacks, poisonous pollen levels (quick advert for the flu shot you can get at Walmart, -coming soon: appendectomies at Walgreens, and a summer special: gallbladder ops at Big Lots), and scary Easter Lillies that kill your cats.

Summer ofcourse brings death right to your doorstep because (who'd have thunk it)..it's hot! Gasp! Horror! Pant! (Quick cut to customers queuing up and wiping out store supplies of deodorant and bottled Californian tap water). All sorts of threats to your life can happen in summer. You could expire from dehydration, wilt and drop dead due to hot temperatures, (probably cos you are still wearing that coat you bought in the winter sales). An evil thunderstorm could purposely throw down a lightening bolt to hit some poor unsuspecting golfer in the middle of his game! (Might be wise to remember if you have facial piercings, to wear a ski mask during lightning storms.)

In the fall, there's that nasty chore yuppies hate to do: hiring local mexicans to rake up their leaves to pile in those little paper bags to leave on the curb for the garbage trucks to pick up. (Hasn't anyone here ever heard of "composting"?). And never forget, your house could get broken into by gangs of marauding squirrels who have parties in your attic.

The most hilarious part is the forced "concern" that the local well coiffed newsbots feign. "And make sure to take your umbrella"!

Oh f*ckem! These faked up little cardboard cut out people with their Victoria Beckham hairdo's, and neat little jackets. They look like Amway sales people...like a Christian version of the Stepford Wives, (some of the women too....!)

If I want to know what the weather is like today, I will look out the window. If I want to know whether it's sunny or rainy, I will open the door and check. Hmm..cold or hot? Well stuff yer doppler radar where the sun don't shine! My nipples are more reliable! -And if I want to know whether I need to: "wrap up warm, take an umbrella, wear a coat or hard hat" I will call me mum and ask!

"Weather crew". Lol. One of the local TV station slogans is "first warning weather"....but they are all about the "warning" and not much about the weather." Eek watch out, here comes a cloud..."

Geez....Fox has no embarrassment factor here... Let the meteorologists be metereologists, and stop making them read the weather like they are in the Young and the Restless. You've wussified the lot of them. Winter in Ohio? The bigger snowjob takes place INSIDE the studio, not outdoors. What a pack of silly twats.

Old mates

2009-01-23T04:08:00.000-08:00

Australia. Bastard child of Mother England and Uncle Sam.

Ahhhhh I miss it.

a well placed raspberry

2009-01-19T09:55:00.001-08:00

I was reflecting on the previous blog, wondering whether to delete it or not. Analysing comedy isn't something I love to do. I've always got a bit peeved when I have heard people who've never performed stand up, or are new to it, rave on like comic experts! Cos the truth is, just when you think you've figured out what makes something funny (or not), some new thing will come along and blow your theory out of the water.

Good comedy is beyond analysis.

Like a well placed raspberry. (thhhhtttt!!!)

Analyse a raspberry if you will. (listen to the goons "ying tong" song on your right).

What makes a raspberry funny? Is it because it sounds vaguely like a fart? Is it because it involves sticking your tongue out (not considered polite), or because it is a wordless and abstract sound effect? Is a raspberry "clean humor" or "dirty humor?"

Read any Shakespearean monologue in all seriousness, and stick in a raspberry at the end. I guarantee it will get laffs!

I do believe a raspberry defies analysis- like all good comedy.

Go ahead, analyse this:

thhhhhhhhhhhtttttttttttttttttttttttt!!!

"clean" improv

2009-01-16T17:06:00.000-08:00

Good comic mate and I were having a chat about a comment we'd heard that there was a local performer who only wanted to do "clean improv!"

He and I were both puzzled.

"Is there such a thing then as "dirty improv," we pondered. I had never heard of the filthy obscene mofo improv troupe. I didn't know there was such a planned improv operational ideology such as "make it up as you go along, but make it rude" in existence. But if the local performer was right, and there's such a thing as "clean improv" then surely there must be it's opposite at work somewhere? It seems reasonable to conclude that that's what she's implying.

What on earth could she mean by "clean" anyway? Do they spray the microphone with lysol, and make sure the players are in freshly laundered clothes? Or does she mean that you mustn't say particular words that she finds rude and naughty? (In which case it's a bit subjective isn't it?) Kind of funny coming from an American who's country prides itself on it's "freedom of speech". Perhaps she's a republican and still a bit miffed at how things turned out?

When famous English comic, George Formby, sang the song on the right "When I'm cleaning windows", it was considered "unclean" in it's day! So the argument about what comic performers are allowed say still continues. Ho hum!

I've met this type of personality before. It's a well intentioned notion perhaps to aim for "clean comedy"- but it does beg for the definition of "clean". One person's "clean" might be another's filth after all. People get insulted by the strangest things. You don't have to cuss or use"rude" words to be filthy, and you can be considered "filthy" without using four letter words. For example if I described someone as a "scrumple bottied pus sucker" or a "piece of useless bodily discharge flying aimlessly through someone's undy cracks"... that might be much more filthy and insulting than simplifying it with a simple word..like...let's see now...hmm..."craphead" perhaps?

I could recite a poem by Maya Angelou and could do so beautifully, but if I do it naked? Is that "clean" or "dirty"? If I performed it naked to a Baptist church congregation, most certainly I would be thrown out! If I was reading the exact same poem, naked at a nudist convention, I would be accepted.

Lee Young, a friend who had enjoyed most of his career success from the comedy hey days in London (Frankie Howard and Marty Feldman were his warm up acts- that should give you an idea of how big he was in his time). He had moved to Australia and worked the club circuit. He said he did a leper joke one night in an Aussie RSL club for the blue rinse set. And one woman walked out of the room in tears and furious.

Now what are the chances of having someone in your audience who had had a friend with leprosy?

This comic act was a singer/dancer who did a few jokes. He never cussed, swore or did "rude sex gags". Leper jokes were a bit sick perhaps, but they were in vogue at the time and all he did was one little leper joke and it upset someone. ("Did you hear about the leper who lost his hand at cards?")

The thing is, people are going to be offended, they are going to be insulted no matter what you do. That's the nature of comedy. They might not like your hair, your accent, how you look, it might be something you said, or something you didn't say. Comedy demands an emotional reaction: hopefully it will be laughter. It's a provocative art form, and you can't 100 percent guarantee what kind of emotional reaction you're going to provoke - no matter how "clean" you are.

When it comes to improv, it suggests to me that what this person wants is the power to censor the subconcious- not only of their own subconcious, but of others. Do that, and all you will succeed in doing is squishing the whole point of improv. Improv is about surrendering, and if there's any "power play" going on at all, then it's about power sharing, not about having power over. One such "thought nazi"- Hitler, (funny as he was in his own right), could never have led the Monty Python gang. (By the way, Hitler never swore as far as I know, so I guess- depending on what your definition of "clean" is, he had a "clean act". ) http://www.historylearningsite.co.uk/censorship_in_nazi_germany.htm

Keith Johnstone, (if I remember correctly), talked of the four stages you work through as you begin in both comedy and improv: the first stage is working out all your repressed stuff, second stage is releasing the angry stuff, then there's the "preacher and moralising stage", and finally - when you've gone through all these phases, you hopefully get to 'tender and benevolent'. My comic mate and improv team mate Anthony Ackroyd and I used to call it working "T & B". (We didn't always achieve it mind you, but we aimed for it! )
http://www.keithjohnstone.com/

There's alot of really stupid stuff that's said about "clean comedy" too. (It's usually by agents or uptight room bookers). There's just comedy that works, and there's comedy that fails'; and really it's not got alot to do with whether it's "clean" or "dirty". ( Chaucer, with his ribald "Wife of Bath's tale", Shakespeare with his dick jokes - all "unclean" apparently! And obviously, ancient greek writers like Aristophanes, wouldn't share her idea of what constitutes good "clean" comedy either! Thank the Gods. Speaking of Gods- it was the comedy Goddess Baubo, who had eyes where her nipples should be, and spoke from her vagina to cheer up Demeter when she was traipsin' the planet looking for Persephone. Now there's a female comic archetype to avoid if you are trying to eliminate "filth" from your act. (Actually if you think about it, the word "dirty" from "dirt" comes from the word "earth"- and alot of people have trouble with liking the earth. Even the ancients knew what made people laugh, and it wasn't always "clean"! Earthy humor grounded people!)
http://www.goddess-gift.com/goddess_gift_book/06Jan.htm

It's all a matter of where you are, the time you live in, being true to who you are and knowing who you are playing to. It's mostly about context, not words. I've heard it said that there's nothing funny about rape. Ho hum. If you are truly a comic then as soon as you hear that, your brain will instantly be working on "hmmm how can I make rape funny?" (we like to bend the rules. If you aren't thinking that, you aren't a comic and you need to quit wasting time trying to be one.) I agree with George Carlin's take on the subject: again it's about context. Rape is funny- if it was a typo in a cowboy story. The narrator, struggling with the typos, reads where the cowboy was going to "rope/rape" a bull.... rape can be funny if it's about a mouse that raped an elephant. (funnier for me, if it's a female mouse and male elephant! -Funnier again if I know the elephant was just wavin his trunk around and "askin' for it"!!)

As for the very idea of anyone insisting on "clean improv", the naivety of that notion is going to make me laff for days. I hope that the truly talented improv folks round here (my favorites are "pale imitations"), make the comic most of of the idea by introducing the "clean improv" and "dirty improv" as segments in their set. Tee hee!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CdT8CwhmrOc

A new year's bang!

2009-01-16T08:20:00.000-08:00

2009 started with a bang. My darlin' hubby and I, both enjoying this island of middle age and the relative quiet sanity that comes with it, have put away our wild partying habits of our youth, We've exchanged flirting with strangers for the comfort of gazing at each other over scrabble boards while wearin' our long johns.

And so, we opted for a "quiet night in" for New Years Eve; just the two of us. A big crock pot of stew offered it's warm comfy aroma to the air, the woodstove was busily pumping out the heat, and downstairs we had the gameboards set up - readying for a night of simple amusement. (We turned the telly off! No way were we going to resort to watching the ball drop in New York and the fireworks goin' off on Sydney Harbor bridge etc...we're not at the point where we have to watch international others enjoyin' themselves for our entertainment! It always looks so glamorous and ritzy when you watch celebrations from afar, you tend to forget that the camera doesn't pick up the scent of vomit and urine that wafts from those same far away streets. Believe me, Singapore isn't so exotic when the streets are full of regurtitated saki and noodles..I should know I spent new years eve there in 1994, but that's whole other blog for another time.)

"Let's just have a few beers and stay home," I suggested to my mister. And he agreed, relieved that he didn't have to deal with navigating the streets full of party goers and breathalysin' cops.

So he popped round to the local certified to pick up some beers.

He was gone a long time.

"Must have popped in the local VFW for a drink," I thought to myself. "Certified might be closed after all".

An hour later my mister comes home all white and shakey. He looked like he'd just bumped into his ex wife.

"You ever looked down the barrel of a gun?" he asked, (he doesn't like to think so, but my mister has a dash of the dramatics about him, always starts a story with a theatrical attention grabbing opener!)

Apparently he was paying for the beer at the local certified when they were interrupted by a young thief - wearing a ski mask no less. (So very cliched. They are not very imaginative the thieves around here in Ohio.)

The language the thief used was also disappointingly hackneyed: "Give me all your cash motherf*cker, and do it now!" Sounds like a crips reject.

While the guy at the counter willingly obliged and began handing over all the money to the unoriginal ski mask wearin' twerp facing him, my mister examined the gun that was bein' waved in the air so threateningly.

Now then, my mister might not be able to rattle off Albert Einstein's theory of relativity at the drop of a hat (or should I say ski mask?). He might not be clear on why Romeo and Juliette topped themselves, (I did try to point out to him that it might not have been quite the same love story if they had lived, had four kids, with Romeo being unemployed and with both of them having to deal with nasty in laws); but he does know his guns!

He was raised on a farm by his grandparents, two strict military colonels. He goes hunting every year. He knows his guns.

He says he was intrigued by a red mark on the hammer of the gun this thief was waving around in the air like a cheerleaders's baton. When you are holding a heavy piece of equipment like that, you tend to want to keep it steady. Either the thief was a total knobhead at gun handling, or this little object he clutched was a plastic replica. My mister says the thief was leaning forward with all his weight on one foot, which was a bit stupid, because it would be easy for anyone to push him over. He says he thought about pushing the guy over for a minute, but then thought better of it incase the guy had an accomplice outside. (Who knows his friend might have been heavily armed with a water pistol!!!)

When ski mask cliche man was finished gathering up his illegal takings (couldn't have amounted more to a few hundred bucks), he turned and pointed the dubious looking piece of armery towards my husband and said "lie down bitch".

And this is where I am both proud of, and horrified by, my husband's reaction.

He said "no".

He said the thief paused for a moment, his brown eyes blinking disbelievingly through the eyeholes of his knitted face gear staring at my husband. And then he did what all thieves are famous for. He ran away.

That's a hell of a way to find out it was a toy gun!

When my husband finished telling me the story of his new year's eve adventure, I crumbled. I was thinking I would never again send him out at night for beer- milk- eggs anything! Then I got good and angry. "How dare some stupid punk intimidate a neighborhood into being too scared to go out for groceries!"

It's probably just as well I didn't go with my husband. I don't know what I would have done in that situation. If alone, I daresay I would have complied with the thief's demands, no matter how idiotic. But I am fiercely protective of my loved ones, and the thought of some young idiot trying to intimidate my husband makes my blood boil.

So, a hex on you young thief where ever you are. May your ski mask give you a nasty facial rash, may your gun, toy or not, jam permanently and may all the fear you've induced in others be returned to you threefold so that you pee yourself during your next pathetic "hold up". May the cops get the dna from your unvolunteered urine, and may your little bitch botty be harmed by others wearing sand paper condoms when you land yourself where you belong- in prison!

Ah, there, I feel a bit better now.

Calvin's left shoe

2008-12-02T19:36:00.000-08:00

My friend Calvin de Grey was no stranger to death. I died with him many times.
Together him and I had more reincarnations than Shirley McClaine.

I can remember him and I huddled together in the cement tunnel at the old Comedy Store in Jameison street. We were waiting to go on, and had both been doing the rounds of tv auditions during the day. Cal frowned, leaned forward and confided "Rodgers" (he always called me by my sirname, he accepted me as "one of the guys"), "Rodgers I am not sure about this whole tv career thing. To go on television you have to look intelligent. You have to look like you read books!"

He looked puzzled as I broke out laughing. You see, Cal was the quintessential blue collar philosophist. It wasn't a put on. He was one of those guys that was just as funny offstage as he was on. He was mostly clueless as to how funny he really was! And it was those moments, when he would come out with his little "Calvinisms" that I treasure most.

"Rodgers, Rodgers, I'm scared - what do I do now?" He and I had been performing at a women's maximum security prison in Sydney. We had finished the show and been invited to have coffee with the inmates. It was a surreal environment. Guards stood by as we sat in the vinyled lounge, and our plastic coffee cups were checked before we sipped from them.
"Just talk" I whispered to Calvin. And so I led the way. I turned confidently to the inmate next to me and said "how are you?" and the small talk led to a conversation about her silk screen printing. Calvin, encouraged by this decided he too would broach conversation with the heavy set tattooed lady next to him. He opened with "So what are you in for?"

And she shot him an evil look and replied darkly, "I murdered me old man." He quickly shutup and drank his coffee in a hurry to get out. (And anyone who knows Cal, will remember, he hated coffee!! Lol)

Performing at the male maximum security prison was another matter though. It was a beautiful thang to see 200 plus rapists murderers and thieves all waving their arms in the air docilely singing along to Calvin's "Hi hi hi hi, lo lo lo lo!!"

Then there was the time we both went to see Mort Sahl at Kinsellas. We came out, inspired, renewed and determined to dump our blue material and follow the genius of Sahl's lead. We decided we would be doing political satire from now on, yessirree..no more dick jokes for us.

The following night we went out and promptly died a dogs death. One after the other.

There was a voice over gig we did together where the director told me to do "make my voice sound more blonde". Cal cast me a glance, and for some reason that stupid direction had him and I in fits for the rest of the session, much to the annoyance of that studio.

And who could forget the jetclub? Calvin de Grey compered, with me as the first blood sacrifice, followed by Anthony Ackroyd as headliner for the cannibals collective gathered below. The genius marketeers of the day had billed us as "new wave comics" which basically meant we were cheaper to hire than a rock and roll band. So we often went on before some heavy metal band to die like swans at a Dick Cheney hunters benefit.

One death stands out in my memory, because it was such a classic and human moment. Calvin had the distinction of being one of the more "calm and detached" comics when it came to hecklers, but one night at the old comedy store, one drunk managed to annoy the piss out of Cal. Cal tried every comeback, insult and squelcher, but this drunk just kept on going, until Calvin in a fit of frustration took off his shoe and threw it at this guy's head!

The comics gathered at the bar organised for the obligatory 'cognac of death' to be sent backstage to Calvin. We got the waitress to deliver it to him. And we managed to place his shoe alongside the cognac. Only a comic will really understand why we always remembered it was his Left shoe!

Calvin de Grey billed himself as a true blue ridgy didge dinky di bloke who told jokes. But he was more than that. He was a good mate, he wasn't a comedy snob, he loved comics, he loved the audiences, he loved people. He was just plain funny, and I feel priviledged to have known him. He once told me that in the beginning of his stand up comic career if he died, he would feel bad for two weeks right up until the next gig. 'You know you are a pro comic when you die, and you've forgotten about it by the time you get home' he said with his goofy knowingness.

As mutual friend Alan Glover reminded me, when you think of Calvin de Grey you can't help but smile, and that's not a bad legacy for any human being to leave.

cheers Calvin.

That was the final death, now keep the beer cold til we pass over!

I had a dream

2008-03-19T06:55:00.000-07:00

I had a dream last night that I was doing a stand up comedy spot, performing to three people. It's been a while since I have done stand up, so I went "frearching" (comic term meaning frantic search through mental comic archives) for the "right routine". What is the "right routine" for three people?

Mentioning the bleeding obvious? Pointing out that two blokes looked like they were hooking up for a date arranged from rants and raves on Craigs list?

In the end I chose to play "Mother Comedy" - starring in my own absurd Chekovian drama performing to the other younger female comics. I dished out advice and observations like some jokesters boffin. "Oh yes, journalists make a fuss over female comics" I said knowingly. "They often said 'it must be so difficult to be a female comic'".
I paused to deliver the punch.
"I never quite know how to respond to that, so I always tell journalists 'yes, it was much easier when I was a guy'". Rich laughter. (thankfully).

Playin' to the other comics I was. Not really "professional"- but when the number of comics outnumbered the audients then it felt like the way to go.
And they were good comics, impressive ladies. All dressed up, all georgeous and glamorous and funny to boot. Looked like they all stepped straight out of a page of Maxim to give the photographer a piece of their minds.

In this dream I was stumbling from routine to routine, pulling out a few sure fire one liners and routines here and there, then forgetting bits, putting in a set up but forgetting a tag, throwing in a tag with no set up. Perhaps the wine didn't help matters. It was a bit like travelling through a neighborhood you used to live in and once knew like the back of your hand; only you've been away for awhile and now they've put in a shopping mall and the church is gone and some of the roads are only one way. It's changed and you've got to find a new way to navigate the old route. I kept bumping into things along the way.

It was a nice cosy feeling though. To be back up. When it comes down to it, I suppose I don't have stage fright, probably more like real life fright.

I must have that dream again.

St Patrick's day.

2008-03-17T01:29:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow is St. Patrick's day, otherwise known- (unofficially) -as international alcoholic's day. Tis one's holy obligation to get pissed.
Most people really do see green on the Tuesday morning following St. Patrick's evening of celebration.
It seems odd that people would celebrate this Christian missionary of old in a very pagan way.

I wonder- on the feast of Isis- whether wiccans get together and hold mass to celebrate? To be sure...

and I can't help wondering how they celebrate the feast of Dionysius at AA meetings? hmmm.