Too late my friends. The change has happened.

4 Nov 2013

Last night I was watching The Graham Norton Show and laughing myself stupid at the hilarity that was Sir Elton John, Dame Judy Dench, John Bishop and Jeremy Paxman being interviewed by Graham Norton.

They were discussing everything from embroidery that contained profanity, the importance of family, music, theatre, creativity, the first world war and how, in a world before the internet, a French kiss came as unexpected and entirely unpleasant experience for a teenage boy not familiar with such things.  And I laughed a lot.

Then Elton John went on to talk about how unexpected it was to find himself, a lad from a council estate, bopping along politely with the Queen at Andrew’s 21st where he had been invited to sing.

And it struck me, rather powerfully, that change happens first in a blaze of publicity and then just builds in incremental bits and the once unbelievable becomes perfectly everyday.

Growing up the eternally entertaining paparazzi darlings Elton John, Ellen deGeneres, Neil Patrick Harris would not have had role models like the ones they are today.  Talented, charming, on the TV, in magazines, all over the place.

Successful. Beloved. Married. Parents.

Gay.

Doogie Howser is a Dad. The world does change (image source)

Even when I was in high school in the 1980s I wouldn’t have confidently named a single gay person – either in my circle or in celebrityland (unless you counted poor ‘dead because he was gay’ Freddie Mercury).  And when Ian Roberts came out – oh my! He can’t be! He plays football.

It was always news… and now – so many people are gay and yes, it still does continue to be part of the story because we are still on a journey – it’s not news.  Not news at all.  They are just a fabulous roll call of people we hear about everyday.  Every single day.

Matthew Mitcham. Alex Greenwich. Ruby Rose. Chaz Bono. Bob Brown. Tom Ballard. Penny Wong. Michael Kirby. Daniel Kowalski. Ricky Martin. Jodie Foster. Justin Fashanu. Tim Campbell.  Dolce and Gabbana. Armani. Tracey Chapman. Melissa Etheridge. Pedro Almodovar. Queen Latifah. Matt Branson. Martina Navratilova. Tim Gunn. Sir Ian Mckellan. Kerryn Phelps.

And so many more.

That’s before we talk about the people we know personally – the married couples. the parents, the friends. Lots and lots and lots of names.

Our beloveds.

The once unbelievable is now just the way it is. It does get better.

Are we there yet? No.

But I bet a young Lizzie never imagined a time when she’d be dancing with rock stars born on council estates.  Those who fear change haven’t even noticed it has already happened.  The world is not as it was.

Cool huh?

Ethical sons not sober daughters

1 Nov 2013

I am going to keep this one brief and crass.

Our responsibility is not to bring up daughters that are good hearted, conservatively dressed, teetotallers.  If that was going to keep them rape free, the Amish and Muslim daughters of the world would be completely safe.

Society’s responsibility is to bring up sons that never think rape is an option. My daughters, in fact everybody’s daughters, should be able to get drunk and lie down naked in front of a room full of men, safely.

If we are raising a society of ethical sons, those men should think no more of sticking their dicks or their digits into any part of her body than they would think of shoving those same items into a pool full of hungry piranhas.

In fact, naked drunk women if front of a room full of men should end up with no more than moustache drawn on their top lip and a blanket tucked around them while a friend is called.

Yes, those daughters should rethink their booze intake and their perchance for public nudity but poor choices are not an invitation to violence.  Ever.

The end.

I hear that Jesus likes hot potatoes

29 Oct 2013

For those that might not know, I’m a little fond of climbing up on the old soapbox on occasion.  Particularly around equality and social justice issues.  I’m constantly flabbergasted and genuinely bewildered by people that think they are somehow more equal than other people.

I recently got an email from someone who seemed to have taken a gap in their calendar and filled it up by reading my blog.  Which is quite flattering except that they appear not to like me very much – they said that I was a bit like the devil, first loving ‘them gays’ and now it’s clear I’m a ‘black refugee lover’ as well.

So basically I am Jesus. Not the devil. And as an aside, I bet he didn’t know he was coming back as a pudgy, potty mouthed bleeding heart female.

The intended insult has misfired.  See, I do love them gays and them refugees.  Even the non-black ones. I am completely okay with them having the same legal status as me and being treated with kindness and compassion when seeking asylum. Even if I met them and didn’t lurrrrrrrveeeee them I’d still have this opinion.  And just to show how well rounded I am – I also believe that climate change is a thing and that we totally suck in our approach to supporting the differently abled. I know. What kind of arse am I?

On the subject of being a ‘refugee lover’ I recently became Deputy Director for the Sydney Branch of Welcome to Australia, which is an organisation that seeks to establish a culture of welcome more akin to the national anthem rather than that portrayed in political soundbites or via our mainstream media.  It’s a voluntary position which is really going to piss my troll off – that’s right dear troll – I’m not even being PAID to give a shit.  Though I was promised a badge.*

So last night, this new position got me walking the red carpet at The Golden Age Cinema in Surry Hills.  An absolute darling of a cinema dating back to the olden days.  Like the 1940s or something.  I was there for the launch of The Hot Potato which is a little gem (see what I did there?) of a documentary put together by the Asylum Seeker Resource Centre (ASRC) to ‘take the heat’ out of the asylum seeker debate.  They got themselves a caravan and toodled around ten towns in ten days serving hot potatoes and inviting people to share their views about the issue.

Even Wally ‘Gotye’ an opinion

Yep – even people that didn’t agree with them.  And this is the astounding simplicity of the idea.  Sometimes an idea seems so RIGHT, so OBVIOUS, that we forget to allow people to express an alternate view and explore their concerns or the things they don’t understand and so in the face of BLEEDING HEART SOAPBOXERS like myself, they say nothing and carry on thinking what they are thinking, or wondering what they are wondering and taking part in BBQ conversations based entirely on the views expressed in The Daily Telegraph or by Andrew Bolt or the Prime Minister.  Where is reasoned debate or an opportunity for greater understanding?.

Enter 10,000 potatoes, a bunch of LISTENERS and BOOM… 10 myths about asylum seekers blown out of the water just by allowing people access to the facts along with insanely delicious potato toppings.

That beard is called Tom

The unintentional star of the movie is Reg.  Reg, by his own admission, was ‘just there to drive the bleedin’ caravan from A to B’.  He really didn’t give a rat’s arse about any of it and yet by the end, he’d come around to a different point of view and publicly owned that change of heart. His original views weren’t all wrong, but they weren’t all right either and given the opportunity to better understand – he did.  He’s a gruff bugger and a brave one.  Very few of us are prepared to admit we’ve changed our mind let alone publicly.  HIP HIP Reg.

Reg and Carmelo  (awwww)

At the launch, one of the panellists involved in the making of the film mentioned how she’d had her unconscious stereotypes challenged too.  In Queanbeyan, she spoke to any number of flannelette wearing, heavily tattooed blokes tending toward bogan about the issue and they all thought asylum seekers were getting a rough deal.  And she said she welcomed the learning that she got herself that her assumptions and beliefs were wrong.  I loved that honesty and insight.

Therein lies the heart of tiny little film that roars.  It really offers up an opportunity to have a dialogue and to return to the Australia we most want, that of the fair go.  Not one full of angry people on either side of a line screaming RIGHT! WRONG! RIGHT! WRONG! and not listening and not understanding.

Which isn’t somehow as REVOLUTIONARY but undoubtedly a lot more successful.

Sigh.  Rational, reasonable people are no fun.  But they make great films.

Check it out at www.thehotpotato.com.au and take the conversation to your next pub night, or BBQ.  And tell them Reg sent you.

*I didn’t want to appear cheap. And I still haven’t got it. BRAD! Just saying.

Please note: This isn’t a sponsored post.  Yes, I have a vested interested in sharing something that supports my point of view but I really think this is a game changer and a great film. The soundtrack isn’t as catchy as that of Grease, but I think the appeal will last just as long.  Please share with people and even if you don’t agree – remember to be lovely because being born in Australia is for the vast majority of us nothing but luck, and if we are truly lucky – we don’t need to be arseholes.  Thanks xoxo

Behaving badly

25 Oct 2013

I described my girls’ behaviour today as ‘contraceptive’.

It was. It really, really, really was NOT an example of their normal levels of awesomeness.

The incessant mewling of the discontented, the whining shrieks of the hard done by, the petty fighting, the clinginess, the fake crying and then eventually – the physical tantrum of the thwarted.  Times two. All day.

Interspersed with fleeting seconds of adorable ‘siblings getting along’ behaviour that kept them from being put in boxes and left outside a local charity.

Teamwork – 3 seconds

The thing about behaviour like this is that it brings me to a state of extreme irritation and disfunction softened only by the overuse of the words ‘sweetheart’ and ‘darling’ during each of my bellows. For instance ‘JUST DO AS YOU ARE TOLD SWEETHEART” “STOP WHINGING DARLING”.  And of course, yelling at small children is so productive.  It always works.

Said no parent ever.

I don’t know whether it is paranoia that they will grow up to be an adult who incessantly mewls and cultivates discontent but I have no patience at all with this particular behaviour set. Actually, I have no patience with this behaviour set in finished adults either, so it’s just a button presser really.  FFS – if you’re not happy, change something.  Please. And I say that to my toddlers, so it’s not like I’m playing favourites here world.

And I am sincere when I say that  I have no problem with open defiance, a genuine bout of anger or even a proper melt down – I feel that I’m successfully parenting if my children have firm opinions or heartfelt responses.  Plus, hands on hips and a scolding from a small person still has the power to make me smile, even as part of the unfolding of an imminent apocalypse.

It’s the faffiness of whining that I dislike.  If people want something – ask or DEMAND it.  A please can always be added afterwards.  But that whining in a high pitched baby voice which bears no resemblance to their normal vocal activity resulted in me being the kind of parent I don’t want to be.

I said to my three year old today “I don’t like little girls that whine”.  And I was truly appalled at myself.

I don’t like whining but of course I like my little girl. I love her.  Always. When she’s older I hope she says “and I don’t like mothers that imply even for a moment that they don’t like their little girl”.  Because is there anything more thoughtless or harmful than insinuating that my love is dependent on good behaviour?  No.  And the fact that they are but toddlers and won’t remember is no excuse.  If I reply crossly like that to a small child, imagine the world of hurt we’ll all end up in when they reach their teens.

Kisses for baby Kara’s toes

I might not like their behaviour, but I always always like them.  In fact, I’ll always love them and I need to make sure they know my love is unconditional right from the very beginning.  Because it is.

And as I type this, one is sitting on my shoulders and the other is drinking milk with her head on my lap.  They are watching Alex sing “I am the music man” on Play School.  We are all quiet and content.

We’re friends again, and my transgressions are forgotten.

And for that I am very thankful.

In defence of Tony from the Davidson Rural Fire Brigade

23 Oct 2013

You know things are pretty dire when I write the following.

Leave Tony Abbott the fuck alone.

I know.  I barely believe I wrote that sentence myself.

I know he’s leading the country back into rack and ruin.  I know he’s a climate change denier.  I know he’s a hypocritical arse on so many levels. But volunteering as a rural brigade firefighter is not something you can just swan in and do for political point scoring.  And to say so devalues the efforts of all firefighters.

Yes all of them. The firefighters out there this week who, by and large, are volunteers, train regularly and vigorously to protect other people from bushfire.  And bushfire, as we know, is an inherent part of the Australian landscape.  Long before white settlement and long after we all die in a heap because the Liberal party sold our national soul to the Rineharts.  And fighting it happens because a large number of people regularly give up their free time to learn how to fight such fires in times of emergency.  Like now.

NSW firefighter

Let me recap for those not following – with a population largely clustered around the coastal areas, which tend to have more trees and grass than say, the desert, fire happens which will impact real people.  Sometimes because Mother Nature is a contrary bitch and indiscriminate with her lightning bolts and sometimes because people throw cigarette butts out windows carelessly, thoughtlessly and other times because for some bizarre reason people get kicks out of lighting fires and leaving them to tear through the countryside ruining lives.

However they happen, bush fires are volatile, nasty and quick.  They swallow up property and sometimes people without a pause.  The firefighters putting themselves out there work in hot, thankless conditions, for days and sometimes weeks on end, leaving behind their real lives, their families, their friends and their homes.  In times like now, when bushfire surrounds us, every volunteer firefighter is needed to contribute.  And that also means Tony from Davidson Rural Fire Brigade, veteran volunteer firefighter of 13 odd years.

It doesn’t matter that he’s PM, if he has found time to go wave insignificant hoses at big flames or give some other firefighter backburning a break for even a few hours, he’s doing more than the vast majority of us.  And if he knows what he’s doing, which the evidence says he does, than his contribution is important.  The fact that he’s an arse, does not mean his contribution is any less valuable, any less worrying for his family and friends or any less useful.  And if being PM, his presence draws attention to the individuals out there fighting the fires, well bully for him.

He didn’t snapchat the media a message from the back of a fire engine or hanging from a burning bush and say HEY LOOK SEE I AM OFF TO SEE IF I CAN STOP ME SOME FIRE, any more than any of the other firefighters snapchat  the local media from the back of a fire engine or hanging from a burning bush and say HEY LOOK SEE I AM OFF TO SEE IF I CAN STOP ME SOME FIRE.  It’s just what they do.  And for that, we should be, ALL OF US, very thankful to the men and women that have spent so many hours volunteering with their local fire brigades to be prepared for situations like NSW finds itself facing now.

Even if it is Tony.

Very very thankful.

I got me some culture tonight.

17 Oct 2013

Musicals aren’t for everybody.  People that lack the capacity for joy, who hate tunes and abhor dance – they don’t like them much.  People that prefer their stage to feature the tortuous journey that is ‘Death of a Salesman’ – literary excellence, performed to death in front of an entire generation of high school drama students, they scorn the musical as flippant, lighthearted, not ‘real’ theatre.

The girlfriends and me

The hip swivel may have started with Elvis, but nobody owned that shit like John Travolta as Danny Zuko in Grease.  The musical had it’s opening night in Sydney tonight and I blatantly sold my soul for four free tickets and a girl’s night out to be there.  I mean c’mon.  Grease. The musical. Girlfriends. A night out.

Kenickie is a little bit sexy in the musical and that little bit edgier than Rob Mills’ Zuko.  The characteristic self

Grease Lightning (Media Call)

conscious chuckle is done with due deference but overall Rob is a little bit too nice to be Zuko.  I wanted to ruffle his hair and tell him to go home and stop pretending to be an arse.  But that said, Sandy was a bit stroppier and a little less wet than in the original and that really worked in the show.  Still, if Kenickie was to have driven past thrusting to Grease Lightning I suspect the entire female part of the audience would have followed him in a Pied Piper-esque manner. And that should be Zuko, don’t you think?.  

Obviously I didn’t take this picture of finale because photography was banned

And this is where Grease the musical excels.  There isn’t one star in the movie.  The music, the choreography, the chorus, the leads – all of it combines in one riotous tribute which felt like it passed in but the blinking of an eye.  Like a party that ends at curfew, Grease left me feeling pepped and energised and wanting to stay longer.

Also, I want to learn to hand jive.  Because if that dancing is what hand jiving is about – I want me some.