Unnecessary Censorship: Sesame Street

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New York’s “Fashion’s Night Out”

To kick off New York Fashion Week, retailers all over Manhattan hosted parties and red-carpet events with celebs, DJ’s, designers, models, champagne etc.

Being a fashion label ignoramus, I planned on avoiding this event… until I saw a snippet in the paper about my idol – Nora Ephron, doing a reading at the Armani store.

(When I grow up, I’d like to be Nora Ephron.)

I threw a crush proof dress in my bag, and did my hair and make up so it would last all day. Which is what I do every day. (Once you leave Ada’s, there’s no turning back.) I also decided to wear flats, which turned out to be the best and worst decision I made.

Contrary to popular belief, women of New York rarely wear heels. This is due to the vast amounts of walking they do on a daily basis. In fact, New Yorkers actually live a little longer than the average American, from all the extra walking.

At 7pm, I emerged from the subways onto Madison Avenue.

The streets were abuzz with models, paparazzi and publicists holding clip boards with lists of names. It was like someone had dropped a giant glitter bomb on New York, and it had exploded with all the glitz and glamour you always dreamed this City could have. (A far cry from the general day to day reality.)

I took a deep breath, as lanky women in couture and Christian Louboutin heels (or as I call them - shoes with red soles) emerged from cars in all directions. I came up to their hips. It was another world.

A feeling of extreme pleasure and guilt swirled inside me. I was painfully aware of how little I know about the fashion world, (and celebs for that matter), and I knew my fashionista friends would have killed to be here. Oh well, I was here anyway...

Shit! I thought. How am I going to get into Armarni? There’ll be a line, a list, and a height requirement… or not. I strode straight in. A handsome male model offered me a welcomed champagn, and I made my way upstairs.

There, I watched a room full of industry people talk shop. Everyone was in black or grey Armarni – it was dazzling! Tall, tanned models slinked by me in black gowns and heels. Of course, I was in white. I felt like an albino oompa loompa in comparison, and I stood between the ottomans and the wall, silently wishing to become invisible.


My wish must have come true, because a tray of hors d'oeuvres whizzed by, without so much as slowing in my direction.

On closer inspection, there were three trays, with no more than five hors d'oeuvres, each circling around the room, stopping only at men, and the elderly. Clearly, it was assumed that women didn’t eat at these things. It was hard not to eye the food, that was intentionally being paraded in front of me, but always just out of arm’s reach.

I sipped my champagne, and thought some self-affirming thoughts, to gain confidence. If I was going to pull off my contrasting look, I had better be bold, and pretend I felt a million dollars.

Suddenly the gay man on my right, turned and raised his glass to me “Well, I guess we should say cheers to fashion week!”

Cheers!! Then he got swooped by a publicists, who was twice my hight and half my weight.

Leather ottomans with reserved signs on them started to fill with important people. One lady, who’s face was so taught from plastic surgery, had a tall male personal assistant, in his 40’s glued to her side. He was a skinny white man, who resembled Bruce Wane’s butler, and it was his job to put his hands on her shoulders, guiding her with his eyes, as she sat down. I watched him stand off to the side, staring at her, anticipating her every breath. This woman was this grown man’s full-time job. I wonder how that made him feel.

To my left, a young woman held up a journalist’s tweet to another lady, which read “Nora looked stunning in Black Armarni.”

And she did. Elegant, and classy as always. She told a story about how important clothes are to women. Once, in her late 20's, her favorite red shirt got lost at the dry cleaner's. She was devastated. And to this day, that's all she can remember from her first marriage!

Rosie O'donnel then read from Nora's new play "Love, Loss and What I Wore," based on a book by Ilene Beckerman. (Apparently it's like the Vagina Mologues only about clothes instead of vaginas.)


Afterwards, a little old lady, in colourful jewellery and brilliant white hair came up to me and said “I love your dress!” Well, that and the champagne, was all I needed to feel truly fabulous. I considered going up to Nora and shaking her hand, and saying “Thanks for being such an amazing woman!” But there were so many people congratulating her. Plus I heard one lady talking about a project she was getting Nora to collaborate on.

I strongly believe, if you’re going to invite your self over for dinner, then you had better bring something to the table. And I had nothing, but a stupid grin and a handshake, so I played it cool, and left.

Out on Madison Ave it continued to rain models. A French Vogue reporter was doing a piece to camera, while familiar faces posed in front of store-fronts for photographers.

I slipped into Jimmy Choo, and came face to face with Cindy Crawford. Embarrassingly, she totally caught me checking out her phenomenal legs. So I took a photo, because everyone else was.


In DKNY, I asked a lady who the woman was in front of the TV camera. “Oh that’s Stacy London, from What Not To Wear.” She had barely finished the sentence, before I ran back out on the street. Just in case.

Passing more stores, I noticed what looked like food on a table in one. I quickly pretended, that - “Woops! I accidentally went past that store I’d been wanting to go in,” turned around, so that I could pretend to shop, before casually approaching the food table.

On the food table, glass vases were filled with all things raw and vertical. Carrots, celery, asparagus, cucumber, and thank god – some kind of extremely long cheese. I subtly pulled a cheese stick from the vase. I was the only one eating. I took a bite – and crunch! It was not cheese, it was some kind of strange root vegetable, that tasted and felt similar to chalk. Trying to pretend I was fine with that, I walked out on the street, taking a fake bite, before hoicking the rest.

Then, in a tragically clichéd moment, I stepped out from the curb, and nearly got hit by a bicycle. A total sugar daddy, in a killer suit held his elbow out and said “Here, you better take this.”
I smiled, and said I was fine, but he insisted. “At least let me get you across the street.”


He was being rather charming and I still had the word’s of my friend Chelsea “Never say no to an invitation!” in my head. So I took his arm, and crossed. As we strolled towards 5th Ave, we got to talking. He was from Persia (look out!) and heading to a party at an art gallery near by. He invited me to join, then after talking about Austrlia, he offered to cook me an Australian dinner some time in his apartment on the upper East Side. “You can bring your friends if you like. We can make it a party.”

This was all a bit too much. So I dropped him at the art gallery, we kissed on the cheek, and parted ways.

I needed to get back to my office, and put my feet on solid ground. And just as my finger’s hit the keyboard, I got a text from the black model/banker, confirming our date for Friday.

Craziness is happening!!!

Secret Singles Behavior

My secret singles behaviour, is something I once caught my mum doing, and am now addicted to. She was sitting on the bathroom floor with a towel wrapped around her and a little space heater, to keep in the warmth. You create this tent of fan forced heat around your body, kind of like a personal sauna, that misses your head. It’s genius! Try it! (but only when by your self!)

What’s yours?

Ada's Black Humor

I’m currently knitting Ada a scarf. I bought the needles and wool so that she could knit, but she had no interest. So I knit, and she holds the wool. It’s something for her to do, and she loves it. She calls it her job, and I pretend I’m a slave driver.
“Be quite and concentrate on your job!” I yell in her deaf ear.
Every time she forgets to give me wool, I fire her. Then I have to re-hire her and negotiate a new rate of pay. (Is this a Jew thing?)

“How long you make it?” she enquires.
I hold it up.
“I will hang myself on it!” she smiles.

Joking about committing suicide is her favorite creepy thing to do.

She will often be heard yelling, “I will throw myself off!” as she looks out towards her balcony. Or simply “I want to kill myself.”

And when she gets her medication she yells “Ha! My poison!”

I’ll laugh nervously, while Jean will smile, shake her head and say “Ada, I’m going to put you in jail!”

That’s their little joke. Jean will threaten to throw Ada out on the street or put her in jail most days. And it never gets old. It’s their humor to a T. No wonder they can get along.

Improvise! - Tina Fey does it.

Last night, I fake-raped a guy from behind, in front of my entire class. It was part of an improvised theatre performance, and the perfect way to end that particular scene. I was a comedy legend! (for one night.)

Another reason why I recommend improvised theatre classes, is for the kinds of discussions that occur. I wrote these direct quotes down during my last class:

Student Question:
“On Tuesday, when David opened the scene with the line – I can smell your pussy juice from here. - How do you heighten the game in the second beat from that point?”

Teacher Answer:
“Well, it was difficult, and as you saw, I ended up shitting my pants, which probably wasn’t playing into the game. Theoretically it wasn’t a great game move.”

Then later in class, our female teacher gave us notes on our scenes:

“When you’re jerking off, slow it down. Weird note, I know.” Then-

“If you are playing the game of one person showing the other person that something is fine to do, by doing it, then in this case, she probably should have eaten her own cum.”

Need I say more?

Brunch with a Pornstar … Part 2

This is a continuation on from my previous post Bruch With a Porn Star…

Julie Spears (not her real name) is a warm, funny, beautiful, crass, crazy, head-strong woman, who loves attention. She is also an award winning pornstar from LA, adult film industry mogul and escort, who is now a (non-adult) film producer.

She was more than happy to open up about her life, in every detail possible. But I'll warn you, getting to know her, meant taking a seat on an emotional roller coaster. Allow me to share what it was like from my perspective:


I WAS EXCITED - to be in the presence of a real life porn star.

THEN MORIFIED - when she looked at a man standing on the curb, and yelled “He’s fuckable! Pity about the girlfriend.”

I WAS JEALOUS - when she told me her hourly rate ranged from $1500 to $2000. And that she lived on 5th Avenue.

I FELT SORRY - that the one steady man in her life, that she claimed to have quit porn for, and whom she'd convinced to leave his wife, lived in Brazil and was messing her around.

I WASN’T SURPRISED when she told me that she had owned a dungeon in LA.

Then she said: “I had a client that was into public humiliation. So one night at The Standard Hotel, I grabbed him by the tie and said - I’m going to pee on you, come with me.”

She took him into the public toilets at the hotel, and when security knocked to see what was going on, she just yelled “It’s Julie! And do you mind? – I’m trying to pee on someone here!!”
To which Security answered “Oh, sorry Julie. Go right a head!”

I WAS CURIOUS - about peeing on people etiquette.
“Do you put their head in the bowl? So you hover over them and the toilet at the same time to catch the drippings?” I enquired.
“No no. You lie them down on the floor, with their head near the base of the toilet. Then you straddle them, and pee on their face, in their mouth, and then all the way down and pee on their genitals.”
“Oh… So it just runs all over the floor?”
“Yah ha.”
“And the people at The Standard don’t mind the mess?”
“No, they let me do anything I want there.”
Beat.
“Who want’s another wine?”

**

I WAS UNDERSTANDING – when she whinged about how hard it is to get laid in New York.

I FELT SAD – when she told me that her cat died on the same day as her Mother, just this June.

I ADMIRED HER - when I found out she had taken care of her elderly mother, all on her own, for the past 16 years. And that she was also supporting her mentally ill sister in full time care. She really WAS a sweetheart.

I FELT JOY – when she described the LA funeral, she threw for her Mother:
It was themed in hot pink, (her mother’s favourite colour).
A website was launched to honour her mother, so people could post on her wall.
Ashes were sprinkled into the ocean from a hot-pink, bio-degradable urn.
Everyone had to wear hot-pink.
A monk performed the ceremony.
Then afterwards, they held an extravagant beach-house party.

I FELT WEIRD when she said she had an evil streak in her, and once vengefully drugged a man, and raped him with a strap on, and thought she’d accidentally killed him. (Oh… and she revived him by giving him an enema shower.)

I FELT GREATFUL, that I was meeting her now, rather than in my past, when I may have judged her too quickly.

And then we saw William Defoe standing about 5 meters away. He didn't look half as scary as he does in films.

**

I WAS DELIGHTED - when Julie said she much prefers to have sex with men in their early 20’s, and no matter how old she gets they are always going to be her target market.

I FELT UNEASY- because she had an interesting theory on why Women freak out at 30 and Men do the same at 40.

“Those are the ages when you realise your target market no longer wants to fuck you,” she said with authority.

For some reason, perhaps because I’m nearing 29, this hit a nerve.

I FELT EMPATHY - when she admitted that at 34 years of age, she was having an identity crisis. And she was freaking out about inevitable physical changes in her body; like loosing her hair, make-up not going on her skin like it used to. She looks back on her success in the porn industry with yearning. In New York, she feels sad, depressed and lonely.

I FELT IN AWE - when she told me of the good advocacy she had done for women in the industry, of the successful media and internet businesses she had run and the number of employees she had under her.

I WAS AMAZED - that there is such a thing as “Hooker Rehab.” And when she wrote her annual income on their assessment form, the social worker considered changing professions. (Julie was grossing half a million a year at the height of her career.)

I FELT DISTURBED - in the taxi on the way to a roof top bar, when the cab driver asked if a woman can have two men inside her at the same time, and Julie’s answer was: “Listen honey – a woman can have two FISTS inside her at the same time!”

I FELT EMBARASSED - when at the bar, after too much alcohol, she commented on what would get her pussy wet, in an attempt to seduce anyone within hearing distance.

I FELT SORRY FOR HER - when after explaining who she was to the bouncer at Pastis, and working her charm for 20 minutes, he still didn’t give us a table or a shit.

I FELT PROTECTIVE OF HER - when I watched her self esteem crumple to the floor as the night progressed, and her mission of getting laid turned desperate.

TBC ...

Brunch with a Porn Star…

On the way to my writer’s space, Labour Day morning, I got a text from my friend, Anya - “Too cold to swim, let’s do brunch at 1pm.”

She had a pool on the roof of her apartment building, that cost $30 to enter, even for five minutes. Pools are so rare in Manhattan. A recent article in the New York Times said there is close to 100 pools in total, for an area that services 2.9 million people during the day, and houses 1.6 million at night. (Crazy right? Considering every second house in Brisbane has a pool.)

I was counting on this weather day, to give me some much needed time for job hunting online. But job hunting sux-ass, so I said yes to brunch.

On the way, I scoffed the egg sandwich that I’d made at 1am, the night before. I figured I could just order coffee, and save a few dollars to ease my guilt.

Dressed in denim shorts, sandals and a loose, slinky T-shirt from Urban Outfitters, I was casual Sunday meh.

The brunch place was a little swanky, and Anya sat at the bar drinking OJ from a wine glass. Anya is a gorgeous girl, my age, from Poland, and is a big TV producer there. But in NY, she is nobody, and is humbly starting again from scratch. Her thick Polish accent probably isn’t helping, but her drive is pretty incredible.

“I have a uni friend coming, she’s a real sweet heart.” She said, as I took a seat. “Great,” I said, expecting some quiet little darling thing.

A voluptious blond, in an off the shoulder leopard-print-dress, and heels strode up to us. She was gorgeous. Dripping with designer gold jewellery and looking very LA.

We sat down, and she opened the menu. “Oh.. I’m just going to barf anything on here anyway!” she smiled, then said - “Sorry, I’m a barffer! I know it’s a disorder, but only if you can’t admit you have it! ah ha ha!”

We laughed, and so did the people at the table next to us.

“I also love to drink, and do a shit load of drugs for fun!” she continued. I smiled and nodded again. She was shocking me, and I was loving it. A sweet heart?

And then another test. She yelled “I don’t know if Anya told you, but I’m an escort! I always tell everyone straight away, because I’m not ashamed of it.”

‘Ahh - no she didn’t tell me’ I said… and awesome! This was going to be a fun brunch. I ditched my idea of drinking coffee, and ordered a round of Bloody Maries. Woot!

It was a good decision, because what followed is the time I will always remember as:

The day I had brunch with a Porn Star, saw William De Foe, got asked out by a model/banker, and went clubbing in the Meatpackers District - in shorts and a T-shirt.

TBC...

The Unfortunate Fate of NY Umbrellas

Poor things stop about 3% of rain before blowing inside out, and breaking. Melbourne weather is picture perfect in comparison.

Get Real. Get Therapy.

This past year, has literally been the catalysts for some seriously big “Ah ha!” moments.

I have more confidence, I’ve faced fears, I’ve started to develop my own writers voice, make sense of my life etc, etc.

But there’s something missing. (And it’s not Jesus, people, it’s not Jesus. Thanks to my childhood, I’ve managed to achieve spiritual awakening before anything else.)

I’ve been coasting along in NY just fine… But the truth is…Well, the truth is…. I’m not being productive at all. I’m not sure the goals I had, are the goals I truly want. I’ve been conflicted about my living situation, about my career, plagued with self doubt, and scared to really put my self out there, to take advantage of the vast opportunities this magical land has to offer. And the worst thing is, I’ve been completely financially irresponsible. (Living off a small inheritance that I’m meant to saving for a house deposit, for a life I’m not sure I want.)

It’s like I’m trying to sabotage my future!

But NO BODY should have to hear my neurotic ramblings. Unless I pay them a shit load of money to listen. And that’s exactly what I’ve just started doing… because when in Rome… right?

So, like a true New Yorker, I now have a therapist. And just knowing someone is there, is helping me calm the fuck down.

I’m hoping she can help me figure out why I'm so paralyzed? Or perhaps just be an ear to listen. Poor thing, I’m like the female Woody Allen.

Regardless, I need to set some goals. More specific ones, because without them, I’m just coasting along in la la land. Stay tuned for a turn around!

Traumatic Tales

(Warning: this post is about wiping elderly butts. It's not for the feint hearted.)

This morning, for the second time this year, I found myself doing something highly traumatic, and inconceivable to me a year ago.

I stood, one hand lifting Aunt-Ada off the toilet, the other hand using a wet-wipe to wipe her ass.

The first time it happened, I’m ashamed to tell you, I completely freaked out. Her nurse, Jean went to the store, and I stayed in the apartment with Ada, watching a US soap, packed with Aussie exports, called “The Guiding Light.”

Suddenly Ada was fiddling with her cane.

“I need to pee!” she yelled. Oh dear, I thought. Usually, her nurse takes her to the bathroom, and I remain purposefully ignorant of what goes on. That day, was going to change everything.

I helped Ada to the bathroom, lifting her nightie for her as she sat. My body stiffened, when I heard number twos…

No no no no… please don’t do that, I thought… but it was too late. In that moment, I panicked. I didn’t want to think about what I might have to do next. I was in serious denial. All I wanted to do was call the nurse to come back from the store immediately. Have I no maternal instinct what so ever?

Selfishly I hummed and haaaawed about my next move. Then I sucked it up, ran to the living room for wet wipes, and did the unthinkable.

The thought of wiping the elderly’s ass is always more horrifying than when you actually have to do it. It’s more a battle of the wills than anything else. You have to un-paralyse your body and get it out of denial of what’s about to take place. You have to pretend it’s what you were borne to do, to put the person at ease, and you have to hope that by the grace of god, you don’t accidentally wipe your eye straight after.

Once you’ve over come it, it’s not that bad. It’s life. Life is messy! And it would be boring if it wasn’t.

Thankfully, nature has a way of helping us out in our old age. Mark my words, one day our butt holes will hang out our butt cheeks, like a loose, floppy vagina. ☺

The experience is always rather humiliating for Ada. Both times, she wept in self pity and embarrassment. (Although she does that about everything. That's the kind of person she is.)

Never the less, this is a timely reminder of how short life is. I hope by the time we get old, robots will be doing all this for us, or perhaps we will have evolved to no longer need to poo.

That would be fabulous indeed!

And, here's something funny to watch - for those of you who remember speaking Pig Latin in primary school, and also to change the subject!

Same Wavelength

Met a guy my age, stumbling into my building at the same time as me, (5am) this morning. This was our conversation:

Me “Hey.”
Him (slurred) “Hey. I just had some… Doritos.”
Me “Oh yeah? I’m about to go have some Dorito’s too.”
Him “Yeah. They’re so good”
Me “Yep.”

We both looked at each other, and felt a deep mutual understanding, of precisely where we were at in that moment. We were both the same level of wasted. We were both the same level of tired, and both had same post-booze snacking preference. We also knew that in a few hours we would both feel like absolute poo. Needless to say, there was no “Grey’s Anatomy” sexual tension as we shared the lift together.

In fact, I’m trying to remember if he was cute or not… ?

Books and Television

If I knew growing up, what I know now, about books, I may have been a different person. I may not have bothered with having a childhood. I may have learned how to spell, I may have thought in words, rather than vague feelings, and I may not have felt so alone.

But I was never a reader. My first love was television! As restricted and rubbished as it was by my parents, I viewed it as forbidden fruit. (Sneaking up to it and switching it from Sesame Street to some raunchy day-time soap, on the rare occasion, that my mother left the room.)


We lived on a ten acre hobby farm on the outskirts of Clifton, which is on the outskirts of Toowoomba, which is on the outskirts of Brisbane, which is on the outskirts of Sydney, which is on the outskirts of Australia, witch frankly feels like it’s on the outskirts of the rest of the world.

At the tender age of seven, my window into the rest of the world, was our small, black and white TV. No, I’m not secretly 54 years old, and my parents weren’t poor. They were just conservative hippies! Who hated everything commercial television stood for:

The sexualization of women, the consumer inspiring ads, the over simplistic morals that predictably emerged at the end of each sit-com. It was all rubbish.

“Turn the idiot box off” was the only discussion we ever had about what was on tv. I would lie awake at night crying tears of frustration in bed, because I could hear the television’s feint murmurs, yet was not allowed to watch.

At eight years of age, we moved briefly to Brisbane, and got a color television for the first time. My brother J-Rad and I flicked it on, catching Sesame Street, and were TOTALLY BLOWN AWAY to discover Elmo was red, and not blue like the rest of the monsters.

Television had such a mesmerising power over me. I still have the taboo images of Collette’s “Ring My Bell” music video (below) burned into my retinas.




Seeing a grown woman dance around in a sexy bra on television was so incredibly entertaining, and freeing for me – that I just knew - THAT was what I wanted to do when I grew up!

Our parents tried to get us kids to read, by forcing some of the most boring books in the world on us. But I couldn’t relate to them. Nothing until The Magic Faraway Tree, that I discovered while at a friend's house, ever came close to stirring my imagination.

In grade seven, after reading Playing Beatie Bow (the first novel I ever enjoyed) I got inspired. We had to write a 30 page fiction story for a class assignment, and I based mine loosely on elements from this book, and of course, The Magic Faraway Tree.

The part I borrowed from Playing Beaty Bow, was the main character’s struggle with news of her parent’s divorce. I remember thinking, how would I feel if my parents got divorced? So I wrote that.


My parents read my story with hidden apprehension. Unbeknownst to me, they had secretly decided to separate in six months time, after I’d settled into high school the following year.

So, six months later, after they had announced their divorce, they both told me that I must have known about it, when I was writing my story. But the truth is, I had absolutely no idea, and I was too ashamed to admit I had borrowed the idea from another book. Which led me to the odd belief, that perhaps, because I had written it down, and it had come true!… I had accidentally predicted the future.

Even now, I’m held hostage by this superstition. I tried writing about dealing with the imaginary death of a parent, and just couldn’t. In case I curse my self again. Even writing about it here makes me nervous!

The odd thing is, how I had imagined reacting to my parent’s divorce, and how I actually did react, was completely different. In my book, I was furious and hurt, and real life, I was just sad, then rather accepting.

***

My grade seven story, ended up winning first prize, and ten dollars, in our class competition. I thought the runner up, my best friend Franny, should really have won. She was a much better writer than me, and was the one who gave me Playing Beatie Bow in the first place.

This year, I’m mostly without a television, and so have become a belated bookworm. And these books are having the most extraordinary effect on me. I keep thinking each author knows me, and is speaking from voices within my own mind. (Narcissist much?) They inspire me, just like Collette did. And they are also helping me write more betterer.

Which, apart from dancing around in a bra and tights, is exactly what I’d like to do with my life… write stories for television! Then hopefully, one day, a curious little kid from the country, who’s wondering "What else does this life have to offer?" will open up their tv or internet connection, see something, and get inspired!… or at least be wildly entertained!

I ♥ Honesty

In a city that sells t-shirts promoting its self on every street corner, it was refreshing to spot a guy walking down the street, sporting the t-shirt below. It made me laugh out loud.