Verbally Yours

When American exchange students stayed on Campus at the University of Queensland, Australia, I was utterly fascinated – especially by the women - the way they would voice every thought that entered their head.

“God, I’m having the worst hair day.”

“I was going to go jogging this morning, but then I decided to work on my assignment for another hour, and now I don't know what I feel like doing.”

My friends and I would hear them talking as they passed outside our window. “It’s like a constant stream of verbal diarrhoea” we’d muse in agreement.

Now that I’m emersed in this highly vocal culture, I am indifferent towards it and even admirable to the extent that I can participate.

Gone is the uptight filter that would sort thoughts that I should keep to my self and those I should air.

“What the hell!” I’ll yell to myself at the smallest of things: perhaps I noticed it was later than I thought or; my coffee tastes weird. And others will respond in turn.

It feels good to lay everything out on the table. “This is me. This is what I’m thinking. What are your thoughts?” is the true beauty of a culture that embraces freedom of speech in its most literal sense.

Of course there are obvious draw backs… and that’s what ipods are for. As for perks? Well, there’s this website – Overheard in New York.

It seems that unlike the American exchange student at uni, I can assimilate to other cultures with ease: In China I happily munched on boiled chicken’s feet and began littering within months of arrival; In New York I watched Avatar 3D and joined the audience in applause on three separate occasions, and; In Australia I will readily go back to walking silently down the street until large enough quantities of alcohol are consumed so that I can let it all out and applaud or glass people as necessary.

Peace.

Here, on a Boat

Here where the sky meets the ocean between the untouched islands on the Great Barrier Reef, we cruise because we can.

Here, where butterflies are seen flying so far from land, you can only imagine they are travelling from island to island, and may not even make it during their short 1-2 day lifespan.

Here, where tiny fish, get so scared, they are able to skip along the surface, like a well thrown stone, using their tails to stand up and run like lizards above water when they get tired of skipping.

It is here, with the wind in your hair, on a boat, cutting through the glassy waters, the sun reflecting up at you from the liquid turquoise, that you feel a freedom like no other. Just you, the sea and the great unknown.

What creatures lie beneath?

What lands lie unexplored?

I dare you NOT to live in the moment

It’s impossible to even remember any nagging thoughts and worries. The sky has untangled them and the breeze has plucked them away. Like an echesketch for your mind. Now all that’s left is for the ocean to fill up your senses and soothe your grateful soul.

Damn you irikanji jelly fish! Damn my irrational fear of sharks. If it weren’t for you two, I’d seize this precious moment and dive into the water fully clothed, like the impulsive, spirited girl I know I can be!

***

It is here, on the boat that Bernard and Abby make their life; stepping around each other in the kitchen in a well-rehearsed routine. I watched from the landing as Abby made toast with avocado and vintage cheddar while Bernard ground coffee beans and brewed tea.

Watching Bernard make coffee is a fascinating experience. He worked diligently in a relaxed methodical manner, with precision that bordered obsessive.  (The same way he does everything in his life.) With beans ground, he set an alarm timer. Seconds later - beep beep beep! He flicked a switch on the coffee machine, then reset the timer… beep beep beep! He poured the coffee, beep beep beep! Inserted the thermometer into the milk jug for frothing. I imagined he was following one of his laminated check lists in his head.

Leaning back I took in the smells of the clean Whitsunday air, mixing with fresh coffee and toast. Behind me the island greenery towers high from the water’s edge. Can I please stay in this moment for ever, I pray.

Abby was now cutting fresh fruit onto a clean white plate, while Bernard was using a spoon to make an unusual coffee-art design in the top of the cappuccinos. If only he turned the spoon upside down, he’d get a better design, the perfectionist in me thought. WHO CARES, yelled my voice of reason.

Nothing broke the stillness and calmness of the water surrounding us, except the occasional breath from a surfacing sea turtle, leaving a small trail of bubbles as it disappeared silently, on it’s way to it’s next breathing destination. Ah the serenity.

“Here we go!” Bernard said, grinning proudly as he handed me a cappuccino. “How’s this hey? Good coffee on a boat.”

I loved it here. Wrapped up in the safe bubble that is my parent’s love. Surrounded by sunshine and nature, and jelly fish and sharks. I wondered if I would ever be able to provide such a wonderful fun and loving environment for my future hypothetical family. I doubt it will be quite as lavish. But then it’s never been about the setting. I’d happily live in a toilet if Abby and Bernard were there. It has always been and always will be more about who they are as people. 

You Know You're an Aussie in NY when... #8

You watch new Aussie’s fresh of the boat, trying to tip at a bar.

American’s buy a drink, and smack a $1 note on the bench. The bar tender may not take it for a good 5 minutes, so it just sits there, untouched, to be collected eventually when things are quiet.

This is highly disconcerting for us Aussies. It appears the bar tender did not notice the precious dollar we are trying to give them, and now they want us to leave it on the bar for someone else to take. Which is exactly what would happen if you left a dollar on the bar in Australia. “Look! A dollar!” Yoink.

So instead, we hold our tip up in the air and wave it at the disappearing bar tender, as if to say:

“Look – here, a dollar! I’m leaving this for you. Come get it before someone takes it, or I change my mind.”

As the bar tender continues to ignores us, we have no choice but to place it on the counter, and rather than leave, we stay and wait to catch their eye again. We then point to the note and nod, so they know we are not leaving without them seeing us tip. We’d hate them to think we were doing a good old-fashioned “Aussie Runner.” 

Americans are so trusting in that way. They know nothing of our convict past, and treat us like we’re all adults. ;)

You're The Voice ...

… of hypocracy?

Ever said one thing, then turned around and done another?

At a recent family wedding in Oz (after a couple of Mojitos) I found myself linking arms in a large circle of extended family and strangers, while singing You’re the Voice by John Farnham.

My brother J-Rad watched on in amusement.

Afterwards he said to me: “Wow. You must experience a lot of cognitive dissonance* in your life.”

He’s not wrong.

I experience as much cognitive dissonance as Julian McMahon and Dannii Minogue would have after making this delightful video:

(They divorced shortly after its release.)

It is true. A few years ago I would have glassed myself before pretending to enjoy Johnny Farnham’s music for the kabillionth time in my life. (Sorry to all you loyal fans out there.)

Why? Because he represents everything I loaaaath about the Australian Culture:

(John Farnham. 'Farnzy')

• His 80’s mullet that he refuses to part with,
  
• His constant reoccurring airplay in every Aussie bar,
  
• His rather moronic nick-name “Farnzy” which rhymes with “Barnzy,” who I actually like.

But there’s more to it than that! To me - he epitomizes the Aussie Cultural Cringe!!! I get the same expression listening to him, that one gets when listening to our politicians speak. Or that one used to get watching the crocodile hunter, before he died and we all realized how much we actually loved him.

(Steve Irwin. RIP Steve)

And that’s the thing about cultural cringing.  It’s rather hypocritical. Like faults that bug you about a friend or family member; at the end of the day - you can’t help having some kind of good sentiment for them, because they make up a part of a whole.

The fact that Farnzy is rather cringe worthy, makes our Australian culture very unique, and there’s something to be said about having a little pride in that.

Alcohol also helps.

If reaching a point in my life where I can openly sing Farnzy without wanting to hurt myself, makes me a hypocrite, then so be it. Just like my father and Kirsty Alley; opinionated people can and do change their minds.

After all, we’re only human.

(Kirsty Alley Makes a vow to shed extra pounds on Oprah)

Mark my words, J-Rad. One day you’ll be far away from the place you are today. Perhaps you’ve had a mojito too many, and Johnny Farnham will start playing. Then Somewhere, deep within the recesses of your pickled little brain, a sense of joy will find a crack and seep into your sole.

After all, we are only Australian.

*Cognitive dissonance is an uncomfortable feeling caused by holding two contradictory ideas simultaneously.

 

Parking Tigers, Hidden Dragons

(This post is continued from the previous post.)

Those skilled in the ancient art of Parking Tigers, know that discression is of great importance. A master always vomits alone, for they consider it a sacred ritual, and can hold their own hair back. That’s how skilled they are.

I had mastered the art of spewing in highschool, and was going for my knighthood in College. Chunder royalty indeed! I puked so often, I thought it would be fun to keep a tally. But after passing 20, before the first term was up, I stopped bothering.

After a decade of experience, I can now speak with authority on the topic. I’m an expert! Or a ‘spewspert’, if you will. For example… I’ll never be caught off-guard by an unexpected uprising. And the key is - to pay attention to the early warning signs: The growing twangs of nausea, the intense emotional denial where you think it’s not happening… then your breathing becomes more laboured, and eventually your saliva glands start to water.

Most people stay in denial right up until the moment they find themselves covered in barf, in the back seat of a taxi. Not me! You may deny your impending vomit all you want, but the minute those saliva glands start going off, it’s game over.

Most evenings after drinking, I return home and throw my fingers down my throat, just to save time… and spare myself the hours of nauseating corn hurling the following morning.

I’ve actually spewed from alcohol poisoning at every job I’ve ever had. From dish-pig, to television producer. The worst was when I was slicing ham in an industrial kitchen slicer. I’d have to excused myself to go to the bathroom and vomit, then return to the mesh glove and the ham. Mmmm. I remember when manning phones at an inbound call center, I’d have to hang up on callers so I could log out, and run to the ladies in time.

No friend or relative’s toilet has gone undecorated. Not even Ada’s.

Here’s a handy tip: Always drink lots of water between parking tigers. Because it’s much more enjoyable to spew water than to dry-heave.

On a couple of occasions, I spewed blood. This, coupled with the occasional intense liver pains, has ultimately led me to my current state. (Ordering mocktails and lapping milk from saucers if anyone calls me a pussy).

Currently, my alcohol tolerance is a joke. I can spew after two glasses of wine, or one…on an empty stomach. Last night I went for a cocktail with a friend, and felt nauseated all night.

I used to wish I’d been to rehab, so that I would have a legitimate excuse for being so straight edge. But luckily, with age comes confidence!!! Gaining a greater sense of knowing (and liking) who you are, means you can handle ‘not handling your alcohol’ with grace and charm.

Don’t get me wrong, I fucking love ME when I’m drunk. Who doesn’t. We are all fucking fabulous. But does anybody else think there’s something really wrong with that? Why does the brain waits until it’s had alcohol to feel this good?



Well in America (generally speaking) they don’t binge. If they do, it’s usually on a special occasion. Not just another Friday night. It’s a far cry from the Aussie blotto mentality. And I think I’ve figured out why. In Australia / Brittan, we drink to loose our inhibitions. In America… they don’t have any inhibitions! They already have all the confidence in the world, and are happy to make their intentions clear. Take it from me. Straight guys here approach women sober on the street.

And I say “Cheers to that!” After a decade of the complete opposite, I’m excited to be around people who don’t even notice I’m drinking coke instead of beer.

It does seem a shame to put my skills to waste though. A career’s councilor once said, look at what you’re good at. (Eating!!) and where you’re skills lie (spewing!!!) and that should give you the best indication of your future’s path. It’s good to know if my career in the arts turns to shit, then there’s always Bulemia.

On Drinking

Going out in Australia? Well, my friends, there are two rules.
1. You must consume alcohol
2. You must obey rule 1.

Being a non-drinker in Australia is kind of like being a disappointment to the entire nation. Or the loud person in the library. Everyone stops and GLARES at you, until you conform.

My life’s soundtrack, when I’m not conforming, sounds like: “That better be straight vodka, Ally!”
“Come on! Have a glass!”
“What! Not drinking? You soft cock!”

Due to my ‘asperge’ nature, I never knew to use the art of ‘deflecting with humor’.

When I refuse a glass of wine at a family event, my Cousin will look at me as if I’m a leper. I can hear his inner voice permeating the walls of his eardrums... “What’s wrong with you! While you are a guest at my house you will get pissed with everyone else!! You will participate in sports!; talk about how drunk you’ve been on previous occasions; and sing the best god damn music this world has to offer! (Hunters & Collectors or anything by Rob Thomas.) After all, that is what LIFE IS ALL ABOUT… Getting Drunk!!”


I’ve never really felt like we could find common ground here. (And I would rather eat a steaming cup of poo before enduring another minute of Throw Your Arms Around Me.)

Never the less. I manage to press on. Not drinking, but making up for it with my uncanny ability to eat. To me, eating is what life is all about. Imagine if I offered my Cousin a piece of sushi, and he said ‘No thanks,’ very politely, and then I said “What the fuck?! What’s the matter with you! Have some fucking sushi you soft-cock! Do you even know what you’re missing out on? Everyone else is doing it - and you’ll feel this amazing contentment in your gut afterwards. And we can talk about films and swap recipes.” Whatever.

Then he would know what it feels like. But then I would be sinking to his level. The truth is I would enjoy drinking if my body would let me. But it doesn’t. I’m not genetically programmed for it, and I’ve been ignoring it for too long, trying to please others and fit in.

“But wait a second!” you say. “Didn’t I see you at Fridays every week for three years during college, pissed off your nut, trying to force your way on stage to play tambourine with the band?”

“I heard you stole a table, peed in a gutter, ran naked around an oval, spooned two guys overnight on a cricket pitch and hitched a ride with a security guard before toilet papering a car.”

Yes. All me. I was a big drinker in college, and the only logical explanation was that I was suffering from Stockholm Syndrome. In order to survive, constant boozing was my only option.

I once MADE a lovely friend, lie on my bed and take ‘Goon lay-backs’; where I held a bag of cheap cask wine over her open mouth and free poured for 30 seconds… or in her case, until she spewed.

I feel terribly bad when I look back on this incident, because I clearly remember that she did not want to drink at all. But, like an abducted child soldier in Uganda, I felt I had to pass on the cycle of abuse.

Skills acquired by most Aussies prior to turning 18 include: opening beer bottles using the soft underbelly of your forearm; creating a shelter and pillow from a box of cask wine; and sculling (chugging) like a mo fo! FYI - I can scull a pot of beer faster than most grown men. Having a boat race? You want me on your team! But just don’t go to the toilet’s afterwards, because there you’ll find me, yakking up my guts. Or, as my brother fondly calls it – “Parking a Tiger.”

TBC......