Yumazing

Finally, after months of being bombarded by one of the most effective marketing campaigns I’ve ever seen, I bought one.





I don’t even need to mention what it is. Unless you are blind, and getting someone to read this for you.






I bought it purely to reward the marketing geniuses of this ad. Just like when Aussies considered drinking Carlton Draught after the big beer ad.

J-Rad does NY

I stood at the airport arrivals holding up a makeshift sign with my little brother, J-Rad’s name on it. It read “Loser.” And for once, I spelt it right! He was only slightly amused by this. My humor is like a bad dad-joke compared to his crazy-f*edup mind.

J-Rad and I never say “I love you.” We don’t have to. It runs deeply and loyally through our veins.


This means no matter how irritated we get with each other, we are bonded together by something much stronger than our love / hate of one another, and that’s our love / hate for our parents and extended family. (But more on that some other time.)

J-Rad and I have spent the past 11 days: eating and touring New York on an epic scale. If blisters on feet, dark circles under eyes, and protruding gunts don’t convince you, here are some photos:







A typical conversation during our trip went as follows:

J-Rad: "Stop fucking apologizing to people, when they are the ones running into you."
Ally: "Stop being such a cunt."
(silence)
J-Rad: "Man, how weird were our parents when we were young."
Ally: "At least they didn’t beat us."
J-Rad: "I could go some food. Buffalo wings?"
Ally: "Yeah, and some mozzarella sticks."
(We also have food in common.)



Travelling around with a sibling of the opposite sex can be a problem. Everyone assumes you are a couple. At bars, we planned to be each other’s ‘wing-men’, but ended up cock / box blocking each other instead. People would say incredibly inappropriate things, like: “You two on your honeymoon?”

This would cause us to pause, and choke on the vomits in our mouths.



One guy on the street said “you never know, she [pointing to me] might get pregnant, you’ll have a family to look after” as he thrust a designer furniture catalogue in J-Rad’s hand. We kept walking past him…
J-Rad: "WTF! Why would he say that to anyone?"
Ally: "You should have yelled 'she’s my sister you sick-fuck!' ”
J-Rad: "Yeah…. 'We use protection!' "
Ally/J-rad: "Ewwe! Fucking wrong."
J-Rad: "I’m hungry. Turkey burger?"
Ally: "Yep."



The thing you have to love about J-Rad, is he loves to cross the line of human decency. Especially around family. What comes out of his mouth could send him to jail / hell / a mental institute, yet to friends and family it is highly amusing. This is precisely why we went and saw Bruno together, and laughed so hard, we nearly puked up our milkshakes, when recalling it on the subway home.

He also knows I’m a feminist, and prays on it every chance he gets. “I’d smash her,” he’ll say, pointing to every girl we pass. I point out guys I’d smash, but it just never sounds as wrong.

Speaking of wrong, on J-Rad’s first night, he ditched my comedy plans for a hostel piss-up, where along with a random Sweed and a Belgian backpacker, committed to a house party the next night. I went because I was dead certain the address didn’t exist and I wanted to prove my NY street-smarts. Astonishingly, we found the party.

It was a small flat, with disco lights, and a host in the middle of the room playing DJ on his macbook. Passing the kitchen, we saw a girl throwing up in the sink. Then two people passed out in the living room.

This seemed to amuse J-Rad no end. He came back from the flat tour exclaiming – “There are four people passed out in the bedroom.” As he said this, the girl who had been spewing in kitchen, crawled underneath a large table at the entrance, and passed out on a pile of shoes.



As it was only 10pm, I came to the conclusion that
1. These guys have had their drinks spiked with date-rape drugs, or;
2. Even worse, they were all teenagers, unable to gauge their body tolerance to alcohol.

The later was confirmed when a cute young guy started chatting to me. After a while, I asking what he was doing in NY.

“Oh, I’m still in high-school,” he said, then “Why? How old are you?”

I looked at his baby little face and thought about how gross it would be, to be honest at a time like this. The thought of being at a party with people over a decade younger than me, made me feel alarmingly aware that I needed to leave.

However, my weakness for watching uncomfortable situations, plus my inability lie to someone’s face, took over.

“I’m 28.” I said.
“Oh.” He said. Silence.

I quickly swapped my [root] beer for a Budweiser, and proceeded to join in a game of Kings. We left shortly after, mainly because everyone else had also passed out.

I ended up getting J-Rad back, by taking him shopping in the gay district, where he got hit on by an endless stream of male store assistants. For some reason, they must have known I was his sister. Yay!

Hotness Hypnosis

Defined by Urban Dictionary as: The act of finding someone so physically attractive that you overlook serious flaws in their personality.

We’ve all been there.

I’m currently taking a sketch writing class, taught by possibly the hottest guy I’ve seen… in NY… so far. He’s so hot, I can’t see any flaws in his personality. (That’s when you know you’ve got it crazy bad. That, and also when you cannot conceive that he might have knowledge you are capable of farting. That's when you know you have a crush that is harmful to your self esteem.)

Every time he makes eye contact with me, I go into a trance. He’s moving his mouth like he’s talking, perhaps imparting valuable knowledge, and all I hear is “Ally, I could push you up against a wall, and kiss you.”

I don’t think I’ve heard a word he’s said all class. I am petrified of showing him my work. I’m scared to even write, knowing he’ll read it. I’ll spend a week on a pathetic sketch (yes pathetic, but we’re learning), only for him to tear it apart (and rightly so). Only I can’t hear what he’s saying because I'm too busy looking at his jawline. I am definitely not getting my money’s worth here. I need to transfer to another class, but like a moth to bug zapper, I keep doing my hair nice, and going back for more.

So I guess the biggest lesson he has taught me is… when your teacher is hot, listen to your brains, not your box. Transfer to a class with a teacher that you don't imagine taking barefoot strolls on a beach with. One that doesn’t emit pheromones that are so intoxicating, you get tipsy just being in the same room as him. One that you don’t wonder – “what might his left shoulder taste like?”.

Then you will be ready to learn. And if you are looking for eye candy… then there’s always Saki Rauva.
Voted the most beautiful man in the world.

I Eat Pandas

Forget anything you thought you knew about being rad/awesome/mind-blowingly entertaining. These girls rock my world. And they are going to be HUGELY famous any minute now. They are already NY comedy scene famous, but are about to take the world by storm, so here is my early tip off.


They make up comedy musicals on the spot, for a full hour. They do what writers take years to do, by going with their instincts... and their instincts just happen to be highly intelligent and cutting-edge funny.

Last weeks show, ended with one of them (playing a man) finally working up the courage to talk dirty to the strange woman who had captivated him at his bar. The scene ended with him having sex with her from behind, while she sang about it. (Sounds crazy, but it brought the house down. Tears of laughter!)

They will play a pair of bananas, birds or swamp munchkins. They will kill each other, court each other, dare each other, scare each other and create sad/fun/true, yet fulfilling relationships together, that not only make you care about the stories they create, but remember them long after. Oh and they also sing and rap like pros. They are a talent milkshake.

Check out their websites if you want to up your radness:

I Eat Pandas

Eliza Skinner
Glennis McMurray

I find their shows more entertaining than Tony winning broadway shows. WTF people!? I fucking love broadway musicals. That’s how much I love these guys. Cannot talk-them-up enough.

Girl Talk – (warning it’s about periods!)

I hadn't been prepped or armed with information regarding normal ‘girlie’ things that women do to look after themselves. Like: Shaving your legs, wearing a bra, getting a bikini wax or what to do when you get your period. This was probably due to my parents splitting just as I was about to hit puberty. (This was actually a blessing in disguise.)

So in grade eight, when other girls started talking about shaving their legs, and I didn’t, I felt like total loser.

Then there was the time I had to beg my Mum to take me bra shopping.
"What!" She said, "But you don’t need one yet!”
“I’m nearly 14!!” I screamed, and my little half tits were beginning to hurt when I ran!

It was in a public toilet cubical, at the Gold Coast Oasis shopping mall, that I got my first period.  I was with Mum those holidays. Mum is a feminist in the true sense of the word. She was sympathetic and disappointed, that I too, must now contend with this monthly disaster, that men were free from. (Oddly enough, she is able to talk candidly about sex and penises with me, but when it comes to matter’s of the vagina, her lips curl and she can’t say it without looking totally uncomfortable, and a little repulsed.)

Mum, also being a 'conservative-hippy' mother, had never used a tampon. So, to avoid an incredibly uncomfortable conversation about vagina mechanics, I took it upon myself to immediately rebel. I told my mum to wait there. I bought a box of the most commercial / coporate looking tamons (Libra Flur). Then I barricaded myself in the toilet. I read the instructions inside the box, and taught my self.

It really is such a loss of innocence when you have to stick something up your vaj-ay-jay for the first time. I felt oddly dirty, like I shouldn’t be doing this. But with stats like - one in three people being molested as a child, I count my self lucky, that I got in first.

Fast forward to the second half of my holidays, and I’m staying with Dad. Thank god for my Step-Mum, who If I didn’t know better... FREAKING LOVES getting her period. She doesn’t view it like a pain or a inconvenience that stops you once a month. She views it as a natural and cool part of being a woman! She leaves boxes of tampons on top of our toilet and around the house. So when I told her the news, she hugged me and yelled a big ‘CONGRATULATIONS!!!’ Then my three brother’s and Dad came running down stairs to see what was going on. Uggg! The joys of being the only girl.

OK NY - I Get It!

It’s only taken 3 months, but I finally get it. New Yorkers walk like they are cars, and tourists are like the annoying cyclists that are going too slow, but you can’t over take them because there’s people either side.

In a car, if you lived in Melbourne, you would honk. (Queenslanders are too passive aggressive to use their horns.) But no one carries a horn with them in New York, so instead they yell curse words. And while adding an emergency ‘pull-over’ lane on the sidewalk, strapping a rear-view mirror to your head, and indicator lights to your bum would solve everyone’s problems, right now getting mad is the only solution.

Stop suddenly, and you’re likely to cause an eight person pile up, and a possible law suit. Swing your arms joyously, and you’re likely to hit someone in the nuts (see week in review), and slow down to pull out your camera or glance at a map, and you’re inviting New Yorkers to stab you violently before trampling you into pavement sludge.

Note to self: Screw the Egyptians, walk like a car.

Style - ish

When I was a kid – I had as much style as a Vicky Pollard and Ugly Betty combined. I couldn’t have cared less what I wore. And I have to give my parents full credit for this. Mum, wearing her big sunglasses from the 70’s, all through the 90’s, with her collection of home-made dresses and a few items she picked up from K-mart in ‘85. And Dad, sporting bus driver shorts, socks up to the knees with sandals, when he wasn’t in his flairs. I didn’t know fashion existed!

Between Mum’s bad perm, and Dad’s full beard, we looked like we were a family raised in some religious cult away from society. People must have seen our family, and thought we were retarded. And I had no idea about any of this, until one day in Grade 6, when a friend made fun of my mum’s huge wide brimmed golf hat. (Mum wore it with her giant glasses, a dress her mother had made for her in the 60’s, and sandals with navy socks.) She was clearly not a golfer.

As soon my friend uttered the words “OMG – what is your mother wearing?!” -- I knew.

I knew it. I didn’t want to know. But I knew it. My parents were freaks. It was a rude awakening, like learning Santa wasn’t real. I had been in some serious denial. And I was furious! Furious at my friend and furious at my Mum! Why didn’t she realise she looked like she had raided the dress-ups box at pre-school instead of a grown lady’s wardrobe! Why hadn’t I?



But before I could judge her, I had to take a look at myself. My wardrobe consisted of second hand garments, gaudy gifts from relatives and K-mart clothes that Mum had attacked with her sewing machine and box of glitter-puff paints. She would buy plain tracky tops, and in a burst of creativity, attach a floral ‘clown’ collar, or patterned strips around one of the biceps, and a piece of ribbon or lace. It was a unique look that belonged purely to the ‘craft corner’ on Playschool -- not the fashion industry.

I remember she once lovingly sewed me a dark blue outfit, with a round white collar, a gold and white button and two little ribbons hanging from the button. It looked exactly like a try-hard sailor’s costume, and she loved it so much, I felt bad not to wear it.

But, thanks to the cruelty and honesty of Grade 6 kids, I was in on the Fashion-Matrix. I would never look at the world the same again. Suddenly I could judge people on their ability to match fabrics and color or handbags with shoes.

Leaving the house had also forever changed. “Mum – please don’t go out in that! … No, I don’t want to … BECAUSE! I’m not a sailor!” “Dad – you don’t need socks with those Jesus sandals. … well at least loose the bow tie!” “No Mum! It doesn’t need any lace!”



Thus I began my slow and bumpy journey into trendy-town. I bought a copy of “Girlfriend” magazine (which was banned in our house). I refused to wear second hand bathing suits. I told my little brother not to put on anything that had passed through mum’s sewing room. This severely limited his choices.

Over the years, and against all odds, I have somehow transformed into quite the fashion victim, once shamefully paying $300 for a pair of designer jeans. (Never again.) But I don’t look back. I like to shop. So what if it’s driven by an underlying fear and determination to stay edgey, or risk slipping into the abyss that was my embarrassing childhood. At least I can hide the photos.

But what of my family? How do they continue to survive into the 21st Century? Well believe it or not, my brother and I are now style icons of our peer groups. Dad has rekindled a sense of pride in his appearance, that he once had, when he was voted ‘best dressed’ at high-school, class of 69. -- True story! (Many thanks to my Step-Mum, who graciously threw out all his clothes, and replaced his entire wardrobe on their third date.)

And as for Mum? Well some things never change. Funnily enough some of her puff paint designs might actually be quite cool now, in a stoner-indi-hipster kind of way. And pants that are too long for capris and too short for long pants are finally back in style again. So this year when she whips on her original glasses from '75, she will actually look cooler than anyone I know. Because she has no idea she even looks cool. And isn’t that the definition of cool???