Quick Trip

Flying back to Brisbane for a wedding, via LA... Yay! I wonder what adventures will come of this.

I hope to keep writing while I'm away.

Looking forward to catching up with Brisvegas peops! Cocktails anyone??

This Bar's What Dreams Are Made Of

Marie's Crisis Cafe (not a cafe at all)


“It is impossible to feel sad in this bar,” my NY friend told me, and she didn’t use these words lightly.

Through the door, and down the stairs, a tiny sunken room awaits you. Lit only by fairly lights, draped across the ceiling, and packed with gay men and broadway actors, it is a place where I imagine Kylie Minogue would like to hang.


In the middle of the room, is a piano with a bar around the edge. The pianist plays non-stop show tunes like: "I am sixteen, going on seventeen..." giving solos away to visiting celebrities or regular patrons.

When they started singing songs from the musical Annie, I almost cried! (I was so happy!!)

I didn’t know such a place existed. The closest I’ve ever experienced was on a mini-bus to Sydney, for a school choir camp. (I was very cool in school.)

Oh - for just one bar like this in Australia! Screw sports-bars. Why not celebrate musicals like we do our football?!

"Come on!!! Rain drops on roses and whisker's on kittens!!!"

The Homeless Man Outside My Office

There is a homeless man that sits outside my writer’s office, late at night.

I make it a habit to look him in the eye. All because I was watching Oprah one day, and a lady who had been homeless said - "The worst thing about living on the streets is, people don’t look you in the eye. It’s like they don’t want to acknowledge you exist.”

And so, in a bid to acknowledge these people exist… I constantly find myself looking into the eyes of the sad and crazy.

I hope my eyes say: “Hey dude, I see YOU. You exist.”

But they probably say: “I feel guilty about not giving you money, and now I’m off to buy stuff, for myself.”

Lately, this particular homeless man has started to recognize me, and now grins at me saying “How about tonight, Sweetheart!?” as he holds out his cup.

Fuck! I feel so obligated to give him something. It’s like we’re neighbors, and he’s asking me for a cup of sugar… every single night. But if I give him a dollar tonight… am I going to give him a dollar tomorrow night?

This question will hang over both our heads, every night, for the rest of the year.

***

Fuck it. After writing the above, I gave him a dollar. I planned on giving him a twenty, in hope to buy his silence for the next month or so, but I fumbled and ended up producing a mere dollar, which I stuffed guiltily into his cup.

He was grateful, but the capitalist-jew inside me felt like he didn’t really deserve it. Should I have bought him a mouth organ?... or some water pastels to help him break out of this begging cycle? There’s a fine line between being generous, and being a sucker.

I will give money to anyone who so much as bangs a pen on the side-walk, to a beat. As long as they’re doing something. (Condescending much?) Once, with my good friend Glenn Iris, I bought a drawing from a homeless man who was off his chops on smack. We decided $15 was an apt price for such an effort to be entrepreneurial, at 1am in the morning, and it would make the perfect gift for our beloved mate, T-bird!

Post purchase, and on closer inspection, we realized the drawing was a photocopy, that we could barely touch for fear of homeless germs.

Bless T-bird, who put it up on the fridge in a gesture of gratitude… or simply to remind us of what suckers we were.

I guess nothing has changed.

This homeless man will continue to exist. And I will continue to feel guilty, until I cave, and buy him a saxophone, or a new car.

I Want What They're Having

In the US Office, Jim and Pam have finally tied the knot, and I'm happier for them, than I have been for all the people I know, that have gotten married in real life. (What?!)

Together they are JAM.

Never have I seen such mutual respect between a couple portrayed on television.

Next time I order a man, I'll take him with a side of JAM, thanks.

Good Morning Ada

This morning, I awoke to the sounds of Ada’s cane moving swiftly across the floor. It is rare that she can walk on her own, and when she does, she is in another world. It’s like spirits are leading her around. “Wondering,” they call it. I closed my eyes, and listened to her wonder. I must have dozed off, because the next time I opened my eyes, she was sitting on the edge of the couch with me. She stared at me stoic faced, then said in her harsh Polish accent “I want to die.”

Brazilian Wax – to the left, to the left!

At the height of brazilin waxing popularity, in 2006, I had the glorious idea of getting creative at a particular session.

I wanted a shape, like a heart or a lightning bolt - just like in SATC, instead of the rectangular landing strip. I’d been waxing my bikini line for years, but only just started trying Brazillians. It was addictive! Especially in Brisbane’s summer, where you often find your self in a pair of bathers.

I asked my waxer, if she did any shapes.

“What kind of shapes?” she asked in a suspicious tone.

“Perhaps a lightning bolt?” I said, nonchalantly.

“Well, we don’t have any stencils, and I’ve never done shapes before, BUT - I can give it a try!”

Note: The words “I can give it a try” when using hot wax on your genetailia, should always, always, always raise a red flag.

So - off to work she went! Spreading wax strategically, at different angles, before tearing it off. She was taking her time, even surveying it from a distance, like an artist would, and I grew confident that she was doing a good job. In fact, I couldn’t wait to see it! My boyfriend, Ralph was going to love it - and be totally surprised!!

“There we go!” she finally said. “I’ve done my best here, considering.” She stood back, looking proud of herself.

I thanked her for putting in so much effort, and then I looked down.

A lightening bolt – it was not. But it was definitely in the shape of a curved arrow, going down and off to the left.

Like a road sign, directing penises away from the target.


Ralph’s brain is already confused enough, when the blood drains to his privates. He certainly didn’t need any more mixed signals from me.

I wanted her to fix it. To take it all off. Going bald eagle would be my only choice.

But she just stood there smiling happily in her art work, and all I could say was:

“Oh, that’s great! I love it! Totally love it!”

Fuck! I do this in hair salons too. I wasn’t about to shave, and have stubble in the shape of an arrow growing from me, so that night before getting naked, I warned Ralph:

“Babe - today I went in to get a lightening bolt fashioned in my pubic region, as a lovely surprise, and something a bit different… but the girl mustn’t have been very good at art in school, and, well – this happened…”

He took one look at the arrow, and was rolling around on the floor in fits of laughter.

Which was actually the best thing ever. A bit of humour is essential in the bedroom, and it was a welcome change!

Also, Beyonce wrote a song about it:
“To the left, to the left… everything you own, in a box to the left.” Ha ha ha.

Ada's Days

Days come and go so fast. But I often wonder how fast they go for Ada. She gave up her will to live long ago, and now, for reasons no one can explain, she is being held alive against her will.

She sits in her chair, like she’s on an airline, waiting for her next meal… and some kind of airline disaster that will result in her imminent death.

“It’s your birthday in a week, Ada,” I’ll say, trying to cheer her up.
She will shrug her shoulders and say, in her thick Polish accent “I don’t know if I’ll be alive.”

“Well, God must have plans for you here,” I’ll remind her.
“My life is over,” she will repeat and sigh. “There’s no use, anymore. I used to have everything, now I have nothing. And soon I will be dead.”

There is no convincing her, when she’s in one of these moods. Get Pollyanna with her, and she’s likely to smack you on the back of the head.

The only thing I can do, is something very distracting - like putting my hair in a pony tail. “A shvantz!” she calls it. Suddenly her mood will turn to anger and she’ll yell “WHY DO YOU HAVE YOUR HAIR IN A SHVANTZ! IT LOOKS STUPID!”

Never fails to amuse me, and I’d rather see her feisty than depressed.**

I have a feeling the baby boomers are going to save us all from getting dementia. There's no way they will want to go out like this. I hope they find a cure!


** I’ve since learned that talking about suicide is very common in people with dementia. And I’ve also learned that it’s important not to aggravate them. So no more pony tails for me.