Happy New Year

Once again, I put the grrr in Grinch for Christmas. I hate any occasion where I am forced to be Merry or Happy. I like being in a faux bad mood. Bah humbug. To prove how much I hate Xmas day and New Year's Eve, I stayed SOBER. So I could make a quick get away at the first opportunity.

Last night as I was counting down till midnight with friends in Rosebud, not to see in the New Year, but till I could go to bed and get away from the goobery sloppy kisses, I told everyone that I was going to lock myself in the toilet just before midnight. They were horrified, 'you can't do that' they moaned. At 11.57 pm I snuck off to the loo, but I got caught and they shouted that I had to come out, so I came out, kissed everyone, got my keys and went home with old buddies Corny and Lorraine to their house for the night. I think we ran to our beds and snuggled down, well Corny couldn't run, Mr Clumsy with his two hip replacements got tangled in his plastic chair and fell and hit his head on the steel poles (he warned everyone else to look out for them)and twisted his back as he was hurrying to turn up the radio when AC/DC came onto whatever old bastard golden oldies station we were listening too.

This morning we received a call from the party which was still rockin' with a fresh bottle of top shelf something or rather, asking us to return. Feeling bright eyed, I smugly sat in the sunshine and enjoyed New Years morning with my friends. And just to be even more annoying, I stacked chairs, binned rubbish, wiped tables, (spilled red wine is an excellent glass cleaner) and even did all the dishes in the laundry trough. Someone remarked that I must be a cleanliness freak. Yeah right, ask my mum about that. She says I am a disgusting filthy pig. Just because she gets out in the street,in a t-shirt with baggy or no knickers and bum up in the air, scrubs the gutter with a toothbrush because her drains are blocked. And my mum can hear snails eating her plants under her bedroom window at night and goes out on a snail killing mission. But this post isn't about her.

A Polish lady I used to work with was always very particular about what she did on New Year's day, she said it set the scene for the whole year. So maybe this is the new me! Sober and clean. Oink oink.

Instructions for the work Christmas party

Get pissed in the first half an hour
Talk shit
Insult your workmates
Tell your boss to ‘eff off
Flirt with your bosses partner
Laugh crazily at your own jokes as you elbow nearby guests
Scream ‘this is my favorite song’ as you drag unwilling victims onto the dance floor
Do the Chicken Dance or the Hokey Pokey
Lead the Conga line, with or without music through the toilets
Flash boobs or other body parts
Engage in vicious gossip in the loo’s and then get caught gossiping
Heckle the bosses during the speeches and call the award winners 'brown nose'
Eat other peoples' dessert when they are on the dance floor
Stuff all the after dinner mints in your bag, with the table centerpiece
Hide booze as they clear the tables
Be the last to leave - preferably assisted by security
Fall over on the way out - and take security down with you
Complain no-one wants to party and that you work with a bunch of wowsers
Go home on the beer scooter
Drive the porcelain bus
Pass out fully clothed
Snore like a rusty chainsaw

Ring your buddies the next day to find out what you did


Oh no! Not Christmas again.

The Darwin Cup

I know I say this all the time... but I really can't remember the stories I have told in the past. So, even if I have to repeat myself, I will, even if it means someone will catch me out in a McExaggeration/McBullshit.

My brother David is a cunning and successful business man.

A few years ago, he took up a partnership with another successful business family in a racehorse. In David's words he says 'Horse racing is the sport of kings, the feeling is amazing if your horse wins, but if it doesn't, you may as well stand at the end of a pier and throw your money into the sea.'

One year David's horse was racing at the Darwin Cup. On his way into the members' area, he had a spare pass. He saw a man in a suit getting his dosh out to go into the general area and David offered him a members pass. The punter was grateful and offered David payment. David, with his male supermodel good looks and dressed in his power suit said to the man, 'My horse (can't remember the name) is running in the cup. I want you to put those $$$ onto my horse for a win. When it wins and I am up on the podium for the owners speech, I would like to look down and see you waving a hand full of money'. The man kinda looked at David like he was a wanker, but of course, with the luck of the McIrish, David's horse won.

David gave his owner's speech in front of forty something thousand people and he looked down into the front row of the crowd before him to see his punter friend, waving a fist full of $50 and they gave each other a thumbs up.

Damaged 2002 AUIII Ford Falcon Forte Sedan

I love doing elaborate ebay listings - this is a current one.



When my daughter turned 18 her step-father gave her our family car, but being a spoilt brat, she never liked it, complained it was old and yucky and smelt of stale cigarette smoke. Ungrateful cow.

After working for a year, she got a loan to buy the car of her dreams, a little black Toyota Yaris and the car yard offered us $2,000 trade in on the family Falcon. We were happy enough with that, as we were too lazy to sell it privately.

The night before we are due to drop off the trade-in and take delivery of the Yaris, somehow she manages to pull out in front of a speeding truck which then wipes off the front of the car. Other than being shaken she was physically fine and we managed the teenage drama queen hysteria. After juggling finances, she was still able to pick up her new car the next day. Insurance wise, being an underage driver, the excess was almost as much as the trade in value so we chose not to go through insurance and are now stuck with the wreck.

Other than the high mileage and a whining diff that sounds like a dodgy wheel bearing (we just turn up the radio) it has been a solid, reliable car.
We got quotes for the diff, $1400 for new, $800 for changeover but didn't bother getting it fixed as it really wasn't a huge problem. It would need a new windscreen to pass a roadworthy and the tires are about five years old. It is also overdue for service, teenagers don't understand car maintenance versus buying new clothes and pretty things. And judging by the pictures the little piglet hasn't cleaned the inside for awhile.

We have cashed in the rego and it is drivable, but would probably be safer on a tandem trailer. As it didn't go through insurance, it isn't on the Repairable write off register so you can get it on the road without going through the 8 week wait to get the expensive government rip-off VIN inspection and the airbags tested.

All front panels would need to be replaced and to my un-expert female eye, the chassy thingy looks like it could be out of whack.

Please don't bid if you are overseas, a tyre kicker, or if you have had a few beers/bourbons and think it would be a good project, but then your wife finds out and wont let you have it. We have had enough car excitement for the moment and would love a simple, hassle free sale with genuine, happy bids.

PS If you are my panel beater brother in Mackay reading this, no you cant have it, I think you're still in trouble for buying the hot rod!

Another draft I found

1995 The year before I met Mark, Claire and I lived in a little green terrace dolls house. She may have been three, but she was a miniature dominatrix commanding the adults around her. One day we walked into her creche and Darryl one of the carers was wheeling the dress up rack. Claire said "Are we having dress ups today?" Daryl answered yes and Claire said in an accusing tone "is that on the plan?" in case he dare deviate from the program written in black and white.

One of her habits was to make her way down the long hall, with her blanky and Angel her strange soft doll, with a round flat vinyl face, in the middle of the night and crawl in my bed. Wanting her to learn to sleep in her own bed, I would carry her up the narrow Victorian hall carefully avoiding the antique lead light crystal cabinet as she wiggled, screamed and kicked my shins black and blue.

I can't remember where I was going with this story...

Note:
Let your kids sleep in your bed with you, because before you know it, they are 19 and hate you!

Super sleuths

Sometimes my husband has a play date with one of his single mates from work when they are both off during the week. Nick comes over and they do bloke stuff - Drink beer and eat pizza for brunch, research all kinds of important matters on the internet, like porn, air crash investigations, celebrity mugshots and other secret mens business.

Occasionally they solve mysteries. One day they came home after a boys weekend and Mark noticed I had a new vase/candle holder on the table.

This is how I imagine it went - immediately he went into psycho Italian husband mode "What crap is she fucken wasting money on now?'. Nick being ever helpful says 'Oh, look here is the catalogue'. Bastard. Flicking through it they find the item and Mark splutters 'ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY FIVE DOLLARS, WHAT THE FUCK'. Nick skeedadles before I get home, he hates confrontation and sometimes thinks I am a bit scary.

So eventually I arrive home from whatever adventure I was on, (probably already in trouble for not being at home with a tasty meal on the dining table in a sparkling clean house).
Mark is waiting. 'Hmmm, well, what do you have to say about this?' I explain in simple, single syllable words that can get through to a ranting husband 'I got it for free at my candle party' (The last of ANY Tuppeware/Nutrimetics/Clothing/Cookware/other crap I don't need party, I will ever have) and when I accuse him of being a snoop, he blames Nick!

This week Mad (Dad) turns 70. I told Mark I wanted to buy Mad some vintage Footscray football cards - in his Bodgie days in the 50s, Mad was friends with the players and went to John Jillard's wedding. I managed to get a mint 1954 Teddy Whitten Argus football card and it arrived in the mail on Wednesday and I left it on my desk.

Last night (Thursday) I get home and Mark very excitedly informs me 'Hey, did you know that footy card on your desk is worth something?' (Um, Der Fred) 'Yeah, me and Nick looked it up on the net, it's worth over sixty bucks! It's a good thing you kept in the plastic all these years'

I reminded him of our conversation and eventually he remembered. Obviously when I told him about the birthday plans all he heard was 'blah, blah, blah, family, blah, blah, in-laws, blah, blah'.

He thought it was mine - On Wednesday night at midnight, I wanted to post a picture of Mad's 50th birthday budgie cake on Facebook and I had one of my I-must-find-it-this-very-minute-panics and was searching through photo boxes. Mark thought it was a treasure I had found in my trash.

Guided tour of the crematorium

One of my train buddies works at the local cemetery as a grave digger. Last year, I dropped off some posters for the skinsnsharps exhibition to him at lunch time and he asked me to meet him behind the crematorium. I like meeting almost-strangers in secluded places.

He arrived in his tractor at the same time I pulled up in the car and after making my delivery he asked if I would like to have a look through the crematorium. Oh boy! Did I? Wow.

It is a big square concrete room with a bank of four incinerators in the middle. The back area is where the coffins wait till they are pushed into the furnace. From the other side you are able to view the orange glow of the flames through a tennis ball sized window. After the entire coffin (including handles and plaque) and body has been consumed, the remains are raked towards the front of the furnace, where they fall into a smaller chamber to be incinerated further.

The remains then fall into a metal container and the container is placed into a unit on the wall. Using vibration and metal balls the size of a small orange, the remains are ground into a plastic container, ready to be returned to the family. After viewing the process I am quite comfortable with the thought of being cremated.

A further story to add to the day - As I was leaving I noticed a funeral director standing around in his suit while he was making a 'delivery'. I looked at his name plate and it was a boy I went to high school with. At an orientation day, I nicknamed him Foghorn, as his voice had broken and he had a deep, deep voice. We had a gasbag and then my train buddy called me into the tea room, as one of the other grave diggers wanted to ask me something about RAGE.

As I was in the tea room chatting to the men, my high school friend shouted from the hearse, "Julie, leave those boys alone, let them have their lunch in peace. You're as bad as you were in high school."

Chocolate Royals

I found this in my drafts, I am not sure if it was ever posted. I have so much stuff on here now that I really can't remember what I have crapped on about.

There is a particular way to eat Chocolate Royals.

You have to crack the chocolate on top, preferably by smashing it against your forehead, then you eat the little cracked pieces one at a time. Next you suck off the marshmallow in one piece, then you nibble around the edges of the biscuit that remains, lastly you pop the remainder in your mouth and finish the biscuit.

This method of eating Chocolate Royals is particularly impressive when meeting people for the first time or at morning/afternoon tea time during business conferences. I taught Claire this necessary life skill when she was very small.

When Mark and I first met, he often turned up with treats of an evening, Tim Tams, blocks of Snack chocolate and other biscuits. One evening he turned up with Chocolate Royals.

He offered four year old Claire and myself a Chocolate Royal, and without a word being spoken, in complete synchronicity, Claire and I executed our Chocolate Royal eating ritual.

As Mark watched us a loud voice in his head said to him "GET OUT". It was too late. He was trapped with us forever. Forever. Forever.

What a grouse day

On the way to Thomastown railway station yesterday my husband grumbled, 'It would have been easier to just drop you off at Fed Square, but Oh, no, you have to be the center of attention and go to Thomastown' before he pushed me out of the car as I tried to remember how to walk in treads.

The Thomastown Sharps were waiting on the platform and after telling me they were going to roll me for my connie, Nick fussed over them like a mother duck and supervised photography, 'Mel, take two, take another one', 'now move to the side', 'Bowie, you get in the middle', etc. It was gorgeous.

In the train Bowie pointed out to a fence and told the story of how years ago he painted BOWIE in (pink?) paint on the fence. For ages the Reservoir Boys thought he lived there and would throw stuff at the house and lay in wait for Bowie to come outside. I can just imagine all the plotting and planning that went into these expeditions. Ha Ha sucked in!

Nick passed around copies of their book to be signed and a commuter approached saying 'Is that the Thomo Sharps book? Yeah, my brother was a Thomo Sharp'. I was really hoping he was going to be caught out bullshitting, as that would have been very entertaining, but Bowie turned around and shook his hand as he recognised him. The locals used to hate them, but things seem to have changed, as people brag 'my cousin's girlfriend, her dad's gardener used to go to school with Bowie'.

Between 30-40 old sharpies and associates turned up at Beer Delux and the stories and beer flowed to the non-music of Sparra (wearing his 60s footy duffle coat and madman's hat) whining like a cry-baby about the price. '$7 a pot, what a bloody rip off for shit beer, taste this' he moaned, (before skulling it and sprinting off try the next flavor on tap, which was $13 a pot!) The beer was nice, cold and bitter. Dunno what he was complaining about and.. I did catch him almost moaning in a secret beer orgasm as he tried the strawberry beer, while still sooking about the price of $9.

Jacko turned up with his new Kindle, bragging now he can bring 600 books with him. He was the only sharpie that always had a novel in his back pocket in the 1970s. He often reads when we are out with Andrea and she gets the shits and smacks the book from his hands

Skin hypnotised everyone with her blue, blue eyes, Woodsie wore a strawberry and cream coloured connie, which I think is a girls' colour and I wiped a tear away as I watched Dog and Colin have a huge man hug as they saw each other for the first time since the 80s.
And I got presents! Have I ever told you how much I love presents? Bretley made me a magnificent custom fob watch with Julie Mac, Seventies Sharpie and blue birds. Dog gave me a stubby holder with the bluebird Col drew for RAGE and Frank gave me a copy of MAD MAD MAD, City Sharps new CD. I love the title track 'Drag Racing' - I hear things in it that make me feel young, I can hear 'Your mumma don't dance and your daddy don't rock and roll', '48 Crash' and other bits that propel me back into my 70s bedroom with my burnt orange portable record player.

Nick fluffed around and was in his element - he reminded me of my little brother, when Paul, used to repeat 'Dad, Dad, can I have tweny thents, Dad' until Mad caved in after 13.25 hours of nagging and Paul would bolt around the milk bar and buy mixed lollies from Mimwillyums (Mrs Willems) our evil milk bar proprieter. 'Can I have two thents of bananas, four thents of ....'. All the kids knew Mimwillyms was evil, she had black hair with a white stripe, just like the Bride of Frankenstein'.
But thanks to Nick's supervison, I had a true Suzi Quatro cover of Can the Can moment, when he called me into the school photo style, Thomo Sharps group photo (Yes, I know I am a fickle bitch).
Mid afternoon I left with Chane Chane and Frank from City Sharps and Chane's wife Gerlinda for a radio interview at RRR. OMG! My inner teenager was hysterically squealing with delight. I got the passenger seat in Chane's silver sports car (one of the benefits of being fat, you get the best seat in a car) and Frank and Gerlinda were in the back, (In my head I pretended they were not there and that Chane and I were on a date and I was still a skinny punk chick). Chane drove like a rockstar and told me music stories, which went way over my head, but I just pretended I knew what he was on about, which is probably what all groupies do anyway. I wonder what I would have said in 1980, when I was in the midst of my teenage La Femme obsession, if I was told that in 31 years, I would be on a radio station with Chane.

I read out two bits of RAGE on air, the part where I get to sing 'get it up, get it in, get it out, don't mess my hair up'. (That's a champagne party favorite with the gays and queens at parties at mum's house) and the bit when Igby and I bolt from the mounted coppers at the Thin Lizzy concert at the Myer Music Bowl.

Chane and Frank talked to the ruggedly handsome Jonnie von Goes about their CD while outside the booth, in true wife-of-a-rockstar style, Gerlinda cat napped on a couch, blanketed in a mink coat, her long blonde hair wildly fanned around her porcelain face.

Back at Fed Square most of the group had drifted away, Pete and Dog came back from seeing Collingwood at the Footy (where the beer was? You guessed it, $7 a pot) and after Crazy spent every dollar, except for his train fare on beer, we caught the train to Footscray, with our best mates. The ticket inspectors!

Sharpie Sunday

I am looking forward to catching up with old and new sharpie friends on Sunday.
I am thinking about starting the day with an adventure - catching the train in to Fed Square with the Thomastown Sharps, I am sure to cop some shit over it, rival gang and all that, but just think of the story!

Nick Tolewski a mixed martial arts fighter from Thomastown recently published "ONCE WERE SHARPS - The Colourful Life And Times Of The Thomastown Sharps"
I met Nick at the skinsnsharps exhibition last year and couldn't wait to add his book to my Sharpie book collection (which my husband and daughter will burn when I die, as part of their 'scorched earth, obliterate mum's personality conspiracy').

I have been to Nick's home recently to work on SECRET SHARPIE STUFF and last time I turned up lugging a vintage suitcase, which I have restored and lined with a vintage leopard skin sarong, and said "Hi Family, I am moving in!" Now, without using the WOG word and getting myself in trouble, even though I am married to one and have a wog surname (obviously not Mac!), I love spending time with non-Skippy families - the hospitality and being plied with food and drink makes my soul happy. Anyway, this post isn't about Nick's wife's peppermint cream cake or her home made pizza or ginger lettuce salad, it's about the book, or the book review.

It was harder than I thought to review Once Were Sharps. Although I knew their leader during his Melbourne Sharp days, the rest of the gang was the enemy. My inner teenager feels like a suck or a crawler, saying good things about a rival gang!

Our Bobby Tatts, a Melbourne Sharp of ‘Kevin Pappas Tear out Postcard’ fame said of Once Were Sharps: “I read it in one sit, extremely fascinating, made me cry, made me laugh. Made me want to catch a train to Thomastown, Box Hill, Frankston, Bentleigh, Jacana, & even Laburnum! (just so I could beat the shit out of somebody) again”.

It is a book about blokes, written by blokes, for blokes. So am I really qualified to review it? Dunno, but I will do my best.

Hard and gritty, it’s a book for top fellas – it made me crave an unfiltered Camel cigarette and a frosty VB while listening to Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap. As well as being about the Thomastown Sharps, it is a story about mates and loyalty, about surviving in a hostile environment of cops and enemies, punch ups, ambushes and chases – all set in Melbourne.

“A universal thread emerges, that is, the gang as de-facto family. In lower socio-economic areas where gangs proliferate and families are frequently torn asunder by the ravages of drugs, crime and domestic violence, a gang often serves as a second home for its members, providing a sense of safety and security that may be lacking in their own lives. In that respect, the Thomastown Sharps were no different, and while they may not have been involved in a level of criminal activity to match some of their overseas brethren, the bonds within the gang were as strong as in any gang you’ll find anywhere. Strong enough to render traditional ethnic differences as completely immaterial. While they may have drifted in and out of each other’s lives in the years that have passed since the Thomastown Sharps’ existence, the passion and reverence with which the core members refer to that time leaves me in no double that when they say that they “were there” for their brothers in the gang, they mean it. It just reinforces the notion that gang ties and blood ties are often all but indistinguishable. It’s also worth noting that whereas gangs like Westside and Melbourne had members from all over Melbourne, the Thomo Sharps were all from the same neighbourhood. It just intensified the bond between them. After all, it’s pretty hard leaving a guy there to cop a beating unassisted when you live in the same street and will have to look him in they eye every day.”

The violence in the story is cleverly delivered and in a Jacky-Chan-movie kind of way, in parts it is hilarious. Nick and Dean have captured the history of the gang neatly, the good and the bad.

While there is great dispute over which gang was the most notorious in Melbourne, Thomastown Sharps were all from the same area which has made them famous to people in the Northern suburbs, where people with six degrees of separation have bragging rights on the net and other comments are posted like “Wow I live in Thomastown now. I’m 17 years old & the stories I hear are absolutely amazing, I can sit there and listen all day. Whenever I’m on the streets of Thomastown with a group of boys I feel real heavy cos I always think of the sharps. Ha-ha I wish I was born back then, these days are all Broady & Reservoir boys taking over. Argh. I wish the old sharpies came back”

Other Melbourne gangs remember them too, with comments like "Thomastown Sharps were infamous for their Chinese burns and nipple cripples yeah?"

Like them or hate them, the Thomastown Sharps did go out with a bang, and at the legendary AC/DC concert at the Myer Music Bowl in 1981 where they were the largest gang left of our sharpie days.

Rest and be thankful

I haven't posted for awhile and I was thinking about gratitude. Being grateful for stuff in your life.

Following is an email I sent to skinsnsharps and careless navigator last year after the skinsnsharps exhibition. It's been edited to turn it from a personal email into a blog post.

Tiki Godfathers
I can't call you fairy godfathers. Although I think you would both look gorgeous, naked in a pink tutu (I bet you are blushing) I see you better in a carved tiki throne, with torches burning by your side. (Think Captain Jack Sparrow when he is king of the headhunters).

I came down to earth during the week like a helium balloon the day after a party. Wrinkled and sad with no bounce. I have had a bit of a rest and am on the way up again.

I wanted to send you some of my thoughts before they are pushed from my mind with dreary tasks like picking up dog poo from the back yard, frowning because my kid only talks to me to ask me for money or something demanding like 'what's for tea' or shouting at Mark to turn down the TV.

Some dreams you helped come true
1. Become published, in a big bang way rather than the whimper I had planned.
2. Having my photos and art in a gallery
3. Rubbing shoulders with the 'arty crowd'. I always had a yearning to do that, but I hung out with Broady truck drivers in the bar at the Meadow-inn hotel or Pascoe Vale pub.
4. Having my own place in the arty crowd and not suffering from 'imposter syndrome'
5. Getting the gang back together in a spectacular fashion. It wasn't just a buzz, it was an electrical current through the gallery and laneway each weekend. EVERYONE felt it. I feel the adrenaline just thinking about it.
6. Being able to dry hump Chane four weekends in a row.
7. The opportunity to do more writing - for Chane Chane, Book Two, film scripts. Wow

Dreams that came true that I didn't have on my list as they were outside of my galaxy
1. Back cover of City Sharps CD (art work and Chane Chane aaahhhhh)
2. Merchandise - the 'We don't play with dolls bags'.
3. OMG I have a publicist. My daughter said WHAT THE FUCK STOP BEING BETTER AT ME AT EVERYTHING! Ha ha.
4. Panel 3 girl in Fred's cartoon. If my friends understood, I know they would be jealous. I think I will aim for PLAYBOY next. Although I did go in this year's 'Blossom Calendar', real women in their black underwear.
5. RRR and The Age - I sat in a book promoting course the other night thinking tick, done that, tick, yep done that too

Sam, I hope the exhibition made your dreams come true. What a selfless way of celebrating your 50th birthday - Making everyone else happy and others successful.

All the feed back has been fantastic. I don't think I have heard one word of complaint or constructive criticism and that's how it should be. My lot are grateful that you cared to preserve our culture and present it for Melbourne to see.

I will continue to pester you with emails. I like emailing you both (good boys versus tits out Sunday). I know you are not 'typing boys' so I don't expect replies. I want you to know I appreciate you on so many different levels.

xxx
PS I am sure I forgot stuff in the lists above

Saturday morning

I had forgotten how much I enjoy my shopping strip on a Saturday morning. When we first moved here we would have brunch there most Saturday's. If I had Shaggy with me, I was guaranteed to make a new friend. There is something special about Altona, it's a bit like Disneyland where they pump happiness gas as you walk through the gates. Most people in Altona are happy, relaxed and friendly.

This morning I took Shaggy down to Pier Street, I needed to get The Age, (not to read it, I needed paper to cut a pattern to line a suitcase. The Age is too intelligent for me. I like reading crap). Shaggy and I headed down Civic Parade with my old ladies' shopping trolley, he kept getting tangled in the trolley as he stopped to check his peemail under every tree - doing phantom poos and wees at every opportunity. A little car heading towards me started tooting and waving and then pulled to the curb. I didn't know who it was, but could see an elderly lady driving with a puppy on the front seat. I waved and opened the door (I like strangers). She jumped out of the car and ran around to see Shaggy and in a heavy (?) accent asked what sort of dog was he. I said 'poodle' and she pointed to her dog and told me her three month old puppy was a King Charles Cavalier crossed with a poodle and even though she is still grieving, she got him to replace her old dog which had to be put down.

She put her puppy beside the car so it could say hi to Shaggy, but Mr Grumpy decided he didn't like the puppy and snapped at him, making the puppy run under the car. The lady looked at me accusingly, as I had just finished saying that Shaggy should be ok with the puppy! With the puppy under the car, all I could do was worry he would run out the other side and get hit by a car. Luckily the goddess of dogs was watching and the puppy popped out into the lady's arms. Apologising madly, I told Shaggy he was a very naughty boy and let her puppy kiss me on the lips and I was able to re-deem myself.

She asked where I lived and we exchanged names and discussed toilet training tips for puppies - which is basically carrying puppy into the back garden several times a day, and when you get up for your old lady middle of the night wee, and stand out there with puppy until he squats and relieves himself. Then you pick up puppy, tell him what a good boy his is and then carry him back to bed and put him in bed with you, under the blankets, where he can spread out and take up all the room.

Saying goodbye to our new friend, we continued down to Pier Street, outside Bakers Delight, I noticed a little girl, with one missing front tooth and one new big tooth growing down looking at him excitedly. She was sitting with her dad so I went over and asked her if she would like to hold Shaggy while I went into Bakers Delight. She was very excited about that and then agreed to mind him while I went into Coles. We had a bit of a chat when I came out, her grandma has a poodle too, I said to dad 'does your mum like her poodle more that you?' and he said 'yes! but it's ok she lives in NZ'. Shaggy and I headed home - less than one hour in Altona and we had three new friends.

I am a bully

Some things automatically bring out my inner bully - wierd things. Whenever I see the dummy outside Flight Center, I want to kick him and push him over or drop him from the top level of a shopping centre and then laugh evilly as he cracks open like Humpty Dumpty. I can't help it.

Today it was a car. I was trying to get into the left lane and the cars were banked up. I accelerated past them all to see what the hold up was and there it was. A teeny weeny van.
Straight away I wanted to push it over. Or like the old days when Chap and his body building buddies would pick up cars outside Oasis Gym in Alfred Place off Flinders Lane and wedge them in front of the door so no-one could get in or out. That was when they were not too busy dangling poor weedy Robbie out of the second story window by his ankles or oggling Miss Australia Belinda Green in her gym gear. Funny how the ladies change room door opened onto the main weight training area.

So back to the itsy bitsy van. A Suzuki. It made me think of cow tipping and I needed an enthusiastic (collective noun) push? jerk? of body builders to shove it over so I could point and laugh as its wheels spun in disbelief and humiliation

When I first found Jacko, I discussed these aggressive feelings with him. I had been dabbling with New Age feelgood vibes and couldn't understand why I had these mean, nasty impulses. He explained 'It's simple Julie, you've forgotten you were/are a sharpie'.

Worst. Mum. Ever.

An excerpt out of an emal from my daughter

'...do her tarot cards or nails or something nice, I think she needs a mum. And you're good at being people's mum (not mine though cos you're the worst mum ever)'

Wards of the State

In RAGE I talk about friends that became Wards of the State. Basically they were taken from their families and put into institutions because the Child Welfare Department decided they were uncontrollable or in moral danger. In the institutions, like Turana and Winlayton they found themselves with disturbed or traumatised children and the government tested drugs on them.

Now the State Government is acknowledging the damage and has started a fund for the 'Forgotten' Wards of the State. If you were in any Governement home in the 60s and 70s ring 1800 779 379. The support worker at Open Place will find your file, help you with your application and will discuss how the life skills program can "assist the unique circumstances of each Forgotten Australian".

For a three year period, they offer $1500 towards Medical/dental/glasses etc and $1500 towards life skills each year for that three years, they are currently in year two, so potentially you can access $6000

Life skills cover things like

• Employment skills (eg: basic computer, endorsed driving licence, etc)
• Life skills (eg: cooking,reading, writing, maths)
• Recreation skills (gym membership, music lessons)
• Applications may include a request for funding for equipment, courses, books and/or related materials.

Also, there is a travel re-union fund

http://www.openplace.org.au/Home

If you were in these places, think about contacting them and contact me if you would like me to help navigate the red tape and public servants.

Get some guitar lessons to be the rockstar you always knew you were, dancing lessons, etc think of the hobbies and activites you missed out on because of the situation.

We are getting old, get your eyes checked and/or new glasses, or your teeth whitened, or a walking stick to smack someone over the head with!

Logies Legend

The following is in this month's Victorian Writer Magazine. 90% of me is posting it because it's funny, 9% is posting it because I want to brag and 1% because I don't post enough on the blog.

Comedy, comment and overcoming procrastination.
I admire strong Victorian women like Vali Myers, Chrissy Amphlette, Joan Kirner and Phryne Fisher. Women with attitude. I found Catherine Deveny in late 2009 when I read her Doncaster/Manpower column on The Age website and I frowned thinking, 'Who is this woman? She is brutal.' A peek at her website displayed an attractive brunette with red lippy and matching sequined dress. My kinda gal. This thought was further confirmed when I spied her in another fabulous red dress at the Melbourne Writers Festival, with a pack of admiring males tripping over themselves to keep up with her glamorous stilettoed stride from BMW Edge to the book signing table in the Atrium at Federation Square.

The resilient women that grow up in our bluestone suburbs of hard knocks are interesting and fascinating, so I signed up for Comedy, Comment and Overcoming Procrastination, ready to sit back and be entertained by this Reservoir chick.

During the round-the-table introductions, somehow Catherine individually probed our souls with a laser sharp skill that revealed our genres and then with a Jedi like mind trick, commanded us to complete 1000 words for the next session. 1000 words, or don‚t bother coming back!

Using secret subliminal trigger words like schooligans, turdlock and corporate maggots, there was not one grumble from the stunned participants (aged from 20 to 70) as we were given a high voltage jump-start to write ˜ ŒWrite in the nude‚ and Œsing from the heart‚ on a Œrandom creative adventure with no fixed outcome‚ other than to work on our Œwriting fitness‚.

We received our orders. Write first. Write before morning coffee, write before your shower and with other tips on smashing the obstacles of procrastination and rude domestic interruptions to our creativity, every writer easily met the challenge and captured their 1000 words. Our reward? The punishing task of reducing our masterpiece to 500 words.

It was then I realised that calling the course Comedy, Comment and Overcoming Procrastination was a trick to semi-imprison me in a Writers‚ Boot-camp with a literary dominatrix. I couldn‚t wait to go back for more.

Julie Mac is the author of RAGE A Sharpie‚s Journal Melbourne 1974-1980‚ and the contact for Williamstown Writers‚ Group and membership officer for Authors Australia Inc. for independently published writers.

Catherine's response : Well done class slut. Great to hear from you.

I am sure I will bump into you somewhere. I expect you'll be giving a wristy to a dero for a couple of fags.

OMG I have arrived!

Woof Woof - I can bark with the best of them.

Every time I go to Chiltern, it's an adventure and last weekend didn't disappoint.

Leaving straight from work, I picked up Skin, one my old Sharpie mates and we headed up North in my beloved car Barney to see Caz and her fella Ash. I was looking forward to eating a big baked potato and listening to the guest comedian at Ash's 'spud night'. He regularly organises entertainment for the locals in his large outdoor room, decorated with Ash's rustic sculptures and complete with a raging open fire in a handmade brick fireplace.

We arrived at Ash's house and pie night was in full swing. Pie night? Where was my baked potato? As usual, I got it all mixed up, well I am an old lady now and I am not paid to remember everything. It was a pie night with gourmet pies from the famous Beechworth Bakery and the entertainment was Spud Murphy, a comedian.

Shaggy my poodle led the way into the packed pergola and the burly country folk started laughing at him. Caz was fussing around us, pushing us to sit in the front row in front of the already performing comedian. I dropped Shaggy's sky blue crocodile skin lead (which is decorated with tiny diamonte bones) and he ran straight to the stage, interrupting the comedian. We had arrived - a very mismatched pair. Skin was perfectly groomed, in her usual basic black, with a bikie style leather jacket, chunky silver jewelry and glittery green tipped nails. I was wearing my nanna style work clothes complete with silver homeyped sandals and my make up was the red flush of menopause. Very stylish.

The comedian said 'There is a dog in front of the stage' and as I sunk my ample bottom into the faded plastic chair, I heard a raspy voice behind me say 'Yeah, there's a few dogs up front'. Me, Caz and Skin were the only women in the front row so the hatchet faced mole was referring to us. A fine country town greeting from a local business woman who is old enough to know better. I grew out of that shit in my 20s when young women wearing their Portmans off the shoulder brights, were sneering at our unfashionable but sexy black evening dresses one night in the early 80s at the Underground. Sneer they may have, but JJ and I had hunky bouncer boyfriends on our arms and they didn't.

Generally I am too lazy to be a complete bitch, but occasionally I can be goaded into being a vicious shrew. One time I remember is when a CEO I used to be a secretary for complimented one of the other secretaries saying 'Oh, isn't she efficient'. I flounced out of his office in my lilac power suit with matching heels, tossed my long curly hair and said 'Well, that's fine if you like bad skin and frizzy hair'. In spite of my bad attitude, I managed to stay a secretary for eight years and am still traumatised by the experience.

I was still deciding what to do about hatchet face when Shaggy ran to the grass behind the stage and arched his back to do a poo. I knew he couldn't possibly have any poo left, he had already done two in the last 15 minutes, one at the service station and one at the front of Ashy's house next to the fence made from old lawn mowers.

Shaggy does phantom wees and poos, even if he doesn't need to go, he goes through the motions to mark his territory. It was late in a long boozy evening and the crowd erupted with laughter at Shaggy doing his doggy business. Shaggy buried his pretend poo by kicking back at the buffallo grass with his hind legs and ran off into the darkness of the back yard.

The comedian finished the last couple of minutes of his show and then offered the audience the mic to tell jokes. After a couple of funnies, I stood and took the microphone. In my grandma clothes, I told the most politically incorrect, morally and socially wrong joke I know and the place filled with shocked laughter and cat calls.

And, although I am blogging about it, who gives a rat's arse what hard face bitches say or think? No one likes the mean girl.

Creative communication

Sometimes mums and teenagers have trouble communicating. My girl talks to me and I hear a torrent of Vicky Pollard type speech and when I speak to her, she hears 'blah blah blah', unless of course I am whispering something I don't want her to hear.

I was trying to explain to her how she could save money by having her Falcon sedan converted to gas. Frustrated, she said, 'Mum can you do me a power point presentation?' I ended up doing a picturegram and after she saw it, she said 'Now I get it, when can I do it?'

A review of RAGE in the HeraldSun!

The wobbly bits on the side are from my wet newspaper on the day of the flood.

Reclaimed land

Today I found out my street used to be a feeder creek for Cherry Lake. That's my beloved car Barney broken down in the back ground. Claire and I decided to go out for an adventure in Barney. We pushed him to the side of the road and then went walkabout, Claire in Mark's gumboots and me in wetsuit shoes.

My first record

Hotrod librarian's post today got me thinking about my first LPs.

After nagging from November 1973 through to March 1974, eventually Bev gave in and bought me the first LP I obsessed over for my 11th birthday - Suzi Q's Can the Can. I loved Suzi Q with a non lesbian passion and collected every snippet of information about her. On one of her visits to Australia, I even woke up a 5 am to listen and tape her on a breakfast radio show, at that age I didn't even know 5 am existed! (I believe it only exists now if I have a plane to catch, it's some sort of airport time warp continuum thingy)

I spent hours studying the cover - sketching every detail in my mind until I could see it even when my eyes were shut. Suzi looking tough and sexy with rough looking blokes backing her up - confident, secure and protected. No-one would wanna mess with her. In hindsight, I believe this image may have influenced my (subconscious) decision to join gangs, the tuff chick with a gang behind her.

The next album I coveted was Struttin' by TMG - Ted Mulry Gang. Ted sucked me in with the song 'Jump in my car'. When I was 13, I started babysitting once a fortnight for a neighbor for $4 an evening, as the album was $6, I had to work two fortnights to save for it. In the meantime I was going out with JJ's boyfriend Kent's cousin, a pommie Jon English look-a-like and he turned up with Struttin' as a present for me. The problem was I hadn't told Bev and Mad that I had a boyfriend (18 and driving) and she knew I hadn't saved enough yet (because I went on and on and on about it) so he kept it for his own collection. Eventually his younger brother dobbed to their mum and she insisted he come around and tell my parents he was seeing me. He was so cute when he turned up one night on the front doorstep, all dressed up in his best clothes to tell Bev he was my boyfriend - brown pinstripes and platform shoes with a skintight white jumper that had one blue diamond shape imposed over a light brown diamond shape. He was shittin himself, but he left me a week later for a worldly 15 year old - I hated her, scraggy looking long haired bitch!

Khmer Wedding - Cambodia - The ceremonies

Unfinished post.... (double click photos if you want a better look)

When my workmate Cheryl and her family were invited to the wedding of her budhist god-daughter Hoy, we both knew we HAD to go, so we quickly convinced our families that we would be fine, on our own, with no adult supervision and we booked non refundable flights.

Cheryl met Hoy on a previous trip to Cambodia when Hoy was her tour guide on a farmstay. (The highlight of which was when the yak got stuck in the mud and Cheryl's diva daughter shouted 'Miss Hoy, when we get out of this I am going to fucken kill you!') A short time later Cheryl organised for Hoy to come to Australia for three months - this trip changed Hoy's life. On her return to Cambodia, Hoy sent a letter to one of the major banks telling them all about credit cards, debit cards, ATMs and paying for groceries by EFTPOS, this technology wasn't available in Cambodia at the time and the bank employed her and her career has rapidly progressed.

Hoy's new husband is in the military and when we asked what he did, she said 'his job is da secret'. We love secrets.

Before the wedding, all the 'official' photographs are taken. When Cheryl received this photo, she didn't recognise Hoy a first, she had blossomed from a girl to a woman!

The first part of the two day wedding celebration is the blessing by the monks. The monks choose the wedding date - a lucky/auspicious day and arrive to the elaborately decorated house/street by tuk-tuk closely supervised by cheeky Coca-cola nicking street urchins.

After the blessing, both families and close friends pack gifts to be presented to the bride's family at the house the next morning by the groom's party followed by a procession of guests, while the street caterers set up for dinner

The next day at 6 am, uniformed guards direct traffic in the street as the procession assembles. During the wedding celebrations, life continues for the neighbours - petrol tanks are filled from soft drink bottles, ice cream is sold to a girl wearing 'da house pyjama' in a motor bike and buildings are renovated.

MORE TO COME....

Show & Tell - BrownJudy by Martin Davey - unique book write up

Fuck.
Gotta love a book that starts with the word Fuck!

Actually it starts with 'Fuck grace' and already, in the first sentence, there is a mystery for me to solve - who or what is 'grace'? Why does 'grace' need to be fucked? By the time I find out who/what grace is, I agree entirely.

I spend hours reading through old newspapers from the 1800s, finding out about Melbourne in the early days, so BrownJudy captivated me from the start, with its period lingo and secret colonial business involving convicts, pioneer women, black servants and sheep stations.

and it answered questions that I sometimes pondered, but never looked for answers.

Why did aboriginal massacres always happen near water?
What was it like for the missus' of isolated homesteads, in a time when there were few women in Victoria?
Have all the mystical aboriginal beliefs from the past been lost forever?

I had to really 'read' BrownJudy and couldn't be lazy, speed reading or skimming. I had to concentrate to make sure I looked up all the unfamiliar words in the glossary (I didn't want to miss an opportunity to find out another name for a penis or vagina!). The narrator's habit of nick naming the people around him and his insistance on using these sometimes insulting names, is quietly hilarious and reminded me of our quirky Australian sense of humour. Aussies love nicknames (which can drive New Australians crazy - A Kiwi manager at my work, Garry-with-two-Rs-not-one, can't stand it when we shorten his name to Gazza).

The mundane details of daily life on the homestead, sprinkled with the odd bit of colonial entertainment - a wrestling match with naked men or a visit to the homestead by friend or foe strangers were cleverly used to reveal the secrets of whitefella history and blackfella knowledge.

Self published author of BrownJudy, Martin Davey, has the stall beside me when I am at Fed Square. I don't have a picture of him - Martin is secretive, suspicious and we suspect he is an ex spy or in a witness protection program.

BrownJudy is available from http://brownjudy.info/

Show & Tell – Unique book write-ups – Catch a Falling Star by Peter Haywood

I met Peter, another self published author, at Federation Square book market and we swapped novels. You can imagine my delight when I found we both had the legendary Chane Chane, the front man of Melbourne’s punk band La Femme in our books.

Catch a Falling Star made me remember what it was like when you are at the point in life when school is finished and you are excited, trying on your new freedom. Before your soul is sucked dry from commuting to a crappy job, mortgages and adult responsibility. Before you realise that being grown up sucks.

The story is about Nicholas Walpole, a young Melbourne man that idolises David Bowie and wants to be a rock star. He moves into a derelict building in Lygon Street, Carlton with his mates and they form a punk band – Nicholas is ‘Nicky Nova’ their dark and manic front man. In between sneering at the trendies and cretin baiting the 'Marios and Marias' in Lygon Street, Nicholas is going through that tricky stage of life when you have to compete with all the other bright young things to get the hottest partner.

Parts of the story were like a movie in my head. I could remember being in North Melbourne the day of the 1983 red dust storm and I was back in the Crystal Ballroom in St Kilda, the sweat dripping from the ceiling and the floor bouncing like a trampoline from the po-going punks, a time when I thought I would be young forever.

Catch a Falling Star is black, hilarious and clever – especially the bits where Nicky is creeping around at night like a commando and where he gets his warped, but funny revenge on his real and imagined enemies. And… never in a million years could I have guessed where the story would end. It was real and raw. Life isn’t like a Disney movie where everyone lives happily ever after.

Peter is a cartoonist and is currently the writer and illustrator of a weekly humorous football column for the Melbourne Times

Read more about Peter here

Show and Tell – Unique book write-ups

You wouldn’t take something you didn’t like to ‘Show and Tell’ at Primary School. It was always a treasure you were excited about, something that you couldn’t wait to get up and tell everyone about. In the days before you didn’t know public speaking was scary, it didn’t matter if you stuttered, or didn’t have your facts straight, it was all about enthusiasm.

So I am going to Show you what I am reading and Tell you what I love about it. It’s not going to be a professional review, or a latte/chardonnay sipping critique (according to the internet Thesaurus critique is another word for criticism), everyone has more than enough criticism in their lives.

It’s going to be a ‘leave your latte till it’s almost cold and drink it all at once and slam the glass on the saucer’ or a bit of ‘fun with the chardonnay guzzling hag’ write-up rather than a write down.

So why am I going to do it this way? It's simple - why focus on the negative aspects of life, when I have a choice to enjoy the good.

A fellow book lover set up a website Australian Writers Rock!! (AWR) with her own money and time to tell the world about the Australian books she loved and to help promote Aussie authors. I was excited when she added RAGE and was surprised when she received feedback from another author that her site needed to be polished and her reviews needed to be more professional. WTF? The site name gives it away. Someone young, funky and passionate would call a website Australian Writers Rock. It obviously isn’t a pointy headed, Professor Julius Sumner Miller type site – with a name like ‘Boring old fart’s book reviews’.

AWR said in a blog post “An absolute novice to the internet website building business and the writing business, the website had its initial hiccups. Put it this way – my reviews were a little too much “reader”, a little unprofessional really. Let me tell you this though writers, as a reader, professional book reviews annoy me! I want to know what the book is about and the emotions the book evokes. It turns me off to read a review full of literary nonsense. There were a few unsavoury blog comments posted, but all feedback is important so I just improved the site.”

We do need other types of book reviews for target audiences. Someone that reads Chopper Read’s books isn’t going to be interested in a polished review. All they probably want to know is ‘Frequent course language and random acts of violence’ or ‘Best. Chopper. Ever.’

Falling in love with a book can be like falling in love with a person, where sometimes others can’t see what you see. A good book is like a summer romance. If I find a new release by Stephen King in the local library, I hug it to myself and almost moan in literary orgasm. Already I am imagining the time we are going to spend in bed together - Afternoon delight in the four poster bed lying on top of my red Chinese brocade quilt or cuddled up on a stormy night.

First it’s the getting to know you stage. Then you are hooked and it’s time to enter the obsessive stage, where no one exists other than you and your new love. After hours of foreplay, there is the release of the climax and then the fond, but empty feeling when it ends. You can’t put that in a book review.

Like the recording industry deciding what manufactured music we should listen too, publishers can manipulate what the public get to read. It sounds bad, but it’s fair enough, it is a gamble for the publishers, they may invest thousands of dollars into a book that arrives with a big fanfare and then sits on the shelves, before being sent to clearing houses and sold at a drastically reduced price.

With self published books, the author is able to tell the story without any obligation to follow a publishers’ recommendation - 'tell it this way and get the gay audience' or 'Vampires are in! Write a book about a vampire'.

The self published books I have been reading are like nothing I have read before and they are all the more enjoyable if I have met the author. The person who believed in their story and had the courage to put their money where their heart is. The person who heard, ‘Sorry, that isn’t a fit for our current list’ once they got past the ‘No unsolicited manuscripts accepted, for information on publishing, please contact your local writers' center’.

At first I thought it was a big conspiracy - Fat Cats scratching each others backs. But then I understood. Business wise it would be inefficient paying 100 monkeys to read a pile of manuscripts. The local writers’ center is a middle ground. It is a place where you get to mingle with publishers, writers and academics, where you can get solid advice and it’s a good place for your work to be ‘noticed’. Link to Victorian Writers' Centre.

Anyway AWR has inspired me to review the self published books I have been reading. But so the pointy heads don’t get me, I shall call it ‘Show and Tell’. Show and Tell is obviously an early prep/primary school term and will not be a thesis.