Thank God for facebook. And crazy. Thank God for that too.....

Chinese Whispers.
Now there's a misnomer if ever I heard one.
Anyone who has lived anywhere near the Chinese Culture- as I have for a majority of my life now- will know that the Chinese do not make a habit of whispering ANYTHING and ANYTIME.
And that's all well and good.
Given that my Cantonese extends only as far as that of the level of a 4 year old ( except, of course, that I know more swear words than the average Cantonese toddler....although maybe not) and that my Putonghua contains only the words " How are you?", "Thank you" and "What is this ? This is a pencil ", I usually miss out on the majority of what is being shouted about on the train and in the street anyway.
I have heard via my Chinese friends that a lot of what is discussed in public in Asia is a slightly more graphic version of everyday life anywhere.
High density living makes privacy less of a thing, and I was once reliably informed by one of my canto friends that the man sitting near us on the MTR had found an ointment that cured most, if not all, of the mysterious raised rash on his arsehole and his hemorrhoids were therefore greatly more comfortable.
She then suggested we move along the carriage, but my feeling was, given how much better things were for our travelling companion, we may as well stay.
Of course, in Western Cultures, Chinese Whispers refers to that game whereby you tell a story, or a phrase, or a word, into the ear of one person at the beginning of a line or a circle, and you wait to see what emerges out the other side, several people later.
It's like Mystery Multi Layer Digestion for words.
Sometimes someone will deliberately add something spicy or naughty to enhance the phrase, thus 'penguin' becomes 'penis' and the phrase 'My penguin is black and white and puffs up in the cold' takes on a whole new meaning.
This month I shall leave Hong Kong, and travel to a quieter, calmer place, where I intend to write out all the things that crowd my brain until it empties and I am left with silence.
These words I shall share with people, and with any luck, invoke enough ire to incense some legal action, that will then ensure free publicity, and thus create a best seller.
Or I shall fake some controversy, which will be entirely in keeping with the made up stories I intend to tell.
Of course people will see themselves.
And if they do, it's probably because I am writing about them.
Whatever.
Publishing is all about being heard.
So back to what you've heard.
In the Chinese Whisper game.
Today I heard about four men who, as well as sustaining a certain lack of credibility due to their collective upholding of the Colombian economy, had taken to repeating 'truths' to each other in a kind of demented Class A fueled echo chamber.
Sadly - or perhaps happily depending on how entirely you grasp the whole Oscar Wilde 'only one thing worse than being talked about' thing - their 'truths' are to do with me.
And they are not true.
And they are not kind.
So - being mature and thick skinned-  I have thought about this nastiness all afternoon.
At first, I was going to call one of them.
Then I was going to ignore it.
Then I was going to write one of them a note.
Then I was going to forget about it.
But instead I have decided to do what I will always do in these situations, I shall tell the truth.
No, I never slept with that one, yes, I slept with the other one and his partner, it wasn't very good. It was a long time ago, I have since very much cleaned up my act, thanks, the cream worked nicely.
The third one should know I did all I could to protect him, he backed the wrong horse.
He can't help it.
He's not that bright.
The other one is very bright, but he is also rather damaged.
I like the one in the top hat, and the one with the hands where there should be feet has the most talent.
The one shaped like a small case 'q' should never pick red berries at night.
If I had a US Dollar for every time I was asked if that other one was gay, I'd have a dollar.
Thereabouts.
You see how that works?
A rumour is just that.
Not worth a cent unless it's written on paper and thus turned into a best selling novel.
So I guess, if you want more from me, you'll just have to wait.
And if you want to have a go at me and make it worthwhile, best put it in writing.
Otherwise it's just......puff..... a Chinese Whisper.....

Laugh and The World Laughs With You, Cry and We Are Still Laughing

The ability to laugh at yourself is a life saver.

Seriously.

People who lack that gene, for whom all stumbles are a disaster, all bumps in the road a catastrophe, all hiccups a brick wall in the path of what we now call ‘success,’ are more prone to depression, isolation, and unhealthy self-loathing.

Suicide, the act of killing oneself, can be directly related to these three factors.

So, essentially, people kill themselves because they make mistakes.

Now I am going to be completely candid here.

Paedophiles, violent criminals and rapists…? Let me hand you that length of rope.

The rest of us?

Just calm the fuck down.

Got drunk and slept with that guy from across the hall/ made out with your same sex best mate/ woke up under someone whose name currently escapes you? Well, we can always add one more number to THAT list. Have a shower, buy a course of amoxicillin from the chemist, give yourself a high five for being so heterofexible (it’s SO in right now).

Pressed delete at work when you should have pressed save/ told your boss he was a total fucktard when he was being a total fucktard/ spent the afternoon on Facebook in the hope that that report WOULD write itself? Meh, unemployment is a great way to learn more about the parks in your area, and all the cool stuff they do at the local Art Gallery, plus there is that book you’ve been meaning to write.

Paid the rent late for the 900^th time and now your landlord is evicting you/ failed to lodge a tax return for the past 3 years/ purchased 4 pairs of Jimmy Choo’s because if you spent over $ 15,000 they gave you 25 % off (and 25 % off 4 pairs of  Jimmy Choo’s is like free shoes!!!) ? Aren’t you glad you learned more about your local park? Plus, prison is a free bed; you can’t take it with you. Money is just money. It’s not air.

We spend too much time worrying about the artificial anti-failure measures that are put in place to keep us ‘in line’ and behaving ‘properly’.

Although I never buy his products, the prodigious talent that was Steve Jobs said “Remembering that I'll be dead soon is the most important tool I've ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life. Because almost everything - all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure - these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important.”

We must learn, or re-learn, to laugh at ourselves.

We must be joyful that we live to make these so called ‘mistakes’. We must own them, embrace them, and appreciate all that they teach us. And we must laugh at our own folly.

Because in the end, as Steve Jobs, and every other person facing death, discovered, it doesn’t really matter.

And the truth is, my friends, we are all dying. Each and every one of us.

But before I go, I intend to live with a happy heart, knowing that both my triumphs and my tragedies have given such pleasure to those around me. I am a born entertainer in that way. As Mr Bennet says in Jane Austin’s classic Pride and Prejudice, “For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our turn?”

Bring on the custard pies; this is going to be a doozie !!!!

Age Is Just a 1-800 Number

They say that the internet is primarily used for porn.

I’m not going to lie; I make a habit of deleting my search history every morning just in case I get hit by a bus.

Deleting your search history is the modern equivalent of heeding your mother’s advice regarding wearing clean underwear.

Given that I am a single woman almost beyond middle age, I am less concerned about the ambo’s reaction to my smalls than I am to my children’s horror at discovering my fixation with Japanese tentatporn.

It’s just SO bizarre how can anyone NOT be fascinated?

Today when I was looking at pictures of Hugh Jackman running all over Sydney beaches with his shirt off thus discovering a lot of rather well photo shopped pictures of him with his highly inflamed organ precariously close to the Adamantium sheathed 6 inch claws that thrust from his knuckles every time his blood rises….I came across a WHOLE other side to the phrase ‘something for everyone’.

Down on about page 8 of the search (hey, my weekend had started and it’s raining outside) there was a rather disturbing picture of a clearly elderly gentleman all but naked, with a look on his face that was either ‘come get me’ or ‘help me, I may be having a stroke’.

When my mouse ran over his ample grey chest I discovered it belonged to someone’s Flickr account.

OK.

I thought we all knew about not wishing to appear naked online unless we were being paid for it, but still…..I clicked on the picture and lo, found myself in the world of ‘ Italian Daddy’s’.

Now before you think for one minute that I am sitting here in judgement, let me just point out that I understand perfectly well the dynamics of sexual psychology.

My rainbow flagged family, not to mention my own predilections, could leave little doubt as to the Large ‘O’ Open-mindedness I value.

Whatever floats your boat, as long as it’s between consenting adults of the same species, but flicking through this account - ( wow, those guys NAILED naming that thing, so much more than Tumblr )- it was clear to me that most of the pictures taken were of unsuspecting members of the public.

Of the 229 photos at least half were just of old men walking down the street or in the stands at Soccer matches, or fishing off piers.

Most of them were clearly shot from the back and, I would think, without the subject’s awareness or permission.

Of course, some of the photos were clearly set up to look smexy.

Nothing says ‘You’ve been naughty’ like a grinning topless 70 year old laying on a peach pleather sofa with his belt buckle undone.

I’m going to be honest; the ones with the walking sticks freaked me out a little, as did the sequence of stills – obviously taken from the tele- of Peter Sellers removing his socks.

That the account is held by, and is a service to, men and women ( and here I think I mean just men) who find beer bellied, balding, double chinned old Italian men the hottest thing since removable false teeth is, I suppose, heart-warming.

It doesn’t do it for me, but it clearly does for ‘greydigger’, ‘daddyzboi’ and ‘Grislyman’, all of whom made a number of pictures of old men in jeans their personal favourites.

And that’s a fine thing, although I do think that taking random photographs of Giovanni Public as he wanders through the piazza for a Lemoncello and a dissection of the game in his twilight years a bit of an invasion of privacy.

Not to mention probably illegal.

Italian men are packed with testosterone, it’s true, but not all of them imagine themselves still ‘on the pull’ to a bunch of twinks looking for comfort in the warm embrace of tissue paper arms.

And if they WERE interested, they would have listed themselves on www.richgaysugardaddy.com

Sadly, no website exists for slightly beyond middle aged women with the same qualities as the ones listed above.

And no matter how hard I try, I doubt anyone will find the way I take off my socks as a reason to break open a new box of durex.

So for now I shall go back to my pictures of Hugh looking buff in the surf, and try to imagine his lucky, and no doubt lovely, wife shrieking things like “ take that towel off the bed” at him after he steps out of the shower.

Wet, weapon’s erect, and sheathed.

Valē.

The ability to compartmentalize is a magical thing.
Over the years I have become rather adept at it.
I think I may even be an expert, just quietly.
I'm not sure if I should feel proud of that, or ashamed.
I think the lesson was taught to me very early by my mother.
One of my earliest memories is of her telling me about a woman in New Zealand, a female broadcaster whose name I forget, who had gone on air on the day of her sons death- perhaps it was a suicide.
"That" my mother said emphatically, " is professionalism"
It was a lesson in getting on with things.
That this memory comes to me so strongly, and that my early childhood was one filled with the terrors of an abusive and violent stepfather provides me with answers to questions I wish belonged to someone else.
As an adult the link is clear.
As a child, the message was just as clear.
Shit happens, and you need to find a way to get through the day.
So I learned, early, to get through the day.
Boxing each and every pain, each trauma, into it's own little cubby hole until there was time, or breathing space, to deal with it.
Or to lock the door on that memory and throw away the key.
Whatever worked.
I still compartmentalize.
Automatically, as it turns out.
Only now, with the advantage of a less broken self, I make the effort to open the doors behind which I have hidden pain, and deal with what is there so as not to discover one day that I have spent my entire life banking away nothing more than sadness.
Which is why I am writing today.
This morning, via a private message on face book because this is the way we do things now, I learned that a girl I once knew, a friend from a distant past, died- at the ripe old age of 43- from illnesses related to years of alcohol abuse.
Her name was, and still is, Felicity.
It means 'Joy' and 'Happiness' in Latin.
I remember being in Latin class when I learned that, and I remember thinking how remarkably appropriate that was.
For a short while, until hormones and adolescent stupidity got in the way, Felicity and I were close.
I thought she was the coolest thing ever.
She wore the school hat, had a quirky kink in her teeth, had amazing skin, and a great voice, and had invented her own form of handwriting that drove the teachers to distraction because it was so hard to read.
The fact that what she wrote was so amazing kept them at bay.
She had a gift.
She had flair.
Looking back now, I think at some point I may have even have had a crush on her.
After I left school, I lost all contact with her whereabouts.
But I thought of her often.
She was always a benchmark of sorts.
She was the personification of potential.
Another girl had become her best friend, and their friendship endured beyond High School.
I heard through this girl how there had been a car accident, and how after that there was heavy drinking involved.
Felicity suffered from chronic pain after the accident.
Perhaps this explained the drinking.
But I wonder.
I am, as some people know, a recovering addict.
My drug of choice was cocaine, and I did enough of it to put my life into a tailspin that I was lucky to survive.
I have been clean for many years now, but I know that my addiction was a way of coping with some of that compartmentalised pain.
I wonder what pain there was for Felicity.
Was it just physical, or was there something else that hurt her?
I will never, ever, be able to ask her.
We will never, ever, sit down and discuss anything ever again.
Maybe we never would have, but maybe one day we might have.
The thought has been with me all day.
A day where, after reading this sad, sad news, I went about my business.
I met with clients, chatted with friends, bought groceries, and even ran a busy pub quiz with more that 100 people, all without mentioning her name.
Well, nearly.
Tonight, just for me and for her, I changed one of the questions to include her name.
'What word, starting with F means happy?'
And as I asked it, if you had been watching, you would have seen a little catch of breath.
A little micro expression of pain will have darted over my face, so quickly, so secretly, as to be imperceptible.
The door of that compartment not quite strong enough to contain the pain within.
That's how I keep the doors to my heart these days, open just enough to let the dark out, and the light in.
That's the way forward.
Then I came home and threw up, the weight of my grief overwhelming for even my body to bear.
Grief at her early passing, grief at all that will never be said, grief that nothing could be done to save a soul with such promise.
I wish you good rest Felicity.
Sleep now.
Death is the last enemy: once we've got past that I think everything will be alright.
Alice Thomas Ellis

The Fat in The Hat.....

The sun did not shine,
it was too wet to play,
so we sat in the house,
on that hot, hot wet day.
I sat there with Guinness,
we sat there we two,
and I said
"I've forgotten that sky can be blue"
Too wet to go out, too hot to play ball,
I just stared at the tele, mounted onto the wall.
And all I could do was to eat.....eat......eat......eat,
mostly baked goods and snack foods, and bits of red meat.
And then something went BUMP !!!
And that bump made me jump,
I looked and I saw us, just me and the cat,
I looked and I saw us, two mountains of fat,
and he said to me,
"Why do you lay here like that?
I know that your yoghurt is drizzled with honey, but you could eat carrots and save heaps of money"
"I know a good game we could play" Said my cat "I know some good tricks" said Guinness The Fat,
" A lot of good tricks, I will show them to you, from Masterchef Seasons 4,3 and 2"
Then I stumbled for anything useful to say, it was time to get out of the house for the day.
But my fish said " No, no, you should not go away !!! You should stay here at home and read books for the day, you can just stay indoors, you can just laze about, you can stay here and binge eat and add to the stout" 
"Good Grief, time to leave, time to leave" my mind said "Your pets can not talk !!" and I jumped out of bed.
"Why, I will pay someone to help me I think, like a mentor, a guru, or even a shrink"
"TRY THE GYM !!!" said my brain, "that's a great place to play, TRY THE GYM," said my brain, " hell, you already pay" 
This was true then, I thought, for sixteen months now, I had auto paid fees with no sweat on my brow.
So I've called up a guy who makes fitness his living, and he's promised to give me the gift that keeps giving.
He puts me on balls, puts me up in the air, he makes me do movements that mess up my hair.
He jumps up and down, counting backwards from eight, he seems rather hell bent on shifting my weight.
And whilst I am grateful, and full of intention, there's one little secret that's worthy of mention.
The stuff that my animals said isn't crazy, for they know the truth, I'm essentially lazy.

Road To Nowhere

What I am about to discuss may upset people I care about but the topic just wont leave my head, and as I always say, better out than in.

Life - even human life- is all about procreation, then death.

Did you know that male lions kill the cubs of other males in order to bring the lioness back into estrous and then mate with her in order for their genetics to survive.

Brutal huh?

But then, we are here to pass on our genes, and after then we are pretty much done.

Lions are just a little more up font about the whole thing.

Having said that I once read a book called 'Raising Boys' that discussed, in very honest terms, the phenomenon of violent and disconnected step fathers.

But I am not here to discuss bad step-parenthood or the less than charming habits of horny hairy Lions.

Instead let's discuss my current neurosis regarding my purpose for being here.

The problem is, I have had my babies and they are all grown up - relatively, we all have our moments- and suddenly, I feel I may be all played out.

I currently find myself somewhat goal less, and a bit aimless, and this makes me feel stressy and shut down.

Look, its not like I don't have things to do.

I have a bucket list.

I have yet to publish a book, and yet this is something I feel I must, and will, do.

I have not traveled everywhere I want.

I would like to change locations one day.

It would be nice to have some savings.

I should probably have sex again sometime soon, preferably with someone other than my handy dandy 'Handy Dandy'.

I would one day like to work in a women's refuge giving voices back to the silent.

There is stuff out there, it's just that today...and lately every other day.....I have felt a little.....lost.

It happens.

I am one of those revolting 'glass half full' type of chicks for the most part, but I do have my moments when I sit there thinking " Someone has eaten MY porridge and I'm going back to bed".

So it has become clear to me that I need a fairly epic goal to prevent me walking off the top of the IFC or testing the voltage on my hairdryer under the shower.

And it has to be something other than 'lose weight'.

Last week I had an almost one on one session with the amazing Jason and the pain payoff, whilst fun in parts, was not enough to make me think that my life's aim should be to get thinner.

I will GET thinner, I do for a while every couple of years, but that seems less significant somehow than, say, giving birth to a person.

And therein lays the rub.

Giving birth is major, it's an amazing thing.

Being a parent of young people is awesome.

Last week someone made a Prince.

That is pretty cool actually, they are rare.

Some of my peers, in fact a large number of my peers, are still in the throws of school lunches and homework, and sleepovers and nits.

I shot my wad early (or at least HE did) - so to speak- so at the tender age of nearly 44, my 'babies' are about to turn 25, 23 and 20 respectively.

The closest I get to hands on child rearing are drunken text messages from my daughter at her 1am " MUM, I'm at Karaoke !!", late night skype sessions with a hairy man who holds objects in his hands he has made with a 3D printer and talks about a future I might never even see, and half naked You Tube Vlogs that, by implication, means either that the youngest one needs more clothes- or has just had a 'friend' over.

Sleep overs are a different thing when your children are adults.

" Oh, hi there you two, am I interrupting?"

We are a very open family, and I like that, but part of that means that I am fully aware of how little practical parenting is now required by my much loved, but fully fledged, ducklings.

Am I pointless now?

I look at all the things that people do other than have children - create art, sell time share apartments, make films, run companies, buy shoes- and I know that these things are 'things to do', but I worry that they are just time fillers whilst we wait for death.

Does that sound depressing?

It might well be.

Sorry about that.

I do not wish to dwell in this state, it must be said.

I think I need to find a way to 'give back' some of my very lucky life in order to move forward.
Giving is far more satisfying than receiving, of that I am certain.
So, I need to find a goal that involves being genuinely useful and relatively well paid, involves travel and writing and, where possible, sex with men who look like Hugh Jackman.

After all, I'm in a rut....I'm not ACTUALLY dead.

Besides, Billy Joel said only the good die young, so for me the road ahead is long.

May as well have some fun.

Here Is a Dollar, You Know What To Do With It.

It's been a funny few weeks.
Not 'funny ha ha', sadly.
A couple of months ago I signed up for a project that sounded from the outside to be a solid and familiar pattern of work.
Within days of coming on board red flags started appearing.
However I am an optimist.
And stubborn.
I stuck with it and am now the proud owner of the most red flags in the Northern Hemisphere.
Next month I shall start selling them on eBay.
The good news is that my stubborn refusal to give up means that there is, in fact, something to show for the pain.
The bad news is that part of what I have to show for it, are some fairly thick and shiny scars.
I am old enough, and experienced enough, to know that these will fade.
The thing that keeps playing in my mind is the idea that in the eyes of the Universe I must need to be taught a lesson of some kind.
And I am good with that.
I am just trying to discover what that lesson is.
Humility?
Seems unlikely, I am a loud self promoter but not overtly egotistical.
Patience?
Normally I would say yes, but I challenge anyone to sit beside me for a day and declare I need more of that.
Fortitude? Tolerance? Level headedness?
See above.
The ability to smile benignly in spite of mounting incredulousness when faced with blatant stupidity or outright deception and whilst mentally picturing certain people drowning in a sea of their own blood ?
That could be it right there.
I suspect what is being tested here is my poker face.
These days I prefer to generate my creativity from behind the pen, less actual human interaction required, but of course I do interact with people every day.
Not all of them sane.
So maybe the Universe is telling me to stop being such a lazy pussy and to employ my  ‘ ability to look like I give a fuck even when actually I don’t’  more often.
It’s rather tiring.
Luckily I also have enough red flags left over from the beginning of this project to make a nice bed and lay down in it.
Until then, I shall be stuck with the voices in my head (the creative team from Team America) shouting at me to use my acting skills.
And the knowledge that all things – good or bad-  must come to an end.

It's True, I Read It On Wiki.

Reputation is a funny thing.
Often a single event defines who we become in the public eye.
A woman who has lived a life wrapped in normalcy for more than 30 years can become 'the girl who got so drunk she vomited on the lap of the guy she was giving a head job to in the pub' in a heartbeat.
She is forever more 'the vomiting head job girl'.
These days with the permanent documentation of the Internet, an unfortunate event or ill advised slip in dignity is there forever to be revisited again and again and again.
The number of times I have warned my three about cameras and sexual acts makes me sound like a woman obsessed.
I KNOW it worked for Paris Hilton and Kim Kardasiarse, but I simply don't want it to work for my own kids.
Ever.
The thing about the Internet too, while I am on it, is that it can be used to create things that are not actually there.
Take Hymie Hasbeen, for example (see previous blog for details).
He has a Wiki page.
It even lists some of his achievements.
In 2013, a Wiki page seems to attach solidity to the unsolid.
If it's online, it must be true.
I now invite you to look away from this blog and explore the things you never thought were possible, online.
Actual pictures of fairies in the garden, women being actually cut in half and magicked together unharmed, stories of John Travolta's heterosexuality.
It's all there.
Being on the Internet does not make something real.
But a reputation created on the Internet seems to be.
Having a public relations firm write a press release filled with achievements and accolades should not be the bases of a mans standing within the community, and yet it has become that.
If Adolf Hitler were alive today, the spin doctors working to justify his behaviour would have us all believing that the destruction of the Jews and the annihilation of freedom was simply the logical next step in evolution.
The mans reputation would have been seared into positive permanence by the workings of the World Wide Web.
I am not criticising the Internet per say, after all how else would I have a platform to vent, merely I am pointing out that a reputation- so easy to create and destroy- should be based on more than a website.
But of course I am pissing into a very strong wind on this one.
Hymie Hasbeen, the man with an ego so brittle parts of it flake off as he walks down the street, will continue to be revered for as long as the management handling his social media profile receive the cheques.
And even when the cheques dry up- an ironic reflection of their client- the permanence of the Internet will ensure that his reputation remains as it was set.
Counter claims to a mans reputation at the street level tend to have little impact until the roar becomes so deafening that it can no longer be ignored.
Jimmy Savile being a case in point.
The interesting point in all this is that it would only require one incident, one tiny little 'caught on camera' moment to alter the structure of a reputation forever.
Wiki pages can be altered too, by anyone who has half a brain and knows how to use the a computer.
So we now find ourselves in a World where we write our own legend with the flick of a wrist, and can have it destroyed by the click of a button.
No wonder we all are developing such short attention spans.