Afternoon Fantasy

I saw him looking. I saw him notice things. Notice that I had the whole package, Burberry bag, matching coat, Cartier watch, 1-carat diamond, Enzo Angiolini shoes, a carefully co-ordinated casual outfit, elegance for flying. He was aware we were in the frequent flyer lounge, so perhaps I did this all the time. I took out my Brooks Brothers glasses and picked up the historical biography I was halfway through. I settled to read but could still see his surreptitious glances, did he know they were Donna Karan pants? Regardless, he recognized quality. I carried on casually reading. My phone buzzed a delicate jazz riff. I picked it up and answered it. It was the latest Jamin PDA/phone. Great idea, phone and MS outlook (calendar, task list, notes, contacts etc) all in one. But you can’t take notes while on a call without a headset. Mine was a tangled mess at the bottom of my bag. All my élan would vanish if I tried to extract it. So I answered the phone in the usual way. I had to take down a date. I drew my Crane & Co. leather bound journal from the Burberry. Slipping my hand in to the interior side pocket I felt for a pen. A stab of panic; there was only one there – too thin, not the Mont Blanc I ought to be carrying. It was a choice: loose my cool façade and get flustered or carry on withdrawing the pen and take the note I urgently needed. Out it came, garish pink and white plastic, cheaply imitated cursive script on the side. Tupperware. I saw him notice, I was shamed. I saw him turn away. Sprung. He knew now. I wasn’t some snappy self-employed jet-setter. I was a housewife, flying on her husband’s frequent flyer points.

Make the Children Cry

So Jill Greenberg is in trouble for snatching a few lollipops off some spoilt American children. Greenberg, a photographic artist, took photographs of children crying – crying, as it turns out, because she’d just snatched lollipops from them, acts performed with the permission of the parents and remuneration to the children. The art world is divided, the public outraged and cries of “child abuse!” are being hurled about willy-nilly (undermining the strength of genuine accusations of child abuse as Greenberg points out).

I think that a few more lollipop snatchings in youth might have prevented some of the bratty adults we now suffer on a daily basis, particularly from the land where individual rights often supersede the greater good and social equity.

But perhaps it’s not the lollipop snatching that’s really at issue. Perhaps its that she captured these reactions on film and we can now look at them for a lengthy period, absorbing the emotions they stir in us. For, after all, hasn’t nature designed children’s faces to express emotion in such a way that we will all respond to a child’s distress? Isn’t this some sort of survival technique? Doesn’t the sight of a distressed child bring out the maternal/paternal carer in (most of) us?

Perhaps we feel uncomfortable knowing that even a five-minute period of distress has been captured for that which art works are often intended to provide – the viewing pleasure of the audience, pleasure of spectatorship. The idea that art, a generally pleasurable pursuit for both artist and audience (with notable exceptions), is being made uncomfortable for the viewer in a way that closely aligns with images we vilify as unacceptable.

In these modern times of great awareness of what constitutes actual child abuse, of the privileging and protection of ‘childhood’ in previously unimagined ways, we find Greenberg’s images confronting in that they challenge this aspect of social mores. For the unsophisticated viewer, how far is it from these images to child porn and other images of distressed children? It is perhaps the proximity of Greenberg’s imagery to the images we have outlawed, and for which we hunt and prosecute perpetrators, that is disturbing. We (now) know the tears are the product of temporary distress caused by a momentarily missing sugary treat, but can we be sure other similar images aren’t obtained by more unsavoury methods?

MICFestival 2006

MICFestival 2006

It is done, the festival has run its course, there are only a few days left and every time I got into the city I see the weary, bleary faces of comics who’ve been out there every night, pacing stages entertaining locals and visitors alike during what is the annual Melbourne International Comedy Festival. In spite of the tiredness, it looks to me like most everyone has had fun, punters and participants alike.

For myself the festival experience has been more than I anticipated. Initially I wanted to share a one hour show slot as I wasn’t sure I’d be able to produce enough material to fill the hour, yet even before the preview I was having to cut material to fit in with the arrangements I’d made with my two opening acts.

The preview was my moment of truth – could I do it? I’d set myself up for a mighty big fall if I couldn’t. Was I ready to deal with the potential shame of failure? Well, I’ve never been one to shy from a challenge and with a life philosophy of ‘nothing ventured, nothing gained’ underpinning this bit of delayed post-natal insanity, I figured it was now or never. Fortunately, all the ducks were in a row and I hit it out of the park, so to speak.

I thought that the initial nervousness would be quelled by having successfully made it through that first show, but not so. Immediately upon that brief flush of relief follows the nervousness of wondering if you can do it again! What is this craziness I’ve launched back into?! Resurrecting a (fledgling) career in this business is almost worse than starting one. But it has worked, I’ve added bits, I’ve changed things, I’ve tightened up material, and shown that I can put together an entertaining and funny comedy show. Whew. What next?

Well, it seems a shame to kill off a perfectly good show after such a short run, especially as it has the potential to grow up into a full length solo show. So I’ll work on the gaps, test bits in the rooms, maybe try and get it up somewhere out of the city (or maybe the state) to keep it running until next year when, if my guardian angel permits, I’ll give it a full run in a city venue. The audiences that have seen it have loved it and it’s been a pleasure to perform for them.

If you want to see So I Married an Arab performed in your local area, drop me an email at: showinfo@thebarbjoseph.com and we’ll see if we can work something out.

The Calm before the Show

I haven’t blogged since my show writing panic and it’s only now, a week out from the preview show and the opening night of the festival, that I’m relaxed enough to think of chatting at all. This could be a good thing meaning I’m ready and I’m confident or it could be the delusion of fools confidence. Perhaps I’m so far behind myself I’ll just have to fake it on the night. Either way, if you’re in the vicinity of St Kilda next Wednesday and willing to risk $10 for a night out, come along and find out ….

Last Saturday night was a moment in comedy history, at least local history. I organised and MC’d a stand-up night fundraiser for the local primary school. The idea was a bit late into the fundraising planning, but with only a few weeks lead-in time we managed to set-up a venue (the school hall with some hired lights and sound), book eight of Melbourne’s hot comedians and myself as host, and sell over 100 tickets. It was a blast. Lots of fun, lots of laughs, lots of money raised…. That should get me out of canteen duty for the rest of the year!

Shifting Focus

Shifting Focus
Now that school has started and a routine is beginning to emerge, it behoves the stay-at-home parent to find something to do to fill in those six or so hours a day. There is the usual ‘call of the domestic’ for the anally retentive clean-freaks, the lure of daytime TV for the couch inclined (or perhaps reclined?), the gym for those who are half-way to Madonna and can see hope on the horizon, or for the rest of us there’s the combination of all of the above, done with little heart, little interest and mainly because we ‘should’ have something to show for our day. At least that’s how it goes in my raised-with-a-working-class-work-ethic place.

Rather than taking up these traditional time fillers I am instead struggling to complete the writing of my upcoming comedy festival show. I say struggling because as much as I love writing, there’s something about a looming deadline and the possibility of massive public humiliation that adds a something magical to the process – the magic of writer’s block. Or maybe comic’s block. Whatever its noun, it’s a truly annoying, blackboard-of-the-mind erasing irritant.

I’ve been doing plenty of gigs and mostly enjoying them, even with the hassle of arranging child-care, doing the work of the ‘witching hour’ (dinner, bath, bed, story time and goodnights) and the long drive into the city. But when I get there and my head is unwittingly cluttered with remembering to make a lunch, put the icy-pole money in a separate named envelope, repack the reader for the morning, ensuring warm clothes, sunhats, sunscreen and all weather-related eventualities are covered for the next day, I’m a blank on stage. Like a rabbit in the headlights, stunned into silence. It’s almost as if I’m so grateful to be out, to have people actually sitting and ready to listen to what I’m saying that the shock of the attention clears everything else away – including lots of the jokes I’d planned.

I probably need a memory upgrade - I think the disc is full. My everlovin’ spouse is the computer expert in our house; he was kind enough to point out that the model installed in my head may have been superseded some time ago then made some comparison to a Commodore 64. Yes, very funny. I’m supposed to make the jokes around here. So I’d better get on with it. No more procrastinating with blog posts, there’s an audience out there somewhere coming to hear some funny stuff, so I’d better oblige.

Australia Day

Ah, blessed is Australia Day, for it signifies the end of the school holidays and relief for parents everywhere (especially stay-at-home mums, and more especially work-from-home mums).

I’ve been trying to write a comedy show* to the background sounds of a Barbie CD of g-rated pop songs, which includes old Spice Girls songs, Vanessa Amorossi, and one of those indeterminate boy bands, played at full volume and accompanied by the screeches, shrieks and laughter of small children as they try to emulate the dancers using large stuffed toys as partners. Loads of fun for them … not so much for me (unless I give up and join them, a sad and sorry sight that kids just seem to rejoice in witnessing).

At this end of January there is the potential to get very tense, very quickly. The weather is heating up and not helping those of us on a short parental fuse. We’ve done the movies and run out of scare-free kids fare (not much available for the littlest movie fans and I’m not one for encouraging nightmares with scary movies); we’ve done the pool; we’ve done the picnic in the park with the whole neighbourhood in tow; we’ve done the visit to long-unseen friend from kinder; we’ve done sleepovers, both here and elsewhere; we’ve done the ‘no TV, be bored, you need to learn how to amuse yourself without electricity’ day – one of my less successful ventures, but necessary every now and then – at this point I’m all out of ideas and ever so glad there’s light at the end of the tunnel. Perhaps a day preparing school supplies will serve as sufficient amusement for one of the few days left, after that I think I’m going to cave in and let TV and computer games do the rest for me.

I tell you, my husband doesn’t know how good he’s got it (or perhaps he does) – long, focussed, uninterrupted periods of work, adult conversation, air conditioning, a good coffee machine, and in these days of modern technological communications, message takers on all his communication devices so he can’t be interrupted (even if I want to share my pain with him).

The silly thing is I’m sure there’ll be tears and fears next week as I send her off to school for the first time – and that’ll just be me. I know I’m going to miss all this mess and noise, I just hope I haven’t become so accustomed to it that I can’t work in peace and quiet. I bet I waste the first week watching Oprah and Dr Phil and feeling sad and wishing I had some kids underfoot. Uh-oh, just as I’m tasting freedom I can see the baby fairy on the horizon, better go and get that prescription filled.

*If you’re interested in finding out about my comedy, go to: www.thebarbjoseph.com

Christmas with the Family

The Beginning
Ho, ho, ho it must be Santa’s little joke – Christmas with the family. Why do we put ourselves through it? Last year we were safely ensconced in a snowy northern hemisphere winter, this year we’re back to bristling Aussie heat and all the family obligations that once again rear their head, doubly necessary as we so neatly missed all the fun last year.
So mid-December, after packing three suitcases of unnecessary clothes, we trouped off to Tullamarine and boarded our flight to Queensland. This year it was my family’s turn to enjoy our presence (and presents), it was also a much anticipated opportunity to finally meet the nephews who had arrived during our year in absentia.
There’s nothing cuter than one year old twins, all goos, gaas and giggles. (However there is something creepy about middle-aged twins don’t you think?) These little guys aren’t identical but like all babies from the same gene pool, it took a day or two to tell them apart.
We arrived in Melbourne summer attire, which we rapidly realised was overkill, directly into a Brisbane heat wave. I was beyond glowing and well into sweating by the time we walked from the aircraft to the baggage claim. A quick stop at the conveniences to remove some of the under layers took the edge off the heat and by the time we were packed into the hire car I was already imagining adding ice cubes to the brother’s new pool to make sure it would be cool enough. All I can say, weather wimp that I am, is thank heaven for vehicle air-conditioning.
It was a surprisingly short drive to their house considering they’re so far from town services and what we city folk know as civilisation and we made it in time for the bigger nephew’s three-year old birthday party. In full swing when we arrived, there were kids everywhere, adults I couldn’t match up with kids, and assorted pets hopefully scrounging party food amid a deluge of wrapping paper, packaging and empty paper plates.
Trying to be polite and meet everyone, all I could think of was how soon I could ditch the rather formal attire (considering the company) and cool off. Fortunately Queenslanders aren’t known for standing on ceremony so before long everyone’s in the pool with a cool bevvie in hand.
The Middle
Santa managed to understand my five-year old’s handwritten instructions as to our whereabouts (fortunately no burglars broke in and also read them, though I doubt they’d have understood her rather unique approach to spelling) so he duly delivered the required gifts under the odd looking and it seems, purloined, pine tree that was rapidly withering in the Queensland heat. Just as well, there were so many gifts under the tree I began to suspect an influx of orphans might be due. But no, they were all for those in attendance. There’s something about boys and cars isn’t there, that grown-ups, even those wanting to move beyond gender stereotypes, just can’t get past. Suffice to say, my brother took the fleet of vehicles his children now own and spread them out in front of the garage for a photo. Let’s just say I’m convinced that you can have too many cars. From now on it’s lego or puzzles for those nephews.
Santa even managed to remember the adults this year – a silk tie for Daddy and an ice-cream maker for Mummy. The tie almost borders the ‘socks-and-jocks’ category, but then the ice-cream maker is leaning on the edge of ‘household appliance’ – two gift categories that were banned early in the relationship but now seem to be emerging as the ‘I’ve-run-out-of-ideas’ response to gift time. Whatever, I was too hot to care and I rather took to the appliance, making several test batches of ice-cream while holidaying. Not so successful in blistering heat – as fast as the machine was freezing everything the heat was thawing it, but we had a go at a few. Now that I’ve done all the initial testing on my relatives I think I’ve worked out the bugs and can deliver a Sara Lee equivalent laced with motherly love.
The End
No trip to Queensland is complete without spending a goodly portion of your monthly budget on entry to a theme park. This trip Dreamworld was our destination of choice, mostly because The Wiggles (and Wiggles World) won’t be considered acceptable entertainment for much longer. After a few weeks at school I’m sure my child will have moved on to more sophisticated choices for a preppy. I can see it coming already – she elects to watch the teenage cartoons even though she’s well aware she’s not the target audience – in order to find out how to be a teenager, I guess. Ah, they grow up too fast.
Anyway, Dreamworld was more expensive than Disneyland and about 1/3 the size. It also opens too late to get in a good full day before the heat debilitates everyone. In that weather I’d have got there at 5am if I could have left by lunchtime to hide in a cool, shaded pool somewhere. After emptying several $3 bottles of chilled water over ourselves in an effort to cool off, we braved the lagoon for a swim.
Turns out every other person in Queensland was also there. Can’t say I was too keen, but it was so-o-o-o bloody hot that we braved the shallow-ish pool and joined the disgusting human soup. Eeuurrgghh. There were more bodies in the lagoon than in the river at the Kumbh Meba festival on the Ganges. And they were slightly more gross – at least the Hindu’s have the decency to cover up when they’re swimming. This pool was full of near naked people who should never be seen naked, not even by their doctor. Floating pubes, kids wee, and lord knows how much snot. The water was almost jellied, it was so thick with human flotsam. So after we scraped that off and disinfected ourselves we gave up our dreams for the day, taking from the park only what we came with and two inner-ear infections. Merry Christmas.