Loose Lips

The British comic, Jo Brand, has just published a book called 'Can't Stand Up for Sitting Down'. In a recent interview, she asserts that 'many comics are disturbed.' She may be in a unique position to make that statement, being both a comic and a former psychiatric nurse.

She's probably right. Comics, more than most professions, do have a skewed way of looking at the world. It's what we do. It's what makes things funny to us. And before you single us out, remember...you in the audience laugh at these skewed observations, so you're at least participating in the madness, if only for that odd hour as you sit in the dark of the comedy club or theatre and laugh. So you're in this too.

I've often thought that I must be 'disturbed' as I find things in life that are astonishingly stupid or hysterically funny and I seem to be the only one to do so. At least, my husband contends that I'm the only one he knows that thinks like me. And until I put it on stage in comic form, I sometimes think so too. It's when the audience laughs that I know that they understand that madness and recognize the truth of it. Laughter validates my 'disturbance' as it were. (So it's your fault after all!)

Here's a recent example: I read an article this week about the increase in numbers of women world wide who are opting for 'vaginal rejuvination' surgery. An increase of 300% in the last decade. Yes, they get their vaginal 'lips' tightened, tucked, and looking as close to 'new' as possible. In Australia alone nearly 1,400 women so far this year have opted for this cosmetic procedure. Now, as with most surgical procedures, there are valid medical reasons to have it done. But disturbingly (to carry out this theme) most of the women having this surgery do it purely for appearance's sake alone.

I'm at a loss to understand why. If I was going to have cosmetic surgery, I think I would do something that would be more visible to the vast majority of people I meet. Maybe a tummy tuck, a chin lift, getting rid of the puffiness around the eyes, that sort of thing. Presumably, unless you're a porn star or a high priced call girl, the audience for your physical upgrade would be quite small. So it must be just for personal satisfaction and self esteem. Again, it boggles my mind how your self esteem can depend on whether your labia is attractively smoothe as a Barbie doll or looks like a well worn saddle bag.

And so, in my disturbed comic way, I began to wonder. Just when is it that you decide you need to have 'vaginal rejuvination' or in medical jargon, a 'labioplasty'? Do you see yourself naked in the mirror one day and think, 'Good heavens! I look like I have Mick Jagger in a leg lock! And he needs a shave.' So I've come up with the top ten reasons for having a labioplasty, those moments when you realize you must get it done:

10. When you wear a short skirt on a windy day you sound like a tent flapping.
9. You trip over your shoe laces while running then remember those shoes don't have laces.
8. When you ride your bicycle you still need bicycle clips even if you're wearing shorts.
7. When you get a Brazilian, they charge you by the hour.
6. Instead of a pair of knickers, you have to wear a bra.
5. Your husband saw you in a pair of tights and said, 'Wow, your thighs have realled bulked up.'
4. You leave a trail in the sand when you walk on the beach.
3. You just had a 6kg baby and your fallopian tubes are dangling like a set of fleshy wind chimes.
2. You can still applaud your favourite band while carrying two beers back from the bar.

And the number one reason you know you need a labioplasty:

1. Your husband started calling you the 'HunchCrack of Notre Dame'.

Ok, so I'm a little disturbed. Time to go. I'm done flapping my lips for now.

The Eyes Have It

I went to the optometrist recently because my eyesight had been deteriorating. Badly, and with noticeable speed. I couldn't see people across the street, or at the other side of a room. The audiences were just a blur. Even if I knew someone well, they had to be practically standing on my foot for me to recognize their face. That's pretty bad.

Ok, I still took my time making that appointment. First, because I'm a wuss about doing anything remotely medical and I'm a major procrastinator. I'm of the "wait til I get a tooth ache before going to the dentist" school of thinking. Second, my schedule was hectic. But when it got to the point that I was reading with reading glasses AND a magnifying glass and still couldn't see the newsprint or computer clearly, and feared for my life stepping off stage (and hopefully not falling down the steps) even I had to admit I really needed to get a new pair of glasses. So I finally coordinated a date and off I went. I just couldn't put it off any longer.

I hadn't been to my optometrist in so long, he retired. No, really. Same receptionist, different doctor. So I go in to see the new doctor and say, 'I need a new prescription for my reading glasses.' So he hits the projector and brings up the eye chart. He: 'Can you see the bottom line?' Me: 'Not a chance.' He changes to a larger font. He: 'How about now?' Me: 'Not even close'. He changes the font again. He: ' What about now?' Me: 'Well, that depends on how you define 'see'. I know it's there, but it's really fuzzy.' By the time he got the giant Sesame Street letters up on the screen (as in 'today's program is brought to you by the letter E' with Elmo dwarfed next to it) I admitted defeat. He cut the screen and looked into my eyes with assorted light sources and instruments of ocular measurement. Then he said, 'I won't give you a prescription. It won't help. You have serious cataracts and need surgery.' Me: 'Are you sure?' He: 'Pretty sure. I went to school for this type of thing.'

So Dr. Hook (seriously, that's his name) sent me to the cataract surgeon for a consultation, assuring me he was one of the best in the business. So hubby and I trundle downtown to see the surgeon. The office was very efficient looking, everyone on staff wearing suits or the female version of suits (black skirt, white blouse, black jacket) and busy checking people in, pulling files, doing eye tests, giving instructions, making appointments, answering phones. You know it's a thriving (as in lucrative) business when everything is gray carpet, silver lettering and large paintings. While waiting in the waiting area, we were amazed at the numbers of people coming in and out. Hubby says, 'Wow, there's certainly a lot of people doing cataract surgery. Who knew?' I said, 'I don't think some of them knew themselves. I'm sure if you asked some of them 'And what brought you here today?' they'd say, 'I don't know. I was walking past the building, a guy in a suit punched me in the eye, gave me a card, pointed me in the direction of the lift and said, 'fourth floor'.' We both burst out laughing. Turns out, by the looks we got, we were the only ones that found that remotely funny.

So we meet the surgeon, a lovely man, who by the way seems to be one of only two people with a sense of humor in that office that we could tell, and scheduled the surgery. Well, surgeries, as it turns out since one eye goes one week, the next on the following week. (Well, they go together, but only one gets worked on at a time. It's not like you can send them in alone or anything. Although, that would certainly be convenient.)

Since I would not be able to face stage lights for a week after each surgery, I had to schedule the surgeries around my gig calendar. My last gig for October was out in the country town of Melrose for the SA Rural Women's Association, and I booked the first operation for the day after I got back home. However, I came home not only with a nice cheque for my work, but a bad cold. I called the surgeon to say I was sick, stuffed up and coughing, should I cancel? I mean, all I needed was to cough at an inappropriate time and have the old scalpel slip and do a Van Gogh. As it turns out I was well enough to go through with it, and managed to keep from coughing for the time it took to do the surgery. And boy am I glad I went through with it.

I can see! How the heck did I put this off for so long? It was like going from analog tv to high definition tv...things are now sharper and there's more color and light in the world. That butterfly bush in bloom at the end of the driveway that I thought was mauve...hello, it's a beautiful bluish purple! I can't be more enthusiastic or appreciative of my surgeon's talent. In the old days, people just went blind or lived with impaired vision. And now, how lucky are we that science gives us the option to restore a key part of our lives - sight!

I have learned that there are things we take for granted, either through ignorance, fear, or laziness. Our senses are some of those. How wonderful would it be for a blind person to be able to see again? I can't imagine the total reversal of perception that would be. My poor sight was more of an inconvenience than anything else. But to see clearly again...a miracle!

And now I think, boy, wouldn't it be great if instead of just restoring physical sight, doctors could some day restore a higher level of sight? To maybe see things as others see them, to appreciate the differences in our backgrounds, to even see things as they really are, instead of how we imagine them to be. To remove the cloudy film of prejudice and ignorance, and see the human race and our world for all the beauty it really has.

Now that, I wouldn't put off .

Contested Development

I did something this past weekend that I said I would never do again. I allowed myself to be recruited into another comedy contest. After the last one, for a national TV show, I told myself 'no mas!' (yes, I occasionally talk to myself in Spanish.)

Nerve wracking and stomach churning, competitions are so not me. I never liked competitions of any kind. I prefer to compete with myself and not fellow human beings in anything...sport, card games, anything. Other than the occasional death match in Scrabble, I"m just not into it. I don't get the point. Especially in something so non-quantifiable as comedy. It's hard to judge comedy because of the variety of styles. You can't really compare apples to apples or in the case of comedians, nuts to nuts. At least not to say one is better than another. More accomplished maybe, but not necessarily better, or best. And for this particular competition, with judges from a trendy magazine and a radio station that is not exactly my demographic, I had a pretty good idea before I left where I would end up in this exercise. I even predicted who the winner was going to be. And I was right. (Not to take anything away from the winner, he is a very good comic.)

But the dangling carrot of a five thousand dollar prize was too tempting to pass up. So against all logic and better judgement I travelled to the west coast of Oz, took a ferry to a holiday island, and found myself the lone female comic among a field of nine competitors. I knew many of the guys so it was at the very least a nice way to catch up with comics from other cities across the country, trade horror stories and lie about our various projects, and inevitably, make fun of the comics and comedy promoters we don't like. (Now that was fun.)

The night of the competition, the hall was packed. There was a high profile and extremely highly paid MC (our collective jaws dropped when we heard the price tag), and lots of alcohol for both the comics (not me, since I don't drink) and the audience. The line up was decided by lots, and I was first up in the second bracket, a pretty good place in a three hour show. One advantage to being the lone woman, they tend to want to sandwich you in the middle. (Insert joke here.)

We only had 10-15 minute sets so I made sure all my stuff was edited down to the biggest laughs in the best bits and I blitzed it. I have to say, I enjoyed the audience and my set rocked. I know comics always say that, but mine was an homage to the great Dave Grant...bang, bang, bang, they barely had time to breathe between punchlines. It killed. I had to pause at spots for applause breaks. I loved it.

In my heart, I knew I wasn't going to win this contest, but it was still a disappointment when they announced the winner. And I really got mad...at myself for being so stupid and buying into the competition side of things. What was I thinking? Well, I was thinking CASH, actually. But who needs this kind of bummer? And self inflicted too. Jeez.

The thing with competitions is that there is a winner and there are lots of losers. And who wants to feel like a loser? Comics are already their worst critics. We beat ourselves up enough when a joke dies or you and the audience don't match and your entire set is one flush away from the crapper. You would think that's enough. But no, we can be gluttons for punishment.

So, I've learned another hard lesson. And even if I didn't win this contest I made a few more fans who vowed to come to see me next time I'm in their city - not counting the drunk girls who had to have a photo taken with me and who will probably see it later and think 'who is this and where were we?'; - I bonded with a few more comics and did a bit of networking and really did have a great show. So that's all great.

But, never again. Of course, that's what I said the last time.

House Beautiful

The pest control guy came this morning. I forgot he was coming to do the annual house inspection. So I was still in my pajamas and checking emails, socks on my feet, hair awry, with a half finished cup of tea still trying valiantly to wake me up completely to face the day.

It wasn't so bad until he walked into the master bedroom. Half made bed, a regular "Fibber McGee and Molly" style closet. You know the kind so stuffed full of...well, stuff... that you have to be prepared for an avalanche of sorts when you pry it open. Because not only is it full of clothes, but it's the place I shove miscellaneous stuff when surprise visitors arrive. To be honest, I think there's still some stuff back there from past surprise visits. But I forgot about the pest control guy. And of course, he had to check all the spaces, including the magic exploding closet. Oops.

Okay, so I'm no Martha Stewart. I have a small embroidered wall hanging in the hallway that says, "A clean house is the sign of a wasted life" and I'm sticking to that sentiment. I'm not obsessive. At the end of my life I don't think I'll be saying, "Gosh, I wish I had polished those tiles more." One has priorities. Mine is not making sure some random photographer from Better Homes and Gardens can drop by and do a stunning photo spread any time of the day or night. Good luck. Although I do usually have fresh flowers on the dining table. (Let me just move the newspapers so you can see them.)

My house isn't dirty. It's lived in, but healthy. It has character. It has life. It has less than optimal storage. And two dogs who think they own the place. And a husband who has no concept of 'a place for everything and everything in its place'. Which is why we resort to the occasional reshuffle of stuff into the nearest closet before we open the front door to visitors.

However, once visitors arrive, there is good conversation, laughing, coffee and munchies, and hospitality. There are friendly dogs who enjoy a good throw of the tennis ball or a Scoobie snack. One of them even does doggy tricks; he just learned to moon walk. There's the sound of jazz or Hawaiian slack key guitar from the stereo, paintings and photographs on the walls, posters from past shows and Fringe festivals. Occasionally, there is the aroma of fresh baking. It's a home.

If you're interested in white glove inspections, this is probably not the place for you. Perhaps a visit to the nearest hospital, where instead of the sweet aroma of banana bread baking, you can inhale the sharp tang of bleach while you admire the precise hospital corners of the bed sheets.

So as I wave goodbye to the pest control guy and make my way through the dog fur tumbleweeds that need yet another quick vacuum, I polish off the last of my tea and feel lucky to have this sometimes untidy but always loving home.

F*** Martha Stewart...this is living!

Selective Memory

The Moose (that would be hubby) and I stopped in to visit Mum today. As we left to go home, Mum gave the Moose his childhood favorite treat, Wagon Wheels. Well, mini wagon wheels. For those not familiar, Wagon Wheels consist of a round cookie base with a layer of marshmallow creme. The whole thing is then covered in chocolate. Apparently, when the Moose was a mere mooslet back in Jolly Olde, this was his favorite confection. Mum talked about the excited five year old Moose with thruppence (three pence for the non-Anglophile) clutched in his little hoof dashing out to get his Wagon Wheel, a young man on a mission. Lovely memories of childhood were dutifully and lovingly recalled.

Later this evening at home, over a cup of hot tea, the Moose happily started in on a mini Wagon Wheel (half the size of the original and twice as expensive - welcome to the 21st century). I asked him, 'So, how is it? Is it all you remembered it to be?' He swallowed and said, ' Yeah. Dry and slightly crappy.'

I couldn't stop laughing.

This one incident is enough to convince me that revisiting comforting childhood memories is better without reality intruding. Like so much else in life, a little self delusion is not necessarily a bad thing.

Body of Work

My husband and I went to Sexpo last night, the sex business exposition at the Royal Show grounds. I don't really know what I expected; definitely something more fun and interesting than it turned out to be, though. It was a cross between a porn convention and a side show. It reminded me of a night of WWE wrestling, with slightly less...very slightly less...silicone.

The highlight of the evening for me was a sex education lecture by comedian Mark Butler, complete with white lab coat and chalk board diagrams and the volunteer from the audience. You had to run the gauntlet of leather gear, massage oils and the wonderful world of dildos to get to him but he was certainly worth the effort.

Lots of giggling single girls, small groups of single guys, and lots of couples attend Sexpo. Then there are the lone men of a certain age who are not real big on personal hygiene that spend too much time smiling and collecting various goodies from around the exhibits. The kind that just appear suddenly behind you in a crowd. Creepy.

In one of the exhibits, a guy called Pricasso paints portraits with his penis. He is a short guy in his mid fifties at least with a decently enough kept body but who insists on wearing a cowboy hat over long bleached blond locks. When not painting, his 'paint brush' is kept in a silver thong held in place with unnaturally tanned buttocks. I saw him do a painting, and it's not that he's a bad painter or anything, but really...how do you wake up one morning and say "I think I'm going to use my penis to paint portraits" and then do it? That takes, well...a penis obviously, but also balls. I don't know that I would have gotten up the nerve to tell my parents where all the money they spent on art lessons was heading.

Another exhibit called Consensual something or other featured a wooden cross like thingy with restraints. The guy selling it was wearing a business suit. I laughed out loud at the whole suit and tie business. Clearly, here is a man who takes his deviance seriously. He's all business, even sitting next to a six foot wooden sex toy. Looking back, I should have asked for the sales pitch. I would have asked about height adjustments for us short deviants. Hmmmm. Well, perhaps it's best I missed my chance.

Well, I did learn one thing at the exhibition. "Man who paint with penis should not rinse brush in turpentine."

Time to Get a Grip!

Whatever happened to the manly art of the hand shake?

When I was growing up, men shook hands. Shaking hands was a greeting ritual; it was the male equivalent of a woman's kiss when she met a female friend or relative. It often sealed an agreement between men for which no paperwork was necessary. A handshake was your word of honour. It was, like your word, your bond. If you couldn't "shake on it" it was suspect.

Traditionally, an open hand showed no weapon, and so there was a trust built in to an encounter between two men. That manly encounter also showed the strength of each man in the strength of his hand shake with I suppose a little of the "I could hurt you if I wanted, but I choose to act like a gentleman" in it.

Women generally don't shake hands, although we've all done it on occasion. And when we do, there's nothing more of a turn off than having a hand shake stronger than the man whose hand you're gripping. Ick! And if that hand is not only limp but damp? Double ick! I once worked a show while I was still at the University of Hawaii with Jane Fonda and her then love interest, Donald Sutherland. Let me just say, Jane had a grip of iron and Donald, well, he was definitely a disappointing double ick.

I have a gay friend in Honolulu who is a successful business man. He has a hand shake that can make your eyes water. It's not just firm, it's crushing. His father was a police sergeant and always told him, "Shake hands like a man!" He went a little overboard. I've seen men actually wince shaking his hand over a business deal. So a proper hand shake is clearly not related to whether you're a girl or have girly tendencies.

When I was raising my son, I couldn't count on his father teaching him anything about being a gentleman, so it often fell to me to impart what characteristics I thought a young man should have. One of those things was a good hand shake. To me, it says a lot about you when you can look someone square in the eyes and firmly shake hands. So that's what I taught him.

But for most of my son's generation, and for younger men in general, there is not much hand shaking that I can see. There is a lot of knuckle grazing, thumb hooking, and palm slapping. But no shaking. What they do appears to be more complicated ritual than substance. You don't actually get to feel the other's strength of character so much as his ability to be "cool"...and remember all the right moves. You don't seem to connect substantially.

I think maybe that's the thing. In the cyber age where you can have a thousand "friends" on Facebook, but actually know just a fraction of that number, where computer games are replacing the neighborhood ball game with friends and school mates, and where being perceived to be cool is just as or maybe more important than actually recognizing character that you can count on, maybe the hand shake requires too much commitment and personal involvement. We don't really trust our neighbors any more. Heck, in a lot of communities, we barely know who our neighbors are. We don't actually touch people any more, do we?

I think it's time to re-emphasize the manly art of the hand shake. Looking someone in the eye, extending a hand in friendship, agreement and mutual strength might just go a long way towards rebuilding a community of trust between all of us.

Well, I could be wrong, but that's what I think.

Star Struck

How big of a girl are you when you get the giggles after you talk to someone famous? Not the Justin Bieber screamy teary bullshit famous. But someone who's actually accomplished something in their lives, both during and after their famous career. I had one of those moments today. Afterwards, I laughed at myself. And giggled again!

The person who called me this morning is known as an exceptional athlete in an extremely popular and competitive sport here in Australia. He's distinguished himself not only during his sporting career, but subsequently as a business leader in the state as well. He is well liked and respected in both fields. His name is easily recognizable even to those who don't particularly follow the careers of sports heroes. (Yet he was humble enough to spell it for me, like I didn't know who the heck he was!) He now owns several hotels, and called me to book me for a function at one of them.

I have to say, over the course of my nearly sixty years I've done some unusual things, been to some interesting places and have met some rather accomplished, famous, and even infamous people. That list includes radicals, revolutionaries, world leaders, entertainment legends, authors, TV personalities and politicians. I've worked with some and respected and liked them. I've met others and wanted to give them a slap.

Like a lot of people, I read about the famous and wonder what they're like. Or judge them by what I read. "He sounds like a wanker. What a bitch she is. Doesn't that guy sound sweet? Isn't she humble?" You know what I'm talking about. Reading the latest (or in some cases, just late) magazines in the dentist's office, you form your opinions of the high and mighty. Of course, not knowing them personally, you have no idea if what you've read gives you any real clue as to the person themselves. But it's fun to speculate and read the latest PR spin on some one's life.

So when you come face to face with the person behind the smiling photograph on the cover of Women's Day or Rolling Stone, it can be a let down. Alternatively, it can be an eye opener. I once met a rather vilified world leader, actually spoke with him and spent a few hours observing him in action and listening to him talk, and came away quite liking him and seeing a different side to his personality and politics. I've had a respect and affection for him ever since. I once worked with a world famous comic with a hippie persona and saw his transformation from his Armani suit off stage to the bandanna and ripped blue jeans on stage in front of his screaming fans and thought, 'if only these people knew'. I've seen an Oscar nominated actor waiting patiently in line at the Honolulu Comedy Club, refusing to be given special treatment and ushered in ahead of the rest of the punters, and I've seen a silicone enhanced MTV presenter be a complete bitch when the cameras were off. It takes all kinds. Famous or not, the character of the person is what counts and is often revealed in simple ways. Sometimes the truth of it gets lost in the public relations jungle and most of us will never know who the real person is. So when you actually get to meet or interact with these "stars" it's quite an experience.

And yet, after all of the above, I still got the giggles after that phone call this morning. I can't imagine why. I mean, he's not the first or the most famous person I've met. Oh, I was quite business-like and polite while we spoke. I kept my asides to myself. When he said, "you may have heard of me" and ended with him spelling his name for me like I hadn't read it a million times in the paper, I didn't say "Are you nuts!? Of course I know who you are!" I liked that he was humble and I'm looking forward to meeting him in person next month. I hope I don't get stupid on the day and embarrass myself.

Or worse yet, giggle like a girl!

Jailhouse Rock?

A small article in Saturday's edition of the Adelaide Advertiser was titled "Prison Party" and subtitled "Corby Silent On Clemency Plea". For those of you outside Australia, a few years ago a young woman named Schapelle Corby was convicted of smuggling marijuana into Bali in her boogie board. She denied knowing anything about the drugs, but was tried and convicted and sentenced to twenty years in Kerobokan prison. The Indonesians are very tough on drug smuggling. Numerous appeals and trials have yielded no relief. Prison life anywhere is not pleasant, but in a country like Bali perhaps even less so, especially for a westerner not used to Third World conditions. Needless to say Ms. Corby's health has been deteriorating under prison life, far away from family and friends with no hope (so far) of clemency. Her family is concerned that she is literally losing her mind; she has already been hospitalized several times for psychotic breaks. Kerobokan prison is also home to other Australian drug smugglers, several of whom have been condemned to either life sentences or the death penalty. A grim situation all round.

Ms. Corby refused to talk to the reporter of the article, or make any comment on further appeals for clemency or her deteriorating mental state. On this occasion she was seen at "festivities at Bali's Kerobokan prison". What kind of "festivities" you ask? Perhaps a respite from the harsh conditions, a celebration of some kind, a party for the inmates to relieve the unbearable loneliness, insanity, boredom and suffering in such a hopeless universe? Guess again.

This prison party was "to mark the anniversary of Indonesia's penal system" at which "jail guards and officials played games of table tennis and volleyball."

What????

This is cruel and unusual punishment. Surely, this must be covered somewhere by the Geneva Convention? I mean, come on. The last thing I'd want to see while I'm in some hell hole of a prison for twenty years or life or waiting to be put to death, is my jailers having a good time playing games and celebrating the prison system. "Oh yeah, pass me a cup of that punch and would you make sure mine has a Jonestown sized dose of hemlock in it? Thanks ever so much." And they say Schapelle is losing her mind?

I can't imagine what a party to celebrate the prison system is like. Is there music? A cake with "Happy Anniversary Penal System" written in icing on it? Are there balloons shaped like handcuffs and night sticks on the tables? Do they gather around and sing when they cut the cake? "For we're not jolly good fellows, for we're not jolly good fellows, for we're not jolly good fellows...which nobody can deny..." Please tell me they don't give the prisoners gifts. "Here you go. A commemorative twenty year calendar."

The mind boggles.

Animal Attraction in Adelaide

The big excitement at the Adelaide Zoo for the past few months has been the newly arrived giant pandas, Wang Wang and Funi.

Of course, as comics, many of us have taken our pot shots at the whole event: their names, which fall funny on western ears; the whole propaganda and PR campaign bringing them here; their expensive new compound; the politics of the whole thing. Me included, having written and performed a bit on them just this past Friday night at the Rhino Room. People have been streaming into the zoo to see them and ticket money has been streaming into the coffers of the zoo in return. Fair enough. They're a rare magnificence in nature, and are quite beautiful animals.

For those who haven't been to the zoo, there is now 24 hour a day Panda Cam. It's like Big Brother for pandas. Cameras have been mounted in their little living enclosure (not in the adjacent extended fake forest enclosure since apparently Wang Wang found the first camera and chewed it up) and you can see them eating, wading in their pools, waddling around, surveying their domain. Each panda has its own "apartment", as they are not yet ready to mate and need to be kept apart until the right moment like the Dating Game when the two contestants finally meet to go on their exciting date after asking and answering stupid questions: " If you were an animal, which one would you be?" Let me guess....Panda? Wang Wang and Funi apparently won an all expenses paid stay in Adelaide, South Australia. I'm pretty sure if they had a choice they would have stayed home in China where the weather is more to their liking. Australian summer is going to be a rude shock. Even though they do have the perks of air conditioning, it's hardly the same.

Panda Cam launched this week with its own hype. How much fun will it be to see them any time you want, just being themselves? Not much, apparently. Twenty four hour Panda Cam is a great sounding idea, but in fact, depending on when you check in, you may see hours of nothing. I mean, they sleep a lot. And, like most people, don't exactly do much in the privacy of their own homes that would qualify them for the daytime Emmy award or a gold Logie. And without having the fun of sex, there's not really much else to do but eat and sleep. Not exactly riveting stuff.

Still, I have to admit, since I started watching Panda Cam - to be honest, initially just to get fodder for my comedy gig - I've been a bit hooked on checking in on the big black and white beauties at least once a day. If I see them at all, they're in a corner sleeping - or in Wang Wang's case being a typical guy and scratching himself in ecstasy - or occasionally munching on a bamboo snack and really, just looking a bit bored.

And that's the part that I find sad. Zoos can talk about their desires to study these animals, any animals, for scientific advancement, for knowledge and preservation; they can talk about the educational value to the community and impacting the little minds of future world leaders with a passion for conservation; they can talk about mating and increasing the numbers of endangered species. But ultimately, we take these animals from their native environments, put them in a man made enclosure, get people to pay to see them, take their flash photos and buy the target merchandise at the Zoo shop (get your panda hats and pens, pennants and books while they last!) and fool ourselves into thinking this is good, this is normal, this is right.

I'm reminded of the very funny movie take-off on the old Dragnet television series. There's a bizarre robbery at the Los Angeles zoo. When the two main characters as played by Dan Aykroyd and Tom Hanks get there to investigate, Dan Aykroyd sings the praises of the zoo and Tom Hanks refutes his high praise by saying, "Do you think these animals like it here? Do you think they all lined up going 'pick me, pick me, I want to live on damp cement' ?"

There's a thin line we walk here. We've managed to wipe out so many species of animals while ruining their natural homes along with the native people and cultures that they live alongside. We've created a world in which they can no longer live and thrive. And our solution to try to reverse the situation we've deliberately created is to bring them to an enclosed world of our making where we can once again control them, but this time "for their own good."

Boy, how many times have we heard that argument? And the really sad thing is, it's all we can do.

Even though I find zoos frustrating places in some respects, where we capture animals from around the world for our viewing pleasure and can never give them enough space to live in, I confess I do like going to them. I love seeing these magnificent creatures of our world, the endless variation of feathers and scales, beautiful colours and scary teeth and claws; love listening to their incessant chatter and song. Even in an artificial environment it reminds me of the real wonder and beauty of this planet. And since I don't have the funds to travel the world to see them in the wild, I'll make do with the experience of seeing them in captivity. Sometimes, though, I really wish I didn't have to.

Family Treasures

I got an envelope in the mail today from my Aunty Elaine in Honolulu, one of the last surviving members of my mother's 9 brothers and sisters. I last saw her when I was in Hawaii over the Christmas holidays. My cousins brought her to one of the shows I did at the local comedy club in Waikiki. She's in her 80's now and a bit fragile, but like all the Werners, looks half her age, and still very ladylike, soft spoken and well dressed. She mentioned then that she would send me some photos. They arrived today, along with a hand written note in careful, gently formed script on her personal note paper - "memo from Elaine Awana" printed at the top.

I had to smile when I opened the envelope. Inside was another envelope which she had originally sent, addressed simply to "Kehaulani Jackson, Woodside, Australia". It was returned to her by Australia Post for insufficient address. What's wrong with them, don't they know Kehaulani?

The photos were of my grandparents Abraham and Mary Kepa'a Werner and my great grandmother who my Aunty just called Tutu Hina. I have only one photo of my grandparents, and none of my grandma's mother, so this was a treat and a treasure. There's something compelling about looking at old photos. Holding them in your hand, they transport you to another time and place, and you think about the people in them and try to imagine being there, what they were like, and the times in which they lived. It's a physical feeling, like touching the people you see looking back at you, a time machine in a piece of paper. Digital images will never have the same magic.

My memories of my maternal grandparents are all too brief. My mother's family was large, she was 4th of 10 children, and I was born third of her four, so there was a big gap in age. By the time I was born Grandpa Werner was already 75 years old and he died when I was just seven. I had a bit more time with my grandma, since she was twenty years younger than grandpa, having married him in 1912 when she was just 2 months short of her 17th birthday.

In the photo of my grandparents together, they are standing side by side, my grandma looking very Hawaiian in a floral print dress wearing what looks like a Ni'ihau shell necklace and small corsage, her long dark hair pulled into a bun at the back. I never saw her wear it any other way. Grandpa was in shirt and tie. With his large nose and curly hair, he looked every inch the old Jewish gentleman. In the background, tree fern and palm trees. Perhaps they were at a wedding, there's no date on the photo to place it. I can't help looking at this image and thinking, how did my Hawaiian grandmother born on the island of Maui just two years after Queen Liliuokalani was deposed by American businessmen come to marry this man from La Salle, Illinois? I know grandpa came to Hawaii as a soldier in the US Army, but how ever did they meet and marry, much less create a family of 8 daughters and 2 sons? How different could they have been?

There is another photo of my grandmother, a studio shot, when she was perhaps sixty or so. It's hard to tell an actual age with her. Her complexion was always smoothe, no wrinkles. But her face had filled out more, and her hair was graying but not completely white. She was never a lively, talkative woman, and her quiet smile makes her seem serene yet quite forceful at the same time. Perhaps raising ten children in tough times as she did, you didn't have time for a lot of nonsense. She worked hard, and she was always organized, neat, and managed to seem quite elegant at all times even though the Werners were not well off in the least. She was a fastidious housekeeper. She cooked, sewed, crocheted, knitted; she was a talented baker and kept a tidy garden. She always had something for us when we went to visit - fresh baked gingerbread, a ripe guava or mango from one of her fruit trees. I'm sure she would be appalled at my lack of domestic talent.

In a photo of my grandmother as a child of about 8 or 10 with her brother John, they stand on either side of their mother. The poignant thing about this photo is my Aunty's note that both my grandma and her brother were what the westerners would call "illegitimate" having been conceived not by my great grandmother's husband. But in Hawaiian tradition, these children were loved and accepted as full members of their families, without shame attached, and they bore the Kepa'a name. I love thinking about this concept because it still applies in modern Hawaii. Indeed, it applied in my immediate family as my younger sister and I both have fathers who were not my mother's husband. Yet my dad (not my biological father who I always refer to as "the sperm donor") loved and raised us as his own, being the only father we knew and loved.

Receiving these photos from my Aunty sent me to the old photo albums to see more pictures of my extended family. Looking at children's faces who I know now as adults, seeing black and white photos of house parties filled with smiling relatives no longer with us, my parents who have both passed still in the bloom of youth, my older brother and sister in blue jeans as teenagers in the 1950's, work mates in the office, weddings and christenings and trips to the beach, old houses and views of buildings in downtown Honolulu long demolished. Old friends and new, generations on parade. What a treasure.

Memories are precious, like these old photographs, and need to be kept, reviewed and passed along. I am sending my Aunty a thank you note, but no words can really express how grateful I am that she sent these little treasures to me.

Grotty Friday

There's something deliciously naughty about staying in your pajamas all day. It feels rebellious, bohemian, anti-social, creatively artistic. Or, as my husband so aptly pointed out, just grotty.

I spent the entire day yesterday in my pajamas. It wasn't premeditated. I had a late night, woke up about 9-ish (not my idea, but that of two impatient dogs slobbering over my pillow and pawing me for attention) and after letting the dogs out headed for my office. Lucky for me, my office is located just across the hall from the bedroom. It's not like I drove downtown and waddled into a room full of co-workers with un-brushed teeth and bed hair or anything. Anyway, once I started checking emails and making a list of tasks and returning phone calls and such, before I knew it, it was time for my daily session of Tai Chi. Tai Chi works well when you have flowered pajama pants on. Comfy. After Tai Chi, oh look at the time, it's time for lunch.

Lunch is always at the coffee table in the lounge accompanied by television during the weekdays. It's the only time I can wrestle the TV remote from my husband, whose evenings are spent relaxing after a long day at work watching sports, crime shows or the Biggest Loser. Don't ask me why. So it was me and John Nettles and Midsommer Murders and a chef salad. And an ever hopeful Labrador, Tuscan, staring vigilantly at every move of the fork, just on the off chance that something tasty will fall to the floor and I'll ask him to vacuum it up for me since I'm too lazy to pick it up myself and throw it away. Labradors are handy like that.

After lunch it's back to the office to sort out various plans for future shows, investigate some theatres on line, answer more emails and outside to the laundry room to throw a load of towels in the washer and throw a few tennis balls for our over active red Kelpie, Nani. Then it's time to reward myself with a couple of rounds of the latest Hidden Object game online. Love those.

Before you know it, hubby's home and we chat about his day before he heads into his office to deal with a few work details of his own. At this point I'm thinking I should really get changed and I really need to wash my hair. But instead I head to the kitchen to make dinner, and after dinner what's the point, my hair won't dry before bed time. If I sleep on damp hair I will get up with my hair looking very close to Elsa Lancaster's in Bride of Frankenstein minus the white streaks. So I make a sink full of hot soapy water, put the dinner dishes in and head back to my office. I get on line to check the newspapers from Honolulu to keep up with what's happening in the old home town then remember the towels are still in the washer. Run out and put them in the dryer, then back to the kitchen to do the dishes. After that, I finish the first of two library books I got last week and then it's time for bed. And conveniently, I'm already in my pajamas.

What a great day. I really enjoyed that.

Of course, today I have to boil those pajamas after living in them all day, but oh well. Hair's washed, teeth cleaned, and I'm back in the land of the groomed and appropriately dressed. Ah, well. All good things must come to an end.

It Takes a Village

I like where I live. I do still miss where I used to live, Honolulu. I miss the familiarity of culture, scenery, history, family and friends. But I like where I live now, in the village of Woodside in the Adelaide Hills.

When I first moved to Adelaide in 2002, I told my husband I didn't want to live in the city. I've always lived with flowers, trees, birds singing. The mountain I grew up on and the little haven of Papakolea, the Hawaiian homestead where I was born and raised. was cool and comfortable and I wanted similar. No problem, he said. He'd always lived in the Adelaide hills and he knew that would fit the bill. So, since 2002 we've had houses in the hills: first at Verdun, then in Lobethal, and now in the village of Woodside.

We moved to Woodside a few years ago because my husband's job required him to have a larger home office, and the house we had was way too small. So my husband Glynn found the house we're in now, a lovely two bedroom with office space suitable for both of us. His office runs the length of the house and mine is smaller, adjacent to his. Perfect for his business and mine.

We have a large garden which I love. We inherited a white stone statue of a sitting Buddha from our friend Viv, and he sits tucked close to a large unidentified green shrub in the middle of the garden under some trees holding court and surveying the scene. We can see him through the full length windows of the kitchen/dining room and he adds a nice touch of peace to our surroundings. Rose bushes and the bluish-purple agapanthus line our driveway and fill the corner of the back garden, so I have lots to cut and dress the inside of the house. Pots of basil, parsley, rosemary, mint and thyme sit on two small tables against the green fence at the end of the patio. I've just planted some spring bulbs, so those pots are there too, waiting to bloom. Asparagus fern, a miniature lemon tree and a jade plant in glorious form round out the potted garden. A lone (for now) raspberry petunia pot hangs at the end of the covered patio next to the wind chimes and a lovely hanging sun metal sculpture from my friend Yvonne in Honolulu.

One good thing about this garden is that it is solidly fenced. Our Labrador, Tuscan, is a bit of an escape artist. In Lobethal, the entire neighborhood knew him. He'd dig his way under the fence and escape to the market, or go for a walk to the football oval. Sometimes our friends at the local deli would round him up. Luckily, he has a tag on his collar with our phone number on it so we met many people in the course of his escapes who phoned us to give their Tuscan sightings. There was one weak spot he found in the fence here that caused us a bit of panic when he went for a couple of walks around Woodside, but that's since been fixed. He usually doesn't get too far, as our red Kelpie, Nani, rats on him as soon as he leaves. She's very good at alerting us to his disappearances. And when he returns, she jumps all over him and growls her disapproval. Both dogs have lots of room to run around, and they have fun barking at the back fence at passing kids or council workers. Doggie fun! They're happy.

For me, because Glynn has the car all day at work, I'm a bit housebound. Bus service in the hills is limited. Luckily, our little village has all the conveniences I need within a few minutes walk. Literally. You can walk the entire length of the main street in about five minutes, possibly more if you stop to read the bulletin board outside the market to see who's got puppies for sale or read the posters advertising country fairs or garage sales. But within that short strip is a church (you can set your watch by the chimes every Sunday), the bakery, two pubs, the butcher, a fruit and vegetable shop, a masseuse, a clothing store, a bed and breakfast, the Foodland supermarket (the manager there has a side business - he cuts our lawn), a deli, a great little cafe, a news agent (newspapers, magazines, stationery and stuff), a couple of antiques/collectible stores, the bank, a ceramics studio run out of the artist's home, two hair salons and a barber, a veterinarian, a medical clinic, the post office, and the library. Not counting stuff like the picture framer, the service station, the pharmacy and a few other businesses. Off the main road is the public pool, the police sub-station and the elementary school, and where the rest of us live.

On our street, John Street, we know a lot of our neighbors. The kid who works at the butcher's lives across the street. An old woman who listens to the ABC radio show I do also lived there til she moved in with her daughter. Our plumber lives up the street as does the young woman who owns one of the hair salons. Up close to the end of our street is the couple who owns the deli the next village over. Our next door neighbors Bec and Cam held a neighborhood party last year for everyone to get to meet and chat. A couple of weeks ago they alerted us to one of Tuscan's escapes which they knew about since this time Nani also took off with him but ended up hanging out at their house instead of following Tuscan down the street. (I baked them a loaf of banana bread as a thank you.) They've just had a new baby so the neighborhood has grown. It's a comfortable and friendly little corner of the world here. I like that.

So while I miss Hawaii, my son, family, friends, the comfort of familiar surroundings and landmarks, I'm enjoying my new family and friends and getting to know my new home as well.

So what are you waiting for? We've got a spare room...when are you coming to visit?

Action, Jackson

You've heard the expression, "Action dispels fear". Well, if you haven't, let me tell you it's true. Rather than stew about a problem, do something constructive, and your fear will get lost in the doing.

Well, I was afraid I was turning into a complete lump, so I decided to do something about it. I decided to take Tai Chi. I remember seeing those ancient Chinese elders together early in the morning, slowly and gracefully doing their Tai Chi in the park, thinking, yeah I'd like to learn that. It looks beautiful. I need to slow down, my life is too hectic. I had just finished venue managing at the 2010 Fringe Festival as well as preparing and performing my own shows, so life was just busy and harried. Yeah, that's the ticket, Tai Chi. Less stress, that's what I could use. Little did I know.

Having a disjointed schedule, not driving, and at the mercy of a bus schedule that is not conducive to actually getting anywhere from the hills, I took out my trusty Visa card, opened up my Amazon account and sent for an instructional DVD. Let's see...here we go, Tai Chi for Beginners. Well, that's me. Enter.

The DVD arrived last week and I popped it into the computer and started my first lesson. Well. Those Chinese are pretty crafty, because this stuff is not as easy as it looks. I'm sure once I get the hang of it, I'll look more like a graceful swan and less like a funky chicken. My husband thought he'd like to try it as well. All I can say is that his "wild flying goose" routine makes it look like the goose has had a run in with a 747 and broke one of its wings. That made me feel a little better. I figure there's still hope for me.

It's hard not to laugh at yourself when you can't stand on one leg and move your arms at the same time while following your instructor's directions. It's very character building. But if an 80 year old Chinese elder can do this, so can I. I think. Maybe my problem is I'm only part Chinese. That's probably the part that's graceful. The rest of me just has to catch up.

So I've been doing it every day, and after a couple of days my legs stopped shaking after an hour of "horse stance" and I can get through the routine til the end. Granted, I'm sweating like Mike Tyson at a spelling bee, but I can do it. So much for less stress. I'm afraid I'm still a bit uncoordinated, but I am starting to enjoy it.

So if you see someone in the park one day trying to master the "golden rooster stands on one leg" and looking more like a funky chicken in distress, that would be me. Don't bother to stop and say hello. No sense both of us laughing our heads off. I do need to preserve some dignity after all.

Best Mates

I've been married twice. First one was not great. Sometimes, it wasn't even good. Occasionally it was a nightmare. I'm sure I wasn't his best choice either. It happens.

My current husband is a dream. Oh, he's not perfect. But then neither am I , not that I'd admit it. Yes, he has the bad habit of not changing the toilet paper roll, of leaving a trail of dishes, candy wrappers and newspapers behind him. He leaves drawers half open and drops his clothes on the "floor-drobe" and is always forgetting where he puts things. He's mislaid his wallet, credit cards or keys more times than I care to remember. He somehow can't take a shower without leaving the entire bathroom sprayed with water. All those things, those little things, drive me nuts. I can be quite the dragon at times when I'm forced to clean up after a grown man who should know better. Again.

But in all ways that really count, I would not trade him for his weight in gold. He is kind, considerate, thoughtful, and treats me like the queen I think I am. He is intelligent and loving and respectful. He's a hard worker and is concerned that he take care of me to the best of his ability. OK, he burps like a foghorn and he sneezes loud enough to break glass and has an overactive colon. (Don't ask.) Oh yeah, sometimes life in our house is pure magic. But when all is said and done, I couldn't be luckier to have found him, half way across the world, over the internet. I knew he was the one, in caps...THE ONE. So much so that we were engaged before we ever met face to face.

We have been married since 2002. Almost eight years now. And we have yet to have a fight. Don't get me wrong, we do disagree. But having endured a first marriage where the blame game reached Olympic status (I was always on the losing team) and violent anger was always a danger, I am blessed to live with someone who I can talk to, be honest with, and receive the same in return. People who meet us for the first time think we've been married for eons, we are so totally comfortable with each other. We love each other warts and all. (Not actual warts, that would be a bit icky. You know what I mean, flaws and imperfections and stuff.) We make decisions together. We make each other laugh and we laugh like lunatics all the time. We enjoy talking to each other and take pleasure in each other's company. We listen to each other's advice on our respective careers. I trust him explicitly.

When we met, in some internet chat room, we became friends first and talked together a lot. And then he came to visit me in Honolulu. And two years later we were married. I pulled up stakes from Hawaii where I had spent my entire life, and moved to the southern hemisphere to Australia to make a new life at the age of 52. My friends thought I was a complete idiot and expected me to come home after a few months full of regret and disappointment and over my mid-life crisis, but they now realize what I always knew...he's my best mate.

So honey, when I'm irritated because I have to wade through a pile of your clothes to get to the dresser in the morning, or have a mild cardiac because I expected you to trim the vines on the patio and you instead chopped them down to the nubs, or I'm picking up assorted rubbish you've left on the table...just remember this: I LOVE YOU.

But seriously, would it kill you to change that toilet paper roll?

A Question of Faith

During dinner on Easter Monday with my husband's eldest daughter and her husband who are active in their Baptist church, my husband asked me to relate the story of the visit Jehovah's Witness missionaries made to our home. In some ways it's a rather funny story, and in another, one that says something about "organized religion".

The story goes like this. I had just come home from a few weeks on the road in Brisbane and Sydney (I'm a stand up comic) and was catching up on chores on that Saturday afternoon. I had plugged in the vacuum cleaner, taken out a load of laundry and was gathering another armload while making note of things to get at the grocery store. In other words, I was busy. My husband had just returned from doing errands, when there was a knock at the door.

I opened it to find two earnest looking clean cut young men in business attire, shirt and tie, carrying bibles and religious pamphlets. One was perhaps 18 years old at the most; the other, clearly his supervisor/trainer I judged to be in his mid-twenties. He stood a step or two behind the younger one at the door, expecting him to take the lead. I groaned inwardly. Great, just what I needed. My husband, as he usually does in these situations, disappeared into his office and left me to deal with it.

After basic pleasantries, David (he had a name tag) launched into his opening gambit. "Are you familiar with the Bible?" he asked. Let's see - nine years of Catholic school where attendance at daily Mass was mandatory, catechism class every Wednesday plus every Sunday at church with the family - I felt qualified to say, "Yes." At this point, I could see David was much encouraged. So far I hadn't slammed the door in his face or subjected him to any verbal abuse. Being a missionary is a tough gig. He probably thought, "Finally! This could be good."

The message he was sharing today, he said, was that in the near future (no date given) all the unfaithful and non-believers would be punished and destroyed, and only the faithful would be left. And you had to be prepared to be one of the lucky ones, the faithful, to enjoy the life that would be given to those so blessed: no war, no famine, no disease, no suffering; our rewards for our faith would be wonderful. I nodded my head, showing him I understood his point. Then I'm afraid I threw a spanner in the works.

"So what you're saying is, then it will be heaven on earth." David stopped and looked at me. He said, "What?" He looked a bit nervous then. I said, "Well, correct me if I'm wrong, but wasn't the punishment for disobeying God's command not to eat of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge that Adam and Eve were thrown out of the Garden of Eden? And from that day on, the lot of man was to suffer, to toil, for women to know the pain of childbirth, for our bodies to experience disease, famine, and so forth?" David now looked to his companion for a little help. None came. "So," I continued, "if all that suffering is now ended, and only the righteous are left, it would no longer be earth as we know it. It would be heaven, and if it was heaven, then that's it for man, then, right? We'd all return to God and be with Him as perfect beings like the angels in heaven." I didn't mean to torture the kid, but at this point, he looked distinctly uncomfortable.

There followed an awkward silence. Finally, David gave in. He said he'd be happy to leave the latest issue of their magazine, and hoped we could talk again some time, but they needed to move on to the next house and not interrupt my busy day any further. And off they went. I'm sure they had a lot to talk about on their way to the next stop.

For months after that, whenever the missionaries would come to the neighborhood, they gave our house a wide berth. My husband even saw them cross the street to avoid us. I felt like someone had smeared lamb's blood on our door, or even garlic, because no one ever came back for a chat. My husband still thinks this is hilarious.

My point in telling this story is that if you're going to come to my house uninvited to talk about and/or convince me to buy into your brand of faith (or politics for that matter) then be prepared for a full discussion and make that time count. And if, like any salesman, you don't know your product well enough to convince me of its worth, then you need to go and get your act together if you expect to change my mind.

Dogmatism just doesn't work on me. You know, the down side of having Adam and Eve screw it up for everyone else (and for the sake of argument, let's assume the story is true) is that humans now have to work hard for a living and suffer "the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune." Bummer. The up side is that human beings were given a tremendous power: the power of choice. And to quote the Bard yet again, "there's the rub." Because choice presupposes that you need to be informed, educated, get the facts before weighing the evidence and choosing what to do. If you choose something just because someone tells you to choose it, you run the danger of never fully committing to that choice because you didn't actually choose it yourself. You didn't get the chance to question, to consider, to eliminate all other possibilities, and finally commit to it by choice and then live by it.

Having said all of that, believe it or not, I do believe in faith. Faith and its corollary hope are powerful tools to get through life when the quantifiable elements of the world beat you up and wear you down. It has a profound effect on your logical mind, instructing that computer in your brain to put the energy in motion to makes things happen the way you believe they should. . When you believe strongly that you can succeed at some task when all odds are against it, you do. There's no rational explanation for how that works, yet it happens all the time.

So I guess the point is that you can have faith without dogmatism. You can behave in a moral, forthright manner without being a card carrying member of a particular religion. And if you encounter someone selling a particular brand of religion, politics, history, beliefs of any kind that refuses you the opportunity to honestly question and understand what they're saying, give them the flick.

That's the moral to this story. No question.