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?