Dumb as a post. Sweet as pie.

A good twelve years ago now, a friend and I did a Euro backpacking trip on a mega budget...it wasn't Europe on a shoestring it was Europe on a bit of old shitty twine.  We had been in London six months living an interesting lifestyle to say the least and it was time to do our first 'backpacking' trip... It appears from this photo below that as a 20 year old I enjoyed drinking alcoholic lemonade and smoking Silk Cuts...Oh to be a young pony again that doesn't believe in eyebrow waxing! 


We had a flight into Prague and a flight out of Frankfurt and what happened in between was decided on a daily basis.  There was a lot of beer, alot of getting lost and alot of total recall trying to remember our grade nine German sayings.

 We were excited to be visiting a friend from home who was nannying for a large family in the middle of Germany.  This girl was...well...she was dumb as a post.  Heart of gold but dumb as a post. And it has to be said now, that this girl was obsessed with boys with dark skin.  Didn't matter what ethnicity...nup she wasn't picky...she liked em' black, brown, orangey-brown, coffee, mocha.  She did not hide this fact whatsoever. In fact, she was the sort of girl who if you were out shopping with, would randomly say to a 10 year old  boy walking past who may have had a hint of Pacific Islander about him 'heyyyy sexy'.  She didn't know him from a bar of soap and had no shame in speaking like this to randoms often accompanying her banter with a finger point 'you're cute', whilst walking away swinging hips all African American style.  Can I say this girl was as Caucasian as Kerry Anne Kennerley.  It didn't matter if it was a 17 year old boy collecting trolleys at Westfield or a 9 year old boy in school uniform picking his nose, no one was safe.  She was at one with her inner negro and chose to exercise this outwardly in any situation. Please remember this as you read on.

So we had worked with this girl 12 months prior.  A number of us worked in a Pirate Factory.   Not a factory that produces or keeps pirates.  It was a children's play centre where parents bring their kids for birthday parties. There was shitloads of equipment for them to hang off and get sick over and we made shitty turkey sandwiches, bad coffee and microwaved sausage rolls.    As you can imagine, in a workplace in which we got dressed up as pirate's and entertained people's children singing songs such as 'I've got chicken pox all over meeeeeeeee', we didn't need much more entertainment than the crazy family who owned the place, the weirdo's who worked there and the children who visited.

The staff members were interesting and varying... We had Joe the overweight squeaky voiced lad who sweat like a hungry sumo wrestler.  This sweating was such a problem that when I was promoted to 'Assistant Manager' (I know! Get me!) an external regular visitor to the cafe (Gregory) pulled me aside and asked that his sandwich not be made by Joe due to the fact that large beads of sweat trickled down Joe's face and into his chicken and salad sandwich.  He requested I make the sandwich.  He also believed that Joe's hands were too large for the latex gloves that were necessary for health and safety reasons whilst making sandwiches and this too contributed to the profuse sweating.  As awkward as it was, I had to tell Joe I was in charge of Gregory's sandwiches from now on but he could continue to do Tara's (horrible wench co-worker of Gregory's).  This way I saved Joe's feelings and gave Tara a sweaty turkey sanga.  I was pleased on both accounts.

Then there was Anna.  Anna was co-worker who this story is really dedicated to.  Well not dedicated...it just wouldn't have been the pirate factory without her.  So Anna left the pirate factory and went off to be a nanny in Germany.  She spoke no German, had never been to Europe and was unsure exactly where she was going, but she went anyway swinging her hips  gangster style, listening to Usher on her Sony discman.

So there we were...it was the year 2000 and we were coming into Germany from Austria.  A bit of a train journey later and quite boozed due to some old crusty men buying us Pilsner by litre, we arrived at the train station to no sign of Anna.

  We had rung her prior to our arrival and told her what day we would be in Nuremberg but alas, no love.  We waited around, we tried calling on the German payphone..we started pacing.

 Finally Miss A showed up with big waves and huge smiles and I would have to say I have never been so happy to see another human.  We were dirty and hungry and despite being not the sharpest tool in the shed, Anna was a mother hen and we caved in to her motherly ways. Her house was empty as the family and children she nannied for were in the States.  She cooked for us and then showed us downstairs and we literally passed out for I think 19 hours.   We were too scared to sleep or shower in our hostel in Vienna so a King Size bed and a hot shower in a mansion with 8 bedrooms was serious bliss.

Upon awakening, we were promised a nightclub visit, a trip to the nearby castle, and a bike ride through the German countryside.  On a side note, we were quite intrigued about the somewhat American accent Anna had picked up.  An Australian girl in the middle of Germany and she was talking as if she had been raised in Harlem.  I was deeply disturbed and asked Anna what the go was.  She told us she had been hanging out with some American Army people and it just rubbed off on her.  She then revealed that she might be pregnant by one of them but couldn't afford a pregnancy test to find out if she was indeed up the duff.  We quickly assessed the situation and 1) told her she was a dick for acquiring an accent and 2) purchased the pregnancy test.  Fortunately it was negative, unfortunately, the accent proceeded to make our ears bleed.

Being a nanny to a truck load of German kids, Anna had access to the family's bicycles stored in the garage - it was decided we would ride around and try and look as Sound of Music like as we could..after all...although we weren't in Austria we were close and we were surrounded by rolling hills and vast countryside.
As we rode through tall grass we began approaching a very lonely looking railway track.  Just a very long track with small mounds of dirt piled up each side of it.  As Anna rode on confidently towards the track I began to slow down.  It was clear we would have to turn around and cycle back or find an alternative route as it was not able to be rode over due to the height the track was built up.  

I yelled out to Anna but was ignored and I watched as she hopped off the bike and began to approach the track trying to push her bike over it as she scrambled on loose rocks and dirt that formed the incline up to the track.
'Is this a deserted track Anna'? I yelled.
'Yeah, pretty much', she said over her shoulder.
'Pretty much'? I peered up and down the desolate track.  It all looked so barren.
 I watched as Anna pushed the bike over the track and then herself disappeared, tumbling almost to the other side.
My friend did the same but with a bit more difficulty and as I waited patiently behind, I began the small descent.  It was more than tricky.  You had to dismount obviously but the tracks and the dirt and the rocks were all in my way and as I pushed the god forsaken German bicycle up and over, I stopped suddenly when I heard the sound of yes, you guessed it, a dirty big train.  As the toooooooot sound blasted its way toward me I began frantically pushing the bike over the tracks whilst trying to not get my hot pink trainers stuck in anything.  The more I tried to dismount, the more stuck I became.  This was made worse by the fact that an hour before our cycle I had tried out the roller blades at the house and fallen off at great speed and injured both left knee and right elbow.  Both wounds were minor however the throbbing of both hadn't quite dissapeared on commencement of the cycle.
'I thought you said no fucking trains came through here Anna'! I was squealing like a pig and my hands waved about and I began violently hurtling the bicycle towards them with strength that  appeared magically from an unknown source.  I quickly glanced to the left.  Yep, that huge effing train was coming, and it was in no way slowing down.
Quick! They both yelled at me.
QUICK?? I was livid.  As the bike tumbled down the dirt mound, I scrambled over the tracks like a 5 year old getting chased by an emu, glancing every which way before landing on ass and sliding over rocks and gravel to see then look behind me and see the train whizz past.
'Geez that was close', Anna said with a monotone American accent. 'I swear dude I have never seen a train ever on these tracks...' 

 I silently rode on and gave Anna the finger as she rode on in front of me.

That evening we were promised a fantastic night out at the 'local' nightclub.  Anna informed us it was roughly a 2-3 hour drive away.  Yes.  A 2-3 hour drive away.  Anna didn't drink alcohol so she happily drove this distance most weekends to hang out with her homeboys.  She explained as we were driving that the nightclub was indeed situated next to the biggest American Army Base in the whole of Germany.  On arrival I saw a shitty car park, a one level building that reminded me of your typical RSL in Australia and a shitty broken neon light on the outside of the building.

As Anna parked the car I began to peer around.  The car park seemed to have more people in it than the club and I saw alot of big jeans.  Big jeans, big butts and big dudes.

  I looked at my friend and she looked at me.  We were about to enter African American German world and we had no idea what we were in for but we knew we needed alcohol quickly and alot of it.  Or did we?  Anna bounced out the car and almost left us for dead as she approached her 'friends', whose greeting consisted of various handshakes, hip grinding and 'yeh yeh gurrrrrl'.  We were three white girls amongst a plethora of gorgeous African American soldiers.    I was scared and happy at the same time.  What a great social experiment! Will I die tonight?  Are g-strings now worn on the outside of garments? Are there more people in this place without any teeth than with?  If a girl bumps into you, makes you spill your drink on yourself and then turns around and says 'oops sorry', is this a friendly attempt at socialising or will I be jumped for my strawberry lip smackers in 3.5 seconds? 


Anna gave us not much guidance.  She went to the dance floor which was situated in the middle of the club and proceeded to bump and grind anything that moved.  As other girls death stared her, we looked on, horrified but totally amused.  A white girl thinking she was black.  There is truly nothing like it.  Truly.  We were approached by more men that night than I have been in my whole life. Many had no teeth.  Like these guys here:

Some were as Texan as George Bush and just as dumb.  Some mens pants were so ridiculously high I wondered where there genitals had gone.  

We watched as Anna continued to clear the dancefloor with her white girl moves - but it all got too much...at first it was slightly amusing, but it soon became clear that Anna didn't have many friends at all, and the ones she thought were her 'gurrrlls' were definitley not.  As Anna drove us home, I couldn't help but wonder why so many American lads had so little teeth... AND the teeth they did have seemed to have been chiselled into strange shapes.  It made me shudder all the way home as I recalled a young lad launching himself at me, his fangs chomping round my face.  A small vomit in my mouth did occur.  Twice.   

Anna unashamedly had not much knowledge on anything and what she did know was often incorrect.  The next day at breakfast, Anna asked me if a monkey and a human had sex whether they would have a half monkey-half human baby.  I was deeply deeply disturbed with the seriousness of which she asked the question so asked her to call my friend up from downstairs and ask her the same question.  My friend was a science and mathematic genius (still is) and on hearing of this question, she was so dumbfounded she actually had no response to the question.  It was silent for approximately 30 seconds before my friend absolutely lost her shit throwing her hands in the air, profanities bouncing from wall to wall.  This is what we were dealing with on a daily basis with Anna.

  She made our trip complete when at the top of the Nuremburg Castle started yelling and yahooing at us to come over to the tourist trolley that sold a variety of shit.  This included flags and postcards.  As she yelled for us to come see what she had found we thought for once she may have actually discovered something interesting but instead, as we approached, she excitedly yelled,
 'You guys you will never believe this'!! And we were standing there going 'Yeah what is it'?  To which she replied, 'They sell the ABORIGINAL FLAG here'!!!! 'Can you believe it'??? 'I mean we are at the top of this castle in the middle of Germany and the Aboriginal Flag is for sale'!!!  My friend looked at the flag, looked at me, and looked back at Anna. 
 'ANNA THAT IS NOT THE ABORIGINAL FLAG!!...THAT IS THE  FUCKING GERMAN FLAG!!
 MONKEYS AND HUMANS DON'T HAVE SEX!!!! 
 YOU ARE NOT AFRICAN AMERICAN!!!!  YOU ARE NOT MISSY ELLIOT'S "SISTAAAAAA"!!!
 YOU ARE ANNA FROM BRISBANE AND THAT IS THE FUCKING GERMAN FLAG AND YOU ARE LIVING IN FUCKING GERMANY!!!! 


Anna found this so amusing that she laughed for what seemed like eternity.  She was a gem. She wasn't the smartest tool in the shed and she knew it.  She laughed at herself and took nothing too seriously and that is why at the end of the day we thought she was worth her weight in gold.  She was sweet as pie and dumb as a post, she had compassion to boot, would give you the shirt off her back but had no idea that Canada was a country.  It takes all types to make up this world.  It seriously does. Wanky behaviour makes me barf, truly it does, but kind fools are just that - kind fools - and most of the time they are hurting no one...most of the time :)  
 Despite her lack of knowledge in most things, Anna made lots of people very happy, and most importantly, she was happy.  Oscar Wilde said 'life is too important to be taken seriously', and as Anna would say in her bad American accent, AMEN to that SISTA...Amen to that!       

Rock Bottom : Food, oh food.

Rock bottom is a term that has been kicking about with my friends since the dawn of time.  It is thrown out regularly and with gusto.  As you can guess, it is used to describe a moment or a large period of time in which things can't get much lower or embarrassing.  Note well - when used in context, it must be spoken in deepest possible baritone voice with large emphasis on 'bottommmmmm'.

I am going to aim to do a few 'Rock Bottom' blogs this year.  After all, I have quite a few moments in which I have uttered the phrase.

This month it is all about food.  Oh food.  So often it goes down.  And quite regularly it comes back up.  My issues with food range from stealing it to eat at a later date or making bad choices at 4am.  Both have terrible and wonderful consequences.  Read on chums.  Read on.

5. Tasty Tuna ( I can't apologise enough Rosa Maria)
It was 6am.  It was 3 degrees.  I woke up and rolled over in my top bunk in a stuffy room in New York and face planted into my 4kg Tuna Sandwich from the night before.  Full of Budweiser and bravado I had ordered what was deemed the biggest Tuna sandwich in the world at the 24 hour deli at 1am.  Hungrily gnawing into the big beast with one drunken eye shut and stumbling to our hostel, It had defeated me momentarily.

The next morning the Puerto Rican housekeeper opened our dorm room and inhaled deeply only to gag and walk out with hand over nose and mouth dry retching.  A variety of 'giant sandwiches' were scattered amongst the 6 dorm beds.  Meatballs, chicken..and my famous 'tuna fish'. Rosa Maria our Puerto Rican cleaner came back in and muttering quickly and loudly I'm sure the translation was something like: You stinking Australian wenches!  She gagged a number of times.

  And oh yes, as for the sandwich, I did not let it beat me.  I won't lie, it had a pungent odour and its appearance was questionable. But as a good traveller knows, eating these things will only make you stronger.   Delicious.

4. Apricot Explosion ( I can't apologise enough porcelain bowl)
 Eating a 1kg bag of apricots.  That's it.  Nothing else needs to be said really.  It was painful, it was unfortunate.  It was a one show only kinda event.  Dried fruit was great as a 3 year old but as a 24 year old you are only left sitting on the toilet, eyes watering wondering whether any internal organs are still in fact internal.  Mum fed me kilo's and kilos' of fruit as a child and to this day she believes it was a tad too much.  So much so that I don't eat any fruit to speak of and when I do consume - it is likely that my bowels and stomach send it out or up. It's not gross. It's just my fruitless life.

3. Sushi Up ( I can't apologise enough Liz)

I would have consumed close to this.

In 2001 sushi hand rolls were relatively new and funky. Sushi was the thing to eat and make at home.  Everyone was an expert it seemed.  Rarely do I get turned off a food source but alas, 2001 proved to be tough for me and sushi.  In a year of 21sts (one or two a month it seemed) Sushi was everywhere.  At my friends 21st in September of 2001 I took my last bite of sushi for 8 years.  Not much needs to be said except that I ate too much of it.  I drank many bottles of champagne and 3 kilo's of Californian rolls only to pass out in the rumpus room of my friend's place before midnight.  I was woken up to say it was time to leave and when offered a lift from my good friend's Mum in her trusty Camry I jumped at the chance.  In the backseat I lounged back and took in the sights...of which were mainly blurry and foreign objects.  A bucket got passed into me by concerned onlookers worried that chunks would surely be blown.  They were indeed correct and I released the rainbow beast of avocado, chicken and prawn with a healthy amount of rice into the depths of the mop bucket.  The smell never left Liz's car I was told and despite feeling rather marvellous after spewing the seaweed covered goodness into the bucket, I did enough damage to firmly say no to a Teriyaki Chicken Handroll for many many years.

2. Sausage and Potato Salad Discovery (I can't apologise enough Shane)

Handbags are wonderful things.  I have many, many, many wonderful and gorgeous leather handbags of which nearly 100% have seen a mini pie or sausage roll shoved in them.  No, I don't use a serviette to wrap them up. It is not necessary.  Over the years, I have been known to steal many items of sustenance from parties and BBQ's - mainly due to my inebriated state, however if you can find someone who has received more high fives at 3am when presenting their handbag findings to the masses, they get a gold star.  People look at me with disdain as I reach into the depths of my handbag to gracefully pull out a handful of M&M's or a spinach and fetta pastry, but I don't see them rejecting.  In fact, often I am left empty handed as the company I am in devour the hidden tasty treats.  So all this stealing and swiping food leads me to a story that I'm not particularly proud of, but alas I will go on.

  It was a simple BBQ, potato salad, sausages, green salad.  Food was just a means to soak up the alcohol it appeared - dedicated to the cause of getting drunk, I chose not to eat - as in those days - eating was indeed cheating.  My lovely friend Bennett was hosting the drunken affair and as things started to wind up, an executive decision was made to go out on the town for more carnage.  Quick thinking and sleuth like skills had me piling 5 sausages and 2 scoops of potato salad into a plastic bag destined for my handbag.

  As we piled into Shane's car for a lift into what I believe was the TRANSCONTINENTAL HOTEL - I offered my sausages and potato salad to all those in the car - after much mocking and disbelief that I had indeed swiped half of the leftovers, a few hands went in for a bite of the burnt snags.  I received pats on the back.  Usual circumstances would then have me stuff the bag of small goods into my handbag to be presented again in a couple of hours for a nibble.  This particular occasion however I was distracted by the thought of needing rum and recklessly left the bag of sausages and potato salad at the bottom of Shane's car nestled amongst normal car crap in the backseat.  A month later when catching up with Shane (who is such an unassuming and lovely gentleman) he quietly announced that as he was driving to work a week later after the BBQ he wondered after a 32 degree day why his car was indeed stinking to the high heaven.  A quick dig around in the backseat revealed congealed beef sausages mushed in with potato which had turned seriously bad.  As he gagged and gagged he cursed me over and over - I did feel terrible, bloody terrible.  But it did not deter me from future swiping, stealing or storing.  And for this, most (hardly any) of my friends are forever grateful - as who do they turn to at 4am when they need a snack ? Uh huh. Yip it's moi!  The thieving swine.

1.Beetroot Obsession ( I can't apologise enough Mum)
I had an obsession with beetroot from 1998-1999. Not fresh beetroot. I'm talking bulk buying tins of golden circle. I put it only on sandwiches and sometimes just couldn't fit enough on the bread. I loved it. It was usually accompanied by some sort of deli inspired meat. Devon, chicken, roast beef, turkey, tuna...whatever was hanging about in the parentals fridge really. A regular visitor to Eagle Farm racetrack for a day of drinking and bad punting I arrived home at the quite reasonable time of 6pm. It is fair to say that I made a spectacle of myself as I fell out of the cab and proceeded to walk barefoot up the driveway dropping possessions as I did so. I had lost my keys so I used the doorbell and Mum hesitantly let me in asking whether I had had a good day.  She said this in a tone which meant she didn't care if I had had a good day, she was disgraced and appalled at the state of me. I proceeded to make my way to kitchen and scanning the fridge for any type of meat to go with my beetroot I did not see any.  All that glowed pretty to me was a giant Tupperware container of golden circle beetroot slices.  I got my bread out and whacked probably 16 slices of beetroot on and loudly announced that I was off to bed.  Being no later than 7pm this was unusual of me to pass out so early but drinking wine in the sun since 10am had clearly caused me some trouble.  I went into my bedroom and got into my Nirvana tshirt and lying down I took bites of my beetroot sandwich whispering to myself that I would always remember this moment for it may have been the best sandwich I had ever made.

That is the last thing I remember.

I woke at an early hour and to say I was frightened was an understatement. I didn't recall getting home and I certainly did not recall making a beetroot sandwich (of which a lonely mouthful sat on my bedside table). I got up to go to the bathroom and opening the door to the toilet I took a horrified jump back. It resembled a beetroot massacre. If beetroot were real people and there was a war and beetroots were slaughtered then this is what their remains would look like. I looked around wildly, hair crazy, and the flashbacks started.

I had positively visited this toilet during the night and single handedly destroyed it. It was like a giant hose had been turned on with a lovely nozzle and pink love had been sprayed far and wide. I heard a shuffle behind me and Mum stood in a nightie looking at me tired and disappointed eyes furrowed. She told me that Dad began to clean up the mess last night but she thought it best if he leave it for me this morning...

I had no response. Dad was nowhere to be seen and I could see the look in my mums eyes. She was angry. She was mad. But I did see a small amount of pity. As I walked into the kitchen to begin sourcing cleaning products I whimpered and wished for better days. Mum asked 'What were you drinking yesterday Hylton to get yourself in such a state'? I tried to recall. It started with champagne, then beer, then rum and then vodka. There were probs a few Cock-Sucking Cowboys too.

'I think someone spiked my drink', I replied.
I have never eaten a beetroot sandwich since and cannot drive past the golden circle factory outlet without shuddering and dreaming of slaughtered beets. Beetroot 1 - Hylton - 0.
ROCK BOTTOM PEOPLE ....ROCK BOTTOMMMMMMM.
 

She's my sister.

I have always known from the moment I could understand, that I was adopted.  I knew I didn’t come from my mum’s vagina.  I came from someone else’s.  Pretty sweet deal for Mum really.  Many years of waiting for her and Dad...and then a phone call, a visit to the Mater Hospital, and there I was.  3 weeks old and healthy and happy and needing a ma and pa to give me all the good stuff.  It appears from photos however, that the nurses at the Mater had indeed been giving me plenty of good stuff as I was as fat as a cow.  I just got fatter too as Ma and Pa fed me like mad, crazy people.   I had rolls of glorious fat and I won’t lie, I’m sure stuff got lost in those rolls of arm and neck and wrist fat.  Baby photo’s on the walls at home make people gasp and smile and turn to me and say ‘OH Hylton you were SO cute...and CHUBBY...look at all those rolls’! Thank you idiot.  Thanks a bunch.  No one, I repeat no one, likes a reminder of how fat they were as babies.  We clearly can see from the tribute on the walls of our parent’s homes that we were baby Buddha’s and would quite possibly eat our own feet if we had teeth. 

The little sister was always cutting edge. 

There are people all over who this big brown land who sure do say some stupid stuff.   Ignorant?  Yup.  Offensive?  Yup.  When ridiculous statements come spewing out the mouth of  your own relatives, you wonder if indeed they are brainless.  I often have thought this about members of family and extended family.  I actually have stood in conversation and thought to myself, ‘Is she indeed a complete moron’?  It appears yes, yes she is! How am I related to that?  Technically though, I’m not related, and I don’t rejoice in that fact...and I don’t go celebrating the fact I’m adopted and not technically blood related to my family.  Some people might.  I’m not sure.  People who find out they are adopted later in life may indeed celebrate and go out and buy ponies and balloons and have a party for 1.  I’m not sure.  I doubt it though.  I’m sure that finding out you are adopted at 34 is indeed quite the pits.  However I do digress. 

So as I was saying, people say stupid stuff.  Someone (a family member) once commented a couple of years ago when my sister and I were hanging out at a family function laughing and being dicks that surely we didn’t REALLY feel like sisters?  Another family member looked at her in disgust and as tears came to her face, she actually had no words to come back with and walked away.

  SURELY WE DIDN’T REALLY FEEL LIKE SISTERS??!! 

Nup.  Your right dickface.  We don’t feel like sisters at all.  We didn’t grow up with each other slapping each other and kicking each other and teasing each other about our musical idols (Backstreet Boys verse New Kids on the Block).   We don’t talk the same, have the same sense of humour, say shit at the same time, do the same gestures....I didn’t sit patiently on the back step in corduroy dress and patent leather shoes and tights and watch as my sister single handedly destroyed the backyard hoping that no one would come and steal her. 

5 year old Me: 'Someone is going to take her'. *Urgently peering down at the sister who with no shoes and a nappy is happily sitting making mud pies*

Mum: 'Don’t be silly darling – no one is going to take her'. *Continues hanging out washing*

5 year old Me: 'They are going to steal her'.  *Eyes following the sister as she eats dirt*

Mum: 'No darling she just likes being outside and playing.  You can come down too'? *Encouraging smiles*

5 year old Me: No. *Furrowed Brow*

I watched that wee girl like a hawk...I wasn't letting anything happen to her since we waited long enough for the little hyperactive monster.

So a family member asking another family member if we really felt like sisters was highly offensive – it made me sad and angry at the same time.  When I found out... I thought you deadset moron...and it got me thinking, do lots of humans think that?  Do people believe that because you aren't either fully blood related or blood related at all that you don't technically 'feel' like siblings?  What a pile of gobshite!!  Half sisters, half brothers, adopted children, adopted siblings...the 'adopted' and 'half' needs to be dropped.  They are your sisters.  They are your brothers.  They are your children.  

27 years ago I was getting ready to hop my tiny feet on to a plane.  Destination: Mackay.  With Christmas not far away my family were about to receive a present they had been waiting a fair while for.

 As we left our house in the morning to fly up to Mackay, I did not leg go of a pink fluffy animal that looked like a bear crossed with a cat...it wasn't very attractive when I look back, in fact it was deadset the ugliest thing, it's head was bulbous and its ears were small and it had beady eyes like a goat... but at the time, I thought it was pretty darn cool.  I wasn't letting go of this ugly creature until I met its worthy recipient.

Touching down in Mackay, we were greeted at the front door by a smiling woman, a small child clinging to her hip with numerous others toddlers and children running through hallways and doors excited and happy.  The woman motioned for us to come in, and we did hesitantly looking around.  The woman smiled at my parents waiting for someone to say something or do something.  No one really did as the anticipation of what we came for was overwhelming.   

 Noticing the worried look on my parents faces, the woman started walking towards the Christmas tree.  As she did, we heard an urgent rustling sound emerging from underneath.  Wrapped lightly in orange cellophane and bows and Christmas cheer, and bouncing around like nobodys business was what we had come for...a spikey blonde haired baby that was to be my parents daughter and my cheeky adventurous baby sister. 

Clearly showing musical prowess from an early age

I gave her the pink ugly bear and I'm sure she looked at us like she had been waiting for us her whole short life.  She gave us lots of smiles (still does that) and we scooped her up and took her back home to Brisbane.  I proceeded to tell everyone I encountered that yes, that was my baby sister.  Even the milkman whom I'm sure wondered where on earth this child emerged from.  Years later I wished that I had been able to tell people that although we didn't come from our parents egg and sperm we just grew in their hearts.  Full stop.  It's not that much different is it?

  I was proud to be the big sister and guarded her with my life for the next good 12 years or so.  This guarding stopped when she got quite strong and good at kicking with amazing accuracy and this guarding also stopped when we played Marco Polo in the pool.  Marco Polo was serious and it was fend for yourself and your pool pony and goggles or so help you God.  Also, not a proud moment, but also when she fell off my bike at Ballina Caravan Park and I left her for dead as blood spurted from her knee.  I know! Terrible behaviour.  I panicked. Instead of scooping her up and returning her to base camp I rode off giving her the finger.  Rude!  But those times aside, she was the best and always will be, the best Xmas present I ever received.



The wee rascal

So I would like to say to the moron's of the world who make stupid comments like the one above.  Real sisters are just sisters.  Full Stop.  Doesn't matter what country they came from or whose fanny they were fired from - I could have come from a hippy commune in the middle of the boondocks... but my fate was otherwise... and thanks be to Dolly Parton I ended up with the funniest family kicking about.  Sisters are amazeballs and mine is as 'real' as they come.  To the family member who made these comments: May you be enlightened one day to the workings of the world, because for now you are living in a giant vortex of ignorance and shite!  To the Sister: May we forever look at each other and then look at our parents and wonder how we got so freaking lucky with those two lovely nutters.  May we forever laugh at ourselves like idiots till we snort and cry.  Long live Marco Polo!  Long Live Blinky Bill (Not the cartoon but the weird blinking you do when extremely nervous) Long live playing the piano naked whilst belting out Michael Jackson.  You are indeed one of a kind sister.  And I'm glad your mine.

 Yours Truly,

Hyltonia  

Star Struck

Star struck.  Two words which to most humans mean: completely in awe of a celebrity or famous human.  You may follow their antics closely in the news, you may stalk them, and you may be the president of the fan club  (of which you are the only member).  You may have watched them shake their snake hips when you were 18 and wondered whether you could ever ‘tap’ that.  I have encountered a few celebrities over the years.  I’ve spotted them at airports, literally ran smack bang into them (Russel Crowe).  I’ve sat at Wimbledon and taken photos of Tom Cruise while my mate sat next to him and smiled like a giant idiot. 

But I have to say, people seem to lose their shit when they meet their idols.  They are either speechless (awkward terrible silence in which it would be better if someone actually passed wind to break the awkwardness) or emotionally spewed every word they ever wanted to say to that person out in one breath something like “ohmygodIvebeenafanofyouforlikeeverandijustwannasayiloveyouso muchandyouinspiremeeverydayijustloveyou....deep short breaths and eyes bulging from head they continue...’andIjustcantbelieveimstandingheretalkingtoyouandohmygoditsjustbrilliant!!’!!!  The celebrity thinks you are special.  They really do.  They feel sorry for you.  They hope that when you walk away you will deeply and violently inhale on your asthma puffer to open the airways and indeed keep you alive.



The Young Talent Time peeps.  Source:www.culturedviews.com



I can only remember being very star struck as a youngster when Young Talent Time (YTT) came to the Boondall Entertainment Centre (where dreams are made) and I won’t lie, I was a massive fan.

  I watched it religiously and had a special spot for young ‘Natalie’ and ‘Vince’.  As an eight year old, I wondered if I would ever be able to move and shake like the team at YTT.  It appears I never would.   (I have tried in many questionable (Jack Ass Gingers, Caxo, late nineties) establishments.  So, YTT, Johnny Young out front leading his troupe, a podgy Dannii Minogue giving it what for and who could forget young Beven Addinsall whose mullet was so fluffy and groomed it should have had its own show.  Honest.  


 So there I was after the show trying to get a glimpse of the teen stars as I waited in my booster seat in Dad’s Red Holden Commodore.  Sure enough, the bus pulled out and I’m sure I saw a glimpse of young Natalie and Vince.  All my dreams came true as I peered out my window squinting at the loved up stars of YTT.  It didn’t matter that I hadn’t met them or even been within 20 metres, I had seen the bus and I was pretty sure I had seen Vince and Nat, and well, frankly, that was enough for me.

Felix.
 Source:
www.thecouriermail.com.au



So all this talk of being star struck leads me to a story of recent times (last week) at a gig myself and Noonie attended.  To set the scene, this particular musician is one Felix Riebel.  Felix (for those of you who don’t know) stands out front of the ska/jazz band The Cat Empire along with my husband, Harry Angus (beer gut and all I am totes in love with him).  So, Noonie and I head along to the Old Museum to check out Felix for his solo tour he is currently on.  The tunes are very different to those of The Cat Empire, and after repeatedly saying to Noonie prior that I just can’t see Felix being a singer/songwriter, I ate my words quite quickly.  He was humble in his approach to the audience and loved to tell little stories explaining the songs before he lovingly launched into them.  His support band sounded fantastic in the space of the old museum and I for one could not stop watching the drummer who absolutely was giving it loads.  The most satisfying thing for me however, was that you could tell they were enjoying themselves – they were jamming big style and we as the audience felt like we were peeking into their rehearsal room.  I think that is the beauty of the Old Museum too – such a great space for intimate shows like this.



 Despite having a busted eardrum from a flight two days earlier, I was listening intensely with my right ear and yawning in short intervals due to jet lag.  As Felix announced they were doing their last song (because they simply didn’t have any more to play), I could feel Noonie shuffle around in anticipation.  She has for sometime believed that her and Felix are going to get married.  I believe ten years is how long she has been thinking this is going to happen.  Ten years.  Tonight was her night of nights.  An intimate venue with only 200 people maximum.  A chance to make at least a good impression, or ask for his hand in marriage.  One of the two. 

 Felix finished the song and his guitarist mentioned CD’s were for sale up front and yes Felix would personally sign them.  Oooohwa!  Noonie was up with a subtle stalking stride down to the front.  She meandered slowly, trying to look cool, nonchalant. A fair few people started to mill around but we were in prime position as the guitarist moved a table and threw down the CD’s.  Felix was still on stage wandering about as his guitarist started selling the albums.  A man beside Noonie started to do a bit of elbow work trying to edge his way in front but she stood her ground.  Felix wandered over to the table and in his uber cool way and signed another  gentleman’s CD.  Noonie was up next and no words had come out her mouth in what seemed to be an eternity.  This worried me somewhat as I began to think she had succumbed to the dreaded star struck shuffle. 

She handed over the cash and received the CD and moved aside so Felix (who by the way up close is simply amazeballs) could sign it and say hi.  Finally the time was here.   Ten years in the making and Noonie was not only going to look Felix in the eyeballs, but they were going to exchange an item and pleasantries.  I stood beside in support and anticipation as Noonie passed him the CD in silence.  Erm... what is she doing?  No ‘Hi’! no ‘Great show’! Nope...nothing...she was like a stunned mullet.  I even believe Felix started talking to himself as he signed the CD due to the non verbal nature of Noons . 

As Felix passed her back the CD and she gazed into his eyes, a very meek voice squeeked one little word.  One word....  ‘Lovely’ she whispered.  Lovely?!?  She took her cd and she looked at him and she said ‘lovely’.  He looked at her and looked at me and that was it. 

She started to walk off as I stood on the spot not being able to hear out of my left ear drum so talking extra loud and screamed at her ‘LOVELY’!! After ten years of wishing to have this man’s children you said ‘Lovely’?!!!! WTF!!!  She actually had performed like a craft teacher inspecting someone’s long stitch ‘lovely janice, keep up the good work’. 

 It was meek, it was embarrassing, it was deadset the most unsexy thing I have ever heard come out of her mouth.  Ten years of pining for this man and ‘lovely’, comes out of her mouth with a little bow much like a Japanese exchange student.  I was horrified and so was she.  As we walked to the car the tears began and loud laughter could be heard for miles as I berated her for being such a star struck moron.  It was her one chance.  She blew it. 



Miss Noonie No Nose



 She got star struck.  Literally.  Struck down by an unknown force which caused her to shit herself and utter one single word.  Noonie, I salute you – you tried – you tried and you failed.  But least you tried.  Love ya.

Find it, buy it, keep it, love it.

Dear Finders Keepers.

It is nearly a week since we last met and I won’t lie, the amazing bunting, the quirky and fun brooches and your general crafty goodness has left me wanting us to meet more often.

See you next year, yours truly, Hyltonia x

 The time did come again last weekend where Brisbane had its turn at hosting the Indie Designer Markets that are The Finders Keepers.  For those of you who don’t know, these markets are bi-annual and happen in Brisbane, Sydney and Melbourne. 

 Many artists and designers from all over our big brown land come to the Finders Keepers to showcase their goodies for our buying pleasure.  With an upcoming overseas trip in my midst, I imposed on myself a ‘no buy policy’ one week before the markets.  This clearly was the most stupid and unrealistic thing I have ever enforced upon myself as by 7am on Saturday morning I was drawing 200 big ones from the 7Eleven ATM at Red Hill.  This stupid act was not made any easier by the can of red bull I had consumed in excitement when I awoke and a cupcake I ate for breakfast.  This sugar hit left me picking balls of lint from my top at 8am like a crazy person as I waited for my friends to arrive for a morning tea I had organised pre-markets.

The fellow that caused some paper bag moments.

  Somewhat of a ritual for myself and one particular friend, let’s call her Rosie, these markets have caused moments of pure panic buying and excitement in the past.  Last year wee Rosie was so overwhelmed by the choice of ceramic birds from Sharon Muir that I had her breathing in a paper bag on numerous occasions.  We stroked each ceramic bird as if they were real and I shit you not, I think we paced up and down the stall for forty five minutes.  After the correct bird was indeed purchased, we were certain the designer herself thought we were quite special and perhaps even not quite right in the head. 

This year we were very prepared and invited along a good friend who had heard about the markets, but had not yet attended.  Noonie felt secure in our company as we were not only experienced, but we had a good game plan.  We drank Irish Tea at 9am and grazed on delicious cupcakes and caramel slice (which had been baked by me in a baking frenzy the night before) and at 10am we left my beautiful zen retreat and on to the mean streets of Brisbane to drive approximately ten minutes in the Barina to the Old Museum. 

 Noonie had printed out a map from the website which we were most impressed by, and maybe even a bit jealous as we had not thought to do such a thing.  But Noonie was prepared and willing to go to extreme lengths to be part of our club.  We were somewhat sombre we had lost a member of our club at the last minute; let’s call him Grinderman. It was not in the game plan for Grinderman to be absent, but due to his call out to Carina Heights, we had no choice but to refocus and carry on.

   En route to the venue, and only three minutes from our destination, we were stopped at the traffic lights and through the grace of god himself a song descended from 97.3FM like an angel from heaven.  Sonia Dada.  We knew it was our time to shine.  We knew now, after ‘Lover, Lover, Lover you don’t treat me no good no more’, pumped from the speakers that we were truly in heaven.  It was a miracle, and as we heard that nineties classic reverberate, we screamed and fist pumped like bogans in a lowered Hyundai Excel.  The day had only just begun, yet we were all ready kicking goals in the form of classic nineties tracks.  It reminded us to always have faith in 97.3FM to provide true moments of glee.  Driving through Bowen Hills we thought our early arrival would snare us a rockstar carpark, however it seemed we were mistaken.  The masses also had the same idea as us, however a quick deviation down a side street and 3 attempts by the small human to reverse park – we secured our spot and just about skipped up the road to the entrance. 

Bunting! Bunting!

 Bunting aplenty greeted us on entry and after a quick consultation that there would be the traditional method employed of outer stalls, inner stalls and move to the next room, it was game on.  It had to be said that in no way were you to be tempted by the inner stalls whilst on the path of the outer stalls.  You just had to wait.  No matter how good the Bespoke Stationary looked, it was eyes to the front and elbows up.  Within the first five seconds of reaching the first stall holder, we had a typical pushy Patricia.  Pushy Patricia’s  usually reach over you to touch something and before you know it they are in front of you picking up the item you were about to grab.  Pushy Patricia’s are usually cheap whore’s with a terrible perm secured by a just as terrible scrunchie.  They can sometimes be clutching an awful vinyl handbag and they may even breed greyhounds.  You are best to leave them to the purchase and swiftly back out.  If Pushy Patricia wants it, you don’t.  So keeping calm, we kept our elbows up and out.  It was the only way.  We are not violent people.  We’re not.  But step in front of me when there is stationary, textiles or homewares involved and I will fare square rip your face off.  The small one still believes I am too polite however I believe my rage and tolerance for people is increasing as I get older which is forcing me to act in ways I am not proud of.  

  

My already framed Penelope & Pip's

The newest purchase from Penelope & Pip

The outer circle, inner circle, move to the next room method was working a treat and although we would sometimes lose Noonie as she looked around with wondrous innocence, we were on track for successful perusing and purchasing.  One of our favourite designers/artists Penelope & Pip were doing a roaring trade in the middle room, and although we were all well aware of the gorgeous illustrations Rachael Smith creates, we were once again flicking through her beautiful pieces and wondering if we could possibly buy anymore.  The answer was of course, yes.  As we scoured around for more treasures we were impressed by new stall holder’s Attia who simply could not keep up with the demand of people throwing money at them for their amazing black, white and charcoal ceramics for a fraction of the retail price. 


Attia's lovely ceramics

 Another stall which was a complete shit fight to get into or out of was LaLaLand.  I had scoped out this treasure trove online before the market in the hope I would snare two particular prints.  With huge amounts of elbowing and sometimes kneeing and loudly announcing that prams are ridiculous things to have at an indoor market we got the prints we wanted (plus extras) and by this early stage I had strong heart palpitations not only from the great items but quite possibly the sugar overload and red bull.  I was sure I needed a lie down but alas we had to push on in search of amazingness.  As we got to the last room it was decided we had done quite well and would indeed need a German sausage and nachos before we departed. As we skipped down to the green lawn where sun lounges were placed randomly and people basked in the sunshine and listened to the sweet indie tunes coming from the small stage set down below, we were content with our purchases and happy we had completed another Finders Keepers with no visible injuries.

So friends if you haven’t been to the Finders Keepers, put it on your list of things to do in Brisbane (Or Melbourne and Sydney).  Support local home grown artists!  Whether it is music, art, fashion, film or craft, we have so many clever kids surrounding us producing and creating amazing things, but too often we take the easy way out when consuming and succumb to the big, generic mass produced goods. The Finders Keepers provide an amazing platform for young and emerging designers to showcase their work and I for one, will continue to make my visits each year.  It was hard to beat Sonia Dada en route this year, however I have faith in 97.3FM to throw another great track at us next year.  Martika perhaps?  Toy Soldiers would get a double fist pump I’m sure of it.

Eat Pray Die: The things I learnt from a silence meditation retreat (Part two)

A concrete slab for a bed, a wooden block for a pillow. Heaven.

As I entered my 4 x 4 concrete room for the first time, I saw a straw mat, a mosquito net and a large dead beetle squashed next to a wooden pillow.  I convinced myself that this bedding arrangement was very lush in comparison to what some poor peeps probably were laying on around the globe.  But the inner whinging girl thought how does one’s head sit on a wooden pillow?  I surely won’t survive?  Should I ditch the wooden pillow all together?  Put it on the floor perhaps?  It’s not like anyone can say anything to me – we are all in silence for fucks sake!  I lay the back of my head down on the timber and immediately regretted it.  I put my hand between my face and the timber...still not ideal.  I tried all positions but no matter what I did I was sure if I didn’t die from a splinter in my eye I would die from stiff neck syndrome which term I coined immediately after testing the wretched piece of timber.

 

 How did the monks participate in such sleeping rituals?  I was convinced it’s shape and size could be used for more practical application.  After a little bit of experimentation I created the wooden pillow musical instrument and I found myself on more than one occasion bringing large sticks to my cell which had been secretly smuggled from the forest via large pockets in my pants and quietly tapping away whilst lying in the darkness.  With no music, I had to make my own, and the wooden pillow was asking to be played.  I won’t lie; I mainly played Bros songs because somehow through meditation my brain went back to the late eighties and early nineties and for the life of me, would not stop retrieving songs from this era.  I tried everything in my power to stop singing ‘When will I be famous’, but for 10 days it was on repeat and although eternally annoyed at my brain for choosing that song I couldn’t deny I wasn’t enjoying the sounds of Smash Hits 88’.  Terence Trent D’Arby, Choirboys, Cheap Trick, Mel & Kim, The Bangles.   Even Billy Ocean teased me senseless through his amazing track ‘get outta my dreams, get into my car’.  Oh Billy, if only I could have jumped into your car.  If only I could have.  I lay on that concrete slab of a bed in my mosquito net for ten days with a t-shirt as a pillow and I sang those songs in my head and tapped on my wooden pillow.  I’m special.  I know it.  I'm really, really special.