Sometimes it’s the little people who know best, as demonstrated earlier this afternoon on the Australian Federal Election 2016.
7 year old: What happens if they both get the same amount of votes?
Me: That’s called a hung parliament.
7 year old: Does that mean they do Paper, Scissors, Rock?
A quick update on a reference I made in my last post to the death of Lynette Daley. Following the devastating to watch but brilliant Four Corners programme shown on the ABC last month, the two men have now been charged. Fantastic work by journalist Caro Meldrum-Hanna and the Four Corners team. Thank you for bringing this story to our attention and making a difference.
http://www.abc.net.au/news/2016-06-22/two-men-charged-over-death-of-lynette-daley/7534782
Dear Mr McGuire,
I hated the comments you made recently about a female sports journalist but I’m not here to demonise you for it. I know you thought it was just a joke between you and your male colleagues about drowning her under water in the name of charity and Aussie Rules football. A bit of poking fun at a journo who occasionally gives you a hard time. I realise you might not understand why some of us are upset about it and why it may seem like political correctness gone mad. So I’m not going to attack you or insult you. But I do want to explain why it matters.
I know I have to choose my words carefully. We’ve learnt not to complain too much in public about the effect words have on us, lest we get branded as bad sports or hairy, lesbian feminists. Or worse – ugly. Our training starts early. As kids we’re praised for being “good girls”, for thinking of others first. For looking pretty and having nice hair.
We’re introduced to boys being boys in primary school when a classmate whispers to us to look under the desk. When we do, he’s pulled his shorts up to reveal his penis to us. We’ll hear boys being told not to cry like a girl or run like a girl or squeal like a girl. When we start high school and make the mistake of cutting our hair too short, we’ll hear a boy ask the whole class, “Is IT a boy or a girl?” and know not to respond. To stay silent. We learn exactly who thinks we have a nice arse or good tits and where we rank in comparison to all the other girls. We become so familiar with boys freely and publically commenting on our bodies that we begin to think it’s a compliment.
In early relationships, we dance on a delicate line to ensure we’re not branded as tight or a slut. We’re not quite sure which one is worse. We might kiss a boy we like who then tries to blackmail us into having sex with him. We might get to know a really nice boy, not the blackmailing kind, who tells us his perfect girl would consist of our body with one of our friends head placed on top.
When we join the working world, our male workmates will comment openly on the size of our breasts. We might sit next to a man who does the same job we do but gets paid more. At nightclubs, faceless men will squeeze our buttocks or cup our crotch. When we make our way home at the end of the night we’ll write down taxi ID numbers for our friends because young women just like us are disappearing from popular nightspots and being found in bushland, assaulted and murdered.
As adults we see busty, dominatrix women brandishing whips and clad in leather used to advertise car repair companies on TV. We read female-friendly lift out sections in our newspaper that provide helpful tips on how to get bikini ready for summer or lose that baby tummy. We spend hours making dinner so our father-in-laws can thank our husbands for the lovely meal. We have uncles who refer to women as breeding mares.
When we attend AFL games, we hear men drop the C bomb because calling someone a vagina is the worst insult there is. We hear poorly performing players called a pussy. As we shuffle towards our seats with our backs facing those already seated, we’re called darling by a stranger who suggests it would be great for him if we’d turn around the other way. When a female football fan asks a man to tone down his colourful language in front of her children, we see him respond by punching her in the face.
We watch the local news and hear of a man sentenced to five years jail for punching his wife in front of their young children. Placing the baby on her body to breastfeed as she lay unconscious on the floor, then moving her to another room to die and decompose over 12 days. We watch a TV programme about a woman who died after being taken to a beach to party with two male “friends”. She was highly intoxicated when a “sexual act” was performed on her with a fist. These friends destroyed evidence, then continued drinking while she lay naked on the sand, bleeding to death from massive internal injuries. We learn no charges have been laid against anyone.
So Mr McGuire, are you the worst person on the planet? No, not by a long way. Does anyone think you actually wanted to harm your media colleague? No. Does anyone believe you support violence of any kind towards women? No. As women, are we all a little bit sensitive? Yes.
For many people, your words are just a throw away line. A joke. Not a big deal. In isolation they may be no more meaningful than that. But in the context of what women see, hear and experience on a daily basis, they are something much more powerful than that. They are suggestive of an intimidation and disrespect towards women in our society that is often not so subtle.
Your words matter.
April’s A to Z Challenge is over. Well and truly over. Like…18 days ago. True to form, I started out strong, fell a little behind, then completely lost the plot three quarters of the way through. After the letter T to be exact. All those pesky, difficult, bloody letters at the end of the alphabet. Weirdly enough, I have a stack of books lying around which I have read to exactly the three quarter mark, then put on the shelf never to return to again. Anyway…I digress. In an effort to belatedly tie up this A to Z business in a neat but very small package, here is the briefest of explanations of how I planned to finish. Should have just done this after T.
U to Z
U is for U2. because I’m okay with any band that can write lyrics like – A woman needs a man, Like a fish needs a bicycle, When she’s trying to throw her arms around the world.
V is for Van Halen because their songs still rock and how can you not love the weird sexiness of David Lee Roth in the Jump film clip, despite his very lazy attempt at lip syncing.
W is for Wuthering Heights, When Doves Cry and Working Class Man.
X is for X-rated lyrics. This would have been a great post. I may revisit this Muthaf*@#!* at a later date.
Y is for You…Shook Me All Night Long because an Aussie backyard party isn’t a party until someone cranks up the Acca Dacca.
Z is for Ziggy Stardust because we all miss Mr Bowie. (And to be honest, there’s not a lot of songs to choose from starting with Z).
Had fun with the A to Z Challenge and I’ll definitely be back next year, this time with more planning and some pre-prepared posts! The biggest lesson I took from it was how something good can come from nothing. Some of my favourite posts were letters I didn’t have a topic for but in the end it somehow all came together. Thanks to those people who gave support and comments along the way. I loved meeting new bloggers and learning what you are all about!
There are great movies and then there are great movies with gigantic soundtracks. Movies that become loved for their music as much as the movie itself. The Big Chill is a fine example out of the vault from way back in 1983.
The Big Chill tells the story of a group of thirty-somethings getting together for a weekend reunion following the death of their former college friend Alex. Alex was famously played by Kevin Costner who is not shown in the film (apart from a quick shot of his arms as a corpse) as all of the flashback scenes were cut. Luckily Kev didn’t take this personally and soldiered on to bigger and better things. It’s a fun flick but the soundtrack is even better. There’s not a dud on it. From I Heard It Through The Grapevine to (You Make Me Feel Like A) Natural Woman with A Whiter Shade of Pale thrown in for good measure.
Looking even further back into the vault, all the first movies I loved were ones in which I also loved the music. Footloose, Flashdance, La Bamba, Top Gun. The soundtracks to these films were the very first cassette tapes I owned. Later on in the nineties, I continued to buy soundtracks to fab flicks like Thelma and Louise, Reservoir Dogs, Reality Bites and Pulp Fiction. Many of my own memories from the past are forever linked to songs that remind me of a time, event or person. The soundtrack of life perhaps?
What are your favourite movie soundtracks of all time?
Embed from Getty Images
Cutting loose Kevin, not cut out of the movie Kevin
Seven Worlds Collide.
Selection of musicians by Neil Finn.
Secret rendezvous rehearsals at Kare Kare Beach.
Season is Autumn, April 2001.
Set of songs to be performed by this imaginary band.
St James Theatre in Auckland, New Zealand for five nights only.
Scene relaxed like lounging with mates at the good end of a party.
Simple melody of Neil just singing with his guitar.
Symphony of voices from the audience in complete harmony.
Smile breaking out on Neil’s face, knowing his dream is a reality.
Stuff n’ Nonsense sung by Eddie Vedder and Tim Finn on piano.
Suspended belief at this haunting rendition.
Smiths guitarist Johnny Marr grooving to Down On The Corner.
Seeing Red as Eddie, Tim and Betchadupa slam a rock version across the stage.
Spectacular.
Sensational.
Spiritual experience.
Simply unforgettable.
How Request + Line by The Black Eyed Peas was not number one across the entire universe I do not know. It’s on my list of Songs I Will Never Get Sick Of, For As Long As I Shall Live.
It has a luscious, laid back, down and funky groove. Superstar lyrics…Last night a DJ saved my life and Macy Gray’s gravelly tones wrapping you up like your favourite grandma singing you to sleep…alright, alright, alright now, alright.
If this is playing in my car, I’m dancing. Not full on dancing because I’m driving and that takes up at least one leg and arm but the rest of me is moving. There’s shoulder rolling, head swaying and singing like I just don’t care who’s looking at me whilst stopped at the traffic lights. If I had a hairbrush handy, I wouldn’t be afraid to use it.
If this doesn’t get you at least tapping a toe or two, check your pulse. You might need a DJ to save your life.
There are singers, bands, musicians…and then there are those who transcend these titles to that of Artist. Rare individuals who defy standard descriptions. Yes they sing, perform, write, play instruments but they are much more than this. They create.
Prince was one of these rare beings and the creative world shines a little less brightly now that he no longer struts amongst us. His Royal Purpleness, The Artist Formerly Known As Prince, Love Symbol, Prince Rogers Nelson. A man small in stature and gigantic in presence.
In true superstar style, announced just two weeks prior, Prince’s first ever Perth show exploded for one night in February this year. I was very keen to go…but didn’t. The rave reviews that followed his solo, piano based performance were thunderous, tinged with a religious fevour, leaving me with a lump of regret in my throat ever since. None more so than today. What an amazing opportunity those concertgoers had two months ago to see this man in full flight. An enormous loss to the musical industry but a legacy that will not be forgotten. Embed from Getty Images
P is for…a little Hawaiian song called Pearly Shells. Sung by a number of people but in this case by Burt Ives who was a favourite of my Poppa. Pearly Shells was “my song”. Our version of I love you to the moon and back.
Pearly shells, from the ocean,
Shining in the sun, covering up the shore.
When I see them…my heart tells me that I love you,
More than all the little pearly shells.
For every grain of sand upon the beach,
I got a kiss for you.
And I’ve got more left over for each star,
That twinkles in the blue.
Hearing it make me feel five years old again, sitting by my Poppa’s side in the car. Heading to the beach for fishing in the tinny or the river for billy tea and biscuits. Maybe a road trip to a faraway camping spot in which case Pearly Shells would be followed by A Little Bitty Tear, Funny Way of Laughing and Goober Peas.
I loved my Poppa more than all the little pearly shells. He was Harry Butler, Johnny Cash and Bill Oddie all rolled into one. To others a more complicated, complex man, not always forgiven but always unforgettable. For me though, Burt sums him up perfectly.
Pearly Shells and Goober Peas.
xxx
O.
The Big O.
Orbison, first name Roy.
Only The Lonely.
Oh, Pretty Woman.
Ooby Dooby.
One of the Lonely Ones.
1936 – 1988
Some music tiptoes into your life from the edges. Maybe you’ve never owned an album or can’t even remember where you heard the music. It was just there. In the musical catalogue of your mind. Familiar, comforting, haunting in the manner of a good memory from the past.
Maybe you’ve sat on the lounge room floor as two families come together for a rare moment that won’t oft be repeated. Watching the joy of another magical moment in time called Roy Orbison and Friends – A Black and White Night Live.
The Big O.
One of a kind.
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She Doesn't Wear Her Shoes... 