Privilege Shmivilege

Ok, so it's a default position (and the local Jezzies laugh at it) but a big preoccuopation in our "right on" world is the concept of privilege - that automatic comfort of those in whatever prioritised hegemonic construct, whether it be raced, gendered, sexualised, whateved. And that which has registered most profoundly with my self is the category of coupledom. It has always pissed me off that the fact of finding a partner - which is so arbitrary, so accidental, so sliding doorsy - that which has no bearing on individual merit or individual anything - has become, in our contemporary idiom, a marker of merit, of achievement, of ascending to a necessary stage of development. I was a militant single, an "I'm ok, you're ok, if you think I'm not ok then fuck you - it's you who has more than a few screws loose". It's what informed my anti- wedding registries, it's what fuelled my animosity towards every parent of every wonderful but unattached friend of mine who dared make that individual feel less than gurnisct, it's what brought on my allergy to table plans, first dances, bouquet tosses (tossers) ...

And now ... I'm married.

Do I feel like a wanker? Like a hypocrite? Like a traitor to the cause?

I do.

Do I feel, simultaneously, cocooned in the institutionalised safety of Mr Plog's arms, in the knowledge that we have officially declared ourselves a discrete unit, legally sanctioned, apart from all others?

I do.

Fact is, despite it all, the best day of my life TM was probably one of my best. I made every effort in the world not to be the typical bride TM - which in itself resembles the worst form of misogyny to the degree that I tried so fecking hard not to be what I perceived the worst form of woman ever - she who conformed to the notion that the role of weddinged one was the be-all and end-all. And yet - and yet - being surrounded by so many who were truly rooting for me - for my happiness, for my fulfilment, regardless of who was standing by me - or if, indeed, anyone was (seriously - I could have been one of those Oprah-validated fruitcakes marrying myself and I think the same crowd would have assembled, with the same good wishes) meant so much, touched so deeply - and I carry with me that feeling, through sleet and snow and the passage of persistent ebbing.

I am still sixteen. I worry so much about how I come across, about being seen to do the right thing. Full of sound and fury, signifying babkes.

But then Mr P and I press our rings together and in the loosest, laziest Yiddish translation say: "Wonder Twins Powers, Activate". ("Vunder Tzviling Koyakh Far'firn").

And in that moment, everything feels ok.

Plogging Paralysis

How can I write anything when it will forever be dated twelve days after the earthquake in Haiti? How can it not seem frivolous, inappropriate, self-centred?

I was going to summarise my hensdosweddinghoneymoon, forgawdsake. From the perspective of a feminist, nokh!

I've been feeling sorry for myself because I'm back in the cold and rampantly unemployed to boot - when a reported 150,000 people have lost their lives in Port au Prince alone.

It's time, clearly, to count blessings, make donations and have some fecking perspective.

Hope your oh-ten has been oh-kay, and may your news be good news. Back soon.

P xx

Lost: One Mojo

"I have of late - but wherefore I know not - lost all my mirth"
Hamlet, Act II, Scene 2

So, understatement of the year - it's been an odd few months. And blogging - even from this quiet corner of the net - requires confidence; instinctively it seems to me that posts should leap from a position of, if not authority as such, at least the sense of being authored, from somewhere even marginally together, integrated. And I have felt neither together nor integrated for a while ...

But, onward/upward/jedward! Today is the first day of the rest of my wife! (Did I say 'wife'?! Oops, Freud! Your field day beckons ...) One of my mentors once admonished me for not writing, by saying that it was selfish that I was denying the world of my work (ego-boost much?) and one of my recent blog-crushes urged me to relocate my aforementioned MIA mojo and return to the plog. So it is with utmost tentativity (not a word, I realise, but it should be) that I dip my unlikeley (see previous parentheses) pedicured toe back into the www-world. In the process of trying to locate my outer adult, I have been forced into uncomfortable small talk with my inner child. It's time to welcome her back into the fold.

As I welcome you, dear patient reader. This could just be a temporary relapse, all sound and fury signifying nothing. Then again, maybe it won't ...

Thank you for your indulgence.

xxx

Redundant

"Think of the amount of print that would have been saved if I had removed the double slash. But there you go, it seemed like a good idea at the time"

Tim Berners-Lee, the creator of the world wide web, regretting the // at the start of every website address.

Nina. Milk. Honey.

Mr P and I were in San Francisco earlier this year and visited an exhibition at the Contemporary Jewish Museum titled "And You Shall Know Us By The Trail Of Our Vinyl" based on this book. One of the highlights was discovering the myriad non-Jewish artists who have covered Jewish classics: The Temptations, Connie Francis, Arlo Guthrie, Johnny Cash and Pat Boone amongst them. But I really think Nina kills this. Enjoy!

Emmy And Me

If you are an idiot box addict like myself, or just not immune from the barrage of light "infotainment" that has - without apparent opposition - replaced actual news of late, you may know that the Emmy Awards took place in Los Angeles last weekend.

Why is this award show different from all other award shows? Well, it is the only one that has personal resonance for me.

It is the only one I have ever attended.

See, I have always loved TV. I know that makes me way-less than cool. After all the idiot box is just that, requiring little imagination, agency, activism. It breeds that most dreaded of all root vegetables: the couch potato. But - thank you Dr. Freud! - I have just learnt that there is an actual psychological basis to my dependency. My mum told me only recently that from the age of three, I would wake up early in the mornings and instead of waking my parents, I'd switch on the tube, nestle in the couch and indulge. Games I played, stories I wrote as a child (and, yes, there is evidence): both integrated themes and characters from (in no particular order) Welcome Back Kotter, Gilligan's Island, The Love Boat, Diff'rent Strokes and Love Thy Neighbour, amongst others (don't worry,the last of the list left an impression about sex rather than race but that's another post altogether ...). I know every word to every theme song. I know the names of guest stars on particular episodes of shows which spun off from spin-offs. I am, in short, a receptacle of a lot of shit. But it is my shit: shit that makes me happy, shit that is far less problematic than a lot of my other shit.

Picture it: August 2003, Melbourne. A young girl, a tad depressed, had JUST discovered the internet (yes I was a latecomer, yes, it was deliberate at the time, no, I am not proud now). Up late one night, she googled "Emmy Nominees" to see who had been thusly honoured when an option popped up on the award show's website:

Would I like to be a seat-filler? (Definition #2 at the link)

Would I Fuck?! Me, with no plan to travel to the US (as every Australian knows, the land called Overseas is a massive undertaking, requiring months of forethought and planning, unlike the hop-skip-jump triathalon from the UK). I eagerly rang the number, began the registration process (loooooooove American customer service! It is I who is always right!) until I revealed I wasn't a US citizen.

"I'm sorry, ma'am."

"B-b-but" I spluttered, "I'm Australian. We're allies. We just followed you into a war!!!", which was only a teensy bit shameless seeing as I'd protested in tears against the fucking mess the day of the invasion.

"You can buy a ticket, ma'am".

What? The? ... Really?

So US$200 later I had a ticket to the ceremony. All I needed was a ticket to LA.

(CUE: lots of mishegas, but)

Reader, I Got There!

And clichedly, it was one of the

Bestest. Days. Of. My. Life.

Maybe if only just because it represented the realisation of the seemingly impossible. Like the first time I went to New York and my friend Nan wrote in an inscription in my notebook that she'd lose faith in humanity if I didn't meet Woody Allen. I have the photo and autograph and as far as I know she still has faith. I'll get back to you on that one.

Top Emmy Moments included: my subterfuge on the red carpet. They ferry in the plebs as quickly as possible, only I kept hiding amongst groups of press, wearing my disgustingly hot, heavy wrap to obscure the fact I had no press badge! I scribbled "notes" in a pad, basically a list of every person who passed by. The only ones who spring to mind now are the cast of CSI and Everybody Loves Raymond and Dakota Fanning. Odd dinner party potential. I only chatted to one celeb, though. He was LOVELY: David Hyde Pierce (Frasier's Niles). I was surprised he was gay. No-one else ever is.

Also, the Ego had landed and was gloriously fed! Some very glamorous girls overheard me talking, sussed the accent, and asked if I was wearing Colette Dinnigan! (I was not. Not even in the same stratosphere of price range.) Then I met the two girls seated next to me, who were both so unimpressed by the whole thing, having only found out that morning they'd be attending: they were the nannies of Lorne Michaels' kids (he's the creator/ producer of Saturday Night Live). They told me I looked liked Kristin Davis (Charlotte from Sex and the City)!!!!!!! I have never forgotten that. For the record: I don't. Not one iota. But since the last celeb I was compared to was Roseanne (ok, it was a little shit of a kid and I was in one of my heavier stages), I kind of really absolutely, thoroughly love that memory. Flattery will get you everywhere.

In short, superficiality aside (or is it maybe at the centre?), that Emmy week kicked off a new phase of Anythingissototallypossible that led to six months as a resident of West Hollywood which in turn brought me, here, to London. But that is so another story.

I now have to wait another entire year for that red carpet to unfurl.

Addiction. It's a bitch.

A Plea From Dr. Plog

You may have noticed that I give bad header, pictorially/designwise.

Also: I can't insert text between photos and videos, nor control where on the post anything appears.

In short: I am a technological loser and this blog sux.

Can anyone help? Explanations need to be at kindergarten level.