"If You've Googled Yourself ...

CLAP YOUR HANDS!

If You've Googled Yourself ...

CLAP YOUR HANDS!"

So I googled myself. And if you enter my name ("Oh Matron!), you get almost two pages, excepting the very last one on page 2, at this minute: London time 01:03, that actually refer to me. Me! The real person behind a Google conjunction! Which is rare in the context of googling(?) gulaging(?) the peeps you meet, only to bring up a scrollsworth of eighteenth century architects and other antiquated irrelevancies (the firstnames and surnames MILES apart ... in overencumbered PDFs related to Annual General Meeting Notes of Junior(sic) High Softball Teams in Bumfuck, USA ...)

But I digress.

It's not my actual birth certificate name - haven't checked that yet - but the diminutive of my given aka in Oz Christian name - which is actually the name my mum wanted to give me but was urged it was too cutesy and childish and I might want to adopt the longer form as an adult (oops). When she was pregnant with me, Mama Plog worked at a creche, where she was completely bewitched by an adorable toddler, (insert Dr. P's everyday name) + Brown (it's alliterative, folks!) here.

It's only now, 2010, that I was lured by some naive facebook commenter two-friends-removed to check out my name on urbandictionary.com ...

I dare you to do that and record your findings here!

And not only because my name is apparently slang for "blow job" ...

Le sigh.

So back to self-googling. I urge you all -- google yourselves. And then please post your results, or at least your reactions to the aforementioned results in the comment section below.

My Cousin

I just got in to London this morning to find out that my cousin died last week. He was 32.

I haven't seen him for years - that branch of the tree became frail and withered. He was orphaned in a way, years ago: his mum died and his dad may as well have as far as he any use he has ever been to any of his four kids. How any woman can love a man who abandons/ wilfully fucks up his kids is beyond me. He will apparently not be at his son's funeral/memorial. I feel I now want to free him of the burden of schlepping out to my wedding later this year. But what would my dad want?

Yeah. The irony is my cousin's dad (let's call him "Shit Dad") is the brother of my late (as in dead, not tardy) father (aka as "Best Dad Who Ever Lived"TM). Or is that not irony? Bloody Alanis.

RIP B. I am so sorry that I didn't reach across broken adult messiness and try and maintain a relationship with you and my other cousins. I am sorry that that generation was so fucked and that you are yet another casualty of all that preceded you; the sins of the fathers and all that. My heart aches for old memories and what seemed like simpler times but probably weren't so idyllic for the adult characters in the piece. Whatever G-d you ended up following - your mother's Catholic or dad's Jewish - or indeed none at all, may She/He/It/Something bring you peace. And lots of love from your cousin who wishes she had have done ... something. It is making me a bit sick that I believe myself to be this "right on" community-minded person ("I give to charities and I am soooo great!") and yet I don't know most of my relatives because I've at worst bought into, at best not challenged narratives of inane, insane family feuds, fracas and fuck-ups.

xxx

Europe Paean?

So the session I went to yesterday on transnational feminism was part of a week-long congress run by an organisation called European Alternatives, who are based in London with offices in several European cities. Their website advertises their commitment "to exploring the potential for a post-national or transnational politics and culture, and promoting intellectual and artistic engagement with the idea and future of Europe". They do good work, raise important issues. I find it interesting.

Myriad accents in the room - French, German, Dutch, Polish, British. I realised I was the only non-European. (My status is Indefinite Leave To Remain, still a few years before I can apply for citizenship which automatically confers upon me European citzenship.) But for an Australian I always felt 'European'. Both my maternal and paternal grandparents were from Poland and as far as I know were there going back many generations. My father's parents fled the pogroms in the 1920 and '30s and met and married in Australia. My mother's parents were married to other people; Zaida had two daughters - people who "perished" (the soft euphemism we descendants of genocide use, the soft "p" and "sh" sounds making palettable what is otherwise mindless, violent bloody murder). They met after he was liberated from Auschwitz and she came out of hiding from a Christian household, saved by her fair hair and false papers ("Antonia Schmid" if anyone asked, we still have those documents). They moved to Vienna, had my mother, and two years went to Oystralia because Oymerica was too goshdarn popular.

I have lived in London for almost five years on a variety of headache-to-attain Visas. I could have made it easier for myself had I applied for an Austrian passport (because of my mother, I am entitled to do so). But unlike Groucho Marx, I have no interest in belonging to any club that doesn't want me as a member.

Austrian hotel bans Jewish guests May 11, 2009, 5:44 am

A hotel in Tyrol that said it does not accept Jewish guests has caused shock in the local media and tourism industry, the daily Tiroler Tageszeitung reported on Sunday.

A Vienna family of seven had asked the Haus Sonnenhof apartment hotel in the village of Serfaus for a reservation. The owner replied by email that although the room was free, she did want to take in Jewish guests because of "bad experiences" in the past.

The region around Serfaus has become popular with orthodox Jewish tourists in recent years, and several hotels in Tyrol have started offering kosher food.

At Hotel Alpenruh-Micheluzzi, owner Petra Micheluzzi told the German Press Agency that the rejection by the Sonnenhof was "bad for the image" of Serfaus.

One such incident could destroy all the hard work by others in the travel industry, she said, a view echoed by local and regional tourism officials.

"That's terrible," said Esther Fritsch, the president of the regional Jewish community. So far there had been no such incidents, she told the newspaper.

Irmgard Monz, the owner of the Haus Sonnenhof apartment hotel, could not be reached for comment on Sunday. In an interview with Tiroler Tageszeitung, she offered no justification for her email.

For his part, the rejected father of five has decided to spend the summer elsewhere: "I don't want to spend my vacation in such a racist nest, and I will inform all my friends about what is going on in Tyrol," the unidentified man was quoted as saying.

So, um, yeah. Not to tarnish the whole place with some rotten apples (I'm not racist, I swear! Some of my best films are The Sound Of Music!) but glad I'm not a passport holder. And as far as Europe is concerned, I am pretty conflicted. I will of course be thrilled to become a citizen so I have some say and help keep the rightwing shitheads out of the European Parliament and I am a bit of an NBS (Natural Born Socialist): I have an innate sense that there can be no justice without true equality and a belief that every citizen on our fair planet is entitled to food, water, education, civil liberties, dignity and healthcare, so I am drawn to groups like European Alternatives. (But to appropriate the words of Playboy readers since time immemorial: "I only go there for the feminism!"). I am a bit meh about Europe though. I know its aims are essentially anti-nationalistic and pro-progressive but it is in my blood, my historical DNA to instinctively shudder at these discussions. (Also, the word Vichy was thrown around a bit too often for meine kleine hartz to bear. Vichy. Also sounds soft and a little tender like a sweet little fishy, or a bris boy's pishy.)

So no matter where I begin, I always come back to language. What does it mean, Dr de Saussure?

Sweet William: 1993 - 2009

Life is precious, no matter who owns it (or, more accurately - poignantly - leases it). There's a house in Manchester, England (or, more accurately, a home, such is the lifeblood that pulsates through it) that would well serve as a model for most societies. It is a place where a variety of species of various ages and needs co-exist (mostly!) peacefully. A place where everyone - from twin to dog to tortoise that was - is nourished and needed and has a place that is uniquely theirs.

The loss of William, and the fact that it is keenly felt by so many, is a testament to S, our very own Dr. Do-a-lot, who does so much to advance love between all creatures, great and small.

RIP, Willie.