KerrieJean.com

You know those quirky little media stories?

…..The ones that are supposed to brighten up your miserable day or make you feel ‘gee whizz, this ‘ere world sure is an aaamaaazing place……’

Usually [in the interests of professional pride] I wouldn’t point to one……

You can thank my first chief-of-staff, the passionate newsman, the late Mister Peter Cullen, of Wollongong’s flagship tabloid, The Illawarra Mercury, for that…..

”Now nervy Cadet KJ, how many times have you seen a wire service screamer along the lines of  ’six missing trekkers in deepest darkest Africa have been cut out of the belly of an obviously overweight python which terrorised an unnamed village, overnight?’

……”They run that one every six months or so nervy Cadet KJ when things get quiet……..

“On the other hand, you’re in the business of TRUTH…….

“By the way, if you’ve got a moment nervy Cadet KJ check out those reports of a three-headed mastiff bulldog stalking the Dapto Shopping Centre after midnight……..”

HOWEVER, a little story from Fairfax via deepest, darkest Scandinavia has got me very excited indeed.

“A Finnish couple have won the country’s annual wife carrying competition for the third year in a row.  Forty six year old lawyer, Taisto Miettinen, with his partner Kristitina Haapanen’s legs wrapped around his head, sprinted 235 metres, leaping hurdles and negotiating a water pool, in one minute.”

What I’m proposing is this:

A colossal charity fundraising event – held on the same day in every Australian city, regional centre and hamlet - where single people of all sexualities aged 40 or more carry their latest date, with legs wrapped around their heads,  for as far as they can.  

The event will be called ‘Date Pride’.

‘Date Pride’ will serve a dual purpose.

Raise not inconsiderable funds for the House With No Steps ['bout time they got some!] and  unequivocally demonstrate to the nation that getting a date when you’ve over 40 IS possible.

Imagine…….

Forty-years-old-and-much-over men and women, men and men and women and women who’ve been on at least one date together seen in erotic though hard-to-achieve embrace in their thousands on the streets, lanes, by-passes, cul de sacs, boulevards and old Cobb and Co tracks of Australia.

‘Date Pride’………..

I can see the story now:

”A Sydney-based couple, Barbara Stevens and Warren Curtis, have amazed ‘Date Pride’ organizers by ending up in Perth.

“Barbara Stevens, with Warren Curtis’s legs wrapped around her head,  constantly ignored ‘Date Pride’ marshals’ pleas to ‘pull over’…..

“Barbara, aged 52, told reporters that Warren had been her first date for nine years……..

” There was NO way I was ever gonna let him out of my sight, ” she said.

“Walking to Perth with Warren’s legs around my head was the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

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Gee, I think I’ve got something!

Is ‘Date Pride’ a good idea?

Would you sponsor couples [say a dollar per 50kms] participating in ‘Date Pride’?

[And please, please don't tell me you've got compassion fatigue.........now is NOT the time]

Report in by:

Just clicking on the ‘comment’ thingo and following the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the URL thingo.

Last night I dreamt I went to Combe House  again.

……Via Devon, via Exeter, via Honiton, via the village of Gittisham……

……..All via a catastrophic London romance which sent me fleeing into the windswept counties desperate for psychosexual balance - and a Qantas seat home.

1981.

And my Gap Year had morphed into a Grand Caynon where my Broken Spirit swung from side to side on the flimsiest of Heart Strings.

The advertisement in the Earl’s Court vegemite shop provided immediate succour.

Wanted: Young strapping Aussie gal ripe for adventure and the experience of appalling wages.

*A once in a full Lunar eclipse opportunity to live and work in an historic slice of Devon.

Duties: Silver service waitressing in a restaurant with [Unfairly] No Hats.

Perks: Six quid a week, own bed in historic stables, mob cap, frilly full apron.  

I arrived with only a backpack full of broken dreams and the telephone number of the Qantas booking people to ring immediately when finances permitted.

Combe House emerged from the mist like an Elizabethan gorilla.

A fine, young, charismatic New Zealander who’d quickly been promoted to Antipodean Staff Superintendent showed me around the 2,300 rooms not counting conservatories.

Brett said not to worry if I thought the eyes of a particularly mentally tortured Combe House ancestor were moving in his portrait in the entrance hall.

Because they were….

…..They always did.

The silver service restaurant with [Unfairly] No Hats was where fat judges on the Exeter circuit and their bumilic wives [younger by at least 40 years] gorged on [the judges] or threw up [wives] 15 course bacchanalian feasts.

Nothing from the stags was wasted……..

…….Stag testicle pate, antler soup with stag ear croutons, stag fillet with stag tongue patties…….

In my mob cap and full frilly apron I hovered around tables…….singing the praises of stag and retrieving my runaway silver service peas from the laps of guffawing codgers.

My favourite part of the night was pushing the pudding trolley around.

[The elephant in the dining room:cr: State Library NSW: Sam Hood: flickr]

And what would you be having from my fine pudding trolley Sir and Madaaaaaaaam?

Turning my back on Sir and Madaaaaaaaam to retrieve the Mattercreamhorn or the Combe Creme Crescendo, I’d stuff a couple of whatevers in my mouth - gulp, gulp – and turn around.

Here we are, Sir and Madaaaaaaaam……  

It all became too much.

…….Investigations into why my pudding trolley’s receipts did not add up……

….The realisation that I’d be pushing my pudding trolley around until at least September, 1989, to secure even a cat crate on Qantas to get home.

……….Constant sniping from the Head Waiter that my silver service skills were at the level of copper alloy at best……

……….Bum pinching codgers so rude they weren’t even prepared to leave a tip for what I considered a rare privilege……..

On a dark and stormy night a taxi waited at the end of Combe’s long drive.

After scurrying up it [disguised as a badger] I flung myself at the driver.

‘I’m escaping!’

He was a kind and understanding gentleman.

‘As long as you pay the fare love, I don’t care what ya doin’….’

[**For readers for whom the words 'Downton Abbey' mean nowt click  'ere: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Downton_Abbey]

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Well, well, well……lots to discuss………

Was I guilty of downright irresponsibility?

Please don’t say ‘yes’ because then I’ll feel bad for at least half an hour and that’s not the way I like to live.

What sort of shocking jobs did you have in Britain or on the Continent when you were full of hope……..and frantically saving for a Top deck tour to the Black Forest?

I don’t know about you but the contemporary ‘Gap Year’ doesn’t seem like much fun.

Apparently, it’s all about planting trees in Africa or somesuch…….giving back. When I was 20 I had NOTHING to give back….nothing at all…….

Looking forward to hearing from you. It’s easy to give back…..do it by:

Just clicking on the ‘comment’ thingo and following the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the URL thingo.

After I finish this missive I’m going under the doona - indefinitely………

……SO exhausted am I after an incredibly philosophically taxing hot drink with a dear friend.

It started as per normal…….

I reported in on my latest ponderings and personal breakthroughs……….

……A date suddenly ending in whiplash when I - in a minxy mood - pushed the car seat ’recline’ button before releasing the seat belt, a new age spot on an unmentionable body part….

……And on the political front, the bleedingly obvious…… 

Julia and The Mousse Man will not marry because the Gay Rights Nuptials Lobby would surely muck up the big day.

When the ‘if anyone knows why Julia and the Mousse Man shouldn’t be joined together by hair extension glue, say so now or forever hold onto your toupee’,  protesters would shout: 

Simple!  Because if we can’t why the bloody hell can youse two?

My dear friend said that, as usual, I was thinking [and living] with breathtaking clarity.

THEN she said:

But KJ, what’s it all about, what’s it ALL about?

I had been waiting for this question – the big one - since at least the start of this financial year.

I said:

Life is a colossal Bushells tea chest…..

In it, a stubby glass surrounded by much bubble wrap.

In the stubby glass, all the things we have to do to give the impression we are responsible participants in this thing loosely called life……

…… Contributing birthday cake money for unpleasant work mates, paying exorbitant rent in sub-standard Tora Bora condominiums, keeping  Brazilian waxing appointments,watching ‘7:30′…..

Now, to that bubble wrap…….

Most folks [my dear friend] spend their lives in the Bubble Wrap Zone but best to avoid it like the mouse plague currently making a mockery of the Great Australian Bite.

The Bubble Wrap Zone is where aggressive renovators, superannuation obsessives  [pie in the sky just before you die] and the filthy rich cyronics set, lurk.

Instead, they should attend my free, upcoming seminar titled:

Guess what? No One Lives For Four Hundred Years.

Then there are The Boundary Riders.

[This is living! cr: State Library Sth Aust: flickr]

The Boundary Riders know the Bubble Wrap Zone is preposterous terrain.

They’ve been Ridin’ The Boundary forever.

……Enjoyin’ grits under the stars with other Boundary Riders,  fulfillin’ crucial fence hole pluggin’ responsibilities and enjoyin’ the sweet company of other Boundary Riders who occasionally – as if out of now where - appear at warm campsites.

But make no mistake [my dear friend] Boundary Riders are as terrified of Death as anyone else.

Even more so.

A mesquite bush ain’t got no chance against them there winds that blows and blows along the boundary fence.

And weez all mesquite bushes.

And that [my dear friend] is all this mesquite bush is gonna say at this here juncture…..

My dear friend gave me a big hug and I went blowin’ up the street.

****For the new visiting mesquite bushes in here a big howdydodedo……and you might enjoy checking out how kerriejean.com marked The Fall of *The Rev Kev, June, 2010.  

*The Rev Kev was a great supporter of this site…..

….Then, as history records, he went blowin’ off  in the wind just like…like…..[I got it!] that certain bush we’ve been talkin’ ’bout. 

http://www.kerriejean.com.au/2010/06/rudd-spill-afp-swearing-units-rush-to-parl-h/

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Don’t ya just hate people when they say: ‘Don’t worry about Death, there’s nothing you can do about it.’

Ain’t that THE problem?

Ain’t that the starting point?

Oh dear…..but I do feel better having written this little piece……

Alright, alright!

Saddle up…..!

Report in………ain’t gonna cost you a thing……may even make those grits taste a little finer. Every thought, every dream, every nightmare, valid……

 Do it [report in, that is] by:

Just clicking on the ‘comment’ thingo and following the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the URL thingo.

Following on from my urgent missive on the new perils of cyber dating I have received a highly alarming unsolicited ‘on the ground’  report from my [unpaid] field correspondent, Roma Street.

[ My scary story if you missed it: http://www.kerriejean.com.au/2011/06/exclusive-no-women-on-dating-sites-by-2012/]

Is there NO end to the depravity passing itself as ‘high romance’ on so-called social media facilities?

Already, there’s thousands of nervy people in this site but if The Bald Face/Bumbook Truth makes us all tremble from the knees up even more – so be it.

Forthwith, I am calling for everyone to get Face/Bumbook out of their intimate lives.

If that’s NOT possible, I’d strongly counsel you rip down the page of  anyone you’re *romantically involved with - NOW! 

[*romantically involved = at least one date]

Now…….take it away Roma Street……

The ethics-free or ethics-neutral date-seeker can always go the thoroughly modern option of cutting someone else’s lunch via Facebook.

‘We did not meet on Facebook’: cr: BergenPublic Libray: flickr]

Pick out someone you used to go out with at high school or university, and give them a poke on Facey as a preliminary to giving them a poke in real life.

Judging from the anecdotal evidence of my geographical and parenting peers [a couple of whom have lost spouses to the practice], the Facebook hook-up with the long-lost squeeze is de rigeur for today’s toey singleton.

“Dear So-and-So who used to go to Leeton High School/Temora TAFE/Mitchell College,

Geez, what a small world.

I was just scrolling through a list of people on Facebook with the same exact first and last names as you, and there you were.

I often look back on those days and think…… etc etc etc……

I suppose by now you’re happily etc etc etc…………

I guess it wouldn’t do any harm if we etc etc etc etc….”

The next thing you know, someone else’s husband is standing before the mother of his children, suitcase in hand, saying:

“We really feel we owe it to ourselves to explore these feelings.”

Bingo.

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Ed’s note: Well, the tides may be rising and if we don’t do something soon we’ll all be wearing UV Cream to bed,  but Roma Street’s  report back made me feel very queasy indeed.

Does anyone have personal experience of Face/Bumbook as a romantic tool?

Would love to hear your ghastly [or happy] story – think of your contribution as a community service……..does that make it any easier?

Do your community service by:

Just clicking on the ‘comment’ thingo and following the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the URL thingo.

Hard to fathom the workings of my tiny though feverishly fertile mind…….

A national debate explodes around sexist language  – and whammo, I’m back years ago up to my neck  in the most joyous story of my journalistic jobbing life.

There was nothing unusual about the start of my day…..

Adjourned to ablution block/ whacked on enough mascara to fill every Hume Highway pothole between Goulburn and Yass/ returned to desk/ downed routine 11 slices of raisin toast with six inch high lashings of  ‘Who Would Be Crazy Enough To Even Remotely Believe It’s Butter?’

Then…..I burped, then burped even louder….and  then….. I reached into my ’new books/possible stories if you’re totally desperate’  intray.

And there it was – a  magnificent tome, by Mimi and Robert A. Melnick, called ’Manhole Covers’. [click 'ere for evidence - sadly now  'not available in Commonwealth countries'...why, why not?]

http://mitpress.mit.edu/catalog/item/default.asp?ttype=2&tid=5993

Couldn’t put ‘Manhole Covers’ down.

……Footpath manhole covers as reflecting the artistic and cultural movements of their eras, manhole covers as functional manhole covers, manhole covers as manhole cover follies, manhole covers as postmodern pastiche manhole covers….. absolutely no manhole covers simply as manhole covers to stop people falling into sewers or somesuch.

[Cr: Zac Mc: flickr]

I immediately knew I had to cover the manhole cover story……..fast!

Opening the microphone, I pleaded with the Pacific Rim to send in pictures of memorable manhole covers……

Photos flooded in……beautiful manhole covers with Greek lettering, art deco manhole covers from times when folks sent letters via the Post Master Generals’ Department…….

….Had telephone calls put through by sweet [though very nosely] switchboard operators…

 ……And  their personal waste taken away on the strong shoulders of  Sewage Department men who were always denied the VCs they so deserved.

There was a superb photo of a particularly ornate manhole cover sent in from a wheelchair bound man who said that manhole covers had always fascinated him………perspective, perspective!

And do you know what?

The genius who designed the manhole covers for the new Parliament House on Capitol Hill sent in his drawings……..

Beat that!

What other self-respecting *journalist can say……..?

‘As part of a  gruelling investigation into manhole covers on the Pacific Rim, a plain brown envelope arrived at the ABC…..

In it, the top secret drawings for the manhole covers for the Commonwealth of Australia’s new Parliament House.’

[Eg. This big time * journalist http://www.kerriejean.com.au/2011/05/let-the-triple-j-fat-cat-fight-begin/ CANNOT say that, can she?]

And that ladies and gentlemen is the biggest, happiest [and only] scoop I’ve ever had…..

And to tell you the truth, I would have missed it if Mimi and Robert had been pressured to go with ‘Personhole Covers’.

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There is much to discuss here………

Language  – AND the history, beauty and culture of manhole covers.

That book did change my life.

I’m crazy about manhole covers but do find  it impossible to meet people with the same passion – until now?

Oh well……….

Please report in by:

Just clicking on the ‘comment’ thingo and following the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the URL thingo.

So….there’s these two nobodies in Canada refusing to reveal the sex of their latest addition.

Big deal!

Those of us of a certain age – and sigh, gender - have already witnessed another great ’gender non-specific’ experiment.

And it failed miserably……..

[And how is it today? cr: Musee McCord Museum: flickr]

Here’s what happened.

Feminism decreed that tickling dolls’ tummies and always being the nurse when playing [the now outlawed] ‘Doctors And Nurses’ set women up for systemic oppression.

So forward thinking parents in the 1970s/80s went all out to avert the horror once and for all.

For Christmas and birthdays, girls were given plastic machetes, chainsaws and ak47s.

Boys?

Fairy wings, The Complete Works of Margaret Fulton and Ajax/Wettex gift packs.

Eugenics gone mad……resulting in…….

…….Bizarre birthday parties where girls tried to dress up machetes and cuddle chainsaws  - and boys tore each other apart in fairy wing and Ajax/Wettex gift pack fights.

In the interests of their personal safety [and the integrity of new renovations], most parents called a halt to the experiment quickly.

No one talks about it anymore.

Strange, eh?

*By the way –  in the main - I wasn’t brought up to be either a boy or a girl.

I was brought up to be a Sinner.

And as a young Catholic Sinner, I certainly knew *what I was and *where I was going.

*Depraved.

*Hell.

Just in case you don’t know about our Canadian man and woman.

http://www.news.com.au/world/canadian-couple-kathy-witterick-and-david-stocker-want-baby-to-choose-its-own-sex/story-e6frfkyi-1226062395217#ixzz1NnPtl9N6

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Isn’t life strange?

……Strange but strangely predictable?

Are you involved [at any level] in the gender wars?

Are you winning?

Would love to hear from you……….perhaps you even gave a chainsaw to your girl child some decades back……..and now she’s a tree cutter in the Tasmanian Wildnerness……..

Do report in by:

Just clicking on the ‘comment’ thingo and following the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the URL thingo.