Window Dresser's Arms, Pig & Whistle

I remember those first memories as if it was yesterday. That of holding my mother’s hand, except it wasn’t mum but a strange lady in the soup kitchen of Rotterdam 1944. In the confusion of many mums and many children with metal buckets waiting to be filled, I had taken a mum’s hand which wasn’t my mother’s. This was my first moment of total panic and of freaking out. It was resolved within seconds but the forgetting of this, never. How odd, that links to mothers are so important that the comfort of holding a hand can leave such lasting impressions. I mean, I was holding someone’s hand and it was only when looking upwards I became aware of the hand not being my mother’s. So what was the big deal? Perhaps during those war years with cold winters and gnawing hunger, filling buckets with soup was the primary concern by mothers with skinny children. I am sure my mother hadn’t deliberately let go of her skinny son’s hand. The metal bucket that my mother carried was green as was the little kerosene cooking stove that she used to prime by pumping. It was my right hand that my mother had let go off.

The years rushed by and then we married, we had our first, our second, our third child…. Vasectomy…. Enough now of pro-creation. Dr.Barbara Simcock of the Australian Family Planning Association performed the operation. ‘Make sure you keep using condoms for at least the next 6 weeks,” was her sage advice. Here take some, they are multi coloured and they glow in the dark, she added before tending to the next man who I had briefly met in the waiting room. He had a beard and looked a bit anxious and pale, but he also had four children. Then after six weeks I had to take a sample to the ‘semen expert’ who would try and detect if any life ones survived since the operation and the use of those coloured condoms (glowing under the bed sheets). The butcher who had watched a channel 9 TV segment on my vasectomy said triumphantly;” I saw you on the Telly yesterday, you had it cut off”, ha-ha ha…” Your usual two kilo of sausages?”

Those were the days, forever and for more. Those were also the days of the tribal rock musical ‘Hair’ with its’ Age of Aquarius’ with long hair and tentative first bong trials and errors. We rolled the bong and felt real ‘with it’ especially after having, for the first time ‘ever’ in public, seen the lineup of nudes at the Hair musical at Kings Cross theatre. The first display of pubic hair IN PUBLIC! It had trouble getting through the sensors. One condition of allowing the nudity was that the actors were to stand frozen. Nothing would be allowed to move or dangle. Police on horse-back with batons drawn were outside the theatre. Any body part moving and hell would break out. The actors were also not allowed to undress on the stage. The problem was resolved by the actors getting undressed under a huge canvas sheet. When the moment arrived that the whole audience had waited for, (with baited breath) you could hear a pin drop. The canvas sheet would be hoisted up, et voila, real live nudes. Standing, in situ, like a set from Madame Tussauds Wax museum. Eroticism came in modest form during those times.

The show was hugely popular and went on even longer than ‘The Sound of Music,’ which was not quite as erotic.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N9oq_IskRIg

Tags: Condom.Erotic., Hair musical, Kings Cross, Mary Hopkin, Nude, The Sound of Music, Vasectomy Posted in Gerard Oosterman | Edit | Leave a Comment »

Maurice the Window Washer

Emmjay — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 12:31:22 +0000

Maurice - Photo by Matt Sutton - www.mattsuttonphotography.com.au

It’s good to have a job. One of the pleasures of my job is that after each day’s toil, on my way home to the Pig’s Arms, I am blessed.

So it doesn’t matter what kind of day I’ve had, there is always the potential for arriving home in a joyful (and of course, blessed) state. I am blessed not only by having a job that helps to keep the roof over our heads, but I am blessed by Maurice.

Maurice wears different clobber – especially his amazing array of hats – every day, and one can be reminded of the season or special time of year according to his costumery. Garlands of flowers for Spring, Lifesaver cap and zinc cream for summer, the Tiger’s colours when footy season is on, Sgt Peppers gear, and many many others. He sometimes adorns his tiny median strip with flags, plastic shrubbery and soft toys to cheer the place – and the punters up.

I have one of his free wash frequent flyer vouchers that I keep safely on my desk at home – to remind me how lucky I am. Along with one of his Christmas cards.

Maurice is a local landmark in Inner West Cyberia, here beautifully captured by Matt Sutton outside their mutual watering hole – The Empire Hotel – on the insanely busy corner of Johnson Street and Parramatta Rd.

Maurice does not wash my window. I haven’t had the heart to tell him that once another far less professional window washer scratched the shit of my windscreen – I presume through having a really sandy or dirty scrubbing thingo. But he always offers and I always decline – but I give him some money every time – and he always says thank you and blesses me. Sometimes he does use a paint brush to remove leaves from that channel under the wipers, but I never pay him for that.

Not paying him is very important. Window washing at intersections in Inner West Cyberia - for money – is against the local law. But there is nothing to prevent people giving money to whomever they wish – which is what I do.

But the truth is that sometimes sourpusses (reputedly local retailers – and I use the term loosely – because I am not the sort of person who would call them redneck shopkeepers) have lent on the upper eschelons of the local constabulary to have them “move Maurice on”. There is a smokescreen excuse that dancing as and where Maurice does – sharing his unbounded joi-de-vivre , is a tad dangerous and I guess one should acknowledge that as a fair observation.

Odd that most people other than the local shopkeepers trust Maurice to keep his ferret arse out of harm’s way – and for the drivers to damn well pay attention.

Just before the last Christmas, Maurice was threatened that there would be consequences if he persisted in his lavatorial busking, and the thin blue line removed his set and props from the median strip. But not in any way being a quitter, Maurice circulated a petition to let the Commander of the Inner West Cyberian command in on the significance and value of his contribution to the cultural and lavatorial spheres of our community.

Here is the result.

Massive support for Maurice - Photo by Matt Sutton www.mattsuttonphotography.com.au

……. so, Bless YOU, Maurice ………. stay safe and have a great day………

Our thanks to Matt Sutton for generously allowing us the use of his photographs.

You can see more of his excellent work here at www.mattsuttonphotography.com.au

drop in and let Matt know that a Merv sent you.

Tagged: entertainer and bon-vivant, Matt Sutton Photographs, Maurice the Window Washer

The Latest Leonard Cohen

gerard oosterman — Sun, 22 Jan 2012 21:44:24 +0000

http://www.newyorker.com/fiction/poetry/2012/01/23/120123po_poem_cohen

http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/culture/2012/01/leonard-cohens-going-home-new-song.html

Tagged: Leonard Cohen, New York

That 70′s Show

Hung — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 07:32:22 +0000

That 70s show – Tonight 1970

Tonight we go back to where it all began. The Goodies debut was around 1970 and a couple of samples of the craft. Phoenix 5 is the third in the trilogy of sci-fi’s jointly produced by Channel 7 and the ABC.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_GJkjRo5jkg

Turn up Your Radio – The Masters Apprentices

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RdopMqrftXs

Let it Be – The Beatles

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yqjJ8xR1Me4

Close to you – The Carpenters

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AZQxH_8raCI

Spirit in the Sky – Norman Greenbaum

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H_a46WJ1viA

Bridge over Troubled water – Simon & Garfunkel

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RqZhM75aGMg

Looking out my backdoor – Creedence Clearwater Revival

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bXKboDqiSbE

Whole Lotta Love – Led Zepplin

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b9XyhFQeob0

Love grows- Edison Lighthouse

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cplwH-sPn4Q

Cotton Fields – The Beach Boys

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MyrQqmc5UT8

The Wonder of You – Elvis Presley

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8LhkyyCvUHk

Venus- Shocking Blue

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6m2b6i4osKQ

Smiley – Ronnie Burns

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DwI7GYCqUBo

Yellow river – Autumn

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ixqbc7X2NQY

Lola –The Kinks

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ixqbc7X2NQY

Burn down the mission –Elton John (from Tumbleweed connection)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2LPSMDYzDGM

Take me to the pilot – Elton John (from 17-11-70)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NeCguDYd_tw

Get on up – James Brown

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q6W_Nlv51RI

Pirate Queen A -Phoenix five

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ydXtCpYimN8

Bean boys ads -The Goodies

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TJxGi8bizEg

Eckythump – the Goodies

Passionada

Emmjay — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 23:30:56 +0000

Fado Laranjiera

Playlist by ‘Mou

La Malagueña

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=62LRGpA_wO4&feature=related

Kalinka

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PScROztniRc&feature=related

Tango D’Amour

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IcHvsYJtt1U&feature=related

La cumparsita

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xa7-7wzH_qg&feature=related

Jealousy Tango

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gqOHNP-RThU&feature=related

Besame Mucho

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZSYh19zMqjg&feature=fvsr

El Choclo

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tzw8KIYRbBU&feature=related

Romanian Folk Dances

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rTBC734Lljk&feature=related

La Paloma

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IQQIJQZoLsY&feature=related

Tagged: Fado, Passionada

In the Name of the Father and the Holy Dollar

gerard oosterman — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 22:43:20 +0000

In the Name of the Father and the Holy Dollar.

January 18, 2012

Has anyone read the shemozzle over the attempt by Melinda Tankard Reist to charge Jennifer Wilson with defamation? The SMH has been running stories over this latest stoush between the Goliath of the anti abortion-anti-homo-sexual and anti- porn priestess and Dr Jennifer Wilson’s with her blog ‘No Place for Sheep.’ The online commentary is running hot, twittering and tweeting falling out of the skies and many bloggers looking nervously at their letter box or for the sheriff with a Court writ to arrive. Dr Wilson is faced with either conceding and apologizes or waits for the writ to arrive. It might all be bluff and the letter from MTR’s legal firm a mere scare tactic. Even so, it is rather unnerving that threatening litigation has reached such ridiculous levels and with so much ease.

http://newmatilda.com/2012/01/18/call-me-whatever

Dr J.Wilson is a small David compared with the Goliath and the hordes of right wing disciples that have been on the MTR side. We all learnt both biblically and mythically that David won out. A groundswell of M/s Wilson’ supporters are growing by the minute and so are the pledges of support, both by hearts and minds and from generous wallets. The extraordinary feature is that Jennifer Wilson has been running her blog for over two years and that both on her blog and her articles on The ABC’s Drum; the issues between Jennifer, MTR and the many contributors have been in open. At no stage did MTR object or put her, supposedly, opposing viewpoint. Not once a single peep or a hum out of her. By the threat of legal action MTR definitely did not turn the other cheek. She did not have to. She could simply have stated her point of view.

Now, all of a sudden and with nothing much of substance given, accept by some very vague marsh-mellow like few words, M/s Wilson is given the threat of legal action. It is not within limits of acceptability that Court Action is ever the only way of responding to opinions that have been widely given and discussed by many, including on the ABC and over a long period.

Surely, the Courts have better and more significant issues on their books

Tagged: defamation, Father, J.Wilson, MTR

Foodge 29 – Here’s a Toast for George

Emmjay — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 04:34:20 +0000

Simulated George Cat

OK, it was a mistake to think that using the paddles of life was a good idea on a cat having a heart attack.

Well, it was an honest mistake. Foodge really did think he was having a heart attack. No, I mean BEFORE Foodge applied the paddles of life.

How was the private dick to know that cats go all dramatic when they’re trying to cough up a fur ball. It wasn’t his fault. He was only trying to help.

“What’s that smell downstairs, dear” ?

“It’s nothing”

“It smells like something’s burning”

“I think it’s a moth in the halogen light”.

“No, I mean it really stinks – kind of like burnt fish – no wait, a seal caught crossing a hotplate”.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about”.

Descending the stair, curiosity was about to kill the attempted saviour of the cat. “WTF !!!” she said.

“Uuhhm, I think George is looking a bit off his Snappy Tom”. “A BIT !!! A BIT !! He’s fuckin’ toast. WHAT HAPPENED ?

“Well, I noticed that he was lying there doing these little jump and jive impressions. I thought he was having a heart attack……. and …….” “And so you went and got the jumper leads and clamped them on his chest……. “ ” And WHAMMER-JAMMER” “The thing is, he didn’t start, did he ? Nope, he zipped and zapped and ……

“Look, let’s put a positive spin on this. No more spraying in the house ! That’s a good thing “! You could have cut the silence with a stone axe. We were not amused. Well, I was secretly a little amused but thought it wise to not display such callous disregard for the sanctity of feline life. And the impending extinction of a minor blip on the private eye radar.

Foodge thought it wise to remove the evidence from line of sight. While it was true that George was a major pain in the arse, it was also true that he was FM’s cat for a bit over a decade and although I had never quite warmed to the way he’d bring home his mousy / ratty nocturnal safari trophies – or maybe just a kidney or the back half of a torso, it was clear to me that FM HAD warmed to George’s little peccadilloes. Foodge used an old towel to wrap this toasty little corpse and withdrew the former George from the back verandah. And he discretely stowed the offending electronics.

By the back fence rested a row of greenish grey plastic yard chairs, bleached by years of exposure to the scorching rays of the inner west cyberian solar system. Foodge placed G on the middle chair and withdrew to the house to take his abuse.

It was some hours before Foodge faced the daunting task of disposing of the corpse. There was a choice between a private burial in the yard (not advised since Kali the dog had a reputation for Austro-Sino excavations in pursuit of subterranean protein), casual laying to rest in a back lane equivalent of a Tibetan sky burial – where the roles of vultures were acted by the local council collectors, or an extended procession to the skip in the Seven Eleven car park.

But lo, as Foodge approached the row of chairs, the body was nowhere to be seen. It was a miracle. Foodge made customary inquiries with the Dog. She was coolly nonchalant and acted like she had no information. Foodge checked the back lane. The usual refuse and one junkie shooting up – but no George. Foodge managed only a cursory peek into the Seven Eleven skip. After all, it was not a useful addition to a private dick’s CV to be seen scouting for accommodation before dusk.

Curious. Foodge pictured an exchange with the local vet. “After I attached the jumper leads …… “. No, that wasn’t going to work. There was only one option. To go back and try to appease the by now explosive FM.

“I’m very sorry, Aunty FM”. “I know you are, dear.” FM had resigned herself to the extinction of the in-house sprayer and was warming to the notion that no more of her curtains would spend more time in the dry cleaners than on the lounge room curtain rods. There was some other small compensation – the accident had also put an end to the payments FM and Emmjay made on the Vet’s yacht.

One day passed.

As was his wont, Foodge rose at the crack of a quarter past ten and went straight to the front porch to collect his copy of Private Dick Daily, resplendent as usual on the Welcome mat. “Meow” said the murraya in the concrete urn by the fence.

“It’s a miracle”, shouted Foodge. Aunty FM, Aunty FM, it’s George ! I guess he’s down to 8 lives ! It’s George ! Back from the dead. Foodge was convinced that George had some celestial recuperative experience and that there would be pilgrims any minute to witness the miracle of the Inner West.

George was non-plussed. He jumped out of the concrete urn, turned on his heel, strolled across the hearth, down the hall, up to the drapes, reversed and raised his tail, did the shimmy and headed for the kitchen, secure in his remarkable territory and certain of a hearty breakfast of hard and wet foods.

Tagged: dead cat, Foodge

No Worries ?

Emmjay — Tue, 17 Jan 2012 03:08:36 +0000

When I was but a lad, it occurred to me that my Mom and her Mum (my Nan) used to spend a lot of their time worrying about just about, well, everything.

They seemed agitated and having not a lot of fun. Money was tight. Their husbands were unreliable and prone to drinking the small amount of cash that by some miracle filtered through the universe to our family.

These were women of the war and inter-war years, of the depression, of the post-war boom that carried the wealth that seemed to elude them nicely.

They wore cotton printed dresses, drank tea and got down to sharing some rather serious worry.

This went on for years.

Worry ranged from imminent financial doom, the travails of bowling club politics (she said this…. and then I said …. and she said …….) to seeing life as a precarious lurching from one medical condition to another. There were women’s issues, one gathers – a mystery to me to this day. And there was a myriad of other actual, imagined or looming corporeal disasters that were expected to yield to the might of modern medicine. Defeating polio was the triumph. Lesser terrors were a walk in the park.

But the unifying theme was worry itself.

It took me some time to start to think about what worry actually was and once I had started to ponder this valley of shadows, with the unbridled optimism of youth, I started to question the point of bothering to worry – in the face of so many actual and potential disasters – about which, the harbouring and nurturing of anguished concern would do absolutely nothing.

Hardly any point as far as I could / can see to worrying – as a futile act that merely immerses one in spirit-sapping decay.

Worse, I think was the realisation that so much previous worry had been about events that never materialised. Worse than futile.

I did discuss these views with Mum – who could see the rational argument that worry was a waste of time and energy – time and energy that would be put to better use by actually doing something. If money was a concern (as it was), perhaps getting a job in the post-war boom of the late 50s and 60s was a very workable and eminently sensible alternative to worrying about poverty. Yep, she could see the sense in that, but it took her until I was nine to act on the issue.

Well, it was really the issue that she had to find some economic base in contemplating divorce from a man who in all probability might have been bipolar, but who had the more socially acceptable excuse of being merely a weekend drunk. The tipping point was when he made a silencer for his .22 and pointed the gun at her. My uncle – who had a car, showed up in a hurry, exchanged some stern words with Dad (I could just about hear the shouting from my temporary safe haven at the neighbours’ place). Uncle removed the bolt from the gun and took it with him – for safe-keeping. He was a wonderful bloke, my uncle. Calm, collected, generous, funny – and a real man’s man. He solved most of our extended family’s worries and stayed friends with everybody.

But Mum didn’t have to worry for much longer – about Dad, anyway. She got a job, secured some independence from him and we were ready to hit the road when Dad was diagnosed with Type II diabetes. He was in hospital for weeks while they stabilised him and sorted out his insulin regime.

Off the grog, and with his diabetes under control, he became something like the man that Mom had married. And for ten years they enjoyed some kind of reconciliation and gentle poverty together. Mom worried about his meals – and the timing and I guess she got her revenge in a very subtle way – she bored him to death with his diet.

But to return to the point – worry. What actually IS worry ?

One can rationalise it as a build-up of anxiety – perhaps based on powerlessness in the face of adversity – real, impending or even just imagined adversity. And one can see, I guess that it’s pointless and counterproductive for good health and well-being, but it seems nearly impossible to not worry to some extent at least.

What parent has never lain awake waiting for their teenager to return from the party where we know there will be risks of alcohol and other drug abuse, of non-consenting sex and other violence ? What parent has ever felt worry-free when their children first took the keys of the car on their own ? What parent ever went worry-free when it was one of their own children going off to war – or on a rather more positive part of life – giving birth to the first grandchild ?

So what is to be done about worrying ?

Nothing, mate. She’ll be right ? I wish !

Next Instalment – Doing Something Positive – Mindfulness

Tagged: Worrying

Lehan’s Bumper Edition – of Rainfall

Emmjay — Tue, 17 Jan 2012 02:03:38 +0000

Qatar

Story and Painting by Lehan Winifred Ramsay

Of course, these days we cannot talk about rainfall without speaking of Global Warming, so I will quickly get to the point. I know nothing of global warming, I understand very little, and yet I believe that Global Warming is real. I know myself to be one of the ignorant people who simply chooses her beliefs according to the reality that she wants for the world, and so I think that my opinion should be discredited and never allowed to sway others. I am one of those people who makes Global Warming such a deeply contentious issue.

I know that it rains a lot. I think part of the reason for that is that I spent several years working in an office with no windows onto the outside world. It is a great privelege for me to now have my own window. My window comes also with a frangipani tree, and those frangipani flowers drop to the grass when the rain falls. I can also hear the rain, but I cannot be entirely sure when it ends sometimes, as it can be too light to see or hear, and I cannot tell if it is raining more than it did in the past. I just know that that doesn’t mean that it isn’t. And that my adoption of that phrase among others is what marks me as a Doctor of Philosophy and not Science.

Of course, for me it rains much more than it used to because I was in a location in which it did not rain for half of the year, preferring to snow. I was told the snow was less in quantity than the past. But I was told that by people who were recounting tales of their childhood. I think that people are not very good at keeping time, and knowing time, at recounting time.

Tagged: Global Warming, Lehan, Painting, rainfall