The Mechanics Institute..

The holy fuck wits Institute..

Picture the scene, its Northbridge Western Australia, Saturday night. My black and white mind divides the crowd into 2 categories, the cashed up bogans and the hipsters. Enter us, a group of mums who's freedom is limited to the big decisions like Corn Flakes or Toast..
After a lovely dinner we walk over to the Mechanics Institute, one of Perth 'hotspots' admittedly I have heard it being describes as "a bar with a real Melbourne feel" that makes it cool right?
I like the lay out of the bar, it has a casual almost grungy feel to it immersed in recycled brick being tucked away behind buildings down an alley way yet still manages to be predominantly out doors works for Perths extended and unbearable summers. I felt my street cred enhance slightly just by being there.

The first thing that made my eye ball twitch a little was the music. It was commercial music from the 90's, I get it the 90's are back in a big way and I love 90's I grew up in them music but Brian Adams? Sinead Oconner? the list went on. The tunes triggered an epiphany... Its finally happened.. Indi music, underground noncommercial music has finally become so wide spread that that its now mainstream, no longer cool. In fact to maintain ones hipster, 2 steps ahead 'different from the norm' status one must now be mainstream...  But not today mainstream, the 90's mainstream as the 90's are todays trend so the hipsters haven't completely abandoned fashion. A simple formula, I should have seen it coming.

I can the deal with 90's commercial music, the bar staff were however another story.
Todays in look for the hipster male is channeling a strong Ned Kelly inspiration, the fashion beard has been rocked for quite some time and doesn't look like its going anywhere.
The fashion beard, i case any of you haven't stepped foot in Fremantle for the last 2 years is a fully grown almost biker style beard, its unshaped entirely (goes without saying as rule number 1 to being a hipster is that you must look like you don't give a fuck about your 1 most important asset, your look)
Bar staff number 1, a middle eastern looking guy with the best fashion beard there... He was hipster royalty, the other mere mortal bar staff looked at him as though the probability that he was about to lay 3 fresh dragon eggs was high. I felt drawn in by him, his dance moves were captivating. I was however served by bar staff number 2..Who must have seen a hint of disappointment on my face as before asking me what Im drinking he found a way to slip in that he had only just cut off his beard and that it used to be just as "good" as that guys. Slightly confused, I asked him for 6 Jagamiester shots (as I said, we don't go out much) His reply of "sorry we don't serve shit alcohol, only good alcohol" pissed me off a little, back when I was doing the hipster Bar attendant thing in Melbourne all those years ago Jaga wasn't that bad, its not like I asked for a cock sucking cowboy or anything, cock sucker. So when I replied with "Well one might find the shit music misleading then?" Bar guy 2 needed back up... "She said we have shit music!" He almost yelled the words. I wasn't bothered by the Hipster glares, I wasn't there to make friends, I was there to get drunk.

The clientele was my last gripe and then I promise I will shut the fuck up. As waiting for a drink I was approached, off guard a hipster who leaned across in an almost whisper, extremely laid back tone that totally lacked charisma the words "Billie Violet Arlo Love" Obviously someone can read as I have my two childrens names tattoo'd on my arm Billie-Violet and Arlo Love. I turned and was instantly confronted by the mother of all hipsters, this guy is so hip that he's literally become a looser again. We are talking the under cut head shave with the pony on top, reading glass's (clear lensed Im sure) and some weird fucking straight jacked that tied up at the back. His follow up line was, "Who are the?"
I replied politely, "My children" He looked disgusted, "You have four children?" This guys clever!! "Nope I have two" then little hipster was still unimpressed, "How old are you?" He asked, "29" I replied, wait for it, I loved this part... He shook his pointy head and said "wow honey, thats no good, your young, you should be out having fun" Shocked by this guys stupidity I looked around, saw a drink in my hand, some of my best friends drunken dancing next to me and said "Um..... I thought that was what Im doing?" Hipster showed his true colours and came back with "Yeah but babe..... where are your children right now?" Visibly insulted I was left speechless by this 20 year old cock head thankfully the bestie was behind me following the conversation and she piped in with "Oh their at home.. using heroine"

The details of our departure of the Mechanics Institute are not relevant, yes they may have included a smashed glass, a shoulder ride a skateboard and an escorted exit that reminded me of a scene out of a tragic sitcom called 'Mums Gone Wild' the words of my dear departed nanna rang loudly, "Ive been kicked out of better places for worse behaviour"

So back on the streets of Northbridge, this time well and truly smashed I looked up at another pub on the total other end of the spectrum, The Brass Monkey 2 or 3 levels of drunk cashed up bogans and as I watched the Fly in Fly out workers making no effort to contain the excitement of ones week off, spilling on top of each other and off the balcony. I was left sort of appreciating the hipsters, for even if they do believe that working in a bar with a line out the front completely counter acts the fact that they only earn $23 an hour working Sunday mornings until 2 am, and the fact that they have a fuck off beard teamed with stone wash jeans and a vest not only excuses the fact that they still wash glass's for a living at the age of 27 but also makes them better then anybody that doesn't live inside that bubble called The Mechanics Institute. 2.5 stars.

To Let Go

There is a discussion, a discussion that I've had over and over again. It's between my dad and I, its a discussion that never happened a discussion of love from a position of regret. A discussion about the one thing that I have not mastered, the ability to let go.

The day I was born my dad was there, as every dad does he looked at his daughter in wonder of her pure perfections. Every goodbye broke a little piece of our hearts and inside my mine I begged him to stay.
There is something very special about a father and his daughter. My dad was my humble teacher, my subtle persuader, with lessons that neither he, not I ever saw coming. Lessons of freedom and originality, lessons of love and above all else acceptance.
I could tell my dad anything, we spoke of my fears from STDs to broken hearts and he never failed to reassure me. We spoke of his loves from life painting in Irish pubs to beating his brothers in crosswords. And we spoke of the woman that I wished I was knowing that by his accord I was already her.

When I was old enough I handed him my daughter, those same endless and unconditional blue eyes looked down at her immediately reflecting the flawless girl he saw before him, that same flawless reflection that skipped in front of him his slow walk all those years ago.

The day he died I was there, holding his hand, flooding his pillow with tears whispering my acceptance  of his departure, ensuring him that I'll take care of my sister who lay by his side in her own world of grief. I spoke encouraging words of his transition. All the while inside my heart I once again begged him to stay.

Now my daughter asks me where that gentile man has gone, and Im left not only mending my own heart but finding the strength to teach her heart the one most important lesson we are put here to master, the ability to let go.

In this discussion I use all my powers as his daughter to convince him to stay, I beg him to love me enough and forgive me enough for not recognising his pain, just enough to stay.
In this discussion he looks at me as if Im that new born baby again, his big blue eyes fall on me, engulfing me with the simple kindness that is my dad. He tells me to let go baby, you have your own baby now. Your a humble teacher, a subtle persuader, you cant even see it coming.
And then I realise that this is my dad and his parting gift of the one most important lesson he will ever teach me and I will ever learn, the ability to let go.

for my babies

Always remember,

Act on your compassion, you will never regret a decision made out of it.

When something hurts something changes, when it doesn't hurt nothing changes think carefully about whether you want things changed or not.

Love,

 when your not loved back love anyway. 

No matter what form your body takes or where you take your body remember that there was a time when I kissed every inch of it. 

Your imperfections make you perfect. 

Forgive yourselves, your mistakes will help you, forgive each other you were born to be there for each other, forgive your dad, while he can be hard to understand he would die for any of us, most importantly forgive me, for the mistakes Im sure I will make. 

On his death bed your great uncle Winton told his daughters to above all else be free, Im borrowing this wisdom for you to interpret as you wish. 

A heart has to break to strengthen, it is unfortunately part of becoming a compassionate lover, protecting its barriers will only limit its development. 

Cry,

Whenever you feel like it. 

Have secrets that only each other knows. 

Be grateful, you were born into a country with a very high quality of life, be weary, you were born into a country thats very isolated from the rest of the world, be curious, leave this country but dont stay away from me for too long. 

Be Safe but not because your scared because you love yourselves. 

Question everything, except what your reading, never ever question the words from your mother!

Laugh,

Just laugh.  

Crying it out. (controlled crying)

We have all heard of controlled crying, Im sure we have all heard that latest research isnt recommending it. So what do you do when your little bubby is pushing the boundries of what you consider a possible amount of night feeds.
My six month old Arlo started out in this world as a dream baby, sleeping for 12 hours a night, never really crying a natural little self settler. Of course that was all about to change you see he's a crafty little bugger, once he realised that crying got him his mum, his mum got him a boob in his gob and a boob in his gob got him back to sleep in the most relaxing manner.
So how much is too much? I understand everyones threshold for night feeds vary, and mine may seem quite low to women who have 3 or 4 kids, however anything more then 2 night feeds and I begin to loose my shit.
So you can imagine how I felt the other night when Arlo had worked his way up to his 5th night feed, I cant function, I feel sick with exhaustion and I made the decision that there is no more Mrs Nice Mum- This is war Arlo and I will not be defeated.
You've got to hand it to the little ones, at only a few months old they learn the ins and outs of manipulating there way into even the most stubborn of mums beds.
So Crying it out is the only option, for me that is. I remember it working with my daughter Billie when she was a baby, back then I could handle even less sleep deprivation due to her being my first and me never really having to wake up for anything other then pregnant wee's before she came along. These days Im slightly more tolerant to it, thats probably why I have waiting until Arlo is 6 months before even flirting with the idea.
I call it crying it out instead of controlled crying because I actually cant stand the traditional controlled crying techniques, where you let them cry for a couple of minutes and then go into them, then they stop for a second and you do it all over again, in my experience that can last all night, I just have to let them cry until they fall asleep and be done with it.
So I set out for a night of tears, determined to turn my back on my little mans wales. I put him to bed at 6 and come 9pm he decided that a little bit of boosy was in order, I did nothing. I listened to him calling out for me, then I listened to the little chirps turn to screams as the shock of my absence set in, then I listened to the screams turn to sobs as his little heart broke and he came to the realisation that I wont always be there for him. Oh my god. My heart broke with his, I literally felt his little soul pounding against my heart. I love him with every part of me.
He finally fell asleep, defeated, heart broken. I checked on him to put his little blankets back on his little body and his breathing still had a sob to it. Of course you ask your self if your doing the right thing? If this is going to cause him or your relationship with him any long term damage? This was repeated 3 times that night, I didn't get any sleep, having to wait at least 30 minutes after he fell asleep every time to go and cover him back up and make sure he hadn't become tangled in his sheets. I made a promise to myself that one day I would explain to him what I had done, when he was old enough to understand and tell him that I never left, I was always right there listening, forcing myself to feel every bit of his pain, hoping that hearing this some little piece of his abandoned heart would be heeled.
In the morning Arlo was all smiles, Bill went to get him at 6am and he was peddling on his imaginary bicycle with a huge grin on his face, babies could teach us all a thing or 2 about forgiveness.
The following night Arlo didn't wake up once, well if he did he self settled, I had a good night sleep and he woke up happy again, I couldn't help but applaud myself and wonder if it works so well could it really be that bad? I don't think so, but in saying that I dont think its magic either, as last 3 nights ago he woke up once and I fed him, then 2 night ago he woke up twice and I crumbled again and last night the little bugger was back in my bed with his mouth snuggly wrapped around a boob for the entire night. Dam it, crafty little bugger.

So…. Driving through Cairns yesterday we see a sign for Sizzler…

Bill and I haven’t eaten there before, the kids are intrigured by the theory of all you can eat and we think to ourselves, well, there is 8 of us, we are trying to do this trip on a budget and we did hire a mini bus van thing.. People who drive mini bus van things eat at Sizzler all the time, So we made the commitment ‘tonight we feast on Sizzler’

We arrived at our destination at around 7pm, we are greeted by a local whom was kind enough to relay to us in his Queensland accent ‘Don’t choose the steak, its glued together’

Not entirely comprehending what Glued steak is or entirely put off by it we proceeded to the counter, where one is requested to read the menu, place an order and pay for the entire meal upon arrival. This took us a little longer then they are used to as we are not the once a week Sizzler heads that were currently occupying the restaurant.

It was my responsibility to request the gluten free menu, for Kaytlen who is of course Cyliac, I assumed that after the severe case of food poisening which lead to an apologetic add campaign a few years ago they would present me with an extensive GF menu. The woman working the till who Bill reffered to as ‘the brains of the operation’ proved me wrong. The look on her face at my request suggested that she had possibly only just at that second realised that her mother was also her aunty, oh the confusion.

After giving the staff a brief lesson on nutrition we established a general understanding for the word gluten along with establishing that it is basically the staple ingredient at Sizzler, there is gluten in the chips, ice cream probably even the water. Why? because like everything at Sizzler flour is cheap.

The décor is cheap, the soft serve is watery, the cheese is pre grated. The chief, who I’m sure was on sick leave due the Tennis elbow he has aquired while opening packets and cans all day obviously found his qualifications at the local Coles.

At desert time I picked up a spoon from a tray labled ‘Apple Strudle’ It was raw apple with cereal flicked over the top, my brother Will just walked past me and shook his head. I thought better of it.

When a waiter clearing our table accidently dropped a steak knife that landed half a cm away from Billie-Violets arm I would have usually been mad, not at Sizzler as the steak knives are so cheap they cant penetrate skin, just gluey steak. When I tried to explain this to our waiter he gave me the same look Brains had given me earlier that left me wondering if he had just figured out that his uncle was his dad.

Billie Violet gracefully broke the awkward tension by declaring her need for a poo and the waiter directed us and was quickely on his way, as any Jet Star flight attendant will tell you, uneatable food doesn’t sell itself.

The only thing that I can safely say wasn’t cheap about our sizzler experience was the actual price, around $35 a head mini van or no mini van I wont be returning. 

Kony

What makes a charity 'cool'?

I think one thing we know for sure is that Jason Russel doesnt have the answer to that question, the Kony 2012 campaign could have been cool, it ticked the cool box's, good looking front guy, cool music, but then became too cool and went back to being uncool. I was sucked in, I even bought the wrist band- but Ive never been cool so the hipster can recognise that I am by no means a threat and forgive me. 

Everyone is sick of Kony 2012, in fact I am more sick of everyone being sick of the campaign then I am of the campaign its self. 

Some people are saying that the Ugandan peoples reactions of anger towards the doco is a direct reflection of the films misguided nature. Im sorry but this is a third world country, how can we expect the civilians to understand our culture in the face book and digital technology age? How could they comprehend an idea to bring fame to someone via the internet in order to deface and potentially capture him? They cant, all they can do is watch the film and use their common sense to assume we are in some way celebrating this revolting human. 

Some people are crying out for poor Gavin, the painfully cute anglo kid in the doco, trying to rap his sheltered little head around the concept of a 'bad man' Well unlike a large portion of the children that came in to contact with Kony, Gavin will live, opening childrens eyes to the hard ships that other children are exposed to, if done correctly wont harm them only encourage compassion, so no I didn't concern myself with poor little Gavin.

Jason Russell tried to do a good thing, Im still not convinced that he had bad intentions, or that any harm will come to the people of Uganda due to the making of Kony 2012, Im of the old fashioned mind set that opening our eyes and minds to a cause has to be a good thing, even if its not a 'cool' thing, and this certainly has opened our eyes, even if by doing that the film makers have put themselves in to public forum as easy targets for the ridicule that they were no doubt expecting.

Of course then yesterday, after making my opinion on the making and makers of this documentery clear what was to happen? I turn on the news to discover that Jason Russell the guys I have defended, cute little Gavin's dad, someone we were told to trust with our money was caught publicly masturbating. Great, he was caught on film running up and down the streets naked with his nob in his hands, we trusted you Jason, our crusader, the worst part isn't that poor Gavin now not only knows that there are 'bad men' out there but also that daddy gets off on flashing traffic not to mention, this gives the cool kids a sense of righteousness, all the uneducated bloggers out there (myself excluded) are patting themselves on the back for their intuitive foresight. The world is as it should be, the academics can rest again knowing that one organisation cannot change the world by (god forbid) over simplifying things to grab public attention. 

Good one Jason.