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Falling Haiku Leaf - October 2006

Surprise Surprise – The Wiggles win “Best Children’s Album”.

Sadly, there was little competition. They were up against The Hooly Dooleys – who just suck, there are no two ways about it – The Fairies and High Five – bands created for the sole purpose of marketing merchandise. There was one dark horse in the running, Justine Clarke, poising the only real threat.

Once again, the Australian music industry has rewarded tired and old yet safe and proven when it really could have promoted some fresh blood.

Don’t get me wrong. This is not a tall poppy slash at The Wiggles. They work very hard. But let’s face it, their music is manically dull, repetitive and can drive you around the bend. Honestly, if you’ve heard one uber happy Wiggles song, you have heard them all.


Cold spaghetti, cold spaghetti in a big red car
Rock your bear to sleep, something catchy blah

Justine Clarke’s “I Like To Sing” is different. It’s a mixture of quirky pop and sweet jazzy fun, great to dance to and great to sing along to – just as the title promises. Clarke is one of our favourite Play School presenters because we find her the most effortlessly engaging. She doesn’t push, pander or patronise and this quality shines through in her singing. The album is a corroboration with Play School pianist Peter Dasent. Beautifully original.

Last night, it stood out as the lone nomination that didn’t rely on a gimmick. It doesn’t have to, but it also doesn't help it in the cut throat world of children's marketing.


Number One Son: - “My favourite song is “Hop Hippity Hop” because I can hop on one foot now! And “The Dancing Chicken” because it’s funny.”

Little Angry Doll: - “My favourite is the sweet “It’s Starting to Rain”. And the whimsical samba “Watermelon”. I love this album because I didn’t want to throw it out the window after playing it forty times.”

We give “I Like To Sing” Five Giraffes.

http://shop.abc.net.au/browse/product.asp?productid=367794

Interview with Justine Clarke
http://www.preschoolentertainment.com/html/index.php?name=News&file=article&sid=603

For those of you who don’t suffer through Play School but can remember the first few years of Home and Away, once upon a time Justine played Roo, super high school drama queen, love interest of Frank and threat to Bobby (“Where did my career go after all those New Idea covers?”).

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I loved John Birmingham’s book He Died With A Falafel in His Hand. The movie sucked, but I guess that’s what you get when you cast Noah Taylor. Sorry Slem, but you should never have sold the movie rights to Richard Lowenstein*.

The dreadful horror of shared houses. I lived in my unfair share as a Uni student in Glebe and Newtown. Thankfully, those years are well behind me. But when an old flat mate asked for asylum two weeks ago, we had to give it. He went on a six week trip to England to meet his natural father for the first time. And came home to find that his flat mate had sold his bike, TV, laptop, lounge, white goods and set of Mundial Knives. The police said that there was little they could do as most of the items are considered “Communal Property”. Naturally, the daily topic is “Flatmates From Hell”.

Here are my top five. And reading through, I realise how stereo typed they sound, but I have lived with these nut jobs. Believe me. Stereo types come from a glut in obscure markets.

1. The Green Left Weekly Psych Major bastard who only stayed for two months before we paid to get him out. This guy lived in his two sizes too small bathrobe and the memory of him flapping around still haunts me. He’d leave abusive notes on unravelled toilet rolls – “who ate my tofu?” He’d clogg up the shower with his hair then refuse to clean the bathroom altogether because of alleged carcinogenic chemicals in “Spray and Wipe”. It took us weeks to get the Patchouli and Port Royal rolly stench out of the house.

2. The Just Out of the Closet Xena Warrior Princess Fan Fiction Writer. She’d been a Manning Bar/Forrest Lodge friend for a few years and we knew what we were in for. In a weak, weak moment, we took her in. She took off with the rent, to a Xena convention in Pasadena with a German lesbian she’d met on the net. We chalked it up as our fault for letting her in in the first place. Then we saw the phone bill. Before she left, she’d run up nearly a thousand dollars. I still have your camera. Come and get it. I dare you.

3. The Dutch Vegan, out for her PhD in Aboriginal Studies. Claimed that she’d “never had a chemical” in her body yet seemed to live off Pringles chips and Mars bars. Refused to eat a vegetable stir fry once because I had previously used fish oil in the wok to cook the meat dish. Not that the meat was a problem. Didn’t stop her from stealing my wok.

4. The Tortured Ballet Manic Depressive with the Vomiting Cat. This chick had been the Princess of her country hometown. In Sydney, she was just another series of failed auditions, with an equal series of failed part time jobs. The tears. The “I’m no good” hysterics. The Susan Vega. That fucking cat. She honestly believed that the cat was sick because it didn’t have the right name, and I’m not making this up. Her mother always came through with the rent and still sends me Christmas cards. And yes, the cat was a Siamese.

5. Finally, my Best Friend. Let’s call him “Pete”. Pete has lived with me on and off for 10 years as flatmate and house guest. A “friend of the family”, he first rocked up on my door step aged 17. Within a month, there had been two trips to casualty from alcohol induced damage. I was terrified I’d be the one who had to call his mum with mortuary details. He sorted himself out, went home and did his degree. An incredibly smart boy, Pete ended up with First Class Honours and a University medal. A few months later, he came to stay with us again while researching his PhD. He woke up one morning, so totally trashed that he couldn’t find the door to his bedroom and smashed the window in a desperate attempt to get out. Blood everywhere. Pete, I still have the photo’s. And I still love you.

Honourable mentions:-

1. The fifty five year old architect with the two girlfriends who had the same name – Larraine and Lorraine – I felt like an extra in Melrose Place.

2. Next Door Dave, who we ended up just giving a key to. He didn’t have a bath in his house and would come over to come down in a lemon juice and ginger bath. He always cleaned the bath.

Tell me all about your favourite worst flatmate tale. Everyone has a story or two.

Alternately, you just say “it’s your fault, stop whinging, you let them in” – this is true. But all flatmates are crazy.

*Slem – Steve Le Marquand, who wrote the stage play for Falafel which ran for an incredible number of years at The Bridge Hotel in Balmain. Old drinking buddy and more down to earth than dirt. Don’t ever challenge him at pool.
http://lasttraintofreo.com/
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My Evil Bundle of Joy

October 24th 2006 03:18
You get asked a myriad of idiot questions when you have a new born.

“Was it an easy birth?” – Yes. I was disappointed that it wasn’t harder.
“Are you happy you had another boy?” – No, but we’re going to a swap meet next week.
“Isn’t he tiny?” – Yes. The Baby Bonsai classes were really worth the money.
“So, what have you been up to?” – You are an idiot, aren’t you?

My favourite has to be “Is he a good baby?”

No. He is evil. In fact, we have our suspicions that he’s a part of the Axis of Evil. We caught him trying to sell weapons grade plutonium to North Korea last week and suspect he has links to Al Qaeda.

Yes, I realise that idiot questions are well meaning and an enquiry about a good/bad baby has more to do with how the baby is sleeping and feeding, but I just like to mess with people.

I also get asked if I am happy.

My evil bundle of joy, Mr Goo, is four months old. We have our good days and our bad days. We have unsettled periods. We have delightful tickle time. We get frantic. We love our evening bath. We are at the first stage of “Sleeping Through” where we can get more than 4 but less than 7 hours each night. We go out most days. We love being in the courtyard. We giggle a lot. We smile together. We co-sleep.

And I’m using “we” because the newborn period is such an extension of pregnancy. The two of us are not entirely separate yet. If I’m having a bad day, so will he. If he is having a bad day, my heart aches for his tiny frustrations.

We talk to each other in our own special language, full of goos, burps and gentle caresses.

Am I happy? Never been happier in my life.

There is no good or bad. As Gertrude Stein said, “A rose is a rose is a rose”.
Right now, there is just baby, baby, baby. And for this so short time in both our lives, there is an inseparable us. And that time is already, gently, changing.

Mind you – it was the baby who vomited on the remote control.
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Advertising on your Blog.

For those of you who pop by and read my blog, you’ll know that it’s mostly about parenting. The advertising I generally attract is related to children, pregnancy, humour and poetry


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Introducing Irwin the Baby Giraffe

October 22nd 2006 01:47
My aunt is a volunteer at Jacksonville Zoo, in Florida, and in early September, she was lucky enough to witness the birth of their new baby giraffe.

The animals there are initially given a “Barn Name”, then the official naming is either offered to sponsors or auctioned off as fund raising events. This beautiful little fellow’s Barn Name was Caesar


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Walking up Newtown’s King Street on any given Saturday, you could probably reach double figures counting CBGB's tee shirts. I wonder how many wearers have actually been to the Bowery. The CBGB online store even boasts that you don’t have to go to NYC to get your tee. I’m sorry, but what’s the point then?

And…ah crap. There are kid’s tees too. And baby gear. My pet hate right now is baby Ramones merchandise. Once again, I fail to see the point of dressing your kid up in homage of three dead punks unless you’re actually prepared to listen to their music


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Are You an Underachieving Parent?

After walking home with another day care mum, I have come to the conclusion that I am an underachieving parent


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Yes – I would have called DOCS too.

It was a very long day. The three year old loathes shopping, the three month old has vomited all over the Bjorn and the 3 (insert lowest digit) year old mother has a thumping headache. Finally, we’ve made it to the front of the supermarket checkout. Number One Son is sitting in the trolley child chair, clutching a Kinder Surprise Egg. The nanna-esque lady behind us has started up a conversation with him. I’m stacking groceries onto the conveyer, so I’m only half listening


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You Are What You Read

October 8th 2006 12:02
You are what you read.

How much does an idiom, genre or vernacular language influence our thoughts after a good read? Does an injection of Dostoyevsky leave you strung out with an ennui that craves another hit of helpless longing? Does reading Bridget Jones make you feel less pathetic? I find myself thinking in the language of what I read all the time … but the thought is the same


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Baby Name Trends

Love you name, hate your name? What are our names and what are we naming our children? How many class mates did you share your name with? Chances are higher than you'd think


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A popular theory, that we are more attracted to people with similar facial characteristics, has started me thinking. How does facial similarity affect the affection we give our children? Are we subconsciously more likely to favour one child over another because they look more like us? Or, alternately, are we more likely to favour the child who looks like our partner because we see our partner in them?

I have two children. Both of them are boys but there is a general consensus that one of them looks incredibly like me. Not “just like” me. The resemblance goes beyond striking. It’s usually the first thing people comment on, and repeat all the time. Strangers stop us in the street. My other child looks more like me than his father, but there is still a combination there. Say 70-30. Will I inadvertently favour the child who looks more like me


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