Crazy Bitch

I sent out a question on my Facebook the other day, asking “What’s that film where the woman is committed to a mental asylum, but she’s actually completely sane and lucid, and the implication is that she’s the victim of a cover up, but by the end you don’t know what the reality is?” Most responses thought the film was Gothika, and upon reading up on it on IMBD, that made sense.

But I’ve never seen Gothika, which leads me to believe this is some kind of manifestation of the collective unconscious, one of the innate fears of humanity: that the reality you experience is not the reality everyone else is living in, and that you are the insane one.

It’s that time you swear blind someone said “Want to have dinner some time?” and they swear blind they said, “I can’t stand the sight of you and hope you die.”

It’s that time he kind of rested his hand on your bottom for five minutes and then turned around and said, “Oh! I’m so sorry you misinterpreted that! You thought I was coming on to you?” Um.. Yeah, dude, she did.

It’s that time she said, “Yeah, buy it! It looks great on you. What? No, it’s not my style,” and then bitched to everyone that you thieved it off the rack from under her nose.

We’ve all had it happen. We’re dead certain one thing was said, they’re dead certain another thing was said, and so you’re left with two choices: They’re LYING or you’re CRAZY.

Statistically, it’s much more likely a lie has been told than that you are so far gone down the delusional episodes path that you’re actually hallucinating the bit where you outright caught him snogging your best friend (it was exactly what it looked like, guys – don’t swallow that shit), or the fifteen separate individuals who told you she said your makeup made you look like a two-dollar hooker.


The “Crazy Bitch” blow-off is another bullshit sexist construct designed to indemnify men against accusations of being assholes, and women have adopted it as a defence against being just plain nasty. And in using it against each other, ladies, we pander to the same misogynistic, fear-driven, male-centric construct of femininity we’ve been labouring under for millennia. It’s a get-out-of-gaol-free card that people use to avoid actually owning their behaviour.

I know – I’ve used it myself.

And guys, it doesn’t do you any favors either. By falling back on the “Crazy Bitch” excuse, you compound a masculinity that is predicated on emotional insensitivity, arrogance, and self-righteousness (well, that’s the fed-up feminine perspective on what the masculine subject would probably call “emotional fortification, confidence, and self-assuredness”).

Sure, occasionally the problem is actually just that s/he’s a crazy bitch/jerk (because women are not the only people capable of delusion and neuroses, guys – time drag yourselves out of the sixteenth century). But 99.99% of the time, the real issue is that s/he’s different to you, and that’s fine.

So next time you don’t understand someone, don’t fly to the conclusion that s/he’s lost their reason, and is thus unreasonable and can’t be reasoned with: consider for a moment what reason for feeling this way they might have, and give them an opportunity to explain their reasoning. Because it’s exactly when you’re so convinced of your own reason that you should question it: Crazy people rarely know they are… crazy.


When you get to a certain age, people start asking questions like, ‘when are you going to get married and have kids?’ which is startlingly intrusive and presumptuous enough without considering I’m single.

When I was nineteen, I fell in love. I’d just finished school with a great final mark, was in the middle of a gap year studying acting part time, and had, for wont of a less cliche expression, the world at my fingertips. I was getting praise for my performing, my singing voice had finally started to flourish after seven years of struggling to get a note out of it for lack of confidence, and I had secured a place in a BA Media and Communications for the following year, which I intended to take my time with as I pursued acting.

I stood on a precipice, violent winds of too many choices thrashing at me.

This boy was older than me. Old enough for society to call him a man, and he certainly thought of himself as such. I, personally, wasn’t quite so convinced. I don’t mean that disparagingly, though: I liked his boyishness, the fact that at the age of twenty-seven he didn’t own a bookshelf, and slept on an up-market version of a blow-up mattress, and lived in a slightly dilapidated duplex in a student suburb. And I liked that he came from my home town, and we knew some of the same people, and he sailed boats. Even though he towered over me, and his physique was, well, intimidating (by which I mean he was muscle bound in a way that would make Adonis jealous and Narcissus turn his head from the pool) I didn’t feel threatened by him: I felt safe.

I wanted to marry him. In that nineteen-years-old way, I wanted to marry the boy from my town.

He wanted to get married, too.

Just not to me.

He explained to me that even though he thought I was beautiful, and liked me very very much, he was looking for a more adult relationship than he could expect me to give (note: he chose to broach this subject moments after I had slipped into his bed and we’d shared our first kiss. No tongue). He wanted to have a family. Quick smart.

I did point out that there was something of a flaw in the logic of planning kiddiewinks before you’ve found a willing womb and passing up something tangible and present in favour of something, well, hypothetical. As most men tend to when I assault their flawed world view, he acknowledged that I was completely correct, dug his heels in, and refused to budge on the matter.

He was twenty-seven at the time, which is, incidentally, how old I am as I write this blog. And I still don’t understand his logic, but it seems to have worked for him: he was married within six months, and has, like, twelve kids now or something. I occasionally Facebook stalk him, and they’re all very cute, but Dear Lord thank you so much for shoving me out of the way of that bullet!

Not that I don’t want kids. Not that I don’t think Sailor Boy isn’t an absolutely charming and lovely man (and he is, he’s an absolute darling of a human being), but sweet Jesus, I have so much to do before doing that.

When people talk about this idea of ‘spending the rest of our lives together’ I always feel a little uneasy. It’s not commitment phobia or anything, on the contrary: I love the idea of partnership. But this life these people describe, with a tongue-in-cheek white dress, a mortgage, a Labrador, and two kids, looks more like a death together to me.

Again, I want those things. But all in good time, people, all in good time. Weddings, mortgages, Labradors and children are not the hallmarks of commitment. Sure, you probably shouldn’t do them without commitment, but they are not commitment itself.

I want to live nocturnally, breathing the vibrancy of a thousand cities and their music and their art and their theatre, and know that none if it would be so moving, so profound, so disturbing, so enlivening, if it weren’t for having shared it with that guy. I want to hire a cabin in the Scottish Alps and have the whiskey hit us too hard because we’re not used to the altitude and wake up not sure what we did but sure it was transcendent. I want to wander villages in southern France and invite an accordion-playing busker to drink red wine with us and tell us stories that may or may not be true, but agree that it doesn’t matter, because life may or may not be real, so let there be wine and cheese and accordions because we can see and smell and hear and feel those. I want to wonder the next day if it happened or if the little busker were a wine-dream, and scratch our heads trying to remember the wisdom we’re sure he imparted. And when there’s no wine, and no whiskey, I want to feel the bass tones of life’s concerto rip through my guts and his guts simultaneously, and feel the lurch and the head-spin and the rising and the falling and the major and the minor, and stand transfixed, unable to breathe, as one movement comes to a close and another swells and takes off.

I don’t want a man to give me his heart. He needs that to keep breathing. No. I want to know the beat of it so intimately that I can live in step with it.

I want to live.

When I tell my children stories at night, I want them to be my stories, not shadows of an idea stamped on pulp paper and regurgitated into my children’s mouths so I can fool them into thinking I know something about life because I bought them a box-set.

And unless I’m comfortable lying to my children, I have to live the stories first.

P.s. Sailor Boy, if you ever read this, no hard feelings. 🙂

Gender – Poltergeist*

*What I’m saying is, gender might be something insubstantial that we made up, but it still manages to throw shit around and break things.

I received a detailed and thought-provoking comment on my post Bending Gender – Until it Snaps, which made me realise I may not have been expressing myself clearly in that post.

So, some clarification:

When I use the term ‘sex’ in this piece, I’m not talking about sexual intercourse, I’m talking about anatomical gender, as in does someone have a penis or a vagina?

Also, I’m not at all trivialising gender or claiming it is ‘fluid’. Quite the opposite – gender is a huge (and, IMHO, VERY problematic) part of our constructed performative cultural system. It is EXTREMELY rigid, but that doesn’t make it REAL or innate. Gender identity (as opposed to the sexed body) is a socially constructed idea, and we are all to some extent bound by its expectations. Even if we choose to subvert it, we feel its ramifications, as Lacey Roop did when she was asked if she were a ‘dude or a dyke’. A man cannot simply chose to wear a dress casually in our culture without attracting stares. A woman can’t step out without makeup without being accused of lacking in pride in her appearance, as though a woman’s worth is only in her aesthetic.

(Check out Lacey’s quite frankly AWESOME spoken word performance Gender Is a Universe)

What I’m saying is that gender as a set of behaviours and cultural expectations is actually made up – it has no real basis, no relationship to ‘nature’. In simplistic terms, there is absolutely NOTHING about my body, with its breasts and womb, that insists it must be clothed in soft lines and flowing fabric and framed by long hair and enhanced by make-up. But this is certainly what the dominant culture expects of me. And I, personally, actually conform to that. It doesn’t bother me in my own life, but there was a time when as a ten year old child I cut my hair off like a boy and wore overalls because I was a rough-and-tumble kinda kid and dresses and long hair just weren’t practical, and at the age of TEN I was teased as a lesbian. Apart from being confused about why being a lesbian should be something to tease someone about (we were a very liberal family, and whilst I am straight, I copped the ‘lesbo’ teasing throughout my schooling because I am a little bit different) it shocked me even then, as a child, to realise that people would draw such huge conclusions from the way I cut my hair and dress. Our culture is profoundly gendered, and it is a problem because gender – the behaviours and dress styles and demanours we culturally associate with anatomical sex – is actually arbitrary, i.e. made up.

To further complicate the matter, when we look into the science of it and realise that anatomical sex is not even a fixed thing in nature, that this division between the male body and female body is, like gender identity, an arbitrary binary that we have imposed on nature and not innate to biology, then gender and all the cultural implications of it is revealed as a farce.

Sexuality is one such cultural implication. Seeing that gender is a farce illuminates sexuality as a similarly flawed concept, because it is dependent on gender. How many children suffer brutal teasing at school on the grounds of sexual orientation (in my case an orientation I didn’t even identify with!)? And when we understand that sexuality is just nomenclature, a collection of categories that respond to the presumption of the REALITY and INNATENESS of gender and anatomical sex, we see that homophobia (or, indeed, heterophobia, which I have seen in full flight! Or bisexual individuals copping it from the gay community for ‘not picking a side’ or from the hetero community for being supposedly promiscuous) is not only ridiculous on humanitarian grounds, but competely divorced from reality.

I would go so far as to say that gender is a construct designed over the milennia to control people, much like class systems.

I agree that in the short term, helping people ‘reassign gender’ (in this case gender meaning anatomical sex) seems like the best solution, but the culture needs to shift in the long run, and I’m not convinced that gender reassignment doesnt actually hinder this shift by giving the culture a get-out-of-gaol-free card.

In summation, what angers me so much about this phenomenon is realising how much pain people suffer, believing that they are somehow wrong, when the standard by which they are measuring their ‘correctness’ is in fact a milennia old cultural LIE.

Bending Gender – Until it Snaps

So a while ago I posted a link to a docco about kids growing up with “Gender Identity Disorder” or “Gender Dysphoria.” Translation: kids who are convinced they’re the wrong sex. Something about it bothered me at the time, and I couldn’t put my finger on it. And the bothering bothered me, because (as I’m sure you’ve cottoned) I’m kinda liberal.

I couldn’t grasp why it should bother me so much that kids might want to change their gender. After all, I have zero issue with transgendered adults, and I’ve always upheld that kids have a whole lot more smarts and self-awareness than we give them credit for. If anything, I think the transition into adulthood, those perilous teenage years of surging hormones, might be something akin to chemical warfare on common sense: things that seem so clear to kids can be absolutely impenetrable to their supposedly wiser elders.

So why was I so uncomfortable with the idea of a ten year old male beginning hormone therapy?

Ten is young. Really young. But by ten, I’d had more than a few crushes. Had I the vocab for it, I’d have called myself ‘straight’ by then, if it had occurred to me to differentiate myself on the grounds of whom I wanted to crash-tackle in the sand-pit, as western culture expects me to do today (Whoops, there goes another piece of The Culture Sniper’s poorly guarded identity). I think it’s important to bear this in mind in this discussion of gender identity, because our conception of sexual identity is predicated on a sociocultural understanding of gender as a) real and innate, and b) fixed. So for a male, of any age, to identify as homosexual, he must first identify as, well, male. Ditto for a females. Homosexuality is an attraction to sameness, but sameness of gender can only be determined by the fixing of gender itself.

The problem is that gender is neither real, innate, nor fixed. Thus, insofar as sexuality is understood only in relation to gender, neither is sexuality real, innate or fixed. In fact, taking the logic to the extreme, it could be argued that sexuality as defined by gendered attraction doesn’t even exist.

OK, I’ve skipped ahead a bit. Let me rewind and explain where I’m getting these whacky ideas from.

I’d like to introduce you to two women: Judith Butler and Alice Dreger.

Judith Butler kind of accidentally founded Queer Theory in the nineties. Accidentally. I’m not sure how you accidentally found an entire arm of cultural inquiry, but there you have it. The interesting thing is that she accidentally founded Queer Theory by theorising not sexuality but gender. <;- Point in case for my claim that the two are inextricably linked, and by debunking one, you necessarily debunk the other. Anyway, Butler's central claim is that gender is 'performative'. This basically means that gender is not a noun but a verb: it's not that we ARE our gender, so much as we DO our gender. So I wear my hair long and put on makeup and high heels not because there is anything innate in my body that suggests or demands that I behave in this way, but because I have learned culturally that this is what a woman is. And by doing so, I reify, perpetuate and make the gender of feminine by doing the gender of feminine.

I do it because it’s done and it’s done because I do it.

There is absolutely no reason why I shouldn’t shave my head, wear flat shoes, and step out with a naked face. Indeed, many women do exactly that. And what does our culture say to them? Well, in the words of spoken word artist Lacey Roop, our culture asks “Are you a dude or a dyke?” as though choosing not to adorn ourselves with the cultural accouterments of this constructed idea of femininity can mean only one thing: not that she just doesn’t like lip-gloss, but that she must be gay… because sexuality is so bound up in gender.

It’s ridiculous, of course. I could shave my head tomorrow and I’d be no more gay than I am today. My sexual orientation has zero to do with my haircut, funnily enough.

So we can see that ‘gender’ as a facet of identity is a construct, and so we make distinct gender from sex, which in this discourse and for the purposes of this discussion shall refer to anatomical sex, i.e. what bits you got. But surely, I hear you cry, surely sex is fixed! And so this discussion of gender identity, whilst very interesting, is even more arbitrary than gender; a lofty musing for academics who have nothing real to contribute!


But not.

For those of you who might have done a bit of reading in the field, I am not going to talk about Julia Kristeva at this point. Mostly because that would be drifting off in the stratosphere of theoretical mumbo-jumbo that a) I barely understand myself, and b) is difficult to demonstrate real-life implications with. Instead, I turn to Kristeva’s scientific alter ego, Alice Dreger.

Dreger works with people “at the edge of anatomy” , with a particular interest in intersexed people.



It means people who anatomically don’t fit into our neat little male/female binary. Men with a fully functional uterus. Women with testes. And any other combination you can think of. These are naturally occurring bodies, but because they don’t fit the mould – a mould that we seem to have imposed on nature – we think of these bodies as abnormal. Dreger’s central contention is that sex is not as straight forward as we’d like to think, that in fact it exists on a spectrum and beyond, on axes of a plethora of intersecting lines, and that this division between male and female is, well, kinda made up. That’s what the science suggests (dare I say proves?) anyway.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the crux of my argument.

Gender is a pattern of behaviours constructed in arbitrary response to sex, which is itself a far more complex thing than we have previously imagined: sex is not a neat little binary, but a complex matrix of possibilities. Thus, given our understanding of sexuality is entirely dependent on the fixity of sex and gender, it is difficult to claim that sexuality is anything but just another arbitrarily constructed sociocultural concept. (Cue usual rant about stupid anti-gay BS and fast forward to next point).

What does this have to do with transgender kids?

It comes down to this: how can gender identity every be a disorder if gender is made up? Is the child sick, or is the culture just, well, a bit screwed?

Of the kids that were old enough to be experiencing sexual attraction, all of them were attracted to the same sex. I wonder (and I really do just wonder: I don’t know or make any solid claim on this) if the real issue with these kids is a discomfort with their sexuality because the culture has told them that boys kiss girls and girls kiss boys, and ‘dykes’ are gross and ‘fags’ are some how lacking. I have to wonder if these kids would be so desperately unhappy with their anatomy that they want to cut it off or stitch it on, take drugs to stop their voices dropping, or bring out hair, and completely remodel their bodies if we lived in a culture that said, “You know what? Love whom you love. Wear what makes you comfortable. Love the face in the mirror.”

Certainly, as with transgendered adults, I assume not all kids diagnosed with “Gender Identity Disorder” have same-sex feelings. But again I ask, is the child sick, or is the culture? What exactly is wrong with a a child with female genitalia wanting to cut her hair short and wear pants and sneakers and heavy-metal band tees? If gender is arbitrary, the binarised sexed body an idea more than a scientific fact, and sexuality nothing more than a concept wrapped around other concepts, you have to conclude that there’s nothing wrong with it.

Instead we should be asking, what is wrong with a culture that trains its young to emotionally brutalise each other for something as arbitrary as a hair-cut and choice of footwear? What is wrong with a culture that essentially makes shit up, designs a game no-one can win, refuses to publish a rule-book, and then punishes the losers? What is wrong with a culture that has its kids so convinced there are right and wrong ways to be born, right and wrong ways to love, that these kids want to chemically and surgically alter their bodies, be it in pursuit of a new sex or a new nose or bigger boobs or a smaller belly?

What is wrong with that?


Three’s Company

Interesting blog interview by John Shore about a functional polyamorous relationship in the Bible Belt of America.

Will mull, ponder and blog my thoughts later… I’m getting a bit of a blogging back-log here, hey?

The Other.

I love the Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras. I love the colour. I love the music. I love the dancing. And, yeah, I do love the thirty-foot mechanical genitalia.

The Mardi Gras is a great party.

Is it a particularly good advertisement for equal marriage rights? Erm… not so much.

See, the key to winning a debate is not actually in highlighting the points where you disagree – it is in highlighting the points where you concur. ESPECIALLY when your opponent starts invoking ‘moral’ rhetoric.

At the heart of this debate, and similar controversies we’ve seen over women’s rights, racial equality, religious freedom and so on and so forth, is actually a conservative fear of difference. It’s arguable that fear of progress and change is at the heart of all social debate. General ignorance about what it actually means to be gay, or bisexual, or transgendred, a transvestite, a lesbian, pansexual, homosexual, asexual, whatever nomenclature you want to employ, as opposed to heterosexual, is what has caused such anxiety for those opposed to LGBQT causes. What slimy, ravenous monsters might lurk in the misty, swampy expanse between hetero and homo?

And then, as though to answer all these fearful questions, a giant penis comes galumphing around the corner of Taylor Square, accompanied by an army of scantily-clad, glitter-drenched, thrusting men.

Because that will put the Evangelical mind at ease.

At this point, let me stress quite emphatically: I LOVE THE MARDI GRAS. I LOVE THE GIANT PENISES. I LOVE THE GOLD HOT PANTS AND ANGEL WINGS AND DANCING AND CARICATURES OF POLITICIANS. Because I don’t think sex in any form is anything at all to be ashamed of (insert obvious exceptions, breaches of consent, etc etc). And I believe that a culture that can look at a giant penis and not squirm is a culture at ease with its own humanity, with its bits. We’ve all got ’em, folks. Even you, Christian pastor, you have ’em too. So deal with it. After all, didn’t God figure out we’d fucked up because we started covering our bits? Isn’t shame, Biblically speaking, actually the marker of sin? So I say – let’s all be naked!

OK, maybe not. But you get my drift.

BUT – however ridiculous, nonsensical, contradictory and arbitrary the conservative right-wing objection to and discomfort with homosexuality (and, indeed, sexuality in general) may be, rubbing it in their faces is not going to win them over. You won’t solve my cat-allergies by rubbing a Persian in my face, and you won’t solve homophobia by burning effigies of conservative religious leaders and marching down Oxford St in chaps and a bare bottom.

Again, LOVE the Mardi Gras, not saying we should can it, just saying… Sexualising a debate that exists because your opponents are uncomfortable with sex… probably not helpful. Shift the focus.

Want to win over your opponents? Show them how much they have in common with you.

Randy Roberts Potts, grandson of TV evangelist Oral Roberts, has the right idea. His touring performance art piece, ‘The Gay Agenda’, consists of a set lounge-room with one transparent wall. Potts and his partner spend their evenings watching television, eating macaroni cheese, and getting an early night. In full view of any passing public. It’s boring. It’s mundane. It’s normal. It’s the point.

Guess what doesn’t feature in this poignant political piece? A giant mechanical penis.

Magda Szubanski and Channel Ten have the right idea, too. No bare-breasts, no footage of same-sex couples making out and getting all handsy to put the right-wing on edge. No. Just one of Australia’s most loved comedy icons, dressed neatly, calmly letting us know with minimal drama, ‘I’m gay. I’m gay and you’ve let me into your lounge rooms for fifteen years. I don’t even have a girlfriend. I just want to know that if I fall in love, I can marry her. That’s all.’ (not actual quote). If it weren’t quite so moving, I’d say it was cunning. Clever. Well-staged. But it was so very moving. If you haven’t watched Szubanski’s appearance on The 7pm Project, I recommend it.

So many of these civil rights debates have been fought and won on the premise of SIMILARITY, not difference. Both women’s liberation and African American civil rights activists invoked those soaring lines, “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal” from the Declaration of Independence in their rhetoric. Potts and Szubanksi have cottoned onto the incredible power of recognition and empathy. Whilst in principle I think we should be able to celebrate difference, the unfortunate reality is that difference scares people. I’m not saying reduce the difference, I’m not saying hide the sexuality of homosexuality (or heterosexuality or any sexuality). Not at all. To do so would be to dishonour human sexuality entirely. I’m simply saying lets work from a presumption of similarity.

So here it is: What makes human sexuality special? The psychology of it. Sure, a lot of what we do with our bits and why we do it is arbitrary, chemical, biological; whose pheromones you caught wind of on what day, what cheese your mother ate the day before you were conceived or whatever. Granted, there’s a lot of terribly un-romantic science in this stuff. But then there’s the other thing. The mix tapes. The copy of that book you’ve always loved sitting on his/her bookshelf. The mutual love of peanut butter ice-cream that no-one else understands. The finished sentences. The synergy. The other.

The OTHER is the SAME. Let’s start with that.

‘Til Death Do We Part.

On Saturday I saw three separate hens night groups on Oxford street. All the brides had a few things in common.

(1). They were all very young. Probably no older than 22 or 23. Yet (2) scantily clad, so presumably not marrying young for, you know, God or something. (3) They all had Oompa Loompa tans and (4) hideous bleached hair. (5) Not a single one of them could string a sentence together.

I sat with this vision for a while, mulling over the cultural implications of it all, when suddenly something horrifying and tragic struck me:

SOMEONE woke up one morning, looked at these girls, and thought, “You know what I’d like to spend the REST OF MY LIFE DOING? Waking up to your inane blather.”

Maybe if I got an oompa loompa tan, bleached my hair and forgot half my vocabulary, I too could have a fiancee.

Or maybe it’s just because I’m a cynical bitch.

I’ll take my singular cynicism over that any day.

You realise that’s going straight to your waist waste, right?

This isn’t the first time this has been said. It has been said so many times it is almost trite. A truism. One of those things that make the listener glaze over, internal monologue muttering “you’ve only just realised this, O Enlightened One?” And this isn’t the first time I’ve noticed it, or thought of it, but it is the first time I’ve experienced it first hand.

America, and everything about it, is BIG.

Everything is big from the continent itself, to the walkways, to the buildings, to the attitudes and energy, to—you guessed it—the people. Winding through the streets of Las Vegas on our courtesy shuttle to the hotel, gazing up in naive-small-town-wonder at the monstrous buildings covered in glittering lights, I had to wonder how such a vibrant big place, so full of energy and enthusiasm, could foster such, well, bigness. The average American, in my limited experience, is so present, their everyday rhetoric so commanding and reverberant, I wondered that calories didn’t just evaporate the moment these people began to speak. And I mean this in the most complimentary way: America truly is inspiring in its optimism.

I had heard of the bigness of American servings from friends, and so when my first meal was served up (‘Traditional Belgian Waffles’ with whipped butter, maple syrup and optional side of fruit) I wasn’t entirely surprised. I ate half of it, politely pushed the rest aside, and concentrated on enjoying the watery black stuff that was my ‘coffee’ (this takes considerable effort for one who will send a flat white back if it has more than two millimetres of foam…). I was forming an idea: the key to staying thin in America, which some people are managing to do, must be to learn to say ‘no, thank you’ and eat only half of what is put in front of you. With $5 All-You-Can-Eat buffets in every casino (not to mention poker machines in every spare square foot, including food halls) will seems to be a quality of the divine in Vegas, the deficiency of which the place depends upon.

Las Vegas is a strange little town. As you fly in, you notice immediately that it just stops. There is no dwindling suburbia. There is the obvious high-rise of the city and the casino strip, and then the city just dies at someone’s backyard fence, and then the desert stretches out. From the ground, the place feels much the same: The heart of Vegas is obviously The Strip, the main drag of casinos and gentlemen’s bars, where pimps and their hired ‘promotions teams’ are not choosy about at whom they thrust escort calling cards ($65 is the average. I’m not sure what that includes). Casinos like Cesar’s Palace and The Bellagio are encrusted with the trappings of gaming wealth, and it seems somehow indecent to even casually calculate how much money must flow through their machines each day. But then, you reach a certain point towards the end of The Strip, about where Circus Circus Casino is, and the place falls to rack and ruin. The sparkling glamour and aesthetic riches of the carefully crafted city fall away almost instantly, revealing run-down back streets, bordered up houses and closed down smaller casinos that just couldn’t compete, populated by women who can’t quite call themselves ‘escorts’ and men who sleep in bus-stops having gambled away their reason long before their money.

This is the dichotomy of Vegas: Incredible wealth in the heart of incredible poverty. Waste girt by wasteland. Suddenly I feel silly for sending back that flat white.

Nevertheless, one quickly forgets all this as the bus nears The Mirage, and the magic of the place has you convinced that nothing at all exists beyond the flashing lights and the blipping poker machines. Suddenly what really matters is finding a good meal and a poker machine with the X-Files on it (I never did find one…)

On our first evening in Vegas, we ate in a nice restaurant called Nobs Hill in the MGM, and I decided in advance that I would not order an entrée, nor desert, and unless they made ‘specialty coffee’ (‘specialty’ meaning plain old espresso) I’d say ‘no, thank you,’ to that too. We placed our order, and were promptly served with a selection of breads and a pleasant blend of olive oil, garlic, vinegar and various herbs in which to dip the breads. I almost informed the waiter that we had not ordered bread, but realised my own error just in time to save myself from looking like a cultureless buffoon.

The next day I decided that I had to eat a hot dog in America. It’s like having escargot in France except less… ah… well, you get my drift. So I followed a sign that promised me a foot-long hot dog for $1.99 (very reasonable, even without the generous current exchange rate) and planned to order a regular size hot dog.

They didn’t have regular size hot dogs.

I ordered my foot of processed off-cuts, bread and ketchup, gave half of it to my father, took a photo, and ate the rest. Had my father not been hungry, I probably would have thrown it away.

On our final night, we ate at Samba, a Brazilian steak house in The Mirage. Having learned our lesson, we ordered one main and one entrée, and planned to share. As I had come to expect, a complimentary selection of breads arrived shortly after we ordered. Then the entrée came. It could have easily fed me and left me quite full. Even shared, it was enough to satisfy. Still, we ate it all, and settled in to digest a little and wait for our mains. As if by magic, the moment our entrée plates were cleared, a waiter appeared by our table with salad for us both. He served it up, and left us alone. I didn’t touch it yet, assuming it was to go with our mains. After a little while my father leaned across the table and said, “I think we’re supposed to eat it now…” Sure enough, when the waiter returned, he asked me if I would like to keep my salad. I said I would, and he left to fetch our mains.

“I think I get it,” I said, “why they have such an obesity problem here… they just don’t let you stop eating, do they?”

Then the main dish arrived. And the complimentary side dish dishes. Generous servings of sweet potato, fried bananas, some kind of spinach and cheese based dip (delicious), black beans and rice. The side dishes alone could have fed four Australians with an average appetite.

Needless to say, we left most of it on the table.

Outside, up the strip, away from the revealing lights, those women who weren’t quite ‘call girls’ turned tricks so they wouldn’t have to dig our leftovers out of the garbage, and men who had nothing to sell, did get our leftovers.

I’m not suggesting all Americans start consuming everything they are served, then the obesity epidemic would cease to be an epidemic and become the simple norm (if it isn’t the norm already), but it is food for thought, if you’ll pardon the pun. If this culture of waste extends beyond food consumption, I wonder if it is too great an extrapolation to consider that the very same cultural phenomenon that serves a foot long hot dog with no downsize option, might have contributed to the economic crisis the USA now faces?

Just a tiny bit?

Maybe even a big bit.

SHIT, I mean, ‘Crap.’

I am writing a book.

It’s a bit of a Frankenbook.

It has faeries AND vampires.

Its target audience is adults who like to read Young Adult fiction. So, people who grew up with Harry Potter but wish it weren’t, erm, WRONG to have a crush on the protagonist.

So, I’m wondering, given the target audience is adult, but the style is Young Adult, and it could plausibly be read by a YA audience…