the Fitzroy Flasher

art and ideas: photos and words: mainly and sometimes.

The Race To Be 

October 29, 2015

I remember a Scientific American article circa 1980 something about the physiological ‘race to be male’. An exploratory piece about the in utero foetal development of us, and how we all start female. And some become male. Now it makes sense to use these words in this clinical context to describe a physiological process at the core of sexual reproduction. But that’s where that language starts and finishes in terms of its usefulness, for me.

I remember an early crush. Shannon. White blond hair, falling casually over dark brown eyes. The most wicked backspin I ever saw, and the only helicopter I saw anyone under 13 perform. I was 10. I never knew Shannon’s gender but it was love at first sight. That kid had the moves, the baggy jeans and my heart. The words male and female had no place in this romance across the cardboard breakdancer square.

So it interests me, or maybe irritates me, that Germaine Greer seems completely sure she knows gender. And she sure as fuck thinks she has the authority and platform to explain it. So basically it is this. White, middle class female babies are born. They live a privileged suburban life. Maybe publish a book about ‘boys’ that should be classified as paedophilic, after a career that benefits white middle class woman.  That, folks, is 100 percent where women start and end. And heaven help you fools out there who have a misapprehension that maybe there’s a bit more fluidity in it than that. 

To clarify, woman, born with vaginas into middle class suburbia, are a race. There is no other reality. They are a white, wealthy, tertiary educated race who grew vaginas in utero.  So if you are a white, rich woman with a vagina obtained in utero, feel free to use analogies about wanting to ‘switch species’. Like if you wanted to be a dog, that is completely the same as being a human woman. Sorry, a pretend human woman. Or a pretend human? That part of her point seems less clear.

Real Australians (un)Learn

October 11, 2015


What did we learn in our shit public high schools? It wasn’t all fun, but it was fun for sure. I remember crying with laughter, harassing teachers to the point of tears, wagging, smoking on the oval. I come from Bogan, I am Bogan, so I feel rightfully placed to tell my fellow Bogans this: for all your “fuck of we’re full” bullshit, you are fools. U.N.L.E.A.R.N. That’s a reference to a film you should see called Higher Learning. You need to. I’m not gonna hold your hand here, if this was an argumentative essay and you were handing it in to that teacher, the young blonde you had  crush on, the old one who was almost retired, the one who despaired at the hopelessness of your collective fate (and I include me in that), you would EPICALLY FAIL. Your logic is flawed, full of holes, and basically absent. You are making assumptions, unjustified, and based in hate. Grow your brains and stop embarrassing us people of the lesser educated world. Preach kindness so that the world understands we are actually rough diamonds, lovely, kind, whimsical and funny. Be the Bogan’s I always thought we would grow up to be: Decent.

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October 10, 2015

Today does not define

My relationship with you – 

Forty years of haphazard

And chance encounters 

Sums us up much better.

Images of me inside 

Your cultural belly.

The Beechworth bakery, 

Tulips in spring,

Queer film festival,

Second hand books.

Motels and brown bricks,

Road signs to Weeroona

A footy oval.

Trucks and holdens.


Today is one 

That won’t make it 

To my fond memories 

Of your fine soul.

What it is

October 2, 2015

It is:

The frayed edges,

The loose ties,

The settled dust

On unfinished


It is the niggling,

Other doubting,

Ever present

In the room.

The unforgotten.

It is the pillow

That I place

Over my face.

It is the cotton

Damp from tears,

The pearls of fear,

Around my neck.

The sober fight.

The longest night.

It is:

The sadness of

The best sun

Bereft of fun.

It is what:

I am left with.

The loose change.

The soft landing.

The long standing.

It is.

The Biggest Loser – Moron Edition

September 26, 2015

Is it just me or should this season’s The Biggest Loser – Family Edition really be called The Biggest Loser – Moron Edition? Seriously I am amazed some of these people have the prehensile grasp to hold a weight.

I get really cross with ‘TBL’ not for the reasons you would expect. I get cross because of how one dimensional the cross section of chubbies is that they portray. They tell the average viewer that if you are fat you must have no taste, style or joie de vivre whatsoever and I am here as living proof to tell you, this is wrong.

I frequently tell my family that if I went on the show, the trainers would be watching in horror as I downed a bottle of Bellarine Peninsula red, which I had carefully paired with a Drysdale Goats cheese and Pine Needle Oil from Italy. They would be crying into their video diaries about how I chose the 9 course degustation instead of stopping at the 7, and how enthusiastically I agreed to share a cheese board at the end. They would be horrified that I might choose Messina the same day as three full fat lattes.

Seriously, we are not all fat because we eat shit food. Some of us got this way eating awesome food. Heaps of it. And drinking our Bourgeoisie arses into oblivion. I mean, I have watched the beginning of the Complete Moron Edition in utter horror. Who eats an entire tray of frozen lasagne?  No one in my world. But ask me the last time I watched someone devour a wedge of DÁffoinois and I can tell you, it was yesterday.

I don’t know why I am sharing this. I am not even sure I have a point. But I guess I am saying: don’t judge me as a Bogan just because I am big. I am not this fat because of Macca’s. I live a really fucking good life. Really really good. You should envy me.


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