August 31st, 2009 § § permalink
I once went skiing with my family and one day my brother and I, left to our own devices had taken to the slopes on our own. We queued at the bottom of the mountain to take a t-bar up, the attendant reminding both of us, not just me, not to sit on the bar, but just to let it act as a guide, ushering us up the hill. Now look, who sat down is still to this day up for a rather heated debate, but at some point one of us, I still maintain it was Michael, sat on the t-bar resulting in it flicking up and smashing him in the back of the head and knocking him off.
I continued up the hill, assured that I’d run into him half way down the mountain and we’d laugh at his unrelenting stupidity and inability to balance his body weight and then maybe get a cookie. But as I skied down the hill I saw a small crowd gathered around an unconscious body and it would appear that body belonged to my brother. ‘Has anyone called an ambulance?’ – ‘does anyone know this boy?’ ‘He could be dying; surely someone knows who he is.’ People were yelling out all over the mountain; such passion to save my dying brother was heartfelt and commendable – I really didn’t need to get involved.
As I looked at his limp body lying on the snow, a small stain of red leaking from a wound on what I could only imagine was at the back of his head I knew that if I owned up to knowing him that somehow this would be my fault and I wouldn’t get to go to the Carla’s birthday slumber party on the next weekend and everyone who was anyone was going…and so with so much at stake I skied down to the bottom of the hill and went home, leaving my brother on the mountain. Later, as my father paced around the living room, with a concerned police officer stand
ing nearby, I felt like the condemned ‘he was only registered as a John Doe until he regained consciousness and afterall you found him didn’t you?’ I spurted out, but I knew I wouldn’t be going to Carla’s slumber party, but to be honest with the looks my brother was giving me from his rented wheel chair I wasn’t sure I’d live through the night either.
August 20th, 2009 § § permalink
In 1989 I would have challenged you to have found a school yard in this country that wasn’t a-buzz wit the zeitgeist phenomenon of ‘Double Dare’. It was globally syndicated children’s game show that no amount of insurance and promises of ‘your kids won’t get hurt’ would see it on our screens in these modern times.
The basic premise of it was that two teams were pitted against each other and challenged to a series of questions. If your team couldn’t answer the question you had dishonoured your family and would only know a life of shame from that moment on, or you could “dare” the other team to answer it. If they didn’t know the answer they could “double dare” you back and finally if no one could answer the question the original team would declare a ‘physical challenge’ and the contestants would find themselves with a helmet strapped to their head and being crushed through a giant sized pasta maker and then forced have to swim through a river of lard – this game rose to much greater popularity years later when it was re-appropriated for use in the live-sex entertainment industry in Mexico and lesser known parts of yet to be liberated Eastern Europe.
Of course I wanted desperately to be on the show, for no other reason then it was the only way I knew how to get a Sony Discman. Sure I could’ve asked Santa but I was pretty sure he might not actually exist after recently having come downstairs early one Christmas morning to find my father in nothing but his underpants, a chorizo sausage in one hand, a glass of bourbon in the other, a Santa cap on some part of his body and my mother underneath what I was pretty sure was my new Casio Keyboard, being a naughty elf who was tiring of this life and couldn’t understand why Santa could take a holiday at this time of year as well – just like everyone else.
The problem for me was how did I go about getting on the show? I rang Channel 10 and they told me my school had to apply. I went to my Head Mistress and she told me that Channel 10 had to let her know that it was ok for her to ask them. I got Channel to send out a letter telling my Head Mistress that she could call them. She told me she’d get around to it. I suggested I write back on her behalf and sure call me optimistic but I got dad to drive me to JB Hi-Fi and I bought a CD. Channel 10 wrote back saying they needed a representative of the school to organise a regional audition, and so at 10 years old I coordinated the entire South Eastern Melbourne states Double Dare auditions with only the help of the Australian postal service, the Yellowpages and my parents trusty landline (yes, I’m that old I just got sexy didn’t I boys…).
What we did at the auditions or who we did at the auditions is probably less important but it was decided I should be on the show. I was going to be on TV.
I’m not going to go into details (there is footage available of the episode if anyone really needs a visual) but I didn’t win a Sony Discman – no I was lucky enough to win a Phantom Glow in the Dark Bed Lamp. To this day I’ve never felt such disappointment and I’ve dated a street performer.
I never did get that Sony Discman and never did get to play my CD on it.
Sometimes I find myself wandering down Chapel St trying to relive my glory days on Double Dare by stumbling into a bar and having some guy who wears collars approach me and ask me if he can tempt me to a physical challenge, but without the helmet and equipment it’s never really the same.
I really don’t want to talk about this anymore…
August 14th, 2009 § § permalink
When I was younger my parents imposed a rule of law in the Sanz household that in today’s nanny state would be illegal. The basic premise was that if you did something to someone that wasn’t nice, they got to do it back it you. On a particularly hot 40 degree Melbourne day my brother and I were languishing in front of the TV, my mother had turned off the air conditioning because she trying to accelerate her detox in time for Cup day. Now I don’t know how the fight started, but at some point my brother starting flicking lemonade at me, and just as my mother walked back into the lounge room she was just in time to see me flick some lemonade back at him, which of course Michael noticed, burst into tears as a result and started crying at mum that I was trying to make him sticky on a non-bath day.
Well my punishment was imminent. My mother instructed my brother to go the fridge and extract the bottle of lemonade and sent me to my room to change into my bathing suit, a new purchase after I’d begged my mum to let me start wearing a bathing suit that covered my chest. Up until that point I’d only been allowed to wear bathing bottoms because as my she’d assured me, at 10 years old I had the body for it and if you’ve got it, flaunt it. This new bathing suit in all honesty wasn’t much better. I hadn’t been allowed to go shopping with her for it and as such was presented with an adult sized leopard skin print all in one, with padded cups on the eyes of the tiger firmly hovering over my nipples. I walked outside, trying not to scold my feet on the boiling concrete. My mum pulled up two plastic yard chairs and sat down on one, nursing a woman’s day on her lap and then instructed my brother to pour the remainder of the the 2 litre bottle of lemonade over me.
The existentialist in me stopped me from mounting any sort of defense and I stood there in the back yard, in my bathing suit, drenched in lemonade as my mother and brother sat and watched me dry off as they did the word search at the back of the magazine.
Eventually I passed out and my mum explained to the ambulance officers that arrived at the scene that she’d been out shopping for orthopedic shoes with my brother and I’d probably been the and I’d been the victim
August 10th, 2009 § § permalink
There are some albums that shape us for life, reflect the people we are and perhaps more importantly the people we hope to become. The first album I ever bought myself was of course Amy Grant’s Heart in Motion and it is at this point I feel the need to point out that I didn’t know she was a Christian, nor did I know that the ‘baby, baby’ in her life was God, nor did I know she was and is still is to this day the best selling Christian music artist of all time. Had I known this I would never have begged my mother to take me to see her live in concert when she came to tour Australia in 1991. I’ve blocked out most of the experience but what I can manage to drag up with the aid of codeine and a late night Shiraz was that the concert was held at the newly built tennis centre and as I walked up the path with my brand new hyper colour t-shirt on and crimped hair I failed to notice the large banners that read ‘God is my baby too’, but that’s what my mother was for. ‘All these signs, such a waste of perfectly good cardboard.’ I watched as she rolled another cigarette and adjusted her bra outside the ticket booth. ‘They’re just excited’ I grinned, clutching my packed Prima close to me. ‘Excitement is for people that have sex, you’d do best to remember that Louise.’ (And yes, before you ask of course that comment scarred me for life). The rest of the evening played out with my mother arguing with ushers over the fact the concert was a dry event and yes she knew that, ‘that’s why I bought my own’ as she proudly pulled out a box of goon ’cause I’m not stupid, I wouldn’t bring glass knowing they’d be kids here’ – of course they confiscated her alcohol and as such she spent the rest of the concert in grimaced resentment, kicking the back of the chair in front and remarking ‘well if God really existed he’d stop me from kicking your chair’ when she was finally confronted by a pimply faced 14 year old boy and his 200 kilo minder – Barry from the abandoned kids centre. Twenty minutes in we left, after Amy tried to lead us in a group prayer resulting in my mum standing up and declaring that if my father couldn’t convince her to give group activities a go there was no way she was going to be persuaded by a bunch of ‘god f****’s….’…and so with that we left and as we stepped out into the early evening away from god’s warm embrace my mother turned to me, lit another cigarette and said ‘so Lou, see what happens when you get what you want, might teach you to stop asking for things.’She was right, every time I asked for something things had a way of going bad, none more so as when I asked for the Sesame Street Album. I was 4 years old and had for some time been a massive fan of the ‘street’- to say it provided me with the moral compass my family failed to would be not to give it enough credit. It was an album that encouraged love and unity, compassion and growth – my mother was obviously reluctant to buy it for me as it promised nothing but false hope she said.
Just before my 5th birthday my Nan suggested me and my mother accompany her on a weekend away in the country – nothing fancy, just take in the sites from bed and breakfasts and gorge ourselves on scones. As it was the middle of summer the car ride was long and sticky and so my Nan suggested a shower for me before we hit the town to find that perfect iconic slogan driven tea towel that we could not return to civilisation without. As my Nan dried me off she let out an odd sigh ‘oh that doesn’t look good.’ She was looking at a small pimple on my chest that I had recently named Hector only because it seemed to be getting bigger and bigger on a daily basis. She called my mum into the bathroom and I watched as they both stood back and examined my small naked frame and my little lump called Hector. ‘Could be the leukaemia’ my Nan suggested ‘yep, best we go get her checked then.’ my mum concurred ‘better grab some plastic sheeting’ my Nan yelled ’cause if it is the leukaemia she could wet herself and I just had the backseat Scotchguarded.’
We drove to a little local clinic and as luck would have it I exercised great control and didn’t wet myself. The waiting room was what you’d expect in a small country town, small and dingy, with magazines declaring that Edward VIII would be abdicating the throne any day now for someone called Wallis. Finally a nurse came out and taking my hand led me to the doctor’s room, telling my mother that maybe if she went and bought me some candy that might make everything better. ‘I doubt it’ my mother mumbled under her breath as she grabbed her handbag. My Nan followed me to the doctor’s room but again the nurse interrupted asking for my Medicare papers. Nan had left them in the car and said she’d be right back, but not to go in without her – the nurse ignored her and given I’d seen my mum ignore my Nan so many times I didn’t know much better so I too ignored my nan’s comment. Now to be honest what happened after I was left with the doctor and the nurse isn’t for the faint hearted and looking back could’ve all been avoided had anyone managed to notice that not at any point in the doctors waiting room did we see evidence that another patient had passed through there in say, I don’t know….20 years!
The doctor seemed nice enough, and as usual his hands were cold, he rubbed them on his bald head to warm them up – something I found more amusing then disturbing. He placed me up on the bed and asked me what was wrong. I told him that my friend Hector was causing my mum and Nan some concern and he took a quick glance at it and admitted that yes, they were right, it could be the leukaemia. He asked me to lie down and then the lovely nurse suddenly held down my arms and the doctor returned with a bobby pin and before I knew what was happening he pierced down through my nipple, peeling back the flesh and yes, that’s when I past out.
By the time I came to I was in a proper hospital, complete with blinking machines and doctors who appeared to be wearing stethoscopes and had the air of having had a medical education – all things that small clinic doctor lacked in hindsight.
The story went that my Nan had come back from the car and having found the door to the clinic locked and using her body weight, flung herself against the door and broke it down. The doctor had peeled a fair amount of skin from my chest away and I was on the verge of going into shock as my Nan picked me up and ran to try and get me to a hospital before I went into cardiac arrest. My mum returned moments later with my candy but was a quick thinker and put it back in her handbag to perhaps save for later
–
now was not the time.After the trauma of having met with Dr Zhivago my mother who was more concerned with not getting another visit from child welfare presented me with a copy of the Sesame Street album. It was mine to keep she assured me, as I stared down at the bandages now covering my chest that somehow how gave me a modesty I’d lacked earlier in the day. It turned out the doctor was from the old school of ‘chop it off’, not the more popularly favoured ‘considered diagnosis and penicillin’ school of thought. He apologised, but someone thought it was best to charge him with malpractice regardless.
Arriving home I tore into the lounge room to listen to my new album when my mother stopped me and asked me what I thought I was doing ‘…oh no you’re not’ she said ‘I’m going to watch Magnum PI and then your father and I are going to watch Thornbirds.’
My face sank ‘…but…’ but my mother was uncompromising. ‘Look Louise don’t you start making me feel guilty for the whole you were operated on by a doctor in third world conditions thing…there are song lyrics on the back, just go sit in your room and imagine the music, albums aren’t just for listening to you know.’
And so I took my album to my room and yes I tried to sing along with the imagined lyrics in my head but without Hector it wasn’t the same, nothing was ever the same without Hector…ever again and perhaps I’d learnt sooner then I’d ever cared to imagine that bad things happen when you ask for things
– very bad things indeed.
August 5th, 2009 § § permalink
Hi,
So yes my blog ‘The Problematic World of Lou’ has come to an end, but all is good. I will still be posting stories but I’m going to be focusing on my live shows for a little bit…
News:
Melbourne Fringe Festival 2009
The fringe is almost upon us and I’ve got 4 different shows taking place over the length of the festival – more info to follow 
“Please don’t use my flannel for that” – Solo show at The Storeroom (more information to follow)
“Sanz Script” – one off improvised show at The Storeroom (more information to follow)
“Who is Priscilla Irving? – Redux” – Sound installation at The Festival Club (more information to follow)
The Skirt Network Presents “Skirting Around” – (more information to follow)
The Problematic World of Lou
Hi, we’re currently in production on the web-based series based on the blog and a book is now in the works…so all good.
Speak soon
Lou
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