I have been a negligent little twat, I know. Sorry 'bout that.

Have you ever taken a look at yourself and what you've accomplished over the last little spell and managed only a maniacal cackle? Yep, that's where I'm at. It's been a really twisted last couple of weeks, that's for sure. I've been purposefully ignoring my blog for a few weeks now, truth be told. You know that weird spot when you journal/blog for a while and then do so much in-between that you can't be arsed? Again, that's where I'm at. I'm alive and still kicking furiously. :)

Anyway, how're you going?

As I have spent many a late night working on Scrawled over the last month with the sweet sounds of rockabillyradio.net on iTunes, it has dawned on me that I am missing something integral to keeping my head on straight.

ROLLER DERBY. I need to join a team, stat.

A hobby? Yes.
A sport? Yes.
Bad-ass name? Yes.
Great tunes? Yes. (Johnny Cash, Everly Brothers, Straight 8's, Rockats... YES!!!)
Rollerskates? YES.

Anybody in Sydney who can point me in the right direction, I will be most thankful. Hopefully, other rollers will be women who have original hips.

I've done my dash with the drums, I've learned enough cooking to sustain myself, I suck at knitting, and I'm happy to leave my happy soccer memories in highschool. I really want to skate again, and I really want to tone up a bit. That, and I need to knock some fucking bird-ass to the ground, and YES - I'm very aware that I will probably get myself knocked down more than most. But that's half the fun!!!

**Added: No luck via Google. Just a lot of talk about a Roller Derby revival, seems nothing's come of it. :(

Jeez, it's been a while! What to say, where to begin, blah blah blah. I thought about doing a run-down of the past month, but days have blurred into weeks, and I'm pretty exhausted, so please bear with the SOC of this post. :)

New Years Resolutions. That's right, I made a few.

1) Scrub up a bit more bird-like. Now that I've gotten through 2005 and know that I can handle a budget and look after my daughter on my own, 2006 is the year to purdy myself up a bit. I got a haircut and got me some bangs, too. I love the word 'bangs.' My mother used to call my fringe 'bangs,' and it made my skin crawl with her weird Spanglish. Or is it Filipanglish? Either way, it was very Drinky Girl and awkward. Anyway... I've even bought a couple of 50's style dresses, too. I'm aiming for the 50's look, it's classic and I feel very comfortable in that sort of garb. I've done the 'keep up with the times' look, and end up cringing at photos a year down the road, because I ALWAYS end up either looking like a pork dumpling or an exploded sausage. It's revolting.

2) Smoke less. With Scrawled as my main project, I've gone through about DOUBLE of what I smoke normally, and people who know me know that I smoke like a fiend as it stands. While I'm still in that silly group where I don't particularly care about my health (it's shot to shit already, ehh), it's really damaging my monies.

3) Swear less. This habit is going to be so hard to break. While I don't swear around Charli, my conversations with adults are peppered with the C-bomb. I've noticed that it's stretched into my writing, and I don't want that to be my 'hook.' It's uncouth, inappropriate, and obscene. Heh, yeah it is, but seriously - I'm going to chill out on the swearing. Or try to.

I think that's it for now.

I've been on annual leave for the last week, and this weekend will be the last before I get back to the weekendly grind. I have been ridiculously sleep-deprived with putting Scrawled together, Christmas, the New Year period, Charlotte's 3rd birthday, debuting Scrawled, and planning my ex-SIL's birthday dinner this upcoming Friday, that this weekend will actually be the first weekend since I last blogged (or a little before?) where I will actually go out and have a bit of fun. Even then, it's going to be a little high-stress, as Misha and I plan on hitting the pavement to pimp out Scrawled in old Sydneytown, donning Scrawled T-Shirts and handing out flyers and convincing half-drunk strangers that checking our site out will be good for their health. After that, though, there will be celebratory drinkage. Holy hell, we deserve it.

I'm really sorry that I dropped nearly completely off the blog radar, and it warms my previously cold cockles that so many of you kept checking in to see if I was twitching. I wasn't, but some readers have been.


In my absence, it seems that someone decided to nominate BourbonBird for best blog design in the 2006 Australian Blog Awards, which is a huge (but very welcome and appreciated) surprise! To vote for my blog, please go here. You do need to register, but it's quick and painless. If you register and vote for me, I'll send you a billion whores. Or something. In all seriousness, though, I'm flattered I even get a look-in considering the people I am up against. Although, the now-defunct (and soon to be removed) collaborative blog that I started a few months back, LighterFluid, was nominated for best collaborative, so I'm not sure how much weight my personal blog nomination holds. Let's hope they were nominated by two different people. It appeases me, dammit.

**Added: Seems someone by the name of Designated Drinker (is this you? who are you?!) nominated BourbonBird for Best Designed, and LadyCracker nominated LighterFluid. Thank you!

While I'm not sure whether or not I'll be blogging as regularly as before, count me back in on the Intarwebs. You all rock my socks for sticking with me. Thanks to all those who emailed, tMailed, commented, and private messaged me during the month of December to make sure that I hadn't done anything silly. My cockles, they are now piping-hot. And veiny.

PS. PLEASE check out Scrawled, which debuted two days ago. It's totally separate from my blog, though I would totally appreciate it if you could look in on it and let me know what you think. I'm very very proud of how it came out, and hope that future issues will only get better.

Happy Holidays, folks.

I will be off the radar here for a while for two reasons:

1) Scrawled Ezine, which will be making its debut in January 2006.
2) December is not my month, and it's best for all concerned if I disappear until the new year.

I'll be lurking. Be good. Don't date your cousin.

Cheers,
BourbonBird

As I had to leave early of a Friday morning, I didn't have a chance to check out everyone's suggestions of where to waste a day. I didn't pack or look at a map, I just caught a bus to the QVB and decided I'd let my feet take me wherever. Bearing in mind that I am a creature of habit and the only route I've ever gone from QVB was straight to the pub (LOL), I was totally surprised to find that Pitt Street was only around the corner.

I, dear readers, am an idiot.

So I decided to spend a greater part of that day shopping and maybe fitting in a spoil or two to feel that sense of belonging to no demographic in particular but still stomp around that little drag as if it were my own, a little cultural treat for my valiant efforts to get in amongst the crowd.

I fucking hate crowds. Not least because they seem to be THE place to be if you want to be jostled around, treated like absolute tourist shite, or completely ignored. Not in the attention-whore way, I mean that if you're walking a straight line and someone's in your path, they will walk right into you a couple steps. There was no humanity, selflessness or kindness in Sydney CBD at lunchtime that Friday.

Now I had no qualms about giving half my shrapnel to one man who gave out those hideous 'SMILE' stickers, and giving the rest out to a homeless man. What I did have a problem with was that there were so many homeless people in Pitt Street, caught out in the sweltering heat, totally open to either themselves or their change hat/cardboard being kicked around from the rush of peak-hour traffic. I secretly cursed the smug bastard who took most of my gold coin change (I had SO MUCH) as it probably would've been better off going to all the people who really looked like they were hurting. Just a quick question for Sydney residents: are there any homeless shelters or soup-kitchens in the CBD area?

What I do like, as most of you regular readers know, is to be left the fuck alone. All I had to do? Light myself a fag. Don't get me wrong, there are a lot of smokers in Sydneytown (bless), but you can find them scattered through the crowds in a big cloud of their own smoke, in their own space. I didn't particularly mind that non-smokers passing by looked at me like I was leprous. In fact, I kinda liked it. At least nobody bothered me.

Oh! You know those big metal stumps all up and down Pitt Street Mall to keep the pedestrians at bay if a truck were to drive through? You know how people usually sit on those if they're waiting for mates or having a fag? I tried to sit on one and had to tiptoe or hop up, LOLLERS. Some people lean back to just rest their butts on them, but when I tried it rested on the small of my back, which was really uncomfortable. I thought that was funny, but a little sad. The council would be SO incredibly FUCKED if the city were to be visited by Sherpas.

The biggest source of my ire for the day rested with the overpriced consumer vulture, Myer.

I've always been wary of stepping into any Myer outlet, as it's very hard for me to enjoy myself with that convoluted Holier-Than-Thou, You-Can't-Afford-ANYTHING-In-This-Store attitude they've got going on. BUT. Myer always seems to have a great range in lingerie, which is what I decided to blow this fortnight's Christmas monies on. Eh, I get paid just before Christmas so I can get everyone's presents then.

In the span of ten minutes on the outskirts of the lingerie section, I was approached THREE TIMES by various Myer saleswomen. Now being of obscenely small stature, it's mind-boggling how they can find me in a maze of lace. I always feel like I'm in that maze that little Danny runs through to get away from Jack in the final scenes of The Shining. I tell you what, these women had the psychotic faces to match. HOW IN THE BLOODY HELL DO THEY FIND ME?! Either they have a lookout lying flat on the floor, or they have heat-sensors.


Like I said, I was approached three times. The following little conversations followed:

"Are you doing a little Christmas shopping?"

No, no I'm not. I just love taking in the atmosphere, which includes being trampled, being poked REPEATEDLY in the small of my back and at extremely intimate moments of cheery cheer, my HEAD, by people's bags on escalators. I also quite enjoy being sprayed with toxic chemicals directly in the eyeballs by the good people down in Perfume, and I do so love running away from YOU and straight into a face-full of knickers. It's good for the soul. You cuntstain.

"Have you got the right sizes there, ma'am?"

NO! I often go into lingerie stores and just pick whatever looks good off the rack and go home hoping that it fits. 18GG?! Oh well! By hell or high water, I'll make that bugger fit. Congratulations on the service! Fuck off.

"Are these for yourself?"

Again, no. I often like to buy lingerie for other people, suggesting some latent and tactless homo-erotic behaviour on my part. I wonder if you'd ask that if I bought crotchless panties? Argh, I am exhausted and I want so badly to set you on fire, so please leave before I find my lighter.


So I find what I'm after, in the right size, for me, and proceed to the counter. Just when I thought I was done with the Arseholiosis-afflicted salesfolk, I was to find out that I was yet to meet the Bowser of awkwardness.

A meek-looking manager around 60 years old, she looked almost like that Chrisco woman. I should've known better to think she was actually meek, having to work God knows how many riotous sales days amongst other women. She would've had hairs on her chest, I bet. Anyway, I take my stuff up to her, hoping that the exchange and conversation will be very brief.

Anyway, this little woman is folding my lingerie up to put in a bag when she lifts up a bra for all to see and bellows,

"You know this bow comes off? You could use it for... other things."

OH GOD. Oh, the conversation was brief alright, but so incredibly awkward. A wireless Bonds Intimates lacy black number was one of my purchases -- a very cute one at that -- was what she held up. It had a removable bow that tied between the bap-cups, and I assume it could be used to tie someone up. Or to be tied up, whatever. It was an attachment that had me pretty non-plussed, seeing as I won't be engaging in shenanigans any time soon. I may use it in a MacGyver moment if it comes to that, who knows? Oop, I digress.

I was mortified. Now I'm no prude, but I don't need anybody else to be seeing my flaccid lingerie waving triumphantly in the air, complete with commentary for potential use. I was sort of waiting for her to sniff them, but that moment never came. Is it wrong for me to be a little disappointed, considering the events leading up to that embarrassing moment?

I hate Myer and the people who work there.

Not to be discouraged, though, I did find some other things to keep me happy. 'The Picture of Dorian Gray' by Oscar Wilde, 'To Kill A Mockingbird' by Harper Lee thanks to the good (and quiet and a good arm's length away from me at all times) people at Borders, as well as some face-stuff from The Body Shop.

Actually, The Body Shop was fucked. Heading into the cosmetic section, I was swooped on by a woman in her mid-twenties who looked like a panda who'd been kicked in the face repeatedly. Not only that, but she was pock-marked with some new pustulous additions, as if foreheads were never meant to sit ungarnished. Heaving, leaky zits, according to her face, were the new black of Summer 2005/2006. The crazy bird grinned, and this hilarity ensued:

"So HI! Doing a little Christmas shopping for yourself!!!!"
"Yes."
"What are you looking for!!!!"
"Just some eyeshadow and some eyeliner. I'm going for neutral, earthy colours, since I don't have much time to put my face on."
"Oh, why's that!!!!"
"I have a Little One, and I don't want to put my face on, do my mumstuff, then forget about my face until late in the evening when I realise that I spent most of the day looking like a smashed crab."
"How old's your little one!!!!"
"Three in January."
"Well you look FANTASTIC!!!!"
"Thanks. She IS turning THREE." (Idiot.)

*shoptalk*

"Alright, ta. I can take this to the counter, thanks for your help."
"NO PROBLEMS!!!! HAVE A VERY HAPPY HOLIDAY!!!! REMEMBER TO GIVE TO OXFAM AND THAT OUR BODY SHOP PRODUCTS ARE AGAINST ANIMAL TESTING!!!!!"

By God, it took everything in me not to scream "SUPERHAPPYCUNTPUNCHFURY!" and simultaneously fly-kick and punch her in the cunt, with rainbows and asterisks flying out of my general head area.

I also left home with a little sniffle and returned with a fully-blown strain of bird-flu, resulting in my weekend being spent being lethargic, mucous-y, angry, and sore in the throat.

If I ever find myself expressing any sort of wanderlust and it looks like I'm going to relieve it by heading into town, remind me of this ordeal. I'll probably cry inside for a while and hate your guts off for ruining the growing excitement, but it'll really be in the best interest for my mental and physical well-being.

What a glorious Saturday. The sky was a perfect baby blue smattered with white, fluffy clouds, the communal (ew) pool was packed with neighbours, and I was greeted (much to my surprise, as my clothing for the summer season revealed the initially-menacing banner on my back) several times whilst throwing out my garbage and doing my washing. For the first time in a very very long time, I've been completely alone with nothing to do and nobody to see. So, wanna guess what I did all day? I slept in, opened the windows, cranked the iTunes, and for the most part, stayed in my jocks. Admittedly, a personal bliss...

...if it weren't for my being struck down with whatever bird-flu Charli had before she was chauffered by Jerkface to the Jerkface clan's annual camping trip down in Durras. I am the walking wounded, leaking from every orifice in my face, my nose rubbed raw from what I was misled to believe was 'velvetty soft' tissue paper, my throat feeling like it had been run over by a semi-trailer, dragged through a mincer, then kicked around in the sand. I am surely a sight to behold right now.

I can't help but chuckle though, (and get ready for the Oprah moment here, folks) as it's probably the closest I'll get to feeling outside as I do on the inside for the greater part of this month. December has always been my Achilles' Heel emotionally, but it's been a very sore time for me in the last six or seven years, so really, I should just suck it up and get on with the getting on... BUT! This is my blog and I'll whinge if I want to, so nyeh.

My family. For the greater part of the year, I am at peace with how I choose to remember them. I'll write about my parents some other time, since I remember fewer good memories about them and with them.

I miss my sister so much it hurts to think too hard about it. Like I mentioned in an earlier post, she turned 16 on the 4th, and I haven't seen her since 2000. I have no idea what she looks like, and I only have an obligatory rundown of what she likes thanks to a very short-lived blog she owned in 2004. We only got really close in the last few months of my being at home. There was a shift in my world with my alopecia and vitiligo making me resemble an angry and tufty giraffe with some genetic deformity with my height, she really came through not only as an intelligent, fun, beautiful and doting sister, but as a mate at I time when I sorely needed one. As much as I miss her, things were so physically explosive between myself and my mother that it was best for everyon concerned if I left. Unfortunately, as with any twisted fire-and-brimstone, God-fearing, status-seeking, unbending Filipino Catholic tradition my family lived, my errant behaviour led me to leave home because I became exactly the opposite of what they wanted, which ended up being a massive shame to the family, therefore forbidden from ever contacting my sister again. Don't even bother thinking about wills, I can bet you my life that my name will be officially stricken from the record, if it even made it there. Of course, it's ridiculous to expect anybody to live that way in this country, so I'm going to have to just wait it out until A is of age and has lived her own life and had her own experiences away from the rest of the family. Then, and only then, do I think I have a chance of open and honest communication with her, and if that results in her making a fully-independent decision to tell me to bugger off, then I will be satisfied and I will most definitely respect her wishes.

My grandparents were two of the most amazing human beings I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. They are my biological grandparents, so on my messed-up family tree, they were a beacon of normality for me.

My grandmother barely spoke a word of English, although she's lived here for roughly thirty some-odd years, and she was NEVER sick beyond the common cold. She never really had a passion that I saw, until my grandfather had a heart attack in 1997, which required quadruple bypass surgery. She cried for days and refused to leave his bedside, except for this one RIDICULOUS idea my parents thought would cheer her up, which was to take her to the cinema to watch Die Hard: With A Vengeance. While A and I were sent to watch another movie, we finished ours a little earlier, so we were able to meet them straight after. Good Lord, my grandma looked like she had been thrown in the freezer, had her ears cut off, and was made to watch someone eat them. I had never seen anyone as white as a ghost as that night, though I don't blame her since I don't remember her ever having mentioned ever going to a cinema before that. I doubt she'd ever give it another go, lollerz. Anyway, once my grandfather was allowed back home, she demanded that he sleep by her side -- they were one of those weird old couples who stopped sleeping in the same bed years ago. So after a lot of yelling on my gran's part and an admirable but totally stupid and half-arsed effort from my grandfather, they slept together. The way she stroked his hair, doted on him, clung to him when they slept... it was reminiscent of those animals that mate for life and die of grief a day or two after the other one passes away. It was amazing to see that, since in all the time I've known them, they were very much like Marie and Frank from Everybody Loves Raymond, and my grandmother would often come out of nowhere with a broom, smacking my grandfather in the back of the head if he made a disparaging joke about her cooking.

I love my grandfather to bits. He spoke fluent English and adopted the slang with an almost scary fervour, and he loved teaching me new slang-words when nobody was around. I actually credit a lot of my gibberish to him, as he always told me that that's how non-English speaking people were able to communicate with English-speaking people... a pre-Engrish Engrish, I suppose. Although he married a Catholic bird, he left the Philippines in the early 70's a Mormon, then went to study in Utah and make some money along the way to send to his wife and kids. Somewhere between then and when he and my grandmother settled here in Australia in the late 70's, he converted and became a Catholic, and settled as a rail worker in Brisbane.


I know his trip over to the US from three photographs, which could collectively be the reason why he never wanted to return to the US:

1) Him, standing in powdery white snow. He's wearing denim from head-to-toe, with a shock of black hair. He's standing alone, pointing and looking up with the face of mock-confusion (I totally learnt my mock-confusion Engrish face from him) at a sign that proudly states he is standing in Texarkana. Or something like that.

2) Him, again with the denim -- seriously, America, what the fuck did you do to him back then?! Standing in front of some building, totally surrounded by manky pigeons. You could not see the ground at all, though I assume there were stairs behind him. That, or the pigeons liked to be photographed mysteriously stacked one on top of another, completely unsupported.

3) A photo Christmas card from a blindingly Mormon family whose surname was Mortensen. Husband, check. Wife, check. Son, check. Daughter, check. St. Bernard, check. Matching hand-knitted red sweaters with gigantic single white snowflake motif, check. Snow-white and maybe one-too-many teeth, all straight, in an almost constipated and totally unbelievable grin bordering on psychosis, check. Matching sweater AND bow with bell for the St. Bernard, check.

Before I go on, this is for the American readers of BourbonBird: If you have ever, or currently engage in such faggotry with your family at Christmas, please let me know, so that I may punch and/or kick you all in the cock/cunt. That last picture was so fucking terrifying, and having seen it only a few times my whole life with the latest viewing being about five years ago is testament to the horror I felt. Imagine what my grandfather went through having actually spent time with those freaks. America, for the denim and the Mormons, you're all cunts.


He never pushed religion on me, and was more eager to tell me war stories (a huge regret of his was that he was too young for some war), teach me how to play solitaire, or show me how to load and clean a gun. My grandfather was an excellent target-shooter and got my adoptive father into it, too, until my grandfather started to go blind from glaucoma. I don't know how far along it is now. My grandparents were nutso - my grandmother slept with a machete behind her headboard, and my grandfather had a gun under a pillow on his bed next to the wall. When I had a tickle in my throat, my grandfather would sit me outside with a bag of hot peppers and a beer and try to sneak me a nibble and a sip. My grandmother smells like Nivea moisturiser. My grandfather? Brut 33, mate. What a fucking champ. I might just add here that both of them looked no older than 60, even though they were in their mid 70s when I left, which means I totally win genetically when I get to the latter half of my life, whoop!

I ran into him last about a month after I ran away from home. He told me that my mother was upset, but that everybody missed me. He asked if I was happy. I said yes. He told me he loved me and told me to contact him if I were ever in trouble. I promised I would. I never have. I don't even know if they're still alive.

Want to know what the real kick in the cunt is? Throughout my whole life, my grandparents stood by me. Unless my mother was actually there to spout some tirade about how I was a total bastard. Actually, I don't blame them, since she was scary as all fuck when she was angry, and she controlled pretty much everything by the time I left. The only quality my grandparents ever fostered and nurtured was the mindset that I could do anything I ever wanted, that my happiness was all that should ever matter, that drive and ambition comes easiest from want and passion. Of course they only ever whispered stuff like that on the sly, but it gave me so much strength in my last couple of years at home. My grandparents and my sister loved me unconditionally. I should make a point of thanking them one day. Leaving those three people would have to be one of my biggest regrets.

December is when I feel so lonely that I can barely stand it, and despite the loneliness, I prefer being alone because it's easier than talking about it. December is the month where I decided to change the course of my own life when I burnt the one bridge I wasn't supposed to, and that in itself is enough to drive me damn near insane from all the bad memories. It's not enough that I deal with that, but try as I might, it's even harder to keep the good memories at bay. I really don't want to remember any of it, but I have to, since it is part of who I am today. December is when my heart breaks from the loneliness that very few people ever experience and really understand, and it's when I have no choice but to admit to myself that I really do miss my family.

I've got pretty much an entire day to burn and I'd like to go sightseeing in the general Sydney City-Circle area. I'll be going it alone and without a strict schedule, which is something I haven't done in about three years. Hooray!

BUT! I don't know where anything decent is! I'd really like to avoid burning a hole in my pocket in Pitt Street Mall. Anyone got any suggestions?

My sister, A, turned sixteen today.

That was how old I was when I ran away from home.

It's almost been five years since I've seen her.

I wonder what she looks like now.

I wonder if she's okay.


...


Photos from Nailpolishblues' Bird-Day Blowout can be found here.

Bloggers who made the trek were: Nailpolishblues (err, duh!), myself, Misha, Johnny the Horse, Adam, Foxhow, and my ex-husband, Jerkface. It was a pleasure meeting friends, e-friends, workmates, wives, and sister-in-laws of the people who rocked up, despite the torrential downpour prior to drinkage. A big 'fuck you' to the half-decent jukebox which, by design, ruined potential mischief, cuntingfuckholefuturemachine. Congratulations to the random shimmying fairy we ran into at The Courthouse Hotel on our way home. He was precious, not unlike douchewater.

Life has been so incredibly good to me over the last little while, and I've been such a selfish cunt about things that I forgot how good I actually have it, all things considering. It's taken me from the Innernets, which is good. I've been coming up dry with my creativity recently, so the break has been long overdue. I need to regroup and sort myself out.

So for the interim, here's a picture of me dryhumping Charlotte from our Biochem/Endocrinology department at work. She spends her shift covered in ovaries and smearing herself with other people's oestrogen. Remember her face, she might be strapping dynamite, bloody terrorist. JIHAD!


And here's her pissy attempt at whimsy.


I think I'm going to bring my camera to every shift. There's too many awesome things I need to show you all. Just check my album whenever you can be arsed, I'll add to it when I can be arsed.

Going back to the title, I have had a stellar week so far -- everything has just run so smoothly and I think tonight it all came together. My daughter, Charlotte, has been a supermegastar. I could not possibly love that little bird any more. I am so happy right now, I don't quite know how to deal with it! If I could shit nuggets of glee, I would. *grin*

Anyway... I will be back on the Intarnets when I fall off my cloud.

OH! Nailpolishblues' blowout this Friday, Dec 2. The Duke on Enmore -- be there. So far, she's been very secretive about revealing her identity, so just look for the loud Asian bird with metal and ink. I will be flanked by my bodyguards, Misha and Jerkface. They're not really my bodyguards, it just makes me feel and sound special. Let me have my moment, Christ.