Beneath the bonnet

Beneath the bonnet

The secret life of them

White straight men can't dance and if you need further evidence witness Peter Garrett's gyrations during his MCG Bushfire benefit gig. All arms and legs and not a beat in sight. Personally, I have little sympathy for the man - like any queen true to her salt, I stopped gyrating when the dance floors stopped lighting up in the 70's.

But apart from the physical spectacle, Minister Garrett's exercise in stepping away from his political portfolio proves one salient point - beneath the tailored suits and starched cuffs and collars our politicians harbour the secret lives worthy of an Austrian court trial - if you'll pardon the horrific contemporary reference. Not that I'm saying there are hidden cellars involved but undoubtedly what we see on the Tele and what we read in the paper of our polis is not the complete picture. The very fact that Garrett is still able to rock on all the while subjugating his higher rock self to the will of his party in his day job, proves that.

So what else are our politicians hiding? The imagination runs wild. When not at the dispatch box our esteemed Prime Minister, Mr Kevin Rudd is probably out rock climbing the more challenging ravines of the Catherine gorge. And is his professional wife Therese Rein, who favours comfortable attire above skin tight Lycra - an aesthetic I will never understand - well, she is probably his anchor of choice.

"Keep a tight grip on the safety rope, Therese, I'm just about ready to bungy jump," says the PM, taking his spectacles off and popping them in his pocket. "Sure thing," screams Therese. "I'll put my full weight into it."

And what of the secret life of our Duty Prime Minister, Ms Julia Guillard? In the press she has 'fessed up to indulging in the art of the couch potato to relieve the stress of office. Don't believe it for one minute. For all we know Julia could out taking evening classes in pole dancing or partaking in one on one Tai Kwando with her hairdresser boyfriend. I imagine all these extra curricular activities would come in mighty handy in the backrooms of Parliament.

But it doesn't end there. I wouldn't be surprised if the opposition minister for business, Mr Christopher Pyne isn't out taking sewing classes at the Canberra CAE. Needlepoint is a fine art that requires much attention to detail; opposition leader Mr Malcom Turnbull isn't a closet Philatelist - stamps darling, stamps; his Deputy, Julie Bishop isn't into sky diving, without a parachute and that naughty backbencher, the Hon. Minister for Higgins, Mr Peter Costello doesn't harbour a secret desire for Sado Masochism - in which case he's likely to be the partner on his knees, fully bound baying, "Is there any thing further you require, Madame?"

And that's just the House of Representatives, don't get me started on the Senate - Penny, darling your secret is safe with me.

I'm Kaye Sera and I'd like to see our politicians let their hair down just like the minister for the Environment, Mr Peter Garrett. What do you mean he doesn't have any hair?

19/03/09



Beneath the Bonnet

Straight down the centre

Doris Day is stark naked spread eagle on a luxurious bearskin rug. There's a raging fire in the fireplace but it's nothing compared to the raging furnace deep in the pit of her groin – or down there somewhere. Meow, meow. Like a fireman preparing to dowse the forbidden flame, Rock Hudson stands to the ready. He's also stark naked and you can see every thing. And I mean everything. Before you know it they’re hard at it, hammer and tongs ... very noisy .... very animal ..... ggggrrrrrrrrrrrr

Now that I've got your attention, this week, I thought we could do sex, or at least talk about . In particular, sex of the hetero variety. Stay with me folks this could be a bumpy ride. You see, we're on the cusp of the Melbourne Queer Film Festival and one look over the program reveals a bounty of naked bods, many in the brace of passionate amour. It's all very, very rude but you know what they say - sex sells.

Anyway, to put it all in context, I thought we could take a peak at the ruling majority, that nasty 60% confirmed heterosexual. I say 60% in respect for the 30% of hetero folk who fantasize about having nookie with their best friend but don’t quite make it - and then of course their are our registered bisexual brothers and sisters, who not only fantasize but go ahead book their seats for the very next session. Bless their ambidextrous socks. That leaves the grand total of 10% who are considered homosexual. Which seems a tad academic but 10% is better than nothing.

Leaving Doris and Rock to one side for a moment, a very topical heterosexual flick doing the rounds is The Reader. This is the movie that won Kate “suck it up Meryl” Winslet her Oscar. Central to the story of the Reader is the relationship between Kate, a Nazis prison guard and David Kross, who plays a spunky 15 year old lad. And there is nothing tame about the sex scenes in this film. You get to see all the wobble bits of both players, in all different positions too. Kate's character is considerably older than 15 year old David - you see, you can do this when you're heterosexual - explore the sexual relationship between different ages that is. A few years back there was the film Lolita, a fling between an older man younger girl. That created a just a bit of fuss. Even further back and the much older Anne Bancroft was doing her utmost to seduce the younger Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate. Less fuss over that one.

It seems such love stories are more allowable in the context of an older women and younger man. Let’s face it, this is the philosophy that Demi Moore lives her life by and if the gossip rags are to be believed and I see absolutely no reason to doubt them, dear Madonna is heading down the same path.

To translate any of these scenarios into a homosexual context and you’d really be in strife. It’d be tantamount to buggering Thorpie on beach at Bonsai. Actually that's far too gay a reference - how about bonking Bronwyn Bishop in a bungalow in Broadmeadows. Yes far more palatable.

So as you see this is one big fat dummy spit. It’s just not fair. If Kate Winslet can get it on with spunky David, why can’t KD be out seducing Nicki Webster, or Melissa be playing horizontal tango with Britney, or Molly Meldrum be out entertaining half the Xchange Hotel bar in his backyard Jacuzzi. What do you mean you’ve seen the evidence.

I’m Kaye Sera , now back to stark naked Doris and red hot Rock – ok I may be exaggerating just a tad – Doris was NEVER naked.

12/3/09



Beneath the bonnet

Festival frenzy

Pardon my hot glue gun but I've got a sea of sequins to attach and less than a 48 hours in which to do it. So are the thoughts of many a queen planning to take on Oxford Street for the Sydney Gay and lesbian Mardi Gras parade. It's a big night with a big history. And even today, where mediocrity rules, the parade still manages to give the fabulous finger to the hetero world. A volley of semi naked men in the brace of camp choreography and the roar of leather clad women on motor bikes has possibly done more for law reform in this country than hundreds of academic studies into homophobia. As Kate Winslet said in her Oscar's speech of the Meryl Streep factor - "I'm sorry, Meryl, but you have to just suck that up."

Because along with the frivolity of the marching comes hundreds of thousands of heterosexuals gawking and very often cheering from the sidelines. But it's not all peaches and cream. The Mardi gras parade also tends to flush out the hatred towards us and there are many disturbing instances of bashings in and around Oxford Street in the wake of the parade. If you're planning to go up to Mardi Gras for the first time for goodness sake be cautious and stick to recognizably safe zones - Taylor Square and the Bobby Goldsmith's stand are two that come to mind. Plenty more detail on the Mardi Gras website and in the gay press.

Of course not everybody is making the pilgrimage to Sydney for Mardi Gras. For some of us a weekend exploring our country roots provides ample dose of queer pride. This year on the same weekend as Mardi Gras, as luck would have it, the very famous Chillout festival takes over Daylesford and surrounding areas. It's the usual fair - a Sunday carnival, a dance party, a bit of country art and, yes even a street parade - though I hasten to add, not nearly as lushes as the Mardi Gras parade. But while Chillout may not boast the history, magnitude and sheer glamour of Sydney's Mardi Gras the fact that it has sprung up proves one very important point and that's that these queer celebrations are as much about the folk who attend as the window dressing of the events themselves. For want of better words, it's the human capital factor - thankyou Karl Marx.

For the young and freshly converted such gatherings offer a real time break from the virtual experience of Facebook and Twitter - you mean there's more to socialising than SMSing?

For more mature folk Chillout and Mardi Gras are about catching up with long time friends - even if only for a brief 'hello' 'how are you'? It's kind like an sms but with pictures and hug and kiss. To go all warm and fuzzy on you, festivals are by their nature are about connecting with each other. They are also about getting a root but that's the sticky subject for another bonnet.

I'm Kaye Sera and I'd like to wish all our women folk, chookas for International Women's day - yes, we still need such symbolism. Now where did I put my sensible shoes?

05/03/09



Beneath the Bonnet

Commie, homo-loving sons of guns

I take it all back. To date I've been very critical of hetero fellas swallowing their pride and embracing their homo sensitivities in film. Give me a break. Philadelphia, The Birdcage, In and Out, Capote - thanks for the photocopy but I'd rather have the original. Surely there are gay actors in Hollywood who will take on these roles? Not on your Nellie. Apart from the shonky box office argument, there is a tight assed homophobia at play in tinsel town. Recognizably heterosexual actors playing gay or lesbian characters translates to credibility in the mass market, or so reason the Hollywood bean counters. The fact that queer theme movies are increasingly successful at the box office seems to carry no weight.

I take it all back. One time "Mr Madonna" Sean Penn, who is about as hetero as you can get, has made me see the light. By the way, I'm currently working on the theory that Madonna is a transgendered showgirl struggling to suppress her male hormones. The evidence is plain to see - nobody has arms like that unless they have serious issues with testosterone.

But I digress - Sean Penn's performance as San Franciscan gay activist, Harvey Milk has left me breathless. His on screen passion in MILK is fabulous, it screamed QUEEN. To extend the argument to its smutty conclusion, I'll be buggered if he's not taking it up the thespian clacker. All fantasizing aside, in this film I believed in him whole heartedly and as it turns out, so did the in the Academy who gave him the nod for Best Actor.

Heath Ledgers posthumous Brokeback Mountain included, it was a gay old time at the Oscars this year. And if Sean Penn's hilarious "commie, homo-loving sons of guns" acceptance speech didn't win hearts, then surely Dustin Lance Black's speech will. Picking up the Oscar as Best Screenwriter, Black spoke passionately about equal rights in America, all to whooping applause. Not since Adam Elliot's speech thanking his male partner, have we seen such rampant gay activism from the Oscar pulpit. And not before time. Had there been such speeches when I was but a young whipper snipper growing up in the Aussie bush, I probably wouldn't be mincing around today in a pussy bow and floral lycra. Analyse that you "commie, homo-loving sons of guns".

If you haven't seen Dustin Lance Black's Oscar speech, and let's face it, if you're silly enough to depend on commercial TV for your information, you probably won't have (well done Channel Nine for editing out the heart of the 81st Oscars) - then you must go directly to the web. Black's speech is mightily inspiring.

Isn't it extraordinary that in a week where we have all this gay pride played out on the world stage, in Queensland Father Peter Kennedy is fighting for inclusion of gays and lesbians in the Catholic church and in Canberra, Deputy Prime Minister, Julia Gillard is making disparaging comments about "mincing" men loving ABBA. Clearly we have a long way to go for equal rights in this country.

I'm Kaye Sera and Sean Penn is definitely on my Christmas list, Julia is definitely off it - and for the record, I love ABBA and I'm also very fond of mincing.

26/3/09



Beneath the Bonnet

Fire

It's been a tough week down under. A part from Kev's monster of a stimulus package, we've also had to deal with the tragedy of a vicious firestorm in the bush. While there are many jokes to be had around Kev's package - hey, it's big but not nearly as big as Obama's - the same cannot be said for the fires. There is nothing funny about whole communities who have lost absolutely everything to a bush fire the likes of which we've never seen before.

Global warming, trumped up Greens policies, complacent city folk in the throws of a tree change - there's been plenty of commentary around this tragedy but no amount of rational debate can erase the fact that hundreds of folk have tragically died.

Here in the queer community there has been just a little banter around the gay folk directly affected by the fires, though, thankfully the majority of us instinctively understand that this event is far bigger than sexual politics. Yes there are gay and lesbian people who have died but overwhelming, the majority of the folk who have lost their lives in the fires were mums and dads, kids, grandparents, heterosexual lovers, teachers, artists, nurses. It shows a maturing of our community that we've been able to reach outside our sexual identity with compassion to raise money along with the rest of Australia. To do otherwise would be inhumane.

Just this week I've been involved in two such events. The first at DT's Hotel where Saturday night hostess, Ms Dulcie du Jour lead a room full of homos and their friends in a minute silence as a mark of respect for the lives lost. Bar a couple of idiots in the beer garden, the two hundred strong crowd lowered their heads – you could have heard a pin drop.

The other event was at the Xchange Hotel where every drag queen and her better half turned out for the cause. Bar and door takings were also donated along with time of the Xchange staff. Thousands was raised, the generosity overwhelming, the spirit defiantly uplifting. When this kitty arrives on the doorstep of the Red Cross, they need to be reminded loud and clear just where it has come from - perhaps then they will revise their bigoted policy on blood donations.

On a personal level the tragic events of this past week have brought back memories of growing up in the bush and my grandmother's tales of being burnt out - at least twice in her lifetime. Everything was lost in the fire, she said, except for the silver ware, cutlery, pots and pans and few items of jewellery. It's a sombre memory but one laced with the sheer pluck and defiance of white rural folk.

I'm Kaye Sera and all of a sudden I'm sitting on a log in a Fred McCubbin painting and wondering just how much we understand the beauty and severity of this wild country we call home.

19/2/09



Beneath the Bonnet

Heat wave

I'm hot, hot, hot. Not as in Marilyn Monroe swishing along the platform in the film Some Like it Hot - ha, I should be so lucky. No I mean roasting as in boiling, blistering, soggy armpits, sweaty palms, short of breath - really hot. In case you hadn't noticed we're in the throws of a heat wave. The hottest consecutive days in Melbourne in more than half a century, the experts tell us. Thanks for that ... we get the picture. I've already emailed the stats through to Al Gore as evidence of global warming. I'm sure he'll get great millage of this sizzler.

Such weather does raise a whole heap of maintenance issues - particularly if you're a lady of my disposition. You can have your brown outs and train cancellation - speaking of which, apparently trains can't run on bent tracks - ha - welcome to my world, honey. Half a tonne Connex metal careering down the Broadie line aint got nothing on this face dragged up with heavy duty slap. Mary. You try applying a decent lip line on a perspiring upper lip. I'll give you Brown out. It's not like I can shimmy into a strand of cheesecloth and head on down to St Kilda beach. Lycra my outfits may be but a soggy pussy bow and dribbly fishnets are just too bad.

No ... Midnight at the Oasis is tough when the air con is busted. And while I'm on this particular camel train of thought - can I say, I've been to the desert on a horse with no name and there aint no rain in sight. Just endless dunes and scorching sun and every so often a funny fella zipping past on a magic carpet. Mmmm, nice Turban.

“Help me I'm melting .... I'll get you, my little pretty, and you're little dawg too …” Like I said, I'm hallucinating. Throw me on the couch and pepper me with questions about my oppressed childhood. What do you mean I can't give Barbie a punk hairstyle? It's not like she's got any say in the matter. “

This heat has got to end. Just last night out of desperation, I flung open the refrigerator door and stuck my head in the icebox. It worked for a bit until a six month old frost bitten chicken breast started defended her turf, shoving a drum stick up my left nostril and tickling my right cheek with a loose feather.

"Find your own icebox," she screamed

Maybe I just imagined that part - remember I am suffering from heat stroke. But I do recall it was terribly crowded in the icebox and just a tad smelly too - must turf out that carved up Family First member, the green fur is really beginning to worry me.

I’m Kaye Sera and did I tell you I’m melting – come on Kev bring on ya Carbon trading scheme

29/1/09





Beneath the Bonnet

Art indeed

I've got art on the mind. I blame the Midsumma Festival and the oppressive heat. It’s most unkind to a fair-skinned lass like myself, more suited to mincing around in the Scottish highlands than making a go of it down under. Note to self - "Making a go of it down under" – fab title of next 'art' film.

Where was I ... oh yes ... arse, I mean art. Shocking, weird, inappropriate, you can't escape it - creativity breaking out like a red scabby rash. Bored people, making stuff out of stuff. Taking pictures of body parts in strange ways and writing silly little notes on them, sticking bits and pieces on things and then having the audacity to put them up on the wall. Cleaning out the dustbin meander about and shop and eat and gossip and listen to our Ipody things? Apparently not.

Just this week, in a sensible commute between Flinders Street Station and Degraves Street - I was confronted with a veritable orgy of art. Note to self - Orgy of Art – fab title of next 'art' film

Like a slap in the face by a pissed off sister, there it was in the Degraves Street subway. Big fat sloppy art. Glass wall cabinets, designed for displaying useful objects for the home such as a nice dinner set, converted into mini art galleries. Can you believe it? I mean, hitching up your Room with a View lace undies and trundling off to the big Gallery is one thing but to have this stuff it foisted on you unwittingly when going about your daily business is just too bad

One picture in particular by a Mr Jason Lingard is a shocker. It shows a half naked fey gent wearing an Arab scarf just like the Muslim women you see in Sydney road. And, wait for it, perched on the top of his head - Mickey Mouse ears.

Really - how inappropriate. Haven't we got enough trouble in the Middle East without fanning the flames. Besides - to the best of my knowledge Mickey Mouse was neither queer nor from the Middle East. Granted he spoke quickly in a very high voice but he has had a long, very public relationship with Minnie Mouse and from memory, I don't recall their ever being a Disney theme park in the Gaza strip. Israel perhaps but certainly not beloved Palestine.

But it doesn't end there. Just up the road in the City Library some young fella by the name of T. J. Bateson has taken it upon himself to make "art" out of used tea bags. Woven Fields, he calls it.

I have one question for you Mr Bateson. WHY? Wouldn't it be easier to just drink the tea and throw the tea bag in the bin? Granted, a used tea bag is relatively inoffensive - lovely shades of beige, tannin and grey, but must you delicately weave them like tufts of fabric?

Woven Fields indeed. There is no great meaning to be had here, they are just teabags and no matter how pretty you make them, no matter how whimsical, they are but little squares of paper containing dried up leaves. Delicate self-contained pouches designed for our convenience and pleasure and what has that got to do with how we live our lives today. Tea bags Mr Bateson, TEA BAGS. Nothing more, nothing less.

Still we should be thankful for small mercies - there are far worse objects you could stick on a canvas - dismembered Barbie dolls, the head of George Bush, the heart of Family First representatives. Don't get me started.

I'm Kaye Sera and if you want to experience real art, come along to my tour of the National Gallery of Victoria this Sunday. I can assure you, the tea bags will remain firmly in the cup.

21/1/2009





Beneath the Bonnet

Aging disgracefully



It's your worst nightmare. You wake up one morning, look in the mirror and you're old. Not just mature but positively ancient. Grey hair, lines and wrinkles and you're dressed like one of your grandparents - beige cardi for the blokes and floral pinny for the gals. Arthritic, stooping and vague, you use eye glasses to read, an aid to hear and you've began to notice an uncontrollable shake in the right hand. Bugger. Old Age. Worse still, films like Driving Miss Daisy and Grumpy Old Men are beginning to make sense.

Ok you caught me out. No queen in her right mind is going to sit down to re runs of Grumpy old Men. Driving Miss Daisy perhaps but Walter Matthau and Jack Lemmon fighting over Ann Margaret in the snow ... oh please.

Otherwise, it's a fair enough assessment of the challenges of senior years. And you better get used to it - hundreds, no millions of folk, gay, lesbian and otherwise are growing old as we speak. And no amount of botox and tanning lotion is going to alter the fact. Although, looking around at TV and Film you’d be forgiven for thinking otherwise. Even in our own magazines and venues and dare I say, pretty much every other chunk of the visible gay world, you'd think youth is all there is. Well that should come as a surprise to a few very active social groups right here in Melbourne.

The Boilers are case in point. This year they celebrate there 50th - making them very possibly the oldest gay social group in Australia. What an achievement. The demographic of the group hovers around the 65 plus age range and while they may be a tad slower getting from A to B, there is absolutely nothing wrong with their capacity to kick up the heels.

Just recently I was invited to a Boilers gathering in South Melbourne and let me tell you the conversation along with the bubbly, flowed thick and fast. And just quietly there was still a twinkle in the eye of more than a few of these seasoned gents. Surprised? Don't be. As a mature fella recently confessed, "It's not like they cut of the water supply when you reach a certain age, it's just that the flow is less constant and sometimes the tap drips."

One queen in particular at the Boilers gathering caught me eye. Translucent skin, finely plucked brows, she was none other than, Lottie, the famous Melbourne drag identity. If you were around in the sixties you'd have enjoyed Lotties' company, by all accounts she was quiet the social butterfly. The time of day for anyone who dared approach, Lottie embodied the spirit of the era. Back then the pubs closed up shop at 6pm leaving punters high and dry. You made your own fun and over the course of a busy Saturday night, it wasn't unusual to hop from one house party to another. A bottle of booze'd get you into almost any camp home.

I can't help but think that for all the fabulous freedom the modern gay scene has delivered, we're missing that one thing - a sense of familiarity and connection with each other - of partying no what and making our own fun despite crippling prejudice.

But I digress. If commentators are to be believed, the aging of the population heralds in Grey as the dominant social force. And whether we like it or not that is going to encompass the GLBTI community. There are already plans afoot for a gay friendly retirement village out of town. Imagine that - growing old around like-minded folk. Which reminds me - I must send threw my audition tape to the proprietors of said Retirement Village. Where there are mature, poofs and dykes there's bound to be a need for sensible entertainment and I do a killer impression of Dusty. And if you're thinking, "Dusty who?" - You're drowning in that mythical fountain of eternal youth and I simply can do nothing for you.

I'm Kaye Sera and like the Boilers, I ain't about to take getting older lying down - what am I saying, horizontal is my favourite position.

15/1/2009





Beneath the Bonnet

Midsumma



It's that time of year when all self-respecting homosexuals rummage through the depth of the closest, dust off their bows and bangles and prepare for a good old-fashioned airing. I'm talking about Midsumma that festival of intense community shenanigans - or as the vanguard like to call it - queer culture. A glance through this year's program reveals a bevy of bent endeavour - nude rude art, camp musicals and cabaret, readings and writings, theatre of the long and short variety, history walks, picnics, sport and just a few parties - bless their stretch cotton jocks.

Ahhhh Midsumma - a flurry of perverted activity where we get to show off to each other in the hope that the rest of the city will stand and cheer and celebrate too. Of course that's not necessarily the case. For every rainbow flag waving heterosexual, there are at least 100 watching the TV that'd wish we would just shut up and go away. The fact that their blessed suburban haven is fast being invaded by same sex couples in the brace of a gaybe boom hasn't helped their sense of hetero security either. Fair enough too. That silly homogenous white picket fence thingy has had a long enough run and I for one can see nothing but good from embracing the mix and match, Scandinavian model. Think of it as an Ikea revolution in the sack, and if you've discover any special techniques with your allen key, be sure to let me know.

Actually, the suburban gaybe boom is one for the more interesting developments in our community. Take the Carnival for instance, which this year is once again launching the festival as opposed to close it. 10 years ago it would have been a novelty to see same sex couples totting youngens and wrestling with nappy sacks - now the buggy brigade is out in force and it's every man, woman and 2.3 child for themselves. And this in turn is changing the face of the Carnival. We're becoming far more family friendly. Leather clad, bare buttock gents, drunken drag queens and foul-mouthed lady lovers are frowned upon as is overt sexual behaviour.

Even the queen bee of the Carnival stage, Dulcie Du Jour has had to tone down her act in recent years. Her dog show, a long running show case for Adam and Steve and their pampered Labradoodle is on the turn. In future years, I can see Dulcie introduce a whole new "family" category to the menagerie line-up. Of course she'll need to remodel the backstage holding pen and drop the compulsory leash rule - children on a leash is not such a good look. And any on stage questions pertaining to breed and pedigree will definitely need to go. But other wise it's open slather. Here's a sample of what's to come in future Dog Shows:

Dulcie: "And how old did you say little Tommy is, Darling heart? ... does he do any tricks ... No? My husband is bit like that and he's ten times older than Tommy ... come on you lot, give them a round of applause ... " Or words to that effect.

In the future, I also see even more picnic hampers and children's rides at the Carnival and at the infamous Tea Dance, headline acts will be along the lines of the Wiggles and Dorothy the Dinosaur. That'd keep the partygoers honest. Rather than booze and party pills it'd be all red cordial and lollies - what am I saying. With the pre mix drink revolution and chubba chub chasers, we're almost there.

I'm Kaye Sera blah, blah, blah - be sure to visit me at my Camp picnic site Carnival day - you might even score a glass of bubbly - Fanta that is!

8/1/2009



Beneath the Bonnet

Mary Xmas



Ho, ho, ho - as in Merry, Merry, Merry Christmas. Which is kind of ironic because somewhere in the depth of Harlem, or at least in most dance video clips, the Ho is quite a different concept. And as for Merry? Well substitute the 'e' for an 'a' and loose one of the 'r's and you've got the nice and tidy first name of the holy child's sublime mum, Mary - bless her donkey pummelled behind. Coincidently, Mary is also the not so tidy description of a raging Queen. And strike me down for saying so but I think that's a Mount Sinai of poetic justice.

Christmas, the season of giving belongs to the Queens. Tinsel and baubles and fake snow and funny little tree fairies and boxes of mysterious, ludicrously wrapped presents, dinner parties and bevvies all spell excess. And the Queen by virtue of the dominant 'queen gene' revels in the prospect of excess. Tinsel? Sister, we ain't talkin' a couple of lengths of sparse strands, here. We've got a tree in crisis and no less than 20 metres of feather boa thick vine will solve the problem. And as for presents? Mary, point me in the direction of Chadstone and show me show me the credit card.

Take note Mr Rudd and Mr Swan, the Queens make Christmas. Always have and always will. If you're looking for the demographic to buy our way of this looming depression, look no further than Commercial Road and Chapel Street. Giving that once off cash bonus to pensioners was an utter waste of time. They're only likely to spend it on little luxuries like fresh fruit and vegies, and perhaps an extra can of pet food. Whereas if you'd given it to cash strapped queens we'd be talking boom times way into the new year: ipods and iphones and imulti bloody function dishwashers and icafe latte machines. And that's just in the kitchen. Don't get me started on the bedroom.

And when in it comes to shopping, Queen activity is not only restricted to the high street. Saints alive, Sister. Not on your triple drop, shoulder dusting, diamante ear piece. The shop frenzy Queen is also conquering far flung frontiers like designer label depots and wasteland warehouse sales. If there's a cash register on site and a truckload of consumerables to be shifted, you can count on the Queens to get the job done.

Recently, while sashaying through Dimmys infamous support girdle department, I had to fight off a gaggle of hyper active, well plucked gents who had their sites set on a plaster caste statute of Michelango's David. "Fabulous", screamed one. "We'll get that for spa room. It'll work perfectly with the stained glass, Venus Rising sky light." I wanted to pitch in and suggest they complement the classical ensemble with a couple of stuffed lions and one or two Family First Christians but experience has taught me not to mix metaphors where the arch brow Queen is concerned. Enough said.

So it's with a warm heart and an even warmer purse that I reach out to my brothers and sisters this silly season and say, "Let's do Kevin proud and spend, spend, spend. Your country, indeed the wealth and prosperity of civilized world needs you." And while you're rummaging through yet another bin of perversely over priced cute and cuddly "I LUV U" toys, spare a thought for those who, even with Big Kev's one off handout, will barely have enough for a soggy old roast chook, let alone a Christmas turkey. Speaking of which, I must make arrangements for that Charity cook in. Got a sensational triple layer sponge recipe I'm just itching to get into the oven.

I'm Kaye Sera and I'm with Aunty Mame when she sang at the top of her lungs "Oh yes we need a little Christmas, right this very minute ... etc " rent the Lucille Ball film version of Mame - I promise, you won't be disappointed.



Beneath the Bonnet

Lord Bob

Our newly elected Lord Mayor, the esteemed Robert Doyle, is a very smart man. A genius in fact. Just days in the office and he's realised the city centre is lacking something. What could it be? There are plenty of people, plenty of cafes and shops. I know. The city lacks cars. Brilliant.

Lord Bob, bless his liberal heart, wants to reintroduce cars to the city centre, particularly along Swanston Street. In his own words "the spine of the city". Swanston street became people friendly in 1992 - the pavements were widened, trees were planted and if it wasn't for the continual parade of trams and the roar of enormous tourist buses and the taxis, you'd be able hitch up your skirts and skip care free from Flinders Street station all the way up to the Museum. Free open space and clear air, such a novelty in a modern city. But Lord Bob, in all his wisdom clearly thinks this silliness must stop. “Pave paradise and put up a parking lot," to quote Joni Mitchell.

Not only does Bob want to bring back the cars, he's also puzzled by our state of the art Super Tram stops. Bob can't for the like of him understand why you'd need such facilities. How much space do you need for public transport? I mean, it's not like peak hour travel warrants such public space. How many people could possibly want to travel by trams anyway. Open up Swanston Street, give them the car space and they'll all drive into the city - won't that be fun. And really, do we need to have such elevated platforms on those retched Super tram stops. The elderly and disabled can fend for them selves, Lets not make it any easier for them. Smart, smart man our Bob, a man of great visionary. How wonderful our beloved Melbourne will be when he’s finished with it. How buzzing and vibrant, if somewhat smog ridden from the extra cars.

But why stop there, Bob. The Grand Prix is badly in need of a spruce up. Could we not re route the race. Remove the concrete barricades and send the Hot rods up along St Kilda Road, past the National Gallery and Arts Centre, over Princess Bridge, past Flinders street station and the Cathedral (God Bless) and straight up Swanston Street. Fabulous. And to make the event just that little more challenging – why no let the Tourist buses enter the race to boot. Imagine that. They've been terrorising pedestrians and cyclist for yonks - clearly they're gagging to take on the checkered flag.

And as for the grand stands. Could we not erect a couple of seating banks alongside the Town Hall. Lord Bob and his cronies would love that. They’d have ringside seats on the Town Hall balcony. I can see them now - entering in a line, Bob himself dressed in the ceremonial possum cloak. The wealth and privilege hangs in the air like a cloud of thick peak hour smog. If you like, Bob, I could pull a few strings in the Girl Guides. With a little luck, we Could rally them opposite the Town Hall and get them to salute on cue.

As for the Boy Scouts? I know - we could put them to service in the bowels of Melbourne Town Hall, Lord Bob's new palace. Give 'em a few chux and a can of Mr Sheen and set them polishing the brass and woodwork. Why stop there. Get 'em to polish your shoes while there at it Bob - you've got the top job now and you'll need to look your best for the hordes of silver spoon junkies that'll come a knocking at your Mayoral door.

I'm Kaye Sera and I'm just sitting here listening to Joni Mitchell and wondering why it's all gone so wrong.



Beneath the Bonnet

HIV/AIDS

In just a few weeks it'll be world AIDS day. Amazing isn't it that some Twenty five odd years since the dreaded thing appeared on our door step and we're still dealing with issues around awareness and how to protect ourselves. By now you'd have thought they'd have come up with a cure - the French or the Americans or, goddess forbid, the two of them in the same test tube. No such luck. While they are a whole lot closer to understanding how HIV works in the body and even have a raft of treatment options, alas there is no magic bullet. The health messages that branded a terrified generation and in the process redefined a sexual identity, still stand today - use condoms if you're having nooky, know the health of your gums if it's oral and if syringes are your thing, don't share. And that includes your toys too. Strangely, that's the exact opposite to the lessons we learned from Big Ted in Play School. But then Big Ted wasn’t into sex toys and if he was – or at least so we’re lead to believe.

Today when I think about AIDS I think of all the familiar faces that have just disappeared. Closer still are the many names: Patrick, Barry and David. None of them made it through but they all went out with an all mighty bang. One threw himself into the protest group ACT UP, even deflowering the famous floral clock to draw attention to issues around HIV drug access. Brave man. Another took seasonal holidays to a small Greek island, cooked lavish racks of roast lamb and taught himself Italian so he could decipher Michelangelo's poems. Fabulous. I came across the third as a sewn into a memorial quilt one year. It was a stunning panel with pink sequin flowers and a lock of hair. At least I think it was hair - it could very well have been that mangy acrylic bonnet she sprayed the shit out of before each gig. I love her for that because, true to her drag spirit she insisted on having the last laugh.

I also have fond memories of the string of films that surfaced in response to dreaded AIDS. Bill Sherwood's Parting Glances was an Indie classic. It uncover a gay yuppie love triangle and arty culture in New York in the 80's which ended up being even more scary than the AIDS. It also featured a sound track by Bronski Beat with Jimmy Sommerville screaming at the top of his lungs "Tell me Why". How appropriate. Long Time Companion was slicker and kinder. It starred gorgeous Campbell Scott with Mary-Louise Parker as his straight gal pal. There's a very funny scene in it where Mary-Louise and Campbell wanders into a closet to pick out a burial outfit for their friend who's just passed away from AIDS and they discover this outrageously coloured Caftan. "Oh, it needs a hat ." coos Mary-Louise in her Southern drawl. I've used that line ever since, particularly when confronted by a sister and a challenging new look. "Oh, it needs a hat ."

There were other moving stories to come out the AIDS era - Larry Kramer's The Normal Heart, Tony Kushner's Angels in America, Jonathan Demme's Philadelphia, which actually scored an Oscar for its star, Tom Hanks. Although sadly Tom and his spunky on screen stick, Antonio Banderas could barely manage a descent kiss for the whole of the movie. Very disappointing but at least they gave it a go.

So there's much sadness but also great joy that pepper the HIV/AIDS decades. And the common trauma of that time - the rallying together, the fundraising and silly games with condoms. The meetings and films and plays and books and really thinking about who we were over and above sex - all of that forged our sense of community. And while it's hard to communicate that to young folk today who pretty much have everything at their finger tips, this queen aint about to give up trying. Hey, she's even launched herself on Facebook.

I'm Kaye Sera and tucked away in the back of a draw somewhere, I've got a bunch of red ribbons, one for each year living through HIV/AIDS



Beneath the Bonnet

Australia

The movie trailers are done, the screen widens, the music swells and before you know it, we're swept up in Baz Luhrmann's epic montrosity, Australia. Crikey. I say we because there would be all of 50 people in the cinema for the screening. It's hardly a full house but then it is an early timeslot and maybe the movie hordes are planning to come along to the 8.30 session. For Baz's sake, I hope so.

There's a lot riding on this film. To be precise around $120 million, not to mention the reputation of the Aussie film industry and then there's the career prospects of the leading lady. Our Nicole desperately needs a hit. One Oscar under your wing doth not a movie star make. Certainly not one that commends a cool 20 mil per gig. Fortunately, Nic rises to the occasion - prancing around the dusty Aussie interior like a Peacock on heat. She gets to play the prissy English rose to Hugh Jackman's rugged be-stubbled Drover. And if it weren't for her Botox ridden face - the polished surface of Ularu has got nothing on that inanimate forehead of hers - she could have been really sensational. So frustrating is that pale, steely face our Nic spends most of the film mouth a gasp and glassy eyed desperately trying to emote. But that's being unkind. She does pull off some fabulous punch lines, my favourite of which is "over there in the Bilablong ." Think Julie Andrews getting her kit off in that 70's shocker S.O.B and you're in the right ballpark.

Back to Hugh Jackman. My, my, my. Dark, dreamy, six foot something and built like a brick veneer proverbial. Cricky, mate. You beaut. Not that saying sex appeal is everything but in Hugh’s case, it’s possibly a key factor in buying a ticket, kicking off your heels and chow down on and over priced boysenberry choc top. It's not so much that Hugh can't act - the man took on Peter Allan's story on Broadway for crying out loud and still managed to convince the world that his wife, the lovely Debra Lee Furness is the only one, it's just that, in Hugh’s case, all of the window dressing gets in the way of the core message. It's like the Myers Windows at Christmas time, all stuffed, motorised animals and somewhere, encrypted in the tacky voice over there's the bare bones of a great fable.

Most satisfying in Australia is the performance of new comer, Brandon Walters, who plays the young boy, Nullu. Of mixed race, his father is white, his mum Aboriginal, Brandon carries the hope of the nation on his slight shoulders. If Baz's epic tale the centre point of which is the power of our Indigenous people, doesn't prick the conscience of white Australia, nothing will. Saying sorry is one thing, looking to Indigenous culture for inspiration and understanding is quite another. For a better look at white fella’s take on black Australia, check out Nicolas Roeg's 1971 film, Walkabout. It's a stunner. The central character is played by David Gulpilil who reprises his role as the mythological elder in Baz's blockbuster. He even gets to stand on one leg like, just like those aboriginal images on your mums souvenere tea towels.

So Australia aint about to win critical acclaim, it's far too crass and far to clunky to warrant that. But I'm willing to bet it will do great business overseas, particularly in America. As far as they're concerned we're all kangaroo hopping, crocodile wrestling, Steve Irwins anyway. Oh, did I mention, there's a croc scene in this film too. Crickey.

I'm Kaye Sera and just like our Nic I've got a thing for the outback - or at the least my thriving balcony herb pot.



Beneath the bonnet

Awards

It’s awards time and I’m fluffing up the do and sharpening the repartee. The later is proving far more challenging than the former. Funny thing the old accolade. Rarely are they stage without a good dose of gossip and speculation. And for every person lucky, enough to win, there are at least a hundred or so who deserve the recognition. It’s the tip of the ice berg theory – the pretty bit peaking out of the waves is nothing compared to the great mass of ice that rips open the hull of the Titanic under the surface. This week’s blurb is dedicated to that great mass.

To understand the measure of rejection you feel when you don’t win, or worse, when you aren’t even nominated, we need to understand the many formats of the awards night. Top of the heap are the Oscars. Which are not so much about the accolades but rather prime time promotion. Why else would do you think the media are more interested in the skinny white trash in perversely overprized frocks on the red carpet than the actual awards themselves. A billion odd viewers world wide, hell yes, I want the bitch to mention the label. Further down the celebrity scale and closer to home is that monstrosity called the Logies and while they may not boast the budget and star power of the Oscars they at least acknowledge the red carpet business for what it really is – a catwalk of designer egos. In fact no one really cares if you watch the Logies presentation or not, so long as you remained glowed to the screen for the arrivals. Smart people the Logies folk. They know the main course is crap so they just focus on the entre.

The blokes have tried to muscle in the accolade action as well with the dreaded Brown lows. Let me say up front, I have nothing against footballers. If grown men want to spend their lives sweating over a red pigskin, all power to them – just as long as we can watch, all is forgiven. But when they put on a tux and smile at the cameras and fluff around their trophy girl friends like they give a damn, well that’s just wrong. Some funny bugger in AFL marketing is having a terrible laugh at our expense. You can dumb down the awards as much as like, nothing is going to drag these brutes into civilisation. Their hearts just aren’t in it – which is probably why they spend most of the night clearing out their sinaces in the toilets.

In the queer scene we’ve had a bash at our own awards night too. It’s been called many things – the Rainbows, the Pride Awards, the Divas. In it’s latest incarnation it’s the ALSO Awards – named after the ALSO Foundation, the organisation daring enough to take them on. I say daring because I’ve had a little bit of experience in producing this juggernaut and let me tell you, it ain’t a walk in the park. Actually, I think I may have even picked up a couple of the little buggers myself and I’d be lieing if I said that winning an award didn’t give me a warm fuzzy feeling, if only for the night. It’s just a pity we can’t give that very same feeling to everybody, god knows more than the chosen few deserve it. And it’s a huge pity our awards nights tend to divide us up as a community rather than bring us together. Maybe it’s the hefty ticket price, maybe it’s that old chestnut of community vs the commercial scene. Maybe it’s the drag queens. Yes I’m sure that’s it. Those skanky drag queens never support an event unless it was all about them. It’s not like drag is completely devoid of ego.

I’m Kaye Sera and I can’t decide whether to wear floral or sequins to The ALSO Awards, any suggestions.



Beneath the Bonnet

Rough trade

Jeff Kennett in a slagging match with the gays, Kevin Rudd to introduce a filter system for the Internet and Grant Hackett resigning from swimming. Bad things always happen in threes. Now while Grant hanging up his Speedos is very tempting - never trust a man who has spent his teenage years chasing a black line at the bottom of the pool - Mr Kennett and Internet porn show far more promise. Let's start with our Jeff. Let me say upfront, nothing excuses this man's outrageous comments comparing gay men to paedophiles. That was a cheap shot on his part and he knew it. But given the psychology of the man, I'm hardly surprised. I don't want to harp on about it but at the end of the day, Jeff is a bad, bad man. Not bad as in corrupt, although that has been said by some. No, bad as in he thrives on pissing people off. He loves to wear the black hat. In a previous life he was probably a Bank Manager or a Real Estate Agent. And what's worse, there is no shortage of folk who swallow the bait. Comedian Rod Quantock built an entire career around that fact, attracting Kennett haters to his shows by the busload. Now that Kennett is clutching at straws, Rod has lost all reason to live and his shows distinctly lack lustre.

Rod has stumbled across something here. We actually need bad men in our lives. In fact there have been whole cultures dedicated to the worship of these baddies. Take your average, keep it on the inside, homo, butch set. Should they find themselves prostrate before a mighty Leather clad daddy, it's not Todd McKenny or Carson Kressley they’re fantasising about. Not on your Nellie. Licking the boot and gazing toward the heavens, these lads are thinking of M & M or Sam Newman or Ben Cousins. Actually, Ben is probably borderline - a tad too polished, although, given his reputation in the parties, there is no doubting his bad boy credentials. Bad is a total turn on and our gay brothers are not alone in this pursuit. Straight blokes have a long proud history of lusting after bad girls too. Think of Michael Douglas' fling with Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction, or if you want to go back even further, Fred MacMurray's infatuation with Barbara Stanwyck in Double Indemnity - 1944. The French in particular have a thing for bad boys. In the 50's and 60;s French writer Jean Genet, adored rough trade and one of his more popular works, Querelle of Brest, was made into a juicy film by gay German direct Rainer Werner Fassbinder. In that flick, spunky Brad Davis got to play the lead role of a sailor whose penchant for bonking the local barman was matched only by his lusting after his brother. Talk about kinky. Kevin's Filter would have a field day with this film and a whole stack of others.

Of course the fellows aren't alone in dabbling in the dark side. Lady lovers of a particular bent revel in the 1970's TV series, Prisoner. If they're academically minded they might gravitate toward the 1960's film, The Killing of Sister George. What a classic. Cigarette burns, psychological abuse, self-loathing and that's just in the opening credits. They don't make films like that anymore. If they did, they'd be head hunting the likes of Julie Bishop and Lleyton Hewitt's wife, Bec to play the leads. What am I saying? Bring on the Filter Kevin - that's just a little too bad for decent folk.

I'm Kaye Sera and when I grow up, I want to be just like Beryl Reid in The Killing of Sister George.



Beneath the Bonnet

Yes we can

I'm so pleased the land of milk and honey is finally cleaning out the big House. What a shocking state it has been in for the past 8 years. Those Bushes have got a lot to answer for - cobwebs on the chandeliers, lint in the closet and a thick, thick layer of dust in the Oval Office. You see, George spent little time at his Oval Office desk. Guess he figured things would work themselves out - Financial Crisis? Hahh, here's a blank cheque, War in Iraq? Hahh, how else do you expect us to secure oil supplies, Gay Marriage? Hahh, get your grubby hands off our sacred institutions. Ok, I'm paraphrasing. Bush never would have used the word 'sacred' and I doubt whether he even can spell "institution" let alone say it.

But he was a difficult child and clearly self deluded. So much so he believed he could bend and twist that thing called democracy to his own means. And he nearly got away with it. Until that skinny guy with the funny name got on the podium and called his bluff. Now the skinny guy is President Elect and George? well he's packing up his crayons and wondering why it all went so wrong.

Closer to home, across the waters and the land of the long white cloud is also gearing up for a national poll. Helen the great and her crusty old Labour party are fighting tooth and nail to hold onto power. And while she does have a mighty fine set of munchers, teeth like that only come along once in a generation, it's unlikely the Kiwi lady will survive this latest test. I for one will be sad to see her go. Helen won my heart with her dip voice, sensible shoes and even more sensible hairstyle. One night, in a fit of desperation, I called her up and offered to fly over with a hair dryer and can of super hold spray to put some height into that lanky do. But she wouldn't have a bar of it, muttering something like, "I haven't got time for such silliness". I forgave her because that very same month she turned up at New Zealand's version of a gay pride picnic. Can you imagine our Kevin Rudd ever doing such a thing. Hardly. Marching down Oxford street in chaps is simply not his style and as far as I know, he's yet to respond to Dulcie du Jour's invitation to co host the Midsumma dog show. God wouldn't approve.

Well has anyone ever asked God? Maybe he's sitting up there on his gold lamet covered throne with a chalice of full bodied red in one hand and a flashing disco sceptre in other screaming, "bring it on sister". Maybe there's an army of dedicated angels in poor fitting white sheets jamming along in the background chanting "Yes we can", "Yes we can", "Yes we can". Maybe that’s where the skinny guy with the funny name on the podium got it from.

I know it's only been a year but I think we should trade in our Kev if he doesn't start paying us some respect. It's not a lot to ask. Even the skinny guy mentioned us in his acceptance speech. Common Kev, it's only a word. We're hardly asking you to drop the soap in solidarity. A bit of encouragement would be fine. Just to show us you know we exist. Next time you're explaining the impact of the economic down turn on household earnings, perhaps you could use the two gay guys down the road as an example. They'd love you for it. And if you need a hand in putting a spin on such 'controversial' issues like gay marriage, I'm only too happy to arrange a counselling session with Helen across the waters. Or even a phone call with the skinny guy and the funny name. But only if you promise to leak the contents of that call to the press.

I'm Kaye Sera and I'm with the skinny guy on the podium - "Yes we can"



Beneath the bonnet

Town hall

This week we learn Deputy Lord Mayor, Gary Singer intends standing for the top job with Melbourne City Council. No that’s not head caterer, nor even chief cleaner, though in my humble opinion, both roles could do with a makeover. No, the role Gary is tipping his hat at is none other than Lord Mayor of Melbourne. For the past few years we’ve had the pleasure John Soh on the podium and what a joy he has been. Mind you I’m still trying to decipher Mr Soh’s speech at the Commonwealth Games. More than any other political figure, Mr Soh has made a virtue out of shonky articulation. Not that it seems to have affect his popularity. If any thing, his thick accent enhanced his image. For a long time I've suspected politicians speak nothing but gibberish and at last we have living proof of that fact. But that's being unkind. What counts in Mr Soh is his generosity of spirit and that shone through as a beacon of multicultural diversity. And we all benefit for that message. Squeezing a population the size and racial makeup of Melbourne into the one beige, middle class, Anglo Saxon mould was never going to work and John knew it.

Come to think of it, the openly gay Gary Singer has benefited from this diversity message as much as anyone. Although, his bank balance is possibly a tad expansive for the comfort of Melbourne’s bolshie left, who’d prefer their Mayor boast a direct line to Cuba or at least main land China.

Personally, I can see many benefits to having an openly gay Lord Mayor of Melbourne. There is no shortage of public event that wouldn’t benefit from a right shooshing up. I’d start with Moomba, which in its heyday in the 60’s was a creative outlet for the queens in the retail industry. Sadly much of that energy shifted up to Sydney and became the Mardi Gras parade, but it’s not too late to rekindle the camp flame. At the moment the only competition is the AFL Grand Final Parade, and a pack of footballers on the back of a ute is nothing compared to a bevy of baton wielding queens.

There are other examples of gay men who perform very well in public office. The City of Port Phillip has enjoyed the delights of Councillor Darren Ray for a number of years and can it be a pure coincidence that during his tenure, Pride March in all its Rainbow coloured glory has gone from strength to strength? I think not.

Suburbs benefit from having a power poof in the top job. Over in the City of Yarra, the proprietor of DT’s Hotel, Mr Dale Smedley thinks as much. Dear Dale is throwing his camp cap into the ring in the up and coming council elections too. Rumour has it he’s enlisted the talents of one Molly Meldrum in his campaign. That’s a little bit like Barak Obama enlisting industry heavy weight, Oprah in his bid for the White House. Now there’s an idea – a daytime chat show hosted by Molly Meldrum. Why has no body produced such a show. What a winner. It's not as if Molly can’t conduct a coherent interview and his dress sense is at least comparable to Oprah's. OK … that’s aiming a bit high. How about Kerri-Anne Kennerly?

I’m Kaye Sera and I’m on a mission to camp up public office – Penny and Bob just can’t cut it in the Senate.



Beneath the Bonnet

Money matters

I’ve spent a lot of time this week counting my money. You see I’ve decided to head off the complete and utter collapse of world banking system by withdrawing all my hard earned cash from the bank and stuffing it under the mattress – actually, just between me and you it’s all stuffed in my hat box because, being the hippy love child that I am, my mattress is sturdy futon and all those bags of coins would just be too lumpy.

Like many a working girl, I’ve been astounded at the level of media coverage this financial crisis has received. Rather than bitching about it I’d much rather we just round up the fat cats in the banking sector and sentence them to hard labour in a Salvation Army Op shop. That’ll teach them meaning of thrift. As it is, we’re destined to a number of years of economic down turn and all because these idiots syphoned off a personal fortune that’d match the GDP of several African nations, except of course Zimbabwe which is printing money faster than a bankrupt gay publisher.

So in the interests of glamour, I thought I’d offer some pointers on how to stay gorgeous in these troubled times. Lets start at the top – hair care. Now you can go on spending hundreds of dollars on a fabulous do but that’s only going to keep your hairdresser in botox therapy, meanwhile you’ll be rationing your party drugs to one pop a fortnight. I suggest you do as most drag queens and shave it all off, that hair on your head, that is. A sensible, wash and wear acrylic headpiece will give the style and look you desire at a fraction of the cost. And as an added bonus, you can ditch the wig and go all rough trade in the sack if you feel like spicing up your love life. While, it’s true, rationing and thrift are your best friends when the cupboard is bare that’s no excuse to let your looks slide. With summer on the way, you’re no doubt planning to stock up the bathroom cabinet with fake tan products, unless of course you’re a solarium junkie, in which case it’s unlikely you’ll be around to experience the great recession, and may the gods have mercy on your sizzled soul.

However for the rest of us, self-tanning lotions are very expensive, especially when used liberally over the whole body. A bit of foresight can help here. Analyse your wardrobe, work out what you plan to wear through out the summer months and only tan the parts of the body that are going to be exposed. It sounds like a tricky business but a little attention to mood lighting will easily disguise nasty tan lines if you find yourself in a state of undress. As my dear friend Glenda Jane Waverley maintains, “lighting is a big girls best friend,” or words to that effect.

There are a number of other expensive beauty therapies that fall into this discretionary basket. Botox I’ve mentioned and if you do indulge, I really can’t help you – if you’re silly enough to paralyse your face with a foreign agent you deserve the heart ache when the muscles rebel if they don’t get their monthly fix. You’ll just have wear bigger shades to cover up the damage.

As for a bright white smile? Sure you can go the bleaching path and watch your Dentist dive off in a shiny new Ferrari or you can take more appropriate action and simply not smile. Anyway, cheesy grins have always been over rated. The alluring be-dimpled smile is much more attractive. Come to think of it, what have you got to smile about – we’ll be in the middle of a bloody depression. Oh no, I see the return of that moody post punk, eighties glare. Get out the ripped denim, there are tough times ahead indeed.

I’m Kaye Sera and I would like to make my services available to promote depression worthy beauty products. What do you mean ‘the cheque is in the mail’?



Beneath the bonnet

In the bear pit

This week I ended up in the Green Room up on the hill, State Parliament that is, the Lower House. I call it the Green Room because the decore is inspired by the moody green tones of the Australian bush but it’s also a great staging arena for high theatrics – particularly Question Time. You know, that’s the session where the government of the day are brought into account through a series of probing questions. I wish. Actually most of Question time is wasted with the Governments own rhetoric in the search for the perfect headline – for which both sides of the house are guilty.

This week I was sure the front-page headline would be “Plug Tim’s Pipe”. The Honourable Tim Holding is the pretty young minister for Water and his political brief is to sell the controversial North South pipeline.

By the time I arrived in the public gallery, the attack on Tim’s pipe was in full swing and the lovely minister was coping a real verballing. So much so the lady speaker, the Honourable Jenny Lindell was forced to her feet to command order and to reprimand a number of naughty ministers for their rude interjections. Though she needn’t have bothered, Tim seemed quiet capable of fighting his own battles. Along with the gift of the gab, he is also not averse to dragging out his secret weapon of distraction – a glorious come hither smile. One flash of his pearly whites and the most hardened political opponent is sliding off the seat purring in agreement “where do I sign”.

But I digress. While Tim’s smile may have made my day in the Green Room, I was there for an more important debate; a bill dealing with making babies and fair access to appropriate treatments, or to use the lingo A.R.T - Assisted Reproductive Technology. It’s all about sperm access and IVF treatments and stuff like that.

Now obviously this concerns lesbian mums and other folk who for what ever reason wish to have a family outside the messy, heterosexual, ‘did the earth move for you’, nooky path. At the moment such folk are forced to travel interstate or worse still, overseas to access services, and slap me down for saying so but the word discrimination is a nasty slur in this day and age, and it certainly has no place in laws dealing with raising a family.

As Martin Foley the member for Albert Park pointed out during the debate, gay families already exist and are raising their children in a loving environment comparable to any heterosexual arrangement. Also speaking passionately for the ART bill was Lily D’Ambrosio, the feisty member for Mill Park, who not only acknowledged the lesbian mums and their gargling babes in the public gallery but also brought some common sense to the debate saying, “no one has the right to devalue such relationships”.

Of course there were also many voices opposed to the ART legislation and the major concern seemed to be the welfare of the child. A silly argument when you consider the number of unwanted children born into dysfunctional straight families. But then, some politicians wear silliness as a badge of honour. Ken Jasper, the National Member for Murray Valley is one such person. By his own admission, Mr Jasper takes an “old fashioned” perspective, even harking back to the golden days of Adam and Eve. Hardly appropriate given that pair of flussies spent most of their day running around in the nuddy, picking fruit and dodging evil snakes. Ahhhh, Original Sin – one bite and who knows where it’ll lead you.

I’m Kaye Sera and I’m just sitting here waiting for the minister for Water to restore the flow – chance would be fine thing.



Beneath the bonnet

Footy star

When he trots onto the footy field there’s a spontaneous roar from the stadium and he’s euphoric. It doesn’t matter where he plays, the response from the crowd is always the same. Course it doesn’t hurt that he’s drop dead gorgeous – fresh face, surfer style blonde locks and the kind of smile that well, let just say there a few who don’t involuntarily smile back. But all that is icing on the cake, he also knows he is a bloody good player. Whether scrambling for the ball in the mud of a sloppy out of town match or punishing the Sherrin with his mighty boot on home turf, his game is poetry in motion. He once took flight, rising above the mangled pack in a single bound, like Superman, collecting the ball to his chest as if he’d been practising the manoeuvre all his life – it was a season highlight that for weeks after had crusty commentators in the back of the HUN scrambling for superlatives. A decade in the game, one premiership under the belt and he’s got world of footy at his feet. But it’s not enough.

When he was younger and striving to make the draft there was nothing more important than his game. He gave every thing to his training and there was no time for soul searching. No time to question his sexuality, even if, deep down in the pit of his stomach, he knew he was attracted to other guys. It would all sort itself out. Like his mum insisted, eventually he would meet the right girl. Besides, the camaraderie in the club, the backslapping and hugs and training together and winning and loosing and getting drunk and wasted together, it was all he need. Wasn’t it?

He wished he could answer that question and get on with his footy career. But lately he’d begun to have doubts and along with that his self-confidence was slipping. Initially it was after the game in down time with his mates where eye to eye contacted needed strict monitoring. Strange thing, Aussie mateship – without ever uttering a word it successfully muscles fellas into the one blokey mold. On the field his behaviour was starting to get attention too. First it was the euphoric kiss he’d planted on the cheek of his teammate and then it was his damn smile and ever-changing hairstyle. Worse still the gay media were on his case, scrutinising his every move, running endless bloody polls. One night out of frustration he’d googled his name along with the word ‘gay’ and ended up at a gay website featuring him shirtless on the home page. He was fast becoming a pin up for Mardi Gras; what next an email from Anthony Callea, a text message of support from Ian Roberts? A coming out party in the locker room? To nip the rumours in the bud he’d made contact with an old girl friend and arranged a series of very public dates. But it was no use. While the shots made it onto the social pages there was still that voice screaming in his head to “sort it all out”.

Everything was conspiring against him. The AFL leadership were in high level meetings to expand the anti discrimination code to include homophobia, the footy show panel had gone on the record in support of gay players. So what was he waiting for? That question more than all the others, hung in the air as he pulled on his boots and strapped up his knee for the final training session of the season and that one big Saturday in September.

I’m Kaye Sera, and while I’d rather spend a lazy afternoon at the National Gallery something compels me to keep an eye on the boys chasing that funny ball around the field.



Beneath the Bonnet

Girls Rule

Sarah Palin and I have got a lot in common – we both look great in a tailored two piece, we’re both country gals at heart and importantly we both love moose. ‘Course, I prefer my mousse served chilled with a dollop of whipped cream and preferably chocolate, where as Sarah isn’t satisfied unless her Moose is gutted and diced and bubbling away in a three day Alaskan stew.

Fabulous as Governor Palin may be in lipstick and heels, I’m still trying to confirm the rumour that she is the love child of British PM Margaret Thatcher and President Ronald Reagan. The Iron Lady and Teflon Ron were seen smooching over a soda pop in 1964 in a corner drug store near Sarah’s birthplace in Idaho. DNA test her immediately, I say. I have a lock of Baroness Thatcher’s hair, a souvenir of our political battles over the dreaded Clause 28, introduced by Maggie in the 80’s to forbid, in her own words, “the promotion of homosexuality.” And for a DNA sample of Reagan, a dear drag friend of mine, Fanny Mae, assures me she has a stained gingham frock she swears is Ron’s amorous nasty work.

Dear old Fanny. Times are not what they used to be. The old girl has been putting out for decades, almost singlehandedly providing shelter to millions of American families, only to find, when push comes to shove, the cupboard is bare. I blame that no-account husband of hers, Freddy Mac. That layabout loon was only ever after her money and considerable good business name. And to add insult to injury, when times couldn’t be any more tough for dear Fanny, Uncle Sam turns up on her door step with a big fat cheque, offering to bail her out. Well, the entire US economy may be on the skids, along with the financial well being of the entire western world, but the last thing Americans need is another blank cheque signed by George Bush junior. Hasn’t the war in Iraq been enough? Besides, the land of milk and honey is supposed to be the pin up for the free market and a state funded bailout of Fanny is just too Cuban.

But I digress. While the current US Presidential campaign is none of my business, I do think Senator Obama has missed the boat in his bid for the White House. If he was serious about capturing the white female vote he should have signed up Oprah as his running mate. The queen of TV chat has been courting middle America since landing her multi dimensional behind on the proverbial sofa some thirty years back. Come to think of it, if Sarah Palin is after make up tips for her Pit Bull – personally I think lipstick on your family dog is too weird - she could do a lot worse than follow Oprah’s lead. Better still; take a leaf out of Clairee Belcher’s book. You remember Clairee? She was the Southern Belle, in the film Steel Magnolias - played by Olympia Dukakis “The only thing that separates us from the animals is our ability to accessorize,” claimed Clairee. It’s a mantra I and Fanny Mae live our life by. That and another fabulous Southern Belle line. “I have always relied on the kindness of strangers,” Blanche Dubois in A Street Car Named Desire. Blanche also said, “I know I fib a good deal. After all, a woman's charm is 50% illusion.” And I can’t help but feel that’s closer to Sarah Palin’s worldview.

I’m Kaye Sera and I’m running for President of the Country Women’s Association. I’ve even got the tea towel collection to prove it.



Beneath the Bonnet

Canberra Dreaming

I want to tell you about a dream I had last night. I was in Canberra of all places, in Federal Parliament. At the beginning of the dream I was walking down a long corridor and there was a line of mirror balls all rotating – they were rotating creating an eerie feeling - you know that feeling you get from an abandoned dance floor.

Either side of the hall were a number of glass doors. Behind one Julia Gillard was reading aloud to a class of Ministers. Her book was titled Heather has Two Mommies which sound like fun, but the class was rowdy and Julia was having a hard time maintaining control. Behind another door, labelled Backroom there was moaning and groaning so I guess that must have been some internal ministerial business.

Oh I forgot to say, in this dream I was dressed in a pretty blue gingham dress with puff sleeves, just like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. At the end of the hallway was an unmarked door behind which there seemed to be an important meeting going on. I peered in and saw three people seated before a throne. The man on the throne was completely naked, except for a crown and velvet robe that only just managed to covere up his wiggly bits. I think I’ll call him King Kevin because he looked a lot like the Prime Minister.

One of the characters seated in front of the throne looked like Bob Brown only he was wearing armour like the Tin Man in the Wizard of Oz. The other was a dead ringer for Steve Fielding - he was dressed as the Scare Crow. The third person was very peculiar indeed – she was a cross between the Cowardly Lion and Hello Kitty. Actually, on closer inspection she could well have been Penny Wong but I can’t be entirely sure, after all it was only a dream.

They seemed to be arguing about the Omnibus Bill and every time the words gay or lesbian came up, King Kevin winced. I could tell he was nervous because he was fiddling with his wedding ring and he kept looking out the window – there was a protest in the parliamentary forecourt. An angry bunch of Munch Kins had rallied and they were waving placards that read - “Adam and Eve not Adam and Steve” and silly stuff like that.

One of the protesters had gone the whole hog, dressing up in a loin-cloth and dragging a big cross, he looked very silly. He had green skin like the Wicked Witch but actually he looked at lot like Cardinal George Pell.

Back in the office, Bob was getting really pissed off – thumping his axe on the table and shouting “discrimination”. Steve the Scarecrow seemed to be having trouble understanding, “What’s a lesbian?” “What’s discrimination” he asked. All the while Hello Kitty was silent. She seemed to lack the courage to speak but that might have been because of her tiny, tiny Hello Kitty mouth.

Finally King Kevin called an end to the meeting muttering something about a committee of review or something.

The next thing I knew I was on my way out of the building and crossing forecourt. As I passed the protest, the wicked witch in the loin-cloth thrust a leaflet in my hands. It read Family first, Homos Last. I wanted to tell him about my extended family back in Kansas. You know, Aunty Em and Uncle Henry and all my farm friends but I couldn’t be bothered so I just clicked my heels three times to make him disappeared. It was a very strange dream.

I’m Kaye Sera and if you think I’m a candidate for psychoanalysis you just might have something.



Beneath the Bonnet

I’m coming clean. For a long, long time I’ve had this fantasy of playing the pantomime dame. Can’t think of anything more challenging than romping around stage in layers of skirts, doing cats bums and waving my gnarly finger at the pretty romantic couple. All the while an audience of children screaming “behind you, behind you”. In Cinderella I’d have been one of the ugly stepsisters desperately trying to squeeze my size 14 foot into the petite glass slipper

It calls to mind the outcry at the gay dance sequence in the recent Cinderella on Ice spectacular. What a hullabaloo – put it together and what have you got bibadybobadyboo. That’s my favourite song from Disney’s film version of Cinderella. Of course Walt didn’t invent the fairy tale. A bit of light research reveals one of the earliest versions of the Cinderella hails from China in the middle of the ninth century. There’s no fairy godmother but apparently there is a magical fish and while I haven’t read the whole story, I’d be very disappointed if the young heroine isn’t railing against the perils of foot binding or at least arguing for a Free Tibet.

In the 17th century the French got a hold of the story – they probably nicked along with pasta and fireworks and precious silk. Any way because they thought the story need shooshing up they introducing the Pumpkin carriage and the glass slippers.

My favourite version of Cinderella is from the fabulous Grimm’s Brothers. In their dark retelling, Cinderella becomes a little Ash Girl and she’s helped out by a white dove who attacks the evil stepsisters, plucking their eyes out. It’s all very Gothic and very Hitchcock - and the moral for modern day audiences? Give up smoking right away or risk being cast in a B grade Hitchcock movie in the life here after. Back to Cinderella on Ice – which if the truth be known sounds a lot like a bad nightclub trip - but only if you’ve spent a wicked weekend in Sydney.

I’m with 3AW on this one. How dare they include a tokenistic same sex dance scene in this rich children’s classic. How could a child possibly understand that? Why complicate their lives with tokenism. If you gonna do it, do it properly. A decent reworking of Cinderella would recast the young heroine as a gay man or at least as a Moslem woman in a Hijab.

True to the intention of the original tale, the story would reflect intolerance and mean spiritedness. It’d be a fable about oppression and how everybody – gay, straight, Christian, Moslem, Jewish, Falong Gong - everybody gets to wear a glass slipper and ride in a fabulous carriage and marry whom so ever their heart desires. That’s the kind of show they should have put on ice.

What do you mean the children won’t get it? I once had a four year old accuse me of being a drag queen and this at Midsumma Carnival. Kids are a lot smarter than you think.

I’m Kaye Sera and if you think that’s a joke, you’re damn right.



Beneath the Bonnet

Archives

As I pack up my drag bag and trundled off to another gig this week I’m reminded of just fabulous this scene of ours is – you know the various social endeavours of our ever expanding community acronym LGBTIQ - or as I like to call it, The Family.

Of course there are a whole lot of folk that would happily deny us the right to our own culture – or at least to legitimise it with that particular C word – culture. How can a drag queen lip syncing to Bassey possibly measure up a Tchaikovsky piano concerto, or a contemporary opera directed by Barrie Kosky or the delights of the Melbourne International Arts Festival. The fact that such creative enterprises are themselves the product of poofs and dykes seems to go unnoticed. It’s a sad day when you start placing culture on a ledger of worthiness.

As the Australian Lesbian and Gay Archives celebrate their 30th year we’re reminded just how rich and diverse our social culture is and – surprise, surprise it doesn’t all begin and end with Commercial road. Skip back a few decades and the place to be was Pokey’s on a Sunday night at The Prince of Wales, St Kilda. Back even further, before the Stone Wall riots of Greenwich Village, New York - considered by political types as the birth of the contemporary gay movement, though I do wonder – well, back then, the centre of the Melbourne camp scene was The Australia Hotel on Collins Street. Of course we also congregated in other venues in the CBD – The Windsor, The London, Val’s Coffee Lounge in Swanston Street, not to mention beats and gardens and many, many, many private parties. But sooner or later most ended up at The Australia. And by all the accounts it was a lively scene.

There were two bars at The Australia. The top bar was the more respectable, some would claim, the more discreet – professionals, celebrities from the rag trade, to use the lingo of the day “piss elegant” types.

The lower bar on the other hand wore its tarty green carnation on the lapel for all to see. Affectionately dubbed The Snake Pit, this watering hole attracted workmen, ex-cons, out of uniform policemen and sailors – rough trade. Not sure how women fit into this den of testosterone, but if stories of Butch and Femme are anything to go by, I’m guessing they could hold their own.

Barry McKay whose oral history is part of the Lesbian and Gay Archives collection remembers The Australia Hotel as attracting all types. “I don’t know how the crowd of my time would have survived without it,” says Barry.

And yet The Australia Hotel was not exclusively gay or gay owned. I wonder if we’ll remember our gay venues and parties of today as being as vital to our sense of identity? But then, that’s what the Archives is for. You’ll find news clippings and magazines, recordings and all manner of evidence of how we express ourselves today, lovingly catalogued with stuff from the past – just like one big happy family.

I’m Kaye Sera and if you think I’m proud of this culture of ours, you’re damn right.



Beneath the Bonnet

Wet dreams

I’ve long been a fan of the water sports though purely as a voyeur - I mean spectator. Unlike our Aussie sporting heroes, I made the difficult decision to boycott the Beijing Olympics - that silly little thing called Human Rights was keeping me up at night and it seemed the least I could do to relieve my conscience. News of the lip-syncing munch kin in the opening ceremony affirmed my decision. Not pretty enough indeed. BIame Nicki Webster. Cute kids in pigtails should never be put up on the stage and certainly not in front of a worldwide audience. No amount of therapy is going to cure that ego trip – just look at Bindi Irwin.

Speaking of pulling a shifty, I seem to remember reading somewhere that Hitler tried on something similar for the 1936 Berlin Olympics. Not so much cute kids but very cute athletes. Just like the ruling elite of China, Adolf saw the Olympics as a grand propaganda opportunity and to dress up his fascist ideals he employed the cinematic talents of one Leni Riefenstahl. Leni’s keen eye for heroic men and women in the sweaty embrace of the Olympics fitted the Nazis agenda to a tee. Today her films of near naked athletes romping around the track and field, read like erotically charged soft porn - and, surprise, surprise, has found a special place in the hearts of many a budding homosexual. Can’t help but think that Hitler would be just a little pissed off at this perversion of his grand nationalist plan. At the time, he was certainly pissed off with the success of Black athletes. But then, maybe he was bunkered down in a dark room during the blitz with one hand on the pause button and the other massaging his brackwurst.

But I digress. My Beijing boycott was going great guns, until in a moment of weakness; I was ambushed by my local library. In the spirit of nationhood, they’d installed an enormous, wide screen plasma monstrosity squarely in eyeshot of my favourite cooking books. No avoiding the Olympics now. Swimmers, weight lifters, pole vaulters, even BMX bandits, all in lurid, high definition slow motion – talk about reliving Olympic glory – millisecond by millisecond in endless replay. But amidst this adrenalin junket a glimmer of hope. Matthew Mitcham. Now there’s a lovely young man, with a lovely physique. You get that from the divers – Leni would be pleased.

Thanks to the library, I caught a glimpse of Matthew in action. Incredible how he manages to do all that tumbling business mid flight and then enter the pool with barely a splash. I was willing him on to throw caution to the wind and go for a bloody big bomb just to egg on the pool officials. He did one better. After picking up a gold medal for his seamless dive, Matthew went on to hug his mum and just as important, hug his partner, Lachlan.

Our Matty carries the torch as the only openly gay medallist of the Beijing Olympics. Hard to believe but there you are. He’s out of the water closet and he’s a winner. Can’t think of a better protest for human rights in China or anywhere else, for that matter.

Alas, Matthews open heartedness preaches to the converted. I seriously doubt whether vision of his partner’s embrace was even shown on Chinese television. Let’s face it, it only just made our TV sets. Actually, I wonder if Matthew got a congratulatory hug from our Mandarin speaking Prime Minister. Now that’s the money shot we’re after.

I’m Kaye Sera and like I said, I’m into water sports but only if I get to wear one of those fabulous Esther Williams style swimsuit.



Beneath the bonnet

I’ve been Jeffed

I’ve been terribly depressed lately. Not a full-blown depression, just very down – mind you a debilitating depression would be more appropriate, given the circumstance. If nothing else it’d give me an excuse to phone up Beyond Blue. But then that would only compound my melancholy. You guessed it. Along with a whole heap of other decent folk who dare to demand their piece of Australia – I’ve been well and truly Jeffed. It’s been a few years since I’ve been able to say that with any kind of conviction and I have to admit, like an addiction to cough lozenges and other such “medicated” lollies, it feels mighty good to revisit the sentiment.

Cast your mind back a few years. During Mr Kennett’s reign as Premiere of Victoria, which seemed to last 20 years, though I’m assured it was less, we were collectively Jeffed on a daily basis – The Grand Prix installed in a public park - Jeffed, fast tracking the blood sucking casino -Jeffed, berating community oriented activities -Jeffed. Mr Kennett was a busy man all those years back and clearly revelled in seeing his name in the papers and his face on the TV. You get a lot of attention in public office. People seek your opinion on a whole lot of stuff, what you say is reported on. The only thing harder than maintaining any semblance of humility in such a position of authority is in attempting to get on with your life when the spot light has moved on.

Sadly, Jeff like many a celebrity seems to be suffering from what I like to call the PADD syndrome – Pubic Attention Deficient Disorder. It’s a shocking affliction that, doused with the “stress” of the pubic gaze, is linked to a whole lot of bad behaviour. Britney Spears’ head shaving episode, Ian Thorpe’s “how dare you say I’m gay” tirade, Kate Richie’s “my life after Home and Away” junket. Like an addiction and shaking at the prospect, you’ll do or say any thing to get back into the spotlight, to get that headline, to hear your self on the radio.

While I fear it may be too late for Mr Kennett and it’s certainly too late for Britney Spears, not so for other political figures. Be warned. Now’s the time to plan your retirement or, like Jeff, risk munching on your own foot. Consider carefully your career prospects after public office and, the possibility of running for Lord Mayor does not count. Lynne Ellis - you’ve had a good run now rekindle your interest in the class room, Natasha Stott Despoi – contact your local University and offer your services in the Student Union, Peter Costello – do us all a favour and become a minister of religion like your brother.

And for those folk just starting out in the wild adventure of public office. Clean up your act – particularly if you’re lesbian or gay. Take note Senator Wong – the last thing we need when there are equal rights laws to be introduced is a revolving closet door. You’re either in the proverbial wardrobe peering out or your on the outside looking back. You can’t have it both ways. And while I’m at it, a few words of encouragement for your gay brothers and sisters wouldn’t go astray – despite what the church of Kevin might say.

I’m Kaye Sera and if you think that’s a bloody of joke – you’re damn right.



One great perve fest

The Midsumma Carnival returns to Alexandra Gardens this year after a two-year hiatus in the posh Treasury Gardens. Stoking a whole heap of memories, I’m just a little excited about this homecoming.

Carnival has always held a very special place in my heart. Where else can you camp out over a sun beaten afternoon with 30,000 friends, lovers and enemies? Where else can you overdose on that warm gooey feeling of community in equal portion to a feeling of utter revulsion. It’s possibly the reason so many people wear sunglasses throughout the day. Unobserved, you can perve at this GLBTI melange to your heart’s content.

In the early years, flush with the joy of frocking up in public, Carnival day was a golden opportunity to practise the subtle art of lengthy meet and greet (translates to publicity whore). When done right, navigating from one end of Alexandra gardens to the other might take up half the day. A chat here, a nibble, sip and photo opportunity there. The trick was to make it back to the front of the dog show stage for Dulcie’s canine talk fest. A good position was always rewarded with a mention from the lady herself over the mike (2000 eyes and ears hungry for a classy dog and master combination, you can’t buy that kinda publicity). Speaking of which, Joan Rivers’ impromptu appearance at the dog show a few years back remains a vivid memory and let that be a lesson to us all: show business and excess facial surgery are a lethal cocktail. I think this was the only time I’ve actually seen Dulcie stuck for words.

Of course the Carnival hasn’t always been at Alexandra Gardens. Way back when women were women, men were men, drag was drag and never the twain should meet, it was staged in the oval space at the top of Fitzroy street – actually where Pride March meets today prior to the march.

There were overpriced food stalls staffed by bewildered heterosexuals, a dunking competition created out of a children's inflatable swimming pool, promotional stalls peddling products that no one really wanted and a couple of stages. Most of the entertainment was provided by drag queens but there were also live bands (invariably all women) and I do recall at least one drag king shaking his mojo to a David Bowie tune.

But nobody really came for the show. The carnival has always been about the punters. It was then and still is today a novelty to see so many of us in the one space at the same time. Saturday January 19: bring it on.

Published in Bnews January 17 2008