Category Archives: JuddHole

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I was with Stan Grant, until the bit about “God”.

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I’ve always respected news media types that stick their neck out there. That talk shit and back it up. Stan Grant’s always been a favourite of mine for these very things.

When it came time to crown a new king, I was surprised at how excited everyone was for it, while completely ignoring the fact that the coronation represents hundreds and hundreds of years of colonisation and subjugation of the indigenous peoples of many lands.

I mean… that’s not a small thing. The indigenous peoples of Australia are still feeling it, all day-every day. There are many that are scarred, traumatised, broken for life, by having been ripped from their loving parents arms under the White Australia Policy. Same as the Apsalooka tribes of my homeland in Montana, being taken to Government Schools, cut their hair and wash their mouths out with soap when they spoke their own language. It was common, it was The Way You Did Things.

And the monarchy is where all that started. It came from the top and trickled down. To me personally, the Royals have been little more than tabloid fodder for the entirety of my life, doing nothing notable in any practical way. Then all of a sudden there’s this New King and everyone’s paying attention like the royal family is still relevant.

Which is fine, if they are, I have nothing to say about that. Except for what they represent to the people that are still hurting from their lasting effects. Every continent in the world has been affected. So it IS relevant and Stan Grant was RIGHT.

He was right. And he got shit on for it. And his detractors were WRONG.

Then they were worse than wrong, they were racist and wrong. Then they were wrong BECAUSE they were racist. F*ck’s sake, that’s as obvious as the problems with colonialisation.

And Stan had a gutful of it. Not just that, but the very organisation that employs him and gives him this Huge Voice, didn’t support him. He wrote articles on it, they had heaps of coverage on it, but his voice was alone coming from the ABC. They have many First Nations presenters, yet they didn’t stand up for ANY of them, let alone Stan.

So he quit. He walked away. Or is “taking a break” or whatever term we use so as to not make things TOO final.

And he wrote a good and powerful and scathing One Last Thing.

And I liked it and I supported it and I was Standing With Stan all the way until…

*record scratch*

God?

I am not perfect. But I try to live a good life. I try to be kind. I love my family. I love my people. I love the idea of what our country could be. I am a person of God and I know God is on the side of justice.

Sadly, it seems there is no place in the media for love, kindness, goodness or God. There is no place in the media for respect.

The first reference to “god” didn’t set me spinning. I have no interest in someone’s beliefs provided they don’t infringe upon others. It’s the second reference that shits me off.

“No place in the media for God”?!?

I’m sorry, Stan, but are you out of your f*cking mind?

You’ve got a huge brain, a huge personality and a huge voice. You are a man of power, a man of conviction and someone with influence. An integral and vital representative to your native Wiradjuri and First Nations people EVERYWHERE.

Yet you, yourself, can’t even see what you’re doing. Let’s assume you’re not just talking about the Abrahamic Religions, let’s say you’re talking about Christianity. Do you REALLY think that Western Culture is lacking in representation of Christianity?

I grew up being inundated with Christian teachings. I’ve read the Bible and completed Confirmation in a Protestant Church. Love, kindness and goodness are not separate from the concept of “God” in the context of the media.

I’ll put it simply: “God” has no place in media. Because we’re not all Christians, Stan. Most of us aren’t. “God” gets plenty of f*cking airtime, Stan. In EVERYTHING. “God” isn’t missing a place in the media, Stan. That’s not how this works.

Now’s when things get uncomfortable.

Also, Stan, I have a problem with your Christian god. I have no interest in changing your beliefs though. I simply want to point out  a few things you might be missing.

You’re against colonialisation. You’re not happy with the monarchy’s role in that. You’re against White Australia and I’m going to ASSUME that you’re against the systemic and systematic attempted genocide of your people’s culture.

Do you realise that the Christian god came along with that?

Literally, you can’t have one without the other. Colonialisation, subjugation, systematic genecidal racism… and Christianity.

They ALL go together. ALWAYS. EVERYWHERE.

I am a white dude and I have ZERO AUTHORITY to speak on the matters of First Nations peoples and their belief systems. But I will say, on a personal level, it makes my skin crawl to hear a First Nations person mention their belief in the Christian god.

65,000 years of your culture were overwritten by 200 years of subjugation, and you’re against that. But they brought along this New God, so that part’s okay?

That part, for me, simply doesn’t compute.

TLDR; I stand with Stan Grant, until he brings “God” into it. Then I point out that his god came along with all the shit he purports to have a problem with and is arguably as bad as the rest of it.

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Israel Folau Was Wrong

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And he can get fucked.

It’s a tale as old as time: He’s good at sport, therefore we should just let him do as he pleases.

The ABC is clearly a fan of his with the first in a two-part documentary getting masturbated all over their website and social media. An article about a documentary that is undoubtedly full of the same. Worship of his athletic accomplishments.

He’s good at running with a ball on a field. Awesome.

He also tweeted hateful shit. The article, and all his supporters, are all about Free Speech and Freedom of Religion. Those things are great, but nowhere did they mention the gun to his head that forced him to write that all homosexuals will burn in hell.

I don’t give a rat’s ass about your religious beliefs, but Hate Speech is an easy one. If what you’re saying is actively HURTING OTHER PEOPLE in a marginalised group, then it’s Hate Speech.

And he got fired for it.

Good.

How can you call yourselves good people when what you spout from your mouths at others actively hurts them, causes them pain, and even kills some of them?

Read, and believe, anything you want from a really old book. Just don’t post it. Simples.

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Political Correctness

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Are you tired of political correctness?

That’s because you’re viewing treating others with respect and equality as something that’s politically-motivated.

It’s also because you don’t like being told to change how you think or what you call things, because change is scary. Your insecurity is so strong that you experience strong anxiety at the idea of learning New Rules because you’ve worked SO long and SO hard just to learn THESE rules and you’re not even sure that you’re getting those right! New Rules just mean more chances to get things wrong, and that might make you look bad, and that’s to be avoided at all costs.

That’s probably why you’re tired of Political Correctness.

Once you connect the changes in society with how we speak, act and regard others, and you really drill down into that until you get to the fact that “others” ARE actually people, just like you, then maybe that makes a difference. Maybe it’s not so tiring if you’d ask that others have a little patience for you too. Then maybe you’d feel better about you. Maybe you wouldn’t be so anxious, so insecure. Maybe if someone else was a bit easier on you, you would be easier on others.

But since you had it hard, do you think that means others should have to have it hard as well?

Is the whole point of all this… society stuff, to do better? To BE better?

Are YOU doing better? Are you BEING better?

No, seriously. I’m asking.

Me personally, I’d actually like to see this next generation, MY KIDS, have it easier. Have it better. I’d LOVE to see what they can do if they don’t have to have it as hard as I had it. If that means I have to learn new concepts about gender, and use pronouns, and get used to things that used to be weird or different or abnormal to me… I think that’s more than fair.

I’d like to think that if we give them room to grow and the space to feel safe in, they might have a better chance at being… happy.

That’s my goal, anyway. What’s yours?

Westpac doesn’t consider my pension “income”.

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When you’re trying to just find out if you can even afford to EVER purchase a house, the first thing you do is talk to your bank right?

Well after playing email tag a few times, divulging ALL of my life’s most interesting financial aspects, spending 12 minutes on the phone with chit-chat and bullshit T&C’s, I was told that the only income that Westpac would consider was my wife’s Disability Income, and NOT my Carer’s Pension.

Because… get this, “if something were to happen to that person, then there wouldn’t be that Carer’s income any more.”

That is FUCKING COLD.

Okay, so I tell them that we have a disabled child, who will be special needs his entire life. No go.

So I told them I also have a verified disability and whether or not there’s an income stream for somebody being disabled in this house shouldn’t be an issue.

She told me “It’s not whether or not I agree with our policy, but it’s my job to enforce it.”

Man, Bree Hamilton. I hope you’re second-guessing that career as a Barista or some shit, because having to do that kind of thing would EAT MY FUCKING SOUL. But maybe you’re safe and don’t have one, dunno.

End Stage

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The large piece of black sushi from the header graphic above is a stylised caricature of our sweet cat, Seven.

He had gone skinny for a brief bit, so we were feeding him more.  We always said that his heart was where his brain should be, so we’d kind of assumed he’d just forgotten to eat for a while.  He always liked it outside in the Cat Run more than the other two, so we figured he might have stayed out there so long he missed feedings.  He would often come in after a rainstorm, soaked through.  He was not smart.

And he was eating, lots.  Feeding him separate was working, we thought.  Then he just crashed.  A cat that never let anyone pick him up was suddenly falling over and quite cuddly when scooped up.  I made an emergency appointment and Wifeage loved on him on our way out, but stayed home with our smallest while I had our middle kid with me.  We kind of knew.  When we parted, that is.  We kind of knew.

He was in end-stage organ failure.  All the numbers were very bad.  I had to take the doctor aside to level with her and force her to level with me.  I told her that despite our poverty, money wasn’t an issue.  I’d sell the car, a kidney, drugs, my body.  Money wasn’t going to be what factored in a decision for our beautiful boy’s life.  She hemmed and hawed in the way that doctors are supposed to do.  They can’t sway you in your decisions, it’s like, a part of their oath or some bullshit.

But when I asked for chances, even IF it could be fought and we were willing to put him through that sort of treatment.  This sweet, stupid, lovely, semi-feral boy, being held down and tubed and blooded and caged for days.  If we DO this, what chances might he have?

She frowned.  Said, “I haven’t seen it, in all my years.”

At first I scoffed, because she looked barely older than the 14-yo I’d left in the waiting area with our sweet boy.  Then I realised that she was probably doing this when she was 14, and probably had plenty of years.  Enough to warrant that reaction.  She gains nothing from suggesting to me that he’d be better off being slept out.

It was straightforward and the constant communication Wifeage and I were having had no doubts involved.  I held him, for a long time, and he purred smoothly and nuzzled into my chest.  This gorgeous idiot that was so feral when we first fostered him that he’d panic run from any room I entered.  It was 6 months before I got to even pet him, yet here he was having the best Dad Loves of his life on my chest.

He barely flinched when he got his final shot, and he had the best nap of his life in my arms.  Then he was gone.

**

Now I’m told via emails from my mother, that my brother has end-stage liver failure.  She’s got a Master’s in Nursing but I still don’t really understand what she’s saying.  To me it sounds like, “His alcoholism finally caught up to him.”

My father, the doctor, hasn’t replied to my emails.  It’s my own damn fault, ultimately.  I trained them all that email was best for me and I hated phone calls and that it was okay for us to go a couple of months without contact sometimes.  Now my phone is silent and I’m not sure I wanted that.

But then again, it’s standard for me to hear about a death with an email from my mother that simply has that person’s name as the subject, usually weeks after the event so I have little to no time to be a part of anything.  This can be particularly troublesome when she sends me an email subject name of some young and healthy person who has recently proposed to their true love.  Because when I go to open it, I think they’re dead, only to find them blissfully happy.  So name in the subject line doesn’t always mean dead?  Got it.  Sort of.

My father is famous for telling me that my grandmother died by responding to a question about another event that he might not make it because he was still in California for his mother’s funeral.  That she was my Grammy and I might’ve liked to be told she’d died was lost on him.  I don’t expect he’s considered I would want to hear about my brother now.  He’d probably tell me afterward, I think.  No guarantees though.

So I’m not new to any of this, but I sure as fuck don’t like it.

I didn’t like what happened with Seven, either.  But at least everybody involved knew what was up.  It was hard, there were explosions of tears, there were sentences that were incredibly difficult to finish.  But I’d so much rather it that way than this.  This feeling that I’m forgotten.  Not important enough to keep involved.  While my only brother lays dying.

I don’t like this at all.

And what’s to come doesn’t promise to be any better.

Maybe this’ll be different.

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I had sent word to my dad to let him know when I’d be coming home for a visit after one of my earlier years of college, and I hadn’t heard back from him for several days. While never one for prompt correspondence, it was slightly unusual. But unlike other times when he’d explain his absence with a two-part summation involving an activity and location like “ice climbing” and “Mount Rainier” or “kayaking” and “Bighorn River” this time he simply said that he was sorry he hadn’t gotten back to me because he’d been “out of town for Sibyl’s funeral.”

That was how he told me my grandmother, his mother, was dead.

The years showed that this was neither out of the norm of the level I was involved nor the worst way he could deliver news, so it’s actually a perfect example.

Now I’m actually reeling, completely unprepared emotionally for what I’m feeling, in reading actual messages from the former family. I’m so out of the loop I had to ask my son who this person was with the cool name only to find out it’s my wife’s youngest brother, my boy’s own uncle. It sounds for all the world, for the first time, that someone out there that shares her blood is willing to set aside any and all of the ridiculous bullshit that’s kept them apart, for the sake of coming together.

And I don’t know how to feel about that.

That’s not actually true. I know how I feel about that. I’m elated. Overjoyed. Buoyed. Hopeful.

But those are all incredibly dangerous emotions when you’re already weakened, beaten down. Vulnerable.

Her grandmother passed on Sunday. How we found out is too pitarded and inane to let only these words at, so I’m foregoing that part. We found out and it wasn’t directed towards us, ’nuff said.

Now Uncle CoolName tells my son that my wife’s auntie, long-estranged for reasons no doubt as stupid as ours, died the Thursday before. Cancer.

And I had one of those instant thoughts, the kind that make you anxious that they’re inappropriate or weird or wrong. My first thought was, “Did Nan know? Somehow, through her dementia, did it make it in that her youngest daughter was dead? Did that cause a ripple effect that eventually moved her on as well?”

Suffice to say that anytime in your late 90’s is a perfect acceptable, needs no explanation, time to pass on. But still. The thought was there.

And in this, the time afterward, where we’re floating and stuck and forgotten and neither she nor I nor our children have ANY FUCKING IDEA what it was that we did that was so awful, so despicable, so unforgivable, that we were simply excised from the entire family. In this time, I wonder to myself, what comes next?

Where do we go from here?

The truth is probably that people that have been shitty are still going to be shitty, and people that were neutral or ineffectual or fence-sitting are probably going to still be like that too. No one has really changed, nor will they. They were what they were and they are what they are, and maybe it’s our foolish egos that keep wondering what it is about US that makes these people be this way.

I mean, there’s nothing in any way to suggest in my life that I wouldn’t want to know about my Grammy passing on, yet my father simply didn’t think of that. Maybe it’s something similar with people that have never considered even the smallest of things, like the fact that everyone in the entire family knew who Nan’s miniatures were meant to go to rightfully.

Maybe all these things just never occur to them. And here we are wondering what it is about us that’s gotten us here. Maybe the truth is: Nothing. This is just who they are. This is just who we are.

Maybe if we’re all better at accepting that, moving forward into this, the time after The Great Nonsense, we’ll do better at doing it together.

There’s Spinach in My Pants.

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I may be letting a bit of a secret out by admitting this, but… I’m not really just like I am in this diary versus Real Life. I write in here with stories and opinions that paint a certain picture, build a persona of someone that isn’t quite like me.

When the time comes for your beloved Wife to undergo painful and serious abdominal surgery in order to bring forth your child, you take it VERY seriously. So be warned, these pictures are NOT meant to be funny.

30 CCs of something medical sounding, STAT!

I lied about being in IT, I actually AM a doctor. I had just finished my rounds when Wife was wheeled into the PreGettingBabyCutOuttaYou Area.

And by “rounds”, I mean “can you believe they didn’t even kick me out or ask me to knock it off?”

Some SERIOUS Awwwwww

I found out that you don’t need tits to make the sounds coming out of her head stop.

I can’t be positive, but I think she looks like me.

I’m also not completely certain, but I may actually be completely, 100 percent, absolutely, wholly and truly, lamblastedly, shaznasterly, SMITTEN with my child.

Mummy captured her First Car Ride

We got to take her home on Australia Day and I think I managed to convinced her that the fireworks and barbecues were all in her honour. She’s obviously not impressed, but that may be because Mother Nature tried to cook her. She does this though, this sleeping thing, where she sleeps all the time. Sleepy. Sleepery.

I’ve dumped more than a few extremely personal and private things here in this diary, but because of certain circumstances and by the very nature of what has become Web 2.0, it’s not quite for that anymore. I come here to keep in touch with those of you that can’t be bothered changing bookmarks or buddy lists and all that shit.

For those that care and haven’t been there yet, there are more pictures and baby awesomeness and love and everything that’s wonderfully goo about the World over in my other diary. Email me juddholeATdiaryland.com. If that doesn’t work, then leave a comment in here with your email addy. If that doesn’t work, then join up on the Notify Thingy, get a Notify email from me which has my current email on it, and then cancel the Notify thingy and stalk me long enough for me to get you to put random groceries in my fridge. Crap, you can go to the GuestBook too, I think, that’ll get me your email without giving it to the spammers, which is exactly why I don’t put it on here. Thanks.

Perfect.

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She’s happy, she’s healthy, she’s perfect.

Simply Perfect.

They made me leave the hospital, though I tried to stay, and I am home now, staying up much later than Wife would allow given the amount of sleep (~4 hours over last 2 days) and excitement (~50 Brazillian Shitloads) I’ve had lately, but I can’t seem to settle down.

So, I’m going to have a shot of Tequila, as I love it and it was my Xmas present, and try to carve from this night a slice of sleep.

My bed, a soft, welcoming, and recently laundered place, is empty with the exception of me, and one of the most profoundest of understatements that I could muster right now would be this:

I’m NOT looking forward to my first night away from Wife since I came here.

But I AM looking forward to seeing my baby again. I do love her so.

Pictures and more later. Smooches.

So. Writing. And Work.

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I actually wrote this in an email to a friend, but then figured I’d not only like more concrete documentation of this line of thinking than an item in my “Sent” folder, but that I’d like to share it with more than just one person.

I?ve been doing lots of thinking about this kind of shit in the last few weeks/months. I?ve even written about it before, but probably in one of the other blogs and not JH, and it?s getting to be something of an issue in Life.

See, the thing is, unlike a great many, I actually Know where my passions lie. And, also unlike a great many, I’m starting to learn that I may actually have a talent for them. Much like you, El Puerco, and my amazing and wonderful wife, I?m pretty good at this writing thing. And I wanna do it, like all the time ?n stuff.

Then there?s work. I am in the Fucking IT field, and Yes I capitalise it because it means that to me, where I am good at what I do and can be quite successful if I choose to be. I?ve seen how it happens and I know what to do to make it a reality.

At the end of the day, what will I have?

More money, sure, but kids that have grown without me knowing and a wife who knows that I love her? on the weekends. Needless to say, Not for me. And I mean, No Fucking Way In Hell for me, thanks.

I drive to work, fighting retarded commuter traffic, and work 9 to 5 like the rest of the slobbering shitwipes in the Rat Race, and then I go home, where Life really is. I have about 2 hours with my kids, playing on the floor and watching the Simpsons, but they gotta eat and it takes them for fucking ever sometimes, so it?s really about an hour or so. Then, it?s another 2 or so hours with Wife and then bed. Then, get up in the morning, get the boy’s lunch and their brekky ready and then do it all over again.

Is it worth it? Welp, gotta pay bills and eat. There you go.

Thing is, you don?t see a lot of time for writing in there do you? Nup.

I?m fine with that, for now, because I wouldn?t trade my time with my family for anything in the World, and I gotta be at work at least 8 hours in order to make enough money to eat and have a house and shoes n? shit. There?s no time to write, but my time is buying some important things. Again? for now.

I?m not sure what you?ve got for a social life, but if you?ve got the time, then WRITE. Do it. Write as much as you can and as often as you can. I?m not one for dropping names (?cept Russell Crowe and that?s only because I like to say that I heard his cock stinks) but I actually used to correspond with Augusten Burroughs, who wrote some of my favourite books and is a #1 bestselling author and I think is even making a movie or something. He?s special and famous and shit, and gave ME writing advice, cos I really AM that cool (someday I’ll write about that time I met the Brit Asshole from American Idol and thought he was somebody I knew from hockey. Heh. Classic).

His advice though, was basically just what I told you: Write. Alla time. Always.

You?ll get better at it the more you do it as well as be busy building a repertoire, a repository, a bunch of cool shit that you can someday do something with. You?ll be able to have enough examples of random shit that anyone possibly interested could even think of.

Somebody at a newspaper says, “Can yeh write up somebody’s obit?” and you say casually, “Actually, just to be morbid and because I was pissed at him for that crack about my grades in High School… here’s my father’s. Oh, he’s not really dead either, so you can ask him how good that one is. Ignore the paragraph about the cause of death being a flame-engulfed kayak paddle to the rectum and you’ll find it’s actually pretty accurate.”

I’ve even got me a blog where I write nothing but the shit from my brain. And by “shit” I mean “excrement” coz that’s what it is. Shit. But it needs out and it feels cool to get it out and be partially entertained by it. Nobody reads that one, ‘cept Wife, and that’s how I like it.

See? Even writing Shit is still good for writing skilz. Fuck, do like the Smartypants chick and just stick it all in a book. Hell, call blog entries chapters and you would barely need to edit.

So that’s my advice. Same as Augusten’s and he’s brilliant and if I met him in person I’d kiss him full on the lips and I don’t care that he loves smokin’ him some pole. No tongue tho cos I’m married.

I honestly don’t know how long for the corporate world in the Information Age I am. I mean, all up, I still just make fucking websites, it’s not like I’m curing Cancer or curing anything cool with the word “genital” in it. Ask Wife, I still lay in bed some nights and piss and moan about this career, vowing to chuck it all in and not care if the 4 (soon to be 5) of us huddle under a goddam scrap of cardboard as long as we’re happy, and all that.

Life’s too short to wait too long for the really, Really, good shit. If you’re anything like me, then writing is your Really Good Shit, or at least can provide for it, and you need to Get On It.

Fuck, I’ve sat here through my lunch break writing this and now I’m all ready to just jump up, tip my desk over, throw my monitor out the window and onto the odd Korean who sells me Sausage Rolls, and fucking go home and write a book that will feed me and my family for the next 37 years.

When I haven’t, and it’s 5:30, and I’ve finished yet another fucking website, and I’m headed home, and I’m tuning in the traffic report to see whether or not to avoid the Graham Farmer Freeway, please don’t ask me why I didn’t. Don’t or I’ll fart on you. And lately they’ve been a weird combination of sweet cigar and rotten cabbage, with a hint of nutmeg. It isn’t worth it.

I’ll get to it soon. Serious. Just not sure when, but it’ll happen. Ask Wife, I get that look in my eye, and she knows it’ll happen.

Shatsicles, I gotta get back to it.

Take care o’ you.