Obscure Relatives Hour

I don't have a lot of contact with my family these days, what with the living multiple plane trips away and all. Newcastle airport is not so much a proper commercial airport as a tin shed where planes go sometimes. Maybe. If they feel like it. There's only one or two gates, plus a Hungry Jack's and a gift shop. There's none of the hassle of getting lost because it's all one big room, really. And yet, there's still more than one bar.

I was thinking about my family the other day. I have an assortment of relatives all over the globe, which is nice for if I'm ever overseas and in a bind for a place to stay. I remember when I was a kid and my dad's cousin was marrying someone from Uruguay, my parents got to go to a traditional South American wedding where everyone got given maraccas. Needless to say, I was extremely jealous.

Often when I was growing up, visiting relatives would stay in my grandparents' house, which was walking distance from the house I grew up in. As a result, some of my most fondly remembered relatives were people I only met once.

The first favourite I can remember picking was a woman who came to stay for a week or so when I was quite young, maybe ten or eleven. Technically speaking she was my great aunt by marriage so although not related to me by blood, she was still family. She was from Switzerland and was the biggest stereotype I have ever met in my life. Her name was either Helga or Hilda and she was large and jolly with a laugh that sounded like yodeling. In fact, her accent made it sound like pretty much everything she said was yodeling. I thought she was the greatest. The beach was about 100 metres from my grandparents' back fence, with a little path that wound it's way down to the sand. You can imagine how exciting this was for a Swiss caricature who wasn't used to being able to step outside with less than three layers on. This was a long time ago and I don't remember many of the details, but I can remember her splashing around in the water in an old-fashioned swimsuit, laughing like it was the craziest thing. I decided then and there that I was going to ditch Australia for a while and go hang out in the alps with Helga. Or Hilda. Obviously I never did or I might be able to remember her name.

The next favourite relative I had is one I do plan on spending some time with as soon as I have the money. Aunty Susie was a woman who was hyped up through my entire childhood. I didn't meet her until I was fourteen because she lived in England, but everyone told me that she and I were peas in a pod. This is the aunt I mentioned that knows Baldrick from Blackadder and spends her spare time digging up ancient Roman skeletons. She also lives in a village called Cheddar. At first I assumed that surely the cheese had come before the town, but then I remembered that it was England. Sure enough, that's where they started making it. I actually witnessed a live, unintentional re-enaction of the Monty Python cheese shop sketch there. It was only a small village, but there was a cheese shop. My dad went in and asked for every kind of cheese he felt like, not realising that a cheese shop in Cheddar only really sells Cheddar. Maybe some runny camembert, if you're lucky.

My aunt took us roaming across the countryside, seeing as many sites as we could fit into our trip. We even spent some time floating around on a houseboat in Norfolk, which I would gladly do for the rest of my life. She was great, and I am overdue for racing around the country with her again.

There were a few other characters I can remember meeting at family reunions, birthdays or funerals. I particular enjoyed my Canadian cousin Gwen, who I bet will give me accommodation when I eventually manage to get my arse to Canada. She made me laugh at my grandfather's funeral and I remember appreciating it a lot. But there was one who was actually Australian that I remember meeting only once. He was my Uncle Mick and I think he lived in Queensland or something. He must have been crazy rich because he collected classic cars. I met him at a big extended family picnic, where he arrived in a red MG convertible. When he asked me if I wanted to come for a ride, I nearly had a spasm. I was even wearing a scarf in my hair. 

He sped me around the streets, telling me I was his lookout for police cars. We passed another MG whose driver waved at us.

"It's like being in a club," he explained with a sly smile, waving back.

I have never felt so 1950s style cool in my life.

-Smackie Onassis

Smackie Onassis: Ghost, Writer

I recently sent a pitch submission to the fine folks at Kill Your Darlings, a publication Vegatrain linked me to a while back. As part of my pitch I sent them a link to this blog, so I thought I'd very subtly take the chance to detail just how great a writer I am.

As I'm sure I've mentioned, I have been writing for most of my life. Even though it kind of ended up being music that I utilised as my creative outlet after I finished school, I had always wanted to be a writer. When I was in primary school my parents signed me up to a young writer's club. I believe it was called 'Starfish' or something along those lines. They had a magazine that accepted submissions from kids and it was from them that I received my first official rejection letter.

I can remember the first "book" I wrote. I remember being very clear that it was a book, not just a story and that I had the illustrations to prove it. I'm not sure if you know the technical difference between a book and a story but it has something to do with illustrations. I called it 'Sarah and the Mermaid' and it was about a girl named Sarah who goes for a swim and meets a mermaid. The mermaid is also named Sarah. It may seem like I was a bit self-obsessed but I had a reason for giving both of them my name, rather than just one of them. In true Smackie Onassis style, it was purely so I could make a terrible joke at the end.

When the two characters met I had one say "Hi! I'm Sarah" to which the other responded "I'm Sarah too!". When they parted ways at the end I included the exchange of Sarah (the human) saying "Bye Sarah!" and Sarah (the mermaid) replying with "Bye Sarah too!"

I am old enough to know now that this is a very old, very bad joke. But I was five years old when I wrote that. I can recall how excited everyone around me was that a five year old could independently come up with that. What I didn't tell them was that I had outright stolen it from an episode of Nelly the Elephant. No-one ever found out my shameful little secret but if they had I imagine they would have sat me down with a stern look and a copy of "My First Creative Plagiarism"*.

Luckily, my plagiarism phase ended when I hit double digits. I started writing my first serious novel when I was fourteen and completed it when I was sixteen. Unfortunately, I was so absurdly self-conscious that I refused to show it to anyone, not even my closest friends. In fact, scratch that. ESPECIALLY not my closest friends. The fact that I was writing it at all was one of my most closely guarded secrets.

I did show it to one person actually - my little sister. This may seem like a touching gesture of sisterly love but don't be fooled. The only reason I showed it to her was because, out of everyone I knew, she was the one who most represented my target demographic. I am not kidding. Remember: I was fifteen. She actually really loved it and continually pestered me to write more, but she remains to this day the only person apart from me who ever saw it.

I did go on to study a writing degree at uni, which I did mainly because I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life and everyone was telling me that I was good at writing. Unfortunately, I never finished it. I got two and a bit years into it before realising that they had run out of course ideas after first year and everything from then on was useless, monotonous filler. People are always telling me that I should finish it on the basis that I was so close to the end when I dropped out. I'm not going to on the principle that I would rather not have a degree than spend another year of my life wasting my time.

So, there it is. Throw in a handful of short stories and an abundance of blog entries (this was not my first blog. That being said, I will die before revealing the URL of my old one.) and you have the history of Smackie Onassis: Ghost, Writer. Oh, also that joke would make more sense if you knew that my housemates have a running gag that I am actually a Victorian era ghost. The "ghostess with the mostess" as it were. Which I guess you don't have any way of knowing. But let me assure you: if you had known that, you would probably have found it clever.

-Smackie Onassis

*I don't think this is a real thing, but I do know that "My First Sitar" was. My grandparents had it and I played with it every single time I was at their house.

Smackie Onassis: Not A Lesbian Since '87

My relationship with my parents was always a little strained. It's not that they were bad people, but rather they had no concept of how to talk about any kind of personal issue. I went through my teenage years with my parents avoiding personal discussions at all costs. Every now and then, they would make something of an attempt, but it was usually a swing and a miss.

I can recall one incident where my mother and I were waiting in a parked car to pick my sister up from the movies. I must have been about fifteen or sixteen at the time. I was happy to listen to the radio, but my mother decided she was going to attempt to engage me in conversation.

"I hear so-and-so's a lesbian," she began. My mother was known for having about as much subtlety as a swift kick in the kneecap.

"Yeah," I muttered in response.

"I get the impression that it's harder for women to come out of the closet than it is for men," she said, avoiding eye contact with me.

"Um, I'm not sure that's true," I replied.

"Well, it seems like it's harder for girls to be open about being lesbians," she persisted.

"Ok."

"It's okay to be gay, you know."

"Yes, it is."

It was fairly clear that she was trying to encourage me, in her own strange way, to come out of the closet. Which would have been all well and good, if I were a lesbian.

I have always thought that sexuality was something our society tends to over-define. It is a commonly accepted psychological opinion that while most people have a preference to one gender over the other, people who are exclusively attracted to one gender are actually in the minority. You will probably find a lot of insecure bogans willing to debate that to the death, but let's face it, this class of people are not known for their expertise in psychological academia.

Regardless, I am not a lesbian. Tomboy, yes. Minor weakness for girls with excellent hair, sure. I will accept that gladly. But lesbian? Not so much.

I remember telling this story to some of my lesbian friends (maybe it was the fact that I was also a social outcast in my hometown, but at one point it seemed that a good majority of my friends were gay). They laughed harder than I thought was necessary.

See, apparently I exude heterosexuality from my every orifice. It isn't something I actively aim for, and to be honest, I really have no idea what it is. I mean, I sometimes wear square-framed glasses, have short hair and listen to Ani Difranco. I could at least pass for a lesbian, right?

Apparently not. I used to go to the local gay bar* reasonably often with the aforementioned lesbian friends, and it wasn't long before we observed a strange phenomenon. Every time we went there, I would be quickly approached and hit on by the one straight guy in the whole place. We ended up making a game of it, taking bets on how long it would be before the straight guy found me. The game ended when it happened less than five minutes after entering the bar. I walked in, went to order some drinks, and was immediately asked to dance. I actually asked this guy how he knew I was straight. We were in a gay bar, after all, and I was there with a group of lesbians. He said he wasn't sure how, but he could tell that I was straight. I did a brief survey of the rest of the bar, and got the same answer from everyone I asked. 

To this day I can't explain it. Maybe I was sub-consciously giving out some kind of body language. Maybe I was wearing my 'Ask Me About: Heterosexuality' badge**. I don't know. I really don't.

-Smackie Onassis

*I kind of thought it strange that a regional town that built its economy on such manly exploits as steelworks and coalmining even had a local gay bar. But, my hometown was not known for making sense. This is a town so stupid that there are buildings there that are PARTIALLY abandoned. As in, first floor: abandoned, second floor: abandoned, third floor: discount sporting goods store. How does that even happen?

**I kind of want a badge like this now. I collect badges, and have spend many a late night on ebay, trawling badge shops like the memorobilia junkie I am. I would love so much to have my own badge press. I want to make a badge that says 'Pancakes Are Flippin' Sweet'.

Smackie Onassis Fails At Pets

I've had a bunch of pets in my time, all spread over the first twenty or so years of my life. My first was a little budgie named Pepino (according to google, this is the name of a plant native to South America. I am not sure why my parents would have chosen that name). After that, a parade of other budgies followed. I'm not sure how many there were in total, but we never had more than two at a time. Apart from the budgies there was my cat, Tigger, who was the most significant man in my life until he died of kidney failure and broke my heart. There was also a goldfish named Chips and a "black ghost knife fish", whose name escapes me, probably because he died after about fifteen minutes. The most beloved of all my pets was Tigger, by far, but he wasn't necessarily the most memorable.

When my sixteenth birthday was approaching, my friends asked me what I wanted for a present.

"An axelotl," I remember replying definitively. I'm not sure where I got the idea to ask for a Mexican walking fish for my birthday, or why I was so insistent. I think I just thought it was a funny thing to ask for. I don't think that I honestly expected anyone to get me one. But, whenever one of my friends came back and asked me what I wanted, serious answers only this time, I insisted that I wanted an axelotl.

A bunch of my friends turned up at my party that year together, carrying what they had pooled together to get me. An axelotl, complete with a tank and a whole bunch of other accessories. As in, like, things to feed it, not like, tiny boots and hats and stuff. Although that would have been pretty cool too. The important thing is that they actually humoured me to the extent of buying me a freaking axelotl. I was over the moon. The look on my parents' faces when they saw the tank reminded me that I hadn't thought to inform them about the possibility of receiving a living creature as a gift, but too bad for them, I guess. I do remember getting a request from them before my seventeenth birthday, and then for a few more birthdays after that, to the tune of "Please don't ask for anything alive this year".

In the meantime though, I had Pablo, my axelotl. He was the best. He spent the entire day swimming around with a stupid fishy grin on his face, unintentionally teasing the cat and eating meal worms (the fact that I had to keep those in our fridge was another thing my mother loved, let me tell you that much).

But, when the summertime came, Pablo really started feeling the heat. He got pretty sick and spent most of his days sort of floating around miserably. He wouldn't eat his meal worms. I was concerned for his wellbeing.

The bad news eventually came when I was being picked up from a regional drama camp. I remember the conversation vividly.

Dr Dad: Smackie, I've got some good news and some bad news.

Smackie: Give it to me straight, doc.*

Dr Dad: The bad news is that Pablo died.

Smackie: Ok. I thought that might be it.

Dr Dad: The good news is we kept his body in the fridge for you.

Smackie: Th... thanks.

At first I thought it might be some kind of joke. You know how doctors always seem to develop morbid senses of humour. But no, when we arrived home there was a little foil package next to the marmalade that contained the deceased body of my pet. To this day, I have no idea what they expected me to do with it, or why they thought I would actually want them to do this. Maybe it was all just revenge for the meal worms. However, because I was so flabbergasted about the whole thing, I did what any rational person would.

I left it there. I pretended that the whole unfortunate incident had never happened, and that the little foil parcel contained nothing but some kind of mystery leftover.

After a good month or so, Dr Dad approached me and asked me if I minded if they disposed of Pablo's body. I told him a bit too quickly that I was ok with that.

-Smackie Onassis

*This isn't actually what I said. But then again, my name's not actually Smackie Onassis, either.

Nana Flapper

My parents were always very interested in geneology. I remember them being fascinated by various attempts at family trees, and stories about family members who had in someway achieved notoriety (such as how my grandfather's sister was apparently a contemporary of D.H. Lawrence. She allegedly probably had relations with him at some point.)

As soon as I was old enough to understand genetics, I started asking questions. I couldn't figure out how, if my heritage was entirely made up of anglo-saxons, I had been born with dark, curly hair and a generally very mediterranean complexion. All I need to do is think about turning on a fluorescent light and I turn brown. That's not very English.

Naturally, the answer I always expected was something along the lines of, "We bought you from some travelling gypsies when you were a baby", but funnily enough that was never the answer I received. They usually told me that I was just, well, a complete genetic throwback. When I asked where those genes even came from to begin with, they would usually tell me the story of Nana Flapper.

Nana Flapper was my favourite relative, hands down, ever. She was excellent. She was my grandmother's mother, and had the balls to be a single mother in the 1920s. Not only that, but she never revealed to a single soul who the father was. It was her most closely guarded secret, one she kept to her deathbed, and probably the answer to my mystery genes.

I always liked Nana Flapper stories. One oft-repeated piece of family mythology tells the story of how she won her first house on a poker game. My mother always insisted that this was probably an exaggeration, but I can't think of anything that story could have evolved from that is not already pretty excellent. I totally believed it, too. I saw the way she could pick a horse, right up into her nineties. It was rare that she wouldn't come out ahead, which always seemed like an amazing act of rebellion towards my Christian parents.

Nana Flapper was a smart talker, too. It is a very grounding experience when, as a teenager, you are sassed by your 90-something great grandmother. I loved it. She was also probably a big influence in encouraging me to write, as well. If any of us ever complained about having nothing to do, she would come back with "What do mean there's nothing to do? You've got a brain haven't you? Write a book!'. And I would.

Nana Flapper died some years ago, at the grand old age of 97. It was always reassuring to me, that someone like her could live to such an old age and get away with it. I have spent some time imagining who my mystery great-grandfather was, and why his identity was such a secret. Perhaps he was some kind of dashing Spanish superhero. That would explain why we can never know who he was.

-Smackie Onassis