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Driving to an appointment the other day…

…and I flicked on the radio to a station where a couple of *Strine-flavoured moron hosts were espousing the benefits, nay, the joys of hate-watching TV shows. He was love-hating the live Big Brother stream. She was lapping up some Hollywood bile called, All’s Fair – a divorce drama that the Guardian has described as… fascinatingly, existentially terrible – without a hint of irony.

It is now de rigueur to consume trash TV so you can rubbish it in a bitch session with your pals. Misery loves company, really?

The idea that you would happily incinerate hours watching crap so you can connect with your fellow humans and feel united in your loathing, baffles me no end. 

At the risk of getting all Pollyanna on your ass with Kumbaya playing softly in the background, why is it more exciting to bond with folks over ‘ugly’?

And no, seeking out anyone who might join me to seethe over the energy and water guzzling art cannibal that is AI… we meet to ‘double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble’ and set effigies of hard drives alight deep into the night… is not the same thing.

I wanna love-watch. I wanna love-listen. I wanna connect with people who celebrate shows, music, anything that makes you feel good, not dirty and desperate for a shower when the credits roll.

* Strine is the English spoken, or somewhat decimated, by Australians, with very thick accents.

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

Been thinking about the scenes that…

…make up our lives, some more memorable than others. Most mundane, maybe tear-stained, stuffed with love, serendipity, joy. 

When there’s no topic (or person) I wanna set alight with words, I love describing my life’s scenes with an almost savant-like scrutiny. 

My 16-year-old flirts with the first bars of Human Nature on new keys and catapults me back to my teens too. Complex hip hop rhymes thrill from my firstborn, the DNA strong! 

I meet a student from Mongolia who sells me her red tux blazer. ‘I got too fat for it,’ she smiles and pockets my $50 bill. 

Sipping a ‘sacred’ latte with my mentor, her words feel like a classy collision of logic and divinity.

Shameless clickbait about a comedy icon pal I adore, prompts me to call her. 

I drop five bucks on an ice block, a shard of lime shocks me, mid-suck. Organic to its core. Clearly. 

I’m buoyed by Helen Garner winning the UK’s top nonfiction prize for How to End a Story, her 800-page diary collection.

She warned loved ones if they were in it but, “…other people I didn’t consult…I thought they had it coming.” LOVE.​ Details like, “…careful about wiping his lips while eating.” pepper the entries. I find such minutiae endlessly fascinating. Maybe because our idiosyncrasies, when wrenched into print, make us less opaque? 

Or more human. And that’s enough – just like the most mundane scenes from your life – when you are present for them.

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

Not to be confused with a playa…

…although if that’s also you then, do you, and others. 

The quote I’m paraphrasing is by that rock star bard, Shakespeare.

“All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.” As You Like It. 

Will’s works were also the birthplace for countless terms we use every day. From blushing to dwindle, obscene to elbow and even moonbeam, zany and yelping, Shakespeare coined some legendary terms but I doubt he could’ve predicted the arguable misuse of his stage n’ player line (which refers to the ageing process).

And how does this medieval scribe relate to modern day madness? Well. 

As a mother of phone-toting teens, I oscillate between measured rage or quiet encouragement to get the f**k off your phone. I advise. Cajole. Occasionally wag a finger at the thumb-numbing pointless nature of it all. And sure, sometimes it feels like I’m pushing poo up Everest with a toothpick.

So, when I spot some stats on the stupidity of mindless scrolling, I rush to spit the facts for my offspring. And they love neither the spitting nor the facts, bro. 

Still, persistence is my superpower.

I showed my youngest a video from a recent festivity called, Delete Day where Gen Z types were deleting their social apps with glee. But my teen was unmoved, choosing to ‘yeah, whatever’ the demonstration.

Why?! 

“…because they’ll download the apps again in a week.”

“So, it’s just performative?”  

My son nodded, slipped on his headphones and left me to fume over the blurred line between authenticity and putting on a show about everything from ghosting the Gram, to leaking your new love all over my feed. 

Is it all for the social preen?

Lights! Camera! Look how plastic-conscious, trans-respectful, tree-hugging, feminist-forward, vegan-loving, politically-wise, paper-straw-striving, pro-left-right-mid, eco-aware I am!

It feels like some of us live on an invisible red carpet. Posing. Expectant. On.

But what if we stepped off the stage and made living – and winning – in the wings, away from algorithms, the real flex?  

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

I was heading to work in the rain…

…feeling deflated by life’s routine.

Arriving at my stop, thoughts buzzing around my head taking up too much promise, I took a few steps and then…

A star crossed my path.

Well, it was really a bright red, star-shaped balloon that had tumbled to earth because of… the rain? The wind?

Once upon a time it was buoyant. But the clouds set in and it fell from grace. Hit the ground. And now commuters rushed by, ignoring the stellar miracle in their midst. I could’ve followed suit. But when the world’s chaos threatens to squeeze every ounce of joy out of life, the dreamers, the balloon catchers, must dream, must catch, harder.

And so, I did.

While umbrella-toting folks pushed past me on their way to nowhere, I scooped up the balloon and took it to work with me. I imagined Stellar would spend the day on my desk, drying off. But when I wiped the raindrops and grit from her shiny face, she started to float up. Free. No longer weighed down by the rain or grime.

Stellar spent the day high (and dry) and tethered to a green ribbon stuck to my desk. She travelled home with me on another crowded tram. And for the last couple of days she’s bobbed about in my bedroom – a quiet, bright reminder that on a gloomy Wednesday in October, life’s random magic showed up for me in the shape of a shiny star.   

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

Did your toes curl in ecstasy…

…at the inaugural pucker up or – like me – was the spittle shared a gross anti-climax?

This week my youngest boy hit the Big 1-6. It’s the age that resuscitates the saccharine expression – Sweet 16 and Never Been Kissed. Talk about adding insult to awkward. 

Traditionally – and yes, I looked it up – the phrase is a mash-up of childhood innocence and the coming of age. But for me it felt like an open invitation for a mocking.

So, have you been kissed? Have you? HAVE YOU?

I kept all flapping lips at bay until the tender age of 20. Who, me a late bloomer? I invented the movement.

We were on a family summer holiday at some cheesy resort on the Gold Coast. Our balcony overlooked a skinny strip of pool and every morning I’d watch a rather hirsute young man with a phenomenal physique do laps – up and down, up and down. Perfect, strong, smooth strokes. His freestyle was effortless, mesmerising and an unexpected turn on for the restless ingenue in me.

Turns out he was also on vacation with his family. Also, Greek, also 20. And somehow, I decided that giving this hairy Adonis my number was a prudent idea.

One week later I squirmed in the front seat of his car while he went on an archaeological dig of my mouth with an abundance of tongue and crooked teeth.

Yes. Dude kissed like he swam – fishy. But.

Plenty more in the sea… 

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

Once upon a time…

…late-night talk shows were the domain of live music and shiny guests hawking a movie, song or something else that needed bright lights and anecdotes to promote.

People played nicely together on cool TV sets with chic sofas. The host was always charming and self-effacing enough that you welcomed their scripted banter into your living room way past your bedtime. And it was certainly mine.

To the wide-eyed, sleep-deprived ten-year-old me, these shows felt like a sequinned hug. My favourite host was Don Lane. Tall. American. Classy. And the undisputed doyen of after dark chat shows in Australia for ten glittering years between 1975 and 1983.

Fast forward to 2025 and the late-night format is unrecognisable. We still have the desk, the stars and soft furnishings – but the opening monologue? We’re not talking throwaway lines that prep us for the guests and their well-oiled stories. Now the race is on to see how many times you can mention the latest Presidential gaff in five minutes.

Somewhere along the line, talk shows have morphed into political mosh pits fuelled by overworked gag writers who pen punchlines to throw at suits in power. Again and again.

It seems that, no matter how much glitz sits in those comfy chairs, or how many stories are told to the Pavlovian studio audiences, this beleaguered format is now just a mouthpiece that gobbles up ugly headlines and spits them out as entertainment.

And that’s showbiz? No. It’s a philosophy. My Phylosophy.  

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

Sure, men...

…specifically big hair bands of the 80s and gun-lovin’ rapsters, have dined out on misogyny for decades. So, it’s time for the pop chicks to get their butt cheeks video-ready and slip into some misandry for the Top Ten, too.

What’s good for the gander, is mandatory for the goose. And nothing screams girl power louder than crotches in close-up and soul-stirring lyrics like,

Never heard of self-care
Half your brain just ain’t there
Manchild
I like my boys playing hard to get
I like my men all incompetent

This is a verse from a new pop ditty, Manchild. The goose, nay, the master lyricist, is Sabrina Carpenter – wooden by name and arguably, nature.

“Hey men!!” the busty blonde tittered on IG, “Manchild music video is out now! No animals were harmed in the making, but some men were.”

What wit! 

Puerile, hypersexualised pop crap masquerading as a feminist ‘anthem’ is one thing. Parading it as music is another. But the fact it’s condoned and celebrated as a healthy message to send to men en masse, is bile churning. 

So, it’s ok to tell men they’re all sh*t humans?

Quite how this minimisation of males is befitting of a woman’s biological power (we can make humans for f**ks sake!) is a mystery to me.  

Manchild, a feminist roar? Or (puppeteered) empowerment dressed up in denim scraps and cowboy boots?

Incidentally, the B-side to Carpenter’s track is the snappy, “Inside of Your Head When You’ve Just Won an Argument with a Man.”

Shakespeare’s bones are rattling at the sheer profundity of it all.  

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

No, not the Charlie variety.

Though we’re kinda in the same neighbourhood.

This week saw the disintegration of a ‘perfect union’ written in the (Hollywood) stars. We love these fantasies, right? The higher the sheen the better. Bring on those (performative) red carpet PDAs, free of ugly, please.

Like the rest of humanity in love with love, I was somewhat miffed by the demise of our very own Aussie power couple. Just when you think an ideal is the real deal – that ol’ pedestal crumbles, as is its wont. 

A few Phylosophies ago I described my first brush with ‘influencers’ or dinfluencers as I like to call ‘em, since you can’t hear the truth above the din of their curated lives. In person, these ubiquitous specimens of 21st century perfection were wracked with insecurity off-camera. And beamed with toxic positivity, on. 

We can blame their artifice on the lust for fame, relevance and a bottomless vat of designer everything, but the so-called pillars of our community – the hollow corporate heads, academic leaders, the red-tape-bound bosses of public servants everywhere. What’s their excuse?

This afternoon a gifted film student who’s directing and producing a few short films for me, arrived on my doorstep clad in Star Wars pyjama bottoms and thongs (or flip flops for my Stateside pals). No airs. No graces. No trousers. No problem.

His unique ‘shine’, free of flash or a need for power. Dude just left the house in his PJs.

We should all be so real.  

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

The blank page. Is it a wild and...

…untamed thing of beauty, promise or terror?

A scrap of paper or blinking screen bereft of ideas and stories – emotional, funny, fantastical, opinionated, witty, whatever – is akin to standing still in life, staring straight ahead thinking WTF now?

The possibilities are endless, overwhelming – or a heady mix of both.

Last week I teased the ol’ TikTok algorithm by uploading my ‘unleash’ on the most exasperating and damaging people on the planet right now – dumb parents (aka the folks who should’ve saved their ovaries and sperm for science).

My 2-ish minute video shot in one take in a park with a playground has clocked up 6,953 views so far. But it’s less about numbers and more about the comments which are overwhelmingly on the side of intentional parenting against all the odds mired in social media madness, toxic peer influence and undercooked teen brains.

If I’m to slavishly follow (kinda) viral TikTok etiquette, I’ve gotta keep feeding the beast of outrage. Thing is, I don’t want to, unless I have something of substance to share of course.

And now the blank page looms. Or does it?

To be honest, I have lots to say on lots of stuff that doesn’t necessarily pander to polite society or popular narratives. And as my zero-care-factor grows in intensity (thank you menopausal hormonal rollercoaster), so does my courage.

But the question begs. Does the blank page turn me on? You better believe it. 

Watch this space – clearly.  

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

Probably not your birthday…

…but if it is, hello Virgo! Many happy returns of the season to you.

This week I celebrated a year of growing older and (probably) wiser. And my socials were all a-quiver with excitable wishes from friends, colleagues and strangers.

At last count my digital self has been lavished with 140 messages, gifs and emojis, and I ‘hearted’ each one – because digital etiquette.

But as I read through ‘em I started noticing a pattern.

Mixed in with the so-generic-they-can’t-be-duped messages like,

Have a great birthday and Happy birthday Phyllis etc. were some outliers…

Smile! It’s your birthday. Enjoy your big day! It’s your birthday, make a wish. 

After the third ‘It’s your birthday, make a wish.’ I caught on. Damn you Meta for spoon-feeding the scroll-weary! But, I get it. We’re in a worldwide epidemic of the busies.

The morning after my birthday, and as if Facebook was atoning for luring my online pals into carbon copy madness… I’d arranged to meet a chick from FB marketplace to buy a dress for the grand sum of $5. She arrived in an apologetic rush but within minutes she’d rejected my cash, given me the dress and a quick bonus hug as mindless commuters zipped by, oblivious.

We all want a little attention on our birthdays – that’s why God invented ‘em.

So, if you were one of the many who zapped an auto-generated message my way this week, thank you, truly. It’s the thought that counts, I think?  

© Phyllis Foundis 2025