Of Zen & Dildos The Size Of Coffee Thermoses

Never to early to start the Christmas shopping.  I know what I'll send the Abbott government: a nice packaged set of oils from Arabia to rub into their hands.  Readers who have studied 'MacBeth' (or 'The Scottish Play' for any superstitious actors out there) will get my reference.  What a constant load of drivel and rhetoric it's been.  'We will stop the boats'.  'We will buy the boats'.  'We will hide the boats'.  I think the most thankless job of all at the moment must be Government Spin Doctor to explain the Government's stance on this utter, utter tragedy wherein 21 people are confirmed drowned - 13 (I think) of which are CHILDREN!  Of course, we're not being told about boat arrivals in some kind of Zen practice ('If an asylum seeker boat arrives and nobody is told about it, did it really arrive?').  I like to call this 'Zen And The Art Of Spurious Bullshit'. You cannot stop the boats and we are a party to the UN Refugee Convention.  You didn't buy the boats, which would have been a waste of time because these desperate people are going to find another vessel, undoubtedly as shitfully un-seaworthy as the ones you said you would buy.  Keeping boat arrivals under wraps is just downright bloody stupid, and I thought we were a democracy.

Next point to ponder: a Christian lobby group calling themselves Family Voice Australia put out a call to boycott Woollies because they stocked, amongst the condoms and lube, a vibrating sex toy some kind of clitoral stimulator, I understand.  Whatever it was, I will not get the chance to stock in in my basket because Woollies removed the item last Friday from their shelves.  The item was packaged discreetly in a pink box.  I don't know what it looks like because I cannot see through cardboard.  Presumably neither can any other shopper pushing the cack-wheeled trolleys up and down the aisles.  But a pink cardboard box is hardly offensive, is it?  It's not like there was a big black dildo, the same size and shape as your average coffee thermos, embossed with silver studs and spikes on display, is it?  It wasn't a moulded latex representation of the backside and vulva of whoever is the current reigning queen of the grunt-and-groan epics, was it?  (Let it be known I am not offended by dildos and/or latex bums - it's just that they should be displayed in the correct context where kids can't see them, and the kids would have been unable to see the packaged clitoral stimulator).  Now, let me just play Devil's Advocate - sorry, I know Old Nick has enough advocates, but I thought I'd step up to the plate for this blog posting - and point out many Woollies stores also have liquor outlets.  Surely alcohol is a potentially bigger problem to families then a clit-stimulator?  Did anybody ever stumble into traffic after flicking the bean?  Was anybody ever king-hit after someone had a session with a sex toy, rather than a session with a carton of beer?  Did anybody ever get into a car and crash it, thus killing someone, after a round of fun and games with sex-toys?  Can a sex-toy be held responsible for domestic violence (this is exclusive of someone using said toy as a weapon - a big studded dildo could cause GBH when used so)?  Whaddya reckon, guys?

And to the two different drivers who yesterday afternoon turned into the New England Highway (first near Mulbring and the second near the servo not far from the F1), please be reminded our vehicle had right of way, and if you want to come hooning into our line of drive when we are travelling at 90kph, causing my husband to hit the brakes and curse like a sailor with a freshly-stubbed toe, can you do future generations a favour and NOT BREED?  Thank you.  This would be most appreciated.  We saw at least six dead kangaroos on our drive, and I was worried about whether there would be 'roos about on the way home - it's so dry the poor things are coming closer to the roads in search of food.  But never mind the 'roos, the biggest threat to drivers yesterday was these clowns behind the wheel.  After my husband (a pleasant natured man who rarely swears) growled through clenched teeth, 'Jeez-us, you fucken idiot!  Learn to drive!' for the SECOND time in less than half an hour, I pondered aloud was it Fuckwits Day Out.

Stop The Populist BS!

There's an insidious invasion of populist BS taking over Australia, and it's being perpetuated by numpties in the press.  Numpty is a word I learned today, and I'm rather liking it.  I hope I'm using it in the correct context.  I was having a browse of a Murdoch newspaper, and there's an article about 'Evil Aid', which is supposed to be some brain-bustingly clever pun on Legal Aid.  If anyone reading this has been following my rants for the past few years on my previous blog, you might have gleaned my background is actually law.  I have dealt with the Legal Aid Commission many a time, mostly positive, and sometimes wanting to go out and club baby seals after dealing with bureaucracy and red tape.  I guess the clerks have to scrimp and scrounge when dealing with tax payers' money.  Hell, I've even dated a Legal Aid solicitor (we're still mates).  Now, what's got my gears grinding is the controversy the press is trying to stir up over the funding given to the convicted killer of Jill Meagher for an appeal.  The appeal was dismissed, btw.  Victim's families have been approached for quotes, and with all due respect and my heart out in their direction, they are hardly going to give an unbiased opinion, are they?  And possibly not an informed one.  Here's the thing: if someone is entitled to pursue an avenue to an appellate court, then they are entitled to do so.  Somebody with legal nous no doubt looked at the grounds for this bloke's appeal, and made a considered and qualified opinion that there was possibly merit, and therefore the appeal was funded.  Everybody is entitled to the best legal representation possible, and I am more than happy for my tax dollars to go to that funding. To the blowhards trying to whip up controversy, I say: Fucken deal with it.

As if keeping the news about asylum seeking boat arrivals from us isn't enough of a cat-kicker, the PM said that in relation to the possible strained relations between Australia and Indonesia the issue of boats will be a 'passing irritant'.  Oh yeah, Mr Abbott.  Boatloads of people fleeing persecution and putting themselves in danger to get to a safe haven, and breaking NO FRIGGING LAWS IN SEEKING ASYLUM, are just such pesky little things, aren't they?

I have to start practising reading some of my manuscript for the upcoming creative arts fair, but don't think I'll bother tonight.

On a lighter note, ladies of a certain age might be interested to know that today is Shaun Cassidy's birthday.  Seriously, how bloody hot was that guy?

Let's NOT Dance!

I think it's a bit of a misconception to say the majority rules, or the majority opinion is most likely to be the correct one.  After all, the Ancient Chinese (and there were stacks of 'em) once believed that an eclipse of the sun was not in fact planetary bodies casting shadows or getting in the way of other planetary bodies as they made their respective orbits, but a dragon eating the sun.  Despite this being the popular belief of the time, I think we can safely discount it now.  And it's like that with other things.  Every now and then much of the populace will like something, or give it much attention and laud, when they just shouldn't.  Today I got thinking about something that has always annoyed the living snot out me.  Let me state at the outset that I am a huge Bowie fan and respect him greatly as an artist.  He has always been innovative, no matter what incarnation or style he presents.  I personally don't take great stock with people continually reinventing themselves (case in point: Madonna.  All her incarnations are just downright annoying), but Bowie was always listenable whether doing camp (like 'John, I'm Only Dancing', or 'Jean Genie'), or something more proggy like 'Life on Mars'.  I actually liked 'Ashes to Ashes', even thought I thought it a tad dirge-like and sounded a little like a dripping tap in places. 

And one day, when I was seventeen and an avowed Bowie fan, the unthinkable happened.  Bowie released a song that made me want to weep, such was my devastation.  To me, he had completely sold out.  Instead of starting a trend, he was following one.  To me, it seemed he was trying to be like a lot of the popular British music at that time, which leaned towards New Romantic (and sounded like three different kinds of shit in its wankiness).  That song?  'Let's Dance'.  I hated it.  It evoked rancorous emotions that made me just want to go out and kick newborn mammals (and I am an animal lover).  What the fuck was Bowie doing, I wondered.  I was a Year 12 student, worrying about the upcoming HSC year, wondering would I have a date to my end of year dance (I didn't - but that doesn't matter).  I had other worries like the virulent parasitic pimples that would appear on my chin near my menstrual cycle.  I had family worries worthy of a different post, which I will probably save for such different post.  Memories of that let-down seventeen year old girl sadden me, as does the realisation that the seventeen-year-old was twice as thin as the now forty-seven year old currently is .  The New Zealand exchange student (whose musical taste I considered to be questionable) said one day to me, 'I normally don't like David Bowie, but I LOVE that new song of his!'  (Note, this was a kid who constantly played the 'Thriller' album at parties, and the only part of that album that really did it for me was Eddie Van Halen's guitar solo on 'Beat It').  My best male friend, who used to sit next to me on the school bus, said, 'Come on, Simone.  He's got to move with the times.'  'No, he doesn't!' I vehemently insisted.  I furthered my argument by pointing out moving with the times should not happen if the times suck, and mean selling out your own originality.  Everything about that song just aggravated the living snot out of me.  From the banal tune to the incongruous film clip that took place against Australian landscapes, and seemed designed to paint Aussies as racist, with the Aboriginal girl scrubbing a footpath with her hair tied up in a kerchief, Mammy from 'Gone With The Wind' style. 

Sigh.  'Thriller' and Bowie selling out.  Two things that bugged me.  I remember going to some party and 'Thriller' being bunged on, and listening to 'Billie Jean' and wondering could I maybe sneak a little Blackberry Nip and coke.

Fellatio on a Hammer

I fear getting my books sold is about as easy as scoring a seat at the table for the Last Supper.  I will be drumming up some publicity for my upcoming 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth' at my local town's Arts & Culture Fair in a few weeks.  I've been invited to read from the manuscript.  This will apparently be of great interest to the local literati to see a local author read from some paper, whilst the actual novel is in the process of having its cover art designed before it actually goes to print.  I told the fair's organiser the first chapter has some swear words, and that in the interests of prudence I will skate over them (there will be children at the fair).  I will not bleep them out at the official launch.  I later remembered part of the first chapter takes part in a massage parlour, where my protagonist is indulging in a good old rub'n'tug.  So I guess the second chapter might be a better idea. 

Anyhoo, I will soon be organising a launch for 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth'.  The title is a reference to the song 'Metal Guru' by T-Rex.  It's not a direct quote because I can't afford to pay the estate of Marc Bolan royalties.  I wish I could afford it, but alas, cannot.  The more I see what people are doing for publicity to get their work noticed, the more my will to live evaporates.  I used to joke that I would enter the launches of my other books a la Madonna, the biggest publicity whore out there.  I would come in on a crucifix with a crown of thorns tangled up in my cascade of auburn locks, and then 'pretend' not to understand why everybody is pissed off at me.  I can also show everyone my bum like Madge did in a concert ('Look at me everyone!  Aren't I controversial?' - pfffft!).  Everyone in the library will be beside themselves with delight when I pull down my jeans and show off my backside.  It's a fair bet the launch will be held at my local library, but I'm not sure I'll be invited back after that.  Now Madge has to contend with a new kid on the block, aka Miley Cyrus.  Yes, I will enter the launch naked, sitting on a wrecking ball.  Now, I could be wrong on this, but surely sitting naked on a wrecking ball is a contravention of OH&S regulations?  I will then fellate a mallet in front of every one, like she did in that ludicrous film clip.  I'm damned if I know what the song's about; everyone's talking about the bloody antics in the clip.  I have a theory about this: the antics are to disguise the lugubrious fact that the song's probably total shit.  And then, after completely grossing everyone out with my hail damage as I swing by on the wrecking ball, naked as the day I entered this crazy world (and possibly wiping out a few people as the ball makes its trajectory through the crowd), I just might don a flesh coloured bikini and after reading the first chapter (the brilliance of which will be lost on the crowd because they'll all be sitting there looking like they've posed for 'The Scream'), will boldly twerk the local denizen I will be inviting to 'officially launch' the book.  Honestly, that bloody film clip - pathetic or what?  Who the fuck fellates mallets?

Well, I'm having my shower and then settling in to watch 'Q&A'.  I wonder will there be any reference to Abbott's latest trick of not telling the media about boat arrivals?  Did anyone else see the immigration minister's discombobulated mish-mash of a speech, flanked by someone from the armed forces in an attempt to make it all serious?  All I could think was, 'If you can't dazzle them with brilliance, baffle them with bullshit.'

The Show Goes On

Note to self: when making plans, screw up the bit of paper and throw it away (or put it in the recycling bin - do the right thing, you slovenly slattern).  My plans last night were to watch the new quiz show on 7 (I'm thinking I just might try out for it), and suck on a beer.  I got far enough to get the lid off my low-carb blonde beer.  I might even have had a mouthful, but my 9yo started to grizzle, and that grizzle spiralled into a wail.  His ear was hurting.  His ear never hurts, so concerned, I took him to the hospital.  His obs were taken, he was given pain relief and a blanket, and we waited for the on-call doctor.  I sat there with my beautiful boy curled up in my lap; he eventually dozed off.  There was one other patient there, with a support person.  She was of a NESB, and I heard the hard-working and dedicated nurses talking to her.  They established that she has no children, and that they would take care of her.  I heard her say, 'He will be cranky.'  The nurse said, 'You are here because of him.  We will get you to [SHE NOMINATED ANOTHER HOSPITAL IN ANOTHER TOWN] where there is a bed, and when you are safe, he will be contacted.  Don't be afraid.  We will look after you.'  I sat there with smoke billowing from my ears, wondering whether to offer to ring my husband and arrange for him, or another guy to go and give this guy a visit to ascertain whether the cowardly fuck would raise his fist to a bloke.

By the by the on-call doctor arrived.  My beautiful boy awoke, went to the examination room and vomited on the floor.  Wonderful.  Anyway, he's been given ear drops and antibiotics.  I got him home and once in the door he sprayed our floorboards with a torrent of acrid puke.  I rushed for the paper towels, and my husband held not our son, but our new pup, lest our fur-baby make a beeline for the vomit and chow down.  I really don't think I could have stood that last night.  Or any night for that matter. 

We were supposed to attend the annual show in my home town (45 minutes away) today, and I was worried he wouldn't be up to the trip.  Au contraire, he was as bright as a box of budgies today.  So we travelled en famille and watched my father (their Pop) officially open the Show.  My father is quite well known in rodeo circles - he's actually very famous in those circles.  Some things never change.  Some do.  I remember so well the iron (?) pipes the ring was constructed from, and climbing on them for the best seat in the house.  It's changed.  The ring is now constructed from rails of what appears to be a galvanised steel.  At least I think it's galvanised steel, however I'm a writer, not a metallurgist.  But the fences and gates at the buckjumping corral haven't changed from my childhood.  They are still splintery boards with peeling white paint.  I attended many a rodeo in my childhood as my father was often competing or judging, and I think there is some mandate that the pens where the buckjumpers and bullocks line up must be timber, splintered, and have white paint battered and weathered by the elements, and be as shabby as a bag lady.  And I love it.

'Big Dog', the mascot from my local television channel, appeared.  He walked around the ground, and I heard the emcee calling for Big Dog to get into the ring for tug-o-war with the children.  Big Dog had by this time disappeared.  The emcee kept calling for him, and I was wondering whether Big Dog was sitting on the toilet with his costume pooled around his ankles.  Possibly the actor inside the suit was wondering what three years' study at NIDA had been for, if this was the gigs he was doing.  Who knows.  Didn't see Big Dog for the rest of my time there.  Didn't see many familiar faces, but the emcee has been involved with the shebang for years.  I remember sitting in church aged about 15, and seeing him walking back from Holy Communion, as my friend nudged me and whispered, 'Look at the spunk!'

Well, the children are worn out from the excitement, and the little one from having been ill.  So he is now being fed anti-seizure medication, antibiotics, and ear drops.  He's going to glow in the dark.

On Show

In my last post, I mentioned in 'M*A*S*H' there is close competition for the most nauseating episode premise between Hawkeye's 'Dear Dad' letters and B J Hunnicutt's 'Dear Peg' letters.  Yesterday when I was getting ready to go out to trivia I noticed a close contender - it's Radar O'Reilly's 'Dear Mum' (or should that be 'Dear Mom' because he's American) letters.  Those letters home really make me want to puke til my head spins around.  Maybe it's because I'm such a fan of the 1970 movie - and I have a rather odd confession to make here: I have a crush on Donald Sutherland in his role as Hawkeye Pierce in this movie.  I don't know why, I just do.  I also loved Robert Duvall as the bible-thumping portrayal of Frank Burns in the movie, and Larry Linville's snivelling weasel in the television show annoys me.   I know he's meant to be annoying, but I really preferred the movie's interpretation of the character.  I tend to leave the room during the exchanges between Pierce and Burns because I invariably yell at the television, 'Shit, Burns!  Jump all over Pierce's arse; you outrank him, fer Chrissakes!'  This annoys Mr Bingells immensely, and I am aware that I am yelling at something rather nebulous.

Took my 12yo and 9yo to their school for a sex education talk on Monday evening.  It was very age-appropriate and informative.  Not sure I am looking forward to having a moody teenager next year (he's already getting moody).  I'm missing my little boy who used to say in public, 'Mummy, I love you.'  We didn't have a real sex ed talk when I was in Year 6.  I remember a nun taking all the Years 5 and 6 girls into the library and lecturing us on the importance of wearing deodorant and changing our underwear daily.  Sister Mad-Bitch called them 'bloomers'.  There were some 'Where Did I Come From?' style books in the library, and a very good one with diagrams.  There were artist's depictions of the average female body at 9-12 years, 12-14 years, and 14-adulthood.  My friend pointed to the first figure and said I should look like that.  I had news for her; I was an early developer!  But anyway, there will be no ignorance about the onset of puberty for my boys, and they will understand the machinations of the female body, too.  They were shown sanitary products and how they work at this lecture (the lecturer did not include a moon cup, which is the product favoured by your blogger, so I spoke to her afterwards - she hadn't heard of it, so I told her to look it up because for environmental sustainability, it's a fantastic product).  Taking away the mystery and mystique will also take away some of the horrid practical jokes.  Maybe.  I remember a rather backward boy walking up to the teacher on playground duty and asking, 'Sir, what's this?'  He was swinging a tampon by the string.  The teacher went bright magenta.  I also have memories of girls unwrapping a tampon and throwing it into a group of boys nearby, and watching them all leap and squeal like scalded cats.  When I was in Year 10, I kept my spares in my pencil case, and I still laugh a little when I remember one of the boys in my class saying, 'Hey, Simone, can I borrow a pen?' and before I could reply, he unzipped my pencil case on the assumption that such loan would be forthcoming, and he went a rather unbecoming shade of pink.  The nearby girls who knew where I kept my stash all laughed like lobotomised trolls.  Anyway, I wonder do the high schoolers still carry on stupid with tampons, and is this something my son has to look forward to over the next few years?

On Saturday will be travelling en famille to my home town to attend the show.  My father is the official opener of the show, and as such will be giving a speech.  I am proud of course, but don't want to go to the show.  It's going to be stinking hot, and there will be an overpowering stench of horse shit and greasy Dagwood Dogs, and my kids will be whining like a Boeing's engines as they plead to go on this ride or that ride.  There was actually an article about my father in the local rag yesterday, and I showed it to my son.  He read about how his Pop had won ten shillings in his first ever event.  'Shillings?' he cried, 'Pop's been competing for a long time!  How long ago did we have shillings?'  I smiled like the Mona Lisa, and told him decimal currency was introduced to Australia two days after his mother was born!

Oh well, I should shortly receive the cover art for my next novel, and upon my approval, it will go to print, and then hopefully 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth' will be atop the best seller lists!  But for now, it's back to my work in progress, which funnily enough given the abovementioned paragraph, almost starts with people at the town show, when the kids run off into the surrounding scrub and spring the son of the shire president doing a shit in the bush. 

bingellsblog: The Wonder Of It All

bingellsblog: The Wonder Of It All: There are things I wonder about.  Set out hereunder are just some: 1.  The appeal of the song 'Horses' by Patti Smith.  It's w...

The Wonder Of It All

There are things I wonder about.  Set out hereunder are just some:

1.  The appeal of the song 'Horses' by Patti Smith.  It's widely regarded as a classic and revered with the awe usually reserved for initial viewings of the Taj Mahal at sunrise, or the Himalayan mountains at sunrise (I have viewed the latter and yes, breathtaking), yet when I've listened I am left dumb-struck.  Is this a classic, or just a nine minute frenetic, apoplectic rant about well, horseshit?

2.  What's the worse theme in the later episodes of 'M*A*S*H': Hawkeye Pierce's 'Dear Dad' letters, or B J Hunnicutt's 'Dear Peg' letters.  Both are saccharine and nausea-inducing, with the power to drop a diabetic into a coma, if not kill outright.

3.  Are there worse actors in the world than The Ramones?  Don't get me wrong, I like a lot of punk, but wow, did anyone ever see 'Rock and Roll High School'?  Let's be honest.  This movie's not a classic; it sucks donkeys' balls.  The song's just repetitious shite, too, whether being performed by the band, or by the character in the movie who wrote it - being a rambunctious, spirited girl played by one of the kids in 'Carrie' who picked on the poor bitch until she ended up going postal (but she went postal via telekinesis, and that's kinda cool).

4.  If anyone's reading my posts now.  I know you're out there; I can hear you breathing, heh-heh!. 

5.  Does anyone else get the sighs when there is blathering about the lack of women in Tony Abbott's cabinet (he's probably got them all at home doing the ironing).  I don't happen to think there should be a pre-ordained number of women to sit in cabinet.  Should the ministry not be appointed on merit, rather than gender?  If Big-Ears reckons Contender A happens to be more qualified to hold a particular portfolio than Contender B, shouldn't Contender A get the job regardless of whether Contender A is male or female?

Well, I'm not working today, so it's time to get started on my work in progress, which will be my fourth novel.  My third, "Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth" is due out shortly.  Click the links in my profile to check out my other two, and thanks for dropping by.

bingellsblog: Labor Leaders & The Accidental Stripper

bingellsblog: Labor Leaders & The Accidental Stripper: So far it's Anthony Albanese and Bill Shorten contesting the Labor leadership.  That I know of.  Whatever.  Guys, whoever gets it, judgi...

bingellsblog: On Yer Bike!

bingellsblog: On Yer Bike!: Aside from the colouring, and both being hams, I have something else in common with Nicole Kidman.  Let me state at the outset I do not find...

On Yer Bike!

Aside from the colouring, and both being hams, I have something else in common with Nicole Kidman.  Let me state at the outset I do not find Nic fascinating in the least.  Never have, and chances are I never will.  But today I saw on breakfast television that she was sent to the pavement by a clumsy cyclist, a paparazzo cyclist, to be precise.  My 12yo rolled his eyes ceiling-ward and cried, 'God, who cares?'  I'm in agreement with him; I don't give a hoot that Nic was knocked over - she wasn't hurt although she was reportedly furious.  (If she was hurt, I would care).  The fury is understandable, and do you know why I feel entitled to be empathetic?  Let me explain.  Many years ago, approximately thirty, when I was a high-schooler, my mother parked our old green Ford Falcon on a 45 degree angle as per regulations in the main street, and sent me across the road to get something from the chemist.  I forget what it was  - I know it wasn't condoms because our chemist didn't stock them.  This was a lazy Sunday or Saturday morning, and there weren't many in the street at all.  I collected whatever it was Mum wanted me to collect, and was making my lackadaisical, not-a-care-in-the-world way back to the car, when I saw in peripheral vision a kid from my school riding a pushbike in my direction.  This kid was about two years my junior, and in the interests of privacy I will not use his name.  Let's just call him Dumbarse, which is fitting.  Being summer, and the early 1980s, Dumbarse was pedalling along sans shirt and sans helmet.  There was a parcel in his bicycle basket, all wrapped in white butcher's paper (this memory leads me to think it must have been a Saturday, because back then few shops were open on a Sunday, and most definitely NOT the butcher shop).  I took a few steps toward the family car; Dumbarse swerved his bicycle in that direction, thinking he was funny (this just in, Dumbarse: you weren't).  I stepped backwards; Dumbarse tacked his bicycle in that direction (I don't know if 'tack' is an appropriate term to use outside yachting, but bear with me).  I knew he was stirring and stuff, and was not in the mood for him, but just rolled my eyes and moved toward Mum's car again.  Dumbarse swerved his bicycle that way, and by this time he was close.  Very close.  I moved again; and if you guessed Dumbarse moved the same way, you'd be correct.  However, with this manoeuvre, Dumbarse  hit a pothole (curse the slack road crew of my local shire council!).  He lost control of the bike and hit me.  I fell, but I fell gracefully.  Dumbarse went over the handlebars like an ungraceful sack of potatoes fired from a cannon, and hit the bitumen, the force of the blow sending him onto his back where he did a slide for a metre or so. You will recall I mentioned he was shirtless.  His butcher's paper-wrapped parcel went flying, also. 

I picked myself up in a fog of fury, and dusted myself off.  My mother got out of our car and fairly flew to the prone Dumbarse, who was lying in a daze and in pain - no doubt because of the yard of skin from his back that rippled in the sunlight on the road - like a mirage of heat waves.  My mother was concerned for the welfare of this little turd, and cried, 'Are you all right?'

Dumbarse, still in a daze, croaked, 'Oooooh, shit.'

I managed to keep an almost insurmountable urge to kick the little turd into the gutter under control, and my mother helped him up and instructed me to fetch his parcel from the road.  I obeyed, but not before giving the little jerk the fish-eyes and crying, 'Why don't you watch what you're doing?'  Admittedly my hip and buttock hurt from being struck by the bicycle, but he was in an entirely different world of pain to me, and I must admit I was rather glad.

So you see, I feel qualified to state I understand Nicole's ire with this idiotic paparazzo. 

Song lyric I am loving today: I have been listening to some Friday 13th stuff, and one of my FB friends posted 'The Monster Mash'.  This has some seriously clever and well-delivered lyrics, one of which is '..to catch a jolt from my electrodes.'  Love it.  I might play it to my 9yo son later.  Those of you who have defected over from my other blog site will know that my youngest is epileptic.  He has a check=up today with the paediatric neurologist, who initially gave him an EEG, which entails wires being attached to the head, and attached with an uncomfortable thing that looks a little like a fishnet helmet.  He has had this procedure done twice, and enjoyed it neither time - there were tears the second time.  This song might give him a laugh.

Labor Leaders & The Accidental Stripper

So far it's Anthony Albanese and Bill Shorten contesting the Labor leadership.  That I know of.  Whatever.  Guys, whoever gets it, judging from your party's history of knifing serving leaders, he or she will be out of that seat before he or she has worn a comfortable butt-groove into it.  I have this idiotic song in my head because of Bill's name, and it's going, 'Mammy's little baby loves shorten, shorten...'.  It draws from what was perhaps un-politically correctly referred to as a Negro spiritual that went 'Mammy's little baby loves shortnin', shortnin' bread....'  Sang it when I was in primary school.

My young 'un is to be picked up from school camp today.  I remember my first ever school camp.  It was when I was thirteen, and a busload of us were taken to the Warrambungles (sp?) National Park.  Over and over, some kid kept playing 'My Sharona' on the old Sony tape recorder.  To this day, even though the song is sexually charged, I tend to think of a bunch of kids on a school bus whenever I hear it.  At twilight, the kangaroos hung around hoping for spare scraps of food.  The cabins were disused railway carriages, and I ended up in one with a couple of the roughest girls in our school year (one of them put stinging nettles in the sleeping bag of a girl she didn't like while we were there, and slapped another in the mush - real noice, she was, and she's still as rough as a pig's breakfast).  In the cabin opposite ours were the male teachers.  We were in darkness, whispering and gossiping as girls will do after lights out, when one of the girls in my cabin gasped, 'Hey, wow!  Look at this!'  We looked out the window, and could see in the teachers' cabin because they still had the light on.  The science teacher - who had a body like Channing Tatum - was in the process of peeling off his polo-neck shirt.  Had the simultaneous intake of breath from us assembled girls been any more powerful, the windows of the cabin would have imploded.  Oblivious to the awakenings being stirred in the loins of a bunch of thirteen-year-olds, the science teacher stood in the window, performing some basic wind-down moves that made his biceps and pectoral muscles ripple like the surface of a river after a stone has been dropped in, and my young loins were rippling in time.  From the giggles and whispered catcalls of my cabin-mates, I can safely say they all felt the same.  It was real 'Magic Mike' stuff, and like that movie, there was no sense of plot, depth, theme or sense.  One of the girls said, 'I bet old Poofy Jones* is having a good look.'  The science teacher was sharing with the commerce teacher, and the commerce teacher was widely reputed to be homosexual.  I have no idea if he was or not, and actually don't care now, anyway.  I remember squeaking, 'Get it off, Mr Smith**!' as I stared through the window, my tongue lolling and eyes bugging like Ping-Pong balls in their sockets.  Then Mr Smith** moved from the window and turned out the light in the male teachers' cabin, and there was a collective groan from ours.

This is weird, typing on a new blog today.  I feel like the new kid in school.  Anyone reading, please leave me a message.  Even if you don't agree with what I have to say, I still like to hear from you.

Okay, I shall now get on with work on my next novel.  I should be getting the cover art for the upcoming 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth' some time over the next few weeks, I would imagine.  I liaised with the publishers, Zeus Publications yesterday.  I had minor surgery last week, and I have this week off from my part-time job to recover, but owing to the stitches in my back it's been hard to sit at the computer chair.

Thanks for calling by.

* Not his real name.
** Not his real name, either.

Testing, 1, 2, 3.....

This is a link to a post I did today at my other blog, which will be closing down soon, and thenceforward I shall be regaling your all with my twisted thoughts and begging you to buy my books via this little possie here at BlogSpot.  Enjoy, new readers.  :-)

http://bingellsblog.bigblog.com.au/post.do?id=1341871