Cool Tunes, School Days, Awfl Performances & Book Covers

Does anyone remember Starbuck?  I'm not talking about a singular for the coffee shop chain, or the character from that lamentable 'Star Wars' rip-off 'Battlestar Galactica'.  I'm talking about a band from the 1970s (as I often do, admittedly).  They had this tune in the late 70s called 'Moonlight Feels Right'.  It's a really laid back, cruisy, and somewhat cool number.  To me the music evokes images of a deserted beach in twilight (not the vampire-centric franchise with ultra-icky Rob Pattinson): a pleasant atmospheric temperature, and I imagine sipping a glass of crisp wine.  And this song has a super-funky vibraphone solo, a feature of which there is just not enough in today's music.  I listen to it and cannot imagine ever being worried about anything.  I might listen to in in a minute, to allay any worries I might have.  I know I posted previously my nerves about my husband's interview about his eligibility for DSP, but I'm trying to be calm.  We still don't have an answer.  I have a theory about government departments: the clerks have to go through at least three departments before they can even go for a crap.


On Wednesday morning, I watched my boy walk through the gates for his first day of high school.  His dad and I drove him there, in the hope some of his friends would be walking in, too.  They weren't there when we arrived, and my son stepped from the car and said, 'Boy, I'm nervous!'  I assured him he'd be fine, but was denied a hug before he crossed the road.  It's started already, this business of Not Being Cool To Hug Mum In Public.  And I was okay.  I fully expected to be howling like a dog shut in the laundry as I watched him walk through the school gate, but I kept it together.  His father, however, had to remove his sunglasses and dab at his eyes with a handkerchief.  And if I haven't boasted enough already, he's in the Opportunity Class for the academically gifted students.  It's so weird, you know: twelve and a half years ago I was handed a slippery little bundle with a rather concerned expression on his face, and two days ago I watched what had once been that tiny little thing walk through the gates to high school, starting a new phase in his life (and oh dear, if I kept it together on Wednesday, I'm now starting to unravel a little on the inside as I think about it!).


So, who else saw footage of Madonna and Miley Cyrus performing together?  Who else thought, 'Ah, puke!' when they looked?  Truly, what is the deal with Madonna's face?  Was it an overload of Botox?  Was it the troweled on white geisha war-paint?  The effect was truly shuddersome ('Hello, House of Wax?  Are you missing a really creepy exhibit?').  Madonna attempted some kind of stripper move down Miley's scrawny body, like a mummified she-thing trying to dry-hump a she-inbred.  Miley was wearing some powder=blue rhinestone-studded cowboy outfit straight out of the Village People's Clothes-For-The-Good-Samaritans-Bag.  I was expecting something pretty tacky, but it didn't look as bad as I thought it might.  I still recall Madonna's big on-stage pash with Britney Spears, so it was with much apprehension I looked at my television screen today.  And Madge, we all know your antics are designed solely to shock because you're trying to stay relevant, and detract from a singing voice that is almost textbook in its mediocrity.


Okay, now that school has resumed, so must my work on my novel-in-progress.  This will all happen on my day off next week after I go back to my job (I've been on hols).  I have been speaking with the graphic artist designing the cover of the soon to be released 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth'.  I had this idea of a silhouette of Marc Bolan.  He pointed out that this could just as easily be mistaken for Shirley Bassey.  I cracked up laughing and said I would defer to his expertise.  Yes, I don't want people to mistake Bolan for Bassey (as much as I like Shirley Bassey, too).  When I thought it over, I realised this silhouette idea of mine could also remind people of my older brother.  He's five years my senior and had some serious Marc Bolan hair happening when he was in high school!

The Worrisome List

Today's little list comprises of three things that are currently scaring me.  I shall set them out hereunder for your perusal, shall I?  Here goes:


1.  I was reading an Internet thread and someone in the movie biz mentioned he is interested in doing a movie remake of the old 60s classic 'F-Troop'.  I am not a member of this site so couldn't log in to beg, plead, wheedle and cajole that he NOT do this.  Can't people see that the zeitgeist of those old television shows cannot be recaptured and the resulting movie, usually, just totally sucks?  The only enjoyable one I've ever seen is 'The Brady Bunch Movie' because 'they' just totally spoofed it and juxtaposed this 70s family against a grunge-loving 90s society.  And it was seriously fucking funny (especially that actress playing Jan Brady).  And 'F-Troop', to this day, is one of the funniest shows I've ever seen.  It was a strange mix of prat-fall schtick and satire.  Remember Chief Wild Eagle saying he could go to war because although he had partaken in the peace pipe ceremony, he didn't inhale?  Clearly this impressed a future US president, who used this defence when grilled about drug taking days in college.  Personally, I couldn't care less if a country's leader smoked so much weed he or she stank like a burning oregano crop in his or her younger days, provided they were doing a competent job running their respective country.  Lots of students pull a few cones.  And Larry Storch as Agarn is one of the most impeccably timed comedic actors to grace a sitcom.  Teaching the 'Indians' (yes, I know they're Native Americans, really) the war dance was So. Bloody. Funny.  I'm surprised it doesn't get listed in the annuls of Great Dance Scenes, like the ones in 'Saturday Night Fever'.  I remember Storch was saying he could see Tom Hanks playing Agarn in a remake.  I cannot.  I do not wish to.  Jack Black would be quite good, but again, it's not the point.  Don't ruin a childhood memory of a great show.  I wasn't big on many of those 60s shows.  'Get Smart' - blech!  I never bought that an annoying, beady-eyed git with a buzzy voice would be lusted after by such an attractive and intelligent woman (this is a staple of many sitcoms - a dunderhead of a bloke with an intelligent spouse).  'Bewitched' annoyed the shit out of me.  Both of these have been turned into films, neither of which I've bothered viewing, I will admit.  But I must beg anybody who has aspirations of turning 'F-Troop' into a film to PLEASE reconsider.


2.  My husband has an interview on Wednesday to discuss his eligibility for the Disability Support Pension.  His specialist has signed a certificate to support this.  Unfortunately, we have this total cock running the show who is in the process of making DSP payments very, very difficult for those who deserve them.  He will probably say that just because my husband is relatively young (48) he should not only be working, but travel to work by performing a series of cartwheels.  My husband, at the moment, cannot work.  We hope that an operation will change this, but in the meantime, he cannot actually work.  The crap this government goes on with not only scares me, it infuriates me to the point of taking hostages and making demands.  They talk shit about asylum seekers.  They talk about abolishing the school bonus (I don't know if they actually have).  They then talk about introducing $200.00 payments to every couple planning to get married for pre-nuptial counselling.  And these imbeciles have the unmitigated gall to complain about Labor's wastage?  This is a complete and profligate waste of money, and furthermore, a slap in the face to the same-sex couples who pay their taxes yet are being denied the opportunity to marry.  Truly, what is it in Canberra: Parliament House or a Crack House?


3.  I fear I might be unable to get the song 'Royals' by Lorde out of my head.  It's been stuck in my head.  I actually like her singing voice and respect her talent.  Oh, and kudos on the Grammy today.  But every time I go for a drive, this damn song comes on, and I'm not that fussed on it.  The constant loop in which it appears to be set has got me stressed to the point where I might have to dig out one of my mother's old crochet hooks and stick it up my nostril to remove my brain (a la the Ancient Egyptians in the embalming process), where I will slop the cerebral matter in a heap on a plate.  It will sit there inoffensively as steam rises.  But hopefully it will take with it that song. That song.  That song.  Oh, please make it stop.

My Take On 'Strippergate'

Hello, is this Lost and Found?  I'd like to report some shit lost.  Oh no, not mine!  I'm still in possession of some comparative common sense, or so I'd like to believe.  No, it's everyone else who appears to have lost their collective shit.  Let me tell you what happened: a few days ago a female co-host of a breakfast program likened her new shoes to 'stripper heels'.  As a joke, the male co-host got out a 'stripper pole' (which was not actually a 'stripper pole' but a piece of equipment used by floor crew).  The female appears to have wrapped her leg around it.  There is footage of this tomfoolery, but it didn't actually air on the television show and was uploaded onto the website.  Nonetheless, one of the regular contributors of a popular female-centric blog latched onto it like a vicious stray dog with a scrap of discarded KFC between its teeth, and wrote an article titled something like 'It Is Not Okay To Humiliate Your Co-Host'.  Apparently it was very important to note the ages of the co-hosts: the woman is 36 and the man is 57.  It must really be relevant, hey?  I did read this article, and to be honest, I thought it was the most spurious, fatuous lot of dung I have read since 'Fifty Shades Of Grey' (don't get me started!).  If the author of the article is reading this, I really do believe that article was crud, and you must have had to trot off to the first aid box to get the tweezers so somebody could pull the splinters out from under your nails after you had scraped the bottom of the barrel.  For the record, I too believe there is no place for bullying sexism in the workplace, and have indeed been subjected to same, to wit, when an idiotic fellow clerk showed me a centrefold in a girl magazine he was reading and said, 'Why can't you look like this, Simone?'  I looked the prat up and down and replied, 'Why can't you be taller, with a better body, and a less stupid haircut?'  But back to the point.  This article went ON and ON about how humiliated the female co-host would have been.  Oh hell, I'll just call her Sam from here on in.  The article implied the male host (yeah, it's Kochie), looked at her legs, which must just make him the biggest lech in the history of the world since the Big Bang occurred.  The article implied poor, put-upon Sam can't take care of herself, and can't stick up for herself.  The article was toned in the same militant, Fembot Death-To-All-Men-And-Sneer-At-Women-Who-Don't-Agree-With-Us manner as most of the stuff on that blog has been of late.  Yeah, I do read the blog.  And yeah, am getting increasingly dissatisfied with the continuous search for Something To Be Outraged At Where There Is Nothing To Be Outraged At, At All, Really. 


Oh, don't get me wrong.  I thought the idea of a 'pole' was infantile, too.  What I do not see the need to do is think for someone else because she is female, and grind someone else to powder because he is male.  And the comments that appeared in the ensuing thread just got me wondering had Australia just gone 'Bonfire Of The Vanities' (brilliant satirical novel by Tom Wolfe, but avoid the movie like a rabid Doberman).  The 2013 word of the year, 'misogyny' appeared numerous times.  I actually posted a comment saying I thought we were over the misuse of that word, and that the little girl who was shot by the Taliban was probably in complete agreement with that site's concept of a misogynist (this is my idea of sarcasm). 


And then, the hosts responded.  Sam pointed out she is more offended at people presuming to think for her than she is an idiotic pole.  Kochie pointed out he did not appreciate being the subject of their character assassination, and that he does not need Sam for titillation as inferred (and found the inference particularly offensive because he is shortly to celebrate his 35th wedding anniversary).  I enjoyed their responses.  More than I enjoy the show 'Sunrise', normally, which is my choice of morning television viewing. 


But the blog-site wasn't happy  Nobody appeared to believe that just because Sam was emphatic in her lack of offence at the prank, she was right.  Oh no.  She HAD to be offended because, well, everyone else was.  People said Kochie had no right to speak.  Now, I think Kochie can be a buffoon at times, too, but if he has been taken to task surely he has a right to answer his critics.  And I posted a comment to this effect.


The whole lamentably overblown affair has become known as 'Strippergate'.  Why must the word 'gate' be suffixed to every scandal?  To me, the 'gate' was something I was always told to shut lest the horse get out.


And now, like the cherry on top of the whipped cream, on top of the chocolate sauce atop the banana split: the author of the original article and the site's creator have received death threats.  WTF is the go with this?  I daresay it's because some people are just dicks with no sense of purpose in life but to hid behind their computers, tapping on the keyboard with jizz-encrusted fingernails (if they are male), issuing threats they would never have the balls to issue in a face-to-face scenario.  People who are issuing threats like this, when the new edition of the dictionary is issued, next to 'chickenshit' will be a picture of you, okay?


If the author of that original dumb-arse article is reading this, I'm almost 48, okay?  Clearly people's ages are very important which it comes to griping about them.  There are no doubt things about me that make it apparent to some twisted logic that I don't support the sisterhood.  I do support the sisterhood.  What I don't support is a load of bullshit.  I'm not too bad a person, but I do listen to Gary Glitter music sometimes, which I'm sure would make some people angry.


In summation, Lost and Found, do you see what I mean when I say everyone's lots their shit?  Perhaps even I've lost mine in the process of writing this post.

Fishy Behaviour & Pornstar Parodist

'Oh, I do like to be beside the seaside/Oh, I do like to be beside the seeeeeaaaaaa!' is the tune I was singing as I strolled along the esplanade breathing in salt air, and smelling the kelp, and listening to the strangulated call of the seagulls.  We had a most enjoyable time, except when my husband caught a fish that was hijacked by a passing pelican.  That pelican had its routine down to a fine art.  It paddled nonchalantly, and the moment an excited angler called, 'Got one!', it was zeroing in like a torpedoed death charge, and gobbling the bream, leaving the said angler in a state of abject chagrin.  We sat on the bank, and listened to the sounds of the families fishing in little groups around us.  Grandfathers were showing the grandbabies how to bait a hook.  Dads were showing their sons the best technique to flick the rod and cast that line.  My 12yo tried, and hooked me (I was sitting a few feet away reading a book - I don't fish myself, but just like sitting with my family while they do).  On the wharf, about five metres away, was a family also fishing.  That pelican made off with a fish caught by the son of the family, a fine-looking lad of about fourteen.  Then the lad did something I would never have dreamt of doing at that age: he threw a temper-tantrum of the kind normally confined to the species known as Super Model (sub genus Naomi Campbell).  'Fucking pelican!  Took my fucking fish!  Fucking pelican!  I'll kill that fucking pelican!'  Words to that effect, anyway.  The words that rang most strident were 'fucking' and 'pelican'.  His thong-clad feet stamped and stomped on the wharf.  His parents just chuckled and tried to soothe their little monster.  Call me old fashioned, but I would NEVER have behaved like that in public over an animal just doing what it does naturally, at that age.  I don't think I'd do it now.  If I had thrown a wobbly like that, my mother would have kicked my arse in.  I took my 12yo aside and told him that if he caught a fish that ended up being the pelican's booty, and if he behaved like that boy was behaving in a fit of pique, I would pick him up and bodily throw him into the water.


So it was with sadness this morning that I ate my bowl of Cocopops in our rented cabin, knowing we were finishing up our little respite.  Yes, Cocopops.  I never buy the things - obviously their nutritional value is non-existent - but this is how you know you're on holiday: eating a sugary, chocolatey mess of a morning.  My husband and 12yo were off fishing, so it was just Master 9 and me.  We looked at breakfast television and saw there has been yet another parody of that idiotic 'Wrecking Ball' song by Miley Cyrus (of the stingray-like tongue).  My son watches a myriad of parodies of this on You Tube.  What he saw this morning will have turned him off for life, like Alex in 'A Clockwork Orange' undergoing visual aversion therapy.  The parodist was none other than porn actor Ron Jeremy.  If anybody has ever seen Ron Jeremy, then you will know what I am getting at.  Ron in skimpy smalls, and eventually topless on a wrecking ball, is just one of the most frightful things I have ever seen, and you can imagine how my 9yo reacted.  What he did was shriek and clap his hand over his eyes.  'Eeeuuuw, gross!' he cried.  I have never worked through any of Ron Jeremy's oeuvre.  Porn doesn't worry me, but for the love of God, WHY would anybody want to watch Ron Jeremy fucking?  The guy is the missing link!  I suspect the reason he went into porn was the only way he could score a root, such is his lack of appeal.  I'm still shuddering at the thought of what we saw this morning.  I think my son is okay; he hasn't said anything since, but maybe he has blotted it out and will soon display symptoms of PTSD.  My poor baby.  As a parent, you try to protect your kids as much as you can, but things that have been seen cannot be unseen.

Nuts, Forgotten Songs, and Don't Test Fate

Today I have noticed:


1.  The world is going nuts.  Well, when I see a poster on Facebook likening Derryn Hinch to Nelson Mandela, it makes me want to just go, 'Whoa, steady on!  Go to the kitchen and pour yourself a good long draught of perspective!'


2.  I'm worn out and my holiday has only just started.  But at the moment, I am feeling what is wonderfully like the predicted cool change in the weather and just Bring It On, I say.


3.  I've rediscovered a great old Aussie classic that was by Ghostwriters, whom I think were a hybrid of Midnight Oil and Hoodoo Gurus.  The Oils' drummer Rob Hirst featured, and when one listens to this number, one can definitely hear some of the Oils' influence.  That number, my friends, is 'Someone's Singing New York, New York'.  You Tube it and listen for yourselves.


4.  I will be away from the 'pute for a couple of days.  The neighbours will be watching our home as we travel en famille to Long Jetty for a couple of days.  We haven't taken the kids on holiday for so long.  Every time we've gone away over the past few years, we've stayed with family or friends. The last time we stayed anywhere, just us, was at the beginning of 2009 when we called into a motel on our way home from a cousin's 40th birthday party at Hornsby.  Yes, we had a night in a motel, and my little one kept jumping from bed to bed, and screaming outside the bathroom whilst I showered.  Thankfully, as he approaches his 10th birthday, he has outgrown that aggravating phase.  On the way back, we had a lovely day at the Reptile Park, where we not only looked at reptiles, we fed kangaroos and patted koalas.  My husband also faced his greatest fear and touched a snake.  A few weeks after, my husband suffered a small heart attack.  Could this have been a delayed reaction, I wonder?  Never fear, his ticker is in good condition now, especially since this infarction was a great impetus for him to stop smoking.  As a precaution, I will not face my fear and touch a frog.  I could be worrying about nothing, but why test fate?


Back in a few days.

Self-Aggrandising

It was with much eye rolling that I saw on television the Human Headline is going to spend fifty days in gaol rather than pay the fine that he has been issued for completely flouting and defying court orders.  People are fist pumping and saying, 'Onya, Derryn!'  I'm just wondering why he thinks he is above the law.  Before you all start thinking, 'But these court orders of suppression just protect sexual offenders!'.  They don't, not exactly.  What they are designed to do is protect the identity of the victim because the victim often knows the abuser!  Besides, Hinch's self-aggrandising and chest-beating in the manner of a silverback gorilla can quite likely have another effect: to prejudice a fair hearing so badly that the trial is aborted.  No matter how heinous the offence with which a person has been charged is, that person is entitled to fair and correct judicial procedure.  And Hinch just arrogantly shits all over it, like an excited pigeon hovering over a statue.


Anyway, I'm sure Hinch's profile is on the rise.  Enjoy your time as a guest of Her Majesty.  Watch out nobody decides to shiv you in your newly transplanted liver.

Thursday Drivers

This is directed to the brain-dead imbecile in the white Hiace van. 


Today, I was driving down the main drag of town, and veered into the left lane to turn left into Brook Street.  The lane has a white arrow, and from this I know I must turn left into Brook Street. I have the common sense to know I cannot turn left while the green man is showing and there are people crossing, because I do not want to skittle these people; after all, they have done nothing to me.  So why did the dickhead in the lane right of me (whose traffic must go straight ahead and not turn left, right, or whoopsy-daisy) decide to turn left into Brook Street (cutting across the front of my vehicle) and almost knocking over the pedestrians who were then crossing Brook Street (pursuant to the directions indicated by the Green Man)? 


I blinked in disbelief, and muttered, 'Nice one, Dickhead!, and turned when it was SAFE for me to do so.  I found myself following the road-rule-challenged moron.  Here's a hint: when driving, pick a lane and stay in it.  Do not, I repeat: DO NOT attempt to drive along straddling two lanes.  This is not on.  Also, you indicate at a roundabout.  When you did that right turn at the roundabout at the intersection of Brook and Sowerby Streets, you should have flicked the sticky-out thing at the right hand of your steering wheel column in a downward direction (I admit I haven't driven a Hiace, so I'm presuming the blinker is on the right side of the column like most other vehicles I've driven).  It doesn't take a lot of energy to flick a blinker, and it is exceedingly important.  Possibly you were using your blinker hand to text.  Possibly you were scratching your genitals.  Possibly you were picking your nose.  Whatever.  What you were not doing is the right thing, and I had a look at the company name on the van and you know what?  I think I just might ring our employer right now.


Have an exceptionally shit day, you imbecilic cockhead. 

Couples, Covers, Class, & Crap

I so must get working on my 'work in progress' again, but I've put it on the back burner over school holidays, and I also have to finalise a subject on caring for people with disability.  It's my day off, and I'm just chillin', as you do, and listening to my 9yo and the 4yo from next door chatting and playing.  Instead of working on my subject, I've been goofing around on Facebook, as do many when they wish to waste time.  I am always surprised (although lamentably, I shouldn't be) when I look at community FB pages and see a post asking if anybody knows the telephone number of the post office in the next town.  It is difficult and almost insurmountable to suppress the urge to respond on the thread with, 'Why didn't you just Google it, dumbarse?'  Anyway, a group of which I am a member is having a theme today wherein we are posting songs featuring couples who have split up.  Some are pretty good (Eurhythmics, Ike and Tina Turner), some just make me want to wail, 'Why, God?  WHYYYYYY?' (Peter Andre and Katie Price aka Jordan).  Some of the posts have resonated with me, and I will set out hereunder why.


1.  Suzi Quatro's '48 Crash'.  I posted this, and it's relevant to the theme because Suzi's first husband was the lead guitarist of the band.  Most people would post 'Devil Gate Drive', but that song died in flames for me when I saw Suzi perform it in character as Leather Tuscadero in 'Happy Days, with Joanie Cunningham as a back up singer.  Besides, '48 Crash' is one of, if not THE, favourites of mine when it comes to the Goddess that is Suzi Quatro.  So I watched the clip, and Suzi's belting it out, with an industrial fan blowing her hair back.  I do believe she held a garage sale some years later, and that fan was purchased by Roger Voudouris and used as a hair-blowing-back device in the clip for 'Get Used To It'.


2.  Rod Stewart's 'Tonight's The Night'.  Someone posted this on the basis the clip features his then girlfriend Britt Ekland, and she murmurs something in sensual tones at the end.  I'm not sure what she's speaking, and I suspect it is in her native Swedish.  She might be muttering, 'You bloody clod; get off my hair!'  I watched this clip as a nine-year-old, and felt pretty sicked out.  As did my older sister, then aged about sixteen, who shrieked, 'God, he's ugly!'.  There's something scarring about seeing Rod Stewart pashing and feeling up somebody, when you're a mere thing of nine.  Shit, it doesn't do a lot for the chakras and bio-rhythms when you're staring down the barrel at forty-eight, either, come to think of it.


3.  Andy Gibb and Victoria Principal 'All I Have To Do Is Dream'.  Yes, Pamela Ewing from 'Dallas' once dated Andy Gibb and they recorded a cover of the old Everly Brothers song.  I am adopting a vulture-type crouch of embarrassment that I actually know this.


4.  And speaking of Everly Brothers covers, I HAD to post Bryan Ferry's remake of 'The Price Of Love', which features his then-squeeze, Jerry Hall.  I love this cover.  It's how covers SHOULD be done.  Classy.  Not done to a pseudo-reggae beat that has none of the original's poignancy and pathos (are you reading this, UB40?).  Not all hopped up and chirpy (like whoever shat on 'Song Sung Blue').  Not just tragic (like those execrable covers done by the Chantoozies in the 80s).  And when you can get Chris Spedding on guitar, which he did play a lot of in Roxy Music, then more power to you!


I am feeling good after this post.  I feel I am getting my mojo back.  I suppose I'd best go and feed my kid and get him to the swimming pool.

Flowers In The Attic/Bats In The Belfry

Many women of a certain age - ahem!, like MINE - probably read VC Andrews' 'Flowers in the Attic' in the Eighties, and woeful dialogue aside (she probably studied dialogue under the same tutelage as EL James for 'Fifty Shades Of Shit'), shivered at the (mis)adventures of four children imprisoned in the attic of their grandparents' mansion as their widowed mother tries to weasel her way back into her father's good books and inherit a motza when the old shit dies.  You might recall it was made into a movie in 1987, and starred Louise Fletcher as The Grandmother.  Yes, 'The' Grandmother.  This was a clever ploy of Andrews', to have the child characters think of their maternal grandparents with an article in front of the filial relationship, thus rendering them objects and nulling any emotional connection.  And I loved Louise Fletcher in 'Cuckoo's Nest'.  Let's face it, how could you not love that passively aggressive and manipulative Nurse Ratched?  But back to the 1987 movie.  It was, without doubt and with careful consideration to judgement: SHIT!!!  Memo to all aspiring film makers: when making a screen version of a well-known and much-liked book - stick to the fucking salient points, okay?  One of the ickier aspects of the book is that the older girl had sex with her brother - let's not gild the lily here - he actually RAPED her in the book.  There is not a hint of this in the film.  Incest is an overriding theme in all the Andrews material I have read (seriously, did she grow up listening to banjo music?).  The film also suffered with Cutesy Kid Syndrome, ie, the depiction of Cory.  Blonde curls and a cute speech impediment (Stewardess, barf bag, please!).  BUT, the book is returning to the screen, I THINK I the form of a miniseries or TV movie.  And if they stick to the disturbing book, it might just be a worthwhile viewing experience, although the incest will be disquieting, it will at least be true to the book.  The treacherous mother Corrine will be played by Heather Graham, whom I tend to associate as Rollergirl in 'Boogie Nights'.  But I will keep an eye out to see when it is released.  Those Andrews books have become something of an embarrassment and/or guilty pleasure now.  And I must say, the narrator Cathy started to get on my nerves a bit, particularly in the second book when she berates her flatmate Yolanda for her loose morals.  It must be pointed out that Cathy and her siblings, upon their flight from their attic prison, were taken in by a bachelor doctor aged about 40.  Cathy, then aged 15, set about seducing him.  I guess she was a product of her environment, but if a 15yo girl goes trying to get it awn with a 40yo, then it's just icky.  Even worse, the doctor gives in!  He is in the position of the children's guardian, and he starts fucking his 15 year old ward!  Dude, what are you; Woody Allen?


So that's one thing I have learned these past few days.  The other is that 31st January is Dress Like A Biker Day.  This is to protest against Crapbell Newman's draconian bullshit.  Seriously, I've read he wants tradies retained for work to undergo police checks to see if they have ANY possible bikie association.  Businesses will suffer if social groups feel they can no longer go riding and call in for a coffee or beer at their fave watering holes.  In NSW there are groups like the Ulysses Club, whose motto is 'Grow Old Disgracefully' (they're seniors) who like to visit Qld for some sunshine; they're going to get harassed, no doubt.  There is a club not far from me comprising of returned Vietnam vets - how about some respect instead of harassment?  Wanting to investigate possible biker connections, no matter how tenuous; having bikers awaiting bail dress in pink in a cell looking at a brick wall; wanting an even heftier sentence imposed on somebody who turns out to have a biker connection (even if the crime for which the offender is to be sentenced has no relationship with a bikie background) is surely unconstitutional in law, and definitely plain psycho-batshit!  When Qld finally wises up and votes this clown out, is he going to send his C.V. to Guantanamo Bay?  Looking at this discrimination and misery-making, one cannot help but draw a parallel with a certain Austrian-born former arts student, who possessed only one testicle and a seriously bad moustache, who when in a position of power discriminated against and criminalised the non-gentile sector of the community.

VLAD = Bad

Jesus Christ hooning up and down the main street of my town in an FJ Holden with chrome mags and fluffy dice swinging from the rear view mirror, and Metallica blaring from the speakers; does anybody actually believe the stupid bloody VLAD laws that the Queensland government, under the rule of Crapbell Newman, are bandying about?  VLAD refers not to the ancient Romanian nobleman Vlad the Impaler who became the inspiration for Bram Stoker's iconic character Dracula, but rather is an acronym for Vicious Lawless Association Disestablishment, which as far as I can tell hearkens back to the old laws against consorting.  Apparently this seeks to stop/outlaw bikies assembling in groups more than three.  It is going to be dung in gazetted form, truly.  It's been brought to Newman's attention that these laws will impact upon orgies and swingers' clubs, or group sex in club houses.  I know I don't have to point out that provided the activities are being carried out by consenting adults, they are all perfectly LEGAL.  In typing that last sentence, I am aware that I HAVE just pointed it out!  So it's got me wondering can people no longer even fuck without the Queensland government sticking its bloody big nose in?  The imagined raids on the parties are mind-boggling ("Spit it out and put your hands on your head; you're under arrest!" - pfffft!).  The asinine laws are surely not within the realms of the constitution?  Hell, they're not even within the realms of SANITY!  It's a joke, only it's getting more unfunny by the day, and scarily precarious.  Who remembers the old Skyhooks hit from around 1979, 'Over the Border'?  Shirl had left the band, and the vocalist was Tony Williams, I believe.  The song was the band's way of sticking two fingers up at Sir Joh Bjelke-Peterson.  Now, Skyhooks members, I know you have your own different projects these days, but it just might be time for a re-release of that little number.  Do it before Newman starts cracking down on dissident song writers.  He's probably got his crosshairs trained on writers and bloggers, for all I know.  Ah, Queensland: perfect one day; Draconian gulag the next. 


On the plus side, got two people interested in my upcoming novel 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth' whilst interacting on social media last night.  This will not pay for the sanding and oiling of the floorboards in my lounge room, so I'm dropping a monstrous hint here!  Heh-heh.

Fie On The Libs!

My husband has just informed me that if I climb on any more platforms I am going to suffer altitude sickness. I think I'll be okay because I don't think I'm particularly susceptible to this.  I base my diagnosis on the fact that years ago I trekked though the Himalayas in Nepal, and coped just fine.  I will admit to about of the giggles when my group reached Thangboche, our 'base camp' from where we were afforded a magnificent view of Mt Everest.  I think the rarified air finally got me then.  I recall giggling like a school girl over a picture of One Direction (as a middle aged women I just roll my eyes at them).  I recall sitting on the ground and laughing - possibly also with relief at having arrived there - and then my friend decided to upturn a large rock, only to uncover the spot where someone had defecated previously.  But back to my platform.  Sit back, blog-browser, as I treat you to my manifesto on why the Liberal Party sucks so much.  What it boils down to, really, is their shit policies and the party members who are quite possibly the most miserable and lousy monsters to hold a constituency. 


1.  I will start with Scott Morrison.  Yesterday I read about the female asylum seekers (NOT illegals!) being doled out sanitary products a couple at a time, and they are therefore required to continually ask guards for pads or tampons, like a Dickensian orphan in the workhouse.  In fairness, this wretched procedure was also in place under the previous Labor government.  How shall I put this?  This. Sucks. Camels'. Balls.  This is utterly unfair, and possibly belittling and humiliating for the women.  I know women should not be ashamed of menstruation, but these women are possibly from cultures that render them shy about seeking sanitary products.  It would be nice to approach Morrison and snarl, 'Give 'us a pad before I bleed on your feet!'.  The organisation Destroy the Joint has started a protest which requests us to send our pads and tampons (UNUSED, PLEASE!) direct to Scott Morrison.  Truly, I cannot recall having been so angry in a long time when I read about this policy.  Something to consider: women living in close quarters tend to synchronise menstrual cycles, so are likely to all have PMS at the same time.  Maybe some of these ministers should be shoved into a room with all these women approximately two days before their due date.  Anyway, I'm going up to Woollies soon to get something for dinner, so I might just add a great big box of pads (known as 'surfboards' at my old school) to the shopping list.


2.  Corey Bernardi.  Dude, please.  Just stop.  Do you REALLY believe some women use abortion as an 'abhorrent method of birth control'?  I might just read your book 'The Conservative Revolution' because I need a good laugh occasionally.  The title sounds like an oxymoron.  Stop crapping on and criticising families that aren't in the traditional structure.  There's no one size fits all, and kids raised in single parent households are not necessarily likely to commit crimes, okay? 


3.  Julie Bishop, who has apparently indicated she may pursue the legal costs funded by the taxpayer for Greenpeace activist Colin Russell.  Why shouldn't an Aussie have consular assistance when in trouble?  Is this a pattern from the predecessor Johnny Howard who when the Libs last ran the place was more than happy to let an Australian citizen sit in a gaol cell for several years without consular access? 


4.  Colin Barnett - premier of WA.  Guys, WHY do you want to cull the sharks in the water?  Why are you not listening to environmentalists about the folly of this action?  If a person is going to swim in the ocean, they are going into shark's territory.  Why do I have to write this down?  I thought everybody KNEW that!  If I am sitting at home one night, and happen to be the victim of a home invasion by a shark who has somehow make its way into my lounge room, I might be able to understand the point of a cull.  If a shark gets past all the clutter my children leave on the floor, more power to it, I guess. 


As Shakespeare might it: fie on them, and a pox on their houses!  Still, for a satirist, they're the gift that keeps on giving.

Oh, Happy Days, and Bye Bye Phil

I sit at my 'pute, a film of moisture caressing my body not with the gentle touch of a lover, but the creepy clinginess of an obsessive nerd with cloying aftershave and buck teeth, and greasy hair, and a useless deodorant.  This nerd is probably a bit overweight, too.  The imagery which comes to my mind is not good, and it's all due to this oppressive heat.  The cicadas give their call, as my children nag to be taken to the pool.  I know we are being assailed by Summer at her most spiteful.

My children will not be taken to the pool today as I have worked this morning, and have been asked to do an afternoon run as well.  Between 'runs' I will prepare a pot of minestrone for their dinner, and then lie down for a while.  I have been showering and medicating people, helping them dress (and copped a fart right in the face from someone as I was pulling up their trousers from behind.  This was so not fun.  I should be relieved this person didn't 'follow through').

One of the musical greats, Phil Everly, left us yesterday.  Like many of my gen, I was introduced to the Everly Bros via 'Happy Days', when 'Bye-Bye Love' would be heard from the juke box as the local teens meandered into 'Arnolds'.  I used to enjoy the show, but of course it lost momentum and slowed right down to pretty much a standstill when the actors playing Richie and Ralph left.  The Joanie and Chachi were seen even less, and Marion's niece and nephew had to move in to the Cunningham residence to replenish the family dynamic.  News just in: this didn't work.  A few weeks ago, I sat in stunned horror watching what turned out to be the final ever episode of 'Happy Day's when Joanie and Chachi married.  Richie and Lori-Beth came to the wedding, and Richie had grown what would have to have been the gayest looking moustache EVER!  I watched the screen, thinking, 'Dude, get a leather biker's hat and some leather caps, and you're in business.'  The episode truly sucked all kinds of arse, especially at the end when Howard Cunningham turned to the screen, and thanked all the viewers for their loyalty over the years.  Yeah, you'd have to be a truly loyal viewer to have stayed after the show had been shark fodder for years.  Amusingly, it was this show that introduced the phrase 'jump the shark' into the vernacular of TV viewers throughout the Western world.  I would love to have seen The Malachi Brothers gate crash the wedding.  But you know what?  There was NO mention of the elusive Chuck Cunningham, the oldest son.  In that final ep, Howard talked about his two terrific children.  I have a theory: Howard and Marion Cunningham did away with their eldest sprog and buried him under the house.  Who's with me on this?

But back to the point: RIP, Phil.  Him and his brother Don were just the most sublime harmonists, weren't they?