Couple of things on my mind. Like everyone, I was shocked by the death of Charlotte Dawson. But I am in two minds about joining an online petition to outlaw cyber-bullying. Oh, don't get me wrong. I detest bullying in any form: virtual, face to face, or passive-aggressive. What I'm wondering is will it actually do any good? Can you actually legislate against arseholery? I suspect such legislation might flout the principles of free-speech. Of course, free-speech is the bedfellow of RESPONSIBILITY. I'm wondering too would it be better to expend resources and energy into helping people develop strategies to cope with online abuse, eg, staying away from social media if it is a trigger for you. In principle, I find it offensive that someone should HAVE to stay away from social media when they have as much right to use the public domain as anyone else, but might it be the lesser of the two evils in the long run? Perhaps there should be campaigns to point out that if you have to hide in the shadow of a fake account firing off vicious abuse anonymously, then you're really not worth the scrapings on the toilet paper used by a syphilitic rat. I do know that when someone gives you an abusive comment, in shocks you. I have had it happen to me on a community Facebook page. I was a little upset at first because his abuse was unwarranted, but I remembered that a rapier sharp wit will always shit copious amounts on pig-ignorant vitriol, and responded accordingly. Now, let me state I am so not a fan of James Blunt's music. I think it is reminiscent of a cat on a bandsaw. However, I do think he is a rather funny guy, and he has it down pat when it comes to dealing with Twitter trolls. Somebody commented, 'James Blunt has a whiny voice and an annoying face', and he responded with, 'And no mortgage'. Without having psychologically assessed Blunt personally, I daresay he is emotionally better equipped to deal with online crap than poor Charlotte Dawson was. Should people who are fragile and insist upon having social media accounts try to learn strategies to cope when something online upsets them?
Now, I have noticed in my travails online over the past few days that Christian Democrat leader Rev Fred Nile has commented that in the obituaries for Ms Dawson these past few days, her 1999 abortion (referred to in her autobiography) is not mentioned. Ms Dawson did note it distressed her, but to use this to promote your own self-righteous agenda, Nile? I don't know whether what I am about to type can be classed as cyber-bullying, but here goes: seriously, man, Fuck You.
But on an exciting note (for me, anyway), last night I went on line and bought tickets to The Sweet's concert in Newcastle! I haven't seen them since 1993, and they were my all time favourite band when I was a kid. My first ever crush was Andy, their lead guitarist. He is in this line-up, and the only one of the 'originals'. I have put inverted commas around that word because I don't think Andy was in their original-original line-up. I saw some You Tube footage of them performing live in their current incarnation. The singer sounds good, although I don't think he has the hip-swaying of Brian Connolly down-pat, but who could replicate those movies, anyway? Andy is not the lithe, leather-jumpsuited spunk I remember. In fact, maybe that's not Andy; it's an imposter who has done something with the real one (eaten him, from the looks of it).
Monday 24 February 2014
Saturday 22 February 2014
Some People Are Real (The) Pills
Yeah, I wrote about this the other night, but it's the story that doesn't seem to want to go away. I saw on the news tonight an interview with the pharmacist who is letting the customers know he is not happy to provide The Pill for contraceptive purposes. He spoke about Pope Paul's instruction on this issue, and I sat there in total stupefaction that somebody in a position of trust with our health feels entitled to be influencing people's contraception choices based on the words of some long dead dude who, let's be honest, was a superstitious man in a white dress practising celibacy and living in comparative luxury.
Circuses have to be more creative in their entertainment these days, given it is very un-PC to capture and keep wild animals in small cages to perform tricks for the entertainment of gurning fools gobbling popcorn and Pluto pups. What they appear to have done is taken over the media, and seem to be recruiting the AFP into the show. What a tiresome debacle the AFP raid on Channel 7 offices was. I'd rather see a raid on a shipment of high quality eccy pills, but maybe that's just me being whimsical. I don't get why there had to be a raid about whether there had been a deal between Shappelle Corby and Channel 7 for a 'tell-all'. Cheque book journalism is nothing new, and has probably been going on since the town crier was slyly palming off chickens and bottles of ale to the informant who told him about Lord Upperclass-Twittington doing the scullery maid in the larder whilst Lady Upperclass-Twittington was left to serve tea to the reverend in their sitting room. What I will admit to being unsure of is whether Corby was convicted of any crime under AUSTRALIAN law, and if not, why must everyone lose their shit about her possibly benefitting from the proceeds of a crime, if it's not a crime under Australian jurisprudence. What must the minions of Channel 7 have thought when the Feds marched in? I know what I thought once when present at an AFP raid. Yes, I have been present at such a, a thing. I was working in a law office years ago, and several Feds came marching in waving warrants and ID badges like flags on Australia Day. I recognised the bloke in charge straight away, who strutted in like a peacock with an erection; I had gotten into an argument with him in a pub a few months earlier. This was a pub where the legal fraternity liked to drink, and for some reason that evening a few of the Feds decided on cleansing ales there, as well. I was having a drink with a good buddy of mine, a barrister, and made a rather disparaging remark about the quality of food a suspect would likely receive whilst in police custody. I thought nothing else of it, and when it was time to leave, slung my handbag over my shoulder. Before I could walk out the door, this Fed started to berate me over what I had said, and ordered me to leave the pub. I pointed to the licensee notice, and said that unless that was his name up there he was not entitled to order me to leave the premises. He went on and on and on, bitching and bleating and blathering that I had insulted him, I had insulted his fellow officers, that I had insulted everything he believed in. I stood there wondering what kind of developmentally stunted knob-end this guy was, and stole a glance toward my barrister friend, who was clinging to the bar for support as he laughed himself practically into a hernia. As one of my other friends later said, 'What a cry-baby!' The office where I worked was only a block or so from AFP headquarters, and if I happened to see him outside having a cigarette on my way to work, I'd shoot him a dirty look for fouling the air, and he'd shoot me a dirty look because I was, well, me. And then, as mentioned, a few months later he was strutting into the office. I don't know what the clerks at Channel 7 did, but I had to duck down behind the front desk and snort laughter through my nose, and didn't surface again until I was able to contain myself. The raid itself was pretty run of the mill; my boss exchanged a few terse words with them over some semantics, and I slipped him a note reading: 'This is the idiot with whom I had a fight at the pub'.
Circuses have to be more creative in their entertainment these days, given it is very un-PC to capture and keep wild animals in small cages to perform tricks for the entertainment of gurning fools gobbling popcorn and Pluto pups. What they appear to have done is taken over the media, and seem to be recruiting the AFP into the show. What a tiresome debacle the AFP raid on Channel 7 offices was. I'd rather see a raid on a shipment of high quality eccy pills, but maybe that's just me being whimsical. I don't get why there had to be a raid about whether there had been a deal between Shappelle Corby and Channel 7 for a 'tell-all'. Cheque book journalism is nothing new, and has probably been going on since the town crier was slyly palming off chickens and bottles of ale to the informant who told him about Lord Upperclass-Twittington doing the scullery maid in the larder whilst Lady Upperclass-Twittington was left to serve tea to the reverend in their sitting room. What I will admit to being unsure of is whether Corby was convicted of any crime under AUSTRALIAN law, and if not, why must everyone lose their shit about her possibly benefitting from the proceeds of a crime, if it's not a crime under Australian jurisprudence. What must the minions of Channel 7 have thought when the Feds marched in? I know what I thought once when present at an AFP raid. Yes, I have been present at such a, a thing. I was working in a law office years ago, and several Feds came marching in waving warrants and ID badges like flags on Australia Day. I recognised the bloke in charge straight away, who strutted in like a peacock with an erection; I had gotten into an argument with him in a pub a few months earlier. This was a pub where the legal fraternity liked to drink, and for some reason that evening a few of the Feds decided on cleansing ales there, as well. I was having a drink with a good buddy of mine, a barrister, and made a rather disparaging remark about the quality of food a suspect would likely receive whilst in police custody. I thought nothing else of it, and when it was time to leave, slung my handbag over my shoulder. Before I could walk out the door, this Fed started to berate me over what I had said, and ordered me to leave the pub. I pointed to the licensee notice, and said that unless that was his name up there he was not entitled to order me to leave the premises. He went on and on and on, bitching and bleating and blathering that I had insulted him, I had insulted his fellow officers, that I had insulted everything he believed in. I stood there wondering what kind of developmentally stunted knob-end this guy was, and stole a glance toward my barrister friend, who was clinging to the bar for support as he laughed himself practically into a hernia. As one of my other friends later said, 'What a cry-baby!' The office where I worked was only a block or so from AFP headquarters, and if I happened to see him outside having a cigarette on my way to work, I'd shoot him a dirty look for fouling the air, and he'd shoot me a dirty look because I was, well, me. And then, as mentioned, a few months later he was strutting into the office. I don't know what the clerks at Channel 7 did, but I had to duck down behind the front desk and snort laughter through my nose, and didn't surface again until I was able to contain myself. The raid itself was pretty run of the mill; my boss exchanged a few terse words with them over some semantics, and I slipped him a note reading: 'This is the idiot with whom I had a fight at the pub'.
Thursday 20 February 2014
Those 'Oh, Shit' Moments
There are times in every person's life when they say, 'Oh, shit.' Missing the green traffic light is one. Another is buying a fantasamagorical but expensive dress, and sooner thereafter seeing the same dress on sale, and you haven't a hope in hell of exchanging your purchase because it's been too long, you've misplaced the docket, and worn it and it's got white deodorant stains in the armpits, and the cleaner is open. I had a bit of an 'oh, shit' moment today. My laundry has been harbouring an old bean bag, which does nothing. We don't use it. The dog used it ages ago and it's still got hairs. In a fit of esoteric harmonising, I decided to improve the feng shui of the laundry and just turf the bloody thing in the bin (last night was bin night in my street). Today I worked, went for a swim, nagged and helped my kids with their homework, and waited for the tell tale noise that the garbo had been. Soon enough, I heard the truck. I told my kids to keep up the homework, and went outside to drag the bin back in. Now, it's been stinking hot in my home town. There can't have been a snow blizzard. For one thing, it rarely if ever snows in this part of the Hunter Valley, and I'm pretty sure I'd have noticed a drop in temperature. Yet in my gutter, on the nature strip, in front of my neighbour's house, and on the bitumen was a blanket of white. A rather threadbare blanket, to be sure, but enough to make it a blank, albeit a holey one. I blinked and this strange phenomenon, and like St Paul on the Road to Damascus, I saw the scene in my mind's eye: the prongs of the special forklift thing picking up my bin and turning it over, the lid swinging open and the hydraulic equipment shaking my bin over the truck's great tray sending assorted bags and a beanbag tumbling out like an avalanche designed by Dali, the beanbag catching on something and splitting a seam thus sending little white polystyrene balls EVERYWHERE. I looked at the white carnage, and muttered, 'Oh, shit.'
I consider myself to be a caring person in relation to both my neighbours and the environment, and was very mindful of polystyrene being washed into the gutter, so grouchily made my way back into the house and set out cleaning the mess as best I could with an outdoor broom, a long-handled dustpan, and a garbage bag. Those little balls are wretched objects, to say the least. When there is a breeze, the static electricity gets them eddying and ebbing and flowing like the images in a kaleidoscope. If you try and pick them up by hand, they cling to your fingers like tenacious boogers. I didn't do too badly a job. This is not on par with the Exxon Valdez disaster, but I do not like to contribute too greatly to any degradation and/or damage to the environment.
Unlike one of the local coal mines yesterday, which sent a humongous orange cloud of nitric oxide (or something - I think it was nitric oxide) into the air yesterday. Nice one, fuckers. I believe an apology will be issued in the local rag tomorrow. Interestingly, some people photographed the orange cloud, which looked a little like a clown's wig, and uploaded the shots to the community Facebook page. The posts were removed. Hmmmmm. Is this just a tad Silkwood, or am I just paranoid? In any event, in my travails I discovered a link from the local newspaper which should appear in hard copy tomorrow, and posted it. It has remained and not been removed.
Guilty pleasure of the day: I've been listening to 'The Black-Eyed Boys' by Paper Lace. Oh, don't pretend you don't remember it. I nice, bubblegummy one from the mid-70s. In PE sometimes, if it was raining, the teacher made the Year 8 girls do exercises do this song. I was stuck next to a girl who was my class bully, and has grown as sour and toxic as an embittered cane toad. I used to wonder what she was going to do for a face when the cat needed its arse back, but that's clearly never eventuated because the cat was probably too scared to ask for it back, lest it get its face smacked in (a common threat of hers). Well, I do like listening to a bit of Paper Lace, even if it does conjure up a memory of a surly little bitch who was hating on the world as she tried to do her stretches.
I consider myself to be a caring person in relation to both my neighbours and the environment, and was very mindful of polystyrene being washed into the gutter, so grouchily made my way back into the house and set out cleaning the mess as best I could with an outdoor broom, a long-handled dustpan, and a garbage bag. Those little balls are wretched objects, to say the least. When there is a breeze, the static electricity gets them eddying and ebbing and flowing like the images in a kaleidoscope. If you try and pick them up by hand, they cling to your fingers like tenacious boogers. I didn't do too badly a job. This is not on par with the Exxon Valdez disaster, but I do not like to contribute too greatly to any degradation and/or damage to the environment.
Unlike one of the local coal mines yesterday, which sent a humongous orange cloud of nitric oxide (or something - I think it was nitric oxide) into the air yesterday. Nice one, fuckers. I believe an apology will be issued in the local rag tomorrow. Interestingly, some people photographed the orange cloud, which looked a little like a clown's wig, and uploaded the shots to the community Facebook page. The posts were removed. Hmmmmm. Is this just a tad Silkwood, or am I just paranoid? In any event, in my travails I discovered a link from the local newspaper which should appear in hard copy tomorrow, and posted it. It has remained and not been removed.
Guilty pleasure of the day: I've been listening to 'The Black-Eyed Boys' by Paper Lace. Oh, don't pretend you don't remember it. I nice, bubblegummy one from the mid-70s. In PE sometimes, if it was raining, the teacher made the Year 8 girls do exercises do this song. I was stuck next to a girl who was my class bully, and has grown as sour and toxic as an embittered cane toad. I used to wonder what she was going to do for a face when the cat needed its arse back, but that's clearly never eventuated because the cat was probably too scared to ask for it back, lest it get its face smacked in (a common threat of hers). Well, I do like listening to a bit of Paper Lace, even if it does conjure up a memory of a surly little bitch who was hating on the world as she tried to do her stretches.
Monday 17 February 2014
Keep Rosaries Off Ovaries
Why do religious people, whilst in the execution of their professional duty, feel the need to pontificate and foist their opinions on people? I'm talking about Catholic pharmacists. Religion is a pretty abstract concept, and a pharmacist is there to help with people's health, not tell them he/she would rather the woman got her pill prescription elsewhere as he/she doesn't believe in this form of contraception due to his/her staunch Catholicism. Of course, if the woman is taking the pill to control erratic and difficult menstrual cycles, that is sanctioned. And then the pharmacist marvels at the contagion of women in town suddenly suffering painful periods.
This is something that is bugging the living snot out of me, as you can probably tell. Some of you might be aware that Soul Pattinson has spoken out against one of their franchisees who was in the practise of putting (admittedly politely worded) notes in with Pill prescriptions about his discomfiture over this form of contraception. I am not going to name and shame this pharmacist. He is entitled to his opinion. If you think I'm not respecting his right to an opinion by bagging out his views on my blog, let me point out my blog is my fiefdom, although I am still liable for a lawsuit if I name and shame. Speaking of lawsuits, I can draw a pretty crude analogy here, particularly given my legal background. A lawyer will most definitely not 'believe in' going out and killing someone, but if handed a brief to act for someone so accused, will get on with his/her job of defending the accused, or else presenting a strong case for the most lenient sentence available. And then submit a bill.
Yes, a woman given this silly note can go elsewhere for her contraceptive pill, but what if it's a one-horse, and ergo one-pharmacist, town? I grew up in such a community, and let me tell you this: the local pharmacist did not stock condoms owing to his Catholic beliefs. His son has the practice now, and I am uncertain if he has repealed this ludicrous policy. If I go in, and see no frangers on the shelves, I am tempted to approach the counter and say in a loud Cheech-n-Chong Uncle Pervy voice, 'I wanna buy condoms because I'm going to have sex. Lots and lots of SEX!'
Whilst I respect the pharmacist's right to practise his religious views in his OWN time, I find it breath-takingly arrogant to foist this on the community at large. Another thing about condoms: they are not only a form of contraception, they are a potential health and even life saver! So it can be inferred that he or she is not carrying out his duty as a health care provider in denying prophylactics to people!
If I attend a pharmacy and find myself on the receiving end of a lecture, or am asked to go elsewhere for contraceptive needs owing to the pharmacist's worship of a supernatural being, I am going to say loudly, 'Keep your fucking rosaries off my fucking ovaries!'
This is something that is bugging the living snot out of me, as you can probably tell. Some of you might be aware that Soul Pattinson has spoken out against one of their franchisees who was in the practise of putting (admittedly politely worded) notes in with Pill prescriptions about his discomfiture over this form of contraception. I am not going to name and shame this pharmacist. He is entitled to his opinion. If you think I'm not respecting his right to an opinion by bagging out his views on my blog, let me point out my blog is my fiefdom, although I am still liable for a lawsuit if I name and shame. Speaking of lawsuits, I can draw a pretty crude analogy here, particularly given my legal background. A lawyer will most definitely not 'believe in' going out and killing someone, but if handed a brief to act for someone so accused, will get on with his/her job of defending the accused, or else presenting a strong case for the most lenient sentence available. And then submit a bill.
Yes, a woman given this silly note can go elsewhere for her contraceptive pill, but what if it's a one-horse, and ergo one-pharmacist, town? I grew up in such a community, and let me tell you this: the local pharmacist did not stock condoms owing to his Catholic beliefs. His son has the practice now, and I am uncertain if he has repealed this ludicrous policy. If I go in, and see no frangers on the shelves, I am tempted to approach the counter and say in a loud Cheech-n-Chong Uncle Pervy voice, 'I wanna buy condoms because I'm going to have sex. Lots and lots of SEX!'
Whilst I respect the pharmacist's right to practise his religious views in his OWN time, I find it breath-takingly arrogant to foist this on the community at large. Another thing about condoms: they are not only a form of contraception, they are a potential health and even life saver! So it can be inferred that he or she is not carrying out his duty as a health care provider in denying prophylactics to people!
If I attend a pharmacy and find myself on the receiving end of a lecture, or am asked to go elsewhere for contraceptive needs owing to the pharmacist's worship of a supernatural being, I am going to say loudly, 'Keep your fucking rosaries off my fucking ovaries!'
Sunday 16 February 2014
Little Musings Tonight
Sitting all aquiver with anticipation as I await the second instalment of 'Never Tear Us Apart'. I'm trying to think of my favourite INXS song. I don't think I have one, although 'The One Thing' is top of the list just at the moment. Hutchence seems to be a text book example of what can be achieved by an 'average' singer with a motza of stage presence and charisma. The only number related to INXS that I'm not loving is their cover of 'Good Times', and it's not really 'theirs'; it's a collaboration of Hutchence and Jimmy Barnes, and the reason I don't particularly like it is the Barnes connection. Although fond of Cold Chisel, just about any solo number of Jimmy Barnes makes my ears vibrate unpleasantly, like a tuning fork in pain. And what's with the godawful screaming? ('Call WIRES, there's a scalded cockatoo out there! Oh, wait....'). I thought one of the most annoying concert performances I'd ever seen was at the closing ceremony of the 2000 Sydney Olympic Games when Colin Hay was singing 'Down Under', and Jimmy Barnes joined in on the chorus. Why? WHYYYYY? There was an arrogance to this that blew my mind, and a horrific noise that blew my ear drums.
But some people are just arrogant. It's like this woman who was strutting around at a party last night, shoving past people, almost knocking them over as her hips (the span of which was comparable to a bridge over a small river crossing) swayed from side to side. And I think she was eyeing off my husband at one stage. No chance there, m'dear, if you're reading this. I was almost tempted to say, 'Give me me gold, Cap'n Ahab; I've spotted your whale!' But that would be bitchy and inviting trouble, which is something I do not want. The trip home was not a joy, but only because hubby was tempted to try a different route (the party was not in our home town), and we got kind of lost, which is not fun at all when it's dark and you're tired. Less fun is seeing a fucking kangaroo hopping alongside your car and almost crapping yourself in fear and shock.
I have this to do list, and can't be arsed about any of it at the moment. I have to email some notifications to schools in the Upper Hunter Valley about the creative writing section of the Eisteddfod (I'm the convenor). I have to do two subjects on disabled care. I will have a book launch to organise (now this does have me excited, I must admit). It seems I've had no spare time these past few weeks. My days off have entailed family business, some of which was tragically the funeral of my cousin's wife, and on my next spare day I had to get my father fitted up with his hearing aids.
Anyway, time to get motivated for the TV show. Will I find it as 'sexy' as last week's ep? Time will tell. This has me thinking about my favourite movie sex scene. It's not a Hollywood swelling-violin-music-as-metaphor-for-swelling-penis-and-orgasm accompaniment type thing. It's in a not so well known (and criminally underrated) movie called 'p.s.'. It stars Laura Linney as an older woman who has a torrid (aren't they all 'torrid'?) affair with a younger student played by Topher Grace (upon whom I harbour some silly cougar crush). They start to grope each other on a couch, she asks if he has 'anything', and he awkwardly retrieves a condom from his wallet, and they have this session which is best described as a 'fumble'. But I liked it. There was a realism to it. Other people have spoken of the realism of the sex scene, which has led to an apocryphal story that they had actual sex. They did not have actual sex with each other, people. That would be PORN. Hell, the Laura Linney character doesn't even remove her dress. Not that you can't have sex with a dress on.
But some people are just arrogant. It's like this woman who was strutting around at a party last night, shoving past people, almost knocking them over as her hips (the span of which was comparable to a bridge over a small river crossing) swayed from side to side. And I think she was eyeing off my husband at one stage. No chance there, m'dear, if you're reading this. I was almost tempted to say, 'Give me me gold, Cap'n Ahab; I've spotted your whale!' But that would be bitchy and inviting trouble, which is something I do not want. The trip home was not a joy, but only because hubby was tempted to try a different route (the party was not in our home town), and we got kind of lost, which is not fun at all when it's dark and you're tired. Less fun is seeing a fucking kangaroo hopping alongside your car and almost crapping yourself in fear and shock.
I have this to do list, and can't be arsed about any of it at the moment. I have to email some notifications to schools in the Upper Hunter Valley about the creative writing section of the Eisteddfod (I'm the convenor). I have to do two subjects on disabled care. I will have a book launch to organise (now this does have me excited, I must admit). It seems I've had no spare time these past few weeks. My days off have entailed family business, some of which was tragically the funeral of my cousin's wife, and on my next spare day I had to get my father fitted up with his hearing aids.
Anyway, time to get motivated for the TV show. Will I find it as 'sexy' as last week's ep? Time will tell. This has me thinking about my favourite movie sex scene. It's not a Hollywood swelling-violin-music-as-metaphor-for-swelling-penis-and-orgasm accompaniment type thing. It's in a not so well known (and criminally underrated) movie called 'p.s.'. It stars Laura Linney as an older woman who has a torrid (aren't they all 'torrid'?) affair with a younger student played by Topher Grace (upon whom I harbour some silly cougar crush). They start to grope each other on a couch, she asks if he has 'anything', and he awkwardly retrieves a condom from his wallet, and they have this session which is best described as a 'fumble'. But I liked it. There was a realism to it. Other people have spoken of the realism of the sex scene, which has led to an apocryphal story that they had actual sex. They did not have actual sex with each other, people. That would be PORN. Hell, the Laura Linney character doesn't even remove her dress. Not that you can't have sex with a dress on.
Wednesday 12 February 2014
48 and in a nightdress
Before the computer sits a woman who has just had her 48th birthday, and she's wearing a skimpy nightdress. Before you all go, 'eeeeuuuw!', or 'Awesome, a milf talking dirty!', I will point out that I have cancelled by shift at work this morning and am shortly going to toddle back to bed (and no, my husband will not be joining me). Last night, I was stricken by monstrous cramps akin to labour pains which led to me setting up camp on the dunny seat. That scene in the movie 'Bridesmaids' came to mind. I was only rostered to do just under one and a half hours this morning, but when you're working with the elderly and infirm, it's best not to go to work if you've had a tummy bug. I will recover quite well in a few hours; an elderly person who catches this virus might dehydrate quite badly. And I resent having had to think about the film 'Bridesmaids' because unlike everyone else who was jizzing themselves over its perceived hilarity and knife-edge envelope pushing, I thought it was just totally infantile rubbish. I do hope my husband and kids are not stricken with this awful thing. What an interesting list of birthday gifts: I got a biography on Fr Bob Maguire (I would start going back to church if he was doing local services), a biography on Lou Reed, and my husband cooked the most stunning bouillabaisse ever. My taste buds had an orgasm; not a word of a lie. There are advantages to being married to a former sous-chef. But - drum roll please - the present to top them all: a debilitating bout of diarrhoea. And no, there is no connection to the soup because I did feel a bit crampy before dinner.
The woman before the computer is also admiring her left hand. Months ago, she bashed her hand against a trolley in the supermarket and the sapphire in her engagement ring came out. She put the ring in for repairs at a local jeweller, and was paying it off via instalments (the repairs cost almost as much as the ring - a sapphire in an antique claw setting) did. Today, her husband presented it, having gone in and made the final payment himself as another birthday gift. The woman is almost in tears. The woman is also rather surprised the shop let her husband collect the ring, given the repair order was placed in her name (she and her husband have differing surnames). The woman is thinking it would be funny to stroll in and say she wants to pay for and collect her ring now, please. Heh-heh. The woman is very, very happy to have the ring back. Sure, it's a ring. It's a material object. But it still feels good to have it back, and it's looking lovely against her plain gold wedding band.
Is anyone else really enjoying Pharrell Williams at the moment? I'm loving that song 'Happy' - it's so funky and upbeat, and he appears to be channelling some Curtis Mayfield. My 9yo, who like me is a music lover, is also loving it. We also play the Daft Punk collaboration 'Get Lucky' a lot. But he doesn't like it when I dance now. This is so sad. He used to love dancing to the De Franco Family with me. 'Heartbeat/It's a love beat....' we'd sing together as we bopped and I'd spin him around. But he's growing up, and seeing is mother dance is apparently nauseating. Even my air bass is bad. We were in the car, and I turned on the radio. 'Superstition' by Stevie Wonder was the song being aired (I'm old; I listen to AM). 'Awesome bass!' I cried, and started to pluck the air bass (as you do). 'Aaaaarrrghhh, stop it, Mum!' he cried, 'It's almost as bad as when you sing.'
The woman before the computer is also admiring her left hand. Months ago, she bashed her hand against a trolley in the supermarket and the sapphire in her engagement ring came out. She put the ring in for repairs at a local jeweller, and was paying it off via instalments (the repairs cost almost as much as the ring - a sapphire in an antique claw setting) did. Today, her husband presented it, having gone in and made the final payment himself as another birthday gift. The woman is almost in tears. The woman is also rather surprised the shop let her husband collect the ring, given the repair order was placed in her name (she and her husband have differing surnames). The woman is thinking it would be funny to stroll in and say she wants to pay for and collect her ring now, please. Heh-heh. The woman is very, very happy to have the ring back. Sure, it's a ring. It's a material object. But it still feels good to have it back, and it's looking lovely against her plain gold wedding band.
Is anyone else really enjoying Pharrell Williams at the moment? I'm loving that song 'Happy' - it's so funky and upbeat, and he appears to be channelling some Curtis Mayfield. My 9yo, who like me is a music lover, is also loving it. We also play the Daft Punk collaboration 'Get Lucky' a lot. But he doesn't like it when I dance now. This is so sad. He used to love dancing to the De Franco Family with me. 'Heartbeat/It's a love beat....' we'd sing together as we bopped and I'd spin him around. But he's growing up, and seeing is mother dance is apparently nauseating. Even my air bass is bad. We were in the car, and I turned on the radio. 'Superstition' by Stevie Wonder was the song being aired (I'm old; I listen to AM). 'Awesome bass!' I cried, and started to pluck the air bass (as you do). 'Aaaaarrrghhh, stop it, Mum!' he cried, 'It's almost as bad as when you sing.'
Tuesday 11 February 2014
Sex Talk With Kids and Cover Art For Books
Isn't it interesting how things can change in twenty-four hours? Just yesterday, I was mentally rocking out to INXS, having watched Part 1 of the miniseries about the band. My word, all I wanted to do was go to that brown plastic milk crate where all my old records are stored (I never got around to getting a K-tel flip-finder for just $2.99), and give 'Kick' a spin. I bought that album in 1987, when I was 21 years old. Awesome stuff. Some purists have been telling me it's not a patch on 'Shabooh Shoobah', and they probably have a point. But I loved 'Kick' as an album. And although not on 'Kick', I had the song 'The One Thing' in my head. This is not a bad thing; that song kicks all shades of arse up and down the street. And I was reminded that Michael Hutchence was quite sexy in a bad, extremely flawed way. Was. I hate using the past tense to describe good rockers. My 12yo asked was this a band that actually existed, and I explained yes, and that they were at one stage in the top three live acts in the world, and the lead singer is no longer alive. This lead to the inevitable, 'How did he die, Mum?' I had to think of an age-appropriate explanation that wouldn't leave my kid thinking, 'Eeeeeuuw, Mum's talking about sex of some kind. When can I have therapy?' I said something along the lines of, 'Well, he was found dead in a hotel room, naked. Some people think he killed himself, but the argument against this is that he was found naked, and people who take their lives usually don't do it in the nude, because that's how they're going to be found. Also, he didn't write a suicide note, which is very unusual. He had a belt around his neck, and the story goes he was doing something called auto-erotic asphyxiation. Some people like to be choked when they're pleasuring themselves. I understand he was taking codeine-based drugs, which affects your breathing.' Oh boy. The explanations I have to give are so different to the ones I had growing up. I cannot imagine my mother, who avoided 'difficult' subjects as though she was crossing a mine-field, ever telling me a story like that! I think the only time we ever remotely discussed anything sex-related was when we watched the dog give birth to a sweet little puppy (well, the dog must have had sex to have been in pup, right?). She did tell me about periods, and showed me a sanitary pad, and a sanitary belt.
So, anyway, I've been getting around with INXS music in my head, which can only be a good thing. I remember their cover of 'The Loved One' being played at a school disco, and this boy miming the chorus to me, 'Oh baby, I love you so/I need you now....' At the risk of sounding a tad vain, I do believe this guy had a crush on me at school!
But things can change. Today, my FB group are posting one hit wonders from the year 1979. There were some enjoyable ones: 'Video Killed The Radio Star', 'Gold', 'Hot Summer Nights' to name a few. And then you've got 'Escape (The Pina Colada Song)'. Who's with me in going, 'Aaaarrrgggghhh!'? To be honest, I can just about stomach it. My brother-in-law will run screaming for the hills if he hears it. And then there's this one, which I've had stuck in my head most of today: 'Don't You Write Her Off Like That' by McGuinn, Clark & Hillman. Whilst not demonstrably terrible, it's just so, so meh. I like the harmonies in the song; those guys could really sing nicely, but shit, the song is just blandness and banality with a rhythm section. It's as plain as unseasoned porridge. And it's driving me mad because it's been stuck in my head all day long, as I drove my father to an appointment to have his hearing aids fitted. He was in two minds about getting the more expensive model, but he is in very good health (just elderly - 84) and probably has a few good years left in him, so he might as well enjoy them. I reckon if he gets subjected to songs like the one I've mentioned, he'll be ripping them out! I did jokingly tell him he'll probably end up not using his new hearing aids just to avoid having to listen to the bullshit so many people go on with.
Good things have been happening with the writing, too. Yesterday, whilst doing a domestic service for somebody, his friend told me he had just read my first book 'Calumny While Reading Irvine Welsh' and really enjoyed it. That, my friends, made me feel good and kind of compensated for the fact that I had to clean a receptacle into which this guy had been coughing up phlegm (yuck, I almost blew my groceries when I had to do that - my hat is off to nurses). When I got home today, my 9yo told me the school librarian wants to have a look at my second book, 'Abernethy'. I will probably pack it in his bag on Thursday - tomorrow is the swimming carnival. I did suggest he tell her to buy the damn book for the school library. And today, oh this is so exciting; hang onto your hats and get to the toilet quickly before you read on: I saw the cover art for my upcoming book 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth' - and it's totally cool bananas. It's got 70s-style lettering, vinyl records, a discreet image of Marc Bolan, and a Doberman. All good books should have a Doberman.
And tomorrow is my birthday. 48 orbits around the sun. Oh boy.
So, anyway, I've been getting around with INXS music in my head, which can only be a good thing. I remember their cover of 'The Loved One' being played at a school disco, and this boy miming the chorus to me, 'Oh baby, I love you so/I need you now....' At the risk of sounding a tad vain, I do believe this guy had a crush on me at school!
But things can change. Today, my FB group are posting one hit wonders from the year 1979. There were some enjoyable ones: 'Video Killed The Radio Star', 'Gold', 'Hot Summer Nights' to name a few. And then you've got 'Escape (The Pina Colada Song)'. Who's with me in going, 'Aaaarrrgggghhh!'? To be honest, I can just about stomach it. My brother-in-law will run screaming for the hills if he hears it. And then there's this one, which I've had stuck in my head most of today: 'Don't You Write Her Off Like That' by McGuinn, Clark & Hillman. Whilst not demonstrably terrible, it's just so, so meh. I like the harmonies in the song; those guys could really sing nicely, but shit, the song is just blandness and banality with a rhythm section. It's as plain as unseasoned porridge. And it's driving me mad because it's been stuck in my head all day long, as I drove my father to an appointment to have his hearing aids fitted. He was in two minds about getting the more expensive model, but he is in very good health (just elderly - 84) and probably has a few good years left in him, so he might as well enjoy them. I reckon if he gets subjected to songs like the one I've mentioned, he'll be ripping them out! I did jokingly tell him he'll probably end up not using his new hearing aids just to avoid having to listen to the bullshit so many people go on with.
Good things have been happening with the writing, too. Yesterday, whilst doing a domestic service for somebody, his friend told me he had just read my first book 'Calumny While Reading Irvine Welsh' and really enjoyed it. That, my friends, made me feel good and kind of compensated for the fact that I had to clean a receptacle into which this guy had been coughing up phlegm (yuck, I almost blew my groceries when I had to do that - my hat is off to nurses). When I got home today, my 9yo told me the school librarian wants to have a look at my second book, 'Abernethy'. I will probably pack it in his bag on Thursday - tomorrow is the swimming carnival. I did suggest he tell her to buy the damn book for the school library. And today, oh this is so exciting; hang onto your hats and get to the toilet quickly before you read on: I saw the cover art for my upcoming book 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth' - and it's totally cool bananas. It's got 70s-style lettering, vinyl records, a discreet image of Marc Bolan, and a Doberman. All good books should have a Doberman.
And tomorrow is my birthday. 48 orbits around the sun. Oh boy.
Friday 7 February 2014
My Little List For The Day
Everyone's getting their two cents' worth about Schappelle Corby, and notwithstanding I'm trying to save my money, I might just do the same. I am GLAD she has been paroled. I have no idea if she is innocent or guilty, but if she is guilty, then surely ten years in an Indonesian cess pit for some weed is a tad excessive. I do not give a shit if she is paid money for her story. Indeed, I kind of hope she is because she is going to need to pay for therapy, I would imagine. Not to mention the fact the woman has to eat. To all those who say she shouldn't be profiteering from her crimes, and the Proceeds of Crimes Act should be applied, I say this: to my knowledge she has not actually been convicted of any offences in Australia that would seek shade under such an umbrella, so nyah-nyah-nyah.
Now for what's making me say 'Pffffft!': the family of Miranda Kerr are going to appear on a television show called 'Family Confidential', and plead for her to come home. Um, do you people actually own a phone? A computer? I don't live that far from Gunnedah, and I know phones and the telephone exchange have been around in the district for a long, long time - longer than Miranda has even been alive, I would imagine. I personally don't care that much for Miranda Kerr (oh, so you're genetically blessed? Excuse me while I keep hoping someone finds a cure for cancer), but I feel a little sorry for her in this case. How tacky. Does nobody care about exposing the dirty family linen in public any more? For some reason, it's making me imagine my mother, were she still alive, appearing on television with her 'plea': 'Simone, what time Mass service are you going to?'
Coolest Bond Theme Song To Dullest Bond Movie: My vote for this is 'A View To A Kill' by Duran Duran. Although it's a well known fact I'm no fan of the Eighties, I don't mind a bit of Duran Duran. But this film is just beyond meh. Bond is played by Roger Moore, who looked like he has one foot in the grave and the other on a banana skin. The villainess May Day is played by Grace Jones, who seriously Cannot. Bloody. Act. The villain is Christopher Walken who is a fantastic actor, but just bland and wasted in this turd of a film. The love interest is Tanya Roberts, who had no chemistry at all with Moore. Indeed, their onscreen chemistry just fizzled with all the fission and charge of somebody trying to forcibly drill a strand of cold, cooked spaghetti into a cowpat.
Finally, the award for being So Stupid It's Beyond Scary goes to Campbell Newman. Again. Soon, he's going to have to build a new set of shelves to accommodate all these awards. He has complained that lawyers defending bikies are part of a 'criminal gang machine' who try to get their clients off. No. Really? A lawyer trying to get his/her client acquitted? Well, you could totally knock me down with a feather at that one. It's really time for someone to approach him slowly from the periphery, holding open a bit white coat with lots of straps and buckles (kind of like approaching a horse to put a bridle on it), and for someone else to also approach from the periphery with a shot of Thorazine, ready for administration.
Now for what's making me say 'Pffffft!': the family of Miranda Kerr are going to appear on a television show called 'Family Confidential', and plead for her to come home. Um, do you people actually own a phone? A computer? I don't live that far from Gunnedah, and I know phones and the telephone exchange have been around in the district for a long, long time - longer than Miranda has even been alive, I would imagine. I personally don't care that much for Miranda Kerr (oh, so you're genetically blessed? Excuse me while I keep hoping someone finds a cure for cancer), but I feel a little sorry for her in this case. How tacky. Does nobody care about exposing the dirty family linen in public any more? For some reason, it's making me imagine my mother, were she still alive, appearing on television with her 'plea': 'Simone, what time Mass service are you going to?'
Coolest Bond Theme Song To Dullest Bond Movie: My vote for this is 'A View To A Kill' by Duran Duran. Although it's a well known fact I'm no fan of the Eighties, I don't mind a bit of Duran Duran. But this film is just beyond meh. Bond is played by Roger Moore, who looked like he has one foot in the grave and the other on a banana skin. The villainess May Day is played by Grace Jones, who seriously Cannot. Bloody. Act. The villain is Christopher Walken who is a fantastic actor, but just bland and wasted in this turd of a film. The love interest is Tanya Roberts, who had no chemistry at all with Moore. Indeed, their onscreen chemistry just fizzled with all the fission and charge of somebody trying to forcibly drill a strand of cold, cooked spaghetti into a cowpat.
Finally, the award for being So Stupid It's Beyond Scary goes to Campbell Newman. Again. Soon, he's going to have to build a new set of shelves to accommodate all these awards. He has complained that lawyers defending bikies are part of a 'criminal gang machine' who try to get their clients off. No. Really? A lawyer trying to get his/her client acquitted? Well, you could totally knock me down with a feather at that one. It's really time for someone to approach him slowly from the periphery, holding open a bit white coat with lots of straps and buckles (kind of like approaching a horse to put a bridle on it), and for someone else to also approach from the periphery with a shot of Thorazine, ready for administration.
Wednesday 5 February 2014
Of Course You're Saying It Wrong!
I have some vague recollection of Henry Higgins expostulating in 'My Fair Lady', 'Why can't the English learn how to speak?!!!' I'm with you on this all the way, Henry. I will never reconcile the syntactical sins committed by some people, and I will never resign myself to the fact that some people just Don't. Get. It. I do not believe in the adage 'If you can't beat 'em, join 'em' (this is defeatist, conformist nonsense and I will have no part in it). But if the hoi polloi don't speak properly, can't the teachers? Please? I went to collect my 12yo from the swimming pool today because his school had their carnival. He chose to just spectate, not participate. I understand this because I always hated doing the 50 metre down myself, long before anyone had ever heard of Eric 'The Eel' Moussambini (sp?) who did that spectacular (some would say craptacular) effort on his own for 100 of the longest metres anybody had ever known at the 2000 Sydney Olympics. Anyway, back to the point. I got to the swimming pool, which is located near the office of my work (I don't work in the office, I am field staff), and I wanted to park under the tree where I normally park if I am using a fleet vehicle (and yes, I know I don't own the spot). There were cars everywhere because it was a swimming carnival. This woman was standing there. Just standing there. Wouldn't move. In hindsight, I could have parked the car in her shadow. I stood near the back gates where the children were exiting, and where a couple of teachers were supervising. I suspect one was the headmaster, but under the hat and sunglasses I could not be sure. I waved to my son, and he came over. The teacher said to him, 'Have a good day, mate?' My son politely said he had. 'Did you get in?" asked the teacher. My son said he had not. Then, I shit you not, I am sure I heard a TEACHER or HEADMASTER say, 'You should of.' Yes, 'of' not 'have'. Aaaarrrrggghhhh! Aaaarrrggghhh and a Grrrrrrrrrrrr! thrown in for good measure. What the fuck is wrong with people? It is 'have'! HAVEHAVEHAVEHAVEHAVE! A thousand times HAVE! When will people stop engaging in this grammatical and syntactical bullshit, and think about what they are saying? People who do this, especially those who SHOULD know better, should be taken to a public place and placed in stocks, then pelted with rotting vegetable matter. I am trying to tell myself I am imaging it, that he said 'have', but deep in my heart I am sure I heard 'of', and am starting to despair. I groused about it as I bundled my son over to the car, and pointed to 'my' coveted spot under the tree and said, 'I wanted to park in the shade but that bloody behemoth there wouldn't move.' 'Mum, that's one of my teachers,' said my son. Oh, well.
PM Abbott, get your freaking paws off our ABC. So what if you don't like them seeming to not say favourable things about the LNP? You were suspiciously quiet when the Murdoch press published the most offensive, obnoxious headlines imaginable against the ALP in the build up to the last election, the election which you, unfortunately, won. I hope you don't get to wear too comfortable a butt groove in the PM's chair.
PM Abbott, get your freaking paws off our ABC. So what if you don't like them seeming to not say favourable things about the LNP? You were suspiciously quiet when the Murdoch press published the most offensive, obnoxious headlines imaginable against the ALP in the build up to the last election, the election which you, unfortunately, won. I hope you don't get to wear too comfortable a butt groove in the PM's chair.
Sunday 2 February 2014
Ars Gratia Artis, People!
Heard a little snippet this morning that gave me the irrits somewhat. Apparently Cate Blanchet's chances of an Oscar for the film 'Blue Jasmine' might be compromised by the allegations of sexual abuse against Woody Allen raised in an open letter by his adopted daughter Dylan Farrow. Look, I don't know if Allen is guilty of the allegations or not. He has never been charged with anything, it should be pointed out. Having sexual activity with your partner's daughter from a prior relationship is a tad yucky, but then, not illegal (and for all I know commonplace in the Appalachian Mountains). It would appear in the light of Dylan's open letter that anything associated with Allen at this year's Oscars is a bit tainted, and will become a political hot potato. Why do people insist on clouding the judgement of the art's merit with the proclivities of the artist? Is the Academy going to let the 'ick' factor influence its decision? Let's face it, they don't always get it right. 'Forrest Gump' over 'Pulp Fiction', anyone? (Shit, that one's going to confound me to the grave). Gwyneth Paltrow for 'Shakespeare in Love' over Cate Blanchet for 'Elizabeth', anyone? (Another one that will confound me to the grave). I haven't actually seen 'Blue Jasmine' myself, yet, but if Cate genuinely is the deserving winner, then give her the frigging Oscar! Just because the film has been directed by someone who is a bit persona not grata, that has nothing to do with Cate. Why give an inferior product an award because of political correctness? If I go to the art gallery and see a painting of Renaissance calibre, with amazing use of light and shade and brush strokes, with a beauty that brings to the eyes (Picture A); and then look at a painting that looks like a blind toddler's finger painting (Picture B), am I to suddenly not like Picture A over Picture B because Picture A turns out to be produced by a sleazy criminal whilst Picture B has been produced by a choir boy who does nice things for old people? Something to remember, Roman Polanski was given an award for 'The Piano'. He was actually given a standing ovation by the people in the venue. These people seem to have forgotten he plied a 13yo with drugs and alcohol, and stuck his dick anywhere he could find available on her person. However, I have no problem with him getting his award if his picture was genuinely the best one. It's about the ART. I would not have joined in a standing ovation. If I was handing him the statuette, I would have slammed it into his hand and said, 'Here's your award. If I see you near my daughter I will force-feed you your own testicles. Now fuck off.'
And RIP to Philip Seymour Hoffman. Shit, I am so saddened by his death. He was one of my favourite actors of this generation. He was fantastic. He didn't mind taking on 'out there' roles in potentially controversial films. Has anybody ever seen 'Happiness'? This is a very brave film in that it deals with child abuse, and whilst not in a light-hearted manner, does not portray the perpetrator has a boogie-man in a raincoat, either. Hoffman wasn't that character, he was someone else. From memory, a loser that masturbated whilst making dirty phone calls.
Thanks for the great body of work, PSH!
And RIP to Philip Seymour Hoffman. Shit, I am so saddened by his death. He was one of my favourite actors of this generation. He was fantastic. He didn't mind taking on 'out there' roles in potentially controversial films. Has anybody ever seen 'Happiness'? This is a very brave film in that it deals with child abuse, and whilst not in a light-hearted manner, does not portray the perpetrator has a boogie-man in a raincoat, either. Hoffman wasn't that character, he was someone else. From memory, a loser that masturbated whilst making dirty phone calls.
Thanks for the great body of work, PSH!
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