Launching Difficulties

Just sitting by the phone, waiting on a call.  No, I'm not about to do some Vicki Carr and sprint like a gazelle being chased by a lion, shrieking, 'Let it please be him.  Dear God, it must be hiiiiim...' (someone give her a self-help book, PLEASE).  However, I am kind of on tenterhooks.  I've left a message for the manager of the local art gallery to give me a bell about the possibility of holding my upcoming book launch there, for 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth'.  If I hold it at my library, I have to finish it by 8.00pm on a Thursday, and whilst this will not necessarily cause the implosion of our planet, I would ideally like to finish just a bit later, say 9.00pm, and maybe hold it on a Friday.  A Thursday does not faze me too much, however.  So, I am waiting for him to ring.  I actually held the launch for 'Abernethy' there, and on the day of the launch my husband managed to freak out the manager by trying to arrange the seats too close to the exhibits on the wall. I sided with the manager because the gallery was having an exhibition of that particular year's Archibald Prize entries.  So, here's hoping, and here's hoping even more that the event can be done free of charge.  It was last time, but only because someone put in a good word for me.  I'm hoping the manager remembers me.  I'm sure he will; we've both partaken in a slide show night about our own inspiration as artists/writers, and we've both attended the mental health first aid course together.  I attended as a carer for my employer, and he was sent by his employer.  We discussed well known figures with mental health problems, and I referred back to the Archibald entry that particular year of Garry McDonald, which focussed on his public persona juxtaposed against his private turmoil.  Anyway, mate, can I have the gallery for free?  I promise to make those yummy pork-and-prawn spring rolls with sweet chilli/lime dipping sauce again.


I'm a bit tired because I've had a full on few days, peppered with delights such as detaching a catheter hose and copping a few flecks of urine to the face (I did a sprint, like the aforementioned gazelle to the bathroom and practically drowned myself rinsing my face under the tap).  Several of my team are away, and I've had a few extra hours to work.  The thought of the launch is stressing me a bit, too.  I'm just scared, that's all.  Now, those of you reading you might be curious about this book, check out this link at http://www.zeus-publications.com/silver_studs_and_sabre_teeth.htm.  You can read the first chapter, and hopefully, buy the book.  It's available as an e-book, too.  It's also got a listing on Amazon.com, so if someone can write a (positive!) review for it, that would be mega-marvy. 


My kids have been good little publicists, telling their school teachers.  I have dropped in a copy to the local rural ABC station, for the news director to read prior to an interview with the illustrious author - ahem - me.  I've drafted an invitation to send off to my friends and the local literati, and it starts 'If you've ever wondered about the connection between an accidental nudie run, censorship and censoriousness, same sex marriage, and Seventies Glam Rock tribute artists, then you will find the answer in Simone Bailey's latest book.'  Howzat sound?

Arise, Dame Bingells!

The women's magazines would have us believe Gwyneth Paltrow is an ethereal creature blessed with talents in abundance: she acts, she sings, she runs a website, she can cure snakebite...  Oh okay, that last one was me being sarcastic, I will admit it.  If you want to deal with snakebite, apply the pressure immobilisation technique and then get help.  Fast.  But to be honest, aside from Madonna, there is not a woman alive who aggravates me like GP does.  She always has this insipid expression on her face, and my guess is it's due to the diet that would make even the most committed vegan head off to the McDonalds drive-thru.  Hey, one of my oldest friends is vegan, but she looks healthy.  GP just looks like the product of her own oh-so-easy to follow recipes, those recipes assuming we have time to browse the grocery aisle for olive oil infused quinoa (and of course the olives must be grown by Basque separatists and fertilised with the dung of a free range cow that has never been serviced by a randy bull, and then then hand-harvested by Carmelite nuns).  I think her recipe for chick pea soup went something like: Take one pot of boiling water, then add ten chick peas.   Mmmmmm, yummy!  Again, that last sentence was a tad sarcastic.  Water and chick peas does not a soup maketh.  If this is indicative of the woman's diet, then she must fart like a bloody Clydesdale.  Also, she's so scrawny, if she did fart the effort would send her crashing to the ground.  Aside from this questionable anthology of recipes, she scored herself an undeserved Oscar, and stood there blubbing and snivelling in an unflattering dress that made her look like the skeleton in the science lab at my old high school.  Anyway, now the magazines and social media are going into meltdown at her marriage breakup.  Don't get me wrong, she actually has my sympathy over this.  But I will admit to doing a bit of an eye-roll at her statement with the phrase 'conscious uncoupling'.  Really?  What is this?  I think I might have engaged in such activity on a Con Tiki holiday some 25-plus years ago.  Oh hang on, that might have been unconscious coupling.  But I am one of those people that is not enamoured by Gwynnie's burblings, and am surprised she and that dude from Coldplay split; they seemed to be well suited as they are a bookend-matching pair of milquetoasts. 


Tony Abbott, what are you blathering on about now, with this talk of reintroducing knighthoods to Australia?  Is this your red herring given the other issues facing Aussies that are seriously more important than some anachronistic title?  To be honest, in principle I don't mind people receiving the accolade for outstanding achievements.  But this being Australia, I deeply fear we will hear the future King Charles or King William say, 'Arise, Sir Shane Warne'.  If we MUST give out this title, I'm nominating Dr Elizabeth Hamlin for her work on fistula-suffering women in Ethiopia, or to Dr Fiona Wood for her achievements in treating burns victims.  Posthumously, I'd like to nominate Dr Victor Chang, Professor Fred Hollows, or Weary Dunlop.  My nominees have something in common.  Not are they only NOT overrated and overpaid sportspeople, they are people who have actually done something spectacularly good for mankind.  I am now wondering is it at all possible I will one day genuflect on the carpet at Buck Pal (all the while swooning at that soft plush shag pile under my old kneecap), feel the sword pat my shoulders, and hear the king (whoever he is) say, 'Arise, Dame Simone Bailey'?  Or Dame Bingells has a nice ring to it.


Oh, and Tony, take your boasting and skiting about the dearth of refugee-laden boats of late, and shove it up your arse.  If you run out of room, give the excess to Scott Morrison.


Okay, here's the link to my latest book.  You can read the first chapter, and check out the shopping trolley icon (*cough* buy it *cough*).  It's adult satire, and it's called 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth' (a reference to 'Metal Guru' by T-Rex), and it's right here: http://www.zeus-publications.com/silver_studs_and_sabre_teeth.htm 

Blancmange, Cross Country and Silver Studs

Teenagers of the Eighties, seriously, what were you all thinking?  Today, I drove home from work, having finished early afternoon, the Top 20 Retro Countdown decided to focus on the year 1983.  I really must have a word with the programmers at my local station, because I cannot really jump into a Delorean a la Marty McFly and travel back to this era to ask everyone to stop and think.  But honestly, I was subjected to some tripe today.  The worst of it was 'Living on the Ceiling' by Blancmange.  And like said dessert, this song is bland and milky, and leaves a dull taste in the mouth.  It's just pointless shit set to a synthesiser.  The guy delivering it says he's 'up the bloody tree.'  I was tempted to deliberately drive into a tree to get away from this torpid, turgid tune.


I'm sick of hearing kids today whinge about how hard they have it.  Yesterday, my 12yo had his school cross-country event.  They ran (and he walked, anyway - just like his mother would have!) along mainly flat terrain from a sports field, along flat grass and smooth footpaths.  When I was his age, our cross-country was held on a property outside town.  This property was hilly and rocky, and beset with obstacles such as gnarled tree roots and wombat holes.  There were also booby traps formed by the hooves of the livestock, ie, furrows and footprints just ripe for spraining an ankle in.  Even worse, the course was littered with cowpats, like an Angolian minefield.   There is nothing so dispiriting as hearing the splat and feeling warm flecks of cow shit spraying over  your calf muscle and shin, like the bloody spray from a bullet wound.  Everywhere, kids would groan and wail as they found themselves ankle-deep in a freshly laid cowpat.  And along with the fresh cow flop, there would be the flop bleached and dried in the sun.  I'm not sure of the aerodynamics of a thrown dried cowpat, especially with the rippled surface, but I can tell you this: when one of those things hits you, it backs quite the sting.  And kids would be picking them up and throwing them like Frisbees at their fellow students.  So kids, don't gripe at me about your hard lives.  We didn't have Google, we had to contend with Blancmange songs, and thrown cowpats.


On a brighter note, I have received from the publishers my complimentary copies of  'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth'.  I am now in the process of organising a book launch.  The library has to close no later than 8.00pm (although I can book a seminar room and lock the library myself).  I'm also considering approaching the art gallery.  Decisions, decisions.  When the publisher's IT whiz has done the URL, I will attach the link to the blog.  Yesterday, one of the aged people I care for asked how much the book cost.  I replied, 'The publishers have set the RRP at $31.95'.  She asked how much I would sell it to her for.  I replied, '$31.95.'

'The Sweet' Life

I'm tired, but happy.  Well, mainly happy.  Had a few moments of dangerously extreme piss-off thanks to an almost 13yo who had not done nearly enough work on his PDHE assignment which is due tomorrow.  His father shouted; he shouted; I spoke loudly and mediated.  I suspect part of my son's obnoxious 'tude is owing to having spent the night at a friend's house and crawled into his sleeping bag at an ungodly hour.  I ended up helping him come up with pros and cons for Skype, email and sign language.  My legal background gave him a beaut pro for Skype-style technology: it is handy in court cases when a witness is overseas, or a child who might be overwhelmed giving evidence in a court of grown-ups (this sort of technology has been used for a long time).  I didn't do PDHE when I was a kid, it was called Personal Development.  We didn't have to worry about social media as we hit adolescence and had to contend with hormones and anxiety en route to adulthood.  We were told to leave the room to pass gas (our teacher was American, so she called it passing gas), and had to draw a female reproductive system.  Although I have considerable sketching skill, mine still ended up looking like the front-on view of a cow's skull lying in the desert, long bleached white by that harsh, unforgiving firey ball of helium and hydrogen and whatever else (I can't quite remember and my son isn't sure - I've just asked him) that constitutes the dwarf star that gives us light and life.  We had to watch a film with rudimentary diagrams of a penis going into a vagina, and there was this group of puerile girls laughing themselves stupid, their faces glowing like fluro-pink highlighter pens.


I am tired because Mr Bingells and I travelled to Newcastle last night to watch (oh, swoon!) my favourite childhood band, The Sweet.  Many of my friend are aware, and I will now make all my new readers aware, my first ever crush was on the guitarist Andy Scott.  And he is still in the band, albeit the only original member.  When I told people my intended plans to see the concert, I was often met with comments along the lines of, 'My God, are they still playing?'  'Shit, they're old!'  Now here is my theory, and one which holds much water: you don't keep doing live gigs and touring for the length of time they have without putting on a bloody good show.  And they did not disappoint.  We were three rows from the front, and I hadn't seen this current line-up (last time I saw them was 1993, although the drummer might have been there at the time).  I had to chuckle watching the drummer because he reminded me of that cat who plays the drums in the opening credits of the old cartoon from ABC 'The Cattanooga Cats'.  You can You Tube the opening credits.  I am rather embarrassed to admit I have done such a thing, but claim the writer's defence of 'research'.  The drumming cat is this corpulent looking creature who pounds the skins with this totally full-on grin on his face and his eyes closed.  I only draw this analogy because Bruce the drummer last night was smiling cheerfully all the through the gig.  The drumming Cattanooga Cat actually looks a bit like it's off its tits on some pharmaceutical substance; Bruce just looks cheerful, and his solo was great.  I'm a chick, and should therefore not like drum solos, but I enjoyed it last night.  The usual keyboardist was not on this tour as his wife was gravely ill (someone told me today she has passed away; very, very sad), and so another guitarist/keyboardist has stepped up to the plate for the Australian tour, and he was fantastic, and a really good singer, too.  Also, he had charisma coming out his ears.  And, oh dear, I found myself crushing majorly on him.  (If you're reading this, mate, you're a babe).  Now, the first time I ever saw my childhood idols live was in 1986 (I was last night brought to Earth with the realisation that I am now about ten years older than what they probably were when I first saw them that evening at Selinas).  I also saw them at the Tivoli, and was in the front row.  The front man they used in the 80s actually wriggled his eyebrows at my in a flirtatious manner during one of the songs, and I naturally believed myself to be the duck's nuts because of this.  Yesterday, I discovered he is actually living and working (as well as performing) in Newcastle now, and he was a guest during one of the numbers, and he was electrifying.  It did occur to me to squeeze my way to the front and see would he recognise me.  Ahem.  And Andy proved to us again why he is one of the greatest rock guitarists of the Seventies.


Oh, and I got up and danced during 'Peppermint Twist'.  I actually did it.  And I guess the healthier eating plan and more regular exercise I have adopted has paid off; I was able to twist my hips and do a 'One, Two, Three, Kick!' and NOT finish the evening by staggering out of the venue wheezing like an asthmatic bull dog. 


Even the trip home was great, along the newly opened Hunter Expressway.  What was not so great was running over a tyre that had been thrown by a semitrailer (it was off to one side of the road, hazards and lights blinking like a Christmas tree), which has fucked over our bumper bar.


To bed, perchance to dream (if not of Hugh Jackman, then of more awesome Sweet gigs).  Oh yeah, and the did 'Wig Wam Bam', so I was a happy woman.

On My Mind Today

At the top of my untidily scrawled To-Do List is this entry: 'Organise Book Launch'.  I have been informed (or rather, my husband took a message) that the upcoming 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth' should be back from the printer in two days.  So tomorrow I will make a guest list, and think about liaising with the library re a tentative date for the launch.  I have already spoken with the local ABC Radio journalist, and sent him a copy of the book's publicity blurb.  Most people these days seem to be getting publicity due to some questionable means, so whether that means I must leak a sex tape onto the Internet remains to be seen.  I am rather excited about this. 


What I am not excited about is some of the bile I have read on social media lately regarding the postponement of the Aussie leg of the Rolling Stones' tour.  To all you crabby, bilious arsewipes who said, 'So what?  People die every day.  Get over it', I must ask, 'What part of 'Mick Jagger's Partner Died' do you not understand?'  Do you seriously believe you were going to get your money's worth had Jagger taken to the stage the other night as originally planned?  The strut that is just so entrenched in his stage persona would be a mere step.  There would be no oomph, no power, no raunch.  There would be a pall hanging over the stage, and I daresay over the audience because it would be on the minds of most fair-thinking and true Stones fans.  You will no doubt get your money back, or be able to use your ticket at a future concert.  I'm sure the promoters will work out something.  For God's sake, let the poor man grieve and then return at a later date, where he will no doubt give you what you've paid for.  I have seen Jagger twice: once on his 1988 solo tour, and again on the Voodoo Lounge tour in 1995.  Trust me, when he is at the top of his game, it will be worth the wait.  It's interesting to note that Keith Richards took to the stage in the mid-70s almost immediately after being informed of the tragic cot death of his infant son.  I do not judge him for this, and daresay this was Keith's own coping mechanism.  Also, Keith's grief was personal, whereas Mick's is being played out on a public stage with everyone hovering like vultures over a dying buffalo in the desert.  But in the meantime, can everyone please stop being arseholes?  That would be good.


What else is on my mind?  Those little plastic containers that sit over the rim of the toilet bowl in which sits a cake of something meant to sanitise the bowl, kind of like the way a canary sits in a cage.  These things annoy the living snot out of me.  Often, with my job, I have to clean people's toilets, and my teeth just set on edge when I am faced with one of the infernal contraptions as I pour in the product and get ready to give the bowl a once-over (or twice-over if it's flecked with hardened shit stains; it happens) with the toilet brush.  I bump the damn cage, and it swings around in the bowl, sending down a wash of blue something.  I don't know what's in the blue something, but it's probably capable of stripping the veneer off a block of apartments.  Hate it.


Question: will the song 'Come on, Eileen' by Dexy's Midnight Runners be used as the soundtrack to a bukkake DVD some time in the future?  Discuss.

Full Moon Madness

Might have to go on Ebay and bid on some mojo.  Mine appears to be misplaced, and although I'm hoping just temporarily, I'm feeling desperate for its return.  I'm finding it hard to get excited about things I'm normally excited about, and I know this is a symptom of depression - have done mental health first aid, so I feel I can say this.  I do not believe I have a clinical depression, but rather am just wading through a morass of ennui at the moment.  I've been shitted off about a few things over the past few days, and they are things about which it is best not to comment.  And it would appear that everybody with whom I have had contact today either does not like my head, or else are starving to death because they seemed intent on biting it off.  This evening whilst out with my children walking our dogs, I cast my eyes Heavenwards and saw hanging in the dusky sky, like a huge incandescent coin, the full moon.  At least I now have something to which the crappy attitudes of all around me can be attributed.  It's the good old full moon, and it's brought the lunatics out in force.

Bossiness vs Assertiveness

It's my day off.  I should be working on my novel-in-progress, but I think I might head off to the supermarket instead shortly, because my kids do need to be fed.  Rapacious little pests; they never stop eating.  But before I do that, I might just make mention of what's gone booger-mining up my snout today.  I've been reading online articles about - I think - the COO of Facebook calling for 'bossy' to be not made such a negative connotation, but rather to think about the assertive leadership skills shown by bossy children.  A person with good leadership skills has the ability to listen to others, and make people WANT to follow them.  Therefore, as far as 'bossy' goes, I'm calling total bullshit on that because let me just tell you this: every bossy kid I ever knew was a complete pain in the arse.  These are the kids who invaded the sandpit.  These are the kids who stormed every skip-rope game that was in progress and seized the handles of the rope, loudly proclaiming, 'We're playing Miss-A-Loop!'.  These are the kids who complained during PE that your (read 'my') volley ball skills were non-existent (incidentally, these are the same kids who copped a hard-served volleyball to the back of the head when it was your, ahem my, turn to serve; you, ahem I, would then look innocent and cite your, ahem my, non-existent volleyball skills).  These are the kids who look over your shoulder and loudly say, 'You're doing that all wrong!' as you ponder a chess problem.  These are the kids who become those workplace tools that listen in to your personal calls during lunchtime as you sort out a minor issue with your landlord and expostulate, 'You're doing that all wrong!'  These are the people who barge in when you're using a photocopier and again expostulate, 'You're doing that all wrong!'  These are the same people who end up being ignored because everybody else has worked out they are so full of shit they squeak.  These people also occasionally are told to kindly fuck off.  So no, I do not think bossiness is a skill to be admired.  Assertive leadership: yes.  Bossiness: shove that one up your clacker.


Speaking of clackers, my nephew-in-law, The Naked Farmer, appears to have been the seat (ahem) of a Facebook furore.  Other farmers are posting pics of their butts in protest.  He has been interviewed by The Golden Tonsils himself, John Laws.  I'm personally not a fan of Lawsie, but if James scores an interview, then good luck to him.  James appears to be stretching out his allotted Warholian fifteen minutes as much as he can!


Okay, I've figured out how to make iTunes purchases.  Yay, me.  But get this, blog-browsers: I've actually managed to get some of those songs onto my ipod!  Yay me to the max!!!   This is a big thing for the technically-challenged shmo that I am.  Seriously, over twenty-five years ago, when first learning word processing, I approached that shitty old Wang with all the trepidation and fear of an Amish woman in the cockpit of an aeroplane.  And what song did I purchase?  'The Black-Eyed Boys' by Paper Lace!  Yay, me again!  Or perhaps not.  Perhaps I should buy 'Marshall's Portable Music Machine' now?

My New Ipod, and Crappy Country

I now have an Ipod.  What I don't have is really any clue how to get songs on it.  So why did I purchase the Ipod, I imagine you're all asking.  The simple answer is: I didn't.  My husband did.  We were interested in getting one, and we now have one.  What I am going to try and do over the next few days is get some songs onto it.  I do have I-tunes on my computer, so I might Google some tutorials.    Being technologically-retarded, I asked Mr Bingells did it have a 'leady-thingie to plug into the computer'.  It does.  Anyway, Mr Bingells is playing in the pool comp tonight, so I might see if I can surprise us both and get a song on it.  I'm thinking 'Happy' by Pharrell Williams.  I understand it's pronounced Ph'RELL, in case anyone cares.  Both my music-loving 9yo and myself are really enjoying that song at the moment.  I am not good with technology, and it took me ages to learn to send a text, so if I can master that I daresay I can get the hang of putting songs on an Ipod.  It's making me nostalgic for the good old days when I'd sit in front of the television during 'Countdown' or 'Sounds' with the old Sony tape recorder, my fingers poised over 'Record' and 'Play' waiting for Roger Voudouris to come on.  And when he did, resplendent in his red jumper and long flowing locks waving courtesy of the off-camera industrial fan, my mother would start banging around with pots and pans getting lunch or dinner ready, and I would be looking daggers at her.  It was so much more simple to obtain my music back then, even if I did have to wait for the song to come on, and the song might not come one, and when it did come on, either the television presenter or radio DJ (if I was taping from the radio) would blather all through the intro, and sometimes over the vocal.


What I'm not loving is the crappy country music I heard whilst driving around today.  I think this might be a rudimentary exercise in how to present a country song: (1) Write some seriously banal lyrics about a boy meeting a girl, and said girl playing hard to get,  the result being boy moons for a while (by 'moons' I mean sulks, not shows his arse), and then girl coming to her senses.  (2) Play the gee-tar in a really twangy style that sounds like you're about the snap the strings.  (3) Perform the song in a really shitty, adenoidal voice; particularly good if you 'talk' the lyrics and then sing the chorus.  I heard one of these frightful pieces today.  I didn't change channel because I was so stunned and debilitated, I felt helpless and decided to concentrate on my driving (and I must admit, I wondered how bad could it get).  And as if things weren't bad enough, that frigging 'Achy Breaky Heart' came on.  By this time I was nearing my destination, so I hit the brakes as soon as feasible and turned off the infernal racket.  I then smoothed out my poor ears, which had shrivelled up in horror.  I collected the gentleman for whom I was to provide transport to the doctors' surgery.  'How are you, love?' he asked.  'Not good,' I replied.  'I've jut been subjected to Billy Ray Cyrus.  And if his legacy isn't bad enough, now his daughter's torturing us.'

Buckle Up, Bitches

I am now wondering has the world gone 'Bonfire of the Vanities' again.  My nephew's picture is now the subject of an online petition with Change.org.  Oh well.  All this over a bum. 


Things to be excited about: I will probably receive my complimentary author copies of 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth' in about two weeks or so. 


Things to be pissed off about (buckle up, bitches, I'm feeling cheesed off):


1. This idea bandied about of paying kids to eat their vegetables.  WTF, seriously?  The little brats will probably take their filthy lucre (and will probably palm off their vegies on the dog when Mum and Dad's backs are turned) and buy lollies.  This type of half-arsed idea gets thrown into the ring when parents are told they can no longer discipline their kids (and no, I DON'T listen to talk back radio and find Laws, Hadley et al nauseating).  How's this for parenting? EAT YOUR DINNER OR GO HUNGRY!  It worked on me, and you know something?  I'm healthy, have good eating habits, and have this thing called Respect For Others.  Pay your kids for eating their vegetables?  Oh, I already do.  I pay them by NOT landing my foot in their arses.  Oh, and dessert, too.


2.  Gina Rhinehart blathering about entitlement, and how entitlements should not be handed out so lightly.  Okay, how about we cut some of the entitlements to politicians' salaries, freebies and tax breaks?   Gina, you're what's known as a member of the Lucky Sperm Lottery in that you jumped out of one of Lang's balls, and ergo are quite well off.  I do not begrudge you this at all, and actually think you have a very good work ethic and a brain for business.  But if you've never despaired at the pile of bills, wondered how you're going to make a mortgage repayment, become depressed at the approaching Christmas season and had to tell your children they just have to miss out on a particular outing; if you've never had to wrangle with Centrelink about an application for Disability Support Pension and the hoops they want you to jump through, which you cannot jump through because your back is fucked, then kindly be quiet.


3.  Derryn Hinch.  He's been released from gaol today, and I am over all the fawning he has received on social media.  Am I the only one who thinks he acted like an arrogant blowhard who believes he is above the law?  The law of suppression is to ensure justice and due legal process is carried out without prejudice and perversion, and to protect the identity of victims who are often known to the perpetrators of these hideous crimes.  He's lucky he didn't get a shiv in that new liver of his.


Well, am off to lunch with my other half, and then home to continue with my Work In Progress.

What A Crack-Up (boom-tish)!

I think I'll ring Lost & Found and ask has anyone turned in some common sense yet.  What's grinding my gears today is the banning by Facebook of the picture known as The Naked Farmer.  It's a great picture.  It shows a young farmer standing in the rain, which if not drought-breaking is definitely drought-softening, fists held aloft to the sky.  His body language just shouts joy and relief.  He is standing on a little patch of bright green lawn, and the lush mud around is a rich brown and you see the contrasting-yet-complementary colours of the Australian outback.  From the angle of his black Akubra you can tell his head is tilted back as he praises the sky from which the life and livelihood saving elixir that is RAIN pours.  This is the first thing that most of my friends noticed from the picture.  It's a wonderful picture for what it represents, and the subtext that is inferred. It's a bit like that pic from the 1966 Rugby League Grand Final of Norm and Arthur, two captains of opposing teams caked in mud and giving each other a relieved embrace.  In fact, that picture (known as 'The Gladiators') has been used as an engraving on the League's trophy at Grand Final time, such is its pathos and beauty.  But getting back to the picture Facebook has banned; first thing that's really obvious is the utter, unadulterated elation of a farmer whose family has been suffering dreadfully in the drought.  The next thing you see is that aside from the aforementioned black Akubra, the dude's in the nude.  But all you see is his bottom, folks.  And as someone pointed out to me, it's just a bottom and it's not like he was bent over doing a deliberate Brown-Eye at people, which could be deemed worthy of complaint.  Now before I rant any further, I will table my personal interest in this picture: the young man is, by virtue of my marriage to his wonderful uncle, my NEPHEW.  I don't care that I saw his butt in this picture; Jesus Christ jumping on a motorised pogo stick, I saw his backside years ago when I bathed him as a toddler.  And I imagine that revelation has probably embarrassed him more than the picture on Facebook. 


This picture was originally posted on a page dedicated to farms.  Somebody apparently saw it, then cried, 'Eeeeeek, a bum!' before swooning.  Whoever it was then brought round, if not with smelling salts then with a sweaty sock that had been pulled from a hot gumboot.  This person then twisted their pearls, and made a rather pointless complaint. 


My husband shared the farmer's picture, which had been dressed up with a quote from my total mind-crush Stephen Fry about how easily people take offence and that it appears to give them some total rights, and Fry's reply is 'So fucking what?'.  I have shared the same picture.  The picture has been removed from both our FB pages.  I am infuriated by this.  What infuriates me more is that White Supremacists can run a page with utter filth and obscenity, or cowardly numbskulls can run bullying sites, and they're left alone.  Yet, someone sees a BUM, and all Hell breaks lose like a water gushing through a crack in the wall of the dyke. 


I'm kind of likening the fuss to the Bill Henson scandal a few years ago.  You might remember that.  I personally saw beautiful photographs, but some people saw depraved filth.  I reckon it says more about the people who complained, then it does Henson's subject matter, but that's another rant.


It's leaving us all bummed out.  It's making us crack up.  We wish spurious people would just butt out.  It's the bottom of the barrel.  What a sad date it's been.  And I guess that's enough of the bum metaphors from me.

Parades & Masks

I'm alone in my house, listening to the rain softly drumming - well not even drumming, it's more a gentle rhythmic tattoo - on my roof, and there's a constant trickle from the eaves near my back seating area (my computer is situated near the back of the house).  I am alone because my household are attending a family reunion for my in-laws, and I cannot attend as I have been rostered to work tomorrow.  The rain is so sorely needed here.  At the moment it is not so sorely needed in Sydney where the 37th Gay & Lesbian Mardi Gras is no doubt happening in all it's camp, colourful, glittery and sequinned glory.  I hope any rainfall has not made it unpleasant for participants and attendees.  It is with disconcertion that I sit here and realise I have not attended a Mardi Gras parade for twenty years.   Seriously, it has been twenty years since I last staked my spot in Oxford Street to smile and wave to the Dykes on Bikes, bop along with the phalanx of dancing boys, and try to swallow over the lump in my throat as the float festooned with the banner: 'HIV and Positive' went by with its brave and determined people on the back.  I used to be able to get quite the good spot because one of my best friends was a parade marshall.  Before he became a marshall, I had to find whatever spot I could.  One year I got stuck standing near Reverend Fred Nile with his coterie of God-botherers, all praying their guts out and standing with their eyes closed to shield themselves from the passing cavalcade of filthy and depravity.  My friend reckons I should have chortled, 'Hey, Fred, cop a load of THIS!' whilst simultaneously sticking a pin in his bum, such action having the effect that his eyes would fly open, and he'd be forced to see the very spectacle he wished to not see as he prayed like a mad thing.  Someone I briefly dated told me he and some friends had tried to halt the Mardi Gras one year by sitting across the road of Oxford Street to obstruct the parade.  Mate, dunno if you're reading this, but you know who you are; what you don't know (unless someone else has told you already) is that you are a colossal tool.  You are entitled to protest provided you do not obstruct someone going about their lawful business, but you didn't do it that way.  You obstructed a legal event, and just tried to wreck a fun night out for people.  You broke the law, and you're just an asshole to boot.  Don't like it?  How's about not bloody going to it?  If I had daughters, I would warn them against guys like this.  I have no daughters.  I do have three nieces.  One is married with a child, so I guess she's safe.  Another is in a relationship.  My other niece is fifteen, and probably interested in guys (I was interested in nothing else when I was that age, although crippling shyness prevented me doing anything about it).  If my darling niece should perchance read this, Auntie Simone suggests you avoid these types of men: married men, men who are violent, men who are emotionally abusive, and homophobic assholes.  Some advice I have imparted upon my sons is: should you develop pimples when older, don't pick at them; and don't be a homophobic asshole.


I missed the special on telly the other night that dealt with the fetishists known as 'maskers'.  I don't think it's particularly new, but it's received a fair bit of publicity lately.  If you don't know what it is, it's people (usually men although there are a small number of women into this) who get into latex feminine body suits, and a latex (I think latex - might be another material) mask, together with a wig, and look just like a life size doll.  I saw footage of a masker, in his latexed and wigged glory, giving an interview and the only thing that was disconcerting is the mouth didn't move at all.  Of course the usual pearl-twisters are decrying the fall of civilisation, but you know what?  These guys are hurting absolutely nobody, and if you're hurting nobody, then whatever blows your hair back, I reckon.  To be honest, the interviewee looked no more creepy than some of the over-botoxed celebs and socialites you see at times.


Over the next few months, I have to organise a book launch.  I am excited and overwhelmed, but I guess I will manage.  I've managed twice before, so should be an old hand now!