There's few things more annoying than trying to get the creative juices flowing when the kids have a friend for a sleepover, and they're running around yelling so much it seems there is a reproduction of a Visigoth invasion happening metres from me, kind of like those people who recreate civil war scenes. I've been trying to get my radio interview from the CD onto my computer, and make a You Tube video with some Googled images. Got the images. Kind of got a power presentation happening. Discovered I had been unsuccessful with getting my interview onto my computer. Think I didn't 'import' properly, so will try again tomorrow. I cannot be arsed tonight, and I am weary. Not only are the kids galloping around, and screaming like rampant dragons, they are using my blue tooth speaker and iPod to play something they are trying to pass off as music. Not sure I'm liking this confirmation I have definitely bridged the generation gap. My ten year old has a musician's soul, I am sure. He is learning keyboards and in the school band. So why are they playing something that is only slightly less melodic than gravel in a blender? I even sounded like one of my parents (and my mother was a music lover with a glorious singing voice) as I demanded to know what in the name of God the awful racket was. 'It's teenager's music,' I was advised by our intrepid guest. 'That's MUSIC?' I spluttered in abject disbelief, 'If that God-awful racket is what passes as music these days, then I'm glad I'm not a teenager.' Oh, the pain! The pain of it all when one realises one is no longer hip. I never really was considered hip, but you know what I'm getting at.
Fed up to the bloody back teeth with overly censorious people out there. I was never really enamoured of the ice bucket challenge thing. Donating money to a worthy cause, go for your life, but making yourself uncomfortable for attention? Keep that one. 'Likes' on a Facebook page isn't going to help as much as money, or your time. But who saw the toddler from England get doused with water, and let fly with a wonderfully-accented, 'Fooking Hell!' As charmless as I consider foul-mouthed children as a rule, I must say I laughed like a drain when I saw that. So did a lot of other people. But so many people were incensed, and outraged. What terrible parents, they cried. What child abuse, they keened. So they have now posted an apology from their child on the 'Net. To all you people who were outraged: Get over it. Why should a two-year-old apologise for something she has no concept over? It's stupid. Yeah, swearing's not marvellous. But neither is overreaction, and twisting your pearls, and calling for smelling salts. Kids will occasionally drop an inappropriate comment because they will hear it from adults. When my oldest son was about three, we were travelling in the car and I had cause to hit the brakes very suddenly. From the safety of his toddler car seat in the back of my Commodore station wagon, my shocked and startled son cried out, 'Shit!' I muffled a guffaw into my bicep, cleared my throat, and told him not to talk like that. And my S-bomb dropping son has grown into a largely decent young man who was nominated as school dux. So there. Stop worrying about some little kid who swore, everyone.
Now, I drove around in a Magna today. Of that I am confident. Or did I? No, perhaps I hitched an unwitting ride in the De Lorean from 'Back To The Future' and found myself in the streets of Berlin in 1933, where burns a raging pyre of banned literature. An Aldi supermarket has pulled the Raold Dahl book about gory nursery rhymes after someone had a bitch about the word 'slut', which appears in the re-imagined Cinderella fable. She is referred to as a 'slut'. Now, for the naysayers, this word actually means a slovenly and slatternly woman, and it has been twisted to often mean something else in our society. In some versions of the story, the nickname of the poor kid with the shittiest blended family EVER is Cinder-Slut. It should be obvious to even the most idiotic reader that the context Dahl means it as a slattern, too. But oh, no, let's just get a book banned, shall we? Hey, here's an idea: you don't like a book, then don't bloody read it. Don't try and spoil it for everybody else. Is it such a bad thing to get kids interested in reading, rather than playing on the x-box? Or playing crappy tunes from You Tube on their mothers' iPods?
Friday 29 August 2014
Tuesday 26 August 2014
Grammar Woman, Expressions and Expressways, and Interfering Celibates
If I could, I do believe I would have that odious phrase that is suffixed to declarative observations and opinions, 'just sayin'', banned. I would ban it. I would. I would have it vaporised if I could. I detest it to the point of becoming combative. Every time I read a comment suffixed 'just sayin'', I roar like Godzilla emerging from the Sea of Japan (if that's from whence the ruinous reptile hailed), and I stomp, and I want to kick things to buggery. It's a pathetic, passive aggressive attempt to emphasise or qualify an argument, and it does not work. I have seen this phrase more that I would like, lately, and find myself shouting at my computer screen, 'I know you're 'just saying', because you JUST fucking SAID it!!!!!' And I've been seeing it on a Facebook site of which I am an admin; some disgruntled members have been posting on threads and finishing the comment with this infuriating, cat-kicker of a phrase. Oh, it shits me so.
Hey, do you remember how Billy Batson was Captain Marvel, and Diana Prince was Wonder Woman? Well, your blogger might have to become a mysterious crime fighter by night in her town. Oh, I'm not going to do something about the ferals that wander at night, it's those misplaced and missing apostrophes I've been noticing on signs around town. They are rousing my ire in much the same manner as 'just sayin''. I drove my father to and home from a medical appointment in Newcastle today, and as we came back to town, I noticed a local motor dealership advertising 'Corolla's'. What the mispunctuated fuck are they on about? Or are these lucky Corollas in possession of something? The apostrophe indicates they are indeed the lucky owners of something, but the sign does not exactly explain what. I growled and bitched and beefed (I know I might be missing commas there, but it's for dramatic reading effect, and NOT ignorance; there is a difference) through town about it, until I went past a place that sells fresh produce, which according to the sign, had 'Cauli's'. Not 'Caulis', but 'Cauli's'. Not only did it have 'cauli's', it had my scorn and derision. So,in the dead of night, heavily disguised, I am going to be armed with a cloth and chalk, or permanent marker and paint, to remedy these grammatical crimes. How does Grammar Woman sound?
Finally got my father home, having parked at the wrong building in Newcastle. 'Is this it?' I asked my father, who has had specialist appoints with this doctor previously. 'Don't ask me,' was the reply. 'How do we get there?' I asked. He gave me directions, and it soon became apparent from which parent I have inherited by abysmal navigational skills. It staggers me that my father once negotiated a hundred mile course on horseback in one day, for which he won prizes and earned a place in the Long Reach Stockman's Hall of Fame, yet cannot tell me which building on a block he went to a few months ago. Also, when I drove onto the road leading away from the hospital, do you think I could see any signs pointing out the best way to find the new Hunter Expressway? No. My father said that with all the money built on the expressway, surely a few bucks could have been allocated to signage. Whoever is the Minister for Roads, can you get onto this? It was only when I got to Hexham it occurred to me I might have just missed the expressway. Eventually found it, just outside Greta, so drove home along it for all of five minutes. Well, I just had to say I travelled home along it, didn't I?
My woes did not stop there. I received a letter from my son's school advising he has forgotten on three occasions to pack his gear for PE, which is an OH&S issue with the school. Oh, don't get me wrong; I scolded my errant son and I agree with the school entirely. No, my problem was the sentence that advised should he miss PE, he would be set work by the Teacher. I was invited to discuss any problems or questions I might have. Well, I just might have to get on the blower and say, 'Yes, I have a mighty problem. Why was the word 'teacher' capitalised when it should not have been? It was not a proper noun in that context.' Maybe this letter was drafted by a gung-ho sports teacher who didn't listen in English? Hmmmm.
Finally, this goes out to the priest who contributed to the newsletter of the Catholic school in Victoria, with an article about keeping your marriage safe. One of your rules was 'No Porn'. You include erotic fiction in this. Now, if you're referring to the execrable 'Fifty Shades of Grey'; Father, I have your back because that is the shittiest book ever written, and I don't want people thinking it constitutes good literature. But you state porn is a 'cancer ruining sex lives of countless married couples... Real life can never measure up...'. Um, something's bothering me about this advice. Not sure if it's because some couples don't mind using a bit of porn in the boudoir so What's-The-Problem, or something else. Oh, I think I know what's niggling me. Dude, you're not married and you're celibate.
Hey, do you remember how Billy Batson was Captain Marvel, and Diana Prince was Wonder Woman? Well, your blogger might have to become a mysterious crime fighter by night in her town. Oh, I'm not going to do something about the ferals that wander at night, it's those misplaced and missing apostrophes I've been noticing on signs around town. They are rousing my ire in much the same manner as 'just sayin''. I drove my father to and home from a medical appointment in Newcastle today, and as we came back to town, I noticed a local motor dealership advertising 'Corolla's'. What the mispunctuated fuck are they on about? Or are these lucky Corollas in possession of something? The apostrophe indicates they are indeed the lucky owners of something, but the sign does not exactly explain what. I growled and bitched and beefed (I know I might be missing commas there, but it's for dramatic reading effect, and NOT ignorance; there is a difference) through town about it, until I went past a place that sells fresh produce, which according to the sign, had 'Cauli's'. Not 'Caulis', but 'Cauli's'. Not only did it have 'cauli's', it had my scorn and derision. So,in the dead of night, heavily disguised, I am going to be armed with a cloth and chalk, or permanent marker and paint, to remedy these grammatical crimes. How does Grammar Woman sound?
Finally got my father home, having parked at the wrong building in Newcastle. 'Is this it?' I asked my father, who has had specialist appoints with this doctor previously. 'Don't ask me,' was the reply. 'How do we get there?' I asked. He gave me directions, and it soon became apparent from which parent I have inherited by abysmal navigational skills. It staggers me that my father once negotiated a hundred mile course on horseback in one day, for which he won prizes and earned a place in the Long Reach Stockman's Hall of Fame, yet cannot tell me which building on a block he went to a few months ago. Also, when I drove onto the road leading away from the hospital, do you think I could see any signs pointing out the best way to find the new Hunter Expressway? No. My father said that with all the money built on the expressway, surely a few bucks could have been allocated to signage. Whoever is the Minister for Roads, can you get onto this? It was only when I got to Hexham it occurred to me I might have just missed the expressway. Eventually found it, just outside Greta, so drove home along it for all of five minutes. Well, I just had to say I travelled home along it, didn't I?
My woes did not stop there. I received a letter from my son's school advising he has forgotten on three occasions to pack his gear for PE, which is an OH&S issue with the school. Oh, don't get me wrong; I scolded my errant son and I agree with the school entirely. No, my problem was the sentence that advised should he miss PE, he would be set work by the Teacher. I was invited to discuss any problems or questions I might have. Well, I just might have to get on the blower and say, 'Yes, I have a mighty problem. Why was the word 'teacher' capitalised when it should not have been? It was not a proper noun in that context.' Maybe this letter was drafted by a gung-ho sports teacher who didn't listen in English? Hmmmm.
Finally, this goes out to the priest who contributed to the newsletter of the Catholic school in Victoria, with an article about keeping your marriage safe. One of your rules was 'No Porn'. You include erotic fiction in this. Now, if you're referring to the execrable 'Fifty Shades of Grey'; Father, I have your back because that is the shittiest book ever written, and I don't want people thinking it constitutes good literature. But you state porn is a 'cancer ruining sex lives of countless married couples... Real life can never measure up...'. Um, something's bothering me about this advice. Not sure if it's because some couples don't mind using a bit of porn in the boudoir so What's-The-Problem, or something else. Oh, I think I know what's niggling me. Dude, you're not married and you're celibate.
Friday 22 August 2014
Triva to the Rescue
The Australian Medical Association and Cancer Australia say there is no link between abortion and breast cancer. So why does the Reverend Fred (se)Nile think there is? Oh, that's right. It's because he's a pious Holy Joe who takes advice from a metaphysical being, and who hasn't quite come to terms with the fact that the 1950s ended over fifty years ago. I know we are a democracy, but why must we have these brain-dead clowns polluting the halls of Parliament House? WHY?
Despite his constant disparaging of me - he's thirteen and wallowing in the Insufferably Smart-Arsed Stage - my son practically pleaded with me to come on a team at the trivia night held at his school last night. As it happened, the mum of one of his classmates invited us to join the P & C team. There was this 'game', being a bonus round kind of thing, whereby the MC (in this case the deputy headmaster) would give a clue in a Who Am I question. Teams could only answer once, but the earlier they guessed it, the more points it was worth at the end of the night. Make sense? Well, the first clue was that the Mystery Person was born in England in 1940. 'John Lennon!' I hissed. 'It has to be. If it's a famous Englishman born 1940, who else can it be?' So we went for it and wrote 'John Lennon'. At the end of Round Two, the clue was that he had played in a skiffle band. I revelled in my smugness, feeling certain that Lennon had experimented in skiffle as well. Come Round Three, my superiority and complacency tumbled like a house of cards in an earthquake. 'I married a Bond girl,' said the MC. 'Oh, crap!' I groaned. I knew there and then it was actually Ringo Starr. For some reason I thought Starr was older than Lennon, and he may well be, only born earlier in 1940 than Lennon. Oh, if only the clue had been: 'I married a delusional, tone-deaf, screeching parrot', then I could have continued warm and fuzzy inside, knowing we had earned those six bonus points.
But coming in second was still a coup, and my team divvied up the goodies donated by various businesses. I have a voucher for a local butcher, and a voucher for a meal at a rather swanky restaurant in town, movie tickets, and chocolates. Kind of makes up for the googy egg streaming down my face in the wake of the Starr/Lennon fiasco. Not sure how much money was raised for the local rescue helicopter service, but I guess all will be revealed in the newsletter.
Speaking of that that swanky restaurant, a local women's business groups hold meetings there once a month with a guest speaker. Someone suggested to me today I might like to be such a beast. I said to have the chairwoman contact me. Might get a few books sold that way. Who knows?
Mr Bingells and I are attending a 70s party tomorrow night. I have a sequinned hat, and bow tie because it has to be glam for. Mr Bingells has been supplied with a black top hat patterned with cobwebs, and a long straggly wig - he will be Alice Cooper. He tried on his wig and hat today, and you know what? He looked just like Roger Glover from Deep Purple.
Despite his constant disparaging of me - he's thirteen and wallowing in the Insufferably Smart-Arsed Stage - my son practically pleaded with me to come on a team at the trivia night held at his school last night. As it happened, the mum of one of his classmates invited us to join the P & C team. There was this 'game', being a bonus round kind of thing, whereby the MC (in this case the deputy headmaster) would give a clue in a Who Am I question. Teams could only answer once, but the earlier they guessed it, the more points it was worth at the end of the night. Make sense? Well, the first clue was that the Mystery Person was born in England in 1940. 'John Lennon!' I hissed. 'It has to be. If it's a famous Englishman born 1940, who else can it be?' So we went for it and wrote 'John Lennon'. At the end of Round Two, the clue was that he had played in a skiffle band. I revelled in my smugness, feeling certain that Lennon had experimented in skiffle as well. Come Round Three, my superiority and complacency tumbled like a house of cards in an earthquake. 'I married a Bond girl,' said the MC. 'Oh, crap!' I groaned. I knew there and then it was actually Ringo Starr. For some reason I thought Starr was older than Lennon, and he may well be, only born earlier in 1940 than Lennon. Oh, if only the clue had been: 'I married a delusional, tone-deaf, screeching parrot', then I could have continued warm and fuzzy inside, knowing we had earned those six bonus points.
But coming in second was still a coup, and my team divvied up the goodies donated by various businesses. I have a voucher for a local butcher, and a voucher for a meal at a rather swanky restaurant in town, movie tickets, and chocolates. Kind of makes up for the googy egg streaming down my face in the wake of the Starr/Lennon fiasco. Not sure how much money was raised for the local rescue helicopter service, but I guess all will be revealed in the newsletter.
Speaking of that that swanky restaurant, a local women's business groups hold meetings there once a month with a guest speaker. Someone suggested to me today I might like to be such a beast. I said to have the chairwoman contact me. Might get a few books sold that way. Who knows?
Mr Bingells and I are attending a 70s party tomorrow night. I have a sequinned hat, and bow tie because it has to be glam for. Mr Bingells has been supplied with a black top hat patterned with cobwebs, and a long straggly wig - he will be Alice Cooper. He tried on his wig and hat today, and you know what? He looked just like Roger Glover from Deep Purple.
Tuesday 19 August 2014
Throw The Book At Them
Everything I've done the past few days seems to be somehow associated with the school yard. Yesterday I drove to my home town, and into the yard of my old primary school. My old primary school is a Catholic one, and my old parish church is there. The reason I went to my old school, and in particular my old parish church, is not great: the older sister of a school friend died very suddenly, and a memorial service was held there. I wanted to give my friend some support, so I travelled there, with an old black and white photograph in my handbag to show the family. Her sis was twelve years our senior, and the photograph shows her aged 12 or 13, holding me as a bub less than a year old, and my older sister is astride a pony next to us. My friend's eyes welled with tears again when she saw the photo, and when I showed her parents, they couldn't speak for a moment. It was a hard, throat-acher of a day.
I sat in that church, and looked around. How much older everyone has become. How much fatter some people have become. During the eulogy, I became more aware of an increasingly acute need for the ladies' toilet, and I knew I would be in pure agony, or wet underpants if I did not relieve this need. So I quietly slipped through the back door and made me way in the direction of the girls' toilet, relying on memory as I have not been a student there for a long time. So much landscaping has been carried out in the intervening years. The actual convent apparently no longer houses nuns. I don't know what it is used for now. Perhaps it still houses the same nuns, and has been restructured into an asylum for the criminally insane, which is what I often believe some of those old nuns I had were. Well, I found the loo, which was just near the relocated bell tower; they moved the bell tower, but didn't paint it. You know what? I'm kind of glad. I love that peeling paint on the old wooden tower; it has so much character. I approached the toilet with the same trepidation I had as a youngster, because when I was a kid the dunnies were practically jumping with horrible, slimy green frogs. The cubicle I found had a dunny that appeared to be frog-free, so I used it as quickly as I could, put down the lid before I flushed (lest a horrible amphibian bastard make its unwanted appearance), attended to the ablutions ('Hey, a hot air hand dryer! That wasn't there when I was eight!'), and resumed my place in the church.
Today I attended my local library as a guest ambassador type thing for Book Week, and spoke to two lots of school children. The first lot were infants, and the second aged between 8-10. I was asked to speak about why reading can be such a joy. I said to the little cherubs on the mat that I have a tendency to use big, overblown words and if they wanted me to explain anything, to just put up their hands. A hand was in the air, and I was overjoyed to think I had an enquiring mind. 'Can I have a drink of water?' asked the kid, and hot on the heels came several requests from other attendees to use the toilet. Not quite the Q&A session I was envisaging. I have it on good authority from the librarian the children loved me. That's a nice feeling. The second session went really well, and the kids asked fantastic questions about writing and books, not whether they could have a drink of water and use the toilet. One kid asked me was I proud of what I write. I gave her the short answer: 'Yes'. Well, I didn't want to lay the false modesty on; it is my firm belief that kids have a pretty sharp bullshit-o-meter, and I didn't want those needles to twitch. Now, I'm not going to say the name of the school, but I had a good look at the teachers who attended because I am aware some of my trivia rivals at my regular Wednesday night game teach at the school. I am also aware some of them cannot grasp the concept that North America is not a country, it is a continent. Myself, and another of my team mates, took them to task one night when we answered, 'USA', because we were asked to what COUNTRY a particular animal is native. We were correct. We were also marking 'their' paper, and because they wrote 'North America', we marked them wrong. Well, they WERE wrong. They protested and were given a point. They were also given a spray from me ('Hope you don't teach bloody Geography!'). One of the more sedate of my team tried to get me to stop, but WTF, they were WRONG!!!! And their protest was frivolous bordering on vexatious. Not as vexatious as I can be because I'm going to ask them do they cheat on their fucking prostate tests next time they pull a stunt like this. But today it was a different crop of teachers, and I behaved myself. I smiled sweetly at the kid who was delegated with the important mission of standing up and thanking me on behalf of the school. I thanked the children for listening to me. I did not say, 'Be good, but when the teachers start to teach you some Geography, disregard them.'
I sat in that church, and looked around. How much older everyone has become. How much fatter some people have become. During the eulogy, I became more aware of an increasingly acute need for the ladies' toilet, and I knew I would be in pure agony, or wet underpants if I did not relieve this need. So I quietly slipped through the back door and made me way in the direction of the girls' toilet, relying on memory as I have not been a student there for a long time. So much landscaping has been carried out in the intervening years. The actual convent apparently no longer houses nuns. I don't know what it is used for now. Perhaps it still houses the same nuns, and has been restructured into an asylum for the criminally insane, which is what I often believe some of those old nuns I had were. Well, I found the loo, which was just near the relocated bell tower; they moved the bell tower, but didn't paint it. You know what? I'm kind of glad. I love that peeling paint on the old wooden tower; it has so much character. I approached the toilet with the same trepidation I had as a youngster, because when I was a kid the dunnies were practically jumping with horrible, slimy green frogs. The cubicle I found had a dunny that appeared to be frog-free, so I used it as quickly as I could, put down the lid before I flushed (lest a horrible amphibian bastard make its unwanted appearance), attended to the ablutions ('Hey, a hot air hand dryer! That wasn't there when I was eight!'), and resumed my place in the church.
Today I attended my local library as a guest ambassador type thing for Book Week, and spoke to two lots of school children. The first lot were infants, and the second aged between 8-10. I was asked to speak about why reading can be such a joy. I said to the little cherubs on the mat that I have a tendency to use big, overblown words and if they wanted me to explain anything, to just put up their hands. A hand was in the air, and I was overjoyed to think I had an enquiring mind. 'Can I have a drink of water?' asked the kid, and hot on the heels came several requests from other attendees to use the toilet. Not quite the Q&A session I was envisaging. I have it on good authority from the librarian the children loved me. That's a nice feeling. The second session went really well, and the kids asked fantastic questions about writing and books, not whether they could have a drink of water and use the toilet. One kid asked me was I proud of what I write. I gave her the short answer: 'Yes'. Well, I didn't want to lay the false modesty on; it is my firm belief that kids have a pretty sharp bullshit-o-meter, and I didn't want those needles to twitch. Now, I'm not going to say the name of the school, but I had a good look at the teachers who attended because I am aware some of my trivia rivals at my regular Wednesday night game teach at the school. I am also aware some of them cannot grasp the concept that North America is not a country, it is a continent. Myself, and another of my team mates, took them to task one night when we answered, 'USA', because we were asked to what COUNTRY a particular animal is native. We were correct. We were also marking 'their' paper, and because they wrote 'North America', we marked them wrong. Well, they WERE wrong. They protested and were given a point. They were also given a spray from me ('Hope you don't teach bloody Geography!'). One of the more sedate of my team tried to get me to stop, but WTF, they were WRONG!!!! And their protest was frivolous bordering on vexatious. Not as vexatious as I can be because I'm going to ask them do they cheat on their fucking prostate tests next time they pull a stunt like this. But today it was a different crop of teachers, and I behaved myself. I smiled sweetly at the kid who was delegated with the important mission of standing up and thanking me on behalf of the school. I thanked the children for listening to me. I did not say, 'Be good, but when the teachers start to teach you some Geography, disregard them.'
Saturday 16 August 2014
The Gene-ie Is Out Of The Bottle (Water, Not Booze)
Ókay, let me state from the outset I am not defending what Gene Simmons said. I am merely trying to analyse what he said, and why he said it. People appear to be losing their shit over an interview Kiss bassist Gene Simmons gave - I think - around 31 July 2014. In that interview Simmons stated he has no time for drug addicts or people with 'a dark cloud' hanging around them. He stated his mother was in a Nazi concentration camp, but she gets up and loves life, and he has no patience for gloomy 20yos from Seattle. The furore has come out in the wake of the tragic circumstances surrounding Robin Williams taking his own life. For those of you who have spent the past week on the moon, Williams suffered depression, and it is well known he battled the spectre of addiction through his life. Here's the thing: Simmons's comments pre-date Williams's death, so I cannot see how Simmons can be accused of being insensitive. Well, maybe he is naïve to other people who have to deal with depression and addiction. I actually don't think he was having a go at people who genuinely suffer depression, but rather attention-seekers. He might be a bit sensitised to drug addiction and alcoholism, because after all, he WAS in a band with Ace Frehley, which would have sorely tested him. He apparently doesn't understand the illness that is depression, and that addiction is after all another illness. But he has quite likely had negative experiences with alcoholics (hey, Ace!). Gene has always been vocal in his disapproval of drugs, and he is a teetotaller. But Gene, for the record, addiction is an illness. So is genuine depression.
Yes, the comments really have me puzzled, because Gene is actually not a stupid man. It would be a stupid, pig-ignorant person who would say insensitive things. But I imagine he was asked to give an opinion in this interview, and that's his opinion. For my work, I have done a mental health first aid course. It was fascinating, and helped me understand the people I have loved and known over the years who have had to deal with this dark spectre. Gene, I'm sure you can get yourself booked into a similar course. It will help lots.
The other thing that has me shaking my head is the MMM radio network has pulled Kiss from their playlist in the wake of these comments. Guys, why? It might not be a bad thing because someone I peripherally know commented you only play 'God Gave Rock And Roll To You' anyway. If this song has been pulled, people are wiping their brows and giving a sigh of relief because that one just blows the foreskin off a bull elephant. But if you are going to remove from your playlist tracks associated with anybody who has ever said or done anything politically incorrect, questionable, illegal, or just downright unpardonably stupid, what are we going to hear coming from our radio? Static, that's what.
Yes, the comments really have me puzzled, because Gene is actually not a stupid man. It would be a stupid, pig-ignorant person who would say insensitive things. But I imagine he was asked to give an opinion in this interview, and that's his opinion. For my work, I have done a mental health first aid course. It was fascinating, and helped me understand the people I have loved and known over the years who have had to deal with this dark spectre. Gene, I'm sure you can get yourself booked into a similar course. It will help lots.
The other thing that has me shaking my head is the MMM radio network has pulled Kiss from their playlist in the wake of these comments. Guys, why? It might not be a bad thing because someone I peripherally know commented you only play 'God Gave Rock And Roll To You' anyway. If this song has been pulled, people are wiping their brows and giving a sigh of relief because that one just blows the foreskin off a bull elephant. But if you are going to remove from your playlist tracks associated with anybody who has ever said or done anything politically incorrect, questionable, illegal, or just downright unpardonably stupid, what are we going to hear coming from our radio? Static, that's what.
Tuesday 12 August 2014
F**k You, Depression, You've Claimed Another Scalp
When I was embarking on my teenage years, I watched an episode of 'Happy Days' and it featured an eccentric alien named Mork from Ork. That alien earned his own television show, so well was the character received, and at one stage crossed back to Happy Days, and when Ritchie Cunningham asked who was the US president, Mork asked, 'Do you like peanuts?' Ritchie nodded in that goofy all-American Gee-Whiz-Mom-And-Apple-Pie patented look of his and confirmed that yes, he did rather like peanuts. 'Oh,' smiled Mork, 'then you'll love our Jimmy.'
One of my all time favourite movies in 'The World According To Garp', which despite Robin Williams' frenetic comedic reputation, shows his ability to play understated as a serious actor in a character juxtaposed to Glen Close's nonconformist mother Jenny Fields, and John Lithgow as the former tight end for the Philadelphia Eagles who underwent a sex change, Roberta Muldoon. I love this movie so much. I cry for Garp's young son (sorry about the spoiler), and wince at the notorious blowjob scene.
And like so many others, I am deeply saddened that the vile monster that is depression has claimed another victim. Fuck you so much, Depression. You do nothing good. You're menacing. You hang around like a bad smell. You hover. You block out the sun and the warmth. You've claimed another scalp for your lugubrious belt. Fuck off, why don't you? If you had to get another notch, could you have not gone after a complete arsewipe rather than somebody who brought laughter and joy?
How ironic that a man who brought so much happiness, had such little of his own.
And of course this morning I learned about the passing of Lauren Bacall. I can justify this; she was, after all, 89 years old. But what a beautiful dame she was, and with a speaking voice that could melt a polar cap. I had the enjoyment years ago of reading a letter Bogart had written to her in their earl courtship, when as a 45 year old man he had fallen in love with the 19 year old model. For all his tough guy persona, he had a beautifully poetic way with words. Or maybe it was just the love speaking. One of the irritating things of learning of Bacall's death, is having the syrupy Bertie Higgins song 'Key Largo' stuck in my head. Stewardess, barf bag, please!
Proud Mum Alert: last week my 10 year old complained about a kid, who although younger, is very menacing and put his hands around my son's throat last week. I told my son a rapier sharp wit will always be better than thuggery. Today he showed me a picture he drew. It's of one ugly muhfuh, let's put it that way. My son can draw. He took his sketch to this turd of a kid, and said, 'Hey, look in the mirror!', and held up the diabolic looking caricature, leaving one flabbergasted little bastard of a kid in his wake.
Before I sign off, did anyone else hear of the woman who complained of getting asked to leave a pizza restaurant in Texas because she - are you sitting down? Are you ready for this? - CHANGED A SHITTY NAPPY AT THE TABLE!!!! Truly, you idiot, what did you expect? It's a fucking restaurant. They have to adhere to hygiene obligations. And not having faecal matter and particles circulating in the air is one of those obligations. And dunno about you, but when I'm tucking into my vegorama on thin-and-crispy, the last thing I want to be exposed to is an unfolding, shit-filled nappy at the next table. Call me unadventurous, but it's just not my bag, okay?
One of my all time favourite movies in 'The World According To Garp', which despite Robin Williams' frenetic comedic reputation, shows his ability to play understated as a serious actor in a character juxtaposed to Glen Close's nonconformist mother Jenny Fields, and John Lithgow as the former tight end for the Philadelphia Eagles who underwent a sex change, Roberta Muldoon. I love this movie so much. I cry for Garp's young son (sorry about the spoiler), and wince at the notorious blowjob scene.
And like so many others, I am deeply saddened that the vile monster that is depression has claimed another victim. Fuck you so much, Depression. You do nothing good. You're menacing. You hang around like a bad smell. You hover. You block out the sun and the warmth. You've claimed another scalp for your lugubrious belt. Fuck off, why don't you? If you had to get another notch, could you have not gone after a complete arsewipe rather than somebody who brought laughter and joy?
How ironic that a man who brought so much happiness, had such little of his own.
And of course this morning I learned about the passing of Lauren Bacall. I can justify this; she was, after all, 89 years old. But what a beautiful dame she was, and with a speaking voice that could melt a polar cap. I had the enjoyment years ago of reading a letter Bogart had written to her in their earl courtship, when as a 45 year old man he had fallen in love with the 19 year old model. For all his tough guy persona, he had a beautifully poetic way with words. Or maybe it was just the love speaking. One of the irritating things of learning of Bacall's death, is having the syrupy Bertie Higgins song 'Key Largo' stuck in my head. Stewardess, barf bag, please!
Proud Mum Alert: last week my 10 year old complained about a kid, who although younger, is very menacing and put his hands around my son's throat last week. I told my son a rapier sharp wit will always be better than thuggery. Today he showed me a picture he drew. It's of one ugly muhfuh, let's put it that way. My son can draw. He took his sketch to this turd of a kid, and said, 'Hey, look in the mirror!', and held up the diabolic looking caricature, leaving one flabbergasted little bastard of a kid in his wake.
Before I sign off, did anyone else hear of the woman who complained of getting asked to leave a pizza restaurant in Texas because she - are you sitting down? Are you ready for this? - CHANGED A SHITTY NAPPY AT THE TABLE!!!! Truly, you idiot, what did you expect? It's a fucking restaurant. They have to adhere to hygiene obligations. And not having faecal matter and particles circulating in the air is one of those obligations. And dunno about you, but when I'm tucking into my vegorama on thin-and-crispy, the last thing I want to be exposed to is an unfolding, shit-filled nappy at the next table. Call me unadventurous, but it's just not my bag, okay?
Thursday 7 August 2014
Stupid? You Can (O)bet(z) On It!
Yesterday I was shaking my head with despair and face-palming at the utter stupidity of the Attorney General. Today it's another MP's turn. Whose turn is it? Drum roll, please. After much deliberation, oh what am I saying, there was no deliberation because the answer is as obvious as a dog turd on a marzipan wedding cake, the award goes to: Eric Obetz! Obetz, take a bow (and while you're bowing let the Australian public take the opportunity to kick your stupid arse as it is on the ascendant). Do you seriously believe there is a link between abortion and breast cancer? Mate, YOU are the link: THE MISSING LINK! Tell you what, I'm believing there is a link between senior Liberal politicians and rampant arseholery.
The other thing that has caught my eye today is that Marlon Wayans has refused to issue an apology to Delta Goodrem for dissing her dancing at some concert. You know what? I'm glad. To all you Delta fans and to the brigade who MUST find offence everywhere: get over it. Did you even look at his picture? He is pulling a silly, mock-terror face, and he has used the word 'unrhythmic'. I don't know that this particular word exists, per se (well, my spell check doesn't recognise it), but sound it out. Say it slowly. It is beautiful. It is poetic. It is onomatopoeic. The man is clearly having a joke, and using the term 'white woman' is simply a piss-take on societal attitudes to the dancing ability of Caucasians compared to that of the African persuasion. The people who are losing their shit over this are the same pack of clowns who want to ban children in pre-school singing, 'Baa-baa, Black Sheep' and have them sing 'Baa-Baa, Rainbow Sheep'? Tell me, who's seen a rainbow coloured sheep? No, didn't think so (you up the back sucking on a bong and dressed in a Grateful Dead T-shirt, put your hand down). Delta doesn't care what Wayans said, and neither should anyone else. Find something else to be offended at. Oh, not the fact the froth on your cappuccino isn't to your liking (it's a slip-up by the barista, not a way of hitting our hard-working Aussie farmers in the hip pocket and kicking them when they're down). Something worthwhile.
I will take this opportunity to thank the person who rated my novel 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth' five out of five on Amazon.com. THANK YOU! MWAH, MWAH! To those of you whose interest is aroused, here is a link to the first chapter, and you might choose to purchase same: http://www.zeus-publications.com/silver_studs_and_sabre_teeth.htm
The other thing that has caught my eye today is that Marlon Wayans has refused to issue an apology to Delta Goodrem for dissing her dancing at some concert. You know what? I'm glad. To all you Delta fans and to the brigade who MUST find offence everywhere: get over it. Did you even look at his picture? He is pulling a silly, mock-terror face, and he has used the word 'unrhythmic'. I don't know that this particular word exists, per se (well, my spell check doesn't recognise it), but sound it out. Say it slowly. It is beautiful. It is poetic. It is onomatopoeic. The man is clearly having a joke, and using the term 'white woman' is simply a piss-take on societal attitudes to the dancing ability of Caucasians compared to that of the African persuasion. The people who are losing their shit over this are the same pack of clowns who want to ban children in pre-school singing, 'Baa-baa, Black Sheep' and have them sing 'Baa-Baa, Rainbow Sheep'? Tell me, who's seen a rainbow coloured sheep? No, didn't think so (you up the back sucking on a bong and dressed in a Grateful Dead T-shirt, put your hand down). Delta doesn't care what Wayans said, and neither should anyone else. Find something else to be offended at. Oh, not the fact the froth on your cappuccino isn't to your liking (it's a slip-up by the barista, not a way of hitting our hard-working Aussie farmers in the hip pocket and kicking them when they're down). Something worthwhile.
I will take this opportunity to thank the person who rated my novel 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth' five out of five on Amazon.com. THANK YOU! MWAH, MWAH! To those of you whose interest is aroused, here is a link to the first chapter, and you might choose to purchase same: http://www.zeus-publications.com/silver_studs_and_sabre_teeth.htm
Dear Government, Stay Out Of My Business
Dear Government, and in particular Attorney General George Brandis,
Please fuck off out of my business. That would be really nice.
Please do not issue conceptual lunacy like storing people's metadata, and please spare us the festering fly-strewn pile of crap that those with nothing to hide, will hide nothing and/or not be worried. My life is my own, and can assure you abides by the laws of this land. Therefore, you can stay out of it and there is no need to be curious about who I ring, what websites I browse, who I text, yadda yadda yadda. Forgive the Seinfeld reference should you, like me, actually not be a fan of that show. Did you like it? Whilst I grasped the reason it was successful, it was after all quirky and different, the characters were all immensely annoying and Jerry Seinfeld is the most unfunny man ever to work as a comedian. This leads to an interesting segue: Jerry Seinfeld is an unfunny comedian, and you, together with Big Ears, are an incompetent Attorney General and PM respectively.
You are all a great shower of stupid, supercilious clowns. You have some spurious notion that people should wait six months before receiving dole payments (and starve in the meantime, I suppose?). The Government was stating that under their proposed crap, er laws, unlike other dismissed workers those in the sex industry should have to wait a longer period before being eligible for unemployment benefit. Truly, what the total fuck, dudes? This is snobbery and a manifestation of the holier than thou religious dung that infests the sitting cabinet like head lice infests an unchecked classroom of kindergarten kids. I understand you have backflipped on that one. Congrats.
But in any event, if you wish to access my data for some asinine reason, then go about it the right way, ie, go through the appropriate channels and GET A FUCKING WARRANT!!!!!
Yours etc.
Please fuck off out of my business. That would be really nice.
Please do not issue conceptual lunacy like storing people's metadata, and please spare us the festering fly-strewn pile of crap that those with nothing to hide, will hide nothing and/or not be worried. My life is my own, and can assure you abides by the laws of this land. Therefore, you can stay out of it and there is no need to be curious about who I ring, what websites I browse, who I text, yadda yadda yadda. Forgive the Seinfeld reference should you, like me, actually not be a fan of that show. Did you like it? Whilst I grasped the reason it was successful, it was after all quirky and different, the characters were all immensely annoying and Jerry Seinfeld is the most unfunny man ever to work as a comedian. This leads to an interesting segue: Jerry Seinfeld is an unfunny comedian, and you, together with Big Ears, are an incompetent Attorney General and PM respectively.
You are all a great shower of stupid, supercilious clowns. You have some spurious notion that people should wait six months before receiving dole payments (and starve in the meantime, I suppose?). The Government was stating that under their proposed crap, er laws, unlike other dismissed workers those in the sex industry should have to wait a longer period before being eligible for unemployment benefit. Truly, what the total fuck, dudes? This is snobbery and a manifestation of the holier than thou religious dung that infests the sitting cabinet like head lice infests an unchecked classroom of kindergarten kids. I understand you have backflipped on that one. Congrats.
But in any event, if you wish to access my data for some asinine reason, then go about it the right way, ie, go through the appropriate channels and GET A FUCKING WARRANT!!!!!
Yours etc.
Monday 4 August 2014
Stage-Jumping Jackass
Sorry, but I'm not buying into the train of thought that is praising the athlete who jumped on stage during Kylie Minogue's performance at the Commonwealth Games closing ceremony as 'an Aussie legend'. Simpson with his donkey was an Aussie legend. Weary Dunlop on the Burma railway and River Kwai was an Aussie legend. Dr Victor Chang was an Aussie legend. Professor Fred Hollows was an Aussie legend. Dr Elizabeth Hamlin (not sure of spelling of surname, and I'm typing this on the fly, trying to be creative) is an Aussie legend, along with her husband. Dr Fiona Woods, too, is an Aussie legend. In the event that the stage-crasher is reading this, you, my girl, are not an Aussie legend; what you are is a total jackass.
Seriously. She was no better than any idiot that storms the field during a game-in-progress. Also, people have paid money to watch a ceremony that featured Kylie and her back-up dancers, not Kylie and her back-up dancers being accompanied by some twerp with no sense of decorum or manners. These actions are monstrously disrespectful to the performers on stage, who have been choreographed and are trying to concentrate, and then heigh-ho-the-dairy-o, up jumps some clown who decides to dance along, break their concentration, and possibly endanger them as she gets in the way. Seriously, girl, why do you think there is an announcement prior to a performance of a play about no flash photography being allowed (although in this digital age, is such an announcement still done?)? It's because it distracts the performers, who often rely on 'timing' on stage. I should know; I am a bit of an actor, too. My sister told me (she might have been at the performance) of the time Warren Mitchell actually stopped mid-performance during 'Death of a Salesman' when some dunderhead took a photograph, and the offending patron of the arts was removed from the theatre. People who have rehearsed don't like needless surprises. It throws their timing, affects their performance (which affects their egos - trust me, I know. I'm a bit of an actor, too, remember?), and if the performance is compromised, the audience is not getting their money's worth, either. There are many factors to consider before acting like a complete horse's arse and jumping on the stage, or doing something to distract performers on a stage. A few years ago, I was on stage playing a stern, austere police office standing-over a potential witness. Off-stage, simultaneously, characters were meant to be making love as part of the plot. The woman playing the female decided to embellish, and shouted, 'Oh, dah-ling!', as though in the throes of sexual ecstasy. She doubtless thought this funny, and would make the play funnier, and make her performance funnier. It did not. What it did was throw me, and my on-stage co-player at the time. Both of us shot each other fleeting WTF glances as we did our lines. She committed one of the cardinal sins of the stage: needlessly drowned out another player. So the audience missed some of our dialogue, and our performance was compromised. And as someone who likes the smell of greasepaint and the roar of applause, I was truly pissed off at my fellow cast-member.
It is not funny to cut someone else's grass. Unless you are a four-and-a-half year old. When I launched my first novel in 2009, and was reading at podium, my youngest son, then aged four-and-a-half, wanted Mummy. He trotted out the front and tugged on the leg of my jeans as I read, and he ignored the stage-whisper from his dad, who was standing 'stage-right' to 'Come to Daddy and let Mummy read'. He let go of my jeans, fluttered his eyelashes at the audience, and trotted off to his father's waiting arms, as the audience chuckled and cried, 'Oh, bless his heart!' and other such platitudes. This was actually endearing and funny. What that woman did at the Commonwealth Closing Games Ceremony was not.
Seriously. She was no better than any idiot that storms the field during a game-in-progress. Also, people have paid money to watch a ceremony that featured Kylie and her back-up dancers, not Kylie and her back-up dancers being accompanied by some twerp with no sense of decorum or manners. These actions are monstrously disrespectful to the performers on stage, who have been choreographed and are trying to concentrate, and then heigh-ho-the-dairy-o, up jumps some clown who decides to dance along, break their concentration, and possibly endanger them as she gets in the way. Seriously, girl, why do you think there is an announcement prior to a performance of a play about no flash photography being allowed (although in this digital age, is such an announcement still done?)? It's because it distracts the performers, who often rely on 'timing' on stage. I should know; I am a bit of an actor, too. My sister told me (she might have been at the performance) of the time Warren Mitchell actually stopped mid-performance during 'Death of a Salesman' when some dunderhead took a photograph, and the offending patron of the arts was removed from the theatre. People who have rehearsed don't like needless surprises. It throws their timing, affects their performance (which affects their egos - trust me, I know. I'm a bit of an actor, too, remember?), and if the performance is compromised, the audience is not getting their money's worth, either. There are many factors to consider before acting like a complete horse's arse and jumping on the stage, or doing something to distract performers on a stage. A few years ago, I was on stage playing a stern, austere police office standing-over a potential witness. Off-stage, simultaneously, characters were meant to be making love as part of the plot. The woman playing the female decided to embellish, and shouted, 'Oh, dah-ling!', as though in the throes of sexual ecstasy. She doubtless thought this funny, and would make the play funnier, and make her performance funnier. It did not. What it did was throw me, and my on-stage co-player at the time. Both of us shot each other fleeting WTF glances as we did our lines. She committed one of the cardinal sins of the stage: needlessly drowned out another player. So the audience missed some of our dialogue, and our performance was compromised. And as someone who likes the smell of greasepaint and the roar of applause, I was truly pissed off at my fellow cast-member.
It is not funny to cut someone else's grass. Unless you are a four-and-a-half year old. When I launched my first novel in 2009, and was reading at podium, my youngest son, then aged four-and-a-half, wanted Mummy. He trotted out the front and tugged on the leg of my jeans as I read, and he ignored the stage-whisper from his dad, who was standing 'stage-right' to 'Come to Daddy and let Mummy read'. He let go of my jeans, fluttered his eyelashes at the audience, and trotted off to his father's waiting arms, as the audience chuckled and cried, 'Oh, bless his heart!' and other such platitudes. This was actually endearing and funny. What that woman did at the Commonwealth Closing Games Ceremony was not.
Friday 1 August 2014
Can't See The Forrest For The BS
Prime Minister Abbott has described Andrew Forrest's proposed welfare reforms as 'bold' and - I think - 'ambitious'. I'm going with some different adjectives. How does 'bullshit' and 'draconian interfering nonsense' sound? Truth be told, I think Twiggy's motives are decent, but Twigs, if you're reading this, do you seriously think you, and the government, can tell welfare recipients how they are to disburse their income? Now, you earn your money through your own business, and fair play to you, but when my payroll slip is emailed to me, there is no rider stating 'Simone, you cannot buy cigarettes and alcohol, nor can you gamble'. I actually do not smoke, drink maybe two alcoholic units a month, and find poker machines soulless and abhorrent. I understand it is illegal for an employer to attempt to dictate to an employee how the said employee's income can be disbursed. If I did get such a notification, I would take the attitude of 'fuck you', and then send a picture of myself sitting at the pokies, a beer in one hand and a ciggie in the other as a form of protest against this INTERFERENCE IN MY OWN LIFE!!!! So why do you think the government should be interfering in the lives of welfare recipients? Believe it or not, many people on welfare don't actually enjoy being stigmatised as bludgers. Many people on welfare struggle, and if they have a few cents left after rent, groceries, and utilities to quench the thirst with a cold beer, then FFS let 'em! Yes, I know there are children being disadvantaged by their families addictions and neglect, and they must be helped, but I don't think penalising everybody and playing Nanny State is really the way to go about it.
And what's this other bullshit being proposed that families who receive Family Tax Benefit should be penalised if their child skips school? I send my kids to school each day in good faith that they will attend, before I head off to work (if it is a day I am rostered to work). Supposing my kids decide to wag, why should I suffer by worrying how I am going to pay a bill and buy food? It is difficult for my kids to wag because the little one is put on a bus that drives direct to his school, and my older one has to just walk up the hill to get to the high school - it's kind of difficult for him to cut classes. My kids are pretty good, and happy at school, so wagging is not likely. But it's not fair to make the parents of children who wag suffer, when that parent is probably running around like a mad headless chook of a morning getting lunches, and then running out the door to catch a bus to work and yelling back at the kids to have a good day at school, in the faith that the children will attend school. This is just a way of making people already struggling suffer more. And what about higher-income earners whose kids decide to play truant? Oh, that's right; they are the titled ones with money, so they therefore shouldn't suffer! I know that sounds a bit twisted, but seriously, it just reflects this proposal: twisted. TER-WISS-TED! If some family on an income that reads like a telephone number has a kid who skips the elite private school in which he/she is enrolled, will they receive a notice along the lines of 'Dear Mr and Mrs Snottykid-Buggerskids, We advise your child Pomeroy has had two unexplained absences this term, and therefore your proposed cruise around the Bahamas for two weeks must be forfeited.' See my point here? What a festering, gangrenous pile of shit these ideas are.
Before I sign off, I must say I try not to be judgemental about other parents' decisions, but I am having trouble remaining impartial to the parents who abandoned the Downs syndrome child born via Thai surrogate, although they did take the healthy twin child. Wow. Magnaminous of you. I know. I don't know these people. I don't know their situation. But I can't bring myself to have any sympathy for them. They suck, IMHO.
Oh well, time to hang out some washing. Also have to check some of my notes because I've been invited to be special guest at Book Week festivities in my local library. Tres excited, to be sure. Also, I have been approached by a representative of the U3A to lecture for a term about creative writing. I'm seriously excited about this; teaching writing is something I would love to try.
And what's this other bullshit being proposed that families who receive Family Tax Benefit should be penalised if their child skips school? I send my kids to school each day in good faith that they will attend, before I head off to work (if it is a day I am rostered to work). Supposing my kids decide to wag, why should I suffer by worrying how I am going to pay a bill and buy food? It is difficult for my kids to wag because the little one is put on a bus that drives direct to his school, and my older one has to just walk up the hill to get to the high school - it's kind of difficult for him to cut classes. My kids are pretty good, and happy at school, so wagging is not likely. But it's not fair to make the parents of children who wag suffer, when that parent is probably running around like a mad headless chook of a morning getting lunches, and then running out the door to catch a bus to work and yelling back at the kids to have a good day at school, in the faith that the children will attend school. This is just a way of making people already struggling suffer more. And what about higher-income earners whose kids decide to play truant? Oh, that's right; they are the titled ones with money, so they therefore shouldn't suffer! I know that sounds a bit twisted, but seriously, it just reflects this proposal: twisted. TER-WISS-TED! If some family on an income that reads like a telephone number has a kid who skips the elite private school in which he/she is enrolled, will they receive a notice along the lines of 'Dear Mr and Mrs Snottykid-Buggerskids, We advise your child Pomeroy has had two unexplained absences this term, and therefore your proposed cruise around the Bahamas for two weeks must be forfeited.' See my point here? What a festering, gangrenous pile of shit these ideas are.
Before I sign off, I must say I try not to be judgemental about other parents' decisions, but I am having trouble remaining impartial to the parents who abandoned the Downs syndrome child born via Thai surrogate, although they did take the healthy twin child. Wow. Magnaminous of you. I know. I don't know these people. I don't know their situation. But I can't bring myself to have any sympathy for them. They suck, IMHO.
Oh well, time to hang out some washing. Also have to check some of my notes because I've been invited to be special guest at Book Week festivities in my local library. Tres excited, to be sure. Also, I have been approached by a representative of the U3A to lecture for a term about creative writing. I'm seriously excited about this; teaching writing is something I would love to try.
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