Buy Some Crampons, Rope & A PIckaxe, Guys

Okay, I'm firing this little piece off at my local library because I have used up all my Internet allowance, and my Internet is soooooo slooooooow today.  It makes a tranquilised slug look like Usain Bolt.  The computer at the library is pretty darn slow, also, but it's still faster than mine.  Mr Bingells is going to upgrade our plan, because whilst I can cope with slowness  for a day or two, a week is out of the question.  I took a selfie and SMS-ed it to a friend, and thought I was King Shit with my new-found skill, so did a few others, and bang went my Internet allowance!  Be aware of this, peeps.

Anyway, it would appear NewsCorp, or News Crap, has deemed some supposed extra-marital affair by Nova Peris Kneebone is news-worthy, and apparently we should all sit in black robes with an itchy horse-hair wig on our heads, banging gavels. It is my theory that people who take a censorious and unwarranted interest in the sex lives of other people merely have none of their own.  They say it was a misuse of tax payer funds.  No, it's just their ploy to get more papers sold because - YIKES! - someone was having - shhhh! sex.  Whether Ms Peris Kneebone (or maybe she's just known as Peris now; I'm not sure because I'm not interested in her or her sex life) did get up to a bit of the old nasty with this athlete from Trinidad & Tobago is nobody's business.  They are what's commonly known as Consenting Adults.  I wonder why Rupert's paper has her in its cross-hairs?  Were the staff issued a directive and expenses sheet to go to Paddy Pallins and purchase some crampons, rope, and a pickaxe to reach the high moral ground?  I don't think a paper helmed by people who think nothing of hacking the private phone of grieving, bereaved parents is entitled to be self-righteous about anything.

Excerpts of salacious, PRIVATE, messages were published.  I wonder how lawful the obtaining of this data was?  Was it like hacking private phone numbers? I noticed in one of them, she says she wishes  she 'had of' done blah blah blah with the athlete.  The only thing with which I take issue is that the word is not 'of' but 'have'.  HAVE!!!  Goddamnit, I go mad when I see that!  That offended me.  The possibility of her conducting some extra marital relations did not.

I saw a photo of the bloke, by the way, and had to fan myself.  Talk about a hottie.

Yesterday I conducted a class about creative writing to some seniors, and my topic was 'characters'.  I really did wax lyrical because characters are my favourite things in any book.  I found myself continually using 'To Kill A Mockingbird' as examples of different ways to make the characters come to life - such as having a hidden talent (Atticus Finch being an expert marksman).  I spoke about sympathetic villains, and unsympathetic villains (Bob Ewell - an arsehole with no redeeming features).  I spoke about avoiding stereotypes, but making the character believeable.  I read a book once where the protagonist was a lawyer who refused to take on a client because he believed he might be guilty, and why should he take the case just because the dude had money, and oh-I-must-polish-my-halo etc.  As someone who spent most of her adult life in the legal industry, I do not believe there is a lawyer out there who thinks like that, or at least , not a one who has a solvent practice, if you get my drift.

A Hell Of An Orchestra

A guttural and thundering bass, evocative of peace and the era of free love, followed by the wistful, true, sincere and earnestly sung, 'It's gettin' near dawn/When lights close their tired eyes...'

Give up?  I'm thinking of 'Sunshine Of Your Love' by Cream, comprising Messrs Jack Bruce, Ginger Baker, and Eric Clapton.  What talented men, and what trials they have dealt with over the years.  By this I refer to Baker's heroin addiction, and Clapton's tragic loss of his young son.  I cannot listen to the song 'Tears in Heaven' because it distresses me so, and makes me cry.

Now we have our own loss.  I woke up this morning to learn man who delivers that powerful bass and the vocal power behind those lyrics, Jack Bruce, has died aged 71. 

This has been the utterly crappiest week for me, a music fan.  First of all, Raphael Ravenstock died at just 60 years of age.  If you're not sure about the name, then you'll definitely know his work.  Go to You Tube and have a listen to Gerry Rafferty's 'Baker Street'.  Ravenstock was the saxophonist, and if that's not one of the most BRILLIANT pieces of sax, then what is?  Yes, I know 'Yackety Sax', aka, 'Benny Hill Getting Chased By Women In Lingerie' is good, too, but oh, the feelings the solo in 'Baker Street' stirs in me.  I just want to lie down and close my eyes, and this music helps me forget the world.

The same world that the other day lost Alvin Stardust.  I loved 'My Coo Ca Choo' when I was a kid.  Yes, I know the lyrics might be a bit naff compared to what I've quoted in the first paragraph herein, but it's Glam!  It's a piece in the puzzle of the glam rock zeitgeist.  And Alvin tries to looking menacing, but somehow doesn't, yet it's all wonderful.  'Tom Cat/You know where it's at/Come on, let's go to my flat/Lay down and groove on the mat/Oh won't be my coo-ca-choo?'  Yeah, yeah, I know.  But it's probably more poetic and inviting than, 'Let's go to my place and have a root on the floor', which I'm sure is the subtext of those lyrics.  I am sure Stardust was in a West End production of 'Chitty Chitty Bang Bang' a few years ago, playing the grandfather.  He's died after a brief battle with prostate cancer.  RIP to him, too.

And now Jack Bruce.  We are left on Earth with what appears to be a glut of drones who have no skill on an instrument, unless it's programmed into a computer, and pain our ears with banality such as 'My anaconda don't want none/Unless you got buns, hon.'  Pfffffft!

Speaking of music, the other day I was driving an elderly lady around the district (a scheduled respite outing for her), and being the old dag I am, had the local AM station on the radio.  They had some program where the top selling singles for consecutive years were being played.  It came to 1985, and yeah, 'We Are The World'.  I won't labour the issue.  If you've followed my blog in the past, you will know I detest this song with passion, so I calmly turned down the radio, looked at the woman beside me and apologised, explaining the song made my ears bleed (particularly the part where Bob Dylan honks in like a sick goose at the end).  After an appropriate amount of time, I turned the radio back up, and what did I get? 1986  - and the best selling single of that year was 'Venus' by Bananarama!  I almost let fly with expletives, but just turned down the radio again, and kept driving.  The obligatory three minutes went by, and I ventured a twist 'up' on the dial.  Now it was time for 1987, and what was I subjected to?  What was the best seller for that year?  Well, it started with a string of the synthesised boppy notes that was a signature to the dung inflicted on us by Stock Aitken Waterman, a trio responsible for the most horrid dross of the Eighties.  And yeah, it was frickin' Rick Astley singing, 'Never Gonna Give You Up'.  'Aaaaarrrggghhh!' I wailed, 'What fresh hell is this?'  And turned down the radio again.  With the sound fluctuating, the poor old girl in the passenger seat probably had concerns for her hearing aid battery.

So, RIP to some musical greats.  Shit, the band up there is getting wonderful.  It's not a band anymore, it's an orchestra, I reckon.

Oh, and last night I wasn't hope.  I telephoned my home and spoke to my kids.  The oldest sounded different.  It seems his vocal chords are thickening.  And it's not just me, but when his dad got on the phone, he asked did I think the boy's voice sounded different.  My son is growing up.  Tissues, please.

Scarfing it Up

And now for today's chapter of Whipping Up Anti-Muslim Sentiment brought to you by our local media: In today's gripping and riveting instalment, we hear from a woman who claims to have received discrimination from her employer Qantas because she was not allowed to show her crucifix on a chain, whereas a Muslim co-worker was allowed to wear her headscarf.  Meanwhile, in a smallish house in rural New South Wales, a harried mother-of-two tossed her auburn-tressed head, rolled her green eyes, and yelled at her kids to hurry and finishing dressing for school. This mother-of-two was exasperated and annoyed at the continual 'Us vs Them' sentiment being created by the media in an attempt to feed bogans all over, and recalls the time her friend applied for a position as a flight attendant with Emirates Airlines.  She showed this woman the criteria of the airline, strict the point of being Draconian  thought the then-younger woman who eighteen years later became your blogger (got that?  Not too convoluted?).  One of their rules was no eye-glasses to be worn.  If the eyesight required assistance, the attendant was expected to wear contact lenses.  The would-be applicant explained this was an OH&S issue, after all, such accoutrements could slip off and fall onto a passenger.  The same with loose jewellery such as necklaces and bracelets - not to be in view.  Now  you know what, people?  In 2013, Emirates and Qantas merged.  Some of the policies have probably merged a bit, too.  The disgruntled trolley dolly (I KNOW that is a disparaging term for a flight attendant, but I feel like being a bitch, so deal with it) would apparently have been allowed to wear a chain, provided it was under the uniform.  A headscarf cannot be hidden under the uniform, and properly attached to the scone, is unlikely to come loose and land in someone's beef-or-chicken, or injure someone if it DID come into contact with them.  The scarf is traditionally a soft piece of fabric, after all.

Can everyone PLEASE stop losing their shit?  The place is starting to pong somewhat.

I have a big day tomorrow.  Sigh.  I want to get back into the work-in-progress, but cannot do so tomorrow.  Double sigh.

Images

This frigging cold's been hanging around like an annoying drunk at a party.  You know the type I mean: thinks you're impressed about his (minimal) knowledge of current affairs and that you're agog that he knows Troy Cassar Daly.  I've had such a beast in my face at a 50th a while back, and given my dislike of country music and slurring drunks, naturally didn't give a rat's ring that he knew Troy Cassar Daly.  It's almost gone - I've been sleeping better and no longer reliant on Codrals.  What I have discovered is if I go to another pharmacy in town, I can select my Codrals from the shelf and pay at the till with no questions asked, and go about my business without feeling like I'm reporting at the cop station pursuant to some bail conditions.  But I'm still at that stage where I wake up, and fantasise about when I can next lie down. 

But can't quite do that because I've got to give a talk to the U3A about writing this afternoon, and my topic is imagery.  I've prepared some rudimentary notes, and I'll wing it.  Perhaps my comparison of a malingering cold to an annoying drunken party bore would make a good example?

I've also committed to helping a local art student restructure an essay today.  So that will blow apart at the seams a chance of a good snooze, too.

Perhaps I should have had an earlier night, but Jeez-Louise, Professor Brian Cox was on 'Q & A' last night, and oh my giddy aunt, is he a dreamboat, or what?  I have been crushing majorly on him for ages, and I just sat enthralled at what he had to say, even if I didn't understand some of it, not being blessed with the brilliant physicist's mind he has.  Loved the bit about time slowing on the watch when one is moving quickly.  I THINK I understood it.  I don't know if this is within the realm of physics, but I fear I may have constructed a bimbo force-field where he is concerned.  I am concerned about this, because I really hate women who do this in the presence of the male of the species.  I've known some reasonably smart women who would reduce to giggling, inferior, B-class things so as not to appear to bright or threatening.  I cannot knowingly do this.  Take me as I am, or not at all. A lot of this insidious phenomena was observed during the Eighties, when I worked at a place specialising in insurance law, and compensation claims.  We acted for the epitome of Eighties Corporate Greed - the insurance companies who would have had Gordon Gecko jizzing himself.  Occasionally, the office would have a party for the clientele: a bunch of boozing buffoons whose own senses of attractiveness would become more warped with each passing cocktail.  I was introduced by one of the solicitors, and some slob drooled, 'What a good looking sort!'  I arched my eyebrow, a la Roger Moore as James Bond (this was probably the gamut of his encapsulation of Bond), and snottily replied, 'Brains, too.'

Well, unless you've just woken up, it's RIP and Vale to Gough Whitlam.  What a superior dude.  People of a certain age always remember 11 November 1975.  I remember this miserable specimen of a nun, a nasty piece of work who should have been garrotted with her own rosary beads, sticking her veiled head into our classroom and gleefully crying, 'They've sacked Whitlam!'  This was probably the only time Sister Mary-Slag ever smiled, now that I think of it.  She maliciously gloated at the downfall of a man who introduced Medicare, free university education, indigenous recognition, no-fault divorce, abolition of conscription, needs-based education funding, arts funding, and legal aid, among other things.  In hindsight, she probably didn't like him because he was helping unmarried mothers and divorcees.  Will we ever have another visionary like him again, or are we stuck with the imbeciles we have now?

A D&A Night, and A Revelation

Life can throw curve-balls.  I'm not sure if this is a curve-ball, or irony, or what, but the other night I attended a drug and alcohol information night which was put on my 13yo son's school year.  I entered the hall and collected my lucky door prize ticket.  I won.  Thrilled was me.  Chuffed.  I walked to the front of the hall and was handed a - wait for it - football.  Rugby League code football.  Those who know me well will know I seriously loathe this game.  I smiled with the sincerity of someone who has been 'roasted' by a comedian, and went back to my seat.  Afterwards, when the deputy headmaster commented to me, I could not help but say, 'I detest the game, and I detest the culture.'  Yet the forum and information night was very well put together, and kudos to the Year 7s.  I hope my son was listening.  The headmaster talked about the rules against smoking at the school, and it reminded me of my fourth-grade teacher who used to light up an Ardath in front of us, puff away, and leave a bunch of green-faced kids spluttering and choking, eyes streaming.  My husband, now a non-smoker, used to smoke when he was in high school, and he would be accosted by the PE teacher, who'd demand, 'Where's your smokes?', and bludge a few.  The headmaster then spoke about what would happen to a student whom it was suspected was affected by alcohol at school, and I thought back to when I was fifteen, and a few of the guys turned up rotten, maggoty, plastered, off-their-tits drunk to the school dance.  They had been swilling rum-and-coke in the park near by hall.  Throughout the course of the evening, I was - ahem! - making out with one of them, and almost got drunk on his saliva.  Also got busted by the Maths teacher.  That was sooooo embarrassing, but thank God I did all this stupid stuff before social media (yet here I am, yammering about it on social media; go figure).

I had to work this morning, after a bad night's sleep owing to this monstrous head cold and cough that has plagued - PLAGUED, I tell ye - me of late.  I'm going to have a rest shortly.  But as I drove around from home to home, medicating one oldie, showering another, the song 'Slow Hand' by the Pointer Sisters came on the radio.  Reminded me of when I was fifteen, and all that was encumbent with that tumultuous time in my life ( including going the grope a the school dance and getting caught by the Maths teacher). Bit of a guilty pleasure.  Kind of sultry.  Kind of seductive.  But I had a bit of a think today.  Bonnie, June, Anita, and Ruth, whichever of them warbled on the recording, tell us they want a man with 'a slow hand'; somebody who 'will not come and go in a heated rush'.  And it hit me, like a Damascene revelation.  These ladies are utterly sick of premature ejaculators!  Who's with me on this theory?

Menageries of Glass and Real Life Animals

Life's usually good, or at least tolerable.  I do love a night of theatre, and on Sunday I attended a production of Tennessee Williams' 'The Glass Menagerie' at Belvoir Street, Surry Hills.  When I was in my early twenties, single, and a bit more cashed-up (and also living in Sydney), I'd make a habit of seeing a play at least once a month.  My cousin-in-law and I made the trip into town the other day, and settled in for a night of entertainment.  As the lights dimmed, I saw a dandified fop walking along the aisle, smoking a cigarette. I was about to hiss, 'Put that out!  This is a no-smoking venue, and the rest of us don't want to breathe your shit in', and fortunately realised he was the actor playing Tom Wingfield, and making his stage entrance from that angle.  Anyway, it was excellent all round: the set, the technical aspect, and the performances were absolutely mesmerising.  Studied this play at school, and thought the daughter Laura a bit of a flibbertigibbet, but as an adult who works in the care industry, now realise the character suffered terrible anxiety.  So interesting.  But yeah, a great time was had by me, as I chatted in the foyer with my cousin, both of us sipping champagne, and 'famous Aussie actor spotting'.  I do love Belvoir Street - so atmospheric and such an eclectic crowd there.  When my sons are a little older, I'd love to take them to see a show that doesn't involve personified machinery and animation.

But of course there are things that really grind the gears, and piss me off to the point of nausea.  Did anyone watch 'The Bachelor'?  Well, I didn't, because one of those things that makes me feel combative is reality television.  It seems the guy's come across as a bit of a tool, and it's quite likely due to editing etc.  He proposed to one of the she-suitors, and the engagement is now off.  In the minds of the feminist media, this makes him right up there with Goering for some reason.  Sometimes relationships and love affairs don't work, okay?  I might just take out this opportunity to point out that if you are going to appear on one of these types of shows, you are taking the risk of coming across as a bell-end.  Why do people watch this dung: 'Big Brother', 'The Block', 'The Bachelor' et al?  Is the species being dumbed down and devolving?  But what's got the old hackles up is the constant sniping at the actual guy by a well-known female-centric blog site.  Every day they come up with some innovative way to run the guy down.  Apparently he is the biggest a-hole under the sun because he owns a - *twists pearls and places wrist against forehead in a fainting gesture* - male stripper agency.  To this I say, So. Fucking. What?  He has to earn a living, and presumably the 'entertainers' employed are consenting adults making informed decisions.  He worked as a topless waiter at some time in the past.  Pffffft!  Big deal.  This site keeps calling him a 'douche'.  How he resembles a rinsing out procedure is beyond me, but I guess that's this site's perception, and one's perception is one's reality.  This site probably creamed themselves over the revelations Channing Tatum once worked as a stripper (I will own up to being interested in that little factoid myself - ahem!).  And now, according to them, someone has anonymously tipped off 'Woman's Day' that she went home with him and he collects Cabbage Patch dolls.  Seriously, who fucking cares?  I collect skulls, so make of that what you will.  Here's a teaser: which is more pathetic, a person who anonymously tips off a tabloid rag not with lining a kitty litter tray with, or the person who collects dolls?  And how do we know it's true, anyway?  In the wake of Charlotte Dawson's death, they crapped on about trolling and cyber-bullying, but I would submit publishing a series of snide, petty articles is a very low form of bullying.  Do we know what this guy's mental health status is?  Sniping ad nauseam is certainly not going to be beneficial to it. 

And the other thing that really pissed me off today was seeing on television a couple who sold their house with their cat as part of the deal. Apparently the buyers' kid loved the cat, and they whacked on a considerable extra amount to seal the deal if the cat was included.  I cannot understand this.  My pets are like my family, too.  I couldn't sell them. 

Well, I'd best get a lesson ready - I'm lecturing to the U3A today.

Stay cool and keep breathing.

Bingells' Sociology & Gender Studies 101

Bingells' Sociology & Gender Studies 101:

The young male of the species is a boy.  The young female of the species is a girl.  Referring to each group using those titles does not buy into and enforce sexist stereotypes.  When I was younger, I was referred to as a 'girl'.  Now I am older, I am referred to as a 'woman'.  It did not worry me then, nor does it worry me now.  It did not warp me then, nor will it warp me now.  I cannot speak for other factors and issues that probably have me warped like a record left outside in summer.  For those of you reading this who are under twenty-six years of age, a record is a flat circular piece of round grooved vinyl, which was placed on a rotating thing called a turntable, and a needle-pointed thing called a stylus would dig into the grooves, and cause recorded music to be heard.  These pieces of quaint antiquity pre-dated CDs, and if you left them outside on a hot day, you risked them warping.  Got it? 

Back to my original point.  There is nothing inherently wrong with calling the younger section of the species 'boys and girls'.  What is very, very wrong (almost as wrong as 'would of' instead of 'would have') is deciding teachers cannot use this terminology when addressing the class.  This is bordering on utter face-palming, banging-head-on-desk, cat-kicking, infuriating-to-the-point-of-taking-hostages fuckwittery.  Yet a school in the US has come up with this notion.  How?  Do the people who decide the school's protocol suck on a crack pipe when they're their having their meetings?  I have attended school assemblies at the local primary school, where my youngest is still attending, and the headmaster addresses them with a jovial, 'Good morning, boys and girls!'  And they respond with a respectful, "Good morning, Mr (His Name)'.  And we're all happy and get on with our lives.  But someone with too much time on his or her hands (or paws) has decided 'boys' and 'girls' is not the language with which children are to be addressed.  Oh, who would be a teacher these days?  You get no support from the know-all hoi polloi who think all you do is take long holidays, you can't raise your voice because it might frighten the children, red pen is too negative in its implications when marking work, sending kids to the naughty corner or out in the hall is a violation of their human rights (notwithstanding other kids have a right to learn without some disruptive little fucktard annihilating the class), and now you can't even address the children in gender-based terms.  Seriously?  Soon, there will be a generation of people who have absolutely no fucking idea whatsoever, because it's been deemed politically incorrect to demonstrate it to them!  For those of you who watch 'X-Files', and say the truth is out there, THIS is why aliens don't bother landing on or planet: too many imbecilic, sub-normal, brain-bypassed mutants making decisions.

Feeling Like A Literary Type

All hail the Scone Literary Long Weekend!  No, that was not a dire weather report, but my congratulations to the organisers of the event, and given its well reception, it just might become a regular feature on the calendar of my local area.  I attended a panel discussion, the theme of which was the future of the printed word, and the general consensus from the panellists was books won't become obsolete, but might become a niche item.  I won't be getting rid of my paperbacks etc, because I think nothing is more welcoming than the sight of a well-packed bookshelf in a house.  I was seated in the front row.  I took my seat, and some old chook patted the seat beside her and said she was saving it for her daughter-in-law.  I snarled I had no intention of sitting there, indeed I had been lowering my butt on a seat two spaces away.  I really hate people who do that.  It would invariably happen at school assemblies: I'd be looking for a seat, and someone would say about the empty seat beside him/her, 'There's someone sitting there!'  Next time, I'm going to say, 'You're a bit old for an imaginary friend, aren't you?'  I so dislike turkeys who do that.  But back to the discussion, one of the panellists was the venerable Phillip Addams, who as a prop held up one of his own books, being a collection of essays he'd written, and pointed out that books are also edible if one is facing starvation.  My inner smart-arse could not be quelled, and I called to him, 'Is that eating your own words?'  And judging from the expression on his face, Mr Addams found that somewhat amusing.  How many of you can say you've fired off a zinger at Phillip Addams?  Admittedly, it's never been on my bucket list to do so, but I can honestly say I have done this. 

Yesterday was an event involving local writers' groups, where we were invited to read our own works for five minutes.  After being introduced as  an 'accomplished author' (and inwardly preening like a peacock), I read the first two pages of 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth' (http://www.zeus-publications.com/silver_studs_and_sabre_teeth.htm) and actually got two books sold!  Count 'em, TWO!!!  My jubilation is because that's substantially more than I sold at the last author event I attended.

Sigh.  A woman is allegedly brutally murdered and dismembered by her spouse, who then kills himself, and certain press publications scream headlines about the 'She-Male Escort', feeding homophobia and bias against the LGBTIQ community, and forgetting that whatever her physiological make-up, and whatever her profession, she was the victim of a foul and vicious crime.  Saddened for her.  Saddened for her family.  Saddened for his family, too.  Disgusted at the Courier Mail.

It's Jack-ASS!!!

Am I missing out by my general avoidance of reality television?  Seriously, all it means to me is further evidence of my fear the species is devolving.  We're going from Homo Sapien to Homo Fuckhead.  What do people hope to gain by signing up to appear on bilge such as 'Big Brother', and 'The Bachelor', aside from any residual credibility flatlining and a future pictorial in some fatuous men's publication that promises pages of JUBBLIES and SMOO?  Hmmmm?  Can anyone tell me?

Yes, all the news seems to be about the broken engagement between the Bachelor and Whoever.  Oh, also the Bachelor worked as a topless waiter some time in the past, and we are all supposed to give a shit.  I so don't.  I respect his right to obtain employment in any way he deems appropriate, provided it is legal.  But truly, who didn't see the demise of this engagement coming?  (And why, oh WHY, am I concerned enough to comment?).  Is it seriously the basis of a solid relationship to meet on the set of a 'reality' show, which ironically must be the most artificial environment since flowers were first grown in a greenhouse?  What did they think was going to happen when they re-joined the real world? 

There is to be some interview or some such on 'The Project' this Monday.  Don't watch the show all that often because I have an aversion to people sniggering at their own asinine jokes.  The promo featured the female half of this ex-couple saying, 'What a jackass'.  No, actually, she said, 'What a jack-arse.'  This is the bit where I started to lose my shit.  A jackass is a male donkey or mule.  And yes, it is also slang for a rather foolish person.  But the second syllable of this bi-syllabic noun has absolutely nothing to do with the gluteus maximus, so notwithstanding we are Aussies who pronounce it 'arse' rather than the American shorter vowel-ed 'ass', it's still pronounced like the American 'ass', okay?  It's just jackass.  Believe it or not, the word is kind of special to me.  My father won a major equestrian victory on a horse named 'Jackass'.  This inspired me to name a minor character, a petty criminal, in my first ever novel 'Jackass' (when the book was published, I told my father his old horse had been my inspiration for that character!).  But yeah, it's just Jackass, with the 'ass' bit said very quickly, like the second syllable of Melbourne.  For any overseas readers, we just call it 'Melb'n', and not 'Mel-Boooorn' as is stated by overseas actors or commentators.  To say 'jack-arse', IMHO, would make you a bit of a 'DUMB-arse'.

Well, the Scone Literary Long Weekend is in full swing, and tomorrow I am attending a discussion on the future of the paperback, with the use of eBooks so widespread.  Well, the elevator didn't kill off the staircase, did it?  And on Monday, I am going to give a quick reading from 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth', and hopefully sell a few copies.

My Blathering For Today

Aaaaah, sweet memories of flicking through the K-tel record finder ('a bargain at just $2.99!') as those gaudy covers of 'Ripper 76', and 'Outa Sight', and 'Explosive Hits' went by in a blur of brilliant graphics.  What is going on with all the people I grew up listening to?  Tonight I am saddened by the sudden death of the sultry Lynsey de Paul, aged just 64.   She appears to have been felled by a brain haemorrhage.  If you don't know it, You Tube her hit 'Sugar Me'.  A friend of mine reckons she should have done phone sex, with that voice.  Funny, but I read a pornographic novel written during the Victorian era, and 'sugar me' was a frequent phrase used by the amoral vixen protagonist.  A glossary of terms explained  things like incest being quite commonplace in those times, and from what I can tell, when the character said, 'Sugar me if you don't!' as an exclamation or reaction, the context in which it was to be taken was along the lines of 'I'll be fucked', basically.  And believe me, I preferred this heroine's dialogue to the execrable dialogue of Anastasia in 'Fifty Shades Of Shit': 'Oh my, he's taking off his belt';  'Holy cow, he's taking off his tie';  'Holy crap, he's unbuttoning his shirt'  (shit, she'd do a rank commentary at a Chippendales show, wouldn't she?).

Not only the alluring Lynsey, but I've been bummed out majorly by the news of AC/DC's rhythm guitarist Malcolm Young's dementia, and placement in a nursing home.  I work with dementia patients, and it must be so utterly devastating for his family.  My then-fiancé (now husband) and I attended the 1996 Ballbreaker show at the Sydney Entertainment Centre, and I still have a memory of Malcolm standing there in his blue singlet and jeans, long straggly hair flickering a little (I think there might have been an offstage fan cooling them down, but not as powerful as the one Roger Voudouris used to have), growling, 'Dirty deeds and they're done dirt cheap/Dirty deeds and they're done dirt cheap!' as the Great Band belted out 'Dirty Deeds', which to this day remains one of my favourite Acca Dacca numbers.

The other thing that has been making news is the debate 'Ban the Burqa'.  Parliamentarians are of the view burqa clad women should not be in the main area, but in the kiddies' area, or something like that.  Senator Jaqui Lambie was pitted against a woman from the Muslim Council on breakfast television this morning, in a desperate and cynical ratings grab by the TV station.  The Muslim woman pointed out laws already address the issue of identifying people in facial coverings.  Abbott has said he finds the garb 'confronting'.  I actually find nun's habits confronting because they are evocative of fear and loathing in the little girl I once was; I will admit to not having seen too many nuns in the old habit for a while.  Many people find the image of Tony Abbott in his speedos awfully confronting.  Now getting back to the point: I have an idea.  It is important for people entering Parliament House to be identified.  Surely to goodness a veiled Muslim woman could be scanned by one of those 'wands', and then show her face to a female security guard?  Or is it already the norm?  Last year I received a directive from the Attorney General's Department about identifying people who wear headscarves when I am undertaking a notarisation (I am a Justice of the Peace).  Clearly laws are in place for people who were head coverings for cultural purposes.  I am fed up with media clearly trying to fan flames of discord and disharmony.  I am fed up with women in scarfs being intimidated, and fed up with swarthy bearded men being threatened whilst they go about their business.  But what really has me grinding my molars is all the voice over commentary about 'banning the burqa', and 'burqa-this' and 'burqa-that' played as an accompaniment to footage of women in the street who are actually wearing a NIQAB, and NOT A FUCKING BURQA!!!!!