So yesterday we set out on a drive of almost two hours to a beach suburb in Newcastle, me in the back behind my thirteen year old because having both my kids in the back seat together is dancing with the devil, and will lead to repeated angry demands of Stop It Or I'll Turn This Car Around And We'll Go Home Now. So I was in the back with my ten-year-old, and one of his little buddies who came out for the day with us. Master 13 thought it would be a good idea to move his chair back suddenly, thus almost wedging my knees under my chin. I tell you, kids these days are very unappreciative of what we do for them, with day trips to the beach and all. My memories of going for a drive with my parents were usually with me stuck between them both in the front, both of them smoking Craven As, and neither of them acceding to my request to put the window down. We would arrive at our destination with me the colour of a ripe avocado flesh. Meanwhile, my three older siblings would be squabbling in the back over the Sanyo tape recorder, which would be blaring 'See My Baby Jive'. Funny how much I love that song, when it should be evoking memories of feeling like I'm crawling through an ashtray. Other day trips were usually to a rodeo somewhere, because after my father retired from competing, he was in great demand as a judge for events. I recall being sprawled out in the back of the station wagon, a ubiquitous family vehicle of the Seventies, and I could see my father's head over the back of the driver's seat, and in particular his akubra. On one trip, we came home with a sheep in the back of the car, and I had to share this space with the woolly beast with the glaring yellow eyes, and the stink of stale lanolin coming from it's dag-and-bindii tangled fleece. I think I was a bit nervous of it.
So yesterday's trip was relatively luxurious by those standards of yesteryear. I recall from trips when I was a kid Dad would park the car wherever he could, the nose of the vehicle usually facing the fenced area of the rodeo 'ring'. Yesterday we found one scabby spot in the car park, and when Mr Bingells put on the blinker to turn in, hit the brake and shouted, 'Oh, come on!' I looked up and saw this surfie dude standing in the spot. We made gestures for him to move. He shook his head. Mr Bingells wound down his window and demanded to know the meaning of this tomfoolery. The bloke explained he was minding the spot for someone. Mr Bingells pointed out the illegality of this given the car park is a public spot. 'Sorry, mate,' said the dickhead, 'I'm minding it for my girlfriend.' At this point, I stuck my head out and shouted, 'I don't care if you're minding it for the Queen, we've just driven for ages with kids!' Mr Bingells said we had driven two hours, and an interloper pointed out to the dickhead that he could not in all seriousness expect to 'bags' a car space for someone in a public car park. The dickhead ceded defeat and moved away, and Mr Bingells moved the car into the spot. Mate, in the event you are watching this, for the sake of future generations can you have yourself sterilised, and not infect society with your gene pool? That would be ever so lovely.
Sunday 30 November 2014
Thursday 27 November 2014
Bilious Break Up Songs
One of the things I always tell potential Hemingways when I give lectures about character development is the old saying: always be nice to a writer. This is because in some form or another, you WILL end up in their stories. Many of my characters are amalgams of people I have known, and I have given traits of people who have wronged me or my family to the more unsympathetic characters in my work. I totally own that. It's on the table, and believe me I am not alone in doing this. Of course I know to tweak the character traits enough to dodge the knock on the door from a process server armed with a Statement of Claim, with my name in the space marked 'Defendant'. A writing instructor once said not to worry too much because most people will not speak out and say, 'I'm suing because they've based the arsehole on ME!', probably because nobody will admit to being an arsehole.
Writers are not the only ones who use their work for this purpose. So, too, do singers. There are some beaut songs out there inspired by rancorous feelings toward an ex. One of the biggest-selling albums of all time, 'Rumours' by Fleetwood Mac, was stuffed to the max with break-up-inspired-ditties galore. It seems all the band members were in the process of breaking up with others, and out of the pain came this fantastic album.
Unless you've been under a rock, you are probably aware of Carly Simon's 'You're So Vain'. Conjecture has floated around in the forty or so years since its release about who was the cad who inspired this. Some say Warren Beatty. Some say Mick Jagger. I'm inclined to think it's not Mick Jagger because he actually appears on this record, uncredited, doing back up vocals. This of course could have been Carly's ultimate two-fingers-up gesture to him: having him sing on a record that takes the piss out of him. I'm putting my money on Beatty, because I can see him walking into a party like he's walking onto a yacht, as the opening lyric goes. And what a lyric it is, and what a classy singer Carly is.
There are other songs at exes, like Alanis Morriset's 'You Oughta Know', which is seriously vicious vitriol on a musical stave. It's supposedly about the bloke who played Joey in the nausea-inducing 80s sitcom 'Full House' (seriously, am I the only one who hated that show?). I always say it's funny she sings about fellating him in a theatre, because 'Full House' really sucked, too. But I do like this song, it's delivery cuts like the line of a whipper-snipper: quick and to the point.
But there is a flip side to this. Taylor Swift seems to have cornered the market on singing songs aimed at exes, but they don't seem to have the bite of the aforementioned examples. 'We are never ever getting back together...' to me just sounds sing-songy (duh) and childish, like a kid in the playground. Worse still, we have now been introduced to another one, performed by Abigail Breslin, actress known for her role as Olive in 'Little Miss Sunshine'. 'LMS' is a fantastic movie, with commendable performances all round, including Abigail's. But this dweeb of a song, titled 'You Suck' just - ahem! - sucks. It's supposedly about a failed relationship with a guy from the Aussie band 'Five Seconds of Summer', and it's lyrics are in the nonsensical, petty vein of Ms Swift's. And you know what? The guys who are on the receiving end of his melodic malice are probably thinking, 'Shit, I dodged a bullet when I broke up with that one! Thank fuck I don't have a pet rabbit!'
One of my favourite songs aimed at a reputed ex is 'Respectable' by The Rolling Stones (yeah, I know I'm biased; I'm a huge Stones fan). It's supposedly a dig at Mick's ex, Bianca, and young ladies in the aforementioned paragraph, this is HOW a dig at your ex should be. Lyrics like 'you're the easiest lay on the White House lawn' far eclipse twaddle like 'you suck'. Look at the official film clip. The band a playing (because they can play instruments) in a stark, shabbily painted room with Jagger all swagger and attitude, and tongue firmly planted in cheek. Having Keith and Ronnie is of course a huge bonus. Not sure what Charlie Watts is making of it, he looks a little like one of those nodding dogs you used to see in the back of cars. One of the things I like about this clip is the song sells it, not some Hollywood blockbuster type of non-linear bullshit with puppets, dancing midgets, and special effects. But it's a good way of digging at an ex without looking like an embittered little turd who's sitting at home squeezing a cushion while everyone else is out getting on with their lives.
A lesson to be learned from this, young men: don't date potential popettes.
Writers are not the only ones who use their work for this purpose. So, too, do singers. There are some beaut songs out there inspired by rancorous feelings toward an ex. One of the biggest-selling albums of all time, 'Rumours' by Fleetwood Mac, was stuffed to the max with break-up-inspired-ditties galore. It seems all the band members were in the process of breaking up with others, and out of the pain came this fantastic album.
Unless you've been under a rock, you are probably aware of Carly Simon's 'You're So Vain'. Conjecture has floated around in the forty or so years since its release about who was the cad who inspired this. Some say Warren Beatty. Some say Mick Jagger. I'm inclined to think it's not Mick Jagger because he actually appears on this record, uncredited, doing back up vocals. This of course could have been Carly's ultimate two-fingers-up gesture to him: having him sing on a record that takes the piss out of him. I'm putting my money on Beatty, because I can see him walking into a party like he's walking onto a yacht, as the opening lyric goes. And what a lyric it is, and what a classy singer Carly is.
There are other songs at exes, like Alanis Morriset's 'You Oughta Know', which is seriously vicious vitriol on a musical stave. It's supposedly about the bloke who played Joey in the nausea-inducing 80s sitcom 'Full House' (seriously, am I the only one who hated that show?). I always say it's funny she sings about fellating him in a theatre, because 'Full House' really sucked, too. But I do like this song, it's delivery cuts like the line of a whipper-snipper: quick and to the point.
But there is a flip side to this. Taylor Swift seems to have cornered the market on singing songs aimed at exes, but they don't seem to have the bite of the aforementioned examples. 'We are never ever getting back together...' to me just sounds sing-songy (duh) and childish, like a kid in the playground. Worse still, we have now been introduced to another one, performed by Abigail Breslin, actress known for her role as Olive in 'Little Miss Sunshine'. 'LMS' is a fantastic movie, with commendable performances all round, including Abigail's. But this dweeb of a song, titled 'You Suck' just - ahem! - sucks. It's supposedly about a failed relationship with a guy from the Aussie band 'Five Seconds of Summer', and it's lyrics are in the nonsensical, petty vein of Ms Swift's. And you know what? The guys who are on the receiving end of his melodic malice are probably thinking, 'Shit, I dodged a bullet when I broke up with that one! Thank fuck I don't have a pet rabbit!'
One of my favourite songs aimed at a reputed ex is 'Respectable' by The Rolling Stones (yeah, I know I'm biased; I'm a huge Stones fan). It's supposedly a dig at Mick's ex, Bianca, and young ladies in the aforementioned paragraph, this is HOW a dig at your ex should be. Lyrics like 'you're the easiest lay on the White House lawn' far eclipse twaddle like 'you suck'. Look at the official film clip. The band a playing (because they can play instruments) in a stark, shabbily painted room with Jagger all swagger and attitude, and tongue firmly planted in cheek. Having Keith and Ronnie is of course a huge bonus. Not sure what Charlie Watts is making of it, he looks a little like one of those nodding dogs you used to see in the back of cars. One of the things I like about this clip is the song sells it, not some Hollywood blockbuster type of non-linear bullshit with puppets, dancing midgets, and special effects. But it's a good way of digging at an ex without looking like an embittered little turd who's sitting at home squeezing a cushion while everyone else is out getting on with their lives.
A lesson to be learned from this, young men: don't date potential popettes.
Wednesday 26 November 2014
Mums Go To Battle, & This Blogger Rolls Her Eyes
I am grateful my primary school kid takes the bus, and my older one walks to the local high school. Because if I ever had to drive my son, I might just be swept up in, and become a victim of, the Mummy Mafia. There is apparently such an organisation and its sole purpose is to drink coffee, give condescending looks to the mothers who are in pyjama pants with a sloppy-joe over the top, and make other parents feel inadequate if they do not devote all spare time to school committees. I read about this insidious phenomenon a lot, and what I find in online comments is a pitting of Working Mums vs Non-Working Mums. I should point out I abhor the phrase 'non-working mum' because if you're home with pre-school kids, it's still work. Also, if all your children are at school and you are not in paid employment, then it is the business of absolutely nobody else outside your home. Actually, my sons' preschool had the right idea: when my oldest had his first day, and I was chatting with the teacher and child care worker, instead of saying, 'Do you work?', they phrased it thus, 'Do you work outside the home?'
But for some reason, all the commenters in a thread I was just reading seemed determined to do battle. The non-working mums (or Mummy Mafia, perhaps) were all wonderful because they do power walking and drink coffee, and discuss fund-raising for the school. Their boasting would be parried by the working mums with the chestnut, 'I am paying my taxes and setting a good example and being a role model...' I sat there grinding my teeth because I think I'm not too bad a role model for my kids, and for a while I was not working outside the home, either. If you teach your kids not to be little arseholes, then you're a good role model, regardless of whether you draw a pay cheque or not. Outside Chez Bingells, my kids are very good and NOT little arseholes, but they are painful when there is nobody around, but maybe I'm still an okay role model.
I did do the school drop off and pick up for a while before my oldest started catching the bus (the bus was at his request, and it gave me an extra 45 minutes to myself in the day, which I devoted to my writing). There was no Mummy Mafia that I could see. The only woman who got up my nose was the flip in the Tarago who, even though I had parked the requisite metre space from the end of the kerb), would insist on braking hard in front of me, making the vehicle give a squeal, and back up so she was at the front of the queue, in contravention of RTA rules. God, she pissed me off. Particularly as I couldn't see around the car. Also, as we mums made our respective way to the classroom and nattered until the bell sounded, I couldn't notice any demarcation or snobbery. I did kind of look down a bit at a mother who went around with her tits about to fall from her top, but only because I thought it was inappropriate at a school (if we were at a pub, I wouldn't have cared less). But nah, people would just chat. I remember one mum talking about plans to get a new fan. 'I think it's one of them menstrual fans,' is what she said. I bit the inside of my cheeks to quell the braying laughter that threatened to erupt, and politely asked, 'Do you mean Mistral?' Her reply was, 'Yeah, I think that's it.' 'I think so, too,' was my reply, 'trust me, you wouldn't want to stand underneath a menstrual fan.'
If you're reading this, and want to read more of my work, click dese linkz (that's my gangsta-speak, which is very realistic coming from a middle-aged, reddish-haired Aussie woman):
http://www.zeus-publications.com/calumny_while_reading_irvine_welsh.htm
http://www.zeus-publications.com/abernethy.htm
http://www.zeus-publications.com/silver_studs_and_sabre_teeth.htm
But for some reason, all the commenters in a thread I was just reading seemed determined to do battle. The non-working mums (or Mummy Mafia, perhaps) were all wonderful because they do power walking and drink coffee, and discuss fund-raising for the school. Their boasting would be parried by the working mums with the chestnut, 'I am paying my taxes and setting a good example and being a role model...' I sat there grinding my teeth because I think I'm not too bad a role model for my kids, and for a while I was not working outside the home, either. If you teach your kids not to be little arseholes, then you're a good role model, regardless of whether you draw a pay cheque or not. Outside Chez Bingells, my kids are very good and NOT little arseholes, but they are painful when there is nobody around, but maybe I'm still an okay role model.
I did do the school drop off and pick up for a while before my oldest started catching the bus (the bus was at his request, and it gave me an extra 45 minutes to myself in the day, which I devoted to my writing). There was no Mummy Mafia that I could see. The only woman who got up my nose was the flip in the Tarago who, even though I had parked the requisite metre space from the end of the kerb), would insist on braking hard in front of me, making the vehicle give a squeal, and back up so she was at the front of the queue, in contravention of RTA rules. God, she pissed me off. Particularly as I couldn't see around the car. Also, as we mums made our respective way to the classroom and nattered until the bell sounded, I couldn't notice any demarcation or snobbery. I did kind of look down a bit at a mother who went around with her tits about to fall from her top, but only because I thought it was inappropriate at a school (if we were at a pub, I wouldn't have cared less). But nah, people would just chat. I remember one mum talking about plans to get a new fan. 'I think it's one of them menstrual fans,' is what she said. I bit the inside of my cheeks to quell the braying laughter that threatened to erupt, and politely asked, 'Do you mean Mistral?' Her reply was, 'Yeah, I think that's it.' 'I think so, too,' was my reply, 'trust me, you wouldn't want to stand underneath a menstrual fan.'
If you're reading this, and want to read more of my work, click dese linkz (that's my gangsta-speak, which is very realistic coming from a middle-aged, reddish-haired Aussie woman):
http://www.zeus-publications.com/calumny_while_reading_irvine_welsh.htm
http://www.zeus-publications.com/abernethy.htm
http://www.zeus-publications.com/silver_studs_and_sabre_teeth.htm
Monday 24 November 2014
Today's Grumbling
It is my firm belief that readers of this blog have been on the edge of the seat, gripping said seat, their knuckles white with the force of said grip. Everyone is wondering how my be-spotted tyke is. Well, he's still home from school. I did take him yesterday, after a visit to the doctor, but was telephoned by the school who were very concerned he might have had chicken pox. 'Well,' I said, 'I have Senior First Aid, but Doctor went to uni and attained a degree in medicine, so I'll defer to this expertise.' It turns out there are three pregnant staff members at the school, one of whom is my son's teacher, so the concern is very understandable, and I was worried, too. This meant another trip to the doctor, and because chicken pox could NOT be ruled out one hundred per cent, I have my little fella home with me. I have collected some school work for him to complete, much to his disgust, but I do not want him falling behind. I will always be supportive of the school It's a good one, and they were fabulous when he first started to have seizures that are symptomatic of his epilepsy. He was to play 'Jingle Bells' for a concert last night, but I rang the conservatorium to have him removed from the program. I explained to him there might be pregnant ladies in the audience of the small auditorium, and we just cannot risk the babies getting sick. I thought he would be very disappointed because he loves the smell of greasepaint and the roar of the applause, but he understood, and I am very proud of what looks like a pox-riddled little man.
I'm not sure what your idea of a good time is, gentle reader, but mine does NOT entail running repetitive errands like doctors' visits in 40 degree heat. Maybe I'm a tad unadventurous, but I just do not enjoy this. I hate the heat at the best of times, and wanted to lie down, but it didn't turn out that way.
When Master 13 got home, all he wanted to do was play on the computer. He had to get ready for his music class's concert last night. He fart-arsed all afternoon, and with about five minutes prior to leaving time still wasn't in costume. I shouted and roared like a mad bull-elephant, and just as I was gathering up my handbag, he decided he had to fire one off into the bowl and made for the toilet, leaving me tapping my foot and glancing at my watch. At one stage I was in the car, honking the horn, as he struggled into his shoes. He and his class had to dress as nerds, and along with all the others, he had plain oversized spectacles on. Their act looked like a Brains from 'The Thunderbirds' Lookalike Convention, and not a bunch of kids playing Blink 182 songs on instruments.
Things to be glad about: I don't write kids books. Nothing wrong with that, but when a publisher wants to remove gender references from titles is when I start wanting to rip out my auburn locks. Truly, what the fuck is WRONG with a gender reference anywhere, let alone in the title of a work? For the most part, people are gendered. Some of course are transgendered and intersex, but the majority of us have a gender. It's biological. It's a fact of life. This watering down of what is just a manifestation of nature is not going to help kids to not discriminate or pigeon-hole on the basis of gender. It's going to leave a dumbed-down populace with no idea what to do. God, I'm just imagining these on the shelf in the children's section of the library: 'The Amphibian Non-Gender-Specific-Person-Of-Royal-Lineage', 'The Non-Gender-Specific-Person-Of-Royal-Lineage and the Pea', and that all-time popular fable: 'The Non-Gender-Specific-Person Who Cried Animal-That-Might-Or-Might-Not-Be-Gendered-And/Or-Wild'.
I'm not sure what your idea of a good time is, gentle reader, but mine does NOT entail running repetitive errands like doctors' visits in 40 degree heat. Maybe I'm a tad unadventurous, but I just do not enjoy this. I hate the heat at the best of times, and wanted to lie down, but it didn't turn out that way.
When Master 13 got home, all he wanted to do was play on the computer. He had to get ready for his music class's concert last night. He fart-arsed all afternoon, and with about five minutes prior to leaving time still wasn't in costume. I shouted and roared like a mad bull-elephant, and just as I was gathering up my handbag, he decided he had to fire one off into the bowl and made for the toilet, leaving me tapping my foot and glancing at my watch. At one stage I was in the car, honking the horn, as he struggled into his shoes. He and his class had to dress as nerds, and along with all the others, he had plain oversized spectacles on. Their act looked like a Brains from 'The Thunderbirds' Lookalike Convention, and not a bunch of kids playing Blink 182 songs on instruments.
Things to be glad about: I don't write kids books. Nothing wrong with that, but when a publisher wants to remove gender references from titles is when I start wanting to rip out my auburn locks. Truly, what the fuck is WRONG with a gender reference anywhere, let alone in the title of a work? For the most part, people are gendered. Some of course are transgendered and intersex, but the majority of us have a gender. It's biological. It's a fact of life. This watering down of what is just a manifestation of nature is not going to help kids to not discriminate or pigeon-hole on the basis of gender. It's going to leave a dumbed-down populace with no idea what to do. God, I'm just imagining these on the shelf in the children's section of the library: 'The Amphibian Non-Gender-Specific-Person-Of-Royal-Lineage', 'The Non-Gender-Specific-Person-Of-Royal-Lineage and the Pea', and that all-time popular fable: 'The Non-Gender-Specific-Person Who Cried Animal-That-Might-Or-Might-Not-Be-Gendered-And/Or-Wild'.
Saturday 22 November 2014
Quoting Lady MacBeth
The aggravations are coming thick and fast, like tennis balls being fired out of one of those serving machines set on 'bombard'. Had to take my ten-year-old out of school on Thursday - he was headachy and nauseous. On Thursday night he had a slight fever and developed a rash. Mr Bingells took his temperature and fired off questions at me about normal body temperature, whilst I tried to help Master 13 with his Maths homework. Don't worry, it was copying and pasting a picture of the Tower of Hanoi for his project in Maths - not actually working out problems. Trust me, I suck big time at most mathematical applications. When I launched 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth' (http://www.zeus-publications.com/silver_studs_and_sabre_teeth.htm) in May, it was he who worked out the change for the buyers who handed over the fifty dollar notes! Master 10 stood on the other side of me trying to filch fifties out of the cash box.
Friday morning, and Master Ten had even more spots. Mr Bingells had to go on a bus trip with pensioners (he might have to drive them in future and needed to familiarise himself with the bus route), so I cancelled my shift and took my spotty little man to the doctor. At the doc's request, he removed his shirt in order for the doctor to have a better look at his spots. My pointed to one of his nipples, and helpfully informed the doctor, 'This isn't one of the spots.' His vaccinations are up to date, so I didn't think he had Chicken Pox, and neither does the doctor. He is likely allergic to something, but what? I told the doctor I haven't changed laundry liquid brands, and furthermore, clean with white vinegar so there are no chemicals in the house. He had a salad with anchovy a few weeks ago, but surely an allergy would manifest itself prior to now. Doctor asked about grasses, and it's been as dry as a bone bleached in the desert sun of late, so there might be a few airborne allergens. Also, I've been getting a blocked nose and itchy eyes, so I'm going to run with that theory. I was given a sample of ointment to apply.
Today, Master 10 looks like he has measles, but that's because the spots have multiplied in number. They're all over him. I left him at home with his dad and took Master 13 shopping for new school shoes, and to get some more of the ointment, having used the measly (no joke about spots intended) amount in the tiny tube. One of the aggravations I have mentioned clobbered me in the face, so it seemed, when the pharmacist told me the cream was not readily available over the counter and only available on prescription. I groaned. I wondered why I had not been handed a written prescription. I asked what on earth I was going to apply on those multitudinous spots. I was offered a choice of something strong with cortisone steroids, or something a bit more gentle with pine tar. Fearing the former might turn him into the Hulk, I went with the pine tar lotion. It has menthol in it, and he has been greased up (kind of like Kim Kardashian's satellite dish of an arse, but with my son it's for good reasons). My hands tingled after application (I didn't bother applying gloves), so my heart goes out to my poor kid, who has this stuff all over his body. I so hope his rash clears up soon. He sees the doc again on Monday, and also has to play 'Jingle Bells' in a concert that night.
More aggravations awaited in the supermarket queue. I stood near the checkout, eyes wandering over the trashy magazines which I will never buy. The cover of one promised to tell us Taylor Swift is back with whoever it is from 1D (Wow. Like I really fucking CARE!). The other magazine said Taylor Swift is pregnant to John (from the picture, I think it's John Mayer). Seriously, where do the so-called journalists get this dung? At least with my writing, I don't pretended to write anything other than fiction. Why are people fascinated with Taylor Swift, anyway? I find her songs a bit banal, personally. I guess the same people are fascinated with the other perennial magazine fodder, The Kardashians, who should all be serving sentences for theft of valuable oxygen from more deserving people on this planet. And yeah, silly me mentioned KK's fat bum AGAIN. The people slavering for information on these pointless carbuncles on the butt of humanity can probably name EVERYTHING about these carbuncles, but would they know who someone like Dr Elizabeth Hamblin is? No, because their book leaning all comes from pointless trashy tabloid magazines that nearly always feature a celebrity's bikini body. Want to get a bikini body? Put a fucking bikini on; there's your bikini body, okay?
I will give my kid a lesson in Shakespeare tomorrow morning: I'm going to run the cream in and quote from Lady MacBeth: 'Out, damned spot!'
Friday morning, and Master Ten had even more spots. Mr Bingells had to go on a bus trip with pensioners (he might have to drive them in future and needed to familiarise himself with the bus route), so I cancelled my shift and took my spotty little man to the doctor. At the doc's request, he removed his shirt in order for the doctor to have a better look at his spots. My pointed to one of his nipples, and helpfully informed the doctor, 'This isn't one of the spots.' His vaccinations are up to date, so I didn't think he had Chicken Pox, and neither does the doctor. He is likely allergic to something, but what? I told the doctor I haven't changed laundry liquid brands, and furthermore, clean with white vinegar so there are no chemicals in the house. He had a salad with anchovy a few weeks ago, but surely an allergy would manifest itself prior to now. Doctor asked about grasses, and it's been as dry as a bone bleached in the desert sun of late, so there might be a few airborne allergens. Also, I've been getting a blocked nose and itchy eyes, so I'm going to run with that theory. I was given a sample of ointment to apply.
Today, Master 10 looks like he has measles, but that's because the spots have multiplied in number. They're all over him. I left him at home with his dad and took Master 13 shopping for new school shoes, and to get some more of the ointment, having used the measly (no joke about spots intended) amount in the tiny tube. One of the aggravations I have mentioned clobbered me in the face, so it seemed, when the pharmacist told me the cream was not readily available over the counter and only available on prescription. I groaned. I wondered why I had not been handed a written prescription. I asked what on earth I was going to apply on those multitudinous spots. I was offered a choice of something strong with cortisone steroids, or something a bit more gentle with pine tar. Fearing the former might turn him into the Hulk, I went with the pine tar lotion. It has menthol in it, and he has been greased up (kind of like Kim Kardashian's satellite dish of an arse, but with my son it's for good reasons). My hands tingled after application (I didn't bother applying gloves), so my heart goes out to my poor kid, who has this stuff all over his body. I so hope his rash clears up soon. He sees the doc again on Monday, and also has to play 'Jingle Bells' in a concert that night.
More aggravations awaited in the supermarket queue. I stood near the checkout, eyes wandering over the trashy magazines which I will never buy. The cover of one promised to tell us Taylor Swift is back with whoever it is from 1D (Wow. Like I really fucking CARE!). The other magazine said Taylor Swift is pregnant to John (from the picture, I think it's John Mayer). Seriously, where do the so-called journalists get this dung? At least with my writing, I don't pretended to write anything other than fiction. Why are people fascinated with Taylor Swift, anyway? I find her songs a bit banal, personally. I guess the same people are fascinated with the other perennial magazine fodder, The Kardashians, who should all be serving sentences for theft of valuable oxygen from more deserving people on this planet. And yeah, silly me mentioned KK's fat bum AGAIN. The people slavering for information on these pointless carbuncles on the butt of humanity can probably name EVERYTHING about these carbuncles, but would they know who someone like Dr Elizabeth Hamblin is? No, because their book leaning all comes from pointless trashy tabloid magazines that nearly always feature a celebrity's bikini body. Want to get a bikini body? Put a fucking bikini on; there's your bikini body, okay?
I will give my kid a lesson in Shakespeare tomorrow morning: I'm going to run the cream in and quote from Lady MacBeth: 'Out, damned spot!'
Wednesday 19 November 2014
Bummed Out
Why is the world just getting sillier and sillier? It must be getting sillier, because everybody is losing their shit over a photograph of Kim Kardashian's backside, and to be honest, it's making the enamel peel from my teeth in strips. STRIPS, I tell you! I cannot see the point to this oxygen thieving, publicity hungry hive of grubs that comprise the family (and get a dictionary guys - there are other letters in the alphabet besides 'K', you know). Everywhere you look when you go online lately is a photograph of her big fat bum (I'm not saying I have a peach, but it ain't bad, but you also ain't gonna find out, 'cos I ain't plastering it all over cyberspace in the erroneous belief that the world gives a shit about my bum), and it's greasy and shining like the lower lip of a drooling drunk in the pub. In what universe is this a great look? A bum one upon which a helicopter could be landed greased up and shining like a satellite? I think her entire body's been larded up for this photo shoot, and I'm wondering was it her intention to swim the English Channel. Did the bum cure cancer, contain and find a cure for the Ebola virus, or broker peace in the Middle East? It must have, because of all the publicity it's receiving. Over it, and annoyed with myself for giving it blog space.
Annoyed with being nagged to pay for a school excursion today. Apparently my kid's been told to nag for the school excursion money. I could understand this if the money was due today. It is not. It is due in a few days, but instead I got nagged today. I get paid tomorrow, and the excursion fees will be duly paid, but it is not fair to be nagged. 'Tell the school your mother is a struggling author and part-time AIN!' I exploded, adding, 'Tell them to go after the families that work in the mines and haven't paid.' Immensely unimpressed with this turn of events this morning.
Am not minding the re-working of Band Aid's 'Do They Know It's Christmas', with a view to donating funds to Ebola research. Felt a bit of a sad old git when I watched the film clip, and recognised almost nobody from the new version. In the 1984 one, I knew everybody in that clip the moment I watched it. I looked at it the other day, and recognised Bono (the urine-yellow sunnies kind of gave it away), and Midge Ure. Looked at the new line-up, and recognised Ed Sheeran and Seal (whose voice I adore), and - horribly - recognised One Direction. There's a young woman who does a few lines, and her voice is magic - must look up who she is. Now, just because Band Aid have re-imagined for Ebola, this doesn't mean USA for Africa should. Everyone knows my opinion on 'We Are The World' - that it tries to sound serious, and fails miserably with the result being a constipated sounding cacophony. Still, there are some artists in the US these days I'm liking, and if they do decide to ride on the coattails of Band Aid 30, here are some pointers:
1. DON'T have Cyndi Lauper squawk, 'Wo-wo-wo-wo-wo!' It was monstrously ugly then, and shall be in #2.
2. DON'T have Bob Dylan made a godawful noise at the end of it.
3. DON'T talk about God-this, God-that. They aren't all Christians in Africa, and your bleating whilst probably not deliberately culturally insensitive, did kind of miss the mark with me.
4. DO what you should have done last time: have Eddie Van Halen rip a beaut guitar solo into it and detract from all the sweetness, light, and saccharine.
Annoyed with being nagged to pay for a school excursion today. Apparently my kid's been told to nag for the school excursion money. I could understand this if the money was due today. It is not. It is due in a few days, but instead I got nagged today. I get paid tomorrow, and the excursion fees will be duly paid, but it is not fair to be nagged. 'Tell the school your mother is a struggling author and part-time AIN!' I exploded, adding, 'Tell them to go after the families that work in the mines and haven't paid.' Immensely unimpressed with this turn of events this morning.
Am not minding the re-working of Band Aid's 'Do They Know It's Christmas', with a view to donating funds to Ebola research. Felt a bit of a sad old git when I watched the film clip, and recognised almost nobody from the new version. In the 1984 one, I knew everybody in that clip the moment I watched it. I looked at it the other day, and recognised Bono (the urine-yellow sunnies kind of gave it away), and Midge Ure. Looked at the new line-up, and recognised Ed Sheeran and Seal (whose voice I adore), and - horribly - recognised One Direction. There's a young woman who does a few lines, and her voice is magic - must look up who she is. Now, just because Band Aid have re-imagined for Ebola, this doesn't mean USA for Africa should. Everyone knows my opinion on 'We Are The World' - that it tries to sound serious, and fails miserably with the result being a constipated sounding cacophony. Still, there are some artists in the US these days I'm liking, and if they do decide to ride on the coattails of Band Aid 30, here are some pointers:
1. DON'T have Cyndi Lauper squawk, 'Wo-wo-wo-wo-wo!' It was monstrously ugly then, and shall be in #2.
2. DON'T have Bob Dylan made a godawful noise at the end of it.
3. DON'T talk about God-this, God-that. They aren't all Christians in Africa, and your bleating whilst probably not deliberately culturally insensitive, did kind of miss the mark with me.
4. DO what you should have done last time: have Eddie Van Halen rip a beaut guitar solo into it and detract from all the sweetness, light, and saccharine.
Saturday 15 November 2014
Nifty Nineties
I have a theory. The Music Cosmos, to atone for the lameness that infested most of the Eighties, put out some bloody beauties during the Nineties. Yesterday my FB group was posting pursuant to a Nineties theme, and more and more often good ones cropped up. I posted 'The Way' by Fastwall. Then I posted 'Cry' by The Mavises. 'Walking on the Sun' by Smashmouth was another of my offerings. The collaborative output of a Hoodoo Gurus/Midnight Oil hybrid - The Ghostwriters - was my next choice. Yeah, Rob Hirst from the Oils, and someone from the Hoodoo Gurus, but I can't recall who, and the song's called 'Someone's Singing New York, New York'. YouTube it if it doesn't ring any bells - you won't be sorry. Some muse took over my clicking finger, causing me to locate and post 'I'm Not Sick But I'm Not Well' Flagpole Sitta. Awesome, or what? Congratulations from my fellow group members were the bulk of the comment threads. The fire department had to be put on standby because this Daughter of Eve was definitely on fire last night! A recent addition to my iPod, 'American Life In The Summertime' by Francis Drummery, graced the thread of this page, too.
Oh, I did not post ALL the good stuff. It was up to someone else to post 'How To Save A Life' by Fray.
I can't recall if I was the one who posted 'Where The Wild Roses Grow' by Nick Cave and Kylie Minogue. I probably did because he came up in conversation. If I am hosting a dinner party, I am not going to allow him to be a topic of conversation. Discuss all the contentious stuff you like: religion and politics? Go for your lives. But a discussion about this gloom merchant will most likely lead to tears, and thrown bread rolls because he is more polarising a topic than the most offensively worded Murdoch press headline. There are some in my loved group that think he is a genius. I, however, am in the camp that thinks he's a gloomy weirdo who sucks all the life out of the room, like a lugubrious vacuum. The aforementioned song evokes the same feeling of revulsion and horror I would face were I to discover a bat is dry-humping my head. Whenever someone praises him and preaches his relevance and brilliance, I look out the window to see if the emperor is walking down the road in the nuddy, wedding tackle bobbing in time with his feet striking the bitumen.
Two songs stayed with me, and I've been playing them tonight. 'About A Girl' by Nirvana is one of them. Listening again, it occurred to me what a very good singer Kurt Cobain was. I really enjoyed the raw and raspy vocals on this, and how he can really hit a note and stay in tune. The intensity of his delivery (particularly in the MTV unplugged version) just grabs you by the collarbone, and squeezes hard. Alternatively, he could have just been constipated when it was recorded. But it sounds really great.
The other one is 'Every You, Every Me' by Placebo. The song is delivered with a cynical in-your-face, almost fuck-you style by the lead singer Brian Molko. This band has gay, pissed off emos in it; what's not to enjoy? Especially a song that opens with if not angry strumming, then definitely annoyed strumming of the guitars, and erupts like a volcano of attitude, with lyrics like 'my heart's a tart/Your body's rent...'. When I hear this, I always think of the opening credits to the 1999 movie 'Cruel Intentions'; it's heard whilst Sebastian is cruising along in his black Jaguar. If you are not au fait with this movie, it's an imagining of 'Dangerous Liaisons' only instead of aristocratic French root-rats, it's spoiled LA step-siblings, who also happen to be root-rats. Ryan Phillipe plays the John Malkovich character, re-imagined as Sebastian Vicompte (can't quite remember the French spelling of 'viscount'). He wants to fuck his step-sister, the manipulative and sociopathic Katherine (Sarah Michelle Gellar), and the Michelle Pfeifer character from the movie is played by Reese Witherspoon, whilst a very funny Selma Blair (funny actress/awful name) takes on the role of Cecile (the Uma Thurman character in 'Dangerous Liaisons'). I must admit, I do love the scene where Sebastian carries out his initial seduction of Cecile ('You have to let me kiss you, Cecile. Oh, I don't want to kiss you there, I want to kiss you there!'). If you're thinking of watching the movie, do so.
List for tomorrow:
1. Work on my disabled care assignment.
2. Draft my lesson for the creative writing class on Tuesday afternoon (I'm going to talk about character dialogue).
3. Prepare a 500-word piece for my creative writing group.
4. Tell my kids to stay away from Mum's computer, and Mum as well, whilst she does these things.
Oh, I did not post ALL the good stuff. It was up to someone else to post 'How To Save A Life' by Fray.
I can't recall if I was the one who posted 'Where The Wild Roses Grow' by Nick Cave and Kylie Minogue. I probably did because he came up in conversation. If I am hosting a dinner party, I am not going to allow him to be a topic of conversation. Discuss all the contentious stuff you like: religion and politics? Go for your lives. But a discussion about this gloom merchant will most likely lead to tears, and thrown bread rolls because he is more polarising a topic than the most offensively worded Murdoch press headline. There are some in my loved group that think he is a genius. I, however, am in the camp that thinks he's a gloomy weirdo who sucks all the life out of the room, like a lugubrious vacuum. The aforementioned song evokes the same feeling of revulsion and horror I would face were I to discover a bat is dry-humping my head. Whenever someone praises him and preaches his relevance and brilliance, I look out the window to see if the emperor is walking down the road in the nuddy, wedding tackle bobbing in time with his feet striking the bitumen.
Two songs stayed with me, and I've been playing them tonight. 'About A Girl' by Nirvana is one of them. Listening again, it occurred to me what a very good singer Kurt Cobain was. I really enjoyed the raw and raspy vocals on this, and how he can really hit a note and stay in tune. The intensity of his delivery (particularly in the MTV unplugged version) just grabs you by the collarbone, and squeezes hard. Alternatively, he could have just been constipated when it was recorded. But it sounds really great.
The other one is 'Every You, Every Me' by Placebo. The song is delivered with a cynical in-your-face, almost fuck-you style by the lead singer Brian Molko. This band has gay, pissed off emos in it; what's not to enjoy? Especially a song that opens with if not angry strumming, then definitely annoyed strumming of the guitars, and erupts like a volcano of attitude, with lyrics like 'my heart's a tart/Your body's rent...'. When I hear this, I always think of the opening credits to the 1999 movie 'Cruel Intentions'; it's heard whilst Sebastian is cruising along in his black Jaguar. If you are not au fait with this movie, it's an imagining of 'Dangerous Liaisons' only instead of aristocratic French root-rats, it's spoiled LA step-siblings, who also happen to be root-rats. Ryan Phillipe plays the John Malkovich character, re-imagined as Sebastian Vicompte (can't quite remember the French spelling of 'viscount'). He wants to fuck his step-sister, the manipulative and sociopathic Katherine (Sarah Michelle Gellar), and the Michelle Pfeifer character from the movie is played by Reese Witherspoon, whilst a very funny Selma Blair (funny actress/awful name) takes on the role of Cecile (the Uma Thurman character in 'Dangerous Liaisons'). I must admit, I do love the scene where Sebastian carries out his initial seduction of Cecile ('You have to let me kiss you, Cecile. Oh, I don't want to kiss you there, I want to kiss you there!'). If you're thinking of watching the movie, do so.
List for tomorrow:
1. Work on my disabled care assignment.
2. Draft my lesson for the creative writing class on Tuesday afternoon (I'm going to talk about character dialogue).
3. Prepare a 500-word piece for my creative writing group.
4. Tell my kids to stay away from Mum's computer, and Mum as well, whilst she does these things.
Wednesday 12 November 2014
List of the Day
Today's List:
1. Twat Of The Week (Possibly The Month)
The self-righteous pontificator who filmed his mate's wife cheating, and uploaded it to the Internet. Now, I'm not condoning cheating per se, but I'm not giving much of a shit about her cheating on her husband because she's broken no laws and more importantly, it does not concern me. My business it is not - please note I'm not trying to channel Yoda. Commenters everywhere are donning the judge's robes and wig (seriously, you judgemental prats, doesn't it get hot under there?), and saying it serves her right. Okay, I will now play Devil's Advocate and ask this: does it serve the other party right? The guy she's supposedly fooling around with, I mean. Did he know she was married? Does he deserve to be splashed over cyberspace for the judge and jury that comprise the trollers of the Internet to determine his character? And what about her aggrieved husband, would he feel humiliated in the knowledge that all of cyberspace knows he's been cuckolded? ('Cuckolded' - is that an awesome word or what?) Why did this guy believe he was entitled to upload this footage and pass judgement on the woman? Is this being a loyal friend, or a spiteful prick? I'm actually running with the latter on this. If he wanted to prove to his mate the trouble-and-strife was playing away from home, why not present the footage privately, and leave it at that? What a vindictive piece of work this guy must be. Maybe he uploaded it because it's not legal for him to have her led to a public place where people can hoik rocks at her, or else he can't stick a big red letter 'A' on the front of her shirt.
2. Total Fuckwit Of The Day
It's the personification of Satan's knob-cheese who Just. Couldn't. Wait in the main street of town at about 7.15pm on this date. I was walking my two dogs, and at the other side of the road, waiting to cross, was a gentleman I know - one I look after in the line of my work. He has a mobility aid, and when the 'walk' sign was showing, he laboriously made his way across. I waited to say hi. He was about three quarters of the way across when the light turned green, and this festering pile of mouldy pustules, and in the event you're reading this it's YOU in the 4WD towing the covered tool trailer, or whatever it was - the poor guy was barely out of your line of drive and you just fanged it down the road - almost dragging him down with your slip stream! Couldn't you wait a few more seconds until he was definitely safe? Were you on your way to deliver a kidney on ice, or receive on for yourself? If you happened to look in your rear vision mirror, you would have seen an angry woman with two dogs yelling something less than congratulatory after you.
3. Guilty Pleasure Of The Day
Now this song itself is not a guilty pleasure - indeed it is a good 'un. But the reason I watched the clip a few times is. It is a live performance of Grand Funk Railroad doing 'We're An American Band' in 1974. It's got a primal rawness to it, and long-haired dudes strutting around in flares, as the drummer belts out the lyrics. It's rock and roll. And the shirtless guy in the white flared trousers has a smokin' hot upper bod. His waist tapers down to nice shape, and his biceps are perfect - not too big (I will own that I am a biceps girl). Truly, he has a form that could have been carved by Michelangelo. And yeah, that's one of the reasons I watched the film clip.
4. Good News Of The Day
I finalised and submitted a subject on integrating disabled into the community. Three more modules to go, and it's out of my hair. It's been hanging around in my hair like a virulent manifestation of headlice, which I am finally now combing out having smothered the fuckers with conditioner. Oh, this is all metaphorical; I am not really afflicted with nits, okay? And I hope to finalise those modules over the next few weeks, and finalise what's really important: the first draft of my next novel.
Ciao for now.
1. Twat Of The Week (Possibly The Month)
The self-righteous pontificator who filmed his mate's wife cheating, and uploaded it to the Internet. Now, I'm not condoning cheating per se, but I'm not giving much of a shit about her cheating on her husband because she's broken no laws and more importantly, it does not concern me. My business it is not - please note I'm not trying to channel Yoda. Commenters everywhere are donning the judge's robes and wig (seriously, you judgemental prats, doesn't it get hot under there?), and saying it serves her right. Okay, I will now play Devil's Advocate and ask this: does it serve the other party right? The guy she's supposedly fooling around with, I mean. Did he know she was married? Does he deserve to be splashed over cyberspace for the judge and jury that comprise the trollers of the Internet to determine his character? And what about her aggrieved husband, would he feel humiliated in the knowledge that all of cyberspace knows he's been cuckolded? ('Cuckolded' - is that an awesome word or what?) Why did this guy believe he was entitled to upload this footage and pass judgement on the woman? Is this being a loyal friend, or a spiteful prick? I'm actually running with the latter on this. If he wanted to prove to his mate the trouble-and-strife was playing away from home, why not present the footage privately, and leave it at that? What a vindictive piece of work this guy must be. Maybe he uploaded it because it's not legal for him to have her led to a public place where people can hoik rocks at her, or else he can't stick a big red letter 'A' on the front of her shirt.
2. Total Fuckwit Of The Day
It's the personification of Satan's knob-cheese who Just. Couldn't. Wait in the main street of town at about 7.15pm on this date. I was walking my two dogs, and at the other side of the road, waiting to cross, was a gentleman I know - one I look after in the line of my work. He has a mobility aid, and when the 'walk' sign was showing, he laboriously made his way across. I waited to say hi. He was about three quarters of the way across when the light turned green, and this festering pile of mouldy pustules, and in the event you're reading this it's YOU in the 4WD towing the covered tool trailer, or whatever it was - the poor guy was barely out of your line of drive and you just fanged it down the road - almost dragging him down with your slip stream! Couldn't you wait a few more seconds until he was definitely safe? Were you on your way to deliver a kidney on ice, or receive on for yourself? If you happened to look in your rear vision mirror, you would have seen an angry woman with two dogs yelling something less than congratulatory after you.
3. Guilty Pleasure Of The Day
Now this song itself is not a guilty pleasure - indeed it is a good 'un. But the reason I watched the clip a few times is. It is a live performance of Grand Funk Railroad doing 'We're An American Band' in 1974. It's got a primal rawness to it, and long-haired dudes strutting around in flares, as the drummer belts out the lyrics. It's rock and roll. And the shirtless guy in the white flared trousers has a smokin' hot upper bod. His waist tapers down to nice shape, and his biceps are perfect - not too big (I will own that I am a biceps girl). Truly, he has a form that could have been carved by Michelangelo. And yeah, that's one of the reasons I watched the film clip.
4. Good News Of The Day
I finalised and submitted a subject on integrating disabled into the community. Three more modules to go, and it's out of my hair. It's been hanging around in my hair like a virulent manifestation of headlice, which I am finally now combing out having smothered the fuckers with conditioner. Oh, this is all metaphorical; I am not really afflicted with nits, okay? And I hope to finalise those modules over the next few weeks, and finalise what's really important: the first draft of my next novel.
Ciao for now.
Sunday 9 November 2014
My Funk
I flaked out this afternoon without thought to the lesson which I am to teach tomorrow. I am going to teach my greying wannabe Hemingways more about characters. I think what I will have them do is create a character, and then give them some choices about scenarios in which to juxtapose that character and have them react accordingly. Sounds orright, dunnit?
Also, I am to do some subjects in disabled care - I have set aside Wednesday to study. When these subjects are under my belt, I will resume my work in progress - its' about eighty per cent done on the first draft, and I'm a tad happy with this, and I think it's a good 'un.
Just seems everything's been piling up again. Last week I had to drive my father to a doctor's appointment some one and a half hours away, and when I got home I helped a local art student write a speech. I had a few days' work, and then on my day off had to attend a meeting, and I cannot go into the reasons why, but trust me, it wasn't fun.
I'm trying to arrange somebody to take over as convenor for the writing division in the local eisteddfod, and having no luck. Local newspaper editors don't seem inclined to call me back, and if the content of the local papers is anything to go by, it's not like they are overly busy.
The big problem is: I am in a monstrous funk. It's this oppressive heat. It weighs me down, like a bit rubber hot air balloon trying to squash me. Now, when I am trying to think, I am hearing my younger son practising 'Jingle Bells' on his keyboard, the number he is performing in the end-of-year concert. He enjoys music, as do I, and loves the stage. I think I am looking forward more to his showmanship than his actual playing. He tends to take to the stage like Liberace, waving to the crowd (comprising mums and dads filming their various sprogs on iPads), plays okay, and then takes a bow like Pavarotti at the end of it all, much to the amusement of the crowd (and the embarrassment and angst of his older brother who tells him later how embarrassing he is, only to be shushed by me because I think his hamminess is adorable).
Having trouble thinking, and feeling overwhelmed. Well, sitting here isn't going to get things done on the lesson front. Off I go. Might write here again tonight after 'Q&A'. I will no doubt be infuriated because there is someone coming on who thinks the ABC is unnecessary because we have sites like Mamamia from which to get information. If this is true, on the count of three, everyone; One, Two Three: Dude, Seriously, What The Fuck?
Also, I am to do some subjects in disabled care - I have set aside Wednesday to study. When these subjects are under my belt, I will resume my work in progress - its' about eighty per cent done on the first draft, and I'm a tad happy with this, and I think it's a good 'un.
Just seems everything's been piling up again. Last week I had to drive my father to a doctor's appointment some one and a half hours away, and when I got home I helped a local art student write a speech. I had a few days' work, and then on my day off had to attend a meeting, and I cannot go into the reasons why, but trust me, it wasn't fun.
I'm trying to arrange somebody to take over as convenor for the writing division in the local eisteddfod, and having no luck. Local newspaper editors don't seem inclined to call me back, and if the content of the local papers is anything to go by, it's not like they are overly busy.
The big problem is: I am in a monstrous funk. It's this oppressive heat. It weighs me down, like a bit rubber hot air balloon trying to squash me. Now, when I am trying to think, I am hearing my younger son practising 'Jingle Bells' on his keyboard, the number he is performing in the end-of-year concert. He enjoys music, as do I, and loves the stage. I think I am looking forward more to his showmanship than his actual playing. He tends to take to the stage like Liberace, waving to the crowd (comprising mums and dads filming their various sprogs on iPads), plays okay, and then takes a bow like Pavarotti at the end of it all, much to the amusement of the crowd (and the embarrassment and angst of his older brother who tells him later how embarrassing he is, only to be shushed by me because I think his hamminess is adorable).
Having trouble thinking, and feeling overwhelmed. Well, sitting here isn't going to get things done on the lesson front. Off I go. Might write here again tonight after 'Q&A'. I will no doubt be infuriated because there is someone coming on who thinks the ABC is unnecessary because we have sites like Mamamia from which to get information. If this is true, on the count of three, everyone; One, Two Three: Dude, Seriously, What The Fuck?
Friday 7 November 2014
Not So Dirty Deeds Now, Hey?
Some twenty years ago, thinking this a natural progression from working as a secretary/paralegal, I walked into the admissions office of what was then known as the Solicitors' Admission Board and collected an enrolment form. I took it back to the flat I was renting, and that night started to complete it. I wrote my name, and had an epiphany. 'What the fuck am I doing?' I cried, after my inner voice, the voice that's always true and the voice from which I cannot hide started making noises to me, and told me to look deep inside myself. Grateful for the lucky escape, I crumped the form and threw it into my wastepaper basket, and turned back to my typewriter (this was before I could afford a computer).
I have never regretted the decision to not study law, and instead keep writing. My dream has been achieved in that I now have three novels under my belt, although I'm not earning much of a living from it. (You, Reader, have the power to change all that if you check out my bio and click on the links to my novels, heh-heh). I thought it would have been an immense waste of time and energy to qualify for a position I didn't really want, rather that expend that time and energy into my writing.
And what's really great is this: if I decide to obtain the qualifications in law, I don't even have to enrol in the course for a degree or Diploma of Law. I won't have to take the few years required to get the skills and paperwork that will entitle and enable me to frame a piece of paper on the wall of my office and take on clients. And you know why? Because with Facebook, EVERYONE becomes an expert on the law. Have you noticed? It happened with the Oscar Pistorius case when it seemed most people who had an opinion seemed well-versed in the niceties of the South African judicial system. Everybody thought the sentence was a disgrace. And in the past few days, following the arrest of Phil Judd, drummer with AC/DC, it all happened again. Headlines screaming 'Dirty Deeds' in the wake of is arrest for attempting to procure a murder. I must admit, were I the editor of some rag, I'd have to work 'Dirty Deeds' into the headline, too. 'Drugs and money will do that to you,' warned many social media armchair lawyers, as dire and secretly loving the scandal as any neighbourhood gossip in a floral pinafore and her hair in curlers. 'He'll go for sure,' said some. Being the admin of a 70s Site had me warning posters to refrain from comments about his guilt because the man is entitled to the correct judicial process.
And guess what? That charge has been dropped. So much for all those FB Briefs.
I am so weary - it's bed for me now. Been a big, and stressful day. oxox
I have never regretted the decision to not study law, and instead keep writing. My dream has been achieved in that I now have three novels under my belt, although I'm not earning much of a living from it. (You, Reader, have the power to change all that if you check out my bio and click on the links to my novels, heh-heh). I thought it would have been an immense waste of time and energy to qualify for a position I didn't really want, rather that expend that time and energy into my writing.
And what's really great is this: if I decide to obtain the qualifications in law, I don't even have to enrol in the course for a degree or Diploma of Law. I won't have to take the few years required to get the skills and paperwork that will entitle and enable me to frame a piece of paper on the wall of my office and take on clients. And you know why? Because with Facebook, EVERYONE becomes an expert on the law. Have you noticed? It happened with the Oscar Pistorius case when it seemed most people who had an opinion seemed well-versed in the niceties of the South African judicial system. Everybody thought the sentence was a disgrace. And in the past few days, following the arrest of Phil Judd, drummer with AC/DC, it all happened again. Headlines screaming 'Dirty Deeds' in the wake of is arrest for attempting to procure a murder. I must admit, were I the editor of some rag, I'd have to work 'Dirty Deeds' into the headline, too. 'Drugs and money will do that to you,' warned many social media armchair lawyers, as dire and secretly loving the scandal as any neighbourhood gossip in a floral pinafore and her hair in curlers. 'He'll go for sure,' said some. Being the admin of a 70s Site had me warning posters to refrain from comments about his guilt because the man is entitled to the correct judicial process.
And guess what? That charge has been dropped. So much for all those FB Briefs.
I am so weary - it's bed for me now. Been a big, and stressful day. oxox
Tuesday 4 November 2014
My Cup Runneth Over
Horse racing just gives me the shudders. This admission no doubt offends a few people. I hope a couple of my old friends from school aren't reading this because one of them has a racehorse (which I understand performed quite well at the local cup event which coincides with Melbourne Cup yesterday), and another is an equine nurse and equally passionate about horse racing. Actually, another friend is big on the GGs, and has worked as a trainer locally. I attended a local meet with her a while back, and had a pleasant time but only because it was her company, not because of the thundering hooves and the smell of freshly laid (and old dried) horse apples. I had to borrow her trainer credentials to use the toilet in the more uppity club area, because the public ladies' bog had a big horrible green frog in it, and the presence of those repulsive jumping monsters is enough to keep me from ever attending an event held at that venue If you haven't guessed, I am highly amphibiphobic. On this particular day I wore comfortable shoes, but a very stylish hat. But I couldn't cope with having to stand around in heels for a day. I cannot stand in heels for a minute. I find the whole fashions on the field blah-blah-blahdy-blah a load of -ahem! - horseshit. I roll my eyes at some of the outfits people wear, and I might have to issue a memo to a certain Aussie chick who seems to be famous for not much that what she wore looked more like an onion bag than a fascinator.
Pictures of drunk girls passed out amidst their own vomit and various litter, just near the row of portaloos also make me cross.
One of the most cringe worthy moments yesterday, and forgive me because I'm not trying to sound like a cybertroll but am just speaking what I think (and my blog if my fiefdom anyway) was the on-camera proposal by Geoffrey Edelsten to whatever that woman is meant to be. It had all the spontaneity and romance of the planned invasion of another country. I am normally happy for couples who announce their engagement, but this one just had me shrieking, 'Oh, puh-LEEEZE!' She did not look delighted in the least (maybe she hates the ring?). Maybe she was worried that when Geoffrey got down on his knee, he wouldn't be able to get back up? It was so contrived, and shudder-worthy, and not even entertaining. The outfits were repulsive, but that's to be expected. Now, I don't mind something different. I liked it when Bjork turned up to the Oscars in that white swan, because that's, well, her. But when your eyes feel they are going to vomit after viewing, now that's something else. I honestly do like some of the people who show up in fancy dress, but dearie me, when you look like you've been hijacked by a bird of paradise, you've got some sartorial problems. Also, that glitter. Now, friends who do craft tell me glitter is considered the 'herpes' of craft materials - it just gets everywhere. I'll stop here, and say no more.
Now, not being a gambler, I got rather caught up in the local buzz and attended a TAB outlet and placed a couple of bets. They added to $7.00. I put money on poor Admire Ratki. If you're reading this, then you've been travailing the Internet and you know what happened, right? That poor, poor creature. I did watch the race at home, and you know what? I didn't enjoy watching those horses racing. I enjoyed even less the news that Admire Ratki had dropped in his stall and died afterward. I was even more saddened to hear Araldo had to be destroyed after that injury when he was spooked by a kid waving a flag. While I'm here, can I just plead with parents to either (a) leave their excitable kids at home from horse events, or (b) tell them not to do anything sudden near them? Although I'm not a horsey type myself, I grew up on a farm and my father is a very well known rodeo rider/stockman, and it has been ingrained and osmosis-ed into me all my life: no sudden movements near horses! It's that old saying: 'The gun is always loaded, and the horse always kicks'. Is this glamour? Is this the sport of kings? One of my friends commented that injuries can happen in any sport. This is indeed true. But most people who are injured on the sporting field have made their own decision to partake in the said sport. The horses have not. I am so saddened by the deaths of these creatures. I will be interested to hear the autopsy results for Admire Ratki, because it might not have necessarily been race-related, whatever happened to him. And of course they are not the only horses that die, and get injured. This horror juxtaposed against desperate Z-listers in gaudy hats and outfits as they cavort before a camera, trying to stay relevant, and drunken people chundering behind the portaloos, and ads for Tom Waterhouse's betting agency. Nah, next year I think, if I'm not working, I will just read a book. I will probably take note of the winner because I play trivia, but all other things are off the table.
Pictures of drunk girls passed out amidst their own vomit and various litter, just near the row of portaloos also make me cross.
One of the most cringe worthy moments yesterday, and forgive me because I'm not trying to sound like a cybertroll but am just speaking what I think (and my blog if my fiefdom anyway) was the on-camera proposal by Geoffrey Edelsten to whatever that woman is meant to be. It had all the spontaneity and romance of the planned invasion of another country. I am normally happy for couples who announce their engagement, but this one just had me shrieking, 'Oh, puh-LEEEZE!' She did not look delighted in the least (maybe she hates the ring?). Maybe she was worried that when Geoffrey got down on his knee, he wouldn't be able to get back up? It was so contrived, and shudder-worthy, and not even entertaining. The outfits were repulsive, but that's to be expected. Now, I don't mind something different. I liked it when Bjork turned up to the Oscars in that white swan, because that's, well, her. But when your eyes feel they are going to vomit after viewing, now that's something else. I honestly do like some of the people who show up in fancy dress, but dearie me, when you look like you've been hijacked by a bird of paradise, you've got some sartorial problems. Also, that glitter. Now, friends who do craft tell me glitter is considered the 'herpes' of craft materials - it just gets everywhere. I'll stop here, and say no more.
Now, not being a gambler, I got rather caught up in the local buzz and attended a TAB outlet and placed a couple of bets. They added to $7.00. I put money on poor Admire Ratki. If you're reading this, then you've been travailing the Internet and you know what happened, right? That poor, poor creature. I did watch the race at home, and you know what? I didn't enjoy watching those horses racing. I enjoyed even less the news that Admire Ratki had dropped in his stall and died afterward. I was even more saddened to hear Araldo had to be destroyed after that injury when he was spooked by a kid waving a flag. While I'm here, can I just plead with parents to either (a) leave their excitable kids at home from horse events, or (b) tell them not to do anything sudden near them? Although I'm not a horsey type myself, I grew up on a farm and my father is a very well known rodeo rider/stockman, and it has been ingrained and osmosis-ed into me all my life: no sudden movements near horses! It's that old saying: 'The gun is always loaded, and the horse always kicks'. Is this glamour? Is this the sport of kings? One of my friends commented that injuries can happen in any sport. This is indeed true. But most people who are injured on the sporting field have made their own decision to partake in the said sport. The horses have not. I am so saddened by the deaths of these creatures. I will be interested to hear the autopsy results for Admire Ratki, because it might not have necessarily been race-related, whatever happened to him. And of course they are not the only horses that die, and get injured. This horror juxtaposed against desperate Z-listers in gaudy hats and outfits as they cavort before a camera, trying to stay relevant, and drunken people chundering behind the portaloos, and ads for Tom Waterhouse's betting agency. Nah, next year I think, if I'm not working, I will just read a book. I will probably take note of the winner because I play trivia, but all other things are off the table.
Saturday 1 November 2014
Samhain, folks!
Look, I'm not a historian. I'm not an expert mythologist. What I have is a passing interest in custom geneses, and mythology, and by virtue of this passing interest it's my understanding Halloween stems from the Celtic festival of Samhain, which is celebrated at the end of the harvest and warmer months, which in the northern hemisphere is around the end of October. Some would say it's been hijacked by the Americans, but I don't think this is necessarily the case because lots of cultures appropriate different customs, and celebrate them in their own unique way. For instance, most of us probably open our presents on Christmas morning, whereas my good friend is married to a guy of German background, and when it's her in-laws' 'turn', they do the major celebrating on Christmas Eve. Also, the Christmas tree tradition originated in Germany. Many celebrate Christmas in front of a roaring fire, roasting chestnuts, and carving a goose or turkey as the snow flakes can be seen swirling, when one looks through the window. In Australia we often celebrate with seafood, or cold meat and salads, and if you're eating at a trestle table outdoors, you find yourself cursing at the Westerly that's blown flecks of mown lawn over the trifle (but I hate trifle, so that wouldn't worry me per se), or gouging a fly out of the pasta salad with the once-a-year good family silver fork. But you see my point: traditions do evolve with different cultures etc.
But if Halloween is a celebration of the end of harvest, why in the Devil's droppings must we celebrate it on 31 October in Australia? I have given up bemoaning that we celebrate it at all in Australia; I'm beyond caring about that. Besides, it is a fun and community thing for the local kids But what it is NOT is fun for me, as a parent, trudging around in the heat with my kids to go trick or treating. Yesterday was 36 degrees Celsius, fer Chrissakes! I wish we'd do it at the end of April, which would be more in keeping with the 'meaning' behind it, and not so torturous in the sweltering and oppressive heat. I know of people who have even attempted carving pumpkins, only to have the flesh rot and fruit flies swarming in plague-like proportions. It's so damned impractical and uncomfortable to celebrate at this time of year in the southern hemisphere. At least last year one of the houses gave me a stubby of beer on the basis the 'parents deserve something, too'. Mate, right with ya on that one! Nobody gave me a beer this year, but I did get thinking that it might be nice to have some decorations out the front, and a bowl of lollies for the kids; then should a parent accompany them offer them a cold one. My front lawn is a very untidy, and there is still rubbish which must be removed after my Anzac Day flood. I am surprised kids did not think this was a Halloween decoration and knock on the door.
But if Halloween is a celebration of the end of harvest, why in the Devil's droppings must we celebrate it on 31 October in Australia? I have given up bemoaning that we celebrate it at all in Australia; I'm beyond caring about that. Besides, it is a fun and community thing for the local kids But what it is NOT is fun for me, as a parent, trudging around in the heat with my kids to go trick or treating. Yesterday was 36 degrees Celsius, fer Chrissakes! I wish we'd do it at the end of April, which would be more in keeping with the 'meaning' behind it, and not so torturous in the sweltering and oppressive heat. I know of people who have even attempted carving pumpkins, only to have the flesh rot and fruit flies swarming in plague-like proportions. It's so damned impractical and uncomfortable to celebrate at this time of year in the southern hemisphere. At least last year one of the houses gave me a stubby of beer on the basis the 'parents deserve something, too'. Mate, right with ya on that one! Nobody gave me a beer this year, but I did get thinking that it might be nice to have some decorations out the front, and a bowl of lollies for the kids; then should a parent accompany them offer them a cold one. My front lawn is a very untidy, and there is still rubbish which must be removed after my Anzac Day flood. I am surprised kids did not think this was a Halloween decoration and knock on the door.
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