Trying to stay on top of things at the moment. I refuse to be mired in the sorrow, but I know enough to recognise the fact I am grieving and pretty much everything goes. I just miss my wonderful Dad, that's all. I haven't spoken to him for almost three weeks now. I won't speak to him again, except in my mind; like yesterday when I looked at his photograph on the front of the booklet printed for his funeral, and I whispered, 'I miss you, Dad.' I am comforted that he died quickly and without pain, and he is at peace. He was devastated by the deaths of my brother and my mother, but I know he is no longer grieving their losses, and he cannot be hurt any more.
My brother, sister, and I each spoke at the funeral. It was easier than I thought it would be, but I wanted to do it, which was probably of great assistance. Everyone thinks of my father as a horseman, which he was, but to me he was Dad. I don't like horses, so we had to bond in other ways, which was what I told the congregation. We loved books, and our favourite was 'To Kill A Mockingbird'. We occasionally chewed the fat over what a great book that is. The last present I gave Dad was the sequel to this novel. I spoke of our mutual love of cryptic crosswords. I reminded the assembled masses (of which there was at least 250) that Dad was a horseman before a showman, who would always put the welfare of the animal first. Other funny stories came from my brother: Dad came second in a steer riding contest sponsored by Tarzan's Grip (we surmised had he used a bit more in the saddle, he might have come first!), and my sister about how Dad once suddenly took off at full gallop, removed a strap and buckle from the saddle, and clobbered a lamb-killing fox with it (still in the saddle). We showed a photo tribute on a screen, which was mainly put together by my 23-year-old nephew. He did a great job. I thought I would probably cry through it, but I was okay; I daresay because I had viewed it a few times already. My 14yo became tearful, so I put my arm around him. After a while, he whispered, 'Mum, you're frying me.' He is such a 'boy'.
It is hard describe how it feels to watch your son assist in carrying the coffin of his grandfather from the church. I was numb, sorrowful, and proud. All at the same time. I walked behind my sister and sister-in-law, on the arm of my niece's husband and with my other arm around my 11yo. The walk seemed so slow. We walked down the path to where the hearse was parked, and where six men on horseback waited. It is humbling and touching to recall the sight of all the farmers and stockmen outside the church, and men on horseback, removing their hats and placing them over their hearts, as my brother, brother-in-law, husband, son, and two nephews put my father in the hearse for his final journey. 'Don't cry!' my 11yo instructed me, several times. I dabbed at my eyes, though. My 14yo realised Pop is gone, and started to sob, and as the horses led the hearse away, with people in the churchyard clapping, my 11yo forgot his own edict and wailed for his Pop. It breaks my heart, but I guess children have to experience grief at some stage.
I guess writing this post is a catharsis for me. I have not been sleeping well, but it's getting better. And will continue to get better. I will be back to writing my usual cynical, and I hope, entertaining posts very soon. These past few weeks have been crappy, and the next few days will be. Today is the anniversary of my mother's death. I am normally okay, but because I've just lost Dad, today just seems really sad. Tomorrow is the anniversary of my father-in-law's death, so Mr Bingells is bound to be really feeling it tomorrow; he also loved my father and has shed quite a few tears since we got the awful news.
In closing, I am including a link to the tribute. It's on YouTube, so I will post a link here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DQOAzx88do8
If you've read this post, thank you for doing so. I'm sorry to post something maudlin as I try to entertain my readers, but I needed to do this for me. I will be my usual acerbic self very soon. Probably when I next post in a few days. I told my son yesterday it is normal and okay to be sad at this time, but assured him he will feel happiness again, and it's all right to be happy.
Thursday 31 December 2015
Tuesday 29 December 2015
Not Just Friday On My Mind
I'm too tired to think. I'm almost overwhelmingly exhausted, and weighed down with sorrow. I have put the finishing touches on my speech for Dad's funeral tomorrow, and my nephew has made a wonderful video tribute. I won't link it here yet, I will wait until after the official 'premiere' tomorrow. My father is lying at the local funeral home, and I hate the thought of him being there. I guess I don't want him to be there alone, but the stupid thing is, Dad liked being on his own.
I'm also saddened by the death of Stevie Wright. Goodness, he was a talented dynamo. What a pity he wasn't equipped to cope with the business side and the pressures of the industry. It's like he, and others who suffer similar indignities like Pete Hamm from Badfinger, have the talent but they get fucked over by the corporate sector of the recording business. I was at a rock concert some years ago, and an announcement was made that during intermission, there would be people collecting donations for a charity called Support Act, which was to allow people like Stevie Wright some dignity. I don't mind giving to that charity. I'm no business woman. There but for the grace of God etc. Not that I would be recording anything because I can't sing for peanuts, although that doesn't seem to stop other people.
Someone said to me tonight, jokingly, 'I guess you're old enough to have been an Easybeats fan, Old Girl.' I tutted and said my memories of Stevie were from his solo career in the 70s. I loved 'Guitar Band' when I was a kid. Saw Stevie in 1986, when he was supporting The Sweet. Some of you will know The Sweet were my faves as a kid. This concert was at Selinas, and my cousin, her friend, and I stood outside waiting to go in, and I was chattering, and broke off in a daze, pointing, as I said, 'That's them...'. Yeah, a little way away were some of the members of The Sweet, having a quick ciggie before entering the venue to get ready. What an awesome concert it was. I was looking forward to seeing Stevie as much as The Sweet. When Stevie came on, I didn't recognise him because I was expecting a guy with long hair and a flowing shirt. The apparition that walked onstage had an Eighties perm and a wardrobe straight out of 'Miami Vice'. It was only that he nodded and smiled at the audience gave me an inkling this just might be Stevie. But when he swung into his opening number, 'Guitar Band', there was no doubt it was him. He really rocked the stage, and my cousin actually enjoyed him more than The Sweet (I enjoyed both acts equally). He also did some of the Easybeats numbers, and everyone was dancing when he sang 'I'll Make You Happy'. His grand finale was 'Evie 1, 2 and 3'. But where was 'that' song? He left the stage, and we kept cheering and calling for more. He would have known we were going to do that, because he came back on and yep, did 'Friday On My Mind'.
Saddened by the indignities he suffered. Saddened he was ill. Saddened he's gone.
Vale Stevie.
PS I wonder will my Dad recognise him if he starts up singing? We used to blare 'Guitar Band' on the old Sanyo tape recorder in the car when we were going somewhere.
I'm also saddened by the death of Stevie Wright. Goodness, he was a talented dynamo. What a pity he wasn't equipped to cope with the business side and the pressures of the industry. It's like he, and others who suffer similar indignities like Pete Hamm from Badfinger, have the talent but they get fucked over by the corporate sector of the recording business. I was at a rock concert some years ago, and an announcement was made that during intermission, there would be people collecting donations for a charity called Support Act, which was to allow people like Stevie Wright some dignity. I don't mind giving to that charity. I'm no business woman. There but for the grace of God etc. Not that I would be recording anything because I can't sing for peanuts, although that doesn't seem to stop other people.
Someone said to me tonight, jokingly, 'I guess you're old enough to have been an Easybeats fan, Old Girl.' I tutted and said my memories of Stevie were from his solo career in the 70s. I loved 'Guitar Band' when I was a kid. Saw Stevie in 1986, when he was supporting The Sweet. Some of you will know The Sweet were my faves as a kid. This concert was at Selinas, and my cousin, her friend, and I stood outside waiting to go in, and I was chattering, and broke off in a daze, pointing, as I said, 'That's them...'. Yeah, a little way away were some of the members of The Sweet, having a quick ciggie before entering the venue to get ready. What an awesome concert it was. I was looking forward to seeing Stevie as much as The Sweet. When Stevie came on, I didn't recognise him because I was expecting a guy with long hair and a flowing shirt. The apparition that walked onstage had an Eighties perm and a wardrobe straight out of 'Miami Vice'. It was only that he nodded and smiled at the audience gave me an inkling this just might be Stevie. But when he swung into his opening number, 'Guitar Band', there was no doubt it was him. He really rocked the stage, and my cousin actually enjoyed him more than The Sweet (I enjoyed both acts equally). He also did some of the Easybeats numbers, and everyone was dancing when he sang 'I'll Make You Happy'. His grand finale was 'Evie 1, 2 and 3'. But where was 'that' song? He left the stage, and we kept cheering and calling for more. He would have known we were going to do that, because he came back on and yep, did 'Friday On My Mind'.
Saddened by the indignities he suffered. Saddened he was ill. Saddened he's gone.
Vale Stevie.
PS I wonder will my Dad recognise him if he starts up singing? We used to blare 'Guitar Band' on the old Sanyo tape recorder in the car when we were going somewhere.
Friday 25 December 2015
There's an Ewok in the house! Oh, wait....
I have not been blogging as prolifically as I normally would this past week. It has been a whirlwind of sadness and funeral arrangements. My darling dad will be farewelled next Wednesday. Owing to paperwork and red tape and public holidays and blah-blah-blah, we have been unable to secure a time prior to 30 December. We're happy with this date, and have been choosing songs for the service. People have been wonderful. One of Dad's friends offered to organise a horseback guard of honour. How beautiful this is going to look, and how I wish Dad could see it. My eleven-year-old thought we should make a robot of Pop to go on a horse too, but also thought there could be logistic issues if it happens to rain and causes Robo-Pop (my moniker, not his) to short circuit.
A friend left me a note today, in which she wrote her grandfather said my father looked to be part of the horse whenever in the saddle. This is so funny; I have been writing my speech for Dad's funeral, and I have used this analogy - he always looked like kind of a centaur in my eyes.
So much to do at the moment, and such little inclination to do it. My wretched German shepherd/kelpie cross has left hair everywhere. If I swept the hair into a pile and stuck eyes on it, I could convince my children we have a pet Ewok. I have washing to fold. Thankfully most of it is towels and my younger son has discovered there is a fiscal advantage to folding the towels for Mum.
Haven't been watching the news or anything. I've been rushing around like a dervish trying to get stuff organised, as have my brother and sister. Still got some tidying on my speech - I'm working on that bit where I found newspaper cuttings of my father. These cuttings reported the time a bull escaped from the Royal Easter Show, and my father (who would have then been aged about 26), along with two other riders, chased it down Anzac Parade. The bull dashed along tram lines, and the riders carried out an operation known as bulldogging. For those unfamiliar with the term, it's a rodeo event wherein a rider follows a steer, leans down and grabs the horns, and dismounts the horse and manoeuvres the bull to the ground. This is what Dad did, and people disembarked from the tram and ran over with ropes and things, and Dad tied the bull until help arrived. I read about all this (among other achievements) when I was about ten. You know that feeling you get when you think your father might be Batman? That's what it was like.
Oh well, the freaking dog hair won't sweep itself.
A friend left me a note today, in which she wrote her grandfather said my father looked to be part of the horse whenever in the saddle. This is so funny; I have been writing my speech for Dad's funeral, and I have used this analogy - he always looked like kind of a centaur in my eyes.
So much to do at the moment, and such little inclination to do it. My wretched German shepherd/kelpie cross has left hair everywhere. If I swept the hair into a pile and stuck eyes on it, I could convince my children we have a pet Ewok. I have washing to fold. Thankfully most of it is towels and my younger son has discovered there is a fiscal advantage to folding the towels for Mum.
Haven't been watching the news or anything. I've been rushing around like a dervish trying to get stuff organised, as have my brother and sister. Still got some tidying on my speech - I'm working on that bit where I found newspaper cuttings of my father. These cuttings reported the time a bull escaped from the Royal Easter Show, and my father (who would have then been aged about 26), along with two other riders, chased it down Anzac Parade. The bull dashed along tram lines, and the riders carried out an operation known as bulldogging. For those unfamiliar with the term, it's a rodeo event wherein a rider follows a steer, leans down and grabs the horns, and dismounts the horse and manoeuvres the bull to the ground. This is what Dad did, and people disembarked from the tram and ran over with ropes and things, and Dad tied the bull until help arrived. I read about all this (among other achievements) when I was about ten. You know that feeling you get when you think your father might be Batman? That's what it was like.
Oh well, the freaking dog hair won't sweep itself.
Saturday 19 December 2015
'Tis The Season, But For What?
I suppose most are up to their eyeballs in preparations just now. Preparing the house for the descending hordes of relatives. Preparing the good silverware for Christmas lunch. Wondering what designated job they will have this year: be it preparing the ham, or the salad; perhaps preparing the stodgy plum pudding with the gooey custard that looks like a giant has popped a big, grotesque boil over it (as you might have guessed, I detest plum pudding and custard); or perhaps preparing the baked lunch in sweltering heat that makes the entire house feel like a furnace. Or, there could be preparations underway in the backyard for BBQ to be 'enjoyed' under the tarpaulin borrowed from Apex, which becomes uprooted when the westerly wind appears, and it strikes Great Auntie Ethel up the side of the head and leaves her dazed, with her spectacles dangling askew from one ear. Perhaps the preparations have been done an easier way, and someone has trotted off to Aldi and purchased the pre-prepared turducken. 'Turducken' is a strange word, and to me sounds like some kind of German slang for faeces.
I am preparing none of this. I, together with my brother and sister, are in the process of preparing a funeral. Our father passed away though the week. Yesterday I drove to his house on the property where he lived, and met up with my husband and two of our nephews. I embraced my nephews; the younger of the two (a man of almost 23) and I clung to each other for a long time. Obviously, we all shaken and sad. But eventually, along with my brother and his wife, and my sister and her husband, we set about sorting Dad's stuff. It was a sad day, but also a day of laughter. There is more ahead of us today, and I daresay we will talk about the nitty-gritty for Dad's funeral. We will also go through photographs. I have shared my favourite on Facebook - it's Dad unsaddling his horse after winning the 100 Mile Tom Quilty Endurance Ride in 1968.
Shortly, I will open a box here with some old photographs, to see what I can find. We are likely to have a power point presentation, and I might have some more that would be suitable, although we do have some computer files with the presentations from past birthday parties.
Yesterday was hot and tiring. I couldn't even be bothered measuring out my vodka, lime and soda. Instead, after taking some clothes to whether Master 11 is having a sleepover, I stopped by the bottle-o and purchased a six pack of beer - blonde style (not so much for the lack of carbs, but I actually like the taste). I also saw something I had to have. I know logically I didn't really HAVE to have it, but I wanted it. I petulantly thought to myself, 'My dad's gone, and I want this.' I bought it. It is a small container made of thick glass, and it contains vodka. The attraction for me is the container is shaped like a skull. Another skull for my collection, and it contains a boutique distilled vodka to boot. You must think I'm a total pisshead, Reader. Nothing could be further from the truth; I don't drink a lot at all. The only liquor I can really stand is vodka, lime and soda or a cold beer on a hot day. Oh, I will not turn down a properly prepared Margarita, either. Good wine matched with a meal is also good. But no, I'm not that big a boozer. As mentioned, what got me excited was this little container is shaped like a skull.
RIP, Dad.
I am preparing none of this. I, together with my brother and sister, are in the process of preparing a funeral. Our father passed away though the week. Yesterday I drove to his house on the property where he lived, and met up with my husband and two of our nephews. I embraced my nephews; the younger of the two (a man of almost 23) and I clung to each other for a long time. Obviously, we all shaken and sad. But eventually, along with my brother and his wife, and my sister and her husband, we set about sorting Dad's stuff. It was a sad day, but also a day of laughter. There is more ahead of us today, and I daresay we will talk about the nitty-gritty for Dad's funeral. We will also go through photographs. I have shared my favourite on Facebook - it's Dad unsaddling his horse after winning the 100 Mile Tom Quilty Endurance Ride in 1968.
Shortly, I will open a box here with some old photographs, to see what I can find. We are likely to have a power point presentation, and I might have some more that would be suitable, although we do have some computer files with the presentations from past birthday parties.
Yesterday was hot and tiring. I couldn't even be bothered measuring out my vodka, lime and soda. Instead, after taking some clothes to whether Master 11 is having a sleepover, I stopped by the bottle-o and purchased a six pack of beer - blonde style (not so much for the lack of carbs, but I actually like the taste). I also saw something I had to have. I know logically I didn't really HAVE to have it, but I wanted it. I petulantly thought to myself, 'My dad's gone, and I want this.' I bought it. It is a small container made of thick glass, and it contains vodka. The attraction for me is the container is shaped like a skull. Another skull for my collection, and it contains a boutique distilled vodka to boot. You must think I'm a total pisshead, Reader. Nothing could be further from the truth; I don't drink a lot at all. The only liquor I can really stand is vodka, lime and soda or a cold beer on a hot day. Oh, I will not turn down a properly prepared Margarita, either. Good wine matched with a meal is also good. But no, I'm not that big a boozer. As mentioned, what got me excited was this little container is shaped like a skull.
RIP, Dad.
Thursday 17 December 2015
Supermarket Silliness
For those of you who are wondering, there are three types of morons who should not foul the space of the supermarket. Those people are:
1. The cretins who can't stow shopping trolleys properly. I don't mean the old chook who tried to shove one between my arse cheeks a few weeks ago, as we were queuing at the check out. Let me paint a picture: it's nearing Christmas, and every man and his mutt are out shopping, and you finally see an empty car space. You put on your blinker, make to manoeuvre your car into that space, only to find some selfish, brain-bypassed imbecile has left a shopping trolley in that space! That pisses me off to the nth power. I know theoretically one could climb from one's car and move that trolley, but the fact that one has to thanks to some cockhead really is infuriating.
2. The foul-mouthed beasts who think the rest of us enjoy listening to their repetitive, and abusive, use of the F-word. I am aware I use the odd F-bomb in my writing. Sometimes in creative writing it works quite well, and I make judicious use of it. What I don't do is get up from the outdoor bench, as my lift is pulling over, and berate the driver about how fucking long I've been waiting and how the fucking ice cream is melting and does she know what fucking time it is and how the fucking Dow Jones fell three fucking points. Truly, do these home-inked guttersnipes whose inked designs are usually amorphous outlines that appear to be amoebae, and whose acquaintance with toiletries is nodding at best, not realise how pathetic they sound and how offensive they are to the rest of the populace going about their shopping? I guess they don't, and I'm sure the no-class example yesterday
didn't either. 'Lovely,' muttered a man to me as we walked by this spectacle, on our way to the supermarket entrance, and we both rolled our eyes.
3. Shit-heaps who are inconsiderate about disposing of their rubbish. Yesterday, after walking past the aforementioned cursing bogan, I spotted a couple placing their toddlers into the seat of a trolley, and the wife put her rubbish - comprising an empty milk shake cup and a waxed box of the type that contains chicken nuggets - into the trolley next to them. The proper receptacle was only about six metres away. Honestly, how bloody lazy and ignorant can you get? Yeah, one of the kids was screaming. I've tried shopping with a tantrum-chucking toddler, and it's enough to send you onto the roof with a gun; I KNOW all this. You just want to zoom around the aisles, throw what you need into the trolley, pay, and get the hell out of there before the kid's screaming shatters a window. But I also know it is utterly rude to just put your used takeaway containers into a shopping trolley and leave it there, especially when the bin was So. Bloody. CLOSE. Couldn't the she-slob just give the rubbish to the he-slob for the appropriate disposal, whilst she made a start on the shopping?
Maybe these people just need a reassuring, encouraging pat. Across the face. With a cricket bat.
I have a milestone birthday coming up. It's not for a few months, but I thought I'd make a start on arrangements. Thinking of the lovely Sydney Harbour, I enquired with a cruise company. It's damn near impossible to get a booking around my birthday. I asked the clerk what might be available, and she said, 'We have a lunch cruise, and there's an Abba tribute band playing.' I resisted the urge to point out that an Abba band will make me want to do nothing so much as climb over the railing and throw myself into the brine. Sigh. The idea with which I am now toying is to just book a restaurant; the idea is for me to catch up with my friends, most of whom are in the Big Smoke. Maybe a few drinks first, then a meal, and then a few drinks later. There will be no greater gift than to see my family and friends, and it doesn't matter if we're not cruising around the harbour.
1. The cretins who can't stow shopping trolleys properly. I don't mean the old chook who tried to shove one between my arse cheeks a few weeks ago, as we were queuing at the check out. Let me paint a picture: it's nearing Christmas, and every man and his mutt are out shopping, and you finally see an empty car space. You put on your blinker, make to manoeuvre your car into that space, only to find some selfish, brain-bypassed imbecile has left a shopping trolley in that space! That pisses me off to the nth power. I know theoretically one could climb from one's car and move that trolley, but the fact that one has to thanks to some cockhead really is infuriating.
2. The foul-mouthed beasts who think the rest of us enjoy listening to their repetitive, and abusive, use of the F-word. I am aware I use the odd F-bomb in my writing. Sometimes in creative writing it works quite well, and I make judicious use of it. What I don't do is get up from the outdoor bench, as my lift is pulling over, and berate the driver about how fucking long I've been waiting and how the fucking ice cream is melting and does she know what fucking time it is and how the fucking Dow Jones fell three fucking points. Truly, do these home-inked guttersnipes whose inked designs are usually amorphous outlines that appear to be amoebae, and whose acquaintance with toiletries is nodding at best, not realise how pathetic they sound and how offensive they are to the rest of the populace going about their shopping? I guess they don't, and I'm sure the no-class example yesterday
didn't either. 'Lovely,' muttered a man to me as we walked by this spectacle, on our way to the supermarket entrance, and we both rolled our eyes.
3. Shit-heaps who are inconsiderate about disposing of their rubbish. Yesterday, after walking past the aforementioned cursing bogan, I spotted a couple placing their toddlers into the seat of a trolley, and the wife put her rubbish - comprising an empty milk shake cup and a waxed box of the type that contains chicken nuggets - into the trolley next to them. The proper receptacle was only about six metres away. Honestly, how bloody lazy and ignorant can you get? Yeah, one of the kids was screaming. I've tried shopping with a tantrum-chucking toddler, and it's enough to send you onto the roof with a gun; I KNOW all this. You just want to zoom around the aisles, throw what you need into the trolley, pay, and get the hell out of there before the kid's screaming shatters a window. But I also know it is utterly rude to just put your used takeaway containers into a shopping trolley and leave it there, especially when the bin was So. Bloody. CLOSE. Couldn't the she-slob just give the rubbish to the he-slob for the appropriate disposal, whilst she made a start on the shopping?
Maybe these people just need a reassuring, encouraging pat. Across the face. With a cricket bat.
I have a milestone birthday coming up. It's not for a few months, but I thought I'd make a start on arrangements. Thinking of the lovely Sydney Harbour, I enquired with a cruise company. It's damn near impossible to get a booking around my birthday. I asked the clerk what might be available, and she said, 'We have a lunch cruise, and there's an Abba tribute band playing.' I resisted the urge to point out that an Abba band will make me want to do nothing so much as climb over the railing and throw myself into the brine. Sigh. The idea with which I am now toying is to just book a restaurant; the idea is for me to catch up with my friends, most of whom are in the Big Smoke. Maybe a few drinks first, then a meal, and then a few drinks later. There will be no greater gift than to see my family and friends, and it doesn't matter if we're not cruising around the harbour.
Monday 14 December 2015
Menacing Melody
I get strange things in my mind at times. Most times, probably. It's lonely being me. So, I'm going to put out a call and see if there is anybody else out there who shares my utter loathing for the Blondie song 'One Way Or Another'. Anybody? Surely it can't be just me who feels the enamel peeling from her teeth in strips, and who practically sprains her wrist turning off the car radio when this twisted tune comes on.
I don't want to be one of these people who reads too much into song lyrics, because those people often need the waaah-mbulance. That being said, this song truly gives me at best the irrits, and at worst a raging case of The Creeps. In fact, it's right up there with 'Centrefold' by the J Geils Band for Songs That Cause Dry Horrors With Their Psychotic Undertones.
First of all, there is this repetitive sneering nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah quality to her delivery. But then it gets darker and positively chilling. She's threatening to 'getcha getcha getcha getcha'. Is it just me, or does she sound like the school bully threatening to grab you when you least expect it, and then drag you off to the school dunny and flush your head?
The repetitious nature of this song is enough to do your head in alone, but when you throw in the constant barrage of menace it's enough to make you want to run to the Chamber Magistrate and take out a restraining order. Not that this fixated psycho hose-beast would take any notice of the court order.
She even threatens to drive past the house the object of her affection (read: unhealthy obsession) to see if there are any lights on, and to spy on this poor sap when he's making telephone calls. Truly, the first time I heard this terrifying tune, I looked at the radio and asked, 'Seriously, woman, how big a fuck-up ARE you?' Let's put it this way: hope this poor guy has an impenetrable rabbit hutch.
But I'm wondering is it just me? Am I alone in finding this song flesh-crawlingly loathsome? Please, someone reassure me. I'm aware I sound like a bit of a fruitloop myself in my dislike of this cruddy song, but I'd like to know I'm not the only fruitloop in the box.
Now, if you've read this far and I haven't scared you away with my own eccentricities, let me suggest buying your loved ones BOOKS as a Christmas present. MY books in particular. The best place to purchase my stuff is via the publisher's website, and I will provide links to the first chapters, from which you will be able to decide who is the best recipient of which book. I do mainly adult satire, but one of my books is young adult (although it will appeal to adults - my husband had a tear in his eye when he finished it and he is my harshest critic). The young adult is titled 'Abernethy', and is best purchased as an e-book at the moment, so maybe you can make a gift of it. Alternatively, 'Hunt-a-Book' in Scone, NSW, has some copies, so Google them and they can help you. Forgive the blatant wheedling for purchases here, but it's my blog, so I'm allowed to. Besides, as I often point out, my kid just does not stop eating, and I need the royalties to feed the glutton.
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
Yeah, some royalties would be good. It would cheer me immensely because I've had that rotten song stuck in my head all day - it came on the radio when I was driving around this morning.
I don't want to be one of these people who reads too much into song lyrics, because those people often need the waaah-mbulance. That being said, this song truly gives me at best the irrits, and at worst a raging case of The Creeps. In fact, it's right up there with 'Centrefold' by the J Geils Band for Songs That Cause Dry Horrors With Their Psychotic Undertones.
First of all, there is this repetitive sneering nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah quality to her delivery. But then it gets darker and positively chilling. She's threatening to 'getcha getcha getcha getcha'. Is it just me, or does she sound like the school bully threatening to grab you when you least expect it, and then drag you off to the school dunny and flush your head?
The repetitious nature of this song is enough to do your head in alone, but when you throw in the constant barrage of menace it's enough to make you want to run to the Chamber Magistrate and take out a restraining order. Not that this fixated psycho hose-beast would take any notice of the court order.
She even threatens to drive past the house the object of her affection (read: unhealthy obsession) to see if there are any lights on, and to spy on this poor sap when he's making telephone calls. Truly, the first time I heard this terrifying tune, I looked at the radio and asked, 'Seriously, woman, how big a fuck-up ARE you?' Let's put it this way: hope this poor guy has an impenetrable rabbit hutch.
But I'm wondering is it just me? Am I alone in finding this song flesh-crawlingly loathsome? Please, someone reassure me. I'm aware I sound like a bit of a fruitloop myself in my dislike of this cruddy song, but I'd like to know I'm not the only fruitloop in the box.
Now, if you've read this far and I haven't scared you away with my own eccentricities, let me suggest buying your loved ones BOOKS as a Christmas present. MY books in particular. The best place to purchase my stuff is via the publisher's website, and I will provide links to the first chapters, from which you will be able to decide who is the best recipient of which book. I do mainly adult satire, but one of my books is young adult (although it will appeal to adults - my husband had a tear in his eye when he finished it and he is my harshest critic). The young adult is titled 'Abernethy', and is best purchased as an e-book at the moment, so maybe you can make a gift of it. Alternatively, 'Hunt-a-Book' in Scone, NSW, has some copies, so Google them and they can help you. Forgive the blatant wheedling for purchases here, but it's my blog, so I'm allowed to. Besides, as I often point out, my kid just does not stop eating, and I need the royalties to feed the glutton.
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
Yeah, some royalties would be good. It would cheer me immensely because I've had that rotten song stuck in my head all day - it came on the radio when I was driving around this morning.
Saturday 12 December 2015
Strong is the Stupid, and a new novel is on the way....
With the new Star Wars film about to open (and my oldest like a chook hopping about on a hot plate with the excitement), I've kind of been channelling Yoda, and thinking in Yoda's voice, 'Strong is the Stupid with this one!' more than I would like to, of late.
This Yoda-ish platitude came to my mind when I saw on the news footage has been taken of Bill Shorten driving whilst using his mobile telephone. Bill, I don't know if you really care about the ramblings of a struggling rural author, but I must ask you this: Are you stupid? Mate, this is against the law. Also, and please take a moment to let this absorb, it's fucking DANGEROUS! You could have wiped someone out. If it's that important, pull over. You have been awarded my Dickhead Of The Week Award. The runner-up award goes to the imbecile who took that footage on his/her own telephone whilst driving his/her own car.
Again, I shook my head as I read a comment on social media - maybe I'm spending to much time thereon - telling me I am a 'dick' for an opinion I expressed. Listen, if this person thinks I am a dick, then that's her problem; it is of little consequence to me. I've been called worse. No, it's more to do with her describing what she feared were Chinese men purchasing infant formula to send to China as 'greedy gooks buying for them selfs'. Sigh. Hopefully she has found a UDL can from which to quaff, and her ire has abated.
Now, although I have had a hectic week in many respects, it has also been a good one. On Thursday, I signed the contract for the publication of my next novel. This novel will probably be available later next year. The evaluation editor, in her report, used phrases like 'interesting and fascinating' together with 'mystery and tension'. She believes it would have reasonable prospects in the young adult market, but I feel it should appeal to older adults, too. It is a variance from my usual satirical style; it is a first person narrative from a seventeen-year-old girl trying to write her memoirs in 1982. It is NOT autobiographical, but naturally I drew on many of my own experiences, as most writers do. When she's writing and wondering where to start, she remembers a particular day being Remembrance Day 1975, when a nun excitedly announced to the class Whitlam had been sacked. I thought this would be a good image for the reader, and an identifiable one. Many of us of a certain age do remember receiving this news, and yeah, for me it was via a nun who appeared in the classroom door, gave the news in a gleeful manner, and then disappeared like a rabid bat in the night. I felt confused, and wondered why Sister Mary Bad-Tempered-Skank should take delight in somebody's downfall. Obviously this good (choke!) Sister of St Joseph was not really called Sister Mary Bad-Tempered-Skank, but in the interest of law suit avoidance, I have re-named her thus. Besides, my moniker suits her greatly.
So, I'm starting my marketing early, and hoping everyone is intrigued enough to buy the book when it comes back from the printer. The flipside of this is I might make everyone so fed-up with the hype, they refuse to buy it as a matter of principle.
After the Christmas break, I will forward a cover art questionnaire to the publisher, along with an author photo for the back jacket. Mr Bingells, a very good photographer, will be entrusted to take the picture. I shall refrain from the odious trend of duck-face. I might grease up my arse like Kim Kardashian did for the a stupid picture that, as they say, 'broke the Internet'. If you care, my arse is nowhere near the size of Kim's, so will not need to be shot in a panoramic style. I have suggested replicating this shot to Mr Bingells, but he is not keen - might be something to do with his own artistic integrity as the photographer. I then suggested I balance a champagne glass on my bum with the open bottle being held over my head as the sparkly stuff gushes into said glass. Again, this probably won't work as I don't have sufficient arse area to balance the glass. Well, let's face it: these are the shots that are getting noticed. Maybe I should try doing something different. Perhaps I'll do a DIGNIFIED author photo. Yes, that could be the ticket - dignified.
The new book, by the way, is titled 'Howling On A Concrete Moon'. This was thought up by my eleven-year-old. I was about halfway through the first draft, and he suddenly asked, 'Mum, could you call your book 'Howling On A Concrete Moon'?' I agreed it was a catchy title, and set out figuring out a way for that title to make sense in the work. This was eventually achieved.
Finally, I just want to share my three favourite guitar solos:
1. Mick Ronson in Ian Hunter's 'Once Bitten, Twice Shy'.
2. Chris Spedding in Bryan Ferry's 'This Is Tomorrow'.
3. Allen Collins and Garry Rossington in Lynard Skynard's 'Freebird'.
This Yoda-ish platitude came to my mind when I saw on the news footage has been taken of Bill Shorten driving whilst using his mobile telephone. Bill, I don't know if you really care about the ramblings of a struggling rural author, but I must ask you this: Are you stupid? Mate, this is against the law. Also, and please take a moment to let this absorb, it's fucking DANGEROUS! You could have wiped someone out. If it's that important, pull over. You have been awarded my Dickhead Of The Week Award. The runner-up award goes to the imbecile who took that footage on his/her own telephone whilst driving his/her own car.
Again, I shook my head as I read a comment on social media - maybe I'm spending to much time thereon - telling me I am a 'dick' for an opinion I expressed. Listen, if this person thinks I am a dick, then that's her problem; it is of little consequence to me. I've been called worse. No, it's more to do with her describing what she feared were Chinese men purchasing infant formula to send to China as 'greedy gooks buying for them selfs'. Sigh. Hopefully she has found a UDL can from which to quaff, and her ire has abated.
Now, although I have had a hectic week in many respects, it has also been a good one. On Thursday, I signed the contract for the publication of my next novel. This novel will probably be available later next year. The evaluation editor, in her report, used phrases like 'interesting and fascinating' together with 'mystery and tension'. She believes it would have reasonable prospects in the young adult market, but I feel it should appeal to older adults, too. It is a variance from my usual satirical style; it is a first person narrative from a seventeen-year-old girl trying to write her memoirs in 1982. It is NOT autobiographical, but naturally I drew on many of my own experiences, as most writers do. When she's writing and wondering where to start, she remembers a particular day being Remembrance Day 1975, when a nun excitedly announced to the class Whitlam had been sacked. I thought this would be a good image for the reader, and an identifiable one. Many of us of a certain age do remember receiving this news, and yeah, for me it was via a nun who appeared in the classroom door, gave the news in a gleeful manner, and then disappeared like a rabid bat in the night. I felt confused, and wondered why Sister Mary Bad-Tempered-Skank should take delight in somebody's downfall. Obviously this good (choke!) Sister of St Joseph was not really called Sister Mary Bad-Tempered-Skank, but in the interest of law suit avoidance, I have re-named her thus. Besides, my moniker suits her greatly.
So, I'm starting my marketing early, and hoping everyone is intrigued enough to buy the book when it comes back from the printer. The flipside of this is I might make everyone so fed-up with the hype, they refuse to buy it as a matter of principle.
After the Christmas break, I will forward a cover art questionnaire to the publisher, along with an author photo for the back jacket. Mr Bingells, a very good photographer, will be entrusted to take the picture. I shall refrain from the odious trend of duck-face. I might grease up my arse like Kim Kardashian did for the a stupid picture that, as they say, 'broke the Internet'. If you care, my arse is nowhere near the size of Kim's, so will not need to be shot in a panoramic style. I have suggested replicating this shot to Mr Bingells, but he is not keen - might be something to do with his own artistic integrity as the photographer. I then suggested I balance a champagne glass on my bum with the open bottle being held over my head as the sparkly stuff gushes into said glass. Again, this probably won't work as I don't have sufficient arse area to balance the glass. Well, let's face it: these are the shots that are getting noticed. Maybe I should try doing something different. Perhaps I'll do a DIGNIFIED author photo. Yes, that could be the ticket - dignified.
The new book, by the way, is titled 'Howling On A Concrete Moon'. This was thought up by my eleven-year-old. I was about halfway through the first draft, and he suddenly asked, 'Mum, could you call your book 'Howling On A Concrete Moon'?' I agreed it was a catchy title, and set out figuring out a way for that title to make sense in the work. This was eventually achieved.
Finally, I just want to share my three favourite guitar solos:
1. Mick Ronson in Ian Hunter's 'Once Bitten, Twice Shy'.
2. Chris Spedding in Bryan Ferry's 'This Is Tomorrow'.
3. Allen Collins and Garry Rossington in Lynard Skynard's 'Freebird'.
Monday 7 December 2015
Today's Little List
Today's little list comprises what I've noticed these past few days. First cab off the rank is:
1. Today is the 35th anniversary of the senseless and ugly death of John Lennon. I might be a little bit out in my calculations because his death is the 8th, but in Australia we probably heard it on what was our 9th December. I'm a bit of a pedant that way, but it does not change the way I felt when I received the news. It was after school, and instead of catching the school bus home I was doing what was commonly referred to as 'walking down the street'. My mother worked casually in a dress boutique, and on the days she worked I would go to the shop instead of catching the bus home. The shop was located a few doors along from the fish-and-chip shop, and the daughter of that shop's proprietor, who was in the same class as me, stopped me on my way past. 'They've assassinated John Lennon,' she told me, her already expressive dark eyes even more expressive. 'They've'. It's always 'they' or 'they've'. Who is this 'they', I wondered. I'm not sure whether Lennon's murder would necessarily be an 'assassination', but it was a vicious and foul theft from the world. Mark Chapman, I don't know if you have Internet access but you are seriously one sick fuck, and I hope you rot where you are. (On an unrelated note, I saw Jared Leto give a great performance as Chapman in a movie, the name of which escapes me). When I got home, I sat down in front of the television, and there was the image on the screen - an aquiline face framed with lank brown hair, and plain round spectacles over the bridge of the nose, and the words: John Lennon 1940 - 1980 as 'Imagine' played in the background. It made me cry then, and it would make me cry today.
2. An unpopular decision by the judiciary brings out the armchair lawyers. Oh, it's not like I haven't noticed this before, but it's happening again today. Everyone starts up how the judges have to grow a pair, or the courts are letting us down, or it's a slap in the face for the victim's family, or how the courts and laws favour the criminals, or how the lawyers and judges are going to turn into giant venom-spitting pterodactyls. Okay, I might have embellished on that last one - just a little. In case you're unaware, Gerald Baden-Clay had his murder conviction overturned by the Court of Criminal Appeal today. Whether all the armchair lawyers like it or not, he had a legal avenue of appeal, and the appeal worked for him. The appeal judges interpreted the material before them and applied the law accordingly. It's what they do. The judges know the law; all you armchair lawyers don't. And you know something else? Our legal system and courts are not designed to protect to criminals, they are designed to protect the innocent. I will shout it from the rooftops that I will see ten guilty men walk free before I see one innocent man go to gaol. The judges have a law degree, and most of your moaners and groaners don't. Don't like our legal system, which is a damn good and fair one? Fine, fuck off and live in North Korea. Something that is really grinding my gears about this is that I cannot comment on one of the most offensive sites for perpetuating this rubbish because I got banned. Yes, harmless, innocuous, and inoffensive little me got banned from a feminist site where I would often point out the machinations of our legal system which crap all over pig-ignorant populist drivel spouted by no-nothing lynch mobs. My husband has told me it is more likely because I called the writers on the site 'nasty slags'. Perhaps he's right.
3. People like to shout over others in discussions. Last night I watched something about the use of pornography by Australians, which was hosted by someone from Triple J (who was something of a hottie). It was an interesting show. A broad spectrum of people were discussing - from the young woman who campaigned for the banning of Zoo Weekly from supermarket shelves, to an adult movie actress, to a couple who watch movies for fun, to a couple who have banned them in their house, to a gay man who found watching gay porn as a teenager made him accept himself for who he was, to a relationships counsellor, to a Lifeline counsellor, to Melinda Tankard-Reist from the organisation Collective Shout. It occurred to me during the show this organisation might have earned its name because Ms Tankard-Reist kept shouting over everyone who was giving their opinion. Now, I have spoken on the banning of Zoo Weekly previously, but my view in a nutshell is yes, the magazine in infantile which leads to my CHOICE to not read it, but what about other stupid magazines on view that promise women they can return to their pre-pregnancy bodies in two weeks, or that a friend of a friend of the gardener to the celebrity couple can vouch for the couple separating, or whatever the fucking Kardashians are up to? They are truly obnoxious magazines, too. Hey, I still remember one headline from years ago promising to give advice on how we too could achieve Elle McPherson's perfect body. I did not read the article but given Ms McPherson is much taller than your average woman and top heavy, I'm guessing the author suggested time on a stretching rack and silicon breast implants. Other things I observed from the show were this: some people have issues. The couple who separated because the wife likened her husband's occasional porn watching to another woman? The woman needs help and the bloke was soooo pussy-whipped. Ms Tankard-Reist? Stop yelling over other people. I still have the your clarion cry of 'gaping arseholes' ringing in my ears, like a bout of tinnitus inflicted by Satan.
Look, here's what I think if you care, and if you've read this far, it would tell me you do: I will spell it out: E-D-U-C-A-T-I-O-N. Tell the young folk about whom we are worried that what they see in an adult film is being performed by actors and not everyone with whom they establish a sexual relationship will want to emulate what is depicted on the screen. Teach people to respect other peoples' wishes and boundaries.
If adults in their right minds enjoy watching adult actors having a root in a movie? Let them watch. If others have a problem with a 'porn-addiction'? Let them get help. Let people use their common sense.
A bad diet can cause diabetes and other health issues, but I don't see anyone campaigning for the banning of KFC. It's all about education.
1. Today is the 35th anniversary of the senseless and ugly death of John Lennon. I might be a little bit out in my calculations because his death is the 8th, but in Australia we probably heard it on what was our 9th December. I'm a bit of a pedant that way, but it does not change the way I felt when I received the news. It was after school, and instead of catching the school bus home I was doing what was commonly referred to as 'walking down the street'. My mother worked casually in a dress boutique, and on the days she worked I would go to the shop instead of catching the bus home. The shop was located a few doors along from the fish-and-chip shop, and the daughter of that shop's proprietor, who was in the same class as me, stopped me on my way past. 'They've assassinated John Lennon,' she told me, her already expressive dark eyes even more expressive. 'They've'. It's always 'they' or 'they've'. Who is this 'they', I wondered. I'm not sure whether Lennon's murder would necessarily be an 'assassination', but it was a vicious and foul theft from the world. Mark Chapman, I don't know if you have Internet access but you are seriously one sick fuck, and I hope you rot where you are. (On an unrelated note, I saw Jared Leto give a great performance as Chapman in a movie, the name of which escapes me). When I got home, I sat down in front of the television, and there was the image on the screen - an aquiline face framed with lank brown hair, and plain round spectacles over the bridge of the nose, and the words: John Lennon 1940 - 1980 as 'Imagine' played in the background. It made me cry then, and it would make me cry today.
2. An unpopular decision by the judiciary brings out the armchair lawyers. Oh, it's not like I haven't noticed this before, but it's happening again today. Everyone starts up how the judges have to grow a pair, or the courts are letting us down, or it's a slap in the face for the victim's family, or how the courts and laws favour the criminals, or how the lawyers and judges are going to turn into giant venom-spitting pterodactyls. Okay, I might have embellished on that last one - just a little. In case you're unaware, Gerald Baden-Clay had his murder conviction overturned by the Court of Criminal Appeal today. Whether all the armchair lawyers like it or not, he had a legal avenue of appeal, and the appeal worked for him. The appeal judges interpreted the material before them and applied the law accordingly. It's what they do. The judges know the law; all you armchair lawyers don't. And you know something else? Our legal system and courts are not designed to protect to criminals, they are designed to protect the innocent. I will shout it from the rooftops that I will see ten guilty men walk free before I see one innocent man go to gaol. The judges have a law degree, and most of your moaners and groaners don't. Don't like our legal system, which is a damn good and fair one? Fine, fuck off and live in North Korea. Something that is really grinding my gears about this is that I cannot comment on one of the most offensive sites for perpetuating this rubbish because I got banned. Yes, harmless, innocuous, and inoffensive little me got banned from a feminist site where I would often point out the machinations of our legal system which crap all over pig-ignorant populist drivel spouted by no-nothing lynch mobs. My husband has told me it is more likely because I called the writers on the site 'nasty slags'. Perhaps he's right.
3. People like to shout over others in discussions. Last night I watched something about the use of pornography by Australians, which was hosted by someone from Triple J (who was something of a hottie). It was an interesting show. A broad spectrum of people were discussing - from the young woman who campaigned for the banning of Zoo Weekly from supermarket shelves, to an adult movie actress, to a couple who watch movies for fun, to a couple who have banned them in their house, to a gay man who found watching gay porn as a teenager made him accept himself for who he was, to a relationships counsellor, to a Lifeline counsellor, to Melinda Tankard-Reist from the organisation Collective Shout. It occurred to me during the show this organisation might have earned its name because Ms Tankard-Reist kept shouting over everyone who was giving their opinion. Now, I have spoken on the banning of Zoo Weekly previously, but my view in a nutshell is yes, the magazine in infantile which leads to my CHOICE to not read it, but what about other stupid magazines on view that promise women they can return to their pre-pregnancy bodies in two weeks, or that a friend of a friend of the gardener to the celebrity couple can vouch for the couple separating, or whatever the fucking Kardashians are up to? They are truly obnoxious magazines, too. Hey, I still remember one headline from years ago promising to give advice on how we too could achieve Elle McPherson's perfect body. I did not read the article but given Ms McPherson is much taller than your average woman and top heavy, I'm guessing the author suggested time on a stretching rack and silicon breast implants. Other things I observed from the show were this: some people have issues. The couple who separated because the wife likened her husband's occasional porn watching to another woman? The woman needs help and the bloke was soooo pussy-whipped. Ms Tankard-Reist? Stop yelling over other people. I still have the your clarion cry of 'gaping arseholes' ringing in my ears, like a bout of tinnitus inflicted by Satan.
Look, here's what I think if you care, and if you've read this far, it would tell me you do: I will spell it out: E-D-U-C-A-T-I-O-N. Tell the young folk about whom we are worried that what they see in an adult film is being performed by actors and not everyone with whom they establish a sexual relationship will want to emulate what is depicted on the screen. Teach people to respect other peoples' wishes and boundaries.
If adults in their right minds enjoy watching adult actors having a root in a movie? Let them watch. If others have a problem with a 'porn-addiction'? Let them get help. Let people use their common sense.
A bad diet can cause diabetes and other health issues, but I don't see anyone campaigning for the banning of KFC. It's all about education.
Saturday 5 December 2015
Mental!
Last night I attended my third concert this WEEK! But unlike the others, I was not watching my child, but instead watching a band at a local pub. Yes, I went out with three friends to see Mental as Anything. They were supported by a local act in one of the other bars, and this act's repertoire consisted of some Bachman Turner Overdrive, some Creedence, some Kiss, and some good ol' Acca-Dacca. I was in Heaven, as you can well imagine. I drank my vodka/lime/soda (which tasted funny - I wonder did the barmaid mistake the gin bottle for vodka?). The band struck up 'Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap'. Love this song, but I have a problem, and two of my friends are similarly afflicted. When we hear this, we sing along. This is no big deal as many sing along with Acca-Dacca. But my friends and I, when it gets to the chorus, sing 'Dirty deeds....DONE WITH SHEEP!' Infantile, I know. But funny. To a degree. It's reached a point where I cannot listen to this song and not sing this cheeky substitute lyric. It's like when the woeful 'Living Next Door To Alice' is played on the radio (I listen to AM - I'm old, so sue me), and you just HAVE to caw, 'Alice? Who the fuck is Alice?' And yes, I also HAVE to respond when I hear 'Am I Ever Gonna See Your Face Again?' Actually, I saw ACDC in 1996, and when the pre-dementia Malcolm Young was growling into the microphone, 'Dirty deeds and they're done dirt cheap...', I'm sure in my mind I was thinking, 'Dirty deeds and they're done with sheep.'
You take away different memories and impressions from gigs. Prior to entering the room where the Mentals were to play, I visited the Ladies' room. The previous occupant of the stall I used had done what can only be described as a toxic dump. Not good. Seriously, I less sicked out when I went to the loo at the Hoodoo Gurus gig some years ago and there was a couple having a knee-trembler in one of the stalls.
However, I had a mainly good time at the show. I saw the band with these same friends last year and enjoyed it more this time, as the venue was just a tad less crowded so I wasn't getting buffeted by drunken idiots. Most times when I catch a band at this venue, I find myself stuck beside a swaying, tone-deaf drunk. Honestly, why do these people think we are happy to listen to their monstrous caterwauling? Do they think we say, 'Hey, I know I paid good money for my concert ticket, but go ahead, make a noise like a cow with a calf jammed in its birth canal; I don't mind'? However, I did have to be careful of the pissheads doing interpretive dance. People, please don't do interpretive dance at gigs - you run the risk of poking someone in the eye. Not entirely sure what last night's 'dancer' was trying to interpret; walking through a cobweb when under the influence of a box of Mogadon, maybe? Oh yeah, and to the she-twits who clambered onto the stage and squawked, 'Hey there yew wif the saaaad face come up to moi place an' live it up...' into the bass player's microphone, kindly refrain from doing so in future. The aforementioned principle applies; people don't part with hard-earned money to watch tone-deaf clowns who seem to be unaware of the God-awful racket they are making. The exception to this is a Kanye West concert.
Things like this make me glad I don't get sauced when I go to see bands, but I might have to in order to become, if not oblivious, then at least indifferent to this annoying behaviour. It might also have fortified me from the horrific vision of the bogan who tried to execute some dance move best left to younger break dancers that caused his track suit pants to slip down and expose a great deal of his gelatinous backside. That just cannot be unseen.
But yeah, a good night was had, and my friend got her Mentals paraphernalia signed by Greedy Smith after the show. She said to him, 'Remember my friend Simone?', and he said he did. I was cynical at this, thinking the Greed-ster was being polite, but then remembered that when I chatted with him last year, I told him I trekked Nepal just after he did because the Nepalese guide had asked my friend and I had we heard of Greedy Smith; Greedy having done the same organised trek just before we did. I guess it's rare to go to a gig in a country town and have someone tell you you've a trekking holiday in common, when you'd be used to hearing how 'Oh-I-Used-To-Watch-You-Guys-On-Countdown', and blahblahblah.
In case you're wondering, my favourite Mentals song is 'Come Around', so I was very happy when they did this - makes me feel thirteen again, and unsure of myself and wondering would boys like me.
You take away different memories and impressions from gigs. Prior to entering the room where the Mentals were to play, I visited the Ladies' room. The previous occupant of the stall I used had done what can only be described as a toxic dump. Not good. Seriously, I less sicked out when I went to the loo at the Hoodoo Gurus gig some years ago and there was a couple having a knee-trembler in one of the stalls.
However, I had a mainly good time at the show. I saw the band with these same friends last year and enjoyed it more this time, as the venue was just a tad less crowded so I wasn't getting buffeted by drunken idiots. Most times when I catch a band at this venue, I find myself stuck beside a swaying, tone-deaf drunk. Honestly, why do these people think we are happy to listen to their monstrous caterwauling? Do they think we say, 'Hey, I know I paid good money for my concert ticket, but go ahead, make a noise like a cow with a calf jammed in its birth canal; I don't mind'? However, I did have to be careful of the pissheads doing interpretive dance. People, please don't do interpretive dance at gigs - you run the risk of poking someone in the eye. Not entirely sure what last night's 'dancer' was trying to interpret; walking through a cobweb when under the influence of a box of Mogadon, maybe? Oh yeah, and to the she-twits who clambered onto the stage and squawked, 'Hey there yew wif the saaaad face come up to moi place an' live it up...' into the bass player's microphone, kindly refrain from doing so in future. The aforementioned principle applies; people don't part with hard-earned money to watch tone-deaf clowns who seem to be unaware of the God-awful racket they are making. The exception to this is a Kanye West concert.
Things like this make me glad I don't get sauced when I go to see bands, but I might have to in order to become, if not oblivious, then at least indifferent to this annoying behaviour. It might also have fortified me from the horrific vision of the bogan who tried to execute some dance move best left to younger break dancers that caused his track suit pants to slip down and expose a great deal of his gelatinous backside. That just cannot be unseen.
But yeah, a good night was had, and my friend got her Mentals paraphernalia signed by Greedy Smith after the show. She said to him, 'Remember my friend Simone?', and he said he did. I was cynical at this, thinking the Greed-ster was being polite, but then remembered that when I chatted with him last year, I told him I trekked Nepal just after he did because the Nepalese guide had asked my friend and I had we heard of Greedy Smith; Greedy having done the same organised trek just before we did. I guess it's rare to go to a gig in a country town and have someone tell you you've a trekking holiday in common, when you'd be used to hearing how 'Oh-I-Used-To-Watch-You-Guys-On-Countdown', and blahblahblah.
In case you're wondering, my favourite Mentals song is 'Come Around', so I was very happy when they did this - makes me feel thirteen again, and unsure of myself and wondering would boys like me.
Thursday 3 December 2015
Dis-Concert-Ing
Did the mum thing last night and took my fourteen-year-old to an end-of-year school concert, the purpose of which was to showcase art works, along with music and drama. Master 14 was to play the glockenspiel with his music class. My, there are some talented kids locally. They performed some numbers that I have always liked, those numbers prompted me to download them to my iPod last night. In case you're biting your nails wondering what musical marvels are now in my playlist, think 'From the Sea' by Eskimo Joe, and 'Holiday' by Green Day. When I was a bit - oh shit, a LOT - younger, 'Holiday' was a song by Madonna. Didn't mind old Madge's song, notwithstanding the woman normally shits me to sobs. Before the concert, I was subjected to my son's usual snotty sarcasm. 'Sarcastic' is his default setting these days. You know, I once had a huge-eyed cherubic three-year-old who would pipe, 'Thank you, Mummy', when I handed him a tumbler of milk. I am now lumbered with a lummox in a muscle shirt, and a voice almost as deep as his father's as he challenges, 'What?' when I berate him for drinking straight from the milk carton. Last night it was all, 'Come on, Mum, do the maths' as I counted out some coins for him to purchase a sausage sandwich. When he couldn't get the coins into his tight pocket, I seized the opportunity for revenge over his constant sarcasm. I loudly asked, 'Do you want Mummy to do it for you?' I am no Carol Brady.
But I couldn't stop the smiles as I watched him performing 'Little Talks' by Monsters & Men. I wonder if I'd have known this were I not the mother of a teenager. He sat with three other boys, all with glockenspiels across their laps. There were other kids on stage, of course; guitarists, drummers, keyboardists, and vocalists. But of course I watched my son intently playing the glockenspiel, and it was beautifully synchronised with his fellow glockenspiel-bashers. Truly, they were like a machine - all striking the keys at the same time - it was poetry to watch. I congratulated him on the way home, and remarked how the boys had all concentrated hard on their glockenspiels. His incredulous reply was, 'Mum! Didn't you notice that spotlight? If I'd look up, my eyes would have died!'
It's been a week of kids' concerts - on Monday evening I watched my eleven-year-old play 'When The Saints Go Marching In' on the piano at the local conservatorium. It's that time of year - too much happening at once.
What else is on my mind? Could it be the clowns that jay-walked as I was driving my youngest home from band practice today, thus necessitating my hitting of the brakes and missing of the green light? You flogs! What are the road rules, again? Oh yes: 'Look to the left. Look to the right. Look to the left again. If it's safe you can cross.' That's how I recall it. I'm sure it didn't go: 'Look at your fucking phone as you blunder blithely into oncoming traffic'. Slow sarcastic golf claps to you, morons extraordinaire.
And my final message is to the twerp who has been in the news for refusing to stand for the judge in his trial. His excuse is that he is 'not at the behest of anything but Islam'. I actually respect the rights of people to practise whatever religious beliefs they want, but here's the thing: if you're charged with an offence and find yourself being tried in a court, get up when the judge enters. Courts are secular. Unless you're wheelchair-bound, get up off your fucking arse and show some respect, you tool.
But my iPod is getting interesting. Green Day and Eskimo Joe, alongside Jimmy Buffet and the Sex Pistols, and some Ronnie James Dio thrown in for good measure.
But I couldn't stop the smiles as I watched him performing 'Little Talks' by Monsters & Men. I wonder if I'd have known this were I not the mother of a teenager. He sat with three other boys, all with glockenspiels across their laps. There were other kids on stage, of course; guitarists, drummers, keyboardists, and vocalists. But of course I watched my son intently playing the glockenspiel, and it was beautifully synchronised with his fellow glockenspiel-bashers. Truly, they were like a machine - all striking the keys at the same time - it was poetry to watch. I congratulated him on the way home, and remarked how the boys had all concentrated hard on their glockenspiels. His incredulous reply was, 'Mum! Didn't you notice that spotlight? If I'd look up, my eyes would have died!'
It's been a week of kids' concerts - on Monday evening I watched my eleven-year-old play 'When The Saints Go Marching In' on the piano at the local conservatorium. It's that time of year - too much happening at once.
What else is on my mind? Could it be the clowns that jay-walked as I was driving my youngest home from band practice today, thus necessitating my hitting of the brakes and missing of the green light? You flogs! What are the road rules, again? Oh yes: 'Look to the left. Look to the right. Look to the left again. If it's safe you can cross.' That's how I recall it. I'm sure it didn't go: 'Look at your fucking phone as you blunder blithely into oncoming traffic'. Slow sarcastic golf claps to you, morons extraordinaire.
And my final message is to the twerp who has been in the news for refusing to stand for the judge in his trial. His excuse is that he is 'not at the behest of anything but Islam'. I actually respect the rights of people to practise whatever religious beliefs they want, but here's the thing: if you're charged with an offence and find yourself being tried in a court, get up when the judge enters. Courts are secular. Unless you're wheelchair-bound, get up off your fucking arse and show some respect, you tool.
But my iPod is getting interesting. Green Day and Eskimo Joe, alongside Jimmy Buffet and the Sex Pistols, and some Ronnie James Dio thrown in for good measure.
Sunday 29 November 2015
Monday Malaise
This old world seems to be going crazy lately. Well, maybe not the entire clump of rock third in line from the sun, but my own microcosm has it's needle wavering precariously in the 'Let's Weave A Basket' section, like a Geiger meter in the Curies' workshop.
Part of it is the devilish heat, which is coming direct from the furnace in Satan's basement.
Part of it is the pall of misery hanging over the town in which I reside. Usually, this town has a cloud of coal dust, but right now it's also got a pall of misery, and I'm feeling for my fellow citizens. The PAC has rejected an expansion for a local mine, and this is quite likely going to cost many people their jobs. I'm a 'when one door shuts; another opens' type of person, but it's hard not to feel for people at the moment. Mining itself has not ceased completely, and it's important there be diversification in local industries. Local businesses are showing support by hanging hi-viz shirts at their frontage. Some people have stated they will choose to frequent establishments with these garments on display. I say this is counterproductive as boycotting a business has a flow-on effect for EVERYONE. It is a business owner's right to decide how his or her shopfront is adorned, and just because someone has decided to not dangle a florescent piece of clothing, it does not mean that owner does not care or is not supportive. I have pointed out to the folk that choosing to shop on the basis of a hung-up shirt is a form of manipulative emotional blackmail. I have read online petitions with grammar and punctuation that has made my eyes bleed. What is worst is I have read abusive online comments lamenting the pending arrival of 3000 Syrian refugees, and a proposed mosque. I am aware there has been no application, and therefore no approval for, a mosque in this town. What is annoying me, aside from someone saying '3000 Syrian rapests' (learn to spell, whoever posted that one), is that vicious remarks are what leads to disenfranchised people being attracted to organisations such as ISIL. It's not even definitely refugees are being placed in this town, to my knowledge. I wish people would stop and think. I wish people would live and let live, and not be arseholes in the name of religion, which after all is just a form of superstition. You like Allah? Fine. You worship a monotheistic being in the name of a Jewish carpenter who got hammered? Lovely, enjoy. You prefer a multi-armed being with an elephant's head? Hey, knock yourself out. But don't act like an arsehole just because someone else doesn't. Please. Like religions learning to co-exist, so should the local industries in my home town co-exist.
Oh well, my eleven year old is due home from school shortly. He will want to be fed, but he will fight with me over his homework, and he will also have to practise the piano for his performance of 'When The Saints Go Marching In' tonight. He will no doubt practise because he loves to partake in the recitals, having discovered the addictive appeal of an audience and applause.
What music can I play to cheer myself up, I wonder? Might have to crank up the Beach Boys.
Part of it is the devilish heat, which is coming direct from the furnace in Satan's basement.
Part of it is the pall of misery hanging over the town in which I reside. Usually, this town has a cloud of coal dust, but right now it's also got a pall of misery, and I'm feeling for my fellow citizens. The PAC has rejected an expansion for a local mine, and this is quite likely going to cost many people their jobs. I'm a 'when one door shuts; another opens' type of person, but it's hard not to feel for people at the moment. Mining itself has not ceased completely, and it's important there be diversification in local industries. Local businesses are showing support by hanging hi-viz shirts at their frontage. Some people have stated they will choose to frequent establishments with these garments on display. I say this is counterproductive as boycotting a business has a flow-on effect for EVERYONE. It is a business owner's right to decide how his or her shopfront is adorned, and just because someone has decided to not dangle a florescent piece of clothing, it does not mean that owner does not care or is not supportive. I have pointed out to the folk that choosing to shop on the basis of a hung-up shirt is a form of manipulative emotional blackmail. I have read online petitions with grammar and punctuation that has made my eyes bleed. What is worst is I have read abusive online comments lamenting the pending arrival of 3000 Syrian refugees, and a proposed mosque. I am aware there has been no application, and therefore no approval for, a mosque in this town. What is annoying me, aside from someone saying '3000 Syrian rapests' (learn to spell, whoever posted that one), is that vicious remarks are what leads to disenfranchised people being attracted to organisations such as ISIL. It's not even definitely refugees are being placed in this town, to my knowledge. I wish people would stop and think. I wish people would live and let live, and not be arseholes in the name of religion, which after all is just a form of superstition. You like Allah? Fine. You worship a monotheistic being in the name of a Jewish carpenter who got hammered? Lovely, enjoy. You prefer a multi-armed being with an elephant's head? Hey, knock yourself out. But don't act like an arsehole just because someone else doesn't. Please. Like religions learning to co-exist, so should the local industries in my home town co-exist.
Oh well, my eleven year old is due home from school shortly. He will want to be fed, but he will fight with me over his homework, and he will also have to practise the piano for his performance of 'When The Saints Go Marching In' tonight. He will no doubt practise because he loves to partake in the recitals, having discovered the addictive appeal of an audience and applause.
What music can I play to cheer myself up, I wonder? Might have to crank up the Beach Boys.
Tuesday 24 November 2015
Yucky Yeast & Other Nuisances
Just when I thought I had seen and heard it all (and I come from a town where the postman got wasted and fucked a dog one night - I was in my final year of school, and boy was that some hot gossip), I read a snippet about a feminist blogger who posted in updates whilst baking a loaf of bread. Big deal, you're probably thinking. And understandably so; I too have baked bread. What was remarkable (and utterly disgusting) about this particular loaf was the yeast used as a rising agent was cultivated from thrush in the blogger's own vagina (I suppose it beats scraping it out of someone else's)! This just begs the question: WHY???? WHY would you do this? My money is on 'attention'. Look, there is merit in not wasting and recycling. Much merit indeed. But seriously, folks, WHY? If this was an experiment in the name of science, then I could actually understand. But I think this is just an attention-seeking exercise, and does nothing for the feminist cause. ('Hey look, everyone: I just harvested some cunt-snot and put it in some dough to make it rise! Go, Feminism! Woo-hoo!') What's the next great culinary exercise? Perhaps it will be a lemon meringue pie made with wads of hacked-up phlegm. Or maybe, when she's making Florentines, she will extract a great booger from her nostril and add it to the cornflakes-and-honey mix, so when it dries it will help set the confectionery. Some urine along with vinegar when making toffee? I will stop there; I'm starting to nauseate myself. But what people will do never ceases to astonish me.
On a lesser scale, I saw something else this morning that made me ask 'Why?'. I was at a client's home, and I knocked over something from the bathroom cupboard. It had a flip top lid, and cute brightly coloured tubular objects therein. 'Oh, bless,' I thought, 'I've knocked over her granddaughter's crayons. I will pick them up before they become a trip hazard.' So I reached down, and upon closer inspection realised I was not looking at crayons, but tampons. Yeah, brightly coloured tampons: electric blue, shocking pink, and justice purple. Again I thought, 'Why?' Truly, people, what is the point to brightly coloured TAMPONS? Who on earth is going to see the bloody things? No pun intended there, by the way; just a fortunate, or unfortunate, turn of phrase. Also, are those dyes safe? God almighty, you would be unable to gauge the qualities of your flow against a background of cobalt blue or maroon. 'God Strewth,' I thought, as I picked them up, still mindful they might become a trip hazard. It's not up to me to tell other women what sanitary products to purchase (although I do encourage people to go for the environmentally friendly moon cup), but I will say I think the purchase of colourful tampons is seriously inane, and probably more pricey.
Finally, this morning I had an, 'Oh, fuck off!' moment. I was at someone else's home and heard on the television Senator Jackie Lambie has called for drug testing of all welfare recipients. Was I not in the company of elderly people in their own home, I just might have snarled, 'Oh, fuck off!' at the television screen. It's all very well for people to bleat that they are subject to drug testing in their workplace, so why should welfare recipients not undergo this also. This is why: usually in the workplace where there is drug testing, it is because the safety of other people just might hinge on their workmates not being stoned to the gills. I'm thinking jobs like driving, mining, or construction where heavy equipment is operated. If someone drawing welfare decides to smoke a joint in his or her own time, it is very unlikely to impede upon someone else's safety. Also, as unpopular an opinion as this might be, I consider it an infringement upon someone's civil liberty to undergo a drug test if it is not really needed. RBT units when someone is operating a motor vehicle; no problem. Pulling a cone on your own time in your own home and affecting nobody else? Leave 'em be. Senator, your idea just seems like a massive waste of time and resources. Perhaps those clowns sitting in Parliament should undergo drug testing instead? Just a thought....
On a lesser scale, I saw something else this morning that made me ask 'Why?'. I was at a client's home, and I knocked over something from the bathroom cupboard. It had a flip top lid, and cute brightly coloured tubular objects therein. 'Oh, bless,' I thought, 'I've knocked over her granddaughter's crayons. I will pick them up before they become a trip hazard.' So I reached down, and upon closer inspection realised I was not looking at crayons, but tampons. Yeah, brightly coloured tampons: electric blue, shocking pink, and justice purple. Again I thought, 'Why?' Truly, people, what is the point to brightly coloured TAMPONS? Who on earth is going to see the bloody things? No pun intended there, by the way; just a fortunate, or unfortunate, turn of phrase. Also, are those dyes safe? God almighty, you would be unable to gauge the qualities of your flow against a background of cobalt blue or maroon. 'God Strewth,' I thought, as I picked them up, still mindful they might become a trip hazard. It's not up to me to tell other women what sanitary products to purchase (although I do encourage people to go for the environmentally friendly moon cup), but I will say I think the purchase of colourful tampons is seriously inane, and probably more pricey.
Finally, this morning I had an, 'Oh, fuck off!' moment. I was at someone else's home and heard on the television Senator Jackie Lambie has called for drug testing of all welfare recipients. Was I not in the company of elderly people in their own home, I just might have snarled, 'Oh, fuck off!' at the television screen. It's all very well for people to bleat that they are subject to drug testing in their workplace, so why should welfare recipients not undergo this also. This is why: usually in the workplace where there is drug testing, it is because the safety of other people just might hinge on their workmates not being stoned to the gills. I'm thinking jobs like driving, mining, or construction where heavy equipment is operated. If someone drawing welfare decides to smoke a joint in his or her own time, it is very unlikely to impede upon someone else's safety. Also, as unpopular an opinion as this might be, I consider it an infringement upon someone's civil liberty to undergo a drug test if it is not really needed. RBT units when someone is operating a motor vehicle; no problem. Pulling a cone on your own time in your own home and affecting nobody else? Leave 'em be. Senator, your idea just seems like a massive waste of time and resources. Perhaps those clowns sitting in Parliament should undergo drug testing instead? Just a thought....
Monday 23 November 2015
Burning Rubber
The humidity and sweat form a film on my body that makes me feel I am in a science fiction movie, as I try and break free of this caul-like film. I so loathe this heat. Particularly as the last few days have had me as busy as a one-armed fan dancer. Saturday entailed a six hour round trip to Eastern Creek for Mr Bingells to enjoy is 50th birthday present. In case I didn't mention it in any previous posts, I arranged for him to have ten laps driving a v8 supercar around a race track, during which he was under the tutelage of a professional race driver. After this, he was given three laps as a passenger to his professional driver. He loved it, and it was great to see him happy.
He had to be suited up in the protective gear, and actually looked pretty handsome in this gear. Part of the package included a photograph in front of a race car, and the families were allowed to photograph their loved one in the pose, too. To Mr Bingells' chagrin, the car before which he had to pose was a Ford. The children and I tried to capture a shot showing the Ford logo so we could have a good laugh at his expense, but Mr Bingells shooed us to another area to get the photograph. We had to be quick with this, because the organisers had about forty or so participants to photograph. So I scooted over and held up my iPod to capture that fleeting moment when Mr Bingells was in front of the car, and fuck me dead if a stupid bloody teenager didn't walk in front of me, thus ruining my chance for a picture; Mr Bingells had to move away. I made an annoyed noise and shot her an infuriated glare, and she cowered and skulked away. Momentarily, I wondered should I seek out her parents and demand what manner of pharmaceuticals they had consumed prior to conceiving this brain-deprived little moron. Slow sarcastic golf claps to this imbecile. As you may glean, reader, I was in a state of true piss-off from this.
So we went to a kind of observation deck (those of you who have been to Eastern Creek Speedway probably know what area I'm talking about) and watched Mr Bingells doing his stuff. Mr Bingells entrusted our fourteen-year-old with his camera, which is a very good Nikon, and Master 14 got some good shots. Master 11 kept grizzling for a turn with the camera, and his mother was issuing threats through clenched teeth.
But it was a good day, not too hot, and the air was redolent with the pong of burnt rubber and the whizzing sound of cars speeding by. I think it was the most fun my husband has had whilst still wearing clothes.
Tonight has been spent at the local high school where my eleven-year-old performed with a group of other students from various schools in the district. He was in the percussion section. We arrived, and he managed to cut his finger on his can of lemonade. Whilst we waited for the teacher to bring a band aid, he managed to spill lemonade on the floor so I had to run to the canteen for towels - I was handed a roll of toilet paper. Finally, despite my meticulous supervision, he managed to slop tomato sauce from his sausage sandwich onto the school shirt he had been under strict instructions to KEEP CLEAN. I had to hurry to the dunny and dampen a wad of paper under the tap and sponge his shirt. It was a total 'Aaarrrggghhh!' moment. The concert was very enjoyable, and I even enjoyed the kids singing the Taylor Swift song. It was 'Shake It Off', in case you care.
Well, got some stuff to attend to now. Thanks for calling by. Leave me a message; I like messages.
He had to be suited up in the protective gear, and actually looked pretty handsome in this gear. Part of the package included a photograph in front of a race car, and the families were allowed to photograph their loved one in the pose, too. To Mr Bingells' chagrin, the car before which he had to pose was a Ford. The children and I tried to capture a shot showing the Ford logo so we could have a good laugh at his expense, but Mr Bingells shooed us to another area to get the photograph. We had to be quick with this, because the organisers had about forty or so participants to photograph. So I scooted over and held up my iPod to capture that fleeting moment when Mr Bingells was in front of the car, and fuck me dead if a stupid bloody teenager didn't walk in front of me, thus ruining my chance for a picture; Mr Bingells had to move away. I made an annoyed noise and shot her an infuriated glare, and she cowered and skulked away. Momentarily, I wondered should I seek out her parents and demand what manner of pharmaceuticals they had consumed prior to conceiving this brain-deprived little moron. Slow sarcastic golf claps to this imbecile. As you may glean, reader, I was in a state of true piss-off from this.
So we went to a kind of observation deck (those of you who have been to Eastern Creek Speedway probably know what area I'm talking about) and watched Mr Bingells doing his stuff. Mr Bingells entrusted our fourteen-year-old with his camera, which is a very good Nikon, and Master 14 got some good shots. Master 11 kept grizzling for a turn with the camera, and his mother was issuing threats through clenched teeth.
But it was a good day, not too hot, and the air was redolent with the pong of burnt rubber and the whizzing sound of cars speeding by. I think it was the most fun my husband has had whilst still wearing clothes.
Tonight has been spent at the local high school where my eleven-year-old performed with a group of other students from various schools in the district. He was in the percussion section. We arrived, and he managed to cut his finger on his can of lemonade. Whilst we waited for the teacher to bring a band aid, he managed to spill lemonade on the floor so I had to run to the canteen for towels - I was handed a roll of toilet paper. Finally, despite my meticulous supervision, he managed to slop tomato sauce from his sausage sandwich onto the school shirt he had been under strict instructions to KEEP CLEAN. I had to hurry to the dunny and dampen a wad of paper under the tap and sponge his shirt. It was a total 'Aaarrrggghhh!' moment. The concert was very enjoyable, and I even enjoyed the kids singing the Taylor Swift song. It was 'Shake It Off', in case you care.
Well, got some stuff to attend to now. Thanks for calling by. Leave me a message; I like messages.
Friday 20 November 2015
My Varied List
I'm doing the Grand High Executioner, and making a little list. I'm not doing a Santa Claus and checking it twice, because I'm confident with what I am about to say.
1. Crappy Moment: when I started to type this post and something fucked up, and I had to start it again. Grrrrr, grrrrr, and again: grrrrrrrr!
2. Enjoyable Performance In A Movie Today: I attended my local cinema and watched 'The Dressmaker', and I won't be so trite as to say I was blown away by the performances. They were adequate by some, and very good by others. What I noticed, or actually DIDN'T notice, was the Australian accent Kate Winslet adopted for her role. It occurred to me afterward she actually did not sound like she was trying to do an accent, which is a good thing in my view; it sounded natural. Her character sounded like a well-spoken Aussie, and not some actor desperately affecting some kind of nasally Strine. Believe it or not, there are some very well spoken Aussies out there, who do not sound like extras from 'Smiley Gets A Gun'. I am actually one myself. My written prose might suggest otherwise, particularly when I make use of the 'F-word', but in spoken conversation, I am quite articulate and do not swear much at all (my kids dispute this). It's hard to pinpoint this movie for a genre; I guess it's kind of a bittersweet black comedy. More creepy than 'Love Serenade', and more black than 'Muriel's Wedding' (the titular character of which annoyed the living snot out of me).
3. Enjoyable Moment In The Cinema Today: The scene where Liam Hemsworth was in his boxer shorts. Despite the air conditioning, I broke out in a sweat. My ovaries went into overdrive (or ovary-drive, boom-tish!). I swear I actually tittered. Being almost twice this young man's age, I suspect my lustful and lascivious reaction might qualify me as a Dirty (or perhaps Pathetic) Old Woman. Hang on, doesn't this make me a Cougar? Yes, cougar will do. Also, I wear a lot of animal print, so I'm sure this makes me a cougar.
4. Person I'd Like To Slap At The Moment: so-called actress Jenny McCarthy, who played Charlie Sheen's love interest in 'Two And A Half Men' some years ago. Listen, unless you've been in a vacuum, you're no doubt aware of Sheen's HIV-positive status. Unlike many snarkers I've noticed in the past few days, I do not gloat about this. I think this is sad, however, with medical know-how these days, Sheen can still live a 'good' life. Anyway, this actress has complained his status was not made known to her, although the actors have to let it be known if they have cold sores in the event of kiss scenes. You imbecile, you cannot transmit HIV by kissing. Cold sores, yes. HIV, no. I remember the great scandal when Rock Hudson was outed as having AIDS, after playing Linda Evans' love interest in 'Dynasty'. Have people seriously remained so uneducated and ignorant? She's either so damned stupid she should be forcibly sterilised, or else she's a desperate publicity whore. She should worry if she was sharing needles or having unprotected sex with Sheen. Which leads me to this segue: take some responsibility and INSIST on safe sex. 'If it's not on, it's not on.' 'Sex with a condom, or sex with your hand.'
5. What I'm Wondering: Why, in rural NSW, would someone name their kid Memphis. I heard a mother address her son thus the other day, and did my usual snobbish mental eye-roll. I doubt it is a reference to 'abode of good', which I understand to be a loose interpretation of the actual meaning of the word. I know it is not up to me to judge or dictate how a child shall be dubbed, but it did not stop my mentally rolling my eyes.
1. Crappy Moment: when I started to type this post and something fucked up, and I had to start it again. Grrrrr, grrrrr, and again: grrrrrrrr!
2. Enjoyable Performance In A Movie Today: I attended my local cinema and watched 'The Dressmaker', and I won't be so trite as to say I was blown away by the performances. They were adequate by some, and very good by others. What I noticed, or actually DIDN'T notice, was the Australian accent Kate Winslet adopted for her role. It occurred to me afterward she actually did not sound like she was trying to do an accent, which is a good thing in my view; it sounded natural. Her character sounded like a well-spoken Aussie, and not some actor desperately affecting some kind of nasally Strine. Believe it or not, there are some very well spoken Aussies out there, who do not sound like extras from 'Smiley Gets A Gun'. I am actually one myself. My written prose might suggest otherwise, particularly when I make use of the 'F-word', but in spoken conversation, I am quite articulate and do not swear much at all (my kids dispute this). It's hard to pinpoint this movie for a genre; I guess it's kind of a bittersweet black comedy. More creepy than 'Love Serenade', and more black than 'Muriel's Wedding' (the titular character of which annoyed the living snot out of me).
3. Enjoyable Moment In The Cinema Today: The scene where Liam Hemsworth was in his boxer shorts. Despite the air conditioning, I broke out in a sweat. My ovaries went into overdrive (or ovary-drive, boom-tish!). I swear I actually tittered. Being almost twice this young man's age, I suspect my lustful and lascivious reaction might qualify me as a Dirty (or perhaps Pathetic) Old Woman. Hang on, doesn't this make me a Cougar? Yes, cougar will do. Also, I wear a lot of animal print, so I'm sure this makes me a cougar.
4. Person I'd Like To Slap At The Moment: so-called actress Jenny McCarthy, who played Charlie Sheen's love interest in 'Two And A Half Men' some years ago. Listen, unless you've been in a vacuum, you're no doubt aware of Sheen's HIV-positive status. Unlike many snarkers I've noticed in the past few days, I do not gloat about this. I think this is sad, however, with medical know-how these days, Sheen can still live a 'good' life. Anyway, this actress has complained his status was not made known to her, although the actors have to let it be known if they have cold sores in the event of kiss scenes. You imbecile, you cannot transmit HIV by kissing. Cold sores, yes. HIV, no. I remember the great scandal when Rock Hudson was outed as having AIDS, after playing Linda Evans' love interest in 'Dynasty'. Have people seriously remained so uneducated and ignorant? She's either so damned stupid she should be forcibly sterilised, or else she's a desperate publicity whore. She should worry if she was sharing needles or having unprotected sex with Sheen. Which leads me to this segue: take some responsibility and INSIST on safe sex. 'If it's not on, it's not on.' 'Sex with a condom, or sex with your hand.'
5. What I'm Wondering: Why, in rural NSW, would someone name their kid Memphis. I heard a mother address her son thus the other day, and did my usual snobbish mental eye-roll. I doubt it is a reference to 'abode of good', which I understand to be a loose interpretation of the actual meaning of the word. I know it is not up to me to judge or dictate how a child shall be dubbed, but it did not stop my mentally rolling my eyes.
Thursday 19 November 2015
Do The Maths
This heat is fraying my nerves like the raggedy edges of a pair of denim cut-offs. I remember those. I made those. Not evenly, because I'm not gifted in that sense. They weren't too short. Unlike some of the shorts I see on the girls around town. Never mind being brief enough to be mistaken for underpants, what perplexes me is that I've always been under the apprehension your shorts should be LONGER than your vulva. When did this change? Am I getting old? I guess I am, and it beats the alternative.
Everyone in my household over the age of forty is irritable. That just means me and Mr Bingells. The kids are fine, although Master Eleven has had to be just shy of being horse-whipped to complete his homework. Mr Bingells is good at Maths, and explains it well. I am pants at Maths, and just do my best. Master Fourteen is a whiz at Maths, and COULD help, but chooses to tease in the process. I finally ended up groaning that it is of little consequence that he hates Maths, because he has to finish it, and to just Get. Back. To. The. Table. And. Do. It. NOW!!! I am bemoaning my impecuniosity; I cannot afford a tutor to help my son with this baneful subject. Now... if everyone goes to the links in my bio, clicks, and purchases either paperback or downloads a copy of my novels, then maybe I will be able to engage a tutor, who might be better able to keep his or her shit intact whilst explaining to a recalcitrant eleven-year-old.
Sign I Might Be A Martian #1: I saw on television this morning David Beckham has been voted Sexiest Man Alive 2015, in some poll. WTF? I am assuming this poll was conducted among a cross-section of vision- and hearing impaired. I really do not get this at all. I have NEVER considered the man sexy. He does nothing for me. Anyone who knows me well would not be surprised because sports people excite me about as much as they would excite a Galapagos tortoise on Mogadon. Seriously, what is the attraction of the Beckhams? David kicks a ball around, and to this I say, 'Big fucken whoop!' His wife was in one of the most loathsome bands of the Nineties, and her face is reminiscent of the north end of a south-bound cat. While I'm on the subject, why do so many women gush over Benedict Cumberbatch? He looks like he was scraped out of a field at Roswell.
What I Might Be A Masochist #1: I am about to watch The Verdict. It's kind of a guilty pleasure hate watch thing for me. However, tonight's panel features Anthony Mundine, and I think I am going to last about fifteen minutes into the show before giving up lest my head explode. I already had to vacuum dog hair of the lounge this morning, and assuming I am still ambulatory after my head explosion, I don't want to be sponging brain, goo and skull off the lounge (which is reminding me of one of my favourite scenes in 'Pulp Fiction' - when Jules and Vincent had to clean 'little bitty bits of skull' out of the back seat of the car).
Oh well, let's see how long I last with 'The Verdict' tonight.
Everyone in my household over the age of forty is irritable. That just means me and Mr Bingells. The kids are fine, although Master Eleven has had to be just shy of being horse-whipped to complete his homework. Mr Bingells is good at Maths, and explains it well. I am pants at Maths, and just do my best. Master Fourteen is a whiz at Maths, and COULD help, but chooses to tease in the process. I finally ended up groaning that it is of little consequence that he hates Maths, because he has to finish it, and to just Get. Back. To. The. Table. And. Do. It. NOW!!! I am bemoaning my impecuniosity; I cannot afford a tutor to help my son with this baneful subject. Now... if everyone goes to the links in my bio, clicks, and purchases either paperback or downloads a copy of my novels, then maybe I will be able to engage a tutor, who might be better able to keep his or her shit intact whilst explaining to a recalcitrant eleven-year-old.
Sign I Might Be A Martian #1: I saw on television this morning David Beckham has been voted Sexiest Man Alive 2015, in some poll. WTF? I am assuming this poll was conducted among a cross-section of vision- and hearing impaired. I really do not get this at all. I have NEVER considered the man sexy. He does nothing for me. Anyone who knows me well would not be surprised because sports people excite me about as much as they would excite a Galapagos tortoise on Mogadon. Seriously, what is the attraction of the Beckhams? David kicks a ball around, and to this I say, 'Big fucken whoop!' His wife was in one of the most loathsome bands of the Nineties, and her face is reminiscent of the north end of a south-bound cat. While I'm on the subject, why do so many women gush over Benedict Cumberbatch? He looks like he was scraped out of a field at Roswell.
What I Might Be A Masochist #1: I am about to watch The Verdict. It's kind of a guilty pleasure hate watch thing for me. However, tonight's panel features Anthony Mundine, and I think I am going to last about fifteen minutes into the show before giving up lest my head explode. I already had to vacuum dog hair of the lounge this morning, and assuming I am still ambulatory after my head explosion, I don't want to be sponging brain, goo and skull off the lounge (which is reminding me of one of my favourite scenes in 'Pulp Fiction' - when Jules and Vincent had to clean 'little bitty bits of skull' out of the back seat of the car).
Oh well, let's see how long I last with 'The Verdict' tonight.
Sunday 15 November 2015
Sigh
The comforting and dulcet tones of canned laughter set against corny jokes is the ambience to which I sit and write this evening. My household is tuned in to 'The Big Bang'. I guess this is a typical scenario in a house awash with testosterone. I have one husband, two sons, and three male pets. This I guess means 'The Big Bang' is going to get an airing - that and the fact the free-to-air channels don't seem to know how to run anything else. It's like there is a needle stuck in a groove. I'm starting to get seriously fucked off with 'The Big Bang'. The canned laughter is starting to erode and gnaw away my will to live, the way a rat will gnaw at a wall to make itself a portal to the other side. There is a subliminal message to canned laughter: 'This show is really unfunny so we have to point out where the humour is to make you laugh, and we think you're too stupid to get the jokes anyway'. Note to the producers and writers: we get the jokes, just don't think they're funny. My oldest enjoys this show, but his best subject in school is Science, so this might be why. My husband thinks the Bernadette character is hot. The Penny character shits me to tears.
It's not been a great twenty-four hours. First of all: I am sick. Again. First world problem given the rest of the shit that's going on. I am seriously tired of superstitious people attacking others. I don't give a fuck if people want to follow religion, or indeed what religion people want to follow, just live and let live; leave others alone. It's depressing the snot out of me, which at least might be more effective than the cold-and-flu medication I've been taking.
Warren Mitchell has died. This is not really a surprise, given the man was eighty-nine years old. Some mind find it interesting to know he was a rather left-leaning Jewish man, a complete opposite to the bigoted old curmudgeon Alf Garnett. There's a deliciously cringey scene in the movie version of 'Til Death Do Us Part' at his daughter's wedding reception, where he tries to show his acceptance of coloured people by slipping his arm around a West Indian woman, who jokingly tells him to be careful in case her skin colour rubs off on him. He realises she's joking, and decides to prove how encompassing he can be of other cultures by pointing to her, and telling passing guests, 'The coon's got a sense of humour!' I remember watching this with my hands over my face and pretty much shrinking inside my epidermis. This is of course the embarrassed reaction the movie makers wished to achieve, and it worked. If anyone cares, the actor playing Garnett's son-in-law, whom Garnett had great disdain for, is in real life the father-in-law of ex-PM Tony Blair. I was delighted and lucky enough to see Mitchell perform live in a play many years ago - I toddled along to Halftix and got myself a front row seat for a matinee performance of 'Orphans', which also starred Colin Friels and Mitchell's real-life son, Daniel. I had only ever seen Warren Mitchell as Garnett, and it was a true treat to see him playing an US gangster type. I know I'm gushing, but I think his performance was up there with Brando in 'The Godfather', and he rightly received standing ovation at the end of the play. Vale, Warren Mitchell. The world, and Australia where you made your home and took citizenship, will miss you greatly.
I had a lousy train trip last night. I know catching the Hunter Line on a weekend is like dancing with the devil. It doesn't make it any easier. At least I didn't need the loo on this trip because the toilet floor is usually a pestiferous petri dish of nasties. Patches of piddle, and peppered with swatches of toilet paper (seriously people, it goes in the fucking toilet!). The toilet bowl is usually half full of foul liquid that appears to be caustic, and will burn away your skin like the rays from a hydrogen bomb if it splashes you. The real hassle is the other passengers. And of course, last night, two guys in their early twenties staggered on, both totally wasted. I managed to ignore them, until the train reached Singleton where one of them stumbled off, as his mate kept calling him back. The train left the station, and he addressed the rest of the carriage, slurring as he did, to inform us his mate had disembarked at the wrong station. I bore this news with mild amusement, and turned back to my crossword puzzle. The young man lurched back to his seat, and then I heard it. We - that is, everybody else in the carriage - all heard it: that shuddering, hiccupping retching 'glurt' that is the sound of someone having a good old fashioned drunken chunder on himself. Myself, and other passengers looked up in disgusted disapproval. We coped, until lo and behold a few minutes later he barfed up again, with such force I became concerned he was going to bring up his liver. Most of the passengers in the carriage hurriedly congregated to one end. I, along with a few others, were already sitting at the other. The drunken moron stumbled along to the alcove where passengers stow luggage, and snuggled up in there. I thought he was going to pass out in there, and would have happily left him to miss his station as he slept the slumber of Bacchus, but I would not have wanted him to succumb to 'carrot poisoning'. I didn't want to touch him to wake him, but thankfully he stirred of his own accord. He left the train, or rather fell off, at Muswellbrook, same as me. Myself, and another passenger alerted the staff this idiot had puked in the carriage, and the guard said they would seal the carriage so nobody else would go in there. I felt very sorry for the people who had to clean it out.
What can I say to all this, but: 'Sigh'.
It's not been a great twenty-four hours. First of all: I am sick. Again. First world problem given the rest of the shit that's going on. I am seriously tired of superstitious people attacking others. I don't give a fuck if people want to follow religion, or indeed what religion people want to follow, just live and let live; leave others alone. It's depressing the snot out of me, which at least might be more effective than the cold-and-flu medication I've been taking.
Warren Mitchell has died. This is not really a surprise, given the man was eighty-nine years old. Some mind find it interesting to know he was a rather left-leaning Jewish man, a complete opposite to the bigoted old curmudgeon Alf Garnett. There's a deliciously cringey scene in the movie version of 'Til Death Do Us Part' at his daughter's wedding reception, where he tries to show his acceptance of coloured people by slipping his arm around a West Indian woman, who jokingly tells him to be careful in case her skin colour rubs off on him. He realises she's joking, and decides to prove how encompassing he can be of other cultures by pointing to her, and telling passing guests, 'The coon's got a sense of humour!' I remember watching this with my hands over my face and pretty much shrinking inside my epidermis. This is of course the embarrassed reaction the movie makers wished to achieve, and it worked. If anyone cares, the actor playing Garnett's son-in-law, whom Garnett had great disdain for, is in real life the father-in-law of ex-PM Tony Blair. I was delighted and lucky enough to see Mitchell perform live in a play many years ago - I toddled along to Halftix and got myself a front row seat for a matinee performance of 'Orphans', which also starred Colin Friels and Mitchell's real-life son, Daniel. I had only ever seen Warren Mitchell as Garnett, and it was a true treat to see him playing an US gangster type. I know I'm gushing, but I think his performance was up there with Brando in 'The Godfather', and he rightly received standing ovation at the end of the play. Vale, Warren Mitchell. The world, and Australia where you made your home and took citizenship, will miss you greatly.
I had a lousy train trip last night. I know catching the Hunter Line on a weekend is like dancing with the devil. It doesn't make it any easier. At least I didn't need the loo on this trip because the toilet floor is usually a pestiferous petri dish of nasties. Patches of piddle, and peppered with swatches of toilet paper (seriously people, it goes in the fucking toilet!). The toilet bowl is usually half full of foul liquid that appears to be caustic, and will burn away your skin like the rays from a hydrogen bomb if it splashes you. The real hassle is the other passengers. And of course, last night, two guys in their early twenties staggered on, both totally wasted. I managed to ignore them, until the train reached Singleton where one of them stumbled off, as his mate kept calling him back. The train left the station, and he addressed the rest of the carriage, slurring as he did, to inform us his mate had disembarked at the wrong station. I bore this news with mild amusement, and turned back to my crossword puzzle. The young man lurched back to his seat, and then I heard it. We - that is, everybody else in the carriage - all heard it: that shuddering, hiccupping retching 'glurt' that is the sound of someone having a good old fashioned drunken chunder on himself. Myself, and other passengers looked up in disgusted disapproval. We coped, until lo and behold a few minutes later he barfed up again, with such force I became concerned he was going to bring up his liver. Most of the passengers in the carriage hurriedly congregated to one end. I, along with a few others, were already sitting at the other. The drunken moron stumbled along to the alcove where passengers stow luggage, and snuggled up in there. I thought he was going to pass out in there, and would have happily left him to miss his station as he slept the slumber of Bacchus, but I would not have wanted him to succumb to 'carrot poisoning'. I didn't want to touch him to wake him, but thankfully he stirred of his own accord. He left the train, or rather fell off, at Muswellbrook, same as me. Myself, and another passenger alerted the staff this idiot had puked in the carriage, and the guard said they would seal the carriage so nobody else would go in there. I felt very sorry for the people who had to clean it out.
What can I say to all this, but: 'Sigh'.
Tuesday 10 November 2015
My List
Today's little list comprises of:
1. What I Watched Last Night: 'Love and Mercy' - if you don't know, this is a biopic on Brian Wilson of The Beach Boys. It wasn't a linear story of the rise of the band, it was a slightly fragmented (but fragmented in a good way) portrayal of Wilson himself, and his battle with mental illness. He's portrayed by John Cusack as an older man (give Cusack an Oscar, someone!), and Paul Dano as the younger man (while you're at it, give Dano an Oscar, too).
2. Guilty Pleasure I Just Listened To: 'Magnet and Steel' by Walter Egan. Look, I know, I know. I know, all right? But I like it. It might be a little bit overwrought. Maybe it's not. It's one of those daggy-as-a-sheep's-arse guilty pleasures that I will put up my hand and admit to liking, whilst I adopt a vulture-like crouch of embarrassment.
3. Annoying Shit I've Been Reminded Of: 'I've Been To Bali, Too' by Redgum. Hated it when I first heard it. Hated it when I heard it every other time since. Had cause to be reminded of it the other day, and the negative emotions washed over me again. Those emotions include annoyance, irritation, and nausea. Can't stand the inane tune, but what really grinds my gears is the attitude in the narrative. All smug, superior, snide, oh-so-hip-tosser to the max. I always imagined the inhabitants of Bali listening to this and thinking, 'Well, stay the fuck away if you don't like the place', or the Indonesian equivalent of that sentence. I would listen to this song and wonder were they trying to destroy the tourism industry of the small island, and more importantly: WHY were they trying to destroy the tourism industry of the small island. I went to Bali when I was a young thing of 21. I didn't go with a group of friends, I went over alone. People questioned my decision to do this, but to be honest, it didn't occur to me to invite anyone with me. I wanted to get away from it all, and therefore wasn't about to take 'it' with me. I stayed in the Club Med resort (much to the disgust of a hipster anti-capitalism friend of mine, and to this friend I said, 'So fucking what?'), went on day trips, and had fun with people from other nations. I strolled through the streets of Kuta, picking up my pace to get away from a bunch of kids who wanted to braid-and-bead my hair (you've seen my profile pic - my hair back then was pretty much like it is today, and I wasn't about to waste all my holiday having it braided etc). I bought some cassettes - The Doors, from memory. I deliberately did not purchase an incense holder as requested by my then-flatmate's girlfriend, because I hated the bitch. I posed for a photograph with residents of Java, who wanted me to pose for a picture with them - I guess having the complexion of a ghost was exotic over there. I ran off in shock one day at the resort, when one of the French staff tried to hit on me. I knew he was paying more attention to me than other holiday makers, and I was somewhat flattered, but when the others left the table tennis room and he slunk up behind me and ran his hands over my shoulders and whispered in that accent, 'What are going to do now, eh?', I spluttered I was going for a swim and took off. Later on, he tried to touch one of my breasts. I was quite surprised because I didn't expect such unprofessionalism. Oh, and I also won a potato sack race. Yes. Clumsy, non-athletic me actually won a race, and a potato sack race at that. The staff member adjudicating said it was because I was 'ze Australian kangaroo'. Yeah, good times. Fun memories. Even if I had any negative experiences there (well, just a bout of Bali Belly), I certainly wouldn't be making up a glib, crappy song about it.
1. What I Watched Last Night: 'Love and Mercy' - if you don't know, this is a biopic on Brian Wilson of The Beach Boys. It wasn't a linear story of the rise of the band, it was a slightly fragmented (but fragmented in a good way) portrayal of Wilson himself, and his battle with mental illness. He's portrayed by John Cusack as an older man (give Cusack an Oscar, someone!), and Paul Dano as the younger man (while you're at it, give Dano an Oscar, too).
2. Guilty Pleasure I Just Listened To: 'Magnet and Steel' by Walter Egan. Look, I know, I know. I know, all right? But I like it. It might be a little bit overwrought. Maybe it's not. It's one of those daggy-as-a-sheep's-arse guilty pleasures that I will put up my hand and admit to liking, whilst I adopt a vulture-like crouch of embarrassment.
3. Annoying Shit I've Been Reminded Of: 'I've Been To Bali, Too' by Redgum. Hated it when I first heard it. Hated it when I heard it every other time since. Had cause to be reminded of it the other day, and the negative emotions washed over me again. Those emotions include annoyance, irritation, and nausea. Can't stand the inane tune, but what really grinds my gears is the attitude in the narrative. All smug, superior, snide, oh-so-hip-tosser to the max. I always imagined the inhabitants of Bali listening to this and thinking, 'Well, stay the fuck away if you don't like the place', or the Indonesian equivalent of that sentence. I would listen to this song and wonder were they trying to destroy the tourism industry of the small island, and more importantly: WHY were they trying to destroy the tourism industry of the small island. I went to Bali when I was a young thing of 21. I didn't go with a group of friends, I went over alone. People questioned my decision to do this, but to be honest, it didn't occur to me to invite anyone with me. I wanted to get away from it all, and therefore wasn't about to take 'it' with me. I stayed in the Club Med resort (much to the disgust of a hipster anti-capitalism friend of mine, and to this friend I said, 'So fucking what?'), went on day trips, and had fun with people from other nations. I strolled through the streets of Kuta, picking up my pace to get away from a bunch of kids who wanted to braid-and-bead my hair (you've seen my profile pic - my hair back then was pretty much like it is today, and I wasn't about to waste all my holiday having it braided etc). I bought some cassettes - The Doors, from memory. I deliberately did not purchase an incense holder as requested by my then-flatmate's girlfriend, because I hated the bitch. I posed for a photograph with residents of Java, who wanted me to pose for a picture with them - I guess having the complexion of a ghost was exotic over there. I ran off in shock one day at the resort, when one of the French staff tried to hit on me. I knew he was paying more attention to me than other holiday makers, and I was somewhat flattered, but when the others left the table tennis room and he slunk up behind me and ran his hands over my shoulders and whispered in that accent, 'What are going to do now, eh?', I spluttered I was going for a swim and took off. Later on, he tried to touch one of my breasts. I was quite surprised because I didn't expect such unprofessionalism. Oh, and I also won a potato sack race. Yes. Clumsy, non-athletic me actually won a race, and a potato sack race at that. The staff member adjudicating said it was because I was 'ze Australian kangaroo'. Yeah, good times. Fun memories. Even if I had any negative experiences there (well, just a bout of Bali Belly), I certainly wouldn't be making up a glib, crappy song about it.
Sunday 8 November 2015
Getting Shirty
A warning to all ye who enter here: you might read something that offends your tender sensibilities. I'm not going to deliberately offend anybody, but if you are someone who looks to be offended, chances are offended is what you will be by what I intend to write. As Yoda might say: 'Offended you are? Shit I don't give!'
We are fast approaching the day when slogans and pictures will no longer be printed on T-shirts because they are offensive. No matter how innocuous the intention of the designer or the wearer, there will be the type of outrage that normally would be more commensurate with some repugnant little necrophiliac violating corpses in the morgue. I am sure I will receive an email advising of the new online petition seeking the recall and removal of the T-shirts stocked by Jay Jays that read 'You Can't Sit Here'. I am even more sure I will react in my usual manner, which is to sneer 'Fuck off!' at the screen, whilst slipping the bird with my left hand and clicking on 'delete' with my right.
The Perpetually Outraged take umbrage with this t-shirt because it, to their reasoning, promotes bullying. I honestly don't know if it promotes bullying or not. I am aware that kids practise this insidious form of bullying by ostracising, and of course, I think it's awful. However, if someone wants to wear a t-shirt with a saying on it, then why must everyone lose their shit? If someone is old enough to shop at Jay Jays, they are probably aware the slogan is a quote from the movie 'Mean Girls'. Furthermore, their colleagues probably know the wearer is not deliberately trying to ostracise others.
There really are worse movie quotes which could be emblazoned upon t-shirts. How about this little gem from 'The Exorcist': 'Your Mother Sucks Cocks In Hell'? Would this be less offensive? I guess it is a form of bullying to imply somebody's mother is fellating Satan's minions whilst the furnace blazes in the background.
My favourite movie is 'Pulp Fiction', and I am imagining someone printing a t-shirt with a reference to 'Dead N*gger Storage'. You will note in the interests of prudence I have placed an asterisk in what is considered an immensely offensive word, and as much as I get a bit crapped off by political correctness, I certainly would not wear a t-shirt that read thus, although I think it's a great quote when placed in the context of the movie.
Soon, only t-shirts with plain solid colours will be allowed. But then someone is going to ban white t-shirts on the basis they subliminally promote white supremacy. Scoff if you will, but I wouldn't be surprised to see this happen. Likewise, a black t-shirt will be deemed racist. I'm currently wearing a blue t-shirt, which is actually more of a teal colour, and someone is probably going to think I'm promoting the slaughter of ducks.
I might start printing some shirts emblazoned with: 'It's A MOVIE QUOTE!', and 'Drink Some Cement & Harden Up!'.
Today I am suffering with a dire cold, and hoping it is not planning to morph into the flu. I took some Codral night time tablets last night, but I think someone was day dreaming at the factory and put in the ingredients for the day time tablets, because I slept hardly at all, and felt as wired as a party goer at an 80s record company bash. Mr Bingells is also suffering, as is my 14yo. We are all as miserable as shags on rocks. Never had a shag on a rock - I like my comfort! I will have to crawl back to bed soon.
On My Mind: I recently met somebody who showed me some nasty scarring and skin grafting on his backside. The story goes that in a fit of drunken exuberance, he stuffed thirty-two sparklers into his bum and lit them. Not the brightest of things to do, but it was compounded by the fact he greased the sparklers for easier insertion with Vaseline petroleum jelly. The combustion must have been enough to set off a flux capacitor. This story kept me awake at night.
We are fast approaching the day when slogans and pictures will no longer be printed on T-shirts because they are offensive. No matter how innocuous the intention of the designer or the wearer, there will be the type of outrage that normally would be more commensurate with some repugnant little necrophiliac violating corpses in the morgue. I am sure I will receive an email advising of the new online petition seeking the recall and removal of the T-shirts stocked by Jay Jays that read 'You Can't Sit Here'. I am even more sure I will react in my usual manner, which is to sneer 'Fuck off!' at the screen, whilst slipping the bird with my left hand and clicking on 'delete' with my right.
The Perpetually Outraged take umbrage with this t-shirt because it, to their reasoning, promotes bullying. I honestly don't know if it promotes bullying or not. I am aware that kids practise this insidious form of bullying by ostracising, and of course, I think it's awful. However, if someone wants to wear a t-shirt with a saying on it, then why must everyone lose their shit? If someone is old enough to shop at Jay Jays, they are probably aware the slogan is a quote from the movie 'Mean Girls'. Furthermore, their colleagues probably know the wearer is not deliberately trying to ostracise others.
There really are worse movie quotes which could be emblazoned upon t-shirts. How about this little gem from 'The Exorcist': 'Your Mother Sucks Cocks In Hell'? Would this be less offensive? I guess it is a form of bullying to imply somebody's mother is fellating Satan's minions whilst the furnace blazes in the background.
My favourite movie is 'Pulp Fiction', and I am imagining someone printing a t-shirt with a reference to 'Dead N*gger Storage'. You will note in the interests of prudence I have placed an asterisk in what is considered an immensely offensive word, and as much as I get a bit crapped off by political correctness, I certainly would not wear a t-shirt that read thus, although I think it's a great quote when placed in the context of the movie.
Soon, only t-shirts with plain solid colours will be allowed. But then someone is going to ban white t-shirts on the basis they subliminally promote white supremacy. Scoff if you will, but I wouldn't be surprised to see this happen. Likewise, a black t-shirt will be deemed racist. I'm currently wearing a blue t-shirt, which is actually more of a teal colour, and someone is probably going to think I'm promoting the slaughter of ducks.
I might start printing some shirts emblazoned with: 'It's A MOVIE QUOTE!', and 'Drink Some Cement & Harden Up!'.
Today I am suffering with a dire cold, and hoping it is not planning to morph into the flu. I took some Codral night time tablets last night, but I think someone was day dreaming at the factory and put in the ingredients for the day time tablets, because I slept hardly at all, and felt as wired as a party goer at an 80s record company bash. Mr Bingells is also suffering, as is my 14yo. We are all as miserable as shags on rocks. Never had a shag on a rock - I like my comfort! I will have to crawl back to bed soon.
On My Mind: I recently met somebody who showed me some nasty scarring and skin grafting on his backside. The story goes that in a fit of drunken exuberance, he stuffed thirty-two sparklers into his bum and lit them. Not the brightest of things to do, but it was compounded by the fact he greased the sparklers for easier insertion with Vaseline petroleum jelly. The combustion must have been enough to set off a flux capacitor. This story kept me awake at night.
Friday 6 November 2015
My Take On Oakes Day Oafery
I just don't understand people. WHY would someone want to strip off their dress and run around in their undies at a race meet, which is SUPPOSED to be a classy event for which one dresses to the nines? Come to think of it, we tend to see a lot of footage at the end of Oakes and Melbourne Cup, and said footage comprises sloshed slags and drunken drongos, teetering on needle-like stiletto heels, puking up carrot particles into the carefully manicured rose bushes. It always makes me think of the aftermath of a B & S Ball, rather than the prestigious sport of kings (not that I really get into horse racing, although I have good friends that are trainers, equine nurses, and race horse owners). The town in which I grew up used to have a B & S, and the morning after when walking through town there would be blokes asleep in the park, or the front step of a shop, their St Vincent de Paul dress shirts and dinner suits stained with spilled rum-and-coke. You know what? Any time I drink a spirit mixed with cola, I am transported back to those days from my youth. You know what else? I haven't drunk a spirit-and-cola based drink in yonks, mainly because I don't really like cola.
Anyway, whoever peeled off her frock in the rain at Oakes Day and ran around in her Reg Grundies was, I rolled my eyes and was very derisive of this action at first. I have softened my stance a little, after all, she didn't actually hurt anybody (except maybe our retinas). It's not like that silly prat who shoved a copper over into a bush - I know the copper wasn't hurt, but I do think between the two, shoving the copper into the bush was a bit more dumb-arsed. However, I will not soften my stance to the point of admiration. No way, nuh-uh, ain't gonna happen.
I do hope this is not how I am going to have to get my books sold. Is resorting to silly pranks the way to get the attention of the public? It will get the attention, but it will not get the respect. Also, if I do decide to do this, I will not be doing it in a daggy pair of witches' britches that have been washed repeatedly to the point where their original colour is but a distant dream, and they now are the hue of dirty dish water. Not to mention their nodding acquaintance with elastic.
It's been a crappy time for me on the personal front. Mr Bingells is a bit unwell. My kids were both off school sick today. I have been sleeping very, very badly. Indeed, when I attended the house of a client today her first words were, 'Christ, Simone, you look bloody terrible!' When I finally finished work, it pissed down rain. I imagined myself pulling over, yanking off my work polo and slacks, and then doing a run along the road in my underwear, which although not matching and not even my best pair of underpants, they are at least unlikely to succumb to gravity and trip me. They are also a more appealing colour than toneless-dishwater-dun-grey.
And then, what should come on the radio but 'Piano Man' by Billy Joel. Look, I'm in two minds about this. On one hand it is a guilty pleasure, but on another level it is a grandiose wank. I just cannot take it seriously when Billy sings, 'There's an old man sitting next to me/Making love to his tonic-and-gin...' Seriously, Billy? You're playing the piano and trying to sing with THIS going on beside you? Why not alert management and have a bouncer remove the pervert? Jesus, that sort of behaviour makes the shenanigans of those drunken race-goers almost palatable.
Anyway, whoever peeled off her frock in the rain at Oakes Day and ran around in her Reg Grundies was, I rolled my eyes and was very derisive of this action at first. I have softened my stance a little, after all, she didn't actually hurt anybody (except maybe our retinas). It's not like that silly prat who shoved a copper over into a bush - I know the copper wasn't hurt, but I do think between the two, shoving the copper into the bush was a bit more dumb-arsed. However, I will not soften my stance to the point of admiration. No way, nuh-uh, ain't gonna happen.
I do hope this is not how I am going to have to get my books sold. Is resorting to silly pranks the way to get the attention of the public? It will get the attention, but it will not get the respect. Also, if I do decide to do this, I will not be doing it in a daggy pair of witches' britches that have been washed repeatedly to the point where their original colour is but a distant dream, and they now are the hue of dirty dish water. Not to mention their nodding acquaintance with elastic.
It's been a crappy time for me on the personal front. Mr Bingells is a bit unwell. My kids were both off school sick today. I have been sleeping very, very badly. Indeed, when I attended the house of a client today her first words were, 'Christ, Simone, you look bloody terrible!' When I finally finished work, it pissed down rain. I imagined myself pulling over, yanking off my work polo and slacks, and then doing a run along the road in my underwear, which although not matching and not even my best pair of underpants, they are at least unlikely to succumb to gravity and trip me. They are also a more appealing colour than toneless-dishwater-dun-grey.
And then, what should come on the radio but 'Piano Man' by Billy Joel. Look, I'm in two minds about this. On one hand it is a guilty pleasure, but on another level it is a grandiose wank. I just cannot take it seriously when Billy sings, 'There's an old man sitting next to me/Making love to his tonic-and-gin...' Seriously, Billy? You're playing the piano and trying to sing with THIS going on beside you? Why not alert management and have a bouncer remove the pervert? Jesus, that sort of behaviour makes the shenanigans of those drunken race-goers almost palatable.
Tuesday 3 November 2015
My Unpopular Opinon
Okay, a warning to all ye who are about to enter and read: I am about to write an UNPOPULAR OPINION (Shock! Horror! Gasp! Swoon! Oh no, Great Auntie Ethel's unloaded in her granny knickers!).
All I have heard about, or seen in my news feed since about 6.00pm yesterday (I wasn't looking at the television any earlier, so no, I didn't watch That Event) is the great shattering of the glass ceiling, the trailblazing victory for women everywhere, the trite From Humble Beginnings etc articles because we have achieved the pinnacle of greatness (or so one would assume) in that - are you sitting down? Are you comfy? Have you voided your bladder? Removed your socks so they don't get knocked off? - a FEMALE jockey has ridden the winning horse in the Melbourne Cup. Everyone appears to have lost their shit, and is flapping their arms and shrieking, 'Yaaaaaay!' a la Kermit the Frog at the beginning of 'The Muppet Show'.
I normally applaud any person who breaks stereotypes. Indeed, I was very supportive when a male entered the Miss Australia pageant years ago (from memory, he was technically the winner in that he raised the most funds for the nominated charity, but he could not be awarded the crown because the rules stated the winner must be female, and da rulez is da rulez). However, whilst I understand the accolades being bestowed upon the winning rider of yesterday's Cup, I am having trouble giving a shit. Not even a box of Laxettes and a cup of prune juice will induce me to give anything even resembling a shit. I just cannot conjure one up at the moment. I opened the cupboard where my fucks are stored, and it's rivalling Old Mother Hubbard's, so there were no fucks for me to give, either.
People are already saying what a great movie it will be. It has all the hallmarks of a Typical Aussie Movie. Underdogs everywhere. The jockey is female, and from a large family. The strapper, her brother, has special needs. The winning horse was purchased quite cheaply by a syndicate, and paid handsomely on the win. Casting agents will be checking the books for scrawny actors. I'm sure it has AFI written all over it. There's bound to be a John Williamson song somewhere in the soundtrack.
And of course - sigh! - the usual mob are bleating about the 'misogyny' of it all. I will buy sexism and chauvinism, but not misogyny. Oh yeah, another bugbear will emerge when everyone starts going on about the mis-o-gyn-eeeeee to which women are subjected in sport. Can the people who throw around accusations of misogyny please look up the definition of the damn word, and then place a rubber band around your wrist and give yourselves a good, eye-watering snap with it next time you feel the urge to misuse the word. If you can't find a rubber band, settle for giving yourselves an uppercut.
Perhaps my cynicism is generated by the fact that horse racing does absolutely nothing for me. Never has. My experience is limited to having worked as a wait person at a race meeting many years ago, and almost had my head bitten off by a well-known socialite who was one facelift away from having a beard. I have also partaken in the traditional office sweep on Cup Day, as well. Often the situation was just painful because the old bag in charge of the office annoyed everyone, and most people didn't want to be there because of her yet felt pressured somehow to be there. I envied the receptionist who cried off on religious grounds one year, and I cried off one year on financial grounds and was on the receiving end of the stink-eye from the old bag all afternoon. There was a secretary working there who asked did I want to go in a syndicate and purchase a race horse. I'm thinking of this particular person because he also defied a gender stereotype in that he worked in a traditionally female role. People used to be surprised when I mentioned there was a male secretary on the floor, and I'd hear him speaking to people on the phone: 'Yes, I am a man. Not at all, ma'am, it's the twentieth century now, men can do this.' He actually resorted to announcing himself as his boss's clerk instead of secretary to save putting up with the guff. As much as I liked the busting of the gender stereotype, the guy himself shat me to tears. He stayed with me for a week whilst in the process of moving flats, and not once did he re-wrap the plastic around the cheese properly. In terms of flat sharing, this is a deal breaker for me. Never mind the old adage 'Who moved my cheese?', 'Who didn't re-wrap the fucking cheese properly?' is where we should be directing our energy.
My malaise and inability to give a shit is undoubtedly symptomatic of the lack of sleep I am getting lately. My lack of sleep is due to personal issues, but the issues seem to be getting slowly, slowly resolved. Resolve, damn you! Resolve, already!
All I have heard about, or seen in my news feed since about 6.00pm yesterday (I wasn't looking at the television any earlier, so no, I didn't watch That Event) is the great shattering of the glass ceiling, the trailblazing victory for women everywhere, the trite From Humble Beginnings etc articles because we have achieved the pinnacle of greatness (or so one would assume) in that - are you sitting down? Are you comfy? Have you voided your bladder? Removed your socks so they don't get knocked off? - a FEMALE jockey has ridden the winning horse in the Melbourne Cup. Everyone appears to have lost their shit, and is flapping their arms and shrieking, 'Yaaaaaay!' a la Kermit the Frog at the beginning of 'The Muppet Show'.
I normally applaud any person who breaks stereotypes. Indeed, I was very supportive when a male entered the Miss Australia pageant years ago (from memory, he was technically the winner in that he raised the most funds for the nominated charity, but he could not be awarded the crown because the rules stated the winner must be female, and da rulez is da rulez). However, whilst I understand the accolades being bestowed upon the winning rider of yesterday's Cup, I am having trouble giving a shit. Not even a box of Laxettes and a cup of prune juice will induce me to give anything even resembling a shit. I just cannot conjure one up at the moment. I opened the cupboard where my fucks are stored, and it's rivalling Old Mother Hubbard's, so there were no fucks for me to give, either.
People are already saying what a great movie it will be. It has all the hallmarks of a Typical Aussie Movie. Underdogs everywhere. The jockey is female, and from a large family. The strapper, her brother, has special needs. The winning horse was purchased quite cheaply by a syndicate, and paid handsomely on the win. Casting agents will be checking the books for scrawny actors. I'm sure it has AFI written all over it. There's bound to be a John Williamson song somewhere in the soundtrack.
And of course - sigh! - the usual mob are bleating about the 'misogyny' of it all. I will buy sexism and chauvinism, but not misogyny. Oh yeah, another bugbear will emerge when everyone starts going on about the mis-o-gyn-eeeeee to which women are subjected in sport. Can the people who throw around accusations of misogyny please look up the definition of the damn word, and then place a rubber band around your wrist and give yourselves a good, eye-watering snap with it next time you feel the urge to misuse the word. If you can't find a rubber band, settle for giving yourselves an uppercut.
Perhaps my cynicism is generated by the fact that horse racing does absolutely nothing for me. Never has. My experience is limited to having worked as a wait person at a race meeting many years ago, and almost had my head bitten off by a well-known socialite who was one facelift away from having a beard. I have also partaken in the traditional office sweep on Cup Day, as well. Often the situation was just painful because the old bag in charge of the office annoyed everyone, and most people didn't want to be there because of her yet felt pressured somehow to be there. I envied the receptionist who cried off on religious grounds one year, and I cried off one year on financial grounds and was on the receiving end of the stink-eye from the old bag all afternoon. There was a secretary working there who asked did I want to go in a syndicate and purchase a race horse. I'm thinking of this particular person because he also defied a gender stereotype in that he worked in a traditionally female role. People used to be surprised when I mentioned there was a male secretary on the floor, and I'd hear him speaking to people on the phone: 'Yes, I am a man. Not at all, ma'am, it's the twentieth century now, men can do this.' He actually resorted to announcing himself as his boss's clerk instead of secretary to save putting up with the guff. As much as I liked the busting of the gender stereotype, the guy himself shat me to tears. He stayed with me for a week whilst in the process of moving flats, and not once did he re-wrap the plastic around the cheese properly. In terms of flat sharing, this is a deal breaker for me. Never mind the old adage 'Who moved my cheese?', 'Who didn't re-wrap the fucking cheese properly?' is where we should be directing our energy.
My malaise and inability to give a shit is undoubtedly symptomatic of the lack of sleep I am getting lately. My lack of sleep is due to personal issues, but the issues seem to be getting slowly, slowly resolved. Resolve, damn you! Resolve, already!
Review for Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth
Here is a recent review for my novel 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth'. Hope it persuades people to rush out and buy the book. http://www.amazon.com/gp/customer-reviews/R1EL8JJ5TN793C/ref=cm_cr_pr_rvw_ttl?ie=UTF8&ASIN=1921919868
Saturday 31 October 2015
On Rocky Horror, Ladies Loos In Parliament House, And Morons In General
I had a very special mother and son bonding last night, when I introduced my eleven-year-old to 'The Rocky Horror Show'. It was a televised London stage production, and one of the best I've seen. My absolute brain-crush, Stephen Fry, took the role of the narrator. My son is a very theatrical type who loves music, so I figured he'd enjoy the gaudy and vulgar spectacle. I was not wrong. I dismissed any misgivings I have about my youngster viewing what is a somewhat risque show with the thought he seeks out some questionable material on You Tube when I am otherwise engaged, and I know the parents of some of his friends swear like the Osbournes. He loved it, even though he was unwell and nursing a sick bowl. He was delighted when we discovered the actor playing Dr Frank'n'Furter voices a character in the US version of Thomas the Tank Engine. The actor was delicious and lascivious in the role, and bore a jaw-dropping resemblance to Eartha Kitt in his bold eye make-up, jammy listick, and dark wig. I have promised to take my little boy to see a live production in Sydney or Newcastle just as soon as another production is announced. Oh, and when I saw the actor playing Rocky, my fast-drying ovaries damn near went into overdrive.
His dad and I saw a production many, many years ago in the early days of our courtship. We are both huge fans of the depraved musical. You know something? Liking 'Rocky Horror' is a deal breaker for me. Oh, not in every day life, but in romantic relationships (not that I am seeking any new ones!). I told my son in order to be considered a suitor for me, a man must (1) like children; (2) be kind to animals; and (3) like 'The Rocky Horror Show'. Naturally, his dad meets all the criteria.
Call me shallow, but I once broke it off with a guy because, among his other crimes, he didn't like 'The Rocky Horror Show'. It is important to respect each other's differences and look past them, but when he sat appalled in the theatre after Frank threw off his cape to be revealed in his basque-and-suspendered glory, I knew he was most likely not a keeper for me. They say opposiites attract, but I now know this to be completely untrue. I think we seek out qualities in our friends that we might lack in ourselves, eg, assertiveness. Having different opinions on subjects is not a problem, and possibly healthy. However, if someone stands in total ideological opposition to you, then I cannot see how a romance can survive. This guy turned out to be a whiny pain, and it was best we not continue any romance. But that was a river under the bridge, and we did actually see each other around sometimes because of our work, and eventually resumed a friendship, which was nice. Haven't seen him in many years, but I wish him well.
Other things annoy me. I am having trouble with my computer at home for some reason, and am therefore typing this in the library. The computers are arranged on a rather elliptical set of tables, and opposite me sits a group of boys, aged about twelve, carrying on like snickering, infantile little nongs. I'm guessing they're not looking at porn given we are in a library. Oh, who am I to make assumptions? Maybe they're reading some history or geography, and their giggles are a reaction to their joy of learning. But I doubt this very much.
Moronic comments from our MPs annoy me, too. In my cross hairs today I have lined up parliamentary secretary Ray Williams. He made an asinine comment against the idea of installing more women's toilets in Parliament House on the basis that the women will spend all day in there and nothing will get done. I know it's an old chestnut and joke that ladies spend a lot of time in the loo, and always travel in packs. I'm not like this; if I want to go, then I'm going to go. I don't know if you're reading this, Ray, but when women go to the loo, they don't the luxury of standing there, unzipping a fly, and flopping out a todger. There is more clothing to fiddle with and adjust, such as skirts and occasionally pantihose, which is a monstrous nuisance at times. A woman occasionally has to replace a sanitary product. But here's the thing: we're not going to the dunny just for a laugh, okay? And your comment really sucks donkeys' balls in the lack of logic. If there are more loos, there will be LESS time away from the desk because there will be LESS queueing for a stall. Take a moment to let that absorb, will you? And isn't it preferable that women go to the toilet and void their bodily waste in a considered and culturally appropriate manner, instead of they way YOU obviously do, Ray? By this I mean you just climb up a tree, have a crap, and then fling it.
On a final note, to the dick beaters who leave shopping trolleys in the parking bays of the shopping centre car parks, rather than wheel them to the trolley bays, or at least to a spot away from the car spaces - yes, you - the morons who put trolleys right where people would like to park, thus necessitating them either driving to another spot or getting out of the vehicle to move the infernal trolley: you are all the wads your respective fathers should have spunked onto the bed sheets.
His dad and I saw a production many, many years ago in the early days of our courtship. We are both huge fans of the depraved musical. You know something? Liking 'Rocky Horror' is a deal breaker for me. Oh, not in every day life, but in romantic relationships (not that I am seeking any new ones!). I told my son in order to be considered a suitor for me, a man must (1) like children; (2) be kind to animals; and (3) like 'The Rocky Horror Show'. Naturally, his dad meets all the criteria.
Call me shallow, but I once broke it off with a guy because, among his other crimes, he didn't like 'The Rocky Horror Show'. It is important to respect each other's differences and look past them, but when he sat appalled in the theatre after Frank threw off his cape to be revealed in his basque-and-suspendered glory, I knew he was most likely not a keeper for me. They say opposiites attract, but I now know this to be completely untrue. I think we seek out qualities in our friends that we might lack in ourselves, eg, assertiveness. Having different opinions on subjects is not a problem, and possibly healthy. However, if someone stands in total ideological opposition to you, then I cannot see how a romance can survive. This guy turned out to be a whiny pain, and it was best we not continue any romance. But that was a river under the bridge, and we did actually see each other around sometimes because of our work, and eventually resumed a friendship, which was nice. Haven't seen him in many years, but I wish him well.
Other things annoy me. I am having trouble with my computer at home for some reason, and am therefore typing this in the library. The computers are arranged on a rather elliptical set of tables, and opposite me sits a group of boys, aged about twelve, carrying on like snickering, infantile little nongs. I'm guessing they're not looking at porn given we are in a library. Oh, who am I to make assumptions? Maybe they're reading some history or geography, and their giggles are a reaction to their joy of learning. But I doubt this very much.
Moronic comments from our MPs annoy me, too. In my cross hairs today I have lined up parliamentary secretary Ray Williams. He made an asinine comment against the idea of installing more women's toilets in Parliament House on the basis that the women will spend all day in there and nothing will get done. I know it's an old chestnut and joke that ladies spend a lot of time in the loo, and always travel in packs. I'm not like this; if I want to go, then I'm going to go. I don't know if you're reading this, Ray, but when women go to the loo, they don't the luxury of standing there, unzipping a fly, and flopping out a todger. There is more clothing to fiddle with and adjust, such as skirts and occasionally pantihose, which is a monstrous nuisance at times. A woman occasionally has to replace a sanitary product. But here's the thing: we're not going to the dunny just for a laugh, okay? And your comment really sucks donkeys' balls in the lack of logic. If there are more loos, there will be LESS time away from the desk because there will be LESS queueing for a stall. Take a moment to let that absorb, will you? And isn't it preferable that women go to the toilet and void their bodily waste in a considered and culturally appropriate manner, instead of they way YOU obviously do, Ray? By this I mean you just climb up a tree, have a crap, and then fling it.
On a final note, to the dick beaters who leave shopping trolleys in the parking bays of the shopping centre car parks, rather than wheel them to the trolley bays, or at least to a spot away from the car spaces - yes, you - the morons who put trolleys right where people would like to park, thus necessitating them either driving to another spot or getting out of the vehicle to move the infernal trolley: you are all the wads your respective fathers should have spunked onto the bed sheets.
Wednesday 28 October 2015
What I'm Wondering Today
Just having a bit of a cruddy day, if the truth be told. Had a service go completely haywire. Well, maybe not completely, just not to plan. So, in the spare time I had I thought I would pop along to Woollies and shop for the family dinner. As I put the bay leaves in my basket (I'm going exotic tonight), my phone rang. The service was reinstated and I had to get back to work. I replaced my phone thinking something along the lines of it all being the biggest cock-up since King Kong cracked an erection, when I turned around and saw the fearsome countenance of the most horrid woman in town. I ducked away before she could breathe on me, and singe my eyebrows and hair. Will my day get worse? I consoled myself with the thought it could not. Thus far, it hasn't. Fingers and toes are crossed, as is my hair: it's braided today. Just in case anyone gives a shit how I wore my hair today.
There are two things I'm wondering about today:
1. Why some people or entities who purport to be Christian really aren't. I've just read an article about Foundation Christian College. The father of one of the students has now enrolled her in the local public school - making her a former student, I guess - because he was apparently told in a meeting that had the board (or whoever the fogies are) been aware he is gay, the daughter would not have been allowed in the school. Apparently this school does 'not promote gay'. However, the promotion of bigotry and homophobia fall well within the parameters of what's acceptable. Poor kid was told she could mention her dad, but not the status of his relationship or his sexuality. Rather than deal with the spectre of the kid being asked to leave over her father's sexuality, in the event it became widely known, the father has chosen to remove the daughter and enrol her in a public school. Probably a good idea in the long run, but I hate the poor kid had to have this upheaval and leave her friends. I wonder if the board who run that school ever stop to think how Jesus would have reacted to the situation, given they call themselves Christian. I'm thinking he might have not worried about the dad's sexuality, and would have just said something like, 'Live and let live.'
2. In order to make a country song, must one hold one's nose and then whine, mewl, and bleat piteous, poor-me lyrics. Or else hold one's nose and twang a narrative on some boring life story nobody gives a stuff around. Well, that's what they all sound like to me. I heard one on the radio this morning, and it was almost a Paint-By-Numbers country song - nasal delivery and a shit-boring story.
'Tis all for now.
There are two things I'm wondering about today:
1. Why some people or entities who purport to be Christian really aren't. I've just read an article about Foundation Christian College. The father of one of the students has now enrolled her in the local public school - making her a former student, I guess - because he was apparently told in a meeting that had the board (or whoever the fogies are) been aware he is gay, the daughter would not have been allowed in the school. Apparently this school does 'not promote gay'. However, the promotion of bigotry and homophobia fall well within the parameters of what's acceptable. Poor kid was told she could mention her dad, but not the status of his relationship or his sexuality. Rather than deal with the spectre of the kid being asked to leave over her father's sexuality, in the event it became widely known, the father has chosen to remove the daughter and enrol her in a public school. Probably a good idea in the long run, but I hate the poor kid had to have this upheaval and leave her friends. I wonder if the board who run that school ever stop to think how Jesus would have reacted to the situation, given they call themselves Christian. I'm thinking he might have not worried about the dad's sexuality, and would have just said something like, 'Live and let live.'
2. In order to make a country song, must one hold one's nose and then whine, mewl, and bleat piteous, poor-me lyrics. Or else hold one's nose and twang a narrative on some boring life story nobody gives a stuff around. Well, that's what they all sound like to me. I heard one on the radio this morning, and it was almost a Paint-By-Numbers country song - nasal delivery and a shit-boring story.
'Tis all for now.
Tuesday 27 October 2015
Many Cultures; One Community; Many Missing The Point
There was a storm here yesterday afternoon. I saw my neighbour picking up loose chattels in his yard, and I stacked my new outdoor chairs so they wouldn't be rained on. Such are the precautions one takes. What do you do when there is a shit storm? Do you stay inside so as not to get peppered with giant turd hailstones? I guess it depends on the individual shit storm. You sure do see a lot of them on social media. I saw one today. It was to do with a primary school in Melbourne that has given Shi'ite students who are observing the month of Muharram the option to leave the assembly hall during the singing of the National Anthem. For those of you who don't know, and that number included me until this morning as today was the first I had heard of it, this is an observance by some Muslims for a month around this time of year. Because it is a month of mourning, one does not partake in joyous activities such as singing. This is why students have been given the option to stand outside the hall.
But as can be predicted in these scatological weather phenomena, people are totally missing the point. Let me explain things. I won't promise to do it in simple terms, because I tend to write in a convoluted, although fluent, manner. But I will try and explain things best I can.
First of all: NOBODY is disrespecting anything. Not Australia, not the National Anthem, not our way of life. It is not about the National Anthem. It is about SINGING. That's what the 'problem' is. If the school was playing Taylor Swift for the kids to sing along with, the children would be given the same option of leaving the hall. And if they take up this option, they had better get out of there quickly, because I would be barrelling from the hall quickly enough to knock them over like ten pins!
The motto of the school is something along the lines of 'Many Cultures; One Community'. This would indicate to me students from other backgrounds have cultural needs addressed and respected, too. Is it a bad thing to teach kids about other cultures and how to be respectful? The school is damned if they do, and damned if they don't, I reckon.
I really cannot see how this is different to allowances that were made when I was going through school. When I was seven, most of my class practised and prepared for our First Holy Communion. All of us except for one little girl, who told me her mother didn't want her to doing the sacrament. 'm guessing this kid might not have been Catholic, but you know what? It doesn't matter.
During my high school years, I attended the local State school, and the Catholicism came in handy because we could bludge off and attend Mass on the Holy Days of Obligation. But in terms of cultural respect, when I was in Year 10, we had our prac cooking on a Friday, which during Lent was kind of problematic as we weren't meant to touch meat. The teacher, an evil old harridan, had to come up with substitutes to accommodate the Catholic and Greek Orthodox students. Every Friday it was, 'Hands up the Catholics.' First Friday after Easter, she did it again. 'Hands up the Catholics!' she cawed, like the old crow she was. I put up my hand and pointed out Lent was over. The teacher lost her shit. 'I know Lent's over, Simone Bailey!' she barked. 'I just want to know who the Catholics are!' (Bitch, please. *Does eyeroll*).
But you see what I'm getting at here? There is really no need for mole hills to take on the volume and shape of mountains, is there?
But as can be predicted in these scatological weather phenomena, people are totally missing the point. Let me explain things. I won't promise to do it in simple terms, because I tend to write in a convoluted, although fluent, manner. But I will try and explain things best I can.
First of all: NOBODY is disrespecting anything. Not Australia, not the National Anthem, not our way of life. It is not about the National Anthem. It is about SINGING. That's what the 'problem' is. If the school was playing Taylor Swift for the kids to sing along with, the children would be given the same option of leaving the hall. And if they take up this option, they had better get out of there quickly, because I would be barrelling from the hall quickly enough to knock them over like ten pins!
The motto of the school is something along the lines of 'Many Cultures; One Community'. This would indicate to me students from other backgrounds have cultural needs addressed and respected, too. Is it a bad thing to teach kids about other cultures and how to be respectful? The school is damned if they do, and damned if they don't, I reckon.
I really cannot see how this is different to allowances that were made when I was going through school. When I was seven, most of my class practised and prepared for our First Holy Communion. All of us except for one little girl, who told me her mother didn't want her to doing the sacrament. 'm guessing this kid might not have been Catholic, but you know what? It doesn't matter.
During my high school years, I attended the local State school, and the Catholicism came in handy because we could bludge off and attend Mass on the Holy Days of Obligation. But in terms of cultural respect, when I was in Year 10, we had our prac cooking on a Friday, which during Lent was kind of problematic as we weren't meant to touch meat. The teacher, an evil old harridan, had to come up with substitutes to accommodate the Catholic and Greek Orthodox students. Every Friday it was, 'Hands up the Catholics.' First Friday after Easter, she did it again. 'Hands up the Catholics!' she cawed, like the old crow she was. I put up my hand and pointed out Lent was over. The teacher lost her shit. 'I know Lent's over, Simone Bailey!' she barked. 'I just want to know who the Catholics are!' (Bitch, please. *Does eyeroll*).
But you see what I'm getting at here? There is really no need for mole hills to take on the volume and shape of mountains, is there?
Wednesday 21 October 2015
Great Scott, Is There A 'Future' In Poker Machines?
Okay, it's a bit of a 'me day' today. I'm just goofing around, and having some 'me time', and might even have a nap. Never thought I'd see the day when the highlight of my day was a nap, but it appears to be heading that way. I have finalised all the corrections on my manuscript, and I am confident to submit it to my publishers. I'm actually just waiting to hear back from them as to whether they want me to submit some random chapters and a synopsis, or just the novella in its entirety and a synopsis. Yes, it's really only novella length, so if it is accepted for publication, you have no excuse to not read it because it won't take long. All going well, it will be out some time next year.
On this, my 'me day', I've been thinking about 'Back to the Future', yesterday (21 October 2015) being THE day. I love those movies. They are rare in that they are movies from the Eighties that didn't totally suck donkeys' balls. The Eighties movies I hate the most feature cheesy homo-erotic montages, Kenny Loggins in the soundtrack, and Steve Gutenberg. I saw the first one when I was nineteen, and loved it. I remember thinking when Marty was to pay for something, it was lucky he was in the US; had the movie been set in Australia he would have been totally screwed because in 1955 people were using the pounds, shillings, and pence, and he'd have had a wallet full of decimal currency. Yeah, I'm probably the only person who thought about that. Please try and find it a more charming aspect of my otherwise eccentric personality.
The scene where Marty's future mother tries to kiss him made me go 'ick', but it was important for the integrity of the movie. Love the part where he's playing 'Johnny B Goode' and the band's lead singer, Marvin Berry, rings his cousin Chuck to tell him about this great new sound. And of course, everyone loves it when Marty's future father George McFly gives Biff a bloody good, well, biff in the jaw and knocks the overbearing prick unconscious. I think Crispin Glover (George McFly) was fantastic in this movie - he's very underrated.
So, what's going to happen with the pokies now, folks? I've heard about a proposed class action that will claim by their very nature, they breach consumer law. They are designed to keep the player transfixed with their noises, graphics, and lights. I guess they're similar tricks used by hypnotists, perhaps. I'm intrigued by this proposed class action because of my legal background. It seems interesting. But as an Everyday Joe (or Josephine, in my case), I just want to respond to the criticism that the machines are designed to keep people mesmerised with a reverberating, 'Well, duuur-URRRRRRR!'
I will say this: I fucking hate the things. I used to go and watch bands years ago, but that dried up when the pokies were installed in the band's area. Also, there is nothing more dull than being on a night out with friends who ignore you and play the pokies. But the same argument can be applied to friends who look at their phones all night, and ignore their physical company as they indulge in their cyber alternative. Yes, gambling addiction destroys families and lives. So too does alcoholism. I see no call for booze to be banned.
Some people enjoy a light flutter. Let them do it. If people have problems with poker machine addiction, ask you be banned from the area, or premises. Or alternatively, take up line dancing somewhere where the poker machines are not. I know the draw of addiction is powerful, and my suggestions are probably too simplistic, but maybe they're a start.
Another thing: clubs often rely very heavily on the revenue generated by the poker machines to continue their operation as a business. This business provides employment, and a flow on effect regarding employment (deliveries, suppliers, chefs, wait staff, cleaners et al). Clubs provide community services and support, too. Without their poker machine revenue, this would all stop.
I admit the legal aspect of this law suit interests me, as abovementioned. But can people also take some responsibility? I recall an interview with Danny Bonaduce, whom you might recall was a child actor in 'The Partridge Family'. I personally find him very engaging and funny, but I had total respect when he spoke about his addictions. When it was put to him whether his former child stardom had contributed to these, he said words to the effect, 'I'm an alcoholic because of a flaw in my genetic make-up. When I was in rehab, there were also lawyers, accountants, and dentists, but only one former child actor, and that was ME. You wouldn't go up to someone in rehab and say, 'You must have been child dentist', would you?' Good points.
On this, my 'me day', I've been thinking about 'Back to the Future', yesterday (21 October 2015) being THE day. I love those movies. They are rare in that they are movies from the Eighties that didn't totally suck donkeys' balls. The Eighties movies I hate the most feature cheesy homo-erotic montages, Kenny Loggins in the soundtrack, and Steve Gutenberg. I saw the first one when I was nineteen, and loved it. I remember thinking when Marty was to pay for something, it was lucky he was in the US; had the movie been set in Australia he would have been totally screwed because in 1955 people were using the pounds, shillings, and pence, and he'd have had a wallet full of decimal currency. Yeah, I'm probably the only person who thought about that. Please try and find it a more charming aspect of my otherwise eccentric personality.
The scene where Marty's future mother tries to kiss him made me go 'ick', but it was important for the integrity of the movie. Love the part where he's playing 'Johnny B Goode' and the band's lead singer, Marvin Berry, rings his cousin Chuck to tell him about this great new sound. And of course, everyone loves it when Marty's future father George McFly gives Biff a bloody good, well, biff in the jaw and knocks the overbearing prick unconscious. I think Crispin Glover (George McFly) was fantastic in this movie - he's very underrated.
So, what's going to happen with the pokies now, folks? I've heard about a proposed class action that will claim by their very nature, they breach consumer law. They are designed to keep the player transfixed with their noises, graphics, and lights. I guess they're similar tricks used by hypnotists, perhaps. I'm intrigued by this proposed class action because of my legal background. It seems interesting. But as an Everyday Joe (or Josephine, in my case), I just want to respond to the criticism that the machines are designed to keep people mesmerised with a reverberating, 'Well, duuur-URRRRRRR!'
I will say this: I fucking hate the things. I used to go and watch bands years ago, but that dried up when the pokies were installed in the band's area. Also, there is nothing more dull than being on a night out with friends who ignore you and play the pokies. But the same argument can be applied to friends who look at their phones all night, and ignore their physical company as they indulge in their cyber alternative. Yes, gambling addiction destroys families and lives. So too does alcoholism. I see no call for booze to be banned.
Some people enjoy a light flutter. Let them do it. If people have problems with poker machine addiction, ask you be banned from the area, or premises. Or alternatively, take up line dancing somewhere where the poker machines are not. I know the draw of addiction is powerful, and my suggestions are probably too simplistic, but maybe they're a start.
Another thing: clubs often rely very heavily on the revenue generated by the poker machines to continue their operation as a business. This business provides employment, and a flow on effect regarding employment (deliveries, suppliers, chefs, wait staff, cleaners et al). Clubs provide community services and support, too. Without their poker machine revenue, this would all stop.
I admit the legal aspect of this law suit interests me, as abovementioned. But can people also take some responsibility? I recall an interview with Danny Bonaduce, whom you might recall was a child actor in 'The Partridge Family'. I personally find him very engaging and funny, but I had total respect when he spoke about his addictions. When it was put to him whether his former child stardom had contributed to these, he said words to the effect, 'I'm an alcoholic because of a flaw in my genetic make-up. When I was in rehab, there were also lawyers, accountants, and dentists, but only one former child actor, and that was ME. You wouldn't go up to someone in rehab and say, 'You must have been child dentist', would you?' Good points.
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