Lame Petitions Re Milat Series - Pffffft!

Different people have different methods of dealing with troubling situations.  I had a flatmate whose main coping mechanism, when faced with an upcoming TAFE assignment or exam or bathroom to clean, involved firing up a bong loaded with Buddha heads (actually, as well as stress management, firing up the bong was also a way for him to express joy and felicitous celebrations.  And he liked firing up the bong if it was a Wednesday, too.  Or a Thursday - why discriminate?).  Some people occasionally meditate.  Some exercise.  Some self-medicate.  Commissioner Gordon used to either ring the direct line to Batman's cave, or else shine a torch with that bat-like silhouette.

But there are some insidious pests who have wormed their way into our cyber-world, and what they do, when faced with something they don't like, is go to that Change website and start a petition.  Look, when it comes to situations like equal pay, or equal rights, or human rights, I have no qualms about those petitions.  I support them.  But what I am being bombarded with in my inbox is almost invariably some lame-arse gripe about something that nobody with a life really gives a shit about.  And it's just such a whiny bloody stance to take. 'Oh, dear.  I don't like the look of this.  I'm going to try and ban it and not give a passing thought about the rest of the populace who are pretty capable of making up their own minds about things'.  What hit my inbox yesterday was a petition calling upon Channel 7 to not screen the upcoming dramatization on the capture of serial killer Ivan Milat.  Yes, you whining-prats-without-lives, it WILL be distressing for families of his victims.  Those families have my sympathy.  But those families presumably have a remote control and free will, and therefore DON'T HAVE TO WATCH IT.  And hey, get this: NEITHER DO YOU!

Fucking hell, there are few things that get me standing on the soap box preaching than this utter erosion and impeding upon my right to view or read or listen to artistic material.  I have a reasonable level of intelligence.  I also have opposable thumbs, so if I (get this 'I') decide I don't like something, I will turn it off myself!  Do not try and deny me the right to view what I wish in MY HOME.

With this television show, the actors are adults who have made informed choices to play the roles.  The writers have worked on a script.  Make-up artists have done their magic.  Costumers have helped bring a character to life with considered ensemble choices.  Set designers create a world.  Cinematographers create an ambience.  Directors guide actors through scenes to bring that world home to the viewer.  They all work together to create a final piece for us to view.  This is their WORK.  This is their lifeblood.  Why should they not have the chance to showcase it and perhaps acquire future employment through it.  Who the fuck are you people to deny them the chance of income (which is what you're trying to do with your lame-arse petitions).

For the love of all things holy and unholy, if you don't like the look of an upcoming show, don't clog up my inbox with your whiny shit, go out and do something useful.  Mow the lawn (and then come and do mine).  Volunteer at a charity shop.  Deliver meals on wheels.  Offer to hand around the cut oranges at halftime at the local footie match.  Pick up rocks from the road and eat them.  Jeez, buggering a goat senseless is probably still more useful and sensible than these pathetic petitions.

That is all.  Got a similar rant to work on tomorrow for my local newspaper in response to a letter that appeared therein, in this week's edition.  It was the current Whinge De Rigeur  about 'Fifty Shades of Complete Unviewable Bullshit Grey' glamorising domestic violence.  We all know I hated the book and film, but we all know what I think of censorship, too.

Well Placed Asterisks & Other Musings.

Just logged in, and saw a notification that from 23 March, Blogger will no longer allow sexually explicit content.  Well, I tend to not write it on here, but what do they mean?  Prose describing the ins and outs (sorry!) of coitus?  Uploaded pornographic pictures?  Again, I don't do that here, anyway.  With my last blog, I was able to write the foulest content I wanted in the body of the posting, but couldn't use the word 'Jesus' in the title.  Or the word 'whore'.  Oh, don't worry, Bible-thumpers; I didn't correlate those words in the title.  It was just the silliness of some filter in the URL.  It was only marginally more irritating than anything Kardashian-related.  I got around it with my good old friends, the hyphen and/or the asterisk.  A well-placed * or - between letters of certain words can get you far, I found.

I wonder will I be allowed to say what I am about to say?  I heard a derogatory remark about someone today, and I must admit it made me snigger.  Probably because I agreed with it.  Someone described somebody (no names!) as 'the wad her mother should have swallowed'.  Maybe it's infantile, but it made me giggle a bit.  I'd like to use this in future.

There's peace and quiet here at the moment because we have no television following a hailstorm that shorted out the signals.  Now the storm is over, it is still, steamy, and humid.  I have a film of moisture clinging to me tightly enough to warrant a restraining order.  Nobody else is complaining, so I'm wondering am I experiencing a hot flush. 

Still have to tidy the kitchen.  I've been preparing tomorrow's school lunches as my iPod plays.  Tonight it was 'Only for Sheep' by The Bureau ('Giving us freedom/With a new set of rules....') ,and some Richard Clapton.

I will log out soon.  I haven't been online for a few days, and just wanted to touch base in the blogosphere, my playground.  I was unable to blog here because we had a problem with our modem, and some bugs to be ironed out after Mr Bingells upgraded our plan for more GB.  My damnable kids keep using up all the GBs.  Anyway, then the modem decided to crap itself somewhat.  Telstra couldn't help because it wasn't a Telstra modem.  Mr Bingells had to buy a new modem.  Mr Bingells was in a state of Irked.  Me, I was in a state of Slightly Irked because I spent a while on the telephone with a techie, and got sent a text that invited me to visit their website for more information.  This not only defies logic, it thumbs its nose and laughs at it. Hell, it bends it over the desk and rogers it severely (can I still say that, Blogger?).  You know why?  Of course you do.  But if you're the gronk who sent me the text, let me type this slowly for you: if I could access the website to get more information, I wouldn't have been ringing in the first place, would I?

My Review of 50 Shades

Okay, I did it sooner than I thought.  No, I refer not to the misplacement of my virginity all those years ago, but to the my attendance at the local cinema late yesterday afternoon for a screening of '50 Shades of Grey'.  It had been my plan to view the cinematic slop on DVD with some equally cynical girlfriends, over some wine and nibblies.  As it turned out, a friend was going with some girlfriends, and asked could her kids come to mine, and would I like to accompany them to the cinema.  Mr Bingells babysat and watched a bit of a kids' movie (and had the better deal, I think).  Thinking it would be a laugh to go out with some other ladies, I agreed.  And yes, I enjoyed the company of the ladies; we had a nice time. 

I was still embarrassed to be seen going to this, but as you, Gentle Reader, are aware, I wanted to be in a position to comment.  I am now in a position to comment.  I had considered folding my collar up to disguise myself, and hoped I wouldn't see anybody I knew.  Just as I was sitting comfortably and chomping into my popcorn, someone waved from across the aisle and shouted, 'Hello, Simone!'  D'oh!  Oh, I must have a word with the candy bar there.  They really do oversalt their popcorn.  By the last, dried kernel, the area just inside my lips (my MOUTH!) felt puckered and shrivelled, like a slug that has been bombarded with a bag of the stuff.  Adult patrons are allowed to take alcohol in, and one of my companions said she was going to the bar.  Because my mouth was fast dehydrating like a neglected houseplant, I handed her some money and requested a vodka/lime/soda.  Regretfully, the bar has a limited stock of drinks, and whilst my friends got their requested beers, I was handed the closest thing they had to a vodka/lime/soda: a fruity vodka-based alcopop.  I like to think I have a discerning palate (from this you can correctly construe I am an utter snob), so therefore drinking a sickly alcopop is anathema to me.  However, fearing the overabundance of salt I had just ingested was going to turn me into a giant chunk of prosciutto, I gratefully accepted the beverage, and if my benefactor is reading, I AM grateful to you for going to the bar for us. Double thumbs up: you're a legend.

The film began.  Before I continue, I don't think I am giving out too many spoilers.  The wretched drivel has been over-analysed and discussed, so unless you've been on the moon (in which case, welcome back and I hope you haven't had too much difficulty adjusting to the Earth's gravitational pull), I don't think I'll be writing anything you haven't already heard about it, plot-wise.

First up, it was what I expected: crap on celluloid.  I have said it before, and will say it again: Anastasia Steele is the most aggravating milquetoast to grace a page, and has translated to the most aggravating milquetoast to grace a screen.  I am adding her name to the list of movie characters whose faces I wish to take to with a cheese grater. If you're wondering, she's in company with Muriel from 'Muriel's Wedding', Blaine from 'Pretty in Pink',  and Bridget Jones.  She has all the sex appeal of a soggy cracker.  Hey, I occasionally lecture about creative writing and always point out one's main characters need not be actually likeable people.  But this one is so weak, even her menstrual blood would be diluted.

Everyone knows the basic plot: virginal, irritating wimp meets controlling fuck-up with a knot-tying fetish.  I will say I found viewing the movie easier than reading the book because I didn't have to wade through so much execrable prose and cruddy dialogue.  But yes, the silly bitch did keep biting her lip in the movie, and I did sit there in the darkened cinema, gagging on alcopop, wondering would it be possible to actually reach through the screen, grab her lip, and pull it up over her bloody head (as was my reaction reading the book).

There was some nudity, but not too full on.  Hey, I've actually read articles dedicated to the fact the character has pubic hair.  The fact that someone thinks pubic hair on a stupid character is worth writing about is making me want to yell, 'Stop the world!  Time to get off.'  Illness or medical conditions aside, we all grow it when puberty hits, okay?  Take a moment to absorb this. 

When she timidly and meekly asked, 'Are you going to make love to me?', and Grey replied, 'I don't make love.  I fuck, hard', I muttered to my companion that his option sounded like a hell of a lot more fun.  I will take this opportunity to apologise for making my friend almost snort popcorn through her nose.

So she looks like she'd fart and fall over, and he looks like he's constipated.  And this is pretty much their expressions through the entire film.  As you're no doubt aware, they enter into a sub/dom contract, and she asks for clarification of some terms.  'What are butt plugs?' she asks.  I wanted to shout at the screen, 'Something your boyfriend has stuck in his arse, if the look on  his face is anything to go by!' 

In one scene, where she padded into the room, wrapped in a sheet, and he was playing something pretty and soft on the piano, she offered the opinion that what he played always sounded 'sad'.  For some reason, I sat there wishing he could suddenly break into 'Mouldy Old Dough' by Lieutenant Pigeon.  Remember that?  It's a rather catchy piece, with what appears to be some good rather honky-tonk sounding piano playing.  It's super-catchy, until the drummer croaks, 'Mooooouuuuld-dee old dooooouuuuuuugggggghhh!', and you just think, 'No.'  Still, it would have livened up the film somewhat. 

The film ended as abruptly as a guillotine chop.  The credits started, and my friends and I looked at each other, and I asked, 'WTF?'  I have never done that at a movie in my life.

My verdict, as you have guessed, is 'woeful'.  But look, I did not go in with an open mind.  I hated the book.  The only really enjoyable bits were the scenes where Christian Grey removed his shirt.  Seriously, that bloke has a body that could have been carved by Michelangelo.

However, I do not buy into the fatuous argument the film glorifies domestic violence.  It no more glamorises DV, than 'Silence of the Lambs' glamorises cannibalism accompanied by Italian plonk.  Even though the genuine BDSM community find the portrayal of its culture lamentable, it is still consensual.  I will grant, as stated above, the bloke is a controlling fuck-up outside the bedroom.  He sold her car minus her permission and tries to tell her what to eat.  He's a dick.  This behaviour is not romantic.  This behaviour is offensive.  However, just because some character engages in antisocial or unacceptable behaviour, it doesn't mean one can't write or make a film about it. 

I will give this film half a star out of a possible *****.  The half-star is because of Grey's lovely body.  And I suspect I am turning into a dirty old woman.

The Anointed Hand

Not sure what's going on in old cyberspace tonight.  I went to my address bar and typed my blog address in, and was taken to some page that said this domain name of mine is up for sale.  What the actual fuck is going on?  Not happy about this.  I know my son set up a google account for himself for some game he wants to play, so I don't know if there's some kind of fuckery going on, or what.

I'll see what transpires over the next few days.  There'd better not be anything going on.  Or, or ELSE.

I've been tired and hot for the past few days.  Speaking of hot, Mr Bingells and I travelled to Newcastle to see Suzi Quatro in concert last Wednesday night.  I cannot say it enough: if you have natural charisma and talent, it is not necessary to dress in minimal clothing (read: confetti and dental floss), and dry hump the air around you.  We were six rows from the front, and toward the end she beckoned the audience to rise and come closer to the front.  For us, this entailed climbing over a few rows of chairs.  My husband is a tall and lanky man, and managed this easily.  I am a tallish woman, but was wearing a tight dress, and clambered over in a most ungainly manner, but it was worth it just to be close to the woman I have idolised for forty years.  And Mr Bingells is floating on Cloud 9 like an infatuated schoolgirl: he got closer to the stage, and stretched out his hand, and the Great One touched his hand as she walked along the edge of the stage interacting with the audience!  From Broadmeadow (where the Entertainment Centre is situated), and all along the Hunter Expressway where we disembarked just the other side of Singleton, our conversation was peppered with excited interjections of, 'I touched Suzi Quatro!'  His first words to me when we woke up on Thursday morning: 'Are-you-making-the-coffee-and-I-touched-Suzi-Quatro!'  His hand has since been washed, and the Suzi-germs are gone, but the memory will remain with him.  As an old man in his dotage, he will sit on his wheelchair, a rug across his knee, on the porch of whatever retirement home into which the kids shove us, and cackle in his now-old-man's-querulous voice, 'I touched - what was her name again?'  Beside him, in my own wheelchair and with my own knee-rug (undoubtedly with a motif of skulls), I will look up from my iPod, or book, or cryptic crossword, and poke him with my stylus, book, or pen and squawk, 'Suzi Quatro.  Now will you FINALLY get over it?'

But if I'm honest, I'm really happy for him.

And that concert was fucking awesome.

Well, I'm off to bed.  Will probably be back online tomorrow.  Want to do some more on my novel in progress as I'm on the last legs, but will probably be crabbing at my kids to go away and let Mommy Dearest write in peace.

Rock On, Folks!

Okay, this is just a quick note to point out I've edited a post I wrote earlier today relating to The Glitter Band.  I might have been labouring under a misapprehension about some facts when I wrote earlier, and someone has contacted me. I therefore thought it prudent to edit the post, and apologise for any unintentional confusion it has caused.  I stand by the principle of the post regarding art for art's sake, the music rocks, and people can listen to whatever they bloody well like.

Rock on, folks!

All that Glitters....

A recurring theme in my work is censorship and art for art's sake.  Indeed, I have recently added the 10cc tune of that name to my iPod playlist because I like the tune, and I like the fuck-you tone to it.  I like lots of stuff, but my nearest and dearest, and hopefully my ever-growing readership, know that I have a great love of 70s Glam Rock.  I have Facebook friends who play in glam cover bands, and have been abused for playing Gary Glitter songs.  They often put it out there about how they should approach this in future gigs.  My advice, which I believe to be enormously sensible, is a sign at the venue saying they will be playing the Gary Glitter songs because they were an integral part of the Glam movement, and that they are celebrating the music and the zeitgeist, not abhorrent crimes.  It is also my suggestion that they put up an undertaking to donate a small percentage of the door takings to a charity that works with abused children.  I think this should keep everyone happy. 

But it happens every time someone posts a Gary Glitter number on the Glam Rock page.  Someone loses their shit and accuses us all of supporting a filthy paedo.  Of course those crimes for which Paul Gadd was convicted are hideous.  But since when did supporting a style of music become synonymous with supporting ugly acts?  I enjoy listening to the Ronettes, the Crystals and Ike and Tina Turner.  Like many, I enjoy the Phil Spector Wall of Sound.  The man was a whiz in the recording studio.  The man is also serving a sentence of nineteen years to life for second degree murder.  Does liking the brilliant music he brought us automatically implicate me in the senseless taking of a human life?  I listen to the Rolling Stones, and Bill Wyman behaved very questionably in the past, didn't he?  Shall I no longer listen to one of my all-time favourite bands?  Of course I don't listen to Bill Wyman's solo projects because they are execrable, but 'Sticky Fingers' is my favourite album of all time, and I'm damned if I'm not going to rock out to 'Can't You Hear Me Knocking' because someone wants to take the high moral ground.  Particularly since those raunchy hot riffs make my ears want to smoke a cigarette.

Being a member of these glam FB groups has led to me making new friends, some of whom have associations with The Glitter Band.  Remember  'The Tears I've Cried For You'?  Sure you do.   The Glitter Band, who had a career as an entity separate to their former front man, still perform (as far as I am aware).  Should they suffer because of the acts of a former associate?  Let me metaphorically paint a picture: when not writing, I work as a carer for the aged and disabled.  Let's just say one of my team members thumped an old man, and used menacing tactics to coerce him into changing his will in her favour.  Let's just say she forged his signature and bled his bank account dry.  This so-called carer would be out on her rotten arse, and possibly facing criminal charges.  And rightfully so.  But should I, along with my other team mates, be made to suffer for her actions because, when all's said and done, we worked with her?  Of course not.  I believe that analogy is appropriate, and the same principle should be applied to The Glitter Band's gigs. 

I cannot say this often enough: if you are going to take the high moral ground, and refuse to listen to anything associated with anybody who has done anything questionable, objectionable, illegal, offensive, or downright stupid, then you're going to have a very limited playing list.  And as talented as they are, the Osmonds are going to get boring after a while.

I know this is contentious stuff, but I just want people to remember not to taint other band members.  Remember to separate the art from the artist. 

You know what?  I commented on a thread last night and received a private message from someone following the thread telling me writing on my blog would do no good.  The message sent was not threatening to myself, the FB-friend, nor anybody commenting on this thread.  However, I do take umbrage at someone sending a badly punctuated and unpleasant message, and then blocking me so I have no right of reply.  In my dictionary, this kind of falls under the definition of  'Chickenshit'.

The Freebird Fighting Firth

Okay, not long home from the cinema.  No, I didn't see 'Fifty Shades of Shit'.  I promise you will suffer through watch it soon - probably on DVD to save my money - and give you my informed views.  Tell you what, I am completely over the 'domestic violence disguised as erotica' argument that's choking my newsfeed of late.  Sure, the relationship between the two protagonists is not what I'd call healthy, but a consensual act between adults, no matter how seemingly fucked up, is not domestic violence.  The genuine BDSM community are immensely PO'd with it, and I do have some acquaintances who occasionally act out sub and dom roles, so next time I'm talking with them, I will be keen to get their say.

No, today I took my almost fourteen-year-old to see 'The Kingsman: Secret Service'.  He was keen to see it, and owing to its MA+ rating, well, you get the picture.  Before you read any further, I will warn this post has potential SPOILER ALERTS.  Okay?  You've been warned.  As a woman who prides herself on her cerebral tastes and love of Oscar Wilde, and enjoys nothing more than bitingly good dialogue, I was surprised to find I really got into this film.  Admittedly, there was some good dialogue, but it often seems good when delivered with upper crust pommy accents. The last time I saw Colin Firth having a fight scene was in the nausea-inducing 'Bridget Jones' Diary' (the nausea was brought to you the fat-faced Ms Jones - she's seriously one of the most annoying protagonists to grace celluloid), and he was fighting the equally yummy Hugh Grant, and it was to the sound of Geri Halliwell's cover of  'It's Raining Men', a song that is being added to my growing list of Shit Covers.  I was astonished that silly bint Bridget Jones would have those two hotties fighting over her, but I guess when it's a film you occasionally must suspend belief.  But in the flick I saw today, Colin Firth was again fighting, but this time it was a crowd in a church with 'Freebird' in the background, and my friends, I thought 'twas most effective, and had to quell an almost insurmountable urge to play an air guitar.  And the delicious Mr Firth kicked all kinds of butt all over the place in it.

 In a later scene, owing to craftily and dastardly implanted thingies, there was a series of exploding heads as 'Pomp and Circumstance' played as background music.  That should have been grotesque, but I must admit, I was laughing like a hyena that's been sucking on nitrous oxide.  In fact, I do believe I embarrassed my son, who is now as tall as me, and appears to be developing down over his top lip.  'God, Mum!' he hissed at me, although he was also laughing.  But I am one of the many who lived through the Eighties, and had chance to laugh themselves stupid over 'The Toxic Avenger' with its special effects.

I did squirm a little uncomfortably in my chair when the Scandinavian princess offered to give the young hero anal if he rescued her.  This is because my son was with me.  I do believe my youngster looked a tad embarrassed, too.  I suppose there are some things young folk just don't like discussed when a parent is present.

We argued over the credits, because I like to watch them and he just wanted to leave.  Given we had to negotiate our way up the stairs before any kind of guide lights were switched on in the auditorium, and were groping like kids playing Marco Polo until we found the back row, I say what goes.  I'm the mum.  It had to be well up the back.  I always sit up the back.  I sat up the back when I was younger, when I was dating, and now.  I have never sat up the back in the hope of making out with my date.  My motivation is far less tawdry: I am long-sighted.

But yeah, I had a good time.  Now I'm going to read my library book before I go to work this afternoon.

Of Birthdays and Photographs

Today marks the beginning of the final year I will be in my forties.  Yeah, I am forty-nine years old today.  In one year's time I shall turn fifty, and for my birthday I will probably get a colonoscopy because my father's doctor recommend all my family members have one once we reach fifty.  That's some birthday gift.  But today's birthday gifts from each of my cherubic boys was an iTunes card.   So I have two iTunes cards now and shall soon embark on a spree of downloading music to my iPod.  I wish I had known because I purchased a card for myself the other day, and so far I've downloaded 'Funky Town' by Pseudo Echo (yes, I know), and 'Photograph' by Ringo Starr. 

When purchasing 'Photograph' via iTunes, the options appeared, and I was about to depress my stylus pen onto the 'Buy Song' icon, and then - quelle horreur! - realised I was on the brink of purchasing 'Photograph' by Nickelback.  Note to self: wear your reading glasses when making iTunes purchases on iPod.  Now, don't get me wrong.  I don't hate Nickelback.  Don't actively seek them out, but I don't hate them, either.  But their 'Photograph' really, really sets my teeth on edge.  It's an almost textbook example of overblown and pointless wankery set to notes.  The bloke singing is probably trying to sound angsty and poignantly nostalgic, but it sounds like he's crapping a brick. Everything is given some kind of meaningful gravitas, such as Kim, the first girl he kissed (I remember my first kiss, it was pretty awful, and I'm not going to put it in a song).  It takes us on some pointless journey that is like wading through sludge, and after a while my ears feel like they've been fisted by an Irish stevedore wearing knuckledusters. 

Anyway, once I realised what I had been about to do, I reached for my glasses and refined my search, and - viola! - downloaded Ringo's song. I have always liked this song.  I don't know that Ringo was necessarily the greatest singer in the world, but I don't mind him.  Don't like 'Yellow Submarine', but I would have detested that no matter which Beatle sang it.  Come on, people.  You know I'm right on this: 'Yellow Submarine' just plain sucks.  I reckon Ringo pissed off Paul somehow, and this was Paul's revenge: lumbering him with the shittiest song he could think of.  So, whilst I was wiping down the kitchen benches this morning, I had a listen to Ringo singing 'Photograph'.  It always strikes me how he just manages to capture the pangs of constant reminders of a freshly ended relationship. And I found out today the tune was written by George Harrison, and features guitar work by George Harrison.  No wonder I like it.  George is criminally underrated, and I also downloaded some of George's solo stuff onto my favourite toy, my iPod.

Well, I'd better get to work writing now.  I'm on almost the last stretch of what will be my fourth novel.  Excited about this.

Oh, and happy birthday to me.

I'm A Wannabe; Don't Vote Me Off PLEASE

The countdown is on to the opening of the film version of 'Fifty Shades of Grey', and I know I've been banging (no pun intended) on about it, I guess it's been on my mind because it's hard to avoid the articles about it.  Look, I will probably end up watching it because I am often on the lookout for blogging material.  I'm not paying full price, I'm going to wait for the DVD and watch with a couple of female friends, so we can shriek and cry abuse at the screen without being removed from the cinema by a pimply teenager in a red waistcoat.  Who knows, I might just like the movie.  No, odds are: I won't.  I hated the book with vehemence scary, and the leads in the film look like a wan milquetoast playing against an Easter Island statue wrapped in a Savile Row suit sourced by someone in the wardrobe department.  Actually, the bloke's not too hard on the eye, but it must be hard to emote and deliver lines when the dialogue (if it reflects that in the book) just sucks shit.  From what I remember of the book, and what I've seen in trailers, the sex scenes are going to have all the eroticism and raunch factor of those in 'Deliverance'. 

But something caught my eye today.  It's (sigh) another online petition, and it calls for a boycott of the movie on the grounds it glamorises violence against women.  Now, I've heard the arguments.  'Oh, no, it's a consensual relationship.'  'Oh, no. the book is shit and in no way reflects a genuine sub and dom relationship'.  Whatever.  I just think this is a truly facile and pointless argument.  I wish people would quit trying to ban works just because they don't like the subject matter.  It's as asinine as the argument 'Trainspotting' glamorised heroin abuse.  To all those who complained it glamorised heroin abuse, let me ask you this: Did you sit there in the cinema with your eyes shut and your fingers jammed into yours ears?  These same people complained 'Pulp Fiction' also glamorised heroin abuse, with the character Vincent Vega jamming a needle into his arm, and then driving along ripped to the gills (but oh man, isn't in an evocative scene and just so artistically brilliant?), and yeah, it did look very effective in 'Pulp Fiction', but let me point something out, and I will type it slowly for those who have a little trouble grasping things: just because a character does something in a movie, does not mean the general public are stupid enough to emulate the behaviour on screen.  Take a moment to let that sink in.

For the record, a sex scene I really enjoyed was the one in 'P.S.' starring Laura Linney (give the woman an Oscar, already!), and Topher Grace.  It didn't feature violins, from memory.  There wasn't an almighty threshing and thrashing of limbs like a spastic washing machine agitator, it was sweet and awkward.  Therein lay the realism.  They kissed, they fumbled, she asked if he had something, and he said, 'Oh yeah', and got a condom out of his wallet, and at the end he cried, 'That was fucking awesome!'  I will defensively point out the cougar crush I have on Topher Grace has in no way influenced my judgement.

Well, I sat down to look at the Australian version of  'I'm A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here' on, I think, Thursday night.  Why did I do this?  I swear my IQ dropped.  I've often believed it's a case of a more appropriate title being 'I'm A Desperate D-Lister Or Has-Been Trying To Stay Relevant, So Don't Vote Me Out PLEASE'!'.  I recognised only a few of these, um, participants (I refuse to call them celebrities).  One was a Brady, for shit's sake!  I watched and face-palmed, as I wailed, 'Marcia! Marcia! Marcia!' with even more angst than her on-screen sister Jan did years ago. One was a bloke who used to play AFL and acted like a fucking thug on the football field. One was a Daddo, and it doesn't matter which one because they're all interchangeable.  Most of them were people I have never heard of.  But one has perfect hair in this so-called jungle environment.  Seriously.  Her hair was long, loose, and knot-free.  How handy to have hair and make-up people onset for this challenging game.  Let me tell you what really hit home to me the show is bullshit (I know you're all thinking, 'Well, duh').  I too have long hair.  If I was in a jungle, it would be a frizzy auburn halo (although in fairness this woman's hair might not be as porous as mine). When you have long hair, and you are required to participate in an activity slightly more strenuous than changing television stations, you tie it back otherwise it's in your face and a nuisance. 

So that's two things I'm hating on at the moment: reality television, and people who try to tell you to boycott films because they don't like the subject matter.

'Deliverance' of the Sugarman

Over the years, I have often chanced upon conversations as I brought in cups of coffee to the boss and those with whom he had meetings.  These conversations were usually legal advice about whether to plead guilty because the cops had a shitload of evidence and by pleading guilty you will get a less harsh penalty, or conversations about tactical legal manoeuvres.  Not bad convos.  I didn't butt in.  The only time I ever gave my unsolicited advice was when we had a sexual assault trial pending, and I privately suggested to the boss that when the jury empanelling was underway, as many female potential female jurors should be challenged as practicable, because there was no way a normal female could look at our client and not shudder.  The boss agreed.

So, where's this going, you're undoubtedly thinking.  Let me just say if I was the assistant to a music producer, and was bringing in the coffee and heard them saying, 'Hey, here's an idea!  For our next offering, let's get a really great classic song that nobody under twenty-five has probably heard of, and totally fuck it over like we're the toothless hillbillies in 'Deliverance'.  Why, with a bit of digital upping of the tempo and maybe masking the vocals to make it sound tuneful, everyone will think it's brilliant, and we'll have a hit on our hands!  I smell a cruise around the Bahamas with the moolah we'll make!', and saw much high-fiving and agreeing ensuring, do you know what I'd do?  I'd slam the coffee tray on the boardroom table, paying no heed to the spilling coffee and clattering cups and saucers.  I'd then grab the imbecile by the lapels, haul him/her to his/her feet, shake him/her until his/her veneered teeth (they can afford veneers from having fucked up other good songs) rattled, and his/her jewellery and bling had fallen off, and then shout, 'WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING, YOU INCONSIDERATE AND STUPID MORON? HAVE YOU LEARNED NOTHING FROM UB40'S CATALOGUE?'

Now, if you're reading this, your probably on the edge of your chair and wondering what's brought this bilious rant on.  Today, I went to the gym.  I work out at my local PCYC, which is about a block from my home.  There is usually music being piped; our local FM radio station.  I like music.  I believe my taste in music is passable (but do like some naff 'uns).  I sat at a machine, working my pectoral muscles and heard, well, something.  But it had a familiarity to it.  I was puzzled at the familiarity, because it's not my habit to listen to total shit if I can help it.  I heard lyrics like 'colours to my dreams'.  I know those words from somewhere, I thought to myself.  And then I heard the line about the 'answer that makes my questions disappear'.  I then realised someone had had the unholy temerity to do a re-imagining of 'Sugarman' by Rodriguez. Have you ever envisaged or heard of such audacious and unmitigated gall?  Now, 'Sugarman' is a bloody brilliant song.  I suspect it's about a guy waiting for his next hit of drug of choice, and Rodriguez delivers it with an evocative poignancy and ennui that not only reaches me, but takes over every fibre of my being.  I can smell bong juice when I hear it, but maybe because I had a flatmate who was a chronic stoner and would suck on a bong fashioned from a shampoo bottle, and play Rodriguez.  What I heard at the gym today totally felched a diarrhoetic camel. My research tells me it's from someone known as Yolanda B Cool (how about Yolanda Leave This Fucking Song Alone?).

With the upbeat sing-song tempo, and I suspect use of auto tune, there was absolutely no soul in the delivery, and the so-called song totally missed the point.  You know what?  It made UB40's loathsome interpretations listenable.  That's how bad it was for me.  The only way it could have been worse was for Yoko Ono to be have been performing it. 

Once the shock wore away, I got up from the machine that works the pecs, and removed my towel from where I'd been sitting, and rubbed it around my neck and shoulders to mop up any blood that might have seeped from my poor, tortured ears. 

I'm not a big one for petitions on Change.org, but I would be willing to endorse one beseeching these music industry types (I'm not going to call them 'creative types'; I write fiction, but that's stretching it beyond the laws of physics) to just not take marvellous classic songs and give them the 'squeal like a pig, boy' treatment.