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.