Okay, gotta get back to my work in progress. I'm plodding through it like I'm wading through a river of molasses. I'm working on a scene wherein my protagonist, a 17yo girl, is having a drunken fumble in the back of a Kombi van with a 21yo guy. Although set in 1982, it's not autobiographical. Describing the mechanics, ie, a blouse being unbuttoned, and a bra being pushed up over the breasts, doesn't bother me. It's the emotions that are causing me a touch of writer's block. Don't get me wrong, I know perfectly well what she's thinking, but I have to show (hopefully the multitudinous) readership how she's feeling and what she's thinking. I want to somehow capture the quagmire that is nerves, lust, worry, and self-consciousness without sounding like I'm writing the point of view of Ana Steele (who as I've previously mentioned, probably has diluted menstrual blood because she's so damned wimpy and annoying). That would be seriously awful, and I think I'd put the cover on my keyboard forevermore after, should that happen. I think I achieved what I set out to. I'm about to work on the next part, in between getting up to tend my washing machine. It keeps getting unbalanced. It's on the spin cycle and I have a roughly laid concrete laundry floor, and the machine doesn't like it very much. Once my books have hit the top of the bestseller list, I am going to have my laundry floor leveled and tiled.
It's almost Easter. No eggs have yet been purchased by me. Oh dear. I've been too busy worrying about this work in progress, and worrying about my 10yo who's been complaining about school, in his own funny way. I am still waiting for his new dosage of controlled release medication to take hold of him, because his concentration is quite good when he's on it. Tempers fray easily when one is getting him ready for school, and trying to explain the teacher is not Darth Vader's mother, as he asserts. Might have to get out the Phantom Menace, so he can see who Vader's mother is, in the World According To George Lucas. I haven't actually seen the more recent trilogy, because if it doesn't have the hot Luke Skywalker, then I'm not interested. This morning, whilst trying to explain the significance of Holy Week, I explained Thursday evening will mark Jesus's arrest in Gethsamane. My son asked, 'How many coppers? Was there a SWAT team?' Well, that had me in stitches, but I worry how he will cope when he does his Sacraments (not sure when that will be). I'm still trying to get my head around the image of a bunch of cops in Kevlar gear storming Gethsamane, and Our Lord flat on the ground, with a boot against his head as his hands are cuffed behind his back. This seriously is a bizarre thought. It goes against everything I've ever seen, although for quite a few years now, the channels have not screened 'King of Kings' on Good Friday. I used to watch it just about every year. I remember one nun going shithouse at us because a few of us had not attended the Veneration of the Cross Mass on Good Friday. She demanded to know what people had done instead. It's tempting to say, 'Oh, had LIVES!', but one kid just replied, 'Watching television.' Oh, she was offended to the core about this. It didn't occur to her he was probably watching one of the annual screenings of 'King of Kings', and surely this counts as being reverent. Well, I always thought it did.
Something that does interested me, and I haven't bothered discussing it with my kids yet, is apparently the correct judicial procedure was not adhered to when Jesus was arrested. As a former law clerk, this actually intrigues me. This means a good lawyer would have secured an acquittal for Jesus. Oh hell, even a crap lawyer would have got him acquitted o those grounds. The flipside to this is, of course, no Easter holiday.
Better get writing now, I suppose.
Tuesday, 31 March 2015
Friday, 27 March 2015
'Oh, Pretty Woman, Responsible For My Crap Life.....'
I've read some lame-arse shit in my time. We all know what I thought of 'FSOG'. We all know I have an almost insurmountable urge to stomp on baby kittens with their eyes only just freshly open when I read a petition from Change, and the whiny reason behind the petitions. Now, the cherry on top of the chocolate sauce on top of the whipped cream on top of the ice cream on top of the bananas of the banana split: some piece of shit blaming the movie 'Pretty Woman' for glorifying and glamorising prostitution. The author stated young girls might watch it, and take up hooking for a profession; hooking being a profession that abounds with the danger of possible beatings etc. Hey, I get that street walking can be risky. But what about women who CHOOSE to work in a controlled environment, like a council-approved legal brothel.
I saw 'Pretty Woman' when I was 24. I didn't sit there thinking, 'Hot damn, I no longer wish to be a law clerk; I want to walk the streets as a hooker.' I sat there thinking, 'I wish someone would give me his credit card with which to go shopping, and my goodness I'd like to fuck Richard Gere!'
The author of the aforementioned article went on to say that at the 25 year anniversary of the 'iconic movie' (and I'm calling bullshit on that: it's a chick flick that drew on 'My Fair Lady', which in turn drew on the classic play 'Pygmalion'), the cast should issue an apology to the women who viewed the film and made a poor choice based on what they saw on the screen. Now, I sat there wondering had my life been taken over with Lewis Carroll as the script writer. I am not so arrogant as to speak on behalf of the cast, but if I were a member of the cast, I think I would stick up my middle finger and sneer a big, resounding, 'FUCK YOU!' Why should they take on the responsibility for someone else's decision? In my first novel, my protagonist rushes past an elderly lady on the escalator, and the lady falls to her death. If you decide you're in such a hurry you shove past a senior citizen on the escalator, and that person falls down and dies, then don't bloody blame me, okay? Do not expect an apology; it is not forthcoming.
My second novel has a loquacious beagle as its titular character. If your dog doesn't discuss news and current events with you, again, that's not my problem. For the record, my dogs don't discuss what's been happening, or what's going on in the arts with me, either; they come over and bark at 5.00pm because they know it's dinner time. I will not be held accountable because your dog doesn't talk.
If you've never met a Marc Bolan impersonator after visiting a 'rub-n-tug' parlour, as in my third book, and you're pissed off it's never happened to you and are holding me personally responsible, then go eat a dick. It's fiction.
My favourite movie is probably the 1970 'M*A*S*H', with Donald Sutherland as Hawkeye Pierce. I love that movie. I've seen it numerous times. I have never felt inspired to become a mobile hospital army surgeon during the Korean War. That the Korean War ended some fifteen years prior to my birth has rendered that ambition kind of moot.
I also love 'Pulp Fiction'. Never once have I felt the desire to shoot up heroin and then shoot up people. I'm kind of boring and sensible that way.
It seems everybody is on their high horse for no good reason, and completely missing the point as they look for someone or something to blame for poor choices, or choices that didn't pan out as would have been preferred. Stop doing it. Did the cast of any movie put a gun to any heads and say, 'Be a hooker!'. I have my doubts.
I'm just thinking about the guys who drove kerbside to pick up a hooker, and were crestfallen to discover they didn't look like Julia Roberts, but perhaps a little more rough owing to constant exposure to the elements. Do they expect an apology?
People who entered nursing after watching 'Benny Hill', hoping they'd look super-hot and have some tiny little man with a bald head and apparently no teeth running after them, do they think of suing the producers as they face the grim reality of bed pans? I'm seriously hoping not.
Peeps, you might find something you see in the media or the arts inspiring, but at the end of the day, you own the choices you make, okay?
I saw 'Pretty Woman' when I was 24. I didn't sit there thinking, 'Hot damn, I no longer wish to be a law clerk; I want to walk the streets as a hooker.' I sat there thinking, 'I wish someone would give me his credit card with which to go shopping, and my goodness I'd like to fuck Richard Gere!'
The author of the aforementioned article went on to say that at the 25 year anniversary of the 'iconic movie' (and I'm calling bullshit on that: it's a chick flick that drew on 'My Fair Lady', which in turn drew on the classic play 'Pygmalion'), the cast should issue an apology to the women who viewed the film and made a poor choice based on what they saw on the screen. Now, I sat there wondering had my life been taken over with Lewis Carroll as the script writer. I am not so arrogant as to speak on behalf of the cast, but if I were a member of the cast, I think I would stick up my middle finger and sneer a big, resounding, 'FUCK YOU!' Why should they take on the responsibility for someone else's decision? In my first novel, my protagonist rushes past an elderly lady on the escalator, and the lady falls to her death. If you decide you're in such a hurry you shove past a senior citizen on the escalator, and that person falls down and dies, then don't bloody blame me, okay? Do not expect an apology; it is not forthcoming.
My second novel has a loquacious beagle as its titular character. If your dog doesn't discuss news and current events with you, again, that's not my problem. For the record, my dogs don't discuss what's been happening, or what's going on in the arts with me, either; they come over and bark at 5.00pm because they know it's dinner time. I will not be held accountable because your dog doesn't talk.
If you've never met a Marc Bolan impersonator after visiting a 'rub-n-tug' parlour, as in my third book, and you're pissed off it's never happened to you and are holding me personally responsible, then go eat a dick. It's fiction.
My favourite movie is probably the 1970 'M*A*S*H', with Donald Sutherland as Hawkeye Pierce. I love that movie. I've seen it numerous times. I have never felt inspired to become a mobile hospital army surgeon during the Korean War. That the Korean War ended some fifteen years prior to my birth has rendered that ambition kind of moot.
I also love 'Pulp Fiction'. Never once have I felt the desire to shoot up heroin and then shoot up people. I'm kind of boring and sensible that way.
It seems everybody is on their high horse for no good reason, and completely missing the point as they look for someone or something to blame for poor choices, or choices that didn't pan out as would have been preferred. Stop doing it. Did the cast of any movie put a gun to any heads and say, 'Be a hooker!'. I have my doubts.
I'm just thinking about the guys who drove kerbside to pick up a hooker, and were crestfallen to discover they didn't look like Julia Roberts, but perhaps a little more rough owing to constant exposure to the elements. Do they expect an apology?
People who entered nursing after watching 'Benny Hill', hoping they'd look super-hot and have some tiny little man with a bald head and apparently no teeth running after them, do they think of suing the producers as they face the grim reality of bed pans? I'm seriously hoping not.
Peeps, you might find something you see in the media or the arts inspiring, but at the end of the day, you own the choices you make, okay?
Thursday, 26 March 2015
She's Lost Control(led Release)
The needle on my Give-A-Shit-O-Meter did not twitch in the slightest upon hearing the news today that Zayn Malik has left One Direction. I'm seriously all out of fucks to give. The cynical old crab in me is thinking 'one less annoying little twerp to look at'. This is how I know I'm getting old. To be honest , I respect and understand his decision. He's a twenty-two year old man who for the past few years has been under an immense heated spotlight. I actually remember the Bay City Rollers touring and their young guitarist (the one who replaced Woody) stressing out because he couldn't leave the hotel room lest he be mobbed, stripped, dismembered, and disembowelled by howling girls. Now can all the tweenies and teenage girls getting the budding ovaries twisted in anguish over this just listen to this bit of advice from Auntie Bingells: Dearhearts, get the fuck over it. You will get through this. I got through Brian Connolly leaving The Sweet without acting like a complete pork chop, so just follow my lead. And another thing, stop abusing the poor guy's fiancée on Twitter and other forms of social media. She is not Yoko Ono. In order to be Yoko Ono, she'd have to produce some questionably naff pieces of art, and record alleged music that has the power to fell a smart bomb from the sky.
Today is Epilepsy Awareness Day. As mentioned in previous postings, my younger son is epileptic. He's been having some problems lately. He feels a bit overwhelmed with his school work, so today Mr Bingells and I met with his wonderful teacher to discuss strategies that could help him. She has noticed he has been a bit dreamy lately. Now, there was a stuff-up with his medication recently. He has been on a controlled release form of anti-seizure medication for a while, and it works like a charm. The medication was running out, and he had not repeat. He was not due to see his paediatrician, so I attended the local surgery and asked a GP to write him a script, and stressed what he is taking. I attended the pharmacy and had the script filled. I got home and discovered what I had been sold for my son, whilst the same brand of medication, did not appear to be the controlled release version. He had some of it, and whilst he has experienced no seizures, he has not been concentrating as well on his work. Anyway, there was a stuff up with dates and we missed a paediatric appointment, but the paediatrician posted us a prescription with the letters 'C.R' clearly marked, so I strode in like a gunslinger and handed it over, my fingernail practically tearing a whole in the paper and my teeth clenched as I deliberately said, 'Controlled. Release.' He's resumed the controlled release type medication, so here's hoping he's back on track soon. I should have gone with my gut before and told them to check things, but I trusted the medication I was given was appropriate. Maybe it was. But he did well on controlled release before, and that's what we're happy to have him on again.
Now, there are some things people need not mess with. If things are not broken, why do they have to be fixed. As mentioned, Mr Bingells and I met with our son's teacher and discussed concerns we have about his learning. We spoke about the mix-up with his meds recently, and the tweaking could have affected him thus. I told his teacher I try to help Master Ten with his maths, although that is normally Mr Bingells' territory as I'm pretty crap at Maths. I talked about subtraction, and asked do they no longer teach 1 up, 1 down' (when you pretend to add '10' to the figure above by putting a '1' in front, and then carry '1' down when you move across the equation). No. They are not allowed to do this. Why not? Is it too sensible? Even a mathematical dunderhead like me can grasp it. The teacher went to the blackboard and showed me the formula that is used to teach subtraction now. I cannot describe or explain it here. I will never be able to in a million years. I blinked, tried not to weep, and spluttered in abject disbelief, 'You'd have to be bloody Stephen Hawking to understand that!' I suspect the teacher agreed with me. Apparently with this new formula they try and explain the basis and theory behind the maths, and it's a tad hard to explain with '1 up, 1 down'. I asked, 'Why does it need explaining? It works.'
I mean, shit blog-browers, when I get into my car, I just care that I put the key in the slot, turn it clock-wise, and the car will go 'brmmmm'. I can then put it in gear, let out the clutch, and drive away. (Actually, my vehicle is automatic, but I've always liked driving manuals). I don't frigging care that the key goes in and the tumblers in the ignition will be pushed into a precise pattern to enable the key to be rotated close to the circuit that delivers power to the starter motor that turns the engine's spark plugs and whatnots to ensure the engine operates. I don't need to know all that. I just want to know that I turn it to the right, and the car will start (hopefully).
What's wrong with the good old fashioned '1 up, 1 down' to teach subtraction? What's wrong with having kids recite multiplication until they're blue in the face? I'm told that's not a standard practice now because it's 'punishing' for the kids. Of course it's fucking punishing; they're reciting tables! Sheesh. Is it a joy, a walk in the park, a picnic to parrot times tables over and over? No. But it sinks in. You learn it.
I'm really despairing with this new system of subtraction, and I might have to get a tutor to help him. As Mr Bingells and I left the school grounds today, I said, 'This new system just sucks camels' balls!' Whose idea was it to change the methods and curriculum around thus? He or she should be barred from having anything to do with education from here on in.
Today is Epilepsy Awareness Day. As mentioned in previous postings, my younger son is epileptic. He's been having some problems lately. He feels a bit overwhelmed with his school work, so today Mr Bingells and I met with his wonderful teacher to discuss strategies that could help him. She has noticed he has been a bit dreamy lately. Now, there was a stuff-up with his medication recently. He has been on a controlled release form of anti-seizure medication for a while, and it works like a charm. The medication was running out, and he had not repeat. He was not due to see his paediatrician, so I attended the local surgery and asked a GP to write him a script, and stressed what he is taking. I attended the pharmacy and had the script filled. I got home and discovered what I had been sold for my son, whilst the same brand of medication, did not appear to be the controlled release version. He had some of it, and whilst he has experienced no seizures, he has not been concentrating as well on his work. Anyway, there was a stuff up with dates and we missed a paediatric appointment, but the paediatrician posted us a prescription with the letters 'C.R' clearly marked, so I strode in like a gunslinger and handed it over, my fingernail practically tearing a whole in the paper and my teeth clenched as I deliberately said, 'Controlled. Release.' He's resumed the controlled release type medication, so here's hoping he's back on track soon. I should have gone with my gut before and told them to check things, but I trusted the medication I was given was appropriate. Maybe it was. But he did well on controlled release before, and that's what we're happy to have him on again.
Now, there are some things people need not mess with. If things are not broken, why do they have to be fixed. As mentioned, Mr Bingells and I met with our son's teacher and discussed concerns we have about his learning. We spoke about the mix-up with his meds recently, and the tweaking could have affected him thus. I told his teacher I try to help Master Ten with his maths, although that is normally Mr Bingells' territory as I'm pretty crap at Maths. I talked about subtraction, and asked do they no longer teach 1 up, 1 down' (when you pretend to add '10' to the figure above by putting a '1' in front, and then carry '1' down when you move across the equation). No. They are not allowed to do this. Why not? Is it too sensible? Even a mathematical dunderhead like me can grasp it. The teacher went to the blackboard and showed me the formula that is used to teach subtraction now. I cannot describe or explain it here. I will never be able to in a million years. I blinked, tried not to weep, and spluttered in abject disbelief, 'You'd have to be bloody Stephen Hawking to understand that!' I suspect the teacher agreed with me. Apparently with this new formula they try and explain the basis and theory behind the maths, and it's a tad hard to explain with '1 up, 1 down'. I asked, 'Why does it need explaining? It works.'
I mean, shit blog-browers, when I get into my car, I just care that I put the key in the slot, turn it clock-wise, and the car will go 'brmmmm'. I can then put it in gear, let out the clutch, and drive away. (Actually, my vehicle is automatic, but I've always liked driving manuals). I don't frigging care that the key goes in and the tumblers in the ignition will be pushed into a precise pattern to enable the key to be rotated close to the circuit that delivers power to the starter motor that turns the engine's spark plugs and whatnots to ensure the engine operates. I don't need to know all that. I just want to know that I turn it to the right, and the car will start (hopefully).
What's wrong with the good old fashioned '1 up, 1 down' to teach subtraction? What's wrong with having kids recite multiplication until they're blue in the face? I'm told that's not a standard practice now because it's 'punishing' for the kids. Of course it's fucking punishing; they're reciting tables! Sheesh. Is it a joy, a walk in the park, a picnic to parrot times tables over and over? No. But it sinks in. You learn it.
I'm really despairing with this new system of subtraction, and I might have to get a tutor to help him. As Mr Bingells and I left the school grounds today, I said, 'This new system just sucks camels' balls!' Whose idea was it to change the methods and curriculum around thus? He or she should be barred from having anything to do with education from here on in.
Sunday, 22 March 2015
It's Show Time
As a kid, I loved going to the show, and I particularly loved the scary rides. Except when I was about five and my older sister took me on the dodgem cars, and I was terrified out of my wits. Funnily enough, when I was twelve and my sister nineteen, she took to me to Luna Park and I insisted on the Big Dipper; I had a ball and it was my sister terrified this time, if her screams were any indication.
Now that I'm older, I'm not entirely sure about the scary rides. My town had the annual show on the weekend, and we attended en famille, and did the en famille things such as the Laughing Clowns, and the temporary tattoos (my left upper arm is sporting the Rolling Stones lips and tongue logo!). There was a particularly frightful looking ride called Speed. It has a long arm with spinning chairs and it swings about fifty metres into the air, and the chairs spin. My thirteen year old went on with his father. My son enjoyed it, but at the end his father looked like he needed smelling salts and a good slug of brandy. I didn't wish to go on this ride, but the freak out looked fun; it's like the Speed, but just on a smaller scale. The seats are hard to get into, and designed like a saddle so there is a raised section between your thighs. Somehow I got in, and the attendant fixed the safety bar across the laps of me, and my thirteen year old. As I endured the ride, I hung on for dear life and wished it to be over. I am no longer a devil-may-care twelve year old. I am a middle aged fraidy-cat. I am also a gauche and clumsy fraidy-cat. When the torture was over, and the bars moved from our laps, my son was able to hoist himself from the saddle-like seat with the grace of a seasoned gymnast. I sat there wondering how in the blue fuck I was going to extricate myself from the seat. There wasn't room to swing my legs over the raised section. If I tried to hoist my freight over the raised section, I would run the risk of shall we say a very nasty surprise (before landing in a pained heap on the floor like a charley-horsed Wile E Coyote). There was nothing to put my feet on for purchase to enable me to lever myself out of the chair. I sat there looking like a helpless Disney character, all big eyes and an anguished expression, and said to my son, 'Oh, crap! Mum's stuck!' Presently, a young attendant saw my shocking plight, and came over and bodily lifted me out. Now here is the dilemma. Should I consider this to be incredibly embarrassing, particularly when my son face-palmed at the sight of his mother being lifted from the dangling chair, or should I actually savour the fact that this is probably the only time I will ever be picked up and swept of my feet by a twenty-something ever again?
Now that I'm older, I'm not entirely sure about the scary rides. My town had the annual show on the weekend, and we attended en famille, and did the en famille things such as the Laughing Clowns, and the temporary tattoos (my left upper arm is sporting the Rolling Stones lips and tongue logo!). There was a particularly frightful looking ride called Speed. It has a long arm with spinning chairs and it swings about fifty metres into the air, and the chairs spin. My thirteen year old went on with his father. My son enjoyed it, but at the end his father looked like he needed smelling salts and a good slug of brandy. I didn't wish to go on this ride, but the freak out looked fun; it's like the Speed, but just on a smaller scale. The seats are hard to get into, and designed like a saddle so there is a raised section between your thighs. Somehow I got in, and the attendant fixed the safety bar across the laps of me, and my thirteen year old. As I endured the ride, I hung on for dear life and wished it to be over. I am no longer a devil-may-care twelve year old. I am a middle aged fraidy-cat. I am also a gauche and clumsy fraidy-cat. When the torture was over, and the bars moved from our laps, my son was able to hoist himself from the saddle-like seat with the grace of a seasoned gymnast. I sat there wondering how in the blue fuck I was going to extricate myself from the seat. There wasn't room to swing my legs over the raised section. If I tried to hoist my freight over the raised section, I would run the risk of shall we say a very nasty surprise (before landing in a pained heap on the floor like a charley-horsed Wile E Coyote). There was nothing to put my feet on for purchase to enable me to lever myself out of the chair. I sat there looking like a helpless Disney character, all big eyes and an anguished expression, and said to my son, 'Oh, crap! Mum's stuck!' Presently, a young attendant saw my shocking plight, and came over and bodily lifted me out. Now here is the dilemma. Should I consider this to be incredibly embarrassing, particularly when my son face-palmed at the sight of his mother being lifted from the dangling chair, or should I actually savour the fact that this is probably the only time I will ever be picked up and swept of my feet by a twenty-something ever again?
Thursday, 19 March 2015
My Malcolm Memories
If you're dropping by to say hello, maybe you've not heard the news. This is the news: former PM Malcolm Fraser has died. I'm old enough to remember the time when he was known as 'Kerr's Cur', but I did respect his humanitarian stance in the last few years of his life.
My association of Fraser is with my school days. I was in Year 4 That Day. You know what I mean by That Day. I've incorporated That Day into my current work in progress. Not because I'm a political junkie, but because it's a memory I have, and most Australians can identify with it. Most people know how and when and where they heard the news. For my part, I was a rather nerdy little kid, tall and skinny for my age, my hair styled in two long braids that hung over the front of my school uniform. Our school teacher was a young guy in his first year of teaching, and probably the first male teacher in the school. Anyway, this crazy, bad-tempered old skank of a nun
appeared in the doorway. Her eyes were glowing like the embers in a blacksmith's workshop with the gleeful malevolence of what she was about to say. She was so excited, so happy.
'They've sacked Whitlam!' she cried, with the unholy joy she usually reserved for humiliating and upsetting the children.
I remember the cheers around me. I remember mainly thinking what a nasty, spiteful old crone this nun was to be taking such obvious nasty delight in someone's downfall. I wonder if there is a chance Sister will read this. She probably was only in her thirties back then, although to me she seemed like an ancient cackling old witch. It's highly likely she's still alive, and hopefully she's not dribbling into her pureed meals, and has Internet access, so if you are keeping track on former students please be informed I really couldn't stand you. You were a horror. I will grant you one thing: you supervised our class one day and we had to put our spelling words into sentences, and you read mine, and said aloud, 'I wish the rest of the class would writing as interesting sentences as Simone does.' I appreciated that. But for the rest of the time, I thought you were a rosary-bead-rattling psychopath.
My husband is the same age as I, and attended a different school out west in NSW, and he remembers being terrified of his teacher that day. The class of 9 year olds were subjected to their teacher thumping the desk with his fists and shouting, 'How could they do this? How could they be so fucking stupid?' They all shrank back, trying to blend and meld into their chairs, wondering had Sir finally lost it.
My other main memory of Fraser was when I was fifteen. My class, along with some of the younger Year 9s, had a week long excursion around Canberra, Griffith and Adaminaby. Geez-Louise, there were some shenanigans on that trip. For a laugh, when we got home, I typed up a story about what we all got up to. It took three sheets of paper, and went around the classroom in instalments. Kids cracked up laughing as they remembered what had happened, and some of them actually said, 'Don't let Mr [INSERT NAME OF PRINCIPAL HERE] see this!' So potentially inflammatory was the report, when I had an argument with some kid in the class, she tried to strong arm me by threatening to take my story to the principal. I told her if she ferreted through my school bag to avail herself of the story, she would regret it sorely. Perhaps I will reserve some of those escapades for another posting, but what I remember in relation to Malcolm Fraser, was our first night in Canberra, driving around in the bus. It pulled up outside Parliament House. I was sitting up the back, as was my deigned right being in Year Ten. So of course were the other Year Tens. Year Nines had to sit down the front, no questions asked. Well, there we were, outside Parliament House. It was night time, as I said. There were guards out the front. One of the wags in my class wound down the window and called out, 'Tammy's got one; Malcolm IS one!' And we all laughed like lobotomised trolls, and the guard probably stood there thinking how hysterically funny adolescent school kids are - NOT!
My association of Fraser is with my school days. I was in Year 4 That Day. You know what I mean by That Day. I've incorporated That Day into my current work in progress. Not because I'm a political junkie, but because it's a memory I have, and most Australians can identify with it. Most people know how and when and where they heard the news. For my part, I was a rather nerdy little kid, tall and skinny for my age, my hair styled in two long braids that hung over the front of my school uniform. Our school teacher was a young guy in his first year of teaching, and probably the first male teacher in the school. Anyway, this crazy, bad-tempered old skank of a nun
appeared in the doorway. Her eyes were glowing like the embers in a blacksmith's workshop with the gleeful malevolence of what she was about to say. She was so excited, so happy.
'They've sacked Whitlam!' she cried, with the unholy joy she usually reserved for humiliating and upsetting the children.
I remember the cheers around me. I remember mainly thinking what a nasty, spiteful old crone this nun was to be taking such obvious nasty delight in someone's downfall. I wonder if there is a chance Sister will read this. She probably was only in her thirties back then, although to me she seemed like an ancient cackling old witch. It's highly likely she's still alive, and hopefully she's not dribbling into her pureed meals, and has Internet access, so if you are keeping track on former students please be informed I really couldn't stand you. You were a horror. I will grant you one thing: you supervised our class one day and we had to put our spelling words into sentences, and you read mine, and said aloud, 'I wish the rest of the class would writing as interesting sentences as Simone does.' I appreciated that. But for the rest of the time, I thought you were a rosary-bead-rattling psychopath.
My husband is the same age as I, and attended a different school out west in NSW, and he remembers being terrified of his teacher that day. The class of 9 year olds were subjected to their teacher thumping the desk with his fists and shouting, 'How could they do this? How could they be so fucking stupid?' They all shrank back, trying to blend and meld into their chairs, wondering had Sir finally lost it.
My other main memory of Fraser was when I was fifteen. My class, along with some of the younger Year 9s, had a week long excursion around Canberra, Griffith and Adaminaby. Geez-Louise, there were some shenanigans on that trip. For a laugh, when we got home, I typed up a story about what we all got up to. It took three sheets of paper, and went around the classroom in instalments. Kids cracked up laughing as they remembered what had happened, and some of them actually said, 'Don't let Mr [INSERT NAME OF PRINCIPAL HERE] see this!' So potentially inflammatory was the report, when I had an argument with some kid in the class, she tried to strong arm me by threatening to take my story to the principal. I told her if she ferreted through my school bag to avail herself of the story, she would regret it sorely. Perhaps I will reserve some of those escapades for another posting, but what I remember in relation to Malcolm Fraser, was our first night in Canberra, driving around in the bus. It pulled up outside Parliament House. I was sitting up the back, as was my deigned right being in Year Ten. So of course were the other Year Tens. Year Nines had to sit down the front, no questions asked. Well, there we were, outside Parliament House. It was night time, as I said. There were guards out the front. One of the wags in my class wound down the window and called out, 'Tammy's got one; Malcolm IS one!' And we all laughed like lobotomised trolls, and the guard probably stood there thinking how hysterically funny adolescent school kids are - NOT!
Monday, 16 March 2015
Celestial Comet Like Mullets On St Pat's Day
It's St Patrick's Day, a day of mixed memories for me. Mainly happy ones, except for 1981 when my brother's funeral was held, but I won't go into that right now because I don't wish to be maudlin. Like many Aussies, I can claim some Irish heritage. I have memories of singing 'Hail Glorious St Patrick' when I was a little tacker at the local convent school, and picnicking by the local river. Naturally, a slime fight would ensure, and kudos abounded for any kid who managed to hit a nun with slime. There would have been a kick in the arse for that little turd who send a dank, slimy green missile right into my face, could I have caught him once I'd scraped the slime away.
As I got older, I became aware of the other St Patrick's Day tradition: going to the pub. One fine St Pat's Day, half a life time ago (and it would seem half my current body weight ago), I arranged to meet two of my multitudinous cousins at The Rocks, Sydney. They were going to stay at my flat that night for a fancy dress party, but being St Pat's Day, we were going to have a traditional drink at that haven to all Irish Australians, Irish tourists, wannabe Irish, and hangers-on for the booze: The Mercantile Hotel, down in The Rocks. Well, we got there, and there were revellers spilling out the windows and doorways, and blocking the footpath. There were Irish ditties being sung, and the only thing missing was 'faiths' and 'begorrahs'. The only way to have reached the bar would have been to have pitched a tent the night before, so we decided the best way to celebrate would be to make our way to The Orient, a little further up the road toward the CBD.
Cousin A went to the bar, and Cousin M and I waited in the beer garden, and our attention was caught by a drunken reveller staggering and lurching around. He was about our age (then mid-twenties), but we noticed was his haircut. It was beyond The Mullet. This Mullet had a life of it's own. This Mullet would have had Billy Ray Cyrus bowing. The hair was cut very close to the skull all over, but from the base of his skull streamed this tail of straggly hair. Now that I think of it, his head resembled a celestial comet. And being women of discerning taste, Cousin M and I giggled about his awful haircut, stopping once we realised he was approaching us. He stuck out his hand.
'Happy fucken St Pat's Day,' he drooled, as he shook out hands. He turned to me, and said, 'I used to know a girl who looked like you, but she didn't have your beautiful ginger hair. You have beautiful hair.' He actually stroked my hair, and I was trying not to bray laughter because Cousin M and I had been paying out on his mullet moments beforehand. Then he stroked the comet's tail at the back of his skull and said, 'I might do something with my hair.'
'Okay,' I politely intoned.
He gestured down the road, and said, 'I got really pissed and spewed me arse up down at the Mercantile, hey.'
Cousin M and I received this information in silence. Then came the piece de resistance: he pulled out his top set of dentures, and said, 'I've got no teef'.
I was stupefied, but Cousin M found her voice, and politely asked, 'Is this one of your party tricks.'
'No, just got no teef.'
He then announced he had to catch the train (nominating a suburb awash with those monstrous mullet 'dos), and stumbled away. I had to cling on to a pillar to keep my balance, because I was laughing so hard. This is a very funny St Patrick's Day memory of mine.
Now before I go, the sooky la-las are AGAIN swarming. They make me think of ants scurrying over a nest when rain is imminent. They make me think of George A Romero's zombies running and drooling, as they chant, 'I want to eat your braaaaiiiiiiins!', only these cretins are chanting, 'I want to make everyone do what I want because I'm a fucken soooooooook!' They make me think of the multitude of Indians on horseback from footage of western movies, when the Native Americans are coming over the hill on horseback. And most of all, they make me think I'd like to sit them all down and feed them a cup of cement so they can all harden the fuck UP. The latest gripe is about a band name. The band are called Black Pussy. Look, I don't know if it refers to African American women, or a cat with dark fur. I don't know what their music is like. I might have a listen to it shortly. If I like it, I might put some on my iPod. If I don't, I won't give a shit and just get ready for a meeting I have tonight. But the band have refused to change their name because some people take umbrage with it, and to this I say: good for you. Maybe the name is offensive. Maybe it's not. But music has been known to have questionable band names: 10cc, Lovin' Spoonful, and Steely Dan come to mind. I read an article that stated a band have refused to change their name after offending "everybody". Well, given I'm a carbon based life form with free will and opposable thumbs, I'm quite sure I too come under the umbrella of 'everybody', but guess what? I'm not offended. Don't group me into this set. If any of my friends are reading this, and wish to circulate the current (sigh) online petition, please remove my name from the mailing list. I don't wish to see it. Hearing about it just about did my head in.
As I got older, I became aware of the other St Patrick's Day tradition: going to the pub. One fine St Pat's Day, half a life time ago (and it would seem half my current body weight ago), I arranged to meet two of my multitudinous cousins at The Rocks, Sydney. They were going to stay at my flat that night for a fancy dress party, but being St Pat's Day, we were going to have a traditional drink at that haven to all Irish Australians, Irish tourists, wannabe Irish, and hangers-on for the booze: The Mercantile Hotel, down in The Rocks. Well, we got there, and there were revellers spilling out the windows and doorways, and blocking the footpath. There were Irish ditties being sung, and the only thing missing was 'faiths' and 'begorrahs'. The only way to have reached the bar would have been to have pitched a tent the night before, so we decided the best way to celebrate would be to make our way to The Orient, a little further up the road toward the CBD.
Cousin A went to the bar, and Cousin M and I waited in the beer garden, and our attention was caught by a drunken reveller staggering and lurching around. He was about our age (then mid-twenties), but we noticed was his haircut. It was beyond The Mullet. This Mullet had a life of it's own. This Mullet would have had Billy Ray Cyrus bowing. The hair was cut very close to the skull all over, but from the base of his skull streamed this tail of straggly hair. Now that I think of it, his head resembled a celestial comet. And being women of discerning taste, Cousin M and I giggled about his awful haircut, stopping once we realised he was approaching us. He stuck out his hand.
'Happy fucken St Pat's Day,' he drooled, as he shook out hands. He turned to me, and said, 'I used to know a girl who looked like you, but she didn't have your beautiful ginger hair. You have beautiful hair.' He actually stroked my hair, and I was trying not to bray laughter because Cousin M and I had been paying out on his mullet moments beforehand. Then he stroked the comet's tail at the back of his skull and said, 'I might do something with my hair.'
'Okay,' I politely intoned.
He gestured down the road, and said, 'I got really pissed and spewed me arse up down at the Mercantile, hey.'
Cousin M and I received this information in silence. Then came the piece de resistance: he pulled out his top set of dentures, and said, 'I've got no teef'.
I was stupefied, but Cousin M found her voice, and politely asked, 'Is this one of your party tricks.'
'No, just got no teef.'
He then announced he had to catch the train (nominating a suburb awash with those monstrous mullet 'dos), and stumbled away. I had to cling on to a pillar to keep my balance, because I was laughing so hard. This is a very funny St Patrick's Day memory of mine.
Now before I go, the sooky la-las are AGAIN swarming. They make me think of ants scurrying over a nest when rain is imminent. They make me think of George A Romero's zombies running and drooling, as they chant, 'I want to eat your braaaaiiiiiiins!', only these cretins are chanting, 'I want to make everyone do what I want because I'm a fucken soooooooook!' They make me think of the multitude of Indians on horseback from footage of western movies, when the Native Americans are coming over the hill on horseback. And most of all, they make me think I'd like to sit them all down and feed them a cup of cement so they can all harden the fuck UP. The latest gripe is about a band name. The band are called Black Pussy. Look, I don't know if it refers to African American women, or a cat with dark fur. I don't know what their music is like. I might have a listen to it shortly. If I like it, I might put some on my iPod. If I don't, I won't give a shit and just get ready for a meeting I have tonight. But the band have refused to change their name because some people take umbrage with it, and to this I say: good for you. Maybe the name is offensive. Maybe it's not. But music has been known to have questionable band names: 10cc, Lovin' Spoonful, and Steely Dan come to mind. I read an article that stated a band have refused to change their name after offending "everybody". Well, given I'm a carbon based life form with free will and opposable thumbs, I'm quite sure I too come under the umbrella of 'everybody', but guess what? I'm not offended. Don't group me into this set. If any of my friends are reading this, and wish to circulate the current (sigh) online petition, please remove my name from the mailing list. I don't wish to see it. Hearing about it just about did my head in.
Saturday, 14 March 2015
I Feel Like Royalty
Is there a Hell? There could be; it manifested itself in the form of a place I worked in years ago where my working life was a living hell. Vicious office bullies, vicious nasty administrator, ridiculous so-called workplace policies (who the fuck locks away telephones in the desk drawer at the end of the day?). But I like to think there is a special place in hell reserved for people who are cruel to animals. If I could get my hands on some of those people who are cruel to animals, I would happily give them a taste of what they are in for.
However, what I will not do is sign the online petition I have received calling for the magistrate to impose maximum penalty on some evil SOB who callously murdered some puppies. And do you know why? Well, there's this thing I have about online petitions, which I have touched upon previously. But also, there's this: the law and the courts are a separate beast altogether, and should not be influenced by populist politics. It is not the role of judges and magistrates to listen to the baying public. Their role is to review the evidence, and interpret and apply the law accordingly. We keep our courts separate from politics to keep the system as fair and honest as practicable, and to have outcomes swayed by the distaste of the populace could lead to accusations of corruption. Stop and think about it, folks.
Hey, as mentioned in the first paragraph, that bloke who killed the puppies is a foul fuckwad who could probably benefit from having his nuts forced into a shredder. That's my opinion. However, I would feel more comfortable knowing a magistrate was doing his actual job, and NOT listening to the public, particularly if I was to appear before one.
But on a more cheerful side, I got a royalty cheque in the mail the other day. Not a huge one by any means. But it is a cheque. 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth' has been reaching sales, and downloads, and hopefully people are liking it. I need people to purchase my book; my kid won't stop eating. He's almost fourteen. He's overtaken me in the height stakes, and is filling out like someone is pumping him full of air. If I didn't not think online petitions are designed to annoy the living snot out of people, I would start one for everybody to purchase a copy of this book in order to keep my kid fed.
So, don't worry. I will not be clogging up your newsfeeds with petitions. HOWEVER, if you like a bit of satire about the general stupidity of the populace (and let's face it, society does give me a plethora of material!), then go to this link and read the first chapter. If you're of a mind, go to the shopping trolley icon and buy it. It's available as paperback or e-book. I noted from my royalty statement there have been purchase in the US and UK. I am very excited about this. But here's the link: http://www.zeus-publications.com/silver_studs_and_sabre_teeth.htm
Also, this is my first ever book, another satire: http://www.zeus-publications.com/calumny_while_reading_irvine_welsh.htm
Now, for those of you who like young adult about talking beagles, there's this one: http://www.zeus-publications.com/abernethy.htm
However, what I will not do is sign the online petition I have received calling for the magistrate to impose maximum penalty on some evil SOB who callously murdered some puppies. And do you know why? Well, there's this thing I have about online petitions, which I have touched upon previously. But also, there's this: the law and the courts are a separate beast altogether, and should not be influenced by populist politics. It is not the role of judges and magistrates to listen to the baying public. Their role is to review the evidence, and interpret and apply the law accordingly. We keep our courts separate from politics to keep the system as fair and honest as practicable, and to have outcomes swayed by the distaste of the populace could lead to accusations of corruption. Stop and think about it, folks.
Hey, as mentioned in the first paragraph, that bloke who killed the puppies is a foul fuckwad who could probably benefit from having his nuts forced into a shredder. That's my opinion. However, I would feel more comfortable knowing a magistrate was doing his actual job, and NOT listening to the public, particularly if I was to appear before one.
But on a more cheerful side, I got a royalty cheque in the mail the other day. Not a huge one by any means. But it is a cheque. 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth' has been reaching sales, and downloads, and hopefully people are liking it. I need people to purchase my book; my kid won't stop eating. He's almost fourteen. He's overtaken me in the height stakes, and is filling out like someone is pumping him full of air. If I didn't not think online petitions are designed to annoy the living snot out of people, I would start one for everybody to purchase a copy of this book in order to keep my kid fed.
So, don't worry. I will not be clogging up your newsfeeds with petitions. HOWEVER, if you like a bit of satire about the general stupidity of the populace (and let's face it, society does give me a plethora of material!), then go to this link and read the first chapter. If you're of a mind, go to the shopping trolley icon and buy it. It's available as paperback or e-book. I noted from my royalty statement there have been purchase in the US and UK. I am very excited about this. But here's the link: http://www.zeus-publications.com/silver_studs_and_sabre_teeth.htm
Also, this is my first ever book, another satire: http://www.zeus-publications.com/calumny_while_reading_irvine_welsh.htm
Now, for those of you who like young adult about talking beagles, there's this one: http://www.zeus-publications.com/abernethy.htm
Wednesday, 11 March 2015
Fat Emojis, and Fat-Heads
I will admit to being a tad sensitive at times. Sometimes I can be touchy. But as I've gotten older I've started to realise maybe people aren't trying to insult me, and to not take things so personally. And it's working. Also, with things I find immensely annoying, I bitch and moan that they are immensely annoying, but I don't try and have them banned. Yes, I'm back on my soapbox again. It's come to my attention over my recent travails of cyberspace that Facebook have banned the emoji, or whatever it is, that depicts the feeling of being fat. Yes - FAT! Fat, people! Fatty-Boom-Sticks, Fatty-Boom-Bah, Fat-Fat-The-Water-Rat, FAT. It's FAT! Give over it, you people that don't like it. Never mind feeling fat in the waist, bum, or thighs; you're all a bunch of fat-HEADS!
This cute little emoji depicted a smiling face with a double chin. Posters would occasionally use it to let everyone know that they were feeling a bit bloated. Maybe a bit stuffed full of tucker. Maybe they had overdosed on the Norgen Vaas.
But the sooky la-las of the world have united AGAIN and after an outcry about perceived negative body image to which this little emoji is contributing, and it's been eliminated. Eradicated Erased. Vaporised. Whatever. Now, to all you people who complained about that chubster: what the total fuck is wrong with you? Seriously?
Hey, I get images in the media can make people feel bad about themselves. I get irritated at airbrushing and photoshopping and all this. But I know the end result photograph to which I am subjected is just artifice. The model is unlikely to be 'beautiful', and beautiful is subjective. Some cultures think sticking a Frisbee in your lip so you end up looking like Mick Jagger after bingeing on peanuts (assuming he was allergic to peanuts) is beautiful. Some cultures think dangling things in your earlobes until they sag and hang like the ears of a basset hound is beautiful. I'm in a culture that doesn't find those things aesthetically charming. But so what?
But if I wanted to post that little emoji because I'd stuffed myself silly on McDonalds, I absolve myself of any responsibility for any insecurity someone else has. You twerps posting pictures of signs saying 'Fat Is Not An Emotion', sometimes I DO feel fat. I feel fat when my period is imminent and I'm trying to button up my work trousers, and practically divide myself into a Figure 8. Sometimes I feel like I have to do up my belt with a boomerang when the old uterine lining is getting ready to leave my body. Sometimes I feel fat when I'm watching the Sports Illustrated Swimwear special on television (for all of two minutes because I change channels), and I'm usually watching it whilst eating chocolate biscuits, too. Goodness, I felt a bit fat when I found an old picture of myself and my now husband, taken a few months after we started dating It was back in the 90s, when I could actually get away with wearing a lycra dress (if you're reading this, my sweet, remember that blue dress? No, I will entertain no Bill Clinton jokes). But my feelings of fatness are of my own making, and my own problem. And I'm doing something about it. I've been going to the gym, and cut down on eating so much crap. I'm controlling my destiny, and blaming myself for any feelings that I might be able to double for the Michelin Man. I'm not going to complain about some silly little smiley face thing with a double chin. You see, I have this thing called a LIFE.
But if I feel fat, I'm going to say so, whether or not I have a little emoji to punctuate and amplify that sentence.
So all you sooks and whingers, stop uniting. Please.
This cute little emoji depicted a smiling face with a double chin. Posters would occasionally use it to let everyone know that they were feeling a bit bloated. Maybe a bit stuffed full of tucker. Maybe they had overdosed on the Norgen Vaas.
But the sooky la-las of the world have united AGAIN and after an outcry about perceived negative body image to which this little emoji is contributing, and it's been eliminated. Eradicated Erased. Vaporised. Whatever. Now, to all you people who complained about that chubster: what the total fuck is wrong with you? Seriously?
Hey, I get images in the media can make people feel bad about themselves. I get irritated at airbrushing and photoshopping and all this. But I know the end result photograph to which I am subjected is just artifice. The model is unlikely to be 'beautiful', and beautiful is subjective. Some cultures think sticking a Frisbee in your lip so you end up looking like Mick Jagger after bingeing on peanuts (assuming he was allergic to peanuts) is beautiful. Some cultures think dangling things in your earlobes until they sag and hang like the ears of a basset hound is beautiful. I'm in a culture that doesn't find those things aesthetically charming. But so what?
But if I wanted to post that little emoji because I'd stuffed myself silly on McDonalds, I absolve myself of any responsibility for any insecurity someone else has. You twerps posting pictures of signs saying 'Fat Is Not An Emotion', sometimes I DO feel fat. I feel fat when my period is imminent and I'm trying to button up my work trousers, and practically divide myself into a Figure 8. Sometimes I feel like I have to do up my belt with a boomerang when the old uterine lining is getting ready to leave my body. Sometimes I feel fat when I'm watching the Sports Illustrated Swimwear special on television (for all of two minutes because I change channels), and I'm usually watching it whilst eating chocolate biscuits, too. Goodness, I felt a bit fat when I found an old picture of myself and my now husband, taken a few months after we started dating It was back in the 90s, when I could actually get away with wearing a lycra dress (if you're reading this, my sweet, remember that blue dress? No, I will entertain no Bill Clinton jokes). But my feelings of fatness are of my own making, and my own problem. And I'm doing something about it. I've been going to the gym, and cut down on eating so much crap. I'm controlling my destiny, and blaming myself for any feelings that I might be able to double for the Michelin Man. I'm not going to complain about some silly little smiley face thing with a double chin. You see, I have this thing called a LIFE.
But if I feel fat, I'm going to say so, whether or not I have a little emoji to punctuate and amplify that sentence.
So all you sooks and whingers, stop uniting. Please.
Monday, 9 March 2015
To Free or Not to Free?
To free or not to free, that is the question. It's not on my agenda. I speak, by the way, of the Free the Nipple campaign. It was mentioned on last night's 'Q&A'. Consensus seems to be for art: fine. For rebellion: grow up, will ya? I kind of agree. Once you put the girls out there on the Internet, it's there. It's there forevs, folks. And yes, your potential employers and in-laws will quite likely see it. The reason behind this campaign, so it seems, is the inequality that men can show their nipples, whilst women cannot. Wow. First world problems, if ever there were. What's wrong with a bit of mystery, girls?
Want to see some contrived nip-slips? You Tube the clip for 'Boys, Boys, Boys' by Sabrina Palermo, a song from around 1988 or 1989. I think there are about seven all up. I didn't count them, a male friend did. All in the name of research.
Last night ol' Germs Greer asked Foreign Minister Julie Bishop would she partake in the Free the Nipple campaign, if it meant the commutation of the sentences of the Bali 9 ringleaders. Julie didn't directly answer, nor should she have to. It was, when one analyses it, an infantile question. I actually liked the way Julie conducted herself. I enjoyed everyone last night on Q&A. Didn't particularly like the question Professor Greer asked of Ms Bishop, but it's to be expected. I still consider the Prof to be articulate and entertaining much of the time.
Best get on with the writing, I suppose.
Want to see some contrived nip-slips? You Tube the clip for 'Boys, Boys, Boys' by Sabrina Palermo, a song from around 1988 or 1989. I think there are about seven all up. I didn't count them, a male friend did. All in the name of research.
Last night ol' Germs Greer asked Foreign Minister Julie Bishop would she partake in the Free the Nipple campaign, if it meant the commutation of the sentences of the Bali 9 ringleaders. Julie didn't directly answer, nor should she have to. It was, when one analyses it, an infantile question. I actually liked the way Julie conducted herself. I enjoyed everyone last night on Q&A. Didn't particularly like the question Professor Greer asked of Ms Bishop, but it's to be expected. I still consider the Prof to be articulate and entertaining much of the time.
Best get on with the writing, I suppose.
Saturday, 7 March 2015
Chain Molecule Chain Reactions
Just got a notification that the change to Blogger's adult content policy is not being implemented, and to 'click here' for further information. I didn't bother. I'm thinking it might be a hoax, or spam, or a link to malware, or something I just don't want. I usually get notification in my gmail box relating to my social media sites, and have received none of this nature in those inboxes. I reckon if I do click on it, my screen will freeze and there will be a picture of a State police officer with the caption the AFP is monitoring my computer and it's been locked because I've looked at inappropriate content. Of course having the Feds being represented by a State cop is a dead giveaway that this is a hoax, but it's still a frigging nuisance having your computer cleaned and the clerks sniggering at the likelihood you've been checking out porn. Everyone sniggers at other people checking out porn. But the annoying thing about this is: most people do look at it. Tonight I am not checking out porn. It is a Saturday night, and my kids are therefore up a little later than usual, and furthermore, the 10yo is having a friend over for a sleepover. But as far as Blogger's adult content policy goes, I'll just keeping typing my merry way through my meandering thoughts. I tend not to write much sex on my blog. I do have some sex in my novels. I couldn't say if it's particularly raunchy sex, because that's subjective. If you're interested in checking out what I think it is a somewhat pedestrian (although mildly amusing) sex scene, then you might want to buy my latest book, 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth'. The link to the first chapter (which has nudity, but it is not the scene to which I allude in this paragraph) is http://www.zeus-publications.com/silver_studs_and_sabre_teeth.htm
Of all things to be thinking about tonight, I'm thinking about the physics of elasticity. I am aware that elastic comprises chain molecules that are tangled when it is relaxed, but smooth out as the elastic stretches (and in stretching, heats). Well, today I saw a little something that made me fear for those dear little chain molecules. They were stretched to the point of cruel and inhumane torture. And the 'elastic', if stretching causes heat, was on the verge of spontaneous combustion. I saw this apparent defiance of the laws of physics in front of me at the ATM today. A young woman was wearing a pair of denim hipsters, or bumsters, or just pants that were too frigging small, and they came halfway up her hips, hips that were gelatinous in property. The rolls jiggled and rippled, and it reminded me of footage of that old movie 'The Blob', where people are running and screaming, as what appears to be a pissed-off scoop of jelly comes after them. The flesh spilled over the top of her waist, thus making her shadow resemble a nuclear mushroom cloud. And with these overheating chain molecules, there was a danger this could occur. Seriously, girl, couldn't you buy pants the right size? Squeezing your bulk into those pants wasn't going to make you look thinner, because (and this is another lesson for another time) of the laws of mass displacement (if that's what the theory is called). Those laws just mean the mass won't vanish, it will simply be moved somewhere else, in your case spilling and cascading over your waistband. And my giddy aunt, didn't it look awful?
Speaking of rolls of fat etc, I've been trying to tone up at the gym. I had a moment yesterday that got me wondering. A young man came up to me and offered to show me how to use the equipment. I assured him I was au fait with the equipment. He suggested altering my routine to get the maximum impact, and said, 'I note you're doing three sets of reps....'. I wondered how conscientiously he had been studying me, and was he actually stalking me. Trust me, I don't look like the gym bunny I used to be at 26, and was wearing a somewhat frumpy outfit - baggy shorts and loose t-shirt. But anyway, I thanked him for his suggestions, and promised to try them. I did today, and I do think they were valid. But back to yesterday, I mentioned to Mr Bingells about the unsolicited advice, and how I felt like pointing out I have been attending that gym for almost 9 years, blah-blah-blahdy-blah. Mr Bingells' explanation was this: 'Darling, you're a MILF. That's why the guy was watching you. That's why the guy went up to you.' I must say, that's very nice to hear. And I couldn't resist sharing.
Before I go, did anyone else wonder how many parsecs Harrison Ford was trying to get up in his plane the other day? Shame Chewbacca wasn't co-pilot.
Of all things to be thinking about tonight, I'm thinking about the physics of elasticity. I am aware that elastic comprises chain molecules that are tangled when it is relaxed, but smooth out as the elastic stretches (and in stretching, heats). Well, today I saw a little something that made me fear for those dear little chain molecules. They were stretched to the point of cruel and inhumane torture. And the 'elastic', if stretching causes heat, was on the verge of spontaneous combustion. I saw this apparent defiance of the laws of physics in front of me at the ATM today. A young woman was wearing a pair of denim hipsters, or bumsters, or just pants that were too frigging small, and they came halfway up her hips, hips that were gelatinous in property. The rolls jiggled and rippled, and it reminded me of footage of that old movie 'The Blob', where people are running and screaming, as what appears to be a pissed-off scoop of jelly comes after them. The flesh spilled over the top of her waist, thus making her shadow resemble a nuclear mushroom cloud. And with these overheating chain molecules, there was a danger this could occur. Seriously, girl, couldn't you buy pants the right size? Squeezing your bulk into those pants wasn't going to make you look thinner, because (and this is another lesson for another time) of the laws of mass displacement (if that's what the theory is called). Those laws just mean the mass won't vanish, it will simply be moved somewhere else, in your case spilling and cascading over your waistband. And my giddy aunt, didn't it look awful?
Speaking of rolls of fat etc, I've been trying to tone up at the gym. I had a moment yesterday that got me wondering. A young man came up to me and offered to show me how to use the equipment. I assured him I was au fait with the equipment. He suggested altering my routine to get the maximum impact, and said, 'I note you're doing three sets of reps....'. I wondered how conscientiously he had been studying me, and was he actually stalking me. Trust me, I don't look like the gym bunny I used to be at 26, and was wearing a somewhat frumpy outfit - baggy shorts and loose t-shirt. But anyway, I thanked him for his suggestions, and promised to try them. I did today, and I do think they were valid. But back to yesterday, I mentioned to Mr Bingells about the unsolicited advice, and how I felt like pointing out I have been attending that gym for almost 9 years, blah-blah-blahdy-blah. Mr Bingells' explanation was this: 'Darling, you're a MILF. That's why the guy was watching you. That's why the guy went up to you.' I must say, that's very nice to hear. And I couldn't resist sharing.
Before I go, did anyone else wonder how many parsecs Harrison Ford was trying to get up in his plane the other day? Shame Chewbacca wasn't co-pilot.
Wednesday, 4 March 2015
Apostrophe Apocalypse
This is Autumn. It should not have reached 36C today, yet by some evil work of Satan, it did. And I'm hating it. I have to try and get some sleep shortly, and I've got a recalcitrant 10yo griping from his room because we have dismantled the trampoline. We had to. The safety net was missing, and there are holes in the actually surface. It looks like a big expanse of black Swiss cheese.
I know on the surface, vigilante justice is not right. But there are times when it might be warranted. Hang with me, I'm going somewhere with this. For a while now, I've seen misplaced apostrophes on signs all over town. When I am in charge of Australia, I'm going to have a law enacted that people will first of all learn when the apostrophe is used, which is in contractions or when an 's' is added to make a noun possessive (except in the case of 'its'). If an 's' is added to make a plural, then there is no apostrophe. It's not that freakin' hard, people! Now, after it has been drummed into everyone's skulls when apostrophes are to be used, I will make it a further law, perhaps a bylaw, that people will proofread before submitting any text to a publisher for whatever purpose. Last night I went to collect my son from his dance class, and I saw a kid wearing a singlet advertising a local girls' sporting team, and I won't go into the complete name for privacy purposes, but it was an alliteration ending in the word 'Divas'. Or it should have been. But no, the singlet was emblazoned with 'D------ Diva's'.
Pissed off isn't even coming close to describing how I felt when I saw that. I have liaised with other members of my local writer's group, and we are very amenable to the idea of actually sneaking out at night, armed with the appropriately coloured paint, and obliterating all the misused apostrophes in town. And there are lots of them. To eradicate this scourge, we will form the Punctuation Posse. Because the other willing participants are also female, we might be known as the Punctuation Pussy Posse. We will see. But we are going to take it upon ourselves to remove or cover those crimes against grammar with paint, or just some water and cloth if they appear on a chalkboard outside a pub.
I spoke to someone tonight who thinks it's too late, that it's too deeply entrenched into society. I refuse to believe this. If people brainwashed by cults can be deprogrammed and/or de-radicalised, then certainly people can be made to not put apostrophes where they just should not be. If it takes connecting a live battery cell to their genitalia and giving them a good zapping when they put that little arc where it shouldn't be, then that is what we will have to do.
I know on the surface, vigilante justice is not right. But there are times when it might be warranted. Hang with me, I'm going somewhere with this. For a while now, I've seen misplaced apostrophes on signs all over town. When I am in charge of Australia, I'm going to have a law enacted that people will first of all learn when the apostrophe is used, which is in contractions or when an 's' is added to make a noun possessive (except in the case of 'its'). If an 's' is added to make a plural, then there is no apostrophe. It's not that freakin' hard, people! Now, after it has been drummed into everyone's skulls when apostrophes are to be used, I will make it a further law, perhaps a bylaw, that people will proofread before submitting any text to a publisher for whatever purpose. Last night I went to collect my son from his dance class, and I saw a kid wearing a singlet advertising a local girls' sporting team, and I won't go into the complete name for privacy purposes, but it was an alliteration ending in the word 'Divas'. Or it should have been. But no, the singlet was emblazoned with 'D------ Diva's'.
Pissed off isn't even coming close to describing how I felt when I saw that. I have liaised with other members of my local writer's group, and we are very amenable to the idea of actually sneaking out at night, armed with the appropriately coloured paint, and obliterating all the misused apostrophes in town. And there are lots of them. To eradicate this scourge, we will form the Punctuation Posse. Because the other willing participants are also female, we might be known as the Punctuation Pussy Posse. We will see. But we are going to take it upon ourselves to remove or cover those crimes against grammar with paint, or just some water and cloth if they appear on a chalkboard outside a pub.
I spoke to someone tonight who thinks it's too late, that it's too deeply entrenched into society. I refuse to believe this. If people brainwashed by cults can be deprogrammed and/or de-radicalised, then certainly people can be made to not put apostrophes where they just should not be. If it takes connecting a live battery cell to their genitalia and giving them a good zapping when they put that little arc where it shouldn't be, then that is what we will have to do.
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