Who remembers the Joan Armatrading song 'I Love It When You Call Me Names'? I've been called a few interesting things over the years. Last night I copped a beauty. Bear with me, I'll get to it soon. It left me somewhat be-mused and a-mused, and had me rolling my eyes so much they looked like the cherries jackpot on a poker machine. The moniker is nothing like anything I've ever been called before. I tried to think of any occasion in my almost half-century that I've ever copped a noun or adjective to match, and have come up with zilch. Nada. Bugger-all. But here are some of the things I've been called over the years:
1. 'You bloody turd' (my older sister). She possibly had a point. I am the youngest of my siblings, and I am therefore likely to be genetically hard-wired to be a pain in the arse for the older ones.
2. 'You little turd' (my older brother). See above for explanation.
3. 'Useless' (my Year 5 teacher). I am hoping I have proven the child-loving, avuncular old Santa Claus (ahem!) wrong, yet I really don't care that much. I'm not going to wish the misery guts develop cancer of the sac, but I'm hoping at some stage in his teaching career someone told him there is a better way to speak to children.
4. 'Clever' (a former boss). I'd devised a way to get our mitts on some records from a bottle shop our client had been accused of robbing without the need to issue a subpoena. In case you didn't know, my background is criminal law.
5. 'Pretty' (a barrister I know). This was at a Christmas party, and maybe his judgement was clouded by all the champagne that was circulating. I'm hoping not.
6. 'My little meerkat of love' (my husband). My husband is El Supremo when it comes to terms of endearment.
7. 'Hot ranga' (some half-pissed young bloke at the local Workies Club).
8. 'Tit' (some feral on a Facebook thread last night). At being dubbed after a mammary organ, I replied to the name-caller she might wish to go off and enjoy her passionfruit flavoured UDL.
Number 8 above is a natural segue into the jaw-droppingly bizarre name I got called last night, as it was on the same Facebook thread. By way of background, I was stating my opinion on an article about Wicked Campers, a company that hires out cheap vans to backpackers, such vans being emblazoned with some very out there (and some would call offensive) slogans. I personally think most of the slogans are kind of funny in an inappropriate un-PC way. Some can be construed as just maybe not for public viewing, but unlike some of the commenters on the forum, I have no desire to send a business to bankruptcy because of their material. I don't happen to think it's offensive to everyone with the ovaries-uterus-vagina-vulva combo, but accept there are some who won't like it. There are some who won't like what I've written here, but I checked the cupboard where I keep my fucks and it's bare, so therefore I have none to give. Sadly, there is nowhere I can find on my keyboard to write a comment in 'sarcastic' font, so many of my comments are lost on the cranky people who comment on these forums, but I was pretty clear in my intention that I truly find some of these slogans amusing, and people are just looking for things to be outraged over.
Well, the CEO of Wicked Campers issued a very tongue-in-cheek apology, which I admit to finding rather funny and I enjoyed the irreverent 'Eff-You' to the detractors. My comment was seen by someone who had up to then been a Facebook friend. This guy and I have participated in a cyber-friendship for about almost a year, I think. He was the one who 'added' me, as we have mutual friends, I should say. We've agreed on most things in our virtual friendship, but not all things. Most friends don't agree on everything. But what I wrote on this thread upset the poor possum to the point where he was using SHOUTY CAPITALS. Before I type what he called me, I would suggest you go and do a wee, if you're feeling the bladder nudging. If you're wearing socks, remove them, because what I am about to type will knock them clean off, and they will be lost as surely as a sock becomes lost on washing day. Anybody who knows me well (or only marginally), is going to realise this is the biggest misnomer in the history of name-calling. Are you ready for this? Are you seated comfortably? Okay, here goes. This put-upon crab referred to me as: 'A right-wing rape apologist'.
Yeah, I know. I cannot see how not getting huffy over some irreverent slogans and not trying to drive a business to insolvency, thus adding to unemployment levels, qualifies me as a 'rape apologist' either. But I cannot help it if I thought the van with a picture of ET and Michael Jackson together with the epithet 'Alien vs Predator' was rather amusing, can I? And as my friends, and anyone who reads my blog would realise, you're really going out on a limb to describe me in any way as 'right wing'. You're so far out on that limb, you're at the very narrow end with a few twigs, and it's bending under your weight, and it's either going to snap, or recoil and send you flying like Wile E Coyote. I'm not sure what puzzles me more, being called a rape apologist, or being called right-wing. I can't say I'm offended, because I'm too bloody busy being puzzled by it.
Whether this person, who has decided to block me, is reading this, I don't know. I'll just refer to the now empty Fuck Storage Cupboard. But a 'right wing rape apologist', me? Not many know this, but now you will: I am a paid-up member of the Australian Sex Party political organisation. How could a member of the ASP be a 'right wing rape apologist'? This just makes no sense. It also makes no sense because that assertion by my now ex-friend is a great pile of monstrous untruth. I am not a rape apologist. I'm tempted to issue an invitation to the person who insulted me thus to go eat a dick, but it's all just so stupid, I'm not sure I can be bothered caring.
Tuesday, 28 April 2015
Sunday, 26 April 2015
I Posted A Food-Pic! Aarrrggghhh
There are things we do that we never thought we'd do. I never thought I'd go on a camping trip, being a slob who likes to lie by the pool sipping from a drink with a paper umbrella in it, but at 23 years of age underwent a bracing trek through the Himalayan mountains of Nepal. As a young adult, I wouldn't do a thing for anybody and cared mainly for myself, but in the past couple of years I attained a qualification as an Assistant in Nursing.
Tonight, I did something I swore I'd never do. I posted to social media a photograph of something I cooked. Usually, I scroll by people's food shots (unless they look particularly tasty and give them a 'like'). There are some people on whose statuses I was sorely tempted to post: 'Nobody gives a shit!', particularly someone who posted nothing but photos of her food. This person has recently blocked me, and I wish I could contact to her inform her that, like her relentless photographs of food, in relation to this blocking I also just don't give a shit. Paradoxically, contacting someone to tell them you don't give a shit would indicate that in a tiny way, you just might. I'm enjoying not having my news feed clogged ad nauseum with pictures of the nachos her kids have prepared. I was a bit like that with someone who has apparently unfriended me, this someone labouring under the misapprehension that continuous selfies of her in a nightdress would hold everybody in spellbound thrall. It didn't. It bored the living snot out of all and sundry. And it wasn't even a sexy nightie. It was some frumpy thing with ruffles around the shoulder.
But tonight, I did it. I joined the legion of folk who post pictures of their food. Only because I was proud of the vegetarian deep fried spring rolls I prepared. I enjoyed them. Mr Bingells enjoyed them. Mister Thirteen and Master Ten enjoyed them. They were deemed a great success, unlike the gluggy monstrosities I prepared last week. I learned my lesson, and purchased proper spring roll pastry, instead of using rice paper. Rice paper spring rolls are utterly delish when cold. I do mighty fine, and mighty sought after ones. I even cook up an accompanying sweet chilli and cucumber sauce, with is positively orgasmic for the taste buds. But I must confess, when I attempted to deep fry my rice paper spring rolls last week, the wrappers swelled and expanded, leaving much air between wrapper and filling, and had all the appeal of chowing down on dogshit-au-gratin.
After the abysmal looking spring rolls of last week, and my abject disappointment, I was so thrilled to have cooked some that not only looked appetising but actually tasted just as good as they looked, I succumbed to the temptation of photographing them and sharing them to social media. This temptation is as alluring as a woman dangling a piece of forbidden fruit in front of a man. It drew me in with its tractor beam, and I took a photo on my iPad, and fired it off to Facebook. But don't worry, it's not my intention to make a habit of doing this. Unless I construct another diving looking Nicoise salad, like I occasionally do.
Should I feel a twinge of guilt over this?
Tonight, I did something I swore I'd never do. I posted to social media a photograph of something I cooked. Usually, I scroll by people's food shots (unless they look particularly tasty and give them a 'like'). There are some people on whose statuses I was sorely tempted to post: 'Nobody gives a shit!', particularly someone who posted nothing but photos of her food. This person has recently blocked me, and I wish I could contact to her inform her that, like her relentless photographs of food, in relation to this blocking I also just don't give a shit. Paradoxically, contacting someone to tell them you don't give a shit would indicate that in a tiny way, you just might. I'm enjoying not having my news feed clogged ad nauseum with pictures of the nachos her kids have prepared. I was a bit like that with someone who has apparently unfriended me, this someone labouring under the misapprehension that continuous selfies of her in a nightdress would hold everybody in spellbound thrall. It didn't. It bored the living snot out of all and sundry. And it wasn't even a sexy nightie. It was some frumpy thing with ruffles around the shoulder.
But tonight, I did it. I joined the legion of folk who post pictures of their food. Only because I was proud of the vegetarian deep fried spring rolls I prepared. I enjoyed them. Mr Bingells enjoyed them. Mister Thirteen and Master Ten enjoyed them. They were deemed a great success, unlike the gluggy monstrosities I prepared last week. I learned my lesson, and purchased proper spring roll pastry, instead of using rice paper. Rice paper spring rolls are utterly delish when cold. I do mighty fine, and mighty sought after ones. I even cook up an accompanying sweet chilli and cucumber sauce, with is positively orgasmic for the taste buds. But I must confess, when I attempted to deep fry my rice paper spring rolls last week, the wrappers swelled and expanded, leaving much air between wrapper and filling, and had all the appeal of chowing down on dogshit-au-gratin.
After the abysmal looking spring rolls of last week, and my abject disappointment, I was so thrilled to have cooked some that not only looked appetising but actually tasted just as good as they looked, I succumbed to the temptation of photographing them and sharing them to social media. This temptation is as alluring as a woman dangling a piece of forbidden fruit in front of a man. It drew me in with its tractor beam, and I took a photo on my iPad, and fired it off to Facebook. But don't worry, it's not my intention to make a habit of doing this. Unless I construct another diving looking Nicoise salad, like I occasionally do.
Should I feel a twinge of guilt over this?
Wednesday, 22 April 2015
Today's Little Observations
If I have a theme for my posts of late, it would appear to be one of 'virginity'. The other day, I complained about puke-making comments made by Tony Abbott when he was still Opposition Leader. Today, I read that the principal of the Islamic Schools of Victoria is refusing to allow girls to participate in running because they might lose their virginity. No, I didn't bloody type that wrong. Seriously, man, have you been sucking a crack pipe?
I'm assuming you're someone afeared vigorous activity might rupture a hymen? Why do you fucking care? Really, I want to know. Do you equate a perforated hymen with sex? Most of us equate the loss of virginity with first-time penile/vaginal penetration. It must be pretty hard to achieve this whilst sprinting along in your age race. I've never tried it, but I imagine the logistic difficulties must be legion. I didn't lose my virginity participating in sport. I didn't enjoy participating in sport. I wasn't a robust and enthusiastic competitor in sport. I would duck with my hands arms over my head when the volley ball would trace its hyperbola trajectory my way (clearly I listened in Maths occasionally, and I plan on retiring on my good looks). I was the kid who threw the basketball in from behind the goal, and it punctured on the screw sticking out the back of the board, hit the court with an onomatopoeic blap and let out an asthmatic wheeze (clearly I also listened in English). I was the kid who executed a diabolical vault over the horse in gymnastics, and landed on the bloody thing in a belly-flop, thus winding myself. I was the kid who fell face-first in the sack race. I was the kid who fell face first in any type of gymnastic balancing manoeuvre. I was the kid who fell flat on my date after executing too much momentum when kicking a soccer ball. But let me tell you, in all my clumsy carryings-on, landing on my face or my belly or my bum: what I didn't fall on was an erect dick, okay? So stop worrying and let the girls participate in sport, because next thing you know you'll be whinging how they're not marriage material because they're so bloody fat.
Okay, who's seen the ads for the Channel 9 show about couples getting married on first sight, having never met, and after having been matched by psychiatric types. I'm thinking the producers didn't consult with Dexter from 'Perfect Match', nor were any astrologers called in. I'm not going to watch it. It sounds like shit to me. But that is my choice. And yeah, I do find it offensive that these strangers can ostensibly participate in a marriage ceremony, whilst loving, long-term same-sex couples in this country are denied such a right. Anyway, I've seen another petition seeking Channel 9 to cancel its proposed airing of the show because it's 'immoral' and 'makes a mockery of marriage'. Here's the thing, peeps: the participants in this show are presumably adults who have made their own choice. You can make yours: don't watch it if you don't like it. Now, I want you to cast your ocular organs back a few sentences and re-read something. I have used the word 'ostensibly', as in 'ostensibly participate in a marriage ceremony'. The reason I have used this word is because I'm pretty confident these people will not be legally married, as it is law that people intending to marry have to lodge a Notice of Intention to Marry one month plus one day prior to the proposed ceremonial date. Apparently they will sign some form of commitment contract, which can be voided a certain time post-ceremony. Or they can legally marry if they so wish.
But think about it. Would you willingly just marry someone you haven't previously met? No, you wouldn't. And you know why, don't you? Yes, there is an elephant in the room, and I am going to address it: you don't want to end up lumbered with a dud root.
I'm assuming you're someone afeared vigorous activity might rupture a hymen? Why do you fucking care? Really, I want to know. Do you equate a perforated hymen with sex? Most of us equate the loss of virginity with first-time penile/vaginal penetration. It must be pretty hard to achieve this whilst sprinting along in your age race. I've never tried it, but I imagine the logistic difficulties must be legion. I didn't lose my virginity participating in sport. I didn't enjoy participating in sport. I wasn't a robust and enthusiastic competitor in sport. I would duck with my hands arms over my head when the volley ball would trace its hyperbola trajectory my way (clearly I listened in Maths occasionally, and I plan on retiring on my good looks). I was the kid who threw the basketball in from behind the goal, and it punctured on the screw sticking out the back of the board, hit the court with an onomatopoeic blap and let out an asthmatic wheeze (clearly I also listened in English). I was the kid who executed a diabolical vault over the horse in gymnastics, and landed on the bloody thing in a belly-flop, thus winding myself. I was the kid who fell face-first in the sack race. I was the kid who fell face first in any type of gymnastic balancing manoeuvre. I was the kid who fell flat on my date after executing too much momentum when kicking a soccer ball. But let me tell you, in all my clumsy carryings-on, landing on my face or my belly or my bum: what I didn't fall on was an erect dick, okay? So stop worrying and let the girls participate in sport, because next thing you know you'll be whinging how they're not marriage material because they're so bloody fat.
Okay, who's seen the ads for the Channel 9 show about couples getting married on first sight, having never met, and after having been matched by psychiatric types. I'm thinking the producers didn't consult with Dexter from 'Perfect Match', nor were any astrologers called in. I'm not going to watch it. It sounds like shit to me. But that is my choice. And yeah, I do find it offensive that these strangers can ostensibly participate in a marriage ceremony, whilst loving, long-term same-sex couples in this country are denied such a right. Anyway, I've seen another petition seeking Channel 9 to cancel its proposed airing of the show because it's 'immoral' and 'makes a mockery of marriage'. Here's the thing, peeps: the participants in this show are presumably adults who have made their own choice. You can make yours: don't watch it if you don't like it. Now, I want you to cast your ocular organs back a few sentences and re-read something. I have used the word 'ostensibly', as in 'ostensibly participate in a marriage ceremony'. The reason I have used this word is because I'm pretty confident these people will not be legally married, as it is law that people intending to marry have to lodge a Notice of Intention to Marry one month plus one day prior to the proposed ceremonial date. Apparently they will sign some form of commitment contract, which can be voided a certain time post-ceremony. Or they can legally marry if they so wish.
But think about it. Would you willingly just marry someone you haven't previously met? No, you wouldn't. And you know why, don't you? Yes, there is an elephant in the room, and I am going to address it: you don't want to end up lumbered with a dud root.
Monday, 20 April 2015
Abuse The Guilty Pleasure
Didn't get to do much by way of blogging last night, as I had to complete an article, and shout at my children. I was goofing around online to get some inspiration for my article, and read an article by some prat complaining about the name of a lipstick (forget the company who manufactures this lippy). The lipstick is called 'Abuse', and it's a very deep purplish colour, kind of aubergine. Kind of a bruise colour, too. It's not a colour I would wear. It would make me look ghastly. Actually, I think the colour would make anybody look ghastly. I can recall from having done first aid training that lips this colour would indicate the owner of said lips could be at serious of risk of well, dying. Anyway, the people were complaining about the sick name, saying it's making light of domestic violence. Geez-us, some people really need to have themselves a good, firm poo.
It is my intention to now weigh in with what has everyone in thrall: Prime Minister Abbott skolling a beer in a pub. People complained about him promoting 'binge drinking'. Since when has one beer constituted a binge? I think his behaviour, a man in his late fifties skolling a beer after being egged on at a pub, is infantile in the extreme, but it is hardly likely to promote binge drinking, is it? Why don't people take a bit of responsibility for their own choices? ( 'Sorry, officer, but I felt it my duty as a taxpaying citizen to guzzle a shitload of beer because I saw the Prime Minister do it'). I don't care that he skolled a beer. I do not admire this behaviour. I do not approve. If anything, I'm inclined to disapprove of skolling. But I'm not going to harp on about his responsibilities to not be seen drinking a beer. He can have one beer, can't he? Why don't we harp on about his party's shit policies instead? The thing he did that totally creeped me out, and it was a couple of years ago, but I'm getting the shudders and nauseated as I type, was when he said a woman's virginity was the most 'precious gift', and not to be given away lightly. THIS is what turns me off the man. Along with everything else, but above all THIS creepifying statement. This antiquated, cringe-worthy comment just reduces women to a commodity based on some perception of her worth being measured in terms of purity. The greatest gift I've given my husband is our children, and my commitment, and my love. I don't know his 'number', he doesn't know mine, and our care factor lies somewhere between 'zero' and 'couldn't give a shit'. Ugh. He gives me the horrors. Abbott, that is; not my husband. Just thought I should clarify.
Tonight, I am going to be making a confession to my writers' group. I don't think they will be surprised. Our theme for tonight's piece is 'guilty pleasures'. I have written about how, when I'm alone, I go online and watch daggy film clips. Oh, don't judge me, please. Who doesn't love to watch Jamie Redfern performing 'Hitch A Ride On A Smile' on the Ernie Sigley Show? Who doesn't love to see uncoordinated dance moves that take rigid spasticity to a new level? What's that I hear? Everyone? I'm alone in this? Oh, well....
It is my intention to now weigh in with what has everyone in thrall: Prime Minister Abbott skolling a beer in a pub. People complained about him promoting 'binge drinking'. Since when has one beer constituted a binge? I think his behaviour, a man in his late fifties skolling a beer after being egged on at a pub, is infantile in the extreme, but it is hardly likely to promote binge drinking, is it? Why don't people take a bit of responsibility for their own choices? ( 'Sorry, officer, but I felt it my duty as a taxpaying citizen to guzzle a shitload of beer because I saw the Prime Minister do it'). I don't care that he skolled a beer. I do not admire this behaviour. I do not approve. If anything, I'm inclined to disapprove of skolling. But I'm not going to harp on about his responsibilities to not be seen drinking a beer. He can have one beer, can't he? Why don't we harp on about his party's shit policies instead? The thing he did that totally creeped me out, and it was a couple of years ago, but I'm getting the shudders and nauseated as I type, was when he said a woman's virginity was the most 'precious gift', and not to be given away lightly. THIS is what turns me off the man. Along with everything else, but above all THIS creepifying statement. This antiquated, cringe-worthy comment just reduces women to a commodity based on some perception of her worth being measured in terms of purity. The greatest gift I've given my husband is our children, and my commitment, and my love. I don't know his 'number', he doesn't know mine, and our care factor lies somewhere between 'zero' and 'couldn't give a shit'. Ugh. He gives me the horrors. Abbott, that is; not my husband. Just thought I should clarify.
Tonight, I am going to be making a confession to my writers' group. I don't think they will be surprised. Our theme for tonight's piece is 'guilty pleasures'. I have written about how, when I'm alone, I go online and watch daggy film clips. Oh, don't judge me, please. Who doesn't love to watch Jamie Redfern performing 'Hitch A Ride On A Smile' on the Ernie Sigley Show? Who doesn't love to see uncoordinated dance moves that take rigid spasticity to a new level? What's that I hear? Everyone? I'm alone in this? Oh, well....
Friday, 17 April 2015
Unpleasant Toilet Encounters, & Dumb-Arse-Bare-Arses
There is an eerie stillness pervading my area at the moment. It looks like there might be a storm. The air feels thick, and it's so damned humid. Of course, having just been whacked between the eyes by my 49th birthday, I could be simply having a hot flush. I am scared of storms. Oh, don't get me wrong. Thunder and lightning don't bother me. In fact, I used to love those phenomena of the atmosphere. No, it's just that around this time last year, Anzac Day to be precise, a freak storm cell positively shit itself over the town in which I live, and I'm down the bottom of a street at a very cambered t-intersection, and a lake formed, and it all raced through my house, and I lost a shitload of stuff, and it took ages to replace owing to the laborious mechanics of insurance claims and the sheer volume of stuff I lost. I suppose I'm just scared that this might be a cyclical thing now, and we'll cop another frightful deluge. The atmosphere outside is like pea soup. Not fog. Just really thick. It's put me on edge.
I don't need another fright. I had one the other day. I was cleaning at someone's house, a house where I have never cleaned before. I took this lady grocery shopping first, and we had a cup of tea back at her place. And this was A Cup Of Tea - proper leaves in a teapot and all. We chatted about different things, and we really hit it off. I finally said, with real regret, that I had to stop chatting and get cleaning. She has a spare toilet in her laundry. 'I'll clean this dunny,' I said to myself, and crouched down, wiping it over with white vinegar. I then lifted the lid. And wondered what on earth was in there. No, I'm not talking M4-like skid marks. There was something sticking out from the rim, and my first thought was one of those wretched cages that contain sickly smelling cakes that send a toxic looking streak down the bowl when flushed, the idea being they help clean the toilet. They don't. They look suss and harbour more germs than the petri dish shelf at an STD clinic. But back to this, this object. It was bright green and it wriggled. Oh, yeah. I was face-to-face, well more like face-to-the-horrible-thing's-backside, with a big, green, horrible, slimy FROG!!!
So, I slammed down the toilet lid, squealed like a bitch, and sprinted from the laundry like Usain Bolt. The only word I could manage was, 'Toilet', and I shivered and pointed toward her laundry.
'Oh, you've met him!' she chuckled. 'He lives out there. Sometimes he comes into the kitchen.'
I shakily told the lady I could not clean her toilet. Don't worry, I cleaned the toilet in her en suite, but I'd rather set my hair on fire than go near that spare toilet with that thing lurking in there. And yes, I know my fear is irrational, but we all have our own quirks and foibles, and well, that's mine.
Today, whilst driving home, I heard on the news Geoffrey Edelsten's fiancée Gabi Grecko has been arrested for walking along some Melbourne street in the nude. Seriously, you bimbette, WTF is wrong with you? It is illegal to walk down the street in the nude here, just like it is illegal to walk down the street in the nude in the US, from where you hail. Listen, public nudity per se doesn't offend me. I have seen plays where actors have disrobed if the script called for it, and I wasn't offended in the least. Nude works of art bother me in not the slightest. Attention seeking stupidity just grinds my gears, and that's what this is. Some of these people lately, and yes, I do refer to that old succubus Madonna as well as Ms Grecko, are desperately cooking up asinine ways in which they can remain relevant. If it wasn't so aggravating, it would be sad. Stop walking down Melbourne streets in the nude, you idiot. And don't grace the streets anywhere else in the nude, either. By all means, do a nudie run at a private party, but for the love of God, please stop behaving so jaw-droppingly STUPID.
I don't need another fright. I had one the other day. I was cleaning at someone's house, a house where I have never cleaned before. I took this lady grocery shopping first, and we had a cup of tea back at her place. And this was A Cup Of Tea - proper leaves in a teapot and all. We chatted about different things, and we really hit it off. I finally said, with real regret, that I had to stop chatting and get cleaning. She has a spare toilet in her laundry. 'I'll clean this dunny,' I said to myself, and crouched down, wiping it over with white vinegar. I then lifted the lid. And wondered what on earth was in there. No, I'm not talking M4-like skid marks. There was something sticking out from the rim, and my first thought was one of those wretched cages that contain sickly smelling cakes that send a toxic looking streak down the bowl when flushed, the idea being they help clean the toilet. They don't. They look suss and harbour more germs than the petri dish shelf at an STD clinic. But back to this, this object. It was bright green and it wriggled. Oh, yeah. I was face-to-face, well more like face-to-the-horrible-thing's-backside, with a big, green, horrible, slimy FROG!!!
So, I slammed down the toilet lid, squealed like a bitch, and sprinted from the laundry like Usain Bolt. The only word I could manage was, 'Toilet', and I shivered and pointed toward her laundry.
'Oh, you've met him!' she chuckled. 'He lives out there. Sometimes he comes into the kitchen.'
I shakily told the lady I could not clean her toilet. Don't worry, I cleaned the toilet in her en suite, but I'd rather set my hair on fire than go near that spare toilet with that thing lurking in there. And yes, I know my fear is irrational, but we all have our own quirks and foibles, and well, that's mine.
Today, whilst driving home, I heard on the news Geoffrey Edelsten's fiancée Gabi Grecko has been arrested for walking along some Melbourne street in the nude. Seriously, you bimbette, WTF is wrong with you? It is illegal to walk down the street in the nude here, just like it is illegal to walk down the street in the nude in the US, from where you hail. Listen, public nudity per se doesn't offend me. I have seen plays where actors have disrobed if the script called for it, and I wasn't offended in the least. Nude works of art bother me in not the slightest. Attention seeking stupidity just grinds my gears, and that's what this is. Some of these people lately, and yes, I do refer to that old succubus Madonna as well as Ms Grecko, are desperately cooking up asinine ways in which they can remain relevant. If it wasn't so aggravating, it would be sad. Stop walking down Melbourne streets in the nude, you idiot. And don't grace the streets anywhere else in the nude, either. By all means, do a nudie run at a private party, but for the love of God, please stop behaving so jaw-droppingly STUPID.
Monday, 13 April 2015
New, Or Old Really, Romantics
The big question today, so it would seem, is whether the onstage kiss between desperate try-hard wannabe Madonna and rapper Drake was staged, or a spontaneous display of rawness and raunch by the power of the cougar (as I'm sure ol' Madge wants us all to think). Well, it wasn't the latter. Madge is no cougar. She's an attention-seeking publicity whore with questionable talent. I'm sure she doesn't really care what some random in Australia thinks, but what this random thinks is this: she's totally pathetic. 'Look at me, everyone! Look how controversial and sexy I'm being!' Now this just in: those antics are not sexy. I will type it again slowly: Not. Sexy.
The kiss was just as puke-worthy as the one with Britney Spears was years ago (seriously, who wants to pash Britney Spears). I don't care if Madge wants to indulge in a little girl/girl fun, or kiss some young bloke. What bugs me is her constant urination down our legs, and trying to convince us that's rain.
Years ago, whilst still working as a paralegal/secretary, one of the younger staff told me how big a fan she is of the Annoying One. 'She's so talented,' she said, in all seriousness. I sought clarification. 'Oh, just the way she reinvents herself all the time'. I put forward my theory that the constant reinvention is a ploy for publicity to detract from the fact her songs are really pretty pedestrian, and her singing voice sounds like a cat crapping a piano.
It is my staunch belief that a person with natural talent and charisma doesn't have to resort to imbecilic antics and publicity stunts, like putting out a coffee table took of nude pictures that supposedly represent your sexual fantasies. The arrogance of that made me want to stab a baby kitten! ('Hey, look everyone! This is what I think about when I'm flicking the bean! Am I relevant and cutting-edge, or what?'). The pathetic press conference she gave when the Princess of Wales was killed, in which she begged for privacy, had me in turns vomiting like a demonically possessed adolescent, and wanting to bloody hit somebody! She stood there at a microphone on a lectern, and said, 'I felt I was in that car with her.' This year marks eighteen years since Diana's death, and that stupid and insensitive, not to mention completely ersatz comment still really gets up my nose.
Whether the kiss was staged, the guy's reaction looks pretty natural. Wiping the girl-germs away like he's erasing a stain. Oh, if only we could erase the memory of having seen it.
Yesterday, I telephoned the local AM station with an anecdote - the request was for people to call in with the best piece of advice they had ever received from their mother. I was not one for taking my mother's advice because I believed it all to be spurious ('you're pretty enough without make-up', or 'you're too young for boys'), but there was one sterling pearl of wisdom that has remained with me for forty-plus years. When I was climbing into the bath as a little tacker, my mother handed me the washcloth and said, 'Don't wash your bum, and then wash your face.' That is a rule I follow rigidly to this day. It is ingrained in me and I hold it dear. It is almost as inherent as the rule the Mounties always get their man. So I rang up and regaled the airwaves with this, and was told I was now in the draw to win tickets to see Spandau Ballet. Oh. The guy said, 'Are you a fan of Spandau Ballet, Simone?' What could I say? I had to be honest and say, 'No, I've always been more of a metal fan.' However, I also have a chance to with $200 worth of jewellery, so that would be good. Oh, don't get misunderstand me. I do think the band have talent. Tony Hadley is still a worthwhile vocalist. I'd just rather sit in the back yard and watch ants scurrying between blades of grass than attend a Spandau Ballet concert. I hated all that New Romantic stuff, which my runaway mouth found itself saying to the DJ yesterday.
So what with New Romantics and cold phony wannabes, I think I would have quite happily by-passed the Eighties.
The kiss was just as puke-worthy as the one with Britney Spears was years ago (seriously, who wants to pash Britney Spears). I don't care if Madge wants to indulge in a little girl/girl fun, or kiss some young bloke. What bugs me is her constant urination down our legs, and trying to convince us that's rain.
Years ago, whilst still working as a paralegal/secretary, one of the younger staff told me how big a fan she is of the Annoying One. 'She's so talented,' she said, in all seriousness. I sought clarification. 'Oh, just the way she reinvents herself all the time'. I put forward my theory that the constant reinvention is a ploy for publicity to detract from the fact her songs are really pretty pedestrian, and her singing voice sounds like a cat crapping a piano.
It is my staunch belief that a person with natural talent and charisma doesn't have to resort to imbecilic antics and publicity stunts, like putting out a coffee table took of nude pictures that supposedly represent your sexual fantasies. The arrogance of that made me want to stab a baby kitten! ('Hey, look everyone! This is what I think about when I'm flicking the bean! Am I relevant and cutting-edge, or what?'). The pathetic press conference she gave when the Princess of Wales was killed, in which she begged for privacy, had me in turns vomiting like a demonically possessed adolescent, and wanting to bloody hit somebody! She stood there at a microphone on a lectern, and said, 'I felt I was in that car with her.' This year marks eighteen years since Diana's death, and that stupid and insensitive, not to mention completely ersatz comment still really gets up my nose.
Whether the kiss was staged, the guy's reaction looks pretty natural. Wiping the girl-germs away like he's erasing a stain. Oh, if only we could erase the memory of having seen it.
Yesterday, I telephoned the local AM station with an anecdote - the request was for people to call in with the best piece of advice they had ever received from their mother. I was not one for taking my mother's advice because I believed it all to be spurious ('you're pretty enough without make-up', or 'you're too young for boys'), but there was one sterling pearl of wisdom that has remained with me for forty-plus years. When I was climbing into the bath as a little tacker, my mother handed me the washcloth and said, 'Don't wash your bum, and then wash your face.' That is a rule I follow rigidly to this day. It is ingrained in me and I hold it dear. It is almost as inherent as the rule the Mounties always get their man. So I rang up and regaled the airwaves with this, and was told I was now in the draw to win tickets to see Spandau Ballet. Oh. The guy said, 'Are you a fan of Spandau Ballet, Simone?' What could I say? I had to be honest and say, 'No, I've always been more of a metal fan.' However, I also have a chance to with $200 worth of jewellery, so that would be good. Oh, don't get misunderstand me. I do think the band have talent. Tony Hadley is still a worthwhile vocalist. I'd just rather sit in the back yard and watch ants scurrying between blades of grass than attend a Spandau Ballet concert. I hated all that New Romantic stuff, which my runaway mouth found itself saying to the DJ yesterday.
So what with New Romantics and cold phony wannabes, I think I would have quite happily by-passed the Eighties.
Friday, 10 April 2015
P(eople) E(veryone) T(hinks) A(re) arseholes.
Dear PETA,
Can you please all stop acting like fuckwits over that which about you know zilch? That would be seriously good, thank you.
Whilst traversing though my Facebook newsfeed yesterday, I chanced upon a picture of one of your minions holding some poor hacked ovine, with the caption, 'This is the rest of your wool coat'. Whatever this gronk was holding looked like it had gone through a mix master, and is a credit to whoever the make-up artist was. No, not really. It looked like a toy lamb with splats of red paint. It was as fake as the nails on that check out chick at Coles I saw the other day. Oh, and yes, whatever the creature that bearded gronk was holding purported to be, the closest accuracy would be a LAMB. Now, this just in: lambs do not get shorn. There is no way that bloke was holding a sheep in his arms like that. A sheep of shearing age would give this clown a hernia. Indeed, holding whatever that thing he is holding was probably causing undue strain on his internal organs as his diet of quinoa, rain water, kale, and air would leave him in a less than robust state of strength.
I feel somewhat qualified to comment. I grew up in sheep country. For many years, my father oversaw a shearing shed. I have memories of the piles of dried dags below that shed, and my olfactory twitches as I remember the overpowering smell of lanolin, and sheep shit. And shearers' BO. Actually, some shearers once complained to my father about a colleague's BO. Dad thought they were merely being petty (notwithstanding shearers are a stoic lot, and unlikely to complain about someone's build up of armpit bacteria - particularly since their own pits are generally not unsullied). Then one day dad came home and said he had been stuck near the offending shearer, and said, 'Holy Jesus, it was like standing next to somebody peeling an onion!'
Anyway, I can recall the blades being moved through the fleece, and it would fall to the wooden slat fall in billowy clumps, often with grey patches were the burrs and dags were tangled. The sheep, somewhat skinnier sans the heavy fleece, would then be sent, baa-ing and bleating, down a wooden splintery chute, where they would run through a narrow fenced alley and into the pen. What I do not recall is anybody shearing a lamb and cutting it to ribbons, you fucking idiots at PETA. If any shearer left a sheep looking like the pissy effigy your gronky minion held for this loopy propaganda picture, that shearer would NEVER set foot in a shed again. To cut a sheep is considered a disgrace, if memory serves me correctly.
I have only ever seen one injury in a shearing shed. It was not to a sheep. It was to me. When I was about eight, I used to love sliding down those chutes. Indeed, I considered them my own person slippery dip. The shed was my own playground, and I felt like the luckiest kid in the world. However, I did not feel lucky in the slightest the day I ended up with a splinter almost two inches long embedded in my right butt cheek. What I felt was discomfort, which was nothing next to the scathing humiliation of having a splinter in my bum. I suffered all the way home from the shed until my mother removed it, laughing as she did. The next day, my rotten older brothers put me on the wooden veranda floor at home, and dragged me about in the hope I would get another splinter in my arse.
So yeah, this photograph you're circulating is utter, complete, true, unadulterated bullshit. You seriously suck, and need a good dose of reality. You can probably acquire this by stepping into a shed and having a look for your stupid selves. Hey, you don't have to wear the wool. You don't have to eat the flesh. I do wear the wool because I don't mind that, but I refuse to wear fur from an animal that has died merely to provide a fur coat.
But seriously, if you're going to attack an industry, at least get some facts and not some fake set up posed by a hipster twit with a stupid Ned Kelly type beard.
Can you please all stop acting like fuckwits over that which about you know zilch? That would be seriously good, thank you.
Whilst traversing though my Facebook newsfeed yesterday, I chanced upon a picture of one of your minions holding some poor hacked ovine, with the caption, 'This is the rest of your wool coat'. Whatever this gronk was holding looked like it had gone through a mix master, and is a credit to whoever the make-up artist was. No, not really. It looked like a toy lamb with splats of red paint. It was as fake as the nails on that check out chick at Coles I saw the other day. Oh, and yes, whatever the creature that bearded gronk was holding purported to be, the closest accuracy would be a LAMB. Now, this just in: lambs do not get shorn. There is no way that bloke was holding a sheep in his arms like that. A sheep of shearing age would give this clown a hernia. Indeed, holding whatever that thing he is holding was probably causing undue strain on his internal organs as his diet of quinoa, rain water, kale, and air would leave him in a less than robust state of strength.
I feel somewhat qualified to comment. I grew up in sheep country. For many years, my father oversaw a shearing shed. I have memories of the piles of dried dags below that shed, and my olfactory twitches as I remember the overpowering smell of lanolin, and sheep shit. And shearers' BO. Actually, some shearers once complained to my father about a colleague's BO. Dad thought they were merely being petty (notwithstanding shearers are a stoic lot, and unlikely to complain about someone's build up of armpit bacteria - particularly since their own pits are generally not unsullied). Then one day dad came home and said he had been stuck near the offending shearer, and said, 'Holy Jesus, it was like standing next to somebody peeling an onion!'
Anyway, I can recall the blades being moved through the fleece, and it would fall to the wooden slat fall in billowy clumps, often with grey patches were the burrs and dags were tangled. The sheep, somewhat skinnier sans the heavy fleece, would then be sent, baa-ing and bleating, down a wooden splintery chute, where they would run through a narrow fenced alley and into the pen. What I do not recall is anybody shearing a lamb and cutting it to ribbons, you fucking idiots at PETA. If any shearer left a sheep looking like the pissy effigy your gronky minion held for this loopy propaganda picture, that shearer would NEVER set foot in a shed again. To cut a sheep is considered a disgrace, if memory serves me correctly.
I have only ever seen one injury in a shearing shed. It was not to a sheep. It was to me. When I was about eight, I used to love sliding down those chutes. Indeed, I considered them my own person slippery dip. The shed was my own playground, and I felt like the luckiest kid in the world. However, I did not feel lucky in the slightest the day I ended up with a splinter almost two inches long embedded in my right butt cheek. What I felt was discomfort, which was nothing next to the scathing humiliation of having a splinter in my bum. I suffered all the way home from the shed until my mother removed it, laughing as she did. The next day, my rotten older brothers put me on the wooden veranda floor at home, and dragged me about in the hope I would get another splinter in my arse.
So yeah, this photograph you're circulating is utter, complete, true, unadulterated bullshit. You seriously suck, and need a good dose of reality. You can probably acquire this by stepping into a shed and having a look for your stupid selves. Hey, you don't have to wear the wool. You don't have to eat the flesh. I do wear the wool because I don't mind that, but I refuse to wear fur from an animal that has died merely to provide a fur coat.
But seriously, if you're going to attack an industry, at least get some facts and not some fake set up posed by a hipster twit with a stupid Ned Kelly type beard.
Tuesday, 7 April 2015
What's In The News Today
I'm meant to be doing some research on my work in progress, but I've been invited to meet a friend for coffee soon. Research will have to wait until I've had another shot of caffeine. This is rare for me; I usually just have that one coffee first thing in the morning. But what the heck, another cuppa might be nice. But I enjoyed my coffee this morning, as usual, and this is what I've noticed in the news:
1. The handwritten notes of Don McLean when he was devising 'American Pie' have sold at auction for $1.2 million (US). That song is evocative to me of the jukebox in my grandmother's pub. It was always blaring when I was a kid. It also makes me think of tone deaf drunks because, along with 'The Gambler' and 'Khe Sanh', it is the song that gets butchered and strangulated at the end of the evening. It should be said that both 'The Gambler' and 'Khe Sanh' aggravate me intensely for that specific reason. I'd happily never listen to 'Khe Sanh' again, and it is my understanding Australians didn't actually fight in Khe Sanh anyway. Still, no matter how grating it is to listen to someone drool 'Bye-bye Miss American Piii-iiiiiie' whilst only three bum notes away from chundering up their Bundy-and-coke, it is nowhere near the vicinity of the molar-grinding, hair-pulling, cat-kicking, ear torture that is the bland pissweak cover produced by old Madonna.
2. Dallas Buyers Club LLC have been victorious in their bid to have ISPs such as iiNet provide details of those who download movies illegally. And you know what? The people who illegally download are getting absolutely zero grams of sympathy from me. Regardless of what you think of an actor's pay packet, illegal download is fucking theft. An artist has put a lot of blood, sweat, and tears into producing a work, and they are entitled to be paid for it. I say this as someone who frowns and loses sleep when producing a work which I hope people will enjoy. I have only ever viewed a pirated movie once, and it was in the name of research for my second novel 'Abernethy', in which there is a subplot involving pirated DVDs. I wanted to look at the quality of the burned CD, and I also researched how they were 'pirated', and how to recognise one. Call me an old fashioned square if you want, but illegal downloads really, really piss me off. The excuses people give are as lame as an ancient race horse: 'Boo-hoo, woe is me, it takes too long to see the episode after people in the US see it, and I can't wait.' Well screw me sideways, but what is wrong with waiting a short period of time? People just cannot wait for good things any more. People just want to arrive at the destination, and take in nothing of the magical journey. We now have the technology where you can purchase a song and listen to it as soon as the whim takes you, rather than when I was young which was to save your pocket money and go to the music store in the next town (my home town didn't have one), or else trust your mother to bring home the latest conglomeration of K-Tel hits when she did the big shop in the famed Next Town, and if it was my mother, bring home the wrong album. Look, I'll put it on the table that I do like to download my music straight away on my iPod, but I will point out that I PAY for it!!!! Nobody seems to want to wait until the baby is born to discover the gender any more. People nag and want to know their Christmas present before December 25. What is wrong with you people? Don't you like the joy of the mystery and anticipation? I suppose you all expect your orgasms to be instantaneous without the foreplay. (Wait, did someone say instantaneous orgasm? Is there a plan where one can sign up?).
3. Young Luke Shambrook has been found, and in a reasonable condition given the circumstances. Now to those dunderheads who wrote 'hyperthermia', he was being treated for 'hyp-O-thermia'. O. O. O. Not Er. O. I am delighted the boy has been found. I am also concerned someone might record a cheesy song like 'Little Boy Lost' to commemorate this, as happened when a little boy called Steven wandered away near Guyra, 1960. Happily, he was found a few days later. But does anyone else have to quell nausea when they hear that song? Not that I've heard for a long time. Hated it when I was a kid, and still hate it to this day. Imagining a frightened four year old, and his distressed parents upsets me, make no mistake on that; I am not a soulless sociopath. Just need to reach for the sick bucket when I hear that song, that's all.
Good news: another review has appeared on Amazon.com for my novel 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth'. Please to Amazon and check it out, and go to this link http://www.zeus-publications.com/silver_studs_and_sabre_teeth.htm for a read of the first chapter.
1. The handwritten notes of Don McLean when he was devising 'American Pie' have sold at auction for $1.2 million (US). That song is evocative to me of the jukebox in my grandmother's pub. It was always blaring when I was a kid. It also makes me think of tone deaf drunks because, along with 'The Gambler' and 'Khe Sanh', it is the song that gets butchered and strangulated at the end of the evening. It should be said that both 'The Gambler' and 'Khe Sanh' aggravate me intensely for that specific reason. I'd happily never listen to 'Khe Sanh' again, and it is my understanding Australians didn't actually fight in Khe Sanh anyway. Still, no matter how grating it is to listen to someone drool 'Bye-bye Miss American Piii-iiiiiie' whilst only three bum notes away from chundering up their Bundy-and-coke, it is nowhere near the vicinity of the molar-grinding, hair-pulling, cat-kicking, ear torture that is the bland pissweak cover produced by old Madonna.
2. Dallas Buyers Club LLC have been victorious in their bid to have ISPs such as iiNet provide details of those who download movies illegally. And you know what? The people who illegally download are getting absolutely zero grams of sympathy from me. Regardless of what you think of an actor's pay packet, illegal download is fucking theft. An artist has put a lot of blood, sweat, and tears into producing a work, and they are entitled to be paid for it. I say this as someone who frowns and loses sleep when producing a work which I hope people will enjoy. I have only ever viewed a pirated movie once, and it was in the name of research for my second novel 'Abernethy', in which there is a subplot involving pirated DVDs. I wanted to look at the quality of the burned CD, and I also researched how they were 'pirated', and how to recognise one. Call me an old fashioned square if you want, but illegal downloads really, really piss me off. The excuses people give are as lame as an ancient race horse: 'Boo-hoo, woe is me, it takes too long to see the episode after people in the US see it, and I can't wait.' Well screw me sideways, but what is wrong with waiting a short period of time? People just cannot wait for good things any more. People just want to arrive at the destination, and take in nothing of the magical journey. We now have the technology where you can purchase a song and listen to it as soon as the whim takes you, rather than when I was young which was to save your pocket money and go to the music store in the next town (my home town didn't have one), or else trust your mother to bring home the latest conglomeration of K-Tel hits when she did the big shop in the famed Next Town, and if it was my mother, bring home the wrong album. Look, I'll put it on the table that I do like to download my music straight away on my iPod, but I will point out that I PAY for it!!!! Nobody seems to want to wait until the baby is born to discover the gender any more. People nag and want to know their Christmas present before December 25. What is wrong with you people? Don't you like the joy of the mystery and anticipation? I suppose you all expect your orgasms to be instantaneous without the foreplay. (Wait, did someone say instantaneous orgasm? Is there a plan where one can sign up?).
3. Young Luke Shambrook has been found, and in a reasonable condition given the circumstances. Now to those dunderheads who wrote 'hyperthermia', he was being treated for 'hyp-O-thermia'. O. O. O. Not Er. O. I am delighted the boy has been found. I am also concerned someone might record a cheesy song like 'Little Boy Lost' to commemorate this, as happened when a little boy called Steven wandered away near Guyra, 1960. Happily, he was found a few days later. But does anyone else have to quell nausea when they hear that song? Not that I've heard for a long time. Hated it when I was a kid, and still hate it to this day. Imagining a frightened four year old, and his distressed parents upsets me, make no mistake on that; I am not a soulless sociopath. Just need to reach for the sick bucket when I hear that song, that's all.
Good news: another review has appeared on Amazon.com for my novel 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth'. Please to Amazon and check it out, and go to this link http://www.zeus-publications.com/silver_studs_and_sabre_teeth.htm for a read of the first chapter.
Sunday, 5 April 2015
Incensed at the Incense
I wish my readership, be it meagre or abundant, a wonderful Easter. I have been trying to eradicate my waist of an inch or two, and today's chocolate consumption has helped not in the slightest.
Given my younger son is likely to be doing his Sacraments of Initiation this year, I thought it prudent to take him to the Easter Mass. We spent the past few days at my mother-in-law's house, and last night I accompanied my sister-in-law and Master 10 to the local church, a sandstone construction awash with character, and a special place to me - it's where I got married. There is a sad association for me: it's the same church where we bade farewell to my lovely father-in-law some years ago, and last night I actually had a tear in my eye remembering.
Look, I'm an agnostic. I know that. If you know me well, you know that too. So what the hell (ahem!) am I doing taking my son to a church service, and why am I having him undergo Catholic sacraments? Well, anyone who has been raised Catholic probably understands it's difficult to shake off the rituals. The upbringing tends to hang around you like a miasma. It's like the aftermath of cigarette smoke when you've been to a nightclub. Not that you end up with smoky clothing so much these days now that smoking indoors is not on. I wish that rule had been in place back in the days when I was doing my partying. Never mind. I just happen to like going to church at Easter and Christmas, okay? Getting back to my smoke and stink analogy, the priest really gave the thurible a powerful swinging in that church. He looked like an Olympian competing in the hammer throw. The incense gave my sister-in-law a headache, and I felt my sinuses protesting somewhat, too. I hearkened back to the days when my perpetually stoned flatmate would be firing up the bong - the incense reminded me of the overpoweringly vegetal smell of his stash. I was waiting for my son to ask what stank so. He didn't. He behaved in a manner most celestial, and held his lit candle at the appropriate angle to not drip hot wax on his hand. Instead, it dripped onto the pew in front of us, which brought the organ player rushing over in a flap. But yes, I am not a fan of cloying incense. Reminds me of my other flatmate's girlfriend, herself a chronic stoner, who would come over and light up a stick of the most overpowering Essence of Sandalwood-cum-Hash-Oil she could find. I'd come in from work and be hit with a fumes of this, this godawful pong that appeared to have a life of its own. I would stand in the living room and demand to know what the fuck stank.
We all copped a spray with the Holy Water as Father went by, and my son flinched at its coldness. His aunt explained it was symbolic of a new baptism for us all, and my son suggested it would be far preferable for us all to get into a hot tub. I can see the logic in this.
Last night's exercise in taking my son to church was so he could observe the ritual for when he does his sacraments. It wasn't the best service with which to introduce him. I had forgotten how long the Easter Service drags! Aaarrrggghhhhh! I reassured him the next time I take him, the service will only be half the time. Depending on the priest. I still remember the parish priest when I was a youngster who droned and dragged and bored us all to tears, which the exception of the time he gave the Sunday service whilst in the thrall of the most crippling of hangovers. This day he made it through in record time, blessed us with the haste and gestures similar to ousting a pesky fly, and then sprinted off through the sacristy so he could blow chunks outside the apse.
Given my younger son is likely to be doing his Sacraments of Initiation this year, I thought it prudent to take him to the Easter Mass. We spent the past few days at my mother-in-law's house, and last night I accompanied my sister-in-law and Master 10 to the local church, a sandstone construction awash with character, and a special place to me - it's where I got married. There is a sad association for me: it's the same church where we bade farewell to my lovely father-in-law some years ago, and last night I actually had a tear in my eye remembering.
Look, I'm an agnostic. I know that. If you know me well, you know that too. So what the hell (ahem!) am I doing taking my son to a church service, and why am I having him undergo Catholic sacraments? Well, anyone who has been raised Catholic probably understands it's difficult to shake off the rituals. The upbringing tends to hang around you like a miasma. It's like the aftermath of cigarette smoke when you've been to a nightclub. Not that you end up with smoky clothing so much these days now that smoking indoors is not on. I wish that rule had been in place back in the days when I was doing my partying. Never mind. I just happen to like going to church at Easter and Christmas, okay? Getting back to my smoke and stink analogy, the priest really gave the thurible a powerful swinging in that church. He looked like an Olympian competing in the hammer throw. The incense gave my sister-in-law a headache, and I felt my sinuses protesting somewhat, too. I hearkened back to the days when my perpetually stoned flatmate would be firing up the bong - the incense reminded me of the overpoweringly vegetal smell of his stash. I was waiting for my son to ask what stank so. He didn't. He behaved in a manner most celestial, and held his lit candle at the appropriate angle to not drip hot wax on his hand. Instead, it dripped onto the pew in front of us, which brought the organ player rushing over in a flap. But yes, I am not a fan of cloying incense. Reminds me of my other flatmate's girlfriend, herself a chronic stoner, who would come over and light up a stick of the most overpowering Essence of Sandalwood-cum-Hash-Oil she could find. I'd come in from work and be hit with a fumes of this, this godawful pong that appeared to have a life of its own. I would stand in the living room and demand to know what the fuck stank.
We all copped a spray with the Holy Water as Father went by, and my son flinched at its coldness. His aunt explained it was symbolic of a new baptism for us all, and my son suggested it would be far preferable for us all to get into a hot tub. I can see the logic in this.
Last night's exercise in taking my son to church was so he could observe the ritual for when he does his sacraments. It wasn't the best service with which to introduce him. I had forgotten how long the Easter Service drags! Aaarrrggghhhhh! I reassured him the next time I take him, the service will only be half the time. Depending on the priest. I still remember the parish priest when I was a youngster who droned and dragged and bored us all to tears, which the exception of the time he gave the Sunday service whilst in the thrall of the most crippling of hangovers. This day he made it through in record time, blessed us with the haste and gestures similar to ousting a pesky fly, and then sprinted off through the sacristy so he could blow chunks outside the apse.
Thursday, 2 April 2015
Aaaah, Memories
Looking at the time on this computer clock tells me I must pack my bag shortly; spending Easter Saturday and Easter Sunday with my mother-in-law. Having a little trouble concentrating because the technology-obsessed freaks I pushed through my loins are player their iPads loudly. My shit has already been lost once today, and is danger of going astray a second time.
This week has been good-ish. Have achieved some writing on my work-in-progress, and hope to get some more done next week. I've got an awkward scene to work on, but will just keep chipping away at it, like a little man with an ice pick at a glacier, and hopefully will eventually have something achieved.
The only thing of note these past few days is when I was scrolling through a FB page about my home town, I was delighted to find a photograph of my father taken in 1968 when he had just won the Tom Quilty 100 Mile Endurance Ride. He's unsaddling the horse, which was named Jackass. I actually remembered that horse, and used the name Jackass for a petty crim in my first ever novel. I'm sure just beside Dad is the rear bumper of our old family station wagon, a ubiquitous family vehicle for the late 60s/early 70s. If the photograph was in colour, I could be more certain. Ours was red. I have a memory of riding in the back of that vehicle, not the rear seat but the back area. I shared space with my oldest (now deceased) brother, our red cattle dog Tilly, and a sheep dad had acquired somehow; we must have been at a stock sale. The sheep had stupid-but-mean yellow eyes, it's thick wool was choked with dags and burrs, and it stank of dirt and lanolin. It also crapped on Tilly. My brother looked at me and cried, 'The sheep pooped on Too-wee!' He said 'Too-wee' because I couldn't say 'Tilly', and that's what I'd call the dog.
Aaaah, memories.
Happy Easter, all in the blogosphere. I shall resume my blogging in a few days.
This week has been good-ish. Have achieved some writing on my work-in-progress, and hope to get some more done next week. I've got an awkward scene to work on, but will just keep chipping away at it, like a little man with an ice pick at a glacier, and hopefully will eventually have something achieved.
The only thing of note these past few days is when I was scrolling through a FB page about my home town, I was delighted to find a photograph of my father taken in 1968 when he had just won the Tom Quilty 100 Mile Endurance Ride. He's unsaddling the horse, which was named Jackass. I actually remembered that horse, and used the name Jackass for a petty crim in my first ever novel. I'm sure just beside Dad is the rear bumper of our old family station wagon, a ubiquitous family vehicle for the late 60s/early 70s. If the photograph was in colour, I could be more certain. Ours was red. I have a memory of riding in the back of that vehicle, not the rear seat but the back area. I shared space with my oldest (now deceased) brother, our red cattle dog Tilly, and a sheep dad had acquired somehow; we must have been at a stock sale. The sheep had stupid-but-mean yellow eyes, it's thick wool was choked with dags and burrs, and it stank of dirt and lanolin. It also crapped on Tilly. My brother looked at me and cried, 'The sheep pooped on Too-wee!' He said 'Too-wee' because I couldn't say 'Tilly', and that's what I'd call the dog.
Aaaah, memories.
Happy Easter, all in the blogosphere. I shall resume my blogging in a few days.
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