What Bingells Did (kinda like that book 'What Katy Did')

Today I did the following:

1. Braved entering my son's room without the benefit of a Hazmat all-in-one to dust, vacuum, and change the sheets.  I am surprised my son has been able to exist in that cesspit, um, room for as long as he has without succumbing to some virulent strain of the plague.  Perhaps he has become inured, as children who live by the Ganges are able to play in it but woe betide a tourist.  I've seen the Ganges, but of course I didn't go splashing about in it.  I stayed quite healthy in India until about my second or third last day.  I had been sight-seeing with a guide my age, and we sat on the roof of an emporium and decided to have a bottle of beer.  I had been meticulous about not having my face under the shower, and only brushing my teeth with bottled water.  What I had not bet on was being given my share of the beer in a grimy cup.  Well, I didn't know it was grimy at the time because the beer kind of hid that.  Holy God, did I suffer the next day!  Badly.  I have had mild stomach upsets when travelling before, but this one required a visit from the local physician.   And when I was being driven to Jaipur, I had to keep telling the driver to pull over so I could hurl out the door.  I apologised, and he replied, 'Don't worry, Madam.  I see this many times.'  An ugly story, albeit gruesomely funny in hindsight, but not one I will labour on in this blog post; perhaps another time. But yeah, my son's room is a biohazard.  Not at the moment because his long-suffering mother vacuumed and mopped and wiped over the surfaces with a mixture of white vinegar and eucalyptus oil.  It will remain relatively clean for, I guess, the next twelve hours before it is back to its previous pestiferous state.

2.  Suffered with a sore throat and blocked nose.  But praise be, I have found a pharmacy in town that doesn't make me feel like I am operating a meth lab in the garden shed every time I purchase a medication containing pseudoephedrine.  They asked did I want the chemist brand, to which I replied an emphatic no because it has to be Codral.  Nothing else, short of a plumber, will unclog my besnotted nose.  They asked me did I take any other medication on a regular basis, which I do not.  They then asked me to come to the front counter and pay for my tablets.  What they did not ask me to do was show them my driver's licence, which pisses me off and makes me want to grab the clerks and shake them, if my symptoms did not leave me as weak as an anaemic fairy's urine.  Glory be and ten packets of bunny legs, as my friend used to say. 

3.  Marvelled at  how swiftly children grow.  My 14yo invited three friends over today to celebrate his birthday.  I also had cause to marvel at how quickly two large pizzas can disappear when left on a table in front of four teenage boys.  I am no short-arse, but my son and at least one of his friends are now taller than me.  I still recall holding my little one over my shoulder when he was a baby patting his back as he yowled with displeasure at something, and now I can rest MY head on HIS shoulder! I started to wonder about one of his friends, and whether he could have been my son swapped at birth instead of the voracious eating machine I appear to be raising.  This particular kid was correcting other kids' English, and explaining the meaning of words they had used incorrectly, particularly 'ironic'.  (Oh, if only he was around when Alanis Morriset was recording her ill-named ditty).  It got me wondering were he and the child I see off to school every morning perhaps changelings swapped at birth.  And I look at the kid I've been raising, and look at his father, and there is no mistaking his parentage. People have said to me, 'Well, nobody's can ever accuse you of cheating'. 

4. Listened to what the kids were saying.  Don't worry,  I haven't turned into some soft type who campaigns and says 'Listen to the kids!' (I have a theory some of these kids out there need a good kick in the date).  No.  I sat in the next room trying to hear what they were saying because there's no better way to get realistic dialogue than to listen to others' conversations.  I cannot just go up to some kids and say, 'Tell me, what colloquial vernacular is bandied about by the young folk of today?'.  The kids would think, 'Creepy old bag at twelve o'clock', and back away.  Yeah, so what I do is just relax and listen to others when I'm in a public place, or if I need some up-to-date slang for younger characters in my work, have a look at 'Dolly' magazine in my local library.

5.  Started editing my latest work.  So far, so good.  I've only read about two chapters, but I'm happy with the improvements I'm making.

Going For Broke, And Weird Precipitous Stuff

As I handed an octogenarian her newspaper this morning, before I went to her bathroom to make preparations for the shower I was to shortly assist her with, she asked was there anything interesting on the front page.  I said, 'Just the Rhinehart family and their trust.'  She nodded dismissively, and I said the old cliché, 'It just goes to prove money doesn't buy happiness, does it?'  She agreed  And for the most part, I too agree money does not ensure happiness.  However, having been mired steadfast in the other end of the spectrum, I can say with qualification and conviction that being broke is really not a knee-slapper, either.  And this weekend, I am utterly broke.  I have been broke in the past, and come through, and will come through this little bout of coin-deficiency, too.  I am expecting some money into my bank account on Monday, and have enough - barely! - for food this weekend until then, so we will be fine.   However, given the choice between being miserable and broke, and miserable and having a lazy $60,000.00 stuffed down the back of the lounge in loose change, I know what I'd pick.

My current impecuniosity is thanks largely to a small little dog.  My tyrannical fox terrier had a bout of puking and diarrhoea, so I took him to the vet.  He was tested for parvo, and I sweated it out, worrying about the diagnosis.  It was negative, but because he was dehydrated, and vomiting, it was recommended he be hospitalised.  And hospitalised he was.  For a few days.  When I went to collect him, and was told the amount I would be paying, I almost required hospitalisation with sedation.  But when my puppy dog was brought out to me, his tail wagging hard enough to sustain him on a flight path, it was worth it.

So it will be a very bland weekend for us. I will have to convince the kids there is fun and joy to be had in sweeping in front and back porch for me, rather than go somewhere that requires to spending of money.  Actually, we're having some teenagers over for pizza and gaming on Sunday; my oldest hit the fourteen yesterday.  My oldest never bloody stops eating, either.  To stop me peddling my wares on the street corner (as I think our former prime minister might have made mature rangas unfavourable), could everybody please buy my books as I need to keep the kid fed.  Eating and teasing his younger brother appear to be his great talents of late.  To find out more about the books, just click on the links on my home page here.

You know what?  I got a rather bizarre message in my 'others' message box on Facebook, following my comment on a thread in favour of same-sex marriage.  Some brain-dead knob end told me I was 'dumb' for supporting this, and that God rained fire and brimstone on Sodom and Gomorrah (only he spelled 'Gomorrah' incorrectly), and he would do so again, and get rid of the filthy fags and those who support them.  Now, whether this oxygen thieving deadshit is reading this, I don't know.  But if you are, can I just say this: you are a tit.  You are also a cowardly tit for orchestrating your dingbatted comment in such away that I was prohibited any right of reply.  I must point out that I am not a meteorologist, but I didn't do too badly in natural geography at school, and I'm pretty sure precipitous matter does not include fire and brimstone.  Sleet, yes.  Rain, oh most definitely.  Snow, absolutely.  Hail, you betcha.  But fire and brimstone?  Seriously?  You, as I said before, are a tit.

Book review for 'Johnny Real Estate' by Nick Tory

This is my review for 'Johnny Real Estate' by Nick Tory:

Review ‘Johnny Real Estate’ by Nick Tory

 

Johnny Real Estate by Nick Tory is an episode in a series titled Legitimate Job Trilogy.  As keeping with what this reviewer has observed of the author’s work, this novella tells of the adventures, or misadventures, experienced by the knockabout anti-hero, Johnny Tee.

 

As the name suggests, the ne’er-do-well Johnny ventures into the world of real estate, which some would consider an already maligned profession with disreputable operators, so Johnny should find his niche.  The story does not disappoint, as Johnny uses Machiavellian tactics to sell properties previously considered unsellable in his quest to earn a Blue Jacket, which is considered the Holy Grail for all realtors employed by the agency.

 

Tory writes in a fluent style with a tongue-in-cheek tone, and his story is delightfully non-didactic as the reader follows Johnny through amusing scrape after amusing scrape.

 

Johnny Real Estate is available for Amazon.com, and this reviewer is looking forward to reading more adventures from, to use a hackneyed phrase, ‘this loveable loser’.

 

Four out of five.

Keeping 'Tabs' On Things

Today I've been indulging myself in You Tube videos of old film clips, particularly since my FB group is having a theme of posting songs relating to, or sung by teenagers.  I got to thinking about teenage angst, in particular 'Young Love' by Tab Hunter (later covered by Donny Osmond), and found a clip of his first public performance on the Perry Como Show.  I don't know why, but it's really touched me.  Not the meaning of the song itself, but the performance.  Tab is very shy, and looks about as comfortable as a postman at a dog show.  But there was a real poignancy to the performance, probably stemming from his obvious nerves.  I think he has a nice voice, and it's wavering a bit in spots, but that wobbliness just - for me, anyway - lends it that extra bit of sincerity.  I don't care two hoots about pimple-encrusted, hormonal teenagers wanting to grope each other, per se.  When kids talk about the depth of their love, I think, 'Pfffffft!'  I guess I'm just a cynical old shit at times.  I didn't really have my first love until I was just out of my teens, and he turned out to be a real dickheaded milquetoast.  I met him at a Wa Wa Nee concert, so I guess that should have sounded the alarm bells.  If you're wondering what I was doing at a Wa Wa Nee concert - I was dragged there by my cousin, so there!

Tab Hunter was someone who must have been tortured at times emotionally.  He had to project the image of being a teen idol in the 50s, but he is gay and that of course is something that would have had to have been kept under wraps.  I wonder is he as pleased with the results of the Irish referendum on same sex marriage as I am?  It's time for our country to follow suit. I know it's not as easy it sounds to change a law, but it's not impossible, either.  The subject of same sex marriage is the perfect cue for me to segue to my novel 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth', as one of the sub-plots deals with same-sex marriage.  Go to http://www.zeus-publications.com/silver_studs_and_sabre_teeth.htm and read the first chapter.  It also has a Marc Bolan impersonator, and that is surely something that would qualify the book for the Booker Prize.

In my post the other day, I mentioned cleaning a big chunk of khaki coloured dog effluvium from my cushion.  My little guy hasn't been well.  And whilst cleaning the dog barf is revolting, it pales in comparison to the canine arse-gravy that was sprayed into the carpet in my younger son's bedroom.  We have floorboards, so thankfully this was only a floor rug.  However, it's a big one and Mr Bingells was charged with the grotesque task of taking the rug out the back and hanging it on the clothesline for a blast with the hose (set at very high pressure).  The stench was incalculably revolting.  Both of us almost vomited.  I pride myself on my resilience; my trip through Nepal years ago was the hallmark - I had to visit some revolting toilets were diarrhoea-stricken trekkers had voided only moments before I went in.  Notwithstanding this, that disgusting crap on my son's carpet was almost my undoing.  My pup is now in hospital, dosed up with antibiotics, anti-emetics, and fluids.  He was tested for parvo, but thankfully that came back negative. 

I must now fill in a template for another writer, who is doing writer interviews for her blog.  If she publishes, I will share a link to this site.

Today's Likes and Dislikes

I shall now sit here, in the chill air, and write a list of things that I'm either liking or disliking today:

1. I am disliking the constant misapplication of the word 'misogyny'.  I read female-centric blog sites occasionally, and see this insidious phenomenon occurring more than it should.  If you're wondering how often this misapplication should occur in order to be still considered acceptable the answer is: never.  Yet it's been recurring at the rate of gonorrhoea in a gay bath house pre-1980s Safe Sex Days. I blame frigging Julia Gillard for this.  When she blew up in Question Time and yelled about 'misogyny' whilst referring to Abbott, she set off a disastrous chain reaction that has resulted in the bloody word, which means a deep-seated mistrust and loathing of women, being used in instances of casual sexism and chauvinistic buffoonery.  I've just been complaining on a social media thread after it appeared AGAIN in an article, and suggested the author of the article get a dictionary. 

2.  I am disliking that it is cold and wet today, and I had to work.  I like being at home when it's cold and wet. 

3.  I am disliking the she-tool driving the taxi who cut me off on the roundabout today.  You, madam, are a complete moron.  I was already on the roundabout, and well and truly coming around the arc approaching the point from where you intended to enter, and therefore I had right of way.  You chose to ignore this and came hooning into my line of drive, thus causing me to slam on my brake and let forth a string of profanities from my mouth that would have embarrassed the Navy.

4. I am disliking the discovery I made upon my return home from work that my mini foxie had puked on the cushion I inherited from my late aunt. I had hoped to make a nice comforting cup of hot chocolate, and instead was faced with a solid mass of khaki coloured dog effluvium with which I had to deal.  I dealt accordingly, and managed to keep my gorge down.

5. I am liking being right.  Again, with the social media argument theme, I found myself in discussion about the pending appeal of the dude who burned down the nursing home in Quakers Hill in 2011.  The question was asked should he have legal aid funding for his appeal.  I stated if he met the criteria for funding, then yes.  I stand by that.  I was told it would cost $3K per day, and it was his sixth appeal.  I pointed out we have two appellate courts in Australia, being the Court of Criminal Appeal  and the High Court.  I asked for clarification of this sixth appeal, and none was forthcoming.  Some friends of mine weighed into the discussion, which stemmed from a fallacious article.  Of my three weighing-in friends, two are criminal defence lawyers (and one did for a long time specialise in legally aided appeals), and are therefore well equipped to point out the facts.  I will also point out of have a background in criminal law, for those of you who don't know this.  What really got us irked, is the original article was based on misinformation and particularly designed to inflame.  I will point out the appeal is not costing the taxpayer $3,000 per day, and it is only his first appeal - which has had some extensions of time.  An adjournment or extension of time is not the same as a new appeal.  Okay?

6. I am liking that I am about to make that hot chocolate.  My appetite has returned since the Great Disposal Of Dog Puke Drama, so I think I will enjoy it.  So will my kids, home from school.

Confessing My Guilty Pleasures

I’m going to start this like a fourteen-year-old with no creative writing aptitude whatsoever who has been handed a comprehension task in English, by writing an asinine and pedestrian question: What is a ‘guilty pleasure?’  A guilty pleasure can probably best be described as an art form, be it literature or music or film or television, or an activity which is considered a bit naff or in poor taste by the general public, but one in which the subject person takes a secretive joy.  Like line-dancing.  Or maybe Adam Sandler movies.  I will take this opportunity to point out I do not refer to myself; I would quite simply rather drag a cheese grater over my scalp than suffer through one of his execrable movies.  I’ve never line-danced, either.  Maybe one day I will, but the day does not appear to be forthcoming.

 

I am going to confess that I, too, have guilty pleasures.  Confessing is supposed to be good for the soul.  I’m not buying it.  I haven’t knelt in a Confessional for well over thirty-five years, and given some of my more nefarious habits, have this image of myself whispering, ‘Bless me father for I have sinned.  Can’t remember my last confession, but I was about eleven years old.  Have you packed a lunch?  Never mind, just put me down for one of most things but I don’t steal and I don’t murder, okay? Oh, and I’m not one for coveting the neighbour’s wife.’

 

I try to be high-brow, and I try to be cool, and I try to be healthy.   But there are some things I like to do when nobody’s around.  There are things on the Internet I like to view.  The Internet has made viewing this material very easy.

 It is when I’m alone I gain the most frisson with my guilty pleasure viewing.  I prepare a simplistic meal of steamed vegetables (possibly to atone in some way for what I am planning to do).  I might undo my good healthy work by pouring a glass of wine.  I will possibly close the blinds, and then sit at my computer.  Even with the blinds drawn, I will take a furtive glance around, and then search the material I wish to view, and feel soiled for viewing. 

 

I cannot help it.  There is a great joy to be had when one finds a clip of Ernie Sigley introducing Jamie Redfern to sing Hitch A Ride On A Smile.  It is the ultimate in guilty pleasures to watch the talented lad (and he was talented) singing a cheesy song, as he executes some terribly choppy moves, dressed in a jump suit adored with Native American style fringes on the shoulders and shins.  The suit is very badly fitted, which could explain the awkwardness to his dancing.  Either that or a shit choreographer, unless he’s trying to remember some of the routines from Young Talent Time.

 This does not sate me in my questionable viewing.  After this, I am inspired to seek more.  I find myself looking at another Gilbert O’Sullivan.  I don’t mind a bit of old Gilbert.  Some people swoon over Alone Again, Naturally.  I don’t; it’s got to be the most incongruously upbeat tune behind the most lugubrious lyrics ever.  I like Get Down, even if the woman of his affection is being likened to some kind of mutt.  No, what I really sicken and embarrass myself by watching O Babe, What Would You Say?  It’s a monstrous guilty pleasure, made even worse by Gilbert’s dance moves, which eclipse Jamie Redfern’s for sheer uncoordinated spasticity.  Seriously, those moves are straight out of the school dances of good old Merriwa High School back in the late Seventies.

 After this, I wipe the sweat away and watch something perhaps a little more innocuous.  It’s Tony Christie singing I Did What I Did For Maria, an uplifting first person narrative by a guy about to face the firing squad.  Tony’s dance moves are little more fluid than Jamie’s and Gilbert.  I noticed this once I was able to look away from the moose knuckle brought about by the tight pants.

I’m not sure if I should feel good at revealing this about myself.  Is it a weight from my shoulders?  I don’t know.  Sometimes, I feel like I should be at a support meeting, standing up and saying, ‘Hello.  My name’s Simone, and I like looking at daggy video clips on You Tube.’

 

Reviews For My Novel

Here are some reviews for my latest novel 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth':

http://www.amazon.com/gp/customer-reviews/R2I45DCD4NYSIL/ref=cm_cr_pr_rvw_ttl?ie=UTF8&ASIN=1921919868

http://www.amazon.com/review/R3DMAP66INI1IJ/ref=cm_cr_dp_title?ie=UTF8&ASIN=1921919868&channel=detail-glance&nodeID=283155&store=books

Have a look, and then hopefully be swayed to purchase the novel! 

Book review: 'Johnny 12 Steps' by Nick Tory - available Amazon

I have recently joined a group dedicated to reviewing books.  Here is my first review, and it is for 'Johnny 12 Steps' by Nick Tory.  It's a favourable review, and if you're reading this, Nick, feel free to thank me later! I purchased the book from Amazon, and downloaded to my Kindle.  Being a Luddite, this was a new experience for me.  Well, that's enough.  Here's my review:

'Johnny 12 Steps' by Nick Tory is a fast paced and witty novella that cleverly draws parallels to the Alcoholic Anonymous 12 Steps recovery program as the reader follows the steps of a homeless ne'er-do-well named Johnny, who finds himself embroiled in a mess with finger-amputating gangsters as he tries to impress Sarah, with whom he has fallen in love (or more likely raging lust).

The author uses very precise language, and creates appropriately cringe-worthy situations in this somewhat tongue-in-cheek story, which this reviewer was delighted to find had more twists than the average bag of pretzels.

Tory's style reminded me of one of my favourite US writers, Carl Hiassen, and I recommend this book to fans of humour, satire, and crime fiction.  It is available on Amazon.com.

Four stars out of five from me, and I've attached a link hereunder.

http://www.amazon.com/Johnny-12-Steps-Organized-Trilogy-ebook/dp/B00JSZ2CSG/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1431919913&sr=8-1&keywords=Johnny+12+Steps

Depp-ported Dogs & Facebook F**kery

Like the Grand High Executioner, I occasionally compile a little list.  I've done that now, and for your amusement, present such list hereunder:

1. What I Am Seriously Pissed Off With: Johnny Depp and his bloody dogs.  Well, not the dogs personally.  It is not their fault their owner was either too arrogant, too ignorant, or too stupid to complete the paperwork required for all incoming parties to Australia, which has a space for one to declare certain items, those items including live animals.  It doesn't matter if you arrive by a commercial aircraft or a private aircraft, this paperwork must be completed and declarations are to be declared.  And if Johnny was not familiar with the rules, then why did the pilots not know something about it?  Smuggling your mutts in via a designer handbag just doesn't cut it.  I do not like to criticise Johnny Depp.  It hurts me.  I think he is a fantastic actor and I fancy the man shitless; indeed, I reckon Johnny Depp as Captain Jack Sparrow is so fucken sexy.  However, as Agriculture Minister Barnaby Joyce pointed out, being voted Sexiest Man twice means nothing when it comes to our strict quarantine laws.  Remember that ad with Steve Irwin, in which he exuberantly gushed, 'Quarantine matters!'?  I suppose Irwin exuberantly gushing was commonplace; he probably exuberantly gushed when ordering a pizza over the phone.  But yeah, by violating our strict laws, Depp ran the risk of introducing pests and parasites to our unique ecosystem, and potentially devastating farmers, too.  We don't know whether Pistol and Boo had tapeworms hanging from the arseholes like tired paper streamers hanging from the ceiling at the end of the dance, do we?  And not only that, he ran the risk of his dogs actually being put down.  Johnny, you have to work hard to atone for this, so my crush can be restored.  If you wish to come over and discuss it, please feel free.  I don't mind if you dress as Captain Jack Sparrow, either.

2.  What I Am Also Seriously Pissed Off With: everybody trying to brush this off with a grain of salt.  I saw footage of actor Christian Slater dismissively saying, 'They're dogs!'  Well, so fucking what?  Get a clue!  To find such clue, read Point 1 above.  I saw a petition trending for the reprieve of the dogs.  If you're a regular reader of this blog, you will know I truly detest those freaking petitions from Change. dot. freaking.org.  These petitions, and tweets from various people who have no clue, beseech the Australian Government to not put down the dogs.  Well, how about someone wishing to bring animals into the country does the right thing in the first place?  They dogs should have been placed in quarantine, or Johnny should have organised someone to housesit for him and feed the things.  In any event, I understand the beasts have been placed on a plane and returned to the US.  Let me state for the record, I am an animal lover.  My favourite type of animal is a dog.  I am not trying to put a death wish on Depp's Yorkies.  Indeed, one of my pets is a rescue dog that faced what B-grade writers call 'certain death' at the pound.  But people, we have these quarantine laws for a reason, okay?

3.  Weird Thing That Happened To Me On Facebook #1: someone wished violence on me.  I was commenting on a thread for some women's site, and the thread was about the verdict of manslaughter, as opposed to murder, to a man who had shot his partner.  There had been a history of violence in their relationship.  The article said that despite a certain number of women dying at the hands of their partners this year, a verdict was found blah-blah.  I pointed out, not unreasonably, that the sad deaths of these other women had no bearing on the court case of this individual.  Commenters complained about the judges, and were in turn informed the verdict was delivered by a jury, not a judge.  Commenters said it should have been a woman judge.  I pointed out, again not unreasonably, that a judge's gender has fuck-all to do with the case over which he or she presides, and should remain thus.  People complained the jury's verdict was bullshit.  I pointed out they people complaining were not on the jury panel and therefore not privy to the evidence and judge's directions.  Well, didn't that just chuck the feline among the statue-defiling avian creatures! I was told I was a stupid (for the record, I'm actually not), and told to fuck off (for the record, my vibrator... no, I won't go there).  I pointed out the immaturity of calling people names and swearing at them when they bring a logical point to the thread, which was admittedly a highly emotive topic.  And then, someone told me I'm a cyber-pest and to enjoy getting bashed.  So, I flexed my fingers and brain, and typed a response to the effect that she might consider me a cyber-pest, but to wish violence on me made her a cyber-thug, and were I as base as she clearly was, I'd call her a silly cunt.  I substituted the 'u' and the 'n' in the word 'cunt' with asterisks because I'm cultured and civilised (yes I am, so you can stop rolling your eyes).  I've had people disagree with me, but I've never had someone wish violence on me.  This is a first.  I sought out the comments later because I was curious to see if my that loveable old Santa Claus of a woman had wished further dire fates on me, but the comments had been removed.  This was probably a good idea.  My husband pointed out calling her a cunt was a low act, which it is, but her wishing I get bashed is probably just a tad worse.  This is the first time I have ever called someone a cunt on Facebook.  It's not a word I tend to use very much.

4.  Weird Thing That Happened To Me On Facebook #2: it happened last night, and I'm not sure if there's a name for it. I got a chat message from a friend.  The friend and I haven't met in person yet, but we're both writers.  I've been looking forward to chatting with my new friend, but the first message was to inform me he had an erection.  Well, that's nice to know.  I guess.  He told the erection was inspired by a photograph he'd seen of me, and pointed out which one.  This made me just a little suspicious (not because I'm a dog, but because I didn't think my friend would say something like that).  Also, the messages were coming through in SMS shorthand, and this guy with whom I'm friends has quite a command of our language, and would likely find this butchery offensive.  Oh, I'm not trying to read his mind or do a profile on him, but he seems to have a similar love of language that I do, and I feel he would therefore be unlikely to use shorthand.  Also, when one can type quickly, those shortcuts become moot.  I informed the person with whom I was chatting I was uncertain if he was my friend or a hacker, and I was not prepared to engage in silly ribald discussion (and trust me, I can think of some beaut lines) because how could I know he would not snap shot the screen and distribute it publicly?  And then, oh then, I had trouble sending a message, and then received a message from the real 'friend' advising he had left his phone at a party, and someone had picked it up and was messaging his Facebook friends with bogus silly messages.  Anyway, should I be flattered that someone thought a photograph of me taken at my high school reunion was highly arousing?

5. What I Must Do Now: serve dinner.  I have prepared a delish minestrone.  Mr Bingells has returned from a tiring day working privately as a bus driver for race goers at the nearby Scone Cup today.  He also worked yesterday.  I don't envy him.  I don't wish I was there because I don't like horse racing all that much, anyway.  I worked at Scone Cup years ago - serving food.  I went to take a coffee cup from one well known society matron - who was one facelift away from having a beard, if you get my drift! - and got my head bitten off because she reckoned it wasn't finished.  Hey, if she wanted to drink cold, cloudy dregs then she had more dollars than sense.

An Ass of U and Me.

Making an assumption about somebody is a little like leaping from a plane with a defective parachute in that you are jumping to a conclusion.  Plastering your ill-formed conclusion all over social media is downright fucking stupid.  I am in a state of extreme piss-off after reading about that woman in Melbourne who assumed the man taking a selfie beside the Darth Vader cut-out was a creeping pervert.  Seriously, woman, my husband and I have photographs of ourselves beside a life-size cut-out of Suzi Quatro.  Does this make us creeping perverts?  No.  Does it make us a bit tragic?  Possibly.  But perverts: definitely not. 

But this gronk of a woman decided to stalk the man, take a picture, and then posted it onto Facebook with a warning about the 'creep' taking photos of her kids, etc, etc, bullshit, bullshit, bullshit, and throw in a few blah-blah-blahdy-blahs on top of it.  She's since had the error of her totally reckless and impulsive ways brought to her attention, and she is remorseful.  And if you're reading this, woman: so you should be.  Look, I'm aware I'm not behaving in a particularly Gandhi-like fashion myself in having a go at this woman here, but God, I wish people would stop making rubbish assumptions and then taking to social media with it.  This guy's life could have been ruined.  All because someone saw a guy taking a photo near kids ('Oooh, look, a pervert!').  People like this probably see a swarthy man drinking orange juice at the pub and think he's about to detonate a bomb, or they're buying their fish and chips at the café and think the young bloke in the hoodie is about to rob the place. 

So, yes, they see someone at a shopping centre do something as outrageous as stand near a cardboard effigy and DINGDINGDINGDINGDING!!! goes the internal Pervert-Alarm these dunderheads have in their DNA, and next thing you know, they're taking pictures, and posting on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter, and causing trouble all over the place, thinking themselves some kind of heroic crusader.

Something that really gave me a galloping case of the irrits over this was that it reminded me of an immensely aggravating woman with whom I once worked.  This was a law office in Sydney when I was aged twenty-one, and I daresay she was about twenty-two.  It was a moderately-sized firm, and there was a work function on, and a group of us were walking to the venue.  She became convinced the guy walking behind us was 'following us', or more specifically, her, and demanded one of the male junior clerks confront him.  I should point out this clerk was so weedy he made Mick Jagger look like Arnold Schwarzenegger, so I cannot for the life of me imagine what she thought he would be able to do to her imagined stalker.  Possibly confuse and annoy him for a few seconds until the alleged stalker swatted him aside like a pesky fly.  I pointed out to the woman that this particular person was one of many who happened to be walking in the same direction along Pitt Street, Sydney at 5.30pm, an occurrence that could hardly be cause for concern, after all, he was most likely on his way home from work like most of the people walking along Pitt Street at that time.  Or possibly he was going to a dinner venue himself.  What he was unlikely to be doing was following us in particular.  To crown it all, a car went past and honked the horn.  So when we reached the restaurant where the dinner was to be held, she sat in the bar where we were having our aperitifs and said, 'I am not surprised that car honked, because I know I'm attractive to men.'  She regaled us with this revelation in the manner of a teacher explaining why bicarbonate soda makes the cake rise, or tenderises the meat. The rest of us eye-rolled and sipped our drinks.  One junior clerk wondered to herself did it not occur to this vacuous bimbette the driver could have been honking at someone else.  That junior clerk was me, and yeah, the honkee about whom I wondered was me.  Valuing my credibility, I knew better than to say that aloud.  Typing it here in this blog, some twenty-five plus years later, has probably shattered my credibility as effectively as a precision-thrown frag. 

But the moral to the story, as it always is, is when you assume you make an ASS of U and ME.

Playing Around

Have to pack my bag.  Catching the early train to Sydney tomorrow, and tomorrow night, my cousin-in-law and I are going to see a play at one of the drama houses in the Sydney Opera House.  I haven't seen a show there in yonks.  I think the last play I saw there was in 1988, and it was a production of 'Don's Party'.  I do love theatre.  Used to see plays all the time when I was in my early twenties, both well known productions along the lines of the Sydney Theatre Company, as well as some more avant garde stuff.  I remember going along to the Nimrod or Belvior Street one night and watching some utter atrocity - truly, I felt sorry for the actors.  A few years after I saw it, I was working at a law office and one of the solicitors mentioned he was mates with this particular actor.  I said to mention this shitful play.  One morning, he said he brought up the subject of that play with his friend, and his friend did not enjoy being reminded.  The solicitor said, 'Well, I won't tell you what my secretary thought of it.'  Anyway, I remember the storyline (hah!) involved the two leads enjoying making what can best be described as 'violent love', and want can more honestly be described as 'unerotic total bullshit'.  They groped and pawed each other, and the lead actress simulated a knee to the jatz crackers of the lead actor.  He sagged against the wall, and sank to the floor, acting pain (as opposed to some stupid impression of a tree).  She ran from the set, and he caught his breath and yelled, 'HARDER!'  In the small theatre, I sat in my chair laughing helplessly at the total unbelievable stupidity of it all.  The friend with whom I was attending, another wannabe writer like I then was, whispered, 'Simone, I don't think it's meant to be comedy!' 

The silliest part of all was when one of the actors stripped off, and for his sake (as well as his wife's) I do hope that stage was cold, if you get my drift.  He said to another character, 'Mate, I've only got this!' and squeezed the small acorn - oh hang on, that was his penis.  The second silliest part was when another actor stripped off, and was slammed repeatedly and violently into a wall.  All part of the alleged plot, but the problem was, with each slam, his body would stop but the shockwaves and vibrations made his penis twitch.  And twitch.  And twitch some more.  What was meant to be a powerful scene did lose impact somewhat.  And just as the scene lost impact, I lost about two hours of my life viewing the drivel.  I wondered afterwards whether to storm the box office and demand a refund.

Some time later, when I was planning on seeing another production at the same venue, I mentioned to some work colleagues I had scene a play there with two naked men.  So help me God, readers, this brain-dead fool with whom I worked interpreted this to mean I had walked into the theatre with two naked men accompanying me.  I sincerely hope for the sake of mankind she has had herself sterilised.

Anyway, a bag is to be packed, an alarm clock is to be set, and a bed is to be climbed into.  Tomorrow it is off to the the-ay-ter for me.

Dredge the Nile! And the end of a journey....

It's not nice to call people names (I know this because if you've read some previous posts I got referred to as a 'right-wing rape apologist' a few days ago), but what the heck, oh bugger it, let's make it what the FUCK, I'm about to.  I'm going to call Rev Fred Nile a miserable, anachronistic, zealous, chauvinistic, self-righteous old fuck.  There, I just did it.  Seriously, man, what is actually WRONG with you?  Your new proposed bill suggests women contemplating abortion be forced to view an ultrasound of the foetus.  Are you on crack?  Do you think women contemplating the termination of a pregnancy do it with the laissez faire of someone changing the colour of the streaks in her hair?  This is cruel.  This is draconian.  This takes fuckwittery to a new level.  And supposing the woman contemplating the termination is blind?  What then?  Does the radiologist have to provide an ultrasound printed in braille?  Keep your miserable policies and ideas away from my physical autonomy.  Oh, and you might leave Muslim women alone, the ones who want to wear the face covering, which under our present laws regarding freedom of religion they are entitled to do!  Freedom of religion doesn't only apply to the Christian faith, okay?  I wish you'd put on a face covering; it would not only hide your smug know-all mush, it might muffle the sound of you blathering that piffle.

But on the bright side, last night I did what many authors dream of finally doing.  After so much work, and sweat; after having to put a project on the back burner when my house flooded last year and because I had to finalise some subjects in disabled care, at about 8.40pm last night I actually typed THE ultimate sentence, and then hit the 'return' key a few times.  Then, oh then, I centred and typed the two wonderful words I have been looking forward to typing for so long, and I typed them in bold font.  Those two words?  They are: The End.  And then I hit 'return' a few times, left margin justified again, and typed the copyright symbol, my name, and the year.  Yes, I finished my novel-in-progress.  It's no longer a novel-in-progress.  It's now earned the status of Completed First Draft.  I punched the air with my fist.  I accepted a congratulatory hug from my younger son.  I listened to my older son applauding, and smiled as my husband also congratulated me. I sighed  I blinked away a tear.  It's finished.  It's like lancing a boil.  It's like having a troublesome growth surgically removed.  It's like a weight from my shoulders.  It's finished.  For now.  In about two weeks, which I consider to be a suitable break of not looking at the beastly thing for a while, I'm going to start going through it with a fresh set of eyes, and begin the edit.

But for the next fortnight or so, I shall be very busy not giving  a shit.

May The Fourth Be With You!!!

I'm not one for the puns, as a rule, but today I am liking Star Wars Day because it's the fourth of May, so therefore everyone is going around saying, 'May the 4th be with you!'  If you don't quite get it, say it out loud.  If you still don't get it after saying it aloud, then don't breed.

I am not strictly a Star Wars geek, but I do love the purity and marvellous characters in the first trilogy.  Actually, what is the first trilogy now?  I tend to think of it as Episodes IV, V, and VI because they were the first ones actually shown in cinemas, but of course now we have the trilogy of I, II, and III.  I've seen none of this trilogy.

Oh, who am I kidding?  I'm going to have to come clean.  My interest in Star Wars starts and ends with the monstrous crush I harboured on Luke Skywalker.  As a 12yo I sighed happily, imagining he would come to rescue me.  As a dirty old cougar in her late forties, I'm imagining playing with the young Jedi's light sabre.

Sir Alec Guinness really showed his acting chops in 'Star Wars', and it is obvious he was the worthy Oscar recipient for 'Bridge Over The River Kwai'.  If you haven't seen that movie, then rattle your dags off to the DVD store and get it out; his performance is mesmerising.  But back to SW: that Sir Alec was able to deliver the line, 'Mos Eisley Spaceport.  You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy' and make it sound believable (and presumably not beat George Lucas around the head with a rolled up copy of the script for writing such dreck) bears witness to the brilliance of the man as an actor.

I also enjoyed 'The Empire Strikes Back', and yeah, winced when Darth Vader cut off Luke's hand.  I thought my old man was mean when he said I couldn't light my Christmas candle (fire hazard, I guess), but Darth Vader would be the pinnacle of pricks to have as a father.

But there was shark jumping in 'Return of the Jedi'.  I mean, seriously, ewoks?  How bloody lame were those things?  The true shark fodder was when it was revealed Luke and Leia were brother and sister.  I sat there wondering was I watching 'Star Wars' or 'Deliverance'.  Apparently when told of this plot twist, even the actors looked at each other and went, 'Eeeeuuuuuuw!'

But Gentle Reader, if you don't wish to be reminded of a horrific long-buried memory, or introduced to utter, unadulterated horror, leave this web page now (but not before going to my links and checking out my novels and maybe buying them!).  If you really want to aggravate and upset an annoying, dyed-in-the-wool Star Wars fan, ask about 'The Star Wars Holiday Special'.  I feel soiled even typing that.  Does anyone remember it?  It has been referred to as the cousin nobody talks about when it comes to this franchise.  It is the cousin that lives in the barn, humps sheep and eats spiders - I read that in an online review, I cannot take credit for that metaphor, but I so wish I could.  You can probably You Tube it if you're desperate.  Even the opening credits are enough to make you click on the 'stop' fast enough to sprain your finger.  Chewbacca (starring again Peter Mayhew itching like buggery in the outfit) and Han Solo (starring an embarrassed looking Harrison Ford) are on their way to Chewbacca's home planet because it's an important holiday on the Wookiee calendar (oh, WHY do I know this?).  The opening credits then show Mark Hamill (looking like he is tripping - and I hate typing that because of my crush, but that's how he looks), and Carrie Fisher (also looking like she is off her dial).  I am wondering if taking part in this carbuncle on the backside of holiday specials is what actually convinced Carrie to book herself into rehab; it is clear none of the actors made a good choice with this.  I wouldn't be surprised if George Lucas went around trying to buy up every known copy of this travesty ever made.  I know I would.  I'd beg, buy, or steal every copy and have a bonfire.  I'd then bury the ashes somewhere private, and never make them known, just in case technology reaches the level a video or film can be reconstructed from some kind of celluloid DNA particle.  Well, view it if you wish, but don't say I didn't warn you.

I think it might be in the top five of awful movies through which I have suffered.  That list includes 'I Spit On Your Grave', 'Fifty Shades of Crap', and just about any Eighties movie starring Steve Gutenberg.

Little Musings For The Day

Although not an athletic specimen, when I was a school girl I was a rather passable short distance sprinter.  Nowadays my knees aren't that keen on sprinting.  I guess I'm getting older.  Oh, I still do most of the stuff I used to do when I was younger, but I just do it at a slower pace.  Never did get the enthusiasm, nay, veritable jizzing of the spectators because someone happens to be able to run a bit faster than everyone else.  As far as I can tell, running really fast isn't going to keep fleas off the dog, or necessarily help you land a good job when you finish school.  It will come in handy if you're at the zoo, and the tiger gets loose from its enclosure.

There's something else I can no longer do, and that is handle my alcohol as well as I once did.  I had two glasses of red wine last night - that's right, a measly TWO!!! - and this morning I felt hung over.  Part of the problem was I didn't really eat dinner last night, I suppose.  But this morning I felt like I had a dirty football sock in my mouth, and my head hurt a little.  Given my vanity and hope to hold on to my youthful looks (hah!) for as long as humanly possible, I have cut down on my alcohol consumption.  To tell the truth, the last real hang over I suffered was almost four years ago at my high school reunion, which was a wonderful night full of laughter and hugs, and dancing and carousing.  My last thought when my head hit the pillow was, 'Man, I love those guys!'; my first thought upon waking was, 'Man, I am NEVER drinking alcohol again!'  I couldn't even lift my head from the pillow, and had it not been for the insurmountable urge to get to the toilet, I would have burrowed under the bedclothes and stayed here all day, notwithstanding I was actually not in my own home but the house of the parents of one of my childhood besties.  It was a bit of deja vu, that morning, waking up with a hangover after all those times my friend and I snuck in after midnight, rotten blind pissed.  Yes, that day I had to wait until it was nearly dark before I could leave just so I could be sure I was legally capable of driving.  So, note to self: when drinking red wine, have some food.

Stupidest Thing I Read Today: some article complaining about the image from a Caravaggio painting used on a pasta sauce bottle.  The problem?  It is from his painting 'Judith Beheading Holofernes' so therefore is apparently promoting violence, people!!!  I wish I wasn't so hung over today, or I'd really let rip on how I perceive this pinnacle of stupidity for the day.  Number 1: you only see Judith's head on the label and not the gruesome act depicted in the work, and Number 2: it's from a wonderful piece of art and can anybody please stop acting like dickweeds?  Hell, maybe the graphic artist who designed the label wanted to use this painting as a metaphor, you know, the bloke's blood would represent the rich, red lush sauce within the jar.  Oh, boy oh boy.