I don't know if I really want to write today, but as an author it's probably best to do some type of exercise. I'm feeling incredibly blasé and blah. This is not how I like to be feeling. My gut is also not its usual self today, and I have had very little appetite. This is not like me at all. I am a little down in the dumps. Yesterday I was coasting on a high; today I feel like climbing into bed. I'm tired. So tired. Probably experiencing symptoms of peri-menopause. If this is the case, I am not bothered - it's the body doing what it's meant to be doing. Just not enjoying feeling lethargic, that's all. I had plans. Glorious plans. I was going to go to the gym. I didn't. Well, my little one had to stay home from school because he was unwell, anyway. What I am suffering today is not what he has, so I haven't caught anything from him. Tomorrow, we are going to have a horde of children descending upon us, as he celebrates the magnificence of having turned eleven this week. Loud ten- and eleven-year-old boys, hyped up on lollies and soft drink, shouting at each other over the x-box, and my fourteen-year-old will be lording it over them like a despot. Dear-oh-dear-oh-dear.
This evening, I am planning to go to the opening of an exhibition at the local art gallery. The management there have always been incredibly supportive and allowed me to launch my novels there with no venue hire fee, so I will be supportive in return. I will rub shoulders with my fellow artsy-fartsy types, and drink a glass or two of shiraz from our local wineries. I will no doubt pig in to the cheese and crackers, and my gut will then feel worse.
What could cheer me now? Maybe a moratorium from the media that their publications, be they paper or cyber, be declared Adam Goodes-free zones for about two weeks. Sick of it. Is there a systemic problem of racism in the AFL? Address it, and stamp that fucker out. Likewise, homophobia, Islamophobia, anti-Semitism, and any other form of bigotry and hated should be afforded the same treatment. I'm fed up with it now. Whether what's happening to Goodes is racially motivated is starting to get beyond my ken, I fear, but I do hope he gets counselling for what is clearly bothering him a great deal. I don't wish unhappiness on the man. To those who say it's not racism, I say: Goodes' perception is his reality, and to him it IS racism. For the record, I don't believe if someone doesn't like a person, the colour of that person's skin is necessarily the reason. People are fed up being told they are racists on the basis they merely think someone is a bit of a flog. People are fed up. I am fed up. I did not appreciate being informed by someone the other night on social media I have the stain of racism upon me, and that I sit in my 'smug, white, middle-class existence'. I challenged my detractor to explain how he had reached that conclusion, and asked was it on the basis 'that I look like a mature Daphne from Scooby Doo' (well, I thought it was funny, anyway). My detractor said he had looked not at my photo, but into my soul, and I asked my detractor was he some kind of incubus. Said detractor told me I have to change, I told my detractor HE should change, and start with his doctor. The argument went nowhere, as stupid name-calling arguments on social media threads are wont to do. I like a good stoush with the written word, but this is all spiralling out of control now. I feel the world I know is turning into some kind of 21st century, Australian version of 'The Bonfire of the Vanities'. If you don't get the reference, read the book. Wonderful Eighties satire by Tom Wolfe. Don't watch the movie with Tom Hanks, Melanie Griffiths, and Bruce Willis because it totally sucks the dried faecal matter from the matted fur around a Maltese terrier's arse.
'Tis all for now.
Thursday, 30 July 2015
Monday, 27 July 2015
Good(es) Sportsmanship, and Irony
I don't follow AFL. If I was going to follow a football code it would BE AFL because the blokes have nice bodies. That is immensely shallow of me, I know, but for eye-candy, and because I'm a biceps girl, I like the look of AFL players. Should there be booing at the AFL? I don't know if I'm really qualified to say because as mentioned, I don't follow the game. I've always believed it a sign of bad sportsmanship and mad manners, both traits that offend me. But dyed-in-the-wool fans say it's part of the atmosphere. Okay, I'll accept that. All I seem to hear about is Adam Goodes complaining that he's being booed, and saying it is an symptom of racism. It would appear there are many indigenous players who DON'T get booed, so is racism a problem in the sport? If people are booing, is it because he's indigenous, or because people just downright don't bloody like him? All the comments I'm reading say he's being booed because he's acting like a flog. Of course we have a ratbag element in Australia, but I believe the majority of us aren't really racists at all. If people don't like me, it's not because I'm a woman. It's because I'm an obnoxious smart-arse. My gender has nothing to do with it.
Today on the radio I heard 'Ironic' by Alanis Morrisset. The lyrics say something about it being a traffic jam, when you're already late. Being stuck in a traffic jam when you're already late is not ironic. It is aggravating. It is stressful. It is off-pissing. But ironic, no. Woman, get a dictionary.
Eleven years ago today a midwife handed me a slippery little scrap, and his father cried out in delight, 'Another little mate!' Over the past eleven years he has brought us amusement with his antics, and fear when he started to suffer the seizures that were a manifestation of the epilepsy with which he was diagnosed a few years ago. I recall being in that delivery room, being buttoned into a gown, and a midwife saying, 'Darling, I'm going to get your lovely hair caught in these buttons!' 'That's the least of my problems,' I groaned in response, my body in the thrall of third-stage contractions. The other attending midwife asked, 'What is your body saying, Simone?' My response was, 'Get this fucking thing out of me!' I do not apologise for any delivery-room profanity; labour hurts and it is pretty much impossible to shock a midwife. But this labour was relatively quick and easy, and I soon found myself cradling a slippery, warm, 8lb babe in my arms. I looked at him in silence, and he just looked around with a laid-back expression on his face. He's grown up into a very theatrical sort, who loves music, can draw, and sometimes writes stories. He's my kid. Happy birthday.
Today on the radio I heard 'Ironic' by Alanis Morrisset. The lyrics say something about it being a traffic jam, when you're already late. Being stuck in a traffic jam when you're already late is not ironic. It is aggravating. It is stressful. It is off-pissing. But ironic, no. Woman, get a dictionary.
Eleven years ago today a midwife handed me a slippery little scrap, and his father cried out in delight, 'Another little mate!' Over the past eleven years he has brought us amusement with his antics, and fear when he started to suffer the seizures that were a manifestation of the epilepsy with which he was diagnosed a few years ago. I recall being in that delivery room, being buttoned into a gown, and a midwife saying, 'Darling, I'm going to get your lovely hair caught in these buttons!' 'That's the least of my problems,' I groaned in response, my body in the thrall of third-stage contractions. The other attending midwife asked, 'What is your body saying, Simone?' My response was, 'Get this fucking thing out of me!' I do not apologise for any delivery-room profanity; labour hurts and it is pretty much impossible to shock a midwife. But this labour was relatively quick and easy, and I soon found myself cradling a slippery, warm, 8lb babe in my arms. I looked at him in silence, and he just looked around with a laid-back expression on his face. He's grown up into a very theatrical sort, who loves music, can draw, and sometimes writes stories. He's my kid. Happy birthday.
Sunday, 26 July 2015
My 'Go Set A Watchman' Experience
Okay, I finished the much heralded 'Go Set A Watchman', which is the sequel to the classic 'To Kill A Mockingbird' today, whilst I was on an exercise bike at the gym where I drag my middle aged carcass several times a week. Thankfully, there were some young men there today. Not because I wanted to perve, nay, they were not my type. My gratitude stems from the fact one of them loosened the section of the leg curl so I could adjust the cushioned area, and slide my calves under it, and ergo do some leg curls to exercise the old glutes. I was very thankful to this young man, because the thing was still wedged tight from whoever the meat-headed flog was who tightened it beyond all laws of physics last week. The young man, reasonably robust of bicep, actually had trouble dislodging it. And if he had trouble, then I ran the grave risk of dislodging an internal organ. I'm sure he went home and said he'd done his good deed for the day, i.e., helping out a senior citizen at the gym.
But yes, I sat on the exercise bike and read the final pages. My verdict? Enjoyable. I love the narrative style, and I enjoyed the interesting character development where - POTENTIAL SPOILER ALERT - Jean Louise (she's Jean Louise now, not Scout) realises her father is a man with feet of clay. As a writer, I know it is important to have characters grow, and not be two dimensional. I suppose had Atticus remained the paragon, he might have been a bit, well, two-dimensional. Don't get me wrong; he's not evil in this one or anything like that. He's just, well, human. But I loved my Atticus from the first one. When lecturing on any aspect of creative writing, I often use 'Mockingbird' as an example to illustrate my point. A particular favourite of mine is when having characters in a tricky situation, an unknown talent in a character can save the day. Of course, I refer to the scene where there is a rabid dog meandering down the street, and everyone is shit scared, and Sheriff Heck Tate and Atticus Finch are in the street, and to his children's amazement, Atticus is handed a gun by the sheriff who says, 'You take him, Mr Finch.' 'Why Heck, I haven't shot a gun in twenty years.' 'Well, I'd feel mighty comfortable if you did now.' And he does. And the children gawp. And the Sheriff says with a grin to Jem Finch, 'What's the matter, boy? Didn't you know your daddy was the best shot in Maycomb Country?' And I just love it. And I just love the courtroom scene. And I just love Atticus. But as a writer and a reader, I respect the decision and direction taken by Harper Lee in this book. Still, I did love those parables and adages from the first one. 'Let the dead bury the dead, Mr Finch'. 'Why Scout, you never really know a person until you've walked around in his skin.' Hey, in regards to that second one, could that be where Buffalo Bill in 'Silence of the Lambs' got inspiration? Heh-heh.
Would I read it again? Most likely.
Now, next on my reading list is another sequel of sorts, and it relates to the lamentable 'Fifty Shades OfUtter Crap On A Page, um, Grey' book. It's 'Grey', and it's told from the POV of the knot-tying fuck-up that is Christian Grey. I've read about five pages thus far, and got dizzy from my rolling eyes. I will persevere, and no doubt deal myself an uppercut for doing so. I have never actually thrown a book across the room, but I almost did with the first one in this series.
Guilty pleasure of the day: I've been listening to 'Yellow River' by the Aussie band Autumn. So sue me.
But yes, I sat on the exercise bike and read the final pages. My verdict? Enjoyable. I love the narrative style, and I enjoyed the interesting character development where - POTENTIAL SPOILER ALERT - Jean Louise (she's Jean Louise now, not Scout) realises her father is a man with feet of clay. As a writer, I know it is important to have characters grow, and not be two dimensional. I suppose had Atticus remained the paragon, he might have been a bit, well, two-dimensional. Don't get me wrong; he's not evil in this one or anything like that. He's just, well, human. But I loved my Atticus from the first one. When lecturing on any aspect of creative writing, I often use 'Mockingbird' as an example to illustrate my point. A particular favourite of mine is when having characters in a tricky situation, an unknown talent in a character can save the day. Of course, I refer to the scene where there is a rabid dog meandering down the street, and everyone is shit scared, and Sheriff Heck Tate and Atticus Finch are in the street, and to his children's amazement, Atticus is handed a gun by the sheriff who says, 'You take him, Mr Finch.' 'Why Heck, I haven't shot a gun in twenty years.' 'Well, I'd feel mighty comfortable if you did now.' And he does. And the children gawp. And the Sheriff says with a grin to Jem Finch, 'What's the matter, boy? Didn't you know your daddy was the best shot in Maycomb Country?' And I just love it. And I just love the courtroom scene. And I just love Atticus. But as a writer and a reader, I respect the decision and direction taken by Harper Lee in this book. Still, I did love those parables and adages from the first one. 'Let the dead bury the dead, Mr Finch'. 'Why Scout, you never really know a person until you've walked around in his skin.' Hey, in regards to that second one, could that be where Buffalo Bill in 'Silence of the Lambs' got inspiration? Heh-heh.
Would I read it again? Most likely.
Now, next on my reading list is another sequel of sorts, and it relates to the lamentable 'Fifty Shades Of
Guilty pleasure of the day: I've been listening to 'Yellow River' by the Aussie band Autumn. So sue me.
Saturday, 25 July 2015
Sugar, and Ace-ing It
I shall probably write about what I did today. Most of you are probably too busy not giving a rat's ring what I did today, and that's a good thing because it's a clear sign you are all capable of minding your own business. First of all I did my usual (after my morning coffee because NOTHING happens until I've ground the beans and brewed myself a nice cappuccino), and that was to throw a cat among the pigeons on a morning television show's Facebook thread. Well, to be honest, I didn't really throw the cat among the birds; I'd say a more accurate metaphor would be I lifted the cat up and held it aloft for the birds to see, just for a bit of a scare. In real life I probably wouldn't bother lifting up a cat because I actually don't like them. I'm a dog lover. There was an article on 'Sunrise' this morning about this thing of being a 'sugar baby' for a 'sugar daddy' who's willing to pay. Oh, there were the usual hand-wringers and pearl-twisters, and won't-someone-think-of-the-children-ers. 'It's prostitution!' complained many. Possibly, if interpreting and applying the NSW legislation definition of prostitution to these situation, it is indeed that. Inciting someone to sexual excitement and gratification for remuneration is indeed pretty much what prostitution is, as I understand our State Legislature. But in the case of the sugar-relationship: who cares? The people involved are all consenting adults making their own informed decisions. People were saying the girls would look back with regrets. I'm reckoning they'll look around their mortgage-free homes, and pay their bills on time, and not avoid the phone when it rings in case it's a creditor, and admire their healthy share portfolios; and feel NO regrets. Hell, I wouldn't. I actually had a chance to be a sugar baby many years ago, when aged in my early twenties (or is twenty-four mid-twenties?). A man in his forties had become rather infatuated with me, and offered me a nest egg. I was so damned embarrassed, and I knew the guy was married with a family, and I said no. I didn't like the idea of being beholden to anybody. Years later, as I've struggled with bills, I have occasionally wondered should I have taken up the offer. At the moment, my finances are not all that bad. But there were times....
After attending my fourteen-year-old's soccer game, I went to the gym. I take this opportunity to offer to offer a slow, sarcastic handclap to the imbecile who screwed on the attachment which holds the 'cushions' for the calf muscles on the leg-curl. So tightly was it screwed, he might just as well have soldered the bloody thing. I couldn't loosen it, so I couldn't adjust it to where I like it, and I couldn't lie face-down on the leg curl and place my calf muscles in a good enough spot to make efficient use of the machine. There was only one other person at the gym, and it was a female staff member, and like me she was not a particularly robust specimen. We could not loosen it, and I missed out on doing those all important leg-curls to help tighten my glutes. If my arse starts to travel southward, I'm holding this imbecile personally responsible. Oh, who am I kidding? My arse has probably already packed its bags, and has its passport and traveller's cheques in in a safe spot in anticipation of the journey. But I was not happy.
What I've just been doing is indulging in some guilty pleasures, especially watching footage of the Kiss 1980 Sydney concert. How awesome were these guys when at the top of their game? I also watched Ace performing 'New York Groove' at this concert, and the fact that Ace really can't sing for shit exacerbates the guilt in watching this. However, watching this footage is making me bummed because, despite my finances being not TOO bad, I really cannot afford to go and see Kiss when they tour Australia later this year. Now, if I'd only taken up that bloke on his offer to provide me with a nest egg all those years ago, I might be painting up (as Ace, naturally), and heading off to whatever Arena. Should I try and drum up some kind of time-travel De Lorean and advise my much younger self to take this bloke up on his offer?
After attending my fourteen-year-old's soccer game, I went to the gym. I take this opportunity to offer to offer a slow, sarcastic handclap to the imbecile who screwed on the attachment which holds the 'cushions' for the calf muscles on the leg-curl. So tightly was it screwed, he might just as well have soldered the bloody thing. I couldn't loosen it, so I couldn't adjust it to where I like it, and I couldn't lie face-down on the leg curl and place my calf muscles in a good enough spot to make efficient use of the machine. There was only one other person at the gym, and it was a female staff member, and like me she was not a particularly robust specimen. We could not loosen it, and I missed out on doing those all important leg-curls to help tighten my glutes. If my arse starts to travel southward, I'm holding this imbecile personally responsible. Oh, who am I kidding? My arse has probably already packed its bags, and has its passport and traveller's cheques in in a safe spot in anticipation of the journey. But I was not happy.
What I've just been doing is indulging in some guilty pleasures, especially watching footage of the Kiss 1980 Sydney concert. How awesome were these guys when at the top of their game? I also watched Ace performing 'New York Groove' at this concert, and the fact that Ace really can't sing for shit exacerbates the guilt in watching this. However, watching this footage is making me bummed because, despite my finances being not TOO bad, I really cannot afford to go and see Kiss when they tour Australia later this year. Now, if I'd only taken up that bloke on his offer to provide me with a nest egg all those years ago, I might be painting up (as Ace, naturally), and heading off to whatever Arena. Should I try and drum up some kind of time-travel De Lorean and advise my much younger self to take this bloke up on his offer?
Tuesday, 21 July 2015
Gluteus Coitus Exodus (Hoping My Interpretation Is Correct)
I adjust my horse hair wig, slide the pinc-nez up the bridge of my nose, and hook my thumbs just into the opening of my black robes, and say in a manner hopefully redolent of Rumpole's relaxed and just cheeky enough to stay within realms of respect: 'Your Honour, if it pleases the Court, Bailey for the accused.' Sometimes I do play Devil's advocate, but I'm not sure if I'm doing so just now. Possibly the Devil does have some interest in what I am about to say, I know not. I do know a few things: Number 1: I'm typing this at my library because there's something going on with my computer to do with update installation, and I'm sure there's something wrong, and Mr Bingells is better equipped to work it out than I, but he is at work. Number 2: I appear before the High Court of Social Media to plead for the so-called 37 million users of an adult dating site that has been hacked. The hackers are demanding the site be removed from the Web.
Okay, I shall now face the jurors, who appear to be everybody commenting on every single thread I have read about this hacking, and threats of exposure of site's members. I'm sure you all know what I'm speaking about. This site encourages people to have affairs. Ergo, in the minds of hackers and just about every commenter I have seen, the site is wicked, and depraved, and shouldn't be allowed to run, and steals small children from the cradles and replaces them with evil little changelings. I would guess around 97% of the comments are in favour of the hackers. This is my guess, as I said; my maths sucks. There are repeated cries of 'Remove the site!' 'It shouldn't be allowed to advertise on television!' 'Do the crime, do the time!' 'Serves the cheating scumbags right!'
Now all this is doing my head in, so I am taking it upon myself to write in a methaphorical manner, to wit a courtroom, about WHY this is pissing me off. Let me address the argument 'Do the crime; do the time'. Now, in theory, that is now without merit. I am still to check the penalty for cyber-hacking. Yeah, THAT'S the crime here. Seeking out, or engaging in, sex with another consenting adult is NOT illegal. Hacking is.
As for the argument the site shouldn't be allowed to operate, well, I'm now sure of the Latin for this, so I don't sound quite like a barrister, but the English translation is: "Who the fuck are you to say the site cannot operate?" Maybe the Latin goes something like "Tu Coitus Vox Situ Non Operandi". But yeah, if it's done all it has to do to function as a business, then leave it alone. The thing is; cheaters are going cheat. Cheating has been around for as long as people have been fucking, and this far pre-dates the Internet. The site no doubt employs people, and derives income. You might not approve of the manner in which they earn their income, but if it is via legal means, then butt the fuck out, or as my pig-Latin indicates: "gluteus coitus exodus".
People seek out these sites for sexual gratification. But we do not know what is going on in their home lives to make them wish to seek a bit of extra. It is NOT OUR BUSINESS if someone chooses to seek a bit of extra. I often say people must shop at their local camping store all the time for the crampons, rope and pick axes to get to their high moral ground.
Do I approve of people cheating? In principle, no. The reality is, it happens, and the sex lives of 37 million other people, most of whom I'm confident I would know from a bar of soap, is not my business. Another thing people don't seem to consider is the reactions of the cuckolded spouses. Could the public humiliation drive them to self harm, or harm their children first?
And something else that sets my teeth on edge, and flares my nostrils is the ARROGANCE of the hackers. If there was ever a group for whom the statement 'Get over yourselves' was coined, it's them. So you don't approve of someone engaging in a perfectly legal activity with another adult? Then go on Ebay and bid on a life! Often people who are overly concerned about the sex lives of other people have none of their own.
Alcohol can be very damaging to the family unit, but I haven't heard anything about hackers targetting the Australian Hotels Association.
Just cannot abide judgemental people presiding over others' sex lives, and not minding their own damn business.
Also cannot abide that little gherkin in what looked like a green Mazda who came screaming from the T-intersection into my line of drive, and I was on the main road and had right of way, and she didn't even bloody look! I had to hit the brakes before she hit my car. You stupid little moron, where'd you get your licence? A packet of Cornflakes? So sarcastic handclaps to you, she-retard.
Okay, I shall now face the jurors, who appear to be everybody commenting on every single thread I have read about this hacking, and threats of exposure of site's members. I'm sure you all know what I'm speaking about. This site encourages people to have affairs. Ergo, in the minds of hackers and just about every commenter I have seen, the site is wicked, and depraved, and shouldn't be allowed to run, and steals small children from the cradles and replaces them with evil little changelings. I would guess around 97% of the comments are in favour of the hackers. This is my guess, as I said; my maths sucks. There are repeated cries of 'Remove the site!' 'It shouldn't be allowed to advertise on television!' 'Do the crime, do the time!' 'Serves the cheating scumbags right!'
Now all this is doing my head in, so I am taking it upon myself to write in a methaphorical manner, to wit a courtroom, about WHY this is pissing me off. Let me address the argument 'Do the crime; do the time'. Now, in theory, that is now without merit. I am still to check the penalty for cyber-hacking. Yeah, THAT'S the crime here. Seeking out, or engaging in, sex with another consenting adult is NOT illegal. Hacking is.
As for the argument the site shouldn't be allowed to operate, well, I'm now sure of the Latin for this, so I don't sound quite like a barrister, but the English translation is: "Who the fuck are you to say the site cannot operate?" Maybe the Latin goes something like "Tu Coitus Vox Situ Non Operandi". But yeah, if it's done all it has to do to function as a business, then leave it alone. The thing is; cheaters are going cheat. Cheating has been around for as long as people have been fucking, and this far pre-dates the Internet. The site no doubt employs people, and derives income. You might not approve of the manner in which they earn their income, but if it is via legal means, then butt the fuck out, or as my pig-Latin indicates: "gluteus coitus exodus".
People seek out these sites for sexual gratification. But we do not know what is going on in their home lives to make them wish to seek a bit of extra. It is NOT OUR BUSINESS if someone chooses to seek a bit of extra. I often say people must shop at their local camping store all the time for the crampons, rope and pick axes to get to their high moral ground.
Do I approve of people cheating? In principle, no. The reality is, it happens, and the sex lives of 37 million other people, most of whom I'm confident I would know from a bar of soap, is not my business. Another thing people don't seem to consider is the reactions of the cuckolded spouses. Could the public humiliation drive them to self harm, or harm their children first?
And something else that sets my teeth on edge, and flares my nostrils is the ARROGANCE of the hackers. If there was ever a group for whom the statement 'Get over yourselves' was coined, it's them. So you don't approve of someone engaging in a perfectly legal activity with another adult? Then go on Ebay and bid on a life! Often people who are overly concerned about the sex lives of other people have none of their own.
Alcohol can be very damaging to the family unit, but I haven't heard anything about hackers targetting the Australian Hotels Association.
Just cannot abide judgemental people presiding over others' sex lives, and not minding their own damn business.
Also cannot abide that little gherkin in what looked like a green Mazda who came screaming from the T-intersection into my line of drive, and I was on the main road and had right of way, and she didn't even bloody look! I had to hit the brakes before she hit my car. You stupid little moron, where'd you get your licence? A packet of Cornflakes? So sarcastic handclaps to you, she-retard.
Sunday, 19 July 2015
More Icky Songs, & Testing The Springs & Boundaries
Another one for the list of songs to not attempt to seduce with, as commented on my last post by my friend Matt, is 'Do You Wanna Make Love (Or Do You Just Wanna Fool Around)?' by Peter McCann. Look, I am ambivalent about this. On one hand, it is an incredibly embarrassing guilty pleasure of mine. The guy has a really nice voice, and the song was recorded when I was about eleven, and at the age of eleven, you still like to think the world is safe and you have no worries, other than your budding bosom as you're hitting puberty, and the fear of starting high school soon, where all the big kids are, and will you fit in or just be a square peg. The answer from me is the latter. I always believed myself to be a total fuck-up throughout my school years, and it wasn't until I was on the committee for my school reunion (go figure!), and tracking down people via Facebook, I learned the people whom I'd always believe detested me actually rather liked me! Wow.
But back to this song. The guy singing it, despite the nice voice, actually reminds me of this pervy old creep of a teacher I had in high school (again with the high school reference). And he sounds like he's taking himself more seriously than he should, and then he sings the line, 'We can take it seriously, or take it somewhere else...'. What the hell? ('You'll find the lubricant in Aisle 4, Sir'). He also reminds me of a bed salesman in Bondi back in the early Nineties. I had decided to get rid of my waterbed (they were de rigeur in the late Eighties, so haul your mind out of the gutter) as it was a nuisance to move around, back in the days when it was necessary to move to a new flat once every year or so upon expiration of a lease, or unreasonable hike in rent, or the flatmate suddenly grew a third eye and developed a propensity for squashing the big hairy Huntsman spiders and eating them. I knew some who swear by waterbeds, and I did enjoy sleeping in mine, but I disagree they are a breeze to move. They are a nightmare to drain. I remember moving flats with my older sister, and she complained, 'What did you have to buy a bloody water bed for?', and I fired back the good old standby that is often used in filial arguments: 'Because I just bloody did, okay?!!!" So, after several terse sessions of draining the fucker, I decided it was time to get rid of it and buy a mattress ensemble. So I went to this place in Bondi, and spoke to the salesman who looked like the bloke singing that song (only his moustache was less bushy). He radiated a miasma of ick, and spoke in a fruity Mr Burns of 'The Simpson's style (you have to imagine this, okay?) and his voice had undercurrents of sleaze. I sat on one side of the bed, and he lay down on the other to prove the resilience of the springs. I decided the bed was fine, stood up and said I would purchase the product, and thanked him for his assistance. He purred, 'It's a pleasure to test a bed with you, Miss Bailey', and it was all I could do not to shudder and go, 'Eeeuuuuuuw!' in the shop. But I bought the double bed, it lasted me just fine until I met my husband, a man of 6'1", and realised it was time to upgrade to a larger sized bed.
But yeah, when attempting to make and court sweet woo, don't play that bloody song, okay?'
But back to this song. The guy singing it, despite the nice voice, actually reminds me of this pervy old creep of a teacher I had in high school (again with the high school reference). And he sounds like he's taking himself more seriously than he should, and then he sings the line, 'We can take it seriously, or take it somewhere else...'. What the hell? ('You'll find the lubricant in Aisle 4, Sir'). He also reminds me of a bed salesman in Bondi back in the early Nineties. I had decided to get rid of my waterbed (they were de rigeur in the late Eighties, so haul your mind out of the gutter) as it was a nuisance to move around, back in the days when it was necessary to move to a new flat once every year or so upon expiration of a lease, or unreasonable hike in rent, or the flatmate suddenly grew a third eye and developed a propensity for squashing the big hairy Huntsman spiders and eating them. I knew some who swear by waterbeds, and I did enjoy sleeping in mine, but I disagree they are a breeze to move. They are a nightmare to drain. I remember moving flats with my older sister, and she complained, 'What did you have to buy a bloody water bed for?', and I fired back the good old standby that is often used in filial arguments: 'Because I just bloody did, okay?!!!" So, after several terse sessions of draining the fucker, I decided it was time to get rid of it and buy a mattress ensemble. So I went to this place in Bondi, and spoke to the salesman who looked like the bloke singing that song (only his moustache was less bushy). He radiated a miasma of ick, and spoke in a fruity Mr Burns of 'The Simpson's style (you have to imagine this, okay?) and his voice had undercurrents of sleaze. I sat on one side of the bed, and he lay down on the other to prove the resilience of the springs. I decided the bed was fine, stood up and said I would purchase the product, and thanked him for his assistance. He purred, 'It's a pleasure to test a bed with you, Miss Bailey', and it was all I could do not to shudder and go, 'Eeeuuuuuuw!' in the shop. But I bought the double bed, it lasted me just fine until I met my husband, a man of 6'1", and realised it was time to upgrade to a larger sized bed.
But yeah, when attempting to make and court sweet woo, don't play that bloody song, okay?'
Thursday, 16 July 2015
Songs To NOT Seduce By
I really don't like being cold, my current state of being. I'm imagining a warm fire, fine red wine, and maybe some gentle music. A seduction. Or maybe not gentle music - I have a guilty pleasure of watching old live performances of Van Halen, and find that strangely arousing (and here come the nurse with my meds now).
Songs can be seductive. Some try to be, yet miss the mark by a country mile. Sometimes it's related to the accompanying video clip. Don't worry, reader; I am going to do a list here of what NOT to play when you're trying to get a significant other in the mood to Make The Lurrrrrrve. I will point out the list hereunder comprises songs that turn ME right off, so let that be your guide. I do not claim to be a typical woman. I have heard it said numerous times over the years I'm kind of strange. 'A Strange Kind Of Woman', which is one of my favourite Deep Purple songs. Unlike 'Sweet Child In Time' because it goes on and on and on and on. Anyway folks, this is just a suggested guide:
1. 'You Are Not Alone' by Michael Jackson. Mainly because it's, well, Michael Jackson. Play that song to me, and babycakes, you WILL be alone! The song is a combination of bodily functions in that it is both pissy and farty. The film clip is nauseating in the extreme because it features Michael Jackson in a loin cloth or something, to protect the viewer from the sight of his genitalia (which I wonder was also plastic). But the rest of the body is like a waxed skeletal mannequin, and he's caressing Lisa Marie Presley. The thought of Michael Jackson doing anything remotely sexual creeps me out, and the sight of it makes me want to undergo a lobotomy.
2. 'Tonight's The Night' by Rod Stewart. As a kid, I watched it on 'Sounds' with my older sister. She shrieked, 'God, he's ugly!', and my then 10yo self was traumatised at the sight of him making out with Britt Ekland at the end of the clip. The lyrics speak about disconnecting the telephone line (serial killer alert!), and 'spread your wings and let me come inside'. With regards to the latter, has there ever been a more sickening metaphor? If he'd sung, 'Part the beef curtains and let's have a root', it would probably be only marginally more believable. The song 'Foxtrot Uniform Charlie Kilo' has a plethora of loopy metaphors, but at least it's sung with humour (and I must admit I do have that song on my dangerously crazy iPod).
3. 'Love Serenade Part I' by Barry White. I love Barry's timbre, but seriously, this is about as subtle as punch between the eyes.
4. 'I'd Love You To Want Me' by Lobo. It's just so blah. It starts with the lyrical crime of 'When I saw you standing there/I just about fell off my chair' (or words to that effect, as the former law clerk in me qualifies). I just listen to this overwrought and piteous blathering about almost falling off his chair, and just wonder was the dude pissed out of his gourd, or something.
So, there you have it. Songs with which to NOT woo members of the opposite (or same, if it's your thing) sex. Might have to think of some more for you, because let's face it, I am kind of performing a public service here. If you can think of any, reader, let me know.
Songs can be seductive. Some try to be, yet miss the mark by a country mile. Sometimes it's related to the accompanying video clip. Don't worry, reader; I am going to do a list here of what NOT to play when you're trying to get a significant other in the mood to Make The Lurrrrrrve. I will point out the list hereunder comprises songs that turn ME right off, so let that be your guide. I do not claim to be a typical woman. I have heard it said numerous times over the years I'm kind of strange. 'A Strange Kind Of Woman', which is one of my favourite Deep Purple songs. Unlike 'Sweet Child In Time' because it goes on and on and on and on. Anyway folks, this is just a suggested guide:
1. 'You Are Not Alone' by Michael Jackson. Mainly because it's, well, Michael Jackson. Play that song to me, and babycakes, you WILL be alone! The song is a combination of bodily functions in that it is both pissy and farty. The film clip is nauseating in the extreme because it features Michael Jackson in a loin cloth or something, to protect the viewer from the sight of his genitalia (which I wonder was also plastic). But the rest of the body is like a waxed skeletal mannequin, and he's caressing Lisa Marie Presley. The thought of Michael Jackson doing anything remotely sexual creeps me out, and the sight of it makes me want to undergo a lobotomy.
2. 'Tonight's The Night' by Rod Stewart. As a kid, I watched it on 'Sounds' with my older sister. She shrieked, 'God, he's ugly!', and my then 10yo self was traumatised at the sight of him making out with Britt Ekland at the end of the clip. The lyrics speak about disconnecting the telephone line (serial killer alert!), and 'spread your wings and let me come inside'. With regards to the latter, has there ever been a more sickening metaphor? If he'd sung, 'Part the beef curtains and let's have a root', it would probably be only marginally more believable. The song 'Foxtrot Uniform Charlie Kilo' has a plethora of loopy metaphors, but at least it's sung with humour (and I must admit I do have that song on my dangerously crazy iPod).
3. 'Love Serenade Part I' by Barry White. I love Barry's timbre, but seriously, this is about as subtle as punch between the eyes.
4. 'I'd Love You To Want Me' by Lobo. It's just so blah. It starts with the lyrical crime of 'When I saw you standing there/I just about fell off my chair' (or words to that effect, as the former law clerk in me qualifies). I just listen to this overwrought and piteous blathering about almost falling off his chair, and just wonder was the dude pissed out of his gourd, or something.
So, there you have it. Songs with which to NOT woo members of the opposite (or same, if it's your thing) sex. Might have to think of some more for you, because let's face it, I am kind of performing a public service here. If you can think of any, reader, let me know.
Monday, 13 July 2015
Today's Little Rant
Hands up who hates people who take the moral high ground and play God? Here's a hint: I'm typing this with one hand. I read today about some hotel employee who subtly decided to let the wife of a weekly patron know her husband was a cheater. Y'see, the husband would check in once a week with a woman who was not his wife. I don't approve of cheating in a relationship per se, but here's the thing: your marriage ain't my business. I would never interfere in a friend's relationship, unless he/she was clearly in a bad one. If I didn't like my friend's partner, I would just suck it up and try to avoid seeing the partner where possible. I have had in the past to advise a friend thus, when she took a serious loathing to a man one of her good friends had started to see. Oh, she didn't think he was abusive, or a cheater, or likely to drain her bank account and head off to the Dominican Republic with the ill-gotten gains. She just downright hated the dude. That's fine. It is her right. But because she couldn't pinpoint anything that would be detrimental to her friend, I told her to just deal with it because it was her friend dating the guy, not her. Her friend is no longer with this man. Last time I saw this friend was at the wedding of our mutual friend, and the man she had brought as her plus one was very nice, and I'm happy for her.
To the hotel clerk who saw fit to interfere in someone else's marriage: I hope the philandering husband complained to the powers that be, and you got your scurvy arse sacked. When I did my Cert III in Hospitality many years ago, I remember the teacher saying discretion was very important, as well as the basic politeness etc that goes with the job description. By discretion, one does not give judgemental looks or remarks, and remains schtum when a gentleman checks in with his niece (when reading niece try and imagine little fingertip 'quotation marks' in the air, okay?). Supposing the couple have an open marriage, and the wife's cool with his liaisons in the hotel, where he is PAYING for the privilege of a room and some presumed privacy? Maybe she gets hot and turned on at the thought of him with another woman (it can happen, so don't roll your eyes and navigate away from my page, okay?). Maybe she's using the time to get a good pounding from the pool boy, and it's all by mutual agreement between the parties. What if she had received the letter and gone off the rails, shot her husband, and then self-harmed? You don't know how people are going to react, so kindly stop interfering. Unless the party is in obvious danger, mind your own bloody business. Last I heard, sex between consenting adults is still legal, so what's your problem, Mr Piss-Elegant Busybody Of A Hotel Clerk? In doing what you've done, it's quite possibly the parties are going to tell everybody they know not to use the venue for any function whatsoever, because they do not respect their clientele. Take a moment to let that absorb, will you?
Songs I have put on my iPod recently:
1. 'Boys Don't Cry' by The Cure
2. 'Hey, Jealousy' by Gin Blossoms
3. 'The Middle' by Jimmy Eat World
4. 'Wild, Wild Life' by Talking Heads
To the hotel clerk who saw fit to interfere in someone else's marriage: I hope the philandering husband complained to the powers that be, and you got your scurvy arse sacked. When I did my Cert III in Hospitality many years ago, I remember the teacher saying discretion was very important, as well as the basic politeness etc that goes with the job description. By discretion, one does not give judgemental looks or remarks, and remains schtum when a gentleman checks in with his niece (when reading niece try and imagine little fingertip 'quotation marks' in the air, okay?). Supposing the couple have an open marriage, and the wife's cool with his liaisons in the hotel, where he is PAYING for the privilege of a room and some presumed privacy? Maybe she gets hot and turned on at the thought of him with another woman (it can happen, so don't roll your eyes and navigate away from my page, okay?). Maybe she's using the time to get a good pounding from the pool boy, and it's all by mutual agreement between the parties. What if she had received the letter and gone off the rails, shot her husband, and then self-harmed? You don't know how people are going to react, so kindly stop interfering. Unless the party is in obvious danger, mind your own bloody business. Last I heard, sex between consenting adults is still legal, so what's your problem, Mr Piss-Elegant Busybody Of A Hotel Clerk? In doing what you've done, it's quite possibly the parties are going to tell everybody they know not to use the venue for any function whatsoever, because they do not respect their clientele. Take a moment to let that absorb, will you?
Songs I have put on my iPod recently:
1. 'Boys Don't Cry' by The Cure
2. 'Hey, Jealousy' by Gin Blossoms
3. 'The Middle' by Jimmy Eat World
4. 'Wild, Wild Life' by Talking Heads
Thursday, 9 July 2015
Link to my recent interview
Here, gentle blog-browser, is a link to an interview with US author Celia Kennedy, to promote my book 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth'. Oh, and a chance for me to blather about myself, too:
http://t.co/IkHcezpADC
http://t.co/IkHcezpADC
Tuesday, 7 July 2015
Q and no A
I am loathe to use the argument about 'my tax payer dollars are funding'. It's an argument I've always considered facile and annoying. But I'm kind of pissed off, because I presume it's my tax payer dollars funding whatever inquiry into the ABC's 'Q&A' program, in particular the episode from a few weeks ago where an audience member made distasteful comments. Subsequently, particularly the episode screened a week later, host Tony Jones stated had they been aware of some distasteful tweets this audience member had made regarding two female journalists, they would not have allowed him to speak. Fair enough, and who has time to look at the Twitter accounts of every prospective member of the public who wishes to ask a question and/or book a seat at the ABC studio audience? I'm quite sure some of the previous panellists have made comments that some would find offensive, too.
The fallout has seen Prime Minister Abbott blathering that 'heads should roll', kind of like the Red Queen in 'Alice in Wonderland'.
He has also banned his front bench for appearing on the program. Seriously, what a cock. This appears to me to be problematic because he's moaning and groaning and farting on that 'Q&A' comprises of a 'lefty lynch mob', but won't let his cabinet appear to provide some 'balance', and answer some questions. When I heard this, I had this vision of Abbott bawling and roaring like Fred Flinstone at his most belligerent.
But I'm wondering if this inquiry is just some straw at which the Government is grasping in an attempt to have 'Q&A' removed. I'd hate to see this happen; they occasionally have some fascinating people appearing as guests. And getting back to my original paragraph, I reckon it's going to be a waste of money.
Speaking of guests, I was surprised to find myself nodding along with Larissa Waters last night. She has given me the irrits in the past by pushing parents to not buy gender-specific toys for their children (hey, my kids like what they like, and it's not dollies, okay?). I was wondering what dungheap of a comment was going to get up my nose last night. But she spoke impressively to a doctor-in-training in the audience, and the government's disgraceful attempts to silence medical staff who attempt to speak out/report signs of child abuse on people in detention. This is sickening.
Tomorrow, I must continue doing the corrections on my manuscript for my latest offering. I've gone through and handwritten on the papers, so now must do the corrections on the computer. Then it's time to read it all AGAIN. This is the part of writing I both hate, and like. I hate it because it's tedious, and you have to kill your darlings as the saying goes. But I like it because some really wonderful stuff materialises.
Oh, and it looks like I've been blocked from commenting on a certain so-called 'news' page's Facebook articles. Mr Bingells says I'm not to whinge because 'they' have removed the batteries from my toy. My comments are no more obnoxious than anybody else's, and they are at least correctly worded and punctuated. I do not get the work experience kid to write my stuff. This has never happened to me before, and I am confused by it. Other comments on that particular site are often nastier than mine, but they usually agree with what the author has said. What can I say, but 'harrumph!' and 'pffffft!'
The fallout has seen Prime Minister Abbott blathering that 'heads should roll', kind of like the Red Queen in 'Alice in Wonderland'.
He has also banned his front bench for appearing on the program. Seriously, what a cock. This appears to me to be problematic because he's moaning and groaning and farting on that 'Q&A' comprises of a 'lefty lynch mob', but won't let his cabinet appear to provide some 'balance', and answer some questions. When I heard this, I had this vision of Abbott bawling and roaring like Fred Flinstone at his most belligerent.
But I'm wondering if this inquiry is just some straw at which the Government is grasping in an attempt to have 'Q&A' removed. I'd hate to see this happen; they occasionally have some fascinating people appearing as guests. And getting back to my original paragraph, I reckon it's going to be a waste of money.
Speaking of guests, I was surprised to find myself nodding along with Larissa Waters last night. She has given me the irrits in the past by pushing parents to not buy gender-specific toys for their children (hey, my kids like what they like, and it's not dollies, okay?). I was wondering what dungheap of a comment was going to get up my nose last night. But she spoke impressively to a doctor-in-training in the audience, and the government's disgraceful attempts to silence medical staff who attempt to speak out/report signs of child abuse on people in detention. This is sickening.
Tomorrow, I must continue doing the corrections on my manuscript for my latest offering. I've gone through and handwritten on the papers, so now must do the corrections on the computer. Then it's time to read it all AGAIN. This is the part of writing I both hate, and like. I hate it because it's tedious, and you have to kill your darlings as the saying goes. But I like it because some really wonderful stuff materialises.
Oh, and it looks like I've been blocked from commenting on a certain so-called 'news' page's Facebook articles. Mr Bingells says I'm not to whinge because 'they' have removed the batteries from my toy. My comments are no more obnoxious than anybody else's, and they are at least correctly worded and punctuated. I do not get the work experience kid to write my stuff. This has never happened to me before, and I am confused by it. Other comments on that particular site are often nastier than mine, but they usually agree with what the author has said. What can I say, but 'harrumph!' and 'pffffft!'
Thursday, 2 July 2015
I'm Dreaming Of A Dry Christmas
Not much playing on my mind today, or at least, nothing I can really share. My mind could get me arrested, I believe. But anyway, I did hear on the morning television show today about a man being reinstated at his place of employment following dismissal after inappropriate behaviour at a work Christmas party. It seems the employee got stonkered, told the boss to 'fuck off', and made inappropriate remarks to female staff. You know, I would have thought it a no-brainer. Don't go getting drunk at your work Christmas party because in vino veritas, and if you're the type of person who drools like a palsied bloodhound after a few drinks, and lets everyone know your opinion, and gropes like you're rock-climbing, then stay off the grog. Simple. There's a simple maxim: don't shit where you eat. Hey, I know the feeling. There are work colleagues upon whom you'd love to impart a few home truths, but here's the thing: you can't. One problem if all Christmas parties go dry: it will lead to less work for photocopy machine technicians because the machines won't get wrecked by drunken morons photocopying their own bum.
And yes, I know sometimes it seems you have to be oiled to tolerate these functions. I always disliked them. Not the barristers' chambers' functions where I've attended as a guest; those are different. But other work functions, where you're subjected to the most bitter Chardonnay ever. Seriously, how can people drink this? Why do people rave about it? It always tastes to me as though the grapes were crushed with the vigneron's feet. It's these functions where you get stuck talking to senior management, who want to show how genial they are and talk to the plebs after spending most of the year snarling at you anyway, and they are blissful in their own ignorance of the fact you'd swim across a torrential river of shit to avoid speaking to them. They are functions that often end up kicking on at some nearby pub, and a flabby solicitor decides everyone wants to see him do a strip tease, labouring under the misapprehension he's ripped like Channing Tatum, and not white-bellied and wobbly like a freckly, ginger blancmange. I guess it's better than the party I heard about in my home town where a blob of a woman stripped naked, stood on a hay bale, and sang, 'Oh, Come All Ye Faithful'. I've usually left these work things early because I had to catch a bus to my home town, and missed the spectacle of drunken imbeciles falling into a taxi cab, and one girl puking like a demonically possessed adolescent all over the other occupants. You know what? I'm glad I didn't see that.
I recall attending one Christmas lunch under duress. I'd had a fight with the office administrator, a perfumed gorgon nobody liked. I do not know if this old shit is still alive, but if not, Hell got a fuckload worse when she arrived. I told one of the partners I didn't want to go because of the blue we'd had, and he said she'd take it as a 'slight'. I said she could take it how she fucking wanted. Anyway, I went to the lunch and behaved as petulantly as I could get away with. Sometimes I hate office politics and expectations to attend functions when you'd quite frankly sooner set your hair on fire.
But the moral to my story is, don't get pissed at work functions. If you feel you have to be pissed to tolerate it, maybe just don't go in the first place.
Tonight I have been listening to 'Soley, Soley' by Middle of the Road, a sweet song from around 1971, when I was a little thing in kindergarten. I kind of like this song. The singer, Sally Carr, has a voice that is a campanologist's dream. It's so sweet. It's kind of like having your hair stroked. By someone you like, not that creepy cretin with halitosis and dangly nostril hair that corners you at the office Christmas party.
And yes, I know sometimes it seems you have to be oiled to tolerate these functions. I always disliked them. Not the barristers' chambers' functions where I've attended as a guest; those are different. But other work functions, where you're subjected to the most bitter Chardonnay ever. Seriously, how can people drink this? Why do people rave about it? It always tastes to me as though the grapes were crushed with the vigneron's feet. It's these functions where you get stuck talking to senior management, who want to show how genial they are and talk to the plebs after spending most of the year snarling at you anyway, and they are blissful in their own ignorance of the fact you'd swim across a torrential river of shit to avoid speaking to them. They are functions that often end up kicking on at some nearby pub, and a flabby solicitor decides everyone wants to see him do a strip tease, labouring under the misapprehension he's ripped like Channing Tatum, and not white-bellied and wobbly like a freckly, ginger blancmange. I guess it's better than the party I heard about in my home town where a blob of a woman stripped naked, stood on a hay bale, and sang, 'Oh, Come All Ye Faithful'. I've usually left these work things early because I had to catch a bus to my home town, and missed the spectacle of drunken imbeciles falling into a taxi cab, and one girl puking like a demonically possessed adolescent all over the other occupants. You know what? I'm glad I didn't see that.
I recall attending one Christmas lunch under duress. I'd had a fight with the office administrator, a perfumed gorgon nobody liked. I do not know if this old shit is still alive, but if not, Hell got a fuckload worse when she arrived. I told one of the partners I didn't want to go because of the blue we'd had, and he said she'd take it as a 'slight'. I said she could take it how she fucking wanted. Anyway, I went to the lunch and behaved as petulantly as I could get away with. Sometimes I hate office politics and expectations to attend functions when you'd quite frankly sooner set your hair on fire.
But the moral to my story is, don't get pissed at work functions. If you feel you have to be pissed to tolerate it, maybe just don't go in the first place.
Tonight I have been listening to 'Soley, Soley' by Middle of the Road, a sweet song from around 1971, when I was a little thing in kindergarten. I kind of like this song. The singer, Sally Carr, has a voice that is a campanologist's dream. It's so sweet. It's kind of like having your hair stroked. By someone you like, not that creepy cretin with halitosis and dangly nostril hair that corners you at the office Christmas party.
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