Years ago, I toyed with the idea of undertaking a Diploma of Law. I collected the appropriate paperwork, and actually wrote my name on it. I then experienced an epiphany of Damascene proportions that brought me to the realisation I didn't actually want to be a lawyer. Now, those of you who have read the author bio in my latest novel 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth' would know this. Those of you who are interested should click on this link and check out blurb, bio, and first chapter: http://www.zeus-publications.com/silver_studs_and_sabre_teeth.htm. Those of you who are interested in helping me remain solvent should purchase a copy, either as e-book or in paperback. Pleeeze!!! A lawyer is often a mouthpiece, an advocate if you will. Now, what's got me thinking about the time I pondered qualifying in this industry some twenty-ish years ago is what I am about to do. I am about to play Devil's Advocate. Old Mr Splitfoot probably has quite a plethora of counsel on retainer so doesn't need me as well, but there has been something on my mind for the past few days, and it cropped up when I heard Dutton's minions had informed Chris Brown of their intention to deny him a visa based on his nefarious character. In 2009, he assaulted his then girlfriend Rhianna. Rhianna is responsible for one of the most odious tunes in the last ten years: 'Umbrella'. You know the one, or have blotted it out from your memory. It is delivered in a bleating tone and goes something like, 'Under my um-ber-ella, ella, ella, ella. Eh-eh-eh'. Oh, truly! This shit tune does not justify a beating, however.
Anyhoo, since then, Chris Brown has served a sentence duly imposed by a court of law, and it is my understanding he has actually toured Australia twice. So, I cannot see the point in banning him now. Does this hint at bandwagon-riding and censorship, ladies and gentlemen of the jury? Don't get me wrong, I think he's a complete prick for doing what he did. His music interests me less than an out-of-date packet of powdered milk, and if he was performing in my backyard, I would get up and close the curtain. No I wouldn't, I'd spray him with the hose and set my dog onto him for coming into my backyard in the first place. But yeah, I think banning him seems like self-aggrandisement on the part of the Turnbull government, particularly when Black Sabbath are going to tour soon. In 1984, Ozzy Osbourne got himself into what is often called 'an alcohol-fuelled rage', and tried to kill his wife. Dunno about you lot, but I reckon this kind of falls under the umbrella (not the loathsome one Rhianna sings about) of domestic violence, as well.
Yes, you know me. Given a choice, I will see Black Sabbath over Chris Brown any day. I've got a bit of a soft spot for Sabbath. Also, I live in a neighbouring town to Singleton. There is a plague of bats in a local park, and it has been the bane of citizens for years. I suggest the promoters stage a concert in one of the local wineries (yes, I know sitting on a lush, well-maintained expanse of green and eating camembert-on-crackers and sipping the local Chablis doesn't exactly scream rock-and-roll and Prince of Darkness, but stay with me; I'm going somewhere with this), after which Ozzy is to be escorted to Burdekin Park. He will be informed it is an all-you-can-eat buffet, and Hey, Presto! The bat population will be substantially depleted.
Speaking of the Government, today I received a letter confirming my re-appointment as a Justice of the Peace. I have held this position for many years, around the same time I considered becoming a lawyer, actually. Because I was working in law, I decided to apply for the JP-hood to make myself more employable, and I still use my qualification to notarise documents in my local community. If you're reading this, you're probably wondering why you should give a shit if I've been re-appointed. You don't have to. What I'm about to say is this: the letter I received featured grammatical errors. An 'is' where there should have been an 'are'. The references to the JP handbook were capitalised, and I am quite certain in this instance 'handbook' is not a proper noun. I am tempted to write to the State Attorney-General about this unspeakable foolery. That being said, I will still purchase an up-to-date copy of the handbook (with a lower case 'h') to appraise myself of any new procedures.
My final note is a warning. Don't get cranky when mashing tuber vegetables. I got rather irritated tonight whilst mashing some kumera, and slammed my masher into the orange goo, thus sending hot flecks of our dinner spraying into my face and over my wrist. I swore like a startled sailor, and ran to the sink to splashed cold water over my face and eyes. I'm sure I will be fine, and hopefully when I update my blog photograph I will still resemble Kate Bush (other people's observations, not some vain self-serving wankery on my part, okay?), and not Freddie Kruger.
Tuesday 29 September 2015
Thursday 24 September 2015
Today's WTF-ers
There are things guaranteed to make one scratch one's head, such as head lice or a dry scalp condition. So to do the mysteries of life. I've been raised Catholic, and others of you who are 'of the faith' (typed in an Irish brogue) will know what I mean when I refer to the Mysteries like Jesus rising from the dead, or the Immaculate Conception. But I tend not to dwell on those Great Mysteries so much now, if indeed at all, because there are other things making me rake my nails in a repeated rapid back-and-forth formation over my scalp. These Mysteries of Life, that have made me just go 'WTF', include:
1. Why people appear in reality television shows that have an artificial environment and expect to retain credibility. As I'm always on the search for blogging material, I thought I'd have a look at 'The Bachelorette' last night. 'You're kidding, aren't you?' asked my husband in incredulous tones, his eyebrows almost at his hairline. 'I cannot believe a woman of your literary sense and intelligence would watch this shit.' I told him it was in the name of research, and I was quite certain I would not enjoy it. My instincts served me well. I think I lasted maybe ten minutes. Look, I don't work in television, but I'm pretty sure the producers and other behind-the scene types are going to orchestrate at least one or two contestants to appear the 'villain'. As a writer, I know you will keep neither your reader or (in the case of a reality show) viewer if you don't have some kind of conflict, and conflict or tension is usually provided by an antagonist or 'villain'. Look at all the flack the Bachelor from last year copped when he realised he'd chosen the wrong girl. Well, that girl is now the Bachelorette, and I just hope she's learned the word is 'jackass', not 'jack-arse'. While I'm on the subject, I hope Julia Gillard now realises it's not pronounced 'hyper-bowl'. I am sure I am not without sin myself, but this is my blog ,and ergo my fiefdom. But back to this lamentable drivel passing for entertainment. One of the dates had the contestants don wetsuits and jump some great height from the cliff (assuming that geographical structure qualifies as a cliff) into a river. What the fuck is the purpose to this? Prove your affection and loyalty by jumping off a cliff? If someone wanted me to jump from a considerable height into a river, I'd listen to my inner voice which would be reminding me I am actually frightened of heights, and if someone wants me to jump from a cliff, I'd just say, 'Darers go first!' Then, after the clown had jumped in and hopefully swallowed a considerable amount of effluent water, I'd lean as far over as my nerves would allow, give the two-fingered salute, and sneer, 'Hahahaha! Fuck ya!' But I don't think I'll waste any more of this life watching that crap, and I don't want to risk any IQ points doing so.
2. Morrissey's prose in his debut novel. I'm not sure whether to read it or not - I'm curious because it looks so bloody bad. I happen to dislike Morrissey intensely; he comes across as a nasty piece of parrot poop. Anyway, I've read a passage where there's a sex scene, and the phrase used is 'bulbous salutation'. Yeah, that had me scratching my head and saying, 'WTF?' I know the terminology and euphemisms a writer should use depend largely upon the narrative tone. When teaching, I always tell my fledgling Hemingways big words won't necessarily make a story better. Whether this type of language should be used depends on the narrator and the narrative tone. A deliberately comedic or satirical piece is usually very well served by poetic language and big words, and I think Tom Wolfe does this well. But 'bulbous salutation' is a seriously dud euphemism for an erection. I'm pretty sure that's what Morrissey was meaning by those two words. The piece was so farty and off the planet, he could have been referring to the postman, for all I know. Until now, I thought the worst euphemisms for an engorged phallus (I just might be trying irony here) were 'his hardness' and 'his eagerness'. When reading those, I'd just roll my eyes and wonder why the author could not have just written 'erection'. I guess it's just my personal writing style, but I have always just used the words 'dick' or 'erection', or 'penis' when the situation called upon it.
3. Where my mind is sometimes. I worked last night, and one of my jobs was to shower an elderly woman and wash her hair. 'Time for some conditioner,' I said to my client, and identified the pump-style container of product on the shower caddy. I gave the pump a whack, and out shot a wad of white goo, which flew straight past my open palm and landed with a splat on the bib of my plastic apron. The way it exited the nozzle, its trajectory, the shape in which it landed, and the gooey tear-drop slide down my apron reminded me of something I read ages ago. Want to know what it was? I once read that occasionally conditioner is used on the sets of adult movies to simulate the product of the 'money shot'. I'm not bothered by this at all - movies are all about illusion and tricks to make the viewer believe he or she is viewing the real thing. What I did not do was regale my client with this anecdote.
Well, that's all for now. If you're of a mind, click on the links on my page here to read the first chapters of my novels. I will be reading from 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth' at the Scone Literary Long Weekend on the October long weekend. Looking forward to it, but hoping like crazy to get some book sold.
1. Why people appear in reality television shows that have an artificial environment and expect to retain credibility. As I'm always on the search for blogging material, I thought I'd have a look at 'The Bachelorette' last night. 'You're kidding, aren't you?' asked my husband in incredulous tones, his eyebrows almost at his hairline. 'I cannot believe a woman of your literary sense and intelligence would watch this shit.' I told him it was in the name of research, and I was quite certain I would not enjoy it. My instincts served me well. I think I lasted maybe ten minutes. Look, I don't work in television, but I'm pretty sure the producers and other behind-the scene types are going to orchestrate at least one or two contestants to appear the 'villain'. As a writer, I know you will keep neither your reader or (in the case of a reality show) viewer if you don't have some kind of conflict, and conflict or tension is usually provided by an antagonist or 'villain'. Look at all the flack the Bachelor from last year copped when he realised he'd chosen the wrong girl. Well, that girl is now the Bachelorette, and I just hope she's learned the word is 'jackass', not 'jack-arse'. While I'm on the subject, I hope Julia Gillard now realises it's not pronounced 'hyper-bowl'. I am sure I am not without sin myself, but this is my blog ,and ergo my fiefdom. But back to this lamentable drivel passing for entertainment. One of the dates had the contestants don wetsuits and jump some great height from the cliff (assuming that geographical structure qualifies as a cliff) into a river. What the fuck is the purpose to this? Prove your affection and loyalty by jumping off a cliff? If someone wanted me to jump from a considerable height into a river, I'd listen to my inner voice which would be reminding me I am actually frightened of heights, and if someone wants me to jump from a cliff, I'd just say, 'Darers go first!' Then, after the clown had jumped in and hopefully swallowed a considerable amount of effluent water, I'd lean as far over as my nerves would allow, give the two-fingered salute, and sneer, 'Hahahaha! Fuck ya!' But I don't think I'll waste any more of this life watching that crap, and I don't want to risk any IQ points doing so.
2. Morrissey's prose in his debut novel. I'm not sure whether to read it or not - I'm curious because it looks so bloody bad. I happen to dislike Morrissey intensely; he comes across as a nasty piece of parrot poop. Anyway, I've read a passage where there's a sex scene, and the phrase used is 'bulbous salutation'. Yeah, that had me scratching my head and saying, 'WTF?' I know the terminology and euphemisms a writer should use depend largely upon the narrative tone. When teaching, I always tell my fledgling Hemingways big words won't necessarily make a story better. Whether this type of language should be used depends on the narrator and the narrative tone. A deliberately comedic or satirical piece is usually very well served by poetic language and big words, and I think Tom Wolfe does this well. But 'bulbous salutation' is a seriously dud euphemism for an erection. I'm pretty sure that's what Morrissey was meaning by those two words. The piece was so farty and off the planet, he could have been referring to the postman, for all I know. Until now, I thought the worst euphemisms for an engorged phallus (I just might be trying irony here) were 'his hardness' and 'his eagerness'. When reading those, I'd just roll my eyes and wonder why the author could not have just written 'erection'. I guess it's just my personal writing style, but I have always just used the words 'dick' or 'erection', or 'penis' when the situation called upon it.
3. Where my mind is sometimes. I worked last night, and one of my jobs was to shower an elderly woman and wash her hair. 'Time for some conditioner,' I said to my client, and identified the pump-style container of product on the shower caddy. I gave the pump a whack, and out shot a wad of white goo, which flew straight past my open palm and landed with a splat on the bib of my plastic apron. The way it exited the nozzle, its trajectory, the shape in which it landed, and the gooey tear-drop slide down my apron reminded me of something I read ages ago. Want to know what it was? I once read that occasionally conditioner is used on the sets of adult movies to simulate the product of the 'money shot'. I'm not bothered by this at all - movies are all about illusion and tricks to make the viewer believe he or she is viewing the real thing. What I did not do was regale my client with this anecdote.
Well, that's all for now. If you're of a mind, click on the links on my page here to read the first chapters of my novels. I will be reading from 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth' at the Scone Literary Long Weekend on the October long weekend. Looking forward to it, but hoping like crazy to get some book sold.
Monday 21 September 2015
Trying To Be June Cleaver - Just Snorting Laughter
I try to be what is commonly known as a Good Mother. You know the type - you see them in advertisements laughing with their children, and they're wearing white tight capri pants with high heeled mules, and a crisply ironed linen shirt, and their make-up is immaculate, and the kids are laughing as they frolic through the sand. The clothing is not rumpled, there are no crusty flecks of eye snot in the corners of the eyes, there are no thick mismatched socks to be seen, and most of all the kids are not trying to strangle each other. This is usually a fleeting whimsical fantasy that lasts more briefly than most shutter speeds on a camera, and I end up thinking, 'Fuck this', and reverting to my normal slobby self.
But today is my day off, and it is school holidays after all, so I thought it would be nice to have some mother-and-son bonding with my kids. I put on a blouse in a colour that suits my autumnal complexion. Hell, I even put on earrings (I work with dementia sufferers, so generally don't wear dangling jewellery). 'Get off the iPads, kids!' I called gaily in my best Carol Brady meets June Cleaver voice, 'We're going to get some chairs and then go to Coles!'. Five minutes later, I gave an encore performance. A few minutes later, my cry had lost its lustre. Then I finally shouted to get off the bloody iPads because we were going, and told my groaning 14yo yes, he was coming along, too, like it or not. Being conscientious, and liable to combust like a vampire in the sunlight, I got out the sunblock. My kids took off when I approached them. I try reasoning ('This is why Mum's so hot for her age; she wears sunblock'), but always end up threatening ('Get this bloody sunblock on or I'm taking the iPads away').
Although less than five minutes in the car, the trip seemed interminable with cries of: 'Mum, he hit me!', rebutted with: 'Well, he was annoying me!', and the summing up with: 'So, he annoys me and when I get mad he cries and I get into trouble. Once again justice in this family is at work!'
I herded my offspring into a discount shop to get some cheap chairs for our back patio area. I just wanted to get my chairs, get my groceries, and go to the park. So I chose the chairs, and feeling generous, acquiesced to the request to purchase the $8 dart game set. The chairs were heavier than I anticipated, and more awkward than I anticipated. My oldest son and I got them to the car, and I set about stowing them so we could go to Coles. I thought they could be packed stack-style on their sides in the boot. I drive a Magna, and the storage space in the boot is fantastic. Usually. Not this time. 'Mum, they won't fit,' said my son in a burst of Obvious-Stating.
'Okay,' I said, trying to remain calm and knowing we were taking up another car space standing around trying to get the chairs into the car, and anticipating myself for irritated honks, and wondering whether I would be able to refrain from telling the driver to go fuck him- or herself. 'Kids, I have to put cumbersome mobility aids in this car, so I'm sure I can get these chairs in.'
I took transferred the crap from the backseat into the boot, and set about trying to manoeuvre the damnable chairs into the car. I was pushing, shoving, and grunting like the final set of a match between Monica Seles and Maria Sharipova. My 14yo, a high achiever in the subject of Science, had a look for me, and worked out how to actually get them in. It was a tight squeeze, but by God, he did it. I smiled at him, and asked wasn't this much more fun than playing on the computer. He emphatically stated it was not, and then glowered at his younger brother and complained he had done nothing whilst we had struggled to the chairs into the car. My little one shrugged, then said, 'Well, you had it under control; there was nothing I could do.'
Chairs unpacked and positioned around my outdoor table, we set off to the park via the McDonalds drive-thru; the fruits of my womb quarrelling all the way. My day was so not like those being experienced by the families depicted in those advertisements. We found a bench, and sat with our food. We weren't far from a family of I-don't-know-how-many, but they appeared to be aged 8, 9, 10, and 11, and were in the sandpit chucking sand at each other. Then some mini-melee broke out between those kids:
'Stop fucken chucking fucken sand, ya fucken idiot!'
'Fuck off, will ya?'
'Fuck off, fuck-face!'
'Mum, he's fucken throwin' fucken sand at me! Fucken make him stop!'
Their mother called out, 'Stop swearin', ya dickheads!'
Over our fries, my children and I looked at each other. My mouth twitched. My 14yo snorted a little bit of laughter through his nose. My 11yo started to chuckle. 'Stop laughing!' I whispered, and then we started laughing again. I was concerned the mother might want to challenge me to a scrag fight behind the lizard-shaped slippery dip if she knew we were laughing at her and her cubs, but we couldn't help it. We huddled together and kept it was quiet as we could, but we could not stop laughing. But it was an oddly beautiful moment. It was the bonding I had been trying to achieve all day, and it was whilst we were trying to maintain our composure listening to the tranquillity being rent by the family of feral bogans throwing sand at each other. We bonded. It was a Hallmark moment.
Don't worry, when we got into our car and were able to succumb to the braying laughter that had been welling inside us at the park, I told my children if they ever spoke like that in public (or at all), I would drag them by the hair and scrub their mouths.
And when we got home, the children played outside with the new dartboard, instead of on their iPads.
I'm going to assemble some apple pies soon. I really am having a June Cleaver afternoon after all.
But today is my day off, and it is school holidays after all, so I thought it would be nice to have some mother-and-son bonding with my kids. I put on a blouse in a colour that suits my autumnal complexion. Hell, I even put on earrings (I work with dementia sufferers, so generally don't wear dangling jewellery). 'Get off the iPads, kids!' I called gaily in my best Carol Brady meets June Cleaver voice, 'We're going to get some chairs and then go to Coles!'. Five minutes later, I gave an encore performance. A few minutes later, my cry had lost its lustre. Then I finally shouted to get off the bloody iPads because we were going, and told my groaning 14yo yes, he was coming along, too, like it or not. Being conscientious, and liable to combust like a vampire in the sunlight, I got out the sunblock. My kids took off when I approached them. I try reasoning ('This is why Mum's so hot for her age; she wears sunblock'), but always end up threatening ('Get this bloody sunblock on or I'm taking the iPads away').
Although less than five minutes in the car, the trip seemed interminable with cries of: 'Mum, he hit me!', rebutted with: 'Well, he was annoying me!', and the summing up with: 'So, he annoys me and when I get mad he cries and I get into trouble. Once again justice in this family is at work!'
I herded my offspring into a discount shop to get some cheap chairs for our back patio area. I just wanted to get my chairs, get my groceries, and go to the park. So I chose the chairs, and feeling generous, acquiesced to the request to purchase the $8 dart game set. The chairs were heavier than I anticipated, and more awkward than I anticipated. My oldest son and I got them to the car, and I set about stowing them so we could go to Coles. I thought they could be packed stack-style on their sides in the boot. I drive a Magna, and the storage space in the boot is fantastic. Usually. Not this time. 'Mum, they won't fit,' said my son in a burst of Obvious-Stating.
'Okay,' I said, trying to remain calm and knowing we were taking up another car space standing around trying to get the chairs into the car, and anticipating myself for irritated honks, and wondering whether I would be able to refrain from telling the driver to go fuck him- or herself. 'Kids, I have to put cumbersome mobility aids in this car, so I'm sure I can get these chairs in.'
I took transferred the crap from the backseat into the boot, and set about trying to manoeuvre the damnable chairs into the car. I was pushing, shoving, and grunting like the final set of a match between Monica Seles and Maria Sharipova. My 14yo, a high achiever in the subject of Science, had a look for me, and worked out how to actually get them in. It was a tight squeeze, but by God, he did it. I smiled at him, and asked wasn't this much more fun than playing on the computer. He emphatically stated it was not, and then glowered at his younger brother and complained he had done nothing whilst we had struggled to the chairs into the car. My little one shrugged, then said, 'Well, you had it under control; there was nothing I could do.'
Chairs unpacked and positioned around my outdoor table, we set off to the park via the McDonalds drive-thru; the fruits of my womb quarrelling all the way. My day was so not like those being experienced by the families depicted in those advertisements. We found a bench, and sat with our food. We weren't far from a family of I-don't-know-how-many, but they appeared to be aged 8, 9, 10, and 11, and were in the sandpit chucking sand at each other. Then some mini-melee broke out between those kids:
'Stop fucken chucking fucken sand, ya fucken idiot!'
'Fuck off, will ya?'
'Fuck off, fuck-face!'
'Mum, he's fucken throwin' fucken sand at me! Fucken make him stop!'
Their mother called out, 'Stop swearin', ya dickheads!'
Over our fries, my children and I looked at each other. My mouth twitched. My 14yo snorted a little bit of laughter through his nose. My 11yo started to chuckle. 'Stop laughing!' I whispered, and then we started laughing again. I was concerned the mother might want to challenge me to a scrag fight behind the lizard-shaped slippery dip if she knew we were laughing at her and her cubs, but we couldn't help it. We huddled together and kept it was quiet as we could, but we could not stop laughing. But it was an oddly beautiful moment. It was the bonding I had been trying to achieve all day, and it was whilst we were trying to maintain our composure listening to the tranquillity being rent by the family of feral bogans throwing sand at each other. We bonded. It was a Hallmark moment.
Don't worry, when we got into our car and were able to succumb to the braying laughter that had been welling inside us at the park, I told my children if they ever spoke like that in public (or at all), I would drag them by the hair and scrub their mouths.
And when we got home, the children played outside with the new dartboard, instead of on their iPads.
I'm going to assemble some apple pies soon. I really am having a June Cleaver afternoon after all.
Saturday 19 September 2015
More Book Promotion
Time to promote my book again. Here's a link to a video I made to accompany a radio interview I took part in last year: https://www.facebook.com/simone.bailey.77/videos/vb.100000812469910/714200955283647/?type=3&theater
Friday 18 September 2015
Peeves For Saturday 19 September 2015
I tell myself I will be a calm person, but every now and then I just give in and have to have a good old fashioned bitch session. It can be wonderfully cathartic and saves me kicking the cat. We actually don't have a cat (I loathe the shitty things), but you get my meaning, of that I'm certain. Two things have really, really irked me over the past couple of days. I will advise accordingly, but in the first instance, I must say I am very proud of how I dealt with my annoyance. I simply unfriended this person on Facebook - well, it was someone I've never actually met and someone with whom I've not had much interaction, so I thought it was time to cut the ties, and 'unfriended'. Anyway, here's why:
1. A meme I saw. I don't know if this meme was generated by the person whom I unfriended. But the fact this person shared it indicates this is a view this person holds. Before I continue, I will point out I support a person's right to hold a view (no matter how dingbattish), but the memes and comments this person was making so flew in the face of my own ideology, I decided it might be time to just delete from friend's list. I did so quietly with no fanfare, and no SHOUTY CAPITALS. Having been on the receiving end of SHOUTY CAPITALS by a person who read a comment I had made on a thread, and then deleted, I know that using SHOUTY CAPITALS at a person (and a few swears) actually makes you look like an utter fuckwit. So I decided to be dignified about it, and removed the person from my friend's list. But back to the meme. The meme said words to the effect that 'Judges Should Be Held Accountable When They Release A Person Into Society Who Then Commits A Crime, or something like that. Then someone commented that the lawyers who help these people get off should be held accountable, too. Now, those of you who know me well will be aware that this is akin to standing in front of an enraged, snorting bull, and waving a cape and yelling, 'Toro! Toro!' There was just So. Much. Stupid for this poor little Daughter of Eve (oh - I believe in Evolution, by the way, this is just a saying that I like) to comprehend in one sitting. My head felt like it might implode with the weight of the Stupid, yet at the same time my head felt like it my explode with the pressure of My Anger. I'm guessing it was the law of the irresistible force paradox that kept my head in place as the two opposing forces squabbled. I don't know if the person I unfriended, or anyone who holds similar views (such as right wing shock jocks) is reading, but I will put this relatively simply, and type as slowly as possible for you. We live in a society with the rule of law. This is a good thing, unless you'd like to live in a society like Cambodia under the Khmer Rouge. We have to have laws, okay? This is to prevent lives being ruined by abuse of power. Now, the judge knows what the law is. The judge's job is to interpret the law on the case before him or her, assess the evidence before him or her, and then apply the law as he or she sees fit in relation to the case before him or her. As for holding lawyers accountable, that's just an equally asinine notion. It is the lawyer's job to represent the best interests of his or her client. If you find this unpalatable, then too bad. Suck it up, buttercup. What if someone is found not guilty by a jury trial and released into society, then commits a murder? Are you going to track down the members of the jury that gave this person his or her freedom, and hold them accountable, as well? Seriously, the Dumb was overwhelming. So, this person has been unfriended and I will no longer have to become irritated as I read the posts. Although kind of proud that I took the mature road, I worry I might be losing some of my fire because I didn't choose to fight. I just sat at my computer, regained my composure, and thought, 'Oh, I can't do this. It's too stupid to argue with. No point arguing with fools, I don't wish to be dragged down to that level.'
2. The Gloating Over The Closure Of Zoo Weekly. Let me state this: I don't like Zoo Weekly. So guess what? I DON'T BLOODY WELL BUY IT!!! The gloating has been by feminists who support other women as long as those women make the same choices they'd make. People who have a problem with women posing in bikinis are high-fiving and hanging out the bunting. People have complained about the covers of Zoo being easily seen in supermarkets - I can kind of understand the annoyance, but I was under the impression Zoo was put on a higher shelf out of reach of kiddies. I take umbrage with people gloating over people who have lost their jobs: models, photographers, writers, art department personnel, office admin personnel etc. My heart goes out to those people. I can't say I contributed to Zoo's dwindling sales because I was not a regular buyer. I have read it at the houses of folk who did purchase the magazine, as was their RIGHT to. But yeah, the content of the magazine annoyed the snot out of me, so I just chose to not purchase it. The only thing I have a problem with, and it's a situation not limited to Zoo, is the airbrushing of the models. Surely this does not contribute to women's self esteem at all. But what really gives me the shits about the people cheering over a business becoming insolvent, is they probably champion other magazines on the supermarket shelves such as Cosmo, whose headlines are surely just as salacious as those on Zoo, but directed to the other 50% of the population. Sure, 'More Jugs And Sploodge' is a rather bawdy headline (and what the fuck is 'sploodge'? Hang on, I think I know now...), but what about those on Cosmo? I'm talking about 'How To Have An Orgasm That Will Have Your Eyes Rolling Into The Back Of Your Head And Your Toes Curling And The Top Of Your Skull Flying Off And Spinning Into Space Such As The Laws Of Ballistics Will Dictate? And what about those other stupid magazines such as No Idea, and Who (Gives A Fuck)? Their articles are just as obnoxious. I'm thinking 'See How Kim Kardashian's Backside Blocks Out The Sun'; 'See How Kate Had A Catfight With Princesses Eugenie And Beatrice'; 'See How The Stars Lose Weight', 'See How Jennifer Aniston Is Pregnant After Being Probed By An Alien'; 'See How Nicole Argues With Keith Over Who Takes Out The Garbage'; 'See How The Prime Minister Once Wet His Pants When Sitting On The Mat In Kindergarten' ('See How Simone Doesn't Give A Shit'). See where I'm going with this?
Those are my rants. Thanks for taking time to read. If you wish, click on the links on my site and read the first chapters of my novels, and if you're so inclined, buy 'em! Please.
1. A meme I saw. I don't know if this meme was generated by the person whom I unfriended. But the fact this person shared it indicates this is a view this person holds. Before I continue, I will point out I support a person's right to hold a view (no matter how dingbattish), but the memes and comments this person was making so flew in the face of my own ideology, I decided it might be time to just delete from friend's list. I did so quietly with no fanfare, and no SHOUTY CAPITALS. Having been on the receiving end of SHOUTY CAPITALS by a person who read a comment I had made on a thread, and then deleted, I know that using SHOUTY CAPITALS at a person (and a few swears) actually makes you look like an utter fuckwit. So I decided to be dignified about it, and removed the person from my friend's list. But back to the meme. The meme said words to the effect that 'Judges Should Be Held Accountable When They Release A Person Into Society Who Then Commits A Crime, or something like that. Then someone commented that the lawyers who help these people get off should be held accountable, too. Now, those of you who know me well will be aware that this is akin to standing in front of an enraged, snorting bull, and waving a cape and yelling, 'Toro! Toro!' There was just So. Much. Stupid for this poor little Daughter of Eve (oh - I believe in Evolution, by the way, this is just a saying that I like) to comprehend in one sitting. My head felt like it might implode with the weight of the Stupid, yet at the same time my head felt like it my explode with the pressure of My Anger. I'm guessing it was the law of the irresistible force paradox that kept my head in place as the two opposing forces squabbled. I don't know if the person I unfriended, or anyone who holds similar views (such as right wing shock jocks) is reading, but I will put this relatively simply, and type as slowly as possible for you. We live in a society with the rule of law. This is a good thing, unless you'd like to live in a society like Cambodia under the Khmer Rouge. We have to have laws, okay? This is to prevent lives being ruined by abuse of power. Now, the judge knows what the law is. The judge's job is to interpret the law on the case before him or her, assess the evidence before him or her, and then apply the law as he or she sees fit in relation to the case before him or her. As for holding lawyers accountable, that's just an equally asinine notion. It is the lawyer's job to represent the best interests of his or her client. If you find this unpalatable, then too bad. Suck it up, buttercup. What if someone is found not guilty by a jury trial and released into society, then commits a murder? Are you going to track down the members of the jury that gave this person his or her freedom, and hold them accountable, as well? Seriously, the Dumb was overwhelming. So, this person has been unfriended and I will no longer have to become irritated as I read the posts. Although kind of proud that I took the mature road, I worry I might be losing some of my fire because I didn't choose to fight. I just sat at my computer, regained my composure, and thought, 'Oh, I can't do this. It's too stupid to argue with. No point arguing with fools, I don't wish to be dragged down to that level.'
2. The Gloating Over The Closure Of Zoo Weekly. Let me state this: I don't like Zoo Weekly. So guess what? I DON'T BLOODY WELL BUY IT!!! The gloating has been by feminists who support other women as long as those women make the same choices they'd make. People who have a problem with women posing in bikinis are high-fiving and hanging out the bunting. People have complained about the covers of Zoo being easily seen in supermarkets - I can kind of understand the annoyance, but I was under the impression Zoo was put on a higher shelf out of reach of kiddies. I take umbrage with people gloating over people who have lost their jobs: models, photographers, writers, art department personnel, office admin personnel etc. My heart goes out to those people. I can't say I contributed to Zoo's dwindling sales because I was not a regular buyer. I have read it at the houses of folk who did purchase the magazine, as was their RIGHT to. But yeah, the content of the magazine annoyed the snot out of me, so I just chose to not purchase it. The only thing I have a problem with, and it's a situation not limited to Zoo, is the airbrushing of the models. Surely this does not contribute to women's self esteem at all. But what really gives me the shits about the people cheering over a business becoming insolvent, is they probably champion other magazines on the supermarket shelves such as Cosmo, whose headlines are surely just as salacious as those on Zoo, but directed to the other 50% of the population. Sure, 'More Jugs And Sploodge' is a rather bawdy headline (and what the fuck is 'sploodge'? Hang on, I think I know now...), but what about those on Cosmo? I'm talking about 'How To Have An Orgasm That Will Have Your Eyes Rolling Into The Back Of Your Head And Your Toes Curling And The Top Of Your Skull Flying Off And Spinning Into Space Such As The Laws Of Ballistics Will Dictate? And what about those other stupid magazines such as No Idea, and Who (Gives A Fuck)? Their articles are just as obnoxious. I'm thinking 'See How Kim Kardashian's Backside Blocks Out The Sun'; 'See How Kate Had A Catfight With Princesses Eugenie And Beatrice'; 'See How The Stars Lose Weight', 'See How Jennifer Aniston Is Pregnant After Being Probed By An Alien'; 'See How Nicole Argues With Keith Over Who Takes Out The Garbage'; 'See How The Prime Minister Once Wet His Pants When Sitting On The Mat In Kindergarten' ('See How Simone Doesn't Give A Shit'). See where I'm going with this?
Those are my rants. Thanks for taking time to read. If you wish, click on the links on my site and read the first chapters of my novels, and if you're so inclined, buy 'em! Please.
Wednesday 16 September 2015
How To Ruin A Good Book When Making A Movie
Okay, now that some plans we had for the October long weekend will not eventuate, I am now going to be around to partake in events at the Scone Literary Long Weekend. I am going to read from 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth', and attend a panel discussion being chaired by my friend Leonie Rogers (she writes speculative teenage fiction with giant felines called Star Cats, so Google her if you're interested), the topic of which is the book is better than the film.
Now, I think this is a no-brainer. The book is pretty much ALWAYS better than the film. One of my pet peeves is a fantastic book being made into a movie that just reeks of mediocrity, or worse: stupidity. My top two favourite books have both been made into cinematic waste. And it infuriates me no end. I shall now proceed to rant hereunder about these great travesties:
1. 'The Bonfire of the Vanities' by Tom Wolfe. I first chanced upon this novel whilst elephant riding in Thailand. How many people can say that? When I was a much younger thing of twenty-three, my bestie and I were trekking through, and we were in an organised group that included a late afternoon elephant ride. Wonderful, wonderful stuff. One of the group, a French-Canadian backpacker named Louis, had this paperback. When it was his turn to climb into the saddle on the elephant, I glanced at the book and asked could I have a browse whilst he was riding the great pachyderm. He said I could. I picked it up, and my friend nattered with some of the other travellers. I started to read. The glorious and poetic use of language, cynically tongue-in-cheek tone, and the obvious piss-take on corporate Eighties greed captivated me immediately. Although I was only in my early twenties, and it was still the Eighties, I knew I would like this - all through the Eighties I hated the decade and couldn't wait for New Year's Eve to ring in the Nineties. 'What unlikeable, yet totally realistically shallow characters,' I thought, as I read about Sherman McCoy and his mistress finding themselves in the wrong area of New York. It was with regret I handed back the novel when Louis disembarked from the elephant.
Eventually, I read the book in its entirety. Then I read it again straight away. Every character an unlikeable, shallow, cringe-worthy, self-absorbed jerk that manages to make the reader look in the mirror and cringe and their own failings. The only remotely likeable character is Tom Kilian, the criminal lawyer retained by Sherman after he his charged in relation to a hit and run. And I loved it all. I loved Wolfe's description of the hangover suffered by the British journalist, Peter Fallow. I loved the social awkwardness of trying to impress arseholes in society.
So what the fuck were the producers, and director Brian de Palma thinking when they turned this book into a movie? I have read some reviews on the Internet Movie Database, and they were all very favourable. I can only imagine the posters haven't read the book. Guess who was cast to play the petty, somewhat venal, and duplicitously adulterous Sherman McCoy? Tom Hanks. No, I did not type that wrong. Do you know why they cast Tom Hanks? Because he has an affable public persona and 'they' wanted to dilute the less attractive aspects of McCoy! Hello! Don't piss on my leg and tell me it's raining! If a character is obnoxious, then by God, film the character as obnoxious! Tom Hanks did nothing to capture the lack of depth Sherman McCoy has. It was Miscasting 101. You might as well cast Pamela Anderson or Lindsay Lohan to play Lady MacBeth. Memo to movie makers: how about you stop worrying whether a character is not generally likeable, if the author of the source material from which you are working obviously intended for him to be unlikeable???
Also, what was with presenting the movie from the journalist's point of view, and even worse, making him American? Bruce Willis plays the journalist, and apparently regrets this role big time. So he should. I believe Wolfe made the journalist British so he could observe the foibles and quirks of American society at that time, and comment objectively as an outsider. But oh no, let's just stuff it up, shall we? Seriously, is that how they pitch their movie ideas? 'Hey, guys! We've got a great idea for a movie. We'll take a brilliant novel and metaphorically bend it over the desk and roger it stupid, and render the final product completely unrecognisable and offensive to the aficionados of the book! We will completely miss the point! Is that a great idea, or what?'
No, peeps, it is not a great idea. Anyway, my other all time favourite novel is:
2. 'A Prayer for Owen Meany' by John Irving. Look, I could rhapsodise about this for days. I first read this book twenty-five years ago, and have probably read it just as many times since then. Irving has created the most amazing character I have ever read, in an allegorical tale about an under-sized boy who grows into a man deigned to be 'God's instrument'. The language, the imagery, the themes - I actually GOT what my English teachers had tried to drill into me as a student. I felt like I was falling in love. And although there were parts where I cried as I read (and still do), Irving managed to avoid mawkishness and needless sappy sentimentality. So anyway, someone decided to make a saccharine movie drawn from this source material, only the movie was called 'Simon Birch'. Tiny kid, but the similarity ends there. He doesn't grow up, join the army, and save some Vietnamese orphans when they are expatriated to the US. The movie does keep the circumstances under which Owen erroneously causes the death of his best friend's mother (Johnny), which was sad yet deliciously noir. Johnny has a great relationship with his stepfather, like in the book, and like in the book Owen mysteriously helps him learn the identity of his biological father. But the movie is just so much sap. It's cinematic emetics. It full on fellates festered camel dicks. It pissed me off big time. Not long after I saw it, I was having a drink at the pub where the legal fraternity used to drink, and one of the barristers, a fellow Irving buff, asked me had I yet seen it. I said I had, called for another drink to fortify myself, and advised him to avoid the film like a rabid Doberman.
It is probably just as well I am not speaking on this panel.
Now, I think this is a no-brainer. The book is pretty much ALWAYS better than the film. One of my pet peeves is a fantastic book being made into a movie that just reeks of mediocrity, or worse: stupidity. My top two favourite books have both been made into cinematic waste. And it infuriates me no end. I shall now proceed to rant hereunder about these great travesties:
1. 'The Bonfire of the Vanities' by Tom Wolfe. I first chanced upon this novel whilst elephant riding in Thailand. How many people can say that? When I was a much younger thing of twenty-three, my bestie and I were trekking through, and we were in an organised group that included a late afternoon elephant ride. Wonderful, wonderful stuff. One of the group, a French-Canadian backpacker named Louis, had this paperback. When it was his turn to climb into the saddle on the elephant, I glanced at the book and asked could I have a browse whilst he was riding the great pachyderm. He said I could. I picked it up, and my friend nattered with some of the other travellers. I started to read. The glorious and poetic use of language, cynically tongue-in-cheek tone, and the obvious piss-take on corporate Eighties greed captivated me immediately. Although I was only in my early twenties, and it was still the Eighties, I knew I would like this - all through the Eighties I hated the decade and couldn't wait for New Year's Eve to ring in the Nineties. 'What unlikeable, yet totally realistically shallow characters,' I thought, as I read about Sherman McCoy and his mistress finding themselves in the wrong area of New York. It was with regret I handed back the novel when Louis disembarked from the elephant.
Eventually, I read the book in its entirety. Then I read it again straight away. Every character an unlikeable, shallow, cringe-worthy, self-absorbed jerk that manages to make the reader look in the mirror and cringe and their own failings. The only remotely likeable character is Tom Kilian, the criminal lawyer retained by Sherman after he his charged in relation to a hit and run. And I loved it all. I loved Wolfe's description of the hangover suffered by the British journalist, Peter Fallow. I loved the social awkwardness of trying to impress arseholes in society.
So what the fuck were the producers, and director Brian de Palma thinking when they turned this book into a movie? I have read some reviews on the Internet Movie Database, and they were all very favourable. I can only imagine the posters haven't read the book. Guess who was cast to play the petty, somewhat venal, and duplicitously adulterous Sherman McCoy? Tom Hanks. No, I did not type that wrong. Do you know why they cast Tom Hanks? Because he has an affable public persona and 'they' wanted to dilute the less attractive aspects of McCoy! Hello! Don't piss on my leg and tell me it's raining! If a character is obnoxious, then by God, film the character as obnoxious! Tom Hanks did nothing to capture the lack of depth Sherman McCoy has. It was Miscasting 101. You might as well cast Pamela Anderson or Lindsay Lohan to play Lady MacBeth. Memo to movie makers: how about you stop worrying whether a character is not generally likeable, if the author of the source material from which you are working obviously intended for him to be unlikeable???
Also, what was with presenting the movie from the journalist's point of view, and even worse, making him American? Bruce Willis plays the journalist, and apparently regrets this role big time. So he should. I believe Wolfe made the journalist British so he could observe the foibles and quirks of American society at that time, and comment objectively as an outsider. But oh no, let's just stuff it up, shall we? Seriously, is that how they pitch their movie ideas? 'Hey, guys! We've got a great idea for a movie. We'll take a brilliant novel and metaphorically bend it over the desk and roger it stupid, and render the final product completely unrecognisable and offensive to the aficionados of the book! We will completely miss the point! Is that a great idea, or what?'
No, peeps, it is not a great idea. Anyway, my other all time favourite novel is:
2. 'A Prayer for Owen Meany' by John Irving. Look, I could rhapsodise about this for days. I first read this book twenty-five years ago, and have probably read it just as many times since then. Irving has created the most amazing character I have ever read, in an allegorical tale about an under-sized boy who grows into a man deigned to be 'God's instrument'. The language, the imagery, the themes - I actually GOT what my English teachers had tried to drill into me as a student. I felt like I was falling in love. And although there were parts where I cried as I read (and still do), Irving managed to avoid mawkishness and needless sappy sentimentality. So anyway, someone decided to make a saccharine movie drawn from this source material, only the movie was called 'Simon Birch'. Tiny kid, but the similarity ends there. He doesn't grow up, join the army, and save some Vietnamese orphans when they are expatriated to the US. The movie does keep the circumstances under which Owen erroneously causes the death of his best friend's mother (Johnny), which was sad yet deliciously noir. Johnny has a great relationship with his stepfather, like in the book, and like in the book Owen mysteriously helps him learn the identity of his biological father. But the movie is just so much sap. It's cinematic emetics. It full on fellates festered camel dicks. It pissed me off big time. Not long after I saw it, I was having a drink at the pub where the legal fraternity used to drink, and one of the barristers, a fellow Irving buff, asked me had I yet seen it. I said I had, called for another drink to fortify myself, and advised him to avoid the film like a rabid Doberman.
It is probably just as well I am not speaking on this panel.
Monday 14 September 2015
Abbott vs Turnball - 'And in this corner, wearing an insufferable smirk....'
Who else, like me, is taken back to a night some five years or so ago when Kevin Rudd gave an impassioned speech about his achievements as Prime Minister following a leadership challenge instigated by Julia Buzzard, ooops, Gillard? I remember Rudd very emphatically and eloquently reminded the public it was under his leadership the country had been able to get through the GFC and how he had issued the apology to the Stolen Generation. I sat there thinking he should have used some of that fire throughout most of his tenure as PM, I used to get pissed off with him blathering about 'working families', a phrase I detested greatly. As irritating as I found him at times, I was very saddened for him when he turned to his deputy, a la Julius Ceasar, and whispered, 'Et tu, Jules?', before leaving the office with a Wiltshire handle protruding betwixt his shoulder blades.
Of course so many people were raving about us finally having a female prime minister, a notion not without merit per se, but I was more interested in having a competent leader regardless of gender. I got very over Gillard when she totally screwed up the word 'misogyny', as my regular readers know very well. Then one day she got handed an elixir bottle marked 'Your Own Medicine', and discovered how Rudd felt. I had no sympathy for the woman whatsoever. So many commentators said she was voted out because of our misogynistic culture. I just sat despairing and wishing to high heaven people would get a frigging dictionary and look up the word 'misogynistic' (starting with Buzzard's speech writer). I would have voted her out on the basis of starting an infuriating trend of misusing that word. Surely the fact people considered her an incompetent fool outweighed any innate aspect of our culture?
But it's happening again. Prime Minister Abbott is facing the same situation. I have shared the Facebook meme stating Gillard has been rushed to hospital suffering an overdose of Schadenfreude. I reckon Rudd's probably tap dancing, and/or has cracked open a bottle of champagne. If you have, Kevin, don't get blotto. Last time you did you ended up in a strip club, and it came back to haunt you when you ran for office. Although I didn't really care if you went to a strip club; it's not like you told lies like your rival Johnny (Children Overboard. Weapons of Mass Destruction) Howard did. Abbott will probably come out and babble, 'I stopped the boats! Don't vote for Malcolm because I stopped the boats!' Shit, he probably says to his wife, 'What do you mean we're out of ice cream, don't you know I stopped the boats?' I wonder will his scare-mongering help him tonight?
I watched the footage of him crapping on about how the Prime Ministership is a gift to the people. I spluttered, 'What the hell sort of gift is THAT?' My 14yo, showing a wisdom that makes me proud I pushed his fat head through my loins, said, 'Yeah, it's the sort of gift that's like getting clothes at Christmas.'
So I guess it's a case of 'In this corner, wearing an insufferable smirk, is Tony Abbott; and in the other corner, wearing an Armani tie, is Malcolm Turnball!' I think this analogy is appropriate, given Abbott's boxing credentials.
A word of advice to the Mad Monk - if you lose your leadership tonight, it would be a good idea to NOT punch the wall near anybody's head, okay?
Of course so many people were raving about us finally having a female prime minister, a notion not without merit per se, but I was more interested in having a competent leader regardless of gender. I got very over Gillard when she totally screwed up the word 'misogyny', as my regular readers know very well. Then one day she got handed an elixir bottle marked 'Your Own Medicine', and discovered how Rudd felt. I had no sympathy for the woman whatsoever. So many commentators said she was voted out because of our misogynistic culture. I just sat despairing and wishing to high heaven people would get a frigging dictionary and look up the word 'misogynistic' (starting with Buzzard's speech writer). I would have voted her out on the basis of starting an infuriating trend of misusing that word. Surely the fact people considered her an incompetent fool outweighed any innate aspect of our culture?
But it's happening again. Prime Minister Abbott is facing the same situation. I have shared the Facebook meme stating Gillard has been rushed to hospital suffering an overdose of Schadenfreude. I reckon Rudd's probably tap dancing, and/or has cracked open a bottle of champagne. If you have, Kevin, don't get blotto. Last time you did you ended up in a strip club, and it came back to haunt you when you ran for office. Although I didn't really care if you went to a strip club; it's not like you told lies like your rival Johnny (Children Overboard. Weapons of Mass Destruction) Howard did. Abbott will probably come out and babble, 'I stopped the boats! Don't vote for Malcolm because I stopped the boats!' Shit, he probably says to his wife, 'What do you mean we're out of ice cream, don't you know I stopped the boats?' I wonder will his scare-mongering help him tonight?
I watched the footage of him crapping on about how the Prime Ministership is a gift to the people. I spluttered, 'What the hell sort of gift is THAT?' My 14yo, showing a wisdom that makes me proud I pushed his fat head through my loins, said, 'Yeah, it's the sort of gift that's like getting clothes at Christmas.'
So I guess it's a case of 'In this corner, wearing an insufferable smirk, is Tony Abbott; and in the other corner, wearing an Armani tie, is Malcolm Turnball!' I think this analogy is appropriate, given Abbott's boxing credentials.
A word of advice to the Mad Monk - if you lose your leadership tonight, it would be a good idea to NOT punch the wall near anybody's head, okay?
Tuesday 8 September 2015
Book Banning - WTF?
Every now and then I wonder did someone stuff me into Doc Brown's Delorean-cum-time-machine and set the dial for some era when women always wore gloves to church. What's got me thinking of a somewhat decent Eighties movie (unlike the spate of dreck starring Steve Gutenberg) are the articles I've seen about an award winning book being banned in New Zealand. Do we still ban books? Why would we ban books? Isn't it good to get people reading? The book in question is called 'Into the River' by an author known as Ted Dawe. Hey, if you're reading this, Ted, just remember there is no such thing as bad publicity. The ban follows some pressure applied by a Christian group known as Family First, who objected to the sex and drug use featured in the novel.
Okay, let me play Devil's advocate here, and ask what is more offensive: some sex and drugs in a book, or that a group who believe in a supernatural being can hold such sway that they will influence what I can or cannot read (if I was living in New Zealand). If a business sells the book, it faces a $10,000 fine whilst a private citizen faces a $3,000 fine, if they are unaware of the ban. If they are, then look out, it's gaol time for you. You can still purchase the book from Amazon and view on a kindle.
This has got me shaking my head with my jaw hanging. I cannot believe in this day and age, and in our hemisphere, a book would be banned. It's the stupidest thing I've ever heard of, even surpassing the time a group of people decided it would be a good idea to dispose of a beached whale carcass by using explosives (the laws of physics that deal with mass displacement had whale meat and blubber flying everywhere, causing damage to property - and it had me laughing like a drain). But a book ban is not only stupid, it is downright bloody offensive. Are we to have a new 'Lady Chatterley's Lover' type trial? I'm a grown woman and quite happy to decide for myself what I will read, thank you very much, Family First - if you ever spread your tentacles across the Tasman and try to sway our Classification Board. I'm not complacent in believing it won't happen, trust me on this.
New Zealand strikes me as being a very progressive country. They were the first to give women the vote, and they have beaten us in the legislation of same sex marriage. Something I learned recently, via an article written by my Facebook friend Jeremy Stanford, is they are what I'd affectionately and admiringly call 'colour-blind'. By this I mean skin colour is just not an issue. In Jeremy's article, he spoke of having attended a production in Auckland of Miller's 'All My Sons', and one of the sons was played by a Maori actor, and the rest of the ensemble were white. Jeremy's wife is a Kiwi, and when he commented on the actor having a different skin colour to his on-stage family, she replied it has long been commonplace for Maori actors to be cast with white actors, and nobody even notices. This says a lot. A hell of a bloody lot. I know I would notice if a different coloured actor was cast in a 'family', only because one usually shares the same skin colour as their biological siblings (unless you're Michael Jackson). Jeremy's article was actually about racism, and here's a link: http://www.abc.net.au/news/2015-07-28/standford-booing-adam-goodes-are-we-even-aware-were-racists/6653108
But yeah, for a country that's progressive, why ban a freakin' book? Why not ban religious books, given the amount of crap that goes on in the name of organised religion? This just in: kids are going to read about drug use and sex (and it's my understanding these are not the pivotal themes of the book in question, anyway). I remember when I was in Year 10, and the book 'Puberty Blues' going around my school. It was my copy, and when it got returned to me it was in utter tatters. I recall one of my male friends, then in Year 9, reading to a group of captivated Year 7s that notorious passage set in the back of the panel van. I'm amazed 'Puberty Blues' didn't get a ban, and I'm glad it didn't; I consider this the 'Catcher in the Rye' for Aussie kids of my era. 'Catcher in the Rye' itself is a book that stirs up controversy, so I wonder have Family First got their narrow-minded views set on that one, too. Do they still teach it in schools? I'd set this for the class essay: 'Holden Caulfield: Symbol of Disenfranchised Youth or Whiny Little Flog. Discuss'.
Hey, Family First - my most recent book deals with same sex marriage, and my protagonist smokes a joint and has casual sex. Got a problem with that? Here's a link to the first chapter: http://www.zeus-publications.com/silver_studs_and_sabre_teeth.htm (see what I did there, folks? Tried to stir up interest in my book).
Okay, let me play Devil's advocate here, and ask what is more offensive: some sex and drugs in a book, or that a group who believe in a supernatural being can hold such sway that they will influence what I can or cannot read (if I was living in New Zealand). If a business sells the book, it faces a $10,000 fine whilst a private citizen faces a $3,000 fine, if they are unaware of the ban. If they are, then look out, it's gaol time for you. You can still purchase the book from Amazon and view on a kindle.
This has got me shaking my head with my jaw hanging. I cannot believe in this day and age, and in our hemisphere, a book would be banned. It's the stupidest thing I've ever heard of, even surpassing the time a group of people decided it would be a good idea to dispose of a beached whale carcass by using explosives (the laws of physics that deal with mass displacement had whale meat and blubber flying everywhere, causing damage to property - and it had me laughing like a drain). But a book ban is not only stupid, it is downright bloody offensive. Are we to have a new 'Lady Chatterley's Lover' type trial? I'm a grown woman and quite happy to decide for myself what I will read, thank you very much, Family First - if you ever spread your tentacles across the Tasman and try to sway our Classification Board. I'm not complacent in believing it won't happen, trust me on this.
New Zealand strikes me as being a very progressive country. They were the first to give women the vote, and they have beaten us in the legislation of same sex marriage. Something I learned recently, via an article written by my Facebook friend Jeremy Stanford, is they are what I'd affectionately and admiringly call 'colour-blind'. By this I mean skin colour is just not an issue. In Jeremy's article, he spoke of having attended a production in Auckland of Miller's 'All My Sons', and one of the sons was played by a Maori actor, and the rest of the ensemble were white. Jeremy's wife is a Kiwi, and when he commented on the actor having a different skin colour to his on-stage family, she replied it has long been commonplace for Maori actors to be cast with white actors, and nobody even notices. This says a lot. A hell of a bloody lot. I know I would notice if a different coloured actor was cast in a 'family', only because one usually shares the same skin colour as their biological siblings (unless you're Michael Jackson). Jeremy's article was actually about racism, and here's a link: http://www.abc.net.au/news/2015-07-28/standford-booing-adam-goodes-are-we-even-aware-were-racists/6653108
But yeah, for a country that's progressive, why ban a freakin' book? Why not ban religious books, given the amount of crap that goes on in the name of organised religion? This just in: kids are going to read about drug use and sex (and it's my understanding these are not the pivotal themes of the book in question, anyway). I remember when I was in Year 10, and the book 'Puberty Blues' going around my school. It was my copy, and when it got returned to me it was in utter tatters. I recall one of my male friends, then in Year 9, reading to a group of captivated Year 7s that notorious passage set in the back of the panel van. I'm amazed 'Puberty Blues' didn't get a ban, and I'm glad it didn't; I consider this the 'Catcher in the Rye' for Aussie kids of my era. 'Catcher in the Rye' itself is a book that stirs up controversy, so I wonder have Family First got their narrow-minded views set on that one, too. Do they still teach it in schools? I'd set this for the class essay: 'Holden Caulfield: Symbol of Disenfranchised Youth or Whiny Little Flog. Discuss'.
Hey, Family First - my most recent book deals with same sex marriage, and my protagonist smokes a joint and has casual sex. Got a problem with that? Here's a link to the first chapter: http://www.zeus-publications.com/silver_studs_and_sabre_teeth.htm (see what I did there, folks? Tried to stir up interest in my book).
Sunday 6 September 2015
Alice, The Shotgun Wedding, The Repentant Root-Rat, & The Shit-Boring Vet
My son's cooking dinner - nachos. I'm drinking red wine. My weekend has consisted of working, gardening and helping out a friend. This help entailed a police officers - it's been busy.
BUT I'm not too busy to do a little research and thinking for those of you who don't want to listen to songs that have really annoying or shit-boring narratives. Every now and then you hear a song that makes you want to scream at the singer, 'Nobody fucking CARES!!!' Anyway, dear reader, here are a few for your not-so-listening-pleasure:
1. 'Living Next Door To Alice' by Smokie. This song is one of those polarising ones that people appear to love or loathe. Lemme give you a hint: I'm about to pay out on it. Truly, it's a load of the most lachrymose twaddle ever put to vinyl - I'm old; I remember vinyl. This bloke is bleating and whining about how this woman he's loved all his life is leaving the area. She can't have been all that into him at all because she didn't tell him she was leaving, he got the news from Sally. So he's moaning and groaning about having waited for his chance to tell her he liked her. Okay, you might think, but get this: it's been twenty-four years! Surely he could have made a move in that time. I know shyness is crippling, but like I said: twenty-four years! No sympathy from me. This song is such overwrought bloat, it's become something of a parody in which people find themselves chanting, 'Alice? Who the fuck is Alice?' Come on, admit it. You've all done this. But all is not lost for the faint-hearted twerp who didn't win fair maiden. Sally rings back, and says she's been waiting for twenty-four years. You can do the maths. The lovelorn loser need worry no more about missing his chance with Alice; Sally is more than willing to give him a root, but she will have to be prepared for the possibility he is going to sing out Alice's name at the crucial moment.
2. 'The River' by Bruce Springsteen. Don't get me wrong, I like the Boss. I've been listening to his wonderfully cynical 'Brilliant Disguise' today. I love the ennui in his delivery, and the addressing of the falsities in the relationship. I have trouble keeping a straight face at times because I'm one of those idiots who thought he was singing, 'Is that you, baby, or just a brick in disguise' when I first heard it. But like the song referred to in Point 1 above, 'The River' is just a great big whinge. The tune is as bleak as an overcast and drizzly day in my home town, which is Muswellbrook - a coal town. He got his girlfriend pregnant and had a rather clinical wedding ceremony at the town court house, and he's got no money because of the current economy. This song makes me want to scream at him did he not wear a condom, or why didn't they have an abortion.
3. 'I've Never Been To Me' by Charlene. Not enough can be written to describe how I loathe this song, and how I want to scream, 'Nobody fucking CARES!!!' when it's played. I have written countless paragraphs about the atrocities contained in that song: the whining, the sickly spoken bridge, the fact she had sex with a priest. What always gives me the good old shits is her moaning about having visited the Isle of Greece, because I'm pretty sure Greece is a peninsula. If I had been spending my time sailing on a yacht, sipping champagne, and getting my brains banged out, I wouldn't be mewling and bleating about it. Hell no, I'd be like, 'HAHAHAHAHA! Fuck yas!', and flipping the bird.
4. 'Working Class Man' by Jimmy Barnes. Another song that I have always loathed, every since I first heard it thirty years ago as a relatively fresh faced nineteen-year-old. I'm now forty-nine, and the years have not tempered my detestation of this utter wankery. Jimmy Barnes yowls and screeches, like a tortured cockatoo, about some shit-boring bloke of apparent sub-borderline intelligence, still harbouring a few issues about his tour of duty in 'Nam. He's a 'simple man' with a 'heart of gold'. You know what? I. Don't. Fucking. CARE!!! It would be far more interesting to hear about a Machiavellian prick who manipulates all those around him in his own twisted chess game. This bloke would not have a heart of gold, indeed he would have NO heart, but he would have a mind of malicious mischief and malevolence, as he screws over every potential investor, and just screws their wives. He didn't go to 'Nam because he blackmailed the clerk in charge of Conscription so his numbers wouldn't be drawn (he threatened to tell everyone the clerk was a Communist, and smoked weed, and wore a girdle). He has a shitload of money that he acquired through the hard work of others, spends it on high class call girls and cocaine, and sneers at the Salvos. An unpleasant piece of work, I will grant you that, but still a shitload more interesting than the battler Jimmy Barnes is currently shrieking about.
Okay. The red wine in my glass is getting low. I bid you all adieu.
BUT I'm not too busy to do a little research and thinking for those of you who don't want to listen to songs that have really annoying or shit-boring narratives. Every now and then you hear a song that makes you want to scream at the singer, 'Nobody fucking CARES!!!' Anyway, dear reader, here are a few for your not-so-listening-pleasure:
1. 'Living Next Door To Alice' by Smokie. This song is one of those polarising ones that people appear to love or loathe. Lemme give you a hint: I'm about to pay out on it. Truly, it's a load of the most lachrymose twaddle ever put to vinyl - I'm old; I remember vinyl. This bloke is bleating and whining about how this woman he's loved all his life is leaving the area. She can't have been all that into him at all because she didn't tell him she was leaving, he got the news from Sally. So he's moaning and groaning about having waited for his chance to tell her he liked her. Okay, you might think, but get this: it's been twenty-four years! Surely he could have made a move in that time. I know shyness is crippling, but like I said: twenty-four years! No sympathy from me. This song is such overwrought bloat, it's become something of a parody in which people find themselves chanting, 'Alice? Who the fuck is Alice?' Come on, admit it. You've all done this. But all is not lost for the faint-hearted twerp who didn't win fair maiden. Sally rings back, and says she's been waiting for twenty-four years. You can do the maths. The lovelorn loser need worry no more about missing his chance with Alice; Sally is more than willing to give him a root, but she will have to be prepared for the possibility he is going to sing out Alice's name at the crucial moment.
2. 'The River' by Bruce Springsteen. Don't get me wrong, I like the Boss. I've been listening to his wonderfully cynical 'Brilliant Disguise' today. I love the ennui in his delivery, and the addressing of the falsities in the relationship. I have trouble keeping a straight face at times because I'm one of those idiots who thought he was singing, 'Is that you, baby, or just a brick in disguise' when I first heard it. But like the song referred to in Point 1 above, 'The River' is just a great big whinge. The tune is as bleak as an overcast and drizzly day in my home town, which is Muswellbrook - a coal town. He got his girlfriend pregnant and had a rather clinical wedding ceremony at the town court house, and he's got no money because of the current economy. This song makes me want to scream at him did he not wear a condom, or why didn't they have an abortion.
3. 'I've Never Been To Me' by Charlene. Not enough can be written to describe how I loathe this song, and how I want to scream, 'Nobody fucking CARES!!!' when it's played. I have written countless paragraphs about the atrocities contained in that song: the whining, the sickly spoken bridge, the fact she had sex with a priest. What always gives me the good old shits is her moaning about having visited the Isle of Greece, because I'm pretty sure Greece is a peninsula. If I had been spending my time sailing on a yacht, sipping champagne, and getting my brains banged out, I wouldn't be mewling and bleating about it. Hell no, I'd be like, 'HAHAHAHAHA! Fuck yas!', and flipping the bird.
4. 'Working Class Man' by Jimmy Barnes. Another song that I have always loathed, every since I first heard it thirty years ago as a relatively fresh faced nineteen-year-old. I'm now forty-nine, and the years have not tempered my detestation of this utter wankery. Jimmy Barnes yowls and screeches, like a tortured cockatoo, about some shit-boring bloke of apparent sub-borderline intelligence, still harbouring a few issues about his tour of duty in 'Nam. He's a 'simple man' with a 'heart of gold'. You know what? I. Don't. Fucking. CARE!!! It would be far more interesting to hear about a Machiavellian prick who manipulates all those around him in his own twisted chess game. This bloke would not have a heart of gold, indeed he would have NO heart, but he would have a mind of malicious mischief and malevolence, as he screws over every potential investor, and just screws their wives. He didn't go to 'Nam because he blackmailed the clerk in charge of Conscription so his numbers wouldn't be drawn (he threatened to tell everyone the clerk was a Communist, and smoked weed, and wore a girdle). He has a shitload of money that he acquired through the hard work of others, spends it on high class call girls and cocaine, and sneers at the Salvos. An unpleasant piece of work, I will grant you that, but still a shitload more interesting than the battler Jimmy Barnes is currently shrieking about.
Okay. The red wine in my glass is getting low. I bid you all adieu.
Tuesday 1 September 2015
Festering Fug of Foulness
I usually shop at my local Aldi, and what I cannot get at Aldi is normally sourced from Coles. I generally avoid the Woolworths at my town because the car park is an expanse of comber-like swells and humps and mounds, and the outdoor section is on a slope with a gradient of about 85 degrees. It's a real laff-fest when I take elderly people to do their shopping occasionally. Try guiding someone with a mobility aid over that obstacle course. It's an work out session that might negate my need to visit the gym.
But I'm starting to not like going to Coles, notwithstanding the relative flatness of the car park. If you've been following my ranting, you will be aware that last week some silly old moo mistook my butt crack for a trolley bay. Today I almost passed out in there. It was okay at first, I was pushing my trolley and then it hit me like a slap in the face: a malodorous stench that transcended the natural laws of acceptable foulness. How in the blue blazes can someone walk around stinking like that, instead of being unconscious? Seriously, this unadulterated pong had a life of its own, and would probably have needed an exorcist to remove it from the supermarket. If I could have found the breath to call out, instead of saving my breath and avoiding the calamitous stink, I would have shouted, 'Hey, as far back as the 9th century they were using a type of underarm deodorant in Baghdad! The modern day deodorant was patented in 1888! It's not that difficult to get hold of! It's commonplace and not expensive! It's not hard to apply! IT'S BACK HERE IN THE AISLE LABELLED 'HEALTH & BEAUTY', YOU STINKING BEAST!'
Truly, there is someone in my town walking around in some ghastly fug of which he is apparently unaware. Does this putrescent life form not mentally connect the dots when blowflies drop down dead from the sky when he is within ten feet? The stink, which comprised an evil and malevolent presence that even Stephen King could not imagine, lingered and wafted for at least four aisles, from when I placed the rolled oats in my trolley right up to the butter fridge. I was afraid it would embed itself in my hair, like cigarette smoke in a nightclub. I understand smoking is banned; I wouldn't know as I haven't set foot in a nightclub in years. Or maybe it's just pubs it's banned in. I worked in an office where people were allowed to smoke for a while, and one of the solicitors was this thoughtless prick who would occasionally light up a rancid cigar. I once asked him were his underpants on fire. Fed up with his inconsiderate behaviour, two of the junior clerks sprayed the contents of a can of fart gas in his office, and slammed his door shut. He returned from court, entered his room, and then stormed down the back to where the juniors congregated and demanded to know who 'sprayed fucking fart gas in (his) office'. Between guffaws and denials, one of the juniors snorted, 'Aaaah, come on! Admit it: you did a bad one in there!' If you've ever smelled that stuff, you'll know it's enough to make you puke. Well, this bloke in Coles today was on par with a can of fart gas.
I didn't see the contents of the stinker's trolley, but I really hope they included soap, deodorant, and disinfectant. He probably needs a good blast from one of those disinfecting sprays that you get before you step off the aeroplane to kill the ecosystem festering in his armpits.
Tomorrow's chores will probably include getting another copy of my manuscript run off, and I will go through it AGAIN, and it will hopefully be third time lucky and I will be happy to send it to the publishers. Meanwhile, click on the links provided in my info, and read the first chapters to my other novels. Then, if you're of a mind, order or download 'em. I seriously need money; my car is up for rego.
But I'm starting to not like going to Coles, notwithstanding the relative flatness of the car park. If you've been following my ranting, you will be aware that last week some silly old moo mistook my butt crack for a trolley bay. Today I almost passed out in there. It was okay at first, I was pushing my trolley and then it hit me like a slap in the face: a malodorous stench that transcended the natural laws of acceptable foulness. How in the blue blazes can someone walk around stinking like that, instead of being unconscious? Seriously, this unadulterated pong had a life of its own, and would probably have needed an exorcist to remove it from the supermarket. If I could have found the breath to call out, instead of saving my breath and avoiding the calamitous stink, I would have shouted, 'Hey, as far back as the 9th century they were using a type of underarm deodorant in Baghdad! The modern day deodorant was patented in 1888! It's not that difficult to get hold of! It's commonplace and not expensive! It's not hard to apply! IT'S BACK HERE IN THE AISLE LABELLED 'HEALTH & BEAUTY', YOU STINKING BEAST!'
Truly, there is someone in my town walking around in some ghastly fug of which he is apparently unaware. Does this putrescent life form not mentally connect the dots when blowflies drop down dead from the sky when he is within ten feet? The stink, which comprised an evil and malevolent presence that even Stephen King could not imagine, lingered and wafted for at least four aisles, from when I placed the rolled oats in my trolley right up to the butter fridge. I was afraid it would embed itself in my hair, like cigarette smoke in a nightclub. I understand smoking is banned; I wouldn't know as I haven't set foot in a nightclub in years. Or maybe it's just pubs it's banned in. I worked in an office where people were allowed to smoke for a while, and one of the solicitors was this thoughtless prick who would occasionally light up a rancid cigar. I once asked him were his underpants on fire. Fed up with his inconsiderate behaviour, two of the junior clerks sprayed the contents of a can of fart gas in his office, and slammed his door shut. He returned from court, entered his room, and then stormed down the back to where the juniors congregated and demanded to know who 'sprayed fucking fart gas in (his) office'. Between guffaws and denials, one of the juniors snorted, 'Aaaah, come on! Admit it: you did a bad one in there!' If you've ever smelled that stuff, you'll know it's enough to make you puke. Well, this bloke in Coles today was on par with a can of fart gas.
I didn't see the contents of the stinker's trolley, but I really hope they included soap, deodorant, and disinfectant. He probably needs a good blast from one of those disinfecting sprays that you get before you step off the aeroplane to kill the ecosystem festering in his armpits.
Tomorrow's chores will probably include getting another copy of my manuscript run off, and I will go through it AGAIN, and it will hopefully be third time lucky and I will be happy to send it to the publishers. Meanwhile, click on the links provided in my info, and read the first chapters to my other novels. Then, if you're of a mind, order or download 'em. I seriously need money; my car is up for rego.
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