I had a very special mother and son bonding last night, when I introduced my eleven-year-old to 'The Rocky Horror Show'. It was a televised London stage production, and one of the best I've seen. My absolute brain-crush, Stephen Fry, took the role of the narrator. My son is a very theatrical type who loves music, so I figured he'd enjoy the gaudy and vulgar spectacle. I was not wrong. I dismissed any misgivings I have about my youngster viewing what is a somewhat risque show with the thought he seeks out some questionable material on You Tube when I am otherwise engaged, and I know the parents of some of his friends swear like the Osbournes. He loved it, even though he was unwell and nursing a sick bowl. He was delighted when we discovered the actor playing Dr Frank'n'Furter voices a character in the US version of Thomas the Tank Engine. The actor was delicious and lascivious in the role, and bore a jaw-dropping resemblance to Eartha Kitt in his bold eye make-up, jammy listick, and dark wig. I have promised to take my little boy to see a live production in Sydney or Newcastle just as soon as another production is announced. Oh, and when I saw the actor playing Rocky, my fast-drying ovaries damn near went into overdrive.
His dad and I saw a production many, many years ago in the early days of our courtship. We are both huge fans of the depraved musical. You know something? Liking 'Rocky Horror' is a deal breaker for me. Oh, not in every day life, but in romantic relationships (not that I am seeking any new ones!). I told my son in order to be considered a suitor for me, a man must (1) like children; (2) be kind to animals; and (3) like 'The Rocky Horror Show'. Naturally, his dad meets all the criteria.
Call me shallow, but I once broke it off with a guy because, among his other crimes, he didn't like 'The Rocky Horror Show'. It is important to respect each other's differences and look past them, but when he sat appalled in the theatre after Frank threw off his cape to be revealed in his basque-and-suspendered glory, I knew he was most likely not a keeper for me. They say opposiites attract, but I now know this to be completely untrue. I think we seek out qualities in our friends that we might lack in ourselves, eg, assertiveness. Having different opinions on subjects is not a problem, and possibly healthy. However, if someone stands in total ideological opposition to you, then I cannot see how a romance can survive. This guy turned out to be a whiny pain, and it was best we not continue any romance. But that was a river under the bridge, and we did actually see each other around sometimes because of our work, and eventually resumed a friendship, which was nice. Haven't seen him in many years, but I wish him well.
Other things annoy me. I am having trouble with my computer at home for some reason, and am therefore typing this in the library. The computers are arranged on a rather elliptical set of tables, and opposite me sits a group of boys, aged about twelve, carrying on like snickering, infantile little nongs. I'm guessing they're not looking at porn given we are in a library. Oh, who am I to make assumptions? Maybe they're reading some history or geography, and their giggles are a reaction to their joy of learning. But I doubt this very much.
Moronic comments from our MPs annoy me, too. In my cross hairs today I have lined up parliamentary secretary Ray Williams. He made an asinine comment against the idea of installing more women's toilets in Parliament House on the basis that the women will spend all day in there and nothing will get done. I know it's an old chestnut and joke that ladies spend a lot of time in the loo, and always travel in packs. I'm not like this; if I want to go, then I'm going to go. I don't know if you're reading this, Ray, but when women go to the loo, they don't the luxury of standing there, unzipping a fly, and flopping out a todger. There is more clothing to fiddle with and adjust, such as skirts and occasionally pantihose, which is a monstrous nuisance at times. A woman occasionally has to replace a sanitary product. But here's the thing: we're not going to the dunny just for a laugh, okay? And your comment really sucks donkeys' balls in the lack of logic. If there are more loos, there will be LESS time away from the desk because there will be LESS queueing for a stall. Take a moment to let that absorb, will you? And isn't it preferable that women go to the toilet and void their bodily waste in a considered and culturally appropriate manner, instead of they way YOU obviously do, Ray? By this I mean you just climb up a tree, have a crap, and then fling it.
On a final note, to the dick beaters who leave shopping trolleys in the parking bays of the shopping centre car parks, rather than wheel them to the trolley bays, or at least to a spot away from the car spaces - yes, you - the morons who put trolleys right where people would like to park, thus necessitating them either driving to another spot or getting out of the vehicle to move the infernal trolley: you are all the wads your respective fathers should have spunked onto the bed sheets.
Saturday 31 October 2015
Wednesday 28 October 2015
What I'm Wondering Today
Just having a bit of a cruddy day, if the truth be told. Had a service go completely haywire. Well, maybe not completely, just not to plan. So, in the spare time I had I thought I would pop along to Woollies and shop for the family dinner. As I put the bay leaves in my basket (I'm going exotic tonight), my phone rang. The service was reinstated and I had to get back to work. I replaced my phone thinking something along the lines of it all being the biggest cock-up since King Kong cracked an erection, when I turned around and saw the fearsome countenance of the most horrid woman in town. I ducked away before she could breathe on me, and singe my eyebrows and hair. Will my day get worse? I consoled myself with the thought it could not. Thus far, it hasn't. Fingers and toes are crossed, as is my hair: it's braided today. Just in case anyone gives a shit how I wore my hair today.
There are two things I'm wondering about today:
1. Why some people or entities who purport to be Christian really aren't. I've just read an article about Foundation Christian College. The father of one of the students has now enrolled her in the local public school - making her a former student, I guess - because he was apparently told in a meeting that had the board (or whoever the fogies are) been aware he is gay, the daughter would not have been allowed in the school. Apparently this school does 'not promote gay'. However, the promotion of bigotry and homophobia fall well within the parameters of what's acceptable. Poor kid was told she could mention her dad, but not the status of his relationship or his sexuality. Rather than deal with the spectre of the kid being asked to leave over her father's sexuality, in the event it became widely known, the father has chosen to remove the daughter and enrol her in a public school. Probably a good idea in the long run, but I hate the poor kid had to have this upheaval and leave her friends. I wonder if the board who run that school ever stop to think how Jesus would have reacted to the situation, given they call themselves Christian. I'm thinking he might have not worried about the dad's sexuality, and would have just said something like, 'Live and let live.'
2. In order to make a country song, must one hold one's nose and then whine, mewl, and bleat piteous, poor-me lyrics. Or else hold one's nose and twang a narrative on some boring life story nobody gives a stuff around. Well, that's what they all sound like to me. I heard one on the radio this morning, and it was almost a Paint-By-Numbers country song - nasal delivery and a shit-boring story.
'Tis all for now.
There are two things I'm wondering about today:
1. Why some people or entities who purport to be Christian really aren't. I've just read an article about Foundation Christian College. The father of one of the students has now enrolled her in the local public school - making her a former student, I guess - because he was apparently told in a meeting that had the board (or whoever the fogies are) been aware he is gay, the daughter would not have been allowed in the school. Apparently this school does 'not promote gay'. However, the promotion of bigotry and homophobia fall well within the parameters of what's acceptable. Poor kid was told she could mention her dad, but not the status of his relationship or his sexuality. Rather than deal with the spectre of the kid being asked to leave over her father's sexuality, in the event it became widely known, the father has chosen to remove the daughter and enrol her in a public school. Probably a good idea in the long run, but I hate the poor kid had to have this upheaval and leave her friends. I wonder if the board who run that school ever stop to think how Jesus would have reacted to the situation, given they call themselves Christian. I'm thinking he might have not worried about the dad's sexuality, and would have just said something like, 'Live and let live.'
2. In order to make a country song, must one hold one's nose and then whine, mewl, and bleat piteous, poor-me lyrics. Or else hold one's nose and twang a narrative on some boring life story nobody gives a stuff around. Well, that's what they all sound like to me. I heard one on the radio this morning, and it was almost a Paint-By-Numbers country song - nasal delivery and a shit-boring story.
'Tis all for now.
Tuesday 27 October 2015
Many Cultures; One Community; Many Missing The Point
There was a storm here yesterday afternoon. I saw my neighbour picking up loose chattels in his yard, and I stacked my new outdoor chairs so they wouldn't be rained on. Such are the precautions one takes. What do you do when there is a shit storm? Do you stay inside so as not to get peppered with giant turd hailstones? I guess it depends on the individual shit storm. You sure do see a lot of them on social media. I saw one today. It was to do with a primary school in Melbourne that has given Shi'ite students who are observing the month of Muharram the option to leave the assembly hall during the singing of the National Anthem. For those of you who don't know, and that number included me until this morning as today was the first I had heard of it, this is an observance by some Muslims for a month around this time of year. Because it is a month of mourning, one does not partake in joyous activities such as singing. This is why students have been given the option to stand outside the hall.
But as can be predicted in these scatological weather phenomena, people are totally missing the point. Let me explain things. I won't promise to do it in simple terms, because I tend to write in a convoluted, although fluent, manner. But I will try and explain things best I can.
First of all: NOBODY is disrespecting anything. Not Australia, not the National Anthem, not our way of life. It is not about the National Anthem. It is about SINGING. That's what the 'problem' is. If the school was playing Taylor Swift for the kids to sing along with, the children would be given the same option of leaving the hall. And if they take up this option, they had better get out of there quickly, because I would be barrelling from the hall quickly enough to knock them over like ten pins!
The motto of the school is something along the lines of 'Many Cultures; One Community'. This would indicate to me students from other backgrounds have cultural needs addressed and respected, too. Is it a bad thing to teach kids about other cultures and how to be respectful? The school is damned if they do, and damned if they don't, I reckon.
I really cannot see how this is different to allowances that were made when I was going through school. When I was seven, most of my class practised and prepared for our First Holy Communion. All of us except for one little girl, who told me her mother didn't want her to doing the sacrament. 'm guessing this kid might not have been Catholic, but you know what? It doesn't matter.
During my high school years, I attended the local State school, and the Catholicism came in handy because we could bludge off and attend Mass on the Holy Days of Obligation. But in terms of cultural respect, when I was in Year 10, we had our prac cooking on a Friday, which during Lent was kind of problematic as we weren't meant to touch meat. The teacher, an evil old harridan, had to come up with substitutes to accommodate the Catholic and Greek Orthodox students. Every Friday it was, 'Hands up the Catholics.' First Friday after Easter, she did it again. 'Hands up the Catholics!' she cawed, like the old crow she was. I put up my hand and pointed out Lent was over. The teacher lost her shit. 'I know Lent's over, Simone Bailey!' she barked. 'I just want to know who the Catholics are!' (Bitch, please. *Does eyeroll*).
But you see what I'm getting at here? There is really no need for mole hills to take on the volume and shape of mountains, is there?
But as can be predicted in these scatological weather phenomena, people are totally missing the point. Let me explain things. I won't promise to do it in simple terms, because I tend to write in a convoluted, although fluent, manner. But I will try and explain things best I can.
First of all: NOBODY is disrespecting anything. Not Australia, not the National Anthem, not our way of life. It is not about the National Anthem. It is about SINGING. That's what the 'problem' is. If the school was playing Taylor Swift for the kids to sing along with, the children would be given the same option of leaving the hall. And if they take up this option, they had better get out of there quickly, because I would be barrelling from the hall quickly enough to knock them over like ten pins!
The motto of the school is something along the lines of 'Many Cultures; One Community'. This would indicate to me students from other backgrounds have cultural needs addressed and respected, too. Is it a bad thing to teach kids about other cultures and how to be respectful? The school is damned if they do, and damned if they don't, I reckon.
I really cannot see how this is different to allowances that were made when I was going through school. When I was seven, most of my class practised and prepared for our First Holy Communion. All of us except for one little girl, who told me her mother didn't want her to doing the sacrament. 'm guessing this kid might not have been Catholic, but you know what? It doesn't matter.
During my high school years, I attended the local State school, and the Catholicism came in handy because we could bludge off and attend Mass on the Holy Days of Obligation. But in terms of cultural respect, when I was in Year 10, we had our prac cooking on a Friday, which during Lent was kind of problematic as we weren't meant to touch meat. The teacher, an evil old harridan, had to come up with substitutes to accommodate the Catholic and Greek Orthodox students. Every Friday it was, 'Hands up the Catholics.' First Friday after Easter, she did it again. 'Hands up the Catholics!' she cawed, like the old crow she was. I put up my hand and pointed out Lent was over. The teacher lost her shit. 'I know Lent's over, Simone Bailey!' she barked. 'I just want to know who the Catholics are!' (Bitch, please. *Does eyeroll*).
But you see what I'm getting at here? There is really no need for mole hills to take on the volume and shape of mountains, is there?
Wednesday 21 October 2015
Great Scott, Is There A 'Future' In Poker Machines?
Okay, it's a bit of a 'me day' today. I'm just goofing around, and having some 'me time', and might even have a nap. Never thought I'd see the day when the highlight of my day was a nap, but it appears to be heading that way. I have finalised all the corrections on my manuscript, and I am confident to submit it to my publishers. I'm actually just waiting to hear back from them as to whether they want me to submit some random chapters and a synopsis, or just the novella in its entirety and a synopsis. Yes, it's really only novella length, so if it is accepted for publication, you have no excuse to not read it because it won't take long. All going well, it will be out some time next year.
On this, my 'me day', I've been thinking about 'Back to the Future', yesterday (21 October 2015) being THE day. I love those movies. They are rare in that they are movies from the Eighties that didn't totally suck donkeys' balls. The Eighties movies I hate the most feature cheesy homo-erotic montages, Kenny Loggins in the soundtrack, and Steve Gutenberg. I saw the first one when I was nineteen, and loved it. I remember thinking when Marty was to pay for something, it was lucky he was in the US; had the movie been set in Australia he would have been totally screwed because in 1955 people were using the pounds, shillings, and pence, and he'd have had a wallet full of decimal currency. Yeah, I'm probably the only person who thought about that. Please try and find it a more charming aspect of my otherwise eccentric personality.
The scene where Marty's future mother tries to kiss him made me go 'ick', but it was important for the integrity of the movie. Love the part where he's playing 'Johnny B Goode' and the band's lead singer, Marvin Berry, rings his cousin Chuck to tell him about this great new sound. And of course, everyone loves it when Marty's future father George McFly gives Biff a bloody good, well, biff in the jaw and knocks the overbearing prick unconscious. I think Crispin Glover (George McFly) was fantastic in this movie - he's very underrated.
So, what's going to happen with the pokies now, folks? I've heard about a proposed class action that will claim by their very nature, they breach consumer law. They are designed to keep the player transfixed with their noises, graphics, and lights. I guess they're similar tricks used by hypnotists, perhaps. I'm intrigued by this proposed class action because of my legal background. It seems interesting. But as an Everyday Joe (or Josephine, in my case), I just want to respond to the criticism that the machines are designed to keep people mesmerised with a reverberating, 'Well, duuur-URRRRRRR!'
I will say this: I fucking hate the things. I used to go and watch bands years ago, but that dried up when the pokies were installed in the band's area. Also, there is nothing more dull than being on a night out with friends who ignore you and play the pokies. But the same argument can be applied to friends who look at their phones all night, and ignore their physical company as they indulge in their cyber alternative. Yes, gambling addiction destroys families and lives. So too does alcoholism. I see no call for booze to be banned.
Some people enjoy a light flutter. Let them do it. If people have problems with poker machine addiction, ask you be banned from the area, or premises. Or alternatively, take up line dancing somewhere where the poker machines are not. I know the draw of addiction is powerful, and my suggestions are probably too simplistic, but maybe they're a start.
Another thing: clubs often rely very heavily on the revenue generated by the poker machines to continue their operation as a business. This business provides employment, and a flow on effect regarding employment (deliveries, suppliers, chefs, wait staff, cleaners et al). Clubs provide community services and support, too. Without their poker machine revenue, this would all stop.
I admit the legal aspect of this law suit interests me, as abovementioned. But can people also take some responsibility? I recall an interview with Danny Bonaduce, whom you might recall was a child actor in 'The Partridge Family'. I personally find him very engaging and funny, but I had total respect when he spoke about his addictions. When it was put to him whether his former child stardom had contributed to these, he said words to the effect, 'I'm an alcoholic because of a flaw in my genetic make-up. When I was in rehab, there were also lawyers, accountants, and dentists, but only one former child actor, and that was ME. You wouldn't go up to someone in rehab and say, 'You must have been child dentist', would you?' Good points.
On this, my 'me day', I've been thinking about 'Back to the Future', yesterday (21 October 2015) being THE day. I love those movies. They are rare in that they are movies from the Eighties that didn't totally suck donkeys' balls. The Eighties movies I hate the most feature cheesy homo-erotic montages, Kenny Loggins in the soundtrack, and Steve Gutenberg. I saw the first one when I was nineteen, and loved it. I remember thinking when Marty was to pay for something, it was lucky he was in the US; had the movie been set in Australia he would have been totally screwed because in 1955 people were using the pounds, shillings, and pence, and he'd have had a wallet full of decimal currency. Yeah, I'm probably the only person who thought about that. Please try and find it a more charming aspect of my otherwise eccentric personality.
The scene where Marty's future mother tries to kiss him made me go 'ick', but it was important for the integrity of the movie. Love the part where he's playing 'Johnny B Goode' and the band's lead singer, Marvin Berry, rings his cousin Chuck to tell him about this great new sound. And of course, everyone loves it when Marty's future father George McFly gives Biff a bloody good, well, biff in the jaw and knocks the overbearing prick unconscious. I think Crispin Glover (George McFly) was fantastic in this movie - he's very underrated.
So, what's going to happen with the pokies now, folks? I've heard about a proposed class action that will claim by their very nature, they breach consumer law. They are designed to keep the player transfixed with their noises, graphics, and lights. I guess they're similar tricks used by hypnotists, perhaps. I'm intrigued by this proposed class action because of my legal background. It seems interesting. But as an Everyday Joe (or Josephine, in my case), I just want to respond to the criticism that the machines are designed to keep people mesmerised with a reverberating, 'Well, duuur-URRRRRRR!'
I will say this: I fucking hate the things. I used to go and watch bands years ago, but that dried up when the pokies were installed in the band's area. Also, there is nothing more dull than being on a night out with friends who ignore you and play the pokies. But the same argument can be applied to friends who look at their phones all night, and ignore their physical company as they indulge in their cyber alternative. Yes, gambling addiction destroys families and lives. So too does alcoholism. I see no call for booze to be banned.
Some people enjoy a light flutter. Let them do it. If people have problems with poker machine addiction, ask you be banned from the area, or premises. Or alternatively, take up line dancing somewhere where the poker machines are not. I know the draw of addiction is powerful, and my suggestions are probably too simplistic, but maybe they're a start.
Another thing: clubs often rely very heavily on the revenue generated by the poker machines to continue their operation as a business. This business provides employment, and a flow on effect regarding employment (deliveries, suppliers, chefs, wait staff, cleaners et al). Clubs provide community services and support, too. Without their poker machine revenue, this would all stop.
I admit the legal aspect of this law suit interests me, as abovementioned. But can people also take some responsibility? I recall an interview with Danny Bonaduce, whom you might recall was a child actor in 'The Partridge Family'. I personally find him very engaging and funny, but I had total respect when he spoke about his addictions. When it was put to him whether his former child stardom had contributed to these, he said words to the effect, 'I'm an alcoholic because of a flaw in my genetic make-up. When I was in rehab, there were also lawyers, accountants, and dentists, but only one former child actor, and that was ME. You wouldn't go up to someone in rehab and say, 'You must have been child dentist', would you?' Good points.
Monday 19 October 2015
You've Been C**t-Struck!
Ladies and gentlemen, the trending word in the Twitterverse today is 'cunt-struck'. It is not a new term, but it certainly has coverage today, thanks to the interview with Michael Lawler, Vice President of the Fair Work Commission screened on '4 Corners' last night. I actually missed the relevant bit, and I'm kind of sorry I did. In it he appears to have been referring to his fears of the public perceiving him as under the thumb of his partner Kathy Jackson, former head of the Health Services Union, who recently found herself mired in some poo.
From what I can tell, Lawler was in a fug of solipsism and waxing almost poetically, saying words to the effect, 'I'll be characterised as that scumbag, crook, fraudster...bewitched by an evil harridan ..." - WAIT FOR IT! - ... 'that I'm-,' (Are you sitting down? Are you ready for this? Is your bladder empty?) '- cunt-struck.'
It would appear at this stage the viewing audience started to lose their shit. I'm not sure what I would have done. It's certainly a rather obnoxious sounding term, and it's one I would associate with some sweaty bogan derisively discussing his mate's relationship with some woman, as he's twisting the lid from his VB. If I'd seen it, I think I would have been sitting there like a stunned mullet, such would be the shock. You just don't expect it. And as a writer, I know that can make a passage or scene far more effective.
But it will not make it more romantic, no matter how enamoured and infatuated our hero is with the lady in question. Can you imagine Romeo saying:
'With love's light wings did I o'erperch these walls
For stony limits cannot hold love out...
.... and I am cunt-stuck'.
Not quite the same, is it?
Could you imagine watching 'Casablanca' (in the original artistically atmospheric black and white; whoever colourised 'Casablanca' should be punched in the face), and the gut-wrenched Rick saying to Ilsa, 'We'll always have Paris... where I was cunt-struck.' That would suck the romance right out of it all.
I cannot envisage watching 'Four Weddings And A Funeral' (well, not again, I've seen it a few times already) and seeing the foppishly delicious Hugh Grant pouring out his heart to Andie MacDowell: 'In the words of David Cassidy, in fact, while he was still with the Partridge Family, 'I think I love you', .... and I'm cunt-struck.'
When curled up on the lounge reading the classics under a doona, should one be engrossed in 'Wuthering Heights', and reading the passage where the dark, cross, brooding (actually, he sounds like a misery-guts) Heathcliff tells of his torture at Catherine's grave: 'I got the sexton...to remove the earth off her coffin lid, and I opened it ... because I was cunt-struck'. No. Just, no.
When I first met my husband in a pub in my home town, many, many years ago, he actually went home and woke his parents. He said to them, 'Today I met the woman I intend to marry.' He did not say, 'I've met this top chick and I'm cunt-struck.' Thank heavens for that! What happened next, is his father said, 'Go to bed son; you're drunk.' My infatuated friend said, 'Yes, I might be a bit drunk, but I've still met the woman I am going to marry. Her name is Simone. Isn't that a beautiful name?' I love that story, and share it when I can. He was twenty-six years old. Today he is fifty. Literally. It's his fiftieth birthday today.
Happy birthday, my love.
By the way, I've taken this week off work and I'm finalising the manuscript for my next novel - this will be the third edit, and I think it will be ready for submission to the editor. It's not like something I've attempted with my other books. This is first person narrative and largely written in present tense, except when the narrator is relating an incident from the past. It was fun to write. I hope, when it is published, you will ALL have fun reading it. In the meantime - hint, hint! - check out my other books.
But back to my original point, I cannot see this somewhat odious phrase taking on too many romantic connotations.
From what I can tell, Lawler was in a fug of solipsism and waxing almost poetically, saying words to the effect, 'I'll be characterised as that scumbag, crook, fraudster...bewitched by an evil harridan ..." - WAIT FOR IT! - ... 'that I'm-,' (Are you sitting down? Are you ready for this? Is your bladder empty?) '- cunt-struck.'
It would appear at this stage the viewing audience started to lose their shit. I'm not sure what I would have done. It's certainly a rather obnoxious sounding term, and it's one I would associate with some sweaty bogan derisively discussing his mate's relationship with some woman, as he's twisting the lid from his VB. If I'd seen it, I think I would have been sitting there like a stunned mullet, such would be the shock. You just don't expect it. And as a writer, I know that can make a passage or scene far more effective.
But it will not make it more romantic, no matter how enamoured and infatuated our hero is with the lady in question. Can you imagine Romeo saying:
'With love's light wings did I o'erperch these walls
For stony limits cannot hold love out...
.... and I am cunt-stuck'.
Not quite the same, is it?
Could you imagine watching 'Casablanca' (in the original artistically atmospheric black and white; whoever colourised 'Casablanca' should be punched in the face), and the gut-wrenched Rick saying to Ilsa, 'We'll always have Paris... where I was cunt-struck.' That would suck the romance right out of it all.
I cannot envisage watching 'Four Weddings And A Funeral' (well, not again, I've seen it a few times already) and seeing the foppishly delicious Hugh Grant pouring out his heart to Andie MacDowell: 'In the words of David Cassidy, in fact, while he was still with the Partridge Family, 'I think I love you', .... and I'm cunt-struck.'
When curled up on the lounge reading the classics under a doona, should one be engrossed in 'Wuthering Heights', and reading the passage where the dark, cross, brooding (actually, he sounds like a misery-guts) Heathcliff tells of his torture at Catherine's grave: 'I got the sexton...to remove the earth off her coffin lid, and I opened it ... because I was cunt-struck'. No. Just, no.
When I first met my husband in a pub in my home town, many, many years ago, he actually went home and woke his parents. He said to them, 'Today I met the woman I intend to marry.' He did not say, 'I've met this top chick and I'm cunt-struck.' Thank heavens for that! What happened next, is his father said, 'Go to bed son; you're drunk.' My infatuated friend said, 'Yes, I might be a bit drunk, but I've still met the woman I am going to marry. Her name is Simone. Isn't that a beautiful name?' I love that story, and share it when I can. He was twenty-six years old. Today he is fifty. Literally. It's his fiftieth birthday today.
Happy birthday, my love.
By the way, I've taken this week off work and I'm finalising the manuscript for my next novel - this will be the third edit, and I think it will be ready for submission to the editor. It's not like something I've attempted with my other books. This is first person narrative and largely written in present tense, except when the narrator is relating an incident from the past. It was fun to write. I hope, when it is published, you will ALL have fun reading it. In the meantime - hint, hint! - check out my other books.
But back to my original point, I cannot see this somewhat odious phrase taking on too many romantic connotations.
Thursday 15 October 2015
My Patience Is "Shorten"-ing
I no longer have any credit on the Harvey Norman voucher my family received from the insurance company to replace lost items when our house flooded last year. We replaced our furniture, and also bought a fantastic outdoor bench with the funds remaining. Almost regretting that outdoor bench because perhaps the little left over could have gone to a Christmas gift for Bill Shorten and the rest of the Labor Party. What I have in mind is a whipper-snipper. They can use it as they go on their Tall Poppy Lopping Expedition, which is what comes to mind with the sniping about the wealth Prime Minister Turnbull has accumulated over his life, some of which is invested in - shhhhh! - the Cayman Islands. Look, I'm more aligned with Labor than Liberal any day, but this reverse snobbery over Turnbull's wealth just reeks of petulance and pettiness. It does nobody any credit whatsoever. I recall your former leader Kevin Rudd's wife was wealthy, too. What does wealth matter? Fuck knows I wish I had more of it.
Trying to paint Turnbull as an elitist out of touch with every day hard working Australians on the basis he is rich is about as pointless as bashing on piano keys with your elbows. If he has accumulated his wealth by hard work, and on his own admission a bit of good luck, then that would at least show he has some intelligence. If the wealth has been accumulated by fair means, and the appropriate tax paid on it, then - and I will just type this slowly - What. Does. It. Bloody. Matter. How. He. Invests. His. Own. Bloody. Money (again provided investments are all legal etc etc etc)?
Criticise the man's policies by all means - God alone knows I do - but bitching because someone's rich? Grow up!
Well, I'm off to the printers to collect a copy of my manuscript - time for its next edit. And then, oh then, I'm off to pick up Master 11, home from school camp. We've missed our little bundle of fun. Then tonight I'm off to see a movie with a friend. The film starts at 9.00pm. This feels strange for me, it seems like I'm going to have a late night. I've never been a night owl at all, really, but in my twenties I would often stumble home at three in the morning (although I preferred to be home by midnight!), but now that I'm staring down the barrel at fifty, going out to pick up my friend at 8.30pm feels positively decadent.
Trying to paint Turnbull as an elitist out of touch with every day hard working Australians on the basis he is rich is about as pointless as bashing on piano keys with your elbows. If he has accumulated his wealth by hard work, and on his own admission a bit of good luck, then that would at least show he has some intelligence. If the wealth has been accumulated by fair means, and the appropriate tax paid on it, then - and I will just type this slowly - What. Does. It. Bloody. Matter. How. He. Invests. His. Own. Bloody. Money (again provided investments are all legal etc etc etc)?
Criticise the man's policies by all means - God alone knows I do - but bitching because someone's rich? Grow up!
Well, I'm off to the printers to collect a copy of my manuscript - time for its next edit. And then, oh then, I'm off to pick up Master 11, home from school camp. We've missed our little bundle of fun. Then tonight I'm off to see a movie with a friend. The film starts at 9.00pm. This feels strange for me, it seems like I'm going to have a late night. I've never been a night owl at all, really, but in my twenties I would often stumble home at three in the morning (although I preferred to be home by midnight!), but now that I'm staring down the barrel at fifty, going out to pick up my friend at 8.30pm feels positively decadent.
Monday 12 October 2015
This is the dawning of the Age of the Outrage....
If the Sixties and Seventies were all about peace and love, and the Age of Aquarius (incidentally my star sign), then now is the dawning of the Age of Outrage. Oh, the Devil take the 'dawning', it's high noon, well into the day. It seems I cannot turn on my television of late without hearing a group of people have called for the resignation, sacking, or public disembowelling of somebody who has said or done something with which they take umbrage. A few days ago it was David Reynolds. Today it's Geelong mayor Darryn Lyons, whose great offence is to wear a T-shirt featuring a nude of Madonna hitch-hiking, and the slogan something like 'Ass, Grass, or Gas: Nobody rides for free'. The nude is taken from the coffee table book she published years ago, because she was labouring under the misapprehension that everybody gives a shit about what her idea of a sexual fantasy comprises.
You know something? Yeah, I totally agree this is a tacky t-shirt. It is bad judgement for the mayor to wear it, because it's going to attract the cranks. But I support the mayor's right to wear whatever the fudge he likes on HIS time. He was attending an Oktoberfest event on his own time, not a black tie ball representing Council. It was an event where people drink steins of beer and dance the chicken dance, not a charity event or a State funeral, in which he would have attended in an official capacity. This just in: outside their jobs, people have these funny and idiosyncratic things called 'lives'. If he is not accepting paper bags of money, unreasonably elaborate gifts, other bribes, or somehow has his hand in the public till, or if he hasn't committed an assault or an act of menace, WHY do some people have to jump up and down like a frog on a hotplate, screaming for his resignation at the least, because they cannot ask for his head on a silver platter?
I'm not a fan of this stupid t-shirt, but what offends me the most about it is it has Madonna on it. There is not a woman alive who shits me more than Madonna. She is as phony as a three dollar note. She deliberately creates controversy to detract from her abysmal lack of charisma. She tried to appropriate the Princess of Wales' death to make it all about her ('I felt I was in that car with her' ... Oh, puh-LEEEZE!). She handed David Letterman a pair of her underpants and asked was he going to sniff them (who wants to sniff her skidmarked Grundies?), as she swore and smoked a cigar. She kisses starlets of negligible talent on stage for attention. She kissed some more dude not so long back who looked like was going to barf up a bodily organ once she removed her tongue from his throat. She looks for any excuse to show her bum to people (which might make a pleasant change from her soulless face). She did a sucky cover of 'American Pie'. Her singing voice downright hurts my ears.
But given the all the other crap going on in the world, like the anguish of an asylum seeker who had to wait to find out whether she would be given a visa to come to Australia from Nauru for the procedure she needed following her alleged sexual assault; people are worried about an asinine t-shirt?
You know something? Yeah, I totally agree this is a tacky t-shirt. It is bad judgement for the mayor to wear it, because it's going to attract the cranks. But I support the mayor's right to wear whatever the fudge he likes on HIS time. He was attending an Oktoberfest event on his own time, not a black tie ball representing Council. It was an event where people drink steins of beer and dance the chicken dance, not a charity event or a State funeral, in which he would have attended in an official capacity. This just in: outside their jobs, people have these funny and idiosyncratic things called 'lives'. If he is not accepting paper bags of money, unreasonably elaborate gifts, other bribes, or somehow has his hand in the public till, or if he hasn't committed an assault or an act of menace, WHY do some people have to jump up and down like a frog on a hotplate, screaming for his resignation at the least, because they cannot ask for his head on a silver platter?
I'm not a fan of this stupid t-shirt, but what offends me the most about it is it has Madonna on it. There is not a woman alive who shits me more than Madonna. She is as phony as a three dollar note. She deliberately creates controversy to detract from her abysmal lack of charisma. She tried to appropriate the Princess of Wales' death to make it all about her ('I felt I was in that car with her' ... Oh, puh-LEEEZE!). She handed David Letterman a pair of her underpants and asked was he going to sniff them (who wants to sniff her skidmarked Grundies?), as she swore and smoked a cigar. She kisses starlets of negligible talent on stage for attention. She kissed some more dude not so long back who looked like was going to barf up a bodily organ once she removed her tongue from his throat. She looks for any excuse to show her bum to people (which might make a pleasant change from her soulless face). She did a sucky cover of 'American Pie'. Her singing voice downright hurts my ears.
But given the all the other crap going on in the world, like the anguish of an asylum seeker who had to wait to find out whether she would be given a visa to come to Australia from Nauru for the procedure she needed following her alleged sexual assault; people are worried about an asinine t-shirt?
Friday 9 October 2015
On The (Pussy) Wagon
Normally, I find inappropriate sexist comments offensive. But I am one of those who was not actually offended by what David Reynolds said in relation to the all female driving team. Now, for those of you who have spent the last few days in a vacuum, he was asked whether he was aware of the all female team, and in his reply jokingly referred to them as 'the pussy wagon'. Following the throwaway comment, all manner of hell and unholy was unleashed. The Four Horseman of the Apocalypse rode through, leaving a pile of steaming and toxic horse apples in their wake. The seas churned, and the skies turned black. The birds flew from the trees. A parallel universe imploded. A giant sinkhole opened and swallowed a park where a group of orphans, out on their first enjoyable excursion EVER - were playing catchies. I stubbed my toe. And for his silly comment, Reynolds earned himself a $25,000.00 fine.
However, I decided to listen to the interview in which he made the comment, which as I have mentioned before, was a bit of a throwaway remark. And yeah, I am not actually offended. Of course it is not a witty remark. The dude was not channelling Oscar Wilde. But in the context of the interview etc etc etc, I really didn't give a fig about the remark. I was not offended. I have been subjected to sexist remarks in previous workplaces, and been very offended and upset. But as puerile as his comment was, I didn't find myself wanting to take to his cojones with a scimitar. Indeed, the female team didn't appear to be overly distressed, either. And if the powers that be who issued this fine want to look fair dinkum about respecting women in motor racing, then how about abolishing the grid girls? I don't care that the grid girls have chosen this manner in which to earn their income; it is, after all, their right, and I support that. But it seems a bit stupid to fine someone a shitload of coin for a lame comment that could be construed as sexist, and in turn have grid girls strutting about.
But rest assured, there was something that did really grind my gears about the whole thing. While everyone was busy losing their shit over Reynolds' reply to the question, did anyone stop to think WHY that question was asked? It is one flog of a question ('flog' is my current word du jour). Why does it matter that there is a team comprised of female drivers? I can drive, too (not to the standard required for the event, and my navigation bites the fat hairy one). When driving one generally uses their senses to be on the look out, and their hands and feet to make the brrrrm-brrrm do what it's meant to do. At no point does one use one's genitals. Well, I never have. Maybe I'm in the wrong, but I've never had a parking ticket or speeding fine, either. The fact that someone would think that, that FLOG of a question is relevant is, I would submit, the real offence here. This floggy flog of a question just ruptures the space/time continuum with its true flogginess. Haven't we moved on from this shit? Mate, evolve already. The rest of us have. Come down from the tree from where you have been perched while chucking your faeces around; you will find it's pretty fun in the twenty-first century.
I'm going to enter a competition. Contestants have to submit a story about an awkward date they've have been on. I have a doozy up my sleeve. This guy was just so not a keeper. I'm not going to write about the night we were sitting on a bench in Hyde Park and he spunked in his jocks. Yes, this did happen, and no I was not in the least flattered. I know I'm hot (well, I've been told on good authority - hahaha!), but this was just icky. Nay, it is another woeful evening, and one that cemented my opinion the guy was not a keeper. Funny, I saw him a few years later, and he'd just got married. I found myself wondering if, when he and his bride retired to their honeymoon suite, did he remove his wedding suit in time or did he shoot his foolish DNA all through the trousers, and gross out the suit hire place when he returned it.
However, I decided to listen to the interview in which he made the comment, which as I have mentioned before, was a bit of a throwaway remark. And yeah, I am not actually offended. Of course it is not a witty remark. The dude was not channelling Oscar Wilde. But in the context of the interview etc etc etc, I really didn't give a fig about the remark. I was not offended. I have been subjected to sexist remarks in previous workplaces, and been very offended and upset. But as puerile as his comment was, I didn't find myself wanting to take to his cojones with a scimitar. Indeed, the female team didn't appear to be overly distressed, either. And if the powers that be who issued this fine want to look fair dinkum about respecting women in motor racing, then how about abolishing the grid girls? I don't care that the grid girls have chosen this manner in which to earn their income; it is, after all, their right, and I support that. But it seems a bit stupid to fine someone a shitload of coin for a lame comment that could be construed as sexist, and in turn have grid girls strutting about.
But rest assured, there was something that did really grind my gears about the whole thing. While everyone was busy losing their shit over Reynolds' reply to the question, did anyone stop to think WHY that question was asked? It is one flog of a question ('flog' is my current word du jour). Why does it matter that there is a team comprised of female drivers? I can drive, too (not to the standard required for the event, and my navigation bites the fat hairy one). When driving one generally uses their senses to be on the look out, and their hands and feet to make the brrrrm-brrrm do what it's meant to do. At no point does one use one's genitals. Well, I never have. Maybe I'm in the wrong, but I've never had a parking ticket or speeding fine, either. The fact that someone would think that, that FLOG of a question is relevant is, I would submit, the real offence here. This floggy flog of a question just ruptures the space/time continuum with its true flogginess. Haven't we moved on from this shit? Mate, evolve already. The rest of us have. Come down from the tree from where you have been perched while chucking your faeces around; you will find it's pretty fun in the twenty-first century.
I'm going to enter a competition. Contestants have to submit a story about an awkward date they've have been on. I have a doozy up my sleeve. This guy was just so not a keeper. I'm not going to write about the night we were sitting on a bench in Hyde Park and he spunked in his jocks. Yes, this did happen, and no I was not in the least flattered. I know I'm hot (well, I've been told on good authority - hahaha!), but this was just icky. Nay, it is another woeful evening, and one that cemented my opinion the guy was not a keeper. Funny, I saw him a few years later, and he'd just got married. I found myself wondering if, when he and his bride retired to their honeymoon suite, did he remove his wedding suit in time or did he shoot his foolish DNA all through the trousers, and gross out the suit hire place when he returned it.
Thursday 8 October 2015
Dilemmas and Romantics
The other day I was faced with a dilemma. It wasn't a 'moral' one, but to me it was a dilemma. The other day I read an article that was honestly the lousiest piece of writing it has ever been my sorry experience to read since 'Fifty Shades of Grey'. It was from a newspaper, and it was stuffed to the very defiance of physics with piss-elegant prose, grotesque grammar, woeful wordage, claptrap conjunctions, and sagging syntax. In fact, the entire article was a distressed discombobulated disaster. It made me want to contact the newspaper and suggest they get the work experience student to do what he or she is meant to do, ie, make the coffee and sit and watch; NOT write the articles. It referred to those involved with rodeos as the 'horsing community'. Horsing? Seriously? But what stopped me writing a letter to the newspaper about this atrocious article that was a pitiful paean to jingoistic journalism was this: it reported on the death of a rider in a campdrafting event recently held in my home town. It would have been monstrously churlish of me to pick on the awful writing, given the tragic situation that was its subject. Perhaps I should wait until they do a report on the cake stall, or when the old chook in charge of a local CWA retires, and then rail against the dreadful quality of the writing. See? I'm not entirely without the milk of human kindness.
Today, after I see my accountant, I will call by the cinema to collect the double pass I have won. I am very excited to have won these tickets. I enjoy a trip to the cinema, and when it's gratis, even better. I rang the local radio station and gave the answer to a question asked. That answer, my friends, is 'Xanadu'. You're no doubt mentally congratulating me that I know Xanadu is the summer home of Kublai Khan, and that this is the subject to of a poem by Coleridge, a Romantic poet. Romantic is my favourite style of poetry, but Keats, not Coleridge, is my favourite of The Romantics. The Romantics was also the name of a band who had a hit around 1980 with 'What I Like About You'. Yes, it was in Xanadu Kublai Khan decreed his 'stately pleasure dome'. But it is with sheepish embarrassment I admit I knew the answer 'Xanadu' in this context was that uber-crappy movie starring Olivia Newton John, Gene Kelly, and some other sap nobody's ever heard of since. I do admit the soundtrack has some guilty pleasures, and ELO is good. I like 'I'm Alive', even though the opening scene where it's used totally makes me shudder. It's got Livvy and the dancers playing other Greek muses coming to life, and doing some kind of interpretive dance. I think what the choreographer had them trying to interpret is having gobbled a box of Mogadon and then swimming breaststroke in a pool of molasses. And I'm sure I roller skated to the titular track at a rink somewhere, only instead of being all graceful like the skaters in the movie, I went hurtling into the wall, with my arms crossed over my face. I plan to retire on these good looks, if the writing does not work out.
Today, after I see my accountant, I will call by the cinema to collect the double pass I have won. I am very excited to have won these tickets. I enjoy a trip to the cinema, and when it's gratis, even better. I rang the local radio station and gave the answer to a question asked. That answer, my friends, is 'Xanadu'. You're no doubt mentally congratulating me that I know Xanadu is the summer home of Kublai Khan, and that this is the subject to of a poem by Coleridge, a Romantic poet. Romantic is my favourite style of poetry, but Keats, not Coleridge, is my favourite of The Romantics. The Romantics was also the name of a band who had a hit around 1980 with 'What I Like About You'. Yes, it was in Xanadu Kublai Khan decreed his 'stately pleasure dome'. But it is with sheepish embarrassment I admit I knew the answer 'Xanadu' in this context was that uber-crappy movie starring Olivia Newton John, Gene Kelly, and some other sap nobody's ever heard of since. I do admit the soundtrack has some guilty pleasures, and ELO is good. I like 'I'm Alive', even though the opening scene where it's used totally makes me shudder. It's got Livvy and the dancers playing other Greek muses coming to life, and doing some kind of interpretive dance. I think what the choreographer had them trying to interpret is having gobbled a box of Mogadon and then swimming breaststroke in a pool of molasses. And I'm sure I roller skated to the titular track at a rink somewhere, only instead of being all graceful like the skaters in the movie, I went hurtling into the wall, with my arms crossed over my face. I plan to retire on these good looks, if the writing does not work out.
Sunday 4 October 2015
More About Scone Literary Weekend
Every now and then, you will be called to step up to the plate. A rookie footballer who has spent most of the season sitting on the bench playing with his iPhone will find himself taking to the field because the whatever-the-position-for-relevant-code-is-but-I-don't-know-and-don't-care has come down with a pulled hamstring. The understudy who has been doing the chorus for the season will find herself warbling in place of the lead actress after said lead actress has come down with laryngitis. Yesterday, I found myself filling in on a panel type setting at the Scone Literary Long Weekend. I had attended some events on the Saturday, and one of the committee asked could I fill in after a planned participant had had to pull out. Seeing an ideal opportunity to enjoy my time in the spotlight, and spruik some work, I immediately agreed.
Afterwards, I remembered I had not planned to go anywhere on Saturday. Mr Bingells was going to take Master 14 for some one-on-one father/son bonding, maybe a fishing trip to Hexham (they wound up going ten pin bowling). So I told Master 11 he would be travelling to Scone with me, and he could bring his iPad, but to at least not be playing when Mum was speaking. I rarely take my kids with me on these promotional type of occasions, but it won't hurt them to be supportive of their parents for a change. It kind of took me back to the times I would be carted along to whatever rodeo at which my father would be involved. After he stopped competing, my father would often be called upon to judge events. So I, along with my three older siblings, would be bundled into the ubiquitous family vehicle of the 70s - the station wagon - and take the lengthy journey to wherever the venue was situated. The reason the journey was lengthy is because my father drives waaaaaay below the speed limit. My nearest-to-me brother would be griping that the straw in his woven cowboy-style hat was making his head itch. The others would be squabbling over the Sony tape recorder which would be blaring 'See My Baby Jive' or 'Skydiver'. The day would be spent in stinking heat, and I remember climbing the railing of the show ring, and sitting on the top horizontal rail and watching my father do his thing. When my father is astride a horse, this weird thing happens: man and beast blend, and he appears to be some kind of a mutant centaur. My father is most at home on a horse. When I was tired of watching, I would wander off and find some kids my own age, and we would play. The air would be redolent with the pong of horse dung - fresh and steaming and organic. This pong would marry with greasy Dagwood dogs (to this day I loathe deep fried batter) and sickly sweet fairy floss (even as a rather gluttonous kid, I did not eat the stuff and still don't like it). Well, after playing for a while, the kids would go to watch the cattle rides. Everyone enjoyed the cattle rides and the buck jumping. At the end of the day we would be tired and cranky, and I would be covered in dirt, and we would be bundled into the station wagon and driven home. Sometimes I'd sprawl in the back of the station wagon, but I do remember having to share one journey in that little haven with a big lanolin-stinking sheep, whose fleece was matted with burrs and dried dags, and whose yellow eyes regarded me balefully the entire journey.
So, yeah, the idea of taking MY child along to MY thing brought back those strangely sweet memories. The two of us took a selfie outside the venue. My 11yo is a selfie-freak, a product of his era. When we arrived one of the featured authors was finishing her allotted talk, and when it was over I led him to the front row, and asked him to at least not have his headphones on when Mum was doing her bit. He did not. In fact he kept his iPad off and paid attention to EVERYBODY, and I was very proud. He told me afterwards he enjoyed my talk about my work, as well as my reading. I held up copies of my books, and spoke about my inspiration to write them. With the first I spoke about how as a creative writing student, I had taken part in an exercise to list things we couldn't stand, and then build a story from them. My list included chiefly people standing on the wrong side of escalators (there were sympathetic murmurs in the audience at this), and current affairs type television. I spoke about having to reassure a client back in the days I was law clerking - this client having to appear at Burwood Local Court for a brief mention - and where there was a barrage of television cameras. I had told him they were entitled to report the news and there was nothing he could do. I outlined his choices: sneak out the back; or put on his sunglasses and walk past, head held high. Anyway, a few minutes later I got a telephone call, which went - and I imitated the client's whining as I relayed the story - 'Simone, I think I broke a television camera!' I had replied, 'Mate, I'm not sure what I can do about that. Just keep walking.' But television cameras in people's faces also got me thinking, and it all ended up being an ingredient in my first ever novel. I spoke of my desire to create the anti-Muriel Heslop, having hated the moronic pissant when I saw 'Muriel's Wedding' (and I turned to the feminist author on the panel and said, 'You'd like my character!'). My talk also encompassed censorship, and the rights of people to listen to or view art produced by people who might not be of exemplary character. I then read from 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth', and the moderator, familiar with my work, dinged the bell before I got to the bit about the protagonist hoping for a 'soapy or shampooey hand job' from his wife in the shower! Throughout it all, Master 11 was an angel. I was ever so proud of him. On the drive home, he told me he had genuinely enjoyed the session.
Today, I attended again and took part in some readings. And I got a book sold. It's all been worth it.
Afterwards, I remembered I had not planned to go anywhere on Saturday. Mr Bingells was going to take Master 14 for some one-on-one father/son bonding, maybe a fishing trip to Hexham (they wound up going ten pin bowling). So I told Master 11 he would be travelling to Scone with me, and he could bring his iPad, but to at least not be playing when Mum was speaking. I rarely take my kids with me on these promotional type of occasions, but it won't hurt them to be supportive of their parents for a change. It kind of took me back to the times I would be carted along to whatever rodeo at which my father would be involved. After he stopped competing, my father would often be called upon to judge events. So I, along with my three older siblings, would be bundled into the ubiquitous family vehicle of the 70s - the station wagon - and take the lengthy journey to wherever the venue was situated. The reason the journey was lengthy is because my father drives waaaaaay below the speed limit. My nearest-to-me brother would be griping that the straw in his woven cowboy-style hat was making his head itch. The others would be squabbling over the Sony tape recorder which would be blaring 'See My Baby Jive' or 'Skydiver'. The day would be spent in stinking heat, and I remember climbing the railing of the show ring, and sitting on the top horizontal rail and watching my father do his thing. When my father is astride a horse, this weird thing happens: man and beast blend, and he appears to be some kind of a mutant centaur. My father is most at home on a horse. When I was tired of watching, I would wander off and find some kids my own age, and we would play. The air would be redolent with the pong of horse dung - fresh and steaming and organic. This pong would marry with greasy Dagwood dogs (to this day I loathe deep fried batter) and sickly sweet fairy floss (even as a rather gluttonous kid, I did not eat the stuff and still don't like it). Well, after playing for a while, the kids would go to watch the cattle rides. Everyone enjoyed the cattle rides and the buck jumping. At the end of the day we would be tired and cranky, and I would be covered in dirt, and we would be bundled into the station wagon and driven home. Sometimes I'd sprawl in the back of the station wagon, but I do remember having to share one journey in that little haven with a big lanolin-stinking sheep, whose fleece was matted with burrs and dried dags, and whose yellow eyes regarded me balefully the entire journey.
So, yeah, the idea of taking MY child along to MY thing brought back those strangely sweet memories. The two of us took a selfie outside the venue. My 11yo is a selfie-freak, a product of his era. When we arrived one of the featured authors was finishing her allotted talk, and when it was over I led him to the front row, and asked him to at least not have his headphones on when Mum was doing her bit. He did not. In fact he kept his iPad off and paid attention to EVERYBODY, and I was very proud. He told me afterwards he enjoyed my talk about my work, as well as my reading. I held up copies of my books, and spoke about my inspiration to write them. With the first I spoke about how as a creative writing student, I had taken part in an exercise to list things we couldn't stand, and then build a story from them. My list included chiefly people standing on the wrong side of escalators (there were sympathetic murmurs in the audience at this), and current affairs type television. I spoke about having to reassure a client back in the days I was law clerking - this client having to appear at Burwood Local Court for a brief mention - and where there was a barrage of television cameras. I had told him they were entitled to report the news and there was nothing he could do. I outlined his choices: sneak out the back; or put on his sunglasses and walk past, head held high. Anyway, a few minutes later I got a telephone call, which went - and I imitated the client's whining as I relayed the story - 'Simone, I think I broke a television camera!' I had replied, 'Mate, I'm not sure what I can do about that. Just keep walking.' But television cameras in people's faces also got me thinking, and it all ended up being an ingredient in my first ever novel. I spoke of my desire to create the anti-Muriel Heslop, having hated the moronic pissant when I saw 'Muriel's Wedding' (and I turned to the feminist author on the panel and said, 'You'd like my character!'). My talk also encompassed censorship, and the rights of people to listen to or view art produced by people who might not be of exemplary character. I then read from 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth', and the moderator, familiar with my work, dinged the bell before I got to the bit about the protagonist hoping for a 'soapy or shampooey hand job' from his wife in the shower! Throughout it all, Master 11 was an angel. I was ever so proud of him. On the drive home, he told me he had genuinely enjoyed the session.
Today, I attended again and took part in some readings. And I got a book sold. It's all been worth it.
Saturday 3 October 2015
My Day At the Scone Literary Festival & 'Bop Girl' (Aaarrgggh!)
Yes, I know my cerebral and high-brow inner voice tells me selfies are dumb, but I took one today. I was behind the steering wheel of my car - not yet driving! - about to head off to some events being conducted at the Scone Literary Long Weekend. I was feeling glam - my hair was freshly laundered, and I was wearing make-up, something I rarely do since I no longer work in an office. I had on my fashionably large-framed sunglasses for protection and style, and took a selfie. I have duly uploaded that selfie to my Facebook page, and am wondering at the wisdom of having done so. The combination of the photograph's angle and my oh-so-fashionably-large-framed sunglasses have made me look like a mutant blowfly. Speaking of which, where in the blue blazes are they all coming from? They were swarming around my house this morning like the Luftwaffe, and I grabbed the spray and went on the chemical warfare offensive. Of course I have to spray them when they are on the windows, so I now have toxic residue on my panes, and the sills resemble the killing fields of Cambodia as they are stuffed to breaking point with the corpses of dead flies. Why do my kids not listen when I bark at them to shut the screen door?
But yeah, I made my excited way to Scone, although the trip was sullied by the song 'Bop Girl' being played on the radio. That nails-down-the-blackboard piece of Pure Pop Poop has been going around and around in my head ever since, like a squeaky poltergeist. I really get the shits when I hear this song. It gives me a similar reaction to getting a piece of aluminium foil on one of my fillings. It was devised, in a moment of pure brain fart, by Ross Wilson for his then wife. Ross is such a prolific figure in the Oz music industry, so I don't know what he was thinking when he decided to come up with this crud. Maybe he was inspired by a squawking cockatiel or something. The film clip for this inanity features some fat old bag pinning football socks to the clothesline in time with the beat which must be the most pointless piece of music footage since I saw the Monkees movie 'Head' some years ago. Come on, everyone: 'Head' stank, and if you've seen it whilst NOT under the influence of some drug, you know I write the truth. Oh, and the film clip for 'Bop Girl' also has a young Nicole Kidman dressed as a school girl in one scene, relining on a lilo and smoking a ciggie. As much as I hate cigarettes, I do feel a bit of nostalgia for the pre-PC days of the early Eighties when I see that, a time when we could actually make up our own minds without everyone losing their shit over some antisocial or potentially harmful behaviour depicted in a film clip.
My current book, 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth', doesn't have a lot of cigarette smoking. That wasn't deliberate on my part. It's just that it's not something I see a lot of, and therefore didn't really associate my characters with being smokers. It does have some Laughing Lucerne being choofed, and it suits the story. I'm reading from 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth' at the festival tomorrow, and again on Monday. The events were held in the Scone Arts and Crafts Hall, and there were some iffy memories as I looked out at the yard where the tables and chairs for afternoon tea had been assembled. The last time I was there was for a cultural event just after the launch of my first novel, 'Calumny While Reading Irvine Welsh' (I'd been invited to read from it), and I busted my prosthetic tooth on a piece of chicken bone that had been somehow included in the chicken/lettuce/mayo sandwich I had up to that point been enjoying. My lower left incisor is a prosthesis, and I was very glum to have to get another one made; both from a vanity perspective (seriously, who LIKES getting around looking like an extra on 'Housos'), and from a bank account perspective (it costs money).
The local book store had set up a table with books from local authors, and I was chuffed to see three copies of my second book 'Abernethy' on the table. As it happens, I had in my car copies of reviews for 'Abernethy', so I asked the stall's proprietor could I tuck them in with the books. He said, 'Yes'. I then chortled, 'As Bob Hudson sang in the mid-Seventies, never let a chance go by!', in a brilliant display of both my age and somewhat naff musical taste. Now folks, 'Abernethy' can be hard to obtain in paperback at the moment, so if you don't want to download it, I will give you the shop's phone number: (02) 65459330, and it is called 'Hunt-A-Book'. 'Abernethy' is young adult, and there is a link to the first chapter on my blog page, as there are to the first chapters of all my works.
Anyway, I definitely enjoyed the panel discussion, which was on the film being better than the book. I was able to get my two cents worth as an audience member, when I posed the question was it greed or arrogance on the part of the producers to totally miss the point of a book when making a character more likeable to an audience, and cited 'The Bonfire Of The Vanities', which surely must take the award for worst book-to-film adaptation in the history of film-making. One of the panellists, a screenwriter, agreed that was almost the textbook case of what not to do. I explained 'they' had wanted to make the unlikeable Sherman McCoy more likeable to the audience, thus totally fucking up Wolfe's intention (those weren't my exact words). He talked about the difference between making a character likeable as opposed to relatable, and so many producers just totally miss the point. Should my first work ever be made into a film, it sounds like I can kiss goodbye any creative control. I hope so much 'they' don't try to make my protagonist more 'likeable'. She's a cranky bitch of 22, with a burning intelligence. You know what? I created her as an antidote to the totally dipshitty Muriel in 'Muriel's Wedding'. I found that slug so loathsome and infuriating, particularly as everyone was raving about how sweet she was (WTF?), I set out to create the anti-Muriel.
Ciao for now.
But yeah, I made my excited way to Scone, although the trip was sullied by the song 'Bop Girl' being played on the radio. That nails-down-the-blackboard piece of Pure Pop Poop has been going around and around in my head ever since, like a squeaky poltergeist. I really get the shits when I hear this song. It gives me a similar reaction to getting a piece of aluminium foil on one of my fillings. It was devised, in a moment of pure brain fart, by Ross Wilson for his then wife. Ross is such a prolific figure in the Oz music industry, so I don't know what he was thinking when he decided to come up with this crud. Maybe he was inspired by a squawking cockatiel or something. The film clip for this inanity features some fat old bag pinning football socks to the clothesline in time with the beat which must be the most pointless piece of music footage since I saw the Monkees movie 'Head' some years ago. Come on, everyone: 'Head' stank, and if you've seen it whilst NOT under the influence of some drug, you know I write the truth. Oh, and the film clip for 'Bop Girl' also has a young Nicole Kidman dressed as a school girl in one scene, relining on a lilo and smoking a ciggie. As much as I hate cigarettes, I do feel a bit of nostalgia for the pre-PC days of the early Eighties when I see that, a time when we could actually make up our own minds without everyone losing their shit over some antisocial or potentially harmful behaviour depicted in a film clip.
My current book, 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth', doesn't have a lot of cigarette smoking. That wasn't deliberate on my part. It's just that it's not something I see a lot of, and therefore didn't really associate my characters with being smokers. It does have some Laughing Lucerne being choofed, and it suits the story. I'm reading from 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth' at the festival tomorrow, and again on Monday. The events were held in the Scone Arts and Crafts Hall, and there were some iffy memories as I looked out at the yard where the tables and chairs for afternoon tea had been assembled. The last time I was there was for a cultural event just after the launch of my first novel, 'Calumny While Reading Irvine Welsh' (I'd been invited to read from it), and I busted my prosthetic tooth on a piece of chicken bone that had been somehow included in the chicken/lettuce/mayo sandwich I had up to that point been enjoying. My lower left incisor is a prosthesis, and I was very glum to have to get another one made; both from a vanity perspective (seriously, who LIKES getting around looking like an extra on 'Housos'), and from a bank account perspective (it costs money).
The local book store had set up a table with books from local authors, and I was chuffed to see three copies of my second book 'Abernethy' on the table. As it happens, I had in my car copies of reviews for 'Abernethy', so I asked the stall's proprietor could I tuck them in with the books. He said, 'Yes'. I then chortled, 'As Bob Hudson sang in the mid-Seventies, never let a chance go by!', in a brilliant display of both my age and somewhat naff musical taste. Now folks, 'Abernethy' can be hard to obtain in paperback at the moment, so if you don't want to download it, I will give you the shop's phone number: (02) 65459330, and it is called 'Hunt-A-Book'. 'Abernethy' is young adult, and there is a link to the first chapter on my blog page, as there are to the first chapters of all my works.
Anyway, I definitely enjoyed the panel discussion, which was on the film being better than the book. I was able to get my two cents worth as an audience member, when I posed the question was it greed or arrogance on the part of the producers to totally miss the point of a book when making a character more likeable to an audience, and cited 'The Bonfire Of The Vanities', which surely must take the award for worst book-to-film adaptation in the history of film-making. One of the panellists, a screenwriter, agreed that was almost the textbook case of what not to do. I explained 'they' had wanted to make the unlikeable Sherman McCoy more likeable to the audience, thus totally fucking up Wolfe's intention (those weren't my exact words). He talked about the difference between making a character likeable as opposed to relatable, and so many producers just totally miss the point. Should my first work ever be made into a film, it sounds like I can kiss goodbye any creative control. I hope so much 'they' don't try to make my protagonist more 'likeable'. She's a cranky bitch of 22, with a burning intelligence. You know what? I created her as an antidote to the totally dipshitty Muriel in 'Muriel's Wedding'. I found that slug so loathsome and infuriating, particularly as everyone was raving about how sweet she was (WTF?), I set out to create the anti-Muriel.
Ciao for now.
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