This day has gone by in something of a malaise. I feel like I haven't achieved a thing. I had to take Master 11 to see his paediatrician in order that she could check his progress. She is Scottish, and he was very interested to know whether her boyfriend was one of The Proclaimers. Anyway, he's doing well and his anti-seizure medication dosage will remain as is for the time being. Tomorrow we have to drive to Newcastle because he is to have an EEG. He has had them before, and enjoyed them not in the slightest. Now that he is older, he might have more patience. I am sure he will employ his theatricality to the situation; when he is lying there with electrodes or whatever attached to his head, he will probably pretend to be Frankenstein's monster. I had wanted to drive to Newcastle in my new vehicle, you know, really take it for a good drive on the Expressway (so far I have been limited to speeds of 60kph around the local township. Unfortunately, the parking at the hospital is total pants. I don't care what they say; the bays are too narrow and the available spaces are too far and few between. So I will drive the Magna tomorrow, which is smaller in make than my new vehicle. Soon I will be getting rid of the Magna, so the trip to Newie tomorrow might be it's last great hurrah for me.
The other thing of note I have been doing is adding choons to my iPod. Yesterday I added 'Make Me Smile' by Steve Harley & Cockney Rebel. I loved that song when I was nine, and the forty-one years that have lapsed since then have not tempered my adoration. You know what else I just did? I checked out Nick Barker & The Reptiles' cover of that choon. It is a rarity in that it is a cover that doesn't actually suck the white flaky flecks from beneath Satan's toenails, as so many covers tend to do. I even watched the clip thinking Nick and his Reptiles were kind of cute. Undoubtedly I considered them thus back when they released their cover. I have a thing for rock-n-rollers with long hair and nice biceps. Of course that long hair must be kept well, which means no mullet from a receding hairline. Michael Bolton eventually got the memo. But yes, The Reptiles' cover is quite passable, but it doesn't have Cockney Rebel's 'bup-bup-bup-bup-bup-bup'. You know what I'm getting at: 'You've done it all/You've broken every code/And pulled the rebel/To the floor (bup-bup-bup-bup-bup-bup)'. I always believed for that song to ring true, it had to have those 'bups'. However, perhaps Barker thought they might sound like Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee if he tried to replicate those iconic 'bups'. I guess releasing the choon without those 'bups' was the way of putting the band's own distinctive stamp on what really is an awesome song. I'm also wondering is it seemly for a woman of fifty who prides herself on her articulate nature and journalistic style to be using a word like 'choon'.
Now, on the off-chance Cardinal George Pell is reading this, I just want you to know that I think you are the most odious, oleaginous, arrogant, blind-eye-turning Holy Joe to ever take a vow. So incidents of the sexual abuse of children in the parishes 'wasn't of much interest' to you, was it? Fuck you and the no doubt equally odious, oleaginous, arrogant, blind-eye-turning horse you rode in on. I was going to have my eleven-year-old undergo his sacraments this year, and the thought is making me sick and angry. I know I cannot appropriate the attributes of the slimy senior member of the Church to everybody, but it's so difficult to associate my child with an institution that seemingly doesn't give a rat's arse about the children abused by the clergy to whom they were entrusted.
Monday 29 February 2016
Saturday 27 February 2016
A Lousy Time
Becoming a parent brings on responsibilities not known when one was child-free, which is kind of synonymous with stress-free, sleep-deprivation-free, and soccer-ball-and-shin-pads-left-in-the-lounge-room-free. I have to ensure the former tenants of my womb are nourished and educated. I have to ensure they are warm and healthy.
Unfortunately, I also have to ensure their hair remains free from parasitic insects.
My eleven-year-old had been feverishly scratching just near his ears, which is a spot notorious for lice to congregate (that, and the back of the neck). When his older brother had an infestation many years ago, I remember being on the verge of firing off a ball of burning napalm at his head to get rid of the fuckers, because it seemed no sooner had I applied a treatment, and combed out the dead bodies like some ghoulish war time killing field, another bloody crop would hatch.
I read about a home treatment which seemed simple enough, and it involved Coca Cola. I'm not going to detail the treatment here, but if you're interested I'm sure you are resourceful enough to google it. I followed the steps, and applied cola to my son's head. Having long hair, I thought I should probably treat myself thus in a pre-emptive strike. I stood nude in the bathtub, and emptied the contents of a 2 litre bottle of 7X (the name of the formula for Coca Cola) over myself. Although certain the bottle was room temperature, I felt I was undergoing that ice bucket challenge that was all the rage a while ago. This was so not fun. After wringing out excess sugary soft drink from my hair, I clipped it up, donned a bathrobe, and sat out the back whereupon a freed my hair so it could dry. FYI, this home treatment says for one to allow one's hair to dry, and then go shampoo as normal.
Mr Bingells walked outside and said, 'I'm worried about you.' I asked why. He replied, 'You're turning into a coke-head!' Dad Jokes are corny, but Husband Jokes are corny enough to appear in your stools for days after.
So I sat waiting for my hair to dry. And waited. And waited. Soon I had a dried clump of cola-matted mess tumbling over my shoulders. It was as sticky and unpleasant as fly-blown fairy floss. It conjured up an unpleasant memory of an evening in a nightclub some time in the mid-Eighties when an arsehole took it upon himself to empty the contents of his bourbon-and-coke over my head, as 'Rebel Yell' by Billy Idol blared in the background. To this day, I still don't know why he did that. The flog has probably gone from emptying drinks on people to glassing them, for all I know.
Anyway, my kid kept scratching his head, and I acquiesced and bought a commercial product, which appeared to work.
Unfortunately, I also have to ensure their hair remains free from parasitic insects.
My eleven-year-old had been feverishly scratching just near his ears, which is a spot notorious for lice to congregate (that, and the back of the neck). When his older brother had an infestation many years ago, I remember being on the verge of firing off a ball of burning napalm at his head to get rid of the fuckers, because it seemed no sooner had I applied a treatment, and combed out the dead bodies like some ghoulish war time killing field, another bloody crop would hatch.
I read about a home treatment which seemed simple enough, and it involved Coca Cola. I'm not going to detail the treatment here, but if you're interested I'm sure you are resourceful enough to google it. I followed the steps, and applied cola to my son's head. Having long hair, I thought I should probably treat myself thus in a pre-emptive strike. I stood nude in the bathtub, and emptied the contents of a 2 litre bottle of 7X (the name of the formula for Coca Cola) over myself. Although certain the bottle was room temperature, I felt I was undergoing that ice bucket challenge that was all the rage a while ago. This was so not fun. After wringing out excess sugary soft drink from my hair, I clipped it up, donned a bathrobe, and sat out the back whereupon a freed my hair so it could dry. FYI, this home treatment says for one to allow one's hair to dry, and then go shampoo as normal.
Mr Bingells walked outside and said, 'I'm worried about you.' I asked why. He replied, 'You're turning into a coke-head!' Dad Jokes are corny, but Husband Jokes are corny enough to appear in your stools for days after.
So I sat waiting for my hair to dry. And waited. And waited. Soon I had a dried clump of cola-matted mess tumbling over my shoulders. It was as sticky and unpleasant as fly-blown fairy floss. It conjured up an unpleasant memory of an evening in a nightclub some time in the mid-Eighties when an arsehole took it upon himself to empty the contents of his bourbon-and-coke over my head, as 'Rebel Yell' by Billy Idol blared in the background. To this day, I still don't know why he did that. The flog has probably gone from emptying drinks on people to glassing them, for all I know.
Anyway, my kid kept scratching his head, and I acquiesced and bought a commercial product, which appeared to work.
Sunday 21 February 2016
My Take On The Rob Thomas Thing, And The Alice Kunek Thing
I write this with woe aplenty, and I beseech the rest of the world to stop getting so fucking offended all of the time. It's all I seem to blog about lately, because it's pretty much all I've been seeing lately. Everybody's calling for someone's head, or testicles, about some comment the person has made (innocuous in that person's eyes), or else some action the person has carried out (that action not being propelled by malice).
For the record, there are plenty of things that offend me. And I will list some of those things. Being offended is a person's right, but being offended doesn't mean that person IS 'right'. Who has not heard about the comments made by Rob Thomas in concert? You have possibly heard about it because so many of those who have a little ladder to help them climb onto the I'm Offended Bandwagon (seriously, some of these people should just set up a sleeping bag on it) have been bleating and blathering about the racism in his comments. His comments were made, as I understand, to fill in during some technical issues of the concert. He spoke about how he tends to drink a lot on flights, and forgets who he is. He said he drank so much he thought he was Australian. He drank so much he thought he was a black Australian. He drank so much he thought he was a little girl. Okay, these comments were off-the-cuff remarks and random examples chosen by him, those examples being things he is NOT to demonstrate a point that his alcohol consumption led him to believe he was something he is not. Rob is neither an Aussie, an Indigenous Aussie, nor a little girl. That's all he was saying, folks. I read the comments in their context, and I also read Rob's apology. To be brutally frank - and fortify yourselves, you pussy-arsed sooks who reckon he is offensive because you're about to be offended - I see no reason for him to apologise. He was clearly not trying to be racist, and I know people will gripe about ignorance being no excuse for casual racism, and blahblahblah-bullshitbullshitbullshit, but I don't fucking care. People hear the words 'alcohol' and 'black' in the same sentence, and wham-bam-look-out-ma'am, there goes the shit as it's lost everywhere!
The other story that's got everyone going stupid (again) is the picture of Opals member Alice Kunek dressed up as Kanye West. She's wearing a beanie and has some dark make-up on her face. Her photograph was tweeted by a team mate whom I understand has a Nigerian father, and the team mate, Liz Cambage, is offended by it. Hey, Liz, if you had a problem with what a team mate posted on her own PRIVATE Instagram account, why did you not speak to your team mate, or go through a mediator if you're not comfortable with the confrontation? Surely the team provides a counsellor and/or mediator. If you had a grievance, wouldn't it be better to be mature about it rather than re-tweet from what was a PRIVATE account of somebody else? That seriously creeps me out, that someone would do that. This is what I want to know: is dressing as Kanye West vilifying an entire race and culture? Don't get me wrong, I do know why 'black face' is considered offensive, and respect that. But again, we have to look at context. I understand Alice was going to a fancy dress party as someone she admires. I DO have misgivings about admiring Kanye West because he takes flog to a whole new level. Alice, had you wished to dress as Kanye, you could have simply dressed as a penis and sung incredibly badly. Oh, and gone around interrupting people all night. But yeah, keep it real, people. Find something worthwhile to be offended about, and if you are offended, maybe deal with it AWAY from social media.
Now, here is a word of advice from Auntie Bingells: if you are going to attend a fancy dress party in what is possibly a contentious costume, DON'T put your pictures on social media. I truly believe people can dress how they please in a private setting, but unfortunately once the pictures of you dressed in what might potentially stir up controversy hit the Twittersphere, Facebook or Instagram etc, you are truly toast. I honestly don't care how people dress for private parties, because I uphold the right of people to dress how they please at fancy dress, and like I said, it's PRIVATE. But now we have a situation where someone's career could be in jeopardy, and all the associated crap that goes with something that just didn't have to be whipped up to the extent which it has.
Does anybody out there have spray tans done? Look out - soon someone's going to complain about your inherent racism. I don't have spray tans done. I'm naturally as white as processed sugar (but nowhere near as sweet), and if I had one applied I would look horrifically nuked.
I'm kind of with Stephen Fry when he says of people who complain of being offended: 'So fucking what?'
Okay, so do you want to know some of the things that offend me? Here goes:
1. People who say 'what' instead of 'I beg your pardon'. Grow some manners, you oafs.
2. People who say 'would of' instead of 'would have'. You people should be punched in the face.
3. People standing on the wrong side of the escalator. Move over and let people pass, you clowns.
4. People who chat into handheld mobile phones whilst driving. I shouldn't have to explain why I hate this.
5. People who squeeze their pimples in public, sending what appears to be a tiny fleck of custard flying. Yuck!
6. People who pick their nose in public. Again, yuck.
Okay, I'm think it's time to wash and vacuum my new car. Bye for now.
For the record, there are plenty of things that offend me. And I will list some of those things. Being offended is a person's right, but being offended doesn't mean that person IS 'right'. Who has not heard about the comments made by Rob Thomas in concert? You have possibly heard about it because so many of those who have a little ladder to help them climb onto the I'm Offended Bandwagon (seriously, some of these people should just set up a sleeping bag on it) have been bleating and blathering about the racism in his comments. His comments were made, as I understand, to fill in during some technical issues of the concert. He spoke about how he tends to drink a lot on flights, and forgets who he is. He said he drank so much he thought he was Australian. He drank so much he thought he was a black Australian. He drank so much he thought he was a little girl. Okay, these comments were off-the-cuff remarks and random examples chosen by him, those examples being things he is NOT to demonstrate a point that his alcohol consumption led him to believe he was something he is not. Rob is neither an Aussie, an Indigenous Aussie, nor a little girl. That's all he was saying, folks. I read the comments in their context, and I also read Rob's apology. To be brutally frank - and fortify yourselves, you pussy-arsed sooks who reckon he is offensive because you're about to be offended - I see no reason for him to apologise. He was clearly not trying to be racist, and I know people will gripe about ignorance being no excuse for casual racism, and blahblahblah-bullshitbullshitbullshit, but I don't fucking care. People hear the words 'alcohol' and 'black' in the same sentence, and wham-bam-look-out-ma'am, there goes the shit as it's lost everywhere!
The other story that's got everyone going stupid (again) is the picture of Opals member Alice Kunek dressed up as Kanye West. She's wearing a beanie and has some dark make-up on her face. Her photograph was tweeted by a team mate whom I understand has a Nigerian father, and the team mate, Liz Cambage, is offended by it. Hey, Liz, if you had a problem with what a team mate posted on her own PRIVATE Instagram account, why did you not speak to your team mate, or go through a mediator if you're not comfortable with the confrontation? Surely the team provides a counsellor and/or mediator. If you had a grievance, wouldn't it be better to be mature about it rather than re-tweet from what was a PRIVATE account of somebody else? That seriously creeps me out, that someone would do that. This is what I want to know: is dressing as Kanye West vilifying an entire race and culture? Don't get me wrong, I do know why 'black face' is considered offensive, and respect that. But again, we have to look at context. I understand Alice was going to a fancy dress party as someone she admires. I DO have misgivings about admiring Kanye West because he takes flog to a whole new level. Alice, had you wished to dress as Kanye, you could have simply dressed as a penis and sung incredibly badly. Oh, and gone around interrupting people all night. But yeah, keep it real, people. Find something worthwhile to be offended about, and if you are offended, maybe deal with it AWAY from social media.
Now, here is a word of advice from Auntie Bingells: if you are going to attend a fancy dress party in what is possibly a contentious costume, DON'T put your pictures on social media. I truly believe people can dress how they please in a private setting, but unfortunately once the pictures of you dressed in what might potentially stir up controversy hit the Twittersphere, Facebook or Instagram etc, you are truly toast. I honestly don't care how people dress for private parties, because I uphold the right of people to dress how they please at fancy dress, and like I said, it's PRIVATE. But now we have a situation where someone's career could be in jeopardy, and all the associated crap that goes with something that just didn't have to be whipped up to the extent which it has.
Does anybody out there have spray tans done? Look out - soon someone's going to complain about your inherent racism. I don't have spray tans done. I'm naturally as white as processed sugar (but nowhere near as sweet), and if I had one applied I would look horrifically nuked.
I'm kind of with Stephen Fry when he says of people who complain of being offended: 'So fucking what?'
Okay, so do you want to know some of the things that offend me? Here goes:
1. People who say 'what' instead of 'I beg your pardon'. Grow some manners, you oafs.
2. People who say 'would of' instead of 'would have'. You people should be punched in the face.
3. People standing on the wrong side of the escalator. Move over and let people pass, you clowns.
4. People who chat into handheld mobile phones whilst driving. I shouldn't have to explain why I hate this.
5. People who squeeze their pimples in public, sending what appears to be a tiny fleck of custard flying. Yuck!
6. People who pick their nose in public. Again, yuck.
Okay, I'm think it's time to wash and vacuum my new car. Bye for now.
Friday 19 February 2016
Where I Mention Satan's Nut Sac
Okay, Summer. Enough with the loitering and hanging around. It's only two weeks until Autumn and you've been pretty oppressive and obtrusive of late, so howsabout you go away and give us some cooler weather? Hmmmm? I've been filthy hot all afternoon. It is 11.16pm ADST as I type, and it's still sweltering like Satan's furnace. It's like I've disembarked from the Highway to Hell (now you're gonna have Acca Dacca in your head!) and walked into the pit to start my obligatory two hours on the furnace shift, and Satan's picking his teeth with his pitchfork as he scratches his balls. His balls are probably bulbous and covered in spikes, kind of like dragon fruit. I saw some dragon fruit in Woollies today, so it's in season and I might try it. I don't think I've ever tried it and it just might taste like Satan's nut storage sacs - who knows? I do enjoy tropical fruit - even papaya which my friend dismissed as tasting like vomit when we were trekking Northern Thailand many moons ago. Is it the Aussie climate? Is it global warming? Or is it the fact that I notched up birthday number fifty a week ago and I'm in the thrall of one mofo of a hot flush?
As well as being hot, other things suck lately. They include:
1. Those brain-dead flogs in Argentina who, instead of setting the baby dolphin back in the water, decided to take selfies with it, and it DIED!!! You are all ARSEHOLES! I read this story in disbelief, and wanted to weep for that dolphin, and for humanity. Where are we heading, if taking an asinine picture outweighs common sense and impairs judgment, leading to the needless death of an animal? Can you fuckwits please have yourselves sterilized and save mankind being infected by your gene pool?
2. Armchair lawyers. They always suck and I'm gearing up for my usual argument with some.
3. I'm hungry. I'm trying to keep my weight under control, and all I want to do is pig out tonight.
4. My knee hurts. I think it's old age setting in.
5. I miss my dad very much. If you're new to my blog, first of all: welcome and enjoy. Click on the links to the first chapters of the novels of which I am author, have a read, and hopefully have a purchase. If you are new, you might have missed my post just before Christmas advising my father had died. Anyway, tonight I'm missing him very much. And it's on the list of things that suck tonight.
As well as being hot, other things suck lately. They include:
1. Those brain-dead flogs in Argentina who, instead of setting the baby dolphin back in the water, decided to take selfies with it, and it DIED!!! You are all ARSEHOLES! I read this story in disbelief, and wanted to weep for that dolphin, and for humanity. Where are we heading, if taking an asinine picture outweighs common sense and impairs judgment, leading to the needless death of an animal? Can you fuckwits please have yourselves sterilized and save mankind being infected by your gene pool?
2. Armchair lawyers. They always suck and I'm gearing up for my usual argument with some.
3. I'm hungry. I'm trying to keep my weight under control, and all I want to do is pig out tonight.
4. My knee hurts. I think it's old age setting in.
5. I miss my dad very much. If you're new to my blog, first of all: welcome and enjoy. Click on the links to the first chapters of the novels of which I am author, have a read, and hopefully have a purchase. If you are new, you might have missed my post just before Christmas advising my father had died. Anyway, tonight I'm missing him very much. And it's on the list of things that suck tonight.
Sunday 14 February 2016
Greeting Fifty With Grace (Hotel)
Wow. So...frigging...HOT! Cannot believe the stupefying, stultifying, energy draining force-field of filthy oppressive heats that threatens to make me melt into a puddle. It zaps and drains any creative current I might have had coursing through my veins, and now I don't know what to write about.
What's foremost in my mind is the beautiful weekend I have just enjoyed. On Friday we foisted off our sprogs 'n' dogs to their grandmother. Saturday we drove to Hornsby where we parked at my cousin's house, and caught a train to Wynyard Station. This was something of a magical mystery tour for your blogger - not the CBD; I'm most au fait with Sydney CBD - because the final destination was to be a surprise for me. We plodded along slowly. I was dragging the suitcase and Mr Bingells, who has a capricious back which has just lately decided to be a fucker, was walking with crutches. We eventually came to what looked like a several-storied art deco structure, and Mr Bingells casually remarked, 'This looks like a good place to stay,' before leading me inside. Well, fuck me sideways if I wasn't in the foyer of the gorgeous Grace Hotel! 'Happy birthday, my darling,' said Mr Bingells. Yeah, that's also on my mind. Last Friday I turned fifty. I've been blogging since the age of forty-three, so that's seven years of hopefully entertaining readers.
We were placed in a suite that almost matches the three bedrooms of our home combined in size, with a king size bed, and complimentary sparkling wine on ice. Mr Bingells took a photograph of me luxuriating in a sumptuous white robe in the middle of the bed, a flute of bubbles in my hand. Mr Bingells also donned a robe, but declined a selfie because he feared we'd look too much like Bob Hawke and Blanche D'Pulget in the matching robes.
For dinner, we met my eclectic circle of friends and family at the Gaslight Inn in Darlinghurst. What a terrific bunch of friends I have. There was a reunion of my wedding party from seventeen years ago. There were work colleagues. There were school friends. We laughed at ourselves and how it didn't feel much different from the playground, and I observed all my friend needed was a Rubik's cube in her hand, and the picture would be complete. This is true. My friend was a gun Rubik's cube solver in the day and she could not enjoy a moment's peace in the playground because as her reputation widened, kids would be shoving cubes in her face for solving. I don't think she ever consumed her lunchtime Vegemite sandwich in one sitting because of the constant interruption.
Three of my friends also brought along newish partners whom I'd not yet met, and we all hit it off very well. I feel I have made three new friends now. What a wonderful birthday gift.
Dinner was across the road at the Balkan. I organised for a three course set menu and for people to pay their own meals. We had the upstairs to ourselves. I drank wine, and ate and ate and ate (but not the dessert; it was pancakes and I really don't like pancakes). The food was served on communal platters in the middle of the table, and guests helped themselves and shared the plates along, which all just added to the general bon homie. The last time I had socialised with my loved cousins was my father's funeral a couple of months ago, and I can state with authority last Saturday's function was much more preferable.
People asked me about the novel for which I have recently signed a contract, and I spoke about some of the inspiration of childhood memories. One of the funnier ones was from my former matron-of-honour, a cousin whose deb ball I attended when aged eighteen - the inspiration comes from the after-party where we swilled Dr Jurd's Jungle Juice in the bedroom at the house of a kid known as Sutto. Dr Jurd's Jungle Juice is legendary in the circles and sacred to the memory of those who grew up in the Hunter Valley during the 1980s. Another memory was inspired by the shenanigans I got up to with my brother and another cousin at the hotel owned by my grandmother. My brother denied having partaken in the horseplay I spoke of, but take it from me, he was the ringleader!
When it was almost midnight, and my cousin's wife had started to sing, we realised with regret it was time to leave the restaurant.
Because I was having guests pay their own meal, I had specified no birthday gifts. But did people listen? No. Some of them did bring some token little gifts along (I would have done the same, most likely!), and my haul included a leopard print wrap, a bottle of Moet et Chandon, and a glass skull which matches the other one on my writing desk - perfect book ends. Any haul that features animal print, expensive champagne and a skull is a worthy one. But the most beautiful gift of all was feeling the love and friendship of that wonderful crowd of people I call my family and friends. You cannot buy that, and you cannot fake it. If any of you are reading this, just know I love you all.
The other thing on my mind is I am purchasing my father's motor vehicle from his estate. We collected it yesterday and I had a bit of a drive today. It's a manual, and I haven't driven a manual for about four years. I did all right, too. I'm proud of myself. I've always preferred manuals, but like I said, my current vehicle is automatic and I was concerned I was a little out practise. Also, my son will be going for his learner's permit next year, and of course it is best to learn to drive in a manual. He's already had lessons with his dad out at his uncle's farm. Mr Bingells has always liked to name our cars. I guess this personification of motor vehicles is symptomatic of being a car nut. However, I have been very adamant about this new Nissan. It is to be known as The Bingmobile. Mr Bingells is pressing for LJ, being the initials of my late father's first and second names ('Leslie John'). I have acquiesced and the vehicle will be alternately known as The Bingmoble and LJ. Master 14 calls it The Bingmobile for the sole reason of annoying his father.
Well, I had best go. I'm going to see if I can attach a picture of myself on the bed with the flute of bubbles. The profile pic here is about four years old, it might be time to update.
What's foremost in my mind is the beautiful weekend I have just enjoyed. On Friday we foisted off our sprogs 'n' dogs to their grandmother. Saturday we drove to Hornsby where we parked at my cousin's house, and caught a train to Wynyard Station. This was something of a magical mystery tour for your blogger - not the CBD; I'm most au fait with Sydney CBD - because the final destination was to be a surprise for me. We plodded along slowly. I was dragging the suitcase and Mr Bingells, who has a capricious back which has just lately decided to be a fucker, was walking with crutches. We eventually came to what looked like a several-storied art deco structure, and Mr Bingells casually remarked, 'This looks like a good place to stay,' before leading me inside. Well, fuck me sideways if I wasn't in the foyer of the gorgeous Grace Hotel! 'Happy birthday, my darling,' said Mr Bingells. Yeah, that's also on my mind. Last Friday I turned fifty. I've been blogging since the age of forty-three, so that's seven years of hopefully entertaining readers.
We were placed in a suite that almost matches the three bedrooms of our home combined in size, with a king size bed, and complimentary sparkling wine on ice. Mr Bingells took a photograph of me luxuriating in a sumptuous white robe in the middle of the bed, a flute of bubbles in my hand. Mr Bingells also donned a robe, but declined a selfie because he feared we'd look too much like Bob Hawke and Blanche D'Pulget in the matching robes.
For dinner, we met my eclectic circle of friends and family at the Gaslight Inn in Darlinghurst. What a terrific bunch of friends I have. There was a reunion of my wedding party from seventeen years ago. There were work colleagues. There were school friends. We laughed at ourselves and how it didn't feel much different from the playground, and I observed all my friend needed was a Rubik's cube in her hand, and the picture would be complete. This is true. My friend was a gun Rubik's cube solver in the day and she could not enjoy a moment's peace in the playground because as her reputation widened, kids would be shoving cubes in her face for solving. I don't think she ever consumed her lunchtime Vegemite sandwich in one sitting because of the constant interruption.
Three of my friends also brought along newish partners whom I'd not yet met, and we all hit it off very well. I feel I have made three new friends now. What a wonderful birthday gift.
Dinner was across the road at the Balkan. I organised for a three course set menu and for people to pay their own meals. We had the upstairs to ourselves. I drank wine, and ate and ate and ate (but not the dessert; it was pancakes and I really don't like pancakes). The food was served on communal platters in the middle of the table, and guests helped themselves and shared the plates along, which all just added to the general bon homie. The last time I had socialised with my loved cousins was my father's funeral a couple of months ago, and I can state with authority last Saturday's function was much more preferable.
People asked me about the novel for which I have recently signed a contract, and I spoke about some of the inspiration of childhood memories. One of the funnier ones was from my former matron-of-honour, a cousin whose deb ball I attended when aged eighteen - the inspiration comes from the after-party where we swilled Dr Jurd's Jungle Juice in the bedroom at the house of a kid known as Sutto. Dr Jurd's Jungle Juice is legendary in the circles and sacred to the memory of those who grew up in the Hunter Valley during the 1980s. Another memory was inspired by the shenanigans I got up to with my brother and another cousin at the hotel owned by my grandmother. My brother denied having partaken in the horseplay I spoke of, but take it from me, he was the ringleader!
When it was almost midnight, and my cousin's wife had started to sing, we realised with regret it was time to leave the restaurant.
Because I was having guests pay their own meal, I had specified no birthday gifts. But did people listen? No. Some of them did bring some token little gifts along (I would have done the same, most likely!), and my haul included a leopard print wrap, a bottle of Moet et Chandon, and a glass skull which matches the other one on my writing desk - perfect book ends. Any haul that features animal print, expensive champagne and a skull is a worthy one. But the most beautiful gift of all was feeling the love and friendship of that wonderful crowd of people I call my family and friends. You cannot buy that, and you cannot fake it. If any of you are reading this, just know I love you all.
The other thing on my mind is I am purchasing my father's motor vehicle from his estate. We collected it yesterday and I had a bit of a drive today. It's a manual, and I haven't driven a manual for about four years. I did all right, too. I'm proud of myself. I've always preferred manuals, but like I said, my current vehicle is automatic and I was concerned I was a little out practise. Also, my son will be going for his learner's permit next year, and of course it is best to learn to drive in a manual. He's already had lessons with his dad out at his uncle's farm. Mr Bingells has always liked to name our cars. I guess this personification of motor vehicles is symptomatic of being a car nut. However, I have been very adamant about this new Nissan. It is to be known as The Bingmobile. Mr Bingells is pressing for LJ, being the initials of my late father's first and second names ('Leslie John'). I have acquiesced and the vehicle will be alternately known as The Bingmoble and LJ. Master 14 calls it The Bingmobile for the sole reason of annoying his father.
Well, I had best go. I'm going to see if I can attach a picture of myself on the bed with the flute of bubbles. The profile pic here is about four years old, it might be time to update.
Wednesday 10 February 2016
Banning the B******t
This post is dedicated to the Year 11 kid who started the petition (Aaarrrggghhh! Another stupid whiny stone-cold motherless fucking petition!) calling for Brunswick Secondary College to scrap its plans to stage 'Hairspray' as their school musical. This post is also dedicated to those who signed said petition. Seriously, people: WTF?
Your concerns are that to stage this musical is racially insensitive because apparently there are not a great many POC among the student body to take on the roles of the POC. You are concerned the school will adapt the musical to suit the student body taking part, and that it is offensive to have students who are not POC to portray the POC in the show. Um, it would appear that to not stage a musical that deals with racism on the basis the production might be racially insensitive in its approach is about as stupid as staging an orgy to promote cause for celibacy.
I am aware it is offensive for a white actor to black up, which was a long tradition in the UK for productions of 'Othello'. Nowadays an actor who is a POC is cast, which is a good thing for actors who are POC as it assures them work. Personally, I don't what colour an actor is as long as they interpret and portray the bard's words with the sensitivity and meaning due them. But yeah, I do prefer an actor look like the character they are playing. In other words, don't cast some old breast-sucked sow with varicose veins like roadmaps to play Juliet, whom I understand is meant to be about fourteen years of age.
But anyway, here we go with someone getting offended and jumping on the bandwagon. Hey, don't get me wrong, Those-Who-Must-Be-Offended. I do know what it is like to be offended at something members of the school are planning. When I was in Year 11, I was in the art room at my school, and four of the male teachers came into practise something for a talent show somewhere. They were done up like a barbershop quartet, and they performed a number called 'Seven Day Adventist' to the tune of 'Waltzing Matilda'. This was just after the Lindy Chamberlain trial, and the ditty dealt with the disappearance of Azaria Chamberlain at Uluru, and subsequent trial and conviction of Lindy Chamberlain. Objectively speaking, the teachers' performance was actually very good. But having been (and still am) a staunch believer in Lindy's innocence, and having been very disillusioned and sickened by the trial-by-media and conviction from evidence flimsier than a bride's nightie, I was offended to the point of nausea by that song! What could I do? I had no access to online petitions back then - shit, we were only just allowed to start using calculators in maths! And being sixteen, I'm hardly likely to tell a bunch of adults participating in something over which I had no control and was not my business that they couldn't do this performance. One of the teachers asked, 'What did you think, Simone?' I rather coldly replied that although I found the song distasteful, their performance had been fine. Wow, even back then I knew to judge art on it's own merit.
But back to this proposed production of 'Hairspray'. It is not impossible to stage a production and be sensitive. Speak to the art department at the school. When staging shows, you engage artistic teams to come up with creative solutions. A local high school - not the one my kid attends - staged this show last year. I had a chat with some of my friends whose children attend the school and asked how the problem of students not being POC for roles had been circumvented. The students did not black up, but wore costumes relevant to their character, and I guess the audience had to use their imagination. This can be done, people. Why can't the school do its musical, and let the kids perform and showcase their talents to the crowd of mums and dads and aunties and uncles and pops and nannas? Why spoil it? As I mentioned, this show has a very important message and by attempting to quash a proposed production, you are also stifling that message. It is common in New Zealand for Maori actors to play what would normally be to be 'white' roles, and nobody even notices. Can't we try that here?
Instead of banning everything, how about offering a more creative and educational solution?
Your concerns are that to stage this musical is racially insensitive because apparently there are not a great many POC among the student body to take on the roles of the POC. You are concerned the school will adapt the musical to suit the student body taking part, and that it is offensive to have students who are not POC to portray the POC in the show. Um, it would appear that to not stage a musical that deals with racism on the basis the production might be racially insensitive in its approach is about as stupid as staging an orgy to promote cause for celibacy.
I am aware it is offensive for a white actor to black up, which was a long tradition in the UK for productions of 'Othello'. Nowadays an actor who is a POC is cast, which is a good thing for actors who are POC as it assures them work. Personally, I don't what colour an actor is as long as they interpret and portray the bard's words with the sensitivity and meaning due them. But yeah, I do prefer an actor look like the character they are playing. In other words, don't cast some old breast-sucked sow with varicose veins like roadmaps to play Juliet, whom I understand is meant to be about fourteen years of age.
But anyway, here we go with someone getting offended and jumping on the bandwagon. Hey, don't get me wrong, Those-Who-Must-Be-Offended. I do know what it is like to be offended at something members of the school are planning. When I was in Year 11, I was in the art room at my school, and four of the male teachers came into practise something for a talent show somewhere. They were done up like a barbershop quartet, and they performed a number called 'Seven Day Adventist' to the tune of 'Waltzing Matilda'. This was just after the Lindy Chamberlain trial, and the ditty dealt with the disappearance of Azaria Chamberlain at Uluru, and subsequent trial and conviction of Lindy Chamberlain. Objectively speaking, the teachers' performance was actually very good. But having been (and still am) a staunch believer in Lindy's innocence, and having been very disillusioned and sickened by the trial-by-media and conviction from evidence flimsier than a bride's nightie, I was offended to the point of nausea by that song! What could I do? I had no access to online petitions back then - shit, we were only just allowed to start using calculators in maths! And being sixteen, I'm hardly likely to tell a bunch of adults participating in something over which I had no control and was not my business that they couldn't do this performance. One of the teachers asked, 'What did you think, Simone?' I rather coldly replied that although I found the song distasteful, their performance had been fine. Wow, even back then I knew to judge art on it's own merit.
But back to this proposed production of 'Hairspray'. It is not impossible to stage a production and be sensitive. Speak to the art department at the school. When staging shows, you engage artistic teams to come up with creative solutions. A local high school - not the one my kid attends - staged this show last year. I had a chat with some of my friends whose children attend the school and asked how the problem of students not being POC for roles had been circumvented. The students did not black up, but wore costumes relevant to their character, and I guess the audience had to use their imagination. This can be done, people. Why can't the school do its musical, and let the kids perform and showcase their talents to the crowd of mums and dads and aunties and uncles and pops and nannas? Why spoil it? As I mentioned, this show has a very important message and by attempting to quash a proposed production, you are also stifling that message. It is common in New Zealand for Maori actors to play what would normally be to be 'white' roles, and nobody even notices. Can't we try that here?
Instead of banning everything, how about offering a more creative and educational solution?
Sunday 7 February 2016
Good Golly, Loving 'Molly'!
Okay, I'll admit it. I'm loving the miniseries 'Molly'. Anybody who is a regular reader of mine, or who knows me personally will not be surprised in the least. I was a regular 'Countdown' watcher, and it was interesting to see the chaos and no-sense-of-discipline-whatsoever that sometimes permeated the show, particularly the 100th episode when Molly was totally wasted out of his gourd.
What I am glad for is the inclusion of what was the crowning pinnacle of Australian television EVER: JPY getting his shirt torn off by teenyboppers. I remember watching it from the dingy faded nap on the old lounge at home. Poor Squeak singing 'Yesterday's Hero' (which I think is a great song and if anyone disagrees, the cupboard where I keep my fucks to give is bare), and being set upon by hormonally driven bestial savages. Those savages HAD started their day as teenaged girls, but when Squeak sang, it was total Lord Of The Flies time. The only thing missing was the chant: 'Kiss the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood!' I'm glad of this. Wouldn't want 'em to slaughter poor little Squeak (although we might have been spared 'Love Is In The Air' - don't care what anyone says, I NEVER want to hear this again). Isn't it funny what you remember watching as a child? Some folk, a little older than me, would say they always remember watching Apollo 11 land on the moon and that footage shaped and moulded the child they were. Not for me. It's Squeak getting his shirt ripped off that I will always remember.
Well, I cannot WAIT for the next episode. I do hope the writers and producers have decided to not include the tedious period when frigging 'Fernando' was Number 1 Every. Bloody. WEEK!! I loathed that song then, and time has not tempered my dislike.
Anyway, to borrow from Molly: do yourself a favour and watch it!
What I am glad for is the inclusion of what was the crowning pinnacle of Australian television EVER: JPY getting his shirt torn off by teenyboppers. I remember watching it from the dingy faded nap on the old lounge at home. Poor Squeak singing 'Yesterday's Hero' (which I think is a great song and if anyone disagrees, the cupboard where I keep my fucks to give is bare), and being set upon by hormonally driven bestial savages. Those savages HAD started their day as teenaged girls, but when Squeak sang, it was total Lord Of The Flies time. The only thing missing was the chant: 'Kiss the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood!' I'm glad of this. Wouldn't want 'em to slaughter poor little Squeak (although we might have been spared 'Love Is In The Air' - don't care what anyone says, I NEVER want to hear this again). Isn't it funny what you remember watching as a child? Some folk, a little older than me, would say they always remember watching Apollo 11 land on the moon and that footage shaped and moulded the child they were. Not for me. It's Squeak getting his shirt ripped off that I will always remember.
Well, I cannot WAIT for the next episode. I do hope the writers and producers have decided to not include the tedious period when frigging 'Fernando' was Number 1 Every. Bloody. WEEK!! I loathed that song then, and time has not tempered my dislike.
Anyway, to borrow from Molly: do yourself a favour and watch it!
Thursday 4 February 2016
Writer's Block
I've got to write a five hundred word piece on 'violence'. This is for my local writers' group meeting, to be held in a few weeks. The shitful thing is: I have NO idea what to write. Now, having typed that sentence I am going to make a liar of myself and write how domestic violence is a biggie in the news of late, and that the government will grandstand to keep certain performers out of the country, and let others in. To wit: 'Chris Brown? Nope, stay away from our shores, you flog. Oh, yes, Ozzie Osbourne. Come right in. That little matter where you got pig-drunk and tried to strangle your wife? Not a problem; we'll over look that.' Also, violence is a major plot development device in cartoons. Popeye the Sailor used to chug a can of spinach and deliver a haymaker to that fat fucker with the black beard, practically knocking him into orbit. And of course bible stories are stuffed full of violent anecdotes.
But it's hard to write at the moment. I've so many things on my mind and they make me a tad despondent, and I use them as an excuse to not work. This will not wash with me. Jeffrey Archer - I don't know if he is still 'Lord' Archer having served a prison sentence - has said of the notion that a writer must await inspiration: 'Simply pick up your pen and write!' Well, I haven't picked up my pen. I've turned on my computer and looked at the screen. Surely that's a start of some sort.
Today I purchased a bottle of cabernet merlot. It is from a local feted award-winning winery, so I might sip a glass tonight and see if that brings forth the creativity. Let me state this: I do not believe in turning to pharmaceuticals or alcohol to get the juices flowing. That's bunkum. I was a writer when I was a kid and never touched alcohol, except for the occasional sip of KB from the amber coloured corrugated glass my from which my father drank . That glass was always in the freezer waiting for him to pour a cold one when he returned from a hard day's work over seeing that major sheep station. In our clean-outs at Dad's house, I have not seen that glass. Maybe it was broken some years ago, or maybe I've been too distracted by the embarrassment of finding that compilation of covers recorded by Leif Garrett I bought when I was twelve. I will use my youth as an excuse for buying that execrable album.
So will I pour me a glass of red tonight? I will see how I feel. I will sip the one glass; it is the end of the week and I have touched no alcohol in days. If I am despondent still, I will stop. There is a real danger of me playing Chris Marshall's 'Only Crying', which includes the lyrics 'well the moonlight kind of threw me...and the red wine's getting to me...'. If I play it, and have had some wine, there is a real danger I will be tempted to sing, and this will hurt the ears of my children. And my husband. And my dogs. And my cockatiel (he's only little; I wouldn't want him to fall down from the perch, bleeding from those poor, put-upon ears). If I have a glass of red and am in a good mood, I will have one more.
Thank you for dropping by and reading. Check out my profile and click on the links to the first chapters of my novels. If you're of a mind, you can go to the check out and purchase same. This would make a glass of red wine very, very enjoyable.
But it's hard to write at the moment. I've so many things on my mind and they make me a tad despondent, and I use them as an excuse to not work. This will not wash with me. Jeffrey Archer - I don't know if he is still 'Lord' Archer having served a prison sentence - has said of the notion that a writer must await inspiration: 'Simply pick up your pen and write!' Well, I haven't picked up my pen. I've turned on my computer and looked at the screen. Surely that's a start of some sort.
Today I purchased a bottle of cabernet merlot. It is from a local feted award-winning winery, so I might sip a glass tonight and see if that brings forth the creativity. Let me state this: I do not believe in turning to pharmaceuticals or alcohol to get the juices flowing. That's bunkum. I was a writer when I was a kid and never touched alcohol, except for the occasional sip of KB from the amber coloured corrugated glass my from which my father drank . That glass was always in the freezer waiting for him to pour a cold one when he returned from a hard day's work over seeing that major sheep station. In our clean-outs at Dad's house, I have not seen that glass. Maybe it was broken some years ago, or maybe I've been too distracted by the embarrassment of finding that compilation of covers recorded by Leif Garrett I bought when I was twelve. I will use my youth as an excuse for buying that execrable album.
So will I pour me a glass of red tonight? I will see how I feel. I will sip the one glass; it is the end of the week and I have touched no alcohol in days. If I am despondent still, I will stop. There is a real danger of me playing Chris Marshall's 'Only Crying', which includes the lyrics 'well the moonlight kind of threw me...and the red wine's getting to me...'. If I play it, and have had some wine, there is a real danger I will be tempted to sing, and this will hurt the ears of my children. And my husband. And my dogs. And my cockatiel (he's only little; I wouldn't want him to fall down from the perch, bleeding from those poor, put-upon ears). If I have a glass of red and am in a good mood, I will have one more.
Thank you for dropping by and reading. Check out my profile and click on the links to the first chapters of my novels. If you're of a mind, you can go to the check out and purchase same. This would make a glass of red wine very, very enjoyable.
Book Review I Have Written
I recently reviewed a novella titled 'Johnny Zookeeper'. Here is a link to the review. It's an enjoyable read, folks, so download it and keep an author in corn chips!
http://www.amazon.com/review/R2K4NZAG9NTN5T/ref=cm_cr_dp_title?ie=UTF8&ASIN=B019LPE8I4&channel=detail-glance&nodeID=133140011&store=digital-text
http://www.amazon.com/review/R2K4NZAG9NTN5T/ref=cm_cr_dp_title?ie=UTF8&ASIN=B019LPE8I4&channel=detail-glance&nodeID=133140011&store=digital-text
Monday 1 February 2016
WHO thought of this stupid idea?
There really is an awful lot of stupid going around lately, isn't there? I'm not sure how it has reached such a pandemic. Is it transmitted by a mosquito, like so many deplorable viruses of late? And like those viruses, stupid is not good for one's health. Well, at least it's not good for my health because the accumulation that has assailed my eyes and ears of late makes me feel compelled to go and bash my head against a brick wall. If nothing else, this action will render me as moronic as many of the sufferers of the latest wave of stupid, and I will have some company.
I'm starting to worry the World Health Organisation, for whom I normally hold the utmost respect, have contracted a lethal dose of this insidious disease. They must have; how else could they seriously expound the arsehat idea of having movies that feature smoking be rated 'R'? The concern is that a child might see a cool character smoking and decide to take up this habit. You know what? I hate smoking. I really, really detest it. There is nothing to be said for it. It is expensive, detrimental to the environment, hazardous to the health of the fool puffing away (together with innocent passers-by who end up breathing in that noxious shit), smells grotesque, and in my opinion just looks plain slovenly. But guess what I hate more? These clown ideas that encroach on creativity and artistic expression.
I'm an author. I have no obligation to take a moral stand against anything in my work. My obligation is to entertain my reader. Therefore, if I believe a character is going to light up a ciggie, then by God I will have that character light up a ciggie. If you read my stuff and decide to take up smoking because I had a character do it, then be that upon YOUR head (or lungs).
I applaud the laws that forbid smoking inside pubs, and point out that when these laws were introduced there was no decline in people going out drinking. People still like to go and drink, and watch a band. They just have to smoke outside, that's all. Pubs found new clientele: those that had always avoided attending because they could not stand smelling like an old ashtray the next day, along with the wheezing and itchy eyes. These laws offer bar staff as safer work environment, too.
But slapping 'R' ratings on films? Is 'Pinocchio' going to receive an 'R' rating because Jiminy Cricket smokes? I'd be more concerned if my child played with explosives in the erroneous belief that a misfire would result in nothing more than a sooty face and an afro hairdo, a la Wile E Coyote when wielding a defective detonator, instead of the realistic result which would be chunks of flesh flying around like pulpy snowflakes in a blizzard.
Let's slap an 'R' rating on Pepe Le Pew in case some kids carry out sexual assaults because they see this stinking rodent doing it to the cat with the white stripe painted down its back. That skunk personally annoys me because of this, but I haven't started up a lame-arse change dot org petition yet.
Or, and this is a little idea I came up with that's slightly left of field but it just MIGHT work: let's just educate our kids about the dangers of smoking and explosives, and the antisocial behaviour of some characters in television shows and movies. How does that sound? And let's leave different expressions of art alone.
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