Not Giving A Crap About Becky's Good Hair

Years ago I was flat-sharing in Bondi, and it seemed all of Pop Culture-Dom was losing its shit over, and putting its collective heads together to solve, the mystery of who killed Laura Palmer.  My then flat mate would set the VCR to record 'Twin Peaks', if she was going to be out during the scheduled programming time.  This was pre-Netflix etc.  From memory it was Laura's father who killed the poor bitch before wrapping her corpse in plastic, which spawned one of the classic lines at the time, delivered by some character actor who sounded exactly like Huckleberry Hound: 'She's day-ud, an' wraaapped in plaast-eekk.'  This translates to, 'She's dead, and wrapped in plastic', but I was trying to paint a picture with my words by typing the sentence in phonetic, backwoods, sibling-fucker dialect.  Yes, it was a mystery that had everybody glued to their television sets.  I also remember the all time greatest cliff-hanger that launched many a conspiracy theory and a long, long list of suspects: Who shot JR?  For those of you who can't remember, or who want to know but haven't had the nous to Google it, the answer is Bobby's sister-in-law, Kristin Shepherd.   Aaaah, those were the days.

Now, we've got people wondering who is 'Becky with the good hair'?  Honestly, who fucking cares?  I sure as shit don't!  Reports and theories are clogging my newsfeed, and the notion that Beyoncé is taking a swipe at an unfaithful husband whom it would appear, if the lyrics are indicative, has cheated with someone who has nice hair.  I will take the opportunity to suggest that Beyoncé not worry too much if someone has been blessed with lustrous locks - she has an arse that could crack walnuts, which is nothing to be sneezed at.  I have just seen an article by a woman who claims to have been the inspiration for 'Becky' - she gave Beyoncé's husband Jay Z a blowie in the front of a car many years ago.   It should be noted the woman's hair is nothing to write a poem about, either.  I cannot understand why anybody would wish made public an incident in their past wherein they fellated Jay-Z.  Oh wait, maybe I can; it's called Fame/Notoriety & Possible Cash Grab.  Also, why are people rhapodising about Beyoncé's film clip, the one in which she is dressed in a long, ruffled mustard-coloured dress and bashing the shit out of some car windows?  Everybody is likening her to some kind of Boudiccea/Amazon/Jeanne d'Arc hybrid.  All I see is someone wearing an immensely unflattering and ugly rag whilst committing senseless vandalism.

It's that time of year, and the advertisements are hawking the Mothers' Day merchandise.  We are told to 'Spoil Mum this Mothers' Day with a CD...'  Now, where this mother-of-two is concerned, the problem is this: the anthologies suggested as gifts are really nothing more than a manifestation of the truffle butter produced by Satan and his missus.  If you're wondering what 'truffle butter' is, Google it.  I encountered this colloquialism on the urban dictionary last night, by complete accident.  I was looking up 'glory hole'.  Why I was looking up 'glory hole' is because it was mentioned in a passage I was then reading, with no clue of the definition in the context or subtext.  So I did the sensible thing and looked up the definition.  I then saw a list of related trending phrases, and clicked on the intriguingly titled 'truffle butter'.  The definition made me go 'ick', but it also gave me a new phrase to use when in need of a metaphor for my writing.  I usually use Satan's bodily fluids as a metaphor, but everyone is used to me describing something as the smegma from Satan's foreskin, so I needed something new.  And yes, a Satanically generated mass of truffle butter is a good way to refer to the suggested Mothers' Day compilations.  These CDs feature, without fail or variance: Lionel Ritchie, Michael Bolton, Michael Buble, Barbara Streisand, Most-Recent-Winner-Of-Reality-Television-Talent-Contest et al.  And without fail or variance, my initial reaction to such a CD would be skeet practice.  I wish advertisers and music industry types would promote some other stuff for us mums.  Along with these middle-of-the-road CDs (a good place to leave them), they always suggest buying a DVD, and the DVD usually has a wishy-washy storyline, and stars Ryan Gosling or Jennifer Lawrence.  Sometimes they feature Cameron Diaz, or Julia Roberts, or Richard Gere.  Most often they have Hugh Grant playing, well, Hugh Grant (notwithstanding he is damned cute).  Do marketing types not realize there are mums out there that actually favour Quentin Tarantino movies, and listen to hard rock and metal?  I was tempted to type 'if Mr Bingells and Masters 14 and 11 are reading this, hint, hint...', but they know my tastes.  In any event, I will put in an early Happy Mothers' Day to all the mums reading this. 

Off The Bat

To help alleviate the recent spate of social stressors with which I have been beaten mercilessly about the head and shoulders, I have been attending a meditation circle on Tuesday nights.  I have common sense sufficient to understand wine just won't cut it.  Alcohol is, after all, an amplifier and drinking to excess is not going to make me feel any better.  That has not stopped me sipping the occasional glass of merlot whilst watching 'The Chaser', firing off answers at the television at the same time as  fielding questions from my youngest along the lines of, 'Mum, when are you going to go on this?' 

I've been enjoying the meditation, and am getting better at clearing my mind as I sit on my chair in the living room where it is run.  The person who runs it is an old school friend.  Usually I have some difficulty clearing this old scone of mine; it's thoughts and worries and anxieties all whirl and tessellate like a crazy old kaleidoscope.  But last night, I swear I 'left my body'.  I sat with my eyes shut and could feel my physical shell slumping over in my chair, and in my subconscious I wondered was I going to end up actually landing on the floor with a thump and disturbing the quest for inner calm of the other women in the room.  No, seriously, that's what I thought was going to happen; I was going to land on the floor in an ungainly heap in front of all the others. It would be just like the time when I was twelve, and my older sister and I were on the rotor at Luna Park.  For those of you not au fait, the rotor is a circular room that spins with the speed of a frenzied tornado, and the floor drops away, leaving you pinned to the wall with the centrifugal force.  You can edge your way up the wall if it is your wish, and for some odd reason I decided to work my way up higher than anybody else.  That was well and good, but when the room's revolutions lessened in intensity, and we slid down the wall, I was still about three feet from the floor when the spinning actually stopped, thus causing me to belly-flop onto the floor where all I could do was grunt, 'Ooof!' When relaying this later, my sister said, 'Bing had a most ungraceful descent.'  However, my concerns last night were unfounded, and I managed to somehow stay on my chair before 'returning'.  I had hoped I would return to Sofia Vergara's body, but - alas -  instead ended up back in my own.

Yeah, so I returned home feeling pretty good.  I made my kids' lunches for today, and sat down to play on my iPad.  In my peripheral vision, I thought I noticed something flickering in the kitchen.  I put it down to shadows, or a moth.  Then my oldest son cried out, 'What the hell?'  Something flew from the kitchen into the lounge room, and did a few laps around at ceiling-height.  'It's a bird!' my son declared.  Then he had a closer look, as I was frowning at whatever it was, and hoping it wasn't what I feared, but - and I'm not making this up - my son confirmed it: 'Hey, wait - that's a bat!'  Yes, the back door was open, and somehow or other a baby bat had become separated from its flock and flown into our house! 

In a fit of cowardice, I squealed like a bitch and ran into my bedroom, issuing instructions from behind the door to get the bloody thing out and not let it anywhere near where I was.  My brave, or more likely amused children opened the front door and the creepy creature flew out, and hopefully rejoined its flock.  I have a sufficient level of the milk of human kindness in my veins to have felt some concern for the fucking thing, after all, it must have been frightened.  That being said, it still creeped me out to the 9th power.  I do have some Black Sabbath among my music collection, but that's the closest I had to hand of the bat's natural enemy: Ozzy Osborne.  Not that I would allow him to chow down on a bat in my house. 

The inner calm I had achieved at the meditation circle was just - poof! - gone when that horrible thing flew into my house.  Next week, I shall ensure the back door is shut if there are bats circling overhead.

'Of' Course, We've Lost Another One

Up until now, I had always held fast to the theory that being aged twenty-seven is statistically the most risky time for a singer.  The 27 Club has many talented and lamented late members (Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix, Brian Jones, Amy Winehouse, Pete Ham, and Kurt Cobain to name just a few).  But now my theory is being tested, and I'm starting to wonder is 2016 the most risky time to be a singer.  Seriously, how many beauties have we lost this year?  David Bowie, Jon English, Glenn Frey, Keith Emerson, and now bloody Prince!  There must be one hell of a music festival planned in Rock and Roll Heaven, where you know they got a hell of a band!  Yeah, that cheesy old Righteous Brothers number is one of my guilty pleasures.  And Keith Richards is probably flipping the bird in the direction of the Grim Reaper and sniggering, 'Hahahaha, fuck ya!'  (Seriously, how in God's name is that man still alive?!!)  To be honest, Prince is not somebody for whom I'd have parted with my cash to see in concert, but I liked some of his songs and thought him a very talented man.  Anybody who writes their own stuff and is a multi-instrumentalist (and I do believe Prince played over twenty instruments) has my admiration.

So, I have had Prince songs stuck in my head for a few days, chiefly, 'Little Red Corvette'.  I always did rather like that.  I think I was about seventeen when it was released.  And up until a few minutes ago, always thought it was about a classic motor vehicle.  You know, for a writer, I can be a bit obtuse when it comes to metaphors at times.  Turns out it's about a one night stand.  Silly me....

[THE TYPING OF THIS BLOG POST HAS BEEN MOMENTARILY SUSPENDED WHILST THE AUTHOR ASSISTS HER HUSBAND WHO IS IN THE PROCESS OF ATTACHING A SCREEN TO A DOOR.  NORMAL BLOGGING WILL BE RESUMED SHORTLY]

Right.  I'm back.  Yes, as I was saying, I was a bit slow on the uptake with the metaphorical content of 'Little Red Corvette'.  I don't actually get the line 'by the way you parked your car sideways...'.  It's subtext is lost on me.  I'm just glad there's somebody out there who parks worse than I do.  Well, that's how I'm choosing to interpret the lyric. 

But all metaphorical meaning spiralled off to Hell when I was reading the lyrics, and saw, 'I guess I should of closed my eyes'.  'OF'?  Seriously?  I'm choosing to not believe that's what Prince wrote, and rather the master of this particular lyrics page thought that was the lyric.  It's like I cannot escape it, this malevolent miswording.  It's everywhere, and as insidious an epidemic as the misplaced apostrophe.  Can everyone PLEASE stop using 'of' where it should be 'have'?  Just stop it; it's EVIL!!

A Shoe-In

Just checking in to the blogosphere prior to settling in to watch 'Scrotal Recall'.  I don't know if any of you have ever watched it, but it's quite good.  Romantic/sexual adventures of a pommy bloke aged about 29/30.  Good structure and acting.  So I will be watching that one very shortly. 

I am nearing the end of some annual leave I have taken.  This makes me heave a sigh one would associate with the lovelorn and consumptive young poet lying on his bed as he pens a paean to the bonny young thing who barely notices him, or with whom he is having an illicit affair.  I sigh like the bellows used to operate that organ in the Vatican (that's if it has bellows - I've never been into whatever Cathedral is in Vatican City; indeed I have never travelled to Europe).  I don't want to return to work.  I want to apply myself to my REAL work, which is churning out novels.  I have one due out later this year, and it's called 'Howling On A Concrete Moon'.  I ask, nay, BEG you all purchase a copy.  The bills are piling up.  My 14yo won't stop eating.  I took him to buy school shoes, sports shoes, and soccer boots today and the store clerk measured his feet.  Guess what?  He now takes a bigger shoe size than his father!  The fruit of my womb is gargantuan.

It's a joy to take two squabbling brothers on an hour-ish drive to a larger town to purchase school footwear.  They both needed school shoes and joggers, and the older needed soccer boots.  He has had a new pair of soccer boots every year for about six years.  The joy of snapping at your older son to stop reaching around and touching the younger one's hair for no other purpose than to tease, harass, and annoy can only be matched by parking (barely adequately) in a crowded car park, and having the younger one ask where his thongs are.  I should point out that if you are reading this and not an Aussie, 'thongs' here are what you call 'flip-flops'.  'I haven't got them', I replied, 'Aren't you wearing them?'  He said he was not because he thought I had them.  I asked the genesis of this theory; why would I have his thongs, and more to the point why had he not put them on prior to our departure.  He said he had had his hands full.  His hands were full with a stuffed toy depicting a character from the Minecraft series, so therefore it was not beyond the realm of possibility to scoop up his thongs.  It sank in my child had come out on a shopping expedition with no footwear (ironically enough to purchase footwear). 

I don't know what made me do what I did next, but I'm guessing it was my body's method of staving off insanity; I burst out laughing.  So did my older son.  We got out of the car and stood in the car park, still laughing.  My younger one did not see the joke and became outraged at our mirth.  He refused to leave the car unless we stopped laughing, but this made us laugh harder.  Normally I would do something along the lines of losing my shit, but right then, all I could do was laugh.  I did manage to stop the guffaws long enough to bluff him into getting out of the car, but I did have to nibble the insides of my cheeks.

But yeah, I was able to purchase the footwear without too much drama.  Was lucky enough to get everything we needed in the one shop that happened to be having a sale.  The gods smiled benevolently for once.

But fortunate shop locating aside, it did seem to be a day fraught with hassles what with kids squabbling and kids forgetting to bring along footwear so he walked around the shopping centre like a feral until I purchased his new joggers, which he promptly put on and walked around in.  The trip home was really no bed of roses, either.  The radio station seemed determined to play every sucky song it could think of.  I negotiated the damnable car park to the strains of Paul Simon blathering something about 'me and Julio down by the school yard...' .  You know something?  I really like a lot of Paul Simon's solo stuff from the early Seventies, but that song just sets my teeth on edge.  It annoys the living snot out of me.  Can't explain it, it just bloody does.  After a while, I was subjected to another annoying Paul Simon number, being 'Call Me Al'.  I just loathe that one, too.  I disliked that bloody 'Graceland' album with vehemence bordering on the psychotic.  It didn't 'grab' me when I first heard it, and my then flatmate played it on a loop which drove me just about bloody insane.  If that was not bad enough, I was also subjected to Rick-bloody-Astley, and my kids know the degree of detestation I have for his crappy song, so they decided to join in.  It was the one moment of solidarity my kids enjoyed: they weren't annoying each other, they were annoying ME, by singing along 'never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down...' blahblahblah.

Oh, and who left the gate on the idiot farm open?  One of them escaped, got into a ute, and drove along the New England Highway outside Singleton today.  It pottered along waaaay below the speed limit, but apparently thought the overtaking lane was a signal to speed up.  Once the overtaking lanes were petered out, it slowed back down.  Every freaking time I prepared to overtake, the cretin would floor it, or else cut in front of me in the area where the lanes diverged.  Strewth!

Well, it's just about time for my show.  Tata for now.

Ashes to Ashes...

My past few days have been stressful.  Yesterday, Mr Bingells removed my father's ashes from the cupboard in which I have been keeping them, cuddled the container and said goodbye.  I had been keeping my father's ashes on a buffet in my kitchen, but I was getting upset when I looked at them, as was my husband, so we put them in a cupboard until the day they were to be interred, which was yesterday.  My father, as you might be aware, was a former Australasian rodeo champion, and Australian buckjumping champion.  He spent his life on the land, and mainly on the back of the horse.  He and the horse appeared to blend into a hybrid, like a centaur.  He was a tall, fit and robust man, and to see him reduced to a container of ashes the size of a shoebox was making me cry.  Ergo, he stayed in the cupboard for a while.  Also, we didn't want to upset our kids.  Our youngest in particular is having a hard time of it; he is missing his Pop terribly.

The youngest stayed home with his father, and Master 14 and I drove to my home town.  The dead kangaroo count was four.  Drive along a country road in Australia, and count the dead kangaroos.  It's a great way to keep the kids entertained.  ('New game, fun for the whole family!').  We arrived at the cemetery first, although the minister was already there.  We were shortly joined by my brother and sister, their respective families, and a few assorted relatives.   This group gathered at the grave of my brother, who died in an accident in 1981.  The local council had dug a hole behind the headstone.  After a few prayers, my brother, sister and I went to the hole.  I passed over the box for my siblings to have a hold, and my brother knelt down and placed Dad in his final resting place to join his wife (who died in 1993) and his son.  A family unit again.  RIP, Dad.

We spoke about what we remember about Dad, and played 'Rhinestone Cowboy'.  Then we played it again at the minister's suggestion, and someone suggested we sing along.  The only ones who sang along were my sister and me.  Our late mother had a glorious rich singing voice; she sounded like Judith Durham.  I have a voice that could bring down a scud missile, and my sister is not much better.  My 14yo was giving me Looks (the kids have banned me from singing in the house).  Our brother joined in on a chorus, but would have been hard for him to harmonise with what sounds like tone deaf caterwauling donkeys. 

Anyway, my son took some lovely pictures of us gathered at the headstone.  I asked him to make sure he got the three of us, along with his uncle's headstone.  This is the only picture I have of myself with ALL my siblings.  I did have another one, but I think I lost it when my house flooded.  In this picture, I am about eighteen months old, and standing at the front with the others around me.  We are en route to the swimming pool, and posing near the ubiquitous family car of the Seventies: the station wagon.   The picture is in black and white, and I have a rather grouchy look on my face.  My sister is hanging onto me, and I look like I'm trying to get away.  Maybe that's why I'm so irked looking.  I hope I can find that picture.

Oh, and the kangaroos that survived the carnage on the road somehow got into the cemetery and pooped everywhere.  The only kangaroo pellets you couldn't see you were standing on.  It was a chore to avoid them when my sister and I were kneeling near the headstone trying to arrange flowers in the receptacles provided.  Nobody wants to find a squashed, pancake-like piece of kangaroo dung plastered to their kneecap when they stand back up.

My Letter To The Archdiocese Of Sydney

I don't know if you're reading this, Archbishop Fisher and Archdiocese Manager Michael Bigges, but you should count yourselves thankful I am not on the board at Telstra.  Now, I am not going to castigate Telstra for allowing use of its logo in support of same sex marriage; I am indifferent to this, although anybody who knows me knows I fully support same sex marriage and LGBTI rights.  Deep down I guess I am glad their support is implicit.  Maybe corporations should stay out of political matters, who knows?  But this is a matter of human rights and equality.

It would appear that Bigges has sent a letter to Telstra, who have the contract for the Catholic schools' telecommunication matters, referencing his 'grave concern' about Telstra's apparent support for marriage equality.  Just like Telstra's support of same sex marriage is implicit, so too was the threat to withdraw custom implicit in the letter.

This is filthy manipulative blackmail.  How much power do those boofheads in the Church wield, exactly? I can understand if Telstra wants to keep a client, after all, they are business.  But this grubby behaviour makes my blood boil.  What are you going to do, sign up with Optus?  They're apparently pretty vocal in the support of LGBTI rights, too.  I kind of hope they DO sign up with Optus because the coverage where I live is shit, and pretty much everyone around here is with Telstra.  The Catholic schools here will go berko with frustration.

But yeah, I'm an author cum nurse's aide, not in charge at Telstra.  But I've been wondering how I would reply to Mr Bigges, and also to His Grace.  It would go something like this:

Dear Mr Bigges,

Thank you for your letter expressing your concerns about our support of human rights and equality.  We are humbled by the all-powerful Archdiocese of Sydney taking the time to put pen to paper.

It is extraordinary that you have the time to worry about the rights of adults who wish to commit to each other in a legal ceremony, given how much time you must expend worrying about people who were sexually abused by the clergy to whose care they had been entrusted.  These children have grown into very damaged adults, some of whom have self-harmed.  Therefore, we are grateful that you are turning your attention to our apparent support of a human rights issue.

That a tax-exempt organisation run by a clique of superstitious men in dresses would take time from their busy schedule to coerce us brings a tear to the eye.  However, we are at a loss as to why it is a concern of the Church.  Please advise whether your metaphysical invisible friend who lives in the sky told you to pressure us thus.

Perhaps it was your senior member Cardinal Pell who has issued the directive.  Did he send an email from the Vatican, where he is holed up sick?  We are assuming his email account is with a Telstra ISP.  Is it something like smellypelly@bigpond.com?

We take the opportunity to point out the Church does not have the stranglehold it did back in the 1950s.  We have evolved.  We now recognise human rights, and would respectfully suggest the Church worry about the welfare of the children violated by its clergy.

You are therefore cordially invited to go eat a dick (and not one attached to an altar boy).

Yours,
etc etc etc

cc. His Grace Archbishop Fisher

How does that sound, folks?  Truly, I am considering not having my young one do his sacraments, such is my disgust with the Church.  That a woman of my apparent cynicism would consider having her son undergo the sacraments does seem strange, but if you were raised Catholic in the Seventies and Eighties, you'd kind of get it.  Also, my oldest son has done his sacraments, and if the other doesn't, well, there's fodder for them to use against the other in their incessant petty squabbling.  Anybody who has children would probably get what I'm saying.  Or maybe I will take a stand, and not have my kid undergo the ritual.  I recall accompanying my oldest to instruction, and the parish priest was explaining to the children the type of transgressions that could be confessed.  'Maybe you've told a dirty joke?' suggested the sky pilot (which was what my father called clergymen).  At the notion telling dirty jokes is a sin that qualifies for confession, I stiffened and gulped; I realised then and there where I'm going straight after my demise (put it this way: I'd better back a fire retardant all-in-one suit like stunt men wear in movies).

It's Muster Time At The O.K. Corral

I think I've been scooped up by a tornado, Wizard of Oz style, and dumped in the O.K. Corral post-muster.  I must have been; there's bull crap galore.  It's everywhere.  You can't take a step without hearing a disconcerting, onomatopoeic splat! and feeling a spray of hot droplets landing on the back of your calf muscle.  Now I'm having a flashback to my school cross country, which was always held on a property just outside town and you couldn't take five steps without stepping in a cow flop.

The new design of our five dollar note is total BS.  Here's an idea, folks: go back to the one we had.  Piss the Queen off, and reinstate Caroline Chisolm.  The current design still features Her Madge, but it's got a wishy washy palette of pastels that would make Ken Done's paintings look like the cover to a Megadeth album.  There also appears to be a representation of wattle, but the flowers just look like bloated, jaundiced witchetty grubs.

Today I had to take to a notice in my work place with the white out.  Well, there was a misplaced apostrophe.  The notion that apostrophes precede the 's' in a noun's plural form is total BS, too.  You will note correct apostrophe placement in the word 'noun's' because it's POSSESSIVE.  Whoever typed, printed and laminated this sign: don't be annoyed with me.  Indeed, thank me.  I've also sneaked some post-its from the office because I'm going to finally do something about that damnable sign that reads 'sponsered' instead of 'sponsored' at my club trivia game tomorrow night.  It's pissed me off for far too long.  So too has the blackboard menu featuring the 'omellet'.  What the fuck is an 'omellet'?  I'm not eating one; it's sounds like it might be the gizzards of a komodo dragon. 

But the best tauro-scatological thing I saw today happened just before I ate my dinner.  I was reading a thread about the appeal of a man against a sexual assault conviction. His appeal has been 'successful' to a degree in that he has been granted a new trial.  This site on which I was read this is a very staunch feminist one, whereby if a man breathes near a woman it is just a sign of society's inherent misogyny.  Oh yeah, the writers and commenters on this site also don't know the meaning of the word 'misogyny'.  (Thanks a lot, Gillard, you fathead; since your infamous 'misogyny' speech nobody, with the exception of an informed few, knows the actual meaning of the word).  Well, someone made a comment wondering was the original trial judge male or female, because that always has an influence over the outcome, and only female judges should hear rape trials.  Anybody with even the slightest bit of common sense, let alone any background in the legal profession (and your humble blogger has a very staunch one - 25 years prior to becoming a care worker) knows that this is the most mind-blowing, jaw-dropping, head-scratching, labia-tightening, pubic hair-straightening bullshit assertion since the Big Bang occurred!!!!  Naturally, I could not let this stupidity pass sans comment.  I congratulated the commenter on the silliest and most ignorant thing I had read all day.  I pointed out trials are decided NOT by the judge's gender, but by evidence and points of law.  I pointed out a trial cannot be fair and impartial if only one gender is allowed to hear such trial.  I also pointed out the unlikelihood of a woman studying law, qualifying, and then working her way up to the appointment at the bench being happy just to have her gender called in on her professional duty.  Finally, I pointed out the inherent sexism in that notion.  It would appear the comment and my reply have been deleted from the thread.  Why is this?  Do people not like common sense and informed comments?  I had to hold back and not say what went through my mind when I read that remark.  I will say it here, and I know it is an unpleasant remark, but if the person who published that assertion is reading this: you're a fucking idiot.

Aggravating Airwave Asses

Although I had planned to do pretty much nothing today, I still ended up being busy.  Years ago, I was often busy-busy-busy on a Saturday, and loved it.  My typical Saturday when I was in my early 20s involved a walk around the markets, a catch up with friends, and often a night at the theatre - anything: I'd see experimental avant garde one week, and a well-known chestnut the next. 

That was then; this is now, and the 'now' had me excited to hang a curtain I'd purchased off eBay.  Wooo-hooooo!  When did the culture-loving free spirit become a staid curtain-hanger?

As you're aware, I usually have my car radio set on the local AM station, but on weekends that just might have to change.  What's got me grinding my teeth is the 2GB Continuous Call Team, which is streamed on my local AM station of a weekend.  What a bunch of buffoons!  After I collected my 11yo and his friend from the cinema where they saw 'Kung Fu Panda 3', and dropped the friend home, I was subjected to what really would have to be one of the stupidest questions I'd ever heard in my life.  This question was right up there with the time someone asked: 'Is that your baby?' of my then seven-month-old son.  Yes, I know that question seems innocuous, but given I was BREAST FEEDING him at the time, it's extremely stupid its correct context. 

The lame-arse question was along these lines: some boofhead asked if an English-speaking couple adopted a child from China, and the child was six months old or so at the time, would the child grow up speaking Chinese.  No, I didn't make that up.  I do not know who was the clown that asked that, but in the event he is reading this, please stop and think: you were raised by English speaking parents, and so therefore you speak English.  At least, I THINK you were raised by English speaking parents.  I am seriously under the impression you were raised by apes and you would be more comfortable sitting in a tree flinging your faeces around.  Surely this hypothetical little one would grow up speaking English as well? 

I don't know: I just do not find a bunch of yobs talking over each other and laughing at their own incredibly unfunny jokes entertaining.  In fairness, they have to laugh at their own jokes because nobody else would laugh at this sub-par low-brow humour that makes Adam Sandler look like Ricky Gervais.

Those Dreaded Dreads

The big topic that has everybody gasping like offended old maids who have just been propositioned in church is Justin Bieber's dreadlocks.  Uh yeah. That's it: the Beeb's dreads.  No, I didn't type those last few sentences wrong.  It appears shit is being lost because Justin Bieber has bleached his hair and fashioned it into dreadlocks.  The Perpetually Outraged have deemed this offensive and insensitive because he is appropriating a signature 'do from a culture of which he is not a part.  It kind of makes me even more grateful today that, as a travelling twenty-one year old, I declined the offer of the Balinese children to braid and bead my hair in the main street of Kuta one day.  FYI, I refused to have my hair braided and beaded because: (1) I didn't want to sit there for the few hours it would have taken the kids to do it; and (2) I've never wanted to sport cornrows, anyway.  But I would HATE to think I'd misappropriated someone else's culture with my hairstyle.  Wow, that's almost as bad as invading another country.  It's right up there with stealing someone's Internet data.  It's as dastardly as swapping your meal with someone else's at a wedding reception whilst their back is turned, because you don't like carrots, and that person's meal came with corn.  Truly, let's not worry what the little twerp does with his hair (and I thought he looked more like he was travelling through Byron Bay).  I mean, this is a flog who has acted obnoxiously to television crew and spat on fans.  Surely that antisocial behaviour is more revolting than having one's hair styled into dreadies, is it not?  Oh yeah, and that crappy 'Baby' song, too.  Ugh!  Let's not forget about that.

Funnily enough, I'm not really a fan of people sporting accoutrements from other cultures for frivolous reasons.  I remember back in the early Nineties or so Madonna getting about with a Hindu caste mark in the centre of her forehead.  This just in, Madge: you looked a right fool.  Why would you do this?  I knew of a gentile guy who wore a Star of David medallion, and again, I thought this a ridiculous and somewhat disrespectful affectation. 

But yeah, I'm not that annoyed by the Beeb's dreads even though they are symbolic of another culture.  Can't he just do what he wants with his own hair?  Who knows, maybe he is trying to make a respectful reference to the Lion of Judah. 

Right now, I'm having a flashback to being chased down the streets of Kuta by a crowd of kids complaining, 'Come on, lady!  You killing my business!', and me snapping, 'Read my lips, kid!  I don't want my hair braided and beaded!'  I ended up ducking into a music store, and purchasing a bootleg cassette of The Doors to get away from them.