So-Called Offensive Toys & Proud Parenting Moment

Are golliwogs offensive?  Discuss.

IMHO, no.  They're DOLLS! I am aware that the playthings resemble the blackface buffoonery, and I know why blackface is offensive.  But these things are just toys, and now the pharmacy at Westmead Hospital has been criticised for stocking these 'offensive' objects.  I've mentioned in previous posts my much loved golliwog, that I named 'Golly'.  I was a little tacker and still in the process of developing the imagination that would have me writing books, which is why my toy had such a prosaic name.  Golly actually didn't have a black face.  He had a seriously sick looking face.  The dog mauled him, and my mother mended him so he ended up looking completely different (shades of the old gaudy miniseries 'Return to Eden' starring James Reyne - who remembers that?).  My mother mended him with one of my brothers grey school socks, the kind with the ribbed stitching, and sewed Golly's eyes and mouth back on.  Golly also had a rather odd wardrobe; my older sister decided to cut up some of my nappies (the old terry towelling ones) to make clothing for him.  With his grey face and white robes, poor Golly looked more like a corpse in a shroud. 

But if the Society Of The Perpetually Outraged have their say, children won't know what it's like to have a golliwog soon.  Not that playing with a golliwog feels much different to playing with any other rag doll, and do you know why?  Because it's CLOTH, just like any other freaking rag doll!!! Why do people have to carry on, moan, groan, whinge, whine, pule and bleat all the time?  Let's remove golliwogs!  Let's remove Chinese dolls, they promote racism, too! Let's remove all dolls that don't have golden tresses, pink cheeks, and blue eyes!  And when that's done, let's all bitch that there is not enough ethnic diversity in the toy aisles, shall we?

Proud Mum Moment #103: This occurred last night, whilst watching one of the multitudinous repeats of 'Big Bang'.  I am at that stage where I could quite happily never watch that freaking show again.  I occasionally enjoy it, but the repeats are getting beyond a joke, and if it's not on television, my oldest drags out the DVDs.  My kids adore this show.  But anyway, back to my Proud Mum Moment.  This was the episode - and I'm sure you've seen it because it's been repeated ad nauseum and even traders at the border of Bhutan have probably seen it - where Wolowitz, Hofstadter, and Raj are in Vegas, and Hofstadter and Raj decide to set up the morose Wolowitz with a hooker.  My 11yo was watching, and taking in the dialogue and attitudes, you know, the 'should we'/'shouldn't we' as they planned the transaction.  He asked, 'Mum, that lady's a prostitute, right?' 

'Yes,' was my reply.

Watching the show, he realised there was some legal grey area to what the characters are planning, and he asked was being a prostitute against the law.  I said in some parts of the US, where the show is set, yes.  I explained it wasn't actually against the law per se here in NSW.  He wanted to know why people had a problem, and I said it was a bit of a morality issue for some people.

Genuinely puzzled, my son said, 'But why?  It's her CHOICE, isn't it?'

How my heart sang and swelled.  It was one of those moments where after all the shouting and wondering whether the kids listen to you, and whether you're a complete dickwad of a parent, you realise you've done something right: you're raising a kid who is broadminded and non-judgemental.  I just beamed at him.  Then he said, 'But she might have herpes.  One in every four women has herpes.'  I know not from whence he obtained those statistics; I'm just delighted he is not judging a woman (albeit a television character) about a decision over her body.

Writhing Snakes Inside, But It's Not All Bad

Sometimes my insides feel like a nest of writhing poisonous snakes. I'm hoping they will stop feeling this way very soon, and this feeling of anxiety with which I'm am currently cursed is quelled.

But it's not all bad.  Yesterday marked fifteen years since a midwife handed me a slimy, slippery, vernix coated scrap of humanity; that humanity looked up at me with a puzzled and indignant expression on his face, as though saying: 'What the actual fuck was that all about?'  That scrap of humanity would wail when he was hungry, and acquiesce when I picked him up and held him to my breast, the source of his nourishment. 

Now, that former scrap is almost has tall as his father, his father being 6'1".  When hungry, he either grunts, 'What's to eat?', or else just eats pretty much an entire canister of breakfast cereal, or slathers enough peanut butter to render a wall over four (four!) slices of bread which he then constructs into a quadruple decker sandwich. 

He is the striker of his soccer team, and has quite the forceful boot on him.  Next week he will be playing goalie for one half of the game, which should help protect him from that cyclonic little lunatic from the opposing team, against which they have been drawn.  I wrote about her last week, I believe; she was the one who ran around like Tassie the Tasmanian Devil in an infuriated dervish-like state, knocking over and winding all the other kids (but not my son; she came off second best when she tried to bowl him over).

He is bloody fantastic in Maths and Science, and has aspirations to work in robotics engineering.  In this regard, he takes after his father and not me.

He changed my life completely fifteen years ago when I added 'mother' to my list of jobs and accomplishments.

In the foreword of my first novel, I wrote a special dedication to him and his brother.  I told them that no matter how proud I was of having produced a novel, I would always be more proud of having produced them.  I still am, even though I have to shout at them for leaving socks and shoes in the lounge room.

Today's Observations

I have inadvertently discovered how to spoil a nice meal.  I am going to share this with you, so you don't spoil what could potentially have been a gastronomic delight, and not the horror smash I served last night.  It's really simple: when making a Thai prawn curry, don't use a generic brand of frozen prawns.  Probably the big brand name frozen prawns aren't that fabulous, either.  Next time, I am going to buy fresh.  My sauce was a gift from the gods of cuisine.  I did buy a red curry simmer sauce, but I embellished with a tin of coconut cream, some finely chopped chilli, coriander, and garlic.  To this sauce, which was damn fine, I added some green beans, peas, and chopped sweet potato.  Delish.  But alas and alack, I ruined it all with those dashed generic brand frozen prawns.  They looked nothing like the succulent mouth-watering crustaceans on the packet; indeed, they were Lilliputian second rate failures.  Furthermore, they had the taste and texture of pencil erasers.  Never again, peeps.  I had one of the prawns, and sadly admitted it tasted like 'shit'.  Mr Bingells gave me a 'language' look of disapproval, and Master 11 said, 'Mum's not lying!'

Kanye West has never studied classical literature.  To be honest, I don't think he has even studied music.  Well he can't have; how else do you explain the horrifying dross he records?  But anyhoo, he has compared his and Kim K's romance to what he perceives as one of the greatest.  He says meeting the Big-Bummed One was akin to some 'kinda Romeo and Juliet thing'.  Um, I'm sure others have mentioned this already, but in event you haven't bothered, or are incapable of, reading the comments, let me say this: Kanye, dude, in this story Romeo and Juliet DIED in tragic circumstances.

Why did the organisers of the Billboard Awards have Madonna perform a tribute to Prince?  She looks like a withered old succubus that can't find any sleeping men to fuck (they heard she was in the district and drank heaps of coffee), and sounds like a sick crow.  She is totally soulless, which comes from being a succubus, I suppose.  And of course with all the men drinking coffee to stay awake, she cannot absorb any souls from unsuspecting sleeping victims.

I have to go and bring in my washing now.  This is because I cannot afford a maid.  I'd like to be able to afford a maid.  To facilitate this, I ask you click on the links to my blog and purchase my novels.  You can read the first chapters via these links.  I could try and set up a Go Fund Me page, but who's going to put money into me having a maid?  If I encountered a page set up by an able-bodied person, I'd roll my eyes and scroll by.  Indeed, it would be more satisfying to earn my keep, and my maid, via book royalties, so please dig deep, folks.

In 'Train'-ing

I sit at my keyboard, worn out and with the symptoms of a crap head cold coming on.  But that aside, I am content.  Maybe even happy.  I've had a very nice, if whirlwind, thirty-six hours.  It started with a train trip to Sydney yesterday.  Being an Upper Hunter Valley dweller, I caught a train to Hamilton where I had to change to the Sydney connection, and tried to read 'Lolita'.  I was very polite for an old lady, as I moved my luggage so she could sit opposite me in the rear view facing seat.  Anyway, as I pored through Nabokov's very poetic prose with its dark theme and disquieting tone, my mobile telephone rang.  It was a great friend of mine, and I was delighted to hear from him.  Now, as civilised as I normally am with phone voice, one does tend to speak a little more loudly when on a carriage because, you know, it's all choo-choo-choo in the background.  We finished our conversation and I looked up to see a sign that went something along the lines of 'This is a quiet carriage'.  It was one of those 'oh, shit' moments.  I lowered my gaze to be met with that of the old lady sitting opposite. I thought she was looking at me, but I suspect she was shooting me the death ray stare you'd see on those tin can monsters in old episodes of 'Dr Who'.  'Selfish,' she snarled at me,  There are different ways you can react in this situation.  You can stumble over yourself apologising profusely and crawling like Uriah Heep.  You can flip the bird and say, 'Fuck you'.  The latter was actually appealing, I must admit, but I was the one in the wrong, even though I had not intended to be.  But having somebody who doesn't know me from a bar of soap hiss at me that I'm selfish kind of gets my hackles up.  I adopted a most imperious voice and replied, 'Madam, I am far from selfish.  I was unaware this was a quiet carriage, and it was not my intention to disturb everybody.' 

Anyway, I reached my destination, grateful to have arrived without being pummelled by disgruntled passengers who had had their solitude destroyed by my burbling on a mobile phone, and stowed my luggage.  It had been my intention to spend some of my birthday money, and I made my way to David Jones.  I haven't strolled through the Sydney CBD DJs in a few years, and to use a hackneyed phrase, it was like another world to me.  To paraphrase Dorothy's, 'Toto, we're not in Kansas anymore'; I thought to myself, 'Simone, you're not in the Muswellbrook Big W Store'.  So many well-heeled and glamorous people - and that was just the sales assistants.  I looked at the jeans - I wanted new jeans - and thought them fine.  I looked at the price tags and had I been asthmatic, I would have been seriously fellating my inhaler.  I wandered through the complex to Westfield and into the Gap store.  An assistant handed me two pairs of jeans in differing sizes to help gauge what I should wear; it's very difficult when the sizing is not Australian standard.  I thought, hoping against hope, I would try on the smaller size first.  And it doesn't matter if I'm in a trendy Gap store or the Muswellbrook Big Dub, I still detest trying on clothing in store cubicles.  By performing a complicated hybrid of aerobics and Pilates, I got myself into the smaller sized pair.  I got my zipper up after sucking in my gut with such a forced intake of air the shop windows were in danger of imploding.  One of the male shop assistants asked how I was 'getting along in there', and did I 'have the jeans on yet'.  'Uh, yeah', I called back in a strained voice, 'I've defied the laws of physics and have them on.'  I waddled out to the store and admitted to myself the big mirror out there did not improve the vision, and despite the clerk's advice the jeans were meant to be tight, I told him I would probably better off with the larger size.  I wrestled the jeans off, and tried on the larger pair.  The clerk also agreed they were more flattering. 

But the fun didn't end there.  I attended the theatre in Rockdale with a few of my cousins and we watched a performance of 'When Dad Married Fury' by David Williamson - a friend of mine was acting in it.  Good show, and my friend gave a great performance.  But we weren't driving, so my cousin and I had to run for a train afterward, where we changed at Central for Hornsby.  You know something?  I attract weird people.  By 'attract', I don't mean in the sexual sense.  I just seem to get weirdos gravitating to me at times.  My cousin and I were strolling through Central to the North Shore Line platform, and we were stopped by a young man, perhaps in his early twenties.  He asked directions to George Street.  I looked around, and tried to orientate myself; it has been quite a while since I lived in Sydney.  He asked after a particular landmark, which my cousin and I thought was actually closer to Town Hall, and we advised him to jump on a train.  He got out his phone and opened up a message to show us the directions he had been texted, and explained he was on his way to meet a hooker.  Now, I have no issue at all with him engaging in a paid sexual service with another adult.  That doesn't bother me in the least.  But who the fuck tells a complete stranger they're on their way to get Laid-When-They've-Paid?  Can anybody tell me this?  This has completely flummoxed me.  I'm thinking this young man must have done speed.  Anyway, he realised what he had said and apologised to me, and asked was I bothered.  I assured him I was not, and said I knew people in the industry and it didn't bother me if he availed himself of a service; as far as I am concerned, like I said, that is his right.  He said, 'Do you know some hookers?'  'Well, yeah,' was my response.  His eyes lit and his pupils dilated with hope - or more likely amphetamine - and he eagerly asked, 'Are you one?'  I replied I was not, and checked his message and told him which exit to take from Central to best reach the rendezvous point.  He then asked me, 'Do you think I'm good looking?'  After a moment, I said he was good looking.  Now here's the thing: in my eyes, he wasn't.  If you're reading this, mate, be assured it's not that you're a mega-fug - far from it - but you're not my type at all.  But when some clown who's probably hopped up on the ingredients of a laboratory cupboard approaches you and asks directions so he can see a sex worker, then gives the impression he'd happily pay YOU (with no apparent thought to the lack of venue for such transaction, and I'm not about to engage in a knee-trembler in some nook at Central Station), and then wants to know whether you think him pleasing to the eye, well, sometimes discretion is the better part of valour.

As you can imagine, my cousin and I were in fits of laughter all the way from Central to Hornsby, she spluttering at once stage, 'Bing, you've still got your mojo!'

My Life Hacks

I have a few handy little tips today.  Tips these days have taken on the term: 'life hacks'.  I don't know whether what I am about to impart will qualify as a life hack, but I do believe there is some wisdom; so buckle up, bitches, and hearken ye well:

1.  There is no need to overshare on Facebook.  A picture depicting a man comforting his sick son in the shower was reported, on the basis of breaching nudity regulations.  I have no issue with the photograph.  Indeed it is beautiful and tender.  What I fail to see is the need to share the fucking thing on social media in the first place.  Look, I'm a bit of a prolific Facebooker, but I see no need to photograph and share every minutiae of my life.  It's lovely for a dad to sit in the shower and comfort his sick child, but keep it private.  I have cuddled and comforted my sick children, so has Mr Bingells.  But truly, some people would fire one off into the toilet bowl, take a picture, and Instagram it ('Today's bowel movement.  Can you see the corn?')!  I'm not about to take pictures and selfies of my children when they are ill, particularly if one barfs all over me.

2.  If you're going to wear a contentious outfit to a costume party, don't put it on social media.  I was at a client's home this morning, and saw something on breakfast television - some footballers (I think) are in trouble for donning blackface for a private party.  The theme was Rap, so - and if you have an overly political correct issue with this, too bad - it makes sense to make the skin look darker because many successful rap artists are persons of colour.  You could go dressed as Vanilla Ice for propriety's sake, but would you want to?  People must be seriously thick to post these pictures on the Internet.  Has everyone forgotten all the stink whenever somebody 'blacks up' as part of a costume?  Harry Connick Jnr spoiled everything, didn't he?  Daryl Somers offered him an apology on behalf of the show; I think I would have told him to change his tampon and look past his own nose to see that we don't have the same history of using blackface as a method of rendering people buffoon-like out here (not that we have a spectacular history with good race relations).  I remember the Jackson Jive doing that performance at the medical students' revue - a guy with whom I was friends took me along.  I sat in the audience laughing like a drain at what I perceived to be an incredibly funny piss-take of the Jacksons, and not the entire denigration of a race and culture.  I do understand why blackface is considered offensive and respect that, but I have a great respect for the rights of people to dress as offensively as they like in the privacy of their own home if there is a costume party on.  Or even a kinky sex costume party, if that's their thing in THEIR OWN HOME.

3. This final tip is directed to the representatives of the conference of senior Catholic bishops who have warned Bill Shorten and Malcolm Turnbull to not underestimate the power of traditional marriage.  Oh goodness, where to begin?  Guys: Firstly, Australia is not a theocracy; and secondly, you're a bunch of celibate superstitious men wearing dresses!  Surely it would be more prudent to butt the fuck out of trying to influence the Government, particularly as your organisation is tax exempt.  The Catholic Church has disgracefully covered up the sexual abuse of children entrusted to the care of its clergy, yet sees fit to dictate how other adults can live, and influence the government.   Surely I'm not the only one who sees what's wrong with this?

Musk Sticks, Mad Soccer Players, Murdoch's Mucky Minions

Different things invoke disgust and nausea.  In my case, on a more mild scale, it's certain confectionery.  To be precise, musk sticks and banana lollies.  I did my soccer mum duty today, which involved a shift in the canteen at the ground.  I took the money and handed over various Powerades, bacon-and-egg rolls, and pies.  Occasionally, a little cherub would hand over a dollar and ask for musk sticks, or worse, banana lollies.  I loathe both.  I am not so squeamish I cannot place some, with the aid of a small pair of tongs, into a paper bag for some little Type 2 Diabetes candidate at the canteen window, but those things really are disgusting.  I suspect the bananas are manufactured from compressed desiccated monkey vomit.  Musk sticks taste like compressed Cashmere Bouquet talcum powder. 

Anyway, canteen duty done, I sat on my 'director chair' and watched my almost-fifteen-year-old play soccer.  He towers over most of his team mates; indeed, he resembles Gulliver among a team of Lilliputians.  But they are a good team, and support and work with each other.  If my son is tall, the opposing team had a couple of members directly descended from Goliath.  But these behemoth like boys were nothing for my son's team to fear.  Nay, the biggest threat to the safety of my son's team was in the form of a relatively small girl (in case I have to spell it out for you: the teams are mixed sexes).  This girl ran around creating her own miniature willy-willy, taking out and destroying everything in her path.  She was frenzied and determined, and reminded me of nothing so much as that absurd Tasmanian devil in the Bugs Bunny cartoons.  You know the one: he gets round in a large willy-willy - perhaps a mini-tornado - and when he stops he drools and pants like a palsied pervert making an obscene telephone call.  This crazy little she-hazard hared around the field, and flattened most of the defenders in my son's team.  If her mother was looking for her, it was a case of follow the trail of winded kids lying on the field, wondering what the fuck had just happened.  Then she did one of her patented collisions with my son, the team striker, whereupon it all blew up in her face.  As I mentioned, my son is a tall one, and I don't know if she had insufficient enough of a run-up, or whether she misjudged the laws of physics, but she came off second-best.  My son stayed standing and she was felled by her own torque.  I was glad.

Anyway, if certain confectionery turns my stomach, it's nothing compared to what's really made me sick and angry tonight.  I was watching 'Q&A' last week, and I did see the gentleman, Duncan Storrer, ask a question of that woman from Turnbull's government (can't remember her name but she looks like Neil from 'The Young Ones') regarding the tax breaks enjoyed by relatively wealthy people.  To be honest, I didn't take that much notice of it all because I was drowsy and in the process of turning off television.  But as far as I can tell, it was just a normal citizen asking a normal question, which he is entitled to do.  Seems the Liberal government didn't come off smelling like a rose in the aftermath, so the Murdoch press had to do something about it.  I guess Rupert got his suit back from the dry cleaners, as did Tony Abbott, given they were pissing in each others' pockets for  a while.  Meanwhile, well-meaning people have been donating to a fund set up for the person who asked the question - his name's Duncan and he's of impecunious means. The revolting paper, which is not fit for scraping the flecks of shit away from your arse, has been dredging up scandal from his past.  I'm pretty sure this dude did not set out to be a hero, after all, all he did was ask a question and he did not ask for a fund be set up for his benefit.  He's had his life turned upside down by the Murdoch's minions, and he's on suicide watch, such is his distress.  I cannot see how an organisation who hacked the message bank of a murdered girl, and sneakily recorded conversations is entitled to take a high moral ground.  The so-called journalists who have done the hatchet jobs are Damon Johnston and Paul Whittaker.  I don't know if you're reading this, Messrs Johnston and Whittaker, but if you are, I very much doubt you guys have more than half a testicle between you. I also doubt you'd have the guts to take on someone with money and power, which is why you've annihilated someone who does not have the wherewithal, either financially or emotionally, to deal with you filthy scum.  I don't know how you guys sleep at night.  Oh, I have kept library books overdue.  There's my big scandal and sordid past, if you want to come after me.

Well, I've got some ideas for my next novel, so I might start working on it tomorrow.  Thanks for calling by my blog.

Happy Birthday, Stevie Wonder

Happy birthday, Stevie Wonder.  Sixty-six today.  I've just been having a listen to 'Living For The City', which I daresay is my favourite Stevie Wonder choon.  I love the melody, and I love Stevie's delivery.  So funky, for want of a better word.

In the event you're wondering what my LEAST favourite Stevie Wonder number is, and to be honest I doubt you're wondering because if you've been following me you can work it out, but if you don't know, I will appraise you accordingly.  It is that tedious, nausea-inducing, syrupy slop known as 'Ebony & Ivory'.  Okay, Stevie didn't do this on his own.  His partner in crimes-against-music was Paul McCartney.  You know, I think Macca just might be the death knell for any collaboration of the musical variety. He did some utter shockers with Jacko ('The Girl Is Mine' and the only marginally less awful 'Say, Say, Say').  Just like there used to be a joke that a television show would jump the shark the minute Ted McGinley was cast in a recurring role (Marion's nephew in 'Happy Days' - shark fodder! and Marcy's second husband in 'Married With Children'), I really believe that when Macca is brought along on board for a musical collaboration, it's going to suck like an imploding black hole.

I think 'Ebony & Ivory' had good intentions, but it's just so much mawkish bloat. It's just a total cheese platter, with delivery so earnest it makes me want to puke; not to mention the plethora of platitudes - 'we all know, people are the same wherever you go' and 'there is good and bad in everyone' - that always make me want to shout, 'Yeah, and what's your POINT?!!!' It was released when I was in Year 11, and every time the strains wafted like the bad smell they were from my Sanyo cassette player/radio, I used to want to pick up a heavy object and repeatedly bash said Sanyo cassette player/radio. 

It probably sounded the death knell for 'Diff'rent Strokes' when the characters playing Willis, Kimberley and whoever was Willis' girlfriend (played by a teenaged Janet Jackson) performed it.  I do remember that, and thinking 'how awful' when I saw it.  I just checked You Tube to see if any sadistic type had uploaded it, and yes, it was there.  If you need an emetic of some type, check it out.

I always say this, but I do believe when this song was played back in the studio, post-recording, Stevie Wonder wished he could have been afflicted with deafness as well.

Notwithstanding all this, happy birthday, Stevie; you truly are a wonder.

Crushed To Re-Think A Crush

This is not a thrown gauntlet by any means.  I am aware that when I write what I am about to write I am probably going to come under scrutiny, and be subject to accusations that I am not supporting the sisterhood.  I will probably be hit with the allegation that I am merely jealous.  It is apparently not cool to express an opinion on the outfit a female celebrity wore to a gala event, unless the opinion is one of gushiness and ebullience of praise.  I will no doubt have my detractors pointing out that I am a woman of fifty sitting behind a computer, and because my detractors are unaware, I will put it on the table: I am currently wearing a pair of jeans I purchased from an op shop, and they are hemmed up and the zipper is broken.  My top is second hand, and it has small sequins and animal print.  I like to think I am rocking the Old Slapper Meets Cougar Look.  Mayhap I am; mayhap I am not.  In the grand scheme of the universe, it matters Fuck All.  BUT, here we go.  Here is my opinion.  I am going to join in all those other commentators who made a comment on the horror show, uh, I mean ensemble sported by Jesinta Campbell at the 2016 Logie Awards.  In a nutshell, I thought it was fucken terrible.  As you can glean from my afore comments, I am really no fashionista but I do have the nous to know the outfit was not appropriate for a gala event.  I don't care how great a figure one has, that revealing get-up was completely off the wall.  There's this restaurant I once visited in Brighton-le-Sands that had a nautical motif in the décor, complete with lifesavers and anchors on the wall.  It looked like Jesinta had wandered in wearing only a one-piece strapless swimsuit (hey, it can happen), and the fishing net had fallen from the ceiling, entangling the poor girl. 

Sometimes we have to rethink things.  I am currently rethinking my crush on Johnny Depp.  I was ALMOST willing to overlook the missus smuggling in dogs, but decided not to because when one flies into our country, one is given a form to complete in which one declares any live animals etc.  Yes, I know it was a private plane, but wouldn't the pilot be au fait with procedure?  Neither the Depp-ster nor his missus had any sympathy from me.  Yes, I know the 'Minister of the Crown' Barnaby Joyce can come across as an over-eager bombastic buffoon, but he had a point.  Johnny's insincere videos of apology, and continual labouring of the issue just make him and his spouse sound like petulant brats who have a bit of trouble comprehending that playing an adult version of the kids' game 'Let's Pretend' actually does not afford them diplomatic immunity, and they are therefore NOT exempt from the laws of another country.  They don't sound remorseful at all; they sound like sulky entitled brats whose only regret is they were caught.  We take biosecurity seriously here.  Why should the agricultural industry be compromised because they couldn't be arsed boarding their seriously ugly mutts somewhere?  And this is from a dog-lover.

Now, I have to write something for my writers' group this Thursday.  Our theme is mystery.  These things are a mystery to me:

1. The popularity of the Kardashians.  Seriously, what is the point to these people?
2. Even all these years later, how the fuck did 'Forrest Gump' win best Oscar over 'Pulp Fiction'?
3. My son's insatiable and voracious appetite that never sees him gain weight.  Surely this is a contravention of the laws of physics.

INXS-ive Fun

So, yeah.  I got myself dolled up to a degree and went to a local establishment yester e'en to watch an INXS cover band.  I purchased my ticket and the bar, and grabbed a glass of water (I elected to drive because the nights are FINALLY cooling down, and I was wearing my good boots), then sat at a table to people watch.  People watching can be interesting, and a little disconcerting when you are the only sober person in the pub.  Oh, I'm sure I wasn't the only sober one; there were others, but they were called 'bar staff'.  For reason I cannot fathom, I tend to attract weird people.  I am a shy but friendly type when approached, so I am amenable to have a conversation with folks at the pub.  I have actually made good friends this way in the past.  But I really don't want to have a conversation with someone who is staggering about like a sailor fresh on shore leave.  Some woman lurched over to me, slammed her UDL-in-the-Holden-stubby-holder on the table with inebriation-fuelled forcefulness, and proceeded to tell me about the previous few days she had experienced.  Let me point out I had never met this woman in my life.  I'm guessing she was in her late fifties, with long greying hair, and dressed for extreme comfort.  Being polite (and a glutton for punishment) I gestured at the eye pad taped to the corner of her left eye, and the fact she was wearing sunglasses, and asked about the surgery she had obviously undergone.  I think she thought I was sorry for her, but my sympathetic expression was for her anaesthetist and surgeon, whom she had warned off during the procedure.  ('An' I said to 'em: 'Don't farkin' drill that needle in me eye again, ya cunts!'').  She bemoaned the youth of today, some of whom had been rude to her outside the pub, and taunted her about her sunglasses ('An' I just said to 'em, 'I've farkin' had an operation, ya cunts!'').  I politely agreed they were extremely ignorant and callow.  My words, not hers.  She had a filthy mouth, and by this I do not mean the obnoxious vocabulary.  Nay, it is the festering pit of foulness that lurked inside.  My late aunt would have said she only had a tooth every quarter of an hour.  Her breath could have stripped the paint from the wall.  The blast of noxious fumes to which I was subjected, when she leaned into my face to inform me what cunts her medical team were, made me think she had surely just been rimming the arse of some pestiferous old hobo.  So, I held my breath for as long as I could before excusing myself to go to the room where the band was due to play.

The band started, and being an aficionado of most music, I realised they were singing a Diesel number.  Then they sang a Dragon number.  Then an AC/DC number.  They also sang some Angels, Thirsty Merc, and Screaming Jets.  I did wonder what happened to INXS, notwithstanding I actually liked the songs they were singing better than most INXS material.  The singer solved the puzzle by announcing the end of their 'Aussierama set', and promised the band would return forthwith.  When they did, they were actually dressed in clothing similar to what members of INXS had worn, and yeah, they sounded very, very like them.  For some reason, it interested me to see the members of the band were very young, far too young to have remembered those heady days of INXS riding high in the late Eighties.  Indeed, if any of those young men were even out of primary school back when Hutchence tragically stretched his neck, I will eat my hat. 

I looked around at the revellers, and it was surreal and peculiar to tumble to the fact I was probably the oldest person there, and closing my eyes as they sang 'Burn For You' was not going to make me twenty years old again.  But I don't think I would want to be twenty years old again (unless I could take my fifty year old wisdom with me).  No, I just sat on the stool, leaning against a pillar clutching my iced water (had I been twenty, it would have been a West Coast Cooler) watching people executing drunken dance moves of such spasticity they would have made Peter Garrett look like Rudolph Nureyev.  I did some dancing, too; one of the patrons yelled out, 'Simone!  Come and dance with us!'  Hopefully, I was not as unco as some of the others. 

Today's List

Today's little list:

1. What I'm Annoyed At: the usual populist political bullshit that's wafting around like fart particles (farticles?) upon the news Sandor Cikos is to be released from prison, where he has been serving a sentence for the murder of his de facto wife and their two children.  He has served the non-parole period imposed by the sentencing judge, and the NSW Parole Board have granted him parole.  Listen up, folks: the judge and the Parole Board know the facts pertaining to law, and all the associated facts pertaining to this case.  Right wing shock jocks know pretty much in the area of - how shall I put this? - FUCK ALL.

2.  What I'm Listening To: 'Sunny Afternoon' by The Kinks.  For some reason, I'm identifying big time.  The taxman has not taken all my dough (mainly because I have very little for him to take), but Ray Davies delivers this in a tone of resigned ennui, blah-ness, and I-Don't-Give-A-Fuck-ness.  That's how I'm feeling today.  I'm actually looking forward to going out later, but at the moment I'm in a sludgy fugue of Meh, and I don't know why.  I am also feeling like I've got a touch of writer's block, which bothers me greatly.

3.  What I'm Doing Tonight: attending a local pub and watching an INXS cover band.  I've mentioned before in a previous post that I used to see cover bands quite frequently when I was in my mid-twenties.  They were very prevalent back then.  I've seen homages to The Doors, Abba, Australian Crawl, Kiss, and Neil Diamond just to name a few. In their own way, tribute bands are very entertaining because they often don't take themselves seriously and have fun.  I also like to internally critique the artist's interpretation and performance to see whether they have truly captured the musician he or she is attempting to emulate.  It was fun the night my cousins and I saw the Kiss band at a club in Bondi.  We were sitting at one of the long rectangular tables that just are the defining feature of the auditorium of just about every licensed club in the country, and I saw 'Ace Frehley' walking up through the audience area - maybe he'd been to the bar for a schooner of New.  Maybe he'd been using the public phone in the foyer (the mobile telephone was pretty much the toy of the extremely rich and yuppyish back then).  Maybe he'd been using the dunny.  In any event, I had fun watching the show.  A phalanx of flanno-wearing mullet-haired yobs lined up along the front of the stage and obliterated the view of all behind them.  'So inconsiderate!' complained one of my cousins, and her younger sister said to me, 'I didn't realise there was now a direct train line from Penrith to Bondi, Bing!'.  Nonetheless, I enjoyed the show (the only difference between these guys and the real thing was their heights - the members of Kiss are quite tall, and this band comprised of a bunch of short-arses), but I feared for the mental health of the 'tard who sang out, 'Play Acca Dacca!'  It was interesting to see 'Paul Stanley' reply in a very broad Australian accent, 'Mate, we're a concept band!'  And yeah, their drummer 'Peter Criss' sang 'Beth', and like the real thing he sounded just like he was gargling phlegm.  But anyway, let's see what this INXS show will be like tonight.

4. What I'm Doing Tomorrow: driving my 11yo to Newcastle for an MRI.  He had one when aged seven, but nothing showed.  Now that his brain has had more time to grow, it is the view of his neurologist that scarring might now appear, if there is indeed any scarring there to which his epilepsy can be attributed.  He is not looking forward to it.  Not because he is afraid, but because the procedure is so damned boring.  Also, he's bound to want to scratch his nose and will be unable to.  The previous time this was conducted, the staff fitted the cylinder with a periscope type device, and I was able to go in the room with him (after I had removed my watch) so he could see me and be reassured.  He was very brave last time, and I'm sure he will be just as courageous tomorrow.  Actually, he wrote a very good composition for his teacher after his last MRI, and described 'the big tunnel' with clarity and creativity.