Every now and then a little thing will restore your faith in humanity. You find you no longer despair for the state of the world, and stop thinking it is on a one-way express trip to the very hob of Hell in a handbasket. I had one of those little occurrences on Thursday, which at the time of typing, was two days ago.
Thursday was a sad day. I attended a funeral. I mentioned in a previous post the friend of a friend had died, and anyway, Thursday was the funeral. I travelled to my home town for the sad service, along with my friend and three others. And a sad service it was; it is heartbreaking when someone young (in this case thirty-five) dies suddenly, leaving behind a shocked and heartbroken family, as well as a fiancé. I caught up with folk I knew at the service and wake, and despite the sad circumstances, enjoyed myself insofar as one can enjoy oneself on these occasions. Well, anyway, I was the appointed 'dezzo', which for this uninitiated is Aussie slang for 'designated driver'. Although an important role, it takes very little preparation and training. All you need is a current driver's licence and a willingness to maintain your sobriety. I ticked both those boxes. The trip home began with a quick trip out to the cemetery so my friends could have a beer and chat with their departed loved one. I left them to their devices, and visited the grave of my brother, mother, and father. I'm not usually one for speaking out loud at cemeteries, as I usually communicate in my mind, but I said, 'I miss you all, especially you, Dad; it's been so recent.' I then asked them to excuse the brevity of my visit but explained I had to look after that lot across the cemetery having their own private wake.
Once they were bundled in, and buckled up, we set off on our journey. This coterie was most grateful to me, and let me know with several rounds of 'hip-hip-hoorays' followed up with 'For She's A Jolly Good Fellow'. The cheers and song were occasionally interjected with declarations that I am 'a bloody legend'. (Guys, if you're reading this, thanks for the kind words but I'm happy to drive you all). Beers have an effect on the head, but they also affect the bladder. I was asked to pull over at a pub in a small town en route. I did so, alongside the main highway, and we all went to the pub. My charges took the scheduled toilet stop as a cue to have another beer, so a round of beers (and Diet Coke for me) was ordered, and we sat at an outdoor table. 'Simone,' said one of the guys, 'you're a great driver, but you're shit at parking!'. I looked back at my friend's four-door ute, and had to admit my park was a bit shoddy.
When I turned my attention away from the slightly skewiff parked vehicle (and this guy's right: I'm quite a passable driver, but don't particularly like parking), something caught my eye. There was a sign on the wall pointing out the gate where children were to enter. It read 'Children's Entrance'. Yes. It actually had an appropriately used apostrophe! Those things are so rare, I felt like a zoologist who has just spotted a Thylacine. Such was my joy and excitement, I almost squealed and orgasmed right there and then. I kept staring in rapture, and swear I had to wipe away a tear of joy. I was toying with the idea of getting out my phone and taking a photograph, and then sharing it on social media with the hope it would go viral, and restore some semblance of balance and harmony to the world. It was a very happy me who hustled my grieving group into the vehicle, and drove back to town.
I don't like to think of myself as a buzzkill, but I did have to put down my foot (and not on the accelerator, either) when, after I'd dropped one guy at his partner's home, one of the crew in the back asked could I call by the bottle shop for more beers. I said I would not. Not out of any concern for responsible service of alcohol. No, nothing like that. I had to get home because my youngest child turned twelve on Thursday, and I wanted to spend some time with him. Naturally, my little lamb wanted KFC for dinner to celebrate, and naturally, the local franchise fucked up my order (what the hell happened to the second box of fries I ordered?).
Saturday, 30 July 2016
Tuesday, 26 July 2016
Thinking Sales, & Rude Monotremes
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Sunday, 24 July 2016
Caterwauling 'Mull of Kintyre'
Notwithstanding my propensity to come across as a total bitch on this blog at times, I'm actually a good friend to those who need me. Stop laughing. Stop rolling your eyes. If you've snorted derisively, I hope whatever you were eating became lodged in your nose and you're now totally sicked out.
So good a friend am I, last Friday night I did something to support a friend in need. Yes, I went and had some wine with her. That is not a great heart scald by any means; I enjoy having a sip of wine with friends. No, I did something I never thought I would do. Her iPod was playing in the background, and there came a dire dirge-like tune from the playlist. My friend was as happy as Larry. I, of course, was not. However, I have decorum sufficient to respect I was at my friend's house, it was her playlist, and she has been going through a rough few days and I was there to support her. But she pleaded to me, 'Come on, Simone: sing it with me!' Such a request is not generally wise because I have a singing voice that could open a can. But Friday night was not about me, so I sang with her.
And what did I sing? 'Mull of Kin-fucken-tyre', THAT'S WHAT!! My friend is a Kiwi, the same age as me, and she told me this song hit number 1 in New Zealand. I told her it had held that position here in Oz, as well, and added that I had no fucking idea how it had achieved this feat.
The song is as colourless and dreary as a dried dog turd bleached by the sun, and to me holds the same appeal. It only enhanced Paul McCartney's reputation as The Boring Beatle.
But I persevered with my hideous caterwaul (when I could remember the lyrics), and got through it. Hey, maybe my rendition is more interesting.
Saturday morning saw me a touch dusty, but at least I had had the foresight to drink some water through the night so I did not feel as bad as I might have. But I felt bad enough. Also, I was rostered to work. There is joy and reward in assisting the elderly in home care, but that joy vanishes as though by a magician's sleight of hand when one is hungover, and has to empty a bedside commode that contains blobs of stools swimming in bright yellow urine, looking like a foetid school of manatees. As you can imagine, Gentle Reader, I almost puked.
During my break, it became apparent I was going to come down with a case of Death if I didn't lie down, so I slept most of yesterday afternoon. Yes, and I resolved to never drink so much red wine in the one sitting again. I will probably break this resolve one day. There is a romantic notion that writers sit at their typewriter with a bottle of whatever. Whilst working on my next book, I will probably eschew the stereotype; hangovers really do overpower me. I cannot maintain the pace I did twenty-five years ago.
So good a friend am I, last Friday night I did something to support a friend in need. Yes, I went and had some wine with her. That is not a great heart scald by any means; I enjoy having a sip of wine with friends. No, I did something I never thought I would do. Her iPod was playing in the background, and there came a dire dirge-like tune from the playlist. My friend was as happy as Larry. I, of course, was not. However, I have decorum sufficient to respect I was at my friend's house, it was her playlist, and she has been going through a rough few days and I was there to support her. But she pleaded to me, 'Come on, Simone: sing it with me!' Such a request is not generally wise because I have a singing voice that could open a can. But Friday night was not about me, so I sang with her.
And what did I sing? 'Mull of Kin-fucken-tyre', THAT'S WHAT!! My friend is a Kiwi, the same age as me, and she told me this song hit number 1 in New Zealand. I told her it had held that position here in Oz, as well, and added that I had no fucking idea how it had achieved this feat.
The song is as colourless and dreary as a dried dog turd bleached by the sun, and to me holds the same appeal. It only enhanced Paul McCartney's reputation as The Boring Beatle.
But I persevered with my hideous caterwaul (when I could remember the lyrics), and got through it. Hey, maybe my rendition is more interesting.
Saturday morning saw me a touch dusty, but at least I had had the foresight to drink some water through the night so I did not feel as bad as I might have. But I felt bad enough. Also, I was rostered to work. There is joy and reward in assisting the elderly in home care, but that joy vanishes as though by a magician's sleight of hand when one is hungover, and has to empty a bedside commode that contains blobs of stools swimming in bright yellow urine, looking like a foetid school of manatees. As you can imagine, Gentle Reader, I almost puked.
During my break, it became apparent I was going to come down with a case of Death if I didn't lie down, so I slept most of yesterday afternoon. Yes, and I resolved to never drink so much red wine in the one sitting again. I will probably break this resolve one day. There is a romantic notion that writers sit at their typewriter with a bottle of whatever. Whilst working on my next book, I will probably eschew the stereotype; hangovers really do overpower me. I cannot maintain the pace I did twenty-five years ago.
Wednesday, 20 July 2016
Twilight Zone, Orwell, and Huxley rolled into one....
What a great time it is to be alive. It is a marvellous world in which we live. It is awash with the ill-informed, and those whose intentions are likely good, but whose brains lack enough puff to achieve even the slightest impact, or make any type of a ripple in the pool of worthiness. I turn on my television to see Cheltenham Girls High has apparently advised teachers to not use gender specific terms as 'ladies' or 'girls' when addressing the student body. Whose brain child was this? This is seriously the type of lame-arse policy that makes me fear those in charge have been fellating crack pipes. A teacher COULD say, 'Settle down, class', or 'Get out your books, people' - I KNOW all that. But truly, is there really anything wrong with saying, 'Okay girls, homework this evening will be....'? Will the world spin off its axis and disintegrate if a student body comprised of the female gender are referred to as, you know, GIRLS? Particularly given they are GIRLS!!! Yes, I am aware there is a chance that not all the student body will necessarily identify as female. But I am sure students who are transgender or intersex will have enough common sense to be aware the school is primarily a girls' school, and 'girls' is a noun to describe the majority of the student population, and they're there to learn, and whilst I respect the rights of the transgendered community, I currently having an overriding respect for the right of my head to not explode with the sheer annoyance at the lunacy with which our senses appear to be assailed on a daily basis of late.
Not only that, a school in Elanora is introducing the 'silent cheer' policy, with no clapping to cater to those who might be noise sensitive. Oh hell. The only person I can think of who might be too noise sensitive to coherently function in an environment where some kids clap loudly for a few moments is Jamie Summers, aka The Bionic Woman, and well, technically, she doesn't really exist.
I take back what I said at the beginning of this post. It is not a marvellous world in which we live. It's some kind of Twilight Zone-ish, Orwellian, Huxley-inspired nightmare and the lunatics are finally taking control of the asylum.
I might have to do some meditation again tonight to deal with the crapola. My meditation last night went very well. Whilst 'out', I actually kind of thought of a scene with my characters from my first ever novel, such scene to somehow be incorporated into what will hopefully soon be my work in progress. The idea flowed with a serenity and naturalness that bordered on poetic. I 'came to', and lounged in a very relaxed way on the large floor cushion upon which I was seated, and shared my experience with the other meditators. I was full of joy, peace and hope when I left the premises where I do my meditation. Then I got home and my kids sent my chakras into a tailspin. And they repeated the performance tonight.
Not only that, a school in Elanora is introducing the 'silent cheer' policy, with no clapping to cater to those who might be noise sensitive. Oh hell. The only person I can think of who might be too noise sensitive to coherently function in an environment where some kids clap loudly for a few moments is Jamie Summers, aka The Bionic Woman, and well, technically, she doesn't really exist.
I take back what I said at the beginning of this post. It is not a marvellous world in which we live. It's some kind of Twilight Zone-ish, Orwellian, Huxley-inspired nightmare and the lunatics are finally taking control of the asylum.
I might have to do some meditation again tonight to deal with the crapola. My meditation last night went very well. Whilst 'out', I actually kind of thought of a scene with my characters from my first ever novel, such scene to somehow be incorporated into what will hopefully soon be my work in progress. The idea flowed with a serenity and naturalness that bordered on poetic. I 'came to', and lounged in a very relaxed way on the large floor cushion upon which I was seated, and shared my experience with the other meditators. I was full of joy, peace and hope when I left the premises where I do my meditation. Then I got home and my kids sent my chakras into a tailspin. And they repeated the performance tonight.
Monday, 18 July 2016
Thinking Of My Next Book....
Today I am wondering is my raison detre to annoy people who propagate and perpetuate misinformed populist dung. I have spent much of my Facebooking time today doing this and, to my ALMOST shame, enjoyed it. I have been feeling a little like a mean alpha girl. No, I take that back. I could never be a mean alpha girl. I was a geeky kid and I would never be deliberately mean to somebody just because they don't know what they are talking about. Or would I? Oh, dear. *Heaves a sigh from deep near the solar plexus*. But it's oh, so difficult, peeps. When I see a thread of comments that are laughable in their utter ignorance, not to mention the woeful spelling and grammar, it's a lot like some moron in tight pants and an appliqued jacket waving a red cape and bellowing, 'Toro! Toro!' at me. So I have been taking a slightly malicious glee is pointing out the errors to a horde of people whose scalps are probably burning beneath the layers of tin foil, and who would probably be better off solving the puzzles in Take 5 magazine (when they were able to remove the crayons from their noses).
Today was pupil free, but my sprog return to their classes tomorrow. I am considering making notes for what will be my fifth novel. The vagaries in my mind have involved revisiting the bad-tempered, impatient, yet fiercely intelligent heroine of my first ever novel. I'd like to see how she is, perhaps ten years down the track, which would make the setting of the novel 2009. Or maybe I will making it a big earlier, and she will have married the guy with whom she hooked up with at the end of my novel. I'm sure they would end up hitched; he's the only bloke who can tame and amuse my bad tempered crab of a protagonist. Of course she will have to lock horns again with the antagonist, that slimy politician. My first novel was inspired by 'The Bonfire of the Vanities' - brilliant social satire. In my novel, 'Calumny While Reading Irvine Welsh', my protagonist finds her life turned upside down by the media after ostensibly being involved in the death of the mother of a popular politician. Check it out. The first chapter is at http://www.zeus-publications.com/calumny_while_reading_irvine_welsh.htm.
Today was pupil free, but my sprog return to their classes tomorrow. I am considering making notes for what will be my fifth novel. The vagaries in my mind have involved revisiting the bad-tempered, impatient, yet fiercely intelligent heroine of my first ever novel. I'd like to see how she is, perhaps ten years down the track, which would make the setting of the novel 2009. Or maybe I will making it a big earlier, and she will have married the guy with whom she hooked up with at the end of my novel. I'm sure they would end up hitched; he's the only bloke who can tame and amuse my bad tempered crab of a protagonist. Of course she will have to lock horns again with the antagonist, that slimy politician. My first novel was inspired by 'The Bonfire of the Vanities' - brilliant social satire. In my novel, 'Calumny While Reading Irvine Welsh', my protagonist finds her life turned upside down by the media after ostensibly being involved in the death of the mother of a popular politician. Check it out. The first chapter is at http://www.zeus-publications.com/calumny_while_reading_irvine_welsh.htm.
Friday, 15 July 2016
To (Shower) Cap It All....
As the school holidays draw to a close (the boys go back on Tuesday because Monday is pupil-free), I sit at the computer hanging out for them to be gone so I can hear myself THINK, and I'm also fearing I look like a flip with this shower cap on my head. You're probably wracking your brains and furrowing your brows wondering why I have a shower cap on my head, when I'm not in the shower because I am at a keyboard. The answer is this: my 11yo has nits. I have long flowing hair, and he constantly cuddles me. I found another home/chemical free solution on the 'Net, and it involves a rather lot of time with a shower cap on. First of all I applied apple cider vinegar to my son's hair, and to mine as a precaution. When it dried, I covered our hair in coconut oil. The science to this is the ACV loosens the adhesive that fixes the egg to the hair shaft, and the oil will suffocate and living lice. It's also good for the hair. So right now we are wearing matching shower caps, and look like factory process workers. I keep thinking of the opening theme to 'Laverne & Shirley'. This treatment will hopefully be more successful than the one that involved saturating the hair in Coca-Cola, and leaving to dry, then shampooing. As I've mentioned previously, the latter treatment left me with a big sticky mass of what felt and smelt like cinnamon fairy floss, and bad memories of the time at a nightclub in 1984 when some deadshit emptied his rum-and-coke over my head as Billy Idol's 'Rebel Yell' blared through the speakers.
What are the rules to a parent kissing his/her child on the lips? This question has been raised after Victoria Beckham posted a photograph of herself kissing her daughter thus. People are losing their shit. The world will soon be a mass of lava-like flowing brown shit, such pool visible from outer space. Well, in answer to the question, these are my rules: if you're a parent and you and your child are comfortable with kissing on the lips, then go for it. If you're a parent and neither you nor your child wish to kiss on the lips, then don't do it. If you're not a direct party involved, and have issues with another parent kissing his or her child on the lips because you find it sexual, for fuck's sake have a word with yourself. Or just boil your head.
For some reason, I have the song 'Imaginary Lovers' by Atlanta Rhythm Section in my head. It's been stuck all day, so much was the insistence, I played it on my iPod (it's an easy listening one I don't mind too much at all). These non-substantial romancers, it would seem, never turn you down. You can let your imagination run free with them. You can exercise whatever fantasy you entertain in the darkest recesses of your mind with them. I'm starting to wonder were these guys singing about blow-up dolls.
To the former Penthouse Pet who photographed a woman at a gym and shared the image minus consent, and body-shamed: you, Madam, are a vacuous moron with the depth of a teaspoon. We can't all have 'perfect' bodies. Mine used to be 'perfect' (to be honest, it's actually not that bad now). Yes, I have made disparaging remarks about others' bodies. Privately. What I don't do is carry out activities that are likely to humiliate the person. Hell, I don't even make rude remarks in front of my children when I see overweight persons because I don't want my children to think it's all right to behave thus. Believe me, where I live, there are overweight persons EVERYWHERE. If I make a disparaging remarks about a corpulent creature who is likely clad in leggings (ye gods!) on this blog, I will not name that person. Number (1): I probably wouldn't know the person's name, and Number (2): I don't want this person to track me down and sit on me.
What are the rules to a parent kissing his/her child on the lips? This question has been raised after Victoria Beckham posted a photograph of herself kissing her daughter thus. People are losing their shit. The world will soon be a mass of lava-like flowing brown shit, such pool visible from outer space. Well, in answer to the question, these are my rules: if you're a parent and you and your child are comfortable with kissing on the lips, then go for it. If you're a parent and neither you nor your child wish to kiss on the lips, then don't do it. If you're not a direct party involved, and have issues with another parent kissing his or her child on the lips because you find it sexual, for fuck's sake have a word with yourself. Or just boil your head.
For some reason, I have the song 'Imaginary Lovers' by Atlanta Rhythm Section in my head. It's been stuck all day, so much was the insistence, I played it on my iPod (it's an easy listening one I don't mind too much at all). These non-substantial romancers, it would seem, never turn you down. You can let your imagination run free with them. You can exercise whatever fantasy you entertain in the darkest recesses of your mind with them. I'm starting to wonder were these guys singing about blow-up dolls.
To the former Penthouse Pet who photographed a woman at a gym and shared the image minus consent, and body-shamed: you, Madam, are a vacuous moron with the depth of a teaspoon. We can't all have 'perfect' bodies. Mine used to be 'perfect' (to be honest, it's actually not that bad now). Yes, I have made disparaging remarks about others' bodies. Privately. What I don't do is carry out activities that are likely to humiliate the person. Hell, I don't even make rude remarks in front of my children when I see overweight persons because I don't want my children to think it's all right to behave thus. Believe me, where I live, there are overweight persons EVERYWHERE. If I make a disparaging remarks about a corpulent creature who is likely clad in leggings (ye gods!) on this blog, I will not name that person. Number (1): I probably wouldn't know the person's name, and Number (2): I don't want this person to track me down and sit on me.
Wednesday, 13 July 2016
Review for my novel 'Abernethy'
This is a recent review for my novel 'Abernethy'. You can read the first chapter at http://www.zeus-publications.com/abernethy.htm
Abernethy By Simone Bailey
Abernethy is the second novel of Simone Bailey’s that I have read, and I was certainly not disappointed. The story of our troubled teenage protagonist, Billy, is one that many readers will relate to. However, unlike any of us, Billy is befriended by a talking stray Beagle dog named Abernethy, who can only be heard by people with very special receptive abilities…such as Billy. The two become the best of friends as Abernethy uses his wisdom and experience to mentor Billy through some very difficult times, such as his father’s incarceration for fraud and the relentless tormenting by a bully at his new school. Ms. Bailey’s style is down-to-earth, lucid and very entertaining, consistent with ‘Silver Stud and Sabre Teeth‘, the other book of hers that I have so far read. Her characters often seem somehow familiar and quintessentially Australian, and she is able to gently tease the reader with snippets of important sub-plots to come, whilst unfolding the rest of the story in a manner which reassures the reader that come the final page, nothing will be left unanswered. Abernethy is just so enjoyable and whilst it is targeted at an adolescent readership, I think it would appeal to anybody aged from 12 to 112. 5 Stars!
Abernethy By Simone Bailey
Abernethy is the second novel of Simone Bailey’s that I have read, and I was certainly not disappointed. The story of our troubled teenage protagonist, Billy, is one that many readers will relate to. However, unlike any of us, Billy is befriended by a talking stray Beagle dog named Abernethy, who can only be heard by people with very special receptive abilities…such as Billy. The two become the best of friends as Abernethy uses his wisdom and experience to mentor Billy through some very difficult times, such as his father’s incarceration for fraud and the relentless tormenting by a bully at his new school. Ms. Bailey’s style is down-to-earth, lucid and very entertaining, consistent with ‘Silver Stud and Sabre Teeth‘, the other book of hers that I have so far read. Her characters often seem somehow familiar and quintessentially Australian, and she is able to gently tease the reader with snippets of important sub-plots to come, whilst unfolding the rest of the story in a manner which reassures the reader that come the final page, nothing will be left unanswered. Abernethy is just so enjoyable and whilst it is targeted at an adolescent readership, I think it would appeal to anybody aged from 12 to 112. 5 Stars!
Tuesday, 12 July 2016
Today's Mental Vagaries
Some grub has offered the manager of Eels player Corey Norman $150,000.00 to remove from the market a tape allegedly showing Norman engaging in some sexual activity with people in a room, and among those people is a player for the Panthers, James Segayaro. The Seven network have taken pains to state that although there is drug taking in the room, neither of the footie players are partaking in anything illegal, just 'distasteful' stuff, according to the spokesperson for the network. What's distasteful about consenting adults having sex? Who made Channel 7 the moral guardians of everything? What I find distasteful is that someone would film a person in sexual congress and try to make money off it, sans that person's consent. Whoever is doing this, in the event you are reading this, you are a PRICK, or PRICKETTE should you possess ovaries and uterus. I'm so over people filming famous people doing stuff that involves consenting adults and trying to make a buck off it. I'm more over people getting outraged by other people's sex lives. I'm flummoxed to silence as to why someone would engage in rumpy-pumpy with an NRL player. To me, most of them look like a fridge with a butcher's block for a head.
Last night I watched 'Q&A', and like most people, was really pissed off at Steve Price for dismissively calling another panellist 'hysterical'. Van Badham was indeed impassioned in her views, but I don't think she was 'hysterical', particularly given an audience member had just shared a harrowing experience, being the foul murder of his own sister by her meat-cleaver wielding partner. It upset me when I heard it. It undoubtedly upset Van, and other members of the panel. It probably moved Price, too; it's a monstrously distressing story. However, Price glibly and snottily dismissed Van as 'hysterical'. Price, this is rude and toxic; wake up to yourself. Please.
Oh, and George Brandis - John Howard the 'most admired prime minister in Australian history'? Seriously, you have got to start washing the pesticides off the fruit before you eat it! That venal grub who I understand to have been instrumental in exposing the Junie Morosi/Jim Cairns affair, and who lied about children overboard, as well as leading us into war over the bungled WMD? Admired? Seriously, Brandis, stop hanging out under live power lines, will you?
Today I watched the movie 'Me Before You', and could kind of identify given I do care work, when not writing. My ovaries (what ovaries I have left given I've cracked a half-century) totally exploded when I saw the dude playing the quadriplegic character. I'm crushing severely on him.
I'm also crushing on Tim Minchin, and if ever a movie is made of my novel 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth', I'm certain he could play the Marc Bolan impersonator. Tim's kind of enigmatic, has a bit of sexiness about him, and can sing. He's a bit taller than Marc Bolan was, but then, so are a lot of people. Hey, Tim, I'll put in a word for you if need be, okay?
Finally, someone told me today I was old to have had my children when I did. In biological maternity terms, perhaps I am. This person told me she had her children at 21, 24 and 26 (or something like that). Well, at 21, 24 and 26 I was too busy travelling, partying, and getting laid. That's heaps more fun than shitty nappies any day. Nowadays, I am too broke to travel, and too tired to party. That just leaves one option, heh-heh!
Last night I watched 'Q&A', and like most people, was really pissed off at Steve Price for dismissively calling another panellist 'hysterical'. Van Badham was indeed impassioned in her views, but I don't think she was 'hysterical', particularly given an audience member had just shared a harrowing experience, being the foul murder of his own sister by her meat-cleaver wielding partner. It upset me when I heard it. It undoubtedly upset Van, and other members of the panel. It probably moved Price, too; it's a monstrously distressing story. However, Price glibly and snottily dismissed Van as 'hysterical'. Price, this is rude and toxic; wake up to yourself. Please.
Oh, and George Brandis - John Howard the 'most admired prime minister in Australian history'? Seriously, you have got to start washing the pesticides off the fruit before you eat it! That venal grub who I understand to have been instrumental in exposing the Junie Morosi/Jim Cairns affair, and who lied about children overboard, as well as leading us into war over the bungled WMD? Admired? Seriously, Brandis, stop hanging out under live power lines, will you?
Today I watched the movie 'Me Before You', and could kind of identify given I do care work, when not writing. My ovaries (what ovaries I have left given I've cracked a half-century) totally exploded when I saw the dude playing the quadriplegic character. I'm crushing severely on him.
I'm also crushing on Tim Minchin, and if ever a movie is made of my novel 'Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth', I'm certain he could play the Marc Bolan impersonator. Tim's kind of enigmatic, has a bit of sexiness about him, and can sing. He's a bit taller than Marc Bolan was, but then, so are a lot of people. Hey, Tim, I'll put in a word for you if need be, okay?
Finally, someone told me today I was old to have had my children when I did. In biological maternity terms, perhaps I am. This person told me she had her children at 21, 24 and 26 (or something like that). Well, at 21, 24 and 26 I was too busy travelling, partying, and getting laid. That's heaps more fun than shitty nappies any day. Nowadays, I am too broke to travel, and too tired to party. That just leaves one option, heh-heh!
Friday, 8 July 2016
Today's Little Rant
Nothing quite like sitting in front of the computer trying to think of things to write about. I don't know if it's writer's block, or just tiredness that is bunging up the well of creativity from which I normally draw. I get immensely irritated with my kids making racket on their electronic devices when I am trying to think. I am very fed up with the school holidays, although I am liking the fact that I am not rushed of a morning, and not having to pack lunch boxes, and all the attendant bullshit that accompanies having school aged children during term time.
This morning I kind of gave up on breakfast television. It seems that the most fascinating piece of 'breaking news', so fascinating it warranted practically being played on a loop, is that Taylor Swift landed in Australia with her current song inspiration, er, boyfriend. The boyfriend is an actor named Tom Hiddleston, and apparently HE'S the one visiting here for official or work reasons, and she's accompanying him, but because it's Tay-Tay (hate the nickname but thought I'd type it), it's all about HER. And oh, how it's about HER. So much so that it was deemed necessary to play the fucking footage of her coming through customs on a loop. The television producers must have thought we'd all be in hypnotic thrall that Taylor Swift has landed in our awesome country, so much so that we had to be subjected to this footage ad nauseum, and beaten into submission with it. Ladies and gentlemen of the Sunrise production team, please take note: most of us don't fucking care if Taylor Swift and Tom Hiddleston have come to Australia, and those of us that do have a slight or even more than slight interest don't need to be bomboarded with constant 'breaking news' like it's important. It's actually not. Nobody blew a load of nut juice into their jocks. Nobody's vaginal walls were quivering uncontrollably over it. Nobody has hung out the bunting. Okay?
This morning I kind of gave up on breakfast television. It seems that the most fascinating piece of 'breaking news', so fascinating it warranted practically being played on a loop, is that Taylor Swift landed in Australia with her current song inspiration, er, boyfriend. The boyfriend is an actor named Tom Hiddleston, and apparently HE'S the one visiting here for official or work reasons, and she's accompanying him, but because it's Tay-Tay (hate the nickname but thought I'd type it), it's all about HER. And oh, how it's about HER. So much so that it was deemed necessary to play the fucking footage of her coming through customs on a loop. The television producers must have thought we'd all be in hypnotic thrall that Taylor Swift has landed in our awesome country, so much so that we had to be subjected to this footage ad nauseum, and beaten into submission with it. Ladies and gentlemen of the Sunrise production team, please take note: most of us don't fucking care if Taylor Swift and Tom Hiddleston have come to Australia, and those of us that do have a slight or even more than slight interest don't need to be bomboarded with constant 'breaking news' like it's important. It's actually not. Nobody blew a load of nut juice into their jocks. Nobody's vaginal walls were quivering uncontrollably over it. Nobody has hung out the bunting. Okay?
Sunday, 3 July 2016
Going Solo?
I think I'm over school holidays already, and it's only the first day. Master 15 has a friend over, and they're playing the x-box. I've just been tooling around on You Tube, and despite my sterling efforts to maintain a façade of cool chic, have been playing Neil Diamond. Well, Neil could be construed as cool. He's definitely a prolific and talented man. I will admit to being one of those who, when Cracklin' Rosie comes on the radio, cranks up the volume and sings with gusto (and in my case, seriously badly). I like just about all of Neil's stuff, except for that nauseating bloat Turn On Your Heart Light. From memory, Neil was so enchanted when he viewed the movie E.T., he was moved to pen this paean to the lost little alien. I too found that film moving, but it had the same properties to move as a packet of laxatives. I am one of those rare beings who does not find that ugly wizened little fuck E.T. appealing or enchanting.
Still, one must expect the odd stinker in an oeuvre of hitherto high standard pieces. I am a Kiss fan (and have also just been listening to Do You Love Me? from the album Destroyer. Yet, you all know what I think of Beth. I am partial to quite a bit of Pearl Jam, but Last Kiss - oh, dear. What can one say about that but: Did you guys lose a bet or something? The Rolling Stones are a tremendous band, but their solo projects are execrable. Don't believe me? Have a listen to Let's Work by Mick Jagger, and as for Bill Wyman's Je Suis Un Rockstar, don't say you weren't warned. This falls into the So-Bad-It's-Good category. Almost. It's truly kicking goals in the So-Bad-It's-Just-Utter-Shit category, with the tone-deaf croaking in cockney: 'She took off 'er 'at/And she 'ad lovely 'air' (honestly, how bad is that lyric?), interspersed with some French, a la the title to this loathsome louche-ness. The most shudder-worthy, and prophetic line is when Bill's trying to convince this young temptress to visit his abode in the south of France via a hovercraft 'across the water' (no, really?): 'They'll think I'm your dad/And you're my daughter...' It is impossible to listen to that and not shudder.
Speaking of the unappealing and not enchanting in the least, Derryn Hinch and Pauline Hanson made it to the Senate. On the bright side, the political reports will probably be not too boring. I still reckon the LNP will get back in.
Still, one must expect the odd stinker in an oeuvre of hitherto high standard pieces. I am a Kiss fan (and have also just been listening to Do You Love Me? from the album Destroyer. Yet, you all know what I think of Beth. I am partial to quite a bit of Pearl Jam, but Last Kiss - oh, dear. What can one say about that but: Did you guys lose a bet or something? The Rolling Stones are a tremendous band, but their solo projects are execrable. Don't believe me? Have a listen to Let's Work by Mick Jagger, and as for Bill Wyman's Je Suis Un Rockstar, don't say you weren't warned. This falls into the So-Bad-It's-Good category. Almost. It's truly kicking goals in the So-Bad-It's-Just-Utter-Shit category, with the tone-deaf croaking in cockney: 'She took off 'er 'at/And she 'ad lovely 'air' (honestly, how bad is that lyric?), interspersed with some French, a la the title to this loathsome louche-ness. The most shudder-worthy, and prophetic line is when Bill's trying to convince this young temptress to visit his abode in the south of France via a hovercraft 'across the water' (no, really?): 'They'll think I'm your dad/And you're my daughter...' It is impossible to listen to that and not shudder.
Speaking of the unappealing and not enchanting in the least, Derryn Hinch and Pauline Hanson made it to the Senate. On the bright side, the political reports will probably be not too boring. I still reckon the LNP will get back in.
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