'Picture' This....

I've had a reasonably productive day, I suppose.  I've put in my leopard print coat for dry cleaning.  I've returned to the gym after a hiatus to recover from the flu.  And most importantly, I have been reading the edited manuscript my publisher has emailed me of my upcoming novel 'Howling On A Concrete Moon'.  I'm liking what I'm reading thus far.  I'd like to think there has been a good job all round: me for writing it, and the editor for polishing it.

But it is also a cruddy day in some ways, too.  I am dead broke.  You, the reader, have the power to ameliorate my impecuniosity.  Do I need to spell it out to you?  Please buy my books. 

Other things that have made me feel a tad stabby today are the fact that we appear to be turning into a nation of easily offended softcocks.  We definitely appear to be devolving as a species in that nobody stops to think further than five minutes into the future before they carry out an action, namely, press the 'post' button on Facebook.  Has anybody else noticed the furore today because someone posted a photo of his kid dressed up as Ben Cousins, complete with some white powdery substance on the tip of his nose?  Dad of this kid, stop and think.  Actually, I heard the picture was stolen from the parent's page and shared minus permission, but the hassle here is that once something's on the Internet, there it stays.  But I'm not in the least bit offended by the costume.  Nay, I actually laughed when I saw the picture.  I like a shit stir, and I like it when people think outside the square.  And unlike so many social media, and social commentators, I am not offended that a parent dressed their kid to look like an AFL player who's been hoovering some prime booger sugar up his nostrils.  There have been howls out outrage, such howls reminiscent of a pack of dogs shut in the laundry.  One of the regular talking heads on 'Sunrise' was pontificating about how drug addiction is not funny (so, who's laughing?), and comparing it to the photograph of a kid dressed as Nic Nat the other week, black face and all, and how we don't get to decide for others if it's funny or offensive or what.  Her bilious rant started to spiral out of control, and she sounded to me like she was tied up in a runaway shopping trolley that was bumping and careening down a rocky embankment.  Other comments I've read seem to be from people who are one step from ringing FACS to have the kid removed from what appears to be very dreadful parenting.  People, please.  Take deep breaths.  This kid is no more likely to grow up a drug addict than any other kid.  It is quite possible his parents have explained to him why we mustn't take illicit drugs.  It is also possible, and indeed most likely, that some of you really need to get out and find a new hobby.

When I was in primary school, my older brother and his classmates were in a skit for a school concert.  Do you remember a shanty called 'What Will We Do With The Drunken Sailor?' - the Irish Rovers recorded a version of it.  In the skit, the kids stood on choir risers singing this very song, and one of the more theatrically inclined boys staggered about as though totally, utterly, full-goonie-of-Fruity-Lexia blotto.  He was dressed in a white sailor suit, and stumbling and lurching as though he was on shore leave, exploring the red light district of Kings Cross.  His acting was right up there with Olivier, it must be said.  I'm pretty sure the kid didn't grow up to pursue the performing arts.  I'm more sure the kid didn't grow up and become a gutter dwelling drunken bum just because he portrayed one.  If it's the kid I'm thinking of, I'm certain he is living a fulfilled, productive, and law-abiding life, as are my brother and the other kids who performed in the skit. 

There are some pictures of children that one might be entitled to get a little worked up over.  The other night I teared up at footage of Omran Daqneesh, the little Syrian boy who was injured in air strikes.  Pictures of him strapped into a chair in the back of an ambulance have gone viral.  The photograph of that other little Syrian boy lying washed up dead on the shore makes me a tad tearful, too.  No amount of repeated viewings lessens the horror of seeing that famous photograph of Kim Phuc running from her napalmed village, screaming in pain and shock from the foul poison that burned away her clothing. 

The aforementioned photographs are something to get worked up and distressed about.  Some kid dressed as Ben Cousins?  Maybe not so much.

Political & Populist Dingbattery

I am now going to sit here and write a small essay and if it had a title, it would be: 'What's Pissing Me Off Today'.  But it's not just today, it started pissing me off last night.  I was watching the news, or reading a social media newsfeed, and there it was.  It appeared like a foul goblin rising up from the ghastly phosphorus over a haunted swamp.  It was a snippet that Premier Mike Baird has directed the NSW Attorney General to see if there are grounds for the DPP to appeal the sentence handed to Marcus Stanford.  In the event you've been hiding under a rock to avoid the onslaught of bullshit the world throws, Stanford pleaded guilty to being an accessory after the fact to the murder committed by his brother on Stephanie, the Leeton school teacher whose surname escapes me at the time of typing. 

Anyway, I looked at the footage and the reporter said Baird is known for championing sentences that reflect the wishes of the community.  There was footage of him saying to the effect: 'We need appropriate justice ... doesn't seem the case to me.'  Well, pardon me for saying this, but WHO FUCKING CARES IF IT'S NOT THE CASE TO YOU, BAIRD?  To my knowledge, you are actually not a lawyer but a banker; and really have no idea what you're on about. 

For the correct administration of justice in this country to continue, it is imperative that parliament stay the righteous fuck OUT of the judicial system. 

I've also managed to annoy a media hack by pointing out it's not up to the judge to listen to baying public.  This is kind of funny.  Well, to me it is, anyway.  Boy, do people arc up when you explain how things work, and why their spurious rhetoric is just, well, plain dumb.

But let me point out my argument here, and my argument is based on knowledge, not emotion: the judge who sentenced Stanford would have taken into account varying factors.  Those factors include the degree of his culpability and the fact he was an accessory after the fact, and in a different State.  Those factors also include his guilty plea.   Another in this list of factors is precedents and case law, which would have been submitted by Stanford's counsel.  Stanford's sentence would have been backdated to the time he was taken into custody, and with time served he is eligible for release next month.  That's how it works.  And like it or not, our system works well.  So would politicians please stop trying to stockpile votes like a greedy bower bird accumulating rubbish in its nest?  This populist bullshit makes me want to club baby seals, and this is coming from an animal lover.

There is good in the world, or in my corner of it, anyway.  I have been emailed the first edit of my manuscript for my upcoming novel 'Howling On A Concrete Moon'.  Tomorrow, I will start on the process of reading and seeing anything the editor might have missed.  It is a laborious and onerous task, but it is necessary to ensure my novel is not stained with any errors of punctuation, grammar, or continuity.

My Knave

The job titles and descriptions one adds to one's CV when one becomes a mum are myriad.  Today I added another: costume designer/technical producer.  Don't get me wrong - I'm not taking over the technical aspects of 'Alice - The Musical'.  No, I just had to use my imagination as I scoured the local op shop for some bits and pieces to formulate a passable Knave of Hearts costume for Master 12.  I've done a good job.  I think.  He is playing another role in this production: Reverend Duckworth, and it is more likely that I will be struck with lightning than find an appropriate outfit locally for him.  I looked in novelty shops, endeavouring to find a clerical costume, to no avail.  There were plenty of imp and monster and demon costumes, but none for a man of the cloth.  I'd best go on E-bay.  He also wants to dress as Darth Vader in the Book Week Parade, to be held in two days.  I'm not in a state of delight as I rush around trying to assemble THREE costumes.  Along with costumes, I have to purchase an adaptor for his electronic piano keyboard, organise for him to go dance class, and collect him from play rehearsal today. 

But I am of a mind I should purchase him a demon costume because I received a text from the bank yesterday, and my credit card has been maxed.  'What the total fuck?' I thought to myself in outraged bewilderment.  I've not used it in, oh, I don't know how long.  I went online and checked my statement.  What did I see but purchases to the Apple Store.  Purchases not made by me - althought I take this opportunity to point out I have just purchased a cheesy 1977 remake by the Dead End Kids of 'Have I The Right?' - the original belonging to The Honeycombs.  These purchases were for some game only HE plays on his iPad.  So guess who got the living snot blasted out of him yesterday afternoon upon his return from school?  Guess who's going to be working like a convict digging a road from Sydney to Parramatta for fuck knows how long paying back the debt he has accrued? 

I've been onto the bank, and onto the card centre - both advised how to ensure this doesn't happen again, and both have tales of similar woe with their OWN children!

Chills & Foghat

We're finally getting some rain after a few weeks of sunshine, but we're getting some chilly weather, too.  Mr Bingells has been instructed to stay warm, goddammit, because we don't want another bout of pneumonia.

Took Mister 15 to see 'Bad Moms' yesterday.  I enjoyed it.  Not brilliant by any means, definitely not up there with 'Citizen Kane', but not a bad way to wile away one and a half hours, either.  Being a mum, I did identify and understood the pressure associated with school, extracurricular activities, work, and trying to ensure the kids you're raising aren't little arseholes.  I'm trying to source an adaptor for Master 12's electronic keyboard.  He's lost his, and he hasn't been practising the piano.  I'm not paying for lessons for him to not practise.  I also have to source bits and pieces for his Knave of Hearts costume in 'Alice - The Musical'.  I wish like mad just now that I could sew.  I can stitch a button back on if I have to, but I cannot sew.  I don't want to beleaguer my mother-in-law, who is a very good seamstress, but just might have to.  I didn't take needlework at school because the teacher was a fire-breathing old skank, and I wasn't all that interested.  But now I have to get together a Knave of Hearts costume for my little thespian.  But not now.  Now I will get my hot water bottle organised and lie under my bed covers before the kids return home, and before I start my evening medication run.

Good way to embarrass your teenager #4: bop in time with the movie soundtrack.  Well, the song featured in the film we saw yesterday was 'Slow Ride' by Foghat, and if you think I'm going to sit there demurely with my hands folded primly in my lap - think again.  My shoulders jerked, my head bobbed, and I was getting my hands in air guitar position.  'Muu-uuum!' hissed my desperately embarrassed son.  And I'm glad.  Now, I too am a bad mum.

Twerps of the day: the mayors of those towns in the French Riviera who have banned the wearing of the burkini on their beaches - I guess because it has religious connotations.  The thing about the burkini, another awesome Aussie invention by the way, is it really doesn't look all that different from a full body wet suit, and I'm sure the mayors wouldn't ban that.  It just seems silly to ban it, and 'they' might say they're supporting the cause of not telling women what they can and cannot wear on religious grounds, but 'they' don't seem to be any better themselves at the moment.  I should probably wear one of those because I'm cursed/blessed with Irish colouring, and combust at any hint of Vitamin D in the good ol' sunshine.

Dear me.  Okay.  Time to get the hot water bottle ready.

Overthinkers = Overstinkers

I don't know; I miss the point.  Or I appear to be missing the point.  I saw the meme Ellen de Generes tweeted of herself being piggy-backed by Usain Bolt, with a caption about how this is the method she would be employing to run errands in the future.  I don't know about you lot, but I just saw a mildly amusing-yet-silly gag based on Bolt's almost preternatural running speed.  But everywhere, the usual nay-sayers and cry-babies started up with how racist de Generes was in her motivation for the meme.  Because it reeks of superiority and elitism for a white woman to be riding the back of a black man, doncha know? Like I said, I've missed the point here.  I cannot for the life of me see how Ellen has denigrated an entire race and culture in this meme.  I am wondering if those grots from Young Turks who lost their shit over the KFC ad shown during the Australia vs West Indies cricket test a few years ago have said anything about this meme.  Remember that stink?  Someone decided the Aussies were being racist because of the ad with a single Aussie guy sitting uncomfortably with a group of Windies fans, and then they all bond over some KFC.  White guy uncomfortable around blacks, you see (and not a guy who's uncomfortable because he's sitting with a group of people who support the other team at all - oh no!).  Persons of colour being portrayed as stereotypically enjoying Southern fried chicken, which is apparently a stereotype attributed to African-Americans (and correct me if I'm wrong because my geography can be a little sketchy, but I'm pretty sure the West Indies are not part of the USA).  I haven't bothered to check whether the Young Turks commented on Ellen's meme.  I might do so later.  Back when this KFC ad was aired I thought the Young Turks acted like a pack of completely misinformed prats who couldn't see past their own noses, and my opinion still stands.  It kind of reminds me of that comic book convention scene near the beginning of the film 'Chasing Amy', when someone's complaining about the deep-rooted racism in 'Star Wars' because of a white cracker boy (Luke Skywalker) battling with a black guy (Darth Vader).  Anyway, back to this outcry over Ellen's meme: if you have a tendency to seriously and chronically over-think things, and desperately need a tampon change, then stay off the Internet.  You, and the rest of the world, will be a lot happier for it.

I have to source a costume for my 12yo in the school play, which is a musical version of 'Alice in Wonderland'.  He is playing the Knave of Hearts.  He recited his lines on the way home from rehearsal yesterday with the earnestness and passion of someone playing King Lear.  Today the teacher told me how impressed they'd been when he stepped up to the plate and did the role at rehearsal (he wasn't the original choice, apparently).  And of course I'm mentally preening and buffing my nails; he's an actor - he takes after his old mum.  I've known for many years his stage presence and scene-stealing and scenery-chewing ability.  I first noticed it when he was playing the donkey in his pre-school's Nativity play.  The kid that was originally cast got stage fright, and my son stepped up to the plate.  He donned the big brown floppy ears, and took his place by the manger wherein lay the Little Prince of Peace (played by a dark-skinned doll, which is probably more accurate than most Western portrayals of Little Lord Jesus asleep on the hay).  Then, as each visitor came to the stable, be it the Announcing Angel, the shepherds, or the Magi, he made grand sweeping 'ta-da!' gestures at the manger.  He stole the show.  I was glad.  I know what it's like to be swept aside and have to play second fiddle to someone inferior in the school Nativity play.  I remember being cast as one of the seraphim or whatever, wearing a white dress with a tinsel halo, whilst the kid who was cast as the Announcing Angel said to the shepherds (who managed to look reasonably stunned at the celestial being, if not entirely convinced), 'Fear not, for I bring glad tidings....'.  She was monotone, soulless and robotic.  Years later I heard a recording of Professor Hawking, and this was the first thing I thought of.  At the time I remember thinking I would have done a far more convincing job.  Maybe the nun knew deep down I was no angel.

What I've put on my iPod over the past few days:

1. 'Guitar Band' by Stevie Wright.  Look, I love 'Evie I, 2 & 3', but it does get done to death, doesn't it?  'Guitar Band' was what Stevie opened with when I saw him in 1986.  I didn't recognise him when he took to the stage because I was expecting a long haired guy in a flowing shirt, and the little fella who came on was dressed like Don Johnson in 'Miami Vice' (like I said, it was 1986).  It was only when he opened his mouth and started to sing, I knew straight away.

2.  'I Fought The Law' by The Clash.  Every now and then a remake just does it for me.  This one always has.

3. 'Rock And Roll, Hoochy Koo' by Rick Derringer.  Love the riffs, love the song.  I first became aware of it when I saw the Richard Linklater film 'Dazed and Confused' in 1994.  Perhaps I'd heard the song before, but I can't really recall having done so.  Anyway, it is a good 'un, and now graces my iPod.

What I have to do: get Mr Bingells to take a photograph for the back cover of the jacket of my upcoming novel, 'Howling On A Concrete Moon'.  It's been through a first edit, it might be available for sale near Christmas (hint, hint).

The 'Cold' Shoulder (Blade)

Things are brightening up a little here in Chez Bingells.  Mr Bingells was released from hospital after two nights, and he's been recovering slowly, slowly.  Tonight he sat using the nebuliser, and with that mask thing on his face he looked like Luke Skywalker floating in that liquid after Han Solo covered him in tuantuan (?) guts in 'The Empire Strikes Back'.  I don't know what made me think of that.  Maybe because I heard on the news yesterday Kenny Baker, the dwarf actor who played R2D2 has passed away.  And it's saddened me a great deal, although I shouldn't be surprised.  The man was 81 and not in great health.  It says a lot for Baker as an actor that he could make what looks to be a cross between a garbage bin and a trash compactor appear almost human.  It says a lot for the man's character that he was squashed up in the bloody thing. 

Mr Bingells is recovering slowly, but it can take a while to make a recovery from pneumonia.  In the meantime, I have done my right shoulder blade something of a disservice by coughing like a moose in a dust storm.  I've really hurt it.  I'm going to try and see a physiotherapist tomorrow because I cannot do anything.  I cannot bear to be unable to do things.  I need to do some things around the house.  My bigger dog has rolled in something and smells like a charnel pit.  I cannot bear the stench he is carrying around like Hell's miasma.  It seems to make the house pong.

It's hard to be cheerful when your husband's ill, and your shoulder blade feels like a lump of dry ice.  You try and force yourself to be cheerful, and then you read about the antics of the Party for Freedom who barged into the service being conducted by Anglican minister Fr Rod Bower, these rude interlopers being dressed in traditional Muslim garb and shouting stupid slogans.  My heavens, minions of Party for Freedom, you really are a stupid, infantile lot. You don't like Fr Bower's views; he's never been backward in coming forward on his support for leftish ideals.  I loved his billboard 'Relax.  Jesus had two dads and turned out fine'.  He makes his support of refugees crystal clear.  But he's far more a Christian than you lot are.  Storming into a house of worship and yelling moronic rhetoric.  God strewth, you people have defied medical science living so long minus a brain.

What have I been fighting about lately:  oh, just the bile that a welfare recipient should be drug tested prior to receiving benefit because people in a work place have to be.  Pfffft, and pffffft, and pffffft again! When I pointed out the needlessness, waste of money, and infringement on civil liberties such an exercises constitutes, some slob told me that given his taxes pay for the benefit, this makes him essentially the welfare recipient's employer so he has a right to expect the person to be drug free.  Uh, in the event you're reading this, friend, you are NOT the person's employer and even if you were, you cannot tell a person how to disburse his or her income.  The reason you are being tested in your workplace is because if you are under the influence of a drug, you are likely to cause harm to a member of the public or one of your workmates.  A person who has pulled a cone in the privacy of their own home is unlikely to cause anyone else harm.

I was driving home today and the radio played 'Ebony & Ivory'.  Arrrgghhhh!  Mawkish and sickly codswallop that, like 'Mull of Kintyre', cements Paul McCartney's reputation as The Boring Beatle.

Alone and Sad

Okay, I've almost shaken this rotten flu thing.  I'm very tired so I'm about to crawl off into bed.  Alone.  I am the only one occupying my marital bed tonight.  Mr Bingells is in hospital; that shit flu not only hit him, it hammered him hard and he has a touch of pneumonia in his right lung.  I suspected as much, and the doctor confirmed it today.  I wanted him to go to hospital to get the right treatment, and he's looking so much better this evening.  Although tired looking, he looks like my husband again and not the sink swimming with cold, greasy, old dishwater he resembled this morning.  As relieved as I am he is getting the right treatment, I miss him like mad.

I will try and think of something that will cheer me a little.  This week I was challenged to post a different 80s song for every day of the week.  This was a challenge because it meant thinking of 80s songs that don't leave my ears trying to jump lemming-like from my head.  This is what I came up with:

Day 1: 'Pour Some Sugar On Me' by Def Leppard.
Day 2: 'Walls Come Tumbling Down' by Style Council.
Day 3: 'Just Got Lucky' by Joboxers.
Day 4: 'Shop of Fools' by World Party.
Day 5: 'Devil Inside' by INXS.
Day 6: 'Summer of '81' by Mondo Rock.
Day 7: 'Just Like Fire Would' by The Saints.

Well, off to bed, perchance to dream.  I miss my Mr Bingells.

Touching Base

Just touching base for any regular readers.  I hope you exist, and just know I love and appreciate you all.  Haven't been on the computer much, but hoping to do some serious writing here when the chance greets me over the weekend - which won't be as often as I'd like because I've been rostered to work.  I will likely have naps when I'm not working because I've been very run down with a mild dose of what my family are suffering.

The kids are on the road - a road strewn with cowpats from Satan's herd - to recovery.  They have been fighting with each other, and as aggravating as that is for a parent, it is a sign they are getting back to normal.  Mister 15 had two bowls of stew and rice tonight (not huge servings, but servings nonetheless).  He normally eats like a hippopotamus at a banquet - and I'm speaking in both terms of volume and table manners - but for the past week he has barely eaten anything. 

Mr Bingells has succumbed with a vengeance, the poor dear. 

I am faced with the prospect of cleaning my kitchen, or going to bed.  I might just go to bed and try to sleep, something that might prove elusive given I crashed out this afternoon, because let's face it: the mess will still be waiting for me in the morning.  Maybe my cough mixture will duly knock me out.

How To Ruin My Day 101

How to ruin my day: knock on the door to show me religious pamphlets when I am on the telephone, and have two sick kids, a sick husband, and the beginnings of a chest cold myself.  Oh yes, you read right.  I was on the telephone, and it was an important call.  My 12yo is sleeping in my bed; he's as crook as Rookwood.  My 15yo is lying on the lounge, having notched up one week of a chest infection.  Both Mr Bingells and I are coming down with crap colds.

So, there I was, on the telephone trying to make sense of the world, and my dogs started to bark like the very Hounds of Hell.  The doorbell sounded, and the dogs were going ballistic.  I became concerned this would wake my 12yo, and hastened to the front door.  I couldn't ask the 15yo, he has barely enough energy to blink.  Still speaking to the party whom I had telephoned, I opened my front door to two members of the local God Squad.

'Hello,' they warbled - yes, warbled - at me.  'We weren't sure if you were home because your car's not there-,' What, you people are fucking STALKING me?  '-but we were wondering had you heard the word of God, and would you like to have a read of-,'

They got no further.  I don't know about the word of God, but they heard a few choice words thrown out by a very worried and angry mother.  The party on the other end of the telephone heard them, too.  Thankfully, they took the hint and scurried out my front gate, with my mini fox terrier barking furiously.  If dogs could talk, I swear he would have been shouting, 'And don't bloody come back, either!'

Had I known this is what I was going to be opening my door to, I would have squirted some random splotches of tomato sauce over my jumper and hissed at them, 'Help me!  I can't squash the fat one into the wood chipper!'

Oh, the reason my car wasn't out the front is because it is being checked over for the purposes of a pink slip.  I will be spending some serious coin on it very soon.  This does not exactly fill me with joy, either.  It depresses me greatly.

But what has been nice lately is I saw my local theatrical society's production of  'The Sound of Music' on Friday night.  I'm ambivalent about this show itself.  Sometimes I'm in the mood, sometimes I'm not.  It does have a very interesting story.  I went to be supportive because: (1) I am a member of our local society (yes, I know my dues are to be paid), and (2) two of my friends are playing nuns, Mother Abbess being one - and she brought a tear to my eye with her rendition of  'Climb Every Mountain'.  Never seen Captain von Trapp portrayed with a hipster man-bun before, but sometimes art direction and costume design can stray outside the box and create something interesting (I've seen MacBeth costumed in a leather jacket before).  I still think the character Rolf is one of the most unappealing characters in a show, either fictional or drawn from real life.  He's such a patronising, chauvinistic oaf: 'You need someone older and wiser telling you what to do...'  If I had a daughter, I would tell her to steer well clear of a boy who had that attitude.  Of course, the fact that he turns out to be a Nazi also detracts from any marginal appeal he might have once had.

Oh well, time to check my be-snotted family.