Just a quick note, and not my usual ranting because I am on iPad in a motel room. You know why? Because on Christmas Eve my house got flooded after another freaking storm cell! Unbe-fucking-lievable. Two and a half years shy of last incident. More about this riveting episode in The World According To Bingells very soon.
How much has this year sucked arse? As aggravating as losing another admired childhood idol in Carrie Fisher, a person cannot even bare his soul without the Thought Police having a bitch. Steve Martin thought her a 'beautiful creature'. Thought Police lost their shit and he deleted his tweet. 'Creature'. Who the fuck has a problem with this, and why do they feel entitled to govern someone's grief, that someone being a man who knew Carrie Fisher personally?
Well, a more in depth post coming up when I have access to a proper computer keyboard.
RIP also to George Michael. A big RIP to Rick Parfitt of Status Quo, who inspired air guitarists everywhere.
RIP to my sanity. You'll all see why soon - damn that storm cell.
Thursday, 29 December 2016
Friday, 23 December 2016
My Christmas Message - It has Beetles and Popcorn
The 2016 Christmas season is thus far proving to be rather enjoyable, although today is a tad sultry with the heat. But it's Australia, I can expect nothing less and still remember my childhood Christmas Eves spent sitting out on my parents' patio, cracking open walnuts and hazelnuts from the Christmas hamper my father's employers (owners of a large sheep station) provided every year. The hamper usually had nuts, Christmas cake, oranges (go figure), and novelty stockings stuffed with lollies. Those lollies included sugar popcorn. This was the only time of year I ate that fluoro shit, which contains food dyes that I'm certain are corrosive and cause one's stools to glow in the dark like swamp phosphorus. I suspect the same ingredients are used to treat the popcorn as those used in Fruit Loops - a bag of sugar masquerading as breakfast cereal, and one I refuse to stock in my pantry. But yes, many a Christmas Eve and Christmas Night would be spent outside, cracking nuts and looking at the Christmas beetles with their pretty, bauble-like carapaces.
My kids no longer believe in Santa Claus, which makes Christmas a little less stressful money-wise for me. We are no longer expected to leave food out, and pig it later. Those of you who know me would be aware of my one time as a child when I decided to leave a snack for the Jolly Bloke in Red. I got all creative and bit the corners off a Sao cracker to give a skull shape, and then squashed some apricots on it to represent eye sockets. I don't know if my parents were alarmed at what some might have interpreted as a streak of morbidity in me. I do know Santa didn't eat my well-considered creation, and I was very disillusioned. Even more disillusioned than the time he was at the local supermarket with a shopping trolley stuffed with small white paper sacks of lollies, and he ran over my foot with the trolley. My father's dog enjoyed the Sao-and-apricot snack, in any event. But go the skulls. Most writers have different little knick-knacks on their desks, such as a paperweight, or maybe a good luck mascot. I have a row of glass skulls.
I have been playing my Chrissie faves, which are 'Rockin' Christmas' by Ol' 55, and 'Merry Christmas' by Slade.
So, this cursed year of 2016 is almost over. So many deaths. Today I thought there was going to be another one - Carrie Fisher aka Princess Leia. I was most envious of the bilateral-bunned babe, because she got to make out with Luke Skywalker, a little. Then she found out Luke was her brother, and I sat there listening for banjo music. Hang in there, Princess aka Carrie. Speaking of all things Star Wars, I am wondering whether to see the newest film or not. I haven't seen the others because, you know, Jar Jar Binks.
Well, Merry Christmas. It's probably a bit late to suggest you give the gift of books, *cough* mine *cough*, this year. But there is always the belated gift option. Check out the links on my blog to the first chapters, and see if you'd like to purchase them. They're available as both e-book or paperback. Speaking of book, I had better have a quick read of the edited manuscript sent to me by my publisher, before I go back to work. I've got the evening medication run tonight. And I'm working on Boxing Day.
Again, Merry Christmas!
Wednesday, 21 December 2016
Trying To Be Clever With Dispiriting Ditties
I'm going to have to do something about the music to which I have been listening these past few days. Often I just hit 'shuffle' on my iPod as I go about straightening up the kitchen of an evening, and listen to good 'uns as I stack the dishwasher and wipe down the benches with my home made, chemical free, environmentally kind and inexpensive cleaning agent. But every now and then an utter stinker will pop up. The stinkers are not my doing. They are the fault of Mr Bingells. He bought me the iPod a couple of years ago, and tinkered about with it figuring how to transfer music from a CD to the cute little music machine. Mr Bingells has okay taste in music, too, but for some reason the CD he grabbed for this experiment was a Tom Jones one. I know, I know - there is nothing wrong with Tom Jones. I like a bit of Tom, too. My late mother was a humongous fan, and I recall my older brother and sister playing Mum's album when I was a kid, and for some reason lip-syncing to 'It's A Sin To Tell A Lie'. I don't know why. My brother was a huge Alice Cooper and Black Sabbath fan, so why he thought it would be fun to mime to Tom Jones is beyond me.
But the other night I was pottering about in the kitchen, and from my blue tooth I heard 'Green, Green Grass Of Home'. I smiled benevolently as Tom, in a tone so sentimental it almost hit mawkish, sang about stepping from the train to see his parents, and some girl named Mary, who has lips like cherries (collagen?). I'm guessing Mary might be his neighbourhood crushie. He mentions the old oak tree on which he once played. This is good. All little kids should climb trees at some stage or another. I smiled as I switched on the dishwasher, remembering times I played in trees, and on tyre swings.
And then, and oh THEN Tom sang about waking up and seeing four grey walls, a guard, and a sad old padre, and I realised he wasn't about to see this:
Oh no, not that beautiful lush specimen of arboreal magnificence. No, this is what Tom was looking at:
Yes, he was about to get strapped in and treated to 2000 volts. And I spent the remainder of my evening in a funk of cheerless gloom. The gloom returned today when I had a listen to 'One' by Metallica, which tells the less-than-sunny story of a wounded solder. And by wounded I mean quadruple amputee, no sight, no hearing, no speech. He lies on his bed bashing out messages in Morse code to the nursing staff, with his head. Those messages are not a request for a bedpan, or for a jug of water, but that he be subjected to a mercy killing.
Although I do not believe art must be all sweetness and light, and actually have a rather noir sense of humour at the best of times, those two ditties really are as depressing as fuck, and I think I'm going to have to crank up some Beach Boys now to cheer me.
Okay, one of the reasons for this post was not just to talk about how bleak 'Green, Green Grass Of Home' actually is, but to see if I could be clever and add images to my blog. Have I been clever, or what?
But the other night I was pottering about in the kitchen, and from my blue tooth I heard 'Green, Green Grass Of Home'. I smiled benevolently as Tom, in a tone so sentimental it almost hit mawkish, sang about stepping from the train to see his parents, and some girl named Mary, who has lips like cherries (collagen?). I'm guessing Mary might be his neighbourhood crushie. He mentions the old oak tree on which he once played. This is good. All little kids should climb trees at some stage or another. I smiled as I switched on the dishwasher, remembering times I played in trees, and on tyre swings.
And then, and oh THEN Tom sang about waking up and seeing four grey walls, a guard, and a sad old padre, and I realised he wasn't about to see this:
Oh no, not that beautiful lush specimen of arboreal magnificence. No, this is what Tom was looking at:
Yes, he was about to get strapped in and treated to 2000 volts. And I spent the remainder of my evening in a funk of cheerless gloom. The gloom returned today when I had a listen to 'One' by Metallica, which tells the less-than-sunny story of a wounded solder. And by wounded I mean quadruple amputee, no sight, no hearing, no speech. He lies on his bed bashing out messages in Morse code to the nursing staff, with his head. Those messages are not a request for a bedpan, or for a jug of water, but that he be subjected to a mercy killing.
Although I do not believe art must be all sweetness and light, and actually have a rather noir sense of humour at the best of times, those two ditties really are as depressing as fuck, and I think I'm going to have to crank up some Beach Boys now to cheer me.
Okay, one of the reasons for this post was not just to talk about how bleak 'Green, Green Grass Of Home' actually is, but to see if I could be clever and add images to my blog. Have I been clever, or what?
Saturday, 17 December 2016
Another Lame-Arse Petition
When I was a kid, a remote controlled television set was to me cutting-edge, state of the art technology. Changing channels without getting up from your chair, merely by pushing a button on a battery-operated device was the stuff of science fiction. A TV screen changing just like that *clicking fingers*? This was surely material limited to Star Trek or Lost in Space! I would imagine Major Don West pulling a trick like this on the Jupiter II, and then Dr Smith would later steal the remote for his own unscrupulous gain, whilst the robot and Will Robinson would object, and the robot would be denounced as a 'Bubble-Headed Booby'. A television set operated via remote control was for the more wealthy of us.
We didn't have a remote control in our house. That job fell to me. I would be sitting on the floor playing with my farm animal set (in my mind they were in a classroom, not a farm), or reading something random from the encyclopaedia (this is why I tend to kick arse in trivia games), and either Mum or Dad would say, 'Turn it over, Simone.' So the remote job fell upon my shoulders, and I would put aside my plastic horse or the encyclopaedia, and shuffle on my bottom to the television, and change the channel. I didn't have to ask what channel they required; we only received NBN Newcastle or the ABC. So 'turn it over' just meant put on whatever channel wasn't currently playing.
Now I am an adult, and have a house with remote controlled technology. They're a good thing, these television remotes. They enable you to change the channel when there is something on the television that does not appeal to you. The technology is pretty widespread and accessible to everybody. Of course, if you can't find your remote because it's found it's way down the back of the lounge, you have the option to get up off your date and use your finger to change channels. This is a very easy thing to do, and it's an option I would respectfully (well, not respectfully actually) suggest to all those people who have signed the change dot org petition seeking Channel 7 dismiss Andrew O'Keefe from his role as a host on Sunrise. I seriously cannot believe someone would start an actually petition for this. Look, okay - disclaimer: I actually rather like Andrew O'Keefe. But even if I didn't, I would definitely not be starting lame-arse petitions. I'd use what evolution gave me, ie opposable thumbs and free will, and change the fucking channel! When I saw this in my newsfeed yesterday, all I could do was groan, 'You're fucking shitting me, aren't you?' Well, I guess I shouldn't have been surprised. It seems lately all people do is bitch and whine and sook about stuff they don't like, and then seek to have it banned. I HATE Adam Sandler movies, and I HATE Everybody Loves Raymond, so what I do is this funny little thing called - and I'll type it slowly - doing something else rather than watch. Hell, O'Keefe is a more enjoyable host than Koch; Koch asks questions that leave me feeling soiled, kind of like your questionable uncle asking you if you've started wearing a bra yet (whether you're thirteen or thirty-seven).
So my point is - don't like Andrew O'Keefe? Change the channel. Not too difficult.
We didn't have a remote control in our house. That job fell to me. I would be sitting on the floor playing with my farm animal set (in my mind they were in a classroom, not a farm), or reading something random from the encyclopaedia (this is why I tend to kick arse in trivia games), and either Mum or Dad would say, 'Turn it over, Simone.' So the remote job fell upon my shoulders, and I would put aside my plastic horse or the encyclopaedia, and shuffle on my bottom to the television, and change the channel. I didn't have to ask what channel they required; we only received NBN Newcastle or the ABC. So 'turn it over' just meant put on whatever channel wasn't currently playing.
Now I am an adult, and have a house with remote controlled technology. They're a good thing, these television remotes. They enable you to change the channel when there is something on the television that does not appeal to you. The technology is pretty widespread and accessible to everybody. Of course, if you can't find your remote because it's found it's way down the back of the lounge, you have the option to get up off your date and use your finger to change channels. This is a very easy thing to do, and it's an option I would respectfully (well, not respectfully actually) suggest to all those people who have signed the change dot org petition seeking Channel 7 dismiss Andrew O'Keefe from his role as a host on Sunrise. I seriously cannot believe someone would start an actually petition for this. Look, okay - disclaimer: I actually rather like Andrew O'Keefe. But even if I didn't, I would definitely not be starting lame-arse petitions. I'd use what evolution gave me, ie opposable thumbs and free will, and change the fucking channel! When I saw this in my newsfeed yesterday, all I could do was groan, 'You're fucking shitting me, aren't you?' Well, I guess I shouldn't have been surprised. It seems lately all people do is bitch and whine and sook about stuff they don't like, and then seek to have it banned. I HATE Adam Sandler movies, and I HATE Everybody Loves Raymond, so what I do is this funny little thing called - and I'll type it slowly - doing something else rather than watch. Hell, O'Keefe is a more enjoyable host than Koch; Koch asks questions that leave me feeling soiled, kind of like your questionable uncle asking you if you've started wearing a bra yet (whether you're thirteen or thirty-seven).
So my point is - don't like Andrew O'Keefe? Change the channel. Not too difficult.
Thursday, 15 December 2016
Kaleidoscopic Emotions
Emotions are a fickle beast, really. They morph and change with the frequency and unpredictability of the Melbourne weather. Over the past few days, mine have been a turbulent maelstrom, twisting and changing like the images in a kaleidoscope. Some of those emotions have been:
1. Utter Fury. This is directed to former Twat-in-Chief Whose Silhouette Resembles A Ciborium, Tony Abbott. Last night I was doing the night medication run and from the radio heard him blathering and dissing pensions for people with bad backs and depression. The language I directed toward my radio would not have been out of place at a Naval boot camp. Hey, Abbott aka Entitled Arse, do you know anyone with a bad back? I do. I share my life with someone who has a bad back, and believe me, he doesn't see it as a means to shirk employment and live off the public teat for the rest of his life. He hates the situation. It is a thorn in his side. Do you have any idea how completely debilitating back issues are? No? Didn't think so. You must have copped a few to that ugly head of yours during your boxing for Oxford days if you seriously think bad backs are some kind of rort. You've always made my flesh crawl ('Virginity is a gift'), and my blood boil ('We will stop the boats' - seeking asylum is not against the law and Australia is mandated under the UN Convention on refugees, anyway, you prick). But last night you had my blood boiling to the point where the top of my skull nearly flew off because I have no pressure release valve. You utter, utter unscrupulous, miserable, scum-sucking, bottom-feeding moron if you believe what you said. Did your arse get jealous of the shit that made its way out your mouth? Complaining about these people seeking disability pension is somewhat craw-piercing coming from a bloke who's going to be enjoying a $300,000 per year pension.
2. Disgust. The disgust appeared when I saw on the news footage of a woman stealing Christmas decorations from a person's lawn. Honestly, why would you do this? Hey, I don't like 'Santa, Please Stop Here' signs, either. I don't know why. I like lights, and tinsel, and baubles, and Nativity figures, and candy canes. I enjoy driving around at night and looking at the decorated homes, as I inwardly wonder about their upcoming electricity bills. I like hearing Christmas carols being piped through speakers at the shopping centre (except 'Little Drummer Boy' and 'Last Christmas' by Wham - those songs can fuck right off). But those 'Santa, Please Stop Here' signs do my head in. There is something about them. They are not the sweet whimsy the home decorators believe them to be; they are whiny in tone. However, I would not remove one from someone's lawn, which this grubby type appears to have done. This might not be as low as stealing from a charity box set aside to buy presents for needy children, but it's still a pretty pathetic act. People often put up decorations in the hope others will enjoy them (and some probably put them up to one-up the neighbours), and along comes this slob in active wear gym pants (which was a laugh because she's clearly not been inside a gym since MTV aired) who takes it upon herself to stuff the decorations into a sack. Kind of like a reverse of Santa. Instead of a jolly fat man taking things out of his sack, we have a miserable, albeit fat, woman stealing and stuffing INTO her sack. But I know the footage looks damning, and I'm unsure whether it will be admissible in court proceedings. I will be interested to know what happens in those court proceedings, if any, from a legal standpoint. But all you bah-humbugs out there, just let people put out their decorations, okay? If the decorations are not impeding on your comfort, like lights with a wattage similar to a small sun being shone directly into your eyes when you're watching television or trying to sleep, just get over it if it's not your bag. Those of you who decorate your houses, I will continue to admire your graft and creativity. Just don't expect me to sigh with pleasure if I see a 'Santa, Please Stop Here' sign; those things set my teeth on edge.
3. Pride. My fifteen-year-old scored an academic award at his school presentation the other night: he came first in his year for Information Software Technology 100 Hours, which was an elective. Such an elective was unheard of when I was his age. Our electives were along the lines of the social sciences and creative sciences. Not that IST isn't necessarily creative, I guess. But I was one proud mumma!
4. Just Plain Crazy Emotion. My twelve-year-old had his Year 6 Graduation Assembly today. I cried. I wasn't the only one, the hall was a sea of sniffling mums, dads, boys and girls. It was kind of encouraging to see the boys being open with their emotions; when I was that age the boys wouldn't have dreamed of crying at their graduation. What a day they've had. They graduated and had a party - I didn't stick around because I'm aware a loitering parent can bring about a social death akin to being bombed by an entire Luftwaffe. Then after school I had to collect him from his school band end of year party, and of course some of the members won't be there next year. The kids had a screen hooked up to You Tube and were dancing to, of all things, Queen. My son picked 'Don't Stop Me Now', and tore up the dance floor, along with his best mate. 'Don't stop me now,' they sang, ''cos I'm having a good time...' And they were. But the good times in primary are finished now, and a new chapter begins.
5. More Plain Crazy Emotion - yesterday was the first anniversary of the death of my father. Twelve months since I last spoke to him. Technically twelve months and one day because I spoke to him the night before he died to remind him what time Mr Bingells would take him to a doctor's appointment. Mr Bingells did take Dad to the appointment, which was the last time anyone in our family saw him alive. After the appointment, Dad drove home (the appointment wasn't in Dad's home town) and died that afternoon.
But tonight there might be some sleep for us. The cool change has finally made itself felt, and it's now raining. The past few nights have brought discomfort and irritability - a by-product of no sleep due to this infernal heat. We shall see.
Now, I must be away. I've got a kitchen to straighten, and Christmas cards to write.
1. Utter Fury. This is directed to former Twat-in-Chief Whose Silhouette Resembles A Ciborium, Tony Abbott. Last night I was doing the night medication run and from the radio heard him blathering and dissing pensions for people with bad backs and depression. The language I directed toward my radio would not have been out of place at a Naval boot camp. Hey, Abbott aka Entitled Arse, do you know anyone with a bad back? I do. I share my life with someone who has a bad back, and believe me, he doesn't see it as a means to shirk employment and live off the public teat for the rest of his life. He hates the situation. It is a thorn in his side. Do you have any idea how completely debilitating back issues are? No? Didn't think so. You must have copped a few to that ugly head of yours during your boxing for Oxford days if you seriously think bad backs are some kind of rort. You've always made my flesh crawl ('Virginity is a gift'), and my blood boil ('We will stop the boats' - seeking asylum is not against the law and Australia is mandated under the UN Convention on refugees, anyway, you prick). But last night you had my blood boiling to the point where the top of my skull nearly flew off because I have no pressure release valve. You utter, utter unscrupulous, miserable, scum-sucking, bottom-feeding moron if you believe what you said. Did your arse get jealous of the shit that made its way out your mouth? Complaining about these people seeking disability pension is somewhat craw-piercing coming from a bloke who's going to be enjoying a $300,000 per year pension.
2. Disgust. The disgust appeared when I saw on the news footage of a woman stealing Christmas decorations from a person's lawn. Honestly, why would you do this? Hey, I don't like 'Santa, Please Stop Here' signs, either. I don't know why. I like lights, and tinsel, and baubles, and Nativity figures, and candy canes. I enjoy driving around at night and looking at the decorated homes, as I inwardly wonder about their upcoming electricity bills. I like hearing Christmas carols being piped through speakers at the shopping centre (except 'Little Drummer Boy' and 'Last Christmas' by Wham - those songs can fuck right off). But those 'Santa, Please Stop Here' signs do my head in. There is something about them. They are not the sweet whimsy the home decorators believe them to be; they are whiny in tone. However, I would not remove one from someone's lawn, which this grubby type appears to have done. This might not be as low as stealing from a charity box set aside to buy presents for needy children, but it's still a pretty pathetic act. People often put up decorations in the hope others will enjoy them (and some probably put them up to one-up the neighbours), and along comes this slob in active wear gym pants (which was a laugh because she's clearly not been inside a gym since MTV aired) who takes it upon herself to stuff the decorations into a sack. Kind of like a reverse of Santa. Instead of a jolly fat man taking things out of his sack, we have a miserable, albeit fat, woman stealing and stuffing INTO her sack. But I know the footage looks damning, and I'm unsure whether it will be admissible in court proceedings. I will be interested to know what happens in those court proceedings, if any, from a legal standpoint. But all you bah-humbugs out there, just let people put out their decorations, okay? If the decorations are not impeding on your comfort, like lights with a wattage similar to a small sun being shone directly into your eyes when you're watching television or trying to sleep, just get over it if it's not your bag. Those of you who decorate your houses, I will continue to admire your graft and creativity. Just don't expect me to sigh with pleasure if I see a 'Santa, Please Stop Here' sign; those things set my teeth on edge.
3. Pride. My fifteen-year-old scored an academic award at his school presentation the other night: he came first in his year for Information Software Technology 100 Hours, which was an elective. Such an elective was unheard of when I was his age. Our electives were along the lines of the social sciences and creative sciences. Not that IST isn't necessarily creative, I guess. But I was one proud mumma!
4. Just Plain Crazy Emotion. My twelve-year-old had his Year 6 Graduation Assembly today. I cried. I wasn't the only one, the hall was a sea of sniffling mums, dads, boys and girls. It was kind of encouraging to see the boys being open with their emotions; when I was that age the boys wouldn't have dreamed of crying at their graduation. What a day they've had. They graduated and had a party - I didn't stick around because I'm aware a loitering parent can bring about a social death akin to being bombed by an entire Luftwaffe. Then after school I had to collect him from his school band end of year party, and of course some of the members won't be there next year. The kids had a screen hooked up to You Tube and were dancing to, of all things, Queen. My son picked 'Don't Stop Me Now', and tore up the dance floor, along with his best mate. 'Don't stop me now,' they sang, ''cos I'm having a good time...' And they were. But the good times in primary are finished now, and a new chapter begins.
5. More Plain Crazy Emotion - yesterday was the first anniversary of the death of my father. Twelve months since I last spoke to him. Technically twelve months and one day because I spoke to him the night before he died to remind him what time Mr Bingells would take him to a doctor's appointment. Mr Bingells did take Dad to the appointment, which was the last time anyone in our family saw him alive. After the appointment, Dad drove home (the appointment wasn't in Dad's home town) and died that afternoon.
But tonight there might be some sleep for us. The cool change has finally made itself felt, and it's now raining. The past few nights have brought discomfort and irritability - a by-product of no sleep due to this infernal heat. We shall see.
Now, I must be away. I've got a kitchen to straighten, and Christmas cards to write.
Monday, 12 December 2016
My Take on Daily Mail and Sam Armytage Undies Story
In 1972, a young journalist named Carl Bernstein discovered a laundered cheque linking Richard Nixon to the Watergate burglary, and along with Bob Woodward (a man described as the best of his generation when it comes to investigative reporting) exposed a scandal that led to the resignation of the POTUS. For those of you who don't know, and I'm talking about the hacks at Daily Mail Australia, this is heavy shit. To save you twits googling, POTUS is an acronym for President Of The United States. An acronym is a new word (often a noun) formed from the first letters of the collective words that describe that new word, such as Anzac or ASIO. Most of you reading this probably already know what an acronym is, but I'm kind of doubting the staff of Daily Mail Australia do.
Anyway, yesterday Daily Mail Australia ran an article about 'Sunrise' host Samantha Armytage going shopping in a 'loose-fitting striped dress' and 'granny panties showed through the garment...' whilst she was doing some shopping at Bondi Surf Seafoods. It spoke of her blonde hair being tied back in a pony tail (God, who fucking cares?) Accompanying this paradigm of razor-edge journalism was a photograph taken from behind which showed Ms Armytage climbing into a vehicle. I shit you not. This is what's passing for journalism these days. Someone photographed someone climbing into a vehicle, that someone having some visible panty line, and decided it was a story worth running with. To the hack who wrote this: it's really not. What it is, is utterly creepy and loathsome, and kind of fucking boring. Why do you believe people care if a television talking head purchases seafood and also wears underpants? We don't. No, really; we don't. I don't purport to be a fan of Samantha. Indeed, she has made comments that have loosened the fillings in my teeth. But this article just makes my flesh crawl, and she has my support on this. Samantha, I too wear undies!
Dude who wrote that shit (Margan), I will help you out a little here. Here's a nice article for you:
"Upper Hunter author Simone Bailey was today seen sweeping and mopping her kitchen floor whilst wearing a blue chemise type nightgown over a pair of huge black granny knickers, those knickers large enough and with elastic strong enough to be mistaken for an infant's pilchers. Or those awful sports knickers we used to have wear under our sports tunic at school. Ms Bailey, who is married to a lovely man who has the fortitude and stoicism to put up with her, later showered and changed into a mustard coloured t-shirt that flattered her autumnal complexion, and a shabby pair of pale blue capri length pants through which an outline of her hipster briefs could be seen."
Did you feel better reading that? Did you swoon at the insightful journalism and ground breaking, bowel-loosening facts claimed therein? No? Then you might now know how the rest of us felt when we read your asinine article. On the other hand, a paragraph like that probably made you jizz yourself.
When I was a little girl, I wanted to write the next 'Narnia' series. As an adult, I want to write the new 'Bonfire of the Vanities', or 'A Prayer For Owen Meany'. These books are the pinnacle of fine literature and when I read 'Owen Meany' I actually got it. I understood what my English teachers meant when they talked about language and themes and imagery. I felt like I was falling in love, and thought to myself, 'This is what I want to write'. Now, Daily Mail Guy, when you decided on a career in journalism, is this grubby pile of festering crap what you aspired to write?
I have a memory of myself as a little girl writing stories, and my mother smiling with pride as a told her I wanted to write a play or book that would make people feel great. I'm just imagining this bloke telling his mother, 'Mum, when I grow up-' (hah!) '-I want to be a journalist. I'm going to write all that really important stuff like women's underwear.' His mother no doubt smiled indulgently, and then had a lock put on her underwear drawer.
I wonder what Bernstein and Woodward did after they completed their investigation and published their incredible article? Maybe they opened a bottle of booze and toasted each other. Maybe they just sat at their desks thinking, 'Faaarrrrk'. I'd probably have done both.
The sense of accomplishment, achievement, fear and pride those two guys, along with the staff of The Washington Post must have felt after finalisation of their investigation into the Watergate robbery is unfathomable to me. What do you lot at the Daily Mail do when you've completed one of your jaw-dropping ex-po-zays? I'm guessing break out the tissues and delete your Internet browsing history.
Saturday, 10 December 2016
Belated Karmic Retribution, Uploading To You Tube, & Disco Ducks
Here is a little list of what I've learned lately:
1. Karmic retribution happens when you least expect it. It's like a cosmic universal Candid Camera thing. I went for a swim with my twelve-year-old son in the local indoor pool today. It was very enjoyable once I got over my almost insurmountable wussiness and got ALL wet, not just up to my chest. I did half an hour of laps and thought myself most virtuous. My son spotted a family playing some kind of pool ping pong - waterproof bats and a small ball - and asked could he play along. They graciously handed him the equipment, and he asked me would I play a game. In the interest of mother/son bonding, I agreed. As I've mentioned in the past, I am utter shit at anything involving a ball and implement with which to whack said ball, and an aquatic setting does in no way improve my woeful playing ability. Eventually my son lobbed a beauty, which bounced off my cranium, and actually bloody hurt! 'Sorry, Mum!' called my son, his chortles giving away the fact that he was not sorry in the least. I rubbed my head, and thought about a Boxing Day morning some thirty-nine years ago, when I was given Tether Tennis for Christmas. Anyone remember that? A plastic pink ball tied to a pole, and the players hit said ball with blue plastic paddles. It was fun. Well, I was playing with my cousin this Boxing Day morning. By some fluke, I actually managed to hit the ball, and I hit it so hard the string came untethered from the pole's pinnacle, and the pink ball when zoooooming through air currents on the trajectory set by the laws of ballistics, and bounced hard off my cousin's cranium. Although it had not been my intention to inflict this pain on my cousin, I did think it looked funny, and had a secret snigger. He stormed off to tell on me, and I then had to wait for one of the grown-ups, be it my mother or my uncle, to come storming to the top of the back steps and gruffly demand what was going on out there. So Karma has finally had her way with me for braining, and then sniggering at, my cousin that Boxing Day morning. And Cuzzie, if you're reading this, sorry for laughing but it did look funny. And my son, one day you are going to cop a plastic round projectile to the top of your head which will hurt, and the perpetrator will laugh, but that perpetrator will have a similar fate in due course, and plastic balls will bounce from perpetrators' heads like a series of never-ending Russian dolls, as the laws of Karma deem fit.
2. It takes forever to upload four minutes of footage to You Tube. Maybe because it was on my computer, having been put there from my husband's camera. I've filmed footage on my iPod at a concert - just a snippet of a song - and put that on You Tube before sharing on Facebook - which took only a few minutes. Anyway, last Friday night Mr Bingells, our water ping pong playing son, and myself went to the local Worker's Club to redeem a voucher I won at trivia last week on the Who Am I question (the answer was Weary Dunlop). We enjoyed very succulent salt-and-pepper calamari, and I redeemed some raffle tickets I had also won. This is making me wonder what the hell has happened to me. I used to drink on the beach across from Selinas waiting for the Hoodoo Gurus to come on. Now I'm going to raffles at clubs. I guess I grew old and had kids. I also won a meat tray on the raffles. Go me. I will probably go back there next Friday night because I've won another voucher on the Who Am I (the answer this time being Hugh Laurie). But back to the point. We got home to where our fifteen-year-old and his mate were playing the x-box again, which I daresay would have been a cover for looking at cyber porn whilst they had the house to themselves. I decided to put the footage Mr Bingells took on You Tube. I actually worked out how to do this. Then 'it' said the approximate time would be one hour and 47 minutes. It had to be shitting me, I thought. There was the option to encode to a different type of format, but I figured being a non-tech Luddite I had best stick to the path I was on, and in the meantime could utilise my time constructively by learning another language, or driving to Sydney and back. But here is a link to the footage, which is my twelve-year-old performing to 'No' by Megan Trainor in his school talent quest last week: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_80-6rRUHdw
3. The song 'Disco Duck' by Rick Dees and his Cast of Idiots is still pretty stupid. I found a link to it because my Facebook group is having an ornithological theme today so far as the songs go. The good ones like 'Freebird' and 'Wings of an Eagle' are gone. Someone's already posted 'Old Man Emu', so the only turd I had left (and I had to pick from turds) was 'Disco Duck'. The clip I posted has people in disco gear seriously dancing a choreographed routine to this. How did they do this and not revolt? 'Flapping my arms I began to cluck/Look at me: I'm the Disco Duh-uh-uh-uh-uhck!' I called my nimble-footed son over and asked would he like to learn the routine the dancers were performing. He had been previously shown footage of 'that' dance from 'Napoleon Dynamite' and drooled like Homer Simpson, and has vowed to perform that in the next school talent quest. But not 'Disco Duck'. His eyes widened. His mouth twisted into a moue of utter distaste. He clearly believed this to be the stupidest thing he had ever viewed, and he is from the generation that believed 'Gangnam Style' to be pinnacle of great music. He asked that he be excused from every viewing that again.
It is that time again. I must feed my dogs. They are eyeing me with patience, but that patience will not last. Thank you for reading. Drop me a comment. Also, check out the links and purchase my books. Someone did, and brought them along to a school band performance for me to autograph last Thursday. I guess I'm posting about my kids a lot lately, but it's the end of the school year, and there are so many concerts and things they're involved with.
1. Karmic retribution happens when you least expect it. It's like a cosmic universal Candid Camera thing. I went for a swim with my twelve-year-old son in the local indoor pool today. It was very enjoyable once I got over my almost insurmountable wussiness and got ALL wet, not just up to my chest. I did half an hour of laps and thought myself most virtuous. My son spotted a family playing some kind of pool ping pong - waterproof bats and a small ball - and asked could he play along. They graciously handed him the equipment, and he asked me would I play a game. In the interest of mother/son bonding, I agreed. As I've mentioned in the past, I am utter shit at anything involving a ball and implement with which to whack said ball, and an aquatic setting does in no way improve my woeful playing ability. Eventually my son lobbed a beauty, which bounced off my cranium, and actually bloody hurt! 'Sorry, Mum!' called my son, his chortles giving away the fact that he was not sorry in the least. I rubbed my head, and thought about a Boxing Day morning some thirty-nine years ago, when I was given Tether Tennis for Christmas. Anyone remember that? A plastic pink ball tied to a pole, and the players hit said ball with blue plastic paddles. It was fun. Well, I was playing with my cousin this Boxing Day morning. By some fluke, I actually managed to hit the ball, and I hit it so hard the string came untethered from the pole's pinnacle, and the pink ball when zoooooming through air currents on the trajectory set by the laws of ballistics, and bounced hard off my cousin's cranium. Although it had not been my intention to inflict this pain on my cousin, I did think it looked funny, and had a secret snigger. He stormed off to tell on me, and I then had to wait for one of the grown-ups, be it my mother or my uncle, to come storming to the top of the back steps and gruffly demand what was going on out there. So Karma has finally had her way with me for braining, and then sniggering at, my cousin that Boxing Day morning. And Cuzzie, if you're reading this, sorry for laughing but it did look funny. And my son, one day you are going to cop a plastic round projectile to the top of your head which will hurt, and the perpetrator will laugh, but that perpetrator will have a similar fate in due course, and plastic balls will bounce from perpetrators' heads like a series of never-ending Russian dolls, as the laws of Karma deem fit.
2. It takes forever to upload four minutes of footage to You Tube. Maybe because it was on my computer, having been put there from my husband's camera. I've filmed footage on my iPod at a concert - just a snippet of a song - and put that on You Tube before sharing on Facebook - which took only a few minutes. Anyway, last Friday night Mr Bingells, our water ping pong playing son, and myself went to the local Worker's Club to redeem a voucher I won at trivia last week on the Who Am I question (the answer was Weary Dunlop). We enjoyed very succulent salt-and-pepper calamari, and I redeemed some raffle tickets I had also won. This is making me wonder what the hell has happened to me. I used to drink on the beach across from Selinas waiting for the Hoodoo Gurus to come on. Now I'm going to raffles at clubs. I guess I grew old and had kids. I also won a meat tray on the raffles. Go me. I will probably go back there next Friday night because I've won another voucher on the Who Am I (the answer this time being Hugh Laurie). But back to the point. We got home to where our fifteen-year-old and his mate were playing the x-box again, which I daresay would have been a cover for looking at cyber porn whilst they had the house to themselves. I decided to put the footage Mr Bingells took on You Tube. I actually worked out how to do this. Then 'it' said the approximate time would be one hour and 47 minutes. It had to be shitting me, I thought. There was the option to encode to a different type of format, but I figured being a non-tech Luddite I had best stick to the path I was on, and in the meantime could utilise my time constructively by learning another language, or driving to Sydney and back. But here is a link to the footage, which is my twelve-year-old performing to 'No' by Megan Trainor in his school talent quest last week: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_80-6rRUHdw
3. The song 'Disco Duck' by Rick Dees and his Cast of Idiots is still pretty stupid. I found a link to it because my Facebook group is having an ornithological theme today so far as the songs go. The good ones like 'Freebird' and 'Wings of an Eagle' are gone. Someone's already posted 'Old Man Emu', so the only turd I had left (and I had to pick from turds) was 'Disco Duck'. The clip I posted has people in disco gear seriously dancing a choreographed routine to this. How did they do this and not revolt? 'Flapping my arms I began to cluck/Look at me: I'm the Disco Duh-uh-uh-uh-uhck!' I called my nimble-footed son over and asked would he like to learn the routine the dancers were performing. He had been previously shown footage of 'that' dance from 'Napoleon Dynamite' and drooled like Homer Simpson, and has vowed to perform that in the next school talent quest. But not 'Disco Duck'. His eyes widened. His mouth twisted into a moue of utter distaste. He clearly believed this to be the stupidest thing he had ever viewed, and he is from the generation that believed 'Gangnam Style' to be pinnacle of great music. He asked that he be excused from every viewing that again.
It is that time again. I must feed my dogs. They are eyeing me with patience, but that patience will not last. Thank you for reading. Drop me a comment. Also, check out the links and purchase my books. Someone did, and brought them along to a school band performance for me to autograph last Thursday. I guess I'm posting about my kids a lot lately, but it's the end of the school year, and there are so many concerts and things they're involved with.
Tuesday, 6 December 2016
Boasting Mum Alert
This is my blog, and upon this blog I do a helluva lot of bitching. Today will probably be no different - I'm sure bitchiness will appear. Oh, perhaps I should deal with it just now - and it's one of my usual beefs which is the inane questions being asked on breakfast television. The one I heard this morning related to some people who had welfare payments suspended whilst they were overseas. My guess is they might not have liaised properly with Centrelink regarding their reporting conditions. But naturally it was blown waaaaay out of proportion, and the question was put to the viewer: 'Should people on Centrelink payments be allowed to travel overseas?' No, I didn't just make that up. And being a woman of sound intelligence and with a modicum of compassion, and a fuckload of cynicism, I am pretty confident this question is designed to appeal to the base element of the viewing audience, who consider themselves to be the little Aussie battler who has to fight for everything they've got and who hates refugees and bludgers. The tone of the answers appears to be in the negative. The underlying sentiment appears to be 'I can't afford to travel, so why should they be allowed to?' Well, the keyword here is 'allowed'. If a judge has not confiscated someone's passport whilst they are on bail, then that person is allowed to travel, and it is nobody's damned business how they came by the money to purchase a ticket. As well as budgeting, there are things called inheritances, winnings on a horse race (and everyone will whinge because we all know people on welfare shouldn't be allowed to gamble - pfffft! gimme a break!), et al. Shame on the television show for asking such an inflammatory question, and stop pissing down people's legs as you attempt to pass it off as rain, okay? I don't care if someone on welfare travels. Good luck to them. I'm more worried about highly paid politicians rorting and claiming all sorts of perks and lurks. To the people who complain that they cannot afford an airline ticket, so 'they' shouldn't be travelling either, I say this: I don't have a bum like Beyoncé's, and I want one so therefore all you people who are genetically blessed with great glutes, or who take the time to do multitudinous leg curls and squats and not pig out on camembert on crackers - you can't have a great arse like Beyoncé, either. See how much sense this makes? Then connect the dots and stop dumping shit on people who happen to have found a way to buy an airline ticket.
But I won't let it spoil my day. Nor did I let my downtown-Syria-looking bathroom spoil my day (and believe me, it has really been getting me down lately, but Mr Bingells has been out pricing sheeting). I looked at my shitty bathroom today and muttered, 'You can't upset me today.' You know why it can't upset me? Because every now and then something happens and you are reminded about what's really important in the world. Two days ago Master 15 handed me a note from his school advising he would be getting an award at the end of year assembly. I am exceedingly proud. That same afternoon I took Master 12 to the presentation for his dance school. We sat through the awards, and then the principal announced the encouragement awards were to be handed to the boy and girl who were doing well, were a little bit shy, just needed that extra encouragement, and the boy who won was - yeah - MINE. In the split second before his name, I thought it wouldn't be him because he's not especially shy. But - drum roll - it was HIS name, and up he got. He did not walk to the stage. He sashayed and strutted like the most vain peacock ever to be hatched from an egg. He clasped his hands into the self-congratulatory gesture of old as he walked, er, sashayed. He received his trophy, said loudly he wished to thank his mum and dad, gave me the thumbs up from the stage, then struck a Zoolander 'Blue Steel' type post with the trophy held aloft. He cracked up the audience, that's for sure. I think his line of thinking is he might not be the most accomplished dancer at the school, but by the Living Harries, he's the one everyone will remember.
Today he competed in his school talent quest, having successfully passed the audition process. I didn't know if I'd get there in time because I was rostered to work. I drove there as quickly as the speed limit would allow, muttering, 'Nice blinker, fuckwit. Nice checking of your blind spot, fuckwit' to the, well, fuckwit who pulled over without indicating just near Big W, and went to do a turn back into traffic as I went past. I got to the school, hurried to the hall, and quietly made my way in so as not to disturb the three girls performing a skit on stage. I sat just behind Mr Bingells, who whispered to me, 'You missed him. He was brilliant!'. This saddens me to have missed him, especially since again he mounted the stage as though to the manner born, and gave his name and said, 'Is my dad in the audience? Put your hand up, Dad!' Then he danced like a veritable Mr Bojangles. Whether he has earned a placing, I don't know - the winners and runners up are to be announced on Friday.
Disturbing Fact Of The Day: today I learned my younger son shares the same name as one of the band members of Bucks Fizz, those saccharine twerps who inflicted upon us 'Making Your Mind Up', sugary confection that won that particular year's Eurovision Song Contest, and makes one wonder what in hell the other acts must have been like!
But I won't let it spoil my day. Nor did I let my downtown-Syria-looking bathroom spoil my day (and believe me, it has really been getting me down lately, but Mr Bingells has been out pricing sheeting). I looked at my shitty bathroom today and muttered, 'You can't upset me today.' You know why it can't upset me? Because every now and then something happens and you are reminded about what's really important in the world. Two days ago Master 15 handed me a note from his school advising he would be getting an award at the end of year assembly. I am exceedingly proud. That same afternoon I took Master 12 to the presentation for his dance school. We sat through the awards, and then the principal announced the encouragement awards were to be handed to the boy and girl who were doing well, were a little bit shy, just needed that extra encouragement, and the boy who won was - yeah - MINE. In the split second before his name, I thought it wouldn't be him because he's not especially shy. But - drum roll - it was HIS name, and up he got. He did not walk to the stage. He sashayed and strutted like the most vain peacock ever to be hatched from an egg. He clasped his hands into the self-congratulatory gesture of old as he walked, er, sashayed. He received his trophy, said loudly he wished to thank his mum and dad, gave me the thumbs up from the stage, then struck a Zoolander 'Blue Steel' type post with the trophy held aloft. He cracked up the audience, that's for sure. I think his line of thinking is he might not be the most accomplished dancer at the school, but by the Living Harries, he's the one everyone will remember.
Today he competed in his school talent quest, having successfully passed the audition process. I didn't know if I'd get there in time because I was rostered to work. I drove there as quickly as the speed limit would allow, muttering, 'Nice blinker, fuckwit. Nice checking of your blind spot, fuckwit' to the, well, fuckwit who pulled over without indicating just near Big W, and went to do a turn back into traffic as I went past. I got to the school, hurried to the hall, and quietly made my way in so as not to disturb the three girls performing a skit on stage. I sat just behind Mr Bingells, who whispered to me, 'You missed him. He was brilliant!'. This saddens me to have missed him, especially since again he mounted the stage as though to the manner born, and gave his name and said, 'Is my dad in the audience? Put your hand up, Dad!' Then he danced like a veritable Mr Bojangles. Whether he has earned a placing, I don't know - the winners and runners up are to be announced on Friday.
Disturbing Fact Of The Day: today I learned my younger son shares the same name as one of the band members of Bucks Fizz, those saccharine twerps who inflicted upon us 'Making Your Mind Up', sugary confection that won that particular year's Eurovision Song Contest, and makes one wonder what in hell the other acts must have been like!
Sunday, 4 December 2016
Bitter Butter
It's unlikely that I will be directing any movies in the near future. If I do find myself in the director's chair, I will ensure that my actors are competent and I trust them. What I won't do is put them through humiliation sans their consent because if they are actors, they can ACT humiliation. Playing a harrowing scene can be very tough on an actor. I'm aware Ned Beatty was unable to go through another take after shooting the 'squeal like a pig' scene in 'Deliverance'. 'Deliverance' is a fantastic and brilliantly acted movie, and I cannot recommend it highly enough. Be warned, it's not a feel good one and you're not going to be dancing and singing to the soundtrack, and I'm yet to see it in the suggestions for a gift for Mum when all those Mother's Day ads are shown. By the way, Messrs 15 and 12, your mother would prefer a copy of 'Deliverance' to the schmaltzy schlock, always starring Hugh Grant, often suggested by the merchandising folk. Acting is a craft and I'm sure actors have to sometimes take themselves to a dark place. That being said, I have a dislike for actors who talk about their craft like it was on par with curing cancer. Thespians: it's not.
Sir Anthony Hopkins did not really eat people when playing Dr Hannibal Lecter. Indeed, to my knowledge, the actor is vegetarian. You see, what he did was ACT.
If someone is directing a movie wherein the main character is a returned soldier dealing with PTSD, then the director is unlikely to drop the actor unaware into a war zone so the actor can feel the effects of PTSD, rather than acting them competently having carried out the research warranted to adequately play the role.
As you can probably tell, I'm getting my two cents worth on the revelations that have just surfaced about the 'butter' scene in 'Last Tango In Paris'. Sure, Brando might not have actually performed penetrative sex during the filming, but for the director and senior actor to conspire and not tell the much younger (nineteen) actress Maria Schneider what was planned in order to achieve a more visceral and genuine humiliation, well, that is just totally revolting. Bernardo Bertolucci said he wanted the humiliation of the girl, not the character. Bertolucci, you are a fucking prick. If Marlon Brando's character was to be raped, would you have conspired with other actors to humiliate him? Somehow I doubt it. I haven't sat through 'Last Tango In Paris' in its entirety, but now that I am aware the infamous scene was not consensual, I don't believe I will. I am perfectly happy to watch confronting and harrowing scenes if they are performed by actors who have made informed consent to play the roles in their contribution to art. Bertolucci's method does not sit well with me, and I am not inclined to watch a young woman feeling genuinely degraded because the conceited fuckwit of a director didn't trust her to simply ACT.
This does not mean I am going to eschew all Bertolucci's work because anybody who knows me knows I am a firm believer in ars gratis artis. I still watch Roman Polanski's movies because I believe in separation of art from artist, notwithstanding I think Polanski is a sleazy prick. However, if I hear someone has been treated as Ms Schneider was treated, then I will quite likely view something else. As I mentioned, I don't care what the movie's subject matter is because as a rule, the actors are consenting to the role, and doing this funny little thing called 'acting'. You do understand that, don't you, Bertolucci?
How big a pair of fuck ups must Brando and Bertolucci have been, if they thought that was okay?
You know what might be funny? If someone, somewhere, some day when he's least expecting it - no, it's not Candid Camera - someone steps up to Bertolucci and shoves a stick of butter straight up his arse.
Sir Anthony Hopkins did not really eat people when playing Dr Hannibal Lecter. Indeed, to my knowledge, the actor is vegetarian. You see, what he did was ACT.
If someone is directing a movie wherein the main character is a returned soldier dealing with PTSD, then the director is unlikely to drop the actor unaware into a war zone so the actor can feel the effects of PTSD, rather than acting them competently having carried out the research warranted to adequately play the role.
As you can probably tell, I'm getting my two cents worth on the revelations that have just surfaced about the 'butter' scene in 'Last Tango In Paris'. Sure, Brando might not have actually performed penetrative sex during the filming, but for the director and senior actor to conspire and not tell the much younger (nineteen) actress Maria Schneider what was planned in order to achieve a more visceral and genuine humiliation, well, that is just totally revolting. Bernardo Bertolucci said he wanted the humiliation of the girl, not the character. Bertolucci, you are a fucking prick. If Marlon Brando's character was to be raped, would you have conspired with other actors to humiliate him? Somehow I doubt it. I haven't sat through 'Last Tango In Paris' in its entirety, but now that I am aware the infamous scene was not consensual, I don't believe I will. I am perfectly happy to watch confronting and harrowing scenes if they are performed by actors who have made informed consent to play the roles in their contribution to art. Bertolucci's method does not sit well with me, and I am not inclined to watch a young woman feeling genuinely degraded because the conceited fuckwit of a director didn't trust her to simply ACT.
This does not mean I am going to eschew all Bertolucci's work because anybody who knows me knows I am a firm believer in ars gratis artis. I still watch Roman Polanski's movies because I believe in separation of art from artist, notwithstanding I think Polanski is a sleazy prick. However, if I hear someone has been treated as Ms Schneider was treated, then I will quite likely view something else. As I mentioned, I don't care what the movie's subject matter is because as a rule, the actors are consenting to the role, and doing this funny little thing called 'acting'. You do understand that, don't you, Bertolucci?
How big a pair of fuck ups must Brando and Bertolucci have been, if they thought that was okay?
You know what might be funny? If someone, somewhere, some day when he's least expecting it - no, it's not Candid Camera - someone steps up to Bertolucci and shoves a stick of butter straight up his arse.
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