I was shaking this morning. Not due to the cold which pervades my bones, nor to any seismic activity (and my local area has had a couple of small earth tremors in the past week). No, it was due to an article I viewed on television this morning. It involves a teaching method employed by a nun at a Catholic school in the southwest Sydney area. I'm not going to name the school, but I'm sure if you really want to, you have the wherewithal to find out the name for yourselves.
In fairness, I will throw out there the possibility the entire story has not been reported. Let's face it, this is a strategy of mainstream media in order to create the biggest scandal which naturally segues to the biggest sales and the biggest clickbait. But what WAS reported is some nun (surprising given you just don't see nuns teaching these days), in order to teach Year 4 students about the horror of the Stolen Generation - a black and ugly stain in our history - informed the class the school had received a letter from the Prime Minister's office advising the children were to be taken from their parents. The children were left under this ghastly misapprehension for the duration of the school day, before being informed this was merely a strategy to instil in the children some empathy for those children who were taken from their parents. What it also instilled in the school children was deep trauma and fear. Some of the children contemplated running away. Could you imagine if a child did escape school grounds and was injured, killed, or abducted?
The school has defended it's fucked up policy, stating the method was used to teach Year 4 last year with no apparent problems (except some ten years down the track when Little Johnny is up on the roof with a gun taking pot shots at passers-by). Look, I'm not a teacher. I have the utmost respect for teachers. I loathe armchair experts, and here I am acting like one, but perhaps, just perhaps, it might be time to put that policy where it belongs. If the school is wondering where it belongs, let me enlighten you: right up your arses.
Yes, I sat there in my lounge room in a miasma of the most abject horror when I heard this. Perhaps I was triggered, being one of the survivors of a childhood with nuns for teachers. I bet there are quite a few people, people who were schooled by the Good Sisters (cough!) throughout the 60s, 70s and 80s suffering some utterly grotesque flashbacks today. Strewth, we had nuns that belted you if you forgot the 'rule' regarding pronunciation of a vowel when there is an 'E' at the end of the word (eg, 'hop' as opposed to 'hope'). We had nuns that would go on a mad screaming frenzy, whacking kids left, right and centre if they could not pronounce sibilant words (clearly seeking a referral to a speech pathologist was beyond their ken). The most calm nun we had was a New Ager who was concerned that we were not as coordinated as she believed we should be, and had us spending the period between bell and recess doing the most absurd exercises I have ever heard of. One such exercise entailed lying flat on your stomach, positioned something like a salamander, and dragging yourself along a sheet of linoleum with one arm before 'flipping' over to a mirror of that position, and dragging yourself with the other arm. We would be in two rows, manoeuvring ourselves in this ungainly manner along the lino. Because the exercises were as boring as fuck, we would liven them up by 'racing' the kid beside us along the length of lino. This often resulted in 'lino-burn'. You also ran the risk of sliding right up to the slower moving kid in front of you, and copping the feet of said kid right in your face, said kid having worn his socks three days in a row, or else having just removed his feet from a pestiferous gym boot, thus causing his socks to stink like a decaying deceased dog. Well, this is what always seemed to happen to me, anyway. It was with great relief the nun was transferred to another school, taking along with her the lino and her tomfoolery. I do not know which unfortunate community received her after us. I do know her teeth arrived ten minutes before she did (my friends and I still refer to her as Sister Tombstone-Teeth). Scary to think that she was the least harmful of the nuns we had.
Obviously, this pales in comparison to what those children were subjected to the other day. It cemented in me a thought I have had, that thought being if my children were ever abused in such a method as those employed by the sadistic old nuns, the abuser would want to hope he or she holds ambulance coverage in their insurance policy. Seriously, who terrifies children by letting them believe they are going to be forcibly removed from their parents? You wanted to teach the children empathy, you say? You've missed by a country mile, Sister. I shudder to think what you do when it's time to get the children ready for the Easter celebration, and you want to teach the Passion of the Christ. Do you drag some poor hapless mite, kicking and squealing, to the front of the classroom before subjecting him to thirty-nine lashes? Do you then empty the vase and wrap the roses around the poor kid's head, shoving the thorns into his scalp? Do you have an oppressively heavy wooden cross shoved onto the kid's back that you then have him struggle through the streets under? I suppose given Calgary is not within the realms of geographical possibility, you would make the poor kid trudge to Minto. And then for the piece de resistance, you probably have some other children - on the verge of succumbing to trauma induced catatonia - nail the poor kid on the cross. Now, just a hint: that kid is not going to get back up after three days.
Truly, some things leave me shaking my head. This sure did, and I was reminded of a view I formed years ago, that view being some nuns should be garrotted with their own rosary beads.
Wednesday 28 June 2017
Monday 26 June 2017
TWIT-ter
Occasionally you read something that just makes you squint, or look out the window and make sure it's still Planet Earth you inhabit, and not some bizarre parallel Twilight Zone-ish universe. Whilst scrolling through my Twitter feed today, I read some items that reminded me of why the creators named it TWIT-ter. The progenitor of this silly tweet is a trans activist. Anybody who knows me is aware I am fully supportive of the LGBTIQ community and their issues. Anybody who knows me will also be aware I hate the stymieing of art in all its forms. Acting is an art form. Therefore when I see a tweet that suggests cis male actors should have to undergo twelve months of real life experience to play a trans woman, I tend to roll my eyes so far back I can see my brains. And believe you me, I am quite sure I have abundantly more brains than someone who would suggest something so asinine.
One of my favourite movies is 'The World According To Garp;, and if you've seen it you will be aware there is a character named Roberta Muldoon, who is a transsexual. Roberta was formerly Robert Muldoon, No. 99 for the Philadelphia Eagles. Roberta is played by John Lithgow, in a performance that I think must surely be the pinnacle of his career. I introduced a friend to this movie one day; we viewed it at the flat in Double Way where she then lived. She was enthralled by the movie, and even more so when Roberta is introduced into the story. She hesitantly asked, 'Is this a guy?' I daresay the fact that Lithgow is a very tall and imposing figure, who towered over the rest of the cast, is what tipped her off. I confirmed the actor playing Roberta is male, and she just shook her head and exclaimed what a convincing job he was doing at playing a female. I'm not sure what preparation Lithgow undertook when getting ready for the role. Perhaps he just checked out the women in his life to study the way they held themselves when walking, or practised speaking in softer tones. Maybe he walked around in women's shoes to become accustomed to the footwear into which we occasionally shove our feet. But I think I can state with the utmost confidence - even without knowing the man personally - he did not undergo gender reassignment surgery.
I can state with the same confidence that when, in preparation for the role of Hannibal Lecter, Sir Anthony Hopkins didn't really kill people and eat them, accompanied by a nice Chianti or not. He might have read some psych reports and case studies, and spoken to some psychiatrists when trying to figure out how to act the depraved Dr Lecter. He might have sat down and thought: 'This guy seems to be a cross between Frasier Crane and Jeffrey Dahmer - I think I'll go for that angle when I'm getting into character.' He possibly took some direction from Jonathan Van Demme during filming. But you must agree it is extremely unlikely he slaughtered some poor sap and ate his liver, particularly given Sir Anthony Hopkins is vegetarian.
Matt Damon didn't really go to Mars to prepare for 'The Martian'. Gary Sinise didn't really undergo amputation of both legs below the knee for 'Forrest Gump'. To my knowledge, Eddie Redmayne doesn't have the same academic qualifications as Professor Stephen Hawking, nor does he have the same debilitating disease. Hell, the actors who played the Nazis on 'Hogan's Heroes' were Jewish.
Can all you people who jump up on some social justice bandwagon and insist actors either undertake unrealistic courses of action, or else stay within roles that pertain to their birth gender, ethnicity, religion, or sexuality, please remember they are ACTING!!! They are entertaining us, and often doing a very good job of what they do, which is ACTING. Our word 'hypocrite' comes from the Greek word for actor, so it's ease to correlate it with doing something outside their accepted societal 'norm', but for the love of Christ on a pogo stick fitted with an outboard motor: it's ACTING!!! Moaning about people contributing to their chosen professional art form is hardly likely to raise sympathy for your cause.
One of my favourite movies is 'The World According To Garp;, and if you've seen it you will be aware there is a character named Roberta Muldoon, who is a transsexual. Roberta was formerly Robert Muldoon, No. 99 for the Philadelphia Eagles. Roberta is played by John Lithgow, in a performance that I think must surely be the pinnacle of his career. I introduced a friend to this movie one day; we viewed it at the flat in Double Way where she then lived. She was enthralled by the movie, and even more so when Roberta is introduced into the story. She hesitantly asked, 'Is this a guy?' I daresay the fact that Lithgow is a very tall and imposing figure, who towered over the rest of the cast, is what tipped her off. I confirmed the actor playing Roberta is male, and she just shook her head and exclaimed what a convincing job he was doing at playing a female. I'm not sure what preparation Lithgow undertook when getting ready for the role. Perhaps he just checked out the women in his life to study the way they held themselves when walking, or practised speaking in softer tones. Maybe he walked around in women's shoes to become accustomed to the footwear into which we occasionally shove our feet. But I think I can state with the utmost confidence - even without knowing the man personally - he did not undergo gender reassignment surgery.
I can state with the same confidence that when, in preparation for the role of Hannibal Lecter, Sir Anthony Hopkins didn't really kill people and eat them, accompanied by a nice Chianti or not. He might have read some psych reports and case studies, and spoken to some psychiatrists when trying to figure out how to act the depraved Dr Lecter. He might have sat down and thought: 'This guy seems to be a cross between Frasier Crane and Jeffrey Dahmer - I think I'll go for that angle when I'm getting into character.' He possibly took some direction from Jonathan Van Demme during filming. But you must agree it is extremely unlikely he slaughtered some poor sap and ate his liver, particularly given Sir Anthony Hopkins is vegetarian.
Matt Damon didn't really go to Mars to prepare for 'The Martian'. Gary Sinise didn't really undergo amputation of both legs below the knee for 'Forrest Gump'. To my knowledge, Eddie Redmayne doesn't have the same academic qualifications as Professor Stephen Hawking, nor does he have the same debilitating disease. Hell, the actors who played the Nazis on 'Hogan's Heroes' were Jewish.
Can all you people who jump up on some social justice bandwagon and insist actors either undertake unrealistic courses of action, or else stay within roles that pertain to their birth gender, ethnicity, religion, or sexuality, please remember they are ACTING!!! They are entertaining us, and often doing a very good job of what they do, which is ACTING. Our word 'hypocrite' comes from the Greek word for actor, so it's ease to correlate it with doing something outside their accepted societal 'norm', but for the love of Christ on a pogo stick fitted with an outboard motor: it's ACTING!!! Moaning about people contributing to their chosen professional art form is hardly likely to raise sympathy for your cause.
Friday 23 June 2017
Commotion About The Motion
'You must be the change you wish to see in the world.' - Gandhi
'We are what we repeatedly do; excellence, then, is not an act but a habit.' - Aristotle
'The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new lands but seeing with new eyes.' - Marcel Proust
'The world is a stage, but the play is badly cast.' - Oscar Wilde
'Beauty is only skin deep, but ugly goes clean to the bone.' - Dorothy Parker
'Whaddya fucken doing, ya fucken idiot?!! Fucken learn to fucken drive, why don't ya?!!!' - Me
I'm not sure that my quote is as profound as those I've listed from Gandhi et al, but my giddy aunt it was an appropriate one when I directed it to the braindead carbon based life form who today, with no knowledge whatsoever of road rules pertaining to roundabout etiquette, took to the road behind the wheel of some old jalopy and nearly ploughed into me at the roundabout near where I work, when I was en route to hand in my time sheet.
It has been a trying week in some ways. I have been as busy as a one-armed fan dancer and being a Friday night, I wish I could say my working week is over. Alas, it is not, for I am rostered to do some work tomorrow morning, as well. But I have relaxed over a huuuge glass of wine this evening. My early morning work call for tomorrow prevents me having more, but maybe tomorrow?
My social media feed has been focusing on things about which I'm quite sure I am incapable of giving a rat's arse. People seem to be losing their shiz over Greens senator Larissa Waters breastfeeding her infant in Parliament, whilst passing a motion. I should clarify that it was the senator passing the motion, and not the baby. The views I have read are pretty evenly divided between those in support, and those who think this is the most abhorrent and offensive phenomenon since some sadistic chef threw old cake, sherry and custard into a bowl and called it 'trifle'. Look, this is MY blog, and I happen to think trifle is an offensive and abhorrent thing, okay? Just indulge me a little, okay? I am honestly not bothered that she did this, because I am all for breastfeeding. I am not going to decry this as a publicity stunt because having breastfed my own children, I am aware they tend not to time it that well. It is highly possible the kid was chowing down when it was the senator's turn to speak. From what I understand of Parliament's machinations, particularly when motions are being tabled, one can't really leave the room because one loses one's chance. And let's get some perspective here, folks: the kid was having a feed, and not running around being disruptive, pulling on the hems of parliamentarians' trousers, or squealing, or puking on the floor, or drawing on the walls. This is a BABY who is not ambulatory and is being fed. It's better the bub get a feed than carry on squawking and grizzling and whining, which from what I've seen on Question Time is really the province of the sitting members.
Also, it's all over the news Roxy Jacenko's husband has been released from prison. Again, I'm not sure why this is news. She can collect him in a jet, in a Monaro, in a garbage truck, or on a skateboard; why is it news? He fucked up, he served his sentence, he's out. Nothing to see here, folks; move on. On a side note, why are these people famous, anyway?
Regarding my previous post on 'Ministers of the Clown', it seems the Court has accepted the apology of Tudge, Sukkar, and Hunt. Then I read the matter's not completely over yet. Watching with interest, and hoping other MPs learn from their fuck-up, er, little mistake.
'We are what we repeatedly do; excellence, then, is not an act but a habit.' - Aristotle
'The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new lands but seeing with new eyes.' - Marcel Proust
'The world is a stage, but the play is badly cast.' - Oscar Wilde
'Beauty is only skin deep, but ugly goes clean to the bone.' - Dorothy Parker
'Whaddya fucken doing, ya fucken idiot?!! Fucken learn to fucken drive, why don't ya?!!!' - Me
I'm not sure that my quote is as profound as those I've listed from Gandhi et al, but my giddy aunt it was an appropriate one when I directed it to the braindead carbon based life form who today, with no knowledge whatsoever of road rules pertaining to roundabout etiquette, took to the road behind the wheel of some old jalopy and nearly ploughed into me at the roundabout near where I work, when I was en route to hand in my time sheet.
It has been a trying week in some ways. I have been as busy as a one-armed fan dancer and being a Friday night, I wish I could say my working week is over. Alas, it is not, for I am rostered to do some work tomorrow morning, as well. But I have relaxed over a huuuge glass of wine this evening. My early morning work call for tomorrow prevents me having more, but maybe tomorrow?
My social media feed has been focusing on things about which I'm quite sure I am incapable of giving a rat's arse. People seem to be losing their shiz over Greens senator Larissa Waters breastfeeding her infant in Parliament, whilst passing a motion. I should clarify that it was the senator passing the motion, and not the baby. The views I have read are pretty evenly divided between those in support, and those who think this is the most abhorrent and offensive phenomenon since some sadistic chef threw old cake, sherry and custard into a bowl and called it 'trifle'. Look, this is MY blog, and I happen to think trifle is an offensive and abhorrent thing, okay? Just indulge me a little, okay? I am honestly not bothered that she did this, because I am all for breastfeeding. I am not going to decry this as a publicity stunt because having breastfed my own children, I am aware they tend not to time it that well. It is highly possible the kid was chowing down when it was the senator's turn to speak. From what I understand of Parliament's machinations, particularly when motions are being tabled, one can't really leave the room because one loses one's chance. And let's get some perspective here, folks: the kid was having a feed, and not running around being disruptive, pulling on the hems of parliamentarians' trousers, or squealing, or puking on the floor, or drawing on the walls. This is a BABY who is not ambulatory and is being fed. It's better the bub get a feed than carry on squawking and grizzling and whining, which from what I've seen on Question Time is really the province of the sitting members.
Also, it's all over the news Roxy Jacenko's husband has been released from prison. Again, I'm not sure why this is news. She can collect him in a jet, in a Monaro, in a garbage truck, or on a skateboard; why is it news? He fucked up, he served his sentence, he's out. Nothing to see here, folks; move on. On a side note, why are these people famous, anyway?
Regarding my previous post on 'Ministers of the Clown', it seems the Court has accepted the apology of Tudge, Sukkar, and Hunt. Then I read the matter's not completely over yet. Watching with interest, and hoping other MPs learn from their fuck-up, er, little mistake.
Saturday 17 June 2017
Ministers of the Clown
I've been deviating from my usual routine of late. Normally, I am an absolute creature of habit. Creature of Habit - don't you just love that noir sounding description? It's almost Lovecraftian in its grim undertones. But yesterday morning I got out of bed, brewed my morning cappuccino (that habit is NEVER going to be shed), and instead of switching on breakfast television I watched Rage. Yes, I sat on the couch and watched Rage in the scant time afforded between waking and getting Master 16 off to soccer.
Today I walked my dogs and attended the gym. Nothing unusual in that, except when I sat on the floor to do some pre-workout stretches, I discovered to my bemusement I was wearing mismatched shoes. This is not something I often do, and another deviance from my normal common sense. I once went to work in mismatched shoes, but they were very similar both being black medium heeled court style, and it was over twenty-five years ago. I continued with my workout paranoid the other exercisers were looking at my silly feet.
This is probably going to be a bit of an unpopular remark, but those how know me will know I am not trying to be obnoxious: I'm not bothered about the Manus Island payout. There. I've said it. I'm not bothered. People are nonplussed to say the least about the settlement, but let me point out that had this matter proceeded to a hearing, the cost would have been a fuckload more. The legal fees awarded to the law firm Slater & Gordon have been the subject of a level of outrage normally reserved for the sacrilege of a tomb, but I'm going to say something else, and it goes like this: there were over 1900 applicants. This means lots and lots of work. There would have been more than one solicitor handling the file, and those solicitors would have been briefing barristers. Barristers, plural. Not one barrister, but many others. It costs money. And again, had the matter proceeded to a hearing rather than settlement, there would have been some seriously considerable coin involved. Here's a link to the Statement of Claim, and it is not merely light reading whilst you are sitting on the dunny, believe me: http://assets.justice.vic.gov.au//supreme/resources/5f9abaa1-ed4b-4988-8d89-ba7a6d219e03/fourthamendedstatementofclaim.pdf
Did anyone else see the footage of Peter Dutton spitting and hissing like a possessed demon as he railed and ranted against the firm, snarling they were 'ambulance chasers'? Wow, Dutts-man, you sure were worked up. Anyone would think you were an embittered ex-Queensland copper. Oh, wait...
The other story I have followed with interest lately is the contempt proceedings against Ministers Hunt, Sukkar, and Tudge. Surprisingly, I have not found myself in humongous online brawls over this. Naturally I have taken it upon myself to inform certain Talking Heads (misinformed media types, not the band helmed by David Byrne) that the reason those three gronks are in trouble is not because they were necessarily critical of the judiciary, but their non-compliance with the principles of sub judice. The stooges have been summonsed by the Court of Appeal, and I have been watching a live stream of the proceedings. I haven't finished watching yet, but one of Their Honours explains the reason for the Court's anger over the ill-advised remarks from the Ministers of the Clown, er, Crown. This is in the first few minutes of proceedings. Worth having a look at. Here's a link: https://t.co/upthOCyI1e
What's got me shaking my head is Sukkar, Tudge and Hunt are lawyers. Surely they would have known better than to make the comments they did. You guys are more like Sucker, Sludge and Hunt (yeah, I know, but it's too easy so I'm not going there!). I guess the urge to appeal to the populist vote outweighed common sense.
One thing engaging in Twitter discussions has achieved is some more book sales for me. This is a good thing because my 16 year old has the appetite of a field of starved horses. He had a driving lesson with his Dad this morning, having been awarded his Learner's Permit last Tuesday. Years ago, a midwife handed me a slimy, slippery, warm, bug-eyed and beautiful creature that brought all my primal protective emotions surging to the surface like magma rushing to a volcano's mouth. Now, I have a strapping lad who stands at least six foot tall and Won't. Stop. EATING!!!
In closing, I will point out I am extremely proud to have harvested a pumpkin from my back yard through this week. It's a Jap. I will refrain from including a picture in this post, because I know it's probably not that fascinating to you the reader. However, I am very proud of this because I am an even worse gardener than Adam and Eve. I did manage to grow a crop of pumpkins years ago, but the damnable things tasted like sawdust. I am waiting a few days to test my venerable vegetable. Watch this space.
Today I walked my dogs and attended the gym. Nothing unusual in that, except when I sat on the floor to do some pre-workout stretches, I discovered to my bemusement I was wearing mismatched shoes. This is not something I often do, and another deviance from my normal common sense. I once went to work in mismatched shoes, but they were very similar both being black medium heeled court style, and it was over twenty-five years ago. I continued with my workout paranoid the other exercisers were looking at my silly feet.
This is probably going to be a bit of an unpopular remark, but those how know me will know I am not trying to be obnoxious: I'm not bothered about the Manus Island payout. There. I've said it. I'm not bothered. People are nonplussed to say the least about the settlement, but let me point out that had this matter proceeded to a hearing, the cost would have been a fuckload more. The legal fees awarded to the law firm Slater & Gordon have been the subject of a level of outrage normally reserved for the sacrilege of a tomb, but I'm going to say something else, and it goes like this: there were over 1900 applicants. This means lots and lots of work. There would have been more than one solicitor handling the file, and those solicitors would have been briefing barristers. Barristers, plural. Not one barrister, but many others. It costs money. And again, had the matter proceeded to a hearing rather than settlement, there would have been some seriously considerable coin involved. Here's a link to the Statement of Claim, and it is not merely light reading whilst you are sitting on the dunny, believe me: http://assets.justice.vic.gov.au//supreme/resources/5f9abaa1-ed4b-4988-8d89-ba7a6d219e03/fourthamendedstatementofclaim.pdf
Did anyone else see the footage of Peter Dutton spitting and hissing like a possessed demon as he railed and ranted against the firm, snarling they were 'ambulance chasers'? Wow, Dutts-man, you sure were worked up. Anyone would think you were an embittered ex-Queensland copper. Oh, wait...
The other story I have followed with interest lately is the contempt proceedings against Ministers Hunt, Sukkar, and Tudge. Surprisingly, I have not found myself in humongous online brawls over this. Naturally I have taken it upon myself to inform certain Talking Heads (misinformed media types, not the band helmed by David Byrne) that the reason those three gronks are in trouble is not because they were necessarily critical of the judiciary, but their non-compliance with the principles of sub judice. The stooges have been summonsed by the Court of Appeal, and I have been watching a live stream of the proceedings. I haven't finished watching yet, but one of Their Honours explains the reason for the Court's anger over the ill-advised remarks from the Ministers of the Clown, er, Crown. This is in the first few minutes of proceedings. Worth having a look at. Here's a link: https://t.co/upthOCyI1e
What's got me shaking my head is Sukkar, Tudge and Hunt are lawyers. Surely they would have known better than to make the comments they did. You guys are more like Sucker, Sludge and Hunt (yeah, I know, but it's too easy so I'm not going there!). I guess the urge to appeal to the populist vote outweighed common sense.
One thing engaging in Twitter discussions has achieved is some more book sales for me. This is a good thing because my 16 year old has the appetite of a field of starved horses. He had a driving lesson with his Dad this morning, having been awarded his Learner's Permit last Tuesday. Years ago, a midwife handed me a slimy, slippery, warm, bug-eyed and beautiful creature that brought all my primal protective emotions surging to the surface like magma rushing to a volcano's mouth. Now, I have a strapping lad who stands at least six foot tall and Won't. Stop. EATING!!!
In closing, I will point out I am extremely proud to have harvested a pumpkin from my back yard through this week. It's a Jap. I will refrain from including a picture in this post, because I know it's probably not that fascinating to you the reader. However, I am very proud of this because I am an even worse gardener than Adam and Eve. I did manage to grow a crop of pumpkins years ago, but the damnable things tasted like sawdust. I am waiting a few days to test my venerable vegetable. Watch this space.
Tuesday 13 June 2017
A Bitter (Red) Pill; Brains 'Left' Behind
Some twenty years ago I viewed a deliciously noir and ironic movie called 'The Last Supper'. No, it was not an Easter flick with a bunch of Anglo actors playing Middle Eastern dudes chowing down on unleavened bread (and let's face it, this is how Christ's disciples are almost ALWAYS portrayed in these biblical epics), but a dark tale of a group of left wing types who, after an unfortunate accident, find themselves killing right wingers with extremist views. How they facilitate this task is to invite such a person to a dinner party, and chat with them. Should the views stated stray into unpleasant territory (such as the right-to-lifer who said words to the effect: 'So what if people get hurt (with flying shrapnel from the bombs) if it means saving an unborn child?'), one of the hosts would offer wine, just brought up from the cellar. The wine was of course poisoned, and the victim would end up being buried in their vegetable garden. Owing to their home-made blood-and-bone fertiliser, their tomatoes just thrived, and were a great talking point over the salad bowl at their dire, dastardly dinners. Their murderous laissez-faire continued until they poisoned an unfortunate librarian whose great crime was to not like the novel 'Catcher In The Rye'. They questioned had they gone too far. Anyway, and herein lies a SPOILER ALERT, by coincidence they were able to convince who they perceived to be a very dangerous right wing politician to attend their house for dinner. This politician expressed some views that would make Trump seem moderate and accepting. His supporters would conduct themselves with great violence at rallies, and you get the picture, I'm sure. Whilst entertaining this alarming man over the dinner table, one of them challenged him on his views, and those of his supporters. He was accused of inciting violence and hatred. His rebuttal was that his views were his own. He admitted to them. He stood by them. He pointed out people did not have to agree with him if it was not their own CHOICE. To the accusation of inciting violence, he stated he had never told any of his followers to behave in thus a manner; they had chosen to and he could not be held accountable for the behaviour of other adults. Our so-called liberal minded heroes were forced to question their own views and choices, and deal with the somewhat lugubrious fact that this purveyor of obnoxious politics had far more tolerance and acceptance than the lot of them combined! I do recommend this movie.
The other day I got to thinking this movie was starting to manifest here in Australia. Oh, don't get me wrong - nobody's slipping arsenic into their home brewed Verdelho. It's more that the left are becoming very intolerant and one-eyed, and seriously rather stupid. Those who know me well would be surprised to read this, given I'm slightly left-wing myself. It's the left-wing media who are doing in this head of mine (a head that has just been treated to a lovely auburn colorant with red-gold foils!). Who's heard about a documentary titled 'The Red Pill' from a US film maker named Cassie Jaye? My understanding is it deals with issues faced by the male section of the populace. Apparently one of the people interviewed for the doco is not popular with mainstream feminism. The movie ended up being pulled from scheduled screenings. The director was interviewed and challenged by presenters Monique Wright and Andrew O'Keefe on 'Sunrise', and the panel on 'The Project' (whom I cannot be bothered to list because they're either sniggering at their own jokes or labouring under the misapprehension of their own brilliance). Those who interviewed her were negative and interrogatory in their style, but here's the kicker: - are you ready for this? Sitting comfortably? Done a wee? - THEY HADN'T VIEWED THE FUCKING DOCUMENTARY! Notwithstanding having supposedly been sent a link to the doco, they hadn't viewed it and went on the offensive! This is kind of like me giving advice to a local rugby league coach about where he had gone wrong, given I know nothing of league and don't watch it.
Apparently Cassie Jaye is perceived as a lapsed feminist who has let the side down. All I see is a film maker who did this funny thing called making a film (it's what film makers do, apparently). The film is presented from a different aspect, and for this reason it seems mainstream Australian media is losing their shit left, right and centre. Someone mightn't like it, so it gets pulled. Hey, there are certain things I don't like being portrayed, but I have my own mind and opposable thumbs, so I just don't bloody watch them! So sick of the Nanny State and moronic Classification Board, and just about everyone else having a gripe about something, thus impinging on the viewing rights of sound-minded adults.
The ludicrous and needless outcry reminds me of the furore that heralded the screening of 'Meet The Habibs'. Racist! cried one camp. Perpetuating Bigoted Stereotypes! cried another. 'Don't Let Anybody View This And Make Up Their Own Minds! was the undercurrent. I will take this opportunity to remind the reader the whinging and beefing was circulating before the first episode even went to air. I have watched a few episodes of the show, and don't actually mind it too much. I personally don't see racist and hackneyed stereotyping. It's a work on the theme of Fish Out Of Water; a bit like 'The Beverly Hillbillies', only with felafel. On a pleasant sidenote, I had a quick look at the show the other night because on the weekend I attended the Sydney Ensemble Theatre Company's production of 'Who's Afraid Of Virginia Woolf?', and the actor who played George plays the neighbour in 'Habibs'. I do so love Albee's masterpiece about the toxic yet needful relationship between the two embittered malcontents who delight in tormenting each other, and those around them. The dialogue is witty and sublime, and the performances on the weekend were mesmerising. Well done to all involved.
But back to the illogical carrying on of the leftist media of late: seriously, it's enough to make me prepare a salad, some coq au vin, and check out what's in my wine cellar!
The other day I got to thinking this movie was starting to manifest here in Australia. Oh, don't get me wrong - nobody's slipping arsenic into their home brewed Verdelho. It's more that the left are becoming very intolerant and one-eyed, and seriously rather stupid. Those who know me well would be surprised to read this, given I'm slightly left-wing myself. It's the left-wing media who are doing in this head of mine (a head that has just been treated to a lovely auburn colorant with red-gold foils!). Who's heard about a documentary titled 'The Red Pill' from a US film maker named Cassie Jaye? My understanding is it deals with issues faced by the male section of the populace. Apparently one of the people interviewed for the doco is not popular with mainstream feminism. The movie ended up being pulled from scheduled screenings. The director was interviewed and challenged by presenters Monique Wright and Andrew O'Keefe on 'Sunrise', and the panel on 'The Project' (whom I cannot be bothered to list because they're either sniggering at their own jokes or labouring under the misapprehension of their own brilliance). Those who interviewed her were negative and interrogatory in their style, but here's the kicker: - are you ready for this? Sitting comfortably? Done a wee? - THEY HADN'T VIEWED THE FUCKING DOCUMENTARY! Notwithstanding having supposedly been sent a link to the doco, they hadn't viewed it and went on the offensive! This is kind of like me giving advice to a local rugby league coach about where he had gone wrong, given I know nothing of league and don't watch it.
Apparently Cassie Jaye is perceived as a lapsed feminist who has let the side down. All I see is a film maker who did this funny thing called making a film (it's what film makers do, apparently). The film is presented from a different aspect, and for this reason it seems mainstream Australian media is losing their shit left, right and centre. Someone mightn't like it, so it gets pulled. Hey, there are certain things I don't like being portrayed, but I have my own mind and opposable thumbs, so I just don't bloody watch them! So sick of the Nanny State and moronic Classification Board, and just about everyone else having a gripe about something, thus impinging on the viewing rights of sound-minded adults.
The ludicrous and needless outcry reminds me of the furore that heralded the screening of 'Meet The Habibs'. Racist! cried one camp. Perpetuating Bigoted Stereotypes! cried another. 'Don't Let Anybody View This And Make Up Their Own Minds! was the undercurrent. I will take this opportunity to remind the reader the whinging and beefing was circulating before the first episode even went to air. I have watched a few episodes of the show, and don't actually mind it too much. I personally don't see racist and hackneyed stereotyping. It's a work on the theme of Fish Out Of Water; a bit like 'The Beverly Hillbillies', only with felafel. On a pleasant sidenote, I had a quick look at the show the other night because on the weekend I attended the Sydney Ensemble Theatre Company's production of 'Who's Afraid Of Virginia Woolf?', and the actor who played George plays the neighbour in 'Habibs'. I do so love Albee's masterpiece about the toxic yet needful relationship between the two embittered malcontents who delight in tormenting each other, and those around them. The dialogue is witty and sublime, and the performances on the weekend were mesmerising. Well done to all involved.
But back to the illogical carrying on of the leftist media of late: seriously, it's enough to make me prepare a salad, some coq au vin, and check out what's in my wine cellar!
Sunday 11 June 2017
My 'Train' Of Thought
I'm wondering if any physicists could explain to me whether there are any atmospheric conditions that could compromise the vibration of air molecules, thus producing a complete aberration of the sound when it travels. You know, make it come out completely different to what nature intended. What's got me wondering is this: on Friday evening I was riding a train en route to Hornsby. Owing to faults in the train, we had to change at Gosford and board another train in the cold night air, and I'm wondering could that, along with the vibrations of the train, have caused a completely skewed result on the original sound waves. You see, I have no doubt the men across the aisle from me had the following conversation:
First man: 'There's a chap minding his own business down the end of this carriage. I do suspect he might be homosexual.'
Second man: 'That's quite possible. However, it is none of our business, especially when you stop to consider he is minding his own business, after all.'
First man: 'By the living Harries, you're right, old chap. His sexuality is none of our business, and matters no more than his star sign, or his blood group, or whether he is left- or right-handed.'
Second man: 'And whether he IS homosexual, it's not like he would be interested in us because we are very unappealing in appearance, and do smell rather strongly.'
First man: 'I would suggest we continue the rest of this journey just minding our own business, and we definitely would not wish to pass disparaging remarks on that which is none of our business. We would not want to appear uneducated to compound the fact we are clearly unwashed, would we?'
Second man: 'Too true, old man. Too true.'
Yes, I'm CERTAIN that's what they were saying. But what I heard sounded exactly like THIS:
First man: 'I reckon there's a fucken poofter up the other end of this carriage, eh?'
Second man: 'Yeah. We should chuck the cunt orf, eh?'
First man and second man succumb to their biting wit and guffaw like a pair of lobotomised trolls.
See what I'm getting at? It's so weird. If there's nothing in the field of acoustics that could explain this anomaly, it's one crazy mondegreen, isn't it?
Or perhaps it's just that I had the misfortune to be sitting o'er the aisle from a bunch of the most feral, foul mouthed gronks to every smoke a White Ox rollie. For the uninitiated, White Ox is known as the prison baccie owing to its cheapness and popularity in prison buy-ups, and it must be incredibly addictive because one of the gronky bogans had to duck up to the dunny for a fortifying top-up, and returned to his seat smelling even worse. Again for the uninitiated, White Ox is redolent of the sphincter region of a tick-infested, intestinal-worm-riddled, dirty, bad-tempered old camel. Cigarettes smell anyway, but this is a product of Satan's tobacco plantation; it's just the frothy bubbles of scum right at the bottom of the swamp of stinking tobacco products. I suspect it is favoured by smelly gronks who say 'cunt' an awful lot when travelling on public transport. Maybe these ponging polecats think it's some kind of mating call to the rest of the women in the carriage. I am very tempted to purchase a heap of cheap thesauruses, and hand them out like religious pamphlets when riding this train. There are so, so many words out there. Why do people have to use the most awful language in a loud voice in public, thus sounding like, as I said above, lobotomised trolls?
First man: 'There's a chap minding his own business down the end of this carriage. I do suspect he might be homosexual.'
Second man: 'That's quite possible. However, it is none of our business, especially when you stop to consider he is minding his own business, after all.'
First man: 'By the living Harries, you're right, old chap. His sexuality is none of our business, and matters no more than his star sign, or his blood group, or whether he is left- or right-handed.'
Second man: 'And whether he IS homosexual, it's not like he would be interested in us because we are very unappealing in appearance, and do smell rather strongly.'
First man: 'I would suggest we continue the rest of this journey just minding our own business, and we definitely would not wish to pass disparaging remarks on that which is none of our business. We would not want to appear uneducated to compound the fact we are clearly unwashed, would we?'
Second man: 'Too true, old man. Too true.'
Yes, I'm CERTAIN that's what they were saying. But what I heard sounded exactly like THIS:
First man: 'I reckon there's a fucken poofter up the other end of this carriage, eh?'
Second man: 'Yeah. We should chuck the cunt orf, eh?'
First man and second man succumb to their biting wit and guffaw like a pair of lobotomised trolls.
See what I'm getting at? It's so weird. If there's nothing in the field of acoustics that could explain this anomaly, it's one crazy mondegreen, isn't it?
Or perhaps it's just that I had the misfortune to be sitting o'er the aisle from a bunch of the most feral, foul mouthed gronks to every smoke a White Ox rollie. For the uninitiated, White Ox is known as the prison baccie owing to its cheapness and popularity in prison buy-ups, and it must be incredibly addictive because one of the gronky bogans had to duck up to the dunny for a fortifying top-up, and returned to his seat smelling even worse. Again for the uninitiated, White Ox is redolent of the sphincter region of a tick-infested, intestinal-worm-riddled, dirty, bad-tempered old camel. Cigarettes smell anyway, but this is a product of Satan's tobacco plantation; it's just the frothy bubbles of scum right at the bottom of the swamp of stinking tobacco products. I suspect it is favoured by smelly gronks who say 'cunt' an awful lot when travelling on public transport. Maybe these ponging polecats think it's some kind of mating call to the rest of the women in the carriage. I am very tempted to purchase a heap of cheap thesauruses, and hand them out like religious pamphlets when riding this train. There are so, so many words out there. Why do people have to use the most awful language in a loud voice in public, thus sounding like, as I said above, lobotomised trolls?
Tuesday 6 June 2017
Bolt From The Glitter
I haven't been very active in the blogosphere of late. Been doing things, and feeling guilty about ignoring my writing work. But I thought whilst I have a window of opportunity, I will force up the pane and look through, extending my arms in a welcoming gesture as I embrace this opportunity with which I am currently graced. Not sure what I'm going to write about. It's been a distressing time on a global scale, and I just wish people would stop killing others for what is probably best defined as superstition. Why don't people just sit back and think about things? 'It's a nice day, I might fire off a bomb that fires nails at little kids enjoying a concert in the name of an omniscient invisible sky wizard' - can't you vicious fools that do this see the problem here? 'What to do, what to do, what to do? Ah, why not drive a car into a group of people for my invisible buddy' - again, this notion is barren of all reason.
On a personal note, I've had a rather crummy week. I do not feel it prudent or politic to outline why, but let's just say I've wanted to play the Jenny Talia song 'F.O.C.U.S.' to certain folk who have caused me to have some aggravation. I've mentioned this little number in a previous post concerning a hypothetical compilation album dedicated to the assholes that make your life (mine in particular) difficult. It's an acronym for Fuck Off Cos Ur Stupid. Yes, I know - the 'cos' for 'because' and the 'ur' for 'you are' should grate on me, and in normal circumstances would grate on me a thousandfold, but I'm overlooking those little nigglies because of the song's message. So, to those who caused my serotonin levels to plummet like a busted elevator just recently: F.O.C.U.S!!!!!
Only caught a little of the news today, but apparently Andrew Bolt was attacked by left-leaning 'fascists' (Bolt's description). It would appear their weapon of choice was not a club, or a mace, or a sock stuffed with bolts (haha), but - are you sitting down and comfy? - a GLITTER BOMB. Yes, Andrew Bolt decried this act by calling it 'the violence of the left', but it was a fucking GLITTER BOMB!!!! Um, I'm having trouble associating a glitter bomb with violence. I associate glitter with Mardi Gras, and if I was going to personally glitter bomb anybody, I would tie that person to a chair and subject them to a repeated loop of recordings by Gary Glitter. Maybe Bolt likes the music of Gary Glitter? I don't know. I do, because I'm a huge fan of glam rock, and -
We take a break in this rant to segue to Simone Bailey's third novel 'Silver Studs & Sabre Teeth' which addresses glam rock and the right of a person to listen to Glitter's recordings without compunction and fear of being castigated because of their own taste in music. Normal blogging will resume shortly.
- I listen to the music because I have this glorious ability to separate art from artist. Now, to those who attacked this bloke with the heinous weapon: that was silly. Even if it was just glitter, a physical attack achieves nothing. Don't get me wrong. I cannot bear Andrew Bolt either, but this is not the way to get your point across. It is still an assault. Even if it's - snicker, snicker! - glitter.
It is very disconcerting having your hair done by somebody much younger at times. I am a tad impecunious at present, and found out my local TAFE students required models for the hairdressing students. I therefore booked myself in for a colour and foils treatment. I settled back for a pampering session, but it was a tad depressing hearing the tutor asking the student what degree of colorant she was planning to use for the grey coverage. The student asked me would I like to have colour applied to my regrowth area. I chuckled a bit and said I could try and rock the old Amanda (Heather Locklear) On Melrose Place Look, given she had notorious black regrowth amongst the blonde locks (which I actually thought was kind of tacky). The student looked at me with innocence and purity, and said she had never watched 'Melrose Place' because it was way before her time. I clammed up in glum despair, and wondered would they offer me a zimmer frame to help me get from my chair to the hair washing basin. But any way, I had the treatment done, and I'm feeling totes amazeballs, ta very much. Oh, fuck that, I'm a mature and articulate woman! Take Two: I'm feeling glamorous and presentable, thank you very much.
On a brighter note, other things are looking up, and I have been feeling an emotion which I thought had packed its bags and abandoned me for good: Hope. I will compile another hypothetical CD playlist soon dedicated to Hope and Happiness. It might not be as fun to write or read about as the bitchy ones, because after all every good story needs conflict and a villain, but it is wonderful to feel hope again.
On a personal note, I've had a rather crummy week. I do not feel it prudent or politic to outline why, but let's just say I've wanted to play the Jenny Talia song 'F.O.C.U.S.' to certain folk who have caused me to have some aggravation. I've mentioned this little number in a previous post concerning a hypothetical compilation album dedicated to the assholes that make your life (mine in particular) difficult. It's an acronym for Fuck Off Cos Ur Stupid. Yes, I know - the 'cos' for 'because' and the 'ur' for 'you are' should grate on me, and in normal circumstances would grate on me a thousandfold, but I'm overlooking those little nigglies because of the song's message. So, to those who caused my serotonin levels to plummet like a busted elevator just recently: F.O.C.U.S!!!!!
Only caught a little of the news today, but apparently Andrew Bolt was attacked by left-leaning 'fascists' (Bolt's description). It would appear their weapon of choice was not a club, or a mace, or a sock stuffed with bolts (haha), but - are you sitting down and comfy? - a GLITTER BOMB. Yes, Andrew Bolt decried this act by calling it 'the violence of the left', but it was a fucking GLITTER BOMB!!!! Um, I'm having trouble associating a glitter bomb with violence. I associate glitter with Mardi Gras, and if I was going to personally glitter bomb anybody, I would tie that person to a chair and subject them to a repeated loop of recordings by Gary Glitter. Maybe Bolt likes the music of Gary Glitter? I don't know. I do, because I'm a huge fan of glam rock, and -
We take a break in this rant to segue to Simone Bailey's third novel 'Silver Studs & Sabre Teeth' which addresses glam rock and the right of a person to listen to Glitter's recordings without compunction and fear of being castigated because of their own taste in music. Normal blogging will resume shortly.
- I listen to the music because I have this glorious ability to separate art from artist. Now, to those who attacked this bloke with the heinous weapon: that was silly. Even if it was just glitter, a physical attack achieves nothing. Don't get me wrong. I cannot bear Andrew Bolt either, but this is not the way to get your point across. It is still an assault. Even if it's - snicker, snicker! - glitter.
It is very disconcerting having your hair done by somebody much younger at times. I am a tad impecunious at present, and found out my local TAFE students required models for the hairdressing students. I therefore booked myself in for a colour and foils treatment. I settled back for a pampering session, but it was a tad depressing hearing the tutor asking the student what degree of colorant she was planning to use for the grey coverage. The student asked me would I like to have colour applied to my regrowth area. I chuckled a bit and said I could try and rock the old Amanda (Heather Locklear) On Melrose Place Look, given she had notorious black regrowth amongst the blonde locks (which I actually thought was kind of tacky). The student looked at me with innocence and purity, and said she had never watched 'Melrose Place' because it was way before her time. I clammed up in glum despair, and wondered would they offer me a zimmer frame to help me get from my chair to the hair washing basin. But any way, I had the treatment done, and I'm feeling totes amazeballs, ta very much. Oh, fuck that, I'm a mature and articulate woman! Take Two: I'm feeling glamorous and presentable, thank you very much.
On a brighter note, other things are looking up, and I have been feeling an emotion which I thought had packed its bags and abandoned me for good: Hope. I will compile another hypothetical CD playlist soon dedicated to Hope and Happiness. It might not be as fun to write or read about as the bitchy ones, because after all every good story needs conflict and a villain, but it is wonderful to feel hope again.
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