Has anybody else ever turned up to an event wearing the same outfit as somebody else? It's never happened to me, and I don't know anyone else to whom this has happened. For a woman, it's supposed to be considered some kind of great social death and embarrassment. I'm thinking about this because Princess Mary of Denmark turned up to some fashion awards in Copenhagen, and another attendee was wearing the same dress. Of course the press are fawning about how they laughed it off. I'd be thinking: Who gives a fuck? Whilst not a sartorially blessed type myself, I do remember one piece of advice - you're supposed to be the great looking girl in the dress, not the girl in the great looking dress. But herein lies the fundamental problem. This was not a great looking dress. My first reaction upon seeing a picture of the two women together was not that they looked the same, but, 'So THAT'S what happened to the fabric Mum had to cover the dining chairs with when I was a kid in the Seventies. I have wondered about that often.'
Truly, that dress is one of the most hideous garments ever, second only to the mid-Nineties baby doll style dress with its billowing sack silhouette that flattered nobody, including baby dolls. It looks like paisley brown, and is silk. Come on, people. As I've mentioned, I'm not a fashionista but really, not many can wear shiny fabric with any hint of brown like that. Our Aussie glam band Hush did back in 1975, and it takes some special je ne sais quoi to do this. It should be noted that along with an ability to carry off brown satin, Hush also featured two Asian-Australians, which was very uncommon so it could be described as brave and ground-breaking.
Redheads too can wear brown, and even some shiny fabrics, but this dress was so blood chillingly hideous with its swirly brown everywhere, and it just screamed Seventies Kitsch. It reminded me of this old fondue set my mother-in-law owned, which my husband appropriated because we love to cook in different styles. Looking at the princess and the other attendee in those monstrous outfits, all I could think was old episodes of 'Number 96', or 'Matlock Police'. I was wondering were the wait staff passing around cheddar-cubes-and-cocktail-onion combos on toothpicks. Perhaps there was a tray of devon meat slices, all rolled up with mashed potato filling. The record player might have had a subtle decibel level of Santana . Perhaps there was a bowl full of car keys.
My previous post told of dumb-arses I have met of late. Yesterday there was another to add to the list. I was in a local clothing store - not a boutique just a franchise in the vein of the old Fosseys. I had to buy my son some flesh coloured underwear for his outfit in his upcoming dance concert. I made my way to the check out, to what I thought was the queue. Well, when there someone stands in the aisle at the point nearest the check out it usually indicates the commencement of the queue. I stood behind a woman. 'Next, please!' called the till operator. The woman in front of me, resplendent in active wear that made her look as though she had been shoplifting in the cushion department of this store, remained oblivious. 'Next, please!' called the till operator, again. I wondered had the woman been encaged by some invisible yet impenetrable force field that rendered her impervious to any sound (such as that of a check out operator calling). I craned my neck a little, and saw the damn woman was looking at Facebook on her phone! 'Next, please!' called the operator, a little more loudly this time. I rolled my eyes, squeeeeeeezed past the woman and slammed my son's flesh coloured underpants on the counter for payment. My challenge to the laws of physics in passing this woman caused her to stir from her reverie. 'Duh, sorry,' she said in this really dull, slow fashion that made me think of Brain from 'Top Cat'.
Yes, it's Hallowe'en. Yes, people are posting pictures of costumes. Yes, everyone's complaining and losing their shit over perceived racism or cultural appropriation. Some coloured guys have white-faced and said they are going as 'White Privilege'. I actually think this is rather funny. It's hardly racist. And if it was, I don't really care all that much. Everybody who is celebrating, wear whatever the hell you want, have fun, and don't act like a dick.
Monday, 30 October 2017
Sunday, 29 October 2017
Dumb-Arses I Have Met
It has been my grave misfortune to encounter dumb-arses today. In person and in cyberspace. Why do people have to indulge in and live by the laws of abject dumb-arsery, all the while stealing a good share of the oxygen from the rest of us who actually have some sense? These are the dumb-arses who ruined my day today:
1. A blogger whom I won't name who wrote a post on her reservations about allowing her daughter to dress as Disney's Moana for Halloween. In her dung heap of a view, this could be racist. It could also be a manifestation of the most vile of phenomena these days: 'cultural appropriation'. I am staring to loathe that phrase. Every time I see or hear it, I know my teeth are going to be as set on edge as if I was listening to a honey badger scraping its claws along a blackboard. The odious phrase is taking over from 'misogyny' as the catch cry and cause of SJWs everywhere, the type who get up and even before they've had their coffee are hard at work trying to figure out exactly what to be offended by and on behalf of whom for the day. This lady doesn't want to raise a racist kid. I'm cool with that. I don't want to raise racist kids, either. Raising kids who aren't racist is commendable. Raising kids who are going to turn into a writhing knot of neuroses and end up costing you a fortune in therapists' fees is not. Is Moana offensive to those of Polynesian descent? I don't know; I've neither seen the film nor asked anybody of Polynesian background. Does a young girl want to represent a foreign culture, or a Disney heroine she admires? And here's something for all you people who have fallen in love with the cultural appropriation cause: while you're worrying yourselves stupid over some costume for a little kid to wear and have fun in over Halloween, does it not occur to you that Halloween is the appropriation of another culture, albeit an ancient one?
2. The reeking grot at Aldi trolley bay today. I didn't get a very good look, because I was trying not to swoon from the nose-busting stench of the slob. The body odour assailed my nostrils in palpable noisome waves that could have been sliced through with a cutlass. Listen, mate, commercial deodorant as we know it was first trademarked in 1888. In the 130-odd years since, it has become widespread, easy to come by, is relatively inexpensive, and not at all difficult to apply. There is no reason to get around in a virulent cloud of utter ponginess. I shoved the little latch back in the trolley slot, snatched out my dollar coin, and virtually sprinted back to my vehicle away from the toxic fumes so I could take a breath of BO-free air again.
3. The imbecilic retard driving what looked like a Rodeo this afternoon at about 1.25pm. I have a sixteen-year-old. He is a tall, brainy, computer and gaming nerd. He is also on his Ls. This afternoon, at the aforementioned time, I took him out to our local industrial estate for a diving lesson. I turned off the main road at a T-intersection, whereupon we put the magnetic L-plates on my car and swapped seats. Everything was going smoothly. There was a vehicle approaching from the other direction, but it is not that driver with whom I take issue. I'm getting to that. The scene went a little like this, with me speaking in an encouraging yet authoritative manner: 'Turn the ignition on. Got your blinker on? Put it into gear. Mirror, mirror, blind spot. Good. Nothing's coming. We're right to pull out. Ready?...WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU FUCKING DOING YOU BLOODY FUCKING IDIOT!!!!' The capitalised section of my dialogue was directed not at the fruit of my womb, but at the 'fucking idiot' that came screaming around from the main road at high speed, and flew past us almost straight into the oncoming car, wove sharply back into the correct lane with the grace and trajectory of a drunken pinball pellet, before continuing at that alarming speed into the distance, where I assume he made the jump into hyperspace. As we continued with our lesson, I said to my son that I hoped that idiot had made it to the toilet in time, because it must have been an imminent bout of explosive diarrhoea threatening to make him speed and drive so dangerously.
Well, that will do me for the time being. Tomorrow will bring another day - it's what tends to happen when the Earth spins on its axis - and hopefully it will be a day not hampered by dumb-arses.
1. A blogger whom I won't name who wrote a post on her reservations about allowing her daughter to dress as Disney's Moana for Halloween. In her dung heap of a view, this could be racist. It could also be a manifestation of the most vile of phenomena these days: 'cultural appropriation'. I am staring to loathe that phrase. Every time I see or hear it, I know my teeth are going to be as set on edge as if I was listening to a honey badger scraping its claws along a blackboard. The odious phrase is taking over from 'misogyny' as the catch cry and cause of SJWs everywhere, the type who get up and even before they've had their coffee are hard at work trying to figure out exactly what to be offended by and on behalf of whom for the day. This lady doesn't want to raise a racist kid. I'm cool with that. I don't want to raise racist kids, either. Raising kids who aren't racist is commendable. Raising kids who are going to turn into a writhing knot of neuroses and end up costing you a fortune in therapists' fees is not. Is Moana offensive to those of Polynesian descent? I don't know; I've neither seen the film nor asked anybody of Polynesian background. Does a young girl want to represent a foreign culture, or a Disney heroine she admires? And here's something for all you people who have fallen in love with the cultural appropriation cause: while you're worrying yourselves stupid over some costume for a little kid to wear and have fun in over Halloween, does it not occur to you that Halloween is the appropriation of another culture, albeit an ancient one?
2. The reeking grot at Aldi trolley bay today. I didn't get a very good look, because I was trying not to swoon from the nose-busting stench of the slob. The body odour assailed my nostrils in palpable noisome waves that could have been sliced through with a cutlass. Listen, mate, commercial deodorant as we know it was first trademarked in 1888. In the 130-odd years since, it has become widespread, easy to come by, is relatively inexpensive, and not at all difficult to apply. There is no reason to get around in a virulent cloud of utter ponginess. I shoved the little latch back in the trolley slot, snatched out my dollar coin, and virtually sprinted back to my vehicle away from the toxic fumes so I could take a breath of BO-free air again.
3. The imbecilic retard driving what looked like a Rodeo this afternoon at about 1.25pm. I have a sixteen-year-old. He is a tall, brainy, computer and gaming nerd. He is also on his Ls. This afternoon, at the aforementioned time, I took him out to our local industrial estate for a diving lesson. I turned off the main road at a T-intersection, whereupon we put the magnetic L-plates on my car and swapped seats. Everything was going smoothly. There was a vehicle approaching from the other direction, but it is not that driver with whom I take issue. I'm getting to that. The scene went a little like this, with me speaking in an encouraging yet authoritative manner: 'Turn the ignition on. Got your blinker on? Put it into gear. Mirror, mirror, blind spot. Good. Nothing's coming. We're right to pull out. Ready?...WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU FUCKING DOING YOU BLOODY FUCKING IDIOT!!!!' The capitalised section of my dialogue was directed not at the fruit of my womb, but at the 'fucking idiot' that came screaming around from the main road at high speed, and flew past us almost straight into the oncoming car, wove sharply back into the correct lane with the grace and trajectory of a drunken pinball pellet, before continuing at that alarming speed into the distance, where I assume he made the jump into hyperspace. As we continued with our lesson, I said to my son that I hoped that idiot had made it to the toilet in time, because it must have been an imminent bout of explosive diarrhoea threatening to make him speed and drive so dangerously.
Well, that will do me for the time being. Tomorrow will bring another day - it's what tends to happen when the Earth spins on its axis - and hopefully it will be a day not hampered by dumb-arses.
Thursday, 26 October 2017
Explosive Hits (Not The K-Tel Collection!)
Those of us of a certain age probably had a K-tel conglomeration of contemporary pop tunes titled 'Explosive Hits' in our K-tel flip finder (yours for just $2.99) wherein we stored our vinyl. I have been thinking about other explosive hits, shall we say, and set out hereunder is my list of things that have a propensity to explode or blow up:
1. Baked potatoes. Pierce the skin, always.
2. Light bulbs. I've had this happen. A crystalline sounding explosion and a hail of shards all over my dining room floor later.
3. Shaken soft drink bottles. Stop doing this. It isn't funny.
4. Propane tanks.
5. Gas-hotplates/grills. Lit the grill in a share house of which I was a tenant in 1986 - WOOOF!! - simultaneous loud noise and bright flare. Me standing in stupefied horror with singed eyebrows and fringe ensued.
6. Any explosive of the Acme brand. Just ask Wile E Coyote.
7. Employment Minister Michaelia Cash's hair when near a naked flame. Seriously, how much hairspray must she use?
8. Contacting the media about the AFP raid on the offices of the AWU so the media arrives at the offices of the AWU BEFORE THE AFP DOES! See where I'm going with this, Ms Cash? And keep your head away from naked flames.
1. Baked potatoes. Pierce the skin, always.
2. Light bulbs. I've had this happen. A crystalline sounding explosion and a hail of shards all over my dining room floor later.
3. Shaken soft drink bottles. Stop doing this. It isn't funny.
4. Propane tanks.
5. Gas-hotplates/grills. Lit the grill in a share house of which I was a tenant in 1986 - WOOOF!! - simultaneous loud noise and bright flare. Me standing in stupefied horror with singed eyebrows and fringe ensued.
6. Any explosive of the Acme brand. Just ask Wile E Coyote.
7. Employment Minister Michaelia Cash's hair when near a naked flame. Seriously, how much hairspray must she use?
8. Contacting the media about the AFP raid on the offices of the AWU so the media arrives at the offices of the AWU BEFORE THE AFP DOES! See where I'm going with this, Ms Cash? And keep your head away from naked flames.
Tuesday, 24 October 2017
References To Ancient Roman Backstabbing & RIP George Young
Something I have grown to realise and accept in my life of late is that blackface is not okay. I personally don't find it offensive as I tend to try and see the motivation for whoever is masquerading thus, such as a fancy dress party. It's quite likely the person who has dressed thus has had no intention of denigrating an entire race and culture. However, people do tend to jump on a bandwagon about it, and frankly, it's not worth doing. Not that I would. Not that I ever have. Some people have donned blackface for fancy dress when attending a costume party. However, in these times of social media should you attempt such an outfit, you are going to end up on the Internet and labelled a racist, whether the term is deserved or not. Blackface was, to my understanding, linked to vaudeville entertainment wherein white entertainers lampooned people of dark skin.
In Australia, we don't have the history that the US has and don't get it. Likewise, I think the US doesn't 'get' us, either. I do think people should look for context before they start getting offended. I tend to think of this as the Harry Connick Jnr Syndrome. It's not a recognised psychological textbook condition, but just something that makes me think of the crooner having a sook on 'Hey, Hey' that time when a group of contestants performed a spoof of the Jackson Five. Harry complained about their makeup, and Darryl Somers crawled up his bum. Rather than having the host of the show crawl up Connick's bum, the producers should have organised a crash course for him in history and geography so he could understand the rest of the world is not America and there was no way the contestants on this Australian show intended offence of any type.
The skit was first performed at a university medical students' revue. I actually attended the show, accompanied by a guy with whom I was then hanging around. I did not see racism; I saw a rather funny pisstake of the Jacksons.
The point to these ponderings is that an aide in the cabinet of Bill Shorten has resigned after a picture of him in blackface was leaked onto social media. This was from a party some ten years ago, before Harry Connick Jnr enlightened us, or else spoiled everything with his amazing ability to totally miss the point and not see past his own nose (depending upon your point of view). Should the staffer have resigned? In my opinion: no fucking way. Come on, hands up who hasn't done something completely bloody stupid when they were younger. Here's a hint: I'm typing this with one hand because I've got the other raised in the air. Why should someone lose their job over youthful hijinks that at the time were not considered really offensive, and not illegal anyway? I don't care that one of Shorten's staff did something a bit asinine when younger. I wouldn't care if a member of Turnbull's staff had done the same, either. Nowadays might be a bit different because we KNOW it's considered not cool, and you'd have to be completely devoid of any sense particles to pull such a stunt, and for THAT you should be castigated.
I'm curious about whomsoever leaked this photograph. If a member of Shorten's staff, maybe THAT person should be called to task. I bet if we tried to find a photograph of this person in fancy dress some years ago, he or she would be in a Roman toga and brandishing a knife to portray the backstabbing Brutus, murderer of Julius Caesar. Or perhaps the person would be in a shiny, scaly reptilian looking body suit with some greenery around him or her ('Who have you come us?' 'Who, me? Oh, I'm a snake in the grass!').
Speaking of politics, now there's stories abounding of Barnaby Joyce having had an affair with a staffer. What can I say but: ick. Kind of flies in the face of Barnaby's image of being a family man, and having policies to protect the traditional nuclear family unit. But if they're consenting adults, why do people have to care? Certainly I question the sensibilities of the lady involved, but it's honestly none of my business if Barnaby Joyce is doing The Wild Thang, and it's honestly not an image I want in my brain, either.
This might be a more entertaining image for the brain. Picture this: the year is 1977, and in rural New South Wales an eleven-year-old girl is sitting down in the lounge room of her home to watch 'Sounds', which is typical Saturday morning fare. She is the only one watching; her mother is in the laundry tending to the weekly wash. Her father is out fixing the windmill. Her siblings, much older than her, are elsewhere; the oldest working as a jackaroo in a nearby town, the next to oldest away at university, and the closest in age to her (still a seemingly whopping gap of five years) is away at boarding school. She enjoys her solitude, being somewhat socially inept and not always enjoying the fact she towers over most of the boys her age, because she is very tall for an eleven-year-old. Then the film clip is played for a song she has never heard before. It is performed by two guys she can't quite place. One is tall and blonde, and the other is short with dark hair. They're both kind of plain. That doesn't matter. The verse is kind of spoken to the music, with a powerfully evocative feeling of ennui in the delivery as he tells us 'the sun arose/trying to smile/gave it all away....'. It's just saturated with the pathos of really, really trying, but in the end being unable to give a fuck. Then it's the chorus picks up the pace drastically as these bland guys give a shout to the keeper of the Pearly Gates, who is also one of the patron saints of fishermen. 'Hey! Hey! Hey, Saint Peter...', they beseech, and go on to plead their case, 'Just been down/To New York Town/Done my time in Hell...'
The song continues and then it moves into the liveliest bridge played on the piano this eleven-year-old has ever heard, and in the forty years since she's not heard a bridge so mesmerising in its ability to transfix her to the spot, make her feel alive quite the way that one has. As an adult, she wonders could have bridge be almost Rachmaninoff-ish, and wonders is she leaning a little towards grandiose hyperbole.
The film clip closes with the actor playing St Peter cutting loose in his biblical costume and throwing around Peter's brand ice creams (such an Aussie outlook in this clip). On the final uttered, despairing, 'Hell...' the figure at the keyboard turns. It's a skeleton in a hooded cape, with Devil horns. The entire film clip was probably miserly cheap by today's standards, but the song sells itself. That is one mofo of a song.
The eleven-year-old learns the name of the band is Flash and the Pan, and they comprise Harry Vanda and George Young. The eleven-year-old, already a music nut, eventually comes to realise Vanda and Young are responsible for a considerable percentage of the Australian music she enjoys.
The eleven-year-old grew up, and maintained her admiration for Vanda and Young's body of work, and yesterday was deeply saddened to hear of the passing of George Young. RIP, George. You no doubt climbed the stairs to the gates, and greeted the keeper with a companionable, 'Hey, St Peter!'
In Australia, we don't have the history that the US has and don't get it. Likewise, I think the US doesn't 'get' us, either. I do think people should look for context before they start getting offended. I tend to think of this as the Harry Connick Jnr Syndrome. It's not a recognised psychological textbook condition, but just something that makes me think of the crooner having a sook on 'Hey, Hey' that time when a group of contestants performed a spoof of the Jackson Five. Harry complained about their makeup, and Darryl Somers crawled up his bum. Rather than having the host of the show crawl up Connick's bum, the producers should have organised a crash course for him in history and geography so he could understand the rest of the world is not America and there was no way the contestants on this Australian show intended offence of any type.
The skit was first performed at a university medical students' revue. I actually attended the show, accompanied by a guy with whom I was then hanging around. I did not see racism; I saw a rather funny pisstake of the Jacksons.
The point to these ponderings is that an aide in the cabinet of Bill Shorten has resigned after a picture of him in blackface was leaked onto social media. This was from a party some ten years ago, before Harry Connick Jnr enlightened us, or else spoiled everything with his amazing ability to totally miss the point and not see past his own nose (depending upon your point of view). Should the staffer have resigned? In my opinion: no fucking way. Come on, hands up who hasn't done something completely bloody stupid when they were younger. Here's a hint: I'm typing this with one hand because I've got the other raised in the air. Why should someone lose their job over youthful hijinks that at the time were not considered really offensive, and not illegal anyway? I don't care that one of Shorten's staff did something a bit asinine when younger. I wouldn't care if a member of Turnbull's staff had done the same, either. Nowadays might be a bit different because we KNOW it's considered not cool, and you'd have to be completely devoid of any sense particles to pull such a stunt, and for THAT you should be castigated.
I'm curious about whomsoever leaked this photograph. If a member of Shorten's staff, maybe THAT person should be called to task. I bet if we tried to find a photograph of this person in fancy dress some years ago, he or she would be in a Roman toga and brandishing a knife to portray the backstabbing Brutus, murderer of Julius Caesar. Or perhaps the person would be in a shiny, scaly reptilian looking body suit with some greenery around him or her ('Who have you come us?' 'Who, me? Oh, I'm a snake in the grass!').
Speaking of politics, now there's stories abounding of Barnaby Joyce having had an affair with a staffer. What can I say but: ick. Kind of flies in the face of Barnaby's image of being a family man, and having policies to protect the traditional nuclear family unit. But if they're consenting adults, why do people have to care? Certainly I question the sensibilities of the lady involved, but it's honestly none of my business if Barnaby Joyce is doing The Wild Thang, and it's honestly not an image I want in my brain, either.
This might be a more entertaining image for the brain. Picture this: the year is 1977, and in rural New South Wales an eleven-year-old girl is sitting down in the lounge room of her home to watch 'Sounds', which is typical Saturday morning fare. She is the only one watching; her mother is in the laundry tending to the weekly wash. Her father is out fixing the windmill. Her siblings, much older than her, are elsewhere; the oldest working as a jackaroo in a nearby town, the next to oldest away at university, and the closest in age to her (still a seemingly whopping gap of five years) is away at boarding school. She enjoys her solitude, being somewhat socially inept and not always enjoying the fact she towers over most of the boys her age, because she is very tall for an eleven-year-old. Then the film clip is played for a song she has never heard before. It is performed by two guys she can't quite place. One is tall and blonde, and the other is short with dark hair. They're both kind of plain. That doesn't matter. The verse is kind of spoken to the music, with a powerfully evocative feeling of ennui in the delivery as he tells us 'the sun arose/trying to smile/gave it all away....'. It's just saturated with the pathos of really, really trying, but in the end being unable to give a fuck. Then it's the chorus picks up the pace drastically as these bland guys give a shout to the keeper of the Pearly Gates, who is also one of the patron saints of fishermen. 'Hey! Hey! Hey, Saint Peter...', they beseech, and go on to plead their case, 'Just been down/To New York Town/Done my time in Hell...'
The song continues and then it moves into the liveliest bridge played on the piano this eleven-year-old has ever heard, and in the forty years since she's not heard a bridge so mesmerising in its ability to transfix her to the spot, make her feel alive quite the way that one has. As an adult, she wonders could have bridge be almost Rachmaninoff-ish, and wonders is she leaning a little towards grandiose hyperbole.
The film clip closes with the actor playing St Peter cutting loose in his biblical costume and throwing around Peter's brand ice creams (such an Aussie outlook in this clip). On the final uttered, despairing, 'Hell...' the figure at the keyboard turns. It's a skeleton in a hooded cape, with Devil horns. The entire film clip was probably miserly cheap by today's standards, but the song sells itself. That is one mofo of a song.
The eleven-year-old learns the name of the band is Flash and the Pan, and they comprise Harry Vanda and George Young. The eleven-year-old, already a music nut, eventually comes to realise Vanda and Young are responsible for a considerable percentage of the Australian music she enjoys.
The eleven-year-old grew up, and maintained her admiration for Vanda and Young's body of work, and yesterday was deeply saddened to hear of the passing of George Young. RIP, George. You no doubt climbed the stairs to the gates, and greeted the keeper with a companionable, 'Hey, St Peter!'
Sunday, 22 October 2017
Tonight's Pondering
I've got things to ponder of late, so I haven't been pondering too much over Lisa Wilkinson's - defection, guess you'd call it - to Channel 10 over a supposed pay dispute because she was paid less than her 'Today' co-host Karl Stefanovic. I understand her new role at 'The Project' will have her paid more than her MALE co-host Waleed Aly, who has been there for a significantly longer period of time than she will have been. So go figure. I cannot. Anything more than the most basic of maths hurts my brain, so I'm not even going to try and see the logic in this one; other than to suggest that paying a talking head is not so much about that person's gender as their marketability. I don't really care that much what she's paid. She lost me when she appeared on 'Q & A' and responded to another panellist who had advanced an opinion on an issue affecting a minority with words to the effect: 'As a middle aged, white heterosexual male you don't get a say'. These words might have been directed to Attorney General George Brandis, but I cannot recall. What I do recall is being immensely irritated at the tone of her delivery: it was uber-condescension tinged with a liberal smattering of smug, and a thick coating of supercilious. It was in my mind pretty offensive, truth be told. So this man cannot have an opinion, but a white heterosexual female who appears to be pretty privileged CAN? Not cool.
Tonight's episode of 'Countdown' focused on the year 1980. Not too bad a year. It had it's own significance musically. On a personal front, 1980 is the only year I have ever had what could be described as short hair. I discovered I hate having short hair. It's not me. I don't care if a woman over forty should not have long hair, this one is going to as long as she can lift her arms to comb it. And who decrees a woman over forty should not have long hair? I believe it's the hair dressing industry who rely upon regular visits from those with short hairstyles that are high maintenance. Long hair is not high maintenance at all. I am an adult who pays taxes. I will wear my hair how I like.
On a more poignant note, to me 1980 is the last year I had my complete childhood family unit. Early in 1981 my oldest brother died, and after that everything somehow seemed DIFFERENT. Anybody who has every experienced a similar upheaval and trauma when in their early teen years will be able to identify with what I just wrote.
But on a more cheery note, it was fun to watch the 'Countdown' episode. It featured the B-52s miming to their hit 'Rock Lobster' like Marcel Marceau on steroids. The set was all geometric patterns bright primary colours. The female members of the band were weighed down under bouffant wigs that laughed at the Newton's notion of gravity. My 13yo old walked in, and looked at his parents who were entranced and enthralled by their trip down memory lane. He said, 'Mum, can I have some eye-bleach?' Astonished and puzzled, I asked him to clarify. He pointed to the spectacle on the screen and said, 'I really want to unsee that.'
I watched The Flowers in their pre-Icehouse days performing 'We Can Get Together', and was reminded of a concert I attended at Selinas, Coogee in 1986 when Icehouse were the top of the bill, supported by Boom Crash Opera, The Venetians, and some other band nobody's every heard of again. I recall sipping beer from a plastic cup, and my cheap boots pinching my toes, and the heat, and the sweaty bodies of those around me.
The Ramones were featured, performing their hit 'Rock and Roll High School'. Um, is it just me, or is this song a bit banal?
The Vapors were also a featured act, with their - to my knowledge only - hit 'Turning Japanese'. This was not a paean to our neighbours in the Land of the Rising Sun. Some of you don't know what the term 'turning Japanese' means. I would suggest googling. I could tell you, but if you google you might find some pictures. It's kind of a visual gag.
Livvy performed the titular track to the movie 'Xanadu', which was probably one of the most woeful movies of the early Eighties, running neck-and-neck with 'Can't Stop The Music'. 'Xanadu's' only saving grace is the ELO influenced soundtrack. I wonder would Coleridge have bothered picking up his pen to give us 'Kubla Khan' had he known the mythical place of Xanadu would end up being associated with a seriously crap movie wherein Gene Kelly zoomed around on roller skates. And if you want some real yucks, 'Can't Stop The Music' stars Bruce Jenner when he was still riding on the coat tails of the gold medal he won as a decathlete at the Montreal Olympics. I wonder did he decide to partake in this shite movie because his country boycotted the following Olympic Games (Moscow)?
In closing, can I just suggest you click on the links on my home page that lead to the first chapters of my novels? If I get more book sales, I can send my oldest son for some professional driving lessons. I've been taking him myself at a local industrial estate, but professional lessons will be the way to go. His gear changes are about as smooth as a pineapple skin.
Tonight's episode of 'Countdown' focused on the year 1980. Not too bad a year. It had it's own significance musically. On a personal front, 1980 is the only year I have ever had what could be described as short hair. I discovered I hate having short hair. It's not me. I don't care if a woman over forty should not have long hair, this one is going to as long as she can lift her arms to comb it. And who decrees a woman over forty should not have long hair? I believe it's the hair dressing industry who rely upon regular visits from those with short hairstyles that are high maintenance. Long hair is not high maintenance at all. I am an adult who pays taxes. I will wear my hair how I like.
On a more poignant note, to me 1980 is the last year I had my complete childhood family unit. Early in 1981 my oldest brother died, and after that everything somehow seemed DIFFERENT. Anybody who has every experienced a similar upheaval and trauma when in their early teen years will be able to identify with what I just wrote.
But on a more cheery note, it was fun to watch the 'Countdown' episode. It featured the B-52s miming to their hit 'Rock Lobster' like Marcel Marceau on steroids. The set was all geometric patterns bright primary colours. The female members of the band were weighed down under bouffant wigs that laughed at the Newton's notion of gravity. My 13yo old walked in, and looked at his parents who were entranced and enthralled by their trip down memory lane. He said, 'Mum, can I have some eye-bleach?' Astonished and puzzled, I asked him to clarify. He pointed to the spectacle on the screen and said, 'I really want to unsee that.'
I watched The Flowers in their pre-Icehouse days performing 'We Can Get Together', and was reminded of a concert I attended at Selinas, Coogee in 1986 when Icehouse were the top of the bill, supported by Boom Crash Opera, The Venetians, and some other band nobody's every heard of again. I recall sipping beer from a plastic cup, and my cheap boots pinching my toes, and the heat, and the sweaty bodies of those around me.
The Ramones were featured, performing their hit 'Rock and Roll High School'. Um, is it just me, or is this song a bit banal?
The Vapors were also a featured act, with their - to my knowledge only - hit 'Turning Japanese'. This was not a paean to our neighbours in the Land of the Rising Sun. Some of you don't know what the term 'turning Japanese' means. I would suggest googling. I could tell you, but if you google you might find some pictures. It's kind of a visual gag.
Livvy performed the titular track to the movie 'Xanadu', which was probably one of the most woeful movies of the early Eighties, running neck-and-neck with 'Can't Stop The Music'. 'Xanadu's' only saving grace is the ELO influenced soundtrack. I wonder would Coleridge have bothered picking up his pen to give us 'Kubla Khan' had he known the mythical place of Xanadu would end up being associated with a seriously crap movie wherein Gene Kelly zoomed around on roller skates. And if you want some real yucks, 'Can't Stop The Music' stars Bruce Jenner when he was still riding on the coat tails of the gold medal he won as a decathlete at the Montreal Olympics. I wonder did he decide to partake in this shite movie because his country boycotted the following Olympic Games (Moscow)?
In closing, can I just suggest you click on the links on my home page that lead to the first chapters of my novels? If I get more book sales, I can send my oldest son for some professional driving lessons. I've been taking him myself at a local industrial estate, but professional lessons will be the way to go. His gear changes are about as smooth as a pineapple skin.
Tuesday, 17 October 2017
Literacy, Empathy, and Syrupy Booze
It's been a few days since I posted here. My life has been a whirlwind of busybusybusy. I'm not sure when it's going to ease up. Perhaps when my children reach their majority. So I have taken a little time from the schedule to just do a bit of blogging. I am stinking hot. Nobody in my house feels hot, so I suspect it's menopause saying, 'Hi, Simone. Just wanted to drop by and give you a little reminder that I'm still around. Feel free to swelter and be in a bad mood, and bite the head off all those who cross you.'
Those who know me well know I am an obnoxious grammar Nazi who wastes much of my life wailing and despairing, gnashing my teeth and pounding my chest, at the dearth of passable grammar in society these days. Misplaced apostrophes make me curl into a foetal position under the desk, clutching wine to my still-perky-for-an-old-girl chest. You might be aware I have already advertised my services locally as an English tutor, but on the weekend I underwent a training course to brush up my skills, and to register as a volunteer to tutor in adult literacy. You know what? It was the best fun I've had in ages (with my clothes still on). The course facilitator talked of phonemes, and diagraphs, etymology. I sat there totally blissed out, with an expression on my face akin to those three shepherd children in Fatima when Our Lady appeared in the tree. Although agnostic, I tend to use some of my old Catholic terminology when referring to the mother of Christ the Carpenter. I also am cynical about whether the shepherd children: Lucia, Francisco, and Jacinta (hey, I even remember their names!) actually saw the Blessed Virgin, or whether they had picked and eaten questionable mushrooms from the field and were actually seriously tripping out.
But yes, I was in total awe and rapture doing my training on the weekend. We had to do a spelling quiz of some traditionally difficult words, and I was the only student who got all my answers correct. Yes, obnoxious bragging on my part, but given my life has been bedlam and total pants of late, just indulge me a little, okay?
I was also almost in tears. I went to the training centre expecting to brush up on skills, and to decry the lack of passable grammar and spelling that plagues society nowadays. Instead I learned of the types of people I might be tutoring. People like a twenty-year-old girl who fled war-torn Sudan as a toddler with her grandmother following the slaughter of her parents, who ended up in Australia just recently, and who can speak English but who has never picked up a pen. People who are judged for never responding to the school notes they cannot read. People who just want to read a story with their grandchildren.
I also felt great empathy when I volunteered to read a passage out in class - it was from a Vanuatu publication and in Pidgin English, with the smallest smattering of French. I struggled. I was able to stop and correct myself, and from the accompanying picture read for context and prediction, but it was so, so arduous and frustrating. Now I understand how people struggling feel, and this understanding will help me as their tutor, I'm sure.
On a bright aside, one of my fellow students asked me about my novels, so I nipped home during the lunch break and collected them. As I was showing the said student, one of the course facilitators tapped her fingernail on 'Abernethy' a few times as she said, 'I've seen this one somewhere.' GOLD!
I didn't work today. I went to the local TAFE and had the students colour my hair. I look like this now:
Those who know me well know I am an obnoxious grammar Nazi who wastes much of my life wailing and despairing, gnashing my teeth and pounding my chest, at the dearth of passable grammar in society these days. Misplaced apostrophes make me curl into a foetal position under the desk, clutching wine to my still-perky-for-an-old-girl chest. You might be aware I have already advertised my services locally as an English tutor, but on the weekend I underwent a training course to brush up my skills, and to register as a volunteer to tutor in adult literacy. You know what? It was the best fun I've had in ages (with my clothes still on). The course facilitator talked of phonemes, and diagraphs, etymology. I sat there totally blissed out, with an expression on my face akin to those three shepherd children in Fatima when Our Lady appeared in the tree. Although agnostic, I tend to use some of my old Catholic terminology when referring to the mother of Christ the Carpenter. I also am cynical about whether the shepherd children: Lucia, Francisco, and Jacinta (hey, I even remember their names!) actually saw the Blessed Virgin, or whether they had picked and eaten questionable mushrooms from the field and were actually seriously tripping out.
But yes, I was in total awe and rapture doing my training on the weekend. We had to do a spelling quiz of some traditionally difficult words, and I was the only student who got all my answers correct. Yes, obnoxious bragging on my part, but given my life has been bedlam and total pants of late, just indulge me a little, okay?
I was also almost in tears. I went to the training centre expecting to brush up on skills, and to decry the lack of passable grammar and spelling that plagues society nowadays. Instead I learned of the types of people I might be tutoring. People like a twenty-year-old girl who fled war-torn Sudan as a toddler with her grandmother following the slaughter of her parents, who ended up in Australia just recently, and who can speak English but who has never picked up a pen. People who are judged for never responding to the school notes they cannot read. People who just want to read a story with their grandchildren.
I also felt great empathy when I volunteered to read a passage out in class - it was from a Vanuatu publication and in Pidgin English, with the smallest smattering of French. I struggled. I was able to stop and correct myself, and from the accompanying picture read for context and prediction, but it was so, so arduous and frustrating. Now I understand how people struggling feel, and this understanding will help me as their tutor, I'm sure.
On a bright aside, one of my fellow students asked me about my novels, so I nipped home during the lunch break and collected them. As I was showing the said student, one of the course facilitators tapped her fingernail on 'Abernethy' a few times as she said, 'I've seen this one somewhere.' GOLD!
I didn't work today. I went to the local TAFE and had the students colour my hair. I look like this now:
I drove around feeling glam afterwards, and on the radio came 'Wishing Well' by Terrence Trent D'Arby. I quite like that song. I did a little mum-dance in the driver's seat, when stopped in traffic. The song came out in 1987. The year I had my own 21st, and attended the 21st of all those around me, so it seemed. I even remember some of the 21sts quite well, including - gulp! - my own when a few people streaked. It was a time when people would rock up to the parties with a six-pack of West Coast Cooler, or a cask of Peach Cooler. The latter was a potentially lethal syrup that could kill a diabetic, and known to cause the excruciating stomach cramps that herald the type of flatulence that could strip paint from the walls. This is probably one of the reasons I have not seen it on bottle-o shelves for a very, very long time. If it is still available for purchase, I do not recommend you carry out such purchase for the reasons I have just mentioned.
Ciao for now. Thanks for reading. Feel free to click the links on my home page here and check out the first chapters of my novels.
Wednesday, 11 October 2017
Trouble & Squeak
Who'd a thunk it? The casting couch is still a thing in good ol' Tinsel Town, and producer Harvey Weinstein is plumping up the cushions and draping the throw rugs (lovingly crocheted by nanna) in a decorous fashion to enable him to seduce and/or unfairly coerce, or just downright sexually harass some poor actress seeking work.
This really disturbs me. We are in the twenty-first century and people still think it's all right to abuse their power like this. He's apparently pulled out (no pun intended) of some planned rehabilitation to treat sex addiction because he didn't want to surrender his mobile telephone, which was part of the terms of treatment. Exactly what is sex addiction? I'm not a psychologist, so I can't really answer that one, but my layman's view is that Weinstein's just looking for an outlet to excuse offensive and revolting behaviour. The fact that he supposedly abused his power thus is owing to the fact nobody would look at him twice if he was an office clerk, or street sweeper; the man has a head like a butcher's block and the physique of Jabba the Hutt.
My Facebook group is having some fun today. Today's theme is songs by people with squeaky voices. Among the postings are:
1. 'Long Haired Lover From Liverpool' by Little Jimmy Osmond. To those of you who remember this, I am sorry to have reminded you. Hey, the Osmonds are a very talented family, but this song conjures up a rather dud memory. When I was about seven or so (which is around the time this toon was popular), I attended the birthday party of a rather repulsive kid. This kid, along with two equally repulsive children, treated the guests to an impromptu and unasked for concert when they stood atop the barbeque (sadly unlit), played air-guitar and air-drums, and sang this song. No, I shit you not. When my delirium wore away, I went inside and asked the birthday girl's mother was it time for my mother to come and collect me yet.
2. 'Bop Girl' by Pat Wilson. Ugh. Just...ugh. That's all. Pat was the then wife of Ross Wilson, who had a hand in orchestrating this aural torture. Ross Wilson is such a prolific figure in the Australian music industry, and this gets me wondering had somebody compromised the oxygen supply to his brain the day he devised this. It's kind of like turning out the bedroom lamp and hearing a mosquito. By the way, check out the twerpy film clip and you will see a young Nicole Kidman smoking a ciggie. Nowadays you probably would not see anybody sucking a ciggie in a film clip because that's too non-PC. Wear a skimpy outfit that barely covers the vulva and dry-hump the air around you by all means, but DO NOT SMOKE A CIGARETTE IN A FILM CLIP!
3. 'Barbie Girl' by Aqua. This is even more ugh-worthy than the aforementioned 'Bop Girl'. Did ANYBODY actually like this song? I sure as shit didn't, and neither did my friends. 'Come on, Barbie; let's go party.' No. Let's not go party. Fuck off. And when you get there, fuck off again. Once you get THERE, fuck off some more. Keep fucking off until you've fucked off right into the next dimension.
4. 'True Colours' by Cyndi Lauper. Oh, man! This is total fingernails down the blackboard stuff. I've always liked Cyndi as a person; she comes across as grounded and sensible. But this song sounds like someone S-L-O-W-L-Y releasing air from a balloon. 'True Colours'? Just colour me nauseated when I hear this.
Well, that will do me for now. I have some stuff to concentrate on. Have an article to work on, and a body to work on at the gym. My writers' group is due to meet tonight, too. Thankfully, I have prepared my piece for that .
Ciao for now.
Sunday, 8 October 2017
Greasing the Wheels
The school holidays are over. So is the little break I took these holidays, although I still have a day's grace because I'm not rostered until Tuesday. I've spent the past few days chauffeuring my sons. On Friday it was to and home from a sixteenth birthday party. This doesn't seem too big a drama but the party was held in a neighbouring town necessitating an hour-long round trip. Twice. It is too much trouble these days for young people to find out, notwithstanding constant nagging from their mothers, whether there are other attendees who have to travel to the town with whom we could possibly organise a car pool. You know, one kid's parent drives them there, and another kid's parent drives them home. It is also too embarrassing to be given leave to come to the front door and meet the birthday girl; being a mother I am mandated to stay in the car and not embarrass my kid. It would seem it is also too much trouble to remember to take along the mobile phone gifted to my sixteen-year-old, which would have enabled him to telephone me and advise when the party was over and whether other parents could drive him home. So irked was I when I was FINALLY telephoned to be asked for a lift home, I was tempted to change into something seriously rank, an outfit that would facilitate maximum level embarrassment to my kid when I knocked on the front door of the birthday girl's house. I pondered changing into a pair of too-small shorts with the waistband of a G-string showing o'er the top, a sweaty old tank top with NO BRA beneath, and maybe some ugh boots. Hair tied in pigtails would have been a nice touch, too. Compiling this ensemble would have wasted valuable time as Mr Bingells was preparing a nice dinner, but oh what fun it would have been to do. *Laughing evilly and rubbing fingertips together a la Mr Burns on 'The Simpsons'*
Today, my youngest asked could he come shopping with me because he had some leftover pocket money. Having inherited my theatrical bent, he wanted to purchase a DVD he had seen - 'Grease Live', which is a 2016 live production of the musical. The only name I really recognised was Vanessa Hudgens. Not that I'm a big fan or anything, but just recognised the name because I understand she's a Disney Darling. In case you care, she was playing Rizzo. He invited a friend over, and the three of us watched it. I actually quite enjoyed it. I'm not a big fan of the show per se, but the cast were talented and the musical numbers were performed with much gusto and high levels of octane. The cast looked reasonably close in age to the characters they were portraying, unlike the 1978 movie which featured people staring down the barrel at menopause, or else coke-ravaged nose jockeys who looked closer to forty than seventeen. Bloke playing Danny is in his early thirties, but he still looked younger (to me) than the twenty-something John Travolta was at the time of filming the 1978 version. Also, this version's Kenickie performed most of 'Greased Lightning', as is intended in the stage show. The film had Travolta performing it because he, well, wanted to, and he had clout. I guess it didn't occur to him he had the lion's share of other numbers to sing. Same thing happened in the film version of 'Evita'. I noticed when I watched it. Madonna, who had the titular role, performed 'Another Suitcase In Another Hall'. This made no sense to me. The song is designed to be (1) performed by Peron's mistress - the one usurped and ousted by Eva Duarte-later-Person, and (2) performed by a Soprano, to my understanding. Madge's performance of this just made no sense to me continuity-wise, and kind of sounded like a pained cat. I am gracious enough to admit I thought she was good in the rest of the movie, but this just got right up my schnoz. Why do big name actors have to stamp their little feet and compromise the integrity of the story just because they like a particular song? It's like some big name dude playing Jesus in a filmed version of Christ's passion, and then wanting to bang in a few nails because he's always wanted to swing a hammer onscreen.
Well, that's all for now. Still finalising edit for my next novel - 'Howling On A Concrete Moon'. Watch this space so you will know when to buy it. The loud thud you heard was the heavy hint I dropped.
Today, my youngest asked could he come shopping with me because he had some leftover pocket money. Having inherited my theatrical bent, he wanted to purchase a DVD he had seen - 'Grease Live', which is a 2016 live production of the musical. The only name I really recognised was Vanessa Hudgens. Not that I'm a big fan or anything, but just recognised the name because I understand she's a Disney Darling. In case you care, she was playing Rizzo. He invited a friend over, and the three of us watched it. I actually quite enjoyed it. I'm not a big fan of the show per se, but the cast were talented and the musical numbers were performed with much gusto and high levels of octane. The cast looked reasonably close in age to the characters they were portraying, unlike the 1978 movie which featured people staring down the barrel at menopause, or else coke-ravaged nose jockeys who looked closer to forty than seventeen. Bloke playing Danny is in his early thirties, but he still looked younger (to me) than the twenty-something John Travolta was at the time of filming the 1978 version. Also, this version's Kenickie performed most of 'Greased Lightning', as is intended in the stage show. The film had Travolta performing it because he, well, wanted to, and he had clout. I guess it didn't occur to him he had the lion's share of other numbers to sing. Same thing happened in the film version of 'Evita'. I noticed when I watched it. Madonna, who had the titular role, performed 'Another Suitcase In Another Hall'. This made no sense to me. The song is designed to be (1) performed by Peron's mistress - the one usurped and ousted by Eva Duarte-later-Person, and (2) performed by a Soprano, to my understanding. Madge's performance of this just made no sense to me continuity-wise, and kind of sounded like a pained cat. I am gracious enough to admit I thought she was good in the rest of the movie, but this just got right up my schnoz. Why do big name actors have to stamp their little feet and compromise the integrity of the story just because they like a particular song? It's like some big name dude playing Jesus in a filmed version of Christ's passion, and then wanting to bang in a few nails because he's always wanted to swing a hammer onscreen.
Well, that's all for now. Still finalising edit for my next novel - 'Howling On A Concrete Moon'. Watch this space so you will know when to buy it. The loud thud you heard was the heavy hint I dropped.
Thursday, 5 October 2017
Cultural and Appropriate?
To whomsoever happens to be reading this: do you get offended by 'cultural appropriation', whatever the fuck cultural appropriation actually is? It would appear SJWs tend to go all bugshit whenever there is a new fashion line, or a celebrity wears some accoutrement or hairstyle associated with another culture. Apparently this is seriously wrong, and it's on par with shitting on a grave. Case in point: that time Justin Bieber did his hair in dreadlocks. SJWs lost their shit in droves. I didn't care. The little twerp can do his hair however he likes; it's HIS hair. I'm more concerned that he's supposedly spat on people than appropriated a hairstyle favoured by the ancient people of Judea.
I can recall - I believe some time in the Nineties - for some odd reason celebs thought it the height of fashion and awesomeness to wear Hindu caste marks in the middle of their foreheads. Look, the only people this really suits is Hindu women. I know. I've worn one. Not because I thought I'd look cutting edge fashionable, but because a friend and I attended a Hindu festival on the outskirts of Kathmandu some years ago, and a stall holder stamped our foreheads thus. Washed it off back at the hotel that night. But for a brief time, Kate Winslet and Madonna favoured this look. Fuck knows why. When I saw pictures of them, I didn't think, 'Heavens to Murgatroid, this is just offensive cultural appropriation. Where can I round up an outraged mob armed with torches and pitchforks with which to chase these foul beldames through the village?' Nah, I just thought, 'Christ, you look stupid.' And they did.
Anyway, why I'm wondering about cultural appropriation, and why everyone jumps up and down screaming, is I read an article about Stella McCartney's latest runway collection wherein she has been inspired by African dress, and used bright bold prints in her designs. And you guessed it: people are offended by what is deemed cultural appropriation. Look, all I saw was she got inspired by the prints and other aspects of the traditional dress, and used them in her designs. I'm sure she's not trying to denigrate the people of Africa. Paul Simon was apparently very influenced by African music when he devised the 'Graceland' album. Should he have not done this? I'm inclined to think perhaps not. Not because of any cultural insensitivity, but because the songs on that album are annoying and I was subjected to them by a flatmate who played that album ad nauseam. Artists get inspiration from different things. Hell, I was inspired by the novel 'Trainspotting' with my first ever novel. I make references to that novel as a motif in the book, but I don't have a bunch of bad tempered Scotsmen coming after me. Thank goodness.
The only thing that really struck me about the McCartney collection is they appear to my admittedly untrained eye to be very unflattering in shape. The models in the pictures I saw resembled sacks of spuds. Owing to a diet consisting of filtered water, cigarettes, and lettuce, catwalk models are about 6' and size 8. If the couture makes THEM looks like tubs of tubers, how will the average woman present when dressed in one of the creations? Think about it.
I can recall - I believe some time in the Nineties - for some odd reason celebs thought it the height of fashion and awesomeness to wear Hindu caste marks in the middle of their foreheads. Look, the only people this really suits is Hindu women. I know. I've worn one. Not because I thought I'd look cutting edge fashionable, but because a friend and I attended a Hindu festival on the outskirts of Kathmandu some years ago, and a stall holder stamped our foreheads thus. Washed it off back at the hotel that night. But for a brief time, Kate Winslet and Madonna favoured this look. Fuck knows why. When I saw pictures of them, I didn't think, 'Heavens to Murgatroid, this is just offensive cultural appropriation. Where can I round up an outraged mob armed with torches and pitchforks with which to chase these foul beldames through the village?' Nah, I just thought, 'Christ, you look stupid.' And they did.
Anyway, why I'm wondering about cultural appropriation, and why everyone jumps up and down screaming, is I read an article about Stella McCartney's latest runway collection wherein she has been inspired by African dress, and used bright bold prints in her designs. And you guessed it: people are offended by what is deemed cultural appropriation. Look, all I saw was she got inspired by the prints and other aspects of the traditional dress, and used them in her designs. I'm sure she's not trying to denigrate the people of Africa. Paul Simon was apparently very influenced by African music when he devised the 'Graceland' album. Should he have not done this? I'm inclined to think perhaps not. Not because of any cultural insensitivity, but because the songs on that album are annoying and I was subjected to them by a flatmate who played that album ad nauseam. Artists get inspiration from different things. Hell, I was inspired by the novel 'Trainspotting' with my first ever novel. I make references to that novel as a motif in the book, but I don't have a bunch of bad tempered Scotsmen coming after me. Thank goodness.
The only thing that really struck me about the McCartney collection is they appear to my admittedly untrained eye to be very unflattering in shape. The models in the pictures I saw resembled sacks of spuds. Owing to a diet consisting of filtered water, cigarettes, and lettuce, catwalk models are about 6' and size 8. If the couture makes THEM looks like tubs of tubers, how will the average woman present when dressed in one of the creations? Think about it.
Sunday, 1 October 2017
Gronks on Parade
Is there anything to be glad about at the moment? Maybe the fact that it's sprinkling here. It's been so dry we have had several fire danger warnings, and the precipitation isn't particularly robust, but it's nice to have it. Even though I've pegged out three loads of washing, it's still nice to have rain. It kind of takes the edge off the all-pervasive gronkiness that infects our society of late. Thinks like:
1. Channel 9 News. I'm sure you, gentle blog-browser, would be aware of who Amal Clooney is. She is a human rights barrister who counts among her clients Julian Assange. She has been an advisor to Kofi Annan. I am delighted to hear she is up for a Nobel peace prize, and it's well deserved. With her heady mix of brains and compassion (and not bad looking, either), she is my girl-crush. So how did Channel 9 tweet the news she is up for a Nobel peace prize? By describing her as 'the wife of George Clooney, new mum, and human rights lawyer'. The tweet didn't even give her name! To the gronks who wrote the copy for this tweet: wait outside, Doc Brown's Delorean will be coming by to pick you up, whereupon you will be transported back to the 1950s. Seriously, how can you define this woman as being the wife of some actor?
2. Some bloke who lost a bet and had to get a tattoo of Dustin Martin tattooed on his arse. Look, I cannot tell people what to do with their own bodies, and if you want a tattoo, get one. But remember this - you're stuck with them. They can be covered or removed, but it is a pretty permanent decision to make. Getting one of the basis of a bet is really infantile and stupid. If you must make a bet over the Grand Final, how about making the stakes a nudie run? Silly, yes. But it won't last. Speaking of sporting grand finals, we segue to the next gronks:
3. Peter Dutton, Bob Katter, Tony Abbott et al who had a whinge about Macklemore performing a number called 'Same Love' at the NRL Grand Final. This is apparently one of his most successful numbers. Why wouldn't he perform it? I know there's the old chestnut about not politicising a sporting event, but apparently Midnight Oil didn't get that memo before they performed 'Beds Are Burning' whilst wearing pyjamas emblazoned with the word 'sorry' at the closing ceremony of the 2000 Sydney Olympics. On the other hand, the 'sorry' reference could have just been pertaining to Peter Garrett's dodgy dance moves and a singing style that is redolent of a series of dry heaves. But yeah, if 'Same Love' is one of his major hits, then naturally Macklemore is going to perform it. It would be like going to Vegas and watching Wayne Newton with no 'Danke Schon' forthcoming. Bob Katter particularly behaved in a vile manner, comparing the performing of a this number to seeping sewage at a deb ball. As far as I can tell, the only sewage was seeping from Katter's mouth. Better get some tweezers to remove the splinters from under his fingernails, where he's scraped the bottom of the barrel. So the Grand Final has been, Macklemore has performed, and the world did not spin off its axis and disintegrate. Besides, it's better than what happened when Billy Idol was to perform, and something electrical shit itself, leaving the audience with no sound.
4. The carriage-load of gronks who caught the Hamilton to Muswellbrook service yesterday. From here on in, I do believe this service should be known as the Gronk Express. The carriage was not entirely filled with gronks. Your blogger, for example, is a non-gronk. So too was the woman sitting across the aisle, and the elderly woman a few seats ahead of me appeared to have avoided the gronk gene, too. But everybody else was a feral gronk, from the mother screeching C-bombs, to the children just screeching. Oh, I know children have a natural ebullience and effervescence, and these are qualities I usually enjoy seeing in children. Children have a natural honesty and innocence that is the sole province of children only, and it's one of the things that makes them a delight. But the kids on the train yesterday just kept squealing with a shrill ululation that was pure fingernails-down-the-blackboard. Couldn't wait to get off the bloody train. I caught three trains yesterday. I had cause to stay in Penrith Saturday evening for a friend's birthday, and yesterday, being Sunday, I caught a train from Penrith to Strathfield, then Strathfield to Hamilton, and finally, Hamilton to Muswellbrook.
5. The taxi driver who drove me from my friend's house to Penrith is a gronk, too. He was very tardy in picking me up. He stopped to let some behemoth waddle S-L-O-W-L-Y across the road, and it is my contention he could have kept driving because the tub-o-guts hadn't yet stepped from the kerb. Maybe I'm wrong. But anyway, he stopped and I missed the train I had wanted to catch thanks to this, and his other fiddle-fart practices.
6. The final gronks on this list are whomsoever published the novelty greeting cards I perused at an adult store yesterday. I had some time before boarding the Gronk Express, so decided to browse in an adult store, as you do. As I have mentioned, there were some novel greeting cards on display. I might have even bought one if it didn't have 'which' spelled as 'wich'. No, I am not making that up. And such is the depth of my ingrained grammar Nazi-ism, I cannot even enjoy non-violent adult erotica if I see a misspelt word.
1. Channel 9 News. I'm sure you, gentle blog-browser, would be aware of who Amal Clooney is. She is a human rights barrister who counts among her clients Julian Assange. She has been an advisor to Kofi Annan. I am delighted to hear she is up for a Nobel peace prize, and it's well deserved. With her heady mix of brains and compassion (and not bad looking, either), she is my girl-crush. So how did Channel 9 tweet the news she is up for a Nobel peace prize? By describing her as 'the wife of George Clooney, new mum, and human rights lawyer'. The tweet didn't even give her name! To the gronks who wrote the copy for this tweet: wait outside, Doc Brown's Delorean will be coming by to pick you up, whereupon you will be transported back to the 1950s. Seriously, how can you define this woman as being the wife of some actor?
2. Some bloke who lost a bet and had to get a tattoo of Dustin Martin tattooed on his arse. Look, I cannot tell people what to do with their own bodies, and if you want a tattoo, get one. But remember this - you're stuck with them. They can be covered or removed, but it is a pretty permanent decision to make. Getting one of the basis of a bet is really infantile and stupid. If you must make a bet over the Grand Final, how about making the stakes a nudie run? Silly, yes. But it won't last. Speaking of sporting grand finals, we segue to the next gronks:
3. Peter Dutton, Bob Katter, Tony Abbott et al who had a whinge about Macklemore performing a number called 'Same Love' at the NRL Grand Final. This is apparently one of his most successful numbers. Why wouldn't he perform it? I know there's the old chestnut about not politicising a sporting event, but apparently Midnight Oil didn't get that memo before they performed 'Beds Are Burning' whilst wearing pyjamas emblazoned with the word 'sorry' at the closing ceremony of the 2000 Sydney Olympics. On the other hand, the 'sorry' reference could have just been pertaining to Peter Garrett's dodgy dance moves and a singing style that is redolent of a series of dry heaves. But yeah, if 'Same Love' is one of his major hits, then naturally Macklemore is going to perform it. It would be like going to Vegas and watching Wayne Newton with no 'Danke Schon' forthcoming. Bob Katter particularly behaved in a vile manner, comparing the performing of a this number to seeping sewage at a deb ball. As far as I can tell, the only sewage was seeping from Katter's mouth. Better get some tweezers to remove the splinters from under his fingernails, where he's scraped the bottom of the barrel. So the Grand Final has been, Macklemore has performed, and the world did not spin off its axis and disintegrate. Besides, it's better than what happened when Billy Idol was to perform, and something electrical shit itself, leaving the audience with no sound.
4. The carriage-load of gronks who caught the Hamilton to Muswellbrook service yesterday. From here on in, I do believe this service should be known as the Gronk Express. The carriage was not entirely filled with gronks. Your blogger, for example, is a non-gronk. So too was the woman sitting across the aisle, and the elderly woman a few seats ahead of me appeared to have avoided the gronk gene, too. But everybody else was a feral gronk, from the mother screeching C-bombs, to the children just screeching. Oh, I know children have a natural ebullience and effervescence, and these are qualities I usually enjoy seeing in children. Children have a natural honesty and innocence that is the sole province of children only, and it's one of the things that makes them a delight. But the kids on the train yesterday just kept squealing with a shrill ululation that was pure fingernails-down-the-blackboard. Couldn't wait to get off the bloody train. I caught three trains yesterday. I had cause to stay in Penrith Saturday evening for a friend's birthday, and yesterday, being Sunday, I caught a train from Penrith to Strathfield, then Strathfield to Hamilton, and finally, Hamilton to Muswellbrook.
5. The taxi driver who drove me from my friend's house to Penrith is a gronk, too. He was very tardy in picking me up. He stopped to let some behemoth waddle S-L-O-W-L-Y across the road, and it is my contention he could have kept driving because the tub-o-guts hadn't yet stepped from the kerb. Maybe I'm wrong. But anyway, he stopped and I missed the train I had wanted to catch thanks to this, and his other fiddle-fart practices.
6. The final gronks on this list are whomsoever published the novelty greeting cards I perused at an adult store yesterday. I had some time before boarding the Gronk Express, so decided to browse in an adult store, as you do. As I have mentioned, there were some novel greeting cards on display. I might have even bought one if it didn't have 'which' spelled as 'wich'. No, I am not making that up. And such is the depth of my ingrained grammar Nazi-ism, I cannot even enjoy non-violent adult erotica if I see a misspelt word.
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