Memories Courtesy of Anodised Aluminium

Life has it's little meandering paths to the ups and downs, does it not?  Sometimes it's best to treat it like the dog would: piss on it, kick grass over it, and then walk away from it with a self-satisfied air of insouciance.  I was in two minds about typing what I'm typing, because it might create the impression I actually CARE about what happened the other night.  I don't really care per se, it's more that I'm rather puzzled.  You might have read my last post about the distaste and disdain I felt for Catherine Deveny's contemptuous comments on social media regarding the Anzac commemorations.  (If you follow me on Twitter you would have seen her respond to me that she was aggrieved at the constant glorification of war, to which I pointed out I have a sound enough knowledge of natural weather systems to differentiate between actual rain,  and someone pissing down my leg and trying to pass that off as rain).  So, what happened was this: I was unfriended by a Facebook friend over what I can only assume was my disagreement on Deveny's behaviour.  I wrote my piece, the preceding piece to this post here, and shared it to Twitter. This now ex-friend commented on it, a single word: 'hypocrite', and next thing I'm apparently unfollowed, or blocked, or whatever.  Am I alone in thinking it's kind of chickenshit to insult someone and then block them before they have right of reply? Besides, if you think I'm a hypocrite, then that's your prerogative, but for the love of all that's holy tell me WHY you think I'm a hypocrite.  The dissolution of a cyber friendship hasn't bothered me greatly, but the action of name-calling and then blocking makes me think of those snivelling little playground poltroons who would badger and rile a kid to the point where the kid came after them, and then said poltroon would run screaming for the teacher and cry they were being attacked.

But back to the path to life.  Last night, I saw something I haven't seen for a long time.  It was a set of anodised aluminium coloured drinking tumblers.  Who remembers them? They came in sets of six in a vinyl cylindrical container that had a zip around the top.  How I came to see these retro relics from my childhood was last night, Mr Bingells and I had a 'movie date night', and snuggled together under a doona on the lounge to watch Swinging Safari on DVD.  Has anyone seen that?  It's not Citizen Kane by any means, but I really enjoyed it.  Kylie Minogue did her best work yet as a middle-aged, malcontent drinky housewife.  The movie is set around 1975, and Mr Bingells and I could not stop laughing at the memories it brought up for us.  If we weren't chortling at the swimming trunks worn by the Guy Pearce character, it was the cubes of Coon cheese spinning on the lazy Susan to be enjoyed by the flares-wearing adults sitting on a sunken lounge.  I could have sworn the prop fondue set belonged to my mother-in-law!

Yes, it did remind me of my childhood, when there'd be some parties where the adults would get stonkered drunk (I don't know if my parents exchanged car keys with another couples as happened in one of the scenes in this movie, and I kind of hope they didn't because they're my parents and, well, eeeeuuuwww), and the kids would be left unsupervised.  I have a memory, from when I was aged about nine, of being dragged along to the twenty-first birthday party of someone I didn't know.  The party was on a property, and it was freezing cold.  I found a group of kids I knew from school, and we wandered off and found the drinks table, where the beers had all been set up.  There were no RBT units in those days, either.  I reached for one, and took a sip.  I replaced the glass, and looked at the gang of kids, all of whom were nodding approvingly.  I took another sip.  We all sniggered.  Emboldened, I discreetly picked up the entire glass, and the kids and I made our way to a secluded spot behind the tank stand, where a boy and I passed the glass between us.  We were sprung my a matron en route to the dunny, who exclaimed, 'Are you all drinking beer?!"  I confirmed (a touch cheekily) that we were.  She squawked, 'My goodness me!', and continued on her way.  No supervision, and no consequences.  I actually regaled my classmates with that anecdote the following Monday for Show-And-Tell.  These days, FACS would be down on everyone, with every censorious schlub on social media decrying the parents.

If we weren't sneaking a beer, we were carrying on like savages.  I remember another party from that era, which was also on a property.  The parents were all off chatting and drinking, and I can recall flattening myself against a wall, terrified as my older brother and his mates went speeding past on scooters and bicycles, all yelling, 'No anchors! No anchors!'  It was a minor miracle that this Lord of The Flies-ish buffoonery didn't lead to any kids crashing through the glass sliding doors.

Anyway, I might get back to my binge-watching of Series 1 of The Handmaid's Tale.  I didn't get to watch it first time round as I don't have Austar or Netflix.  I ordered it on DVD and, like last night, snuggled on the blanket on the lounge to watch.  Didn't have Mr Bingells watching it with me today, just  my cantankerous mini fox terrier.  My viewing pleasure was impeded upon by the dog's passing of wind, which was so putrescent I actually considered burning the clothing I was wearing.

Thank You To Some, F*ck You To Others

What I did today:  crawled out of bed at 5.25am, dragged on some clothes, made some coffee and walked over (still drinking the coffee) to the local cenotaph, accompanied by my sixteen-year-old son, where we attended the Anzac Day Dawn Service.  It was sad.  It was humbling.  This year, as I have noticed in prior years, there has been a diverse cross-section of the community attending from oldies to youngsters, and especially twenty-somethings whom one would not imagine attending of their own volition.  This is gratifying, and gives me hope for the future.

What else I did today: travelled with my husband and thirteen-year-old to a nearby town where my husband proudly pinned the service medals earned by his late grandfather (a WW2 vet) to the right side of his jacket before marching in the parade as a representation of his grandfather.  Beside him was a younger cousin, wearing his own father's medals for service in Malaysia (my husband's uncle is no longer with us).  Yeah, I teared up a little as they marched by.

Something else I did today: received the news of the passing of a much loved uncle - my mother's older brother.  On the basis that his children haven't been very active about it on social media, I will save my lamentation and eulogising for a future post, suffice to say: be at peace, Uncle.

What I did NOT do today: post nasty, snide, deliberate pot-stirring comments on my social media mocking the Anzacs and current servicemen and -women.  I'm referring to tweets like this one:

This particular tweet isn't necessarily 'nasty', but it is designed to provoke, and I daresay Ms Deveny knows this. They are 'serving'.  And their job does have the potential to be more dangerous than many other jobs. I know police officers and paramedics face potential dangers, too.  But this flippancy was designed to get a reaction, and makes me wondering if Ms Deveny is suffering RDS (Relevance Deprivation Syndrome).  However, a subsequent tweet in which she declared Anzac Day to be 'Halloween for bogans' is clearly designed to get a reaction, and it is clearly designed to be downright offensive.  The tweeter has blocked a friend who replied to her (my friend's reply being polite, well-written, and articulate), but she does not block the abusers whose ire she is trying to invoke. She obviously wants the negative attention so she can go on a 'poor me, everyone abuses me because I'm a woman or because they're bogans' type of diatribe.  

 

This is a cliché, but if without the actions of the Anzacs, people like Ms Deveny might not have the freedom to spout their stupidity with impunity.  I actually support her right to tweet her crap, but I do think she's a total arse-clown with no class to speak of.  Cast your minds back, folks, and you might recall she was live-tweeting from a red carpet event where she said she hoped Bindi Irwin, aged eleven at the salient time, would 'get laid'.  Yeah.  Class act, right? That tweet made my flesh crawl back then, and it still has the power to nauseate today.  

I shouldn't buy into what is obvious baiting on the part of someone desperate for attention, but I just want to say: Fuck you, lady.  Or whatever female lifeform you're meant to represent.  Would you have to courage to sit down and say this putrescent rubbish to people who have, or who are currently serving?  Or else to the families left behind?   You set about to generate controversy. Congratulations, I'm sure you achieved it.  But that you have to act in such an odious manner to get attention says more about  you than it does servicemen and -women, or the 'bogans' whom  you decry for acknowledging 25 April. 

I have a great-uncle lying at the Somme (coincidentally the namesake of my uncle who died last night), and another great-uncle and great-aunt who served.  My husband's grandfather and uncle served.  To those people, I say: Thank you. To all those past and present service, I say: Thank you.  To anybody who wants to be viciously disrespectful, I say: Fuck you.

Unto Us A Prince Is Born & Tedious Tunes

"Fear not, for I bring glad tidings. A king is born."

Well, not actually a king.  Not yet.  More like a prince, and he MIGHT become king one day but he's fifth in line to the throne, so unless a meteor wipes out the others before him, he probably won't be wearing a butt-groove into that chair in the future.  Don't know his name yet, but the Palace will make the Royal Announcement in a few days.  The betting types are favouring Arthur and Charles in the names.  I'm guessing there won't be a Pilot Inspektor (Jason Lee's kid, and how I wish I was making up that atrocious name), or a Saint (Kanye West's kid), or a Moses (Gwyneth Paltrow's kid), or a Dweezil (Frank Zappa's kid) anywhere among the Royal monikers.  This is not a bad thing.

Anyway, I'm turning off the television for a while, because I've had my fill of hearing about the Royal sprog.  Don't get me wrong, I am happy for the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge, and I think the birth of a healthy baby is great news; it's just that I'm up to the part in my hair (long overdue for colour and foils treatment) hearing about it.  Also, it is really getting up my nose that the media are comparing Kate to her late mother-in-law because - Are you sitting down?  Comfy?  Done a wee? Ready for this? - she stood on the steps of the hospital, babe in arms, and she was wearing a red dress, JUST LIKE DIANA DID WHEN SHE INTRODUCED PRINCE HARRY TO THE WORLD ALL THOSE YEARS AGO!!!! Does it not occur to everybody jizzing themselves over this that maybe, just MAYBE, the Duchess of Cambridge happens to like red? It was a bold colour and she looked gorgeous, no doubt thanks to the assistance of a hairdresser and makeup artist.  But for shit's sake everyone, it's just a red dress!  It's a coincidence,  Yes, both frocks had white collars, too, but can everyone stop reading so much into this?  It's beyond tedious, and a touch obnoxious, and it makes me feel rather sorry for the poor woman.

Anyway, welcome to the world, Prince To-Be-Named.  Looking at the footage of your little face, I thought you looked a little like your mum.  And being a newborn, you also look a little like a skinned rabbit.

I don't know why, but the other night I started to compile a list of songs that are seriously boring to listen to.  I heard one on the radio the other day: Toy Soldiers by Martika.  This is a tedious tune that is as dreary as the dried bat guano on the floor of a cave.  I have to change stations if it comes on when I'm driving (I tend to listen to AM a lot because I'm, well, old) because if I don't, I run the risk of becoming catatonic and causing a crash.  So, here's a list of soporific songs:

Toy Solders by Martika
Mull of Kintyre by Wings (how in hell did that become No. 1?)
Classic by Adrian Gurvitz
Born in The USA by Bruce Springsteen (repetitive noise, and he sounds like he's in pain)
Man in the Mirror by Michael Jackson (also a potential emetic)
Screaming Jets by Johnny Warman (boring as fuck)

Those songs will not be making an appearance on my iPod any time soon.

The Next Exciting Chapter

I'm having one of those days where I cannot be bothered getting cranky.  This is undoubtedly a good thing, because we don't need to be cranky all the time; I just like getting a bit arced up and then blogging to blow off steam, that's all.

I'm guess I'm what the youngsters call 'total chill' at the moment.  I've had a few days alone, in which I mastered the ancient Zen art of Not Giving A Fuck. Before I reached this No-Fucks-Given Nirvana, I had to complete a task, and that task was to finish reading the manuscript of the upcoming Howling on A Concrete Moon - again! - and only found three corrections to be done. Only three!  I am soooo excited.  Soon I will have Mr Bingells do my author photo for the back cover. Mr Bingells is a keen photographer, and I think a very good one.  He's had a photograph published in the RM Williams mag, so that counts for something:

He made that shabby old tractor a vision of delight, so I'm sure he will again do the same for me (after I've had my hair cut and coloured).

I guess as a writer I've put so much effort and stress into finalising the manuscript, and the fact I'm almost bursting through the finishing tape is a load off my mind.

So, over the past few days I've just watched some DVDs.  I've also compiled some material for my tutoring sessions.  The sessions don't start until school resumes, but it's best to get a head start on things.  One of the things I did today was source and print a template for cursive writing.  It's ironic, me pointing out some of the niceties of cursive writing given my handwriting as a child was beyond dreadful.  Many a teacher lost his/her cool at me.  I still recall one nun visiting our classroom when I was aged nine, looking over everyone's shoulders at the work being done.  This nun was also principal of the school, so I guess it was an indignity we had to suffer: having this nosy old habit-clad crone peering over our shoulders.  She made her way across and down the aisles.  She was smooth and silent.  Some would say she was graceful, but I reckon she was like the Grim Reaper on roller skates.  She made comments to some children, nodded at some, frowned at some, and then looked at my workbook, whereupon she lost her shit.  She ranted and shouted like something possessed, stopping just short at having her head spin around.  'Look at that untidy writing, Simone Bailey!' she shouted, and I said there thinking: Yeah, what's your point? She was dour at the best of times, unaccommodating, shitful, and chockers with spite.  The only time I ever saw her smile was when Gough Whitlam was dismissed.  She was a nasty piece of work, all right.  I think she might be still alive.  This surprises me; I thought she would have choked on her own bile years ago.  On the other hand, she's probably just Undead, so maintains a semblance of life.  I used to annoy her by my very existence, and she was almost a cliché of the nasty old nun that people of a certain age shudder over when reminiscing about school days.

Thinking about her makes me glum.  You know what else makes me glum? I'm working tomorrow, after a week's holiday.  Bum, bum, bum.  But anyway, next week I can check those corrections and move on to the next exciting chapter (no pun intended) of getting my latest novel to print.

Musings on A Wednesday Night

I follow different trends on Twitter, and have been perusing with interest comments in relation to the hashtag No Little Girl.  It stems from a movement in the US that has made advertising by sex workers on certain online platforms somewhat difficult.  My not so humble opinion is that it's all being generated by a bunch of bumbling, uninformed, ham-fisted do-gooders who have no idea about anything, and who offer Thoughts and Prayers rather than Money, Food or Trade Qualified Assistance To Rebuild when there has been a hurricane.  The aim of the No Little Girl movement is to 'rescue' sex workers, because their theory is 'no little girl wants to grow up to be a prostitute'.  Hence the 'no little girl'.  Cunning, right?  Flaw #1 here is that it ignores the fact there are MEN in the sex industry, too.  Why do they not need to be rescued?

Let me ask you wannabe rescuers something: why do you want to remove an adult's agency, and the right to use HER body how SHE wishes, and earn HER income how SHE wishes?  People fuck.  Goodness, presumably your own parents even had a fuck at some stage, so why do you care if people do it for an exchange of currency?

Some little girls don't want to grow up to scrub toilets for a living, but end up doing so.  Do you wish to rescue them from the drudgery, the exposure to cleaning agents, and the grotesquery of some of those skid marks down the bowl?

Some little girls don't want to grow up to be bullied or sexually harassed in the workplace, or undervalued, or caught in the crossfire of ludicrous office politics, and end up in this very situation.  I can vouch for this, and where were my rescuers when I needed them?  What's that I hear? Crickets.

People who choose sex work do so for a variety of reasons, and it's usually the choice that suits them and their circumstances the most at that particular point in their lives.  Just let them be.  Stop making life difficult.  If someone wants to earn top dollar for a few hours' worth of banging someone, as opposed to a pittance for waiting tables, or nurse's aide, or childcare worker (and for considerably more hours), why do you care?  These people - men and women - have made their own informed decisions.  I think it boils down to: MIND YOUR OWN DAMN BUSINESS!

It's just gotten on my nerves, that's all.

And what else has gotten on my nerves?  This:

Have a look at it. Can you see why it's got me grinding my molars? Notwithstanding what I'm certain is the apocryphal shit-stirring that goes on every year at this time (for the record, RWNJs: nobody is going to destroy Anzac Day), the spelling and punctuation in this meme had me checking the cupboard beneath the sink to see, just on the off-chance, if we had some smelling salts.  I'm not sure if the generator of this meme is reading this post, but I'm going to ask him or her something: Mate, do you even ENGLISH?

Yes, yes, I KNOW 'English' is an adjective and not a verb (and likely a noun when referring to things like the Mother Tongue), but I thought I'd best use a vernacular this person would understand.  A few things: (1) it's spelt 'interfere'; (2) it's spelt 'freedom'; (3) there should have been a full stop after 'tradition', and a capital for the sequential word 'we'; (4) your parenthesised section should have had a comma between the clauses, or in simpler terms between 'agree' and 'repost'; and (5) you opened the meme's caption with quotation marks, so where are the closing quotation marks?

Our proud Anzac tradition will remain, so stop panicking.  Also, let me reassure those who thought I might have been throwing some flippancy at our returned diggers: nothing could be further from the truth.  I respect these people wholeheartedly, and I will endeavour to get to the dawn service on 25 April.  But let's face it, we see these dire posts every year around this time.  They're a bit like the posts that circulate every Christmas, and again people must be reminded 'other' sectors of the community are not trying to take away anyone's right to celebrate Christmas, nor are they bothered if anybody wishes to celebrate.

I'm told Mercury is no longer in retrograde, so I guess we can all start feeling normal again (whatever 'normal' may be). Also, I have almost finished going through the edited manuscript of Howling on A Concrete Moon again, so I might be soon ready to approve cover art and sign the printing release.  I had a rather nice moment last Thursday night when I attended the local writers' group meeting. We had some new members attend, and I after I had finished reading my 500-word contribution for that particular evening, one of the new members looked at me as though she had undergone a Damascene realisation, and asked, 'You wrote Abernethy, didn't  you?'  Feeling chuffed, I said yes.  She told me she had read some, although not all, of the novel, and thought it had 'a beautiful voice'.  These are the kinds of moments one dreams of as a writer.  Recognition and praise make for nice bedfellows.

Before I go, Gentle Reader, let me warn you to be careful when removing the plastic lid to the small bottle of cream purchased at the supermarket.  So frustrated was I tonight, tugging and pinching at the small protuberance on the lid whereby one grips and pulls, hopefully to follow a perforated path around the lid thus causing said lid to open, I finally put the 'tag' between my teeth and tugged.  Bad idea.  Sure the lid came free, but let's just say I looked like I'd been bukkake'd.  Take care in the kitchen, folks.

Malaise & Melodies

I have not really been near the computer to blog lately.  I'm not avoiding technology, or detoxifying myself from technology - I've been mainly playing with my iPad when the need to look at an animal video on social media washes over me.  I had planned to do a little bit of writing yesterday, but had a visit from the I-Don't-Give-A Fucks.  With them, they brought the Malaises.  These insidious visitors rendered me unable to think, but I did force myself to further go through the edited manuscript of the hopefully-soon-to-be-released Howling on A Concrete Moon.  This made me feel a tad virtuous, and banished some of the malingering lethargy my unwelcome visitors left me.  (Most visitors bring wine, or chocolates, or a houseplant; the 'visitors' I had yesterday brought lethargy, ennui, and depression - the gold, frankincense and myrrh of the Arsehole Magi).

My younger son, who's always enjoyed music, accesses You Tube on my iPod and plays songs as he is unstacking the dishwasher.  I would not mind this normally, but he is lately displaying a predilection for some of the older stuff from my high school days.  Most parents would like this, but I lived through the Eighties and they STANK! He is continually playing Africa by Toto.  Why?  Dear God, WHY? This is just mind numbing and pointless banal tedium on a musical stave.  In other words, the song is as boring and uninspiring as the dried bat guano on the floor of a cave.  It in turns makes me feel like I'm coming out of anaesthetic, or sets my teeth on edge with the geographically flawed reference to Kilimanjaro being in the vicinity of the Serengeti (it's not).  It's all very well for the dudes in Toto to whine about being 'frightened of the thing (they) have become'.  I am beset by a very real fear that when I next hear this, I am going to finally lose it and turn into some hissing, spitting, were-beast.  He plays it constantly.  I suspect he is hoping I will absolve him of his domestic  duties to avoid being driven by Africa, but I must be strong and tell him: NO MORE! And the edict 'no more' includes his ad nauseum playing of Safety Dance when attending to dishwasher duties (complete with dance moves).

But speaking of old songs, today I was driving to collect a client and heard on a retro top 20 special Summer Love by those satin-bedecked spunksters Sherbet.  Dazza's got bloody good voice, and when I was younger, I adored that song.  As I type, I'm thinking of the fantastic keyboard bridge provided courtesy of the yummy Garth Porter.  I can see him now with those golden pre-Raphaelite curls cascading like an auric waterfall as he tosses his head.  I never thought I'd be thanking Sherbet for cheering me up, but they did.  Cheaper and more easily accessible than Zoloft.

Who 'Nose' What Problems Will Arise?

If I did stupid things as a kid, nobody knew about it.  Well, that was the theory, anyway.  Having grown up in a small town, people did know what you did, and more often than not it was before you actually did what it was you were meant to have done.  Follow?

If I did something unpardonably dumb as a teenager, I had to wear the scorn and derision of those I knew. I was spared the contempt of all those with access to a computer (which is pretty much most 'civilised' people on the globe these days).  Had social media been a thing when I was a youngster, and I did something that made my family embarrassed to admit shared DNA, I would NOT have bragged about it in the form of an uploaded video.

I did do silly things when I was a teenager.  Prank calling with a friend for one.  Sneaking into the local swimming pool one night with friends was another (a funny story I'll save for another blog post).

Things I can say, with pride, that I did NOT do include guzzling pods of laundry detergent.  That lamentable craze appears to have passed, so we no longer have to worry about people ingesting, inter alia, sodium borate and ammonia.  Besides, we lived out of town and if any decision by me to guzzle cleaning products necessitated a trip to town by my mother to replace the product, I need have had no fear of the side effects of my goofball gluttony: my mother would have killed me.

Other things I didn't do include unravelling a condom, stuffing it into one nostril, plugging the other nostril and then inhaling until condom travels to back of throat, reaching in, and pulling it out my mouth.  For those of you reading who happen to have not heard of this craze: no, I did not type that wrong.  Kids, why?  Just... why?  My stomach is churning at the thought.  Nausea aside, this is actually a potentially dangerous stunt. Why? Because the thing could get stuck in your throat, whereupon you will choke and die. It could be parenthetically inferred from this that your parents should have used a condom the night you were conceived.

I've been tutoring English in my spare time, and subtext plays a part in what is being read.  Condom-snorters, there is a subtext in these videos you upload, and that subtext is as obvious and unavoidable as lump of dog shit on a wedding cake.  In case you need it explained, it goes like this:

When you make this video and upload it, no doubt chortling with glee as you pull the nasal-journeyed franger* out your mouth, you think you are saying: Look what fun I am, everybody! I join in with the trends and am part of the pop culture zeitgeist of my time!

The SUBTEXT of what you are saying is: Look what a fuckwit I am, everybody! I follow the craze no matter how half-arsed or potentially dangerous it might be, without a thought to the possibility my dumbarsery is being seen by potential employers, or potential college admission staff, or potential boy- or girlfriends, and it will hang around for all eternity for people to know that I am a colossal cockwomble!

Please stop doing this. If you must challenge your pimply hormonal ilk, how about this for a challenge: #ReadABook ?

* Australian slang for a condom, probably a derivative of French letter.