Moss Gathering

This is a letter to Ron Moss aka Ridge in The Bold & The Beautiful, and also a member of the band that sang that sappy Baby, Come Back number (not to be confused with the awesome Eddy Grant & The Equals' number that goes: 'Come back/Baby, come back...' - check it out, and check out a later clip of Eddy performing it. There's much to be said for a ripped West Indian dude with dreadlocks).

But I digress.

I saw Ron on Sunrise this morning - yes, yes; I know I'm dancing with the Devil and setting myself up for aggravation by viewing morning television - and he gave an interview via satellite from premises I believe to be his home. In his arms he was holding what appeared to be a thyroidal, hirsute lab rat, which I soon realised was his pet dog, Mr Prince. What has Ron upset is that he will not be allowed to bring Mr Prince with him to Australia on his pending visit. I daresay the quarantine process we have here will disrupt his itinerary.

Ron gave a fatuous interview and put forward a facile argument to support his claims the mutt should be allowed here. I'm referring to it as a 'mutt' because I'm extremely irritated; I happen to adore dogs as a rule.

Again, I digress.  So, here goes:

Dear Ron Moss,

Some will have sympathy for you wanting to bring your dog here. I have a little sympathy, because I love dogs, too. I have two such furbabies.

However, as you have noticed, we have very stringent quarantine laws here. I will take the opportunity to congratulate you on having carried out pre-travel research, which your fellow actor Johnny Depp apparently chose to not do, thus resulting in him bringing in his two dogs and being embroiled in a global stink of such magnitude I thought World War III was imminent.

We don't have rabies in Australia. We'd like to keep it that way. Allowing your dog to just come here has the potential to compromise our biodiversity, and we take this very seriously. Our farmers are doing it very tough because Australia has been squeezed mercilessly by a vicious drought, so as you can imagine, they don't need more shit if your dog brings in a disease. We don't care if you think your dog is pristine; we're not taking the risk.

Your argument that our country already has ninety-eight per cent of fauna that will kill immediately doesn't wash. Our fauna is SUPPOSED to be here; your dog ISN'T, capiche? This argument has all the impact of using a fleck of confetti to staunch the diarrhoetic flow from an elephant's arse.

The information you gave that the dog has 10,000-plus Instagram followers is seriously off the planet, mate. You will find this is the sort of thing about which Australians are totally incapable of giving a fuck. That the dog has so many followers on a social media is a sad indictment on our society.

You need to get two things: (1) a dog- and or house-sitter; and (2) over yourself.

Either follow correct quarantine procedure, or leave the dog at home.

We don't care about your dog.

Yours,

Australia.

From Annying to Not Annoying

What's Annoying Me Today:
The lawsuit Emma Husar vs Buzzfeed, currently being heard in the Federal Court of Australia. If you haven't heard, it's a defamation case, and Ms Husar, a Labor MP, is suing the online publication for reports made about her behaviour, which is alleged to have been of a lewd nature. The publication is pushing the Truth is Defence line for their article. My question is this: why should someone's libidinous inclinations or sex life be considered something worthy of shaming and criticism, and why should a person be considered defamed because they have libidinous feelings and a sex life? When I checked my work roster today, the date said 22 February, 2019, so going off that I draw the conclusion we're no longer in the 1950s. But some people seem to think a woman should have a cloth, whereon a big scarlet capital letter has been stencilled, pinned to her chest if she so much as THINKS about raising her skirts and dropping her drawers. You know what? I don't give a shit if Emma Husar, who is the member for Lindsay, has banged another consenting adult. I care that she, and any other person in this situation, is denounced for partaking in what is, after all, a perfect legal activity.

What Has Not Annoyed Me Today:
The news that Michael Murphy, one of five men convicted of the vicious, foul gangrape and murder of Anita Cobby in 1986, died overnight from liver cancer. The quote: 'I have never wished a man dead, but I have read some obituaries with great pleasure' (apocryphally, but incorrectly, attributed to Mark Twain) really struck a chord with me today. If there is an afterlife, I have no doubt this beast is being issued his pitchfork for furnace shift in Hell as I type.

What Has Saddened Me Today:
Peter Tork of The Monkees died. It's like some macabre yin/yang thing: Michael Murphy dies, and so does Peter Tork. I will admit I don't know what Peter Tork was like personally, but I'm sure he was a better scrap of humanity than Michael Murphy. At least Peter Tork helped contribute to some good in the world. I know some of you don't take the music of The Monkees all that seriously, given their prefabricated origins, but the songs were fun pop. It seemed bizarre to hear Tork was seventy-seven years of age; I tend to think of that geeky-looking bloke with the bowl haircut playing keyboards in the Daydream Believer film clip.

What Has Neither Annoyed Nor Saddened Me Today:
Today I purchased a copy of the Sydney Morning Herald. A few times a week, I purchase the actual paper because I enjoy the cryptic crossword. The puzzle set in the Friday edition is always a true brain teaser, and I haven't attempted it yet (I will when I finish typing this post). As I got out my wallet, I remembered I had a Powerball ticket from last week tucked away in there. I had thought about throwing it away; there was no major winner from the Upper Hunter Valley announced, so what was the point? Anyway, I handed it to the newsagent, and said, 'Any good news for me?' She did whatever it is newsagents do with lottery tickets (I don't know if they're scanned on the machine, or what), and said, 'Yes. $73.00. Want me to just subtract the cost of the paper from that?' Every now and then, things aren't all that bad.

Time for my cup of tea, and a go at Friday's cryptic crossword.

Vagaries for Today

I haven't been doing too much writing-wise this week.  I have had vagaries in my mind, but I haven't had a chance to do something concrete about those vagaries. If I am to be paid as a writer, I had best get those vagaries working, had I not? I can take some comfort in that I am being paid to sit with students and teach them to punctuate, and how to structure a strong essay, so I guess I'm using my writing skills in THAT sense, but I would like to be getting more coin for my actual output.

Yesterday, I had cause to visit my home town. It was a filthy hot day. I braved the heat and visited the town cemetery, where I stood in solemn, sad silence at the plot wherein lie my parents and oldest brother.

If you're not much of a grammarian, please note I said I had 'cause' to visit my home town. This means I had a reason to visit. 'Cause' is a noun for a person or event that makes something happen, or a verb to make something happen. However, don't ever say or write something along the lines of: 'The dog hid behind the sofa during the storm cause he's terrified of thunder.' This is very wrong, and those who cultivate this vileness should be taken outside and beaten with spiked shillelaghs.  What you need is the conjunction 'because', which means 'for this reason'. Stop saying 'cause' instead of  'because'. It's evil.

What's brought about this ire is an article I read this afternoon. You have no doubt rightly guessed the author used 'cause' as a conjunction, instead of 'because'. Adding to the heinousness was a hotchpotch of missing apostrophes, fragmented sentences, run-on sentences, incorrectly capitalised words, and proper nouns that weren't capitalised. I sat there in utter delirium, quietly groaning, 'Faark!...Faaar-aaaark!...FAAAAR-AAAAAR-AAAAAAAK!', like a plaintive crow. Reading the crap ruined my day. The knowledge that the author is clearly illiterate and being PAID to write makes me question the justice in the universe. There really isn't any.

Well, I guess I'm just in a bit of a malaise, really. It's stinking hot, still, but I do believe we might be over the worst of it. Bring on winter! Winter, how we have missed thee!

On a funnier note, I had a chance meeting with a man yesterday whom I've not seen for many years. He's the father of an old school friend. I really wanted to say, 'Hey, haven't seen you since you snapped at your kid to get in the car after he asked me to go with him!', but didn't think it would be a politic course of action.

Anyway, thanks for reading what really was a rather melancholic and malcontentedly toned post.  If you're after something to read, you can click on the links to my books in my bio on the blog page, and if you're feeling like channelling your inner Medici, you can give me your patronage at www.patreon.com/SimoneBailey

My Hilarious Valentine

Has anyone ever engaged in the frivolous fun of playing Never Have I Ever? It's where you tell a group of people something about yourself, to wit, something you have never done that most of the planet appear to have indulged in at some time or another. With me, it's usually watched an episode of Game of Thrones.  The other activity I don't tend to engage in is celebrate Valentine's Day, which falls today.

My reason for not celebrating this matyred saint is not because I'm a miserable reviler of romance, nor am I a rebel against the commercialisation of the day. No, it's because my birthday falls two days earlier and I celebrate my birthday instead. So yeah, it was my birthday a couple of days ago. I have successfully completed another orbit of the Sun.

But my Facebook music group is having a laugh today, and we are posting the love songs that make us want to puke. I'm going to have a field day, because there are very few love songs that don't make me want to send the contents of my stomach flying across the room in a chunky-textured, multicoloured cascade that looks like a waterfall painted by Dali. For laffs and yucks, here's a sample of what's been posted:

1. Lovin' You by Minnie Ripperton. This was my choice, and oh my giddy aunt, it's a cracker of a Shit Song. I will own that Minnie had a beautiful voice, but - with pleas to my giddy aunt again - this song is an emetic on a musical stave! She does that high squeal thing, and the budgie falls from its perch, bleeding from the ears. What's with the loopy lyrics: 'Everytime that we ooooh/I'm more in love with you.'  What is 'ooooh'?  ('Not much on telly tonight, love. Feel like some ooooh?').

2. Eternal Flame by The Bangles. This is barfous offering. I don't like anything by this lot, but this just gets up my nose.

3. I Willl Always Love You by Whitney Houston. It's so overblown, and that refrain of 'And EYE-YI-YI-YI-YI will always love YOU-OOO-OOOO-OOOOO-OOOOO!' hits you in the head like a wrecking ball, and makes you wonder if all the diphthongs have gathered somewhere nearby for their annual picnic.

4. I Don't Want To Miss A Thing by Aerosmith. I usually rather like Aerosmith, but this is flesh-crawlingly creepy. It sounds like its being sung by a guy who'd slaughter you and wear your skin for a shirt.

5. Love And Other Bruises by Air Supply. It is a truth universally acknowledged (well, in MY universe, anyway) that any song by Air Suppy will see me run screaming for the hills. But this song in particular sucks balls. It sounds like a paean to spousal abuse (not that they can't write about that because no subject should be off limits for a work of art), but what really grinds my gears is the goofy lyric, 'As the ice melts into snow...'.  Whaaaaat? Ice is a solid state of matter. Snow is another solid state of matter. If a solid melts, it melts into a liquid. It doesn't melt into another solid. Get in the bin, guys.

Well, I must be off to do some other things now, like go to the gym and organise some tutoring lessons. Reader, if you're wondering what you can do to help me celebrate my recent birthday, how about purchasing my books and thus contributing to a nice royalty cheque, which would be a delightful birthday present in due, belated course.

Watch for Traffic(king)

Is anybody else out there introverted, like me? Does anybody else out there like their own company, like me? Does anybody else out there occasionally enjoy a meal on their own, like me? Does anybody else out there identify as female, like me? Does anybody else out there have long hair, like me? 

Did you answer 'yes' to those questions? Then, look out if you're staying at the Marriott, because you might be targeted by staff as a - shock! horror! - <whisper it> -  escort.  Yes, they're cracking down on escorts because, in their flawed logic, they want to staunch the flow of sex trafficking.

Listen, nobody is in favour of trafficking except for the traffickers themselves, along with the warped clientele who'd abuse somebody not providing the service of his or her own accord; but for fuck's sake, Marriott: why do you CARE if someone is an escort? By the way, you'll notice I used both binary gender pronouns, ie, 'his or her own accord'.  Does the Marriott have any training for the staff to recognise if a MAN might be an escort, or does that no matter because, you know, they're men and all that?

Apropos of the first paragraph of this post, apparently staff are to be aware of women who are alone there, or who call for extra towels, or who have sex toys and condoms in their rooms. Oh, and long hair. This is some of the criteria I have read on social media. Of course social media is not necessarily the Oracle of Truth, so maybe the long hair bit is an apocryphal point added by the outraged. I have been following some very good arguments and threads challenging Marriott's policy and the Marriott Robot has duly replied with stock pro-forma answers.

How do staff know if women are travelling with sex toys and condoms? Are they checking through guests' luggage? If I caught a member of hotel staff rifling through my luggage, he or she would want to duck (although if they did duck, I'd be more likely to hit them with whatever missile I had flung, because I'm a really lousy shot - nobody ever wanted me to bowl when playing softball)!

This policy sucks balls. If a woman is travelling alone, why do those dopes think she might be being trafficked? I imagine a trafficked person would be likely to have his or her captor nearby to ensure flight is not forthcoming. 

Whether or not the person is an escort, what does it matter; provided the bill is paid, and other guests are not being disturbed? Does the management at Marriott honestly think nobody else is having sex in their hotel rooms? What difference does an exchange of currency between the parties make?

If I was staying at an establishment, and was asked these questions by the staff, I would soon be taking my business elsewhere. I don't care if people mistake me for an escort; what I take umbrage to is the paternalistic stickybeaking and busybody behaviour. 

While I'm on this subject, I read that Uber drivers were being given similar training to identify an escort (who just MIGHT be a trafficking victim) during the Superbowl. Things to look out for include certain styles of dress and a reluctance to engage in conversation with the driver. News just in: it's 2019 and women are allowed to wear what they like, and perhaps they don't want to engage in conversation with the driver because he or she is just talking bullshit.

Hell, there's also a bar in NYC that's training staff this way, and discouraging women from drinking alone at the bar because they might be mistaken for a hooker, which could be bad for business (the restaurant's business, that is). When I checked my calendar, it said 2019, not 1954! Women are allowed to drink in bars now, folks - just in case nobody told you. This was happening in New York, but you'd think it was Saudi Arabia! 

Women should be allowed to travel alone without suspicion and paternalistic condescension in the guise of caring for the womenfolk. This is creepily reminiscent of The Handmaid's Tale, and it's giving me the 'ughs'. 

In case you're wondering what's the funniest thing I've been called this week, it's 'child of Lucifer'. I was arguing on a thread about this very topic, and this dude said I was a child of Lucifer (well, you got the initial right, but my father's name was Les; nice try anyway, cocksmoker).  I have been called different things over the years, not all complimentary (like 'you little turd', which was often thrown at my by my older siblings), but 'child of Lucifer' is a new one. And I must say, a rather amusing one.

Anyway, I must be off. Check out the links to the first chapters of my novels on this blog page. Also, I've just joined Patreon, and am therefore seeking patrons. Some would call this begging, some could call it scabbing; it matters not. I do need patrons, and writers in Australia often don't earn much. You don't have to pledge much, or even for every long. However, there is incentive for people to join the $10.00 tier - an autographed copy of my upcoming novel Howling on a Concrete Moon (limited copies to be given away). Just go to Patreon and do a search for Simone Bailey. 

Ciao for now. 

Rusty Ideas

Dear Celebrities,

Please spare us your New Age, crack-brained, half-arsed, cockheaded directives on the raising of our children.

Yours sincerely,
Everybody Who Actually Lives In The Real World

If you're wondering what's inspired me to write this heartfelt, gut-wrenching, bowel-loosening plea, it's Russell Brand. I've just read that he has called for the banning of tickling children.  He supposedly said it should be illegal, unless the child is old enough to give consent. I don't think anybody would actually willingly give consent to be tickled; it's extremely annoying.

But what is also extremely annoying is celebrity advice. Who among you parents reading this hasn't given your little one a tickle when playing? I have lost track of the times my oldest would hold out his hand and beg in his cherubic, piping voice, 'Round and round the garden, Mummy!' If you've forgotten this childhood classic, you trace the kid's palm with your fingertip as you intone: 'Round and round the garden, like a teddy bear...' then you touch two points on the kid's arm, second one higher than the other as you say: 'One step, two step...', and then it's all-out war on the armpit as you cry: 'Tickle under there!' My son would giggle delightfully, and we bonded beautifully over this silly, yet sweet nursery game. It lost its lustre when I would be sitting on the toilet, with my son calling plaintively through the locked door, 'Round and round the garden, Mummy! Round and round the garden, Mummy!'

Brand has said he would assault someone who tickled his kids. I can kind of understand this, as I would not have wanted someone just touching my kids, either. I recall when my youngest was about six months old, and he was propped up in his pram as we waited in the doctor's surgery (it might have been for his regular infancy check-up). Some old dude chortled to him, 'How's it going there, young fella?', and poked him with the end of his walking stick, whereupon my baby started to wail. I snapped at the old man, 'Nice one! How would YOU like some huge person to poke you with a stick?', and scooped up my wailing infant and shushed him.

Like I said, I really hate being tickled. But I'm not going to call for a ban on it. If the kid giggles and likes it, and the parent is okay with it, then c'est la vie.

I am recalling an occasion in my early-twenties, when a guy I was dating started tickling my feet. I angrily told him to stop. He didn't understand I actually meant it, or else he was a complete clod who thought I was playing some No Means Yes game. I instinctively kicked out, and my heel got him in the scrotal sac - hard. It had not been intended on my part, but I was not apologetic. All I said was, 'I told you to stop, didn't I?' That relationship did not last.

But can celebrities please just fuck off and go away? Between Gwyneth Paltrow espousing the benefits of steaming the vagina (which is a self-cleansing organ, Gwynnie, you insipid bone-bag), and Rusty here giving out parenting and potential legislative advice, colonisation on Mars is starting to look good.