All Fired Up

I'm normally one for prudent behaviour, but sometimes you have to compromise your principles. I didn't watch any of the New Year's Eve coverage, but of course heard all about it this morning, about how Tex Perkins 'stunned' viewers when he took to the stage, turned towards Kirribili House, and shouted, 'This one's for the Prime Minister!', as he flipped the bird and then launched into the old Cruel Sea hit The Honeymoon is Over.

You know something? I'm completely with Tex on this.

How can I not be? The country is on fire. Experts tried to warn Scotty from Marketing back in May, but did he listen? No! Whilst he deemed it too unimportant to take advice on harm minimisation strategies for bushfires, he did all he could to push his odious Freedom of Religion Bill. We already have rights when it comes to religion, and not being discriminated against. What he seems to want is the right for people to use their faith to discriminate against others. It's stupid to use your faith to discriminate against others. ('I'm not baking you a cake for your same-sex wedding because it goes against my religious beliefs.' 'Fine, you bigot, I'll take my business elsewhere, and tell my friends about it, who will in turn take their business elsewhere. Go broke. See if I care'). That flippantly toned scenario in the parentheses is one thing, but it concerns me that medical and mental health services could be denied to a person in need, on the bases of the religious beliefs of service providers.

Furthermore, the clown pissed off to Hawaii, and had the temerity to compare cutting into the holiday with his family (by all of 45 minutes, so it would seem)  to the decision of a plumber to take on an extra emergency job on Christmas Eve. I have no problem with the Prime Minister having a holiday, but this is a national crisis. It's not a clogged-up dunny spouting effluence on Christmas Eve.

The NSW Government cut funding to fire services, and hey presto! - the frigging State is now alight! I'm in my fifties, and I cannot recall it being this bad. People have died. We have lost an astronomical number of wildlife.  For weeks, the air has been redolent of smoke. I woke up today feeling like I was hungover, and I only had one beer last night. Yeah, I'm angry.

New Year's Day has a sad association for me. It is on this day twenty-seven years ago that my mother, surrounded by her children and her many siblings, and with my father by her side, took her last breath. I remember the raspy sound of my Dad's stubble as he rubbed Mum's hand against his cheek. My parents are now together. I miss them today. However, I have my own family now, and when I look at the young men they have grown into, I am filled with pride and wonder (and occasionally horror because, I will admit, they can be ratbags). I have family and friends, and will likely catch up with some friends later for a New Year's toast, and a swim.

I'm off to read the book I treated myself for Christmas: Identity Crisis by Ben Elton. I'm liking the satirical look at the chronically offended hashtag generation.

Happy New Year, Reader.

Reasons People Suck

Reason people suck #134: that a woman in politics will be criticised for her wardrobe and lack of children. I've been reading about Deb Frecklington (leader of Queensland LNP) saying in an interview, with a publication I understand to be a Murdoch rag, that her children etc keep her grounded, and sniping about the Queensland Premier's choice of designer wardrobe. You know what? I am so fucking tired of people criticising the attire of female politicians. Provided the pollie is dressed appropriately, then what does it matter if her wardrobe comes from Target or Millers, or from Sass & Bide? Another thing: Premier Annastasia Palaszczuk has suffered miscarriage, failed attempts at IVF, and has endometriosis. If you're reading this, Freckles, please be advised you're a spiteful, catty skank who's behaving like an alpha girl in high school. Pick another hill to die on, like, I don't know, perhaps your opponent's POLICIES? This is one of the reasons I'm not keen to go into politics. For the record, I buy my clothes from Target, Big W, Best & Less, Just Jeans, Rockman's, and op shops. I also have two children. However, my novels contain sex and drug use, and in one there is a reference to Gary Glitter music, so everyone will have a field day with this.

Reason people suck #135: my Twitter feed is all about an argument between a woman and a service station attendant. The woman (OP) didn't like the service station's policy that the toilet will not be made available to anybody who has not made a purchase. I think this is a reasonable policy. However, the person requiring the toilet was not the OP, but her toddler, who was bursting to go. This is a TODDLER, people. Anybody who has had children (like good old Freckles referred to in the above paragraph) will know they have trouble holding on. Also, no matter what the age, using the toilet is a matter of dignity. Sometimes this must be taken into consideration, like when you're dealing with a toddler or a heavily pregnant woman. The OP actually did make a purchase, and her child got to use the dunny. In the meantime, everyone's lost their shit over it (hopefully they've made a purchase if they're at a service station). The whole bloody thing's got bigger than Ben Hur. Why does this need to happen? For weighing in with my opinion that whilst da rulez is da rulez, common sense should be exercised as well, I have been called a 'hippo' and told I look like a '65-year-old granny'. Um, okay. For the record, this is my Twitter profile pic, and I think I look like neither of these things in the picture:

I'm not actually offended by the words, just puzzled, and a bit amused. In any event, for this particular tweep to affectively insult me, I would first have to value his opinion.

But you know something? It really bamboozles me as to why something like this takes on the gargantuan proportions it does. I don't even see why a skirmish between a flustered mother and a service station attendant over store policy  had to be put on social media in the first place, but it was, and everybody went totally bugshit. It is a shame Tom Wolfe has passed away, because this makes The Bonfire of the Vanities look like The Little Engine that Could.

But sometimes people don't necessary suck. My oldest son has received confirmation of his acceptance into university to study a Bachelor of Education. This is a source of both relief and great pride for me.

Today I made a discovery. If anything is missing, it will probably be located under my youngest son's bed. Today I found a charger, a missing pair of shorts, and a Tupperware container. Next week, it will be the lost City of Atlantis.

Good Gravy!

Christmas is done and dusted, as the saying goes, for another year. Wrapping paper has been put in the recycling, and the book I bought myself with the gift card from my employer has been commenced by your blogger (it's Identity Crisis, the latest from Ben Elton, and it deals with the culture of the easily offended and hashtags). I had a very busy few days over Christmas and Boxing Day - I was rostered to work. When I was driving to a client's home, what should come on the radio but one of my favourite Christmas songs: How to Make Gravy by Paul Kelly. You know something? I teared up a little as I was listening. The predicate and narrative of the song is a Lump-in-the-Throater: a first person account from a prisoner writing a letter home - he's going to miss Christmas with his family because he's in stir - and among other things, he gives his tips about how to make the gravy for Christmas lunch; apparently up to the offence that saw him serving a custodial sentence the gravy had been his task. Paul Kelly is a fantastic lyricist and his delivery in this song is superb, but then again, Kelly could sing the ingredients listed on the side of a cereal box and have you reaching for the tissues. Perhaps my emotion was due to missing my father, whose anniversary falls around now, and it's only been a few years since we lost him. He was very much in my mind as I worked. I guess Gravy makes the listener think of all the people who can't be with their family on Christmas Day. People such as emergency workers, hospital staff, and of course this year the volunteer fire fighters.

This means it's another year before we're bombarded with Christmas songs again. I will be safe to wheel my trolley down the aisle of the supermarket and not be subjected to Last Christmas by Wham. That song seriously sucks camels' balls, and it makes me want to puke like a demonically possessed adolescent girl everything it squirms its nauseating lyrics into my ears.

If Last Christmas has the power to irritate, so to does Wonderful Christmas Time by Paul McCartney.  It's such a nonsensical load of pointlessness, and it sets my teeth on edge. McCartney is partially responsible for some of the greatest popular songs every recorded, so what's the deal with this? Did somebody cut off the oxygen supply to his brain?

But anyway, as long as I've got Merry Christmas (War is Over) by Lennon et al, Rockin' Christmas by Ol' 55, Merry Christmas by Slade, and Paul Kelly's aforementioned number, I'm happy and know Christmas is here.

I know it's late, but Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Seasons Greetings, and may the good outweigh the bad.

Bad Erotica I Read Today

I will preface this by admitting that I know what I am about to type is a rant of glib condescension of a magnitude that could plug up the hole in the ozone layer. It might put prospective purchasers off buying my novels, so I will take the opportunity to point out my narrative voice in the fiction is different to my narrative voice as a blogger. However, read what I'm sharing here, and tell me I'm wrong, people; this is the most woeful dung I've read since Fifty Shades of Grey, in terms of predicate and prose:

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The red markings are my additions because I wanted to draw your eye immediately to the glaring atrocities in this, um, work. I discovered this ham-fisted erotica courtesy of a Twitter account I follow which is dedicated to bad writing by men about female characters. Some of their postings I actually disagree with, but others are total eye-rollers, and this had my eyes rolling into another dimension. Anyway, let's work our way through in a linear fashion, top-to-bottom, as per my notes.

1. Kaley's mom came an hour after we finished eating. Um, what? Yeah, I know; puerile double entendre on my part, and all that jazz.

2. I took off …  watching television. Whilst a lack of commas can set a certain tone in a passage (such as exasperation or urgency), there are times when they are needed. Don't be afraid to use a comma if you're not trying to give an air of urgency to your narrative voice. Commas make sentences less frustrating to read and also help clarify the sentence's intention. Y'see, the problem with the subject sentence is there are other possible interpretations, such as the couch being the thing wearing undies, or the undies are watching television. Structure and commas matter, people. 

3. Several questions … relax'. New idea, new speaker: NEW PARAGRAPH!!! 

4. Settle down Susan. It's called the vocative comma, and is to be used whenever a character is being personally addressed, such as in this case when the antagonist (Mark from accounts class) is addressing the protagonist (Susan). Without it, this phrase could be interpreted as a direction to settle or calm a crying baby named Susan. Anyway, the prose in this passage is beyond stupid; it's plain fucking woeful. 

5. He walked aplomb...People don't walk aplomb. Aplomb refers to a person's self-confidence in a tricky situation, not his or her gait. People can walk 'with' aplomb.  Reading about someone walking aplomb made me almost snort my morning cup of tea out my nose.

6. Running vagina. Quick! Catch it before it runs onto the road and causes an accident!

7. Long-shaved legs. Mate, this is NOT how hyphens work. I'm guessing Susan has long legs, and they are shaved. The misuse of the hyphen here gives the interpretation that she has been shaving her legs for a very long time, and as a technique for inspiring arousal in the reader, it fails dismally. Nobody cares if Susan has been shaving her legs since she was relatively young. Does making the legs shaved make the story all the more sexy, or should Susan have had her legs waxed instead? Now, if it was a depilatory cream that rendered those pins hair-free: whooooo-doggy! (*fans self*). In case I need to spell it out, those last few sentences are my attempt at sarcasm.

I forgot to underline it, but what on Earth is a 'panty'?

Other people commenting on the Twitter thread took umbrage to the entire predicate of Mark from accounts class (and accountants have a reputation for being staid and boring!) entering Susan's room uninvited in this predatory manner. I actually have no issue with this, although it's not my bag at all. It's erotic fantasy - well, SOMEONE'S erotic fantasy, anyway - and I do not believe in kink-shaming. Do what you want, but don't do it in public to an unconsenting audience because you will frighten everyone. 

Whoever wrote this is trying to inspire sexual arousal in the reader, but the atrocious writing just renders this piece about as erotic as a love bite on a turd. 

To whomever wrote this festering tripe: please stop.

More of Murdoch's Muppets

It was my sorry experience to view footage of social commentators discussing Scott Morrison on Sunrise this morning. Yes, I know morning television is a blight sure to annoy, but I found the clip in my social media feed, and clicked on it. I cannot recall having been so angry for a long time, maybe since Forrest Gump won Best Picture over Pulp Fiction - a travesty that will confound me to my grave (seriously, Academy, what the fuck were you thinking?).

The commentators were Gretel Killeen and Chris Smith, and the host was that Basil with the surname I can't remember, and any respect I had for him flatlined the time they were discussing IVF, and he, along with the cohorts, took a flippant and insensitive attitude. Let me tell you my respect was not revived in any way when I viewed the clip.

The topic for discussion was the criticism aimed at Prime Minister Scott Morrison for taking leave during this current bushfire crisis. I agree the man is entitled to go on holiday with his family, but this is an EMERGENCY, and he has to show leadership (yeah, I know; stop rolling around laughing and get up off the floor). Yes, I know fire services are State issues, but this is a NATIONAL crisis. Morrison has the leadership of a sheep that's running along behind its flock, dried dags clicking and clacking like castanets - an apt thought, given the Prime Minister tries to market himself as a loveable daggy dad. News just in, Scomo: you don't come across as loveable; you come across as ineffectual and bungling. He also had the ungodly temerity to criticise then Victorian Police Commissioner Christine Nixon for going out to dinner during the Black Saturday bushfire crisis. Nixon goes out for a feed when an area of a State was affected; Scomo fucks off to Hawaii when large sections of the country are burning; who can tell me what's wrong with this picture?

It's all well and good for him to say he's being briefed by the Deputy PM etc, but have you SEEN the dim-witted deputies etc? Talk about Dolts on Parade. McCormack stood there bleating about people holding up signs with misspelled words, and had the gall to end that sentence with a preposition. We have a cop frightening a little girl protesting outside Kirribili House (this little girl's home had been lost in the fire) instead of speaking to the little girl's father, who was right beside her.

So naturally the topic was discussed on morning television today. Well, I say 'discussed', but there was no discussion from Chris Smith. He interrupted Gretel and shouted over her, spiralling to such a state of manic apoplexy that he almost wet his pants. Smithy, I'm guessing you have not done a lot of debating in your time, and I'm guessing nobody's ever told you about basic manners, either, but there are some things of which you should be made aware (and Michael McCormack, this is how to not end sentences with prepositions):

1. In a discussion, the other person has the right to speak sans interruption.

2. Shouting over the other person will not strengthen your own argument; if anything, it weakens it, and shows you up for the obnoxious buffoon you are.

3. My jaw is still aching after it hit the floor when I saw you shout that Scott Morrison is the greatest leader we've ever had. Seriously, man, are you taking the piss? Here's an idea: don't suck a crack pipe when you're in the green room awaiting your television appearance. This is the only explanation I can come up with for your outrageous and laughable assertion.

And as for Basil What's-His-Face, you sat there like an impotent lump whilst that loudmouth Smith carried on like a rude, bullying horse's arse. The He-Can-Have-A-Holiday rhetoric you guys spouted, and the rudeness to the guest who pointed out we are in crisis and Scomo's leadership is lacking, just lends credence to my theory that Sunrise is a conduit for the LNP, and you are nothing more than incapacitated acolytes fellating Murdoch.

There's no cool way to do this segue, so I'm just going to say to those who've not finalised their Christmas shopping, how about buying my novels as gifts for those you love? Check them out via the links on the home page of this blog.

Carloses & Karens

Just thought I'd share the lamest thing I've read in a long time. Seriously, were this piffle any more  lame, the vet would be putting it out of its misery.  I'm of a mind the poster of this nincompoopery has posted with the sole purpose of stirring, vexing, harassing, and annoying.

Anyway, do I fit this criteria? Let's see.

1. I am reasonably fit, but the idea of climbing a hill makes me want to collapse in a heap.

2. I am slim-to-medium build, so yeah, okay.

3. What constitutes 'feminine'? My genetic code comprises XY chromosomes, so as far as I'm concerned, I'm feminine to the nth power.

4. I am a very good cook, but a shit cleaner (by the way, can the dude who posted this asinine slop cook and clean at all?).

5. 'Don't swear'. Fuck that shit, and fuck you mate, and fuck the horse you rode in on, but most of all fuck you sideways with a toaster.

6. 'Don't nag'. Yeah, right. I nag like the most miserable old fishwife that ever walked the face of the Earth at times.

7. 'Smile'. Will this do? *Bares teeth in the manner of a frightened chimp*.

8. 'Have kids'. Well, I have two, but what are you going tell the women who don't want children, or who have been through the grief of fertility treatments that have not come to fruition? Read Point 5 above.

9. I have very long hair, so I guess that will make you happy.

10. I choose not to wear a lot of makeup, because I don't like it very much. But it's MY choice, and not to appease some shit-goblin with his head up his own arse.

11. Modest? Fuck you, mate! I'm smart and funny, so screw you.

12. I wear dresses. I wear jeans. I wear trousers. I wear skirts. I wear what the fuck I want whilst taking into account atmospheric conditions and legislative standards.

13. 'Submit to a worthy man'. What people do in their bedroom is none of your business, you sick nosy fuck.

14. 'Get married'. Well, I did do that back in 1998. But what if I hadn't wanted to? Am I less of a woman? Jeez, people like this twerp are annoying.

Mate, if your views are for real, please borrow Doc Brown's Deloran and piss off back to 1950-something. Don't try and convince women to listen to you, or comply with your moldy old views. Just save your breath; you will need it to inflate your girlfriend.

Why are some people so stupid? Did their mothers ingest drugs whilst nurturing these clods in utero? Were they perhaps dropped on their heads at birth? In conjunction with being stupid, why are some people just plain awful? I'm talking about the couple who were filmed harassing their neighbours for having an Aboriginal flag on - and remove your socks, because this will knock them clean off - THEIR OWN PROPERTY WHERE THEY RESIDE! (Sorry about your missing socks). Why does a flag trigger some people? I could understand if the neighbours of these grubs had hung a flag featuring the swastika, and then by all means complain, but for the love of Crimony, it was a freaking Aboriginal flag on the property of people who identify as Aboriginal. What's the problem? Oh, I get it: Boganus Stupidus. People can decorate their houses how they bloody well like! Personally, I cannot abide Coldplay, but if a neighbour has a Coldplay poster on his or her wall, I'm not going to storm their premises and tear it down

I'm thinking that line: 'It's too strong for you, Karen' is going to become a metaphor for strong movements and backlash.

Well, I'm off now. I've got the seeds of another novel germinating in my mind.

The Cheezel That Walks, & Being A Dance Mum

I just looked at my last post, and it was over a week ago! What gives? This is so unlike me; I'm normally ranting every second day at least. Maybe it was owing to the fact I carried out quite a few tutoring sessions last week, and my kid hogged the computer. Today, I made the concerted effort to boot him off, and he complied. In a week's time, we will learn of HSC results. Where have the years flown? It seems only yesterday we dimmed the lights and put on the Barry White CD, and now the resulting zygote is looking at university.

Life's been a hotchpotch of good and bad. In the past week, I have had to draw on inner strength and make decisions. I know the decisions I've made are the right ones, and I'm feeling good.

What else has been going on? Well, I've submitted an application to a 2020 writer's festival (Sydney based) to sit on the Young Adult panel. My application has been received, but I am yet to learn whether it has been successful.

On the weekend, I watched my younger kid perform in his dance school's annual concert. The concert was held at the local high school, and it was decided that once the kids had been signed in, they would sit in the school library owing to the current dire air quality. So, I signed my kid in and sat in the playground, and got out the novel I'm currently reading. I became aware I was feeling a little unwell, which was of concern because people generally don't like having to run to the toilet whilst there are performances on stage, especially ones in which their children are featured. But I got through the first act, even though the seating area was oppressively hot and stuffy. During intermission, I had to go outside to the fresh smoke. However, I managed to keep my guts intact during the show, and was able to smile the patented Mum Smile as my son performed with his musical theatre group to a medley of numbers from Annie.

But yes, the constant pall of smoke and ash has been making my eyes itch, and giving me merry total heck in the old sinuses. Other things that have given me the sighs is the beyond asinine comment made by Donald Trump aka The Cheezel That Walks at some anti-abortion rally, wherein he stated, 'Right now, in a number of states the laws allow a baby to be born from his or her mother's womb in the ninth month. It is wrong. It has to change.'  Um, what? Is he channelling MacDuff from MacBeth, who in the play's fabulous denouement states he was from his 'mother's womb untimely ripped' (nowadays known as a C-section) because MacBeth arrogantly believed a prophesy that 'no man of woman born' would harm him? The common sense in me realises Cheezel Man is likely crapping on about the notion of a late-term abortion, a procedure that is NEVER carried out on a whim, but because of complications that endanger the mother's life. I'm not going to say to not comment if you don't have a uterus, because that's like someone saying I can't have an opinion on circumcisions because I am not the owner of a penis. What I will say is this: if you can't have an informed opinion, then don't comment.

The other thing that's given me the sighs lately is the death last week of Andrew 'Greedy' Smith from Mental As Anything. Shit, that's unfair. He wasn't old, and he was a nice guy. I had the pleasure of meeting him a few times, and we discussed trekking Nepal (I trekked Nepal in 1989, and our guide asked my friend and I had we heard of Greedy Smith; our guide was a former musician and developed an interest in Australian music after taking Greedy on a trek, whereon Greedy had mentioned to our mutual guide he was a musician in Australia).

Life just stinks at times.