Dastardly Duets

What is that noise I hear? I think it's - yes, it is! - it's cicadas. I can hear cicadas.  It's not a sound I'm particularly fond of because I associate it with a stinking hot day, but at the moment, it is joyous because it just means I can't hear the other horrendous noise I've been subjected to for what seems ages: the frenetic voice behind my 15-year-old's favourite You Tube channel. I'm not sure who the You Tuber is, but Christ, he's fucking annoying. He must hoover up a line of coke before recording, and he sounds like some crazy race-caller in the final few seconds of the Melbourne Cup and who's on the verge of jizzing himself.  But now that school holidays are over, I am no longer subjected to that shrieking cockamamie lunatic.  I swear my catch phrase for the past six weeks has been, 'Turn it DOWN!'

Yes, school went back today, and peace and calm reigns over Chez Bingells.  Before I get the tide of comments along the line of not knowing what to do with myself, I can find PLENTY to keep me occupied in the quietness until my kid gets home and the ruckus resumes.

First of all, I'm studying again. I went over some notes for the course today, and felt much better about things that I have for a long time.

Furthermore, I have another book in the pipeline. I am revisiting the characters from my first ever novel to see where their lives have taken them, seven years on. It occurs to me I'm going to be researching PTSD, because I do believe my protagonist would suffer this syndrome given what she went through in the first book.

However, what I have been mainly doing today is thinking about musical duets. My Facebook group is posting duets today, and there are some interesting ones:

1. Ebony & Ivory by Paul McCartney and Stevie Wonder. This is likely the worst song ever recorded. Stevie Wonder probably heard this and wished he could have been stricken with deafness, too.

2. Don't Go Breaking My Heart. Yes, we all know and enjoy the Elton John and Kiki Dee original, but have you ever heard the Macy Gray and OBD cover? If you haven't, my advice to you is that you remain ignorant. They both sound like they have been on a crack cocaine binge, and this OBD dude was (he's now deceased) completely tone deaf. Also, I could never understand the appeal of Macy Gray; she sounds like she's singing through a throatful of phlegm. I lasted about ten seconds into it, and had to peel myself from the chair because the sheer torque of the badness pinned me like a butterfly to a corkboard.

3. Don't Look Back by Mick Jagger and Peter Tosh. I do like this song very much, but I guess it's the moves Jagger busts in the film clip that make it interesting. He reminds me of a hiccupping chicken.

4.  Hey Paula by Ernie Sigley and Denise Drysdale. Come on people, admit you like it.

Anyway, I have some things to do before the youngster returns from school, and before I go tutoring this afternoon. Thank you for reading. Oh, in March I am to be the featured artist in an online art zine, and will post a link to the article. In the meantime, feel free to click on the links in the home page of this blog and buy my books. I might have one kid almost out of the house (he's moving to his on-campus accommodation within a fortnight), but the other one has an even more voracious appetite.

My Two Cents

I haven't been blogging this last week, and that's mainly because when it's school holidays, my kids commandeer the 'pute. Also, I've been working a lot, and tutoring a fair bit, too. However, today I am commencing two weeks of holiday, and want to resume my writing.

But what is there to write about? The things that seem to be clogging up my newsfeed lately involve the Duke and Duchess of Sussex - and I'm sure they still retain those titles. I would like to know why Murdoch-helmed news (hah!) programs feel they have to draw comment from Thomas Markle and Samantha Markle. These two clumps of toxic toad smegma talk absolute shit. If it's not those two, the other persons approached for opinion seem to be Katie Hopkins, another toad-jizz globule who talks shit, only really spiteful shit; and Piers Morgan, who is one step away from being totally tragic in his constant nasty commenting and tweeting about Meghan. Seriously, Piers, she didn't want to be your friend, now get over it - you sound like the male equivalent of a bunny boiler, and frankly I can understand why she doesn't want you in her life.

Let's get a little perspective here, folks:

1. Harry is in his mid-thirties, and pretty capable of making up his own mind about his life, so stop complaining that he's abandoned the 'firm', or that he's pussy-whipped by his wife. We don't know if he is, and the only people who know if he is are the people directly concerned.

2. Harry is sixth in line to the throne, so his stepping back really has bugger-all impact on what happens in the House of Windsor.

3. Harry lost his mother when he was only twelve years old, and we all know the circumstances leading up to Diana's death, so it's quite feasible he wouldn't want his own family to deal with this needless drama.

Just leave 'em alone!

The other thing that's got everyone upset is a $20K arts grant and Paris residency that has been awarded to Yassmin Abdul-Mageid. I neither like nor dislike Yassmin; I've never met her.  Anyway, to the naysayers (particularly Pauline Hanson and Amanda Vanstone), let me play Devil's advocate:

1. Did Yassmin apply for the grant in accordance to the terms and conditions? If so, then what's the problem?

2. Did the judging committee rule Yassmin met the criteria and rule accordingly and in good faith as per their mandate? If so, then what's the problem?

To Pauline, who complains art grants are a waste of taxpayer's money, here's a challenge: spend the next week listening to no music, viewing no television, watching no movies, and reading no books (oh, wait - you've probably never opened a book in your life). Then tell me art is a waste. Oh by the way, you were willing to compromise our safety by sucking up to the NRA. How's that working out for you?

To Amanda, who's complained about the $20,000 grant: Scott Cam received a salary of $345K. What do you say to that?

Anyway, I have an article to work on. It's about ME, and it's for an online arts zine.

Thanks for reading.

Smelly-cle Cats

Every now and then a movie is so lousy, it's good. Case in point: Attack of the Killer Tomatoes, a shitfest that has been elevated to cult status. Every now and then a movie is so lousy, it remains lousy (think I Spit on Your Grave, a fright that will leave you screaming for morphine and therapy after viewing). From what I've heard, the new movie version of the stage musical Cats is right down there with I Spit on Your Grave on the lousiness scale. I don't know whether to watch it or not. The only reason I would watch it is to see if it's really as bad as everybody, from eminent film critics to that weird old man who wanders around picking up rocks and eating them, says it is. By the same token, if the movie is that sucky, I don't want to waste my money.

Other reasons I'm not overly keen include:

1. I don't like the show. I have seen a live production, and sat there wondering: What the actual fuck? I know a piece of theatre doesn't need to have a linear plot line etc, but I was just in a state of delirium wondering what the hell was going on in this thing.

2. I got annoyed that people lost their shit because Francesca Hayward, who is a person of colour, is playing a white cat. There was the usual outcry because of 'white-washing', and comparisons to blackface, but people seemed to forget the character is a singing, dancing CAT! Not everything is about racism and cultural appropriation. The character, and I cannot state this emphatically enough, is a freaking CAT!

3. Taylor Swift is in it.

4. I am not overly enamoured with the poetry of TS Eliot. I find his ramblings tedious in the extreme. I recall having to study The Love Song of J Alfred Prufock and thought it would be hard to find a more dreary and humdrum man in all twentieth century literature. These days, he would be considered a potential incel, and if this man wants romance, too bad because everyone will be practically spraining their fingers as they swipe left. We also studied Portrait of a Lady, and sniggered at the loaded line: 'I mount the stairs, and turn the handle of the door, and feel as though I had mounted on my hands and knees'. However, out of curiosity, today I had a quick glance at the poem telling of the hapless sad sack Prufrock, and found myself enjoying some of the language. Maybe now that I'm older, and presumably more mature, I might enjoy the actual poem itself (even if I do think J Alfred Prufock is the dullest man in all Christendom).

5. The word 'jellicle' is stupid. It's more than stupid: it's grating and is like fingernails down the blackboard to me.

6. As a species, I find cats immensely dislikeable. Give me dogs any day.

If I DO end up watching it, I will let you know.

How To Lose Your Argument & Infuriate People

As its name suggests, Persuasive Writing involves producing a written work designed to convince the reader to think or feel a certain way. There are various techniques in this style, which I have had the joy of explaining to students I tutor, and among them are:

* Emotive language
* Alliteration
* Anecdotes
* Adjectives
* Adverbs

The list of techniques is a bit more extensive, but I just wanted to provide a few examples.

However, if you want to persuade your reader that your argument is a complete flop with the depth of a teaspoon, use stupid terminology. Nobody told Brad Emery this in his defence of Prime Minister Morrison, of late hashtagged as Scotty From Marketing. Emery purports to be a freelance writer, and is the Director of Communications with the NSW Minerals Council. He is also a former advisor to the Coalition. Hey, Brad, I don't care if you want to stick up for Morrison; it's your right, and I don't believe in censorship. However, even though I already didn't agree with your obsequious fawning, any admiration I MIGHT have had for your article (probably a moot point because there was NONE) went completely down the toilet with your use of what would have to be the laziest, most bog-standard, pointless, braindead, injudicious, laughable, and downright futile term ever: 'unAustralian'. You used that abomination of a word (and I have doubts as to its veracity in terms of lexicon) to describe the behaviour of people levelling abuse at the Prime Minister. 'It's been un-Australian', your article bleated.

That dog turd of a term is always bandied by people who are: (1) losing their argument; and (2) can't think of a way in which to strengthen their argument. Seriously, what does that numbnuts word even mean?

Brad, by using this term, you have adulterated, diluted, and lenified your argument to the point where it is about as effective as using a piece of confetti to staunch the flow from the arse of a diarrhetic elephant.  Think about your actions.

Anybody wishing to use this vacuous term in an argument: don't bother, because in resorting to same, you've lost your argument.

Oof! What Happened?

I remember when my eldest was starting kindergarten, and the crazed preparations leading up to the Big Day. Did we have the appropriate lunchbox and a water bottle that wouldn't crack? What about his backpack? Did we have a rain jacket? His raincoat, lunchbox, and backpack matched: all featured Batman. How many pairs of socks: a few pairs, or one pair for every day of the week? Were said socks the correct shade of navy? Undies, oh God, we needed undies! Where was that shopping list, so 'textile marker pen' could be added, with a view to writing his name on every item of school uniform he owned? Okay, we will pack him a ham sandwich, an apple, some carrot sticks, and a piece of fruitcake for his first day. His dad's face split into a broad grin when he beheld our eldest that first day, all dressed up in school uniform complete with regulation navy bucket hat.

Then came the day we drove him to his first day in high school. Had we packed enough food (the kid had a voracious appetite)? Did he REALLY need all the books from the $50.00 book pack we had purchased at the school canteen - he was running the risk of becoming crippled! Did he have his new geometry set, ruler, and calculator? Was he really going to keep that cap on his head, or would it be relegated to his backpack the minute he walked through the gates (it was the latter)?

Stressful times, but it just gets more harrying as the kid gets older. Today the three us: kid, his dad, and I spent ages finalising enrolment into his planned degree at university. It turns out he won't be on the campus originally indicated, but in the long run, that's an advantage. Every window on the website revealed a link to be clicked, leading to another window with further information that was making our collective heads swim. I actually joined the research a bit later than the other two, having worked this morning, and I just stared in disbelief at the plethora of open windows indicated by the tool bar. The last time I saw that many open windows was when Smelly Kennedy farted on the school bus (the nickname was no misnomer, trust me). Speaking of windows, my youngest thought it would be amusing to add sound effects to the computer, so every time a window was closed there would be an 'oof' grunting sound. This became apparent when my husband started to click a few windows closed: 'Oof! Oof! Oof!' This only added to our flustered state of being, and my youngest was on the lounge smirking like Scott Morrison.

The patriarch of our household went outside for a well-earned break from the stress, and my eldest and I continued the aggravating process, which was punctuated by the occasional 'oof!'. Unable to bear any more of the infernal oofs, the university student yelled to his brother, 'You are a terrible person!'

But it's done. I can even have a rueful chuckle about the oofs now. We are just waiting to hear back about the timetable finalisation, and the application for accommodation. But the nightmare and stress of planning this new adventure have been real. There must surely be less involved with invading another country, than the enrolment into university.

And I'm STILL Fired Up

It would appear that if you are domiciled in the city and criticise the Liberal government, you are a latte-sipping leftie; if you live in the rural areas and expression similar disgruntlement, you are a bogan. I've lived in the city, but have spent the last seventeen years in the Upper Hunter Valley of NSW (where I spent my childhood).  Therefore, if the views of Chris Smith are anything to go by, I'm a bogan. Chris Smith - yes, the man who practically evacuated his bowels in his impassioned speech stating Scott Morrison is the greatest leader this country has ever had! - obviously enjoys punching down, because the people he's directing his derision to have lost everything in fires, and given the woeful behaviour of the Prime Minister, are not inclined to shake his hand. Smith, if you want to be that way about the victims of the current catastrophe, you're a sewer goblin.  Also capering among the subterranean channels of ordure are:

1. Jeremy Clarkson for his detestable article about Australia being God's laboratory, hence the bushfire crisis, which by his moronic logic, proves Australia just isn't meant to be inhabited by humans. Could someone please tell this jerk that about twenty-four people have died, along with a countless number of wildlife? As an addendum, could the jerk also be informed that Australia was inhabited for about 120 thousand years before becoming England's dumping ground?

2. Sam Newman for describing those who refused to shake Morrison's hand as 'miserable pricks'. In case Old Plastic Face doesn't understand, they LOST EVERYTHING IN THE FIRES! Also, some of those firefighters are criminally exhausted, and are doing more to deal with the fires than Sam is (although in fairness, if Sam stood too close, his face would end up resembling that Dali painting of melting clocks).

3. Tony Allen. He's a councillor in Bega, and was Scomo's wingman during the Bega visit the other day. He's also the slimy bloke you saw in the footage shushing the young woman who told Morrison she'd only shaking his hand if better funding was made available to fire services. Yeah, because we all need old men keeping the young women in their place and stopping them having a voice. Not only that, he actually kissed her cheek! God, he's the embodiment of every horrible sleazy old slob that your parents had in their social circle (you know, the one who'd come to visit and you'd hide in your room, and who always ran around with a sprig of mistletoe at Christmas parties). It is possible that she is acquainted with this horror-on-two-legs, but that footage still make my flesh crawl and my stomach churn.

4. Indue - there are real concerns that the stupid cashless welfare card will fail whilst there are power outages etc in the bushfire affected areas, and people subjected to the bullshit scheme will be unable to access food. I can see this happening. Another good reason to stop this ridiculous card.

Anyway, tonight we are blessed with a cool southerly breeze. I am not as fractious as I have been of late. Heat and I do not mix well. Another blessing is to see the generosity of people everywhere as donations and offers of help are being extended to the fire services, affected townships, and animal hospitals.

Every little bit helps. What also helps is not referring to distraught and displaced people as bludgers on welfare etc.