Some foods that really disgust me are trifle and pavlova. With its layered sherry-laden stale sponge cake (puke!), jelly (eeeuuuuwww!), custard (whose dining experience is akin to a wad of phlegm travelling down the throat and I will not be convinced otherwise), and cream (yuck!): trifle presents like a freshly laid bowl of vomit. Pavlovas use meringues as their base (I loathe meringues) and are generally topped with that most nauseating of foodstuffs: cream.
Because these foods cause me such gastronomic offence I will make it my mission to declare them a problem and publicly seek their eradication.
But wait, maybe I WON'T, because I have the emotional intelligence to see that if other people choose to eat them, it will have absolutely NO impact upon my life whatsoever, and it's none of my business if people want to eat pavlova and trifle, even though I'm damned if I can understand why anybody would choose to do so.
So why in the everloving fuck has Bob Katter MP posted a video declaring a vegan 'meat' pie to be a 'problem'? A problem to whom, exactly? My dude, if you're reading this, we have recently had half our fucking country ablaze, and you think a non-meat culinary option is a 'problem'? Whoever is advising you, I would suggest that person be summarily dismissed, because your priorities are a tad skewiff.
Honestly, he complains it's 'not Australian'. At least he didn't say that bog-standard shite word 'unAustralian', because he might then have found himself the recipient of a mailed glitter bomb (this is a joke, don't everybody arc up). A rudimentary definition of 'Australian' means an inhabitant or descendant of a person living in Australia, or relating to Australia (eg, Sydney is an Australian city). To assert eating a pie made from plant matter is not Australian is a really terribly flawed predicate. I often eat vegetable pies; am I not Australian (I'd better be; I'm paying taxes here!)? His jingoistic blather-fest also states we should eat Australian beef. Bob, if someone doesn't want to eat beef, then that is that person's own choice, got it?
Why do people get so triggered over the word 'vegan'? Bob, I didn't see anything about a gun being put to people's heads with the directive they eat the vegan pie or else.
In a nutshell: I don't care if someone is vegan. I often dine on vegan meals myself. I care more about fossilised dinosaur droppings whinging misplaced patriotic nonsense instead of focusing on real issues. Don't want to eat a vegan pie? Don't eat it. Problem solved, but don't go dictating to everybody else.
Wednesday, 26 February 2020
Thursday, 20 February 2020
Calling Your Name In Aisle 3
I have a memory of when I was eighteen. I had some flexibility, was wrinkle- and debt-free, and could easily get away with wearing horizontal stripes. I was at a dance in my home town and this song came on, and a male school friend exclaimed, 'I LOVE this song!', and I am pretty sure we danced to it (we also danced many years later at my thirty year Year 10 reunion, but that's another story). Back then, I didn't love the song; I considered it naff and performed by an attention-seeking androgyne whose talent was debatable.
Fast forward to today. I was trudging around the supermarket, wondering whether my knees would creak and crackle like a roll of bubble wrap in the hands of a hyperactive kid, and colour me flabbergasted when that song came on Coles Radio! Making the connection that something I danced to as a teen is now supermarket fare brought me to the lugubrious realisation that I'm getting old.
The song? Why, none other than the silly Calling Your Name by some dude who called himself Marilyn. And he was a damned sight prettier than many of the girls who danced to it. I realise that as a woman who has Everybody Wang Chung Tonight in her play list, I should probably not deride things as naff, but Calling Your Name was as naff and kitschy as a velveteen figure of a cat playing fiddle and sitting on a toadstool. Also, if it ends up as elevator muzak, I'm taking the stairs.
Speaking of songs, I attended a trivia game last night. I haven't played at this establishment before, and wanted to scope it out. I was playing on my own, and came in third out of five teams, so I'm quite chuffed with myself. There are times when it comes in handy to know Vilnius is the capital city of Lithuania. Getting back to songs, I was able to identify the mystery snippet as Kashmir by Led Zeppelin, and gave the correct year of release for Counting the Beat. I regarded the other contestants, mainly twenty-something hipsters, and crowed, 'It comes in handy being old!' Well, we were given pictures of album covers, and had to write down the titles of said albums. I got none of these ones correct. Apparently that album by 50 Cent is not called Unlistenable Tone Deaf Shit. But not to worry, I scored enough correct answers to come in third which earned me some cred with and admiration from the other players; not to mention the ticket for a glass of the house wine and a fifty-dollar voucher for a meal at the pub bistro (and the bistro does some good meals, so Mr Bingells and I are going to have a belated birthday dinner for me tomorrow night).
If one is to maintain any kind of sanity in this world, one must focus on the good and light hearted stuff, and remember there are nice things out there in a world where some unspeakable monster jumps into the vehicle that holds his three children and their mother, and then douses them with petrol, and burns them to death. What a horrific way for these poor babies to die! I have been shaking my head and blinking back tears over it. Their mother also passed away, and in a macabre way I'm glad she did because she will be spared the grief of her children's fate. Their father stabbed himself, and was unable to be revived. How I wish he had lived, so he could face the consequence of his actions. I cannot fathom a world where people consciously do this to their own family.
Rest in peace, beautiful children and mother.
Fast forward to today. I was trudging around the supermarket, wondering whether my knees would creak and crackle like a roll of bubble wrap in the hands of a hyperactive kid, and colour me flabbergasted when that song came on Coles Radio! Making the connection that something I danced to as a teen is now supermarket fare brought me to the lugubrious realisation that I'm getting old.
The song? Why, none other than the silly Calling Your Name by some dude who called himself Marilyn. And he was a damned sight prettier than many of the girls who danced to it. I realise that as a woman who has Everybody Wang Chung Tonight in her play list, I should probably not deride things as naff, but Calling Your Name was as naff and kitschy as a velveteen figure of a cat playing fiddle and sitting on a toadstool. Also, if it ends up as elevator muzak, I'm taking the stairs.
Speaking of songs, I attended a trivia game last night. I haven't played at this establishment before, and wanted to scope it out. I was playing on my own, and came in third out of five teams, so I'm quite chuffed with myself. There are times when it comes in handy to know Vilnius is the capital city of Lithuania. Getting back to songs, I was able to identify the mystery snippet as Kashmir by Led Zeppelin, and gave the correct year of release for Counting the Beat. I regarded the other contestants, mainly twenty-something hipsters, and crowed, 'It comes in handy being old!' Well, we were given pictures of album covers, and had to write down the titles of said albums. I got none of these ones correct. Apparently that album by 50 Cent is not called Unlistenable Tone Deaf Shit. But not to worry, I scored enough correct answers to come in third which earned me some cred with and admiration from the other players; not to mention the ticket for a glass of the house wine and a fifty-dollar voucher for a meal at the pub bistro (and the bistro does some good meals, so Mr Bingells and I are going to have a belated birthday dinner for me tomorrow night).
If one is to maintain any kind of sanity in this world, one must focus on the good and light hearted stuff, and remember there are nice things out there in a world where some unspeakable monster jumps into the vehicle that holds his three children and their mother, and then douses them with petrol, and burns them to death. What a horrific way for these poor babies to die! I have been shaking my head and blinking back tears over it. Their mother also passed away, and in a macabre way I'm glad she did because she will be spared the grief of her children's fate. Their father stabbed himself, and was unable to be revived. How I wish he had lived, so he could face the consequence of his actions. I cannot fathom a world where people consciously do this to their own family.
Rest in peace, beautiful children and mother.
Saturday, 15 February 2020
Bonfires, Heretics, & Damascene Discoveries
They say you learn something new every day. The other day, I learned something of significance (to me, anyway). Half my lifetime ago, I read a book that had me spellbound with its use of language and brilliant insight into shallow, spurious characters; as well as a scathing yet subtle look at the excessive and image conscious people living in 1980s New York. That novel was The Bonfire of the Vanities, and its view of media manipulation influenced me in the writing of what became my first novel, Calumny While Reading Irvine Welsh. Well, if you have been following this blog, you will know that I have been indulging in The Borgias on Stan. Those Renaissance times were rather interesting in their own way, although I'm glad I'm living in this period of time (notwithstanding I see stuff that makes me think it would be a good time for the Cosmos to hoik another asteroid at the planet, kind of like that one that decimated the dinosaurs). Part of the history deals with a Dominican Friar named Savonarola - hey, it's lucky he's not in Australia because his nickname would be Sav-On-A-Roll-A! - but back to my point: this dour Dominican wasn't a sunny chap at all. He called for the destruction of secular art and culture (What did secular art and culture ever do to YOU, you miserable old fart?). Anyway, he had the Ferrara folk burning all their nice things, or as he called them: 'vanities'. Towns people everywhere were being pushily exhorted to throw their 'vanities' on the fire.
And just like the proverbial bolt from the blue, it hit me. A Damascene cascade of scales tumbled from my eyes and onto my lap, whereupon they were duly brushed away to the floor, and the dog ran over and ate them, like he does with all crumbs that fall to the floor.
Pointing to the television, scale-free eyes bulging in their sockets like watery golf balls, I exclaimed, 'THAT'S where we get the saying 'Bonfire of the Vanities'!' I'd like to say my voice was a dramatic gasp, or a stentorian thunder that would befit such a profound revelation, but it was more an excitable squawk. Picture a chimpanzee sucking helium; it might paint an accurate picture.
Mystery solved, and it's a mystery over which I've never turned to Google, surprisingly. I guess it didn't torture me too much. It was only something I'd idly wonder whenever I reached for the novel. I've read it many times since the first time I read it on the bus journey to visit my sick mother.
Speaking of torture, Savonarola was tortured and tried as a heretic, before being burned at the stake. I imagine he was probably used to pain, because his cheeks and head must have ached like crazy because he sucked all the joy out of Ferrara.
And just like the proverbial bolt from the blue, it hit me. A Damascene cascade of scales tumbled from my eyes and onto my lap, whereupon they were duly brushed away to the floor, and the dog ran over and ate them, like he does with all crumbs that fall to the floor.
Pointing to the television, scale-free eyes bulging in their sockets like watery golf balls, I exclaimed, 'THAT'S where we get the saying 'Bonfire of the Vanities'!' I'd like to say my voice was a dramatic gasp, or a stentorian thunder that would befit such a profound revelation, but it was more an excitable squawk. Picture a chimpanzee sucking helium; it might paint an accurate picture.
Mystery solved, and it's a mystery over which I've never turned to Google, surprisingly. I guess it didn't torture me too much. It was only something I'd idly wonder whenever I reached for the novel. I've read it many times since the first time I read it on the bus journey to visit my sick mother.
Speaking of torture, Savonarola was tortured and tried as a heretic, before being burned at the stake. I imagine he was probably used to pain, because his cheeks and head must have ached like crazy because he sucked all the joy out of Ferrara.
Friday, 7 February 2020
Media Morons & Homing the Student
Apropos of my last post, wherein I complained about the need for people to share every boring minutiae of their lives online, another person (not a celebrity, to my knowledge) has shared the details of her daily routine online, and - according to the tabloid morning television industry - been 'slammed' for doing so. The woman's name is Brooke Smith, and because she rises at an unseemly hour to do some preparation and make the coffee for her husband, and because she likes her house to be tidy before she goes to bed, she has to be 'slammed' for it. This post isn't about Brooke herself, but about the stupidity of people 'slamming' her. First up, why is it even news? Secondly, who's 'slamming'? I don't think I read one comment slamming the woman. I did read a lot of comments telling detractors (like those in the media, to wit, Today's Karl Stefanovic and Allison Langdon) to pull in their respective snide heads.
As I said in the above paragraph, why do we even discuss what someone else does in their daily routine? If it works for that family, and they're all happy and being fed, then it doesn't matter. It's not our business. It is not for us to make catty and unfunny comments about a return to the 1950s. I have no desire to return to that era (I was never there, I'm a 1966 model), but again, if the routine is working for someone, then it's working. Honestly, Stefanovic and Langdon, what the fuck happened in your lives to render you such a pair of miserable, mordacious, and derisive deadshits? Get over yourselves (although with the magnitude of your egos, it might be necessary to engage the services of a Sherpa). If you want to @ me, then here's my daily routine. Read this and decide if it suits your agenda:
1. Wake up when bladder, or dog, tells me to (usually between 0630 and 0700).
2. Take dog outside for a tinkle. Do my own tinkle in designated area for human tinkling.
3. Give the dog a few biscuits. Brew myself a cappuccino, which will be sipped whilst I read my social media feed for news and updates.
4. Shower and dress for work, if I am rostered that day. Try to get one of the household chores done, like sweeping floor.
5. Tell 15yo to get out of bed.
6. Tell 15yo to get out of bed.
7. Using an exceptionally loud voice, tell 15yo to get out of bed.
8. Ensure 15yo has had his medication and some breakfast, before he gets ready for school.
9. Work.
10. Write.
11. Tutor.
12. Gym - maybe.
13. Cook dinner if it's my turn, and feed dog. Or else remind 15yo to feed him.
14. Prepare tomorrow's lunches.
Good enough for you? God a problem? If so, too bad; I checked the cupboard where I store my fucks to give, and there aren't any. Cupboard is as bare as that of Old Mother Hubbard.
Sure, clowns who feel they must dump copious amounts of shit on people just looking after their household in the way that best suits their individual circumstances has put me in a piss-up-a-rope mood. But another thing has me feeling a bit, well, blue. Almost nineteen years ago, Mr Bingells and I brought a little baby boy to his new home. We were living in Lane Cove at the time. We pulled up in the residents' car park of the unit block, and I looked up to 'his' bedroom window, and could see a row of toys awaiting him. I recall those toys included a pull-along train with baby Sesame Street characters in the carriages. We introduced him to the delightful Asian man who ran the corner shop downstairs, and took him into our unit and introduced him to our pet cockatiels (both of whom have gone to that golden perch in the sky).
Today, we took that little boy, who is now a strapping young man, to the digs at the university where he is embarking upon study to become a high school teacher. We took him to a new home, one in which we are not living. It feels strange, but I know he will settle in well and have a good time. I am proud of the man he has become, and the choices he has made. I no longer have a little boy. I feel weird. I feel a mixture of nostalgia and pride, and some sadness. I didn't cry as much as I thought I would, because I was so excited for my son. Not having him living here feels strange, but I know we will become accustomed to the new arrangement.
My beautiful son, if you are reading this on your first night as a student on campus, we are so proud of you, and wish you all the best.
Much love from your family.
As I said in the above paragraph, why do we even discuss what someone else does in their daily routine? If it works for that family, and they're all happy and being fed, then it doesn't matter. It's not our business. It is not for us to make catty and unfunny comments about a return to the 1950s. I have no desire to return to that era (I was never there, I'm a 1966 model), but again, if the routine is working for someone, then it's working. Honestly, Stefanovic and Langdon, what the fuck happened in your lives to render you such a pair of miserable, mordacious, and derisive deadshits? Get over yourselves (although with the magnitude of your egos, it might be necessary to engage the services of a Sherpa). If you want to @ me, then here's my daily routine. Read this and decide if it suits your agenda:
1. Wake up when bladder, or dog, tells me to (usually between 0630 and 0700).
2. Take dog outside for a tinkle. Do my own tinkle in designated area for human tinkling.
3. Give the dog a few biscuits. Brew myself a cappuccino, which will be sipped whilst I read my social media feed for news and updates.
4. Shower and dress for work, if I am rostered that day. Try to get one of the household chores done, like sweeping floor.
5. Tell 15yo to get out of bed.
6. Tell 15yo to get out of bed.
7. Using an exceptionally loud voice, tell 15yo to get out of bed.
8. Ensure 15yo has had his medication and some breakfast, before he gets ready for school.
9. Work.
10. Write.
11. Tutor.
12. Gym - maybe.
13. Cook dinner if it's my turn, and feed dog. Or else remind 15yo to feed him.
14. Prepare tomorrow's lunches.
Good enough for you? God a problem? If so, too bad; I checked the cupboard where I store my fucks to give, and there aren't any. Cupboard is as bare as that of Old Mother Hubbard.
Sure, clowns who feel they must dump copious amounts of shit on people just looking after their household in the way that best suits their individual circumstances has put me in a piss-up-a-rope mood. But another thing has me feeling a bit, well, blue. Almost nineteen years ago, Mr Bingells and I brought a little baby boy to his new home. We were living in Lane Cove at the time. We pulled up in the residents' car park of the unit block, and I looked up to 'his' bedroom window, and could see a row of toys awaiting him. I recall those toys included a pull-along train with baby Sesame Street characters in the carriages. We introduced him to the delightful Asian man who ran the corner shop downstairs, and took him into our unit and introduced him to our pet cockatiels (both of whom have gone to that golden perch in the sky).
Today, we took that little boy, who is now a strapping young man, to the digs at the university where he is embarking upon study to become a high school teacher. We took him to a new home, one in which we are not living. It feels strange, but I know he will settle in well and have a good time. I am proud of the man he has become, and the choices he has made. I no longer have a little boy. I feel weird. I feel a mixture of nostalgia and pride, and some sadness. I didn't cry as much as I thought I would, because I was so excited for my son. Not having him living here feels strange, but I know we will become accustomed to the new arrangement.
My beautiful son, if you are reading this on your first night as a student on campus, we are so proud of you, and wish you all the best.
Much love from your family.
Tuesday, 4 February 2020
Borgias Bingeing & Look At Moi
As I am gazing at the tail end of my holidays, I am pondering how I have spent said holidays. The past week or so has been a Borgias Binge. That sounds a bit weird, so let me explain. I was looking through Stan to see what I might view, and there it was. So I started to watch The Borgias (2011 series starting Jeremy Irons as Rodrigo Borgia aka Pope Alexandre VI). I'm hooked. I'm loving it, although deviating from historical facts ( for example, Lucrezia's first husband died from natural causes and not at the hand of Cesare Borgia, as is depicted in the series) does annoy me somewhat.
But as mentioned, I'm loving it and it's filled my spare holiday time nicely, when I've been too hot in the 40+ degree heat to do anything else. However, it might not be the sweltering heat that has me in a flustered mess on the couch. The guy playing Cesare Borgia is delicious! Watching him displaying his swordsmanship in duels, and his - ahem! - other 'swordsmanship' in the boudoir, is proving very pleasurable viewing indeed.
In the first series, Juan Borgia looks like he has some kind of a mullet 'do, which makes me think he should have been in early episodes of Home & Away. The character is portrayed as a snivelling little poltroon who has a great time shagging the wife of his younger brother Gioffre. Gioffre is a doppelganger for a young Tony De Franco, and when looking at him I kind of expect to see him start belting out Heartbeat, It's A Lovebeat.
As for Jeremy Irons as the patriarchal Pope, it goes without saying he gives a mesmerising performance. He is a man who could read the recipe for scones, and have the audience spellbound.
I am also really enjoying the strong women in the series: daughter Lucrezia, the Pope's mistress, the Pope's wife, and the Pope's enemy Caterina.
As far as families go, these Borgias seem to be a bit of a worrisome lot who could rival the Manson family in terms of cold-bloodedness and carnality, and I'm off to indulge in some more of this gorgeous and gruesome family.
Before I go, can media outlets please stop using phrase 'sparked outrage'? It is trite and overused, and usually heralds an inane article about something pointless. I'm referring to some story I read about Miley Cyrus - *grinds teeth as she prepares to type the phrase* - 'sparking outrage' over photographs of her and her beau Cody Simpson in her Instagram feed - some of them have her in lingerie. Here's a hint: scroll past. Personally, I think there's something very 'look at moi, look at moi, look at moi' about a need to post an intimate photograph of yourself with your beloved for all the world to see. What is it these people are trying to prove?
Anyway, The Borgias awaits.
But as mentioned, I'm loving it and it's filled my spare holiday time nicely, when I've been too hot in the 40+ degree heat to do anything else. However, it might not be the sweltering heat that has me in a flustered mess on the couch. The guy playing Cesare Borgia is delicious! Watching him displaying his swordsmanship in duels, and his - ahem! - other 'swordsmanship' in the boudoir, is proving very pleasurable viewing indeed.
In the first series, Juan Borgia looks like he has some kind of a mullet 'do, which makes me think he should have been in early episodes of Home & Away. The character is portrayed as a snivelling little poltroon who has a great time shagging the wife of his younger brother Gioffre. Gioffre is a doppelganger for a young Tony De Franco, and when looking at him I kind of expect to see him start belting out Heartbeat, It's A Lovebeat.
As for Jeremy Irons as the patriarchal Pope, it goes without saying he gives a mesmerising performance. He is a man who could read the recipe for scones, and have the audience spellbound.
I am also really enjoying the strong women in the series: daughter Lucrezia, the Pope's mistress, the Pope's wife, and the Pope's enemy Caterina.
As far as families go, these Borgias seem to be a bit of a worrisome lot who could rival the Manson family in terms of cold-bloodedness and carnality, and I'm off to indulge in some more of this gorgeous and gruesome family.
Before I go, can media outlets please stop using phrase 'sparked outrage'? It is trite and overused, and usually heralds an inane article about something pointless. I'm referring to some story I read about Miley Cyrus - *grinds teeth as she prepares to type the phrase* - 'sparking outrage' over photographs of her and her beau Cody Simpson in her Instagram feed - some of them have her in lingerie. Here's a hint: scroll past. Personally, I think there's something very 'look at moi, look at moi, look at moi' about a need to post an intimate photograph of yourself with your beloved for all the world to see. What is it these people are trying to prove?
Anyway, The Borgias awaits.
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