Satan's Flatulence & Garish Deodorant Cans

 You know what phrase I would really love to never hear again? It's: 'We're in for a hot summer.' It gets bleated, parroted, trotted out, groaned, or uttered in sepulchral tones by some lugubrious-looking sod Every. Fucking. YEAR! We live in AUSTRALIA, and a hot summer is kind of the nature of the beast when it comes to this wonderful sunburned country of ours.  That being said, I utterly detest the heat and don't handle it at all well. The weekend just gone was a horror with that fiendish heat, and of course, along came the doomsayers and prophets of misery: 'We're in for a hot summer'. Good lord, peeps: it's the Australian summer! My sixteen-year-old and I got into my car yesterday for the trip to purchase new joggers, and the hot blast came through the vents as I turned the key, prompting my son to complain, 'Mum, I feel like Satan's farting in my face!'

I didn't eat much today, which is unusual for me. This is because I had to have a filling this morning, and for a long time my jaw and lip were as numb as the collective IQ of Parliament House. But that's my dental work finalised for the next six months. My left lower incisor is a prosthesis set on a plate, which was removed during the process. I used a mirror to assist in its replacement today. I learned a rather gruesome lesson a few weeks ago when having another filling; I attempted to put it back into my numb mouth just by feeling my way, which led to a mishap with one of the plate's wire hooks that saw me snagging myself like a landed snapper. 

One of the my best achievements over this week was introducing a student to the Uncle Sam deodorant ad from the 1970s. This might sound twee and minimal, but might I remind you it is 2020, so anything that doesn't generate abject misery and despair could be considered an achievement. The young lad was studying TV commercials, so we talked about gimmicks applied, and we went on You Tube and viewed this ad. I told him the impact this ad had on my generation: it was widely talked about and analysed in the playground, and prompted the sector of the populace that comprised sweaty, smelly, BO-riddled teenage boys to go out and buy one of the garishly decorated cans ('..the Stars and Stripes can...'). As predicted, the young lad was most amused by this ad. I asked him was his teacher the same age group as I am, and he does not know (or else is too diplomatic to say). I advised him if his teacher is old enough to remember this ad, it will be a very pleasant trip down memory lane. It really is the best ad of the Seventies.  

Continuing with the gimmicks and tactics, we talked about catchy and memorable tunes, as well as appealing to a sense of glamour and freedom. This segued to me finding him the Amoco ad - you know, the one with the jingle: 'Amoco, nice and clean/Amoco, you know what I mean...'. Also had some bizarre bit '...escape from the sheep in the street (baa-baa)..'. At least, I think that's how it went. The downside to this is that I now have it stuck in my head. On the plus side, my Facebook group's theme today is 'ear worms', so I posted that ad. I also posted Seasons in the Sun (aarrrghhhhh!) and Call Me Maybe (double aarrrghhhh!). Sadly, someone in the group posted Fernando. But there was solidarity. I am not the only person on this planet who holds the belief Fernando is a pissy but brutal manifestation of nauseating mawkishness that totally fellates camels' balls. Fight me on this point if you wish, but I won't be swayed.

Heel & Heal

 I'm taking the time from admiring my coral-coloured toenails to write this post. I've been in a bit of a daze over the past few days; I daresay this is because the world is resuming a semblance of some normalcy. Borders between Victoria and New South Wales have re-opened, so I might take trip down to the Garden State some time soon. I do have the time because today I officially commenced long service leave. I have never before been in a job long enough to accrue this, and I must say it's left me feeling dazed. I had originally planned to travel overseas en famille, but Covid-19 shit on those plans copiously and from a great height. Therefore, any travel to be done will probably be around good old New South Wales, and I might pop into Victoria. 

Today, was another first for me: I had a pedicure. Yep, never in my over half-century on this planet have I had a pedicure, so I decided today was the day. To my pleasant surprise, the chair in which I sat as my Size 9's soaked had an inbuilt massage system that sensuously and expertly rubbed and pressed up and down my spine. I will definitely be doing this again.

Another thing that is resuming normality is the displeasured tweets that are appearing in my socials. The problem with producing a work of art is that you simply cannot please all the people all the time. No matter what the subject, someone is going to be miffed or offended; occasionally with good reason and other times the offended parties should pick a better hill to die on (or upon which to die, as my grammatical pedantry would prefer). A planned production of Hedwig & The Angry Inch has been canned after lobbying from the trans community because the lead role was to be played by Hugh Sheridan, a cis male actor. If you're not in the loop, the titular character is transgendered. I understand the trans community would prefer to be represented by a trans actor, but why the cancellation of this show has annoyed me is the arts community and industry has suffered horrendously during this pandemic, and with the cancellation of the show there are going to be people out of an income, and these people have likely been struggling to find work during this craptacular time. Also, there goes a nice night out to the theatre for people. I strongly support LGBTQI causes and can understand why the trans community get angered at trans actors missing roles of trans characters. Also, in movies and television, the trans community is nearly always portrayed in a way that sees them fetishised or an object of ridicule, and I, too, would be angry at being portrayed thus when I'm a human being with needs and wants, my own opinions, my own likes and dislikes, my own kinks and ideas that are sexually abhorrent, my own ideas on whether to have sugar in tea or add milk first when making instant coffee etc etc etc. I just get so mad when a show gets cancelled, that's all. By all means point out any disgruntlement with casting, themes, plot, or element of production, but let's not make negative impact upon other people's income. I'm aware what I've said is going to annoy people, but what I've said might resonate with some others. All I can say is, I don't mean any offence, but am just looking at a broader picture. 

That's me done for the time being. I have a lesson to prepare - although on long service, I am still tutoring. 

The past few years have been crazy, but now might be the time to heal. I mentioned this to Mr Bingells, and he pointed at my pedicured feet and made a dad-joke punning 'heal' and 'heel' that was enough to rupture the fabric of time and space with its sheer dad-joke dreadfulness. 

Trump, Scandals, & Dreadful Hair Partings

 Memo to Donald Trump: 'Denial' is NOT that long river in Egypt, okay? 

I was just scrolling through my Twitter feed, and I saw a tweet from him, all in caps, verbatim:  'I WON THE ELECTION!' As you can imagine, my face was frozen into the confused rictus of 'Huh?' 

Listen, you delusional hybrid of a jackass and an Oompa-loompa: you DID NOT. You know something else? A major part of why you lost (along with your total buffoonery and jackassery and shitfuckery in general) is the first word in that tweet: 'I'. It's all 'I', 'I', 'I', or 'me', 'me', 'me' where you're concerned. You don't give a flying one about the people you purported to lead, it was all about YOU. There have been 246 thousand  Covid deaths under your joke of a governance. I cannot wait until you are removed from the White House, and I'm imagining you rasping and squawking along the lines of Napoleon XIV: 'They're coming to take me away, ha-ha...!' 

I'd suggest getting out of there with a skerrick of dignity whilst you still can, but that ship has sailed, hit an iceberg, and sunk.

I've had a rather relaxing weekend. I did some study and did some Netflix binge-watching. I watched a three-part miniseries titled A Very English Scandal. It is based on a true story about an English MP who stood trial for conspiring to have his gay ex-lover murdered. The trial occurred in 1979. SPOILER ALERT: it is prudent to point out the MP (Jeremy Thorpe) and his three co-accused were acquitted. Thorpe was the leader of the Liberal party and also ended up in two heterosexual marriages (not simultaneous ones - that would be another scandal). Thorpe was played by Hugh Grant, who showed some seriously good acting chops in this. He showed a range greater than the lovelorn fop he normally seems to play. Grant has stated that a lot of the acting credit should go to hair-and-makeup, but I was pretty impressed by him. He had a point regarding that hair - it was parted waaaaaaaaay over to the side and skimming the tip of his ear. Ray Martin would have seethed with hair-envy (or toupee-envy). That 'do and crisp private school accent reminded me of a night in my early twenties when I was attending a work function that was held at a restaurant/nightclub. The workplace was a law office and among the attendees was a barrister we regularly briefed. This guy had the Knox grammar tones and was at the time likely in his mid-forties. He also had the same hairdo sported by Hugh in that series. This night, I had been bopping away on the dance floor, which I really enjoyed doing before Father Time stole my energy and kneecaps. Anyway, I sat down for a breather and refreshment, and the barrister said, 'Do you exercise regularly, Simone? I couldn't help but notice you have an extremely good figure.' The plum stayed in his mouth, miraculously not flushed out by the salivating. I told him I did karate (wasn't trying to scare him; that was true). He said nothing else after that. 

Getting back to this miniseries, the young gay ex-lover was played by the impossibly delicious Ben Whishaw. He won some award (Bafta?) for the performance, and deservedly so. His portrayal of his character's anxiety was heart-wrenching. 

Well, I'm going to do some more study and watch the fourth season of The Crown, which is another series I'm going to devour. 

The study is paying off - that assessment I complained about a few posts ago? Credit! 

Social Influencers (Why?)

There are things that make me squint and say, 'Why?' Back in the Nineties, it was the whole supermodel thing. I would read a glossy women's mag, and these mags usually had a smoke-blowing puff piece on one or more of these women, and I'd read the gushy prose, then squint and go, 'Why?' I have never understood the adulation heaped upon a woman just because she's taller than average and deemed to have some genetic advantage which sees her in a role that really just boils down to being a glorified coat hanger. 

Fast forward a little, and I found myself squinting and going 'Why?' at anything associated with Big Brother, and in natural progression, any reality television show. 

These days, it's the phenomenon of social media influencers. Seriously: Why? What is the point? I guess I get annoyed because they appear to have some over-inflated sense of entitlement and were brains dynamite, they would all possess insufficient to blow the snot from their noses. I was just reading about one such creature who was informed she would not be allowed on a flight because her outfit was not suitable. Maybe you read it, too. I'm not going to put a picture of her outfit here because I don't want to give her more of the publicity she's craving, but it was an extremely low-cut top in a leopard print pattern, and she posted a photograph of herself in the outfit and she had a matching face mask. Oh, and the face mask was only over her mouth, not her nostrils, so she might have just not bothered wearing the thing. I love me some leopard print, but here's the thing, dearie: your top contravened the airline's dress code.

The code states people cannot wear clothing that is obscene or lewd. If you're wearing a top that is low enough to get a case of the bends, then it's not appropriate for the airline. How can she not see this? Her outfit would have rocked had she been going to a party or nightclub, but this is an airline with families travelling. Furthermore, they are a business and have a right to enforce a dress code. If you purchase a ticket, then it is implicit that you are agreeing to comply with that code. 

So, this influencer (again: why?) posted a piteous, poor-me bleat about how the airline made her feel 'humiliated, embarrassed and highly offended'. Oh, spare me (and learn to use an Oxford comma).  She said she felt the staff were saying her breasts are too large and she has no control over the size of her breasts. In theory, this is true. Unless you're contemplating surgery, you don't have control over the size of your breasts. However, I am highly dubious the staff were criticising her over the size of her mams; their problem lay in the expanse exposed mam flesh! And in the circumstances, the outfit simply was not appropriate!

Why do people have to be so damned obtuse and stupid? Maybe the answer lies with the Uber driver who has just pulled up at her front door with the attention she ordered. 

Cruddiness, Gaudiness, & Other Things

 The past week has been a hectic-bordering-on-bedlam one, so on the weekend I did bloody nothing but watch Netflix. I'm working my way through The Queen's Gambit and am really enjoying it. It's based on a novel I've not yet read, and tells of an orphaned female chess prodigy in the US during the 1960s. 

This week has had a sorrowful pall with the death of a much loved uncle. I was able to attend his funeral - traveled with my brother who acted as a pallbearer. I am loathe to use the oft trotted-out cliche (which is what makes them cliches!), but it was great to see my relatives despite the lousy circumstances. 

To counter this cruddiness, I will try and think of some good things. First of all, I have completed some of the study I have undertaken. This is why I treated myself to a weekend of Netflix and shared a bottle of Moet et Chandon with Mr Bingells. Since receiving this hallowed drop as a birthday present a few years ago, it has been our realisation that if one is going to drink champagne, and I mean CHAMPAGNE. not sparkling wine, then by the Living Harries make it the good stuff! 

Second of all, I started thinking about bathroom renovation. I do not know when the renovation will commence, but I do know I'm having some marvelous ideas. I bought a magazine for inspiration but found myself thinking: 'Yuck! Who in their right mind would want THAT gaudy monstrosity as the chamber for carrying out the ablutions?' I don't know about you, Reader, but when I see floor-to-ceiling tiny rectangular tiles, all I can think about is public swimming pool change rooms or pubs. As Mr Bingells pointed out, having too much white will create an atmosphere of cold, clinical sterility that one would associate with a hospital or asylum (no jokes about your blogger being the resident, please), so I'm thinking white tiles (not all the way to the ceiling), but with some kind of frieze at the top, which will provide something visually pleasing and break the monochrome monotone. Currently, I think the most visually pleasing thing in the bathroom will be Mister Sixteen's discarded clothing in the laundry hamper instead of strewn over the floor. 

Only other thing that has really crossed my mind today is that I would happily never hear Tiny Dancer again. Oh, don't get me wrong - I do likes me a bit of Elton, which is just as well because my younger son is mad about him and plays his music frequently. But Tiny Dancer just gets on my nerves somewhat, possibly because it's one of those tunes that gets hammered to death by classic rock radio stations. I tend to think of that scene in Almost Famous whenever I hear it. I liked that movie - how astonishing an actress is Frances McDormand? - but am flummoxed that Kate Hudson was nominated as Best Supporting Actress for her role as the groupie Penny Lane. Huh? I saw nothing outstanding about the performance. You'd think it difficult to make the character of a groupie, a marginalised sector of society, really bloody boring, but somehow Kate managed to achieve this. Nah, I just didn't get it at all. 

My dinner is ready. I must away. Also, now that I am more au fait with digital technology, I should be able to finalise the uploads to a self-publication platform; unless there are some publishers out there who'd like to take me on now that my previous publishers have closed their doors?