Will Smith Lends a Hand

 Something we can take home from the 2022 Oscars is that disability does not mean inability. Well done to Troy Kotsur on his win for Best Supporting Actor. He has become the first deaf male actor to win the gong. It's pretty common knowledge Marlee Matlin was first female deaf actor to win the award. Indeed, this year's Oscars have had some diversity in their list of winners: a queer person of colour taking home Best Supporting Actress (Ariana DeBose) and a neurodivergent woman picking up the award for Best Music (Billie Eilish). 

But - *heaves a bone-shaking sigh* - alas, what we can also take home from the 2022 Oscars is that Will Smith is a total twatwaffle who has put himself forward as poster boy for toxic masculinity. I'm sure you are aware I refer to the onstage altercation between him and Chris Rock. I've read so many comments praising the former Fresh Prince for defending 'his woman', and that just makes my skin crawl like a phalanx of slaters under a wet Kleenex. 

I don't think Rock's wisecrack was all that funny, but the thing with comedy is you're not going to find everything you hear funny and some of the material you hear could possibly be offensive to you. But Rock was doing his job and if there's a problem, see the previous sentence. Anyway, as you know, Smith mounted the stage and slapped Rock, before returning to his seat and shouting abuse; abuse that was broadcast to a global television audience. 

If Smith found Rock's comments personally offensive, why couldn't he yell something from his chair? His actions pay into the trope that women are delicate flowers who need protection, and even worse: that violence is acceptable. Then he made an arsehat of himself when he got the Oscar. Love makes you do strange things, hey? Like slugging someone? With his patriarchal attitude about women and methodology when someone upsets him, the only difference between him and some of the feral gronks in the rougher area of my home town is the postcode and tuxedo. 

To make it worse, his son tweeted words to the effect: "That's how we do it". How we do what, Jaden? Handle conflict like savage troglodytes? I'm sorry for this kid if this is how he's been brought up. Smith could have used his platform for so much good: he could have brought awareness to his wife's medical condition; but better yet, handled the conflict and offence he felt with dignity. Imagine the kids who worship him seeing him behave with civility. What a positive impact he could have had. 

Instead he acted like a jerk and has tainted his Oscar win. Oh, to those who say he should be stripped of the Oscar, might I remind you it's an acting award, not a citizenship award. If you want to remove awards from people who've behaved reprehensibly, load up the truck with Harvey Weinstein's awards (and leave some room for Roman Polanski's awards, too). If he won it fair and square on his performance, then he should keep it. I note he got a huge round of applause when he won - was everyone too scared he'd too smite them across the chops if they didn't clap for him? I would have clapped to acknowledge his win, but damned if I'd give him standing ovation. 

One good thing about this ugly incident: it provided inspiration for naming our trivia team last night. My son, his friend, another friend, and I answered questions to a great victory under our team name Will Smith Lends a Hand. 

MAFS (Does it stand for Malicious Actions From Scapegraces?)

 I'm weighing in on this MAFS thing and I don't even watch the bloody show. Reality television in general does not thrill me and from what I've seen of MAFS, I would sooner watch those foul-mouthed feral gronks that used to live behind me having sex than watch an episode of MAFS. 

However, last night I was traversing my socials and saw it was trending for a particular reason. Briefly, a contestant named Olivia discovered another contestant named Domenica had an OnlyFans page, after which she obtained a photo of Domenica and showed it to other contestants. 

This really boils my piss. Not only because I ended up watching footage of the show, but also the motivations and actions of this contestant Olivia. Apparently, this hellcat is training to be a teacher, but good luck with gaining employment after what you've done, Liv. She tried to mitigate what she had done by pointing out things are simple enough to Google, but the affordances of OnlyFans mean a person has to create an account to see content, and furthermore, the dissemination of the content contravenes the terms and conditions associated with OnlyFans. To borrow from Wayne's World, Olivia is 'psycho hose-beast' to go such lengths to discredit a fellow contestant.

The diabolical dinner party conversation was along the lines of: 'I'm not slut-shaming, but...'. Yes, you were, girls. Why do people feel entitled to get on their high horses about someone's choice on how she earns her income? With Covid having such a devastating impact on people's work, Domenica is not the only person to have resorted to this platform. To the contestants criticising: get over yourselves. 

I wonder how much of this malicious vileness is orchestrated by the producers of this dreck? I am aware there is a petition circulating to have Olivia held accountable for her actions. If Domenica or OnlyFans don't take action, I'm sure Karma will give Olivia an almighty punch between the teeth. 

I respect other people's rights to view this show, of course, but I cannot see the appeal. I know the producers will manipulate it so someone looks like a villain - that's a staple of reality television and they know they will not get ratings if they don't have drama. But I don't want to see sniping from some toxic little she-gronk, with said sniping being galvanised by pontificating from some creature with the collagen trout-pout, enough Botox to paralyse an army, and hair straightened to the point where it's hanging like limp wet seaweed. Yes, I know how bitchy I sound. As an aside, do people still straighten their hair to that degree?

Anyway, it's nearly my bed time. I've spent the evening studying and chatting about enjoyable one-hit wonders. "Believe it or not, I'm walking on air..."

Goodnight, all. 

I Mention Poison the Band and Poison the Perfume!

Apologies for the lengthy period between posting, reader. Life's been crazy, still; as Poison sang in Nothing But A Good Time: 'It's the same old same old...'. What's on my mind is that I have to undertake practicum in the next study period. The university through which I'm studying has a policy that prevents me doing this at a school where I have a relative working or attending. I understand this. So, I am unable to do my prac at the school up the hill because my son is in Year 12 there. This gives me a problem: I am not spoiled for choice in this district, and whilst there are nearby towns with high schools, the cost of fuel has gone up to the stratosphere. 

The main writing I have been doing of late is a speech for a luncheon in a few weeks. I had started a post a few weeks ago that was directed to Scott Morrison attempting to weld and nearly blinding his stupid self by lifting the mask. Remember that? This is why the constant closing and selling-off of TAFE campuses is such a stupid idea; we need qualified people on worksites, not some publicity-seeking bag of desperation who is like an arrogant Frank Spencer in that he totally fucks up everything he touches, smirking whilst he does so. 

However, I was elated the other day to type up this little piece for my monthly writers' group meeting. The theme we set was 'beanbag', and I'm going to copy and paste here for your amusement. And yes, 'Beanbag' is based on a real person I knew in the dreaded and loathsome Eighties. 

"Greg wove his way through the milling and assembling assortment of legal types. They wore their colours like a biker’s club: blue suits or barrister’s robes or shoulder-padded-suits teamed with white high heels. He caught whiffs of various scents: Poison, Brut 33, the cloying assault of frothy hair mousse; the latter being rubbed and scrunched into the fringes of the female law students and paralegals. He checked out several of the them as he passed; there was a new one he hadn’t seen before talking to his mate Dave. He might go over and wangle an introduction, after which he would issue an invitation to Dave for lunch, with a courteous ‘You, too, of course’ extension to the young woman. No doubt the young woman would accept, only too pleased to be included and no doubt aware of the tacit agreement that would see her offering the occasional ‘absolutely’, and ‘oh, really?’, and ‘mmm-hmmmm’ to the conversation he and Dave would steer as they talked about what case was coming up in the all-important Worker’s Compensation Commission. It was tactical that the woman feel she was included, but Greg didn’t see the point to it; did the women really understand the niceties of this legislation?

If someone told Greg he was manifesting the attitudes of his fifty-year-old insurance underwriter father, instead of a twenty-two-year-old final year law student, he would have been surprised. Weren’t his attitudes just a reflection of the way things were? He saw it all the time at the Young Lawyers for the Liberal Party meetings, where every month the mostly male members would swill chardonnay and beer as they discussed the party’s next parliamentary moves. Greg inwardly smiled as he remembered the last meeting whereat the chardonnay and beer had flowed with torrential freedom, and he had not only snapped a few bra straps, but had actually managed to undo a bra strap as he felt for and fiddled with the hook-and-eyes, hidden beneath a shoulder padded jacket with a nipped-in waist.  The bra’s owner had scowled and looked uncomfortable, but Greg didn’t understand this. It was just a joke and meant she was accepted. Or as accepted as she was going to be because it was weird now the women were joining in. Never mind; the shitty moll was probably on the rag, anyway.

Soon it wouldn’t be chardonnay and beer, and lunch at the WCC’s cafeteria. Once he had graduated and was accepted with an associateship into a top corporate firm, it would be Grange and lunch at that new trendy Japanese place where the chef threw bits of food to the diners. Oh, and some top-notch cocaine with the other associates in the men’s washroom after the attendant was bribed to leave for a few minutes.

He joined Dave and eyed the woman, wondering would he even remember her name after they were introduced. She would remember his: Greg. Everyone knew Greg, the upcoming soon-to-be lawyer.

What Greg was oblivious to was that with his amorphous physique, honed by beers and meat pies in the WCC cafeteria, his not-quite-bespoke suit with the sagging around the crotch, and his overall flabby softness: he was known throughout the young female members of the legal coterie as ‘Beanbag’.: