Influence = Affluence

 Many people commence diatribes with the hackneyed phrase "it doesn't take a lot to get me angry". I thought about commencing this post in that style, but it would be a lie. It would appear that these days my patience is eroding and deteriorating like a latex band left on the road. I am cultivating some serious Old Man Yells At Cloud energy lately. Or in my case, Old Woman might be a more apt sobriquet. 

If you're rolling your eyes and wondering what is currently making your humble blogger's blood boil, well, I'm sure it's something that has infuriated just about everybody who has a modicum of empathy and common sense. It's the female muttonhead from the US who describes herself as a biologist and who was filmed picking up a terrified wombat joey, separating it from its mother. The footage is sickening: she scoops up the poor thing and runs (yeah, you read that right) with it, holding it in such a manner that it's unsupported body is swinging about (yeah, you also read that right). She's filmed by an Aussie bloke who's laughing like a lobotomised troll, so much so, that I suspect that's what he is. 

This culture of the influencer is cringeworthy beyond words, but this cretin, who goes by the name Sam Jones (as in the bloke who played Flash Gordon in the schlocky Eighties movie with song by Queen) is beyond the pale. If you're reading this, Sam (aka samstrays_somewhere), what the actual fuck is wrong with you? So, you've always wanted to hold a baby wombat? Well, so fucking what? There are women who want to hold Hugh Jackman, but they don't, because they don't have the right to do this! Would you like some big weirdo to snatch up your infant and run around with it for shits and giggles? That being said, the thought of you breeding makes me shudder. 

Honestly, woman, how old are you? I ask because I suspect you've defined medical science by living so long minus a functioning cortex. Your Instagram, now set to private, apparently has photographs of you with animals you've slaughtered for fun. I guess you're IG is now private because your stunt has bitten you on the arse and what a shame the mother wombat didn't do the same. Speaking of the mother wombat, I really hope she did not reject her baby because she no longer recognised its scent after it was permeated with the stink of Stupid Entitled Seppo Twat. 

To the parents of this arsehat: Why didn't you get yourselves sterilised the day you met each other? 

To the dickwad filming: Shame on you; as an Australian, you should know better than to allow for our wildlife to be treated this way. Get in the bin, and take your stupid sniggering with you. 

I hope so much this stupid person is penalised by the appropriate authority for this revolting act. I'm sure even other influencers are ashamed of her. 

Effluent Pools and Affluent So-Called Celebs

 I'm trying to get healthier. I'm in reasonable shape, but I'm trying to improve. Today, in resolute virtue, I attended the local swimming pool with a view to getting in thirty minutes worth of laps. I swim in the indoor heated pool because I am first and foremost a massive sook and can't bear the thought of getting cold in the outdoor pool. Secondly, I have the complexion of my Irish forebears and the thought of the sun (despite my slavish and heavy-handed application of sunscreen) causes me to combust and disintegrate like a vampire who has also had the misfortune to cop some ultra violet rays. Anyway, I was enjoying my swim but my planned session was truncated by an attendant who ordered everybody out because someone had blown chunks in the pool. Fair enough. It's gross enough swimming by a floating used band-aid, but the thought of swimming into a pod of regurgitated carrot cubes, all afloat on the watery surface, is too ghastly to contemplate. 

Also ghastly is the stunt pulled by Kanye West and his wife - well, I think she's he's wife, but she might also be a remote-controlled anthromorphic plaything of the kind not readily available at K-Mart (it's the withdrawn catatonic expression that makes me wonder). The story has clogged up my newsfeed like a turd that won't flush. All I see is pictures of Bianca Censori wearing a vacant expression, but the expression she wears is still more substantial than the practically invisible garment she has on. You can't call it diaphanous - seriously, it makes diaphanous looks like a suit of armor. 

Honestly, what the actual fuck is wrong with these people? Is it a desperate need for attention to compensate for an abysmal lack of talent (come on, you heard West slaughtering Bohemian Rhapsody at Glastonbury 2015, didn't you?)? I will say I am a tad concerned for Bianca's mental health and wonder about the dynamic in the West/Censori household. 

But to show up, by all accounts uninvited, and pull a stunt like this, stinks to high Heaven of eau-de-desperation. Maybe it's a kink. But nobody consented to the display and I would happily never hear from these shit-gibbons again. 

With reference to my day, I really think risking a swim in chlorinated effluence is preferable to being bombarded with news about these vacuous nobodies. 

Catching Up On Movies

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Scents & Sense

There are things I'm not grasping. They are eluding my understanding as though lubed with a bucket of still-warm-thus-viscous bacon lard. One is frangipani scented air freshener and the other is Virginia Woolf. Let us explore these mind-baffling phenomena. 

1. Frangipani scented air freshener. I get that some people like to have those battery operated devices that intermittently send a scented spray through their domicile. It can be for whatever reason - an enjoyment of the scent or maybe to mask the mustiness of some old houses. But here's the thing: there are some floral scents that assail the nostrils like a wrecking ball and leave you begging for mercy. The real plant pumps out its scent at night to attract insects. The automatic air wick thing sprays this wretched mist - with which the Hun could have felled the troops in the trenches once the mustard gas ran out - for no discernable reason other than to make those in its reach suffer. I enjoy a subtle light fragrance, but this cloying pong beats me into submission and leaves me with a foul headache.

2. Now for the highly esteemed Ms Woolf. I actually understand the theory behind the stream of consciousness writing style. But understanding does not automatically lead to enjoyment. I understand how to prepare trifle but I detest the damnable dessert. Reading the prose of Ms Woolf, which I currently must do in the finalisation of my degree, makes me want to bang my head against a brick wall. The stream of consciousness makes me think of viewing a movie without a non-diegetic soundtrack. Whilst it is realistic that we don't hear the telltale tight strings of the violin in a tense or suspenseful situation in real-life, by jinkies it adds to the mood and enhances the experience when we are viewing a movie. Virginia Woolf is boring. I said it. Fight me if you must. 

Chat soon.

"The horror! The horror!" (of stupid panelists).

It has come to my notice that I'm a 'little bitch'. Well, in the world according to that all-knowing oracle Kate Langbroek, I am a 'little bitch'. Why am I a little bitch? It's because I have had the Covid vaccine. She has praised No-Vax, er Novak Djokovic for his stance in refusing to line up with all the other 'little bitches'. I understand she said this on The Project, which I must admit to not having watched in the vicinity of forever because of panelists like her and the miserably loathsome Steve Price.

If the vaccine can mitigate the effects of Covid and help you protect the more vulnerable of the community, then I will take it. I've had Covid. It sucked. I cannot imagine what it would have been like had I not been vaccinated. The vaccine can also minimise the incidence of people become desperately ill and requiring intubation. Ever seen someone you love, a vulnerable person, with a tube down their throat after having had Covid, Kate? I have. It's something that gets burned into your memory as though tattooed with poisonous burning ink. I wish I could forget it. I can't. Kate can take her snide flippancy and shove it straight back up her arse. The Tinfoil-Hat Brigade (oh, by the way, Kate; I've plenty of spare foil if you need some - I checked when I was making my shopping list the other day) can be as devil-may-care and dismissive as they like, but they'd no doubt make the lives of the heroic nursing staff utter misery when they're hospitalised from the after-effects of Covid, after-effects that would have been likely less severe had they been vaccinated.

So, maybe I'm a little bitch because I had a vaccine, in the world according to Kate Langbroek. So what? It's better than being an ignorant bitch whose arse is jealous of the shit coming out her mouth.

Years ago, I read Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad for a university course I was doing. Thought the themes and storyline interesting, but didn't enjoy the prose. Last week, I realised I would have to read it again for one of my current uni subjects. I sighed, and scoured my bookshelves for my old copy. I found Puberty Blues, heaps of Stephen King books, a few Carl Hiassens, a plethora of Maeve Binchy books, some of my own books, cookbooks by the dozen (my husband and I are keen amateur chefs), David Cassidy's autobiography (don't judge me), and anthologies of poetry. Did I find Heart of Darkness? No. This kind of aligns with Alanis Morrisset's flawed notion of irony; I've apparently donated the book to Vinnies after many, many years, only to find I need to read the damn thing again. Thank goodness for e-book libraries. Anyway, I did some reading about Conrad to understand the novel's setting and context, and waded through the first chapter this afternoon. What do you know? I kind of, well, got it. Sure, the narrator Marlowe waffles on like a marathon in the kitchen of Pancakes at the Rocks, but I actually rather enjoyed reading it now that I understand it's Conrad's indictment on colonialism. Maybe the winding sentence structure reflects the symbol of the winding river in the book. Or maybe Conrad had taken a challenge to write the most lengthy and exhausting sentences ever attributed to a frame narrator he could. Whatever. But the good thing is: I just mind enjoy this book second time around.

Lazy Sunday Ponderings

 A few nights ago, my 19-year-old son clicked his nail against the plastic tumbler containing the water with which he was washing down his antiseizure medication (seriously, one of the tablets in his evening dosage looks like a horse pill). He clicked it again, several times and with feeling. He said, 'Mum, this sounds like Low Rider.' Sure enough, he clicked out the telling tattoo: Click-clickclick-click-clickclick-clickclick-click-clickclick, then he and I 'rapped' in unison: 'All...my...friends...know the low rider'. Maybe not an event of great significance, but it was a fun mother-and-son moment. As the youngsters grow up and away from you, it's special to cherish those moments. That song makes me think of the indie film Dazed and Confused (not to be confused with the Led Zeppelin one), set on the last day of school in 1976. I've seen it a few times since its release in the Nineties, and last night, I watched it again, courtesy of a streaming service. 

I do enjoy that movie. It has an unrecognisable Ben Affleck as O'Bannion, a senior school bully who is even more loathsome than Biff Tannen from Back to the Future. The movie's non-diegesis is particularly effective when O'Bannion is is using a wooden paddle on the butt of a freshman named Mitch, whilst the viewer hears No More Mister Nice Guy by Alice Cooper. The whacks are filmed in slow motion, and the young actor playing Mitch shows his humiliation and agony in a way that made me, the viewer, want to weep for him. But don't worry, O'Bannion gets his comeuppance and it's just as enjoyable as watching George McFly sock Biff Tannen in the jaw. 

So, I'm having a bit of a lazy one today. With practicum completed, I am now in the process of organising internship, which is very exciting. I was thinking of booking some theatre tickets through the week, but unfortunately, my cooktop has to be replaced. Damn it all 

What am I pondering of late? This is the sort of comment that is going to upset some purists, but I think the Kinks had better songs than the Beatles. There, I said it. This is probably going to fling the yowling feline among the cooing birdies, but I stand by what I said. 

What say you?

Maybe it is 'Amazing'

 Has anybody noticed the word 'amazing' is being used to describe everyday occurrences? Friday afternoon, I called by a local bottle-o to purchase a piccolo of sparkling wine to celebrate successful completion of my teaching practicum, and the shop assistant said, 'Cash or card? Card? Amazing. Can you just tap - oh, you're going to insert? That's gone though - amazing.' At what point did a small-scale act of commerce become 'amazing'?  The aurora borealis is amazing. A Himalayan sunrise is amazing. This is just ... not. Maybe I'm just getting old and cranky as my trips around the sun increase, but this is really starting to get on my wick.

Who among you ever watched Welcome Back, Kotter? If so, then you will remember the premise: a newly-graduated high school teacher accepts a teaching position at his old high school in Brooklyn, New York. He takes on a class of unruly underperforming remedial students known as the sweathogs, and draws upon his experiences as a former sweathog to assist this motley crew. The show had a great theme song, performed by Lovin' Spoonful singer John Sebastian. It was lyrically sublime: The names have all changed since you hung around/But those dreams have remained and they've turned around/Who'd have thought they'd lead you/Back here where we need you.... Anyway, my point is, I kind of had my OWN Welcome Back, Kotter moment recently, when I carried out a practicum placement at my old high school (although my students were not a coterie of racially diverse underperformers). 

The highlights for me include:

1. Teaching a lesson wherein the Year Eights were to write creatively.

2. Exploring the school and all the changes (the old Maths rooms are now the school hall and I still remember the lyrics to the old school song). The wall where I had my first kiss is still there. I think the bush my friend used to smoke behind is gone (probably a victim of hydrogen cyanide and formaldehyde poisoning).

3. Explaining to a Year Three lad (the school is a central one and I did a day's observation at the primary campus) who was going through his reader with me that 'verse' is not a verb. He told me that two of the wolves in the story had a fight in words to this effect: 'X was versing Y when were little cubs.' I explained this is a common error, acknowledging that sports commentators are in this odious habit, but I have hopefully educated and cured the lad now. 

4. Agreeing with the said Year Three lad that the '-ough' blend is the reason English is an incorrigible language. 

5. Playing the Sex Pistols to Year 10. Not really relatable to the syllabus, I will grant you that; however, it was my last ever lesson with them and somehow discussion segued to my ringtone, which is the opening vocal section to Anarchy in the UK. Being Year 10-ers, one guy insisted I must be the Antichrist because of my musical tastes. I explained a person's taste in art is not necessarily a reflection of who that person is; after all, I listen to the Beach Boys and can't surf for peanuts! 

Overall, a positive experience and I cannot wait to get that piece of paper. Maybe it was just a bit, well, amazing. 

I stayed in town on weeknights, and one afternoon, as I drove home to my family, my iTunes made a very serendipitous selection: Welcome Back by John Sebastian. I smiled as I drove.