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. 

Arj-y Bargy

 I'm at my laptop at a desk in the local library, making use of the library's wifi and ergonomics. At the moment, I have junk everywhere and no suitable workstation. I've been finalising a textual analysis on gender differences in the study of literature and had to use The Handmaid's Tale as my literary text. I didn't mind that. Story is gripping and in many ways as bleak as a drizzly sky, but to my curiosity, it is classed as satire. Given its futuristic setting and oppressive government, I had classed it as dystopian, but the cultural texts I had to study for my analysis classed it as satire, so it is satire with which I ran. I had the choice of using this text alone or interspersing my analysis with Pride and Prejudice, but you know something? I would sooner take a handful of Fishermen's Friends cough lollies and stuff them into my bum before I suffer though that book again. The Bennet family (with the exception of its patriarch and the Lizzie character) are simply the most insufferable and shit-boring lot ever to grace a page.  Anyway, here's hoping I answered the question sought in the assessment. 

If you're on social media, then chances are your feed has been clogged with clickbait about the ejection of a breastfeeding woman from Arj Barker's comedy show the other night. The 'breastfeeding' is the clickbait. By all accounts, the woman was asked to leave because the baby was NOISY. For those who don't know: babies who are feeding, whether by breast or bottle, are fairly quiet. 

I have no real opinion on Arj Barker's comedy because I've not seen much of it. However, I am totally with him on this issue and am getting increasingly irritated by the accusations and chest-beating about people having a right to go out and not be shut in at home, and Barker can't be much of a comedian if he can't take a bit of noise, and why is the sky so blue blahdy-blahdy-blah, Let me spell it out: comedians rely upon timing. The audience has paid to see a show and they don't want it compromised because the performer cannot perform to standard owing to an unreasonable disruption. I saw a comic years ago who got tetchy with an audience member clapping and shrieking 'Woooo!'. I was in agreeance when he called him out, and I daresay so were my fellow audience members. 

Furthermore, I am aware the late Warren Mitchell, when playing Willy Loman in Death of a Salesman some years ago, actually stopped the performance because a patron had used a camera (this was in the days of flashes etc). I have had my own experience with unexpected disruption as a performer. Some years ago, I was in a play and the previous scene involved other characters leaving the stage, ostensibly to make love. Anyway, I was doing my lines, interacting with another actor, and from offstage, the female cast member decided to improvise by shrieking in an orgasmic fashion. Was this funny? I don't know; I wasn't in the audience. Was it downright inconsiderate to fellow actors who weren't expecting it, and not only were they drowned out, but their timing was thrown? Oh, you betcha. I remained in character and delivered my lines, but I detected a slight flinch of annoyance from the guy with whom I was sharing stage space, which indicates he was pissed off at our castmate, too. This was our final performance, which was fortunate for her, because I would have complained vociferously to the director to ensure this did not happen again. 

Anyway, the woman took the bub to Arj's gig has been (breast!)milking her Warholian fifteen minutes for all it's worth. She claims she felt humiliated at being asked to leave. Apparently, there was some abuse and pile-on from guys in the audience as she was leaving. That's not on, but seriously, folks: your crotch-fruit is not welcome everywhere, okay? I love babies. I have had two. However, I would not be thrilled to have a stage show spoiled because there was one squawking next to me, thereby drowning out the performance. People have paid to watch the show, so have some consideration before taking an infant to a venue and show that is really not appropriate, okay? 

No sympathy from me, lady. 

Oh, Joy(ce)!

 The electoral division in which I currently domicile is New England. A majestic mountain range oversees this land of the Kamilaroi people. Guess what we've also got? Barnaby Joyce. Oh, happy day; how lucky we are! *Cough* - sarcasm! - *cough*. 

I don't know whether to feel pity (drinking problems are serious and should be treated accordingly), amusement, or contempt. But knowing me, I will run with contempt.

Barnaby is a boorish boofheaded bosthoon who can count amongst his ignominious achievements:

1. Pushing back on making available a potentially life-saving cervical cancer vaccine on his flawed reasoning it would encourage promiscuity (Barnaby, that's not how vaccines work and if someone DID become promiscuous, so bloody what?). 

2. Pushing back on allowing same-sex marriage on the grounds it would detrimentally impact his daughters' chances of marriage (Barnaby, who do you think gay men are marrying? It's not straight women, okay? This narrative makes no sense whatsoever). 

In case you haven't heard, which is a distinct possibility because the Murdoch press fawns all over the Libs and their ilk, Barnaby Joyce was filmed lying pig-drunk on the side of the road swearing into his mobile phone. I don't recall seeing any headlines demanding his resignation, whereas if this were a Labor or Teal pollie, especially a WOMAN, I'm certain there would be demands, capitalised and in the boldest font possible, for that person to leave the country, never mind the office. 

Oscar Wilde has a quote wherein he alludes we're all in the gutter, but some are looking at the stars. Barnaby was just slurring swears into his phone. 

Do I think this (literal!) guttersnipe should resign for his drunkenness? No, I don't. Do I think he should seek help? I don't know because I'm not qualified to diagnose him with alcoholism. However, he does come across as a gauche pisshead with no social ideas whatsoever, so maybe speak to his spin doctors about THAT. Also, if he is habitually drinking himself to this state, and I said 'if', then he should do something about it. 'Do something' means get dried out, not drink more. 

I do think the man should resign because his policies hurt the female and LGBTQI community. Also, there's that little matter of his totally dogshit performance as drought envoy. 

His wife has complained about people filming and not helping. I see her point. But maybe passers-by recognised the slurring sloshed slob as Barnaby and didn't want to go near him. 

I've never thought of Canberra as being a rough place, but I would like to know that if I did visit again, I could walk the streets at night without fear of tripping over some drunken prone politician. 

Waiter, there's a ...

 It's fun to write about the things that irritate, grind one's gears, even boil one's piss, as it were. I'm a bit like this with Facebook cartoon avatars that depict the account owner bellowing into a bullhorn when said account holder is making a statement. I honestly don't know why, but they make me frown. The game Monopoly bugs me, it is phenomenally boring and goes on and on and on. It is a turd that won't flush, and I will not be enticed into playing it 

I felt bugged on Christmas Day watching Love Actually. I think I wanted to engage in a Christmas tradition, and yeah, I got irritated. I refuse to suspend my belief that the Kris Marshall character will fly to America and nail three good-looking women (although in fairness, they were all as dumb as a box of hair). And I haven't even started on my irritation at Sarah for not turning off her phone and jumping Karl's bones. 

But there is nothing quite so annoying as anticipating a pleasant luncheon date, only to have it go completely pear-shaped. This happened to me, my husband, and our eldest son yesterday. As an aside, our younger son had his own moment of irritation when the drone he had been given for Christmas took off in the wind like a demented Mary Poppins. He was somewhat despondent, but after some scouring of the neighbouring streets, his gift was located, albeit with a slightly chewed blade, courtesy of some mutt. 

But getting back to the lunch: we visited a local eatery, which I now realise should be recategorised as a chew-and-spew, and duly ordered or meals. We waited. And waited. And waited some more. Finally, my husband spoke to management. It transpired that our order had been misplaced. When the meals arrived, closer to afternoon teatime than lunch, it was discovered my husband's steak had not been cooked to his specifications. But imagine this scene:

Husband: 'This isn't cooked properly; I'm sending it back-' (eyes protruding from the sockets like deployed airbags) '- Jesus Christ!' 

Me (eyes also widening): "What the fuck?"

Son: "Bloody hell!"

And what brought on this abjection? Well, traversing its confused way through the shredded lettuce in the side salad, waving its hairsbreadth legs with trepidation, was a frigging SPIDER! Not a huge hunstman or anything like that, but an arachnoid in the salad is an arachnoid in the salad. It has raised the bar from the old 'There's a fly in my soup!' trope. 

That meal was sent back faster than Usain Bolt chasing after a bus.