Like every talking head or person with a presence on social media, I too am about to weigh in with my two cents (notwithstanding we've not used copper currency in Australia since 1991) on the latest hue and cry concerning the Anzac Day tweet posted by Yassmin Abdel-Mageid.
Everyone knows I push for free speech, so I'm not offended that she has a view. She's entitled to it. I'm actually not offended by the content of the tweet per se because the plight of refugees concerns and distresses me also. What I'm pissed off about is her motivation and timing in posting the tweet.
Yassmin is far from stupid. She is an intelligent, articulate and accomplished young woman. Therefore, she must have known that posting such a comment on a day held sacred to most Australians would have caused one mofo of a stink.
I don't hold with the headlines saying she has insulted our diggers. I cannot for the life of me see how the words 'Lest. We. Forget. (Manus, Nauru, Syria, Palestine...)' is a direct sling at the soldiers who died at Gallipoli. What I do see is the cynical appropriation of a solemn occasion to promote one's own agenda, and Yassmin, that is downright offensive. The other day I posted about the grub handing out the Australian Patriots brochures at my local Dawn Service, and although this tweet is right at the other end of the spectrum on refugees, it's just as tasteless.
Furthermore, the ensuing controversy, which I'm sure Yassmin must have anticipated, deflects from the issue of the wretched state of the refugees.
This is sort of thing Madonna does: something that is bound to piss people off en masse, in the name of self-promotion. Yassmin, you don't happen to have a new album coming out, do you?
This morning I saw Lynda Carter, the 70s Wonder Woman, on television. She looked great, but I daresay she's had some surgical assistance in that regard. I used to watch the show when I was in primary school. Princess Diana aka Wonder Woman aka Diana Prince (in the mortal guise), solving crimes and mooning over Major Steve Trevor. Who, like me, used to think Major Steve Trevor must have been the most obtuse person to ever draw breath? How could he not twig Diana Prince and Wonder Woman were the same being? Seriously, the shit would go down, and Diana Prince would duck away. Then Wonder Woman would appear and clean the shit up. She would leave the scene, and then Diana Prince would reappear, having missed it all. Ergo, the two women were never seen together. Also, how many women did Steve Trevor know who stood six feet tall, were built like a brick shithouse, and genuinely stunningly beautiful? I'm willing to bet not many. Yet he never connected the dots. Maybe the statuesque Amazonian stunner should have set her sights elsewhere.
Wednesday 26 April 2017
Monday 24 April 2017
Lest We Forget
I'm sleepy. At the time of typing this post, it's still technically morning but I have been awake since 4.40am, courtesy of my evil nemesis, The Bladder. Normally I'd have attempted a re-entry to the Land of Nod, but not today. Unless you've been living under a rock, you'd be aware today is Anzac Day, and I wished to attend the local dawn service. To my pride, my almost sixteen-year-old had asked to be awakened in order that he could also attend.
We walked together to the Cenotaph, which fortunately for us is only about a five minute walk away. It was still dark, and we were not alone. We saw many locals making their way, and it was gratifying to see people much younger in attendance. I looked at the young families, some with slippered-and-dressing-gowned, teddy bear toting children. There were older vets who had served in Vietnam. There were members of the local Zimbabwean community. We are all Australians now.
Master Not-Quite-16 and I found a place near the southern corner of the Cenotaph, standing beside members of the local Fire Brigade, all in full dress uniform. The Catafalque Party took their places, and I crossed my arms to protect myself against the brisk air. The trees and Cenotaph were silhouetted against the background of the dawn's breaking amber rays, and the pearly ethereal glow from the street lights. The horse representing the fallen riders gave a snort, and the crowd listened to the prayer and responded, 'Lest we forget'. The playing of 'The Last Post' signified the end to the brief but solemn, poignant ceremony. My son told me he had enjoyed it. Again, I'm proud of him today.
This message from the Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, commander of Turkish forces at Gallipoli, sums it up best:
'Those heroes that shed their blood and lost their lives....
You are now lying in the soil of a friendly country, therefore rest in peace. There is no difference between the Johnnies and the Mehmets to us where they lie side by side here in this country of ours....
You, the mothers who sent their sons from far away countries, wipe away your tears: your sons are now lying in our bosom and are at peace. Having lost their lives on this land they have become our sons as well.'
Oh, and to that bloke I saw when we got there this morning, the one wearing the jacket emblazoned with 'Australian Patriots' handing out the literature, which is undoubtedly reflective of the posts I read on the organisation's Facebook page when I got home after the service: Well played, sir; jolly good. Kudos to you. Oh wait, that came out wrong. What I meant to say is: Go fuck yourself with a cactus.
We walked together to the Cenotaph, which fortunately for us is only about a five minute walk away. It was still dark, and we were not alone. We saw many locals making their way, and it was gratifying to see people much younger in attendance. I looked at the young families, some with slippered-and-dressing-gowned, teddy bear toting children. There were older vets who had served in Vietnam. There were members of the local Zimbabwean community. We are all Australians now.
Master Not-Quite-16 and I found a place near the southern corner of the Cenotaph, standing beside members of the local Fire Brigade, all in full dress uniform. The Catafalque Party took their places, and I crossed my arms to protect myself against the brisk air. The trees and Cenotaph were silhouetted against the background of the dawn's breaking amber rays, and the pearly ethereal glow from the street lights. The horse representing the fallen riders gave a snort, and the crowd listened to the prayer and responded, 'Lest we forget'. The playing of 'The Last Post' signified the end to the brief but solemn, poignant ceremony. My son told me he had enjoyed it. Again, I'm proud of him today.
This message from the Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, commander of Turkish forces at Gallipoli, sums it up best:
'Those heroes that shed their blood and lost their lives....
You are now lying in the soil of a friendly country, therefore rest in peace. There is no difference between the Johnnies and the Mehmets to us where they lie side by side here in this country of ours....
You, the mothers who sent their sons from far away countries, wipe away your tears: your sons are now lying in our bosom and are at peace. Having lost their lives on this land they have become our sons as well.'
Oh, and to that bloke I saw when we got there this morning, the one wearing the jacket emblazoned with 'Australian Patriots' handing out the literature, which is undoubtedly reflective of the posts I read on the organisation's Facebook page when I got home after the service: Well played, sir; jolly good. Kudos to you. Oh wait, that came out wrong. What I meant to say is: Go fuck yourself with a cactus.
Friday 21 April 2017
Trump's 'Cosmo'-Politan Nominee, and Non-Plussed Nom-De-Plumes
Helen Dale has a new book coming out soon. I will probably read it because it sounds an interesting read - it's called 'Kingdom of the Wicked', and appears to be a courtroom drama. Some of you might be wondering precisely who is Helen Dale. Some of you will remember her as Helen Darville. You might be wondering exactly who is Helen Darville, and why does that name ring a bell back in the cobwebby recess of your brains. Okay. Time's up. Final clue: Helen Demidenko, author of the Miles Franklin Award winning novel 'The Hand That Signed The Paper', back in the mid-Nineties. The scandal attached to this book, as I recall, was twofold. Firstly the story, which dealt with the holocaust, was told from the point of view of the more villainous characters in history. Secondly, the author bio Helen had presented, ie being of Ukrainian heritage, was as fake as the thatch on Bert Newton's head. I guess it's a bit of an Aussie thing to pay out on what we perceive as bullshit artists. I personally am none too fond of liars myself.
Also, the kapooha over the alleged sympathy toward the 'villains' really did my head in. People, this is a work of art. Art doesn't have to conform to societal norms and values. As a friend of mine said, when we were discussing the scandal over a glass of wine at the salient time, 'Mate, even the Nazis have a point of view.' As a writer, I can vouch it is a very interesting literary exercise to write from the point of view of a less popular (hell, even a downright despicable) character. They, too, have a story. Sometimes when lecturing in creative writing, I set my budding Hemingways an exercise to take a classic well known fairy tale and write from a lesser character's point of view.
I wasn't actually offended she faked her ancestry, but I thought it a bit sad that she found this a necessity. Therefore, I wasn't going to lose my shit and join the torch-and-pitchfork toting tide of outraged people and demand she be hung, drawn and quartered after relinquishing the award. Here's the thing, guys: the award must be for merit. It doesn't matter who the artist is. The art must speak for itself.
Anyway, I was reading about the new book online yesterday, and someone demanded a boycott. I replied a simple: 'why?' I did not give in to my first reaction, which was to type: 'What the fuck for?'. No. I was genteel and polite. I challenged the boycott-caller in a succinct manner. The person replied because Helen is a 'fraud'. By this reasoning, I replied, so would everyone who wrote under a nom de plume be fraudulent in some way.
Check out these names:
1. 'Tin Tin' by Herge.
2. 'Huckleberry Finn' by Mark Twain.
3. 'Alice in Wonderland' by Lewis Carroll.
4. 'Animal Farm' by George Orwell.
All classic works. And guess what else? NONE OF THESE TITLES ARE WRITTEN WITH THE AUTHORS' REAL NAMES! Nope, not one of 'em. It doesn't matter.
So, therefore bleating about this woman using a Ukrainian name is a bit stupid, particularly when the award she won - the Miles Franklin - was named in honour of a WOMAN writing under a MAN'S name. Get where I'm going with this?
Lying about the ancestry is a bit fatuous, but Christ on a bike, most of our politicians are lying so much it's a wonder their noses aren't growing like that of Pinocchio, which ironically is also the work of a person who wrote under a nom de plume (Carlo Collodi).
Now to segue to myself - I write under my own name, which is Simone Bailey, and you can find the links to the first chapters my novels in the bio section of this blog. My fourth is due out soon... ish.
Has anyone checked out Trump's nominee for US ambassador to New Zealand? His name's Scott Brown. There has been a hue and cry because in 1982, as a law student, Brown entered and won the Cosmo Magazine Centerfold contest. (Don't worry, I haven't forgotten how to spell 'centrefold'. Being the American edition of Cosmo, I'm being deferential and culturally aware by using US spelling). Seriously, all you people bleating about this, get over it! It was his bloody choice, wasn't it? And, get this, it was back in 1982, when funnily enough that song 'Centerfold' by J Geils Band was out! He is not the first student to have done something 'not quite nice' to help remain solvent whilst studying, and won't be the last. If you are going to twist your pearls because someone made a decision as a consenting adult to be photographed thirty-five years ago, then for God's sake sit down and have a serious re-think. What's got me bothered is the guy is apparently supportive of the use of waterboarding. This is seriously not okay. He is also the subject of sexual harassment allegations, but I'm not commenting one way or the other on those because at this stage, they are just that: allegations. But the waterboarding? Not cool, Brownie. Not cool at all. Get used to being called Brownie, if you take up a posting in New Zealand. We antipodeans on both sides of the Tasman are good at either shortening names, or suffixing with an '-ie'.
Also, the kapooha over the alleged sympathy toward the 'villains' really did my head in. People, this is a work of art. Art doesn't have to conform to societal norms and values. As a friend of mine said, when we were discussing the scandal over a glass of wine at the salient time, 'Mate, even the Nazis have a point of view.' As a writer, I can vouch it is a very interesting literary exercise to write from the point of view of a less popular (hell, even a downright despicable) character. They, too, have a story. Sometimes when lecturing in creative writing, I set my budding Hemingways an exercise to take a classic well known fairy tale and write from a lesser character's point of view.
I wasn't actually offended she faked her ancestry, but I thought it a bit sad that she found this a necessity. Therefore, I wasn't going to lose my shit and join the torch-and-pitchfork toting tide of outraged people and demand she be hung, drawn and quartered after relinquishing the award. Here's the thing, guys: the award must be for merit. It doesn't matter who the artist is. The art must speak for itself.
Anyway, I was reading about the new book online yesterday, and someone demanded a boycott. I replied a simple: 'why?' I did not give in to my first reaction, which was to type: 'What the fuck for?'. No. I was genteel and polite. I challenged the boycott-caller in a succinct manner. The person replied because Helen is a 'fraud'. By this reasoning, I replied, so would everyone who wrote under a nom de plume be fraudulent in some way.
Check out these names:
1. 'Tin Tin' by Herge.
2. 'Huckleberry Finn' by Mark Twain.
3. 'Alice in Wonderland' by Lewis Carroll.
4. 'Animal Farm' by George Orwell.
All classic works. And guess what else? NONE OF THESE TITLES ARE WRITTEN WITH THE AUTHORS' REAL NAMES! Nope, not one of 'em. It doesn't matter.
So, therefore bleating about this woman using a Ukrainian name is a bit stupid, particularly when the award she won - the Miles Franklin - was named in honour of a WOMAN writing under a MAN'S name. Get where I'm going with this?
Lying about the ancestry is a bit fatuous, but Christ on a bike, most of our politicians are lying so much it's a wonder their noses aren't growing like that of Pinocchio, which ironically is also the work of a person who wrote under a nom de plume (Carlo Collodi).
Now to segue to myself - I write under my own name, which is Simone Bailey, and you can find the links to the first chapters my novels in the bio section of this blog. My fourth is due out soon... ish.
Has anyone checked out Trump's nominee for US ambassador to New Zealand? His name's Scott Brown. There has been a hue and cry because in 1982, as a law student, Brown entered and won the Cosmo Magazine Centerfold contest. (Don't worry, I haven't forgotten how to spell 'centrefold'. Being the American edition of Cosmo, I'm being deferential and culturally aware by using US spelling). Seriously, all you people bleating about this, get over it! It was his bloody choice, wasn't it? And, get this, it was back in 1982, when funnily enough that song 'Centerfold' by J Geils Band was out! He is not the first student to have done something 'not quite nice' to help remain solvent whilst studying, and won't be the last. If you are going to twist your pearls because someone made a decision as a consenting adult to be photographed thirty-five years ago, then for God's sake sit down and have a serious re-think. What's got me bothered is the guy is apparently supportive of the use of waterboarding. This is seriously not okay. He is also the subject of sexual harassment allegations, but I'm not commenting one way or the other on those because at this stage, they are just that: allegations. But the waterboarding? Not cool, Brownie. Not cool at all. Get used to being called Brownie, if you take up a posting in New Zealand. We antipodeans on both sides of the Tasman are good at either shortening names, or suffixing with an '-ie'.
Tuesday 18 April 2017
What Went On My Ipod The Other Night
I know I have set myself a task of compiling a list of inspirational songs to enable myself, and others, to rise above hurt. I have had a lot of fun compiling a list of 'fuck-you' toned ditties, all of which are dedicated to a certain group of people, led by a screeching miserable harpy, who have caused me hurt lately. But for some reason, that list has not yet been completed. I'm blaming it on the general vicissitudes of life. As the great Lennon said: life is what happens when you're making other plans. Because I haven't prepared that list yet, I will set out hereunder the list of what I put on my iPod the other night. You might find them inspirational. You might decide to include some of these numbers in your playlist. You might stop and think, 'Shit, Simone has rancid taste in music' (if you think that, YOU'RE the one with rancid taste and you should reconsider any decision to breed). But for your amusement, here they are:
1. 'Modern Girl' by James Freud and the Radio Stars. I like it. I've always liked it. Of course, I get a bit sad listening to it sometimes because we lost James under tragic circumstances. Maybe it's just that it makes me feel fourteen again. Not that fourteen was a wonderful time. The fourteen-year-old Bingells had pimples on her chin, and was an awkward twerp who would use glow putty to spell out the letters of the name of the boy she liked and stick them to her bedroom mirror, hoping it would have some talismanic effect and the boy would notice her. He didn't.
2. 'Hungry Heart' by Bruce Springsteen. I suppose these days some would consider it a politically incorrect song because it's from the point of view of some responsibility-shirking bum who pissed off from his family. But I like it, too.
3. 'The Globe' by Big Audio Dynamite. I wish to assure my readership that musically I did evolve beyond the Seventies and some Eighties, even going so far as to venture to the early Nineties.
4. 'Mr Brightside' by The Killers. In a bold move, as intrepid as the explorations of Dr Livingstone, I meandered my way into the Two Thousands. It's crazy, and I like it. Usually. Still find lots of shite on my travels.
What will NOT be going on my iPod: 'Africa' by Toto. I heard it when driving home from a takeaway shop today, where I had purchased a burger to treat a friend who is helping us assemble those damnable flat pack wardrobes the insurance company has sprung for, following the equally damnable flood on Christmas Eve, 2016. And like I always do when I hear it on my car radio, I thought: uurrrrk! Yeah, I know, sublime harmonies and all that. But the song is so, so farty. And my eyes roll like a row of cherries on a poker machine every time I hear that lyric 'as sure as Kilimanjaro rises like Olympus above the Serengeti....'. Great, dudes, you're not too bad on geography, but I'm wondering why the inclusion of a Greek mountain in your African geographical imagery. Still, I guess 'Olympus' scans well musically, and it's after all a song, and not a geography essay. Whatever - it's not going on my iPod any time soon.
My 12yo has been asking me to put 'Rasputin' on my iPod. I'm really torn about this. I think, as a rule, the music of Boney M totally fellates festered donkey dicks. 'Rasputin' I can kind of cope with, but I'd hate it to come up on shuffle whenever we have company. It would be more embarrassing than having the dog run through the house with a pair of your dirty underpants in its mouth. And poor old Raspers - it's not bad enough to be poisoned, stabbed, and shot by disgruntled Russian aristocracy; he's been made the subject of a Boney M song. The indignity is worse than anything those Russians could have inflicted upon him. And that line at the end: 'Oh, those Russians'. Teeth-on-edge material.
That's all for now - I'd best compile that list I'm thinking of.
1. 'Modern Girl' by James Freud and the Radio Stars. I like it. I've always liked it. Of course, I get a bit sad listening to it sometimes because we lost James under tragic circumstances. Maybe it's just that it makes me feel fourteen again. Not that fourteen was a wonderful time. The fourteen-year-old Bingells had pimples on her chin, and was an awkward twerp who would use glow putty to spell out the letters of the name of the boy she liked and stick them to her bedroom mirror, hoping it would have some talismanic effect and the boy would notice her. He didn't.
2. 'Hungry Heart' by Bruce Springsteen. I suppose these days some would consider it a politically incorrect song because it's from the point of view of some responsibility-shirking bum who pissed off from his family. But I like it, too.
3. 'The Globe' by Big Audio Dynamite. I wish to assure my readership that musically I did evolve beyond the Seventies and some Eighties, even going so far as to venture to the early Nineties.
4. 'Mr Brightside' by The Killers. In a bold move, as intrepid as the explorations of Dr Livingstone, I meandered my way into the Two Thousands. It's crazy, and I like it. Usually. Still find lots of shite on my travels.
What will NOT be going on my iPod: 'Africa' by Toto. I heard it when driving home from a takeaway shop today, where I had purchased a burger to treat a friend who is helping us assemble those damnable flat pack wardrobes the insurance company has sprung for, following the equally damnable flood on Christmas Eve, 2016. And like I always do when I hear it on my car radio, I thought: uurrrrk! Yeah, I know, sublime harmonies and all that. But the song is so, so farty. And my eyes roll like a row of cherries on a poker machine every time I hear that lyric 'as sure as Kilimanjaro rises like Olympus above the Serengeti....'. Great, dudes, you're not too bad on geography, but I'm wondering why the inclusion of a Greek mountain in your African geographical imagery. Still, I guess 'Olympus' scans well musically, and it's after all a song, and not a geography essay. Whatever - it's not going on my iPod any time soon.
My 12yo has been asking me to put 'Rasputin' on my iPod. I'm really torn about this. I think, as a rule, the music of Boney M totally fellates festered donkey dicks. 'Rasputin' I can kind of cope with, but I'd hate it to come up on shuffle whenever we have company. It would be more embarrassing than having the dog run through the house with a pair of your dirty underpants in its mouth. And poor old Raspers - it's not bad enough to be poisoned, stabbed, and shot by disgruntled Russian aristocracy; he's been made the subject of a Boney M song. The indignity is worse than anything those Russians could have inflicted upon him. And that line at the end: 'Oh, those Russians'. Teeth-on-edge material.
That's all for now - I'd best compile that list I'm thinking of.
Thursday 13 April 2017
Disney Lingerie, RIP J Geils, Good Friday
Before I start my rambling, I'd just like to give a call out and message to the disciples from the Church of the Perpetually Outraged, who have directed their ire and wrath to the new Disney-inspired line of lingerie. You guys are infuriated by what you perceive to be the sexualisation of children's characters. It's gone too far, you cry. Filth and sexism, you wail as you beat your (perhaps braless) chests. Look, here's an idea - don't wear it. Nobody is keeping you captive and forcing you to wear what looks to be uncomfortable undies, the way Jabba the Hutt did to Princess Leia. And yes, from what I've observed the lingerie sets do look uncomfortable. They model looks at ease, but she's a size somewhere WAAAAAY into the negative numbers, and she looks rather sexy in it. I'd probably look like a trussed ham. But to those disciples - don't wear it. Look, consenting adults have been dressing up for adult fun and games for many, many years. Look at the people who dress as Naughty Nurses. Personally, I find this a bit irritating because nursing is such a noble profession, and Benny Hill has done it no service with constant portrayals of these Angels of Mercy having little bald men getting trapped in their cleavage. But I'm not going to lose my shit and carry on over it.
Something that always did have me losing my shit was brought to my mind again through the week, with the demise of the 'Geils' part of the J Geils Band. Don't get me wrong. My thoughts and condolences go to his family. But when news of his death broke, I had people tagging me on Facebook because it is known among my coterie that the song 'Centerfold' shits me to high heaven. In a nutshell, the narrator thereof is a hypocritical fuck-up with a Madonna/Whore complex who professes shock and horror when he finds his high school crush has made her OWN decision to pose nude in an adult magazine. His memories are soiled and sullied forever. He appears to be unable to forgive this transgression in his sick and twisted mind (and YES, he's the one who has a sick and twisted mind). Then he starts fantasising that she'll got to a hotel room with him and do a private strip tease. How big a fuck-up is this bloke? The only way he will get her into a hotel room is courtesy of chloroform and a rag. The irritating ditty ends with him - after all his self-righteous pontificating, mark you - saying he's going to buy the magazine. He makes no mention of the box of Kleenex and bottle of Vaseline Intensive Care. But RIP, man, notwithstanding you are responsible for a song that has always really annoyed me.
As I type this, it is Good Friday. I will unlikely attend the Veneration of the Cross service. I will more likely slob around on the lounge and watch DVDs. I have played Brian Cadd's 'Show Me The Way'. Does anybody remember that song? It's a rather nice song referencing Christ's crucifixion. I like it better than the hymns we had to sing on Good Friday when I was a tender-aged tacker. There was one dirge that went, 'Oh Jesus crucified/For us you suffered/For us you died/On the crooooooooooooooooooosssssssssss'. I'm not a songwriter, but why would you sustain a note like that? None of the kids performing it were trained singers, and nearly all of us ended up on the verge of passing out when the song was over. It was as depressing as all get out as songs about crucifixion are generally not cheerful, and had so many sustained notes it sounded like a stuck car horn. Also, when I was a kid, there was a safe bet 'King of Kings' would be screened. I used to like watching this movie, with the most Anglo-European Middle Eastern looking dudes ever. Aussie Frank Thring was a wonderfully simultaneously camp and sleazy King Herod, perving on his wife's teenaged daughter. It gets me wondering if Woody Allen used to watch this. Interesting fact: the actress playing Salome, who performs a very seductive dance for Herod, was only sixteen at the time. This would probably not happen in film making these days.
Although we never missed Easter Sunday Mass, I have little recollection of our family being dragged along to the Veneration of the Cross. I'm sure we attended some times, but not every year. Maybe my mother decided to cut her losses and stick to the one service, rather than subject herself to the irritation of taking four naughty, recalcitrant children to church more often than necessary. There was this nun at the school who would go bat shit if she found out people had not attended the service on Good Friday. I suppose it doesn't happen as often, if at all, these days; but if I sent my kids to Catholic school and one of the teachers became abusive because as a parent I had chosen to not take my kids to a service on MY time, that nun would be on the receiving end of some very in-Christian invective from me. I wonder if this particular nun is still alive? She seemed to be about ninety when she was teaching us, so perhaps not. But when you're a kid, all nuns seem to be ninety even if they're only about thirty-five.
But anyway, Reader, have a safe, happy, and - if it is your bag - holy Easter.
Something that always did have me losing my shit was brought to my mind again through the week, with the demise of the 'Geils' part of the J Geils Band. Don't get me wrong. My thoughts and condolences go to his family. But when news of his death broke, I had people tagging me on Facebook because it is known among my coterie that the song 'Centerfold' shits me to high heaven. In a nutshell, the narrator thereof is a hypocritical fuck-up with a Madonna/Whore complex who professes shock and horror when he finds his high school crush has made her OWN decision to pose nude in an adult magazine. His memories are soiled and sullied forever. He appears to be unable to forgive this transgression in his sick and twisted mind (and YES, he's the one who has a sick and twisted mind). Then he starts fantasising that she'll got to a hotel room with him and do a private strip tease. How big a fuck-up is this bloke? The only way he will get her into a hotel room is courtesy of chloroform and a rag. The irritating ditty ends with him - after all his self-righteous pontificating, mark you - saying he's going to buy the magazine. He makes no mention of the box of Kleenex and bottle of Vaseline Intensive Care. But RIP, man, notwithstanding you are responsible for a song that has always really annoyed me.
As I type this, it is Good Friday. I will unlikely attend the Veneration of the Cross service. I will more likely slob around on the lounge and watch DVDs. I have played Brian Cadd's 'Show Me The Way'. Does anybody remember that song? It's a rather nice song referencing Christ's crucifixion. I like it better than the hymns we had to sing on Good Friday when I was a tender-aged tacker. There was one dirge that went, 'Oh Jesus crucified/For us you suffered/For us you died/On the crooooooooooooooooooosssssssssss'. I'm not a songwriter, but why would you sustain a note like that? None of the kids performing it were trained singers, and nearly all of us ended up on the verge of passing out when the song was over. It was as depressing as all get out as songs about crucifixion are generally not cheerful, and had so many sustained notes it sounded like a stuck car horn. Also, when I was a kid, there was a safe bet 'King of Kings' would be screened. I used to like watching this movie, with the most Anglo-European Middle Eastern looking dudes ever. Aussie Frank Thring was a wonderfully simultaneously camp and sleazy King Herod, perving on his wife's teenaged daughter. It gets me wondering if Woody Allen used to watch this. Interesting fact: the actress playing Salome, who performs a very seductive dance for Herod, was only sixteen at the time. This would probably not happen in film making these days.
Although we never missed Easter Sunday Mass, I have little recollection of our family being dragged along to the Veneration of the Cross. I'm sure we attended some times, but not every year. Maybe my mother decided to cut her losses and stick to the one service, rather than subject herself to the irritation of taking four naughty, recalcitrant children to church more often than necessary. There was this nun at the school who would go bat shit if she found out people had not attended the service on Good Friday. I suppose it doesn't happen as often, if at all, these days; but if I sent my kids to Catholic school and one of the teachers became abusive because as a parent I had chosen to not take my kids to a service on MY time, that nun would be on the receiving end of some very in-Christian invective from me. I wonder if this particular nun is still alive? She seemed to be about ninety when she was teaching us, so perhaps not. But when you're a kid, all nuns seem to be ninety even if they're only about thirty-five.
But anyway, Reader, have a safe, happy, and - if it is your bag - holy Easter.
Tuesday 11 April 2017
Don't Cry For Me, Argent
I'm kind of losing track of the days here, being school holidays and all. I feel like it's a Saturday night because I haven't been making tomorrow's school lunches and the kids are up late, but I've been to meditation tonight so it's therefore Tuesday. I am working tomorrow, but at some time soon will have to do my updated author bio for my upcoming novel 'Howling On A Concrete Moon'. I might have to add to my stock standard list of interests. My usual interests are cooking, cinema, cryptic crosswords and sketching. I might add annoying people to that list. I don't know if this is an interest per se, or just a natural talent. I suppose my problem is I read something on social media that annoys me intensely, and comment - politely - but because my comment is in the 'other' opinion, I am met with outrage. Sometimes I get annoyed back, and sometimes I rub my fingertips together as I chuckle with a kind of unholy joy and think: My evil work here is done!
I'm still thinking of compiling some tracks for the inspirational albums I would like to see released. I'm also wondering whether to risk losing friends by pointing out something unsavoury. I've seen an online petition calling for the re-sentencing of a Matthew Lee Williamson, who according to the sentencing judge inflicted a fatal blow on his daughter. Look, I think this guy is a festering piece of shit. But what is the point circulating a petition because you think the sentence is inadequate, with a view to presenting the petition to the sentencing judge. What do you think this is going to do? Let me give you a little hint: fuck all. The judge has issued her sentence. The fact you don't like (or understand) it will not make her alter it. I'm pretty sure she doesn't have that power now that the case is over, but a higher court - being the Court of Criminal Appeal - would be able to should the DPP decide to appeal her sentence. Has the DPP appealed? If they haven't, then it is likely because the sentence is actually not inadequate. The guy entered a plea of guilty to MANSLAUGHTER, and it is on this plea, and this charge, that she must formulate her sentence. She also has to review submissions and precedents. It's not all black and white. There has been mention of evidence of sexual abuse, but those were not the charges before Her Honour, and so she couldn't take those into account. The charges related to manslaughter. Also, a plea of guilty will often garner an offender a lesser sentence. If Her Honour has acted within the parameters of the law, and issued a sentence across the board, then these petitions are pointless. Also, judiciary who are swayed by public opinion instead of applying the law are actually a bit corrupt, doncha reckon?
Okay, that's off my chest and flung to the far corners, kind of like a stripper's bra in a bawdy, hot, sweaty dive of a nightclub. I don't know why I've used that simile, but I have. I'm tired. I will start my list for the next CD, but this CD will be better aimed at helping those recover from the hurt and bullshit, and get on with life. It will start with this number:
'Hold Your Head Up' by Argent, and covered by the Party Boys in 1987. I had their album. Still do, out in the ubiquitous brown milk crate that all house-sharers of the Eighties used for music collection storage. But sometimes you do have to do exactly what the song says. 'If it's bad/Don't let it get you down/You can take it/And if it hurts/Don't let them see you cry, you can take it....'
Whilst I haven't exactly been crying lately, I've been hurt. The crumbs who have caused pain might not be aware they have caused pain. I don't know. But they won't see me cry. They're really not worth crying over, although that doesn't necessarily alleviate the hurt. Reader, I'm sorry to post obscure rantings without explanation, but in this case, discretion is the better part of valour. I really cannot say too much here. I know what I'd like to say to a particular person, and it goes something along the lines of, 'Find yourself a nice, virile stud camel, stroke it's penis until it's erect, and then fellate that motherfucker until your mandible aches!' But I won't. I will maintain my dignity (stop laughing, I do so have dignity!) and as the song says, keep my head held up.
Standby for the list of numbers for the CD dedicated to those who need some strength. Watch this space.....
I'm still thinking of compiling some tracks for the inspirational albums I would like to see released. I'm also wondering whether to risk losing friends by pointing out something unsavoury. I've seen an online petition calling for the re-sentencing of a Matthew Lee Williamson, who according to the sentencing judge inflicted a fatal blow on his daughter. Look, I think this guy is a festering piece of shit. But what is the point circulating a petition because you think the sentence is inadequate, with a view to presenting the petition to the sentencing judge. What do you think this is going to do? Let me give you a little hint: fuck all. The judge has issued her sentence. The fact you don't like (or understand) it will not make her alter it. I'm pretty sure she doesn't have that power now that the case is over, but a higher court - being the Court of Criminal Appeal - would be able to should the DPP decide to appeal her sentence. Has the DPP appealed? If they haven't, then it is likely because the sentence is actually not inadequate. The guy entered a plea of guilty to MANSLAUGHTER, and it is on this plea, and this charge, that she must formulate her sentence. She also has to review submissions and precedents. It's not all black and white. There has been mention of evidence of sexual abuse, but those were not the charges before Her Honour, and so she couldn't take those into account. The charges related to manslaughter. Also, a plea of guilty will often garner an offender a lesser sentence. If Her Honour has acted within the parameters of the law, and issued a sentence across the board, then these petitions are pointless. Also, judiciary who are swayed by public opinion instead of applying the law are actually a bit corrupt, doncha reckon?
Okay, that's off my chest and flung to the far corners, kind of like a stripper's bra in a bawdy, hot, sweaty dive of a nightclub. I don't know why I've used that simile, but I have. I'm tired. I will start my list for the next CD, but this CD will be better aimed at helping those recover from the hurt and bullshit, and get on with life. It will start with this number:
'Hold Your Head Up' by Argent, and covered by the Party Boys in 1987. I had their album. Still do, out in the ubiquitous brown milk crate that all house-sharers of the Eighties used for music collection storage. But sometimes you do have to do exactly what the song says. 'If it's bad/Don't let it get you down/You can take it/And if it hurts/Don't let them see you cry, you can take it....'
Whilst I haven't exactly been crying lately, I've been hurt. The crumbs who have caused pain might not be aware they have caused pain. I don't know. But they won't see me cry. They're really not worth crying over, although that doesn't necessarily alleviate the hurt. Reader, I'm sorry to post obscure rantings without explanation, but in this case, discretion is the better part of valour. I really cannot say too much here. I know what I'd like to say to a particular person, and it goes something along the lines of, 'Find yourself a nice, virile stud camel, stroke it's penis until it's erect, and then fellate that motherfucker until your mandible aches!' But I won't. I will maintain my dignity (stop laughing, I do so have dignity!) and as the song says, keep my head held up.
Standby for the list of numbers for the CD dedicated to those who need some strength. Watch this space.....
Saturday 8 April 2017
Volume II Dastardly Dedications
You all enjoyed the last album folks, and because you wanted it, here it is: Volume II of those ditties you dedicate to the loathed ones in your life. Well, to be specific, it's to the loathed ones in my life at the moment, and it's only Side 1. But let's not waste time, without further ado, here's the list:
1. 'Every Day I Love You Less And Less' by the Kaiser Chiefs. Maybe in my case I could appropriate it to go something along the lines of 'every day I hate you more and more.' <guffaws>
2. 'I Hate Everything About You' by Ugly Kid Joe. I really do like this song, and it evokes a memory of being carefree and watching 'Wayne's World'. Now I'm chockers with cares and worries, and cannot find my 'Wayne's World' DVD anywhere. Not all the lyrics resonate with me, but the one that goes 'I get sick when I'm around you' speaks volumes. Ear-shattering volumes, at that. Volumes that will annihilate the eardrum and leave it swirling in vaporised little particles.
3. 'Little Miss Can't Be Wrong' by The Spin Doctors. Bitch, you are SO wrong. And like the song says, 'ain't nobody gonna bow no more when you sound your gong.' Enjoy the topple from your throne. I'd leave out some cushions to soften the blow when your doughy carcass hits the floor, but if I'm honest, I'd rather you crash and get some sense knocked into you. That's what this song says to me, anyway.
4. 'Cockroach' by The Sweet. I don't think this was actually released as a single. It features on the 'Give Us A Wink' album. We all have that 'special' person or persons in our lives who are unfortunately best described as scrabbling, creepy, nasty, circuit-board-in-the-dishwasher-destroying COCKROACHES.
5. 'Fat Bottomed Girls' by Queen. This is perhaps a contentious entry because the tone of the song is flattering and empowering, but I'm thinking of someone I know who has an arse upon which one could screen a movie - in cinemascope.
6. 'Two Faces Have I' - I'm not going the original by Lou Christie, but the remake by Ol' 55, for no other reason than it's the one I have the clearer memory of. Actually have the original on another compilation album at home, and I think it's Volume II of '26 Groovy Greats', brought to us by K-Tel. Should still have it out in my shed, where I was storing it in a brown milk crate (the staple of many furniture motifs for all those who flat-shared in the Eighties) along with other old records, some of which I retrieved after clearing out my childhood home after my father passed. I suspect those records have been rooted badly after the Christmas Eve flood. I don't know why I had to have another flood. It's something else to be miserable about, but I'm going to focus on this little list of songs I'm having some fun compiling. Yes, the Ol' 55 remake is a bit of a cheesy guilty pleasure. But in the context I'm thinking of, the purpose of the two faces is not 'one to laugh; one to cry', but rather 'one to be a cunt, one to be an even bigger cunt'. Harsh? Yes. Feral? I guess so. Beneath me, and not worthy of a woman of my wordsmith-worthiness? Most definitely. But it's how I'm feeling.
Yeah, I'm having a bit of petty fun doing this. Although my life has had more ups and downs than the combined roller coaster tally of the Gold Coast theme parks of late, there has been some joy, too. My house is slowly (really slowly, mark you) getting back to normal. I took my younger son shopping for winter clothes today, and had a glimpse of what it might have been like to have had a daughter. He's very fashion conscious, unlike my older son who would happily dress like a homeless scarecrow. He ooh-ed and ahh-ed over the hoodie with the skull on the front, and wrinkled his nose at a pair of tracksuit pants I pulled from the rack ('Eeeeew, Mum! I'm not wearing those; they're hideous'). He gave himself a miniature fashion parade in the change room and castigated me for my
inadequate closure of the change room curtain ('Mum, everyone will see my nipples!'). We stopped to buy sushi, and walked into a miasmic cloud of acrid body odour left in the wake of a previous customer. Seriously, mate - if you're reading this - get some bloody deodorant! It's not expensive, it's easy to acquire, and simple to use! How does your girlfriend (if that's who was with you) stand your evil reeking armpits? The faces of my son and I no doubt took on the Dali-esque melting qualities of the characters in the Pepe Le Pew cartoons when the stinking skunk saunters by. 'Mum', hissed my son, 'That guy stinks like the drinking water in Africa.'
Thursday 6 April 2017
More Stupid PC-Ness
I live in rural NSW. I am happy here in rural NSW. I am out of the rat race, but close enough to make flying trips to the Big Smoke and catch a bit of thee-ay-ter with friends and family. If you weren't aware, I am something of a Culture Vulture, and do like live plays. So for the time being, it is in rural NSW I will stay. I have never toyed with the idea of living in Victoria. I have made brief visits to Victoria, but only Melbourne to appear on Channel 9 quiz shows. I had a terrific weekend with friends a few years ago. I like Melbourne. Maybe I could live in Victoria, or so I once thought.
But I'm having a serious rethink on that one. I cannot vouch for the veracity of what I heard today, but if this is correct, I am extremely glad I do not live in Victoria at the moment, although I mustn't get complacent because NSW just might follow suit. What I heard is the Victorian government do not want pre-schoolers reading traditional fairy stories or buying gender specific toys for kids to play with. To the Victorian State Parliament: are you all smoking crack? Look, I am aware of the Cinderella Syndrome which ostensibly causes women to believe they need a man to look after them, and things will be fine. The notion the hero and heroine are handsome and beautiful gets up my nose, too (what's 'beautiful', anyway? There are tribes in the Amazon that thinking sticking a plate in your lip so it sticks out like Mick Jagger's after an attack by a swarm of bees is attractive). Do these stories place a danger of instilling a sense of entitlement in boys, and a sense of needing to be rescued in girls? Here's an idea, and it's a little left of centre, and you might need to void your bladder before reading what I am about to type, but: JUST TELL KIDS THESE STORIES DON'T REFLECT REAL LIFE! I know, it's a difficult concept to grasp, but surely the word 'fairy' is kind of a giveaway to the fact these are STORIES. They're NOT REAL. Take some time to absorb that. Take all the time you need.
Truth be told, I think we should target the more modern offerings of pop culture that give a misplaced sense of false security. I'm thinking television shows like 'Everybody Loves Raymond', 'King of Queens', and 'Home Improvement'. They perpetuate the fallacy that a man needs to be an overweight, lazy, moronic, sexist slob in order to score an attractive, intelligent, hot wife. You see what I'm getting at? The Doug character from 'King of Queens' is lard- and dumb-ass, but have a look at his wife! Holy Moly! The Tim character from 'Home Improvement' is a rather stupid (oh, hell, VERY stupid) schlub but his wife is a MENSA candidate compared to him. Don't get me started on the toss-bag from 'Everybody Loves Raymond'. This is a show I cannot watch without losing it owing to the whiny, lying, passive-aggressive wet sock of a titular character, but again he has a wife who is reasonably nice looking and intelligent. Each and every one of these guys is punching well and truly above their weight - we are talking flyweight taking on heavyweight here - but we are to believe they are capable of captivating and sustaining relationships with these comparative butterflies.
Anyway, got a kitchen to tidy, so I must away. I am not rostered to work tomorrow, so hopefully will get through that damnable manuscript of mine. I've almost finished the fourth reading, and have found ONE mistake. Just one. That is good. It might be ready to go to print soon.
But I'm having a serious rethink on that one. I cannot vouch for the veracity of what I heard today, but if this is correct, I am extremely glad I do not live in Victoria at the moment, although I mustn't get complacent because NSW just might follow suit. What I heard is the Victorian government do not want pre-schoolers reading traditional fairy stories or buying gender specific toys for kids to play with. To the Victorian State Parliament: are you all smoking crack? Look, I am aware of the Cinderella Syndrome which ostensibly causes women to believe they need a man to look after them, and things will be fine. The notion the hero and heroine are handsome and beautiful gets up my nose, too (what's 'beautiful', anyway? There are tribes in the Amazon that thinking sticking a plate in your lip so it sticks out like Mick Jagger's after an attack by a swarm of bees is attractive). Do these stories place a danger of instilling a sense of entitlement in boys, and a sense of needing to be rescued in girls? Here's an idea, and it's a little left of centre, and you might need to void your bladder before reading what I am about to type, but: JUST TELL KIDS THESE STORIES DON'T REFLECT REAL LIFE! I know, it's a difficult concept to grasp, but surely the word 'fairy' is kind of a giveaway to the fact these are STORIES. They're NOT REAL. Take some time to absorb that. Take all the time you need.
Truth be told, I think we should target the more modern offerings of pop culture that give a misplaced sense of false security. I'm thinking television shows like 'Everybody Loves Raymond', 'King of Queens', and 'Home Improvement'. They perpetuate the fallacy that a man needs to be an overweight, lazy, moronic, sexist slob in order to score an attractive, intelligent, hot wife. You see what I'm getting at? The Doug character from 'King of Queens' is lard- and dumb-ass, but have a look at his wife! Holy Moly! The Tim character from 'Home Improvement' is a rather stupid (oh, hell, VERY stupid) schlub but his wife is a MENSA candidate compared to him. Don't get me started on the toss-bag from 'Everybody Loves Raymond'. This is a show I cannot watch without losing it owing to the whiny, lying, passive-aggressive wet sock of a titular character, but again he has a wife who is reasonably nice looking and intelligent. Each and every one of these guys is punching well and truly above their weight - we are talking flyweight taking on heavyweight here - but we are to believe they are capable of captivating and sustaining relationships with these comparative butterflies.
Anyway, got a kitchen to tidy, so I must away. I am not rostered to work tomorrow, so hopefully will get through that damnable manuscript of mine. I've almost finished the fourth reading, and have found ONE mistake. Just one. That is good. It might be ready to go to print soon.
Wednesday 5 April 2017
Melancholic Malaise
For reasons too complex to even attempt to describe, I have been on You Tube playing a clip to Manfred Mann's 'Ha-Ha Said The Clown'. Cracking Sixties choon, as I like to think. I saw them in Newcastle in 2004, whilst heavily pregnant with my second child. Great night, great show. They didn't perform those great Seventies covers they did - remember 'Blinded By The Light' and 'You Angel, You'? The former of course is a Bruce Springsteen number, and no matter who performs it, there is conjecture about what 'that' lyric is. I believe it has since been established that it is NOT 'wrapped up like a douche'. The latter is an old Dylan number. Dylan writes some mind blowing lyrics, but I always prefer other people interpret them. Everyone's been too busy looking away from the elephant in the room to point out the lugubrious qualities to Bob Dylan's singing voice.
Still in a malaise of late. My oldest has been off school for almost two weeks. He had blood, urine, and throat swab the other day, so hopefully we will find out on Friday the root to his affliction, which thankfully appears to be waning. It was strange to see a nurse taking his blood. This is a first for him. My younger one has had to give blood on a few occasions to ascertain carbamazepine levels - he's epileptic.
Having an unwell offspring is enough to bum one out. Been running around over the last week ferrying various spawn to the doctor, and the younger healthier one to musical theatre class, as well as to the school this evening for a performance (he plays bass drum in the school band). Younger one is in good spirits at the moment. His father and I are still in a state of shock over the suicide of one of his classmates over a week ago. I took our son to the child's funeral, and will never forget the sight of a group of twelve-year-olds, confused and weeping for their lost friend. Life is not just. I cannot get my head around a twelve-year-old feeling that intense a level of hopelessness. Parents should not have to grieve the way that boy's parents are grieving.
It's hard when you want to say things, but can't because you know it will cause a monstrous shitfight that just might sink it's venomous fangs firmly in your glutes and hang on with the tenacity of a bad tempered turtle. I am capable of saying things. I have learned a good way to phrase things. I start with 'this is flawed because...' before providing a well-formulated and articulate response. This is hard when I itch to write 'You unadulterated pile of stupidity! You should be tied to a tree and shot with a ball of your own shit for having such a moronic and misinformed view. Please tell me you haven't been breeding.'
So many things I'd like to write, but can't. Things I'd like to say. Those things vacillate between the pleasant niceties, and Oh-Christ-You-Unbelievable-Fuckstain-On-The-Bedsheets-Of-Humanity. But things will be fine. We will be laughing again. Like Manfred Mann's clown, we will go, 'Ha-Ha!'
Still in a malaise of late. My oldest has been off school for almost two weeks. He had blood, urine, and throat swab the other day, so hopefully we will find out on Friday the root to his affliction, which thankfully appears to be waning. It was strange to see a nurse taking his blood. This is a first for him. My younger one has had to give blood on a few occasions to ascertain carbamazepine levels - he's epileptic.
Having an unwell offspring is enough to bum one out. Been running around over the last week ferrying various spawn to the doctor, and the younger healthier one to musical theatre class, as well as to the school this evening for a performance (he plays bass drum in the school band). Younger one is in good spirits at the moment. His father and I are still in a state of shock over the suicide of one of his classmates over a week ago. I took our son to the child's funeral, and will never forget the sight of a group of twelve-year-olds, confused and weeping for their lost friend. Life is not just. I cannot get my head around a twelve-year-old feeling that intense a level of hopelessness. Parents should not have to grieve the way that boy's parents are grieving.
It's hard when you want to say things, but can't because you know it will cause a monstrous shitfight that just might sink it's venomous fangs firmly in your glutes and hang on with the tenacity of a bad tempered turtle. I am capable of saying things. I have learned a good way to phrase things. I start with 'this is flawed because...' before providing a well-formulated and articulate response. This is hard when I itch to write 'You unadulterated pile of stupidity! You should be tied to a tree and shot with a ball of your own shit for having such a moronic and misinformed view. Please tell me you haven't been breeding.'
So many things I'd like to write, but can't. Things I'd like to say. Those things vacillate between the pleasant niceties, and Oh-Christ-You-Unbelievable-Fuckstain-On-The-Bedsheets-Of-Humanity. But things will be fine. We will be laughing again. Like Manfred Mann's clown, we will go, 'Ha-Ha!'
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