I Mention Poison the Band and Poison the Perfume!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Softening Blows & Scotty Finally Holds a Hose

 Today, I had a discussion about an upcoming International Women's Day luncheon whereat I've been invited to be a guest speaker. Not sure exactly what will go in my speech, but some of the themes the committee are touching upon are sustainability and growth as women. I am considering mentioning the protagonist of my first novel; she was particularly designed to be a strong type. By strong, I don't mean stoic and self-sacrificing in the face of adversity; I mean she has a metaphorical set of cojones and always asserts herself. She also makes a mean Caesar salad, as does her creator. There are not many strong and ruthless heroines in popular culture, most female characters are secondary to the male characters in the story.  I had a chat with the committee member about how at present it's topical that women are consistently told to be polite and spare feelings. Yes, I'm talking about the photo of Grace Tame wherein she appears to be giving Scott Morrison the greasy eyeball. Shit is being lost everywhere as people talk about how rude she was and how it wouldn't kill her to smile. No, it probably wouldn't; but rude? She was civil. She was obviously uncomfortable, and given Grace is neurodiverse, she probably wasn't inclined to smile and possibly didn't pick up on a social cue that she 'should'. So, that's what people are blathering about instead of the fact she was groomed as a teenager and has worked like a Trojan for the victims of sexual assault. The firefighter who shouted that Morrison can get fucked has an offer of a lifetime of beers, whereas a woman who doesn't smile near him is hauled over the coals. Go figure. 

So, Grace should just simper and smile. Women should just simper and smile because we mustn't hurt a person's feelings, must we? To be honest, I will often tell a little white lie or make a mitigating comment to soften a blow because I do not like to hurt people's feelings. I'm nice like that. However, there have been times in my life when I have told an outright lie to defuse a situation when the truth would have been better. It is like an ingrained Pavlovian reaction. Let me tell you about a situation when I softened the blow to save a guy's feelings, when the truth should have been offered (or thrown with near decapitory force because the guy concerned was such a stupid twonk). 

It was in the workplace. I was twenty years of age. I had moved to the Big Smoke and being trained in this role by the guy, similar age to me, who was leaving. He probably thought he'd try it on with the new girl, who still carried a scent of eucalyptus from the gum tree she had brushed by as she left the bush. 

Speaking of scent, this guy had a case of B.O. that could have blistered paint. It was like he had a peeled onion stuck in his armpit. We had to go somewhere, and when I smelt it, I thought: 'Shit, I hope that's not me!', and took a discreet and surreptitious whiff of my armpit. I was relieved it was not me, but not looking forward to spending time with this pestiferous stinkbag. This was the least of my problems. Everything he said was a double entendre or a lie. 

I decided to steer the conversation by asking what the other people in the office were like. His answer, verbatim, was: 'Some of the girls think they're smart just because they're secretaries, but we go out in a group, and they all try to play with my penis, but none of them get me hard.'

No, I am NOT making that up. I was in two minds: firstly, trying not to laugh at the visual I was having of a group of women stampeding for this guy's dick; and secondly, I was offended that he thought I might be stupid enough to believe that utter codswallop. 

Well, he decided to ask me out. I declined (yeah, shocking, I know). Later through the day, he approached me and asked would I reconsider his offer of a date. Again, I declined. He asked why I did not wish to go out with him. 

I am too bloody polite and kindhearted for my own good. I gave my standard Let-Them-Down-Gently reply of, 'I'm not looking for a relationship at this point in my life.'

Why, oh WHY did I give such a milquetoast of an answer? Why didn't I just let this warthog scrote  have the truth? Why didn't I reply, 'Why won't I go out with you? Number One: you stink. Number Two, and most importantly: you're a fucking idiot!' 

Yes, this is probably a case where honesty would have been the best policy. 

The memory of that made me just shudder. So did the picture of Scott Morrison washing someone's hair today. Who else saw it? The person being ministered to is clearly an employee of the salon, if her shirt is anything to go by, and if I was pressed into doing something like that by my employer, I'd want a monster of a pay rise. UGH! I don't like anybody other than a professional touching my hair at the best of times, and the thought of Scomo being let loose on it just makes me want to be ill. The desperation for publicity in that stunt is palpable through the photo, but hey, Scotty's holding a hose this time! 

RIP, Meatloaf

 I shouldn't be surprised, given he was not enjoying the most spectacular of health, but Meatloaf's death has really saddened me. If you wanted a consummate showman with stage presence and an absolute belter of a voice: it was him. I know the Bat out of Hell album is sometimes considered a bit kitschy and naff, but there's a reason about twenty-five per cent of Australia's population has a copy of this album, be it on vinyl and stacked with other records in a milk crate, or on CD, or maybe on Apple iTunes playlist. Yes, I am in that twenty-five per cent. 

I will never forget being blown away the first time I heard the titular track, and I still love to crank it up now. I also have a memory of my school dance where You Took the Words Right out of My Mouth was given a spin, and who won't admit to doing the double clap at the end? You know how it goes; come on, do it with me: "You took the words right out of my mouth! (Clap-clap!). Oooh, it must have been while you were kissing me...(Clap-clap!)".  I associate this memory with a beige ruffle-neck cap-sleeved top, a brown drawstring skirt, and JC sandals (it was the late Seventies, okay?).

In 1993, Mr Bingells and I were fortunate enough to see him at the State Theatre in Sydney. What a great night. I didn't recognise him straight away when he took to the stage as the opening strains of I Would Do Anything for Love played because he'd slimmed down a little bit, but the voice gave it away. He conducted the show, handled an obnoxious heckler, and entertained the audience with humour, a magnificent stage presence, and of course that glorious voice. 

Since news of his death broke, I have read many snarky comments about the 2011 AFL Grand Final debacle. I'm not an expert, but I understand there were technical issues with the earpiece and he wasn't well at the time. To the people who've been cracking distasteful jokes, whilst I recognise your right to do so on your own timeline, I will say this: fuck you. Anybody can have a bad moment, no matter how good they are at their work. This was ONE crap moment out of how many amazing performances the man gave? 

RIP, Meatloaf. Thanks for the great memories. 

Speaking of not doing one's best in one's special 'line', I received back marks on one of my university assessments, and I'm disappointed. Don't get me wrong, I passed. Just. What's got me nonplussed is the subject was related to my specialty and my superpower. I know I'm good at the subject, which was about resources and justifications in teaching lower secondary school English, but I honestly thought my marks were going to be better. Clearly, I must not have grasped something, so will have to take on board the assessor's feedback for my next assessment. Pride goeth before a fall, as the old adage goes. I was talking to a friend today (another author), and she reminded me that 'P's get degrees'. This is true, and whilst I am RELIEVED to receive a passing grade, being proud about that particular grade for what I am trying to achieve is like the head chef at Doyle's Seafood Restaurant taking pride in heating a tray of frozen generic-brand fish fingers. 

And speaking of assessments, there is one in another subject to which I must attend. After I have done some work, I will drink a toast to Meatloaf and crank up Bat out of Hell. 

RIP Sidney Poitier

 I've been flat-out busy lately - work's been understaffed and I've had assessments to finalise for university. Got them in, and now I'm on holidays. 

Only thing I can think of at the moment is RIP Sidney Poitier. I absolutely adore the movie To Sir with Love. He is sublime, especially when his character Mark Thackeray has to contend with a classroom of slatternly skanks, one of whom has put a sanitary product in the heater. He articulately expresses his contempt and disgust in a manner that is pure dignity. I love it. And yeah, never cease to lose it when Lulu sings at the end. Yeah, yeah, I know - the school kids all look thirty - but so what? I do love this movie and Sidney Poitier, you were superlatively wonderful in it. Mr Thackeray is the teacher I'm aspiring to be. 

I sign off now with sadness, but hopefully refreshed in a few days after I have had a brief sojourn on the coast (presuming Covid doesn't go berko everywhere in next day).

Car-Nage

 It's just been a cruddy sort of day that's got me in a bit of a malaise. Firstly, the weather has been oppressively hot and humid. Also, I came down with a bit of a tummy bug today that's sapped me of energy. But what really drains my energy and boils my piss is the sheer stupidity of some drivers. 

This is a really crazy time of the year. When I die, I'm going to Heaven because I think I experienced Hell already today at one of my local shopping centres. The car park of this particular spot is best described as horrendous. It is not flat and even; it has a fiendish topography of rises and bumps and craters that resemble a reproduction of the moon. The civil engineer responsible should have put aside his or her crack pipe before drawing plans. It's a nightmare to negotiate a loaded shopping trolley, even worse if you've got a toddler sitting in the child seat of one - I'll never forget the time I snagged a bump and my then eighteen-month-old nearly spilled out; I was lucky to get away with only the twisted ankle I sustained. Today, I was rostered to get some shopping for a client and the only parking spot I could find was outdoors in a bay situated on an incline of about fifteen degrees. Whilst this does not warrant crampons, rope, and pickaxe, it is just right to set  your teeth on edge when you're pushing a trolley. 

When I went to the put the groceries in my vehicle, the next spot was empty, which enabled me to manoeuvre (with effort) the trolley next to my car. A friend who was in the line of vehicles entering into the park saw me struggling and dispatched her young daughter to assist me with the trolley. I had the trolley next to my rear driver-side door in readiness for unloading when lo and behold (and fuck me dead!) some braindead gronk started reversing his ute into the spot where the young lass and I stood. 

Astonished and flabbergasted, we edged back with the trolley, wondering was he aware we were there. He kept reversing in and I had fleeting visions of footage from Christine screaming through my head. My friend got out of her vehicle and stormed over to the gormless deadshit, and demanded to know what he thought he was doing, and suggested he help us rather than try to run us over. His excuse was he didn't want to hold up the queue of drivers. I don't know about you, Reader, but given the choice, I'd rather wait in queue whilst a person is packing away groceries than see the grisly carnage of people getting run over, whether or not I get to the shops in plenty of time! 

We ended up with trolley at the bonnet of the car and smoke coming from my ears. The guy got out of his ute and offered to help me with the groceries. As he should, the useless imbecile. I thanked him for helping me, but pointed out had he called out to the drivers behind him he was waiting for a person who was putting groceries in a vehicle, I'm sure they would have understood. Also, there are concrete structures to indicate where to stop the vehicle, and they proved most awkward to get the trolley around as we tried to avoid getting hit by this cockwomble. 

It kind of wrecked my day, as you can imagine. I know it's the season of peace and goodwill, but I'm not wishing this popped boil a Merry Christmas; he wants to be yeeted into the sun. 

Flint & Print

 This post is going to be all about dumb things I've either been called or told to do lately.

1. Aunt Lydia. If you're not au fait with this name, Aunt Lydia is one of the villains in The Handmaid's Tale. Her backstory is that she was a former lawyer and school teacher pre-Gilead, but now trains and supervises (and tortures) the women at the Red Centre, referring to the times when women were allowed to make their own choices as 'anarchy'. She is not at all a nice character. In fact, she is something of a total fucking bitch, for want of a better phrase. I know there are times when I am not the sunniest person in the world, but I have never called for the silencing and oppression of women. Quite the opposite, in fact. Anybody who knows me will attest to this. So, how did I earn a comparison to an odious shitbag of a woman who is a traitor to women everywhere? Why, by disagreeing with the Liberal member for Boothby, Nicholle Flint, that's how! Before I proceed, I will point out the name wasn't bestowed upon me by Ms Flint, but by some other tweep. Flint posted a link of a YouTube video by Friendly Jordies  (hereafter referred to as 'FJ') on Twitter, and in her accompanying comment decried FJ as an enemy to women and demanded Anthony Albanese weigh in and denounce FJ to the other side of the globe and back, basically (seriously, what does bloody Albo have to do with any of it?).

Anyway, I watched the video, and whilst it can by no stretch of the imagination be described as flattering of Flint, I am hard-pressed to find any comments that are sexist, per se. I therefore replied to Flint and stated FJ was criticising her because he disliked  her views and her policies, but that is because he clearly thinks her views and policies stink, and has nothing to do with her being a bearer of the XX-chromosome. I went on to state that disliking her doesn't make a person an enemy of women, but her government were quite happy to sweep under the carpet the alleged sexual assault of a former staffer, which is more threatening to women than some YouTuber's jokes. 

So yeah, shortly after this, someone replied and called me 'Aunt Lydia' and accused me of thinking I am entitled to tell women what they are allowed and not allowed to consider sexist. When the dizziness subsided from rolling my eyes with powerful ferocity at this nonsense, I just replied, 'Okay, dear.' 

I am at a loss to see how what I said is being an Aunt Lydia. I stand by what I said. I did not see anything actually sexist in the video, nor did I tell Flint she wasn't allowed to see anything sexist in it. If she does see sexism in it, then that's her problem and I think she should rub some Tiger Balm into her shoulders because that was one hell of a stretch. 

2. So, the dumb thing I've been told to do is get an age-appropriate haircut. Again, this occurred on Twitter. I am not inclined to take fashion advice from some anodyne-looking gronk who looks like he spends all day gaming in his parents' basement and eating Fruit Loops, but what is an age-appropriate haircut? I'm over fifty, so does that mean I must have the auburn cascade I've sported most of my life shorn off and shaped into the Lady Di hairdo (pre-engagement to Prince Charles)? That's not going to happen. I know we change over time, but when I was in my twenties, I favoured leopard print, skulls, heavy metal and hard rock, and preferred my hair long. Take a quantum leap to nowadays, and I still wear leopard print, have a glass skull paperweight on my writing desk, and won a drink voucher at trivia the other night when I answered the birthplace of Black Sabbath was Birmingham. Oh, and my hair is still long. Women my age are classed as invisible and I refuse to age gracefully, swathed in beige polycotton blend and with short hair. No, I'm going to put on my leopard print jacket and make some noise!

But right now, I'm going to make some dinner. 

The One Wherein I Mention Marcel Marceau, Peter Garrett, Plastic Bertrand, & Boofhead Et Al

 I've been having a very pleasant evening. I spend time helping students with the school work, but tonight my seventeen-year-old asked me for my assistance. He's written an explanation for a visual arts project, which is musically themed. The genres he has chosen are rock, pop, techno, and stage musicals. I explained why he should use an Oxford comma and why he should ditch the ampersand and write 'and', as well as how a reflexive pronoun should be applied. To bond with my son and talk grammar puts me in a state of blissful halcyon. But what really moved me was reading his explanation as to how the music 'spoke' to him. He wrote from the heart about how each genre affects him differently, and I particularly loved his self-comparison to Apollo, the Greek god of music, when listening techno and its musical idiosyncrasies. I guess what got me is that my son articulated exactly how I feel listening to music.

Speaking of music, today I had cause to view on YouTube a clip of Elton Montello singing Jet Boy, Jet Girl. Note-for-note, it's pretty much Ca Plane Pour Moi. But the lyrics are not a translation of the latter's nonsensical, um, whimsy (some would say 'bullshit', but I'm running with whimsy). I think the best way to experience this song is to look at it for yourselves, but I will forewarn you it is reminiscent of Marcel Marceau wearing a rude shirt and dancing like Peter Garrett on a hotplate, whilst singing disturbing lyrics about a dude who fellated him and who is now apparently into chicks. Also, the narrator of the piece is fifteen. Kind of like what makes A Clockwork Orange disturbing viewing (along with just about every other aspect of the film). 

What else is disturbing? Politicians' behaviour, that's what. Oh, I know you're all thinking: 'Big whoop-de-doo, what's your next great proclamation; gravity makes things fall?'; but they have been utter jerks, and it's not just limited to one party. 

Usually, the LNP do my head in, and this week was no exception. David Van making growling noises when Senator Lambie was speaking is one example. Don't like Lambie? That's fine; you don't have to. But Van, do you seriously think making animal noises whilst the woman had for the floor was appropriate? Would you like someone doing that to you? Or how's this: would you like someone to treat your daughter that way in the workplace? I didn't think so. Get in the sea, you obnoxious popped boil. 

Today, I had cause to be even more appalled. Generally, I don't mind the Greens, but Senator Lidia Thorpe is doing them no favours with her nasty comment to Senator Hollie Hughes in an interjection (I believe today or yesterday), which was words to the effect: 'At least I keep my legs shut!'. Hello? WTAF? In what universe is this deemed prudent senatorial behaviour (although there sure is a lot of rotten carrying on in QT)? The comment has been construed as a dig about Hughes having birthed a kid with autism. I think it sounds like slut-shaming. Seriously, didn't we leave behind this type of offensive, sexist, and pointless snarking around twenty years ago? There is no level or angle of spin that is going to make that comment in any way acceptable or funny. It's not, and furthermore, it is utterly disgraceful. Adam Bandt, are you going to call out or castigate your senator for this objectionable remark? Given the crap to which Thorpe's fellow Green Sarah Hanson-Young was subjected by David Leyonhjelm, I find it bizarre that Thorpe would make such an unconscionable comment. So you keep your legs shut, do you, Lidia? How about you include your MOUTH next time  you get the urge to let forth something so pathetically pointless and reminiscent of a coke-fueled 1980s board meeting? This grotesque type of insult has the potential to detract from any decent work you are trying to do, so put brain in gear before putting mouth in action, next time.

There was, however, one thing I did enjoy from Parliament House this week. Of course, it was Anthony Albanese calling Spud-the-Dud Dutton 'Boofhead'. Thank goodness it was in parliament, otherwise Albo might have been on the receiving end of a defamation action! Oh, it made me guffaw, my friends. What's more, I think I might purchase some of the merch celebrating this moment.