I am the joint-pain when you wake
I am the fog that’s in your head
I am every little twinge and ache
I am that which you most dread
I am the toxins in your veins
I am the cough you can’t hold back
I am the mole that looks quite grim
I am your inner hypochondriac!
The Sex Chapter in MeLand looks at the horrors of the Hollywood Cliche.
One way to kill the Hollywood cliche is to parody, parody … parody.
What we’re gonna do right here is go back, way back, back into time … After 40 years collecting dust, I stumbled on that line (from the 1972 hit song Troglodyte) in the cramped attic of my memories when I started to write this article. The association is obvious because today we’re going back in time to look at the influence of television programs on your memory.
I want you to rummage in your own dusty attic of curiosities to answer this question. Do not Google it. What is your favourite TV show of all time? Dada da-da-da dada – that’s thinking music. This show was your must-see show, the one you cancelled all appointments to watch. Now you would click record on your hard drive. Once you couldn’t miss the show. If anyone in the room had a heart attack during that show, they had to wait for your attention. Some things in life are sacred.
Read more @ The Canberra Times 3 APR 2013: What Constitutes a Real Memory?
Two members of the Cue household have just been through the medi-go-round. One came out dazed and bleeding, the other chirpy and bouncing. The tale begins with our little dog, Tuppence. She is 12 years old, which is 84ish in dog years. She has been hospitalised with pancreatitis, bladder stones and a cruciate ligament replacement. Now she has congestive heart disease and is on heart meds, but bouncing.
My beloved HRH (His Royal Hairiness) is pushing 10 dog years. He’s had two angioplasties, by-pass surgery and a stent. He’s suffered dizzy bouts or Transient Ischemic Attacks, which means ‘something’s wrong with your head, mate, but buggered if we know what it is’. They stopped. Last week he had a ‘little’ prostate op in a private hospital, supposedly, an overnighter. Something went horribly wrong. At 3am he started having fits. The fits became so violent he was likely to badly damage himself.
The private hospital didn’t have a doctor on duty at night.
The Canberra Times 30 Jan 2013. Read more here. Vet vs Hospital
Idyllic summer days and leisurely family picnics go hand in glove like, um, hands in gloves.
When I was a youngster in the ’60s, however, a picnic with my family was more akin to throwing down the gauntlet to the fates.
Our father stood by the pink, open driver’s seat door of our old maroon FE Holden, snapping orders as we elbowed our way onto the clammy vinyl of the back seat. ”You sit there and look out that window. You sit there and don’t you touch him. Tuck your elbows in. I don’t want any carry-on during this trip or I’ll wring your bloody necks.” There we sat in our cotton shorts, T-shirts and plastic sandals, me, my three brothers and one other kid, with our bare legs clinging to the vinyl seat, waiting for our mother to turn up with the baby so the adventure could begin.
But our mother was always distracted by some last-minute fussing, as our father stood drumming his fingers on the roof of the Holden, calling out ”Kath, hurry up. We’ve got to get going.” When our mother finally arrived with food in a basket – there were sandwiches and fruit in the tartan metal Esky in the boot – our father planted his foot on the accelerator as she struggled to close the door. We were off on our adventure.
Read more @ The Canberra Times 8 Jan 2012: When Life’s No Picinic
That’s it. Right. I’m over it. I’m not putting up with this idiocy anymore. If I have to deal with this nonsense one more time – just ONE more time – I think I might take an axe and smash … no, not an axe. I’ll pepper spray them… look, you can only take so much of this ridiculous, mind-numbing incompetence before you snap. Snap! Just like that!
Damn! That feels good. What’s my problem? Nothing really. Everything, maybe. I was just practising being a Drama Queen. Have you noticed that we Aussies have turned into a nation of hissy-fit throwing Drama Queens? Even if you’re not a main contender, the other 22 million Aussies are up for it. There is always someone on the tellie, in a crowd, in a shop, in a restaurant or in a queue somewhere, who is annoyed, outraged, spitting the dummy, stamping their feet and/or generally getting really pissed off with the service, the government, the universe and everything.
Full Article: Hissy Fit Nation
Happy little campers around the world have set up tent cities or, as in Australia, mini-Global Villages in solidarity with the Occupy Wall Street anarchists. Entertaining YouTube clips show a passing parade of blood-smeared zombies, dread-locked jugglers, wide-eyed babies in pushers, sign-totting anarchist nana’s, unshaven rough-necked unionists with megaphones, thin, wispy-bearded, hand-knit-jumper-wearing vegans, red coated trombonists, Che Guevara flags and hand-made protest posters everywhere.
Full Article: Anarchists R Us
Weddings. I’ve been to a few: traditional, hippy, Greek (Vows were pledged in Greek then translated. The feminists gasped when they heard the word ‘obey’), Italian (400 guests seated at trestle tables in the local town hall with little boys in suits running and skidding on the polished floor boards), on a farm (with mooing cows. It was more an ‘I moo’ than an ‘I do’.), in a restaurant (my own wedding), at a registry office (The bride was 8 months pregnant and wore black), in a church with Millie the Golden Retriever as a bridesmaid, a B-team wedding (Married the week before, the couple dressed up again for a party with the B-team guests. We got the B-team speeches too!) and more.
Full Article: Hens Behaving Badly
‘I’m driving in my car … I turn on the radio … Dada-da-da … something, um … You’re a liar … Da-da. Ooooo! FIRE!’ All right. I’m no Bruce Springstein. I was driving in my car, radio on, and turned off to the world when I heard voices. Natasha Stott Despoja was being interviewed on the ABC. She said she loved hearing people like demographer Bernard Salt explain distinctions between the generations. And I quote. I have to write ‘And I quote’ because I nearly ran off the road when I heard her following statement, so I podcast the interview to check the facts.
Full Article: Generation Whinge