Eddie Vedders boner

That is correct.
You are not reading it wrong.

(Although I was not sure whether "boner" warranted a Capital B!?)

The title is a reference to Pearl Jam's front mans knob...Erect to boot!

Recently my gorgeous daughter has made it her goal in life to collect and catalogue any photographic and video evidence of Mr Vedders appendage. So far he has had his tadger covered. My relief is not apparent in my writing, but trust me, it is there!

While I find it mildy odd that my child finds this necessary, there are worse hobbies she could be indulging in and so I choose to leave well alone.

My problem arises (Pun absolutely intended) when said stauner shows it's ugly head at the breakfast table and during AC360.

 Ipods have a lot to answer for!

Please. Keep your erection detection to yourself!

Coughing up a lung, not a smoke in sight!

I have been sick for three weeks.

It has been the most boring, annoying, frustrating three weeks that I have had in a very long time.
You see, I am a 'doer'. I cannot even sit through a movie in it's entirity withough getting up and 'doing' something totally irrelevant.

When I first became sick (I had influenza A, according to my Dr), I had no choice. I was laid up in bed for five days.
The dog and my daughter moved into my bedroom and we all hung out. I was brought food and tea and I watched mindless daytime tv in between lapsing in and out of consciousness.

It sucked and I smelled bad!

Since then I have progressed to what was originally diagnosed as Pneumonia and has more recently become 'chest/lung/bronchial infection with origins/cause unknown, possibly COPD?'.
I have been given antibiotics (they failed to have any effect), a steroid inhaler, which gives me a very dry throat and makes me cough (go figure) and yesterday I was put on some type of electrical steam making machine which contained a cocktail of Ventolin and other breathing type drugs. This made me shake like a south of the tracks, cheap rental property and increased my heart rate to beyond multiple orgasm speed.
I slept for three hours after this. Go figure. I don't even have a Penis!

I am no longer confined to my bed, however I remain unable to 'do' and even climbing the stairs is a  pretty exhausting task.
On attempting a grocery shop at the weekend I was nearing collapse by the time we reached the checkout and was asleep for four hours shortly after getting home.

All of this would be a lot more believable had I not quit smoking almost three months ago! Not exactly a healthy add for giving up the nicotine sticks.

To quote my Mum, from days gone by "it's  not the cough that carries you off, it's the coffin they carry you off in"
Mum, I have to agree. There are a few occassions in the recent weeks that I have to say I have seriously considered what it would be like inside a coffin, brought on by all this coughing!

I am feeling like the light at the end of the tunnel may soon appear, but I am presently sitting still and I just had another coughing fit!
 I am getting better at guiding the Wii control to use Netflix and I now know which neighbours illegally park in vistor parking and on the street during the day.

 I still absolutely think that quitting the cigarettes was the best thing I have EVER done and I would gladly suffer all this again to be smoke free.

 However, I am so fucking bored I may start knitting again.

Art critics

Something that has always pissed me off.

Opinions are like arse holes.

 Everyone has one!

 Why then, does that give these highly opinionated (and usually pretentious and boring) fuckers the right to have more valid, and important opinions than the rest of us?
I like art. In fact, I will go so far as to say, I love art.  I love art in all forms. Music, paintings, photography, theatre, ballet, film, food..... I like it all. Does that give me the right to change my name to Micheal Winner, stand with a glass of really expensive champagne (someone else paid for that by the way!) and tell you that your gravy tastes like shit?
Jamie Oliver, I am talking about your gravy! Well, I am not really. But I am sure that Jamie Oliver would be really pissed off if I was serious. Who the fuck am I to have an opinion on it. It is after all just my opinion and yours is quite possibly very different.
Jamie Oliver, your gravy tastes great, this guy over here said so.

You see where I am going with this?

Even if I have a degree in Art History (No my name is not William Windsor!) does that suddenly give me the right to presume that Leonardo di Caprio (no wait, he was the bloke on Titanic, my bad) Da Vinci was thinking when he painted a particular painting or drew a quick sketch?
I fucking well think not. Not only have I no clue what he was thinking, I really don't care. I appreciate the art, in whatever it's current form purely because I like it and I wish to enjoy it.

HERE IS A MORE RECENT EXAMPLE. I do know, for a fact,  that Jonny Hetherington, frontman for Art of Dying recently penned a song in his pyjamas while smoking a Cuban cigar. He was in his pyjamas because he had recently taken a soak in the tub (he had a cold beer at that particular time)
I know this how?


 Because he Tweeted and Facebooked it to the world.

www.artofdyingmusic.com

 Does that give me the right to have an opinion on what he did in his pyjama period? Absolutely not. Does that give me the right to (as an Art critic) try and analyse why Jonny the artist was in the tub and not taking a shower?

 No, it fucking well does not.

Personally, I will eternally find it mildly amusing, that this particular frontman owns striped pyjamas, but that is my problem and not for your concern!

I will enjoy the result of this sequence of events when the song is on a cd. I will not analyse, nor will I question the artist.

We are all individuals.
We all have different taste.
 Just because, Mr/Miss/Mrs/Dr/Major/ Rev (did I miss anyone?) Critique, your opinion is published does make it the correct opinion, nor does it mean it should be listened to.

My gravy tastes awesome and Art of Dying are kick ass....just in case you care!!

Eternal Masturbation

      I think I have previously explained that my (at this time 11 yearsold, but nearing teenage angst) child has not got the greatest filter.

  So, of course the things that she blurts mostly have no effect on me. It is often what I would describe as selective Aspergers with a twist. She usually only says things once and always (damn it) has a pretty good explanation. Even if the explanation does only make sense to her.

   I'm getting to the point here. We do have to take a step back of probably six months.

   Grade Six. Sex Ed! Which at this time we shall name 'Human Sexuality Education' because the Teacher said so. The 'Teacher', being a woman who also wanted the class to use the word 'well' instead of 'nice' or 'good'..   I was always under the illusion that 'Teachers' taught. This year it would appear not, but that is not a tangent I want to go off on at this point in time.

  So, at the start of G6 we get the letter sent home to notify us that Sex Ed is on the horizon. We sign the permission slip and send it back to school. Now, I really couldn't care less because by this time, Shakka has read quite a huge amount of Tortora and Grabowski's 'Anatomy and Physiology', several books in the series of 'It's not the Stork' and she has been telling jokes filthier than a Coal Miners tadger for years.

  In addition, the word 'Penis' had been bandied around for weeks prior to class so that no one would become hysterical, were it mentioned by a Teacher.

Sex Ed day one. Shakka heads to school and doesn't bat an eyelid...

    Of course Shakka is not your regular 'Sex Ed' student. Opinionated as ever, she had to bring to our attention at the end of day one that this was a huge farce.

    "They separated the Boys and Girls" she raged as she returned home from school after the first day.
"Are they stupid?" pause for a deep breath and back to rage "DO THEY NOT THINK THAT WE ARE GOING TO DO IT TOGETHER?"
   I could not recreate if I tried, my reaction, but lets just say I was close to requiring the aid of Depends from the lower region and I could have quite possibly produced a couple of dozen candles with the amount of snot I was discharging at the head end.

    We survived that and it all went quiet on the 'Sex Ed' front... until last week when another permission slip appeared on the kitchen island.

It was signed, sealed and sent back. Not another peep did we hear, until I goaded a response on the School run home on Friday.
"so, did they split you up again for 'Sex Ed'?", I prompted.  "you know they did" was the response.
"so, it looks like a life of eternal masturbation for you guys" I offered.

 "what a great name for a band!" came the response. "Eternal Masturbation"