And add some extra, just for you.
Monday, December 31, 2007
And add some extra, just for you.
You can read the rest of this entry, which really does get better, at the CNG Lending Library site.
Implausible Claims Made by Vanilla Ice in His 1990 No. 1 Hit "Ice Ice Baby." (Courtesy of McSweeneys)
- "Ice is back with my brand-new invention."
- "Turn off the lights and I'll glow."
- "I rock a mike like a vandal."
- "I'm killin' your brain like a poisonous mushroom."
- "I'm cooking MCs like a pound of bacon."
- "I go crazy when I hear a cymbal and a high hat."
- "I grabbed my nine."
- "I'm a lyrical poet."
- "My style's like a chemical spill."
- "If my rhyme was a drug, I'd sell it by the gram."
- "If there was a problem, yo, I'll solve it."
In Ye Olden Days I recall weekends spent shopping for a new top for the night, discussions of the pros and cons of various going-out options, the purchase of booze, the preparatory bath on the day in question. I still remember making a panicky phonecall to a good friend of mine many years ago while in the middle of a dressing-for-NYE crisis. “Will I look like a prostitute if I wear a slutty corset top with slutty knee high boots?” I wanted to know (For the record: yes I did).
Another friend and I were recently discussing our ideal New Years Eve. I think the consensus was a big boozy dinner party with everyone we liked, nobody we didn’t and the opportunity for some enthusiastic if misguided dancing. That sounds bloody good to me. Traipsing around the city in sky-high heels and forking out loads of dosh for five drink tokens and the right to have my arse felt up by a sweaty bogan does not.
Maybe if I were carefree and single I might feel differently but, even so, I think New Years is undergoing the same change for me that Christmas did between the ages of about 15 and 20. Once the excitement, the magic and the hedonism are gone all you’re left with is a day off work, a credit card bill and a crushing hangover.
Is this was getting old feels like?
Friday, December 28, 2007
At least we can thank God (or, rather, the voting public) for Kevin Rudd, who has refused to jump on the Today-Tonight-watching-support-winning train and has come out to say Hicks should be treated like any other ex-prisoner.
He has done his time. Six years in Guantanamo Bay – most of it spent without having been charged – is called doing his time. Other criminals, when they’re done serving their sentence, aren’t required to apologise to their nation or to anyone and, I say, rightly so. Sending people to prison might not be the best way to deal with criminal behaviour in all cases but it is, apparently, the only way we have, so let’s show some faith in the freaking system and say that if someone is charged, convicted and sent to prison they have been appropriately punished.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
WEIRDEST BIT: A toss-up between the job I find myself doing (and sort of liking) these days and the reasonably bizarre events of a few months ago that started with my calling a UK book reviewer a cock on this very blog and ended with me eating my words and finding out in person he was actually completely lovely. One makes for a better story but the other is probably more unexpected.
BEST BIT: Paul Keating said Kevin Rudd’s election victory felt like he’d been hosed down after ten years of being covered in toxic muck – I can’t put it better myself.
WORST BIT: Bad news affecting one of my favourite people in the world, about which I’ve only just learned, am still taking in and cannot go into here.
BIGGEST SUCCESS: Probably getting this job and not (so far) fucking it up. Of course the former came with a little help from my friends but they know who they (read: he) knows who they (read: he) are (read: is).
BIGGEST REGRET: I can’t think of anything more dire so I’ll go with the fact I have accrued a frankly ludicrous amount of parking tickets this year. The mind boggles.
BEST PURCHASE: Surely the plane ticket to take me to New York, Argentina and London two short months ago. I didn’t realise how much I needed a holiday until I spent those precious days drinking my way from BA to Mendoza. Although the dual purchases of two House DVDs and Flight of the Conchords also rate a mention.
WORST PURCHASE: Is there such a thing? Oh, okay, the stupid amounts of cashola I have spent on buying my lunch and frequently my breakfast every single day.
BEST NEW FIND: Books have been this years theme so it’s a toss-up between the gaspworthy Evelyn Waugh and the toe-curlingly good Raymond Chandler but I think the former has it by a nose. And for you non-literary types it must be Peep Show – the funniest new(ish) show I’ve seen in ages.
IN A YEAR’S TIME I WOULD LIKE TO BE: Working on my second novel with the help of a big fat advance check. Ahem.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Monday, December 24, 2007
Oh okay, fine, I’m not living on the street, or eating cold beans out of a tin or anything but Je-sus, where has my money gone? Certainly it is true, as a dear friend noted, that my book collection has expanded somewhat to fit my pretty new bookcase, and yes, I admit, I might have gone a little overboard with one or two small purchases this year but frick, this must stop.
So my plan is this, and I think you’ll agree it’s a pretty cunning one. I will simply gorge myself on Christmas – not just on the food but on the presents, the booze, the socialising. I will suck out every little drop of marrow from its bony, um, bony something and feast. This is to prepare me for the coming famine, in which there will be no (or, rather, fewer) meals out, minimal extravagant morning mochas and no more amazon.com at all. Drastic, I know, but these are desperate times, friends.
In the meantime I’m going to have a bloody great Christmas, or, as I prefer to call it, a Last Supper. All of you enjoy yours too.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
"A handy visual system that gives people with no personality some palpable criteria to judge each other by"
(The answer: fashion).
And as I'm currently without internet capabilities at home and may not blog for a day or two, to anyone I don't speak to in the next couple of days have a brilliant Christmas and a drink for me.
Friday, December 21, 2007
“Actually work’s going well,” I’ve told a handful of people this week. “Good stories, think my boss doesn’t hate me blah blah blah.”
It was all true – things were going well, I had written some good stories and I wasn’t feeling completely out of my depth. In fact I can confess to you alone, dear reader, that I was feeling quite comfortable. Quite competent even. Oh Kate.
When will I learn? Will it take more than spending working my arse off to find a new angle on a story for which the well is well and truly dry, finally coming up with what I think is a pretty good story only to have it chopped in half and jammed together with another story on the same subject? For the second time this week? I would sit down and cry but that well, too, is dry from over use.
Frick, lesson learned, weekend earned and I’m off to get drunk.
NOTE – Since soliciting friends on my blog has become the closest I get to a social life in these days of 11-hour days, if anyone wants to see the Leonard Cohen doco I’m Your Man (coming out next week) then I’m your girl – call me, we’ll talk about it.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
"Clubs are such insufferable dungeons of misery, the inmates have to take mood-altering substances to make their ordeal seem halfway tolerable. This leads them to believe they "enjoy" clubbing. They don't. No one does. They just enjoy drugs.
Drugs render location meaningless. Neck enough ketamine and you could have the best night of your life squatting in a shed rolling corks across the floor. And no one's going to search you on the way in. Why bother with clubs? "Because you might get a shag," is the usual response. Really? If that's the only way you can find a partner - preening and jigging about like a desperate animal - you shouldn't be attempting to breed in the first place. What's your next trick? Inventing fire? People like you are going to spin civilisation into reverse. You're a moron, and so is that haircut you're trying to impress."
No, no what is making me feel old is the idea of Lily Allen being a mother. I like Lily Allen - both her music and my perception of her personality. I can see why she drives people up the wall but, frick, she's only 22 and I've always sort of admired her ballsy attitude but... a child? Jesus, this is what people do now, is it? Have brilliant fledgling career, find some boy and breed?
I shouldn't be harsh because I don't have anything (ok much) against people who want to procreate but at 22 - really? You're going to spend the next 18 years of your life looking after this thing, are you? It's parenthood from here on out?
Actually I really should shut up because at least I like Lily Allen, other then the other halfwits who seem to pop them out at absurdly early ages. Better Lily Allen, I should feel, than the female equivalent of that dude who beat his "difficult" child With. A. Belt. And yet... Either way I shudder at the idea that I could have had a child three years ago, making me the same age as Ms Allen. Bloody Hell. Putting aside the poor state the damn child would be in by now how different would my life be? I wouldn't have the job I do, or the job I had, meaning I wouldn't have the friends I do, do the things I do and, by assocation, think the things I think. My view, backed up by absolutely nothing in the way of evidence, has always been, that having a child means putting yourself second for the next 18 years. I may be a hideous selfish person in recognising that I may never be ready for that, but at least I realise that, unlike the hoard of fucksticks breeding right now and, yes, You Know Who You Are.
So, okay, I may be old, but look at the bright side = I would feel even older if I had a motherflipping three year old child, instead of a brilliant book collection and a cat composed entirely of silky magnificence.
Case in point: when I left work yesterday I’d written a corker of a story for page one. My first page one, hurrah, I was bloody stoked. Then I get up today to find it’s not only been bumped (which, you know, okay) but is barely recognisable, though admittedly greatly improved, and now wearing a joint byline.
I know most journos must, sooner or later, have the experience of writing their wee hearts out only to have the story chopped and changed and half of what they wrote nowhere to be found but it is not a very nice one. Even worse when I discover the bleeding Fin has the stuff that was dropped so I can’t even recycle it for tomorrow.
Meh, I’m sorry, I’m just whining.
Next week: hilarity.
Monday, December 17, 2007
We got off to a bad start when I accosted her with a towel on Day One. The idea being I would bundle her up, open her little jaws and pop the tablet in. Weeelll not so much. The first part was okay - I bundled her up alright, or kinda, but she hissed and spat like a bitch and I was one part scared of being bitten and one part sorry for her so I let her go, figuring I'd wait a few hours until she was used to having me in her house, started to trust me and realised I was actually A Cat Person.
So we move to Day Two when I decided to get things off to a cracking start. I got the tablets out, opened the bottle, shook one out, snapped it in half, put the other half back in the bottle... only to realise belatedly that Miss Kitty knew all too well what all those sounds meant and was now hiding under the bed.
"Come on Maisie," I cooed, down on all fours "come on sweetie." Nuthin'
Then I made error number one, which was shoving some random crap under the bed to force her out. Er no, she didn't go for it but folded herself into an area the size of a hamster's rump and stared back at me with something I horribly suspected might be fear. Error two was trying to go back to Plan A.
"Come on, darling," I called to her, slowly and guiltily extending my hand beneath the bed in the universal sign of friendship, "I didn't mean to scare you, come to - oh fuck! fuck!"
The little bitch had shredded my hand. More than that she'd left one of her beastly claws embedded in my skin.
Right, I thought, two can play at this game. This was where things began to escalate and Go To A Bad Place. I decided to try a new strategy, reasoning that a month of trying to corner the little thing and stuff my fingers down its throat was going to be a long month indeed. So I simply I took all her food up off the ground, crushed a tablet into the bowl and mixed it up with a bit of fresh food. I put it down, the cat eventually emerged, sniffed it and retreated in disgust.
"I can wait!" I called after her retreating tail. And wait I could. But so, apparently, could she.
Returning home on the afternoon of Day Two (today) I found the food still uneaten. Only mildly concerned I could be starting down a bad road that ended with me starving a small, mostly innocent creature to death I emptied out the old stuff, crushed another tablet into the bowl and mixed it with some fresh food."Come and get it diddums!" I called. The cat eventually came, sniffed it and retreated.
Nevertheless I remained confident. I was, after all, a human and she was a mere feline. When it came to balancing on stuff or licking her armpits she had me beat but when it came to cunning and willpower I did, I felt, have the advantage.
"It's a battle of wills, now," I told Andy confidently. "What can she do? Sooner or later she's going to get hungry."
It was the 'what can she do?' that tempted fate, I believe. Because five minutes later I returned to the bedroom to find the little minx had shat on the floor, ignoring the presence of two clean litter trays. She paused to glance over her shoulder at me with an expression that clearly said Try Me, Bitch and disappeared under the bed.
The battle has begun...
DISCLAIMER: Lindsay, if you're reading this, er, don't be alarmed. I may have made a catskin windcheater out of your cat by the time you return but otherwise the flat is completely fine.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
We do them even though we know they’re bad, of course we do. Why? Not, most of the time, because we want to self destruct but because things that are bad for us are often fun. I eat that delicious iced donut because I know it will taste fucking good, even if I’ll regret it later while staring at my gently undulating stomach. I open that second bottle of wine because I want the finest wines available to humanity even though I know I will vow to give up drinking forever as I chip my tooth (again) on the toilet bowl. I send that text message because it’s fun at the time and I can’t bear not to send it, even if I know it’s very ill-advised and I’ll be red-faced when I see the recipient.
But the line between doing things that are bad for us but can be borne and doing things that cost us too much is very fine. Like the line between being a heavy drinker and an alcoholic; between being greedy beggar who could stand to lose a few kilos and being obese; between indulging in harmless fun to doing things that actually make you miserable.
I… don’t really have a point but these are the lines that all of us have to manage every day, constantly, is all I’m saying. And sometimes, shit, it’s really hard. And, no, I shan't tell you what I've been doing but none of it is good - sigh.
Amazingly funny, so cleverly paced you don't even notice you've been reading for two hours and sometimes hardbreaking Chandler is, quite simply, required reading for anyone who has an interest in... you know, anything. I'll leave you with the opening lines to The Long Goodbye and the warning that there will be a quiz on RC next time I see each of you - so read up:
"The first time I laid eyes on Terry Lennox he was drunk in a Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith outside the terrace of The Dancers. The parking lot attendant had brought the car out and he was still holding the door open because Terry Lennox's left foot was still dangling outside, as if he had forgotten he had one. He had a young face but his hair was bone white. You could tell by his eyes that he was plastered to the hairline, but otherwise he looked like any other nice young guy in a dinner jacket who had been spending too much money in a joint that exists for that purpose and no other." (The Long Goodbye, Raymond Chandler)
Meeting people's partners is fascinating because it gives you a weird insight into their personality that you never get otherwise. I don't just mean you find out if they're a t or a sort of a man but I get bizarre amounts of pleasure watching people interact with their spouses and trying to figure out how their relationship works and what makes it a good match. But, you know, pr'aps that's just me. I might need some hobbies.
In a festive season crammed with Christmas party upon Christmas party these sorts of pleasures are what make the endless work-related festivities bearable, or even worthwhile. I often loathe work parties because it smacks a little of some sort of hideous en masse team building exercise in which we bond over cold sausages and warm wine but this year I've been having a ball. Granted I did make the error of leaving a certain party on Friday night before the fisticuffs broke out (for which I'm still kicking myself, I assure you) but the rest of the time, through several parties, I have rather enjoyed finding out more about current and past colleagues, including who has a degree in classics and the mind of a scholar, who once saw Midnight Oil play three times in one week and who is a total lush. Oh wait that last one was me.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
And officers in cocktail bars,
Sometimes I think of garden nights
And elm trees nodding at the stars.
With yellow candles burning straight,
And glowing pictures in the gloom,
And kindly books that hold me late.
Of things like these I choose to think
When I can never be alone:
And turns my living heart to stone.
- Packing up my wordly belongings and swearing to chuck half the shite out... just as soon as I've moved.
- Being wretchedly hungover.
- Having a brilliant time.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
"All fled, all done, so lift me on the pyre; The feast is over and the lamps expire." (Robert E. Howard)
Yes, yes, that does sound a bit wrong but it’s a strangely rewarding feeling to read someone’s last words and wonder what they were thinking at the time.
Captain L.E.G Oates’ famous remark, for instance, as he left Scott’s tent during the ill-fated Antarctic expedition, knowing he was slowing the others down and after having begged them to leave him behind, “I’m just going outside; I may be away some time” might be stretching the definition of a suicide note but it never fails to give me chills.
French writer Nicolas-Sebastien Chamfort’s - “And so I leave this world, where the heart must either break or turn to lead” - has always been a favourite for poignancy, while at the other end of the scale there is Hunter S Thompson (and you can insert your own ‘who went out with a bang’ joke here) whose note I find weirdly comforting:
“No more Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun for anybody. 67. You are getting greedy. Act your old age.Meanwhile if you’re going to use your death to get back at someone who has treated you poorly you could do worse than cribbing from poet Sara Teasdale who left this stinging slap for the lover who’d left her:
Relax. This won’t hurt.”
“When I am dead, and over me bright April
Shakes out her rain drenched hair,
Though you should lean above me broken hearted,
I shall not care,
For I shall have peace.
As leafy trees are peaceful
When rain bends down the bough.
And I shall be more silent and cold hearted
Than you are now.”
Is it the dicksnap who thought it was a good idea to have my call to their mobile company greeted with a recorded voice so very intent on Keeping It Real?
Honestly, what marketing wankhead came up with the concept to humanise said recorded voice by giving her a name (“Lara”), forcing her to use colloquialisms (er white hot rage has erased the memory of what they were but they were there) and feigned sincerity (“He-ey, looks like we’re having technical difficulties. I’ll have to put you through to one of my colleagues. I’m really sorry about this”)?
I don’t particularly care if I’m talking to a robot. I don’t really care if I’m talking to a person. What I don’t want is some kind of patronising-as-fuck she-robot on the other end of the line, pretending to care about my problems. I just want a new phone.
So that’s spanner number one.
Spanner number two, sadly, is the human on the other end of the line who dialled the phone company’s number, talked to the she-robot, hung on the line, was transferred, was transferred again, hung on the line… and then remembered she’s not even with Vodafone. Nor has she ever been. Hmm.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Monday, December 10, 2007
Reviewing Into the Wild, the story of Chris McCandless (otherwise known as “Alexander Supertramp”) who flags off the lure of Harvard law, donates his college fund to Oxfam and takes off on a road trip that eventually leads him to Alaska, Margaret said the following:
“He’s written a beautiful screenplay and taken risks with the direction, which all pay off, and he’s elicited magnificent performances, especially from Emile Hirsch. It is so close to being a masterpiece…”Well thanks, Margs, but I’ve been burnt before. No offence but around about the time you slammed Pulp Fiction and gave The Fast and the Furious four stars I started to tready warily around you, keeping my distance as I would from a well-intentioned but senile aunt trying to feed me buttons and telling me they’re boiled lollies.
Let the casting vote be Davids, sweet David, who likes complete cheese as much as he enjoys obscure Norwegian crap even David Lynch would dismiss as ‘weird’. This is what David said:
“(Sean Penn’s) a good director and this is a very good film. I was completely captured by this story, by this epic adventure…”
Well. Well, well, well. Welly, welly, welly… The thing is it is an epic adventure and it is a great story. It’s just an awful shame the movie sucks balls. Only Sean Penn, who takes himself about as seriously as the Holocaust, could distil a potentially beautiful story into a pile of clichés that beat the viewer over the head from the start and doesn’t let up until you’re lying on the floor among stale popcorn by the end, whimpering softly.
Granted Emile Hirsch, playing Chris, does a great job and looks sometimes quite breathtakingly hot while he does it and Hal Holbrook, playing a 90-year-old tearjerker, is indeed tearjerkingly efficient but a stubbled hottie and a red-eyed octogenarian does not a masterpiece make.
David and Margaret can expect their letters returned unopened and the photo collage David made of the three of us to be consigned to the bin. The dream is over.
Did you hear that all you stupid bints who go on about how much all this ‘saving the world’ malarkey is going to cost our lifestyle? And yes I am talking about someone in particular who is not a blog reader but who may or may not pay my wages so um, let me just keep right on going there...
Anyway this is pretty amazing stuff if it’s true and something I don’t think I’ve read anywhere else. One of the consultants said: “We are not going to bankrupt the economy, we are actually going to save some money.”
And this isn’t in Socialist Weekly or the short-lived by much-loved family newsletter I wrote and printed between the years of 1991 and 1992 – it’s the Fin flipping Review. Why are we not doing this already? Why did we not do this yesterday?
Sunday, December 9, 2007
Saturday, December 8, 2007
Friday, December 7, 2007
Hard as it may be for regular reader to believe I do try not to write self congratulatory blogs on here. If you’re one of my friends you get enough of that in person and if there’s anything more dull than reading about somebody else’s achievements it’s probably only listening to them spruik charities and post poetry.
But a kind-hearted friend of mine emailed me yesterday to ask why I was so “fucking miserable” and if I was okay. I appreciated the concern. I’m not that wildly brilliant, as it happens but, as I assured him, I’m not going to do a Sylvia Plath either. For a start my oven is electric. But it did make me think I might be inclined to posting a bit doom and gloom on here sometimes. Sooo I thought I’d share some good news. Even if it is good in a way that neither benefits nor interests anyone but me.
There you go, there’s my disclaimer and what an anticlimax to report that my good mood is only because I actually sniffed out a decent story today all on my lonesome. It’s not a big story at all, it’s not that exciting and no doubt it will be cut to a five centimetre brief on page 909 but I don’t care – for the first day in a while I don’t feel like an incompetent boob and for the second time in oooh a month my boss has actually gone for one of my lamearse ideas. Brilliant.
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Today I saw Tim Costello, of World Vision Australia, speak. I wasn't much looking forward to it because it was a work schmoozefest and (as predicted) I was stuck next to a complete gimp and given a lamb chop to gnaw on, thanks to a small oversight on the veggo side of things. But as it turned out it was three hours well spent because Costello gave a great speech. There was nothing in there most of us haven't heard before - why the wealthy western world has a moral and economic obligation to help the third world, how simple such help could be, how ridiculous the choices are that we make when we choose a larger flat screen over helping to save someone's life - but he boiled it down in a nice way to the point that I felt like empty my wallet as well as being close to tears. (Although there is a chance the latter may have been the fact I was running on two hours sleep at the time).
He also used the phrase 'lottery of latitude' - a lottery all of us won because we weren't born in a third world country or into extreme poverty. It's a pretty obvious concept but it's also pretty amazing if you start thinking about the kind of life we could all be living (or not as the case may well be) if we were born in certian parts of Africa, Asia or South America.
Costello also drew a comparison between third world poverty and a beggar on the street. When you see a beggar, he said, I think you all feel something, some sort of tug on your conscience. Even if you keep walking and don't give him anything it has an effect on you. (Considering it was a business lunch I wasn't entirely sure he had the fat cats convinced but whatever). Why then? he asked, don't we feel the same way when we ignore third world poverty and turn away from people in just as much, if not far more, need? The answer is, of course, that it is because we can't see them but that's completely fucked really.
I tend to think of myself as a reasonably caring person - I give to this charity or that, I do tend to give beggars coins if I have them, I buy the bloody Big Issue and have conversations at dinner parties about gosh how darned awful some people have it. And all that means precisely fuck all. The reality is that I spend more money on books in a month than I do on charity. I probably spend more on stockings and I certainly spend more on mochas. Is a hot beverage more satisfying than helping to improve the life of someone I can't meet or speak to on the other side of the world? It's an absurd idea. But does it matter? Will it stop me from buying my morning mocha tomorrow? We shall see but I doubt it.
What it won't stop me doing, however, is signing up to World Vision and the entire purpose of this post is, obviously, to encourage you to do the same, or at least to do a bit of Christmas shopping on their website. Seriously, dudes, don't tell me you don't have the money.
NOTE: First poetry and now charity, Je-sus. Tell you what - donate to WV and I'll try to crack a joke sometimes. Or um, at least find a really, really hot picture of James Franco... sans pantaloons.
I remember the days when 'style' referred to your ability to pull off jaunty hat or wear fancy pants...
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Monday, December 3, 2007
For one long day many, many years ago I ‘worked’ (in the sense that I sweated blood and tears, not in the sense that I was paid for it) at a truly crappy souvenir store in the city. Don’t ask me why I wanted the job – I can only assume I had acquired a number of habits it was necessary to finance and time has blurred the memory of what those habits might have been.
Anyway the job interview turned into a day trial working behind the counter to “see how I handled it”. How I handled it was, by general consensus of the vaguely creepy couple who ran the place, pretty crappily. This was, perhaps, unsurprising given I’d never worked in retail, didn’t care much for customers and found the shop’s eccentric and frequently contradictory pricing system completely impenetrable. Plus, you know, you try giving a shit about poorly made tshirts with the Australian flag on them or crappy emu figurines that fall apart if you blink at them twice.
At the end of a soul-crushing day I went home (unpaid) feeling exhausted but mildly confident of having acquired gainful employment... only to receive a phone call that night telling me they didn’t think I had quite the right skill-set for the job. “However,” the store’s co-owner told me in a tone that suggested she had a nice boiled lolly for me if I could recite all the words to The Owl and the Pussycat, “we like you so if you want to come back tomorrow for another trial we could see how you go.”
I didn’t go back the next day but, ridiculously, I still feel a faint sense of was-I-really-that-shit embarrassment when I think about that crappy job and what might have been.
The point is, however, that there are a lot of truly bad jobs out there and thinking about them never fails to raise the spirits in a slightly sick schadenfreudey sort of way.
For those for whom my tale of exploitation and woe was not enough to perk you up The Idler, that most delightful of companion for those of us who prefer not to raise a sweat, has a nice little collection of reminiscences about the worst jobs people have had that makes good reading.
These jobs include weedbusting, washing up, and working in a syringe needle factory but also supposedly glamorous jobs like working on an animated movie (a nice reminder, if we need it, that just because a job looks good from the outside if it makes us miserable it is Not a Good Thing) and genrally is rather a good antidote for anyone who has had a crappy day.
For the record, today at least, that does not include me.
Sunday, December 2, 2007
The circumstances-out-of-my-control bit is more or less to do with where I want to live. Which is to say I want to live in Northbridge and my would-be roomie not only does not but has rejected a perfectly wonderful place just down the road on the grounds that it does not accept pets and appparently he now requires a dog (the fact that the proposed dog would be called Jean Luc Picard is not quite enough to melt my icy heart). I love, love, living in the middle of the city, love the immediacy of everything, love the close proximity of my beloved Tarts and so on this one point I have been extremely firm. I may even have yelled, once or twice, that I was not ready to move to the fucking suburbs, buy a dog and spend my weekends at Bunnings.