Occupying Occupations

I love meeting new people. Usually, it presents an opportunity to explore others’ ideals and listen to alternative perspectives.

Oftentimes, it’s a great way to see how people embellish on their occupation.

“I work in financial matters” I was told yesterday by a bloke I met at the Bay to Birdwood Classic event.

I thought, that’s a pretty cool way to say that you process accounts, and you enter data on a spreadsheet.

“I’m a project officer” another said, which I thought was one of the most important sounding ambiguities I’ve ever heard. What kind of projects, I pondered. Infrastructure? Employment?

“Just projects”

Ah… an officer gopher, I thought to myself, love your work.

However, for all my hoity-toitiness I present here, I must confess to being guilty. Hell, I never said I wasn’t a hypocrite.

I’ve often informed people that I “assisted in the production of ESL materials and [that] I moonlight as a freelance contributor to magazines”

Truth be known, I proofread and drafted a little, and my “moonlighting” consisted of the odd article here and there… when I found the motivation.

These days, I’m of the impression that when a person is describing their occupation, you can sum up its importance by how few words are used to describe it.

If someone tells you that their job is “being a key asset in the development and drafting of company policy”, it says that they fetch coffee for a policy writer.

If they are a “personal assistant to the Director”, they basically are the Director… but they don’t get paid for it (the Director usually says that they “Are responsible for operation and management of a unit that [benefits society in some way]”).

However when they use single words like “Lawyer”, “Architect”, or “CEO” you simply don’t fuck with them.

Unless they say “prostitute”… in which case it’s your call.

However, please note there are a couple of exceptions to this rule: Breakfast Radio Announcer, News Corp Journalist and Candidate For Presidency. If someone tells you that they do either of these jobs, they’re lying.

Everyone knows those jobs are done by robots.

Celebrity Calamities

The adulation that some celebrities receive quite often amuses me. There was a heart warming story on news.com.au today of a young girl who had “the best day of her life” when she met a player from the Sydney Swans.

She broke down in tears whilst in his embrace, only to be nonchalantly told “… I just play football.”

Ne’er a truer word a spoken, I think.

I shan’t be harsh upon this girl, as I’m not familiar with the schoolgirl psyche and cannot hope to understand how they can seemingly devote themselves to an icon of prominence. Personally I have met a couple celebrities in my time, and the only thing going through my head is “Don’t do something stupid, don’t do something stupid, don’t do something stupid…”.

This is usually right before I do something stupid.

I don’t think breaking down in tears is an example of not “doing something stupid”, however we all know how soft us guys are on a woman crying… so maybe it worked in her favour.

However, if I was to break down in tears whilst hugging Megumi Okina, I think she’d probably run away quicker than I could say “psycho boy”. And I talk pretty fast.

But I guess that’s the difference between myself and this lovely schoolgirl; I haven’t really met a celebrity female that I admire, so I should reserve judgement. Having noted my previous experiences with fame, I really hope I don’t bump into any female celebrities that I admire.

If I may name drop for a second…

When I was 17 years old, I was standing around at Memorial Drive (tennis complex in Adelaide), waiting for my friends to finish their game in a tournament we were participating in. Pat Rafter (Aussie tennis player who now moonlights as an underwear model/part time nice guy or something) suddenly appears, walks over to me and asks me if I am using the vacant court nearby.

I think I stood staring at him for a couple seconds, akin to a puppy dog trying to comprehend the instruction to “sit”. I then gestured at myself as a wordless method of saying “Are you talking to me?”. He nods, and I then blabber something about how he can use the court and that I’m “just hanging around”.

We chatted for a bit, if by “chatted” you mean “he spoke and I mumbled back whilst shoving my tennis bag in his face for an autograph”.

I once got to hang out with The Tea Party, whilst they were rehearsing and jamming before their Big Day Out appearance. I am a big fan of this Canadian trio.

In my excitement to see them jam, I forgot to bring anything for them to sign. I had come straight from work, so all I had on me was my payslip.

So, I now have a record of my fortnight’s earnings with the autograph of The Tea Party on it.

Afterwards I was in traffic with the windows down (it was a hot day), and I was gushing to my (then) partner about how awesome it was to talk with them.

Next to us in traffic was the band’s Toyota Tarago, each band member and their driver staring at us, grinning.

However, there are the times when you realize that these people are simply human beings, and it brings it all into context.

I once bumped into Hugo Weaving (Agent Smith from The Matrix) on Flinders Street. Having enjoyed his work in The Interview, I felt compelled to simply say hello. However, his body language seemed to show he was irritated. The way he walked close the outer edge of the sidewalk in a vain effort to remain unseen, and the “fuck off” look in his eyes suggested that he wasn’t having a good day. He wanted to be left alone.

He looked at me, and I could see his mind tick over. The idea that he would have to tolerate another aficionado did not appeal to him.

I smiled politely and let him continue on his way.

From these three experiences I think I can conclude that whenever I am faced with a celebrity, I shouldn’t open my damn mouth, as that seems to be the precursor for stupidity to spill out.

So, if you go to a book signing by Tara Moss or Anne Rice, a premiere featuring Megumi Okina or a concert being covered by Maya Jupiter of Triple J, you can pick me out of the crowd.

I’m the one with my mouth sewn shut. Yeah.

Because I don’t want to come across as someone stupid…

"It's Just A Game"

Well... when you lose, it is.

In the next chapter of what I like to call “Pub Epiphanies”, I was again sitting with Chris from Hello? Is This Thing On at a bar, discussing the behavior of certain strains of sport’s supporters.

Of course, Chris being from the Motherland (AKA England), we have both had different experiences of crowd types.

He’s seen the all-singing, all-dancing Barmy Army, and I’ve seen the padlock throwing, obnoxious and viciously abusive Convict crowd.

But disparities notwithstanding, we did manage to eke out the idea that people seem to obtain pride vicariously through the success of their favorite sports team, and that a team’s loss can be reason to question an individual’s prowess.

It seems that most of the sporting teams from this country do nothing but falter at the finish line, but that really doesn’t make me feel inadequate at all.

It’s not like a girl is going to turn her nose up at me because I’m from a country that has the second best cricket team in the world. I’ve got a cute Australian accent…

But a lot of bitterness can be tasted when the successful team likes to deride their vanquished foe. I mean, it’s hard enough to watch opposition supporters dance gaily in the street, blowing trumpets and gagging on ticker tape, without having one’s personal prowess called into question.

“Australia… rhymes wif failure really, dunnit?” one British reveller spouted out with his plumb accent after the English Ashes victory recently.

Personally, I’ve always been of the impression that it is far better to bask in the glory of victory, rather than revel in the sorrow and disappointment of others.

Mind you, after all the ribbing we’ve given the British over the past few years, what we’re getting now is probably our come-uppance.

To say now that “It’s just a game” seems to suggest the grapes are sour.

So at the end of the day, no matter what sport you’re following, the better team played the better sport, and if the better team won and the better supporters feel good about themselves, then good for them.

As for me… I’m having a beer. So there.

Waving to the rapids

Oftentimes it feels as though the world is shrinking around my shoulders. The giant concrete pillars in which I toil do not shield me from shadows of my past. This city, this seemingly boundless canyon once seemed great place in which to revel in my anonymity.

People flowed around me like a river of bobbing heads and blank stares.

But it’s not the case now. Not anymore.

Persons whom featured prominently in my past have made the pilgrimage to the city. I don’t have a problem with this, if it wasn’t for the fact that I either have to correspond with them, and that I cannot walk down the mall without glimpsing one of them.

My ex mother-in-law works in my department. So does an ex-girlfriend.

The latter telephoned me today regarding a business matter of import. The feeling of reeling back, even whilst being seated, was a sensation I would not care to repeat.

As it serves as a constant reminder of how much of an idiot I was in a previous life. Also, it highlights how little affect I had on her.

The stunning realization that I have been foolhardy in my consideration of others did not come easily to me. In fact, many an hour had been spent in quiet contemplation, as I stopped and discovered that I had been the perpetrator behind ill-feelings; not the victim.

I would love to grasp a rock and lob it into the river, just to see which skeleton from the past I knock out.

I dunno. There’re many people I have met over the course of my life, many good, many bad. Many I don’t ever want to speak with ever again. Many I lament not remaining on good terms with.

I used to love going along with the flow of this city, but now all I feel is the suction of being dragged under with all these memories of the past standing dry on the bank, waving indifferently as I plunge past.

All I can think to myself is… this world is too fucking small.

Out of Brain. Please check back later

I cannot gather my thoughts. I think they’re out of season now.

Older men with younger women, but older women often don’t have younger men. Why? Right now, I don't want to conjecture. I'm probably wrong. I'm sure it has a lot to do with perceptions, security, maturity and a whole bunch of morons.

I was having a few beers with Chris from "Hello, Is This Thing On?" last night. Some women were standing and sitting near us. I got up to visit the men’s room, only to find my seat taken upon my return. I had to reach over the girl to retrieve my beer from the counter. She got off the seat, and I said something about how I “felt rude” to take her seat, only to be met with the scorn of her friend who must’ve misheard me.

Fuck off. I don’t have time for petty crap like that. You stole my seat. You were between me and my beer. Grave offense in my book.

This new job is draining me. I spend my entire day explaining things logically to people before they claim they can’t do anything, and that I’m not helping them right. I then tell them that I am trying to help them, and they say I’m not, so then I help them some more, solve their problem mere seconds after I die a little inside.

News.com.au reported that two women in Sydney were sacked by their workplaces after a catfight broke out… over email. As amusing as the transcript of the emails were, I couldn't help but think, “This is news?????????”

I have a wedding to attend tomorrow. I’ll be the guy up the back screeching, “You fools! What do you think you’re doing?! Stop now! Save yourself the pain!” during the ceremony. I’ll then be gang-tackled by the four large groomsmen and dragged out the church doors by my ears. By my ears, if I’m lucky.

My ex-mother-in-law works in my department. I got an email from her expressing her remorse at what happened, and that she hoped I was well. She’s a lovely lady. I wonder where it all went wrong with her daughter.

Coffee doesn’t always cure fatigue. I’m living proof.

Where was I? I forget. My train of thought has de-railed, and all I can see is a bunch of council workers standing around scratching their heads, wondering how the hell they’re going to get it back on the tracks.

I’m consuming an ordinate amount of alcohol lately. I should lay off it for a while. Damn mild drinking weather.

Hopefully I’ll have something with more substance in a couple days.

Lucky Sevens

Thanks be to Cadiz of Do They Read Obituaries in Hell? for merely alluding to tagging me to do one of these. I did have a small piece on the wake of the Hurricane, but this seemed less depressing...except the celeb crushes part... which is kinda sad, really.

Thanks Cadiz, mate.

before i die i plan to:

1) Drive at least one exotic car
2) Grow my hair into a pony tail, and walk around Adelaide saying the words “Sell, sell, sell!” into my mobile phone.
3) Learn a second language, and be decent at it instead of the fractured grasps of German, French, Japanese and Bogan Australian I currently have.
4) Cook for my parents
5) Provide something worthwhile for my kids
6) Obtain some form of enlightenment
7) Mooch off my kids when I’m 86

i can:

1) Make a fool of myself in public
2) Like Cadiz, analyze an evening/conversation/glance/songlyrics/movie to excess
3) In five minutes, find a DVD that someone has been searching “forever” for
4) cook a mean roast
5) Play tennis like a kid with tourettes
6) Cut through peak hour traffic like a hot knife through butter
7) Be “competent” at everything I do.

i can't:

1) tolerate disrespectful people
2) stand growing my hair longer than a couple inches, which makes one of the “before I die” things harder to achieve
3) see a movie starring Elijah Wood without thinking of Hobbits. This includes his appearance in Sin City.
4) See a movie starring Elijah Wood without feeling like punching something
5) tolerate Elijah Wood.
6) make a decent salad
7) Forgive without apology

say most:

1) cheers
2) mate
3) no dramas
4) Yes, Lady Halifax, I would love a cucumber sandwich.
5) Tool
6) Who did what to who now?
7) Red leather, yellow leather… I’m working on my enunciation.

attract me to someone:

1) Large eyes
2) cute laugh
3) Sense of humour that matches my own
4) Good references
5) Good fiscal assets
6) Good physical “assets”
7) Can be as tolerant of my faults as I am of theirs… but their faults cannot include “completely unfaithful”

celeb crushes:

The last time I did one of these I got reamed. But oh well…

1) Kirsten Dunst
2) Megumi Okina (lets face it, I’m a sucker for Asian girls)
3) Michelle Leslie nude!!! Nude! Pics here! Google search here for Michelle Leslie nude! Nude! Tits! Breasts! Body Paint!!! There… that should be good for some Google hits. Oh, and I’m joking.
4) Penny, from Inspector Gadget the cartoon.
5) Jessica Rabbit
6) Miss October 2002… Um… you know the name. She loved beach walks and wanted world peace… the name escapes me. Nice pair of eyes, though.
7) Kate Winslet… apparently the hottest yummy mummy out there. Apparently.

Realisations of My Naivete

There has been about five different versions of this post. Most of them have been aggressive or angry, but I think I should just resignedly accept this little facet of my place in the paddling pool of life.

I wrote this a few days ago, but the news of getting an article published sorta superceded it.
----

Have you ever felt that you were right about something, only to be told that you were wrong? Are you then made to feel bad for being presumptuous, or suspicious or something along those lines?

However, later down the track you then discover that you were, in fact, dead-on right?

Have you ever had someone treat you like the gunk they scraped off their shoes, despite the fact that they were the ones in the wrong, and that they should be apologizing to you?

I have. A lot. There have been more instances other than these two posts indicate, some more recent.

It seems that people are so willing to protect their precious little egos, that they will fight tooth, nail, finger, knee, thumb and elbow to protect it, even if it involves degrading the character of an innocent party.

Normally, this kinda thing would sprout the most venomous of vitriol, reminiscent of some ochre waterfall cascading down a rock face and splashing heavily upon the withering and broken remains of those whom this is directed at, but… no, not today.

I’m tired. I’m fairly busy. And I’m getting used to it.

I mean, it is a little presumptuous of me to expect people to apologise to me when they screw me around, isn’t it?

I guess it’s a little naïve of me to think that people will take responsibility for their actions, instead of bullshitting some lame-arse excuse as to why I’m really to blame.

I guess I’ve been a little silly to have such lofty expectations.

Respect. Wow. Not until recently did I realize that I’m not actually entitled to any. I simply must remain as the peoples’ punching bag.

So the Inane Asylum has a deal for the first 50 emailers. You get to abuse me and tell me why I’m the person responsible for whatever it is in your life that is causing you anger, sadness or other feelings on the opposite pole of happiness.

I guess it’s what I’m here for.

If you see me in the street, walk up and punch me in the nose. I probably deserved it. If I punch you back, I’m in the wrong – such is my understanding of my lot in life.

People can lie and cheat me for a finite amount of time. If these people ever change their mind and think that what they’ve done is wrong, it’s not like they’ll ever tell me; Quite obviously I’m not respectable enough for that.