The lawn needs mowing, and i have my crayons

Hows that for a random title?

Would it be lazy of me to simply say how busy things are lately? Sorta why I haven’t been in touch with a friend or something?

Or is this the final acceptance that I simply cannot maintain this thing, and that I have lost the verve to keep it ticking over. This page reminds me of a lower class abode with car parts strewn haphazardly over the front lawn

It’s not that I’m tired of writing, either. I’ve been churning stuff out like a machine lately, taking notes and splaying words across the screen like a child with a clean wall and a huge box of crayons.

So… is this the “It’s not you, it’s me” line?

I dunno. Frankly, it doesn’t matter at the end of the day. The world continues to turn, everyone who isn’t me will remain a deluded tool, and the universe will snort as it wakes up and says, “Andy who?” before rolling over indifferently.

Aries: Will travel. Stay clear of rats

It seems that whenever I find I’m getting my shit together, something new always crops up and changes all the rules.

I think I’m about to get a new job. How do I know this? My PC has been targeted for an upgrade.

I often stay with a job for an amount of time, labouring under the conditions that require me to whip the hell out of a PC that runs on either steam power or some rodent on a treadmill, only to find that the moment they provide me with steroids for the rat, I find another job.

It’s happened in the last, ooh, four jobs, I reckon.

So, my boss approaches me just the other day and says, “Your PC is pretty crap. Why don’t you have a flat screen?”

I reply with a “I make do with what you give me”

“Well, after our recent survey of computers we’ve found that yours is the oldest on the floor. So you’re tagged for a new machine”

Cue shock music. Dun-dun- daaaaaah!!

Curious, I turn my attention to the available vacancies going in the paper. There’s one role in there which looks absolutely perfect, has higher pay and fits my current penchant for travelling.

It appears that the stars have aligned again.

I must now prepare a future post which details how I bombed the application process, or how the whole procedure is crap, and how the stars should go fuck themselves.

Oh, and prepare a job application.

Et tu, U2?

Adelaide was host to the U2 juggernaut last night. You hear that? The juggernaut, I tells ya! Juggernaut. Any town worthy of a juggernaut visit has to be world class right? Any excuse for me to use the word juggernaut. Juggernaut.

Needless to say, this sleepy little town squealed with the gusto of a gushing groupie.

Bono and co were humble enough to mingle with fans prior to the show, to which Bono was unfortunately assaulted by our local media.

I don’t remember specific lines, but the “interview” (as they labelled it) went something like:

Media: So how do you feel [to be back in Adelaide]?

Bono: I feel great

Media: [Obviously star struck but a little annoyed that Bono wasn’t gushing about how much he loves (and has always loved) Adelaide] It feels good to be around?

Bono: Yeah… I am… I’ve been a great fan… [trails off as he tries to remember where he is]… er… [thinks]… I’ve been looking forward to… [trails off again as he desperately doesn’t want to lie, but doesn’t want to say a contrived pander to our parochialism]… kissing beautiful Australian women [all right! swish!]

Media: South Australian women [laughs]

Bono: er… yeah…

When will Adelaideans get it through their thick fucking heads that we’re not a world class city, that we’re not that special in the grand scheme of things, that just because we remember that U2 visited here 8 years ago (edit: it has been 13 years, I've been informed - apologies for the oversight) it doesn’t mean that Bono does, and that the only reason bands visit here is for our great wines and lax marijuana laws?

As the Irish would say: Jaysus fecking Christ!

I am glad that we managed to cram 60,000 people into the stadium, as that’s probably the environment that U2 is better accustomed than being swamped by bogans and star struck, amateur media with delusions of grandeur.

So, I hope that U2 and their tens of thousands of roadies had a great time in our little corner of the world. I apologise for our media. They know not their proper place and have no proper sense of decorum.

This morning’s local breakfast radio was gushing about the concert, and they mentioned the thing about SMSing your name so that it displayed on the huge screen. Then they gushed about how they “received a text message from Bono” afterwards. There was the typical “Wow, that’s really good of him” thing.

Yeah, I can imagine the scene. Bono going over the entire 60,000 name list with his mobile phone in hand as he clicks away at the keypad.

Edge: You comin’ t’ th’ pub, mate?

Bono: Edge, what ar’ ye thinkin’? I’ve gotta git these text massages done, ya limey git. Th’ pub can wait!

Edge: Alrahty then. I nay thought the text massages t’was a good idea. I told ye.

Bono: But ah’ve gotta be good t’ me fans, Edge. I’ll see ye after I’m done.

Bono continues to feverishly tap away at the mobile phone, trying in vain to get all the text messages done.

Bono: Ah shit! I hate pradict’ve text!! Sorry, abaht that, Emily van der Schans of Westbourne Park… your SMS has a typo in it. I was meanin’ t’ type “good” insted of “home”

Yeah. Right.

U2 are a world-class group of people. Adelaide… alas… is not. Get over yourselves people. You don’t realise how tragic you look. Yes… that probably includes me as well.

Like, you know.... whatever.

I have come to the conclusion that no one says anything anymore.

Listening to conversations in the Myer Centre Food Court (ugh) revealed to me that when others are recounting past encounters with people, they don’t actually tell the facts of how their conversation went.

Instead, they relate to others what the conversation was similar to, or alike to.

"She picked out this dress, and I was like, ‘Oh you’re not getting that’ and she was like, ‘it’ll so suit me’ and I was like, ‘Nuh, uh!’"

Truth be known, the “conversation” probably went along the lines of

Person A: “This dress looks nice”

Person B: “Yeah, it suits you”

Person A: “Aw, thank you!”

Person B then secretly has an inner monologue that represents their “in your face” attitude, and how they tell people exactly what they think. This eventually culminates into the full-blown belief that the conversation actually took place.

But that’s probably when the “like” part probably comes in. Sure, the conversation never happened… but it “similar” or “alike” to it. “Alike”, as in “Really Wanted To Have Happened, But I'll Say It To Make Me Sound Awesome.”

“So she went and bought it and was like, ‘this is so nice’, and I was like, ‘you’ve just wasted your money’ and she was like, ‘you’re just jealous because I’ve got a better body and no cankles’ and I was like, ‘Nuh, uh!”

Someone should tell these people that inner-monologue doesn’t count as an actual conversation.

Sure, we can embellish a little… but… wait, I can’t finish that thought.

Leave me alone. I would so, like, kick your butt.

Memorandum

Memo to staff in the boss’ office

Dear staff

I hate to single out a couple people in the office, however in this case I do feel I need to highlight specific people in order to put my point across.

To the personal assistants to the boss, I think you should be aware of a couple little facts that might come as a surprise to you.

1. The PA to the boss is not tantamount to actually being the boss.

2. No one respects you for the sole reason that you are the PA to the boss.

Ergo, when you ask us to jump, please do not be surprised if the response is not to enquire how high, but rather to suggest sticking your request up your arse.

Also, equally do not be surprised if people get frustrated at your constant insistence to not be compromising in any way possible, and that your future requests are relegated to the bottom of the priority pile.

For instance, when I ask for you to be available during a certain time due to the fact that I have bent over backwards to accommodate your request, do not dismiss my efforts with a “well, actually I’ve just found out I may not be available during that time that I initially said I was available”

This is especially true if you’ve assured me in the past of your availability during a certain time, only to find that you’ve decided to fuck off home early.

It leaves me in the lurch, makes me look stupid, and frankly… pisses me off.

So to continue to expect me to bend to your whims, and expect that I’m going to drop everything for the personal assistants to the boss is rude to say the least.

I can assure you that if this kind of shit happens again, and your boss isn’t happy that his equipment isn’t fixed, I’m not the one copping the flak.

Because I’ll be telling him how his personal assistants were bickering over which one of them would be available for the lowly telco guy, and that’s the reason his shit isn’t sorted.

I thought the personal assistant role was to sort the boss’ shit out.

Yours sincerely, and fuck you

Andy

Obviously...

I have an honest face.

Honest face = schmuck.

So everyone, please perform the following acts:

Walk up to me in the street and ask for money. I obviously can afford it, and I’m obviously far too nice to turn you down.

Order me around. I’m obviously too self conscious to make my own decisions, and I don’t have the assertive personality to stand up for myself.

Disagree with me, and tell me why I’m “too sensitive” to your efforts to undermine my position and basically screw me over.

Take credit for my work. Or at least sabotage it. I’m obviously not deserving of any credit, as this is a dog-eat-dog world, and only the toughest survive.

Oh… I forgot to mention. I’m not an “obvious” kinda guy.

Fuck: off, you, you and that.

Respectively.

The human atrium

I work in a building in the Adelaide CBD, about nine storeys up. I have a nice view to the west, which shows a vast panorama of the glass building next door.

There are days where I feel a little trapped. This feeling isn’t helped by the Venetian blinds which create a gaol-bar-like effect.

About half an hour ago, this feeling came to a head, almost to the point where I cracked and started flinging crap around, like a caged animal.

A couple little birds, spoggies as they’re known here, flew up and landed on my window’s shelf.

One of them just stood there and looked in the window… staring at me. The bird’s partner hopped up and down the shelf, periodically staring into my cubicle.

I felt their eyes on me, like they were just waiting to see what I would do next.

Then they both continued to hop around the shelf, taking in the sight of my cluttered workspace, my hunched figure over the keyboard and the dim glow of the machine’s eye.

Then they chirped to themselves. I could only just hear them through the glass.

It was like they were laughing at me. How pathetic it was that this monstrous animal was reduced to a cramped space, surrounded by stacks of paper, his bleary eyes testament to the futility of it all.

Then, somewhat teasingly, they flew off. Free.

I have suddenly developed an odd hatred of zoos.