Relief is at hand

There are a number of ways you can read that, I suppose. But what I actually mean is, the thing that has been stressing me will no longer be stressing me before too long, with any luck.
I know this is slightly cryptic and if this were a MySpace you would be searching my house for telephone flex and large quantities of valium, but trust me everything is fine.
I'm actually very excited about something, for the first time in... days. So that can only be a good thing.
Dylan Moran tonight as well. That can only help.

I quite like this concept...

All suggestions for children's book titles and authors gratefully received.
I suggest:

Factory-Orphan George Gets a Leg-Up Into Society and Challenges It... Still Not Happy by Charles Dickens.

Theme for the week

So how fitting that my great vilification trial - in which the homo is hung - took place in the week of the anniversary of Oscar Wilde's famous trial. Thanks be to Kate for letting me know about it.

While his time in incarceration inspired Wilde, my hero, to write the masterful and beautiful Ballad of Reading Gaol, my time inspired me only to write applications for new jobs. But I understand why he did. It is cathartic...

And all men kill the sales rep they hate,
By all let this be heard,
Some do it with a scissor kick,
Some with a flattening gurder,
The editor does it with a nail gun,
The journo with a pen through the temple.

I apologise for ignoring rhyme and cadence, etc.



This is my favourite picture of Oscar. When I was 19 I had a studio portrait taken of myself in exactly the same pose, in a chair holding a cane. What a poofter. If I had an electronic copy, I'd post it. Here is me at Oscar Wilde's grave in Paris instead.

You are not my people

Last night Thom and I went gay clubbing... for the diggers.
Connies was having a "uniform" night (LOL. THAT'S sensitive. THAT'S what the Anzac's fought and died for) and as we had both had such a shocking week we felt like going out and getting boozed. The options were Rise ("do you like your hardcore, do-do-do do-do-do") or Connections. So we took the latter. Neither of us had been there for almost a year and neither of us, therefore, had seen the renovation.
The reno looks good, actually.
But let me say on the record, the people in there were not my people.
Perhaps I'm old, but the pre-pubescent hairless twinky snap-in-the-wind super baby-queens running around as if they owned the place made me feel just slightly sick. I don't know how paedos do it. I couldn't. When did 18-year-olds weighing 45kg get such an "I'm so hot" attitude. Kid, you're fucking emaciated, put your shirt back on. Or are you dressed as a POW? You are not my people.
And there was the MOST hideous drag queen who was also rolling around as if she owned the place. She had a little flunky stuck to her side like some kind of rass and I overheard her say something about calling security because she wasn't going to put up with something or other.
All I could think was "darling, who the fuck are you?". Answer? "You're a delusional fat guy who has sandwiched his cock up his crack and squeezed into a Miller's Fashion Club size 34 bargain basement no-natural-fibres-were-harmed-in-the-making-of-this-garment frock, looked in the mirror and for some reason, instead of shooting yourself, you've decided to go out on the town. You and your sucker fish friend, you are not my people.
There was hardly anyone there I recognised. A couple of weathered faces I remember from a few years ago (when they were less weathered. Don't let anyone tell you the drugs don't work), but only faces, no one to talk to.
I remember now why I don't go there. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad it exists and that there is somewhere for these people to go and to be safe, but it is not for me. I know I'm not the blokiest creature on God's Earth. But I'm not those people. And that's enough to give thanks for.
Give them three or four years and perhaps they'll feel as I do.

Metaphors-a-go-go and knocking opportunity

So the situation at work is resolved. Backdowns all round have resulted in a general detente and non-proliferation treaty. I'm not really happy, I'm very disappointed in management, I'm not satisfied, but it is best to leave it.
But there will be fall-out. Nasty experiences and nasty tastes leave people uncomfortable. There will be changes. That is sad.
However, it was worth it to hear the piece of advice given my one of my line managers.
"It's a volcano that has boiled over and hopefully now the lava is halfway down the side of the mountain and some of the heat has gone out of it."

Nevermind that such an exquisite metaphor leaves me and the other villagers in Editorial Island either boiling to death in molten lava or drowning in the salty salty sea.
So at very least I have a new OSW-ism to include "in the mix".
On the otherhand it has spurred me into looking for new opportunities and I've discovered a very fab one going at a publication I would kill to work for, which I would not have noticed was available if I hadn't been so narky at work.
Perhaps it is time for me to be less apathetic about my career. The serenity is over. I'm feeling recharged and driven again. Or, if you prefer, my magma has bubbled to the surface again and is spewing forth after a short period of dormancy. And fuck the villagers.

Ultimately, they will let you down

There is far too much background detail to go into, but let's just say I'm not impressed. I'm deeply hurt. The company I work for puts in place a kangaroo court and protects people who earn money, over those who cost money, every single time.
I was not impressed to walk into the office this morning and find a poster on my wall which could easily be regarded as homosexual vilification. In fact I was fucking furious, hurt and upset. I shouted at someone who had, before the weekend, told me they were going to redecorate my work space. This not someone I have a lot of respect for, someone I have had disagreements with before, and someone who earns the company a lot of money.
I found the Dirty Dick's poster offensive. I complained. They built a wall around her and I had to back down. It has left a nasty taste in my mouth.
I don't think they would have dared do the same if I was a German and someone had put a copy of Schindler's Arc on my desk. Or if I was black and someone had left a gollywog on my keyboard. And the absolute shit-off about the whole thing is that the same kangaroo court is probably going to make me apologise for yelling at her.
Thus ends my happy time at my new office. Urgh.
My consolation is that her stoner babies will all be malnourished and under-sized and she will die looking an old haggard LCD chrone with manky green-blonde hair and a fucking enormous fat arse.
Mature of me, I know.
Oh well. At least there is about to be some news from Aunty on that other oft-forgotten project of mine.

Is there reeeeally a good book inside everyone?

I just ask because I think the "author" I interviewed today would probably only have a book inside him if he ate it.
For a start, he's published the thing on CD.
"It's cheaper than printing it on paper and it saves trees," he informed me.
"Riiiiiiight," I replied. (Read: I've just driven half an hour into the wilderness for a story about a book that is not only not even being published by reputable company... it's not actually being published at all).
It's a fantasy book "in the lines of Buffy but set in England and with an original take on vampires".
They're human. That's the take.
He's also pillaged every bit of legend, folklore and ancient mythology he can find and put his "original take" on the time honoured stories. Changing the name, location and colour of a ghost, dude, doesn't make it your story.
I got quite worried when he said: "I couldn't get in touch with the author or the publisher of the book I based this on, so I had to change the names of the characters and settings and re-write the plot entirely... which was a lot of work, I can tell you".
Queue my internal dialogue: "So let me get this straight. You decided to write a book that was already written but had to re-write it because you couldn't contact the author or the publisher who wrote and published in the first place, so now you're not publishing it yourself but selling it on CD by postal order for $12 including postage and handling."
"You wouldn't believe how expensive proof-readers are! I've re-read this myself so many times."
I had asked him to bring a copy of the book for the photo shoot. So he brought three CDs and a computer print-out of the story. At the end he asked me I wanted to take it and read it. I declined. He asked if I knew anyone who was likely to want to read it as I could take it for them. I declined.
He was clearly disappointed.
"Oh, well I printed it out especially... I've already got too much scrap paper at home."
Obviously he has as much faith in his product as I do.

Derby fall-out: I think everyone is missing the point

As you all know, I don't follow the football. Beyond the Men For All Seasons calendar I couldn't give two ass-rubbings about it. But this Adam Selwood calling Des Headland's 6-year-old daughter a slut business has me intrigued.

Apparently after Selwood noticed the tattoo of a female on Headland's bicep the on-field conversation went something along the lines of:
Selwood: She looks like the girl I fucked last night.
Headland: That's my 6-year-old daughter.
Selwood: (Depending on who you believe) Slut.

The AFL Tribunal tied itself up in knots trying to apportion blame for this one and then decided to let everyone play next week regardless. Perhaps they understood what I thought only I understood: Everyone is missing the point.

Surely the person who is most culpable in this equation is the tattoo artist who did the dodgy tatt' in the first place?

Surely Australian society's championing of the LCD cause is to blame? It only encourages the Cashed-Up Bogans to do things like:
a) Call their daughter Madisan (and spell it thus), and
b) Get a tattoo of their daughter on their bicep in the first place.

There is plenty of blame to go around here. But it's nice that for once the word methalamphetamine hasn't been mentioned.

Racism?

Can anyone tell me why the Michelin Man is white?
He's supposed to be made of tyres and tyres aren't white, far as I know.
At very least I suppose he is a poster-boy for the morbidly obese. Specifically the French white morbidly obese, I suppose.

By the way, became very excited in Paris when I discovered La Michelin Boutique.
It is exactly what it sounds like it is. Voila!

And look what they sell!

J'e voudrais un... snow... dome... s'il vous plait.

The First Tuesday can go fuck itself Book Club

I'm having a small internal crisis: I'm out-classed by all my friends. They're all total book nerds. Or at least literary types. Or at least they still read, which I haven't done properly for a while. Or at least I don't think Jonestown counts as literature. Sometimes I don't even quite get to the newspaper.
That all changes from today. I feel re-invigorated thanks to the loan of Maurice by Kate.
So I'm taking up reading again. A hobby I used to love. The only thing I love more is collecting books that I would one day like to read. (I have this funny OCD thing whereby I won't inscribe my name on the inside cover until such time as I've read the book. You don't really own it until you've read it, even if you paid for it. Signing it before you read it is fraud, in my book).
Anyway, I'm starting a list of books I should have read but haven't.
I welcome all suggestions.

Books I should have read but haven't
* Maurice, EM Forster


FOOTNOTE:
Anyone interested in starting a CNG Lender's Library? I've just offered-up half my collection to different people, so I'm sure between us all we'd have most of the Lit classics covered.

Spartans, Snartans and Bed Smeg

It isn't your ususal skirts and sandals epic, 300. But I'll spare you the Margaret-n-Davids because I'm sure you all know it is a totally freaking bulgefest. And this blog probably won't be too interesting if you haven't seen it.

Sunday night I saw it for the second time. Not for any reason other than I had committed to see it with friends, but had already seen it. I'm glad I did - the local Hellenic Association was having a fundraiser and the upper gallery of the Astor in Mt Lawley was humming with Greeks.

They provided less bulge than the ones on screen, but just as much entertainment.

A friend overheard a young woman ask an old Greek lady how historically accurate it was. Considering the inclusion of monsters with blades for arms, it seemed like a mute point to me.

Another pondered aloud why they made Xerxes so much taller than Leonides. Considering they made the Persian "God-King" look like a Zamels' catalogue puked on a drag queen, that wouldn't have been my first question.

As they milled around outside the theatre they seemed genuinely bemused. I'm not sure the screening had inspired the nationalistic pride and reassurance the organisers had anticipated.

The former WA Governor, LT Gen John Sanderson, had been sitting in front of me in the cinema. Alone. The gore clearly too much for wife Lorraine. (It's not funny, I just thought it was interesting).

On the way home Thom stumbled over his tongue and invented the word "snartan". We decided snartan was too good a sounding word to lose, so we spent several hours (even as we were drifting off to sleep) coming up with a definition and debating whether it should be a noun a verb or an adjective and the possible implications vis a vis suffixes, etc. (Neither of us wanted "snartanisation" to ever exist).

So far the front-runner is that snartan is the name given to the dried bits of food left on forks and dishes after they have been washed, which you have to pick off with your nails.

So snartans aren't as hot as Spartans, but either way you can't wait to get your claws into them.

In the process we also decided the stuff that collects at the foot of the bed, which tells you it's reeeeally time to change the sheets, is called "bed smeg".

I welcome your thoughts.

April Audit

Reading: About to start reading Maurice, by Forster. It has long been recommended and now wonderful Kate is going to lend me a copy.
Watching: Media Watch. Ah Monica, how I've missed you!
Listening: A bit of Amy Winehouse, who seems to have Lindsay's vote of confidence.
Downloading: Info on laptops. I'm in the market for a new pooter.
Website du jour: My blogspot. I have been neglecting it far too long. I apologise for my flirtation with MySpaz. This blog is for my friends. The MySpaz will be for the comedy stuff.
Café: Anything in Midland that doesn't seem botulant.
Pub: Scotto.
Club: Haven't been out for a while. I'm nesting instead.
Eating: So many left over Easter eggs that a little bit of sick-up works its way up my throat to say hello just thinking about it.
Drinking: Water. 180L a day.
Wearing: My fantastic new "Datch" jacket. I bought it in Vienna. I cannot believe Datch is a label!
Last show: Alice Russell... at the Bakery. That was a freakin awesome gig. For a white girl she sounds black.
Next show: Anything with Luke Ryan in it. There is a whole fanclub for him now.
Can’t wait ‘til: The weekend. Don't know why, just looking forward to it.
Lately I have been: Making up for lost time with Thom.
Most recent scoop: I've been on holidays. No scoops.
Most recent purchase: A new bed for the dog. Which then needed construction. LOL
Want but can’t afford: A new laptop.
Need but can’t afford: To pay off the car ASAP.
Last nice act: Distributing gifts from my holiday to those I love.
Last bad act: Well I don't know if it was a bad act, but wasn't impressed with a very good friend who did something they should know better than to have done. I'm big on loyalty.
Bad news: Nup.
Good news: Thom loves me, I love Thom. Yay.
Goal: Work hard, have fun.
Yesterday I: Drove back from Albany.
Right now I should be: Watching the 730 Report.
Later today I’m: Going to bed.
Tomorrow I’m: Back at the coal face, putting my shoulder to the wheel and my nose to the grindstone. LOL
General mood: Serene (See below)
It would be better if: The icecream I want to eat wasn't all the way over in the freezer.

I've had one of those life things...

At the risk of sounding like a twat, I feel utterly serene.
For the first time in my life I am totally comfortable and relaxed.
It happened while I was away. The sense of urgency has gone from my life. You can put it down to finally seeing London and all the great monuments if you like. You can put it down to turning 27 and realising that whatever I achieve from now on I achieve as an adult and will not be considered a “young genius”.
Whatever you put it down to, I am bizarrely calm.
I am travelled and rested.
I have decided that I love my job and the company I work for and am happy enough to take the career opportunities that come my way here for a year or two, before I panic about moving on.
I have decided that print, prose, is my first love and that flirtations with radio and television, while seemingly more exciting, aren’t as exciting to me sitting down to craft sentences and sniffing newsprint.
That’s actually a difficult thing to realise. Somehow you’re seen as more successful if you’re in the electronic media. I’ve realised that’s only in the eyes of the LCD, the ACA-watchers, not those who matter to me, or indeed, me.
I have decided there is nothing wrong with Perth. It’s a great place, it’s a good size, and it affords me a lot of opportunities I might not get elsewhere. I’m in no panic to work overseas any more. I loved London and I would happily live there and if an opportunity arose I would look at it, but I am very happy where I am. Perth is not failure.
I have a new hobby, which has introduced me to wonderful new friends who are so incredibly encouraging and welcoming. I have never been made to feel so welcome. I cannot believe that something as potentially cut-throat as comedy is such a ‘family’ in Perth. I have cottoned-on to something good here and I want to explore it much, much more. And I’m good at it. People laugh at my jokes. That is a huge rush. I love the process of writing a set and then the nerves I feel getting on stage. And I absolutely adore the wall of laughter that comes back at you for a joke well crafted and well told. It is the greatest reward.
Most importantly, I have love. I have someone who knows what I’m thinking and understands me. Someone who has the same interests as me but who challenges me. Who makes me laugh, who laughs at me. Who encourages me to give things a go and supports me in those things, even if it is a tad inconvenient for them. Someone who I cannot ever spend enough time with, even though I spend every spare second with them. Someone who just thinking about makes my heart and chest rush warm with blood. Someone who is surrounded by beautiful people who have adopted me into their hearts as if I am family.
I am 27. I’m not the famed success I thought I would be, but I’m happy with where I am. I have things I will do before I get old, but I’m happy to pace myself. I still dare to dream, but I have a better sense of reality. Urgency has left me. I am calm and happy.
Does this happen to everyone?