--- HOUSEKEEPING ---
Please come to Wharf 2 in Walsh Bay next Saturday afternoon for the first ever Sydney Writer's Festival Zine Fair. It is there you will find my first pretentious publication, entitled "As Curious An Entity..." I have a table booked to sell stuff with the Sammiches guys and girl, and a few other people selling zines and things. They're well cheap anyway, but I'll give free copies to everybody that has ever left a comment on this blog - you can pay if you want though, my employment status remains shaky. The artwork and publishing stuff was done by our good friends at Crafternoon, and token BCorTM celebrity Steve scored two guest spots (one mentions gay people)... Seriously thanks hey but. J.
--- AND SHIT, HEY ---
THE KITCHEN, 7PM WEDNESDAY: Simmo is propped up at the breakfast bar drinking a PET bottle of Tooheys Extra Dry. He's had a tough day work at Vintage Cellars and is noticeably worn out. $1.40 Coke Man is defrosting a Lean Cuisine lasagne for two.
$1.40: Yeah, I'm just defrosting this lasagne for me and you to eat for dinner, Simmo. You don't need to cook it, just defrost it then put it in the oven, 15 minutes only.
Simmo: (nods, stares at his beer)
$1.40: Some people like to cook dinner out of ingredients.
Simmo: (raises his eyebrow silently saying, "if you don't redeem yourself in the next sentence, you have officially just verbalised the most irrelevant non-observation in the entire universe.")
$1.40: ... I just eat these lasagnes, you just defrost them and heat them up, 15 minutes, that all it takes. Yeah, only 15 minutes."
Simmo gulps the last of his beer before standing, dropping the empty bottle in the recycling bin and walking straight out of the kitchen.
$1.40 is left pacing around the kitchen.
Friday, May 25, 2007
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Act 1 Scene 1
Characters/housemates:
- $1.40 Coke Man
- Furiously Masturbating Ice Addict
- Samantha Brett as herself
- Simmo
Vague Premise:
This unlikely foursome all live together in what can easily be described as "the sharehouse from Hell!"
THE LIVING ROOM, 5PM, WEDNESDAY
Samantha Brett: Oh! It is just so hard to keep thinking up topics for my nationally recognised dating blog!
Furiously Masturbating Ice Addict: Could you please just relax a bit Sam? I know, I know, we both grew up in very competetive environments. But the difference between you and me is that I know how to relax and not let stress bother me.
SB: Hang on, that's a perfect topic! "Are us urban dwelling gen-Yers too stressed to maintain healthy relationships?"
FMIA: (a bit distracted) Yeah sounds good. I just think you miss the point with everything you do. I understand that you have the whole Carrie Bradshaw thing you desperately attempt, but you dish out this bland, over-written drivel day after day. Ideally, if you were following the SITC model it would be a bit sexy, a personal account that was really worth a read. But really babe, you just tenuously link statistics in bland psychological reports to a broad "trend" you imagine, cite a made up example then open the forum to a group of online sociopaths.
SB: But -
FMIA: (butting in) And another thing I hate, you always say you were out sharing cocktails with a "highly eligible male colleague." Why are you ashamed to say that you get your best fodder when you're helping me scratch all the imaginary Christmas beetles off my back?
SB: Furious, you know I love you but I can't tell my readers that my column is ghost-written by a man who only sleeps on Mondays. Do you realise that you screamed at my contraceptive pills for over an hour yesterday.
FMIA: Why do you have those things anyway? They're extremely cocky, and I'm pretty sure you don't have sex.
ENTER $1.40 Coke man: (proudly) I'm cooking dinner whether you bitches like it or not!
FMIA: I won't be needing any dinner thank you, on account of my drug dependency of course. Look, my stomach looks like an African child's and I have a huge chunk ripped out of my arm! I don't even know how it happened, I just noticed then! Ha.
$1.40: (Laughs) Wait 'til Simmo sees that!
- $1.40 Coke Man
- Furiously Masturbating Ice Addict
- Samantha Brett as herself
- Simmo
Vague Premise:
This unlikely foursome all live together in what can easily be described as "the sharehouse from Hell!"
THE LIVING ROOM, 5PM, WEDNESDAY
Samantha Brett: Oh! It is just so hard to keep thinking up topics for my nationally recognised dating blog!
Furiously Masturbating Ice Addict: Could you please just relax a bit Sam? I know, I know, we both grew up in very competetive environments. But the difference between you and me is that I know how to relax and not let stress bother me.
SB: Hang on, that's a perfect topic! "Are us urban dwelling gen-Yers too stressed to maintain healthy relationships?"
FMIA: (a bit distracted) Yeah sounds good. I just think you miss the point with everything you do. I understand that you have the whole Carrie Bradshaw thing you desperately attempt, but you dish out this bland, over-written drivel day after day. Ideally, if you were following the SITC model it would be a bit sexy, a personal account that was really worth a read. But really babe, you just tenuously link statistics in bland psychological reports to a broad "trend" you imagine, cite a made up example then open the forum to a group of online sociopaths.
SB: But -
FMIA: (butting in) And another thing I hate, you always say you were out sharing cocktails with a "highly eligible male colleague." Why are you ashamed to say that you get your best fodder when you're helping me scratch all the imaginary Christmas beetles off my back?
SB: Furious, you know I love you but I can't tell my readers that my column is ghost-written by a man who only sleeps on Mondays. Do you realise that you screamed at my contraceptive pills for over an hour yesterday.
FMIA: Why do you have those things anyway? They're extremely cocky, and I'm pretty sure you don't have sex.
ENTER $1.40 Coke man: (proudly) I'm cooking dinner whether you bitches like it or not!
FMIA: I won't be needing any dinner thank you, on account of my drug dependency of course. Look, my stomach looks like an African child's and I have a huge chunk ripped out of my arm! I don't even know how it happened, I just noticed then! Ha.
$1.40: (Laughs) Wait 'til Simmo sees that!
Monday, May 07, 2007
Using The Digital Scanner
Last week I received a letter of redundancy from my workplace. As of May 28, me and all the people that do my job will be out of shifts. In my case, I will lose all my shifts. I'll spare you a sob story, as I've already written one, which will presumably not get published in the SMH's Heckler, as it is that particular publication who employs me.
Nevertheless, this has got me wondering what function I can now serve to the workplace from the first week of June. The word "function" is even more intimidating in this context as John Fairfax Publication Pty Ltd have just been advised that my current job serves little to no function, whatsoever. It's an interesting concept, as working at the newspaper was my best paid, and widely considered my "most prestigious" job, external advisors have assured my employer that in fact, I am just taking up space.
My first ever job paid just over a third of the hourly rate that the SMH does, delivering pizzas for Belmonte's Gourmet Pizza. I was 17. The only qualification I needed was a driver's licence and the ability to ensure the affable proprietor, Sam that "I wan't full of shit." Around six months later it was proven that I wasn't completely, but on numerous isolated occasions was definetly full, of shit. This job may have been pretty bottom-feeding (as in feeding from the bottom), and I may have been pretty unreliable, but I was unquestionably crucial to the running of the business. If I hadn't been there to deliver the pizzas, one of the other guys would have had to do it, which would have generally made delivery times longer, which is not great for a small, independent business in a competetive environment (Pizza Hut next door).
At Belmonte's and in all the subsequent jobs I have had, I served an active role in producing something. All of a sudden, I get a corporate email address, a building pass and a wheelie chair - useless. They aren't even replacing me with younger, keener immigrants or a computer (probably that cocky c..t from the Mac ads) - they are replacing our department with nothing. Nobody will do a better job than me (this is not a comedy sketch about baseball).
So, now I have to work out what, apart from nothing apparently, I can do for a living. I've ruled out about 99% of jobs already and all I have left at the moment is: doctor, lift operator for old fashion manually driven lift in David Jones (fuck, I hope it's still there), postman and professional cricketer. My lack of appropriate qualifications and skills puts me out of contention for all but one, and I don't really like hospitals anyway. All I can do now is work on improving my skills, like practising writing in the exact style of one of those "irreverent" complain-columnists (You know, like when they resolve there complaint by being mildly self-deprecating and "who-caresy" at the end: "I may be going bald, but at least I have tattoos." Wankers.).
Nevertheless, this has got me wondering what function I can now serve to the workplace from the first week of June. The word "function" is even more intimidating in this context as John Fairfax Publication Pty Ltd have just been advised that my current job serves little to no function, whatsoever. It's an interesting concept, as working at the newspaper was my best paid, and widely considered my "most prestigious" job, external advisors have assured my employer that in fact, I am just taking up space.
My first ever job paid just over a third of the hourly rate that the SMH does, delivering pizzas for Belmonte's Gourmet Pizza. I was 17. The only qualification I needed was a driver's licence and the ability to ensure the affable proprietor, Sam that "I wan't full of shit." Around six months later it was proven that I wasn't completely, but on numerous isolated occasions was definetly full, of shit. This job may have been pretty bottom-feeding (as in feeding from the bottom), and I may have been pretty unreliable, but I was unquestionably crucial to the running of the business. If I hadn't been there to deliver the pizzas, one of the other guys would have had to do it, which would have generally made delivery times longer, which is not great for a small, independent business in a competetive environment (Pizza Hut next door).
At Belmonte's and in all the subsequent jobs I have had, I served an active role in producing something. All of a sudden, I get a corporate email address, a building pass and a wheelie chair - useless. They aren't even replacing me with younger, keener immigrants or a computer (probably that cocky c..t from the Mac ads) - they are replacing our department with nothing. Nobody will do a better job than me (this is not a comedy sketch about baseball).
So, now I have to work out what, apart from nothing apparently, I can do for a living. I've ruled out about 99% of jobs already and all I have left at the moment is: doctor, lift operator for old fashion manually driven lift in David Jones (fuck, I hope it's still there), postman and professional cricketer. My lack of appropriate qualifications and skills puts me out of contention for all but one, and I don't really like hospitals anyway. All I can do now is work on improving my skills, like practising writing in the exact style of one of those "irreverent" complain-columnists (You know, like when they resolve there complaint by being mildly self-deprecating and "who-caresy" at the end: "I may be going bald, but at least I have tattoos." Wankers.).
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