I hate to criticise and generalise, but you’ll probably all see what I mean. There are some really rude people in Sydney aren’t there?

a) Last night I’m queuing at 3WM for Bourbonbird’s birthday party and the security dude says to the people ‘queue in the line down the side of the building -keep the sidewalk clear’. So I move. No one else does. One guy looks at me as if to say ‘well, everyone else is staying here, so we don’t have to move, do we?’ and another rocks up and steals my spot at the end of the line. Idiots.

Now nobody in the queue has ID, but they just stand there on the steps waiting for the bouncer to die of old age or something. Idiots again. So I push through. My ID checks out but I’m wearing workboots - that’s why I don’t make it to BB’s party.

Today, I go down to Pitt Street to buy a camera. I go into the shop and stare at cameras along the wall behind the counter but the attendants are all busy. After five minutes someone comes up and asks the guy next to me if he needs help. He doesn’t. I look expectantly at the salesman, but politely refrain from yelling. Then, before I can make eye contact, the woman behind me - who has just arrived - walks a 180° around me, saying ‘yes, I’m waiting’. Idiot. I wandered off and bought a really expensive camera somewhere else.

And by the way - what’s with buying digital cameras? You can’t tell anything about a camera by fondling it at a shop counter. And the clerks won’t even let you see a photo taken on your camera before you buy it. That’s so slack. Buy ‘em on the web for cheaper.

Anyway, here’s the results:

That licence photo isn’t too flattering, is it?

Today was a work day. I got up early, by standards, and arrived at the office nicely on time. I worked on some thesis editing until lunchtime, getting a book from the library on a break. Before lunch, another PG and I talked over what we were doing for our classes in the first week of tutorials. I think we made each other a bit less nervous about our first time teaching. Lunch on the lawn - a tofu burger for extra vitamins.

Then I went back to the office and did some more work. This week’s work seems okay, but there are piles of unorganised notes everywhere that are giving me the irrits. Then the afternoon seminar. I signed up to give a paper in two weeks. That, combined with the PG conference in Melbourne in September and tutoring two units makes me feel I’ve volunteered for too much stuff. And I haven’t even started any of it yet. Bummer.

After that, I went home. Then I had to go down to the shops when I realised I had no baking paper, but that’s about it. I also bought a 100 watt globe because it’s dim in here. Maybe that’s overkill. We’ll find out sooner or later.

Dear Mark:

Your machine needs a rebuild of the operating system as it is incomplete. Back up all your document files and then leave a message on ext ******* indicating a time when I can have the device for a couple of days. Will reformat the hard disk blah blah blah

signed,
You friendly IT dude.

How is that an acceptable course of action when I complain about a BUSTED COOLING FAN?! Seriously. I need my machine and I don’t want it taken away and fucked up by IT while I sit and scratch my butt. All it should take is fifteen minutes and a screwdriver, but no. We can’t have that. And when they take it, I bet they won’t even fix the fan.

The IT people here - screw it, IT people in general - are a pack of lazy misanthropic tools who would rather spend all morning tinkering with a perfectly functional OS that doing what they’re asked to do. (This is why I need a Mac - if they don’t understand how it works, they’ll probably stop trying to fix it.)

In fact, I’m not going to call IT support. So what if my desk catches fire?

In an odd move for someone attempting to move house, I rearranged part of my apartment yesterday. I think that’s a sign of giving up. I also cleaned the space under the sink. Definitely giving up.

Unless these people with their specky apartment opposite the Sandringham come through, I can’t see much point in keeping on searching. Frankly, I can’t even remember why I wanted to move in the first place. What was with that? After seeing so many crappy rooms and so many daft people, I think I’m doing just fine where I am.

So, barring a tasty, buttery, biscuity miracle (these people are Arnotts employees, I should mention) I’ll be wandering down to the real estate agent’s on Monday with tail firmly planted between legs asking to stay on.

That sounds embarrassing.

But I won’t care.

I’ll pick up some underpants at the Metro on the way back.

Has anyone else noticed that whenever Channel 9 tries to air the first episode of Stripperella, someone blows up London? I think there has to be a connection.

And while we’re being political…

“the new presidents are nothing but caricatures and fake film - curiously, Johnson, Nixon, Ford, all have this simian mug, the monkeys of power.”
- Jean Baudrillard (1981; English translation 1994)

What a visionary :P

Having hoisted myself out of bed extra-early this morning (ie. 8AM…) I got on the bus behind this real weird looking woman and found myself, after a long and sleepless bus ride, eventually at uni where I was existentially shocked to discover that I can think quite clearly before the hour of midday and, in fact, may even feel more emotionally stable in that half of the day. Resolving to take immediately to drink and forget that I ever woke up at all, I found nought but books on my desk. I was startled, partly with fear.

What followed was an indescribable orgy of reading, typing, photocopying and helping others. I find myself utterly guilty and in contempt, and now can barely look at myself in the mirror after this frightful exercise. Gone is the blessed disarray of the past few days. Gone is the uncertainty and trepidation with which I compiled my long-term thesis plan. Now, in the clear light of living each day as if it were my last, I can stand up and face the world. Oh, what a piece of work is man.

In other news, I’m still utterly at a loss as to where I’m going to move to next week. Perusing among the wide variety of rooms for rent - some questionable, some perfect - has provoked very little response from potential housemates. Never worry then: the panic level is rising once again and normality* will shortly be restored.

*’Normality’. What a wonderfully ambiguous word that is.

The impossibility of anyone actually needing the stuff in the catalogue. For example, the ‘Prophet’ Jacket is made from Goretex Extramadura Absolute Viper material and comes with armpit zips for ventilation. At a little under $800, it’s perfect for climbing Mount Everest but might be overkill when you’re just running across the carpark at the shops. Now, seeing as I stole this catalogue from a pudgy German exchange student, I get the feeling that very few people on the Paddy Pallin mailing list are acutal Arctic explorers. What is the purpose then, of having the jacket, or the $1600 ‘Bombshelter’ alpine tent, on sale? Purely to suggest that you could, if you wanted to, walk into a shop and purchase an Everest attempt’s worth of gear? Is that an essential part of the freedom we Australians enjoy? (Freedom meaning freedom to buy stuff, of course.) Or are there people who simply enjoy extra-tough outdoor wear, in case of an unexpected avalanche?

Cooler than Communism. All of the clothes sit very close to the skin. They are in nice, minimalist colours but otherwise bear no adornment. 100% modernist coture - form is purely determined by function, always with a maximum of efficiency and suitability for the human body. Even with communism the fatigues have a symbolic quality - making reference to the militarisation of the social body and the brotherhood of workers (all privates in the army of the manufacturing state). At Paddy Pallin there are no badges. Collars are either absent or turned into utilitarian tubes to house and insulate the neck. The only thing signified is the pure perfection of the garments in terms of use-value.

Hyper-useful: so perfect it’s ridiculous. ‘Breathable Give-N-Go(tm) fabric… features a moisture-wicking, anti-microbial finish’. What is this high-tech material being used for? A revolutionary tent? A top-quality jacket? No, it’s underpants. A $30 pair of briefs or a $40 pair of boxers. Ladies styles also available. What use could anyone have for these ‘miracle pants’? God only knows. And this is the weirdest part: Paddy Pallin’s absolute emphasis on quality has lead to items being stocked that are of excessive quality. They are so perfect and so useful that nobody could ever possibly use them to their full potential - their perfection thus indicates a kind of paranoia. It has its primary value in conferring the status of signifiers of wealth and taste on the items in the catalogue. Therefore, beneath the exaggerated technical qualities of the items, Paddy Pallin are selling status symbols. Use value has collapsed in on itself, leading to its antithesis: pure exchange value.

It’s a stereotypical masculine thing, sitting in front of the TV getting worked up over sports. Footy, soccer, cricket and so on, preferably with beer. But I never liked any of those sports, so I could nver participate in the ritual. But now I’m proud to finally annouce that I’m a real man because I’ve found a sport that I can go mad about. Dancing. In particular, that show with Paul McDermott - you know, the one where they have the dance competition? It’s the greatest. You should have seen the jive routine they did in the last one - I was all like ‘yessss!!’ because they did the most amazing moves and the costumes were like, so fabulous. Wow.

So there you go. My masculinity is no longer an issue. Anyone for tea?

UPDATE. Yeah, that’s a pretty crap post. Here’s what I have actually been doing since we last spoke:

On Thursday night I made some of 8zero8’s patented ‘greasadillas‘, which were about the most satisfying thing I’ve eaten for weeks (tonnes of cheese, mmm) and then loafed around watching telelvision. On Friday I skipped work and stayed in bed reading ‘On Seduction’ and ‘Simulacra and Simulation’ exerpts from the selected writings of Jean Baudrillard, then phoned up to look at some share houses. Then, early this morning, I wrote a song about how great my doona is. Now, having hauled my butt out of bed at a leisurely midday, feeling pretty darned good about nearly everything especially featherdown doonas, I’m off to look at some houses. I’ll post later and bitch about the ones I didn’t like.

Pinky Beecroft, on the Glasshouse. What a complete fucking legend. This man deserves his own show. I think there’s a repeat today or tomorrow - check it out.

Because Wednesday is Offensive Day.

dentists
Scientologists
people who ignore ‘no junk mail’ signs
vegetarians
crap drivers
goths
people who wear button-badges
people who bitch about Big Brother
people who bitch about George W. Bush
the majority of alcoholics
real estate agents
fake music agents
secret Chinese agents
Jihadis
holocaust deniers
and anyone who knows the words and/or chords to ‘Stairway to Heaven’.

Feel my INFINITE WRATH and tremble!!