On Friday night I got back to work after a week in Galiwin'ku to discover that not only had I missed the first decent cyclone to come through Darwin in years, but in my absence the roof in my new room had continued to leek during said cyclone and my floor was completely flooded. Again. It was still raining heavily, so for most of the weekend my front wall resembled less a wall with a bad leak and more a waterfall with a nasty case of bricks.
Yesterday I got into my office to discover that the central database program on my computer had stopped working. I tried turning it off and on again, but that failed to fix the problem so, having exhausted my technical knowledge, I called IT. Apparently it was a problem everyone had had the week before, and it hadn’t been fixed on my computer yet. It was a simple job to fix it.
Five hours later the network administrator was still trying to fix the simple problem. Apparently the data program had got into a fight with Microsoft office, and the conflict had escalated to such an extent that they could not both be present on the same hard drive anymore. Both the bickering programs were summarily sent to their rooms for re-installation, which didn’t solve anything, they still kept crashing each other.
The IT lady at work says I have an aura of destruction, and I think she might be right. Computers, roofs, cars, aeroplanes, relationships, job applications or chicken enchiladas; there’s no limit to the things I can render a complete train wreck simply by looking at them the wrong way.
Anyone who has watched me at work in the kitchen will be able to confirm this for you. I could find a creative and astonishing way to boil water wrong. It’s not just that I’m a bad cook. I can follow the instructions for food preparation to the letter and still manage to ruin it. My old housemate once described me as “a force of nature” after seeing me take an instant meal out of the oven, where it had been for thirty minutes at 180 degrees as instructed, only to discover it was still frozen. I also managed to burn my dinner to a crisp last night because I was unaware that I was using an oven with a hyperdrive setting.
The usual protocol in these situations is to swear to use one's powers for good and not for evil. Stuff that, I’m using my powers for AWESOME. I’ve applied for a number of jobs with the public service, just to see if I can use my aura to bring down the government. If it works, I’m going to England. If I can get in.
Meanwhile, my computer seems to be working just fine this morning. No-one knows why. Or for how long. Make of that what you will.
Garry with 2 Rs
22 February 2011
14 February 2011
A Token of My Affection
On this day of love, companionship and general smoochiness for all, I thought I’d do my bit for the cause by posting a few sensitive and poignant observations about the whole St. Valentine’s phenomenon. First among them is this:
Romance is stupid.
Now, before you fire up the flame throwers, let me qualify by adding that I’m all in favour of finding ways to make someone feel special, which is what proper romance, at its core, is supposedly all about. My beef is more with the traditional motifs we’re expected to utilise (just who is doing the expecting is unclear. I suspect it may be department store promotions teams) to convey affection. Here are a few of my favourites:
Flowers: Flowers are the quintessential romantic icon. Nothing shows true love like a dozen red roses in full bloom; they’re vibrant, classical, passionate and they smell great. But I find the whole symbolism of flowers a little creepy. To me it says “My love for you is like this gerbera; bold, colourful and dynamic this week, but by March it will be faded, limp and dead.” But that’s fine. If someone bought me flowers, that would be weird anyway.
Jewellery: Now you’re talking. Buy your love something lasting, precious, opulent and sparkly. (If you happen to be spending V. Day nervously carrying an engagement ring in your breast pocket, just skip over this paragraph). I suppose there’s something to be said for adorning your beloved with valuable finery, but it seems weird to me that we spend all this energy reminding ourselves that beauty is only skin deep and that true love comes from what’s inside, not what’s on the exterior, and then we spend all this money decorating the outside anyway. Somewhere, some would-be Don Juan is announcing,
“My soul mate, from the bottom of my heart I love you just the way you are. Please accept this ornamental chain to help improve your outward appearance slightly. Look, it’s shiny!”
Stuffed animals in curly pink ribbons: I really don’t get this one. I can only assume it’s an optimistic attempt to transfer some of the immediate outpouring of affection (Oh my gosh! A scrub turkey with a pink ribbon! It’s so cute! I’ll call him Freddy and he can sit on my computer at work and I’ll love him forever) from the gift to the giver. And I don’t really fancy sitting on anyone’s computer for very long. To be fair on the fairer sex, many of the women I’ve spoken to agree that this one’s drawing rather a long bow. I guess it depends on the personality of whomever you’re giving it to. To me, stuffed toys are for children and hospital visits, to provide a skerrick of companionship during long periods spent alone and miserable. Maybe I’ve got it all wrong, but that wouldn’t be my expression of choice for a loved one.
Chocolate: I eat far too much chocolate as it is. As a Valentine gift, it sure puts the ‘token’ in ‘a token of my affection’. It’s supposed to say something like “This gift is sweet, but not as sweet as you”. But to me, it just says… actually, forget it. Chocolate is an awesome idea. Once I’ve finished writing this I’m going to go and find some.
My point is, whatever the ads in shop windows might tell us, proper love isn’t something you can convey with a stereotyped decoratively gift wrapped present. The best thing anyone can give to any relationship (romantic or otherwise) is time and attention. But if that’s something we can only manage once a year in February, then maybe we’d all better just stick with a bunch of orchids.
Happy Valentine’s Day!
Garry with 2 Rs
P.S. If you have just gone out and bought your significant other a stuffed alpaca and half a dozen camellias, don’t panic. There’s a reasonable chance that everything I’ve written above is completely wrong.
Romance is stupid.
Now, before you fire up the flame throwers, let me qualify by adding that I’m all in favour of finding ways to make someone feel special, which is what proper romance, at its core, is supposedly all about. My beef is more with the traditional motifs we’re expected to utilise (just who is doing the expecting is unclear. I suspect it may be department store promotions teams) to convey affection. Here are a few of my favourites:
Flowers: Flowers are the quintessential romantic icon. Nothing shows true love like a dozen red roses in full bloom; they’re vibrant, classical, passionate and they smell great. But I find the whole symbolism of flowers a little creepy. To me it says “My love for you is like this gerbera; bold, colourful and dynamic this week, but by March it will be faded, limp and dead.” But that’s fine. If someone bought me flowers, that would be weird anyway.
Jewellery: Now you’re talking. Buy your love something lasting, precious, opulent and sparkly. (If you happen to be spending V. Day nervously carrying an engagement ring in your breast pocket, just skip over this paragraph). I suppose there’s something to be said for adorning your beloved with valuable finery, but it seems weird to me that we spend all this energy reminding ourselves that beauty is only skin deep and that true love comes from what’s inside, not what’s on the exterior, and then we spend all this money decorating the outside anyway. Somewhere, some would-be Don Juan is announcing,
“My soul mate, from the bottom of my heart I love you just the way you are. Please accept this ornamental chain to help improve your outward appearance slightly. Look, it’s shiny!”
Stuffed animals in curly pink ribbons: I really don’t get this one. I can only assume it’s an optimistic attempt to transfer some of the immediate outpouring of affection (Oh my gosh! A scrub turkey with a pink ribbon! It’s so cute! I’ll call him Freddy and he can sit on my computer at work and I’ll love him forever) from the gift to the giver. And I don’t really fancy sitting on anyone’s computer for very long. To be fair on the fairer sex, many of the women I’ve spoken to agree that this one’s drawing rather a long bow. I guess it depends on the personality of whomever you’re giving it to. To me, stuffed toys are for children and hospital visits, to provide a skerrick of companionship during long periods spent alone and miserable. Maybe I’ve got it all wrong, but that wouldn’t be my expression of choice for a loved one.
Chocolate: I eat far too much chocolate as it is. As a Valentine gift, it sure puts the ‘token’ in ‘a token of my affection’. It’s supposed to say something like “This gift is sweet, but not as sweet as you”. But to me, it just says… actually, forget it. Chocolate is an awesome idea. Once I’ve finished writing this I’m going to go and find some.
My point is, whatever the ads in shop windows might tell us, proper love isn’t something you can convey with a stereotyped decoratively gift wrapped present. The best thing anyone can give to any relationship (romantic or otherwise) is time and attention. But if that’s something we can only manage once a year in February, then maybe we’d all better just stick with a bunch of orchids.
Happy Valentine’s Day!
Garry with 2 Rs
P.S. If you have just gone out and bought your significant other a stuffed alpaca and half a dozen camellias, don’t panic. There’s a reasonable chance that everything I’ve written above is completely wrong.
11 February 2011
Moving Right Along
It's been a couple of weeks between posts, which is longer than I generally like to go. Sorry about that, but as you may have read a couple of posts back, my life has been a little fluxious of late by virtue of me not having anywhere to live. My good friends Tim and Jess were awesome enough to lend me a spare room for a week while I got back on my feet. But it's taken me a little while to re-establish a base of operations solid enough to support the resumption of my meteoric blogging career.
As I'm sure you're all aware, it requires a great deal of stability, consistency and stoicism to produce the sort of well thought out, thoroughly researched, poignant, incisive and totally-not-scibbled-out-after-drinking-half-a-bottle-of-wine-and-watching-three-straight-episodes-of-Burn-Notice material that so graciously and effortlessly adorns the pages of Cum Tacent Clament.
And for those of you who were wondering: Yes 'fluxious' is the adjective of 'in-flux' and no, it's not a real word.
If it were a real word, it would do a great job of describing my life at the moment. I've just moved into a new place in Malak, and come home to find it half full of water. Some attention is needed in the roof, I fear. It's in Malak in the northern suburbs of Darwin and I've been offered a room here with absolutely no help from the local real estate industry. From the time I discovered I was going to have to move out I had two weeks to find myself a new room. In all that time the local real estate websites turned up exactly one room that was suitable and in my price range. I checked it out and applied for it and after jerking me around for a week the agent gave it to someone else.
So I moved in to Tim and Jess' daughters' toy room and put out a distress call at Church on Sunday morning. By Sunday night I had options and by Monday evening I had a new home. So suck it, real estate agents. The local church is better than you, free, and doesn't require me to submit contact details for two references, three previous landlords and my employer along with my passport number and the model of car I drive before deciding not to help me. Shove it!
Fluxation (fluctuation? Yeah, probably) number two: I'm looking for a new job (nb. 2011 checklist on the sidebar). For some time now I've been developing a certain rapport with the human resources manager at the local newspaper. Our blossoming relationship has developed an observable behavioural pattern whereby I send her a charming and eloquently penned application letter and she sends me a heartfelt and passionately photocopiedburn rejection notice. This has been going on for some eight months now and I'm considering the wisdom of discontinuing our correspondence before people start to talk. The last thing I need is my name splashed all over the the ... tabloids...
Wait...
Maybe I'll just send her a bouquet of orchids with the next copy of my résumé. I received another rejection notice this week which contained just the faintest hint of lavender perfume - a remarkable achievement for an email attachment, I'm sure you'll agree. The long game continues.
Fluxification number three: My name is Michael Westen. I used to be a spy, until...
Oh go on. Make of that what you will.
Garry with 2 Rs
As I'm sure you're all aware, it requires a great deal of stability, consistency and stoicism to produce the sort of well thought out, thoroughly researched, poignant, incisive and totally-not-scibbled-out-after-drinking-half-a-bottle-of-wine-and-watching-three-straight-episodes-of-Burn-Notice material that so graciously and effortlessly adorns the pages of Cum Tacent Clament.
And for those of you who were wondering: Yes 'fluxious' is the adjective of 'in-flux' and no, it's not a real word.
If it were a real word, it would do a great job of describing my life at the moment. I've just moved into a new place in Malak, and come home to find it half full of water. Some attention is needed in the roof, I fear. It's in Malak in the northern suburbs of Darwin and I've been offered a room here with absolutely no help from the local real estate industry. From the time I discovered I was going to have to move out I had two weeks to find myself a new room. In all that time the local real estate websites turned up exactly one room that was suitable and in my price range. I checked it out and applied for it and after jerking me around for a week the agent gave it to someone else.
So I moved in to Tim and Jess' daughters' toy room and put out a distress call at Church on Sunday morning. By Sunday night I had options and by Monday evening I had a new home. So suck it, real estate agents. The local church is better than you, free, and doesn't require me to submit contact details for two references, three previous landlords and my employer along with my passport number and the model of car I drive before deciding not to help me. Shove it!
Fluxation (fluctuation? Yeah, probably) number two: I'm looking for a new job (nb. 2011 checklist on the sidebar). For some time now I've been developing a certain rapport with the human resources manager at the local newspaper. Our blossoming relationship has developed an observable behavioural pattern whereby I send her a charming and eloquently penned application letter and she sends me a heartfelt and passionately photocopied
Wait...
Maybe I'll just send her a bouquet of orchids with the next copy of my résumé. I received another rejection notice this week which contained just the faintest hint of lavender perfume - a remarkable achievement for an email attachment, I'm sure you'll agree. The long game continues.
Fluxification number three: My name is Michael Westen. I used to be a spy, until...
Oh go on. Make of that what you will.
Garry with 2 Rs
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