It's funnier with a british accent

I'm curious. What do you think? This phone call to Fawlty Tower's Manuel has been causing a great deal of controversy in England. Jonathan Ross and Russell Brand have been suspended from the BBC over it even though it was probably the producer's fault for airing it rather than their fault for doing it. Funny? Personally, I think it is. Quite. What's funny is not that they are joking about having had sex with his granddaughter, rather, the way they keep making it worse and worse. I have done this. I wasn't trying to be funny when I did it, I was just making insane phone calls and leaving bad messages that I would leave more messages to try to correct. Anyway, they are both known for being little bastards. If nothing else, you've got to admire the insanely, mania-like quick wit of Russell Brand. Is it offensive enough for all the flack they are getting?



And now, Manuel. Ahh Fawlty Towers....

Canned meat mastication

Snow! Snow I tell's ya. S-s-s-s-snow.

There is snow on the ground. The wind was ice and it smelled like winter. Hoo doggies.

The below post was actually written yesterday. They cancelled the pizza party due to technical problematicals but our pizza was already ordered so we ate it anyway. I had to do it with my head sideways on the table though. That freaked my coworkers out. Sometimes, my inner ear gets all screwed up from sinus pressure and whatnot and I suddenly get super dizzy. It's relieved only by having my head to one side. I figured I might as well eat some pizza before going home. I'm sure it was disturbing to everyone to watch me maneuver salad into my mouth with my head, sideways on the table. Ha ha.

Speaking of gross things. Count on the train to provide. A woman sat down beside me with her cigarette stinking fur coat. I think she was in her early 40's but looked 80 due to smoking 18 packs a day since birth. Plus, she had crappy headphones for her mp3 player that make every piece of shit song she listened to audible, which drives me mental. Listening to other people's music is one of my main grievances. Agreeably, not the most profound of grievances in the grand scheme of grief however...

So I moved to another seat. Then, as further punishment for mingling amongst humanity, the guy standing in front of me whipped out 2 sandwiches and ate them in a vomit inducing manner. Did I mention they stank? Canned "meat" sandwiches on white buns with mayonnaise and cheese. How do I know? Because I could smell each ingredient most sickeningly. And the lip smacking? Gott in himmel. Smack smack smack, masticating his canned meat and mayonnaise, smack smack. Are you ready to barf? Well I heard it in person, friend. It's still haunting me.

Leisurely augmented

There are vending machines for French fries. Have you seen one? I did, this morning in the train station, “opening soon”. I don’t know whether or not I will ever try this. It just doesn’t seem right, yet, is attractive by virtue of its novelty. Probably the angle “they” were going for. “Let’s hook’em with the novelty and then cram some rancid, oil-soaked, mould-laden potatoes down their throats. Suckahs.”

For some reason, I just love central station in Montreal. I think I’d like to work there. It’s underground, but not gloomy. It’s bustling without being overwhelming. It’s got good chocolate and pastry and magazines and now, vending machine disposed French fries. What more could you ask for in a central station? I would like to work for Viarail. Their customer service agents are surly. I can be surly. Or I could stand around in an ugly uniform like a lot of the other workers with undefined positions seem to do. They have good parkas though. I want to work in one of those parkas. I wonder if they provide them or make you pay for them and if so, do you get to keep it after you stop working for them?

I was thinking this morning that when I am out of work in December, I may take a train into central station and hang out there in the morning anyway, as a part of some kind of inspiration routine. For what purpose? Not sure. Character sketches? Short stories? Resume writing? Job searching? Assassination plots? At the very least, a nice cup of tea and some toast and some people watching. Like a true crazy, unemployed person. Don’t say I don’t have aspirations.

The servers are down this morning at work, which means I can sit here and obviously, unapologetically, not work. All my work is done online. No server equals no worky. T-shirt slogan?

We are having a pizza lunch today. The Toronto office is having a formal introduction of the take-over bank’s people and we get to sit and watch via video conference while we eat pizza. Pointless? Yes ma’am, yes sirrah. But pizza is involved so it can’t be entirely awful. That’s not at all true. If, for example, I was being drawn and quartered, but they gave me some pizza while it was happening, it would still be entirely awful. Pizza does not redeem all evil. Also a t-shirt.

I can’t remember the last time I wore a T-shirt with a slogan on it actually. Sign of aging? Probably. No more, wearing my record collection on my chest. I still have my band t-shirts. I’ve been trying to figure out something clever to do with them. Maybe I’ll use my time in Central Station for that. Only one month left till unemployment. That sounds so negative though. How about workfreeness, or leisure-augmented... One month until I am freetime enhanced.

Well, back to sitting here and staring out the window at the gray Montreal skyline. I will miss that part of work. I will miss the view. I probably won’t get another job with that luxury. Then again, maybe I will. Or maybe I’ll just find another way to see it. I still like you Montreal. Soon, I will look for a new way to be a part of you.

Even Australian babies drink beer

Awww. Someone from New South Wales in Australia did a google search of "i'm a guy and can't drink beer" and google called up one of my blog pages. I'm sure it wasn't what he was looking for. He is probably the only man in all of Australia with this terrible affliction. He should move to New Zealand.

Juicy Steak Meats

Hey, have you heard? There's some financial troubles going on in the world. What that translates to, is me getting paid to surreptitiously read junk on the innornet and wonder if fat cells can pool and expand in the abdomen by remaining seated all day. By me remaining seated all day, not the fat cells. Although, I get the feeling, even my fat cells are lazy enough to sit on the job.

To summarize: not much going on at this here bank, except for people getting axed. Not fired, axed. The economy is so bad, they are actually going into the smaller branches and bludgeoning the workers with axes, to death! It's saves dollars.
Well, no one's been axed at this particular office, but in the states, well, whoo doggies is really the only way to put it.

There's a stinking, grey, filthy band of haze on the horizon of Montreal today. Last night, I woke up choking and couldn't breath and had to use my brand new, recently acquired asthma inhaler. That's twice now I've used it. Seems like I done gone and got me up so asthma. At 34 years old. Right on.

Why not take a break in your purposeful day and enrich your blood with some juicy, raw, old-fashioned comedy steaks. DO IT!

What would Aristotle say?

This morning, tiny, feeble, sparse drops of snow did fall. It begins.

Fall was pretty until now. The leaves were fiery and the weather was right. Cool and crisp. Now, it is the time of rain and gloom and frost. Everyone is feeling the panic of winter's roaring approach. It's palpable, the panic that is. Well, so is the approach of winter. Funny how some countries don't even go through this. They just wear the same moderate clothing all year round for their moderate weather. I think Canadian identity is essentially just the pride of enduring weather. Of course, there are other countries that endure harsh seasons, but they all seem to have other things to be proud of. Not that I'm complaining. I like Canada. I like Canadians. I like weather.

So I have work until the end of November. Then, the void. As predicted, having set quitting in motion, a veil of misery has lifted which, ironically, makes me feel more capable of working. Catch 22 indeed. Sometimes, actually often, depression doesn't allow for sound and reasonable decisions. I want to move forward anyway, in spite of it. I'd like to believe that's possible no matter how crappy a decision is intentionally or unintentionally made. Of course, probabilities dictate certain outcomes, but pure randomness has it's influence as well. What am I trying to form here in my rhetoric? Ethos, pathos or logos? Or a weak combination of all three? Sigh.

In any case, perhaps I can just believe that somehow, I will find a way to make it all work out and stick with that feeling, otherwise, what's the point. Another rhetorical question.

Meanwhile, I must admit to a perverse delight in the first sign of snow. Winter is harsh. It's also powerful and beautiful and I like how it takes us all over and commands us to adapt. Like Good King Wenceslas, looking out on the feast of Stephen, I enjoy the snow laying round about, deep and crisp and even.

At least this December, being out of work, I can go full on pagan each day. I think I will enjoy that. I think it will help me feel happier. Seeing the snow and bare trees, the cloudy skies and sparrows, the trickling of cold streams or the freezing or puddles. I will delight in them. I will mark my footsteps (my good page) and try to tread them boldly. Or something.

I'll figure it out or I won't. That's all.

GWAP'in it.

One more thing. You must go here and play these games if you care about idling at all. It's not regular, stupid games. These are games with a purpose my friend. Supposedly, they teach computers to learn while you are having fun. Which computers, and why? I don't know but the games sure are neat. The point of all them is to basically see things the same way as an anonymous opponent. Just go try some out, you'll see.

www.gwap.com

Vote for the moustache.

Also, today is voting day. Please citizens of Canada, don't re-elect the chunky robot. If you are rich and don't give a shit about anyone else, I guess you would vote for him and you would suck for life too. It's a full moon tonight. Anything could happen.

Sinking ships

So, here I am. I didn't have to actually burn the art related tools and products, but I have put them away. After the initial violent adjustment, I feel good about it. I'm free to find another path. I am still me.

And, I did give notice at work because I can't go on there. I am very depressed and I need to take steps to get back to feeling like there is hope. Leaving this job, surprisingly, gives me a glimmer of hope, even though it's financial suicide. Poverty and misery do tend to go hand in hand but I've lived poor for a long long time and I can continue, so long as I have a home and food to eat. The rest is just extras and my mental health is more important. Quitting gives me hope that I don't have to be stuck. Hope that I can find, if not better work, something new at the very least. It also gives me hope that I will have some time to physically recover and stop looking and feeling like death warmed over.

As it turns out, it's probably quite timely. I work for a European bank that is in the news these days (especially in Scotland) for sucking the big one, as it were, financially. The government has bailed my employer out. Once the second biggest bank in Europe, now 60% owned by Gordon Brown. Talk about a sinking ship. This was a Dutch bank that was very recently acquired by this monolith of Scotland so before you could even say hoots man, it will probably be sold by the government to a brand new bank. That should make it real easy to get a raise or a permanent contract or anything like that...pfft.

As a contract worker, the new bank has really been working hard to isolate me and make me feel left out. This is all coming from people in Scotland who have no idea what's going on here in our little office of 9 people. They sent everyone welcome gifts of ugly knapsacks and mugs and stuff. Except me. I'm not a real employee somehow. They sent me an email asking me who I worked for. You, I replied. They had everyone go get photos taken to make identification cards. Except me. They sent me the same plastic card but in the place where a photo would have been, I have a big blue capital T. Temporary. Branded, don't you know.

Anyway.

Forget them. I am not a complete fool. Surely I can be employed elsewhere. Maybe Ikea will hire me to drive Flurgen Flooven around on a forklift. I could wear a hard hat like a Dozer and eat lignonberry and peanut butter sandwiches during my lunch break...

We shall see.

Giving up the Ghost

In answer to my previous posts' questions: yes. Yes I should burn it all, truly and metaphorically. Time to grow up and accept some reality. Someone once told me I wasn't an artist. I guess she was right. Probably, I should have killed the urge long ago as it's caused nothing but grief and failure, sort of like adopting an abomination of nature and dragging it through life, instead of mercy killing it in the shade of the forest trees where you found it and putting it out of it's misery.

Ah yes, the drama of grief and mourning.

I've been struggling with my life, feeling the soul destroying emptiness of spending one's days and precious time working at something that means nothing to me (ie working in a bank),while it depletes my will and energy and while wishing I had the time to do that which I really do care about.

I thought I would take a leap, and try it but I doubted my ability to and was torn. Such a risk for someone with such a history of failure in the same area. Such an agonizing decision, but why should it be? Why should be following your path be an agonizing choice? Finally, I realized, it wasn't worth the risk. I don't have what it takes. I never have and I have example after example to prove that. It is a painful loss to let it go, but a necessary one. Like living in the bedroom of a dead loved-one, you will never move on unless you tear it all down and throw it all out.

Maybe then, after I let it go, working in a bank or any of the other realities of life will seem less painful. Maybe I will discover what I'm really meant to do, which could be anything or nothing. In the meantime, creative pursuits must flame into ashes and smoke. They have walked along beside me like ghosts I can't bring back to life for too long.

Thanks for reading and wish me luck.

I can't quit my job. I can't afford it. Life would spiral into abject poverty which brings it's own significant set of misery. So on I go, trudging through the days, hope dying out. Nearly 35. Life is not what I hoped it may turn out to be. Pain is desire; Desire for a life that can't be led. Can I kill hope? Do I burn my art supplies and throw all material and thread onto the bonfire? Is that how to get through? Do I smother any lingering flicker of a dream of something more? Will that make broken dreams less painful? Is that what liquor and cable tv is for? Just give up? I don't know how to keep drudging through the days while holding on to a measly scrap of an ideal that just keeps getting more filthy and disintegrated. What is there to even blog about when I'm just a shell of human, crawling through calender squares, silencing hopes that can't come to life? All rhetorical questions of course. Life.

For the ol' factory. (i know I know. ole. )

I couldn't agree with this man more, HERE!! Please everyone go here and buy a scent if you must wear one. I HATE perfume. It never, ever, ever, ever smells good. Ever. It smells fake and cloying always always always and I'm so pleased that someone industrious feels the same way. Read this article to learn more.

"Smells like subway....(cough, cough)ha ha, cigarettes.......snow." They are just like Maude's odorifics and I want Winter 1972, Russian Caravan, Fire From Heaven and Violet Empire, I do, I do. Plus, oh my stars, Snow. Snow! Which ones would you choose?

Waking up with hindsight.

I don't know why I haven't listened to my iPod at work before. I am now. It feels different to be working to Loverboy.

On another note: Holy carpcrap, I am soooo bored. Perhaps the current global economic situation has some influence on the fact that I am mostly sitting here doing nothing all day. Here at this bank. Doo dee doo. Twiddle twiddle (of thumbs).

I had a dream last night that I saw a booth in a mall that told fortunes. Like, with a genie inside and stuff, and when you pressed the button, it played an Ozzie Osbourne song. The exciting part is that it was a brand new Ozzie song that even Ozzie doesn't know about. It's called "She Says She Woke Up With Hindsight."

Go ahead, sing it to yourself, you know what it would sound like. Number 1 hit. Done. What else can I do for you world? What other bits of genius can I dream up to enhance every one's daily life?

Dreaming that song made me wake up laughing. Now just writing out the title has made me laugh, blowing my pretending-to-work cover. No one likes their bank job enough to guffaw at their screen and then tee hee for a little after. Pushing money around just isn't that amusing. Not for me anyway.

Sheee saaays, deer ne ne neer neer, neer neer, she woke up with, dunn de ne dunn dunn, dunn de ne dunn dunn, HIIIND SIIIGGHT!

Anyway.

I miss the old, chubby, acid-tripping, frosted hair Ozzy.