CAST (and what they are wearing)
RTS – a sometimes bitter, cynical thirty something woman who has wind battered, smog splattered hair from having driven manically across town with the window wound down in peak hour traffic. She is wearing a plain white summer dress that has been smeared in vegemite and snot from her young child, who has also torn the bottom two buttons off.
Producer Boy – a well meaning, highly excitable, documentary maker that for some reason now working in the field of making documentaries, minus the footage. He is wearing daggy ‘middle aged men’ shorts, which is ironic because he is not middle aged, matched with a child’s size livid green jumper that, being five sizes too small, rides high on his midriff.
The Talent – a comfortably confident young woman, who without trying to hard is stylishly dressed, and for the most part, quite sensible sounding.
Contributor Chick – a large haired young woman with a booming, over confidant, perfectly articulating voice. Outwardly she projects her ‘just a country girl’ roots, but this is matched with a fierce and striving city living ambition. She works at the ABC and even though it is well after work hours, she is wearing her identity card around her neck like a VIP card carrier mingling with the masses at a rock concert
Hipsters – A homogenous bunch of twenty something’s that would be mortified to know they have been grouped together homogenously.
One – Has a long blond fringe swept to one side, which, mysteriously, hangs in his eyes. He is wearing a flannelette shirt, which is a trademark garment of Bogans, who wear them because they are cheap and warm, as opposed to hipsters, who wear them because they are not Bogans, which means they are making a fashion statement
Two – Is wearing tight blacks jeans matched with a tight white shirt and heavy black rimmed glasses, he seems to be shooting for the ‘cool, but intellectual’ look, which he might have had more luck with if he didn’t look like a fresh faced twelve year old.
Three – Is in blue jeans that are so tight they could have been painted on. The bottoms are rolled up at the three quarter mark and his singlet is so large, loose and low cut that the neck line comes down to his belly button, revealing a small, but prominent, patch of chest hair. On his pinky finger is the kind of solid bold, gold ring that Tony Soprano would envy.
Four and Five – two young girls that have so fully embraced their hipsterhood they are almost bowed under the weight of their clanking, clashing accessories. They scream ‘fashionable’ so loudly that your eyes hurt. Yet despite this brashness, their eyes are timid and nervous looking, and when no one else is looking, they give each other’s hands a little squeeze.
EXT – BUSY INTERSECTION OUTSIDE PRODUCTION HOUSE
We watch as RTS, in a blaze of blunders, pulls up to the traffic lights, frantically checking her watch even though she knows she is going to be late.
Three young hipsters sail past on free wheelin’ bicycles as RTS sits stuck in her car, they leisurely park their bikes outside the production house. While RTS is perspiring smog, these fine young things have barely broken a sweat, having only had to ride less than five blocks to arrive here
RTS, caught between fond nostalgia for the times when she too lived a car free life in the inner city, and a stabbing bitterness for the naive bubble she believes they live in, stares vacantly at them, not noticing the lights have turned green until the cars behind her start blaring their horns.
INT – PRODUCTION HOUSE MEETING ROOM
We follow RTS as she arrives, late, into the production house meeting room, which is a harshly lit room enclosed with glass sliding doors. It sits right at the very entrance to the building, and the glass wall makes the inhabitants seem like they are in a cramped and over exposed fish bowl.
Over sized office chairs form a ring around the large circular table, the ridiculously pompous chairs are such an inefficient use of space that no more than 10 people can sit comfortably at the table. This has the rather unfortunate awkward side effect of their being no room for all the latecomers.
As people continue to arrive late, the over sized chair dwellers make cursory gestures of moving along, which mostly involves shuffling their asses in their seat but not actually moving, before looking up at the late person and giving a soft smile and a shrug of the shoulders as if to say, “I tried my best”. Contributor Chick is the most guilty of this.
As a result a small cluster of late comers forms at the door, some squeezed in on stools, and the rest left standing.
RTS, shocked by the fact that not one person who has entered the building has shown any signs of age or ordinariness, is starting to wonder if there is some kind of ‘NO plain clothes or hair cuts’ door policy, and if it was the vegemite stains on her dress that saw her slip past it, when Producer Boy coughs to signal that the meeting should start….
Producer Boy (positioned in front of the white board):
I think we should get started. I’ve chosen a special topic for the next show, “Home, House and Holden”
He scrawls this up on the board then looks around the room as if expecting no one to guess the immediate link here, he smiles knowingly and elaborates:
This is taken from a famous Menzies speech back in the day where he captures what he believes to represent the ‘quintessential Australian Dream’; that all Australians wish to own a home, a holiday house, and a Holden car. I think we can do a great contemporary take on this, starting with a story about a Filipino Housing Coop living in harmony with chickens and organic vegetables, that operates out in….
He pauses, screws his face in concentration, then continues finally recalls the name of the non-inner city suburb and says it slowly, like people are deaf, or have trouble understanding English words not pertinent to city centric lives
Auuuuburn. That’s it. They have recreated an Asian type village out there, and it would be fabulous to look into that.
He scrawl this suggestion up on the board
Ok. Other ideas?
Hipster One:
A have a friend who lives in his car and rents out a six room inner city warehouse he owns. So he is, like, homeless, but also, like, a landlord. I think that would be really interesting to look into (laughs) like how he just lives in his car by the beach surfing all day!
Small laughter erupts around the room
HI (continues): Yeah. So he is like totally homeless, which would just be a really interesting take on the whole, outdated, ‘own your own home’ thing.
A few murmurs go around the room
Hipster Five:
What about another homeless person story. Like someone living on the street. Does anyone know any real homeless people?
Hipster Four:
I might know someone who saw someone talk to someone on the street once
Producer Boy:
That sounds great, chase that up. Can you chase that up? What’s your name again?
Hipster Two:
Oh, there is this man I know of, he is a costume designer, and he lives in this, artist coop. He would be great. He is so wild. Like, oh my god, I have never seen anyone like this man. Wait. Check him out. I have a photo
(reaches into his bag and roots around for his digital camera, then holds it up for the room. No one can see the tiny image on the screen, but this does not dampen his enthusiasm)
He is just The. Craziest. Thing. I. Have. Ever. Seen.
Looks up beaming
Producer Boy:
Ok. Go for it. He sounds amazing. I love it. I love this man. Who is he?
Hipster Two:
His name is Zio.
Producer Boy:
Zio. That’s fantastic. I love this. You have to do this.
The Talent:
What about a story of someone who actually has a home and and house and a holden?
The room goes silent. Everyone is stumped by this suggestion
Contributor Chick:
I can talk to my contacts at the ABC, they might know of someone ordinary
The Talent:
Oh, and maybe a refugee family story, like, what is their take on what the “Australian dream is”?
Producer Boy
Oh Yes. Absolutely.
Hipster Two:
I think it is fair to say that the Australian Dream is really just a postulating reconstruction of the ever failing American Dream both being driven by larger economic imperatives and national aspirations that greater reflect increasingly outdated ideologies
A few people agree ‘yes’ and ‘totally’ while others stay firmly silent
Producer Boy has been busy scrawling all the suggestions on the board. He stands back to assess them.
Producer Boy:
Ok well lets take a look at this (scanning down). Great, great, it is looking great. Um, hang on, what’s this one, the ‘someone who actually has a ‘home, house and Holden’ – where is the ‘quirky’ take on that?! I’m not sure that’s going to work….
Oh but, the Refugee family, now that’s important. It’s really important that we tell that story.
Murmurs of accent roll around the room, with many people nodding meaningfully in agreement
The meeting continues in much the same fashion for another hour or so until Producer Boy wraps things up by declaring that they should all ‘pedal to the pub’. RTS slips quietly away, gets back in her car, and drives home, feeling ever so slightly judgemental….
….ENDS
round up, rave on
December 21, 2010 by rubytwoshoes
After barely blogging these last few months, I had planned to see the year out with bang. A ‘round up’ post of the big thoughts that defined 2010, namely, that instead of having a second child within the seemingly mandatory ‘two year gap’ could I just buy more mirrors and teach him that his reflection is in fact a new sibling? And, if you write a blog post but fail to comment on anyone else’s, does anyone hear your blog post fall?
But sitting down to write, I got a little waylaid by the feeling, once again, that I was mad and the world was full of fucktards.
Because on my way to the library I stopped for a coffee and a barista in a beret made me a Cappuccino instead of a Latte, which I would have happily just drank had I not watched his eyes dart from side to side to check no one was looking then scramble for a lid to mask his mistake before handing me my ‘latte’. The mild deception irked me and I found myself saying, with mock innocence, ‘Oh, is that my latte? I thought it was a Cap…’
Which meant that he had to make me another one, which I would have only felt slightly foolish about, had he not made me a fucking Cap again. By this stage, coffee starved and back breaking under the weight of my overladen backpack, I would have gobbled that Cap in five seconds flat, but, realising his repeat mistake, he tipped it out before I could even speak up. So three fucking attempts later I finally had my froth free coffee in my hot little hands, but not yet coursing through my body so it was no surprise that by the time the cheery chirpy Christian man (I overheard him making church arrangements) waiting next to me openly gave me a ‘look’, passing judgement on the vicious snarl I just gave the beret barista for making me wait so fucking long, I was totally pissed off.
Trudging up the ramp to the library bent over like a peasant under the weight of poverty (only I was bent under the weight of relative privilege) I furiously cursed the Christian for glaring at me while I was rude to the coffee man. What right did he have? Is that really what Jesus died for, so you could pass open judgement on those who can’t match your Bex like cheer after being forced to wait through the pain of THREE coffee cock ups? I don’t think so. And hasn’t he ever heard of subtly? From the way he bounded up to the counter two seconds after he placed his order, stood smack bang in the middle of everyone’s way and said “I’m fine, I’m fine” even though bounding up expectantly to the counter seemed to suggest he was not in fact fine at all, I seriously doubt it. But did I make him aware of my judgements? Did I make it known that he looked like a classic passive aggressive the way his obnoxious actions indicated one thing and his cheery chirpy mouth espoused another? No, no I did not. I did my judgements in private, storing them safely away in my head so I could post them publically at later date. So stop glaring at me asshole.
And as if that’s not enough I enter the library, back still breaking under the weight of my privilege, coffee in one hand, a pile of audio books in another, staggering to the counter only to have my precarious pile of audio books come crashing down dramatically all around me. My back is so sore I can barely comprehend having to bend down and pick them all up, when the librarian informs me that I cant even return them at the counter anyway, I have to take them to a fucking automated Do-It-Yourself chute out on the street. What the hell is this? Mechanisation gone mad? Why have gainfully employed librarians handle book returns when you can get the general public to do it themselves? And what? Save two minutes of librarian labour that you can instead funnel into the fundraising department and see the next budget come down in surplus and win efficient management award for your labour saving and cost cutting techniques? Well guess what? It’s a government funded library dickheads, save your petty assed efficiency for the day you defect to the private sector.
And then, I sit down, happy to have finally found a nice spacious desk to work at, and what do I hear? In a library? Nail clippers. Yep, fucking nail clippers. Behind me there is a young lady, loudly, snip, snip, snipping at her fingernails in the library. And where is she putting these discarded pieces of human growth and refuse? On the floor. So not only is she shattering the silence with the sound of her incessant clipping, she is using the library as her human waste bucket. God help me if she decides she needs to take a shit.
But worst of all is that despite these encounters with fairly harmless fuckards, I am the one left feeling like a badly behaved little brat. And here is the greatest irony of all, I sat down to compose a blog post for my annual mix CD, which I titled, “Happy People Dance”.
Stay tuned for that happy day folks.
Posted in City Life | Tagged annoying people make me angry, Are Christians on Bex the 1950s wonder drug, blogging without commenting, happy days, happy people dance, rant and rave, second children | 19 Comments »