Posts Tagged ‘rant and rave’

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.


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Upon closer investigation into the religious side of Easter – and yes, there is one, and apparently it has nothing to do with chocolate eggs and life sized rabbits – I found myself rather overwhelmed and unable to decipher how exactly it is that Jesus rose from the dead or how it came to pass that this meant everyone should eat a lot of chocolate, and in the case of my friends mother, answering all phone calls by declaring: Christ has risen, rather than simply saying hello.

So I am largely leaving that mystery, I mean, miracle, alone, and calling it a long weekend. It’s how I was raised: Holidays, not religion. What can I say, I am from shallow stock.

But with shallow, often comes suspicion, so I must confess that on Easter Sunday while at the pub ostensibly toasting Jesus’ return but in actual fact getting shit faced drunk while listening to the Mad Peruvians’ classic 7inch reggae collection, I did mention, apologetically, to my friend who had a strict religious upbringing, that I thought ‘it all’ (my well crafted summation of the religious as opposed to egg eating aspect of Easter) sounded a bit fucking ridiculous, and she said I was right, that it is all ridiculous, except that she cant say so because she feels too guilty. So based, if on nothing else but this bizarre clause that allows her to sanction my guilt but not confess her own, even though she did, I think I will stick to calling it ridiculous and leave it at that.

But outside of these considerations I had all sorts of experiences and reflections that were for the most part thoroughly unrelated to the fact that Christ died and rose again. For example, when Good Friday rolled around I found myself thinking ‘what is that noise?’ and ‘where is it coming from?’, before I realized that the world had gone eerily quiet and I was in fact listening to the ‘sound of silence’. Then before I knew it was all ‘hello darkness my old friend’.

Because the silence was a result of the four lane major highway that sits at our front doorstep being dead empty. There was not a car or soul in sight, and I felt like I had woke to a scene of a zombie movie where the entire population had been killed, and the streets showed no sign of life.

And then I realized my parents were home too, but it was technically a weekday, so that felt plain weird all over again, and as I stood there, in the silence of no traffic whizzing by, I realised that all the shops would be closed and that I wouldn’t be able to get a coffee for the love of God – literally, and I started to feel strange and restless as a result of this system shut down and idle and neurotic thoughts started getting loud on the account of their being so much silence, so that when my Mother offered to take The Boy for a walk but was then gone too long I found myself fretting that she had had a heart attack (hello darkness) and that she would be lying paralysed in a gutter somewhere completely leaving herself open to attack by the zombies, and that The Boy would be looking on in horror and confusion thus leaving him scarred for life meaning I will need to foot ongoing therapy bills, and no one will come to their aid because its Good Friday and everyone has been eaten by zombies and even if by chance someone does find her in this newly vacated, post apocalyptic world, how will they be able to identify her because she didn’t even take her wallet? But hopefully they would just call an ambulance anyway, but then who will comfort The Boy when they whisk her away and –

“What was that dear; what am I thinking about? Oh Nothing really, just enjoying the Easter ambiance…”

And as if that wasn’t enough of a wild tangent alerting you to the heights of my neurosis and anxiety, I then started to contemplate the broader idiosyncratic nature of my parents logic, who I had learnt were home for the long weekend because they decided not to go camping on account of the ‘Easter crowds’.

This is in the same vain, but no where near the same league, as when we were in France and, on their insistence, had driven them to the Monte Carlo Casino, and they decided to photograph the building from the car window while doing a drive by that would do a set of bank robbers proud because it would have been too hard to stop and find a park.

Which means we now have this as evidence that we have ‘been there’, which also serves as an invaluable reminder how not to travel the world

But to be fair, their logic about crowds and camping did remind me of how, years ago, when I was reading a guest column in the local paper, some guy was going off his nut –it was a rant and rave type column – over the time he went camping to a beautiful and remote National Park with his girlfriend and set up their tent in an empty campground before walking down to a nearby beach. When they got back they discovered, to their horror, that a newly arrived couple had sent up camp right next to them despite the fact that the entire campground was otherwise empty. This guy couldn’t believe it so he set off on a tour of the campground to inspect the other sites – surely there must have been a problem elsewhere, an ant invasion, swamp lands he hadn’t noticed, something, anything to explain this new couples unfathomable decision to plonk themselves right on top of the only other people there. But no, every other spot was perfectly fine, and he found no such explanation. Other than people are just fucking weird, that is.

Because, similarly, I know of a couple travelling somewhere in Europe, a far more space challenged continent, and remarkably finding themselves on a mile long beach with not a soul in sight. Then, to their horror, they watched an entire family trudge hundreds of metres up the vast, empty beach and so they could set their towels down 2 metres from the jaw dropped couple.

And nothing but plain fucking weirdness explains shit like that.

And all of this might have fuck all to do with Easter, but on a weirdness scale it has to be right up there with a whole lot of people believing in some guy waking from the dead and pushing huge boulders out of his way so he can get back on with absolving the world of sin.

And then before I knew it, it was like, Sunday, and three whole days had passed and all I had done was pursue mind rambling bullshit, and STILL not even figured out much about this Easter business, at which point I reminded myself of the fabulous David Sedaris book “Me Talk Pretty One Day” and the blurb on the back page that explains it all:

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