Now for something that actually happened to me at my place of employment.
Last Friday, as I was dragging myself out of the basement with my five free tentacles, I came across an amazing thing: other people! The employees were all standing in the kitchen area, milling about, drinking champagne, snacking on free antipasto, etc., as the proletariat are wont to do. I thought that since I hadn't seen anyone in a while, I would go and say hello. Hey, maybe I could get into a conversation - after all, permanent employees talk to temps sometimes, right? And I'm wearing pants, which makes me look pretty classy, right? Yes, despite a week of sensory isolation and white-out induced nosebleeds, everything was going to be o.k.
The kitchen is separated from the corridor by a glass partition, which meant that everyone (approx. 50 employees) could see me walking towards the kitchen, just as I could see them. Some looked at me and smiled. I smiled back, flicking my hair back from my face with my left index finger, to give those in the know a hint of my devastatingly debonaire nature. This was great - this was what made filing all worth it.
In full view of absolutely everyone, I sauntered quickly through the doorway, which was blocked by an unexpectedly closed glass door. The remainder of my work week went as follows:
1. Bounced off door with a rather loud 'clonk'.
2. Reeled.
3. Did a 360 degree turn for some reason. It was not suave, no matter how it may sound on paper.
4. Rebalanced, assumed innate 'combative' stance, glared at door accusingly.
5. Looked imploringly at the watching employees, as if to say "Look what that fucking door did to me!"
6. Suddenly understood that I had hit door, not vice-versa.
7. Slunk off, dazed and hungry.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
The Faster Filer in the West
Filing. It's a word that seems somehow bound up with the East India Company: melting sweaty starched shirts, neat round glasses, obsessive overorganization, unseen ex-pickpocket Coolies darting around with dextrous fingers while fat Englishmen hassle them for another James Squire and a palm-leaf fan. The practice seems bizarrely out of line with the supposed weightlessness of the information economy: the idea that there are actual pieces of paper that correspond to a company's information is comically archaic, sort of like finding out that currency trading between countries is still done by wheeling piles of gold around Fort Knox on little motorized vehicles nicknamed 'gold buggies.'
But while the gold standard was canned last century (correct me here, economists), and the gold buggies were melted down into Oscar statuettes, the practice of filing, I'm glad to say, is alive and well in early 20th Century Australia. I know, because I file for a (temporary) living. Death certificates, mostly: oh, sure, there's the occasional affidavit or bank statement, but these patches of excitement are fleeting (though undeniably exquisite!).
* * *
A FILER'S MORNING
N.B.: All intellectual games take place over a steady background noise of superefficient filing ('swish clack swish clack ow swish clack clang swish').
After approximately four hours of filing, it is virtually impossible not to invent nasty little games to make it more fun. A typical filer's activities are outlined below. (Please note that this does not refer to any specific filer. Rather, it speaks for all filers in the universe.)
But while the gold standard was canned last century (correct me here, economists), and the gold buggies were melted down into Oscar statuettes, the practice of filing, I'm glad to say, is alive and well in early 20th Century Australia. I know, because I file for a (temporary) living. Death certificates, mostly: oh, sure, there's the occasional affidavit or bank statement, but these patches of excitement are fleeting (though undeniably exquisite!).
* * *
A FILER'S MORNING
N.B.: All intellectual games take place over a steady background noise of superefficient filing ('swish clack swish clack ow swish clack clang swish').
After approximately four hours of filing, it is virtually impossible not to invent nasty little games to make it more fun. A typical filer's activities are outlined below. (Please note that this does not refer to any specific filer. Rather, it speaks for all filers in the universe.)
1. "Life Expectancy!" (usually played from 9am - 10am)
Who will win? Morris Walsh from Monbulk (b. 1931), or Susan Smith, from Mentone (b. 1925)? Go, Morris! Go, Morris! Go, Morris! (Adds up numbers in head) Oh, damn you, Susan! (Morris is barely pipped at the post by Susan, who manages to keep on the perch till 2006, 3 years longer than Morris). Filer throws manila folder onto floor, in frustration at forgetting that women tend to live longer than men for some unknown reason.
2. "Life's Big Questions!" (10am-11am)
Why do women live longer than men? Is it because they have periods, thus cleansing the blood supply somehow? (My friend told me this in year 8 sex ed class. He knew what 69ing meant, so why would he be wrong here?) Or, is it because men do more home renovations than women, wantonly sticking their fingers in fuseboxes? (5-10 min. digression: is this 'fusebox' theory a clever sexual metaphor? And is it ethically right to diverge from thinking about life expectancy to thinking about sex?) Come to think of it, aren't women asking a bit much with all this equal rights racket, when they live longer than us? Don't they make it up in quantity? (end with 10 min. quasi-Catholic penance for un-PC direction interior monologue has taken.)
3. "Woman walks into room!" (11-11.02). Followed by 1 hour 58 min of 'thinking' about woman (11:02-1:00).
INT. CONCRETE BASEMENT. DAY. LIT BY SINGLE, FLICKERING FLORESCENT TUBE, ATOP OF WHICH IS STREWN ASSORTED FRIED BUGS. HUNCHBACKED FILER SHUFFLES BETWEEN FILING SHELVES, MUTTERING AND SCRATCHING TESTICLES WHEN REQUIRED.
Enter first WOMAN who has come into the filing basement that week.
WOMAN: Hello there, I was just wondering if you could find this file-
FILER looks at woman, a kindly glint in his one remaining eye. The bolt through his neck glimmers appealingly. He attempts to unstoop his shoulders, which make an alarming cracking noise as he does so. His hands are covered in paper cuts. He has not shaved in days, and may have slept in the filing basement on Tuesday and Wednesday nights after everyone had gone home. He can't really remember: every room looks like a basement to him now. He smiles affectionately at the woman, but the filer's basement-enforced lack of social graces make his expression seem comical and strange. Moreover, the light is rather unflattering, and does not do justice to FILER's moisturizing regime.
FILER (speaking rapidly, yet articulating his words quite clearly, considering the circumstances):
HellomynameisTimandI'monlydoingthistemporarilyandafterthisIhavemanyexpensiveplansinvolving
- *hunchbacked filer takes deep, jagged, gasping breath* -
takingyoutoexpensivecountriesinfirstclassandoffsettingthecarbonwecreatebybyplantingtrees -
Exit WOMAN, pursued by FILER.
FILER re-enters basement. For the next two hours, he can be heard to mutter fragments of a language that does not sound very much like English at all.
1:00-2:00 Lunchtime!
FILER exits office, clicking heels of hobnail boots as he does so. Tries to use coffee machine, burns hand, curses extravagantly, eats donut, goes to sleep on conference table. Mutters random numbers as company director and several secretaries try to roll him onto the carpet. After a while, a tablecloth is laid over the filer. The permanent employees try to ignore him, but he smells so bad that they fail.
EXHAUSTED FILER: 16....132....*burp*.....2885.....*snore*.....
OTHER EMPLOYEES: Eww.
Sight
It lies on the end of my index finger: a tiny jellyfish which has been eviscerated, possibly by a miniature melon baller made specifically for the purpose.
I look closer, and now its membrane is amplifying the tiny tremors running through my hand, which I hadn’t noticed before. They tell a predictable story of lack of sleep, bad diet, anxiety. The wobble of the membrane atip my finger seems so finely-tuned that I wonder if it is translatable, somehow – as a stylus extracts information from plastic, this plastic extracts it from my skin. The flexible disc amplifies my hands’ hidden signals extravagantly. It will need decoding now, from physical signals into sound waves. It's written in the language of stress.
Now the invertebrate’s border spreads outward, coating my visual field in plastic, soaked sheen. Closer to the surface, the shape loses its pristine appearance: no longer an animal that man has not touched, as I look closer at the spreading circle I see the encrustations on its concave arc. This is “protein” – an inappropriately positive name for hardened eye sludge, congealed blindness. The positive connotations of the word are sucked down under its newfound halo of contaminants. This beige silt gilds the rim like a dirty margarita, speckled blotchily along the semisphere’s central point. As I notice them, I feel slightly less calm, and the tremor-music spikes suddenly, flinging the disc off my finger. It flattens out as it spins laterally through the air, before its flight is broken by the table. The jellyfish lies there, prone and ridiculous and defeated, dented and lopsided. Its juice – a mixture of eyegum and saline cleaning solution, forms a sticky pool on its dimpled underside.
Squeezing the creature gently to pick it up, I notice that when the two sides of the disc are pressed together, they slip so eagerly as to crease the membrane. This is not a problem, as it springs quickly back into shape, a perfect eye-cast.
The first day I wear them, something changes. Students no longer have muted white borders, as if they had been shot through a diffusion lens. Now their sharp outlines prickle the retina, the diluted sunlight flaring their cheekbones. Before, their intelligence was hidden under a haze, which allowed me to associate them together in a homogenous mass. The carefully-stacked youths stare. Now, as my eyes pan jerkily across the room, I am forced to take each of their characters into account. The period of adjusting my gaze from one to the other is strange, because one’s gaze must change according to the new knowledge imparted by the stark detail of the face. If I fix an appropriate expression on the first student, I find that it is usually inappropriate for the next.
Soon the lenses rub and itch. A dirt particle edges its way into the sealed section on the iris. The gladwrap clinging feeling on my eyes ends the comfortable feeling of leadership. I am no longer the powerful, impermeable presence I was before; instead, I look shallow-focus at the students, their forms now utterly indistinct. Savage tweaks of pain cry through me, squaredancing in stilettos across the cornea.
They sense that I need to be helped. I know that this has to be concealed if I am to maintain control.
“I can’t get these fucking things out of my eyes.”
Usually, swearing in class would raise titters or eyebrows, but now the students understand that something has changed. Usually edgy or irritable, this early in the morning, they are suddenly receptive to my words. I need their help – not in a bureaucratic sense, but in a human one.
“Can someone please help me get them out?”
My voice shudders between hysteria and shyness. I look - or feel, at least - like a blotchy blind mongrel pup. The students are poised and impermeable, and my streaming face makes me seem cornered and wounded.
“Does anyone here wear contacts?”
This third appeal is gentler, as I try hard to modulate the noises in my throat, breathing flecks of warmth into jagged clumsy words. I think of protein: dark mud trodden into the silky white lens.
A student from the back of the class stands, stares briefly, and walks towards me. He is African-American, about 6’ 7”. His open face looks down into my gormlessly scrunched one.
“Ok, Professor Roberts.”
He walks out the door, slowing his pace so that I can follow. I look over at them, apologetically. I lose them the moment I'm led out out the door by a student. For the rest of semester, they are no longer my class.
I look closer, and now its membrane is amplifying the tiny tremors running through my hand, which I hadn’t noticed before. They tell a predictable story of lack of sleep, bad diet, anxiety. The wobble of the membrane atip my finger seems so finely-tuned that I wonder if it is translatable, somehow – as a stylus extracts information from plastic, this plastic extracts it from my skin. The flexible disc amplifies my hands’ hidden signals extravagantly. It will need decoding now, from physical signals into sound waves. It's written in the language of stress.
Now the invertebrate’s border spreads outward, coating my visual field in plastic, soaked sheen. Closer to the surface, the shape loses its pristine appearance: no longer an animal that man has not touched, as I look closer at the spreading circle I see the encrustations on its concave arc. This is “protein” – an inappropriately positive name for hardened eye sludge, congealed blindness. The positive connotations of the word are sucked down under its newfound halo of contaminants. This beige silt gilds the rim like a dirty margarita, speckled blotchily along the semisphere’s central point. As I notice them, I feel slightly less calm, and the tremor-music spikes suddenly, flinging the disc off my finger. It flattens out as it spins laterally through the air, before its flight is broken by the table. The jellyfish lies there, prone and ridiculous and defeated, dented and lopsided. Its juice – a mixture of eyegum and saline cleaning solution, forms a sticky pool on its dimpled underside.
Squeezing the creature gently to pick it up, I notice that when the two sides of the disc are pressed together, they slip so eagerly as to crease the membrane. This is not a problem, as it springs quickly back into shape, a perfect eye-cast.
The first day I wear them, something changes. Students no longer have muted white borders, as if they had been shot through a diffusion lens. Now their sharp outlines prickle the retina, the diluted sunlight flaring their cheekbones. Before, their intelligence was hidden under a haze, which allowed me to associate them together in a homogenous mass. The carefully-stacked youths stare. Now, as my eyes pan jerkily across the room, I am forced to take each of their characters into account. The period of adjusting my gaze from one to the other is strange, because one’s gaze must change according to the new knowledge imparted by the stark detail of the face. If I fix an appropriate expression on the first student, I find that it is usually inappropriate for the next.
Soon the lenses rub and itch. A dirt particle edges its way into the sealed section on the iris. The gladwrap clinging feeling on my eyes ends the comfortable feeling of leadership. I am no longer the powerful, impermeable presence I was before; instead, I look shallow-focus at the students, their forms now utterly indistinct. Savage tweaks of pain cry through me, squaredancing in stilettos across the cornea.
They sense that I need to be helped. I know that this has to be concealed if I am to maintain control.
“I can’t get these fucking things out of my eyes.”
Usually, swearing in class would raise titters or eyebrows, but now the students understand that something has changed. Usually edgy or irritable, this early in the morning, they are suddenly receptive to my words. I need their help – not in a bureaucratic sense, but in a human one.
“Can someone please help me get them out?”
My voice shudders between hysteria and shyness. I look - or feel, at least - like a blotchy blind mongrel pup. The students are poised and impermeable, and my streaming face makes me seem cornered and wounded.
“Does anyone here wear contacts?”
This third appeal is gentler, as I try hard to modulate the noises in my throat, breathing flecks of warmth into jagged clumsy words. I think of protein: dark mud trodden into the silky white lens.
A student from the back of the class stands, stares briefly, and walks towards me. He is African-American, about 6’ 7”. His open face looks down into my gormlessly scrunched one.
“Ok, Professor Roberts.”
He walks out the door, slowing his pace so that I can follow. I look over at them, apologetically. I lose them the moment I'm led out out the door by a student. For the rest of semester, they are no longer my class.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Is it Possible to be Spurned by a Cat?
Two weeks ago, I would have said no (or would have, had the issue ever crossed my mind). After all, a cat’s cortex is simply too small to generate the complex emotions that animate human relationships: love, hatred, jealousy, remorse. Or so I thought.
Now that I am the temporary custodian of a cat, however, my opinions have changed. I am house-sitting for my friend, who lives in Richmond. She owns a rather lovely tabby, which shall remain nameless. Suffice to say that she is tiger-coloured (the cat, not my friend), which is my favourite type of coat. Although she is fatter than any known tiger (I’m still talking about the cat), she gives the distinct impression that she could unleash the compressed power of her limbs any time she feels the need. As Darwin might say, The Cat still retains the indelible stamp of her lowly origin.
I have been rather busy this week, and have spent little time paying direct attention to The Cat. I have been performing all the obligatory ‘cat-maintenance’ tasks – food bowl filled, water bowl filled, kitty litter emptied, window left open – but beyond that, admittedly, there hasn’t been much quality ‘Tim and Cat’ time. Although I was planning on spending an extended scratching session with the Cat (that’s when I scratch the Cat and she purrs contentedly, not when we both scratch the furniture together, which isn’t allowed) this never eventuated.
Too late. I came back at 7 pm the other day, an hour later than usual, whispering ‘Here, Puss’ in my guilty-as-hell falsetto voice. No answering meow. I looked outside. No Moggie hunched up soggily in the courtyard. I rattled the dry cat food container. No Cat at all.
Fine, I thought, as I schlooped the miniature rotten-fish-smelling cat food into the bowl. Be that way. I heard jingling (The Cat has a belled collar), and looked up expectantly.
The Cat was back!
But The Cat wasn’t back. Not really. She simply stood in the doorway to our room, staring me down with those reflective eyes. There was pain in them, but also a hint of malice, as if she knew how much I wanted her to be a Nice Cat again, and how much it would upset me if she wasn’t. Using all her powers of restraint, she refused to scamper across the room and eat her Dine: she had bigger cares than her own hunger. We looked at each other for perhaps a minute; I felt as if I was supposed to say something comforting, but couldn’t think straight. An invisible line divided us, where the corridor ended and the living room began. She wouldn’t cross it. Why did The Cat have such a hold over me? Did I need to get out more? More to the point, did I need a girlfriend?
‘Puss, I –‘
She cut me off.
‘Meow. Meow. Meow.’
It doesn’t come more straight-down-the-line than that.
‘But I had to go and get some –‘
‘Meow.’
Every excuse I could come up with was swiftly murdered in its cradle. With a (feigned, in my opinion) stately walk, she slowly vanished into the bedroom, her tail flickering around the doorway one last time, a final stinging barb.
At this point, I was tempted to leave The Cat to her own devices, but I – O quintessence of dust! – crumbled. Slinking like a mutt with the family’s leg of lamb in its jaws, I crept into the bedroom. She looked straight at me as the door opened. When I stretched out my arm to stroke the fuzzy patch on the top of her head (which she used to like, when things were good), The Cat growled. Then, these low growls would unfurl into meows, her shallow surface anger parting to reveal the cool depths of sadness beneath.
‘Grrrrrreeoww. Grrrrreeow’, she cried. It was wrenching.
My hand was paused in midair. Would she bite it? Or claw it? Should I just back away, and leave her to forget about me, heaping her food bowl high enough to keep her going? After all, I’d be gone on Saturday, and then she –
We made eye contact, and The Cat started head-butting my hand, hard. I thought it was a fresh assault, and sprung backwards off the bed. But I soon realized that it was a gesture of peace, and sat back down again.
'Butt, butt, butt, butt', butted her little head into my hand. ‘Meow.’
'Butt, butt, butt, butt'. ‘Meow.’ This blissful, simple little dance continued for a while.
I tentatively scritched behind The Cat’s ear. She smiled. (Cats can smile: forget what you’ve been told). I smiled. Everything was perfect again.
And to keep it that way, now I have to go and feed her again. But it’s worth it, and I'll miss her.
Now that I am the temporary custodian of a cat, however, my opinions have changed. I am house-sitting for my friend, who lives in Richmond. She owns a rather lovely tabby, which shall remain nameless. Suffice to say that she is tiger-coloured (the cat, not my friend), which is my favourite type of coat. Although she is fatter than any known tiger (I’m still talking about the cat), she gives the distinct impression that she could unleash the compressed power of her limbs any time she feels the need. As Darwin might say, The Cat still retains the indelible stamp of her lowly origin.
I have been rather busy this week, and have spent little time paying direct attention to The Cat. I have been performing all the obligatory ‘cat-maintenance’ tasks – food bowl filled, water bowl filled, kitty litter emptied, window left open – but beyond that, admittedly, there hasn’t been much quality ‘Tim and Cat’ time. Although I was planning on spending an extended scratching session with the Cat (that’s when I scratch the Cat and she purrs contentedly, not when we both scratch the furniture together, which isn’t allowed) this never eventuated.
Too late. I came back at 7 pm the other day, an hour later than usual, whispering ‘Here, Puss’ in my guilty-as-hell falsetto voice. No answering meow. I looked outside. No Moggie hunched up soggily in the courtyard. I rattled the dry cat food container. No Cat at all.
Fine, I thought, as I schlooped the miniature rotten-fish-smelling cat food into the bowl. Be that way. I heard jingling (The Cat has a belled collar), and looked up expectantly.
The Cat was back!
But The Cat wasn’t back. Not really. She simply stood in the doorway to our room, staring me down with those reflective eyes. There was pain in them, but also a hint of malice, as if she knew how much I wanted her to be a Nice Cat again, and how much it would upset me if she wasn’t. Using all her powers of restraint, she refused to scamper across the room and eat her Dine: she had bigger cares than her own hunger. We looked at each other for perhaps a minute; I felt as if I was supposed to say something comforting, but couldn’t think straight. An invisible line divided us, where the corridor ended and the living room began. She wouldn’t cross it. Why did The Cat have such a hold over me? Did I need to get out more? More to the point, did I need a girlfriend?
‘Puss, I –‘
She cut me off.
‘Meow. Meow. Meow.’
It doesn’t come more straight-down-the-line than that.
‘But I had to go and get some –‘
‘Meow.’
Every excuse I could come up with was swiftly murdered in its cradle. With a (feigned, in my opinion) stately walk, she slowly vanished into the bedroom, her tail flickering around the doorway one last time, a final stinging barb.
At this point, I was tempted to leave The Cat to her own devices, but I – O quintessence of dust! – crumbled. Slinking like a mutt with the family’s leg of lamb in its jaws, I crept into the bedroom. She looked straight at me as the door opened. When I stretched out my arm to stroke the fuzzy patch on the top of her head (which she used to like, when things were good), The Cat growled. Then, these low growls would unfurl into meows, her shallow surface anger parting to reveal the cool depths of sadness beneath.
‘Grrrrrreeoww. Grrrrreeow’, she cried. It was wrenching.
My hand was paused in midair. Would she bite it? Or claw it? Should I just back away, and leave her to forget about me, heaping her food bowl high enough to keep her going? After all, I’d be gone on Saturday, and then she –
We made eye contact, and The Cat started head-butting my hand, hard. I thought it was a fresh assault, and sprung backwards off the bed. But I soon realized that it was a gesture of peace, and sat back down again.
'Butt, butt, butt, butt', butted her little head into my hand. ‘Meow.’
'Butt, butt, butt, butt'. ‘Meow.’ This blissful, simple little dance continued for a while.
I tentatively scritched behind The Cat’s ear. She smiled. (Cats can smile: forget what you’ve been told). I smiled. Everything was perfect again.
And to keep it that way, now I have to go and feed her again. But it’s worth it, and I'll miss her.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Conversion
The Book of TIMOTHY
Chapter I
1. My change of heart did come while reading the Holy Book, The God Delusion. After reading this sacred tome, I learned that it was intended to turn people away from the Lord; however, its sweet, plummy, well-articulated words only brought me closer to Him.
2. The prophet Dawkins was in error. He wrote, ‘there is just as much reason to believe in the Flying Spaghetti Monster as there is to believe in God.’ Yet this message did evade me, just as wisdom evades a blonde heiress to a massive hotel fortune.
3. I did read instead, I confess, ‘one should believe in the Flying Spaghetti Monster instead of God.’ This message I understood; but accepting the Spaghetti Monster as my saviour, regrettably, caused me great hardship.
4. Being a devotee of the wise biologist, I underwent a great Conversion on the road to Delicious.
5. My path to faith was strewn with briars and nettles, which is why it is usually left to the insane. There was a grave absence of churches in which to preach.
6. After much thought, I realized that the best place to set alight the flame of belief in the Holy Church Of The Flying Spaghetti Monster was at the nearest Safeway, where the relevant ingredients would be ready to hand.
7. Venturing forth, I established my church in the pasta aisle. Unfortunately, the materials available to me were the work of Satan (durum wheat being not suitable for construction).
8. Nevertheless, there was much work to be done, but there was not time to find substitute ingredients.
Chapter II
1. Well aware of the urgency of my task, I hastily constructed a primitive altar from Lasagne sheets, gluing the holy corners together with pesto, as willed by the Lord for the Ark of the Covenant:
1. Well aware of the urgency of my task, I hastily constructed a primitive altar from Lasagne sheets, gluing the holy corners together with pesto, as willed by the Lord for the Ark of the Covenant:
And thou shall make an ark of shittim wood: two cubits and a half shall be the
length thereof, and a cubit and a half be the breadth thereof; and a cubit and a
half the height thereof (Exodus 30:2).
2. And you will note that it was Noah’s ark that was made of Gopher wood – not out of Gophers, as is commonly thought, as they were saved, because they were cuddly. (Moses’ ark was made of shittim wood, which is why it was unsturdy).
3. Yet my Tabernacle was a lot smaller than that specified in the book, as the Lord did not provide puff pastry cases for the purpose.
3. Yet my Tabernacle was a lot smaller than that specified in the book, as the Lord did not provide puff pastry cases for the purpose.
4. And I was forced to make one from two conchiglio rigates, united together with sacred tomato paste.
5. And I did simulate incense by burning grated parmesan cheese, and swung the censer enthusiastically from a strand of cooked Spaghetti.
6. But this device soon crumbled, as the cooked pasta was flimsy.
7. And the censer did whiz off the spaghetti and splatter on the lino, and the staff did give me a most grievous look.
8. There was also much trouble obtaining the bone of St. Paul Newman for the altar, as he is not yet departed.
9. And I was most unjustly slandered and mocked, at first, as with all the chosen, but soon there arose a small yet dedicated following. (The supermarket was to be entered after dusk, so as to avoid encountering heretics.)
10. But the supermarket was a most excellent site for a pilgrimage, as there is little hardship: one can buy beer, get cash out, and have one’s prescription filled in between prayers.
5. And I did simulate incense by burning grated parmesan cheese, and swung the censer enthusiastically from a strand of cooked Spaghetti.
6. But this device soon crumbled, as the cooked pasta was flimsy.
7. And the censer did whiz off the spaghetti and splatter on the lino, and the staff did give me a most grievous look.
8. There was also much trouble obtaining the bone of St. Paul Newman for the altar, as he is not yet departed.
9. And I was most unjustly slandered and mocked, at first, as with all the chosen, but soon there arose a small yet dedicated following. (The supermarket was to be entered after dusk, so as to avoid encountering heretics.)
10. But the supermarket was a most excellent site for a pilgrimage, as there is little hardship: one can buy beer, get cash out, and have one’s prescription filled in between prayers.
Chapter III
1. All things must pass, alas, and the peaceful gatherings in aisle three did subside.
2. Soon there arose a great schism within my church. A rival faction grew, claiming that my teachings had become detached from the lives of everyday shoppers.
3. And the chief heathen did believe that representing the pasta on the box was idolatrous. 4. And this man set up a congregation to rival my own, and rechristened his deity the ‘Macaroni and Cheese Overlord.’
1. All things must pass, alas, and the peaceful gatherings in aisle three did subside.
2. Soon there arose a great schism within my church. A rival faction grew, claiming that my teachings had become detached from the lives of everyday shoppers.
3. And the chief heathen did believe that representing the pasta on the box was idolatrous. 4. And this man set up a congregation to rival my own, and rechristened his deity the ‘Macaroni and Cheese Overlord.’
5. He concealed his God’s face from his followers, replacing it with the Holy Text, ‘Home Brand’.
6. This man represented his grievances in the ‘95 Artichokes of Faith’, which he endeavoured to display at the temple’s entrance.
6. This man represented his grievances in the ‘95 Artichokes of Faith’, which he endeavoured to display at the temple’s entrance.
7. However, nailing even a single artichoke to an automatic glass door is not easy.
8. Every time he did swing the hammer, the door opened and he fell over, causing much laughter among his flock. After much wailing and gnashing of teeth, and an occasional breast-beating, he did cut a deal with a checkout maiden.
9. And he did stick the artichokes on a pizza base, and she did duly hang it above her cash register, for all to behold. And our warring houses were at peace.
8. Every time he did swing the hammer, the door opened and he fell over, causing much laughter among his flock. After much wailing and gnashing of teeth, and an occasional breast-beating, he did cut a deal with a checkout maiden.
9. And he did stick the artichokes on a pizza base, and she did duly hang it above her cash register, for all to behold. And our warring houses were at peace.
Chapter IV
1. For a time after the Great Schism, our two churches coexisted peacefully.
2. But there soon came another group, who refused to witness the pasta-based nature of the Godhead.
3. And we understood that we should smite them most unpleasantly.
4. This church was not at first apparent, as it was located down the other end of the aisle. Yet I soon found their leader, met him, and broke ciabatta with him, and we did dip it in HOMMUS.
5. He soon told me that their God was made of long-grain brown rice, and most strenuously denied my retort that he was of the 4-minute microwave variety.
6. His heathen ways did offend me grievously. I thus made my peace with the Macaroni overlord, in the name of pasta-based solidarity. The great war between the two faiths also caused great consternation among non-believers in the temple.
7. This was mainly because we were blocking their trolleys.
1. For a time after the Great Schism, our two churches coexisted peacefully.
2. But there soon came another group, who refused to witness the pasta-based nature of the Godhead.
3. And we understood that we should smite them most unpleasantly.
4. This church was not at first apparent, as it was located down the other end of the aisle. Yet I soon found their leader, met him, and broke ciabatta with him, and we did dip it in HOMMUS.
5. He soon told me that their God was made of long-grain brown rice, and most strenuously denied my retort that he was of the 4-minute microwave variety.
6. His heathen ways did offend me grievously. I thus made my peace with the Macaroni overlord, in the name of pasta-based solidarity. The great war between the two faiths also caused great consternation among non-believers in the temple.
7. This was mainly because we were blocking their trolleys.
Chapter V
1. The alliance against Rice was unstable, because my flock could not long remain united with the Home Brand Church of the Macaroni and Cheese Overlord.
2. And the Macaroni followers did believe that the ‘End Times’ would soon arrive, at which point a great discount would be offered on all the products in the Kosher aisle.
3. Some souls even said there would be up to 50% off; but these unruly heathens were shouted down by the more reasonable elements of the Macaroni congregation.
4. Those of the Macaroni faith claimed that when this great discount arose, a great flock of shoppers would be able to return to the Kosher aisle, from which they had fled, having been driven out by unaffordable Bagel prices.
5. After returning, this flock would realize that kosher food was most unpalatable; and they would begin to devour Macaroni and cheese most gladly.
6. But the Macaroni flock hoped that the kosher aisle would then be taken over by the pasta, and the rice section would be relocated to the back of store, near the baby food.
6. And this event would be heralded by four toddlers in trolleys, as has been foretold.
7. The kosher shoppers were wandering in the dairy section, and they were waiting for the chosen time, and they did have more than 12 items in their baskets. And the express lane was blocked to them.
1. The alliance against Rice was unstable, because my flock could not long remain united with the Home Brand Church of the Macaroni and Cheese Overlord.
2. And the Macaroni followers did believe that the ‘End Times’ would soon arrive, at which point a great discount would be offered on all the products in the Kosher aisle.
3. Some souls even said there would be up to 50% off; but these unruly heathens were shouted down by the more reasonable elements of the Macaroni congregation.
4. Those of the Macaroni faith claimed that when this great discount arose, a great flock of shoppers would be able to return to the Kosher aisle, from which they had fled, having been driven out by unaffordable Bagel prices.
5. After returning, this flock would realize that kosher food was most unpalatable; and they would begin to devour Macaroni and cheese most gladly.
6. But the Macaroni flock hoped that the kosher aisle would then be taken over by the pasta, and the rice section would be relocated to the back of store, near the baby food.
6. And this event would be heralded by four toddlers in trolleys, as has been foretold.
7. The kosher shoppers were wandering in the dairy section, and they were waiting for the chosen time, and they did have more than 12 items in their baskets. And the express lane was blocked to them.
Chapter VI
1. The dispute did soon descend into great civil strife, and much fear and loathing was expressed between Spaghetti, Macaroni, Kosher, and Rice.
2. And the Macaroni Overlord’s followers projected flaming anchovies at the followers of Rice, who responded in kind with scalding spoonfuls of curry sauce. And there was much hardship, and much stinging of eyeballs, and a scandalously tasty aroma.
3. And bagels were thrown also, and they did hit the followers of Rice with much force, especially if the bagels were TOASTED.
3. And watching quietly when this was occurring was the Church of the Earthly Noodle, which was located next to the freezer section.
4. And the church of the earthly noodle was peaceful, and they did not participate in cereal-based violence, and Richard of Gere did listen to them, and many bad Hollywood actors did follow him.
5. But this was only because they were located next to the ice cream.
1. The dispute did soon descend into great civil strife, and much fear and loathing was expressed between Spaghetti, Macaroni, Kosher, and Rice.
2. And the Macaroni Overlord’s followers projected flaming anchovies at the followers of Rice, who responded in kind with scalding spoonfuls of curry sauce. And there was much hardship, and much stinging of eyeballs, and a scandalously tasty aroma.
3. And bagels were thrown also, and they did hit the followers of Rice with much force, especially if the bagels were TOASTED.
3. And watching quietly when this was occurring was the Church of the Earthly Noodle, which was located next to the freezer section.
4. And the church of the earthly noodle was peaceful, and they did not participate in cereal-based violence, and Richard of Gere did listen to them, and many bad Hollywood actors did follow him.
5. But this was only because they were located next to the ice cream.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Fatuosity
Hi all,
Well, everyone else has a blog, so I decided that I should have one too. This is partially to encourage me to write - something that I don't do nearly enough - and partially to force my friends to read my rantings when I can't rant at them directly (for an earful, please call 1-800-crankyrant).
At the moment, I don't really know what type of thing will pop up on here. I think I'll try to tackle the big, controversial issues, because that will be a good way of encouraging people to read and comment on my writing. This may have its dangers, but I am famous for living a caution-free life.
I've just returned from the Adelaide Festival of Ideas. Adelaide, for those who haven't been there, is a city around the same size as Boston, but there the resemblance ends. It is alarmingly quiet, especially in the morning, like a 19th-Century Canberra with fewer public servants.
Anyhow, the most interesting talk that I went to was on the ethics of eating. Marion Nestle's talk, entitled 'What to Eat: Personal Responsibility vs. Social Responsibility', prompted a huge volume of responses - most of which took place during her speech.
Nestle (it's pronounced like the word, not the brand of chocolate) focused on the dire threat that junk food advertising poses to our health system. Fair enough, too: flogging choc-marshmallow breakfast cereal in the 8am cartoon TV slot is more than a little cynical. But Nestle's theme struck a massive stomping AC/DC-inspired power chord with the audience.
Nestle sought to blame the media for the obesity 'epidemic' (surely a slightly alarmist label?), thus removing it from individual families and shifting it onto corporations and government. While this social approach is warranted, as it's less aggressively personal than blaming parents for their children's eating habits, I couldn't help feeling that this social constructivist approach wasn't quite what the psyched-up crowd was looking for.
Whenever Nestle made a point linking obesity to individual behaviour, the crowd leapt on it like cheetahs stripping an antelope carcass. It's easy to see why: fill a hall with people who obviously pay minute attention to diet & exercise micromanagement, offer a convenient figure of evil (ostensibly the corporations, but essentially the chubby), and watch the fur fly.
At one point, Nestle made the point that McDonald's (aka the Antichrist) sold junk food in - gasp! - hospitals! To sick children! One might as well hire Ronald and the Grimace to suffocate the poor tykes with pillows and carve ashtrays out of their bones! After she said this (well, not the last point), a strange noise welled up in the hall. It sounded like the nocturnal clicking of frogs, but was in fact many skinny people saying 'tut tut tut' in unison, shaking their heads in synchrony as they tutted responsibly. Now, I didn't realize that it was de rigeur to actually say 'tut tut tut' - it always seems a bit Victoriana to me, something that belongs in Mrs. Beeton's Household Manual. But here was a veritable orchestra of tutters tutting.
Fairly obvious points - such as the fact that crappy, fatty fare like McDonald's actually has a miraculous ability to cheer miserable children up, or that we are genetically predisposed to like fatty and/or sweet food - were ignored. To hear Nestle talk, you would think that banning junk food advertising would lead to children ploughing gratefully into mountains of apples, carrots and broccoli, instead of deep-fried mars bars. (Oh please do pass the nutritious, life-saving steamed broccoli, mother!)
Nestle often undercut her 'blame the media' approach by using humour to criticize the aesthetic of fatness, which was of course the talk's major drawcard. She showed a slide in which the famous Uncle Sam recruitment poster had been transformed into a bloated old guy in striped pyjamas, imploringly holding out a hamburger towards the audience, saying 'I want you to eat fast food!' (much laughter: Look how fat he is! Just like those other Yank Fat Pigs!) I half expected an overweight child to be wheeled in on a charcoal spit, apple in mouth, for the slavering audience's delectation (one small helping per person, of course).
Although I saw a lot of talks, on issues ranging from terrorism to climate change, none recieved as manic a reaction as Nestle's. Why? I think it's because gleefully condemning the fat gives the skinny the unique opportunity to be visibly beyond reproach, because the signs of virtue are worn on the body. This is impossible when enthusiastically condemning those responsible for, say, climate change. After all, your carbon footprint is invisible, and extremely difficult to calculate, while your BMI is right there in plain sight. 'Don't blame me - I eat organic boiled miso rolls', say the bony of thigh and taut of skin. 'And, uh, you?'
While it would be nice to think that these people had developed a sudden burning desire to ease the burden on our public health system, I would be surprised if any other 'health issue' prompted an equivalent response: can you imagine a crowd of people gleefully clucking about the rise of Golden Staph infections in hospitals, for example? Or the burden caused by the aging of the population?
Fat chance.
Well, everyone else has a blog, so I decided that I should have one too. This is partially to encourage me to write - something that I don't do nearly enough - and partially to force my friends to read my rantings when I can't rant at them directly (for an earful, please call 1-800-crankyrant).
At the moment, I don't really know what type of thing will pop up on here. I think I'll try to tackle the big, controversial issues, because that will be a good way of encouraging people to read and comment on my writing. This may have its dangers, but I am famous for living a caution-free life.
I've just returned from the Adelaide Festival of Ideas. Adelaide, for those who haven't been there, is a city around the same size as Boston, but there the resemblance ends. It is alarmingly quiet, especially in the morning, like a 19th-Century Canberra with fewer public servants.
Anyhow, the most interesting talk that I went to was on the ethics of eating. Marion Nestle's talk, entitled 'What to Eat: Personal Responsibility vs. Social Responsibility', prompted a huge volume of responses - most of which took place during her speech.
Nestle (it's pronounced like the word, not the brand of chocolate) focused on the dire threat that junk food advertising poses to our health system. Fair enough, too: flogging choc-marshmallow breakfast cereal in the 8am cartoon TV slot is more than a little cynical. But Nestle's theme struck a massive stomping AC/DC-inspired power chord with the audience.
Nestle sought to blame the media for the obesity 'epidemic' (surely a slightly alarmist label?), thus removing it from individual families and shifting it onto corporations and government. While this social approach is warranted, as it's less aggressively personal than blaming parents for their children's eating habits, I couldn't help feeling that this social constructivist approach wasn't quite what the psyched-up crowd was looking for.
Whenever Nestle made a point linking obesity to individual behaviour, the crowd leapt on it like cheetahs stripping an antelope carcass. It's easy to see why: fill a hall with people who obviously pay minute attention to diet & exercise micromanagement, offer a convenient figure of evil (ostensibly the corporations, but essentially the chubby), and watch the fur fly.
At one point, Nestle made the point that McDonald's (aka the Antichrist) sold junk food in - gasp! - hospitals! To sick children! One might as well hire Ronald and the Grimace to suffocate the poor tykes with pillows and carve ashtrays out of their bones! After she said this (well, not the last point), a strange noise welled up in the hall. It sounded like the nocturnal clicking of frogs, but was in fact many skinny people saying 'tut tut tut' in unison, shaking their heads in synchrony as they tutted responsibly. Now, I didn't realize that it was de rigeur to actually say 'tut tut tut' - it always seems a bit Victoriana to me, something that belongs in Mrs. Beeton's Household Manual. But here was a veritable orchestra of tutters tutting.
Fairly obvious points - such as the fact that crappy, fatty fare like McDonald's actually has a miraculous ability to cheer miserable children up, or that we are genetically predisposed to like fatty and/or sweet food - were ignored. To hear Nestle talk, you would think that banning junk food advertising would lead to children ploughing gratefully into mountains of apples, carrots and broccoli, instead of deep-fried mars bars. (Oh please do pass the nutritious, life-saving steamed broccoli, mother!)
Nestle often undercut her 'blame the media' approach by using humour to criticize the aesthetic of fatness, which was of course the talk's major drawcard. She showed a slide in which the famous Uncle Sam recruitment poster had been transformed into a bloated old guy in striped pyjamas, imploringly holding out a hamburger towards the audience, saying 'I want you to eat fast food!' (much laughter: Look how fat he is! Just like those other Yank Fat Pigs!) I half expected an overweight child to be wheeled in on a charcoal spit, apple in mouth, for the slavering audience's delectation (one small helping per person, of course).
Although I saw a lot of talks, on issues ranging from terrorism to climate change, none recieved as manic a reaction as Nestle's. Why? I think it's because gleefully condemning the fat gives the skinny the unique opportunity to be visibly beyond reproach, because the signs of virtue are worn on the body. This is impossible when enthusiastically condemning those responsible for, say, climate change. After all, your carbon footprint is invisible, and extremely difficult to calculate, while your BMI is right there in plain sight. 'Don't blame me - I eat organic boiled miso rolls', say the bony of thigh and taut of skin. 'And, uh, you?'
While it would be nice to think that these people had developed a sudden burning desire to ease the burden on our public health system, I would be surprised if any other 'health issue' prompted an equivalent response: can you imagine a crowd of people gleefully clucking about the rise of Golden Staph infections in hospitals, for example? Or the burden caused by the aging of the population?
Fat chance.
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