You are all my bug-guzzling lunatic slaves.
And yet, you have failed me. I gave you one simple magickal ritual to perform and yet somehow-- somehow-- I am still putting earrings in boxes instead of having a nice cushy column somewhere.
You may yet redeem yourselves, however.
You may remember the Grauniad's bloody stupid Best British Blog competition, yes? And you may remember that I had entered for said competition.
Now, see that sigil ritual which you all so pathetically failed at before? Do it again, only with getting me that £1000 prize as your stated intent.
Do not fail me again, puny ones.
Sunday, September 01, 2002
Better.
Yep, today was all manner of better. Tidied up my prehistoric mammal yarn-- now it's all ready for the off. Before I actually try and flog it to anyone, I think I'll let it stand for a day or two so all the more egregious grammatical and continuity errors can float to the surface. The dosh came thru from this vampire thing (STOP LAUGHING!) that I sold a couple of months back, which is good. I also discovered that I've somehow managed to pay off a hundred pounds of my credit-card debt over the last few months, using my patent guess-the-minimum-payment-and-add-a-few-quid-for-luck technique.
For some reason my psi and magickal work has been coming on apace lately. I don't know if it's just that being ill has temporarily knocked out some of my perceptual and cognitive filters, but it's going well-- very well. I feel pretty... pumped, I suppose. (If I go all black-eyed and vieny, you'll tell me, won't you?)
Oh, and I'd just like to add a quick plug for Gray Bat -- a resource for speculative writers. I've been finding their daily homework assignments very helpful lately.
Yep, today was all manner of better. Tidied up my prehistoric mammal yarn-- now it's all ready for the off. Before I actually try and flog it to anyone, I think I'll let it stand for a day or two so all the more egregious grammatical and continuity errors can float to the surface. The dosh came thru from this vampire thing (STOP LAUGHING!) that I sold a couple of months back, which is good. I also discovered that I've somehow managed to pay off a hundred pounds of my credit-card debt over the last few months, using my patent guess-the-minimum-payment-and-add-a-few-quid-for-luck technique.
For some reason my psi and magickal work has been coming on apace lately. I don't know if it's just that being ill has temporarily knocked out some of my perceptual and cognitive filters, but it's going well-- very well. I feel pretty... pumped, I suppose. (If I go all black-eyed and vieny, you'll tell me, won't you?)
Oh, and I'd just like to add a quick plug for Gray Bat -- a resource for speculative writers. I've been finding their daily homework assignments very helpful lately.
Saturday, August 31, 2002
Blecch.
No proper updates over the last few days. The bug I came down with on Tuesday turned out to be a bit more serious than I thought. I went into work on Wednesday, which was really clever, because the next day I was even worse. I'm starting to pull out of it now. (I hope.)
What all this means, of course, is that I'm only going to get a single day's pay for the whole of last week: about thirty-five quid. Yippee skip.
I'm sick of this. I'm really sick of this. I'm sick of the fact that after I've worked and fought to make something of myself I'm still here, in this lousy job, in this lousy life. I'm sick of being stuck here and watching the bastards that sail past me with all the rewards, everything I've never had, everything I'll never get.
I mean, there has to be a reason I'm still in this mess, right? You have a little talent, you work hard, you make it. Or you get something, anything. So it must be me. It must be. I'm not good enough, or persistant enough, or whatever.
I finished another story a couple of nights back. I've been trying to get enough enthusiasm together to send it off and I can't. I just don't care anymore. I mean, what was I thinking? People like me, we don't make it. Nobody's interested in what a half-bright chick with a demi-education and a comedy medical condition has to say.
No proper updates over the last few days. The bug I came down with on Tuesday turned out to be a bit more serious than I thought. I went into work on Wednesday, which was really clever, because the next day I was even worse. I'm starting to pull out of it now. (I hope.)
What all this means, of course, is that I'm only going to get a single day's pay for the whole of last week: about thirty-five quid. Yippee skip.
I'm sick of this. I'm really sick of this. I'm sick of the fact that after I've worked and fought to make something of myself I'm still here, in this lousy job, in this lousy life. I'm sick of being stuck here and watching the bastards that sail past me with all the rewards, everything I've never had, everything I'll never get.
I mean, there has to be a reason I'm still in this mess, right? You have a little talent, you work hard, you make it. Or you get something, anything. So it must be me. It must be. I'm not good enough, or persistant enough, or whatever.
I finished another story a couple of nights back. I've been trying to get enough enthusiasm together to send it off and I can't. I just don't care anymore. I mean, what was I thinking? People like me, we don't make it. Nobody's interested in what a half-bright chick with a demi-education and a comedy medical condition has to say.
Friday, August 30, 2002
Thursday, August 29, 2002
Go here! The Deluge Device is a blog owned by Jason Louv. Saith he, on the Barbelith Underground:
Stream-of-conciousness rocks.
I've been going into hyper blog-mode, posting every couple of hours with masses of spontaneously generated theory and commentary, trying to arrive at some kind of Statement of My Generation.
Go check it out, and check it out, and check it out again! My aim is to do the digital version of Harlan Ellison writing a story in a shop window and continually sticking typewritten pages up on the glass.
Stream-of-conciousness rocks.
Tuesday, August 27, 2002
Potential babies.
My friend R. had a miscarriage awhile back. She told me something about it. I asked if I could tell you guys. She said yes.
R. was in the third month of her pregnancy when an ultrasound scan revealed that the fetus was dead. It was about two months old, meaning that she had been carrying a dead baby inside her for a month.
Like a lot of pregnancies it was unplanned, but not unwanted. R is in a relationship and her circumstances are such that a baby would cause radical upheaval, but not disaster. She adjusted to the idea and announced her pregnancy, the news being greeted with approval and enthusiasm by her family and peers. She described to me a sense of having attained something important in the eyes of society, of having passed through a vital rite of passage. She was to become A Mother.
When she miscarried, the support somehow dried up.
Miscarriage is so common that the medical profession generally doesn't investigate the cause until the woman has lost her third baby. The most conservative estimates have about one in every five Western women miscarrying at some point in their reproductive lives, whilst others suggest that one in four might be nearer the mark. Superficially the figures suggest a rise in recent years, but any number of factors might affect the number of reported miscarriages, most notably the increased availability and accuracy of pregnancy testing.
Some miscarriages are heralded by bleeding or other symptoms, while some occur so early in the pregnacy that they might be mistaken for a heavy period. The fetus may have been dead for a considerable amount of time. Sometimes there's a discernable cause, but mostly there isn't; the embryo may not be viable, or it might not have implanted properly in the womb lining. It's complicated, and there is more myth floating around than there is truth. Society at present tends to blame the woman: there's an assumption that she must have dome something wrong. There seems to be an ever-expanding list of things that an expectant mother can do wrong.
The experience can be devastating, whatever the mother's age, however many children she already has. For R., the whole thing was compounded by the lack of empathy shown by many of the people who she turned to for emotional support. The way she tells it, she saw the miscarriage as a lost child but her friends saw it as a non-event. What was she grieving for, exactly?
I think this is partly down to the fact that a lot of women from R.'s generation (which is also mine) take a strangely black-and-white view of pregnancy. If we're okay with the concept of a woman aborting a three-month fetus, why should we respond to a miscarriage occuring at a similar stage in pregnancy as the loss of a baby?
Intent, my friends. It's all about intent. R. intended that her pregnancy should go to term. She intended to have a baby, to become a mother, that her potential baby should become actual.
We live in an age where a lot of absolutes, a lot of distinctions, are disappearing. Uncertainty and moral confusion are the order of the day, and nowhere do we see this more clearly than in the matter of pregnancy. Technology has advanced to the point where one can abort a fetus almost as old as the youngest viable premature baby. We have to stop looking to the external for all our definitions, and start to create our own. We have to realise that we can support a woman who ends her pregnancy by choice, and yet still have a place for the grief felt by R.
My friend R. had a miscarriage awhile back. She told me something about it. I asked if I could tell you guys. She said yes.
R. was in the third month of her pregnancy when an ultrasound scan revealed that the fetus was dead. It was about two months old, meaning that she had been carrying a dead baby inside her for a month.
Like a lot of pregnancies it was unplanned, but not unwanted. R is in a relationship and her circumstances are such that a baby would cause radical upheaval, but not disaster. She adjusted to the idea and announced her pregnancy, the news being greeted with approval and enthusiasm by her family and peers. She described to me a sense of having attained something important in the eyes of society, of having passed through a vital rite of passage. She was to become A Mother.
When she miscarried, the support somehow dried up.
Miscarriage is so common that the medical profession generally doesn't investigate the cause until the woman has lost her third baby. The most conservative estimates have about one in every five Western women miscarrying at some point in their reproductive lives, whilst others suggest that one in four might be nearer the mark. Superficially the figures suggest a rise in recent years, but any number of factors might affect the number of reported miscarriages, most notably the increased availability and accuracy of pregnancy testing.
Some miscarriages are heralded by bleeding or other symptoms, while some occur so early in the pregnacy that they might be mistaken for a heavy period. The fetus may have been dead for a considerable amount of time. Sometimes there's a discernable cause, but mostly there isn't; the embryo may not be viable, or it might not have implanted properly in the womb lining. It's complicated, and there is more myth floating around than there is truth. Society at present tends to blame the woman: there's an assumption that she must have dome something wrong. There seems to be an ever-expanding list of things that an expectant mother can do wrong.
The experience can be devastating, whatever the mother's age, however many children she already has. For R., the whole thing was compounded by the lack of empathy shown by many of the people who she turned to for emotional support. The way she tells it, she saw the miscarriage as a lost child but her friends saw it as a non-event. What was she grieving for, exactly?
I think this is partly down to the fact that a lot of women from R.'s generation (which is also mine) take a strangely black-and-white view of pregnancy. If we're okay with the concept of a woman aborting a three-month fetus, why should we respond to a miscarriage occuring at a similar stage in pregnancy as the loss of a baby?
Intent, my friends. It's all about intent. R. intended that her pregnancy should go to term. She intended to have a baby, to become a mother, that her potential baby should become actual.
We live in an age where a lot of absolutes, a lot of distinctions, are disappearing. Uncertainty and moral confusion are the order of the day, and nowhere do we see this more clearly than in the matter of pregnancy. Technology has advanced to the point where one can abort a fetus almost as old as the youngest viable premature baby. We have to stop looking to the external for all our definitions, and start to create our own. We have to realise that we can support a woman who ends her pregnancy by choice, and yet still have a place for the grief felt by R.
Saturday, August 24, 2002
Back on form.
Been a bit shaky recently, but I had a great time last night writing a little yarn on the laptop; one of those times when you're in the zone and everything just falls into place. I hope to finish it today or tomorrow, and then punt it out this coming week. So, yeah. Good. And my breathing/throat problems seem to be lifting, so I will be able to start singing again. w00t! Time to dig out the 4-track!
Also I've decided to become a superhero. I'm going to develop psionic powers and do cool stuff with 'em.
Been a bit shaky recently, but I had a great time last night writing a little yarn on the laptop; one of those times when you're in the zone and everything just falls into place. I hope to finish it today or tomorrow, and then punt it out this coming week. So, yeah. Good. And my breathing/throat problems seem to be lifting, so I will be able to start singing again. w00t! Time to dig out the 4-track!
Also I've decided to become a superhero. I'm going to develop psionic powers and do cool stuff with 'em.
From Betty Woo (currently woozilla!)'s LiveJournal
"I think the Gothic Short Bus stopped here tonight."
I have got to remember that one.
"I think the Gothic Short Bus stopped here tonight."
I have got to remember that one.
Friday, August 23, 2002
Can you see my sidebar?
Apparently some folk with Netscape 6 are having probs viewing this page. If it looks odd to you, would you be a love and email me? Ta.
Apparently some folk with Netscape 6 are having probs viewing this page. If it looks odd to you, would you be a love and email me? Ta.
Wednesday, August 21, 2002
Oh, yeah...
For those of you messed up in the head enough to care: my putative novel is a fantasy yarn, but with this, like, rilly rilly feminist angle, yeah? It's got this rilly rilly strong female lead. She won't let you touch her tits with your claw unless you give her a magic sword first. So there.
For those of you messed up in the head enough to care: my putative novel is a fantasy yarn, but with this, like, rilly rilly feminist angle, yeah? It's got this rilly rilly strong female lead. She won't let you touch her tits with your claw unless you give her a magic sword first. So there.
The oncoming train
I have got to stop messing about and get some serious writing done. Partly this is due to the fact that if I don't I'm going to rupture something, but I have to confess that a lot of my current drive is down to the fact that I cannot carry on in my current existance much longer before I start wearing my knickers on my head and talking to a luminous orange pixie called Mildred.
I know, I know-- I shouldn't complain so much. It could be (and has been) a hell of a lot worse. But, dear morons, I spent seven-and-three-quarter hours today in an underventilated work space with not enough chairs, putting bloody silver pendants onto bloody plastic cards. I must have done about five thousand of those suckers. And then there's the flat; I like it here, but the place is falling down around my ears. The latest disaster is the bathroom ceiling: it's riddled with dry rot and will need to be ripped out and replaced. I mean, there is scaffolding in my bathroom that is holding up the ceiling.
This unnerves me somewhat.
Typical of these Victorian terraces-- oh, sure, they look picturesque, but the renovation is a nightmare. My landlord is a great bloke but he gets all the repairs done on the cheap, which means that nothing ever stays repaired for long. I don't know what the hell's going to happen if me and Mandy have to vacate while the work's being done. I'm just sick to death of the cheap rented places that I've lived in ever since I left home. I'm sick of the insecurity, I'm sick of the half-baked repair work, I'm sick of it all.
It's time I got myself dug in behind the keyboard to get some serious work done. I'm still tweaking a couple of articles that have, to all intents and purposes, been finished for weeks-- I just can't bear to stop fiddling with them and punt them out. That kind of thing has to stop. On the plus side, I finally bit the bullet and started work on a novel that I've been laying groundwork for over the last few months. It's going to be hard work, but potentially it is a very strong story.
Since all my other avenues have been cut off, I must get my writing career underway. I must get out of this life, or at least have some hope that I might get out of it one day. I need a to see a light at the end of this tunnel. Even an orange one called Mildred.
I have got to stop messing about and get some serious writing done. Partly this is due to the fact that if I don't I'm going to rupture something, but I have to confess that a lot of my current drive is down to the fact that I cannot carry on in my current existance much longer before I start wearing my knickers on my head and talking to a luminous orange pixie called Mildred.
I know, I know-- I shouldn't complain so much. It could be (and has been) a hell of a lot worse. But, dear morons, I spent seven-and-three-quarter hours today in an underventilated work space with not enough chairs, putting bloody silver pendants onto bloody plastic cards. I must have done about five thousand of those suckers. And then there's the flat; I like it here, but the place is falling down around my ears. The latest disaster is the bathroom ceiling: it's riddled with dry rot and will need to be ripped out and replaced. I mean, there is scaffolding in my bathroom that is holding up the ceiling.
This unnerves me somewhat.
Typical of these Victorian terraces-- oh, sure, they look picturesque, but the renovation is a nightmare. My landlord is a great bloke but he gets all the repairs done on the cheap, which means that nothing ever stays repaired for long. I don't know what the hell's going to happen if me and Mandy have to vacate while the work's being done. I'm just sick to death of the cheap rented places that I've lived in ever since I left home. I'm sick of the insecurity, I'm sick of the half-baked repair work, I'm sick of it all.
It's time I got myself dug in behind the keyboard to get some serious work done. I'm still tweaking a couple of articles that have, to all intents and purposes, been finished for weeks-- I just can't bear to stop fiddling with them and punt them out. That kind of thing has to stop. On the plus side, I finally bit the bullet and started work on a novel that I've been laying groundwork for over the last few months. It's going to be hard work, but potentially it is a very strong story.
Since all my other avenues have been cut off, I must get my writing career underway. I must get out of this life, or at least have some hope that I might get out of it one day. I need a to see a light at the end of this tunnel. Even an orange one called Mildred.
Tuesday, August 20, 2002
Sunday, August 18, 2002
Figgy Rolls.
21st Century Fig Fest
So you like figgy rolls, yes? But deep within your being you sense that there may be unexplored regions of figgyness, hitherto undreampt of combinations of pastry and fig? Wonder no more, for the good folk of nicecupofteaandasitdown.com have sought out new figilizations, and boldly gone where no interweb site has gone before (well, France anyway ). Figtastic!
Asda! Sainsbury's! Jacobs! Figolu! Newton! Crawfords! Figgy rolls, head to head. Who shall triumph as the most figolicious?
21st Century Fig Fest
So you like figgy rolls, yes? But deep within your being you sense that there may be unexplored regions of figgyness, hitherto undreampt of combinations of pastry and fig? Wonder no more, for the good folk of nicecupofteaandasitdown.com have sought out new figilizations, and boldly gone where no interweb site has gone before (well, France anyway ). Figtastic!
Asda! Sainsbury's! Jacobs! Figolu! Newton! Crawfords! Figgy rolls, head to head. Who shall triumph as the most figolicious?
Saturday, August 17, 2002
No!
FFS, Mordant, don't click on that link. You've just seen a lengthy quote from the site, and it's obviously going to more of the same homophobic, misogynistic, all-around-bigoted drooling from beginning to end.
Don't click on the link. You know the site is just going to piss you off, make your blood boil for hours afterwards. Go and look at B3TA, or something. They will have some funny kittens.
Don't click on the link.
Profitable Doctrines in God's Word.
GODDAMMIT! You clicked the link! Now you're going to be in a perfectly foul mood all day.
FFS, Mordant, don't click on that link. You've just seen a lengthy quote from the site, and it's obviously going to more of the same homophobic, misogynistic, all-around-bigoted drooling from beginning to end.
Don't click on the link. You know the site is just going to piss you off, make your blood boil for hours afterwards. Go and look at B3TA, or something. They will have some funny kittens.
Don't click on the link.
Profitable Doctrines in God's Word.
GODDAMMIT! You clicked the link! Now you're going to be in a perfectly foul mood all day.
Oh, for God's sake.
Are you guys back again? How many times do I have to tell you: Stop reading this site. Stop it. Now. Point the mousey pointer at one of the links on the sidebar; a news resource, perhaps, or the New Scientist. For crying out loud, go anywhere-- just elevate your sights! Inform yourselves! I know, it's hard work at first: reading stuff that actually forces you to engage your brain, rather than allowing you to soak up the words without ever actually having to think too hard about what they mean, but it'll be worth it in the long run. Maybe you might actually learn something. Maybe you might just find yourself questioning some of those cherished prejudices that you clasp to your bosom like wrinkly grey goblin fetuses. Maybe you'll be inspired by new and mindbending concepts, your jaded soul refreshed by the glory and granduer of the Universe.
I notice you're still here.
Are you guys back again? How many times do I have to tell you: Stop reading this site. Stop it. Now. Point the mousey pointer at one of the links on the sidebar; a news resource, perhaps, or the New Scientist. For crying out loud, go anywhere-- just elevate your sights! Inform yourselves! I know, it's hard work at first: reading stuff that actually forces you to engage your brain, rather than allowing you to soak up the words without ever actually having to think too hard about what they mean, but it'll be worth it in the long run. Maybe you might actually learn something. Maybe you might just find yourself questioning some of those cherished prejudices that you clasp to your bosom like wrinkly grey goblin fetuses. Maybe you'll be inspired by new and mindbending concepts, your jaded soul refreshed by the glory and granduer of the Universe.
I notice you're still here.
Thursday, August 15, 2002
Godzilla v Davezilla: When Copywrite Holders Attack
(From the Barbelith Underground, via fridgemagnet, via Tony.)
Hence the temporary namechange, folks. Go now and do ye likewise.
Hey... what's that noise in the distance?
Uh, oh. Sounds like it's coming this way...
Sounds like...
Sounds like....
GIANT FOOTSTEPS!
(Yeah, why not get the Blue Oyster Cult's lawyers on my case while I'm at it?)
(From the Barbelith Underground, via fridgemagnet, via Tony.)
Hence the temporary namechange, folks. Go now and do ye likewise.
Hey... what's that noise in the distance?
Uh, oh. Sounds like it's coming this way...
Sounds like...
Sounds like....
GIANT FOOTSTEPS!
(Yeah, why not get the Blue Oyster Cult's lawyers on my case while I'm at it?)
ThinkGeek :: Shower Shock Caffeinated Soap
According to the blurb, this is "a gently envigorating soap" (sic). You absorb the caffine through your skin. It smells of peppermint, too.
Now you know what to buy me next Christmas, don't you?
According to the blurb, this is "a gently envigorating soap" (sic). You absorb the caffine through your skin. It smells of peppermint, too.
Now you know what to buy me next Christmas, don't you?
Tuesday, August 13, 2002
S.N.A.F.U.
Okay, the bad news is that I had a fit this morning and had to miss work. First time in ages that's happened. I don't think it's very significant-- I've come down with a rather nasty bug and my sleep patterns have been odd, which probably accounts for it. The good news is that I didn't lose the booking, which would have sucked.
Meant to finish polishing my housing article today, but I was too tired and out of it. I'll definately do it tomoz. Maybe google up the figures I need in the morning, make a few corrections over lunch, type the sucker up when I get home... Yeah, that sounds doable. Then I'll FINALLY have something meaty I can sling out to prospective employers.
Things have been a little dry on the story front for some reason. Well, actually I do know the reason, but I don't like fessing up to it: my creative side is suffering because I've been a bad wee chaoette, and I've been letting my magick homework pile up a bit. No psyballs for a few days, and I've been neglecting my dream diary. This must and shall be rectified.
I plan to start configuring a new sub-personality soon, a sort of hero figure. I'll be needing it over the next few months.
Okay, the bad news is that I had a fit this morning and had to miss work. First time in ages that's happened. I don't think it's very significant-- I've come down with a rather nasty bug and my sleep patterns have been odd, which probably accounts for it. The good news is that I didn't lose the booking, which would have sucked.
Meant to finish polishing my housing article today, but I was too tired and out of it. I'll definately do it tomoz. Maybe google up the figures I need in the morning, make a few corrections over lunch, type the sucker up when I get home... Yeah, that sounds doable. Then I'll FINALLY have something meaty I can sling out to prospective employers.
Things have been a little dry on the story front for some reason. Well, actually I do know the reason, but I don't like fessing up to it: my creative side is suffering because I've been a bad wee chaoette, and I've been letting my magick homework pile up a bit. No psyballs for a few days, and I've been neglecting my dream diary. This must and shall be rectified.
I plan to start configuring a new sub-personality soon, a sort of hero figure. I'll be needing it over the next few months.
Monday, August 12, 2002
Tales of the Plush Cthulhu
(Spirited away in the loathsome light of a gibbous moon from the blasphemous depths ofYou May Like This.)
(Spirited away in the loathsome light of a gibbous moon from the blasphemous depths ofYou May Like This.)
Weblogger In "Having a Social Life" Shock
Had a fairly hectic weekend-- pubbing and clubbing on Fri. with a Mandy and a few of my mukkers, then boozing on Sun. at fridgemagnet's farewell bash, bitchiekittie having lured him Stateside with her feminine wiles. I wish them both well. (No, I'm not going soft-- I still hate you.)
I'd recovered enough to start my new temp booking today. I spent the entire day putting earrings in ickle pickle plakky bags, then put stickers on the front. All day. Earrings. Bags. Stickers. 9 to 5:30.
Still ain't got that regular column; an oversight, I'm sure, which will be rectified in due course. The Grauniad people must have been too busy scoring to contact me.
To those of you who've emailed me with tip-offs about writing gigs: Thanks. 'Preciated.
Everyone else: Gizza job?
Had a fairly hectic weekend-- pubbing and clubbing on Fri. with a Mandy and a few of my mukkers, then boozing on Sun. at fridgemagnet's farewell bash, bitchiekittie having lured him Stateside with her feminine wiles. I wish them both well. (No, I'm not going soft-- I still hate you.)
I'd recovered enough to start my new temp booking today. I spent the entire day putting earrings in ickle pickle plakky bags, then put stickers on the front. All day. Earrings. Bags. Stickers. 9 to 5:30.
Still ain't got that regular column; an oversight, I'm sure, which will be rectified in due course. The Grauniad people must have been too busy scoring to contact me.
To those of you who've emailed me with tip-offs about writing gigs: Thanks. 'Preciated.
Everyone else: Gizza job?
Saturday, August 10, 2002
New weebl and bob thingy! w00t!
(Apparently the chap that does these has been hired to make animations for MTV, which is jolly nice.)
(Apparently the chap that does these has been hired to make animations for MTV, which is jolly nice.)
Friday, August 09, 2002
WARNING:
*****Major gross-out ahead.****** *****Major gross-out ahead.****** *****Major gross-out ahead.******
EURRRRRGHHHH! Jesus H. Christ in an all-male jaccuzi, what a revolting morning I've had. I got booked in to work a morning shift cleaning up at that bail hostel, right? And everything was going pretty smoothly, until I got to the bathrooms on the third floor.
Basically: Somebody had a bit of a dicky tummy last night and kind of Jackson Pollocked one of the loos. Then they... then they nothing.
They just left it.
To dry.
Into concrete.
I mean, I'm starting a nice clean packing job on Monday; somehow that made it worse.You know in actiony-military type films there's always this bit where the crack team of marines is mired deep in enemy territory, with aliens or robots or foriegn johnnies encroaching on all sides? And one bloke always goes off into one about how close he is to the end of his tour of duty? It was sort of like that. I'm standing there clutching a bog-brush in my rubber-gloved hands and sobbing: "Fourteen days and a wakeup, man! Fourteen days and a wakeup!"
It took me about a quarter of an hour and half a litre of Mr. Shifter to get rid of it. I'm going to start a campaign for cleaners to be issued with flamethrowers, or possibly tactical nukes.
Look, before you start: I know that there are worse jobs in Britain, okay? There are grosser jobs, there are more dangerous jobs, there are jobs that are more poorly paid. I acknowledge this. I plan to offset my whining soon by writing a post or two on the topic of Jobs That Suck Worse Than Mine.
But I still say I'm not getting paid enough to scrape diahrroea pebbledash off of toilets.
*****Major gross-out ahead.****** *****Major gross-out ahead.****** *****Major gross-out ahead.******
EURRRRRGHHHH! Jesus H. Christ in an all-male jaccuzi, what a revolting morning I've had. I got booked in to work a morning shift cleaning up at that bail hostel, right? And everything was going pretty smoothly, until I got to the bathrooms on the third floor.
Basically: Somebody had a bit of a dicky tummy last night and kind of Jackson Pollocked one of the loos. Then they... then they nothing.
They just left it.
To dry.
Into concrete.
I mean, I'm starting a nice clean packing job on Monday; somehow that made it worse.You know in actiony-military type films there's always this bit where the crack team of marines is mired deep in enemy territory, with aliens or robots or foriegn johnnies encroaching on all sides? And one bloke always goes off into one about how close he is to the end of his tour of duty? It was sort of like that. I'm standing there clutching a bog-brush in my rubber-gloved hands and sobbing: "Fourteen days and a wakeup, man! Fourteen days and a wakeup!"
It took me about a quarter of an hour and half a litre of Mr. Shifter to get rid of it. I'm going to start a campaign for cleaners to be issued with flamethrowers, or possibly tactical nukes.
Look, before you start: I know that there are worse jobs in Britain, okay? There are grosser jobs, there are more dangerous jobs, there are jobs that are more poorly paid. I acknowledge this. I plan to offset my whining soon by writing a post or two on the topic of Jobs That Suck Worse Than Mine.
But I still say I'm not getting paid enough to scrape diahrroea pebbledash off of toilets.
Thursday, August 08, 2002
"As a dog returneth..."
I'm starting a new booking on Monday. An... ongoing booking. For me, an Ongoing Booking is like the Holy Grail. I call them permatemp jobs: technically temporary, but the boss is likely to need you for the foreseeable future and can't be bothered to recruit someone new. The cherry on the cake is that I know the client, a small but thriving jewellery importer in need of packers. I spent most of last summer with them and they're pretty cool. My agency told me that they asked for me by name, would you believe.
Yeah, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking: Here's a company that wants somebody to stuff toerings in boxes all day, a job which has no requirements beyond a pair of opposable thumbs, and yet they ask for a specific person? If you're thinking that, then you'd suck at doing this job. First off: they need someone who won't assume that "boring" is the same as "unimportant." Second off: They need someone who understands that if you're on a production line, 9:00 am means 9:00 am and not any old time before lunch. Third off: they need someone who isn't stupid enough to try and half-inch the product.
I mean. Seriously.
Here's a simple maths quiz: you're packing cheap little mass-produced silver earring sets that cost about 3p a pair wholesale. You get paid £5 an hour. Given that you will be dismissed without references and very probably arrested if you try to nick anything, how is it ever going to be worth trying to smuggle a couple of earrings past the guy with the metal-detector? Choose one of the following:
A) It's not worth it, stupid. Now pass me another roll of barcode stickers.
b) I don't like this job much, but I'd rather just quit and look for something else than get fired over a few penn'orth of costume jewellery.
?%!) mE Am BizZarrO woRLd rONniE bIgGS! Me aM eAT pAinT! sEll sHIny eARiNgs! BuY moRe PaInT! paINt gOooOd!
So having established that I can do this look-ma-no-brains job without screwing it up, why doesn't the client just cut out the middleman and hire me directly, on a casual basis? Why go through the agency?
Because of the introduction fee. The introduction fee is a sum of money that the client is contractually obliged to pay the agency if they hire someone who's been sent to them by that agency, within a set amount of time (usually 2-3 years). The terms vary between agencies but generally a client is looking at some multiple of the temp's hourly rate. In many cases the minimum fee starts at around £1000 (even for opposable-thumboids like moi). One agency I worked for charged £2000, minimum. This fee means that no matter how hard you work for a client, they'll probably never hire you as a permanent member of staff.
At present, I don't care-- I'm not stopping here anyway, so this deal suits me just fine. When I first moved to London it was different; like many others I wanted nothing more than a permanent job. The phrase "good chance of going perm!" is dangled in front of temps' noses all the time. It's the mechanical hare that they chase after, the inducement to put up with all manner of lousy conditions and rotten behaviour. I'm here to tell you that nine times out of eight, "good chance of going perm!" is a great big lie. Get in early, leave late, take work home, work a twelve hour day for eight hour's pay, none of that matters. If your client can find someone to do what they think you do without coughing up an extra £1000, then they'll hire that person, not you. End of story.
Understand: I'm not saying all this like it's the worst thing that could ever happen to a person. I'm just saying. That's all.
I'm starting a new booking on Monday. An... ongoing booking. For me, an Ongoing Booking is like the Holy Grail. I call them permatemp jobs: technically temporary, but the boss is likely to need you for the foreseeable future and can't be bothered to recruit someone new. The cherry on the cake is that I know the client, a small but thriving jewellery importer in need of packers. I spent most of last summer with them and they're pretty cool. My agency told me that they asked for me by name, would you believe.
Yeah, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking: Here's a company that wants somebody to stuff toerings in boxes all day, a job which has no requirements beyond a pair of opposable thumbs, and yet they ask for a specific person? If you're thinking that, then you'd suck at doing this job. First off: they need someone who won't assume that "boring" is the same as "unimportant." Second off: They need someone who understands that if you're on a production line, 9:00 am means 9:00 am and not any old time before lunch. Third off: they need someone who isn't stupid enough to try and half-inch the product.
I mean. Seriously.
Here's a simple maths quiz: you're packing cheap little mass-produced silver earring sets that cost about 3p a pair wholesale. You get paid £5 an hour. Given that you will be dismissed without references and very probably arrested if you try to nick anything, how is it ever going to be worth trying to smuggle a couple of earrings past the guy with the metal-detector? Choose one of the following:
A) It's not worth it, stupid. Now pass me another roll of barcode stickers.
b) I don't like this job much, but I'd rather just quit and look for something else than get fired over a few penn'orth of costume jewellery.
?%!) mE Am BizZarrO woRLd rONniE bIgGS! Me aM eAT pAinT! sEll sHIny eARiNgs! BuY moRe PaInT! paINt gOooOd!
So having established that I can do this look-ma-no-brains job without screwing it up, why doesn't the client just cut out the middleman and hire me directly, on a casual basis? Why go through the agency?
Because of the introduction fee. The introduction fee is a sum of money that the client is contractually obliged to pay the agency if they hire someone who's been sent to them by that agency, within a set amount of time (usually 2-3 years). The terms vary between agencies but generally a client is looking at some multiple of the temp's hourly rate. In many cases the minimum fee starts at around £1000 (even for opposable-thumboids like moi). One agency I worked for charged £2000, minimum. This fee means that no matter how hard you work for a client, they'll probably never hire you as a permanent member of staff.
At present, I don't care-- I'm not stopping here anyway, so this deal suits me just fine. When I first moved to London it was different; like many others I wanted nothing more than a permanent job. The phrase "good chance of going perm!" is dangled in front of temps' noses all the time. It's the mechanical hare that they chase after, the inducement to put up with all manner of lousy conditions and rotten behaviour. I'm here to tell you that nine times out of eight, "good chance of going perm!" is a great big lie. Get in early, leave late, take work home, work a twelve hour day for eight hour's pay, none of that matters. If your client can find someone to do what they think you do without coughing up an extra £1000, then they'll hire that person, not you. End of story.
Understand: I'm not saying all this like it's the worst thing that could ever happen to a person. I'm just saying. That's all.
That whole "Blogging = Revolution in Personal Publishing™" thing: Why it's tosh.
Revolution, my infected toenails. How is this a revolution? What exactly is being achieved here? Sure, there's now more opportunity for people to create quality reportage, but are you reading the Weblogs of Righteousness? Are you checking the blogs that have current events, insightful comment, charm, a desire to inform or at least entertain? Are you reading about a friend or family member? No, you're hanging round the grotty pits of weblogging, rubbernecking, waiting to see what the freaks'll do next. Yes, you are. Stop interrupting and face it.
Look! Will you look at this? I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to spring one of those horribly lucid oh-god-I'm-a-tiny-fragment-of-dirt-floating-in-a-void-of-futility moments on your sorry little mind.
You are reading the online journal of an asthmatic, sporadically-employed, shaven-headed, epileptic, Goth cleaner. Picture me wheezing round a gobfull of Monster Munch, picking flakes of black nail-varnish from my manky cuticles; picture me pouring another cheap vodka and generic orange squash to wash down the allergy meds; picture me guffawing at the latest Cruel Site of the Day. And then see yourself, actually sitting in front of your VDU, reading what that person has written.
You have contrived to be sadder than a Goth. You're like, ultra-sad. You're so sad that only dogs can hear it. They're going to harness your sadness as a weapon of mass-destruction.
No, you're not being clever and ironic. No, don't try and deconstruct it. You're not fooling anyone, least of all yourself. Just sit there and let the unutterable pointless lameness of what you're doing seep into your brain until you fall, sobbing and retching, to the floor.
Revolution, my infected toenails. How is this a revolution? What exactly is being achieved here? Sure, there's now more opportunity for people to create quality reportage, but are you reading the Weblogs of Righteousness? Are you checking the blogs that have current events, insightful comment, charm, a desire to inform or at least entertain? Are you reading about a friend or family member? No, you're hanging round the grotty pits of weblogging, rubbernecking, waiting to see what the freaks'll do next. Yes, you are. Stop interrupting and face it.
Look! Will you look at this? I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to spring one of those horribly lucid oh-god-I'm-a-tiny-fragment-of-dirt-floating-in-a-void-of-futility moments on your sorry little mind.
You are reading the online journal of an asthmatic, sporadically-employed, shaven-headed, epileptic, Goth cleaner. Picture me wheezing round a gobfull of Monster Munch, picking flakes of black nail-varnish from my manky cuticles; picture me pouring another cheap vodka and generic orange squash to wash down the allergy meds; picture me guffawing at the latest Cruel Site of the Day. And then see yourself, actually sitting in front of your VDU, reading what that person has written.
You have contrived to be sadder than a Goth. You're like, ultra-sad. You're so sad that only dogs can hear it. They're going to harness your sadness as a weapon of mass-destruction.
No, you're not being clever and ironic. No, don't try and deconstruct it. You're not fooling anyone, least of all yourself. Just sit there and let the unutterable pointless lameness of what you're doing seep into your brain until you fall, sobbing and retching, to the floor.
Wednesday, August 07, 2002
All right, then.
Here! Here's your damned update, you pack of ravening jackals! I hope it chokes you.
I've spent the last few days trying (and mostly failing) to find work. Got a qualification in electronics? You've got two choices: move to Germany or pick up a mop. God help me, I actually found myself reading ads for the Army in a receptive, speculative frame of mind.
In the two weeks since my last booking finished, I have had four (4) hours' work: cleaning, in a bail hostel. And if any of you middle-class superplonk socialists plan to start telling me how there's no shame in honest labour and quoting bits of Fight Club, you'd better have spent at least a few hours of your life scrubbing junkie c**p off of bog seats or batting away the flies as you scrape four inches of green hairy take-away food out of someone else's bin.
That they have had in their room.
Next to their bed.
For weeks on end.
In the middle of summer.
It's not that I don't appreciate the comparative advantages afforded by my decadent Western background, it's just that I'd quite like a job that didn't involve the continual suppression of my gag reflex.
Anyway... the agency have found me work for Monday. I don't know what it is, I don't know how much it pays, and I'm not sure of the hours. I didn't even ask; I just took it. Whatever. I mean, who cares, right? There's only one thing I'm okay at (electronics) and there's only one thing I'm really good at (writing); and apparently you can't get paid for those. Rent's due in a couple of weeks, so pass the bog-brush.
Here! Here's your damned update, you pack of ravening jackals! I hope it chokes you.
I've spent the last few days trying (and mostly failing) to find work. Got a qualification in electronics? You've got two choices: move to Germany or pick up a mop. God help me, I actually found myself reading ads for the Army in a receptive, speculative frame of mind.
In the two weeks since my last booking finished, I have had four (4) hours' work: cleaning, in a bail hostel. And if any of you middle-class superplonk socialists plan to start telling me how there's no shame in honest labour and quoting bits of Fight Club, you'd better have spent at least a few hours of your life scrubbing junkie c**p off of bog seats or batting away the flies as you scrape four inches of green hairy take-away food out of someone else's bin.
That they have had in their room.
Next to their bed.
For weeks on end.
In the middle of summer.
It's not that I don't appreciate the comparative advantages afforded by my decadent Western background, it's just that I'd quite like a job that didn't involve the continual suppression of my gag reflex.
Anyway... the agency have found me work for Monday. I don't know what it is, I don't know how much it pays, and I'm not sure of the hours. I didn't even ask; I just took it. Whatever. I mean, who cares, right? There's only one thing I'm okay at (electronics) and there's only one thing I'm really good at (writing); and apparently you can't get paid for those. Rent's due in a couple of weeks, so pass the bog-brush.
Friday, August 02, 2002
Thursday, August 01, 2002
Still jobless.
My agency had some litter-picking work going but you needed to supply your own steel toe-capped boots. I do not own any steel toe-capped boots, nor can I afford to buy any. (My boyfriend would like to imagine that I possess steel toe-capped boots, and indeed gets quite disappointed when I tell him that I don't.)
"Aha!" you cry. "But under current legislation, your employer must provide you with any necessary proctive gear! They must render unto you a pair of steel toe-capped boots, or face the consequences!"
But I am not an employee, am I? I'm a temp. According to my contract, which is a standard document that varies little from agency to agency, I am self-employed. Therefore all protective kit is my problem, not the client's. Oh, the joys of a flexible labour market!
DIRK, meanwhile, is a sort of auto-po-playing device, which I found on Interconnected. It explores the fundamental interconnectedness of all things, and is strangely soothing.
My agency had some litter-picking work going but you needed to supply your own steel toe-capped boots. I do not own any steel toe-capped boots, nor can I afford to buy any. (My boyfriend would like to imagine that I possess steel toe-capped boots, and indeed gets quite disappointed when I tell him that I don't.)
"Aha!" you cry. "But under current legislation, your employer must provide you with any necessary proctive gear! They must render unto you a pair of steel toe-capped boots, or face the consequences!"
But I am not an employee, am I? I'm a temp. According to my contract, which is a standard document that varies little from agency to agency, I am self-employed. Therefore all protective kit is my problem, not the client's. Oh, the joys of a flexible labour market!
DIRK, meanwhile, is a sort of auto-po-playing device, which I found on Interconnected. It explores the fundamental interconnectedness of all things, and is strangely soothing.
Wednesday, July 31, 2002
Book which you must read.
I've just finished Last and First Men by Olaf Stapleton. You have to read this-- it's a complete headfuck, a revelation. This guy was a visionary. I can't belive he was writing in the 30's.
The book is incredible. It's an attempt to conceptualise the whole future of humanity, civilizations rising and falling, disintegrating and coalescing... it's incredible. There's a terrific sense of a mind trying to reconcile the very worst of human nature with the very best-- and from time to time, actually succeeding.
I've just finished Last and First Men by Olaf Stapleton. You have to read this-- it's a complete headfuck, a revelation. This guy was a visionary. I can't belive he was writing in the 30's.
The book is incredible. It's an attempt to conceptualise the whole future of humanity, civilizations rising and falling, disintegrating and coalescing... it's incredible. There's a terrific sense of a mind trying to reconcile the very worst of human nature with the very best-- and from time to time, actually succeeding.
Why I Hate You, Pt. 10,090
Because you are a vast, I dunno, spongey explody thing of potential and yet you spent your life sitting around wondering if you might possibly be excused from the blatantly ludicrous template within which you have chosen to slot yourselves. Are you? Aren't you? I don't know! Who cares! Let's all have a bun.
Because you are a vast, I dunno, spongey explody thing of potential and yet you spent your life sitting around wondering if you might possibly be excused from the blatantly ludicrous template within which you have chosen to slot yourselves. Are you? Aren't you? I don't know! Who cares! Let's all have a bun.
2:32 am and haven't found a job.
However, Shashinka has painted her nails, and they look pretty cool. She mentions the Middle East: how ludicrous these girly things are in the face of the world.
I heard an account once; the liberation of a concentration camp. Inamongst the scanty food, the bandages, somebody had given a box of lipsticks. How futile, you say. How silly, how vain. But there were women who rouged their lips and then died still clutching the greasepaint, like a child holding a favorite toy close against the nightmares.
Elsewhere, in space/time: The Egyptians had a fine understanding of wet chemistry, which had its roots largely in the making of eyeshadow and sundry cosmetics. Only recently did we understand the secrets of their blue paint. Small statuettes have been found, ostensibly electroplated, purportedly Ancient Egyptian in origin. A battery is not a hard thing to devise-- nor to forget.
It's the little things in life.
However, Shashinka has painted her nails, and they look pretty cool. She mentions the Middle East: how ludicrous these girly things are in the face of the world.
I heard an account once; the liberation of a concentration camp. Inamongst the scanty food, the bandages, somebody had given a box of lipsticks. How futile, you say. How silly, how vain. But there were women who rouged their lips and then died still clutching the greasepaint, like a child holding a favorite toy close against the nightmares.
Elsewhere, in space/time: The Egyptians had a fine understanding of wet chemistry, which had its roots largely in the making of eyeshadow and sundry cosmetics. Only recently did we understand the secrets of their blue paint. Small statuettes have been found, ostensibly electroplated, purportedly Ancient Egyptian in origin. A battery is not a hard thing to devise-- nor to forget.
It's the little things in life.
Tuesday, July 30, 2002
Sliiiiight work warning here:Top 10 Cutest Kittens from B3ta
(You did read the work warning before you clicked the link, didn't you? Oh. Oh, well.)
(You did read the work warning before you clicked the link, didn't you? Oh. Oh, well.)
Tom Coates explains to the Grauniad why their weblog compo is "a bloody stupid idea."
Whilst I'm inclined to agree, I still want the money.
Whilst I'm inclined to agree, I still want the money.
Virus warning: Blank emails containing worms!
Regular punters will recall my concern a few days back that following the huge if brief rise in my hit rate, I might have more than the usual amont of tosh in my inbox. Well, turns out I was right. Apart from an increase in spam I've noticed a worrying number of blank but very large emails. I opened the first couple (duh) because I didn't know what they were. (DUHHHRRRRR!)
Now, until fairly recently, you could avoid virusifying your 'puter by not opening suspicious attachments. However these emails can deliver a worm onto your virtual doorstep just by being opened. They're not that hard to spot: large emails (100 k+) with garbled, nonsensical, or unknown senders, which prove to be blank.
Once again: These are LARGE, apparently BLANK emails, from unknown or garbled senders, with NO attachments. They are NOT safe, they contain WORMS. Be very, VERY vigilant, especially if you use some superweak piece of pantsware like Outlook Express to read your email.
Regular punters will recall my concern a few days back that following the huge if brief rise in my hit rate, I might have more than the usual amont of tosh in my inbox. Well, turns out I was right. Apart from an increase in spam I've noticed a worrying number of blank but very large emails. I opened the first couple (duh) because I didn't know what they were. (DUHHHRRRRR!)
Now, until fairly recently, you could avoid virusifying your 'puter by not opening suspicious attachments. However these emails can deliver a worm onto your virtual doorstep just by being opened. They're not that hard to spot: large emails (100 k+) with garbled, nonsensical, or unknown senders, which prove to be blank.
Once again: These are LARGE, apparently BLANK emails, from unknown or garbled senders, with NO attachments. They are NOT safe, they contain WORMS. Be very, VERY vigilant, especially if you use some superweak piece of pantsware like Outlook Express to read your email.
Finally!
Us paranoiacs now have our own version of warchalking-- Let's PSYCHALK!
Although... he mentions the aluminium foil deflector beanie! Oh, no. Major disinfo. Actually, the AFDB works like a faraday cage, focusing your thoughts out round the edges and making it easier for the aliens to read your mind. Argggh! Nowhere is safe!!!
Us paranoiacs now have our own version of warchalking-- Let's PSYCHALK!
Although... he mentions the aluminium foil deflector beanie! Oh, no. Major disinfo. Actually, the AFDB works like a faraday cage, focusing your thoughts out round the edges and making it easier for the aliens to read your mind. Argggh! Nowhere is safe!!!
Sick of @!$* personality tests? Want to give your online buddies a little aversion thereapy? The Atomic Temple Online can help you out, with this handy dandy fake quiz. Looks like a personality test, but dumps the unsuspecting testee face-first into a page-full of mullet-pr0n!
(Work warning. Duh.)
(Work warning. Duh.)
Monday, July 29, 2002
Seems like I never have enough time to do all the things I want to do. So I'm going to make some more.
('Course, if Fotemacus would answer my calls I wouldn't have this problem.)
('Course, if Fotemacus would answer my calls I wouldn't have this problem.)
Style v Content, Round 192
The problem with me is that most of my writing, if I'm honest, isn't really about anything. It's all disjointed scenes, vigniettes, powerful in themselves but ultimately sterile. I need stories, real stories; and for that I need focus.
But the bigger problem-- the great, oozing Alien Queen of a problem, the problem that endlessly squits out new problems which will in turn hatch to choke up my life-- is that I can't finish anything.
The problem with me is that most of my writing, if I'm honest, isn't really about anything. It's all disjointed scenes, vigniettes, powerful in themselves but ultimately sterile. I need stories, real stories; and for that I need focus.
But the bigger problem-- the great, oozing Alien Queen of a problem, the problem that endlessly squits out new problems which will in turn hatch to choke up my life-- is that I can't finish anything.
I hate it when this happens.
None of my bits are getting on with my other bits. The empiricist in me is Not Talking to the magickian, the magickian is having a bit of a sulk, the Drunk Poet is making the Mad Poet cry, the Eternal Adolecent doesn't have a thing to we-e-e-a-r, the Wise Old One is having a senior moment and nobody's getting any work done.
None of my bits are getting on with my other bits. The empiricist in me is Not Talking to the magickian, the magickian is having a bit of a sulk, the Drunk Poet is making the Mad Poet cry, the Eternal Adolecent doesn't have a thing to we-e-e-a-r, the Wise Old One is having a senior moment and nobody's getting any work done.
Sunday, July 28, 2002
Obese man sues Maccy D's
Get this: an obesity sufferer is sueing McDonald's, Wendy's, Burger King and Kentucky Fried Chicken for making him fat.
Okay, the case is self evidently a load of codswallop and the plaintiff is a prat for not actually thinking about what he was putting into his body, and I'm sick to death of the way people want to replace commonsense with instructions, thus absolving themselves of the need to use their brains. (We can take my intolerance for stupidity as read by now, yes?) But I'm also sick of the way big food companies pollute our lives and lie about what their food does to our bodies. They suppress evidence, they buy off "experts" to spout drivel and they use cynical marketing to hook kids on junk food. I hope the guy wins the case.
Then I'm going to sue him becase his stupidity has raised my blood-pressure.
Get this: an obesity sufferer is sueing McDonald's, Wendy's, Burger King and Kentucky Fried Chicken for making him fat.
Okay, the case is self evidently a load of codswallop and the plaintiff is a prat for not actually thinking about what he was putting into his body, and I'm sick to death of the way people want to replace commonsense with instructions, thus absolving themselves of the need to use their brains. (We can take my intolerance for stupidity as read by now, yes?) But I'm also sick of the way big food companies pollute our lives and lie about what their food does to our bodies. They suppress evidence, they buy off "experts" to spout drivel and they use cynical marketing to hook kids on junk food. I hope the guy wins the case.
Then I'm going to sue him becase his stupidity has raised my blood-pressure.
My manifesto.
1) I will stop worrying about what people think of me. I rub people up the wrong way. Boo fucking hoo. If I'm out of line I'll apologise, but I'm not going to crawl.
2) I will stop getting distracted by stuff that doesn't matter.
3) I will stop getting all worked up over random wankers. That git shouting at me from a white van is not my Evil Nemesis, he's a git in a white van.
4) I will stop being such a conflictophobe. I will accept that my convictions are not widely held and will get me in trouble one of these days. Tough.
5) I will punt out stories, articles, treatments and any other goddam thing I can think of until I am the calm eye at the centre of a hurricane of rejection letters.
6) I will accept that I am trying to break into writing at a time where magazines and comics are folding left, right and centre. I will respond by being even more bloodyminded and stubborn than usual.
7) I will accept that people like me attract flak. I will deal with said flak without curling up into a little ball and sobbing. I will soak it up and keep going.
8) I will experiment with various mediums in a systematic way, until I find something I can master.
9) I will recognise that I am not the apex of creation. I can always do better than I'm doing now. I will always be aiming for that better.
10) I will do whatever it takes to get where I need to be.
11) I will never quit.
1) I will stop worrying about what people think of me. I rub people up the wrong way. Boo fucking hoo. If I'm out of line I'll apologise, but I'm not going to crawl.
2) I will stop getting distracted by stuff that doesn't matter.
3) I will stop getting all worked up over random wankers. That git shouting at me from a white van is not my Evil Nemesis, he's a git in a white van.
4) I will stop being such a conflictophobe. I will accept that my convictions are not widely held and will get me in trouble one of these days. Tough.
5) I will punt out stories, articles, treatments and any other goddam thing I can think of until I am the calm eye at the centre of a hurricane of rejection letters.
6) I will accept that I am trying to break into writing at a time where magazines and comics are folding left, right and centre. I will respond by being even more bloodyminded and stubborn than usual.
7) I will accept that people like me attract flak. I will deal with said flak without curling up into a little ball and sobbing. I will soak it up and keep going.
8) I will experiment with various mediums in a systematic way, until I find something I can master.
9) I will recognise that I am not the apex of creation. I can always do better than I'm doing now. I will always be aiming for that better.
10) I will do whatever it takes to get where I need to be.
11) I will never quit.
Paranormal beliefs linked to brain chemistry
Interesting article from the NS. Apperently higher levels of dopamine aid pattern-regcognition but also make people more likely to percieve patterns when there were none.
Interesting article from the NS. Apperently higher levels of dopamine aid pattern-regcognition but also make people more likely to percieve patterns when there were none.
Saturday, July 27, 2002
More info.
Since putting up That blog entry, I've had a few people ask me what they should do if they see somebody having a fit. Here's the basics:
So now you know, eh?
Since putting up That blog entry, I've had a few people ask me what they should do if they see somebody having a fit. Here's the basics:
While a grand mal is scary to watch, it's not always an emergency. Look and see if they have a medic-alert bracelet with details of the problem.
Lower the person carefully onto the ground.
If possible, turn their head to one side so that they don't choke on their saliva or tongue. It is not possible to "swallow" your tongue, but it can fall back and block the airway.
Stay with them, and make sure they can't knock into anything. Place something soft under the person's head.
Don't put anything in the person's mouth-- it could break their teeth or choke them.
Don't restrain them. This could cause the person to break or dislocate a bone.
Reassure them. An epileptic may feel very disoriented and anxious on coming to; tell them they've had a fit, tell them where they are and who you are.
Stay with them until they are fully aware of their surroundings.
If the fit lasts longer than 5 or 10 minutes, or if it's the person's first fit, or they've had more than one fit, then summon emergency medical assistance.
So now you know, eh?
A clarification.
Okay, that was not the full on seizure, right? That was the bit before the seizure, known as the aura. The actual seizure, in my case, involves falling on the floor, frothing at the mouth, and usually ends up with me losing a fight with a neighbouring item of furniture. This is not conducive to fast or accurate typing. Some people's epileptic fits are a lot like the description; YMMV.
Here is a site explaining seizures, and this site has some good general info on epilepsy.
Okay, that was not the full on seizure, right? That was the bit before the seizure, known as the aura. The actual seizure, in my case, involves falling on the floor, frothing at the mouth, and usually ends up with me losing a fight with a neighbouring item of furniture. This is not conducive to fast or accurate typing. Some people's epileptic fits are a lot like the description; YMMV.
Here is a site explaining seizures, and this site has some good general info on epilepsy.
If you liked the online aura thang, then you'll just love...
Barbelith Underground > Creation > Electronics project: mind control.
We still need a kilo of iron filings and some sort of ring-shaped container.
Barbelith Underground > Creation > Electronics project: mind control.
We still need a kilo of iron filings and some sort of ring-shaped container.
Rethink.
I've toyed with the idea in of writing a comic in the past, but always dismissed it. I wasn't raised in a very comic-y environment, except for Asterix and Tin-Tin, and I always thought that you sort of had to be raised on the things. Comics only really hoved into my ken in my middle teens, with Deadline magazine; I didn't even read Watchmen till ten years after came out.
But now it I'm beginning to rethink the whole oh-I-could-never-write-a-comic thing. I've got a very strong visual imagination, which might lend itself to the medium. And I have some pretty good ideas. I'm going to have a look at what comics writers have to say about the process, and reassess some of my own yarns in relation to what's out there.
I've toyed with the idea in of writing a comic in the past, but always dismissed it. I wasn't raised in a very comic-y environment, except for Asterix and Tin-Tin, and I always thought that you sort of had to be raised on the things. Comics only really hoved into my ken in my middle teens, with Deadline magazine; I didn't even read Watchmen till ten years after came out.
But now it I'm beginning to rethink the whole oh-I-could-never-write-a-comic thing. I've got a very strong visual imagination, which might lend itself to the medium. And I have some pretty good ideas. I'm going to have a look at what comics writers have to say about the process, and reassess some of my own yarns in relation to what's out there.
Friday, July 26, 2002
Bizarre Breasts
I'm not alone: L.K. Malnassy has also noticed that many comic artists can't draw t1ts.
"I have utilized my meager knowledge of anatomy and admittedly unpolished art skills to bring the world a brief tutorial on one of the comic artists' greatest challenges: the breast."
I'm not alone: L.K. Malnassy has also noticed that many comic artists can't draw t1ts.
Oh, yeah.
I forgot: AND I'm getting too old to try and get into another line of work.
Rabbits to it. There's not much point me trying to get a job writing stuff until I've got some stuff out there. Not much hope of getting paid for it at the mo., but plenty of worthy 'zines rely on voluntary contributions. Get out there. Get name in magazine. Then can go "look, Mr. Editor! Writey thing what I have wrote!" Then will get job, and hopefully money will follow. Or more money than I make in temp hell, anyhow.
I forgot: AND I'm getting too old to try and get into another line of work.
Rabbits to it. There's not much point me trying to get a job writing stuff until I've got some stuff out there. Not much hope of getting paid for it at the mo., but plenty of worthy 'zines rely on voluntary contributions. Get out there. Get name in magazine. Then can go "look, Mr. Editor! Writey thing what I have wrote!" Then will get job, and hopefully money will follow. Or more money than I make in temp hell, anyhow.
Argh.
Right: my job finished today AND I don't have another one lined up AND I don't know when I'll be able to find another job AND I'll probably have to start scrounging off my boyfriend again AND I don't want to AND when I do find a job it'll be caretaking or cleaning or packing since that's all I ever bloody get AND I'm looking for work in an industry I know nothing about AND where I have no experience AND my head hurts.
I'm going to go and kick things now.
Right: my job finished today AND I don't have another one lined up AND I don't know when I'll be able to find another job AND I'll probably have to start scrounging off my boyfriend again AND I don't want to AND when I do find a job it'll be caretaking or cleaning or packing since that's all I ever bloody get AND I'm looking for work in an industry I know nothing about AND where I have no experience AND my head hurts.
I'm going to go and kick things now.
GAP GETS SHAGGED IN SHEFFIELD
How activists comprehensively f*cked up a Gap recruitment fair by setting up an information point outside and telling everyone how the company makes its money by exploiting sweatshop labour.
What bothers me is that this news still came as a surprise to a lot of people. Since the world is evidently still full of individuals who think clothes float onto Gap's shelves by magic, here's another link: www.gapsucks.org.
Pay more attention, bad people! Pay attention to horribleness or I'll come round and paint your cat!
How activists comprehensively f*cked up a Gap recruitment fair by setting up an information point outside and telling everyone how the company makes its money by exploiting sweatshop labour.
What bothers me is that this news still came as a surprise to a lot of people. Since the world is evidently still full of individuals who think clothes float onto Gap's shelves by magic, here's another link: www.gapsucks.org.
Pay more attention, bad people! Pay attention to horribleness or I'll come round and paint your cat!
Imagine waking up one morning to find that someone had covered your lawn with tacky pink plastic waterfowl. Oh, no! It's a Flamingo Nightmare!
(Whisked away from kookymojo in a little pink handbag.)
(Whisked away from kookymojo in a little pink handbag.)
Thursday, July 25, 2002
Well, the news is out anyway...
...so I suppose I might as well say it: it looks like The Barbelith Underground is to close. I was hoping against hope that Tom Coates, who runs the board, might change his mind. There's been no word, though, so I must assume the worst.
As Rage says, I'm just not digging this.
...so I suppose I might as well say it: it looks like The Barbelith Underground is to close. I was hoping against hope that Tom Coates, who runs the board, might change his mind. There's been no word, though, so I must assume the worst.
As Rage says, I'm just not digging this.
Bottled water is drug paraphernalia.
And so are glowsticks. And chillout rooms. Look, it's not made up-- it's this bill the US Congress is looking at. Look, it's real: Ravers Against the Machine (washingtonpost.com)
(Appropriated from the bulging pockets of Megarad Technologies - Ultimate in Underground Technology News)
And so are glowsticks. And chillout rooms. Look, it's not made up-- it's this bill the US Congress is looking at. Look, it's real: Ravers Against the Machine (washingtonpost.com)
(Appropriated from the bulging pockets of Megarad Technologies - Ultimate in Underground Technology News)
Wednesday, July 24, 2002
Random Paranoia
The huge leap in traffic over the past couple of days has filled me with mixed emotions. There's a tiny little part of me that is whispering: "Look at all those hits! The editor of Neurotic Gen-Xer Weekly must be in there somewhere. I bet he's reading your weblog right now, yelling to his PA: "We've found our new star columnist! Send round the limo with some posh booze and a big pizza and some Hello Kitty stationary-- whatever it takes! We've got to get her on board!"
The rest of me (which is marginally closer to reality) is picturing spam, death threats, spam, hatemail, more spam than you can shake a stick at, mailbombs, viruses, spam spam spam and spam... and of course dozens-- nay, hundreds!-- of potential employers shaking their heads in sorrow and mumuring: "Do you think this clown's got any idea how big a ninny she looks? Find out the real name of the person behind this freakshow, would you-- we wouldn't want to hire her by mistake. Actually, just have one of our Human Resources people pop round with a gun. It's the kindest thing to do."
Y'see, I'm suddenly and acutely aware that I haven't really aimed for a sense of top-class journalism here, going instead for flash animations and stuff about platypuses, interspersed with moaning about my job. I realize now that, just possibly, trying to get my readers involved in a sordid magickal ritual might not put me in the best light.
So, if the editor of Snide&Resentful Review (incorporating Let's Blame Everyone But Ourselves For Our Problems Digest) happens to be reading this: I can actually do proper writing, you know. Honest.
Gizza job.
The huge leap in traffic over the past couple of days has filled me with mixed emotions. There's a tiny little part of me that is whispering: "Look at all those hits! The editor of Neurotic Gen-Xer Weekly must be in there somewhere. I bet he's reading your weblog right now, yelling to his PA: "We've found our new star columnist! Send round the limo with some posh booze and a big pizza and some Hello Kitty stationary-- whatever it takes! We've got to get her on board!"
The rest of me (which is marginally closer to reality) is picturing spam, death threats, spam, hatemail, more spam than you can shake a stick at, mailbombs, viruses, spam spam spam and spam... and of course dozens-- nay, hundreds!-- of potential employers shaking their heads in sorrow and mumuring: "Do you think this clown's got any idea how big a ninny she looks? Find out the real name of the person behind this freakshow, would you-- we wouldn't want to hire her by mistake. Actually, just have one of our Human Resources people pop round with a gun. It's the kindest thing to do."
Y'see, I'm suddenly and acutely aware that I haven't really aimed for a sense of top-class journalism here, going instead for flash animations and stuff about platypuses, interspersed with moaning about my job. I realize now that, just possibly, trying to get my readers involved in a sordid magickal ritual might not put me in the best light.
So, if the editor of Snide&Resentful Review (incorporating Let's Blame Everyone But Ourselves For Our Problems Digest) happens to be reading this: I can actually do proper writing, you know. Honest.
Gizza job.
First it was Spiderman who'd make you gay just by watching him. Now it appears that watching Sesame Street will make you gay.
Oh, FFS. Look, the show is supposed to go out in South Africa, a nation where HIV is rampant beyond words. It's aimed at little kids who've been born infected with the virus, to help them and their peers learn about the condition. It might save lives, for crying out loud.
See, this is why I hate people so much.
"(Washington) A group of powerful conservative Republicans have condemned the introduction of an HIV Muppet on public television, and have issued a veiled threat to public television that it could face spending scrutiny if it goes ahead with the project.... The American Family Association. The AFA says the character is a means for 'homosexual activists to influence young viewers.'"
Oh, FFS. Look, the show is supposed to go out in South Africa, a nation where HIV is rampant beyond words. It's aimed at little kids who've been born infected with the virus, to help them and their peers learn about the condition. It might save lives, for crying out loud.
See, this is why I hate people so much.
MEMEPOOL ATE MY WEBLOG!
Man oh man. You know how many hits I was getting at the height of my Grauniad weblog fame? Eighty a day. You know how many I've got in the last three and a half hours? A hundred and ninety. Where are they all coming from? Why, from memepool.com. Oh, the cruel price of fame.
Jeeze Louise. The site went down altogether a couple of hours back. At this rate I'm going to have to flog my carbamazipine pills to students just to afford the bandwidth. Y'know, now would be a really good time for that weekly column to drop in my lap....
Man oh man. You know how many hits I was getting at the height of my Grauniad weblog fame? Eighty a day. You know how many I've got in the last three and a half hours? A hundred and ninety. Where are they all coming from? Why, from memepool.com. Oh, the cruel price of fame.
Jeeze Louise. The site went down altogether a couple of hours back. At this rate I'm going to have to flog my carbamazipine pills to students just to afford the bandwidth. Y'know, now would be a really good time for that weekly column to drop in my lap....
Tuesday, July 23, 2002
By popular demand...
Online Epilepsy : A new spectator sport? Being a transcript of the original "I'm going to have a fit" thread.
I have had approximately four times my usual hit rate today, all of it relating to the fit thing. I'm amazed yet strangely gratified by all the interest, though with hindsight my lack of a webcam to record myself the actual fit was a missed opportunity. Hey, that could be a real moneyspinner--
"EpoCam.com! All grand mal, all the time! Watch'em wriggle, folks!"
Did I mention that I was hoping to score a regular column somewhere? I can't promise a fit every week but I could improvise. Contract something oozy. Arrange to suffer a freak cheesegrater accident. I'm flexible.
Online Epilepsy : A new spectator sport? Being a transcript of the original "I'm going to have a fit" thread.
I have had approximately four times my usual hit rate today, all of it relating to the fit thing. I'm amazed yet strangely gratified by all the interest, though with hindsight my lack of a webcam to record myself the actual fit was a missed opportunity. Hey, that could be a real moneyspinner--
"EpoCam.com! All grand mal, all the time! Watch'em wriggle, folks!"
Did I mention that I was hoping to score a regular column somewhere? I can't promise a fit every week but I could improvise. Contract something oozy. Arrange to suffer a freak cheesegrater accident. I'm flexible.
Ah.
This would be why the traffic's gone up: Luke aka Rothkoid has linked to the thing I did about chucking an epo. Then it turned up here. Now it seems to be doing the rounds via email.
Umm.... great. Possibly.
This would be why the traffic's gone up: Luke aka Rothkoid has linked to the thing I did about chucking an epo. Then it turned up here. Now it seems to be doing the rounds via email.
Umm.... great. Possibly.
Traffic's up again.
Hullo, new people. You know I've got a personal message board, right? Drop by! say hi! Give me all your money so the popups can die!
Hullo, new people. You know I've got a personal message board, right? Drop by! say hi! Give me all your money so the popups can die!
Sunday, July 21, 2002
You've got BRAIN!!!
I am pleased to inform you that you-- yes, YOU!-- are the owner of a brain. You do not have to sign anything, nor do you have to send me a registration fee. You do not have to wait for it to be delivered. It's already yours! In your head! Now!
Your free, all-expenses-paid brain comes equipped with the following features as standard:
* Critical faculties!
Critical faculties allow you to think things about stuff and work stuff out, without waiting to be told by someone or going along with your first kneejerk reaction. Gosh, they're super!
* Language!
Yes-- with brain, the super head-filler, you get Language absolutely free! Language has Words and helps you to express ideas and thoughts and stuff. No longer will you be reduced to calling everything "gay". No longer will you have to content yourself with dull, unimaginative death-threats or hackneyed sexual slurs! Why say "yr sight suks!!!!!" when you could say "Your website is the diseased leakage from an infected rectal fistula and you yourself are quite stunningly pathetic"? Langauge-- it's a bit good!
* Learning abilities!
Brain also comes equipped with a state-of-the-art upgrade facility, Learning™. Imagine-- free brain upgrades, whenever you want! NO waiting! NO big downloads! Just insert information via sensory apparatus and Learning™ will do the rest! AMAZING!
"But Mordant," I hear you cry, "I cannot use my Brain! I did not go to (insert academic institution) and I'm only a (insert random agglomeration of gender/orientation/occupation)! How can I use Brain?"
Mandy the Bearded One (in a box) says: Don't worry! I went to a top academic institution and that never stopped my rise to idiocy.
That's right. You may feel ill-equipped to process certain topics-- yet how many hours have you spent sitting around with your mates and discussing why (insert sports team here) should buy (insert player of said sport here)? Or why (insert soap character here) should break up with (insert another soap character here)? In minute detail! See? You already have the basic tools for discussing and understanding all kinds of things and stuff!
"But Mordant," I hear another cry go up, "I have a Ph. D. in being dead clever from Dead Clever University! Am I not already using Brain?"
Nuh-uh! You may have used Brain for certain specialized applications in the past-- but are you using it right now? Do you find yourself waving your Ph. D. in Dead Cleverness around as a debate crashes around your pathetically untenable position in flames? Then you need to use Brain! Or you'll end up looking like a total prat!
Mandy the Bearded One (in a box) says: Yes-- intelligence doesn't equal wisdom. Anyway, what does it matter when you can't sit down and you aren't allowed on the furniture? ooouch.
So start using super free Brain, TODAY!!!
Mandy the Bearded One (in a box) says: Can I say Chomskyian now? Please?
(No. *thunk.*)
I am pleased to inform you that you-- yes, YOU!-- are the owner of a brain. You do not have to sign anything, nor do you have to send me a registration fee. You do not have to wait for it to be delivered. It's already yours! In your head! Now!
Your free, all-expenses-paid brain comes equipped with the following features as standard:
* Critical faculties!
Critical faculties allow you to think things about stuff and work stuff out, without waiting to be told by someone or going along with your first kneejerk reaction. Gosh, they're super!
* Language!
Yes-- with brain, the super head-filler, you get Language absolutely free! Language has Words and helps you to express ideas and thoughts and stuff. No longer will you be reduced to calling everything "gay". No longer will you have to content yourself with dull, unimaginative death-threats or hackneyed sexual slurs! Why say "yr sight suks!!!!!" when you could say "Your website is the diseased leakage from an infected rectal fistula and you yourself are quite stunningly pathetic"? Langauge-- it's a bit good!
* Learning abilities!
Brain also comes equipped with a state-of-the-art upgrade facility, Learning™. Imagine-- free brain upgrades, whenever you want! NO waiting! NO big downloads! Just insert information via sensory apparatus and Learning™ will do the rest! AMAZING!
"But Mordant," I hear you cry, "I cannot use my Brain! I did not go to (insert academic institution) and I'm only a (insert random agglomeration of gender/orientation/occupation)! How can I use Brain?"
Mandy the Bearded One (in a box) says: Don't worry! I went to a top academic institution and that never stopped my rise to idiocy.
That's right. You may feel ill-equipped to process certain topics-- yet how many hours have you spent sitting around with your mates and discussing why (insert sports team here) should buy (insert player of said sport here)? Or why (insert soap character here) should break up with (insert another soap character here)? In minute detail! See? You already have the basic tools for discussing and understanding all kinds of things and stuff!
"But Mordant," I hear another cry go up, "I have a Ph. D. in being dead clever from Dead Clever University! Am I not already using Brain?"
Nuh-uh! You may have used Brain for certain specialized applications in the past-- but are you using it right now? Do you find yourself waving your Ph. D. in Dead Cleverness around as a debate crashes around your pathetically untenable position in flames? Then you need to use Brain! Or you'll end up looking like a total prat!
Mandy the Bearded One (in a box) says: Yes-- intelligence doesn't equal wisdom. Anyway, what does it matter when you can't sit down and you aren't allowed on the furniture? ooouch.
So start using super free Brain, TODAY!!!
Mandy the Bearded One (in a box) says: Can I say Chomskyian now? Please?
(No. *thunk.*)
New stuff from rathergood.com
SPOOOOOONGUAAAAAARD! by Joel Veitch.
(Wrenched from the slippery ginger clutches of the B3TA newsletter.)
SPOOOOOONGUAAAAAARD! by Joel Veitch.
(Wrenched from the slippery ginger clutches of the B3TA newsletter.)
I have been asked to take issue with Dan's comments on That Weblog compo:
According to Mandy the Bearded One, this is a blatant attempt to overtake the front runner from behind. It is, and I quote, "cheap, obvious and meretricious." Despite the fact that he only said that after I beat him up and made him say it, it remains an insightful comment on the competition. Dan beats Wil, I beat Dan, ergo the only possible candidate for the prize is moi.
Oh, and I think Mandy the Bearded One is trying to convey his independance and neutrality but since he's bound and gagged under my desk, all I can hear is "Mwararar!" Now, if I ever decide to let you out you can get your own weblog, can't you, darling?
"Mind you, I'm not sure what the fuss is about. Wil Wheaton's going to win. Wil Wheaton always wins.That's what Wil Wheaton is for.
Honestly, sometimes I have to explain everything."
According to Mandy the Bearded One, this is a blatant attempt to overtake the front runner from behind. It is, and I quote, "cheap, obvious and meretricious." Despite the fact that he only said that after I beat him up and made him say it, it remains an insightful comment on the competition. Dan beats Wil, I beat Dan, ergo the only possible candidate for the prize is moi.
Oh, and I think Mandy the Bearded One is trying to convey his independance and neutrality but since he's bound and gagged under my desk, all I can hear is "Mwararar!" Now, if I ever decide to let you out you can get your own weblog, can't you, darling?
Ever get one of those Nigerian scam emails? Ever wondered who's behind it? Ever spared a thought for the poor souls daft enough to get suckered in by said email? Well, wonder no more, for good old Wired has the answers.
(Tea-leaved from the aforementioned memetic life v3)
(Tea-leaved from the aforementioned memetic life v3)
Random.
I love clicking on random blogs from Blogger's "recently updated" list. Most of them are utterly pants but every so often you find something like memetic life v3. Makes it all worthwhile.
I love clicking on random blogs from Blogger's "recently updated" list. Most of them are utterly pants but every so often you find something like memetic life v3. Makes it all worthwhile.
This isn't the worst job I've ever had.
The worst job I've ever had (and there are many contenders; I might mention litter-picking after Party in the Park, I might mention being a files clerk for the National Lottery Charities' Board) was being a machine-minder in a hinge factory. It bit.
I had various duties but mainly I was assigned to operate one or other of the several drilling machines that drilled out and countersunk each leaf of the hinge, ready to be assembled elsewhere in the factory. (The technical term for what I did was "reaming knuckles". No, really.) My job consisted of placing each leaf in turn in the machine, then pressing a button to operate the drilling mechanism, then taking out the leaf and blowing all the grot off it with an air-hose. Becuase the drill-bits would get very hot they and the leaf had to be bathed in a constant stream of coolant fluid, a thin, milky liquid with a greasy mineral odour. Swarf piled up everywhere, corkscrews and flakes of sharp metal.
The permanent staff were given thick long-sleeved overalls but there were not enough spare ones for the temps. That's pretty typical; when it comes to protective gear, temps and casuals generally get stiffed. This happens in plush offices as well as the factory floor-- you wouldn't belive the number of times I've temped in a huge swanky building for a company whose budget seemed to cover logo-adorned carpets and marble surfaces but not an extra chair, so that temp workers were expected to spend eight hours standing up to type. I have permenant nerve damage in my right arm and shoulder from such practices.
As a temp, I had not an overall but a disposable apron made of thin blue plastic. Someone also found me a plastic sack which I could lay across my knees while I worked. These did not suffice to keep the coolant and swarf off me, however; after ten minutes at the machine my clothes would be saturated with coolant, my face and hair splashed with it. The coolant was nasty stuff. It dried out my skin so that it became coarse in texture and it triggered an allergic reaction which made me itch wherever the liquid got on me-- and it got on me everywhere. I was red and itchy from head to toe, all the time. The discomfort used to keep me awake at night. The swarf was also a problem. It got into my clothes, insinuating itself into the fabric. If I pushed back my sleeves without thinking, it would cut and scratch the skin. I looked like a Slipknot fan.
Thick red rubber gloves were supplied freely. The coolant would react with the rubber, making it stiff and brittle. Eventually it would crack, allowing swarf and coolant onto your hands. The stiffness also meant that handling the leaves became tricky. Since there was always somebody overseeing the work, shouting and demanding more speed, I would sometimes have to remove one or both of my gloves in order to keep up with the pace demanded.
Insert the leaf, press the button, remove the leaf, clean it, put it in the tray. Insert the leaf, press the button, remove the leaf. Insert the leaf, press the button, remove the leaf. I got through about four thousand a day, most days. It's easy, when doing this kind of work, to drift off into a trance state. Easy-- but risky. There were all kinds of eventualities demanding the operators attention: steam from an overheating drillbit, countersinking becoming too deep or not deep enough, a change in the din from the machine indicating some sort of problem. Drift off and you can make mistakes, mistakes that might end up costing you the booking. Unsatisfactory work. The employer can turn round and refuse to pay the agency for your labour; the agency will think twice before offering you work again. Even if they don't boot you out for good and all, they aren't obliged to find you work. So. Focus. Insert the leaf, press the button, remove the leaf. No matter how bored you are, no matter how much you might want to let your mind wander, you must stay in the here-and-now. You must insert the leaf, press the button, remove the leaf. Check every tenth one for damage and dodgy countersinking. Insert the leaf, press the button, remove the leaf, all day, four thousand times a day.
Minimum wage, natch.
The worst job I've ever had (and there are many contenders; I might mention litter-picking after Party in the Park, I might mention being a files clerk for the National Lottery Charities' Board) was being a machine-minder in a hinge factory. It bit.
I had various duties but mainly I was assigned to operate one or other of the several drilling machines that drilled out and countersunk each leaf of the hinge, ready to be assembled elsewhere in the factory. (The technical term for what I did was "reaming knuckles". No, really.) My job consisted of placing each leaf in turn in the machine, then pressing a button to operate the drilling mechanism, then taking out the leaf and blowing all the grot off it with an air-hose. Becuase the drill-bits would get very hot they and the leaf had to be bathed in a constant stream of coolant fluid, a thin, milky liquid with a greasy mineral odour. Swarf piled up everywhere, corkscrews and flakes of sharp metal.
The permanent staff were given thick long-sleeved overalls but there were not enough spare ones for the temps. That's pretty typical; when it comes to protective gear, temps and casuals generally get stiffed. This happens in plush offices as well as the factory floor-- you wouldn't belive the number of times I've temped in a huge swanky building for a company whose budget seemed to cover logo-adorned carpets and marble surfaces but not an extra chair, so that temp workers were expected to spend eight hours standing up to type. I have permenant nerve damage in my right arm and shoulder from such practices.
As a temp, I had not an overall but a disposable apron made of thin blue plastic. Someone also found me a plastic sack which I could lay across my knees while I worked. These did not suffice to keep the coolant and swarf off me, however; after ten minutes at the machine my clothes would be saturated with coolant, my face and hair splashed with it. The coolant was nasty stuff. It dried out my skin so that it became coarse in texture and it triggered an allergic reaction which made me itch wherever the liquid got on me-- and it got on me everywhere. I was red and itchy from head to toe, all the time. The discomfort used to keep me awake at night. The swarf was also a problem. It got into my clothes, insinuating itself into the fabric. If I pushed back my sleeves without thinking, it would cut and scratch the skin. I looked like a Slipknot fan.
Thick red rubber gloves were supplied freely. The coolant would react with the rubber, making it stiff and brittle. Eventually it would crack, allowing swarf and coolant onto your hands. The stiffness also meant that handling the leaves became tricky. Since there was always somebody overseeing the work, shouting and demanding more speed, I would sometimes have to remove one or both of my gloves in order to keep up with the pace demanded.
Insert the leaf, press the button, remove the leaf, clean it, put it in the tray. Insert the leaf, press the button, remove the leaf. Insert the leaf, press the button, remove the leaf. I got through about four thousand a day, most days. It's easy, when doing this kind of work, to drift off into a trance state. Easy-- but risky. There were all kinds of eventualities demanding the operators attention: steam from an overheating drillbit, countersinking becoming too deep or not deep enough, a change in the din from the machine indicating some sort of problem. Drift off and you can make mistakes, mistakes that might end up costing you the booking. Unsatisfactory work. The employer can turn round and refuse to pay the agency for your labour; the agency will think twice before offering you work again. Even if they don't boot you out for good and all, they aren't obliged to find you work. So. Focus. Insert the leaf, press the button, remove the leaf. No matter how bored you are, no matter how much you might want to let your mind wander, you must stay in the here-and-now. You must insert the leaf, press the button, remove the leaf. Check every tenth one for damage and dodgy countersinking. Insert the leaf, press the button, remove the leaf, all day, four thousand times a day.
Minimum wage, natch.
Saturday, July 20, 2002
Gizza job.
Okay, seeing as how I'm getting all this new traffic, including a number of repeat offenders, the time has come for me to start exploiting your collective ass.
I want a weekly column somewhere. You people are going to help me get it. Got it? Good. Now what I want you to do is a simple little magick spell, chaos magickians, for the use of. (If you're not familiar with chaos magick, then Phil Hine's Oven-Ready Chaos is as good a place to start as any; there's also some good stuff on chaosmagic.com.)
You do your spell as follows:
1) Write down your statement of intent-- in this case, MY WILL IS FOR MORDANT TO GET A REGULAR COLUMN.
2) Cross out all the vowels. We don't need no steeeenking vowels. This gives you: MY WLL S FR MRDNT T GT RGLR CLMN
3) Remove all the repeated letters, giving you: MY WL S FR DNT G C.
Now you can either make a mantra, or make a sigil. Or both. Actually, do both. I really want that column.
4a) Mantra: Shove random vowels into the string of letters. It doesn't matter where or how many, just make it into a pronounceable word.
4b) Sigil: Turn all the letters into a ickle pritty picture. How is up to you. Doodle. Have fun. Take away repeated lines, add dots, add squiggles. Use a graphics package, use crayons, use paint, use your own bodily fluids, I don't care. JUST GET ME THAT COLUMN!
Having made our mantra and/or sigil, we now have to charge it. There are various ways of doing this but they all boil down to the same thing: persuading the conscious mind to shut up and sit down so that the id or the unconscious or the temporal lobe or the Higher Self (insert theory of the month here) can get a good look at the sigil and start doing stuff to the fabric of reality. I've seen many techniques suggested and tried out. These include, but are not limited to: holding your breath, jogging, running round in a circle till you fall over, meditating, tagging the sigil in dangerous places, looking at the sigil whilst really, really stoned... actually, there's almost nothing that someone, somewhere, hasn't tried (chaos magickans being, frankly, a bunch of sluts. Mad sluts.) However, the most popular and the easiest technique is to chant the mantra/stare at the sigil at the moment of orgasm.
See? See how easy it is? Go on. You were just looking for pr0n-- I can see your Google referrals. You were going to party with Mrs Palm tonight anyway-- why not lend your sordid, grubby self-abuse to a higher purpose: getting me a job? Go oooon.
Hell, it worked for Grant Morrison.
Okay, seeing as how I'm getting all this new traffic, including a number of repeat offenders, the time has come for me to start exploiting your collective ass.
I want a weekly column somewhere. You people are going to help me get it. Got it? Good. Now what I want you to do is a simple little magick spell, chaos magickians, for the use of. (If you're not familiar with chaos magick, then Phil Hine's Oven-Ready Chaos is as good a place to start as any; there's also some good stuff on chaosmagic.com.)
You do your spell as follows:
1) Write down your statement of intent-- in this case, MY WILL IS FOR MORDANT TO GET A REGULAR COLUMN.
2) Cross out all the vowels. We don't need no steeeenking vowels. This gives you: MY WLL S FR MRDNT T GT RGLR CLMN
3) Remove all the repeated letters, giving you: MY WL S FR DNT G C.
Now you can either make a mantra, or make a sigil. Or both. Actually, do both. I really want that column.
4a) Mantra: Shove random vowels into the string of letters. It doesn't matter where or how many, just make it into a pronounceable word.
4b) Sigil: Turn all the letters into a ickle pritty picture. How is up to you. Doodle. Have fun. Take away repeated lines, add dots, add squiggles. Use a graphics package, use crayons, use paint, use your own bodily fluids, I don't care. JUST GET ME THAT COLUMN!
Having made our mantra and/or sigil, we now have to charge it. There are various ways of doing this but they all boil down to the same thing: persuading the conscious mind to shut up and sit down so that the id or the unconscious or the temporal lobe or the Higher Self (insert theory of the month here) can get a good look at the sigil and start doing stuff to the fabric of reality. I've seen many techniques suggested and tried out. These include, but are not limited to: holding your breath, jogging, running round in a circle till you fall over, meditating, tagging the sigil in dangerous places, looking at the sigil whilst really, really stoned... actually, there's almost nothing that someone, somewhere, hasn't tried (chaos magickans being, frankly, a bunch of sluts. Mad sluts.) However, the most popular and the easiest technique is to chant the mantra/stare at the sigil at the moment of orgasm.
See? See how easy it is? Go on. You were just looking for pr0n-- I can see your Google referrals. You were going to party with Mrs Palm tonight anyway-- why not lend your sordid, grubby self-abuse to a higher purpose: getting me a job? Go oooon.
Hell, it worked for Grant Morrison.
Ananova - Students do washing-up for free bondage sessions
Lady Sian of Teeside: "Because of their loans they haven't got much money. I just ask them to vacuum or do the washing up before they go."
Lady Sian of Teeside: "Because of their loans they haven't got much money. I just ask them to vacuum or do the washing up before they go."
The "I'm going to have a fit" thread
Okay, so last night I was online and I realised that I had a fit coming on. At the time it seemed like a good idea to start a thread about it. Here are some edited highlights:
Okay, so last night I was online and I realised that I had a fit coming on. At the time it seemed like a good idea to start a thread about it. Here are some edited highlights:
At 23:52 19.07.2002:
I'm going to have an epileptic fit.
Soon. Like in the next half hour or so.
Given that I can't do anything about it, I thought it might be interesting to stay online as long as I can and tell you what transpires.
So.
Any questions?
At 23:57 19.07.2002:
...Just now everything is illuminated with a blush of yellow and rosy-pink.
At 00:15 20.07.2002:
The thing I notice most are tones of blue. I see them everywhere, like crystals. My movements feel very stylized, as if I am taking part in a noh play or a puppet theatre.
At 00:17 20.07.2002:
I can taste something, like salt but not salt. An illusiory flavour, on the tip of my tongue like a forgotten word. The keybord is bricks, sandstone bricks.
At 00:18 20.07.2002:
This is the aura. The fit comes later, a sensation like a fast train.
At 00:19 20.07.2002:
It's not going to be a bad one. It's come up fast. The slow burn is the worst.
At 00:21 20.07.2002:
It was the smell that told me. I smel lthings like burning herbs. Then they go, and when its over they're gone.
At 00:24 20.07.2002:
I can feel a weight in my palms, like stone. But it is a stone that moves with me, weight without weight.
At 00:29 20.07.2002:
I can feel fragments of identity speaking to me. It gets harder to describe. I taste salt and something else. I exult in these moments. it's the payoff for the bad times, the weary times. In these moments I kiss God.
At 00:31 20.07.2002:
I can see all the colours now. under your skin! look at your hand. do you doubt that you contain an infinity of shades? tone and chroma chapter and verse. you are the book of madder-rose and indigo. my hands will be taken soon, for a while. but how lovely that i can speak colour with my hands, while the time lasts!
At 00:33 20.07.2002:
its coming. i break open like achrysalis, i split. cant say much more. but you are the divine! look at your hands, draw breth, and do not doubt that you taste eternity.
At 00:37 20.07.2002:
over soon. i would be a river if i could. i would bleed eternal/divine. wont see it when i wake up. see it NOW.
all colours. when you see all the colours. all the colours, in any one colour. that is to taste the divine. over soon. I want to remember! the keys look like bone, like brick. pyramids and saints toes. all colours. all the colours. they all saw all the colours.
At 00:40 20.07.2002:
keys like bone, but containign all colours. the colours never leave us. God is spectrum, infinite spectrum. sound, colour touch all a spectrum.
At 00:41 20.07.2002:
it comes. ill tell you in a minute. be fine. i love you
At 00:54 20.07.2002:
It's over. I had the fit, I'm fine except I think I hit my elbow on something and I bit muy tongue. I'm going upstairs for hugs and food. See you in the moring.
Improv Message Boards - True Porn Clerk Stories
"It's THAT kind of personal service that sets your store apart from the Blockbusters!"
(Lifted elegantly from metafilter)
"It's THAT kind of personal service that sets your store apart from the Blockbusters!"
(Lifted elegantly from metafilter)
Yahoo! News - Weird Fossilized Flying Reptile 'A Vision of Hell'
Six foot long, massive wings, big lizardy crested head, ate fish, and may have been covered in fur.
I want one.
(Snaffled from Barbelith.)
Six foot long, massive wings, big lizardy crested head, ate fish, and may have been covered in fur.
I want one.
(Snaffled from Barbelith.)
Friday, July 19, 2002
Men are from Mars....
No. No, actually, they're not. Sorry. Opposite sex does not equal strange alien species what is all strange and alien, and/or a bitch/bastard. Try looking at the person you're trying to formulate a relationship with, from a viewpoint of What if They Were Me? What would I want?
Stop looking for codes and sigils and signs and wonders, and just... get to know each other. Stop playing those damnfool games and you'll stop losing them.
No. No, actually, they're not. Sorry. Opposite sex does not equal strange alien species what is all strange and alien, and/or a bitch/bastard. Try looking at the person you're trying to formulate a relationship with, from a viewpoint of What if They Were Me? What would I want?
Stop looking for codes and sigils and signs and wonders, and just... get to know each other. Stop playing those damnfool games and you'll stop losing them.
Okay, so here's the deal. Obviously a weblog award run by a national newspaper is all dodgy and messed up, right? And we all know this, right? We also know that the Guardian (heretoafter refered to as the Paper in Question or PIQ) has overlooked some totally class weblogs in the past, favouring instead the flashy and derivative (aside from certain notable exeptions, natch). Ergo, anyone who actually wins is basically going to be reviled as a humungous sell-out, their reputation ruined, cut dead in street by their former friends, horsewhipped on the steps of their club, etc etc.
Ergo, the person with the most to gain and the least to lose is me. I have no reputation and few friends; also, I tend to frequent clubs where being horsewhipped on the steps generally costs extra. I am therefore going to make a serious effort to become the Biggest Blogslag Of Them All.
My campaign to blag the blog award, Day 1
The Entry Form.
I filled it in and sent it off. Then I had a nice big glass of squash and a hayfever pill.
Ergo, the person with the most to gain and the least to lose is me. I have no reputation and few friends; also, I tend to frequent clubs where being horsewhipped on the steps generally costs extra. I am therefore going to make a serious effort to become the Biggest Blogslag Of Them All.
My campaign to blag the blog award, Day 1
The Entry Form.
I filled it in and sent it off. Then I had a nice big glass of squash and a hayfever pill.
Wired 10.08: Strange Blood
"Cataclysmic shortages. Tainted supplies. There is a solution: artificial blood."
"Cataclysmic shortages. Tainted supplies. There is a solution: artificial blood."
okay, my archives are down and are likely to remain so for a while. I'm trying to find a way round this but basically it's a Blogger glitch. It happens-- Blogger's been going through a period of change recently, and some of the guts are a little wonky still. That said: the thing is free, goddammit, it's not like it's a public service or something. Blogger has become one of my all-time favourite toys ever. Mad props for Blogger/Pyra.
Even when my archives disappear just as I'm trying to blag a best weblog award off a national newspaper.
Even when my archives disappear just as I'm trying to blag a best weblog award off a national newspaper.
Hmmm....
It would seem that the Grauniad has launched a Best British Blog competition
My thoughts on this can be boiled down to the following:
1) It's a really, really barmy notion
2) I really, really want the money.
1) because, well, weblogging is such a nebulously defined activity. What is a weblog anyway? And "best"? Best what? Content? Style? (Having read the Guardian Weekend I'd be inclined to go with the latter *snicker*). Best picture of a hedgehog in a pink party hat? Who knows.
2) because I'm mercenary as hell and I have debts the size of a big hill. Vote for me.
It would seem that the Grauniad has launched a Best British Blog competition
My thoughts on this can be boiled down to the following:
1) It's a really, really barmy notion
2) I really, really want the money.
1) because, well, weblogging is such a nebulously defined activity. What is a weblog anyway? And "best"? Best what? Content? Style? (Having read the Guardian Weekend I'd be inclined to go with the latter *snicker*). Best picture of a hedgehog in a pink party hat? Who knows.
2) because I'm mercenary as hell and I have debts the size of a big hill. Vote for me.
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