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The Visitor |
The Story So Far...
Hmmm... just like my diary, I'd neglect to input important information. Here we go again. It's already the middle of 2004, and this bloody blog hasn't been updated, but not to worry. It is now.
So, what's happened then? Got a job, finally. That job offer that you may have read about earlier? Ain't happening. I called to say, 'yes, I'll take the job', and they replied with, 'well, actually...' followed by no call back and the job offer a forgotten fart in the wind.
Henceforth I was subjected to seven layers of excrement in the form of scolding & bitching from my loving parents. The clients at the studio dwindled. i had to keep begging for money from my father. The world looked like a gloomy place... until I met my current girlfriend.
No offence to my previous girlfriend, who was wonderful, we just didn't click anymore (and she suddenly spoke like a valley girl overnight). then I meet this girl for a harmless coffee and I am enchanted like a moth to a flame (the temptation to use the term 'like a fly to shit' was very great, but I subdued it with all the energy i could muster).
Then, there's my drummer, Eddy, who's been nothing but help throughout my job hunting endeavours. One day he calls with a freelance job offer copywriting for his ad agency. 4 job interviews later, and here i am.
Well, that's it in a nutshell. soon i'll start posting other recollections and what have you up here until such time as new shit happens in my life.
Eat foo.
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28.5.04 10:23
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Songs That Changed My Life - Cream: Sunshine of your Love
I was getting into Martin Scorcese as a director. I'd done Mean Streets & Taxi Driver, and was half way through Goodfellas when I heard that riff, permeating the screen as the camera slowly tracks into Robert De Niro sat at the bar, his cigarette smoke swirling in the dim bar light.
I needed to know where this riff came from. It was increadible! I'd never heard guitar like that before, and it'd be two years when I'd finally hear the song in its entirety, going through my friends CD collection in A levels and checking out his 'Cream of Clapton' CD. the riff came on again. I rushed to the CD player and checked the track, compared it with the CD case so I'd know the name of the damn song that's been stuck in my head for years, and finally have a new guitar hero to look up to.
From here, I found 'White Room', 'Tears in Heaven', and most importantly, 'Crossroads'. That shit blew my fucking mind and brought back my love for the blues.
Well, that and Jimi's 'Red House', but we'll get into Jimi later...
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28.5.04 10:47
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The Paranoia Sets In
I am sat at my desk trying to look like I'm furiously at work. It's 5.30pm, which is the 'official' time of works-end, but this is an ad agency. Nobody leaves at 5.30. If you try, someone will most probably ask you whether you applied for leave.
The problem is I have no work to do.
It's the end of my 2nd week here, and things aren't looking good. Paranoia is setting in. Do I not have any work because there are simply no jobs to give me? Or, based on my past work over these two weeks, they'd rather not have some amateur-hack attempting the copy and costing them more time as they have to figure out the copy that I should've been able to write if I had a brain in my skull as opposed to a wet sponge filled with strawberry preserve.
I'm worried. I'll admit it here and now. I'm fucking worried. I'm here on contract. There is no need for them to re-hire me on a long-term basis after the three months unless they are impressed. I don't think they're impressed.
Fuck, I even had a dream about it, so my subconcious must be in a frenzy as we speak. It went something like this:
I was at work, typing away, doing work, ladidadida... and I was passing by the traffic department (the people that make sure everything flows properly and is filed and what have you), and one of the heads of the traffic department pulls me over and remarks that I have a very weak score, as if the work I'd been doing had been a test, and I'd obviously failed. I stand there, upon hearing the news, blur as ever, not being able to say a asingle word, wondering what I'm going to do now.
I'd like to think positive, but the paranoia is real. It's not big pieces of body copy that worries me, it's the fucking taglines and headlines and call-to-action bollocks that fucks me over like a large man in a vest named Bubba. To get all that info into a short, sweet sentence is proving to be harder than a paedophilic elephant's cock at a screening of 'Dumbo'.
That's why you'll notice a lot of blogs on this day. What the fuck else am I gonna do? Fuck fuckity fuck fuck. Poo.
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28.5.04 11:29
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Why Write A Blog, Anyway?
I'm trying to figure this out. Someone help me here. I don't even know why I do it. All I know is it beats Solitaire.
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28.5.04 11:32
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Paranoia Increases - Weird Dreams & Evil Craziness
Another dream of work. This time I dreamt of my 3 month review. The big head honcho was going through it (a man who I am constantly intimidated by, but in a way which I respect) and every single thing he said was absolutely terrible. In other words, he pointed out every single crap thing I'd done (and from the looks of the dream, there's a lot more crap things I'll be doing over the next two and a half months), and my contract was ended.
Then I woke up and went to see my girlfriend for a hot make out session, so I guess everything's ok in the end.
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30.5.04 15:32
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Women in the Workforce...
As I sat at my cubicle wasting time during my lunch hour imagining what it would be like if God decided on more pranks on nature besides the duck billed platypus, a woman who I have noticed for sometime (it would be impossible not to) walked past, high heels click-clacking against the tiled floor, almost in a stomp, ranting and raving about some account and the fact that nobody seems to care about it. She then proceeded to grab a nearby phone, bark orders like a Gestapo boot camp general and slammed the phone down before stomping off in another direction, ranting and raving even more.
I've noticed this woman for some time. No idea which department she's in, though I'd assume it's servicing. No idea what her name is, but I've heard about her. Apparently she can crumble a man into a foetal child in the space of five seconds with a carefully chosen insult.
It's then that I realized something: all the women I have encountered in the world corporate communications & advertising seemto have similar traits. At least, the ones that really want to get ahead no matter what. These are the women that would walk into a board meeting with a set of cleavers and proclaim, 'if you don't take me as your equal, with a few short snips you fucking will be!'
These are the women that would make you think that PMS stood for 'Please! Make it Stop!' or 'Pretty Motherfucking Sadistic'.
It's not just her. I've noticed it, all around. They all seem to wear high heels, whilst the junior female designers are content with keeping quiet in their clogs or sneakers. They all seem to own at least one power suit. They walk with more than just 'chest pushed out' confidence. These women are ready to rip you apart out of their way with only their nipples.
But their voice, their words. These are their major weapons. These women, even if they are increadibly attractice, do not use their feminine charm to get their way. No. They use a motherly approach, if your mother just so happened to be a big black woman from St. Louis who'd clip you around the ear for bad language and chase you with a high heel shoe in her hand which she could fling with enough force to chop a tree down if she wanted to.
They will talk you down till you are no longer a man. I've experienced it. I've seen friends and colleagues experience it. It's not a pretty sight.
And their time is spent almost 90% on work. work work work. They eat sleep and drink the stuff. They bring their kids to work to show them how much fun it is to staple mommy's documents together.
But don't think their bad parents. Far from it. I've seen more than my fair share of examples where they are the most caring mothers in existence. Their children are usually their only weakness.
Is it the money that drives them? Is there really a very thick glass ceiling that requires them to kick 200& more ass than most men in their position to get the recognition they feel they deserve? Or do they just imagine the glass ceiling, and instead frighten the higher echelon into giving them a raise unless God forbid she rants and raves at them some more.
I'm sure there was a point to all this, and i think this is it: is it just me, is it just Malaysia, or is it just the corp. comm. advertising world, or are all professional women who want to get ahead like this? Trying to figure this out. Haven't met any dragon ladies in my friends accountancy firm yet.
Then again, I don't think it'd take much to scare an accountant.
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31.5.04 07:31
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Cigarettes Pt.1
I remember when I first started to REALLY smoke. I'd tried a cigarette once or twice before, at a friends house, when I was 14. But I only really started smoking at 16, when I met Jordan.
Now, understand this, it wasn't Jordan's fault. Jordan never really forced me to smoke, he was just a smoking buddy. It was a guy named Fakhar that was to blame. Of course, nobody in England could actually pronounce Fakhar properly, so we'll call him what everyone else, from students to the faculty to the headmaster called him: Fucker.
Fucker knew Jordan's older bro, so we ended up hanging out at Fucker's room, where Fucker offered a cigarette. I declined, to which he said, 'Don't be shy!', and the rest is history.
Now I'm a regular Constantine, smoking 2 packs of Marlboro Lights a day (although I'm making the switch to Dunhill lights since they're a client of the ad agency I work at), and I hate to admit it, but I fucking love smoking.
There was that period of guilt: I'm screwing up my lungs. Bad breath. Stinky clothes. But please, admit it, as Chandler said, 'Smoking is cool and you know it!'
Not that I haven't tried quitting. I have, many many times. Nicotine patches, gum, inhilators, they don't work. I can't remember what I used to do in my spare time when I wasn't a smoker. Did I really wait for a bus with my hands in my pocket and no cigarette? How could I have watched a DVD without smoking a cigarette? Why the hell would I have a pint and no cigarette?
Smokers are in another reality, where the cigarette is just as important as air. And to think, when I was five I was telling my dad off for smoking. How things change.
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31.5.04 09:08
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I Could Murder A mars Bar...
I am hungry beyond fucking belief. This whole dieting thing is not going well. It's becoming a tough decision between which pleasure I would rather have: the pleasure of carbohydrates, sugar overloads and grease, or the pleasure of not being asked when my fucking baby's due (as of now, my belly is in the '4 months' category, which isn't bad, considering a few months ago people thought my water was going to break).
It's not that I'm obese. Not at all. I just have a belly. The results of a British University Education, or at least their union. This belly has been the bane of my existence since it was first discovered. Doesn't help that I also have a concave chest which just emphasises the belly even more.
Hmmm... maybe I should upload a photo of the belly...
Either way, the true test is coming up: I'm about to leave the office, and I'll be passing by a newsagents, filled with yummy goodies... oh God help me...
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31.5.04 11:30
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