Palpable Loss

If you’ve visited here for even the shortest period, you will be aware of my offsider, Smurf.

Smurf wasn’t born Smurf. He was issued that name by accident.

To get a horribly large work project done, I had been given extra head-count. My boss told me to hire the best-of-the-best to make it happen. I said I would find a suitable Smurf.

Calling someone smurf was a professional discourtesy to my HR department. Whenever I was in conversation with them I always called staff either Muppets, Pumpkins or Winged Monkeys. (Dependant on dysfunction.)

My boss said, “Stop that! I don’t want to front the legal department because you keep calling people horrible nicknames.”

I said, “Your standards are too high. But, I will do your bidding and find me a smurf. A proper one. And I will love him and pet him and call him smurf.”

My boss said something pithy about workplace bullying or whatever. I wasn’t listening ’cause of all the gasping and gurgling sounds he was making.

Besides, I already had someone in mind. I’d seen him about and suspected that he was a rugged individualist. Someone who could do-the-do. Someone with superior hacking skillz. Someone who was cheap.

First time I noticed him was in our canteen area. He was wearing a beaten up jacket with an original Star Wars logo, mid-length hair in an employment challenging artificial orange and the unmistakable stink of mischievous intelligence. I sounded out his boss who said, “Brilliant. Unstoppable. Strange smelling. You can’t have him.”

After four minutes in interview, I knew I had found my “Smurf“. More importantly, I had found someone who totally understood that calling him smurf would annoy the piss out of all the do-gooders. (To cement the rigorous screening process, a colleague’s four-year-old walked past him immediately after the interview, and on seeing his primary coloured shirt and tie, said, “You’re a Wiggle!”.)

A glorious union was born.

Smurfy’s been by my side, eight hours a day, five days a week, for three years now. To say that  our relationship rivals my relationship with Emergency Contact is to confuse the professional with the intimate… but still, with perseverance, I reckon I can get Emergency Contact into the sack as well. At least he remains one of my greatest friends.

In our ‘Outside Special Circumstance’ group, nothing that hath been wrought could be done without the intelligence, patience, humour and drive of Smurfy.

Nothing.

The entire company now whispers the name ‘Smurf‘… not as a Grey Area point of mischief, but to invoke a larger power; in times of need.

I am deeply sad to say that Smurfy goes away soon. He’s going to his wife-to-be, overseas. I wish the best of all things for Smurf and his Smurfette.

I hope that he and his gal return soon.… and that he and I get back to the business of making stuff. Especially fun.

Thank you JD (Smurf).

Travel well.

NP (A Grey Area)

Curmudgeon Time

My sister told me that her daughter had come home from school with a spelling list to be learnt. On the list was the word “platman”. She had never heard or read the word. I sms’d back saying, “It’s more valuable than gold,” you know, to keep the mood light.

She answered that that’d been her reaction, as it was under the word “quartz” and the kids were learning about gold.

I reasoned that I could see how this could happen. Someone just learning their running-writing could run the “i” a little too close to the “n” and it accidentally becomes an “m”. Don’t finish the “a” properly and you’ve got a “u”. I couldn’t explain the final “n”.

She agreed that would be a suitable explanation, if it wasn’t a printed list from the teacher.

I concluded that she was in trouble.

With that little communication fresh in my mind, I was listening to teachers calling into JJJ radio, to talk about homework projects.

One said that she didn’t really mind what the content was, as long as it was pretty. If it was pretty it was better than having all those boring words.

Another admitted that she was an English teacher and that she had always been interested in, “word stuff.”

Treedom Of Speech

My council sent me a letter. Its contents are in italics:

Dear Sir/Madam,

Good solid start. I feel we’re on firm footing here.

Trees are a living and changing resource that require management to ensure they continue to be an asset to our community.

Already shaky. “Living and changing resource.” I’m fairly sure you’re writing to me to tell me about one of these “changes“. Say, changing from living to not living. Ah, but wait. Why be plain about it, when you have the chance to use the next line.

A Coral Tree recently failed at the cul-de-sac adjacent to the Cooks River.

Failed? A tree failed? It failed to be a tree? It’s now a sixth grader in a school play?

Coral Trees are recognised as a high risk species - I’d dearly love to leave that sentence there, but I should be fair - as they are particularly susceptible to decay and collapse.

As is the English language in the hands of middle management, council types.

We inspected the remaining Coral Trees at the cul-de-sac and have concerns with the stability of the cluster of three Coral Trees adjacent to the tree that failed.

Huddling. Weeping. Throwing their branches up and wondering “Why? Why him? He was the best of all of us. He was just too beautiful for this world.” But the prize for self-importance this week goes to “stability of the cluster of Coral Trees adjacent to the tree that failed".

We therefore have programmed the removal of these three Coral Trees and we have marked them for easy identification.

Why? So we can go and tease them and make them even more unstable? And what’s this programmed business? A bit highfaluting for a guy with a chainsaw isn’t it?

I will now rewrite your bullshit letter, Parks and Property Coordinator for the City of Canterbury.

Dear Resident,

There’s a dead coral tree out the back of your place. We’re going to cut it down and take it away. Just to be on the safe side we’re going to do the ones around it, as well. They don’t look the best.

Let us know if that’s not ok.

Cheers,
Park Guy.

Our Land Is Girt By Zombies

We were discussing the zombie menace at work. Smurf said he didn’t like the new breed of running zombie. He likes the slow moving zombie. I agreed and added that I don’t like it when the zombies seem to get smarter. You end up with that moral quandary when cutting their heads off. We also discussed the half zombie, half vampire phenomenon that can be found in some areas. Spider Fingers said that he was fairly certain that they were taking over the world but I said that Australia would be safe.

I said that because I accidentally became an expert on border security after once getting caught in an eight hour marathon of Border Security Australian Style, on cable telly. Smurf knew exactly where I was at with that because I had regaled him with tales immediately after seeing the marathon. It mainly featured people who are determined to bring in exotic and strange smelling animal by-products, disguised in nothing but a doona cover and, despite the fetid odour coming from the bag, will strenuously deny they are doing anything wrong.

With the zombies threatening our shores, the two things collided in our minds.

“Anything to declare, sir?”

“No. Nothing.”

“Did you pack your own bags?”

“Yes.”

“Did  you pack any zombies?”

“No zombies.”

“If I open this bag, will I find any zombies?”

“No. There are no zombies in that bag.”

“Sir?

“Yes?”

“Sir, I just heard your bag say, ‘Brains’”

“That was me. I just said ‘Brains’”

“Sir, I’ve opened the bag and I can see you’ve got a zombie in it.”

“Oh that bag. Yes… well that’s a trade zombie. Export quality.”

“How about these other bags, sir. Any zombies in them?”

“No. No zombies in them.”

Underachiever

I was looking at the film of that truck driver missing Tiny Abbott and he just wasn't trying. A little more commitment, please.

You're On Crack

           

New Zealanders call them flip flops. Germans call them heelshclappenclogs and Australians call them thongs.

Up until recently I avoided them. They shout lower socio-economic means with the same volume as a Guns ’n’ Roses tattoo on a single mother. But Emergency Contact’s influence and Sydney’s weather conspired to make me drop that prejudice and I have been wearing thongs in some circumstances, every now and then, over the last couple of years.

I am still of the opinion that, unless at a derivative celebrity wedding, bare feet are better than thongs. With bare feet, the implicit message is, “My shoes are around here somewhere,” whereas thongs say, “I‘ve made my choice and this is as good as I can do”.

But, there is a time and a place and I have become complacent.

Here’s an unlikely sentence. My first thongs broke and the new ones aren‘t as good.

Who knew there was such a thing as “shopping for best thong”? In the realm of the thong, I felt you might as well say, “This esky is not heat resistant enough. Talk to NASA about heat shielding.” Savile Row Bespoke Thongritidge - that's where I’m going next.

So, in the spirit of keeping local jobs local, here’s a tip to thong manufacturers. Where the hole for the central mainstay goes, that bit that sits between the big toe and the second toe? It’s important. It should be placed sort of symmetrically. You web-toed circus freaks.

The Wind In Your Sales

I was sent to a management workshop for a crime I didn’t commit.

Some of these jaw-fests aren’t all bad because they reacquaint you with your myriad of failings. This is considered good for those of us who are in danger of being well adjusted or happy. But a basic rule of thumb should be applied to improve them, for everyone. There should be one group for sales managers, and one group for actual humans.

From yesterday:

Sales Manager: … so realising that the customer was going to be in financial trouble with the arrival of the economic downturn, we worked out a deal with them that was beneficial for everyone, adhered to our core values, and we went in there and relieved them of some debt burden.

Me: Excuse me. When you say, “relieved them of some debt burden” do you mean that you repossessed their stuff?”

Sales Manager: Well, yeah.

Me: That... is truly excellent.

A Real Menace. Not A Phantom One

There are many things I don’t understand. In fact, I don’t understand most things.

I don’t understand how weight loss through crying works. It seems to, going by what I’m seeing in The Biggest Loser, but I don’t understand it. I would’ve thought a couple of glasses of water would replace all the moisture loss through blubbing, but maybe more important nutrients are lost when you are permanently rainy face.

I don’t understand what’s going on with the fauna around my place. Maybe I’m seeing the effects of climate change and not comprehending the downstream results, but there are weird things going on. The kookaburras have returned. I mean all of them. All the kookaburras in the world have come to live out the back of my place. I love a koo koo brother as much as the next guy, with their little square heads and totally Aus way of doing things, but what the little bastards find hilarious at 5.30 in the morning I can’t imagine and I find myself lying there wishing that the merry, merry king of the bush was just a little less easily amused.

Another fauna related oddity cropped up today. I was dealing with a spider that had set up shop just outside one of our windows. He was a big one. He was casting a shadow in the lounge room and was making inappropriate comments about some of the TV programs. Anyway, once I’d got him to move along (had to spring for the cab fare. Bastard) I looked up into the eaves to see if he had any friends and found tens, maybe hundreds, of baby praying mantisesess… mantissses… manti? all milling around and having a nice time. I’ve never seen a flock… herd… armada… congregation? of praying manti before and it really struck me as something that isn’t common.

I don’t understand how Up can be considered a kid’s film. Don’t get me wrong, it’s brilliant and should be seen by everyone over the age of 14, but a kid’s film it ain’t. When the initial couple of scenes where the old boy’s character is set up for us were done, I had to dry my eyes and go have a lie down before I could continue. There are jokes in there that even most adults are not going to get (around dog colour perception for example) and it is SUBTLE. There’s even fine, comic animation around saliva. Like I said, this is a great film.

What are not great films are any of the Star Wars prequels. They’ve played all three in quick succession on the telly recently. I don’t understand how Lucas was allowed to do it. Obviously no one had enough courage to say, “George, stop it. Someone has to tell you. You‘re an idiot.” They’re not even good films. In fact, the only reason I’m mentioning them is to get you to go and see a set of reviews on YouTube. They are 70 minutes in all, so it’s a commitment, but they should be mandatory viewing for all aspiring film makers. I also bumped into a couple of minutes of stand-up comedy called, “At midnight I will kill George Lucas with a shovel.” Now, I totally understood that.

Whistling Tunes We Hide In The Dunes By The Seaside

Smurfy and I had to oversee an international operation recently.

These things aren’t easy. As you know, the best laid plans never survive first contact with the enemy. I decided to provision for the worst. I asked if pizza was going to be ok.

"I can never be disappointed by meals without corners," he answered.

And I knew we were fine. I think it was Peter Gabriel who sang, "Meals without corners, war without tears."

Disabled Toilet

Only those skidded on by a semi-trailer can use this facility.

On A School Night, Too

I had a busy time last night. Here’s what I’ve been getting up to on your behalf.

You see, the aliens had landed and I was part of a task force that was going to negotiate where they were going to set up camp. They wanted to pitch down near Lunar Park because it reminded them of home and they liked the view. The residents got up to their usual tricks and as well as complaining about the noise from the big dipper, added a complaint about the noise from the big spaceship.

I was sent in as a specialised generalist to smooth over the increasingly tense negotiations. We had a stumbling block that the politicians and ambassadors from Earth couldn’t get past. They felt the aliens were really rude.

Everyone was just plain rankled because, about half an hour into every speech or presentation, if there was a moment’s silence, snoring could be heard coming from the alien’s table. We’d look over and there they’d be, heads lolling back, tongues out, bit of dribble on the cheek, snoring like large, intergalactic babies.

Hillary Clinton, after taking her unshod foot from tickling my inner-thigh under the table, (weird where you subconscious takes you, isn’t it? I’d be less alarmed at a gay dream.) leant over to me and said,

“They can’t be jet-lagged, they’ve got beds on that ship.”

“You’re right Hil,” I said. But I had an idea.

During a tea break, where we were having some tea... and a biscuit, I asked one of the aliens how long their day was on the home planet.

“Forty of your earth minutes,” they answered.

And there you had it. We were keeping them up past their bedtime about ten times a day. It also meant that they couldn’t watch one full episode of The Wire without needing a nap. A point that the aliens and I had in common.