F*** you I will do what you tell me

I got up at 8am this morning and as predicted I wasnt throwing back the sheets to with quite so much gusto as Monday. A week is a long time in journalism.

Working in TV, you can wear WHATEVER you want. Like, turn up to work in bermuda shorts and trashed converse and a mesh vest and you'll get promoted. This was one of the most appealing things about the career path. For someone who abhors shaving as much as I, a lax grooming policy is essential.

Not so in Adelaide. Im in the middle of the corporate district in one of the slickest offices in town. While the fashions might not be experimental, they are certainly always nice. And safe.

I only own 5 shirts. And a single pair of suit pants. 'Slacks.' Most of my jackets have chewing gum in the elbows from leaning against the bar. Im hoping I can find a 24 hour dry cleaner on the weekend otherwise I'm set to wallow in stickyness.

So it's 8.05am by now, and Im grubbing the sleep from my eyes, staring at the crisp rainbow pile of t-shirts I've lovingly accrued over the years. Normally they're my uniform. I fingered the top one lightly... 'Maybe I can just see if I can get away with wearing this today...' I thought, reaching for a felt cardigan to go over the top. 'No one will even notice.'





I arrived at work by 8.55-ish. Whistling a small tune I dived into my swivel chair and switched on my computer. 'Hows everything?' I asked the online team, who work in a huddled module of facing cubicles. A question with particular pertinence. It doent mean: 'how did you sleep?', it means: 'Any high school massacres yet?'.

'Did you know you're meeting the editor today?' asked my boss, barely glancing from his computer screen.
'Errrrr...' I said.
'Have you got a shirt and tie in that bag?'
'Errrrr...'
He looked at his watch. 'You have half an hour. I'd prefer you'd be half an hour late than make a bad impression.'

Sheepishly I picked up my scarf and iPod and security pass and shuffled back to the elevator, out for a duck.

Take two:





I tore back towards work, 9.25am. Lace ups pounding the pavement, headphones in my ears. I was embarassed and annoyed but I knew I'd made the wrong call. 'Dress for who you want to be,' is the old corporate adage. Never get caught with yoghurt on your pants and a fraying tie, cos you never know where the day will take you.

iPod on shuffle, this song flicked on, and as I walked down Waymouth St, there was no one, but no one standing in my way.

This is not an exit

Every time I look at an exit sign, I see the little forward arrow that zooms between the E and the X.




It's like a little everyday magic-eye trick. One of those things you cant stop noticing once you've been alerted to it. Like when you get a green car, all you see on the road are green cars. You wouldnt even notice them otherwise.

I read this article ages back about the most expensive logo over designed. Federal Express in the US payed some slick-mick advertising agency a bazillion dollars for a high concept rebranding. This is what they came up with:





The reason the big wigs justified their multi-million dollar pay cheque was that there is clearly an arrow screetching out between the E and the X, freeing the mind off into the myriad places one could, say, send a bubble wrapped parcel.

And surely it was hatched by some under-payed intern who was sitting staring at their A3 sketchpad at 5 in the morning, doodling with a fineliner, dreaming of the freedom they never appreciated when they were fooling around in their 101 college class. But then, suddenly, an Archimedes Bath moment...

HANG-ON!!

The most sucessfull logo ever designed is arguably the Nike swoosh symbol, and that was whipped up as a favour for 35 bucks by this student called Carolyn Davidson. They eventually gave her shares in the company.

A blag can get you a long way, and if you talk the talk, the walk might rise to meet you.

Just do it.

For the love of (brackets)

So this is the view of the office when I get out of the lift on my floor:



(I was a little terrified to take this shot, actually)

Oh. My God. Becky.

It's the ultimate open plan wasteland. Acres of slick cubicles and phones bleating and mounds of newspapers piled to the ceiling. Everyone is busy and stressed and dressed in contempo-corporate greys and blues and browns.

Work is improving and Im not so much a rabbit in headlights. Getting to know what Im doing a bit more, but it's thirsty work. I'm desperately trying to sponge everything into my brain so as not to ask a question twice. It's more draining than uni ever was. I'm a little ways off a by-line: today they had me compiling and cropping pics of Emma off Big Brother (of dead father fame) into a flash gallery.



She was a noted Adelaide model (or 'mannequin', as they're labelled in the paper trade) before entering the house, and there were loads of shots to choose from. Emma buffing a red porche in a bikini? Emma quaffing a caipairina at the opening of a South Terrace niteclub? Emma having her breasts fashioned into a native bush scene by renowned South Australian body artist? Big Brother is following me!!

It was absolutely pedal to the metal for the whole day, except for 10 minutes when I reeled across the street into a skinny fluorescent arcade curry counter for some lunch.



Scrummy.

Ive been looking at a few rooms, too. Saw one last night, one tonight. Both Adelaide Advertiser connections, close to the city, empty rooms and beige carpet and built in chipboard robes. Nice young girl flatmates. Nice enough all around. But I can't decide!!! For starters, I'm a little worried that my PVC fetish will get leaked to the greater population via group email if I move in with someone from work... You know?

I'm just loving serviced apartment bachelor life. One could get used to clean sheets every night. I really have to go shopping for particulars, milk, bread and such. The only thing in the fridge is a 2 litre bottle of cold cold sweet clear apple juice. I am loving that stuff right now. Best served chilled, straight out of the bottle neck, in the warm glow of the fridge light.




Ahhhhh...

Good old 98.6 fahrenheit

I just read one of the best bloody books I've read in a long time.



It's by this guy Richard Brautigan, who wrote his first novel (the one I just finished) when he was 28. He published the book, "The Confederate General Of Big Sur" in 1965, after years of wandering around San Francisco handing out poetry to anyone with hands. A god in the couter-culture movement, Brautigan wrote a string of beat classics before shooting himself in 1984.

A poetic life for sure.

Here is an excerpt...




"I had met her an hour earlier when Lee Mellon had passed out on top of her. In subtracting him from her, a thing not taught in grade school arithmatic, we had struck up a casual conversation and it had flowered into us sitting opposite each other and having a drink together.

I held a sip of cold martini in my mouth until the temperature of the drink was as the same temperature as my body. The good old 98.6 fahrenheit - our only link with reality. That is if you want to consider a mouth full of martini as having anything to do with reality.

Elaine was the girls name and the more I watched her the prettier she flowered out, which is a nice thing if one can pull it off. It's hard. She could. That certain acceleration that comes from within has always pleased me.

"What do you do?' she asked.

I had to think that one over. I could have said, "I live with Lee Mellon and I am cursed like a dog.' No, no, not that. I could have said, "Do you like apples?" and she would have answered yes, and then I could have said, "Lets go to bed." No, no, that would be later. Finally I decided on what I was going to say to her. I said quietly, but lined with gentle certainty, "I live in Big Sur."

aND sMELL tHE

Adelaide seems to have a proliferation of two things...

1a. Farmers Union coffee milk.
1b. Trendy coffee bars.

Farmers Union is just like Big M, but everywhere, and it comes in a variety of flavours:

- Lite Coffee flavour.
- Extra Strong Coffee Flavour.
- Decaf Coffee Flavour.

You get the idea...



The other thing is trendy coffee bars. They seem to have been extrodited from an Ikea catelog in the early 90's and charge five dollars for a latte in a ribbed cardboard cup. They are as much of a scourge in Adelaide as 7-11's are in Melbourne or EasyWay's are in Sydney.



This one, Cibo (pronounced CHEE-bo: it's Italian, natch), is apparently making its way east of the border. Coming soon to a cinema near you!!! Starbucks better look out...and you too.

Coffee Coffee Coffee!!!

Seems like these erudite South Australians just cant stay awake.

Wake Up!

The first thing I did when I got up this morning:

The Great Taste That Really Lasts!

I got up at 7 this morning and flung myself into the shower like it was my first day of school. Wash, shave, aesop perfume, blast of nivea under the pits, grease of murrays in the hair, new shirt, pants, jacket, scarf...

70's sunnies or no 70 sunnies? Hmmmm.... NO 70's sunnies today...

I was ready to blitz it.



((( Cut to: Devil Wears Prada-esque montage of my outfits/grooming/general eagerness declinging over time... )))

I was halfway to work, weaving through the flotsom and jetsom of the early morning grind, when I realised that in my said eagerness I'd forgotten to brush my teeth. Furry teeth! I ran my tounge over my incisors to guage the necessity of a dash to Coles and a public toilet. 'Fine!' I thought. Just fine. Not brilliant but fine.



I settled on a packet of Extra and a deck of Styvo's from a nearby newsagency and continued up the road to work. In my ears, blaring, Nina Simone, a fine buxom lass to get you in the mood if ever there was one. I bounced along to this lovely little little tune, life affirming and inspiring at least!





Thats right. I got my ticket, I got my token, I got the life.

Then the office loomed into view above inner-city Waymouth Street. Cue: Psycho Stings.

'Re re re re rei rie rie rie!!!'



I entered the building and met a fellow new recruit, Mark. Mark was about 50 and was recently employed as the head of the classified section. He was also in his best serious outfit. We were promptly put the the OH&S ringer for about three hours with the HR manager, a fellow with wispy locks who - intuition tells me - took an instant dislike to my corderouy jacket and general youthfulness.

Then we had a tour of the building, a glistening, multimedia'd monolith straight outta Shanghai. They issued me with a security pass whose photo makes me look like a 47 year old library monitor.



Then a three hour training module on how to send email and use a start bar. And navigate the company's news integration jewel, a particularly UN-userfriendly program called Cyber, which shares the wire for every story written around Australia and the World.

I felt early onset alzeimas creeping up my brain stem as I was introduced to the Online team, my new workmates... who seemed at a loss as to where to start teaching me exactly how they string this thing together. So let me go home at 5pm. 'Be ready for serious training tomorrow,' said my new boss, Rod. I smiled brightly then remembered the teeth thing and closed my mouth quicly. 'I'm ready!!' I said, before sailing out of the office.

The sun was going down hard as I walked back to my hotel, or, you know, wherever. Rundle Mall passed by in a blur of bra shops and discount CD stores and emo kids making specticles of themselves. Adelaide seems to have alot of emo kids.



I slipped past this kinda alternaive pub called the Exeter and decided to stop in for a schooner before retiring to my suite at the Pacific International. I scraped back a stool and flicked through my book and rested my head on the table.

As the Mountain Goats so lyrically said:

I am gonna make it...through this year... If it kills me.

Miranda Divine

Check this site out, it's brilliant.

http://noonebelongsheremorethanyou.com

It's by this chic called Miranda July. Seriously original bird. She did 'You And Me And Everyone We Know', one of the best films of last year. I'd love to have a beer with her. Or, like, a cammomile tea or something.

This is her...

It's On The List!

I landed in Adelaide yesterday and checked into my serviced apartment. 'Pacific International'!! Ba Ba Buuuum! Don't you love the hyperbolic names of these places?

I was a little rusty as we'd had the 1vs100/Deal Or No Deal wrap party the night before, where I ended up bailing Andrew O'Keefe against a concrete wall with mojito clinking loosely in my grip: 'Sh'uknow, Anjrew, I really shink (hic) you are one of ONE OF the besht (cough) presjenters...on tally...'

A smooth exit.

The apartment is nice, precicely how you would imagine it. Random inoffensive prints and crisp bed linen and wrapped soap.



Note Subway remnants on the table, stage left... Graprfruit diet to begin first thing tomorrow.

Last night I put all my eggs in one basket and went out with my two SA links, Amy and Jason. We ended up in this flash bar on Gouger Street (the Brunswick St of the South). It was all mood lighting and snakeskin pointy shoes and revelrous clinking of glasses.

Along for the ride were a preview of hardcore ABC journalists and a slough of toothy young labour representatives. We ended up at another venue called Lotusbar, and teetering on the dancefloor was a prominant local politician fishing for fresh prey. 'Take a photo on your phone,' Jason urged under his breath. 'What a scoop to walk into your first day at the 'Tiser with that piece of snapperazi gold!'

I thought about it, but my cameraphone has a clunky flash and takes murky night time shots. And Im not alltogether down with catching unsupecting RM-Williams clad pollies in dubius Saturday Night circumstances. How will this bode for my future career choice? I snapped one of Jason instead, suckling on Adelaide's finest export:



Slightly mad look in his eye, but it was great to see him.

I went to look at a potential room today. It was in the city, prime location, in the bleakest grid of institutional townhousing this side of Guantanamo. A kooky Columbian chick gave me the grand tour... sparce furnishings, bare walls, and the going room had NO WINDOWS! Who builds a room with no windows? This coupled with the musty international-student smell and I couldnt get out of there fast enough. Next!!

I wandered back down King William St towards the hotel, quiet gray Sunday strollers smattered around, clouds low in the sky.



Forest? Where? I slipped into Subway, chicken footlong with extra jalepinos and loaded up on the Sunday papers. Almost home, I spotted my first church, in this, the city of churches. St Pauls!! Love the font work!! Rock n' Roll!! The first of many, Im guessing.

Cash and Nonsence

I thought I'd treat myself to a new jacket to face the South Australian moors, so I gathered up the change in the coke bottle moneybox beside my bed. It was pretty full. The box had been stuffed with shrapnel after those nights when breaking note after note was more attractive than counting out correct change and thus I crashed through the door hours later jingling like a sleigh.

I dilligently piled little skyscrapers of coins into denominations, considering the adventures each tarnished 20 cent piece had been on before landing in my sweaty pocket. Turned out I had over 200 dollars in that box! I took myself off to the bank and proceeded directly on to this little shop on Smith Street called Some Buddy Loves You with the express intention of blowing the lot on the first thing I saw. This was the first thing I saw:



Yeah, I know.

It wouldnt be out of place in the Arctic Circle. Even though Melbourne's current forecast is light and bright and just a little crisp I persisted on wearing it out and about this week. It was like I'd wriggled into the middle of a rolled up sleeing bag before I left the house. 10 steps and I had a sheen of sweat on my forehead, another 10 and I was awkwardly slinging 10 pounds of quilting over my arm, struggling to maintain basic motor functions. Too difficult.

It was also one of those coats that command attention from the public, like wearing a t-shirt with 'JESUS IS A CUNT' written on it. At least that what it felt like. 'Look at me, Im wearing faux fur! In Autumn!' But then again I live off Smith Street, I saw a lady on the corner the other day with strawberry jam in her hair wearing a crochet bin liner and she barely caused a ripple.

Whats the go with buyers remorse? Is there a cooling off period for warm puffy jackets? I really wanted to return the coat, but In the meantime I'd lost the receipt and was frankly a little scared of what the humorlessly hip Buddy staff would make of my half-assed fashion persistance. But I took a deep breath and took myself back there, forming a fanciful tale in my head that I had been unexpectadly summoned to work in Arnham Land as a crisis Aid worker and would no longer have use for TopShop does Sir Edmund Hillary outerwear.

Turns out, I needant have worried. They swapped it over for a hoodie that cost 260 dollars. A 260 dollar jumper. I never said I wasnt a victim. So here's my new look, from forgotten monies, hard won:



Like it? It's nice, like. Got little cross hatches on it. And buttons and zips and funtime sundries.

Thing is, after all that, now I kinda miss the Arctic Circle one.

No Doubt

I've finished up at 1 vs 100 and I've had some going away drinks at my local pub and I've started throwing out superfluous clothing I havent fit into since Merril Bainbridge was in the charts. I'm definately moving.



All the Melbournians I've told about moving to Adelaide invariably say one of three things.

1. City of Churches!! (crash bang whallop)
2. Well its not far to fly home...
3. My step-cousin/brother-in-law/ex-best-friend/former-flame lives in Adelaide, you MUST look them up.

I'm all for the cavalier calling of a tentative link... thats part of the relocation package. Launching yourself onto unsuspecting new blood. It's like blind dating. But I do know one or two people in my new home state. Like, literally one or two.

One of them is a girl I met on a travel junket I went on for Womens Day, Amy. We were the two youngest members of the Whitsundays jaunt, and formed a bond over beer beside the horizon pool listening to the Sissor Sisters cover Franz Ferdinand. 2004 in a caplet!!

She's come to Melbourne a few times and we've kept in touch - she actually works at the Adevertiser, so Im hoping she'll provide some insider shorthand about the bubbler politics. Who's slept with who in the loos of the local pub, that sort of thing. Here she is, on the right, after consuming near a bottle of wine and a six pack of Pure Blonde...



Another guy I know in the 'Laide is this bloke Jason, who works for the ABC. Jason and I were the producers of this student news program called Newsline about 5 years ago. I havent seen him since those heady, idealistic, reactionary days. I tried to find a picture of him on Google Images and this was my 'I'm Feeling Lucky' option:



I havent seen him in half a decade, but think it's quite a likeness. Jason was always very ambitous and talented and creative with a healthy journalistic sneer. I gave him a call the other day to see if I could get some dirt on SA style. He's been living there for 18 months and I think I might have caught him on a particularly realistic evening.

'Well I hope you arent coming over to party hard,' he said, deadpan, gearing up for a roll. 'There's about three passible venues in the city. You'll go there every week. And it's colder than Melbourne. And the drivers are terrible, they never let you in. And everyone hangs out with the people they went to high school with. And...'

And shit.

I sat down on the couch after hanging up from speaking to him and swallowed hard. 'Am I making the right decision?' I thought. 'How important is going out to me? Not THAT important. (ahem) But I dont mind the cold weather. (I must get a new coat) And let's be honest, Im no Jeremy Clarkson behind the wheel either.'

No sir, I'm not afraid. Im a hanging out for all the cliche's: to challenge myself, try something new, meet some fresh people, move my arse out of my mothers place before I turn into Principle Skinner. This IS the right decision. In my gut, I know it.

When my gut's not bouncing all over the place.