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You can Derelict my balls, Capi-tan.

Tonight. All is right with the world.

I’ve had happy champagne, ironically with the scourge of my current existence – my coworkers: Sidewinder, Mufasa and Obama.

Sidewinder you know, albeit in passing. Mufasa is the female Lion King to my fastly diminishing kingdom, Obama the beatific bite-sized politician who makes up the set. These are people who daily contribute to my crusty choleric and yet today, I enjoyed their company.

Contributing factors:
  • Champagne. (A cherubic chunk of it.)
  • The likelihood I’ll resign within the fortnight. (Yeah buddy.)
  • The fact I’m on leave next week, working on a film as a Production Assistant! (Unpaid, in case you think I’m a Disney character.)
  • Yep. That about covers it.

Ain’t it funny how people suddenly become warm, caring fuckers the minute you’ve got your exits covered? Or chimera caring, as the day may be. Get a load of this corker …

At 12pm I was told in passing (as one might impart what they ate for breakfast) that I had to move out of my current work desk by 5pm today. Here’s the kicker: they don’t have a new desk for me to move to. Yeah, you read right. I’m being made homeless. In my motherfucken workplace, yo. Not fired, just homeless.

Not only that, they’d known for weeks and hadn’t said a word.

Sidewinder tells me (conversationally over lunch) of the clandestine meeting which took place the moment I left the room this morning – whereby Mufasa suggests they don’t tell me at all. They should simply wait until I leave today and pack up my desk while I’m on leave (presumably to move me to the basement, sans stapler, like moribund Milton of Office Space lore). They actually convened over that shit.

Questions:
  1. Who are these people?
  2. What in the Sheryl Crow?
  3. Is this any way to do business?

And so on, and so forth.

Sidewinder tells me this as I picked out my pumpkin risotto (aka orange opium), then acts askance when I react in the negative. (Insert expletives here, Aussie style.)

Whatevs, yo. Twenty minutes before, as excellent timing is want to do, my old boss rang to tee up beers and confirm my references were checked for the job I interviewed for yesterday. A job within film – as vast and diluted as that industry may be. Not one in the most ideal direction and not where I design to end up, BUT! In FILM baby! I’m their first choice and he’s gonna reference the shit outta that puppy.

BOOYAR. Sock it to you.

So. As my mangled day came to a close, there I sat. Alcoholling with Mufasa, Obama and Sidewinder. Rather enjoying myself, as perversion would have it. Quick-firing quips which neither their political correctness nor intellect allowed them to catch; throwing caution to the westerly winds which phase my hairdo not.

The irony (in an Octomum family of ironies) is that Sidewinder has fought so hard for their good opinion, only to be shunted to the shady corners of the high-school yard; where I warmed those parasites to me as quickly as I emotionally exited, stage left. I foresaw a month of false farewells in my future before I faded into their obscurity, and they became faceless portraits in the Edvard Munch’s scream of my past.

How many times I’ve done this I care not to recall, but I knew the musical steps as surely as Mozart’s prodigy. The beauty of laying it all on the emotional and pipe-dream line was, I very much planned never to do it again.

You can’t handle the truth!

I think my mojo has sprung a leak.

I can hear the soft whoosh and whine of it deflating, like an airbed long used by porcupines. Though, my hope is it’s more of a falter than ‘flater and will rise again (like John Mayer from the ashes of dignity and seldom silence).

I have applied for a multitude of jobs this past month, with a view to leaving these fuckers, this industry and (Tori Amos willing) office work entirely behind. My resolve resplendent and my direction decided, the path before me remains as oblique and maddening as the plot of any Oliver Stone movie. I have trawled endless websites in search of my escape hatch, yet only the tiniest slivers of light promise exit. With no space large enough for me to fit through, I’m left to Mary Lennox; to peek through the vignette and wistfully wonder …

‘What’s through there? How do I gain entry to the secret garden?’

I don’t suppose I’ll be granted cobwebbed key via recondite room in the downdrafts of my metaphorical mansion, but that would feel most fitting. The descent of any avid moviegoer is the expectation to live in plot rather than real life; where musical montage bears the only reference to hardship and editing is your most fair-weather of friends.

Ironic then, that it’s into film and television that I foray … at the entriest of levels whilst attempting to keep my salary sane and thus refrain from becoming one of the great unwashed. If only I knew which of these vine-covered vignettes would take me there. If only poetic rhetoric were a stepping stone, rather than a sinking one. But I suspect my missing montage aint gonna crack it. (Fuck it.)

Back to reality then, with no more a starling Sentimental’s lament!

My next attempt is to piece together a living – one part old job, one part new. Part-time flagellation to support my daydream dazing and pursuit thereof. Lego careering, I like to call it. Such is the yellow brick road upon which I set my ruby slipper, with some sense of urgency and rising panic. For, in recent days, my workplace has become home to a pack of jackals who have my juicy hindquarters in their sights. And, as my fellow comrades resign and leave me behind to weather the storm solo, I can feel the last vestiges of my fortitude slip seemingly from sight into the Lake of Shining Waters below.

Paint a portrait of my mystery.

That’s right wood. chuck. chuckers, it’s. Groundhog Day!

In commemoriam, herewith somethan I wrote but ne’er posted which depicts the demise of last year. Followed by something I wrote in the Spring of my soliloquy step.

that was then …

I’m living in an Aaron Sorkin drama.

Except without the rapid-fire repartee and seasons of success. Just a slew of sanctimony and propaganda aplenty.

My boss is back. The supportive and affable father to us all, ’tis indeed lovely to bathe in his calm once more. (Sorry if that sounds creepy.) Such was my faith, I assumed we’d all return to normal under the umbrella of his awesomeness. Turns out, even he cannot stay the bolting horse that has become our collective psyche.

The severe growth spurt which occurred in his absence left an indelible stretch mark, the relationships we fostered now bumpy with scar tissue. The perennial loner, even I believed my team was team enough to survive what became of July (aka Julygate). But in the blink of a pigsty, everyone escaped their wherewithal wardrobes and began freaking the fuck out.

He-man hurdle was the first to fall. Or more accurately – to be felled. Today it became official and he ‘resigned’, leaving in a hail of stunfire. More would follow.

But to tall this tale properly, I must go back to when the boss of my boss quit. (Oh captain, my captain.) No-one gave a crap about Cap, yet. After years spent kissing the dullard’s derrière, it begged the question: what does the exiting of one ass mean for their own?

Following his exit was a flurry of fellow exits. And, in pondering the possible passing of my own delectable patoodi, I surmised the next domino would fall one of two ways: either my boss would step into the Captain’s caste (making me his Governor General), or he’d drown in the political riptide and resign, taking my bureaucratic ballast with him.

It didn’t take a funeral home to see which way this granny was leaning.

Today dawned, pregnant with doom. And, like the roladex clock of Phil Connor’s morn (aka mourn), then came the slow-mo BOOM. The last denial domino fell and my boss resigned.

In this game of skullduggery, I just got skullbuggered.

this is now …

Another day, another hierarchical wedgie (to be said like Prince Charles).

Yet I feel the slow return of my mojo, seeping into my consciousness like the well-written propaganda that is The Newsroom. Dancing into my outlook like a tattler ‘n tap shoes ‘n’ top hat. Creepin’ up the back stairs like a furtive Fratelli. (I could go on.)

Today marks the end of a month-long holiday with my fam. It was grandiose, my friends. Equal measures angst, sanity and comedy. Like a Jewish soup, if you will.

Or a clown car.

The world is bigger among my kindred, where they hear each word I speak without need of amplification. I hear myself better too. Suddenly, dreams scribbled in crayon on the mosaic, prosaic surfaces of my psyche become riotous masterpieces, full of colour and promise. And upon return to routine, like a coma patient waking to discover themselves anew, my life is starkly apparent in all its wasted and waiting potential.

“Please don’t kill me! I’ve got so much to give!” – Howard Moon

Of course I knew all of this before I set out in my ruby slippers, toting my proverbial Toto. But nothing quiets the screams of flying monkeys so well as people who just. get you.

As a result, I return to work resolute and recalcitrant. Unknowing if they’ve found me out, yet uncaring. I hereby lift my metaphorical skirt to the public (not to be mistaken with pubic) once more, mid-plot in my escape from this malaise and its mercenaries. [Insert fist bump here.]

Trapped in a glass case of emotion.

There’s a disturbance in the force. Can you feel it?

Today, I went out to lunch with my ‘team’ – an awkward, alcoholic affair with sharks aplenty. For one denial day, we aspired not to be co-workers, just co-people. 

What the fuck was I thinking? Through a sea of red flags I waded, over the hill of hierarchy and down, down, deep into the valley of the dolts. I knew better, sure I did. But they dressed that slaughter up real purdy, they did.

Contributing factors to my dubitable downfall? The workplace – particularly Oliver Stone of late. The players – an assortment of assholes. The Japanese earthquake – which knocked the earth off its axis by 6.5 inches in March 2011. And – one wired Wuc.

Wired like Steve Buscemi on emotional yam-yam. White Lotus. Shanghai Sally, see.

If only that was the story’s end. A pint of awkward, with a wedgie chaser. If only, my friends.

Instead, after dodging a milieu of missiles aimed squarely at my Wuccan head, came the corker. An unsubstantiated second where I gleaned that maybe. Just maybe. One of them knows about my blog. This, here, fucken blog. If he knows, the gunslingers know. If he knows, it’s just a matter of time before my team knows. And so on, and fuck forth.

I could be wrong, but what if I’m not? What if. I’m. not.

One moment, I was standing in the empty basement of my surreptitious safe house. The next, I turn to discover forty-five pounds of C4 strapped to my load-bearing walls, wired to blow. If one went, so would the lot. A domino effect of co-people that’d level me in seconds.

To say I crapped my shorts would be an understatement. (Have you seen Trainspotting?)

And so, it pains me to temporarily say, I’ve changed my blog to private. Oh so temporarily! Until I can find proverbial patient zero and stay the spread of scourge, I feel I must. Hearty apologies, my compadres. Hearty apols. I hope you won’t abandon ship in my absence, for I promise to return to public before I next post. As soon as I goddamn can.

Watch this retroactive space.

Pick that up and put it down properly!

I feel tumultuous. Like Gary Busey in high wind.

Work has been insane in the membrane. Or for the less bombastic: totes nutsack.

In the last fortnight, all hell don break loose (stopping just shy of my shorts catching fire with only vodka to put ’em out). Each morning, trying to wake myself to the dawn was like a pterodactyl being born with tiny wing-claws and grit in its eyes … the end of every day like tits-up Titanic, with the band playing on as everyone scrambled on deck, our ship soaring and splitting in two like a whopping-wafer in an angry iced-latte.

Then. Friday. Things came to an iceberg-lettuce head.

Read: people crying into career soups and one dickhead nigh losing his job.

See, my boss went on leave. Yep. That was it. He went on walkabout and into his competent ‘n’ charismatic loafers stepped another. A woman I quite like, but one unprepared for the dickhead dead ahead; the he-man hurdle she had to clear to be awarded gold. (For us all to be awarded gold.) The details themselves are as long and winding as the collective intestines of The Beatles but suffice to say, he was too wide of wit and tall of ego for it to end well. Our fallout primarily political, his yet to be determined – it was one helluva ride.

Somewhere in the middle, was I. Clambering to keep up, to maintain a sense of logic amongst the panic, mutiny and high-seas. I may as well have been trying to send a fax in an insane asylum, using a post-it and the butt-crack of a contiguous catatonic.

In case you’re wondering, it looked a little like this:

Monday, the boss returns. Peaceful and pious on holiday cheer, he’ll no doubt sprint the last metre of our virtual marathon, barely breaking a bead. Never mind that we’re all shadows of our former felicitations, or that we’ve agnostically-aged faster than Lori Singer in Warlock.

That said, if we’re gonna silver-line this wedgie, it was in the midst of the climactic crunch that I made the decision to finally leave it all behind. Passion should neither be perfunctory nor the byproduct (read: cow plop) of a wandering grass-munching job. The egg may well come before the chicken, but the shit sure (as shit) don’t come before the meal.

Meanwhile (and speaking of), screw James Cameron and the four-stacks he rode in on.

I boycotted that movie for a decade whence its whirlwind release (like a rabid dog upon the bone of good taste), driven to dander by the tide of public love and affliction; his success proof only of self-promotion the likes of which a caterpillar should never see.

For, in somewhat sluggish summation, we all know Kate could’ve fit Leonardo on that door.

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