Tuesday, March 27, 2007
What I need is a new lease on life.
Speaking of leases, I am allowed to stay at Mulwarree, after explaining to the housing office my situation. They were very sympathetic, and are asking the girl that was going to move in to my room to move into a place on High St.
This morning Shani suggested I pursue my 'journalism career' while I have nothing to do at work (which is pretty much all day.) So here is the finished product. I was supposed to write a real article to send into the uni student publications, but I was too overcome with bitter self-pity to be serious. Perhaps it was meant to be that way.
How to Be A Loser in Ten Days
An Investigative Report by Liz Stoneman, Future Travel Writer and Expert Utiliser of Charming Wit
I met Dole B. Ludger in a Balmain café on a rainy Saturday morning. It took months for him to get back to me about giving this interview – the past few months have been spent busily frittering away his pension on flat whites (“disposable income or no disposable income – I just can’t live without my classic flat whites”), CDs chosen randomly in the vain hope of broadening his musical tastes, and books, in the similarly vain hope of increasing his vocabulary so that he can be a better communicator. “Employers look for good communication skills, so that’s what I’m working on now.”
I hoped that my nervousness at meeting Dole was not too obvious. Who wouldn’t be nervous? He was, after all, the National Representative for Arts Graduates of Australia, living proof of the formidable dangers of doing an Arts degree, having been for three years wildly ambitious yet sadly oblivious to the realities of life post-completion. He didn’t seem to notice so I felt free to begin with number one on my list of questions, which was about the world of temping. Dole once had a stint doing reception for a chaotic management consultancy located in the ultra-seedy central business district of Bondi Junction. Typical of consultancies, the staff were grossly overworked. Dole’s previous claims that he was used as a punching bag before being fired (by the nasty office manager, who went by the euphemistic title of ‘Practice Manager’), were refuted by his dodgy temping agency, who threatened that if he didn’t start acting more “enthusiastic” about reception, they would have to let him go.
“Admin was nothing like I had imagined. I mean, I’ve seen The Secretary… and now I feel totally deceived. The agency was later a little concerned about a few items I brought to work. I thought I was being ‘pro-active’, just like they suggested.”
As this publication goes to print, Ludger is currently wasting his third semester doing absolutely nothing, since graduating. I asked him if he was concerned about how ‘recent graduates’ means people who graduated in the past two years. Wasn’t time running out for him to get a job?
“Nah, man. Peace. I’m going to London to make my fortune there. They love Aussies – I’ll get a job and a career there. I just need to save up for the plane ticket.”
On two hundred dollars per week, his plans are admirable, but strange. His car was broken into two months ago, and every day he crawls through the boot to open the front door from the inside because “some abo [sic] junkies” damaged the locks. He is yet to get the doors repaired.
Earlier in the week, I had spoken to his brother, Bigger. “Did you know Dole lived in Venezuala for two years? He can speak Portuguese! He’s the only one in our family who has done such an amazing thing. He’s going to be so successful. I tell all my friends about how my kid brother lived in Venezuala and they’re all like, ‘wow, man!’”
The next subject I wanted to talk about was a more sensitive one. In January of this year, he had an interview with the Australian Federal Poo-Bottoms and was offered a starting date over the phone. Three weeks before this date, they informed him that he was too short-sighted to join.
“They just didn’t care that I wore Pradas. I mean, come on, they’re Pradas, for god’s sake! Who wouldn’t get a job wearing these babies?”
I bit my tongue as he offered me some of his soufflé. Was I going to eat the rest of my blueberry pancakes?
“My Dad keeps telling me that the reason I’m always broke is because I buy cigarettes. Look, I don’t mind the odd smoke. I’m truly good with my money. Like, yesterday, I had enough to actually buy a shirt from David Jones. Hello!”
It’s 11am, and Dole has to get to Centrelink before it closes at midday.
I thank him for his time.
“Don’t worry mate, I’ve got plenty of it.” ¶ 18:39
Speaking of leases, I am allowed to stay at Mulwarree, after explaining to the housing office my situation. They were very sympathetic, and are asking the girl that was going to move in to my room to move into a place on High St.
This morning Shani suggested I pursue my 'journalism career' while I have nothing to do at work (which is pretty much all day.) So here is the finished product. I was supposed to write a real article to send into the uni student publications, but I was too overcome with bitter self-pity to be serious. Perhaps it was meant to be that way.
How to Be A Loser in Ten Days
An Investigative Report by Liz Stoneman, Future Travel Writer and Expert Utiliser of Charming Wit
I met Dole B. Ludger in a Balmain café on a rainy Saturday morning. It took months for him to get back to me about giving this interview – the past few months have been spent busily frittering away his pension on flat whites (“disposable income or no disposable income – I just can’t live without my classic flat whites”), CDs chosen randomly in the vain hope of broadening his musical tastes, and books, in the similarly vain hope of increasing his vocabulary so that he can be a better communicator. “Employers look for good communication skills, so that’s what I’m working on now.”
I hoped that my nervousness at meeting Dole was not too obvious. Who wouldn’t be nervous? He was, after all, the National Representative for Arts Graduates of Australia, living proof of the formidable dangers of doing an Arts degree, having been for three years wildly ambitious yet sadly oblivious to the realities of life post-completion. He didn’t seem to notice so I felt free to begin with number one on my list of questions, which was about the world of temping. Dole once had a stint doing reception for a chaotic management consultancy located in the ultra-seedy central business district of Bondi Junction. Typical of consultancies, the staff were grossly overworked. Dole’s previous claims that he was used as a punching bag before being fired (by the nasty office manager, who went by the euphemistic title of ‘Practice Manager’), were refuted by his dodgy temping agency, who threatened that if he didn’t start acting more “enthusiastic” about reception, they would have to let him go.
“Admin was nothing like I had imagined. I mean, I’ve seen The Secretary… and now I feel totally deceived. The agency was later a little concerned about a few items I brought to work. I thought I was being ‘pro-active’, just like they suggested.”
As this publication goes to print, Ludger is currently wasting his third semester doing absolutely nothing, since graduating. I asked him if he was concerned about how ‘recent graduates’ means people who graduated in the past two years. Wasn’t time running out for him to get a job?
“Nah, man. Peace. I’m going to London to make my fortune there. They love Aussies – I’ll get a job and a career there. I just need to save up for the plane ticket.”
On two hundred dollars per week, his plans are admirable, but strange. His car was broken into two months ago, and every day he crawls through the boot to open the front door from the inside because “some abo [sic] junkies” damaged the locks. He is yet to get the doors repaired.
Earlier in the week, I had spoken to his brother, Bigger. “Did you know Dole lived in Venezuala for two years? He can speak Portuguese! He’s the only one in our family who has done such an amazing thing. He’s going to be so successful. I tell all my friends about how my kid brother lived in Venezuala and they’re all like, ‘wow, man!’”
The next subject I wanted to talk about was a more sensitive one. In January of this year, he had an interview with the Australian Federal Poo-Bottoms and was offered a starting date over the phone. Three weeks before this date, they informed him that he was too short-sighted to join.
“They just didn’t care that I wore Pradas. I mean, come on, they’re Pradas, for god’s sake! Who wouldn’t get a job wearing these babies?”
I bit my tongue as he offered me some of his soufflé. Was I going to eat the rest of my blueberry pancakes?
“My Dad keeps telling me that the reason I’m always broke is because I buy cigarettes. Look, I don’t mind the odd smoke. I’m truly good with my money. Like, yesterday, I had enough to actually buy a shirt from David Jones. Hello!”
It’s 11am, and Dole has to get to Centrelink before it closes at midday.
I thank him for his time.
“Don’t worry mate, I’ve got plenty of it.” ¶ 18:39
