Thursday, April 22, 2010

Unemployable, that's what you are...

Four horsemen of the apocalypse by Pants

When you look at the picture above, do you see death? I knew there was something wrong with me. All this time I've been blaming the world. Curse Kerouac. Curse Kant. Curse, oooo, I don't know, k.d. lang, no, I mean R.D. Laing. You see, you see?

All right, just calm down. k.d. lang we love, not in a knicker-throwing kind of way but because she is coming to save our Logie Awards from the devastating global humiliation caused by the Subo no show. It could have been worse. We could have been snubbed by Kerry Katona or K-Fed. At least we'll be getting a recording artiste who can actually sing. I can understand why Subo cancelled. She has an autobiog to write. With an entire eleven-month span to cover, it's got to be head down, tail up, surely.

I was reading Tracey Emin's latest Independent column this morning. Trace is always good if you're in a bit of a humpty-dumpty state. It's nice to know that you can get quite far down the dirt track to crazy and still do something meaningful with your life. I need reminding of that sometimes.

Yesterday I went for an interview for a nice little local government job that I ought to be able to do in my sleep. In fact, I was so confident that I was going to specify as a condition of employment that I be allowed to do it when I'm asleep. I don't really have time to work. The interview lasted ten minutes because I couldn't think of anything to say. I'm serious. Needless to report, I am not walking around with my mobile in my pocket.

I've always been pretty crap at interviews but this time, even though the people were nice and I think there were only three of them, I couldn't remember anything that happened before breakfast. This made it a bit tough to relate my skills and experience to their needs. Perhaps they'll have an opening for a goldfish instead.

Apparently, one in four people in Australia has mental health issues, or is it one in two? It seems to get worse every time a report comes out. I don't particularly want to go there but if that's the case, a lot of these people must be receiving medication that mitigates the outward signs of their condition. It occurs to me that anti-depressants ought to be considered performance-enhancing drugs and banned from competitive recruitment. I'm sure the fact that everyone else's madness is being masked just makes me look battier, and I really don't need help with that.

Tracey Emin says her relationship with art (or Art) is going through a rough patch,

Art is as good to me as I am to it. And at the moment we seem to be arguing quite a lot. I want to hang on the side of creativity and Art wants to hang on the side of practice. I want to be a free spirit and paint mad love poems across the gallery walls, and Art wants me to slave and labour using every bit of knowledge I know, but I want to abandon everything I know. I need to be free. I need to be fresh. I don't want to be held by the restraints of my own language. Anyway, Art had enough this week and just walked out on me.

I wonder if a similar thing has been happening to me but in reverse. I feel I ought to work. I would rather stay at home and paint or draw or write but I know that I probably won't bother to try to make a career out of any of those. Nonetheless, I seem unable to ignore ideas. You know how some people have to strike up a conversation with the person sitting next to them on the bus or the one behind them in the supermarket queue? I'm like that with ideas. Any vague notion that happens to waft past is suddenly my new best friend. And no one sells their friends unless their name is Murdoch or Packer.

One of the disunited states of Pants must have been acting in the ideas' interests because this latest sortie into society contained more than one act of sabotage. Oh yes, before the memory malfunction, there was the mad hair moment. I decided a couple of days before the interview that my hair could probably do with a little de-greying and, instead of going to the salon and paying a large but by no means unreasonable amount of money for a professional rejuvenation, I decided to give myself a little home highlighting job.

In my own defence, I must say that this has usually worked before but I picked the wrong tint and compounded that by messing up the instructions. The result was Madonna crossed with a hyena. Fortunately the salon was able to rescue the situation at not much more than the usual cost. I should have known at that point that I was speeding towards disaster. One lives and learns, or not.

I'm now going to prime some canvasses. Perhaps if I don't think too much and just tag along with one of my idea friends for a bit, we might end up where we're supposed to be...