My salad days, when I was young and green.
| 24 August | A Life Less Ordinary | chase this. |
It's good to see there are still "fans" out there, sure I don't have a guestbook for you to shower me with praise for my insightful piece on Midwivery, but I do my best to keep my ponderings provocative and compelling. Those of you who would like to get in touch pleeeease hit me at omnilaaa@hotmail.com with suggestions or advice... I'm not quite sure that its up to me to fill my diary with things to give my audience a buzz, but if you enjoy my plight, then you're in for a royal treat! Mayhaps not tonight, though. As a point of clarification, my little preamble in the last entry had nothing to do with the letter of my Dad's... oh no. You see the other night I was heading home early one morning and saw this guy sitting in the BP carwash in his BMW and my mind started racing... I think it's fair to say he was most likely returning home after a hard night at the Manukau Rd brothel... I could only imagine how good it would feel to be enveloped by the car wash after such an experience from the water-tight comfort of his BMW, leather interior, fake wooden dash and all... Anyway, it's become something of a fantasy for me, and really has nothing to do with my Dad.
Today, I made a horrible discovery... well to say that would really not be fair, as the fact is, I was made aware of this sometime ago through my readings of the internet. It was re-inforced when I went and give blood on Wednesday, and I got the "final word" on it last night... rather upsetting shit. You see, the Pox, that has left me feeling pretty shit about myself, has taken on a new element of tragedy. It would seem, that there is a reliable treatment for people that catch their chicken pox early (and I caught it when I had about 8 pox on my entire body, mostly on my scalp)... you see, because Chicken Pox is related to herpes (like, cold sores) and all that shit, it can be treated with plain ole Zovirax... the pills, ingested orally, pretty much stop the development of new pox, and given that I continued to develop these for about 5 days, I have been reliably informed I could have had only a third of these or less if on that fateful Sunday night I had begun treatment. Even on Monday, when I sought medical advice outside of my family, treatment would have been a fine option (as I was still quite presentable to the public indeed), yet the alternative fuck wit who was filling in for my doctor didn't even mention the possibility.
I guess the next question is, why the fuck didn't one of my 3 doctor parents suggest anything? I guess, as much as I hate to, I'll clear Ron Jones's name first. You see, he is a pussy doctor, not a real doctor. Gynaecologist or whatever... he's also an archaic fool in my opinion, probably with no knowledge that such a treatment (so he claimed) existed. Next Christine, dirty old gay man's Christine. Well... she didn't even talk to me about my Chicken Pox for a good 5 days after it finished incubating and manifesting itself on my then baby-like skin. She didn't have the time to come around, check me out, or even offer sympathy, and by the time she saw me she could barely strain herself to look at me (for this, I do not blame her). I was well past such a course of action by that stage, alas. As for my Dad, you pretty much failed me again, didn't cha? Well, his defense goes something like this: "Tim, if I had any idea of the severity of the attack of Chicken Pox you were going to get, I would have put you right on Zovirax. The thing is, you usually have such great skin, I thought you'd sail through it!" This prompted me to give the old "Surely I'd have been better safe than sorry?", yet he could offer only, "Well, you live and learn, don't you? I didn't really want to put more toxins in you as it was, and I had no idea how bad you were going to get it" - all this coming from the man who reassured me regularly "You won't be getting any new pox after tomorrow Tim", and "With great skin like yours there's no way you'll scar, Tim." Guess what? You were wrong, shithead... and no matter how valid your defense, of course I am going to fucking resent not receiving treatment you would have READILY given to a patient, or someone who wasn't a family member in the same circumstances. You simply do not know best, and I have matured enough to realise this now, as well as what an emotional shell of a human being you are (for whatever reasons you may claim that this is so, I simply dont fucking care, man).
Lastly mayhaps, big "props" to a certain "maxbarnya" for not being silenced. While (understandably) I don't appreciate the anti-left rhetoric you spout, I understand you've probably lost touch with the social climate in New Zealand. You see, in New Zealand we look after families, building our nation of strong family values, and reinforcing archaic family traditions. We family those who try and family familying a traditional family, by following a family policy of discrimination against those who do not family such values. family family family family. You'll understand our real plight, one day. Rumination of the Moment™: "I'm worried that the universe will soon need replacing. It's not holding a charge."
| 23 August | It's a great life. Are you living it up? | How's Life? |
Weeeeeeeeeell after slogging my way through an assignment due tomorrow and making an... *ahem*, discovery in the process, I thought it was time to get back in touch! Another week at Uni slinking around and hiding my face from the masses, what fun! Actually, I've managed to "hook up" with the Robster on a couple of occasions, as well as witnessing "Shaolin: Wheel of Life" on Wednesday night... I guess this is as good as my social life can get? Ugh... work continues to be an obstacle to liking my life, but with new facts emerging about the nature of my workplace (oh yeah, they got robbed on Tuesday) I feel obliged to stay. What a fucking state that place is in.
Now, my main purpose of this entry was to unleash upon the World a discovery of mine... it's a letter (or something to that effect) from my father to his wife (my stepmum) that I discovered tonight while looking through my documents... uhh, his documents. Anyway, because of the deeply personal nature of it, I thought I absolutely shouldn't put it here, but by the same token, over the last week I've been trying to get the opinions of my friends about their dads (i.e. do they aspire to be like them? do they envy what they have achieved in life? etc, etc) and well, everyone pretty much said yes, at least to an extent. I, on the other hand, could not wish upon myself a worse fate than to get to my father's age and be such a fucking mess. I would really like to go into why he "is like he is", but it's simply too early in the morning. Needless to say, he hates himself, and it's not really surprising given his Catholic bitch of a wife that tries to tell him how to live, and constantly shows disapproval when he takes an alternate path. His (second) marriage is in a shambles, and to find this "letter", this pleading fucking concession, was quite a highlight to my day... Shall I begin?
I'm so sorry I was cruel and heartless..it was never mean't to be like that...
It was insightless, self-centred and disregarging of your feelings..
It was compelling and immediate
I believe in us, in our life together ..I believe in it enough to fight for..
And that's why I said what I said..when I knew what I had to say..
I treasure you so much, I have to fight for us. Us three..
I know now more than ever that we must nourish and protect her
And show her the love and longing for her that we both so desperately feel.....
I've always known that you're the best person I ever met or ever will.
I've always been deeply grateful and in awe of the effortsthat you have put into the boys, making us a family, over the years,and have frequently failed to express it.
I've so often been deeply saddened by the way they related to you....
a mixture of embarassment for their behaviour and an urge to rationalise it and defend them.
None of this means we didn't have fun. I love that you have all those old videos.
Its so great to see us looking and sounding happy and it's like being there again..
feeling it again....the happiness, the anxiety..the sadness...and the the gratitude for the security of you
So that's why I'm fighting to save us.
Because I love you and value what we can have together so much.
I know we can work together to sort through our mutual garbage
we just have to want it enough..to work out who's shit belongs in which bag..
Every time I've seen you arrive home for the last , god knows how long..
With a weight on your shoulders that showed in the strain in your face
I've grown a little more angry, mostly, I hope, out of pity for you..
And every time you've missed something that's for you like guitar or exercise or whatever,
And everytime you went out to something or did something you really didn't want to do.
I grew little more desperate.
So.. I did it..abruptly, compulsively..I acted..
1.Firstly, this has occurred recently. I do remember, mayhaps over a month ago, that Christine got out those tapes from when I was about 7-10 and played the fuck out of them. Better times? Maybe... before she had her kid, and became such a fucking cold, uncompromising, moody bitch. Now I don't blame her for that... God, the sheer stress created from smoking 20 cigarettes a day/drinking 10 cups of coffee would ravage my soul too, if I let myself become such a fucking whore.
2.Father, dear, what the fuck do you mean "insightless" of her feelings? You're talking absolute shit here, and it's evident from the third line down.
3.It only gets better... "I have to fight for us. Us three." - Did you forget you spawned another two fuckups along the way? That you're making me live at your house during the week? Whether you've excluded me and Jeremy from your little treasured family unit to please her or not, your words reek of treachery.
4.Aha, the best person you've ever met or ever will? No woman (even your wife of 8 years) is going to believe this. What were you thinking? Whether it's her Catholic ideals that make her such a great person, or just her magnetic personality, and appreciation for those outside of her narrow, sheltered little existence that do it for you, you are truly deluded if you believe this. Personally, the Nightingale shit doesn't do much for me, her holy mission to "assess rape victims" may have been what destroyed her soul, but if you think it has in any way made her anything but a more twisted, empty personality, you are sadly mistaken.
5.Embarassed by us, huh? You know what, I wish you had the fucking guts to tell Jeremy and I that, and then mayhaps we could work through it. You could explain why she takes every comment we make as personal criticism directed at her/her household/her daughter/her family and has absolutely no sense of humour. I am not some twisted fucking misogynist, as anyone who knows me would gladly tell her... why won't you? Because anything you say in our defence will be taken as a direct insult to her, and it should be! Her sense of judgement is appalling, either she has been too far alienated from the rest of the World to realise it or not, but we are decent human beings.
6.The strain on her face... I'm not usually one to be cruel (oh no, not me!) but those multiple strains are the result of 30 years of smoking, her appalling addiction to caffeine, her "constantly run-down" demeanour and her belief that she is constantly being made a victim, somehow, somewhere... and you know what? That shit just makes me want to treat her like one.
Okay, that is all I really want to say about that. How cathartic was that?! No more pent up resentment for me, for sure... I'm cured! Um, I know it sounds like I'm being excessively cruel, but it is sort of hard to get into why I feel the way I do. I could be a lot more petty about this whole thing if I wanted to. It's lucky I can rationalise the gripping sense of betrayal I feel at you pretty much pledging to let her hate us... if it saves your marriage, then who gives a fuck? Rumination of the Moment™: Good on ya, mate.
Question mark?
| 11 August | My Plight, Part 2 | desperate place |
It concerns my work, and while the details of it are pretty mundane, it all begins with the infamous "Set Menu" at Bodrum - a bottomless banquet featuring some of the foulest food available. That's right, plate after plate of Lamb, Rice, Shredded Chicken (ugh, mincemeat more like), Felafel, Salad and "Makarna" (generic vegetarian pasta dish). Well, like any good waiter, I make sure that the tables are "fully stocked" with plates of food (they fucking deserve to be at $27 a head) and that if they so desire, are able to get more of any dish. Anyway, I went over to RT3 (Round Table 3, get it?) where we had a booking of 25 and basically shouted across the table until I was able to ascertain what the peeps were after. Noted on paper, and delivered to the chefs.
Inevitably, this story had to "go sour", and herein it becomes a journey into my own insecurities as well as The Fall of Man (hell, this had to be worked in somewhere, didn't it?) Self-discovery... or something. The chefs were so busy making food for next door that this "extras" order was disregarded for about 15 minutes. The dutiful "Data" (this small outspoken Indian waiter) took it upon himself to ask RT3 again if they were after anything, unfortunately, he asked a small old lady on the periphery of the table who made no attempt to consult the table, and asked for "some more lamb and chicken". And so the saga begins, Data decides that his New Order is somehow more valid than mine, chucks mine away, replacing it with his. The chefs make it, and 10 minutes later I find myself carrying this stuff to the table. I flank Shareen, who starts placing the plates on the table, there is some loud, drunken interchange, then a disgustingly obnoxious, midget-like, obese lump of humanity looks down on me from the steps leading up to the table and says, "Where's our felafel you short, ugly little BASTARD?!" - Well, dear diary, I do have some self-respect left... and as a waiter, I have a bottom line...
My first reaction was a hateful glare, barely able to stomach what this man was saying, I remembered I was carrying his food. He was a guest in my domain, and I could have easily enough given him a faceful of steaming hot shredded chicken. That said, I am a waiter, I live to serve, especially the every whim of drunken, ungrateful beasts like this man. I handed the plates to Shareen, turned away, and stormed into the kitchen shouting expletives at the top of my lungs. Now, customers can be pretty inconsiderate... admittedly, many people still consider waiters to be "utter shit" in the scheme of things. This guy was something else. Because I have these rather "gnarly" scars on my face and forehead, there was something very personal about being called "short and ugly" by this nasty bastard. I don't know... I could say, "Whoa, I'm totally over my physical deformity maaaa-an" when clearly I still feel fucking cheated to come out of a sudden illness like this, and what he said dug deep. Rather than offering a witty retort like one might offer to other customers who are less than amiable, but in this case it simply hurt too much.
I dealt with this the only way I knew how, I approached "Data" and asked him really vindictively to "refain from throwing my orders away", then bitched at the chefs to give more priority to set menu customers, when really I would have liked to be at that "bastard's" throat. Despite my own insecurities about my personal appearance (I'm assured this is a teenager thing!) it also highlights issues within the patriarchy. Just because I work in a field dominated by women (haha, that phrase is so wrong) and wait on my customers "hand and foot", that simply doesn't justify treating me like a piece of shit. I don't do this job for kudos (but hey, it's nice!), but I still deserve basic respect. Some people (and they are a massive minority) have some misconception that waiters are uneducated and generally submissive (ok, not totally unfounded), and this shows in their treatment of us. Now I'm not going to go waving the flag for waiters worldwide, rant on about what an artform it is and how we deserve pay parity with doctors, but as a profession, it is just as legitimate as the shitty little bean-counting firm, that you, fat man, will be trapped in for the rest of your short life. Rumination of the Moment™: "Don't forget me don't forget me don't forget me don't forget revolt."
| 5 August | My Plight | my lovely horse |
Call me vain, but it was a real dilemma for me for a wee while. It wasn't the insane itching, or the physical disfiguration that gets me the most, it was the fact that I did nothing (tangible) to deserve this, nothing conducive to contracting it, it just fucking came. There was nothing I could do about it... an illness that 90% of New Zealanders have had before they leave primary school, and I develop one of the nastiest cases (and there was very little room on my body left for pox... they were everywhere... yes, there too) to hit. It started with a stiff neck that Sunday, by 10pm there were 5 or 6 pox on my upper body, within 4 days there were about 400 more... the fevers, the medication, the nausea... the dark room from which I didn't emerge for 6 days... the smell, of the pus that filled these abominations? Of the skin that slowly died and separated itself from my body? Of my own breath, tainted by the outcrop of pox in my mouth that tore my gums (and dental health) apart? Of the sweaty film in which I was coated? Who knows. No TV, no social contact, no sense of time. It was, dear diary, a real stinker.
Well, in the wake of this illness I still have many a scab dug deep into my back (they seem pretty undisturbed back there) and scalp (fuck it itches like crazy) and my complexion is something more like "Roacutane gone bad". I counted (and yes, I've had the time to do this) 13 craters, which may or may not fill up somehow where the scabs have fallen off on my face alone. Conversely, other areas (okay, my dick) have come off better than ever. Try not touching that for two weeks. I guess the mysteries of this illness will one day be revealed? Meanwhile I wait, a figure of six months being suggested for the healing of my face (woo hoo), chugging down vitamins and pills 3 times a day, trying to stop these things from getting infected, and generally just living like a terminal patient. As of today I'm back at Uni (try missing two weeks of Uni) and haven't even attended my first lectures for everything but Law, and I'm expected to start handing in 20% weighted essays next week for lectures I didn't even attend. Tomorrow, I will try and explain my plight to my lecturers - you know, I think I might almost have a case.
Let the Pox rule this entry no more! A few other developments have taken place since the last entry was made, namely the "happenings" at the St. Cuth's Ball. Alright, so my date got with three other guys, but dammit relive my childhood I did! The night before the breakout of the aforementioned illness, I was all prettied up and ready for action! I'm not going to lie and say the Ball held any merit (other than the silk "chillout room", the pool tables, and the insane amount of time and effort that was CLEARLY made to make the venue more exotic, outstanding and lush than any other Ball I've ever been to) because there was no playing of "You Can Do It (Put Your Back Into It)", nor "I Will Walk 1000 Miles", and the music generally sucked. En autre main, I also caught up with many a Grammar guy (who to my surprise weren't obnoxious) and met some cool people from St. Cuths. The Afterball was something else, an endless supply of Lion Red, a DJ who gave me the songs I wanted (ahh Van Morisson) and a lot of cool social interaction. The "Champagne Breakfast" (lie in anonymous living room talking to anonymous girl for 4 hours) was relatively rocking too, and allowed me to infiltrate a St. Cuth's social circle (though alas chicken pox has kept me away from "rocking parties", and work will soon dominate my weekends again) and hone my "checking out" skills.
Well, my friend, tomorrow shall yield many a surprise as I realise what I've gotten myself into with my new papers at Uni. I'd say the A average from my First Semester gives me confidence, but at the same time, missing one fifth of my Second Semester really takes the shine off my understanding of "just what the fuck is going on". I guess the Pox has been life-changing in that it has reminded me of my own mortality, and my powerlessness in controlling my health and my appearance, but has taught me invaluable lessons in how to control my own self-image (because believe it or not, I have been pretty depressed). I leave you now with a photo I found upstairs on my bed yesterday, and while I'd like to work it in somehow into my retrospective on life herein, but as an act of pure self-indulgence, will post it to remind myself...
My salad days, when I was young and green.