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Desperately Seeking...Something"This time, like all times, is a very good one - if we know what to do with it." 06 febrero Friday FeastsFor someone who holds spelling and punctuation in such high regard, I can make some very silly mistakes sometimes. It was Jodi, my caustic Canadian chick friend that bought a kettle for my folks, not Jody, my tall Texan guy friend. I'm sorry. Appetizer I really like Crunchy Nut Cornflakes; they're sweet, but for some reason because they have nuts in them I can delude myself that they're providing some much-needed nutrient. I couldn't get them in Korea though, so I ended up with an industrial size box of Quaker Oats from CostCo. They were all pretty good, though after the first week I was on cinnamon overload. Soup I can't really think of anything that I've bought for the house. I was going to buy a kettle back when we needed one, but Jodi beat me to it (and just so you don't think that my friends regularly buy household goods for my home I should explain that she bought it to thank my parents for giving birth to a son who willingly gives up his bed for weeks at a time so Canadians can sleep comfortably). Before Christmas my room was a mess. Many years of accumulated crap was threatening to overtake the few shelves I had, so that they looked like this:
(If you look beyond my delight in drinking that bottle of Coopers Pale Ale you'll see some seriously overloaded shelving.) In the redecoration effort, my mother did most of the buying, while Rose and I (read: mostly Rose) did a lot of the work, including stripping wall paper, filling cracks in those walls, sanding and varnishing shelves, dusting books and washing pint glasses, and moving furniture, so that my room looked like this for a while:
Then it began to take shape: And now it looks like this: And the reason I'm answering this question in this way is simple: I bought the paper-scraper, half the paint, and the varnish for the room. (Also there are a number of people who wanted to see what this much-talked-about redecoration looked like, and I haven't got around to sending them photos.) Salad Lots of Korean commercials were funny, but I can't really think of any right now. This one for Berlitz is quite good: as are all the Carlsberg commercials, like this one:
Main Course Damn, Cinnamon Monkey is the sort of thing I'd come up with! Saffron Sidewinder. Dessert I haven't cried since Saturday. Appetizer When I was a teacher it was at least 5 times. Now it's more like 2, depending on what I'm reading or listening to. Soup My main sunglasses are black and kinda big in the eye with wide legs. They're very cool. Salad Moscow. Main Course The beer is very good, not as good a lots of places in England, but certainly better than Dublin, and miles better than Seoul or Valencia. Dessert I like purple skies and burnt orange skies, but only at the times of day - dusk and dawn - that you expect to see them. I can't imagine it being that colour all the time, because it's not even blue all the time! How our biggest employer no longer employs anyoneThe worst thing about being unemployed isn't the soul destroying feeling when you wake-up every morning and realise that the most important decision you're going to make that day is whether to watch Diagnosis Murder or Murder, She Wrote, nor is it the lack of finances that cripples your social life, nor is it even being told by a journalism graduate that your commerce and Spanish degree is "irrelevant", the worst thing about unemployment is discovering that there are hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people out there employed in jobs that have been created solely for the purpose of employing people. I've nothing against this sort of thing when it results in tangible benefits for the rest of us (I mean Hitler achieved near-full employment during his early years and Germany got a super road system out of it), but when it results in more levels of bureaucracy and deeply frustrated citizens, I have to rebel.
Case in point: the Northern Ireland Civil Service. Every contact I've had with the Civil Disservice has led to feelings of confusion and intense anger. Last week I fired off an e-mail to one department to complain about the service, or lack thereof, that I had experienced. Over the following week I received no less than three e-mails, all from different areas of the organisation, but all saying exactly the same thing, telling me that my complaint was important to them and that someone would be in touch to discuss it. After the third e-mail I got fed up and wrote a letter to a newspaper and, amazingly, they printed it. On the very same day that my letter was published I received a letter from the manager of the department in question apologising for the way I had been treated. I didn't need a letter. I wrote to them via e-mail, I expected, and would've been happy with, an e-mail apology (e-mail, letter, or over the phone it would have still sounded insincere!) but instead I got three pointless e-mails and one unnecessary letter. That means four people are employed to do jobs you could have trained one monkey to carry out.
And it's not just in the customer complaints department where this desperate attempt to justify job titles is evident.
Despite frequent ads in the classified sections of our newspapers, the civil service no longer really employs anyone other than Human Resource consultants. These guys are supposed to help the civil service employ the right people, but rather than do this via resumes, references, and interviews, they're using the all-pervasive aptitude test. In the 17 years of my formal education I must have sat hundreds of tests and exams. Not one of them was as complicated in its administration as these aptitude tests.
The tests themselves aren't that bad (well actually, the first one I took involved a lot of maths without the aid of a calculator - I haven't had to do maths without a calculator in 13 years!) but the way they are administered is insane. You'd think they'd simply put the test paper on the table, put the answer sheet next to it, and wish you luck. Not so. They leave you with the answer sheet, and, it being multiple choice you can't simply write your name or index number on it, instead you have to fill in countless little circles that represent the letters and numbers of your identity. Then they give you the test paper and stand over you like hawks in case you try to sneak a peek, while the nominated speaker recites a monologue in a voice dripping with such boredom that you know she's done this 10 times already that day, and yet she still hasn't learned it by heart...After that you can take a few practice questions, but it's not as if they're located on page 1 of the paper, nor can you fill in your answers on page 1 of the answer booklet. Instead they'll be on page 7, with the answers to be completed on page 4. Then they'll read out the answers and explain them, at length. These practice questions, rather than warm-up your brain for the activities ahead, are so easy that they lull you into a false sense of security. When you open the test your head is addled through boredom and you can hear small yelps of panic as the candidates read the real questions. So then you'll do the actual test, which can be found on page 3, and fill in your answers on page 9. Then they take that question paper away, and you move on to another paper, but with the same ridiculous routine of practice and answer and rules and explanation. Again, none of this is necessary - it's simply a way for the HR firm to justify its own existence, and commission, to the civil service.
I sat there thinking two things: 1) This stupid, and 2) I can do better than this.
What's worse than all that though is the fact that the tests, as far as I can see, don't really test you in any meaningful way, nor does the way they're administered help to select the best people for the job. For one thing I don't know anyone who would really try to perform a serious calculation without a calculator. In fact, considering the fact that Excel is a prerequisite for most office jobs these days I have to wonder if people even really use calculators that much anymore. In the same way, the verbal reasoning tests require you to read a passage and then answer questions relating to it. But what do you do if you spot spelling and / or grammar mistakes in the passage or questions? (!)
What really grinds my gears though is when candidates don't follow the most basic instructions before they even get into the centre. Because, if you believe what you read in certain papers, there are a lot of bad people out there pretending to be me and you in order to get jobs, and benefits, and healthcare, and free taxi rides, you're now required to bring 7 pieces of identification to do anything. For the civil service exams you're supposed to bring photocopies of these documents. At least 1/3 of the candidates didn't, for whatever reason, do this. I cannot understand why; the excuse that you don't have access to a photocopier doesn't wash with me - I don't have access to one, at home or in work, but I can think of about 10 people who do (and that's not even considering family members) not to mention the fact that there are copy shops all over the city that'll do it for about 15p a page. Personally, if I were in charge and someone failed to follow the first instruction for the test, they'd automatically be disqualified. Same goes for people who don't bring calulators. I didn't have one but had to borrow from a cousin because it said in the invitation, in bold type, that they wouldn't be provided. They were. Again, no calculator, no jobbie.
When you see the civil service process from the inside you begin to understand why the service is so poor on the ground, and when you consider that the sort of people applying for the jobs can do long division but can't follow simple instructions you'll understand the meaning of the phrase "red tape". At this rate, the civil service is eventually going to employ more citizens than it actually serves, and I'll still be waiting for a sincere apology from a real person.
23 enero Friday Feast 176Appetizer Can't decide between beer and coffee. I guess I'd have to go for coffee, because I can happily drink that anytime - even I can't drink beer in the morning. Soup Two Christmas cards that I rescued from the trash (I don't mean I took them from the trash, I mean I kept them instead of throwing them out, which is what we do with mail that can't be forwarded or returned to sender) - one shows a beautiful image by Louis Haghe of the Nave of St.Peter's in Rome, the other a quote from John 3:16: "For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life." My coffee travel mug that Brittany gave me which has photos of our summer fun inside the thermos lining. A portable CD player that a nice lady in work lets me use to listen to audio books so that I don't go insane. Salad 10. (Interpret that as you like!) Main Course England has lots of places with terrible names, like Scunthorpe and Slough, but to change them to something better would be a waste of a great gift. I'd rather go for something silly and frivolous, like changing Dublin to something like Little Belfast, simply because it would annoy the hell out of the super-proud citizens. Dessert My mother. My father. (This is topical - she's buzzing around the living room as I type, looking for books that she's implying I threw out!) Otherwise: children yelling. Children laughing. Happy Birthday To MeThe problem with Christmas and birthdays is that you don't get to have an opinion about anything.
In the run-up to the Yuletide season if someone asks you what you think of a certain colour of shirt say, or the work of an author, or a television program, you really can't answer. The reason of course is that they may already have bought said item, or be intending to buy it for you, and your disgust at the idea of someone wearing a peuce silk shirt, or reading Russell Brand's Booky Wook, or watching 24, will hurt and offend them.
Someone told me they thought the whole idea of telling people what to get you for your birthday was crass and pointless - why not just buy it yourself? they argued- but I think it saves a lot of trouble and embarassment and awkward moments when people risk buying you something as a surprise present that you'd never in a million years choose for yourself. (This was the same person who still complains about the time I bought him something I really thought he'd use - vinegar. I realise vinegar isn't a particularly exciting gift, but for someone showing a budding interest in cooking I think you could do much worse.) When people ask me what I want for Christmas I tell them, whether they choose to get it for me or not is up to them. But when they ask me my thoughts on a certain band, or opinion of a particular cologne, I usually prevaricate and hope they'll choose wisely (or have already chosen wisely!). And seeing as my birthday follows closely on Christmas I basically don't get to have an opinion on anything for about 10 weeks, this is especially hard for someone who is as spectacularly opinionated as I am.
This year most people asked me what I wanted and then got me some of it, but the best presents were the ones I hadn't expected (which shows my friends and family have great taste!), and the cards and messages I got were even better; but the best thing about my birthday was celebrating it with my whole family, a number of close cousins, and my girlfriend - some of whom turned up as a surprise, and that's about the only safe surprise you can risk at a time like this. Fascist FashionMy boss is the sort of person who doesn't like confrontation, (which begs the question why she is working for a large, faceless organisation populated by over-worked, under-appreciated trade unionists) so I could tell by her "I'm sorry about this but please don't hit me" expression that she had bad news for me. She told me, apologetically, that my shirt didn't comply with the dress code. Now I wasn't particularly surprised; it was a University of South Carolina football shirt, and the name of their team is the Gamecocks. The name never fails to amuse me, especially when I'm in the Palmetto State where, for reasons of expediency, it's shortened to Cocks, so that all over the place you'll see bumper stickers and shorts and caps with "Go Cocks", "Cocks Rule", and, once, "I
 Cocks", but I could understand how it might offend someone of a more sensitive nature. However, it wasn't the name of the team that was the problem, it was the fact that my shirt bore the name of a place."A place?" I asked, perplexed.
"Yeah. No football (meaning soccer), rugby, or GAA shirts, nothing with political slogans, no FCUK, and no place names," she explained.
"You're joking," I tried.
"No, 'fraid not", she giggled, nervously, then retreated to her desk.
I couldn't believe it. I sat for the next few minutes mentally sorting my wardrobe, censoring my gear to suit the latest version of the dress code. When I got home I went through my drawers and took stock of the situation.
I have 29 t-shirts, 3 polo shirts, 1 rugby shirt, 1 GAA shirt, 4 long-sleeve shirts, and 5 hoodies.
Of the 29 t-shirts, no less than fifteen, more than half, are no longer permitted where I work. That means I can't wear the shirt that says where I went to college (University College Dublin), or any of the shirts I've picked up on my travels: the one from Longboards Surf Shop in Puerto Rico, the one bearing a nice embroidered image of the Statue of Liberty in NYC, the one I got at a bachelor party at Ike's Korner Grille in Spartanburg, SC, the one from Belfast, Maine - which usually works as a conversation starter and couldn't possibly offend anyone! - and many more. I can't wear any of the shirts I've been given as gifts: 2 shirts my aunt gave me that mention Hawaii and the USA Olympic team from the 1996 Olympics which took place in her state, or the one Brittany's friend Tom gave me advertising his tree service in Mount Desert, Maine. I think my US Marine Corps and Coast Guard shirts probably break the political and place name rules, and I'm afraid to wear my John Deere shirt because Massey Ferguson is a popular tractor brand here and I wouldn't want to offend any farmers up from the country to work in the big smoke. I could probably get away with wearing my Campus House shirt because that phrase is the sort of nonsense you read on clothes these days, but it is an actual place - a Christian worship centre in Indiana (running the risk of offending any non-Christians in work if that ever gets out!).
The rugby and GAA shirts are out, but I knew that anyway.
Of the 3 polo shirts two are banned: one refers to my county GAA team - Antrim, the other advertises the tree service again (I'm like a walking commercial for that company!).
Of the longsleeve shirts at least two are gone: one is for the USMC (political as well as geographical) and the other is the original South Carolina shirt that started this sartorial book burning. A third proclaims my love of Beer Chiang from Thailand, but as it's in Thai I might get away with it.
All of my hoodies are prohibited for they are variously branded Spartanburg, the US, Purdue, Canada, and Guam.
I can understand the rules regarding sports tops, political tops, and even FCUK, but I can't for the life of me figure out the problem of clothing that has the name of a place on it. And from the sounds of conversations overheard around the proverbial watercooler, neither can any of my coworkers. Perhaps it's time to join a Union... 19 enero No Country For Old MenTHAT is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees - Those dying generations - at their song, The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas, Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long Whatever is begotten, born, and dies. Caught in that sensual music all neglect Monuments of unageing intellect. An aged man is but a paltry thing, A tattered coat upon a stick, unless Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing For every tatter in its mortal dress, Nor is there singing school but studying Monuments of its own magnificence; And therefore I have sailed the seas and come To the holy city of Byzantium. O sages standing in God's holy fire As in the gold mosaic of a wall, Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre, And be the singing-masters of my soul. Consume my heart away; sick with desire And fastened to a dying animal It knows not what it is; and gather me Into the artifice of eternity. Once out of nature I shall never take My bodily form from any natural thing, But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make Of hammered gold and gold enamelling To keep a drowsy Emperor awake; Or set upon a golden bough to sing To lords and ladies of Byzantium Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
W.B. Yeats Sailing To Byzantium 16 enero Feast One Hundred & Seventy FiveAppetizer Conor. One 'n' please. I already have two names, i.e. my name in English and Irish, which is complicated enough, especially when you're trying to cross borders, buy plane tickets, and prove you haven't been engaged in tax evasion for many years! I did go through brief periods in my childhood when I wanted to be called such classic monikers as Axel Foley, Templeton "Faceman" Peck, Michael Knight, Marty McFly, Mitch Buchanan, and Nico Toscani, names that will allow you to follow whatever TV show or movie I was obsessed with at the time. I realise there are two David Hasselhoff characters in there, which could be worrying, but it would be worse if I'd plumped for Steven Seagal's alter-ego Gino Fellino from 1991's Out For Justice instead of the slightly more plausible Nico Toscani from his debut Above The Law. Soup I honestly can't imagine being a fashion designer, but I do like the color green, regular jeans like the ones that were widely available when I was a kid, and cashmere scarves. Salad Does shaving count?, because it sucks. I wish I could simply wish myself clean-shaven, and it would happen. I find it a pain having to pay extra-special attention to my face in the shower pre-shave, then massaging in the gel, then actually shaving - trying to get close enough without cutting yourself is not easy - then the feeling of moisturiser as it dries on your skin (Yes, I moisturise, big whoop wanna fight about it?!) Main Course I don't like walking into a bathroom and seeing the shower curtain closed, because when I was a kid I saw a movie about a knief-wielding maniac who lurked behind people's shower curtains until they'd come, unsuspecting, into their bathroom (surely the room in the house where you're at your most vulnerable?) before jumping out and slicing them to pieces. Dessert A cinnamon-scented candle on the fireplace A bottle of Sam Adam's Winter Ale on the bookshelf. Have I Got News For You on the TV. FillerI'd really like to write about some of the stuff I come across in the course of my duties in the Dead Letter Office, but as I'm bound by the Official Secrets' Act until a year after I terminate my employment, I'll not get around to that until next March, by which time I should hope to have something more interesting to write about! And, I don't want to simply post a Friday's Feast directly after another Friday's Feast, so instead I'm going to upload two videos of songs I heard and liked on MTV Dance in the wee hours of this morning. Now that's a sentence I'd never thought I'd write.
10 enero A feast of cornucopian proportionsFeast One Hundred & Seventy FourAppetizer
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