Work: the curse of the drinking classes
You will have noticed that I have spoken little of work. Not so much because I've been living some kind of bizarre Falling Down style double life: merely faking the daily regimen that has become the singular source of my identity having been downsized some months previous. Au contraire mes amis. Rather because, as you may have noticed, this is the internet, hence public, hence actionable. Still I thought I'd share this little vignette of madness with you all the same... We're coming up fast on our annual review period and I have the job of rating myself and my reports (aka staff) against three axes of performance: work ethic, criticality and competence. Two and three of course, not an issue. Here's the definition of an 'A' for work ethic: "Consistently works greater than fifty hours per week... Works nights/weekends to complete work on time or ahead of schedule without complaint." Not so much a work ethic as proof positive of a mental disorder. I especially like the "without complaint" clause; so you worked all weekend? Tell it to the hand, sunshine. And put that finalised spreadsheet in the other one, while you're at it.
Still my only real complaint with work is that there's too much of it. You can almost feel your life being exchanged for mammon cent by cent, a little spinning silkworm, spinning the deluxe lining to one's own coffin. Still there's a plus side: I've got me a hot tub.
Yes, it's been bubbling-and-steaming for about a month now; I've been for an extended soak every other evening or so; I lie back and watch the steam curl into the pines. Lately I've been trying to formulate a convincing subtext for a novel I will never almost certainly never write. I don't think I have any problem with text. Text is fine, text is everyday. Even this is a text - more or less. Subtext though - that's the stuff - that's art that is, mate. Anyhow it's all very relaxing. And, as a fringe benefit, I have become aquainted with the science of hydraulic chemistry. You never know when that might come in handy.
I do not think I will ever quite get used to the sight of young men with extensive facial hair. A alarmingly common practice in these parts, I find it immensley distracting and, as with Ian McShane's mullet in Lovejoy, or ditto Nicholas Cage in Con Air, my mind is consumed with the desire to personally and violently remove the offending coiffure, offering it up in sacrifice to the gods of taste and decency. An act of humanity, you understand. A man of about twenty-two sometimes takes the same train as me in the morning, sporting a ginger beard which extends, gnome like, at least eight or nine inches below his chin. What ignominous deed could possibly demand such self-inflicted penetance? Whatever the crime, surely now the price has been paid, the debt settled.
Cycling across the Hawthorne Bridge on my home this evening I passed a man running along with a shopping cart, screaming into a mobile phone which he held to his headphoned ears, his dog tied to the trolley and running beside him. The odd thing is quite how quickly one gets inured to the weirdness of Portland or - perhaps - city life in general and yet, sometimes you stand back and reflect on it and it's all quite magical and absurd and mildly terrifying at the same time. Of course I have filled this journal with nothing but the finer side of Portland and none of the bad. Bad stuff happens of course, if not on the scale of other American cities. Probably the biggest single issue is the prevalency of meth(-amphetamine) addiction. I'm not one to criticise drug use per se, but this is really nasty, highly addictive and unpleasant substance; those suffering withdrawal often experience psychotic episodes; jumpy and unpredictable you could run into them anywhere and one gets the feeling that the typical Portland laid-back sixties anything-goes demeanour is not going to cut you a lot of slack with someone that desperate, paranoid, frightened and aggressive. Social programmes are chronically underfunded in the US, so the authorities don't have the resources they need to tackle the problem. On the plus side (for us that is) it's something which seems mostly to happen elsewhere in the city, far out to the north and to the east, save the odd burglary or two that is.
Local news - something to talk about in the boozer; a recent find: the Kennedy School by night. I think I've mentioned this place before: an old high school converted into an hotel, several bars and a cinema. After a couple of beers Matt (a friend from work) and I wound up in 'detention', a very cosy little wood-pannelled bar, drinking single malt, sharing a cigar and putting the world to rights. A little place to take you to when you visit.
Still my only real complaint with work is that there's too much of it. You can almost feel your life being exchanged for mammon cent by cent, a little spinning silkworm, spinning the deluxe lining to one's own coffin. Still there's a plus side: I've got me a hot tub.
Yes, it's been bubbling-and-steaming for about a month now; I've been for an extended soak every other evening or so; I lie back and watch the steam curl into the pines. Lately I've been trying to formulate a convincing subtext for a novel I will never almost certainly never write. I don't think I have any problem with text. Text is fine, text is everyday. Even this is a text - more or less. Subtext though - that's the stuff - that's art that is, mate. Anyhow it's all very relaxing. And, as a fringe benefit, I have become aquainted with the science of hydraulic chemistry. You never know when that might come in handy.
I do not think I will ever quite get used to the sight of young men with extensive facial hair. A alarmingly common practice in these parts, I find it immensley distracting and, as with Ian McShane's mullet in Lovejoy, or ditto Nicholas Cage in Con Air, my mind is consumed with the desire to personally and violently remove the offending coiffure, offering it up in sacrifice to the gods of taste and decency. An act of humanity, you understand. A man of about twenty-two sometimes takes the same train as me in the morning, sporting a ginger beard which extends, gnome like, at least eight or nine inches below his chin. What ignominous deed could possibly demand such self-inflicted penetance? Whatever the crime, surely now the price has been paid, the debt settled.
Cycling across the Hawthorne Bridge on my home this evening I passed a man running along with a shopping cart, screaming into a mobile phone which he held to his headphoned ears, his dog tied to the trolley and running beside him. The odd thing is quite how quickly one gets inured to the weirdness of Portland or - perhaps - city life in general and yet, sometimes you stand back and reflect on it and it's all quite magical and absurd and mildly terrifying at the same time. Of course I have filled this journal with nothing but the finer side of Portland and none of the bad. Bad stuff happens of course, if not on the scale of other American cities. Probably the biggest single issue is the prevalency of meth(-amphetamine) addiction. I'm not one to criticise drug use per se, but this is really nasty, highly addictive and unpleasant substance; those suffering withdrawal often experience psychotic episodes; jumpy and unpredictable you could run into them anywhere and one gets the feeling that the typical Portland laid-back sixties anything-goes demeanour is not going to cut you a lot of slack with someone that desperate, paranoid, frightened and aggressive. Social programmes are chronically underfunded in the US, so the authorities don't have the resources they need to tackle the problem. On the plus side (for us that is) it's something which seems mostly to happen elsewhere in the city, far out to the north and to the east, save the odd burglary or two that is.
Local news - something to talk about in the boozer; a recent find: the Kennedy School by night. I think I've mentioned this place before: an old high school converted into an hotel, several bars and a cinema. After a couple of beers Matt (a friend from work) and I wound up in 'detention', a very cosy little wood-pannelled bar, drinking single malt, sharing a cigar and putting the world to rights. A little place to take you to when you visit.
posted by Richard Tammar at 7:43 PM
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