His Masters Voice?
November 26, 2008
It is very trying for those of us who are right to have to pander to those of you that are wrong. But such is the sick and twisted world we live in. At the office, in politics and in bed - some newfangled devilry called “Democracy” is putting paid to efficiency and swift progress.
Leadership is no longer about utilising superior judgment to herd the sheep. Instead, Jesus of the naughties is busy making sure the sheep feel validated while they make a collective decision about which direction in which to run from the wolfs, and have a show of hands over McDonald’s or Burger King for the break.
Instead of decisive leaders leaving laggers to mourn a ship that has sailed, we promote people who get people on board – no matter what delays they cause. Instead of admiring the givers of clear and concise orders, we idolize those who listen to the grass-roots. But let me tell you a little something about grass-roots. They are a stringy, nonsensical mess, per definition stuck in the mud, genetically programmed to dig low instead of rising upwards.
Naturally, I am not opposed to listening to people. People are funny and most anecdotes would fall flat without a closing quote from some misguided soul or other. But entertainment value and fitness to decide things on a grander scale do not necessarily correlate. I am pretty well fed-up with continually having knowledge, insight, analysis, and skill outweighed by a simple “I don’t think so” from the masses.
And democracy does not only corrode the foundations of society. It also a tricky on a personal level. To be specific: I think that People – and by People I mean the Better Man – should do as I say. For while he is lovely, and sweet, and a perfect angel in many ways, in others he is misguided. I am thinking, specifically, about Telephone Habits.
I am of the opinion that speaking on the phone every so often when not able to meet is a good thing. He does not see the need. And while I realise that it would probably be more becoming to pretend to give his opinion due consideration – I am in no mood to. Here is my reasoning:
The Better Man explains our difference of opinion on this ring-ring subject with a slightly non-kosher “women are naturally more communicative”. I think he feels, somehow, that communication being women’s business makes it ok for him to suck at it. And I choose not to be offended by this. But interpersonal dialouge being “typically female” does bring with it a few consequences. For example, it would follow logically that since I am a woman, and women are naturally “more communicative”, I as woman am bound to have greater knowledge and skill in this area.
Now, it is my belief, and one that I am vocal about, that this greater knowledge and skill should be acknowledged. Thus, when I recommend “more time on the phone”, it should be complied with in the same way one would comply with the advice of a plumber, a doctor or a milkmaid on the subjects of pipes, joints and udders respectively.
If one does not – but instead, let’s say, puts a cast on the pipes and plunges the udders – one should not be surprised at result being a royal cock-up. But then I suppose royal cocking-upping is the prize we pay for sticking with a form of governance invented by men wrapped in sheets.
Stand Down
November 23, 2008
Some people are funny. Some people are loud. There is an unfortunate misconception doing the rounds, that these traits go hand in hand; a misconception that is at root of much unholiness, not to say evil.
Case in point. Last night I was the unwilling victim of corpotainment, that special variety of anti-intellectual excrement reserved for office x-mas functions, conferences and kick-offs.
I am no great connoisseur of the stage. I could not tell an excellent rendition of Hamlet from a extraordinary one, seeing as I would probably have fallen asleep half way through either. I have yet to complete a full circle of the Nibelung, and am on my rare visits to the theater, saddened by the lack of popcorn. But sauvage though I may be, I do know one thing: a nondescript middle-aged man playing at being ironic but ending up miserably in poop-and-tits-ville and calling it comedy is not funny.
Never one to bear much more shite than absolutely necessary, I found myself looking for alternate routes, alternatives to sitting through the full hour of an ineptly adapted script, complete with screeching microphones, scattered applause and inappropriate innuendo. And looking to my right, I found rescue in the bulge of my neighbors pocket. It was an easy thing, at intermission, escaping to loo with his pocket flask. Little did I know that though I had avoided one scenic train wreck, I would soon be called on to review a performance of different, though no higher, standing.
I believe in giving constructive criticism. And it is a process, I know. One which has to be allowed to take its time. You can’t expect to hint at something a first time and have it immediately taken to heart. You have to really apply yourself, cover the same basics over and over again. Then, once a trusting basis has been built, you have to nurture the seeds of meaningful dialogue, weaving the fine threads of understanding, recognition, and empathy into a strong enough fabric to withstand disagreement, however respectful. Then, gently, so as not to wound unnecessarily or risk the entente that has been reached, you can let him know, in the softest words possible, that all is not perfect. Though you understand his viewpoint and recognise his right to his opinion, though you cherish him as an individual and are assured of his good intentions, you are not a hundred percent convinced by the manner in which he executes his, at core of course brilliant, performance.
I believe in constructive criticism, but there is not always time. It does happen, every so often, that your review needs be swift and to the point. For these moments, I can recommend, and from experience: a sharp slap, a good shout and a quick bolt out the men’s room door.
Oh, and if you manage to disconnect the sound-system while barging out, so much the better.
Jingle Hell
November 18, 2008
Well, it is upon us, no use hiding. Buffet ads obscuring all news in papers, giant trees of no forest grown littering the cityscape, financial strain, guilt and gilt abundant: the obstacle course that is the run up to hex-mash is here.
Actually, I do not much mind the celebrations themselves. Last year, I spent on a mountaintop in Provence, listening to the howling winds and keeping an oyster’s only diet. A few years before that, we went to India and swam in the turquoise surf on Christmas morning and had garlicky buttery salty deep sea fish for supper. And throwing memory back, way back – there is an endless line of divine smells, crackling fires and snowy walks to wax nostalgic on.
Unfortunately though, before we can reach that Shangri-la of Hollywood Ju-bi-la-te, my family is in grave danger of having drowned my will to live in vats of folly. If Christmas is a time for peace and joy – the planning of it takes aeons of grief, guts, and disinheritance.
Every year brings a fresh tug-o-war between siblings, mothers, mother’s siblings, mother’s sibling’s mothers, fathers, fathers in laws, and the cat. I suppose it is only natural that a celebration involving most of the civilized world will be a bit of a hassle to party plan. But I also figure that much of the trauma of planning that half-week of brotherly loving is caused by the simultaneousness of it all.
When you are supposed to down mince and nog, fit into sequin number, find book for granny, mend heirloom decorations uncleverly stored since last year AND clean-deck-and-dance-through the halls all in the same month; of course your stress levels will be dangerous. Adding the “who’ll brown the cabbage and who’ll bring the eel and who’ll host twenty people full of stout” discourse is just taking it one bridge too far.
So I thought, that if you could just get the general outlines of the thing settled well beforehand, you’d be in the clear. If you could have an agreement on some basics, such as locations, and dates, a lot of unnecessary slaying of baby infants could be avoided. Or I mean, a lot of endless discussions over who-spent-what-time-with-whom-last-time-and-where-and-for-what-reason-and-also-the-doll-you-got-when-I-was-five-was-much-nicer-than-the-one-I-got-at-three could be avoided.
Alas, over gin and tonics (plural) in the deepening soft warmth of a late summer night, I brought up the subject of where to spend Christmas. In the balmy calm, settling dates and places went smooth as hell. Everyone was brought to agreement with a minimum of fuss. Listening to the merry clinking of ice, and looking up at the Rudolphesque red moon, I felt smug. Look what a bit of planning will do for family fun. I mean, if someone just takes an exec-decs well before Dec, no one has to fight, sulk, or scream about Christmas. On my recliner, in my cotton print dress, I poured myself another finger and figured myself for quite the modern day Ghandi. (Or did he not do family vacations?)
Well, like Ghandi, I was soon to learn that pride goes before fall. My easy street was really a slippery slope. And now I am in a bit of a muddy heap at the bottom.
Over the weekend, the effects of that stiff August drink finally wore off. Due to some minor tiff (I suppose someone had suddenly remembered some x-mas card long left unanswered, or some herring wrongly salted) all arrangements were rudely uprooted. Instead of a calm Sunday brunch, followed by a slow walk and nap and possibly some snogging with the Better Man, I was faced with a family in free-fall as aunts and sisters and mothers galore took up arms and sides and generally wreaked havoc on the calm instilled by that good Chief of Peace-Keeping Ops, Mr Beefeater.
Come late Sunday night, all bets were off, and only one thing certain: that the whole planning process had to commence all over again, and preferably with lots of shouting and cancelling of tickets, too.
At which point I realised that some things are not worth fighting for. Such as peace and harmony in November, along with snow in Africa this Christmas time.
Cure All Evil
November 14, 2008
Thanks to good friend D, who has proven his refined tastes by marrying a food-critic turned food-editor turned judge of home-chef cooking competition, I got to attend finals of said home-chef cooking competition last night, complete with complimentary glasses of bubbly and goodie-bags. The Better Man was busy with something slightly less frivolous so I brought Cuz H instead.
A chameleon soup for a starter – smelling of chanterelles, tasting of Jerusalem Artichokes (none with which I have any beef) was accompanied by a smoked moose paté and some chillied lingonberries, followed by a nicely blushing cut of meat and sung to sleep by a nice smooth chocolaty do, with berries on top and coffee at the side.
While we were chewing, the stage was taken by the cicerones of the night, a comedian of the newly ironic school and one of Sweden’s major food writers. Between them they thoroughly intimidated the five contenders, three single men and a couple of women with cast-iron arms, who then had 45 minutes to cook their contending entries, and also, a spur of the moment starter based on secret ingredients from the nineties: Serrano ham, pumpernickel, capers, and rocket amongst other things.
It looked fun. Unfortunately, like lots of fun. Because as a result, today, despite being full enough still to not even attempt the Indian leftovers brought for lunch, I felt an overwhelming yearning to cook. In fact, I have gotten zilch of the quite pressing writing necessary done, being interrupted instead by mental images of steaming duckling dumplings and puttering sourdoughs.
A distracted state of affairs not alleviated when an older man of my loose acquaintance rang to let me know that he’s recently bought the farm. The farm houses some lambs, which he slaughters, and then butchers, and then dries, smokes, and salts to his liking. He was bubbling over with enthusiasm, letting me know also that he’s used the farms flagpole to dry some Baccalau, that he’s recently turned the old shed into a perfectly tempered wine-cellar, and that the cast iron stove is proving just the thing for drying the plentiful porcini of his weekly picking.
Slobbering, but in desperate last stand Lutheran attempt to assuage my itch, enough to get a page on the burning necessities of state funded reading initiatives onto boss desk before dusk, I consoled myself with the thought that X-mas is coming soon, and will bring with all types of opportunities. The sausages, and the minces, and the Stollen, and the fritters, and the hams, and the slaws, and the herrings, and the punches, and the meatballs, and the eels, and the… well, I’ll just stop now. But just as I’d calmed myself enough to be able to postpone absolute dice-and-slice-frenzy till the weekend, hours away, a Terrible Blow was Struck, and but good. Cuz H called.
She too, it transpires, had been terribly inspired by last night and had spent most of her working day calling round to delis and smokehouses and small free-range farms in order to find somewhere were our soon to be cured sausages might be cured. Her news was not good.
Apparently all curers? cures? curators? catering to the happy-go-food-poisoning school of amateur meat preservers have closed down. If we want to get our cuts good and smoked before December 24th, we need start with building own smokehouse. And while I’m not adverse to innovative interior decorating, I am thinking that to fit a smokehouse into already rather cramped druggie-pad-under-bridge-from-hell-apartment might border on the felonious.
First we were dejected of course. It is actually quite hard to be an affecionade if no one will take responsibility for the day to day running of things. I mean, try turnin up every now and then at the Opera if no-one has the temerity to stick it out through grey Monday rehearsals. We felt let down by the world of professional foodies, let down hard.
But then, we got a simultaneously glorious thought. If Stockholm lacks a small independent curer/smoker/stuffer and cutter of meats: could we not be it? Who is to say that the career of the professional sausagist could not be ours? Admittedly, it might be a bit of a swerve away from previous paths as gender/literature experts respectively. But on other hand – well, what better way to spend days than stuffing mince down intestines? At least it ought to be a recession-proof business.
Either that or make play for aforementioned elderly gentleman.
You Say Potarto
November 13, 2008
Personally, I am not a huge fan of prostitution. I try to stay clear of it in my career choices as well as in my monthly spendings. Pornography, equally, is not my cup of tea. Most of it I find appallingly ugly and/or eminently laughable. But after reading Zoe Williams in the Guardian, on Belle de Jour and the rise of tart-lit, I have to come out and say come off it. Leave the prozzies in peace – literary, if not literally.
I assume that Ms. Williams is correct in assuming that, as business ventures go, selling your body is not the smoothest ride. Aside from the aesthetically problematic flesh-colours and the orthopedically indifferent footwear, you have to take into account the vulnerability of your assets. For while many other areas of physical labour are probably also perilous, (mining, scaffolding, rodeo clowning) in most of them you at least get to keep your hardhat on for the duration.
The sex industries (in the stricter sense of the word, I am not talking exhaust pipes at the moment) are also unfortunate in not falling under the “with seniority follows respect” heading. The oldest profession of them all has to stand impotently by and watch all sorts of newfangled management consultants, cardinals and art college professors get the estimation that ought to be its due through sheer length of service. While there are probably business awards in this niche as in any others – stating your occupation as hooker is not generally met with respect or approval.
Also, workplace satisfaction should be taken into account. I can say from own experience that the boss being a moron/sadist/wearer of yellow brogues is no good for office morale. I can only imagine the kind of lunch breaks I’d take were he also “packing heat” and wielding a syringe for incentive. As personnel managers go, give me David Brent over Snoop Dog any day.
In short, being a crack-whore is bound to be a bit of a bitch. But Ms. Williams assumption that the inherent problems of turning tricks should bar the profession from the realm of literature is, to me, molto strange.
1. Prostitution is necessary to the plot
We need villains. Literature is and ought to be studded with the heinous, the barbaric, the ugly and the mad. If, for no other reason, than the absolute bashing you’d get were you to try to sneak a escapist storybook Spelling-esque vision of the world by the critics. And while I am not saying that all ladies and gentlemen and ladymen of the night are heinous, barbaric, ugly or mad, I AM saying that their very unlawfull and dirty business give them a given place on the shelfs.
2. God Save the Real
Some of literature, if we are not going to give over to si-fi and Nigella completely, ought to depict the real world. The sex trade is a part of it.
3. An indecently modest proposal
Literature must be allowed to speak freely, provocatively, and with humour on all, even the worst aspects, of human nature. It must also be allowed to gloss and brush these worst aspects – I’d like to offer Bonfire of the Vanities and Vanity Fair as two excellent examples of greed, corruption, and soul-selling through a soft lense, or at the very least, in a pearl choker.
4. A voice of ones own
Also, though this is of course very, very unlikely: were it to turn out that some of the tarts out there are able to string sentences together and form coherent analysis, or marketable entertainment, out of the clay or their daily toil: I am all for it this non-idiocy of large part of female population being reflected in W.H. Smiths. And I hope they get more than hourly rates, unless they are quick typers.
5. What is the difference
My most important disagreement with Ms. Williams is, however this: if we were to ban/deem unsuitable all artistic representations of women being objectified and of people trading on sex we’d be left with not much entertainment.
From Bridget Jones to that biblical bather, from Sex and the City to Orlando, from Anna Karenina to the Little Sodding House on the Prairie – women are depicted as weak, frail, dependant and with a primarily decorative or emotional conductive function.
Take every dissatisfied or battered housewife, every Jane Eyre, Elizabeth, every Hedda and Scarlett. To say that they did not strike a bargain, and a physical bargain at that, and sometimes again and again, in putting bread on the table, would be a lie.
Through history and literary history, women have been given a shitty deal. Though we vote now, and buy stuff, this degradation and dependance on body and orifices has not changed much. And while not being exactly thrilled at this the state of things, I also think it would be deeply hypocritical to argue that those who take their pay in hard cash would have more of a moral burden to bear than those who take it in fur coats, dinners, or coal.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I shall get to work on my defence for cigarettes on film, rape in lyrics, and pineapple on pizza.
Erase
November 12, 2008
Had an out of office experience today, a business meeting in one of the fancier hotels uptown. It went quite, quite well, and I packed up my presentation, adjusted the lapels of my crisp white shirt, and made my way out into the darkening afternoon with sense of contentment at a job well done.
Passing the next door jeweller, or bar, or salon – something with shiny bright façade – I caught a look at myself. It was startling; a dressed in black, professional, neat haired and slightly harried looking late twenties professional. Not a smidgen of personality on the outside, and a sleek briefcase. Only I knew about the neon bright knickers and love of Le Fanu that dwell beneath the shell. It gave me a real eye opener.
I remember one of my first jobs, an internship at a swanky non-disclosed Parisian fashion monthly. I was in charge of glamorous tasks such as guarding the Prada shoes (then in fashion) at shoots, buying in a size zero copy of every brown bikini then in stores, and tagging along to Channel launch lunches (were I got severe food allergies, but that is a different story).
The offices were very shiny and not in the least ergonomic. I had no desk and no chair but instead found a perch on a great big heap of cartons of Stoli that had been left behind after office party, two piled on each other made a seat – and bending over to another I found a place to put my pen and largely unutilised notepad.
Also, my French at the time was not very um, I guess good is the word I am looking for. Answering the phone had me in cold sweats, chatting to severely handsome photographers over coffee was a chore and as for the other assistants it was only their severely limited English that got us through the rough patches. My lord, I must have been the worst mishire ever.
Worst of worst was of course everyone’s looks. They were all manically tall and franticly thin, black of hair, cut and tailored of hair and minis. They wore reach the ceiling shoes with the faintest trace of whore, and no-nonsense black sleeves. They were all impossibly glamorous – and by anyone’s standards I sure wasn’t: barely out of school and all brown.
That wasn’t all: my simple brown dresses and flat shoes, fresh-scrubbed face and lack of leather said more than any inate physical shortcomings that I was in the so very wrong place. I used to fret about this something mad – daydreaming of height and waist and Chloe. In the end, when my sentence was over, I got to keep one of the bikinis and they gave me a big bottle of perfume and was on a plane back home.
This brief episode was followed, however, by another ten years of feeling ill at ease and ill in dress. Never again have I spent my entire days surrounded by sample size give-away clad Parisiennes, but in one instance after another I have felt not quite it. And it wasn’t until today it dawned on me that there is a terribly simple solution, though contrary to all current preachings of “individual style” sold by those mongerers of lies – the press.
Instead of trying to express personality – embrace conformity. Instead of wanting to be loved for inside – love your stairmaster. Instead of spending time in bed with Three Farmers on their Way to a Dance – break out the tweezers, the brush, or the insta-slim. Do not spend your time, in short, stubbornly yourself and acutely apart. Get on the bandwagon and sartorial worries will be thing of past. Freeing all the more time, I am assuming, for deep thought instead of clothes angst.
In short. If I were ever to have a daughter, I’d teach her one thing of the bat: be as individual as you want. Just don’t show it. We aren’t all of us blessed with aestetic intelligence, and if you can’t do chic – you’d better opt for invisible than “interesting”.
The Past Sure Aint Tense
November 10, 2008
Strolling through the misty streets of Stlm on Saturday we met no less than three of The Better Mans formerly Better Women. Way better, to the casual observer. All tall, and long tressed, and clear eyed, and golden skinned, and well dressed, and waisted. But I wasn’t madly jealous. Slightly bored, yes, standing around nodding inanely at mentions of old names and half forgotten smiles as mist impregnated Stan Smiths. But not jealous.
Me, I am of course pure as the driven snow. But I can imagine the feelings I would have, had I ever had a past which to meet on the street. Slight twinges of nostalgia. Wonderings what might have been. Simplistic and naïve glossings over of the bad parts. A sigh. And then back in the real world. Nothing to be jealous about there.
In short: if you knock knees with someone who hasn’t been buried from birth, they are bound to have a history, a few bruised joints already. And you’d better not mind or you are soon gonna be fading yourself. But for some reason, suddenly, this very pragmatism has me all moody. Maybe it is too bloody simple to get over people.
As a shake of hand or a mix of fluids seem all the same, the durability of hearts seems increased with each time you smash them to floor, and now hardly a chip comes of as we change our linens and invite another in. And while I am of course thrilled not to feel the slightest (even rusty) love or remorse for any of the – hypothetical, fictional even – men in my past, I have to wonder if it doesn’t make me a tad unsympathetic. Callous is next door to convenient.
Would I prefer the Better Man mourning at the shrines of passed affections? No. But would I like the wake in our potential future to be very, very brief? Not so much, either. A conundrum, if ever there was one.
And in related news: the perfect black dress I wanted to tear my hear out for on Friday was sold out, obviously, by the time I got back to the store. But then Sunday found terrific stand in – third of prize, double the décolletage.
Financial Crisis
November 7, 2008
Couldn’t help myself. The temptation was there, and soon my wallet followed. Now the rest of month will be re-enactment of how to do Europe on less than 10 Euros a day. But my feet will be clad in glory.
I’m thinking stuff to do with potatoes and onions. I am thinking baking own bread. I am thinking I am suddenly quite glad to have a freezer full of duck.
I am also thinking that if I skimp on buying metro-card, can afford the dress that would go so very, very well with new heels of heaven. And the two hour daily walk to and fro work will only make it fit the better.
And then the links of the day. Provoking.
