So, I arrived in Amsterdam yesterday and overcame my disorientation in order to make it to the apartment where I've rented a room for a week. I was introduced to my house mate, who's name I don't know, but who I know some other things about. Let me tell you:
He is 33 years old, considers himself a kid, has an english degree and smokes dope; he's "from America"; he doesn't like to go out much so he's glad that I, as the new housemate am a girl so that he doesn't have to go out to meet one; he goes to bed at 4am every night and wakes up at 3pm; before he came here (one month ago) he was living with his parents in LA and collecting a government pension which was great because he made a lot of money and had a guesthouse and a pool but was just so sick of LA after 30 years; he's not running away--he's just DONE with LA; he really likes movies because he likes to travel, ya know? like, mentally; he thinks that horror movies have really gotten scarier because movie writers have gotten better at depicting evil, which is maybe a little extreme but maybe its important so that people know that evil like that really exists because, you know... its important to not be ignorant, that shit really happens, maybe not a lot but--once in a while. Oh yeah, and he has an English degree.
And that was what I learned about him in the first 15 minutes.
At 3am, my stomach woke me from the restless sleep due to the sound of his horror movies. I snuck into the kitchen and started rummaging. He stepped out of his room to inform me he was a bit out of it because he just took his sleeping medication. Which led to an explanation of his psychosis which might have been caused by crystal meth or all the acid he did when he was a teengager and... woah, he couldn't imagine that I had to get up at 7 the next morning and thought that maybe we could hang out when I got back from work but realistically he probably wouldn't want to go anywhere because, you know, he doesn't really like going out.
Monday, 16 March 2009
Thursday, 12 March 2009
Taxes
Again I might be lagging but... I've just decided that I'm sick of paying taxes.
This is new because normally I like the idea of some responsible, socially minded, democratically elected body taking my money and investing it in roads and health care and all that nice stuff. But I've just decided, its time to quit this tax-paying shit, and it was a business journalist who convinced me.
I was telling him that I got this job in the Hague (a short term posting as a judge with the International Criminal Court, ha ha), and he said, "I hope this doesn't offend you but... how much do they pay you?"
I replied that it was the same, roughly, as what the BBC pays per-day. I gave him the number, in pounds. The reaction was an immediate FOTH (Fly-Off The Handle).
"WHAT!! That's what they pay you? You're telling me they get away with that?? And, what, you're telling me you pay taxes on that???"
Um... yeah, taxes.
"Well you know where that tax money is going, don't you? Banks, yeah... their taking your pocket change to pay for some fat-cat's bonus."
This really wasn't the rant I was expecting, from someone who writes about money all day every day, who is, basically, paid by banks.
He has a point though, don't you think?
Then to top this off, I get the news today that the Canadian government is handing more cutbacks to the CBC, and that they're even debating the idea of putting advertising on CBC Radio. If CBC Radio had ads, even I wouldn't listen, and I've always listened, I work for them!
My mind wandered to the lock-out of 2006, and how CBC employees teamed up with local community radio stations and worked anyway, had a lot of fun, and did a better job than when they had managers breathing down their necks. The CBC's got a lot of fans, so why not directly sponsor these stations? (Although I hate the idea of funding-drives like NPR has.) The problem is, we'd all still have to pay taxes, pay for subsidies for the oil industry, pay for wars we don't want to fight, all the while watching the things we care about being clumsily hacked-away.
Sunday, 8 February 2009
Finance a la Mrbs: 101
If I know anything at all about finance, it must mean EVERYONE knows all about it. Because I lag when it comes to numbers (and apparently fashion). I remember something about derivatives in calculus, which I took twice: the first time I dropped out halfway through because I was sure that if I took it again, I'd get score 80% on the credit, when I was sitting at a grade of 72%. The second time I took it, I gave up halfway through, because I'd already gotten into the university of my choice, and couldn't be bothered to dedicate my brain to a subject I would never touch again. That is until, now... 15 years later.
I should've worked harder, and I should've suffered through first-year calculus at University along with many suffering friends, even though it would've brought my already weak GPA down further. (If I ever have kids, I'll tell them about having avoided that suffering, and how I shouldn't have.) Derivatives are important. They are the intersection between philosophy and math, and they've been used to make stupid amounts of money, enough money to save the world a few times, more money than there is. A derivative is a contract to buy something at a certain price in the future, no money down. I don't know if it has anything to do with grad 13 calculus. And I might be wrong on that. All I know is that it is a very tiny piece of a very large puzzle, and the only way I learn anything is by writing it down.
Apologies, if you learned nothing here.
I should've worked harder, and I should've suffered through first-year calculus at University along with many suffering friends, even though it would've brought my already weak GPA down further. (If I ever have kids, I'll tell them about having avoided that suffering, and how I shouldn't have.) Derivatives are important. They are the intersection between philosophy and math, and they've been used to make stupid amounts of money, enough money to save the world a few times, more money than there is. A derivative is a contract to buy something at a certain price in the future, no money down. I don't know if it has anything to do with grad 13 calculus. And I might be wrong on that. All I know is that it is a very tiny piece of a very large puzzle, and the only way I learn anything is by writing it down.
Apologies, if you learned nothing here.
Monday, 12 January 2009
Brick Lane
This is an adaptation of a thing I wrote at my creative writing workshop at Eastside books on Brick Lane. I was pretty happy with it off the bat--maybe its better read aloud as it was with the first draft--but now I'm feeling like it needs a lot of work. Brick Lane on a Wednesday night is a world apart and twelve senses removed from the Sunday morning experience.
Brick Lane is proof that ugly can be good. People don't love Brick Lane despite its ugliness, but because of it. They love it because it is a million contradictions crammed into a few blocks. You've got beautiful old factories that were never built to be beautiful, but they've got these old windows with a million little panes, and detailing in the pollution stained brick walls. Stick a neon sign on top of one of those walls and there you have what makes the place: something old, ugly/beautiful mixed up with something new, ugly/beautiful. Neither object is worthy of remark on its own.
The people here hold the same appeal. For kids and artists this place is a playground. They dress with a precise lack of style: big hair, bulky down coats, skinny jeans and track bikes. Throw in a mustache, here or their. Make it look easy, but know that every overpriced thrift store's been combed to come up with that perfect ensemble. These kids will catch your eye like a fluorescent stripe on a ski-vest circa 1991, they steal the show. But its the other people here, the ones who are almost invisible but not quite, that make the show. They work in shops that acquire their goods by faxing shipment orders to places that haven't yet caught on to email. They're the reason the convenience store is stocked with cardamom seeds and cinnamon sticks.
Brick Lane is proof that ugly can be good. People don't love Brick Lane despite its ugliness, but because of it. They love it because it is a million contradictions crammed into a few blocks. You've got beautiful old factories that were never built to be beautiful, but they've got these old windows with a million little panes, and detailing in the pollution stained brick walls. Stick a neon sign on top of one of those walls and there you have what makes the place: something old, ugly/beautiful mixed up with something new, ugly/beautiful. Neither object is worthy of remark on its own.
The people here hold the same appeal. For kids and artists this place is a playground. They dress with a precise lack of style: big hair, bulky down coats, skinny jeans and track bikes. Throw in a mustache, here or their. Make it look easy, but know that every overpriced thrift store's been combed to come up with that perfect ensemble. These kids will catch your eye like a fluorescent stripe on a ski-vest circa 1991, they steal the show. But its the other people here, the ones who are almost invisible but not quite, that make the show. They work in shops that acquire their goods by faxing shipment orders to places that haven't yet caught on to email. They're the reason the convenience store is stocked with cardamom seeds and cinnamon sticks.
Sunday, 4 January 2009
Les Canards
I fantasize about ducks, not so much those that paddle around in filthy municipal ponds back home, chasing chunks of bread thrown by bored children... They sort of disgust me, those ducks.
I'm more thinking foie gras, duck confit, magret. I'm addicted. Yet, with all that goodness and fat, eating them makes me ache with guilt sometimes. Its not guilt because I feel like I should go to the gym, but guilt because it can be too much of a good thing. Too much of things that are only mediocre make me feel that way too.
Oxford street in London makes me insane. I swore, after my first trip to Oxford street that I would never go back but somehow I find myself there regularly now. I've sort of gotten used to it, I wish that I hadn't.
Back to ducks. I imagine myself raising them, being followed around by ducklings on a daily basis. Somehow, the unglamorous task of raising them, having them shit on my boots, and then the gut-wrenching job of killing, plucking, dissecting them might make up for my indulgence. That is my fantasy.
Is this a mere canard?
ca⋅nard:
1. a false or baseless, usually derogatory story, report, or rumor.
2. Cookery. a duck intended or used for food.
3. Aeronautics. a. an airplane that has its horizontal stabilizer and elevators located forward of the wing. b. Also called canard wing. one of two small lifting wings located in front of the main wings.c.an early airplane having a pusher engine with the rudder and elevator assembly in front of the wings.
I'm more thinking foie gras, duck confit, magret. I'm addicted. Yet, with all that goodness and fat, eating them makes me ache with guilt sometimes. Its not guilt because I feel like I should go to the gym, but guilt because it can be too much of a good thing. Too much of things that are only mediocre make me feel that way too.
Oxford street in London makes me insane. I swore, after my first trip to Oxford street that I would never go back but somehow I find myself there regularly now. I've sort of gotten used to it, I wish that I hadn't.
Back to ducks. I imagine myself raising them, being followed around by ducklings on a daily basis. Somehow, the unglamorous task of raising them, having them shit on my boots, and then the gut-wrenching job of killing, plucking, dissecting them might make up for my indulgence. That is my fantasy.
Is this a mere canard?
ca⋅nard:
1. a false or baseless, usually derogatory story, report, or rumor.
2. Cookery. a duck intended or used for food.
3. Aeronautics. a. an airplane that has its horizontal stabilizer and elevators located forward of the wing. b. Also called canard wing. one of two small lifting wings located in front of the main wings.c.an early airplane having a pusher engine with the rudder and elevator assembly in front of the wings.
Thursday, 25 December 2008
Colombo
I'm bored to death of trite travel writing with descriptions of foreign traffic jams, toilets and cultural misunderstandings. But here I go....
The Mount Lavinia Hotel is a stark contrast to the world outside: trucks spewing fumes dodging eachother, tuk-tuks and daring pedestrians; limbless beggars and half-constructed buildings. It was built by one of Ceylon's English governors, for his local mistress. Bits of "The Bridge Over the River Kwai," were filmed here. It’s nothing, if not a nice place to rest your head after a long flight.
A train heading straight to the city leaves from just outside the hotel, taking it costs about 10 cents. Of course, we missed the train, and grabbed a cab. This was the first in a series of confrontational business transactions. Of course, once we got through that, we learned the cabby had four kids--two boys, two girls. He dropped us off at Majestic City, one of Colombo's biggest shopping malls. The smell of sweet-popcorn wafted through the air-conditioned atmosphere alongside club-volume techno-music. Teenagers and families alike strolled through. As a rule I hate shopping malls, but this one had its own special charm.
Our first tuk-tuk ride took us to Colombo's fort, and to a travel agent that didn't exist. So on foot, we searched the city for an umbrella and walked to the "World Trade Centre" to make some adjustments to our return flight. The agent we spoke with sat in front of a computer but sent our request to London via "telex," which is apparently the thing before email.
Our second tuk-tuk driver proved to us that traffic laws do exist in Colombo, and that they are enforced. The traffic ahead of us seemed never-ending, and if I'd had the chance, the balls, I would've skipped ahead of it too. I guess he thought he could get away with driving on the wrong side of the road, but I think his near-collision with a motorcycle cop was the first mistake. Eventually, the cops did manage to make him pull over. They peeked in the back and informed us, the passengers, "He dangerous."
After a long chat, the driver came back and drove us to the train station. He said something about going to court…
The Mount Lavinia Hotel is a stark contrast to the world outside: trucks spewing fumes dodging eachother, tuk-tuks and daring pedestrians; limbless beggars and half-constructed buildings. It was built by one of Ceylon's English governors, for his local mistress. Bits of "The Bridge Over the River Kwai," were filmed here. It’s nothing, if not a nice place to rest your head after a long flight.
A train heading straight to the city leaves from just outside the hotel, taking it costs about 10 cents. Of course, we missed the train, and grabbed a cab. This was the first in a series of confrontational business transactions. Of course, once we got through that, we learned the cabby had four kids--two boys, two girls. He dropped us off at Majestic City, one of Colombo's biggest shopping malls. The smell of sweet-popcorn wafted through the air-conditioned atmosphere alongside club-volume techno-music. Teenagers and families alike strolled through. As a rule I hate shopping malls, but this one had its own special charm.
Our first tuk-tuk ride took us to Colombo's fort, and to a travel agent that didn't exist. So on foot, we searched the city for an umbrella and walked to the "World Trade Centre" to make some adjustments to our return flight. The agent we spoke with sat in front of a computer but sent our request to London via "telex," which is apparently the thing before email.
Our second tuk-tuk driver proved to us that traffic laws do exist in Colombo, and that they are enforced. The traffic ahead of us seemed never-ending, and if I'd had the chance, the balls, I would've skipped ahead of it too. I guess he thought he could get away with driving on the wrong side of the road, but I think his near-collision with a motorcycle cop was the first mistake. Eventually, the cops did manage to make him pull over. They peeked in the back and informed us, the passengers, "He dangerous."
After a long chat, the driver came back and drove us to the train station. He said something about going to court…
Monday, 17 November 2008
Long Overdue
I haven't written anything in ages... in part it's because I've been pre-occupied with other things. In part, it's because it's been a long time since I've felt like I'm on vacation, and I guess that despite my lack of feeling settled, I'm living real life now. Maybe feeling unsettled is part of that. In any case, it is somehow easier for me to process events when they are new, when they are temporary. This posting I actually wrote in September, a night out with friends but on my own at the same time. If you manage to make it through, I can tell you what the next one will be about. In any case, the posting is long overdue:
Head.
What?
La tete.
Excuse me?
How do you say it in French, giving head?
Ah, I see, la pipe...
I'm standing in line at subway and it would be fabulous if my night were already over. I'm sure I wish that less than the guys standing behind the counter. I've just come from a children's psychiatric hospital. Well, it's not that anymore. Now there are adults living there and no doctors. The adults pay £80 per week.
A new crop of drunkards has walked into the restaurant--if you care to call Subway a restaurant. One of them tries to butt in front of me but the guy behind the counter knows I was there first, so ignores him and takes my order.
A WHOLE SIX INCHES!!!
That's the drunk guy.
ARE YOU SURE YOU CAN TAKE ALL THAT??
Wow, so charming. It's easy to ignore him, but his friend manages to be even more obnoxious. The friend walks behind me and touches my head. I politely ask him to not (fucking) touch me and he repeats my words in a mocking tone, because what else could a drunk guy with a limited vocabulary actually say?
At times like these I start to think laws that limit alcohol consumption (Thank you Boris, for your first law in London) are a good idea. Would religion help? Some might.
Now back to the mental hospital. I can't decide if I find it creepy or not. The railings and flooring are made of wood and the windows are big with nice curtains. It's not institutional, in the way modern hospitals are. There are still kid's books lying around though and thats a bit weird. One is about lions eating little boys or something, how can that be good for psychologically disturbed children? Still, if I weren't so intent on getting a "real home" this might be a good place to move into.
The bus home is filled with more drunk people. I had to wait ages at King's Cross to get it. There was a group of men wearing bright orange vests huddled around the entrance of the station and as I watched them, I wondered if their presence had anything to do with today's evacuation. I wasn't in the station, but outside. The sidewalk was jammed with people, some of them freaking out. One lady was shoved up against a news stand and loudly saying to no one, everyone, "One minute you're just standing there and another, there are so many people you can't move! What is going on here???"
I heard someone say something about a bomb scare.
But it was actually another evacuation that put me in the mental hospital.
Earlier in the evening, I was standing outside a pub, freezing and hungry while Bruno rolled a cigarette and Lili tried to convince a carpet layer that his views on immigration were misinformed. I ditched them to go home, so made my way down to Oxford Circus and the Central Line. When I got to the bottom of the escalator, sirens started blaring. I kept walking with the crowd for a moment and then everyone stopped suddenly, collective delayed-reaction. Then someone said, "There's an emergency, we have to evacuate."
Some people tried to go up the escalator that was the still rolling down. Then we all
started walking forward, through the maze of tube-station hallways.
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN... ALL PASSENGERS ARE NOW BEING ASKED TO EVACUATE DUE TO AN EMERGENCY.
I walked in the crowd and turned a corner and then another. I half expected a cloud of black smoke to be greeting me around each one. Then I heard someone say, There's a body on the tracks... But who knows if that was true?
I wondered if maybe that lame goodbye to Lili and Bruno would be the last anyone ever heard from me. Then I told myself to just calm down, the exit would be right around the next corner. It was. Then I went to the mental hospital.
The next posting will be about finance. It's as if I'm learning through osmosis, just by being here...
Head.
What?
La tete.
Excuse me?
How do you say it in French, giving head?
Ah, I see, la pipe...
I'm standing in line at subway and it would be fabulous if my night were already over. I'm sure I wish that less than the guys standing behind the counter. I've just come from a children's psychiatric hospital. Well, it's not that anymore. Now there are adults living there and no doctors. The adults pay £80 per week.
A new crop of drunkards has walked into the restaurant--if you care to call Subway a restaurant. One of them tries to butt in front of me but the guy behind the counter knows I was there first, so ignores him and takes my order.
A WHOLE SIX INCHES!!!
That's the drunk guy.
ARE YOU SURE YOU CAN TAKE ALL THAT??
Wow, so charming. It's easy to ignore him, but his friend manages to be even more obnoxious. The friend walks behind me and touches my head. I politely ask him to not (fucking) touch me and he repeats my words in a mocking tone, because what else could a drunk guy with a limited vocabulary actually say?
At times like these I start to think laws that limit alcohol consumption (Thank you Boris, for your first law in London) are a good idea. Would religion help? Some might.
Now back to the mental hospital. I can't decide if I find it creepy or not. The railings and flooring are made of wood and the windows are big with nice curtains. It's not institutional, in the way modern hospitals are. There are still kid's books lying around though and thats a bit weird. One is about lions eating little boys or something, how can that be good for psychologically disturbed children? Still, if I weren't so intent on getting a "real home" this might be a good place to move into.
The bus home is filled with more drunk people. I had to wait ages at King's Cross to get it. There was a group of men wearing bright orange vests huddled around the entrance of the station and as I watched them, I wondered if their presence had anything to do with today's evacuation. I wasn't in the station, but outside. The sidewalk was jammed with people, some of them freaking out. One lady was shoved up against a news stand and loudly saying to no one, everyone, "One minute you're just standing there and another, there are so many people you can't move! What is going on here???"
I heard someone say something about a bomb scare.
But it was actually another evacuation that put me in the mental hospital.
Earlier in the evening, I was standing outside a pub, freezing and hungry while Bruno rolled a cigarette and Lili tried to convince a carpet layer that his views on immigration were misinformed. I ditched them to go home, so made my way down to Oxford Circus and the Central Line. When I got to the bottom of the escalator, sirens started blaring. I kept walking with the crowd for a moment and then everyone stopped suddenly, collective delayed-reaction. Then someone said, "There's an emergency, we have to evacuate."
Some people tried to go up the escalator that was the still rolling down. Then we all
started walking forward, through the maze of tube-station hallways.
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN... ALL PASSENGERS ARE NOW BEING ASKED TO EVACUATE DUE TO AN EMERGENCY.
I walked in the crowd and turned a corner and then another. I half expected a cloud of black smoke to be greeting me around each one. Then I heard someone say, There's a body on the tracks... But who knows if that was true?
I wondered if maybe that lame goodbye to Lili and Bruno would be the last anyone ever heard from me. Then I told myself to just calm down, the exit would be right around the next corner. It was. Then I went to the mental hospital.
The next posting will be about finance. It's as if I'm learning through osmosis, just by being here...
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