I hate the word 'cobbler'

... for the way it flumps out of your mouth like a wad of phlegm, and so particularly unfortunate when used in relation to a peach-based dessert, which otherwise has such delightful connotations.

That has no bearing on any longer musing, but I needed a title for this post, and that was the path my mental wanderings led me on, and so, there it is.

Thanks for the prompting Sim (and for you and KM ensuring that this thing still gets some hits...), when you enquired as to my whereabouts, I had the delight of being in Melbourne. I intended to post while I was down there, relive the glory days of posting from the road, you remember those? But in a faithful recreation of them, didn't have time while I was actually in the place, and so will have to recreate it now. I went down there last Saturday to visit my friend before she flees to Harvard, and stayed until Wednesday, so had a very nice break.

Happily my visit coincided with the Comedy Festival, for which, incidentally, you should book in advance if you want to see the more famous people. Our method of buying tix right before the show limited the options. But opened the field to seeing acts we hadn't otherwise heard of. Peter Berner was funny, but not in a way that want to made you want to quote slabs of it to your friends afterwards (no need to look quite *that* relieved). The other one that we saw was 'Best of the Edinburgh Festival' - one Irish guy (funny), one Irish girl (funny, but her accent was so impenetrable that by the time you had deciphered what she was talking about the jokes weren't really funny enough to make the effort worthwhile), an American guy (very funny) and an Australian who made me laugh so much I hurt. I wish more of you had been there because it would give me other people who I could yell 'SLADE!' to who would know of what I was speaking. Which was a reading from a mills and boon novel from the 1970s. Which I think would be funny whoever did it, but this guy (I do wish I could remember his name) did it spectacularly well. His description of the cover was entertaining enough (a man embracing a woman, poised above her 'as though about to take a bite from a burger-based snack'). He followed up the reading with a performance of Rock Eisteddfod dancing. It makes me laugh just thinking about it. The amusement factor may have been aided by an introduction to my new best friend before the performance: the espresso martini. Oh happy, happy day! Melbourne truly has so many little bars tucked away down obscure alley ways that you would never be able to find on your own. And that if you were being led to by someone you didn't know well would have you gripping your keys between your fingers in case it proved necessary to give them what for. But happily always seems to end in some delightful little corner to ensconce yourself in with a martini. Not actually in the alleyway, obviously.

Monday I spent ensconced in the State Library, ploughing through manuscript material, typing like a possessed-typing-thing trying to get it all done in one day so I could visit the NGV International on Tuesday. Which I did. And only later remembered, when it was explained to me, that the NGVi is shut on Tuesdays, a mistake which I've made before. At least this time I wasn't left outside, pawing at the waterfeature front window. So I went to the Charles Nodrum Gallery instead and had a look at their shows, and took a wander up Bridge Rd, which was unfruitful, as the outlet stores had no love for me this day. The love was all stored up for me at the Alannah Hill outlet on Brunswick St. I had to unzip the extra storage on my suitcase after that. And I bought shoes! Shoes! Happy! Shoes! Which does leave me with a question: why is it that between the $20 and $400 range there is a total lack of any decent shoe in Canberra? Probably a good thing for me overall, but it is strange. But my four-year quest for the Right Boot has been fulfilled. That may not seem to you a fact worth posting on the internet, but that just proves that you are a man.

Since I got back I've been sick with a cold, serving to sharpen my love for the southern city even further by contrast.

Max Barry's Company

The SMH's Spectrum reviewed this book the other day, or perhaps it was an article, because there was a review in yesterday's Spectrum, so unless the editor was inhaling a little too much and inadvertently published reviews of the same book twice in a fortnight, the first article must have been an interview of sorts.  It interested me because the book sounded good and focused on Barry's success in America while remaining virtually unheard of in Australia.  Normally there is a ticket parade for any Australian deemed successful overseas, so it seemed quite odd that he is still so unknown.  But then there has been two articles/reviews in a fortnight and I bought the book, so perhaps I just did not allow time in which this celebration is to take hold.  This is Barry’s third book, the other two I’ve yet to read.  It is a parody of corporate culture, which offers meat food for wit to feed on.  He does a particularly nice job with the vacuity of corporate-speak, ‘teamwork’, ‘goal oriented’ and so on. The plot centres on a new graduate recruit, Jones,  to a large corporation, which seems to produce nothing and revolves around departments meeting other departments’ demands rather than those of any external customers.  Unfortunately Jones character never seems to develop that much, there’s vague references to his life outside the office, and to his time before taking up employment at the company, but not enough to really find the book’s claim for his ethical superiority to be that believable.  And so the brief appearances of his sister and former housemates just seem unnecessary rather than illuminating.  The femme fatale of the piece, Eve, is a much more interesting character and offers some interesting thoughts on moral relativity and ethics in the business world, at least being consistent in the ultimate outworking of absolute ambition.   While the plot doesn’t exactly pivot with the precision of a champion-netballer, it is both interesting and funny, and certainly emphasises the soul-destroying hell of corporations determined to make money whatever the cost for staff.  Or appear to be making money so that the share prices goes up and senior management actually make money.  It’d make a very good film script, in the I heart Huckabees/Being John Malkovich vein.  In some ways I think Barry should have written it as a film, a lot of the scenes that take a few pages to cover in the book could have been achieved visually in 20 seconds and would have meant that there weren’t quite so many characters clunking about the plot.  This all sounds overly negative though, the book is worth reading, and the thing that makes the book worth a read is the writing, Barry has a nice turn of biting parody that makes for an entertaining afternoon.  

Golden Moments of Procrastination #3

Ah, the virtual world, and its multi-faceted opportunities for the consumption of time. How joyful is the procrastination which not only affords you idle amusement, but provides it for your fellow internet burghers. Not only has Carl gone to the effort of installing a webcam in his office, but now others can watch him chat with the people that go to view it... I'm still not entirely sure that I understand that Phd topic, but at least I can live in hope that one day I'll visit and he'll have pigtails...