I’m noticing disturbing patterns in indie music circles right now when it comes to hair. All the guys are growing as much hair as they can (on their heads, on their faces, and I’m sure on their backs) and all the girls are cutting their hair off. Karen from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Sianna Lee from LOA. It’s a topsy-turvy bizarro world!!
Today, if it’s even possible, was worse than all the other days of this week put together. Here’s the thing though – I’m in a better mood tonight than I have been all week. No real reason for it, but there you have it. Today I was abused on the phone not once but twice (being the middle man between massive DIMA changes and harangued employers is AWESOME), and one of those calls threatened legal action. I’m precariously holding on to the fabric of the place, in that every person in our office is very overworked and dealing with some fairly heavy shit. I’m pretty proud of the fact that when that last call came through today I managed to laugh, along with the other girls, when all I wanted to do was crawl in a hole and cry. I understand there is a lot riding on these visa applications for these breeding farms – millions of dollars worth of bloodstock may not fly from the UK, Ireland, the USA and Japan if we can’t get it sorted. I just wish I could communicate to them I’m worried about it too – it honestly keeps me awake at night.
Applying for registration to become an agent is almost as harrowing as the damn exam. Case in point: proving you can speak English. That I was born in Australia is of no matter, that I have lived here my whole life means nothing, and that I have completed a Bachelor Degree at an Australian University also means sweet FA. I need to show them my English results from my HSC. WTF?! I have read and re-read that damn form, I have asked the girls in the office for their interpretation of it, and this is exactly what they want. I sure as hell hope I still have that information somewhere. Actually, as soon as I’ve posted this, I’m going to pull down the Magical Mystery Suitcase that contains all of that shizzat. I haven’t actually opened it since I moved to Sydney all those years ago, so who knows what the hell’s in there.
Hopefully my English results from 1994. It’s a damn good thing they don’t want my chemistry or physics results. Aha!
I want to write to them and ask them what happens to people who A) didn’t finish school or B) didn’t pass English. It doesn’t mean they’re any less intelligent than someone who did, OR that they have less of a grasp of paperwork or general use of the English language when it comes to migration law.
I’ve also had to get every single person at work to sign a statutory declaration to say they’ve never been part of criminal proceedings or declared themselves bankrupt. I’m not sure of the relevance of that, but if they want it they’ll get it. I’m sure it’s because this particular organisation just LOVES paperwork.
Don’t we all.
I had a very strange dream last night about John Darnielle. I was at a gig (I think with Tara, which makes sense) and there was a very big crowd of people there. He wanted to demonstrate something with eggs (normal, raw chicken eggs) but needed someone with long hair to do it. So then he picks me from the crowd, and I was completely stoked because of course it’s John Darnielle. He hands me two eggs and tells me to hold them behind my back. He then hooks me up this machine that puts some sort of current through my body and makes my hair stand on end (tangent – at school this once happened. I was asked by my physics teacher to put my hands on this large metallic bulb thing that had an electrical current pushed through it, and it made my hair stand up on end. I had to stand on top of the bench on front of the class (one of those fat science benches with gas taps for Bunsen burners and the like) and I had to stand in a plastic tub. I was chosen for this because A) my hair was practically down to my ass at that point and B) it was red, and apparently red hair is perfect for that sort of thing).
Anyway! I somehow knew that the reason he was asking me to do this was to prove the eggs would break. Even though I didn’t feel like they were going to break, I broke them on purpose so he didn’t lose face. I think he knew that, and for the rest of the night he kept referring to me from the stage as ‘my girl over there’. The weird thing was (is?) that there was nothing romantic about the dream and really I’ve never really thought about him that way. It was nice, but I woke up a little weirded out.
Actually, dreams about musicians (even dreams involving eggs) are better than dreams about family members dying. A dream about Nathan from Faker would be nice. Note to subconscious: NATHAN FROM FAKER – KTHNX.