Showing posts with label crankitude. Show all posts
Showing posts with label crankitude. Show all posts

Sunday, December 21, 2014

#illridewithyou Redux



For being the creator of the #illridewithyou hashtag I am copping abuse for being:

  • white 
  • not white 
  • PoC 
  • not PoC 

Read that a couple of times.


Now read it again.









Once more.











It doesn't get any less fucked up the longer you think about it.

A lovely couple gave me some incredibly elegant flowers. I didn't have a vase to do them justice (don't really have the house to do them justice), and when they bloomed, it just seemed that the thing to do was lay them in Martin Place.

Then it occurred to me that there are at least two current memorials in Martin Place - for the siege and the Peshawar school children - and that if I were to ever mention I'd considered this, there would be demands to know which memorial these flowers were laid at, and that no matter which memorial, people were going to use that as ammo to keep up the abuse.

And people wonder why sometimes I get fed up.

I'm biracial, specifically, I'm English/White Australian and Chinese-Malaysian. What this means is that I am all four of the above accusations at the same time. All the time. Every day. Whether I'm accidentally spawning global grassroots activism, looking sadly at those last two sheets left on the toilet roll or sending professional sounding correspondence for work; I am all of these things. It's complicated.

Much of the criticism I've seen hinges on the assumption that I'm either white or non-white. This being Australia, I am specifically framing this in terms of whiteness. The fact that the conversation has already tripped over this misguided binary dichotomy before even the first step indicates that the problem of racism is so deep in Australia, in the western world, we'll need to raise a generation of fact-checkers before we can develop critical thinkers and even get past the derailing question of exactly whose voice is valid.

A mutable identity means that the privileges and oppressions granted me are fluid and constantly changing. They're influenced by how suntanned I am, what angle the light is coming from, the people I'm standing next to, whether someone is too caught up in what is proper to just deal with my most bodacious family name, and so on. I occupy the positions of both oppressor and oppressed, at the same time. When I say it's complicated, it's because I never stop having to wrangle this. It isn't only the white-dominated conversations that fail to take this into account. Much of what is discussed among non-whites leaves biracials standing in the kitchen doorway, looking at the party, and not quite seeing a space to step into. Biracials are not uncommon. I am not unique. Inconvenient perhaps, but not unique.

I've no interest in addressing the people who weren't listening and haven't been listening for longer than this. The racists who responded by simply continuing to be racist aren't a surprise, and I don't have much to say to them. They're not actually that many, just loud, and getting increasingly frantic because the audience they assumed they had, they don't. That the Far Right have worked themselves up into such a frothing tizzy about little ol' me and a hashtag is pretty amusing. It's almost as though they think I have power.

Nope. Still just me and a hashtag.

Apparently, here and now, that is power.

Noted.

All this bigotry is pointed at me, but not about me. Evidence of this can be found in the lack of basic fact checking which would trump the crimes I'm accused of, because they're not actually interested in being accurate with their attacks, just as long as they land a blow. I was just the next target to pop up, and I'm not listening to them, although I do have to wonder how it would be to have a reading comprehension level which ensures you take everything you read literally. That must be a strange world to live in.

Anyway. The allies and progressives, the people who have put their hand up as wanting to see social and cultural change; it's the criticism stemming from these quarters which is relevant. My last blog post assured many with legitimate doubts, but not all. I'm writing this post now to give the conversation a kick in the pants.

This act, offer, invitation, this hashtag, this idea well has the potential to become a patronising pile of oppressors coming to the rescue of those they're oppressing and patting themselves on the back for saving the poor Othered masses. It most certainly does, and being as no one owns the action of another, in the hands of many this is exactly what it will be. If you see any individual falling into this behaviour, you are welcome to call them on it. White knighting is simply another - far more insidious - face of racism. I recognise this because, again, I occupy the positions of both oppressor and oppressed.

#illridewithyou began because a non-white woman learned of another non-white woman helping out a third woman garbed in hijab.

There will be the appeasement of white guilt in the hashtag's lifecycle, but there sure as fuck wasn't any in its creation. I created it because I understand what it's like to be scared. I am 5"3' with rosy cheeks and a cute button nose, and not bodyguard material. If someone shapes up, I'm not running, but I'm not going to come out on top either.

This is centered on the victims of abuse, not the perpetrators. Our culture leaves victims to fend for themselves, and our justice system quite frankly shits all over them, and doesn't apologise for it. Victim blaming is a disgusting behaviour Australia practices both overtly and unconsciously. Justice is blind in order to treat everyone equally, and in doing so treats no one fairly. I can't stop violent abusive bigots from being violent, abusive, or existing. That's not something in my power to address. Victims, though, people worried, scared, hurt and hurting; this is within my power.

When an idea for cultural change is proposed by a non-white person, it is mostly ignored. That's why things are they way they are, because the oppressed have been agitating for reform for centuries, yet here and now the country we live in is sick.

When an idea for cultural change is proposed by a white person, it is shouted down as being yet another act of white knighting, regardless of who else is involved, and usually it is.

I am both of these things. I am the person who should not be speaking according to both sides of the conversation, and simultaneously the person who should be.

This makes me wonder whom amongst us is permitted to enact change. From whom is change acceptable. Whatever this rare unicorn of a racial identity it is, I'm unaware of it. I'm inclined to think it doesn't exist. Which further makes me wonder how change can be expected to come about at all.

Stories have reached me of people who have been assaulted for volunteering in #illridewithyou. I'm not going to say more than that or point out any examples, because assault is traumatic enough without all you haters suddenly popping up and being gross. To those of you who have been hurt; I am sorry for my part in this, and hope you have good people around you. It's okay to not be okay when you've been assaulted.

The hashtag didn't create bigotry. It simply turned turned up the volume on those who care. As a consequence, the bigots will and have upped their game, as though western society is in some sort of arms race between bigotry and compassion. You riders, to stand beside someone under fire is to also come under that fire. It's okay to be afraid and hesitant to step up. This world is scary. Non-white people know this, and cannot opt out. Riders will always have a choice whether to make the offer or not. That choice is the difference between the privileged and oppressed. It's not something to be ashamed of, it simply is what it is. Non-white people do not deserve the abuse and hate aimed at them, and if you step up, no matter who you are, neither will you. It will happen none the less. You know where your limits lie. Please remember to respect them as well.

Stories have reached me of bigots being shut the fuck down as a result of #illridewithyou. A taxi driver told my partner that a school friend of his daughter, who wears a headscarf, had a bus load of people move and sit with and around her when a bigot started having a go. The incident on the Upfield/Craigieburn line has been well reported. A friend coming through Sydney airport told me that an entire line of people waiting at the taxi rank shut down an angry, belligerent, self-entitled man harassing the curb management, who are usually non-white persons. Thousands of badges and stickers handed out. A community bike ride from Lakemba to Martin Place. Muslims from around the world reaching out to say thank you, thank you, thank you, because these things have gone without saying so long, no one believes them to be true, and now #illridewithyou needs to be said.

These are just the precious scraps that make it through the cacophony of bigots shrieking like spoilt children who don't want to share their toys. There is so much more happening out there, because no one needs to make a big show of taking on this idea. They're just going ahead and doing it. There are people who, upon realising that this is an act open to them, don't wait for permission to start; they just get down to business.

Word has reached me of a woman allegedly assaulted by a Muslim taxi driver. Her husband being some prominent chap is trying to do that reverse-racism thing, indicating this happened because no one would ride with her. I'm presuming he means because she is a white person. This is a derailment of another important conversation about which I also have plenty of loud things to say, as it's trying to imply she was assaulted for her skin tone, and not the fact she is a woman. I'm angry that she has been assaulted, and hope she is okay, and with good people around her.

Women know about street harassment and the threat of attack from the random male public. All women, regardless of race. Street harassment is only just beginning to get the attention it should. You don't have to believe it. Women know the way this horseshit works, and learn from a very early age. As I write this, news of the shooting in NYC is breaking. All the focus is on the two officers who were shot. The shooter's girlfriend, who was also shot, is given in all the articles I've seen at most a sentence, but usually just a clause. This society does not value women, and so their deaths are deemed unworthy of attention. Violence by men, misogyny and sexism form another, simultaneous, sickness in our culture. Both these conversations need to occur, and their points of intersection recognised.

What is lacking from the Basic 101 is nuance. None of us live in a vacuum and nothing occurs in isolation. I've said multiple times that I don't see this idea as being applicable to Muslims only. Anyone with a visible cultural identity stands to be a target when in public. Anyone with skin that isn't white; anyone who isn't a cis heterosexual man, which includes all women, regardless of their sexuality or chosen gender, and any man who is not cis heterosexual, and all the queer and trans and varied orientations and genders one can be; anyone wearing religious garb, even those considered 'safe' - cooing over how adorable Buddhist monks are in their robes and creepshotting them is another form of othering; anyone who is visibly differently-abled, disabled, with invisible syndromes, complexes and illnesses; any one who visibly does not conform to the narrow-ass view of what is considered 'okay' by this society. Women, regardless of their background and identity, are able to use #illridewithyou to buddy up just as much as the religious are.

Perhaps that's another reason for the naysayers. I'm not a man, and no men were involved or consulted in the creating of this. Subconscious dismissal of women's voices is real. If you doubt me feel free to do some research and educate yourself. It'll actually reveal a lot about social communication which is just plain interesting.

That said, if this idea had come from a man it would have been problematic from the outset; expecting Muslim women to want anything to do with unknown men in a hostile culture. Schrodinger's Racist, and all that.

Once again, who is allowed to instigate change?

That's the wrong question. How about;

Why should anyone wait for your approval to act?

As far as I'm concerned, you naysayers can go sit on a pineapple and spin.

To quote a wise friend and fellow biracial, you're better than this. Substandard criticism is vexing.

Racism has a simple definition, but the conversation around it is immense, convoluted, complex, intricate, nuanced, and extremely raw. Racism as a cultural structure is vast and often looks infinite. There is no quick and easy fix for bigotry, especially when so much of it is locked in legislation. I won't wait for a single big easy fix. Fuck that noise. If change is ever to come, then it must be enabled. Even if in frustratingly, insultingly slow, small increments, it must be enabled.

I want sound a massive shout out to you riders just getting on with it and being awesome. I want to holler and cheer for you minorities just getting on with it and being awesome. Been chewing over the titles that seem applicable - hero, legend, champion - (which you all are) which have been showered upon me as well, and they don't smell right. The current love of superheroes is great fun for the comic lovers, but the persistent purveyance of the superhero narrative can't be doing amazing things to the zeitgeist. Settle down; I'm all for comics too, but as someone invested in writing, I do pay attention to the narratives swimming in the media we consume. Superheroes are pretty ace, but they're also pretty damn special. They come swooping in and provide big, easy fixes to scary problems, and we normals shout hurrah! And there is much rejoicing.

Can't help think this breeds the expectation that we don't need to make any effort to fix things because some unicorn superhero will be along shortly to sort out this inconvenient mess for us.

Think of all those normal people who are just passing by but still charge into burning houses and save lives. Typically they're shaken and downplaying their role, because it wasn't a grand gesture on their part. They were just being who they are. The same as you.

No unicorns are coming.

You're much, much cooler than all the superheroes combined, and more excellent than all of the unicorns. Big call. I'm making it. There's a potential future in which being an awesome, compassionate, respectful and considerate individual will be the norm, and it's growing in your footsteps.

Hmm. Guess I'm not as devoid of hope as I was.

#illridewithyou

Still.

Friday, May 03, 2013

The Midriff Conundrum

The realisation that the t-shirt you grabbed from the drawer this morning is just a touch to short is just a touch too late, coming as it does when you raise your arms to stretch out a yawn while talking to a co-worker. The lift gives him a perfect view of the waistband of your jeans, which are just a touch too tight and emphasis that little flap of paunch just a touch too well.

And you can't work up the motivation to be disgusted with your body, or to be disgusted at the socially-conditioned reaction of disgust, because you're at capacity with frustration at the knowledge that you will have to manage this oversight of overflab over the next 16 hours when you know you do not currently have the mental resources to spend on something so ridiculous and trivial as keeping your midriff concealed because your sleep the night before was so utterly broken and crippled and limping and crying at its ineffectiveness and all this could have been avoided if you'd only checked yourself before stepping out the front door, but you were so addled, so tired, that it slipped your mind just as your belly slips into view; with easy.

This doesn't put you in a wonderful frame of mind, and you were already in negetive attitude. You can always choose your mood - no, you can - but you can't choose whether or not you are exhausted, aching, and addled. You can choose to vent your petty miseries, or you could choose to shut up and stop polluting the emotional airspace, but the one person who doesn't benefit from that is yourself.

You could try and turn this into something mildly thought provoking, and whip up some navel-gazing blogpost concerning the constructive analysis of physiological mood factors and the responsibilities we take with not only our mood by how we choose to project our mood onto the world, but truth be told it would only be a thinly veiled piece of waffle that, even with the long words and needlessly meandering clauses, is just a whinge.

Monday, February 08, 2010

Aerolineas Argentinas is the Suck, Spit and Swallow

Tuesday, 22nd December, 2009

Qantas flight to Sydney departs and arrives on schedule.

Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet proceed to the Aerolineas counter in order to pick up their boarding pass for the Sydney-Buenos Aires leg of the journey. While waiting to be noticed, they in turn notice a sign stating that the flight in question has been delayed by approximately two and a half hours.

They were prepared for the two and a half hour wait scheduled in their itinerary. They had changed all their cash for US$ and ARG peso and left just enough coinage for a cup of tea, having hit up the bakery very early in the morning for cheap nommy snacks to sustain them while they inhabited the gate lounge. They are not prepared for a five hour wait.

The Aerolineas staff give them a $15 food voucher. This does not go very far.

Sydney Airport is newly renovated and modern, which you can read to mean it contains all the mind-numbing qualities of both an airport terminal and a shopping mall, and combines them into a sublime ecstasy of hope-felling purgatory. Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet walk around, and around, and around, and inspect every single gate lounge (more than sixty), and inspect them again, and again, and stop at every single free internet kiosk to shoot off bland emails to unwilling victims on order to alleviate the boredom, the emails them selves being entirely contentless as they are that bored there is nothing to write about.



There is the concern that with the flight so delayed, they may miss their connecting flight in Buenos Aires to Santiago in Chile, where they are to join the tour. If the delay is only as long as proposed, they will probably still make it.

The delay is longer. Of course.

The plane, a 737, is a (and we use the technical term here) "piece of shit". The tray tables are broken. The arm rests are broken. The chairs cannot actually be put in the upright position for take off and landing. Staff are indifferent. Food is quite ordinary, and Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet are not fussy eaters. Coming in to Auckland, the plane makes a hideous sound which unnerves everyone, and Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet are not nervous flyers either.

It is just after nine at night. While waiting for the doors to open to begin the get-off-the-plane-get-on-the-plane-again-cha-cha-cha dance, an announcement was broadcast as paraphrased below:

"This flight has been canceled. After you have cleared Customs and Immigration please proceed to Check In Counter 38, where accommodation has been arranged for you. Repeat, this flight has been canceled. You will need to collect your luggage from the baggage hall."

Sans explanation. Sans apology. Sans any information regarding exactly how we were going to get to Buenos Aires.

Exhale. Our travelers indulge in a fair amount of pissiness, but refrain from actual stress. The flight to Santiago has been missed. They suspect that tomorrow's flights to Buenos Aires will be departing at approximately the same time, so while they have lost their opportunity to explore Santiago, they still stand a good chance of making the information meeting/trip welcome.

The majority of other people on the flight are not travelers, however. They're going to visit family for Christmas. South America does not do the big schbang on Christmas Day, but on Christmas Eve. Note the date. They were making the ground staff cry.

At Immigration Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet are given a suspicious look and questioned regarding their planned stay of a single night. "Drug mule," the officer is thinking. "Did you not just process all the other disgruntled passengers also staying one night because of the canceled flight?" Sir Tessa is thinking. "I'll slit your nostrils," Shark Puppet is thinking.

At which point, the Quarantine sniffer dog jumps all over them, being as they are carrying bakery rolls covered in pineapple and ham.

They are provided overnight accommodation at the Holiday Inn near the airport, dinner and breakfast included, with a courtesy bus to transport them their. They are told the bus is yellow. They are not able to get any sort of word on whether or not there is a flight tomorrow, at what time, or if they will be able to get on it. They are simply told, "You will be told."

There are no yellow buses. That is because the buses are navy blue.

When asked at what time they were alerted to come pick us up, the bus driver states that they were called at six o'clock. Interesting.

They reach the hotel around ten-thirty, and are pleasantly surprised to be given a private room. It's a good hotel, but not used often given the dust everywhere. The pillows are labeled "soft" and "firm". Dinner is sitting in the bain-maries, and has probably been doing so for the last five hours. Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet, having collected a handful of fellow solo travelers, risk adding food poisoning to their woes, and over this daring-do bond and swap tales because there's sweet fuck all else to do and their body clocks are screwed.

Twenty minutes of complimentary internet is provided. This is of marginally more use than the ten minutes of complimentary phone calls, at $4.50 a minute to contact Chile. The internet time is used to hunt out an email address for the joining hotel, and let them know of her delay so they may pass the information along to the tour leader. They hope.

Eventually, Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet retire to their quarters, where they write the first entry of the South America trip journal.



It does occur to them, over and over, that while they will probably get to Buenos Aires tomorrow, being right on Christmas they may not be able to get a connecting flight to Santiago. If that's the case, they'll miss the tour departure, and if that's the case, they'll have to find some other mode of transport to catch up with them down the road, and if that's the case, then they're going to be fumbling around behind an enormous language barrier.

Which, surprising, doesn't stress them, but they're not exactly looking forward to it.

They watch some documentary on psychics helping police with investigative work, and don't watch Halloween, and eventually leave it on BBC World News with the volume turned down, and completely fail to sleep anyway.

Wednesday, 23rd December 2009

There is a notice board in the dining area saying that there is a flight - huzzah! - and that is all. Rumours abound. One of the collect posse states they need to be out of the hotel by one, although that is probably more to do with hotel staff wanting to clean the rooms than anything else.

They sit and eat breakfast over a long period. Then they sit and drink tea over a long period. Then, purely because they're sick of the hotel, they grab their bags, check out, and wait for the shuttle bus. They were told the shuttle bus was free. They go to board it, and are asked for a ticket. They dash back into reception, are given a ticket - no charge - dash out and give the ticket to the driver. This is getting to be a pattern.

At Auckland Airport they are somewhat confused. There is no Aerolineas counter. Recalling that it was Air New Zealand staff that handled them the night previous, they corner some staff not looking busy enough and dump a general "WHAT IS GOING ON?" upon them. The Air New Zealand staff confirm that there is a flight. Yay! But they cannot check to see if our travelers will get a seat on it, as the Aerolineas system does not open until one thirty, so they will have to wait an hour and a half.

This whole ordeal has consisted of HURRY UP AND WAIT.

Apparently proper transport was organised, as when they return to the counter later they discover the whole flight has appeared. Hotel staff could have told them this, but didn't. They get in line, and wait.

When the counter opens, and the queue starts moving, there is a lack of screaming and crying. This is a good sign.

When Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet's turn comes, they're given a seat on the next flight to Buenos Aires. They're not sure when this flight leaves, or from what gate, but it will be soon. What about the connecting flight to Santiago? The staff won't have a bar of that, and tell them they'll have to sort that out in Buenos Aires. Most helpful.

Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet would be more likely to accept that were it not for the fact that boarding passes were issued for other passengers with connecting flights. Seemingly at random.



Passengers have been talking to each other. Reasons for the cancellation are as follows:
  1. There was a mechanical problem. (Fine if that developed in flight.)
  2. The mechanical problem was known in Sydney (!!!) and they didn't think the plane would last the flight to Buenos Aires. (EXCUSE ME WTF WHY FLY IT FROM SYDNEY TO AUCKLAND THEN?!?!)
  3. They needed to wait for a part to be flown in from Buenos Aires.
  4. They needed to use our plane to take people who had been stranded in Auckland the night before we arrived onward to Sydney. (Get your own damn plane!)


The majority were of the opinion that the flight was canceled purely because it was only one-third full.

Those with connecting flights to Santiago watched the departure board, in particular a LAN Chile flight direct to Santiago, and wept a little. The board was also watched to see if our flight would be given a gate at any point in time (it wasn't), and exactly when boarding would commence. The board displayed a helpful countdown on every flight listed for departure - boarding in 45 minutes, 40 minutes, 35 minutes - and Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet watched it make it all the way down to 5 minutes, where it remained unchanging for approximately half an hour before jumping back up to 50 minutes. It did this approximately three times.

At some point in the long dark tea time of the soul, Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet noticed an Aerolineas plane sitting out on the tarmac, with maintenance popping in and out of it.



"That's our plane," spoketh Sir Tessa, and Sir Tessa spoketh true.

At last a gate was given, and when the announcement came over the PA there was cheering. Cheering! The posse head to the gate lounge, where they waited a further hour, ANOTHER DAMN HOUR, before boarding. Where they sat on the runway for another twenty minutes or so. And when they roared up the runway and finally left the ground, there was a hell of a lot more cheering, in a sort of "we're in the air you're stuck with us now!" way.

Staff, just as indifferent, and nigh prickly. Food, just as ordinary. Sleeping pills, well, they can only do so much on a plane. Which turns out to be not much at all.

Buenos Aires, ACHIEVED. That is exactly what it felt like, a grand achievement touching down on, at the very least, the correct continent. The longest leg was done, not long to go now.

Commence mad rush on the transfer counter!

Where it was made very clear that they needed to get to Santiago today. The Aerolineas staff plopped them on the next flight without even raising an eyebrow, and told them to check in their bags at-

But we don't have our bags, we're not entering Argentina, so...

Arcane symbols jotted on a list and a paper and pencil luggage receipt is handed over. Paper and pencil. This does not bode well, and gives rise to images of getting to the right city only to be without rucksack. Not a good state to be in, given the tour is due to depart Santiago at six in the morning tomorrow.

But, nevermind! They have a boarding pass! They are so close to their objective! They race to the gate, and hurry up and wait.



Such a lovely sight (and further proof that even at their home base, Aerolineas can't get their act together).



They boarded - ON TIME. The plane was in much better condition than the one flying the Sydney route. Interesting. They took off - ON TIME. Ham and cheese sandwich and further indifference. They arrived in Santiago - ON TIME. Their luggage arrived - ON TIME.

And so, more after more than twenty-four hours delay, most of which was spent completely in the dark having been given no information on the situation or what steps were being taken to see them reach their destinations, Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet arrived in Santiago.

They had missed the introductory meeting, but were in the right city, and would depart with the tour on the morrow.

That is, if the tour were following the planned itinerary. Which it wasn't. But that particular tale is for another time.

Wednesday, 6th January 2010

The final deviation from the tour's itinerary came from below, not above. It was noted that Metallica were playing at Estadio River Plate in Buenos Aires the night before the truck was due to arrive in the city.

Hell yes?

HELL YES.

Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet plant themselves in an internet cafe in Ushuaia. After much wrangling with the Spanish dictionary, tickets to the concert are bought. This is followed by plane tickets to fly from Trelew to Buenos Aires the day of the concert.

The Aerolineas site (which shall not be linked to here) is old fashioned, to put it kindly. Booking the ticket online is straight forward, surprisingly. And lacking any point at which to enter credit card details, surprisingly.

A read through of the confirmation email confirms that Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet have indeed booked a seat upon that flight, and it is reserved just for them, but they will have to pay for it within twenty-four hours or it will expire.

Oh. Well. Okay.

Fortunately there is an Aerolineas Argentinas office in Ushuaia, and it is still open. They roll in, take a number, mutely hand over their reservation details along with a wad of cash, and their seats are paid for and confirmed.

Some of their fellow Metallica-goers are told that twenty-four hours prior to the flight they will need to reconfirm their tickets AGAIN. Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet are not told this.

Yet others who booked the flight do not notice the caveat about payment. When all have regrouped back at the hostel and they are informed of this, there is some concern. This is followed by confusion about the Aerolineas opening hours, which leads to them not going to the office until it is well and truly closed.

This leads to further concern, as on the morrow the tour is leaving lovely Ushuaia and its Aerolineas offices and heading out on long remote highways to camp on the side of the road.

One Metallica-goer calls the Aerolineas customer service line with the intent of paying by credit card over the phone. Their call is picked up and put on hold. When they come off hold, the operator tells them that the office closes at ten o'clock. It is three past ten. Five minutes were spent on hold. The operator answered purely to state that they would not be offering any assistance good bye.

Style.

Phone calls ares made the following morning, in the last big town the truck passes through, and the various orphan tickets are paid for.

Friday, 22nd January 2010

At Trelew Airport, one Metallica-goer has trouble checking in, as apparently his ticket has not been paid for. This is despite him paying at the same time, on the same call as everyone else. It takes much to-ing and fro-ing before he is allowed to pay cash.

The flight is half empty. It isn't as though there aren't enough spare seats.

Another Metallica-goer misplaces her wallet at the check in counter. It is later discovered handed in, sans cash.

Ham and cheese sandwich. The stewards do not wish to work any longer than they must, nor do they want work hanging over their heads, so as soon as they are done handing out the meals, they come around to pick up the trays, taking most meals before they are finished, whether the person wants to give up the meal or not. This is followed by a bit over an hour of flight time.

Tuesday, 26th January 2010

Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet bid adieu to their new friends and the city of Buenos Aires, and head off to the Buenos Aires Airport. Again. They arrive at ten-thirty at night, just over three hours of check in time, which is suitable for an international flight.

They check the departure board to see what check in counter they need to head to, and discover that their two am flight has been delayed till quarter past four in the morning...

Rinse.

Repeat.

Buenos Aires airport is considerably less interesting that Sydney, and considerably less clean, and has even less going for it in the small hours of the morning. Sir Tessa attempts to contain her mildly unhinged giggling. Shark Puppet curses all the friends they just left in Buenos Aires, knowing they are at a live drumming show and heading onto a bar afterward.

Only a few of the chairs lack arms, and so sleeping space is at a premium. Weeks of camping comes in handy and Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet make do on the concrete floor, where they completely fail to sleep.

The Aerolineas staff appear and form a processing line, where they call up row numbers, check passports and proceed to check everyone's hand luggage. Again. As if that hadn't already been done. This takes a very long time, and it is closer to six than four by the time the plane leaves the ground.

The staff and food are as expected. They are, thankfully, not held hostage in Auckland a second time, but apparently others were, as there is once again great cheering when the plane departs Auckland for Sydney (after yet further delays).

Because their travel-fu is so corrupted by Aerolineas's interference, even the Qantas flight home to Melbourne is delayed.

Sir Tessa and Shark Puppet are not impressed.

It isn't as though Aerolineas is hiding what they are. Their emblem is the condor. What's a condor? A giant smelly scavenger. A carrion eater. Yep. In the official inflight magazine, there was a letter from the CEO of Aerolineas Argentinas, where he proudly states that in the last year they renewed their aviation safety clearance. That was all the airline achieved, and this letter toted that as if it were something to be proud of, a massive accomplishment. DUDE. YOU NEED THAT TO OPERATE AN AIRLINE. ANY AIRLINE.

This airline was chosen because it was the cheapest. Flying to South America is usually reasonable, but at the peak time, which combines Christmas and the summer holidays, prices rocket up to well above $4,600. The Aerolineas flight was around $3,400, which is still a lot of money but fit in my budget. Just.

If you, like me, must fly Aerolineas because that is all you can afford, then take an extra day or two to get to your destination. I believe you have a 50% chance of being stuck in Auckland, as while there is only one flight number, there are two planes, one running between Sydney and Auckland, and the other running Auckland to Buenos Aires, and they don't always meet up in the middle.

If you expect any degree of customer service, drop those expectations. Aerolineas isn't there to help you out, even when they mess you're in is their cause. They. Don't. Care.

If you are buying internal flights for Argentina, don't book online. Just go into an office, they're quite common.

If you can't eat a ham and cheese sandwich, bring your own food.

Hell, if you want to eat anything bring your own food, or they'll steal it back.

In fact, just don't fly Aerolineas Argentinas.

Monday, September 14, 2009

what i mean when i say "i've had my insult for the night and i'm leaving."

I don't think I'm that easy to insult and/or offend, not on personal level. I could be wrong. I might just be fortunate in that the majority of people I interact with are not the sort of people who go around saying insulting and/or offensive things with a particularly personal bent. It is very easy to irritate me, frustrate and vex and annoy me, but offend?

I'm pretty sure I'm not often offended, because this weekend I found myself offended and it was a fairly novel experience.

So, for the record, when you say, "I hate you. I fucking hate you. Fuck you, and fuck your family. Yep. Fuck your whole family," you should know that you have completely and utterly failed at the friendly joking funny shittalk.

My initial reaction was to slap the person who said this. I managed to pull it back to being a playful slap. Just. I can't say I've ever really hit someone in my life, so I'm not entirely proud of this reaction, partly because such violence is petty and pointless, but mostly because I did in fact pull back and did not break his fucking nose.

This was followed by, "you're a bad person-" (which, admittedly, I get told a lot) "-you're evil. You're the root of all the evil and bad and wrong in the world. You're the cause of all genocide. All the genocide in the world is because of you." Which, after the "fuck your family," line, was icing on the cake.

This isn't the most offensive thing this person has said to me either.

Why's he still in my life?

I've finished my angry drunk fuming and had a good amount of hangover surly ranting. I'm spending no more time on the matter. It is noted here, for future reference.

And on the subject of shit-

Food that tastes better than it looks.



Looks like I dipped white bread in tar.
Tastes like mmmmmm, hot black sesame bao. Awesome stuff.

Monday, July 27, 2009

I have a lot to blog. But I wrote 15k in 7 days.

Friday, April 24, 2009

thirteen days to get by



I have been paid I have paid (some of) my bills and I think I'll just keep drinking. And if the little pig even thinks about acting as my conscience, I'll set the fucker on fire.

Here is a video of a song that doesn't sound like that when I listen to it;



And here is a site I'll just leave here. You can click on it if you like. Or don't click on it. Doesn't bother me. dinosaursfuckingrobots.com

Sunday, January 11, 2009

I'm thinking 'Molotov' again.

Sometimes, revision has all the symptoms of a dead-end relationship going through its death throes. Nothing I do brings any sort of satisfaction, let alone joy. My story sits there in tears, milking those tears for all they're worth, going on and on about oh, you don't love me, why do you want to change me into something I'm not? And I'm sitting here, frustrated as rabbit with no dick, going on and on about how oh, if you loved me you'd change your goddamn ways and stop being such a rancid piece of suck. And we both sit here, cutting away at each other because there isn't any other way forward. Things only ever go downhill from here. I can't break up with the story. That's more hassle than I can stomach.

This is fury. I need to fuck or fight.





Right. Cup of tea then.

Tuesday, January 06, 2009

The upside to being awake long before my alarm goes off is indulging in a luxurious morning with a cup of tea, instead of wash/dress/teeth/GO. Well, it's luxurious for me. I've seen some lovely dawns too.

Fuck the upside. I want to sleep. More than two hours. You hear that, body? Stop that shit, or I'll put out your eyes. And eat them. With raspberry jam on toast. Then you'll be sorry, oh, you'll be sorry.

Saturday, December 20, 2008

Seize the day, they say.  So I seize the damn day, I say.  By the damn throat.  And while I have this miserable little Saturday in my hands, I tear its damn throat out with my damn teeth.  I chew its damn head off until I can wear its damn tonsils as a damn bracelet.  Bits of Sunday fall out in soggy lumps all over the floor and my jeans.
Sunday looks just like Saturday.

Carpe Diem, fucker.