The power-suit

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I read or heard somewhere that your clothing can affect the way you carry yourself in social situations. The term “power suit” is accurate – by wearing a sharp, well-fitting suit you will carry yourself with more confidence. Take myself, for example. I bought a new suit two weeks ago. Navy blue, single-breasted, 85% wool blend. I feel like a trillion dollars when I wear it, so much so that I don’t want to wear it too often for fear of jinxing its lucky charm. I should add that it’s my only suit at the moment, since I recently moved from a blue-collar job to a white-collar job.

 

If people say it’s only ladies who care about their appearance and feel judged on it, they’re lying. For the first month or so at my new job, I wore “dress” pants from Target, which I bought a year ago before I dropped 10 inches from my waistline. They were baggier than MC Hammer’s, but they were all I had had to tide me over until I’d saved enough for a halfway-decent suit. Anyway, whilst wearing my Target (pronounced, ‘tar-jay’) professional attire, I received so many ocular jibes from the women at work it was like greasy looks were going out of fashion. That, and sarcasm about my choice in clothes.

Long story short, I felt like a homeless person who had mistakenly been invited to a high fashion ball, throughout my first month on the job. Well obviously I didn’t smell and my clothes were untorn, but comparatively (price-wise) my clothes were mechanics’ rags. Did you know that a cheap housedress costs over $80? Did you know that one of those cute little boob-tubes costs $70? That’s, like, 50 square centimetres of material, you’d think it was 20% golden fleece! I have to give the ladies at my place of work credit though, they also look like a trillion bucks.

 

My point is, men can and do dress for success. It changes the way you feel and act. 

The daily pounding

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Every day, I have to suppress my basic bodily functions for a long period of time. Every single day, I have to remain hungry until a set time, wait extended periods before I’m allowed to blow my nose, suppress yawns and not smoke for up to 12 hours. That last part nearly kills me. I get so grumpy when I cannot smoke. “Grumpy” is a funny word, but there’s nothing funny about wanting to verbally assault your boss because God Forbid you should spend 5 minutes outside in Marlboro Country and subsequently stink out the office! How did it get like this, from people smoking on long flights with recycled air-conditioning, to being banned from smoking at an outdoor café table? This is the era of the Nanny State and über-Political Correctness.

Anyway, back to the part where I have to breathe through my mouth for over 20 minutes because I am forbidden from blowing my nose for that length of time…

I am talking, gentlemen, about work. I sit at a group of desks out in the open air(-conditioning), surrounded by gossips and people who think it’s okay to shout across 20 metres to somebody in a corner office. The gossip is incessant, ranging from anything between drinking at breakfast, to toe rings (I now know that toe rings are decorative rings for one’s toes – the things you learn, eh?) There is no other word for this type of work other than slavery. Due to various debts and obligations, I am obliged to work for 10-12 hours every day, doing things I rather dislike. These include photocopying (where is the photocopy boy when you need him?), drinking tea to procrastinate, ignoring the mosquito whine of gossip, and trying to concentrate on reading books 10x more complex than Proust’s ‘Remembrance of Things Past’ in the original French.

How did it get like this? I try to live within my means, I really do. But housing prices, cost of living etc. ensures that I am always in debt. My only savings for the year came in the form of a meager tax return (savings forced by the Tax Office).

Yada yada yada, complain complain.

 

 

Hey, at least I’m not a tetraplegic double-amputee with Down’s syndrome, eh? I’ve got it pretty darn good.

 

Utopia

In a perfect world, every car would be Italian. Motorbikes would be completely safe. Bad, non-architecture would be banned, McMansions would burn to the ground. Houses in Australia would cost $500,000 at the absolute maximum. In a perfect world, every woman would be beautiful. 

Beauty is NOT in the eye of the beholder. We have it down to a science, the golden ratio, symmetry, etc. If there were more beautiful and slim women, then average drongos like myself would have a shot at pulling dames who actually outstrip a cardboard box in the aesthetics department. Because as it stands, I’d need millions, or fame, or model looks, or command of an elite hitman squad, or all four to have a look-in with the top 2% of dames. Hell, even doubling the number of dimes, from 2% of the female population to 4%, would be an amazing thing to be sure.

I’m not talking eugenics or anything evil like that. I’m just saying, if I had a magic wand, I would wave it over every “curvy/BBW” and “aethetically challenged” and downright plain girl in the world. And we’d all be better off. There would be less bitching and female competitiveness, the entire make-up industry would die, etc. In fact, this would be the only way men would actually choose a woman based on her personality. Because as it stands darling, personality doesn’t mean anything when you’re competing with a little cupcake in hot pants with a Colgate smile.

A photo, to show what I mean. This is perfect because this model chick is just casually chilling out in a carpark. Imagine if your local servo attendant suddenly metamorphosed into a lady of this calibre:

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Maybe having beautiful women on every corner would devalue beauty. So be it. Maybe having Ferraris as affordable as a mediocre BMW is now would make all cars seem bland. So be it. Beats driving a large toaster that sounds like a vacuum cleaner AKA any cheap Asian car. Just think, men would no longer have to pretend to be interested in the plain-Jane friend. They actually WOULD be interested in the plain Jane. Of course there would be subtle variations in the level of hotness. But nobody would be as plain as Princess Mary, for instance. Even old women would look like Audrey Hepburn when she got old.

Oh, and I would also wave my wand on all the pathetic, weak, pasty and flabby males in the world. That way every dame would get her prince charming with a raging sixpack and a $30,000 Bentley. Because as it stands, we human beings are pretty damn ugly and woebegone. There are beer guts everywhere, people are eating shit on a stick (McNasty Family Rest-o-ramas) and fugly buildings. God damn, life is hard when you’re a perfectionist.

Oh and while I’m at it with the old magic wand, I’ll re-forest the entire continent, cure global warming and make every bit of rubbish, ever, disappear. But I’d start with the women.

When  you’re living in this utopia and you pull a stunningly beautiful checkout-chick just by talking about Star Wars, you can just say, “Thankyou, Pacino!” 

You’re fucking well welcome, mate.

Aside

Elation: The Walking Dead season three

“So how was the first episode, Jimi?” 

It was fucking sweet. In SE03E01, The zombies are unnerving and extremely detailed in their various states of bodily decay. I knew – from the cliffhanger at the end of season two – that a prison would feature in this season. Which it does. Razor wire-topped fences, gun towers, secure doors and potentially a shitload of mediocre jail food. Not to mention guns (God Bless America).

There are scenes where the zombie-killing crew explores the completely dark corridors of the jail, with only torches to illuminate the brütal corpses everywhere. It’s a seriously sick atmosphere, that harks back to Silent Hill 2 (a PS2 game so eerily unnerving that I bitched out of playing it alone). 

There’s one part where a ‘walker’ is wearing a gas mask (he must have been a riot squad member, calming down the General Population when society fell, protecting himself from tear gas). One of the slaying crew rips off this bastard’s gas mask, and with it the walker’s whole face is ripped off. Comic book violence is the best, but this was a bit too full-on.

The fun really starts up when some zombies with riot squad gear make an appearance (visored helmets, body armour), and it takes them a few minutes to figure out how to “kill” these bastards. 

My heart rate must have been around 98bpm when the slaying was happening on screen. This is what I’m talking about, mate! The slaying crew really has the teamwork thing down pat; they each distract the walkers from the melée for as long as possible. God, I wouldn’t ever want to spend more than 5 minutes in a jail, but if the zombie apocalypse were to descend on us tomorrow, I reckon inside a jail would be the place to be. That is, if you had a 20-strong crew of Tactical Response cops with M16 rifles and egos of titanium to clear the place out.

What I love about The Walking Dead is that it’s a quality horror show. Some wise person wrote on a tablet on a hill in the 1930s that horror films must be of shockingly low quality (George Romero aside). This series smashes that tablet: it features top-notch acting, decent writing and not a hint of cheesiness. How very, very refreshing. It’s as refreshing as a vodka and soda at -1 degrees on a 40-degree day. Now that’s refreshing. However many Australians haven’t even heard of this show.

Here in Australia, our TV stations don’t even air The Walking Dead. I found out about it after having watched Breaking Bad (where we are two season behind the US). Breaking Bad is another show made by AMC, a cable channel in the US. Similar to HBO, a channel that can do no wrong, AMC has hit two from two in my books, with the two excellent aforementioned shows.

Now kiddies, you need to go and buy the blu-ray box sets of The Walking Dead. Then watch it on a 1080p resolution plasma TV with 7.1 surround sound. Hah. You could watch this show on a smartphone in compressed form and still be amazed.

Glad to have the free plug, AMC? Just say, “Thankyou Pacino.” 

You’re welcome. Enjoy the fucking up of the zombies.

Jimi.

Aside

Hey mate what’s going on?

Welcome, lonely interwebz pilgrim. You have found a lee from the tempest. Here is a blog about current affairs, my stories (from ME, Jimi Pacino), and various other highly interesting things. I’ll get around to writing a grand plan for this blog one of these days. But for now, here’s post one:

So I was thinking today about how what qualifies for “news” these days is pretty miserable stuff. A lot of people start the day by reading the papers. I was thinking also of how the little things we encounter every day can have a big impact on our mood. 

 

Like this morning. I saw a headline about a brutal bashing in Sydney. Man has cheekbones crushed. Man has four teeth knocked out. Man fractures skull. Police have no information on the suspect, no witnesses. Does this sound familiar? Here’s another one: “State government completely incompetent. Sydney still very hard to live in. Budget in the red, roads suck, smog sucks, just give up on Sydney. By Joe Bloggs, AP.”

 

For the frail-minded, reading a cheery little article like this, thoughts can fester at the back of their minds all day. They may not be consciously disturbed by the article, but they may look over their shoulder the next time they walk past a King’s Cross nightclub on a Saturday night. And that’s just not right. One should be free to get as shitfaced as one likes at Candy’s Apartment (a club in Sydney) and not have to worry about eating the gutter. Ah, pleasant imagery, pleasant imagery.

 

There are those who reckon the news is a controlling organ of the powers that be, an organ to keep the public constantly in fear and buying more stuff they don’t need. How very Fight Club. I don’t buy that. To me, the public demands to know about such unsavoury things as bashings and seedy criminals, as they chew their Weet-Bix and sip their Blend 41 instant caaawwfeee.

 

Now, the solution to this barrage of negativity in the media: to customise what news you receive. It can be as simple as turning your back on the TV news and flicking to an informative program on the mating habits of the red-arsed monkey, narrated by some proper-sounding Pom. I, for one, would find that a better use of my time. You never know when stuff like that could come up at the pub’s trivia night: “Barry, how long is the ovulation cycle of the female red-arsed monkey?” I can see it happening in a dingy watering hole in the not-too-distant future.

 

But yeah, more on customising your media inputs. You can subscribe to blogs you actually like, only visit certain websites, only follow the tweeters you like, etc. And if you want some excitement in your life, you can always switch the TV channel to some belligerent reporter harassing a dodgy used car salesman on ‘Today and This Arvo’ on Channel McCrap. Sorry, was that bitter? Guess I’ve already alienated half my possible blog audience. 

 

Love me, hate me, whatever. You should know that I was getting told off about the offensive tone of my writing before I had my pen licence (year TWO). Stirring the pot since the ’90s, gentlemen. 

 

It’s been a pleasure,

Jimi Pacino.