A Strangely Distasteful Time
Sydney Morning Herald
Saturday August 7, 2004
James Bone bites off more than he can chew.
Monday, August 2:I didn't do anything today, really, other than go to Officeworks. I'm a great believer in Officeworks. Of an evening, I can be seen lurking in the aisles with all the other day traders, homeworkers and freelancers.We recognise each other with a slightly embarrassed nod - mutual acknowledgement of our shared interest in Rolodexes and Cast-Coated White Gloss Presentation Folders and Thermodynamic office chairs. I'm a particular fan of the latest model, in which one seems to hover rather than actually sit.I was thinking about the choice of colour for my next Cast-Coated Gloss Presentation Folder when an old mate advanced, on unsteady legs.Indeed, the place is a veritable hive of Old Mates; I half expected to run into Trev and Renee and Richo and The Rocket and Brad and Ben and all my old mates from HIH and One.Tel. Surely they must be homeworkers by now?I got instead a very old mate called Phil."G'Day Bone," he said, shaking my hand. He carried an armful of rubber bands.After the usual pleasantries, he invited me to attend his union meeting - on Thursday. Phil's union is a highly secretive organisation called the Australian Freelancers Union. It represents people who shop at Officeworks.Tuesday, August 3:Speaking of secretive organisations, today my senior chartist and I attended a luncheon club called The Primates.The Primates meet in a highly secretive location, believed to be a pub in Redfern, where they thrash out assorted key issues with great gusto, panache, celerity and aplomb. Indeed, one couldn't hope to find a more entertaining and aplombic collection of Australians in the whole Southern Hemisphere. And possibly the Northern.I noted that The Primates did not raise the topic of day trading, and this was understandable. Loftier items were on the agenda than the contents of my self-administered super fund.We heard a fascinating speech by one Primate - who must not be named - about time management in Saudi Arabia, and the social order therein. Another spoke of the challenge of reorganising his personal stationery - I instantly recognised a fellow Officeworks enthusiast.A third Primate shared out the contents of a US Army vegetarian ration; inside was a kind of wax burrito which spontaneously combusts after you add water. It reminded me of a jaffle-ironed sea monkey. It was great fun, blowing it up, and one couldn't help thinking that distributing a million of these in Iraq would've done the job relatively painlessly.I went home brooding on American vegans and Saudi sea monkeys.Wednesday, August 4:I celebrated my new resolve, alone at my workstation, munching on a US Army vegetarian ration cracker, to re-enter the US stockmarket. Thursday, August 5:Phil's Australian Freelancers Union meets every month at a highly secretive location, believed to be a pub in the Jungo. I dressed for the occasion with my usual outdoor flair: a deep grey Austin Reed suit, dark blue Hugo Boss tie, Harvey & Hudson shirt, Calvin Klein y-fronts and Churches shoes.My sartorial effort did not go unnoticed. One vexatious Freelancer, dressed in what I can only describe as rags, remarked that he'd never seen a freelancer looking so prosperous, to which I replied that a bankrupt's last dollar should always be spent on the best clothes money can buy.Seated about the table were other Freelancers, a role that seems to encompass anything done by oneself, at one's home, for money. There were writers and artists, prostitutes and telesales people, photographers and those of undefined profession, who were discreetly said to be paid onanists. A couple of housewives attended, clearly irked by their husbands' paltry allowances.Phil, who doubles as a sort of Grand Poobah, introduced me as "our first day trader". It elicited a sort of curiosity. Clearly none of these people had invested in a stock. None had any money. Everyone gave gloomy speeches about the terrible conditions of the Australian freelancer. One writer complained that he was paid 30 cents a word - coherently arranged in sentences, one presumes - and called for a general strike: "We shall picket News Corp! We shall boycott Fairfax! We shall persecute any scab willing to accept 29 cents!" A self-employed prostitute quietly called for better conditions for self-employed prostitutes, a plea that fell on deaf ears.I felt it only right to call for something, too. "Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to call for better conditions for day traders. We're doing it hard. We're the nation's true battlers. We should demand the reinstatement of our free Mars Bars with morning tea."Everyone applauded. This seemed to grip the collective imagination. It was later decided that I would pawn my Hugo Boss tie and give the cash to the housewives. They were thrilled.Friday, August 6:My wife is apparently giving birth to our alleged child next week, so I organised a trek over the Himalayas to celebrate.Meanwhile, oil surged past $US44 a barrel, reaching a 21-year high. The rise followed warnings from US authorities that al-Qaeda planned to attack key Wall Street institutions. Had the terrorists any Weapons of Mass Destruction that could match the US Army's Vegetarian ration pack, I wondered, munching on a wax burrito.
© 2004 Sydney Morning Herald