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My work schedule has changed again and I’m now starting work in the afternoon and finishing after midnight. The schedule is always changing because so many people are quitting and everyone is inexperienced, though slightly less hysterical than the regulars on the early shift. One workmate has returned from having a child and keeps threatening to pump milk from her breasts (apparently this does happen) in front of me if she can’t find a suitable room in the building for it. Most remaining employees keep every email and payslip and leave form just in case they go ahead with plans for a lawsuit against The Company. There are rumours some mysteriously absent workmates have been stationed in a new overseas worksite The Company is setting up, but nobody knows for sure. And we know not to ask, because the answer is always ‘Don’t ask.’
Even though I’ve memorised my schedule, for the first week I lie sleepless, clutching my phone in one hand, until after six-am, by which time it’s obvious someone would have called me if I were late for work on the dreaded early shift. My alarm hasn’t worked since I punched it one morning months ago, but I still get to work on time because I never really sleep.
At work I try not to pay attention to television screens playing some soap opera - you know, real people pretending to be fake people with made-up problems being watched by real people to forget their real problems. Programs have titles like You Are What You Eat or Body Work or pretty-much-anything Overhaul; spelling bees as televised competitions, unrecognisable celebrities participating in weekly weight-loss competitions, aggressive women interrogating rape suspects, men giving crucial evidence in murder cases with their dying breaths, the last ten minutes of a program using flashbacks to the murder filmed with handheld cameras.
‘Special effects’ or ‘terrorists’ have become the subconscious answers to any question you don’t know the real answer to. ‘Terrorist attack’ and ‘suicide bomber’ are now spoken in one syllable. ‘Carbs’ and ‘cholesterol’, as well as sodium levels, blood pressure and heart rates, are discussed in casual conversation. If anything out of the ordinary happens, my immediate response is: lawsuit.
The experiences of accused drug smugglers held in overseas prisons – mostly portrayed as victims – are the only news-worthy occurrences in the world, each of the suspected mules on a first-name basis with viewers. If they’re hot enough, and almost none of them are, they will absolutely be on the front cover of RALPH if they return.
‘As a mother,’ an emotional reporter says, ‘all the mothers out there would probably like to hope and pray that no matter how difficult the situation is, they would like to think that there is still some hope to save his life …’
Another exclusive report: ‘He’s a very popular inmate, well-liked in prison, the guards think he’s good company …’
Everyone wants to know, ‘Will the mother be able to give her son one last hug before he’s executed?’ (She isn’t, but she is allowed to touch his hand – a decision described as ‘heartless’ by local authorities.)
Drunk teenagers, described simply as ‘youths’, run rampant on the streets, targeting Muslims or Lebanese (it’s not made clear which); handheld footage of rallies, shady representatives defending retaliation attacks which damage homes and vehicles and, most importantly, the worth of real estate.
In the same week, police urge citizens to take photos of suspected terrorists with their phone cameras, then threaten the ban of phone cameras because faggots and paedophiles are using them in public change rooms. During an introduction by a newsreader, a hooded gunman aims at viewers, then vision of people in ski masks running across tyres or swinging on monkey bars, an empty desert in the background, everyone dressed in black and carrying guns, the tape no longer shocking, seen thousands of times over the past few years.
The nation is alternately in a state of euphoria or officially in mourning based on sporting results. Weather is all-important because of its potential to alter the results of outdoor sports games. After a dramatic turn of events, there are some hazy surveillance shots of a horse galloping on a private property off-limits to the media. A professional driver predicts tyres will play a key role in the outcome of an upcoming grand prix. A professional basketball player making over eight million dollars a year suggests a stipend may be necessary if players are to comply with a loose new dress code.
Survivors of a collapsed house are interviewed live, still in their pyjamas, and when it’s discovered their pets remain trapped inside, the television station organises for them to be fed via helicopter, and eventually rescued by a remote-controlled robot.
Two men narrowly escape from sharks, and within weeks a heavily promoted documentary series, Sharks on Trial, debuts to unprecedented ratings.
‘In an incredible show of bravery, a young man has run into a burning home to save an elderly resident. Tragically, the rescued man’s wife perished in the fierce blaze.’
Notorious murderers and arsonists and sadistic child sex offenders are on the loose, in your neighbourhood, a point further driven home during a live interview:
‘So he could be in your backyard right now?’
‘Yes, he could be in your backyard right now.’
‘One dead, three critical as experts warn of the dangers of laughing gas. What would you tell people who are thinking of inhaling this type of gas?’
‘It’s a fairly clear example of the risks associated with using this drug.’
‘Thanks. We’ll leave it there. After the break - getting a Brazilian – the French go down in the lead-up to the Soccer World Cup. And the Idol contestant possibly responsible for awakening car crash victim from coma – that’s next on the news.’
There is a debate about co-ed schools which fails to satisfy on even the most basic level.
A standard assessment by a football coach is interpreted as ‘playing mind games’.
The politician who ‘didn’t know’ it was illegal to be bribed.
‘Bushfires are a part of life.’
‘Most of us know the saying “you are what you eat,” but now, it’s where you eat which dictates what you are.’
‘“Would you like a baby with that?” A family got much more than a McHappy Meal when their baby girl was delivered in a McDonald’s car park.’
Kirstie Alley appears every ten minutes or so throughout the day. Models smile as they execute a revolutionary form of sit-up that doesn’t look particularly convincing. A stain walks off a shirt to address the camera. Commercials and Idol contestants play or sing my most hated songs with infuriating regularity: ‘River Deep, Mountain High’, ‘We Are Family’, ‘Things Can Only Get Better’.
‘How to avoid being a bag-snatch victim this holiday season – vital police tips revealed.’
‘How caffeine is good for your lives - how many cups a day you should be drinking when the news returns.’
‘Next - a great ambassador for anyone that was even thinking about getting pregnant.’
A woman testing an expensive new iron says, ‘It almost has a life of its own!’
‘How can we tell which moles and freckles are suspect?’
‘Yes, but don’t we get enough oxygen from breathing?’
‘Critical warning signs your best friend could be a terrorist.’
An electrical expert reveals to a housewife that by leaving her microwave on throughout the night, among other things, she is throwing away almost thirty dollars a year. ‘Oh my God,’ she says, genuine. ‘Thank you so much!’
Oprah’s most humiliating moment: ‘When I reached a size twenty.’
A three-year-old prodigy takes his seat opposite Jay Leno, who asks, ‘So, have you got another joke for us this time?’
An attractive female singer with only fleeting popularity is praised for not exploiting her body in film clips, and explains, ‘I’d rather let my soul do all the shaking’ to cheers from an entirely female audience.
Jessica Simpson is reassuring viewers about ‘the beauty inside of me and inside of us all.’
P. Diddy ‘had to make sure my sexy was all the way right.’
A reality TV contestant narrates a montage of her life, serving customers at a sandwich shop, saying, ‘The best part is serving the customers. I’m a people person.’
A personal trainer says to an overweight man, ‘Look at yourself! All you do is have fun and make people laugh. This has got to change!’
Recent college graduates compete for cherished positions in an elaborate game show, one eliminated each week after a tense argument, each contestant self-assured even while turning up late to meetings, making routine clerical errors, being confronted during demeaning tasks, and ultimately creating lifelong friendships. Analysts discuss what is and isn’t strategic behaviour from contestants, even though they’re chosen specifically because of their complete lack of lateral thought.
There is a biography dedicated to a singer who’s younger than me, where mostly gay people credited as comedians or writers - though it’s not made clear what they write or for whom and their main credentials seem to be that they possess a face, voice and two shoulders - make comments like, ‘I’ve heard the term a bad hair day, but she’s had a bad hair career,’ or, ‘It looked like I could sleep in that hair. It looked comfy. I just wanted to curl up there and have a little nap,’ or, ‘The big-hair period ended in the ’80s, honey.’ These observations are purposefully shown with continuity errors; the interview footage reversed, shown from opposite angles, or in black and white. Lightly playing in the background is a series of recognisable songs from the past decade which change at least four times per minute in unison with the editing.
‘Yeah, a strong show tonight,’ says a television host. ‘Something for everybody. First - two women are sacked from a top law firm after one extraordinary catfight. Their battleground – the office email. Tonight - a warning to everyone who sends emails.’
‘Still to come – the three-thousand dollar bra – but does price make it fit any better?’ (According to some bra experts interviewed later in the show, yes, it does.)
‘And our exclusive interview with The Hoff!’ (David Hasselhoff – who, it should be noted, not only created a media storm wherever he went and was referred to as ‘The Hoff’ for the whole week he was here, but gave several revealing interviews on live television programs for no apparent reason, ignited demand for Knight Rider and Baywatch re-runs, announced plans for a one-man stage show, and changed the entire landscape of the soft-drink wars in the country after appearing in advertisements for Pepsi.)
‘While at the moment most superbugs are still treatable, experts warn we’re not far off the day when we see a superbug that will not respond to any of our antibiotics.’
‘Success or failure in life – why it could all come down to your name and the name you choose for your children.’
‘Ants are so smart they don’t need traffic lights, traffic cops, or any controls to go about their daily lives.’
‘My eight-year-old is obsessed with kissing.’
‘A four-year-old branded obese by the system.’
‘The inspiring story of a woman who lost half her body weight.’
‘The girl who took her pet pooch to the prom.’
‘The new diet that almost sounds too good to be true!’
‘A night to inspire you!’
‘A great new show to get addicted to!’
An anonymous hand crunches up a fake contract, then throws it at a tiny basketball hoop and backboard connected to a trashcan. A seven-year-old re-enacts the stealing of his mother’s keys, then pretends to start her car. A reporter initiates a heated argument with a councillor, saying, ‘How could you give her a fine for writing For Sale on her car? This is ridiculous! But she’s a pensioner with a disabled son!’
The presenter, shaking his head, says, ‘Bureaucrats, bureaucrats, bureaucrats. And you won’t believe what happens next …’
The screen dissolves back to the reporter, now speaking directly to the camera, a trickle of blood coming from his nose and mouth, his voice nervous. ‘I’ve just been punched in the face by the henchman of a local council bureaucrat …’
Dramatic, sinister music plays as the camera zooms in for each word of an expert saying, ‘We’re living in an ocean of bacteria.’
Frequent exposes of those who are either cheating the system or defying it, of the grossly overweight or underweight, inspiring stories sometimes updated and usually forgotten.
Heated arguments regarding diet pills, health tips, weight-loss secrets, where and how to detox, when to start giving your children vitamins, the weekly butter versus margarine debate. Reignite your love life, look ten years younger, the obesity crisis in pets, surveillance shots of overweight children, ongoing epidemics and imminent pandemics.
You just can’t escape the fact that you do look better with a bit of colour on your skin.
Well, it’s the one thing nobody minds losing – weight.
It’s the one thing we can’t get enough of – money.
Christmas Day at under thirty dollars for the whole family.
Female teachers raping male students.
The GPs of sleaze.
Live funeral coverage, supermodels imparting wisdom while wearing lingerie, junk-mail victims, transit-lane turmoil, cut-price cosmetics, the autistic diet, cancer warning signs, the truth about a variety of subjects that never really bothered me before.
This happens on the very same programs where very serious journalists ask very controversial questions of very important politicians. My whole existence lacks credibility. By having this job I am essentially encouraging what I hate. There’s no escaping that I have sold out.
It is like struggling with some crushing physical task, something which one has the right to refuse and which one is nevertheless neurotically anxious to accomplish. Every letter I tap on a keyboard, every word I murmur, is a deliberate lie.
All my life I have built up a tolerance to this kind of bullshit. The country I live in is just big enough to be profitable and deranged enough to think it has this great identity, as if the rest of the world didn’t think of Paul Hogan or Steve Irwin drinking beer around a barbecue at its mention. The whole concept of pride merely because you were born in a specific place, as if you had anything to do with the feats of your ancestors, as if your lives were connected or similar in any way, only confuses me.
I start realising things, really obvious stuff, like there are too many fucking chefs on television, amid mild anxiety attacks. I find it hard to fathom how publicised movie run times can be so blatantly off target, how international studios can allow the release of foreign films featuring subtitles with incorrect translations or punctuation. Any empathy I may have had deteriorated long ago.
There is a brief shot of a media crew as a politician’s statement is edited in mid-sentence, his tone of voice obviously having changed, this somehow going to air. I look around the room to see if any of the new workmates notice – all female, none attractive – but they are oblivious. They’re too busy complaining about being either too bored or worked to death. They have these amazing fake smiles when they enter, and I’ve noticed without any real effort that they all wear thong underwear. A couple of them happily spend half their salary on cab fares to and from work, and they can sometimes be heard asking questions like, ‘Do we really need to see other people’s grief on TV?’
I’ve caught them squealing during emotional reunion stories and during ‘cute shots’ of important animals born at overseas zoos several times. Even if they’re excessively bubbly and energetic, I look at them and think: how could they be anything but virgins? Yet they answer phone calls and become likeable, however briefly, telling significant others what time they’ll be home, asking if they need to buy anything, all of this quite disturbing to me.
At the Christmas party, quite a few workmates separately boasted they considered themselves ‘over-educated misfits’ – which I guess, if you consider that I wouldn’t be caught dead with them in public and they have slightly higher vocabularies than the average person is an adequate way to describe an over-educated misfit, is pretty accurate.
Staying at work beyond my scheduled hours brings me no fulfilment. I have not made a difference; maybe never will. Sunday nights are filled with dread. Sometimes at work I shiver with rage, my eyes watering, head throbbing, mouth slightly open. All I seek is privacy, to be left alone. This type of anger cannot simply be eradicated through regular gym sessions or punching a boxing bag. It is constant, overwhelming.
And once every few months my rage subsides and the minor, pointless, insignificant parts of life have a huge affect on me – the average person smiling to themselves on the street, the victims of bullies, people watching television by themselves. The way people look when they’re eating alone and think no-one is watching them. The nervous laugh people have during conversations with someone they like. The way I must look when I’m sitting around, exhausted, post-orgasm, nothing to do. That pregnant chick I saw on Springer who wanted to become a prostitute. Poor, uneducated minorities in general. Teenagers in love. Parents watching children’s movies. Drinking alcohol for no apparent reason. Vacuous teenagers applying for jobs they won’t get. The way people walk to their one-bedroom apartments on Friday nights. The complete vulnerability of people when they’re alone, defenceless, yet seemingly comfortable and content.
I have learnt to appreciate the replay value of Bowling for Columbine and may have watched it more than any other person on the planet. I’ve also decided to stop going to the gym and that I will eat ‘bad’ food exclusively – another stage in my own little form of rebellion that began with buying black headphones for my iPod because I felt like a walking advertisement.
I drive home in heavy traffic, yelling obscenities at slow Asian drivers, listening to a radio station where the DJ’s gimmick is to speak like a, um, wolf, and to insert a wolf’s howl randomly into each song. Once home, I make anonymous complaints to a secretary I walked past just minutes earlier, write abusive letters to celebrities, send vicious emails to sportswriters, and go to websites that are blocked at work. My official reason for coming home during breaks is to save money by not buying food.
The parents are typically glued to TV screens talking about current issues like wonderdrugs and cancer cures with positive outlooks that might be available in a couple of centuries.
I walk in, asking through gritted teeth, ‘Hey, gang, what are we supposed to be scared of today?’
‘What? This is interesting,’ they say, as an expert is overheard saying the words ‘computer keyboard health scare’, which they pretend not to hear.
‘Sure it is,’ I say, breathing heavily, then start an argument I was always going to win.
These days, everything inside the house is clean and polished. The parents have lost a lot of weight and look younger than I’ve ever remembered them. Meals are consisting of strange vegetables I never knew existed. They warn me about ‘portion control’. I have a lot of long, cold showers. Mother, who now has short hair that sort of makes her look like a lesbian, started explaining a joke from Desperate Housewives, then stopped herself and asked, ‘Wait, do you know what S&M is?’
On the way back to work I notice my mortal enemy, still wearing his suit and with heavy make-up, about to get into a convertible. This is a man who has me subconsciously questioning every minor shopping purchase I make: Am I shopping in the wrong aisle? Did I remember to check the use-by date? Am I being deceived by bureaucrats? Could I have discovered more shock secrets from mysterious experts that the retailers don’t want me to know about?
Months ago he hosted a television show in a guest presenter capacity from the site of an infamous World War II battleground, introducing a video package about honour, undying love, sacrifice for the greater good. At its conclusion he said, ‘That’s emotional stuff, isn’t it?’ then, in the same breath, asked his small audience of backpackers, ‘Now, who likes a bargain?’ and presented the next video package, which mostly involved a shopping expert saving up to ten cents per item in tiny retail stores which was edited like a rap film clip.
This is a man who has encouraged me, and no doubt thousands of others, into worrying what germs and viruses I may or may not be contracting when opening doors or pressing elevator buttons or tapping keyboards or using gym equipment. This is a man I have witnessed for too long, a man who has made media clichés cloud my mind, every word I hear cringe-worthy, any dialogue unbearable.
‘Saw the show tonight,’ I say, approaching him, masking my contempt with this really obvious smile.
‘Thanks,’ he says.
I look over my shoulder, then turn back to him. ‘What, did someone fucking congratulate you? Certainly wasn’t me.’
‘Who are you?’ he asks. ‘Have I met you before?’
I reach into my back pocket and pull out my security card, holding it far enough away so he can’t read which department I’m from. He offers his hand, grinning. ‘Thought I’d seen you around.’
Horrified, but still glaring at him, I back away, and when he lets out his trademarked smug laugh and winks at me is when I turn around and run.
And after a couple of boring hours at work, I just drive around for a while to erase this encounter from my memory, listening to the radio, where I come across a hilarious song titled ‘My Humps’ - an over-the-top hip-hop track presumably sung by a black chick, complete with generic backing music and aggressively slutty lyrics, the title character even threatening to ‘start some drama’ and chirping a mind-numbing, repetitive chorus about her body parts; the kind of satirical exaggeration that has been strangely ignored from comedic radio for years and maybe, just maybe, sheds some kind of hope for radio, the music industry, or life in general; or so I thought for several hours – time in which I managed to jerk off to an episode of Stripperella, then become so impressed with the personal quotes on Stephen King’s IMDb page that I immediately ordered half his books – when I remembered the song, typed it into a search engine and, to my horror, discovered it was real: not a joke, not satirical, actually a genuine song recorded and released by genuine millionaires and, briefly, genuinely the most popular song in the world.
