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Apr. 8th, 2012 05:22 pm
beesknees: (Watchmen - Dan & Laurie)
shot_1333731424274

On Friday, meandering toward Moorgate Station, we happened upon the current Occupy London site, in Finsbury Square. Our first reaction: oh, this is still a thing? Huh.

We had a look at their movie screen and literature, and the only person who spoke to us quite nicely said we could take anything we wanted. Still, after a minute: “You wanna go in and look around?” “Do you?” “…nah.” “Me neither.”

15-year-old me would have chopped off a finger for the opportunity to meet real crusty hippies doing the protest/commune thing. The Greening of America was probably my first tentative step into semi-contemporary critical theory (in a town where visibly reading Plato or Descartes would be seen as dangerously subversive), and I believed every crazy word…aside from questioning how the counterculture’s supposed embrace of mass-produced clothing (in opposition to the square world’s fetishising of the imported handmade, doncha know) fit with their utter rejection of holding down something so regimented and dehumanising as factory work.

But in real life that counterculture vibe wasn't enticing. Adam Curtis has a much more interesting, if glass-half-empty, exploration of counterculture commune systems, how whatever lofty goals get subsumed into the mundane, the struggles of dominant personalities to stay that way opposed to the simple human needs for food and hygiene and who exactly is going to provide that. And if you’re going to have self-important wankers ordering you around and worry about Maslow's wide bottom, you may as well get a 9-5 and exercise your protesting bone leaving angry comments below Guardian articles and your asshole libertarian cousin’s facebook posts.

Hell, look at that sign. Even for idealistic crusties, injustice is a third-tier priority, below hygiene and regular meals.

I'm old and insecurely employed, and all I care about is that the people who clean bathrooms and produce food should get a good wage for doing it and be protected against the spiritual children of Gordon Gecko...not waste time and effort arguing over who is allowed to camp where under what circumstances in order to vaguely irritate the financial district. Somewhen, retro-adolescent-me is dreading who she'll grow into. Sorry, kiddo.
beesknees: (sanguine (by waywardgaze))
Six years on, it’s less workable to share an email address. At least while both of us are jobsearching and every agency demands a unique address. And I still have the old fivecups one, but it’s spam central after ten years (which, hells bells, a decade?) and I hate hotmail a whole bunch, so tonight I have spent a solid twenty minutes first trying to come up a with a professional-sounding gmail username not already taken, and then any name at all not already taken. Why are there so many people with my exact name? And they all use gmail? We should have conventions!

Btw, [personal profile] commonpeople, thanks for the reccy – I had a nice chat with one of that agency’s reps on Friday and am coming in to see them later this week. Crossing fingers.

Had a big two days’ work this week, which were productive in that they confirmed that I do not want anything to do with medical admin work ever again, thank ya kindly. Because we are responsible people with bills to pay, that entire paycheck has already been eaten up by an order of beer kits and dinner out with awesome friends-of-friends. Woo hoo!

Along with more fruitless applications than I’d prefer, it has been a week of reading library books and watching (mostly B-, C-, and D-grade) films, since we took an anti-Tesco stand and switched our dvd service to Lovefilm. I love it when political grandstanding comes with streaming video! So this week we’ve revisited the nightmare-inducing traumas of our childhoods (Return of the Living Dead and The Blob, respectively), discovering that one of them holds up surprisingly well, and one of us was a very, very silly 10 year-old for sleeping between her mattresses so the heavy metal zombies couldn’t find her.

About the time I got that hotmail address, a goth-king lent me his copy of the first Transmetropolitan, insisting it would change my life. Unfortunately, I was moving, and also very careless in general, and it probably got mixed in with my goth-princeling boyfriend’s comics, never to be found or returned. The husband found it in the library and brought it home to me last week…left me wishing I’d read it that first time, or ten years before that. His intro story I actually really liked; it captured the whole point of the 90s anti-hero: the world is horrible, and only someone even more horrible can navigate it to find the potential for decency that the less corrupt could save and nurture. Y’know, the trope the Operative is riffing on…he (and it’s nearly always gendered he) tries to bring about the better world he can have no part of.

Except I’m old, and I’ve dated and been these guys, and they want the horrible, horrible world they see to stay just the way it is, to keep their oddly privileged place in it secure, and thus I was annoyed by the rest of the comic where Spider Jerusalem mostly got high and watched tv and had bodily functions on bystanders. Oh, to have read this at 13 rather than 33…would have been the only riotgrrl in Lanco.

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June 2012

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