Rudely Interrupted

Sometimes people you know do things that make you feel...bloody jealous, actually.

My friend Wolvo went to a BBQ a couple of years back and met this bloke who had just started a band. Every second dude you meet has just started a band, so what? This is no ordinary rock band, though. The other band members have some form of mental or physical disability. Unlike many bands all are excellent musicians. They call themselves Rudely Interrupted. Nice story so far.

But there's so much more. The Wolvo machine swung into action, taking over promotion, bookings and road managing. When he relocated to Brooklyn he managed to talk his way into a gig for them at the UN in New York. It's understandable how the feeble minds of the UN were powerless in the face of his charming ways - I have fallen under his spell many times myself.

On December 3rd Rudely Interrupted played at the UN. First rock band ever to do so. In your face, Irish super group. That night they played a gig in Brooklyn, and the next night in Manhattan, then in Canada and then a few gigs in the UK before heading home. The reviews have been brilliant ('...they're already leaps and bounds ahead of Jet' is my favourite).

Every good band needs two things - talent and a hook. The Smiths' hook was being the most miserable band in the world. Bon Jovi's was being the hairiest, although Def Leppard may want to rumble for that title, and what an excellent fight card that would make. The Rudie's hook is just more real than most.

Rudely Interrupted are sniffing around for a record deal. Rock on.

No Spec for me, thanks

I'm not talking about the fatty meat from a pig-obsessed corner of Europe. I can't think of a reason for ever saying no to more of that.

I'm talking about the kind of spec that involves me as a freelancer being expected to provide copy without contract or promise of payment, while simultaneously being asked to believe that if the 'editor' wants to use it they will then pay me for it. Sure you will.

This has been a hot topic on freelance writing sites since Al Gore invented the internoodle. Knocking out 1000 words and then trying to sell it to someone is the least efficient way to make a living as a freelance writer. Or the most efficient way to ensure a beans on toast dinner. Every night. Forever.

No, freelancers like certainty in their lives. Coffee. Gin. Tax deductible office goods. A buyer contracted to purchase your work before you get out of bed.

But with more and more people getting into freelancing (thanks to Al and his magical communication device) and the publishing world changing too, the economics have gone to pot. It's gotten so bad that there are people bidding for jobs for as low as a cent a word. A cent! That's a whole tenner for 1000 words of carefully conceived and thoughtfully bled-over copy. Who are these writers?

They're students, or people in countries where $10 is actually $200 and English is not the first language. So much for quality. Every time one of these low-rent scribblers takes on a job for this price the global slouch of writers suffers. That editor, and every editor they tell, will never pay full price again, and will probably want their car washed too.

A situation born of the noodle is now being attacked by the noodle. Freelancers are now harnessing their collective powers and energies against the evil spec by err, complaining a lot, selling t-shirts and designing posters (on spec, it has to be said).



Actually they're fighting the good fight. Good on them. I can't see how they can win, though. When supply presents itself to demand with legs akimbo even Marilyn standing over a metro grill won't distract from a fast and dirty consummation.

How was your day, honey?

A bad day at work for me might involve a little extra deadline stress, an act of physical ineptitude involving a stapler and holes in my finger or a colleague going off message and off the planet. All retrievable situations and nothing that a stiff aperitif won't alleviate.



My white-collared brain reels at how bad this day was for two Qantas workers moving a couple of planes about. Stabbing the nose of one plane with the wing of another is surely as average a day as anyone doing that job has ever had. The moment it happened must have been an out of body experience for those in the cockpit, although I sense the bloke pictured wiping away tears of laughter wasn't one of them.

I've bumper-kissed the odd car when attempting to reverse park, and that's more than enough machine-on-machine action for me, but there's no bill attached to that clumsy work. This is going to cost Qantas millions, unless there is a Super Cheap Aero store somewhere that stocks 747 noses and wing repair kits.

The next performance review for those involved will undoubtedly be a sweaty-palmed affair.

Ten minutes of fame for seven months of sit-down

There is a widely reported, and frankly confusing, story doing the rounds of a Japanese national Hiroshi Nohara who has been sitting quietly in Terminal 1 of the Benito Juarez International Airport in Mexico City since September 2nd. Until his visa runs out in March he is breaking no laws and cannot be sent home.

This raises some perplexing questions. Most obvious is 'What the hell are you doing Hiroshi?' His response to that is 'I don't have a reason'.

I have wrestled with this answer, wrestled with it long and hard when I should have been doing other equally trivial things. This is surely a man in a dark place. He doesn't know why he has imprisoned himself in an airport food court but stays anyway.

But is he really as mad as his answer seems to be? I can think of dozens of things I do that I can't explain. When I drink coffee I have to wait and let the sugar grains sink through the crema in their own good time. In moments of extreme joy I have a tendency to moonwalk long distances. Why? I don't have a reason.

Maybe Hiroshi likes the airport, or perhaps he doesn't like Japan very much. Whatever his motivation is for squatting in an international airport doesn't really matter, although I am desperately hoping for a Mexican love-interest being pursued by bandidos to appear somewhere in this story.

Hiroshi is where he wants to be, even if he doesn't know why. I've heard of worse situations.

What is a Scribulator?

It's a blog name that hasn't already been taken. It's not a real word as far as I can tell, but it's now a real place. It may become my alter-ego and tax shelter. Let's see what happens. If Marvin the Martian was a writer he would use a scribulator.

If it's good enough for him, it's good enough for me.