A WebChat with Stevie Wonder

_{MODERATOR: We'll begin. All questions and responses are moderated, mind you! First question is from RuggaTug22.}

_{RuggaTug22: OMG!}

_{MODERATOR: Go ahead RugaTug22.}

_{RugaTug22: First of all, let me just say that I am honored to chat with you! Your music has been so inspirational and a major part of my}

_{STEVIE: dwf}

_{RugaTug22: life for as long}

_{STEVIE: weq23}

_{RugaTug22: as I can remember. In fact, when I married my}

_{STEVIE: awdfk sc dsadd}

_{RugaTug22: wife}

_{STEVIE: ZXqasd=oge\]p}

_{STEVIE: x}

_{RugaTug22: Uh??????}

_{MODERATOR: Go ahead RugaTug22.}

_{RugaTug22: When I married my wife, the song we chose to start the reception}

_{STEVIE: krgqe}

_{STEVIE: f}

_{STEVIE: ;'}

_{RugaTug22: ?????????????????????}

_{MODERATOR: Hold on RugaTug22.}

_{RugaTug22: What's the deal?}

_{MODERATOR: Hold on.}

_{STEVIE: c, .v}

_{MODERATOR: Hold on...}

_{RugaTug22: ?}

_{MODERATOR: I'm sending him an IM, hold on.}

_{STEVIE: ,mm=}

_STEVIE:

_{STEVIE: jjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj}

_{STEVIE has left the chat.}

_{MODERATOR: We have Kevin Federline next week.}

_{***THIS CHAT HAS BEEN TERMINATED BY THE MODERATOR***}

_{Okay. Here's one thing that's always defied explanation for me.}

_{Why is it that girls that have, shall I say, 'amply proportioned gluteii' and yet choose to wear those skin-tight black gym pants honestly believe that by tying a bulky jumper around their waist this will effectively camouflage the body part in question?}

_{Now call me a a bit of a realist here, but I'm fairly sure that coating your bum in something that looks like it started it's life as a black proctologists glove with some of the fingers missing is not going to be the most flattering fashion scenario for any female self-conscious about her own figure.}

_{Given the already tenuously sartorial situation above, why on earth would you combine that with the unwanted attention of a midriff-secured 'Daryl Somers special'?}

<sub>Monday is here again.
Only this time it's a little...different.

The past weeks have found me to be quite disaffected by my current role. Now (with a nod in Will Shakespeare's direction), here's the rub; this was ironically due to my having done a middle management course, and from said learning crystallised my own ideas of what should form the basis of effective management. The end result was that I started to question my own immediate superior's ethics and methods.
One doesn't really need to don a cloth cap and wander around peering at things with an oversized magnifying glass to realise I didn't much like the results.

Initially I did have my own tentative ideas, but these were later clarified by what I learned during the course, that a chasm roughly the size of (this should keep the male readership of my journal interested), Jessica Alba's cleavage exists between what comprises a 'Manager', and a 'Leader'.
And unfortunately I want to be led...and inspired...and motivated, not just managed.

My initial solution to all this was just to sit idly by until my productivity curve resembled one of those water slides that are capable of inducing a few seconds of freefall, but culminate in you trying to retrieve your board shorts/bikini bottoms from the crack of your bum in front of a crowd of complete strangers. However, instead of this, I decided to clasp destiny firmly by its Morrissey lapels (my destiny has its own stylist), and wandered into the office of another director on the flimsy pretext of saying hello and commenting on what a lovely view of the construction site he had. End result; I commence in his team in around 4 weeks.
Yes, dear reader, there is now light at the end of the corporate tunnel for yours truly.

And contrary to popular belief, it's not an approaching locomotive.</sub>

<sub>I was looking at Dar's car. Which is way cool.

And then I realised I'd banged on a bit about mine.

So i'm taking a leaf out of her book.

Here's 2 pics of what I bought with my hard-earned beans. I hope you like it.</sub>

It's a rather disgruntled form that greets you this morning. I feel a little like 'lumpy' (my human beanbag representative), down there.

Perhaps it's the fact that I'm listening to 'Premiers Symptomes' by Air at the moment.
It's a well-known fact that 9 out of 10 doctors advise against listening to French house music if your mood can be classed as anything but ecstatic (or 'enthousiaste', if you prefer to use the Gallian vernacular). I'm tempted to wonder if that last disagreeable Doctor knows something we don't. My guess is he's probably got some deep-seated French patriotism that needs to be worked through. Or possibly a penchant for vanilla Yoplait.

Even thought I may have inadvertently explained the mood differential of one unfortunate garlic snail-eating GP, none of the above musical (and perhaps slightly philosophical), verbal meanderings shed any light on explaining my rather bland state of mind.
However, I shall try and rise above it for a brief time (what am I, manic depressive?!), and regale you with positive things that have happened recently.

I bought a car. It's quite a nice car. A car that doesn't have an oversized playboy symbol on the rear window, a bumper sticker proclaiming that any girl with a prodigious body mass would unfortunately be precluded entry, or a baseless claim that I do in fact 'own the road'.
No, this car just sits there at the traffic lights and in it's own understated way quietly lets you know that it feels real empathy for you and your Barina and wishes there was something it could to help but unfortunately it's hands are tied.
In fact, I'm sure if it did have hands it would put them around your car and give it one of those hugs that someone gives you after you've just hurt yourself rather badly whilst attempting to show off in front of your friends.
Oh, and it has leather seats. Which raises yet another thought-provoking question.
Why is it people strive to buy a car with the above luxury option, but given the much more cost effective alternative of driving around whilst wearing a pair of leather pants (which I'm told is rather similar), would rather take as job as Anna-Nicole Smith's interpreter than suffer that particular indignity?.
I think there's something in that for all of us.

Last weekend was also my little guy's 4th birthday. This incredibly exclusive (black diaper only), social event was held last Sunday at KidCity (much better than the originally slated name 'Juvenile Hall', which unfortunately didn't have quite the same ring to it).
A grand total of 18 children gained access to the party. Security was extremely tight on the day, with a number of children being refused entry due to them failing the ID requirements. Unfortunately, a signed crayon drawing of a dog standing next to a house with the sun shining over it cannot be classed as adequate.
There was also some initial confusion with the security team when one of the Fisher Price walkie talkies failed, but this was quickly resolved when fresh batteries arrived shortly after.
Naturally the paparazzi made their presence felt, with the main question being who Connor was bringing to the event. After speaking with his publicist the day before, he decided to play it safe and come with his parents. In hindsight, a very wise move from a publicity standpoint.
Lunch was held in the 'Space' room, and the view of the the entire galaxy during the meal was spectacular.
Even though the context is extremely tempting, I shall refrain from doing the usual 'Uranus' joke here, due to the age group involved.
Connor received a number of extremely thoughtful and fun presents, all of which have now been reduced to wires, bits of plastic and tiny lego blocks and stacked in completely irrelevant piles in his room.
I'm assuming at some point I will need to reconstitute these items.
Maybe I'll build a Lego time machine.

Well, my blood sugar level is dropping rapidly, so I'm off. I hope (dear reader), that this has given you another insight into the inner workings of my mind. Or possibly amused you for a few minutes.

Hmm...wonder if the cafe sells Yoplait...

This is a cold, cold town. It seems the more glacial Canberra gets, the more lethargic I become.
Alternatively, my mind is also a little overcast today, so that could explain these feelings of malcontent. I'm sure a tropical climate would be far more conducive to productivity.
Well, mine anyway.

More often these days, I sit and contemplate whilst staring out of the window (yes, it's a well known fact that these two activities go hand-in-hand), the fact that I could be home in bed. Or better yet, piggybacking my kids around the beach of some far-flung Hawaiian atoll with my only worries being which pool will be warmer today (usually the one with the highest concentration of small children - to be avoided), or where to have our lunch delivered; the beach or the Cabana.
Unfortunately at this point, someone normally arrives at my desk and brings me back from this reverie with an inane question about budget projections or software packaging.
Thankyou so much, kind stranger.

It could also be a 'grass is always greener' scenario.
Perhaps people in Rio De Janeiro fantasise about living somewhere overcast and grey?
Are their residents sick of having sand and coconut tanning oil covering everything, and long to pull a chunky knitted jumper out of the bottom drawer of the tallboy?
Do their buttocks yearn to be swathed in a pair of grandma-style passion killers instead of something resembling cotton dental floss that occasionally need to be removed surgically?
Who knows.

Speaking of knitted jumpers (seems like a good segway to me); what in the name of all things holy is Daryl Somers doing back on television? I thought he was dead.
Admittedly his complexion does bear a striking resemblance to someone that has been frozen and thawed out recently.
Perhaps Channel Nine have their own secret cryogenics lab, and intend to roll out Graham Kennedy in the near future for an "Hilarious Family-Orientated Variety Show"'.
I can hardly wait.

Nick and I nearly got a chance to play at being idiots in front of a large crowd this weekend, but unfortunately it didn't eventuate as the siren song of B-Bar beckoned. Would have been kinda cool though. Especially when he realises I'm not actually a real DJ, and only own three vinyl records and a CD that I found on the front of a Dolly magazine.
Still, it's surprising how far the 'Ghostbusters' soundtrack, 'Best of Cold Chisel' and 'Summer Sampler '2003' will get you in this town.



Hey, don't forget to remember our diggers on Anzac Day either.
They died to make our country what it is today. In my humble opinion, one of the best places in the world to live.
So spare them a thought.

K, that's my patriotic diatribe over. Now go enjoy yourselves.

Well, after much cajoling and prodding, I have decided to revisit my journal.
Much has happened since my last entry, so I shall attempt to plumb the psychological innards of my very being and display them before you like some bizarre human smorgasbord. I imagine it would look something like a Haggis turned inside out.

Lately, I have been in two minds as to whether I'm still enjoying this job. On the one hand, their confidence in my abilities is ever-present and bolstered by an undaunted desire to plug me into any training course that seems vaguely representative of my current role.
However, (and this is the annoying part), I am really starting to doubt whether I'm cut out to be a public servant. I realise this may make me sound extremely elitist (and possibly a little superficial), but I really don't feel like I fit in with the Henrietta Highpants's or Craig Chainsmoker's that seem to make up the general population of this organisation.
"Am I wasting myself?", is the current million-dollar question.

To add weight to the negative, I have daily dealings with people in positions of moderate power that have no clue as to what their role entails, yet harbour little or no desire to increase their knowledge base or skill-set for fear (and here I am assuming), it may entail a higher level of responsibility. Perhaps I am the product of a different mindset, and was born after that 'lifetime of service' generation where people stayed in the same role their entire life. Nothing would make me consider suicide faster should I have to suffer the same fate.
Process of attrition scares me. On the upside, if I stay here long enough I may end up as commissioner.

I'm sure the news that I quit North at the beginning of the year has filtered down to most people in my circle of influence. New Years eve was the icing on the cake for me. I consider myself to be an ok DJ, but don't believe I should have to suffer the slings and arrows (read 'spilt beer and dickheads'), of outrageous fortune. I had been at North for over 2 years, and figured it was time for a change. Fortunately I ran into Nick who gave me a call a few days later and told me they were looking for someone to play at B-Bar on Saturdays. Why is it some things just seem to be predestined. Weird.
So I now do Saturdays at B-Bar. What a venue. What a sound system. People dance! *shakes reader furiously by the shoulders* They dance, do you hear me!. I'm sorry, it's just been a while since I felt like people appreciated what I play.

On a rather melancholy note, my grandfather passed away a couple of weeks ago. He was 93, but even so, it was still unexpected as he was in excellent health for a man his age. Nevertheless, my grandmother is an absolute rock, and has been carrying on with her life with the same degree of voracity. What a trooper.
Not meaning to sound preachy here, but don't put off today what you may not be able to do tomorrow. I'm kicking myself that he never got to see my daughter before he passed away.
Learn from another's mistakes.
Err...I think I hear gospel music coming from somewhere, so I'd better stop.

For those who know me on a personal level, my little girl turns 2 on Sunday. We're having a birthday party, where I believe she will attempt to whack the hell out of a 'Dora the Explorer' piñata until it rains down lollies on her paper-hatted head. Pictures shall hopefully be posted.
Connor started pre-pre school (that's not a typo), about 5 weeks ago. He goes 2 days a week and already has a girlfriend. Apparently her name is Erin and she talks a lot. I'm not sure whether I should be concerned at this point, so I'll play it by ear.

Look at me playing at being a parent. :o)


ok, I think you've had enuff now.