Harold Bishop has a posse

The Rae St Institute > Blog archive > The Firebombing of Dresden (and other Swedish Interior Design conspiracies)

The story of how the Firebombing of Dresden, a morning at St Andrews Market and a devoutly religious tourist in the wrong place at the wrong time resulted in me gaining the nickname of The Reverend is one that I don't intend to elaborate upon here, as it is neither sufficiently Kurt-Vonnegut-weird, nor stand-alone-concise to work in a context like this. If I was a pomo novelist of Vonnegut's calibre maybe I could make something of it, but instead its only use will be a frustratingly vague and most-likely unnecessary entry point to a bunch of random thoughts.

Suffice it to say the opening 2 minutes of Sibelius' Finlandia combined with 2.35:1 70mm aerial photography (from, say, 25,000ft) of an ocean of flames1 has absolutely fuck-all to do with hippie-chic Sunday markets north-east of Melbourne, or backpackers for that matter.

Actually the last couple of days has been more absolute silence than Sibelius or oceans of fire (but for the hum of an air-conditioner and the unholy quantity of equipment in this room)... and recovering from an incident which saw Friday night trailing out to being on the wrong side of the Yarra until very late Saturday night; at a time when I've got more work to do than is either reasonable or reasonably possible. Seriously considering getting a deadlock here and locking myself in proper; food passed under the door till the end of the month.

It's most definitely the wrong time for:
  • clients to be uploading "HTML" they "created" with Microsoft Word and then ringing me to whinge when it doesn't work. (this happens all the time, even though I repeatedly tell every client not to do it)
  • me to be going out on the weekends - like at all.
  • me to be living on limited sleep - I really need to try to be good to myself.
  • me to be getting a reasonable amount of sleep - I don't have the time.
In essence give me two weeks and my head will be as scattered and logically fucked up as Slaughterhouse 5; the time and space travel2 is already taken care of.

My housemate went shopping at Ikea on the weekend.

If I was the paranoid type, I'd smell a massive nordic conspiracy. My housemate drinks; he goes out on sessions. He plays Johnny Cash at 110% volume all afternoon on Sundays while drinking longnecks in the backyard and fighting.

He doesn't buy stuff from Ikea. He doesn't wander into that (Hitchcock/Saul Bass + David Fincher/Chuck Palahniuk)-esque spiral of consumerist despair looking for that perfect cleanly-designed artefact to complement the Lounge Room decor. Fuck, we don't DO decor in this house. And he certainly doesn't buy self-assembly stuff when I'm in questionable condition on the other side of the city (I'm the one who builds/fixes stuff here), and unlikely to return for some time, and even when I do there's no way I'll be capable of constructing household items with names like "Orgel" or "Svenarp"3. But now we have a new lamp in the dining room, and he's spent the last two days repeatedly saying "How cool is that lamp?".



... currently sweeping our house for Swedish Intelligence Service surveillance devices and checking for any swedish text in network traffic to and from my housemate's computer.
1 - Incidentally this isn't a reference to anything in particular, it's just how I'd shoot said Firebombing
2 - ... these are both euphemisms I may explain in the future.
3 - Ikea doesn't apparently exist in SA, the NT or Tasmania. All three states have just increased their ranking. http://www.ikea.com/ms/en_AU/

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