E-mail originally written & sent home in Nov 2004 – a time when the good luck ran low. Makes you wonder about karma.
As Dusty Springfield and the Pet Shop Boys so eloquently and groovily put it “What have I, what have I, what have I done to deserve this?”. Wish it’d been a bit more “Girls, boys, arts, pleasure. Paninaro, paninaro, oh oh oh”.
WHERE AM I? I’m still in Auckland (for the mo) – I’ve been ‘fired-slash-made redundant-slash-really-the-best-thing-that-ever-happened-to-me-in-a-blessing-in-a-disguise-sorta-way (well, it will be once I have the advantage of hindsight).
So why… why? What could I possibly have done to lose my Directors job, sponsorship and visa-combo? Nothing titillating, more a case of unfair dismissal. Nothing to do with fact I would say into the comms (talkback for all you Brits) at 7am on a Sunday morning “Can someone shoot that rainbow as a transition” and the producer would retort “Lisa, you’re at work now, it’s time to come down” into everyone’s headsets. Oh well, not a bad innings really… I lasted through one front-page sex scandal, one naked wrap-party extravaganza, and one wholly nasty 9 months making some shows which verged on porn, working for the most sociopathic tv bitch in the world. And I’m certain that is a fact. No other ‘do or die’ company’s attitude could possibly compare.
Ah, one problem – the production company had sponsored my ass and therefore owned my ass.
No job = No visa to stay in New Zealand.
Fuck it, have decided am gonna risk it and stay another 2 months. What they gonna do? Stamp me an overstayer and stop me coming back in the country?
My biggest regret about leaving that company before the Christmas office party is that I never got to have a ‘locationship’ (ie fling with crew member or presenter that only lasts as long as the show) or to speak (ie throw myself) on my office crush.
Aah, my office crush mmm. He’s a writer that always wears black and is oh-so-aloof-and-brooding. I had created an entire persona around this guy. I even decided he’s really into Kerouac, Dylan and Nick Drake. I know the fantasy would’ve been shattered if I ever actually communicated with him.
I have only ever said one sentence to him. Once I gave him a lift down the road and for some reason said “I don’t think that door opens”…
… as he opened the back door to my car and got in.
Recently I heard recently he can’t write, is really arrogant and obnoxious out of work and has halitosis. This was obviously just an acute case of ‘library goggles’ such as you’d get at University when just by being in a library/ book shop/ art gallery/ etc it made you find everyone attractive – breeding grounds for the thinking girl’s crumpet. Yes, I referred to myself as a thinking girl.
Still, it doesn’t stop me from calling the bird who sits next to him to ask her what he’s wearing every day. Don’t know why I bother. It’s always black. Oh, he is oh-so-aloof-and-mysterious*.
*stalking people via telephone is not something I make a habit of**
**that is a downright lie
THE GLASS IS ALWAYS HALF GREENER
The whole time I worked there I hated it and wanted out (of working all weekend particularly). Well, I got my wish. I always thought I had a grass is half empty / glass is greener mentality (you get it?) and worried now I would be bored being unemployed. But, oh no! The grass really is greener in New Zealand than anywhere else, let me tell you. Especially when the sun is going down.
Since clearing my desk and stealing a ‘Once Were Warriors’ DVD, rolla-tippex, and a note cube (ha, fuck you, think you can fire me?) I’ve remembered why I fell in love with NZ and the country. I have spent the time climbing through bush to secluded waterfalls and holes, bathing, fishing, eating, camping, tripping, sunning, drinking and being very merry indeed in the southern hemisphere. But that sort of stuff is boring so I won’t tell you about the nice times. Yawn.
All good until I had a run of bad luck…
Bad luck can come in all sorts of imaginative shapes and forms. This week has been record breaking. Recently I have…
– lost my job
– lost my visa to be in the country
– had my entire bag stolen with my pal Creative Nomad (mp3 jukebox containing 3000 tracks), mobile phone with all my tel numbers (just before Christmas) and my cash and cards
– ‘broken’ my bedroom by falling out of bed twice (once an accident, but twice idiocy?), so pulled all the electrics out of the wall
– permanently scarred left eye, back and ass cheek from cuts and wounds from aforementioned bed mishap
– burned a huge hickey effect on my neck with 200 degree straightening irons (always a good look for interviews)
– found out that the car I bought for $1500 to replace the one that I just T boned a cop with is in fact crap and won’t work – now own 2 written off VWs
– oh, and today I got electrocuted and set on fire in my very own bed from fucked up wiring hanging out my wall.- yes, I was actually on fire
Yeees, you’ll notice a recurrent theme of self-induced harm (mostly).
Not forgetting the most expensive kebab in the world that cost me $1300 when the shark in ‘Groovy Kebab’ held back my card and watched my PIN. They actually put a photo of the guy holding my card at the cashpoint in the papers, but he is now wanted for fraud, has fled to India and is never allowed to return to NZ (maybe I’ll bump into him?).
1 DOOR CLOSES & 2 LEGS OPEN
Still, even though through a succession of bad luck it has only been financial and even though I’ve lost all my hard earned cash, as I’ve met a 40 year old Spanish DJ who there was an article on in the papers for customising a Chopper (think BMX, not axe) for his 5 year old son. He looks like Motley Crue’s Tommy Lee in every way (by the way, their biog ‘The Dirt’ is one of the funniest books I’ve ever read – call me sheltered).
I think if he didn’t have such a filthy hispanic accent he wouldn’t be nearly as sexy. He likes to say “I like-ah to fuck-ah. I am a good fuck. Are you a good fuck-ah? Fucking is good, no?”..Yes!
We met when he bought my door… yes, he bought my door.
He was walking past my house and I spotted him staring at my smashed up Vdub (from the earlier slamming-head-on-into-a-police-woman-incident). He has the same reg car and needed the door.
So I gave it to him.
A little while later and I bumped into him dj-ing at a club. ‘I bought your door’ he said.
So I gave it to him.
My phone needs to have a childlock on it after midnight. Text flirting gives pussies courage, which is not always a good thing. Misinterpretation of tone and false courage = DISASTER. Here’s an example of how you can misuse the tool and lose your power and cool in 1 measley second.
02.17 CESAR (AKA CARLITO BONITO): sorry i left lisa im a bit tired and sober for party
02.46 (left a reasonable amount of time, keeping cool) LISA (AKA BONITA APPLEBUM): lo siento tambien una dia de una borachera pero creo que to es atractivo pero con problemas
(transl: I am sorry also a day of a drunk but I think you are attractive but with problems)
02.55 CESAR: gracias. Im a bit all over the place but I dont have serious problems
03.00 LISA: ok and I am sorry for you. Its all clout time. good luck
03.01 CESAR: I hope you don’t say good luck like goodbye…
(all good he’s keen)
03.05 LISA: why? What do you want? No relationship was ever bourne out of this
(for some reason spelt born like Bourne Supremacy, which really annoyed me the next day)
03.06 CESAR: as far as I knew we r becoming friends
(oh dear, all gone tits up)
03.08 LISA: am eating cookies and choc so happy
(er, yes, genius, superb change of subject)
03.07 CESAR: I’m drinking coffee and smoking joint happy 2 ps like my uppers & downers
03.09 LISA: good
(but I’m not a monosyllabic girl, so…)
03.13 LISA: tryin to make sense of drunk lisa is like tryin to count pain drops. What a day for a festival
(can only assume I meant ‘rain’ and what festival? – the festival inside my head or my phone?)
Oh well, lucky we’ve had an addition to the house after thoroughly confusing the Spanish fly…
1x Kramer-esque character who doesn’t actually live here, but might as well do – pops in and out willy nilly (in more ways than one). Stores crates of organic beer under the house. Plants and cultivates marijuana plants around the area. Oh, and has been my fuck buddy for since the day he arrived back in NZ after spending 3 years away. I’m still not completely convinced this can work platonically with nobody getting jealous, but as I’m more attracted to his brain than his brawn I think I can handle it. Mi casa es tu casa, mi cama tu cama indeed.