captlychee: (Default)

It’s rolled around to this time of year again, as it does roughly every 365 days, 5 hours, 48 minutes and 46 seconds or so.and it’s November 27th again, and by now you should know what that means. It means I’m going to have a review of how the ol’ ATO is going and what it’s doing to the few people I know who still work for, at, with, through, on and within it.

So, at least two, but maybe more, of my mates are still in durance vile to the forces of revenue collection and they’re not having a good time of it. Increased emphasis on sexual harassment has increased the non-sexual harassment, and in any case the sexual harassment of women by men is much less common than it was. Sexual harassment of men by women is still regarded, possibly even deemed, to be impossible. Same sex harassment is unknown.

An, or perhaps another, impact of the Internet is that many of the Indians hired by the ATO for public contact purposes can no longer do those jobs and, far from being dismissed by an employer that is supposed to reduce its costs, have been promoted to the point where they don’t have public contact, or any contact at all, even with other ATO drudges.

The reason for this is that, when members of the public are called by persons with an Indian accent saying they’re from the ATO, rspnsible citizines (which I will introduce as a replacement word for 'citizen' because, even though it started out as a typo, it describes the idea of a person and their associated data being the entity under discussion. People are sort of like magazines filled with details) hang up. In theory, you would dismiss someone who couldn’t do their job, but you can’t really sack someone for having an untrustworethy accent. You shouldn’t hire them in the first place. But to promote them for it? And, wasn’t there a condition of the Public Service Act (1997) as amended that required people to be Australian citizens? Now they’re hiring Indians for the job? It’s not as if Hindi were the Spanish of Australia—yet.

So, so much for the ATO. Still a crap place to work, and I wouldn’t last too long there these days. On to more pleasant stuff.

Last year, we celebrated mine and Kelva’s 10th anniversary on the 21st of November. This year we celebrated it on the 28th because I’m a fuckwit (who is writing this on December 1st but will be backdating the post). The real date is the 21st. So there’s that.

My studies continue. I say to people now that I’m in my nth year at the course, because they don’t offer the compulsory subjects every semester, and I can’t handle a full time load anyway because I’m so slow, and it’s hard to even find an elective subject to do. My writing isn’t any better now than it was in 2018, but I now think that I only think that because I’m a better critic now than I have been in the past. Other students seem to like my feedback, anyway. So I press on. 2020 will see me having a go at poetry, which won’t be much fun for anyone, and digital writing, which is a very high-tech, IT sort of thing which I disdained in the 90’s because it didn’t seem like writing, but which may give me the skills to do better websites in the future—or, let’s be honest, which I might fail.

This is turning into a ‘year in review’ sort of thing. Ah, well.

‘Write Club’, the weekly meeting of Ballarat’s literati, continues. A year ago, when ai first got there, there were a dozen people all working on their respective opera. Now, there’s usually the core three people; me, Tilly and Stephen, and Tilly and Stephen have been friends since high school (ie, ten years or so). You have to feel a little slighted…well, if you’re egotistical enough to think the root cause of all things is yourself. That’s a heatlhy ego, right?

captlychee: (Default)

So…today would’ve marked thirty-one years of service for, in, at, with, to, on behalf of and because of the ATO. It’s reasonable to suggest that eleven of those would have been without promotion, because it was eleven years before I actually got one. Now, some of that is due to not applying for any promotions, first because I only had the job on a temporary basis until I could get a job in what I was trained to do (computer operaitng0 and then because five years or so at the ATO had made me virtually unemployable in that capacity. Secondly, because, as was observe d by someone in a meeting of people who hadn’t applied for a promotion in five years or more, the ATO was making a concerted effort to destroy all career paths that didn’t lead to call centre work or team leaders’ positrons, and who wanted to take on a significantly worse job for four dollars more a week?
Around 1997 I also found out that that first promotion I applied for, as a computer operator surprisingly enough, I didn’t get because the head of the department only promoted people he was friends with. That was in the 1980’s when such nepotism was not only frowned upon, it was cause for disciplinary action within the Public Service – of course you had to prove it.
I got my first promotion after eleven years and left the ATO six years later. In that time, I had applied for two other promotions, neither of which I got. The first was for a team leader’s position, as we had been railroaded into by the change in the office’s organisation, because I’m simply not that big an arsehole. The person who did get the job was unpleasant and unpopular. The second promotion was to a technical level, and the person who beat me to it had already been given higher duties acting in the position, so what hope did I have?
So, it’s likely I would’ve just lived out the days under immense stress until I snapped, vainly and hopelessly trying to get the jell out of the section but of course being too good at the actual job to risk losing me. It warms the cockles of my heart, and I still say it when questions of job performance come up, that when I came back to the office for my last medical assessment as to whether I could still do my current job, the four man team had grown to eight. It took four people to replace the guy that ‘did no work’.
Not that I could last five minutes in the modern ATO. Promotion of team leaders whose ostensible job is to mentor you but in actuality to monitor you; obsession with procedure over outcome; blatant nepotism of a style and frequency that would’ve seen people prosecuted under the old Public Service Act and of course the modern idea of removing appointment by merit in favour of a quota system.
Most of which was predictable given the look and feel of the office in 2003. Almost everything thag I said would happen has come to pass, though I admit I didn’t pick the appointment of Chris Jordan from outside the ATO mainstream to be Commissioner. That’s supportable in hindsight, once you realised that he came to the appointment process with the idea that he could cut the ATO’s budget by 10% by ‘re-inventing’ it. So far that reinvention has been the ridiculous pursuit of a dress code, and the support of the very much government approved idea that private enterprise is efficient. Thus, we have seen the ATO’s budget go up, because efficient private enterprise requires large numbers of management staff running their bailiwicks like small businesses with unlimited budgets and nothing to do.
The combination of senior staff wanting to aggrandise themselves ahs led to massive promotions and appointments so that important people can surround themselves with semi-important people. Thus, the office model that was proposed, with a small senior executive cluster and a large bulge of people doing the work and lower and cheaper levels, is now hugely overstaffed at the top level with people there thinking that policy driving is the main thrust of the ATO ‘business’ and the actual administration of the law will all be done by Facebook and Twitter, ‘AI’ and spasmodically intelligible operatives in the Philippines.
The requirement to provide upward mobility to people on the basis of gender equality has, of course, led to more women in senior management roles than there are competent women to fill them. This is partly the result of ‘dumbing down’ the levels of the work itself – even back in 2003 there were APS 6 position being offered what duty statement that would’ve been an APS 4 in the late 90’s. The ability to run a bluff in new areas of development is, of course, useful. The gaggle of complete idiots appointed to IT positions in the 90’s proves this, and then of course the advent of the Internet meant that more morons were put in charge of preparing the Internet site and the Intranet site for everyone else’s’ use, because they were being appointed by people who hadn’t a clue what websites were, the Intent was, what an Intranet was or, in some cases, how to operate computer well enough to even access the web. It’s interesting to note that now the ATO wants to move to training people via podcasts, and will almost certainly appoint complete morons to that position too. The problem here is that is a government department who should be spending money responsibly. It isn’t a private enterprise operation that can just raise its fees when it expensively fucks something up.
But I digress…
The upshot of an explosively growing managerial sector in the ATO, coupled with the truism that any woman is as good as any man at anything, has meant that a huge number of women have been promoted well above their level of competence or responsibility. This in itself is not a problem. You can have a hell of a lot of people n management who do nothing at all and thus cause no harm, but this is not the case when incompetent women are placed in these positions. Incompetent men in senior positions stop whatever they’re doing a let the functional people get the job done – incompetent women flounder. They flounder noisily. They blame everyone around them, they blame male supremacy, they even blame events twenty to forty years ago, and while they’re doing this blaming they don’t get their job done and the functional underlings or people at the same level can’t get anything done either.
Time was when an incompetent woman manager could be demoted, or if that wasn’t possible – it’s not an easy thing to do at the best of times and even in the days when merit was protected and reward and there were no reprisal s for doing it, nobody wanted to be that much of an arsehole, she could be moved sideways to a support role. One of the most incompetent managers I’ve ever heard of was sidewaysed (I didn’t invent that verb) to being a personal assistant, at a level far higher than other PA’s, and she wasn’t very good at that, but at least she did no harm. That isn’t possible anymore.
Vindictiveness also comes in here, and this is what happened to a very competent woman of my acquaintance who was systematically worn down with constant criticism and poor reviews of a type that, had a man done it, he would’ve been castigated unmercifully. She got performance reviews on a quarterly basis that were perilously close to defamatory, and would’ve been has they been published. Remember, that up until conflict with her incompetent superior, she was highly regarded as a competent technical expert. The signs of a floundering superior are all there.
While in hindsight the sings that this sort of behaviour was going to happen in the future as a former ‘cop’ – ie, executive in the AFP – took the reins at the ATO and steered if on a course of hybridisation between a police force and some mythical paradigm of the private sector that exist only in his head and wouldn’t last long in real life. The women thing is a related part of the problem but not an automatic consequence of it. After all, if the ATO really were run like a corporation, only about half a dozen women would make the cut.
So glad I’m out of there.

captlychee: (Default)
I got this off of [personal profile] satyapriya, and thought I might answer some stuff, because I'm just bored enough to do it.

So, how am I travelling through life?
Health: HBA1C at 8.1, now on Janumet to try to bring it back under 8. Cholesterol still good (for my age), eyes still crap .
Finances: stable - ove the high cost of US living, anyway
Mental health: now back to where boreom is my worst enemy
Writing: More editing tha new stuff, waiting for NaNo/WriMo
Family: One parent insane, one in Hawaii, my darling Kelvatari is okay, plants healthy
Friendships: None new, but old ones still strong. Havne't pissed anyone off in ages, which is good
Reading: 10 books ahead of schedule on Goodreads, but I hardly rememver what I rea nowadays.
Addictions: less so than this time last year—well off the sauce.
Witchie stuff: about what you'd expect. I still can't spell 'magic' with a 'k'.
Yoga: no change
House: slacked off a bit today due to crookness, but will vacuum and mop tomorrow.
Garden: pricey to maintain, and I'm actually improving it, but it keeps the agent off my back
captlychee: (Disdain)

Now, Constant Readers, it isn't often I post anywhere anymore. Facebook has become so easy to jot down the little pieces of wisdom bullshit that I come out with from time to time that I don't get enraged enough about things to mean I post about stuff that annoys me. Not that everyting I post is about stuff that annoys me, but I'm in that zone or time of life where the only thing that motivates me to do anything except Duolingo and, yes, bloody Facebook is stuff that annoys me. I suppose there are the occasional glimmers of joy when the Mighty Blues win, but that was only six times this season and, apart from a lovely and hot ten weeks in Orlando just before the hurricane ploughed through the place like a Muslim through Pulse/del>—no, that one was a little too tasteless even for me. Dreamwidth is having an effect—there haven't been that many joyful moments.

Not that it's been a misreable year. I'm my usual upbeat or mildly optimistic self, moreso now that the Eye and Ear confirmed that the eyeball is not going to collapse overnight but will stay much the same as it is now for the foreseeable (irony!) future. Plus, now that I'm back in Australia and home in beautiful Ballarat, I can iron a shirt whenever the mood takes me, which is every morning. I've also signed another lease on the house so, barring the owner suddenly selling it, I'm here for another year. So life is nice and stable.

So that is the setting for this particular rant.

There is, as you've probably realissed, little doubt that I am, for most intents and purposes, functionally illiterate. I can undertstand things that I read, but there's little left I can read. The Kindle has been an absolute godsend in giving me enough literature to stop me going crazy over the eight years or so I've had one, but printed matter just eludes me these days. So when organisations send me letters I can't read them. When I write letters, wich I kind of like to do, there's no point in people replying to them with a letter because I won't be able to read it. So correspondence is a pleasure I have to forego.

I'm not down on all this—I just accept it. But I was listening to The Drunken Odyssey on the weekend and it was talking about two books edited by Leslie Salas who, along with the host John King, works with, or for, my darling Kelvatari. So, I thought I'd better look these books up and see if they were worth getting. The books are put together by Burrow Press, and none of them are available as ebooks!

A cursory check of some other books led me to this conclusion: Literary ficiton isn't published electronically. So how the fuck am I supposed to read it? Don't tell me about price, either. These books are $US15 each—and the one I could find with a page count is 150 pages long! Ten cents a page? It was costing me that to photocpy pages in the 1980's! And of course they are using some kind of electronic means to produce the books, so making them ebooks can't be that difficult.

Yes, ebooks do remove some of the components of literary fiction—typography, book design, to some extent marketing—but ebooks would at least give me access to the words, which are supposed to be the important things in literary fiction.

Here's news, small presses: Gutenberg is dead, and this is the 21st century.

captlychee: (Default)

I have a lost control of my life.

So, who of us here, or you out there, Constant Reader, is in control of their life? We may not be at the merc of forces outside ourselves but they do affect us in some way. Rain wets us, cold chills us, the vicissitufes of the Australian dollar make us cringe in fear every time we go near Amazon or PayPal and sometimes we get infectd by cholera bacilli as life gets all Yemeni on our arses and connected tubing. Apparently two thirds of the people in th yemen can't get clean drinking water. Hve they seen what come sout of my tap in Ballarat? In this post, however, I am determined not to go off the track. The point is that I have lost control of my life.

For example, I was trying to bpay some bills the other day and I noticed that the ol' bank balance is a lot ower than it should be. Now, I've beenbopping along here, happily solvent, since the end of September last yar and nthere have been no unexpect4d purchaes except for th heater last month ($319) but all of a sudden there's bugger all in the account. I'm not desperate but there should be enough money in there to, say, buy a vacuum cleaner without going into a panic, but for som ereason there isn't. And remember, I'm not spending $70 a night on meals, either. Strictly McDonalds, KFC, Red Rooster, very occasionally La Porchetta now and coleslaw and Special K and Sultana Bran from the supermarket—though not at the same time.

Then I missed the bus to Geelong on the weekend by four minutes on Saturday and had to take four hours to get to Geelong for an evening's pissup with [profile] eggnacon (if that will work in Dreamwidth) and the Guru.

Every attempt I've made at booking a flight to Orlando to see my darling Kelvatari hs failed, usually due to indufficient credit but on Sunday due to some mysterious bloody error with the bloody Qantas website that had me booking a ticket ot Orlando and then receiving a flight reference for a flight to Ontario. Ontario? Where in Ongtario? But apparently there is an Ontario in California.

This last simple error has now takne ,i>three days to sort out with Wantas, the situation exacerbaed by the usual set of fcukwits on the other end of the phone who tell you what they think is true because they can't actually check out what is actually true. Or they jus want to delay you until it's too late to do anything about it and force youto pay. This woldn't have bothered me as much as it does if I had anenough credit to buy a correct ticket and just tell them to get fucked on the Ontario one, but I don't have that now. Besides which, when similar errors used tohappen at the ol' ATO it would take me twenty fucking minutes to sort it out. Not three days. And one of those days was because they ahd sent the appropriate fax indicating to the chimps at ME Bank that the bill was in error mentionoing all the correct details but including the name 'Darren Dent'.

Dent?

Dent???

As I explaiend today to the woman at Qantas, i havent' come across the isspelling 'dent' since 1982 when Telecom, as Telstra was called back before some spastic marketing spasm got everyone using 'Telstra', 'Westpac' and 'BUPA' into the list of corporate insutls to English, tried to make me pay a bill in that name. (In 1991, my electricity bill arrived in the name of 'Michelle Kerr' which was ridiculous in the extreme, and the idiots at the SEC then demanded that the bill be in the name of all the holders of the lease. Thank God amendments to the legislation, and then the destruction of the State Electricity Commission fixed up that line of bullshit. It also galls me that I took their word for it that they could do this.)

And last night I opened a bottle of wine to console myself after all this crap and then left itout onthebench all night because I couldn't find the top. Which was behind the bottle. So good luck drinking this over-decanted, for want of a better word, vino.

I just feel like dying but I'd probably fuck that up and live forever or sometning. I just have to get back on top of this. That is, if I can even post this update.

captlychee: (Default)

It is my wont as we spiral towards Walpurgisnacht at a rate of knots to post about the death of South Africa. A little lament for the vanished republic. Oh, it's still there geographically—it has, so far, been spared the death of Rhodesia, at first despised, then forgotten, now erased utterly from history but for a few diehard souls out there on the Internet determined not to let history be completely erased in what is, yes folks, something Orwellian. These hardy types are both courageous and far enough from the sub-Zambesi zones that Mugabe can't get to them, so all is not forgotten and this has turned into a rant about Rhodesia before I realised it.



Oh, what the hell? Here you are:



No, no. if Dreamwidth allows backdated posting I can put this up appearing to be the right and fateful date on which these 23 years started and for which we should all lament and be terrified as this can happen to any country with a large ethnic group in it that is civilised enough to be threatenable by the rest of the world.

It was also going ot be the day I did my bowel cancer test. The idea of sending even a minuscule amount of my fæces to the government that started kicking the carp out of South Africa back in the 70's and kicked off an international game that nations just doted on for…hey, 23 years. Huh! 2.3 decades of kicking them till they caved in, now followed by 2.3 decades of the thriving, dynamic, forward-thinking democracy where the only place you can get a necklace now is in a jeweller's. So that's apt, isn't it?

Anyway, sending my personal ordure to the government by the post appeals to me on this day of all days, but regrettably the curly-wurly tubes haven't cooperated. I'll have to wait and see what happens. Be assured that I will do it.

captlychee: (Default)

In the April 10th issue of The New Yorker there was a profile piece on the artist…hold on. The truth is, I don't remember her name, and I don't see how I'm going to find out. Will the Kindle for PC app let me read magazines? Only one expedient way to find out!

I can't get a large enough font on the new Kindle Fire, the Kindle for PC app won't let me look at my magazine subscriptions, and I'm now charging the Kindle Keyboard to see if I can guess the spelling from the context, so let us just skip that part for the moment and go on to the nub of the thing.

Or just go to the bloody website.

Dana Schut painted a painting depicting the open casket service for the late Emmett Till, a black man who was killed in 1955 because a white woman had alleged a liaison with him. (At this point I was going to cut and paste the actual quote, but the website prevents me doing that, so fuck 'em. They could've got an acknowledgement but if they're going to use code to prevent me exercising my rights under copyright law, they know exactly what they can pull and in whose company.) When this painting was exhibited, a black man stood in front of the painting, facing it, with the words 'BLACK DEATH SPECTACLE' printed on the back of his T-shirt. Dana Schut then had to suffer all sorts of the usual abuse put about because Facebook is so easy to type in, but that's par for the course in an age where freedom of speech is handed out to everyone at the drop of a text message.

Getting back to the black guy maintaining his silent vigil. Silent intimidation comes easily to a racial group which has been let down by both the civil rights movements of the 1960's and the votes of the 2010's and which is, in any case, unsatisfiable no matter where they can sit on the bus and how many countries they've gotten control of in the past hundred years. In a country where Obama didn't pay off their mortgages and where they're watching their futures become bleaker and more disenfranchised by boatloads of Syrians and H1B visa loads of Indians and Pakistanis and where robots and Chinese strip them of the only thing of value they have left, their labour, silent intimidation is about all they have left. The late Trayvon Martin was a dab hand at it before he found out that bluff yields to action, shortly before he was put in a postion where he couldn't find out anything else at all.

So, I thought to myself, suppose I stood on the right of this black man offering his silk-screened commentary on art and art censorship, also facing the painting, with the words 'BLACK T-SHIRTS MATTER' on the back of my (white) T-shirt?

Or should it be '#BLACK T-SHIRTS MATTER'?

Without the octothorpe it's a simple slogan, which youy could ignore the same way you ignore anything coming at you off the screen, out of the radio, out of your phone or on the back of a bus stop seat, but these days the use of the noughts and crosses game board as a topic indicator on Twitter carries with it the implication to respond, and anything we respond to has, these days greater validity since it's democratically empowering in a way the vote never was, without carrying the risks of imprisonment or job termination a physical protest used to, or the shaming and bewildering attitudes that attending a protest would get you today. That and our participation adds value to the slogan, that value expressed as increased credibility. Celebrity monopod Adam Hills, whose BBC show "The Last Leg" has brought 'cripple gag' into the zeitgeist¹ uses 'hashtag' as a prefix to explaining the topic of the previous sentence all the time, even in off-air conversations I'm going to say here that I was reliably informed about, and that lends it at least the credibility of popularity. Remember that the idea being conveyed—that black T-shirts and the slogans they have matter—is exactly the same, and of course the sarcasm created by taking another slogan (also hashtagged) about black lives is still there if you've got the capacity to see it.

As to how suicidally dangerous this would be, I point out that the black guy acting as a filter for people's response to art and culture isn't likely to blow up in the gallery, but he could easily arrange a posse of his homes to kick the living shit out of me as soon as I left the gallery&mdah;even if, as would be my natural desire once going outdoors, I had a jacket over the T-shirt with no slogans on it whatsoever. Let's see a black artist do a painting of that.

Or maybe I could explain to them what I meant. It may be that there's a genetic predisposition to silently protest, by intimidation, when confronted by art you can't understand. If so, white people don't have it. Protests about crap art, such as Jackson Pollack's 'Blue Poles' and the infamous 'Vault' sculpture by Ron Robertson-Swann which has been moved around Melbourne's Central Begging District like, well, a beggar have been loud, sometimes articulate, and plentiful. Of course standing down at Batman Park or in the National Gallery of (the State of) Victoria staring at Pollack's masterpiece wearing a T-shirt saying 'CHIMP ART MATTERS' isn't going to get anyone's attention.

Nor should this post. Experimentally, I'm going to try to cross-posting it to the ol' (and I mean 'old' here, According to my profile I was living in Lake Wendouree when I set it up, so that's at least five years ago.) Dreamwidth account. [personal profile] misslj_author convinced me to set this up, but now that [personal profile] deslea is over there, too, it's convinced me to make more use of it. God knows what this post will look like over there, since it won't have the benefit of my brilliant CSS to prettify it, but the content will come shining through like a T-shirt slogan that says 'FREE SPEECH AIN'T FOR WHITEY'.




1. if it hasn't yet, it will.

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