The New Me!
pjdillon@attglobal.net
The process of re-invention continues to gather momentum.
Not entirely satisfied with the way things have unfolded this past year – but with the whole brain malaria thing being somewhat of a mitigating factor – I’ve again put pen to paper, or rather index fingers to keyboard, long enough to retool my CV. It’s something I do every few months as a matter of course, or more frequently should the need arise, accenting certain characteristics while downplaying others in order to seduce employers. In other words, padding a bra for the boob-obsessed, or donning a sailor-suit for the nautically inclined: just show me the money.
It’s always a bit of an adventure, an opportunity to take stock, to review the personal ledger, to really center oneself in the cosmos by
looking squarely into the mirror and asking the age-old question: Just how much bullshit can I get away with?
In order to throw his hat into the ring for those fat ngo-esque contracts that are always floating about in the ether, in this latest incarnation the Grinch is reformatting himself as a “Contract Communications Consultant”.
Rolls off the tongue, no? I’m wondering how it would look should I decide to have cards made. And should I have the printing of my name raised and embossed or merely the new Triple C ?
It was one of the few memorable scenes in a dreary movie and forgettable book, American Psycho: the whole pathology of business cards and the game of one-upmanship the anal retentive billionaires play amongst themselves.
“It is very cool, Bateman,” Van Patten says guardedly, the jealous bastard, “but that’s nothing…” He pulls out this wallet and slaps a card next to an ashtray. “Look at this.”
We all lean over to inspect David’s card and Price quietly says, “That’s really nice.” A brief spasm of jealousy courses through me and I notice the elegance of the color and the classy type. I clench my fist as Van Patten says, smugly, “Eggshell with Romanian type…” He turns to me. “What do you think?”
“Nice,” I croak, but manage a nod, as the busboy brings us four fresh Bellinis.
“Jesus,” says Price, holding the card up to the light, ignoring the new drinks. “This is super, how’d a nitwit like you get so tasteful?”
I’m looking at Van Patten’s card and then at mine and cannot believe Price actually likes Van Patten’s better. Dizzy, I sip my drink and then take a deep breath.
“But wait,” says Price. “You ain’t seen nothing yet…” He pulls his out of an inside pocket and slowly, dramatically, turns it over for our inspection and says, “Mine.”
Even I have to admit it’s magnificent.
Suddenly, the restaurant seems far away, hushed, the noise distant, a meaningless hum compared to this card, and we all head Price’s words: “Raised lettering, pale, nimbus while…”
“Holy shit,” Van Patten exclaims. “I’ve never seen…”
“Nice, very nice, “ have to admit. “But wait, let’s see Montgomery’s”
Price pulls it out and though he’s acting nonchalant, I don’t’ see how he can ignore its subtle off-white coloring, its tasteful thickness. I’m unexpectedly depressed that I started this.
Yes, I too was unexpectedly depressed too, by the fact that I continued to read this awful crap till the end.
Anyway, just for the helluvvit, here’s a non-formatted copy of today’s new CV, fresh from the oven and soon to be posted on the databases of various head-hunter-type on-line organizations like Canadem, Ceci.ca and others.
See if YOU can spot the three blatant lies, six exaggerations and two misrepresentations! It’s fun for the whole family!
Da Grinch
Address: Somewhere in Jakarta
SKILLS Able to absorb, evaluate and condense large amounts of information into cogent, well-written and timely briefs.
Ability to work independently and effectively in both conflict and post-conflict environments.
Extensive frontline work experience in Central and Southeast Asia.
Advanced interviewing and editing skills honed over 15 years working as a journalist and editor.
Several years experience in managerial news positions in magazines and newspapers both in Indonesia and abroad.
Equipped and proficient with a broadcast-quality digital video camera (Sony PD-150), mics and peripherals, and a digital stills camera.
Comfortable working off both PC and Mac platforms.
WORK EXPERIENCE January 2003 – Present
Contract Communications Consultant
UNICEF, GTZ (German Technical Cooperation)
Duties: Development project monitoring and assessment, production of communications materials for both internal and external use, creation of a domestic mission statement, employee handbook, contracts etc.
April 1999 – Present
Jakarta-based freelance correspondent
Globe & Mail (Canada), USA Today, US News & World Report, The Scotsman, MSNBC, BSkyB (UK, Aus.), Cape Radio (S Africa) etc
Duties: Filing regular news and feature stories and analysis pieces for a wide range of daily newspapers and magazines, and voice files for radio.
February 2002 – August 2002
Bureau Chief
Deutsche Presse Agentur (dpa)
Kabul, Afghanistan
Duties: Re-established dpa’s Kabul bureau, providing news coverage of Afghanistan. Trained local stringers and administration staff. Negotiated a cooperative news venture with the Afghan national media service.
October 2001 – February 2002
Managing Editor
Djakarta! City Life Magazine
Jakarta, Indonesia
Duties: Day-to-day management of the editorial and production staff of a dynamic, bilingual city life magazine. Developing a reporting structure within the office, an appreciation for deadlines and the desire to excel among local staff.
November 1988 – April 1999
Journalist/News Editor
Canada
Duties: General assignment reporter and, later, section editor. As news editor of a Vancouver-area newspaper for two years (1997-98), I was responsible for the daily operations of the newsroom, coordinating the summer internship program, and organizing seminars for news staff.
EDUCATION Bachelor of Arts – BA (Journalism)
Bachelor of Arts – BA (History)
Concordia University – Montreal, Canada, 1990
RELATED INFO I am fluently bilingual (English/French) and have an excellent working knowledge of Indonesian.
In addition to my regular commitments I am in the process of shooting a video documentary about funeral rituals in eastern Indonesia.
In October I completed my second book editing contract, an Equinox Publishing (Jakarta) 250-page, coffee table book entitled Celebrating Indonesia: Fifty Years Of the Ford Foundation In Indonesia. I also copy edited the best-selling book Jakarta Inside-Out (2002).
INTERESTS Reading, travel, motorcycles, Indonesian batik and ikat, Blogging
REFERENCES References can be provided upon request
Sunday, December 28, 2003
Friday, December 26, 2003
The Whole Story
pjdillon@attglobal.net
The clock is ticking down to midnight again.
We’re running 45 minutes or so to Christmas here in Indonesia and though he should be hunkered down in his best “zuker-rasserfrazz”-ing grinchy best, bolting oiled runners on his mental toboggan and looking for new and exciting ways to mis-represent himself, holiday 2003 finds him lethargic and squishy… against the odds the cantankerous green fellah has found love – in and of itself not a remarkable thing – and done something about it (other than legally actionable offences… no truth to those rumors, by the way) and PROPOSED to she-who-would-become-Grinchette. More remarkable yet, SHE SAID YES!
I’ve promised The Rabble all the gory details of the engagement, and given that my lean, green Queen is reclining now ahead of morning rituals of wrapping paper and sticky tape, there’s no time like the present.
I guess I’d known for a while that J is about as good at it gets: smart, curious, funny, sexy, resilient. And sweet on me, a big, blousy foreigner 12 years her senior. Go figure.
There were hints along the way, beginning I suppose on the very first evening we spent together, Valentines Day 2000 (queue insipid Oprah show soundtrack 'Awwwww's). One smooch and I told her: “We’re in trouble.” Kinda never left after that night.
In the summer of 2002, after I returned from Afghanistan, we took a few weeks in Canada. Parts of that trip are part of the Grinch's public diary, the stories we re-tell to friends and family: Yeti, The Goolies, Wyle E. and the wife-y. One of them is illuminating.
We were several hours east of Fredericton, New Brunswick, hammering along the T-Can on my trusty old CB900 beneath segregated skies: southern sunshine blues and whites hard up against the blackened bruises of a great northeasterly thunderstorm.
Over coffee at a last gasp diner I asked if she wanted to put on rain gear. With the following caveat: If we suit up, it will not rain. If we ride as is, it’ll pour.
We drove off in our regular gear and left the how’s and where’s of eastern Canadian meteorology to our betters. 20 minutes later the first rains hit, we pulled over soaked to change by the roadside and returned, soaked, to our journey. Within a quarter hour we were virtually alone on the highway, all the car traffic having pulled over, hazards flashing, chased off by the pounding rains. Tractor trailers passed us unimpressed as we doddled along at 60, then 80 and finally, as I gained confidence 100 km/h.
So it went, till we broke through the clouds outside historic old Fredericton, which beaded and twinkled like a beat-up finned Caddy fresh from the auto-wash. When we finally pulled up outside the tourism office there in search of a room, we were waterlogged and giddy: there are not many people I know who would have handled that situation the way J did, laughing and cracking jokes about a car-load of gap-toothed Newfies who passed us by with a thumbs-up cheer, and I guess, maybe, that’s when I was ready to acknowledge what had been nibbling away at the edges of my mind for some time: this gal was a keeper.
Fast forward 15 months and we’re on holiday in Australia. I’d thought to pop the question without much fanfare at some point during our trip but after a couple of weeks toodling about on the Sunshine Coast, the Blue Mountains, Sydney etc. there’d not been a good moment and I’d not had a chance to slip away and find a nice ring. I settled on doing it the last night in Sydney but it became clear that that Saturday night would be taken up with friends, a couple of rugby matches and various and sundry beers so I sided with the moment and put the engagement on hold. The irony of that decision is that the previous night in Montreal, my brother had proposed to his girlfriend, successfully by the way, so if you did the time-zone mathematics, we might both have had announcements within just a few hours of one-another!
Cussed him out on the phone when I found out and confided that I was prepping for the same thing.
Three weeks ago, under shadow of “It’s the holiday season, lets do a big dinner with friends” I started making calls and trying, without actually telling anyone what was going on, to coax folks into coming along to La Na Thai restaurant for dinner.
Brought my roomie Juliana into my confidence – needed a woman’s counsel - spoke to LNT’s owner who’s a friend, worked out a menu, got a discount on drinks and got the ball rolling: bevies at Cinnabar, which is sort of the unofficial press club, and then a short stroll over to the restaurant.
Excellent meal for 22, a bit of vino, good chatter and plenty of knots in this kid’s stomach. I’d worked on some sort of something that I wanted to say to my gal but all for naught. After diner I dragged her away from an animated conversation, into a quiet, secluded and candle-lit end of the restaurant.
Yammered and hummed and held her hand and said stuff about how long we’d been together (3yr, 9 mths), and how much I care and yadda-yadda-yadda and then everything telescoped and the big-ass box the wee ring I’d bought was burning a hole in my pocket so rather than just yammering on I dropped to one knee, popped the lid and the question.
Poor thing, she was shivering and, yes, it did take a couple of tries – three actually – to get a coherent answer outta her (“Are you sure you want to do this?” were the only words she spoke) before finally, “Yes.”
I put the too bit platinum and diamond affair on her finger, we had a snog and then walked back in to join our friends, who with the exception of the chain-smoking Juliana were blissfully unaware of what was going on. Again I stammered through an announcement of sorts – I guess it worked because all the girls cried – about how most of us are a long way from home and how we sorta become family in the absence of the same, etc etc, and we were done. I’d splurged on some decent champagne and the folks at LNT had very casually brought in the glasses whilst we were out, so we had a toast and, the deed was done.
It’s been ten days now. Never felt better or more sure of anything in my life. We’re in early days yet, only the most general plans but looking forward to finalizing the deal in late summer here in Indonesia and then again for good measure in Canada in the fall.
For all those folks who sent massages, SMSs, e-mails and good vibes, thanks and look forward to seeing you at one or the other of the nuptials.
It’s been a heck of a year. Ho-Ho-Ho.
pjdillon@attglobal.net
The clock is ticking down to midnight again.
We’re running 45 minutes or so to Christmas here in Indonesia and though he should be hunkered down in his best “zuker-rasserfrazz”-ing grinchy best, bolting oiled runners on his mental toboggan and looking for new and exciting ways to mis-represent himself, holiday 2003 finds him lethargic and squishy… against the odds the cantankerous green fellah has found love – in and of itself not a remarkable thing – and done something about it (other than legally actionable offences… no truth to those rumors, by the way) and PROPOSED to she-who-would-become-Grinchette. More remarkable yet, SHE SAID YES!
I’ve promised The Rabble all the gory details of the engagement, and given that my lean, green Queen is reclining now ahead of morning rituals of wrapping paper and sticky tape, there’s no time like the present.
I guess I’d known for a while that J is about as good at it gets: smart, curious, funny, sexy, resilient. And sweet on me, a big, blousy foreigner 12 years her senior. Go figure.
There were hints along the way, beginning I suppose on the very first evening we spent together, Valentines Day 2000 (queue insipid Oprah show soundtrack 'Awwwww's). One smooch and I told her: “We’re in trouble.” Kinda never left after that night.
In the summer of 2002, after I returned from Afghanistan, we took a few weeks in Canada. Parts of that trip are part of the Grinch's public diary, the stories we re-tell to friends and family: Yeti, The Goolies, Wyle E. and the wife-y. One of them is illuminating.
We were several hours east of Fredericton, New Brunswick, hammering along the T-Can on my trusty old CB900 beneath segregated skies: southern sunshine blues and whites hard up against the blackened bruises of a great northeasterly thunderstorm.
Over coffee at a last gasp diner I asked if she wanted to put on rain gear. With the following caveat: If we suit up, it will not rain. If we ride as is, it’ll pour.
We drove off in our regular gear and left the how’s and where’s of eastern Canadian meteorology to our betters. 20 minutes later the first rains hit, we pulled over soaked to change by the roadside and returned, soaked, to our journey. Within a quarter hour we were virtually alone on the highway, all the car traffic having pulled over, hazards flashing, chased off by the pounding rains. Tractor trailers passed us unimpressed as we doddled along at 60, then 80 and finally, as I gained confidence 100 km/h.
So it went, till we broke through the clouds outside historic old Fredericton, which beaded and twinkled like a beat-up finned Caddy fresh from the auto-wash. When we finally pulled up outside the tourism office there in search of a room, we were waterlogged and giddy: there are not many people I know who would have handled that situation the way J did, laughing and cracking jokes about a car-load of gap-toothed Newfies who passed us by with a thumbs-up cheer, and I guess, maybe, that’s when I was ready to acknowledge what had been nibbling away at the edges of my mind for some time: this gal was a keeper.
Fast forward 15 months and we’re on holiday in Australia. I’d thought to pop the question without much fanfare at some point during our trip but after a couple of weeks toodling about on the Sunshine Coast, the Blue Mountains, Sydney etc. there’d not been a good moment and I’d not had a chance to slip away and find a nice ring. I settled on doing it the last night in Sydney but it became clear that that Saturday night would be taken up with friends, a couple of rugby matches and various and sundry beers so I sided with the moment and put the engagement on hold. The irony of that decision is that the previous night in Montreal, my brother had proposed to his girlfriend, successfully by the way, so if you did the time-zone mathematics, we might both have had announcements within just a few hours of one-another!
Cussed him out on the phone when I found out and confided that I was prepping for the same thing.
Three weeks ago, under shadow of “It’s the holiday season, lets do a big dinner with friends” I started making calls and trying, without actually telling anyone what was going on, to coax folks into coming along to La Na Thai restaurant for dinner.
Brought my roomie Juliana into my confidence – needed a woman’s counsel - spoke to LNT’s owner who’s a friend, worked out a menu, got a discount on drinks and got the ball rolling: bevies at Cinnabar, which is sort of the unofficial press club, and then a short stroll over to the restaurant.
Excellent meal for 22, a bit of vino, good chatter and plenty of knots in this kid’s stomach. I’d worked on some sort of something that I wanted to say to my gal but all for naught. After diner I dragged her away from an animated conversation, into a quiet, secluded and candle-lit end of the restaurant.
Yammered and hummed and held her hand and said stuff about how long we’d been together (3yr, 9 mths), and how much I care and yadda-yadda-yadda and then everything telescoped and the big-ass box the wee ring I’d bought was burning a hole in my pocket so rather than just yammering on I dropped to one knee, popped the lid and the question.
Poor thing, she was shivering and, yes, it did take a couple of tries – three actually – to get a coherent answer outta her (“Are you sure you want to do this?” were the only words she spoke) before finally, “Yes.”
I put the too bit platinum and diamond affair on her finger, we had a snog and then walked back in to join our friends, who with the exception of the chain-smoking Juliana were blissfully unaware of what was going on. Again I stammered through an announcement of sorts – I guess it worked because all the girls cried – about how most of us are a long way from home and how we sorta become family in the absence of the same, etc etc, and we were done. I’d splurged on some decent champagne and the folks at LNT had very casually brought in the glasses whilst we were out, so we had a toast and, the deed was done.
It’s been ten days now. Never felt better or more sure of anything in my life. We’re in early days yet, only the most general plans but looking forward to finalizing the deal in late summer here in Indonesia and then again for good measure in Canada in the fall.
For all those folks who sent massages, SMSs, e-mails and good vibes, thanks and look forward to seeing you at one or the other of the nuptials.
It’s been a heck of a year. Ho-Ho-Ho.
Thursday, December 11, 2003
Limp Bizkit Can Kiss My Chocolate Starfish*
An Open Letter to the Band.
I’m 38, so I guess I’m a bit older than the average Limp Bizkit fan.
I belong to a generation of east coast Canadian pool and half-pipe riders who idolized Alva, rolled on soft Kryptonics, extra-wide Trackers, on Wee Willie Winkle boards that were half the size of what the kids are using today. Maybe it’s those roots LB taps into, I dunno, but I like the band. Been listening to the music for a few years now. Not much into the politics of your business, all the behind the scenes BS, the tantrums, the fashion, the personality cults. Just the music.
My work as a foreign correspondent has taken me to some weird, wonderful and occasionally dangerous places. LB – and a host of others who make up my life’s soundtrack – cranked on the headphones, off my laptop (I rip from royality-paid, legal CDs) or blasting out of taxis has brought me through it all safe, if a bit mad. My Kabul driver loved Chocolate Starfish..., the tape I brought him back in the Spring on 2002 so we could chase the rocket attacks and drive-bys Rollin’ Rollin’ Rollin’. He was happy to reach into my bag and swap between Janice for Beck, LB and Tom Waits. Anything after four years of the Taliban.
I’m writing today because I’m pissed.
I live in Jakarta, Indonesia. The country where Bali is located. That’s the resort island the gutless bitches hit last year with a car bomb that killed more than 200 people, most of them under 25s from Indonesia, Australia and Europe. Surfers. Skaters. Backpackers. Rugby players. Mums, dads and kids.
I got to know quite a few of the survivors. And the families of the dead. Knowing the mix of people at the Sari Club that night, I bet there were more than a few Bizkit fans there that night, or at least people who got sweaty listening, moving to it.
Unlike New York after 9/11 very, very few prominent Westerners (the same people who soak it up on the beaches, surf, get pissed for cheap, etc etc) have stepped up to help the people of Bali who were clobbered when their totally tourism-dependant economy tanked. It is one of the reasons why news a major act like LB would play Bali was such a huge boost. People who had never heard of the band were stepping up to say what wonderful people they must be to support the Balinese and by extension, all Indonesians.
This is a country of 220 million. While Bali is majority Hindu, 85 per cent of Indonesians are Moslem. Very laid back. Very friendly folks. Lots of young people here, struggling to forge an identity for themselves. Poor, disenfranchised, cynical about politics and business, struggling with sex and school and drugs and the street. Ignorant about the past, worried about the future and poorly served by their leaders. Just the kind of people we should be reaching out to in these crazy times.
And how appropriate that the plan called for the concert to be held in the very same amphitheatre where in October thousands gathered to mourn and celebrate the lives of the people killed in the Sari nightclub bombing a year earlier. It’s an amazing place, challenging acoustics, awesome views. A sell out was a certainty. For sure I would have been there with a bunch of other old men, teaching the scrawny chain-smoking Indo wannabe headbangers what a mosh pit is all about.
And then, literally days before the event, LB cancels. The reason we hear is because you’re concerned about security, but if the band had bothered to do even a bit of research they would have learned they were in more immediate danger on a Saturday night in Philly or Seattle than they’d ever be in Bali.
I should have known it was all show. Hard men, eh? Nothin’ but a bunch of gutless punk millionaire who folded when they could have stood up and done the right thing.
Way to go.
PD
Jakarta, Indonesia
pjdillon@attglobal.net
*This Blog was originally posted to the main bulletin board at www.limpbizkit.com. That's the place to go if you wanna add your voice.
An Open Letter to the Band.
I’m 38, so I guess I’m a bit older than the average Limp Bizkit fan.
I belong to a generation of east coast Canadian pool and half-pipe riders who idolized Alva, rolled on soft Kryptonics, extra-wide Trackers, on Wee Willie Winkle boards that were half the size of what the kids are using today. Maybe it’s those roots LB taps into, I dunno, but I like the band. Been listening to the music for a few years now. Not much into the politics of your business, all the behind the scenes BS, the tantrums, the fashion, the personality cults. Just the music.
My work as a foreign correspondent has taken me to some weird, wonderful and occasionally dangerous places. LB – and a host of others who make up my life’s soundtrack – cranked on the headphones, off my laptop (I rip from royality-paid, legal CDs) or blasting out of taxis has brought me through it all safe, if a bit mad. My Kabul driver loved Chocolate Starfish..., the tape I brought him back in the Spring on 2002 so we could chase the rocket attacks and drive-bys Rollin’ Rollin’ Rollin’. He was happy to reach into my bag and swap between Janice for Beck, LB and Tom Waits. Anything after four years of the Taliban.
I’m writing today because I’m pissed.
I live in Jakarta, Indonesia. The country where Bali is located. That’s the resort island the gutless bitches hit last year with a car bomb that killed more than 200 people, most of them under 25s from Indonesia, Australia and Europe. Surfers. Skaters. Backpackers. Rugby players. Mums, dads and kids.
I got to know quite a few of the survivors. And the families of the dead. Knowing the mix of people at the Sari Club that night, I bet there were more than a few Bizkit fans there that night, or at least people who got sweaty listening, moving to it.
Unlike New York after 9/11 very, very few prominent Westerners (the same people who soak it up on the beaches, surf, get pissed for cheap, etc etc) have stepped up to help the people of Bali who were clobbered when their totally tourism-dependant economy tanked. It is one of the reasons why news a major act like LB would play Bali was such a huge boost. People who had never heard of the band were stepping up to say what wonderful people they must be to support the Balinese and by extension, all Indonesians.
This is a country of 220 million. While Bali is majority Hindu, 85 per cent of Indonesians are Moslem. Very laid back. Very friendly folks. Lots of young people here, struggling to forge an identity for themselves. Poor, disenfranchised, cynical about politics and business, struggling with sex and school and drugs and the street. Ignorant about the past, worried about the future and poorly served by their leaders. Just the kind of people we should be reaching out to in these crazy times.
And how appropriate that the plan called for the concert to be held in the very same amphitheatre where in October thousands gathered to mourn and celebrate the lives of the people killed in the Sari nightclub bombing a year earlier. It’s an amazing place, challenging acoustics, awesome views. A sell out was a certainty. For sure I would have been there with a bunch of other old men, teaching the scrawny chain-smoking Indo wannabe headbangers what a mosh pit is all about.
And then, literally days before the event, LB cancels. The reason we hear is because you’re concerned about security, but if the band had bothered to do even a bit of research they would have learned they were in more immediate danger on a Saturday night in Philly or Seattle than they’d ever be in Bali.
I should have known it was all show. Hard men, eh? Nothin’ but a bunch of gutless punk millionaire who folded when they could have stood up and done the right thing.
Way to go.
PD
Jakarta, Indonesia
pjdillon@attglobal.net
*This Blog was originally posted to the main bulletin board at www.limpbizkit.com. That's the place to go if you wanna add your voice.
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