There's No Other Store Like...

Work sucks. Work in vacation sucks harder. There are no exceptions to this rule.

I received a call around one in the afternoon. At the time, I was watching a Simpsons marathon on cable, and eating toast in my old trackies. “It’s a really great job, and the people are really nice, and the kids really love it.” Monica worked in the HR department of David Jones. I should have picked up on her desperation by the amount of times she said ‘really’, but Christmas time? Santa’s workshop? My inner child couldn’t help herself. Besides, I needed the extra cash. “Congrats! David Jones in the city? How glamorous!” Tiffany was such a sucker for the marble floor and high ceiling department store. It started to rub off on me after ten minutes on the phone. Surely, working at the store would be as good as shopping at the store?

I rotated on five jobs in the Christmas Cave: the magic Christmas tree, the queues, lucky dip, the carousel, and balloons. None of these were exciting as they sound. Imagine a seven-foot talking Christmas tree with a painted smile on, and shifty eyes. At times, this was my favourite job. I was able to sit down, alone, behind a cardboard backdrop, and confuse the kids that walked by. ‘Hello there! Meeerrry Christmas! My name’s David! The magical Christmas tree!’ It was even better when it confused the parents. Other times, it wasn’t my favourite job. Usually the microphone smelled of the sour and stale breath from the person before me. There were also the kids that wanted to stay and talk. “I know you’re not real. How could you get here from the north pole with no legs?” There wasn’t much I could say but “I’m magic!” and secretly give them the finger.

It’s impossible to avoid queues at Christmas time, and if you think lining up is bad, watching people line up is worse. This role was about standing still and giving people the OK to move on to the main event. It would have been boring as batshit, if it weren’t for the chitchat. “Finally! We’re at the front Chanel!” I smiled with her, while Chanel played limbo with the velvet rope. “These queues are unbelievable! We’ve been waiting to see Santa for thirty minutes.” “This is the queue for face painting and lucky dip.” I found the same lady in the queue for Santa later. She had her eyebrow raised at the children pushing in. She scanned the room for the parents in question. Chanel was busy ripping down the Christmas set. “Mummy! Look at this big candy cane!” To make the lines move quickly, there were three Santa’s concealed behind three different curtains. Funnily enough, I never saw one of them. I did hear a lot about Santa no. 3, though. “Again?” I asked the photographer. “Yeah, this is his second or third warning.” Santa was taking cigarette breaks that lasted entire shifts. “We know he’s still around, though.” “How do you know?” “Well, he left his things on his chair – this month’s issue of Screw.”

Time spent on the lucky dip involved trips to and from storage for more prize packs. There were two variations: A ceramic flower for girls with yellow, pink, and green paint, or a ceramic car for boys with blue, red, and black paint. Sometimes parents would buy two spins for one kid. “I want two of the boys prize, mum!” Then we were stuffed. Luckily, mum put both the ceramic cars away to be opened at home.

The carousel was the main attraction. It was more popular than Santa - at least for the kids. Helping them on and off the ride was an awkward job. I hadn’t signed any child protection forms, and as far as I’m aware no one did. We were asked to lift the kids on and off the ride if they couldn’t get up themselves. I also had to tell the heavy ones they couldn’t sit on the horses.

Balloons duty involved standing by the entrance with a large bouquet, and handing out the helium. A few parents asked me how much each balloon cost. I could have made more in an hour than what I was already getting paid. Unfortunately, my supervisor was too close to make any transactions. “They’re free.”

These jobs were different from filing reports and emails, but it became pretty ordinary after a few hours. It had the same dynamics you get everywhere else. There was that one male colleague that was too touchy-feely. Every time a female co-worker passed by he would open his arms for hug, then push his groin against her for self-gratification. Our manager was only ever seen from a distance like most offices. He always wore black suit pants, a white shirt, and black tie. He never smiled. Then there was our water cooler. In our case it was a helium tank. We would congregate here and inflate red and green balloons while we bitched about customers and colleagues.

Work sucks. Work in vacation sucks harder. There are no exceptions to this rule. I wanted to tell Monica 'No, it’s really not a great job. The people are not really nice, and the kids are really not going to remember it'. I also wanted to smack my inner child with a big wooden spoon. Not only did I miss out on my break with family and friends, but Christmas just lost all its hype. Wizzard wishes it could be Christmas everyday. Wizzard have no fucking clue. At least one person was able to see the truth. Tiffany visited to see how glamorous the job was. An oversized t-shirt, black pants, and flat shoes made my uniform. My hair would stand up because of the helium balloons. I had dark circles under my eyes because of twenty hours work on five hours sleep. The Christmas Cave felt more like Santa’s sweatshop, and I, an underpaid elf with blistered fingers and a bad back. OK, maybe I’m exaggerating about the blistered fingers. After all, I was able to earn a bit of money. Most of which was spent on train tickets, food, tolls, petrol, and parking for work. I also learnt some valuable lessons like how to watch a queue. I mean, where would the world be if I didn't know the quickest route to the toilets? Last, but not least, a lesson for all: do not put your kids on Santa lap no. 3. Why would you when Myer’s just next-door?

Jack Johnson 2008 World Tour, Sydney

It was a late afternoon in Centennial Park, when I walked with thousands of others to see musician/pro-surfer/film maker/environmental activist: Jack Johnson.

Upon entry, a girl offered me a small booklet with the smiling Hawaiian on the front cover playing his guitar. ‘All At Once’ was scrolled above Johnson’s head –the first track on album Sleep Through the Static, and a campaign supporting environmental non-profit organisations and active participation in local and international communities. Whilst flicking through the booklet, I noticed a cop with a sniffer dog also working the crowd. He too, was concerned about the environment -particularly “grass”.

Thousands upon thousands of people were already sprawled on the field, marking their turf with random thongs and bags. The crowd anticipated the occasional cool breeze, which would provide relief from the Saturday sun. Though for the most part, people took matters into their own hands. Guys and girls carried beer cans stacked in each hand, carefully manoeuvring around the seated patrons. An hour later into the first supporting act Will Conner, and I overhead that a girl was past out in the toilets. Maybe she just wanted a nap and some shade before the show.

As tempting as it was to sweat in the sun and have drunks spill beer on me as they lunged toward their spots, I went to see what was on offer at the tents: seventeen food stalls, and twice as many for the bar; a Red Cross medical tent; a free water station; merchandise; and the Village Green. It was here that I could enter a draw to meet Jack Johnson in the flesh today. All I had to do was show proof of travel by mass transit, recycle something, and donate to a non-profit organisation. Considering the odds were twenty thousand to one – and that I really didn’t give a stuff - I moved on to find a place to sit down for the concert.

By sunset, I settled on the green down back - with all the other fans that wanted to ‘properly enjoy the show.’ From here, I was able to see the complete stage, a sea of heads, and the police escorting young men to the exit gates.

The stage was set and it quickly turned to dusk. A pearly half moon hung over the open clam, and clouds moved swiftly in the sky. Some hurried off to the toilets while others headed for more beer. A familiar full-bodied herbal smell passed my nostrils as these people walked by.

My attention was caught from a cheer created by the mass before me and I squinted to see an Aboriginal performance group on stage. My partner said it was Yothu Yindi, to which I gullibly responded ‘Is it?’ …I bet I wasn’t the only one. The crowd stood for the group from Sydney’s southeast, as they began a welcome ceremony. The sound of the Didgeridoo, wood blocks and singing filled the grounds whilst a red and orange glow oozed from the stage. I suppose I should have seen this coming, after all he is friends with Xavier Rudd.

Fifteen minutes after the Aboriginal group finished the welcome ceremony, a roar swelled as Jack Johnson casually strolled on stage with his acoustic guitar strapped around him. He opened the night with ‘All At Once’: a sombre and heartfelt song about losing hope. He sung, ‘Which way will you run?’ when you feel overwhelmed and out of control. I thought about the girl unconscious in the port-a-loo, five in the afternoon. He went on, ‘There’s so many things we got too proud of, we’re too proud of, we’re too proud of.’ The smug look on the man under arrest earlier popped up in my mind. If you’d like a preview of the ‘new hell’ Jack Johnson refers to, stick around for the concert aftermath. Beer cans and plastic bottles lay in clusters on the field, while used napkins and sauce stained paper cups tumbled around in the wind.

Global warming, greed, heartache, and war - Jack Johnson made a delightfully deep turn with his latest album by drawing attention to the cloud, and not the silver lining. Before us stood a man that accepted the way it was, despite his hunger for the world to change.

Jack Johnson’s 2008 world tour is a campaign against our weaker and lazy selves; a tired attitude more widely held than should be. Of course I drove to the concert, does Jack Johnson know anything about Sydney’s public transport system? Sure, the war in Iraq disgusts me, still the total number of petitions I’ve signed are zero. Where is the love? Well, I love to hate just as much as the next person. Jack Johnson sees the storm cloud overhead, but he doesn’t give up on his audience completely. All his efforts with eco-minded organisations have rejuvenated the connection between youth culture and social awareness, prominent in the 1970s. His maturity has flourished in this album, along with his passion for environmental reform. With any luck, his new tone will strike a chord for young people around the world.