(Blogger cut me off in mid-rant. Just fucking great; it's bad enough when everyone I know does it to me; now even the machines have turned on me. This is projacient from the previous entry - I'm not being more incoherent than usual.)

Mustered sufficient coherence to proceed to interview. The building was a gargantuan edifice to the free flow of global capital; I was struck by how much the interior matched precisely how I always imagined Howard Roark's designs to be like. It's all the brutal, neoliberal economic certainty; the imposing, faux-Gothic sweep of rigid, efficient, corporate aesthetic. "Socialist realism", I think it's called. And there's a lot of the kind of marble/granite/bronze corporate art that's just waiting for a Tyler Durden to smash over.

There was a direct transit elevator on a mezzanine above the lobby with only two buttons -"2" and "37". Inside the elevator was fine-grained teak; usual burnished metal framings, and, charmingly, a television set to the Bloomberg channel. I suppose a few million dollars could be made in the seconds it takes to get from one floor to another; the bigwigs responsbile for billions of OPM ("Other People's Money") take their informational needs seriously. Although the growing ubiquity of television screens *everywhere* in Singapore is a bit weird. Maybe it's anoter mind control trick by the government; doesn't even have to be as outlandish as subliminal radio messages (although those are there, yes indeedy they are, quick wrap your head in aluminium foil! Gladwrap is your saviour as well!) - it could simply be that a tired population, sitting on public transport, staring slack-jawed at moving pictures on a screen is kept too mentally stupefied to fulminate unrest.

Anyway, arrived at the 37th floor, where the ceiling was cunningly arched somewhat akin to the proportions of Westminster Abbey. Directly down the corridor leading off the lift were stairs vaulting to Empyrean heights (thanks to a trick of curvature in the walls that made a corridor with steps take on the dimensions of the Parthenon), a massive portico framed in black marble, and a huge wooden monstrosity which seemed to span the horizon that served as a reception desk. Above this was an elaborate overhanging tapestry/frieze of some sort with the corporate insignia emblazoned on it.

They appeared to be quite taken with the Hellenic tradition, as one of the Erinyes served as their receptionist. Or so it seemed, only instead of a whip and torch, she was holding a pen and clipboard, and had a rather stylish woollen gray jumper/garment thingie in lieu of a tunic of flayed skins. And the serpentine hair was held firmly in place by a massive ivory clip. I did discern an ermine, demonic gleam in her eyes though. Or maybe that was because, after emerging from the muted, halogen lighting of the lift, I was blinded by the wall of sheer plate glass behind the reception, letting in the quotidian sunlight almost unfiltered. Probably to highlight the already imposing effect of the reception and hallway; thus forcing a supplicant for investment funds to drop his gaze in blinded reverence.

Anyway, Alecto addressed abruptly (alliteration is like binging on burgers; "going down, it's good, coming back up, it's not so good.") "What can I do for you, sir?"

After undergoing the whole presenting of credentials ritual: "Ah yes, Mr XXX is exPECTing you. (heavy emphasis on the middle syllable - a rather bizarre MittelEuropean accent I couldn't place) Would you laaahk a moment to freshen yourself up? (Less than subtle hint that my hair was a tad dishevelled by all the hand rubbing through it in the wake of losing cheque)."

The toilet was one of the more grandiose, six-star hotel marble, mahogany and glazed porcelain affairs with complicated faucets and eerily ostentatious IR sensors blinking rapidly over every urinal.

Was guided to another bank of lifts, and this time transported up to an ergonomically well-designed workspace, without the ostentation of the facade downstairs. Unfortunately, I only passed one set of glass security doors, and was immediately steered to a very compact meeting room. It would have been interesting to see what cubicles at a first tier investment banking outfit were like. A wireless hub was positioned in the middle of the desk; somehow I had a feeling this wasn't a company that scrimped on issuing wireless LAN adapters to every single staff member. Not to mention a superb view of the Golden Shoe skyline.

There was a whiteboard on a wall. Most whiteboards have a little metal shelf for the markers. These whiteboards (at least this specimen) have these strangely carved wooden, curling shelf thing, like an embouchure sucking on the edge of a metal sheet.

Was greeted by the Vice-President for Human Resources; an impressive title at first, until I later learned that the corporate career structure is Associate -> Junior Vice President -> Senior Vice President.

She was this rather cute chick, in a highly articulate yet vacant manner. The kind who uses the same breathy tone to enthuse about stuffed toys and/or the power of Kafka's prose to capture the poisoned, modern human condition. (I would be treated to both, over the conversational span that followed.)

Now, in order to crush all suspense, the ultimate outcome of this interview was made clear when I learned this fact after 20 minutes - 1 position, approx. 500 applicants.

Having made clear the futility of the situation, I shall now proceed.

Basically the first 45 minutes was the real serious stuff; describing my resume, qualifications, job experience, working life, a few practiced opportunities where I artfully slipped in some of the pre-memorised crap one vomits out at interviews, "yes, I'm highly fasincated by REITs, and I'm aware that you're is a very active player in the American mezzanine debt market..." "oh, I'd be perfectly willing to work in any capacity that you see fit because I believe that an organization like yours will provide excellent opportunities to learn and build my career on..." "oh and i'd lick your cunt too, repeatedly, if you'd hire me. That includes your harpy of a receptionist as well."

Anyway, the remaining two hours of our time together was spent making lots of bloody small talk. I suppose it's an effective interviewing tactic; in order to know more about a person, you lower their defenses, engage them in conversation, get afeel for their personality. Still, it was made very clear to me early on that my chances were effectively snowball + Hell, Gabriel + tact, irc + grammar, GEPpers + intelligence, me + sanity kind of odds. Was consequently not very eager to stick around and prolong the agony of having to be neat, presentable, well-heeled, and maintaining rigid control over a variety of bodily fluids and sounds.

However, the verdammt perky HR chick went ON and ON about a variety of topics too picayune to describe here. Some highlights however:

"Oh I'm really passionate about Australian universities! I used to cover Australian universities for the Min. of Manpower! And I think they really produce great education at an affordable cost for Asian students!"

"I like modernist stuff like T.S Eliot, that sort of thing!"

"I was from NUS Arts! Eng. Lit and Soci!"

"Oh, there's always some tension at work, but we're a great crew and everyone's really nice!"

(and my personal favourite)

"I really really really (yes, she said 'really' 3 times) hate it when people think we're a snooty employer! It's like, I get really annoyed when people come up to me and say, "oh, we probably won't get hired because we're not from Ivy League or Oxbridge". That's not true! Often employers like to look for so-called second-tier university students because they haven't go much ego issues and have less inflated expectations! (an element of truth here, I must admit) We even have senior VPs from not-so-prestigious universities like Macquarie! Everyone has a chance!"

(Note: the senior VP from Macquarie University, whom I've met before, had about 15 years work experience before joining)

I'm torn between wondering if she's that fucking na�ve, or if she thinks I'm that fucking stupid. Either way, at that point in time, it took great zanshin to be able to hold back my insane, octave-climbing peals of laughter. If nothing else, the rabid flecks of saliva spewing from my convulsing, hysterical lips would have caused her mascara to run.

I might add that I've seen some of their people in action, and if I recall, the least qualified fresh graduate on the team was a Masters holder from Princeton. Structural engineering. AND I've had some rather amusing encounters with their scholars before. ("Oh, we just heard there was a party with lots of scholars. Who's the birthday girl ah?" Really. I kid you not.)

After this farce, I languished around outside the building by some fountains, idly lazing and people-watching, frenziedly trying to finish my cigarettes. At this juncture, I had nowhere to go, at least until the lat evening. As I lay nearly supine on a branch, watching the trail of ashes, tie off and shirt rumpled, it occurred to me, really, that there are moments like this worth fighting for. Moments where the bleak, cryptic emptiness of life and boredom become so intimately familiar that it's almost exactly like a moment of perfect peace.

I threw some keropok to a few pigeons I saw alight in front of me, but none of them took the bait.

Eventually, I bestirred myself to take a cab back to my friend's place. This was inspired by my fifteenth phone call to Comfort only to be told: "Noone'sreportedinanything yete'reverysorrythankyouforcallingoodbye" - and a fervent hope that Singaporean rubbish collectors weren't as efficient as they were supposed to be.

Back at the Serangoon Gardens roundabout, I scoured the pavements more out of desperation that with any real hope for success. However as they say, it is darkest just before the dawn - for lying in a gutter just next to where I had a caught a cab that morning... I found it! - the envelope in which the cheque was contained! Joy!

This joy quickly turned to horror when I realised it was half submerged in filthy rainwater, and I quickly fished it out and delicately peeled off the rotting, water-ravaged envelope. It was an "Oh Lord; if there is a Lord - save my soul; if I have a soul to save."-moment.

As I hoped, the envelope had provided SOME protection - most of the cheque was still relatively dry and undamaged, apart from looking a little crumpled. BUT right along the MICR (the little row of computer-printed numbers at the bottom that identify the bank, branch and account number) a tiny chunk of paper had been macerated away - with about two digits of the account number. ARGH. Still, at least I had *something* to work with, and could avoid having to lie about how I got robbed and sodomised by Bangala construction workers with a bill-of-exchange fetish.

I stumped off dejectedly back to friend's house, hung up cheque to dry on some clothes pegs, and tried to read some trashy Anne Rice novel to take mind off things. When friend came home, he gazed at the cheque hanging off a jury-rigged clothesline strung from the cupboard to the desk, and deigned to comment.

At 9pm, I grabbed my sling bag, and headed out to my next saprophytic haven; another poor bastard who wasn't working on Saturday. Thanking my current host and his parents profusely, I made my way over to One Fullerton where I was supposed to meet up for drinks at Embargo. Obviously, my next victim was late, as my associates always are (should start imposing punctuality requirements when making new friends, grumble grumble), and I spent some time sitting quietly reading on the steps just outside Centro. I received a few quizzical looks from the assorted party butterflies, lians, and yuppies - clearly literacy was not a prized quality in that social context.

Noted that the new Arts Center at the Esplanade did not resemble a durian as it did a.. jackfruit.

Friend showed up, finally, sporting, much to my amusement, a tattoo on right arm. Once again, my familiars fall prey to moral turpitude. Am I doomed to be the last bastion of moral righteousness in a sea of iniquity? Maybe I should consider entering the clergy. Although it was quite a nice motif; a stylized black sun with appropriately elaborate corona.

We sat around, talking. Ah, talk. Sometimes I swear I would rather die than lose the opportunity for conversation. "I like talking. But I hate socialising." Chitterchatter, chitterchatter - the garbage rattling out of my mouth; or the weirdnesses I let filter into my head - anything's better than sitting listening to silences echo inside my own skull. Made some barbed comments about how bitchy all female lawyers look (a group of young corporate lawyers were at the next table).

"I swear, sometimes I think Lee and Lee imports these bitches by the cartload straight from NUS Law."

The last thing I remember that night was a rather expensive cocktail called Frustration. It was similar to a Flaming Lamborghini; the bartender ignites a shot glass of Baccardi 151 (76.5% alcohol! I've seen websites suggesting it as a bathtub cleaner.) and drops it into a huge glass comprising of "every liquor on the shelf plus a shot of Stella Artois." A pity, because we were having the usual flimflammery of good chatter up til then, and usual bitchy observations of the people and world around us, before everything became a gray haze.

As to what happened next - well. I'll get onto Saturday's long and convoluted rant soon enough.