Monthly Archives: December 2015

Bocoran !

 

Yg bisa dilihat hanyalah bahwa salary follows years experience
ah nenek-nenek juga tahu !
namanya juga bocoran, data ngga lengkap, ngga jelas …
akhirnya … JANGAN DITANYA , JANGAN DIPERCAYA !!!

tapi kalau tertarik memperbaiki anda bisa menyumbang data point,
siapa tahu bocorannya tertutup, jadi rapi dan berguna.

Nah bagaimana dengan rival-rival kita, berapa yg diinginkan GGE di Indonesia ini ?
(source: worldwide worker : 2620 CV’s/ with avarage salary of $ 4699 / per month )

Salam

The good liar’ is a ‘wicked’ library guest

Yesterday at my little branch library we had a visit from a bonafied author (It’s alright for you to be impressed, these things don’t happen everyday around here). Gregory Maguire is a former Albany native who writes books for children and adults and is most famous for writing the book the Broadway musical, Wicked is based upon. He is in town to do a reading at our Main Library Downtown, but time was made for a reception at my library. Once upon a time, he used this library regularly.

I just wanted to say how personable, and chatty Gregory Maguire is. We talked about my favorite book by him, The good liar. He told me it was originally published in Ireland because he wasn’t able to find an American publisher at first. I’m glad it finally made it stateside. I get kids to borrow and read that book all the time, and not just the ones who read historical fiction, or the ones who need to read a book by tomorrow (it’s slim, but packs a lot in). It’s such a good book, it’s an easy sell to anyone, even adults. Book recommendations: It’s what I do. Some books are easier than others.

To change subjects slightly, meeting an author seems so much easier than meeting a rock star. Even an indie rock star. The whole cool thing just isn’t an issue for a writer, and maybe it’s also me. I look at writers as real people. From a lifetime of watching MTV (not that I’ve done that in 10 years), and reading music mags, rock stars are so otherworldly. It must be me, because I wasn’t a books reader as a kid (how did I become a children’s librarian?). I was obsessed with my radio (92.7 WLIR) and record player (an adorable red one with white plastic speakers) and did all my reading in Star Hits, Rolling Stone, and later Spin. I was so tongue tied when I met Paul Westerberg, and then as I was walking away from him, I actually got choked up(no real tears were shed, but it was very emotional).

Authors don’t seem to move me the way a singer can, I guess.

Mallory Park

The weekend’s festivities took place at a racing circuit outside of Leicester called Mallory Park, a track that I spent a lot of time at in my twenties. Back then, a friend and I thought it would be a lark to have a crack at motorcycle road-racing – I’ve always loved the sheer balls-out insanity of fast motorbikes, so hurling them around a racetrack seemed like a top idea.

We bought a couple of bikes, a van and all the gear, got our racing licences and started spending our weekends at the track. Only, the whole thing turned out to be a lot harder than we expected. We’d read some websites created by other racers and they always made it sound so easy – these guys had teams of mechanics keeping their bikes in top condition, sponsors to help with the bills, and nothing ever seemed to go wrong for them. “Entered my first race at Brands Hatch this weekend and finished in the top three – what a result!”

Wasn’t like that for us. We had no mechanics and no sponsors, we had to figure everything out ourselves and pay for everything out of our own wallets. Our bikes constantly went wrong, we fell off with alarming regularity, and even when we could get our shit together long enough to actually finish a race we usually crawled across the line in very low positions, if not last. And every fucking time we went anywhere near a race track it seemed to piss down with rain.

It was expensive, demoralising and hard work – but none of the people writing about the racing scene ever told you what it was really like down in the trenches, you only got to hear from the top-guns. So I cobbled together a simple online diary using one of those new “web-logging” tools that I’d heard about – we gave ourselves a team name (Team Incompetent Fools) and we started writing about what it was really like to pour your heart and soul and bank balance into competitive motorsport, only to constantly feel like you were making absolutely zero progress. Most of all, we were careful to take the piss out of ourselves and our constant failure as much as possible.

The site struck a chord with a lot of other racers and pretty soon we’d made a bit of a name for ourselves – the sport loves winners, but we made losing cool. It started to get a bit more fun – people knew who we were, we became minor celebrities in the paddock and started getting invited to parties thrown by the more serious teams. We were getting emails from newbie racers who took inspiration from our struggles, and from riders around the world in places like America and Australia who just enjoyed reading about our exploits.

At one stage, a bunch of bikers in Denmark set up a small fan-club for us, and started raising funds for us to ship our bikes over there and enter a local race – it never really reached fruition, but we were blown away that people would even consider trying to do that for us.

Mallory Park was a memorable circuit because if you have a racing licence you can buy cheap track time for practice and testing between races, so we spent a fair bit of time up there. Mallory Park is where it all came undone.

About two and a half years into this little adventure my friend had bought a new bike, and we took it up to Mallory Park one day for him to put the thing through its paces in a test session. A few laps in, he stacked it big-style. I didn’t see the crash, but I saw the wreckage that was left of his bike and my heart was filled with dread. The track marshal told me that he’d been ambulanced off to Leicester A&E, and it looked pretty serious, so I packed our gear up and made my way there as quickly as possible.

In the hour that it took me to get there I’d convinced myself of the worst and that I’d have to call his parents (who I’ve known since childhood) to give them some devastating news. All our clubhouse bravado about preferring death to paralysis was spinning around my head. That journey was the worst I have ever made.

When I arrived at the A&E ward, I found his caved-in crash helmet and ripped-up leathers piled on a trolley, and for a moment or two I became absolutely certain that something terrible had happened. But as I asked a nurse where my friend was, I heard him calling me from one of the curtained-off beds – apart from concussion and a permanently knackered ankle, he was fine.

We fixed his bike up and did a couple more races as a getting back on the horse exercise, but the thing about this sport is that unless you’ve got 100% confidence in yourself you shouldn’t be on the track. And his confidence was gone, so we called it a day.

We reminisced a lot about the racing this weekend. It cost us a small fortune, sucked up three years of our lives and we never really got good at it, but neither of us would trade those three years for anything because, well – this line from The World’s Fastest Indian says it all:

    Tom: Aren’t you scared you’ll kill yourself if you crash?

    Burt Munro: No… You live more in five minutes on a bike like this going flat out than some people live in a lifetime.