pettifogspot

2005-06-16T22:46:00.000+12:00

It's easier to leave than to be left behind
-REM

So this is it ... goodbye Wellington.
Don't leave me.
Sweetcheeks, don't make this harder than it already is.
Then tell me you love me, tell me you'll stay.
I can't make empty promises.
You can, just this once.
Those days are behind me now, I've changed. Hell Wellington, we've both changed. Five years ago you didn't even have a decent beach to lie on.
I'll make another, anything.
Look kid, I know this ain't right, but I'm going to miss the way you caress my...
Fine! Just forget about me and get on board that goddamn plane, but... but...
What is it darling? You're crying.
...but please, don't remember me like this.
Like what? Hey, c'mon doll. You wanna know what I remember about you? Your stunning natural beauty, your innate sense of cool, they way all your best bits are within easy walking distance. Not some pretty lady standing on the runway trying every which way but how to tell her man that she loves him.
But you're moving to Auckland!
Auckland means nothing to me, she's a means to an end. The town bike. Everyone's had her one time or another. It's you that I want.
And I want you.
Ah what the hell, I wasn't gonna say this but you know what I'll miss most of all?
What's that?
The way you blow sweet nothings in my ear.
(sniff) Promise you'll write?
Every day. But if I don't, remember, you'll always be right here, in my heart.
You sure know how to make a girl feel swell.
I know. I'd better go.
Stay.
Goodbye Wellington.
Stay...(sniff) Goodbye Chuck.
Goodbye.

2005-06-13T21:44:00.000+12:00

Packing his bags,gotta go, gotta go
Packing his bags,gotta go
He's a Samsonite Man
Maybe he is just a rollin stone
Wandering from here to there
Searching for a place to call his home
-Alicia Keys

Love letters. A Truman Capote biography. A jar of coriander. Two postcards (unsent). Six squeaky nuns. A signed Super Furry Animals poster. A book of (my own) god-awful poems. A Scrabble turntable. A film script. A ‘You’ll Win With Gore!’ cigar from 2000. Cheese. A maroon rugby shirt. An Edward Hopper calendar. Tickets and programmes from UK gigs. The baby. The bathwater.

If you’d met me today you would have gone home and said boy, that Chuck, he is ruthless! And ya know what? You would have been right, for today was the day I had to move on up and move on out, or whatever pineapple head M.People shemale sang about. And what looks like a recipe for disaster up there is in fact a list of things I’ve had to throw away. Not that I really wanted to, but in the interests of avoiding clutter they were decisions that had to be made

I’ve lived in this lovely little flat for a year and have taken a certain pride in keeping it clean. But tonight as I write, boxes are stacked in the corner, bookshelves are stripped, pictures are unhooked and a pile of rubbish lies in the middle of the floor. And truth be told I’m sad to be leaving my pad and this damn fine city. But as compatriot Jessie will tell you leaving Welly's never easy...

Sure, I’m happy to be heading to greener pastures and wouldn’t trade in the opportunity for nuttin’ but i'm sorry to leave, especially as I’ve been so happy here. So tonight’s my last night, I’ve got a bottle of red wine to drink, a plastic dog to console and a freezer to watch defrost. Wish you were here.

Ugh, enough gloom. Who wants a nun? I’ve saved them from the dumpster and have six to give away – simply choose and name your favourite from the fine specimens below and tell me in 10 words or less why your sweet singin' sister deserves to be saved. Numbered 1-6, left to right.

Or they burn.

2005-06-09T22:25:00.000+12:00

Don’t you know I’m still standing better than I ever did
Looking like a true survivor, feeling like a little kid
- Elton John

Alas no Paris last night, I knew it was over. Instead a rather ordinary dream about a Rhodesian Ridgeback that I had to housetrain before its master came home from work. I think I did a pretty good job, I had it fetching a newspaper. I’m not sure what happened in the end though, I think it segued seamlessly into a dream where I was standing by myself at a party, leaning against the wall by the speaker, nodding my head, occasionally jerking my arms, perhaps in time with the music, perhaps not, while fun loving people swirled around me…

Wait a moment …that was no dream! That was Saturday night!

It’s true I’m afraid. It was a great party and I had a ball, but I woke up the next day concerned that I had spent far too long in my own little world which, incidentally was quite a lot of fun. Anyhow, an e-mail this morning confirmed my worst fears. In several photographs there’s people having a good time, dancing, mincing, whatever, and there, lurking in the background, eyes closed and in exactly the same spot …is me. Presumably these photos were taken over a decent amount of time, and presumably I was having quite a decent time at the time, but it certainly looks strange in photographs. Sort of like Where’s Wally? Look! There he is!

As my Canadian friend Leonard might say, weird hey?

2005-06-08T22:05:00.000+12:00

I gotta job to do
But that's the easy part
What's really killing me
Is this broken heart
You're hard to leave, tough to go
A heartache's ahead, this I know.
- Billy Ray Cyrus

Well the Lions have won, someone’s giving birth rather noisily on television, and I have a job! Yes – what a remarkably clean baby (I’m half watching Lost). I went for it, really wanted it, and got it, which I’m rather chuffed about. Only problem is I’ll have to pack up Brutus in my old kit bag and follow the well trod path up north, leaving my flat, family and friends here in the wundy sutty. I’ll be sorry to leave Wellington of course, but I’m looking forward to a bit of welcome change. Auckland, fetch me some kippers you old maid, I’ll be up for breakfast shortly.

So what else? Winter’s set in, I’ve got a cold and Paris Hilton has been coming on to me in my dreams. Which is great, but a little odd. Odd in that I don’t find her particularly attractive yet she’s been popping up in my dreams with unnerving regularity. Not particularly attractive, snorts Angry Sci-Fi Fan from Hamilton, pah!. Well it’s true Angry, I like her mischievous demeanour and her dopey grin, but that’s about the sum of it. Put it this way, if I was after such attributes I’d have settled for Wilma a long time ago, even Curious George. But that’s beside the point. I won’t elaborate further other than to say that after a brief courtship we now seem to be something of an item.
I’m really starting to like you Chuck, said Paris on Monday as I made the bed.
Despite myself Paris, I'm starting to feel the same way, I said on Tuesday.
By last night however she pointedly humiliated me in front of her well-heeled friends and our relationship may well have hit the rocks. I’ll let you know, though I fear I’ve broken the spell by spilling my guts in this piece. Time will tell, but for now, where’s that diazepam?

Apologies for the delay in spilling my guts, I just had to put a few things in order. And now that they are, onward ho!

2005-05-26T12:30:00.000+12:00

Hey, it's good to be back home again
Sometimes this old farm feels like a long lost friend
Yes, 'n, hey it's good to be back home again
- John Denver

Well yes, I suppose it has been a while since my last post, time just passed and suddenly it's Thursday, two weeks since my last muddled missive and well, there's not a lot to write home about, let alone a blog.

The film was... an experience. Perhaps a little lacklustre after last years film where it was the thrill of the new, but good to see the old team back together.
This year I felt we were rather hamstrung by the genre of science fiction, cue much indecision as to which road to go down, for as Dan and I discussed on the road trip up, science fiction is a setting rather than a genre. Star Wars is a western in space, Alien a horror is space and ours was, well, um something in a carpark. Anyhow, it’ll be up on a website sooner or later so have a look and throw bananas at the screen then.

And now it’s back home in Wellington and it’s good to be back. My gerbera was chuffed, Brutus whelped in delight and me? Well I poured myself a drink, toasted this fine city and collapsed in a pile of old laundry.

2005-05-12T19:49:00.000+12:00

I'm heading north
Gonna see what this heart's really worth
I guess it's time to be on my own
- Alison Krauss

Except that unlike Alison Krauss I'm not heading north on my own, I'm going with B.M. Dan to lay siege to the 48 Hour Film Competition. After the successes of last year it was made very hard to say no, so here we go again. We set sail at 6am, Auckland by mid afternoon then the fun begins at 7pm. What will the genre be? The line of dialogue? The character? The prop? The film itself?
Well right now I have no idea, but the next time I write another word here I'll know our film like the back of my hand - veiny, hairy, yet oddly appealing. And that's if we're lucky.

So here we go, see you on the other side.

2005-05-10T22:51:00.000+12:00

Baby, please stop crying, stop crying, stop crying
Baby, please stop crying, stop crying, stop crying
Baby, please stop crying.
You know, I know, the sun will always shine
So baby, please stop crying 'cause it's tearing up my mind.
- Bob Dylan

Wanganui ladies and gentlemen, that’s where I was. Funny place to go I know, but I felt the call of the old town and simply could not resist. That river. Those people. Michael Laws.

Actually I didn’t see the mayor, he’s probably still recovering from his frankly humiliating exit from Treasure Island when Toddy’s jaw told him to get lost. Either that or the local brethren have gagged him with a headscarf, holding him ransom beneath the railway bridge.

I didn’t see the mayor, I didn’t see many of the people and saw but a glimpse of the river, but no matter, I was in Wanganui on family business. My dear cousin has had a couple of babies since I’ve been away and yesterday was the time for me to go ga-ga over them. Except they got in first and went ga-ga over me. Within minutes I was muckier than an Old West spittoon and making desperate glances at anyone to whom I might offload the offspring – but to no avail, I was Ronald McDonald, Bob The Builder and both Mickey and Maisy Mouse all rolled in to one. Glasses pulled off? You betcha. Slobbered upon? Uh-huh. Zip-fly played with? Yessiree bob.

I find that like cats, kids apprehend your discomfort and take a certain glee in leaping once more onto your britches and no matter how often you say ‘Oh ho, yes, nice now settle down kiddo’ they do the exact opposite. Until yesterday I thought house husband may be viable career, but no way Jose, when it comes to kids, Chuck’s checking out. Which he duly did while wiping gooey strands of snot from his shoulder.

2005-05-06T12:57:00.000+12:00

Youth culture killed my dog
And I don't think it's fair
- They Might Be Giants

Poor old dog, she ain’t looking the best. Not that she ever really did, but this time I think it’s curtains. Last week she started coughing up blood and spent the weekend at the vet but now she’s come back home, not exactly with a new lease on life, but with enough doggie drugs to make the end an easy one.

Luckily it’s not my dog (Brutus is made of plastic) but I’ve taken it a few walks, thrown it a few bones, that sort of thing. It’s my mother’s partner’s dog and he’s had it for about 16 years, so in dog years that’s getting on a bit, 112 I think. Oh well, time to step on a rainbow and enter that great big kennel in the sky.

On the other hand my terrier Brutus is doing fantastically! Here he is earlier today enjoying the Wellington sunshine.

2005-05-04T18:59:00.000+12:00

I know a little place, we can get there for the break of day.
I said in these shoes?
No way, jose
I said honey, let’s stay right here.
- Kirsty Maccoll

Corker. Stunner. Red-hot mumma. Call her what you will but this girl was summit else. Renee Headliner take a jump and make room for the cutest cobbler on Lambton Quay. She had it all, the looks, the body, hell even her voice was the sweetest I’d heard since Patsy Riggir.

It should be the simplest thing in the world, buying a pair of shoes from a pretty girl, but yesterday it was fraught with frustration and indecision. It went something like this.

I saw a pair of boots I liked in the window, went in, saw her, caught my breath, picked up the boots and approached her with them in my hand like a retriever bringing home a stick.
I… I’d like to try these on please.
Shorwa, she said, take a seat.
From there it should have been easy but ten minutes later I was surrounded by more black leather than the first day auditions for Goth Idol. I must have tried on at least six pairs of very similar boots at least twice. My feet seemed to fall between two sizes. My angel was getting frustrated. This wasn’t going well at all.

No, they’re the 42’s
The 44’s?
The 42’s look bigger.
Than the 44’s?
Yes the 44’s.
Try the 43’s.
In what style?
Those ones.
These ones?
Didn’t I already try these on?
No… Do you need a shoehorn?
Too tight I’m afraid, let me try those ones in the 44’s.
But the 44’s don’t fit you.
But they’re bigger than the 43’s
Smaller. Remember?

She’d wrapped me in her delicate cocoon of confusion and I stared, transfixed by those beautiful green eyes. Getting sleepy now…
You know what sweetcheeks? Let’s forget the boots and go get a drink, is what I should have said. But I didn’t. Instead I smiled sweetly, looked her in the eye and rammed my oddly sized foot into yet another piece of cowhide. And whaddaya know?
We looked to each other, to the boot, then back to each other again.
Could this be the one?
She was excited as Cinderella, and I was as pleased as Punch - the boots fitted perfectly! I could have kissed her (actually I could have done a lot more) and as I stood up and zipped up the ankle, I knew, these were the boots for me.
We made some small talk. She giggled a bit. I flicked my hair. She zip-zapped my card. I walked out grinning like a maniac.

2005-05-03T12:45:00.000+12:00

I'm sittin' on the dock of the bay
Watching the tide roll away
Ooo, I'm just sittin' on the dock of the bay
Wastin' time
- Otis Redding

Dr.Richard Kimble rang at four in the morning to cancel. No, too rough. Gale force winds, I’ll call again at 9.

Bitchin’. I’d been looking forward to this all week. Five of us were set to sail Cook Strait to the Marlborough Sounds but if it was likely the voyage was to turn out like the first episode of The Lost Islands then I was happy to leave it. The phone rang at 9 but it wasn’t the skipper, rather Miss E. expressing her disappointment at not being able to get across. Damnit, I said, never let weather get in the way of a good weekend, lets grab the unicorn by the by the horn and get across any way we can! And so with stirring music in the background I called around and secured two cheapish flights to Picton. The weekend had begun.

Once we’d blasted through the cloud the weather gods smiled and allowed us stunning views as we soared above the sounds.

Half an hour later the man with the most unpleasant teeth in the southern hemisphere was driving us to Anakiwa offering tasty anecdotes on everything from Scott Watson (“threatened me with a knife once”) to bad drivers (“Germans: the worst”). But he got us there in one piece and wow, what a place. I’d never been to Anakiwa before but from what I’ve seen it’s the prettiest bay in the sounds. Take a look!

And that was pretty much the view from the bach where, for the next three days, I did nothing but sit, think, read, relax and chat. It was great actually, nice company, nice place, clean air, clean living. Miss E. even went for a swim which I wasn’t quite up to, but I did do a couple of hours of the Queen Charlotte walkway that I’d like to do more of, someday.

I thought a lot about what the future may hold, but almost every question I answered seemed to lead on to so many more, so I simply lost track and watched oystercatchers wade into the water. They have very bright beaks you know.

And then all too fast it was over and ‘jaws’ was driving us back to Picton, a little quieter this time, perhaps having used all his anecdotes on the outward journey. We arrived back to Wellington on the ferry to be greeted by a howling southerly which is still thrashing around outside today. But it was a great weekend, thank you Miss E. it was just what I needed.

2005-04-28T20:20:00.000+12:00

Ooooh, ya gotta ask some questions
Whenever there's a doubt
That you're wondering about
Ask and find out
- Sesame Street

Well what to do? I visited my government sponsored life coach today and we bemoaned the fact that a smart, urbane, debonair, sophisticated, fine looking fellow such as me was having such trouble finding work. She suggested I look deep inside myself and try and answer a few key questions. Actually she didn’t suggest, she just wrote the questions down and passed them across the desk to me. There was then an awkward pause. I said I’d do my best and come up with answers, but surely being an ENFP absolves me from such introspection?

I dunno, maybe I’m shooting myself in the foot, but I don’t like looking too deep, the surface is fine, lets just snorkel for a while – ooh look, there’s a pretty fish. ------->

In other news I finally finished my cork board and it’s full of friends and friendly faces, so if you ever meant anything to me at all, chances are you’re staring at me now. And if you’re not, well, I’ll keep some room – there’s always room here for friendly faces.

2005-04-26T12:37:00.000+12:00

Don't wanna see anybody
And hear advice about my job and my life
I'm in a bad mood and I'm so bored today.
- The Peawees

Were I to do a pie-graph of my student loan spending, a decent wedge would be coloured brown with a large ‘L’ to indicate Lovelock’s Sports Bar. And so it was that on Friday night I returned to my old haunt to watch the Hurricanes get beaten and the ‘KeeWee’s’ lose the leeegue to Australia. A winning start to the weekend, but good to be back at the place I had pissed away so much money.

And then, perhaps brought on by those double losses, a realisation of my debt or the sudden arrival of winter, a darkness settled upon Chuxville. It eventually lifted last evening when the sky turned a brilliant kaleidoscope of pink, orange and yellow, but in the meantime, Chuck turned mean.

Well maybe not mean in the cutting fingers off with secateurs, extracting teeth with a hammer or exploding semtex pre-inserted in the victims’ anus kind of mean, but rather a sort of mean mood, selfish maybe, intolerant definitely. Actually those three examples of meanness come from the films I chose to watch this weekend, namely Oldboy and Man on Fire, which perhaps weren’t the best ones to watch in a mood such as mine. Oldboy was a fairly vile film in fact and I’m unsure why it has garnered such acclaim apart from a nifty fight scene in a corridor, and an unsettling premise. The violence though was just a little too much for me, specifically a scene that reminded me of the time I sat alongside Lloyd Scott (the thinking man’s Crumpy) at a one-off Paramount screening of Salò o le 120 giornate di Sodoma – which I wouldn’t recommend to anyone (neither the film nor sitting alongside L.S.)

Anyhow, enough about the flicks. You’ll be happy to hear that my disposition has improved and wow, that sky last night, you couldn’t help but feel all was right with the world. And so it was that I popped into the supermarket on my way home, only to discover that my much abused Visa card had finally had enough. I had been declined. Perhaps time for another student loan?

2005-04-22T15:35:00.000+12:00

Did you feel the breeze, my love?
Summer's kiss is over.
- The Afghan Whigs

My tongue played with my new filling like a kitten with a ball of wool so last night I numbed both with a bottle of chardonnay. It worked a treat!

Speaking of teething problems, the inept weatherman on tv told me today would be the last day of summer. He then paused, forgot where he was, grinned, paused, remembered where he was, drew a breath and carried on with the weather report. Dude c’mon – put some effort in! Or less.

Anyhow, despite all that he was right, and today has been a pearrrrrler. Birds singing, sun shining, Ian Johnstone going to the toilet. Yep, that’s right, I caught him as he found himself caught short and did a funny walk to the toilet in Aro park. I was tempted to point and shout after him ‘hey you’re that guy off the telly aren’t ya! Yeah you are, you’re him off Crimewatch aren’t ya!’ but I thought I’d give a senescent celebrity some privacy.

And it is for this, ladies and gentlemen, that I shall remember the last day of summer.

2005-04-20T16:51:00.000+12:00

You'll be a dentist
You have a talent for causing things pain
Son, be a dentist
People will pay you to be inhumane!
- Little Shop of Horrors

Yowsers!
Actually it wasn’t that bad, just when the drill goes in y’know and you’re trying to act all manly and cool and tooth chips are flying around your mouth like a snowstorm and your jaw aches like a fluffer. Lesser men would have wept, but as my ‘kind to be cruel’ dentist informed me, that hole in the 7th tooth front end was my own fault. Cut down on the sugars he said. Keep up the flossing he said. And stop grazing, give your teeth a break between meals. Pah! I protested, I floss at least four times a week, clean exceptionally well and have a winning smile, what gives?
By way of answering he simply bared his teeth, and boy, they were clean.
Touche.

I was tempted to mutter a surly ‘whatever’ but smiled back at him and shuffled out the door. Then to add insult to ennui, he called out after me, you’ll have to make an appointment with the hygienist for next week, clean those choppers up a bit.

I ignored him and kept walking down the stairs until I was safely on the street. Then pulled out a raspberry K Bar and chewed and chewed and chewed.

2005-04-19T12:08:00.000+12:00

Keep rollin' rollin' rollin'
- Limp Bizkit.

They thought it would never happen. They were wrong.

That’s right! Je return!
Actually je tried a couple of times previously, but wanted to start with a splash y’know, with a big story, a piece that would say “hey pal, look at me’ like a nice new pair of chinos. But aside from a theory that the Queen was subtely, yet undeniably transforming into a werewolf, there was nothing I could think of, so here I go. Pulling outta the station all shiny and new - and boy, it feels like going home.

2005-03-25T22:29:00.000+12:00

coming soon...

2004-10-26T13:14:00.000+13:00

Think I'll pack it in and buy a pick-up
Take it down to L.A.
Find a place to call my own and try to fix up
Start a brand new day.
-Neil Young

Sorry, but this is the end of the line for the Pettifog train. Sure, it's been fun, I've enjoyed it, but like all trains, this one's rusted and spluttered to a slow halt. I could keep chugging on, greasing the wheels and stoking the engines, but to honest my heart's not in it, and all that hot air is making me queasy. Thank you for your readership and your comments and to compadre's Jen, Megan, Sarah and Damian, keep up the good work. But don't worry about me, I'll be fine. In fact, I believe I see a train comin' round the corner right now, bright, shiny and new - might just jump aboard and see where it takes me.

But for now good luck, goodbye, see you further down the line.
A dios.
Chuck.

2004-10-13T14:14:00.000+13:00

I wanna take you where the night never ends
I feel the need to sweep you off your feet
You and me, we should be dancin’ in the sheets
- Shalamar

My garden sparrow had further reason to laugh at me yesterday. It was washing day in Chuxville so after a warm wash, on high water level and fast spin speed my sheets were ready to dry.

(A gripping way to start I know, but wait, it gets better.)

Being Wellington it was as windy as baked bean tasters underwear so after much huffing and puffing I managed to peg up my sheets against the blasting northerly. As I left for my busy day of meetings and brokering I saw a peg fly loose and a sheet billow around in the gale like a Team New Zealand spinnaker. I raced over to the washing line to try and pull it back but with a sudden wind change I found myself completely enveloped in the white cotton. I grabbed at what I could, like a hobbit clutching at Pauline Gillespie's blouse and felt the red mist rise amongst the white, white sheet. Eventually I gained some purchase and yanked as hard as I could. Pegs flew everywhere, narrowly missing my feathered friend who flew to the safety of a lemon tree, while I stamped a muddy footprint on the corner of my white, white sheet. The sparrow shook his head disapprovingly as the sheet spun around on its tether draping me like a bespectacled Nero. And then it was back to square one. Warm wash, high water, spin speed fast.
Bitchin'.

I did think of a new invention though, heated double strength clothes pegs. Double strength of course to counter the Wellington wind, but heated also, because there's that little bit of fabric beneath the pegs that always manages to stay a little wet, and for the life of me, I don't know what to do about it. So there we go, off to invention patents this afternoon.

Oh! Speaking of old ladies, did you hear about that 60 year old woman who wrestled a crocodile off another man in Queensland? Yikes! Wouldn't want to mess with her, but then again I bet she wouldn't muck about getting washing off the line either.

2004-10-09T15:56:00.000+13:00

But here I am again mixing misery and gin
Sitting with all my friends and talking to myself
- Brendan Dugan

Well, the results are in. Not the Aussie election, not the NZ mayoralty elections or even the Fair Go Ad Awards*, but Chuck's 'Which Celebrity Would You Explode?' poll. Well, we had a huge turnout, far bigger than expected, and it brings me much joy to tell you that thirty-six percent of you want to detonate Paul Holmes on a beach in Scotland. Which is nice, thanks to all who voted, and thank you for keeping Dugan safe. Did I tell you I finally got around to playing his record? Well, what can I say, it's utter crap, but enjoyable utter crap, here's the chorus from the standout track on Side One.

But here I am again mixing misery and gin
Sitting with all my friends and talking to myself
I look like I'm having a good time but any fool can tell
That this honky tonk heaven really makes me feel like hell

Maybe it would have been better to blow up Brendan after all.
Actually, what ever happened to New Zealand Country Music? This 'honky tonk heaven' Brendan refers to? I remember staring transfixed at the big neon lasso on the weekly TV show That's Country. I'd put away Action Man and watch bearded troubadours sing out their hearts and denim clad damsels wail in Southern accents, then say 'aw cheers guys thanks' in 'Ainslee to checkout please' voices. Bring 'em back I say, bring 'em all back. All those in favour, stamp your feet, wave your Stetson in the air and say 'Hell yes, that's country!"

* It is my sincere hope that the TV ONE 'Ten Fingers' kid and the M.J. Hooker 'Thank you Mr Hooker' kid get together later in life, endure years of joyless sex and produce a troupe of identical all-singing, all-dancing child performers named 'Sparkle'. Yeah.

2004-10-06T17:41:00.000+13:00

Perforation problems no one home
Stumbling like a dirty slave
- Iggy Pop

Indeed Iggy, I chipped a hole in my tooth, there's a running sore on my toe and a freight train running through the middle of my head. I'm usually pretty healthy but everything seems to be going a little downhill at the moment. Those just-add -water Just For Men tablets maybe aren’t all they cracked to be. I’ll need to take a few more to be fit though, the Big Day Out is just over the horizon

The line-up so far for NZ’s answer to Altamont includes The Streets, Shihad, The Beastie Boys and the Chemical Brothers who played last time I was there. I remember that because the big robots on the video screen leapt out at me and grabbed my heart and squeezed it in time to the outstanding big beats which poured forth into the sweat filled tent which was surprisingly pleasant, which was a nice day, which is about all I remember, I think, hey, isn't that... thank you mr. hoffman...

Anyhow, looking forward, I enjoy the Streets very much. The Beastie Boys I've never really liked, they just sound too whiney and their rhymes are dumb. Like K.D. Lang. But I did annoy people at certain parties a few years ago my jumping in front of them and yelling "Jump into the party disrupt the whole scene!' but it was generally agreed to be a tiresome performance. Still not quite as bad when I was of the understanding that everyone had heard Justin Timberlake new 'Rock Your Body' single. I was at a party, high as a kite and everyone looked really good. Enough reason therefore to approach a rather stunning young lady and tell her I was "gonna have you naked by the end of this song" followed by three tsch! tsch! tsch!'s and one breathy Michael Jackson 'yeah'.
She stared at me as if I had killed her mum.

But who knows if I'll go BDO'ing next year or not. I might wait for more 'big names to be announced!' or just put on a record, make a cup of Earl Gray, light a pipe, put my feet up, nurse my sore toe, and reminisce about that devastating big beat sound.

2004-10-04T18:24:00.000+13:00

Come and smile, don't be shy,
Touch my bum, this is life,
- The Cheeky Girls

Ahh, that's better.
I just needed a break you see. I'd like to say there are all sorts of exciting reasons why I haven't updated this page for a few weeks, but there are none, I just, ya know, needed a break. So thanks for popping by, your patience I assure you, will be rewarded.

So what news of you?
Well I've been fine, just entered a period of inter-seasonal anxiety followed by a warm afterglow of calm which has resulted in me having slightly pinker cheeks than normal. So there we go, three weeks away and all I can report is pink cheeks, fun times if you're at Pitcairn High, but otherwise a dim result.

But yes, pink cheeks, a result of sunshine, which I must confess to lying idly in from time to time. Yesterday I christened my front lawn by sprawling in the grass reading the paper, then retrieved a cool beer from the fridge, wiped it's across my glistening brow and said
'If only we might fall,
Like cherry blossoms in the spring
So pure and radiant.'
A sparrow nodded in quiet appreciation.

Pink cheeks, what else? Well, I had a maths teacher once and he was a prick with pink cheeks. Actually all my maths teachers were pricks (apart from one I developed a teenage Roger Kerr-like crush on) but what singles this one out that his face was a mess of burst blood vessels. He stunk of booze, naturally, but the most distracting thing was trying to study trigonometry while capillary chaos theory exploded across his blotched, sweaty cheeks. But he had the last laugh. He caned me for dousing his classroom in Brut 33 aftershave. The brute.

Anyhow, it's nice to be back.

2004-09-16T11:44:00.000+12:00

Cos this old world has been fine with me really
And I’m thankful for seeing another spring
It’s gonna be better this time another spring
It’s gonna be groovier this time another spring
It’s what’s happening this time
- Nina Simone

Looks like winter's over! Hurrah! I hope so anyway, I'm trying my darndest to usher it in by wearing suggestive clothing, or at least clothing suggestive of spring. So out go wooly jerseys and silly hats and in go T-shirts, micro shorts and jandals. Hooray.

But like winter, my love affair with the sardine may be over. It began like any other serving of sardine a la chuck, except that when I peeled the can open I was struck by abnormal size, they were more like a puppy's paw than little fish. Still, in for a penny, in for a pound as grandfather used to say and I smeared them across toast. But ah ah, something ain't right here, sardines aren't supposed to feel crunchy. What is that sticking in my throat? Well Frankie, it was none other than sardine vertebrae, about four centimetres long, white and prickly like an old man's toenail. I spat the rest out, threw away the can and laughed heartily. No doubt I’d angered Poseidon, and it was poetic piscene justice for my exploding whale story. Good one... fish.

But my sardine munching came about after a minor disaster in the freezer, which for about 12 hours didn't really live up to its name. Rather, everything turned soggy and smelly and I couldn't work out why. I checked the back, checked the front and was on the point of ringing my hearing impaired landlord to give him an earful, when I noticed the plug hanging out of the wall. Nerts!

Right, enough chit chat, I'd better go and return some library books and grab my coat on the way, because dammit, it’s absolutely freezing outside.

2004-09-13T11:22:00.000+12:00

Rejoice they sing
They worship their own space
In a moment of love,
they will die for their grace
Don't kill the whale
- Yes

Way, way up north in Scotland there's a small coastal town whose name I can't remember. Sometime in the 1950s a whale decided he would beach himself on the shores of this pretty little town and duly exhaled his last big whale breath during the night. In the morning the townsfolk discovered this huge beast on their beach and set about trying to remove it. They tried dragging it with tractors back into the ocean, they tried cutting it up, they even tried burning it, but to no avail. Soon enough this quaint seaside town way, way up in the north of Scotland began to smell very, very badly of rotting whale.

One man had an idea. He'd served in the Black Watch during World War II and had a number of un-used grenades, dynamite and un-exploded mines, and after consultation with the rest of the town, decided that the best course of action was to simply blow the bugger up. All through the night he worked, surrounding the leviathan with explosives so that by morning, at 9am he stood on the road overlooking the beach, detonator in hand. The townsfolk hid in their homes watching through crossed fingers as with a flourish the man pressed the button.

The explosion was heard from miles away and was so forceful it blew in the windows of every beachfront property and paralysed the man holding the detonator. But worse was to come because for the next ten seconds after the explosion, fat, bone, blubber and rotting whale flesh rained down covering the town in a pulpy, putrescent slime. As you can imagine, the clean up took some time, but it was the smell that took years to leave, and many residents left before it did, never to return.

I only tell you this story because after watching Tom Hanks ham his way through half an hour of the interminable Terminal I was imagining the mess he would make if he too were exploded on the beach of a quaint seaside town way, way up in the north of Scotland.

2004-09-09T16:28:00.000+12:00

You like to say your
Man's a celebrity
Baby what's the deal?
I thought you wanted me for me
- NSync

Sunday night on the ferry there he was dressed in a driza bone. Monday night too, acting the goat with his mates. Tuesday night trying to look cool on the telly. Then last night, there he was standing at the Matterhorn, looking like the man, those black coal stone eyes staring right at me. Freaky stuff, and I don't want to frighten you all, but I have reason to believe that I'm being stalked.
Ho ho, but by who?
Well Frankie, it's none other than Matthew goddamn Ridge.

I've been stalked by celebrities before, I don't say that to boast, and anyway I'm quite cool with it, it's other people who have the problem. Louis Theroux stalked me one afternoon in London and Sophie Ellis Bextor once followed me home singing all the while 'Take Me Home' which I duly did, and, hold on, no I'm making that up. Anyhow, back to Ridgey. I'm not a fan. I liked him as a footy player, he was great, but I do wish he'd now shut the hell up and get off my television screen, and dammit, out of my life.

My job interview at a 'leading tertiary institution' went swimmingly well yesterday. There were three of them, good cop, bad cop and one who looked like Michael Douglas. He said nothing at all but wrote down every killer bee response I made. By the end, why hell, they were all good cops and I was tempted to take 'em out for coffee and doughnuts. But as they say, if you think the interview goes well, then it usually aint, but I find out early next week. Actually it was nice to have a good interview, I've had my share of the bad, including one that I'll never forget where every answer I gave was met with a look of disgust leading me to terminate the interview within 20 minutes using the immortal line
Look, sorry, I don't think this has gone as well as I might have planned.
No, he said, I don't think it has. Interview over. It still gives me nightmares. But now I wonder just what old thick lips Ridge would have done?

2004-09-06T17:40:00.000+12:00

Oh, the weather outside is frightful,
But the fire is so delightful,
And since we've no place to go,
Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.
- ?

I hadn't been in the snow in ages, and as such wanted to celebrate in the time-honoured manner of throwing it at my friends. So we found a suitable field, separated, and began to hurl it around. This was harmless fun for a while, but then vicious Chuck turned up and completely took over. I watched, unable to resist as I reached down and transformed a fistful of snow into a nasty clump of ice. I took my aim and flung it as hard as I could straight at Wendy's head.

Whoah! Back up there, what's this? Snow in Wellington? asks Frankie Stevens. Well no Frankie, I know it's been cold, but I found myself in the South Island this past weekend, Hanmer Springs to be exact, and in short, it was amazing.

Lulu, Nic and I drove down after a short flight on a Soundsair plane that was last used to rescue Indiana Jones from the savages in The Raiders of The Lost Ark. But it did its job, as did the rental car, and we all met in Hamner shortly after nightfall. Matt and Wendy were there, Jon too, and once we'd all found a bed had a drink and lit the fire, we set about the enjoyable business of catching up.

That of course took hours, and the next morning we were all a little bleary eyed, but could still see well enough to take in just how spectacular Hanmer was by day. It was far nicer than I imagined, a quaint little town dwarfed by a majestic backdrop of snowy mountains that were just begging to get lost in. So we gave it our best shot. We drove up the road signposted 'chains only!' and 'slow! horses' and pretty soon, having negotiated a road fit for a goat we found ourselves in warm sunshine, high on a plateau surrounded by the whitest, brightest snow I'd ever seen. It was breathtaking, and rates highly on my list of amazing sights 2004.

As does the chick in the Kermit the Frog T-shirt, but for different reasons. Imagine, if you will there I was, trying my hardest to sink a putt playing Wild West themed mini-golf, and there's Kermit staring at me with that inane open-mouthed grin. Now I'm not exactly Gianni Versace, and I cannot blame her for my 6 over par 8 on the third, but Kermit!? Where do you even find a Kermit T-shirt these days? Odder still the fact that on the back, emblazoned green on black were the letters KERMIT! as if by chance you were confused as to which particular celebrity talking frog was on the front.
'Oh I see, it's Kermit, I get it. Okay, cool."
The others voted the woman in the super-taper ribbed jeans (yes, that's ribbed, not ripped) with the shit kicker boots, spray-on figure hugging shirt, key buckle and fanny pack with worst dresser, but for me, Kermit took the cake. It may not be easy being green, but I'd hazard a guess that life's a shitload easier when you're not wearing a Kermit the frog T-shirt.

For the record I came second at mini putt, but it had grown a little tedious by the end. Lucky then that Hamner was no less spectacular to look at, and as the sun fell behind the mountains the sky was lit up in ever changing streaks of blue and pink. Matt and I stood on the porch shooting the breeze until it was dark then went inside to continue the enjoyable business of catching up.

Our decision to save the thermal pools until early Sunday morning paid dividends by the fact they were not crawling with kids and pissing teenagers. Instead there were just the right amount of people wallowing around for an early morning dip. And if anyone was there disturbing the peace, then it was us as we played an epic game of eye spy. Which has to be the most frustrating game in the whole wide world. Something beginning with C indeed.

Soon enough it was time to go. We cleaned up the house, packed our cars and went out for lunch where we moped around in the afterglow of the hot pools. I looked at my watch and wished that home wasn't so far away, which I suppose is similar to wishing we could stay in Hamner, which, bad T-shirts aside, wouldn't be too bad an idea. Thank you all for a great weekend.

Hey hey! Ho, what happened to the snowball? asks Frankie Stevens. Well Frankie, the solid ball of ice whizzed past Wendy's nose, missed it by a couple of inches and exploded like a lightbulb dropped on the motorway. And you know what? Looking back I'm pleased it did. Because whether it was the company, the location or just the joy of acting like a five year old it was the best snowball fight. Ever.

2004-09-01T15:33:00.000+12:00

Where'd you go?
- Blur

Fear not, just having a few days off to compose my thoughts, water my plant and enjoy the rain. And save up $500 for a Rod Stewart ticket. Back soon.

2004-08-27T16:06:00.000+12:00

I wanna be the fish
I like the way he swims
- Marilyn Manson

Perhaps I'll have to retract one of my posts from last week, because suddenly, the Olympics are fun! I got back in just in time to watch Hamish Carter win the triathlon, Bevan Docherty win silver and goddamn it, there was damn near a tear in my eye as I heard the national anthem. Either that or some fat from the burgers I was frying. It was pretty emotional stuff. So I kept watching, and it got stranger and stranger. I happened across what looked like horse dancing. You've probably all seen it before, but I've never seen a horse move like that, well, actually I have, but he was being chased by an angry bull. But anyhow, it was kind of weird, kind of cool, but over all kind of ...why? Synchronised swimming, different sport, same question. I've never seen anyone move like that, let alone two, well, actually I have, but they were being chased by a tuna. Where's this post going? Who knows, better stop soon though. Have a good weekend.

2004-08-25T20:21:00.000+12:00

Together we will find our destiny
Together we will search
All those years, looking
All those years, pointless
Why do I say it was pointless
Looking for it with you
I will give you the reason
My destiny...is you...
- Avril Lavigne

I donned my black T shirt and ran down to Lambton Quay when I heard the news. I couldn't believe it, why had no-one told me that this was happening in Wellington? There was no way I could miss this; Beyonce, Kelly, and that other chick no-one remembers gigging in Wellington! But what a fool I felt when I was confronted by not 6000 swaying R'nB fans but the sight of 6000 losers! I'd been duped! It was the Destiny Church, not Destiny's Child. Goddamn.

Still, I stuck around to see what all the fuss was about, and what a lot of fuss it was. I haven't seen that many black T-shirts since a Tool concert in 2002, and at least that was good music. All I heard yesterday was 'Enough is Enough' chanted over and over again. I can see what they were going for, kind of like an 'Eggs is eggs!' thing, but it needs to be a little more catchy. Perhaps The Pet Shop Boys could help with the jingle, Holly Johnson could rework the lyric and the Village People could choreograph the march. Imagine.

There's a bit in 'Rattle & Hum' where Bono, in one of his messianic crowd pleasing speeches hisses 'The God I believe in isn't short of cash, mister". It's a great line, and it was swimming around in my head as I watched the legions make their way down the road. But hold on! That's all wrong! Bono? Bono begone! Cash is king in this kingdom, and so are family values. We won't tell you exactly what those values are, or whose family we're talking about, but can't you get it through your thick skulls that this is about family values??? How wrong I have been! And if Bono's got a messiah complex, he sure could learn a lot from the lizard king at the head of the march.

So, from what I could tell, the whole Destiny Church march boiled down to two things: family values and exercise. Exercise? You betcha! As M suggested, ideally you need an offensive sandwich board in each hand to get the full exercise benefit, but if none are to hand, yelling 'Adam and Eve not Adam and Steve!' while stomping your feet on the ground should be the way to go. Either way, you'll have to be fit enough to keep up with your pimp evangelist as you blindly follow him off the cliff like a biblical herd of swine.

2004-08-23T14:27:00.000+12:00

Tina's doing her dance
Jon's looking for romance
Paul's getting down on the floor
While Hannah's screaming out for more (ooh)
Wanna see Bradley swing
Wanna see Rachel do her thing
Then we got Jo, she's got the flow
Get ready everybody 'cos here we go (woah)
S Club
There ain't no party like an S Club party, hey ho!
- S Club 7

While probably not as deliriously pleasurable as an S Club party, my Hot August Night flat warming certainly was a lot of fun. So thanks pals, for making it such a great night - the recipe for Chuxpunch is below. It was great to use my gaff for a party, and apart from a few 'will anyone turn up?' nerves, the night went without a hitch. Though I did become slightly concerned by the music volume at one point, but after a while the Chuxpunch began to work its peculiar magic and that became less and less of a concern.

We drank 'til late and all was good with the world. I retired to bed around two. The following morning I excused myself from my six lady friends and went into the lounge. 'Come back to bed Chuck', they whispered in unison, falling over themselves as they reached toward my trailing dressing gown cord. Tempting as that was, I had to survey the damage, and surprisingly, apart from looking like a bottle bank on Boxing Day, everything seemed to be pretty much in its place. I came back in shaking my head 'Well ladies, I'll be damned, it looks like we got away with it' - but they were nowhere to be seen. Was it all some crazy dream? Well if it were, it was a good one. Anyhow, the only slight mishap was a small stain on a sofa cushion, which I fixed by throwing it in the wash. It got rid of the stain, but shrunk the covering by about a quarter, so I now have slightly uneven sofa cushions. Great if any Hobbits pop by - welcome Pippin! - but a little odd looking otherwise.

The clean up was painless, though I was concerned that my landlord may pay a visit at any minute. He lives upstairs, and if anyone was to benefit from the pleasure obtained from Bob Sinclair's Champs Elysees album at one in the morning, it was him. He didn't knock on the door, but as I was walking around the corner carrying a huge sack of clanging bottles, there he was. I felt my guts turn over, but realised there was no getting out of it. It was time to face the music.
Ah, he said, how did the flat warming go?
Great! Yeah really good, hope we didn't keep you up.
What was that?
I said I hope we didn't keep you up.
Not at all, I didn't hear a thing.
The joys of a hearing impaired landlord cannot be overrated.

Chuxpunch

1 cup rum
1 cup port
1 cup creme de cassis
1 cup Royal Cup or Pimms
500 mls orange juice
500 mls dark grape juice
500 mls apple and boysenberry juice
500 mls water
Halved lemons and tamarillos
Eye of newt and toe of frog, wool of bat and tongue of dog (optional)

2004-08-20T12:47:00.000+12:00

Love is a contact sport
You gotta move in tight
If you wanna do it right, here I am
Love is a contact sport
You gotta act untamed
If you wanna play the game
So grab my hand and.... slam!
-Whitney Houston

Well I tried. But same as last time. The Olympics bore me. Higher? ho hum, Further? whatever, Faster? fageddabowdit. There was a great ESPN promo a few years ago that highlighted about twenty golden moments in sport during a 60 second spot. No voice over, no graphics, just amazing clips, and all it said at the end was 'You'd better watch, because it might happen' - but man, with these Olympics I've tried watching but it just ain't happening. I end up watching odd sports that I didn't know existed with competitors from countries I'd never heard of, commented on by our very own curiously named commentators - Lavina Good anyone?

Not that I've watched a whole lot but for me the undoubted highlight was when the New Zealand women’s rowing pair ended up in the drink. I don't say that to be cruel, I've been thrown out of the odd boat in my time, but their sheer determination to get back in and finish the race was something to behold. Actually now I write about it I think I may enjoyed it far more than I should have, but that probably has more to do with my longstanding mermaid fetish (imagine half girl, half fish!) than what was actually on screen. Oh well, they’re in the finals now, I may just have to watch.

Anyhow last night I tried a different approach. I muted the television, opened a bottle of wine and put on an Aerosmith record, which remarkably made me feel a lot better, or made me feel remarkably better, or at the very least made the swimming a hell of a lot more rock 'n roll. It also got me thinking how much better the Olympics would be if they were a little bit more rock n' roll. While you could argue that Marion Jones has more in common with Courtney Love than you'd like to think, wouldn't it be great if real rock 'n rollers played a part. They obviously couldn't compete, but may I suggest that in Beijing 2008 they at least be allowed to officiate? Imagine Phil Spector firing the 100 metres starting gun, Slash refereeing the hockey (man you are so offside it aint funny) and that dude from Poison with the eye shadow could sing 'Unskinny Bop' while umpiring discus. All right!
And so dribbles out my 100th post.

2004-08-18T11:46:00.000+12:00

Storm warning, feels like a heavy rain
Winds on the coast tonight
We may get tossed tonight
Storm warning, he made it pretty plain
He’s fallin’ for another,
found a new lover
(and he won’t be back again)
- Bonnie Raitt

I'm worried about Cabbage. Nikau seems to be holding his own and Mr. Pine's seen it a thousand times before, but Cabbage could be in serious trouble here. He's dipping to the left, he's trying to reach the ropes, he's not keeping his arms up - defend yourself - the referee should really call this off, Cabbage is taking a beating out there, ah come on throw in the towel, this is painful to watch - he's getting pummeled - someone do something!
I talk not of the NZ Olympic boxing team, rather of the trees outside my window who, as I write, are being lashed from side to side by a mean southerly. Maybe it's because Cabbage is closer, but he certainly seems to be bearing the brunt of the storm. I hope he has a strong root system, or at least like my friend Mike, and indiscriminate one, either way, he'll need it today, this really is Wahine weather. I can hear sirens in the distance, it's pretty wild out there, hope everyone's okay. It's damn freezing too. The kind of weather Captain Oates would enjoy walking in. So cold indeed it prevented me from going to quiz night last night. That's how cold it is. Be strong Cabbage, be strong.
Hey, seeing it's a sad Wednesday how about a poem?. I actually went looking for one by Robert Frost that begins 'Tree at my window, window tree', but I couldn't find it, instead I found this cheery little number, that suits perfectly such a miserable day.

Bereft

Where had I heard this wind before
Change like this to a deeper roar?
What would it take my standing there for,
Holding open a restive door,
Looking down hill to a frothy shore?
Summer was past and day was past.
Sombre clouds in the west were massed.
Out in the porch's sagging floor,
Leaves got up in a coil and hissed,
Blindly struck at my knee and missed.
Something sinister in the tone
Told me my secret must be known:
Word I was in the house alone
Somehow must have gotten abroad,
Word I was in my life alone,
Word I had no one left but God.

2004-08-16T13:20:00.000+12:00

Some like wine and some like hops
But what I really love is my scotch
It’s the power, the power of positive drinking
- Lou Reed

Despite fear of the word 'Nancy' being forever etched on my drivers license, I still turned down a free ticket to the Wellington v Canterbury rugby game in order to watch a three hour director's cut of Amadeus. I heard the game was great but the film was excellent also. I didn't see it when it first came out and it was one of those videos you stare at for a long time before finally settling on a Ben Affleck movie, so it was quite a thrill to see it on the big Embassy screen. The other bonus was that I had a relatively sober night, but don't worry, I made up for that on Saturday.

With two parties to go to and a shit-eating grin, I headed out from chez chuck into the howling gale that slammed into Wellington on the weekend. The waves crashed into my taxi windscreen, tiles and airborne push buggies flew past the window as the driver drove valiantly on around the bays.
This is wahine weather eh?
Women's weather? I asked
No mate, ha, the ship.
I knocked on the door, my elaborately constructed hairstyle in tatters and as I entered the room my glasses steamed up like windows in a sauna. Hi, I said to my out of focus friends and sat down, smiled and opened my bottle of wine. I didn't of course mean to get that drunk, but I'd forgotten the old empty stomach rule, which I suppose is golden.

The last time I taught someone to dance my friends had just bailed me out of a Mexican prison, and as we waited to take the first bus out of Ensenada, I decided to teach two humourless Israeli soldiers how to tango. That was probably the drunkest I've been, but I tell you that story by way of comparison, so that when I now tell you I was teaching people at this party how to perform the Texas two step, (but was in fact making it up as I went along) you'll have some idea of my drunkenness. It wasn't pretty, and it wasn't over yet. I still had another party to go to.

Having ordered three taxis from two different cab companies, I took the first one that arrived and headed to Vogeltown. I'd never been to Hughey's place but had conveniently, but illegibly, scrawled the directions on my left hand. So after a few minutes of hold on, it's 21, no no 51, it might be 31, we both decided to cut our losses and drop me somewhere in the middle. I thrust him a fistful of cash and walked up to house number 21, rapped on the window, and who should answer the door? A snarling fifty-kilogram rotweiller. It looked like dog week hadn't ended quite yet.

Fortunately the owner of this hound saw the funny side, and so did I, because this guy was tiny. Watching him try and control his dog was like watching a jockey calming his horse going in to the gate. Um, I slobbered, I'm looking for Hughey?
What number is he mate?
21?
No, we're 21, try next door, he said and pointed to the house opposite. By the time I turned around to thank him he'd already shut the door.

Although he had pointed in the direction of the house, the way to get there was to go back down the drive then go up the proper one. But not in my mind. The quickest way was around the tree, beneath the bushes and through the garden. And so it was that I arrived at Hughey's place, not by the front door, not by the back door but by knocking on the novelty window high up in their lounge. Hey, I said, as I finally made my way through the door.
I don't think anyone's ever come in that way before, said Hughey.

And this is where it gets messy. Admittedly it already was, but I'm pretty sure that everyone else was pretty much sober. So it was a case of 'hey, who brought the drunk guy' as I sat on the sofa attempting to join in on conversation while providing a text book checklist of drunkeness. Slurred words? Tick. Repeating oneself? A huh. Forgetting people's names? You betcha. Nice one geezer.

The rugby began at around one in the morning and provided a welcome opportunity for me to shut my mouth and watch the telly, but I don't think I did. Who knows? Anyhow, a kindly friend was driving back in to town, and having thrown all my remaining cash at the taxi driver who dropped me off at the wrong house, I decided for the good of my wallet, for the good of my head, and for the good of my hosts, that I should accept the lift. The 'whoosh' I heard as the door was shut behind me came not from the wood scraping on the carpet, but from a collective sigh of relief from the living room.

The hangover I suffered yesterday was suitably vindictive and was only allayed by a delicious Yum Char with Lulu and Nic (thanks Nic) which was great at the time, but came back to haunt me later in the day. Pork balls sir? I wallowed in self loathing for the afternoon, then watched the final of Celebrity Treasure Island which was as about as exciting as a sneeze then I finally drifted to sleep and dreamed I was an English spy who infiltrated a group of German soldiers during World War Two.

2004-08-12T11:59:00.000+12:00

You just can't push me
You just can't push me
You just can't push me
Around
-The Cars

I had a nice day yesterday with my friend Kate. She came around with her baby which threw my CDs and books around with great vengeance and furious anger, so I suggested we hit the streets and 'take it outside' which had the desired calming effect. It'd funny pushing along a baby that isn't your own, everyone just presumes it is and I felt like explaining to every pedestrian that, no, actually it's not mine, I'm just looking after him. Which is quite an odd reaction. Maybe I was just aware that everyone was looking at me, thinking, 'cute guy, pity he's taken.' But they were probably thinking 'jeepers, lucky the kid's got his mother's looks.' But I must admit, the buggy didn't help matters.
It's the sort of buggy you only find at 3 in the morning when completely muntered and never see again*. It was brightly coloured, difficult to maneuver and slightly too low to get a grip, with the result that I either pushed the kid along like he was a wheelbarrow or had to lower my back and extend my arms like an orangutan to keep all four wheels on the ground. So the sight of a grizzled, limping hunchback pushing a blonde baby boy through Manners Mall I could imagine was quite alarming for some. The bells!
(Good advice here, on pushing bugies.)

But it was good to see the both of them and a nice day out. And there's another thing I'm quite happy about, the past two days have been completely dog-free. Long may it continue

*Actually I have a few drunken buggy stories, here's just a taster:
James and I were pushing a buggy bound Sarah through the streets of Prague at 5 in the morning. We were going too fast for the conditions and she was screaming, well, like a baby, but went suddenly quiet when her forehead hit the stone curb square on. She was unresponsive for a good 30 seconds but she came to, with a smile.

G and I once pushed a brick in a buggy from Golders Green to Brent Cross. We named this brick Angel. Angel was from Queensland, and we were her concerned parents. We took photographs, and alerted passers-by to the fact our child was missing. That still doesn't make any sense, I guess.

But the one buggy story that stays in my mind is the very same one that nearly put an end to Sarah. We took it back to our rented apartment deep inside a stone monolith in the centre of Prague stayed awake until 9, when it was time for more buggy fun. We were going to take it outside and as we locked up the apartment, the unattended buggy took on a life of its own and started to roll gently towards the stairs. We watched amazed as first one wheel, then the next, then the next, then the next managed to negotiate the first step. Soon enough, our unmanned buggy was making its way down the stairs like it's distant relation in Battleship Potemkin. We stood around laughing like school kids as the little buggy that could negotiated its way toward the landing, where as luck would have it, a rather dour looking Czech lady was just exiting the lift. She pulled aside the grate, stepped out to avoid the oncoming buggy and gave us a look that sunk a thousand ships, while behind her the buggy gave out an elegant clunk as it came to rest at the rear of the lift. I haven't laughed that hard in ages.

2004-08-10T14:37:00.000+12:00

So messed up I want you here
In my room I want you here
Now we’re gonna be face-to-face
And I’ll lay right down in my favorite place
And now I wanna be your dog
-Iggy Pop

I'm glad I'm not a postman, that's for sure. I had a parcel to pick up from a strange address and as soon as I pushed the door bell, two large rotweillerpigdogdobermans jumped up, barked and slobbered against the glass. Jeepers. Moments later a girl appeared at the door, opened it but kept the dogs at bay.
Hi, I said, I'm Chuck, I'm here to pick up the parcel.
Ah, she said and pointed over the heads of the hounds, it's actually two.
Sweet, I said, no worries.
But as it turned out, it was a wee bit of a worry, the boxes were both quite heavy and the dogs were looking hungry. This would take two trips. I lifted up one, did the Harlem shuffle past a row of glistening teeth and walked to the car. Half way there, job nearly done.

But on the way back my left foot stood on a rotting flower and before I knew what was happening I was sliding along the path doing the splits like Jane fucking Torville. Luckily the skin on my right kneecap provided enough traction to stop me falling into the garden, but too much to remain attached to my leg. Holy Buddha it hurt, but at least it was elegant. Had you been there you'd have been sure to give me eight out of ten for pure class, but I wouldn't have noticed. I was too busy hobbling around like Douglas Bader and swearing like John Tourette. The dogs looked at me as if to say, 'well come on then bitch' and I still had to go inside to get the other parcel.
'No, no stay for a minute I won't be a sec' she said and let the two mongrel canines fight a grand battle to see who would be first to lick the blood from my ankle. I must have looked a sight, trying to hold a pleasant conversation while one dog's muzzle pulled at my shoelaces while the other's jostled my bleeding kneecap from side to side.
Look I really can't stay, I've got to get back, thanks though.
Are you sure?
Yeah really, I said through gritted teeth.
The dogs seem to like you.'
Like me? Yesterday one shat itself all over my carpet and right now yours are lapping up my life’s blood, is what I should have said. Instead I said, yeah they're cool, better go though, thanks, see ya, and limped out the door.
I got back home, changed my jeans, dunked my knee it Dettol and for the second time in a week cursed the existence of our canine pals. But I guess I'm not the only one. For it would appear they colluded with a collection of dumb arse Aussies to send my mate home early from Millionaire last night. Prairie wolf my arse.

2004-08-09T14:51:00.000+12:00

When you’re sad and when you’re lonely
And you haven’t got a friend
Just remember that death is not the end
- Nick Cave

I hate it when someone reminds you of someone else and you can't quite think who that someone is no matter how hard you try. And so it was that I found myself at a funeral on Wednesday for a good friend of mum's, surrounded by a sea of gray hair and staring at the vicar. It had been bugging me for a good few minutes before he asked us to kneel and pray and reflect on the deceased woman's life. Suddenly as my knee touched the cushion, I got it! The vicar looked exactly like the lead singer from Franz Ferdinand! So while he asked for a moment's silence to recall all that she had meant to us, all I could think of was the chorus to 'Take Me Out' which is probably not the most appropriate thing to have swimming around in one's head during a funeral and will almost certainly count against me when St.Peter opens his ledger. I say don't you know, You say you don't know, I say... take me out

Fortunately it was far from an emotional service. She'd reached the grand age of 91 (which I calculated was almost old enough to have met the real Franz Ferdinand) and as such the funeral was more of a celebration. Being the youngest there by a good thirty years I took the time to talk to a few of her chums and it was great to be back in Eastbourne on such a gorgeous winter's morning. I asked a very elderly man how he knew her, but he either didn't hear me or didn't want to say, and continued eating his cake. When he'd finished he wiped the crumbs from his mouth and said.
'These lemon cakes are so nice, I might order them for my funeral.'

After the funeral it was time to work, so do excuse the lack of recent posts, but I've been clearing up and very large and very old house, and what fun it has been. I went rummaging through every nook and cranny, every cubby hole, every dusty drawer. And by crikey there was a lot of stuff. Most of it ended up in the Salvation Army pile, the rest to an auctioneer, and the remainder in the skip. I found a couple of James Bond novels, some shot glasses and a teapot, but the real jewel was to be found in the upstairs bathroom cupboard. I threw out old toothbrushes, toothpaste, soap, razor blades, cotton buds and was just about to wipe it down, when something caught my eye at the back of the bottom shelf. I reached in and pulled it out and put it on my palm to inspect. It was a pale ceramic colour, about two centimetres long, slightly curved with a a reddy hue at one end. I thought I recognised it, and I guess I should, I have thirty two of them. It was a tooth. So apologies if your relaxing Thursday afternoon in Eastbourne was interrupted by a horrible scream. Chances are, it was me.

We finished yesterday afternoon and nearly managed to fill two skips, which is quite a lot to throw away. So just remember that all those stereos, books and CDs you work so hard to buy will one day be rifled through and thrown away on a smelly hired rubbish bin by some schmuck like me. Cheery thoughts, but there we go, it's not all beer and jellybeans. There is a lot of gin though. I've been paid in gin, and while not being a huge fan of the stuff, I'm sure I'll find a use for it at sometime. Come on round, it'll be fun.

So that's what I've been doing the past few days. Oh yes, the other highlight was a dog came into my flat while I was at my desk the other night, walked around for a while, then proceeded to shit caramel sauce all over my carpet. It wasn't caramel sauce of course, but it had a similar colour and consistency. Sadly, it didn't smell as nice. So that was a nice end to the day, on my hands and knees scrubbing like Cindarella while some Jack Russell demonhound wagged his tail and waddled off to tell his mates. Cheers Fido, cheers very much.

2004-08-05T11:18:00.000+12:00

What is the question
What is the answer
What is the reason why
People like you and people like me
Live our lives with lies
- Rick Springfield

Had a great quiz night on Tuesday, for despite scoring only 12 out 20 on our chosen double up round, Lulu, Nicola and I still managed to come second, and only lose by one point. Choice! So two bottles of Lindauer between three of certainly worked wonders for my co-ordination. We also came second by one point too, which considering we cheated wasn't too bad. Ho ho, steady on there, what's that, asks Frankie Stevens, you cheated?
Well, you be the judge.
The last round is a multi choice handout round and while umming and aahing over which country has the lowest ever recorded temperature, I noticed a phone number at the bottom of the page. I rang and it went straight through to some answer phone message I didn't listen to. Then all of a sudden my phone rings and there' some fella on the other end saying hi, sorry I missed your call.
So in my best Who Wants To Be A Millionaire voice I asked, Which of the following countries has the lowest ever recorded temperature? Is it A-Russia B-Canada, C- Norway or D- Iceland?
Are you still doing the quiz mate?
Um yeah.
Good one, nice try. And with that the quiz master hung up and went back to his trivial world. We circled B- Canada and sheepishly went to hand in our sheet but just as I was getting up to leave the table my phone went ‘ring da de ring’ with a message from 'unknown'. It simply said:
A- Russia.
Thank you Mr. Quiz! You're my new phone a friend, and might I add, heaps cheaper than Desiree at 0900 926569.

2004-08-03T12:04:00.000+12:00

Where's my organ donor?
Lend a hand.
- Green Day

Grant Kereama. Radio DJ. Former Lotto presenter. Jonah donor. Good man. What a thing to do, it really is quite amazing and I think our Jonah is a very lucky man to have such a good friend. I hope it's a success and what a good story to hear when I turned on the radio this morning, it's nice to hear some good news once in a while.
In other good news my record player is fixed, so I’ll be heading on down town to pick that up later today.
Oh yes, my weekend, I nearly forgot. It was very good thank you. It began at an architects office on Friday night, continued with a slide show and a few too many fejoa vodkas on Saturday night, and ended up with homemade wantons and a Merle Haggard CD at Anna and Juve’s on Sunday night. All good.
Coming back to this kidney transplant, lets hope it leads to a string of celebrity organ donation, it'd make for great television. Tonight on the show Jason Gunn gives his liver to Peter Urlich! Frankie Stevens donates his knee to Shane Bond! And join us live for a celebrity heart / lung op as Tony Veitch and Headliner Renee go under the knife - all that and more... um ...a bit crass... sorry

2004-07-30T13:48:00.000+12:00

Gonna take your mama out all night
Yeah we'll show her what it's all about
We'll get her jacked up on some cheap champagne
We'll let the good times all roll out
-Scissor Sisters

This entry actually began life as a long rant on a programme called 'Help! My Breasts Are Too Big! - but after much consideration it was about as funny as listening to other peoples' Gollum impressions.
I wanth it my pwetthis!
Oh yes ha ha.
Anyhow it's Friday, it's freezing and I've just stuffed my face with sardines on toast. If I was a cat, I'd be in seventh heaven, and even though I'm not, I'm still pretty chuffed. So simple! So cheap! And I may be wrong, but I think sardines are incredibly good for you! Meow! Try them with lemon juice (thanks G) or a splash of tabasco sauce for extra zing. Or for those more adventurous, blend together a half a pint of milk, breadcrumbs and avocado to create a delicious pre-dinner protein shake. Simply delicious. I may recommend that to Allyson Gofton, or that mucky English bird who gets food all over herself. Or what the hell, how about my own recipe book: Chuck Bites? Chuck Can Cook? Chef Chuck's Quick Cuisine?
Oh yes, before I go I do wish that guy would stop burning the New Zealand flag. What a dick.

Sardine a la Chuck
2 x bread slice
1 x can of sardines
1 tomato
1 lemon
6 cans of Steinlager (optional)

I learnt this recipe some time ago from a sailor named Tim. Anyhow, here we go.
Toast bread until toasted. While this is happening, slice the tomato and open the sardines. Have a beer. When toast is toasted place the tomato slices atop the toast. Have a beer. Remove sardines from can and mash feverishly onto toast while humming 'Take Your Mother Out' by the Scissor Sisters. Have a beer. Drizzle lemon juice on sardines. Transfer to heated serving bowl. Garnish with fresh parsley ...et voila, Sardine a la Chuck. Bon appetit!

2004-07-28T12:29:00.000+12:00

Stand up all you lovers in the world
Stand up and be counted every boy and every girl
Stand up all you lovers in the world
Starting up a brand new day
- Sting

Well yesterday sucked, but it started out and ended so well. How can that be? Read on.
I awoke brimming at the promise of a brand new day. Now that may sound like the lyrics of a bad Sting song to some, but if ever there was a diem to carpe, then yesterday was it. So fired up I pulled out this very computer I am writing on now and for three hours wrote down a lot of ideas and three quarters of a programme proposal. Breaking for lunch I popped over to mum's place to discover the Norton anti virus 2004 which had taken two hours to download had not installed properly. Now I'm no whiz kid when it comes to computers so I spent about an hour trying to figure out why I couldn't open it, then proceeded to delete it, requiring me to download it again, which took another two hours. Then about another half hour to set up and run and suddenly this beastly application was eating into my afternoon nap time. Finally I got the thing running then returned home to do another hour's work. Except I didn't. I spent the next half hour cussin', spittin', and kickin' the stuffin' outta my imaginary stress ball. I'd forgotten to save all my work, then, being the gangly muppet I am, proceeded to spill a cup of tea all over my work table. To save the computer from exploding like a science experiment I lifted it up and by doing so pulled the plug out of the wall. So there I was, holding a laptop in one hand, an empty cup in the other while somewhere in the universe a morning's work spiralled its merry way into the information black hole.

Bitchin'? You betcha. And to top it off there was a nice rejection letter in the mail. We regret to inform... the application unsuccessful ...standard of application was very high ...unfortunately ...you... will... never... work... again.

So I settled in for a night of gin, misery and Outback Jack when the phone rang. It was Lulu.
Chuck! Where are you?
At home.
You're not coming to quiz!?

Three hours later and all the troubles of the day were drowned in a deluge of beer, chips and champagne. Champagne I hear you gasp? Damn right. We came second. Sixty dollar bar tab. Two bottles of Lindauer. Then home. Asleep. Happy.

So this morning I've woken up with a slight hangover and a mild hope that today will be better than the last. But it's not looking good. Mum's on the phone. The virus detector's playing up...nerts.

2004-07-27T10:51:00.000+12:00

Do you go to the movies
Find a friend in a film
Holding hands with the heroes
Fall in love with the heroine
- Hothouse Flowers

It's been movie week in Chuckland, and there's nothing like a Film Festival to expose our little minds the great wide world of film and get a nice antidote to that all that American pap at Hoyts. But truth be told I've not been to see any film that didn't come from North America so far. I know that isn't very adventurous of me, but to tell the truth, I've kind of given up on subtitles, so any film in Japanese, Spanish or Monkey is immediately ruled out. So what did that leave? Well so far for me, the Cole Porter biopic De-Lovely, Farenheit 911, The Corporation and last night Jim Jarmusch's Coffee and Cigarettes, which I would rate as best to worst in that order. Actually I was slightly disappointed by this year's selection. Great if you like Kung Fu, coming of age stories and anti establishment documentaries. Slim pickings if you don't. (Incidentally, Slim Pickings was a character in a terrible short story I once wrote, his girlfriend was named Sarah N. Dippitee. After much to-ing and fro-ing Slim finally got lucky.) Anyhow, where was I? That's right if I could make you a film of a neglected Korean boy who's father comes back to teach him an ancient martial art which he then uses to wage war against his local McDonalds and other evil corporations, then you could fairly say you'd had a good festival. I am of course being facetious, there's lots of good stuff, but I would quite like the opportunity to direct my own film festival. Opening night? Labyrinth. Festival highlight? Watch My Lips- The Sophie Ellis Bextor documentary. To close? Mean Girls. As Ray Charles used to sing, "You got the right one, baaaybeee."

2004-07-20T12:28:00.000+12:00

You're Window Shoppin'
Just Window Shoppin'
You're only lookin' a- round
You're not buyin'
You're just tryin'
To find the best deal in town.
-Hank Williams

As a leaving home present, dear Mum decided she would buy me a bath towel.
Nice gift, so we went strolling down town to Kirkaldies to choose one. I don’t know what it is about Kirkaldies, I hardly ever go there but I always find the staff quite patronising and half of them seem to have ideas above their station, as the saying goes. It’s still a shopping mall, but is sometimes so snooty even a chimney sweep would be afraid. Anyhow to counter this slightly rarified atmosphere I quickly ducked into the perfumery and perused the aftershaves. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the saleslady mincing her way towards me.
Hi, how are you today, would you like some help with that?
But too late sister, I was gone chasing mum up the stairs while behind me a thin mist of Chanel Allure Homme wafted from my wattle.

The actual process of choosing a towel was quite simple, but while I waited at the cashiers desk I noticed the most hideous thing I’d seen in some years. I know there’s no accounting for taste, and beauty is in the eye of the beholder but really, who in their right mind would buy a life size double bass, that also doubled as a CD cabinet? Ye gods it was ugly. I called mum over.
I really think this would go well in my new flat don’t you?
Oh it’s gorgeous, she winked
I then opened it up for her to inspect the CD rack within then closed the face.
Wow, I whispered in awed tones, what a piece.
I reached up for the pegs to tighten the strings.

With a loud clunk the peg careered off the side of the double bass, whacked the side of a chest then came to rest beneath a vulgar mahogany coffee table. I could feel myself turning crimson.
I think I broke it, I said feeling like I was ten years old. What shall we do?
I was all ready to do a runner but mum said, we’d better tell someone …but what if we have to pay?
And then we noticed the price. How much would you expect to pay for a double bass that doubled as a CD holder? 500 dollars? 800 dollars? 1000 dollars? No! The special Kirkaldies price for this monstrosity was 1899 dollars!!!
I think it was then that I began to get the giggles, what if we had to buy this behemoth? I got down on my knees and picked up the peg.
I’ll just put it back, I said and jammed it onto the pin. I waited for two seconds then turned to walk away.

Bang, crash, wallop.
I didn’t need to turn around to know what had happened, but I did turn around when I heard the dreaded words.
Hi, how are you today, would you like some help with that?
Um, I think I broke your double bass that doubles as a CD holder.
Oh did you …um let’s just have a look. Oh.
This was it, the moment of truth. I was either to become the ashamed owner of the ugliest piece of home furniture in Wellington, or would be left to walk away. The seconds ticked by. Finally, she spoke.
Look don’t worry about it, I’m sure it was going to happen anyway and these sorts of things are covered by insurance.
Really?
Yeah, look it’s fine, I’m always breaking things myself, I broke a vase the other day. So don’t worry about it.

And that is how Chuck came to learn the value of honesty and the value of not judging a person by their workplace. For even if you work at Kirkaldies surrounded by ugly furniture, you can still be a lovely person.

2004-07-19T22:56:00.000+12:00

2004-07-19T11:55:00.000+12:00

Are you motherfuckers ready
For the new shit?
- Marilyn Manson

I sincerely hope that hasn’t offended anyone, but I wanted a lyric that reflected the changes that occur in ones life and how important they can be. I’m moving out of home (age 30) and am about to open a new chapter in my life. I’m turning over a new leaf as it were, and this blog hopefully will reflect that, so I hope you’ll join me on this journey and let’s hope it’s an enjoyable one . This is the ‘new shit’ to which Mr. Manson refers, I hope you’re ready.

The short film seminar was very good. Quite a lot of ground was covered in two days, but it was a great overview and I picked up a few tips that will hopefully improve my work. Or lack thereof. It’s a bit like going to a conference or a music festival, you come out all fired up chomping at the bit, then that fire turns into a smouldering mess then your left with nothing but a small glow that begins to nag and say get on with it you shmuck. But like a good girlie swat I did go home and write up all my notes, so when I do eventually force myself to hammer out a screenplay I’ll have something to work from, instead of just remembering the gunter who sat in front of me.

Yes, that’s right, as is my luck I sat behind the most objectionable person in the room. You know him, he’s the one who cackles instead of laughs, he’s the one whose head is so large your forced to duck and shimmy just to see the front of the theatre and he’s the one you cringe at the idea of ever, ever meeting again. Harsh? A little. But this seminar did prove one thing. I’m not a people person. Put me in a room of 100 and I’d rather not talk to any. Ah, but strangers are just friends you haven’t met yet, you might say. But that would be a lie. Strangers are exactly that, strange and they should be treated as such.

Lucky then I’m moving into a flat by myself. This will allow me to fully mine my misanthropic seam, write letters to the editor and gradually embody the bitter, twisted and cynical identity that lurks just below this relaxed exterior. Can’t wait. But to counter this, the flat is pretty calming. It has luxuriously thick carpet, a cosy wee kitchen and a vista that is so good it can only be described as beuna. Seriously, from both my bedroom and lounge I can see the Beehive, the harbour and on a clear day, even Petone! Add to that a Cabbage Tree, a Nikau Palm and a Pohutakawa and it’s pretty close to the ultimate kiwi flat. Maybe I’ll fill the fridge with Export Gold and see what happens.

Right then, I’d better keep on moving. There’s still lots to do and I’m only half way through the alphabetization of my CDs. See ya ‘round

- - - - - -
Three more things:
1) Hotmail is not more useful everyday.
2) The zookeeper looking after the baboon in the Vodafone ad certainly has a diverse group of friends.
3) I used the word alphabetization.

2004-07-14T08:23:00.000+12:00

Moving house, saving whales and attending courses has prevented me from posting this week. But don't worry, I'll be back.

"L'absense est a l'amour ce qu'est au feu le vent; il eteint le petit, il allume le grande."
- Comte De Bussy-Rabutin

2004-07-09T17:20:00.000+12:00

I saw you in line when I checked in
and I thought that you smiled but I'm uncertain
I know all the lines but they don't work for me
so I just turned away and let it be
-Hayden

By golly Wellington’s looking good today. It’s as cold as a spearmint, but with clear blue sky, sparkling water and way yonder in the distance you can see the majestic Tararua ranges covered in a thick blanket of snow. It’s been making me feel all Scandinavian, which has been nice for the neighbour. But I digress. It was like that yesterday too, I was going to write that then, but alarmingly I couldn’t get my blog to work, so I had to write it today. Confused? Me too, but at least we’re all spared the fate of forever watching Stufa raise his fat finger in the air. Actually, the longer I look at the photo, the more intricate the girl’s golden locks become. Wish I’d noticed that at the time, it could have been a great conversation opener, right up there with ‘Hi, my name’s Chuck and I like to…’, ‘you look GRRRREAT!’ and ‘Put your tongue on mine?’

Now it’s the weekend, and a quiet one is on the cards. A few drinks with Lulu tonight, maybe catch a movie tomorrow, then Sunday begin my bid for Cleo’s Bachelor of the Year award when I move into my one bedroom apartment. Can’t wait. Anyhow sorry if I’ve been a bit dull of late, this week I’ll try and be really interesting, which should be mildly fascinating.
Got a pick up line for Chuck to try? I may even use the best one...

2004-07-06T22:41:00.000+12:00

You can find me in the club, bottle full of bub
Look mami I got the X if you into taking drugs
I'm into having sex, I ain't into making love
So come give me a hug if you into to getting rubbed
- 50 Cent

2004-07-05T23:12:00.000+12:00

You spin me right round, baby
right round like a record, baby
Right round round round
You spin me right round, baby
Right round like a record, baby
Right round round round
- Dead or Alive
(sorry, I just had to.)

The Big Clean Out continued today and after a morning trip to the exceptionally smelly tip at the absurdly named Happy Valley, I cast a harsh but fair eye over my record collection. There were some tough choices, but fortunately I wasn’t alone in this selection, I had the mental equivalent of Frankie ‘n Fiona vying for my attention as I thumbed through the vinyl.
Ho ho there Pink Floyd, you can stay in my collection anytime, brothers’ said Frankie. But then Fiona would pull on my lobe, whispering, no, sorry, I have to disagree with you there, you don’t listen to that anymore, you never really liked them after Roger Waters anyway. Gotta go I’m afraid.
So you see it was pretty tough, but by the end I’d whittled my collection down to three sections: classical, the classics, and Boney M.
I joke, of course.
Actually the third category is ‘the records that I don’t really play anymore but think I should hold on to just in case I feel like listening to them some day in the future’. And it’s in that category you will find the Talking Heads, Joy Division and Peter Gabriel which I won’t ever play but will instead collect dust, go mouldy and make very good friends with my Brendan Dugan record which remains as yet un-played. I’m sure you’ll agree that’s an unfortunate end for one of our brightest young entertainers. Speaking of records, if you’re a fan of album art have a look at this website of eerily similar album covers, I do like the Kruder and Dorfmeister one, quite clever.

Oh yes, I nearly forgot to tell you about the weekend! The highlight being that thanks to Lucy taking me to see a film called Mean Girls, I’ve a new teen queen. Move over Avril, shift your booty Joss, and make way for one Lindsay Lohan.

2004-07-03T16:56:00.000+12:00

When I first saw your gallery
I liked the ones of ladies
But now their faces follow me
And all their eyes look shady
- Joni Mitchell

Miss A and I walked around the Telecom Prospect 2004 yesterday and all in all I thought it was a bit of a mixed bag, but I think that may have been the point. The video piece with the girl singing along to Cyndi Lauper is still ringing in my ears and after only the first loop I was reminded of a quote by dear old Smacked Face: ‘I’m all for stretching boundaries dear, just don’t stretch them in my direction’ But on the plus side, my three favourite pieces were On The Run, the talking mountain with the wandering eyes ( <-- )and a piece by Wayne Youle entitled 12 Shades of Bullshit which I was still thinking about this morning.

I think most of it would stand up internationally. I’m no expert of course but there was an easy comparison, downstairs a rather unsettling exhibition of Tracey Emin’s work was on display. I once dated a curator (almost rhymes) named KC (I was her sunshine band) and she let it slip that the better Tracey thought her exhibitions openings to be, the more she dressed up. The worse she thought they were, the greater the cleavage, short skirts etc. So if you see a photo of Tracey Emin with her gazoongas flopping this way and that, it’s probably best to avoid that particular exhibition. (Which, funnily enough is similar to how MGM used to rate their movies. If the execs thought the film was great, they allowed the lion to roar three times, but only once if they thought it was rubbish. It’s true, you should check it out sometime, if you’re, like, totally bored.)
Anyhow, where was I? Contemporary Art, that’s right. KC introduced me to a whole new world of artists, galleries and ways of seeing which I had in the past turned a blind eye to. I used to think contemporary art was esoteric, but I now think it’s one of the more accessible of the arts as it doesn’t grab you by the ears and demand that you get what the ‘artist’ is trying to say. So often we’re told what to feel, laugh tracks tell us when to laugh, violins tell us when to feel sad, but step into an art gallery and your free to feel whatever you like, whether you love it, hate it, or just think it’s okay.

What I’ve just written is either deeply profound or utter nonsense, but that too depends on your viewpoint, one man’s coffee is another man’s whiskey, one man’s Cyndi Lauper video is another’s talking mountain with wandering eyes. Indeed, when it comes to art I used to be like an old man with his tea, I know what I like, and I like what I know, but now, the more I get to see the more I like, even if I don’t know it, even if I don’t quite understand it. There’s an article in this morning’s Dominion that tells of the difficulty in writing about art, and as I’ve started talking about tits and lions I’ve probably drifted off topic somewhere, but to sum up there’s a good little quote here from an art critic named Christina Barton, describing contemporary art’s function:

“It’s the mental breathing space art creates between life and experience, the productive gap for critical thinking.”

So get along and see the Prospect 2004, it’s probably not as wholesome as Fresh Up but either way, it’s got to be good for you. Have a truly great weekend. Catch you on the rebound, and here’s to you KC, wherever you may be.

2004-06-30T11:23:00.000+12:00

Here comes success
Hooray success!
-Iggy Pop

There’s something about being a winner that I really, really like. Perhaps it’s the feeling of worth, perhaps it’s the monetary reward, or perhaps it’s that knowing look you can give when you walk into a room that says “hey pal, what about me?” Either way, I like it, for last night, after months of intense competition we finally won quiz night at the sports bar. We kicked arse with questions across the board and left other teams floundering in our wake. Geography. Check. Entertainment. You betcha. We even cruised through the dreaded sports round with a confidence and cockiness that would make Carlos Spencer envious. I even managed to yell out ‘Ricky Martin!!!’ twice, half to put off the other teams and half because I like doing that. But whatever we were doing, it worked because we didn’t just win, we won by five clear points ladies and gentlemen. And our prize for being so clever? A $100 bar tab, that was quickly transformed into two bottles of Deutz champagne which were quickly transformed into empty bottles and cheeky grins but this morning were transformed into a slight hangover and several vicious champagne burps. But that’s a small price to pay for a great time with a great team, cheers, you can all be my wingmen anytime. But wait …you smell that? You smell that son? Ain’t nothing in the world smells like champagne burps. I love the smell of champagne burps in the morning. It smells like victory.

In other news, my good chum M finally got to the bottom of the great scorched almond mystery. Read on:

dear sir,

how do they make scorched almonds round, smooth and
shiny, seemingly without a seam?
yours,
M

The reply:

Dear M,

Almonds are coated with chocolate in a revolving pan
which is similar to a cement mixer. The chocolate is trickle fed i.e. like a water spray coming out of a garden soaker hose. Whilst the chocolate is being fed onto the almond cold air is blown onto the product inside the pan which helps to set the chocolate.

Once the product is coated to its finished size a
glaze(comprising of gum arabic & sugar syrup) is applied and the chocolte is polished up to high gloss using Talc powder and in some cases carnauba wax

regards

Jim D

So there we go.

2004-06-28T23:36:00.000+12:00

Get our boogie on when the weekend COME
Check the peapod, cuz the vibes is STRONG
Selenas, Philipinas, they come one by ONE
All lined up, and they ready for FUN
-The Black Eyed Peas

Sorry I haven’t written in a while, but I’ve been selected as a regional finalist in the National Mini Putt Play Off Championship 2004, so intensive training has been taking much of my time. Actually that’s a lie, I was just trying to make my weekend sound more exciting than it actually was, the Black Eyed Peas you see, they have a lot of fun on weekends. But for me I'm sorry to report that a malaise has gradually crept into chez chuck and all weekend I moped around like a sad giraffe with low blood pressure. Not a pretty sight believe me and even less fun to be around, but don’t fret, I awoke this morning refreshed, reinvigorated, revivified and every other re word you can think of, (except perhaps regurgitated.) So I apologise for my laziness in neglecting my blog. I’ll be better this week pa, I promise.
Here’s what you’ve missed:

- I’m wearing a new pair of glasses which at first made me dizzy, but now let me see the world like it’s meant to be seen.
- I had impure thoughts while watching the Mormon choir on Sunday morning.
- I went to see the film “The Cooler” on Friday night and thought it was one of the better films I’ve seen this year.
- I’ve been plagued by dreams of ex-girlfriends and contemporary art*
- I’ve found a new home, but I can’t move in for a few weeks.
- I wrote an article on how to deliver a best man’s speech, having never written or delivered one myself.
- I used my back like a crane while lifting a box and am now paying the price. Len Ring, you were right. I’m so sorry.

Speaking of spines, I finally took down that book to Ye Olde Booke Store and had them examine it. I felt like one of those aged wheezing geezers on Antiques Roadshow as I waited for the olde man to give me a price. Which he did, though it was not what I was expecting, for it would appear it will need a lot of restorative work on the spine and bindings before it’s up to scratch. So I think I’ll hide it for a while then restore it to it’s former glory at a later date. Much like I’m doing with my career. I think.

Right then. Have a good week everyone. And say hi to Smacked Face.

*All right I’ll tell you more about that, but I’ll make it brief. In my dream three of us were each given a pile of rubble and given one hour to make a piece of contemporary art that would be judged alongside others in a gallery. I turned my small pieces of concrete into a climbing wall, and was laughed at by the judges. Just then an ex-girlfriend turned up…

2004-06-23T22:44:00.000+12:00

Bang bang, I shot you down
Bang bang, you hit the ground
Bang bang, that awful sound
Bang bang, I used to shoot you down
- Nancy Sinatra

I went to Petone today and boy has that place changed a lot. Well maybe not the whole town, but certainly Jackson St has undergone more makeovers that its pop singin’, kiddie lovin’ namesake. I couldn’t believe it. Out go boarded up windows, Uncle Bully pubs and granny tea rooms. In come trendy wine bars, up market antique stores and even a grandiose public monument that reminded of both a spatial question in Monday’s ‘Test the Nation’ and a gigantic dildo. But I’m happy to report there are still a few reminders of the Petone I knew and loved. For example it flooded my heart with unbridled joy to see Laser Strike still there. I’m not sure if they still have the arena but certainly the sign remains hanging, mocking passers by as if to say ‘remember when, kids?’
Well I do. One of my most treasured experiences as a child happened while creeping through Laser Strike’s blackened halls. I remember hiding behind a piece of gib-board holding my sonic fazer tightly in my hand when suddenly a shadow moved in the distance. Quick as a flash I fired three times, smiling to myself as I heard the distinctive drone.
Gotcha, I whispered.
Oh fuck off, there’s no fucking way you got me you fucking dick, said a girl of no more than eleven.
But I did, your breastplate’s flashing red.
She disappeared into the darkness with the words I remember to this day.
Fuck off, dickhead, there’s no fucking way.

I often wonder what became of her. I hope she still thinks of me from time to time too. I therefore devote this entry to the restored glory of Petone and to that nameless, faceless Laser Strike soldier, wherever she may be.

2004-06-22T15:26:00.000+12:00

Hang on hang on
To your iq to your id
Hang on hang on
To your iq to your id
- Placebo

104.
That’s my I.Q. I took the 'Test The Nation' quiz last night. I would have scored higher, but I forgot that images looked different when held up to a mirror. I even blagged to my mother
Ha! It’s a trick question, things look the same in the mirror.
Little wonder then I only scored 5 out of 12 in the spatial category. So yeah, middle of the road, ho hum, though I thought I’d do better after last time. That was a wet day in Auckland five years ago when my girlfriend and I were so bored we allowed ourselves to be sucked in by the ‘Test Your I.Q.” sign beneath the Church of Scientology. I scored 125, though it didn’t bear much similarity to last nights quiz. In the L. Ron Hubbard one for example you had to respond to the following statement:

I enjoy hurting small animals
Strongly agree / Agree / Don’t know / Disagree / Strongly Disagree

Alas there were no such questions on last night’s Test the Nation, though had there been a question ‘I would enjoy hurting Jason Gunn’ then I would have strongly agreed. There’s something quite creepy about that man.

Mind you the ‘celebrities’ really must have wondered what they were doing there. Rawiri Paratene looked distinctly pissed off, Mike King looked insane and the rest hovered somewhere in between. But poor old Peter Elliot winning the smartest celebrity award. I know when you sign up to be a celeb, every detail of your life under scrutiny, but surely the poor man could have been saved this from host Stacey Daniels:
Didn’t you do well, considering you are colour blind!

The only slight consolation in that was he couldn’t watch himself turning red as he squirmed uncomfortably on the bench seat clutching his Perspex award. Jason Gunn thrust out his hand to congratulate Mr. Elliot but unfortunately the colour blind genius didn’t see it and poor old Gunner was left giving nothing more than an effete pat on the knee. It really was quite amusing, but really Peter Elliot must have been wondering how on earth he ended up in that situation. You go in for a bit of a laugh, but by the end of the night you’ve won a celebrity genius award, been outed as colour blind and get touched up by Jason Gunn. He seemed to take it all in good humour but I’d imagine this morning he’s staring at that slab of Perspex downing a few strong drinks while having a few strong words to say to his agent.

Right then, the quiz night regulars and I are off to mount a serious challenge at the Sports Bar tonight. No mirror questions, no Scientologists and definitely no celebrities. Just the way I like it.

Watch our film! (click here)

2004-06-21T13:15:00.000+12:00

Christchurch is flat
Christchurch is clean
Christchurch is a whole lot more than that
D’ya know what I mean?
- Chuck

I thought I’d compose today’s lyrics for two reasons. First, I just spent a wonderful weekend in Christchurch and second, our film didn’t make the finals, so perhaps we should have tackled a musical after all. I’m a wee bit disappointed, but it was a great experience and we did have a lot of fun making it, which I guess is the point. Also, (as a little aside) it made me think, that if our film didn’t make the finals it had to have been beaten by some very good films. And far from making me bitter, I think it’s great that a competition that can bring out such enthusiasm, creativity and talent in so many people. Cheers then to the entrants, the winners and most of all the organisers. Long may this competition continue.

After the frantic experiences of last weekend my goodwill tour of New Zealand continued with 48 hours in the garden city with good chums Lulu, Matt n’ Wendy. I’d not ventured south in ten years so it was good to be back, as I’d forgotten just how striking some of the scenery is. The pastel hues of the water, the port hills jutting majestically into the sky, the river Avon snaking slowly through the city …I couldn’t live there though, too many bogans.

Highlights included:
- Drinking at a bar named Home
- Drunkenly deconstructing a Pizza Haven poster with the Pizza Haven staff.
- Watching Back to the Future (Parts 2 & 3)
- Brunch in Lyttleton including me making a characteristically smart arsed comment about the waitress just as she walked within earshot.
- Wild West Mini Golf (I came third, but Wendy cheated.)
- Sitting outside under the stars at the Dux watching the All Blacks pummel Blighty.
- Fish ‘n chips in Akaroa (which makes the list as one of my favourite places in NZ)
- Watching a kid throw up as the plane landed in Wellington.

All good.
Right, I’d better go and return Avril Lavigne’s new album to the library. It’s not even half as good as I’d hoped.

2004-06-17T21:25:00.000+12:00

48 hours needs
48 hours needs
48 hours needs
thrills
48 thrills
- The Clash

As Dan and I drove towards Auckland to take part in the 48 Hour Film Contest we remarked upon how strange it was that none of us had any idea the film we would be making, while on the way back to Wellington, we would know it like the back of our hands. Nothing too insightful, but you’ve got to start somewhere. I won’t go through the whole weekend with you, mainly because like most good times, it’s all a bit of a blur.

An hour before the competition started we discussed the genre category we’d collectively least like to get, and that was Musical or Soap Opera. Hence everyone thought Catherine was joking when she got off the phone and said,
It’s Musical or Soap Opera.
I felt my heart drop. Of all the preparation I had done, I had the least idea of what we might do should we draw those genres. But there was no time moan, it was pen to paper as slowly the room filled with the cast and crew. Ideas bounced around the room, but by midnight Damian and I had the storyline, and by 2-30am, after only the slightest of changes, our script was complete and we left our base quietly confident it was a good’n.

Fortunately everyone agreed after the full read through at 6-30 the following morning, and after that, it was time for shooting. We ‘wrapped’ at around midnight, stopping only briefly for lunch, dinner and the odd rush to the toilet. Yes, that’s right, I’d caught a 24 hour bug slap bang in the middle of a 48 Hour Film competition. Wuckid. But that was the only minor disruption to a day that went smoothly and professionally; the calmness, confidence and willingness of everyone involved was unlike any shoot I’d been on, embodied best by an actor whose first scene began shooting at 7-30am, his next 14 hours later. Personally I enjoyed seeing the cold words I had written being given such life by the actors, it was quite a thrill. And then it was back to bed. The edit began at 6-00, and went without a hitch, until the clock began ticking down for the last hour. It began to get a little tense, but I believe that had it been a 50 hour, or even 60 hour film contest, that last hour would have still been equally anxious. But our film was entered into the competition with 17 minutes to go, while back at the base we played out the film to an audience for the first time.

I’m happy to say we all are very pleased with the film and everyone who’s seen it so far has been positive. It was a nice feeling that Sunday night, all tired and happy, milling around in the afterglow of accomplishment. Most of us headed down into town to swap war stories with other teams and it was slightly bewildering to be part of the outside world when for the past two days all that mattered was the film. I got a nice text message from Miss A asking how it had gone, but it felt odd to receive a message from the outside world that seemed at the time to be very far away. I remember comparing it to what I would imagine Big Brother to be like, in that you have this rather intense experience then it’s back to normal life.

As it happened normal life for me entailed a lot of sleep, and I kept my head down until the screening on Tuesday night. We were the last of ten films that evening and I don’t think I’d be too far wrong to say we were one of the best, but really I have no idea how we will fare and right now it is totally out of our hands. But I feel it was a job well done and I’m happy with it. We’ll see if the judges agree come Sunday night.

Dan and I packed up the car and drove through the rain back to Wellington, still buzzing from the experience two days later. By the time I got home I was exhausted and wasn’t really up to phone calls from people who wanted to know how we’d got on. But if I were I would have said that it was one of the most extraordinary experiences of my life and told of the amazing team of people we worked with…
I swear on our sweet mother’s grave.

2004-06-10T22:39:00.000+12:00

Well I'm leaving tomorrow at daybreak
Catch the fastest train around nine
Yes I'm leaving the sorrow and heartache
Before it takes me away from my mind
- Black Sabbath

Destination? Auckland. Just for a few days, and it should hopefully be a lot of fun, catching up with friends, family and trying to win a film contest. I'm looking forward to the drive too, State Highway One and I are getting on like a house on fire
Will let you know how I get on.

In the meantime, I awoke this morning with a question I've been struggling to answer all day:
If I were on a reality TV show, which of the following would I be more likely to win?
1) Survivor
2) The Apprentice
3) Big Brother
4) Paradise Hotel

Au reviour my petit pois.

2004-06-09T11:53:00.000+12:00

Wish I knew what you were looking for
Might have known what you would find
- The Church

The book, it would seem is worth over three hundred pounds, and if anyone is interested it is entitled “A Parallel of the Ancient Architecture with the Modern” by Roland Freart 1733. But I’m still none the wiser as to how it actually came to be hiding in a folio under the house as no-one in the family is an architect, let alone nearly 300 years old.

Anyhow it’s has been quite interesting going through all this old stuff, so far there haven’t been any skeletons to uncover, just a whole lot of old photos and letters. But my favourite finds so far include: an old Omega watch, two cameras and a rather curious military death notice from 1928. I say curious because I can’t think of any family war stories or indeed any military action that New Zealand might have been involved in circa 1928. I think I’ll hit the internet and do a bit of research…
On a lighter note, here’s a list of wanking disasters.
This just in!
Say it aint so Hoff, say it aint so...

2004-06-08T12:43:00.000+12:00

Got a box full of letters,
Think you might like to read
Some things that you might like to see,
But they're all addressed to me
- Wilco

Well the weekend was a mix of the good, the bad and the ugly.

THE GOOD: M’dear sister came down for the long weekend and we spent most of it doing a huge clean up under the house. I found all sorts of things, including a Village People album, a gold ring with strange inscriptions all around it (which coincidentally renders me invisible) and a shoebox full of old letters which warmed the cockles of me heart. But the biggest surprise of all was a very, very old book on architecture, which if my roman numerals are correct, dates from 1733. Which is like, really old. What I don’t know about old books could fill a book however, so I may take it down to the archive or national library this afternoon, see if they know anything about it. They will of course ask how I came to be in possession of such an old book and quite rightly lock me up when I say I have no idea. But watch this space, you never know, it could be an interesting story

THE BAD: I’ve a small ingrown hair on my thigh.

THE UGLY: By the age of thirty I would have hoped to understand that getting rat arsed at parties is not at all a good look. But sure enough Saturday night found me wretchedly drunk, spouting nonsense and trying to change the music on the stereo. It’s an old habit, but a particularly bad one. I’ll be listening to a tune and be thinking, gee, you know what, I’d really like to hear check it out now, you funk soul brother, right about now.
So there I went swaying on up to the un-manned table to be confronted by the strangest mixing desk I’d ever seen. I looked around the room for help but all I could see was this fella giving me that ‘don’t fuck with music’ look, but even that wasn’t enough to keep me from trying to figure it out. After turning every knob and cross fading every cross fader I was on the point of giving up when suddenly the music stopped and the conversation died down.
What are you trying to do? Came a voice from the blackness.
Play a CD.
It’s all hooked up to the computer mate.
Ah, I said and scanned the menu, which was harder than it sounds, because I was cross eyed. Before long things were in focus and I lit upon a Mr. Scruff track. That’ll do. I clicked once and waited. Nothing.
I clicked again.
Nothing.
A hand reached over and flicked a switch.
Music flooded the room and people went back to the business of having a good time, while your drunken hero slithered out to the bathroom. And that’s pretty much the last thing I remember. Staring at my reflection, washing my hands and muttering some rubbish about being a DJ. I don’t really know what happened after that but I headed on into town to visit Miss A at a bar. She sent me home after I asked ‘So, how was your dinner party?’ three times in a row.
I awoke the next day swearing off alcohol for life.

And it’s so far so good. I’m booze free and about to head into town and see if I can’t pawn off that old book for some good old fashioned fine time smooth sippin’ southern whiskey.

2004-06-04T17:59:00.000+12:00

Keep your legs closed tight
keep your body under lock and key
Stay home at night
And save all the best parts for me
Yeah baby
Oh God I wish I was home tonight
- Rod Stewart

Well Rod, I am staying at home tonight because a mere look out the window will confirm… it’s nature gone amok! So come on round you husky voiced lech, I’ll cook you somethin’ hot.
I stole the 'nature gone amok' line from a printed sheet in front of me. It’s one of the genres of the up-coming 48 Hour Film contest in which I will be taking part, so I’m trying to imagine what I could possibly write if we were unlucky enough to draw that. But there’s plenty of inspiration right outside my window. There’s branches, hailstones and even birds flying around in the wind, and on top of that I’m supposed to be braving it to see a film I don’t want to see tonight (Elephant), …so I think I’ll stay inside where it’s nice and warm.
It reminds me of my favourite limerick:

There once was a man from Di Dum Dall
Who was asked to go to a fancy dress ball
He said he would risk it
Dressed up as a biscuit
But the dog ate him up in the hall

Let that be a lesson to all of us.

Like the giants? Reckon you can name ‘em? The comments box is now open, and there will be a prize of FIVE DOLLARS CAAAAAAAAAAAASH! for the first correct answer. Happy Weekending.

2004-06-02T20:12:00.000+12:00

But he's part ugly beast and Hellenic deceased
So she finds that the mixture is hard to deny
What shall we do,
What shall we do,
With all this useless beauty?
- Elvis Costello

As I sat around watching the All Black trial throw up more questions than it actually answered, I was blissfully unaware that on the other side of the world, a far more important contest was taking place. No, not the rolling of the cheese nor England’s heroic 1-all draw with Japan, but rather the naming of the Top 100 Most ‘Naturally Beautiful’ Women …of all time! Well blow me down, it did nothing if not highlight just how out of step with fashion magazines, make-up artists and model agencies I am, but surely there’s room for Jordan on that list? Crikey, you put Kylie there, she’s about as ‘naturally beautiful’ as a Frisbee, do you not remember Charlene??

It’s best I don’t get myself worked up about this, or else I’ll end up like the sad old git in the Capital Times last week bemoaning the fact that the youth of today were too lazy to have breakfast at a proper time so had invented ‘brunch’ to make themselves feel better about their slovenly lifestyles.

I’ve a good mind to write to the paper and complain about old people having ‘supper’.

But back to the list. Audrey Hepburn won while ‘Our Rachel’ stumbled gracelessly in at number 98. Incredibly, our sheep gazing cousins had three in the Top Ten. Still, I’m not at all jealous, I’ve been catching the odd glimpse of Australian Big Brother and crikey there’s some horrors in that particular house. Heaven forbid I’d be an Ocker, but if I were I’d be sorely tempted to vote to keep them all in their for the rest of their ‘natural’ lives.

Anyhow back to beauty: if you’re at all interested, here are my top 5 picks from Evian’s list of 100 ‘Naturally Beautiful’ women:

1) Vanessa Paradis
2) Rachel Weisz
3) Sophie Dahl
4) Kate Winslet
5) Nicole Kidman

What a dinner party that would be… they each could bring a plate.

2004-06-01T13:21:00.000+12:00

Achilles is in your alleyway
He don't want me here
He does brag
He's pointing to the sky
And he's hungry, like a man in drag
How come you get someone like him to be your guard ?
You know I want your lovin'
Honey, but you're so hard.
- Bob Dylan

I went to see the film Troy yesterday, and thought it was ace. I’d heard almost all bad reviews from friends and critics alike but found myself actually enjoying it. I know it doesn’t really hold true to much of The Iliad, but as someone brainier than me said, The Iliad probably doesn’t hold true to much of what happened anyhow. So once that's firmly in the back of your mind, you're free to enjoy. It starts off pretty badly though and some of the acting is as wooden as the Trojan horse, but soon gets into the swing of things. Well it nearly did until the film fell out of synch leaving poor old Achilles mouthing like a goldfish while a second later we heard “Immortality! Take it, it’s yours!” while someone set up a tent. These audio problems were soon fixed and it was on with the battles, some of which were quite confusing, but all pretty well staged and bloody. I especially liked Achilles running ‘jump ‘n stab’ technique that I may very likely employ as part of my dance routine this weekend.
Be warned.

Rose Byrne (whose name sounds like a nasty gardening accident) was good and she probably had the best female part in the whole film. Unfortunately her line “No Paris don’t!” sounded like she was admonishing Bouncer, the long-suffering labrador from Neighbours. In fact, now I think of it, all of the accents were a little strange, everyone pretty much bought their own, which is better, I suppose, than all talking like Con the Fruitier.

And finally Helen, sure she’s pretty but couldn’t we have done better than that? I’m not saying she’s a pog, but you’d expect the face that launched a thousand ships to be quite something, Mediterranean looking at the very least, not a German golden girl who’d borrowed Avril Lavigne’s eye make-up that morning. She actually reminded me of a French student I went clubbing with one night who was last seen asking:
Ah Monsieur Chuck, when do ze pubs open? as she disappeared down Oxford St at seven in the morning. I never saw her again. Apparently she took the train back to Paris that afternoon.

- - - - - - - -

According to the Guardian Quiz, the Homeric hero I most resemble is Odysseus, whose characteristics are as follows:

Odysseus. Mercurial in the extreme, it's evident to all concerned that you're not really committed to the cause. Nobody can deny your ingenuity in a crisis, however, and you never lose your head. Don't expect anyone to turn their back on you, though

And you?

2004-05-30T23:59:00.000+12:00

Listen to me, Butterfly,
there's only so much wine you can drink in one life
and it will never be enough to save you
from the bottom of your glass.
-The Handsome Family

A history teacher of mine once told her bemused class that when she was growing up she was too poor to afford lipstick, so her and her friends used to suck telephone books to give their lips a rosy glow. I believe to this day she was being serious. However, there is another way to have nice red lips, and that’s to drink shitloads of red wine. Which is basically all I did this weekend.

Friday night I cooked dins for some chums and got drunk, Saturday I forgot to eat and got drunk, while out with chums. But 3am Sunday was when the fun really started. I stumbled home trying to remember that line from Unforgiven then plonked down on the sofa to watch TV. I was looking forward to watching all the latest infomercials, but was instead confronted by TV2’s National Anthem for the Play It Strange Trust (NAPIST), a 24 hour music show featuring almost every kiwi band you know and plenty more you don’t. Sort of like a telethon, but with more music and less kissing. Anyhow the bit I managed to watch through bleary eyes was hosted by none other than ole Peter Urlich who I hadn’t seen since Truebliss days. Well actually that’s not quite true, he’d been on the news earlier in the evening having organised a protest about inner city noise restrictions. Busy man. Anyhow for some reason last night, he reminded me of the gorilla in the old Nintendo game Donkey Kong, who runs along the crane hurling down barrels. I don’t know why this was, as I said, I’d drunk a lot of wine.

I was a little scared that the wee small hours would contain novelty acts dancing with lampshades and squelching out underarm farts, but was gladdened to see a band called The Have play a great little set. They won the rock quest a few years ago, they’re good, a tad too hairy for my liking, but that’s rock ‘n roll I guess. I watched for about twenty minutes but had trouble keeping my eyes open so walked up stairs as quietly as I could before tripping on the last step and stumbling noisily on to the landing.

Not doubt Urlich was up nice ‘n early, but not me, the hangover was a killer. I tried several times to get up but was suffering from a curious delay in my reaction times. I was also drooling from the side of my mouth. My bloodshot eyes …eh, you get the picture. Anyhow I surfaced this side of noon and switched on the radio to hear Ian Mune talk about the state of the New Zealand film industry. He’s obviously proud and passionate about the subject, and it was great to be able to listen him talk about the talent and we have in this country, then turn on the television and watch a 24 hour long programme devoted solely to New Zealand music.

By some perverse equation the more sprightly Peter Urlich looked, the worse I felt. For there he was looking for all the world as fresh as a daisy while I suffered a gradual decline on the sofa, slipping in and out of sleep. But wait! I woke up with a start and pinched myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. For there on the TV, sporting the same goofy grin, but this time framed in a ghoulish blonde haircut, was none other than Jason Gunn. Yikes. I always thought there was something quite sinister about that man. I guess I still do.

It was great hangover TV, and all for a good cause so I hope it makes the cash it wanted and some of those bands profit from the exposure. Anyhow it’s late so I’d better go flossing and head to bed, resting assured that somewhere out there, Peter Urlich is still fighting for my right to party.

2004-05-26T10:38:00.000+12:00

And when you realize the freedom money buys
You'll come running home some day.
I've been looking for freedom
I've been looking so long
- David Hasselhoff

Appalling quiz round last night. We came eleventh. I blame everyone. I’m angry at the world, much like Avril Lavigne.

I must admit to namedropping Avril Lavigne in order to steer this post towards its subject, either that, or get more hits from sk8tr boiz. Anyhow, during a break in the quiz I mentioned how crap the reviews on Amazon.co.uk were. There was much nodding of heads, so this morning, here’s a couple of my favourites:

For Avril Lavigne’s new album:

Avril Lavigne appears clad in a black tutu on the cover of her new album, Under My Skin. While on first glance this looks to be nothing more than a generic album cover, further analysis will reveal a poignant insight into the psyche of Avril and the theme of the record. For, externally Avril might appear standoffish, dark, rebellious, and “anti-everything” (as portrayed by the pseudo-goth duds), beyond the media misinformation she is simply a shy, vulnerable, impassioned little girl searching for her piece of a fairytale (hence the tutu).

A poignant insight into the psyche of Avril? I wish.

And from the collection of stories I’m reading by O. Henry:

Similar to the life, this author writes short stories full of surprises. His style of unfolding the surprise is unmatchable. Must read book, for them who believe in the twists of life. One feel envious with the simplicity of the plot, that why didn't it clicked in my mind. The sentence building is just great.

Yeah, I guess I’m one of them who believe in the twists of life.

But perhaps the best you can do, if you want a laugh, is to have a look at David Hasselhoff’s Greatest Hits album and read the reviews, which as of today, number 960. I was alerted to this rather odd confluence of five star reviews last year, and it kept me busy giggling for a whole afternoon. Here’s just a taster:

Not since the first performance of Beethoven's 'Eroica' shook the Viennese haute-monde out of their seats has there been a more determined, brutal attempt to wrench the tree of music up by the roots. For my part I would rather have been behind the mixing desk during the first take of 'Hot Shot City' than in the audience at the Theater an der Wein on April 7, 1805.

And:

The music is accomplished and exquisite, the lyrics deep, meaningful and equal in stature to the poetry of Keats. Repeated affectionate gazing at the cover led me to also appreciate the avant-garde artwork and recognise the effortless genius inherent.

Finally:

Once you've been encapsulated by the emotion and wisdom of Hitzeldongers words ("Parlez-vous anglais didn't bring no success|And she won't say her name or even write her address") you will never look back. The song "Hot Shot City" is particularly good!

2004-05-24T17:59:00.000+12:00

Ol’ Ben Lucas had a lot of mucus
Comin’ right out of his nose.
He picked and picked till it made you sick
But back again it grows.
- Kinky Friedman

Good weekend?
Yeah, me too. Nothing too outrageous mind, but I finally shrugged off this damn head cold. Be gone! I chanted and looked to the east. Be gone! I chanted and looked to the west. I blew my nose three times, listened to a Sophie Ellis Bextor album and wa-hey, it’s a fine and clear day in nostril city.

All joking aside, this weekend I must admit I did dabble ever so briefly in the occult. I was at a dinner party with Miss A in Paekakariki, it was a 70s theme, so I made a pineapple and cheese hedgehog, clad myself in polyester and put on my best party smile. Early in the evening I saw this fella dangling a weight over a salad.
Are you a plumber? I asked
He raised an eyebrow and turned slowly towards me. No, my pendulum is telling me whether I should eat this salad or not.
Oh, I said, cool. Can I have a go?
Pendulum? Can Chuck have a go?
The pendulum swung in an anti clockwise direction.
No, pendulum says you can’t.
I shrunk back into the corner and stuffed my face with avocado and shrimp. Stupid pendulum.

Later, I found myself sitting next the man. And his pendulum. I thought I’d try my luck and see if either had changed their minds.
Pendulum? Can Chuck have a go?
To my astonishment the marble weight began to move in a clockwise direction. Now we’re in business, I thought to myself and grabbed the string.
Tell it to be still, said my mentor.
Be still! I commanded, and lo! pendulum was still.
Now think of the word ‘no’ - you have to find out for yourself which way the pendulum will swing.
And before my very eyes dear reader, the pendulum slowly began to sway from side to side.
Tell it to be still, said my mentor.
Be still! I commanded, and lo! pendulum was still.
Now think of the word ‘yes’.
I did so, and slowly but surely the pendulum swung in an anti clockwise direction.
Now, he said, ask it a question.
A question? Gee whiz, I hadn’t thought of that. After all, what do you ask a small stone on a string? It’s not like making a wish and blowing out birthday candles, this was going to require some thought. And so having harnessed all the spirits this side of Bulls, I didn’t know what to do. It crossed my mind to levitate Miss A from the table, or set fire to the cat, but to my everlasting shame the best I could ask was…
Will I ever go to Mexico again?
The pendulum thought for a while, then swung from side to side.
No.
Hmm, said guru, that’s probably not the sort of question pendulum could answer, and with that, grabbed the hanging pendant out of my hand.
Game over.
Ha, and a salad is? I felt like saying, but held my tongue, for fear it may one day be used in a bubbling broth.

So there we go, my one chance to ask one of life’s big questions and I ask if I’ll go to Mexico again. Whoop-dee-do. Oh well, it was probably for the best, after all, god only knows which way it would have swung had I asked if I’ll ever work again…
- - - - - -

My heartfelt congratulations to whoever it was who put the dinosaur on the White Island webcam. Keep up the good work.

2004-05-21T10:50:00.000+12:00

Ring, ring, why don’t you give me a call?
Ring, ring, the happiest sound of them all
Ring, ring, I stare at the phone on the wall
- Abba

I watched The Ring last night, the yankee version. It scared the shit out of me, mainly because ...what the hell was Martin Henderson doing there?? Crikey, I had no idea. Whatever next? Gina from the coffee shop in The Passion? Nurse Tiffany in Kill Bill? Leonard in Lord of The Rings?? Oh, that’s right. But anyway, back to The Ring, what a great idea for a horror film. I’m renting a few ‘genre classics’ at the moment, and this had been on my ‘must watch’ list for some time, even though some dufus had already told me what happens at the end. Still, there were plenty of scares and I loved the bit on the ferry with the horse. It reminded me of another film I once saw involving a horse... But yeah, good film. I thought Naomi Watts was great and I thought the girl with the long black hair was kind of cute too. Mmm, come right over sweet cheeks, you can crawl though my TV set anytime.

A question I would like answered:

1) In the Air New Zealand ad currently bombarding us every second ad break, why does the woman not say yes to the marriage proposal in the Italian Restaurant?

2004-05-19T18:00:00.000+12:00

But where do you go to my lovely
When you're alone in your bed
Tell me the thoughts that surround you
I want to look inside your head
yes I do
yes I do
- Peter Sarstedt

If I had to rate my all time weirdest dreams, then the one where I was sticking sharpened pencils into Bill Cosby’s head would come first. Second, the one where a tabby cat sat on my chest reading excerpts from Catch 22. And in third? This one.

For some reason I was part of a space shuttle crew floating around high above the earth. I remember asking my fellow astronauts whether it really mattered which way we were pointing as there was no gravity. They looked at me like I didn’t deserve to be aboard. I didn't, but nor did they. For the record, me fellow astronauts were an old friend of my mine now living in India named Julian, and that guy who got fired from The Apprentice last night.

Anyhow it was pretty wicked up there, just hanging around in space, and I remember really enjoying this zero gravity thing but soon it was time to go home. Julian set the co-ordinates and went out the back for a sleep leaving me at the dashboard, hurtling through space at a million miles per second. Feeling anxious (what if we hit something) I tied myself into a bunk around the corner and held on for dear life. Suddenly there was a bright explosion. I unbuckled myself and ran back to the cockpit to discover …we’d broken through the earth’s atmosphere!! I yelled to Julian “We’ve broken through the earth’s atmosphere!”
Hold on, he said, I’m coming!
But it was too late. Suddenly we were plunging towards earth – but hold on I recognise this, yes, it’s Wellington! And sure enough we were flying low, but very very fast over the northern suburbs of Wellington. We sped past Crofton Downs, Johnsonville, Broadmeadows fire blazing behind us, but hold on I said, we’re not going to make it! And we crashed belly down at the bottom on Khandallah hill. But we weren’t out of danger yet. The shuttle had exploded into a ball of flame and had slid onto the railway track, where it was about to be hit by a trolley bus (?) I leapt out and waved my arms frantically (what, he didn’t notice the firey space shuttle in front of him??) but he stopped just in time and I ran back into the shuttle to pull out my friends, Julian and the guy who got fired from The Apprentice last night.

Firemen, policemen and tv crews swarmed the scene and I was asked how I had managed to navigate such a safe landing.
Well, I said, this is the route I used to walk to school.

I presume it was the next day, because I was sitting on a dam with Sarah looking at the newspapers, which screamed DISASTER but also included a story that at the same time as the shuttle crash had happened the incidence of domestic violence had risen sharply and hundreds of seals had washed up on the south coast. Looking at that I remember feeling quite chuffed, knocking Sarah on the arm and asking, Who else can say they’ve crashed a space shuttle and survived?

And then, because it was a dream, the next thing I knew I was with Lulu and Mr. Simpson at the races. I put a boxed trifecta bet on horses 1, 6 and 22. They came in 22, 1 and 9. Oh well, surviving a space disaster was probably enough luck for one day. Oops, I’d better go, Dr. Freud is waiting.

2004-05-18T17:33:00.000+12:00

Go ahead and laugh all you want
I got my philosophy
And I trust it like the ground
That's why my philosophy
Keeps me walking when I'm falling down.
- Ben Folds Five

What with Bic Runga gigging her way around the houses of the lord, it was only a time before the publishing industry got in the act. And last night found me at St. Andrews on the Terrace listening to the closest thing the philosophical world has to a rock star, Alain de Botton.

I’ve read bits and pieces of his work but never a whole book and I was interested to see him in the flesh. Thankfully Monkey had booked tickets in advance as they were literally turning people away at the door. We took our seats amongst the purple hair brigade, and listened to a soporific introduction before Mr. de Botton took to the stage and began his lecture.

In it he introduced the ideas behind his book (and t.v. series) The Consolations of Philosophy and his new book, Status Anxiety. It was fascinating to hear him speak and not at all as highbrow as I had feared. For herein lies his skill; the ability to funnel complex thoughts and ideas from throughout history so they’re easily read, digested and enjoyed by people (like myself) who wouldn’t dream of navigating their way through the original works. Surprisingly he’s also quite a humourist, his deadpan delivery several times leaving the church echoing in laughter. And if I’ve one complaint, it’s only that event was over just a little too quickly, lasting little more than an hour.

His intelligence and warm humour shone through not only in his lecture but also in his answers to audience posed questions at the end. Some of these were truly befuddling, yet Alain de Botton answered them clearly, directly and without hesitation. It was an impressive performance, and I’d quite like him at my next dinner party. Though heaven knows what I’d cook.

All things considered it was one of the best book readings / lectures I have seen, a real privilege and I felt smarter just by being there. It didn’t help my streaming nose though, and I was left wondering, Alain, if you’ve a philosophical consolation for a head cold?

2004-05-17T21:26:00.000+12:00

Memories of making jokes
Too much beer and talk-show hosts
One of them that's fading fast
Here's to waking up at night
Drunk and undresssed by the side of the road
-Uncle Tupelo

As I promised in one of last week’s dispatches, I’m going back to the booze, and this weekend I kept that promise well.

It began on Friday night with a dinner party for six. I did my bit by chopping onions, and mashing the odd potato but really Miss A did most of the work. For starters French onion soup with sherry, then for mains steak and beer casserole, and then Vicki and G made a chocolate mousse, with brandy. With all that booze in the food we hardly needed to drink at all, but we sure did. Lucky I didn’t have far to go and I slipped into bed shortly after one a.m. My second dinner party of the year, and that too a success, so thanks guests for all the help!

I spent most of Saturday fighting a cold and feeling a little green under the gills, Miss A came by and we moped around for most of the day drinking tea and making corrections to badly written cinema blurbs. Fun. Fun. Fun. But that’s all right, I was gearing up for that night’s festivities which was a 'Come As Your Favourite Country' party at G’s. I decided to take it literally and come as my favourite country star, so borrowed Miss A’s cowboy hat and went as Brendan Dugan. It was good to see though that almost everyone had made an effort and looking around the party we could have easily put together a mini UN, or at the very least appeared in a Michael Jackson video. It was a great party and the alcohol worked wonders, blasting through the gunk in my sinus like toilet duck against the germy jims. I can’t be sure exactly how much I had to drink, but when I pulled the speaker cords out and dropped my drink in the space of a few minutes I figured that this cowboy had had his fill and made my mind up to leave. This took longer than expected, but soon I was stumbling along the Terrace bleary-eyed and bullet proof, smiling to myself as I tried to recite Clint Eastwood’s famous line from Unforgiven

"I've killed women and children. I've killed everything that walks or crawls at one time or another. And I'm here to kill you, Little Bill, for what you done to Ned."

The price for such behaviour is of course a hangover, and lord was I gifted with a good one on Sunday. Seizing the opportunity to really do some damage, Mr Cold came in hard and fast leaving me bedridden for most of the day. But come evening time I was on top form to welcome Mum’s fella and her children to the house for drinks. We cozied up by the fire and got to know each other a wee bit. It was pleasant, a slightly strange situation for all involved but we got along okay. They all went out for dinner, but I had another date, so poured more firewater down my throat and headed out into the rain, down to Bodega to watch Grand Lodge and Jay Farrar. And who knows …maybe mystery girl as well.

It was great actually. Think what you like about country tinged rock, but on cold Sunday night’s there’s something quite nice and homely about it. I was tempted to wear my cowboy hat again, but feared I would look like a dufus, so left it at home. There were a few dufus’ there however, including the man who pushed in front of me, stood in front of me, then put in ear plugs. Sir, if the music is too loud, then feel free to move further back. Anyhow in order to see I had to then snuggle behind a woman whose hair smelled like yesterday’s socks, which sucked, but at least the music was good. Grand Drive were just as impressive as when I’d last seen them, and in their too short set, played some fine melodic rock, a Joy Division cover and a song called Iceberg which began as follows:
You’re as cold as an iceberg,
But I still want to fuck you
Even though, you fucked all my friends

Fantastic stuff, and an ideal taster for the main event. Jay Farrar played a great set, and as usual had hardly a word to say between songs. He did though ask ‘how we guys were doin’? to which one man, who may have had too many Big Macs, yelled ‘I’m lovin it’ which caused a wee smile on our man’s face. He also had a sly dig at Jack White’s “discovery” of Loretta Lynn. But hey, we weren’t really there for that, it’s the music, stupid. And it was pretty good, the majority of the show consisting of material from his last two albums, with a sprinkling of Son Volt numbers and one Uncle Tupelo song. Highlights included, Voodoo Candle, Straight Face and Tear Stained Eye, which I would gamble is as good a song as has ever been played at Bodega. He came back for two encores during which he played the song Windfall with it’s nice refrain of “May the wind take your troubles away” - a fine choice of song to play in Wellington. And with that tune still ringing in my ears I made my way out on to the street, catching a glimpse as I did so of a red raincoat hurrying home in the drizzle…

-
Three More Things:
1) If you go to the Flying Nun website and look up Fiona McDonald’s biography, there is a link at the bottom to her website. Click on that and you go to Fiona McDonald’s antique store on the Fulham Road, London.
Oops.

2) If you ever wanted to know which band covered which song, this is a great website.

3) Renee Headliner and Princess Tazzie of Denmark look remarkably alike.

2004-05-13T23:35:00.000+12:00

I met a girl and she told me she loved me.
I said you love me
than love means you must like
what I like - my music is dynamite.
-Cliff Richard

Go cliff! Too right brother man, music is dynamite! And as you refer to in your classic ‘Wired For Sound’ there’s nothing better than pounding the pavements with a good tune pounding away at your ears. Today I had the pleasure of listening to The Cinematic Orchestra, who in my book are pretty marvellous. So good in fact that they live up to their name and simply by taking in the sights almost everything looked like it could have been part of a movie. Children playing in a school playground, an old lady crossing the road, the bank heist on Lambton Quay. Even I felt like Marlon Brando, sitting there covered in blood whispering “…the horror.”
I’m getting a little side tracked here, so back the Cinematic Orchestra. I won’t tell you all about them here, that’s what the internet is for, but I was lucky enough to see them play at the Chill Out festival last summer, and walking around gloomy old Wellington today I was transported back in time to a fantastic night in a field with a few thousand other fantastic people.

Not literally of course, that would involve time travel proper, and to do that, I’d need a TARDIS. Note the capitalisation. Why? Well it’s actually an acronym for Time And Relative Dimension(s) In Space. I discovered this at Tuesday’s night quiz where there was a devilishly difficult round on TV acronyms. The man from UNCLE* anyone? In other time travel related news, I was saddened to read that Anthony Ainely had died. He made a great evil timelord and though I don’t remember the plot at all, I remember him from the days when Doctor Who was the scariest thing on television. Scarier even than Mr Wilberforce or that dog star kid. And that soundtrack dum de dum, dum de dum oooh ooo wah ooo. Oh sorry, that’s the Trumpet ad. But you get the jist.

And sorry if I’ve been a bit quiet for the last few days, I’m sad to say, after all my previous mocking I think I’m falling in love with Headliner Renee.
Hey! That rhymes.

----------
*Unco-ordinated Lesbian Extremists

2004-05-11T23:19:00.000+12:00

Have you have been an un-American?
Just you and your idol singing falsetto 'bout
Leather, leather everywhere, and
Not a myth left from the ghetto
-David Bowie

And the winner is …
Ben.
Ben won. Woo hoo. Clap clap clap. Our first New Zealand Idol. We can all sleep a little easier from now on. That is unless you live in a cabbage patch. Why? Well is it me, or does it look like a gang of hungry caterpillars have been let go on Ben's head? You be the judge. And New Zealand, it looks like you were.

The viewing figures will be out any day now, but a show like this was never going to fail. With two good-looking boys vying for the title there was only ever going to be one winner, and on the night it was …Telecom. Still midget Michael (runner-up) was gracious in defeat and happy for his pal to win. Ben for his part whimpered like a neutered puppy and thanked the good lord above before belting into the hit tune that you’ll be thoroughly sick of by this time tomorrow.

Funnily enough all the old losers we’d already voted off returned for the fun of the final. It was kind of cruel, almost saying ‘look isn’t this great, if you’d been better, this is what you could have had’. I was almost hoping Paul Ellis’ evil side would belatedly show up with the line “Remind us again Eddie why the nation thought you were so crap.” But as usual it was anodyne, fun for the whole family entertainment. That was until big Frankie Stevens began throwing Fiona McDonald around like a bin bag on rubbish day. She responded by gyrating like a wino then inelegantly thrusting into Frankie’s groin. Icky stuff, and not something for our future idols to witness.

But why’d they do that? For some awful reason Frankie ‘n Fiona thought it’d be great to remind the country that oh no, we’re not just judges we’re stars in our very own right! And hammed it up big time performing a duet (the insipid Somethin’ Stupid) and in so doing threw away whatever credibility they might have had as judges. Heaven forbid there’s another series, but if there is, who honestly would be able to keep a straight face when Frankie Stevens says, “he he, sorry mate, he he, you’ve got no stage presence” or Fiona telling some wannabe “you sung that whole song off key.”? Jeepers they were bad, the only good news being that if they’re booted off, there could be room for another judge next year. And as luck would have it, I may just know of someone who’d be rather good, that is if he’s not busy playing mini putt somewhere in the south pacific.

Anyhow I didn’t mean to write about NZ Idol today, I was going to tell you all about the walk I had along Paekakariki beach. It was nice, just me, the ocean, some seagulls and a pukeko. Now that’s entertainment.

- - - - - - - - -

Answers for my random lyric sonnet yesterday:

1) Miles Away - - Shihad
2) All I Needed Was You - - Southside Johnny & The Asbury Jukes
3) Down on Me - - Bob Geldof
4) Ole 55 - - Tom Waits
5) Leo - - Shihad

6) Why Can’t I be Good? - - Lou Reed
7) Injured Bird - - Michael Stipe and Vic Chesnutt
8) Hope I Don’t Fall in Love With You - - Tom Waits
9) More Life In a Tramps Vest - - Stereophonics
10) Burn - -Nine Inch Nails

11) Ricochet - -Faith No More
12) Faster - -Manic Street Preachers
13) A Girl Like You - -Edwyn Collins
14) Brothers Under the Bridges - - Bruce Springsteen

Congratulations to Mr. Steve Parr of Lower Hutt, New Zealand.

2004-05-10T20:41:00.000+12:00

Photograph - I’m outa love
Photograph - I’m outa love
Photograph - you’re the only one
Photograph - I wanna touch
- Def Leppard

I read somewhere that if you get drunk more than three times a week, your mental capacity is as impaired as a long term alcoholic. Cheery news I know, and with that in mind, Chuck decided to eschew the boozing and explore his creative side this weekend. But what to do? I tried painting once, but deeply offended my subject. I sang once for my lovely, but she left me the next day. Interpretive dance? Well, I’m good, but not quite ready to go public.

So I went looking in the attic for inspiration, I would tell you what's up there, but that’s another storey. Anyhow while I was up there I noticed an old photo album, and opening it up I saw pictures of …nothing. That’s right Rolly, the photo album was empty! And as luck would have it, I had hundreds of photos from my European adventures. What better cathartic exercise than to finally close the chapter on the last four years by putting my photos in an album?

I pulled the photos out of their wallets and spread them all across the dining room table. Three piles were required. One for the album, one for the keepers, and one for those who best not ever see the light of day. While I was happily doing this, mum was at church. Why is that important? Well it’s not really. I’m just setting the scene for this:

Oh, she said coming through the door, you’re putting your photos in an album.
Yup.
Let’s have a look, she said, and at once began flicking through the pile of photographs that should never be seen. Chuck in Amsterdam. Chuck dancing on speakers. Chuck at a clothing optional bar in Key West, Florida.
Chuck…
Oh that, I said vainly trying to claw it out of her hand
It’s hard to tell who’s top halves match their…
Um yeah. Um, plenty more. Here, look at this photo, you can see the Eiffel Tower.

But worse was to come. Having read Ms Harvest Bird’s blog the other day I decided I’d give her lyrical poetry a go. The basic idea is you put your I-pod or mini disc on random play, take the first lyric from the first song, the second from the second, and so on and so on and so on. And while happily slapping photographs into my album I was making note of the lyrics on a pad. Predictably the results were nonsense, so I went to wash my hands before lunch. When I came back my dear mum was leaning over my notepad eating a sandwich.

Oh sorry, she said, I didn’t mean to read your poetry.
My what?
Your poem, here.

So for the second time in ten minutes I was left stammering trying to explain something awkward and nigh on inexplicable.
Yeah, it’s not actually poetry, it’s just this idea that if you take the first lyric from the first song, the second from the second…
Mmm hmm.

So now my mother thinks I’m either an appalling poet or a pervert. I’m not sure which is worse, but I fear that the truth lies somewhere in between. Who’d have thought creativity would leave me so red faced? At least one thing’s for sure, next weekend I’m going back to the bottle.
---------

Appendix

Un- titled.

Put your clock back for the winter
There’s nowhere left to hide or run to
That’s where she keeps the bottles of the essence of herself
As I pulled away slowly feeling so holy
I still see a lot of myself in you

Why can’t I be good?
Something clobbered me in the head
Well if you sit down with this old clown
Mac the knife swigs a can and sings the day away
Some thing inside of me has opened up its eyes

You come up empty again
I am stronger than Mensa, Miller and Mailer
And I’ve never known a girl like you before
Our walls were covered with pictures of cars we’d get

- - - - - - -

Think you recognise a lyric? If so you could be a winner! Simply jot down the artist and the song and you’ll go into a prize draw to win an all expenses paid holiday of a lifetime to sunny Norfolk Island with your hosts Chuck, and the King of Country from the King Country, Brendan Dugan!

Answers tomorrow.

2004-05-06T20:45:00.000+12:00

Segregation, determination, demonstration, integration,
Aggravation, humiliation, obligation to our nation
(just a)ball of confusion
-The Temptations

I’ve lent my hand to protest in my time, but half heartedly so, believing more often than not that people marching in large numbers won’t change the world. But with a little reflection, the thousands of protestors who marched down Lambton Quay yesterday may at the very least, have changed a few minds.

We live quite close to town and I was at home reading the paper and listening to Chip Taylor when I thought to myself, hold on, that sounds like a conch shell being played in the background of track eight. I’ve never heard that before, so looked in the liner notes for the conch shell player. None was listed, and then it struck me. It’s the hikoi!

I turned off Chip, grabbed my camera and raced down the hill. And what a sight it was. I turned down Woodward St and on to Lamton Quay where the road was absolutely crammed full of protestors and on lookers crowded the pavement three deep. I was barely alive when at the time of the first land march and cannot remember much about the Springbok Tour in 1981, but it was such a remarkable sight to look down the city streets and see not trolley buses and courier vans but a sea of colour, noise and people.

The hikoi started at Te Papa in the morning and wound its way to parliament by noon, the marchers organised into iwi groups. I know this because a Maori warden spoke to a rather bemused American tourist in front of me. Wow. She said. And I agree. I’ve never seen anything like it myself. The police estimate the march had fifteen thousand people, if not more. Which is quite remarkable considering Wellington had welcomed the hikoi with rain and a wind so strong that many flag wavers had difficulty holding on.

I went to the head of the march and took a few photos looking back down the street. Titiwhai Harawira lead the hikoi chauferred like lady muck in a Ford Falcon complete with Tino Rangatiratanga flags rippling on the bonnet. Following her a kapa haka group, then iwi after iwi, Maori, Pakeha, Pacific Islander, New Zealander spread literally as far as the eye could see.

Aside from the sheer numbers of protesters, I was struck by the sense of purpose. I had been vaguely following the hikoi on television news as it made it’s way down the north island, and from what I could tell (and perhaps the way it was reported) it was a rag tag group featuring all the usual suspects trading off the inherited mana of the original land march. But not so in Wellington. From nearly every person who walked past the passion was obvious, combine that with the flag waving, chanting, singing and haka and it was difficult not to be moved.

I didn’t follow the protest to parliament steps but went back home to find out more on the seabed and foreshore legislation. If you’re interested, I think this is a very good site. I’m sure it will later be muddied by politicking, but yesterday was as clear a picture of pride and determination than I have ever seen.

2004-05-04T23:20:00.000+12:00

'cause i got a bucket full of tears and a hard luck story
there's a bad moon rising behind
and i swore it to your daddy that i loved you,
but i changed my mind.
-Whiskeytown

Oh how the mighty have fallen, and this time I’m not referring to Dugan.

I’ve just returned home ashen faced, tail firmly between my legs from a most disastrous quiz round. We started off badly and just got worse from there. I won’t bother repeating the roll call of questions we got wrong, suffice to say our team name (Slippery Oyster) wasn’t the only reason people were laughing. It is though very easy to get on one’s high horse and say “Well, it’s all a bit of fun” and deride the smarty-pants suits who take it all so seriously, but deep down it hurts, it hurts more than that god-awful NZ Idol record. On repeat.

Still there’s a beautiful full moon out tonight. So beautiful in fact that I tried to film it but my camera just couldn’t focus. Some nights the luck's with all the other guys. But having said that, tomorrow is another day and whaddaya know? It’s quite a special day because quicker than expected, faster than a speeding mullet even, the hikoi is coming to town. Being a man of leisure I may even take the time to see what this "forebed and seashore"* walkabout’s all about. You never know, I may actually learn something useful, after all it's only six nights 'til quiz night.

*overheard at cafe

2004-05-03T23:25:00.000+12:00

Hooray, hooray, it’s a holi-holiday
What a world of fun for everyone, holi-holiday
- Boney M

Stone the Crows!
Just when you thought Brendan Dugan had plucked his last string and headed for the Hamilton hills, check this out. Ay carumba, it looks like New Zealand’s very own voice of country music has found himself a nice little earner. Where? Why Norfolk Island of course!

That's right for only $1399 a person, (share triple!), you can fly to the Norfolk Island Country Festival ...and just look what's in store!

Holiday package prices include:
*Return airfare from Auckland to Norfolk Island
*Airfare taxes (excluding Norfolk Island departure tax)
*7 nights twin share accommodation staying at HibiscusCrown/Regal Motels
*Bonus ‘Brendan Dugan’ souvenir pack
*Miniature golf game with Brendan (prize for best score)
*Afternoon tea and ‘A Walk in the Wild’ (a unique rainforest walk)with Brendan
*Half day Orientation tour of the island
*Progressive dinner to island homes with Brendan
*Return airport transfers on Norfolk Island
*7 days car hire (petrol and car insurance extra)

Bleeding Nora! A game of mini putt with Brendan? I'd gladly pay double. A bonus ‘Brendan Dugan’ souvenir pack? Triple it! And a walk in the wild with Brendan, well who can put a price on that? There may even be moonlight serendades of 'Misery and Gin'. Heaven only knows, but right now, stop all the clocks and throw the dog a juicy bone, I urgently need $1397 to find out.

Donations to the usual address, ticker below.

2004-05-02T15:58:00.000+12:00

Yes the answer lies within
so why not take a look now
kick out the devils sin
pickup, pickup a good book now
- Cat Stevens

May I throw my own two penny worth in with all those who have said what a great book The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time is. I’ve just finished it (in almost one sitting) and can’t remember enjoying a book as much in a very long time. It’s fantastically crafted, captivating, humanistic and a is great book for a grey Sunday afternoon. And thanks to the one who got away for buying it for me, madam your tastes in literature and gentlemen are impeccable. Hats off. This book’s a keeper. (See new Keepers section below.)
I also had the privilege of being at Indigo last night to watch a great new band named Grand Lodge. Foot stompingly good tunes were played with real energy plus there was the added bonus of watching a charismatic frontsman who looked like he was having the time of his life. I hope they go far, they’ve certainly got my vote, but then again I’m a sucker for any band with a horn section. Even better news is they’re opening for Jay Farrar in a couple of week’s time. I’ll be there, mystery girl might be there, so why don’t you come too? In the meantime, read that book, I promise you won't regret it.

2004-04-30T23:46:00.000+12:00

You may be quite sure you know where you're going
But sooner or later you're out of the picture
Too many lost names, too many rules to the game
Better find a focus or you're out of the picture
-Son Volt

I think she saw me before I noticed her. She stood there at the listening post, her head nodding slightly. She was, like the last time I saw her, dressed in a red raincoat. She caught my eye as I ambled by.
Hi Chuck, she said and took off her headphones.
Hey, I said in reply.

Jay Farrar’s coming to town! Hurrah! I saw him in London once and it was one of the more memorable gigs I’ve been to. He’s got a great country voice but you could easily mistake him for the guy upstairs who works in accounts. But anyway, back to the girl.

What ya listening to? I asked
The Von Bondies, she said.
I nodded. Cool.

Jay Farrar hasn’t quite had the success of his partner in Uncle Tupelo, (Wilco’s Jeff Tweedy) but I suppose that’s a blessing in disguise, because tickets only cost thirty bucks, and I feel you wouldn’t be seeing a band like Wilco at Bodega on a Sunday night anyhow.

What are you doing here? She asked.
I’ve got to meet a friend for lunch in about ten minutes, but I’m just here to pick up a Jay Farrar ticket.
Jay Farrar? Who’s he?
Hmm kinda hard to describe, country punk, country rock I suppose. Come over here and I’ll show ya.
She took off her headphones and followed me to the corner of the store.

The other thing I remember about his gig in London was that barely said a word between songs. A mere “thanks” or “thank you” was all. Much better than all that Bono chit chat.

Have you skipped out for lunch? I asked.
No, just escaping my boss, he’s in a bit of a bad mood.
Oh, well, here we go. Jay Farrar was in a band called Uncle Tupelo, but formed the equally strange named Son Volt, I said as I picked up a CD and put it in her hand.
Uh huh.
You should go, I think you’d like it.
We’ll see. I’d better go, my boss will be back soon. But thanks Chuck, it was nice to see you again.
You too. I’m sure we’ll bump into each other sooner or later.
See ya.
Bye.

But do you know what the terrible thing is? This is the second time I’ve met this girl in a month, but for the life of me, I cannot remember her name. The oddest thing is that at one point in time we must have known one another quite well, and I certainly remember her face from some time in the distant past. But, dear reader, is it now too late, on this our second meeting to ask her to remind me of her name? Or has that moment gone? If anyone has any advice on this I’d love to hear it, or else mystery girl and I will keep passing like ships in the night. But even ships in the night have names on their sides. Anyhow, this wine’s working it’s magic and I should be nowhere near a computer in this state. But now for a pettifog public address: if any friend or loved one has recently come home and proclaimed,
How great it was to see Chuck again! This is the second time this month, and damn his teeth are looking fine!
Then do let me know their name.

2004-04-29T20:32:00.000+12:00

You woke up this morning
The world turned upside down,
Thing's ain't been the same
Since the Blues walked into town.
- Alabama 3

As the sun came up it dawned on me that while coming second in a quiz is no mean feat, it doesn’t translate into worthwhile employment opportunities. (Unless of course you count the increasingly tedious Who Wants to Be a Millionaire). But the frustrating thing is that my mind is in fine fettle, and as the United College Negro Fund will tell you, a mind is a terrible thing to waste. Lucky then that Dan was coming around. For Dan and I have a plan. And with a lot of hard work and a little luck, well who knows, it just might work.

We sat drinking tea, listening to Laura Cantrell and Kinky Friedman, tossing ideas back and forth like a medicine ball. Some were good, some were bad, and some were just plain awful. Witness my idea for a 6-part television series where the Auckland Blues Cheerleading Squad serve up a selection of their favourite recipes. It’s name? Hey Good Lookin’, What Ya Got Cookin’?

Fortunately we came up with better ideas than that, and it was a day well spent. Speaking of cookin’ the day ended with a superb meal cooked by Senor Buscao at his home high on the Hataitai hill. I used to live there many moons ago, and it was good to be back, eating pasta, drinking fine wine and swatting flies like it was 1998 all over again. I even recognised a spider I had once befriended.

Well, that’s it for another day, but before I go, I have a somewhat strange request: If you know of any good “A man walks into a bar” type jokes, could you e-mail them through? I need them for a small project I’m working on.
As a snake may say:
Thanksssssss…

2004-04-28T22:54:00.000+12:00

My heart’s stuck
In second place ooh
Without you
-The Dixie Chicks

Michael Jackson’s dad once grabbed young Michael by the sparkly waistcoat he was wearing and growled into his ear, Second? Second ain’t nothin’, you know what second is? Second is first loser boy.

But man, was Mr. Jackson wrong. I’d gladly come second every day of my life if it felt even half as good as last night. It was quiz night you see, and we done good poppa! That’s right, we came second and blazed through the rounds like the zoot suited Mastermind champions of old.

We even did okay with sport: name two Olympic sports where women and men compete against one another?
Geography: Where is the port of Trieste?
And science: What is the tympanic membrane commonly known as?

Whether we were exceptional or everyone else was stupid I can’t be sure, but second is the highest placing we’ve ever achieved, so thanks to all involved. That $60 bar tab will not go to waste I can assure you. But winning (or coming second) isn’t everything, we even managed to engineer a puerile team name that would make Marc Ellis blush. Read on.

In third place, can we have a member of Mighty Mike’s Team please?
Polite applause.
And in second place, can we have a member of The Soggy Gussets please?
Shocked silence.
And just like that, Lulu walked straight up onto the stage to collect our prize.

2004-04-26T22:25:00.000+12:00

I wear my grand dad's medals
The ones he wouldn't wear
They represented destruction to him
They feel like freedom
When you look at them from here
- 30 Odd Foot of Grunts

As in my last post, I may from time to time bemoan the fact that Wellington is a little too far away from the action. But when two fantastic acts are both on the same night and I choose to go to neither, then I’ve only myself to blame. Both Dimmer and the superb Rhian Sheehan were playing at different venues in town on Friday night and where was I? In Lovelock’s Sports Bar on Bond Street of course, and my, how that place has changed.

The bells and whistles of a pokies room compete with the sports commentary, the toilets are well lit and clean and even the bar stools could almost pass as comfortable. But thankfully some things have stayed the same; thick layers of cigarette smoke clog the air and there’s still plenty of old men clutching race tickets and crying into their Lion Brown. Following suit we ordered several jugs of Wellington’s finest and sat down to watch the ANZAC rugby league test. Which we lost. Some traditions at least, will never change.

And so ANZAC Day proper rolled around yesterday. I wasn’t up for the dawn service, to be honest I never have, and this year I’m afraid I didn’t even buy a poppy. Television coverage was pretty good though, and I’d have to rate TV3’s far above TV One’s rather casual approach. To cover the country’s ANZAC day TV3 sent Carol to the deepest, darkest South Island town they could find and John Campbell to Gisborne for a story on the Maori Batallion. Sure, there were some technical problems, but at least they got the story of the day right. TV One led with a new Colmar-Brunton poll that showed that Don Brash was nearly, but not quite, the preferred Prime Minister. We know this because ONE Sainsbury stood there foaming at the mouth, gesticulating this way and that, the whites of his eyes rolling about his head –all this and election year is still over a year away.

Anyhow I seem to have moved away from ANZAC day and into television news criticism, which wasn’t my intention. But it has brought me around nicely to my final point which is this: if you can, do try and watch part two of The Colour of War: The ANZACS this Wednesday at 8-30. I watched it last week and it was by far the best thing on telly. Amazing colour footage from World War Two combined with a great script narrated by our favourite fighting kiwi, Russ le Roq. And if there's not enough stories of heartbreak, loss and wasted youth, then head on down to Lovelock’s, you’re bound to find your fill in there.

2004-04-23T12:50:00.000+12:00

You think you've got your way
But baby there's a catch
Don't need your foul play
Now you have met your match
- Sophie Ellis-Bextor

Well the results are in.
This from the rather unorganised organiser of Speed Dating:

Hi Chuck!
Hope you had an enjoyable night on Tuesday. You got 5
Matches. I hope you'll be keen to come along again. Next time
there won't be so many girls you already know!!!

How rude. Is she suggesting perhaps I handicap myself with a home-made Tron Costume? Who is she to tell me I’m not Mr. Superlove? And statistically speaking, five out of twelve is a pretty good ratio, better than the Auckland Warriors this season anyhow.

Speaking of Mr. Superlove, that name comes from a song by the Afghan Whigs, whose lead singer, Greg Dulli formed The Twilight Singers, whose album Blackberry Belle is still one of my most played albums of the year. And reading this live review from Simon Price at The Independent made me think that sometimes Wellington is just a little too far away from the action.

But having said that, as I write this there’s not a cloud in the sky, the harbour is sparkling blue and in a moment I’ll be scooting around to Owhiro Bay for an espresso.

See, it isn’t all bad news.

2004-04-21T20:35:00.000+12:00

You may not believe me baby
When I tell you that I am Mr. Superlove.
- The Afghan Whigs

Where to begin?
Well at the start I suppose. I’d been kind of looking forward to this speed-dating evening for some time, but as the hours ticked closer I began to ask myself, just what had I got myself into?

I met G and Lulu and a few other speed daters just after six at an underground bar on Taranaki Street. We ordered our first bottle of wine and settled in for a night of romance. The ambience was just right, smooth jazz oozed out of the speakers and minimal lighting hid the bartender’s facial scarring perfectly. But despite this there was a hint of desperation hanging in the air, as slowly our group began to grow. Like animals to the ark most came in two by two in a veritable conga-line of ordinariness. True, I wasn’t exactly expecting the cast from Baywatch, but nor was I expecting a police line-up from Crimewatch. Or for that matter a wolf.

Yes, that’s right. Bachelor Number One (I was Number Two) was a rather hirsute young man from Taranaki, and I couldn’t keep help but feel a wee bit sorry for the females in the group as I looked around from face to face. But my empathy soon waned when I saw what I would have to contend with. A German woman who we’ll call Mildred* sat beside me with an extravagant looking cocktail in her hands.
Cor blimey, I said, that looks strong.
No no, she replied, it is tomato juice, I never drink on weekdays.
I took a strong slug on my sauvignon as Lulu kneed my thigh.
Oh, I said. Think think think. I went to see a German film the other day. Goodbye Lenin it was called, it was supposed to be a comedy.
We are not known for our comedy.
No.
Think think think. Wim Wenders though, he can be quite humorous?
Vim, yes. Hmm, I have trouble pronouncing my W’s, she said, as she pronounced a perfect W.
I stared at the floor.
This was perplexing stuff dear reader, but more on Mildred later. Soon it was time for action.

These are the rules: 12 ladies, 12 gents, and a mere four minutes for Chuck to work his magic. If you like your partner you tick yes, if not, tick no. Easy as that. So with pen and paper ready I slugged back another glass of wine, then sidled up to bachelorette Number One.
Hi, I said, I’m Chuck.
Hi Chuck, she said, I’m Electra.

I was hoping for more Blind Date style questions (If you were an animal, what sort of animal would you be and why?) but in fact the conversation I enjoyed with Electra was fairly typical of most of the evening’s encounters. Indeed by the time each of us had answered the “what do you do, where are you from, are you a speed dating regular?” questions the four minutes were nearly up. But some four minutes seemed to last an eternity.

Luckily Lulu and G were strategically placed in the line-up and I think they were equally pleased to see me as I was them. It was a good chance also to fill up on wine, and it’d be fairly safe to say that by the time I reached my fifth beauty, I was feeling just a tad tiddly. At one point in the conversation I nearly got the giggles. And were it not for a well-timed and interesting question, I would probably have broken into howls of laughter. Speaking of howling, a few minutes later it was the half time break and Wolfboy and I had quite an interesting discussion. He fidgeted with his beard as he told me all about himself and his thoughts on the evening so far.

I’m enjoying it, but I just thought everyone would be a little bit younger, he said.
Too right brother, I replied and eyed up Mildred. For she was next on my card and I was terrified I’d exhausted all conversation with our informal chat before kick-off. So when the bell went I had just enough Dutch courage to try a different tack with my German friend. I sat down, introduced myself and asked,
So, tell me about the Black Forest.
She stared at me as if I were a weta.

And so I resigned myself to the fact that I wouldn’t meet my true love tonight and took solace once again in the bottle, as the evening wound its tragic way down. I’m afraid to say that towards the end my memory is a little hazy. Whether that’s through wine or repression I can’t be sure but I do remember one bachelorette looking for all the world like a **** **** ****, while another possessed a deep, booming voice that sounded almost biblical. Frightening stuff.

Now obviously I’m not one to throw stones in my own glasshouse. For as I reported last night I’m no Martin Henderson and indeed, find me a woman who doesn’t desire a 30 year old unemployed man who lives with his mother. They’re pretty few and far between I can bet. But I did almost feel sorry for them. Imagine enduring the double whammy of me and my lupine pal. Crikey, we’d put people off dating for life.

Pretty soon though it was all over. I didn’t stick around too long. I’d done my dash, and given this speed-dating thing a go. It had been interesting, but not quite what I had expected. I said goodbye to Lulu and G and walked home reflecting on what an amusing night it had been. And as I did so high in the heavens a few wisps of cloud danced around the moon, while down here in the city, a lone howl echoed through the streets.

------
*names have been changed to protect the innocent.

2004-04-20T16:37:00.000+12:00

Take me down to the paradise city
Where the grass is green and the girls are pretty
Oh, won't you please take me home
- Guns and Roses

Damn right Axl, it’s good to be home!
If you weren’t in Wellington yesterday, well you missed an absolute cracker. I nearly wept with pride as we flew in low over the harbour. Indeed I probably would have were I not seated alongside two shoulder-padded powerbrokers who obscured my view and dampened my mood.
You know, said one, I could almost live in Wellington on a day like this.
Ha, said the other, I could only ever live in Auckland. What would you do for fun down here?

For fun?
Well big boy, to quote jazzman Hamiet Bluiett if you have to ask, you don't need to know.

But aside from over-hearing their tough-tough boy tough-tough toy boasting (I got caught doing 145k before the cop pulled me over, and that was only in third!) it was a pretty good flight. I’d not flown Qantas within New Zealand before, and I was impressed. Nice air hostesses too, Gina and Natalie gave the flight a very friendly South Pacific feel, dressed as they were in brown shirts emblazoned with beige boomerangs. No chicken or beouf either, it was fudge or no fudge baby, and anyhow you wouldn’t want to mess with Gina… she wasn’t quite Britney Spears, but then again, I’m no Martin Henderson.

Right. Enough talk, I need a shower, I need a shave and I need a floss. Why? Well ladies lock up your daughters, because tonight, Chuck’s going speed dating.

Your time starts …now.

2004-04-19T17:23:00.000+12:00

We can follow the sun to the day light is gone
We can gaze at the sky till the night is over
Light of my life
You are welcome to my Charade
- The Bee Gees

The weekend began with Axl, Campbell and myself attending the most laughingly appalling game of rugby I have ever seen. Dropped balls, spear tackles and a minute long passage of play so inept I’d struggle to believe it wasn’t choreographed by Jessie from NZ Idol. And when Carlos Spencer goose stepped his way in to a king-hit, well it was all over. Fortunately I’m not a Blues supporter, I have a passing interest in the Hurricanes, and seeing as the next night they subsequently lost any chance of making the semi finals, far be it from me to take the mickey out of the Auckland Rugby team.

I met up with Axl and Slash on Saturday afternoon for a few beers in the sunshine. I must admit, you’d be hard pressed to do that in Wellington this time of year. At one point it was so warm I even removed my shirt, at once sending my old band mates into hysterics at my increased girth. But it was a great afternoon, I just wish they’d eat more.

Speaking of which I decided to forgo Steve Earle in favour of a dinner party cooked superbly by my dear sister. The food was delicious, the wine also, and pretty soon it was time for such post-dinner questions as which country we’d wage war against. I elected Ireland, if only to stop the spread of their insipid, soulless pubs from spreading around the world. Surprisingly enough I found some support amongst my fellow dinner guests. Then it was time for charades which was entertaining, not nearly as entertaining as the time I performed charades at the Royal Festival Hall in London, but that’s another story. Tonight Matthew, I was abysmal, though I must accept part of the blame, for who aside from a masochist would set themselves Tess of the D’urbervilles?

Salvation came in the form of Jenga which I found myself to be remarkably good at. Now I’m not a competitive man by nature, but let me tell you how good it felt going to sleep wearing a winner’s smile. Something there I could teach the Auckland Blues.

And yesterday? A lazy Sunday afternoon drive up (N)One Tree Hill, down to Parnell for a spot of reminiscing, then back out into the west. Later in the evening I popped into see Mike, who coincidentally was being interviewed on TV One news. There’s something vaguely disconcerting about being in the same room as a person on television. I looked from screen to man, and from man to screen, and from screen to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which.

I fly back to the windy city this afternoon, but tonight I shall call together a meeting of my peoples, light a fire and offer up a feast of tales and stories from this fair city in the far north, the one they call Auckland.

2004-04-16T15:40:00.000+12:00

Chop up the boxes, smash up the wood
Smash up the cartons, boy it sure feels good
Drop all the dishes, what a nice crash
Doin’ the trash
It might be messy, but that’s okay
‘Cause being messy is how I love to spend my day
- Sesame Street

Time flies doesn’t it? It just seems like yesterday I was hurtling up the country listening to Bic Runga. It’s now Friday and I’m sitting here listening to Dave Dobbyn's fine Twist album. There’s a luke warm cup of tea to my right and I’m not wearing socks. I’m also vaguely hung-over after a few beers with a few chums at The Classic last night. So there we go, the scene is set. On with the log.

I’ve been having a smashing time staying with my sister in New Windsor. Quite literally. For their rather lovely home is filled with brand new wedding presents which for some unfortunate reason has coincided with a rare bout of uncoordination on my part. Yesterday for example my wayward elbow knocked an expensive looking plate off the bench. I remember thinking, gee, that’s really going to smash when it hits the ground, shall I put out my foot to break the fall, or buy those tickets to see Steve Earle on the weekend? SEX!, that’ll take ages to clean up, what was Murray Mexted doing in that room? – before the plate exploded into a million tiny pieces at my feet.

Sorry.

My meetings went well though, the only slight problem being that I scheduled four of them in one day, so by the time the final meeting came about I’d forgotten which lies I’d told to whom and whether I was in fact the manager of Blur. Good to catch up with old friends though, but I’m not sure if I’m quite ready to return to Auckland. It’s mainly a lifestyle choice, I think I’m a wee bit over the idea of living in a large metropolis, and it is just a tad too hectic up here.

But you wouldn’t have guessed that this morning. Imagine, if you will, this idyllic scene. I was sitting out in the warm Auckland sun, reading The Guardian (by way of The “cut n’ paste” Herald) while next door an old woman turned on the tap and hosed her lilies. Just then the phone rang. It was the one who got away, with a rather interesting proposition…
Watch this space.
------------------------
3 More Things:
I scored 78 points in a scrabble move. The word? HITHERTO.
I quite like this lady’s blog.
This is one of the funniest links I’ve been sent all year. (thanks mike)

2004-04-13T15:01:00.000+12:00

Rain fall from concrete coloured sky
No boy, don't speak now you just
Drive, drive, drive
- Bic Runga

It was funny being in Taupo again, the scene of so much excitement over the past two months. This time though was different. The one who got away is miles away, Kevin Costner and Mr. Trout were nowhere to be seen, and the whole place had a distinctly winter feel. Lucky then I had the warm hospitality of my brother in-law's parents to enjoy. He, my sister and I drove up on Sunday night listening to Tina Turner, Englebert Humperdink (seriously) and Bic Runga’s Beautiful Collision album. Which, upon first listen, was very nice indeed.

Easter night came and went without too much incident, though I did put myself to sleep when the wedding video came out. But despite being on best behavior I still managed to drink a few large gins, eat two easter eggs and get into a debate about NZ Idol. I want Jessie to win, but she’s already out. Cute as a button but mad as a hatter, apparently.

The next morning Bic Runga was still singing about foolish men, Union Square and a rather nice line about “stardust on your eyes”. I know this because my head was jammed next to the speaker in the back seat. I was just summoning up the courage to ask if we perhaps, maybe, if it’s not too much trouble, possibly could we change the… when we arrived for lunch at The Ploughman.

It’s worth popping into The Ploughman if you’re ever in Taupo, if only to laugh at the monstrously large horse painted on the sign. And once you’ve recovered from that, prepare to split your sides at the “scale” model indoors. Said ploughman is a third the size of the horses. Now I’m not into agriculture at all, but farmers really aren’t that small are they? Maybe he’d eaten at the Ploughman a few times, the meals were fairly miserly, but even that wouldn’t explain it. I thought about it all through lunch, but still couldn’t come up with anything. One of life’s mysteries I suppose. As was the choice of in-car music, for as we pulled out into the steady stream of traffic on State Highway One, you can guess who was singing her wee heart out.

I may have been rude about Cambridge in the past, but last night this top town was bathed in a glorious yellow light, add to that the fact I didn’t pay the twenty cents to use the Cambridge Super Loo, and I was on the verge of taking back everything I’d said. And so with bladder emptied and a relieved look on my face I settled in for the last leg of the journey, and more Bic Runga. She’s good, if not a little earnest but even this South Island songstress gets grating on the eighth listen. I’m sure though that her church tours around the country will be great, I may even go. In fact I’d go to church more often if Bic Runga were there, and if Sophie Ellis Bextor were presiding, well hell, I’d gladly be born again.

Anyhow moving on… we managed to avoid all collisions (beautiful or otherwise) and arrived in The Big Smoke just after dark. Speaking of smoke, I woke up in the fireplace …I slept like a log. And so here we are. It’s a fine pacific morning now, I’m happy to be here and I’m about to catch a bus and head into town to see what this big city holds.
Onward ho, friends. Never a step backward indeed

2004-04-09T20:19:00.000+12:00

There’s no passion, there’s no passion
There’s no passion, I need passion
You need passion, we need passion
Can’t live without passion
Won’t live without passion
- Rod Stewart

Well goodness me! It's Good Friday! I'd nearly have forgotten were it not that everyone else seems to be doing nothing as well today.

I did though go and see Mel Gibson's Passion. I figure Good Friday is as good a day as any, and I found it to be better than I had expected. My only slight complaint is that if Mel was making this film as a recruitment drive for his faith, wouldn't he have done better to juxtapose more of Jesus' remarkable life alongside his remarkable death? But if you do get a chance, then do go and see it. For one reason or another it's probably the most important film of the year, and for one reason or another, it's probably a good film to have an opinion about.

Anyhow I'm heading north to Auckland for a week or so to have a few meetings and possibly squeeze whatever life there is out of this miserable summer. So with that in mind, postings may be intermittent, but rest assured, if I find myself anywhere near a computer I'll jot down a few rambles, throw in a couple of non sequiturs and we'll all be happy.

And speaking of happy, have a very Happy Easter.
Wherever you are.

2004-04-07T21:29:00.000+12:00

That autumn's here
And it makes you sad
About the crummy
Summer we had
- Hawklsey Workman

All right. I admit it. I lay down and admit it. I can no longer fool myself that it's warmer here than it is in London. That seasonal equinox I had been dreading has now passed and it is now officially autumn, and feeling like it.

A few leaves outside my window struggle to hold on, but the rest have flown north for winter, and who can blame them? I was wrapped up like this, but there was still no stopping that southerly from getting through. It made Easter celebrated in the southern hemisphere seem even more illogical. Surely we have the wherewithal to start our own pagan ritual down here, or at least move Easter to October when the lambs will be more jumpy. Can't you just hear the silence?

But if you think I was cold, spare a thought for our cousins in wwwwanganui*
It's bad enough there at the best of times, but beneath 20 cm of hailstones it certainly isn't, as their slogan suggests, worth the journey.

And speaking of journeys, close readers of this blog will remember that yesterday I saw two unidentified planes take off from Wellington airport. Unusual weather? Unmarked planes? They said it was a weather balloon.
I therefore put it to you, ladies and gentlemen is it not possible that the said grey unmarked planes were in fact en route to wwwwanganui to drop their ghastly payload of hail stones?
Trouble in the polls? No worries, it's time for extreme weather.
Something there to ponder.

---

*That's not a typo. I inherited it from Selwyn Toogood.

2004-04-06T16:42:00.000+12:00

You don't say you need me
You don't sing me love songs
You don't bring me flowers anymore
-Neil Diamond & Barbra Streisand

I went for a walk in the Botanical Gardens with my camera yesterday. It was lovely, but had changed a lot since I was last there. I never used to give a damn about gardens, but now I do. Part of getting older I suppose. Old people love gardens. There were heaps of them out there yesterday, looking at flowers, smelling flowers, looking old, smelling old. I startled one by the herb garden. He was filming the lavender with his video camera. His footage will now include me coming around the corner. And a small yelp. Which'll be nice for him. Make a change from all those goddamn flowers he was filming.

3 More Things:

I noticed two large grey unmarked planes take off from Wellington Airport.
I watched a young mother feed the ducks.
I took a photo of a palm tree

2004-04-05T18:13:00.000+12:00

Peter Percival Patterson's pet pig Porky at so much pie
That do you know what he did?
He popped
- The Monkees

Yan can cook, and so can I!
I had my doubts of course, I’d not cooked for seven people ever in my life before, hell I’d barely even cooked for two, and in certain circles my incompetence in the kitchen is legendary. Example? Okay. When living in London I had just started a a new relationship. For some reason my girlfriend believed me to be somewhat of a gourmand. Imagine her surprise therefore when presented with two fish fingers, rice and peas. Oh, and home-made tartare sauce. Even Chuck’s Surprise was better than that.

But back to Saturday night. I must admit to feeling a wee bit stressed at around six pm with a drink in my hand, Lemon Jelly on the stereo and two huge chunks of pork staring back at me. To make myself feel better I peeled the potatoes. Which didn’t really make me feel better, and was actually quite unnecessary. Lucky then that the doorbell rang. It was G bearing gifts and a whole can of calm down (as opposed to whup ass) and pretty soon the whole cooking thing was underway. All we needed now were the guests.

Kate and Matt arrived with some freshly caught paua while Lulu provided the Bluff oysters. Mr B arrived wearing a shit-eating grin and Reidy arrived with some damn fine wine. You couldn’t ask for better company.

After cheese and crackers we sat down for our fish entrée, succulent oysters with lime juice and drop of Tabasco, alongside pan fried paua slices. It really doesn’t get any better than that. In fact I was beginning to fear that it quite literally wouldn’t, so snuck a quick look in at Mr. Pig. He was hot, but seemed to be doing okay. I basted his back and threw in the (peeled!) potatoes then sat around biting my nails.

But as it turned out, I didn’t have to worry. I boiled the bok choi and beans while Miss G pan fried the peppers. Mr Pig emerged from the oven hissing and spluttering and with a dollop of apple sauce we sat down at the table to eat him. And if I may say so myself, he actually tasted pretty goooooood, and as we toasted our glasses I had to admit I was fairly chuffed it had worked out so well.

Pudding next and it was fantastic. A caramel sponge cake that really did melt in your mouth, so thank you G, it was really sweet.

So there we have it. A successful dinner party, and thanks to all involved. I can’t tell you what we got up to for the rest of the evening but I do remember dancing there at Sandwiches, looking around and smiling, while deep inside of me a pig, some paua and three peppered oysters moved slowly into my small intestine.

2004-04-02T16:25:00.000+12:00

I found a way to break through this cellophane bag
Cuz I know what's goin' on in your mind
I'm a livin' in a box
I'm a livin' in a cardboard box
-Living Colour*

Yay!
My parcels finally arrived from England yesterday. They’d been months on the high seas and it was somewhat of a relief to find that they had in fact arrived safely. It was like Christmas coming early and I ran down stairs full of anticipation. But like a real Christmas it was a bit of a let down, and there was no brandy to make it better. I knew exactly what was in there, there were no alarms and no surprises, and I must admit to feeling a little flat once I’d opened everything up.

Box one was full of important stuff like an old laptop full of secret files, and the hundred odd CD’s I’d managed to collect. But also, there nestled in the corner was a very special friend who’d helped me through bad times and good.
You complete me, I said to my Playstation.

Box two was books. Kind of pointless shipping over books I suppose, but the world is divided into two groups of people, those who would ship books, and those who wouldn’t. I would.

And the rest? Just the debris of a London life I suppose, stuff I didn’t really need, but felt I should hold onto. But it is kind of hard to see what use old concert ticket stubs are, or flyers for club nights I can’t remember, or indeed a postcard of an ape. Perhaps I’ll get a scrapbook, but more likely the junk will remain in those boxes for many years to come, until one day, I’ll bounce Chuck Jr. on my knee and say:
Look boy, there’s a picture of daddy dancing on top of a speaker stack.

Quite why I paid for this rubbish to be shipped half way around the world is beyond me, but still, it’s here, so I’ll do my best to enjoy it. Thanks Anglo Pacific, you’ve saved my life.

---------
*Candidate for worst song lyrics ever.

2004-04-01T19:39:00.000+12:00

'Cause if you were my girlfriend (my girlfriend),
I'd be your shining star, yeah
The one to show you where you are
Girl you should be my girlfriend
-‘Nsync

It may seem that my life is nothing but a heady cocktail of social engagements, onanism and Dugan baiting, but some days really can be quite tough. Fortunately yesterday was not one of those days. I awoke early and had the best shave a man can get then sat in the autumnal sun reading my book. Monkey called, as she sometimes does, and we arranged lunch. After lunch I came back home, wrote a few letters, and then it was time for dinner. It’s amazing where time goes.

Miss. A and Mr. B. met me at Raja on Cuba St, a Malaysian restaurant that features a photograph of Frodo and Pippin on the door. Inspired, I at once asked for one of those bread biscuits wrapped in a leaf, but the waiter looked perplexed, so I ordered fish instead. Which was nice. I picked out the bones while A & B discussed sentence structure, Sydney and Slipknot. That’s right it seems everyone has a Slipknot story. This is Mr. B’s.

Apparently a few years ago Slipknot came to Sydney for a gig, and nine Ockers had the superb idea of pretending they were the band. They got let into all the coolest bars and clubs, because, after all, no one has any idea what these guys look like beneath their masks. Fantastic. I may try that this weekend, although I have a suspicion I look like a member of Slipknot with his mask on, which perhaps explains why I’m let into clubs, and not into church.

In other news I received a forwarded message from Dom who intercepted an e-mail between two of his female work colleagues. I believe he has discovered the divine secrets of the ya ya sisterhood. Read on:

Girlfriends bring you chicken curry and scrub your bathroom when you need help.
Girlfriends keep your children and keep your secrets.
Girlfriends give advice when you ask for it. Sometimes you take it, sometimes you don't.
Girlfriends don't always tell you that you're right, but they're usually honest.
Girlfriends still love you, even when they don't agree with your choices.
Girlfriends laugh with you, and you don't need canned jokes to start the laughter.
Girlfriends pull you out of jams.
Girlfriends help you get out of bad relationships.
Girlfriends help you look for a new apartment, help you pack, and help you move.
Girlfriends will give a party for your son or daughter when they get married or have a baby, in whichever order that comes!
Girlfriends are there for you, in an instant and when the hard times come.
Girlfriends listen when you lose a job or a friend.
Girlfriends listen when your children break your heart.
Girlfriends listen when your parents' minds and bodies fail.
Girlfriends support you when the men in your life let you down.
Girlfriends help you pick up the pieces when men pack up and go.
Girlfriends rejoice at what makes you happy, and are ready to go out and kill what makes you unhappy.

Times passes.

Life happens.

Distance separates.

Children grow up.

Love waxes and wanes.

Hearts break.

Careers end.

Jobs come and go.

Parents die.

Colleagues forget favours.

Men don't call when they say they will.

BUT girlfriends are there, no matter how much time and how many miles
are between you. A girlfriend is never farther away than needing her can
reach.

Pass this on to the women who help make your life work.

I just did. :)

(runs to toilet, vomits, flosses.)

2004-03-31T16:19:00.000+12:00

Sailing away,
Sailing away,
New Zealand can do it,
Take it away.
- All of Us

The horror!
I cannot hear the glory of Dugan! My record player is stashed in the attic behind my Sailing Away records and my entire collection of Sesqui 1990 Toys!
Misery and Gin will have to wait another day for its first play. Or maybe I'll take it down to the Matterhorn, see if the DJ won't give it a spin.
Goddamn , goddamn that pusherman!

2004-03-30T17:53:00.000+12:00

Fuck it all! Fuck this world!
Fuck everything that you stand for!
Don't belong! Don't exist!
Don't give a shit!
-Slipknot

As any member of Slipknot will tell you, it’s fun playing dress ups. And yesterday I got to dress up as a genuinely employed person. I wore proper shoes, trendy jeans, a relaxed yet casual shirt and a stunning blue blazer. I felt like Sally Jesse Raphael had given me a make over, or a trophy husband.

And why so properly dressed? Well I had a meeting with a man in the know. He knew quite a lot actually, and we spent the better part of an hour discussing employment opportunities for a shmuck like me. It was interesting and he was a very informed man, and I left feeling invigorated and eager to continue my quest for a half way decent job. It felt good to be dressed up too, and I wandered down Cuba St feeling like a million bucks. And though I didn’t have a million bucks, I still popped into Slowboat Records just to have a look if there was any cheap music.

Flicking through the “alternative” CD releases I was suddenly distracted by a shimmering gold sticker from the vinyl section.

You’re shitting me, I said to myself.

And there it was: Brendan Dugan, Dusty Country Road.

The Holy Grail of Dugan records was right there in front of my eyes! And the shimmering gold that had caught my eye like Gollum to the ring? A badge proudly proclaiming Dugan to be “New Zealand Entertainer of the Year 1985”. I had to steady myself on a CD rack, especially when I saw the price. Five dollars caaaaash. To buy, or not to buy?

While I deliberated I had a good hard look at the cover. Dugan stands squarely on the aforementioned Dusty Country Road, his right hand jammed into his too-tight jeans, in his his left he holds a gigantic guitar case. His beard is freshly trimmed, his hair tufty and slightly bouffant, but oddly for such a hirsute chap, he seems to be lacking any chest hair. For despite the red and black bush shirt being open to the third button, there’s barely a wisp in sight, and his large silver medallion hangs like a coin on a sideplate on Christmas Day. He also wears a remarkable belt buckle, a denim waistcoat and a slightly perplexed look on his face, as if he too is unsure what the future holds. After all, there’s only one place to go once you’re voted New Zealand Entertainer of the Year.

On the back of the album, we see Dugan walking back down the country road. Not much to report there, I was rather distracted by the titles. Check ‘em out:

SIDE ONE
Does She Ever Mention My Name
Misery and Gin
Dusty Country Road
When Love Dies
Give Me One More Chance

SIDE TWO
Till Your Memory’s Gone
One Fine Morning
You’re The Best I Never Had
The Last Thing On My Mind
I Love You By Heart

And so I bought it. How could I not? And I ran home just itching to play it. But I fear with titles like that, (Misery & Gin!) an evening with Brendan Dugan may not quite be all beer and skittles.
But then again, what is these days?

2004-03-29T17:59:00.000+12:00

Porque el campo es el edén
Más lindo del mundo entero
Chapea el monte, cultiva el llano
Recoge el fruto de tu sudor.

(Because this countryside is paradise
The most beautiful place on earth
Work the mountain, cultivate the plain
Reap the fruits of your labour.)
-The Buena Vista Social Club

According to Shania Twain, the best thing about being a woman is the prerogative to have a little fun. Well Ms. Twain, the best thing about being a Chuck, is the prerogative to do whatever I want. And this weekend, I wanted a quiet one, and that’s exactly what I got.

Dan and I drove to Makara on Saturday and watched the sea batter the coastline. It was pretty amazing actually, one of those great things about Wellington, that in twenty minutes from the central city you can be somewhere pretty remote and walking around like you’re a character from the Bone People.

(Speaking of which, Kerry Hulme is about to publish her second novel, nearly twenty years after the last one. J.K. Rowling take note.)

Anyhow Dan and I discussed the merits of staying in Wellington as opposed to heading north to Auckland. I’m heading up there after Easter to have a look for jobs, but after chatting with Dan have decided that Wellington really is the place I want to be. There are many reasons, not least of which is the fact you can’t beat it on a good day.

And yesterday was exactly that. There was barely a cloud nor a breath of wind. A perfect day therefore to have a beer or two and watch a Cuban band play Cuban music in the April sun. (Well, nearly). The quiz night regulars were there as well as a few welcome additions, and as the sun went down the band played on, and I thought once again that I really am quite happy to be back. And then, as luck would have it, the heavens opened and I walked back home in the pouring rain.

2004-03-26T20:08:00.000+12:00

I'm mighty tighty whitey and I'm smugglin' plums!
I'm mighty tighty whitey and I'm smugglin' plums!
- The Bloodhound Gang

Today marked the first day of the third cricket test between South Africa and New Zealand, and being at somewhat of a loss as to how to fill my day, I decided I would attend. Donning my cap and binoculars I was so looking forward to watching a classic contest, white players on a green field, listening for the delicate thud of leather on willow. But what I got were literally hundreds of (sugar) high school children and a man named Sonny, who everyone but me seemed to adore. I foolishly sat behind Sonny. Sonny carries a big flag. Sonny carries a fat kiwi. Sonny also travels the world supporting the Black Caps

Crikey.

In fact, so keen a fan was Sonny that he and his fifty-year-old protégé would continue waving their New Zealand flags for a full thirty seconds after a boundary had been hit. And then I worked out why, it’s TV coverage. Some people choose Pop Idol, others present Headliners, but old Sonny and chums plop themselves square in the camera lines for maximum exposure. (And speaking of maximum exposure, that hill at the Basin Reserve is a killer. The 45 degree angle meant I was slipping down the hill as my bonds hipsters were slipping up – and at one point it got dangerously close to the dreaded smuggling plums scenario. But fortunately I avoided it with a slick manoeuver I learnt in Croatia one summer.)

Anyhow it was an enjoyable day, but the flag waving got a little irritating. I suppose I could have moved if I had wanted to, but to be honest, I wanted to see what I looked like on TV. And sure enough, on both TV One and TV3 sports news tonight, there we are in the background. Sonny waving his flag like a madman, and me?
Well, do not adjust your set.

2004-03-25T17:37:00.000+12:00

I got your phone number, baby
I'll call you sometime
I think I might, be out tonight
Maybe give you a ride
- The Afghan Whigs

I got up frightfully early and bounded into town to watch Arsenal play Chelsea in the Champions League. It was a good game to watch for a Leeds supporter like myself who was the meat in Lulu (Arsenal) and John’s (Chelsea) football sandwich. But while they baited each other I noticed I had a text message. Nothing unusual about that, I’m a popular guy, but this was from an unrecognised number and this is what it said:

Im @ da end of lng driv @ num 4 bunk st Te Awamutu, c u @ 6.

Struck firstly by the grace and erudition of the writing it actually took me a moment or two to ask myself who was this person? I trawled my mind for someone I may have propositioned at the wedding. No… perhaps it was Tim Finn, he’s from Te Awamutu (and the text alert did have a truly sacred ring). Or was it …Dugan?

In an effort to find out I replied:

Cool, see you then.

And then in a rare moment of charity thought, well if it were me, I would like to know if I had sent a message to a stranger and so wrote:

PS – I think you have the wrong number.

Well blow me down, if this wasn’t the reply:

Fuk wots ur nam?

And that has been just the start. For throughout this lovely day in the South Pacific I have been harassed by this Neanderthal from the Waikato. It’s more his / her writing that scares me than the vague stalker aspect (which to be honest I find quite an appealing trait in people.) But really, who writes like that? It’s as if someone was engineering that old 100 monkeys /typewriter/ Shakespeare theory, and they somehow got my cellphone digits by mistake.

Fuk who r u

Oh well, I hope it stops soon. What this person doesn’t seem to realise that I am a man with a lot of time on my hands, and these things, well, they could very easily fire my imagination. And I’m especially interested to see what happens at six pm, when I don’t show.

2004-03-24T15:47:00.000+12:00

Could you love me in a Bentley?
Could you love me on a bus?
I'll ask 21 questions, and they all about us
- 50 Cent

Fourth!
We are getting good, but it’s our sporting knowledge that really lets us down. So if you think you know your bodyline from your bikini line, come on down and give us a hand. Still winning isn’t everything; quiz night is as much about meeting up with chums as it is answering questions. The second rule of quiz night is you do not talk about quiz night.

But lo and behold it was also the scene for some serious celeb spotting! I was nearly on the phone to Flatliners, for there right in front of my eyes were the South African Cricket team! Kallis, Ntini, Graeme Smith and half a dozen others who’d all played their part in losing so badly last weekend. I was tempted to rub it in, or at least say something cheeky, but I think I’ll save it for the Basin Reserve on Friday. I can’t wait, a five day test will lend my days a much needed air of legitimacy.

In other news I learnt that women love a man with a plan. So ladies, here goes. In five years I’m going to have the cleanest teeth in Wellington.

Spot ya then.

2004-03-23T13:28:00.000+12:00

Take or leave us
only please believe us
We ain't ever gonna be respectable.
It's our occupation
we're a dancing nation
- Mel & Kim

Well after the fun of the weekend, Monday was always going to struggle to compete, much like a South African cricket team.
But I did have my hair cut, not a whole lot off, more a trim. A number three on the back n’ sides and a cut on the top. So, like Mel & Kim, I look respectable.
I once had a haircut that left me looking like a pencil. That wasn’t much fun. I also once grew it down to my shoulders. Ugh, it sends shudders down my spine just to remember it; I looked like a Commodore (band member, not the car).

Saw a bad film last night. Actually it was free, (thanks G!) so in that sense it was quite good, Secret Window, or smashed window or something. It starred Johnny Depp and his odd facial hair being chased around the wilderness by John Turturro. Methinks the director had seen the Shining a few too many times. But it was good for the first hour or so.

Anyhow I’d better go and oil up my brain, because if Monday always struggles to catch up, well then Tuesday’s always a winner!
Roll on quiz night…

2004-03-22T12:10:00.000+12:00

And we'll dance 'neath a big paper bell
And everyone will be there
And we'll all wish them well
And all news will be good news from now on
-Joe Henry

The wedding rocked!
It was a lovely day and the Martinborough vineyard was the perfect setting. Great to catch up with some old friends too, as well as the monks, and over 140 others. Yep, it was a big wedding, but a good one.

It kicked off with the ceremony in one vineyard (with a rather OTT celebrant named Pinky) then on to another for the reception. The wine was flowing, the food excellent and the speeches entertaining. I looked pretty dapper too, you’ll be pleased to hear, and my teeth were shining white. Two months in, and this flossing game is still as rewarding as the first time.

But I digress.

I was having a fine time and told the unfortunate guest next to me all about my plans to become a wedding celebrant myself, and write short dissertations on marriage. She was either unimpressed or bored, or more likely both, so instead of speaking through my ass I went to shake it on the dance floor. But in the middle of all the fun I was struck by a wave of emotion and went outside to have a wee cry. A very good friend couldn’t be there with us, and dancing has never quite been the same without him. Mr. Trout you were sadly missed.

Anyhow, some time later we left the wedding and went to someone’s unit for more drinks, and that’s when things started to get a little hazy. Through the mists of drunkenness however I do remember one incident in which I was overpowered by sleepiness and snuck into someone’s room to have a nap. Suddenly there was a knock on the door and the lights came on.
Whaddaya doing mate? This is our room, you’re not allowed in here.
Sorry, I replied and went back to the party.
Some time later, whether it was ten minutes or two hours, I again found myself asleep in this guy’s room
Look mate, I’m not joking, get out of here all right?
Yeah okay. Sorry.
It was not my finest hour, and he was none too chuffed.

Fortunately I was rescued by my good chum Cam who somehow managed to get a sober fireman to drive us home.
I can drive! I said
Better I do this now, than scrape you off the road later, said the fireman.

I must admit I did lose a few hours on Saturday night, but at least one of them was legitimate, it was daylight savings. And so waking up with a mouth that felt like a fireman’s glove I was pleased to have the extra hour in bed to sober up. But before long it was time to head back to Wellington for a post wedding catch up and yum char. Yum.

So thank you Simon and Belinda for a great weekend. Thank you Mr. Fireman for driving us home and thank heaven for little girls.

--------

Odd occurrence of the day:
When I turned on the printer this morning it played a few bars of Beethoven’s 9th Symphony.

2004-03-19T17:17:00.000+13:00

Well you ain't never caught a rabbit
And you ain't no friend of mine
- Elvis Presley

Sorry about last night’s entry. As you may have noticed it was rather late in the evening, and was pretty much the equivalent of Bambi’s mother saying to Thumper, If you can’t say anything nice, then don’t say it at all.

But look at what happened to Bambi’s mother.

I did cook Sarah dinner last night though. Chuck’s Surprise! (for recipe, and serving suggestions, see below). It was ace, if I do say myself, and we had a nice mellow evening shooting the breeze and catching up on the old times.

Speaking of dogs, I seem to have inherited one. Not only do we get family friends staying, now we also seem to be looking after their pets.
Wuckid.
Actually this one’s no trouble, just a little bit odd. For starters it looks more like a horse than a dog. It’s some strange fox terrier breed with a very long face, that I’m sure Mr. Ed had something to with it. It’s very old too, and it makes a terrifying noise like that old grandmother you used to have who’s jaw used to click whenever she smiled. Yikes. Strange personality too, seems a little on edge the whole time. But I had a girlfriend like that once, so perhaps that isn’t so strange after all. And she was better at playing dead.

Woof!
Down boy!

Anyhow I’m leaving the hound for the weekend and heading up country for the monk’s wedding tomorrow. Not doubt it should be a laugh.
Merry weekending everybody.

--------

Chuck’s Surprise!
A sloppy cottage pie that slops everywhere combined lovingly with a salad of tossed greens, tomatoes and avocados drizzled erotically with balsamic vinegar and olive oil and amorously accompanied by three sumptuous broccoli heads.

(to serve two)
Ingredients:
Microwaveable Cottage Pie
Salad in a bag
Broccoli

Instructions:
Heat well, and serve.

2004-03-18T23:26:00.000+13:00

A paper weight, junk garage
Winter rain, a honey pot
Crazy, all the lovers have been tagged.
A hotline, a wanted ad
It's crazy what you could've had
-REM

Don’t read too much into those lyrics, they’ve just sort of been (night)swimming around in my head all day. They hardly make sense, but I quite like the tune.

Bet you're pleased you read this blog today.