:: Wednesday, December 29, 2004

Talk to me


I have an AMPLIFIER in my lounge again. It has been repaired! And because Cedric repaired it so blardy well, it was too much for my poor old speakers and they were breaking up under the strain of simply switching the damn thing on. So I semi-swapped my speakers with Reg for some seriously large muthas more fitting to the output of my Sansui amp.

Finally, after what feels like 6 months, I can once more enshroud myself in the sound of Pink Floyd in the dark and contemplate the answer to Dougie’s big question.

But I am still only 41.

I hadn’t mentioned anything about the earthquake/tsunami that devastated southern Asia 3 days ago and claimed countless lives. I was thinking what I was going to say about a situation that can only really leave one almost speechless.

We live in a country on the Pacific Rim of Fire (no, nothing to do with Pam’s Vindaloo poem, sorry). Once upon a time, there was no open sea to have a rim around it - the earth’s continents were vastly different and clumped together in a place called Gondwanaland.

When Gondwanaland broke up (OK, so it didn’t happen overnight, but it DID happen) there must have been some phenomenal earthquakes, huge standing tsunami waves and an amazing level of violent destruction left in it’s wake, if this weeks twitch in the tectonic plates is anything to go by. I guess people didn’t go to the beach so much 200 - 300 million years ago. Not that there were many people then anyway. No wonder Africa is skinier today, the whole continent had a famine.

Many will weep at this huge loss of human life and ask their Deity why, oh why would a loving Deity murder so many of his children in such a brutal way? The answer is, of course, that it’s nothing to do with [Deity] and everything to do with a 4 billion year old chunk of hot and cold rock doing what hot and cold rocks do every few hundred years - make the earth rock and roll and wash away the evidence.

Just like Mt Vesuvius. Just like the hurricanes of the Carribean and the tornados of Midwestern USA.

So, what makes this perfectly natural public outpouring of grief for the numbers that have died this week greater than it was last year when 50,000 people died in an earthquake in Iran? Is it because this time it’s close to home? Is it because it’s happened in a holiday spot beloved of many Kiwis? Do these factors make it of more relevance to us or is it simply because the media has a greater access to graphic portrayal of the devastation that has ravaged so many people and the ability to feed it into our homes, our lives, our heads?

Man is still holding his own when it comes to destroying himself, though.






:: Tuesday, December 28, 2004

Bad joss


I think it was in terribly poor taste for the one hit wonders of the 60s and 70s not to think ahead to the hassles poor schmuck internet users like me were going to encounter when trying to find out information about them 30 or 40 years down the track.

It should NOT take two Google searches and over 10 pages of results to find the name and country of origin of the vocalist/drummer of the band Jigsaw and their hit record status.

It just shouldn’t. Take note Pam, I’m still looking for the Vindaloo poem. One Google search should have been sufficient.

Anyway, it all came about cos I was making some cd’s for my mate Jamie to take up at New Years and I was playing the video of Jigsaw and thinking “Fuck me, that drummer was blardy gorjus” and wondered for a few minutes just who it was I was ogling and wondering why, for the millionth time, why the Hell I was born at the wrong time.

Anyway, Jamie and his wife are luffly, kind and considerate people so I thought I would make him some cds. I hope he pays me well for that glowing recommendation.

Inconsiderate people piss me off.

There was this bloody woman at the supermarket today. Geez, talk about a stupid, inconsiderate and ignorant. She parked her trolley in such a way that there was no getting past her without a bit of barging. Now, I don’t usually barge anywhere, not physically, but I made an exception today and the brainless cow had the cheek to tell me to be be careful..

I used restraint. I told her to pull her head in.

I don’t usually go for road rage or aisle anger, but I think having to physically intercede between a parked flash 4x4 vehicle and a fast moving shopping trolley shoved across the parking area to me by my son on the way in sort of set the tempo for the entire drag around the store.

I’ve gone right off children.

Point to Ponder: Diplomacy is the art of telling someone where to go in such a way that they look forward to the trip.






:: Monday, December 27, 2004

Mind the paint


If you took every single colour and laid them all one on top of the other, do you know what colour you would get?

Me either. But I think this is something I used to know and it’s been lost in the myelin-munching maelstrom. Anyway, whatever the colour I’m sure I would look very sexy in it, especially in leather and 45 kilos lighter. Ahhhh, what alter egos we can conjure up to people our world with when the real world all has a busy signal. Just Me and my Evil Twin.

What do you mean, you thought I was the Evil Twin?

Colour is a subjective thing. It’s also very powerful and very clever. And it’s really bloody complicated.


But some colours are just too different to put together.

Once upon a time, I dreamt in colour and I recorded life in little snippets of relivable video and candid portraits of depth and vibrancy. Pictures in the third person. Now the archives have lost most of the videos and the pictures got left out in the rain. That really pisses me off.

Irish for Idiots.
Disparate:
1. Fundamentally distinct or different in kind; entirely dissimilar
2. Containing or composed of dissimilar or opposing elements

Disparaty is the polarity factor, isn’t it? It’s each side of that point where East meets West, North meets South. Good meets Bad, Happy meets Sad and maybe even Life meets Death. So what does that make that one little point where all things start batting for the other team? Is it Everything? Or is it Nothing?

Because everthing is something. Even if it’s nothing and knowing who and what you are is everything.

Finding that one point is like breaking Time down into its smallest, most infintessimal piece (which is, by the way, a planck). Ants are to elephants what plancks are to hours.

Methinks that would be some scary shit to contemplate if one were stoned.

I scraped all Colin’s signwriting off my car yesterday. It was my Christmas present to myself.

The freedom to be disparate.

“Have you been half asleep? And have you heard voices?
I’ve heard them calling my name.
Is this the sweet sound that calls the young sailors?
The voice might be one and the same
I’ve heard it too many times to ignore it
It’s something that I’m s’posed to be…
Someday we’ll find it, the rainbow connection,
The lovers, the dreamers, and me.”
Kermit the Frog
25/12/2004






:: Saturday, December 25, 2004

Ho Ho Ho




I already got my Christmas present - a face full of zits. Bah, Humbug.

No-one said it quite like Pam Ayres and I shamelessly publish her poetry here without any form of permission.

Seriously Pam, when you read this, please take note that it’s bloody hard finding your stuff on the net. I’m still looking for the Vindaloo one.

Goodwill To Men. Give Us Your Money
It was Christmas Eve on a Friday
The shops was full of cheer,
With tinsel in the windows,
And presents twice as dear.
A thousand Father Christmases,
Sat in their little huts,
And folk was buying crackers
And folk was buying nuts.

All up and down the country,
Before the light was snuffed,
Turkeys they get murdered,
And cockerels they got stuffed,
Christmas cakes got marzipanned,
And puddin’s they got steamed
Mothers they got desperate
And tired kiddies screamed.

Hundredweight’s of Christmas cards,
Went flying through the post,
With first class postage stamps on those,
You had to flatter most.
Within a million kitchens,
Mince pies was being made,
On everyone’s radio,
“White Christmas", it was played.

Out in the frozen countryside
Men crept round on their own,
Hacking off the holly,
What other folks had grown,
Mistletoe on willow trees,
Was by a man wrenched clear,
So he could kiss his neighbour’s wife,
He’d fancied all the year.

And out upon the hillside,
Where the Christmas trees had stood,
All was completely barren,
But for little stumps of wood,
The little trees that flourished
All the year were there no more,
But in a million houses,
Dropped their needles on the floor.

And out of every cranny, cupboard,
Hiding place and nook,
Little bikes and kiddies’ trikes,
Were secretively took,
Yards of wrapping paper,
Was rustled round about,
And bikes were wheeled to bedrooms,
With the pedals sticking out.

Rolled up in Christmas paper
The Action Men were tensed,
All ready for the morning,
When their fighting life commenced,
With tommy guns and daggers,
All clustered round about,
“Peace on Earth - Goodwill to Men”
The figures seemed to shout.

The church was standing empty,
The pub was standing packed,
There came a yell, “Noel, Noel!”
And glasses they got cracked.
From up above the fireplace,
Christmas cards began to fall,
And trodden on the floor, said:
“Merry Christmas, to you all.”






:: Thursday, December 23, 2004

Realicecreamier


Have you ever eaten radishes dipped in sour cream? I have, just a minute ago in fact, at 2.15 in the morning. It goes really nice with lettuce. Not only does it look and sound better, I’m sure it tastes better than what Merlin just provided on the hallway floor. Minus it’s head, of course. Yeah. Rat. He is punishing me again, the hard and cold monster who refuses to pander to his wish for feline exclusivity within the household; the sole governance of his Realm.

He is pissed with the puppies, the disrespectful little shites that they are. No longer can he procrastinate and pontificate over the shared meal bowl whilst the dog waits anxiously for him to finish; now the Terrible Twins are shoving his Royal Self out of the way and scoffing the tucker. Then they go to bed. On HIS bed. They follow him around the house, barricade his way and threaten him with evil doggy insults, like sniffing his butt, pawing his face, demanding he play with them. Ugghhhhh.

Dis - gusting.

Almsot as disgusting as a decapitated rodent on the back hallway carpet. And a shitty red cat dragging the rest of it around the house. Now I’ve disposed of said vermin and flushed its head to rest and Merlin hates me as well.

Once more he has me confused with that human that gives a shit. Just like everybody else, really.

Anyway, immediately prior to the crunching of rat bones disturbing me, I was lying in bed counting puppy snores, tracking the progress of the Invisible Man who was stubbing cigarettes out on my leg and thinking “I wish I had a big bowl of vanilla icecream". OK, so Im a bit into the munchies right now, but I don’t habitually eat food, let alone eat ice cream.

I don’t think Ive had one in months. Or an ice cream for that matter.

Anyway, its almost New Years, the year is almost dead and gone and I am going to break last year’s New Year’s Resolution not to make any New Year’s Resolutions and make some New Year’s Resolutions for next week. I think that better be one of my New Year’s Resolutions - to eat more ice cream. I got some major decisions about my life to sort out, too. Like how to lighten the load of emotional responsibility and what to have for dinner.

Tough stuff always goes better with ice cream, don’t you think?

PS. Counting puppy snores is about as useful as incrementing the oves when it comes to putting out the invisible cigarettes. And they say you shouldn’t smoke in bed… WTF do they know, hmmm?

The Terrible Twins:






:: Monday, December 20, 2004

New cat on the block


We adopted a new cat last week, did I tell you?

Her name is Lupe (Loopy) but we are trying to change it to Lulu without causing undue trauma.

This is Lulu

Loopy, Lupe Lulu

She’s already told Merlin where to go and how to get there in 5 different dialects. He might be King of his Realm, but she is Goddess of all She Surveys.

A Modern day Bast, forsooth.

Those Egyptians were cool, huh. They didn’t let little things like fraternity stop them getting their gears off together, and what riches and power they begat whilst doing it! Hell, any one of them could call himself a God and to all intents and purposes be right.

I was going to fill this spot with a funny joke or quote about camels and dates, but I can’t be bothered finding one.

Maybe next time.






:: Sunday, December 12, 2004

In the garden of good and evil


Gardeners are Nature Lovers. They should not be confused with Naturists. Naturists like to get their gears off, Nature Lovers just like things to do with Nature.

Now, that is not to say that being a Naturist isn’t, well, Natural, it’s just not something commonly practiced by your common or, um, garden Nature Lover.

Are you confused yet? Good, cos I’m not quite done yet.

Some people like to make love in the garden. I know these people - one of them is probably reading this right now. They are a whole different kind of Nature Lover and should not be confused with the other type. You don’t have to have sex in the garden to be a Nature Lover (but it helps).

People’s gardens are usually a reflection of themselves - nice neat, manicured, expensive gardens filled with high maintenance, labour intensive artfully planted flora, and a garden shed or garage just brimming with gadgets and tools for executing the aforesaid maintenance. Gardens belonging to these people are too scared to grow a weed, but they are inclined to “allow” stray tree roots to disrupt little things like immaculate paving. It’s easier to rip out groundcover and replace with weedmat than it is to cut down a 30 foot high tree.

No shit.

There are gardens that have a variety of textures and colours with style and placement giving way to ease of maintenance and hours required to maintain a tidy status quo. These gardens aren’t scared to grow weeds, they just draw the line at actually overwhemling their closest and weakest neighbours. It’s survival of the fittest - and the fastest growing.

“Feed me, Seymour”

Then there are the gardens where weeds flourish happily amongst last years reseeded annuals and assorted hardy perennials that managed to get a roothold. These gardens aren’t scared of anything but pruners, a fork and trowel. Not the $2 Shop ones, though. They aren’t scary at all.

Then there is MY garden… well, that’s what I think it used to be, but I’m not 100% sure.

My garden is the place where plants are too scared to even try to poke their heads up. They live in fear of the grasses; they cower in mortification at the convolvulous and they quake with terror at the sight of Adam walking past pushing the mower or carrying the weedeater.

Not that they see THAT very often, I might add.

So, people tend to have gardens that reflect their lives, really. Tidy, organised, casual or informal or a mirror image of a brain that can’t cope, completely disorganised with little to break the monotony of 3 foot hight grass everywhere. People put things in their gardens that aren�t so Natural, just to put their own, unique stamp of authenticity on their creation. Some people put swings and toys, for big people and little people. Some use paving and edging to define the corners of their gardens, the rooms in their brains. Some like to add traditional or contemporary statuary; others go for water features and windmills.

And then there are those who really like to combine the whole farking lot in one… or very nearly so.

The true Nature Lover’s Water Feature - it’s 63cm tall, er long…



And nothing shouts “class” like a 2 foot high concrete cock and balls spurting liquid out the end.

Does it?

Something for me to perch upon, at your next barbeque :-)






:: Saturday, December 11, 2004

Mail bag


The real story of good and evil

In the beginning, God covered the earth with broccoli, cauliflower and spinach combined with an abundance of green, yellow and red vegetables. He did this so that Man and Woman would live long and healthy lives.

Then, using God’s bountiful gifts, Satan created Dairy Whip and Peter’s Ice Cream. And Satan said: “You want hot fudge with that?” And Man said “Yes!” And Woman said: “I’ll have one too . . . with sprinkles.” And lo and behold they gained 10 pounds.

And so God created the healthful yoghurt that Woman might keep the figure that Man found so fair.

And Satan brought forth white flour from the wheat, and sugar from the cane, and combined them. And Woman went from size 2 to size 14.

So God said: “Try my fresh green garden salad.”

And Satan presented crumbled Blue Cheese dressing and garlic toast on the side. And Man and Woman unfastened their belts following the repast.

God then said: “I have sent you heart-healthy vegetables and olive oil in which to cook them.”

And Satan brought forth deep-fried squid rings, chips’n'dip, and a fabulous butter chicken so big it needed its own platter. And Man’s cholesterol went through the roof.

Then God brought forth the potato, naturally low in fat and brimming with potassium and good nutrition.

So Satan peeled off the healthful skin, sliced the starchy centre into chips and deep-fried them in animal fats adding copious amounts of salt and tomato sauce. And Man packed on more pounds.

God then brought forth running shoes so that his children might lose those extra pounds.

And Satan introduced cable TV with remote control so Man would not have to toil changing the channels. And Man and Woman laughed and cried before the flickering light and started wearing Warehouse tracksuits.

God then gave lean beef and lamb so that Man might consume fewer calories and still satisfy his appetite.

And Satan created McDonald’s and the $1.95 double cheeseburger. Then Satan said: “You want fries with that?” And Man replied: “Yes! And super size them!” And Satan said “It is good.” And Man and Woman went into cardiac arrest after their softserve icecream.

God sighed . . . and created quadruple by-pass surgery.

Satan chuckled and created The Public Health System….

Now, don’t you feel so much better for having read that?

Overheard in conversation: “My wife is so frigid that when she opens her legs a light comes on.”






:: Thursday, December 09, 2004

Postively orgasmic


This is an oldie but a goodie:

A man and a woman are sitting beside each other in the first class section of the plane. The woman sneezes, takes a tissue, gently wipes her nose, and shudders quite violently in her seat.

The man isn’t sure why she is shuddering and goes back to reading.

A few minutes pass. The woman sneezes again. She takes a tissue, gently wipes her nose and shudders quite violently in her seat.

The man is becoming more and more curious about the shuddering.

A few more minutes pass. The woman sneezes yet again. She takes a tissue, gently wipes her nose and shudders violently again.

The man has finally had all he can handle. He turns to the woman and says, “Three times you’ve sneezed and three times you’ve taken a tissue and wiped your nose then shuddered violently! Are you sending me signals, or are you going crazy?”

The woman replies, “I’m sorry if I disturbed you. I have a rare condition and when I sneeze, I have an orgasm.”

The man, now feeling a little embarrassed but even more curious says, “I’ve never heard of that before. What are you taking for it?”

The woman looks at him and says, “Pepper.”

If the legends are to be believed, this poor woman could have just as easily been on Prozac (and other SSRIs including Paxil) as have a strange disease. She would still have needed the pepper, though.

Now I don’t know about you, but I don’t really find I get off on sneezing, you know? In fact, I mentioned this little known fact about sneezing and a “prozac” orgasmic response to MY doc when I heard about it and he laughed when I complained that it wasn’t fair that I never got any of the good side effects :-(

So, anyway, I came across this wee site here today. It’s really interesting. It’s about the “Orgasmatron", a device which doesn’t give women orgasms, it just gets the body to a pre-orgasmic state ready to have an orgasm when the right conditions apply.

I guess that’s any time she has a pulse, if she is at all normal. You would have to be pretty fucking ABnormal (’scuse the pun) not to want to have sex. Wouldn’t you?

Anyway, if you are concerned at how long you have left to have your orgasms, check out the DeathClock. I’d hate you to run out of time or anything.

BRB, just gotta go put the batteries on charge…






:: Wednesday, December 08, 2004

The stolen go-kart returneth


and Adam’s cup runneth over. Well, it will do when the polis can find time to drop it off.

Now I can go back to being a mother fretting over what her child is actually doing instead of being upset for him that he can’t do it at all.

You really can’t win, hmmm?

:-D






:: Tuesday, December 07, 2004

WeBlog, we blog


How many of you actually take my blog seriously?

Oh, more than I thought.

The word “blog” sounds silly to my ear - it always did. But the concept it represented of a freedom to disseminate information at the individual’s rate, in the individual’s style, in the indivual’s own voice was something that had always interested me in a collective sense. I liked the concept of mass communicating (as opposed to mass debating). Cobwebs, tentatively reaching out and touching random people in random ways and to do it in real time and yet for posterity as well. Instead of writing books that can never be published and never experienced, blogging allows each and every person the chance to be heard by someone in passing, anywhere around the Village. And that’s kind of nice, isn’t it?

Everyone needs to be heard somehow.

And we obviously are, to some extent. You’re here, aren’t you? Want to see who else reads a blog?
About.com reports:

60% are males and 40% are females
61% have a total income of more than $60,000 per year
54% uses dial-up Internet connection and 46% uses broadband
73% have been online for more than 5 years.

How’s that pigeonhole, folks? Nice and comfy?

So, if you have ever wondered how I came to be writing this for you to be reading (don’t be shy, I can see you), follow this LINK and you can read in depth about the history of blogging and where it came from.

To find out what makes us tick, you can visit this LINK to a blog by a guy who asked bloggers why they blog. It was so thorough, I felt I had to add it to my blog.

And if you want to know what is making you come here and read this shit, click on this LINK and type in “why am I here".

Enjoy.






:: Monday, December 06, 2004

Intrigue


I haven’t done a painting for a wee while now, and this one popped into my head last night. It is also included in the book my Mum bought me many years ago that I mentioned earlier.

It’s called “Mr and Mrs Clark and Percy”
by David Hockney.


The full size version is here

I have no idea what fascinates me about this one - it’s contemporary, it’s acrylic, it’s not particularly lifelike… I just like it for some reason.

I know, it’s probably the decadence and affluence implied by the shagpile carpet.

The shallow bitch wins again :-)






:: Sunday, December 05, 2004

It’s classified


Everyone wants a label. Everyone wants to be able to give/apply a label.

Labels make understanding things so much easier. Using labels, we can categorise, compartmentalise, classify, define.

Definition brings delineation.

Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes made of ticky-tacky,
Little boxes, little boxes,
Little boxes, all the same.
There’s a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one
And they’re all made out of ticky-tacky
And they all look just the same.
Malvina Reynolds

Remember this from your childhood? Yeah, me too. Need more drugs I think.

All our lives are spent living in boxes. There is the box that is our bedroom, inside the box that is our house. Those boxes are physical ones, but most of our boxes aren’t. There’s the box that contains our race, our gender status, our age. These are things we cannot change - they are the pre-programmed boxes. But there are others we end up clambering in and out of as we trundle along the track - our profession, our marital status, our parental status, our weight, our appearance, our experience, our intelligence, our qualifications, our geographical location.

We are pigeonholed, work in cubbyholes, hide in foxholes. Why are so many of our boxes called a hole? We all inhabit the boxes and wear the labels, in everything we do and everything we are. Even those who try to be box-less by shunning convention and living homeless still carry a label.

So my label (the short version) of “short, obese, middle aged, divorced, tertiary educated, Caucasian, partially disabled mother of two living in New Zealand” has already spread me across 10 separately labelled boxes and hasn’t even begun to describe the person I am, tell about who I am.

All those little boxes, all of them just the same.

Useless.

There is only One box we really need to be in - the box that says “Human".






:: Saturday, December 04, 2004
The winners are out for the best websites in 2004, as voted by the users.

And guess who won the best blog! Go on, bet you can’t guess!

bizgirl. Yes, bizgirl!

Actually, I hadn’t heard of her either. Which is not surprising, because “she” is actually a “he". This ordinary married guy, who chooses to remain nameless, has concocted this whole fictional life as a 26 year old Libran Librarian named Natalie with a boss called Mrs Darjeeling.

I am suitably impressed.

It seems that all is not as it seems, on the Internet.






:: Friday, December 03, 2004

Verbal diarrhoea


Proof positive that my fingers dribble a lot of shit…

My blogger stats for all of my blogs since I started. Not including this one.



39,000 words.

We are making history one day at a time. What did you make today?






:: Wednesday, December 01, 2004

On the eve of destruction


Yesterday was the last day of November.

It was also the end of a long and very self-serving period of self-denial.

Tomorrow will be my birthday. But yesterday was the beginning of my deathday. I just don’t feel the same any more. Insistent, persistent limitations and expectations have shown some new truths. I have plenty to think about.

Anyway, I figured that a new year was cause for a more detailed and personal diary, one to keep on my computer, not one to share with the world (you know, stuff they really would order my huggy-jacket for). So, I’ve been trawling the freeware sites and downloading stuff to play with and I gotta say, there are some seriously UGLY pieces of software lurking in rubbish bins across the internet. Some are so awful, they are offensive.

OK, I know that everyone is a critic, but knowing how to write some code and being able to make it look good are NOT the same thing. At all.

Whereas, we all know what wonderful visual talents I possess, don’t we, hmmm?

:-D