Growing old means consequences.
I’m finding that out.
Warning: What follows is graphic and falls squarely in the bounds of “too much information”. So, read it at your own risk.
You’ve no doubt heard me rave on about how wonderful New Zealand is. It’s true. But it’s also not safe in other areas. Specifically, we lead the world in campylobacter infection rates. That is, food poisoning.
So at a young age we are taught to cook chicken and pork thoroughly before eating. I do. I promise.
But about two weeks ago I bought some raw chicken kebabs, and in my drunken state I didn’t quite cook them enough.
Drunken logic: Yum, this chicken tastes so good. It’s very tender though. Really quite tender. Hmmm… it was frozen, maybe it needed more than 10 minutes per side to cook through? Never mind, I’ll drink spirits; the alcohol level in my blood will rise to new levels of toxicity and kill any nasty bacteria that might be circulating.
How was I to know that campylobacter was alcoholic? It has a higher tolerance to alcohol than the Sun has tolerance for heat.
When I was younger and this sort of thing happened, I would have a shocking couple of hours on the toilet and then it’d be all over. All done. Be careful and don’t let it happen again; at least for a few years.
No longer, it seems.
Monday was the calm before the storm. I thought back hungoverly to the weekend and honestly believed I’d gotten away with it. Ha!
Tuesday morning at work the urge hit me. I felt the first contractions. Like there was a riot happening in a football stadium that had only one door. I snuck off to the work toilets and let loose the dogs of war.
I swear, I was hanging on to the seat to avoid lift-off. Sweat was pouring off me and I was gasping like I was in labour and had just run a half-marathon in record time.
Finally, the riot subsides. I wash everything thoroughly and crawl out of the toilets; drag my lifeless body to my desk and drink three gallons of water to replace the fluids which had so violently departed my body.
I do about half-an-hour’s work and suddenly the bowel’s fire alarm goes again. Everybody out. And so it continues in the “never trust a fart” theme, until I’m absolutely exhausted and scared to stand up in case the convicts make a break for it.
And it stops.
I breathe a heavy sigh of relief and go back to life. Sensible, non-bacterial food with lots of fibre to slow things down. Cheese is always good to put the bowel brakes on, too.
So the weekend rolls around and I’m all happy again. Except no. You see the constant rush of excitement down there annoyed the exit area quite a lot. Enough for it to protest with the generation of a swollen vein, known simply by the term: "The h-word".
Now, as a rule, swollen veins in that general area are good – if you’re a bloke. But that is, as a rule, at the front of the equation. Swollen veins at the rear of the equation are just a pain in the ass.
So I drink my way through the pain over the weekend and apply large amounts of appropriate cream. (Since this process started, I’ve gone through half a jar of anti-bacterial hand-cleaner as well). By Monday the tail-end Viagra episode has settled to tolerable levels.
Then said vein bursts. And there is nothing quite like the first time in your life when you find blood pouring from the rear exit. And you’re checking all your clothing in case there’s some tell-tale seepage/splash-back deal going on.
Then what to do? I mean, it’s not like you can bung a Band Aid up there! Do you keep working? Do you hide your head in shame? How do you tell your boss you're sitting like that because of 'rhoid rage?
I guess it’s just a case of visiting the pharmacy, asking for some more appropriate cream, and sitting very carefully for a while.
Why have I written all this? Well, partly to get it off my chest. Or at least to get it out of me in some way other than the most recent popular port of departure. And partly because some people get enjoyment out of others’ misfortune. If you're one of them, I think I just made your day.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Sunday, October 18, 2009
I Don't Mean to Be Invictus, er, Vindictive
Dear Clint Eastwood
Please don’t fuck us over. Truly, the ego of a nation is sweating in your palms.
I have long been a fan of your movies, both the ones you’ve acted in and directed. When I was growing up, you were The Man. No one threw a Hollywood punch like you, or managed to not look like a complete and utter dick despite having an orang-utan hanging off your neck.
I have long been a fan of your movies, both the ones you’ve acted in and directed. When I was growing up, you were The Man. No one threw a Hollywood punch like you, or managed to not look like a complete and utter dick despite having an orang-utan hanging off your neck.
In recent years you've turned more to directing, and have turned out some classics.
Now you are about to release Invictus – the story of how Nelson Mandela pulled South Africa together for the 1995 Rugby World Cup. How the love of the sport united the country, how they beat the odds and overcame the previously all-conquering All Blacks in the final to win the Webb Ellis Trophy for the first time.
I’m just going to detour here and explain a few things about the average New Zealander. We are relatively isolated and live on a small group of spectacularly beautiful islands that have pretty much been thrust into existence by tectonic plates. We like people from other countries, provided they like us in return. But the “like” is a default setting. We like everyone until they give us reason not to. And, oh my god, we have a sense of fair play. We strongly stand up for the underdog because, more often than not, the underdog is us. We’re kind of the little tough kid on the block who will stand up against the bully, just for the sake of it, and get a few solid blows in before he kicks the shit out of us.
Politically, we’ve gone toe-to-toe with the United States over all things nuclear, and France over their policy of nuking half the South Pacific just to see if their bombs worked. Militarily we’ve shipped off to the Crimean and Boer wars, First World War, Second World War (where Kiwi Charles Upham became the first combat soldier ever to earn the Victoria Cross and bar); we’ve had troops in Korea and Vietnam, and even sent our elite SAS to Afghanistan (where they had a 100% success rate on missions and earned a US Navy Presidential Unit Citation for “extraordinary heroism in action”).
So we’re a fiercely proud wee nation. And all we, and Aretha, are asking for is a little r-e-s-p-e-c-t. And if we don’t get it, that’s OK, too. Just please don’t be mean about it. Because pissed off Kiwis aren’t a pretty sight.
Which brings me back to Invictus. Rugby is almost a religion in New Zealand. It’s a great mix of politics and violence, and the All Blacks are the only team to have a winning record against all other countries.
South Africans, though, are almost as passionate about their rugby. In the 1995 Rugby World Cup the South African team beat the All Blacks. Well done. They did play well.
Now, New Zealanders all start muttering here. Because a couple of days before the final a handful of the Kiwi players snuck out of the hotel and went to McDonald’s for dinner. Now the irony does not escape us here; but these players woke up the next day all fit and feeling fine. The rest of the team, however, were all ill. Post-World Cup investigations revealed that what the rest of the rugby world was calling “sour grapes” was actually “poisoned coffee”.
The inability to provide clear and solid proof about this meant we, as a nation, just had to suck it up and move on. But it’s still a sensitive subject. Which is why I’m begging you, Mr Eastwood, to be tactful when dealing with this whole situation.
We’re trusting you to give the world a clear and accurate story. But you represent Hollywood. And Hollywood has a history of putting “based on a true story” at the start of a film and then just pulling the story and characters out its arse.
All we’re asking, Mr Eastwood, is please, please, please: Keep your arse closed and tell it like it was.
Now you are about to release Invictus – the story of how Nelson Mandela pulled South Africa together for the 1995 Rugby World Cup. How the love of the sport united the country, how they beat the odds and overcame the previously all-conquering All Blacks in the final to win the Webb Ellis Trophy for the first time.
I’m just going to detour here and explain a few things about the average New Zealander. We are relatively isolated and live on a small group of spectacularly beautiful islands that have pretty much been thrust into existence by tectonic plates. We like people from other countries, provided they like us in return. But the “like” is a default setting. We like everyone until they give us reason not to. And, oh my god, we have a sense of fair play. We strongly stand up for the underdog because, more often than not, the underdog is us. We’re kind of the little tough kid on the block who will stand up against the bully, just for the sake of it, and get a few solid blows in before he kicks the shit out of us.
Politically, we’ve gone toe-to-toe with the United States over all things nuclear, and France over their policy of nuking half the South Pacific just to see if their bombs worked. Militarily we’ve shipped off to the Crimean and Boer wars, First World War, Second World War (where Kiwi Charles Upham became the first combat soldier ever to earn the Victoria Cross and bar); we’ve had troops in Korea and Vietnam, and even sent our elite SAS to Afghanistan (where they had a 100% success rate on missions and earned a US Navy Presidential Unit Citation for “extraordinary heroism in action”).
So we’re a fiercely proud wee nation. And all we, and Aretha, are asking for is a little r-e-s-p-e-c-t. And if we don’t get it, that’s OK, too. Just please don’t be mean about it. Because pissed off Kiwis aren’t a pretty sight.
Which brings me back to Invictus. Rugby is almost a religion in New Zealand. It’s a great mix of politics and violence, and the All Blacks are the only team to have a winning record against all other countries.
South Africans, though, are almost as passionate about their rugby. In the 1995 Rugby World Cup the South African team beat the All Blacks. Well done. They did play well.
Now, New Zealanders all start muttering here. Because a couple of days before the final a handful of the Kiwi players snuck out of the hotel and went to McDonald’s for dinner. Now the irony does not escape us here; but these players woke up the next day all fit and feeling fine. The rest of the team, however, were all ill. Post-World Cup investigations revealed that what the rest of the rugby world was calling “sour grapes” was actually “poisoned coffee”.
The inability to provide clear and solid proof about this meant we, as a nation, just had to suck it up and move on. But it’s still a sensitive subject. Which is why I’m begging you, Mr Eastwood, to be tactful when dealing with this whole situation.
We’re trusting you to give the world a clear and accurate story. But you represent Hollywood. And Hollywood has a history of putting “based on a true story” at the start of a film and then just pulling the story and characters out its arse.
All we’re asking, Mr Eastwood, is please, please, please: Keep your arse closed and tell it like it was.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Speed Kills ... Kangaroos
I don’t mean to be critical of Australians. Honestly. I mean, it is a national pastime for New Zealanders to be critical of Australians, but I try not to be. I’ve been there. It’s a great place. The people almost speak English and only 90 percent of the wildlife tries to kill you.
Yes, the Aussies are crazy. But then, New Zealanders invented bungy jumping and the jet boat, put the first bloke on the top of Mt Everest and split the atom to eventually enable global thermonuclear warfare. We even had an early pioneer in flight, who arguably flew before the Wright Brothers (though all evidence of said flight was sadly lost in time). So really we are in no position to judge crazy, y’know?
But I digress.
One of the fun events in Australia each year is the V8 Supercars racing around the Mt Panorama circuit at Bathurst, New South Wales. It’s great – high powered saloon cars roaring around and around and around…
For any American readers: It’s kind of like NASCAR except (get this!) there’s bends that go both left AND right. And up and down bits. Often both at the same time!
Anyway, at a recent event the cars were roaring around when suddenly a kangaroo jumps from among the trees, over a barrier and out onto the road. A car swerves to miss it and then carries on its merry way. The kangaroo, undamaged, is nevertheless going: “What the fuck was that???” Interestingly, the car’s driver was simultaneously thinking exactly the same thing.
I don’t know the kangaroo’s fate on the day. But I do know that after consideration of the incident the Australian solution was this: Let’s shoot all the kangaroos in the area so this sort of thing doesn’t happen again.
This is despite the logical few suggesting: “Why don’t we just put up big fences?”
They have been car racing at Bathurst since, I don’t know, at least the 1960s. Forty years later one kangaroo jumps on the track during a race, and suddenly ALL the kangaroos in the area are doomed.
My solution is a compromise: The kangaroos should be incorporated into the race as a points bonus for the drivers.
“And Williams is coming off the mountain in first place. He’s got a five second lead on Murray, but only two roos to his tally. Murray, with seven roo carcasses to his name, could still take this race out…”
Or, if you’re more humanitarian, points could be deducted for hitting a kangaroo.
All I’m saying is that Australia has been given this natural gift of giant, bouncy marsupials. They should make the most of it.
In case you think I'm joking: Read about it here.
Addendum
So, I went looking for the specific clip on youtube (it's here), and what do you know, there's like 50 different clips of kangaroos hopping alongside V8s at Bathurst. Maybe they do just want to get in on the game.
Yes, the Aussies are crazy. But then, New Zealanders invented bungy jumping and the jet boat, put the first bloke on the top of Mt Everest and split the atom to eventually enable global thermonuclear warfare. We even had an early pioneer in flight, who arguably flew before the Wright Brothers (though all evidence of said flight was sadly lost in time). So really we are in no position to judge crazy, y’know?
But I digress.
One of the fun events in Australia each year is the V8 Supercars racing around the Mt Panorama circuit at Bathurst, New South Wales. It’s great – high powered saloon cars roaring around and around and around…
For any American readers: It’s kind of like NASCAR except (get this!) there’s bends that go both left AND right. And up and down bits. Often both at the same time!
Anyway, at a recent event the cars were roaring around when suddenly a kangaroo jumps from among the trees, over a barrier and out onto the road. A car swerves to miss it and then carries on its merry way. The kangaroo, undamaged, is nevertheless going: “What the fuck was that???” Interestingly, the car’s driver was simultaneously thinking exactly the same thing.I don’t know the kangaroo’s fate on the day. But I do know that after consideration of the incident the Australian solution was this: Let’s shoot all the kangaroos in the area so this sort of thing doesn’t happen again.
This is despite the logical few suggesting: “Why don’t we just put up big fences?”
They have been car racing at Bathurst since, I don’t know, at least the 1960s. Forty years later one kangaroo jumps on the track during a race, and suddenly ALL the kangaroos in the area are doomed.
My solution is a compromise: The kangaroos should be incorporated into the race as a points bonus for the drivers.
“And Williams is coming off the mountain in first place. He’s got a five second lead on Murray, but only two roos to his tally. Murray, with seven roo carcasses to his name, could still take this race out…”
Or, if you’re more humanitarian, points could be deducted for hitting a kangaroo.
All I’m saying is that Australia has been given this natural gift of giant, bouncy marsupials. They should make the most of it.
In case you think I'm joking: Read about it here.
Addendum
So, I went looking for the specific clip on youtube (it's here), and what do you know, there's like 50 different clips of kangaroos hopping alongside V8s at Bathurst. Maybe they do just want to get in on the game.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
It's A Global Conspiracy!
It was a momentous moment in my life this week.
After three years without any sort of VCR, I finally purchased an HDD DVD recorder. It’s awesome.
I use a cable service offered by TelstraClear, which broadcasts all the channels offered by digital satellite service, SkyTV. The signal’s pretty good, and the set-top box breaks down about as often as the old Sky box did.
I couldn’t get Sky at my new location, primarily because I don’t own the house and would have no right to install a satellite dish there (the landlords live in the same building, so I couldn’t even do it sneakily).
Sky introduced a Tivo-like service called MySky. It was much hyped; a box-top set that let you watch one channel while taping up to three (or four?) others – and all in high definition. Not to be outdone, TelstraClear announced it would be introducing a similar service. In July. 2008.
I was excited and keenly watched the months tick down. And as we went into September 2008 I was starting to get puzzled. But I held out. I think I saw a story about two months ago that said TelstraClear had finally decided what sort of set-top box it would introduce.
Eventually I gave up and took matters into my own hands. I was in the electronics store anyway, so thought: “Why not put a DVD recorder on hock while I’m here?”
Now I’ve got a year of “interest free easy payments” to look forward to. But at least I can suffer through it easier now with a cool new Panasonic HDD DVD recorder. Murphy’s Law now dictates that TelstraClear will introduce its new Tivo-like service sometime next week.
Anyway; my point, and I do have one, even though I’ve wandered like several hundred miles from it; was that the new HDD DVD recorder taught me something interesting about the whole electronics industry.
I’ve got a 32-inch Acer LCD TV that’s about two years old. The new DVD recorder remote has a function on it which allows you to turn the TV on and off, and change channel and fiddle with the volume. The manual came with a list of brands catered for, and a two-digit number to get the remote to work on said brand.
Acer was not listed.
Which left me puzzling; who do I call about this: The Acer people to find out what their TV code was, or the Panasonic people to find out why Acer TVs weren’t listed?
I chose the latter, and called the “customer care” line in Auckland. It was a toll call, but was answered (get this) by AN ACTUAL PERSON! A friendly guy named Graham.
I explained the situation, and Graham gave me this amazing revelation: Apparently, various technology companies around the world make and sell TVs for OTHER technology companies around the world.
Like, your new Panasonic could have been made by Goldstar for SONY in a deal with the electronics branch of McDonald’s and Rodney’s Chicken Shack in Waimate.
Graham suggested I find out through process of elimination. It was only a two-digit number, after all. So I went home and typed in codes up to 36 where it finally worked.
With this information in hand, I then went back to the DVD manual figuring that, logically, the code number would tell me which company manufactured my TV. This revealed unto me that my Acer LCD was made either by NEC or AIWA.
I now have absolutely no idea what to do with this information, other than to blog about it and let people who previously read this blog expecting entertainment to go: “Huh, he’s really losing it.”
Yes, this is true, but I’m losing it with a Panasonic HDD DVD recorder. So: Ha!
After three years without any sort of VCR, I finally purchased an HDD DVD recorder. It’s awesome.
I use a cable service offered by TelstraClear, which broadcasts all the channels offered by digital satellite service, SkyTV. The signal’s pretty good, and the set-top box breaks down about as often as the old Sky box did.
I couldn’t get Sky at my new location, primarily because I don’t own the house and would have no right to install a satellite dish there (the landlords live in the same building, so I couldn’t even do it sneakily).
Sky introduced a Tivo-like service called MySky. It was much hyped; a box-top set that let you watch one channel while taping up to three (or four?) others – and all in high definition. Not to be outdone, TelstraClear announced it would be introducing a similar service. In July. 2008.
I was excited and keenly watched the months tick down. And as we went into September 2008 I was starting to get puzzled. But I held out. I think I saw a story about two months ago that said TelstraClear had finally decided what sort of set-top box it would introduce.
Eventually I gave up and took matters into my own hands. I was in the electronics store anyway, so thought: “Why not put a DVD recorder on hock while I’m here?”
Now I’ve got a year of “interest free easy payments” to look forward to. But at least I can suffer through it easier now with a cool new Panasonic HDD DVD recorder. Murphy’s Law now dictates that TelstraClear will introduce its new Tivo-like service sometime next week.
Anyway; my point, and I do have one, even though I’ve wandered like several hundred miles from it; was that the new HDD DVD recorder taught me something interesting about the whole electronics industry.
I’ve got a 32-inch Acer LCD TV that’s about two years old. The new DVD recorder remote has a function on it which allows you to turn the TV on and off, and change channel and fiddle with the volume. The manual came with a list of brands catered for, and a two-digit number to get the remote to work on said brand.
Acer was not listed.
Which left me puzzling; who do I call about this: The Acer people to find out what their TV code was, or the Panasonic people to find out why Acer TVs weren’t listed?
I chose the latter, and called the “customer care” line in Auckland. It was a toll call, but was answered (get this) by AN ACTUAL PERSON! A friendly guy named Graham.
I explained the situation, and Graham gave me this amazing revelation: Apparently, various technology companies around the world make and sell TVs for OTHER technology companies around the world.
Like, your new Panasonic could have been made by Goldstar for SONY in a deal with the electronics branch of McDonald’s and Rodney’s Chicken Shack in Waimate.
Graham suggested I find out through process of elimination. It was only a two-digit number, after all. So I went home and typed in codes up to 36 where it finally worked.
With this information in hand, I then went back to the DVD manual figuring that, logically, the code number would tell me which company manufactured my TV. This revealed unto me that my Acer LCD was made either by NEC or AIWA.
I now have absolutely no idea what to do with this information, other than to blog about it and let people who previously read this blog expecting entertainment to go: “Huh, he’s really losing it.”
Yes, this is true, but I’m losing it with a Panasonic HDD DVD recorder. So: Ha!
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Quick: While Nobody's Listening
TV people do some strange things.
I realise that’s a sweeping comment. People who aren’t on TV do strange things too; but TV people are exceptionally good at it. Although I actually only have one example to call upon to prove my point.
I’m a big fan of rugby league; specifically Australian rugby league. League was a break-away from rugby union when rugby players in England’s coal mining areas noticed the clubs were making crap loads of money, but the players were expected to pay for their own shoelaces.
There were many arguments; and as is often the case where money is involved, neither side was willing to budge – ie, those who had the money refused to give it away and those who wanted the money weren’t able to get.
This was early 1900s. The break-away reached New Zealand around 2007 or so, and in 2008 a tour of Australia and Europe was organised. This featured some All Blacks and others, and was generally a success.
Oh, there was one Australian they picked up on the way to Europe. His name was Clive Churchill, and in Australia he is now considered the all-consuming godfather of rugby league, although nobody really says why, because that would mean acknowledging that he was there with a bunch of Kiwis.
Well, long story short, Australians embraced the game. Especially around Sydney where it now dominates rugby union and Australian rules (essentially Gaelic football).
Anyway, the 2009 rugby league season is coming to a close. The grand final between Melbourne’s Storm and Paramatta’s Eels will be this weekend. It should be a good match: the heart goes with Paramatta, the mind with the Storm.
In Australia, Channel 9 broadcasts the league. Being a commercial channel, naturally they slip ad breaks in as often as possible. But they also sell the rights to pay-per-view channels around the world which don't break for ads.
The team of Channel 9 commentators is led by an old chap named Ray Warren. He’s brilliant. Consummate professional is he. It's hard not to get caught up in the game when he's verging on a stroke everytime a player passes the ball. But he has this weird quirk that I just don’t understand.
When Channel 9 goes to a commercial he says: “And I’d just like to welcome all the viewers watching in New Zealand, in the UK on ESPN and in the United States…”
He slips this welcome in when the domestic audience isn’t there; like it’s our little secret. “Don’t, for God’s sake, let the Australians know anyone else is watching!”
Like it would be some massive blow to the Aussie TV ratings for the locals to discover that Brits, Yanks and Kiwis were watching the league, too. I find it very bizarre.
Now, for any North Americans reading this, I urge you to watch the grand final this weekend. The game’s excellent. It’s a lot like American football in principle, only the game doesn’t stop between downs (so it’s much faster), there’re six downs to a set and only lateral passes are allowed. Check it out.
I realise that’s a sweeping comment. People who aren’t on TV do strange things too; but TV people are exceptionally good at it. Although I actually only have one example to call upon to prove my point.
I’m a big fan of rugby league; specifically Australian rugby league. League was a break-away from rugby union when rugby players in England’s coal mining areas noticed the clubs were making crap loads of money, but the players were expected to pay for their own shoelaces.
There were many arguments; and as is often the case where money is involved, neither side was willing to budge – ie, those who had the money refused to give it away and those who wanted the money weren’t able to get.
This was early 1900s. The break-away reached New Zealand around 2007 or so, and in 2008 a tour of Australia and Europe was organised. This featured some All Blacks and others, and was generally a success.
Oh, there was one Australian they picked up on the way to Europe. His name was Clive Churchill, and in Australia he is now considered the all-consuming godfather of rugby league, although nobody really says why, because that would mean acknowledging that he was there with a bunch of Kiwis.
Well, long story short, Australians embraced the game. Especially around Sydney where it now dominates rugby union and Australian rules (essentially Gaelic football).
Anyway, the 2009 rugby league season is coming to a close. The grand final between Melbourne’s Storm and Paramatta’s Eels will be this weekend. It should be a good match: the heart goes with Paramatta, the mind with the Storm.
In Australia, Channel 9 broadcasts the league. Being a commercial channel, naturally they slip ad breaks in as often as possible. But they also sell the rights to pay-per-view channels around the world which don't break for ads.
The team of Channel 9 commentators is led by an old chap named Ray Warren. He’s brilliant. Consummate professional is he. It's hard not to get caught up in the game when he's verging on a stroke everytime a player passes the ball. But he has this weird quirk that I just don’t understand.
When Channel 9 goes to a commercial he says: “And I’d just like to welcome all the viewers watching in New Zealand, in the UK on ESPN and in the United States…”
He slips this welcome in when the domestic audience isn’t there; like it’s our little secret. “Don’t, for God’s sake, let the Australians know anyone else is watching!”
Like it would be some massive blow to the Aussie TV ratings for the locals to discover that Brits, Yanks and Kiwis were watching the league, too. I find it very bizarre.
Now, for any North Americans reading this, I urge you to watch the grand final this weekend. The game’s excellent. It’s a lot like American football in principle, only the game doesn’t stop between downs (so it’s much faster), there’re six downs to a set and only lateral passes are allowed. Check it out.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
What Becomes of the Broken-Hearted? They Freakin' Blog About It
It is spring here in the southern hemisphere … as in: Spring!
There are blossoms appearing (but still being blown off the branches by icy winds); lambs apparently born and frolicking completely ignorant of their big upcoming trip to Europe in time for the Christmas roast; and cute girls are wearing short skirts over-top of their winter tights.
Spring – one of the three seasons we can all agree on a name for. Spring, summer and winter have that commonality. We Kiwis call that other season autumn. North Americans call it fall. I’ve got to say, I think we have the upper hand in this, because “fall” indicates something is going to land on you.
“Come the fall…” makes me think either you’re going to fall down, or something is going to collapse on you. Autumn seems to make more sense. It’s so neutral. It even has that weird “umn” thing going at the end, like it’s not entirely sure of itself. It’s a true season of change.
But autumn is not what I wanted to discuss. Spring is a time of waking from winter’s dormancy, and as a long-term single guy I’ve actually found that the only time of the year when I really find my romance nerves twitching is spring.
It was this emergence of romantic feeling from its annual hibernation which probably caused me to spend an inordinate amount of this past weekend mourning lost love. While watching sport, of course.
It’s a love I treasure, but don’t often talk about. She was beautiful and exciting and full of life. It was like she’d been kissed by the God of Fun. She was a florist who would light up a room brighter than any bouquet.
We used to meet up occasionally and talk; have coffee or lunch, and it was all very chaste.
The major sticking point was that she was engaged. But that was OK, because she told him everything from day one and I, in turn, never tried to break them up. It was totally dysfunctional, but all above board as well.
No, we never kissed. Yes, I did see her naked. Yes, we did go on one (fiancé-sanctioned) date and it was a lot of fun. We both understood the situation: she wasn’t going to break up with him to be with me; and I wasn’t going to ask her to.
Unfortunately, he was Canadian and wanted to take her home to meet the family. They packed up and, oddly, moved to Australia – which is like 1600 miles in the wrong direction. Apparently it was a money thing.
I haven’t heard from her since. But I learned through acquaintances that they parted ways in Australia; then she met somebody else, moved back to New Zealand and is living up north somewhere.
I’m happy to be a fond memory for her. To me, she’s so much more. Why else, I wonder, would my memories return to her when spring so heartlessly jabbed at my slumbering desire for love?
Insert lonely sigh here.
There are blossoms appearing (but still being blown off the branches by icy winds); lambs apparently born and frolicking completely ignorant of their big upcoming trip to Europe in time for the Christmas roast; and cute girls are wearing short skirts over-top of their winter tights.
Spring – one of the three seasons we can all agree on a name for. Spring, summer and winter have that commonality. We Kiwis call that other season autumn. North Americans call it fall. I’ve got to say, I think we have the upper hand in this, because “fall” indicates something is going to land on you.
“Come the fall…” makes me think either you’re going to fall down, or something is going to collapse on you. Autumn seems to make more sense. It’s so neutral. It even has that weird “umn” thing going at the end, like it’s not entirely sure of itself. It’s a true season of change.
But autumn is not what I wanted to discuss. Spring is a time of waking from winter’s dormancy, and as a long-term single guy I’ve actually found that the only time of the year when I really find my romance nerves twitching is spring.
It was this emergence of romantic feeling from its annual hibernation which probably caused me to spend an inordinate amount of this past weekend mourning lost love. While watching sport, of course.
It’s a love I treasure, but don’t often talk about. She was beautiful and exciting and full of life. It was like she’d been kissed by the God of Fun. She was a florist who would light up a room brighter than any bouquet.
We used to meet up occasionally and talk; have coffee or lunch, and it was all very chaste.
The major sticking point was that she was engaged. But that was OK, because she told him everything from day one and I, in turn, never tried to break them up. It was totally dysfunctional, but all above board as well.
No, we never kissed. Yes, I did see her naked. Yes, we did go on one (fiancé-sanctioned) date and it was a lot of fun. We both understood the situation: she wasn’t going to break up with him to be with me; and I wasn’t going to ask her to.
Unfortunately, he was Canadian and wanted to take her home to meet the family. They packed up and, oddly, moved to Australia – which is like 1600 miles in the wrong direction. Apparently it was a money thing.
I haven’t heard from her since. But I learned through acquaintances that they parted ways in Australia; then she met somebody else, moved back to New Zealand and is living up north somewhere.
I’m happy to be a fond memory for her. To me, she’s so much more. Why else, I wonder, would my memories return to her when spring so heartlessly jabbed at my slumbering desire for love?
Insert lonely sigh here.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Questioning the Laws of Zombieism
Honestly, I don’t have an obsession with zombies. There are just some things about them that kind of fascinate me.
I was watching Resident Evil: Extinction on the movie channel this morning before work. I’ve seen it before so I wasn’t so much following the story as wondering about a few strange things in this particular zombieverse.
I understand it’s the third in the Resident Evil trilogy and I haven’t actually seen any of its predecessors. But it seems that there’s a virus floating about that turns people into zombies and an evil corporation and Ali Larter wandering around as a superhot psychic kung fu and weapons expert who kills zombies with the same efficiency that a nuclear explosion kills moths.
I don’t know how long ago the outbreak of zombieism began in this story, but in this film somebody said six months. There’s a convoy of survivors in trucks, driving around trying to stay out of the zombies’ way.
Now these are some impressive zombies. For a start, the moment they became zombies they all put on trousers and grey, green or black clothes. There wasn’t a single zombie out there wearing a bright red Jean-Paul Gaultier dress or carrying a Prada handbag. Not even a yellow t-shirt.
Nearly as amazing were the survivors. They’ve been driving around a desert for six months and all the women still have perfect hair and makeup. Nobody’s going: “Shit, we’ve been out here for months, there’re no baths or showers around and we’re all rank.”
In the film a few people get bitten by zombies and a few more get eaten by zombies – who haven’t had a decent meal in forever so they're rather enthusiastic. Yet they’re still on their feet, staggering about. They all move at two speeds: Full and shamble.
The people who get bitten all slowly turn into zombies. Yet during the metamorphosis the other zombies still try to kill them. And I started to wonder; at what point do the other zombies just go: “Oh, he’s one of us now, we should back off.”?
And what do the zombies hope to achieve when they reach the changing victim? I mean, the bitten person is already zombifying. Do the zombies want to taste the last vestiges of the person's humanity?
Picture this: You’re a zombie and you’ve attacked a person and you’re gnawing on their leg. Suddenly their zombification is complete and you notice the flesh has kind of gone stale. Yuck. Now do you apologise to your new zombie colleague for chewing on them? Do shrug and give them a light-hearted “arrrrgggh”? Is this the sort of thing that happens all the time on zombie sitcoms?
I think, if it was me, I’d just give an embarrassing smile and say: “Y’know, I think you’d look just great with a red dress and a Prada handbag.”
I was watching Resident Evil: Extinction on the movie channel this morning before work. I’ve seen it before so I wasn’t so much following the story as wondering about a few strange things in this particular zombieverse.
I understand it’s the third in the Resident Evil trilogy and I haven’t actually seen any of its predecessors. But it seems that there’s a virus floating about that turns people into zombies and an evil corporation and Ali Larter wandering around as a superhot psychic kung fu and weapons expert who kills zombies with the same efficiency that a nuclear explosion kills moths.
I don’t know how long ago the outbreak of zombieism began in this story, but in this film somebody said six months. There’s a convoy of survivors in trucks, driving around trying to stay out of the zombies’ way.
Now these are some impressive zombies. For a start, the moment they became zombies they all put on trousers and grey, green or black clothes. There wasn’t a single zombie out there wearing a bright red Jean-Paul Gaultier dress or carrying a Prada handbag. Not even a yellow t-shirt.
Nearly as amazing were the survivors. They’ve been driving around a desert for six months and all the women still have perfect hair and makeup. Nobody’s going: “Shit, we’ve been out here for months, there’re no baths or showers around and we’re all rank.”
In the film a few people get bitten by zombies and a few more get eaten by zombies – who haven’t had a decent meal in forever so they're rather enthusiastic. Yet they’re still on their feet, staggering about. They all move at two speeds: Full and shamble.
The people who get bitten all slowly turn into zombies. Yet during the metamorphosis the other zombies still try to kill them. And I started to wonder; at what point do the other zombies just go: “Oh, he’s one of us now, we should back off.”?
And what do the zombies hope to achieve when they reach the changing victim? I mean, the bitten person is already zombifying. Do the zombies want to taste the last vestiges of the person's humanity?
Picture this: You’re a zombie and you’ve attacked a person and you’re gnawing on their leg. Suddenly their zombification is complete and you notice the flesh has kind of gone stale. Yuck. Now do you apologise to your new zombie colleague for chewing on them? Do shrug and give them a light-hearted “arrrrgggh”? Is this the sort of thing that happens all the time on zombie sitcoms?
I think, if it was me, I’d just give an embarrassing smile and say: “Y’know, I think you’d look just great with a red dress and a Prada handbag.”
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