"...the amateur drunks have taken over and will hold this town until Jan. 2…driving on the wrong side of the street, running red lights, bellowing the same songs. Figs of people, twigs of people, shits of people…MERRY CHRISTMAS, HAPPY NEW YEAR. Christomighty, yeah.”
-Bukowski
Monday, December 26, 2005
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
He talked exactly what I wanted to hear
People may think that Dubya speaks badly due to substandard intelligence. But actually it is all part of the genius of his main speechwriter...
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
a poem about prairie dogs
down to prairie dog town
"One litter is born to the Prairie Dog female each year. During a 4- or 5- hour estrus, a female Prairie Dog may mate with as many as 5 different males, allowing pups from the same litter to have different fathers...."
three hundred and sixty four and three quarters days
men wander the streets
keeping watch, digging tunnels
training the young to burrow and bark
funneling tension in the occasional run
marking time in feedings and rest
and watching the sky like a widescreen tube.
the best shows distract libidos.
no fantasizing about fat rolls,
fur holes,
or willing bodies flopped languidly on the dirt;
only one channel with clouds and the fiery ball circled by hawks.
the desert sunsets don't inspire romance here.
stars never flirt with cynomis nocturnal hopes.
teenage couples don't park at the point,
and no admission to any emissions
when young males are alone in the dark.
there are no bordellos, no bitches of the night
no bar fights over possible mates
or hooning in tricked out cars
or flashy threads, cheap scents
or posturing over size.
the men realize this means nothing.
jealousy and loss are not immortalized in song.
there are no long engagements or promises of love,
no child support or requirements to pay the rent.
no. all that matters in time and place is luck
for once the waiting time is done
all the females want to fuck.
"One litter is born to the Prairie Dog female each year. During a 4- or 5- hour estrus, a female Prairie Dog may mate with as many as 5 different males, allowing pups from the same litter to have different fathers...."
three hundred and sixty four and three quarters days
men wander the streets
keeping watch, digging tunnels
training the young to burrow and bark
funneling tension in the occasional run
marking time in feedings and rest
and watching the sky like a widescreen tube.
the best shows distract libidos.
no fantasizing about fat rolls,
fur holes,
or willing bodies flopped languidly on the dirt;
only one channel with clouds and the fiery ball circled by hawks.
the desert sunsets don't inspire romance here.
stars never flirt with cynomis nocturnal hopes.
teenage couples don't park at the point,
and no admission to any emissions
when young males are alone in the dark.
there are no bordellos, no bitches of the night
no bar fights over possible mates
or hooning in tricked out cars
or flashy threads, cheap scents
or posturing over size.
the men realize this means nothing.
jealousy and loss are not immortalized in song.
there are no long engagements or promises of love,
no child support or requirements to pay the rent.
no. all that matters in time and place is luck
for once the waiting time is done
all the females want to fuck.
Friday, December 16, 2005
two poemettes
A Poem Whose Title is a Little Longer Than the Actual Poem Itself
A Panda sticks bamboo
Between its teeth
And mutters,
“Shoot me.”
15/12/05
A Gal Giving Gus a Gander before She Guns His Galantry Down for Good
She pulls a gun from her garter belt
Almost exposing her g-string.
“Gee,” she says putting her finger to her cheek,
Then, “Gotcha,”
And winks.
15/12/05
A Panda sticks bamboo
Between its teeth
And mutters,
“Shoot me.”
15/12/05
A Gal Giving Gus a Gander before She Guns His Galantry Down for Good
She pulls a gun from her garter belt
Almost exposing her g-string.
“Gee,” she says putting her finger to her cheek,
Then, “Gotcha,”
And winks.
15/12/05
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Sunday, December 11, 2005
Friday, December 09, 2005
Commute, No Commutation
Morning cars line up for the green
Farting steam, sweating, dripping, bleary headlights staring
Each a muffled dissonance of radio vibrations
Each a branded appellation
I walk in the carbon-monoxide mist,
The frost still gripping the broken grass
In yellow patches where a dog pissed.
The fogged glass of commuters
Push past the congested gas station
To pull into a glutted parking lot
Near the dull hum of the Bart tracks.
I have no hat
So I shrug in my wool coat
And trace the slow curve of the street.
Cars shuffle and queue
Like cows soon to be meat.
People pre-packed in their Christmas boxes
Are conveyed by this concrete rut
Butt to nose to butt
To their transport destination.
I mumble my thoughts by the frozen park.
The swings still and the tan bark
Clumps in mounds around dark patches.
Children grounded by the season
Are at home eating Cheerios near the heater vent
Bent over the bowl, cupping cold orange juice.
Sensible parents click the TV remote
And drink coffee in morning robes.
My lobes become numb
As I make my way to the bus without parental fuss
On the strip of grey tongue that unrolls like a welcome
Into the gullet of a December day
Farting steam, sweating, dripping, bleary headlights staring
Each a muffled dissonance of radio vibrations
Each a branded appellation
I walk in the carbon-monoxide mist,
The frost still gripping the broken grass
In yellow patches where a dog pissed.
The fogged glass of commuters
Push past the congested gas station
To pull into a glutted parking lot
Near the dull hum of the Bart tracks.
I have no hat
So I shrug in my wool coat
And trace the slow curve of the street.
Cars shuffle and queue
Like cows soon to be meat.
People pre-packed in their Christmas boxes
Are conveyed by this concrete rut
Butt to nose to butt
To their transport destination.
I mumble my thoughts by the frozen park.
The swings still and the tan bark
Clumps in mounds around dark patches.
Children grounded by the season
Are at home eating Cheerios near the heater vent
Bent over the bowl, cupping cold orange juice.
Sensible parents click the TV remote
And drink coffee in morning robes.
My lobes become numb
As I make my way to the bus without parental fuss
On the strip of grey tongue that unrolls like a welcome
Into the gullet of a December day
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
Bird Food
Poems are boorish things
Never perfect, sometimes obtuse
Requiring dictionaries
Clarifications
Loose interpretations like a sack
Caught at the end of the morning’s line
Only to be detached, examined and thrown right back
The poem is a worm
Eaten by early birds
Words placed in sequence but out of sync
In ways that make dull heads think
Or ache
Language is broken to be remade
The poem is a bastard creation
Ever since we boxed up meaning
We made experiments to shake it
Crack it
Break it into halves
Wear it like hats when we're drunk and slurring
The blur of words churning in the bowl
Maybe it would be easier to unpack feelings
And let them roll on the kitchen floor
Underfoot while we’re cooking
And when no one’s looking
We kick them squealing out the door
Poetry is for the birds
Let them pick over it on the lawn
And then before a sentence finishes
With a flap of wings like applause
It’s gone.
Never perfect, sometimes obtuse
Requiring dictionaries
Clarifications
Loose interpretations like a sack
Caught at the end of the morning’s line
Only to be detached, examined and thrown right back
The poem is a worm
Eaten by early birds
Words placed in sequence but out of sync
In ways that make dull heads think
Or ache
Language is broken to be remade
The poem is a bastard creation
Ever since we boxed up meaning
We made experiments to shake it
Crack it
Break it into halves
Wear it like hats when we're drunk and slurring
The blur of words churning in the bowl
Maybe it would be easier to unpack feelings
And let them roll on the kitchen floor
Underfoot while we’re cooking
And when no one’s looking
We kick them squealing out the door
Poetry is for the birds
Let them pick over it on the lawn
And then before a sentence finishes
With a flap of wings like applause
It’s gone.
The Haka - An NZ educational moment
The haka is a traditional war cry of the Maori people in NZ, but it is used by NZ sports teams before matches, especially the All Blacks rugby team. It is essentially a way to rally the warriors for the battle ahead and intimidate the enemy. This link has some good background info about the haka as well as a demo to watch with the words translated into english. When you get a group of about 20 Maori with their chests bared, bugging out their eyes and stomping the ground, it's pretty darn impressive, not to mention a little scary.Because the haka is a trademark of NZ culture, there are naturally those less sensitive countries in the commonwealth, namely England and of course Australia that make fun of it in their media. At least the English parody allows you to create your own and send it to friends. What better e-mail to send to your NZland compatriots (if you have any that is)....
Friday, December 02, 2005
Work Like a Jerk
I work in an office that's closing next year.
I’m a contractor, so it’s not a big deal for me. When I started in the job, I knew it had a ‘use by’ date, but there were indications that the office’s days were numbered as well.
First off, there was no full time manager there. Occasionally, JJ from the head office would come out and play manager, but mainly he was just babysitting. Secondly, the production environment was getting moved to the head office before the end of the year. Thirdly, all the grey cubicles were empty as well as half the individual offices.
I didn’t mind. For the first time in my career, I got my own office with a large pseudo-mahogany desk, two whiteboards and two sizeable potted plants.
A month after I started though, I was walking past the boardroom and the entire staff was in there for a meeting. They did not look happy. An officious looking youngish man in a black suit was before them using corporate-speak and firm overtones while a Latino security guard stood next to him and staunchly eyed the group. Also a lady from HR in her mid 40s with big hair wearing a pink blazer sat close by and made notes, occasionally glancing at the stony faces around her.
Since then, the office has the feeling of death row.
Other things which contribute to that rudderless-approaching-the-waterfall feeling are:
-The office manager (OM) was jilted in the payouts, so she doesn’t come to the office much. Plus she’s recovering from a brain aneurism last year. One word that comes to mind which summarizes her is “Jangly”.
-There is no receptionist
-There are only three of us in my wing of the office.
-All the magazines subscriptions are dated 2004
-Every month at least one of the staff leaves.
-The remaining staff talk about retention bonuses and where they plan on working next.
Needless to say, attempting to maintain a motivated attitude here is a challenge. One good thing from all this is that I’ve become very adept at cleaning up offices once people go.
My supervisor (S) is one of the bright spots in coming to work. He’s a transplant from the East coast and uses expressions like: schmuck, knucklehead and bimbo as well as phrases like “Kick’em in the nuts” and “Gotta shake the dew.” He describes himself as a non-conformist who doesn’t like dealing with other people’s bullshit. He is also very forthright about his fondness for women with breast augmentations and scopes openly, even when I’m talking to him.
“Nothing like a woman with plastic tits. Breasts that fight back. Gotta love ‘em.”
His plan is to wait things out until the company decides to close the office.
“Then I get my retention, and I’m outta here.”
He’s one to get things done, but he’s so demoralized here that he doesn’t bother anymore. Friday afternoons, he plays Luxor for a couple of hours on the PC in his office.
Some days are interesting, but most are not. Being a hospice nurse for a dying office is not something I hope to do again. Every week, a bit more bleakness sets in. Soon, nothing will get done at all.
I’m a contractor, so it’s not a big deal for me. When I started in the job, I knew it had a ‘use by’ date, but there were indications that the office’s days were numbered as well.
First off, there was no full time manager there. Occasionally, JJ from the head office would come out and play manager, but mainly he was just babysitting. Secondly, the production environment was getting moved to the head office before the end of the year. Thirdly, all the grey cubicles were empty as well as half the individual offices.
I didn’t mind. For the first time in my career, I got my own office with a large pseudo-mahogany desk, two whiteboards and two sizeable potted plants.
A month after I started though, I was walking past the boardroom and the entire staff was in there for a meeting. They did not look happy. An officious looking youngish man in a black suit was before them using corporate-speak and firm overtones while a Latino security guard stood next to him and staunchly eyed the group. Also a lady from HR in her mid 40s with big hair wearing a pink blazer sat close by and made notes, occasionally glancing at the stony faces around her.
Since then, the office has the feeling of death row.
Other things which contribute to that rudderless-approaching-the-waterfall feeling are:
-The office manager (OM) was jilted in the payouts, so she doesn’t come to the office much. Plus she’s recovering from a brain aneurism last year. One word that comes to mind which summarizes her is “Jangly”.
-There is no receptionist
-There are only three of us in my wing of the office.
-All the magazines subscriptions are dated 2004
-Every month at least one of the staff leaves.
-The remaining staff talk about retention bonuses and where they plan on working next.
Needless to say, attempting to maintain a motivated attitude here is a challenge. One good thing from all this is that I’ve become very adept at cleaning up offices once people go.
My supervisor (S) is one of the bright spots in coming to work. He’s a transplant from the East coast and uses expressions like: schmuck, knucklehead and bimbo as well as phrases like “Kick’em in the nuts” and “Gotta shake the dew.” He describes himself as a non-conformist who doesn’t like dealing with other people’s bullshit. He is also very forthright about his fondness for women with breast augmentations and scopes openly, even when I’m talking to him.
“Nothing like a woman with plastic tits. Breasts that fight back. Gotta love ‘em.”
His plan is to wait things out until the company decides to close the office.
“Then I get my retention, and I’m outta here.”
He’s one to get things done, but he’s so demoralized here that he doesn’t bother anymore. Friday afternoons, he plays Luxor for a couple of hours on the PC in his office.
Some days are interesting, but most are not. Being a hospice nurse for a dying office is not something I hope to do again. Every week, a bit more bleakness sets in. Soon, nothing will get done at all.
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
up, up and away!
every have those dreams where you are flying? looks like someone had one and made it into a cool little universe...
Why ask why?
For those of you with good questions, here is a place for you to feel at home. Props to DD and BS (yes those are her real initials) for sending it through.
I've gleaned a sample for your daily intake of irony:
Why do we teach kids that violence is not the answer and then have them read about wars in school that solved America's problems?
Why do most people put more effort into their wedding than their actual marriage?
Why do people say, "you've been working like a dog" when dogs just sit around all day?
If marriage means you fell in love, does divorce mean you climbed out?
If we had a president that was a woman, would her husband be the first man?
If a deaf person has to go to court, is it still called a hearing?
Why do they put Canadian bacon on Hawaiian Pizza?
If you don't pay your exorcist, do you get repossessed?
Why is Bra singular and Panties plural?
If ignorance is bliss, why aren’t more people happy?
If rabbits' feet are so lucky, then what happened to the rabbit?
Do pigs pull ham strings?
If you decide that you're indecisive, which one are you?
Why do drugstores make the sick walk all the way to the back of the store to get their prescriptions while healthy people can buy cigarettes at the front?
What do you say when someone says you're in denial, but you're not?
I've gleaned a sample for your daily intake of irony:
Why do we teach kids that violence is not the answer and then have them read about wars in school that solved America's problems?
Why do most people put more effort into their wedding than their actual marriage?
Why do people say, "you've been working like a dog" when dogs just sit around all day?
If marriage means you fell in love, does divorce mean you climbed out?
If we had a president that was a woman, would her husband be the first man?
If a deaf person has to go to court, is it still called a hearing?
Why do they put Canadian bacon on Hawaiian Pizza?
If you don't pay your exorcist, do you get repossessed?
Why is Bra singular and Panties plural?
If ignorance is bliss, why aren’t more people happy?
If rabbits' feet are so lucky, then what happened to the rabbit?
Do pigs pull ham strings?
If you decide that you're indecisive, which one are you?
Why do drugstores make the sick walk all the way to the back of the store to get their prescriptions while healthy people can buy cigarettes at the front?
What do you say when someone says you're in denial, but you're not?
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
a hole in the ground - now only half price
In time for the holidays, a cemetary in Greenwood SC is having a sale on their plots. The manager says that "Half off of a cemetery space is a good bargain."
I say they should advertise it as a two for one sale:
Car crash? Suicide pact? Lover's quarrel with shotguns? No problem!
Bury two loved ones for the price of one at GMGM, but only for a limited time.
(Plots are not guaranteed to be side by side)
DeadEasy(tm) Credit available. No co-signers or credit references necessary. Se habla espanol.
So come down and see us on the green side of Greenwood...
I say they should advertise it as a two for one sale:
Car crash? Suicide pact? Lover's quarrel with shotguns? No problem!
Bury two loved ones for the price of one at GMGM, but only for a limited time.
(Plots are not guaranteed to be side by side)
DeadEasy(tm) Credit available. No co-signers or credit references necessary. Se habla espanol.
So come down and see us on the green side of Greenwood...
Monday, November 28, 2005
a second spectacular specular
this posie was sent to me:
A man went to the zoo
There was only a dog there
It was a shitzu
wandering around didn't take long, he thought
It was a shitzu
There was only a dog there
A man went to the zoo
A man went to the zoo
There was only a dog there
It was a shitzu
wandering around didn't take long, he thought
It was a shitzu
There was only a dog there
A man went to the zoo
Sunday, November 27, 2005
specular speculoid
A specular poem...where the second half of the poem unfolds.. like a mirror image of the first, using the lines in the reverse order....
settling in
i let your call go to voicemail
call-waiting is a boon to the timid
refusing to talk, not wanting to fail
i spent the day putting away my things
cardboard boxes dissolve into trash
rash choices crumpled like paper
half of which i left behind
like the days i wasted waiting for your smile.
the garage shelves are stacked with old files
like the days i wasted waiting for your smile
half of which i left behind
rash choices crumpled like paper
cardboard boxes dissolve into trash
i spent the day putting away my things
refusing to talk, not wanting to fail
call-waiting is a boon to the timid
i let your call go to voicemail.
settling in
i let your call go to voicemail
call-waiting is a boon to the timid
refusing to talk, not wanting to fail
i spent the day putting away my things
cardboard boxes dissolve into trash
rash choices crumpled like paper
half of which i left behind
like the days i wasted waiting for your smile.
the garage shelves are stacked with old files
like the days i wasted waiting for your smile
half of which i left behind
rash choices crumpled like paper
cardboard boxes dissolve into trash
i spent the day putting away my things
refusing to talk, not wanting to fail
call-waiting is a boon to the timid
i let your call go to voicemail.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Chapter Seven
I.
I spent nights over cups of coffee
Laughing at the way my skin inches down
Watching the late acts in wayward bars
The bare stragglers choking on smoke
Dull eyed, black eyed, christened by the dead
Dreams of endless head and breasts
In electric reproduction sucked by red globes
Bare lobes distressed with guitar distortion
The motion of living drawn from each drag
Fags with fags gagging on virtual cocks
Beneath Big Al’s socks and the serpent,
Rome’s steps only seconds away
II.
Chinese steam huffs through beaten doorways
Where sideways Asian looks mingle with frying duck
And cheap goods fuck in garish display.
I strayed far from the main road
Walking like a folding chair
John street, Bush street
Up Nob hill and down again.
Victorian buildings stacked like dominoes,
Casual hoes displaying their wares,
Popping pills with low stares, strutting slow.
They catcall me and I know their bodies,
I know their souls,
Sagged and shrinking, sucked at by coffins
Promises of nothing, often,
Followed by leers of grief and sorrow
Their legs are borrowed and thrown aside
The Seeing Eye stuffed into their damp brassieres.
III.
O’Farrell playbills decorate abandoned walls
By the beggars sleeping in cardboard stalls
The pall of filth living their creases
The city lives in patches of grime
Smeared by time over pieces of sleeping bags used as coats
And coats used as shirts
And shirts as rags for their feet.
Bums hold out their hands and I look at them blind.
IV.
My soul is an island
V.
Shame grows in dark pools on Market Street
As cars choke the artery with eyes glowing
Always flowing in a huddle against the unknown hurt outside
Strangers never meet and part ways forever.
Humans enjoy a good slide
Until they hit the dirt.
VI.
I take my ride and leave by the east bridge.
The ridge of hills is the refuge
I refuse to leave behind.
The Caldecott hole is orange and warm
And already I feel clean
With the murky bay behind me.
VII.
I spent nights over cups of coffee
Laughing at the way my skin inches down
To the dark town, the dirty town
Where promises of nothing are often kept
Close to the yellow fog
That circles the city like a crown.
I spent nights over cups of coffee
Laughing at the way my skin inches down
Watching the late acts in wayward bars
The bare stragglers choking on smoke
Dull eyed, black eyed, christened by the dead
Dreams of endless head and breasts
In electric reproduction sucked by red globes
Bare lobes distressed with guitar distortion
The motion of living drawn from each drag
Fags with fags gagging on virtual cocks
Beneath Big Al’s socks and the serpent,
Rome’s steps only seconds away
II.
Chinese steam huffs through beaten doorways
Where sideways Asian looks mingle with frying duck
And cheap goods fuck in garish display.
I strayed far from the main road
Walking like a folding chair
John street, Bush street
Up Nob hill and down again.
Victorian buildings stacked like dominoes,
Casual hoes displaying their wares,
Popping pills with low stares, strutting slow.
They catcall me and I know their bodies,
I know their souls,
Sagged and shrinking, sucked at by coffins
Promises of nothing, often,
Followed by leers of grief and sorrow
Their legs are borrowed and thrown aside
The Seeing Eye stuffed into their damp brassieres.
III.
O’Farrell playbills decorate abandoned walls
By the beggars sleeping in cardboard stalls
The pall of filth living their creases
The city lives in patches of grime
Smeared by time over pieces of sleeping bags used as coats
And coats used as shirts
And shirts as rags for their feet.
Bums hold out their hands and I look at them blind.
IV.
My soul is an island
V.
Shame grows in dark pools on Market Street
As cars choke the artery with eyes glowing
Always flowing in a huddle against the unknown hurt outside
Strangers never meet and part ways forever.
Humans enjoy a good slide
Until they hit the dirt.
VI.
I take my ride and leave by the east bridge.
The ridge of hills is the refuge
I refuse to leave behind.
The Caldecott hole is orange and warm
And already I feel clean
With the murky bay behind me.
VII.
I spent nights over cups of coffee
Laughing at the way my skin inches down
To the dark town, the dirty town
Where promises of nothing are often kept
Close to the yellow fog
That circles the city like a crown.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
pens and pen aunts and pennance
Some days I don’t want my friends or these ligaments that bind me
Religion finds me under the pew by the worn shoes of parishioners.
Smelling of fish and stained with blood
Wishing Jesus saved the good chewing gum and crumbs
Crushed by the shuffle of soles
Wet with drips holy water
Pressed through the holes ripped in pant knees
Stone on thin skin under bone
By the shiny feet of daughters and sons
Who get dragged to the dogma house and can't leave.
I grieve for the lost days spent confined in the confessional
Heavy hands on my shoulders
Waiting for the guilt to disrobe me.
Religion finds me under the pew by the worn shoes of parishioners.
Smelling of fish and stained with blood
Wishing Jesus saved the good chewing gum and crumbs
Crushed by the shuffle of soles
Wet with drips holy water
Pressed through the holes ripped in pant knees
Stone on thin skin under bone
By the shiny feet of daughters and sons
Who get dragged to the dogma house and can't leave.
I grieve for the lost days spent confined in the confessional
Heavy hands on my shoulders
Waiting for the guilt to disrobe me.
Monday, November 14, 2005
Kasakhstan vs Borat
It looks like Sacha Cohen has finally upset a government with his Kazakh host persona, Borat. Kazakhstan is threatening to take him to court after he hosted the MTV Europe music awards this month. An excerpt from the article states:
"We do not rule out that Mr. Cohen is serving someone's political order designed to present Kazakhstan and its people in a derogatory way," Kazakh Foreign Ministry spokesman Yerzhan Ashykbayev told a news briefing.
Political order? Borat? Puhleeeeeeeeeze.....
"We do not rule out that Mr. Cohen is serving someone's political order designed to present Kazakhstan and its people in a derogatory way," Kazakh Foreign Ministry spokesman Yerzhan Ashykbayev told a news briefing.
Political order? Borat? Puhleeeeeeeeeze.....
Saturday, November 12, 2005
Well, I am a Guy After All
Here's an interesting story about our asian compatriots building a better brassiere. And the picture isn't too bad either...
Thursday, November 10, 2005
fun with one-upmanship
after a bit of looking around i found this great animated video from the indy brit band "nizlopi" just to prove i'm a big commercial music hater. it was done by the same people who did the radiohead clip below. the song is pretty cool with bluegrass roots and clean pop leanings. wow - i should become a big freaky music reviewer as well as a megastar rapper.
you better look out buggasg
ain't no stoppin' my rapper mc
i'm cool to the touch and hot on the mike
all you poser homies better get on your bike...
you better look out buggasg
ain't no stoppin' my rapper mc
i'm cool to the touch and hot on the mike
all you poser homies better get on your bike...
Allah the Humorist
I have to applaud these guys for not only upholding their Muslim culture, but making light of it as well...
A Creep Deep in Despair (my how his hair is thin)
I used to be a big fan of Radiohead - well I still am, just the albums up to 'OK Computer'. Okay, so I'm a conformist pop creep with only moderate intrinsic avant-garde artistic tendencies. I admit it. I secretly admire the staying power of Madonna and still enjoy Green Day despite their frequent rotations on top 40 stations. Actually, if it weren't for my friend BuggaSG and his indy, sub-pop, "found this rare import version of Brassneck from The Wedding Present's Bizzarro album while scouring the used cd section at Amoeba Music" type of influence, I would be totally uninteresting musically.
So without further ado, I present to you a really cool animation set to the acoustic version of Radiohead's "Creep". Props to SF for his link (though i think buggasg posted it first - dang!)
So without further ado, I present to you a really cool animation set to the acoustic version of Radiohead's "Creep". Props to SF for his link (though i think buggasg posted it first - dang!)
Friday, November 04, 2005
Progeny
My daughter is a simulacrum of me.
Enough dark hair and olive skin
For strangers to say to my wife
“Is her dad Italian?’
When she walks with her down Mt Diablo Boulevard
On the way to the store.
My wife with green eyes and red hair
And fair skin and replies,
“How did you know?”
While my daughter waves at them until they smile.
Enough dark hair and olive skin
For strangers to say to my wife
“Is her dad Italian?’
When she walks with her down Mt Diablo Boulevard
On the way to the store.
My wife with green eyes and red hair
And fair skin and replies,
“How did you know?”
While my daughter waves at them until they smile.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
Escape Down Under
As the weather cools down here in the northern hemisphere, it is worth contemplating a sojourn to the southern hemisphere where things are just starting to heat up. For those of you who might consider New Zealand, here is a site that will give you insight into the ways and culture of the sought after Kiwis…
( I especially suggest the “blue” state residents to take a look)
( I especially suggest the “blue” state residents to take a look)
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
i couldn't...
...aggrandize myself any more than that.
just to counteract my ego, have a look here at something a great deal more relevant.
i know i take for granted my rights that have been hard won by the sacrifice of sincere individuals...
just to counteract my ego, have a look here at something a great deal more relevant.
i know i take for granted my rights that have been hard won by the sacrifice of sincere individuals...
I'm no Flow Ho
I gotta flow like I know how it’s gonna go
Make ‘em think I know
My ass from my elbow
A hawk from a sparrow
Gonna blow muthabuggas away with my prose.
My rhythm, my stylin
My rhymes will start you smilin’ and clapping
Toe tappin’ and jammin’
You’ll say, “who’s that young man taking a stand
Pushing his brand of self made rappin?”
Just me with my lips flappin’
Spittin’ and hoppin’.
Ain’t no stoppin the flow that I know…
Make ‘em think I know
My ass from my elbow
A hawk from a sparrow
Gonna blow muthabuggas away with my prose.
My rhythm, my stylin
My rhymes will start you smilin’ and clapping
Toe tappin’ and jammin’
You’ll say, “who’s that young man taking a stand
Pushing his brand of self made rappin?”
Just me with my lips flappin’
Spittin’ and hoppin’.
Ain’t no stoppin the flow that I know…
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Beg me to be Better
Creativity sucks eggs. Yes it’s true.
The quickest way to impress you is to impress your sensibilities, which implies that somehow mine are superior in a particular way. Don’t say “Yes they are” because that’s just smoke and I’m wearing pants.
Creativity is not just an unregulated creative urge. It is structure and discipline, determination and work. What kind of jerk made it that way when I seek immediate gratification, a vacation from my dull reality?
Truly unruly I say. Selfish and cruelly I say.
I say I say I say – I can’t close my eyes and make I go away
My rhymes are scientific, specific
Nothing short of terrific
All the girlies love me
From Atlantic to Pacific.
All the homies try to copy
But they end up looking sloppy
When I kick them in the booty
Cause there’s no one round to stop me…
The quickest way to impress you is to impress your sensibilities, which implies that somehow mine are superior in a particular way. Don’t say “Yes they are” because that’s just smoke and I’m wearing pants.
Creativity is not just an unregulated creative urge. It is structure and discipline, determination and work. What kind of jerk made it that way when I seek immediate gratification, a vacation from my dull reality?
Truly unruly I say. Selfish and cruelly I say.
I say I say I say – I can’t close my eyes and make I go away
My rhymes are scientific, specific
Nothing short of terrific
All the girlies love me
From Atlantic to Pacific.
All the homies try to copy
But they end up looking sloppy
When I kick them in the booty
Cause there’s no one round to stop me…
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
The Pain in Rain Falls Mainly on the Train
I’m a responsible citizen.
I walk to the train station and join the queues of proletarians who, like me, are objecting to the problem of inflated petrol prices precipitated by perpetual meddling in the political affairs of Middle Eastern peoples by pro-west politicians. We are proud of our civil-service minded gesture as we ourselves save money from the evil of corporate domination. We cycle. We recycle. Michael rows his boat ashore on our island of righteousness. We spawn our own revolution against the system that confines us, tricks us, anesthetizes us, imprisons us. Do not be wavered by the offers of employee discounts on fuel-hungry SUVs. We save the planet. We wear hemp sandals and compost our green waste. We taste like granola and smell like a joint. We point the finger at corporatocracy and greed. Heed us. Join us. Weave baskets and discover macramé with us. Walk, bike and ride the bus. Vote with your bare feet. We suffer so that others can live. We won’t conform because we are free. Be like us or beware. Don’t buy or wear clothes from the Gap. We are for peace, but we won’t take your crap. We’re ready for the revolution. We will take over by force if necessary. We are on course. Soon the world will be ours and our children will be named Rainbow and Plain.
We take the train, and our pain is mainly felt in the rain.
I walk to the train station and join the queues of proletarians who, like me, are objecting to the problem of inflated petrol prices precipitated by perpetual meddling in the political affairs of Middle Eastern peoples by pro-west politicians. We are proud of our civil-service minded gesture as we ourselves save money from the evil of corporate domination. We cycle. We recycle. Michael rows his boat ashore on our island of righteousness. We spawn our own revolution against the system that confines us, tricks us, anesthetizes us, imprisons us. Do not be wavered by the offers of employee discounts on fuel-hungry SUVs. We save the planet. We wear hemp sandals and compost our green waste. We taste like granola and smell like a joint. We point the finger at corporatocracy and greed. Heed us. Join us. Weave baskets and discover macramé with us. Walk, bike and ride the bus. Vote with your bare feet. We suffer so that others can live. We won’t conform because we are free. Be like us or beware. Don’t buy or wear clothes from the Gap. We are for peace, but we won’t take your crap. We’re ready for the revolution. We will take over by force if necessary. We are on course. Soon the world will be ours and our children will be named Rainbow and Plain.
We take the train, and our pain is mainly felt in the rain.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Deceptacons in Your Tampon
This blog sucks.
Frankly, I hate the idea that I have nothing interesting to put here.
Lets sum up my life:
1. I work in the IT industry - zzzzzzzzzzzzz
2. I'm married - zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
3. In my spare time I renovate and watch cable TV -ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!!!!
I used to do interesting things like travel and pretend to be a writer. Now things are just uncharacteristicly uniform, a ritualistic rut made for the breadwinner careerslut that I've become.
I look at other people's blogs and at least they have interests and take the time to explore them. Me, I just tend to coast in a haze of fatigue, a butterless white toast life complete with a wife, two kids, and a tendency towards repetitive normalcy.
Some days I want to go away. Others, I want everyone else to go away.
Yes there is pity here, but I'm tired of trying to avoid it. I'm best served critical and self-focussing, enerved by anything unavoidable. People have pointed out my flagellation / masturbation duality, and I used to feel guilty about it. Now I don't care.
Yes, I'm selfish and myopic. Show me a human that doesn't have a degree of selfishness. Anyone who claims to be selfless is automatically a deluded egotistical prick.
Sure there are those who serve something greater than themselves, and more power to them. But every observation, every idea, every absolute law is really just subjective. Righteousness like truth is relative, and short of being God, no one can justify a set of values which claims to be superior.
This is not to say that a person can't live in a way which makes them happier and contented that also increases the happiness and contentment of those around them. This idea is on a path of search and research, view and review. Our understanding of life boils down to experience, faith, and the fruits of the efforts we make.
So whether you're Atheist, Christian, Muslim, Jew, Baha'i, you can still be a hyprocrite, a liar, a thief and a self-serving egotist. As well you can be contented, thoughtful, self-effacing and devoted to your God.
What makes my beliefs better than others? What makes their beliefs better? Who's right and wrong? Let's write a song. I can sing out of key. Me me meeeee!
I didn't intend to grandstand on my soapbox
Or posture like fighting cocks
This is just a vent (I'm not wearing socks)
Oh pox.
My underwear is holy...
Frankly, I hate the idea that I have nothing interesting to put here.
Lets sum up my life:
1. I work in the IT industry - zzzzzzzzzzzzz
2. I'm married - zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
3. In my spare time I renovate and watch cable TV -ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!!!!
I used to do interesting things like travel and pretend to be a writer. Now things are just uncharacteristicly uniform, a ritualistic rut made for the breadwinner careerslut that I've become.
I look at other people's blogs and at least they have interests and take the time to explore them. Me, I just tend to coast in a haze of fatigue, a butterless white toast life complete with a wife, two kids, and a tendency towards repetitive normalcy.
Some days I want to go away. Others, I want everyone else to go away.
Yes there is pity here, but I'm tired of trying to avoid it. I'm best served critical and self-focussing, enerved by anything unavoidable. People have pointed out my flagellation / masturbation duality, and I used to feel guilty about it. Now I don't care.
Yes, I'm selfish and myopic. Show me a human that doesn't have a degree of selfishness. Anyone who claims to be selfless is automatically a deluded egotistical prick.
Sure there are those who serve something greater than themselves, and more power to them. But every observation, every idea, every absolute law is really just subjective. Righteousness like truth is relative, and short of being God, no one can justify a set of values which claims to be superior.
This is not to say that a person can't live in a way which makes them happier and contented that also increases the happiness and contentment of those around them. This idea is on a path of search and research, view and review. Our understanding of life boils down to experience, faith, and the fruits of the efforts we make.
So whether you're Atheist, Christian, Muslim, Jew, Baha'i, you can still be a hyprocrite, a liar, a thief and a self-serving egotist. As well you can be contented, thoughtful, self-effacing and devoted to your God.
What makes my beliefs better than others? What makes their beliefs better? Who's right and wrong? Let's write a song. I can sing out of key. Me me meeeee!
I didn't intend to grandstand on my soapbox
Or posture like fighting cocks
This is just a vent (I'm not wearing socks)
Oh pox.
My underwear is holy...
Thursday, August 25, 2005
Work Force
Well I finally landed something regular. Got my own office and am doing more server and infrastructure work. I'm still here on my first day because of server patching, but that's all geeky stuff. Thank goodness for job placement agencies.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Heard of a Herd?
I love the English language. I mean, how else can you say something that means nothing in a way that sound interesting?
It is 4:35 am and I'm sitting in the basement of a large hospital waiting to install some software on a couple hundred PCs. We are waiting on the server team to finish upgrading their end so we can start on ours. So far, we are an hour behind and are supposed to be finished before the users get here at 8am. Why am I in this business again?
Network cables dangle on the wall in a stranglehold
Florescent lights flutter their dull eyes
To the roar of servers stacked side by side
And the thighs of boxes pryed open and discarded in a pile
All the while the night shuffles in keyboard strokes
Spoken in the corner while monitors doze
And toke the ozone behind the colon blink of the coiled phone.
I can't wait to get a regular gig...
It is 4:35 am and I'm sitting in the basement of a large hospital waiting to install some software on a couple hundred PCs. We are waiting on the server team to finish upgrading their end so we can start on ours. So far, we are an hour behind and are supposed to be finished before the users get here at 8am. Why am I in this business again?
Network cables dangle on the wall in a stranglehold
Florescent lights flutter their dull eyes
To the roar of servers stacked side by side
And the thighs of boxes pryed open and discarded in a pile
All the while the night shuffles in keyboard strokes
Spoken in the corner while monitors doze
And toke the ozone behind the colon blink of the coiled phone.
I can't wait to get a regular gig...
Thursday, May 19, 2005
Blog Hiatus
Days run between my fingers like sugar spilling on the kitchen floor
I don't think much anymore, just move my limbs to the tick of my motor
Engine sputtering mid roar.
I've thrown out years of thoughts
Dumpsters full of broken plans and decay
Half eyeglasses, dead pens, rat torn bindings
All this detritus was left in my way
I'm here in this half land
Half dark and half felt
Lured by the promise of goods
Hoodwinked by the blink of the illumined eye
The clink of change in my lined pockets
Stocked with fine weaves and perfumes
Exhumed from the back mind
Always watching with his mouth open.
The fingers of trees have been cut back
The grass mown, the weeds sprayed
I stayed too long away
Drawn by the promise of arms
Where seeds were sown
Gophers burrow unimpeded, their number unknown.
I don't think much anymore, just move my limbs to the tick of my motor
Engine sputtering mid roar.
I've thrown out years of thoughts
Dumpsters full of broken plans and decay
Half eyeglasses, dead pens, rat torn bindings
All this detritus was left in my way
I'm here in this half land
Half dark and half felt
Lured by the promise of goods
Hoodwinked by the blink of the illumined eye
The clink of change in my lined pockets
Stocked with fine weaves and perfumes
Exhumed from the back mind
Always watching with his mouth open.
The fingers of trees have been cut back
The grass mown, the weeds sprayed
I stayed too long away
Drawn by the promise of arms
Where seeds were sown
Gophers burrow unimpeded, their number unknown.
Sunday, April 03, 2005
So you think you can spot a cheesy grin?
Here's a test on the BBC website that gets you to try to differentiate between fake and genuine smiles. I thought I was pretty good at it until I realised I'm not so astute as I hoped, getting only 11 out of 20...
Sunday, March 20, 2005
NZlanders Love Their Work
I came across this article in the NZ Herald about how we like to take our work home if we can. This tendency relates more to increasing workloads rather than to our sometimes mytical hard-working natures. I for one take the Italian approach and try to make the most of my home time...
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
Vive la difference!
Here is an interesting article in Salon.com about the differences between men and women and how they should be understood if we want both sexes to succeed in their life goals.
An excerpt:
"There's still a great deal we don't know about what is ingrained and what is instilled, but acting as if the differences between the sexes are purely anatomical, or merely the product of our environment, does not serve us well. Ignore the differences, and we forfeit the opportunity to encourage and enhance the talents of all of us, from the ordinary student to the truly gifted, regardless of sex."
Am I strange to find this unsurprising?
An excerpt:
"There's still a great deal we don't know about what is ingrained and what is instilled, but acting as if the differences between the sexes are purely anatomical, or merely the product of our environment, does not serve us well. Ignore the differences, and we forfeit the opportunity to encourage and enhance the talents of all of us, from the ordinary student to the truly gifted, regardless of sex."
Am I strange to find this unsurprising?
Sunday, March 06, 2005
Thursday, March 03, 2005
I didn't watch the Oscars...
...because actually I was working and I knew I could catch the results on the web when I had the time. Although I haven't yet seen Million Dollar Baby, I find it hard to believe it could beat out the Aviator for best director, especially due to the difference of scale each project had. Scorsese is one of the all time greats, and I don't understand why he has yet to be recognised for his work.
The best surprise for me was that Charlie Kaufman won the oscar for Best Screenplay, 'Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind', a movie which I thoroughly enjoyed. I've read three of his scripts, and he is very adept at writing quirky, profound and intelligent stories. I would like to be able to do what he does some day. Some of his screenplays are available for public perusal...
The best surprise for me was that Charlie Kaufman won the oscar for Best Screenplay, 'Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind', a movie which I thoroughly enjoyed. I've read three of his scripts, and he is very adept at writing quirky, profound and intelligent stories. I would like to be able to do what he does some day. Some of his screenplays are available for public perusal...
Sunday, February 27, 2005
Can you pass third grade geography?
To my embarrassment I had to do this twice to pass.
Props to DS for making me feel young (and stupid) again...
Props to DS for making me feel young (and stupid) again...
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Cute ways to Kill
if you ever thought that regular handguns are just not cute enough, here are a couple which might appeal to your japanese female sensibilities.
i'm looking forward to when they come out with the pokemon cruise missile...
i'm looking forward to when they come out with the pokemon cruise missile...
Monday, February 21, 2005
Marketing the Babyspace
i heard about this item on the news the other night. i'm not sure i understand it since there is no shortage of places to advertise in more conventional locations.
probably the next step is to use well looked at spaces on the female body (such as the butt or the breasts) to advertise brake repairs or chimey sweeping. i think females should be encouraged to embrace the marketing mentality...
probably the next step is to use well looked at spaces on the female body (such as the butt or the breasts) to advertise brake repairs or chimey sweeping. i think females should be encouraged to embrace the marketing mentality...
Sunday, February 20, 2005
magna carta
i. my butt itches
i buy 10 rolls of toilet paper to feel mundane and appeased. please please please. don’t squeeze the duck. oh fuck. my chew toy used to bring me luck. i threw the throw rug across the room. it rained dust like powdered custard. mustard spots sprinkle the dishes in the sink. flecks of pink cat food calcify on the brink of becoming rock. my socks too will calcify in time. hush. even compassion will crackle when crushed. i’m bushed. time to water my neo-fuscist tendencies. (no i’m not a fusspot)
this burglary hones my slurp
i make soup with onion broth
burped (in bucolic overtones)
over burning bukowski tomes
drowned in drink and sloth
ii. wigwams warm my wagpole
i shop like anyone’s business shops when anyone shops at my business. i take the bus. milk drinkers make a fuss. political correctness makes me feel erect. my sausages are hickory smoked. come here bitch-ass and bring my rope. i fiddle with borders and cut the tags. glossy mags make help me feel whole. roads are better sloped. the pope rings my phone. control control he croons, coughing occasionally for effect. he swoons my prefect. perfect. let’s flip this reject regent reflex.
iii. ichthyologist’s lament
parched arched wriggling a swansong – or even a sonnet. did someone forget my fishnet bonnet?
iv. molotov made one hell of a cocktail
i’m not much for ranting i prefer pants panting rolled into cuffs at my ankles so spank me, loretta. i like salad with feta. frank rants get chicks by the busload (if they are old and asleep). don’t goad me into a false sense of abuse. i’d rather burn some jiffy pop than brake your caboose.
v. how to disseminate your decolletage
i’m not one to make you stumble over this ass. pass the gas station, i’m full. no, this is hardly bull (you cow). i won’t stand for twiddling. perhaps a tweak. speak to me of political dualism while i flip your flapjacks, you rag bag. flag it, i can’t be fagged.
vi. curtain cacophony
melrose place was once a symbol of the failure of single life. now titans warps time. slime lubricates every smile. it dribbles the chin like a simile.
i buy 10 rolls of toilet paper to feel mundane and appeased. please please please. don’t squeeze the duck. oh fuck. my chew toy used to bring me luck. i threw the throw rug across the room. it rained dust like powdered custard. mustard spots sprinkle the dishes in the sink. flecks of pink cat food calcify on the brink of becoming rock. my socks too will calcify in time. hush. even compassion will crackle when crushed. i’m bushed. time to water my neo-fuscist tendencies. (no i’m not a fusspot)
this burglary hones my slurp
i make soup with onion broth
burped (in bucolic overtones)
over burning bukowski tomes
drowned in drink and sloth
ii. wigwams warm my wagpole
i shop like anyone’s business shops when anyone shops at my business. i take the bus. milk drinkers make a fuss. political correctness makes me feel erect. my sausages are hickory smoked. come here bitch-ass and bring my rope. i fiddle with borders and cut the tags. glossy mags make help me feel whole. roads are better sloped. the pope rings my phone. control control he croons, coughing occasionally for effect. he swoons my prefect. perfect. let’s flip this reject regent reflex.
iii. ichthyologist’s lament
parched arched wriggling a swansong – or even a sonnet. did someone forget my fishnet bonnet?
iv. molotov made one hell of a cocktail
i’m not much for ranting i prefer pants panting rolled into cuffs at my ankles so spank me, loretta. i like salad with feta. frank rants get chicks by the busload (if they are old and asleep). don’t goad me into a false sense of abuse. i’d rather burn some jiffy pop than brake your caboose.
v. how to disseminate your decolletage
i’m not one to make you stumble over this ass. pass the gas station, i’m full. no, this is hardly bull (you cow). i won’t stand for twiddling. perhaps a tweak. speak to me of political dualism while i flip your flapjacks, you rag bag. flag it, i can’t be fagged.
vi. curtain cacophony
melrose place was once a symbol of the failure of single life. now titans warps time. slime lubricates every smile. it dribbles the chin like a simile.
accessible
my son adam never stops talking.
instead of engaging in inward contemplation he vents all the chatter of his detailed memory including episodes of pokemon, digimon and dragonball z.
meanwhile, i am trying to drive and relax at the same time. lately my drives have become the only times i have any solitude. the drive out to my son's house is a good 30 minutes, which means i can listen to almost all of my groove armada cd in the round trip.
i want to tell him to be quiet, but we haven't seen each other in two weeks. so i listen to his perpetual banter and attempt to respond in a way which at least gives him the illusion that i've heard every word. after 20 minutes, my head starts to throb.
"adam!" i say, trying to interrupt his flow.
"...and then goku said, "you'll never defeat me" and they started to battle and-"
"ADAM!"
"yes dad?"
"please. talk less. say more."
"but i'm just telling you what happened."
"then tell me another time."
adam is quiet for a few uncomfortable minutes.
i eventually feel bad and ask him about his school lessons. this ellicits the short "okay" and "good" answers from him and then silence again. i know that i have stifled something in him.
i can't but feel like he's trying in his own way to reach out to me and catch me up on everything he's experienced in the last fortnight. he's trying to make everything normal since the divorce, to include me in his life and share himself with me. and my requests for silence start to put distance between us a little at a time. i wrestle with this thought as i turn on to the southern motorway.
however, my desire for music and calm overtakes my guilt and i turn up "raisin' the stakes". after a few minutes, i almost forget he's there.
instead of engaging in inward contemplation he vents all the chatter of his detailed memory including episodes of pokemon, digimon and dragonball z.
meanwhile, i am trying to drive and relax at the same time. lately my drives have become the only times i have any solitude. the drive out to my son's house is a good 30 minutes, which means i can listen to almost all of my groove armada cd in the round trip.
i want to tell him to be quiet, but we haven't seen each other in two weeks. so i listen to his perpetual banter and attempt to respond in a way which at least gives him the illusion that i've heard every word. after 20 minutes, my head starts to throb.
"adam!" i say, trying to interrupt his flow.
"...and then goku said, "you'll never defeat me" and they started to battle and-"
"ADAM!"
"yes dad?"
"please. talk less. say more."
"but i'm just telling you what happened."
"then tell me another time."
adam is quiet for a few uncomfortable minutes.
i eventually feel bad and ask him about his school lessons. this ellicits the short "okay" and "good" answers from him and then silence again. i know that i have stifled something in him.
i can't but feel like he's trying in his own way to reach out to me and catch me up on everything he's experienced in the last fortnight. he's trying to make everything normal since the divorce, to include me in his life and share himself with me. and my requests for silence start to put distance between us a little at a time. i wrestle with this thought as i turn on to the southern motorway.
however, my desire for music and calm overtakes my guilt and i turn up "raisin' the stakes". after a few minutes, i almost forget he's there.
Sunday, February 06, 2005
Another from the "only in America" file...
Don't bake cookies for your neighbors as a nice gesture, you might give them a heart attack...
It was Waitangi Day yesterday
Waitangi day came and went yesterday, but as a national holiday here in NZ its positivity seems to be increasing. With the mainstream acceptance of Maori culture, it has started to symbolise the elimination of racism and the acceptance of a national identity.
The relevance of this holiday is that a treaty was signed between Maori and the British Crown in 1840, giving the British sovereignty and recognising Maori land rights, thus establishing NZ as a proper nation. The problem was that the English translation of the text varied from the Maori version, and along with departures from the treaty itself by the NZ government, it sowed the seeds of conflict between the two cultures. The result was the establishment of a tribunal which gave a forum for resolving treaty violations and offering compensation to the Tangata Whenua (People of the Land - i.e. Maori). So far, hundreds of millions of dollars has been paid out to various tribes throughout the country.
For a more in depth understanding of the treaty and the issues surrounding it, this website is worth a view.
As a foreigner I've tended to overlook these things as quaint aspects of the place I live, but the significance for NZ shouldn't be underestimated, thus my token gesture to at least raise some awareness of it.
Class dismissed...
The relevance of this holiday is that a treaty was signed between Maori and the British Crown in 1840, giving the British sovereignty and recognising Maori land rights, thus establishing NZ as a proper nation. The problem was that the English translation of the text varied from the Maori version, and along with departures from the treaty itself by the NZ government, it sowed the seeds of conflict between the two cultures. The result was the establishment of a tribunal which gave a forum for resolving treaty violations and offering compensation to the Tangata Whenua (People of the Land - i.e. Maori). So far, hundreds of millions of dollars has been paid out to various tribes throughout the country.
For a more in depth understanding of the treaty and the issues surrounding it, this website is worth a view.
As a foreigner I've tended to overlook these things as quaint aspects of the place I live, but the significance for NZ shouldn't be underestimated, thus my token gesture to at least raise some awareness of it.
Class dismissed...
Sunday, January 30, 2005
I'm Lightly Nerdy
My partner sent me a nerd test for some reason, and I had to do it to prove that I wasn't as much a nerd as she thought. Actually, her favorite term of affection for me is 'geek'...
Thursday, January 20, 2005
It's da bomb
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
she sits
she twists her hair until it binds her hand
in the scuffed corner of some espresso dive
not quite alive but still smouldering,
ember poised over a bland paperback
shades in place despite the hour.
panhandlers do their rounds at the outer tables
partly warded off by the approach of staff
she moves her bag with her feet without changing her stare
her brown strands stay wound like a rope
i glance over my copy of the stranger
shifting my chair with unease
her pale knees closed as if asleep
the breeze from the fan
shuffles the smoke from her face
the place where interest should be
is erased from memory
i circle the word 'deceased' to remind me
like the brown foam on the sides of my bowl
the past is a hole
it hungers and prowls like the haze of dead cigarettes
wiping yellow residue on walls and over eyes
before it lies at your feet and growls when you move.
she watches it linger with the last of her storyline.
a late bus groans by with a howl of air
and the waiter begins his wipedown
the town barely slows in the dark
the glow of coffee hues the skyline
as mercury halos spotlight sooty figures
passing absently beyond the glass
i find no excuse to remain
but she feigns a dream state
insect eyes fixed on the horizon
a model's pose awaiting immortality.
13/1/05
in the scuffed corner of some espresso dive
not quite alive but still smouldering,
ember poised over a bland paperback
shades in place despite the hour.
panhandlers do their rounds at the outer tables
partly warded off by the approach of staff
she moves her bag with her feet without changing her stare
her brown strands stay wound like a rope
i glance over my copy of the stranger
shifting my chair with unease
her pale knees closed as if asleep
the breeze from the fan
shuffles the smoke from her face
the place where interest should be
is erased from memory
i circle the word 'deceased' to remind me
like the brown foam on the sides of my bowl
the past is a hole
it hungers and prowls like the haze of dead cigarettes
wiping yellow residue on walls and over eyes
before it lies at your feet and growls when you move.
she watches it linger with the last of her storyline.
a late bus groans by with a howl of air
and the waiter begins his wipedown
the town barely slows in the dark
the glow of coffee hues the skyline
as mercury halos spotlight sooty figures
passing absently beyond the glass
i find no excuse to remain
but she feigns a dream state
insect eyes fixed on the horizon
a model's pose awaiting immortality.
13/1/05
Tuesday, January 04, 2005
Who says the British Education System isn't Working?
This young lady saved 100 lives when she noticed the water being sucked away from the beach in a funny way while holidaying in Phuket.
Now if only the Pacific Tsunami Warning Center in Hawaii could have been as responsive, more than 100,000 people could still be alive...
Now if only the Pacific Tsunami Warning Center in Hawaii could have been as responsive, more than 100,000 people could still be alive...