Something I Haven't Heard About Before

I guess you could call this a promo video for an Israeli - Palestinan political action group called "One Voice" which is working for a "two state solution" to the conflict in the Middle-East.

Even though there is an element of propaganda here, at least the message focuses on dialogue, consensus, and a moderate approach...

For more info, check out their website

long lost property

today i stumbled upon the california state controller's website for unclaimed property. here you can search under specific names to find out if you have anything owing to you such as insurance claim money or other things like forgotten safe deposit boxes and company shares. it's worth a look. worst case scenario is that you aren't owed anything, and you can continue your sad organized life without the joy of rediscovery...

Wear Sunscreen

Still worth watching and hearing even though it may date a few years now. Some call this inspiring, while I see it as thought provoking beyond a list of sheer platitudes. And the advice is pretty good too...

Bra Wearers Beware

Someone with far too much time on their hands has set up the Strap Police to counter what they call "ugly bra strap syndrome".

I can't help thinking there are other causes which deserve more attention (such as the things the straps hold up - i know, i'm a neanderthal...)

Our Word for Today is...

... Props.

Don't say I never edumacated youz.

borat and the golden globes

i have a feeling i won't be the only one posting this link.

kudos to sacha baron cohen for using the words 'anus' and 'testicles' in his best actor acceptance speech...

and for those of you who may not know what scene he is referring to, have a look at it here. however, i warn you, it may burn into your mind some things you hoped you would never see in real life...



props to p-slim for the link!

As Boring As...

...watching cheese age?

Yep. And other people accuse me of being cheesy and boring...

What you hoped someone would never record on film

Lately it seems that I've become a bit of a YouTube junky, but I had to post this lovely little gem of a video which will have meaning to several of my friends. I think the message is clear: don't break wind near an infrared camera!

And Now for a Musical Number...

I've Gone All Goth

Pretty soon I'll listen only to Evanescence and My Chemical Romance, wear black lipstick, and tatoo a skull on my forehead...

Chocolate: A whole new (gross) way

How many times have you taken a chocolate bar with you on a sunny day, and when your blood sugar is at near comatose levels, you've gone to fish out your energy snack only to find it has been reduced to meaningless goo in your backpack / purse / back pocket? (And how many of you have resorted to desperately licking the wrapper? More than would care to admit it...)

Now, you can bypass that solid chocolate phase altogether with the New Lava Bar: liquified chocolate in a sealed foil packet that probably looks like something you should be flushing away instead of putting it in your mouth, and that's why you can't see it before you eat it! Mmmmm mmmmmm!

I think they should come up with a suppository that emits chocolate in a gas form so people can take it in through their noses every time someone breaks wind. I would call it "Chocolate Cloud"...

Props to DD for the culinary enlightenment!

Jack Black's Tenacious School of Rock

It seems that during Tenacious D's tour of NZ, Jack Black happened to spot a couple of buskers (i.e. street performers) who's musical act he really enjoyed. So much so, he asked them to be his opening act at the Christchurch town hall. But the strangest bit of all is that these guys are only 10 and 11 years old.

I wonder if he's going to train them on how to do stage dives...

Just in Time for Those Family Gatherings

If only something like this was truly available, we might actually enjoy our families during the holidays...

Hobo Humanity

We are a race in a race in constant course correction
We are one rejection slip away from failure
We are one deflection away from disaster
We live in the boxcar of a dream
Our dream on the rails but always shaking
On the road but always skidding
Making mistakes or creating vices
Devices, distractions and divisions
We know how to separate and disuse
We get fat
Get stupid
Get ignorant
Because we are always avoiding learning new things
Because we are always avoiding doing new things

We can always count on apathy
Count on insanity
Count on selfish predators
(I count on my fingers)
We are distinguished by days and nights
Sight and blindness
(Darkness and light always fight in my eyelids)
Gaping holes in our consciousness filled by a noise God
Ipod, Mobi, Zune, Zen
The bodies of men and women in personalized separation,
Masturbation in rubberized safety
Girls and boys and both and neither
Hard sex, soft sex, group sex, toy sex
Cheques honored. Se habla espanol.

Vacating seats
Vacation packages
Ravages of sugar highs
Prozac lows
All you can eat buffets
Breasts and backsides
Workouts and backslides
Sweat and cold misery

Trains are synchronized to arrive at once
But thighs are dancing in random pain
Periods are flowing
Commas are pausing
Causing and deflecting rejecting
The sanctity of grammatical correctness

Undress in layers before your prayers
Before the underwear is gone
Before nakedness and goose flesh
Are crushed in the hot oblivion
Living behind curtains
Behind walls
Underground
We lurk here looking for safety
And there is none to be had
Not even in the sad unions
Lubricated
Panting
Retreating and advancing
Swelling skin and sagging minds

Pain is the only educator
The perverter
The creator and destroyer
The hurt is cruel but effective
Reflective of some plan to guide us through the dip and race
To shear us in the heat and leave us in the cold
Our dags building in the season of neglect
It starts to get old as we get old

And so the boxcar shudders and twists
And we are tempted to fall
Tempted to exit,
Rolling to the ground and walking the rest of the way
We are always one step from disaster
Faster and blinder than our master
With no plan to bind us
No pastor to find us
Just one and alone by the sliding doors.

Heard of Nerdcore?

Now you have....



Props to P-slim and his shades of nerditude...

In Here

Walking on the footpath
Under the fir trees
Between the sparse grass
Past the fat cat yacking a hairball
Watching the Latina hoop earrings and cleaning baskets
The white roofs and wet garbage cans
The patient impatient cars cars cars
Flat faces swollen and staring
Behind the spans of frosted curtains.

Gaps

I see the blonde accoutrements in the Gucci handbag
The gag of onlookers hooked on the beaut
She rummages for the right makeup combination
To hide the mistakes she cannot refute

Guns are in place with fingers itching
Protect the protected protecting the protectors
Victimizing the victims of victimizers victimizing
Shoot first and let history be written by the victors

My aunt has gout from trying to stay still
Her pills mark out the passing of the day
The TV blinks slowly 'til the gap of the ad breaks
As she wonders when she will walk away

His pinstripe garments are pressed to straightness
Delineating the shape of a man
But faces are gaping staring at nothing
Illuminated by no one’s plan

The makeup finished, her eyes are complete
She watches the city through the cloudy window
The train track gaps rap the measured beats
That slow when we slow
That slow when we slow.

Borat in San Jose?

This person on Craigslist must have seen the new Borat movie. I don't know what tells me that, though...

If life is too exciting...

... perhaps you need more dull.

Monday Distraction

Here's a subversive little flash game where you shoot a kitten out of a cannon and try to see how far you can make it go. Part physics and part perversion, it does make for a bit of an addictive diversion...

You Know You're in Texas When...

What can I say? I'm totally speechless - and it's even on a Japanese car! Must be one of them left wing GOP party members...

An Australian Bloke's Love Poem

Here's something straight from the heart of the Southern Hemisphere that hits the mark in many ways. Thanks to DD for thinking of me when she read it...

Of course I love ya darling
You're a bloody top notch bird
And when I say you're gorgeous
I mean every single word
So ya bum is on the big side
I don't mind a bit of flab
It means that when I'm ready
There's somethin there to grab
So your belly isn't flat no more
I tell ya, I don't care
So long as when I cuddle ya
I can get my arms round there
No sheila who is your age
Has nice round perky breasts
They just gave in to gravity
But I know ya did ya best
I'm tellin ya the truth now
I never tell ya lies
I think its very sexy
That you've got dimples on ya thighs
I swear on me nanna's grave now
The moment that we met
I thought you was as good as
I was ever gonna get
No matter wot you look like
I'll always love ya dear
Now shut up while the footy's on
And fetch another beer.

Death of a President

Since I've been in a media vacuum lately, I didn't know about this mockumentary, Death of a President, that premiered at the Toronto film festival and then screened on British TV on October 9th. It depicts the assasination of Dubya in 2007 in Chicago and the ensuing events given that scenario. It's generated enough controversy that two out of three of the largest theater chains have banned it. To get an idea of the style of the film, here is a 10 minute clip including the assasination scene.

Although condemned by many Americans as" shocking", "disturbing" and "irresponsible", the head of More4, the network that originally screened the film on British TV stated on bbc.co.uk: "I'm sure that there will be people who will be upset by it but when you watch it you realise what a sophisticated piece of work it is... It's not sensationalist or simplistic but a very thought-provoking, powerful drama. I hope people will see that the intention behind it is good."

Newmarket Films, the distribution company attempting to convince theaters to show the film in the US hopes to have some takers by smaller theater chains to make the release date of October 27th. Richard Abramowitz, who is consulting with Newmarket on the film’s distribution, said “Death of a President” has been booked into more than 100 venues and he expects that number to rise as he expands his sales effort into other regions.

Let's hope that this piece of entertainment does not become the focus of a political agenda or censorship.

Attack of the Killa Mike

Late night sessions in P-slim's garage abetted in the background by the elusive BuggaSG brought forth a monster rap which will be unleashed on an unsuspecting populace. The killa mike featured prominantly in the creation process, and we had trouble controlling it. BuggaSG, the main MC, busted some rhymes to define the spine of the lyrical beast, and yours truly contributed a verbal entree to the hip hop feast.

A sample of the monster rap:

To bug or not to bug
Don't even try to aks me
My lyrics are so money
The Feds just wanna tax me
I'm worthy
To bug you all the time
So say, "Crazy mutha bugga!"
When you hear my rhyme...

Here is the latest mix of the beast from monster producer, P-slim.

This Child of NineEleven

Born with the breaking of metal and glass,
I passed through an orifice like a TV screen
Into the bright sheen of a media campaign
Red white and blue red white and blue
As I tumbled to the checkerboard floor in the hospital
Where spin doctors picked me up and cooed
“The truth. The truth. The truth,” they said,
“Is that we love you, our sweet consumer.”

Rumor has it that my garden is full of terror plots
Tilled by nimble fingers that linger over vulnerable power plants
And spots where scant lines of defense are furrowed in dry soil.
Hot days are spent rubbing oil beneath straw hats buzzed by military flybys
Spies are everywhere
Terror is everywhere
White convolvulus blooms, weaving its way into desert sands
Abrams are jammed in a bad gag commute
Hands, tied by ticker tape news,
Outline the rise (and fall) of the price of crude,
Imply democracy while others pay our rent.
Let’s portray sporadic resistance
(Turn your head and cough)
Then in the distance the bombs go off
And everyone bows down to our (fallen) monument.

(Cue music)

Five years on with my umbilical still attached
I come back to the TV for warmth
Your glow of digital manipulation
Mama mama mama
Don’t abandon this child
Stay with me stay with me stay with me
Keep me awake, keep me abreast
With news breaks and shakes of paranoia
Amid earthquakes and floods and the falling stars
Keep me safe in my shell
Keep me safe in my shell
Keep me safe in my shell.

The Wake Up

Gotta get down these moments of clarity
These pieces of me on the greasy cloth seats
The train riders half asleep
Despite electronic beeps and jerks of electricity
Thirty years of diseases and dirt
Left by countless soles rubbing the rug under their feet
Thrive with each minute of human humidity.

The sycophantic backs that circle
The sycophantic backs that stare
Swing their slow legs
Dressed in tidy threads
Business threads still absent of sweat
Shiny with iron marks
Dull in the daylight of the clouded windows

The gray sky turns and stays away
From the lengths of cars speeding towards the hill
The tunnel beckoning suggestively

I have ruminated about life
Over the click clack of tracks
Fluoresced until my eyes watered
Begging for sleep until my head waggled
Watching the line of people wander towards the leftover empty spaces
The fat, the thinning, the old, the aging
Staging their way through measured spans of time
Transitioning through the double-doors to the next car to find a seat
Forgetting their daily decay until they are reminded.

This morning I watch their groggy thoughts stumble and slip
After toothbrush automation
As a prelude to sunglasses half-sleep shaken open by the ride
Their demands are just keys to be pushed repeatedly
Pressed by my fingers in their delivery

Gotta get down these moments of clarity
These pieces of me
Each with a feeling and a memory
Needling nerve endings like a ringing phone
Each alone, but together a symphony.

Today I Threw You Away

In the papers and letters
The stacks of square notes you scrawled
The physics books, the math books,
The dated pamphlets in triplicate,
From the hard candies to the soft socks
I hauled you to the dumpster and threw you away.

Today I coughed what was left of your dust
And sneezed it out into your cave
The white walls your pre-grave
Silent from countless clicks and stares
Your folded chair cold
Despite the hours you played freecell

Today I threw out your old life
Your first wife, your first son
Paid one of your parking tickets
Chucked your debris:
The one-armed reading glasses
The 1945 yearbook
The broken ukulele

I squeezed you out
I wrung you out
I washed and wrapped you
And put you in a box.
I threw you away.

I crushed what was left of you,
Crumpled what was left
Smashed and folded and shredded
Your post partum remains.
I destroyed what was left of your chains,

And today
You are free to go.

Bush on Borders

A little immigration humor for you since the subject could use some about now...

Minimalist Laughs

I never saw Brokeback Mountain...

..And now I don't have to because the bunnies have done a 30 second summary for those of us with short attention spans...

I also like their summary of Pulp Fiction...

Calling all Radioheads

P-Slim is the man.

How he was able to secure a pair of tickets to an upcoming Radiohead concert, I have no idea. Tickets went on sale at 10am. By 10:05 they were all gone...

Discover Your Music's Genome

My wife fowarded me this link which allows people to put in their favorite songs and then find music which is similar in genre. Then it plays the music in sequence like a CD. So far the result is pretty bloody entertaining...

You're Such a Pig

Draw a pig and you'll be told what kind of person you are...

What Song was #1 When You Were Born?

Someone with a great deal of time on his hands put together this website. It's worth a look...

Saturday Morning Nostalgia

I got into a discussion with my co-workers today about Sid and Marty Krofft, the creator of many a memorable Saturday morning kids' show such as: H.R. Pufnstuf, Sigmund and the Sea Monster, and the Land of the Lost. These titles bring back vivid childhood memories of me sitting in front of the black and white TV with a bowl of cheerios and being entertained and confused by the Krofft Supershow with such memorable serials such as Electrawoman and Dynagirl, Wonderbug and the Lost Saucer with Ruth Buzzi and Jim Neighbors (of Gomer Pyle fame at the time before we found out about his "friendship" with Rock Hudson). I even remember going to see the HR Pufnstuf movie at the Seaview Twin theatre in Pacifica.

Those were such innocent days. I felt a pang of nostalgia looking through this website that reminded me of the hours I spent glued to the tube. You can click on the titles of these great shows to see the creativity it took to entertain the children of the 70s...

Also in my searches, I found that they are remaking Land of the Lost into a feature film starring Will Ferrell. Since the original show was the essence of camp, I hope they still carry that through to the production as it is the main reason I would ever part with the money to see it.

ritualized

i placed my trust in her
my thrust in her
her bust bronzed and unforgiving
she stares at my profile
prefering plato to plotinus

her divinity was just a phase
assigned by guilty assignations
motivations to repair
the heat she dissipated
into the dusty books she preferred over me

the bird of madness flaps wet wings
and sings in the cloudy mirror
shower steam swirls like fog
the streams of blood left to memory
drained into pipes and smoked before dawn

with her gone i preserved what i could
and now she is good for ritual

Ways to Describe Someone as Stupid

This is definitely not a conclusive list...

1. A few clowns short of a circus.
2. A few fries short of a happy meal.
3. The wheel's spinning, but the hamster's dead.
4. All foam, no beer.
5. The butter has slipped off his pancake.
6. The cheese slid off his cracker.
7. Body by Sony, brains by Mattel.
8. Warning: Objects in mirror are dumber than they appear.
9. Couldn't pour water out of a boot with instructions on the heel.
10. Fell out of the stupid tree and hit every branch on the way down.
11. As smart as bait.
12. Doesn't have all his dogs on one leash.
13. Her sewing machine's out of thread.
14. One fruit loop shy of a full bowl.
15. Her antenna doesn't pick up all the channels.
16. His belt doesn't go through all the loops.
17. Proof that evolution CAN go in reverse.
18. Receiver is off the hook.
19. Not wired to code.
20. Skylight leaks a little.
21. Her slinky's kinked.
22. Too much yardage between the goal posts.
23. Got a full 6-pack, but lacks the plastic thingy to hold them together.
24. A photographic memory, but the lens cover is on.
25. During evolution his ancestors were in the control group.
26. Gates are down, the lights are flashing, but the train isn't coming.
27. Is so dense, light bends around her.
28. If brains were taxed, he'd get a rebate.
29. Standing close to her, you can hear the ocean.
30. Some drink from the fountain of knowledge, but he just gargled.
31. One sandwich short of a picnic.
32. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer.
33. One of her DuraCells is in upside down.
34. His elevator doesn't stop at all the floors.
35. One taco shy of a combo platter.
36. One beer short of a six pack
37. The porchlight's on but no one's home

The Road to Coachella

Last year P-slim pitched the idea of going to this music festival in the Coachella valley as a "boys' weekend out" for some of us to hang out and enjoy the cornucopia of artists in a veritable orgy of music. The thought lasted a short while before the reality of regular life made the idea a pipe dream.

However, through this movie that's doing the festival circuit, I might be able to get a glimpse of what I would have experienced. It's a poor substitute for being there, but at least it is something.

the end of the spectacle

blowflies flit their wings and ovulate
maggotizing flesh in the midst of august nuptials
the first blush of dead blood
on its journey to becoming dust
(nothing more than liquid rust, i'm told)
though the repetition is getting old.

in paris they pray for a giant cunt
to fuck the eiffel tower once and for all
in st louis they pray for the arch to fall
in frisco that god will pry apart the golden gate
and light will expose these late wonders
as nothing more than a publicity stunt

gog and his dog eat pecan pie at nations
his jaw filled with fish hooks fights
washed with libations of soda water wine
hermaphrodite whispers fill skirt hems and straps
sidewalks crack under herr man's weight
promises of six sex annexed by gomer's fear
queer pushes humping sawhorses before gun shots
riddled with cum foreskin fumbled poses
dry humping
wet humping
pumping pneumatic dna mail delivery

of course you're alright baby
the cashmere cardigan hugs your lumps
and love sumps lick the foam from stiff fomentation
next of kin postulate reprobate morticians
drain the hose blood, refill the skin
pack the dead to suit the living's nose
with vitriol octane for the revival.

the savior swills his miller lite
and satan savors a vanilla coffeemate enema
before the fight, the faceless place their bets with cardinal bookies
confessions are at an all time high
so are thighs opened to receive penance
fragrances by mennen leap off the shelves
as obsession sales drop into the abyss
the great reversal as foretold
bold strokes of visionary fools
retooled by market forces felt in wall street

god is a corporation dispensing libations to the creation
too broad for the market?
how about:
god - everything you've always wanted from the beard, and less...

dryheaving dastard's liniments (straddling poohs of derivity)

slumber sticks to me like oil
dark graffiti for my eyes
pulls my fingers into light sockets
tangential to tangerine tangiers tarrantino tangled
queers quell quills quick my underpants are burning
this sicks to ficks the licks a;laskf laksdjf laskjfa;slkfj
i am boring snoring whoring touring blustering
a dullard with map but no wish to burn brun brum
what do ia wanna do wap dee doo doo

she's short on love but long on sex talk
where's my chequebook
fix me some eggs and lox my beechwood birch
could you hand me down a beggar bowl
my penis (or should i say crotch) is buried in the dirt pillorying this confounded vine
vitreous veneer venutian vitruvian vaginosis

alamanda connuculus tweaks her full cleavage until it resembles her ass
until she forgets if she's coming or going (but usually coming)
buttressed against the butler’s butter churner with pneumatic accuracy
delicate digitalis substitute kidney filters
her liver spots lurk under bleach paste
she preens in her pink party dress
coke snot dribbling the scar of her harelip
post nasal drip slipping after the xanax and cognac chaser
she flips her compact and checks the jagged rip of her lipstick luscious lolling perfect

dastard testiculi rocks the foxtail doorknocker mocking shave-n-a-haircut rhythms
jisms in his chinos a propos to his flimsy flick hairdo ego
ergo he knows he's devastatingly erect effecting felonious falafel eating fanfares
alamanda knickerless flicks on the porch light shaped like a pendulous boob
lubes her crotch wrap with cool whip slapped on like a butter boat
coaxes the sticky deadbolt closed then open then closed again
a house shag is always better when distressed dividends dissipate distant dust devils

dastard pulls open his blue van heusen button down and yanks his nipple ring
sings volare and swings his pendulous perfunctory hosebead
until passing out from oxygen deprecations devious anemic deficit
following falling doric delineations ironic into the holly bush
crushing his plush hush puppies with dismorphic rushdies

alamanda eyes her peep show and oils the hinges before opening the door hole
"damn ghost knockers" she mutters and unclasps her cross-your-heart bra
drool dribbles her double chin while she buffs her king clovis crown
corsair whips her wet harelip in the gale moonlight until it gleams

pristine chris green drives by pissed on listerine
observes the scene in the bordello whoreway
careens into a doily store totaling his volvo vagoneer squareback
virgo houses his yugo yogurt until he un-tangos from his wreck
peckering the path with the crumbs of nutterbutters
peanut paste smacking lipscombe larder tongue stuck to his palatial pope dome

"lllluhhhh lmlmhhhll lllluhhh" he mutters lovingly to alamanda's nylon knickerbockers
"well?" alamanda spits in his eyes and spies his lugubrious lovelorn lollygagger
"lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll!" he lists about wringing fists and pinching his nip/tucks
"twenty bucks!" she beckons with her latex fuscia beef pole towards the pink hole in the cupola.
he drags his tripod tiddlywinks towards telltale titillation through the doorway
disrobing in flirtatious strips ripped in rope lengths across the foyer.

alamanda connuculus and chris green vaginate vacillate vegetate until daybreak
fossilizing in the deep freeze when the axis flips
and end up as stone chips in the terramundo excavation display on argos 3 circa lun 23059030
admission by free donation of 45 dsplicaboijs to the overlone musalero preldibabthoerean

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end-o

new year new

exploded fireballs are shiny markers between numbers flipped over six channels of regis and half-brained dick discoballs and tongues catching confetti to jutting hips and drunk cops patrolling cleavage gowns split in even halves sequined slits wet with banter swaggering talent greased for cameras sliding between legs of years spitting cigarettes in gutters churning trash party hats twirled from expectations with new orgasms thrust froglike in dark armpits stumbled over sidewalk of vomit puddles splattered in beer spray again again spray beer in splattered puddles of vomit sidewalk over stumbled armpits dark in froglike thrust orgasms new with expectations from twirled hats party trash churning gutters in cigarettes spitting years of legs between sliding cameras for greased talent swaggering banter with wet slits sequined halves even in split gowns cleavage patrolling cops drunk and hips jutting to confetti catching tongues and discoballs dick half-brained and regis of channels six over flipped numbers between markers shiny are fireballs exploded

"Well...

"...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

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...

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.

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

Where's My Rake?

I hope you're good at charades...

The Physics of Penguin Whacking Polar Bears

Here's a fun diversion which should waste some time.

Cheers to DD for the link...

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

Instant Status

Isn't most of Western Society like this?

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.

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)....

Big John

It's a note that cuts men to the quick, no? Gotta love that engrish...

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.

Fortune Surprise

Wouldn't you be gutted?

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?

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...

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

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.

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.

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.

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.....

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...

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...

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!)

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.

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 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...

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…

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 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.

Revamp Like a Tramp

I've just finished renovating. Tomorrow, I'll buy new furniture.

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...

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.

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...    

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.

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...

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...

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?

A Time Waster for You

Here's a game that's a bit of a brain tease...

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...

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...

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...

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...

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.

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.

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...

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'...

It's da bomb

If you ever wanted to know who's exploded a nuke and when, you can go here to find out...

Otherwise relax and enjoy the view...

Thanks to bd for the link!

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

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...

I'm on holiday

Please leave a message at the sound of the...

Hail, hail. Summer is here

Christmas time in NZ is usually the time to go out to the parc, to play in the sprinklers and have barbeques with the family and friends.

This year, however, it has been raining and hailing. Needless to say, people are expecting a white Christmas this year.

I'm just hoping for a bit of heat so I can wear my shorts outside...

Finally...

...some good news.

I can't believe it

WTF!?

Remains

The radio crackles though wood grain speakers
And I laze with the windows open
Sun drowsing the flies until they walk
Pictures fade in the glare on the west wall

The cedar tree in the front yard tips towards the house
Roots sprawled in the heat clasp the spongy earth
The low roof glances down in silence
To where tomato vines once clung to string

The small bedroom feels hollow
With the mattress lying on the floor
Empty closets behind closed doors resound
The last footsteps in this final act

Cracked weatherboards patched for the sale
Are pale with their mask of paint
Memories that remain faint sketches when covered
Read like stories in the dents and etches

Those with history here can see them
Even the ones burned in the rusted oil barrel
And the sound of almost feral bursts of laughter
Recalled by the ears and nerves who heard

For the man who lived here died here
And left his soul here
Mainly in the dried lawn cut while it was green
And in the screen of a hedge encircled like a fortress wall
That made the large world
The brutal world
Seem more assuring and small.

13/12/04

love and revolution

i know i've been slack at keeping up with things lately. this has something to do with renovating my home - a project which is finally near completion. i've been reading through a really amazing essay on the nature of greed and smithian economics, and i hope to post something about it in the near future.

until then, here's an item from the washington post on people who have fallen in love and married during the historical protests in the ukraine. i just hope these young people understand that the romance associated with revolution can dissipate once the mundane resumes. though, that said, i don't believe in sure things. either their love will survive the years or it won't...

Who said bigger is better?

Americans are getting fatter.

I am totally gobsmacked...