Sneaky 'ol Wifebeater Vietch, he nearly pulled it off didn't he?
He nearly had us all forgiving him and dare I say it, feeling for the guy after his early guilty plea in court this week thus saving everybody a drawn out, expensive court case. He gave an emotional speech outside court where he told how dreadful he's felt ever since that day and that same evening Harae Mai John Campbell just about had him in tears in an exclusive interview. It was so emotional that I for one stopped bashing my wife to watch.
Yes, it was a big day alright and it seemed like that Smack My Bitch Up Veitchy was well on the path to redemption. Why even in the Campbell Live interview - where he showed that he’s just as annoying as an interview as he is when the interviewer - he was even promising legal action over the many factions of the media who cracked a huge fat when the story first broke and got so excited at the prospect of tearing apart one of their own just plain made shit up.
Now on this one tiny aspect I'm in favour of Tony the Muss. I don't condone what he did and personally I think someone should have the opportunity of kicking him in his midget back just as hard, or harder, than he did his ex missus. But if there’s one thing I hate its people that profligate mis-information under the guise of 'news'. And this case was full of it. The NZ Herald for example, the newspaper that some folk (most of who live in Auckland where the Herald is the delivered it should be remembered) rate as the best in the country, churned out a ton of crap that was factually incorrect. Now that might not make them the best paper in the land but unfortunately they are the biggest and that means a lot of impressionable people took what they printed as gospel.
Radio Live, the radio station that is quite possibly only listened to by the deaf and could easily be renamed 'Wankers Live' and no one would bat an eyelid, allowed some of its hosts to embellish the facts of the case and thus make their ranting and empty promises of 'ruining Veitch' sound all the more reasonable. I don't actually know anyone who listens to Wankers Live but there have to be a few and unfortunately that means more counter knowledge has found its way into tea rooms and lounges up and down the country.
So, now somewhat in the clear, Veitchy is promising to take to the cleaners the very media he not so long ago he was gagging to be a part of again. That seems genuine doesn't it? Yep, how could we not now side with Veitch?
Because a few things haven't gone quite so accordingly to plan for the White Ribbon poster boy. First the news broke that some of the character references put before the court, written by some very famous people, were not gathered under the pretence of keeping Veitch out of jail at all. Rather they were written under the understanding that they were to be used to help Veitch get his passport back. Veitch's father it seems, who obtained the references, seems to share his sons talent for being a smooth talking bullshit artist.
A couple of other things didn't sit well with me either. His speech outside of the court room was read like it was the Saturday night sports news that Veitch used to read. Before he smacked his bitch up. Infact everything he reads or makes a statement over sounds as genuine as Adolf Eichmann’s 'Final Solution'. Let's not forget this is geezer who is trained to write creatively and more disturbingly, emotively. How can we believe anything that comes out of his mouth?
And I’m not the only one who doesn’t seem to be buying the drama. Many commentators are so underwhelmed by his apparent lack of remorse that in a last ditch attempt at being noticed, Veitch tried to top himself again this weekend. His third failed attempt at taking his live since this all started. You’d think he’d get it right by now huh? How hard is it to kill one’s self? That is if you genuinely want to kill yourself and aren’t just looking to get attention…
Let’s not feel sorry for Veitch. He’s a man who has courted the limelight when it suited him. He has huge money behind him (his in-laws are millionaires) and he has an expensive legal and PR team that have gone to great lengths to intimidate and dig the dirt on his ex partner. And yet we're supposed to buy the line he rolls out regularly that he’s lost everything?!
Veitch is finding out the hard way that money and fame can buy you a lot of things, but it can’t buy you redemption. That you have to earn.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Monday, April 13, 2009
Shaven Sideburns: The Ultimate Contraceptive
Have you ever noticed how some guys shave the bit where their sideburns should be? Not give it a trim mind you, but cut it nice and high, far too high to be sane really. And have you also ever noticed that the kind of guy who has just such a cut, doesn't half look like he would be right at home standing outside your bathroom window watching whilst you shower?
A whole bunch of dudes like that work at the hospital, deep in the bellows where they can't frighten the already weak of heart patients, unless you have the misfortune of waking in the middle of the night in time to see the ones who like to stand outside of your bedroom window watching you sleep. Not that I ever did, but just because I didn't see him it doesn't mean he wasn't there!
Kind of like if a fat girl falls in the woods is it still funny? Ponder that.
Anyhoo, I have from time to time bumped into the shaven sideburn squad. They're the guys who get to push heavy trolleys full of shit (sometimes literally) through the warren of tunnels that link the many hospital buildings. They are, quite frankly, the oil in the machine. If they weren't their skulking their way about day after day, freaking out the young nurses who use the tunnels as shortcuts to get about, the place would fall to pieces. But knowing that doesn't make it any less scary when bumping into one, especially at night.
I had to ask one for help a few weeks back whilst trying to locate the pharmacy. I had foolishly thought it would be clearly sign posted and had thus assured my doctor that I could find it, no problems. It wasn't and I couldn't, hence my flagging down Lurch for assistance. He was happy for the interruption - his type always are - and dutifully informed me that a) the door was unmarked and secure and b) that I had just walked past it. I wasn't too happy that he then advised me to walk in front of his flatbed truck of a trolley till we got there but I figured hey, if he runs me down in an instantaneous, uncontrollable savant rage I was in the right place for it.
He wasn't wrong, on both counts. The place was locked down like a nuclear missile silo. I had to get through two intercom controlled doors but my god was it worth it, because inside, at least from what I could see from the little service window, the place was full of beautiful young women packing pills like some clandestine drug lab. Which of course it was! The reason for all the security suddenly became abundantly clear; I thought it might've been to keep any semi-determined P cook from ever finding the place in a drug fuelled raid, but no, it was to protect the gorgeous girls from Lurch and his homeboys.
In all seriousness though, it was one of those little moments in your life that you know you will never be able to explain in sufficient detail to anybody, ever. Why right now I have a chubby at the very thought of it but I bet you haven't.
Not all guys choose to have the 'burns chopped so unceremoniously half way up the head. It's one of those sick jokes that barber plays on their unsuspecting captive customers. If you have the pleasure of visiting a real barber and remember, real men do, then you really should avoiding saying "no" to the innocent sounding question "Are we keeping the sideburns sir?".
But at least you'll be asked. When you're ten and struggling to attract the opposite sex as it is the last thing you need is the setback of having white skin showing from the bowl cut down, something that doesn't cross the mind of the bastard with the clippers. If being taken to the barbers at 6am and having to spend the rest of the school day smelling of old man and the sanitiser the barbers cleaned their kit in wasn't bad enough!
They don't cut hair like that any more though and boys are reaping the rewards. Maybe that’s why 5000+ teenagers gave birth last year but god knows how. I was trawling through some Facebook photos of friends younger and far more attractive than myself - the only point of FB really - and I was absolutely blown away by the self presentation of the young 'gentlemen' on show. These guys haven't made the slightest bit of effort in getting ready for whatever piss up they're at and I can see why, the coherent state of the girls deteriorates well before I hit the second page of photos and that folks is why we have so many teen pregnancies in New Zealand.
That would never happen if you shave your son’s sideburns. Or your daughters for that matter. Trust me, I speak from experience.
A whole bunch of dudes like that work at the hospital, deep in the bellows where they can't frighten the already weak of heart patients, unless you have the misfortune of waking in the middle of the night in time to see the ones who like to stand outside of your bedroom window watching you sleep. Not that I ever did, but just because I didn't see him it doesn't mean he wasn't there!
Kind of like if a fat girl falls in the woods is it still funny? Ponder that.
Anyhoo, I have from time to time bumped into the shaven sideburn squad. They're the guys who get to push heavy trolleys full of shit (sometimes literally) through the warren of tunnels that link the many hospital buildings. They are, quite frankly, the oil in the machine. If they weren't their skulking their way about day after day, freaking out the young nurses who use the tunnels as shortcuts to get about, the place would fall to pieces. But knowing that doesn't make it any less scary when bumping into one, especially at night.
I had to ask one for help a few weeks back whilst trying to locate the pharmacy. I had foolishly thought it would be clearly sign posted and had thus assured my doctor that I could find it, no problems. It wasn't and I couldn't, hence my flagging down Lurch for assistance. He was happy for the interruption - his type always are - and dutifully informed me that a) the door was unmarked and secure and b) that I had just walked past it. I wasn't too happy that he then advised me to walk in front of his flatbed truck of a trolley till we got there but I figured hey, if he runs me down in an instantaneous, uncontrollable savant rage I was in the right place for it.
He wasn't wrong, on both counts. The place was locked down like a nuclear missile silo. I had to get through two intercom controlled doors but my god was it worth it, because inside, at least from what I could see from the little service window, the place was full of beautiful young women packing pills like some clandestine drug lab. Which of course it was! The reason for all the security suddenly became abundantly clear; I thought it might've been to keep any semi-determined P cook from ever finding the place in a drug fuelled raid, but no, it was to protect the gorgeous girls from Lurch and his homeboys.
In all seriousness though, it was one of those little moments in your life that you know you will never be able to explain in sufficient detail to anybody, ever. Why right now I have a chubby at the very thought of it but I bet you haven't.
Not all guys choose to have the 'burns chopped so unceremoniously half way up the head. It's one of those sick jokes that barber plays on their unsuspecting captive customers. If you have the pleasure of visiting a real barber and remember, real men do, then you really should avoiding saying "no" to the innocent sounding question "Are we keeping the sideburns sir?".
But at least you'll be asked. When you're ten and struggling to attract the opposite sex as it is the last thing you need is the setback of having white skin showing from the bowl cut down, something that doesn't cross the mind of the bastard with the clippers. If being taken to the barbers at 6am and having to spend the rest of the school day smelling of old man and the sanitiser the barbers cleaned their kit in wasn't bad enough!
They don't cut hair like that any more though and boys are reaping the rewards. Maybe that’s why 5000+ teenagers gave birth last year but god knows how. I was trawling through some Facebook photos of friends younger and far more attractive than myself - the only point of FB really - and I was absolutely blown away by the self presentation of the young 'gentlemen' on show. These guys haven't made the slightest bit of effort in getting ready for whatever piss up they're at and I can see why, the coherent state of the girls deteriorates well before I hit the second page of photos and that folks is why we have so many teen pregnancies in New Zealand.
That would never happen if you shave your son’s sideburns. Or your daughters for that matter. Trust me, I speak from experience.
Hello, is your daughter home?
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Are You Over It Yet?
Are you a little bit over the whole 'Sonny Fai / Warriors' thing yet?
Yes, it was a tragedy that a young man with a huge future lost his life well before his time, but that was three months ago. I think it's time for the Warriors to move on and pay some serious homage to the name they're wearing on their jerseys all season long by hardening up and funnelling into their on field efforts some of the energy they expel in all these emotional tributes they have before each game.
If they plan to make every home game a Sonny Fai memorial and then go on to loose, the fans are going to start wondering if honouring his memory is more of a distraction, than it is a motivation.
I'm not saying they shouldn't honour the memory of the guy, but it might be time for private tributes to start being made before each game and not musical sideshows.
Something I suspect the man himself would have been more likely to be making were he in the same situation.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Earth Hour, Ribbon Wearing and Crap Art
How good was Earth Hour aye? Everybody switched off the non necessities of life for an hour i.e. the hallway light and collectively New Zealand saved 3.5% of a normal Saturday nights power usage. Great stuff.
Only 3.5% doesn't seem like a helluva lot does it? It's a piss poor amount really which I think says a lot about peoples awareness or desire to switch off, even when it's a much publicised party event like Earth Hour. Which I'm not against, really I'm not. I'm a closet greenie and have been for a few years now. I teach my son about recycling, I collect the water that I use when I rinse stuff in the sink and use it in the garden, I switch appliances off at the wall and I even let the yellow mellow sometimes. But only when it's the colour of apple juice, none of that first morning, Berocca coloured carry on. That stuff stinks at the best of times, there's no way I'm going to leave that for the family to walk in on.
I'm all for sustainability and reducing the carbon footprint, but I shake my head at shit like 'Earth Hour'. Let’s be honest, if we're serious about saving the planet then every hour should be earth hour. Easier said than done, I know, but switching off the lights on a few gay landmarks around the place for an hour is symbolic, but not terribly efficient, especially when the streets surrounding it are still lit up like Hiroshima was in 1945. That little irony seemed to have escaped the organisers of celebrations here in New Zealand, who held concerts and parties in squares and octagons up and down the country, all powered of course by power, which they used copious amounts of to help celebrate saving the power they just switched off.
Personally I think all landmarks should be lightless at night, unless of course they pose a serious risk to low flying aircraft and alike. If you want to see Auckland Harbour bridge at night then take a torch I say, or go sightsee during the day, like normal folk. This need to plaster lights all over everything is one of those things that city councils spend their time dreaming up to waste money on that they could actually spend on useful shit, like amenities, parks and other such rubbish.
I think commercial properties should have their power metered and when a predetermined threshold is met, booya, off goes the juice. Men in raincoats who list one of their hobbies as 'letter writing to the Editor' could all be employed to cruise city centres each evening noting down companies that leave the lights burning for the masses all night, every night. For every hour a light burns in an unoccupied building after 6pm there will be the penalty of an hour's less power during actual business hours. For that real 'Earth Hour' affect none of the offenders should actually be told that this is going to happen. It just does. Fuck yeah.
Any company silly enough not to get the message the first time gets to take it to the next level; for every hour a light burns in an unoccupied burning after 6pm the CEO has his testes wired to the mains for an hour. Now that’s a cause we can all get behind.
A bit like ribbon wearing. Everyone seems to be getting into wearing a coloured ribbon of some sort. I feel bad because I'm not wearing one which I can't help but think sends the message that I must be for smacking my bitch up, or breast cancer, or Aids. Now I'm pretty sure, as long as my arse faces south, that no one is 'for' these terrible things, but you sure do feel like a prick for not owning a ribbon. I feel the same about anyone who doesn’t wear a poppy on ANZAC day, they must be Nazi lovers.
Maybe to detract from the fact that I’m not wearing a ribbon of any sort, I should go and stand somewhere with my willy hanging out of my fly and call it 'art'? Hey, if a fruity Spaniard can get away with it as part of Wellington’s art festival then what can't you get away? I love the write ups that pre-empt nut bars like these too; 'he's challenging the perception of art as we know it'. No, he's not. He's standing in a darkened room with his chopper out.
Try that same technique on your nearest street corner and see how far it gets you. A few weeks ago some French tart chartered a plane and flew a bunch of goldfish in bowls across the Tasman. She filmed this groundbreaking piece of history and showed it to anyone silly enough to pay the entrance fee. All under the guise of 'art'.
I might be a simple lad from Naenae but I know art when I see it. The Sistine chapel is art. The Mona Lisa is art. The Andy Warhol inspired, colours reversed self portrait my son drew at school a year or two back that hangs in our garage, is art. Standing with meat and two vege out in a darkened room of Dixon Street, is not. It might be some Gaylord getting his willies at you checking out his willy, but art it is not. Art, like fashion, is an inbred private joke at the best of times, you either get it or you don’t, but rocking out with your cock out is a lame excuse for a lack of creativity.
Maybe we should wire his testes to the mains for an hour. And call it 'art'.
Only 3.5% doesn't seem like a helluva lot does it? It's a piss poor amount really which I think says a lot about peoples awareness or desire to switch off, even when it's a much publicised party event like Earth Hour. Which I'm not against, really I'm not. I'm a closet greenie and have been for a few years now. I teach my son about recycling, I collect the water that I use when I rinse stuff in the sink and use it in the garden, I switch appliances off at the wall and I even let the yellow mellow sometimes. But only when it's the colour of apple juice, none of that first morning, Berocca coloured carry on. That stuff stinks at the best of times, there's no way I'm going to leave that for the family to walk in on.
I'm all for sustainability and reducing the carbon footprint, but I shake my head at shit like 'Earth Hour'. Let’s be honest, if we're serious about saving the planet then every hour should be earth hour. Easier said than done, I know, but switching off the lights on a few gay landmarks around the place for an hour is symbolic, but not terribly efficient, especially when the streets surrounding it are still lit up like Hiroshima was in 1945. That little irony seemed to have escaped the organisers of celebrations here in New Zealand, who held concerts and parties in squares and octagons up and down the country, all powered of course by power, which they used copious amounts of to help celebrate saving the power they just switched off.
Personally I think all landmarks should be lightless at night, unless of course they pose a serious risk to low flying aircraft and alike. If you want to see Auckland Harbour bridge at night then take a torch I say, or go sightsee during the day, like normal folk. This need to plaster lights all over everything is one of those things that city councils spend their time dreaming up to waste money on that they could actually spend on useful shit, like amenities, parks and other such rubbish.
I think commercial properties should have their power metered and when a predetermined threshold is met, booya, off goes the juice. Men in raincoats who list one of their hobbies as 'letter writing to the Editor' could all be employed to cruise city centres each evening noting down companies that leave the lights burning for the masses all night, every night. For every hour a light burns in an unoccupied building after 6pm there will be the penalty of an hour's less power during actual business hours. For that real 'Earth Hour' affect none of the offenders should actually be told that this is going to happen. It just does. Fuck yeah.
Any company silly enough not to get the message the first time gets to take it to the next level; for every hour a light burns in an unoccupied burning after 6pm the CEO has his testes wired to the mains for an hour. Now that’s a cause we can all get behind.
A bit like ribbon wearing. Everyone seems to be getting into wearing a coloured ribbon of some sort. I feel bad because I'm not wearing one which I can't help but think sends the message that I must be for smacking my bitch up, or breast cancer, or Aids. Now I'm pretty sure, as long as my arse faces south, that no one is 'for' these terrible things, but you sure do feel like a prick for not owning a ribbon. I feel the same about anyone who doesn’t wear a poppy on ANZAC day, they must be Nazi lovers.
Maybe to detract from the fact that I’m not wearing a ribbon of any sort, I should go and stand somewhere with my willy hanging out of my fly and call it 'art'? Hey, if a fruity Spaniard can get away with it as part of Wellington’s art festival then what can't you get away? I love the write ups that pre-empt nut bars like these too; 'he's challenging the perception of art as we know it'. No, he's not. He's standing in a darkened room with his chopper out.
Try that same technique on your nearest street corner and see how far it gets you. A few weeks ago some French tart chartered a plane and flew a bunch of goldfish in bowls across the Tasman. She filmed this groundbreaking piece of history and showed it to anyone silly enough to pay the entrance fee. All under the guise of 'art'.
I might be a simple lad from Naenae but I know art when I see it. The Sistine chapel is art. The Mona Lisa is art. The Andy Warhol inspired, colours reversed self portrait my son drew at school a year or two back that hangs in our garage, is art. Standing with meat and two vege out in a darkened room of Dixon Street, is not. It might be some Gaylord getting his willies at you checking out his willy, but art it is not. Art, like fashion, is an inbred private joke at the best of times, you either get it or you don’t, but rocking out with your cock out is a lame excuse for a lack of creativity.
Maybe we should wire his testes to the mains for an hour. And call it 'art'.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Every Recession Cloud Has A Silver Lining
Geez this recession business is some serious shit isn't it?
Or so we're told. Someone is always telling us aren't they? There's always an expert on something, somewhere prepared to tell you just how bad it is. I really wish they wouldn't though; those people stuff it up for those of us that really do know it all. But no matter how grim it's going to get, I can't help but think there are some positives to a global recession.
Like how finally we will have a solution to the rampant consumerism that seems to plague just about everybody. With the prospect of job losses and cost cutting we can expect discretionary spending to reduce. With the pinch going on financial intuitions - especially finance companies - we can expect interest rate on hire purchases and personal loans to be high. Loan shark high. If that doesn't curb the desire for the sufferers of status anxiety to feel they have to buy the latest in flat screen TVs to match the neighbours, then what the fuck will aye?
Of course more and more finance companies are going bust because the investments they have made with your debt have fallen through, so the neighbour who still owes a packet on the latest in flat screen TV that he bought with the help of the finance company, is going to lose it as the creditors try and recoup some of the investors money. Suddenly that old cathode number that sits out in the garage or the shed and served every bugger so well for so long is not too shabby after all.
Upgrading the iPod to the latest colour range won't be an option, nor will be the next generation in cell phones; the ones that have a built in toilet. That PC of yours that just doesn't seem to download the streaming porn quite as quick as it use to will just have to do you for a few years, you'll just have to burn your favourite Red Tube clips to disc.
Electrical appliances will have to be repaired, not trashed at the first hint of trouble like the old video player that chewed your stick flick just as it was getting to the threesome bit, again. Those that specialise in small appliance repair will have the kind of brisk trade that their grandfather used to tell them about when he first started the business back in the 50's. Shoes and clothes will have to last more than one season and people will finally start to question whether or not $15 to see a movie that will be out on DVD in a few weeks is money well wasted.
Boy racers like my neighbour will find that not only are their ridiculously loud Jappas more expensive to buy, but the finance and insurance costs of just such a motor will be more than they save by living at home, wanking their days away on the couch until Mum comes home. Those with menial jobs and who spend their apprenticeship at the garage out the back sniffing the old CRC cans, might be reduced to car pooling when they do the Courtney Place circuit because their minimum wage won’t stretch to meet the on going costs of keeping their wanker’s wagons on the roads. Oh dear, how sad, never mind.
Restaurants and cafes will do it tough because their patrons will have to stay home and heaven forbid learn to cook. Home Economics classes at secondary schools will overflow with new entrants because chances are it will be the only feed that some of those kids get. There is a shortage of Home Ec teachers in New Zealand, a sure sign that for too long now the art of cooking and knowing the basics has been lost on a generation that has everything offered to them pre-pared, pre-sliced and pre-packed for consumer convenience.
Companies are realising that the ridiculous concept that is the corporate lunch and having a 'coffee meeting' is not only a waste of money it's a waste of time. The same companies will look to cut costs and unfortunately that will mean redundancies, no surprise given that usually a figure of about 75% of a companies expenditure is on wages. Those that keep their jobs will find that their email and internet usage will be closely scrutinised as firms look to maximise productivity. No emails and Facebook? Crikey. What will Generation X,Y, or whatever fucken letter we're up to do at work all day? Actually work?
Yep, even a recession has its positives.
Or so we're told. Someone is always telling us aren't they? There's always an expert on something, somewhere prepared to tell you just how bad it is. I really wish they wouldn't though; those people stuff it up for those of us that really do know it all. But no matter how grim it's going to get, I can't help but think there are some positives to a global recession.
Like how finally we will have a solution to the rampant consumerism that seems to plague just about everybody. With the prospect of job losses and cost cutting we can expect discretionary spending to reduce. With the pinch going on financial intuitions - especially finance companies - we can expect interest rate on hire purchases and personal loans to be high. Loan shark high. If that doesn't curb the desire for the sufferers of status anxiety to feel they have to buy the latest in flat screen TVs to match the neighbours, then what the fuck will aye?
Of course more and more finance companies are going bust because the investments they have made with your debt have fallen through, so the neighbour who still owes a packet on the latest in flat screen TV that he bought with the help of the finance company, is going to lose it as the creditors try and recoup some of the investors money. Suddenly that old cathode number that sits out in the garage or the shed and served every bugger so well for so long is not too shabby after all.
Upgrading the iPod to the latest colour range won't be an option, nor will be the next generation in cell phones; the ones that have a built in toilet. That PC of yours that just doesn't seem to download the streaming porn quite as quick as it use to will just have to do you for a few years, you'll just have to burn your favourite Red Tube clips to disc.
Electrical appliances will have to be repaired, not trashed at the first hint of trouble like the old video player that chewed your stick flick just as it was getting to the threesome bit, again. Those that specialise in small appliance repair will have the kind of brisk trade that their grandfather used to tell them about when he first started the business back in the 50's. Shoes and clothes will have to last more than one season and people will finally start to question whether or not $15 to see a movie that will be out on DVD in a few weeks is money well wasted.
Boy racers like my neighbour will find that not only are their ridiculously loud Jappas more expensive to buy, but the finance and insurance costs of just such a motor will be more than they save by living at home, wanking their days away on the couch until Mum comes home. Those with menial jobs and who spend their apprenticeship at the garage out the back sniffing the old CRC cans, might be reduced to car pooling when they do the Courtney Place circuit because their minimum wage won’t stretch to meet the on going costs of keeping their wanker’s wagons on the roads. Oh dear, how sad, never mind.
Restaurants and cafes will do it tough because their patrons will have to stay home and heaven forbid learn to cook. Home Economics classes at secondary schools will overflow with new entrants because chances are it will be the only feed that some of those kids get. There is a shortage of Home Ec teachers in New Zealand, a sure sign that for too long now the art of cooking and knowing the basics has been lost on a generation that has everything offered to them pre-pared, pre-sliced and pre-packed for consumer convenience.
Companies are realising that the ridiculous concept that is the corporate lunch and having a 'coffee meeting' is not only a waste of money it's a waste of time. The same companies will look to cut costs and unfortunately that will mean redundancies, no surprise given that usually a figure of about 75% of a companies expenditure is on wages. Those that keep their jobs will find that their email and internet usage will be closely scrutinised as firms look to maximise productivity. No emails and Facebook? Crikey. What will Generation X,Y, or whatever fucken letter we're up to do at work all day? Actually work?
Yep, even a recession has its positives.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Top Models Or Christian Rock? Tough Choice.
Moral dilemma. I think I downloaded a Christian track onto the 'ol iPod. Bummer. I had seen the band on TV and liked their sound, looked them up on Wankipedia and after sampling a few thirty second sound bites on iTunes, downloaded their two most popular songs. The suspect song is a catchy little number and sure, it has a lot of 'oh lords' in it and verses about 'showing me the way', but I thought it was a song about breaking up. On closer listening I think it’s about finding Jesus.
So now what do I do? Keep them and just hope anyone listening to my playlist in the car doesn't take me for a paid up member of the God squad, or just continue to rock out with my cock out and enjoy the ride? They wouldn't be the first band to suck me in with their catchy riffs and not too subtle words of worship but then I’ve always thought Phil Collins wrote the book of Genesis, so I’m easy pickings. Maybe I'll download their whole damn album in the hope that it will give me the knowledge I need to pass myself off as a true believer next time I try to gatecrash the Parachute music festival, where all the hot teenage girls all wear promise rings but believe that 'oral is moral'.
Am I only the one who thinks that current Labour Party leader, Phil Goff, looks a lot like the former leader, Helen Clarke? People always thought Aunty Helen was a bit mannish and lets be honest here, we haven't seen the two of them in the same room together for sometime, so there you go. I feel as sure about this as I do that it would be more interesting if He-Man called himself the Master-bator of the Universe. He's clearly got the arms to prove it. He must use both too...
Not nearly as surprising are reality TV programs and the predictable initial elimination and selection episodes. If watching this rubbish has taught me anything, it’s that to guarantee your passage through the early stages you should stand out like a stiffy in bike shorts.
This is particularly true on anything where looks are the focal point of the show, like New Zealand’s Next Top Model, our version of the American show of the same name. Now the makers of shows like this have two options; pick all the pretty girls or pick most of the pretty girls and through in a few fruit cakes for dramatic effect. They will never ever go with the first option because lets face it, a pretty girl is a pretty girl and sure, she looks magic amongst a bunch of munters, but put her amongst a group of other similarly pretty girls and they all look alike. Unfortunately that makes for a very boring hour of TV unless you if you're a teenager who's discovered the wonder that is 'the wank'. Then it’s a rope burn hour of TV.
These 'interesting' girls are almost always not as pretty, but that doesn't matter. The producers of the show hope by mixing in the kooky girls with the attractive girls will lead to fireworks and they're not wrong. The damaged girls resent the pretty girls for being so damn hot and the pretty girls resent the damaged girls for being the mingers in what essentially is a beauty pageant. Eventually the mutual dislike reaches a level where it's not so subtle and shit hits a new level; the scrubbers will get their backs up over the beauty queens questioning their competing in a competition about who’s the prettiest, whilst the Paris Hiltons will feel that the Lindsay Lohans are using their baggage to get ahead.
Compelling stuff alright, but not groundbreaking. This kind of carry on between the differing factions of girls has gone on since ages ago and life as a girly is not all about pyjama parties, pillow fights and shaving each others legs. Its not, but oh how we fellas wish it was.
So sure enough, when faced with the need to cull 30 wannabes down to 12 probable’s you just knew the African refugee girl was going to make the final cut, as was the girl with the career threatening physical illness and the girl whose parents murdered each other over just where to hang the tea towel. Or something like that. Hardly a short listing that is indicative of anything that would happen in real life, but then this kind of product placement is not just restricted to model searches. On Dancing with the Stars there is always an overweight celebrity, not that there is anything wrong with being an overweight celebrity, especially as the population is getting fatter with every passing minute, but why not have ten fatties and two lookers?
I know why and you know why. Nobody wants to watch fatties, not even fatties. They might have their place in obstacle course type shows but that’s about it. Think about all the shows on TV right now that star fatties and they're all about one thing; them losing weight. Why are there no shows about skinny bastards like me getting fat? Why are there no shows about she males like Aunty Goff, or cartoons about ambidextrous intergalactic wankers?
No wonder I've started to listen to Christian rock, there’s nothing worth watching on TV.
So now what do I do? Keep them and just hope anyone listening to my playlist in the car doesn't take me for a paid up member of the God squad, or just continue to rock out with my cock out and enjoy the ride? They wouldn't be the first band to suck me in with their catchy riffs and not too subtle words of worship but then I’ve always thought Phil Collins wrote the book of Genesis, so I’m easy pickings. Maybe I'll download their whole damn album in the hope that it will give me the knowledge I need to pass myself off as a true believer next time I try to gatecrash the Parachute music festival, where all the hot teenage girls all wear promise rings but believe that 'oral is moral'.
Am I only the one who thinks that current Labour Party leader, Phil Goff, looks a lot like the former leader, Helen Clarke? People always thought Aunty Helen was a bit mannish and lets be honest here, we haven't seen the two of them in the same room together for sometime, so there you go. I feel as sure about this as I do that it would be more interesting if He-Man called himself the Master-bator of the Universe. He's clearly got the arms to prove it. He must use both too...
Not nearly as surprising are reality TV programs and the predictable initial elimination and selection episodes. If watching this rubbish has taught me anything, it’s that to guarantee your passage through the early stages you should stand out like a stiffy in bike shorts.
This is particularly true on anything where looks are the focal point of the show, like New Zealand’s Next Top Model, our version of the American show of the same name. Now the makers of shows like this have two options; pick all the pretty girls or pick most of the pretty girls and through in a few fruit cakes for dramatic effect. They will never ever go with the first option because lets face it, a pretty girl is a pretty girl and sure, she looks magic amongst a bunch of munters, but put her amongst a group of other similarly pretty girls and they all look alike. Unfortunately that makes for a very boring hour of TV unless you if you're a teenager who's discovered the wonder that is 'the wank'. Then it’s a rope burn hour of TV.
These 'interesting' girls are almost always not as pretty, but that doesn't matter. The producers of the show hope by mixing in the kooky girls with the attractive girls will lead to fireworks and they're not wrong. The damaged girls resent the pretty girls for being so damn hot and the pretty girls resent the damaged girls for being the mingers in what essentially is a beauty pageant. Eventually the mutual dislike reaches a level where it's not so subtle and shit hits a new level; the scrubbers will get their backs up over the beauty queens questioning their competing in a competition about who’s the prettiest, whilst the Paris Hiltons will feel that the Lindsay Lohans are using their baggage to get ahead.
Compelling stuff alright, but not groundbreaking. This kind of carry on between the differing factions of girls has gone on since ages ago and life as a girly is not all about pyjama parties, pillow fights and shaving each others legs. Its not, but oh how we fellas wish it was.
So sure enough, when faced with the need to cull 30 wannabes down to 12 probable’s you just knew the African refugee girl was going to make the final cut, as was the girl with the career threatening physical illness and the girl whose parents murdered each other over just where to hang the tea towel. Or something like that. Hardly a short listing that is indicative of anything that would happen in real life, but then this kind of product placement is not just restricted to model searches. On Dancing with the Stars there is always an overweight celebrity, not that there is anything wrong with being an overweight celebrity, especially as the population is getting fatter with every passing minute, but why not have ten fatties and two lookers?
I know why and you know why. Nobody wants to watch fatties, not even fatties. They might have their place in obstacle course type shows but that’s about it. Think about all the shows on TV right now that star fatties and they're all about one thing; them losing weight. Why are there no shows about skinny bastards like me getting fat? Why are there no shows about she males like Aunty Goff, or cartoons about ambidextrous intergalactic wankers?
No wonder I've started to listen to Christian rock, there’s nothing worth watching on TV.
Monday, March 9, 2009
The Bike Shop
I had to call in on the local bike shop the other day to have my sons bike looked at. It took some finding though; I had never been there before and couldn't find any phone book listings. Infact the only listing of the place I found was online and happened to be a blog by the owner dating back a few years. Maybe that should have told me what kind of place it was - a shop that doesn't want to be found by any that doesn't already know where it is. Global recession anyone?
I did eventually find it, tucked down a side street and only marginally bigger than your standard men’s toilets. It was crammed full of bikes, thus making it a bike shop alright, but it wasn't the kind of welcoming place you would expect a place selling recreational goods to be. Right from the moment I walked in I felt like an outsider. Maybe it was because my calves are too small to ever be mistaken as a cyclist, who knows? Whatever it was I was out of my depth. I knew it and everyone inside knew it.
I had to wait in line behind three other people who weren't it transpired waiting in line, they were merely talking gear ratios with the guy pumping up the tyres on a mountain bike in the corner that looked like it might spend its evening moonlighting as a Transformer. Eventually I worked out he was the owner but then that was easy given that the other person in the shop looking anything remotely like a staff member was a 10 year old girl stuffing a subway sandwich down her gob whilst surfing the internet on the shop PC.
Unable to contribute anything of substance to the gear ratio discussion, I waited patiently until the large, pubescent lad who arrived not long after me and who looked like he might be a good advert for why you should always wear a bike helmet, noticed me. He worked there too apparently, or at least I hope so. I pointed out the broken brake on my son’s bike which he took to with a pair of pliers in such a way that left me thinking 'fuck, well I could have done that'.
Almost apologetically I had to point out that I suspected the inner tube of the front wheel had a hole in it too and would need to be replaced. Sensing that he might have attacked it with the same tool in the hope of appeasing me with a quick fix, I let him know he could keep it over night and I'd be back tomorrow. As I left I took the time to mentally note down some of the accessories they had for sale hanging from the walls so that I might refer to them the next day in a desperate attempt to make like I knew what the fuck I was talking about.
I shouldn't have worried, the owner recognised me the next day and despite having a deep and meaningful with a woman (who's calves were decidedly bigger than mine) served me pretty much straight away. But only after he had finished spinning the wheels on another SUV of a mountain bike in a way that I can only fairly describe as homo erotic. It might have been doing something for Ana Bolic and her impressive calves but I was unmoved.
My sons bike had been taken down to the workshop it transpired, something we only worked out after he had run through a list of bike manufacturers in the same way I would footballers when trying to work out just how much another self professed expert on all things football really knows. My son's bike was none of them and I felt that admitting that we had bought it from The Warehouse was not going to do anything favourable for my repair bill. I eventually described it by colour and was sent across the road to the workshop to locate it myself, thus banished from the shop that good customer service forgot.
It all made me think back to some of my good mates back in my college days who were right into their mountain biking. Sammy and the other Belmont boys coveted mountain bikes the same way I did girls and whereas I was getting into trouble with the fuckwit of a deputy principal for having girls in bikinis on my book covers, they were suppressing stiffies under their desks over the Cannondale’s on theirs.
They would ride their $1000 bikes to school each day and walk around carrying their seats from class to class, possibly because they never rode with them on in the first place, but possibly because they feared they would get stolen. As I always explained it to them, this was Naenae and if one of the brothers was going to go to the trouble of stealing your bike it was going to mean shit all to him if the seat was on or off.
I remember traipsing up some god forsaken mountain with them one weekend to watch madmen catapult themselves down a couple of kilometres of dirt track. We perched ourselves midway down one of the biggest stretches of track and spent the time between flying madmen by discussing shock absorbers, pegs and fuck knows what else. I spent the whole time torn between hoping somebody would crash and worrying that if they did we would be right in the firing line. There eventually was a sensational spill, one further down our stretch of track. Disappointingly there was only the one.
When did cycling - particularly mountain biking - get so serious? One minute we were happy hurtling around the place on bikes either ridiculously too small because Mum and dad couldn't afford a new one, or ridiculously too big because it was a hand me down from your older brother. Or sister, which wasn't cool if you were a boy. You might have spent most of your bike riding childhood cursing the very bar that crunched your nuts most of the time but it was better to have a bar than to have a bike with none at all. Spokeydokeys were all the accessories you needed back then and the only adjustments you ever needed to make was to take those ridiculous padded handle bar protector things off when you came of age to be too cool for school.
For a long time I had an HMX, a yellow one that was neither a BMX nor a GMX. It was H for Hardcore as far as I was concerned. It could have been H for Homo as far as the neighbourhood gang were concerned and they would have thought that way too if it wasn't for the mother of all accessories I had strapped to the ball bar; a loudspeaker with a hand piece that played three different types of sirens. Why even today when I hear just such a siren it makes my nipples and all four of the shiny, black hairs that poke out from them stand on end.
I wonder if some day my son will think back on his bike as fondly as I did mine at the same age. But he'll have to wait till I take it back to get the gears fixed. Back to the shop where skinny calved former HMX riders are welcome, but only just.
I did eventually find it, tucked down a side street and only marginally bigger than your standard men’s toilets. It was crammed full of bikes, thus making it a bike shop alright, but it wasn't the kind of welcoming place you would expect a place selling recreational goods to be. Right from the moment I walked in I felt like an outsider. Maybe it was because my calves are too small to ever be mistaken as a cyclist, who knows? Whatever it was I was out of my depth. I knew it and everyone inside knew it.
I had to wait in line behind three other people who weren't it transpired waiting in line, they were merely talking gear ratios with the guy pumping up the tyres on a mountain bike in the corner that looked like it might spend its evening moonlighting as a Transformer. Eventually I worked out he was the owner but then that was easy given that the other person in the shop looking anything remotely like a staff member was a 10 year old girl stuffing a subway sandwich down her gob whilst surfing the internet on the shop PC.
Unable to contribute anything of substance to the gear ratio discussion, I waited patiently until the large, pubescent lad who arrived not long after me and who looked like he might be a good advert for why you should always wear a bike helmet, noticed me. He worked there too apparently, or at least I hope so. I pointed out the broken brake on my son’s bike which he took to with a pair of pliers in such a way that left me thinking 'fuck, well I could have done that'.
Almost apologetically I had to point out that I suspected the inner tube of the front wheel had a hole in it too and would need to be replaced. Sensing that he might have attacked it with the same tool in the hope of appeasing me with a quick fix, I let him know he could keep it over night and I'd be back tomorrow. As I left I took the time to mentally note down some of the accessories they had for sale hanging from the walls so that I might refer to them the next day in a desperate attempt to make like I knew what the fuck I was talking about.
I shouldn't have worried, the owner recognised me the next day and despite having a deep and meaningful with a woman (who's calves were decidedly bigger than mine) served me pretty much straight away. But only after he had finished spinning the wheels on another SUV of a mountain bike in a way that I can only fairly describe as homo erotic. It might have been doing something for Ana Bolic and her impressive calves but I was unmoved.
My sons bike had been taken down to the workshop it transpired, something we only worked out after he had run through a list of bike manufacturers in the same way I would footballers when trying to work out just how much another self professed expert on all things football really knows. My son's bike was none of them and I felt that admitting that we had bought it from The Warehouse was not going to do anything favourable for my repair bill. I eventually described it by colour and was sent across the road to the workshop to locate it myself, thus banished from the shop that good customer service forgot.
It all made me think back to some of my good mates back in my college days who were right into their mountain biking. Sammy and the other Belmont boys coveted mountain bikes the same way I did girls and whereas I was getting into trouble with the fuckwit of a deputy principal for having girls in bikinis on my book covers, they were suppressing stiffies under their desks over the Cannondale’s on theirs.
They would ride their $1000 bikes to school each day and walk around carrying their seats from class to class, possibly because they never rode with them on in the first place, but possibly because they feared they would get stolen. As I always explained it to them, this was Naenae and if one of the brothers was going to go to the trouble of stealing your bike it was going to mean shit all to him if the seat was on or off.
I remember traipsing up some god forsaken mountain with them one weekend to watch madmen catapult themselves down a couple of kilometres of dirt track. We perched ourselves midway down one of the biggest stretches of track and spent the time between flying madmen by discussing shock absorbers, pegs and fuck knows what else. I spent the whole time torn between hoping somebody would crash and worrying that if they did we would be right in the firing line. There eventually was a sensational spill, one further down our stretch of track. Disappointingly there was only the one.
When did cycling - particularly mountain biking - get so serious? One minute we were happy hurtling around the place on bikes either ridiculously too small because Mum and dad couldn't afford a new one, or ridiculously too big because it was a hand me down from your older brother. Or sister, which wasn't cool if you were a boy. You might have spent most of your bike riding childhood cursing the very bar that crunched your nuts most of the time but it was better to have a bar than to have a bike with none at all. Spokeydokeys were all the accessories you needed back then and the only adjustments you ever needed to make was to take those ridiculous padded handle bar protector things off when you came of age to be too cool for school.
For a long time I had an HMX, a yellow one that was neither a BMX nor a GMX. It was H for Hardcore as far as I was concerned. It could have been H for Homo as far as the neighbourhood gang were concerned and they would have thought that way too if it wasn't for the mother of all accessories I had strapped to the ball bar; a loudspeaker with a hand piece that played three different types of sirens. Why even today when I hear just such a siren it makes my nipples and all four of the shiny, black hairs that poke out from them stand on end.
I wonder if some day my son will think back on his bike as fondly as I did mine at the same age. But he'll have to wait till I take it back to get the gears fixed. Back to the shop where skinny calved former HMX riders are welcome, but only just.
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