Tubby animals

Hard hitting journalism on tv one. When pets get obese - its a bit creepy; the reporter referred to the animal's owner as its dad.
I sure as hell did not want to think about feeling Mark Sainsbury' ribs, either.

Actually, its been a day for unfortunate information. Today at issues a guy said "I'll just get my testicles" - meaning of course, spectacles. We had a laugh...

No, Zinzan, No!

A head injury in spain - from falling out of a taxi? Priceless.

And in other breaking news, Marilyn Manson, or the lead singer thereof, just discovered that women have three holes between their legs. Apparently he made that fascinating revelation to Justin Timberlake's mother, who was astounded. Good one.

Why was she born so stupid?

I always had suspicions about the mental faculties of our pet cat Myfanwy. There's her compulsion to herd people to the kitchen, even if there is food in her bowl (she thinks more food arrives or something). Then there's her lack of personal hygiene and vapour trail of stench, and the time she fell out the window...
But today she bested herself, by managing to get shut in a kitchen cupboard, a cupboard that contained no food, nor anything of use to a cat. Thank goodness she has been neutered, because I hate to imagine how stupid her progeny would be.

I wish

I wish Paul Holmes had been at Funq last night, it would have been hilarious. Instead I had to console myself with watching some dodgy dancing, brokeback mountain style fights, and a man sliding his black vinyl shorts halfway down his hungry arse.

Hungry arse, one look at you and I kiss the skies

Ahem.

It would also have been great if Michael Laws were caught in the bathroom applying eyeliner, but sometimes the universe withholds gratification.

Working on the weekend baby

I think an aura of the video store must linger with me - though people don't ask me for Bukkake Mon Amor, or Ready to Drop - I still get an unsavoury number asking where playboy is. I think they may be trying to shock me, as even unqualified library assistants are notoriously easy to shock. I'm glad we don't retain playboy any more; its bad enough returning sensual massage books with the pages stuck together, let alone Hugh Heffner's airbrushed barbies (why doesn't he just overdose on viagra and die of a heart attack already?).
Still, playboy requests pale in comparison to one a colleague of mine fielded: "Where do you find books on curing invisibility?". Even better, the gift kept on giving - the person was sent to ask at the brainz counter - the central reference desk on the first floor.
Well, how was a lowly circulation staff member going to answer a difficult question like that?

Adventures in the skin trade

I've had a number of flutters in unappealing careers - market garden worker, waitress, cleaner, but none of them quite had the tingle of revulsion that I got from working at a video store. Ah, the clatter of the saloon style doors that led into the porn chamber, the lunch time drop offs of videos, still warm from the player (I hope it was the player). Sometimes it all became a bit too real, there was too much of an insight into the lives of the people I was dealing with. So the customers usually fell into one of three categories.
-The adventurous couple, with female party loudly exclaiming just how into the misgynist porn titles we stocked
-The teenager, with older looking friend,on the loose with his parents video card
-The hardened (tee hee) porn habitue looking for anything newly in the shop, or an old favourite if that was all that was available.
The first category of customers were usually tedious, the second source of hilarity, especially when I had to ring up with overdues. You would think that the kids would be smart enough to return the DVD in time to avoid that phone call which effectively would put an end to their love life. And the last, oh the last. Without them, we would all have been out of work, or the store a shambles. These were individuals who appreciated the comforts in life, and were not afraid to work for them on a quid pro quo basis - how else do you think the shop got refitted?
Sometimes a crusty would enter the shop, and sift around until finally dashing into the back room. Sometimes they were loud and proud, and once someone just complained about the lack of viewing booths. Hell, I wasn't going to clean them up for anyone. And then sometimes, somtimes they were just awesome in their endurance and devotion to our porn range. I think particularly of a man who used to catch a taxi from Brockville to the store, select the evenings entertainment (5 weeklies for $7, 3 overnighters) and rush back out to the waiting taxi to get back home. Lord knows what home was like.
Awash probably.

Che

Che was an incredible man. Apparently he played the sitar in India, despite his hectic schedule.

Ahhh, rocking the free world in more ways than one.

Snake vs alligator

FITE!!

I don't want to hate

But television this week looks pretty nasty. Mr Deeds, A FOUR part documentary on the NZ SAS, the continuing documentary on shopping ("All women love shoes, and those who don't love handbags"), Shortland Street etc ad nauseum. Not even Kept is lifting me out of my gloom; I'm embarrassed for these men. Oh well, soon someone will be voted off, and Jerry's spangled sounding heavies always cheer me up.

Isn't Clovis just the funniest name in Christendom BTW?

Stubbies

At volunteer work, like everywhere else, I have things I particularly enjoy. For me, the thrill of opening a suitcase on the mountain o' crap we sift through makes a day worthwhile. The suitcases often come from estates,


don't you just hate it when things interrupt (like work)

will finish this later

Anyway, the suitcases often contain items from estates. I like these, because that is then the crimplene, the lapels, the synthetics and the walkshorts come thick and fast. How many old men died for my retro trouser collection? Countless. This suit case was an old vulcanite job, rich with promise. Upon opening I was delighted to see an entire collection of old man trousers, stubbie brand! What a shame most of them were unspeakably stained. Its an unfortunate result of volunteer work, but now whenever I shop for trousers my first port of call is the crotch.
Moving right along... we got two pairs with the tags still attached (36" waist, compared with 38" for the others - maybe he was planning to slim?). One of the worn pairs of trousers had pay slips from 1978 in them. After a 40 hour week, with over time, $400. And I'm sorry Julie, but I don't think Pat can make it in for those extra shifts.

Funky bass music won't hide the retardation

I just saw a particularly bad advertisement on television. They're all bad, but this one was obnoxious for two major reasons. It was framed as a public service announcement, and it reached a new depth of stupidity. Yes, apparently basmati rice has a distinct smell and aroma.
Lets just kill ourselves, society is clearly in decline.

That don't impress me much

When I heard about Bryan Adams' sordid affair with Princess Di, I was very upset. No, I was not jealous of either of the parties involved. I was disturbed because it shattered my long clung to illusions about Bryan Adams. I always fondly imagined that he was not only Canada's premier export after Celine Dion [puke], but that he was asexual.

I think a lot of people out there are like me. How else could the world have persisted in thinking that Summer of '69 was literally about the year? Just like after lookng at Exile, I Want to Kiss You All Over mysteriously refers to an extremity. Yeah, we were all going to our collective safe space, and Princess Di had to go and ruin it with her pock-marked prince charming.

And lets not begin about seeing unborn children in her eyes Bryan, thats revolting and unnatural.

R.I.P. Jerry

This means more to the Americans than to New Zealanders, but Jerry Falwell died. He seem to have been a strident opponant of ill-doing and iniquity everywhere, rather like a turbo-charged Patricia Batlett. He put on that breastplate of righteousness, and the helmet of salvation. I suspect he even girt his loins about with truth, and maybe completed the ensemble with the shield of faith, the sword of the spirit and the sandals of peace. I found a few quotes from him online, and I profoundly regret that he was not more prominent in New Zealand. If he were I would always have had someone to laugh at.

-Billy Graham is the chief servant of Satan.

-The idea that religion and politics don't mix was invented by the Devil to keep Christians from running their own country.

-I had a student ask me, "Could the savior you believe in save Osama bin Laden?" Of course, we know the blood of Jesus Christ can save him, and then he must be executed.

-If you're not a born-again Christian, you're a failure as a human being.

-You'll be riding along in an automobile. You'll be the driver perhaps. You're a Christian. There'll be several people in the automobile with you, maybe someone who is not a Christian. When the trumpet sounds you and the other born-again believers in that automobile will be instantly caught away -- you will disappear, leaving behind only your clothes and physical things that cannot inherit eternal life. That unsaved person or persons in the automobile will suddenly be startled to find the car suddenly somewhere crashes.... Other cars on the highway driven by believers will suddenly be out of control and stark pandemonium will occur on ... every highway in the world where Christians are caught away from the drivers wheel.

Oh well, at least we've still got Michael Laws.

Get charged! Pt. 2

Another proud individual, intent on putting Dunedin on the map. This is almost as good as the time the Oamaru Mail decided to differentiate itself from other papers by having two front pages!
I heard several delicious rumours about this, rendered yet more tantilsing by the thought of several Waitati residents huddled round their illicit police radio decoder. Word on the street suggests road spikes met with more success than just taking out the bus. Alas, I suspect whispers of tear gas were unfounded. I wish it were true though, just like I wish there had been passengers on the bus. The increase in entertainment value would have been exponential.

Get charged!

Steven Seagal has branched out; don't waste your time with Tab, buy this.

Steven Seagal's Lightning Bolt is an energy drink as unique as the man who created it. It has pioneered the way for nutritional, all natural energy drinks and emerged as many “firsts”:
- First energy drink to contain Tibetan Goji Berries
- First energy drink to contain Asian Cordyceps

I'm sold

God bless the American flag

Check out this horror.
Those of you who followed Mr Romance will not be surprised, though you may be shocked and disgusted, nay, repelled. How can they allow such a poor quality, grainy photo on a professional site?

I can't believe that more Americans have not showed outrage at this degenerate smearing himself over the flag. Never has a scrap of fabric done so much for so many. It did not ask what the country could do for it, but what it could do for the country. A flag does what it must - in spite of personal consequences, in spite of obstacles and dangers and pressures - and that is the basis of all human morality.

Risque business

The phrase Risque Business does not merely apply to romantic novels adored by older ladies; and strangely enough, the Three Year Itch could also refer to this little darling.
To be honest, the astral background is worrying. I'm just not comfortable with the thought that the next time I reach for the stars by reaching for the phone, this may be my ancestral born psychic.

You wouldn't think it

But from my experiences issuing books at the library, little old ladies are remarkably blood thirsty. With raging libidos.

Further random notes

I'm clearly in the right jobs for strange notes; there have been a few good ones out of the books lately. Moira, someone out there is really sorry, and in 1995 Bruce was set to make a killing selling some albums, push push push!

And wouldn't you know it? That goddess Donna Summer had song almost appropriate for the act of transmitting found letters:
http://www.geocities.com/h_arevalo/radio01.html

ON THE RADIO

Someone found a letter you wrote me, on the radio
and they told the world just how you felt
it must have fallen out of a hole in your old brown overcoat
they never said your name
but I knew just who they meant.

Oh, I was so surprised and shocked, and I wondered too
if by change you heard it for yourself
I never told a soul just how I've been feeling about you
but they said it really loud
they said it on the air
on the radio whoa oh oh
on the radio whoa oh oh
on the radio whoa oh oh
on the radio whoa oh oh now, now

Don't it kinda strike you sad when you hear our song
things are not the same since we broke up last June
the only thing that I wanna hear is that you love me still
and that you think you'll be comin' home real soon
whoa oh yeah yeah
and it made me feel proud when I heard you say
you couldn't find the words to say it yourself
and now in my heart I know I can say what I really feel
'cause they said it really loud
they said it on the air
on the radio whoa oh oh
on the radio whoa oh oh
on the radio whoa oh oh
on the radio

If you think that love isn't found on the radio
well tune right in you made find the love you lost
'cause now I'm sitting here with the man I sent away long ago
it sounded really loud they said it really loud
on the radio whoa oh oh
on the radio whoa oh oh
on the radio whoa oh oh
on the radio whoa oh oh
on the radio whoa oh oh
on the radio, radio, radio (fade)

I'm feeling the whoa oh ohs, even if the song is about a technologically retarded way of spreading the dirt.

Hello? Is there anybody out there?

The past few days I have had cause to leave phone messages at my flat. Unlike someone I have lived with in the past, I don't like to phone in to leave caring messages of love and support to myself, or reminders for that matter.
No, I was leaving highly topical reminders for my flatmates. Important stuff, like, "do you need me to get fuse wire so we can get the electricty back on to the kitchen?". It is so demoralising to get home and hear a blip on the phone signifying an exciting new message, have a palpitation, only to hear my frankly boring droning voice on the other end of the line talking about topics as disperate as coffee, sweatshop labour, and fuse wire. I quickly erase all evidence and fume a bit that no-one is interested in what I have to say, not even me.
But then, think how much worse it would be to be Oliver Driver, voicing over warehouse ads. Or being the briscoes lady, or one of the briscoes ladies in training. Maybe you have seen the ad? The premise is that ***** has bagged a millionaire, all because of her new home furnishings from Briscoes, and two of her acquaintances are gossiping about it on the phone. I'm fairly sure that one of those women doing the voice over went to highschool with me.
Is it possible that I went to school with a putative Briscoes lady? I wonder how she feels about hearing herself on television?
Then again, if you are going to be an actor, you probably love the sound of yourself talking, even about manchester.

See how that neatly links to the sheets in the previous post.

I just can't take any more of your sheets right now...

Another morning, another lot of volunteer work. No stupendous notes today, but we sure filled our complement of rubbish with the number of sheets that came in. Don't get me wrong, I was grateful they were handily clumped together in bags so upon noticing the first brown tide marks and stains we could lob the whole lot out. Sometimes we just get person load of clothes, all nicely wrapped up in a dirty sheet still warm from the bed. mmmmm mmmmm. I am glad we wear gloves. Mine are a gardening pair by the way, and I am in the market for something more stylish. I take a size 7 1/4 if there are any benefactors out there.
I suppose the best find of today was the trousers-stockings-underwear combo, all locked in an unholy embrace from someone having taken them all off at once, quickly.
I hope that whatever urgent business required such speedy removal, and no it was not diarrhoea, did not take place against the op shop donation bin. And if it did, I hope the person managed to retrieve a new outfit to get home in, or I fear for their kidneys.

Where's that drink taking you?

It has been forced upon my attention that I need to look for a new flatmate. The room is fairly large, and has a balcony so we are all hopeful it will not take too long to convince someone to rent it. I cling to that thought, because we have had some dubious potential flatmate experiences in the past, particularly when trying to offload the smaller, cheaper room. The gimp room. On one occasion someone moved in who had an odour problem. I swear, the smell coiled out his door, onto the landing, down the stairs and out the door, right back up to his window. A circle of smell, like a snake biting its tail. Things came to a head when I started leaving the house and it would nefariously cling to me.
When people went to look around that house to take over the lease there was always a sprint around shutting up rooms before opening his door, and many amusing moment as the prospective tenants recoiled.
The second example I think of did not actually move into the small room, just might have. Some highlights of the interview include:
-Failing to turn up to first appointment to meet flatmates and see room
-(turned up to second appointment & seemed reasonably normal)
-Turning up to meet final flatmate 1/2 hour late
-Breaking out the woodstock bourbon and cola
-Deciding we should all drink together and taxi-ing down and up the hill to fetch whisky.
-Drinking the large portion of the whisky himself, repeating stories about his impoverished North Shore childhood
-Congratulating himself on being good looking
-Requesting that we take photos of him with a cell phone that had no camera
-Upon being refused, having a tantrum and then going to the toilet & talking to his dick
-Telling us all how big his cock was
-Talking about how disgusted he was with the homosexualists, with especial reference to their dancing
-Claiming that Temuera Morrison was a really good guy
-"You guys should not flat with me, I'm too way out for you"
The list could go on, but suffice to say when he insulted a visiting friend we kicked him out. He ended up outside, screaming at the house for a bit, then staggering down the hill to jam at the Empire. He rang up the next morning as if nothing had happened. Apparently he had lost his glasses and he had to find out if he'd left them at our place.
And so, Dunedin drives yet another person to alcohol. Anyway, as is the horror of living here, we keep seeing him round now. Yet another person to duck into shops to avoid.

Lost your cardy love?

The recent television coverage of the Bain appeal, and his subsequent release on bail, has rather bemused me. A lawyer's comment to the effect that Bain entered prison a callow youth, and emerged a mature man, has been taken on board by TV3 news. We hear it with numbing frequency, though thankfully without causal implications.
Reinforcing these statements, we have been treated to a glorious stream of images and footage of Bain during trial in a dazzling array of Christmas Jerseys, presumably teamed with cords in natural shades. Contrast with his conservative suit upon leaving the chrysalis that was prison in Christchurch. Mature indeed.
I never really thought about why David Bain wore those appalling jerseys. I had some vague notion of well wishers and an older variety of trial groupie knitting into the night, supplying him with a complete tonal range of jerseys in Norwegian snowflake patterns. Though I love the idea, and the idea that he liked the jerseys so much he requested more, it has been put forward that the Jerseys (they get a capital now) actually came from the Police lost property box.
Oh. Of a sudden I think of my primary school days, desperately trying to lose those ghastly scratching cardigans in pastel shades. Every so often the lost property box would be dragged up and garments of shame displayed. Is this anyone's? No? Oh hang on, Mene, isn't that your name sewn in there? rats, foiled again...
Well, with the Dunedin Police, they had a sure out with David Bain - clothing taken for forensic evidence. They hand him that first fateful Jersey, realise they are onto a good thing, and soon jerseys must have swarmed into police lost property. I can't think of any other reason he only ever got christmas sweaters, never a polar fleece or brushed cotton shirt in sight.
Shame on you Dunedin police.
Still, its reassuring to think that you weren't spending all your time watching dirty videos.

Strange things found in pockets

You may know that I volunteer at an Op shop, sorting clothes before they hit the racks. Well, now you do. Anyway, one of the more or less charming aspects of this work is the scary stuff you find in the donation bags. For instance, today we came across a note, written on a waiting staff order sheet:

The lady behind you by the window is the Right Hon. Emma Nicholson. [DO NOT TURN ROUND] Deaf in one ear, she is now known as Baroness Nicholson, and a liberal democrat. Formerly a conservative under Maggie, she was publicly one of the first to switch allegiance in that leadership election, and, to Michael Heseltine. Recently she has publicly hanged in the press by Mary Archer for implicating Jeffrey Archer in embezzling Iraq charity funds.

No wonder she changed her hairstyle and political party..........

The mind boggles - so many questions raised, not least of all, what was the new hairstyle like, and how did this note get to Dunedin?

Nostalgia

Since a number of people seem to be making tracks and leaving the world's most glamorous city, I thought I would set up a blog. Now I can continue afflicting everyone, albeit in a more passive capacity. I mean, you will have to seek out this blog and that means that you will just have to take it and like it. Blogs generally are boring self-indulgent waffle so expect nothing less from me, except the occasional moan about remedial patrons. And endless nostalgia. Do you remember when I raised my eyebrow like that? and you had a drink of water? We had a laugh...