The presbyterian outlook

No posts for a while. Nothing to say, grumpy, etc etc. But here is a clip I thought I would look out for a little Tuesday amusement. Enjoy.

No, I think this calls for another soundtrack

Oh Sharon, you goddess!

What next, Annie Whittle?

The message bears repeating

I can't remember if I have posted this before, but I needed a post work cheer up/ ritual cleansing from shelf checks, shelving and stocktakes. So boring. So now, for something completely different. This one goes out to all youse other people in mundane and meaningless jobs:



Ahhh, taking things out of context. I hope none of you see me grooving my way up the hill, fists clenched and hips gyrating to an internal soundtrack of DM.

Oh ha ha ha

I have been on another CD uploading stint, and I felt like I needed Vault by Def Leppard at 320 Kbps. So, plug the cd in and wait for the internet to provide the track listing. I had a quick glance over and all seemed in order. All was in order until I noticed the genre the album had been placed in: Metal. In what alternate universe is Def Leppard metal, especially in an album compiled from their glorious years of overproduction?
It is all sorted out now, I fixed it up so the album files under Flaccid Rock.

Further to Three Bags Full

In a shocking development this book has been ripped from the large print mystery collection, and moved to general large print. How they allow Lillian Jackson Braun stories to remain in mystery in face of such prejudice against animal sleuths I do not know.

To prove I am not lying

Hurry, buy your copy now! Be sure to read the reviews!

Further proof that society is going to the dogs sheep

I thought I had found the crappiest title for the week this morning while shelving. I was certain of it. Who in the hell, I thought, would want to take out a book on painting flowers on stones. Why would you write, publish or read a book deovted to the art of florifying rocks? Who has the time? Do they paint them up and encircle the garden? Is someone trying to pimp out a mini stone henge? Come to think of it that last idea sounds attractive, but I digress.
Shelving that book Painting Flowers on Stones I was sure to have plunged to my weekly nadir.
Not so.
Later on this morning, irate typing fuelled by another stint of processing (*PFFFT* I am a special snowflake and I deserve something a bit better than this!) I found a new mystery series. The title I came accross was Three Bags Full : a sheep detective story. OK, I am willing to suspend my disbelief enough to suppose there is a roving shepherd by day, crime fighter by night. But I am not going to go far enough to suppose that a bloody flock of sheep, neurons going ballistic, can bring perps to justice. The note at the back of the book indicated there was also narcotic and alcohol use by the flock. I can only imagine how slow they must have been with those additional impairments. Why anyone wants to read animal detective stories I don't know. The age group these stories appeal to were not reared on Brian Jacques' biannual fluxes. Lord knows what will happen when Jacques' readers hit decrepitude. I comfort myself in the warm knowledge I will probably be dead by then or maybe I too will embrace such novels in my dotage.
It is with trepidation I take my lunch; the quality of titles has been getting worse & I fear what may strike me when I get to the bindery. May the lord have mercy on our souls.

Can we go home now?

Don't worry, I am not skiving off on work time; I am typing this on my break. The subject sums it all up pretty much. I have been in a filthy mood and I am not sure how to improve it. It was going OK until that stupid mutt just about ran me over other night. There was I, crossing Stuart St. For once I was not jaywalking and the green light was urging me on, Go for it! Go for it! But this impatient slag in a late model sedan talking on the cell phone just drove round the corner anyway and nearly hit me. At first I was prepared to launch into martyr phase. 'I wish she had hit me, that would have taught her...' But it woudln't have taught her anything because we are probably looking at a self-entitled soccer mom with special needs. She would have cursed me for making her spend an extra 30 minutes on Saturday trying to get the kids to hose off debris from the wheels. No doubt they are trolls as well, so a lot of screaming would be involved.
Next phase, wishing I had a brick, a baseball bat, anything to smash the car up. That's an impulse I have had a lot lately, I really must find some outlet for my anger & aggression or the dishes are going to get it. The council could sponser a shooting range since a lot of my problems come from working there. I find myself counting down the months, can I resign yet? can I resign yet? Though what the hell I would do otherwise I don't know. Plow into another mire probably, at least one that didn't involve processing and shelving I guess. There are hitherto unchartered horrors in any job I suppose.
Someone I am acquainted with just got a job at McRaes mines, as an admin assisstant. $20 an hour. Maybe that is what we all ought to be doing? I would have to fight back the urge to make Brrm brrm noises all the time though.

The unghhhh report

Such a tumultuous day already, well, if your life is as uneventful as mine it is. From the heart break and despair of realising I had overslept to the elation of realising I had made it to work early I have run the gamut of emotions. Whistle stop highlights included:
-peevishness at the cat screeching at my door
-quiet satisfaction at the intact status of the cat's food bag
-wordless rage at the traffic getting in MY WAY when I was trying to jay walk
-mischeivous glee as I held the lifts every stop I went so I wouldn't end up waiting five minutes to just drop off a trolley
-disappointment in myself upon realising I could have stood around for five minutes while being paid
-abject loneliness when I saw no-one had emailed me
-a few heart-felt sneers at people in magazines; especially the toff pin-ups in Country Life and Tatler
-resolution, because now I have to get back to the grind
Which is all very draining. And yes, this job is pretty cushy as far as jobs go, but I would really prefer some mental engagement from life. Obviously I can't write a novel, too many other, smarter people are doing that, so I just have to focus on my criminal master scheme.
Right, feel the burn as I gulp down the last of my sweet instant coffee (thanks library!) and off with another trolley delivery of joy.

Not again...

I was preparing for a bit of a moan about soulseek users, but I think I can't really be bothered. How many times can I be outraged by this entirely predictable behaviour? If I can just let go of the angst (and paranoia I named myself something unspeakable on the program...) Suffice to say I am still looking for Madman in a Basket.
I have had an extremely unproductive Sunday. I walked down the hill, I walked up the hill. I walked along the hill and met an orange cat that was MUCH friendlier than our orange cat. This one was quite eager to please, and I bet it never ravaged its food bag. I acquired some coat hangers, reshuffled the rubbish in my room and thought deep thoughts but acheived nothing. Another weekend gone. Ready to face another week of work? I think not, but that is what we all have to look forward to for the rest of our lives. The question is how to make it amusing? I used to look at people coming throug h lending services and imagine their stories. Now all I do is look forward to breaks and ulimately lunch. And of course slice and dice things in the bindery - so satisfying. I guess now that I have finally been introduced to the joys of withdrawing magazines I can pretend I am on Battlestar Gallactica destroying enemy fighters with every system beep.

The Sunday matinee

Well, more Sunday listening pleasure but delightful nonetheless.

I've seen it all now

When I was shelving books yesterday I found a knitting book with the template to knit a picture of Jon Stewart on the front of your jersey. Mmmmm Mmmmm fleecy. How about it Brooke and Roger? Matching ensembles?

Yay

One good thing, a new Your Band Sucks update on something awful. About Weezer! Sic 'em! Sic 'em!

That was stupid

Volunteering to work at the annual fabric sale. Stupid on two counts:
-I had to get up early on Saturday.
-I wound up buying material.
Other stupid things:
-The cat groped its food bag again and strewed biscuits all over the floor. It then had the gall to whine at me to get up and feed it. Just now it has been trying to make me open the door for it to go outside when it could easily go out the window. Finally, I understand why people beat animals. Don't worry Brooke, I didn't.
-Money grubbing, nit picking pillocks who were rude to me at the fabric sale. You are getting a bargain with all material under five dollars a metre. The profits go to charity. Don't cadge so much. Don't bitch and moan in case you get a shorter piece of fabric due to cuts. We are not stupid and measure from where the full width of fabric starts.
-People who think I and the world in general are interested in their belly dancing costume idea of cut way spangly fabric with a bra showing. Trust me folks, it ain't going to be pretty. I know you don't care but I may as well share the burden.
-Dunedin "celebrities" who for some unfathomable reason are treated like VIPs because they are seen to inhabit some higher creative echelon.
It's a struggle to think of anything positive to say about life, but I do have some coffee which ought to improve my outlook and purge the memories. Then I shall either have a nap, or clean something so I can avoid homework. Riveting eh? At least a chapter worth in the memoirs.
I don't suppose anyone else out there finds themselves totally boring too?

Ewwwwwwww

Last night I had to cook dinner for the householders again.
It was a fairly lazy meal I made, but the preliminaries more than made up for it. We had reached crisis point in the kitchen and fridge areas once more. I was all for ignoring the fridge for as long as I could but then my flatemate came down and was spazzing about lack of room in the fridge. One excavation led to another and I wound up purging a whole lot of rotten crap (that was not mine). Foulnyss. The flatemate shrieked in disgust while holding the rubbish bag open - sorry compost, but no - and remarked upon her cleaning of the shower the other day. Funny how we seem to have designated tasks. Recently mine has been fridge detail, but I guess it is your level of tolerance. Or how much food is being contaminated by the bog of eternal stench a'brewin' in the bottom. This is what happens when you try to squ--e--e--eze a whole lot of food into a small space I suppose. I suppose also that starving people would be happy to drink the viscous fluid etc etc etc.
After that, a lovely steaming couple of loads of dishes then finally cooking about 10.30 pm. No-one's eaten it yet, I wonder what the point is sometimes. Maybe I will eat it all then. Extreme obesity would be as good a reason as any to take days off work.

Hubba

Wow. Check it out! This and many other delightful images on the official website. I wish I looked that good with massive hair and pointy toed boots, but I would just look like a female female impersonator.

Brilliant idea #486

It has been a late night of acquiring some stunning music for my collection, this time it was Dead Or Alive albums; Youthquake & Mad, Bad and Dangerous to Know. The first thing we have to say about these albums is: Pete Burns, you are a special, special man and you are beautiful (no matter what they say, words can't bring you down). The second thing that comes to mind is a deep sense of gratitude to Stock, Aitken and Waterman. Excellent production there. The final thought I had was after hearing the song I wanna be a toy. Has anyone made a compilation of aspirational songs? I think that song would have to be on it, along with other classics like I want to be your dog and ...too tired to think of any more right now. Suffice to say I think this will be a best seller, right up there with my Cow Bell Magic compilation, and the Tribute to Action Bongos.

Dammit

Not the banks pissing me off today.
Got up, all pleased because I had my dinner from last night to take to work for lunch today.
Found that all the satay had been eaten off the top and some sad rice noodles left.
Even angrier when I figured out who it must have been. An individual who does not even live at the bloody house, does not contribute anything other than mess, and presumably sits stimulating his prostate rather than do anything like clean up after himself. That and eat my bloody food.
So I will go home, throw my toys. I hope I can maintain my fury until that point but I probably can't & so the behaviour will continue unchecked. It seems like acting like a vapid lazy retard who gets taken care of by all women really works for this prick. If I got really mad at him it would be the girlfriend that fixed the situation anyway. Shit some people just need a bullet because they are wasting my oxygen.

Dave? Dave? Nice dancing Dave

But this ought to hold me for a while. At least for as long as I spend contemplating people who must feel similar nostalgia for the nineties. Like my younger flatmates, who will remember even less of this gloriousness than I do. I'm sure I mentioned the one flatmate explaining to the other that Alfred Hitchcock was a famous horror director who directed Carrie? Surely I did?
They probably go all weak at the knees over M People and groups like that. I'm insufficiently distanced from the 90's to be able to really laugh about it just yet, except for maybe the early 90's...no, actually late 90's were pretty funny. Spice Girls? Temple of the Dog? Yeah, there were some amusing points. Not least of all those classic novelty songs - but they are awful whatver decade you choose them from.

Inclement Weather

Opinion has been divided among the groups I have talked to. Snow - good or bad? When? How can we acheive snow to coordinate with a time that everyone is supposed to be working? Can we make everyone happy?
I can answer that last one.
No.
With great enthusiasm I cast the household cats into the back yard, determined that for once in their indolent and useless lives they would push play and experience something new. Do you think they were grateful? No, it was all whimpers and a dash back to the door.
Oh well, I tried, and I even let them back in again afterwards.

Gentlemen's hours

It has been a fortnight of intense bank activity for me. I can't describe how hideous it was, so unecessary, so utterly futile. It all started with the saga of the missing cheques. Two of them to be precise. I had stashed them so cunningly I was sure that I would not lose them. Oh well, mental note to never do that again. I worked late at the bindery in order to get Friday afternoon off work so I could try to find clothes and attend to the banking business. Get there, find out I forgot one of the cheques and later on found that the other was dishonoured. So I felt a little hollow from that experience.
My next skirmish was when I found out I can't just hand over a deposit slip with my account number on it. No, it has to be signed and stamped by a trained professional from the local branch. I wondered if it was about the public's inability to write down numbers, or perhaps to check the spelling of names? Charitably I will assume it is something to do with veryifying the existence and use of an account in the face of Dunedin's epic money laundering problems. I'm sure it's tied in with the Chin Dynasty.
I whippeted out of work on Wednesday afternoon, dashed to the bank and got there just on 4.30. I was completely disgusted to find that they had locked the doors already. How can it be that banks close so early? What do they do for the rest of the time we mere mortals are popping blood vessels working hard for the money? After all, it is not as though there has to be someone manually adding and balancing the days transactions. What do they all do?
I stormed off in a tanty and purchased something to make myself feel better. It was a pretty swish piece of retail therapy I admit, a 5m RCA/USB cable so I can play music on the computer through the stereo. Highly necessary since I have disposed of pretty much all my CDs.
I was distracted anyway, but not for long. Don't think you are off the hook bank, I still hate you and the horse you rode into town on. I had to give up my break just to fit in with the gentlemen's hours kept in the establishment.
The image above is how I imagine bankers spend their free time when not inconveniencing me.

The country is clearly going to hell in a handbasket

Our economy is shot, surely.
The other day I had a cheque for the princely sum of $15.36 from the IRD.
Maybe I am getting ahead of myself and ovedramatising.
O.K. The other day I found a cheque from the IRD, which I had lost in my room for some months.
At great inconvenience I muscled my way into the bank to deposit it into my depleted bank account. Great, I thought, not all my hard earned taxes are going to fund the hydroponic schemes of sickness beneficiaries in Northland. That will be your friends Roger Nome, leeches all of em :)
Deposited the cheque, pleased with an accomplishment for the day. I was in for a shock and disappointment however, because a few days later I found the cheque had been dishonoured. Panic set in momentarily. Had the goverment overspent so much that it could not cover my paltry $15.36 tax refund? What was Helen doing to us all? Would I be compelled to join Arrogant Prick and his cohorts?
After my initial irritation I figured the cheque had just expired. There was I hoping that the Goverment would honour tax refunds after six months, but maybe not. Let that be a lesson to you all. Do not on any account lose a cheque in my room. No good will come of it.

Shhhh - everyone calm down!

On television is a hard hitting documentary on global warming. Is climate change a reality? How soon until we all die?
Sometimes hearing these things is a bit like watching an episode of Corontation street. Everyone just gets angry and winds up screaming at each other. Studio or pub, small difference.
I think I shall go to my happy place now.

For you, Brooke

Getting that special Shhhhhh-thunk sound for your starship enterprise model

A rather off topic title, but I have not been feeling particularly logical today. It is, after all, a long weekend. I reserve the right to vegetate if I want to. At present all my energies are devoted to a downloading session of epic proportions. I'm done with the tangerine dream, the Perry and Kingsley, the Gene Pitney (come on, you all have to hear Mecca). No, it is all about the Sparks, the Deadfly Ensemble and random bogan music. The SOAD revival starts here, before degenerating into a hoochie hoe down. Don't judge me for not having an interesting life, it's better than my other plan for the evening, playing Betrayal at Krondor. Damn you Roger Nome, damn you.
Oooh, how excitement, someone is downloading a track from me. I bet you are all dying to know what it is. Admit it, you want to know what awfulness I am purveying. Why would anyone want one of my trashy items?
In this case the user name is a tip off - Plastic. Hmmmmm. I don't remember what my user name is, but I am sure it is deeply revealing too. Anyway, they are downloading a track called Rubber and Fur, by Boy from Brazil. Yes, I do feel suitably arcane purveying such an item. A few more albums like that and I will be as exclusive as some of the grand high poohbahs of Soulseek.
But before I get there, I have to make sure I have a really cool name, like some of the ones I have seen recently. Bitch and variations have been popular. I am downloading some bogan tracks from Beeyotch, and I saw an 84yearoldbitch.
Anyway, time to get back to it.

Great plans

Oh yes, I am on a mission.
I would like to find and post a picture of Depeche Mode, with evidence of (leather) cycle shorts, possibly with braces.
Can anyone help me out with this? My connection here is too slow for systematic trawling.

Shocking

I had a bit of a snigger this morning. I was shelving, as I do every morning for an hour. The just returned shelves on the first floor are next to a display set up of new books. This display is stocked by Central Reference staff - or are they called Information Services now? I forget. Anyway, I lumbered in to start my shelving but has to pause in this mission. A co-worker had seized upon a book she found on display that was "just disgusting" and "inappropriate". "I don't think anyone should have to look at that!"
What could possibly be so offensive you may well ask?

Hmmm, certainly is arresting.
Stay tuned, I will be sure to let you know if the offending item is found on display once more.

Stop it! Your interpretive dancing is intimidating me!

Sometimes you just feel old

So far I have been asked if I had heard of the Anals and the Aesthetics (asked in such a way as it was clear the questioner thought it was a long shot). I was also notified of the existence of None Gallery, or Lot 24 or whatever the hell it is these days.
This is what comes from not having a studiously unconventional lifestyle, clearly. You are out of the loop for all the coolest alterno parties.

This is a new one

Beautiful buyer who purchased a shawl collared 1960s coat from me, won't you please send me a delivery address so that I can send away the wondrous garment?

and in a weird example of synchronisity, they just have.

Must have been the creepy feedback I placed about needing an address. But really, how often is it that the buyer slows the process down?

Me vs the oven, part two

This morning I got up, ready to do battle once more and investigate why the oven was not going. Not enough sleep, but more than I had had the evening before. Dammit, I was going to find out what was making the oven persecute me, if it took a further fifteen minutes of twiddling with the timer and clock buttons. Turn on the range again...pause...click, it decides to work! Did I just happen to turn the oven on as the designated start time was occurring? Why did pulling the start time switch not override it? Why do flats always have such awful ovens? As far as I can tell someone must have wound the timer on about 12 hours in advance (good one) and my fevered turnings of the dial were not enough to fix it last night. Or was it something more sinister? And why do ovens have timers anyway, you shouldn't be leaving cooking unsuperintended, let alone leaving the house with it set to start the fry up in advance of your potential non return. Who? Why? Why are there suddenly so many dishes again? Why is it so cold? Who can I blame?
Now I am very tired and cold, but I have to brave the elements again. Looks like another late dinner, but don't you worry, I will be prepared to break some stuff if I get home to the place like yesterday. Not least of all the landlord special oven.

After leaving the internet running

I get to a resolution on the matter of Steve Perry and the video clip. That's right Steve, hug it out. Hug it all out. Hug the pain of those hi-waist super taper jeans away.

Nope

Nothing wrong with the fuse, so I guess it is tracking down the land lord's number and hoping my vegetables don't rot in the mean time. Not that they will in this cold weather.

Dammit, I have to find something else to eat now, how irritating.

I'd comment more if my damn connection wasn't so slow

It has taken me something like 15 minutes to get the intro. But even with what I have so far I can tell that this is excellent:

Can anyone say lazy gash?

Right, today has not been a success. People may ascertain this from the title, but for those interested in reading on I will give a condensed version of the highlights. I will try to keep the moaning brief, but I suspect it may just break out in outraged strains.
First of all, I am sick and have some kind of 'flu I think. I go to work for eight hours, rush around to send stuff to fuckwits on trade me who do not send adequate information. I dash home, don't have time for dinner, go to class for a couple of hours. I leave, hoping that something may be done about the kitchen by the time I get home. I have reservations because another flatmate is sitting, ill, in the lounge bewailing the fact she has to work for 5 hours tonight. After a day of doing sweet fuck all? I'd say it's a luxury. Although I can't be certain she did nothing, as I have not yet installed CCTV in my house.
Go to class, get back home about 10, kitchen even more messy. Reconcile myself to having to do some dishes in order to cook dinner. Make a mammoth effort cleaning up, cut up vegetables to roast, and then find out that the bloody oven has shorted a fuse or something. The bake/grill does not work. At this point A sloped down to grab more snacks for his evening, and helpfully pointed out the stove top worked. Useless prick.
So, I am at an impasse. Hungry, no means of cooking, can't have muesli as someone has used the milk, and angry at myself for cleaning for lazy gashes once again. And feeling really ill. High drama, I tell ya.
Well, I am about to try to break into the stove and see what is wrong with it. Wish me luck, and possibly don't try to talk to me for the next few days.

Other peoples' computers

So aside from the obvious issues I have had with my workstation over the last couple of days, I have found one other major problem with sharing. Too much clutter. From the people who collect spyware antispware programs on their computer, to those who have soft toys breeding amidst photographs on their desk. The only good clutter is my clutter & I, being transient, am not allowed to leave any.
At present I am using a computer that has random sheets of print out under the keyboard and it is annoying me greatly. I will have to curtail the posting frenzy, otherwise the paper would get it. Probabably a blessed relief for you all, since I was going to talk about the mouldy dog turd and dead hedgehog I saw on the way here. Ahhhh nature.

Africa

I always wondered what they were saying about Kilimanjaro, and evidently other people have puzzled too:

mbenzsl2000 (47 minutes ago) sure as kiliminjaro rises like olympus.... NOT memphis, lol

The drummer was really feeling it like a spastic child. Feeling it, but not as much as that keyboardist going orgasmic on his (tee hee) stool. Even better, there is someone who looks vaguely like him in Dunedin, I'm cooking up stories as I type. That's not the half of it, I am going to be really nervous shelving on Monday. Will I draw out a book and find a be-mulleted freak singing earnestly on the other side of the shelf? Could the bass player get the bass any higher? Does he have a resulting sweat rash on his nipples?

How I wish my library was like that, complete with bear lurking in the childrens' section & poofy blouses for all the staff. So attractive.

Found items

There has been a particularly intriguing note handed in at volunteer work. Not deliberately handed in, probably left in a suit jacket. Anyway, here goes:

Track 3
Play Africa as taking casket from the church. Repeat song if necessary

I really hope it is Africa by Toto they are talking about. Can you imagine the church misting up with the line "Gonna take a lot to take me away from you". It almost ousted Together in Electric Dreams from my funeral play list.

Overheard in Dunedin

"You know, I'm going to keep working at it. You just don't give up on 15 years of marriage without a fight"
"Good for you!"



Yes, you go girl.

Thieves active in the building?

A checklist of the things that have gone missing from my desk/ workstation area:
-Trolley
-Stamp pad
-Stamp
-Bus labels
-Rubbish bin
Is there a plague of locusts stripping the place I wonder?

Heroic avocado

Will I ever have an avocado this good again? It was a gift from the fertile land of Rarotonga. I placed it beside a cup and coconut to give a sense of scale, and Leo the cat is looking introspectively off into middle distance behind them all. He could be thinking about abundance, but I expect he was just wondering if I would feed him soon.

So, where do you come on the list?

I don't even make it into the top 10 for 2007, what's with that?
Check your name out here. So the results are for the States? We can generalise.
If you want to add more interest to the list, just imagine how each baby would have been teased about their name at school.

A whole new realm

Of pedatry has opened up to me, thanks to Duckling & this here website. I look forward to many hours laughing like a drain, and repeated revisits to that Highlander 37 poster. There can be only WTF indeed.

Supermarket Shenanigans

A kerfuffle? Rambunctiousness in Roslyn? Those who were not aware of the scandal surrounding the Roslyn public toilets might have been shocked to hear of the licentiousness taking place at Fresh Choice supermarket on Tuesday. I was horrified, but only because I stumbled into the midst of it. A double take, blinking several times to lubricate my shrivelling eye balls. Free Bananas the sign said, take one. Take one if you want to be hit on by a complete stranger. I clasped my coat a little more firmly and strode off to find poof adequate for the majesty that is Patrick McGoohan. I took care to look in everyone else's trolley though, and I only saw one swinging banana carrier. Two women in tandem, looking like they had escaped from Brockville and were looking for some posh Maori Hill totty.
Actually, the supermarket seemed really empty. Presumably a lot of people are like me, and find the idea remotely creepy. My flatemates didn't. When I scurried home to tell them all about it they started grilling me about which way I carried my banana. Should have told them I stuck it down my slacks.

Could it be time to move out of information management?

I know that I am a sad, sad individual but I think I hit an all time low, even for myself. I have spent today online, downloading music and going through my external hard drive. Such embarrassments lurk on it, and so many albums with inadequate labelling. Yes, so that is what I have been doing. Scrounging online for the track listings and updating where I can. You'd think it would be simple, but no, some of the albums are not there. Some have American and UK editions, and some have other random things appended to them. Some have one less track on them than appears on the track listing online, and some I have no idea of who or what it is. It's not my fault, I got a whole lot of stuff from other peoples' computers dammit! How am I supposed to sort all this out? I'm up to E and I already have several unsolved mysteries. It is 9 something in the evening, I have work tomorrow, and I don't think I am going to get it all done. In all liklihood I will obsess about it all week and spend next weekend doing the same.
Maybe some self analysis is in order. What exactly am I trying to avoid? Or is it burgeoning OCD?

Owwwwwww

I knew that work was not making my hands very beautiful, but I realised there is an advantage to all the callousing. Today I was slicing up vegetables when the knife slipped and sssschiikt sliced into the side of my left index finger. The funny thing was I didn't bleed or anything, as it had merely shaved off a layer of the tough protective skin I have been painstakingly growing.
This is going to make me sound even more foulsome isn't it?

Mine may be a case for gloves.

The chronicles of Roderick

Consider this a placeholder, but I was so enamoured with the title I had to put it up.
suffice to say, I began a class this evening, and there was a lovely knowitall in it called Roderick and I think I shall devote some time to stories of his majesty.

May as well have been overheard in Dunedin

I don't know if anyone out there has come across a book Post Secet before, but bascially a guy decided to do an art project inviting people to anonymously send confessions in to him using provided postcards. Well, the art project was completed and yet the confessions kept rolling in. If you look at any copy of the book held in a library I expect you will find notes left in there as well. Like today, when I was shelving it. I noticed the following message

I have herpes. Sometimes I feel like a leper.

If I were really nasty & into jumping to conclusions I would check up on the last patron. Strike their name from the eligible registry, so to speak.

I'm back and almost over the re-entry syndrome

But to prove I was away I will post a picture of the view from where I was staying:




See, it did happen, really!

I want my MTV

I miss C4, but at the moment there is a programme on called Coco Lounge, playing a selection of video favourites. I’ve heard Cyndi Lauper, Deelite, B52s, and a few other classics. OK overplayed classics, but better than religious programming. The selections sound eerily familiar because I think the VJ is the same guy who was playing at the RSA last night. There was a disco ball, and a number of unashamedly gay anthems playing as if we needed more proof that the army is totally camp. The one thing I found particularly intriguing about the venue was the chalk board outside, advertising Prince Charles on Friday night. Or was it Saturday? Bears investigation.
Also worth further examination is an utterly trashy show they played this evening about 10pm. It was called moonlight, and was all about a vampire private investigator. It was not quite up to the giddy standards of my most favouritetist vampire policing show Forever Knight, but it could be a viable late night but I don't want to go to bed option. Anything beats infomercials that don't feature Chuck Norris or the Slam Man dance crew.

More is more

I am going to have to consider buying some music while I am here, but I don’t know that the stores will stock the type of glorious variety that I have enjoyed at some of the fine local establishments. I knew a number of people would be jealous when I told them about the Island style remix of I want to break free. How appropriate it was that it was at that moment the gentleman in speedos decided to cut loose to the bar to order his beach side cocktail. Freedom indeed.

Twins

If I needed further proof that I will never escape Dunedin I have found it. Doppelgangers. So far I have seen what looks like a number of former Arc employees, and Forbes gunning it down main street on a scooter. If I see a Regantard and a doof explosion my life will be complete.

Club Tropicana

Most people who know me were surprised that I decided to go to Rarotonga. You can’t wear a coat in Rarotonga they cried! It’s full of nature! What will you do there?
Well I’ve found I could probably get away with wearing a coat but I am bemused by the other points. Indeed, there is a lot of nature and I don’t think I am appreciating it as much as I am supposed to. Today, for instance, I went for a walk along a beach. I was most put out that my feet got wet and sandy, something you don’t get from looking at the travel brochure images. If this had happened in Dunedin I expect I would have squealed like a stuck pig, but the water was pretty warm so I dealt with it, merely shaking my fist at the sea once. The scenery does look like a post card, all designer blues with contrasting white, oh all right, pale beige sand. Thank heavens the tourists helped kill the feeling that I was in an extended tv advertisement for the Cook Islands. They came straight out of Benidorm. Upon entering grounds of The Point, a glorious dining establishment & resort, I was treated to a middle aged man flaccid on a banana lounger at the pool side. When seated at our table there was a panorama of slightly dumpy, pale tourists and their crispier counterparts strapping it all up into bikinis and thongs, reclining for all their worth in front of the beach (but fenced apart from it).
So with the strains of kill all the white men in mind I trudged along the beach. It all seems a bit profligate doesn’t it? Walking for pleasure? I am used to scuttling to places desperately trying to make sure I am not late. People are more interesting than scenery as a rule. I am such a non-entity I can usually observe to my heart’s content. Yet today I couldn’t help but think I was being watched as much as I was watching. I filled the role of flabby undesireable, an anaemic blot on the beach frontage the resort goers paid $400 or so a night to enjoy (No children allowed). Oh well, I guess I was out of the way quickly.
Tomorrow there will be a cruise ship in so I expect that will make me look comparatively fabulous.

Wild turkey chicken

I had been warned, but words cannot describe the feeling evoked when that first rooster sets in chain a call and response/Mexican wave of crowing outside my window. The ball firmly lodged in another’s side of the court a volley is set in place with a strangled deflating version which is somehow indicative of masculine, roosterly dominance. Yeah, bet all the honeys dig it. The cow apparently does, because it too is adding lusty vocals.

You may be wondering, where are the oversexed farmer’s sons -sons of the soil- Seth and Ruben?

Oh, another rooster, striking back with a telling blow. A double crow. The interloper from around the other side of the house must be on the ropes and reeling.

House guest rules

It’s always a bit disconcerting being a guest. I am very much used to all my gadgets and accoutrements to hand so there is always something to do. I have a stable of flatmates to converse with, and when they don’t want to converse it’s ok, I know that I damn well pay amenities and I don’t have to leave. But being a visitor…I have to be on best behaviour. I can’t sit staring into space as I usually do, in case someone thinks they need to suggest entertainments for me. It’s Sunday, and everything is closed. Almost everything actually, the Raro fried chicken outlet is open 24/7, for any chicken emergencies. I don’t think there is a lot I can do to get out from underfoot. Let’s face it, guests are irritating for the most part so it’s difficult not to feel like an imposition. Surely the hosts have better things to do on their days off than take yet another person to see the same sights they took the last person to see? Aside from that, I have not been very urbane, witty, or charming so I guess I will have to try to up the game for the rest of the week.

Megatropolis

Today I skulked along into town for some souvenir shopping. There is something weird about being set in a tourist area; all of a sudden you get a feral impulse to purchase purchase purchase! What, not everyone has a crappy item yet? Well, let me get them a face cloth from Rarotonga! The real problem is that if you buy something for one person you begin to get guilt for not buying a shitty item for everyone else. Then you get buyer’s remorse when you think that it will likely sit, unwanted, collecting dust. Still, didn’t seem to hinder anyone else in their fever of consumption so I joined the tadpole race of obese tourists clogging up the arterial routes of town. Didn’t find anything for myself thankfully, so the bomb of ephemera will scatter throughout Dunedin sparing my room.
As a special treat we attempted to source food in a local café, in a stroke of originality called The Café. We got so far as to have our frothy flat whites, but sadly the island lifestyle was to the detriment of our ordered food. The order was lost somewhere in between table and counter so, alas, it never made it. No doubt to wizened old surfey waiter had more important things to think about, like the bodacious waves and the tatas on some of the honeys in the café. Or perhaps the music just had him rocking out too hard – Straightjacket Fits and the Mockers? Too much, almost, even for me.

Deadline

I have been promising, or threatening people with this for ages so here it is, finally. The Deadline article that disturbed me. It is rendered even more disturbing by the fact he took it out of the vaults and reprinted it. See for yourselves:

As it turns out, Tana Umaga was not the only one having trouble with his ‘man bags’ this week. Having ended my delivery day at the end of a long week I quickly put down my two ‘man bags’ used for my delivery (large leather sacks of a non descript nature, of equal proportions and weight, that I love to swing around). I then elected to have an Emersons (Dunedin’s real beer) or three before moving off home. Or at least that was the plan. At this point, unbeknownst to me, things began to go wrong. While stopping off at a bar to undertake my one last job for the day I let my man bag hang down at my feet some where in the depths, where all is dark and gloomy and it pays not to look down.

In an equally dim lit (or if you prefer intimate) environment I became engrossed in the curse of all mankind – text messaging. Fuelled by not enough to eat, a beer too many and the startling discovery that I no longer have 20/20 vision I inevitably sent a highly embarrassing text to the wrong person. To be precise, one of my business clients. Attempts to rectify the situation and convince said client that I was not a sex starved Australian cricketer were only made worse as I had sent them half the intended message so even my apology was not making much sense. It was at this crisis point (after moving out of the bar having grabbed my ‘two’ man bags roughly, without looking) that I got a tap on the shoulder. A rather irate gentleman was understandably not impressed by the fact that I ad just walked off with his partner’s bag, a large black leather sack, of nondescript nature roughly the same size as the man bag I drooped over my shoulder.

Escorted back to the bar by some codger convinced that he had nabbed the leader of an international man bag burgling ring, I was not overly worried, believing that when we got back to the bar the finding of my other man bag, where I had left it, would make it clear to Inspector Clueso that it had been a genuine mistake. It is, however, at this point that the more astute readers will realize why I talk of putting down my ‘man bags’ at Inch, but make no use of the plural when describing how I entered the second bar. Yes in the interim I had become just like Hitler who as legend has it only had one man bag. Luckily however having managed to call the bartender at Inch and secure the fact that my second bag was not a work of fiction, combined with the mediation skills of the bartender and the not so hostile members of the offended party, I managed to escape being lynched, by my…er, man bags.

The moral of the story is clear; never take your eyes of your man bags. Try not to do anything too complicated when you have yet to stash your man bags some where secure. If you do find yourself drunkenly fondling some one else man bags in a darkened environment be sure at least to know their first names beforehand to save you from embarrassment later. Yet, in the end if all else fails and the cops do get called, take a leaf from Umaga and put you’re an bags on Ebay. At least that’s one way to pay the court fines or meet some new friends.

And That’s The Bottom Line

I don’t know where begin on this, so I shall not even start at the moment. I typed it up as it appeared in the paper, and the irregularities in expression, italics and grammar are not mine. Don’t know what that story about Umaga selling the bag on Ebay is about either.

Shortland Street

So it is a couple of weeks behind here, but the boy racer story line is completely gripping hee hee hee

Friends

Cook Islands television. I knew that we could not always have the glorious Miss Tahiti contest televised every night, but the pickings are slim. Looks like Friends is on tonight instead. Maybe I need to go back to reading Biggles? It's a pretty gripping point in the story. Will he manage to evade the Germans this time? What is that rascal Von Stahlein up to? At any rate, the computer is about to overheat so I better chisel myself away from the internet.

Oh sweet internet.

Man, I'm one of those sucky tourists who just sits in the hotel and does nothing to immerse themselves in local culture. Pretty much like most of the other tourists here. Never mind, maybe tomorrow I will start the ultra consumer binge. Any requests?

Airports

Are a great place for people watching. Auckland seemed filled with uncomely honeymooners leading me to fear for our future generations. I confess, sometimes the idea of eugenics both thrills and excites me. When I was trying to heave myself from the domestic terminal to the international one I was stuck behind a footballers’ wives wannabe bint, bitching loudly into her cellphone at some lucky man. Their children, Merlot, Amuretta and Tyrone, will no doubt be more attractive than the ordinary but have a fatal weakness for tanning salons and bleach. I can just imagine them all whining in unison.

Entertainment, Raro style

This evening we escaped the one channel of television viewing. Of course we were back in time for Shortland Street, but we dodged some of the Sunday Christian viewing. In preference we went to watch a plane take off at the airport. This seems to be a local hobby, much like watching when ships wash up on, or attempts are made to rescue ships on the reef. The airport security is pretty casual so the view was panoramic. Many people licked a finger to try to ascertain wind direction (so they could knowledgably predict the direction the plane would take off in). Some even waved, and I am happy for the passengers on the plane that they could not see the pilots wave back.

Then I waited for the impassioned bus driver/ scooter drivers to hurl themselves vent-a-terre racing the plane, just like in Top Gun, and maybe the end credits when the plane took off. But that didn’t happen and no-one told Iceman that he could be wingman anytime.

Busy busy bee

A number of things have stood in the way of my adequate dispatch of blogger duties. There have been tantrums about trade me, accommodation manoeuvres, gainful employment . Not least among my distraction has been packing for Rarotonga. Ever the optimist I have dragged along a lot of gear, including my computer. It has all backfired a bit though, I had anticipated a free for all wireless connection, or a router I could just plug into. No such luck, so I just have to annoy the people I am staying with and use their computer. Shame, I had typed a few updates already on my computer. I guess I will post them eventually anyway. In the mean time, I have seen a lot of obese people on scooters, and realised that ex-pat life here seems to be rather casual - we are going for drinks on Monday! Outrageous.

Let you all know when I turn native.

South seas paradise

Last call

Final episode of the Prisoner. So sad, so bereft. But it isn't all horror, for I have located the Avengers, which shall be a comfort in my time of need.

Teacake, Teacake, TEACAKE!

Who said economics and taxation weren't exciting?
That really takes the cake?
That's the way the cookie crumbles?
It'll be a bun fight I tell ya?
Icing on top?
Was the announcement made by a crumpet?
Stud muffin?

Baked buttery goods mumblemumblemumble

Yep, looking forward to the next season

So, evidently is Brett.


Image found on Evil Beet Gossip, looks like a rich trawling ground there.

Ewwwwwwwww!

No Brett! They won't both be your girlfriend, and I don't understand what the appeal of Heather is. Heather, of the nuclear yellow frock, bouffant "fuck me hair" " (hell no, it'd break) and stillettos?
Actually, considering Brett Michaels I am more surprised he considered the other.
Hang on...
I was just looking for an image and stumbled upon a spoiler. Oh well. You will have seen it by now anyway. How could Heather not have won? She looks like Brett Michaels. What with the wonders of modern television maybe she IS Brett Michaels. Except with smaller jowels.
Oh well, happy blood sugar level disasters guys, and thank the lord all kissing footage will end hereon in. Wave your lighters to the beat, finally Every Rose Has Its Thorn will be played to completion.
Glad Heather got the last word though. She is such a trashy bitch, but boy does she tell it like it is. I suppose she will have gone onto a successful career from this anyway.

You'll usually find me hanging round the hall/ toilet at parties

You'll Always Find Me In The Kitchen At Parties lyrics

I'm no good at chatting up and I always get rebuffed.

Enough to drive a man to drink I don't do no washing up.

I always reached the stuff piled up

a-piled up in the sink.



But you will always find him in the kitchen at parties.



Me and my girlfriend we argued and she ran away from home.

She must have found somebody new and now I'm all alone



Living in my own. What am I supposed to do?



That's why always find him in kitchen at parties.

you will always find him in the kitchen at parties.

You will always find him in the kitchen at parties.



Then I met this debutante I said I like new wave rock.

She was into french cuisine but I ain't no cordon bleu.

This was at some do in palmers green

I had no luck with her.



You will still find him in kitchen at parties.

You will still find him in kitchen at parties.



At last I met a pretty girl she laughed and talked with me.

We both walked out of the kitchen and danced in a new way.



And now I've done my time in the kitchen at parties.

I've done my time in the kitchen at parties



He's done his time in the kitchen at parties.

He's done his time in the kitchen at parties.

Sir Bob

First of all, isn't it funny how name fashions change? It's been in my mind a little lately. Well, the post previous. And on the weekend I heard the song "da doo ron ron ron" or whatever the hell it's called. It has the line Somebody told me that his name was Bill. At which the whole room launched into a discussion of what a turn off that was. Or my name, for instance. I am fortunate to have the sopriquet that was the most popular name for girls in the states, 1975-1985 or there abouts. Will it be that in a couple of decades time my name will be synonymous with nana? Well, it will be refreshing change from its current overtones of vapid slag.
But I want to take a moment to celebrate the success of a man who transcended an unfortunate name, an unfortunate look, and an unfortunate predilection for bevvies. Let us celebrate sir Rob Muldoon for services to the Rocky Horror Show, late night scary TV and the beautification of NZ politics.
I give you Sir Bob.

New Zealand's answer to Macchiavelli.

Overheard in Dunedin III

"You didn't hear it from me" *flamboyant hand gestures* "but Layton just balloons! Poor thing." Ah huh huh huh huh huh!

Body fascist post

I am watching TV because I have been assigned a job. I am to video prison break. I have never watched prison break, I saw enough Wentworth in Mariah Carey video clips. But in the run up to the show I noticed the following:
-David Boreanaz has piggy current eyes
-Daniel Craig has creepy eyes, like a sea gull
-Everyone in prison has a mighty man-sized jaw
-News presentations are more effective if you have a cami under your blazer
-It is always the time and place for flirtacious banter
Quite a lot of learning for one short 10 minute stint. But I can't focus on all that right now, I have things to do, items to package and send. Poof to consume. Cups of tea to guzzle. And I suppose I ought to accost the cat I am looking after as well.

Mullets

Today I saw a number of mullets, in both South and North Dunedin. Nothing to compete with this one:

but special never the less. I was on a mighty opshopping mission. I found a few delightful things amidst the dross - an early 1970s Playboy label jacket (from the shade of brown I don't think it was Hugh's label either). I got a lovely fondue kit, some gloves, an early 80s vita fresh bag in two tone green, several pairs of trousers, a flask, a polyester suit and a knitting bag. And a belt, and a saucer. I didn't manage the new wardrobe I desperately needed, but it was a respectable haul for all that. Maybe tomorrow at volunteer work I will find what I need?

C4, it is time to up the game

I never even knew there was a video!

Passport dramas

Some of you may have been *privileged* to hear me bewailing my passport issues. To cut a long story short, my passport was in my bag so I would not lose it. Unfortunately my bag and I travel a lot of places, frequently in the rain. This led to an unhappy outcome for the passport despite my best efforts with the press in the bindery. It is looking a little sad, a bit miserable, and the ink on some of the unfilled pages has bled. Naturally they are unfilled, I never go anywhere.
I have been trying for the last while to sort out whether the passport is still useable. So I finally managed to get to the Department of Internal Affairs - don't you just think the work place that plays together stays together?- in Dunedin. I was told back up, we don't actually deal with passports, we can tell you nothing. Try contacting Christchurch. What bloody use is that? My passport and I will present ourselves at Chch? To be told (since the decision rests with the official sighting the passport at the airport) that they don't know if it would be acceptable. No doubt they would see the document and see a nice profit of $300, plus the opportunity to change it for one that would expire in 5 years, not ten.
Isn't it refreshing I can moan about the government as well as work?
Anyway, I have decided I will risk it, travel to Rarotonga, and hope they let me in. How concerned they would be over 6 days I have no idea, surely using the same currency counts for something!
So I'll let everyone know if I am stopped at the airport and treated like a criminal. It would be a refreshing change, to be thought of as an important, potentially threatening individual rather than ignored. I'd feel like underground.
Besides, at least I would have a new topic of conversation.

Posting videos is a way of adding empty content

But no-one could object to Stevie Nicks, except perhaps for her performances to troops in the gulf war conflict. Shame about the bad video quality though.


Tomorrow I will be going to volunteer work, perhaps I will look for an outfit so that I can emulate Stevie, especially viable in Rarotonga where the diaphonous look would be practical yet dressy. And if I get exposed to enough sea salt etc, I may have an inadvertant bouffant!

I'm too white to get the point of this

But it sure is an hilarious concept.



Brooke, you need to get Georgina back & form a posse.

Ahhhh

It may be shameful, but I still like going to something awful. Here is a bewdiful article on facebook.

Fire. I bid you to burn

We had a fire alarm at my work the other day. It was pretty much how these things usually go. The alarm starts sounding, everyone waits for 5 rings to see if it will stop or not. Then they turn off their machines, drop off their bags, grab a coat or whatever. Commence egress by descending internal stairs. Alarm stops, so does traffic flow. Presumably we were waiting for the other plane to crash into the building. Recommence exit, gather outside, watch the 3 or so appliances. OK that bit was entertaining. I had to pressing questions, why appliances? And did any of the firemen have moustaches? I don't know about the former, but yes to the latter. Stand around and then drift back in before given the official nod, noting that cars still are entering the car park. Pause in a moment of thanks giving that the council fleet & bookbus did not explode. Wait for the lift, finally reaching desk and a good afternoon whinge about how people don't know what they are doing in these alarm practices.

Heaven help us if we ever have a real fire.

Housework update

Quite aside from the bleating comments on my trade me auctions (Its impossibe {sic} to see enough detail in your one pic) I do sometimes wish I had a digital camera here. I would take a photo of our kitchen. The bench isn't too bad, largely due to the concerted efforts of one other flatmate and myself, but the microwave. The microwave, oooooh lordy, that's nasty. It belongs to my brother, but looking at it I don't think he will want it back. Imagine Jackson Pollock using it as a canvas, except he had only one colour and that was lamb scours.
I have left the microwave door open, for that is the passive aggressive's way. Yet no good ever comes of these waiting games, because the culprits just exclaim loudly how disgusting the place is and leave it, convinced that they had no part of the mess making. Hang on a minute... maybe I'm one of them too?

Kosho

I have been trying to find photographs of Kosho, the peculiar martial art that takes place on 2 trampolines divided by a pool of water. I wanted a picture of particpants with their white crash helmets and red robes over blue trakkies. But a photo won't convery the clumsy, slow, fight scenes the way a video will. Perhaps not so much fighting as flailing, bouncing and pursuing each other around the trampolines. Here it goes, and stay tuned because next I may manage to find footage of #6's bitching exercise equipment in the forest. You'd best be sitting down if I do, there is a lot of homoerotic grappling in the undegrowth and some time devoted to heads being crushed between mighty thighs.



Incidentally, when I hear the opening cymbal noise in this video I automatically start thinking of Jungle Boogie. Rather spoils the effect.

So tired

and yet I long to watch more of the Prisoner. It was such a treat last night, the character may be getting less and less appealing, but the incidental stuff is great. Clearly the protagonist is one of those individuals who, when faced with anything inconvenient or displeasing, talks louder and more pompously. Anyone really as individualistic and as smug as that in real life would be unbearable. Unless, of course, they also had his exercise regime which came up in the episode I watched last night. Oh the sixties, with the incredibly unflattering 2 piece blue track suits. The gladiatorial trampolining in red robes and white crash helmets. Inpromptu sessions on the uneven bars and cooling off afterward with some casual water skiing. Wheeee! I could not tell if I was watching the Prisoner or an advanced hair commercial.
Only, in an advanced hair commercial you would never get set upon by a group of ruffians in primary colours. All ruffians should be forced to wear primary colours I think.

Won't someone think of the office?

Today I got an e-mail delivered through work, a "friendly" reminder about office chairs. I have to share a workstation because desks are at a premium. 4 days of the week I am at one desk, but on Thursday I sit at another computer entirely.
Simple, you would think. But you have not factored in the special and pressing needs of the delicate flowers of the office. Namely, I need the support and comfort that only my own chair can give. It has been molded, it cups, caresses my backside and makes working a truely a pleasurable experience. Or something like that.
So on Thursday I migrate, I go to another desk and sitting there waiting for me is a random chair. All well and good. However, I don't always know where the chair comes from & when I end up working late I don't like to spend my lunch break trying to find out.
We-ll, evidently there have been complaints. Outrage which culminated in a rather patronising sounding email (it is hard to tell from email though) about how much easier life would be if everyone thought of the needs of others. People spend so much goddamn time thinking of their own chair needs I expect they couldn't think of anyone else & yet I am criticised for not sleuthing around for the chairs home when I had run 1/4 hour into my lunch working unpaid overtime? How utterly selfish of me.
It's all a matter of those who can complain loudly (and oh they can complain) receiving all the support from supervisors. I wonder if it has anything to do with my circ background? We are, after all, the subnormals and drones. Yet most probably it is a matter of those who loudly decry their needs being seen as diligent workers. If you are less focused on the job, treat it as a means of getting money rather than a vocation, it isn't seen as honest. It's cause enough to be seen as an undesirable element. Shame on me, if only I would just "consider others" when sharing workstations, "life would be so much easier".

Give Roger a hug

Which might refer to the dashing Roger Moore - as in the above photo, but really I mean let's all celebrate the return of my computer (Roger) and its joyous reuniting with the external hard drive (Moore).
Looks like it will be another night of staying up too late, oh to have some self restraint and be a morning person.

What price dignity?

The thing about shoe gazing when you walk along the street is that you often notice unpleasantness. Like the human? turd I saw on Moray Place the other week, although you would notice it anyway, it smelt horrendous. The flip side of this is that you sometimes see good stuff. Then you get the tension, do I pick the good item up and look like a vagrant? Or do I walk on by and risk missing out on something real special? And if the good thing is money, how little should you be willing to stoop for? Does it depend on business of the street? If you are likely to be seen by anyone you know? Or does the fiscal incentive outweigh all other concerns?
I'm sad to say, I have realised it is all about the money for me. I was compelled to stop at the side of George Street, in the middle of town, to pick up 10c. Pathetic. But then the next day I felt like it all was panning out. I was walking up Tennyson street, shuffling and staring at the ground as I usually do & lo! A crisp $20 begging to go towards paying for the DVD splurge of the other day. Or the DVD splurge of today (damn you trade me) $10 for the second Persuaders set. I hope Roger Moore will be wearing lots of knitwear, getting back to his modelling roots.
So anyway, we have established my dignity costs approximately 10c if anyone is interested.

Outmoded adjectives

I stayed up too late last night, I was watching ancient television series again. The premise for the episode I was watching was rather funny: a woman was hypnotised, and told to believe she was in love with the main character on the show. Her emotions and pulse were registered and transmitted by a silver locket bestowed upon her by the nefarious enemies of our hero. Of course the hapless woman was told that it came from her "love interest".
Anyway, the way the woman was told she was attracted to the hero was quite hilarious. "Look at this picture. Isn't he handsome?" and the kicker for me - "isn't he MANLY?".
How long has it been since anyone was able to say that word with a straight face? It's so meaningless isn't it? Look at the table, isn't it table like? See the way it is rectangular and has four legs (anything other than that design would be effete). Manly is right up there with calling an action "awefully white of you...old chap". I'm not even sure what characteristics we can glean from it? Resolution? Intelligence? Integrity? Y Chromosome?
Never mind, worked well enough on the character on the show.

I love expanding my word power

When 70s parties happen

evidently people stand around like they are modelling.
Here is a picture from the series UFO, purchased in a weak moment today. Can't wait to see that episode.

Overheard in Dunedin II

A little back story. I walked into the Salvation Army op shop on Princes Street, planning to get me a few good old fashioned bargains, and if I should happen to profit from them on trade me who's to speak of it again? I entered to overhear some of the most deliciously trashy conversations I have heard in a long time. Some woman trying to organise a bicyle because she's lost her license for 6 months, a heated chat about a complaint lodged against one of the staff...well, I was entranced. And then, like manna from heaven, a beautiful argument between staff members. One of whom, a tired and murky looking man, was being admonished by a particularly shrewish woman. "Why did you go out there, I told you to stay here!" "But I was picking up the donations, so no-one would..." "I don't care, you were supposed to stay here and mind the counter. I expect to come back and find you sparkling!"
I'd never seen anyone less likely to sparkle, even under less trying circumstances.

Trouble in the love nest

A shattering stroke of violence disrupted my flat today, murder. Murder most foul. If I were that way inclined I would say murder most fowl, but that might cheepen the post. Our beautiful blue carpet has been marred, one of the cats caught a bird and splayed feathers all down the hallway and through the lounge. Not quite so lovely, eh?
Naturally both animals looked innocent, which lends me to believe they are both guilty as sin about something or other, even if not the bird. And if it were one of them, what was the bird? A sparrow perhaps? It was hard to tell from the feathers - which were rather worse for the wear. How did the cat enter the building, did someone let it in especially? Was it even one of ours? They are pretty lazy, did they just invite friends over for a pot luck? I would not put it past them.

Home time

Really don't want to go, flat is totally foul. Can only imagine what horrendousness will ensue with the flat warming, bunch of people adulating my flatmates no doubt. Everyone is all just so bloody marvellous, while my life is running a spectrum of shades of shit. Its awful, I have been bought up on images of swinging parties from 70s and 80s tv, as well as those diet commercials where suddenly the person has new outfit that they fill to admiration, a lo-cal martini in one hand and a gaggle of admirers around them. How can real life compete when clearly the only way to enjoy a party is to enslave the populus with wit, charm and good looks. If we follow that one to its logical conclusion only one person can enjoy a party at any one time... and that person ought to be me, dash it all.
And no, I cannot possibly believe that my attidude to the world has anything to do with my unpopularity, so don't even bother suggesting it. Alalalala, I am not listening. I don't want to be at work either, especially after being criticised for doing something the wayi was {incorrectly} told to do it. I wonder, will I ever be gruntled? Is that even a word? Will I be spared certain unpleasantnesses that dare not speak their name at the flat? I mean that they dare not speak their name under any circumstances, not just in the flat by the way, but I was too tired to come up with a good way of phrasing it.
Better go and post off my trade me stuff, empire building is wearying work. I glean a certain amount of satisfaction, however, in realising that if you present offal creatively sometimes someone will buy it.

Prepare to be ejected from your seats with this blast from the past

If you are reading this Merepuff, this is for you. I could not believe I found it online, but verily Youtube is a repository of Demis fans, united in the love of that folk music man mountain. My only regret is that no-one has uploaded I Dig You yet. Still, with enthusiasts like those below, it's only a matter of time.

rover1990 (3 days ago) What a lovely voice. Peaceful wishes from Australia.
salkavalka12 (3 days ago) Demis Roussos is a genius one of the best.
KiaOraGurl (5 days ago) after reading all the comments, from all over the world, from all walks of life,from defferent cultures, one thing is very clear, we love Demis, and maybe we are not so defferent after all. greetings from New Zealand
roneycorrea(4 days ago) well KiaOraGurl, i think you are a 100% right..Greetings from Brazil
radiozuiderzee (3 days ago) music makes people come thogether
hbc613 (5 days ago) His a great singer and handsome. I'm Asian women.I love him. I grow up listening him.

You're asian women? Well honey, Whitney is every woman and she could take you down.

This fall

I have noticed a number of people wearing those hideous clown like two colour rugby shorts. I was trying to find you all pictures online, but I realise that no search engine understood the concept clown shorts. I went to the source instead, and found out they are known as harlequin shorts. A short by any other name would look as tacky. Rest assured, my viewing experiences have not been nice.

Must rush home, stop computing, feed my latest fixation

Oh number six! You have my vote. Be seeing you on the small screen shortly.

Party time, excellent

Last night our neighbours had a party, and apparently the neighbourhood was invited. I didn't hear about it until I got home. In fact I was suprised to know there was a party on at all - they seemed quieter than usual. Perhaps Wayne (or Gavin, or Trevor or whatever he is called) was away so he could not regale everyone with stories of his friend who earns lots as a foreman, and handing out cell phone numbers to the birds. Maybe the bint was catatonic so we didn't get the same shrieking giggle. It was polite of them to invite the neighbours, but as my flatmate said, it would have been better if they hadn't so we could legitimately fume.
Plenty to fume about anyway; today I had work for a couple of hours. It did not go particularly well as we had to wait for 3/4 of an hour to get into the building, the returns were poured over the floor, and we had only about an hour to do them all. I think there will be some bitching at work tomorrow when they see the state of the place. Never mind, at least when I was down town I handed on one of my trade me sales. And I got paid for the time I was standing around outside the library.

Eavesdropping in the city

"Oh! I just totally felt like Mary Poppins!"

Here's book I would like to own

This is an interesting read and I admit that I would quite like a copy, although I imagine that I would find it of limited application. I do not have a servant although I guess that I could just have to be extremely rude to shop assistants instead. Then they can go home and vent their anger through spousal abuse I suppose, or string up a cat.
Which, incidentally, was almost a matter of concern at my flat. One of the ever growing family of pet cats disappeared for a reasonable period of time. We wondered if something had befallen it - in my case I wondered if that something was a family with a lifetime supply of Jimbos. Oh well, it has turned up again for our sins, and it may yet strike it lucky on the staircase. The lightbulb blew so this is a golden opportunity for a black feline to trip me up and eat like a king for weeks.

A disease I need never fear

Salt deficiency induced goitre - phew, what a relief!

Bullshit on Bouverie

Went to a housewarming yesterday, nice place, although the trek out to the NEV was a trifle wearying. You forget how far it is to get there, and such a mission to get back again. I was in an indifferent mood, but thought I should give it a chance, it might be the thing to cheer me up.
Unfortunately not even the semi-psychotic angry neighbours were enough to pull me out of my doldrums. The problem with being in a bad frame of mind is that it tends to be self perpetuating. Things that I might have found funny on some occasions compound to make life that much more unbearable. Last night I was stuck listening to people twittering on about fat people, chubby chasers and ugly people in general. I got the impression the overarching theme was "how dare fat people exert or exhibit attraction for people, it's disgusting". Which is really indicative of the kind of blind self assurance that people portray. They, of course, have never had to agonise over how they look being within the socially acceptable spectrum. Clearly they never had to buy a burger knowing that everyone was mentally suggesting that a green salad or dust might be more appropriate. Or the condescending approval should porcine go with the super trim milk. And why is it that they say nothing of people who are frighteningly thin (this is presumably less vomit inducing than someone who is overweight)? In this case it was possibly insensitive, and disingenuous, to shift the issue from sexuality to visual appeal.
So I got treated to hearing someone ragged on as being fat and ugly. Bloody hell, it was hardly roll them in flour and look for the wet spot obesity, but let's allow the party goers some dramatic licence shall we? I suppose, for me, as the resident fat ugly bitch of the flat, it is all very topical. And if I am not considered the fat ugly bitch then in light of the ghastly reactions I provoke from people I have to believe that I am loathsome on the inside and it shows.
As inevitably happens, it was then suggested to me that I should be happy because I have a job - now there's a giggle. A dead end job considered by people of my acquaintance to be mind numbing and in no way as intellectual as their studies. Lets hear it for the chubby retard, struggling on, making it in the community of normal people as best as they can. Maybe if the library doesn't work out I can always launch a career stuffing envelopes or something. It's cop out platitude from people unwilling to admit to themselves that they have it a lot easier & a lot more going for them than I do.
All this deep and meaningful thought to a background of hippy bong drumming and fire dancing? It's a wonder I didn't poison the Feng Shui.

A funny thing happened to me on my way to the computer...

I had planned to post about something else first off today, but events have consipired once more.
So I was minding my own business, walking up the hill to ingratiate myself and freeload on some broadband. I had made it up to walking through the golf course, tra-la-la, and was mooching along at a reasonable pace. I glanced to my right and noticed to husky specimens of the weekend warrior genus but didn't think anything of it until there was the clunk of a golf ball hitting the tree close by. Uh hrrr hrrr hrrr, sorry mate!
I can't decide, did they want to see tubby run? Am I not worth 20 seconds? Could they tell, even from that distance, that I am a complete waste of oxygen? The universe is sending me messages. That my life is worthless is not only apparent to myself, but even to those who don't know me.

Easter

It is Easter Friday and we have all had a day off.
Except of course the dub music which has been valiently polluting my house from my flatmate's room all day. If I wanted to listen to dub, I would switch on radio one and listen to some tosspot blearing through the track lineup of unmitigated shit, I don't want it to stage a home invasion at my flat.
However I did get out of the house so it has not been absolutely relentless. And when I get home I can retaliate with some country and western sleaze I suppose. Or I can drown my sorrows with a creme egg. Which leads nicely to a boring story. I was part of the OMIGODTHESUPERMARKETWILLBESHUTTOMORROWWHATWILLWEDO! rush at New World yesterday when I purchased the aforementioned egg, and I consider it a small triumph that when I met someone I knew I was only part way into my binge food buying expedition. I only clutched a bag of hot cross buns, but they had a basket full of crap. Ha! Now we can pretend I am the fit healthy one...unless of course they spotted me on the way out.
There's something to be said for the anonymity of shopping in a different part of town to where you live.

So what's new?

I have been absent from the blog for a while, partially because my computer is dying. Aue. AUE. Currently it is in the repair shop so I am flitting from house to house, borrowing connections as I go. Also, I have been vein throbbingly pissed off about work, not to mention working early and late.
So, I hear you cry, why are you fucked off with work this time?
We----ell, to continue my proud history of complete incompetence I found I have been doing the claims for undelivered serials incorrectly. A bit of a time waster, but hey, it all gets the same result in the end. I checked with someone about it yesterday. I asked in a self-effacing manner, as I usually do, assuming that I had stuffed it up somehow. There was no implication that the fault was anyone's other than my own so I was unprepared for the vitriolic reation I got. You've already been told all this! etc etc.
Well, I am pretty pathetic and not great at defending myself, so I will have recourse to the haven of all cornered cowards: the internet.
Probably I was told to use letters for gift magazine claims, and printouts subscriptions claims but in my defence the first week I did claims I only did the gift ones, because there was a two week backlog and Christmas ones to deal with. As far as I recall I didn't have a pile of regular subscriptions to do so. And when I was being shown the best way to fold the letters so that they would fit in the envelopes (they are retardedly printed so you can't just fold them in 3) it was only for gift mags. Frankly I don't know what this gash was getting so uppity about anyway - all the magazines were claimed for one way or another.
This is just the latest in a string of examples in which colleagues have got their little digs in. It's really just one or two on mini Hitler trips, probably they feel profoundly inadequate that they are unable to organise enough minority groups to persecute so they will take out their frustrations on me, the new person. It's amazing, if you talk to one department I work in, they would say I am fairly quick on the uptake, ask the other and they would make cry subnormal. The difference in the training in the departments is profound also, as well as the response to mistakes. For instance, I remember getting things wrong in lending services a while after I had started, but the response was unfailingly patient, understanding and not bitchy as I have found where I am now. I wonder perhaps if people have been in their palm grove positions for too long? Have they forgotten what it is like to perform tasks that aren't rote? Will my numerous shortcomings be aired at the meeting scheduled this Tuesday? Should I be more circumspect & delicate about airing my complaints - one never knows who might be reading?
Well, who gives a fuck, I don't need the job and I need life in Dunedin like a bullet in the head. Christ yesterday I was ready to slit my wrists (except that would be ghastly faux teenage behaviour) or emigrate on the strength of the petty anal muscle clenching behaviour of some of the gleet smears in my neighbourhood. Oh, and by the way, I could not give a flying fuck about your cunty amazon orders of Lowest Common Denominator kitten books, or anything else about you for that matter. I wish I had the necessary mechanical skills to clip your brake cables, though I probably would be too lazy to expend the energy bending over to clip them.
More to the point, I wish I handled conflict situations better so I didn't always get shat upon by the biggest arsehole in the room. So fuck you for ruining my weekend. Fuck you very much, motherpeachstone.

Etiquette, one aspect of decorum...

Sometimes you just find a line in wikipedia that makes the search worthwhile. I had thought that no-one used the word decorum any more, but no, it has gone digital. As has propriety, although the latter does not, unfortunately, have a wikipedia entry of its own. Remiss. Who out there is willing to take on the challange?

Bog etiquette

Yeah, so one of the highlights of the day was trying to clean the toilet. Repeat some affirmations, look at it from an angle and think of Mariah Carey...it's not so terrible. What I find particularly disconcerting is the inevitable supply of reading material that winds up in the wee room. (Oh lord, I just want to digress into all the euphemisms, so many, my particular favourite toilet door sign thus far is "Tis Here" and I will save the rest for another occasion). Frankly I don't want to touch it to remove it. Why the hell can't people just hit the metamucil? Though as I live in a vegan household I would not have thought we would have such -err- congestion issues. It's like they are gleefully reconciling themselves to an half hour of wasted time um, eliminating waste. Reading an issue of Deadline is not going to make it any more fruitful and that rag isn't even absorbant.

My god, some households even have book shelves of material. Clearly people who are either gravely inconsiderate, or who have lived with 2 bathrooms their whole lives. Really, people should just get jobs so thy can take a dump on work time using work toilet paper. Then my flat might not degenerate in its periodic toilet paper wars.

Isn't it interesting, in that photo the loose end of the paper is against the wall rather than facing the room. Is it because they wanted to cut back on unnecessary usage?

The plague

I know I say this every time, but I maintain we are entering the final days. Latest proof is the ungodly illness I have been foully struck down with. It's hideous and I blame the government and the influx of dirty students. I had the day off work today which has rather thrown my schedule. Don't worry though, I was unable to sit around doing absolutely nothing so I ended up cleaning floors, torrential nose and all, while the cats looked on and laughed. I got my own back though, if they get underfoot on the stairs they will be trodden upon, and neither of them seem to enjoy my friend the vacuum cleaner.
So now I have reached a regrettable point in the day. I am still unwell but I know if I get a taste for not working there will be no going back, it's going to be mental health days all the time. Do I go back to work? I am not functioning at a terribly high level, but one doesn't need to. Or do I prevent the spread of the plague and face notifying 3 people of my non arrival tomorrow? Clearly I need to consult an oracle about this, and while there are probably hundreds of these on the internet I don't trust any of them. Whatever happened to good old down home augury? The cats would love it too.

Lets never bring back the 1990s ok?

A little something to lighten my mood while I bewail my trade me listings and work tomorrow. Hairy mail is not cutting it any more (tee hee hee)

Oh yeah, that's it, right there

Nothing spells instant hilarity like Dannii Minogue, except maybe...you'll see...