Pregnancy

Now that I come to the end of my first full term pregnancy, I feel it is perhaps time to re-instate my position as part time jargon appropriator. Nine months is an awful long time to bottle up the words of such an influential individual such as myself.

So what have those long toiled months bearing child brought me?

Well after one of the better summers on (my) record, I have left the humble shores of New Zealand and migrated to the big bright lights of the capital of the world (english opinion). London.

Where upon I will diligently inform all those who care to listen or read about my misguided experiences and lifestyle.

So bear with me and do try to battle through the bullshit musings I am about to bombard you with. Please join me on the Southwest train to London Waterloo stopping at......

My Slug and me

For approximately 3 months or 90ish days now, I have been the
proud (yet often despairing) owner of my very own bona-fide 'slug'.
A venture that spanned from a period of yearning, and a side agreement with a good friend that involved the month of April and no razors.
It has now spiralled into a way of life, perhaps even an obsession.
Throughout this time I have endured taunts and ridicule
"it looks like a landing strip, you need towax your face", "man you look like Hitler more and more each day".
But with the bad has come the good "Its not Mo-vember yet mate".
This one I was particularly pleased with as it was out of a moving van
from distance which I interpreted to myself as " fuck yeah its officially legit".
Needless to say I was pretty chuffed for the rest of my walk.
I have also noted throughout this time that I've become part of some sort of
club or society. Whereby public acknowledgment is rampant by members of
this same fraternity. Just the other day I was happily minding my own business
in the lift of the Holiday Inn hotel. Had my ipod blaring. Enjoying the upward motion of the lift
(its a new hotel so the lifts have that smooth acceleration thing going on). When all of a sudden this guy in the lift tapped me on the shoulder and (I shit you not) told me "I like your work mate".
I was like "huh w.t.f" he just put his finger over his lip and nodded. I jumped out on the next floor a little bemused, how was I meant to feel after this?
A similar incident occurred during the Wellington Food Show as I was handing out
hot chocolate samples to the hundreds of gannets who had found there way to
nest of free food and samples. Dazed and confused by the constant groping and lunging at my tray of hot ambrosia I spun around in the sea of meaningless faces and was greeted by the
almost stealthy "nice slug mate". Again I murmured "wtf" as I searched out this compliment ninja but as quickly as it happened it was over. Who was he and why did he say that?
Maybe it's similar to the way truck drivers flick their indicators at each other when the drive past one another, or perhaps unbeknownst to myself. I have been neglecting the sanctity and code of the mustache practitioner. Whatever it is? It has definitely been
a journey, and as I near the shore of a smooth upper lip. I feel pleased in the knowledge that if I ever feel alone or despondant there is a community out there who will
embrace me (or anyone) for that matter based on their facial hair dexterity.

Fleur di lis

His mother was a junkie.
It made him cry.
His father was a cunt.
He did not care.
He twice ran away, he twice came home.
The second time was the worst.
That time he had no control.
He sent himself to oblivion,
but was chased into returning.
I guess one day he will thank that angel.
Today he must hate him.
His father played the saxophone. He played it well.
Used to play barefoot, said it was an ode to someone famous.
He never knew who. Neither did his dad.
They used to fight lots. I think he really missed her.
It hurt she had left him. Only to stay.
They were like droplets of rain, destined for explosion.
He didn't think it would happen the way it did though.
It made him reel, he forgot, it made him love.
Buried beside each other he sometimes visits.
Its on the way to his work.
He makes shoes. Or rather he makes old shoes better. He likes to repair things, always has.
One time he repaired his best friends record player.
They both liked the Stray Cats.
His mother gets irises, only in season. They were always her favourite.
Even in the haze.
His father gets whatever. He wouldn't give a fuck. Didn't give a fuck.
He drinks whiskey like in Westerns. Usually Jack Daniels.
His mother was a junkie.
His father was a cunt.

taking a leaf.....

The pins are white,they are shiny, they have crude drawings on them.
The boy is defined by his dapper bow tie and the girl by her sizable
but two dimensional breasts
with dots for nipples. They go together.
They sit patiently in their wooden frame ten feet high. Above the plush cinnamon carpet, impervious to their surroundings but content in their existence.
The man in the brown wool jersey listens to music loudly and sips red wine. His toes are cold but his face is hot. "Curious how different parts of the body contradict each other" he says "I suppose
it reminds you your alive" he continues.
The song playing builds to a crescendo. The man nods his head and taps his foot. He has always liked tapping his foot. That was the last song.
The album is over now.
He tops up the glass, its flavour now more agreeable.
Outside REM's 'Losing my Religion' has become the new soundscape.
The grey faced man plays it again. He will continue to play it until his hat is full.
His secret safe with the permanent fixtures.
After he will buy a drink.
Whiskey or gin.
Tonight there is a permanence to the man in the brown jersey.
Tonight there is no discord.

Dining with Angels

Last night marked the beginning of a new phase in the eating habits
of myself and several friends.
Over the course of a miserable Wellington evening we threw off the shackles of dicey Chinese takeaways and slap in the pan home cooked meals for one, we spat in the face
of sub standard ingredients, and we turned our back on our favoured wine merchants at Monty's superette. For this one night we became elite, we became The Supper Club.
Haha well maybe that is a slightly dramatic version of events but in any case last night saw
the first meeting of the newest gang in town the Supper Club.
The brainchild of a friend of mine (we will call him J) which emerged after
a favourable experience with the novel The Club of Angels in which a group of aristocrats meet regularly to entertain gargantuan and decadent feasts spiced with a dash of murder.
J being the sentimentalist he is suggested we follow suit and attempt to replicate these meetings but without the homicide.
Several of us agreed and I took it upon myself to play host to the first gathering.
What I didn't realise is that over the course of the evening perhaps the more apt name would have been the Discussion Club.
The meal was a largely simple affair consisting of a lamb roast, caprese salad and a improvised babybeet and feta salad which turned out to be a success despite my gross underestimation on the number of babybeet I would need.
This aside the food received a rad reception, the wine was outstanding as was the company.
The conversation however was deep and reflectively hilarious.
I have always been an advocate for getting involved in discussion as are many of my friends.
It is the most engaging thing about surrounding yourself with intelligent people.
However I would not have considered some of the topics which we seemed intent on hammering for vast periods of time once the fog of wine had settled on the evening.
I mean are we really qualified to comment on the relationship between a farmer and his work dogs when none of us have either farms nor work dogs? And is our spin on the merits of technical jazz verse classical accurate when all but one of us is musically illiterate?
Should our friend get a pager? Does the best form of an art come from limited means or is it a product of wealth? Cats verse Dogs and their emotions?
Yes I'm telling you folks all this and more was discussed as we imparted our well defined (hyper sketchy) points of view on each other with gusto and conviction.
It was brilliance in an evening and as I finish up this piece I can't help
but smile with anticipation at the thought of the next gathering and laugh at the knowledge if we ever get onto politics we are royally fucked.

Rainy Days

It has been raining for six days now. Initially I welcomed the change of temperature, it really
emphasized a change in the seasons. It meant I could start to consider the change in style from
autumn to winter; reintroduce scarfs, consider the purchase of a new coat, hit up the warehouse for some fresh beanies, soup, duvets, slippers.
Alas I was like the proverbial child in a sweet shop.
Unfortunately however this notion has changed. "Jog on Rain" I say.
I certainly wouldn't mind if it was just cold.
Just cold is swell, just cold means you can do stuff, just cold means your roof doesn't leak (thanks Quinovic), just cold means your shoes stay dry, just cold means the populous avoids the "Drowned rat" syndrome.....
I must confess though there is one I like about the incessant rain and that is how it transforms our apartment in to a massive fish tank whereby we play the role of fish. I kid you not. The rain on the roof combined with our complex guttering system creates an underwater ambiance, true to life on Sealab 2021.

Wow first blog in a month and I seem to be stuck on rain. Hmm lets
see if i can turn this one around.
I'm going to blame my lack of writing on the fact May happens to be
my birthday month (weak I know). Therefore in the spirit of aging
I have been collecting my thoughts and reflecting on what the next chapter has in store.
This is what I came up with :

"Write drunk. Edit sober" thanks Hemingway.

On that note anyone who hasn't read Hemingway's Fiesta should
do so right away. This book is ultra enjoyable. Similar in vein to The Great Gatsby, the story entertains aristocratic 20-something Americans living in Paris Post World War 1. Its a life of Pernod, champagne, food and elitist hobbies. Which definitely strikes a cord with any modern day 20-something who fancies themselves a chance in the 1920s. Don't try tell me you haven't thought you belong in a time elsewhere. Little imaginings of running around all Art Deco and fancy free, or strutting round town in a bowler with a cane and a fine looking dame on your arm.

What I find interesting about a book like this is how it would have been received to an audience of the time? I mean would someone who wasn't part of the bourgeois society be at all interested in reading about well to do people of their period? I certainly for one would not be remotely interested in reading about fictionalised socialites of today, that shit would be fucking tedious. They have nothing on the class and sophistication of early money.

Anyway read it, its good.

New LCD Soundsystem is out as well. Listen its good also.

The future was in my evening ear.....

I don't expect to write much about music on this blog
unless it really hits a note (shit pun I know).
However after rolling around the city with the new Future Islands
album In Evening Air reverberating my ears and soul, I will have to admit that I
couldn't pass up the opportunity to preach the radness of this album to all who dare listen.
Incorporating elements of Tom Waits, Bowie, Joy Division or Gary Newman onto any album is going to help an albums cause.
But dropping all four into one album makes for some fucking swell
listening.
Im not going to give you a run down of the tracks or tell you about the band. I know i'll fuck it up. Instead I'm going to encourage you to rest the cynic inside who's screaming "it's just more gay indie shit". Throw caution (or a kite or rock or whatever your holding) to the wind and appreciate the throwback to the aforementioned collective of greats I heard while I was strolling the streets.