Merry Fricking Christmas

To all that I know from this little place... I hope your day is a little bit lovely.

Chrissy Kisses.

Matt

I just squished a mosquito

The title of this post has absolutely no bearing on its subject, but I just squished a mozzie and I'm rather pleased about it.

My last post was about those three little words. "I Love You'. Those three words make up my favourite phrase in the entire english language. They can reduce a person to the depths of crusty loneliness, or they can raise a person to heights achieved only by the most magnificient pavlova.

Turns out not so much for me with the three little words. In a conversation on Monday morning I was told (among other things) that; 'your friends think that you're immature, offensive and annoying'... 'you think you're funny, but in fact you're just rude'... and my personal favourite, 'if you were like this around my friends they would cut you down and you would embarrass me'.

Now, the fact that I can't be arsed spell checking 'embarassed' shouldn't count against me.

This conversation on Monday morning that really shook me. Not just figuratively. I called my good friend Ms Coventry about an hour after the fact and I was shaking. For a good twenty five minutes my personality was dissected and torn apart. And I shook.

I don't hurt easily, but this woman who just a few short days ago had told me that she loved me had decided the my personality, the thing that makes me, well, me, was something that needed drastic changes. I'm in favour of change. I change pants, t-shirt and breakfast cereal almost every other day. But having someone tell you that your personality needs to change... I'm more likely to start creating artistic tea towels featuring tasteful nudes of well known chefs. Not a bad idea come to think of it.

I won't speak badly of her. Not even after she made me shake. She has issues with her body image. Massive issues. First five weeks - lights out sex. No exception. Whenever she got out of bed I was told to look away. Jeans and large tops were the clothes of choice, whatever the occasion. She was not an overweight girl. Sexy, confident and clever. Didn't like herself a whole bunch though... But, I liked her. Would have loved her. With all of me.

I've been writing scripts this week for a new food and wine show that I'm directing and cutting, so I haven't really let myself think about the whole thing yet... I sent my final drafts for episodes 1-4 to the producer this afternoon so tonight I'm going to drink enough to kill any thoughts that I have, might have, will ever have.

I'm newly 34 years old. And I have friends that don't think I'm offensive.

I'm chucking that on my CV.

Before I pass out.

Anyone know any single women?

Love Me Tender, Or Slightly Tough

I had those words spoken to me a couple of days ago... you know the ones... there's three of them. They start with 'I' and end with 'love you'.

Where to from here?

No fucking idea.

A Post In Two Parts

Firstly - I've had a few requests for pics of my new place from overseas folk, so here, courtesy of my reliable phone camera are a few of the lounge, kitchen and of course, my piano. The exposure aint great coz I really just couldn't be arsed, but you get the idea... Lots of space, lots of open plan type styles and plenty of wood.

I swear, there is not a better phone camera on the market then my darling Nokia N95. 5 megapix and it forgives me when I cheat on it with my Canon SLR. Geek info over.

Second part - moving... you know what happens... you clear out a few drawers and discover thngs you haven't seen in years. I bumped into an old love letter from a girl that broke my heart, and frankly for a girl that shattered me, she said some very nice things. Girls are complicated.

I also came across a piece of writing I did a couple of years ago. I used to be the movie reviewer, and television editor, for a New Zealands biggest music and lifestyle magazine. It's called Rip It Up, and while I stopped writing for them about a year ago I loved the whole process.

Aaanyway - moving... I found a review that I wrote that the mag refused, kindly, but still refused, to publish. So fuck it. Here it is. The movie has come and gone but I still kinda like the complete and utter nonsense that this review is... See below.



300
By Similar Simian

The Flick

I just saw a movie that’ll give your eyes boners, make your balls scream and make you poop DVD copies of The Transporter. It’s called 300. I don’t know what the title has to do with the movie, but they could’ve called it Kittens Making Candles and it’d still rule.

It’s about these 300 Greek dudes who stomp the sugar-coated shit out of like a million other dudes. I have a feeling that a lot of sports coaches are going to show this film to their teams before they play. Also, gay dudes and divorced women are going to use screen captures for computer wallpaper.

Two cool things about the movie and one thing I didn’t like -
Cool Thing 1
Heavy metal during battle scenes - Who gives a shit if the music isn’t historically correct? Lord Of The Rings could’ve used some Guns n Roses. This movie has that chu-chung! kind of metal that you hear in your head when your 17 year old boss at Caltex is telling you that you’ll have to stay for clean up and you wish you had a sock filled with rocks in your hand.
Cool Thing 2
Foes, Mini Bosses and a Big Boss - Basically, the Greek dudes are fighting these Persian dudes, but the director does it all like a video game. The Greeks fight every death metal video from the last ten years. There’s wave after wave of giants, freaks, ninjas, mutants, wizards, and a hunchback who looks like he’s got Paul Holmes on his back.

Not So Cool Thing
Dude Nudity (or Dud-ity) - These are Greek times, when there were a lot of naked women around. And there are some naked women in this film, but almost every naked woman scene has a muscular dude giving the screen ass lunch. Dude-ity is something directors put in their movies so people will think they’re serious, I guess, and not just throwing in naked hotties.
Any directors reading this – IT’S OKAY TO JUST THROW IN NAKED HOTTIES.
My final analysis is 300 the most ass-ruling movie I’ve seen this year, and will probably be the King of 2007 unless someone makes a movie where a pair of sentient boobs fights a werewolf.
10/10

Diggity Dog

I moved 3 weeks ago. Not only did I manage to move into a place that actually feels like home, but I also inherited a dog. He belongs to a guy down the street that doesn't seem to look after him at all well. That being said he's a healthy, happy fella and I love havin him around.

One of the conditions of my getting the lease on this place was that I would look after the dog. The owner of the house I'm renting, let's call her Jane because that is in fact her name, had been taking care of him for the last year or so. When I came to look at the place - right now I should point out that when I moved, I moved two doors up the street... really... used to live at #23, now live at #19... but I digress - when I came to look at the place, bottle of good Sav Blanc in hand she made it clear that as long as I would look after the mutt I could live in her house.

Given that I love dogs it was not a stretch to promise that I'd throw things, put water in things, ladle food into things and generally become a de facto dog owner.

Meet Jack. The Golden Retriever that doesn't retrieve but sure does like having his belly scratched. Mind you, so do I.

It's been a while, and you still look the same...

So here I am.

Back once again with the renegade master.

A year older. I had a birthday last week. To all those that sent cards and presents, thank you. Which is to say thank you to none of you. That hurt my insides. Actually what probably hurt my insides is the cocktails and substances and dancing like a cirque de soliel dancer. It should be noted here that I dance brilliantly. My hips have a life of their own. Quite often they won't return home until long after I've gone to bed.

Everything aside, I've missed posting here. I like the fact that what I think and put to paper (?) is read by people that I have come to like and admire. While I haven't been posting or commenting I have been keeping up with ya'll, and I feel very priveledged and honoured that some of you have been asking where I am and how I am.

Truth is I'm not great and I don't want to go into it. So there.

I'm still trying to fight crime with sexy results, I'm still trying to send incontinent intercontinental ninja florists, I'm still trying to replace lightbulbs while spattering by bed covers in ever more interesting patterns of blood, I'm still falling over myself trying to fall in love and I'm still walking that fine, fine line between beauty and the beauty of truth.

So, all you talented folk who have gievn me your time to read my ramblings... cheers. I am back.

Older, slightly thinner and more confused that ever before. Now if that ain't a movie poster I don't know what is.

Broken

I'm broken. Tired, stressed and broken.

Ain't posted in an age due to new girl stress, work stress, finding new house stress, drinking waaaaay too much stress, smoking every cigarette I can get my hands on and generally fretting stress.

I can't do it anymore. Any of it.

Want to quit work, want to quit the girl, want to quit the drink and the cigarettes (obviously some of these things are not entirely a bad idea...) and most of all I really want to quit being the person that I've become.

How is it, and why is it that we end up being... sorry, that I end up being someone completely different than the person I know I am? This has been the hardest two years of my life and I would love to believe the adage of whatever don't kill ya makes you a ninja, but frankly, I'm not wearing cotton pajamas, kicking people in the face and killing pandas with my brain. Ninjas can do that you know...

I've talked myself into being with the girl, I think. I've certainly talked myself into doing the job producing and directing the tele show that I don't want to do but will pay rent and bills but is causing me to squeeze my metaphorical insides like a tube of toothpaste. I've been ignoring my friend who I adore and I really, really don't feel like having sex. Even with myself. Or another person. Which is unusual. I rather like sex. Especially with another person.

Being a rather selfish, yet giving person (I'm a complicated contradiction) I really don't know how to deal at the moment. I'd quite like to run away, but I don't trust anyone to look after my piano properly, and I'd probably only run as far as my local bar anyway. But I can't. I'm moving house on Sunday after shooting the first episode of the new show on Saturday and then editing it on Monday for a Wednesday on-air date.

I'm freeeeeeaking out.

I Need a Nap. Or a Fatal Beating.

We walked through the evening crowds, loving the faces, loving the laughter, loving the perfumes of skin and hair. Loving the feel of this woman on my arm. And yet I was alone, far too alone with my love of this town and my growing feelings and fears of this woman.

Sooner or later fate puts us together with all the people, one by one. It shows us what we could, what we could not, what we should and should not, let ourselves become. Sooner or later we meet the drunkard, the wasted, the betrayer, the ruthless mind and the hate filled heart. But fate, bless it, loads the dice, because I always find myself pitying almost all these people. And it's almost impossible to despise someone you honestly pity, almost as much as it's impossible to shun someone you love.

Love is on my mind.

Sex is also on my mind.

Freud said that we're motivated by the drive for sex. Another well respected gentleman disagreed, Dr Adler said we're motivated by the drive for power. Yet another, Dr Victor Frankle, he said sex and power were important drives, but when you can't get either one - no sex, and no power - there's still something else that keeps driving us. The drive for meaning.

I believe that in my life the drive for sex, the drive for power, the drive for meaning... they're all part and parcel of the same motivation. I just wish I knew what that was. I want to quantify it and boil it down and grab it in two hands and keep it in an open box to study it.

Things are slightly off centre in a very new relationship, and if it's off centre this soon... well...

I think too much.

Friday Night Lights

Friday night. Ms MJ picks me up for date number two.

CUT TO

Saturday night. Taxi drops me back at my place after dark.

FADE TO BLACK

REVEAL...

Her good friends hold a party. Many people. None I know. Doesn't bother me, that situation never has. Vodka is poured, conversations exchanged, laughter. There's a kiss. She cuts me a line of something. I inhale. There's dancing and more vodka and more laughter and another secret, quiet, yet shattering kiss. The sun is coming up. Another line is put in front of me. I inhale. Music changes, from rhythmic dance to James Brown telling the world he's a sex machine. More vodka, more laughter, more conversations, someone takes out a camera. An embrace on the deck, a whispered letter to each other. The sun is fully up. Sunglasses go on. The music goes on.

An invitation... come with me back to mine... I go. We sleep. Her wrapped in me. We wake. We laugh. There's a golden number of kisses. Conversation flows easily. I leave for my own home. As I leave she speaks. I want to see you again very badly. Those words of hers are mine forever now. I can hear them.

It's easy. All I have to do is close my eyes.

Close

I've been internet dating. The woman I have stopped seeing was an internet. It worked. First dates are easy. Second dates, not so much. Third dates more difficult still. Finding my woman who knows? Good fucking luck.

Last night I hitched up my special trousers and sprayed the special scent around my general direction and went on a first date with a woman that we'll call Ms MJ. I had arranged to meet Ms MJ last week before I had my whispered promise moment with a woman that I never thought I'd see again.

The whispered promise girl hasn't called.

So I went and dated.

We shook hands and stared at each other. Open faced and button nosed she was. Guileless and unlined but with a weary shadow across her eyes. It was as if she had sealed shut some doors on herself, and stood guard over them. There was pride. I admire that in a woman. It should never, ever be underestimated. But there was maybe a little sadness too. It's taken me a long time to realise that everyone is just as tired, worried, proud and sad as you or me. Mostly me. The heartbreaking joy I put into sowing emotions that might bloom is something that gives me the strength to face the fear of love and the desparate hunger of loneliness.

So, under the indigo sky of Auckland I dated. Voices were raised in laughter and excitment. Drinks were drained. Drinks were ordered. 'Same again? Sure... your round?' There's a kind of inspiration that's not much more than doing the right thing in the right way, but it only happens when I empty my heart of ambition, purpose and plan. It only works when I give myself completely to the moment, golden and relentless. So I kissed her. Properly. A good kiss is like a promise. I can tell in that first kiss if I want to dream of future nights with this woman.

It was a very good kiss.

And now I'm conflicted. The whispered promise has not called. I've had four emails today with the lovely past woman. I've just had a text from Ms MJ.

Conflicted. And yet content. I don't know how that works, but somehow, for me, it does. But I have no idea what to do. None.

Tread softly

Spring in my glorious Auckland has infected me with a strange fever. Poetry fever baby.

My current fave... kinda reflects my mood...

He Wishes
Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

Mr W.B.Yeats. That last line...? Man.

Remember To Breathe

I'm blue. Emotionally haphazard. There has been a split from a lady that I care about but just isn't the right one at the right time. There has been an explosion in the life of one of my closest friends which has broken her heart. There has been a notice from the property manager that I must vacate by November 13 as the owner of my lovely rented villa wishes to return. There has been work arranged, then cancelled, then arranged again, only to be cancelled once more. Then last night I was halted in my stride by a woman I haven't seen in five years.

Slender, just past shoulder length blond hair and pale skin. Straight posture, determined presence. Loose cotton shirt, blue jeans. Beautiful. The clue to everything a man should love and fear was there, in her stance, in her look, in her first words.

There was pride in her smile as she spoke. Years ago I'd mistaken that pride for arrogance. I won't make that mistake again. I was lost immediately. Floating and lost. Her hand was on my arm as she spoke. Familiar and as exciting as a whispered promise.

Once we were lovers, now we were strangers. So we stood. I looked at her, a stranger, yet so recognisable to me. A voice in my heart said yes, yes, yes. We talk, we talk for almost two hours. I struggle to get words out. I worry, I hope instinct is true and right. My heart has never guided me as well as my head, and heart was well and truely steering the ship last night.

She will look at me in the next week as we sit across from each other, and I'll continue to struggle to define the colour of her eyes. I won't tell her what I want to tell her. The determination I have to not make the same mistakes of five years ago is amost brutal. My heart is moving through deep and silent water.

She is a woman who knows.

She might be... might be... my woman who knows.

Good taste

In the spirit of getting more people to think the way I do, wear clothing the way I do, mangle language the way I do and listen to the same music I do... may I present the latest Kings Of Leon album. Titled Only By The Night, (which is a title I love by the way, evocative and ambiguous at the same time) it is quite simply the best rock and roll album I've heard this year.

Lies

There we are, dining, sitting, drinking, laughter ringing. And yet things are a bit sticky. She has accused me, not to put too fine a point on it, of lying to her.

I said there were lies everywhere. Take the oxtail soup on the menu for instance. I asked her, why, if the tail of an ox was so good had I never knowingly eaten any other part of an ox? The answer of course is that most oxtail soup is actually cowtail soup but that sounds like someting you'd feed to a slightly ill canine, so oxtail soup it is, and that's a lie. Such a good lie that butchers throughout the land fool people with it. And then they laugh the secret laugh of the butcher. I don't know it.

Where would we be without lies? There'd be no television news or songs by Justin Timberlake or pretty much any other pop artist. There'd be no advertisements or any of the other things that make life worth living. I went to Canberra years ago, before it became the cosmopolitan centre of all that is good and hip, back in the good old days where good tastes merry fist slammed down on anything that looked vaguely out of place or interesting. It was all grey concrete and bad beer and women that smelt like crime. But there wasn't an ad to be seen, not a single poster to tell you that if you didn't use this particular deoderant you'd most likely be attacked by wolverines, or if you went to Prague you'd be a better person. There was nothing. What they needed was a sprinkling of lies.

'My simple point,' I said to her, 'is that lying is dangerous and human and creative and necessary for the maintenance of society. Animals can't do it and we can. And there's little joy to be got from truth,' I said. 'I mean truth's one of two things: it's nasty, it's boring or it's false.'

Kindly she didn't point out that was three things, but then she said, 'false truth'? 'What?'

'False truth,' I said, 'is like how-to-become-rich books, or opinion polls or I love you.'
'You do?' she said.

'I do,' I said.

Best Movie Poster. Ever

I've been waiting for Kevin Smith to make a movie that I didn't hate... This might be it. Brilliant one-sheet. Laugh? I almost shat.

Forty love

When I was seven I knew what I wanted to be. I wanted to be a ballboy at Wimbledon. Each year as the tournament approached I waited for my invitation to crouch beside the net. I sensed my greatness at leaping and stretching and gathering. I would please the crowd with demonstrations of individual individuality. People would call my name and raise their hands. Somewhere in the crowd would be a sprightly young lass who would one day become my woman who knows...

Tennis flares every year for me. It's like migrating bird. Into the sunlight it swoops, exotic and flighty, and then it buggers off. This however is not the buggering off time. This is the time of raquets and nets and putting my glasses to one side and flailing gracefully. Running from side to side, panting, wearing pants that are aerodynamic, sweat pouring, falling over. All of these make tennis tennis. Summer is coming.

(cheers to Tane for the pic of our summer holiday)

A Block Party

My love of music knows few boundaries. In making music tv for the past few years I've worked with folk musicians, hip hoppers, rockers, rappers, soulers and everything in between. It's not a cliche or a cop out when I say I like a little bit o'everything.

So when I say that my favourite music at the moment is coming fron a doco that I've had in my DVD library (yeah, I'm a massive geek) for the past 3 years, you best believe I mean it. YOU BEST BELIEVE! (that's my threatening tone...) If you haven't seen the film Dave Chapelles' Block Party, I suggest you do. It will raise the hairs on your soul. Well, it does to me.

Wedding Teeth

I have a broken mouth. Not because of gingernuts or my penchant for foul language, but because I broke a tooth a year or so ago on a nacho. That tooth was weak and it had to go. It has not had any impact on my life. I'm funny lookin, with or without tooth... but I'm fun to be around and have many new and old friends, some who have been pashed, some who have not.

My parents called tonight and said they'd pay for the tooth to be fixed. I love my folks. They are a complete triumph of love. Everything that bullies love and truth into hatred and discord they've fought against, and they're still hopelessly lost without each other after 35 years. They are my ideal of love. If I'm lucky enough to meet my woman who knows, she will most likely get on with my Mum and Dad.

Despite my admiration and love for them they have a fascination with my broken tooth.

I think a lot of it comes from the fact that next year as my younger brother gets married I have to stand up and give a spectacular speech as his best man. I believe that they are worried about my appearance. That annoys me.

I can stand in front of people. I can speak in front of people. These things I have never had a problem with. But, to appease my darling parents, I will fix the tooth.

However I will not wear pants during the ceremony.

Procrastination, Lederhosen and Thought

I know four bits of German. The first three of them, in what seems to be the right order, are faster, tank, and eleven beers please. I learned them from war comics.

My fourth bit of German is the very useful word Zeitgeist. It literally means the ghost of the future. Less literally it means the spirit of the age. But though I do like the word Zeitgeist, I don't like it's present manifestation. For I am out of tune with the Zeitgeist.

The Zeitgeist requires us to be driven people. Efficient. Productive. Refridgerated. We are required to be lured by the football of success towards the goals that we may or may not have set for ourselves somewhere on the playing field of life.

If the Zeitgeist required me to talk nonsense with people I love, drink enormous amounts of wine, smoke as many delicious Marlboro (sp. thank you Selma) Lights as I can humanly handle, waste time in ever more creative ways... actually, that brings me to a quote I read a while back. It was a rather impressive dude called Philip Larkin who observed that it matters bugger all what you do with time for 'however you use it, it goes'.

I love nothing better than to paddle in the shallows of thought. This blog should be evidence enough of that. The world is various, and to waste time is simply to float in its variety.

Eleven beers please.

(this post is your fault, K Banazi)

Nuts

There comes a time when a body craves something more substantial than aspirins. And it was just this time last Sunday that I read an article about baking biscuits.

Grandmothers bake biscuits. I don't. I don't even have a tin to fill.

But the article featured a recipe for gingernuts. I love gingernuts. Bite into a dry one and it's even money which will break first, a tooth or the biscuit. Dunk a gingernut in coffee though and it becomes something that can raise a a holler. I read the recipe. I salivated and decided I would bake.

Having gone through the pantry for ingredients, I rang a woman who knows. She told me that no, I couldn't really do without eggs or ginger. Nor could I substitute noodles for flour or beer for golden syrup.

I had to have baking soda too apparently, but she reassured me that even if I never baked another biscuit my baking soda would not go to waste. I could clean the bath with it.

She clearly does not read this blog. The woman who knows doesn't know my bath. Anything that can clean my bath has no business being in a biscuit. It would be more at home on a warhead.

Measuring 100 grams of butter on the bathroom scales proved to be inconclusive, but all great cooks are innovators. On the 16th of March 1985 I took 6 wickets for forty-two against the lesser talents of Saint Kents Intermediate school, and was presented with the ball. Like my piano, that ball has travelled everywhere with me.

A cricket ball weighs five and a half ounces (according to my 1976 Wisdon Cricket World Almanac). I googled furiously and discovered I needed two thirds of a cricket ball of butter, one and a half cricket balls of sugar and one and three quarters of flour.

After that it was simply a matter of placing the cricket ball in a bowl in one hand and the ingredients in a bowl in the other and seeing which way I leaned.

Then I moved on to creaming the butter and sugar. Little known baking fact... Creaming ingredients is a very effective method of bending forks.

After many minutes of flying ingredients around the kitchen all that was left was to put the lovies in the oven and watch my ginger balls become ginger nuts.

And they did. I laughed. I called the woman who knows. She was out. I bit. I broke a tooth. I went to the dentist.

Total cost of baking... One thousand four hundred dollars. Good bikkies though.

Creamy Ears

A friend has knocked on the door about 15 minutes ago and dropped a little music on me. If you're a fan of soulful, tender, funky, little bit o' hip-hopness, flat out groovy music I need to point you in the direction of This Was Supposed To Be The Future by The Nextmen.

Collaborations with 2 of my favourite vocalists in Alice Russell from the UK and Dallas from here in Aotearoa, along with many other standouts along the way.

Buy it. Download it. Send a crack team of ninjas to steal it for you. Get it. Summer is here baby.

Dancing With Destiny

Picture me if you will. Sunday night. Stars looking down upon me. Music playing. Vodka dripping on my shoes. I am the very picture of suave. My eyes have that half closed Lawrence-of-Arabia look which creeps upon me late and secretly. In one hand I clutch a fresh vodka tonic, in the other a half smoked Marlboro Light. In my mouth there is also a half smoked Marlboro Light. Another half smoked Marlboro Light appears to be in the ashtray to my left. Around the room women visibly struggle to resist my allure. It says a lot for the women at this bar that they have so far succeeded. But as the evening wears on I can see them struggling, like dolphins caught in a net.

One woman has approached. 'You've got vodka on your shoes,' she said. Words can mask the strongest feelings. When you're as in tune with the female psyche as I am you see beyond the mere words.

'I know,' I relied, and winked at her. She understood, gave a little nervous snort that people nearby may have mistaken for disgust, and melted back into the crowd.

Barely 3 hours had flown by after that encounter when out came Destiny. Destiny wore a frock. She wore a frock made of the purest silk. Little silken holes gave glimpses of flesh that would have sent a weaker man to his knees. She was a woman who knows. 'Destiny,' I whispered.

'You're drunk,' said Destiny.

I've seen it so often. The way women conceal their desire behind abuse. I merely smiled my knowing smile and swayed to my own special internal rhythm. I would let Destiny take her course. She removed the fourteen cigarettes from my smoulderingness and with a voice that could melt Everest said 'Lets dance.'

I allowed myself to be led to the dancefloor, pausing only to trip over a potted plant. Space cleared immediately on the dancefloor, due mainly to awe at my prowess.

I dance for keeps. I may have drawn Destiny's blood. Words were unnecessary. Nevertheless, as I lurched on the spot, Destiny would murmur to me, 'Ow,' she'd say.

Somehow when the music stopped playing Destiny and I were separated. But it didn't mater. We had formed a bond that could not be broken. Thirst and exhaustion took me first to the bar and then to a table outside where I lit another refreshing, delicious Marlboro Light. I may have fallen asleep at some point.

If there is a moral to this tale it is in the ending. I awoke. Destiny had departed. So I pashed a girl named Clair.

Nerd

I've been reading poetry today. In the spirit of full disclosure I should add that I've also been drinking beer and watching the US Open, but all the while I've been reading poetry.
William Blake to be exact.

To see a world in a grain of sand
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour.


He gets my panties in a bunch. In a really good way.

Action Man and Barbie do Auckland

This is what happens when people leave dolls lying around my house.

Losing My Religion

A duo of young Mormons visited me the other day. Dark suited and softly spoken they stood outside my front door.. I stood just inside the front door wearing only a pair of boxer shorts. It was 11am. I invited them inside. They didn't hesitate. In they came, taking off their backpacks and perching on the edge of the couch. Then they quietly and softly tried to make a Mormon out of me.

I went to put on pants.

Once my pants and I returned, Doug's first question (I don't think Doug was his name but I was very hungover and wasn't paying attention to anything, hence the no-pant door answer) was whether I believe in a supreme being. I said I didn't.

Religious belief is irrational. That doesn't make it wrong. Love is irrational. Laughter too. Life without love or laughter would be a hollow, hollow thing.

Any man's religion is his affair and his alone, but if he tries to foist it upon me then it becomes my affair. He has become a door to door salesman and I am entitled to study the goods. The goods that arrived with Doug and Bigpoppypimpleboy were wierd and shonky.

Apparently in the Mormon Visitors Centre in Utah, a glass box like a vast aquarium holds a life sized model of the church's founder, Joseph Smith. A recording tells of how in 1830 Smith was praying on a mountainside (an aside: why is it always a mountainside or a cave or a barren wasteland these guys are praying in? What the fuck is wrong with a street, or a tastefully decorated living room? Really? Aside over.) when bloody hell and touch my pants, an angel appeared to him. At this point I'm certain bright lights came into play and there was probably singing from angels that looked a little slutty, but in fact weren't.

The recording in Utah explains how the slutty (but not) angels gave Smith some gold plates with church rules written on them. Smith memorized what they said. This was lucky, because by the time he came back from the mountain the golden plates had vanished. Nevertheless, what was on those magic, vanishing golden plates became the basis for the Mormon faith.

I asked Doung and Bigpoppypimpleboy if it was true that Smith might have lost the plates. 'They were taken back,' said Doug. Sure they were Doug.

I asked if they accepted the theory of evolution. They said 'Yes.' I asked if that meant they believed they were descended from apes. 'No,' they both said. They believed, they said, in Adam and Eve.

'Really?' I asked.

They nodded. 'I guess we kind of believe in evolution and Adam And Eve,' explained Doug.

I had no more to say.

Doug and Bigpoppypimpleboy were gentle, courteous, serious, law abiding people. People mock them. People threaten them, abuse them. People like me challenge their ridiculous beliefs, although most of those people would hopefully be wearing pants. Through all this they go quietly and if things get serious they walk away and pray for those without the pants.

A society of people like Doug and Bigpoppypimpleboy would be a society without crime or violence. But it would be hateful. Hateful.

Doug, Bigpoppypimpleboy and I parted amiably. In the beautiful Auckland drizzle I watched as they knocked on the neighbors door.

I removed my pants.

Old Skool

Once upon a time I liked this woman a lot. It should be said that this is not the woman in question in the photo above... Moving on people... Anyway, so then I stopped liking her, or she stopped liking me. Whatever man...

I do remember asking what she had in her kayak. And also asking where she hid the dog. Actually, thinking about it, I may have asked where she hid the God. She was Christian. I also remember hiring ninjas to deliver her a rather impressive bunch of flowers. Anyway, she stopped liking me, or I stopped liking her. In retrospect the ninjas may not have helped.

Nights like this, I really miss my friends that used to live with me.

Self Indulgent (it's not funny)

I generally write a load of old bollocks... No, no, it's true. I really do.

I sit here and write whatever comes into my head. It could be lightbulb related, it could be ninja related, it could be tattoo related. My mind is a cornicopia of a mish-mash of scrambled loves, hates and relatives.

I broke up with a girl tonight. About 84 minutes ago to be exact. It wasn't love, and it should be.

I'm trying to work out where the funny is in the situation and failing like a man that can't find the funny. Perhaps I'm pre-menstrual?

I read a sentence once, a very long time ago. It's from a book. With pages. The line was: "Words destroy the functions of love."

If I think about that sentence literally, it doesn't make any sense. None at all. But the feeling of the sentence... the emotion behind the words, makes perfect sense right now.

Being a massive romantic comedy fan, (and yet somehow still heterosexual) I want my life to be filled with golden light and witty one-liners. Is it too much to ask for me to require the same from a potential?

Probably.

End of self indulgent.

Touch My Beans

Since Roman times they've been saying silly things about wine - 'in the finish a hint of vanilla and asphalt' is a particular favourite. Nonsense wording aside, wine has continued to do its principle job of making you sleep with people you shouldn't, or say regrettable things at dinner parties. It should be noted that sometimes both of these things happen on the same night and are undoubtably related.

Now however, and this is serious, the high priests of pretension have got their claws into coffee.

Coffee is a simple thing and it's good. In the morning it prises apart the eyelids and unbends the fingers. At work it soothes the hangover. It makes the ideal accompaniment to fifteen cigarettes. It's bad for you. Coffee is awesome.

But now - and I quote a conversation I overheard the other day somewhere in a trendy part of the city:

Waitperson: 'Welcome sir, to our unpretentious brasserie somewhere in the trendy part of the city. My name is Gustave. I am your waitperson today. You may admire my pony-tail. What can I do for you sir?'
Generic Man: 'A cup of coffee please.'
Waitperson: (suppressing a giggle) 'I beg your pardon sir?'

Generic Man: 'A cup of coffee please...'

Waitperson: (patronisingly now, for it has dawned on him that he is dealing with Generic Man: 'Do you perchance mean a latte with an acute accent Sir? Or perhaps a Cappuccino with a randon number of p's and c's scattered through it's name and then sprinkled with a light coating of midget dust to disguise the flavour of burnt coffee which you will barely taste anyway due to the seven inches of froth covering the entire cup... Or perhaps a short black is what you require, with or without racial jokes...'

At this point Generic Man realises he has two options. He can leave. Or he can hit the waitperson. While I don't condone violence, unless ninjas are involved, I recommend hitting the waitperson and then biting him when he's on the ground.

Anyway - I say wine is fine as it is. And so is coffee. But for now it seems the pretentious are no longer content in their traditional temples. They are aiming to reach further into our community. They are not welcome in mine.

Freak Me Out

So I've been making music TV in New Zealand for a while. Some good, some not so much. The good has always been because of me, the bad because of you... or someone else... just not me (ask Julia).

I had a meeting on Friday to ask for funding for a pilot episode of a music show that I've been planning in my head since May '06. Let me just reiterate that - It's been in my head since May 2006.

This show is lions and tigers and bears.

But I think I have the funding.

And now I have to do it.

Fuck.

I'm not a fan of cursing... (God looks down and laughs, Matt returns laughter and then realises he doesn't believe in what he's laughing at and looks at his wine and wonders if he's had quite enough for one night)

Wish me luck folks, this'll be interesting.

Ink Me Freely

Poor Mr Williams. Mr Williams is 23 years old and he lives in America. America is the land of the free and the home of the brave so Mr Williams should be happy but he is sad.

One day Mr Williams went to a place where people write on you and you pay them money. And what they write on you doesn't come off. The place he went to was called Eternal Tattoos. Eternal means that what they write on you really seriously doesn't come off.

Lots of people have tattoos. Most of these people are boys. Some girls get tattoos but my mum says these are not nice girls and I shouldn't talk to them, even when they talk to me. My mum says good girls don't get tattoos because good girls have more sense.

Anyway, Mr Willams isn't a girl. He is a very tough man. The trouble was that lots of people didn't know how tough he was so Mr Williams wanted to get a tattoo which would tell them. Then he wouldn't have to bash them all the time. He could just show them his tattoo and they would say, 'Ooooo you're tough Mr Williams,' and he would say, 'Yes.'

So Mr Williams went up to the nice man in Eternal Tattoos and said, 'I would like a tattoo which tells people I am tough.' The nice man said that all tattoos make people think you're tough and what tattoo did Mr Williams want. Mr Williams thought for a bit and he said, 'I want you to write VILLAIN on my arm.'

'Okay,' said the tattooist.

Mr Williams was happy because he knew the word VILLAIN would frighten people. If he went into a bank he could just roll up his sleeve and point at his tattoo and people would say, 'After you Mr Villain,' and let him go to the front of the queue. And if he wanted to buy something in a shop he could ask the price and when the girl in the shop said a big price Mr Williams could point at his arm and say a small price and the girl would say, 'Okay.'

When Mr Williams came out with his new tattoo on his arm he was very proud. The first thing he did was go into a clothes shop and buy several t-shirts with very short sleeves. He put on one of the t-shirts then he went up to an old lady on the street and showed her his tattoo and said. 'Grrrr.'

The old lady opened her handbag and took out her glasses and put them on. Then she started laughing. 'Ha ha,' said the old lady.

'Grrrr,' said Mr Williams very loudly this time, but the old lady laughed and laughed. 'Stop laughing,' said Mr Williams, 'I am a VILLAIN.'

'No you're not,' said the old lady. 'You're a VILLIAN.'

Mr Williams looked at his arm and saw the old lady was right. He was a VILLIAN. Mr Williams sat down in the road and started crying. 'Boo hoo,' said Mr Williams, 'I wanted to be a VILLAIN.'

'There there,' said the old lady and she put her arm around him. 'Don't worry about a silly old tattoo,' She was a very nice old lady.

Mr Williams went back into the clothes shop and swapped his t-shirts for shirts with long sleeves and then he went home to be sad.

Bu the story might still have a happy ending because Mr Williams lives in America which is the land of the free and the home of the brave and a place with lots of lawyers. One day a lawyer heard about the tattoo that was spelt wrong and he went to see Mr Williams. 'I am a lawyer,' said the lawyer. 'I am a villain,' said Mr Williams, carefully covering up his arm, 'I break the law.'

'Don't be silly,' said the lawyer, 'The law is your friend. We will sue the nasty tattooist.'

And they did. And Mr Williams was no longer sad. He was happy, in the land of the free and the home of the brave.

Scrubs

You may not have heard about it, but many years ago I used to have strongly worded arguments with my mother about washing the bathroom floor, mainly about the fact that I wouldn't do it. My argument, which I thought a strong one, was that it would only get dirty again.

Since then, I have learned, for a man, keeping the bathroom clean is easy. You pay someone else to do it. Or you acquire female flatmates (women who know...) that beat you with small forest animals until you clasp a mop in your quivering hands and get down to business.

Keeping the body clean is less easy. I suppose you could pay someone to do it, but that might get complicated, and if you pause to think of a cleaning lady (or flatmate... shudder) with only a cloth between her and your special places, you'll probably head to the shower alone. Maybe.

The first law of the shower states that no two shower controls in the universe are the same. The second law states that the markings on the shower controls bear no relation to the temperature of the water. The third states that, however much a shower control may rotate, the difference between a manly shriek of scalded horror and a manly sigh of contented pleasure is never more than one millimetre.

Years of research and millions of dollars have gone into perfecting a vinyl/plastic/composite bathroom floor material that grips nicely when dry but is deadly when wet. It kills people. Shatters hips, knees and dignity. Of course, when falling you always manage to flick the shower control that one important millimetre and end up crying and scalded or freezing.

Baths however are splendid for some things. The first of which is eating, because a bath is a ready-made and efficient rubbish trap. They're also good for reading in - but not borrowed books. Rule one of baths is that borrowed books fall into it. Rule two is that all other books do too.

Baths also have the added benefit of providing a little extra room for a companion. For this to work with any success you must ensure that you have known the person opposite/on top/under you for at least a week.

And don't offer to pay them to clean the bathroom when you're done.

That would end badly. Trust me on this.

I Love The Movies

Ben Stiller should star in every movie.

Man, I love Ben Stiller. I can't get enough of him. Someone needs to invent a way to liquify him so he can be injected directly into my veins in super-saturated form, because his monopoly on comedy isn't enough.

I don't know when it dawned on me that we need more movies starring Ben Stiller, but I think it happened around the time I came out of the theater after seeing a preview for "Envy" during "Starsky & Hutch," an ad for "Dodgeball" in the theater lobby, and "Along Came Polly" playing in a theater across the metaphorical street.

That's just not enough for an actor of his caliber. Each of his characters is unique, displaying the full gamut of emotions on the spectrum (of emotions), ranging from: extremely quirky and neurotic to somewhat quirky and neurotic. Ben Stiller should be cloned so that we can have more of his movies released in theaters simultaneously.

Better yet, why not create a movie where Stiller stars in every role? It could be like "Multiplicity," except good. They could call it:

Along Came Something About Royal Focker's Envy for the Dodgeballs of Mystery Men

It would be the best movie ever. It would start out with Ben Stiller trying to revive some obscure children's ball game in order to impress his highschool sweetheart, only to learn that she has psychotic ex-CIA parents who hit it big when they discover a formula that makes shitty movies disappear.

I love movies. I love them with a big moist embrace, but I just hate Ben Stiller.

Mmmmm, moist.

Baby, I'm back

The ninja's banished, the hero triumphant

It's good to be back...

Email Ninjas

Somewhere in the dark of the Auckland day, ninjas came and ninja'd my email. It's got ninja spikes and ninja swords and ninja lawnmowers all through it's email heart. I believe that I have the power to heal it though.

Mind you, I also believe that Uncle Derek really wanted to play hide and seek.

Hopefully my email will not end up the same way as Uncle Derek. Rich and hiding from the authorities.



If needed (untill the ninja menace is banished) I can be got at mattthehouse@gmail.com.

Best Comeback

Overheard during a coversation between two people. They obviously love each other dearly..

"Yeah, well when I look at you, I doubt I could even eat the amount of food I want to vomit."

Genius.

I Eat Spam

Do you know him? His email address is lesjones@uole.com, so I'm guessing his name is Les Jones. If you know him, or know someone that knows him, either kick him yourself, or get them to kick him for me. Kick him squarely in the centre of his man. And when he is doubled over, not sure whether to vomit or faint, kick him again in the centre of his man. Then take a photo. Send me the photo and I'll buy you dinner to the value of $13.95. I'll take the photo out to dinner with us and use it as a napkin. When I go to pay I won't be suprised if the maitre 'd has seen the napkin/picture and says that this one is on the house sire. Why thank you, I will reply.

If you don't know Les Jones, feel free to hunt him for me.

An easier solution to this whole thing would be to get a better spam filter but I hate this webophirical Mr Jones. And I will not be satisfied with rational behaviour.

Then again, when am I ever?

A Winter's Turning

My mind is on other things. I'm sorry. It's not you, it's me... hell, it's not me, it's you. Why are you looking at me like that? Where did you put the dog? What's that in your canoe? Is that a glue gun in your hand?

These and other conversational gems have all been gathering dust in my relationship repertoire as I bounce contentedly bachelouresque along my life. One day, one day I swear I'll be lucky enough to meet a woman who knows. Her name will be exotic and she will smell of flowers and insence and potatoes and she shall tolerate my shortcomings, enjoy my long comings and then callously break my heart by leaving me for Hillary Clinton.

And then I shall be in the position that I have been longing to be in. I can finally turn and ask,"Pardon me Celeste, but what is that in your canoe? And where did you put the dog?"

And then, as she leaves I shall crumble. Broken. Alone. And she shall not turn, not glance, no island in her eyes, no salvation here. I crumble.

Love, even imaginary smittenish love, is a cruel game.

I wish I played better.

A Woman Who Knows...

It has come to my attention that I require a woman who knows.

Most of my close friends are women who know. Even my male friends are, in part, women who know - or at least they are lucky enough to have succesfully convinced a woman who knows that they are viable material for nights on the couch and sweet mutterings. I hate my male friends.

I am competant, dare I say it (I dare, I dare) at many things. Home renovation is not one of them (as evidenced by previous blog post). Fortunately the knocking of holes, fitting of eletrical thingies, banging of nails and hanging of pictures is not a challenge that one comes up against very often.

Quiche I am not competant at. This saddens me. I realise real men don't eat quiche but I like it and I don't care if it makes my wrists fat.

There is a woman who knows who assured me that quiche is easy. But it requires pastry. When I wrenched my trusty Edmonds Cookbook from my pantry I discovered seven different recipes for pastry. I was shocked and appalled to discover that to make one's own pastry requires 'cold hands'.

Lacking a thermometer, I headed to the supermarket where I found a large chunk of ready made pastry that looked like the thigh of a corpse. I also found a replacement set of screwdrivers. They are awesome.

I can remember as a kid my mother rolling pastry. She made it look very easy. However she never tried to roll pastry with an empty wine bottle. The neck of the bottle proved to be a good handle. The bottom, not so much. And proper rolling pins don't come with a label that comes off in little pieces on your pastry. Church Road Pastry anyone?

Transferring the pastry to the pan that was serving as a pastry dish was an activity that made me glad I wasn't in the Big Brother house. My floor was greedily devouring each delicate driblet of goodness that came its way. But eventually all was done and I gently folded it into corners and baked it blind as Edmonds had told me to do and I mixed a $400 block of cheese and a $200 pottle of cream and many other expensive ingredients that other people who don't live in Herne Bay can't afford and poured them onto my half baked pastry and returned my quiche creation to its furnace and I sat with a glass of Church Road Chardonnay to watch my creation become quiche.

And turn it did. A gleeful embarressment of curdled feelings, cheese and cream.

I need a woman who knows.

Show Me Your Beaches

A few million years ago our ancestors hauled themselves out of the sea and lay panting on the beach. Every summer - not at this moment however, that would be retarded - we head back and do the same thing. I'm thinking of summer holidays past, the beach, the sun screen. the late afternoon drinks, the wine, the accidentally seeing a friends boob... It's a pilgramige. It's elemental. Earth and water. Water and earth. Boob and sand...

The beach itself is not such a hospitable place. Dead jellyfish to the left, seagull carcass to the right, run-aground catamaran straight ahead, boobs behind you...

And yet, despite all this, year after year we return to the beach and certain people embrace the sun and the heat like reptiles. They baste and bake and lie content in the knowledge that cancer is sexy. Toes wriggle and bodies writhe, for the beach is a sensual place. The beach is a place of flesh.

Small people run in the shallows, squealing and yelling. They build things made of sand, they fight and they bury their parents. They will spend much of the next 15 years doing the same thing.

It's the teenagers who are most in tune with the beach. Whether they be in wetsuits, or fancy new sand resistant outfits, they will parade the lean and the taut. They will shriek and laugh and play and shriek some more. Then they will play some more in thigh deep water and make you feel inadequate. From the beach they look like seals.

Then they plunge and swim a few strokes. Becoming instantly bored. There is no goal here for them. They cavort up the sand to collapse on novelty oversized beach towels. Those older, wiser and carrying more baggage look on.

Over the course of any year we gather things that we consider important. We get money, status and cars and pants. At the beach we remove ourselves of all these. The beach is good for us.

The beach is the edge of the world. On the horizon a ship with sails that beckon is held by the afternoon sun. A dog, black against the tide, barks through the waves. It is a happy dog. Not wearing pants. Because dogs don't wear pants. It's barking means nothing. Just as the sun, the sea, the sand, the water and the air, the dog just is.

At times like these here in glorious Auckland I miss the beach.

And the boobs.

Therapy

Therapy is good. Therapy is in. The dirty old Yanks got it first but by sweet baby Jesus when the Yanks say jump coz it's good for you, we jump like a bean made in Mexico.

Just like you I want to go to a trim, mature, smartly dressed, sympathetic woman who has a hint of a middle European accent, and I want to lie down on her couch and I want to burst into tears. 'Help me,' I weep. 'I am small and feeble and thirty three and pink. Help me.'

She says nothing.

I let rip. I explode in her consulting room. I burst like an over-ripe pimple. Self pity and regret drip onto her off-white carpet. My shame and self loathing colour the walls a pale yellow.

She says nothing.

'For God's sake,' I scream, 'can't you see, it's all gone horribly wrong. Therapist, mother, Therapist-Mother, mend my aching soul, my fear, my crippled feelings, my dishonesty. Shake me. Let me step forth into tomorrow, resolute and honest. Let me tell those that tell me what to do not to tell me what to do. Let me tell the beautiful that they are indeed beautiful. Let me hug people and laugh and sing and assemble outdoor furniture and then put food on that outdoor furniture and then eat that food with friends that I will laugh and sing with. Then we shall sleep the sleep of the just and wake refreshed. Teach me to live Therapist-Mother, won't you teach me to live?'

Half an hour of this blubber and I feel just dandy. I bounce from the couch. I seize her cool hand. On an impulse I hug her, feeling the ridges of her straight spine. I slightly dislodge her spectacles. She gives me a warm understanding smile. But she says nothing.

At tthe desk outside sits a young woman with a stopwatch and a box of tissues. She presents the stopwatch. 'Thirty threee minutes today Mr House, at $7.50 is... lets call it $250.' Lets's call it $300,' I sing, handing her crisp new bills fresh from a friendly cash machine and snatch a tissue as you never know when you might need one. We part with a smile, her with the cash, me with the tissue, and a full heart and clear eyes.

It's called therapy. Anyone can do it. I've got a business plan. I'm going to start a therapy chain.

First I'm going to a party. I shall seek out the sad, the ones clutching a drink in both hands and taking an interest in the DVD collection. I shall sidle over, my sympathetic look worn like a badge, my eyebrows cocked in the correct position. I look like a labrador.

'Have we met?' asks the strange sad one, suddenly nervous. I maintain my silence, my enquiring, sympathetic labradorishness.

'It's just...' the sad one begins, 'it's just that i don't know anyone here, and I don't seem to be any good at mixing, you know?' And they're away. I stand. I lean. I listen. I nod. I shake and I listen.

Once the tears start, as they do, I press my business card into the damp hand, pat them on the head and say, 'just give my secretary a ring.'

From there it snowballs. The sad men and the sad women come and talk to me and feel better and pay me and tell their friends. And I keep their secrets.

Then I branch out. I make lifesized cardboard cut-outs of 'me' and place them in offices in Sydney, Los Angeles and London. Cardboard 'me's in offices in Bangalore and Miami. I charge by the minute. $8.95 a minute to emotionally strip off in front of the sympathetic labrador. The KFC of therapy. We'll all be happier.

I'll be so rich I'll need therapy. I'll go to myself.

Masterful

My bedroom light fizzled then died. I crept to the kitchen for a replacement bulb.
One week and three trips to the supermarket later, I remembered to buy one. The dead bulb had held 60 watts so I bought one containing 100 watts. It should last nearly twice as long.

I stood on my bed. I reached for the light. Raising both hands above one's head does little for the balance. Nevertheless I removed the dead lightbulb. I did this by not letting go of it as I fell. The glass came away nicely in lots of little pieces. Some of them even had blood on them, making a lovely decorative effect on my snowy white bachelor linen.

Close technical inspection revealed that I had indeed removed the bulb. What I hadn't removed was what home handymen call the metal thing that fits into the other thing. I headed to the toolbox for pliers. One week and three trips to the supermarket later I remebered to buy pliers. They had green handles and were made in Taiwan and they didn't cost very much. They said 'Heavy Duty' on the handle. They were awesome.
I stood on the bed again. The thing that was stuck in the other thing came out with a crack. A chunk of the thing it was stuck into broke off. The pliers broke too. Undaunted I inserted the new bulb. It lit up.

A large, painful handful of live electricity unnerves me and as I fell back into my snowy bachelor linen I gracefully turned so as to land on the pliers which now had no handles. Standing and peering into the thing I saw that the bit of the thing I had broken off was the bit of the thing that held the lightbulb onto the thing. It wasn't just a lightbulb I needed. I needed an entire new thing. One week and three trips to the supermarket later I remembered to find out that the supermarket doesn't sell things. I needed a specialist thing shop. I thought of asking someone to help me. Pride said no.

The man in the eletrical shop smiled when I explained in technical terms exactly what I was looking for. It was the smile of one expert to another. In no time at all he unearthed exactly the right thing. 'That's exactly the right thing', I said. He smiled again and the two other people in the shop smiled too. I liked the eletrical thing shop.

Getting home I paused only to fetch a screwdriver from the toolbox.
One week, three trips to the supermarket and one to Placemakers later I had a nifty new set of screwdrivers. They had blue handles and were made in Taiwan. They were awesome. I was ready.

When I detached the broken thing the light shade fell off with it. I put it aside and attached a new thing to a wire. It was easy. I inserted the lightbulb. It stayed inserted. Dismounting the bed I started breathing again and turned the light switch. The light went on. I tried not to smile. I failed badly. I went to put the lamp shade back on. I found that to put the lamp shade back on I needed to detach the new thing.

I went to bed.

Driving Miss Daisy (but only until you find a deserted area,)

I drove back from Wellington over the weekend and it was a combination of awesomeness and panic. I wore clothes almost all of the time, which accounts for the awesomeness part, but panicked like a schoolgirl being offered candy when I got snowed on. Although, come to think of it, I kinda like candy. Especially from strangers. What I didn't like was sliding all over the road like an amputee on roller skates. But that's all by the by...

The best moment was when I stopped at a little rest area (which is just like a rest home only they don't tape your mouth up for asking for a cup of tea) just out of Taumaranui and decided to make Snow Angels in the paddock alongside it. I clambered out of the car- I'd put my pants back on by this time. I have to say, there's nothing quite as freeing as driving along knowing that your man parts are resting comfortably on the driving seat as you contemplate picking up that hitchhiker standing on the side of the road... Mmmm, candy...

But I digress, where was I? Ah, Snow Angels... Clambering out of the car, straight into a puddle of slush and water and ice, take two steps to the grass and gracefully leap over the fence... Into the paddock, wringing out the bottom of my jeans which have ripped with my graceful leaping over barbed wire, looking for a good solid pile of snow on which to plant myself. Looking left, then right for cattle or sheep or anything that might pose a threat to my imminent Snow Angel spectacular. The field is covered in about 6-8 inches of snow with a few bits of grass showing through here and there. About 10 metres up the hill is a good duvet sized patch of white gold. I pause briefly to marvel at the beauty and wonder of nature and then write my name in the snow with urine; My own urine, I don't carry around other peoples piss...

Walking up to my pristine patch of duvet sized snow I pause and catch my breath. Snow is hard to walk in. Taking three more steps I reach my region and catch my breath once more. Snow really is hard to walk in. Breathing in deeply I face back down the hill and look around.

Bloody Hell! There's nothing around, no cars, no people, no cattle and certainly no old ladies with tape over their mouths. I stand tall, spead my arms wide and fall backwards into my patch. Matt's patch. My Region. A heavenly site of blissfull, welcoming goodness. And land squarely on a massive pile of sheep shit. Not just any old sheep shit however. This was sheep shit that had been frozen on the outside by the coldness but had somehow had maintained a warm and creamy centre. Think of a Jellytip icecream only without the red part. Thank God! If there had been a red part I possibly may have lost the remaining portion of my mind. Instead of making glorious snow angels that would be the basis for an inspiring series of postcards and photos with life affirming messages attached I had managed to make... poo angels. Yes. Poo Angels.

I have ripped jeans. My feat are so cold I could put them in martini glasses to chill the vodka. My hands are the colour of Facebook blue. And I smell remarkably like I've been crapped on by a flock of vengefull, incontinent sheep. I have 4 hours left to drive. I smell like toilet paper - like livestock's toilet paper.

Home, shower, wine, food, shower again, more wine, another shower. Never again.

Realise This!

I had a realisation last night. And now I can't remember it. It was a good one too, full of big ideas covered in hopes and dreams and topped off with a healthy layer of optimism. And now I can't remember it. It was probably about something to do with work, but I can't remember so really, it could have been about anything from porn to cheesecake. Or perhaps both?