What the ... it's MARCH already?

Whoever has their foot stomped down firmly on the gas pedal of the big "Time" car ... can you dial it back a bit, there, Chester? 

We're skidding around corners a lot. 

And we nearly ran over that drunken bum on the sidewalk. (No, it was NOT me ...)

So what's been the rumpus?

I got past my 53rd birthday in February via some semi-belated, alcohol-fuelled fun with mates here in Wellington. Wasn't a barn-burner, but it was a good time. 

During that fun night, there was brief interlude checking out a new "shooters only" place, The Shack on Manners St. – a hole in the wall where you just stand and pound shooters. There are no chairs. Three bartenders just handing over shooters to eager funsters, who (like us) were just too impatient to walk another half a block to an ACTUAL bar. An odd little concept. But fun.

Also, The Shack had three enormous bouncers outside – all dressed alike, in head-to-toe black (of course) and with some sort of puffy vests on, making them look like paramilitary SEAL guys. Just how rough did this tiny phonebooth of a bar get later on? Any more than 8 people in it, and you couldn't pull back your arm to hit anyone.

I'll likely never know. This was a one-off "Let's go see!" at the behest of Tina, who was already pretty full of vodka at that point. 

Fun new concept I invented: Or at least thought about for a second, and didn't check to see if anyone else has thought of this ...

Over the Xmas holidays I encountered this a fair bit. When being subjected to someone drunkenly blathering on about nothing, I suddenly thought it was just like a jazz concert emanating from the general vicinity of their face. 

There are noises coming out, and occasionally a noise you recognise slips by. But generally, it's a stream of stuff that is best listened to as background noise. There is no understanding it completely, if you're not a jazz musician (or really drunk). Don't get me wrong, I like jazz. But when emanating from someone's face when you expect straightforward rock ... it can get old, fast.

Is there a special school for Landlords, where they learn to be lazy, cheap bastards? – I generally like my current Landlord, except ... he has begun to exhibit the tell-tale traits of every other rat-bastard swine Landlord I've ever had ... aka, someone who maybe should have thought more carefully when the idea of becoming a Landlord struck him as wise, prudent, moneymaking scheme, requiring little or no effort on his part.

You have to spend SOME money on the place when shit breaks. Applying sticks and mud from the yard to busted-ass stuff is not the way to go.

To clarify ... the place I rent now is fantastic – for me. JUST me. It was billed as a 2-bedroom, but in fact it's a one bedroom with a den (or a play room for the cats). There is no closet in said second bedroom. And, the big bay window overlooking the green valley below has a propensity for falling out into said valley, because it is as old as the house, and is held in by a couple of .99 cent hinges, centrifugal force contingent on gravity, and apparently, the crossed fingers of The Landlord. 

The Landlord expressed surprise no one was biting to rent the place when I rocked up and decided to take it last year ... a good 6 months since he had the place listed for rent. And the reason is, it's not a 2 bedroom. Simple as that. And it needs just a BIT of work here and there ... 

Also it's an old place, turn of the century (two centuries ago), and a fair bit of the wood hasn't aged well, and isn't prone to accepting and keeping screws in place. 

Like where window hinges go. 

A smaller front window (outside my bedroom) fell out and broke, on the patio next to us, the day Brandon drove me home from yet another hospital stay. We were sitting there on the deck, enjoying a beer (because what better thing to immediately consume upon arriving home from a hospital stay could there be?) and the bedroom window just tottered out of the frame like an old man losing his grip on his walker ... and smashed. That really harshed our buzz.

Which made me see a truth: a blind baby could break into this place with a butter knife. Or maybe just patience ... stand there on the patio for a while, and wait for a window to fall out.

But I didn't care all that much. I live at the end of a dead-end road, that's narrow and difficult to navigate at the best of times. Add night, rain, fog, and a general feeling of "Jesus, they're going to kill me!" to the mood of a fleeing B&E guy, and it's downright perilous.

Plus I'm down a set of precarious, pre-Columbian steps. The escape routes for would-be B&E people who might be casing the joint aren't many, and WOULD in fact lead to being easily caught if anyone was at home, or was coming home right behind them –  (1) Back the way you came, up the precarious steps and down the really narrow and steep road, and; (2) Over the railing down the steep, deadly drop into the valley. (Option #2 is also Option #1 for what I would consider helping a B&E person with, if I caught them in the act).

So I reckoned it was considerably safer than a place in a busy 'hood on the flatlands of Wellington.

It's especially nice for the cats (it's a feline Disneyland around here) ... as it's mostly jungle, and the dead-end street means no traffic. And as it's mostly nice jungle full of cool birds (like the native Kaka and heaps of others), I love it too.

The landlord has materialised a couple of times to do promised yard work (such that my "yard" is) with the cutting of foliage via a big, loud, manly gas-powered weed whacker. I even sat outside one of those times, to drink beer in the sun on the patio, and watch him slave away. It's apparently hard, sweaty work trying to balance on a steep incline to whack weeds with a big, heavy, gas-smoke-spewing weed whacker too. Heh. 

Then just after the new year, another shining example of Landlord Swinishness emerged.

I'm on the top floor of this house; there is one other apartment under me. A lovely couple from Manchester (Andy & Sarah) moved in shortly after I did last year. They explained to the landlord that they'd be wanting it until the end of February, as that's when they planned on continuing their extended work/holiday tour of New Zealand, and points beyond. This was agreed on by all parties.

Over the past year, I got to know Andy & Sarah. Really nice folks. 

For reasons I will never understand, the landlord fronted up to them in January, and essentially told them they were out at the end of January – a month early. I suspect perhaps he did this as he didn't want to go through another 'dry' period of this one-bedroom pad going unrented for even a day. (A BIG clue that he, like every other Landlord I've encountered, is a cheap chiseling weasel of a bastard-coated bastard, and has no business being a Landlord).

Needless to say, my friends were in a bit of a quandary. I found out about it when talking with them shortly after this happened, and immediately offered up my second "almost" bedroom for them for the month of Feb. I had the bare-bones of a guest room already (a bed in there), and they had all the stuff to make it comfy.

They were happy to grab it up, and I was happy to have them. It was fun, and an interesting experiment to see how well this place would handle visitors for an extended period.

I learned that: (a) Landlords are, to a man (or woman) swine ... no matter how nice they seem at first, and; (b) This place definitely isn't an actual 2 bedroom, where two people could live comfortably on a permanent basis. 

It's a bit tight for space, but in the case of visitors/travelers, I didn't mind having to shuffle stuff around a bit to make it work for the three of us for a month. So for guests, it's great. 

And on the plus side, for my help, I have inherited enough additional "apartment stuff" (that I'd been meaning to buy but just hadn't yet) to make the place completely ready for any future visitors to Welly. 

So – come on down you slack Canadian bastards ... if you (and your liver) dare ... heheheh. You cannot get a better deal for holiday fun. Come to a nice place you've never visited, free accommodation, constant alcohol abuse, an alcoholically abusive tour guide, and needless to say, fun. With alcohol. 

Besides, it's the only place in the world where we speako da lingo of your average Canook. There is no armed insurrection, it's really REALLY nice, and your Canook Buck (Loonie!) goes further even than in Canookistan. 

Let's see, what else has rolled on since the turning of the (screw) new year ...

I was back in hospital a couple of times, but this is getting old (to write AND read about). So no more hospital reports on this blog, unless I have to go in and have my head amputated. Then that'll really be the last one.

Dex the Wonder Cat went on walkabout for 4 days, throwing The Fear into me ... then he trotted back in, none the worse for wear, and only marginally apologetic. So all ended well there. Squeak the Other Wonder Cat did not disappear, but did seem to wonder where Dex went. In between meals, of course.

The Toronto Maple Leafs have proven me correct yet again (and in other news: sky blue, water wet) ... These perennial, perpetual stumble-bums somehow started out the season with all guns blazing, and for a brief shining moment, were at #1 in the entire LEAGUE. I was ready to open my parka and hot chocolate concession in hell!

I knew though, it would not last ... and predicted then that they'd fail to make the playoffs. And they are well on their way to doing (or not doing, actually) just that. They are currently in 25th place, in a 30-team League. From whence they were once #1. 

Time is running out. The Fail is STRONG in this team. They will be golfing soon.

A familiar site, 45 years in a row now ... 

Failure, it seems, is their ONLY option. It's now 45 years and counting since they won a Cup ... and this year I've even managed to make some money off a couple of fans who agreed to bet on them! 

So it's been a good year for laughs AND extra cash. Hey, let's have a BIG party when they fail the 50th time in a row! It's only 5 years away. There might even be a couple of guys from the '67 team that won the last cup who are still alive!

Occupy THIS – While it seemed a good idea on paper ... the Occupy Wall Street movement rapidly degenerated into a massive cluster-fuck of people living in tents in parks (not exactly roughing it there, dudes!) having NO idea what it was all about – if the 'organisers' interviewed on TV news were any indication. 

When it was all done and dusted, it seemed it WAS a good way for unemployed people in each participating city to go meet others of their own kind, and trade useful information – like where the best drug dealer was in the 'tent city', and where the hot hippy-chick tents were. 

Hey, no problem with that as a fundamental ... as with any "big idea', it's best to start with baby steps ... always begin your cause with a good buzz, and some slammin' sex. 

THEN maybe the banks and big businesses will ... what was it again? Open their doors and money vaults, and welcome you all in for as much as you could carry? Sure, yeah, that was it.

The pre-game show for the Mayan 2012 Meltdown – The past year or so featured nature showing humanity that it's not always what it usually can be in places. It snowed in Wellington, NZ, late last year ... volcanoes misbehaved in a few places around the world ... it shook and flooded like a mo-fo in Japan (tsunami following big-ass quakes), and the flooding due to torrential rains deluged some parts of Aussie ... while other areas were constantly on fire. Some sharks also happily ate anyone trying to get away from the flooding and fire by jumping in the ocean to escape. 

Canada didn't get a winter, but Europe and the UK sure did. Ceaseless big earthquakes bitch-slapped Christchurch, NZ, where there weren't even fault lines before ... and just recently, massive tornadoes mulched and spun a large portion of the south-eastern USA.

So what does that leave for the grande finale when things are supposed to REALLY turn to shit this year? I can only imagine ... the internet will go down! Noooooooooooo! 

Anonymously making their point – I absolutely loved the response "Anonymous" (those wacky web ninjas!) deployed after US Government fuckwits decided to knee-jerk with absolutely NO knowledge or wisdom about how the net works, to try and enact some laws to allow them to fine and penalise and arrest and beat and waterboard anyone having ANYTHING do to with downloading stuff ... 

... and on that day they voted, Anonymous took down SEVERAL key US websites, including Justice, the FBI and the CIA. (Please feel secure ... um ... hang on ... we're supposed to be in charge of securing the USA and the world from terrorists, and yet, we can't even get on our Facebook page ... )

Stick to what you know, you government jackwagons. You come out into the world to screw with stuff people like to use (and that you know nothing about), and you will pay the price. Kind of like when SEAL teams go and have conversations with ACTUAL terrorists.

So to finish this long, rambling mess of a catchup blog ... it's really quiet here on a Sunday. It's the day after Andy & Sarah left for two weeks of the sight-seeing the rest of NZ, before they head to Southeast Asia for a while. It was a blast having them here, but now the house seems a bit empty. And quiet.

Which makes me keen to host anyone I know as a traveling guest, as mentioned before!

(Even the two Wonder Cats are prowling around wondering where everyone went!)

Until next time ... 

Yours in absurdity, Steve

Yuletide musings

December 31st, 2011


Merry ho ho
It's only a few hours to go before 2012 storms the ramparts, so that means I'm sitting at home on the usual Xmas break that most of New Zealand seems to have.

For you rubes, saps and rabble in North America who might only get a couple of days off over Xmas/New Years – most businesses shut down here around the 23rd of Dec., and the earliest we're expected back in offices and whatnot is January 4th (this year).

As the school year features summer break at Xmas time here, kids are on holidays until early in February – so many families extend their Xmas holiday to include much or all of January (we get minimum 4 weeks' annual leave here).

So right now .... apart from cabs, bars, retail stores and the hospital – the country is pretty much inert for two weeks or more.

It's a cool concept.

And as it's summer here we've been outside eating and imbibing ... 'al fresco' ... which includes an excellent Xmas day feast, and some general BBQing and drinking on my patio. It's my 11th such Xmas here in New Zealand, and I still revel in celebrating the holidays in summer warmth, shorts, and not much else. I have had my fill of snow after many years in Canada ... all the frozen H2O  I'll ever want to encounter now is in my freezer, in cubic form, awaiting addition to a festive cocktail.

The campfire rule
As mentioned in another post, apply the firewood rule of camping to booze acquisition for holidays: get what you THINK might be enough to last for a session, then DOUBLE that amount. Because it will all get consumed.

And if it somehow miraculously doesn't, before the holidays are over? Protip: Booze doesn't go bad. It'll be there for when your massive Yule hangover finally subsides.

Optimum performance art venues
People starved for attention (or just outright lunatics) will always find a way to demonstrate their loopy needs and twisted thoughts in public places. Xmas is an excellent time for your bog-standard nutbar to get out there and really perform.

Why? Because there are large crowds everywhere, in most stores, just waiting to be entertained. The world is your oyster if you're insane ... at Xmas time, there's a big audience close by, no matter which way you turn!

I encountered the most obvious specimen of batshit-crazy fuckwit this year in a grocery store. For reasons that will likely never be known, a woman suddenly launched into a loud tirade of utter gibberish while in the checkout line. We could hear her hollering from our coordinates down in the wine aisle ... but nothing of what she was saying (yelling) could be made sense of. She eventually got her point across (to her satisfaction, I guess) and wandered off.

Deliverance
There is some absurdity in the Kiwi mindset where folks abhor getting food delivered to their homes. This has boggled my mind since I first got here.

I have no idea why, but most Kiwis would rather drive to the places (pizza and Chinese food, but NOT fish and chips ... they don't deliver this at ALL for some reason ...) and stand around waiting for the stuff to be made ... then, drive it home.

People of New Zealand, take heed: you work hard for a living. At day's end, why would you subject yourself to this needless wait and pointless bit of extra driving around picking up fast food, when a highly skilled young driver will gladly whisk it to your home in minutes?

Once you're home from work, the heaviest thing you should be lifting (when considering ordering food) is the telephone, and money/your credit card. You've put in 8+ hours on the toil for the day already ... now it's time to play King For An Hour, and get people to do your bidding.


Get the damn food delivered! Then while you're waiting, spend quality time with the kids or pets. Or start drinking. Or both.

This is 'sound' time management that I'm talking about right here ... and, you're also ensuring the delivery kids keep their jobs. You don't want to be contributing to the unemployment situation here, now do you – for the sake of saving a couple of bucks?

8 versions later, and they still don't have it right ...
Yep, it's Microsoft Windows bashing time again.

I washed my hands of this atrocity many years ago, and went Apple ... and yet, friends keep insisting on "saving money" and getting computers with this shit installed on it. Ha ha.

I cannot for the life of me understand how Microsoft can continually front up with this absolute rubbish for an operating system time after time ... EIGHT TIMES now (or more, if you count the specialised "versions" of things like XP and Vista and 7) .... especially since Apple and Linux have demonstrated – years ago – you CAN make an operating system that doesn't require assloads of time fixing, tweaking, restarting, and adding all sorts of workarounds and extra programs just to make the fucking thing WORK.

My friend just got a brand new laptop, with the much-vaunted (by Windows sheep) Windows 7. Except it's not the full, complete version (or as they laughingly call it, "Professional"). It's one of the other lesser ones.

Which begs the first question: Why? 

Why in the FUCK would you make (more than one!) lesser versions of this stinking operating system which only partially works? (When the actual full one is also a piece of shit to begin with?)

So here's the rumpus about this issue.

My friend bought this brand new Toshiba laptop, very nice looking ... with a lesser-than-pro version of Windows 7 installed.

Except ... it wasn't.

Upon opening the thing and turning it on the first time, we were greeted with a large alarming message proclaiming that Windows had suffered unrepairable errors and must now be totally reinstalled.

Let me repeat that.

Upon ... OPENING ... a brand new, out of the box, computer ... it announces Windows has shit itself and must be reinstalled.

Yeah. Still the same steaming pile of FAIL it's been since version 3.1, and 95, and on up ...

And the tragedy continued. We waited for a solid 2+ hours for the thing to reinstall and set up. Then finally, away it went! I reckoned maybe the huge problems would be over ...

Ha ha. Always the silly optimist!

In three days it has crashed no less than 7 times. For no reason other than a browser was open and surfing the net. Yep, that's a big drain on the memory and circuitry and capacity of a computer ... or it was, in 1993.

And so I initiate a full Disk Check, which of course takes about 3 times as long as the install did.

And then we get to the constant Windows updates. Which we are alerted to hourly ... and when we click "Update Now", does it update? No! Of course not! ERROR ... ERROR ...

An attempt to use Windows Media Player to organise some music and videos proved futile, as it too needed to be updated, but then the update was denied ... and so now we have iTunes (an Apple product that WORKS) managing all that, to great success.

Ah yes ... more good news ... Windows 7 no longer features Spell Check. Nor will it allow Microsoft Word to deploy it. Or, FireFox.

We had to download a special program just to have Spell Check work on Firefox (because the one that usually comes with – and works with – Firefox, won't work on Windows 7 either). Still no clue on how to get it to work with Word.

I'll take this moment now that we're bollicking Microsoft roundly ...  to mock Gates' Folly (or Travesty if you will) for insisting you BUY MS Office as well ... its own software ... without which, you can't do anything with a Windows computer other than surf and email. (But of course, you can't even do THAT until you download and enable firewall, antivirus and spyware programs!)

When compared to all the amazing standard software you get on every Mac (everything you need to actually do things, like write letters, look at/create slide shows, do spreadsheets, open and edit photos, graphics and PDFs, and much much more ... such as create and edit movies, and DVDs ...)

You have to buy software to do any of these things on a Windows machine. Or you "save money" and go for a free program that works like ... well, you know the expression, "there are no free lunches?"

Yeah. You will eventually end up paying to get something that sort of works properly. Maybe.

Suddenly the "cheaper" Windows machine ain't so cheap. And, it's a gigantic big sitting-duck of a virus and spyware target. Plus you haven't even been able to use it yet ... you're still fixing and tweaking and downloading and updating stuff.

Get that credit card out ... it's about to get a really good workout!

As it's only been a week since my friend bought the machine, I'm sure there'll be lots more joyous little mysteries and puzzles to try and solve ... because, as the Japanese say, there are no problems. Only challenges!

Open for business ... but not for you!
What could be finer than living in a First World country where you can choose to just order food instead of cooking ... especially two days after spending an entire day creating an Xmas feast.

Scenario: You've had a guts-full of cooking, after Xmas dinner ate one or possibly two days of your time.

Now wouldn't it be nice to snag a fish & chips meal (but of course, these are NEVER delivered here ... just pizza and Chinese food) and just chill out on the patio and not worry about cooking for a day?

Not in Kelburn (Wellington suburb). We attempted to pick up some fish & chips at the unholy hour of 5 pm on the sacrosanct day of December 29th. Nope, closed.

That's some sound business sense you have going there, guys.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~
January 1, 2012


Bit of a pause for the cause there, as a trip out to the shops to re-stock for NY Eve was necessary (broke my own campfire rule! Or ... did I? I seemed to have gone  'hair straight back' and drank everything anyway ... no amount of extra stocking would have prevented that, it seems ...)

Everyone, their dog and Aunt Betty was out doing exactly the same thing yesterday. Every one of them a Gold Medal winner at the Bad Planning Olympics. Including, sadly, us.

Which meant a grocery store FULL of stressed looking shoppers ... and families all in there together.

And in many cases, 12 or possibly 18 people on one shopping mission, with one cart, and just one person actually doing the shopping ...

While this sort of thing might be fun to do on a lazy normal Sunday, come on folks – is it necessary to have 10 extra meandering, staggering, getting-in-my-goddamn-way family members with you in the store on such a day (December 31) when you KNOW it's going to be jointed, chockers, and sardined?

Wine was obtained there, and then thankfully, vodka at the NOT busy bottle shop. And soon, we were home with enough food to feed a lot more merry drunks than us ... and booze to fuel the NY Eve fire!

Anyway, merry ho ho and new year and all that.

I'm sure I'm forgetting a few other absurd observances over the holiday season, but for now, I'll post this.

Yours truly, from the future ...

I've heard that song before!

"Blerrrrgghh. Oh my god. I am never ... drinking ... again."

Familiar words, and often spoken by countless millions over the ages.

Folks in the death-grip of a heinous hangover – after being "grossly over-served" – usually utter these words at least once in their lives.

These words are usually spoken in a woeful, desperate, brow-beaten manner, between violent heaving sessions ... making calls on the Big White Telephone ... "Hello, operator, can I speak to BEULAH? She's in EUROPE. I want to know if she would like to buy some BUICKS."

I have witnessed this many times. However, I feel somewhat smug, and a bit cheeky by announcing here that I have never uttered these words. I seem to have inherited my dad's cast-iron constitution, and must have heeded his words of advice lo those many years ago: "What the hell would I be doing puking up all that perfectly good booze I just paid hard-earned money for?"

These words ... "Never again" ...  spoken by hungover and desperate souls ... are a bold-faced lie.

Anyone who drinks to total destruction, and wakes up "laughing at their shoes", is a repeat offender.

While they may spew out these words – betwixt sessions of blowing their groceries – they know it's a lie.

I guess it's one of those faux rationalisations we all do ... like stuffing yourself to bursting at a big holiday dinner, and then moaning something about never eating that much ever again. Lies, lies, lies!

The latest adventure in "venting protein at high speed and volume" comes down the pipe in an email from a friend and fellow imbiber.

Here's the rumpus.

My Canadian mate tells me his girlfriend went out to a staff Xmas party (two, actually) last night ... the first shindig started at noon. The second was sometime later, when everyone was ejected from the first venue. She was a regular drinker, and so it was anticipated she'd come home feeling "merry" at the very least ... and fairly wasted at most.

He had to work late, and so in an extremely rare moment of responsibility rearing its ugly head ... instead of lurching out to catch up with a bunch of people who'd been drinking for 7 hours already, he opted to go home after work, to await her sodden arrival.

The fun started with the sounds of the front door crashing open, and some audible stumbling, bouncing off walls, giggling and cursing. She was in a state of dishevelment – of the sort that can only result from drinking oneself down the food chain, to somewhere just slightly above "moderately hungry squirrel".

Shoes were kicked off, clothing was roughly and clumsily shed (a couple of popped buttons on a blouse and a ripped zip on a skirt), the purse (which was being dragged) was dropped (and the contents of same strewn in a trail through the lounge), and she landed spastically on his lap.

My buddy knew what he was in store for ... she was completely fucked up.

Form there, some REALLY drunken and uncoordinated sex ensued. Once in bed, my buddy was convinced she had finally passed out some time later ... and he nodded off ... only to be awoken by the first of many, many honking sessions into the bedside trash can.

And several shambling, shuffling, zombie-like lurching movements to the bathroom, to 'launch lunch' (and drinks ... and as he says, from the sounds of it, her stomach lining and chunks of lung).

Rinse, repeat, wipe hands on pants ... this continued on into the night, the wee hours of the morning, and then well after the clock radio went off to alert sober people it was time for work.

He got up to prepare for the day's toil, and handed her the house phone to call in sick (she had thought ahead and had already taken that day off, however! Clever girl).

He laughed, and said that timing his shower was a bit of a mission, as he had to seek a launch window in between the (now dry-heaving) desperate runs of his girlfriend to the bathroom.

He got the shower in, had a coffee, and prepped for departure for work.

The sounds of more woeful whining and stomach lurching emanated from the bedroom, as he went in to say goodbye ... and he nearly got spewed on.

Out he went to catch the bus, and for reasons he can't explain, he peeked into the mailbox (the mailman woudn't have delivered that early) ... and within was his girlfriend's cell phone. He said he nearly fell over laughing.

Someone passing by the house that morning on their way to work must have noticed it on the path, and tucked it in there to protect it from any potential precipitation. Good samaritans abound!

My pal said it was the prefect comedic ending to the whole affair. He took it back into the house and left it on the kitchen counter for her, and told her where he'd found it.

This, of course, inspired some more woeful moaning ... and he couldn't help but to prime the pump one more time, by asking her if she wanted any of the leftover spicy chili from the previous night?

"BLEEERRRRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHH!"

What's the frequency, Kev?

Radio.

How the fuck does it work?

Marconi and Tesla figured it out back in the 19th century (albeit simultaneously, from opposite sides of the Atlantic). My money's on Tesla being the actual first, he seems way cooler and almost magical with some of the other stuff he had brewing in the lab ...

Anyway.

This question – "How the fuck does it work?" – is one we might ask in awe and amazement of the inventors of the Large Hadron Collider. Or dudes who do thermonuclear physics. Or string theory proponents (although my cats seem to have a firm grasp on that).

But we should not need to ask this of radio.

Why?

Because radio is not super-big-complicated, brainy mo-fo's-in-lab-coats-cool-techy-type science.

It's been around for a long, long time. People who broadcast radio ... and the makers of radios ... seem to have this down pat.

Except here in Wellington.

Unless I missed the memo about Wellington's unique geography, where the earth's crust does some weird counter-geo-stationary orbit thing, where it spins one way and the actual rest of the earth spins another ...

... WHY is it that I cannot get an FM radio station to stay locked in on my clock radio?

(And for that matter, how does the strength and clarity of a Vodafone cell phone signal change and flicker and go up and down WHEN I'M STANDING PERFECTLY STILL?)


Anyway, let's stick to the radio thing here.

Here's the rumpus.

I need to wake up in the morning to get to work.

I like to do this with a bit of music and information about shit that might be going down, outside.

So, I tune in a radio station on my clock radio. I pick a moderately tolerable station (ie, the music doesn't fill me with the burning hate of 1,000 suns, which would cause me to propel out of bed and beat my radio to dust ... nor is it the most fantastic music ever, which would cause me to stay in bed and continue to slumber and be happy about the tunes ... thereby missing work).

The goal here is to have some OK music, presented by some not-completely-barking-mad morning crew, with intermittent information about what I might face should I stumble to my front door and open it ...

Rain? Solar flares? Zombies? Dinosaurs? Jazz Chickens? Inquiring (sleepy) minds need to know!

So I lock in a station. It meets my criteria. It sounds clear. I then set my alarm, taking great care to NOT change the settings or bump the dial. I'm good to go!

Or ... am I?

Fast-forward to 6 am the next morning, the alarm goes off, and I'm greeted with War Of The Worlds-level static and screeching. The station isn't even CLOSE to being tuned in.

I fumble with the dial. No joy there ... the thing cannot be tuned in for love, money, or a Jazz Chickens greatest hits CD.

So in disgust I flick the radio off and look out the window, expecting perhaps a lightening and thunder storm has caused this terrible situation.

But no ... mine eyes are greeted with sunshine. Clear skies. Moderate winds.

While these conditions regularly seem to completely flummox and wreak havoc on the commuter train system in and out of Wellington, causing trains to break and tracks to buckle and conductors to go insane and start knifing people ... why should such perfect climate cause the radio stations to fail to come in clearly? Why has this changed from the previous evening when it was tuned in perfectly?

How the FUCK does it work?

I get similar results from experiments where I awake to a rainy or cloudy day, or a howling rainstorm. Except sometimes, during a howling rainstorm, or wind, or even sun ... the reception is PERFECT.

What ... the ... fuck?

Are the broadcast towers here mobile, and constantly floating around to different locations? Is it Space Aliens jamming our signal, cutting us off from the all-important traffic report? Does the cacophonous racket of an entire Jazz Chicken orchestra play hob with the signal?

I've been looking for a new station recently, as MoreFM has suddenly and dramatically changed its format entirely, having fired most of its usual not-quite-barking-mad morning crew ... and now they're running the entire country's network from Auckland.

And who the FUCK gives a rat's ass what some idiot Aucklander might be facing each morning? Have they thought this cunning plan through?

We know what is happening in Auckland. Every day. It never changes.

People wake up at 3 am, and start driving – which they need to do, and I'll tell you why, in a second. They are by themselves in their car, because heaven forbid you're such a loser you need to share a ride with someone, even if you're going to the same job. Aucklanders need to get up this early to start driving, because it is 637 km to work.

This is because Auckland is such a travesty of a city for how it's designed, no matter where you live, you are close to NOTHING. No stores, no bars, no parks, no job is ever near where you are. You must drive great distances in dense traffic to get to anywhere you want to go.

So MoreFM is useless now. I need a station that is Wellington-centric.

I've run the gamut attempting to find radio stations this week. Radio Hauraki is hopeless on all fronts ... the morning crew are a bunch of thick, shouting, redneck bogans, and the music is primarily classic rock (which has a time and a place, like when you're sweet-talking some half-drunk bogan chick from the Hutt ... but not at 6 am) ... and most importantly, it just doesn't lock in AT ALL on the clock radio. I tune it in and it's fine ... then as soon as I set the clock back down (taking my hands off of it) it launches straight to taxi-in-a-Manhattan-tunnel static.

RadioActive is a cool station that takes chances and plays interesting local stuff, but for some reason they like to play the craziest, eerie, and most irritating avant-garde crap at 6 am. Plus there doesn't seem to be any actual news that might help me prepare for Zombies at my door ... or an pickup-jam session of Jazz Chickens in the lounge.

The Breeze is too lame, and the national radio station is just some droning drone of a boring guy droning on about something that no one cares about. Like cricket. Or a politician who has been caught with his pants down. Again.

I'm now going to try setting a timer on my computer, so that it sparks up at 6 am, and plays an internet radio station ... but now, the key here seems to be finding one that plays via iTunes. Most radio station websites here seem to have been programmed by the owner's clever nephew Billy, who has his own unique internet radio station player he made himself, that must run in its own window, so as to dazzle you with how blindingly clever that little bastard Billy is.

I did briefly consider having it launch into playing my favourite net radio station, radioparadise.com ... however, it's out of Los Angeles. So that means no local Wellington news ... and I really like the music. So that means I would NEVER get out of bed.

Then I thought about  having it play a song from my massive playlist ... but I like all my music, and once again,  I'm going to go back to snoozing happily as I listen to it.

The solution here is simple. Get back to the fundamental problem ....

Attention radio tower engineers and broadcasting wizards: FIX THIS SHIT!

However, after 11 years here, I'm beginning to think this is an impossible goal.

Like air conditioning in most Wellington office buildings, this seems to be some mystical Holy Grail that no one can find, solve, or work out.

And yet, both radio and air conditioning is NOT rocket science. I've witnessed both work in many other cities on the planet.

Sure, it does require SOME skill. Like breathing, walking upright, and having opposable thumbs so as to be capable of using tools.

I hear they teach these things at community colleges ... you don't even need a University degree.

So how's about finding someone who knows what the fuck they are doing?


OK. I'm up now! Where's my coffee?

Oh look ... Jazz Chickens in the lounge again ... turn it down, you scurvy fowl!

You will now address me as LORD Steve Cossaboom ...

... or it's off with your head.

Yep, it's official.

Y'all knew it was the case anyway.

But now, according to the FlyBuys people (and who could be more trusted to know), my official title is Lord Steve Cossaboom.

Here's the rumpus.

I applied for a FlyBuys card last week. For you not-Kiwis, this is a card like Frequent Flyer. You swipe it while buying stuff, you amass points. Points can be applied to flights on Air NZ, or you can get some pretty cool toys out of their toy catalogue.

So I went online to apply for mine.

Never before have I witnessed so many options for the honorific thing in a dropdown menu box.

Of course there was the usual "Mr." and "Dr."

But there were others.

"Master" (Considered that one at length).

"Shrimp Boat Cap'n" (Not really ... but that would be fun).

"Dame" (How quaint!)

"Lady" (Couldn't get the Tom Jones song out of my head for HOURS ...)

"Judge" (Heh. Also tempting ...)

"Reverend", "Sister" and "Brother" (I'd do this ONLY if I could play and sing the Blues  ...)

"Lord" was in the mix, as mentioned ... and after a few practice runs saying it, I went for it.

Now, to acquire a wench to demurely call me by this new title whenever she kneels to address me, and while fetching me grog, and when slowly disrobing ...

Oh, wait!

Today's forecast: Insane responses to weather

Weather.

It's the most crutchy of things to lean on for something to say when in an elevator with another person. Good, bad, whatever sort of climate conditions ... that 30-second lift ride demands someone say SOMETHING. Why not comment on what's happening outside? Quick n' dirty ... and everyone can rapidly agree. For the most part.

Then there is the visual impact of weather.

I love watching how people react – and dress – for the weather here in Wellington.

On any given day, if you looked out a window on a main street, it would be virtually (literally!) impossible to determine what the weather was like. This is because the people here are out of their minds about how to dress for the weather.

Looking at a group of any 25 or 50 or so people on a city street, you would think perhaps they'd all escaped from an asylum. Of the entire group, there may in fact only be ONE who is dressed correctly for the conditions of the day. The rest ... hoo, boy. Get the net!

This is a two-tier bit of insanity.

(1) The locals – Folks here have a whole different idea as to what is "cold". As a Canadian with molasses and maple syrup for blood, I can take most weather here down to the odd 10º C day in "winter" (as they call it), and get by with just a light jacket, or no jacket. I'm most often in shorts, too. Once the weather crosses the +14º C threshold, it's light shirts and shorts for me.  However ...

Kiwis think anything under 20º C but above 14-15º is "cool". And will dress accordingly ... so upon glancing out a window on a day that is 18º C, I will see a few people in shorts and singlets (likely "Gringos", and most likely, Canadian or someone from a similarly nordic climate) ... and, right next to them, people in heavy jackets ... and yes, even gloves, and hats. And sweaters. And scarves.

Am I to assume the shorts/singlet people are crazy, Canadian, or both? Or are the folks with the layered Inuit look bananas?  Or is it really horribly cold out? Well ... it certainly never is 'cold' here. For me.

After 11 years here, I discovered I am quite safe in assuming that anyone bundled up in layers, hats and gloves is a great big giant mewling baby ... with either NO metabolism to speak of (mostly dead!) , or, has the metabolism of a Sahara Desert rattlesnake, which requires it to be a bare minimum of 30º C and sunny for it to be out in public ... anything lower than 30º, it's too cold and it slinks away and hides.

Presumably, in a fully-fired kiln.

(2) Gringos – AKA visitors from other countries ... they are no help either, unless I know that the one I'm seeing is in fact Canadian.

Because Canadians, as mentioned, can take cooler weather in stride (from 10–20º C, without dressing like the Michelin Man). Canadian males, in general, dress properly for most weather.

However ... if said passers-by are Australian, they are even worse at being whingy about cooler weather than Kiwis. They are in fact human rattlesnakes, and require it to be a minimum of 30ºC before they might even consider wearing shorts. To get an Aussie to admit they're hot, it has to be at least 40º C, and they have to be under a really big magnifying glass, on fire.

The same can be said for anyone from Southeast Asia (including India), China or Japan. Or the southern USA, Mexico, Central American, South America, and of course all the Euro countries that get hot.

While these countries are hot most of the time, Asians seem to have thinner blood/lower body fat, and find temperatures below 30º C "cool". Once below 20º C, it's "polar". If it dips below 10º C – they don't even come outside.

They are hunkered down around that fired kiln, with the rattlesnakes.

Crossing over a seasonal threshold

The sudden and dramatic change from a nice day (18º) and a fantastic day (22+º) catches many Kiwis unaware. Or, aware that it's indeed nice out ... but they seem confused as to how to react, or dress.

Like the rainwear story below, the shift to weather that's fantastic seems to bewilder and befuddle a lot of folks here. On a brilliant warm sunny day, we still see many Kiwis in long dark layers of woolen fabric ... coats, jackets, burkhas ... clearly sweating, yet not understanding you can take some of that shit off! 

Or read a weather report before you leave home, and dress accordingly.

Also mind-boggling is the equation comparison:

A sunny day @ 25ºC = lots of people attired in the proper summer wear, yet;


A cloudy day at THE SAME TEMPERATURE = people in longer, heavier clothes, jackets, and burkhas. And they have that shifty, panicked look in their eyes, like they're thinking about fired kilns.

Other weather

A rainy day is the next best amusing thing to witness here.

I have a raincoat.

It is a light Gortex© one ... not polar-strength warm at all. It gets worn occasionally in winter.

But if it's raining in summer here, I might as well not wear it, as I will sweat like a malaria-infested jungle rot victim with the thing on – the end result being, I will be just as soaked as if I got rained on.

Only, it'll be my own sweat.

If I'm to be soaked, I'll gladly take "rain" over "hog sweat" any day ... and so will my friends and co-workers.

So I bust out the raincoat only on "winter" days, when I'm relatively safe from basting in my own juices for a few minutes ... until of course I get on a bus being driven by a Pacific Islander, an Asian, or a female of any race. They will have the bus heaters on full, which turns the bus into a rolling blast-furnace of a sauna, steaming and reeking with the putrid sweat of humanity.

What Kiwis wear when it's raining is ... hilarious. Here in Wellington, locals are thankfully too wily to be carrying umbrellas (the occasional wind gusts of legend here quickly turns brollies into modern works of avante-gard art). However, I have noted many Kiwis wearing parkas (with fur trim!) in the rain. In all seasons, including summer.

Noted for NOT being waterproof, parkas (with fur trim) do have the amazing ability to absorb up to 10 times their weight in water. And so many Wellingtonians can be seen dripping and oozing water in streams from over-saturated parkas ... and, from the fur trim. Weaker individuals seem ready to collapse under the water-sodden weight.

Guys who wear suits to work will often have a cotton or wool-style heavy overcoat to wear when it's "cold" ... and this is their go-to garment for rainy days as well.

These coats also absorb up to 10x their weight in water ... and are also an amusing vision to behold, when said jacket wearers have been walking in the rain for a while. A previous flatmate of mine did that constantly here ... a 20-minute walk home from work in the rain turned his long wool coast into a 100-lb workout weight. And, he was soaked to the bone. Double bonus for mocking fun!

Now, onto sunshine, and warmth (+ 20º C) ... and what else needs to happen to get Kiwis into proper summer attire?

Well the only Kiwis I care about here are the good-looking female ones. And as it is in most countries, for a woman to dress in proper,  revealing, sheer, summer-like attire (and to NOT dress in jackets, long dresses, heavy woolen garments, burkhas, beekeeper costumes or full-length chemical spill suits, etc), the weather has to be:

• Windless ... in fact, for some, it has to be negative-windy. If that's possible.
• Sunny, without a cloud in the sky.
• Minimum 25º C (but more likely if it's 27 or 28 minimum).

If these three stipulations are met ... boys, get your ass out the door and prepare for endless visions of excellence, soft porn and high art ... featuring the female body, cheekily, sexily, alluringly presented in most of its potential glory. 

If any of these three criteria isn't met, there shall be no sundresses ... no mini-skirts, no shorts, no thigh-length yet sheer skirts with a cheeky slit up one side ... no sheer tops, no sporty, form-fitting singlets or tube tops. No low-cut blouses, or any sort of almost-lingerie-like attire being passed off as proper clothing ... ... ... 

And under THOSE sorts of disheartening, spirit-crushing conditions, I resign myself to a darkened pub and hope for all things to be aligned perfectly tomorrow ... 

The magical wonders of a liquid lunch

Ahhh, that time-honoured tradition of  Liquid Lunch.

A magical thing to indulge in on a work day. Wondrous, even. Nay, 'tis verily the BEST thing a civilised human can do! This is what separates us from the animals ... as if animals even could think of such a magnificent bastard of an idea ...

For anyone who isn't clear on the concept, Liquid Lunch goes thusly: the 'idea person' of the group (usually me) invites one or more of The Usual Suspects out to enjoy "a drink" at lunch. This rapidly de-evolves and degenerates into more than one drink. Multiple drinks, in fact. Soon, much more fun than sense ensues.

Often, actual lunch (food) is eschewed. Because any actual chewing would detract from the rapid and guilt-ridden joy of just guzzling down some smart cocktails (or wine, or beer) on a sunny patio ... with like-minded individuals. Eatin's cheatin', after all ...

Here in Wellington, this time of the year is even more wondrous (if that's possible), as the hot summer weather rolls on in with the Xmas season. So establishing yourselves on a sun-drenched café patio, ordering alarming amounts of alcoholic beverages (and consuming same at alarming speed) is a party.

P.J. O'Rourke defined a "party" as a thing to be doing (having fun and getting wrecked) when you should otherwise be beavering away at something responsible.

Like work.

And when your two choices for the day are (a) Boring and stupid old work, or (b) having a fantastic time with your suave and charming friends, swilling down delicious alcoholic beverages in a smart and sophisticated manner on a sunny café patio ... come on.

Now the trick is to determine what type of Liquid Lunch you should indulge in.

There are three kinds of Liquid Lunches.

(1) – The Insidiously planned Liquid Lunch, where the entire afternoon has been booked off from work in advance. 

With this plan, friends amass on aforementioned sunny patios, safe in the knowledge that the next time you need to be at your desk and making sense is tomorrow (hours away!) ... and participants start knocking back the hootch with carefree abandon. Despite there being no pressure to actually return to work on that day, the twinge of a guilty feeling persists ... that you should be doing something responsible (work, Xmas shopping, picking up partner, attending a funeral, etc).

If you can somehow maintain your position on the café patio (and your upright position in your chair) this all-afternoon swill-up can continue until well past sunset. Then things get interesting ...

Will you charge on out to other clubs and pubs? Will there be wild dancing or karaoke in your immediate future? Will you purchase booze to take home and continue the onslaught?

The night is your oyster!

(2) – The Quick'n'dirty, 'let's see how fast we can knock them back and then get back to work!' Liquid Lunch.

Here, friends amass as above ... only no one has booked the afternoon off.

So now it's a race.

And, this is the true test your mettle: how many drinks can you consume without become appallingly and noticeably drunk? This is a fine line that is quite often surpassed, to disastrous consequences.

Staggering back in to your office with clothing disheveled, reeking of booze, giggling and smashing into things (and vastly overcompensating to try and cover it all up) is not good.

The goal here is to get somewhat tipsy, keep your clothing intact, eat a few breath mints, and soldier through the rest of the afternoon without giving away your tipsy-ness.

(3) The Impromptu lunch that has spun out of control, gone well past 2 hours, and everyone is shit-faced, and now must call in to work feigning a sudden illness or doctor's appointment.


This one is the MOST fun! Because, while a party is always fun, a surprise/impromptu one is about 1,000 times MORE fun.

Now you have a group of amassed funsters getting well sozzled, and realising that going back to the office now would be crazy, stupid, senseless, potentially career-limiting ... but most importantly, a lot less fun.

So the panicked phone calls to respective offices begin ... the group attempts to stop laughing and grinning and sound serious, and not too drunk ... bosses and managers are alerted ... can't make it back, nuclear war has broken out on the streets. Or zombies.

Once the duplicitous and deceptive phone calls have been made, the REAL fun begins. Lurid, illegal, immoral, tricksy fun! It's a full-on party now, because you KNOW you should have been back at your desk ages ago (sober and actually working).

One of the best parts of the lurid liquid lunch is, if you're still at it well into the afternoon, at some point you are going to sit back and realise you are The King (or Queen) of your Realm, and all that you survey ... just think, all those bored rubes and losers lashed to their office chairs, working on such a day.

And here you are on a fantastic sunny patio snorkeling down way too much alcohol ... feeling fine ... LOOKING great ... damn, in fact, you are DEAD SEXY!

Hey, let's start thinking about where we can go for some wild dancing and karaoke!