12.
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MY CHRISTMAS SPIRIT:
Is Vodka. Santa, feel free to leave this on my doorstep. But don’t come in. I’m not into your old man sacks. Har Har.
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ANOTHER SHOT AT DEATH:
Yesterday I discovered my mate Mike was dead. I met Mike in Dunedin years ago, and saw him again recently when I was in Wellington. As it turned out, I was in Wellington for my other mate’s funeral at the time.
Mike has been known to struggle with depression. It seems he still was as he hung himself by a river near Murchison, and remained there unfound for a few days until some kayakers happened past.
His funeral is next week in Palmerston North. I will not be attending.
Christmas is no time for funerals. And coming straight off another… well, no thanks.
I’m choosing to remain in the positive. In the fact that my whanau is already gathering from around the globe, to come back to the home valley and Get Merry. The lengthy shed parties have already begun, and though I’m quieter than usual – mostly due to the painkillers, mmm neat – I am Loving the Christmas togetherness. That’s what it’s all about right?

It might be selfish, but I don't care. For Christmas, I'm choosing to celebrate My Life instead of my friends' extinguished one...
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MY B-52s EXPERIENCE:
SIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIgh.
Well, here it is. The account of my heaven turning into my hell.
…………..
Cosmic Thing was the first album by The B-52s that made me take notice of them. After that, there was no stopping me. I looked into what they’d done before, bought all their albums afterwards… They were weird, and nonsensical, and so much fun to sing and dance around to. I developed a special place in my heart for them.
When I met my friend H-J, we discovered that the two of us were that rare breed of people that know all the words to their songs inside and out, and would have epic nights involving lots of drinking and playing entire albums whilst singing along word for word, and when it finished we’d turn it over and start again – usually to the dismay of unfortunate others who happened to be trapped in the “singing”.
(Hair is also guilty of this treatment.)
So happy were we both when we discovered they were coming to New Zealand. When I learned they would be playing right here in the Wairarapa, I was stoked. Me, H-J, and her partner Dan made a definitive plan to go, got the tickets… and waited with baited breath.
We would text each other almost daily, about what we were going to wear, how excited we were, song lyrics to some of our favourites… I acquired a few more songs that were missing from my collection, learned the words to songs I still didn’t know…

Cindy Wilson from the B-52s themselves even requested my friendship on Facebook! I wrote her the most gushing fan letter explaining mine and H-J’s love for their music, how excited we were to be seeing them, how thankful I was that they were coming to play on my home turf, and how loudly we would sing on the day. She wrote back saying “Make sure you sing loudly!” H-J and I were so excited that she’d written back to me at all! We were just so damn stoked to be seeing our favourite band together. Neither of us wanted to see them with anyone else.
.
The day arrived. H-J and Dan arrived from Wellington.
I had bought 3 fold out chairs for the occasion, borrowed a chilly bin, we went shopping and bought lots of luxurious snack foods, and made giant cob loaf sandwiches.
For the last two days I had been soaking a giant tub of fresh fruit salad – including individually squeezed juice free pineapple and watermelon – in a third of a bottle of Absolut. I topped it up to a half bottle just before we left, and we poured the remaining half into a bottle of sparkling water and closed it tight hoping the seal wouldn’t be checked too closely.
We had chairs, a picnic rug, a mass of great food, some sneaky piss… We couldn’t have been more prepared. I’d had a long time to think to about all this, and wanted this to be an amazing amazing day for me and one of my best friends. I had five other friends/acquaintances come to stay as well, and hopefully I made them feel welcome, because quite frankly – and this is in now way a negative thing against the others – everyone else was almost irrelevant to me. As far as I was concerned, this was mine and H-J’s Christmas, and no one else was going to encroach on our day. Nothing was going to stop Our Day.
Well, maybe one thing.
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“We’’ll dance in the garden in torn sheets in the rain,
In the RAAAAAAIIIIIIIIN!”

.

When I woke up on The Day, it was absolutely pissing down. I’d read the forecast the day before, and it had said it would be rainy in the morning, clearing up in the afternoon, but with gale force winds all day. I had faith things would work out ok. I’d asked for all sorts of help from the universe and watchful spirits. I had faith that nothing would stop the day from happening the way I hoped.
I silently continued to pray for the rain to stop as I went about the morning, and eventually the sun came out. Goody! That was one thing out of the way.
My friends arrived. We went shopping, got our shit together, had some drinks. My other friends arrived, and they set up camp in the backyard. We got dressed into our outfits – I had a red tuxedo jacket with a red shirt, black pants, black shoes, black skull tie. I was set.
We made our way to the bus stop, where other groups of people were waiting to catch the bus also. But they weren’t true fans, we could tell. They were just in it for the day out. They would be the people that we’d been joking about for a while – the ones who would drunkenly be yelling out “Play Love Shack!”, the only song they knew.
.
Not long after, we arrived. We were not even close to being first to arrive either. It seemed everyone had decided to arrive at 4 sharp. There was a large swell of traffic and people, neither of whom were sure where to go next. The bus parked somehow, told us it would be leaving 30 minutes after the band stopped playing, and off we went. Dan was bravely carrying the rather large and heavy chilly bin round for the team.
The gate to the vineyard is right by a T-junction in the road, so there were cars and people converging from all sides. We walked into the fray and found a clearing by some parked cars to sit in and observe. No one seemed really too sure about what was going on, but I didn’t care about them. We could be a lot closer to the front, I suggested to the others, and moved us across the road and closer to the gate. Very obviously cue jumping, but too bad. Me and my cousins had long ago mastered the art of Find-Your-Way-To-The-Front. We wanted to get in fast and stake our claim. We did, after all, have 4997 other people to contend with.
The gates were supposed to have opened at 4. By 4.30 however, nothing seemed to happening, and the wind was definitely still blowing hard. I carried on ignoring that however, resolving to let absolutely nothing get me down, including what could be a very long wait. I knew that once we were in, everything would be worth it.
Around 4.45, the main gateway was opened. In retrospect, this was purely an attempt from management to ease the masses somewhat, give the illusion that things were under way.
We made our way down the driveway towards the vineyard. And then the stage came into view over the bank. It was an impressively large dome deal, plenty of lights, big speakers, lighting towers beside it, a large area directly in front of the stage where lucky punters willing to pay more had reserved seating, plenty of other tents scattered around the site where they’d be selling food and booze… It all looked pretty good, and upped the dial a notch on the excitement front.
But at the end of the driveway was another gate. We had maybe a hundred people in front of us, though we were certainly at the front end of things. And suddenly the movement came to a stop again. We stood another twenty minutes or so, and eventually an official looking man appeared over the bank to tell us that they were waiting another half hour on Metservice to tell them if the wind was going to die down.
At this point, everyone sat down. On the ground, on their chairs, on the bank. Impromptu picnics began happening. Random strangers began joking amongst themselves.
We decided to brave it and crack out a fruit salad. We were starting to sober up, after all. Our new friends around us asked if we had managed to sneak in some booze. “Who, Us? No, no.” I lied, not wanting to give our game away to anyone. You never know who is listening and/or jealous. But as I opened the giant tub to scoop us out three cups, I was hit with more than one heckle.
“Gee, that smells suspiciously alcoholic!”
“Mmm, wish we had fruit salad, that’s a great idea for next time, soak it in gin!”
“Where’s that smell coming from??”
Whoops.
We gave away nothing and sat quietly eating our salads, which were way potent and packing quite a punch.
And the wind continued to blow…
.
Every time I seemed to think that maybe it was easing up, off it would blow again.
Half an hour passed. The wind continued to blow. After another quarter of an hour, I finally gave into my fears and said “You know… I’m starting to think this might not happen.” H-J had said this a couple of times during the wait, as well a few “God, they better not cancel it”s. I hadn’t dared myself to think it so far. But as time dragged on, it really wasn’t looking good.
Finally, just after six o’clock, a boy who couldn’t have been more than 16 – obviously the poor dishwashing sap management had sent out to tell everyone – appeared over the bank with the words “Sorry guys. You’ll get full refunds where you bought the tickets.”
“What about travel and accommodation?” yelled out the guy behind us.
“Sorry guys, that’s just the luck of the draw.” Said a woman behind the boy.
And then, with pretty much no complaint, everyone stood up and started to make their way out. H-J was GUTTED. I, on the other hand, was puzzlingly ungutted. (At the time - the mourning would come much later, in private.) In retrospect, I believe this to be because I had always, somewhere, deep in my heart, thought it was just too good to be true.
I tried to make H-J feel better, but it wasn’t working. She was just bummed. Understandably so. They would probably never play here again, and that may just be our only chance to see them blown. No pun intended.
The bus ride back was sullen. And of course, even as we were driving out of town, we could tell the wind outside was easing… A few jokes were made about what an awesome day that was…
Once we got home, I couldn’t believe I was having to think about other things to do that night. Like, what movie to watch, or what music to listen to. Of course, the one band we wanted to listen to was the one band none of us could bare to listen to. I couldn’t believe that just that morning I’d been dancing round the house to them, their music filling me with joy.

I know that their music won’t bring me joy again for a long, long time…
.
In the paper two days later was an article about the cancellation. Included was an interview with the promoter, who admitted it was a devastating decision to have to make. She also said that the wind had died down by 6.45, but by then the 5000 strong crowd had evaporated. UGH.
My one regret, the thing you think of later that you wish you’d said or done, is that I did not stand up when we were told we’d get refunds and say
“What if we’re prepared to wait for One More Hour???”
I’m not sure if everyone else was, but I know H-J and I would have been…
Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh…
.
“Oh, you broke my heart at the Funplex,
Yes you did, yes you did”…
.

11.
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KIDS AND WAYS THEY MAKE ME LAUGH:
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We’’ll call him… Fack. For Identity purposes. Fack is a cracker. At 3 years old, he’s the kid who’ll do exactly what he’s not supposed to just to see what kind of punishment he’ll get.
For example, if he’s really playing up and his parents start counting “1…”, he’ll respond with “2, 3, MACK!” and stick his butt out. He’s also started to pick up “a few choice words”. Me and his mother once saw him drop something and then say “For fucks sake”. His mother looked at me and said “Damn, I can’t blame that on anyone!” – that’s exactly what she says all the time.
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Or… we’ll call her Maddi. Asking her Dad to put on her favourite CD whilst in the car with Grandma, and being informed the CD she was trying to put on wasn’t the one she wanted. “Bullshit.”
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Or the time I tried to trick… we’ll call her Miolet. I hadn’t seen her since she was a toddler. Now school age, she asked if we could go and see *insert name of any painful kids movie*, pointing to the picture in the paper. “Oh, sorry honey, that’s not on today.” I lied. She looked at me confusedly and said “Yes it is, see? It says here, on at this time, and this time, and this time...”, then looked at me quite concerned and said “Can’t you read?” “Yes,” I confessed, “I just didn’t think you could.” Which made sense, seeing as she was now about 8…
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Or Maleb, who spins imaginary decks whilst dancing to Michael Jackson when he thinks no-one is watching him. Not that he stops when he realises we are.
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Apparently, so my mother tells me, as a toddler I used to “store” food in my mouth – usually Weet-Bix – long after the actual meal. One day I was in a clothing store with her and sneezed…
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MYSTERY MUSICIAN WHO TRIED TO FORCE HIMSELF ON 16 YEAR OLD GIRL IN ALLEYWAY:
Reluctant apologies go to Dane Rumble… Siiiiiiiigh… Sorry Dane. I have discovered the actual identity of the suspect.
Drumroll please…
And the winner for Best Rape Attempt By A New Zealand Musician Recently goes to….
DUM DUM DUM DUM DUM DUM DUM DUM DUM DUM DUM…
P MONEY!!!
What a dick.
Mental note: Avoid P Money like he’s Chris Brown. Or Dane Rumble.
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WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO ‘DAYS OF OUR LIVES’???
My favourite guilty pleasure has disappeared from the afternoon airwaves. UGH. Better be back after Christmas.
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ABORTION:
Is illegal in Ireland. Did you know this? I didn’t. Three women are in the high court of Ireland trying to get this law changed at the moment. I’m all about pro-choice, on just about every aspect of life, so… good luck to them.
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KATY BRAND’S BIG ASS SHOW:
I like it a lot.
Have a look on Youtube for her pisstake on The Sugababes... Classic.
“And now there’s a new Bitch to get used to,
Some other slag with an attitude…”
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NEW RIDE AT RAINBOWS END:
WOW, now that really is breaking news… Now Rainbows End will take 50 minutes to get through instead of 45…
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PIPPA WETZELL FROM ‘BREAKFAST’:
For some reason, she annoys me even more than Paul Henry. I mean, Paul Henry’s just Paul Henry, not going anywhere, never gonna change. But Pippa is a total wet blanket Auckland snoot. Hate.
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STEVE GRAY FROM ‘GOOD MORNING’ HAS BEEN “LET GO”:
Which is the polite way of saying “TVNZ is not going to renew your contract for next year, so get your big gay ass out of here bitch.” Now, I personally think that sucks. Steve is a much needed element of ‘Good Morning’. Otherwise, it will turn into a show much like, oh, I don’t know… ‘Breakfast’. Mind you, Sarah is a lot more accessible than Pippa. Ugh. BAD MOVE TVNZ.
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CELEBRITY SPOTTING:
Normally, I try not to look twice when I see Celebrities. But I have to say, seeing George from ‘Seinfeld’ walking up Cuba St would probably have stopped me in my tracks.
Me and my friend once saw Keiran from 'Shortland Street' outside Felix Café. This was shortly after he began on the show, and a big deal was being made out of his shift from Coro to Shorty. We gave him a scowl and carried on walking, hehe. You’re in New Zealand now, bitch. Where we ignore our celebrities… mostly.
Funny case of Starstruck Slapper: Years ago in Dunedin, my good friend and flatmate let some of her mates crash on the couch while they were in town for the weekend. As it happened, they were from the band Rubicon and were in town for Orientation.

Now, let me just get something clear – Rubicon were a bit of a joke to us. You know, Marshall from Shortland Street’s band? Who would call a kid Bruce anyway? UGH. Not I or any of our friends were into them, but hey, whatever. Everyone’s different. Later that night, I’m out with my mates and a girl from my theatre class comes running over to me.
“Hi! Oh my god, you’ll NEVER believe who I’m hanging out at the bar with!”
I laughed, and kind of shrugged, hoping I gave the impression that I didn’t care much.
“The guys from Rubicon and Tadpole!!!” she flapped, her face alight with Celebrity Syndrome.
I had to not choke on my drink and just kind of said “Oh! Wicked!” I held back from saying “Rubicon’s sleeping on my couch” for fear that she might follow us home. Plus, I didn’t want to appear to know them. Which technically, thankfully, I didn’t.
The best, and still one of the most surreal moments of my life, celebrity run-in I ever had happened early one Sunday morning in Wellington. I had just opened up shop, done my morning grind, and went outside onto Manners Street for a cigarette. It was still relatively early and there was barely anyone else around, so when I realised that the lone man walking past the shop, past me, was Sam Neil, I was stunned.
“Sam Neil?!?!” I blurted loudly.
He turned and said “Yes.”
And here, I must admit, I had a spurt of starstruck babble. But I think Sam Neil probably warrants it.
“Wow, I really like your work Mr. Neil, and I especially love ‘Event Horizon’, that’s, like, one of the scariest movies ever”, is what came pouring out of my mouth before I could even think about it.
“Thank you”, he said.
“Have a nice day!” I said cheerily, and he smiled and carried on walking down the street. And I was left to stand in shock, looking around to see if anyone else had just seen that encounter. Which, of course, they hadn’t…
Thankfully, I won’t have to deal with the dilemma of How To Deal With Celebrities much longer, as most of my friends, and a few enemies, are rapidly becoming the genius’s, or flukey pratts, they always were in their field. I have seen more people I know in the paper than not recently! All articles documenting their success too, which is fantastic, and makes me wonder if I should start scrapbooking… Or would that just make me weird… Yeah right, like scrapbooking would make me weird…
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LADY GAGA COMING TO NEW ZEALAND:
I’m going to have to go to this. I usually reserve going to major acts for Music Icons only – like Snoop Dogg, or Kraftwerk, or The B-52s. And even though she’s only been around for a few years, I think this girl’s here to stay. So, I’m gonna go and see her early incase this is her one and only big show here.
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MADONNA’S A FUCKING BITCH FOR NEVER HAVING COME HERE:
FUCKING Bitch. Now hurry up and put out another album. And it better be better than your last one, Bitch.
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MUSE:
Loving them! More please!
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TIGER WOODS:
Oh my god… SHUT. UP. I’ve never been so dis-interested in a celebrity’s life. For a start, the guy plays Golf. No offence to my golf loving friends. Even I’m partial to a game every now and then, as long playing something that slow involves a copious amount of drinking. And I can’t deny the guy’s talent. But golf is a Sport, ergo UGH. But talent comes in many masks… anyway, what was I saying?
Oh right. The overload of Tiger news. Who cares if the guy had affairs?? He’s an AMERICAN SPORTS IDOL… Isn’t that kind of part and parcel when it comes to them?? And if there were that many – we’re up to 9 – you can’t tell me that she didn’t know. Like she has another life or anything. Apparently, according to the front page of the paper (UGH!), his public approval rating (? – who or what the hell measures that???) has slumped by 24%. Er… Okaaaaay, if you say so…
I think anyone who cheats on their wife is a bit scum – and I mean, have you seen his wife??? Wow… what a dog… cough cough – but personally I’m quite happy to see that he’s human after all. My public approval rating has probably gone Up 24% if anything.
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I STILL HAVEN’T BOUGHT A SINGLE CHRISTMAS PRESENT:
I’m more focused on my own personal Christmas – The B-52s concert this weekend. Which will undoubtedly be selling drinks at heinously ridiculous prices, and when you’re going to be spending about 8 hours there, you need to be prepared for the long day ahead. And oh, am I prepared.
Today I will be shopping for glitter wigs, party poppers, and large Tupperware bowls in which to put fruit salad. Which all basically means that my family’s presents can just wait until I’m done partying.
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NEXT WEEK: I imagine mine and Jared from Moon Over Martinborough’s blogs are going to be wholly similar in subject… Expect an entire page dedicated to my B-52s day. WOO HOO!!!

10.
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Occasionally, one gets down about one’s life. It’s during these times that one must learn to suck it up and take a good hard look at what’s important in ones life. What brings one joy in ones life. What really kicks arse about ones life.
Me? I like sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll. Though I haven’t had nearly enough of at least two of those things of late. One might even say I’ve been BONE DRY.
What I am looking forward to is The B52S in Martinborough (of all places) next weekend, though they hardly count as rock n’ roll. Maybe Pop n’ Roll, or Whacked-Out-Dippy-Trippy-Loved-Up-Space-Hippy n’ Roll… Either way, I can’t wait.
My friend is jealous, but she’s going to Fleetwood Mac, which I’m jealous of. So at least we can be jealous of each other together.

.

I mostly have a lot of questions this week. Although, speaking of stories, I have been thinking about an online soap opera, which I am currently working on too. (Yeah, he scoffed, that and the 200 other projects you’ve started over the years. Key word: started. Oh shut up. No, You shut up!)
I’m going to write them out for you now. Please, feel free to answer any of them.

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· How come, no matter which line I choose at the Supermarket, every single other line will move through three times at the speed of light and I get the arsehole who wants to pay in ten cent pieces, and yes, they will have their frozens wrapped, and oh, I’m sure it’s the right pin number, let me try again, and who just has to run and grab one more thing they forgot, and oh I must have left my purse in the car I’ll just go grab it (says the old lady in a walking frame, before she hobbles out at snail pace to her car).
Now, don’t get me wrong. Murphy’s Law and I were acquainted many years ago. I have come to accept Murphy as a solid platform for my life to unfold on… BUT EVERY FRIGGIN TIME??? COME OOOOOOOOONNNNNNNN!!! I swear, if you assembled all the camera footage from supermarkets of Me standing in line, you would think there was a conspiracy too…

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· When, oh when, will this rain fuck off?

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· Why is “Leave It To Lamas” so completely lame-arse? Those people are fuckin’ idiots, oh my god.

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· Why are Lorenzo Lamas’ children so thick?? Like, thicker than your usual L.A. kid. Which is really saying something.

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· Why does the E Channel think endless, back-to-back, year long repeats of their lame reality TV shows is a good idea?

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· Why don’t people appreciate Buffy the way I do?? And for what it is – ONE OF THE GREATEST TELEVISION SHOWS OF ALL TIME! Not many TV shows get their own papers in Universities. Don’t people know that angsty girls were gettin’ with vampires and werewolves LONG before – CACK – Edward and Jacob? Ugh. Respect where respect’s due, people!

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· Why can’t I get Miley Cyrus’ “Party In The USA” out of my friggin’ head? I don’t even like it!... well… ok, maybe a little… But still, does it need to camp out in my brain?? You too, Deathcab For Cuties. BEAT IT.

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· Who is the mysterious NZ singer that tried to force a 16 year old to give him a blowjob in the back alley??? Oh, I mean that’s been in the news lately. He’s been granted Name Supression because – get this – “A scandal like this might affect his reputation and income”… GEE, YA THINK??? I’m going to speculate on Dane Rumble. He seems like a dick. SHAME ON YOU DANE RUMBLE…

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· What shall I have for lunch?

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· What on earth do you buy your Nana for her 70th birthday?

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· They are called broaches, right? It just occurred to me, for the first time ever, that Broach is one of those double meaning words, and wow, they are so unrelated it’s not funny.
· “How would Elizabeth broach the subject that Susan had stolen her Grandmothers broach?” HA!

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· I wonder when and how a Broach got its name?

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· Howcome it seems like only yesterday that we were knocking on the door of the year 2000? Weren’t we just partying like it’s 1999??

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· What the hell did I do for the last ten New Years’s?? And No, I can proudly say that it wasn’t EVER The Gathering. I remember the Millenium one, where I was in Masterton and we got too drunk to drive to the river and camp out as per the plan so ended up watching other peoples New Years on TV before popping our poppers at midnight, watching the power Not go out, and going to bed...

And I can remember the Bad one at Visionz where I took too much and ended up getting lost in the bush trying to escape the non-stop techno while the trees spoke to me in Maori and I cried because I knew they were trying to tell me something but I couldn’t understand them...

And the good one in Nelson at Shihad in the park for five bucks where I found forty bucks on the ground whilst waiting in line and then promptly lost everyone but ended up with all the drugs and naked in the bath at 6 in the morning with Bernard, Donna and Yemia… HA!

And one in Dunedin rolling through Fuel...

At least 3 in Wellington (all of them pretty average)...

Oh, and last years that I spent in Carterton getting drunk at my cousins (just for a change of pace… cough), then deciding I needed to find a nice, dark, quiet patch of grass to lie in at 2.30am and was snapped walking barefoot through town in the rain by my Mother of all people… DOH!
…Wow, I just accounted for most of them, huh…

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· Has anyone been throwing an eye at the early days Shortland Street repeats on TVNZ6?? WOW. Fascinatingly bad. It must be only six months in, at the most. Back in the days of Marge, and Jenny, and bogan Nick, and a younger but just as bad Chris Warner, and Dr. Hone Ropata A.K.A. Jake The Muss A.K.A. The One, The Only, our man Tem. It’s amazing to think that some of these actors were actually actors, who went to actual drama school and stuff before they got the then-Roles Of Their Careers… Pfft.

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· I wonder if they will allow me to take in placards of worship to the B-52s? I have plans to make and take them. And if I make and take them, there’s no way I’m handing them over at the gate… Mind you, it may be dark by the time they come on... Maybe not.

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· I wonder if I can sneak in Vodka?? Where there’s a will, there’s a team of security guards ready to foil your efforts...

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· What’s up with Tiger Woods, huh? Haha. The Fame Monster chooses another lamb to slaughter.

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· Does everyone really leave a name or ten off their lists? Man… I wrote up mine recently just out of interest, and just when I thought I had them all, I would then sporadically remember someone I’d forgotten and add them to the list, until I had a whole new dozen… and I’m not entirely sure I’m done yet. There are a few I’ve kept off for technical reasons, but even then… Exactly how much is it until you’re just gross?? I have a feeling it’s a lot more than my total. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

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· Should I go to the library and post this? Or continue to be distracted by very loud B-52s and dancing around my lounge…

Dancing will win every time. Lataz.

9.

The other day I was sitting in a café. I do this once in a blue moon in Carterton. I don’t usually need coffee and muffins while I write, but on this day I’d decided I was due a treat.
As I sat writing my blog, a man in his mid forties – definitely a local – approached me and said “What are you doing there ay?”
“Umm… I’m writing.” Was my reply.
“Writing!” He exclaimed. “Don’t you have a job?”
Anyone who knows me knows this is not the sort of thing I let slide. But it is the sort of thing I let slide around these parts – explaining creative urges and artistry is kinda pointless.
But not this day. Who the fuck did this guy think he was. And did you just belittle WRITING???
“Fuck you.” Was the first thing out of my mouth. Followed by “What’s wrong with writing?”
To my surprise, the guy laughed, turned to his friend – one of the women who worked there – and said “Ha! I like this guy!”
“What do you write?” was his next question.
“Stuff and things.” I replied, not really wanting to give this dick any information about my life.
“Aw, true. Good on ya!” he said, giving me a completely genuine thumbs up and returning to his seat.
Why thank you, random stranger, for your validation…

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AVATAR: THE LEGEND OF ANG:
My new favourite cartoon series, although probably best left for DVD. An epic story involving the fulfilling of one’s destiny. Plus wicked character development too. Like seven seasons of Buffy packed into one. Very cool. Watch it.

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BRITNEY:
HA! What a lovely slut.
Her new song is called ‘3’. It’s about threesomes…
“1, 2, 3,
Peter, Paul and Mary…”
Hot though.

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BEYONCE AND LADY GAGA’S ‘VIDEO PHONE’:
What a pair of lovelies…
And Beyonce’s not bad either.

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MY COUSIN HAS GOTTEN THE REGIONS’ BIKE PREGNANT:
This is the latest drama to inhabit our lives…
I’m not very impressed with my cousin. The “woman” he has ALLEGEDLY impregnated is… barely human.
I’m not usually so rude about people (pfft) but My God. Seriously, I had to consciously stop my jaw from dropping when I met her. It’s like a pig got up and started walking and talking. And didn’t bother showering. EVER IN HER LIFE. And has had a litter of babies, ALL of them taken away by CYPS – three of them, I kid you not. And gives blowjobs for tinnies. And has fucked half of the Wairarapa. Which means there’s some pretty fuckin’ desperate cunts round here cause how you get a hard on for THAT is beyond me.
And I’m not joking about one word of this, boys and girls.
The pig is simply the most disgusting thing I have ever had the misfortune to lay my eyes on.
Worse, even, than the obese Samoan pre-op transvestite I pity-fucked way back when.
Waaaaaaaaaay worse.
And she has the personality to fit. She really isn’t all there.
Anyway, she reckons she’s pregnant to my cousin. Everybody’s first reaction is:
“Oh god… No no no no NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO…”
The second thing they say is:
“How does she know it’s his???”
Which is exactly right – she doesn’t. My thoughts are she wants it to be him because she knows he wants kids. He’s the only one of her Fucks that might actually give a shit.
So, the only thing to do now is wait. Wait to see if she’s actually pregnant – mental note: tell my cousin to stop fucking her IMMEDIATELY so he can’t get her pregnant in the meantime if she’s not – and then when she has this mutant baby, get it DNA tested.
If it’s his, then sweet. His whanau will take that baby off her and raise it and love it as one of their own, which it is.
But if it ain’t, then she can fuck right off.
I really don’t want this bitch as part of my family, let alone the mother of any of my relatives.
Or the mother of my dead Uncle’s grandchildren, for that matter.
UGH. YUCK.

.

THINGS I CURRENTLY HATE:
1. Aforementioned beast-pig.
2. Fat Freddy’s Drop – So over them. And so Not looking forward to a summer of their music bashed to death again. Ugh.
3. Twilight Mania – OVER IT. Robert Pattinson’s not even hot. Taylor Lautner on the other hand…
As my friend hilariously said:
“Twilight: New Moon. The story of a young woman’s choice to practice either beastiality or necrophilia.”
4. Paramore – UGH. HATE. Annoying, untalented, Music Crime.
5. The News. As you may or may not have noticed, I have not been commenting on politics or news lately. So over it. I accidentally watched a few minutes of Parliament TV the other day… It’s like someone stuck a camera in a kindergarten and dressed them up in suits then took their toys away. Which, by the way, seriously needs to happen.
TAKE THEIR TOYS AWAY AND LEAVE THEM WITH NOTHING TO DO BUT ACTUAL WORK.
6. Owl City’s “Fireflies” – Has anyone actually listened to the lyrics of this prissy shit??? GOD it annoys me. It sounds like it should have meaning or something, but it’s just NONSENSICAL RUBBISH!!! SERIOUSLY! It’s like it’s trying to be soulful, but is a song about describing objects in a room… UGH! THUMBS WAY DOWN.
7. Being lovesick. What a crock. Who the Fuck came up with this shit anyway…

I plan to function perfectly well Alone (with a well stocked cupboard of great friends and whanau) for the rest of my life. Leave this love shit to all you other suckers.

.

SIDENOTE:
I came to the library, and couldn’t help but browse the newspaper.
Two pages in and I already wish I hadn’t.
Hellooooooo… Does nobody see anything wrong with:
“Wellington High School’s agriculture and horticulture class has produced more than
100 bottles of wine this year. And they have passed the all important taste test – getting the thumbs-up from a wine expert… The wines are also proving popular with the pupils’ parents.”
End quote.
Wow. I hope they are also being taught important drinking culture conducts too. Like ‘Tactical Spewing’, and ‘How To Score Drunk Chicks’…

.

THINGS I CURRENTLY LOVE:
1. Summer arriving. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah… Good parties, good friends, good food... Good times. Summer and all that it encumbers.
2. Having my lawns freshly mown. Yep. I said it. Domesticated, I know.
3. Dizzee Rascal’s “Holiday”. Lovin’ it.
4. Seeing episodes of South Park I haven’t seen before. Sweeeeeeet.
5. Drinkin vodka, tonics and limes. Mmmmm.
6. Music videos in the morning. Like coffee, only much, Much better.
7. Fruit toast. Num num.

8.

The Mad Scorpion is another year older this week.

I swear my gray hair population quadrupled overnight.

I spent an hour on the morning of my 32nd birthday pulling out grays.

I'm not sure if that amounted to age paranoia or just straight out shock. I am positive they were not there the night before...

According to The Dominion Posts' Horoscopes I am:

Sensitive,

Emotional,

Adaptable,

and Serious-Minded.

I am

Passionate,

Possessive,

and Impatient.

I take GREAT offence to all of this, though logic tells me to go with the flow.

I impatiently wait for a much better description of MY star sign in next years paper, GODDAMMIT!!!

Time for a little history lesson in

SCORPIO:

Scorpio is the eighth sign of the zodiac symbolised in four forms : the 'eagle', the 'phoenix', the 'lizard' and the 'Scorpion' and is often poorly mistaken for being a sign that can think of little else but physical passion. Yet Scorpio is a truly mystical sign and can transcend far beyond the physical realm to depths often left wanting in others.

In ancient times we know that Scorpio and Libra were linked, believed to be as one form, when the scales were held between the claws, in the 'Claws of the Scorpion'. Hence the desire for truth through examining all the available evidence and more is a powerful Scorpion trait, always supported with a sense of cautious investigation. The claws and scales indicated the power to preserve or destroy.

The ancient ruling planet of Scorpio was Mars, the God of War, associated with aggression and wrath, seen as tempestuous with explosive energetic outbursts.

Mars, father of Romulus and Remus, had Venus as his mistress and a sister-wife Bellona. This ancient ruler perhaps gives some insight into why the sign is much maligned.

Pluto is now the ruling planet of Scorpio, symbolising the beginning of life and its end, creation and destruction most patently described in the life-forces of the earthquake, the volcano and subsequent explosive force. Yet it must then be remembered that Pluto also symbolises life after death, the resurrection. In Roman mythology, Pluto was seen to be the Guardian of the Underworld, known to the ancient Greeks as Hades.

In ancient Greek mythology the hunter Orion was stung by the scorpion after boasting of his prowess, that he could kill any animal. Hera secretly commanded the scorpion to act and subsequently raised Scorpio to the Heavens, known as Scorpius.

The qualities of Scorpio are seen to be magnetism, mystical intensity, dependability, indulgent, probing, defensive, changeable and secretive (Hera connection). On the negative side Scorpio can be self-destructive, seen as serious with a desire to control, especially in love.

The symbol of the Scorpion is inextricably linked to Creation myths, more specifically the creation of man and woman, and their subsequent fall (the sting in the tail). The eighth phase of the journey of the Sun is experienced here, that of the middle aged adult determined to succeed in their abilities.

Scorpio is a fixed and negative water sign associated with the statements

'I control',

'I experience all things', and

'I know'.

It rules the generative system.

- That's the cock and vag.

...As if all this weren't enough to contend with. Apparently it's not enough just to be a human alive and experiencing life - we have pre-destined personality traits ruled by the planets too!

Neato!

So, what else can we do to make things interesting... I know... we'll chuck some Chinese Asstrology into the mix too.

What would happen if we put this Scorpion, and this Snake together???

.

ME, THAT'S WHAT.

.

Go on, poke a stick at that shit.

I dare ya.

I think only a Leo Dragon could come close...

I'd like to see the Scorpion-Snake and the Lion-Dragon in a Pokemon fight...

.

"You Gots Some 'Splainin' To Do Boy!":

I feel the need to do some explaining on some of my rants in 7.

Yes, I was an idiot blurred by alcohol and hazed emotions.

Yes, I made some baaaaaad decisions.

Yes, I acted vindictively.

Yes, I used people I shouldn't have.

But all of these realisations are retrospective, and None of it was intentional at the time.

Apologies to those I used and abused,

and Aapologies to those who feel I wronged them.

...See? I'm not all bad.

.

GAINING WEIGHT:

As someone who has never been able to weigh over 58 kilograms his entire life, it was quite a shock to me when I went to the Doctors about 8 months ago, and he decided to measure and weigh me. Just for the hell of it.

When the scales read 68kgs, I stared at him blankly and told him the scales must be broken.

They were not.

Turns out ten years of living in cities with hills may have had something to with my oh-so-slim figure, not my metabolism at all!

As someone who has even TRIED to gain weight in the past to no avail, this came as quite a shock.

As someone who has NEVER had to contend with weight issues, I wouldn't even have the slightest idea as to how to go about losing it.

I tell ya... all this middle-aged shit hit me like clockwork at 31.

I see a diet of lettuce and vodka on the summer horizon...

.

THE ALL WHITES WIN OVER BAHRAIN:

Don't care. Fuck off.

Yes, I like soccor more than rugby, but still...

Do we have to act like it's Sevens Week people??

Dial it down a notch ay??

.

STAR TREK:

The latest film version.

SEE IT.

Even if you've never been into Star Trek before, don't let the title put you off.

Yes, I realise that is A LOT easier to say than do... but Trust Me.

The new Star Trek is AWESOME. Not just as a reboot of the old franchise, but also as a stand alone action flick.

From the makers of Lost, it's honestly one the best films to come out this year.

SEE IT.

.

KARISSA AND KRISTINA:

Hugh Hefners' new twin girlfriends.

That's some hot shit.

I wouldn't mind being 84 if I had those two running around naked all day.

GRRRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWL.

.

ANYA CHRISTINA EMANUELLA JENKINS:

Harris...

I think my favourite of all Buffy characters, Anya was to Buffy as Seven Of Nine was to Voyager.

Slaughtered like a bunny during the last battle of Sunnydale, Anya will be forever missed...

Although I'm currently enjoying her on re-runs.

.

BIRTHDAY BURRITO:

With my birthday falling on a Monday and very few friends around to celebrate with me, I had a very lacklustre Thirty-Second.

With no cake in sight and a burrito for dinner, I decided to grab and candle and jam it in the burrito so I could get my Birthday Wish.

I lit it, made my birthday wish -

which, at the last second, I realised was the same wish I had made for the last three or four years to no avail, and so changed it -

took a deep breath,

and sent my wish up in smoke...

.

Here's to an exciting and joy filled year for everyone in the Mad Scorpions' World.

.

PEACE OUT.

7.

Hello again.
Well, what should be 9 has instead become 7, as I’ve been… not so much slack, as… otherwise engaged for the last couple of weeks.
The Mad Scorpion had a short sharp lesson in

DEATH:
The ultimate in goodbyes. The only sure thing we know is going to happen to every single one of us.
Every day it happens to someone, and every day a new family and network of friends is washed in the ripple-effect.
Just think about that for a moment.
Every day, someone is consumed by death grief.
Never mind the circumstances of said death, which inevitably vary for everyone.
The circumstances of my friend’s death were particularly grim... A drug overdose that leaves others to find and clean up and be traumatised by the mess. Not the first in my life either, but here’s hoping the last.
But there was something oddly… calming? comforting? about the fact that we all knew what path our friend had chosen. In some cases, there’s only one way things can end.
We also knew that he was cheating death on an entirely different level by suffering all of his life from Cystic Fibrosis. On the one hand, his conclusion was inevitable. On the other, he was totally beating the odds anyway and going out in style with a bang. Albeit slowly and over years.
Which I guess leads me to my next subject:

THE AFTERLIFE:
I don’t know if I believe in a god. Not THE God, anyway. If an old man with a white beard whose face you can never really see is waiting to greet me, sitting on a throne scolding and judging me before pulling the lever and opening the trap-door to hell is all that’s out there… I’ll be seriously disappointed.

I don’t even believe that there’s one heaven and one hell.
It can’t be that simple.

What I believe –

and brace yourselves because I’m about to get seriously hippy on it, no matter how hard I try to avoid it –

is that when you die, you just join the Universal Energy.
Everything is energy, and energy is Everything. It’s just in different forms.
Think about the smallest speck of dust and then zoom out to your house, your town, your country, the world, the solar system, the galaxy, then out and out and out past that until everything out there becomes as tiny as the smallest speck of dust… It’s all Energy, and everything’s connected. Whether it’s in a living being or not.

You’re still you, but if you were a seriously unhappy soul with a shit life who hated everything and everything bad happened to you and woe is me, then that’s what kind of energy you’ll be afterwards.
But if you were slightly more than this in your core, if you even have the capacity to be halfway happy, (let alone kind, loving and empathetic) then you’ll still be that, only free of a body. And joined by anyone and everyone you ever loved who’s been released from their bodies.
And you can still see Us in the living. And you still love us, and talk to us. You live through us. You stay alive in us.
But I’m kind of digressing.
I’m using some simple and childish terms here but I can’t think of any other way to describe it, so it will have to do.

Guardian Energy as part of the whole Universal Engery.

That’s where my dead whanau and friends go.
When I’m down, or feeling scared, or even want the weather to clear up for a good reason, I literally do a roll call in my head and ask for help from the appropriate spirit. Or even the whole Universe if the occasion calls for it.
But I swear to “god”… I don’t think it’s failed me yet.
Well… none of them have helped me win lotto yet but let’s not go there.
I don’t believe in God, but I do believe in The Power of Love.
…sick yet?

MORTALITY:
I’ve been hearing more and more people from my parents generation saying “I’m getting’ old!”
And the scary thing is, it’s true. People I never regarded as being old are now not far off being… *shudder*… Elderly.
Which begs the question… Euthanasia – Yay or Nay?
I’m a believer in Yay.
And I’m talking a huge distinction between Euthanasia and Suicide.
If you have a really really REALLY good reason, and carving your own end date out gives you a dignity and relief you would otherwise be denied… then who is anyone else to object?
After all, if it was a decision you were making about your life, as opposed to your death, no-one would object. Or they might for a while but once they realised you were determined, or were making the same decision over and over again and just weren’t listening, they’d throw their arms up and be done with you or simply say something along the lines of “Well… it’s their life, we can’t do anything about it”, or better yet “They made their bed, now they can lie in it”.
And most on the receiving end of those lines would be fine with it. In fact, they’d be pleased.
Getting the drift?
Go Yay.

THROAT CANCER:
I hope I haven’t got it.
I fuckin smoked myself silly over the last few weeks. Feelin a bit raw in there.

LOCATION, LOCATION, LOCATION:
I decided something the other day as I lay in bed pondering my life.
I moved from my last location to get away from… well, let’s just say –

and I’m being unusually open here… this comes from the

deepest

darkest

recesses of

The Mad Scorpion’s soul –

I wanted deeply a relationship that was never, and IS NEVER, going to happen.
After they dumped me, know what I did?
I proceeded to fuck anyone and everyone that they had ever been with, or wanted to be with, or looked at, or were friends with… I turned my Slut on HARD.
“Maybe the jealousy will drive them back!” I blondely thought.
WOW. What. A dick.
My next decision, to become a version of myself so great that they’d inevitably realise what they were missing out on and come to their senses... Didn’t work either.
My next step, I thought, was to just try even harder to be an even bigger and better version of me. Get a career, become a great writer, who’s so famous and so rich that they will FINALLY realise what they are missing etceteraaaaaaabla bla.
But there are two pitfalls to that idea.

1. I’m not getting any younger or thinner, and
2. I have concluded that that is PaTHETic.
And thank god I am Not.
If I’m going to do that, it’s for myself because A. See Above, re: Not Pathetic, and B. See Above,
re: NEVER going to happen.
I finally swam out of my drunken hurt and realised I needed to seriously snap out of it.

Of course while all this went on, we became FRRRRRRRRIEEEEEEEEEENDS.
NO-ONE who knew me before this person came along could understand what I saw in them, or why I was such a loyal friend to them. Let’s face it, they still don’t - this person was pretty arseholey to me at times. Apart from the obvious reason, of course.
Which is that I am still in love with them.
Which is odd, because even if I had a renewed chance with them, I’m not entirely sure I’d take it.
Too much has gone on, water, bridges, etc.
What’s worse, is that this particular person has quite a few ex’s who are still obsessed with them.
And I’m talking photos of them, and enlarged photos of their various body parts – one in particular – Oh, ok, a giant photo of their cock – next to their bed.
I’m talking large gold framed pictures of them together on the wall in front of their bed so it’s the first thing they see when they wake.
I’m talking their artwork all over their bedroom and lounge.
I’m talking about keeping a bag of “Things That They’ve Ever Touched.” Like bus tickets. Or theatre programs. Or condom wrappers.
I’m talking OBSESSED.
Thankfully, they are my Craziness Benchmark. I at least have that to remind me that I will never get that bad.

It’s the idea of What Could Be that haunts me. I guess. I’m not sure what it is that connects me so, and enduringly.
This is not blind love, that’s for sure.


And so, after years of pining and a heart that had not changed its mind, I decided to move.
To be fair, a large chunk of my closest and bestest friends also flew the coop within months of each other, which made the decision a lot easier. But I decided to throw away whatever life I’d created and get the fuck out of there to clear my head.
And another year passed. And we still remained friends. Best friends even.
…And nothing has changed.
I don’t even see anyone else that rattles my bones.
I understand and accept the need that I need to be free of this soul-ball-and-chain for my own good.

But how do you tell someone who's your best friend and done nothing wrong and everything's "fine" to Fuck Off and get out of your life for good???

You can't really.

Which leads me to my next idea…

I am going to move

To the opposite side

of the PLANET.

I haven’t exactly worked out where that is yet (I’ll get on google earth later) but… I reckon that’s my place.
It’s an extreme and dramatic decision…
which is exactly why it’s Perfect for me.
I have spun my imaginary globe and landed on the X.
…Which Google Earth tells me is…
*drum roll please…*

MADRID, SPAIN!!!

Perrrrrrrrrfect.

And don’t get bitchy on me. We all know the heart and the mind follow you wherever you go.
We all know it’s my mind that needs to escape.
But maybe this will be easier to do in Spain!
Fingers crossed.


….eh. Who am I kidding.

Fuck you all.

Please turn on your magic beam,
Mr. Sandman, stop making me scream.

6.

Ok. I really wanted to stop trashing politicians, but… let’s face it, they don’t make it easy for me to keep my trap shut. In fact, they make it darn right easy. Get a load of this one -
ACC Minister, National’s Nick Smith, on their plans to scrap support for the families of suicide victims:
“If my doctor told me that I was terminally ill and I had 30 days to live, with the ACC rules the way they are I’d be finding myself a train to throw myself under on the 29th day because my family would be treated so much more generously.”

Granted, I think he was voicing his against stance about the whole issue, but oh my… Poor choice of words, buddy.

MOON OVER MARTINBOROUGH:
www.moonovermartinborough.com
A gay American and his hubby move from the big city to the sticks. Hilarity ensues… I smell a sitcom.
Well written, worth a look, and quite funny.

MY LIBRARIAN:
All through the power of eavesdrop, I have managed to decipher that my Librarian:
- Drinks soy, is a vegan, is wheat and dairy free, and eats Alpha One Rice Bran products.
- Has been “communicating” with a man over the internet and is going (has actually already gone) to San Francisco to meet her new “Friend”. And I quote: “People keep asking me if I’ve fallen in love over the internet, but no, I’m just communicating with him!” She says this with her tongue firmly in her cheek too. Here’s hoping her communication works out well.

BILE OVERLOAD:
Ok folks. I have been pushed so far to my stress limits that I actually broke this week. So it’s time let loose on some personal issues. Be warned: The first three rows will get wet.

SCOLIOSIS:
…is a well-heard-of but little-known-about congenial birth defect. It usually involves a couple of bits missing from your spine when you are born, causing your spine to grow in bend in all sorts of directions, and all the muscles and nerves being crushed and pulled in unnatural angles causing immeasurable life-long pain and suffering. In a nutshell. Only in reality, a nutshell doesn’t do it justice.
I happen to be one of those circus freaks. I’ve had two major operations which involved hacking off a piece of hip and whacking it in my shoulder the first time, and the removal of most of the back right half of my ribcage the second. (Sidenote: Ask any of my schoolmates about the day I took my ribs to school and they leaked through my bag… Mmmmmmm.) Even though my spine is now shaped like a question mark – literally – and it continues to twist and collapse and give me all sorts of daily grief, I have been told by the “Medical Profession” that there is nothing more they can do for me and I have basically been left to my own devices. That’s fine. I can deal.
What I can’t deal with, is that once arriving in that point, the “Medical Profession” seems to swiftly forget why I was there in the first place. Like they suddenly came down with amnesia, or alzheimers, and then turn to me going “Huh? What? Who are you again? Why are you here??”
CASE IN POINT: This story requires going back a bit to the beginning of September, when I had a friend over from Wellington staying for a coupl’a days, and I ran out of pain medication.
Now, I’m on some fairly strong, highly monitored stuff – which, in case you’re wondering, barely even touches the sides of someone like me, and is actually on the lower end of the scale as far as highly monitored prescription drugs go – so there can be a fair bit of rigmarole involved in getting it…
Anyway I’m digressing and my poison can’t hold back. Here’s how it goes –
I go to Doctors, I get prescription. Supplies are doled out to me on a fortnightly basis. This lasts for three 2 week cycles. I go back to Doctors. Repeat til dead.
It’s early September. I’m working and I’ve got no time to go in and get my script. I call the Medical Centre, order my next prescription, tell them I’m working, ask them if it’s ok that my friend (who was over staying from Wellington) comes in to pick it up for me, they tell me it’s fine, I call the Pharmacy, ask them if it’s ok that my friend comes in to pick up my meds for me, they say that’s fine, I carry out my plan, and all goes well. Bar the fact that I rack up a small bill in the meantime.
Six weeks go by, I run out of meds.
I go in to make an appointment. Bitch receptionist demands to know when I’ll be paying off what I owe on my account. In front of the entire waiting room. Loudly.
I politely tell her I am well aware that I owe them money, and that if she’d like to she can come around to my house and see the bill pinned up on my wall, right in line behind my other bills, that I can’t do anything about until Pay Day, and in the meantime can I please make that appointment.
She kinda looks at me stunned and blank for a moment, before demanding to know when my Pay Day is.
By this point I’m kinda ready to reach over the desk and pummel her face into the counter, so I tell her not to bother and storm out, slamming the door behind me just like the shitty teenager I was impersonating.
I resolve to not go back until I have paid my account fully so that evil old bitch can never have anything to look down at me for again. Yes, this will involve suffering for a few weeks without medication, but I can do it. I cannot STAND being treated like shit by anyone, but in this case, it means giving them nothing to go on.
And so, fast forward two weeks. My bills are paid, my back is killing me, and I legally and honestly go into the Doctors to order, and pay for, my next prescription. It’s a Friday, I’m sore as fuck, I know I’ve got a largely Have-To-Be-Upright Weekend coming up, and I’m pretty much at my pain threshold looking forward to some long postponed relief.
I go into the Medical Centre. I order, and pay for, my next prescription.

“That should be fine, it’ll be ready for you this afternoon.”

But all is not fine. Come the afternoon, I get a call from the Nurse, who says

“You were given a prescription last week, so where are all your pills?”

Uuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhh…. What now?
She repeats herself, with the steel tinge of Judgement rife in her voice.

“Uh, I’m sorry, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“According to Dr. McArthur’s files, you were given a script on the 8th of October.”

“Uuuuuuhhhhhh, No. No I wasn’t. I haven’t had any pain relief since I ran out over two weeks ago.”

“Well why didn’t you come in then?”

With a completely deadpan face:
“Because when I did the receptionist was such a bitch to me about owing money I felt obliged to pay off my account before I came in again.”

“…Oh.” (Yeah, take that bitch.) “Well, I’ll have another check around and get back to.”

“I’d appreciate it. THANKS.”

Half an hour goes by. My breathing has turned thick, and I have a new and interesting rage knotting in my stomach. My phone rings again. I am looking forward to not having the fear of pain relief being held from me.
It’s her again. Lisa the Nurse.

“Look, I’m sorry, but according to us you were given a script last week and the receptionist remembers your friend coming in to pick it up for you.”

“Uuuuuuuhhhhhhh… yeah, they did, but that was almost two months ago, not LAST WEEK!”

“…Oh.”

“And look, if I was given a script on the 8th of October, WHERE IS IT AND CAN I HAVE IT?”

“Yes, well, we did have a look around it’s not here, and we also checked the chemists and it hasn’t been taken in there either.”

“Riiiiiiiiiight. So what you’re saying is I NEVER USED THE PRESCRIPTION I NEVER GOT.”

“It would appear that way, yes.”

“So, can you just get another one from Dr McArthur then???”

“Well no, because he’s away today and we can’t ring him and he won’t be back until Monday.”

Snap. Now panic really sets in. Stress (and here comes the wonderfully ironic part) actually causes my spine to cramp up into all sorts of new and exciting pain enhancements. Am I really going to have to suffer through the weekend because these idiots can’t sort their shit out???

“Listen, Lisa, here’s the thing. I HAVE A SPINAL DISORDER AND I’M IN SEVERE PAIN AND I HAVEN’T HAD ANY PAIN RELIEF IN TWO WEEKS. I NEED IT.”

By now, I’m past caring if I make scene. Fuck you lady, I ain’t suffering because of someone else’s mistake.

“Well sorry, there’s nothing we can do about it until Monday now.”

Oh no you didn’t, Bitch!
And with that, I hang up, squish all that pain induced rage down into that growing knot in my gut, and go straight down to the medical centre. I’m there within two minutes of the phone call, making it very obvious to anyone who has eyes, that I am just on the edge of losing it, and someone had better come out and explain this shit to me NOW.

I am told that the available Doctor is busy until five, but I’m welcome to wait and then he’ll see me.
Oh don’t worry lady, I’m not going anywhere.
Five to five rolls around, and just when I think I’m going to start throwing up from rage sickness, start throwing things, start screaming wildly, and generally start acting like the Junkie I am being judged to be, Nurse Lisa reappears and whisks me into a side room. She gives me just enough pain relief to get me through the weekend, and suggests I make an appointment with the Doctor on Monday to sort all this out.
Yeah, No Shit Bitch.

SO… Crisis TEMPORARILY averted.
Here’s Monday. I go to my Doctors appointment.
Let it be known that the general consensus around town is that my particular Doctor is an idiot. I haven’t had him for long, and I haven’t minded him either. Let it be known that I now know why the whole town thinks this.
I sit down, I tell him the events of the Friday before. He takes one look on his computer and says “But you were given a prescription on the 8th of October.”
SIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGH.

“Look, do you remember writing that script out for me?”

“Well, I write out a lot of scripts every day, that’s my job.”

“So you don’t remember then.”

“Well the receptionist says that your friend came in to get it.”

“Yes. SIX WEEKS AGO, NOT LAST WEEK!”

Completley judgmentally, he replies:
“Well maybe your friend came in to pick it up again.”

…Oh THAT'S IT, you Mutha Fuck!

“Three things. One: The friend that came in to pick up my prescription for me? They live in Wellington, so they’re not even in town, and they did that for me because I had run out, I was working, and I asked them to do that for me, with the FULL permission of both the Medical Centre and the Pharmacy.
Two: I don’t actually have friends that would do that to me. They don’t do shit like that and I don’t appreciate you suggesting so.
Three: Here’s an idea, MAYBE SOMEBODY AROUND HERE FUCKED UP.
I am Not a JUNKIE, and my friends are not THEIVES.
Yes, I was probably DUE for a prescription around the 8th, BUT I DIDN’T GET IT. And while we’re on the subject, where IS this mysterious script? It isn’t here, it hasn’t been taken to the chemists, so WHERE IS IT???”
And yes, I did actually say all of this.

The Doctor kinda sat there with a dumbfounded look on his face for a moment before deciding to shrug the whole incident away with a “Oh, it’s probably gotten lost around here somewhere. But that’s ok, we’ve talked about it now, I’ll just write you out another one!”

“Thanks. That would be great.”

Jesus fucking Christ. Like pulling teeth! Or jamming nails in your spine, if you prefer.
I cannot word enough how much I RESENT those sorts of judgments from the very people who are supposed to be helping me. I can tell you what though - All this is going in a complaint letter to the Health Board so this bullshit doesn’t happen again. I’ve spent many a year fighting for relief, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to put up with this shit forever. Fuck ‘em. I bet no other Junkie they ever met can string together the words DISCRIMINATION CHARGES. Fuckers.

And so ends part one of my bile vomit. Take a breather, then prepare to enter the world of

I HATE MY BITCH OF A PROPERTY MANAGER:
So. I move into a little one bedroom flat last April. It has a bedroom, a lounge, a kitchen, a laundry and a toilet. Everything you need really. Except curtains and curtain rails.

On moving in, I am assured by the seemingly lovely Property Brokers Property Manager Karen Dickinson (be warned people), that she will arrange for curtains and curtain rails.

I sign the lease, I move in.

Winter arrives. The house gets cold. Still no curtains. Now, the bedroom and the lounge have windows that go out and round in a half circle shape. The bedroom is a freezer without them, and I’ve resorted to nailing a blanket over the windows, but this isn’t working, so I start using the lounge as my bedroom. It’s easier to keep warm, and I’ve made makeshift curtains from couch throws, hooks, and nails.
MONTHS pass. In the meantime I have two house inspections, and both times am assured by Karen that she’ll “get onto that” when I bring up the curtains. So I continue, in my naïve good faith, to patiently wait.
Last week, and SEVEN MONTHS LATER, a handy man FINALLY arrives to put up my curtain rails. But, he informs, only on two of the windows. A little one by the front door, and over the windows in my bedroom. HOWEVER, he’s been instructed to go straight across with the rails and not around. Effectively making the room smaller and forcing it to have curtains as big as the wall itself and not just as big as the windows. Are you with me? Good.

This, I decide, is not good enough. I’m on a roll after my stint at the doctors, and I’ve had enough of being fobbed off and treated like shit, so I text Karen asking her to call me. I text her every five minutes until she does. This takes about an hour and a half, so by then, you can imagine that she’s had a few texts. She sounds annoyed and tells me she hasn’t been able to ring because she’s been driving.

I care little, memories of a winter spent freezing my arse off fresh in my mind, and suggest she could always have pulled over. But no matter, you’ve called now, and I appreciate it. Before she can even speak, I launch into the question:

“Why are you getting the man to put the curtain rails up straight across instead of around?”

“Because it will be too expensive otherwise.”

“But that means I will have to find curtains as big as the walls instead of the windows.”

“Oh I’ll find the curtains!”

“You will?”

“Oh yes, you don’t need to worry about that. We provide the curtains.”

“Really Karen? Like you’re providing me with curtain rails SEVEN MONTHS LATER???”

“...ah, er…”

“What’s with that anyway Karen? WHY HAS IT TAKEN THIS LONG?”

“Um, oh, er, because I had to get in touch with the landlord and organise it.”

“Oh Puh-lease, Karen. Really? SEVEN MONTHS???”

“Mm, yes, that is a long time isn’t it.”

Yeah, No Fucking Shit Cunt.
But Ok. I’ve had my vent, and it’s clear she feels above apologizing, so I say goodbye and hang up on her.

Two days later, I’m thinking, Fuck this bitch. If it took her that long to provide me with rails, Fuck knows how long she’ll take for curtains.

I look into the legalities of tenancy agreements, and discover (Thanks to my ex flatmate and best friend, daughter of two great lawyers and pseudo-niece of the Head of the Tenancy Tribunal) that I can serve my Property Bitch with a ten day notice in which they have to provide their agreed upon services.
But, weirdly, just as I’m organizing all this, I get a Text from an unknown number telling me that I am $220 in arrears with my rent, and to contact my Property Manager.

Now, this is TOTAL news to me. As far as I’m concerned, I have paid my rent on time every week bar ONE. And on that occasion, as soon as I realised it hadn’t gone through, I wrote to Karen the next business day explaining that it hadn’t gone through and that I would pay it in halves over the next two weeks.
I paid the first half, but the next week decided I would pay the other half when I got my curtains. And this was around early September.

This text, on top of everything else my week has served me, surges a new kind of bile through my system. I actually start getting hives. I feel like a demon has latched onto me and is pumping acid through me. It is an all new venom coursing through my veins, and I break, and see a new kind of red. Again.
I head straight to a computer and send an e-mail:

“Dear Karen,
I just received a Text on my phone supposedly from Property Brokers, although it didn't come from your number, that I am $220 in arrears with my rent.
Could you please send me this in writing, as well as the dates of the missed rent payments. I don't think text is an appropriate medium for these types of messages.
I was aware of being $60 in arrears, but I'm fairly certain the figure quoted to me by text is a mistake. However I'm unable to confirm this until I have been over my bank statements. If there has indeed been a mistake on my part I shall endeavor to correct it as soon as possible.

Also if you could give me in writing a reasonable time frame in which you are going to provide curtains for the bedroom of my property it would be appreciated. Taking SEVEN MONTHS to provide the curtain railings was totally unreasonable, and I don't really believe the flimsy excuse provided that it took that long to get in touch with the landlord and to organise. I would appreciate it if it didn't take as long this time and I can finally start using the bedroom for its intended purpose.”

Simple, to the point, and non-abusive.

This was Karen’s response, received within minutes:

“Nathan,
I sent the text as an informal way of contacting you regarding the rent arrears but if you want it in a more formal manner ie a Ten Day Notice, I will issue you with one.
I was being a nice guy about it but obviously this hasn’t gone down too well.
Could you please advise as to which curtain tracks have been installed so I can organize the curtains.”

I think I could actually hear my blood vessels burst when I read this. And lo and behold, a whole new vista of stress and rage knots, twists, and surges through me. Now I’m actually seeing red because my Eyes are Bleeding. And wow, who knew stress like this actually causes Nails to appear hammered between my vertebrae!

But no matter. I’ve played the Tenancy Tribunal game with cunty landlords before, with some of the best in the business by my side. And won.
You wanna play that game with me? Well I am MORE than prepared, Bitch. Bring it.

Without missing a beat, and actually trembling with toxic rage, I sent her this in return:

“Karen,
A ten day notice will be fine, as long as the dates of the missed payments are included.
I know all about ten day notices, as I was about to issue you with one myself.
Personally, I don’t think you were being nice at all, and now I think you are using threat tactics.
P.S. The curtain tracks that have been installed are the ones in the bedroom and the little side one by the front door.”

Although in hindsight I wish I’d added:

“… and now I think you are using threat tactics as a direct response to me pointing out that you aren’t doing your job properly. It sure does seem that way, seeing as I was only informed of supposed rent arrears after telling you that taking seven months to provide me with curtain rails was unacceptable.
Is that what you’re doing Karen? Threatening me?
By the way, I’m STILL not hearing an apology about you taking so long with that. You think I’m being unreasonable? I tell you what, Karen, why don’t you go home and next year between April and October, why don’t YOU take down all the curtains in YOUR house and freeze YOUR arse off, and THEN tell me I’m being unreasonable.
I thought I was being the “nice guy” by getting you to provide a reasonable time frame in writing instead of just issuing you with a ten day notice… but I guess that hasn’t gone down to well.”

Admittedly, in hind hindsight, it’s probably best I didn’t.
Fuck you Bitch. You work for ME, not the other way round, and tenancy agreements work both ways, Fucker.

Somewhat surprisingly, I got this response:

“Thanks Nathan.
I will arrange to get the curtains.”

Yeah, that’s right KAREN. You WILL.
Of course, this is in No Way Whatsoever providing me with a time frame in which she will “arrange to get” the curtains, but it isn’t a thinly veiled threat either, so I’m just glad she’s realised that I am prepared to go to War with her if that’s what she wants, and that I’m as well armed as she is, and not the usual small town hick she’s used to dealing with.
I’m not scared of you, or your Ten Day Notices, or even your Eviction Notices. A house is a house and there’s plenty more out there, and quite frankly, if they don’t involve you as a landlord, then bonus.
I couldn’t give a rats arse if I have to move. You can play your power tripping game all you like, but I tell you what… they only work on

People

That Aren’t

Me.

Kisses!

5.

A brief one I think this week...

.

Still no word from my dear love Rosemary. I hope she got my letter...

.

LADYHAWKE:
Masterton’s hottest female musical export is due back in town this week to go stay with Mum.
Aaaaaaaaaw.
And get this, she recently bought her childhood home for her parents and they are going to do it up.
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaw.
What a good bitch.

.

AISLING SYMES’ BODY FOUND:
It’s a real shame, but aren’t you glad she isn’t being kept in someone’s basement?
Surely a fate worse than death.

.

ANGUS KEBBELL:
The Martinborough man making a fortune off his mother’s muesli recipe.
Nice.

.

MELISSA LEE, NATIONAL POLITICIAN:
Gee, what do ya know, another dodgy National politician. What a shock. I’m SO glad people like this are running our country… (insert deadpan look here).

.

'BODY BLOW' BY THE HEADLESS CHICKENS:
Has recently been making a resurgence in my playlist. This is the album I lived most of my teenagehood through. Well, there were three. The other two were 'Very Necessary' by Salt N Pepa, and 'Erotica' by Madonna. But that’s another story.
Headless Chickens were my favourite band and I still think they’re great.
Not to gush, but FUCK yeah.
Dig it back out of your CD collections and give it a whirl.
…yeah yeah, I know 'Stunt Clown' is the benchmark, bla bla…
“Oh, do the Headless Chicken,
All together now, fingers clickin’,
You’re not safe in mother’s aaaaaaaaooooaaaaaaaooooaaaaaooooaaarms, LOOK OUT!”

.

PLAYIN’ TV & MIND GAMES ON SKY:
Don’t bother. Ugh.

.

THE THEFT OF CARTERTON FIRE STATION’S CENTURY OLD BRONZE FIRE BELL:
What the???
The thing weighs over 200 kilo’s, for one.
And would only fetch $700 sold as scrap.
What a dick.
Having had an Uncle in the Carterton Volunteer Fire Service for as long as I’ve been alive, I find this sort of petty theft abhorrent.
Surely the history of our town is worth more than $700.
TUT TUT.

.

LITTLE BOOTS:
Something about her has got me. She’s infectious, and entirely too cute.

.

THE SUGABABES REPLACING THEIR LAST REMAINING MEMBER.
BAH HA! Good luck with that one.

.

THE B52’S:
I am SOOOOOOOOOOO looking forward to seeing these guys in December. In MARTINBOROUGH of all places. Now if anyone wants to give me an ACDC ticket, my wish list will be complete. For now...