Uncle Geoff came over to assist the wife with all things children and dogs over the weekend while I was on my "mancation" in Hamilton.
The undoubted highlight of aforementioned mancation was the Raglan Backpackers. The backpackers only luxury is a sauna. The boys noticed this as we walked passed four European girls in bikinis sweating gracefully in the sauna. While the boys found this aesthetically pleasing, it only served to remind us how old and useless we really are.
We waved politely and carried on. But only after Bazza had extracted Scott's face from the glass door.
But I digress. Uncle Geoff is stalwart of the local improvised comedy scene (" improv"). Now I like Uncle Geoff because he is proudly hirsute and brings me craft beers. But I can't stand improv or its ilk. I get terribly embarrassed for the performers when their improv just isn't funny. This is most of the time.
However, there is one redeeming feature of improv.
Cast your mind back to all the weirdos, socially inept loners and dropkicks back in high school. These were the kids that made high school bearable because you were at least one social strata above this painful mob.
Amazingly, these people grew into adulthood. Then they found each other within improv - an odd collection of fruit loops and ex dragon masters. But within the improv scene, they are Kings among geeks. Its lovely really, but ultimately makes for excruciating improv shows.
Wednesday 30 May 2012
Wednesday 23 May 2012
Day mancation - Champagne socialists and 13.5 steinlagers
My friend Susan from up the road describes anyone who lives in Island Bay as a "champagne socialist". An apt description.
The average champagne socialist is well meaning, for sure. But as transparent and wet as the empty bottles of isotonic Powerade they recycle in their council provided wheelie bin. Did I just describe myself? God forbid.
Fuck that was a pretty dour opening. Not to worry because it leads to the point that Susan also described my boys trip to Hamilton this weekend as a "mancation".
Women have a way of making anything blokes do in a group sound a little camp. I reckon they are just jealous. It is my hypothesis that a group of women cannot spend an entire weekend away together without some major falling out. Honestly, groups of women are like the UN. Symbolic, complicated, tetchy and ultimately doomed.
Blokes, however, can happily spend a weekend away due to the following basic rules:
(1) Extreme personal abuse of mates is allowed and encouraged - especially any physical defects. A good one for your short mate is "what are you going to do, head butt me in the kneecap?". Or for your rotund chum, a chorus of "who ate all the pies? he did, he did" should be joyfully sung at appropriate moments.
(2) Abuse of ones wife or girlfriend is disallowed. Of course ex's are fair game. For example, "ah yes, Claire, that was when you used to like the fatties". And you think women are cruel.
(3) It is acceptable to fart in the car so long as the car has working electric windows.
(4) True feelings and philosophical discussions should only be attempted after 13 and a half bottles of steinlager. This way, anything said can be denied later.
(5) Anything that is said or done that offends a mate can be explained away with a beer and the immortal excuse, "it seemed like a good idea at the time".
The average champagne socialist is well meaning, for sure. But as transparent and wet as the empty bottles of isotonic Powerade they recycle in their council provided wheelie bin. Did I just describe myself? God forbid.
Fuck that was a pretty dour opening. Not to worry because it leads to the point that Susan also described my boys trip to Hamilton this weekend as a "mancation".
Women have a way of making anything blokes do in a group sound a little camp. I reckon they are just jealous. It is my hypothesis that a group of women cannot spend an entire weekend away together without some major falling out. Honestly, groups of women are like the UN. Symbolic, complicated, tetchy and ultimately doomed.
Blokes, however, can happily spend a weekend away due to the following basic rules:
(1) Extreme personal abuse of mates is allowed and encouraged - especially any physical defects. A good one for your short mate is "what are you going to do, head butt me in the kneecap?". Or for your rotund chum, a chorus of "who ate all the pies? he did, he did" should be joyfully sung at appropriate moments.
(2) Abuse of ones wife or girlfriend is disallowed. Of course ex's are fair game. For example, "ah yes, Claire, that was when you used to like the fatties". And you think women are cruel.
(3) It is acceptable to fart in the car so long as the car has working electric windows.
(4) True feelings and philosophical discussions should only be attempted after 13 and a half bottles of steinlager. This way, anything said can be denied later.
(5) Anything that is said or done that offends a mate can be explained away with a beer and the immortal excuse, "it seemed like a good idea at the time".
Tuesday 15 May 2012
Day Office - The Rules of the Office Leaving Card
A few weeks ago, I escaped the Island Bay parental treadmill and drove to the office to sign a card for a colleague. She is my manager. Getting my childish scrawl into her card is worth at least three future days of forgiving looks when I stagger into work hungover, surly and protectively clutching a mince and cheese pie.
All office cards are a nightmare. But leaving cards are the worst. They go around the office more times than colds through the dodgy air-conditioning ducts. What the hell do you write in them? I suggest the following system:
- If it is a colleague who you consider a good friend (ie you "might" consider seeing them outside office hours), then unexpected abuse and profanities are recommended. I normally write something like "Fuck off, no-one liked you anyway". This cushions the boredom of your mate's leaving card.
- If it is someone you don't know at all, I suggest the opposite. A syrupy heartfelt note should confuse the hell out of the person leaving. Something like, "You have been my mentor, dear friend and inspiration, I will miss you dearly, stay in touch Smithy!" If their surname isn't Smith, even better.
- The middle of the road colleague is difficult. This is the colleague where engaging in weather related conversations by the photocopier is sometimes bearable. I suggest a one word note in their leaving card. "Indeed" pretty much sums it up. It says, I am giving you a passing thought, but no more. Perfect.
One further rule about office leaving cards. Under no circumstances do you contribute money to somebody senior to you. Simple economics.
All office cards are a nightmare. But leaving cards are the worst. They go around the office more times than colds through the dodgy air-conditioning ducts. What the hell do you write in them? I suggest the following system:
- If it is a colleague who you consider a good friend (ie you "might" consider seeing them outside office hours), then unexpected abuse and profanities are recommended. I normally write something like "Fuck off, no-one liked you anyway". This cushions the boredom of your mate's leaving card.
- If it is someone you don't know at all, I suggest the opposite. A syrupy heartfelt note should confuse the hell out of the person leaving. Something like, "You have been my mentor, dear friend and inspiration, I will miss you dearly, stay in touch Smithy!" If their surname isn't Smith, even better.
- The middle of the road colleague is difficult. This is the colleague where engaging in weather related conversations by the photocopier is sometimes bearable. I suggest a one word note in their leaving card. "Indeed" pretty much sums it up. It says, I am giving you a passing thought, but no more. Perfect.
One further rule about office leaving cards. Under no circumstances do you contribute money to somebody senior to you. Simple economics.
Tuesday 8 May 2012
Day Monday & Tuesday - Hell parking and kind words to public servants
Uncle Dave often says "hell is other people". My personal hell is the parallel park on the Terrace.
For non-Wellingtonians, this is near the Terrace, the hub of the New Zealand's public service. The Terrace is always busy with traffic, but like all well meaning public services, its not really busy at all.
Finding a car park on the Terrace requires extreme luck. Next one must have the ability to expertly parallel park under enormous pressure from:
- That impatient bastard in the Audi waiting for you to park. Under these circumstances I advise to kindly inform the bastard that it is not your fault that he couldn't afford the extra $20,000 to buy a BMW.
- The amused pedestrians and slack jawed gawkers with little else to do but witness your parking demise. Well meaning feedback such as "get fucked" is advised.
Attempting to avoid parking humiliation, I headed for the car park off Bolton Street. This was even worse. It purported to contain public car parks. Alas it did not.
As I descended the 58 levels of car parks, it eventually became apparent that:
- Every single car park was "reserved". For whom, I couldn't tell, but clearly not for the great unwashed like me.
- Every ramp and corner was built for a hatchback. This resulted in my people mover's bumper sensors exploding into wild beeps as I embarked on 23 point turns at each of the 58 levels.
Having spent so long in this underground nightmare, there one final indignity. I was charged for leaving the car park. The expletives I projected would embarrass a drunk Scotsman. My nine month old in the backseat didn't seem to mind.
When I eventually surfaced, it was Tuesday afternoon. I had missed my Monday lunch date with the wife.
For non-Wellingtonians, this is near the Terrace, the hub of the New Zealand's public service. The Terrace is always busy with traffic, but like all well meaning public services, its not really busy at all.
Finding a car park on the Terrace requires extreme luck. Next one must have the ability to expertly parallel park under enormous pressure from:
- That impatient bastard in the Audi waiting for you to park. Under these circumstances I advise to kindly inform the bastard that it is not your fault that he couldn't afford the extra $20,000 to buy a BMW.
- The amused pedestrians and slack jawed gawkers with little else to do but witness your parking demise. Well meaning feedback such as "get fucked" is advised.
Attempting to avoid parking humiliation, I headed for the car park off Bolton Street. This was even worse. It purported to contain public car parks. Alas it did not.
As I descended the 58 levels of car parks, it eventually became apparent that:
- Every single car park was "reserved". For whom, I couldn't tell, but clearly not for the great unwashed like me.
- Every ramp and corner was built for a hatchback. This resulted in my people mover's bumper sensors exploding into wild beeps as I embarked on 23 point turns at each of the 58 levels.
Having spent so long in this underground nightmare, there one final indignity. I was charged for leaving the car park. The expletives I projected would embarrass a drunk Scotsman. My nine month old in the backseat didn't seem to mind.
When I eventually surfaced, it was Tuesday afternoon. I had missed my Monday lunch date with the wife.
Tuesday 1 May 2012
Day Sunday - Toast and the Briscoes lady
There is no better Sunday afternoon family excursion than a trip to Briscoes. Its the thinking family's Te Papa. In years to come, studies will be conducted on its cultural significance.
For instance, did people in 2012 really believe that there might not be a huge sale the next weekend? I can imagine a PhD titled "The Briscoes lady deconstructed".
The trip to Briscoes was prompted by my wife's dissatisfaction with a recently purchased toaster, also from Briscoes. At $24 I considered it a bargain. However, it made unevenly toasted toast. Even our Greyhound stopped eating her Vegemite toast. I now accept that decent toast is a quality of life issue.
So what to do with our unevenly toasting toaster? Our two ideas were:
- Give it to our Childcare Centre. The wife refused. She reckoned that our kids and fellow Island Bay toddler scholars shouldn't be subjected to dud toast.
- Give it to the charity that provides refugees household goods. This places refugees below even Island Bay toddler scholars, and our Greyhound for that matter. That seemed about as fair as John Banks being alive.
I have now proposed that we gift it to our 3 year old. He can shove his crappy Warehouse toys into it to see how long they burn. Somehow that seems apt.
For instance, did people in 2012 really believe that there might not be a huge sale the next weekend? I can imagine a PhD titled "The Briscoes lady deconstructed".
The trip to Briscoes was prompted by my wife's dissatisfaction with a recently purchased toaster, also from Briscoes. At $24 I considered it a bargain. However, it made unevenly toasted toast. Even our Greyhound stopped eating her Vegemite toast. I now accept that decent toast is a quality of life issue.
So what to do with our unevenly toasting toaster? Our two ideas were:
- Give it to our Childcare Centre. The wife refused. She reckoned that our kids and fellow Island Bay toddler scholars shouldn't be subjected to dud toast.
- Give it to the charity that provides refugees household goods. This places refugees below even Island Bay toddler scholars, and our Greyhound for that matter. That seemed about as fair as John Banks being alive.
I have now proposed that we gift it to our 3 year old. He can shove his crappy Warehouse toys into it to see how long they burn. Somehow that seems apt.
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