Life... and its tid bits of missing pieces...

To encapsulate the entirety of what has happened in the last year in one concerted effort would be a most mammoth task. In sheer literary terms it would perhaps compare to the likes of 'The Iliad' or 'Odyssey'. Only without the sweaty abs, the scantly clad Greek women and a little three lettered word called 'war'. So all in all, my story could be somewhat bland, something that one might perhaps come across in your grandmother's bi-weekly subscription of Knitting Secrets (for People with Cataracts). But hey, last time I checked woollen jerseys are filled with warm fuzzies and all the fluorescent colours of the rainbow.

I returned to Palmerston North for work. Or in truth, I actually returned to Palmerston North because of my incessent fear for my festering mortgage. Having a mortgage feels much like an itch in the middle part of your back - the part of your back where through millions of years of our primate evolution we have lost the ability to reach with our spindly arms and supposedly useful opposable thumbs. Unfortunately for us, the only way the itch will stop its cruel supernatural torment is for us to pit ourselves aganinst the dark abyss of work, and all the rest it offers.

Fortunately for me, the dark abyss wasn't actually too bad.

My friends were all still there. I love them. I love them because they're like pets who would obediently stay at home, clean themselves and cook great food while you're away. Joseph also had a rather impressive collection of alcohol and tried his very best to give me fulminant liver failure as a parting gift. Luckily for me, my many years of binge drinking as an Otago undergraduate student prepared me for such darstardly plans. I will also miss the cigars, the poker, and Kevin's generous supply of plum wine.

For some strange and bizarre reason it was also the year where the majority of my friends and collegues decided to leave the fine city for bigger and brighter pastures. I see half of them have decided to migrate to Auckland - the land of the long white traffic. I think they've made a mistake. I think I might miss them.

Work itself was ok. But I have come to the realisation that it really wasn't quite me. There just happens to be quite a few things I'd like to do and I can't seem to find the time should I keep commiting myself to a daily barrage of the mundane. So in sheer coincidence I have also come to the conclusion that there maybe a greener pasture awaiting for me elsewhere... like here, in Christchurch - where I might just have the perfect plan for myself...

Life... with You, Me, and Dupree...

"How about that one?"
"You, me and Dupree?"

I picked it up with a hint of fear and suspicion, it may well have been a gerbil sporting the most deadly concoction of rabies. But alas, it was another Owen Wilson movie. Flash backs of Zoolander sped past me like a pre-death montage.

"It looks good, I haven't seen it before."

Her voice saved me from my near death experience. And as such, I presumed nothing else could be worse.

"Sure, lets get that one."

The drive home quickened my pulse. Matt Dillon? Where has he been for the last few years? Could he still be the Detective Pat Healey that I've known him so well for? My heart squirmed and hoped his acting would be different. Thank heavens I still have a bottle of Chardonnay left in the fridge.

After many years, I am glad Detective Pat Healey never really left. In fact the movie could well be a sequal to Something about Mary - a vision into the future for our infamous Hawaiian shirt detective. One would be encouraged to know he is now a mediocre architect, but apparently a real architect never less. Not only this, he is now about to be married to our new girl-next-door Kate Hudson (Molly), and also surrounds himself with a marginally more desirable group of male company.

Dupree, played by Owen Wilson, portraits a hippie friend of our main male protagonist. He plays the role well, to the point where he may well have recently been unfrozen from a 70s' hash party. As unfortuitous as he is, he loses his job valiantly but is adopted under Carl and Molly's roof - and here begins our story. As the train of laughter progressed we were treated to Seth Rogen (Cal, 40 year old virgin) failing a flaming tornado, Michael Douglas coercing his son-in-law to have a vasectomy, and a rather unforgettable buttery Funky Comadena couch fire.

As the credits rolled and with my lust for a comedic laugh satisfied, I felt fulfilled. I was both surprised and glad to have my preconceptions proven wrong. To focus on any particular aspect of the story line maybe mundane at best. But to weave the storyline together as a whole? Emma laughed so hard her asthma kick in.

life... and love-hate relationships... (with my lawn...)

Humanity is addicted to grass. If it be the smell, the gentle fur coat, or the occasional playful scratch that entices us for more. The fact that it is green is merely an aesthetic bonus. Children frolic amongst it, our four-legged friends douse their torrential excrement upon it; we cannot live without it. Grass is here, they have planted their roots, and they are staying until the surviving hippies have run out of weed as their most valuable natural resource.

I have three small patches of lawn surrounding my estate. The estate is a self-containing granny-flat, second from the road. The houses down the driveway look almost identical. If my guests squinted they'd think these houses came with MacDonalds happy meals, or could even be the happy meals themselves. It would not surprised me to find them exclaim how the lawn would appear to be a blanket of fries surrounding the burger-like houses. Or when it rains it would seem as if a cup of coke has been spilled all over the tray, making the fries and burgers turn all soggy.

During my nine month stay I have come to realise having three patches of soggy lawn is like caring for three small insolent children. The reason why they're insolent would probably be because I ignore their every single need and wish. I was never exceedingly brilliant with kids anyway. During my first month of stay I did not tend to the lawn once. I would let it grow and prosper under the summer sun like the pit hairs of a Mexican gypsy woman, whilst convincing myself that it still looked beautiful and I would not mind cohabiting with it for the rest of my life. I think I'd have a better time dealing with an over growth of pit hairs than small whiny children. Though as luck may have it, both may not be mutually exclusive.

My neighbour clearly did not appreciate the carefully orchestrated art form that is my Mexican gypsy lawn. After three month of free, unrestrained growth an anonymous neighbour complained to my property manager regarding its rather distasteful condition. I tried to argue that it was only a matter of aquired taste, one should not judge a book by its cover, and the lawn was actually beautiful on the inside. My proclamations were deemed ludicrous, and I was ordered to have the lawn shaved at once or face an emotional separation from my loving abode.

To the phone book I went, and to Mr Green I called. He decided that it would be most wise and generous to offer twenty dollars to mow the three stamp sized lawns outside. I though this was ludicrous, even more ludicrous than the excuses I tried to pan my property manager with not five minutes ago. Twenty dollars was a small fortune to me. I could survive a week with twenty dollars, though with a much more fibrous diet than I'd like. I eventually found another gardener, visibly younger, more desperate and more malnourished than Mr Green; he was able to mow the lawn for half the price. His dietary intake must consist of twice the fibre of mine.

These days I mow my own lawn for the fear of an over fibrous diet. Myself - with the mind of a juvenile octogenarian. The same mind which would suffer at the mere thought of taking care of a single cactus. The one mind that would have an aneurysm should I even contemplated the mere possibility of manicuring the lawn myself. I didn't care anymore. I dove in with the sense of duty and unrivalled enthusiasm that I once had for waiting in lines. Now mowing the lawn is not so bad.

Life... and the trip back to work: the realm of reality...

The holidays are over. The fun has ended. I returned to my morose self like a turtle retreating reluctantly back to its shell.

The packing was easy. I never really unpacked in the first place. The only thing that required packing is the computer and road bike. My precious road bike. Yes, my precious. You are coming with me this time. You will help me lose a mammoth quantity of weight; something I have come to aquire during my month and a half stay in lazy-hazy Christchurch.

The drive was fairly unexciting and mundane. I tried to enjoy the brilliant sunshine on display, but the thought of work would cast an instant shadow over the horizon. I drove on, with my fate wrapped in a box of chocolates.

The ferry ride was ok. I watched more episodes of Robot Chicken to calm my restless tide. I think there was a kid watching behind me; he ran off after big bird started getting high on weed.

I saw real, live and untamed dolphins for the first time in my life. There were three of them following the boat from starboard side. Once their presence was broadcasted throughout the ship, people gathered, and they were gone.

My flat is as I had remembered it. Though the rotting mailbox and shower has been replaced with newer mailbox and showers; ones made with more rot resistant material, I hope. Unpacking proved to be vastly more tiring than driving for six hours. I threw everything on the floor and hungered for a tasty tender chicken breast. I didn't just hunger for it. I knew it would complete me. And it did.

A new day passed. A new love found. A future of diabetes and heart disease await.

Life... and discovering true love...

I have found true love.

It was Moorhouse Ave on a dreary overcast Tuesday morning. I was ruthlessly devouring a Shell Station steak pie with one hand while drowning my loneliness with Bundaburg Lemon & Lime in the other. Then past the self absorbed hunger, I saw her.

She stood out like an aura of perfection. A gym-going Greek goddess, perfectly poised for smite or pleasure. Others would look upon her and gaze at the amazing Amazon beauty that is before them; a six-foot voluptuous figure with bright beaming eyes and radiating complexion. Her every move spelt elegance, but with a subtly dangerous imposition. She could crush my ego, much like a Boeing 747 could crush an anorexic stick insect in mid-flight. It was love at first sight.

She noticed me looking. My eyes whispered how I wanted her, how I could have her, and how I would make her every breath seem like an exotic get-away. But only if she can behave, just for me.

Her eyes looked back with dire fascination, ones filled with lust and intrigue. She wanted me, and wanted to know more about me. The animal magnetism grew with every closer step. Her body desired a soft voice and a caring hand above fame and fortune. But it would be fame and fortune that could acquire a magnificence such as her.

I walked around her, admiring the sculptured features from the corner of my eye. I blinked, and through the momentary darkness I can see myself running my fingers slowly and softly down her curvaceous body. The moment was exquisite, it was a moment yearned with every sight and sound of the real world.

She was perfect. She was perfect even before I knew she was perfect for me.

I rubbed her with exotic oils until she swooned with a hint of mist in her eyes. Being inside her felt like heaven; the friction cemented our emotions for one another. I could give her a ride to remember, all day and all night until the rest of the world was just one blurred hazy background. Once we get to our destination she would let out a half-restrained scream, and her body would vibrate with an echoing pleasure. I would tell her the truth: I would tell her that I love her, and things couldn't be better. Wanting more, we would lie there with bodies molding as one - resting and dreaming of our next journey together.

The 1997 Isuzu VehiCross is currently on display at Paul Kelly Motor Company, Christchurch. The list price is $16,999. She may scream for you as she did for me, but this is no guarantee.

I think I need a girlfriend - urgently. Though a cold shower may have to come first.

Life... and the onslaught of male corsets...

Jeans - the bane of my existence. I never liked them for what they are: fashion items from the fascist cold-war era. Who ever made them popular is both crafty and worthy of at least one blunt bullet. I don't think anyone would naturally want to wear something skin-tight, constricting and limit almost all possible movement. It further confirms my ghastly and unnatural suspicions: humanity thrives on suffering. The person that came up with the jeans idea must be one sick puppy. A great genius, perhaps of my calibre, would suggest lycra as a more desirable substitute. Comfort, class, and down to earth honesty - the real garment of the future.

Anyway, I digress.

Unfortunately mother nature has cursed me with an unnecessary asset: a set of child-bearing hips. Who in their right mind would want a size 30 waist to be mated to a set of mammoth sized buttocks and thighs? Barbie may have had the same generous proportions, but she also had her entire wardrobe tailor made. I don't think I'll really ever need to use my child-bearing hips anyway, I am not sure if I even like kids; summations of which could be outlined in another article.

Besides, the ergonomic design of such hips are quite incompatible with jeans. Every time I try a pair on, it is like squeezing into a bum-bra three sizes too small. What make the experience even more infuriating is the fact that once I've found a pair that would fit my waist, my buttocks and thighs would feel as if they were been molested by an Amazon anaconda. Should I on the other hand find a pair that would miraculously fit my more generous pelvic proportions, I get the leers and stares from young children, essentially screaming, "Wow mummy look, a marsupial shopping for jeans...".

Incidentally, one should never purchase a pair of jeans without passing the "Does my buttocks look great in these pair of jeans" test. This is a crucial test where the fate of the humankind hangs in a delicate precarious balance. Garment too loose and I mind as well wear nappies for the sake of sanitising convenience. Garment too tight and it would be more comfortable to tattoo a large rainbow across my forehead. Given that I did not possess an unbiased source of opinion in close proximity, ie. girlfriend or an unfortunate family member, this test was not able to be completed. In effect - the rest of humanity may now have to pick up my procreating duties for me.

Oh, it is a day for self-mourning indeed.

On the quest goes. I am sure the search for the holy grail was not as arduous as this. The efforts of the Crusades could hardly compare to what I had to endure. I visited every single mall. Every single mens' wear store. Just Jeans. Levis. Hallensteins. Ballentines. Sergios. Hayden's menswears. Glassons... ok, perhaps not. But I was desperate. Desperate individuals in the past have been driven to do extraordinary things. I was not far off from being extraordinarily mad.

The unfathomable frustration can best be summed up by a Levis shop assistant: "You know... it isn't uncommon for guys to wear girls jeans...". Good one buster, a way to sell jeans. I am seventy-three percent masculine as per the gender identity test at http://web.tickle.com/tests/genderidentity/index.jsp . Not less than fifty, or whatever vicious rumours may tell you. I voiced my utter discontent by promptly leaving the store wearing my disgruntled and violated demeanor.

At the end of my long intrepid journey, I settled on a pair of Levis 527s'. They are a pair of bootcut hipsters which avoids the issue of my mutant-like diminutive waist aperture. They also have the stone-washed texture in the front which could add a few more points to the masculinity score, though I suspect the hipster cut may have washed-out this intended effect.

Never less. I now own a pair of jeans, which is reason enough for a grand and pompous celebration. Now I'll just need to figure out how I can walk in them properly.

Life... and the birth of new year resolutions...

1. Cease the incessent auditory insults by the likes of sad-ass FM.

2. Will indulge more in lyrical melodies of AC/DC, Metallica and Guns and Roses.

3. Get off my fat rear-end, go running & cycling instead of creating lame but novel excuses to do otherwise.

4. Get off my fat rear-end and go to the gym instead of creating even more lame but novel excuses.

5. Stop subscribing to the notion that lame & futile attempts at exercising will make myself look younger and more virile.

6. Will read more informative and philosophical texts so I may emerge from the dark abyss of middle life crisis.

7. Stop admiring Porsche as the greatest car in the world - it will deepen the dark abyss.

8. Continue to worship the romantic history of English literature, but wake up and realise modern British humour is blatantly simple-minded and absolutely terrible.