Death has but one vowel

OMG. I’d love to do a Jitterati about the spanking referendum, but there’s nothing much I could add to the debate without hours of tedious research through emotive opinions. Fundamentally, beating kids is not a funny subject, nor is wasting $9 million during a recession. I’m sure this has already been more eloquently suggested, but couldn’t the money just be spent on a campaign that says “Hey! Here’s an idea! How about not savagely beating your kid, you worthless piece of shit?”

It’s very cold, and I’m under the weather. Like any other slightly ill man, my thoughts immediately turn to the subject of my untimely expiration*. I always thought one day I’d be stabbed in the back at my drawing desk by a vengeful Real Fitz, but at the moment it seems more likely I’m going to die of phthsis… like Charlotte Bronte.

*I’m not death-obsessed, but in my current living environment it’s hard for it not to rub off.

Rebel against society by drinking cola

Okay, nubile blonde girls were giving bottles away in the street, so although strictly speaking it’s not an energy drink, I grabbed some Illicit Cola. It’s just like THE cola (the label acknowledges the elephant in the room by saying it “may taste as good as your favourite cola”) although it contains an unspecified amount of yerba maté. I think this is where the “illicit” part comes from. Yerba maté is not, of course, illegal, although it may cause oral cancer. Which is not really my idea of a party, just like it’s not “good to be bad” to smoke, or “rebellion against authority and society” to drink a caffeinated soft drink.

It actually tastes quite nice, which is a plus, but commercialised anti-authoritarianism will never be anything less than dopey,* and it also advises the drinker to “take a dirty big gulp and go wreak some havoc!”

Yeah. You do that, tiger. Go burp in the face of a five-year-old, or something.

*This is definitely what the imaginary purple waterbuffalo would drink while wearing Levis and keeping it real.

Frozen scenic views

Early this morning I could be seen lolloping over Mt Victoria like a determined gazelle-ferret. For half an hour I didn’t see a single soul. It’s increased the variety of ways I can get from town to the Eastern suburbs, but I wouldn’t want to do it on a rainy day. I took this picture of a view of Wellington I hadn’t seen before:

I was going to take some more cafe photos for the backgrounds of Jitterati, but for some reason I couldn’t face another morning of explaining who I was, who I worked for, what I wanted to do, and what I wanted to use the photos for.

I found some Rock Star energy drink on sale… the can label is refreshingly free of testosterone (I bet they wish they could include that as an ingredient!) although it does read “Rock Star Energy Drink is scientifically formulated for those who lead active and exhausting lifestyles – from athletes to rock stars”. Um… rock stars lead exhausting lives? I know they travel a lot and they have to be fairly energetic from 10pm to 3am most nights, but apart from that? Also it’s imported from the States and bottled in Australia before being shipped here, which seems a lot of bother for a drink that tastes like something Pete Doherty threw up.

Oh, and the text on a can of Ink reads “Ink. Marks worn with pride. Symbols of courage and determination. Earned, not given. Rise to the challenge.” The challenge of… drinking an energy drink? Going into a parlour and asking for a Smurfette design on your lower back so your boyfriend has something to aim at?

It’s 4℃ in my bedroom tonight, booyah! I’m now regularly colder at home than when I lived in Moscow 20 years ago, where the normal winter temperature is -20℃, but the State provided heating through massive hot water pipes crossing the city. Bless its oppressive Communist heart.

Note: the link doesn’t have anything to do with Smurfette tattoos, but it is truly awesome.

Again, by popular request

My nephew is disturbingly symmetrical. This may be to his advantage in later life.

The rude parts triumvirate

Nice spread in Capital Times this week – breasts on the cover, a bottom on page 9, and a total dick on page 8!

In which I realise that I’m in a Sartre play

Okay, I went to the Guillermo del Toro book signing at the Weta Cave and eventually got to see the man himself, but it was a frustrating experience. I arrived at 6:15pm to a scene of chaos. I queued obediently like a good citizen, and two hours later… gave up and went to dinner.

The queue was full of fans and geeks, which is inherently a good thing. Geeks are usually nice, non-violent, intelligent people who just happen to be unusually interested in specific aspects of pop culture. There was, for example, a large number of fat men in their early thirties wearing leather coats. Good for them.

Unfortunately I was stuck right behind an utter goon with a very loud voice who didn’t shut up once the entire time. It was very, very cold, and I know that sound travels better in a cold environment, but even so. He’d written some things for Salient, and he fantasised about interviewing del Toro. He acted out this imaginary interview for us, doing the voices and everything. He then conducted an imaginary interview with Tim Burton. Why not? He speculated on the casting of The Hobbit – would there be a part for Sandra Oh? He sang lustily a song he’d invented called ‘Del Toro’, to the tune of Annie’s ‘Tomorrow’, which was actually kind of funny, but by that stage I’d gone through a kind of pain barrier and was finding pretty much everything funny. At 8:30 we were just inside the entrance of the Weta Cave, but it was obvious it was going to take another hour to get to the front. I talked to the lovely Stevie McCleary, squizzed the great Mexican himself, and buggered off.

There were a bunch of charming but extremely self-involved Europeans on the bus back to Kilbirnie who we’d also travelled in with, and that plus the burbling of the Snapper system nearly made it a Seinfeld moment.

Jackson St odyssey

Interesting place, Petone. Lambton Quay is pretty much upmarket chain stores now, with that particularly nasty bit at the Willis Street end filled with expensive clothing and accessory stores. Their combination of high price, middling quality and essential uselessness makes them the closest thing Wellington retail has to a House of Romanov.

Anyway, Petone’s Jackson Street is much more interesting, like Cuba Street used to be. I went on safari yesterday with the refulgent Coco, and we took about four hours to cover three-quarters of the street. We made an extended detour to Mitre 10 Mega, which sells a fascinating selection of materials to make things out of, and tools to shape the materials, but there’s no section for instruction manuals or design ideas or anything which tells you how to use these things. I imagine the most devoted customers would be insulted at the suggestion that they were anything less than experts, but can you imagine a computer store with no how-to guides or a gourmet store with no cookbooks?

They also sell a range of branded Mitre 10 products, from playing cards to rugby balls, just like the Hard Rock Cafe.

By the time we emerged it was after 5pm, so we had to skip the Spice Shack and the Dutch Shop and other singular Petone attractions. I’d grabbed a second-hand washing machine pipe for a dollar, which proved to be an awkward thing to carry around the central city, like a ferret or a theremin.

Dust Motes in the Screaming Turtle Cafe Soundtrack:
Vain, Erudite and Stupid ~The Dead C
Ella Fitzgerald Sings the George & Ira Gershwin Song Book
Don’t Do Anything ~Sam Phillips

Fate succeeds where tall poppy syndrome failed

As a cartoonist and music fan I am naturally quite upset about what has happened to Chris Knox. I’ve only talked to him a handful of times in the past 12 years, but once when I entered the San Fran Bathhouse (when it was still Indigo) he was nice enough to announce “Fucking hell, it’s Grant Buist!” I hope he recovers. You can follow his progress on a blog set up by friends and family here.

The “creative process”

I finished Jitterati early so I can go on safari in Petone tomorrow, and unusually for me, this one involved actually going out and photographing the event I was commenting on – this week, the new City Market. Working out the text for this one was an absolute bugger – because I do the text at the end, I often change things at the last minute. Because I’m posting this late, I can offer a rare glimpse into what I laughably call the “creative process”.

Original script:

DEBBIE: Sunday morning! Off to market, to look at those fresh vegetables we’ve never eaten!
DEBBIE: I’m glad the new City Market has opened.
DEBBIE: So many interesting parts of the city are closing down… it’s good to see the trend reversed.
DEBBIE: Maybe next week you’ll be awake enough to remember.
JAIMEE: Zzzzsnork!

Obviously that wasn’t very funny, so by the time I’d finished drawing it, it had become:

DEBBIE: Sunday morning! Off to market, to look at those fresh vegetables we’ve never eaten!
DEBBIE: I’m glad the new City Market has opened.
DEBBIE: So many interesting parts of the city are shutting down, so it’s good to see some signs of life.
DEBBIE: Speaking of signs of life…
JAIMEE: Zzzzsnork!

This was better, but as I was laying out the text I had a crisis of confidence, and changed it to:

DEBBIE: Sunday morning! Off to market, to look at those fresh vegetables we never eat!
DEBBIE: I’m glad the new City Market has opened…
DEBBIE: So many interesting parts of the city are shutting down… it’s good to see some signs of life.
DEBBIE: Too early for others.
JAIMEE: Zzzzsnork!

I hope this has been of interest.

Another drink for scared little masturbators

In a spirit of scientific interest* I tried the energy drink Demon, which tastes much the same as Mother. This can has a fake ‘Parental Advisory’ label, and a long blurb which begins “Stop sitting around with ya hand on it”. The warning label on the back says “also not for those who have never found their dads (sic) ’special’ mag collection.” It manages a hat-trick of self-abuse references with a list of extreme sports that concludes with “and anything else that tickles ya nads”. Are there any women out there dying of thirst?

Unbelieveably, it could be worse. Frucor (who also make V) produce an energy drink called Ink, designed to attract tattoo enthusiasts, Pacific Islanders and All Black hopefuls. The text on the back emphasises that a tattoo must be earned. Not, presumably, bought from the chiller section of a dairy.

In the States 7-11 markets an energy drink called Inked which comes in several flavours, including Chikara and Maori.

Apparently Chikara tastes of cranberry.

*It was on sale.