In retrospect the heart swelling could just be from the immense quantity of bacon I ate.

I am a shadow of a functioning human. After seeing a mostly unremarkable year off with a downright remarkable party, today has been spent stewing in my own fragile state. I partied hard, slept little and paid the price. In my eyes, an equivalent exchange. Enough about me being a mope though, how was the shindig?

Firstly, some scene setting. One of our friends decided she wanted to go all out and have a mega fancy house party for new years. She and her boyfriend planned everything and set out making it happen. They painted the basement and turned it into a big plounge area. They set up a dance floor with visualisations on the projector and lights everywhere. They’d asked for $20/$10 from all attendees based on what they could afford, in order to cover costs. They used the money to stock the place with all manner of necessities. There were all kinds of hors d’oeuvres: mini quiches, shrimp cocktail, charcuterie, cheeses, crackers and chips. Frozen snacks like samosas and a fuckton of pizzas. A host of mixes, juices and soft drinks. The bar was filled with a ton of champagne bottles and spirits. Most importantly, there was a chocolate fountain. Like I said, it was a fancy fucking soiree.

The party also had varying zones. The ground floor was the general party zone. It was all about fancy dress, dapper attire. At a certain point in the evening, many stripped down to lingerie, underwear or classy lounge attire. The basement plounge was a space for cuddling, clothing optional garb and, if people felt like it, consenting light sexual play. There were bedrooms upstairs that had been rented out in which guests were welcome to engage in more intimate interactions. The couple hosting had written a lengthy mandatory rules post covering the importance of consent and acceptable behaviour in different areas of the house. It was pretty rad entering a space with a certain understanding that people would be on the level.

It all went off without a hitch. The party was fucking stellar. I got to catch up with a ton of great friends and met a bunch more. I got to sync up LCD Soundsystem’s “Dance Yourself Clean” like I wanted so the beat kicked in as the clock struck midnight. I drank, well, obviously a bunch. I chowed down constantly and had a pretty happy tummy. Also with everyone all dolled up, there were wall to wall babes. We all dressed to kill and looked like it. After the formal wear came off, it was wonderful to feel so comfy in my smoking jacket and underwear. My girlfriend and I ended up crashing in the plounge sometime around 6am. An unbelievably great night.

Today was spent working my way out of purgatory by being a useless fucking lump. My head hurt, I felt nauseous and threw up until I had only bile left to give. It was biblical. Friends being friends, helped. One of my friends made me a Bloody Caesar for some hair of the dog remedy. A guy gave me a quick five minute reiki massage that helped a ton. People pitched in to make omelettes and bacon for everyone. I ate all day. We lay about the living room and watched The Jerk, Shrek and Brooklyn Nine Nine on the projector. In my state I took maybe 45 minutes to make frozen pizzas, after foolishly assuming the Fahrenheit based oven was in Celsius. 220° F isn’t enough to melt cheese in 15 minutes, apparently. So after a while, we ate pizza. I had another Caesar. I ate chips even though I didn’t really want them. We eventually ordered Thai. After a day of doing absolutely nothing, I feel mildly queasy, but my heart is swollen with love. If this is any indication of the year to come, it’s gonna be hard to beat.

Tomorrow I start keto. Even if this year rocks, this month will be an uphill climb.

Advertisements

I, for one, plan on dancing myself clean of 2017 tonight.

New Year’s Eve. Not that all new years are created even. My 2017 was a trying time. It was a year where things felt stagnant. I’ve never experienced such a strong sense of inertia. I had a lot of dismay around my career and the lack of progress. For the first time in quite a while I actively worried about where I was going with my life. There was a general sensation of “fine but unexciting” which I’m guessing is what adulthood is all about. Towards the end some wheels began turning, which makes me think that 2018 could be a year of meaningful recalibration. A personal state of the nation and mission statement towards living the life I want. 2017: Not a total trash fire, but a necessary pit stop.

It wasn’t all doom and gloom though. Here are some neat things I did in 2017:

  • I turned 30. To celebrate, I visited my friends and family back in New Zealand.
  • I ticked Los Campesinos off my bucket list.
  • I visited Montreal. Twice.
  • Trained for Tough Mudder on my own and saw massive results.
  • Had a Portland vacation/culinary awakening.
  • Saw my most JFL42 shows ever. 33 gigs over ten days.
  • Made a bunch of new friendships and greatly deepened a few existing ones.
  • Conducted my first ever business pitch meeting, despite being terrified to do so.

There was more, of course. It’s impossible to sum up the ebb and flow of an entire year in a bunch of bullet points and still capture its nuance. I mean, I took a bunch of great poops too, but I somehow they didn’t make the list. Speaking of shit, I thought it’d be neat to look back at some of my New Year’s celebrations that weren’t so happy.

The year 2000 had been riddled with hype. The banks were gonna reset, the world would implode and we’d all ride a wave of mutilation into Armageddon. Instead, I developed a rampant and highly contagious skin rash. I had to be doused in anti-bacterial cream and, being 12 years old, had no grand plans in any case. One of my friends and I rented an N64 from the video store. We played Super Smash Bros all day and night until the Willenium approached. We loaded up on V (a popular guarana based NZ energy drink) and went down to the wharf to watch the New Years fireworks. They were all kinds of uninspiring and I was quite dismayed that the world didn’t end.

Somewhere between 2008-2010 we had a house party. I was surrounded by friends and I was in my early 20s. We’d all planned to be… not sober? Unfortunately we spent $60 on duds and spent the entire night anxiously waiting for them to kick in. The evening shat the bed big time and we drank while mourning the times we could’ve had. Oh to be young again.

In 2011 I was in New York with a group of friends. I finally found somewhere that had Four Loko and I grabbed two cans. I drank one and a half cans (or approximately Six Loko), which kicked in quickly. My friend’s teetotaller boyfriend kept plying me with alcohol and I got way too drunk and emotional. I’d broken up with my longtime girlfriend a few months before leaving for the vacation and hadn’t really processed it. I started loudly weeping, but fortunately my friends just laughed at my misfortune and I didn’t harsh their buzz. Then we went to The Katz’ Deli and I almost got kicked out for significantly failing to understand their ticket based order system.

Last year my girlfriend and I were travelling to New Zealand on the 31st of December. We kissed in Los Angeles at Toronto midnight while eating sub-par, overpriced airport sushi. Then I failed to sleep on planes for the next 20 or so hours.

Let’s raise a toast to everyone’s New Year’s plans being better than any of the ones I just mentioned.

See you next year.

Sleighing it.

This place has descended into chaos and I love it. It’s a total mess, which couldn’t be more indicative of our frenetic and magical cohabitation. It feels like Christmas, but more so it feels like our Christmas. We have our weird little blue tree with its Star Lord topper. The central heating is causing our hand drawn pictures to periodically fall to the floor (blue tak and all that). Our sense of time has fallen away after a night out at a friend’s place. There’s no structure and bedlam is the word of the day. Bedlamham?

No festive ham, but we are having ribs. This recipe, to be exact. We had an 11am Skype date with my girlfriend’s mum, so waking up at 10am I got to work prepping the ribs. I lathered them in garlic, salt and pepper, then mixed the sauce. It couldn’t have been easier, just a bottle of Sweet Baby Ray’s bbq sauce and 180ml of coke. Put the ribs in the slow cooker, drenched them in the sauce and left them on low. They’re five hours in and smell divine. They’re gonna be unbelievable flanked by sweet potato fries and maybe some broccoli if we’re feeling sporty.

My girlfriend got me a nice little stay at home kit for Christmas. It had dark hot chocolate mix and home made cookies/marshmallows that one of our baking-ly gifted friends put together. We started the morning off with special hot chocolates, mixed with a liberal application of Baileys cherry chocolate. If this all sounds idyllic, keep in mind that it involved me accidentally tripping one of the fuses in the kitchen. The guy who lives downstairs (and thus has access to the fuse box) is away for some amount of time (hopefully just today) so a section of our place is without power. Oopsies. I had to plug the microwave/kettle into the hallway. Accordingly, making my breakfast meant crouching down on the floor in my giraffe onesie, taking my porridge out of the microwave to stir in peanut butter, then putting it back in. Looking around I saw the stack of pictures that’d fallen down, the kitchen table used as storage space, the microwave and kettle on the hallway floor, our weird little tree. I smelt the ribs cooking away. I don’t know that I’ve felt more at home in a while.

To truly go with the theme, we’re gonna have our own little home made Jewish Christmas. We’ve still got Kill Bill: Volume 2 in the chamber ready to fire off at will. In lieu of ordering Chinese food, we’re gonna cook up a stir fry and pig out (before pigging out on pig ribs later on). We have no reason to put on clothes for hours and only leisure on our schedule. It may be lawless chaos, but I have no complaints.

Wherever you’re at, whatever you’re up to. I hope you’re double-fisting merriment and cheer.

Favourite Christmas movie? Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, hands down.

Merry Happy, everyone. I’m in jovial spirits on this Eve of Christmas. I’ve had a hashtagblessedly slow paced day. Got to the gym, did a little food shopping and I’ve been relaxing in front of the computer. No stresses or responsibilities, just “me” time. Plans for the next few days are constantly in flux and I couldn’t be more pleased. Well, that’s a lie. I’d be chuffed if I got a Turbo Man doll for Christmas, but peace and quiet is some consolation. Why is any of this notable at all? Because it’s all a departure from the norm and shows character development. What am I talking about? Let’s harken back a few years.

Christmas wasn’t always the easiest time as a kid. Yes, it was nice that classes often devolved into watching The Santa Clause, but it was also an emotionally difficult period. I grew up Jewish in New Zealand. Do you know how many Jews NZ had in the 90s? Roughly 8,000 or so. It was a “menorah-ty” as one of my friends oft’ said. Christmas in my eyes was like cruel window shopping. All the kids around me had a great time, getting big gifts, new toys and the like. It wasn’t all a wash. We had close family friends and we’d go around there for a barbecue every Christmas. Their family business was holiday/party supplies, so accordingly they cranked (but not Kranked, thankfully) Christmas up to 11. It’d be bacon, eggs and sausages, plus beer once we got old enough. We’d go over there for a few hours, then in the afternoon I’d call up all of my friends to hear what they got for Christmas. Vicarious enjoyment was half as good as the real thing. There was no disguising the fact that I felt kind of left out. It sucked, which led to a general contrarian approach to the season. I’d pride myself on “sticking it to the man” and giving Christmas the middle finger. The Grinch became my patronus and I’d wallow in negative feelings for the holiday period.

As I entered my early 20s and our close family friends moved away, Christmas fell apart. I had nothing to do, so I’d hang around on my own and drink. This morning I was checking my Facebook memories and it was one drunken lonely Christmas after another. It wasn’t all bad. While I was flatting with friends, for instance, I’d start drinking in the morning and in the afternoon they’d come home and join in. One year we created a Community drinking game, then discovered the joys of live heckling Jersey Shore while devouring our friend’s gingerbread house (he was there, it wasn’t a rogue demolition). Or even better was the year at Sky TV I managed to work during Christmas. I got time and a half and a day in lieu. They fed us, gave us a bottle of champagne and movie tickets for coming in on Christmas. It was all sorts of great.

After I moved to Canada, things shifted yet again. My flatmate at the time had family across the other side of the country. We had a few other friends who were transplants, so we started doing Orphan’s Christmas. It was messy, wacky and a total blast. It quickly became a tradition that outlasted that flatmate. It’s now become a valued part of the holiday season each year. A few weeks beforehand we’ll put out a message welcoming anyone without family or friends around to join our table. Everyone brings food or drink and we get merry to our hearts’ and stomachs’ content.

This year it didn’t happen. We put out the offer, but everyone seemed to have plans, which left us marooned without any. As it stands, we’re still not sure. A couple of things are floating, but with zero urgency it’s kind of nice. Friends are hosting a casual Christmas Eve get together today. We’ve got some ribs defrosting that we’ll toss in the slow cooker tomorrow. A friend who lives close by is also unoccupied so we’ll probably head around there for some cheer. Other friends are keen to do a movie night later on. We’ll probably go see a Star War on boxing day. The greatest part is, we’re free and flexible to follow our own schedule. Look at me, I’m having an afternoon beer simply because it’s a nice idea.

Maybe I haven’t changed that much from my early 20s. At least I’m not drunk before midday.

Just call me a smart a-lack.

I thought I was SOOOOOOoooo smart. I have a gig to review tonight. Tomorrow’s a half day at work, so I thought I’d stay late in town (since work is closer to the venue), get all my work done tonight and sail through my half day with a morning full of special coffees.

You folks aren’t dummies, you read that past tense, right?

It. Turns. Out. I had a lot less work to do today than I thought. This means I did most of my tomorrow work during the workday and ended up with ample spare time. This ain’t me bragging, it’s thrown a spanner into my work week. There are some tasks I simply can’t do until tomorrow. I now have a gaping hole in my evening where I was meant to stick around and get ahead.

I once again thought I’d be smart and bring food from home. That means there’s an option to kick around at work, fuck around on the internet then get around to leaving for the gig in my own time. So smart, right?

I thought I’d get even smarter. The liquor stores will be busy over the weekend. Why not grab all my liquor today, skip the lines and sort it all out in advance? I’M SO MUCH OF A SMARTIE MY SWEET CHOCOLATE GOODNESS SHOULD BE ENCASED IN A CANDY SHELL (okay, but nightmare fuel -Ed).

But I ain’t smart. Tomorrow is a half day and I’d already spaced out my week to take advantage for that. I’m going to the gym after work to get something physical in before a weekend of indulgence. Non-negotiable. Accordingly, my bag is gonna be stuffed full of gym gear. I will have zero room to load in the unhealthy quantity of alcohol I purchased (remember that weekend of indulgence I mentioned?). Tomorrow’s a Friday. After tomorrow, I won’t have a chance to get them home before the weekend. Take them home tonight, then, seems to be the best option.

BUT I’M A SMARTIE WITH A GIG TONIGHT. They’re not gonna let me bring in several large bottles of alcohol. That’s basically the reason they have security personnel in the first place. Unless they’re criminally awful at their jobs, there’s a severe lack of bueno to this plan.

This means I need to cart myself off home pre-gig. I’ll stuff my bag full of booze. I guess I’ll toss my leftovers in there too and eat them when I walk in the front door (and not eat them on public transit like an asshole). Rest and relaxation will be on the menu and the last thing I’ll desire will be walking out the door once more to get to the gig. Geez, I sure did plan ahead for this, didn’t I?

Three cheers for everyone’s favourite Coppola.

Sometimes life is stranger than fiction. Like in that Will Ferrell movie. Or when you find yourself in a situation you’d merely dreamed of. Dreams, however, could not come close to the reality I was lucky enough to experience. It was all too brief, as only the best things are. Last night I went to (beat) a Nicolas Cage party.

How many films has Nic Cage been in? Many times more than enough. Accordingly there were beyond ample costume opportunities. While I’d initially conspired to go as Cowboy Pachinko Nic Cage, I left it way too late and didn’t want to have to track down a close-enough shirt and other costume accessories. At some point it gets expensive to put together costumes. The hope is that eventually you’ll have enough items in your closet/tickle trunk that you can assemble a costume from things that are lying around the house.

But I said “fuck it” anyway and went out to buy the necessary bits for a Con Air Nic Cage. I was surprised I didn’t already own a white singlet. It strangely took many hours to find one. The other necessary props were a small cardboard box and a soft toy bunny to put in said box. Then for extra marks I wrote a couple of letters from his daughter all written in coloured felt tip pens with a child’s scrawl. The first I took straight from the film. Things got weird immediately:

“My Daddy is coming home on July 14th. My Birthday is July 14th. I’m going to see my Daddy for the first time on July 14th.”

“I love my Daddy lots I think. I dunno. I’m sorta just a plot device.”

“Hey Daddy. Didn’t you think the use of Sweet Home Alabama in this film was a bit egregious? Or was that the point?”

“Hey Daddy. This film didn’t deserve the stacked cast it had. I mean, Cage, Malkovich, Cusack, Buschemi, fucken Chapelle, man?”

“Hey Daddy. Real Eyes. Realize. Real Lies.”

I was ready.

Could anyone really be ready for such a soirée? There was a clothes line in the kitchen, with a ton of hanging Nicolas Cage masks to choose from. A playlist of Nic Cage movies played all night long on the TV. There were tacos (not thematic), a plounge (also not thematic) and a car buffer people were using for quick low key massages (maybe thematic? Who knows? Cage is a sensual fellow). There were cheeses and nice fudges. Tons of mixers. A polaroid camera and endless enthusiasm. My friend’s place is in a converted factory and it’s made for a wonderful home overflowing with character. She has unbelievable amounts of awesome colourful art she’s both purchased and created. Soft toys, dioramas and colourful displays were everywhere. Colour changing mood lights in each room of the house. It was like being transported to a fantasy world. A monument to absurdity and whimsy, I couldn’t imagine a more perfect environment in which to erect a shrine for the OneTrueGod.

As for today, I’m coming out of my Cage and I’ve been doing just fine.

Admit it, you were Let Down by those Thom Yorke jokes.

Today’s gonna be one of them mad dash to get this finished pieces. Don’t expect insight, salient views or scrumptious mental titillation. I wouldn’t ever expect that, but today will be devoid of any valid content. Bullet point time.

  • First up, Crabcore. Crabcore isn’t something that springs to mind often, but every once in a while I remember it and giggle a bunch. Then I’ll watch “Stick Stickly” a few times. If you’ve never seen Crabcore before, it’ll become apparent pretty quickly in the video. My favourite move is the Crabhammer. I might try a couple of crab moves, but invariably my pants are too tight.
  • It’s rare that I don’t flirt with memories of Crabcore without going back to check in with Crunkcore. It also was a thing. The music is twice as terrible and the imagery is silly as hell. I’m not gonna lie though, I’m kind of a fan of saturated colours. Maybe I have residual goodwill because one of the guys reminds me of Kevin Nealon, but much shorter.
  • When I think of saturated colours, I can’t help (falling in love) thinking of Hobo with a Shotgun. Brutal cartoon violence and a deeply uncomfortable colour palette. It was not a great movie, but with a couple of friends and a few drinks, it was pretty damn enjoyable.
  • A film that was great? Turbo Kid was great. I’ve raved about it here before. Set in the post apocalyptic future of 1997, it’s a glorious mishmash of Mad Max imagery with the spirit of BMX Bandits. Like Hobo with a Shotgun there was gratuitous cartoon violence, but it was a considerably more light-hearted affair. Great 80s throwback soundtrack and iconography. A joint Canadian/NZ film production, it’s one I need to see again.
  • Would Thom Yorke be considered idiosyncrateque?
  • Would Thom Yorke date on OKCompupid?
  • Is Thom Yorke’s first child named Kid A?
  • Was “Honey” Thom Yorke’s nickname for Pablo Escobar?
  • Does Thom Yorke remember Amnesiac?
  • Does Thom Yorke poo out moon shapes?
  • Does Thom Yorke call yoga “The Bends”?
  • Does Thom Yorke consider Lamb Shank the King of L(i/a)mbs?

I’ve done enough damage here. I’m out.