I’m a lot like you were

For some reason I woke up with this video playing in my head on loop.

For context, a bunch of my friends and I thought this was the funniest thing in the world circa 2004. Like “Star Wars Kid” before him, Gellieman was a figure of ridicule, but also strangely some respect? Of course he was a figure of mockery, but like us he too was a teenager. I think on some level we understood that we all were not far off creating something that embarassing. We had that kind of potential. I mean, we were drama geeks. Have you seen Glee? If you substituted the singing for “acting out” and the wheelchair for stunted emotional maturity, that was basically us.

When I think about it more, it was pretty my best friend leading the charge with the “Aicha” video. Thing is, he always posessed this bizarrely infectious enthusiasm. If he got on a tear about something, nine times out of ten, everyone would be on that train whether they liked it or not. So, “Aicha”. We watched it enough times to learn it by heart. We knew the song, we knew the dance, we knew the very specific inflections with which Gellieman said every single line. We’d break out into spontaneous performances from time to time, whether this was in the middle of class or not. It all reached its fever pitch when, for shits and giggles, we created a parody boy band group and performed the song at the school talent show. In retrospect, I’m sure most people had no fucking idea what was going on, but we did it all with such conviction that I think they just rolled with it. We were all Known Individuals by that point.

Look, I could write novels about my best friend. We don’t talk much now, because we live half a world away. Doesn’t mean I don’t still adore the guy. We have one of the most concrete relationships in my life, in that it never needs watering and will always be there. I don’t know that we could have awkward pauses, there’s just too much history. We’ve known each other since we were infants, yet I think fairly often back to high school and his nigh frightening creativity. Saying he was prolific would be a dramatic understatement. He’d just get whipped up into these personal frenzies and create, seemingly apropos of nothing. We’d meet at the same corner to walk to school and weirdly often he’d be like “oh by the way, here’s a script I wrote last night” and hand me a 20 minute performance on paper. Maybe it’d was a faux soap opera script that included a character for everyone in the drama department, totally nailing all our personal in-jokes and isms. Or perhaps it was an ersatz Waiting for Godot, riffing on the fall of communism. It was always something.

Y’know, one time the Prime Minister was visiting our school. What did he do? He went home and painted a red & purple picture of New Zealand’s topography and gave it to her. Burned into my brain is a photo of the two of them standing together, him with a goofy grin, her more than mildly disconcerted. I’m 98% sure she thought he was a special needs student and treated him accordingly. I get it, he was a weird dude (still is) and was entirely unpredictable (still is).

I think one of my many many favourite stories about him was when we did a student directed performance of King Lear themed around the Stock Market Crash of 1929. He auditioned, but ultimately didn’t get cast as a speaking part. I think his part was “Old Man” or something of the like. Thing is, he was always around and constantly goofing off. We were all a pretty tight crew and he was good friends with the director. As the production advanced, he was Just Always Around, riffing and improvising. The more he was around, the more his character ended up being added to scenes. By performance time, Old Man was in a curious number of scenes. Not only that, he had lines. Plural. Was Old Man a big character in the original play? Did it matter? Not when he was around. When I think about it, whenever he was around, it felt like you were in some kind of scene. He made it that way.

I wonder how much it costs to get to Finland…

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Clearly they should have employed a less talented cast

I read this article and thought it was pretty interesting.

The premise, if you’re too lazy to click, is that TV shows no longer “end”. Long dead shows now have the potential for a new incarnation, whether continuation or reimagining. If Murphy Brown can return in 2018, then every series is a potential Dr Who, regenerating with a new cast, but the same basic character. I’m not here to pass judgement (for once?), I just find the concept fascinating. Why? Well, mostly because I lacked anything else good to write about today.

If you know me well enough, I’m sure you’d immediately pick me as a “fuck reboots” kind of bloke. You’re not far off. Did we need another Robocop? Did we need another Robin Hood? Did we need another Full House? Did we need another Ocean’s 11? Did we need another Ghostbusters? Did we need another A Star Is Born? Did we need another Every Single Disney Film But In Live Action? I could keep doing that for the rest of the entry, but I think the point is well-tread. Originality in cinema feels like a relic of the past. A while back someone used the words “pre-sold” and it made everything click. Hollywood has been making progressively less money as the years have rolled on. Is it piracy? The decreasing spectacle of the big screen? Who knows? All I know is that there have been a shit ton of unnecessary remakes in the past ten years. Franchise building is a huge part of the cinema experience. There are the aforementioned Disney live action films, or the plethora of Marvel spin offs and projects. Legendary has some kind of big monster movie (Godzilla 2014, Kong: Skull Island, etc) thing going on. Pre-sold is what it says, it’s an easy way to ensure a certain segment of the audience. If it’s nostalgic or plays on a beloved property, a number of seats are basically sold irrespective of the film’s objective quality.

Do I think this is lazy bullshit? Yes. Do I think efforts would be better spent on supporting original IP like Get Out or Sorry to Bother You? Of course I do, but I’m not naiive. Hollywood is scared to invest in projects that may not make a return. It’s too much of a risk. Mid-Budget movies (this article mentions them briefly) don’t happen anymore. It’s Go Big or Go To Netflix. I’m also not dumb enough to think that only my tastes matter. You know what? A lot of people were stoked to see Beauty and the Beast rebooted for the big screen and there’s no reason I’d want to take that away from them. There’s nothing wrong with watching entertainment for entertainment’s sake, that’s kind of the point. The relentless onslaught of remakes and reboots doesn’t preclude me from getting the stories I want, so it’s not like there’s an issue there. I just won’t watch them. There’s exponentially more than enough content to go around.

I also think it’s interesting that the reliance on pre-sold IP can actually help buff out mythos’ that were otherwise undeveloped. Castlevania on Netflix is a good example. It was a video game with an unremarkable narrative. The first season isn’t great, but the second season really does develop a fun arc and characters that justify the setting. It’s an original plot that’s been birthed from one that was otherwise super bland. Similarly, I’ve heard that the new Voltron series is clever and engaging for kids, with excellent voice acting. While I’d usually balk at the idea of resurrecting an old IP instead of making something new, why shouldn’t our kids get to understand why we used to love this old shit? I’m happy to fence sit on this notion. I don’t have any answers.

Like I said earlier, I can always watch my own stuff, even if I consider it underappreciated. Part of me wishes it got more attention purely because it deserves it. Phoebe Waller-Bridge is still not a household name. Neither are Stephen Falk, Noah Hawley or Yorgos Lanthimos. Would I adore this stuff as much if it was watercooler conversation? I flat out don’t know. I do think it’d make watercooler conversation more gripping, at least.

I guess if I’m boiling it down, what guts me the most about this whole scenario is that most people don’t know what they’re missing out on and they don’t care. People are already happy with what they have. As far as they’re concerned, they’re getting what they want. There’s a new Star Wars film every year, so why worry about those universes they never explore? If it was good enough for them to hear about, they would.

I guess what I’m saying is, when’s the Community movie being released? We had six seasons.

A one stop shop for all your premium Mal content

I have the words “Nightmare Beef or Christmas” in my head and I don’t know what to do with them. I guess it’s gonna be one of those days.

I was listening to the La La Land soundtrack this morning. Ready for the most lukewarm of takes? I still think La La Land was a grossly enjoyable popcorn film with a fantastic colour palette, gorgeous visual composition, likeable leads and a fun score. I think the majority of animosity it gets in certain circles comes from how critically lauded the film was when it was released and its friction with Moonlight for the Best Picture race. Moonlight was a better film, no questions. That doesn’t diminsh that La La Land has an enduring quality to it that leans on a successful musical formula with modern framing. Much as I loved the film, I don’t see why it was viewed as Best Picture material, and being overrated doesn’t inherently make the film bad. No, it didn’t really have anything poignant to say, but that’s also totally fine for cinematic escapism.

In the vein of other musicals, I’m seeing a Rocky Horror shadowcast tonight. First time, “V” on face and all. It’s not my first viewing whatsoever. My best friend growing up was very into it at a possibly unsuitable age. When we were 7 or 8 we’d be watching the exploits of Frank-N-Furter et al, but I was mostly scared. I thought he was a vampire and, at that age, had no time for anything remotely scary. Though strangely I loved Aliens/Predator, so who knows what was up with that? I saw the stage show once, which was a fucking riot. Listening to the soundtrack this morning it all came rushing back. I can’t believe just how many lines are etched deep into my memory. I also somehow made it to this old without realising Susan Fucking Sarandon was in it. Frankly, I’m not even gonna try to learn all the callouts. There are way too many. This isn’t some filthy casual shit like The Room. Rocky Horror has enough of a history that it’s fine to be inexperienced. It seems like that’s half the fun.

My costume isn’t totally sorted. I’m halfway there. I saw a French maid costume at Dollarama and thought it was perfect. Easy Magenta outfit, right? I fretted over the size on the packet, working out which measurement was chest, hip, etc. Turns out it was just a fucking apron. So I currently have an apron, fishnet stockings and purple fishnet gloves. I own a colourful bra (because of course I do), so I think I just need to secure a skirt that fits and, ideally, some form of upper torso wear. If not, I’m basically wearing a bra and an apron. If it was any other event, maybe I’d need to worry about it, but when it comes to Rocky Horror, maybe not. I have friends that can help me with the makeup, which is most of the heavy lifting.

As for today’s work Halloween party (which starts in about 15 minutes), it turns out I owned enough on theme regular clothing to do a lazy Captain Mal Reynolds cosplay. Aside from having to wear a collared shirt to work, it’s just a burgundy shirt, tan pants, suspenders, a crooked belt, holster and gun. That’s all. I’ve done the costume once or twice before, but I now own nicer versions of the shirt and pants instead of incorrectly sized thrift store finds. Years after the initial costume, I’m still using a normal hammer holster (cannibalised from an Al Borland Halloween outfit) as a gun holster, but nobody has called me on it yet. Maybe one day I’ll swap out the burgundy shirt for something in flannel and go as Captain Mal Borland or something.

Would that be… an Improvement?

Swatch the skies, friends

Egads, get it together man!

I’ve been drifting along in a fluffy brain cloud all day. Not sure why. I came back from a Kpop/Jpop dance event last night and got to bed just after 3am. I had seven hours sleep, so it doesn’t make sense to be so thoroughly shot. Still, a combination of coffee, eggs benny brunch and a leisurely walk back home did nothing to appease my mental fogginess. My girlfriend and I napped for around three hours. Still groggy. Expect less than nothing in this entry.

I put out the question of favourite colour combos to friends today. Not sure why, I was just thinking about how much I liked purple and bold yellow together. Think of The Lakers and you’ll get what I’m thinking. I wonder what it is that endears someone towards particular mash ups of shades and hues. Is it instinctual? Based on any number of life experiences? If someone was super into blue and red, could it be because of a lifelong Spider Man or Super Man fandom? Could an affinity for brown and blue come from seeing crispy brown leaves cascading down on a clear Fall day? I’m not sure. Whenever I think of orange and purple together, the image that pops into my head is from a random hacky sack I had as a child. It somehow became my go-to, despite Jaffas packaging and the existence of The Phoenix Suns.

I remember learning about colour wheel theory. It’s easy to remember, because it happened all of five years ago. One of my exes told me about it and my views on visual art, fashion and composition were forever changed. Something something “after the jump”. I had no idea about Accent and Dominant colours. There’s still a nigh infinite amount I don’t know, but at least I now understand that there’s a method and logic behind it all instead of hoping for pure serendipity. To some people it is just instinctive. Occasionally I’ll spot a mix of colours and wonder why it makes me feel uncomfortable. Like a math equation with an incorrect solution. Nature usually seems to get it right somehow. People of Walmart, less so.

A bunch of friends suggested blue and teal as their favourite. My mind bolted to some kind of warm mint chocolate drink. Another mentioned neon green and baby blue and I thought of water wings on a sunny day. My more artistically inclined friends chimed in with more complex arrangements. Me? I have difficulty composing an outfit. Which is why I tend to rotate between simple palette swaps of plain coloured shirts and pants.

Palette swaps describe my initial fascination with colours. They came from fighting games. As a kid I thought it was the coolest to see known quantities in alternate colour schemes. When I first saw Blanka in his yellow/blue incarnation instead of the common green/orange my world inverted. I thought someone at the arcade had put in a cheat code. I always tried to cycle into unusual colour schemes. When I played One Must Fall: 2097 I’d spend a bunch of time on my robot’s colour scheme. It was the fucking best being able to personalise these robots and put my own stamp on them.

It’s neat too knowing that I’m only at the foot of the mountain that is understanding colours. They’ve got so much potential to influence mood. I’m certain that specific colour combos encourage productivity or set tone. Whether it’s in movies, fashion or visual design/iconography, our feelings are deeply influenced by colour. Chatting at a bar a while back, a friend told me that design trends were shifting back towards those of more oppressive times. Bold reds and blacks. Certain fonts and design styles reminiscent of past fascist regimes. Shying away from complex interpretive palettes towards blunt, uncompromising design. A sign of the times.

On that note, I hope we get at least another year of bisexual lighting before it follows the next step in its eventual evolution.

What I’m saying is that I’m here for bisexual lightning.

I wonder if Matthew McConaughey has ever tried marmite…

Lately I’ve done a pretty decent job of finding a topic and staying on it. I’m formally congratulating myself on this development before I dive into a fragmented mess of an entry.

Good job.

Honey, I Shrunk The Kids holds up. I’m not saying that it’s landmark cinema. I *am* saying that it’s a silly family adventure film that’s both harmless and entertaining. The plot is dumb and contrived, they need to give themselves a little push to get over the finish line, but it’s fun to watch. At it’s heart, the move has a simple concept that allows them to write a bunch of neat little scenes and make great sets. It’s not the kind of film that holds up to scrutiny, but that seems like a fool’s errand at best. It’s neat to see the late 80s creature animation of “Antie” and the inexplicable scorpion. Does everyone have a scorpion in their backyard? I don’t care. It looked cool and gave birth to a choice action sequence. The film considered its environment which gave us silly stuff like a Lego brick being an ideal spot to sleep, a fallen cigarette making for perfect torches and an errant baseball somehow being the missing element between a working and non-functional shrink ray. The parental relationships were oddly mature for a kid’s film and the whole thing was a joy to watch.

I kind of miss 80s adventure movies. I’m thinking stuff like The Goonies or The Wizard. Just kids going on wacky, unconventional journeys and adapting to unfamiliar situations. They’re essentially less like structured films and more a collection of scenes they wanted to write, then loosely tied together. I don’t care. I love the Power Glove. It’s so bad. Even for someone who’s as much of a grumpy buzzkill as I am, occasionally it’s fun to switch your brain off and watch light conflict and bright colours. People coming together after learning a valuable lesson about friendship. After all, the real adventure was the friends we made along the way. Right?

Do you remember being a kid and just falling over? Losing your balance for no good reason? I used to stumble all the time. I’m sure it was a matter of getting used to the dimensions of my body. Equilibrum was earned, not given. This isn’t super relevant and I don’t have much to say on it. I just thought that was kinda funny. In general I move quickly these days. I figure as a blanket notion that the faster I move, the more things I can do. The other day in the kitchen I was walking and reaching over for the fridge door. I sort of started keeling over before reorienting myself. I guess that’s what made me think of it. By the way, I was never a bouncing baby boy. I’m quite certain that I hit the ground with a *thunk* and not a *boing*. Just like everyone else.

I realised today that I wouldn’t be able to recognise a DJ Khaled song. To me, Khaled is just that guy who won’t go down on his girlfriend. That’s his enduring legacy and, as such, I’m pretty okay not listening to his music. Nothing of value was lost.

The other day my mum was bringing me marmite from NZ and it got seized by customs. That’s a bummer. Quelle betrayal, right? I was relying on the shipment. I’ve been out of marmite for some time and it’s kind of a comfort food. I expressed my disappointment on Facebook and friends didn’t really get it. To them it’s a silly, absurdly salty prank nutella. To me, I dunno, it’s more evocative of different stages in life. I remember feeling incredibly proud when I made marmite and cheese on toast in our toaster oven. It felt like one of the first things, as a child, that I cooked. I think of eating marmite and chip sandwiches with my best friend at his old house. I’d never tasted the combination and it was eye opening. The different bold flavours and textures. I even recall the white and grey penguin placemats we ate off. They were wearing tuxedos. I think about all those times I came back drungry from nights out and fixed myself marmite and cheese toasties. Or when I started making elaborate brunches with marmite and poached eggs on toast, complete with cheese, avocado and sundried tomatoes. Marmite was a big part of those dishes. Marmite has been a big part of my life. It’s more than a novelty food stuff, on some level it’s part of my history. I have every intention of making it part of my future. Luckily a co-worker is heading back to Australia soon and she’s promised to pick me up some Kiwi marmite.

Do you think when Matthew McConaughey is happy All’s right alright alright with the world?

Why screw my courage to this sticky place?

I was thinking about my death row meal today.

In full clarity, I’m not going to death row. Well, I don’t think so. Okay, I haven’t currently done anything to necessitate my execution. Ask me again in a few hours. I feel like my plans are benign enough that I’m unlikely to commit murder, grand larceny or something super vile like jaywalking before bed. It’s not impossible. After a little too much caffeine I stop questioning what I’m capable of doing and start worrying about it instead. Mostly I just get very regular.

I know what my death row meal would be. It’s very specific and I’m quite surprised (I tried a quick search of past entries) that I haven’t mentioned it before. My death row meal would be my mum’s chicken wings and spare ribs.

It’s my favourite meal, hands down. Well, hands in too. It’s very involved. A huge batch of chicken wings and spare ribs in a gorgeously sticky sauce. It’s usually accompanied by rice and sometimes peas. It sounds simple, but it’s so much more than that. Like any tradition worth a damn, there’s ritual. I can’t overstate how much food there is, several kilos of assorted small meats almost dripping off the bone. The sauce is thick and sweet, without the gross mouthfeel of shoddily made teriyaki sauce. It’s the best kind of meal: One where you can get your hands dirty. Across the table are several bowls, some empty and others filled with warm water. Bones bowls and finger bowls. It’s rare to not have hands caked in sauce, and the finger bowls help mitigate the struggle of sticky fingers (besides what you’re able to lick off). The meat is tender, having been grilled with garlic before the sauce was applied. There’s something in the combination of density and softness that’s indescribable for an author of limited skill. Like all the best things, it’s supremely messy, but also intimate. The sauce goes so well over the rice, which soaks it up perfectly. If there are ever peas, they’re a small oasis of greenery in a desert of meat, sugar, soy and rice. You do not leave the table hungry. Very occasionally I’ll dream of this meal, which begs the question: Why don’t I just make it?

It’s not a challenging meal to recreate. As far as I understand, you slather the meat in garlic and grill it in the oven. After it’s well-cooked, you add equal parts brown sugar and soy sauce to an amount of water. You slowly heat it in the microwave, stirring every few minutes. When it’s starting to thicken, you douse the oven meat in this sauce and let it cook. Every once in a while you’ll reapply the sauce with a baster so nothing dries out. At some point you cook rice. That’s basically it. For all I know my mum just got it from a cook book, but it’s (at least in my mind) become her enduring signature dish. Whenever I eat this meal, I think of my family. This meal is love.

I’m an adult, I’ve made more complicated dishes than this. Frankly, I could probably just bung it all in the instant pot and have it ready in under an hour. For some reason though, I don’t. There’s no reason it needs to be bound to a time and place, but for some reason in my head it is. It’s a family meal and I haven’t pulled it out for other means. It makes no earthly sense. I’m resigning this to my impending death because… why again? My friends here are practically family. I think it’s high time I had a dinner party and shared with them the last thing I’d eat before I die.

I just hope that’s not tonight. We don’t have any chicken wings or spare ribs in the freezer.

Could I be any more of an ideal spokesman?

I rode a bike yesterday!

It was magical. The wind whipping through the phantom locks I had in my experimental hair phases. Engaging my calves pushing uphill. Trying to wrap my head/hands around the odd downward sloping bullhorn style handlebars. An all new familiar experience. Unexpected and thrilling. I used to bike all the time. As a kid, from ages 10-15, I’d bike to school. I buckled my wheel at some stage and kept riding on that wheel for several years. It was so freeing. As a cookie-doughy child, I got to be active and experience the joy of speed. To have that control, to find new hidden routes and side streets. To zip around in charge of my own direction. I’d cover so much ground and see small changes on my day to day route. I tried besting my old times, it was awesome. I never really got the confidence to ride on the road, plus bike lanes virtually didn’t exist yet. So it was always ducking and weaving around pedestrians on the footpath.

Last night a bunch of us went out to Kensington Market for drinks. After chatting and chilling, we piled back to our friend’s place for more relaxed hangabouts. It was a no brainer. We could stay in a bar grabbing expensive drinks, or go back to her plounge and tailor our own vibe. Thing was, all the liquor stores were closed. Not even Wine Rack, the last refuge of desperate drunks, was open. She had a couple of bottles, but it felt like a dick move for us all to deplete her stash. When we arrived, I opted to go and grab some bottles from home. I was just down the hill, after all. With a monthly pass, I could even grab a bus there and back if the times synced. She off-handedly offered her bike. I opened my mouth for polite refusal and thought for a secondHow many years had it been since I’d ridden? Too many. It’d be faster and maybe more fun. The five or six drinks I’d had by then nudged me in the direction of yes and I went for it. I grabbed a helmet and climbed aboard.

Maybe the beers helped. It was just like riding a bike. Sure, the handlebars were more narrow than I was used to. My recovering wrist made things a little less secure. Given that it was almost midnight, nobody was around, so I took the footpath. It was great. I reined in my speeds coming down the hill and made it home in sub five minutes. I parked up front, put together a goody bag of liquor and climbed back on. Was it a fixie? Oh, it totally had gears. they were these odd little toggles that were quite estranged from what I’d grown up with, but they worked. Away I went. Even in my drunken state, the hill was a breeze. I didn’t even need to stand. I guess when you grow up in the land of dormant volcanoes, everywhere else is flatland by comparison. I was back at my mate’s place within 15 minutes.

Every year I think about buying a bike. Every year it gets late into summer and I think well, next year will be the year. It isn’t. Every year. Maybe though, and hear me out here, maybe next year will be the year. Not this year, because my wrists need time to heal. Next year though? It’s perfect. I’m sure it’ll happen. I do get bogged down by the artifice of owning a bike though. I’d need all the accessories; helmet, lock, etc. I’d have to consider lugging the vehicle around or where I was gonna store it. It’d make navigating public clunky at times. It’s that stuff that gets in my head ever year and thwarts plans to get one. Really though, I’m sure it’s not as bad as I think. It’s not an all or nothing conundrum. Just because I have a bike, doesn’t mean I need to use it all the time. I can take it when I want to, when the sun is shining just right. When I’d otherwise walk but want a swifter trip. Maybe if I was picking things up and slung my backpack over my shoulders.

2019, you hear me? Twenty biketeen. It’s coming.