The Jamjar

Turquoise Sunday

Little Photographer

Chilli Sunday Goodness

A head full of wishes

It was a cold, clear, wintery Saturday evening and the Town Hall was lit up with it's warm lights against the black night sky. Aucklanders straggled in fashionably late to their seats, with a row of Parnell's straightest, blondest hair sitting in all their chattering glory in the seats in front of me.

But I'm not whinging in this post - that was last week. I'd been looking forward to tonight and experiencing the music collaboration known as Fly My Pretties: this Grand Tour supporting their album, The Return of Fly My Pretties. A few skinny blonde twits weren't able to take the smile off my face.

The sounds Fly My Pretties made tonight were so beautiful. Jeramiah Ross's wonderful fingers on the grand piano opening the show while old New Zealand film footage flickered across the huge screens that hung above the stage. Barnaby Weir coming out to treat us to his wonderful kiwi accent and Catch the Light with Lou Prebble's haunting bow and saw accompanyment. Tessa Rain's breathy harmonies floating with Age Prior's sweet tones, filling the space of the Great Hall with King of You All.

Jeramiah Ross introduced us to the second half of the show, playing Rain on the huge pipe organ that lives on the far wall of the Town Hall. It's five layered keyboard and many foot pedals had him admitting he was "nervous as all fuck" about playing it, but he was fantastic and it was a complete treat. Hollie Smith's voice soaring up and over the music of her fabulous song Clarity blowing anyone who still had socks on away. And on it went, song after wonderful song; muscian after wonderful musician.

These people know their stuff. Talented and crafted, their ease and enjoyment was so apparent and generous. They had us wiggling our shoulders, clicking our fingers, clapping our hands and up on our feet. I was fortunate to be one of the 1600 very lucky Aucklanders who got to experience Fly My Pretties tonight, and wasn't the only one who still had a wide smile on my face as it braced the night air at the end of a bargain of an evening. The Pretties played their music for my ears, and their rhythms for my feets, and their voices for my soul. It was fucking awesome.

"The Grand Tour closes a chapter not to be opened again." the program reads "This is a showcase of what Fly My Pretties has been and is now. Some people tonight will experience Fly My Pretties for the first time, this is their chance, but it is also the end of The Return. Fly away tonight."

[This photo used without permission. Check out the other wonderful photos of Fly My Pretties performing last December at jemsweb - lucky chook for getting so close with an eye for a good shot! ]

Little Creature

I can feed you all manner of good things...

Overheard

Hey! I've been looking for you for ages.
Yeh? have you found me yet?

Perfecting Custard Trifle

Pirates of the Carribbean: Dead Man's Chest

I admit, I wasn't chomping at the bit to see the sequel to Pirates of the Carribean: Curse of the Black Pearl, but given the lineup at the cinema at the moment, it was the best of sad offerings.

Being the first Saturday screening in it's launch week, front row tickets were all that were available and, to tell the truth, if I'd been within cooey of the person buying my tickets I would've said "Let's do something else." but I wasn't so ended up underneath the massive screen at Berkley's hidious Botany complex. Okay, so it's not so hidious once you're inside a theatre (except that there's not a single cinema there where you can't hear the movie next door and the seats make you sit so your boobs stick out a bit far - that's the lumbar in the seat? that does that? or maybe I have an unconscious habit of forcing my chest front and centre given half a chance) but the foyer and ticket-buying experience of the place is one user-unfriendly pain in the butt.

And don't go thinking how nice those Moritz icecream cones with the drizzly syrup and the fancy waffle cones might be, because the amount of time you'll need to hang around the counter while some unco-ordinated Pakuranga high school student wearing latex gloves (they don't look hygenic) tries to roll the perfect icecream scoop in the most inefficient way possible, means even though you thought you were in time for the movie, you'll end up missing the first five minutes (that's even taking into account the pre-movie onscreen SPAM)

More high school students, ushers this time, on guard outside and inside the theatre policing the allocated seated session - as if anyone was gonna steal our seats. "Close enough?" I asked, staring up at the blank screen from our seats. The theatre was filling with the Eastern Suburbs brightest and finest. "You'll get used to the angle, just as soon as the movie starts." Yeh, right: looking up the nostrils of a fifty foot high Johnny Depp is exactly how I saw my night unfolding.

The old (no) style adverts for local jewellers, quality panelbeaters and the local Indian restaurant flickered one after the other on the screen "You know, if this was the Rialto, the movie would've started by now because when the Rialto says a movie starts at 8:15pm the movie bloody well starts at 8:15!" yeh yeh we know but this trend to show 20 minutes of poorly crafted adverts and television promos is just a bad idea all around.

I mean, come *on* - do I really need to see a Shortland Street trailer at the cinema? The world is going to Hell in a handbasket, I tells ya! (yells at some of the teenagers in the theatre to put their cardies on cos it's cold) (okay I didn't do that but I'm beginning to feel like a cranky old lady in a crazy world she can't understand) (actually the kids/audience were pretty good - no girls yabbering, no cell phones hearlding text messages, no continous cellophane rustling - it was a good crowd! I didn't have to growl anyone.)

Finally, the lights dim and the movie starts. I'm sure I must've blogged about the original Pirates, and I have no doubt I enjoyed it - I remember it being a rollocking good time. Rollocking. I slouched in my seat to try and get a good angle to view the towering sequel, and waited for my second rollocking.

Now, I really only have one word to describe this movie. Lumbering. The damn thing is like a big old sailing ship in open sea, hefting up over the swells, crashing down into the water with the deep thud of sea on hull - but not in a good way.

While the special effects of Davy Jones (not the Monkee) and his crew was really great and clever, it wasn't enough to keep my interest for long. The movie just lumbered on.. and on.. and on.. and on. I became so disinterested in the film that I actually stopped watching it, turned around and watched all the people illuminated by the light from the screen watch the movie.

I wanted to leave. I wondered what was on television. Thought about washing the nets in the lounge windows because they were looking a little grubby. My bum got restless. My legs kept stretching out. I fidgeted so much I was away of my fidgeting - are my arms usually need this much scratching? I watched along the row I was sitting in at all the people sitting on the floor, watching the movie while lying down. Considered it myself, decided not to cos I'd just then be lying down not enjoying the movie and lord only knows how dirty that floor'd be.

By the time the movie finally finished and the credits started to roll, I was up out of my seat with a "C'mon c'mon, let's go." Wondering why anyone'd want to read the credits or stay for any crazy monkey antics at the end of this particular waste-of-time. I didn't care, it even had a giant squid (a Kraken) thing AND pirates and I still didn't care. I wish I'd had the nouse to get up after 20 minutes and go ask for my money back.

Don't see this movie.

Rosie's crash

it is so dumb and embarassing...
I was telling her about it and she is all *pursed lips* "so that is why we A) have a regular backup routine and B) don't rely on one form of storage"
and i"m all SHUT UP
she pronounced the A and B
because - of course
HINDSIGHT is a wonderful thing. gawd. *real* people don't backup.
we're all too busy being FABULOUS
catastrophic hard drive failures only happen to other people DARLING

Monday is Giant Squid Day

I was looking up videos of Jerry Collins weeing on the footy field educational content on YouTube and, attempting to see what else New Zild had to offer, came across this bit on Wild Boys when they came to NZ. They also met Dr Steve O'Shea, who is the expert and Lord of the Squids.

This video here has some good squiddy footage, most of it of the squids sliding off the table on Dr O'Shea's driveway after he heaves them out of a chest freezer.

Insomnia Day Planner

My insomnia has taking a strange turn - it's gone and got itself a schedule. I went to bed at 10:30pm and fell asleep somewhere before midnight, only to wake again at:

• 12:44am
• 01:44am
• 02:44am
• 03:48am

What the hell is up with *that*?

Suckimoto Mishisushi

I have a lot on my plate at the moment. So much, in fact, that if my life was a meal the potatoes would keep falling off every time I tried to tackle the meat, and the peas'd be leaving gravy tracks across the table as they rolled off in different directions.

All of it is work and none of it is pleasure. Work used to be my pleasure and I realise now that I fill my time with "busy" to occupy all the spaces where I might have time to examine why I'm living my life alone. I've always said work is my primary relationship but now I'm realising that scenario isn't cutting it. Work and I have grown apart. We want different things. We need to see other people.

A while ago I was grumbling about change. The person I was grumbling to laughed at me and told me how funny that was to her because she saw me as an "agent of change" - a catalyst. That when I was around, everything changed all time. She said that people changed the way they worked when they were with me, saw the world in different ways, felt different things, wanted to do better, felt they could do more. That my opinion was important to people who sought it and even to those poor souls who didn't know what they were bargaining for asking me to critic their work or ideas: and people ask me to do that all the time! the crazy fools - an 11 point bulleted list of what the hell is wrong with this Powerpoint presentation. She said I made people think about things they hadn't thought of before and to stop overthinking things that don't matter.

Which is a strange thing for her to say because up til then I thought she was quite a perceptive woman.

And while we're on the subject: what's this trend whereby everyone wants to work with me - or rather - seems to want me as central to their business plans? A manager who wants me over in Melbourne as part of his eLearning empire; a work colleague who wants me to drive a creative force through corporate Auckland while she takes care of the finances; two tall blokes with an idea for a startup who seem to think they can't do that without me. Why would i want to work with anyone who couldn't see past the wall of noise to the fact that I actually suck?

Why won't anyone listen to me when I say how burnt out I am. How past-it I've become. How this lark is for young people with ideas and imagination. I'm a copy/paste monkey these days and to anyone who can't see that well "ook ook" to you. I haven't used Flash for anything more complicated that a navigated presentation in 2 years. I don't even *have* Photoshop on my work computer, and the one I have at home is finding it hard to justify paying for the latest upgrade.

If I ever had "it", I've managed to lose it in the last year. I believe I have to solidify my ability to bluff and become a teacher for the rest of my days because I'm not making it in the real world any longer. I'm just too old - my face is telling me that every morning in my mirror and my brain is agreeing with more and more frequency.

And here I sit after all that complaining to the real heart of the matter: I have two tickets to the Auckland Town Hall on July 22nd to see Fly My Pretties and have no one I can think of to go with. I'm not saying I don't have friends, that's not what I'm saying - but none of my friends have even heard of the Pretties and I don't want to go to this wonderful, joyful, musical event with someone who doesn't understand how beautiful the music is.

And who isn't a girl.

And would like to go out for drinks beforehand.

And maybe be up for a wee shag afterwards.

So I might forget about my busy main course for a while and just have the simple pleasure of dessert.

Stick to the Path

I wasn't paying attention. Walking down Queen Street and back to work, thinking of the things we'd talked about in the meetings I'd had up at Hereford Street. I didn't even notice the intersection had stopped cars in it until a guy walking up the hill said something to me. I didn't quite hear what he said so made the universal sound of inquiry "Hmm?" as I looked up at him. He was tall and lean. He seemed middle-aged judging by the grey in his moustache, dressed in faded blue jeans and carrying a backpack over one shoulder. Now I think of it, he might not have heard my inquiring sound as my voice is husky and unreliable at the moment. If he answered my squeaky question I didn't hear him because it was about then that I realised what had stopped the cars.

There was a road-rage screaming-match going on between a man in a station wagon and another car full of teenage boys. Their respective cars were blocking other vehicles from entering or leaving the side street and there was a mini-traffic jam. Eff-yous and birds were being flipped all over the place. It wasn't clear what had sparked the incident but without fists flying, it wasn't terribly interesting, so I weaved my way through their cars and continued on my way back to work.

As I was crossing the main road, I looked up and down the street to avoid any on-coming traffic when I noticed the man who had spoken to me at the intersection was behind me. I thought that was strange. Now he was behind me walking down Queen Street when he had been walking up the road when he spoke to me. I continued down Queen, turning into the side street on the way to my building. I looked again for traffic crossing into another side street and saw the man again; still behind me. Near the end of that small side street I turned and saw him again. Was he following me? He seemed to be following me.

The back of my building is access up a narrow flight of concrete steps. It's a secure building and requires a swipe card to access it. I hoped he wasn't following me because I wasn't quite sure what I would do about that. Maybe he worked in the building too, though his clothing was a little too casual even for our office. Maybe I was wrong and he was just taking a shortcut to Airedale Street and not following me at all. I turned to see he hadn't gone in the direction of the public steps to Airedale but was crossing the road right behind me.

I went quickly up the narrow concrete steps that lead to the back door. I turned to see he if he was following me up the stairs to see he wasn't. He wasn't following me at all. He must've had business elsewhere and it was just a coincidence. I swiped my card, chastising myself for being a paranoid and reminding myself that not everything is about me all the time.

Pulling open the door I stepped into the building, pushing the door shut and making sure it was secure, I looked up through the security mesh that covered the glass doors to see the man standing on the top of the steps, looking at me.

Bus Stop