Anyway, last night I did manage to get to Watchmen and it every part as epic as the hype suggested. Three hours, more masked characters than my feeble memory can hold, an ailing Richard Nixon and the threat of nuclear war. What more could I ask for in a movie? Well, how bout some god damned consideration for the audience from the film makers?! Too much to ask?

This movie, as you know doubt will know least you have dwell betwixt rock and soil, is based on a graphic novel by the same name. Not everyone who sees the movie will have read the graphic novel. I would be surprised if 1 in 10 movie goers had. So imagine my dismay when, while I was trying to follow all the plots and sub-plots, characters and settings, they throw a big ol’ CGed stripey blue cats with horns in. There is no mention of the cat in the film. The cat is never acknowledged. If I made a film with a blue, horned cat I would give it some credit.

All that was needed was a “Oh hey, dude, what’s up with your blue, horned cat?”

“Oh this one? Yeah, that’s been there.”

“Really, I’ve never noticed it”

“It’s been here dude. Seriously. Where am I going to get a blue, horned cat on short notice? It’s been here.”

Obviously, I’m no a script writer but that exchange would’ve taken about 10 seconds. Just 0.0003% of the movie’s running time. Since seeing the film, a friend of mine who has read the book has revealed this was part of a story that didn’t make it in to the film. Either have a blue, horned cat and explain why it’s there or don’t have it in! Pick one! It’s the cinema equivalent or having a stupid inside joke that you don’t understand the context or origin of but one other person in the room sort of knows what the person is saying. I hate that guy. Why bring it up? Only one person knows what you’re talking about and even he probably doesn’t think it was worth mentioning. Why make the joke? Why have the blue cat? WHY, OH WHY?!

Take my current situation for example. Out of context, I have to get up at 4am to go to work, I am quite ill right now and I have just found out my flat is breaking up just six weeks after I have come in. I am on a three month contract at work in the midst of a recession which is due to expire in a matter of weeks. Today our CEO sent a mass memo stating the measures the business will be taking to reduce the risk of falling over through a ‘challenging financial time’.

So to sum up, I might soon be unemployed, homeless, sick and still fairly new to Auckland. But, just like the twist of meeting a robot turning out NOT to be cool, this situation isn’t what it seems. Firstly, I hate being sick but it did give me a chance to catch up on much needed sleep in the weekend and watch some quality movies. Namely, all three Terminators. I read that James Cameron thought of the Terminator from his sick bed when he had a fever and turned his vision of a burning metal skeleton into a movie. This story inspired me to try and create some art from my sick bed and it got the ball rolling on a couple things. Sick = inspiration.

Homelessness is never a good thing. But then, neither is living with four other people in a house that has paper thin walls. To get seven hours sleep when I have to wake at 4am, I have to be asleep at 9pm. This is an impossible task when your bedroom is outside the lounge and the builder’s idea of insulation was putting the really good MDF in the wall facing the living area. And here’s the kicker, the property market has bottomed out in Auckland. The reality is, I was already looking for a way to weasel my way out of this flat due to my inability to sleep. The fact that the lease is up and the leaseholder doesn’t want to renew it is like seeing Arnie in Terminator 2 and being like “oh shit, I’m definitely screwed now” but then he turns out to save you. The end of the lease is a gift. A freebie. And it will allow me to move into a potentially cheaper, smaller, more sound-friendly flat with friends who are moving up from Wellington. Homelessness = sleep at last.

Unemployment. Not even the 9/11 Commission could spin this positively. At the end of the day I am working under a three month contract in a recession. So my plan is to make myself utterly indispensable at work. If I stay working there, I’m shown I’m a good worker. If I get cut, I’m sure my hard work will get me a good reference and we’ll test the waters of this tight labour market. Whatever. I’ve always enjoyed a challenge.

So as you see, sometimes life IS like a box of Terminators: awesome, unpredictable and full of great one liners. First post in a while… I’LL BE BACK!

31 May 2007
48 Hour Film Comp

Just to give everyone out there an update as to what went on when I did the 48 Hour Film Comp.

The Story

We were editing until about 6.15pm and finally had a finished product we were happy with. Started to export back to a miniDV tape to hand in but the camera was not being recognized on the computer. Tried changing settings to no avail. At about 6.40pm (20 minutes before hand-in) the freak out escalated. Izzi had come to take us to the venue at 6.15pm and at this stage is warming the car up. Time for plan B.

Started burning the movie to DVD, process bar was crawling across the screen. Time is 6.48pm. Process bar has frozen. All the files from the movie are being accessed from an external hard drive which means I can take the laptop in the car but if I disconnect the hard drive it might stop working. I wait till 6.50pm with a very nervous Izzi in the car outside waiting for me. Process bar still hasn’t moved. I unplug everything from the laptop (including the hard drive) and make a dash for the car. Laptop is on lap, Izzi speeds off.

We hit every red light on the way there but I have basically written off the movie as the process bar still hasn’t moved. Try to cancel it on the laptop to find that it has crashed. Time is now 6.56pm. I hard reboot the laptop and bring up the DVD player in the vain attempt to see if maybe the movie burned afterall. I can see and hear the bars and tone at the start of the film. I let Izzi know that if there’s any way we can get there on time, now would be the time to speed. We pull
up to the drive at 6.58pm after much shouting about where the place is. I run into and over people in a desperate sprint to get to the door. DVD, paperwork and envelope handed in at (I believe) 6:58.50, which I think made us the last team in Wellington to hand in. Izzi, you saved the day, big time. I owe you a wedding.

I’ve been here in Australia for a little while now and although I’ve only really got New Zealand to compare it against, Australians are a pretty intolerant bunch. I would go so far as to say bigoted. But I guess shit goes down when you turn a prison into a nation. So despite the bigotry, the sexism, the xenophobia, the homophobia, despite all these things on Saturday night everyone was just happy to watch hairy, overwieght lesbians on motorbikes. And even cheer them on! It’s a really double edged sword cause on the one hand it rules that everyone could put their hatred aside and join their brothers and sisters in celebrating how far the gay and lesbian movement has come, but it’s also really sad that it takes a street parade to bring everyone together.

I really feel that the gay and lesbian community are one of the last large sects of people it’s still socially acceptable to discriminate against, which makes me sad. Especially when I wear my orange cowboy hat. So anyway, I guess the moral of the story is: When all else fails and bringing the people together seems hopeless, throw a massive party. Maybe that’s why I like partying so much, it brings all kinds of people together. Granted usually it’s to get intoxicated and fornicate, but I always have the best time at parties when there are people completely different from me who are willing to have a chat about their lives and I reckon that’s the key to solve a lot of conflict.

Well that or alien invasion. Now, I know I’m not the first person to suggest this but I have thought for a long time that what the world needs is a massive alien invasion. Only if the whole planet is threatened by a massive alien race do I think neighboring countries can finally put down their arms and fight side by side. Sad that the only way I think we can get along is for a massive threat to overshadow our petty waring but let’s face it, it’s probably true.

Anyway, I feel like shit right now but will say that I may have a project coming up in the near future that I need all of your (read: both the people who read this) assistance with. More details to come.

Apparently they are on the cusp of creating a totally man made biological entity (and all those Christians said we couldn’t do it, HA!) I don’t necessarily have a problem with this, sure there are ethical questions and if movies have taught me anything its that this is the first step in a sequence of events leading to humanity’s enslavement at the hands of our mutant overlords, but I don’t intend to live long enough to deal with all that. What I am concerned about is that of all the types of life they could have tried to go about making, of all the useful bacteria that already exist in the earth we could have modeled this new life on, the scientists are creating a bacteria which causes STDs.

A couple of questions. Firstly, who the fuck is funding this? I’m no molecular biologist but I know that the equipment and university educations that go in to a go into a quest like this don’t come for free. What kind of sick demented freak is setting about making the first man-made life form the close genetic cousin of herpes? I can only come up with mad scientists who never got laid, now exacting their revenge on the unsuspecting, sexed up public the only way they know how. Making weird shit in the science lab.

Second question, what the hell? These people have better things to be doing than creating more STDs. We have enough STDs. I would be tempted to say we have too many STDs. I was brought up to believe that one STD was too many, but I guess I’m just old fashioned like that.

In other dumb scientist news, NASA reported this weekend that it has lost control of a satellite which is in earth’s orbit and should be re-entering our atmosphere (and surface shortly thereafter) somewhere… at some point in time. Maybe February. Maybe March. Maybe some other month. They seriously don’t know. NASA don’t know where their mass of steel and hazardous waste will fall. So, as this whole internet thing is a fully interactive medium, I’m gonna open this one up to the masses.

Where would you like to see the satellite hit? Just leave your suggestions as comments at the end of blog (provided emails do NOT get published, only the name you provide. Which you can have fun making up.)

The email in question invited the recipient into a world of seemingly limitless cash making potential by dog fighting. Guy McClellen introduces himself on the front page as a balding nerdlinger wearing a weird gray sweater. It now appears that all that pint up rage from being picked on his whole life for being in the C64 computer club has manifested with animal cruelty for cash. “Six years ago my life was in shambles. I was laid off from my job, my marriage was falling apart and I was out of money and running out of hope” Guy sobs. But luckily for Guy (and all of us) “That’s when I discovered canine sport fighting… I was awestruck! What an amazing show of animal athleticism!”

Animal athleticism. It’s not everyday that you get such a bullshit term on a website’s front page. If you ignore the animal cruelty for a moment, the website is littered with hilarious claims, such as: “I make almost $10,000 a week and I don’t even like dogs!“, or “My wife and I looked at all the different ‘get-rich-quick’ schemes, but settled on this one.” My personal favorite testimonial: “I’ve held dog fights in my back yard for years and I’m barely under investigation!“. Keep up the good work M Vick from Atlanta.

I am kind of staggered that this site still exists. Not only is the business venture barbaric in nature, cruel in implimentation, it’s certainly completely illegal. Guy has this to say about the legality issue: “Dog fighting, per se, is not legal, and should not be done under any circumstance. What we do is different in that we don’t call it “dog fighting”. Just like Japanese whaling vessels operate under a “research” license, we operate under various umbrellas of protection, such as religious expression, research, public service, awareness and assorted tribal rights, depending on your state.”

So, making animals fight and lying to state authorities, could it get any worse? Yes. “Since arenas fall outside the domain of “public places”, smoking is permitted, and even encouraged, thanks to a generous donation by our biggest sponsor, Philip Morris.” Why not puff a few of our sponsors delightful cancer-sticks while you watch domesticated animal fight to the death? I also hear you can get a good deal from the guy at the back with the long, red tail and pointy horns.

Don’t believe me? See www.puppyprofits.com to see just how messed up some people out there really are.

The example I saw today can be viewed at www.fanuary.co.nz. As background, this site is a spin-off idea from Mo-vember, a charity event in New Zealand which occurs every November to raise awareness and funds for prostate cancer. Participants are invited to refrain from shaving for the entire month and gather sponsorship for their prized ‘mo’. Truly, this campaign I applaud and stand in awe of as being a stroke of marketing genius. How on earth do you raise funds for prostate cancer? Men don’t want to think about it, women don’t want to hear about it and as a result very few people know much about it, let alone give their money to the cause.

Mo-vember is genius in that it takes another (ideally) exclusively male feature, facial hair, to associate sponsorship with rather than your two meat and veg. It does not cheapen the charity’s message, it does not lose its core audience and affected group, and it does not offend. By making essentially every male a potential participant (and therefore potentially all people able to have someone to directly find out about the charity from), this opens the floodgates for donations to roll in.

Now for Fanuary. With what I can only hope were good intentions, Fanuary organiser Rebecca Harris has invited women everywhere to leave their “nether regions” (her words, not mine) unshaven for the month of Feburary in the name of gynaecological cancer research and treatment. HOW DID SHE GET IT SO WRONG? Was it that she saw how much money was coming in through Mo-vember and thought ‘What’s the difference? It’s all hair’? The idea of using the retention of muff fluff outraged to the point where the Cancer Society threatened legal action should their name be attached to the event and who could blame them?

By taking a charity as sensitive as gynaecological cancer treatment and instead of moving it to something a little less prickly (pun intended), she instead decided to choose something more easily offended by and thereby severely limit the amount of donations. What’s next Rebecca? Assgust, where for the month of August everyone tries alternative sex in the name of gay rights? Or how about Jewcember where celebrities clean chimneys for Holocaust survivors?

Let me be clear, I’m not offended but Bushuary, I just think a lot of people will be and therefore its a terrible idea. Women’s health is an important issue and not one that will be benefited by moronic campaigns such as this. You don’t need to disassociate the charity issue from its audience or affected parties, Mo-vember has proven that. But for the love of all things holy, try and think outside the box (pun also intended) next time round for fund raising without the offense.

On Tuesday afternoon, after finishing a long day at work, I trained home to change, grab some clothes for Nick and jump back on a Sydney-bound train for tonight we were going to Bon Jovi. I’m not a huge Bon Jovi fan but the excitement of seeing such a popular and enduring rock group live was well worth the $150 I gave to Mel to see them. After a sweaty sprint and train change I managed to arrive at the ferry terminal on time to meet Mel and Nick to catch the boat to the Acer Arena. Hungry, hot and pissed off that neither Nick, nor Mell were in sight I called Mel. A painfully polite answer phone greeted my call. I call Nick and I am informed by Vodafone’s robotic Shela that I am out of credit. Fuck.

Moments later I get a call from Nick. I inquire as to which part of the terminal they are located (read, ‘Where the fuck are you assholes?’) and am informed that the party have not yet arrived. With about three minutes to get on the ferry I order some chips to tie me over. Nick and Mel show up just in time, and somehow have managed to buy ferry tickets before they spot me. I, in my infinite wisdom and planning skills have also bought us all tickets. Obscenities aside, we are aboard and after about 45 minutes are at our destination. Sort of.

Nick spots a local and asks where the Arena is and is answered by a comforting “Haha, it’s that way but it’s a bit of a walk”. Nick and I search desperately for a short cut and find one in the form of a truck driver heading down the road. Mel believes she is above asking truck drivers for rides and walks on. Moments later we are all on board and quickly arrive at the concert destination. The excitement is palpable with thousands of people streaming into the gates.

Tickets in hand we bustle through the masses to the entrance and automatically opening doors. Nick inserts his ticket to rockville. Rockville does not respond and the gates remain firmly closed. He tries it again. No change. We draw the attention of a nearby security guard and ask if we’re inserting the ticket wrong, as if there are multiple ways to perform such a complicated task. He takes one look at the ticket.

“This is for Monday’s show.” Mel, despite frequent questioning from Nick, had never checked the tickets to make sure they were for Tuesday night. No refund, no show, no way I’m trusting Mel with anything every again. All I could do is laugh really. I took a photo of Mel holding the tickets at New Years and for the last month it has been on her Bebo page, proudly and clearly displaying the Monday’s date.

Wasted ferry tickets, $20; tickets to Bon Jovi, $150; the mileage we’ll get out of Mel’s screw-up? Priceless.

I woke up in the middle of the night to the buzzing of a mosquito in my room. One of those times when you half wake up and have weird thoughts like, ‘what if it flew into my ear and tried to suck blood out of my brain and killed me?’ Slowly but surely with all the alertness of a body guard for The Wiggles, I got out of bed to get the bug out of my room. I figured if I left the door open and my light off it would go to the nearest light, the hallway. So I go to get a glass of water. I walk to the kitchen and there sits, in all honesty, the biggest spider I have ever seen in my life that’s not in a cage.

It was massive, gray and hairy. And it looked strong. Strong and pissed off. I totally freaked out. Normally bugs don’t bother me but big spiders scare me almost as much as babies, (note: I have a fear not necessarily of babies but of dropping one and to this day despite having more than 20 younger cousins have never held a child under 18 months). So there it was, being all big and hairy and strong. Like if Hulk Hogan was in my kitchen. But with less handle bars and spandex. I just stared at it, probably for about 5 minutes. I couldn’t look away. It moved a little, but not in normal tiny spider steps. This thing took massive strides with each leg, with each ground shaking step I got more and more freaked out.

It was then that the logic part of my 1am brain started to kick in. I’m about 20,000 times bigger than this thing and I can kill it a lot easier than it can hurt me. So I backed down the hallway slowly, not taking my eyes off it for fear of it disappearing into the lounge and eating one of the cats. It just stayed there, watching me. I grabbed a shoe from my room and quickly returned. Still there. ‘I’m 20,000 times bigger than you, I’m 20,000 times bigger than you’, if anyway had heard me talking to myself at that hour of the night in Newtown, they might have thought I was making the most egotistical homemade porno of all time.

I raised the shoe as I slowly approached the spider which had galloped over the the corner of the hallway wall. I swung but (no, I don’t know how) missed it. It moved quickly but not too far. It stayed steady in its new position and I gave it another whack. It fell to the dimly lit ground. I kept my distance and looked for movement on the floor. I may have easily been staring at it for 10 minutes, after which time I was pretty sure it was dead.

I jumped-ran over it like how a six year old girl jump-run over cracks to avoid rodent matrimony and switched on the light. The spider was not on the ground. In the low light I had been looking at a mark on the wooden floor that resembled the shape of a squashed arachnid. I was staring at a mark in the flooring of my kitchen while an eight-legged Grizzly Adams stormed my kitchen! I still have no idea where the dog sized spider went but I can only assume its plotting its revenge on me.

a) A gaming rig which probably cost him more than he spends on personal hygiene in a decade and;

b) His virginity.

Either way, carpal tunnel is imminent. The job itself looks to be decidedly average, technical but pretty easy. Afterall, as Nick keeps reminding me I’m “not here to work”. Well put.

In other news, I now have a house, room and bed to call my own. It is fucking sweet. I shall never again underestimate the joy that comes from sleeping by myself. I spent $348.77 at Ikea and I vow never to return there. There is something so fundamentally wrong with being a store so crowed, so large and so disorientating that you need to consult a map for an exit which does not mesh with my sense of consumer physcology. But, if it’s any conciliation I now have matching sheet, blankets and pillow cases. On my foam mattress.

I was quite upset by the Ikea trip, the gay, fat man in me was really looking forward it. (Note: I have discovered where some people have an inner child, I have a fat, gay man as it is the only way I can explain my love of furnature and KFC.) On the way here I did notice a billboard which reminded me I’m in a ridiculous place in the world. A very, very sexy billbard advertising for the morning radio DJs. Air-brushed to death with their best ‘I wake up this good, and this pouty’ look on. I like my radio DJs ugly as sin and ballsy as all hell. Bring on the Aussie Kim Hill.