Here, now.

From the late great Bill Hicks:

“The world is like a ride in an amusement park. And when you choose to go on it, you think it’s real because that’s how powerful our minds are. And the ride goes up and down and round and round. It has thrills and chills and it’s very brightly coloured and it’s very loud and it’s fun, for a while. Some people have been on the ride for a long time and they begin to question, is this real, or is this just a ride? And other people have remembered, and they come back to us, they say, ‘Hey – don’t worry, don’t be afraid, ever, because, this is just a ride…’ And we… kill those people.”

So here’s a link to the trailer for Ong Bak.

This movie is rated “Ooo” for bare sweaty muscled chests, remarkable crotch flexiblity and flaming flying feet of fury.

Weekend up the mountain

So yeah, loads a snow, headed up the mountain, got to Whakapapa, put board down, went for a slash before long hard day boarding. Got back to board. No board.

Great big fat wobbly floppy donkey’s nob.

And someone else’s board had been nicked in the same minute.

And they’d run out of hire boards, so I just hitched back to Ohakune and sulked.

And got caught in a two hour jam to get to Turoa on sunday.

An expensive and tedious weekend. Not a happy Jez here.

But hey, I’d really gone off the colour of the board anyway.

Where would we be without prawn?

Can there be such a thing as too much prawn? Well, yes, apparently the UK is swamped with nearly 500,000 tons of waste prawn each year. So they have to find something to do with all their prawn:

Prawn helps you with gaping holes:

Prawn and artificial skin:

Prawn helps with itchy red rash:

Whereas in NZ, kiwi ingenuity results in geo-thermal prawn:

There’s so much prawn on the interweb.

Facehugger/scorpion monsters

So I was having nice dreams when the facehugger/scorpion things turned up. They are scary.

But bollocks, I thought, this is my dream, so I get to have a Sony Killstick, with unlimited ammo, the autoaiming module and Kill-chan clip-on mascot. And we’re in a big wide open place and the facehuggers have to start one hundred metres away.

It was brief.

And then I went to the Land of Fluffyness, where everything is made of kitten fur, including water, air and outer space.

So I have flu

and the modem cable doesn’t quite reach to the bed, but I’ll post this later. Yay for laptops and duvets.

Anyway, here’s some random ranting about books worth your time. Read them. READ THEM ALL!!! /zim

“A Canticle for Leibowitz” by Walter M. Miller
In the beginning, the Lord made the earth, and it was good. But Man grew wicked so the Lord sent the Flood to wash away the sins of Man. But Man grew wicked again in his power, so the Lord sent the Fire Flood to wash away the sins of Man, and allowed the Demon Fallout to walk the land, stealing the children of Man. And Man burned his wicked books, and anyone who knew how to read.

This may have happened more than once.

And in the middle of some god-awful desert, where no man would want to go, live a bunch of monks. They have a bunch of books written on goatskin, which lasts about a thousand year, but the inks they use only last a few hundred. So they spend their days copying the fading books longhand.

And that’s just the backstory. Its not a cheerful book, but it is important.

“Red shift” by Alan Garner
Words like flame, words like thunder. The repeating tiny catastrophes of English culture. Far too close to the bone for me to enjoy.

“Strandloper” by Alan Garner
A Cheshire brickie gets deported for learning to read, ends up an Aboriginal spiritual leader. And its a true story, or as true as you’re going to get.

“Thursbitch” by Alan Garner
You’re all going to die. And that’s just how it is.

Just anything by Alan Garner, ok? Unflinching, honest, the finest cants and breath-taking craftsmanship. We forget how important it is, to be so skilled that what you’re doing looks like nothing at all.

“Vurt” by Jeff Noon
Garner writes about what it is to be human, i.e. what it is to be divine. Noon writes about what it is to be utterly mashed up, staggering around cities in the dead of the night. Virtual drugs in a virtual Manchester, virtually the end of the world as we know it, but the rain is real.

“Perdito Street Station” by China Mieville
Neil Gaiman and his twee little tales can go suck a fat one. London eats its young, and spits them out rather mangled and pissed off. With the scariest monsters ever, and worse allies. When the Lords of Hell are afraid of the Weaver, you’re going to ask him for help?

(“Iron Dragon’s Daughter” by Michael Swanwick too, gasoline-power dragons with stealth skin. And rough fairy nookie too.)

“Stone baby” by Joolz Denby
You know that taste in your mouth after you’ve just been punched in the face? The taste of your head ringing? For those fed up of the romanticism of crime and violence. Gamy.

And now for more vitamin C.


I get all competitive around boys. Sadly when we’re up the mountain for my first day of the season, and the boy in question is a professional ski guide on Mt Cook and has worked a season as a field guide in Antarctica, i.e. probably the best skier that I’ve ever met, then this is a bad idea.

Didn’t do too bad for myself, but well, legs like noodles now too.

I have Rick-Mouthitis

I can’t believe I said half the things that I said last night, but had Rick been there, he’d have said them instead, so its all his fault.

Anyway, good party, managed to get off train at Pukerua Bay, fell over on stairs in our bungalow, crashed out, to be ready for skate hockey game in Palmie this lunchtime.

So Andrea woke me up at some god-awful time, bouncing about the snow report, blue skies, a foot of powder at Turoa. And I think my mouth was still in Rick mode, coz I said “hey, I’ll drive as far as Palmie to stop you getting utterly shattered by driving to Ruapehu and back all by yourself”. What a gallant chap I am. So Andrea bounced further and said “right, get up then coz we’re going now”.

Hang on, brain awakens, assesses the situation, namely, I’m hungover, I’ve had minimal sleep, I’ve already arranged a lift to Palmie at a far more reasonable later time and I want nothing more than to stay in bed.

So had breakfast at the Arena in Palmie, surrounded by Levin fans, screaming “Kill! Kill! Kill!”, at their under-20s team, who, strangely, were playing like a bunch of thugs. Wonder where they get it from?

And we had no substitutes, so played a full 40 minutes, as opposed to the expected 20 minutes in 60 second chunks. Whimper. And I missed a powder day at Turoa. Arse.

But my Rick-Mouthitis is cured, possibly because I’m now too tired to do much more than drool. Oh, hang on, maybe that’s just the terminal phase of Rick-Mouthitis.