Coloured ink

I really should diligently read the entire newspaper before falling upon the magazine lift-out, but it is hopeless I'm rather addicted.

Viva, Time-out, Sunday, Escape even TV Week catches my eye. I wonder if coloured ink has this effect on everybody.
I can forgive the cheesy explaination statements on the cover (think Time-Out- because your weekend starts here) because the combination of words + pictures= numerous views.

The only problem with these magazines is the lack of variety in format. After a couple of kooky people have shared their 10 favourite things and a series of eco-warriors are paraded, the columns get old and predictable.

I do though enjoy the questions and answers in the Sunday magazine.

Questions like:
what is your favourite supermarket aisle?
Shave or Wax?
Ten material possessions you can't live without?
Biggest fashion mistake of our era?

All produce varied answers from the simple to the ridiculous.

What these 'magazines' feed on is the latest hype- designer clothes, TV shows and up-and-comers on the national or international scene. People love this light relief fluff and the free TV listings.

Auckland restaurants always get put through their paces by 'the duke', 'the woman' or 'Jude' reviewers. Their companions thoughts often find their way into the column even if its their 5 year old son.
What I've learnt in my review reading is: views/location and good food never mix, bathrooms are often tight and unpleasant and bad wait staff can kill the ambient mood.

The things you learn when you read gossip, food and TV reviews!
Long live the throw-away lift-out, keeps me sane when I should be doing work.

Risks

In our course there is becoming an overwhelming elephant in the room of where we will go from here.
We are driving on the avenue and side streets start to appear, is it really where we want to go or do?
Will we be stuck forever in this one way street if we take this path?

There is always fear with any choices as you constantly read about regrets and missed opportunities. In the latest TV Guide, stars comment on their regrets, namely turning down a part on a successful film or series.
I was struck by Henry Winkler's tale. He said he regretted not taking the part of Danny in Grease. He didn't want to be typecast after Happy Days but was unaware that he already was.
John Travolta went on to make big movies and he just went home.

I wonder what is worse thing you could become if you strayed from the professional journalism path. Your reputation could be a hack, a dark sided PR vampire or even an ex-journalist in 10 years time but is this industry so callous that you are forever tainted?

There are endless ways to become 'stuck' and still peddling the same trash in the future, but right now we have our fresh near-graduate status on our side. We have to strike while the iron is hot (love cliches) and try and make it sooner rather than later.

I've already thought and experienced all this doubt in a previous tech life. What is the point in worrying about mistakes you might make in the future.
You make decisions as the person you are today not what you could be 10 years from now.

Corporate Identity

Another day and another product is released. The latest is the iPhone, dripping with contract strings and add-on costs.

In line at the Queen Street Vodafone store is Jonny Gladwell, typical student camped out for 60 hours to be the first in the world to buy one.
Media coverage was overkill due to the lack of political blunders and overseas disasters.

We could all celebrate or relate to this guy then it turns out he's been paid to do it, wearing sponsored clothing and is the latest in sheep in wolves clothing marketing plant.

What a surprise that blatant logo placement is not reaching consumers so now honesty and creditability are for sale in this urban wasteland.
You can sell your soul on trademe, pretend to have a disability to sell airbags, make a "homemade" video on your cellphone of your workmates and be the latest video diarist on utube.

It does take the gloss off when everything is a hoax and set up by corporate identities. Though outraged, we can't kid ourselves that we would never sell what was truly important to us.

Bribery is the daily bread of corporates and we are only a twig in a storm.
Is it possible to fight the corporate machine and maintain individuality in modern culture.
Or are we so far gone that when a branded t-shirt is offered, we actually believe we are buying popularity and acceptance.

We are but branded calves in the herd.

Virtual Cities

Its freezing and winter is only just beginning.

So instead of slipping on the grit on the footpath, I have become a blog hunter on the web. Virtually travelling through blog communities began at the recommended blog section.

Its like the recommended section at the music store or wine store. Someone recommended it so why not take it seriously. There are always ways out (i.e links) that are side streets on your journey.

With my training wheels on and some spare holiday time, suddenly I found myself in the Brooklyn blogging epicentre.

Millions of people live there so why not name your blog after your street. You could click around forever looking at albums, observations and stroller mums but then you hit a brick wall (i.e no links). I'm a bit of hypocrite without my own links, so maybe I'll take this as a friendly suggestion.

I've found completely random unconnected blogs linked but it adds to the blog because you are bound to get bored and want to move down for a mocha at another sidewalk blog.

Long live the recommended sections and blogs of note, how else would we know these people exist.

Alleyways

Finding an alley is like crawling into a tight space, there is the element of the unknown.
Buildings make the space dark even in the brightest sunlight. It is a shortcut to another street, space or shop but there is no-one else about, is it safe?

In the bigger cities, they are necessary accessways for loading docks, creative businesses and flats. In small towns they hide rubbish bins and plumbing.

I'm fascinated by their unpolished nature, dirty and gritty they are ultimate in urban decay.

The above photos are a sample of what remains me of alleyways. The first is behind Napier's Emerson Street, rotten and dripping.
The next is the side accessway of an old office building. It had chicken wire windows on the left for light.
On the right is inside a 'flat'. I was doing documentation of an old building and persuaded the tenant to let me take some photos. This is on my descent from the roof down to the flat. It was about to be demolished and was particularly wrecked.

I question safety in my exploration but you never know what you'll find or see. If I'm really worried there is always the zoom lens.

TV Stereotypes

New Season TV is coming to a small screen near you.

Every new programme buys into standard stereotypes. There are so many, the only variety is the combinations of these boring characters in reality TV, drama and comedy.

Poor little rich girls/bored housewives/frustrated young office workers seems to be the latest offering from America.

Kiwi shows are pure agony. Prolonged excuses to rehash kiwi cultural stereotypes and ex-shortland street stars put me off my cocoa before they have even begun.

I confess as a long time TV junkie I have become rather cynical. I'd just like something fresh and slightly intellectual to grace our screens. Any non-children cartoons that appear late at night, I keep an eye on.

Pictured is "The Oblongs" circa 2002. Even though it seems ages ago, a cartoon about an anti-stereotypical family living in a toxic wasteland is not your typical fare so of course it appealed.

It had a short run in the US which seems to be the usual consequence.

While I try and enjoy shows without looking for moral messages, I like the "outsider gets on with life regardless" message of this show.

There are so many 'be a clone/sheep' characters everywhere else on TV, your whole TV schedule can become overloaded with the trials of perfection for real or imaginary people.

Maybe thats why shows about models/celebrities are so popular and addictive.

It's a charmed life, guess someone has to live it and film it.

hair talk

Having shorter hair means regular hairdresser visits.
For several years I enjoyed changing my hairdresser every couple of appointments.

Each salon has its own style depending on how expensive the cuts are. The staff are like walking advertisements with their hair, makeup and clothes. The waiting area has comfy couches and a mountain of gossip magazines and the atmosphere is self-absorbed.
Then your hairdresser comes along and there is an ease of conversation about TV and random items.

I've settled with my latest hairdresser for about 2 years and I'm dreading our next appointment as usual.
She's not the greatest conversationalist and is extremely negative about everything.
When you get blunt answers, a conversation becomes lots of questions. Am I still a child on a kitchen stool wanting some chocolate? Not mature enough to understand the world or engage in discussion.

Months in a row it was a 40min lecture on using product and my lack of hair styling interest.
It has become slightly better as I have learnt some lessons.
Stay clear of certain topics:
-movies
-marriage (she's engaged but don't mention the wedding)
-hair competitions
-public holidays

After a while, I'm completely spent and have no questions left so I try and use the time constructively for internal monologues.
Its like a monthly resolution, how will I do things better next month (work and health wise) rather than talk to someone who doesn't care.

Some months I've gotten so mad that I'm ready to chuck it in and decline a new appointment. She must realise I'm absolutely fuming because that haircut is particularly good.

What is more important a good hairdresser or a conversationalist. I never thought I'd be so dependant on conversation to keep life pleasant.
Is 40 mins monthly of stonewalled talk really worth the haircut?

A to B

"Public transport, have you smelt these people?...We believe in human energy but profit from human laziness, what are you going to do..walk?" - just heard this on the radio parodying petrol companies values.

So Let's review the 'sensible' options:
Walking- weather and considerable distances sadly put me off.

Cycling- It's dangerous as cars and buses don't respect personal space or the cycle lanes.

Buses and Trains-both save time and headaches from traffic but is boring if you are ill-prepared.
They used to have advertising on the ceiling and on the wall but that has all but vanished.
I didn't really care about tyre repairs or bus fares but it is something to kill time. If that fails or there is nothing about, I look at the scenery then the passengers.

Sights- unless you are a tourist, you'll know the route back to front so that becomes tiresome.

Passengers: You are relatively safe in the bus as they are not usually facing you.
You can:
-analyse the drivers ornaments or decorations.
-look at people's clothes, hair and/or what they are reading.
-if a pushchair plus mum get on, then there is some manoeuvring and bus lowering.

Even if I bring something to occupy myself, boredom is not my sole enemy.

I try and sit on the aisle seat so I can have a whole seat to myself. People go for the empty aisle seat first.
In the latest Sunday magazine, bad bus etiquette was on the down list. Commenting on how your bag doesn't need a window seat. I disagree completely.

Even though I sympathise with later passengers, they don't look beyond the obvious and search for a seat, that means lots of standing.

On the train, I used to catch the limited stops service so often fell asleep and woke just before my stop.
If that is not possible, the scenery is going past fast so stalker staring begins.

It requires some skill of averting your eyes when caught staring. Unfortunately your gaze naturally goes back to the same person at the other end of the carriage regularly so you can get stung over and over.
Suddenly your shoes are super interesting.
Sharing a seat is also inevitable as train users are particularly vigilant.
Both buses and train users though seem to have a common sharing habit of seeking out the same gender or age group, if necessary.

Public transport may involve chatting with strangers, but as always I hope for simple weather comments and not long involved conversation. I'm trying to relax!

I'll try and learn my lesson and bring a good book or schedule a brainstorm session for my next trip but I can't promise anything.

Rip the city down

Rejuvenation is how a city evolves and expands over time. Areas become dilapidated and are targeted for re-development.

In the property game, investors and developers are always on the look out for the next up and coming suburb or precinct.

Gentrification 'renovates' an area so it appeals to a specific target market. This could include restoration, additions, relocation or new building developments.

New cafes, stores and galleries make a questionable area palatable to the masses. Previously I considered this a logical and inevitable process to keep urban areas progressive.

Reading "Hollow City: The siege of San Francisco and the crisis of American Urbanism" by Rebecca Solnit and Susan Schwartzenberg divided me on the issue.

It examined the gentrification of San Francisco during the 90s dot com craze. Residents were forced out of homes, residential hotels, workplaces and eventually the city by raising rents, new developments, demolition and developers tactics.

The dot com craze was a fast bubble that appeared and cause chaos in San Fran. New start up companies, their employees, clients and luxury brands arrived and demanded immediate residential and commercial space. Minorities and poorer communities in historic areas were the worse affected.

A photo essay of Starbucks around the city with a caption of the established businesses they replaced was particularly sobering.

We want brands but they come with bulldozers and white walls.

Locally, all re-development seems small and measured until a Westfield drops into your area.

Renovation of Wellington's upper Cuba St was a drawn out battle between locals and residents.

A motorway entrance and some restored and relocated historic buildings was the inevitable conclusion. When I last visited it felt like a cardboard film set without character.

Its a sad way for the past to be erased but the future requires progress to be made.

dream slideshows

I was reminded of the film "Eraserhead" the other day, when I read a David Lynch book.

Finally it explained the plot:
Man left with his ex-girlfriend's deformed baby, becomes paranoid. He loses his mind and begins a relationship with a woman in his radiator.

When I saw it, I was rather perplexed as to the point. There was an ugliness to the characters and creatures that inhabited it. It rapidly became grotesque and contrasted with the starkness of the man's small apartment.

Once I lost sight of the plot, it became a slide show of images that either intrigued or disgusted.

I often feel trapped in a dream like state when watching his films, easily manipulated by my own confusion.
Just once though I'll forget about agendas, the god complex and plot/meaning.

Random DVDs make the world go round, so does weird imagery.

Sydneysider

Upon arrival in a new city, I'm always keen to check out the basics: cinema, supermarket, public transport, different suburbs and TV channels.

When I arrived in Sydney, I knew I wasn't in Kansas anymore. The sheer scale of buildings and expanse of the horizon was exciting yet so unfamiliar.

I called the backpackers at the airport and a shuttle driver picked me up with some other randoms. Crammed into a van, it was a long drive to Kings Cross. The driver took the corners at a frantic pace as we looped in and out of small side streets and suburbs dropping off passengers. Bars on building windows gave me Back to the Future 2 flashbacks.

At the backpackers, which was modest yet colourful, I hauled my suitcase up a couple of flights of narrow stairs.
My friends were on a later flight, so I had the one bunk and a bed room with a fridge to myself for the day. It was bleak and looked out to an internal light well along with the other windows.

Walking into the city, there were the usual drunk men on the street at 2 in the afternoon.

We compromised our food intake for spending money. Somehow surviving off a piece of jam toast each for breakfast and minor things for lunch and tea.

Subway stations were a new experience. People kept to the left on the escalator so others could run down or up quickly. Random cheap clothing shops operated next to the ticket counter. On subway platforms, there were vending machines and ads projecting on the walls.

TV monitors hung above listing train stops and was announced by a monotone sound recording on a loop. This was in the smaller stations of Bondi, Kings Cross and Redfern. Martin Place station was massive and multi-levelled in the city centre.

We explored Chinatown, then got lost in the Spanish quarter on our travels.
I didn't realise I relied on brands when I couldn't figure out what to buy at the mini-supermarket. Nestle seemed to have the market covered with all things dairy.

One night, we went to see 'American Splendor' and stopped at the local Indian restaurant on our way for a treat. Every night since arriving, a man had stood at the doorway with his menu, proclaiming the wonderful dishes inside.

We were seated and perused the menu with the owners' family stationed at the doorway.
Being cheap students, we decided on the $10 special.
Away went all the finery: plates, glasses and napkins. We were presented with a divided plastic dish of food and paper serviettes. It was a bit of a shock to the system, as the resident family looked on.

Being in another time zone, having an accent and not knowing the correct terminology to use in shops or bars is an adjustment. But near the end, I thought "I could live here".
Sydney had its own vibe and colour while not being too far removed from home.

Melbourne is next on the list.

Rewards for sacrifice

The other day I was looking at a dreary office building and its windows. I imagined a 9-5 worker behind it, watching the clock aka living for the weekend.

There is always the reminder of what is outside the office- family, friends, holidays in photos pinned to the wall.
At work, our time and soul are the sacrificial lambs of life. They have to be traded to get money. With all this sacrifice, we need lots of rewards to keep us happy.

Why not indulge ourselves, just to ease the drudgery of modern living and Monday mornings?

So out came the rewards loyalty card. We all want that 'free' coffee or 20% off our next purchase but we have to pay with our money, persistence and consistency.
You'll forget about them. Then when you eventually find them at the bottom of your wallet, you'll discover they all have used by dates in their fine print.

Later, I was at the trendy site of revelation, the petrol pump. There was a sign about being a FlyBuys Millionaire.
Even if you buy into reward schemes, you have to be the most persistent person on the planet, never forgetting your membership card, coffee cards or vouchers.

But when will you reach enough points to be rewarded 'well'?

With my points I could get a vegetable dehydrator from Noel Leeming but not the promised trip to London. That's about $10,000 of extra buying to get close. These schemes are all pipe dreams, promising big 'rewards' just by spending money.

If I need a reward, I'll try a walk around the lake.
Some worthless points aren't going to cut it.

Consumer Pawn

I find the best time to peruse the stores is when I'm really tired.
I can wander without motivation and not get frustrated. Unfortunately it isn't without its consequences, as an internal critical dialogue begins. It revolves around the central question of "why am I doing this when I could be sleeping?" but strays to goods, signs and shoppers analysis.

"Can I help you?" is the death kill conversation opener and drips of desperation. I was hoping to exchange dull pleasantries but now I have to justify my existence just to begin a conversation. With my sleep walking and happy temperament interrupted, the inevitable "just looking" comes out and my retreat to the exit.

Friendlier conversations may be in the tone of friends stopping by for coffee, all warm and fuzzy. Reacting favourably to this atmosphere, unwittingly makes me the pawn in the brutal retail game and then I have to question my motivations for shopping.
Does my self-esteem, validity or existence really hinge on a shop assistant, who just wants to sell me something.

Being ignored is expected, maybe if I was awake, I'd take offence. No point coming back when I'm now a member of the rejection club and a number.

An internal monologue can lead to irrational choices and perceptions, but it livens up the most trivial situation. Just turn it off when you see a movie. You start to question why an actor is wearing an ugly shirt or when the actress will pick up her handbag.

10 Ways

A new month is here and it could be the time to make yourself more fabulous by having a personality procedure.

The advice industry is massive, even though resolutions are usually reserved for New Years Eve or the milestone birthday.

Lifestyle magazines and websites indulge readers with quizzes, personality tests and horoscopes. Its pure trash but appeals to human curiosity and over-analysis.

There are the usual suspects on the list of '10 ways to change your life', regardless of the source.


1) Stop smoking/drinking

2) Travel

3) Learn a foreign language

4) Exercise/diet/makeover

5) De-clutter

6) Budget

7) New job

8) Volunteer

9) Seize the day

10) Socialise/ Communicate more


They could change your life, depending how radically you implement them.
Effects of routine seem to drive some people to the extreme to change their life.
Maybe advice isn't so harmless when it results in a life crisis.

Quarter-life, mid-life or late quarter, a crisis though could change your life for the better.

How Leaf We Are

There is a poem I quite like. Though it is dark, I find it refreshing.

How leaf we are,
At first, all furled in separateness,
Peeping out with little vanities and hopes, also vanity;
Perhaps the last vanity, holding us to that green world,
Our life shall be; believing ourselves,
So individual, we all reach, being identical,
Shall the prodigal gardener weep?

How leaf we are,
At last, all seared in brittleness,
curled up with tiny tears and hurts, also fears;
Perhaps the last fear tethering us to that dry twig
our life's become,
then knowing that we are enumerable we fall,
being expendable, all,
The gardener is blind,
He will not sweep.

How leaf we are,
Like waves we do become;
First urged, then merged.

That gardener is a fisherman,
That fisherman is asleep.

-Anon