This one is for all my fellow people of good health, but really, it’s just me giving myself a kick up the ass. I’ve been kinda MIA from the blog as of late, if you hadn’t already noticed. I can’t really explain it – I was feeling great about the year, really motivated and positive…and then I wasn’t. Nothing in particular happened, one day I was up, the next I was down. I had a brain block, and I moped around for a bit, complained a lot and generally had a bit of a quarter life crisis. “WHAT AM I DOIIIING WITH MY LIIIIIIFE??” etc, etc. After one particular melt down, the boyfriend, after indulging my tantrum for awhile, ended it along the lines of, ‘look, you’re healthy, you’re not dying, so what do you have to complain about?’ How’s that for putting things in perspective? Essentially, he was saying there’s no reason why I can’t do everything or anything I set my mind to. And, really, the only answer to that question is, nothing. I have nothing to complain about. So, here’s to not being a whiny dick anymore. Better living everyone!
If you’re going out on the town in NYC, there will be many times during the night where you will say to yourself, ‘that’s out of it.’ Some parts of the night fit into the ‘what goes on tour, stays on tour’ category – other parts, like randomly rolling round in a limo from one club to another (LOL), that’s kinda out of it. Or, walking into a club and seeing Rick Ross and DJ Khaled standing in the middle of the floor mouthing lyrics to their songs, while people circle around them taking pictures - well, that’s pretty out of it. Seeing Chad Muska leave a club and hop on his bicycle to bike home, that’s a bit out of it ay? Going to one of the most hipster clubs I’ve ever been to and hearing a guy with a bandana tied around his head Axl Rose style complain to his friend, “Dude, don’t you think the exclusivity of this place has really lowered in like, just a week??’ well, that’s just hilarious. Of course, I’m sure local New Yorkers have this kind of stuff happen all the time to the point where it’s just nothing to em, and that in itself, is out of it as.
Oh boy, what a day of self-inflicted pain. You know those nights when you think you’re gonna just have a couple of quiet ones and then go home? Yeah…nah ay. Went to the launch of the NBA 2k12 game, and at about the time we should have been leaving, we found out that Jadakiss and Busta Rhymes were about to perform. Add to that free drinks with the 80 percent liquor, 20 percent mixer ratio that seems to be the norm for bars in the US and all hopes of an early night were dashed. On top of that I decided it would be a better idea to not go to sleep at 2am, but to stay up til 430 am to watch the Manu Samoa game. Oh, did I mention I needed to be up at 630 am?? Approximate time of sleep achieved: one hour. On the bright side, I got to do a bunch of touristy stuff I wouldn’t have done if I’d given in to my very strong desires today for MORE SLEEP. F**k. the. frail. shit.
Just got back from a very busy supermarket stocking up on the basic essentials, water, tinned food, candles, matches etc. as we begin to wait for Hurricane Irene to hit. Judging by the weather right now you’d never guess a storm was on the way – the supermarket tells a different story though, with shelves empty that once held bread and water. But still, no one seems too worried here, more like a ‘better safe than sorry’ approach. According to this, West Harlem is at risk from flooding from a Category 3 Hurricane – and so far it’s sitting at a Category 2. It will be weird to see the city essentially shut down tomorrow from midday, with all public transport coming to a halt. Being confined indoors sounds fine right now though, I’m still battling the flu and sleep deprivation due to the humidity and jet lag. Yesterday I managed to get out for a wee bit in the Lower East Side and Broadway.
When Tua knocked Barrett down in the 12th it was sheer elation; the entire stadium standing, jumping, screaming, chanting. I would have liked to have snapped Barrett on the canvas but I was too busy fist pumping with joy, and continuing to amuse the two young dudes sitting in front who laughed at me every time I yelled something. Apparently it was not a surprise to those watching at home when Tua was not named the victor, but the majority in the stadium felt he had done enough. Tua all day.
A few years ago I moved to Wellington. I knew no one, and, I was a scrub. I’d worked in retail for a year on $11 an hour after finishing uni. I hated it, hated my life and most of the people I came in contact with. I needed to be happy with myself again. So when I was offered the opportunity to begin a career as a journalist, even if it did mean leaving Auckland and friends, family and the boyfriend for a year, I was up for it. In fact, I needed it.
But like I said, I was a scrub. I didn’t own anything, not even my own bed. Worse than that, I didn’t own a computer. It wasn’t until I no longer had one at my fingertips that I realised just how much of my communication with friends revolved around computers. Still, I’ll take loneliness and boredom over a lack of self worth any day. I preferred a city of strangers over familiarity as long as I could feel like I was doing something with my life.
I actually really enjoyed Wellington, but it was still tough. I mourned the death of one of my closest friends, and some other things went on that year which would catch up with me later. But there were a few things that brightened my days. Most importantly my flatmates, the Aro Street crew. At first friends of a friend, they became my friends, and really good ones at that. There was Fidels. The flat tradition of a late-afternoon hung-over brunch, hash browns, eggs, tomatoes and lots of coffee. And Jeff Buckley. Manaaki lent me his Grace album to play on one of the few things I did own – a shitty hand me down stereo, which required heavy books placed on top of the CD lid to keep it closed. I soon bought my own copy. Long story short, some of the best breakup songs ever written found their way into my life exactly when I needed them.
This is our last goodbye
I hate to feel the love between us die.
But it’s over
Just hear this and then I’ll go:
You gave me more to live for,
More than you’ll ever know.
Too young to hold on
And too old to just break free and run
Sometimes a man gets carried away,
When he feels like he should be having his fun
Much too blind to see the damage he’s done
Sometimes a man must awake to find that, really,
He has no-one…
Remember those ridiculous rumours that went around when you were in school? PNC’s tweet yesterday cracked me up, because it reminded me of the crazy shit that would get spread around. Who knows where those stories came from:
How about how Layzie Bone was part Samoan and 2Pac was Tongan?? um, LOL, yep I heard those ones. I love how we have a fascination or habit of convincing ourselves that every famous person MUST have a bit of Islander or Maori in them. But you know, being that us Polynesians are pretty choice it’s only natural to assume that every other cool person on the planet has some islander in them too haha.
Drake’s Fireworks and Leonard Cohen’s Chelsea Hotel No.2; songs that are both inspired by what appears to be fleeting affairs with famous women. Cohen writes an entire song about his with Janis Joplin, Drake sets aside verse two for Rihanna. Chelsea Hotel No. 2 like all Leonard Cohen’s work is beautiful and while there is humour he is also, at times, cruel. There’s the sex, ‘giving me head on the unmade bed,’ the drugs, ‘you fixed yourself, you said well never mind,’ and the rock and roll, ‘we are ugly, but we have the music.’ It’s evident there is admiration there for Joplin but the wry ending, to me, overpowers the rest of the song, ‘I remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel, that’s all, I don’t even think of you that often.’
