* A beautiful pregnant girl smoking
* A guy stumbling fucked up from sniffing glue
* Three punks, one with bright green dreads and a sideways mohawk; at the same time
* The two cutest emo-goth chicks I’ve ever seen
* My favourite barman walking into my favourite bar
* An amazing looking old Chinese woman, no taller than my armpits
* A Bhuddist monk in robes
* A stunning 5’10″ half-Malaysian model
* An elderly woman wearing a Fly My Pretties badge
* A teenage girl wearing a walkman and ’80s headphones
* A kid with a giant plastic scythe
* A greasy Brandon Davis look-alike
* Elvis The Hairdresser, who I see everywhere
* An old guy chugging a beer and chasing pigeons
October, 2006
30
Oct 06
Scenes From Cuba Street
18
Oct 06
Something Is Wrong With Me
Recently, as in over the past year, I’ve noticed that I’ve been developing an obsession with facial hair. I feel this is somehow due to Jamie and partly due to Burt Reynolds. I have seen Jamie with a beautiful handlebar moustache. It is really something to behold. It’s stunning. And who could resist Burt Reynolds.
I tell most guys I meet that they need to grow a moustache. I particularly like handlebars, seedy porn star moustaches, and full beards. I want to touch them, often to compare the softness and access the quality of the facial hair. Then other things.
It has gotten so bad that today I saw a geeky looking bicycle courier with a full, long, ginger beard. I thought, “God, that’s hot.” But perhaps it reminded me of Dakota Smith, Sexy Texan Gingerbread Man.
I don’t know what this all means, but I have a fake moustache in my drawer and I’m going to put it on and stroke it.
15
Oct 06
Rumble In The Jumble*
I went to Rumble In The Jungle last night at San Francisco Bath House on Cuba Street. Some points to note:
- The turnout was impressive. Way more than any gigs I went to in Houston, which is funny seeing how the entire country of New Zealand is the size of Houston, but obviously drum and bass is more popular here.
- San Francisco Bath House now fucking rules. They have moved the bar and it’s all fancy and great and the best thing is that they make great drinks and are cheaper than my regular haunts. Dave also works behind the bar, and Dave is one of those people whose smile always makes me smile.
- I knew almost nobody. This is the best thing ever! This does not happen in Wellington.
I danced until almost 6am and got home to the birds singing and the sun just about to come out. I am paying for that today.
The absolute best thing about all of this is that today I woke hung-over and got out of bed and stepped in cat puke. My lovely cat had puked over the side of my bed like the lazy fat fuck she is. She managed to puke enough to require my duvet cover to be washed (it was washed last night), my duvet inner, my spare duvet throw for when it’s cold (washed a few days ago), and the rug beside my bed (washed last night). This also requires four separate loads of washing to be done. YAY SUNDAY.
* It should be called Rumble In The Jumble. Because that’s what I accidentally called it the other day. It really just slips off the tongue.
9
Oct 06
My Tooth Fell Apart
There I was, being witty and beautiful, eating spicy prawn rice stir-fry at Fidel’s, and suddenly I hear a cracking crunchy noise. First I thought I’d bitten a piece of prawn shell or some unknown hard thing, until I had the awful, “Oh my fucking god, my tooth just fell apart” feeling. I spit the remnants of my tooth on to my plate and excused myself to inspect the carnage in the bathroom.
Fuck.
Alas, my tooth is now only half there, somewhat painful, and that soft rice dish will soon become an expensive late lunch indeed.
5
Oct 06
Dearest Pippy
You have been my best friend for fifteen years. I have always known you would be my best friend forever (BFF!!!) and unsurprisingly you still are. How we have managed to stay best friends is beyond me, considering:
- We were only in the same class for one year in intermediate.
- We went to different high schools.
- We had different circles of friends.
- That stupid evil bint Donna Groves tried to play us off each other for many years and make me believe you hated me and vice versa, including the-telling-you-I-hated-you-and-making-you-burn-all-the-letters-I’d-ever-sent-you incident, the incident you were so upset about you didn’t tell me for many, many years afterwards.
- When I moved into Wellington you moved to Christchurch.
- When I moved to the States, you moved back to Wellington.
- When I moved to the United Kingdom, you moved to Palmerston North.
- When I moved back to Wellington, you were still in stinky Palmerston North.
- Now you are moving to the United Kingdom and I’m still in Wellington.
The above reasons have led us to conduct our entire BFF relationship via letters, postcards, emails, and the occasional phone call.
I have a box full of letters from you (I didn’t burn mine) that I go through and read at least once a year. Because we are also BFF to the max, we have almost the exact same handwriting and sometimes I get confused if the letters I’m reading are from you or ones I’ve written to you and haven’t sent. This was plainly obvious last night when you were at my house for the second time ever since I’ve been back in New Zealand and you added a bunch of things to my shopping list, with me adding actual items underneath your fake ones and not even noticing they were fake ones because I thought I’d written them. Sometimes I wonder if you are actually real. Actually, I don’t, but my other friends joke that you don’t exist because no one has ever met you. I’m pretty sure you are real, mostly because I would never have done a dance to NKOTB without being forced by a crazed 11-year-old Jazzerciser.
So you leave for London in just over two months. I can’t begin to tell you how sad I am. I would say I would miss you, but I’ve been missing you for the past fourteen years.
Love you forever and ever,
Arnie-Bop Mopper