joy and sorrow

Waitangi Day
It's that time of the year again, our annual national whinge-fest. Skimming the local web, I see numerous bloggers kvetching about race relations. Delightful! What was once traditionally the domain of Maori has now become mainstream. Without even realising it, everyone's practicing Maori culture. Celebrate bi-culturalism! So let me join the grumpy crowd and add my unhappy 2 cents worth. What do you think? Are you tired of complaining Maori protesters? Do you cringe at their endless grievances? Are you well and truly sick of it? Then pull out your barf bags, coz here's some more.

[Cue: fierce posture dancing with intimidatory gestures, rolling eyes and protruding tongues]

Maoris face considerable hardships. Even in cyberspace. Especially in cyberspace. Examples:

# SPAM. If news reports are correct, online NZers are currently awash with spam. Lucky for some! I'd like to know why my email inbox hasn't been bombarded with junk messages? Are Maoris not worthy of unsolicited ads for viagra? Are spammers deliberately ignoring us?
Discrimination? Obviously.

# FRAUD. In all my years of on-line banking, not once has anyone hacked into my account (admittedly there's not much to steal). But that's not the point. Is my money not worth as much as the white man's?
Bigotry? Of course.

# VIRUSES. Everyday, thousands of NZ computers are attacked by swarms of viruses, trojans, rootkits and worms. Except mine, that is. Why is that, do you suppose? Are rogue computer programmers anti-Maori? Are the viruses themselves hostile to ethnic-minority computers?
Prejudice? I think so.

# IDENTITY THEFT. We've all heard scary tales of identity theft on the web. People having their online personalities appropriated. How come nobody's stolen mine? Is my identity 2nd-class and unworthy of being seized?
Racism? Must be!

Yes, Waitangi Day is a fitting time for protest, but also (paradoxically) for celebrations. Visitors to the top marae ground are often struck by this surreal ambivalence: at one end are angry mobs chanting, cursing, and scuffling with cops. At the other end - not more than 50 metres away - are haka performers, jubilant and festive, in both good mood and voice. And so...

[Cue: Smiling girls in swirling grass skirts performing dainty footsteps and twirling pretty poi balls]

The joys of being Maori:

# SERVICE: Never feeling neglected of waiting long to be served by retailers while shopping. The widespread reputation for thievery means being lavished with attention the moment you enter a store.

# TRUANCY. Maoris didn't invent school absenteeism, but we sure perfected it. For good reason. Can you accurately recall the finer points of trigonometry, iambic pentameter, or the periodic table? Me neither. The sad fact is most of what's learned in school is inevitably forgotten in adulthood. Maori kids wisely avoid wasting hours in classroom instruction when that precious time could be better spent acquiring real life education in practical matters like boozing (pharmacology), brawling (military strategy), or court appearances (legal studies).

# GLUTTONY: I've never been a food ascetic. Dieting sounds a real nightmare. I've never understood those living through times of economic plenty, aspiring to look like famine victims. True, it's unlikely I'll ever appear in a Hollywood movie (except perhaps as a Mexican cocaine-dealing gangbanger who inevitably ends up face down, immobile and riddled with bullets) but I accept my body's imperfections and limitations: I'll never be a basketballer as my legs are too short. I'll never be a model as my waist is too thick. I'll never be a porn star as my - ahem - is too big. But I've made peace with both God and the body He's given me. Lord help anyone who tries to come between me and my bountiful dinner plate. They'll have to pry those deep-fried donuts from my cold, dead (chubby, greased-stained) hands.

# BEING STAUNCH. What was was once called 'stoicism' - by folks enduring hardship with dignity and without falling to frail, emotional pieces at the slightest tribulation - is now maligned by wimpy boys and hysterical girls in a crybaby culture that celebrates weakness, like John Kirwan wallowing in his depression on TV ads. Hell, I'd be depressed too if deluded enough to think that humanity was inherently benevolent or that I could bawl my way to happiness. 'Staunch' is positive; emotional repression a good thing. Civilisation was built on curbing our primordial impulses. If I gave free reign to my desires, half the people I know would be dead, the other half pregnant. So harden up! Life is crap - get used to it. Get real, get tough, and just get on with it!

# ANTAGONISM: Perhaps my urban upbringing and overcrowded city lifestyle predisposes me to misanthropy, but I find other people supremely annoying. Fortunately, Maori culture is not well understood by many, so I can make crap up all the time and use it to my advantage.

Antagonising left-wingers: I love feigning offence around lefties, citing something they said or did to be culturally insenstive. The trick is to act hurt and immediately depart before any apologies or explanantions can be given. It leaves them feeling vaguely guilty about something they don't quite understand, and you have the mischievous satisfaction knowing you've unnecessarily ruined their good mood.

Antagonising right-wingers: Anytime some pest bugs me with their presence, I start waffling on about ancestors, demi-gods or tribal customs, while keeping a straight face. It's complete twaddle, of course, but those folk - thinking you're a real weirdo - retreat and leave you alone. And that's all you really want, isn't it? - to get pesky busybodies out of your face.

So there ya go, folks. The good & bad, the ups & downs, the yin & yang of Waitangi. Have a (un)happy day!

Top Chef returns

Not much to say, really. So, when in doubt, blog about television. I think I've found my couch-potato soul-mate. TV critic Jane Bowron picks Top Chef, Project Runway and Tim Gunn's Guide to Style as the best reality shows. Ditto all that! Ahh, a gal after my own channel-surfing heart! If she had included America's Next Top Model on her list, I'd demand DNA tests to prove we're not twins separated at birth.

Let's all applaud the new series of Top Chef. Welcome back judges!
Tom Collichio: Mr Custard. Velvety, smooth and creamy. Very more-ish. A fine addition to any menu.
Padma Lakshmi: Ms Treacle. Posesses an air hostess' non-stop hi-beam smile. Sweet enough to give a sugar-cube diabetes.
Gail Simmons: Ms Vinegar. Tart and acidic. Cookies crumble, souffles fall flat, and cakes dare not rise in her presence.

I'm starting to confuse this show with America's Next Top Model, such is this season's smorgasbord of gorgeous women chefs. I know, I do sound rather pervy. But I'm rationalising it as refining my artistic appreciation of all things beautiful (when really I'm just accelerating downhill into dirty old manhood.) Still, what a lot of fine dishes! Check out that Micah! Hoo-dang! She's so delicious and tasty and lip-smacking... and all those other cheesy food puns. Mouth-watering indeed!

And the others? Hard to profile personalities yet as there's only been one episode so far. But some first impressions:

The Blonde Guy: Very bland. Extremely forgettable. What's his name again?
The Mohawk Guy: Terrible haircut. About as memorable as the blonde guy, but with worse taste in grooming.
Hung: Every time he opens his mouth, I'm choking on tears. Cracks me up like a pepper mill.
Tre: Another super intense competitor who Just Wants To Win. Oh hello, Mr reality-TV cliche. Although, to be fair, he did win this week's challenge so he can obviously cut the mustard.
Howie: Sook! Someone force feed him comfort food! Or whip up a batch of valium scones and prozac biscuits for the big depressive crybaby.
CJ: Pleasant enough, but unless you plan on winning six consecutive Tours de France, I really don't want to hear about your missing testicle. Not while I'm eating anyway.
Joey: Insta-hate: just add water. Actually, don't even bother with the water. Obnoxious, ugly and fat (sounds just like yours truly). Waiter! I didn't order this crap!
Clay: Aww, I really liked him. But mah sweet lil' ol' Southern boy was first on the chopping block.

And so concludes the premiere. Altogether, a very appetising first episode. We hungrily await the next course.

Revolution!

I'm bicultural and straddle two worlds. As a result, I'm bilingual. It's true! I can speak lefty. Want proof?

"Smash capitalism!"

Not bad, eh? Still not convinced? Ok then, how about this:

"Down with the Amerikkkan industrial-military complex."

Pretty fluent, huh? Impressed? Well how 'bout this then:

"Dismantle the dominant patriarchal heteronormative hegemony."

Oh, I'm just showing off now. My remarkable linguistic skills were acquired perusing left-wing blogs. What colourful, vibrant, impassioned language! It's so enticing that I've been seduced by its rhetorical flamboyance. So much so that I'm renouncing my stuck-in-the-mud conservatism and will embrace the politics of the left. Forget those dour right-wingers mired in boring stuff like economics, business and finance. We enlightened progressives do fun things like mobilise, activate, agitate and educate.

Such is my enthusiasm, I'm committing the ultimate act of leftism: I'm going to start a revolution - right here on my blog. If the pen is mightier than the sword, then my computer, with its fantastic array of fonts & formatting options, must yield enormous power indeed. I've appointed myself leader of the revolution, because... well, no one else put their hand up. And the revolution was my idea, let's not forget. Plus it demonstrates my initiative and vision. That's what leadership is all about.

Mind you, it's not all fame and glory being a figurehead. I've things to organise like fund raising. Revolutions don't come cheap, you know: megaphones, pamphlets, posters and placards all incur costs. With that in mind... I was hoping a few of you crusty, old, right-wing reactionaries out there could spare us a few bucks. Otherwise how can we afford to demolish your sexist, racist, imperialist system? And we'll need cash to rebuild the infrastructure after the streets are reduced to rubble by rioting mobs. Surely you business folk appreciate that we can't build an equitable utopia in the smoking ruins of protest and anarchy. You right wingers aren't that naive, are you? (no wonder you need us lefties to educate you.)

But let's not be bogged down by materialist woes, or else we're no better than those 'capitalist pig dogs' (excuse my lefty language) whom we so stridently oppose. Our goals are far too important! We must end exploitation by ushering in a just society where ALL are EQUAL, and no one is richer or prettier or slimmer than anyone else.

So unite, comrades! Arise! Let's storm citadels, subvert paradigms, and overthrow establishments! My fellow freedom-fighters: you have my staunchest commitment that I, Phil, fearless, tireless and indomitable battler for justice will brook no opposition, nor obstacles nor hardship in our unwavering crusade for liberty. The Revolution begins now!!

...or maybe tomorrow since it's a bit cold at the moment and I think it might start raining soon. So a slight change of plans: The Revolution starts tomorrow! Oh, wait... no can do! Tomorrow there's a good movie on channel 2. Hang on, I'll just consult my diary. Umm, let's see... Friday night is happy hour; Saturday, I'll be too hungover; I've a Sunday hair appoinment and tap-dancing lessons on Monday. But I'm free the day after.

So we'll make it next Tuesday then. Agreed?
Good. So it's settled then. The Revolution begins on Tuesday (weather permitting).
See y'all at the rally!

looking good

My new favourite TV program: Tim Gunn's Guide to Style
I'll come out of the closet and confess that I love clothes makeover shows, and I never miss a Friday night date with (the very gay) Tim Gunn. Don't worry, there's no physical attraction [unlike, say, beautiful Jack on LOST - but that's a whole 'nother (homoerotic) story] but Tim's such a charming and charismatic TV presence. He could recite a book of random numbers and I'd slobber. I have this queer fascination with him. Ok, enough with the cheap gay jibes. But it's true, I could sit on the couch with a beer and a fag (and a cigarette) and watch Tim all day.

As a fashion professor, mentor, advisor and critic, Tim's emminently credentialed to discourse on all matters chic and elegant. Even at first glance, the ever suave Tim has enormous cachet. Would you trust a hairdresser with an unkempt mop? a make-up artist in clown face? or a stylist with a vinyl, polka-dot jacket? Exactly! Tim, always impeccably attired, knows his stuff. We love and laud both him and sidekick, model Veronica Webb, as they weekly rescue a woman from dowdy, slovenly self-doubt. Along her journey, old habits, attitudes and wardrobe are discarded. A pep-talk, shopping spree, haircut and facial later, she emerges butterfly-like into jubilant luminous goddess-hood.

Tim the guru teaches us many things. The ugly-duckling turned Cinderella motif is more than mere fairy tale; transformation is an archetypal experience. We all undergo metamorphoses from infanthood, through adolecence to adulthood and beyond. I went from skinny kid, to athletic teen, to hefty young adult, to become a 'man of substance' in my middle years (rather a lot of 'substance' actually). You could say I'm 'beefy,' which is kinda like 'beef-cake' (if English is your second language). We gain more than just wisdom with age.

Anyhow, Tim helps us recover from our shrinking aversion to haute couture, a widespread affliction in down-to-earth, egalitarian NZ. C'mon Kiwis, don't be shy to don high-class clothes. There's nothing wrong with top-end fashion labels, we should wear them without demur. I routinely sport clothes with labels (they might say "Made in Taiwan" or "100% polyester" - but they're still labels.)

Although the show's aimed at women, there's lessons aplenty for us blokes. Tim's helped renew my joy in dressing up. I cut quite a figure in a tux, if I may say so, myself (a round-ish figure, that is). But I do look forward to family weddings where I can step out in confidence and in style (and spend the entire reception terrified some drunken fool will spill red wine on my suit, or a cousin's baby will throw up on me).

Most importantly, Tim dispels that most common misconception: "looks aren't important." Whether your apparel is a statement, an armour, a veil, or a uniform, our vesture connects us to nature. Primping, preening, and showy displays of courtship are our biological heritage. The animal kingdom, too, regularly moults, sloughs skin, discards shells or (like my sister) sheds scales. Yes, it's true that our bodies are but temples (or in my case: a multi-storey temple with a courtyard, gardens and an adjoining carpark) in which inhabits our souls. But still, let's try to keep our temples well-coiffed and immaculate.

Revamp yourself, and your wardrobe, and your TV schedule! Watch Tim Gunn's Guide to Style. You have nothing to lose but your tastelessness... and your platform boots... and that canary yellow waist-coat... and those gawdawful crushed-velvet harem pants!

Hate in '08

There's a meme circulating, Eight in '08, where bloggers list their 8 wishes or aspirations for the year 2008. No one tagged me, so naturally I'm quite aggrieved. Thus I'm going to spoil everyone's happy mood, pervert the meme's good intention, and spread misery and ill-will where I can. That'll teach ya! I'm gonna do a hate-meme.

Know what I hate? Poms! They're bad enough in their homeland where we can ignore them by not watching the BBC. But the buggers keep washing up on our shores in droves. Well, here's a few English phrases for you recent arrivals: "Airport," "Repatriation," and "Go home!"

Bloody poms hate Maoris (how quickly they become assimilated into general NZ culture). They label us "savages" and "cannibals" and "animals." They say it like it's a bad thing. Worst are those pompous poms who denigrate the noble and beautiful art of haka. Cheeky rats call it 'vicious' and 'barbaric.' Vicious? Barbaric? I'll give you 'barbaric', you bunch of poncey gay Morris dancers.

Now, do I look like the type of Maori boy to forgive such unpardonable insults from a pack of pasty-faced, sour-looking slimey-limeys? I Don't Think So. Therefore, I present my "h8 in '08"

Eight Reasons to Loathe and Nuke the Poms

(1) Coz they're whinging bloody poms, always complaining about everything and anything. Let's nuke 'em; that'll give them something to moan about.

(2) The Spice Girls. Dreadfully untalented. The fusty five - Silly, Surly, Dippy, Dopey & Puke - mark the nadir of world culture. "I tell you what I want, what I really really want." I want them to go away. Or start performing for the deaf, in sign language, so nobody has to hear them.

(3) Bad teeth. Is there no word "orthodontics" in English? Apparently not. No wonder the Americans, with their dazzling Hollywood smiles, went to war declaring independence from the Motherland's dingy dentistry. Do terrible teeth result from the continual maw-smashing of soccer hooliganism? Or is it stomach acid from repeated drunken public vomiting which deforms and distorts one's fangs? Maybe that's why poms always look so miserable; they never smile to hide their unsightly chops. Thank goodness.

(4) Homely TV characters. Our good buddies, the Americans, invented TV so we could savour hotties and totties and babes onscreen. Immediately the Poms debase and corrupt everything by inflicting Coronation Street, Eastenders, et al on the world. Have you ever seen such hideously ugly people? Help, I'm blind! I'm visually traumatised! These aesthetic crimes against humanity should not go unpunished.

(5) Speaking of which, have you heard the expression "British Bulldogs"? Although it's an apt and accurate physical description of their womenfolk, I find it rather degrading and chauvinist. Are we going to tolerate that sort of sexism, ladies? Hell no. Bombs away!

(6) The actress, Kate Winslett, is an exception. She's beautiful and sexy and talented. But did you see her in The Titanic? While the ship's sinking and everyone's freaking out, dizzy Kate spends the entire movie dithering over which of two blokes to hook up with. Daft thing! As any Maori or White-trash girl would know: you bonk them both them and keep the one who's the best shag. Sorry Kate, but stupid girls shouldn't breed. It lowers the world's collective IQ.

(7) Gordon F-ing Ramsey. Have you heard that prat's disgusting language? Whatever happened to nice cheery cooks like Julia Child? Gordon's foul mouth is enough to kill the appetites of even the hungriest diners. If anyone needed an excuse to invade, attack, nuke & pillage another nation; it's Ramsey. Sorry, but there's no place in the civilised world for that type of speech. Sure, other countries might indulge in pointless warfare, carnage, slaughter and massacres, but there's no excuse for bad language.

(8) Soccer. They invented the most boring sport in history which subsequently became a global virus. Ever watched those numbskulls struggle to control the ball with their feet alone. Pick the damn thing up, you Neanderthals! Why do you think the Good Lord gave you hands? That they haven't clicked on to this most glaring anatomical fact proves they're evolutionary throwbacks. Dumb species deserve to die out. Even Darwin (a pom) could've told them that.

my mission

Holy hip-hop!
Yo! Wassup m'niggas? Just chillin' with the homies, gotta lock it down. Check it out! Are you down with that? Doncha be dissin' ma homeboys - I pop a cap in yo' ass. Just keepin' it real, dog. Know what I'm sayin'?

Oh, excuse my lapse into rap vernacular, I'm practising my 'gangsta' lingo as part of a new reach-out program for disaffected black urban youth. Inspired by Brian Tamaki, I've decided to start my own religious sect combining Biblical teachings with gang culture. "Thugz 4 Christ" is our motto, or "T4C" for short.

Using both scripture plus intimidation and standover tactics, our mission is to eradicate (using any force necessary) those disgusting, unholy cesspits of secularism that plague our towns and cities. What is our theology? you may ask. Our Doctrine? Why, don't you start getting lippy with me, now - you just better get down on your knees and start prayin', boy! And believe me, You Will Repent!

Remember: we know where you live, so you'd better ask The Almighty for his protection when the T4C come a' knocking. You're gonna need it. And you best hope that God shows mercy and forgives you for your sins, coz the T4C aint gonna.

Hallelujah! Praise the Lord.......

.......or else!

bleating bloggers

Is there anything more self-referential than the blogosphere? The ultimate meta-narrative: blogs talking about blogs, a commentary on commentary. Does mentioning this phenomenon make it commentary on the commentary on the commentary? And if I expound on that last sentence, does it then become commentary on commentary on the commentary on the commentary? Argghh! Stop it! My head's spinning. Like two mirrors facing each other: endless reflection of a reflection of a reflection... ad infinitum. Yikes, cease this train of thought lest people think I'm a philosopher and ask me to join the Libertarianz.

But isn't the blogosphere's self-interest vain? and aren't bloggers narcissistic? E.g, someone blogs about format changes: "I'm altering the font & colour scheme, and updating my link bar." How pointless and self-absorbed! Your regular audience will already notice, and first time readers won't know or care. Now, I'm not talking about YOU in particular, fellow blogger, so don't get all paranoid (a characteristic of narcissists).

And there's nothing wrong with blogging about blogs. But gawd! So many New Zealanders are whiners. It's OK to whinge, I s'pose. Why else did God invent Poms? Perhaps our British heritage predisposes Kiwis to constant squawking. But some blog groaners just make me groan about bloggers. So here I go, moaning about moaners. Here are my complaints:

# Stop grizzling that some bloggers won't 'debate'. Some blogs invite lively discussion, others actively encourage it. But never assume all bloggers relish argumentation. Perhaps they sense futility: often left/right positions are irreconcilable. And the religious/atheist divide may be unbridgeable. Myself? I opine on my own blog. Don't like it? Bleat about it on yours. If you leave a comment on my blog that I don't like, you can 'debate' with my delete button, and you'll lose every time. End of argument.

# Don't whine if your comment gets deleted from someone's blog. It could be for many reasons. Maybe you're deficient in social graces, off-topic, link-whoring, a flaming troll, or merely an idiot polluting the thread. Guess what? They didn't like you, your nasty attitude, or potty mouth. It's their party and you're not invited. So shuddup! Likewise, don't cry about someone moderating or disallowing comments. It may be to avoid weirdos, creeps & perverts (or complainers like you). You may think you're omniscient, special and important. Want the truth? You're not.

# And how about those snoots that post using their real names, who feel morally superior, sneering at us who choose nom-de-blogs. Protection and privacy issues aside, how do we even know a 'real' name is genuine? My handle is "Phil." If I used a 'real' name such as "Phil Goff," how would you know it's bona fide? Are we to insist on birth certificates? For me, the message outweighs the moniker. If I think you're a twit, it won't matter whether you're "anonymous," a pseudonym, or a 'real' name - you're still a twit.

# Some people moan that a blogger posts too infrequently. Now, all blog software comes with 'terms and condtions'. But not one, to my knowledge, stipulates a strict regularity schedule. You may live a life of luxury & spoiled entitlement, with every wish & whim fulfiled. Well I'm sorry, princess! But there are some things even your rich daddy can't fix; a blogger's posting habits may be one of them.

# I'm unsympathetic when people say: "This/that/your blog disgusts me. The language/ attitude/ content is repugnant." If so, become acquainted with your browser's 'back' and 'home' buttons, and resolve never to return. Failing that, call the I.T. people regarding the computer virus which keeps directing you to that URL. Or ring 111, ask for the police, and tell them someone has a gun at your head forcing you to read an offensive blog. How 'bout a leedle responsibility for one's own surf habits? If you keep returning to upsetting blog(s), ask yourself "why?" Or maybe you should attend Masochists Anonymous meetings.

Yes, it's true some NZers are repulsive, foul & obnoxious. But the Treaty of Waitangi grants them all the same rights as British citizens. It's noble to strive for peaceful cohabitation, but forget about any 'code of conduct.' Who needs more restrictions in Helengrad's never-ending ever-burdening rules & compliances. All the nagging, hectoring & bossing around. It's enough to make me wanna join the Libertarianz (even though they'll confiscate my Bible and send me to atheist indoctrination camp for re-programming). Count me out of a 'blog code' or calls for even more PC social engineering. Speaking of which...

# Who cares if the blogosphere doesn't mirror social demographics? Is skewed representation so bad? Anyone can blog. The fact that white men dominate NZ's blogosphere just means that more white men make the effort. Why fret over parity? What if we arrived at perfect gender balance?: 50% male, 50% female. What if some men decided to stop? Do we panic and insist some women also desist to restore equilibrium? Or what if we achieved 15% Maori blog participation, reflecting NZ's population. If another Maori wanted to start blogging, would we say: "Sorry, you can't. The quota is already filled. Please wait until a vacancy becomes available."

Does it matter if most bloggers are dissimilar to you in culture, lifestyle, or outlook? Personally, I'm unperturbed that I'm possibly the only fat, chain-smoking, cheap booze-swilling, kiwi blogger with an English pop. But if it bothers you, then put down your cigarette, your can of Tui and plate of pastries, ignore your father's moaning (if he's a Pom, he'll be moaning alright) and send me an e-mail. Maybe we'll form a support group to discuss how lonely & misunderstood we are amid all those other svelte, non-smoking bloggers with classy drink habits and non-Brit dads [rolling eyes].

Oh, listen to me gripe (did I mention my dad's a Pom) & grumble about bloggers! (told you the blogosphere is self-referential.) I'll shut up now, but one last word:

Dear blogger, I hope your experience is enriching, entertaining, educational, and enjoyable. But if the blogosphere becomes too depressing then do what I'm about to: turn off the 'puter and enjoy a smoke, some snacks & a few Tuis with my non-stop complaining old man.

oppression

I'm feeling a touch of self-pity tonight, and not without justification. Perusing the online speeches of Tariana Turia in The Maori Party, I was struck by the unpalatable truth about New Zealand: Maoris are oppressed. [Don't roll your eyes!] For myself, this unenviable condition is compounded. Allow me to explain.

It's no secret that Maoris are reviled; we'd never win a congeniality contest. Although it's common knowledge that the Maori race is divided into tribes, fewer recognise a separate internal dynamic at work inside Maoridom. Each regional clan competes for honour and stature. Some are held in high regard, while others are burdened by disfavour. And my tribe, Ngati Porou, is the most villified of all, despised by every other tribe. We are, in effect, an opressed minority within an oppressed minority.

The tribes themselves are further divided into hapu (sub-tribes) which exist within a hierarchy of prestige and acclaim. I guess it's just bad fate that my sub-tribe has the lowest status: we're the most marginalised, the most oppressed.

All sub-tribes, in turn, may be broken down into marae (villages). Again, these groupings are ranked according to eminence and nobility. When it comes to the village with the least esteem, guess who drew the short straw? Yup, my village indeed. Consequently we suffer enormous ignominy and persecution.

But wait, there's more. Each village is a conglomerate of that smallest of social units, the whanau (family). Within the pecking order which characterises every village, my family bears the most shame and denigration. As the village scapegoat, we endure perpetual torment and social privation.

Finally, every family comprises individuals. As most will attest, in all families there's one child who is most picked upon, the least popular, the most harassed. In my case that person is me. You'd be correct in saying I'm the 'white sheep' of the family. So you can see appreciate my unfortunate predicament.

Now, I'm not looking for compensation or any apology, nor sympathy. All I ask is due acknowledgement that I am, in fact, the most oppressed Maori in New Zealand.

stars in my eyes

I feel so lovey-dovey this evening pondering the nature of love. What is love? It's that heady, intoxicating, floating feeling reserved for that one special other. My objet d'amour is Michelle Rodriguez whom I probably spend more time obsessing over than is psychologically healthy. I'd be lying if I said the feeling was mutual. She is, after all, a famous star who doesn't even know I exist. But so what? People who insist romance be reciprocated are just needy co-dependent types (imo). They're neurotics with severe emotional problems who need a therapist. Not me, I'm self-reliant. By salivating over MR photos, all my anguish vanishes in a haze of starry-eyed reverie. No need for therapists.

Yes, I do like 'ethnic' women (any ethnicity will do), and Michelle reminds me of one of those really pretty [sic] Maori [sic] girls. Believe me, occasionally you do come across a heart-stopping indigenous maiden (genetic mutation, perhaps?) Who knows? Maybe MR has some Maori ancestry? Regardless, I absolutely love her. The Sexiest Woman Ever; if fantasies could generate electricity, I'd plug an electrode in my skull and solve all the world's energy problems.

For those who don't know, Michelle Rodriguez is an actress who played a tough Hispanic cop in the TV series LOST, a combative Latina policewoman in the movie S.W.A.T., and showed her incredible acting range portraying a feisty Mexican law enforcement officer in Resident Evil. Yet in a cruel, ironic twist of fate, the real life Ms Rodriguez is now languishing in jail for several drink driving offences. Yup, she's a time-serving law-breaker (more evidence of Maori ancestry, perhaps?)

I'm detecting a note of disapproval from a few of you law-abiding readers. So she's a criminal? So what? Oh jail-bait, schmail-bait! Don't think of it as 'crime', look at it as 'civil disobedience.' Or call it "libertarianism in action." Can I get a "hear, hear!" from all those tired of nanny-state's draconian regulations?

And who am I to judge? I'm hardly an angel, myself (don't be fooled by my halo, billowing white wings, and tendency to levitate engulfed in an aura of radiant light). And who are you to judge? Instead of your sniffy, finger-wagging condemnation, consider the benefits she brings. I spend my time fantasising about her at home, when I could instead be out there and up to mischief. See? She's helping to keep crime down and me out of jail. If I wasn't daydreaming of MR, I might have wandered outside and been hit by a car crossing the road. She saved my life! How can I not adore her? In the meantime, I've posted her pic so you can adore her, too.

P.S. The photo, probably copyrighted, was shamelessly pilfered from her website. If she discovers my misdeed and it upsets her, all I can say is: "Come on, my darling! You're in prison, so you're hardly in a position to judge me for any wrong-doing, are you?"

Lots of lust love,
Phil

Same crap, Different year

It's my party and I'll cry if I want to
I turn 41 today but don't even think about wishing me "Happy Birthday." I've too much to pout about being destitute with a grievously ill wife in hospital and six hungry kids to feed. You can see why I'm in no mood for cheer.

Anyway, the astrologically aware will note I'm a capricorn, which is the dullest, most boring, and depressing of signs. Our so-called 'best' qualities are caution and thrift. Is that cause for celebration? Who wants to party with a scaredy-cat miser? I blame it on my mother. If she'd waited 2 weeks, I'd be an exciting glamorous Aquarius; 2 weeks earlier, a charismatic fun-loving Sagittarius. But no, my mum had to spit me out in the suckiest part of the zodiac. (Gee, some women are so selfish and thoughtless like that). Capricorn's worst traits are crass materialism and the tendency to ruthlessly exploit people.

But who cares, I've no time for horoscope nonsense being too busy installing a paypal button on this blog. The truth is I'm desperate for dollars, and any donations would sure be appreciated. This isn't one of those tug-at-your-heart-strings, meanwhile-a-little-girl-waits, guilt-tripping appeals, but for once I'd like to feed my children something other than scraps from public rubbish bins or globs of old bubblegum scraped up from the footpath. I can only dream of being able to afford even a newspaper to protect us from Wellington's fierce wind gusts and torrential rains in the bus stop we call home. Then there's my wife's life-saving operation she urgently needs next week and which must be pre-paid. If I can't quickly find the cash, then...

...oh well, I guess my six pre-school children don't really need a mother.

But don't let my woes spoil your good mood. Enjoy your frivolity and wasteful extravagant lifestyles. I'll get by... somehow. In the meantime you have fun (since I won't be) and feel free to push my paypal button. Take care, people, and be wary of those manipulative capricorns!

Single Male Maori seeking...

The love that dare not speak its name
Internet dating is thriving in New Zealand. Excellent news for us single boys! I've tried to meet women online, even by openly flirting here on my blog. All to no avail; the majority of comments I receive are from nutcases who sign in as "Anonymous" and leave abusive comments. Wow, there's a heap of cyber-folks who don't like me. But since I installed a site-meter, I've been tracking IP addresses and discovered that I don't, in fact, have an army of e-enemies, but a single repeat offender. Oh great - I've got a troll. I wish she'd get a life. (At least I hope it's a 'she'.)

Anyhow, that anonymous internet stalker is my least concern. There's another family reunion coming up and I'm petrified about turning up without an escort. Nothing says "failure" louder than arriving unaccompanied to social events. Family gatherings are always bizarre affairs since my relatives are such a schizoid bunch, split between saints & sinners. They're either hard-core Christians or hardened criminals: half of them will bash you with the Bible, the other half will just bash you.

I try to avoid the law-breaking bunch; the biggest pack of thieves you'll ever meet. They'll pinch anything not nailed down. Heck, they'd steal the skidmarks out of your undies! Instead, I mingle with my church-going rellies. Yet without fail, every single one of them - conscious of the obligation to "Go forth and multiply" - will ask about my romantic status. There's no point lying as they've x-ray eyes that bore into one's soul. And how can anyone, in good faith, be untruthful to such honest-to-God folk? I hate to disappoint my family, or feel shamed or inadequate, so you can see why I'm desperate to get hitched - even with someone in cyberspace.

So regarding my anonymous blog troll, I'm wondering, when my relatives enquire, "Is there anyone special?" I wouldn't be lying if I said I met someone on the internet, would I? When they ask, "who?" I can say, "Her name's Ana" (short for "Ananymous"). I mean, my stalker keeps trolling my blog, therefore is obviously obsessed with me, right? Which is similar to being 'infatuated,' correct? Which is practically the same thing as being in love, eh? So in that sense, I can truthfully say that Anonymous and I are 'in a relationship' - and I won't have to lie to my family.

Please say you agree! I'd hate people to think I was just another nameless loser living in a fantasy world on the internet.

Random Movie Review

MARINE
An absolute fireball of a movie with not a whiff of politics but plenty of fast-paced, heart-pounding hoopla. Dispensing with cliched cinematic devices (like story line, character development, social realism, etc) the narrative is simple: our hero must rescue his wife who's been kidnapped by ruthless, murderous bandits (stop me if you've already heard this plot) Mass destruction ensues. The lead role is played by World Wrestling Entertainment champ, John Cena, a muscle-bound and ruggedly handsome hulk who possesses surprising dexterity for such a big chap. Displaying the lithe grace of an Olympic diver, he dodges torrents of bullets, somersaults from exploding buildings, and performs extraordinary leaps resulting in bone-crunching mid-air collisions, slams, and drives. We cheer as miscreants are pasted and pounded through shattering glass, splintering furniture, and fiery infernos.

I've one trifling gripe. Innumerable cachets of ammunition are expended in this movie, so it's slightly disappointing the film omitted any scenes showing characters firing two guns simultaneously - one in each hand (preferably while flying through the air) - a standard act so familiar to us through classics such as The Matrix, Bad Boys, and Resident Evil. But given the intense inflammatory action, spectacular detonations and high body count, my criticism is unduly harsh and petty. [SPOILER: Not all the bad guys survive]

Your young sons will love this movie. And if not... well, don't blame me for their psychological damage caused by your appalling child-raising practices. You shouldn't be watching movies anyway, but saving money for your kids' future psychiatrist bills - you bad parent, you!

Miss-communications

I finally joined the 21st Century - or at least the 20th Century. Yes, I bought me a cell-phone. And what an ordeal over a simple purchase! The woman in the phone shop wanted to know my name, my address... and all sorts of stuff. It was rather alarming. When you've been questioned by the cops as many times as I have, you become wary about divulging personal details to complete strangers. Phone-woman even asked - get this - my phone number. Being a smart-alec, I replied: "Don't you already know that? After all, you're selling me the damn thing. Shouldn't I be asking you what my new number is." She gave me the filthiest look, as if about to ring the police. I thought: oh great! Now I'm really in for an interrogation down at the station - the cops have got my number, alright. Thankfully, t'was not to be. We exchanged money and goods (and sullen glares) then I exited, excited about my new toy.

And what a flash toy it is! Shiny and modern, it can take and send photos. It's wafer-thin but came with an instruction manual thicker than a New York City phonebook, which - being lazy - I have no intention to wade through. My 9-year old niece was patient enough to show me how to work all the fiddly, wee buttons on the tiny keypad. She even offered to teach me to text message, but bah humbug! If I wanna communicate with someone, I'll just dial the number and talk, the good old fashioned way because, hey - it's a PHONE. Besides, I'm not the gossipy type who likes to yack all day. My messages are brief: "Hey bro, piss-up at my house tonight. Don't bring any dodgy mates. Don't want the cops turning up asking questions." There! All over in a few seconds. Can't imagine how long it would take to type all that on those miniscule little buttons. Especially difficult with my clumsy gorilla-sized mitts.

By the way, it's true what they say about men with big hands.... Don't believe me? If you want, I can take a photo of it and send it to you on my new mobile. Mind you, I haven't learned to send pics yet, nor can I be bothered plodding through that enormous door-stopper of an instruction book. And there's no way I'm asking 9-yr old niece to show me how to send those type of photos. There's laws against that; I'd definitely end up being questioned by the cops. You'll just have to take my word for it, and trust me that the hand/thingy ratio is true.

Hmm. Maybe phone-woman noticed my big hands, and that's why she was asking for my name, number and address...

Happy New Year... (sorta)

Happy New Year, everybody! .... and get stuffed! Yup, you read that right. "Why the unnecessary hostility on such a festive occasion?" you ask. Well, I had a disturbing realisation: I'm a complete prick who makes enemies in all places, at all times. It's true. Every relationship I've ever had has wound up a disaster; every friendship ended in acrimony; every romance resulted in tears (and restraining orders).

The following pattern always repeats: intro > bonding > trust > intimacy > disagreement > squabbling > death threats > violence > court hearings > unending hatred.

So I thought, "why bother? why not just begin hating folks from the get-go and save everybody's time?"

Anyhow, all you left-wingers who already hate me... hang on... start again. All you left-wingers, right-wingers, centrists, and 'undecided' who hate me, you'll be delighted knowing I had an absolute crap past 12 months. 2007 was a vintage year for misery. Wretchedly unhappy, with drama galore, besieged by conflict at every turn, I was a walking-talking soap opera. So be pleased, my foes, but enjoy your schadenfreude soon coz I'm cheering up quickly at the delicious prospect of making new enemies.

Right then, let's get down to business. Who shall I war with first? So many juicy targets: socialists, greenies, Aucklanders, islamists... one is truly spoiled for choice. Umm... eenie meenie minie moe... and today's winner is... [drum roll....] ...objectivist libertarians!

Recently I saw a photo of them protesting at the anti-Electoral Finance Bill rally, with tape over their mouths symbolising suppression of free speech. I couldn't help but think (wishfully): what a great idea, why can't they all tape up their mouths? - permanently! That way we'd never have to listen to them spouting long-winded, indecipherable Ayn Rand quotes. Ever notice that the anti-theist, Rand, encouraged people to be non-conformists and free-thinkers, and yet her adherents blindly follow her, lemming-like off the atheist cliff. Please, God - let there be some nice, sharp rocks at the bottom of that cliff.

Y'know, I might disable comments on this post just to deny those Rand-style libs a right of reply, thereby violating their precious 'freedom of speech.' Should they moan about it, I'll have a gargantuan big hissy-fit about 'property rights' on MY blog [sound familar, blibbertarians?] But I won't bore you anymore talking about objectivists, that's what Rand's books are for. And in the meantime:

Happy New Year, everybody (except for Randy libertarians). Actually, no - I DEMAND they have a happy new year, whether they want to or not. In fact, I hope the government passes a new law mandating that everyone, especially objectivists, MUST have a happy new year - coz that'll really annoy them (hee hee hee.)

legal lunacy

"Objection!" ...and other phrases I learned watching American law shows
What do I need to do to get sued around here? In this litigous age of internet libel, you'd think my many posts - laden with insults, abuse & slander - would provoke at least one thin-skinned, vindictive, rich dude(tte) to haul me up for defamation. Yet my efforts have come to nought; not a single writ nor affidavit graces my mailbox. Guess I must try harder.

Oh, and I hate to sound fussy, but I don't accept law suits from riff-raff. If I'm to defend myself, I insist it be against a wealthy litigant. I may be a low-down, low-class, low-life - but I do have taste. So unless you're absolutely loaded, forget about legal action, I won't show up. Whatcha gonna do? Sue me? Like supermodels who don't get out of bed for less than $10K, I'll not bother unless the plaintiff arrives in the latest model BMW (at least) and decked out in Armani.

Thus I seek a rich adversary. Who's an ideal candidate? Annette Presley? She's got the dosh, plus an internet business, so surely she knows about search engines and googles her name ? She's bound to find this post, take utmost offence, and unleash a legion of lawyers. Well, Ms Presley, if you wanna fight, then Bring It On. You may be rich and successful, but you're still - in my opinion - a wee bit on the chubby side. (Not really. And by Maori/Polynesian standards, she's anorexic. But women are sensitive about their figures, and get riled with those 'heavy' insinuations. Besides, she'll never sue me unless I upset her, right?)

Furthermore, she's the least prettiest panel member on Dragon's Den (except for Bob Jones.) Oh cripes, now he'll come after me, too. With crap-loads of money, he'll sue my cheeky arse, for sure. Which is sad, coz I like Bob - self-made man and iconic NZ business figure - it's a shame to be sued by someone you admire. He'll win in court, no doubt. But a warning: I'm broke, so if he's expecting costs awarded, he'd better join the queue and wait his while. Really, Sir Bob, it's senseless suing broke folk. I thought you had financial savvy. Surely you didn't become a property magnate by making such poor business decisions?

So here goes, I'm about to have the (Warehouse-bought) pants sued off me by two very rich business people. A modern day David/Goliath struggle. I don't have the law (or money) on my side, but I'm counting on our campaign journalists to cheer for the under-dog. I can see the front pages already: "Heartless Moguls Sue Cash-strapped Blogger"

Hailed a champion of the downtrodden against ruthless greedy business interests, I'll be lionised as a media-martyr! Until the editors discover the scathing bile I've written about journalists. In that case headlines will read: "Ha ha ha! Cheeky Bugger Gets His Comeuppance."
And public sympathy will turn. "Dumb bloody Maori," they'll mutter, "That'll teach him! The idiot is the architect of his own demise."

Oh well, whether people's hero or public pariah, I must prepare for court and need a lawyer. A real problem as I despise the legal fraternity nearly as much as journalists. Never will I line the pockets of sleaze-bag solicitors. And so begins the search for a pro bono lawyer. Hey, all you dirt-bag, scum-bucket barristers out there? Wanna represent me for free? Why not, you retards? Why don't you like me? Mongrels the lot of you! (Geesh, and they wonder why people hate lawyers)

Bugger it! If I can't get a freebie solicitor, I'll do the job myself and act as own counsel. Sure, I'm ignorant about New Zealand statutory law, but I do know my rights. I've seen those TV court dramas, like LA Law and Chicago Law and Boston Law. My iron-clad defence is this: I'm not guily of defamation. I can say what I like - my constitutional right to free speech is protected by the First Amendment. So there!

(And people say Maoris are dumb. I'll show them!)

Action!

Sex and violence
I'm a Bourne again fan. But first let me say: I hate Matt Damon. As one of the entertainment industry's most virulent critics of the Iraq war & the Bush administration, I loathe him on principle. Anyhow, nephew recently went on his O.E. and left tons of his stuff in storage at my house, including his DVDs. I'm overjoyed as I've boycotted Tinseltown since the war began, yet have never lost my love for Hollywood movies. Now I can enjoy the fruits of those treasonous liberal film stars without giving them a dime. Yay! I get to eat my cake and boycott it, too. And so it is that I finally got to watch Mr Damon star in the Bourne trilogy. It pains me to admit it, but I loved them!

Digressing slightly, Matt was voted sexiest man of 2007 by People magazine. Oh, barf!! Are you freakin' kidding me? Has global warming melted women's brains rendering them incapable of aesthetic judgments? On what planet could Matt Damon be considered sexy? All I see is a set of horse teeth, sunken hollow zombie eyes and a HUMONGOUS forehead - so huge it can only be filmed using a wide-angle lens. The boy looks like the ugly offspring of Frankenstein's monster. One must conclude that the editor of People mag is actually Matt's mum who rigged the voting to rebuild his self-esteem after a lifetime of teasing about that GINORMOUS brow.

Still, looks aint everything. And in the Bourne movies, Mr Easter Island-head has multiple breath-taking fight scenes. Maybe it's coz I'm a boy (and we're from Mars), or maybe coz I'm a Maori (and we're native savages) but I always thrill to onscreen fighting. Where others see only mindless violence, I find athleticism and artistry. And yes, even sexiness: anyone who can beat the crap out of bad guys using a rolled-up magazine is pretty darn sexy, alright. I nearly wore out my rewind button rewatching him butt-kicking the guards in the American embassy. Mmm-mm-mm. Sexy indeed!

And tough! The boy is near indestructible. Surviving car crashes, gunshot wounds, falling from roof tops and exploding bombs, he brushes asides these mere hindrances and soldiers resolutely on. Equally impressive is his miraculously healing face. Despite repeated blows to the head (and let's face it, with a forehead that size, it'd be pretty hard to miss - you could strike in any direction and not help but make contact) he emerges from every confrontation with nary a scratch.

Ahh, how heartwarming it is to watch my beloved Americans trounce and outsmart the Euro-villains, especially in their own backyard. Speaking of which, doesn't Europe have some magnificent architecture? Soaring, imposing edifices where one feels both glory and grandeur, mankind's spiritual yearning for perfection and beauty. Such a divine backdrop for non-stop carnage and mayhem.

But for all the hyper-caffeinated action, the Bourne movies are not without their tender spots. Several moments bristle with romantic chemistry and sexual tension. Who can forget his memorable line to Nicky, the beautiful CIA operative: "You'll answer my questions, or by God, I swear I'm gonna kill you." Spoken like a true ladies' man. Are you swooning yet, girls?

Yet despite many challenges, both amorous and hostile, never does Matt break down crying. Thank goodness. I hate blubbering boys. For us blokes, there's only two scenarios were sobbing is permissible: funerals and weddings. So if tears start welling up in public, there'd best be a priest looming somewhere in the background or look out, I'll give you something to cry about [boof!! bang!! bash!! - with my rolled-up copy of People magazine]. Otherwise, under no circumstances should any man be caught weeping, much less have such indignity captured on film. Well... unless you're Jack on LOST (who's so purty, he can pretty well do what he likes) or Chuck Norris (since no one's brave enough - or stupid enough - to dare criticise anything he says or does).

So in conclusion, I may have misjudged Matt. He mightn't have a cute face (or in his case, a cute 'FAAAAAACE' - given the enormous distance between his hairline & eyebrows) but he's definitely a mucho macho man. Hence his appeal. If I ever have a gay affair, it'll be with a dude like Matt who can beat, kick, and smash me up as a prelude to intimacy. We'll bond through aggression and punches - fisticuffs as foreplay. Don't worry, we won't lock lips [eww, yuck! That's just perverted!] except for the odd 'Liverpool kiss'. Yup, my boyfriend won't be no Hollywood hottie, but a Tinseltown tough-guy. Someone butch and mean who can kick (rather than kiss) my ass. Someone like Matt, who - on second thoughts - I declare to be the sexiest man of 2007.

That is, unless Chuck Norris says otherwise.

"Fierce!"

Wanna be on top?
Elated that season 8 of America's Next Top Model has started. Have always adored Tyra Banks and remember her modeling career first taking off. Even then she had her characteristic 'fierce' (the show's buzz-word) look. Mind you, any black woman with green/blue eyes will always stand out. I reckon her best pics evoke the spirit of Manet's 'scandalous' nudes, both "Olympia" with her brash, confrontational glance that affronts the viewer, and the brazen nonchalance in "Luncheon on the grass," producing the unsettling feeling that the (woman in the) picture is actually watching you. Likewise his "Bar at Folies Bergere" lends an eerie, disorientation that makes you wonder, "who's looking at who?" I get the same vibe from Tyra. She projects a commanding, direct, emotionally-loaded glare that almost intimidates viewers into submission. Pictures that not only look fabulous, but have power to move or alarm or shock with their intensity. That's "fierce."

I can't get over how stunningly pretty ALL the models are this season. Years of reading glossy mags has heightened my receptivity to beauty (or maybe that's 'years of celibacy'). Regardless, this'll be the most tightly contested season ever, imo. And the makeovers really worked this time. They've made some heinous calculations previously: e.g. girls with long, lovely, lustrous locks getting military buzzcuts, or short-haired lasses ending up with ratty, 50-pound 'wedding-cake' weaves. And the dye jobs were great, too. None of those ugly shades like cigarette-ash grey or undie-stain yellow. All their 'dos work. So, who is 'fierce'? who has 'it'? who is still in the running to become ANTM?

First the controversial stuff. I've one tiny peeve with the show. Every series there's at least one contestant with no front teeth, or a full-length bushy beard, or muscles bigger than Arnie. You just know they're never gonna win. It's affirmative action for ugly girls. When inevitably booted off, they gush in their exit speeches: "I'm so proud to have been in this competition to prove that even girls with 3rd degree facial burns can aspire to become supermodels." Please! This season Tyra proudly boasts, "For the first time in ANTM history, we have (not one, but) TWO plus-size models." They are:

WHITNEY: Her problem isn't that she has curves, but that she looks like a man, and a plain one at that. Her lacklustre photos don't help. She reminds me of Aretha Franklin... in a bad mood, about to deliver an almighty ear-blasting! There's "fierce" and then there's "just downright scary."

DIANA: A pretty face, but assumes a "European" look in photos (i.e. Swedish masseuse or Ukrainian shot-put champion.) Which isn't to say she doesn't have a career modeling. One can easily envision her on the cover of Power-lifter's Weekly or Wrestler's Digest. If the 'prison matron' look is your thang, then she's ya gal.

C'mon, Tyra! Enough of the feel-good social activism! Modelling doesn't cause anorexia. I watch the show religiously and have never lost my appetite. I'm sorry, but there's no way a normal-sized girl, or any model with even a molecule of bodyfat, will become America's Next Most Photogenic Toothpick. Just being honest, is all... and feeling sorry for those two lettuce-nibbling hopefuls who missed out. If by chance either girl does take the title, it'll make this reality TV show seem fake and contrived.

But those two anomalies aside, the standouts so far are:

SARAH: Just "wow!" and "oh dear Lord!" and "I love you!" Timeless beauty. She gets my vote. Has the abililty to stop traffic and hearts. Looks good blonde, looks good as a brunette. Looks good in pics AND walking down the runway. Would look really good walking down the aisle to exchange my marriage vows. [/ fantasy]

FELICIA: The prettiest thing I've ever seen since... the last prettiest thing. Epitomises the teen magazine model: a beaming lighthouse of youthful exuberance. So sweet and innocent. Arouses paternal feelings in me. I want to pick her up and adopt her like a cute, lost puppy. Unsure if that's a good thing. A strong resemblance to Tyra herself, only younger... and prettier. That's it, she's gone! Ms Banks will never tolerate that.

NATASHA: Started out blonde and dumb (what more could you want?) Now she's brunette and dumb, but still sensational. Resembles a prettier (if that's possible) version of Angelina Jolie. Sadly, her most potent weapon - endearing cluelessness - will likely be her downfall. "Fierce" and "pretty" are all well and good, but Tyra also likes models who can count to three and spell their names unassisted. Miss young Russian mail-order bride has a 40 yr old husband - dirty old b*stard. Hmm, giving me ideas... (can you order them by hair colour?)

BRITTANY: I'm speechless! This is why I watch this programme. To be awestruck by overpowering images of unbearable beauty. Brittany's an "effulgent goddess" on film. A classic porcelain doll who 'glows' in photos. It's almost hallucinatory. Perfect features make her an ideal make-up (close-up) model, imo. Anything highlighted (lipstick, eyeliner, blush) is set against an amazingly apportioned and symmetrical face that defies physics; even photons demur and bend to reflect her in the most flattering light. The Winner in my book. Just give her the dang title and be done with it!

JASLENE: Just kills me: androgynous, edgy, laser-eyes screaming "high fashion!" Lurrrv the unconventional ones, with striking, unusual, visually interesting features that coerce the eye, forcing it to linger longer over an image. Isn't that what advertisers want? Alas, it mightn't be enough. The ANTM winner makes a year's worth of TV ads to wax delirious about the ecstasy-inducing and life-changing properties of Covergirl cosmetics. Jaslene's "fierce" personified, but perhaps lacks Covergirl's broad wholesome appeal. Dunno if her thick Puerto Rican accent ["Do yo want luscious shiny leeeps like theees?"] can sell it. Gobsmacking photos, but missing 'gal-next-door' factor (unless your neighbour's the type to pull a knife on you in the subway while mugging you to feed her crack habit).

RENEE: Oh my, what a horrible vicious back-stabbing succubus! This season's witchy-poo has a poisonous yap that only stops bleating and snarling to cut, slash or bite another contestant. Annoying, revolting and hateful. Has there even been such a nasty vile cow in reality TV history? Or in TV history? Or in history? What I can't understand is how Pure Evil can have such a beautiful face? Say what you like, she's gorgeous and takes slammin' photos. So we forgive her.

square eyes

I'm bored, so I've decided to have a personal crisis, hoping to add colour and spice to an otherwise grey, drab existence (besides, in dreary ol' New Zealand, we have to make our own fun.) Sure, some may feel it's the height of tastelessness to wallow in neurotic self-absorption online with all the world as one's witness. But if folks weren't meant to engage in undignified public displays of mawkish self-pity, they never would've invented the Oprah Winfrey show.

Anyhow, my latest meltdown concerns the tyranny of the TV set. Whether it be movies or games, I spend far too much time in front of the box and it's rotting my brain, ruining my health and wrecking my real-life relationships. For instance, I spent Saturday getting a major butt-whopping by my nephew on Playstation. He thrashed me at every-damn-thing: kung-fu, wrestling, shooting, racing... can you imagine the resentment and frustration at being pummelled by an 8 year-old?

I retired in disgust, demanding his dad allow me access to his impressive DVD collection as payment for babysitting duties. So I grab a stack of movies featuring the greatest thespians in film history: Schwarzenegger, Stallone, Snipes, Van Damme, Norris, Eastwood. I doze off to blissful images of gunfire, car chases, explosions, and fist fights. I dream I'm my ultimate tough-guy superhero, Steven Seagall, adroitly trouncing a passle of malefactors: criminals, hoodlums, evildoers, the Australian rugby team (and my 8 year-old nephew).

Yet woe betide me. I awaken still brimming with unspent aggression, yet exhausted through lack of exercise. It appears my action-craving couch potato lifestyle has exacted a hefty price, both physical and spiritual. I have Bhudda's curvaceous figure, yet none of his calm repose.

I conclude that I watch too many movies. As a corrective to this dumbing-down, I'm pondering whether to eschew TV and instead acquaint myself with complex, challenging, and ultimately educational works of the world's great literature, like Plato's Republic, or Sun Tzu's The Art of War, or even Dostoyevsky's The Brothers Karamazov. A good idea?

Nahhh!! I think I'll save all that trouble reading and just wait till they come out on DVD.

the ultimate bun fight

I love Top Chef. Along with 'Models' and 'Runway', it's the best reality show on TV. But "blah", "meh", and "pfft", is my summary of tonight's two finalists, Ilan & Marcel. Both of them are equally repellent dorks. It's as if France and Germany went to war; who do you root for? Does anyone care who wins? It's a shame they both can't lose.

The episode itself was jam-packed with excitement and tension. It was the best of times: we got to see Sam & Elia again. It was the worst of times: we endured the return of 'Ugly Betty', whose personality can curdle milk at 100 paces, and that useless oaf, Michael. Why Marcel chose him as a sous chef suggests he's been inhaling too close to the gas oven.

Major props to Marcel for using what Hawaiians call "uni", what Maoris call "kina", and what everyone else call "sea urchins", in his first dish. Yummilicious! Although points off for spoiling them by adding lemon gelee & fennel creme. The only thing you should eat kina with is a spoon. And we really didn't need to watch Marcel urinate on himself - hardly a sight to savour.

One final thought: is anyone else suspicious of those rake-thin judges, Padma & Gail? They say you can't trust a skinny chef. It follows that one should also look askance at waif-like food judges. Unless of course their final dish on each menu is fingers a la throat. At least Tom Collichio is 'cuddly' - exactly how a food fan should look. In fact, I think he's rather 'teddy-bear' cute. I may even develop a boy-crush on him. But I won't elaborate, just in case you lose your lunch.

a weighty cause

Desperately Seeking Sympathy

Help me, lefties!

This is a true story. While walking along Lambton Quay, a woman holding a bunch of Weight Watchers magazines held one out and asked: "Excuse me, would you like a free copy, Sir?" Well that's what she said, but what I heard was: "Hey you fat b*stard, if you'd try shutting your KFC-stuffing pie-hole for a change, you wouldn't need this magazine."

Needless to say, I was horrified at such impertinent insensitivity. I knew not whether to storm off in an huff, to thunder with indignant outrage, or collapse in a puddle of tears. The encounter has robbed me of all dignity, and left me feeling disempowered. Surely this makes me a 'victim'. Oh, lefties! Please feel my pain! As I'm the size of two ordinary fellas combined, I feel doubly 'oppressed' - thus worthy of twice as much sympathy.

Can you help, lefty? Will you seek social justice for us flabulous folk, who are (quite literally) the most 'visible' minority. We're such a big target for prejudice (and I mean 'big'). I'd appeal to those mean, callous right-wingers, but they'd just tell me to diet, exercise, and get over myself. Surely the left would never dismiss the downtrodden. So I implore lefties everywhere: can you please wear a coloured ribbon (size XXXL, of course. And preferably black - it's a slimming colour) to raise awareness for the heavy burden we bear.

Please lefties! Will you speak truth to power? Will you speak up and speak out for me? For I - disenfranchised and marginalised - feel I no longer have a voice (or rather I'm much too busy eating, and far too polite to talk with my mouth full).

I'll reward the first lefty to champion my cause with a box of chocolates
(well, half a box, actually. I couldn't resist swiping all the yummy soft-centred ones...)