Moata's Blog Idle
Once upon a time, long, long ago going to a concert was simple.
You bought your ticket, rocked up to one of the many centrally-located venues in town, drank beer out of plastic cups, got your toes mashed in the mosh pit, and (eventually) went home where you would drift off to sleep to the sound of ringing in your ears with hair still damp with the condensed moisture of a thousand sweaty armpits. Ah, bliss.
Nowdays some things are simpler but others are a good deal more complicated. I mean, yes, you can book your tickets online and have access to them on your smartphone. Depending on the event you might not ever need to print them out. This is definitely a helpful development. However, even if you don't have to print your ticket out you are also going to be charged a fee for it. This is something that always irks me when I purchase tickets online, the "please let us charge you for using your own paper and toner because we have you over a barrel" fee. It is generally accompanied by juvenile gesturing at the computer screen.
And now of course we have to organise a babysitter for The Master now when we want to go out for the evening.
Oh, St Valentine. If you'd known about the deluge of heart-shaped trinkets, couples getaways, miniscule underwear and jewellery of questionable taste that would be thrust upon the world like a sweaty, unwanted suitor every year in your name would you still have performed all those clandestine wedding ceremonies (assuming that that did actually happen because,well, it was rather a long time ago and details are sketchy at best)?
But hey, that's just the crass commercialism that seems to accompany every life event or minor milestone these days. If there's not an effing ugly Pandora charm to commemorate something DID IT EVEN HAPPEN?
But cellophane-wrapped heart-shaped chocolates and tacky jewellery aside I do think it's nice that we have a day that celebrates love. And romantic love, especially.
When I was single I kind of hated the build up to Valentine's Day. All the advertising with kissy-face, simpering couples used to make me wish that spitoons and "hoicking as punctuation" was a thing not just confined to cowboy movies.
One of the things they never tell you about parenthood is how much it hurts. And I'm not talking about labour, or breastfeeding, or even those uterine cramps you get while breastfeeding (like a super-fun combination of both discomforts). I'm not even talking about how much it hurts seeing your kid in pain or the fact that you just can't ever watch a John Lewis Christmas advert without feeling like you've been kicked in the sternum.
Nope. I'm talking about when you actually get kicked in the sternum, or head-butted on the nose, or when your child reaches out for something to steady themselves as they get to grips with toddling and that something turns out to be your crotch and suddenly you're standing in the kitchen wincing like you've never winced before because a very small person, has managed to grab, through your clothes, a handful of your pubic hair.
It's okay though, because at least he didn't fall over.
I'm talking about that kind of pain.
What does it mean to be a proud New Zealander? Does everyone actually understand democracy? Do only some people get to have opinions on politics?
These questions and many others came swooping into my mind yesterday after listening to Sean Plunket's frankly bewildering Radio Live rant about Eleanor Catton.
Follow up questions included "who stole Sean Plunket's brain and replaced it with a swarm of angry wasps?" and "What country am I in right now?"
In case you're not caught up, Eleanor Catton, Man-Booker prize-winning author, recently made some remarks about New Zealand, many of them rather critical. The comments that seem to have particularly bothered Plunket are to do with our current government, the neo-liberal tendencies of which Catton is not particulary impressed with. She doesn't equivocate and the comments are harsh. They're supposed to be.
I have to admit that for several years I was intimidated by the notion of cosplay. What was it exactly? Did you have to be into Anime to enjoy it? Were dice and card games involved?
I basically just lumped it in with a bunch of other geeky/nerd subcultures that I didn't happen to be involved with or know much about.
Imagine my surprise when I realised that cosplay is basically just Halloween party dressing but without the seasonal limitations. No need to wait until October to unveil your Wonder Woman ensemble. You can haz knee high boots any time of year.
I bloody love costume parties. Always have. I get a kick out of trying to work within a budget, or with clothes that I already have. I spend hours thinking about accessories. I research appropriate hairstyles.
I tried to get people to dress up for my Princess Bride birthday party with mixed results, sure there were 3 moustachioed ladies in attendance (2 Inigo Montoyas and a (wo)Man in Black), but plenty of people just turned up in street clothes. But of course, my fiance was magnificent in his handmade Rodent Of Unusual Size get up.
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