Back again. Exodus, the organisation that says it 'cures' gay people, makes for some fascinating subject matter. Some of this is so disturbing, and even hilarious, particularly the descriptions of the 'cured', who often come off just as queeny as a Sydney Mardi Gras: 'Probably the biggest gender freak was retired Exodus president Sy Rogers. Rogers, a former preoperative transsexual, is now a married minister who still vamps around like a catty little hustler. Once accused of being effeminate during an appearance on Donahue, Rogers retorted hotly, "I am light years from panty hose, buster!" Snap!'

Don't ask me why I was looking at the 'Naked Librarian' website at work (duh!), but I was struck by this not-very-naked-at-all-so-therefore-safe-to-look-at-at-work before and after early Playboy spread. 'A little unbiased cogitation, of course, should have led us to the conclusion that there's no reason why a librarian can't be as lovely as any other lass, as dewy as a decimal system, as stacked as the stacks she supervises...' Indeed! Good on ya, Hef. Or something.

Green Apple Mentos: not exactly 'The Freshmaker', but nonetheless rather spiffy.

There is something wrong with a climate which allows fleas free and happy reign all over my pets. There is also something wrong with paying $70 to get rid of them all. Meh.

Ellie is, however, in 'excellent health'. The vet said he 'couldn't fault her'. I feel so proud.

England won. ACK.

Lita sent this in the mail a few weeks ago: why Granny still rules our hearts.

Sure, you fuckers. Resoundingly kick the French team's ass in the playoff for *third place*. Could you not have done that *five days ago*, when it actually *counted*? MEH. Thank god it's cricket season now and I have no hope left...

In other, joyous news, David Bowie is playing Wellington on February 14th! We get to spend a weekend in lovely Wellington *and* see David Bowie! How fabulous is that?

Happy birthday to Brent! He has reached 33, which is a cool-looking age. And in four months he'll be the title of a George Harrison album...

In other rugby-related news, I am in a quandary: I hate the English team, and I hate the Aussie fans. Who to support?

Probably - gulp - Australia. At least their team members are fairly decent. And they were quite gracious when we beat them in the Tri-Nations, which was unexpected.
Besides, we've recently lost to England, so if they win we have *nothing* to comfort us. At least if Australia wins we can think 'hey! We scored fifty points against you earlier this year!'

Bah. This is not a decision I expected to be making at this point.

Once again, Russell Brown captures our post-rugby mood perfectly.

Brent and I got married two years ago today. I haven't seen some of the people at the wedding *since* then (Siobhan and Danni, hint, hint, when are you coming home?, hint, hint). This is bung!

Last night we went to a pub with a group of people to watch the All Blacks' apparently certain entrance into the World Cup final next week. Instead, fucking Australia gave us a completely humiliating drubbing. Final score: 22-10.

I just don't get it. We were a better team all the way through the tournament. Seriously. Maybe those thousands of Aussies baying for our blood in that stadium had something to do with it... the boys played like shit, and the Wallabies raised their game in response.

The whole country is in mourning. It's early on a sunny Sunday and as I look out across the little valley we live in I can feel waves of disappointment rising from all the houses like a meteorological condition. Last night Brent told me that he knows a New Zealand teacher who barracks for Australia when we play each other because he thinks New Zealand's intense love affair with rugby is detrimental to our other non-sporting achievements. He's probably right, but the thought of cheering on the Wallabies, as a New Zealander... I could never do it. Never.

I can't believe I'm saying this, but I think I want the French to win it all. Go France.

Brent got a job for next year! Yay! And here is his new school.

The other day (coincidentally, the same day Brent came up with the baldy theory), we were at the motorway on-ramp in Te Atatu. We pulled up behind a car with a bumper sticker that said 'I [heart] Barbershop Harmony'.

I don't need to say anything else, do I?

During the weekend, I watched a documentary about skinheads called '100% White'. A photographer had taken photos ten years ago of a tight-knit gang of British skinheads, and he tracked three of them down and interviewed them about those old times and how their political beliefs had affected their lives and the lives of those around them. All of them had toned down their rhetoric in order to fit in with (relatively) mainstream society, but they were still amazingly racist - especially considering certain bizarre facts, like one of them having a very close black friend, or another actually having a sexual relationship with a 'half-caste' woman (this man actually had '100% white' tattooed around his navel). The former chap said that he no longer felt the same way about black people as a result of his friendship, but he still wanted to send all Pakistanis 'home' and was very twitchy about gay men. It was all quite, quite odd. And they were all so *angry*! The third man was in three different kinds of anger management therapy by the time the documentary was finished... yet he still felt that he couldn't comfortably start group therapy in case he was in a group with a black man or a gay man.

People waste a lot of time hating each other, don't they?

Brent doesn't know who Asterix is. What the *fuck*, Americans? What do your children actually *read*??

This morning in the car, Brent came up with the 'bald lead singer equals declining sales' theory of popular culture. He says that the public will accept a band with a bald lead singer for *one* album, as a kind of experimental 'look', but will then reject an ongoing, aggressive shavenheadedness. He cited Michael Stipe, Moby, and Billy Corgan as examples. I, ever the doubting Thomas, noted that Live were inexplicably huge with a bald lead singer, but was forced to retract as I realised that they were only huge for one album and then, miraculously, were gone. It also occurs to me, sitting here, that the converse may be true in hip-hop, where a shaven head is practically the norm. Hrm.

We are dorks. :)

It's extra-posty-posty day, but I also need to put *this* out there: I am worried about the rugby. That match with Wales was immensely entertaining, but it was way too close. Cue American football coach voice: what about playing some fuckin' *D*, boys?

Shit, while I'm in a congratulatory mood, let's give a shout-out to Ben, who was recently hitched. Well, I'm assuming he was, since he's been suspiciously silent since the big day last week. It's a touching tale: despite the trials and tribulations of being cock-blocked by Bill Clinton, he finds eternal happiness after all...

Sudden, amusing thought: I am quite possibly the only person in Auckland to be at both the White Stripes *and* Manhattan Transfer shows. Hee.

And happy birthday to Alex, who by my watch actually turned 29 yesterday, but since it *is* yesterday over there... well, you know what I mean.

Happy birthday, Danni! Wish I was in Paris with you and Eunice...

I am about to create the uncoolest sentence written by anyone ever in the history of western civilisation. Are you ready?

I saw The Manhattan Transfer on Friday night, and I thought they were terrific.

Now, I saw them because it was a birthday present for my mother and *she* wanted to see them. But I was totally won over! Yeah, on record they're cheesy and derivative and all the modern conceptual jazz stuff is horribly wanky, yeah, if you love the Pied Pipers and the Mills Brothers so much why don't you just go and *listen* to them rather than ripping them off, yeah, yeah, I know... but it has to be said: the live version of 'The Boy from New York City' kicked veritable ass! Seriously! And where else are you going to hear a gorgeously four-part harmonised 'Embraceable You' with the entire Auckland Philharmonia? No, I'm going to have to say I enjoyed it. A lot. I am irredeemably dorky.