On a more cheerful note, here's my favourite album ever all mashed up. 'I Want a Spirit Machine' and 'Sunshine a Go Go' are well worth a download.

So Paul Hester hung himself from a tree.

Crowded House is one of the three bands I liked as a child that I still like (the Beatles and Split Enz being the other). And he played in two out of three of them.

Bummed.

I know, I know. You can't wait another moment. You have to see Michael Stipe receiving a hongi right *now*. I completely understand. As for the concert itself, there are some lovely photos here.

Russell Brown's readership takes on the 'why are we expats?' challenge! I was greatly tempted to write something to him myself about the Great Kiwi Exodus issue (one in four of those of us with university qualifications live elsewhere, as recently reported by the horrified Herald), but time got away on me and I'm sure that most of what I wanted to say was covered by these worthy folk. I'm one of the many reverse expats and my return home has been an overwhelmingly positive experience. As someone with a very oddly mixed background with strong ties to two countries, this is the kind of thing I ponder a lot (maybe too much?). I think my time in the US - which was also very positive, don't get me wrong - made my appreciation for NZ that much more finely honed. Yes, our society can be lame and dorky and spazzy and navel-gazing and ridiculous, but it can also be kind and progressive and unique, and we're still small enough and young enough for every person to feel like they're a significant part of our future direction. So even though we have shitty wages, that's cool with me. And I don't want to get all crystal-waving-hippie-shit on anyone, but this place is so goddamned beautiful and there are beaches everywhere and lovely 20th century architecture and travelling through these islands in any direction gazing at vistas makes me as happy as larry, it honestly does. (Yes, I'm mentally a very boring retiree. Your point?)

Someone across the street at a party is bellowing out a drunken haka (ah, quietly romantic New Zealand, nestled in the South Seas!) and whatever train of thought I had has gone... so, in sum: going other places is good. Coming home is good too. Um, yeah.

(PS I have to say that the thought of not seeing some people in America for years at a time does upset me. Aunt Wanda and Uncle Ted and everyone in Simmesport, among others... yeah, that's a bummer. Maybe our wages *could* stand to be a little higher after all...)

Oh for fuck's sake. Just pay the fine, Swank. How could you have missed those 5 million signs all the way through the airport saying 'don't bring in any fresh fruit or vegetables'?

The mind, it boggles. How...?

Ack. And what's even worse is that academic historians themselves are partially to blame for this tripe. Completely impenetrable peer-reviewed articles in irrelevant journals create a tiny community of elitist hacks who couldn't write a decent narrative to save their lives. And this isn't physics we're talking about, either. It's *the story of ourselves*. How are historians capable of making this stuff so fucking boring that hardly anyone reads it? No wonder it's so easily hijacked by this idiot. MEH.

This is adorable: weird things people used to believe as children. Here's one of mine: I used to think that all dogs were boys and all cats were girls and they grew up and married each other and had little dogs and cats. (Yes, when I was little we had a boy dog and a girl cat. But they hated each other. I don't understand where I got this from.)