Cringe Factor

Have I fully of come of age? Because now, I am ‘That guy’. 

We spent Christmas Eve and Christmas day with some of Claire’s family, down in the big smoke of Auckland.
Twenty five or so loosely affiliated kin, together for a laugh and a smile and to share a feed. Stressful for those at the helm, a good time for guests. For me, a headache waiting to happen, even if I managed to survive better than I thought I was going to to.

The hosts have a couple of sons. Great young me, one in his late teens and the other, early twenties. Friendly, open and engaging young people who are a pleasure to be around.
Hanging around with them, as much as you can between long sessions on their phones or in front of monitors, showed up a few things for me.
Firstly, it isn’t hard to work just where I stand physically these days. I am no Adonis, no shining light of what it means to be at peak physical fitness or health.
Wifey and I are working on it. Not some bullshit New Years resolution, not some fad diet or gym membership as good as money flushed down the toilet. A real and genuine desire, over a planned term, to make change, changes which are already happening.
The sad truth is though, I will never again be even on par with a 21 year old, when it comes to energy and vitality. Those days are gone and thankfully, I can accept that.

Other things stand out. I am not into the same cultural stuff; music, movies, I still read…you know, from pages full of the printed word.
The big standout was humour.
I am not going to be so harsh as to suggest younger generations don’t seem to have one, a sense of humour that is, but as far as I could see, it wasn’t readily prevalent.
There was the standard good natured bantering and put downs, over pool tables or dart boards or the obligatory outdoor/backyard games. You know the type, fun for the whole family and all that. It was OK to have a dig, to ridicule or embarrass or try and make a fool of someone. But a one liner?
No. Straight over their heads or seen as a deliberate attempt to offend someone. As for a drop of innuendo? Met with groans of derision.
Sure, a bit of sexual innuendo is a bit lowbrow. Not scrapping the barrel quite like toilet humour might be, but a sarcastic take on what someone else has said is hardly the epitome of comedy.

I tend to get my comedy fixes from the likes of Frankie Boyle, Jimmy Carr, Bill Burr and guys of that ilk. These are people who like to push a few boundaries, tell it like it is and have no compulsion about stepping all over people’s sensibilities.
I have heard Jimmy Carr say offense cannot be given, only taken. While I appreciate the reasoning behind such a statement, I get that deliberately trying to provoke a reaction is treading on dangerous territory. The whole ‘too soon’ argument for example, as guys like the aforementioned are quite topical with their material.
Timing and delivery are the key with humour apparently. If you are going to drop an off the cuff one-liner, you need to be as quick witted as you are alert and aware. It takes a level of intellect, even if your humour is cheap and crude.
Gauging your audience is key too I would assume. Everyone reacts differently and if you get a group offside, you are never going to get them back. A mob mentality and all that.

It seems a group of young men, aged somewhere between late teens and early twenties, are probably not my target audience. I am not saying I in anyway offended any one and in no way did I try to.
Yet the ‘audience’ plays it’s part too. The more these guys groaned, rolled their eyes or made derisive sounds and comments, the more I was inspired. While they got more laughs among themselves from put-downs, snide comments and cheap shots, shaming each other, I happily carried on dropping a line here and there, many of which I was becoming fairly certain were not going to go down well.
Which meant, they went down really well.

Does it sound strange that it felt good to be ‘that guy’?
That I was able to find the line others were not prepared to cross, so I could leap gleefully over it?
I guess I ran the risk of coming across like a jerk but the reality is, as far as those around me of a similar age bracket to me, I was only saying what most people were thinking.
At least, they were thinking it after I said it.

Future generations are getting taller. Younger people are developing physically, more so than those of my age did. Conversely, many of them are not using that physicality, preferring back lit screens and monitors.
What entertains those who came after me is changing too. Their levels of tolerance are different. At an age when they should be testing boundaries, threatening my sensibilities, it is instead them doing the cringing.
Is that the way it is supposed to be?
I don’t think so.

The next generation are the ones who are supposed to shock, to test the norms and boundaries and to change the parameters. They are the ones who are supposed to challenge current standards and seek to establish new settings.
Each generation should stand up to the things they feel are oppressive, should fight the good fight and all that. Our kids should break the rules we set, as we broke the ones set for us.
Is it the fault of political correctness? Have following generations become too sensitive, too aware of offending the sensibilities of others, one minority or another, one marginal group or another?

 Or maybe I should just stick to dad jokes.

download

 

 

 

 

Creepy

What to do when your kids get spooky?

Culture has been a bit of a theme of late. The 31st of October does nothing to alter that.

Halloween is a tradition that might date all the way back to the Celts, but it is relatively new to New Zealand, courtesy of the the good ole U.S.A.
American television has made Halloween a thing which has caught on here, something that is growing in popularity year by year while some of the older traditions fade.
Something like Guy Fawkes was the go to in my day and while it is still celebrated, if that is the right word for commemorating the actions of the figure head for a band of terrorists, it is certainly not as popular as it used to be.

Regulation and political correctness and rules have sucked the life out of something as explosively fun as Guy Fawkes. Civil authorities still put on a show in many centers and good on them. For me, Guy Fawkes will always hold a special place as my birthday falls just a day or two before, meaning blowing things up in sparkly detonations takes on a dual importance.

All Hallows Eve doesn’t seem to hold the same inherent danger as igniting tubes full of phosphorous and gunpowder. Despite the lengths some families seem to go to in celebration of a 2000 year old bow to the spirits of the dead, said to return to earth on the 31st, no one seems to be worried enough to put a halt to things.
Now would be the time I could enter into a rant about the Americanisation of the western world in particular. How American culture, delivered to us through the television, is shaping and influencing us, particularly our youth culture.

I could, but I won’t.
Sometimes it is just fun. Instead I will share with you the fun my crew had with a bit of dress-up and some clever face-paint/makeup from their creative Mother.

 You have been warned!!

zombie 2

 

 

 

zombie 1

 

zombies

zombie princess.jpg

Glaze

How much do you care?

A broad question I know. And if I am perfectly honest, I don’t have any interest in your response, if indeed you bother to. Which, undoubtedly, you won’t, whoever ‘you’ are.

The thing is, now that the internet or World Wide Web or whatever it is actually called, is well and truly established, so much so the web has become an integral and in many cases vital part of people’s lives, everyone and anyone with a keyboard or a phone or a ‘device’ has been afforded a voice.

For a long time I resisted. Not because I was concerned or worried, suckered by one conspiracy theory or another, but more because the internet simply didn’t have a strong, direct, influence on my life.
As a parent, particularly a stay at home one, and living in rural and relatively remote environment, the internet and all it has to offer has quickly become a far more prominent part of my life. But there is very little of that ‘vice’ I care about.

I like YouTube, because of the instant access it gives me to new music and comedy. I like a tune and I like a laugh. So right there, I am entertained. I like search engines. I love that I can have the answer to any and every query, right there and then and I love how easy it is to delve deep into a topic, find all sides of an argument and even join in if you so chose. So right there and then, I am informed.
What I don’t have time for is all the vitriol, all the hate, all the ignorance, ironic in itself given the wealth of information and expert opinion out there and readily available at your fingertips, and not to mention all the bad spelling. For all the wealth of information and entertainment out there, there is an equal measure of ignorance, stupidity and plain old dumbness.
All avoidable, simply stay away from comment sections. Unless you want a derisive laugh now and then.

It only takes a few minutes, less, logged onto your PC or phone or tablet or device of choice, to see all the dross permeating the internet. You need a strong and reliable personal filter not to be caught up, or worse, put off, by all the drivel clogging up your data.
Not advertising. People hosting sites and blogs and all the rest, need to be able to pay for it or are in it for financial reward in the first place. Good luck to them and it is entirely up to you what you click on.
By drivel I am really referring to poorly informed opinion. The world has always been full of it – there are many who would freely claim I am indeed ‘full of it’. People will always have their say and full credit to them for being bold enough to do so. A keyboard and a potentially unlimited audience, just makes doing so all the easier. But there are many who would have their say regardless of the advent of the internet. These are the folk who carry their own soapbox with them wherever they go, on the off chance one isn’t readily available.
You know the type; the finger waggers and pointers, the head shakers, deaf to other opinions and standpoints, ears only capable of selective hearing. It is difficult to fault the passion of people like this, but it is hard to get on-board with the pig-headed stubbornness.

And then there is the abject dross. We are supposed to care, are we, about someone’s change in diet? About their exercise routine? About their weight loss or muscle gain? Do we have to feign interest in their crafts and hobbies, their holiday’s or travels?
No, we don’t have to fake interest, because this is the internet and therefore everything and anything is as avoidable as it is accessible.

giphy (1).gif

What I do here is no different. I do not claim any ability to garner the interest of the big bad world, any more than anyone else. In fact, if you looked at the number of followers/readers I have been able to draw in, during my few short months sharing my rambled thoughts, you would see I hold an exclusivity on mass disinterest.
My blogging is of no particular relevance to anyone but me, maybe my wife and then an decreasing order of interested parties, counting through family and friends, then vague associations and those who chose to click ‘follow’ for their own purposes and agenda.

I am not here, banging away with abject futility, to inform, to engage, to enrage, to entertain or to debate the issues, big and small. At best I am offering some observations, things anyone and everyone is welcome to share in, or not, as they see fit. Cherry-picking what, when and where you delve into the world of blogging and bloggers, is the real joy of it.
For my part, if I can offer nothing more than a few moments respite from the madness of the wider world, then job done. It would be disingenuous of me to suggest I don’t care if people like what I do here, but that said, it makes little difference to me if people do or don’t. Just don’t come here looking for too much inspiration, information or facts and stats. Lower your expectations.
All I can do is hope I am not boring, but more importantly, back myself to not be dumb, stupid, ignorant, rude or offensive (although I have no control if someone chooses to be offended). If I can put a smile on your face great and better still, if I can teach or inspire, absolutely brilliant.

So, while it is too easy to glaze over at all the humdrum, the sameness and repetitiveness and anger, hype, agenda driven rants or even the measured, well articulated but plain old boring stuff, go ahead and dive right in.
Delve into the wacky and the wonderful and the outright weird. Have fun with the bloggers world.
You never know, you may learn something.

 

 

You

Just be yourself.

So easy isn’t it. Once you know how. But self-awareness, and the ability to identify and be comfortable in that awareness, is not an easy thing at all.

It takes a heck of a long time to try and figure out the person you are. Not the one you portray to the world, or the person you want to be, the person you feel others are expected, the one everyone is saying who you should be.

I’m talking about that guy or gal in the mirror, the one you catch a glimpse of just before you realise someone (you) is watching. A snatched, corner of the eye moment when the guard is down, when there is nothing going in your mind about from all the things that need to go in order to sort you out for the day.

You all know that face. Your face. Slightly disheveled, straight out of bed hair, puffy ‘I don’t want to be open yet’ eyes, mouth agape in a yawn which releases the breath of rotten seal, wrinkling your nose as your nostrils are tainted by your own foul stench. You are probably scratching your arse at the time, on the way to the bog for that morning, clockwork, constitutional. Maybe you are itching at your nutsack, knowing any minute a stretch will attack your entire body, creaking and cracking you upright in preparation for the day to come.

Many of us are used to seeing ourselves like this, all of us. Some don’t care, give their appearance no further thought, are comfortable with how they look regardless of time of day or state of undress or lack of manicuring. Others would never be caught dead until showered and product in their hair and faces on and moisturised and teeth sparkling white and all the rest. For a lot of us, putting the face on each and everyday has not so much to do with how others might see us, but how they perceive us.

Wee-Man is not all that far off turning two. He is a robust little bomber of a boy, covered in all the scrapes, bumps, abrasions and bruises of a young dude furiously and fastidiously exploring his surroundings. The youngest of our mob, it is not a case of him trying to keep up with his older siblings, more a desperate attempt by them to slow him down.

And if he wants to do all of it in dress and tiara, then damn it he will.

His sister, E-Bomb, Weapon of Mass Interruption, has developed a fairly particular style and sense of fashion in her tender years to date. With two older sisters, I have seen all that play out already and outside of the odd individual quirk, there are few surprises. At her age, practicality isn’t always high on the list so a trip to the library on a hot summers day in gumboots, isn’t out of the question. Singlets and vests in the rain, tights to the beach. None of it matters. She is happy and is allowed the freedom to pick and choose. We have a climate here which let’s her get away with most of it and let’s be honest, I am not really the best person to judge whether or not stripes should be matched with hoops.

So if the Wee-Man sees a dress he likes, damned if he isn’t going to wear it. If that printed shirt several sizes too big, resplendent with pink roses, is going to be his thing for the day, or at least until such time as he makes a banana stained, muddy, tomato sauced mess of himself, then all I need to ensure is that he rocks it.

The only time you will ever see the fella uptight and concerned about what he’s wearing is when a sleeve gets caught, hampering his progress at whatever task he has placed all of his short attention span into. He may get frustrated at a full nappy, or having to wear one in general. He may want to wear boots and shoes which haven’t for fitted him for a while or are unlikely to for several years.

Wee-Man looks snappy in a cycle helmet while having a book read to him, debonair in a life-jacket bouncing on the trampoline, and positively sharp in his Mother’s heels in the vegetable patch. No doubting the little dude is a trend setter extraordinaire and there is not a moment when he doubts himself (in fact there are many…realising the heels are not much good on steep grassy banks has been a rolling, tumbling, learning curve).

There is no pretension. No pressure, external or otherwise. There is no mask, no facade. Nor is it freedom of expression, or self fulfillment or an abandonment of society constraints. It is freedom, at it’s truest and most earnest. What the Wee-Man decides to wear he just does, from felt-tip fingernails to crayon lipstick, top and no pants, pants and no top. Not a stitch.

It is the freedom to express himself beyond what he wears that is the true magic growing older forgets. Random yelling, growling at a fly on the wall, pointing at one thing or another which have no bearing or relevance.

Jumping. Just because he knows how to jump.

 

20180215_104905[1].jpg

Like everyone, Wee-Man can get frustrated when he isn’t understood. He has several words in a rapidly expanding vocabulary. Stringing them together is an art which still eludes him. He gesticulates widely and is very adept at getting his message across,. He is also quick to move on if he doesn’t. Because he doesn’t care.

Of course Wee-Man doesn’t care. He isn’t yet two. He is fed, clothed (sort of) and nurtured and loved and stimulated and all the other things that are supposed to be happening for him at this time in his life. What on this big fat Earth is there for him to worry about?

Hopefully, in the fullness of time, bugger all. Ideally, my son will cruise through life ticking all the boxes he has identified as in need of checking. All my kids will succeed in the manner they identify as appropriate, in the things they recognize as success. I wish them luck.

And I hope too, when they catch that morning glimpse of themselves, they don’t take a snatched second look. I hope my daughters and son don’t give that person in the mirror another moment’s consideration. I hope they scratch and poo and brush their teeth and get on with their respective days. Because I don’t want them to be searching for themselves or the person they want to be.

The only way to identify with yourself is to forget the person you are, as you see yourself and certainly as you think others might. And while you are at don’t try and recapture that Wee-Man left somewhere in all of us. Don’t force it, don’t try and make yourself spontaneous. A search for freedom is the biggest trap.

Just try painting your lips with crayon, coating your finger-nails in felt-tip, donning your favourite flowery shirt, stripping off your nappy, slipping into your Mum’s high-heels and go yell at a spider.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Holiday Hell

If you are starting to wonder whether allowing the kids to watch Deadpool is a good idea, read it as a sign the holiday period could welcomingly come to an end.

I think the plan for the next holidays is to produce and sell something. All that captive labour, already paid for. It isn’t cheap keeping children, so how about they earn a bit of that keep. They will be occupied, entertained and they might even learn something.

I say ‘keeping’ children for the purposes of this rant. If it wasn’t a rainy January, summer, day, then I might feel more inclined to say raise, nurture, grow and develop. As it stands, I am more than a little glad-and have been on several occasions throughout the holiday period- we live in a multi level house.

Upstairs is where three of them live. Where they are kept. I spend idle minutes wondering if there is a way I can keep them up there, I mean really up there, without a casual glance, from a neutral onlooker, revealing I have locked my kids in. I am, of course, aware of fire codes and regulation, thoughts of which must surely go through your wine addled holiday head, when you are busy contemplating  locking your kids in the upstairs rooms of an old wooden house.

I can still hear them. Loud and clear. There is a landing, at the top of the ricketiest spiral staircase I have ever encountered. Off said landing, the two bedrooms and a third room, which equates to little more than a glorified closet. Sound travels up there nearly as well as it travels down. I might sit down tonight, after a wine too many, grab the phone and load up Netflix, or whatever app/site/thingy it takes to track down an old school slasher movie. Tune in and wind up the volume. I’m thinking Friday the 13th. The first one. A classic. Nightmare On Elm Street even, one two Freddy’s after you. Wait…I know, Dawn of the Dead…introduce some Zombie flavour to proceedings.

Why this vindictive antagonism towards the kids you ask? No idea. Lies, I know.

I am not having a dig at them. Not apportioning any blame. Put simply, I am jealous.

I am jealous of their youth, the exuberance which comes with it. All that vigor, the wide-eyed adoration of a day which can be attacked, no thought given or spared on preparation, on planning. No concerns for consequences and no worries over how much it is going to cost. Whatever ‘it’ is.’Oh hang on…IT would be a good one!!

giphy.gif

The summer holidays are the days and weeks when memories are created. After all, you only ever recall the really good times and the really bad ones. So it is up to Mum and Dad to create them, those moments in the sun and surf never to be forgotten. The times when, in moments of reflection, years after your youth has passed you can sit back and go yep, that was a good day.

Rose tinted, isn’t that the way you want your kids to see their lives? Enough of the good memories, the great ones, a majority of good and great times, so predominant it clouds their vision, their minds eye. Helps them to forget anything which might have gone drastically wrong.

Of course, it is the job of Mums and Dads the world over to shield and deflect as many of the bad times as possible. Don’t we all want out children growing and being able to say their childhood was full of fun and laughter and no, I can’t really recall any dramas.

There will be. Drama and stress and accidents and major events far from favourable, all reflecting on those closed eye moments when your kids are adults and are taking a quiet moment for reflection. It can be tough not to dwell on the things making our adult lives hard going; the cost of groceries, the cost of rent/housing, the cost of fuel, the broken dryer, the dodgy ticking sound in the motor, that mole changing shape, hair loss, hair gain (think head and back).

All that and you haven’t stopped yet to consider all the things directly affecting how your kids are getting on. Results in the classroom, the dynamics of the playground, their social lives, developmental challenges, their inter-relations with you, with each other, with the wider family and community, their future education, their current one.  Their lives.

 After all, it is all about their lives, isn’t it? Just a question of how we as adults and parents, fit into all of that, being the biggest influence they will encounter while trying not to influence them too much.

So much easier to lock them in their rooms.

fuHk6.gif

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE WORLD IS A STAGE

The Killers, out of Las Vegas, have proven it best

Their particular brand of music, is not remotely. Not even close to their own brand. They are doing ‘Brand’ their own way. Good to hear, good to the ear. A good pop song is, and always will be , a good pop song. The Killers are the Cars. The Cure. Blondie and Talking Heads. They are a little bit of Bryan Adams, a touch of U2, and a big dollop of Duran Duran. There is Brian Eno and Lou Reed and Elvis Costello and there is, of course Bowie.

The Killers create a good pop song or two. Something that makes you bop along. I know it sounds cheesy, and when I do, have a wee bogey, a little bop, it looks as cheesy as hell too. I dance like a white guy, slipping a little on wet lino, trying desperately to keep up with a beat his knee can’t match and a rhythm his heart hasn’t been capable of for years.

Thing is, The Killers haven’t done a thing different than so many before them, many of whom did it as well, if not better. There is a cross over, like everything, like everybody. A gathering of influences, that convalesces in each of us. We are all, after all, a product of our influences. Her Indoors and my good self, have influenced four little people. Her and I are responsible for their individual crossovers.

For a while I played in a band. I was drummer, the bloke who sits in a room full of musicians and hits things. I came into a sound they were already producing. I changed it. Not intentionally, it is merely something that was, unavoidably, going to happen.

I was all Brit Pop. I was Supergrass and Oasis and Blur and I was Stones Roses and Inspiral Carpets and Happy Mondays. I was also a fair bit Blue Album from Weezer, I was a little bit Pearl Jam and I was a cliched Kieth Moon, without the talent. Think Jane’s Addiction meets The Jam, having a jam with Smashing Pumpkins, covering the Pixies, listening to Prince, slaves to the late 60’s and 70’s.

The guys I was playing with, the guys who allowed me to play with them, were Dinosaur Junior, there was Leonard Cohen and Nick Cage and there was stuff I had never heard of and there was stuff I have never heard. There is grunge and there is punk and there is rock and there is blues an there is three dudes with instruments and one with a voice and there we are, on a stage, reflecting everything we brought there with us.

There was pop. And so much more substantial than pop. Each one of the young men on that stage, under low slung lights in the back of a public bar somewhere in the south of Dunedin CBD, came with energy and lust and rage and fear and anger and fright and belly’s full of it all.

We came from warm homes. We came from loving environments. There were faults, in those environments. They too, were reflected on  smokey, damp, cloistered Dunedin nights, tucked away in the confines of musty old brick. Not the place for Young MC or Ice Cube or Beastie Boys. Yet somehow, they were all welcome too.

I was eighteen. Maybe nineteen. Truth is, I don’t really remember it at all well. Drank way too much. Smoked all sorts. Swallowed this, snorted that. Mixed and matched. Not as bad as some, as many, but I went pop.

Angst. The latter part of my teens. For boys, it’s always latter. Except where it matters perhaps, but let’s leave that thought for another day. For girls, I am seeing it form a fraction earlier. No, a whole lot earlier. What seems worse, seems terrifying, more frightening than a Rick Astley/Taylor Swift duet, is that the angst ridden hormonal thrust that is the teenage years, seems to come in a feisty feminine rush.

A good mate has a teenager. A girl. Two years senior to my Number One. Two short, apparently action packed, years. Seeing her grow, develop, is following Robbie Williams, writing the album, maybe on the last tour, the gist of it anyway. Now he has left the studio, polished and buffed and tired and frazzled and worn out and drained and exuberant, pumped, lusting the coming days, weeks and months and missing home and yearning for the road. Conflicted. Confused. Full of creativity and energetic self discovery. Full of doubt and anguish.

There is a shit ton of stuff going on. While some forty something guy sees in the new year lying on the couch on his own, in the dark, room not even spinning, because he hasn’t had enough of any substance to set it so, upstairs in the bedroom of his first born, it never ends. Her head is spinning for sure, trying to work through all the influences, internal and external.

God, how I hope it ends. Of course, I know it does. I can see where it begins, I have seen it over and over now. It is there, all that angst and fear and confidence and uncertainty and anger and push and trepidation and quickness and second guessing, all right there in the face of the E-Bomb.

The testing grounds, the three-nager. Just a phase. A very important one, it seems. Take all she learns, all she gleans from the responses she gets to her stubbornness, her quick witted, cheekiness, her blatant rejection of you, her overbearing love. It is all filed, all stored. All the smiles and the growling and the snapping and the scooped up cuddles. Somewhere between the ages of twelve and thirteen, she will access those files.

She has formulated her approach. Her multifaceted brain has been coding the program to be delivered when the time arises. Every riff, every bridge and melody, all there to be played to you. Back at you. Because, you put most of it there, as Mum and Dad. A teenager is no more than the sum of the influences we have given her and the ones she has found and taken on board on her own. Only difference is, that teenager hasn’t quite figured how to process it all. Some time in the studio and it comes together. The live concert can be a mess.

When it is your Three-nager, the E-Bomb being the perfect example, the response to the heavy metal melt down is easier. There is a whole combination of things from banishment, to a stern, in your face telling off, to withdrawal of privileges. The list goes on.

Sure, it doesn’t mean your three-nager is going to be open, receptive and content with your response, but you are in control. You have the final say, even if it is a physical last resort. Picking up your child and removing it from the scene, is always an option.

The E-Bomb is going to go off. Her triggers are there for all to see. Compared with a teen, I feel the buttons used to get her going are easier to identify. Not necessarily any easier to avoid, but at least you know when it is happening.

And I let it happen. Sometimes, I just start push play as soon as the E-Bomb shows signs she is about to do a Roger Daltry and lose the plot in a hotel room, go all System of a Down on it. You see, I have a day to get on with, we all do. I could wait, try and settle and appease. The result will be delayed, but it will be the same. Eventually, the E-Bomb, BYOB, will go off.

So push the buttons. Blow her up. Twenty minutes of carnage will ensue. Five to ten more minutes of sobs and gathering herself back together and bingo, half an hour later, on with the day.

Try too hard to placate, to appease and ease and generally be all sweetness and light, be the passive, kind and caring, understanding one, and the E-Bomb goes pop anyway. An hour later. There is still half an hour to work through before the day is back on track.

So I switch the E-Bomb from pop to rock, to heavy metal and watch her explode. It all comes pouring out, in a concussive rush, a cathartic moment for everyone in the vicinity. Like that stroppy teenager, she goes through angst, grunge, expressing dissatisfaction at her scene. Katy Perry or the Black Eyed Peas won’t appease her anymore, no longer satisfies. She gets a bit U2 Sunday Bloody Sunday, goes a touch The Clash before they discovered Caribbean islands, reaches for AC/DC, finds Metallica and then boom, System of a Down all over again.

If I ever go off like that, and it is rare as I am too old to expend that sort of energy unnecessarily, I need to wind it back down gradually. Cycle down through Black Sabbath, find a little Foo Fighters, a touch of 80’s fluff, say Poison because every rose really does have its thorn. Radiohead might give me Elvis Costello who will hand me someone like Nathaniel Rateliffe and I am happy again.

Not the E-Bomb, not my little teenager in waiting. She will go from thrash/death metal to a sleepy Sunday jazz mix just like that.

I envy that. The no holds barred approach to expression. The unadulterated passion. The openness and the honesty of it. It is like a medley, an old school mixed tape. Tape, people, refers to cassette, a form of media to record…oh never mind.

One day, instead of pushing her buttons, instead of pushing play, maybe I should push record. There is a number one hit there, a chart topper. Somewhere inside everyone, no matter the age or stage.

You just have to listen.

 

74f42bde39e1cb9046632f3be1e784b5--s-hair-bands-hair-metal-bands

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Selfish Guilt?

An impromptu day off. 

My wife is ill. Quite unwell in fact.

Not only is she suffering toothache, the first time that dastardly infliction has struck her down, but she has copped whatever horrible affliction that lowered our kids over the last week or so.

One after another, they dropped like proverbial flies, hit with the spray of seasonal fever, cough and cold. And it ain’t over yet. The Wee-Man is yet to come down with anything serious, and the big one, me, has seemingly dodged a bullet…so far.

Enough cliches.

My wife is a battler. She works long and hard and is a dedicated professional. She is a mother, a chef, a house-cleaner, a chauffeur and a counselor. She pushes hard and lately, has been pushed hard. So when she gets crook, it hits her hard too.

It isn’t like her to want to take a day off work. She is not the type to cash in her sick days…for any reason, let alone that she might actually be unwell. Right now she looks like death warmed up and even then, barely. She is certainly not heated through. If she was a sausage, I would be putting her back on the BBQ.

So today, she didn’t go in. Others are covering the more important or urgent aspects of what she does and she is taking the time to wallow, to mope, to sloth and to generally take on all the images that come to mind when you think of a Zombie.

I went fishing.

Am I bad person? Because I viewed my wife’s tortuous condition as a day off for myself. Does that make me selfish? Or opportunistic?

With her home, the kids suitably supervised if not fully appreciated, I took the chance to slip the kayak into a glassy, still, incoming tide. I paddled around the head of the peninsula, trolling the main channel in the vain hope I might bring something fresh home.

I beached, grabbed a bottle of water and then sat on the tide and took in the ambiance of Rawene, as viewed from the water: The comings and goings from the Four Square, cafe goers at the Boatshed, strollers and cyclists and traffic heading to or from the ferry, plying its trade on the still waters.

It was magical. Rawene is a gorgeous town, but not more so than when viewed from the water. I soaked in the brilliance of it all and marveled at how grand life can be. I let the ferry slip away from the jetty, slung out the line, and headed back for deep water and home.

I took my time too. I had no real idea of when I set out and no clue as to how long I had taken so far. The wind didn’t get up, the tide was against me, but only making a token effort and the sun shone brightly. Heaven.

I don’t think you can catch Mullet on a line. Flounder aren’t interested either. Ideally, I would have pulled in a Kahawai and if Tangaroa had been smiling upon me from below, then I would have hooked multiple Snapper or maybe even a Kingi or two. Instead, I came home with nothing but a touch of sunburn.

download (1)

Wifey was hanging the washing. She looked like she might collapse. I dutifully took over, fed the kids their lunch and sent my little woman to bed. The Wee-Man joined her for a nap, a bonus to what had already proved to be a great day off.

Bring on the weekend! Oh wait…it isn’t the weekend already?

I had no idea.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Taking the Piss

I sit down to pee.

I don’t throw like a girl. I never had a great arm, but nor was it a bad one. Besides, I preferred to field in closer to the action. Cricket is a great way to ruin an entire Saturday anyway.

If I have a feminine side, and I don’t believe I do, then I am not ‘in touch’ with it. Even typing it sounds a bit rude. I am not a woman trapped in a mans body, I am not experimental with my sexuality/gender. However, more often than not these days, when the need arises, I sit down to take a piss.

Part of the problem lies in the fact there is no latch on the toilet door. Anyone, even little toddler sized little ones, can push the door open.

I am not precious. Mike Bracey is not the type to suffer from ‘stage fright’. While I agree there are some things best done alone, I am still capable of doing them in the presence of others, if need be. What bloke hasn’t been to a urinal? But a toilet bowl in an en-suite bathroom is no urinal. Theoretically, I should have the place to myself. I don’t.

I’m all for a little up and coming man being taught the ropes of manhood by his male seniors. Isn’t that part of being a parent, the point of being a Dad? Raising the next generation, training and guiding and encouraging and mentoring and all that.

Yes, I hear you all chorus, so is the way of the world. Man and boy. But the way to teach a man to urinate is not to shower him in my own steamy stream.

“For goodness sake boy, get your head out of there.”

My Wee-Man (suddenly that moniker has taken on a whole new meaning) has a fascination for all things wet. He loves water, in all its forms. Cool. I am a bit of a water baby myself. My love of the water, however, does not extend to the toilet bowl.

Wee-Man will lift the lid, stare intently, drop this and that in, lean too far and threaten to take a dip. And if he hears the tinkling sound of piss, he is all for the yellow waterfall.

So I have taken to barricading myself in. I sneak away, careful to make my departure is as unnoticeable as possible, suitable distractions in place. I close the bedroom door, then the bathroom door, then due to the lack of a latch, place the heaviest available item up against it. That item isn’t the scales in case you are wondering. They don’t get heavy until I put my feet on them.

Seems excessive just to avoid pissing on my sons head, but at least it avoids the inevitable clean-up and any awkward questions from the Mrs. His time will come. Right now, he is vertically challenged and is yet to fully master the concept of balance.

At least he is yet to wriggle his way onto my lap why I am reading the sports news.

goofy-babies-014.jpg

 

Look and learn

I’m drunk. (Well I was when I started this…)

Not so drunk that I don’t have motor control, or have lost focus, or my basic functions are making a fool of me. There is but the one monitor in front of me, my fingers are about as co-operative with the keyboard as they ever are.

So, I have had drink but I am not blotto.

Perhaps too drunk to blog.

I drink. Not to excess (read occasionally) and not all the time (read regularly).

The reality is, as I age, as I am handed one health report after another ( I have visited the doctor more times in the last year than I have in my entire life) I can no longer handle drinking to excess, in the one sitting.

Notice how I quantified that?

I no longer have the ability, or time, to recover from drinking to excess, which is now a multi day process. Sink a few on the Friday night in front of the footy…Monday at best. Down one or two extra on Saturday as my team (Highlanders by the way, in case you didn’t know)…Tuesday, afternoon. At best.

It is an aging thing. My tired old body, all aching joints and tortured internal organs, just can’t process my lust for my younger days anymore. Back then, in the so called good old days, I could smoke, smoke, drink, smoke some more, drink some more and get up a mere few hours later and do it all again.

In between I could hike, swim in the surf, play sports, work and do whatever took my fancy and not really care that I might be able to do it all that bit better, if I wasn’t supplementing my diet with alcohol.

Now, I don’t get on the piss and I don’t really know anyone that does. I drink and we all do and we don’t call it that anymore.

We imbibe.

Well, fuck that, I don’t. I ‘have a few’.

I can always ‘go one more’…

One for the road? I ain’t eating those ghost chips.

Drinking has made me learn some very valuable lessons in my life. Ones I might not have learned otherwise. Many, however, I would have never needed to learn. And there are bound to be a few I have forgotten.

Like I say, the binge drinking, the getting ‘on the piss’… all gone. Long gone and not missed. Now don’t go getting me wrong. I can still party, can still be the life of said party and I would like to think, I can do it without having to ‘imbibe’.

I have always struggled stopping at one but, I have come to notice, only when I am out. I can have a beer or a wine with lunch, feel very continental about myself, and never has my wife come home from work to find me comatose on the floor, the kids having made one wall of a fort from of my prostrate body.

But if  I meet said wife in town…well okay, not here town, but somewhere metropolitan town, then it is all on.

Ok, got me again. I just finished saying that it is far from being ‘all on’ ever again. Put it this way…you can drive, I won’t be able to. All going well, I ‘ll struggle to negotiate a straight line on foot.

I guess, in my own rambling, awkward to follow ‘what the fuck did he just say?’ manner, I am slowly working towards a point.

Responsibility.

It comes in all forms, all shapes and sizes and manners. Being responsible for your own actions, your own interactions, responsible for how you are perceived. The last one is difficult, a grey area when you consider a great deal of how one is perceived, comes down to the perceiver-not a word, but it should be.

At home, how you look, act and behave is very much something you are responsible for, something you have to be highly aware of… I will debate till cows come home the merits of people in our society being role models. People like sports stars, pop culture idols or musicians and the like.

As a parent you are the ultimate role model and as such, you have an inherent responsibility, to at least be seen to be doing the right thing.

To be right, correct, getting it all spot on all the time, is an impossible ask and beyond anyone. No one should, or indeed is, expected to live up to standards that are beyond us. All you have to do is stay aware and remember that everything you do, every step you take, every move you make (thanks The Police) they are watching you?

They, you might ask? You might not, but i am working on the assumption you did. The more perceptive among you know I am referring to the the great ‘They’…the kids.

They imitate. They replicate. They idolise. Kids, obviously, literally look up to you (unless you are my dear wife, who is starting to get taken over in that department) and it is vitally important you set the right example, the right standard.

Now don’t get me wrong, this is no sanctimonious, ‘my life is perfect’ rant. If you need examples of how I roll then sure…

I swear around my kids. I have even sworn at the them. The mild stuff of course, the type of thing that probably isn’t even considered swearing any more.

I knock my kids. In a very un-P.C way I give them all sorts of grief. Don’t worry, they give it back. I’m an easy target.

I mock them too. I put them down, I drag them through the mud and wring them out at the other end and you know the best part of it? They love it.

The thing is their mother and I have made it clear that it is all in jest. That there are boundaries and never be afraid to let someone know when someone is approaching them. The biggest lesson we have taught our kids, without actively doing so, is the importance of a sense of humour.

Kids don’t take themselves too seriously…for now at least. In their teens, way too seriously, but those days are yet to come. In the meantime all we can hope for is that our kids stand back and have a laugh now and then.

Yes, there are limits and yes, you need to be aware not just of yours, but of others. That is where the responsibility part comes into play.

So my kids see me drink, even drunk, but not a blithering idiot. They know the effects of alcohol and they know the detrimental side.

So my kids hear swear words. They recognise them as such and they know the time and place for them, know that it is lazy English. Know not to use them. They know that poking a bit of cheek at someone for a laugh is just that, having a laugh. They know that picking on someone is bullying. They know to be responsible for their own behaviour.

My kids know I drink responsibly, if there really is such a thing. Hopefully they will know to do the same.

And we know we are responsible for their responsibility. If that makes sense.

 

images