Prediction

I could have told you so.

In fact, I tried.
For a long time I have toyed with a post apocalyptic tale. The working title is Host, an exert of which can be found here…if you can be bothered scrolling through the tripe my brain tends to throw out at random.

Host though, is a concerted effort. Admittedly, not something I have bothered with in a while, not something which has come to any fruition and not a project that is either all consuming or something I have obsessed over. A bit more obsession, a bit more effort and maybe Host could have become something.
Something like a book ideally, complete with syndicated TV and movie rights.
But short of my artisitic, creative musings actually being worth any financial return I can’t help, in currnt climes, being drawn to the tale of a bunch of Kiwis facing up to imminent disaster. Such is the premise of Host.

Okay, the circumstances are different but all the drama is there to be seen, playing out right now on any media outlet you wish to name. Just lacking the gory violence and gratuitous sex scenes.
I am I selling you on it yet?
I guess the point is, we have all seen Covid 19 coming. Or at least something of the ilk. Coronavirus may be no Walking Dead but it isn’t much of a leap from a tele programme to the truth. Cantagion anyone?
I am not going to debate whether it is Hollywood leading reality or vice versa. Happy to quote Albert Einstein though, who reckoned imagination is more important than knowledge. Perhaps one is actually limited without the other but that’s a debate for another day.

Be it born in a studio or a lab or the spit/blood/piss of a bat/pig/duck/dog/mad cow, Covid 19 is a reality. A reality which will surely, pretty much, write itself.
All the experts in the world can claim they predicted it, all the politicians can state they were prepared. Did they? Were they? Questions to be asked when dust particles take a moment, a few deep breaths and begin to settle.
Worst case senario, there will be no more Hollywood. No more Brad Pitt//Mark Wahlberg/Tom Hardy teamed up with the leading lady de jour, played off against the henchman John Malcovich/Kevin Spacey/Michael Madson.
The story of the corona virus is too good to be missed. Most of it has been written already, in the the notes, drafts and final edits of every parlaimentary speech writer all over the globe.

People are dead and there will be more fatalities, before Covid eventually disappears or becomes one of those things we ‘manage’ as a people. A first world people at least. Of course it won’t disappear, in the same way coronavirus is not new. First world peoplpe have movie theatres, even if the seats are a minimum of two meters apart. Luxury.
Maybe if everyone had listened to me. Read me. Maybe if a publisher had decided what I predicted was worth reading…

They didn’t.
Host hasn’t been published. Predominantly because, as a body of work, it is incomplete. I haven’t finished it and there is every likelihood I never will.
Besides, Host is a Kiwicentric zombie story based around a parasitic infestation. Not viral. Not real.
I heard someone, somewhere, saying maybe the authorities of the world were stumped, lost and floundering and if so, then maybe a call to Steven Speilberg wouldn’t go amiss. He would in turn call Bruce Willis. Guys like those two might not have the answers, maybe no one does right now, but they are sure a couple of people more than aware of how this thing plays out.
If we can fit Will Smith in the storyline somewhere then it won’t be long before we have the current crisis all sorted, a bunch of pithy, cliched one-liners wrapped up within a few mutli-billion dollar months, in various locations throughout the world. Chuck in Samual L Jackson and suddenly Covid is cool.
Leave Peter Jackson out of it. We don’t want things to drag on.

I can’t predict the future. I don’t believe any one can, even if there are a bunch of poeple out there who think the economists, the scientists and the analysts have a handle on what comes next.
Whatever ‘next’ pans out to be, it will be a directors wet dream, a producers dream come true. We just have to get through the nightmare before we can get to the popcorn.
If Tom Hanks can survive Covid 19, Tom Hanks can relive Covid 19. For our benefit.

die-hard-6-search-young-john-mcclane-actor

I long for the day Covid 19, coronavirus, is nothing more taxing than entertainment.
The day when Lockdown becomes ‘remember when’.
The time when a pandemic, real, present and dangerous, is franchised. Nic Cage tied in for 3 movies minimum as the nutty, odd-ball professor ready to solve it all, Mark Ruffalo as the heart trob, sensitive new age Dad, recently seperated, estranged, just trying to do what he can to get to his family and in turn, saving the planet.
And Jeff Goldblum. Just because.
Coming to a screen near you. Covid 19 the Outbreak? The Lockdown?
The mindfuck.

This is what happens when there is too much time on someones hands. Time donated courtesy of a governmental enforced lockdown…

Oh…who plays Jacinda?

 

 

Daddy White Sox

You know that guy? I’ve almost become ‘That Guy’

You’ve all seen him. Maybe he is your boss, maybe he is a colleague.
Perhaps he is your neighbour, your mate, your brother. You might be married to him, he might be your Dad. Whatever the relationship, That Guy is instantly recognisable. Especially at this time of year.

That Guy isn’t hard to spot. Look for him coming out of the dairy. He’s the bloke in the faded t-shirt, the one he bought from the stall outside that concert he went to twelve years ago. He might be balding, at least have a receding hair line but it’s hard to tell, because he is wearing a cap, the brim of which is where his sunglasses sit.
That cap is emblazoned with the logo of a supplier, a client, a local business and was probably free. There are sweat stains if you look close enough.

That guy is a good guy. He will nod at you in a gesture of friendliness. He might mutter a g’day, maybe apologise briefly as you squeeze by each other in the convenience store doorway. He won’t wave. That Guy can’t, his hands full with fistfuls of already melting ice-cream cones of various flavours. That Guy hopes he remembers who asked for what flavour.

You won’t see much more of That Guy. You’ll hear him, exasperatedly repeating himself until one of the kids in the SUV or double cab ute acknowledges his returned presence, stops bickering with it’s siblings and opens the door for their Dad, in their own sweet time. A puff of diesel and he’s gone.
To the batch you wonder? The beach? Is there a chilly bin the back of that family friendly multipurpose vehicle packed with steaks, fish, cheesy sausages for the kids? Maybe in the tray, on the roof rack, there is a kayak, boogie boards, snorkels and masks and fins and a change of clothes Mrs That Guy thought might be necessary. On the side and rear of that ute the name and number of a concrete placer, a landscaper, a sales rep, a plumber.

That Guy is, apart from maybe a touch of middle aged spread, a healthy and strong man. He is physical, with meaty, calloused hands. Broad across the shoulder, nearly as thick in the chest as his belly is becoming. That Guy is in his forties, maybe early fifties,or close enough to it. That Guy is tanned.
Mostly

That Guy has burned under the hot, unforgiving NZ sun once or twice already this summer. That Guy burns every year, his strong back reddening as he turns over the veggie patch, coats the deck, starts up the lawn mower for the first time this season. His skin has coloured accordingly, the way That Guy secretly wanted it to even while telling the kids to be sun smart.
Still, his skin tone over his back and chest does not match the deep, man of the outdoors tan on his forearms. And that dark colour, is a long way from the shade of his ankles and feet.

Right where the top of his woollen work socks stop, the ones That Guy rams into his steel capped work boots, is right where all colour ceases to exist. Here, the glare of bright, lens tightening whiteness begins.
Like a badge of honour, That Guy is advertising the fact he is on holiday. Those pearly white toes, shinier and brighter than any celebrity could hope their perfect rows of teeth could ever be, mean summer is finally here, the kids are out of school, That Guy and Mrs That Guy have coordinated their time off and the holiday season has rolled around.

That Guy will be at a steady 104km/h before the proportion of cone exceeds ice-cream. The kids will still be quiet in the back, glad for the treat, breaking up the monotony of the annual trip to wherever to do whatever. Mrs That Guy will be handing out the wet wipes she still buys, just for such a sticky emergency, even though she hasn’t changed a nappy in years.
That Guy will turn off the air-conditioning and put the windows down, telling everyone how much he hates aircon anyway. The fresh air and breeze is nice, even if the temperature rises nearly as much as That Guys, the queue of caravans and motor-homes and trailers and boats the real reason he deemed it okay to have through breeze.
That Guy will reluctantly switch the cricket off, fuss with the bluetooth, struggle to get anyone else interested in a game of eye-spy, a desperate attempt to recapture the rose tinted nostalgia of his own childhood road trips.

While Mrs That Guy wonders for the third time if she remembered to turn off the oven, asks again if That Guy locked the garage door behind him, That Guy fights off thought of early to mid January, when he will be back laying concrete, building, plumbing or managing it all.
Mrs That Guy will wonder out loud if her sister /brother/uncle/grandparents will beat them to their shared destination. Mr That Guy will wonder to himself if the nephews and nieces are still the spoiled little shits he remembers from the last holiday and whether it is the parenting to blame. Or has he got this lot confused, are these the cute ones, the fun ones?
That Guy loves them all regardless and is determined to give them the holiday from which life-long memories are made.

That Guy settles in the 70-80km/h average he was hoping they would avoid by leaving early. Not as early as he had planned and hoped for but hey, at least the kids hadn’t put up a fight.
Now That Guy is thinking tackle and bait. He is thinking sizzling steaks and lukewarm beers and maybe a good book and snoozing in the shade.
That Guy pretends he can’t hear the moans from the back seat as he kills the bluetooth and tunes in the cricket.

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