ITEM: Last night I went to the recording of tomorrow’s NZ Idol show. It was really fun. As I expected, much of the audience behaviour is directed. There’s a floor manager waving her arms around to cue people to clap and not clap, and people are encouraged to applaud bits in the middle of a song that impress. At the beginning of the evening I was in a detached and cynical mode, but as the show went on, I found myself absorbed by the talent on display. It’s true that seeing the show live is so much more impressive than watching it on TV. I can also reveal that the carpark at South Pacific Pictures has signs pretending it’s the Shortland Street carpark. And also, Idol Dave’s wife was sporting a Louis Vuitton handbag, which is a perfect example of entry-level bling.
ITEM: I grew up with a prejudice against organic food. It was some how silly and frivolous to want blemished, rotting, expensive, yet chemical free food, when the excellence of modern chemical science could provide us with perfect-looking food with a longer shelf life. But now, when I think about it, it seems odd to prefer food that’s full of chemicals/pesticides/etc over food that doesn’t have it. And what does shelf life matter when there’s a fruit and vege shop just down the road?
ITEM: As much as I dislike the concept of the flat white coffee, I fear I may have to switch to flat whites in some cafes to avoid the ridiculously oversized latte bowls that remain common in certain cafes in this fair nation. The day that latte bowls and inch-high cappuccino foam dies out in this country, I shall be filled with gladness.
ITEM: I watched a bit of a hip-hop show on Maori Television tonight. Things were going really well until they switched from speaking Te Reo to English. Suddenly the three presenters stopped being cool Maori hip-hop TV show presenters to sounding like a bunch of 12-year-olds trying to act like hardcore gangsta rappers. It was painful to watch, so I changed channels.
ITEM: I’ve spent this week being high on paint fumes. The building my flat is in has been painted, including a particularly hardcore enamel paint on the window frames. Sadly the paint job has also seen the cover-up of the badly-drawn penis that appeared overnight a couple of years ago, and was later partially obscured by a thin layer of paint. It’s also meant that my backdoor has gone from white (and dull) to black (and sexy, if backdoors can be considered sexy, in a non bum-sex-euphemism way). Excuse me while I attempt to restore some brain cells.