Classic myspace bulletin 27: Less than 3 auckland!!!!

Less than three AUCKLAND!!!


New Zealand:

A clean, green paradise at the arse end of the world, full of parochial charm, old world sensibilities, Rugby, Hobbits, all that huha . . . except for one place, where all the money, and all the pretentious wankers who live in New Zealand congregate to build and live in yucky apartment buildings and feel as if they're better than the rest of the country, while planning their move to Sydney or London.

Auckland:

A bustling metropolis of over 1 million people that sits proudly astride the Tamaki isthmus, sprawling to become the 5th largest city in terms of land mass in the world. Auckland was once the capital of New Zealand when the many hapu of Ngati Whatua, fearful of the warlike northerners of Ngai Tahu, invited Cmdr. Hobson to ensconce himself there, until the capital was later moved to the more centralised Wellington.

Of course Compound HQ is located in the lefty/artsy quadrant of Grey Lynn, where evil real estate agents stalk the streets mercilessly. Sometimes we leave Auckland to play gigs elsewhere, but all the buildings are so small and old, finding a decent coffee is an ordeal, and it only takes about two weeks before we have met all the fellow hipsters. Except for wellington where everyone is a pretentious hipster so you don't notice, or Invercargill where you can count them on two hands.

But let's learn more about Auckland as it exsts today:

You can make over $100,000 per year and still can't afford a house.

You never bother looking at the train timetable because you know the drivers have never seen it either. Bus? hahahahaha

You order organic fruit and vegetables online, but eat out every night anyway.

You spend more money on your coffee machine than on your washing machine.

You spend $400+ per week for your room in an apartment with stunning harbour and beach views and European appliances; and spend a total of forty hours a week there, of which thirty-seven are spent sleeping.

You contemplate calling a taxi from your home to where you managed to park your car the night before.

You spend thirty minutes in a traffic jam next to a car that has more power going to its speakers than its wheels.

You know everyone's e-mail and mobile number but not their last name or home address.

You can roll sushi, make pasta and keep your red curry paste recipe under lock and key... but couldn't roast a chicken to save your life.

Your taxi driver was a micro-surgeon before he emigrated to New Zealand

Your co-worker tells you he/she has eight body piercing's but none are visible.

You can't remember... is dope illegal?

You have a very strong opinion on where your coffee beans are grown, and can taste the difference between Sumatran and Ethiopian.

A really great parking space can move you to tears.

You are thinking of taking an adult class but you can't decide between yoga, conversational Maori or building your own website.

And you pronounce the word Moari correctly; that is "Mouldy" not “Mar-ee”

A man in full leather regalia and chaps gets on the bus and you don't notice.

You are genuinely surprised when you meet someone who was actually born in Auckland.

You get out DVD's so you can watch them in the car on your laptop as you "drive" to work.

You have a mullet but you haven't worked out wether it's ironic or not; you're still looking for a word to put in front of "chic"

P is "boring"

Your hairdresser is straight; your plumber is gay, and your Avon lady is a drag queen.

You work a 50-hour week so you can dress like an unemployed musician and hang out in scuzzy dives.

You are in a band that plays really bad 80's synthesizer/ 70's garage music, but your friends still come to watch you simulate sex with the floor.

Letter to Ambrozia


Now you look here, missy!

I said you were "possibly smarter . . ." - not that I am an idiot, and I will not allow you to TOY with me!

Oh poor Ambrozia! It's a cut and paste romance! Is that what you think? And what? When the surreptitious deuteragonists and the lascivious suggestations have all been flung away like used sparklers, will you still wrench and wring me wretched oh wench?

Will you squeeze my heart with your slender fingers so that the love might bead to the surface and drip to the earth like blood, all the while as you infest my loins [!] with your french banter?

carelessly it is that you impart the name of Rick, the legend of a Grouse that grew from my love for a single word that fell from your lips . . .

Your sorrow? You eat at me like fruit and spit out my heart like a pip. From this desolate internet wasteland of recycled egos I was offered a flower that was you, that in my gentle nature I could give rain, but alas, I was only a cloud in your heart, and like I was vapour . . . I melted away . . .