Street Art

On request, here is a post without immature (poop) jokes. Instead I am going to encourage criminal behaviour by praising the graffiti that you (I) can find around where I (probably not you) live. Newtown is known to be an artsy place, and this is often expressed in graffiti and peeling posters.

Generally I am no fan of graffiti as it encourages idiots to scribble their name illegibly, or people who think they are artists writing things in a stupid font that noone can really read. Basically, I'm just against bad handwriting. However, I always enjoy a clever civil obedience which you often see on the internets, and now also on my walks around my house. They aren't top quality, but I do enjoy them and maybe you will too.


I don't know what this is supposed to be (my best guess is this is what you'd get if a llama humped a plesiosaurus), but like many of these graffitis, it is small enough to not offend too much. If this was a few metres tall, you'd probably want to swear at the offender, but as is, this is nice detail.


One of my favourites, this is right outside a dairy (a NZ convenience store). I don't think the Indian owner probably asked this to be here, but I also doubt that he would want to have it removed or painted over.

Artistically this is not the most technical painting, but it is definitely an improvement on the building.

Nice stencilwork here, but poor application as seen in the runny face. The thing about most of these is that they are alongside a amain road, so the artist would need steel balls to complete each work.
Some paintings are painted over, like this pavement octopus.

This is probably somebody's first attempt at a stencil (or maybe it is a pre-fab from the 2$ store). Still, I appreciate stencilwork, and you need to start with the basics.

It seems that someone is a real pokemon fan.

And it seems like someone fancies themself as a new pokemon creator. See?


Somehow I think this is a politically charged work, but I don't get it. Still very nice though.

This one popped up a few weeks ago. This was appropriate because a while back I applied for a job at the zoo. I was appliying to be a giraffe, because apparently I look like one. Very good work on this though, and especially making it that extra size larger.

And lastly, one of the best ones. A brilliant, expressive work with good use of wall as the third colour. Class-act lawlessness.

So everyone get out there and leave your mark. Just no bad handwriting, okay? Thanks in advance.

Passive Aggressive Fantasies

It's not like me to publicy rip on a particular person on the weblogs. The only other time I can recall I have was when I tore Luis Suarez a 2nd anus so he could spout all the pent-up bullshit. Since that time, he went from a Dutch-reknown douche to an international douche, so you know that when I rip on someone it is probably justified. If anything, I went easy on him.

Anyway, this story needs to be told because I'm slowly turning into a monster. Earlier I wrote a small post about how my new flat kind of sucks. There were pictures of dead mice and all that, but overall I am pretty pleased with my new flat. It's cheap (relative to Wellington) which is a bonus if you are unemployed. It is close enough to town and plenty of great shops and a fantastic Saturday vege-market. And I have a large bedroom with a nice big sunny window. And mostly, I can put up with the flat because I have a countdown calendar. If I was staying longer in Wellington, I would be flat hunting, but for a few months (now three weeks), I was happy tolerating a studenty-New Zealand-messy flat.

Then, about a month ago there was a bad omen.I woke up one morning to find the bathroom sink filled with vomit. It was our new flatmate, who apparently had been drinking the night before, had a vom, and crashed before he could even attempt to run the tap a little bit. Fair enough. It can happen. I mean, not to me. The few times when I have vomited due to alcohol poisoning/awesomeness, it has always been preceded by a moment of scary clarity. I mean, I once vomited while on a public bus, but I regained a sense of myself a few seconds before and held it in my mouth for a full minute till the bus stopped at my stop.

The point is, the new flatmate is a bit younger, and whatever. I'll give him the benefit of the doubt. So, I was awake that morning enjoying my porridge when he woke up.

"Shit" he said, "I'm late for my school trip."

I laughed at him, out of politeness.

Then he looked at me and said "Can I borrow 40 dollars for a taxi?"

Now, this put me on the spot. On the one hand, this guy is in need of a hand and this seems like a fairly reasonable request. On the other hand, he kind of deserved to miss the trip, and I am unemployed. It's like asking a baby if you can borrow their nappy. In the end, I loaned him the 20$ cash I had in my wallet and had a big clean-up after he left, enjoying the quietude of the next 2 days.

He seemed like a nice enough guy, but just not a person you would want to really flat with. You know, the general little things that piss you off about a flatmate - borrowing little things without ever seeming to give back, leaving piles of dishes, and lazing around the living room watching TV pretty much the whole time. But you know, I'm not new to flatting, and besides, I was out of here soon anyway. No sense in being a bitch.

Then last week I finally found some work. I had to be on the opposite side of town at 7am, so I woke up at 6am. It was brutal. On the way to the kitchen for my coffee and cereal, I stumbled over a body in the living room (it's open plan). There was a guy sleeping there, and my flatmate on the couch. This isn't so weird, except for that he has two beds in his bedroom. But maybe they fell asleep during their late-night TV watching.

I didn't think much of it, until that evening he had a whole group of friends over. And that next morning I again stumbled over a human being on the way to the kitchen, but this time there were four of them.

Now at this point, I should mention that the flatmate and his friends are all Fijian.

So, whatever. I think the night before they were watching rugby on TV or something, on our satellite TV. It could have been an important game or something.

Wednesday morning, and I couldn't believe it. This time there were 8 Fijians sleeping in my living room. No, I joke, there were only three. I just found the situation rather ridiculous. It was as if we had squatters or homeless people here. Only, they didn't have bags or anything with them. So they obviously just live in other parts of the city. By now they pretty much had a permanent presence in the flat. Every other minute you would hear what I call Polynesian laughter. If you are unfamiliar with it, you might think that it is mocking, sarcastic laughter. It kind of sounds like it begins with someone standing on your balls until you realise it doesn't hurt, kind of tickles, and everyone thinks it is hilarious so you all turn it into laughter. But once you get used to it (I grew up at a school with many polynesian students), it is one of the most pure sounds you will ever hear. But amazingly even this is less welcome when it continues till the early hours of the morning when you need to wake up at 6am.

Furthermore, apart from some drinking and smoking, it seems like they were here mostly for the satellite TV. They were treating the flat like a hotel room and they were leaving on all the heaters and stealing the tissue box. The next few days continuted like this, and we ended the week averaging 3.4 Fijians sleeping on my living room floor. We did it! People said it shouldn't be done, having 2.4 friends sleep over for no apparent reason for a full school week, but by golly they pulled off a miracle. And they kept going, apparently trying to break their own record.

Now, in their defense they were polite enough to pretend to keep sleeping while I not unquietly made my breakfast, coffee and packed lunch, but they weren't really good house guests. For one, the best thing about house-guests is that they leave. But they didn't really clean up, made it awkward to go to the kitchen and then all that noise pollution. Furthermore, I think they might be douche-bags. Despite the fact that they are always here, I submit the next two facts as evidence:

1. One of the guys went to sleep with his sunglasses on. Really? It's bad enough when assholes like LeBron James wear sunnies to a night club, but I'm sure he even takes them off when he sleeps. Also, he is LeBron Fucking James and can do whatever he wants.
   
2. When I say that they are here to watch my TV, I mean exactly that. They are so indiscrimiate with their programming as if they have never really seen TV before. They not only watch Jersey Shore - and they watch it unironically - but once that is finished, they continue with Geordian Shore which is the English version. That makes another reason I don't want to go to the kitchen. It makes me feel dirty. I already know to much.
   

At 1:30am, after the 8th consecutive night of the Fijian invasion of my flat, with TV, mis-tuned guitar and peals of polynesian laughter ringing through the house, keeping me awake before my 2nd week of 6am mornings it began: passive aggressive fantasies. As much as I hated not getting my regular 6 hours of sleep, I hated myself more for the petty thoughts of just waking the fuckers up at 4am and kicking them out (it was also raining), or of stealing the code card from the satellite TV decoder, or things that even cannot be said here. How did my flat turn into a Fijian Men's house? Is there a dusty track leading to the back door? Will the place soon be overrun with chickens, stray dogs and palm fronds? And then to make it worse the white-guilt set in. Maybe this kind of camaraderie is the Fijian way of expressing friendship in another country.

But fuck that. The only thing that matters for a flatmate is how much you want to continue living with them. He might be a nice guy and a good friend (to his friends) but he's a terrible flatmate. On a 1-10 scale with 10 being "I will follow you whereever you go", to 0 being "Let's fight to the death and the loser has to do the dishes", I rate him at about 1.5. (He could raise that number to 2 by paying me back my 20 dollars.)

My point is, not that I need it, but I have yet another reason to be impatient to leave. Not only is there a pull from Japan, but also a nice friendly nudge from New Zealand, or Fiji, whereever this is.

(p.s. if you recall the photo of the vomit-filled sink, this is but one of the reasons I keep my toothbrush in my bedroom. Just a tip for all the people out there still flatting...)

Surveying the Traffic

For those of you who thought that my previous job of auditing tyres (fancy speak for "copying down the writing on tyres") was rather simple, well, my next job is ten times more brain numbingly easy. This time I'm a traffic surveyor.

For me "surveyor" connotes those people with the fancy tripod and equipment who always look as engaged as a roadworker yet have the unmistakable air of self-importance knowing that most people couldn't even begin to comprehend how their equipment works.

No, what I do is I count pedestrians. I don't even get to count cars. The only equipment I was given was the forms to be filled in - I had to supply my own pen and watch. In fact, I think the only qualifications needed for this job were that you had to own a pen and a watch.

For a whole week I am stationed at two locations during the morning and midday 'rush hours'. The first location is at the Hobson Street overbridge.


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This apparently used to be one of the most expensive streets in Wellington (it was written on a nearby neglected History Walk signboard that I have read hundreds of times out of sheer boredom).

The fact it is an overbridge means that I have all the advantages of noise pollution, while above I have very little to do.


Nowadays, Hobson Street is rarely used by foot-traffic. I get maybe one or two people passing by every minute, which leaves the mind to wander a lot, which is not a good thing if you have the quality of being me.

For example it has a garden for the blind. This sounds good, but the garden actually looks like crap. I guess that might be the whole point, but it means that if nature calls, I can't exactly duck behind the lavender to take a piss. That would be like telling a devout Hindu that a Big Mac is made from 100% soy.

Furthermore, right across from the road where I stand is the German Embassy. I'm basically staking out the Germans. As a Dutchman, it makes me feel dirty and I like it.

When I finish my morning shift, I have three hours to kill to my next shift. Note, that I do not get paid for this down time despite it being far too short to make going home worthwhile. So in reality, for 7 hours of my life I get paid for only 4. That's one hell of a long toilet break.

My 2nd shift is right outside the Supreme Court of New Zealand.


This buidling may look like the winning entry for a primary-school architecture competition but it is in fact a very serious building. So serious that it is where protesters come to bang pots almost every single day. Today I had to tally up a bunch of people wearing hi-res vests with the controversial words "stop child abuse" printed on it. These people are really going out on a limb. Taking a stance against child abuse is like saying Hitler was bad or that mothers are good. Someone needs to tell these people that the industrial revolution was a few centuries ago. Or you know, they could be at home with their kids instead of waving placards and writing crap on the pavement with chalk. But whatever, they seem to be having fun, and it's more fun here to watch them instead of wondering if there is a guy in the German embassy nervously looking out the window at me.

Besides, nothing much can bother you when you are wearing headphones. It's the universal signal to everyone that I don't want to talk to you, which I almost always don't. Coupled with sunglasses, I'm practically immortal. And I guess it's a pretty sweet job to be paid to listen to your MP3 for four hours per day. I've been listening to podcasts from The Bugle (John Oliver from The Daily Show) which is hilarious. So picture me sitting on the stairs of the supreme court, looking at people, writing stuff down and grinning and frequently laughing like a maniac. Add to that the fact that I was coming down with a cold and looked like crap, I probably fit right in in front of the Supreme Court ("Down with Slavery!").

But I guess it's good to be working even if it's doing practically the same thing as I when I was in intermediate school and we did a survey, only now I have an MP3 player and I get paid. I really can't decide if this job is crap or really great.

The whole point of this post however, is to make an announcement. For the next two days (Wed & Thurs), there will be a limited edition gift for those readers who stop by to say hi. Yes, you'll get a gift and be tallied rendering you statistically significant! It's a win-win! 7-9 at Hobson Street Overbridge, and 12-2 at the Supreme court. Be in while stocks last!

Tyre Auditing


To most people the above image is probably one of the most banal subjects in all of existence. For me, it was one of the most banal subjects in all of existence which cost me two days of my life. Yes, I spent two full days of my life looking at car tyres.

Like many graduates I am currently happily unemployed, but I got a great piece of advice from the unemployment benefit seminar that I was compulsed to visit. There was an inspirational poster - by which I mean there was a royalty-free stock photo of a man smiling into the camera. The text said "Since I began working, the financial situation for my family has improved." I had never thought of it that way. When something is so simple it is either genius or idiocy, you have to pay attention, and two full months later I finally got my first job... looking at car tyres.

Now, for those of you unfamiliar with car tyres, they are usually found close to the ground. That meant there was a lot of bending over. In fact, the job description said that the ideal candidate should be 'good at bending over.' Now when a job lists the qualities of the ideal candidate and says they should be good at bending over, that's your dream job right there.

So I was given a clipboard and a reflective vest and set free in a building where there are many tyres. This is called a 'car park'. For those familiar with car parks, you'll recall that these are usually dark, but you probably are not aware of just how filthy these places are until you have to to spend 8 hours in one, kneeling and lying on the ground. By the end of the day I emerged like the Chilean Miners - flithy, exhausted and my lungs filled with soot. The only thing missing was all the nationalistic bullshit upon reentry.

So that went so well that I did it for a 2nd day. I'd like to say that I now know what all the markings on the tyres mean, but I only know how to find them. I'm like what an astrologer is to an astrometor. I could spout all these numbers and wear dirty, ill-fitting clothing and have people pay me good money... Sorry, I forget where I was going with that.

The point is, well, I forget that too. But if I can just impart on you one thing, it would be that working is a way to earn money (although not the only way).